[Fic+Art] A Game of Horcruxes - sleepstxtic - Harry Potter (2024)

Chapter 1: Cover Art

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Maps - I

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Prologue

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Prince Theodore Nott looks up as two Gryffindors are hauled bodily into his council room, bloodied and battered and bruised, flagging against the marble tiles half on the verge of death.

“Leave us,” he barks to the other attendants in the room, and hurries to the two, asking “What did you find?”

Finnegan cracks his mouth open. “He found us first.”

“High King Gaunt?” Theo asks, and Finnegan nods, quick and brief like a shiver.

“If it weren’t for–for Dean we wouldn’t ‘ave got out,” he slurs, body listing to the floor, elbows, knees and all.

“What did he do?” Theo demands, panic rising in his throat along with the bile. “Did he do this to you?”

“His snake,” Thomas rasps. “Nagini. At the Keep. There’s venom in our blood–” He lifts a hand, squinting at it as if he can see the blood pumping erratically inside his veins, and Theo pales, because there isn’t an antidote to Nagini’s venom.

“But did you find it?” he asks instead, teeth gritted and impatient. “Did you see it?”

“I’ll show it to you in a pensieve, Your Radiance,” Finnegan manages, keening over. “But first–the antidote–please–”

“I’ll need the memory first,” Theo says, even as it pains him to say it. This goes beyond the lives of individual soldiers. “Give it to me.” He summons a vial and holds it to Finnegan’s head, tilting his head back and forcing him there as he writhes and pleads, the memory magic taking its toll on his already weakened body.

“The antidote–”

“Wait,” Theo says harshly, turning away because there’s no time. He upturns the vial into the pensieve and plunges in along with it, entering the overbright, echoey chambers of the memory, following his Gryffindors as they scuttle through forgotten corridors, down into the depths of Nagini’s Keep, searching, searching for that elusive door. There are sounds of an alarm, footsteps puttering on the dank stone floors behind, closing in, and Theo watches as the two Gryffindors hurry to crank an old, creaking door open.

A sting, sharp and quick as a needlepoint knife, tears at the wrists of both Gryffindors before they can step inside, and Finnegan only manages a single glimpse of the thing, shining in a crisscross mesh of floating spellwork; barely a glimpse before they’re both on the floor, writhing as Nagini looms over them. The snake hisses, twining its body around them both and squeezing as they lay paralysed.

“The portkey,” Thomas gasps, fumbling for something in Finnegan’s neck. “The portkey–we have to–”

And then the world goes dark.

Theo launches himself upright, intent on questioning his Gryffindors again, but when he looks up, they’re splayed on the floor, chests unmoving.

“Guard,” he shouts, and another Gryffindor enters, taking in the scene and gulping. Theo sets him to removing the bodies and falls into his seat, spent.

He’d only caught a glimpse of it, in the pensieve, but a single glimpse was enough: Gaunt had it. He’d had them all the whole time.

“They were your best,” a voice says, one of his advisors. “Your best Gryffindors.”

“They served me well,” Theo accepts, stone-faced, though he makes space on the seat for Macmillan to sit down, still staring at the puddle of blood the Gryffindors left behind, floor brown and crusty and streaked with grime. “A regrettable necessity.”

“I am a Slytherin of your court,” Macmillan says, unmoving. “I am your most loyal vassal and Lord of Macmillan Province. I deserve to know–”

“You deserve nothing but what I deign to give you,” Theo says, swift and harsh. “You will not speak of this again, and if I hear that you’ve repeated what you saw today, there will not be a Macmillan Province for you to return to.” He maintains composure, even as Macmillan goes rigid, jaw clenched. “The survival of your House depends upon your silence.”

“Understood,” Macmillan says, mouth moving near-imperceptibly. He leaves soon after, and Theo spends the rest of the day pacing his chambers, up and down, ignoring the food laid out for him at his desk and playing the pensieve over as often as he can.

“Your Radiance,” a Hufflepuff attendant calls, knocking at his door. “Will you be taking supper in your chambers?”

Theo makes a decision, then. “No,” he says, throwing open the doors and stepping outside to find a young serving boy, a platter of food trembling in his hands. “Go to the Ravenclaw wing and tell them to ready the portals.”

The boy nods vigorously. “Yes, Your Radiance, at once. Which destination shall I tell them to–”

“Rosier Territory,” Nott says, pouring himself a cup of wine from the platter and downing it in a single gulp. He keeps the jug, a strong Greengrass goldwine, sliding down his throat like honey. He’ll need more, before the morning comes, and even an entire crate might not be enough to fortify his nerves and those of the woman he’s about to speak to. But he’s made up his mind and he’ll not change it now, so he continues, “Tell them to send a missive to Druella, Princess of Rosier. Tell her Prince Theodore would like to speak with her immediately.”

Chapter 4: A Gathering of Storms

Chapter Text

Three years later

The bells of Malfoy Castle blare loud and alarming, cutting through the conversation and drowning out all other noise.

Draco’s head whips to the entrance of the council room where his Gryffindors stand guard. “What is it?” he demands.

The guards immediately form a protective wall around the entrance to the room. A portkey-portal appears in another corner. One of the guards frowns down at his glove which is embedded with an enchanted mirror. “There seems to have been a breach.” He pauses, exchanges a glance with his brother Gryffindors.

“Where?” Pansy asks from Draco’s side. She pushes away from the table and stalks towards the men, long and lean and graceful. “A breach in the Ravenclaw District?”

“No.” Astoria leans forward, manicured nails tapping anxiously against the wood. “The bells were too loud. Something bigger.” She looks up. “Dementor attacks along the Wall?”

“I’m afraid not,” the Gryffindor replies. He marches forward and stretches out his palm to Draco. “The breach was internal.”

Draco looks up in horror. “f*ck.”

Pansy grabs the Gryffindor’s hand and peers into the mirror inside it. “The Vault,” she gasps. “Not–”

“We need to go,” Draco says, voice firm, commanding. He stands and barks orders at the guards. “You two, stay behind and guard Princess Greengrass. You four, flank Princess Parkinson and I.”

The guards nod unquestioningly. Draco grasps his wand, grip firm, arm aloft, and rushes out of the room, Pansy following quick at his heels. Astoria is already stepping through the portal, guards in tow. The doors clang shut and the sounds of their scrambling echo through the cavernous corridors.

There is no time to spare. Not when everything hangs in the balance.

•·················•·················•

Malfoy Castle stands tall and imposing at the centre of the Slytherin District, spanning several thousand hectares of solid white marble, mined from the reserves in the Hufflepuff District. Spiked turrets capped with gold rise up over triangular walls, built to resemble its mountainous borders. Inside are windows of stained glass, of paints and foil exported from deep in the south – Greengrass territory. And the castle is as deadly as it is beautiful. Gryffindors patrol its battlements, vigilant and lethal in their watch. Wards of protection and attack and defence ring the castle’s borders: bolts of fire, barbed arrows, poisonous curses.

It has been centuries since an attack on the castle of a royal scion. Centuries, until now.

“Out of the way,” Draco bellows, sprinting through the myriad passageways that twine through the underbelly of the castle. Servant’s corridors, and then staircases below them, deeper, cutting straight to the castle’s epicentre.

Pansy dashes beside him, wand in one hand, knife in the other. “I’ve been saying for years we need a portal to the Vault.”

“Too risky,” Draco pants. “You know that.”

The doors to the vault have been thrown open, locks undone, and they swing black and heavy on their hinges. Gryffindors mill about the entrance, treading carefully, casting spells.

“How?” Draco demands. The group turns at the sound of his voice, and parts for them both deferentially.

“Your Radiance,” a guard begins quietly, head bowed. “Please, tread carefully. The enchantments are still operational.”

“What?”

“Draco,” Pansy warns, carefully. “Let’s assess the situation first.”

The Gryffindors huddle close, wands pooled together, chanting, and a strong protective enchantment encases Draco and Pansy’s bodies, glowing pale and blue, before fading. The guards look haggard, on completion, but the two pay them no mind. They cast their own wards over the ones they were given, drawing from within their infinite magical reserves and, as per Draco’s calculations, it’ll last them a few minutes against the onslaught of the Vault.

The Vault is a wide, circular chamber, chock-full of dangerous spells to ward against intruders, and only one person in the entirety of the Malfoyan Territory may access the Vault without extreme bodily Warding: Ruler Lucius Malfoy. And Lucius Malfoy is thousands of miles away in the court of High King Gaunt.

“This is bad,” Pansy notes, apprehensive. At the very centre of the room, on a pedestal that gleams purple, is a cushioned casket inlaid with gold, and they hasten towards it, wards glowing bright blue as they defend against the room’s protective spells.

“Well,” Draco says, peering into the casket, now open. Nestled within, on the pale satin lining lies– “Nothing.”

“f*ck.”

“It’s gone,” Draco says again. The sliver of light that surrounds them begins to flicker. “We have to get out before the wards die out,” he hisses.

Pansy snatches the casket from the pedestal and shrinks it, and the purple light begins to fade and they rush out of the room, steps falling in tandem, leaping through the doors as their wards finally give way, and the doors slam shut behind them.

Draco clears his throat and stands, brushing himself. He meets the eyes of the Gryffindors with a cool, impassive stare and says, “Everything is as it should be. The Vault remains untouched.”

The Gryffindors look unconvinced. “But the door–”

“The protective enchantments were untouched. You know as well as I that it is impossible to reconstruct the spells once triggered.” It is a fact that baffles Draco, privately, that spells which were constructed over years, strong and vicious and continually reinforced, woven into the very walls of the castle themselves, would fail them now; would fail to earmark and target the intruder, when it had so evidently been straining against its seams to target Pansy and him only moments earlier. “To rebuild the spells and affix them in place and escape from the Vault in the miniscule time it took for you – my father’s most trusted guard – to make it here, would be a task impossible for even a Slytherin to undertake.” He pauses, narrowing his eyes. “Unless of course, you did not get here in time.”

The guard cowers back. “We were here in under a minute, Prince Malfoy. But by the time the alarm sounded–”

“A mere malfunction,” Draco says. “You will report that this was routine, a– Vault Drill.”

The guard nods, gulping, and makes to leave. The others follow suit, filing out of the room in silence, backs straight, eyes keen and sharp, until only the Gryffindors from their own personal guard remain behind.

“Well,” Draco says into the dark. His guards remain silent by his side, sworn to secrecy, branded by Unbreakable Vows made as children. “It appears we have a problem.”

“That we do,” Pansy says. “And we’d better fix it because I cannot have my strongest ally crippled when the Lestranges are sowing chaos in the Capital.”

Draco bites his lip, a rare show of weakness he would never make in public. “Send word to my father. Seal it with magic.”

His guard nods, listening carefully. “What shall I have it say, Prince Draco?”

Draco draws a breath, steeling himself, and exchanges a long, grave look with Pansy. Once the words are uttered, there can be no going back, he knows. “Tell him the Vault was breached,” he says.

“Anything else?” the guard inquires.

Draco swallows, exhaling slowly. Outside, the bells begin to toll once more, a distant, steady hum, signalling the reversion of order.

“Tell my father,” he says again, “that our Horcrux is missing.”

Harry plunges the bamboo stick into boiling water, taking care to shield his hands.

“Why are you doing that?” one of the children asks. A young boy with raven hair and skin as dark as tree bark.

Harry sits by the entrance of his hut, weaving a scoop net from bamboo. The water hisses as the fibres of the bamboo bend and he begins to coax it into the shape of a circle. It’s slow work, tedious, but Harry finds he likes to do it, likes to be able to keep his hands busy so his mind is free to wander.

“To catch fish,” Harry tells the boy. The other two girls sit on either side of him, staring in wonderment at his hands, at the deft manner in which he manipulates the bark.

“They say you’re the best hunter in the whole Squib Settlement,” the boy says. “Is that true?”

Harry snorts. He lets the bamboo reshape while weaving rope to begin the body of the net. “There are plenty of good hunters in the Settlement. I’d say the best squib hunters are up north, though. Malfoy and Lestrange territory. At least we don’t have to brave the bitter cold.”

“What’s the hardest animal to hunt?” one of the girls asks, and the other girl immediately scoffs at her.

“That’s a silly question,” she retorts. “It’s obviously a boar.”

“What about deer?” the boy asks. “Deer are fast.”

“Deer are fast,” Harry agrees, nimble fingers twisting rope into knots. “They’re also elegant and wily and highly intelligent. It isn’t easy to hunt a deer.”

The boy looks smugly to the girls.

“But,” Harry continues, “hunting a boar is no mean feat either. They’re strong and ferocious and nearly impervious to pain. The last time we slew a boar, we lost two men to injury.” He peers down at them over his basket. “No wandering off into the forest unsupervised, understood?”

“Yes, Harry,” the children chirrup, somewhat chastened.

The evening sun beats down on them harshly, boiling the sand red and the sky redder. Other members of the Settlement walk to and fro, returning from hunting, from work across the river in Magic Territory. A few of them wave to Harry as they pass by, and Harry raises a hand in return.

“The most interesting animal to hunt, though, is the hare,” Harry continues, finding the thread of their conversation and picking it up again.

“The hare?” The children frown.

“The harder an animal is to outwit, the more interesting is the chase,” he tells them. “The hare is crafty, subtle. Near impossible to trace. She shoots like an arrow in one direction, only to retrace her path and travel by another. She zigzags like a deer, confuses like a fox, hides like a lizard. Our dogs have never been able to truly sniff out a hare.”

“They could with magic,” the boy says softly. Not wistfully, for it is impossible to wish for what you cannot begin to know beyond an abstract, distant knowledge of it. The boy says it simply, like a fact.

“They could, indeed,” Harry says, side-stepping mention of the ubiquitous ‘they’. “But knowing magic makes one lazy, blind to the world.” He sets his half-woven net down. “If I could use magic, I’d have never learned the call of a junglefowl, the footprint of a deer, the trumpet of an elephant. I’d have never become friends with the forest, as we all are. I’d have never understood that there is life beyond what we possess, and it is real and intelligent and vast.” He pauses, taking a breath. “Magic focuses inward, into the self. Without magic, when you are forced to look beyond yourself for sustenance, for living – it is then that you see the truth of the world.”

The children blink up at him, half-confused, but entranced nevertheless.

“Run along now,” Harry ends, gesturing with his head towards the setting sun. “Your mothers’ll have my hide if you don’t make it back in time for dinner. Go on. Shoo, go.”

The children giggle and stand, dusting themselves off, jostling around. They wave to him with a chorus of “Bye, Harry,” and depart.

Harry redoubles his efforts on the net, focusing on finishing as much as he can before the daylight recedes, already fading into the horizon. He finds yesterday’s bamboo, fully soaked and soft, and pulls it out of the water, testing for flexibility.

“That one’ll make a fine frame,” Hermione says to his side, and he turns to find her striding towards him purposefully. She wears a bolt of coarse cotton draped around her body, finer than anything a Squib might own, but still patched in portions. Her wiry hair is coiled away from her face with a strip of cloth.

“‘Mione,” Harry says happily, leaving his bamboo and his nets and standing to embrace her. “It’s been a while.” There aren’t many Ravenclaws who’ll cross the river and sully themselves with Squib company, let alone to meet a friend – but Hermione is, blessedly, one of them. “What news?”

“The usual.” Her expression is haggard, shoulders pulled low from exhaustion. “They’re increasing the magical tax rates again.”

“Again?” Harry baulks. There are times – few and far between, admittedly – when he thinks what might have been, had he been born with magic. This is not one of those times. “But you’re stretched so thin as it is.”

“We’ve barely any magic left in our bodies to keep the shop running,” Hermione agrees, and he can see the truth of her words writ large over her wan, thin body. “The Hufflepuffs have it worse, though.”

“If it’s this bad for the Ravenclaws, I can’t begin to imagine how it is for the Puffs.” Harry guides her to his hut, small and cramped as it is, and bids her to sit on the floor. He finds an earthen cup and fills it with water from a pot in the corner, handing it to her.

“Thank you, Harry,” Hermione says.

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks, though he knows it’s pointless. There isn’t much a Squib can do for a wizard.

“No, Harry, but I appreciate it.” Hermione smiles at him and sets the cup down. “It’s the price we pay to keep the Dementors off our doorsteps, isn’t it?”

“So the Slytherins say,” Harry says. He wonders what it might be like, to have the energy sapped out of you month after month and sent across the borders to Gryffindor warriors. A part of your lifeblood given in service of security. It’s the Gryffindors who keep the Dementors at bay, Harry knows, but it’s the entire realm that bolsters the Gryffindors–except Squibs, Harry amends in his head.

Hermione pauses then, turns hesitant. “Harry,” she begins. “Don’t you ever feel like– something has to change?”

Harry frowns. “Like what?”

“Like–” Hermione picks her cup again and rolls it between her palms. “I don’t know. Just, everything. Aren’t you tired of having your life controlled by people who’ve never cared about you? Slytherins who’ve never set foot on Squib Settlements and Gryffindors who hate every second they spend here?”

It’s almost treasonous, what Hermione’s saying, but she’s also right. So Harry just shakes his head at her slowly and says, “It doesn’t matter. Nothing’s going to change. We’ve just got to accept it.”

“But what if things could change,” Hermione presses, still hesitant, eyes upturned, lost in thought. “What if you had the choice? Like, you had the power to change everything. All of this.” She gestures generally to the world around her. “Wouldn’t you? Aren’t you tired?” She turns back to Harry and must see something in his eyes because her expression softens. “I’m sorry, Harry, I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m just rambling. Too much time spent alone in the shop.” She shrugs.

Harry nudges her playfully with his shoulder. “It’s fine. I’m tired too. We’ve all thought it.” He smiles at her in a way that’s meant to be reassuring. “Tell me something else. Tell me about this Gryffindor of yours.”

“Harry.” Hermione darts her head around nervously. He’d been quiet, but even the wind can carry secrets in the Squib Settlement. “Careful.”

Harry holds up his hands, placating. “Sorry, sorry.”

Hermione hums. “Hmph.” She settles back into her seat, though some of the light has returned to her eyes. “He’s–sweet. Handsome. Even smiles at me whenever I go to the castle to take measurements. Which is more than I can say for the other Gryffindors.”

“Where’s he posted?” Harry prods.

Hermione sighs, eyes downcast, picking at the fabric of her sleeve. “Malfoy Territory.”

“No,” Harry gasps. “But that’s so far away!”

“Yes, but they have these portals!” Hermione begins excitedly. “I’ve never seen anything like it, you know. You just step through it and poof.” Hermione gestures wildly with her fingers. “One moment I was in Greengrass Territory and, the next, I was in Malfoy! They even took me inside the castle. That’s where I met the Gryffindor.”

“Sounds like an enormous waste of magical energy,” Harry observes.

“That’s what I said! But one of the Greengrasses – the younger one, you’ve heard of her? – she’s spending some time with the Malfoys, and she needed a gown for some ball or the other and she’d developed a fondness for papa’s clothes, so.” Hermione waves her hand generally. “She was very exacting. I’m half convinced she’s a better tailor than I am.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Harry says proudly, “Look at you though, earning royal coin.”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Hermione demurs, looking shyly away. “I really don’t think it’s anything to be–”

The door bursts open with a bang, half-falling off its hinges, and a tall, hulking soldier steps through. His uniform is red, emblazoned with the Greengrass insignia. Gryffindor, is all Harry has time to think before the man grabs him by the collar and shoves him outside.

“In the name of Ruler Greengrass, all Squibs are commanded to gather outside. Now.”

The first thing Draco has them do is swear an Unbreakable Vow.

“You can’t be serious,” Pansy splutters.

“This is ridiculous,” Astoria adds angrily.

“You would do the same if you were in my position,” Draco says, quiet but firm. “You are in my lands, in my house. Do not force my hand.” It isn’t a threat so much as an entreaty.

Slowly, they hold out their hands, administering the Vows to each other in turn: Vows of secrecy, of aid, to hide all they have learned of the goings-on in the Malfoy Castle.

Pansy glares at him under hard eyes and Astoria considers him coolly, but they’ll understand, Draco knows.

“We are to be betrothed,” Astoria says, then. “If only you could regard me with some modicum of trust.”

Draco supposes he should count himself lucky. Astoria is beautiful, intelligent, of an ancient line, and they would make a fine match, consolidating ties from the northern tip of Hogwarts down to the very south in a way the Lestranges have never been able to do.

“What are you planning?” Pansy asks. She leans back against the chaise lounge, stretching cat-like. The sheer, black fabric of her attire contrasts sharply against her pale skin, billowing pants that flare outwards and cling to her ankles, voluminous sleeves that hide sharp weapons within – and of course, her wand. Her shirt stretches tight over her torso, exposing her midriff, and Draco wonders how much magic she expends on warming charms when they leave the castle.

“I’m not sure,” Draco admits. He’s gathered them into his personal chambers while his Gryffindors stand guard outside. A few servants had seen them enter, and though it is a frequent enough occurrence, it scandalises the servants to no end.

“Let’s look at this methodically,” Astoria says, ever the planner. She sits prim and proper on a wood-carved chair cushioned with satin, skirts fanned outwards. She looks a small, wispy thing: shy, demure, but Draco knows beneath her soft exterior lies a woman made of iron and steel and a mind that could cut you to the quick. He loves her all the more for it. If only Astoria did not favour women, and he, men.

But that is an obstacle easily sidestepped.

“What do you mean?” Draco asks Astoria, but it’s Pansy who answers.

“We’ve not been able to decipher the how. The why is obvious: a ploy to destabilise the House of Malfoy. What I can venture a guess about is who.”

Draco nods. “The Lestranges.”

“Draco.” Astoria says, cautioning. “I think we should be careful before jumping to conclusions.”

“Who else could it be!” Draco says, anger and unease roiling within him. “They’ve been vying for favour with the Gaunts for decades. And Gaunt will have Father’s head if he learns of the Horcrux’s disappearance.”

“Firmly putting the Lestranges ahead of the Malfoys at court and solidifying their position as the most powerful Slytherins in the realm,” Pansy concludes. “There’s enough motive to warrant suspicion, at least. And they’re the only other House remotely powerful enough to orchestrate an extraction straight from the bowels of the castle.”

Astoria bites the inside of her cheek, sitting cross-legged. “If it is them,” she says, “it’s a dangerous game they’re planning. It could backfire.”

“The consequences could be–catastrophic.” Pansy shakes her head.

Draco twirls his wand between his fingers. “There’s a fair chance Gaunt’ll be angry with them. He allows us our politics but ‘defence of the realm of Hogwarts is paramount,’ as he says.”

“Gaunt’ll take action only if we can prove it,” Astoria says quietly. “And it won’t be easy. Don’t think Rabastan wouldn’t have spirited the Horcrux away somewhere deviously undiscoverable, squirrely bastard that he is. He will have played Gaunt against your father long before we can dredge up anything to show for it.”

“Wonderful,” Draco growls, slumping back in his chair. He runs a hand through his hair. “That’s not even considering the other Greater Houses. Nott and Rosier would leap at the chance to get a leg up at our expense, and we can’t rule out the Blacks either.”

Astoria exhales, biting her lip. “We’ll have to find a way to strike back fast, whoever it is. If we wait any longer, who knows what they’ll do with the Horcrux.”

Draco stops, sits straight, eyes flashing with newfound vigour.

“No,” Astoria says preemptively, but Draco waves her away.

“You’re getting that look,” Pansy says, but she’s smiling. She’s always been more receptive to his outlandish schemes than anyone else.

Draco presses on. “We can’t steal back our own Horcrux in time,” he begins, leaning forward, “but what if we could steal theirs?”

Astoria’s eyes widen. “That’s–”

“f*cking brilliant,” Pansy cuts in.

“f*cking idiotic is what it is,” Astoria says. “Even if we could find out which House stole our Horcrux, how would we begin to go about stealing theirs? What purpose would it serve?”

“I’ll find a way,” Draco says, determined. “It’ll right the power imbalance, if nothing else. And we know where to find it–it’ll be a good bargaining chip we can use to barter our own Horcrux back when we can.”

There’s a knock on the door then, soft and careful.

“Come in,” Draco calls, holding up a hand to forestall further discussion.

The door swings open and a Gryffindor enters, bearing a scroll. He salutes Draco once, and at his behest, unravels the scroll to read: “Skirmish along the Lestrange border. Death toll of two from the Gryffindors of House Malfoy. Permission to requisition Squib services for body disposal.”

“Granted,” Draco says, and then stops, eyes darting.

“Your Radiance?” the Gryffindor asks, hesitant.

“You may go,” Draco says carelessly, gesturing for him to leave the room at once. He waits for the door to shut before he turns around.

“You’re getting that look again,” Pansy says. Astoria shakes her head, looking alarmed yet resigned.

“I need you to send messages back to your Territories via emergency patronus,” Draco says, grinning. “I know exactly how we’re going to get that Horcrux.”

“You,” the Gryffindor bellows to Hermione, moving to push her outside, following Harry, but she merely narrows her eyes at him and lifts her wand from within the folds of the sleeve.

“If you manhandle me, I will be forced to report you,” she warns. “I am kept on retainer by the royal Greengrass household.”

The Gryffindor’s wand wavers, and he sets it down slowly. “Forgive me, madam, I mistook you for– ah–”

“It doesn’t matter,” Hermione says briskly. She hurries outside and the man follows behind her, where a crowd has gathered, a jumble of Squibs ringed by Gryffindors. Murmurs sweep through the fold. “What’s this about?”

The Gryffindor ignores her. Ravenclaw currency only extends so far.

“As you well know,” the man beside her begins, voice carrying with the force of a Sonorous charm. “Our Greengrass soldiers have been fighting to protect your lives in the North, assisting along the Lestrange borders.”

“What do you want from us now?” a woman asks to Harry’s right, and she is hit in the shoulder with a whipcord flashing fast and bright in the air. She doubles over in pain, and a man bends to help her.

“No,” barks the Gryffindor, and slashes at the man beside her. Both of them lie on the floor, clutching their arms as the sleeves of their shirts turn red.

“Vermin,” the Gryffindor spits. “You can spin no magic, create no value, contribute no tax but the paltry forest produce you claim for coin – and you have the audacity to question the hand that feeds you? That safeguards your homes from the dangers that lie beyond? Make no mistake, if our defences fall – if the Slytherins and Gryffindors fail in their mandate to protect – your kind will be the first to go.”

We are of the same kind, Harry thinks, but he holds his tongue. It would do no good to argue. “Apologies, sir,” he says instead. “She only meant to ask how we may be of service.”

The Gryffindor considers him with cruel eyes. “We have had Greengrass casualties along the border. We require the handling of the dead before the last rites may be administered.”

“I can do it,” Harry says, stepping forward, absorbing the attention of the Gryffindors, willing to divert it from the rest of them. “I can accompany you to wherever you would like me to go.”

The man looks like he is about to argue when another woman in Gryffindor colours steps forward, tall and thin and sharp, with intrigued eyes that consider him carefully. “You’ll do nicely,” she says. “And besides, you’ve offered.”

The man turns to her, confused, but she shakes her head. “I’ve received orders by patronus from the princess herself. He’s the one we need.”

The man opens his mouth to protest, but is stopped by a single raised eyebrow. “I have made my decision,” she says. “Take him.”

The man grumbles, but goes to comply, binding Harry’s hands with steel handcuffs and dragging him along. “Blasted f*cking Squibs,” he tells Harry. “Now we’ve got to travel by road because you can’t f*cking portkey.”

“It isn’t my fault,” Harry begins, but is cut off with a glare.

He boards a cart — a Hufflepuff one, by the looks of it — used to transport livestock. Horses are used to pull the cart – another luxury, but time is of the essence, so some allowances are made. The Gryffindor sits opposite him, continually shooting him dirty glares, as if begrudging him the comfort of sitting, of travelling alongside him. Harry pays him no mind, being as nonchalant as he dares. Too much insolence can get him whipped, he knows.

They stop at the edge of the river, a Hufflepuff ferryman waiting for them. He bows deferentially to the Gryffindor and then proceeds to ignore Harry entirely, making it a point to sit as far away from him as he can while rowing. Harry curls into himself, fingers grazing the water, feeling it ripple underneath his touch, clear and blue, thrumming with movement. He imagines the life that teems inside: eels and carp and algae. The river sustains the Squib Settlement, and so the river will always be sacred.

When they reach the shores of the Hufflepuff encampment, the guard alights from the boat immediately, handing the ferryman a pouch of coins that clink promisingly. The ferryman bows low, thanks him, shoots Harry one last contemptuous glare, and leaves to go cleanse his boat of Harry’s presence.

They take another cart, twining through the cramped Hufflepuff streets, past tiny houses not unlike his own. But where the Squib Settlement was full of crumbling huts with thatched roofs and walls of mud, the Hufflepuff houses are solid with bricks, finished with a perfection that belies the Hufflepuffs’ labour intensive occupations. They gawk as he crosses, retreating when they realise he is a Squib, but he holds his head as high as he can until they reach the edge of the Hufflepuff District. From there they climb onto a bridge and cross over into the Ravenclaw District: marketplace alive with traders and hawkers peddling their wares, shops with exotic displays thrown open, swathes of land teeming with cultivation. From there it's a gallop at full speed to the Gryffindor cantonment, where the army patrols, vigilant and strict, until finally, they reach the Slytherin District at the kingdom’s very centre. It’s a nauseating journey, worsened by the callous indifference of his escort, the palpable disgust from the wizards they pass. By the end of the week, Harry’s as sick of the Gryffindors as they are of him.

The Greengrass castle towers proudly over the rest, tall and imposing, a battalion of Gryffindors guarding the battlements. The castle itself is built with sturdy stone, shot through with vines of ivy like flowering wreaths over the walls. Harry has heard the stories, of plants that twine like snakes to strangle intruders, of flowers that emit poisoned pollen into the air. A kind of biological warfare that is a perversion of everything he knows of nature.

“This way,” the guard grunts, leading him into a servant’s entrance, through a corridor, down to the crypt where bodies have been kept for purification and embalming. The guard mutters a word against the door and a rune glows brightly over its surface before the door unlatches and swings open. “Bodies are through there.” He points vaguely to the interior of the room. “Ring the bell on your left when you’re done,” he says, and is about to unlock Harry’s restraints when a voice calls out, “Wait!”

They both turn to find the Gryffindor woman from earlier in the Settlement, stalking purposefully towards them. “You,” she tells Harry, ignoring the Gryffindor to his side. She wears three embroidered leaves on the shoulder of her uniform, outranking the man, Harry notes. “Come with me.”

“What for?” Harry asks before he can help himself.

“He’s got a mouth on him,” the guard mutters apologetically, but the woman ignores him. “I’ve received a special missive from up north. I gave specific instructions that he was to be brought straight to me. Why were they not followed?”

The guard’s eyes widen and he steps back. “Apologies, commander. I will enquire with the escort.” He pushes Harry forward roughly. “The Squib is yours.”

Harry is handed over like chattel to the woman, who holds him by the chain connecting to his cuffs, and drags him along, past winding corridors and lengthy passageways.

“Do you know who your parents are?” the woman asks, apropos of nothing.

Harry startles at being addressed, and it takes him a few seconds to gather his thoughts. “I– um– my mother– she was a Squib, like me. Grew up on the Settlement like myself.”

“And your father?” the woman asks, one eyebrow raised. “Do you know him?”

“I was raised by my mother,” Harry says flatly. “Whoever my father was, I never knew him, and I doubt he ever tried to know me.” He pauses, daring another question. “Why do you ask?”

The commander turns her eyes to him, calculating. “You’re different from most Squibs.”

“I take that as an insult,” Harry says, and then has to bite his tongue. The commander laughs.

“You should thank your father,” she says, stopping outside a room. “For the colour of your skin, for your features. You’d pass for a Gryffindor if not for your eyes.” She tilts her head. “Squib-Green.”

“My mother’s eyes,” Harry retorts. “I’m proud to have them.”

“They’ll beat the Squib out of you yet, I think,” the commander continues regardless, mostly to herself.

“What on earth does that mean?”

The commander gives him one last amused look, opening the door to the room and shoving him inside. To the far corner, a door opens to a balcony where another Gryffindor is waiting for him by a carpet which levitates in midair. “You’ll find out what I mean soon enough. Now go.” She pushes him forward, palm pressing against his shoulder. “Oh,” she adds, “one last thing. You might want to reign in that tongue of yours. Where you’re going, one wrong word and you’ll be killed.”

Draco surveys the extent of the Malfoy kingdom from atop the battlements, flanked by guards on either side. His armies swarm below, vast and imperious and, beyond them, there is a glimpse of sprawling Ravenclaw terrain. The Hufflepuff District is a broad speck in the distance, barely visible even with magic.

“Draco,” Astoria calls from behind him. He turns to her, her skirts fluttering in the wind, steps hurried.

She stops a respectable distance away from him and nods. “We found someone.”

Draco shakes his head. “Not another poorly tailored caricature–”

“No,” Astoria insists, stepping forward. “No, this is the real thing. He looks Gryffindor through and through. We think he really is part-Gryffindor.”

Draco’s eyes widen, and he draws back. “Where did you find him?”

“Our Squib Settlement beyond the river. It was a routine requisitioning for the latest border casualties when one of my commanders spotted him.”

“And you’re sure about this?” Draco asks, grasping her hand in his, needing it to be true.

“I’m sure,” Astoria says, smiling for the first time, slight and wavering, but present. “Come. Allow me to introduce you to the Squib who will steal us a Horcrux.”

Chapter 5: An Exchange of Blows

Chapter Text

Draco was born in the peak of summer–which did not mean much up in the icy peaks of the Malfoy mountains. His mother had died a few years later, and so he harboured only vague, sensate memories of her, the flowing fabric of her gowns, the bell-like quality to her laughter. His father was a practical man, who did not care for sentiment or outbursts of emotion, and so after the necessary arrangements were made and Narcissa’s body had been laid to rest, he’d summoned Draco to his room and told him, in a voice that was stern and unyielding, that he might have been a boy thus far, but Lucius would teach him to grow into a man. And so began Draco’s education in earnest, and he took to it with the flair of the lonely, devouring text after text and spell after spell until there was nothing left to learn but patience.

When Draco turned eleven, he was taken, by his father, to the Malfoy council room, and he weathered the stares of his father’s wizened advisors as he sat through tirades on tax codes and border disputes until slowly, steadily, he began to understand it. And at first he reserved his counsel for his father in his chambers, but he grow bolder, and his father was encouraging, and soon he was arguing with the selfsame ministers who had scorned him, and soon he dismissed them all, one by one by one, and replaced them with those who would be loyal to him, and his father allowed it, because to be loyal to Draco was to be loyal to Lucius, and it was like this that he weeded out the rot in his father’s realm, the cracks through the kingdom where the gold ran dry and, at his father’s side he fought and clawed and dragged his kingdom into a slow prosperity.

It was around this time that his father, ever prescient in forethought, had taken Draco across the Slytherin Province to teach him the ways of their vassals, and Draco watched them, as they bent the knee, cataloguing their armies and vaults and, most importantly, their mannerisms. And the Zabinis and Flints had been appropriately obsequious but the Rookwoods were lacking in fear. And so he returned to the capital and called for the account books and discovered discrepancies in the tithe that went so far back as to have been before his father’s father’s time, and when he brought it to his father, his father allowed him leeway. And so he did not send for tithe, for the chance for that had come and gone, and instead he stormed their castle and stripped them of their lands and declared them traitors to the crown. And then he manned the castle with the Royal army, until the time would come for him to bestow it upon another. For the gold in their vaults was dwindling, and they would need new allies before the turn of the decade–fresh blood over fresh land to work fresh soil.

He had come into himself at a time when his father was beginning to look outwards, for while their allies in the south stayed true, the Lestranges had begun stirring trouble once more. And it was at this time that the Blacks began to waver, inching slowly towards Lestrange, and Draco saw in his mind’s eye that they were being surrounded by all sides, and conflicts were breaking: along the borders among Squibs, in the marketplaces among the Ravenclaws, even the fog-belt boundaries of Lestrange, where Gryffindors stood together against Dementors. Everywhere, an uneasy dissonance between Malfoy and Lestrange. And Draco saw that they were headed towards war, and the High King Gaunt would do nothing to stop it, for he delighted in these skirmishes, these petty squabbles between nations. But Draco was determined he would not let it come to pass, for it had only been a few decades since his forefather Abraxas had last led the charge, and the conflict had drained all sides, and they were only just rebuilding, and he would not let another war void what he had built.

And so he gathered together his most trusted guards and travelled, silently–by carpet and then by foot–avoiding even his own portals, for Lestrange had spies everywhere, just as he did. And when he set foot on Black Territory and came face to face with his cousin, Sirius Black was not surprised. He smirked at Draco and sat back in his seat and asked, “I hope you’re not here to beg for my favour. What would your father say?” and Draco told him, calmly, though his heart had been pounding out of his chest, that it was not Draco who would be begging Sirius for help, but Sirius who would be begging Draco. And Sirius’ eyes widened, and he’d sat back, a finger under his chin, and beckoned uneasily for Draco to continue, and Draco said, voice low and deceptive, that there might be a mountain dividing Malfoy and Black, but the south was an uninterrupted mass of land. And Sirius baulked, brow furrowing in anger, saying none could attack him from the south so long as the Territories of Parkinson and the Gaunt Capital stood buffer; and Draco drew close, head tilted, a wicked glint in his eye, saying the land might be hurdled but the sea was fair game, and the marshy coast of Black Territory which wasn’t ringed by mountains led straight into the maw of the ocean.

And then he made known to Sirius, as blithely as he could, that while Sirius was brokering alliances on both sides, Draco had done some wooing of his own. And then he stuck a hand into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a card, and he asked Sirius, sickly sweet, if he’d like to be the guest of honour at Draco’s betrothal to the youngest Greengrass. And Sirius stared at him in horror, stricken, rising from his chair and letting it screech over the floor, for it dawned on him, then, that the Greengrasses had the skills and the Malfoys had the money, and together they could raise a fleet to be rivalled by none. And Draco beckoned Sirius to his own window and bade him look beyond it and, there, over the horizon, was a line of waiting warships, great beams hanging from the masts capped by iron-bound ends; catapults fortified by magic. And he apparated them both down onto the deck of one of the selfsame ships, and bade him look, closely, at the might of the Greengrass navy – soon to be his. And Sirius took a step back, and then another, and he went pale as a sheet, but he clenched his jaw and nodded once, and said he’d be glad to attend the betrothal, and it was then that Draco knew he had won. And then he gathered his entourage and bid farewell to his cousin, and travelled, this time, by portal. For the deed was done.

And just as he was about to step through, he waved his wand, once, and the illusion faded into mist. For though the alliance was true, the fleet was not, and the ship had been a sole commission.

And in this way, in the years to come, he would lie and cheat and plot to keep the peace.

It was at this time he came across Millicent. And while the rest of his subjects were soft and slavering and sickeningly slow, Millicent was sharp and quick as a razor. And she was the one who had pulled him aside and showed him, to his great and complete embarrassment, the myriad ways in which an attacker might strike him; and as a Slytherin studying in the Gryffindor Citadel, she taught him his duty to defend, not just the realm, but himself. And so she took him to the forges in the underbelly of Ravenclaw, and chose for him his first sword, taught him to find the balance of it, to learn the kind of fighter he’d like to be: how to step into a cut and defend a blow, use the weight of his body and the torque of his hips; how to aim a thrust and block another: wrists up, hilt pointing out, muscles straining to bear the onslaught; how to redirect a strike, fluid and dynamic, finding the force of the blade and pivoting it for advantage.

And so on the one hand he grew quick and strong and powerful on the magic that was his birthright, and on the other hand he learned to fend for himself without it. And on such a day, when he was sparring with Millicent, sweat pouring, breath speeding, dodging spells and clashing swords, a missive came, requesting Slytherin aid along the border. And so she left to fight the Dementors which menaced the land beyond Lestrange. And Draco saw her depart with a heavy heart, for when she returned, she returned in a box without a soul.

But she’d had a son by Vincent Crabbe, a Slytherin line near extinction, and so he called the family and bestowed the old lands of Rookwood upon their son, that the line might continue as a loyal vassal under the House of Malfoy–and for that he knew he had earned perpetual loyalty. And it was at this time, in the days after Millicent, when he had been lost and adrift and aimless–and he might’ve slipped completely if not for the needs of the realm–that he found companionship in Astoria and, eventually, Pansy. His father approved, for it would not hurt to strengthen ties with the other Greater Houses, and so in the years that came they drew close; and Astoria he chose for her brilliance, and Pansy he chose for her guile, and they both chose him for reasons beyond his comprehension, but it was their aid he called upon, time and time again; and was called upon in return, and he gave his help gladly, for what he gave he received back tenfold.

And this is one such example. For Draco takes a single look at the man who calls himself Harry, and learns that Astoria has outdone herself.

Harry is tall, nearly as tall as Draco himself, with a broad frame and sharp, muscled limbs. Thick, wavy hair falls tangled against the nape of his neck, accentuating his sharp jaw, the line of his cheekbones. His lips are full, nose straight, long lashes framing bold eyes. He is perfect, Draco realises.

“He will have to be given coloured lenses,” he tells Astoria. He doesn’t look away from Harry.

Pansy slips into chambers, then, quiet as a snake, shutting the door behind her without a sound. “I sent some of your Gryffindors away,” she says. “Too many could attract attention.”

Draco nods. “Can’t do much for his complexion, I suppose,” he continues. “We’ll have to hope the winter air lightens his skin.”

“Do potions work on Squibs?” Astoria asks.

“I doubt it,” Pansy says. “We could try–”

“I’d rather not be your experimental guinea pig, though I doubt my opinion carries weight,” Harry says, and Draco startles at the clarity of his speech, the unaccented lilt to his voicing of the Northern High Tongue. Harry attempts to take a step forward and is met with invisible resistance, which makes him trip, but he’s boxed in by the same force that tripped him, and settles upright again.

Pansy frowns. “I thought magic didn’t affect Squibs.”

“That isn’t a spell on him,” Astoria clarifies. “It’s a barrier spell cast over the space around him.”

Draco raises an eyebrow appreciatively. “Impressive. Will you be teaching it to us?” he asks. Such a spell could come exceptionally handy dealing with Squib uprisings along their southern borders.

“After we are wedded, perhaps,” Astoria says, smiling knowingly.

Harry scoffs. “Listen. I’ve just spent the past two days flying non-stop on a magic carpet across the length of Hogwarts. I sicked up no less than five times along the way, haven’t eaten anything since, haven’t slept since, I’m this close to keeling over from exhaustion, and–”

Draco whips out his wand and points it at Harry, walking towards him. “Insolent, aren’t you?”

Harry glares back at him, defiant, and Draco has never looked twice into the eyes of a Squib but his are strangely luminous, bright. Like the jewelled tones of the Slytherin banner. It sets him off-kilter.

“I know you need me for something important,” Harry says. “So I’ll say what I want.”

Draco waves away the spell that surrounds Harry’s neck and digs his wand into the juncture of Harry’s jaw and throat. “You don’t think I can find someone else in a heartbeat?" he whispers. “When there are so many of you to choose from?" He draws back just a little, smirking mockingly. "I don't blame you, really. All that time spent toiling without magic, I can’t imagine there's much else to do besides f*cking like animals and breeding like–”

“No,” Harry snaps, and then catches himself, surprised. He clears his throat uncertainly. “I don’t think” –he pauses as Draco grazes the tip of his wand against his neck, up, up, to the edge of his mouth– “that you can find someone else.”

“Why not?” Draco asks softly. Harry stares back at Draco, breathing hard, eyes cloudy with fear, with something a little like hunger.

“Because” –he hesitates again as Draco traces his cheek, the outline of his lips, the corner of his temple, wand dragging sharply against skin– “you wouldn’t have flown me in from Greengrass Territory unless you were desperate.”

That draws Draco up short. He isn’t used to his prisoners talking back.

“Is that what I am?” Harry asks again, less dazed, more fearful, and Draco realises he’s said the words out loud.

It’s Pansy who answers, stepping forward and shooting him a measured glance. “What you are remains to be seen.”

Draco takes a step back, and then another, willing the fog in his mind to clear. He clenches his fingers, digging nails into his skin, and the pain eases the daze.

“You mean, my survival depends on my usefulness,” Harry infers, glowering back at Pansy. “And you still haven’t told me what you want from me.”

“What we want from you is simple,” Draco says, and is grateful that his voice comes out firm, commanding. “You will masquerade as a member of my personal Gryffindor guard. Astoria will concoct a story for your origin, and you will stick to it.” He pauses, watching Harry process the information. “And then, when the time is right, you will carry out a task for us. On completion of the task, you may return to your Settlement.”

“Is that a promise?” Harry asks.

“Yes,” Draco says tersely.

“Fine,” Harry says. “What do I get in return?”

The three of them exchange a look. Astoria rises from her chair and joins Draco and Pansy.

“You are in no position to make any deals,” she says.

“Oh, I think I am,” Harry returns. “You need me. So either you bargain with me or I refuse to cooperate.”

“What makes you think I can’t make you do what I want?” Draco asks.

Harry meets his stare evenly. “You could force me, but I will resist you at every turn. I will baulk, hesitate, prevaricate at the most inopportune of moments. I will do my best to foil you. You cannot Imperius me, your spells cannot touch me. You could have me tortured or punished but that will serve you no purpose. Much easier to give me what I want.”

“And what do you want?” Pansy asks curiously.

Harry swallows, looking between them. “Jobs for Squibs on the mainland.”

“No,” Draco says immediately.

“Protections for the Greengrass Squib Settlement,” Harry says, changing tack.

Astoria shakes her head. “The Settlement is enormous and over half of it is unmapped jungle. There’s no way we can spare that much protective magic.”

“I don’t mean magic,” Harry bites out. “I mean order your Gryffindors not to attack us whenever they feel like it, order them not to use our people for sex–”

“–which you’re paid for,” Astoria points out.

“Hardly,” Harry says, scowling. “I want a guarantee that my people will be left alone. Only contact for work, if that.”

“We’ll think it over,” Draco says, before Astoria can protest further. And then he signals for one of his guards to enter and take Harry away, loosening the restraints around him. Harry goes without complaint, but hesitates at the door, turning to look at Draco.

“What are you waiting for, boy?” the guard calls from outside, and Harry shakes his head and leaves.

Harry’s had no time to think since he was deposited by the finicky magical carpet straight onto the parapets of the tall, ugly, pointy thing that the Malfoys call a castle. Then he’d been shoved unceremoniously into a large room with a sunken pool of water at the centre, like a pond in the shape of a rectangle, and was instructed to bathe. From there it was straight to a Ravenclaw tailor who’d taken his measurements and outfitted him in the space of an hour, and with that, he’d been carted off and deposited in the personal rooms of the Ruler himself.

There’s always trouble brewing in the north, Harry knows. The Lestranges and the Malfoys have been at each other’s throats for as long as he can remember–before that, even, if the stories that trickle into the Settlement from Magic Territory are anything to go by. This alliance with the Greengrasses and the Parkinsons is new, though. Harry doesn’t have any recollection of the House of Malfoy being particularly friendly with the Rulers of the south, so it must be the doing of the heir: Draco Malfoy.

Harry says his name out loud, rolling the words between his tongue, feeling them out. The Parkinson princess is famed, known for being a brutal warrior. Slytherins have never been mandated to work the borders unless the threat is dire, but she has distinguished herself in skirmishes across the breadth of Hogwarts. A hunter on the battlefield, aggressive, ruthless; and then of course, the more insidious of whispers: that she warms the younger Malfoy’s bed, kills for him, even. Harry had never given any credence to the stories, jumbled and convoluted as they are by the time they reach him down in the furthest Settlement on the tip of the continent.

Harry has no doubt the Greengrass princess is just as deadly, even if she hides it well. He’d noted the way she’d surprised Malfoy, constructing the spell that’d kept him in place; the way she’d addressed him. Polite, but not deferential; quiet, but not compliant. There’s a dynamic here that Harry wants to unpack, needs to learn if he’s going to have to survive the dangerous games that these Slytherins play, up in these icy northern reaches.

And then of course, there’s Malfoy himself. Every inch the prince that Harry’d been expecting, and yet, somehow, not. Beautiful, in the way all Slytherins are, exuding arrogance, the surety of being hyperaware of himself. All long lines and sharp angles, graceful in repose, then later, even in anger. He’d taunted Harry, mocked him, denied him, hurt him. But there’d been something else there, something flashing in his gaze that felt to Harry almost as if it were nerves. Fear, even.

Harry shakes himself out of it. He could never truly understand the motives of a Slytherin, gallivanting about in their castles in the clouds, too self-absorbed to worry about what goes on beneath them. He knows he shouldn’t be taken in by the opulence, the casual mechanics of magic that float about him. He’s never been able to feel it the way he can here, the way it turns the air thick and heavy, settling onto his skin like a film of water, evaporating just as quick. He supposes he should be grateful. What he does not have is also the very thing that cannot be used against him.

He sets about wearing the clothes laid out for him, soft brown pants that slide against his skin like butter, and a deep red tunic with sleeves that reach his wrists. The front of the tunic is embroidered with the Malfoy crest in rich silver thread, the anatomy of a snowflake. In a pearl box to the side are lenses that he’s been instructed to wear. He’s just set them into his eyes when the door to his room opens.

“So you’re the new recruit, eh?” a voice calls and Harry jumps.

“Who’s there?” he calls back, taking care to accent his syllables the way his godfather taught him, the Northern High Tongue strange and unfamiliar in his mouth.

A figure with a head of bright red hair pokes into his room, frowning. “This is where you’ve been staying?” the man asks.

Harry blinks at him. The room is vast, by his standards, equipped with a circular bed and soft, white sheets, a curtained window overlooking the side of the castle, and a wardrobe, currently empty. It’s double the size of his hut back home, bigger than the biggest house on the Settlement.

“What’s wrong with the room?” Harry asks, and instantly knows he’s said the wrong thing.

“Are you being punished?” the man asks, stepping into the room. He’s tall and lanky, wearing Gryffindor colours that clash brightly with his hair, though the powerful and surefooted movement of his body belies a cultivated strength.

“No,” Harry says slowly. “I just–just got here and I assumed I’d be given better accommodations later. Didn’t want to bite the hand that feeds and all that.”

The man nods, seemingly convinced. “I’m Ron,” he says, holding out a hand. “Ron Weasley Gryffindor.”

Harry grasps Ron’s hand in his own, tight and firm. “I’m Harry,” he says.

Fortunately for him Ron doesn’t seem too interested in knowing his last name. “Well, Harry, good to meet you. I’ve been tasked with taking you down to lunch and then showing you to your new quarters.” He hauls Harry up and shuffles him out the door, guiding him this way and that, all the while keeping up a steady stream of conversation.

“I take it you haven’t served on the border before?” Ron asks.

“No,” Harry says warily, wondering if that might be held against him, but Ron merely shrugs.

“Neither have I, to be honest. Well, unless you count the Squib assignments, but” –he shrugs– “no one really does.”

Harry’s stomach tightens.

Ron nudges his elbow. “This way,” he says, pressing into a portion of a wall with no discernible distinguishing feature, which folds inward. A passageway lined with sconces opens before them. “Perks of being a Gryffindor, eh?” He steps into the passage and beckons for Harry, who follows him. “I’ve only got entry-level clearance, but that still means I’ve got a f*ckton of clout over the poor bastards on Squib duty.”

“Squib duty?” Harry asks, keeping his voice carefully casual.

“Yeah, you know.” Ron navigates the maze with practised ease, an unconscious familiarity. “I reckon there’s not too many problems in the southern settlements but up here, what with the Carrowites and all, it’s a huge pain in the arse.”

“Right,” Harry says, filing it away. “The Carrowites.”

“Anyway.” Ron turns to him. “Tell me about yourself. It isn’t often we get new recruits to the palace guard unless they’ve done something enormously worthy of note. I was the last one a few years ago. That’s why I’m in charge of seeing that you get settled in.” Ron prattles on, his low baritone a not unpleasant contrast to the cheerful cadence of his words. And despite the pretence Harry finds him easy to talk to, finds him bright and carefree and down to earth in a way no one else in this castle has been. So he relaxes a little, lets Ron regale him with amusing tales, half untrue by the outlandish sound of them, but no less entertaining because of it, of castle gossip and border duty and his–their, he corrects–fellow Gryffindors.

They step out into a large, open room with tables laid out and Gryffindors milling about, some waiting in line for food, others sat in groups around benches, talking, laughing. Ron leads him to the kitchens where there’s only one cook, swishing his wand as the plates scrub and the pots bubble with stew and spoons ladle out portions onto the plates of the Gryffindors.

Harry joins them, and he has the best meal of his life: a curry of lamb cooked in yoghurt and seasoned with fennel and mint and flowering spices. He licks his plate clean and then goes back for seconds, and Ron encourages him with a laugh and a pat on the back. “I was the same, when I got here,” he says. “You never get used to how good the food is.”

Harry lets himself sink into a sated stupor, unable to help himself. The room is aglow with light from floating candles, there’s food in his belly and good company to be had. He’s in no imminent danger. He feels mellow and soft and satisfied –so of course it’s then that things begin to unravel.

“f*cking Squibs,” a man says, in lieu of greeting, setting his plate down with a thud opposite Ron. He’s tall and muscled with a crop of sandy brown hair and an expression that seems permanently twisted into derision. “Had a gash in my thigh the size of my own fist. Bled all over my own uniform.” He makes a fist with his hand, demonstrating.

“Cormac,” Ron says carefully, posture stiff and closed.

Cormac doesn’t acknowledge the greeting. He fumbles into the seat and picks at his food. “I should be at the borders fighting Dementors, dammit. I would be at the borders if it weren’t for these blasted Carrowites.”

“He’d be dead on the borders if it weren’t for the Carrowites,” Ron whispers out the side of his mouth, rolling his eyes; but Cormac doesn’t notice as he flags a passing servant and gestures for a glass of wine.

“What’d they do this time?” Harry asks slowly, projecting an aura of cool, calm confidence. He’s never heard of the Carrowites, hasn’t a clue what it could mean besides the fact that it’s got something to do with Squibs. But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t do his best to learn what he can.

“Sacked a part of the Settlement off the Nott border,” Cormac says, now shovelling food into his mouth, evidently having grown an appetite. “Lestrange sent in a call for aid. We got there late and did what we could, but most of the Carrowites had left by then. We’d no idea where the rest had gone, and none of the other vermin would tell us where they’d gone even though we were helping them.” He shakes his head, making a face.

“The other vermin?” Harry frowned.

Cormac sits back, raising an eyebrow at Ron. “This one’s slow, isn’t he?” He turns back to Harry. “The other squibs in the Settlement, boy.”

Cormac can’t be much older than him, but Harry’s weathered worse insults.

“I’m from Greengrass Territory, so”–Harry pauses, wondering how best to phrase it–“the Carrowites don't really give us too much trouble.”

“Yeah, no sh*t,” Cormac sneers. “You don’t have to rub it in our faces. How everything’s fine and dandy down south. We know.”

“Anyway,” Ron cuts in. “Harry’s tired. He portkeyed in about an hour ago and needs to rest. Save the bonding for tomorrow, yeah?” Without waiting for a reply, he stands and pulls Harry up by the arm. “Goodnight, Cormac.”

Cormac clicks his tongue dismissively and turns to the person on his right.

“Thanks for that,” Harry tells him gratefully as they walk away. He’s still got no idea what Cormac was blathering about, but it doesn’t sit right with him. The conceit in his tone, the revulsion in his words, it twists at Harry’s stomach until he feels sick.

“Cormac is….” Ron trails off, echoing his thoughts. “Most of us aren’t like that. It’s just him and a few others.”

“You mean there’s more?” Harry groans.

“I’ll give you the rundown tomorrow,” Ron says, leading him out the door into another corridor with parallel doors on either side. “You’ll be sharing with me.” He opens the door with a flourish.

The room inside is even bigger than the one he’d been given to change in, with floor to ceiling windows that overlook a frozen lake, beds big enough for three, chests of drawers made of thick, strong oak. And everywhere, the trappings of Gryffindor red, in the dye of the curtains, the colour of the sheets, the spicy scent in the air.

“It’s not much,” Ron admits by his side. “But you get used to it.”

Harry hums vaguely, trying his best to disguise his wonder.

“Do I get to sleep now?” he asks, and Ron smiles at him in understanding.

“Yeah, ‘course.” He gestures to the left of the room. “That side’s mine but you can take–”

There’s a knock on the door that turns Harry immediately wary. “Coming,” Ron calls, hurrying to the door.

Another Gryffindor opens it, and Ron steps back, taking in the formal posture of the woman. “Prince Malfoy requesting presence of Gryffindor Harry in his chambers.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “Now?”

“Yes,” the woman says, in the same monotone. “I’m to escort you.”

Harry stares back at his enormous new bed longingly, and sighs.

Draco wonders what his bedchambers might look like to Harry, who has only ever seen a castle from its crypts. With the castle’s tall ceilings and spacious rooms, thick carpets and marbled tiles, gold filigree curtains and carved furniture. The magnificence of it all, the excess. Draco wonders if he aspires to it or resents it.

Probably the latter, Squibs have never been known for their ambition. But then again, Harry is unlike other Squibs. He’d spoken the Northern High Tongue, for one, and Draco wonders where he picked up that particular skill.

He stands before Draco now, awkwardly out of place, fidgeting in his clothes like he’s unused to the feel of them, eyes darting about, cataloguing the room with ill-concealed incredulity. With Astoria and Pansy resting in their own quarters, to have Harry in here with him, alone in this innermost sanctum, feels oddly intimate. Draco pushes the thought from his mind.

“You called,” Harry says.

Draco rises from his seat and moves towards Harry. He’s dressed in Gryffindor reds, the shocking green of his eyes washed away by the lenses Astoria’d manufactured for him. “You came.”

“Didn’t have much of a choice, did I?” Harry asks ruefully. “Have you thought about what I asked?”

“Yes,” Draco says, “and here’s my counter-offer. Double rations of grain for the entirety of the Greengrass Squib Settlement for a year.”

“But–”

“No buts,” Draco cuts in, scathingly. “I’ve been more than fair. It’s true, I need you. And it’s true that replacing you will be difficult – but not impossible. I could have your head for disobeying a direct order and no one would question me, here or anywhere else. You’ve more to lose than I do so you will accept. Do not force my hand.”

Harry makes a pained noise at the back of his throat.

“It is an accurate exchange of value for the services you will render me,” Draco adds, trying to get his voice under control. It isn’t like him to lose himself like this.

“Okay,” Harry says, though he says it resigned, like he knows it’s the best offer he’s going to get. “But I want something else too.”

“What,” Draco says, irritated. Harry’s hair is falling over his face, barely held back by the cloth he’s used to tie it. He reminds Draco, irrationally, of his aunt Bellatrix. The one who’d run off to the Lestranges as a girl and married that fool Rodolphus.

“I want information,” Harry says, stepping forward. Draco grips his wand, instantly wary, but Harry raises his hands. “I don’t have magic,” he says, tilting his head. “What do you think I’m going to do to you that you can’t stop?”

Draco rolls his eyes and beckons. “What do you want to know?”

“The Carrowites,” Harry says. “What is it?”

Draco tilts his head, surprised. “You’ve been here, what, four hours? Who told you about the Carrowites?”

Harry shrugs. “Seems to be common knowledge.”

Draco purses his lips and considers Harry, for a moment, debates how much to share. The Carrowites are a radical Squib outfit lobbying for self-governance against the Territories of Malfoy and Lestrange. There’s been murmurings of rebellion in some Black and Nott outposts – the Territories closest to them – but so far nothing concrete. Draco tells Harry as much.

“Why the name Carrowites?” Harry asks, confused.

Draco waves dismissively. “The uprisings began in the Carrow district in Lestrange Territory and spread from there. The name stuck.”

Harry considers this. “Do they target other Squibs as well? The ones who won’t support them?” He can’t imagine many Squibs would want to join these Carrowites. The Slytherins are the most powerful wizards in the realm, after all. To voice dissent where they can’t hear is one thing, to risk their iron fist quite another.

“The non-Carrowite Squibs claim they’re being targeted. Remains to be seen if it’s true.”

Harry narrows his eyes at Draco, at the dismissal in his tone. “Do you target non-Carrowite Squibs?”

“No!” Draco says defensively. “We question them, sometimes, if we suspect their involvement with the Carrowites, but that’s it.”

Harry glares at him further. “And how often do you suspect their involvement?”

“Enough,” Draco says, drawing closer to him. “I will not have my administration questioned by a Squib.” He doesn’t have to stoop to more insults, he knows, he can pack any word with venom.

He sees a flash of anger flare hot and dark in Harry’s eyes, though it’s gone before he can blink.

“What would you have me do, then?” Harry asks, voice low and unrepentant.

It’s then that Draco realises that he’s crossed the distance between them, as close as he dares. He can see the pores of Harry’s skin, the texture of his hair, the slant of his eyebrows.

“Train to be a Gryffindor,” he says. “The rest I will tell you in due time.”

“You don’t know, do you?” Harry asks, leaning forward. “You haven’t yet fully planned what you’re to do with me.”

“That’s not true,” Draco says, a beat too late, and it’s all the confirmation Harry seems to need.

“Let me help,” he urges. “If this is something only I can do, it stands to reason that I might be useful.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “You’re quick to offer assistance for a man expressing resentment only a few hours earlier.”

Harry rears back as if stung. “Make no mistake, Draco Malfoy. You may be Ruler of your territory, a Slytherin born and bred, but you are not my Ruler. Neither is Greengrass, nor is Gaunt. You cannot ostracise us and then claim to speak for us–”

Draco gasps. “That is treason–”

“It is truth,” Harry says, eyes glittering dangerously. “You don't care for us. You don’t trust us. You don’t allow us onto the mainland without a permit. You don’t send your Slytherin vassals to hear our grievances and help, you don’t send your Ravenclaws to trade with us in earnest, you don’t send your Hufflepuffs to build us better homes. You tie warning spells to the edges of the rivers to keep us away, and yet you need us to do the work that offends your sensibilities: cleaning the dead, slaving under wizards. I know you would have been rid of us aeons ago if we’d outlived even a sliver of our usefulness.”

Draco feels the anger build inside him, searing into his words. That a man–a Squib–might disregard his authority, callous and indifferent. “I could kill you where you stand,” he says, deathly quiet.

“But you won’t,” Harry says, “because you need me. But harbour no delusions that my people need you.” He stepped closer, once more, whispering into Draco’s ear. “I hate you, as I know you hate me. You rule us in name only, as you always have.”

Draco tosses his wand aside. Rage is flooding his limbs, down to the very tips of his nerves. He doesn’t need magic to hurt this man, to put him in his place. He shoves him and Harry staggers back, tripping on the edge of the bedpost, falling, back hitting the carpeted floor with a muffled thud. Draco climbs over him, pinning him in place, but Harry thrusts his hip upwards with a force that shocks Draco and pulls his arms to one side and flips them around so it’s him on top over Draco.

f*ck, Draco thinks, trying to buck Harry off him but he’s firm, centred, folding forward with his elbow close to Draco’s face, thighs pressing against Draco’s sides, and he finds himself locked, unable to move. They’re almost chest to chest, eyes trained on each other, and Draco forgets to move, forgets to breathe. His muscles scream and he strains against the strength of Harry’s limbs, the weight of him, but Harry is unyielding.

Image description: An illustration of Draco and Harry in the middle of a fight on Draco’s bedroom. The background is made of wooden panels and columns, red carpets, gauze curtains and candlelights. Harry straddles Draco over an intricately embroidered carpet, his hands gripping Draco's collar while Draco holds his arms. They stare at each other intensely. Draco wears a dark green tunic with brown trousers, and Harry wears a red tunic and with white trousers.

“Who are you without your magic?” Harry murmurs into his ear, and it’s quiet and sibilant and mocking, and Draco cannot bear it.

Repellio, he gasps out, and Harry goes flying back against the wall, falling to the floor with a thud. Magic floods through Draco’s core, crackling out of him and staining the air with colour. He stalks towards Harry menacingly as Harry blinks his eyes open, struggling to sit up.

“Who am I without magic?” Draco asks, crouching low before Harry. He lifts Harry’s chin with a finger, forcing his lolling head straight. “Unfortunately for you, we’ll never find out.”

The tapestry where Harry has hit the wall is torn, singed, and Harry’s eyes close once more, body listing to the side. Draco catches him on instinct, cradling his face and supporting his body. sh*t, he thinks. The Squib cannot heal with magic.

He groans, and summons his wand, sending a Patronus to Pansy and Astoria. The girls’ll have his head for what he’s about to do.

Harry wakes to hands on his shoulders shaking him.

“Hello,” a voice says, soft and musical. “My name is Luna Lovegood. Can you tell me your name?”

Harry blinks his eyes open to see a short, skinny woman with blonde hair wearing a dress dyed a deep ocean blue. Her eyes are grey, face arranged into an open, kind expression, and Harry tries to place her but he can’t. His head rings with a kind of sharp, piercing pain and his back aches like it’s been pounded into by a wild animal repeatedly. “What happened?”

“Your name, sir,” Luna repeats, and the shock of hearing the honorific from anyone is enough to freeze Harry’s thinking. “This is important,” she insists, oblivious. “You might be concussed. Can you tell me if you remember your name?”

“It’s Harry,” he says automatically. He moves his head, slowly, painfully, looking around and finding himself back in the room he’d been sequestered in earlier. “Who are you?”

“Your caretaker,” she says simply.

“You’re a Gryffindor?” Harry tries to shift away but his body creaks in protest.

“Of course not.” Luna shakes her head. “There’s nothing a Gryffindor Healer can do without magic.”

Harry’s tongue feels heavy in his mouth as he struggles to form the accented syllables. “I didn’t” –he makes a noise of frustration and drops the accent entirely– “I didn’t know Ravenclaws could be Healers.”

“Oh, I’m not a Healer,” Luna says indifferently. “But the Gryffindors can’t help you, so I’m here to do what I can.”

Harry’s eyes widen, mind reeling. “You know…?”

“I’ve been sworn to secrecy,” Luna explains, smiling faintly. “But I asked for this.”

“Why?” Harry asks, but Luna only shakes her head.

“Because I wanted to, Harry. Now go to sleep.” She pats his head, softly, and he feels his eyes turn heavy, falling shut. “Goodnight, Harry. Sleep well.”

Predictably, Pansy and Astoria are incensed.

“That’s your grand idea?” Astoria demands. “No one will believe it for a second.”

“And why not?” Draco shoots back hotly. “Unless you’ve any objections seeing as you’re to be my lawfully wedded wife.”

“Draco,” Pansy warns. “Enough of this. Astoria has every right to be angry.”

“It isn’t my fault,” Draco protests. He stops where he’s pacing the room and flops onto his bed. Pansy and Astoria are still staring at him, unimpressed, and he sits up. “He was spouting treason.”

“Then we can have him hanged,” Pansy says. “After he’s done what we need him to do. We can’t have our lynchpin roughed up because you couldn’t rein in your feelings long enough to tolerate him. We can’t keep explaining things away.”

“We don’t have to,” Draco says, folding his arms. “No one will bat an eye if I take him as my paramour.”

Astoria lets out a noise of exasperation. “He’s a Squib!”

“For all intents and purposes, he’s a Gryffindor,” Draco snaps. “He doesn’t have to do patrols or drills with the other guards if he’s purportedly in my bed.”

Pansy lets out a scoff, half-amused, half-disbelieving. “I suppose we don’t have a choice anymore, seeing as the other Gryffindors are already beginning to wonder at his absence.”

“We can let him out in the evening,” Draco says, gesturing with his head to the door to the far left corner. “He’s resting.”

Astoria closes her eyes, as if counting down. “Fine,” she says. “Do what you want. It won’t be my fault when everything falls apart.”

Draco clicks his tongue dismissively. “Everything will work just as it should,” he says, determined. “I know exactly how to make him cooperate.”

Chapter 6: A Lingering of Past

Chapter Text

For as long as Pansy can remember, she’s been adrift.

Or rather, she’s belonged to too many places at once. She was conceived in the hunting grounds somewhere deep in the Parkinson forests, and was born prematurely in the birthing rooms of the Ollivander castle, kicking and screaming, as if she couldn’t bear to be kept from the world a moment longer.

Her mother had wanted a son; and it was fitting, in a way, that she had begun to disappoint her mother from the moment she’d set her eyes on her.

She’d done the expected things, all the things a princess might have to learn, the vacuous, inane habits a lady must cultivate to survive. Her mother had foisted her off onto the servants the moment the birth was over, and she grew surrounded by a revolving ensemble of maids, tutors, serving men, and castle workers who crept silently underfoot, invisible.

It started, at first, because she had too much time on her hands and not much else to do. She was tearing through her studies with an alacrity that was alarming her tutors, and she had quickly learnt that she held no interest in the kind of jolly, upside-down schemes the servants’ children liked to concoct. And so she spent her days slinking across the castle, quiet and deft, learning all she could. The secret tunnels that her Gryffindors contrived to hide from each other, the things her father’s courtiers said in his absence, the castle defences, news of the outside world. Her mother, she learned, was a lenient taskmaster, content to hand over the administration of the Parkinson realm to her underlings while her husband was away in High King’s court. Three miscarriages had left her sickly and frail and weak, and Pansy might have felt sorry for her if she hadn’t begrudged her own daughter the health and beauty and life that had escaped her. And so she was kept out of the Ruler’s council, even though she knew she’d have been allowed–expected, even–to attend if her father had been present where he should.

So with nothing to do, it was only natural that she’d stumble into the Gryffindor’s Citadel by way of Bartemius Crouch, a powerful vassal in his own right and heir to the Seat of the Crouch Province, much too gruff to tolerate little girls asking to be taught to fight, but much too fond of her father to disagree. She’d persuaded him, as daughter of the Ruler, and he’d accepted, as Commander of the Parkinson Forces and Head Trainer of the Citadel, to teach her what he could of the ways of magical combat. He was the one who’d first pressed a knife into her hands and taught her how to use it, how to slash to wound and stab to kill. Who’d brought her the first corpse she’d ever seen and helped her open it up. And he’d taught her–curtains closed, wards up, spells disallowed because he’d wanted her to feel the body, the stench and the heat and the humanness of it–the vascularity of man, the myriad ways in which it may be utilised to manipulate death. That severing a major artery causes death in seconds, but a puncture to the liver is agonisingly slower. That wands can be deadly, but knives are unexpected, and all the more dangerous because of it.

But if Crouch was the advocate of steel, it was Ollivander who taught her the workings of a wand. And she learned, quickly, that beneath his sagging jowl and hunched back was a man of formidable capability. Who did not need a knife to gut a man when a wand might work just as well. Who’d built a wand just for her and split it open to teach her its components: the hilt, the reinforcements, the core that glowed bright and eager as she touched it. And then, when she had learned all she could, he’d had her piece her own wand back together until it was whole, so that the wand functioned as an extension of her arm, an extension of her–for she had poured her soul into the forging of it. And she realised that Ollivander had given her a weapon unlike any other, and for that she would always be grateful.

And so she’d swallowed it all, devoured it, for the knowledge had made her powerful.

When she was done, eighteen and a woman grown, and the years intervening had made her harder and stronger and better, she had left for the icy reaches of the north.

Her mother had been happy to see her go. Pansy doubted her presence had ever made a difference in the castle in the first place. Even so, she had not expected the pang of longing that crept up on her, startling as she left, as she reached the edge of the borders to portal out to Lestrange Territory. She had never left the castle except to traipse down to the Gryffindor cantonment when necessary, and she’d overlooked this: the vast, fertile expanses of riverbank, cotton growing white against black soil, the sun beating down on the rows of terraced plantations, the sprawling facade of maze-like houses in the distance. The bawdy music of the commonfolk and their sprightly dancing in festivity. The rocky footpaths trampled into roads by horse and cow and bullock cart. The rounded sounds of the Common Tongue and the rustic pulse of their songs. She had missed it all, she realised, and she felt desire for a land that was already hers.

She had been prepared, of course, for the Dementor attacks. A Gryffindor may repel a Dementor but only a Slytherin could ever truly destroy it. And so her assistance on the border proved invaluable, and the Gryffindors warmed to her soon. It was easier on the borders, standing atop walls made of stone and ice and raised by the magic of all the Slytherins who’d come before her. There, people listened, made way for her. There was no space for petty politicking or needless infighting. The goal was to defend, to protect, and she’d felt infused with a purpose that had eluded her for decades.

The Lestranges were publicly grateful, and relations between them thawed, somewhat, and it was then she realised that her fighting could be wielded like a different kind of weapon, like that of diplomacy. And it was around then that she received summons from her father, requesting her presence in the court of High King Gaunt. And when she’d arrived and she met him and she bowed, he had taken her by the shoulders and bade her to stand and met her, for the first time, as an equal.

“Tidings from the south are grave,” he’d confided, and then whispered, further, of the ambitions of his own vassals, the schemes that threatened their House, and he had charged her to return to the south, to restore order to their seat, the throne of the House of Parkinson.

So four years later she’d returned to the borders and done what she could, and then she’d hung up her fighting leathers and portalled back south to a cold welcome and a colder castle. She’d gone about setting it to rights. Those that were wavering had to be weeded out and pared down or eliminated entirely, and those that stood firm would have to be rewarded. The Snapes and the MacMillans, for one, who’d controlled too much of the silk trade–that, she’d handed over to the Crouches. Crouch had done nothing but nod his head at her thickly and whisper a rough jest about netting in returns on his investments–but she knew he was glad and he was proud, as proud as a father might have been. And she supposed she’d earned it.

The last thing she did before returning to the north was bolster the Ollivanders. The wood had to come from the Blacks and the Malfoys, and she’d bought it by the shipful long before either of them had known what it was for. Then she’d convinced Ollivander to expand his clientele and hire some workers, and she’d built him a wand-forge on the edge of the Parkinson grounds, and the rest took off faster than she’d thought possible. It wasn’t long before the two Houses came banging on her doors, indignant that she had cheated them out of profits, that she’d bought their wood at a pittance and was selling it back to them with a twine of Dittany or a strand of Wampus hair and turning over a fortune. But she’d been clever, and the contracts would stand for decades, and in their haste to sell her their broken, used, uncarvable bits of wood, they had failed to account for what she might do with them.

It was around the same time she’d made Draco’s acquaintance. She had heard of him, of course. The only heir to the House of Malfoy, the strongest scion in over a decade. Like her, he’d stayed behind while his father had entered the council of High King Gaunt but, unlike her, he’d cut his teeth on administrative politics long before she’d had the chance to. He’d brought the Flints to heel under him and cemented an alliance with the Greengrasses all while she was still battling Dementors along the Lestrange borders. He’d been filling the coffers of his state to the brim while she was off fighting a war in another man’s kingdom.

The Malfoy’s star was waxing, and the whispers had begun once more. With the Greengrass connection they’d control the northern and the southernmost parts of the realm, and with their combined wealth they may well take everything in between along the way. Pansy knew she’d have to counter it, and wands could only fund so much.

So she’d gone to his court to learn of this man, this mysterious, enigmatic, dangerous man. And instead she’d fallen in love with him. Not in the way a woman might take a lover or a man might take a wife, but in the way a soldier might love a comrade: the quiet acceptance turned admiration, the mutual understanding of having to bear the same burdens.

“So you’re the woman who’s been draining my Territory of gold,” Draco said when they met. He’d been wearing a cloak over a tunic of lambswool, fur-trimmed and broad at the shoulders.

“How can I drain that which floods?” Pansy’d asked, and Draco had smiled. And then he’d wined and dined her, and he’d taken her into his study, and explained, voice serious and sure, that she might have captured the wandmaking market but a wand without a core is just wood. Then he’d unfurled a map and pointed to all the territories, in the north and in the south, where the Malfoy monopoly still held, and that she couldn’t transpose wood into gold without the Horned Serpents and the Snallygasters and the Thestrals and the Thunderbirds which proliferated the forests of Malfoy, Black, and Greengrass, and Pansy had turned cold, but she’d held her nerve and asked what Draco wanted, because she knew he wouldn’t have told her anything in advance unless he had something better up his sleeve.

Draco’d sat back in his seat, wineglass twisting in his hand, and asked, instead, not for a cut of the profits or price revisions, but a proposal. He’d shown her ironclad agreements written to last at least as long as their lifetimes, of deals for the stocking of different cores, years in the making, built over subterfuge and sidestepping and sleight of hand. And he’d spun her a tale of partnership so outlandish that it might, conceivably, work – where they might control everything, from the land to the labour to all the raw materials therein, and eliminate all those who stood in their way: the Gregorovitches and the Cephalopos and the Kiddells.

“I do not have to tell you that a monopoly over an essential good like a wand is priceless,” Draco had said, and Pansy had noticed, then, a fray in the seam of his shoulder pad, and she had understood that Draco was like her, that he needed this deal as much as she did, and it had only functioned to strengthen her resolve. And so she signed the agreement right then and there, and she had known, even then, that she was agreeing to something much more significant.

It was with some similar scheme or the other that he had managed to win over the Greengrasses, Pansy knows, though she isn’t sure of the specifics – only that he had managed to cement that alliance with a marriage proposal. Would that there were more of him to go around, he had told her. Maybe it would have been her in the place of Astoria if she hadn’t been serving on the borders then, and privately she was glad she’d never been presented with that choice.

And that was how it went, in the years that passed; and there was never a moment Pansy stopped to think or understand the depth of their feelings, of their affections for each other. Only that somewhere along the way she had earned herself a loyalty that could not be valued and written into a piece of paper underscored by signatures. That the three of them – her and Astoria and Draco – had become all that stood against Lestrange hegemony, but they were glad to bear the burden of it. Because someone had to, and Pansy was glad that if it had to be her, she could do it with the two of them by her side.

That was, until the Malfoy Horcrux went missing and the balance of the seven Houses tilted firmly in her enemies’ favour. Now Pansy isn’t sure enough of anything.

Astoria steps into the council room and is instantly met with the cool, domineering gaze of Rabastan Lestrange.

“Princess Greengrass,” he says, voice hard like steel. “A pleasure.”

Draco stands to his side looking, to her, ill at ease and outraged, though he hides it well – only Astoria, attuned to his slightest reactions, can see it on his face.

“Princess Greengrass,” Draco says, the formal title sounding strange on his tongue. “Prince Lestrange has… caught us unawares with this surprise visit.”

“Not unwelcome, I hope,” Rabastan says smoothly, and Draco doesn’t react except for a slight clench of his jaw, but his back is still ramrod straight and his voice still comes out even when he says, “Of course, not, uncle. It is always a pleasure to host our neighbours.”

Astoria’s head spins. The last time she’d seen him was years ago when he’d visited her formally at the Greengrass court in the south. Daphne had already been promised to the eldest Shacklebolt so he’d had to make do with Astoria, offering himself up as a prospective husband. Her father’d had the gall to consider it, and she might as well have been forced to go through with it if Draco hadn’t stepped up when he did.

They had both seen it, in their mind’s eye, that the Notts and the Rosiers were firmly in the Lestrange camp, and if Rabastan had married her then he’d effectively be cornering Parkinson Territory from all sides, and then the Lestranges would have near full control of the entire southern subcontinent. Her father’d been foolish enough to think that might mean a place of honour for him in the Gaunt King’s court, but Astoria knew better. The Lestranges never shared power, and they thought they deserved the most of it, what with their constant claims to guarding the rest of Hogwarts from the Dementors. Never mind that countless other Gryffindors from Territories across the realm also enlisted to fight.

The wedding proposal had been a practical thing, arranged–but as much of a ruthless schemer that Draco is, she knows he’d never hurt her or use her as Rabastan might, as Rodolphus sometimes bids Bellatrix do. She has been at court long enough to know that the Gaunt King harbours more than a passing fondness for the Lestrange Queen, and Rodolphus is more than happy to use it to his advantage when it suits him. This, of course, Gaunt knows, and so it is a careful back and forth that they play. Circles within circles. Astoria shakes herself out of it.

Rabastan only ever turns up when he senses a shift in power. He can smell weakness, Astoria knows. He’d sensed it on her father the moment he’d stepped foot on Greengrass Territory, as surely as he’d realised that the real centre of power was Astoria’s mother, that the kingdom might have fallen into disrepair years ago if not for her watchful eye.

“I was just telling Rabastan that our defences are watertight,” Draco says through gritted teeth. “He’s got nothing to worry about.”

“I’ve no doubt in your… competence,” Rabastan says, drawing it out, slow and deliberate. “Only, the Dementors have been more aggressive than usual. You know that only happens when the Horcruxes are disturbed.”

Bullsh*t, Astoria thinks. Her family’s carted their Horcrux around while she’s fortified their Vaults in the castle for years now, just as she knows Pansy’s done up in Parkinson Territory. They’ve never heard a whiff of complaint from the Lestranges before. She exchanges a glance with Draco – he knows.

“We’ve been doing some renovations,” Draco returns, just as silky. She can see the cogs turning in his head, wondering when Rabastan might have known, wondering what, exactly, he knows. All their Gryffindors are sworn to secrecy on pain of death, Vows administered by Draco himself. Unless of course, Rabastan was the one who engineered it all.

“That’s good to hear,” Rabastan says, noting her expression with amusem*nt. She schools her face into neutrality at once. “I must say, Princess Greengrass, I am surprised to see you here. I would think that your manifold talents might be better put to use serving your own kingdom.”

“I am far better placed to know the needs of my kingdom than you, Prince Rabastan,” Astoria bites back, too unused to the roundabout courtspeak that Draco and Pansy have perfected, to be polite.

Rabastan only inclines his head, as if pleased. “Of course, Princess Greengrass. I am merely voicing the fears of your father. He grows so worried about you when we’re away during Council sessions at the High King’s court.”

Astoria’s father is an idiot, of that she has never been more certain, and she wonders what kind of foolish ideas he has allowed Rabastan to plant in his head, what kind of secrets he has been letting slip to him in return. Draco shares a look with her, bland, but with the barest hints of sympathy. She returns it equally neutral, equally grateful, and turns back to the man, to talk.

“I have something of yours,” Rabastan says, casually adjusting the waist of his tunic to reveal a belt of sharp knives. Draco’s head whips to where Rabastan stands.

“What?”

Rabastan lets them both stew in it a moment longer. “Goodwill. Our little Carrowite problem is sending your Squibs packing to Lestrange. They seem to be under the impression that the Lestrange side of the border is more secure. I wonder why that might be.”

“What do you want, Rabastan,” Draco asks, through gritted teeth. “I assume you didn’t come to exchange pleasantries.”

“I want you to pull your weight,” Rabastan says, resting a hand on the table and leaning forward. “Send more soldiers to the border we share. Stop flooding our Territory with your Squibs.” He pauses, shooting him a knowing smirk. “Put the energy stored in your Horcrux to some use, yeah? What’s the point in having one otherwise?”

It’s an excruciating age later when she meets Draco in his chambers and he greets her with a short, “He knows,” pacing up and down his floor. “He knows

“How?” Astoria asks, making her way towards him. He’s right to worry. Outmanoeuvring a Lestrange is never easy, less so from a disadvantage.

“I don’t know how. Maybe the portkey was intercepted.” He makes a noise of frustration from deep in his throat and sits sharply into a seat by the table. “Why do you think he came to visit?” he asks her, and she has to shake her head. Pansy would be better suited to this type of discussion. She’d much rather be down in her workshop perfecting her latest spell. It’s one of the reasons Draco chose her, she knows. Her father had never looked too deeply into the kind of education she was to receive, and her mother had never approved of her taking combat lessons like Pansy, so her days were spent in a workroom, in a forge, in a library, in a healer’s room – wherever knowledge could be found. As a Slytherin she would have her pick of disciplines, and she chose to study them all: Runes and Arithmancy and Charms and Transfiguration, and at first she had not understood the significance of it all. And then Draco came to visit, an official tour with the rest of the Malfoys, and they were introduced to one another, her mother hoping to make a match and her father not caring either way, and they took a turn about the castle. She showed him her gardens, flowers in full bloom, periwinkle and ixora and jasmine, a riot of colour in the middle of winter, full to bursting, and he asked her if she’d used a Gemini charm to duplicate the vines, and she said no, actually, it was a charm she’d invented to strike at the very seed of the flower, targeting traits to enhance nutrient uptake, flowering capacity, pigment production, and Draco took a step back and stared at her and said, “Oh, do you think you could do that for wheat?” and Astoria realised, for the first time in her life, that she might be useful for something, that she could make a difference. And though she hasn’t made good on that promise yet, she’s been plenty valuable in other areas. She’s worked with Pansy on combat and defence spells taught to a select category of Malfoy, Parkinson, and Greengrass Gryffindors; and it’s why Draco needs her, she knows. He’d looked straight to the heart of her and seen her, all those years ago, where others had seen only a little girl with her nose in a book, only fit to be carted off to the next bachelor-in-waiting. “You’re the most valuable person in all the realm,” Draco told her, once, “and I count myself fortunate everyday that you’re on my side.”

But Astoria doesn’t feel particularly valuable at the moment, stumped as she is about Rabastan’s appearance.

“I don’t know, Draco,” she says helplessly. “But I think it’s not unreasonable to conclude that he knows of the Horcrux’s disappearance.” She pauses a moment. “What do you think?”

“I think that a missing Malfoy Horcrux would be wonderful for the Lestranges right now,” Draco grinds out, voice like acid. “They’ll be banking on us expending Gryffindors on the search so we’ll have fewer to send to the border, and then they’ll bring that up at the next Full Council meeting to push for trade privileges at our expense,” he fumes, thinking. “They’re already opening trade corridors through Nott and Rosier Territory, it’ll only be a matter of time before they’re knocking on your doorstep.”

They’re certainly the richer of the two, if it’s Malfoy or Lestrange, and they’ve the added benefit of not having a barrier Territory in between, like the Blacks are for the Malfoys. Lucius had tried, years ago, to bridge the gap with a marriage to Narcissa, but the Blacks had gone and wed their other daughter to the Lestranges, firmly cementing their position as neutral in all circles.

“Let them try knocking on my doorstep,” Astoria says, equally enraged. “I’ll not bankrupt my kingdom so some northern bastard can get away with duty-free business.”

“That’s the spirit,” Draco says, the line of his jaw turning hard and distinct. “They’ve been taunting us. That’s why Rabastan was here. He wants us to know that he knows, he wants us to know he’s toying with us.” He looks at her, then, posture still stiff, expression turning thoughtful. “He’ll be expecting us to unravel, so that’s what we’ll do.”

“What?”

Draco smiles at her. “They need to think their plan is working, Astoria. Then they’ll grow complacent, and then they’ll turn sloppy. I need them sloppy and careless and looking the other way when I strike. So I’ll hold back some Gryffindors this month. To make it look like we’re searching for the Horcrux.”

Astoria nods, mind already whirring with possibilities, as Draco continues, “When we don’t send enough Gryffindors to the border, they’ll be bound to bring it to the Council’s attention, which is what they want.”

“And the next dispatch to the border is in two months,” Astoria says, warming up to the idea, feeling herself turn alight. “And the next Full Council meeting is a month after that.”

“Which gives us three months to steal the Horcrux from them before they do us any damage,” Draco finishes, smiling for the first time. “They won’t be expecting us at all.”

“They mustn’t,” Astoria says, turning serious. “If they found out, it’s exactly the excuse they’d need to start a war and topple you off the Ruling Seat and install someone else–like the Flints.” They were causing the Malfoys the most trouble but Draco’s been dealing with his vassals for years now. As long as there’s no external interference, they’re easily subdued, she knows.

“It can’t be an official visit, then,” Draco says, thinking. “We’ll have to sneak the Squib into the castle.”

Astoria sighs. “I’m no use here. You’ll have to send for Pansy.”

“Oh, I will,” Draco says, a wicked glint to his eye, and though Astoria knows there’s nothing between them sometimes she wonders.

“I’m going back to Greengrass, Draco. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon as usual.”

“I’ll wait for you,” Draco says earnestly, and not for the first time Astoria feels grateful that he’s on her side.

Harry is shaken roughly awake by digging fingers and a stern voice that says, “Wake up, Squib. That’s enough sleep for you.”

Harry groans, blinking his eyes open. He’s been confined to his newest chambers, a small room connected to Draco’s own by a flimsy, decorative door. Luna’d hung around a bit longer, making sure he was alright and, noting that he’d be hale and hearty in a few more hours, left with a whispered good luck and a salve for his back. A servant had pushed his food through the door in a hole that appeared during mealtimes, and Harry had eaten, bored out of his mind, though the food had been delicious at the very least. Still, he’s only just recovering and the sudden disturbance has turned his head sharp and heavy once more.

“What?” he asks, voice thick with sleep.

Draco Malfoy looks down on him, face set to an expression of distaste so pronounced it feels affected. He’s in trousers that cling to him like skin and a billowing white shirt that flutters in the breeze coming through the open window. The tips of ears and his cheeks are pink, flushed, and his hair is lightly tousled.

“What time is it?” he asks again. Sunlight is slanting through the window, casting triangular patterns on the floor.

“Late enough that you need to be up,” Draco says, shoving him once more and going to open the wardrobe by his side. “Dress and meet me outside in ten minutes.”

“What for?” Harry asks, sitting up. The bedcovers slip from his shoulders and he finds himself naked from the waist up.

Draco turns to him with a remark on his lips, looks at him, turns away, frowns to himself, and then looks back. “You want to know why one must wear clothes? It’s a marker of civilisation, Harry.” He shakes his head and throws a few clothes on the bed.

Harry scowls. “Fine, I’ll meet you outside.” He gets out of bed and slips on an undershirt, marvelling at the feel of it, like liquid over his skin. “What do you need me for?”

Draco turns to him then, watches the way he gathers his hair and ties it at the nape of his neck. He can feel Draco’s eyes on him as he slips the tunic over his head and fixes in his lenses.

“This and that.”

“This and that?” Harry presses, indignant. “I’m going to know soon enough.”

He turns to Draco then, finally looks at him, and realises with a start that he isn’t grumpy – he’s buoyed. His eyes are buzzing and his posture is open and there’s a hint of a smile tugging at a corner of his lips. This is Draco when he’s in a good mood, Harry realises.

“Oh, very well,” Draco says, waiting for him to slip the undershirt over his head. He rolls his eyes and reaches forward to smooth out the collar. “If you must know–”

“I must.”

“You’re going to help us plan a heist.”

Chapter 7: A Disguise of People

Chapter Text

The Malfoys’ tussle with the Lestranges had begun all the way at the start of the Division of Territories, many generations ago. Both had committed themselves honourably in the Great War, and both had earned their right to first pick of the land. But though both vied for the vast, fertile tracts of the north, neither had wanted the eastern side, for within it lay the Azkaban Desert, desolate and uninhabitable by most. So the north was divvied up over a game of chance, and a portion of it was allotted to both, but the Malfoys lost on the roll of a dice, and Azkaban acceded to them. The Lestranges carted home the bulk of the bounty: the rolling, cultivable western plains.

Though the dispute had long since been resolved, Draco had complained, often, that what with the great, hulking mountains to the north and the sandy dunes in the south and the Lestranges lying in uneasy wait right in the middle, no one would be able to get out of the country to trade and prosper and grow. And Lucius had sat Draco down, voice both stern and gentle, and said in no uncertain terms, that it is exactly why no one can get out of the country, why no one can get in. And Draco had learned, then, that to turn a situation from a position of weakness to a position of strength is sometimes a matter of perspective.

But now Draco has to contend with the fact that his father was wrong, actually, and all the fortifications and natural barriers and enchantments in the world hadn’t prevented someone from waltzing right into their halls and stealing the Horcrux from right under their noses.

“What did you find?” Pansy asks, entering the room with Astoria.

Draco stands by the table, reports spread out before him. “The Vault alarm was disabled. Manually.”

Astoria gasps. “The magical energy required to do that without getting– incinerated to bits at the very least–”

“Only a Slytherin could have done it.”.

“Only a greater Slytherin could have done it,” Pansy corrects, holding a hand out for the reports. He passes them to her and she skims through them quickly, folding the pages lightly as she looks. “This is”–she looks up from the papers in disbelief–“a millenia’s worth of magical traps disabled in a second. You’d have to drain the lives of an entire army of Gryffindors to even attempt it.”

Draco looks up, drawing a deep breath. “You’d have to drain an army of Gryffindors, or use a single Horcrux,” he says. “And last I checked, Horcruxes are in short supply.”

“Which means it was one of the Blacks, Notts, Rosiers, or the Lestranges,” Astoria finishes. “Because it certainly wasn’t Parkinson or Greengrass.”

“And I think it’s safe to consider the Notts, Rosiers, and the Lestranges as a single entity,” Draco says, grouping the allied Houses together. “So it’s either them or the Blacks.”

“I’d wager it’s them,” Pansy says, jaw clenched. “The Blacks would never break their neutrality for no reason.”

Astoria frowns at them both. “Pansy, you know Theodore Nott. He wouldn’t–”

“There’s one more thing,” Draco says, taking out a strip of cloth from inside his tunic and unfolding it to reveal a Trailing Point knife with a silver handle, thick edges sharpened to deadly perfection. “My Gryffindors did a sweep of the Vault, after we left. They found this.”

Astoria stares at him blankly. “It’s a knife.”

“Rabastan uses knives,” Pansy says, something sparking in her eyes. “It makes sense.”

“Lots of people use knives,” Astoria protests. “It isn’t conclusive.”

“No, it’s not,” Draco says, handing the knife to her, hilt-first. “But this is.” He gestures for her to look at the handle, the letters RL engraved onto the hilt. “Rabastan Lestrange,” he pronounces.

“That’s damning enough for me,” Pansy says briskly, but Astoria is still unconvinced.

“If we showed Gaunt the knife and tried to explain–”

“He’d laugh us out of the court for insufficiency of evidence,” Draco cuts in. “A knife like this is easily replicable. It’d be just the reason Lestrange would need to accuse me of planting the knife, and they’ll use it to start a conflict. I won’t be the one to give them the excuse.” He waits for further argument, but Astoria stays silent.

He takes out a large map from under the table, stretching it from one end of the table to the other, saying, “This is a map of the Lestrange castle.” He’s had the table brought in specifically from the council room; he’s got the space in his chambers to spare, he knows, and he doesn’t trust anyone outside the room. So he’d dragged Harry inside it and told him, “It’s a Horcrux. The thing I want you to retrieve.”

Harry’s eyes had bulged and he’d protested, predictably, not the least because, “It’s one of seven ancient relics from the Fall of the Leviathan! We can’t just waltz in and take it,” and Draco had rolled his eyes and said, “Well they took ours first if it bothers you so much.” And then he’d sat Harry down and explained, in no uncertain terms, “I cannot force you to take an Unbreakable Vow, but Greengrass is allied to me, and so one misstep and I’ll raze the entire Settlement to the ground. I’d like your willing cooperation, which is why I agreed to your terms, but make no mistake, you will work for me, whether you like it or not. It’s up to you to be smart about this and get something out of it in return.” He’d meant it when he said it, and Harry’s jaws had clenched, mouth hard, eyes burning, but he’d nodded and said, “Understood,” and that was that.

He looks down at the map that Astoria’s sketched for him and wonders if she’d worked through the night. The drawings are impeccably to scale, charcoal smudged over in places, but overall it’s shaded with long, clean lines and razor-sharp precision.

“The Horcrux will be in the Lestrange Vault at the very centre of the castle,” Draco says, pointing to the room at the centre of the schematics. “Directly under the throne room.”

“How do you know?” Harry asks.

Draco meets his eyes, considering. It’d been a gamble from the start, recruiting a Squib. The last time a Squib had set foot in the halls of a Slytherin stronghold was–well, never. The man should consider it an honour, truth be told. Just Draco’s luck that the only Squib good for the job had to be a pain in the arse seditionist and uncooperative to boot.

“It’s a Slytherin habit,” he settles on. Harry looks back at Draco with a calculating gaze.

Pansy clears her throat, then, with a pointed, “How are we to access the Vault?”

“The Gryffindor tunnels.” It’s Astoria who answers. “It’s the only way in and out of the Vault.”

“They could have a portal straight to it,” Pansy points out, but Astoria shakes her head.

“Unlikely. And even if they did, finding it will take longer than we have time for. There’s more people who know about the Gryffindor tunnels – it is statistically the option with the best possible outcome.”

Harry looks to Astoria, as if seeing her for the first time. “Do you have a plan?”

“I don’t,” she admits, “but Draco will.”

Draco shakes his head and steps back. Portalling is out of the question with a Squib in tow and, even if they could, all transportational magical activity is highly regulated with only Slytherins and commanding Gryffindors having access to direct portals to the kingdom. Stepping through repeatedly will raise all sorts of alarms Draco would rather avoid; which means they’re going to have to travel at least half non-magically, as a Ravenclaw or a Hufflepuff might do.

“I need a map of Hogwarts,” he says, and Astoria hands him one, even larger and painted with colour, replete with relief features and keys which mark rainfall, and he picks out three ways in which one might enter Lestrange Territory on foot.

“We could travel to the tip of the continent along the mountains. We’d have to scale the final peak to get to Lestrange on the other side, but it’s loosely guarded,” Pansy says, thinking in tandem with him.

Draco shakes his head, eyes never leaving the map. “The path is hardly suited to travel and it’s too much of a detour.”

“What about the plains,” Astoria ventures. “We’ll still have to go north but we won’t have to climb the mountains.” She points to a vast stretch of fertile land ending at the mountains’ foothills, Ravenclaw cities and Hufflepuff villages proliferating down to small trading outposts. “We could cross over to Lestrange on a merchant caravan.”

“We’d need a high-ranking permit for that,” Pansy says, brow furrowed. “Though I’m sure Draco could arrange that.”

“I could,” Draco agrees, “but a new Ravenclaw merchant coming through the trading outposts is bound to raise talk, if nothing else, and I don’t have the time to manufacture the kind of ironclad background I’d otherwise create for a false identity.” He sits back, clasping his fingers together. They’ve only one option left to him. “We have to cross Azkaban.”

“But that’ll take at least a week,” Astoria splutters in protest, and she’s right to be wary. The desert is Squib territory. There’d been a prison inside it, right at its centre, back when the Peverells had ruled the land, an island of black sand guarded by Dementors where no man could escape. And then the Peverells had fallen and the Gaunts had taken up the reins and the Dementors had been disbanded; Azkaban had withered, but not to dust. Some of the Dementors had fled to the border, then, where the Gryffindors kept them at bay while they multiplied out of the maws of the sleeping Leviathan. Other Dementors still remained, living alongside Squibs–though only wizards can ever truly sate their hunger.

“Not if we fly. But we’ll have to stop at Squib Settlements to restock. We can’t be caught near the outposts along the way,” Draco says. He’d taken care to place the outposts there himself, to have his Gryffindors man every inch of his territory, even the inhospitable parts. He wasn’t going to be caught unawares if there’s ever a chance for conflict. “We’ll be drained by the end of it but if we push, we can make it to the edge of Azkaban,” he says. The borders are watertight everywhere else but there, where the Squibs intermingle and bleed through back and forth, where the desert turns into forest, stretches of grassland tapering upwards into trees. “From there it’s just about blending in with the Squibs.”

Harry snorts. “You think it’s going to be that easy? Do any of you speak the Northern Common Tongue?”

The three of them turn to stare at him and Harry explains, in deliberate, halting tones, as if explaining to a particularly slow child, that Squib culture varies just as much from top to bottom as it does from state to state. That the Squibs in question probably have more in common with the Lestrange Squibs across the border than they do with the Slytherins at the very top of their mountains.

“Then what do you suggest we do?” Draco asks, trying and failing to keep the irritation out of his voice.

Harry bites his lip. “Scout. We don’t have to go all the way to the edge of the border.” Harry points to the base of the mountain, where the hills level out into a hint of cultivable plain before the desert begins. “The Squib settlement begins here. If you give me a day’s time, I can learn what I can about these people and be back up to report.”

“And you think I’m going to let you just walk out of here unsupervised?” Draco asks.

“Who else can you send?” Harry shakes his head in an expression of annoyance. “I doubt any of your Gryffindors or your vassals could do even a passable imitation of the Northern Common Tongue. The people will know immediately that there’s someone of noble birth among them, and then they’ll begin to ask questions like why and how and who and, before you know it, word will have travelled across the border–”

“That’s enough,” Draco says, unwillingly conceding the point. “Then I’ll come with you.”

“What?” Astoria and Pansy both cry out, but Draco just shakes his head, softly, and says, “I’m the only one I can spare. I need you both for–” He stops, because then, a plan, the barest bones of it, swirls in his mind as he begins to pick it apart. “Leviathan Day is two months from now.”

“Oh!” Pansy says, catching on immediately. “You mean to slip in with the performers.”

Draco nods.

“But there is one thing,” Astoria says, stepping forward. “The casket that holds the ring–”

“The ring?” Harry interjects.

Astoria’s eyes go wide at having given it away, but Draco’ll deal with the fallout later, he decides. The more important he makes it out to be, the likelier the Squib will catch on. “The Horcrux is a ring,” Draco says, and beckons for Astoria to continue.

“Even if we manage to slip into the castle with Harry, past the Gryffindors, through the castle wards – the casket that holds the ring is identical to the other six across Hogwarts. The same spells to protect and repel are embedded into them all.” She pauses as Pansy feels under the table for a package, unshrinks it, and lays it on the surface: a carved wooden box flecked with gold and lined with purple satin. “Just like this one” –she points to the Malfoys’ casket– “if the Lestrange casket moves from its pedestal even the slightest inch, alarms all through the Territory will begin to ring. Just like it did when your Horcrux went missing. Not to mention the anti-apparition wards around the Vault.”

And just like that, the last piece of the puzzle slots into place.

“Leave that to me,” Draco says, rolling up the map and adjusting it into a neat cylinder. “Pansy, I’ll need all the intelligence you can gather on Lestrange’s vassals. I’ll need an account of Gryffindor troops, treasury estimates, personality profiles, whatever you can find. Astoria, I’ll need disguises.”

“What disguises?”

“I’ll put it in a pensieve for you,” Draco tells her. “You may use Ravenclaw tailors to sew up parts of it, but never enough that they know what they’re making, and only if you can hide it well enough.”

They both nod, ready to get to work.

“And you,” Draco says, turning to the Squib. “You and I are going scouting.”

Harry knew–never in any proper capacity rather than a careless, flitting awareness–that magic is an ubiquitous thing; versatile, but unnecessary. He had found he never had any need for it, born as he was on the southernmost tip of the Greengrass Settlement, where the shoreline stretched for miles and the sea was bluer than the sky: rocky, in places, but ever constant, ever reliable. His mother had died in childbirth and he was raised in a community home with a gaggle of other children, some old, some young, all lost. Most grew into some skill or the other and left to pursue it to the best they could while others, a rare few, would have their magic manifest, and move back to the mainland. Harry had never seen it happen himself, only heard stories of children who rent roofs and tore trees after an accidental burst of magic, to then be carted off across the river with all the fanfare the people could muster.

Harry’s eleventh birthday had come and gone, and though he had been more practical than most, the feeling of lacking in any way still stung. But he learned, in due course, to cast it from his mind, to throw himself instead into the pursuit of useful things. It was Remus who had given him any kind of purpose. He’d seen Harry, kicking uselessly at the sand along the shoreline, back when he’d been too young to know he was supposed to look out over the sea and not down into the sand. He’d sat Harry down on the floor of his shingled hut and given him a cut of fish and taught him to pull the bones out of it, thin and spindly and sharp as a knife. And then he’d taken Harry into the water, no boats or oars, just their hands and legs and nets, and taught him, in that quick, effective manner of his, all the ways in which he might read the ocean to learn what lurked underneath it: to taste the air; close his eyes and feel the pull of the wind, look into the sky and find the waxing of the moon, the flight of birds over the ocean surface. To memorise the markers of a storm: the sinking of sand underneath his toes, the clustering of butterflies close to the shore; the bubbling of the water, turning into foam. He learned it all, and then taught it, in turn, to the children who had come after him.

But for all his bluster and bravado of being able to form a connection with these northern Squibs, he’s not sure he has anything in the way of a commonality with them at all, built as they are, sturdy and strong and unyielding under the scorching Malfoy sun. He is of the sea, and these are desert people, and the two could not be farther from each other if they’d tried.

Not that he wasn’t going to try. He’d known that Draco would have never accepted his unaccompanied exit from the castle grounds, but he had wanted to take the chance anyway. It’d failed, predictably, but it was one more thing Harry knew about the man that he could use to help piece together the puzzle of his psyche. So he’d allowed Draco to bundle him up into thickset furs and push him onto another magic carpet, and then they’d flown down the side of the mountain until the air had gone from rarefied to dense to suffocating, and he’d to had to shed all his coats down to his tunic by the time they’d reached the far edge of the Hufflepuff villages.

“Why do you keep calling it a coast?” Harry asks, as they dismount. “It’s only a coast if it leads out into the ocean.” He can’t help the slight petulance that enters his voice, but he’s always lived by the ocean and he can’t stand to see it slandered so.

“Azkaban was once riverine,” Draco says, “and this was before we had boats that could cross long distances. So people didn’t know any better than to call it a coast. And then the rivers dried and the desert rose up, but the name stuck.” He gives Harry a sidelong glance as he dismounts. “Its official name is False Coast. Happy?”

“No,” Harry mutters, but doesn’t comment further as Draco continues: “There are no rivers here to separate the Squibs from the wizards, like it might be for you in Greengrass. Back before the Great War, before wizards had learned to tame the oceans and master the art of portalling, the desert had been a hub of trade.” He stretches his arms, as if to gesture to the enormity of what had been lost. “Can you imagine it? Cities of sandstone rising up from the ground and spreading fortune afar. I’ve only seen sketches but even those are magnificent. And then one of the Greengrasses invented portals, and distance had become a trade obstacle no longer, and suddenly one didn’t need to cross the great desert of Azkaban to get to the Blacks or the Lestranges or anywhere down the south. And so the city had shrunk, and the prison that had been relegated to its far corner, ringed in by protective enchantments, had begun to grow, slowly, sucking everything in its path into its dark, endless orbit.” He turns to Harry and drops his hands, then, eyes wide, averted, clearing his throat quietly.

“Interesting,” Harry says, having to look away from Draco with some effort, trying not to dwell on the sudden burst of enthusiasm in his voice, now hidden, once more. Instead he surveys the hamlet they’ve entered, burnt brick houses built over baking sand, the mismatch in the walls, faded in parts and new in others. “Can you glamour yourself?”

Draco nods. “Don’t look back for me. I’ll always be right behind you.” And then he flicks the tip of his sleeve where his wand is hidden and disappears without a sound.

Harry learns that beyond the hamlets are vast, expendable tracts of arid land and, in the summers, the goat herders migrate west to graze their cattle. He learns that they wear tunics of cotton dyed madder-wood red, and tie wet scarves on their heads to ward off the heat. He wanders, further, following the meandering roads, barely paved, worn into being through time and memory and travellers’ footsteps, until he finds himself–quite by accident –at the very centre of the hamlet. A vast patch of open land, levelled unevenly to provide for seating, for gathering and holding court. He listens to the way they talk, the sound of their voice, the sharpness of their accents, and he tries, carefully, to imitate them under his breath.

“Have you seen all you needed to see?” Draco asks, materialising beside him where he’s hidden behind a wall.

“Yes,” Harry grumbles, a tad unwilling. He had begun to enjoy himself. He turns to Draco and is startled to find that he’s changed, that his hair is now the pitch brown colour of the people of the hamlet, though his complexion he’s left unchanged, and his clothes have, somehow, in the space of an hour, been tailored to suit the local fashion, shirt flaring at his waist, pants tapering at his ankles. “What…?”

“Hold still,” Draco murmurs, waving his wand over Harry, elongating his clothing and tucking it in in places. Not too much, to eschew suspicion, but just enough that he might blend in. It’s disconcerting, that Draco has been stripped bare of everything that seemed to Harry exotic on him, only to find that the familiarity of his person is even more unbearable.

He’s just finishing the last touches on Harry’s sleeve when a man calls, “Who’s there?” and both of them freeze, and Harry turns, and tries to explain, in halting, stammering tongues, that they’re just travellers passing through, and they mean no harm, and the man – a tall, broad, hulking mountain of a man – squints at them with suspicious eyes and Harry shrinks back and he wonders if the jig is up and he wonders if he’s being ridiculous because they’ve done nothing wrong, really, because there are no laws against passing through–

“I apologise for my husband,” Draco drawls, in perfect, unaccented Common Tongue, and if the stranger’s eyes aren’t trained on Harry up to that very second, he might have snapped his neck from trying to turn to check if it really was Draco who spoke, but he continues, unfazed, “he’s from the south, you see, and this is the first time he’s visiting,” and the man steps back and looks between them, reservation giving way to curiosity, and then acceptance, until finally, he slaps them both on the shoulder and declares they’re to dine with his family, herding them towards his home.

It’s only discomfiting, at first, the way Draco seems to blend in seamlessly with the family: asking after the man’s cattle, sympathising about the Carrowites, performing tricks with the children’s toys. But with every word spoken and every joke shared and every laugh drawn out of them, the charade turns something in Harry’s stomach, like they’re repaying the kindness of a stranger with treachery and deceit–which Harry supposes they are.

So when the man offers to take them both to see a travelling bard perform, Harry leaps at the chance to agree. He’s heard the stories about a thousand times over but if it’ll get Draco to stop pretending like he’s a tenth generation Squib, he’ll be more than happy to allow it.

“Stop looking so sour,” Draco tells him, speaking out of the side of his mouth as they walk. “They’re going to think something’s wrong.”

Something is wrong, Harry wants to say, but he can’t, so he holds his tongue and pastes on a smile and follows Draco all the way to the makeshift theatre, hand in hand, wondering if a Squib had ever touched the skin of living royalty before, wondering if they might have preferred the handling of the dead.

The tension eases, somewhat, when they reach the encampment, a huddle of people around a flattened stump, a young woman sitting atop it. She raises a hand, gesturing for quiet, and Harry goes to sit by the edge of the clearing, but Draco takes his sleeve and drags him straight to the front of the crowd, jostling and pushing but paying no one any mind, and Harry rolls his eyes in vexation, wincing to the people in apology, trailing behind him as fast as he dares. They’re the last ones to sit and, when they do, the bard nods to them once; and silence falls, and she opens her mouth, and then they’re off.

A long time ago, in the land we now call Hogwarts, ruled a hundred thousand Rulers from their rotten tree-bark thrones. But the multitude of kingdoms fostered a multitude of ambitions, and the land was always at war with itself. And in the days that passed, the rivers turned thick with blood and the soil grew black with hate and the people turned desperate with privation. And so they banded together and sent out an enclave, men of courage and resolution and hope, who traversed the snow-filled mountains of the north to search for a legend of brothers.

The brothers were of an ancient magical line, and their powers were said to stretch forth, like the vastness of the skies or the depth of the ocean. And so they were sought by the people and found – years and years and years gone by – and called by the people to save them; and the brothers answered the call and ended the wars and unified the realm under their guardianship. And they were charged, by the elders of the land, to keep the peace and protect their people; and the three brothers accepted, with all the zeal of the newly anointed.

But the third brother was despised by his siblings, for he was brave and strong and true of heart, and so the other two conspired against him, dividing between them the great plains of the north and the riverine tip of the south, leaving for the eldest only barren plateau sandwiched between them. And so the first brother grew rich and fat on the wheat and rice that he grew in abundance, shoots bursting forth from dense soil and crowding the earth with grain, and the second brother built castles out of the coin he amassed from trading salt and fish and pearls from the sea. But the third brother did not begrudge them, and where others saw wasteland he only saw potential, and so he rolled up his sleeves and gathered his men and set about working the land, for just because nothing grew over the soil, did not mean nothing lay under it. And for his diligence and wisdom he was rewarded by fate, which carved out a path for him under the crumbling, red soil, to mine out gold and diamonds and ores of iron. And the gold he used for trade and the diamonds he used for profit and the iron he used for war, and he built himself an army the likes of which the realm had never seen; and when the brothers saw that the star of their eldest sibling was on the rise, they grew quiet. And they grew afraid.

And so they met together once more in secret, to hatch a plan to subdue him, and they travelled, once more, to the place from whence they came, the land beyond the mountains, to a sorcerer they might convince to help them. And they found her, tall and proud and vicious, alone in her castle off the edge of the world, and they asked her, hands outstretched, mouth begging, eyes hungry, for that which they had come to find. And the sorcerer took one look at the madness in their heart and agreed, for she was the harbinger of chaos, and the destroyer of all that was good in the world.

And so the sorcerer spun them a tale of the Deathly Hallows: forged in the womb of the world by Death itself, weaving dark and light and love and hate into being, the most dangerous weapon of all. And after the sorcerer had enticed them with promise of glory, she added, as an afterthought, warning of a creature that guarded it, deadly to most, but no match for the protectors of the realm of Hogwarts. And so the brothers thanked her, and lay with her for two nights, and on the third day they left in search of the instrument of their brother’s downfall. And they found it where the sorcerer had claimed, a wand, a stone, and an ink-dark cloak, buried in a cave in the lowest point of the earth, where the soil turned to fire and the air turned to shreds. And the brothers cut over their fingers and spilled shared blood; and plunged their human hands into divine wrath to pluck from it the three things they should have left well alone. For with that sole act, they awakened: the Leviathan.

“Is that… common?” Draco asks him, later, after the stories are told and the bard has packed up and left. “Is that what they know of the Leviathan?”

“It’s what I know of the Leviathan as well,” Harry retorts. The woman’s voice had been magical, in the sense that she had not needed anything otherworldly to capture the minds of the people who listened to her, and it is the mundane, Harry sometimes finds, that magic could never replicate. “We aren’t taught anything else. We aren’t taught much of anything.”

Draco looks away, ostensibly vaguely ashamed – though blissfully unaware of it, like the registering of a quill prick in the middle of writing a missive.

“She spoke well,” he says as a concession, and Harry’s anger peaks because how dare he, how dare he pass judgement on a thing he was never meant to hear, how dare he take a gift and turn the reception of it into a favour.

“You have no right,” Harry growls, stalking towards him. Draco turns back and stares at Harry, though he doesn’t make a move to stop him, and Harry walks him back into the wall and Draco lets him, and Harry isn’t thinking about why when he says, “You have no right to play-act the lives of your people like it’s a game, not when you can shake out of it like one of your old cloaks and fly back to your castle to your hot food and goose-down bed and magic. These are people’s lives and they trusted us and you used them–”

“–for good reason!”

“For nothing,” Harry bites out. “And what’s worse is that you’ll never understand them, you’ll never understand us, and yet you think you do, because you think the sum total of a Squib’s experience is the little of what you know it to be.”

Draco bites the inside of his cheek, back flat against the wall, careful not to touch Harry, and yet there’s something about Draco that’s alight, Harry sees, there in the clench of his jaw and the tremor in his skin and the flush in his cheeks. “No one discovered my ruse, so I think I understand your kind well enough,” Draco says, cold and biting. “This was nothing but a waste of time and I learned nothing I didn’t already know.”

Harry lets out a noise of helpless frustration from deep in his throat, wanting to grab Draco and shake him and slam him against the wall instead of trying to find the words to say that they are not such a monolith, these Squibs, and that it would be ludicrous to expect an entire people to be the exact same, so he says, “There is no right way to be a Squib, Draco, and that is why you weren’t found.”

“You have no right to call me by my name,” Draco whispers, and it startles Harry because he hadn’t realised he’d said it, and of course it’s like a Slytherin to sidestep an argument they know they’ve lost, but Harry forgets to protest when Draco leans in, body close, lips grazing his ear, when he says, “There is a reason I can make myself into you in the span of a heartbeat but you could never make yourself into me, Harry, and it’s because I am better.”

Draco needs to be cruel.

He had known Harry was beautiful; had seen it the moment he’d stepped into the council room and laid eyes on him for the first time and ignored the knowing glances of both Astoria and Pansy, because he might sleep with a man on occasion but not when his kingdom hangs in the balance.

But he feels himself slipping, in the rare moments when he’s in-between tasks, or hiding from his councillors, or delegating work, or forgetting to eat: the curve of Harry’s mouth when he’s stifling a smile, the way the light catches the true colour of his eyes, the passion in his voice and the courage in his words, the way he’d looked, that morning when Draco had gone to wake him: hair mussed against the pillow, expression soft as it came into focus, the hard planes of his chest, the weight of him; the way he’d pinned Draco down in the space of a breath.

But Harry is a Squib and Draco is a prince, heir to the throne of Malfoy; and if he were anyone else, a Hufflepuff or a Ravenclaw or a Gryffindor, even, he might’ve had the luxury of stooping to an affair. But as it stands, all Draco can do is allow himself these brief, fleeting moments of clarity, and then shove them back into the corners of his mind until it is safe to forget them entirely.

The scouting hadn’t helped one whit with that, but it’d been a good exercise nevertheless, and he’d come out of it with a host of ideas and no way to make sense of any of it until he’s talked to Astoria, so he fires off a portal-message and leaves to look for Harry. He finds him, sitting in the dining hall in the Gryffindor quarters holding lively conversation with the youngest Weasley, and Draco waits, for a moment, just watches – the light in his eyes, the dimple in his cheeks, the casual stance of his posture. And then someone notices him, and then word spreads like wildfire that Draco Malfoy is in the room and, suddenly, the hall falls quiet and all eyes are on him and every gaze is deferential except for Harry’s, who stands, rolls his eyes, and makes his way up.

Draco holds his stare unrelentingly. There’s work to be done after all, and he’s the only man Draco’s willing to risk.

Chapter 8: A Prison of Memory - Part I

Chapter Text

It didn’t take long for the sidelong glances to start.

“Why is everyone staring at me?” Harry asks Ron, picking at his food while the dining hall fills, Gryffindors trickling in at first, and then coming through the doors in waves, just returned from patrols.

“You’re–you know,” Ron stammers out. “With Prince Malfoy.”

“I’m–” And Harry has to stop and realise with a start that he’d forgotten that portion of the arrangement, and he takes a breath and turns to Ron, jaw clenched, head tilted, wondering how best to say, “Yes, that’s–that’s right.”

“I mean, it’s an honour, obviously,” Ron continues, oblivious. “It’s just that, half the Gryffs are jealous of you because you’re skiving off patrols, and the other half are jealous of you because of what you’re doing with the time instead.”

Harry pauses with the spoon halfway to his mouth. “What, you mean they like Malfoy?”

“Don’t you?” Ron asks, confused, and then his eyes widen into an expression of horror as he says, “Unless the prince is forcing you–”

“No, no,” Harry says quickly, wanting to dispel it immediately. Draco’ll have his skin if he allows any rumours to spread. “It’s just–they’re his guards and I didn’t think they’d see him that way.”

“You did,” Ron says simply, cutting up a side of his meat and taking a big bite off his knife.

Harry has to stop, and set his spoon down, and count backwards from ten before he can answer, “Yes, I suppose I did,” as nonchalantly as he can, though it still comes out halfway strangled. “Anyway–”

“Yes, yes,” Ron says, through a mouthful of mutton, “won’t bring it up again. What else’ve you been up to since you got here? Taken a tour of the castle yet? I’ve barely seen you around!”

Harry wonders, for a second, what might happen if he just told Ron that they’d been off gallivanting around the Squib settlement at the edge of Azkaban. Ron’d probably laugh. And then he’d tell Harry not to joke about the prince.

“Oh, nothing really. Most of the time I’m in Draco’s chambers.” He wills himself not to flush, grateful that the colour barely shows under his skin. “I’ve done a bit of exploring, though, when Draco’ll let me.”

“Spends a lot of time with you, does he?” Ron asks, giving up all pretence of nonchalance, and Harry sighs.

“Not anymore,” he says, “he’s been busy working on… a–the Horcrux? Or something? I don’t know,” he says casually, looking into his plate as he pushes around some vegetables, scooping up some potatoes before turning back.

Ron stares at him, mouth open, agape, and his spoon clanks against the plate as he drops it. “Wait. You” –he bends and leans in close, voice growing softer, syllables stressing to say, “you know about what happened with the Horcrux?”

Harry darts his eyes back and forth as if caught in a slip, struggling to keep his voice even as he says, warily, “What do you know about what happened?” And then he gives Ron an apologetic look, biting the inside of his cheek and saying, “I’m sorry, Ron, it’s only that I’m afraid I’ll let slip something I shouldn’t. You understand.”

Ron nods, eager and understanding, and Harry’s stomach twists at the way he’s manipulating the one person who’s been nothing but kind to him since he arrived. Still, he’s not about to pass up a chance for information so he squares his shoulders and soldiers on to add, “So?” quietly prodding.

“Well.” Ron pushes his plate away and begins to talk: “A few days ago the bells of the Vault rang, and half of us were confused out of our minds because we’d never even heard the sounds of the Vault bells, even the commanders hadn’t, and they’ve been around the longest, so a bunch of us got down to the Vault as fast as we could but” –he pauses, raising his hand to gesture– “none of the enchantments had been touched. Not one. But the Vault bells had rung and they’re fortified every week so it can’t have been a malfunction but–” Ron pauses.

“But?” Harry asks, softly, gently.

“It was just–off,” Ron says. “The bells of the Vault only ring when the Horcrux has been moved, but how’s that possible without the enchantments going off? The room should’ve burned and drowned and destroyed itself three times over at the slightest sign of activity and yet, it was intact.”

“So the bells went wonky,” Harry says, and Ron nods.

“Must’ve been that,” he says. “Prince Malfoy and Princess Parkinson got down there a few minutes later and they inspected the Vault and they said everything was in order, only” –he pauses– “some of the Gryffindors are claiming it’s not in order and the Horcrux has been broken, or lost, or broken and lost, and no one seems to know anything.”

He looks at Harry beseechingly, as if Harry might have the answers, but Harry only has more questions. “I see,” Harry says, and then puzzles over the words all the way back to Draco’s chambers and, when he finds him, poised over his table, shirtsleeves undone, hair tousled, he has to pause, and then shake himself out of it, and ask, “Tell me about the Horcruxes.”

Draco frowns at him, at the command in his question and the resolute immutability of his expression, but he sighs, and he says, “What do you want to know?”

Harry steels himself. “You can start by telling me why this Horcrux is so important to you.”

Draco looks at him, eyes narrowed, mouth pursed, in that longsuffering way of his, and Harry can see the cogs of his mind turn as he debates on how best to lie to Harry, but Harry won’t settle for anything less than the truth.

“It’s a source of power,” Draco says, finally. “We’ve other stores of magic but the Horcrux is a Royal Slytherin’s biggest source of magical energy, topped up regularly by our taxes. It’s how we keep the realm running.”

Harry pauses, parsing the information, looking through it for holes. “Then what are you running on now?”

“Reserves,” Draco says drily. “But we’ve enough to last us until we find the Lestranges’ Horcrux.” And there’s confidence in his voice, a kind of breeziness, but it’s too casual, too sure, and Harry thinks he can detect a faint tremor under its surface, and Harry thinks he understands.

“Fine,” he relents, and nods, and makes to leave the room; conceding Draco space, but never sympathy.

Centuries ago, after the first Gaunt and his band of Slytherins had disposed of the Leviathan, the survivors went back to their homes and to their wives and to their husbands, and built castles and raised walls out of the ground to protect themselves, for the War had made them old, but the fighting had made them wary, and they no longer had a taste for anything besides peace. And to reward his soldiers for their loyalty, the first Gaunt King granted each of his wizards bounty, tracts of land across the continent from whence they could raise their kingdoms, and he named them Rulers in their own right under his aegis. And it was thus that the first Territories were born. And to commemorate this great generosity, and the sacrifices it had taken to produce it, the Gaunt King declared the day of the Leviathan’s defeat as the start of a new era, and thereafter it was celebrated as the first day of every new year.

Draco loathes Leviathan Day: the thronging, throbbing masses, the breaking of routine workloads, the sounds of revelry which travel all the way up from Hufflepuff to the Slytherin districts. But Draco knows it is a necessary show of might, the one time of the year the Slytherins come down from their castles to address their people, with a display of arms and a show of magic designed to shock and awe and check subversive elements.

It is also the perfect opening to sneak inside a castle.

“You want to slip in with the performers?” Pansy asks, eyeing the reports dubiously.

“There’s a travelling company the Zabinis own; as my vassal he’s bound to look the other way if I want to–requisition it, for a bit. We won’t actually be performing but we’ve our magic to handle any kind of close questioning.”

Pansy purses her lips but she nods, and Draco can tell she’s already taking the bare bones he’s given her and turning it into a scheme. “I’ll head to the Zabini castle, then. See what I can do.” And then she nods, and lays a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly the way she does when she’s trying to make a point, and then she leaves, and Draco has to remind himself–continually, because it’s been so many years–to never take for granted the kind of support which Pansy gives him.

He sends for Astoria and sets a knocker on Harry’s door, and Harry comes out a moment later looking sleepy and dishevelled and irked, stopping the knocker with his fist while looking like he wants to smash it. “You called?” he asks.

“You’re accompanying me back to Azkaban,” Draco says in lieu of greeting, and Harry gawks at him.

“It’s hardly been two weeks–”

“So?” Draco asks, glaring at him. “I need to go there again and so we’ll go.”

Harry makes an effort not to twist his face that is so monumental, it spoils the effect entirely. “Are you going to tell me why we’re going?” he asks, and Draco allows himself a small, secretive smile.

“You’ll find out,” he says, and orders Harry to get ready.

The carpet ride this time is slower, gentler, curving lightly and taking steep drops carefully, and part of Harry wants to ask Draco why but the other part is afraid Draco’ll take that as a sign to go faster, so he sits by the edge of the carpet and stretches his legs and peeps out over the side, and he can understand, in a way, why the Slytherins are likened to gods, because when you’re flying among the clouds with the world at your feet, there isn’t much of a difference between the two either way.

“Enjoying yourself?” Draco asks, uncharacteristically soft, and Harry’s about to answer when the carpet jerks to the side. His grip slips off the carpet edge and he nearly falls, and Draco’s shouting, throwing himself across the carpet and catching him by the elbows. Harry doesn’t even have the time to be embarrassed by it, because Draco’s already turning the other way.

“Thank you,” Harry says anyway, and Draco nods at him in return.

When they finally land, Harry takes extra care with his tunic, draping the sash over it in the way he’s seen others do, and they set off into the hamlets, familiar now, down the wobbly lines of houses and roads marked by clumpy desert grass. Harry holds back and waits, wondering where they’re going and what they’re doing, but Draco seems in no rush, seems happy to wander. Harry follows him through market squares and makeshift stalls, selling spice and sweets and fresh produce. Children frolic about, running to and fro and, in the corner, a few girls are squatting over a makeshift board, tossing seeds around it in some kind of pattern. A woman mixing drinks outside her shaded house hands Draco a cup of sweetmilk and he drops a coin into her hand in thanks. They find a shady spot under a crop of acacia trees and pass the cup back and forth, sipping slowly, savouring, and Harry has long since stopped asking Draco the point of this visit, but it hasn’t made him stop wondering.

“You’re not going to wipe the rim?” Harry asks, after Draco takes the cup from him and finishes its last dregs. “I thought you thought you were better.”

He gives Harry a long look and sets the cup down. “Bigotry is the refuge of idiocy. You’re not some magical pollutant. You’re not magic at all. You’re just a man, and to call you anything else would be to brand you as more than you are.”

Harry looks up at the sky, wondering how Draco can turn even tolerance into an insult. “Why are we here?” he asks, for the last time.

“To scout.”

“We already did that,” Harry says, exasperated, and Draco flips the cup upside down, rolling it between his fingers.

“It’s been a while since I came here,” he says, and doesn’t look at Harry as he adds, “This is a valuable place.”

“Of course it is,” Harry says, immediate and firm. “It only took you, I don’t know, two decades to learn that Squibs are people, actually, just as deserving of–”

“Not like that,” Draco says, stopping him, turning to look at him and biting his lip. “This is a valuable place, Harry. It’s the land. We’ve found limestone and marble reserves under the sand. It’s a new kind of detector–still in the early stages, but if it’s true then–”

“Then what?” Harry asks, sitting up sharply. He pries the cup out of Draco’s hand and sets it down and forces Draco to look at him as he says, “The limestone’ll go to the Ravenclaw forges to make steel for your Gryffindor armies, and the marble you’ll grant to the Hufflepuffs to come up and fortify your walls, and everyone on the mainland will either get paid or get stronger–except the Squibs. There'll be nothing left after you've finished plundering their land–"

“It’s my land,” Draco declares loudly. “I am the prince–”

“By whose mandate?” Harry asks, just as harsh. “I don’t remember asking to be governed by an absent Ruler.” He does not wait for Draco to answer as he continues, “Do you know how many of our forests have been razed to the ground in the south? How many species we’ve lost to extinction? How many homes we’ve been forced to flee? All because Slytherins like you sent your Gryffindors to our homes to chop down our trees for your wands. And you’ll do the same to these people and they’ll have to pack up and leave–but they’ll do it, because it’s what they do. It’s what we do. Because we’ve never had a choice besides the one that you force down our throats.”

Draco sighs, and pulls his knees in, and the pose makes him look oddly vulnerable, and Harry banishes the thought from his mind because it only irks him more that Draco would be instigating this and then exhibiting fatigue about it when–

“I don’t have a choice either,” he says softly. “The only thing that’s stopping an outright war between Lestrange and us is the size of our standing armies. If I weaken, it won’t take long for Rodolphus to claim the borders of our territory, not when he’s already flooding our markets and draining our cities of gold.”

“That’s not the Squibs’ problem,” Harry says furiously. “Your duty to one part of your realm does not negate your duty to another. And if you were half the Ruler you claimed to be, you’d figure out a way to do both.”

“I’m trying,” Draco snaps, “it’s just–”

And then a horn sounds, loud and shrill, splitting the air with its ringing. “What’s…?”

“The Carrowites,” Draco says, realisation dawning as he jumps to his feet and pulls Harry up. “We need to leave.”

“But you could help them–”

“No,” Draco says harshly. “There’s no telling what might happen if I’m found outside the Slytherin District. We have to run–”

But it’s too late, and the whole marketplace has fallen silent as the Carrowites gallop in on their steeds; a horde of people flooding the streets, kicking up dust behind them, axes and swords strapped to their backs over large leather sheaths. At the head rides a masked man with a clean-shaven head and a tattoo over his skull, dressed in white from head to toe. He looks down from his horse disdainfully, at the crowd of people that shrink back, children hiding behind the tunics of their parents, windows boarded up with cloth, doors slammed shut and backs hunched low, waiting.

“People of the Azkaban Settlement,” the man thunders, “We have come to liberate you. No longer shall you slave under the yoke of your Slytherin overlords. Cast off the net of their prejudice and join us in our noble fight.”

There are a few stirrings, a few murmurings, but no one leaves their place.

“Do not be afraid of the repercussions, for we shall protect you. We are not weak, and our lack of magic makes us strong, impervious to anything the wizards from the mainland might throw at us. Our lack of magic is not a lack of ability, but ability itself, for we are not broken, we are immune.”

The silence does not lift. One of the horses neigh and shift, and the sound carries.

“I promise you this, my brethren. The war for our liberation is coming. For our cause is noble. We wish not to harm. We, Squibs, have never meant any harm. But when harm is thrust upon us–in our fields and our homes and our wells and our waysides–there comes a time when we must retaliate. We are raising an army, and soon we will march. Join us, and we will train you to fight. Stand aside, and you will be no better than those under whose dominion you toil–and we will treat you as such.” The man rears back, horse standing on its hind legs before falling back down. “You have until midnight to give me your answer. My men will guard the exits until you make your decision.”

And with that, the man turns, and his people part for him, and they follow him outside the city.

“We need to go,” Draco says tersely. He ignores Harry’s protests and half-drags, half-threatens Harry out of sight, herding him onto the carpet while holding him tight, only letting go when they’re well up in the air and there’s no chance of Harry jumping off the side.

“You’re just going to leave them?” Harry demands. “They’re just–people. And half of them are children, and the other half probably don’t know the first thing about combat or weapon training and you’re just going to let them fend for themselves?” Harry makes a fist and slams it over the carpet and says, “This is how you lose a kingdom. By looking out instead of in.”

“Shut up,” Draco says, thunderously loud. “I don’t have to explain myself to you,” and they travel silently, under the clouds in the scorching heat, and Draco murmurs cooling charms around himself though Harry cannot feel the chill, and for a time, the only sound is the quiet murmur of incantation that Draco recites to renew his spell until, “I don’t have a choice either, you know.”

“What?”

Draco picks at the tassels of the carpet. “I take care of most of the groundwork but it’s my father who’s in charge. He wanted to evict them. I convinced him to help rehabilitate–

“And I suppose you think that makes it better–”

“I didn’t want to evict them at all!” Draco exclaims, turning. “If we’d had more time–Astoria and I have been working on a way–but that would’ve taken too long and–” he breaks off, uncharacteristically inarticulate. “I have to think about him and the Lestranges and the Carrowites not to mention every other major and minor House in the realm in addition to everyone inside Malfoy and” –he looks away from Harry– “I don’t have any easy choices.”

Harry does not have anything to say to that, so instead he begins, softly, “Back when I lived closer to the river–and I mean right on the edge, you know the Greengrass river? In some places it stretches as wide as a thousand metres but, where I lived, the Hufflepuff side was a minute’s ferry away. But we didn’t bother them, we never did, and they stuck to their side of the river and we stuck to ours and nothing ever happened until, one day, overnight the Puffs had set up a row of blast furnaces, right on the river’s edge.” He pauses, blinking. “There’d been a huge magic grant from the Greengrasses and there was a lot of commotion and excitement about it because it was supposed to create jobs for the unemployed Hufflepuffs and pump money into the lower districts. Because they were going to take the iron they smelted and sell it to the Slytherins and the Gryffindors and any Ravenclaw who wanted good steel. So they began to work, day and night, and at first we thought nothing of it, because we’re used to noise–but then the deaths began.”

Draco jerks back, eyes wide. “What?”

“It was in the air, it was–it was invisible.” Harry’s fingers curl into fists. “And the Hufflepuffs knew, they knew they were poisoning the air to make your iron but they couldn’t do anything about it because the grants of magic they’d been given wouldn’t cover the cost of Vanishing it. And they wouldn’t cross the river and tell us, because no wizard will talk to a Squib. So they were funnelling the poison straight to our doorsteps with not a single warning to show for it.” He stares at Draco, with all the ache he’s been carrying. “Which means someone at the very top of the Slytherin District sat down at their ledgers, and calculated the cost of iron, and weighed that against the cost of human lives, and deemed it a fair bargain. So don’t you dare lecture me about hard choices when you’ve never had to bear the consequences of them.”

Draco considers him a moment, face going rigid, swallowing, and then he asks, voice so gentle as to be unbearable, “Who did you lose?” and Harry looks away and says, “My foster son,” and the line of his mouth is tight and his back his firm and Draco looks like he wants to launch himself off the carpet but instead he draws close, and lays a palm on Harry’s shoulder, and whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“I–” Harry whips his face to where Draco is, to the hand lying tentative on his shoulder and the careful openness of his expression. Draco removes his hand, colour rising to his cheeks, and Harry still remembers his anger, but it’s tinged with something he can’t quite place. “Do better,” he says.

Draco nods.

They fly ludicrously fast, through the night, and Harry has to curl up against Draco, just to stop from freezing. Draco doesn’t seem to care, though, weathering it with a careful indifference, as if Harry isn’t even there, but they wake up tangled together and Harry can see a slight flush dusting his cheeks.

“What?” Harry asks. Draco’s eyes are flecked with blue; he hadn’t noticed it before, but he can see it now. His hair is mussed, and he looks younger, in this light, more open.

“Nothing.” Draco tries to sit up when the carpet lists to the side and he goes stumbling over Harry, who catches him reflexively, hands on Draco’s waist.

“Careful,” he murmurs. Draco’s chest is pressed against him. They’re so close, Harry can feel his warmth through their tunics.

“I am careful,” Draco huffs out, and sits up away from him pointedly. Harry rolls his eyes.

It’s then he notices that they’ve slowed, hovering below the clouds and easing down gently. “Where are we?”

Draco takes a long, fortifying breath. “Welcome to the Prison of Azkaban,” he says darkly, looking out over the edge of the carpet. Harry follows his line of sight and sees, there in the distance, a growing speck, black and menacing, spreading outwards like a blight. They descend further and Harry can see the sand, and what he’d initially thought was shadow is just the soil’s colour, dark and grained: not the fertile soil of the plateaus, but a desert-burned darkness where no life would grow.

“Why are we here?” Harry asks, dread rising in his chest, beyond rationality, a kind of cold that seeps into his bones and turns him heavy. He wants to run, he wants to flee. He wants to tell Draco to turn the carpet around and fly far, far away. “What are you planning?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Draco says, and directs the carpet to land, and they step off onto a ground which is freezing like ice, and Harry struggles to reconcile the visual with the sensation, as he asks, “Why is it so cold?”

“The Dementors,” Draco says simply, as if that doesn’t conjure more questions than it answers. They trudge towards the prison, as if wading through something viscous, and the structure of it rises dark and grim and ominous ahead of them. “Stay close to me,” Draco adds, and Harry follows behind him inside, where there are no gates, just open stone floors under pillars supporting a boundless ceiling. To call it black would be to assign it a colour, character, but the prison is simply a void, and its colour is that of nothing.

“Lumos,” Draco whispers, and leads Harry through the numerous, labyrinthine passages, until he stops, abruptly, somewhere in the heart of the ruin, and pulls out a casket from his tunic.

Harry watches guardedly as he unshrinks it, saying, “This is what held your Horcrux.”

“Not just the Horcrux,” Draco says, fiddling with the latch. “It’s built to hold anything.”

“Anything?” Harry frowns.

“Anything,” Draco says, stretching the casket out to Harry. “Even memories.”

Something whizzes beside Harry, a flash of shadow, and Harry spins to his right. “Who’s there?”

“Open the box, Harry,” Draco says but when Harry turns, he’s gone.

“Draco!” Harry shouts, but there is no answer, and he opens the box hastily. A glowing ball of light erupts out of it, floating up into the air, shooting strands of light like lightning. and suddenly, the movement around him intensifies. Harry turns, eyes darting, fingers clenched over the box. And then he looks up and, above him, shapes are beginning to converge, faster and faster, a cyclonic formation, waiting to rage; and Harry stumbles back, a hand held outwards, heart pumping, mind racing, that familiar feeling of cold now magnified tenfold. “Draco!”

But there is no answer. And Harry watches, horrified, as the first Dementor begins to materialise.

Chapter 9: A Prison of Memory - Part II

Chapter Text

There is a boy, and he is five years old, and he watches his mother lowered into a coffin. He is confused and upset and angry, but the pain will come later, in fits and starts, as he learns to understand the absence. And Harry sees this boy cry, in the quiet crevices of a castle he will grow into, squeezing his heart to make it smaller, learning his place in a cruel court he will one day rule in his father’s stead; but not yet. For now he is still a little boy.

And then Harry feels the boy's turmoil sucked out of him.

The boy is older now, wiser, and he meets a woman named Millicent, and he loves her, and she leaves him, and he mourns the loss, for he knows in his heart she will not return to him. But he is wrong, and she does return, only, she does it in a casket with a shroud around her body, and the boy dismisses his guards and his servants and his messengers, and he damns all conventions to hell, and he opens her coffin as slow as he dares, and inside she lies rosy and soft and peaceful, within preservation charms soon to fail; and the vitality of her form is somehow worse, for her death was not calm but violent, and Slytherin green had never looked so vile as it does when it’s holding her figure.

And then Harry feels the boy’s grief sucked out of him.

And the boy grows older, further still, and the last vestiges of his youth falls away, and he has learned his place in the world. And the scenes turn jumbled, faster, flashes of a fight, snatches of conversation, the pulsing of a heart mid-flight through a corridor, an empty vault, an open box, a face that is at once familiar and foreign, derision, acceptance, desire: the dappling of sunlight across early morning skin, the feel of a body underneath his own, the tracing of a wand over fearful eyes.

And then Harry feels it all sucked out of him.

And then Harry’s own memories, ripe for the picking: of a little boy, a father’s son, growing tired and weak and pained, falling into stupor and never waking up, burned to ash on a gentle pyre for the crime of breathing poison, freely cast across a river.

And Harry feels the anguish begin to bleed out of him; and he screams “No,” raw and real and furious, for he will not let himself be stolen, and he opens his eyes and sees himself surrounded: the convergence of a monstrous enclave; and Harry stands from where he has fallen, pushing against the gale, muscles straining, limbs burning, and he roars a command from deep within, from a place he does not recognise, and under his onslaught the Dementors shrink back, and in the space of a second he can feel their surprise and, deeper within, burning out of them: a kindling of recognition.

“Expecto Patronum,” a voice roars, reverberating against the ceiling and flashing into the darkened room, like the sun breaking out from soot-black clouds. And there is a roar from the Dementors, an ancient cry of pain, an agony so visceral it tears Harry apart. And he lets loose a shout that he cannot control, falls forward onto his knees, and the swirling of Dementors begin to fade, until all that is left is an empty prison, the ghost of memories, and two men with blood between them.

•·················•·················•

Draco cannot levitate Harry, so he calls the carpet down and hoists him onto it, slow and careful, supporting his head, and then he climbs on after him. A few flashes of grey begin to form wispily by the edge of the carpet, but Draco swishes his wand and dispels them. The Dementors came, as Draco hoped, lured in by the memories Harry’d set alight from the casket. It was a gamble, handing the casket to him, but Draco’d glamoured himself and hid behind a pillar and watched as the Dementors descended. And they might’ve noticed Draco if not for the siren call of the casket-pensieve, so Draco’d waited, and watched, and at the last moment he’d intervened, and not a moment too soon, for any longer and Harry might’ve lost himself forever.

Although, there had been a moment–just a moment–where Draco could have sworn the Dementors were shrinking before he’d cast his Patronus.

He shakes his head, dispelling the thought.

Harry doesn’t wake the entire journey, and Draco navigates them as fast as he can, past the stretch of prison and the edges of the Settlement, up the Districts of Malfoy, Hufflepuff, then Ravenclaw, then Gryffindor, and even when they land on the battlements, jerky and sharp, Harry does not stir. “Accompany him straight to my room,” Draco says to the Gryffindor who hands him a coat. Another one casts warming charms over him. “No one is to enter my chambers until I say so.”

“Yes, Your Radiance,” the Gryffindors say, and depart to see it done.

The rest of the day is spent consulting with his chief advisor on matters of state.

“Many of our banks in Ravenclaw are complaining that Lestrange merchants are defaulting on their loans,” Goyle says, the son, softer than his father but no less efficient. Draco’s grateful the man’s never aspired to be anymore than Draco’s advisor, Slytherin though he is.

Draco groans and rubs his eyes, frustrated. It’s been a long day, and he wishes that what with plotting against Lestrange and dealing with Lestrange he’d have a chance to think of anything besides Lestrange in the interim. “What’s the state of the mortgaged properties?” he asks. “Anything of value?”

Goyle tuts, looking into his sheaf of parchment. “The land is fertile enough, but the individual holdings are too small to plant anything of value. And the merchants will never agree to a cooperative.”

Draco closes his eyes, willing the headache to subside. He’ll have to ask one of his Healers for a pain potion later. “Sell the loans to our merchants at a discount,” he says tiredly. “Our treasury will bear the difference.”

“I have a list of mortgaged properties that’ll revert to Ravenclaw ownership on completion of the transaction–”

“Send me a list,” Draco interrupts. “And have the head of the Ravenclaw Farming Guild meet me. I have instructions for them.”

Goyle nods, fast and earnest, bowing once and departing with a quick, “I’ll see it done, Prince Draco.”

Draco stands from his desk, work ever-mounting, and steps out, feeling a breeze pass him through the corridors, windows open in the evening with charms to filter out the worst of the chill. He allows himself a moment to bask in the pleasant air, and then trudges back to his room, unlocking it with a flick of his wrist and stepping inside.

He’s just locked the door when a weight slams him against the wall, pain spiking through his back, shoulders gripped tight, and he comes face to face with a viciously angry Harry.

“You left me for dead,” Harry snarls. He holds Draco by the shoulders, body pressing him into the wall. “You used me as bait.”

Draco stares back at him calm and composed, as if he isn’t being cornered by a near-stranger with none of his guards in sight. “You weren’t supposed to get hurt. Dementors don’t even attack Squibs. Trust you to be the exception to the rule. And besides, how do you know I used you as bait? What if the Dementors got to me as well?”

“Did they?” Harry growls, grip on Draco tightening.

“No,” Draco says carelessly, “but really, what if they had? And you’d have wasted a perfectly good attack–”

“Shut up,” Harry says, shoving into the wall again and Draco’s nostrils fare, and his jaw clenches, and he sends Harry flying back against a table, inkpots clattering to the floor, breaking. Harry feels his rage redouble, grow and spark into an uncontrollable fury, and he charges against Draco, and Draco lets him, and there’s a tangle of hands and legs and weight until they’re tussling on the floor, neither giving way, until Harry climbs over Draco and Draco says, “Oh, no you don’t,” and Harry jabs him with a fist and Draco catches it, quick as a flash, and Harry tightens his legs around Draco’s torso, locking his movement when–

“Your Radiance,” a Gryffindor says, stepping into the room and staring down at them in alarm. “I heard–”

There’s a moment when the two of them just look at each other, and then Draco reaches up and pulls Harry towards him, and Harry doesn’t have time to comprehend the movement because Draco’s kissing him, hard and wet and insistent, fingers tugging at Harry’s hair, other hand sliding down his side, inside his tunic, over his chest. He draws back, and Harry blinks, unsure, dazed, and Draco says, “A moment, Harry,” and then he turns to the guard and says, “I left explicit instructions not to be disturbed,” in a voice that is so lazy and low and rough that it turns Harry’s stomach inside out, and the guard stammers, apologetic, and rushes out as fast as she came, and the door shuts with a jarring snick behind them.

Draco instantly shoves Harry off him.

“What the f*ck was that?” Harry asks, wiping at his mouth and sitting up.

“I just saved your life, Squib,” Draco says, propping himself up and crossing his legs, though he doesn’t get off the floor. “You should be thanking me. If my guards had known you were attacking me you’d’ve been Avada Kedavra’d by the end of the day.”

Harry stares at him, the slight flush in his cheeks, the crinkles in his tunic, dishevelled from where his hands had strayed. “Why did you take me to the prison? Why did you leave me alone? What happened in there?”

“I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you,” Draco says dismissively, ignoring the rest of his questions. “You’ll learn the answers in due time. Now rest. I’ll come get you in an hour.”

“You’re going to leave me here?” Harry asks suspiciously, wondering if it’s maybe residual guilt manifesting in Draco’s sudden generosity. “No mad scheme, no carpet ride, no Dementors waiting under my bed?”

“Sleep in mine, if you’d like,” Draco throws out casually, standing. “The fact that you can even stand after being fed on by a bunch of Dementors….” He tilts his head, slightly, as if he’s just realising it, and stares at Harry, brow furrowed, teeth biting the inside of his cheek. “Rest,” Draco says, so Harry stands, wobbly now, as if the fatigue that has evaded him has been called back by remembrance, and Harry finds his way to the bed, pushing aside the canopy and falling atop the mattress, sinking into it, the sponge-soft featherbed and the satin sheets atop it. “Goodnight,” Draco says, but his voice has turned soft, faraway, as if speaking from underwater, and Harry feels himself pulled into a lax, lulling slumber.

Draco brings his work into his chambers and begins the task of sorting through tedious portal reports, noting the places Goyle’s marked out for him as having Rabastan’s magical signature, and Draco follows it with his quill, noting a kind of vague, zigzag pattern that comes together, of Rabastan encircling Malfoy territory, but never entering it. Which makes sense, Draco decides, for a Slytherin coming through the portals is almost always flagged. Much easier for Rabastan to send in a lackey to do his bidding. It gives him an alibi, at the very least, if he’ll ever need one.

Draco sits back and rubs his chin, and his eyes stray towards the bed where Harry’s sleeping on his stomach, hands by his face, curly hair springing out of his head, thick and wavy, falling over his forehead like a curtain. Draco touches a finger to his lips, remembering the way he’d kissed Harry, remembering the way Harry’d responded, pressing down, reactive, gasping into it by the end. He doesn’t know what to make of it, what to do with his own feelings or the man himself. He shakes his head and casts a quick Tempus, stifling a yawn and going to wake Harry.

“Mmm?” comes his voice, blurry with sleep, expression softly creeping into wakefulness. “Is–oh.”

He looks so tired, so full of bone-deep fatigue that Draco almost wants to let him sleep, but he can’t, because expectations must be met, so he pulls Harry out of bed and dresses him up in Gryffiindor reds and has him follow Draco to the council room where he meets Astoria and Pansy.

Harry enters the room and pauses, and his face scrunches up into an expression of confusion. “You’ve been doing magic here. More than usual.”

“We were working,” Pansy says neutrally, “through the night, yesterday, fortifying Vault defences.” She looks between him and Draco. “How do you know?”

“I can” –Harry raises his hand and cups his fingers outwards, as if holding something invisible– “feel it in the air, I think. It’s thick and soupy. It isn’t–it’s not usually this thick.” He drops his hand, turning his head sheepishly. “I don’t know.”

“You can feel magical residue?” Astoria asks incredulously. “Since when?”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t know. Since I came here.” He looks at Draco. “What?”

“Nothing,” Draco says. “It’s nothing.” He turns to the women who are still staring at Harry, and waves his hand. “Now we’ve work to do. Do you have the schematics for the Lestrange castle?”

“I do,” Astoria says, waving her wand over a map of the Lestrange castle, now unfurling. “We’ll enter along with the troupe of performers, and then break away from them here.” She points to a corridor that cuts away from the main entrance through a door. “Pansy’ll find the entrance to the Gryffindor tunnels and Astoria will guide us through.”

“You’ve been there before?” Harry asks.

Astoria shakes her head. “We’ll have to do it on the day. If we enter by morning I can slip away with Pansy to map the tunnels as best as I can. If not, it’ll have to be guesswork.”

Draco nods at her in acknowledgment. “And once we reach the centre, Harry will step through the Vault; get the Horcrux, get out, and we’ll leave the way we came.”

“What about the alarm?” Harry asks, frowning. “The one that’s meant to go off as soon as I pick up the Horcrux.”

“I have a plan,” Draco says.

“What if we’re caught?” Harry asks again. “If the tunnels in the Lestrange castle are anything like the ones here, it’ll be teeming with Gryffindors. Even if we can get past them the first time round there’s no guarantee we won’t be cornered on the way out.”

“I have… another plan,” Draco says slowly, looking to Astoria, “and Astoria has a backup plan.”

“It’s still not done,” she protests, “I don’t know if it’ll–”

“You can,” Draco insists. “You must.”

“I’ll try,” she says softly.

And then Draco leaves them to their work, and takes Harry with him to visit his other council room, the main one, and Harry stands by the door, glowering and hulking while Draco slogs through grant requests and policy reviews with his vassals. A Gryffindor enters, then, clearing their throat and saying, “Your Radiance, the squadron has been dispatched.”

“Good,” Draco says, “see that they return in three hours,” and Harry stares at him bewildered, but Draco ignores him, and tries instead to focus on the yammering overlap of voices, trying to make sense of it all, and exactly at midnight he sets his quill down and calls for a halt, and beckons for Harry to take him back.

“You sent a batch of Gryffindors somewhere?” Harry asks cautiously as they walk to his chambers, and Draco looks away.

“It’s none of your business–”

“I’m a member of your personal guard–”

“You’re pretending to be–”

“You’ve inducted me into a high-stakes operation–”

“I sent them to Azkaban,” Draco blurts out, stopping by his door. “I sent them there to defend against the Carrowites.” He opens the door and strides in without waiting for Harry to follow, but Harry hasn’t budged, arms crossed, forehead creased, waiting for answer. “What?” Draco asks.

“You sent Gryffindors to protect Squib Territory?” Harry asks, tone so full of disbelief it irks Draco.

“Where the f*ck else would I send them? They’re the only ones pathetic enough to need protection from anything that isn’t a Dementor,” Draco says, but there’s no bite to it, just hollow, rehearsed words, like he’s playacting a script.

“You sent them there to protect the Settlement,” Harry says, and it’s not a question, and he’s stalking forward, and Draco surges towards him, unconscious of it until he’s there, right in Harry’s space, feeling the weight of his gaze bore into him.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Draco says, but it comes out wrong and soft and gentle, and he looks away, but there’s a hand on his chin and it’s drawing him back and he looks at Harry, the deep brown of his irises, golden in filtered sunlight, the wild tumble of his hair, the calloused pads of his fingers, and he feels himself stumbling into something with a momentum that’s too fast to stop, not when he doesn’t want to, not when the falling is this easy, and Harry says, “You sent them there to help them,” and Draco says, “No. I’d rather not lose Malfoy Territory to a radical outfit. It’s an issue of sovereignty, really,” and Harry wraps his other arm around Draco’s waist and pulls him close and asks, “Are you quite done?” and Draco says, “Yes,” and Harry kisses him.

Immediately, Draco damns everything to hell and grabs Harry by his tunic and presses himself against the length of him, the hard planes of his body, the strength of his arms, and Harry walks Draco back into the wall, and hoists him up like he weighs nothing, bracing him against a tapestry that’s older than the castle itself, and Draco doesn’t give a damn if it’s stretched beyond repair by morning, because nothing matters more than this: the feel of Harry’s tongue in his mouth, his legs wrapped around Harry’s waist, grip firm on his thighs, his fingers tugging at Harry’s hair, loosening it from its band and letting it fall to his neck. And then Harry draws back, fingers tightening over his legs, his hips, carrying him back to the bed, throwing him over it and climbing on top of him, and Draco gasps, at the casual display of muscle, of power, and then Harry spreads his legs and brings his hips down, and Draco moans, and Harry presses harder, eyes glazing over, forehead dipping down, and Draco wraps his legs around Harry and draws him closer, feeling the length of him, hard and straining against his own co*ck, and Draco groans.

“f*ck,” Harry pants, grinding down now, hard and frantic, and it’s too much, and it’s not enough, and Draco feels around blindly for his wand. He summons it into his hand and gives it a short flick, and their clothes vanish, and Harry’s eyes grow darker, and he sucks in a breath, and he asks, “Presumptuous, are we?” and Draco grabs him by the ass, hands hungry and searching, until there’s not a speck of distance between their skin, and says, “You’re the one about to f*ck a prince,” and Harry moans and he bends down, bites Draco’s neck, sharp and desperate and wet, and whispers into his ear, “Am I?” and Draco breathes, “Yes,” and spreads his thighs.

Harry doesn’t hesitate; his fingers encircle Draco’s hole, nothing tentative about it, nothing unsure, and he slips a finger in and finds it loose and wet and ready. He gasps, “How…?” and Draco says, “I took care of it. Just do it,” broken and fast and begging, and Harry looks too far gone to argue anyway so he throws Draco’s ankle over his own shoulder and plunges in, one hand on Draco’s hips, balancing on his elbow, letting out a moan that is so loud and deep and filthy that it goes to straight to Draco’s co*ck. “Faster,” Draco says, hips rising from the bed as he guides Harry’s hand to his co*ck; and Harry is nothing if not a quick study as he wraps his fingers along the length of Draco, setting a punishing pace, thrusting into him, bending down to leave bruising kisses along his throat.

“f*ck,” Draco is repeating, “f*ck, f*ck, yes,” over and over again as Harry ploughs into him, punishingly steady, finding the spot inside him that sets him alight, sends him writhing on the bed, and Harry sees him, gaze stripped raw and vulnerable, and Draco yanks him down and kisses him because to look into his eyes is unbearable, and Harry whispers against his lips, “I’m close,” and Draco says, “Yes, yes, come inside me, yes–” and Harry does–and it’s agonising and maddening to watch him fall apart, f*cking Draco through his org*sm, hand still on his co*ck, pulsing, and it’s enough to send Draco over the edge.

And when they’re done and Harry pushes off him and Draco summons his wand to vanish the mess, Harry is already halfway to sleep, burrowed underneath the blankets, arm slung carelessly over Draco’s waist, and Draco says to himself, “I just had sex with a Squib,” half-disbelieving, and Harry cracks an eye open and says, “I just had sex with a Slytherin,” voice full of comical contempt that it sends Draco spiralling into laughter. And then he moves closer to Harry, Harry’s arm encircling his waist, and he nips at Harry’s neck and he says, “Yes, you did. And what’s more. You’re going to do it again.”

Astoria’s set up a holographic image of Lestrange guard uniforms in her chambers. Red and thick to withstand the cold, bright for visibility in the dark borders beyond Lestrange. The wool is pashmina, soft and warm, and she doesn’t trust anyone else to handle the expensive fabric besides herself and the trained Ravenclaw beside her.

“Your Radiance, might I ask what these dimensions are for?” Hermione asks from her stool. She doesn’t look up, voice light and casual, but it doesn’t fool Astoria.

“Oh, you know how many trips I take up north,” she says brightly, playing the part of vapid princess to perfection. “I rather like to have a varied wardrobe, don’t you? Styles go out of fashion so quickly.”

Hermione purses her lips, jaw turning tight. “Of course, Your Radiance,” she says, with all the grace of a woman who hasn’t owned over two sets of clothing at any point in her life. “It’s only that you don’t prefer red, usually.”

Sharp, this one, Astoria thinks, but she only says, “My betrothed has bemoaned my taste in colour. Especially after he saw my gardens.”

Hermione finishes tailoring a sleeve, with enough lining sewn in that Astoria can open it up later. Her eyebrows had risen when Astoria asked for so much fabric to be added, but Astoria’d widened her own eyes in return and taken Hermione’s hand in her own and said, voice plaintive and sad, that she expected to grow heavy after the marriage, having to bear an heir to both their houses. Hermione’d jerked her head in an approximation of response.

A Patronus of a dragon alights on Astoria’s desk, then, puffing out smoke and relaying a message garbled for anyone except her: “Your presence is requested immediately at Malfoy. Emergency protocol. A retinue will be waiting by the entry portal. Please report now.”

Astoria stands, alarmed, and surveys the mountain of fabric she’s yet to finish stitching. She looks at Hermione dutifully sewing away, and makes a decision.

“Hermione Ravenclaw,” Astoria says, voice brisk and commanding, “you’re coming with me to Malfoy Territory.”

Chapter 10: An Evaluation of Bias

Chapter Text

The days leading up to the operation are spent in a strange kind of limbo. Harry doesn’t know if it’s the work or the trips to Azkaban or the continuous, hard f*cking that they’ve fallen into, but Draco takes it up in his mind to traverse the realm, top to bottom–all the way down to the Squib Settlement–just talking to people.

“You couldn’t make it stop?” Draco is asking, brow furrowed, the picture of empathy.

The Ravenclaw shakes her head, dishcloth in hand. “Years and years we’ve been working the soil and we’ve never seen anything like it. It burrows under the soil and it eats–everything, sir. Faster than wildfire. Got in through Amaranthe’s field–she’s the one with the groundnut farm over by the far side–and the insects, they’ve got a taste for it. We’ve had to switch over to cotton mid-cycle and leave the land fallow. We’ve no idea when the soil will be tillable again.”

“And it only eats wheat and paddy?”

“Yes, sir,” the woman tells Draco, shaking her head. “Just my luck. My wife’s been telling me for years that cotton’s where the money is at.”

“It really isn’t,” Harry says, in an awkward attempt to console, which backfires immediately as Draco and the woman both glare at him.

“And what happens once they’ve destroyed a farm? Where do they go?” Draco asks.

The woman shrugs uncertainly. “I don’t know, sir. They scatter, I think. They’ll eat anything, but they’ll go feral for a patch of wheat.”

“Hmm,” Draco says, and thanks the woman, and hands her a few coins in thanks, and says one of the royal attendants will be around to collect a sample of the insect, and they spend the rest of the day doing even more talking.

“I can understand talking to the fishermen about aniline or consulting with the farmers about the blight but what good does it do, encouraging a man who’s complaining about his husband?” Harry asks, after they’ve stepped out of the house of a sobbing accountant in the Ravenclaw District who’d served them lemon cakes frosted with sugar, and then spent an hour discussing the errant habits of his spouse.

“First you complain that I don’t care about my subjects enough and now you’re complaining I care too much?” Draco asks, eyebrow raised.

Harry tuts. It’s the third day they’ve gone up and down Malfoy, soliciting complaints, bearing the Malfoy seal, promising to return their grievances to the prince. And Draco seems to have a knack for this, to coax out of people their deepest fears, their most mortifying desires, and he does it with such genuine zeal, the picture of earnest sympathy, part of Harry is impressed and the other part is a little scared. “What are you planning?” he asks.

“I’m not always planning something,” Draco says, frowning, and Harry snorts.

He sees Draco surreptitiously flicking his wand from inside his tunic sleeve, and glares at him. “Fine. Don’t tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Draco insists. And then he takes Harry down, past the edge of the Districts and into Squib Territory, beyond the edge of Azkaban, well inside, and they spend the rest of the day talking to Squibs. Draco guides him to one of the stalls in the marketplace, and buys him lunch–flaky pastries filled to the centre with boiled potatoes and chickpeas and curd topped with sweet and sour sauces–and it’s delicious. Harry licks his plate clean, and there’s a bit of sauce running down Draco’s finger so he grabs his wrist and brings it to his mouth, laves at the tip of his forefinger, all the way to his knuckle, and Draco’s eyes darken. He pulls Harry into a shaded corner and gets on his knees and says, “Don’t say I never do anything for you,” and takes Harry into his mouth, and Harry’s head hits the wall with a thud, and he bites into his knuckles to stifle a moan as Draco presses him down, locks him in place with his palms braced on Harry’s hips, taking him all the way to the hilt. “f*ck,” Harry says, “f*ck, Draco,” and he’ll remember it later and feel himself flush, the way his voice sounded, low and gravelly and desperate, hands twisting in Draco’s hair, urging him on, begging. And Draco draws back, eyes meeting Harry’s own, suckling the tip, the corner of his mouth tilting upwards, so co*cky that Harry moans, tightening his grip over Draco’s scalp, losing himself in the feel of it, the tight, wet heat of it; and when he comes, he forgets to be quiet, eyes rolling back in his head as he spills directly down Draco’s throat, and Draco laps it up, quick and easy like he likes it, like it’s effortless, and he doesn’t give Harry a chance to recover before he’s standing up and brushing off and pushing Harry down to his knees with a whispered, “Your turn.”

It’s messier, with Draco, but he vanishes the mess after they’re done and pulls Harry up; and they kiss against the tree, sliding down into the earth, sand sticking to their skin. They stay tangled as they climb back onto the carpet, and Draco swishes his wand as the carpet expands, and it folds upwards, a kind of protective wall; and then he pushes Harry down and lays on top of him, and Harry feels his whole body hum in response. He thinks about it, for a moment, what it would be like to have Draco like this, spread underneath him, flushed and hard and ready, f*cking him under the clouds, the ground a distant speck; and desire surges through him like a wave. He can see it dawn on Draco at the exact moment it dawns on him, and Draco looks down at him with a look that is so hungry in its intensity, slotting his legs in between Harry’s own, and Harry winds his arms around Draco, and they’re working up to a friction that is fast and hard and frantic, writhing against each other, gasping, when a silvery smog approaches them. It forms into the shape of a peaco*ck and spouts words which are too garbled for Harry to understand, but Draco turns pale and slides off Harry immediately.

“What was that?” Harry asks, still adjusting to the change, sitting up and blinking, but Draco’s demeanour has turned stiff.

“There’s trouble in the castle,” he says, back straight, eyes distant. “My father has requested my presence.”

By the time Draco jumps off the carpet, Astoria and Pansy are already waiting.

“We came as soon as we got the Patronus,” Astoria says. “What is it?”

“My father’s here,” Draco says tersely. He takes a deep breath, looking between them. “It’s bad.”

He gestures for Harry to follow him, and they make their way to the council room, where Lucius is waiting. He stands by the window, back to the door, royal robes flowing to the floor. He turns and fixes Draco with a cool, level stare, barely glancing towards Astoria and Pansy and ignoring Harry entirely.

“Where have you been?” Lucius grits out.

“I was–working,” Draco says carefully. “I will be happy you to acquaint you with the details of–”

“Not now,” Lucius says, holding up a hand and striding forward, mouth set into a thin, grim line. “I’ve just returned from the court of High King Gaunt, trying to talk him down from another border conflict.”

Draco turns cold. “Did you?”

Lucius stares at Draco, stiff and angry, and it’s all the confirmation Draco needs. “There’s been no instigation!”

“When has Lestrange ever needed an excuse to instigate conflict,” Lucius says, “except this time you seem to have handed him one on a silver platter. Tell me, Draco,” he grinds out, “did you, or did you not send our Gryffindors to engage with Carrowites along the border?”

Draco takes a step forward. “I did,” he says tentatively.

“And what could have possessed you to do such a ridiculous thing? Where did you gather the intelligence for the raid?”

“One of my spies–”

“We don’t protect the Squibs, we tolerate them. They’re living on our land and it’s more than they deserve, and you’re wasting precious resources defending them–”

“It wasn’t about defending them,” Draco bites back. “It was about guarding our borders–”

“Then you erect temporary defences and you send word to the Gaunt Capital and you wait,” Lucius thunders. “There’s protocol for a reason, Draco. And now the Lestranges are claiming that we sent the Carrowites to their borders after staging the attack for their benefit. And they’ve dug up old accounts and vague reports, doctored, no doubt, but Gaunt’s inclined to accept their claims because he’s–” Lucius breaks off. “It doesn’t matter what he is, because we can’t afford another conflict.”

“Is this what you came here to tell me?” Draco asks.

Lucius nods. “I suspect our correspondence is being monitored. The Lestranges are monitoring my every move and–I can feel them, lurking.” His jaw clenches into a controlled expression of disgust. “I’ll return to the capital to delay as well as I can, but the conflict is coming. Can I trust you to see it through?”

“Yes, Father,” Draco says, fingers clenched, mind whirring with possibilities, when Astoria steps forward, voice firm, to address Lucius with, “Draco is my betrothed, and the three of us have sworn Unbreakable Vows to each other, as you well know. The Parkinsons and the Greengrasses will stand behind the Malfoys in this fight. And I mean that not as a reproach towards Malfoy Gryffindors, but as a precaution, because Nott and Rosier will certainly be mustering forces to join the fray.”

Lucius shakes his head. “There isn’t time,” he says, and Draco’s heart drops, and he has to stop himself from digging cuts into his own palms. But he maintains composure, outwardly, and says, “Father’s right. They’ll be at our borders in a day or two at most, certainly not enough time for you to raise your banners and march from all the way from the south.” It’s one of the disadvantages of having allies so far away from his own Territory, he knows. Good for trade, bad for war. “And you can’t portal your troops because the magical energy expenditure will leave you too weakened, and I won’t have that.” He turns to Lucius once more and says, voice grave and neutral, “I’ll do my best with what soldiers we can spare.”

“See that you do,” Lucius says, and just as he turns, he hesitates, hands. A rare moment of vulnerability; and it’s a testament to his faith in Draco’s trust of Pansy and Astoria that he adds, “You are my son. I would expect you to navigate this difficulty–but if you do not, if anyone hurts you” –he turns around, doesn’t look at Draco as he says– “they will answer to me.”

Harry wakes to an empty bed, coming to consciousness quick and easy. He draws back the canopy curtains and the room springs to life, floating candles lighting up once more. It’s late, he realises. Draco had made him return to their chambers and asked him if he knew how to write, and he’d said yes, but only the Common Tongue, and Draco had waved away the protestation and told him to write, as much as he could remember, of what they had learned over the past few days, all the squabbles and complaints and petitions of the kingdom. And then he’d left to discuss strategies of war with his father. Harry’d sat at the table, dutifully, on a cushioned chair too soft for his liking, and written, painstakingly slow, whatever he could call to mind, taking care not to blot the ink or spoil the smooth, thick sheafs of paper.

A pitcher of water has been left by the floor of the bed, and Harry drinks straight from it, careful not to spill. It’s then that he hears the rustle of fabric behind him. He turns immediately, arms out, pitcher in front, looking around uselessly for a weapon he might use, but Draco has only ever had need of a wand, and he’s been careful not to leave any potential weapon lying around besides. Harry grits his teeth. “Show yourself.”

The rustling grows louder, and the edge of the quilt rises, shaking slowly, something domed underneath. Harry’s mind races with the possibilities. An explosive? A latent spell? A curse? Nothing could harm him directly, but the room would be plenty damaged by the end of it, and though Harry is immune to magic, flying shrapnel is a different matter entirely.

He approaches the mound on the bed warily, wondering if he could call for help. Guards have been posted outside the door but Harry doesn’t want to set it off, whatever it could be. The form has turned shaky, skittish, approaching the edge of the bed in a zigzag pattern, and Harry holds out the jug in front of him like a shield. And then the sheet is thrown off and Harry yells and he flings the jug on the bed and something dark and shadowy escapes from it, whizzing around the room.

“What the…?”

The thing skids to a stop in front of him, and gawks at him, and Harry gawks back because the thing is–it’s a– “Baby Dementor?”

It makes no sound but bobs up and down, a crude imitation of agreement, and Harry is taken aback. It must’ve followed them back from Azkaban. Harry reaches out, tentatively, to touch it: it’s the size of Harry’s forearm, with large eyes that don’t blink, shaped like a caricature ghost, smooth, rounded top and a robe that flows downwards like inky liquid, edges dissipating into air. It leans into his touch, cautious at first, then quickly losing inhibition, rubbing into his palm, softer than anything Harry’s ever felt, and it lets out a sound that’s suspiciously close to a purr.

“You’re–friendly, aren’t you?” Harry asks, holding out his other hand and cradling it carefully in his palms. It jumps up and down, flying through the space between his forearms and then around his waist, excited, and Harry laughs, delighted. “Not like your friends.”

The Dementor nuzzles against him, forlorn, and then whizzes onto the bed, rooting around in the covers before moving to the tables, and Harry has only a moment to register before it goes crashing into the inkwells over the surface, and all of Harry’s notes are spoiled. “f*ck,” he says, and begins to chase the Dementor around, and the Dementor takes it as a sign to play and bounds happily out of reach whenever he gets nearby, hiding in the beams of the tall, ornate ceilings.

Harry groans at the mess on the table and is about to sort through it to salvage what he can when the door slams open and Draco strides through, glowering darkly at the floor as he enters. The Dementor immediately shrinks back into the ceiling, and Harry opens his mouth, unsure, and then closes it.

“What?” Draco snaps.

“Nothing,” Harry says vaguely. “I–ah, did what you asked.” He gestures to the table.

“I distinctly remember giving you different instructions,” Draco says, eyeing the table with his eyes narrowed as the ink drips pitifully onto the carpet. He sighs, and vanishes the mess, and then waves his hand in the general direction of Harry. “You can rewrite it later.”

He stops by the edge of the bed and the canopy parts for him on its own, and he falls into it, groaning happily.

“Long day?” Harry asks, and Draco turns on his side.

“We’re preparing for battle,” he says. “In the middle of Azkaban.”

“Azkaban?” Harry asks, incredulous. “Your troops’ll be half dead by the time they make it there. Unless you’re portalling them?”

“No.” Draco lies back down. “They’re going to march.”

“They won’t last a day in desert heat,” Harry protests, “not to mention they’ll have to skirt around the far edge of it to avoid the Prison.”

Draco holds out a hand. “Come here.”

“What do you mean, come here?” Harry asks indignantly, but he still goes, barely registering it as he thinks. “You’ll be pitching our men–”

“Our men?” Draco asks, eyebrow raised good-naturedly as he pulls Harry down and lays a hand on his chest.

“You know what I mean,” Harry says dismissively. “You’ll be pitching Malfoy soldiers, starving on rations and heat-tired on the worst terrain for a fight against Lestrange soldiers who’ll be fresh from across–oh–” He breaks off as Draco slips a finger underneath his tunic, lower, stroking under the edge of his waistband. “What are you doing?”

“Do you not like it?” Draco asks, smirking, getting up on his elbows and slipping a hand under Harry’s trousers. He wraps his fist around Harry’s co*ck and leans in to whisper, “I’ve been thinking about this ever since I left.”

“Oh.” Harry closes his eyes and turns towards Draco as begins to stroke him, slowly, restricted under the fabric. It’s a slow friction, building, and Harry sinks into the tight, hot pleasure of it when Draco jerks away to sit up and say, “What’s that?”

“What?” Harry asks, dazed. But Draco’s already drawing his wand and aiming it at the blur on the ceiling and it takes a second for Harry to realise that Draco’s shooting at the Dementor–the baby Dementor–and Harry shouts, “Wait, no,” but Draco fires, and the thing comes zooming out of its hiding spot.

“What do you mean no,” Draco says, irritated. “What the f*ck–did you–” he waves his arms and a large, transparent box appears in midair, trapping the Dementor that still flaps around inside it, confused. “Did you bring that back?”

“No!” Harry says. “It’s harmless.”

“It’s a” –Draco glances back up and squints– “Dementor for Merlin’s sake!”

“Who’s Merlin?” Harry asks, and then shakes his head. “It’s a child. It’s confused. It needs to be protected.”

“It’s a soul sucker–”

“It’s a baby–”

“It’s a killer–”

A soft mewl interrupts them, filtering out through the floating box, something quiet and sharp and pained, like a kneazle’s purr, but higher-pitched, and Draco’s head shoots back up and he glares, and the Dementor shrinks back, sinking to the floor like a dejected kite. Draco clenches his jaw, though his expression has turned softer, and he says, “Fine. But the moment it exhibits the slightest signs of–wait–you know it?”

“I don’t! It was here when I woke up,” Harry protests, and Draco glares at him, once more, but he undoes the barrier, reluctantly, and the Dementor whoops and whizzes straight into Harry’s arms, and Harry stumbles back with the force of it. “Woah, there,” he says, but the Dementor has latched itself onto him and is nuzzling into his chest, gently.

“Interesting,” Draco says, crossing his arms. “Did you do something to it?”

“I said I didn’t,” Harry says. “It was like this when I woke up.” He looks up from the Dementor. “How did you see it from all the way down here? Do you have a–a charm for it? For vision?”

Draco frowns. “What do you mean how did I see it–it was right there.” He waves to the top of the ceiling, and looks back at Harry who’s still frowning. “You mean–you can’t see up there?”

“I can,” Harry says defensively, still hugging the Dementor. “It’s just a bit– blurred is all.”

“Oh,” Draco says, taking a step back and blinking. “Oh, I–okay.”

“Is there a problem?”

“No,” Draco says quickly. “I was only thinking that the Dementor needs a name. We can’t keep calling it it.”

Harry stares at him a bit more, and then shrugs, putting it down to one of Draco’s numerous oddities. “I’ll think of something,” he says, already warming to this creature in its arms, the innocence of its behaviour, the feel of its heartbeat over his chest. “I think he’s tired.”

“There’s no space on the bed,” Draco says, stubborn, and Harry says, “He can stay with me in the other room,” and Draco groans, and says, “Fine, I’ll have the bed enlarged,” and stalks out of the room grumpily.

There’s a host of things on Draco’s mind as he goes to look for Pansy, but the first thing he asks her when he finds her is, “What can you tell me about Dementors?”

She looks up from where she’s positioned on the floor, knee on the waist of her Gryffindor sparring partner, other knee holding his elbow down, and asks, “What?” The man–Weasley, Draco places–tries to sit up but Pansy grips his wrist and shoves it down again, dagger placed firmly against his throat. “I’m busy,” she says.

“I need your help,” Draco says flatly. “And you” –he jerks his hand at the Gryffindor, who stands shakily as Pansy lets him up– “find Harry in my bedchambers and take him to a private sparring room. No magic, only combat. Teach him what you can.”

“Yes, Your Radiance,” the Gryffindor says, and makes to leave, when Draco stops him. “That’s a direct order, you understand? No one but me, Pansy, or Astoria will be permitted to supervise your sessions with him.”

Weasley nods, once, and leaves with another hasty, “Yes, Your Radiance.”

Pansy tuts, charming the sweat off her and summoning a pitcher of water. “You had to go and steal the one competent sparring partner I have,” she says, and Draco rolls his eyes. He knows his Gryffindors are the best fighters in the land, but Pansy’s always been in a league of her own. “Did you finally tire of playing with your Squib?” she asks, and Draco bristles.

“I’m–I’m not playing with him–”

“f*cking, then,” Pansy says, upending the jug of water over herself and shaking her head. “If you want me to be specific.”

“We’re not f*cking,” Draco says acidly, liar that he is, and Pansy gives him an unimpressed stare and gestures to the air above her neck. “You’ve a mark under your jaw.”

Draco’s hand flies to his neck. He’d been certain– “I don’t,” he says, and Pansy smiles and says, “But now you’ve confirmed it for me,” and Draco purses his lips, ignoring Pansy’s continuation of, “Astoria and I knew, the moment we saw him. You were always going to do it, weren’t you? He’s tall and strong and–does he hold you down? I know some people like it but personally I prefer being the one to do the–”

“I don’t want to know,” Draco interrupts, casting a locking charm on the door and making his way to the weapons rack, just to have something to do. “I came to ask you about Dementors.”

“Alright,” Pansy says, dropping it for now. She charms the water off her clothes and joins him by the rack. “What do you want to know? There’s nothing I’d know about them that you wouldn’t.”

“Yes, but you’ve fought them,” Draco says. He surveys the knives stacked at the very top of the rack, displayed for Pansy’s benefit, no doubt, and picks up a spearpoint knife, sharpened to perfection. “Can they imprint on humans? The way a familiar might?”

“Not that I know of,” Pansy says, frowning. “Dementors aren’t your standard magical creatures. They’re intelligent in a way no other creature is–they worked with the Peverells to guard the Azkaban Prison.”

“Yes, yes, I know all that,” Draco says impatiently. “But what might draw a Dementor to a human?”

Pansy gives him a look.

“Besides wanting to suck the soul out of our chests,” Draco amends. “Is there anything that might–endear a human to a Dementor?”

Pansy tilts her head sharply up at him. “What are you planning?”

“Nothing,” Draco insists, being truthful, for once. “It was just–a thought experiment.”

“A thought experiment,” Pansy repeats, incredulous. “You expect me to believe–you’re not trying to bond with a Dementor, are you? Is that what this is? Because–”

Draco groans, turning the knife over in his hands. There’s a target dummy levitating across the hall and he thinks about throwing something at it. “I came in contact with a few Dementors while in Azkaban, and it got me thinking, alright? Now if you can’t help me I might as well leave.”

Pansy takes a breath, picking up a knife of her own: a needlepoint, similar to his but longer and sharper, with a smaller hilt. “There is one thing,” she says, eyeing the target dummy that floats. “Dementors are like–Boggarts, I think.”

“What?”

Pansy flings her knife in the air and it shoots with a razor-sharp precision, straight into the heart of the dummy. “When I fought them along the border, they– there’s this brief moment. Right before you cast, when you can feel its breath, its presence. It sifts through your mind and it sees things, and then it shows you things in return, but I don’t think it means to.”

“What do you mean shows you?” Draco asks, worrying at his lip. “What did it show you?”

“Nothing I could make sense of,” she says. “But I saw myself, older. I saw myself when I was five, and following my mother around before I’d learned that she hated me. I saw Astoria. I saw my people. I saw the Parkinson river that flows into our Squib Settlement, except it was dry as a desert. I saw the world burning. And I saw you.”

“Me?”

Pansy shrugs. “I could’ve been hallucinating. It was a trying time for all of us.” She widens her stance and readies herself to throw, once more. “I think Dementors are more intelligent than we give them credit for. I think they know things that we don’t. And I think if they weren’t so hell-bent on sucking the souls right out of our bodies, we might’ve been allies.”

“The Peverells found a way to do it,” Draco says, thinking.

“The Peverells had the Hallows,” Pansy warns. “And look where that got them.” She shakes her head, straightening her shoulders, and throws. “Dementors can’t be trusted. You know that, don’t you?” It lands with a thwack against the dummy, right in its neck.

Draco flips the knife to his right hand and readies his own stance, shifting his weight and straightening his wrist. “You’ve nothing to worry about,” he says, and hurls the knife at the dummy, and it flies straight through the air, piercing through the dummy’s left eye and sticking out the other end. “I know,” he says, straightening and levitating the dummy back to them. “I know they can’t be trusted.”

Ron lunges at Harry, and Harry sidesteps it, quickly, darting inward and throwing his right arm over Ron’s elbow, hooking it around his knee so Ron is trapped with his leg in the air. “Not again,” Ron says, teeth gritted, as Harry gives him a brief, apologetic grin, before throwing him onto the floor.

“Where the f*ck did you learn to fight like that?” Ron asks, panting against the mattress. Harry bites back a remark or two about having to learn to defend against all sorts of wild animals, actually, and instead says, “You were already tired from your bouts with the princess.”

“He took a Rejuvenation Potion,” Draco says, from where he’s been watching. “Weasley, switch with me.”

“Yes, Your Radiance,” Ron says, standing to the side immediately as Draco shrugs out of his tunic and steps into the arena. His torso is lean and defined, arms corded lightly with muscle, but Harry knows Draco is deceptively strong, so he only says, “Now I’m tired from my bout with Ron.”

“Take a Rejuvenation Potion,” Ron says, and Harry exchanges a glance, briefly, with Draco.

“Weasley, leave us.”

Ron hurries to leave, barely throwing on his tunic before turning to give Harry one last fleeting look.

“I’ll go easy on you,” Draco says, prowling towards Harry, and then before Harry can blink, he takes a swing.

Harry ducks under the blow, crouching slightly, eyes never leaving Draco as he bobs up the other end and strikes back at his stomach, and Draco grunts, raising his arm to attack. But this time Harry is ready, and he lunges forward to smother the blow, arm trapping the punch, right hand hooking over Draco’s shoulder to drag his head down, and Draco’s strong, but Harry’s stronger, and at the end of the day, that’s what it comes to as Draco is forced downwards with his head against Harry’s hip. It’s heady, having Draco lose to him for once, but Draco is nothing if not obstinate, and he strains against Harry’s grip; and Harry loops his arm around Draco’s throat in response. “Yield,” he says, but Draco attempts to strike at him so Harry knees him in the chest, and Draco groans, arms up to defend, and that’s when Harry decides to end it: he lifts Draco’s shoulder up and pushes his other shoulder down and pivots away to drop his knee over Draco’s chest; not enough to crack his ribs or put him out, but enough to make it hurt, and Harry says, “Yield,” again and, this time Draco says, “Okay.”

Harry steps off him, but Draco’s still flat on the floor, and Harry stares at him, unsure, for a moment, before dropping down next to him.

“You were holding back. With Weasley. Where did you learn to fight like that?” Draco asks. “And don’t tell me a f*cking bear in the forest taught you because I don’t buy it for a second.”

Harry debates, carefully, whether to answer, before deciding it wouldn’t matter either way, to say, “My godfather taught me. Said he learned it from some highborn aristocrat’s son when he worked somewhere in Black.”

“I see,” Draco says, shifting to face Harry. “What is the name of your godfather?”

“Lupin,” Harry says, feeling the word out on his tongue, speaking it into the air. “Remus Lupin Hufflepuff.”

“Why was he in Squib Territory?” Draco asks, and Harry says, “I don’t know,” because he doesn’t. Remus had turned up, on an odd day in the middle of summer, looking for something, and the people of the Settlement had helped him, because he was a Hufflepuff, and Hufflepuffs never crossed the river; and he’d been nothing but polite and kind and grateful as he tore through the village as quick as he’d come, but he’d stopped, right outside the hut Harry’d been living in, and stepped inside, and grabbed Harry by the chin, tilting it upwards to stare into his eyes; and his carer had come running out with a broom and a stern look on her face, but she’d seen his wand and shrunk back, and Remus had said he’d like to adopt for Harry, if it were alright with the carer, and she’d blinked, for no wizard would willingly saddle themselves with a Squib child, but she wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so she’d said thank you, and demanded a few sickles in payment; and she’d left with a bag and Remus had left with Harry but, somehow, Remus had smiled like it was him who’d got the better end of that bargain.

“You should thank him,” Draco says. “He gave you a valuable asset.”

Harry looks up at Draco, now sitting up on his elbow, fingers twining absently through Harry’s hair. “Have you ever swung a sword?” he asks.

“No,” Harry says, and stops. “No. I’d not stand a chance against your Gryffindors–”

“You can’t knee drop every single attacker that comes your way when we infiltrate Lestrange, you know. Especially if they’re coming at you with good steel, and the best training in all the land, and magic. You’ve got to make yourself as dangerous as you can.”

“You’ll be with me,” Harry protests, half-hearted because he knows what Draco’s saying is true, and Draco says, “Yes, but I can’t protect you always,” and Harry starts, and he looks back at Draco and Draco’s eyes widen, like he’s only just realised what he said, and he says, “I meant–”

“I know what you meant,” Harry says, and pulls him down to find Draco’s mouth with his own.

Chapter 11: A Tangle of Plots

Chapter Text

The troops returned from Azkaban, haggard and drooping, exchanging scorching heat for shivering snow and being grateful, for once, for the chill. Draco’d handpicked the Gryffindors straight from the reserves, and put them directly under a seasoned commander to eschew suspicion; and then he’d sent them packing straight into a sandstorm with Lestrange and Nott and Rosier forces waiting on the other side. Not the most auspicious start–but Draco’s never done anything by convention. And when that battle was lost, as he had predicted, he took his soldiers in and let them lick their wounds while the Lestranges rejoiced over wasteland, hand-wrapped and delivered to them by a green prince growing into battle.

But while they were basking in the mirage of fleeting victory, Draco split his troops in half and sent a force trawling through the mountainside, straight to the topmost tip of Lestrange; and by the time the triple alliance had the presence of mind to shift from the desert they’d claimed to the crown of their territory, where Draco’s forces hung, he’d sacked half the northern cities of grain and retreated into the hills.

They tried, of course, to follow, but the landscape was Malfoy mountains. One of the first things he’d done after assuming his title was post his soldiers there, and they’d learnt the terrain: the porous soil and the steep slopes, the hulking trees and fearsome beasts; and when the time came he’d sent his soldiers in, lying in wait, amidst tree trunks thick as trebuchets and foliage harder than any shield. So when the Lestranges came, allies in tow, tripping over roots and trampling over soil, Draco’s soldiers were ready, and they hit hard. For while most of the Lestrange alliance had been battling within the dense jungles in the mountain foothills, Draco sent the other half of his troops marching straight into the heart of Lestrange, to take Princess Delphini hostage. And they returned with the girl in tow, fierce and feisty and clawing at her captors. Draco had her put up in chambers befitting her station, but damp and old and dusty, to remind her of her status: that she was here as a prisoner of war, not as a guest. And madly, unbelievably, Draco won this fight, with half the soldiers and half the coin, but double the luck and then some.

And that leaves him here, in the council room, parleying with Rodolphus with a lock of his daughter’s hair and half his grain stores besides. “I’d like an answer,” Draco says, “or it won’t be your daughter’s hair I’ll cut next.”

It’s an empty threat, though Rodolphus doesn’t know that, even as Harry’s eyes twitch where he stands behind Lestrange, ostensibly to guard. Draco’s found it’s better to keep him close, to induct him into the House proper–and Draco’s side is the only place Harry won’t stand out like a magic-starved beacon.

“What do you want?” Rodolphus says, deceptively calm for a man whose daughter’s trapped in the bowels of an enemy castle. “You’ve half my grain, and a force that’s nearly intact, and stores to last besides that.”

“I’ll take the grain as payment and interest for loans your merchants defaulted on,” Draco says smoothly. “Ownership of the mortgaged properties will revert back to you. You’ll take your daughter but leave one child each from the Houses of your vassals to be fostered with mine.”

Rodolphus can’t stop the slight furrow that appears in his brow, like a peak of lightning that goes hidden behind clouds, and he says, “That seems amenable,” surprised. “But not all of them. My vassals wouldn’t stand for it.”

“Yaxley and Carrow then. The younger ones,” Draco amends, “I’ll have them fostered with the Bulstrodes.”

Rodolphus nods.

“And will you keep the peace?” Draco asks, the ghost of his father behind him. “Will you testify to it in blood?” And Rodolphus has no choice to agree as he pricks his finger over a piece of parchment and affixes his thumbprint over it, binding, to abstain from war with the House of Malfoy for the length of his father’s term; and if Rodolphus thought Draco was being more than a little generous, Draco did not mind. The battle had woken something in him, a kind of game with stakes like no other, and Draco hungers for more. Rodolphus can see it in his eyes, Draco thinks; the way he smirks into the treaty, assured, confident, like even though he’s lost, he’s lost the least he could. And Draco lets him enjoy it, because he knows it won’t last.

“You’re looking too chipper,” Harry tells him, later, when they’re back in his rooms, and Draco’s taken the last of his thirst and slaked it over Harry’s body, pushing him onto the bed and riding him hard and fast and wild, holding him down and slamming into him.

“I just won,” Draco says, like that’s all it ever was, so simple.

Harry sits up, and says, “No, that’s not it,” and Draco wonders when he got so perceptive, when Astoria bursts into the room with a trail of Gryffindors in her wake to say, “This is what you called me all the way from Greengrass for?” clutching a piece of parchment in her hand.

Draco sits up, summoning a robe and tying it around him. Harry blinks at them both, confusion growing, blooming into the beginnings of understanding, as Draco says, “I did what I had to do,” cool and calm, voice like steel.

“No,” Astoria says, shaking with rage. Her hair is in disarray, robes hastily thrown on as if she’d hurried here straight when she heard the news. “You called me all those weeks ago from Greengrass begging urgency and I came. For you. Like a fool. You used me and you kept me in the dark and now an entire section of Lestrange will starve because you’ve an ego that’s bigger than the people you’re killing.”

“What?” Harry asks, eyes going clear and sharp as he grabs his tunic from where it's fallen and shoves it over his head. “What is this?” and the question is directed to Astoria.

“Ask him,” Astoria spits. “I’m going back to Greengrass.” Curt and direct. She spins around and leaves without so much as a glance back.

“Draco–”

“Solo Comodenti,” Draco says tiredly. “Soil eater.” He gestures to Harry to get dressed and then he takes him down, deep through the tunnels and out where the glassgardens have been built, rows and rows of plant life stretching for miles and covered by charms channelling artificial light and heat. He takes Harry to a far corner, and shows him, under a magnifying glass, worms: crawling over each other, slow and lazy, and Draco chucks a kernel of fibrous root into the container, and the worms pounce, racing to get at it, demolishing it in seconds.

“There was a brief period,” he says, “when Lestrange defaulted on their loans, and ownership of some of their land reverted to us, and so I instructed the Ravenclaw Farming Guild to–” He breaks off, unable to look Harry in the eye, for once.

“You had them poison the soil with–with this,” Harry says, voice barely a whisper, “after you stole half their grain–”

“That was payment,” Draco says harshly.

“This is what you were doing, talking to that farmer, you–you used–everybody,” Harry says, eyes wide, breathing hard. “You made Astoria–I don’t know what you made Astoria do–”

He’d set her the task of coming up with a solution to the problem, but he’d asked if she could duplicate the worms, purely theoretical, and she’d done it. He’d used the spell and distributed the insects to all the members of the Ravenclaw Farming Guild, instructing them to grow wheat and paddy, as much of it as they could cram into the soil, that when the shoots began to bloom, they would release the worms into the land they’d owned in Lestrange. And it’d worked beautifully, and now no one in Lestrange north of the capital would be able to grow anything for the next few seasons, and they’d have to come begging to Malfoy or Black to buy their own grain back from them.

“They’re going to starve,” Harry says, stepping away from him. He’s flushed, though not from the heat. Draco hasn’t used any cooling charms on himself, and he’s sweating, but Harry’s come alive, angry, and he says, “They’re starving as it is. And don’t think for a second that Rodolphus Lestrange is going to find a way to feed them because he isn’t, and don’t think for a second that the Lestrange Ravenclaws won’t find a way to shift the damages onto Squibs.”

Draco’s first instinct is to scoff and dismiss it but then he remembers, suddenly, the story of a boy dying from blast furnace smoke, burnt in a pyre by the edge of a river, and he pauses, and he thinks about it, and realises it’s quite simple. Because to target and destroy an infestation would require immense amounts of energy, but to gather and send them across a border would be easy.

“And even if they don’t,” Harry’s still saying, “you’re condemning thousands of people to starvation–”

“Stop it,” Draco says. “I did what I had to do to protect my borders.”

“How are you protecting your borders this way?” Harry exclaims. “You’re only fuelling the hatred. Lestranges are going to hate your people for generations to come, and your children will grow up learning that hate, and feeding on it, and it’ll be an evil, unnecessary falsehood manufactured by you, and entire lives will go to waste in service of that lie!”

“This started long before me,” Draco says, voice sharp and thick and low. “And it’ll continue long after. And the agreement’s signed in blood–you saw it. I’ve bought us peace and growth for years to come. Lestrange can never take up arms or conspire against us.”

“Then there was no need for this!” Harry throws his arms into the air, eyes going unfocused, shaking his head. “You’ll give them the antidote.”

“There isn’t one.”

“Then make one,” Harry says, and Draco’s head whips to him, and he stalks forward and grabs him by the collar and draws him close and says, “I do not take orders from you,” and he puts all his rage and pain and guilt into his magic and he sends Harry flying back into the thick shrubs propped up artificially, and he says, “You’ll find your way back. Or don’t. Rot in here, for all I care,” and then he leaves.

Ron’s had Harry doing drills for the past hour, and Harry’s drenched with sweat from the neck down, though he doesn’t mind it, likes it, even. Likes having the feel of the sword in his arm, the length and heft of it, the momentum of its swing. And Ron’s a patient tutor, though he’d not been able to fully hide his disbelief that Harry hadn’t learned the art of sword wielding as a Gryffindor down south. “I had a somewhat tumultuous education,” Harry told him, which was a bit of an understatement considering he’d never had one at all, but Ron accepted the excuse without complaint.

“You’re sure you don’t want a Rejuvenation Potion?” Ron asks from his side, staring critically at his form, but correcting him only rarely. He’s a quick study, he knows.

“I won’t have time to take a Rejuvenation Potion if I’m fighting,” Harry says, voice quiet and slow as he forces himself through the motions. At first it’d been hard, and Harry had to concentrate, but now he’s done this more times than he can count, and the movements come to him like clockwork, ingrained into his limbs–which has the unfortunate side effect of leaving his mind to wander.

“Are you–fighting? With the prince?” Ron asks.

Harry stops, mid-swing, a brief second before he continues, and says, “No.” He swipes through the air and pretends it’s Draco’s sword at the other end.

“If you say so,” Ron says quietly, holding a hand up to stop him and lifting his arm higher. “It’s only that–one of the Ravenclaws had gone down to the glassgardens earlier and–”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Harry says, and then sighs, and turns to him, and adds, “I’m sorry, Ron,” because he really is. It isn’t Ron’s fault that Draco’s a ruthless, conniving Slytherin, after all, and if the whole lot of them are like that, it’s no wonder the Squibs are revolting in the Carrow district. Harry reckons the whole Carrow Squib Settlement will turn radical by the end of the blight, what with the Carrowites recruiting daily and the Lestranges hardly bothering to help, and Malfoy, across the borders, adding to their losses.

“We’re done for the day,” Ron says abruptly, halting him with a whispered spell that stops his sword mid-air. Harry gives him a look, and takes his hand off it, and it lays suspended in the air. “Take the sword,” he says.

Harry crosses his arms warily. “I’ve been told not to do magic.”

“Training’s over,” Ron says, and Harry shrugs. “I’m not going to look for loopholes in my prince’s instructions,” –even as the words taste like ash in his mouth– “are you?”

Ron considers him for a long moment. “No,” he says finally. He waves his wand and the sword clatters to the floor, and he says, “Any more and you’ll hurt yourself. I’ll have dinner sent up to your chambers,” and Harry wonders briefly what Ron means before realising he’s talking about Draco’s chambers, because his chambers have become synonymous with–

“I’d rather eat with you,” Harry says, and Ron shakes his head. “You’d better sort out whatever this is,” and Harry stands up straight, belligerently, to say, “There’s nothing to sort,” and Ron says, “I’m not going to pretend I’m at least curious what goes on between you two, but that’s not my reason for asking. He’s been in a foul mood ever since you’ve had your spat, and three of the other Gryffindors have already been verbally eviscerated within an inch of their lives for some minor infarction or the other, not to mention all the attending Hufflepuffs in the royal wing. We can’t keep going on like this; it’ll only be a matter of time before it’s me on the other end of the prince’s tongue. So for the sake of the castle, go make it up to him.” Ron glares at him sternly, frowning, and Harry rolls his eyes and tsks.

“It isn’t that simple,” he says. “He’s condemned an entire kingdom to starve–”

“That’s the reason? The soil he poisoned?” Ron asks, incredulous. “Harry, they’ve been starving us as long as I can remember. We’ve been importing grain all the way from Greengrass even though it drains more than half our reserves because even that’s less expensive than buying from Lestrange. And if Prince Draco hadn’t brokered the alliance with Princess Astoria when he did, the entire north-east would’ve starved. We’re the ones who’ve been going hungry for years. And you can’t have seen it, because you’re a Gryffiindor same as me, and you’ve been spending your days down south. But I served for a bit on the borders and the Hufflepuffs have the worst of it. Not to mention the Squibs. The things I saw there,” Ron says, shaking his head, and Harry feels at once vindicated and annoyed, because then Ron continues with, “I don’t expect you to understand because most of us never do, but the Squibs are our people too, and regardless of whether they pay the magical tax or not, no one deserves to die of hunger.”

Harry purses his lips and says, “I know more than you think, Ron,” and then he leaves, because he can’t bear to stand back and pretend like he doesn’t have a stake in the matter, having to be told things he can’t ever remember not knowing. But he doesn’t have the energy to fight him on it so he trudges up the stairs, past the Gryffindors guarding the doors to Draco’s chambers, and walks in with as much indifference as he can muster.

“Where have you been?” Draco demands. He’s at his writing desk, scrolls of parchment scattered around it, the baby Dementor hovering at his side, but Draco stands the moment he sees Harry, and the Dementor flies straight to him. “I’ve been waiting for you,” Draco says.

“Whatever for?” Harry asks, rolling his eyes. “I’m just the lackey you need, to slip into an enemy castle and warm your bed at night.” He strokes the Dementors robe as it weaves patterns around him, before disappearing back into the ceilings.

Draco sighs. “Harry, it’s not that simple–”

“It is absolutely that simple!” Harry rages, for one moment, and then turns away. “I’d rather not do this right now. You’ve charged me with a duty and I’ll see it through, and then you’ll keep your word and release me. I’ve nothing left to say.”

“No,” Draco says, moving to block Harry’s way. “I forbid you to walk away from me.”

“Or what? You’ll throw me into a wall again?” Harry steps aside to walk past him and into the spare room when Draco holds out a hand.

“I don’t want to,” he says.

“Then what do you want?” Harry asks, voice low and soft, cracking in two. And Draco pulls Harry back towards him and kisses him; and it’s so easy, so simple, to fall back into it, to catch Draco’s waist and feel him loosen under his touch; to feel his own heart race and his skin turn hot and to feel himself fill with the need to touch, to taste. But it only lasts a moment.

Harry pushes Draco away, torn between himself, wanting so desperately to chase the fleeting feelings he’s let fester within him, and remember he’d be betraying himself if he did. “I can’t,” he says, and Draco says, “I had no choice,” and that’s what seals it, for Harry. He steps back, and looks to the ceiling and asks, “Coming?” and the Dementor flies back down to him, and Harry gathers the Dementor in his arms, feeling at once unmoored and alone, nothing in the entire castle to bolster him. “Let’s go to sleep,” he tells the Dementor, and leaves Draco alone.

Draco steps into the throne room the next morning with Harry behind him, face a sullen mask. The room is cleared of everyone except for Pansy, Astoria, and the two of them, and they take their seats across the large table. Astoria eyes them both up and down and asks, “We’re still doing this, then?”

“There was never any doubt,” Draco says harshly. “They knew we’d be weak without our Horcrux and they struck–”

“And you retaliated–”

“And I’m still missing a Horcrux,” Draco tells Astoria, voice acrid, snapping. “If not even the size of our armies is a deterrence anymore, there’s no telling what they’ll do next.”

“The answer isn’t to become them,” Astoria says, and Pansy lays a hand on her shoulder. “That’s enough, Astoria. We’ll speak of this later,” and Astoria turns away from her, albeit gently, and she relents.

“You have the disguises,” Draco says, not a question, and Astoria nods. He’s grateful to Pansy for understanding what he’s been unable to articulate himself, built as it is on half-formed theories he can’t say for certain are true. “Here’s how we’re going to sneak inside Lestrange. We’ll pretend to be with Zabini’s troupe, and that’ll get us past the main checkpoints. Once we’re inside, you” –he points to Pansy– “will lead us to the entrance to the Gryffindor tunnels.”

“How will she know where they are?” Astoria asks. She turns to Pansy. “Did you learn of it when you served?”

“No,” Pansy says, “but I’m assuming you’ll be sending me to collect the younger Yaxley to be fostered with us, and you’d like me to” –she gestures breezily with her hand– “make him tell me where it is?”

“Yes,” Draco says, “can you do it?” And Pansy gives him a look, brow drawn, eyes narrowed like she’s offended. Draco nods.

“Once we’re through the tunnels, Astoria will calculate the quickest route we can take to the centre.”

“It’ll take a bit of guesswork, but I’ve a spell I’ve been testing in the Greengrass tunnels and I’ve been meaning to do it here, so it should work, more or less,” Astoria says. “The Vault is directly below the throne room, which is a good reference point.”

“Good.” Draco nods. “And once we’re through, Harry will step into the Vault, pick up the Horcrux, and we’ll leave the way we came,” Draco finishes. He turns to Astoria once more. “You have what we talked about?”

Astoria pales. “No. Draco, the damage–”

“Just see it done,” Draco cuts in. He weathers her glare, and sighs. “I’m sorry, I really am. Chances are we won’t use it, but–you know.”

“I don’t,” Astoria says, but she rolls her eyes and adds, “I’ll see it done.”

“The alarms?” Harry asks, piping up for the first time. At first Draco thought he’d been uninterested, but that wasn’t it, because Harry’d been studying them carefully the moment they entered, lips pursed, hands folded, thinking. Now he’s picking the plan apart for holes, which is pointless because Draco’s already done it, and the last thing he needs is for Harry to turn it all upside down because he’s curious.

“I’m taking care of it,” Draco says, and makes a mental note to talk to Weasley about it later.

Harry inclines his head, the briefest of gestures, and Draco knows he’s going to bring it back up again in full force when they’re alone, but he pushes the thought away for now. “We leave in a week’s time. Pack as light as you can. We can’t be wasting magical energy on Extendable charms when we’re travelling through Azkaban. Necessary items only. The rest we’ll buy as we need. Any questions?”

“No,” Pansy says, “but have the Squib stay back, will you? I’d like to speak with him.” She’s looking at Harry dangerously, calculating, and Draco doesn’t know what she’s playing at but he trusts her well enough to listen, so he tells her, “Send him back to me in one piece,” and bids Harry to stay as he leaves.

Pansy watches the way Harry startles, head snapping over to where she’s standing, jaw clenched like he’s nervous. Good, she thinks. She’s always preferred to inspire fear more than anything else.

Harry doesn’t say anything but she beckons for him and makes him sit at the seat Draco’s just vacated, maps spread out before him, reports and accounts grouped tightly together because there’s so many of them.

“Look,” she says, standing by his side. “What do you understand?”

“Not much,” Harry says through gritted teeth, voice low and rough, and Pansy can see what Draco sees in him, then, the fire in him, the anger, simmering underneath the surface. Draco’s not one to go after a pretty face. Well–just a pretty face.

“That’s a map of Malfoy,” Pansy says, pointing. “And that’s an account of Malfoy debt. And that’s an account of all the people who are suffering for it.” She rolls out a piece of parchment and sets it on the table, tallies and tallies of numbers scrawled across it.

“These are numbers, not people. And the moment you reduce people to numbers–”

“How else is he supposed to look at it, then?” Pansy demands. “How else do you suggest he does it?” She pauses as Harry looks away quietly, still seething in his chair, but she pays him no mind. “Do you know why Draco won’t bother with an antidote?”

“Yes,” Harry bites. “It’s because he’s condemned the Lestranges to–”

“He’s condemned nobody,” Pansy cuts in, immediately. “These are soil fertility reports developed in Greengrass labs by Astoria herself. You’re not likely to understand it so I’ll make it simple for you. Lestrange land will be cultivable in a maximum of six months, if not less.”

A muscle feathers in Harry’s jaw. “So they managed to develop an antidote.”

“No one can develop an antidote that quickly, Harry,” Pansy says, coming to stand behind him, hands on his shoulders. “Did you never stop to think about how the worms got into Malfoy in the first place?” She can feel his shoulders tense, can see the way his expression turns rigid in the mirrored wall ahead. “Rodolphus denied it, of course. But Gaunt knew, and Lucius knew, but the Lestranges weren’t going to share an antidote to a problem they’d created when they’d much rather enjoy their monopoly over grain. And they’ve been creating artificial scarcities for years that Draco’s barely been able to handle even with the aid coming in from Greengrass. And Gaunt isn’t going to do anything about it because allowing our infighting is how he maintains power. But of course, Draco’s the one who’s at fault for doing what he can to help his people.”

“It didn’t have to come to this,” Harry murmurs, feeble now. “It’s all across North Lestrange even though the blight was isolated in Malfoy–”

“Farmland is isolated in Malfoy! Most of the land is mountain and desert; The only reason Malfoy soil wasn’t poisoned as much is because there wasn’t much to poison in the first place.” She walks slowly around the chair to face him, watching him grip the arm of his chair tight, knuckles turning white. “And they were never going to share the antidote with us unless we forced them to. Once they’ve made it public knowledge to their own Ravenclaws, it’ll only be a matter of time before we can use it here.”

“I–” Harry opens his mouth and closes it, at a loss for words, and it serves him right, Pansy thinks. With his stupid, bleeding heart and his self-righteous impracticality.

“You’ll go back to Draco and apologise to him–”

“I’ll do no such thing,” Harry says, standing. “I don’t care if he had good reason. There’s no such thing as good reason for what you do in the name of governance. And I won’t sit here and be condescended to like a child when I’ve a greater stake in the matter than any of you.”

He brushes past Pansy and Pansy lets him, though not without a vicious glare in return. She could take him in a fight easily, she thinks, but not without magic. She’s seen him fight, seen the fluid movement of his body, the instinctiveness that can only be cultivated through years of practice, from defence against danger instead of straw dummies. And even without magic there’s something electric about him, something taut and sharp, coiled but ready to spring, like a lion that hides in the grass. Draco will have to be careful, she thinks. Harry’s more dangerous than he realises.

“If you talk to me like that again, I’ll kill you,” Pansy says, matter-of-fact, inspecting her nails. “Draco only needs you for the length of the mission.”

Harry stops by the edge of the door, and turns, though he doesn’t say anything besides giving her a single nod, and then he leaves.

Hermione levitates the tray of food before her, careful not to spill as she makes her way to the prince’s chambers. She’s been requisitioned by the kitchens to take care of odd jobs when she isn’t busy working, stitching Princess Astoria’s increasingly odd sartorial requests. It doesn’t bother her too much, as long as the coin is good, which it is–so she isn’t really paying attention when the Gryffindors guarding the prince’s chambers open the door and she steps inside to see a man who looks oddly similar to–

“Harry?” she blurts out, eyes going wide, and she nearly drops the tray she’s levitating. Fortunately the men are all the way by the other end of the room, and they don’t hear her. Hermione quickly shakes her head and casts a strong glamour. It’s an old habit, suspicion, but it’s served her well to keep her cards close to her chest, so she crosses the room as deferentially as she can and lays the food by the table. “Your supper, Your Radiance,” she says, without looking into the prince’s eyes, and exits the room as quickly as she came.

The castle had been abuzz, she knows, with news of the prince’s new Gryffindor lover, and it couldn’t have been–it couldn’t have been Harry, could it? He’s a Squib, and Squibs never cross the river let alone the threshold to a Slytherin castle. But it was him, she realises, which means Harry’s gotten himself embroiled in something new, something dangerous; because Hermione knows what a Slytherin is capable of doing to a Squib. So she straightens her shoulders and makes a decision, then, for Harry’s sake and her own: she’s going to get to the bottom of this. She might be the only ally Harry has in this castle, and she’s not about to leave him to fend for himself, not now that she knows he’s here.

Chapter 12: A Launching of Subterfuge

Chapter Text

Draco watches Pansy interact with the youngest Yaxley: still growing into manhood, just turned twenty-one. His shoulders are broad, stomach flat and lean, and his hair is shorn short as is the custom of their House. He hangs on to Pansy’s every word, and occasionally forgets to eat, only taking a bite every other minute or two.

It was simple, for Pansy. She batted her eyelashes and whispered to him in low, flirtatious tones, and that was all it took for him to want her during the escort. And then, after they’d arrived and the formalities had been dispensed with, he took her to his chambers, fully under the misconception that it’d been his idea all along. Pansy followed, a jar of Veritaserum hidden under her clothes, slinking sinuously beside him, and when he woke the following morning, he woke with a raging headache, wrists bound to the headboard, no recollection of the night before.

“Last I checked you don’t have to tie someone up to Obliviate them,” Draco said, when he heard the news, and then regretted it immediately when Pansy batted her eyelashes at him and said, “Yes, but he asked so nicely,” and Draco decided he didn’t want to know any more.

“I trust you’ve found your quarters to your liking?” Draco asks Yaxley now, from across the long table.

He swallows his food, unhurried, before answering, “It’s been adequate, yes,” and Draco narrows his eyes at him, but doesn’t comment. It’s the last good meal they’re going to have in a while and he’d rather not sour it by having to deal with the spoiled son of an enemy House; not when relations are already so tense. The boy should know better, he thinks, but he takes some pleasure in the fact that the boy’s going to be sorely disillusioned with Pansy’s intentions after tonight.

“Shall we?” Yaxley asks her, setting his cutlery down, and she smiles at him sweetly and says, “No.” She’s out of her chair before he can say anything and Draco beckons for a Gryffindor to escort Yaxley to his chambers. Then he gestures for Astoria as Pansy joins him, and the three of them set out to the crypts.

“Harry?” Astoria asks, a small knapsack slung over her shoulders which she unshrinks from the folds of her gown.

“He’s waiting for us by the exit point,” Draco says, and pulls them both into a dark corridor and apparates them straight down into the crypts.

It’s cold and dark and empty when they materialise, and Harry surfaces from behind a pillar. “Ready?” he asks, shoulders drawn tightly. Around them, old stone coffins are mound-like shadows, rising from the ground. Two large carpets are spread out over the floor, ready to be activated. Draco grips Astoria’s hand, feeling her shiver beside him, and he squeezes once before letting go.

“We’re ready,” Draco says, setting his things on one of the carpets, and holding out a hand to Harry.

The days passed quickly enough, flowing into each other, endless blue skies above sand that turns pink in the morning light. Their flight was gruelling and quick, a battle against the elements which scorched sizzling hot during the day and turned whiplash-cold at night. Magic was to be conserved, used sparingly, and so for a time they would all learn what it was like to live like a Squib, live like Harry, crossing from village to village, past the outposts and into the Squib Settlements. Pansy considered the people with an open wariness, a kind of suspicion, but Astoria was only bright-eyed curiosity. She flitted from stall to stall, sampling products and absorbing as much of what she could, and sometimes she had to be bodily dragged away from the market squares. Draco and Harry trailed behind, replenishing supplies and rendezvousing back later.

“Why does your father not sit the Malfoy throne?” Harry asks, during one such trip. He hoists a bag on his shoulder, carrying loaves of bread and pastries of garlic and onion and chilli. It should last them a few days, he thinks, what with the preservation charms Draco’s placed on them.

“It’s complicated.” Draco fingers the edge of his sleeve nervously, a habit he’s taken to when the women are not around. “He’s a part of Gaunt’s cabinet and Gaunt prefers to keep his vassals close. We’re too powerful.” He turns to Harry. “My father ruled in my grandfather Septimus’ stead when Septimus had to be in the capital. My mother would’ve ruled as queen of Malfoy if she were alive. It’s how it’s always been. All the better to control us.” A bitter edge creeps into the edge of Draco’s voice, but he doesn’t elaborate.

The sun is setting low into the horizon, air turning markedly chill, and they stop to rest by the shade of a few neem trees.

“The patronus should be here soon,” Draco says, busying himself with his pack, rearranging things that Harry knows doesn’t need rearranging.

“Draco–”

“I won’t apologise,” Draco blurts out abruptly. “I won’t–” He shuts his mouth, breath shaky and low. “I did what I had to do.”

Harry doesn’t hate Draco as much as he hates himself, in that moment. Because for the first time he doesn’t see a callous, cold-hearted prince; he sees a boy, alone without his father, left to fend for a kingdom which has been falling apart since it was founded. And it shouldn’t excuse anything, or make it better; it doesn’t make any of it alright. But at least Harry’d had a father figure, where Draco only ever had a King. And a Ruler who answered to that King.

“I know that’s what you think,” Harry says instead. “And I know you think you can change things but you can’t, and you won’t, and there’s no point thinking otherwise.” But he shifts closer to Draco and brushes dust out of his hair, because he can’t help himself. He’s always been drawn towards caring, seeking it out wherever he can, offering it up just as easily because often, it’s the only thing he has been able to give. “Have you ever met him?”

“Who, Gaunt?”

“Yes,” Harry says. “The High King.”

“Once,” Draco says, and he doesn’t elaborate, and Harry doesn’t push, and instead Draco leans closer, and brushes his knuckles against Harry’s neck, and says, “Please,” sounding broken and lost and pained, like it hurts him to speak the words, but it’d hurt him more not to, and Harry is helpless to resist in the face of it.

“Don’t–don’t talk,” Harry says, and leans into the touch, and makes himself just as complicit as Draco, and says, “Let me–just, let me.” And instantly, Draco is on him, clutching at his tunic and pushing him onto the grainy sand. He palms Harry’s side, sliding a finger under the fabric and rucking it up, drawing swirling patterns underneath.

“What is it about you?” Draco whispers, half to himself. “I can’t–there’s never been anyone and then–you just–”

“I know,” Harry says, and turns them around so Draco’s back is on the floor, and he nuzzles Draco’s neck, feeling him shiver at the touch, and kisses him all the way to his groin with his legs thrown over Harry’s shoulders, burying his face there, in the vee of his hip bones, the pale expanse of his thighs, feeling Draco’s fingers tight over his scalp. And then Harry takes Draco’s co*ck in his mouth and feels Draco arch off the ground, legs clenching around Harry’s face as he swallows him, takes him to the hilt and bobs his head up and down.

“Ohhh, Harry,” Draco moans, repeating his name like a prayer, eyes turning dazed, mouth slack with pleasure, and there’s no warning Harry receives except for a choked off gasp as Draco throws his head back and comes, spurting down Harry’s throat with a groan that is loud and breathy and drawn out. He waves his fingers vaguely and a half-hearted vanishing charm removes all traces of the mess, and Harry pushes himself up and lays down by Draco’s side, saying, “We’ve got to stop doing this on the sand,” feeling the granules of it dig into him and coat his skin sharply.

“I like doing it on the sand,” Draco says nonchalantly, turning on his side and placing a tentative hand on Harry’s chest. And Harry wonders, for a moment, if Draco’s ever pleasured himself in a place that wasn’t the four walls of his castle, at least not until he met Harry, and he thinks he’d like to show Draco how good it could be, how enjoyable, to forego the charms and spread Draco open with his fingers, with the slick slide of oil, bringing him to the brink with just his hands and mouth. Treacherous thoughts, irresistible, and it must show on his face because Draco asks, “What are you thinking?” mischief in his voice, and Harry says, “What else?” and rolls him over for another round.

“What is it between you two?” Astoria asks, when they’re up in the clouds again, She’s looking at him knowingly over a sheaf of parchment, secured tightly with containment charms so it won’t zip away in the wind, but the edges still flutter lightly.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Draco says, as bland as he can. It’s not not the truth. They’ve taken to ignoring each other as much as they can, until it gets unbearable, and then Draco will brush past Draco or Harry will look at Draco just so, and it’s all the two of them can do not to fall into it immediately, especially at night, when the temperatures dip low as ice and they need each other’s heat to stave off the chill. He thinks they’re being discreet, but he’s seen the way Pansy and Astoria look at each other, sharing commiseration and frustration in equal spades whenever they’re off together, and he knows he’s being ridiculous as much as he’s finding himself unable to stop.

It all comes to a head when they’ve made camp for the afternoon, putting up umbrella charms to block out the worst of the sun, Harry sitting across Draco and studiously ignoring him. Even despite the charms, Draco’s vision turns blurry, so he doesn’t notice the movement in the periphery of his vision; but it turns out Harry was looking at him as he cries, “Watch out!” before tackling Draco to the ground, and Draco spits out sand and rubs at his eyes, and the girls are hurrying over to them but Draco doesn’t know, doesn’t understand what’s going on until Harry hisses and curls into himself, cradling his knee with his arms.

“Snakebite,” Harry grits out, and Draco lets out a loud, “f*ck,” as he rushes to Harry and moves to inspect the wound. It’s turned a dark purple and blood is welling outside the puncture wound, and his fingers shake as he lifts Harry’s ankle, helpless in the face of this. “You idiot,” he says, voice breaking. “If it bit me, I could’ve healed it.”

“I forgot,” Harry croaks, and Draco’s caught between worry and anger for Harry being so stupid.

“Pansy, go track the snake. It’s probably still burrowing around nearby. Draco, I need you to find me a goat.” Astoria’s voice is calm and clear and collected as she levitates Harry onto one of the carpets, placing him on his back and lifting his legs. Draco nods, trusting her instructions unquestioningly. He apparates straight back down into the Settlement, uncaring of the magical energy expenditure; finds the nearest herd of goats he can and drops as many coins as he can spare into the man’s pocket before whisking away two of his healthiest animals. It isn’t long before he’s back and, when he arrives, the snake has already been Stunned, and Pansy’s helping Astoria fashion a needle of some sort. Harry lies on the carpet by their side, breath shallow, skin pale, and Draco rushes to him without realising it.

“How is he?” He doesn’t stop to think about the way his voice comes out, dripping with fear.

“I managed to isolate the venom in his bloodstream and set a stasis on it,” Astoria says, and Draco’s eyes widen, even as he can’t afford to spend the time admiring Astoria’s handiwork. “It won’t last. We need to make the anti-venom.”

Pansy holds up the snake–a long, thick, spotted brown viper that hisses softly with its forked tongue–and Astoria pierces the needle into its jaw, drawing out the venom and injecting it straight into the goat. “I’m going to have to kill it,” she says regretfully as the goat bleats softly. She waves her wand and the goat’s breathing slows, and she says, “Normally, antibody production in an animal this size should take up to a week but…” she trails off, “I’ll have to speed things up. Magically.”

“Can you?” Pansy asks dubiously. “Have you done it before?”

“I’ve never had reason to,” Astoria says, “but it should work, theoretically.”

Draco has to clench his fists, nails digging into his skin, to stop from screaming, because Astoria’s doing her best and so is Pansy, and there’s nothing to do except wait for the hour to pass so Astoria can extract the anti-venom. It passes in a haze of pacing and waiting and wanting to strangle the bloody snake, and then strangle himself, because if he’d taken one proper look at where he was landing before he did, he’d have realised he was putting them smack on top of a snake’s nest.

“It’s time,” Astoria says, inserting the needle into the goat and extracting out a clear, light lutescent liquid. She takes Harry’s hand, limp and unmoving, dips the needle into a salve, and slides it into a vein in his inner elbow, murmuring a spell over it, soft and careful. For a moment nothing happens, and Draco’s heart feels like it’s going to rip out of his chest; and then Harry’s eyelids flutter and some of the colour returns to his cheeks and Draco says, “Harry?” quiet and tentative, and Harry opens his eyes.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” Draco says, anger returning to him in full force. “You could’ve died!”

Harry does a weak approximation of a shrug. “It was instinct.” He might’ve blushed then, Draco can’t be sure. But he rolls his eyes and draws soothing circles over Harry’s chest, feeling the rhythm of his breath, the steady rise and fall of it, so full of relief he could cry; and in that moment he doesn’t care if Astoria or Pansy is watching as he leans forward and presses his lips to Harry’s, doesn’t think about what it might mean, and says, “I’m glad you’re alright,” and Harry says, “I know.”

Harry had to be levitated anytime they neared a Squib camp or a Settlement until his leg healed, but Draco bore the brunt of the spell without complaint.

“How are you going to steal the Horcrux if you can’t even stand,” he’d said when Harry protested, and they’d continued as they were, for an entire day after, Harry sitting in a chair Astoria’d Transfigured and outfitted with wheels as it discreetly glided over the sand instead of on it, avoiding suspicion, covering far less ground than they would have otherwise, until they reached the last Eastern Squib Settlement.

“We’ll have to stock up on supplies,” Draco says, peering into his map. “There’s only Azkaban left to cross.”

“Will we have Dementor trouble?” Pansy asks, and Draco shakes his head.

“We’ll be high enough that they won’t be a problem, as long as we get to the other side in one stretch. No stops.”

Pansy nods. “A day of flying, then.”

Harry’s turned strong enough to walk by now, and he can feel the strength returning to his limbs, replenished as he is by the food Draco’s almost force-feeding him. One of the benefits of travelling with a prince is the endless supply of coin, he supposes.

The Settlement is less organised than the ones at the periphery, more a cluster of shelters built haphazardly than with any structure to it, and there are no market squares, no stalls; just the quiet synchrony of community, interconnected and deep: a woman standing at the doorstep of another, bartering camel milk for sacks of flour; men returning from grazing their goats on the patches of shrubs that lay scattered. Draco picks out a house, one of the larger ones, right in the centre, with walls of mud instead of stone, and a roof that lies thick and flat to keep out the heat. It’s a woman who answers his call, peeking at him from behind her shawl, barely of age; and Harry feels sorrow tug tightly at his heart, at this girl sold so young into marriage. Magic is the great equaliser, he knows, and in the cities of Slytherin and Gryffindor, women may hold their own against men, uncaring of their differences. Not so here, in the outermost reaches of the land, where magic is not a tool but a fancy, and none may use it to their advantage, least of all women.

“Is your father or husband home?” Draco asks, gently, and the girl nods in assent, and beckons them inside, and the two of them leave their footwear by the door and step in. It’s well-kept, with a floor made of soil and dung to keep in the chill, clay pots and pans and a pallet all neatly stacked by the end. A man sits in another corner, looking older than her, with wan eyes but a kind expression, asking, “Who goes there?” and Draco speaks in cautious, halting tones, requesting aid, and makes a show of sorting through his coin–all copper, no gold, to avoid suspicion–and holds it out to the man.

“You’re crossing the Azkaban Prison?” the man asks, incredulous, ostensibly thinking they’re travelling on foot.

“There’s no other way to cross,” Harry says carefully, letting some of his regret bleed through into the words. “The Magics have got their portals, haven’t they? What’s our lot got to do when we’ve family across the borders and no other way to meet them?”

“You could go the long way round,” the man says, though he pockets their coin gratefully and offers them what stores of food he can spare.

“It’s a matter of some urgency,” Draco says, a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “We’ve no choice in the matter, unfortunately.”

They pack what the couple offers them, stale flatbreads and watery gravies, tying it up in cloths and carrying a pot each, bidding them goodbye. When they reach the edge of the District, Draco adds another layer of magic to the food, preservation charms and spells to prevent spillage, and they begin the walk back to their camp. Not for the first time, Harry longs for the dense forests of Greengrass. They’d’ve been able to up and leave on a magic carpet with none the wiser; not so in the vast open space of the Azkaban Desert, where everything is visible for miles.

“Is it always like that?” Draco asks, and then adds, “She was so–young.”

“You didn’t notice earlier?” Harry asks, but he supposes they’d mostly only ever threaded through marketplaces in the Squib Districts. “I don’t know how it is here but, in Squib Districts in the south, land is passed down through the son, and any land specifically bequeathed to daughters reverts to their husbands on marriage.”

“Not wives?” Draco asks, and Harry shakes his head. “It isn’t like how it is in Magic Territory. The rules are different. Only a man and a woman can bear children together who’ll support the family, so other relationships are–discouraged.” He pauses, rubbing at the dust that settles on his arms, a thin, inescapable film. “It’s why the birth of a daughter is always inauspicious, to Squibs. She drains the wealth of a house, but a boy means an extra pair of hands.”

“Women can work the land just as well,” Draco protests and Harry says, “Of course they can! But when their healthiest years are spent stuck indoors birthing children, they’re hardly going to be able to work outside.” It’s true, Harry knows. Most of the women who work the Greengrass fields are well past the age of their prime. “And the more boys, the better, in those parts. So they keep trying, until they have enough boys who can grow into men.”

Draco doesn’t say anything, for a beat, as they trudge through the sand, sinking softly beneath their feet. “That’s horrifying,” he says. “In the capital, we’ve Gryffindor Healers who perform spells to remove the baby painlessly. I can’t imagine–and doing it more than once, or even twice–”

“I thought all Gryffindors were soldiers?” Harry asks, frowning.

“Warriors and Healers,” Draco says. And Harry wonders if Draco ever stops to question the pointless rigidity of it all. “No wonder the Squib population has exploded.”

“Well, it’s not their fault,” Harry says, even though he knows it is, in a way. In the way a child may grow into the anger of a father, or a soldier may grow into the greed of a nation; a foisted knowledge, a badly inculcated understanding. “Squib women are powerless because squibs are powerless. You understand?”

Draco nods, though Harry doesn’t know what he’s thinking.

They make it back to camp by noon, where Astoria and Pansy are poring over maps and rearranging supplies; waterskins stocked fresh from the river they’re camped close to. Draco and Harry rest, under shade conjured out of spells, while Astoria carefully unties their packs to check if everything is in order. She sets the food they’ve procured onto the carpets, and they make a meal out of milk and hard cuts of lamb, roasted over a magic fire and seasoned with Astoria’s spices.

“We’ll not be able to cook after this, in the air,” she says, carefully folding up the leftover lamb and apportioning it to them each. “Eat and conserve what you can. Once we’re back in Lestrange we can have a proper breakfast. Or lunch. Or whatever the meal is supposed to be.”

Draco smiles good-naturedly at her and, after the last of the food is polished, and the temperature is beginning to drop, they climb onto their carpets and take to the air, flying close together above the clouds, until the last Settlement is a distant speck and Azkaban looms ahead.

It’s the fact that everything is too perfect that makes Draco jerk up from where he’s resting.

“Astoria,” he calls, from his carpet to hers, and she opens her eyes and turns to him. The sky is a clear blue and there’s hardly any wind and it’s peaceful; too peaceful. “Where’s the wind?” he asks urgently, and her eyes widen in understanding, and they turn in tandem towards the horizon, still stretching suspiciously blue.

“We’re high enough that we can see a sandstorm coming,” she tells him. “I don’t see one now.” But then she squints, and pulls a pair of lenses from her pack, and brings it to her eyes, peering through, and then she jerks back hard enough she nearly falls over Pansy, who merely mumbles and turns over in sleep.

“What?” Draco demands. Harry stirs by his side and wakes, rubbing at his face. “What did you see?”

Astoria hands him the lens wordlessly, shaken, and he looks through it to see a monstrous cloud larger than the land itself, shifting, spinning, circling its way to them, dirt-brown and quick.

“You were right,” she says, horrified, and Draco jumps into action.

“Get up,” he calls to Pansy and Harry, and tells them as quick as he can, that they’ve no time to spare if they want to outrun the storm. “Can we do it?” he asks Astoria, and she bites her lip, thinking.

“There’s a one in five chance that we can,” she says, and Draco nods, and says, “I’ll take that chance,” and he spurs the carpets on, channelling as much energy as he can into it, others doing the same, as they hurtle across the horizon at breakneck speed, desperate to beat the stormclouds. At the edge of his vision he can see Harry holding on to the carpet despite the charms to secure him, grip white-knuckled, face turned pale, and Draco himself is tense, sweat dripping down his back as he ends the coolant charms and transfers the energy into acceleration. Soon the clouds themselves sweep into view, menacing and dark and huge, swallowing everything in its path as the sand rises to fuel it, turning the sky orange, a false dusk.

“Draco,” Astoria shouts, wind stealing the volume of her words. “We won’t make it.”

“We have to try,” Draco yells back. He feels exhaustion creep into him, turning his vision dark. Astoria and Pansy keep up with him barely. He’s stronger than them both, he knows, but it’s still two to one, and he doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to keep up the pace. “Faster,” he commands, despite himself, and Astoria shakes her head, rapid and unrelenting.

“We have to land,” she cries. “We need shelter.”

“Where?”

Harry tenses beside him as Astoria points below. The Azkaban Prison has come into view, spires of black that stick out like pitchforks, slicing at the sky and radiating an aura of menace. It’s a nest of Dementors, he knows, but it’s also a wall, solid and strong, raised by wizards to withstand anything. And when he turns, the dust is nearly upon them, so close that if Draco could stretch out his arms and jump, he’d be able to touch it. They’re fast, but the storm is faster, and it’s nearly upon them, and once they’re in it, they’ll never get out. Draco wants to curse and scream his frustration at the sky but he can’t, so he bottles it in, because if he has to choose between a storm and a Dementor, he’ll choose a Dementor every time. A magical creature he can subdue; nature is untameable.

“We’ll land in the Prison, then,” he says, cupping his hands to his mouth and yelling so his voice carries. “Follow me.” And then he grabs Harry by the waist as they plunge forward into the ground, angle steep, body nearly vertical. Draco can feel the air turn thick and soupy, hairs on the back of his neck standing, vision turning speckled. It won’t be long now, he thinks, summoning one last burst of strength and pushing, pulling, heaving them over the Prison boundary and crashing into the sand, sputtering up dust. The girls are on his tail, Harry close behind, and they’re up and running before he is.

“Draco,” Astoria shouts, stopping by the doorstep of the Prison. “What are you doing?”

He’s exhausted himself, toppling forward into the ground. He tries to push himself up on his elbows but he can’t, and his muscles strain with the effort; and he’s coughing out sand and it gets into his eyes and he can’t move, he can’t think, and he says, “Go inside,” with what energy he can muster. But then Harry appears by his side and he says, “Don’t be f*cking ridiculous,” kneeling by him and turning him on his back. “Hold on to me, and hold your breath,” he says, hoisting Draco up and screwing his own eyes shut as he runs, dust covering them both. Draco thinks they’re not going to make it; they won’t make it, they’re so close but they can’t see. Then a wisp of light surrounds them, the half-formed Patronus of Pansy saying, “Follow the light,” urgent and loud; and Harry follows it, and Draco can feel his arms tense and his body heave with the effort of fighting against the wind, dust choking his lungs; but they claw and clench and cleave their way through, and the last thing Draco remembers is both of them tumbling forward onto obsidian stone, the sounds of a gate crashing shut behind them; and then the whole of his vision goes dark.

Chapter 13: A Fellowship of Dementors

Chapter Text

Harry’s arms burn with the weight of Draco, crushing against him as they fall to the ground and Pansy rushes to shut the door. Astoria kneels by their side and helps Harry settle him onto the floor, waving her wand to elevate his legs in the air.

“What happened to him?” Harry asks, running a finger over his face, drawing back strands of his hair. “He just collapsed.”

“Magical Exhaustion,” Astoria says, pressing her palm to his chest, light glowing from the contact point. “He drained himself trying to steer you both over the border so fast. It’s too much for one person.”

“It’s too much for two,” Pansy says, coming to sit by them and crossing her legs. She’s breathing hard, Harry notices, chest heaving, hands trembling. Even Astoria has turned white, leaning tiredly over Draco.

“Will he be alright?” Harry presses. Draco’s lips are pale, hair plastered to his forehead, eyelids diaphanous in frailty. He feels frustration well up inside him like a bruise, wishing for the first time that he might have magic, that he might have something besides worry and fear and inadequate platitudes.

“I’ve given him what energy I could spare,” Astoria says, sounding even more laboured as she takes her hand off his chest. “He should wake up soon.” She turns to him, then, expression softening to say, “You saved him.”

“You did.” It’s Pansy who chimes in from beside them, looking at him with grudging admiration. “I didn’t think you’d go back for him.”

Harry was at the foot of the Prison when he realised Draco wasn’t with him, that he was somewhere fallen in the shifting sands; and the storm had been upon them, then, and Harry could barely see, but he hadn’t thought twice to go back and find Draco, hadn’t thought twice for his own safety.

“He risked his life to get us both to the Prison in time,” Harry demures, “I owed him.” Though Harry knows it runs deeper than that. That he hadn’t run back to Draco and carried him in his arms because he was obliged to, but because he’d wanted to; because at that moment he hadn’t considered not going back for him. Because Draco wasn’t with him, and he had to be, and for that Harry had to go and find him; and that was all the reasoning he’d been able to give himself in the moment.

“Whatever the reason, you did well,” Pansy says, and they begin to take stock of what they have left, whatever hasn’t been lost or smashed to smithereens in the wreckage. Astoria’s miraculously managed to hold on to her flask, her lens, and the pack that she’s strapped to her chest, but they’ve only one other pack of supplies left, and no water besides.

“The carpets?” Harry asks, and Pansy exhales, shaking her head.

“Lost in the storm, most likely.”

“You can’t perform a Summoning charm?”

“We’ve barely any energy left, Harry,” Pansy says. “I’m so exhausted I could drop.” And it’s then that Harry realises the extent of their fatigue, because Pansy would never have admitted to that otherwise. “We’ll take turns keeping watch,” she continues, looking around. “As long as one of us is awake–”

A low, rumbling hiss cuts into her words, followed by the slow slinking of shadows across the stone. Pansy’s instantly on her feet, wand aloft, though the movement is slow and clumsy, and she hunches forward, shoulders drooping with effort. And then there’s a swoop and a slide of Dementors shuffling into view and Pansy raises her wand to speak the words and Astoria’s covering her eyes and holding onto Draco, and Harry grabs Pansy, shouting, “Wait.”

The Dementors draw back, twisting to watch him from unnatural angles.

“Get off me,” Pansy says, though there’s no bite to it. “They’ll be on us any second–”

“I don’t think so,” Harry says, considering them tentatively, mustering resolve and stepping forward. The Dementors twitch away, scattered and wispy and skittish; and Harry stops, stays very still. And then slowly, so slowly, the way he does with wild dogs in the Settlement sometimes, he drops to his knees, palms up, and stretches out a hand to say, “It’s alright,” soft and gentle. And the Dementors float forward in response; and Pansy raises her wand, but Harry gestures for her to stand down as the Dementors spiral around him, heads co*cked curiously, tattered robes brushing against his fingers, elbows, shoulders; until one of them lowers down onto the ground, and holds out a hand to Harry’s own, palm to palm, simple, reverent.

“Harry, what–”

“Shhh,” Harry says, as the other Dementors settle around him, fluttering; and suddenly he’s transported, he’s somewhere else, on a hill, in the ocean, at the edge of the world looking down; and behind him a shadow the size of a storm looms, flapping higher, closer, louder. “Stop it,” he says, and the vision clears, colours fading into the dull grey of Prison. “Stop doing that.”

“Stop doing what?” Pansy asks from behind him. “What did you see?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says, turning around. When he looks back, the Dementors have retreated into the shadows, still lurking, their presence hanging heavy in the air. And then Draco stirs, and Astoria leans over him once more, casting spells, and Draco sits up and asks, “What happened? Are we–did we–”

“We’re safe,” Astoria say, reassuring, helping him sit up; and Harry rushes to his side, checking his pulse, the temperature of his forehead, brushing the hair back from his face and holding him, saying, “I’m glad you’re okay,” and Draco smiles, leaning into the touch, his weight on Harry, comforting, and says, “I know.”

They make it to the Lestrange capital with a day to spare, thanks in part to the storm that spurred them on. It’d died down in an hour, and they’d ventured out, Dementors watching them with curious eyes.

Draco, for his part, had refused to believe that the Dementors meant them no harm, staying alert with his wand aloft, apprehensive, until Harry sat them all down and explained, voice grim and set, that animals are never intrinsically evil, they’re only aggressive when they’re forced to be, like the snake whose nest they’d disturbed. The three of them had grudgingly agreed, for the Dementors really were looking docile, then. They went outside after that, while Draco sent out magical pulses, and though one of the carpets had been lost to dust, the other zipped back into view, tattered and torn, but still sturdy enough. They’d piled onto it, carpet wobbling under their weight, and sat huddled together as the three of them took turns with fortification and flight charms until they’d fallen asleep, exhausted, and woken up a full day later to reach the outskirts of a Ravenclaw city in the Lestrange capital. Then, spelling the dirt clean from their robes, still well-worn from travel, the three of them drank the polyjuice Astoria procured for them from her pack, and they disembarked in search of breakfast.

The city is unlike anything Harry’s ever known: streets filled with people dancing in processions, the smells of fresh spices wafting through the air, crackers bursting into riotous colours in the sky. The land is a verdant green, stretching viridescent and bright as far as the eye can see, and people throng the lanes and alleys, gathering in crowds to celebrate.

“Have you ever seen Leviathan Day celebrations before?” Draco asks, as they settle into an inn full to the brim for this time of day, patrons bustling back and forth.

“No,” Harry says, starry-eyed and staring as he drinks from his mug, the water cooling his parched throat. “I’ve never seen the celebrations from this close.”

They tuck into their food: lentil-fried bread crackling golden brown, puffing up like little clouds on the plate and served with a pumpkin curry cooked in coconut milk. Harry’s ravenous, he finds, and the others aren’t far off, as they tear into their food with renewed zeal, polishing off the bread with the last drops of curry and then ordering seconds, just because they can; just because they’ve made it, and they can afford to, and they don’t have to worry about food or water or the next storm in the sky.

When they’re done, Draco leaves a pouch of coins on the innkeeper’s table, and they shuffle out, past the rows of houses neat and uniform, through the market squares, where musicians beat against drums: rhythmic and hypnotic, bards lending their voices to song, dancers bursting forth onto stages, faces painted and bodies adorned with ornaments, acting out the Legend of the Leviathan. A dancer wearing a bulky contraption attached to leather wings leaps about, scaring the children who sit in front and watch dreamily, as the story of the Original Eight unfolds: the founders of the great Houses of Slytherin, coming together in a facsimile of battle, light shooting from their wands in lieu of spells as they fight the monster. Behind them, a voice ringing proud and true sings:

In the House of Peverells, a tale of woe,

Told of a Leviathan devouring souls,

The wizards woke it, at terrible cost,

A broken promise, a war they lost.

The Gaunts, stewards loyal and true,

From the Peverells' vaults, a secret drew.

A binding ritual, powerful and grand,

To lull the beast, to save the land.

Seven objects, the spell did bind,

Horcruxes hidden, secrets confined.

A pact to keep the creature asleep,

In eternal slumber for a price so steep.

The families entrusted with the key,

To guard and protect, a solemn decree.

Break or crumble, vanish or fall,

The Leviathan awakens, the end may call.

A tale of magic, sacrifice, and lore,

A whispered secret, forevermore.

In the hidden shadows, Horcruxes rest,

Guardians of slumber, a binding test.

The bard ends their song and the drums pick up, once more, and Harry blinks, as if coming awake again. “I’ve never heard the legend told like that before.”

“What, in song?” Draco asks.

“In metre,” Harry says, shaking his head to snap out of it. “Is it recited every year?”

“And often enough in between that I can sing it to you by heart,” Draco says drily. “A necessary tool for–”

“Propaganda?” Harry asks, an eyebrow raised, and Draco catches himself.

“We’re not lying to the people; every word of that song is true. We’re merely reminding them of the debt they owe to our forefathers. To the Slytherins.”

“And what about the debt your forefathers owe mine? Will you not baulk if your innocence is tainted by their guilt?” Harry asks, giving Draco a long look. “If you will not bear the sins of your forefathers, why should they bear gratitude for everything else?”

And to that, Draco has no answer.

There’s more time spent dawdling, after that, and they’re pulled into dancing squares and taught a simple circle dance, shuffling around. Harry throws his head back and laughs in delight, grateful for a chance to move his body, to exert for pleasure instead of pain, for joy instead of escape. Draco, Pansy, and Astoria watch awkwardly from the sidelines, but Harry stumbles out and pulls all three of them in, and though their movements are woefully stiff and comically jerky, there are enough outsiders that they draw no attention. Harry spends a good half hour twirling them around and coaxing them into relaxation; and it’s Pansy who gets it first, lithe body equally suited to dancing as it is to danger; and then Astoria finds her rhythm–nothing fancy, just moving with mathematical precision–until only Draco is left.

“I hate this,” he whines. Harry draws back and spins him around, grinning from ear to ear.

“Finally, something you aren’t instantly brilliant at.”

“I’ll have you know I’m an expert dancer,” Draco sniffs, “just not–these kinds of dances.”

“What’s wrong with these kinds of dances?” Harry asks, eyebrow raised, and Draco sighs, and lets himself be manoeuvred by Harry, saying, “What’s wrong with these kinds of dances is I’m not good at them,” tone grumpy. Harry laughs again, catching Draco by the waist and bringing him close, kissing him soft and slow and deep. And though they’re caught in the centre of the crowd, it’s an intimate moment, being wrapped in their own bubble. And in another life it might’ve been like this, Harry thinks, breakfasting in wayside inns and dancing in city squares. The thought swells inside him so much, a wellspring of emotion, that he has to snap himself out of it before he’s overwhelmed.

“What’s wrong?” Draco asks, sensing a shift in his mood, but Harry shakes his head, and says, “Nothing,” and spins Draco away from him, and back again.

Later, when it’s time, they make their way to the Lestrange castle, and spend the day stuck in the longest line Harry’s ever seen, inching slowly upwards as packs are inspected and papers are checked to allow Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws decked in costume to cross the Slytherin threshold. Harry and Draco masquerade as wrestlers in nondescript black tunics, and Pansy and Astoria follow behind, the three of them downing two doses of fortified polyjuice each.

“Name and skill,” a bored Gryffindor at the gate asks, and Pansy says, “Amaranthe, acrobat,” and after a quick once-over of her papers and a cursory detection charm, he lets her through. Astoria follows not long after, and Pansy leads them through a corridor, breaking away from the main line. And they glamour themselves once more, extra precautious–all except Harry.

“There’s nothing for it. You’ll have to do your best to blend in,” Pansy says, and then takes them through a zigzag of passageways, servants pass to and fro, though the path Pansy’s carving out for them is relatively empty. Harry slinks back into shadow at the first sign of movement, marvelling at the decorations that adorn the wall, flowers that float and gleam from the roof, tapestries falling from ceiling to roof depicting scenes. Some Harry recognises: the original Eight casting spells, fighting against the Leviathan which stands fierce and dark and menacing, dwarfing the rest of the image with its razor sharp teeth and knife-like claws, leathery wings unfurled behind it. And then there’s another one, further down, depicting the Horcrux Ritual, the Eight arranged in a circle, blood dripping from their palms, eyes closed, reciting the lost incantation that had sent the Leviathan into slumber. Harry resists the urge to shiver, wondering how the area is so empty.

“Everyone’s busy at the palace proper,” Pansy says, answering his silent question. “It’s why I picked this path.”

“Yaxley showed it to you?” Harry ventures, careful.

Pansy shrugs. “You could say that.” She leads them down into the servant’s quarters, and feels along the side of the wall for a stone, until, “Found it,” she crows, and presses against it so that the brick shifts inwards and a door creaks open. “This one hasn’t been used in years, according to Yaxley’s memories,” she says, stepping inside and beckoning for them to follow. “Quick, before it closes,” and they file in as fast as they can.

“What now?” Harry asks in the darkness, as Astoria casts a flickering Lumos. “Do you know the way?”

“I think so,” she says, casting a few more preliminary spells, and then she nods, ready.

“How long will it take for you to navigate?” Draco asks.

“The shortest route should take fifteen minutes since we’re already at the halfway point,” she says. “But I’d say double that, just to be sure–so a half hour.”

“Right,” Draco says, nodding, and then he casts a quick Patronus and sends it shooting off to Ron with the single word, “Open.”

“Open?” Harry blinks.

“Open,” he agrees. “You’ll learn soon enough.” He jerks forward with his head. “Shall we?”

“Yes,” Astoria says, stepping forward. “Follow me.”

Ron is worried.

It’s his first assignment on the border and it’s nothing like he imagined. He’s been sworn to secrecy, for one, and even though the Prince told him it’s a mission like no other, that he’s special and he’s chosen, Ron’s not so sure. He wonders if this is a secret initiation, some kind of clandestine ancillary training routine all the Gryffindors are forced to endure. But the only thing that gives him pause is the box in his hand. He’s only ever seen it once, in the Vault manual that all Gryffindors are forced to memorise. It’s the box that holds the Horcrux, the locket that purportedly went missing; and though the prince swore it wasn’t the same one Ron’s not so certain, which only frightens him more because if he’s carrying the Horcrux casket, he’s carrying the whole fate of Malfoy in his hands, and the prince would never risk his realm in such a manner. Which means either the Horcrux has been relocated, or it’s gone missing, and the Vault drill all those months ago really wasn’t a Vault drill but a breach. And the whole thing sends his mind spinning in so many different directions that he has to stop to take a breath and just be.

“First time?” a Gryffindor asks him, at the last outpost on the Lestrange Border. They mistake his nerves for confusion, which he supposes is a reasonable guess to make.

“Drew the short straw,” he says in response, shrugging with what he hopes is nonchalance. “Will there be anyone to accompany me on my assigned stretch?”

The Gryffindor shoots him an apologetic half-smile, half-grimace. “No, sorry, brother. You’ll be on your own. Another one of ours will be down to relieve you in an hour. You’ve the portkey in case of an emergency” –he points to the stone hanging around Ron’s neck– “and you can cast a Patronus.”

Ron nods. It’s a basic prerequisite any Gryffindor must fulfil to serve on the borders, but he’s still not sure he can cast it when it counts; he’s never had to, before. “I’m ready.”

“Step through,” the Gryffindor says, making way for Ron as he strides into the portal more confidently than he feels, and he’s whisked right onto the Wall–the last, gargantuan bastion which separates Lestrange–and by extension, the realm of Hogwarts–from the murky mist beyond: the habitat of the Dementors. Raised by the original Eight themselves after they forced the Leviathan to sleep, the Wall is a relic of power, of a curse so great and terrible it shook the very foundations of the world. Standing at this precipice of ancient history, Ron understands, suddenly, why the Slytherins are venerated so. Theirs is the magic that binds the Wall, that protects the people from the Dementors beyond. He can make them out, in the distance, over frozen wasteland, flying eerily like kites across the channel of water, tattered robes fluttering in the non-existent breeze. They keep away from the Wall, but Ron knows that could change at any moment; that the creatures are wild and capricious, and a Border Gryffindor must always be on their guard.

He settles in and draws his wand, senses alert, centering himself, casting warming charms rendered necessary by the cold from this high up. But he’s jerked out of balance by a dragon patronus that glides into view. “Open,” it says, in Draco’s voice, and Ron realises it’s time.

He draws the casket from his robes, fingering the locked edges of it slowly, and then he dispels his own hesitation, recalling his oath to trust, to serve, and he opens the box. For a moment nothing happens, and then Ron nearly drops the box over the other side of the wall because a light so bright it’s blinding shoots upwards from it, a pillar of energy that he can feel sear into his eyelids even after he’s closed them. When the luminescence pales, and Ron can feel the world turn darker, he opens his eyes and sees flickers of raw magic swirl above him, flashes of colour and smell and sound and taste. And for a moment Ron turns confused, wondering what sort of a spell Draco’s made him unleash, and then he feels the ground shake, and in the distance the Dementors roar, loud and hungry, and Ron understands.

Above him: there is the anguish of a mother watching her daughter die on the birthing bed; the pain of a farmer having their crop destroyed; the heartbreak of a man as his lover leaves him for another; the heartache of a child who has lost their first friend–images that whirl faster and sharper and brighter; laughter, sobs, screams; they surround Ron until he’s enveloped in a cocoon of– “Memories,” he realises with a start. These are memories. He stares down at the box in his hand and thinks, Why not? If a casket can hold a Horcrux, there’s nothing it can’t hold. It’s not a casket any longer, then, but a Pensieve.

And it’s like ambrosia, to a long-starved Dementor, as they surge towards the wall like a battering ram of black. Ron ducks under the railing, recalling Draco’s instructions.

“Hold off on alerting the others as long as you can,” he’d said, and Ron hadn’t understood what he’d meant, but Draco was his prince, and he was bound to serve, so he said, “Yes, Your Radiance,” and did not protest.

He tugs at the portkey in his chain, pulling it off his neck and staring at it in his palm. The Dementors loom closer, grey skies turning darker than ink, and he sinks to his knees and bends his head down, blocking his ears as the Dementors fly free, unhindered, into Lestrange territory. Ron waits for a miraculous rescue, a new contraption, anything that might explain the prince’s instructions, but nothing is forthcoming. Ron realises with horror, then, that he’s just unleashed a horde of Dementors onto the Lestrange population, right in the middle of Leviathan Day, and he’s the only one who can warn them of it.

“f*ck,” he swears, twisting the portkey, saying the required spell, and he disappears in a cloud of smoke. He stumbles out the other end, already half-running.

“Sound the alarm,” he cries. “There’s been a breach.”

It’s exactly thirty minutes since they began that Astoria leads them to the centre.

“Here,” she says, skidding to a stop at the end of a winding corridor. “It should be through” –she waves her wand one last time, and the holographic labyrinth of the Lestrange tunnels grows bright, a single illuminating line cutting across it– “there,” she says, and they take a final turn and, madly, unbelievably, they’ve made it.

“How did you do this?” Harry asks, incredulous, marvelling at the infinite efficacies of magic, staring at the doors that towered tall before him: wrought iron carved over with the Lestrange crest. The Vault.

“It’s–well–” Astoria demures, bashful. “It’s a puzzle, and every puzzle has a set of rules, and I just devised an–algorithm, I call it–to calculate the likeliest options.” She smiles at Harry’s confused expression and adds, “I took a slew of educated guesses, nothing more.” Except it isn’t nothing, Harry knows. Astoria navigated them through the maze-like corridors that cut through the underbelly of the castle, inputting commands into the spell and coaxing directions out of it. Harry’s never seen anything like it. And granted, there were a few wrong turns, a few dead ends. But she solved Lestrange’s secrets in less than the time it’d take to learn of them naturally, and she’d done it under pressure. For Draco hadn’t hesitated to urge her on, impatient, anxious about something, though Harry doesn’t know what. It’s only when they arrive at the doors that Draco allows himself a brief moment of respite before his back turns rigid and his face keys up once more.

“Now we wait,” he says, and positions himself by the front of the doors, gazing at it with piercing, grey eyes.

“For what?” Pansy asks.

And then the bells of Lestrange Manor blare loud and alarming.

“What is that?” Pansy says, whipping her head around. The sounds grow louder and louder, echoing through the corridor, clamouring so loud Harry can barely think; like the boom of a gong inside his skull. On either side, the patter of footsteps grow and recede, erratic and hurried, shouts of panic to accompany it. “What did you do?” Pansy asks.

“It’s a Dementor attack,” Draco says, and for the first time he relaxes; and he smiles, wicked and wide. “Now no one will hear the Vault alarm set off when you go in.” He raises his wand and throws a Reducto at the door, and it shatters under his onslaught.

“Go,” Draco shouts, even as the Vault alarm begins to blare, but it only adds to the commotion, blending in seamlessly with the Dementor alarm, and the doors swing open.

“You were here this entire time!” Harry exclaims. “How did you stage a Dementor attack!”

“It wasn’t me,” Draco says impatiently. “It was Ron. I gave him instructions–it’s not important–”

“What do you mean, it’s not important? How did you even know what to do?” Harry asks, incredulous.

Draco purses his lips, looking sideways at him. “I conducted an experiment in the Azkaban Prison. That’s what I was doing, with you. Dementors, as it turns out, are attracted to memories. They came to you when I made you release my memories from the casket.”

Harry’s eyes widen, confusion turning to disbelief, turning to anger, understanding crashing into him like a wall, all those days spent trawling up and down Malfoy talking to strangers, collecting anecdotes, feeling Draco’s own memories churn around him in Azkaban, it all comes back to him in fits and starts that this is what Draco was trying to test for. Pestering farmers about pesticides and egging on estranged spouses, collecting their feelings in a box and sending it across the border with Ron to lure monsters back inside–but there’s no time to spare, so he shoves the annoyance deep down for now and leaps into the Vault.

The floor seems to vibrate under his feet, and he waits a second, hackles raised, limbs poised, but nothing happens, and Harry stumbles to the centre of the room, illuminated by a pillar of light over a pedestal. On it Harry finds a casket, identical to the one he’d seen in Malfoy, and he plucks it out of the pedestal, opening it to find a ring, nestled in purple satin. The Horcrux.

“Harry, come out,” Draco calls, from the entrance to the Vault, vibrating with nervous energy, eyes wide. “We don’t have much time.”

And then the walls of the room begin to shake, pillars breaking, stone crumbling, shingle falling to the floor, and Draco screams, “Run,” and Harry thinks, this shouldn’t be happening, but there’s no time to spare, no time to think, as he runs, springs over the doorstep and lands stumbling onto the other side. Draco immediately snatches the casket from him and stuffs it inside his pack, and they all untie their tunics, coming out easily from Astoria’s stitching to reveal perfect replicas of Lestrange’s Gryffindor uniforms underneath.

“Let’s go,” Astoria says tersely, and they all take off, following her lead, but then she stops, abruptly, skidding to a halt at the end of the corridor and drawing back behind it–but it’s too late.

“Who’s there?” a gruff voice calls from further beyond, “All Gryffindors are to report to the castle gates immediately. What are you still doing here?” There’s no suspicion in the voice, only irritation, but none of them say a word; even Draco, whose eyes are darting back and forth, calculating in a furious rush.

“Come out,” the voice calls again, confusion giving way to wariness, and there’s a brief silence; and then the guard mutters a spell, harsh and quick, and a bright red flash turns the tunnels an alarming scarlet. “f*ck,” the guard lets out, shouting, “Intruders by the Vault. Division Four to me.”

And then there’s a pounding of footsteps thudding harshly against the floor, booming against the walls, growing louder and sharper and closer. And Draco and Pansy take the front, wands out, weapons at the ready, shoving Astoria and Harry behind them as the first of the guards step into view. They make quick work of the soldiers, working in tandem like a well-oiled machine, knocking them unconscious, but there’s more following behind them, and there’s only so much the two of them can do to hold back the wave.

“Astoria,” Draco says, looking over his shoulder. “The thing we talked about? Anytime now.”

“I’m trying,” Astoria calls back, pulling out a cylindrical contraption from her bag and aiming it at the ceiling. It revs hot and loud as she whispers to it, but sputters out a few seconds later. “I don’t have enough magical energy.”

“Merlin f*cking damnit,” Draco swears, slipping a knife out of his sleeve and aiming it straight at a guard. It hits him square in the chest and blood spurts from the contact point. “You should go,” he tells Pansy, and Pansy looks at him like he’s being ridiculous.

“I’m not leaving you behind,” she says, incredulity in her voice.

And then Harry feels himself turn restless, feels nerves spill out of him: turning his fingers twitchy and his skin hot and his body prickly all over. He leans forward and grabs the cylinder out of Astoria’s hand, working on instinct, asking, “What’s the spell?” and Astoria stares up at him strangely, a little afraid, but she doesn’t baulk as she tells him the words, and together they aim it at the ceiling. The moment the words leave Harry’s mouth, a bolt shoots out of the device and onto the ceiling, bursting in a ring of fire, bringing the roof down. The entire corridor shakes, shrapnel falling, Gryffindors yelling as they come at Draco and Pansy; but the debris forms a blockade, crushing the guards underneath it, tearing at their skin. Then Harry grabs Astoria by the waist, bellowing for Pansy and Draco to latch onto him and, summoning one last burst of strength, he apparates them straight through the hole in the ceiling and right into the throne room of the Lestrange castle.

Chapter 14: A Denouement of Action

Chapter Text

They crash into the centre of the cavernous room right at the foot of the Lestrange throne, and Draco has all of a second to shove Harry down and glamour his face before the guards are on them.

“Drop your wands,” the one in the front says, deep and firm; the commanding officer, Draco thinks. The others are quick to form a circle around them, sprawled on the floor and caught between large chunks of debris. “Now,” the officer continues, no hesitation or fear in his voice. “You have five seconds.”

“Wait,” a voice echoes fiercely through the halls. “Search them.” Rodolphus Lestrange watches them from his throne, robes resplendent, a crown of sharpened rubies resting on his forehead. His hair is dark and thick despite the age on his face, and he holds himself firmly, leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees, jaw tight and angry. “They’ve come straight from the Vault.”

Draco wills himself to stay focused and sharp and think as the guard approaches Pansy first, warily, five wands aimed at her back and two at her sides as the guard crouches down and performs a revealing spell. Draco sends a silent thank you to Astoria for their extra-strength polyjuice as the spell fizzles away, having no effect, and the guard turns back to Rodolphus shaking his head. The guard repeats the process; Astoria going nervously compliant and holding her palms up, and then Harry, who simply spreads his arms, still crackling with that wild energy they’d all seen earlier, almost mocking the guard that’s come forward to search him. The guard narrows his eyes and does the spell roughly, and the magic rakes over Harry’s skin, but there’s no effect, Harry’s eyes turning hard and cool.

And then there’s a rumble, a commotion from outside as the doors bang open and shadows grow tall against the floors. The temperature in the room drops sudden and sharp and cold, and Draco can feel the chill churning in his bones, and it’s then that he realises–

“Dementor breach in the throne room,” a booming voice calls from outside, panicking as new guards spill into the throne room, dark shapes trailing in their wake.

“Run,” Draco shouts, jumping up on his feet and signalling to the others to follow. Rodolphus is somewhere behind cursing at his guards to follow them but it doesn’t matter, because he can’t afford to look back, not when half the guards are trained on them while the other half is trying to stave off the Dementors, and the half that doesn’t know they’re imposters in Gryffindor uniforms are confused by the half who do. He’s never been so grateful to see the beady eyes of a Dementor as he is in this instant, dodging and jumping and leaping as he is to avoid them. It’s a long way from the throne to the entrance, and it’s like an obstacle course come to life, spells flying, bodies dropping, screams intermingling with the Dementors’ hisses. But to his right, Pansy is guarding Astoria as they fight their way through, and Harry seems to be having no trouble of his own. The Dementors give him a wide berth, making space for him as he runs, eyes trained, arms swinging – though Draco’s not so lucky, and he has to fire off a few quick patronuses before he makes it to the end, right on Harry’s heels. “Come on,” he yells, turning around and holding out a hand for the girls as they rush out after him. “Almost there.”

Astoria reaches out and grasps him, and he yanks her over the threshold and into the corridor, Pansy close behind; and Draco’s barely had time to take a breath and turn around before he’s stopped, Harry’s hand blocking him as more guards begin to file in from either side. Right in front of them is an open balcony, railings carved up to their waist and leading out into the gardens, and Harry’s looking at it with a frown.

“Halt,” a woman’s voice calls out, sharp and reedy, and the guards on both sides draw their wands, stance open, ready, rows of them stretching farther than Draco can see. He can feel his heart sink, then, to have made it so close and yet stumble at the final hurdle.

Harry takes a step forward, and wands are immediately raised, and the woman says, “Stand down,” but Harry doesn’t listen, gives no inclination that he’s even heard her. There’s a wild look in his eyes, the look of a man who has nothing to lose. He turns around and brings two fingers to his mouth and whistles, high and shrill and loud, amplified as if by magic–and it is magic, Draco realises, as the guards on either side begin to murmur warily between them.

Then the first Dementor swoops out, followed by a second, and a third, and a fourth; followed by the whole entire horde, as even more of them descend through the windows, blocking out the sun like a shade pulled over a light, turning the corridors dark and cold until only silhouette is visible. In that dim disorientation, as tentative spells are thrown hastily, Harry shouts, “Climb,” and Draco can make out the shape of him, swinging his legs over a Dementor who’s prostrated itself near vertically by his feet. All around them other Dementors do the same, descending and readily waiting. Draco looks at Pansy and Astoria and nods, throwing his own body over a Dementor as the two of them follow suit. They lean forward in tandem, arms wrapped around the thin, skeletal bodies, and take off into the sky, light nearly blinding after the darkness inside, as the Gryffindors in the castle gawk helplessly behind.

The feeling magnifies when they’re in the air, wind whipping against Harry’s face, the feeling that he’s bursting out of his skin with a kind of zinging energy, a power. He flies higher than he’s ever flown, cities turning into distant patterns, land dwindling into dust, until there is nothing but endless open sky ahead. They fly unscathed all the way to the edge of Lestrange where the Dementors drop them, and find their carpet stashed where they’d left it, hidden and warded in a clump of patchy shrubbery.

“Thank you,” Harry murmurs, a hand on his Dementor’s shoulders, soothing and grateful. The Dementor hisses softly in response, like a purr. The others have already dismounted by the time he’s sent his Dementor off, and they’re staring at him closely, cautiously; even Draco’s looking at Harry with an expression he’s never seen on him before, uncertain and nervous and fearful.

“Harry, what–”

“This is why you were asking about Dementors,” Pansy says, stalking towards Draco. “You knew about Harry–”

“I didn’t know–”

“Then why did you ask–”

“You had magic all along,” Astoria cuts in, sharp and quiet, stepping forward. “Didn’t you?” she asks Harry.

Harry stumbles back in response, feeling the adrenaline ebb out of him, tired once more. “I did not.” And then the enormity of what’s happened hits him as he realises he’s just performed magic for the first time, even though he’s a Squib–except he’s not a Squib, but he isn’t really magic either, which means he doesn’t know what he is, only that he’s different and new and frightening.

“He’s telling the truth,” Draco says, going to Harry, and Harry falls into his arms, the exhaustion of it all creeping into him, furling outwards from the space in his chest where his magical core might’ve been. “You’re magic,” Draco says, voice filled with wonder, “and you’re–you’re the most powerful wizard I’ve seen.”

“You can’t have just obtained magic today,” Astoria insists, crossing her arms. “How else could you have engineered a blast that powerful and still survived, while also controlling the Dementors? It isn’t something one just picks up from a temporary proximity to magic so I’ll ask again, how long have you had magic–”

“I haven’t had it at all! I don’t know what I did in the castle except that it was instinctual. And I certainly wasn’t controlling any Dementors,” Harry says, and Draco shoots Astoria a grim look, shaking his head, saying, “We’ll talk about this in the castle.” He herds Harry onto the carpet and climbs in after him.

The flight back is quiet and uneventful, and they cross into Malfoy Territory quickly enough. From there, Draco takes them to the closest portal outpost and sends a patronus to one of his commanding officers. The woman meets them just off the edge of the patrolling border, instantly recognising them, eyes going wide in surprise. But she doesn’t hesitate to follow Draco’s instructions to the letter, smuggling them past the other guards and ordering a section cleared; and then she revs up a portal and nods to Draco, once, and they file in after each other.

“Thank you, Bell,” Harry hears Draco tell the officer. She smiles, and bows to Draco with a respect that is cultivated and genuine, saying, “Of course, Your Radiance. It is my sworn duty, and my honour,” and then she steps aside to let them pass. Just as Draco’s about to step into it, portal swirling bright blue in front of him, he turns to her and says, “Oh, and commander? Destroy the portal once we’re through. That’s an order,” and then he vanishes into it.

Harry goes last, feeling a tugging sensation begin in his gut, turning his stomach into knots and his skin tingly, and then he’s plunged into a strange, shrinking reshapement. By the time he makes it to the other side, he’s dizzy and out of sorts, but the others are fine, and they’re dusting themselves off with an almost palpable relief. Harry understands why, because now they’re grinning at each other, a joy that is effusive and uncontainable seeping into the air. Because they did it. They walked straight into the lair of the Lestranges and stole their Horcrux from right under their noses.

“We did it,” Astoria breathes, and then she grabs Pansy by the arms, shaking her, “We did it, we did it, we did it!” and Draco laughs, and joins her, encircling them both in his arms; and Pansy rolls her eyes at Harry and mouths, “Come on, then,” jerking her head towards them, and when he gets close she yanks him in, until they’re all tightly meshed in a circle of tangled arms, just breathing, just happy and safe and alive.

From there the girls go back to their own Territories to catch the last of the Leviathan Day celebrations, a necessary alibi, while Draco apparates Harry to their chambers.

“There’s more to discuss,” Draco says, barring the door shut after landing inside. “But right now there’s work to do. We’ve been gone for too long and I need to make an appearance. Bathe, and I’ll have clothes laid out for you in the meantime.”

“For what?” Harry asks, a vague sense of horror niggling in the back of his mind, but Draco just smiles at him and shoos him into the bath, saying, “Dinner.”

•·················•·················•

Harry takes his time in the bath, large and square, the size of a small pond but only half as deep. He scrubs himself hard with a washcloth, sluicing off days’ worth of dust and grime, water running hot and scented with sweet oils; and then he holds his breath and slips down underwater, just letting his body be, the feeling of weightlessness like a soothing, stilling pressure; and when he resurfaces, Draco is watching him from the entrance.

“Hello,” Harry says, swimming forward, elbows on the edge of the pool. “Are you going to join me?”

“I think I will,” Draco says, smiling softly like he can’t help himself, pushing himself off the doorframe and unbuttoning his tunic, then his pants, before climbing down the steps of the pool.

“No pressing princely appointments?” Harry asks, swimming to Draco, and Draco meets him halfway, and catches Harry’s face in his hands, saying, “Nothing more important than this,” and kisses him.

Draco’s breath tastes like fresh mint, clear and cool, and his hands are tangling in Harry’s hair.

“I love your hair,” Draco says when they break apart.

“You love my hair?”

“It’s so–soft,” Draco says, blushing and looking away, but Harry draws him close once more, and they continue like that, nipping at each other, soft touches and roving tongues, until Harry pushes Draco back against the wall of the pool and tips him over the edge.

“f*ck,” Harry breathes, pressing himself against Draco, rutting, co*cks sliding together in delicious friction. “You’re incredible.”

Draco’s mouth quirks up, the apostrophe of a smile under heavy-lidded eyes as he throws his head back and moans. “I want you inside me,” he gasps, and Harry leans forward, captures Draco’s mouth in a bruising kiss and says, “Yes.”

He turns Draco around so his back is to Harry’s chest, whispering in Draco’s ear, “Can we do it like this? Can I f*ck you like this?”

“Yes, please,” Draco groans. He grinds his ass back against Harry’s co*ck, and Harry moves with him, co*ck rubbing against the crease of his ass. Draco spreads his legs further, bracing himself against the edge of the pool and leaning over it, as if impatient, as if he can’t wait a moment longer to have Harry inside him. “Do it,” he whispers, head hanging low, voice rough and needy as he whispers the lubrication spell, and his body goes tense and taut as Harry pushes in, slowly, carefully, anchored in the water, rubbing circles into Draco’s shoulders until he relaxes and turns to Harry to say, “Okay, okay. Move. You can move now.”

And Harry does move. It’s unlike anything they’ve done before, wrapped tightly in each other, Harry plastered against Draco’s back, hands roving down his chest. They move together, in tandem, in perfect sync, moans intermingling in the air. And then Draco leans forward, lifting his ass in the air to take more of Harry, all of him, and it drives Harry wild, the heat of it, the tight, hot suction, the way his co*ck looks pumping in and out of Draco’s ass in the water. He can’t stop himself, can’t help it when he grabs Draco’s hips and thrusts into him, harder and faster, drawing out cries from them both that turn louder with every stroke.

“Yes, Harry,” he’s saying, braced on his elbows, chest flushed. Harry pulls him up and presses their bodies together, wanting to feel all of him, as much of Draco as he can; hear the sounds they make, the sticky sounds of their bodies in the water, the sharp, uncontrollable moans.

“Is this good?” Harry asks through heavy breaths. “Do you like it like this?”

“f*ck, yes, I do, Harry, I do,” Draco gets out, his co*ck hard and flushed against his stomach. “I’m close. I’m so close. I love it like this.”

“f*ck,” Harry says, burying his face in Draco’s neck and biting down, hard and deep and possessive. “You’re going to come like this? You’re going to come without touching yourself?”

“Yes,” Draco whimpers, leaning against Harry with his eyes closed, words slurring like he barely knows what he’s saying; and then he’s clutching Harry’s forearms wrapped around his waist, eyes rolling back in his head, letting loose a moan that is so wet and shameless and filthy, coming in hot spurts all across the tiles. And Harry can feel the clench of Draco’s ass around his co*ck; the sound of his voice, gravelly and deep, the heat of his body, and it’s enough to send him straight over the edge, half out of his mind as he comes, one last thrust into Draco’s ass as he holds him down with an iron grip and makes him take it, plunging into him until they both sag against the wall, spent.

“Harry,” Draco says, eyes going unfocused, reaching out vaguely, and Harry catches his wrists and pulls him close until they’re chest to chest, nuzzling against his neck.

“You’re so….”

“What?” Draco murmurs, and Harry feels himself flush, and he buries himself in Draco’s shoulders and whispers, “You’re very attractive,” thinking that it’s true, that he is, that he’s the most beautiful man Harry’s every seen; and despite everything else that might come after, they’ll always have this; these quiet moments carved out just for themselves; the hazy warmth of memories in the making.

“Well,” Draco says, nosing under Harry’s ear, tugging at his earlobe, fingers tracing absent patterns over his shoulders. “I know.”

Harry laughs, shaking his head, and pulls Draco close to kiss him again, but Draco draws back after a few moments, sighing regretfully, saying, “We’ve a banquet to attend and we’ve wasted enough time as it is. Off with you.”

Harry laughs, carrying Draco off the edge of the pool and dumping him back in the water, catching him, and they splash around a bit more, dripping wet by the time they’re done, still touching as they enter their chambers.

“I’ll meet you in the Gryffindor Hall,” Draco says, pressing one last chaste kiss to Harry’s lips, and letting him go. Harry basks in the glow all the way down to dinner, where rows of elongated trestle tables have been arranged, carrying twelve different courses rotating by the hour, and goblets of never-ending wine. Harry finds Ron, waving to him with an empty seat by his side, who scoops out a portion of rice cooked in roasted meats and sets it on a plate for Harry before he gets a chance to sit down.

“It’s delicious,” Harry says, taking a bite, aromatic spices bursting in his mouth. “So” –he turns to Ron– “where’ve you been? What’ve you been up to? It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Ron goes uncharacteristically silent and deflects the question back to Harry, saying, “We barely ever see you anymore. Where’ve you been?”

“Draco keeps me busy,” Harry says, turning his gaze to the far end of the hall where Draco is holding court with his Slytherin vassals. He’s wearing a tunic of deep sapphire blue which complements his eyes, and pale silver trousers to go with it. He’s foregone his crown, though he wears it rarely; and even without it he looks every inch the Ruler he’s going to be someday: proud, noble. Beautiful. And Harry’s heart aches with the weight of what he cannot have, at the transience of what he can.

“So it’s like that,” Ron says, staring at him with an eyebrow raised.

“What?” Harry turns his head away from Draco with some effort. “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” Ron says, shaking his head, and they return to speaking of inane things, the goings on of the castle, the celebrations. Harry has to nod and fumble his way through certain parts of the conversation, feigning knowledge of the preparations over the past few weeks. But overall it’s a success, and he avoids suspicion; and the conversation in the tables soon devolves into raucous, bawdy jest.

Draco stands to make the rounds then, making his way to each table, twining through the arrangement of chairs, saving Harry’s table for last. When he arrives, the entire table turns quiet and deferential, heads bowed and eyes lowered, admiration palpable for their prince. It’s only after Draco has addressed all the other Gryffindors that he turns to Harry, and something in his face softens, and the ache in Harry’s heart both dulls and sharpens at once.

“Harry,” Draco says, and it’s all he needs to say.

“Did you–eat well?” Harry asks, scrambling for something to say, just to keep him close, just to make Draco stay a little bit longer.

“I did,” Draco says, and takes a step forward, holding out a hand. Harry reaches out and clasps it on instinct, entwining their fingers together, hardly aware of what he’s doing.

There’s a cough, and the clink of cutlery falling against the plate, and it draws them back to themselves. The Gryffindors around the table have fallen silent, gazing at them with curious expressions under darting glances.

“Right,” Draco says, moving away from Harry, and Harry turns to face him as he walks. His hand is still hovering in midair and he snatches it back, gritting his teeth and forcing himself out of it.

“Enjoy your night, soldiers,” Draco says, looking flushed and pink and a little out of sorts.

He’s tipsy, Harry realises, and the thought sparks something else in him, another side of Draco he gets to pry open and learn.

“Will you come with me?” Draco asks, resolutely ignoring the stares, and Harry’s out of his seat immediately, looking at Ron to make his excuses. Ron just waves him away.

“The prince is calling you,” he whispers forcefully. “Go.”

And Harry does go, walking slowly, side by side, careful not to touch. The moment they’re out of the room Draco sags against his shoulder.

“Merlin,” he groans, voice slurring ever so slightly, “I don’t think I can walk like this.”

“Then lean on me,” Harry says, an arm around his waist, propping him up as they pass the hallways that seem to have grown twice as long in the interim. They pass Gryffindors guarding the corridors, servants scurrying about underfoot–more so than usual because it’s late; and though the Gryffindors stand sharp and attentive, Harry can feel the servants’ eyes on them both as they pass, Draco practically hanging off him as they stumble their way into his chambers.

Harry helps Draco shuffle out of his clothes, and then slips out of his own tunic, guiding Draco gently to the bed.

“Take these off,” Draco says, tugging at the drawstring of Harry’s trousers, but Harry catches Draco’s wrist, and shakes his head gently, saying, “Not tonight, Draco.”

“Why?” Draco falls into the bed and rolls over to make space for Harry, uncharacteristically loose-limbed and free.

Harry pulls back the coverlet so Draco can lie down properly. “Because you’ve had a bit too much wine for it to be a good idea.”

Draco makes a face. “Will you stay?” he asks.

“Of course.” Harry slips in beside him and draws the covers over them both, hesitating only a moment before slinging his arm over Draco’s waist.

“Not tonight,” Draco says, haltingly, as if struggling to push through the words. “I mean–I mean later.”

“I’ll be here in the morning,” Harry says slowly.

“I don’t mean like that,” Draco snaps, and then sighs. “You have magic now.” He turns towards Harry. “Won’t you stay?”

“Draco, I–Draco,” Harry says, the beginnings of frustration climbing up his throat. That Draco would spring this on him now, when he’s like this, when Harry has no choice in the matter but to be patient. Even Draco’s vulnerability is calculated. “That’s not fair,” Harry says. “I don’t belong here.”

“You’re the only wizard I know who’s stronger than me,” Draco says relentlessly, casting a charm on himself that turns his eyes clear and his gaze sharp. “If anything it’s the Squibs you don’t belong with.”

“It isn’t that simple!” Harry says, sitting up. “My whole life I’ve been a Squib! It’s the only thing I know how to be!”

“Then let me teach you how to be a wizard,” Draco says. He gets up on his elbows, chasing Harry’s touch. “With a power like yours, you’d be unstoppable. There’s no limit to what you could do–”

“To what I could do for you,” Harry says, well and truly angry now. “You want me so you can use me like a tool–”

“Do you really think so little of me–”

“I don’t know what to think–”

“I just want to help you–”

“That’s f*cking bullsh*t and you know it,” Harry cuts in, loud and irate and exhausted. “Don’t pretend like you don’t have some hidden agenda you need me for.”

“I don’t–”

“Because it’s never anything straight with you, Draco Malfoy, so why don’t you tell me the real reason–”

“It’s because I don’t want you to leave me, you f*cking fool,” Draco says, slamming a fist against the mattress. And then it’s like all the fight goes out of him, and he sags against the headboard, exhausted.

“Oh,” Harry says, finally at a loss for words. “I–”

“Leave.”

“Draco,” Harry says, moving towards him, a hand on his arm, across his torso, but Draco doesn’t turn.

“I said leave.”

“No,” Harry says. “I won’t leave. I don’t think you want me to.”

“Oh, I very much do,” Draco says tightly, ignoring the hand Harry’s left on his shoulder, travelling up his neck.

“You’re not listening,” Harry says, and cups Draco’s face in his hand, turning him to face Harry, leaning in further to close the distance between them. “I don’t want to leave you either,” he says, and kisses him.

“Harry,” Draco murmurs, sighing into the kiss and drawing back a moment later.

“I don’t want to leave you either,” Harry repeats, “but I have to. Greengrass is where I’m from. The Squibs will always be my people. I can’t abandon them. It’s a whole way of life I’d be leaving behind.” And it’s true, Harry thinks, but he’s flailing around for a way to say it, for a way to show Draco the heart of it. Because his life back in the Settlement isn’t something he can put into words: trekking deep inland to search for game and wild fish, smoking bees out of honeycombs, walking with elephants. Cracking jackfruit with knives, boiling cassava plucked from bunds. Evenings spent by the coast, swimming in saltwater; sharing stories around the fire with children on his shoulders. Anything he says would be a paltry facsimile of the real thing.

“There’s no blueprint for what you did, wrangling those Dementors,” Draco says, leaning back and looking at him plaintively. “Don’t you want to know what it means? Aren’t you curious? Magic’s come to you now, and you can’t give it back. No matter how much you want to.”

His words pierce straight to the heart of what Harry’s thinking, a scab he can’t avoid picking at; that with the acquisition of magic, he might’ve gained a power, but he’s lost a part of himself in the process. “I don’t know what to think,” he says. “I just–”

A message-portkey in the shape of a pebble explodes into view by the bedside, and the silvery patronus of a ringneck parrot smokes out of it. “Urgent news,” it says in Pansy’s voice. “Astoria and I are on our way to Malfoy. Meet us at your council room.” The bird dissolves into silver smoke.

“What now,” Draco says, jumping out of bed immediately.“Get dressed,” he tells Harry.

“You want me to come?” Harry asks, surprised, dodging as Draco summons his tunic.

“Of course,” Draco says, pulling the fabric over his head. His hair turns tangled and dishevelled under it, but he makes no move to smooth it. “A matter this urgent, it has to be about the Horcruxes. And you’re one of four people in the world who knows what we’ve done. I want you there.” He pauses, and turns to Harry. “Will you come?”

Harry takes a deep breath, and lets it out. “Yes,” he says, holding his doubts at bay a little longer. “Yes, I’ll come.”

“What is it?” Draco asks tersely, throwing the doors to his council room open, where Astoria and Pansy are waiting.

They’re decked in festival attire, bolts of silk draped around them, diamonds glittering on their necks and dangling from their ears; as if they were interrupted mid-feast and arrived straight from their tables to Draco’s council room.

“It isn’t good,” Pansy says, and Draco leans forward, hands braced on the edge of the table.

“Out with it.”

“Nott and Rosier are closing their kingdoms,” Astoria says, and oh, it isn’t too bad, Draco thinks. Malfoy’s never had too much trade with the central Territories anyway, and neither have Parkinson and Greengrass – more than Malfoy, certainly, but whatever they’ll lose can easily be brought down from Black with a bit of bargaining, and he’s about to say as much to them when Astoria shakes her head.

“Not trade barriers,” she says, worry etched into her brow. “Geographic barriers.”

And that draws Draco up short. “What? They’re closing down the borders? Why?”

“Because,” Pansy says, falling into her seat, “their Horcruxes have gone missing too.”

“What?” Harry asks, eyes going wide, mouth open. “But that’s not–Lestrange wouldn’t steal from their own allies.”

Draco’s one step ahead of him already, and his insides are turning to ice, fear settling in him like a lodestone. “The Lestranges didn’t do it.” He turns to Harry. “Which means the Lestranges didn’t steal our Horcrux either.”

Harry takes a step back, confused, and Draco doesn’t blame him. They’ve just wasted months chasing after an idiotic illusion, and it’s all Draco’s fault. He feels himself turn faint, and slips into a chair with his head in his hands while some part of his brain registers, distantly, Harry asking the two of them, “Is the information reliable?”

It’s no use, Draco knows. Pansy’s information is always reliable.

“Heard it from Theodore himself,” she’s saying. “It was the last missive my council received before Nott cut off contact indefinitely.”

“And there’s more,” Astoria says, and Draco has to stop himself from letting out a groan of frustration.

“Of course there is.” He gestures for everyone to sit around the table.

“Nott and Rosier think you did it,” Astoria says, clearing her throat and passing around reports, hurriedly inked, barely dry, and that draws Draco up properly short.

“They think I stole from them? When?”

“A few months ago, when the Nott and Rosier Gryffindors went to aid Lestrange against you,” Pansy says, and Draco drops the papers he’s holding because it’s all become so simple, so clear, like a trap he’s walked straight into.

“They think I engineered the Battle of Malfoy Mountains as a decoy, to steal the Horcruxes while they were off fighting my soldiers in the north,” he says, incredulous. “That’s ludicrous. They’ve no proof–”

“Neither did we,” Astoria interjects, “except now we’ve gone and stolen Lestrange’s Horcrux while someone out there is stealing everyone else’s. And if anyone ever finds out we did steal Lestrange’s Horcrux they’re never going to believe us when we say we don’t know where the rest of them are!”

“I’ll handle it,” Draco says tightly. “And I’ll keep your names out of it.”

“That’s not what I meant, Draco,” Astoria sighs. “Only that we need to be careful.”

“And we will be,” Draco says. His mind is already racing, spinning with possibilities of who it could be. “You two, go straight back to your Territories and double everything on the Vault–guards, spells, charms. Whatever you can think of. Whoever did this clearly wants to target all the Royal Houses, and we’ll not be caught unawares a third time.”

“What will you do?” Pansy asks, coming to stand by him. “Do you know?”

“Of course I do,” Draco says, already standing to gather his papers, fatigue forgotten, mind set. This is bigger than he realised, and he can see that now. The danger has amplified more than he can count. To play games with the Lestranges is one thing, to lose to an unknown entity, quite another. And though a part of him roils with fear at the thought of their Horcrux being well and truly lost, there’s another part of him that comes alive once more. The part that hungers, the part that delights in the thrill of the chase.

“What am I going to do?” he asks again, more to himself, though it’s loud enough that everyone can hear. “I’m going to pour myself a glass of wine and get a good night’s rest. And in the morning, I’m going to catch the bastards who did this.”

END OF PART I

Chapter 15: Appendix I

Chapter Text

Chapter 16: Maps - II

Chapter Text

Chapter 17: A Gathering of Rulers

Chapter Text

There is a chill in the council hall that belies the weather. It sneaks itself inside through slits under doors and cracks in the windows, twining like ribbons around the people who have gathered: Druella, a Black by marriage, but a Rosier in all but name, who rules the Seat in her nephew’s stead, wizened and old though she is. Theodore Nott, sharp and pensive in a charcoal shirt and billowing silk pants. Standing tall and glowering in between them, Rodolphus Lestrange himself, tunic catching the breeze and flaring behind him.

On the other side of the table sits Draco, flanked by Astoria and Pansy, neutral and lying in wait. The cold wind brushes against them as well, but they show no signs of discomfort, cocooned in their own spells. It was Draco who had ordered the guards to remove the room’s warming charms; He knew Rodolphus would be too proud to cast one for himself in front of the others, and it was all the better to have them on edge.

“Are the rumours of Malfoy’s bankruptcy true after all? That you cannot afford even a fire?” Druella rasps, voice like steel over granite. “The room is like ice.”

“Forgive me, Your Radiance,” Draco says smoothly. “We northerners are used to the cold.” He murmurs a warming charm, casting over Druella and Theodore as he speaks. “Wouldn’t you agree, Ruler Rodolphus?”

Rodolphus’ jaw tightens. “You are a child playing at being a Ruler,” he spits. “But the time for play is over. It has been weeks. Give us what you stole.”

It’s a bold claim to make, but his words carry weight, for in this gathering of princes and princesses, he is the only man who is king.

“Well,” Draco says, “I can’t say–”

A booming clang echoes through the halls as the doors are flung open, and Lucius stalks in, brisk and grave and furious. His long hair is tied behind his neck, and he wears a cloak of spun silver over his shoulders.

“Rodolphus,” he says, stepping towards the man. “What is the meaning of these accusations?”

He’s come straight from Gaunt’s court, Draco deduces, a direct portal. He’d sent off a patronus to his father the moment he’d heard the delegation was coming, but he hadn’t expected his father to arrive so soon. And in his haste to save time, his cross-territory jump without any stops has cost him. Draco can see it in the slight fall of his shoulders and the labour in his breath.

“It pains me to make such accusations,” Rodolphus admits to Lucius, softening ever so slightly. “But I see no alternative.”

“On what grounds? I don’t have it,” Draco says, addressing all three of them through gritted teeth. “What use have I for a Horcrux when I am in possession of my own?”

“Land, grain, wealth, power,” Theodore says, ticking them off on his fingers. “And that’s just off the top of my head.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Lucius says. “We have no use for any of those things. With the grain Draco took from you, rightfully” –he shoots Rodolphus a warning glance– “we’re secure enough for winter. Malfoy’s large enough to be an administrative headache as is, none of us want more of it. And as for our trade, we owe you no explanation but you’ll only have to travel through our kingdom to see my son’s been doing a fine job of managing it.”

“It’s no secret your son has pursued my family and my kingdom with an unusual vengeance,” Rodolphus says, voice hard. “And now my allies have been caught in the crossfire.”

“It was a fight you started, Ruler Rodolphus,” Pansy says, matching his tone. “And he won it without the help of his allies, stranded as he was. And now you’ve come begging for scraps another way because Draco sent you packing with your tail between your legs when you had the chance to win against him fairly.” She leans across the table, one fist coming down on the table hard. “If you’re looking for another excuse for a fight, we’ll have to send you away empty handed again. He wasn’t responsible for whichever dunderheaded oaf stole your Horcrux in such a spectacular manner that it’s been the talk of the realm. And he certainly wasn’t the one who stole from Nott or Rosier either. So unless you’ve got concrete proof–”

“Who else could it be?” Rodolphus growls, vicious. “It can’t be a coincidence, it's only me and mine who’s affected. We’ve not heard a word from Black, so it’s just the three of our Houses – unless any of you has something to say?”

“No,” Lucius says firmly. “Rodolphus, listen to me. On my honour as a Malfoy, we did not take your Horcruxes. You know me. You must believe that I’d never endanger the stability of another House. The realm depends on it–”

“Yes, yes, you and your codes of conduct and principles of honour,” Druella cuts in. “You speak for yourself very well, Lucius, but do you speak for your son?” She turns to Draco shrewdly. “He’s a different Ruler than you are, after all.”

“We’re the same where it matters,” Lucius insists. “Draco would not do this.”

Rodolphus shakes his head, heaving a breath. “I hope for all our sakes that you are right, Lucius. For if there is even a sliver of proof to the contrary–”

“Need I remind you,” Draco cuts in, “of the oath you swore to me. You signed it in blood and sealed it with magic, that you would not wage war against the House of Malfoy so long as my father remains Ruler.”

“That is true,” Rodolphus concedes, “but my allies made no such promise.” He opens his arms, gesturing towards them. “And they made another oath to me, and they signed it in blood and sealed it with magic as well. That if ever one of our three Houses were threatened, the others would answer the call.” He drops his hands and leans forward, hand coming to rest on the table, and even hunching, he is beastly, broad, a predator hiding in the grass. “The loss of a Horcrux is a threat, would you not say?” He only has eyes for Draco.

“That is enough, Rodolphus,” Lucius says wearily. “This is a grave enough problem without infighting to top it all off. We shall confer with High King Gaunt on what to do. In the meantime, I shall give your threats the credence it warrants.”

They exchange another quick wordless conversation, through shifting eyes and clenched jaws, until Rodolphus nods, barely, and stands down.

His father’s much closer to Rodolphus than Draco is to Rodolphus’ daughter, he knows; and the kidnapping certainly hadn’t helped. But he’s grateful for his father’s de-escalation nonetheless. Draco’s always been quicker to strike first and compromise second. It’s something he’ll have to unlearn when he’s going to be Ruler, someday.

“You will come to me, next time,” Lucius tells Rodolphus, signalling the end of the discussion, and Rodolphus nods briefly as they all file out. When the last of the visitors have left and the doors are shut, Lucius turns to him once more, and asks, low and forceful, “Did you do it?”

“Do you really think I’d have the time to steal three Horcruxes while running a kingdom for you?”

“You aren’t doing it for me,” Lucius snaps. “It’s your responsibility.” He composes himself, then, and sags into a chair. “Gaunt is growing suspicious and there’s only so much I can do to allay his fears.”

“Does he know that our Horcrux is missing as well?” Draco asks, and Lucius just looks up at him.

“I told him. He’d have found out otherwise anyway.” He rests his chin on his knuckles, thinking. “He won’t tell the Lestranges about it, though he’s angry with us all. But it isn’t safe. The Horcruxes are our insurance. Without it….” Lucius looks away. “He might not even need us.”

Draco blanches. “What do you mean?” His mind races with the possibilities – would Gaunt destroy the Seat of Malfoy? Raise a lower House in its place? Would Gaunt even leave them alive?

“Now is not the time to be thinking of all that,” Lucius says, accurately gauging his thoughts. “We’ve time enough for it all if it comes to it. For now, I want you to focus your efforts on finding our Horcrux. There’s only so long we can store the magic without it.”

It’s a problem that’s cropped up repeatedly, since their Horcrux went missing. Without it, they’ve no way to store the magic they’re getting from taxes in the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff Districts across all the Provinces. Draco’s resorted to using precious stones – but there’s only so much a gem can hold before it breaks. Diamonds work best, but they’re a rarity. And Draco’s been having to spend more coin just purchasing the jewellery needed to store the magic.

“Have you sent the Capital our magic quota for this month?” Lucius asks, and Draco nods.

“On the backs of eight cartloads of diamonds, which I doubt we’re going to get back,” Draco says. “Unless the High King is feeling generously inclined?”

“Definitely not,” Lucius says, and they share a commiserating look. “It’s our punishment for losing the Horcrux. The sooner you find it the better.”

“I will,” Draco says. “I am.” He hesitates a moment, and then comes to sit by Lucius. “Do you think they’re telling the truth?”

“About what?”

“Everything,” Draco says. “If Nott and Rosier claim their Horcruxes have been stolen, who’s to say they aren’t lying? It isn’t like we can demand they escort us to their Vaults and show us.”

“It puts them in a weakened position,” Lucius says, brow furrowed. “They wouldn’t deliberately posture as weak.”

“Why not?” Draco pushes. “Posturing as weak isn’t the same thing as being weak. And Lestrange can’t hurt us so long as the treaty is in place. It’ll be just like them to make their allies do what they can’t.”

Lucius shakes his head. “They can lie to us but they can’t lie to Gaunt,” he says. “And I’ve heard it from Gaunt himself that they’re telling the truth about their missing Horcruxes.”

“Like how he’s keeping the truth of our Horcrux’s disappearance a secret from them?” Draco asks. “You can’t trust him.”

“Make up your mind, Draco. It’s either Lestrange stole our Horcrux or they didn’t. Because if Nott and Rosier are lying about having their Horcruxes stolen, in all likelihood it was Lestrange who stole ours, and we’re back where we started all over again. And besides.” He pauses. “Gaunt is our King. If he chooses to withhold information from any of us, it is for the good of the realm.” He says it firmly, though with a tinge of bitterness he can’t fully hide.

“Oh, spare me,” Draco says, rolling his eyes. “You’re talking to your son, not performing for an audience.”

“It’s a trait you would do well to learn,” Lucius says. “I won’t always be–present to save you from yourself.”

“There’s time enough to learn,” Draco says, echoing Lucius from earlier. “And there are other ways to avert disaster. My treaty’s seen well enough to that.”

“There is that, though I won’t applaud you for doing your duty,” Lucius says, but there’s the barest hint of pride in his voice; and that’s enough for Draco.

“Come,” Draco says, standing and beckoning for them to leave. “It’s a while before you must return to the Gaunt King’s court. Let me host you for dinner in the meantime.”

“It is a sad day indeed, when a man is invited to feast in his own home,” Lucius says gravely, but there’s an apostrophe by the side of his mouth, the barest hint of amusem*nt. And despite everything that’s happened since, all the ways in which Draco’s had to grow into a man and hold the kingdom together, he’ll always be a son first and prince second, he knows. He’s never been able to stop the swell in his heart at the pride in his father’s eyes. The pride for which he’d do anything.

“Come on, old man. I’m having the kitchens make that lamb dish you like,” he says. It’s a simple dish, but one Draco reserves for special occasions. Seared lamb cooked in a paste of golden-fried shallots. Just thinking about it makes his mouth water. “It’s your favourite, isn’t it?”

“It was your mother’s favourite,” Lucius says, and Draco stops. Oh. “So it is mine,” Lucius continues.

Draco nods, grateful for this piece of his father, who so rarely ever shows anything of himself.

“I’ll have you summoned for dinner?” Draco asks, and Lucius says, “Yes. We’ll dine in the Gryffindor Halls tonight. It’ll be good for the soldiers to see me.”

“Of course, Father,” Draco says, and lets Lucius be escorted to his chambers.

Harry can tell it isn’t an even match the moment the other Gryffindor steps into the ring with him. His stance is too narrow, shoulders pulled in instead of out, and he’s holding himself like he’s half-concentrated on his posture instead of Harry’s.

“Begin,” Ron says, and steps back.

It’s an easy match, but it always is, these days. Even without the magic Harry's always been an exemplary fighter, but the magic amplifies it somehow. He doesn’t need a wand. Magic flows through his fingertips at the slightest twitch, the slightest thought, like it wants to get out, ready and eager to do his bidding. He wonders if it’s like this for everyone. But he’s seen the way the other Gryffindors tire after too long spent casting, seen them crouch to the floor and catch their breaths as they struggle through the end of their drills. Not so for him. For him it’s like a drop in the ocean, a wellspring of power so vast he can’t begin to fathom it.

He’s hardly paying attention and barely breaking a sweat by the time he ends the fight, blocking a slow jab and punching the man in the stomach. The man bowls forward, grunting loud, and Harry uses the opportunity to grab the back of his neck and pull him down as he pivots sideways. The man goes down easy, and all it takes is a knee to the ribs before he’s gasping on the floor, yielding.

Ron shakes his head. “Like swatting flies.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Ron says, and hands him a pitcher of water. He drinks, finding himself suddenly thirsty.

The other Gryffindors made it clear they didn’t like him, what with him waltzing into the prince’s personal guard with not a whit of border duty to show for it; having a place of honour by his side during meals, meetings, ceremonies. And more than that, just having the prince’s favour, just the fact of it. And the thrust of it all was that they liked their prince, admired him and looked up to him. He’d led them to victory in war and stability in peace more times than they could count. And they couldn’t fathom why he’d let his guard down now to recruit an upstart young Gryffindor who’s never shown himself to be martially inclined in the slightest.

It’d been the first thing Draco ordered him to do, then, after they’d returned. Harry was lounging in the bed while Draco dressed for another one of his endless meetings. And then Harry managed to drag Draco back into bed for–well, he didn’t know, really–but all they’d managed to do was rut against each other, slow and deliberate, exchanging wet kisses until Draco pushed off him and said, “I have something I need to talk to you about.”

“Draco, I told you I’d stay.” Not permanently; he hadn’t promised that. But he felt he owed it to Draco to help him as long as he was able, and he owed it to himself to learn to control his own magic.

“Your position in my court is tenuous at best,” Draco said. “Any currency you have flows from my protection. And you can’t hide under that forever.”

Harry sat up, frowning, the bedcovers falling to his waist, and Draco traced a long line over his chest, lingering on a nipple.

“What do you want me to do?” Harry asked.

Draco smiled at him wickedly. “I want you to put my guards in their place,” he said, and pushed Harry down and slipped a hand inside his trousers, and it turned out they did have enough time for a proper round after all.

When they were done, and Harry slept as well as he needed to, he rose and bathed and left for the training rooms. The other Gryffindors were surprised to see him, but it was a surprise coloured with glee, a chance to finally know him, to judge his prowess and learn his weaknesses. The first man came into the ring briskly, egged on with the effusive enthusiasm of his fellow Gryffindors. It hadn’t taken more than a minute for Harry to put him in the ground. And the next man; and the next man. And though the others fatigued quickly, he was raring to go, desperate for it. Like there was a beast inside him and it hungered for release; and he couldn’t help but slake that thirst on the Gryffindors who came after him, one by one by one, until all that was left was a room of hunched soldiers, staring at him with respect.

“Why the sudden change?” Ron asked him later. “I thought you preferred to practise alone.”

“Draco told me to do it,” Harry said simply, and Ron left it at that.

He hadn’t had much else to do, while Draco was off organising searches, both inside Malfoy and out, sending trusted Gryffindors to find what he’d vaguely sketched out to them as a thing of importance. The soldiers had nodded, confused, and left, while Harry sat back and twiddled his thumbs and fought straw dummies with his fists.

Draco also kept to his word and taught Harry to control his magic, in the time he could spare during the day. He gave Harry a wand and insisted he use it, but Harry didn’t need a wand.

“The wand guarantees precision,” Draco told him once, irked, teaching Harry to light a candle. But Harry just waved his hand and said the incantation and magic spilled out of his fingertips instead, lighting not just the wick, but every floating sconce in the room.

Still, the lessons were useful. To learn of the importance of deliberate intent, to feel the magic deep within him and channel it where he wanted to go. His only obstacle was knowledge–he had the power to do anything.

“Are you having dinner with the prince tonight?” Ron asks him, bringing him back to himself, and Harry shrugs.

“The Ruler is here, so I’m not sure what Draco wants.” Harry’d seen Lucius hurrying to the council room as he stood guard outside, wind billowing under his robes as he ran. He’d come out markedly more free, relieved, exchanging quiet conversation with Draco. Harry’d resolved to ask Draco about it later.

He nearly drops the pitcher of water he’s holding, then, when Draco himself enters the training room.

The guards immediately stand, deferential. Harry hands the pitcher back to Ron, and goes to him.

“You need to get dressed,” Draco says, apropos of greeting. “You’re to have dinner with my father and I.”

“Your father,” Harry asks, leaning forward, unsure he’s heard correctly.

“Yes, my father. Now come.” Draco grabs Harry’s forearm and pulls, and Harry lets himself be dragged. He can feel the stares of the others boring into his skull from behind but, when he turns, they look away quickly, an almost comical immediacy to it.

He follows Draco to their chambers and spends a few minutes dunking in the pool until he’s clean enough to step out. Draco’s waiting for him at the entrance, and he pulls on a tunic and smooths his hair into some semblance of neatness until Draco rolls his eyes and jerks his head towards the door. “My father is waiting.”

“Then you should’ve gotten me sooner.”

It’s a brisk walk and a few sidestepped conversations with other Gryffindors later that they’re escorted and deposited at the largest table in the front of the hall. Lucius sits at the head of it, resplendent in green with a crown of emerald atop his head, and they all rise when Draco enters. He gestures for the crowd to sit and leads Harry to their seats.

For a while it’s nothing but good food and strong drink as Draco and Lucius carry the conversation between them. Others populate the table: Goyle, the younger Zabini, Flint, Bulstrode, and each of their own retinues. But all eyes are trained on the Malfoys. Each course is served to them first, and the others take bites only after the Malfoys have tasted. They laugh when Lucius and Draco laugh, frown when they frown, praise and criticise in equal measure depending on the judgement meted down from the high table, conversation streaming from there, Lucius and Draco controlling its flow like a spigot.

“So,” Lucius says, after the main course has been brought. Lamb cooked in ghee and seasoned with golden hot spices that sizzle aromatically in the air. “This is the man you’ve been gallivanting about the Territory with.” He doesn’t look at them as he says it, plucking a bay leaf from his curry and placing it to the side.

“I’m not gallivanting about with him,” Draco says, eyes narrowed. “He’s my–bodyguard.”

Lucius raises his eyebrow. “And?”

“A member of my personal guard.”

“And?”

“My sparring partner.”

“And?”

Draco huffs, looks at Harry. Harry’s sat with his hand hovering over the plate holding a piece of bread, completely unsure of what to do. Draco rolls his eyes at him and turns back. “He’s my lover.”

A silent murmur flits through the hall at the acknowledgment of an open secret, now legitimised.

Lucius does turn then, eyes Harry from top to bottom, eyes lingering on his eyes, shoulders, all the way down to his torso. “You’ll do, I suppose,” he says.

Draco waits a beat. “Does that mean you–approve?”

“Well.” Lucius bites into a piece of his bread. “As long as you do your duty to the realm by Princess Astoria, I don’t see the harm.”

And in that moment, Harry realises what Draco’s done. Because now that Lucius has effectively sanctioned their liaison, stamped it with a seal of his approval, he’s given Harry the royal backing of not just the prince but the Ruler. And he’d had to earn it. That’s why he’d asked Harry to bring the other Gryffindors to heel.

“Thank you, Your Radiance,” he says, bowing his head low, though he’s never liked the taste of the title. He doesn’t trust himself to say more.

There’s more talk after that, more wine. Draco asks after Goyle’s own partner, a woman by the name Lavender Brown, who sits by Goyle’s side, of Gryffindor descent. She’d taken up Healing to work in the castle with Goyle, and she’s the only Healer in this hall of Gryffindor warriors, so it’s a gift Draco’s given them both – of recognition, a spark of acknowledgement; and Goyle smiles, taken aback that Draco remembers. Then Draco takes it a step further, going down the hall and asking after everyone else’s family, like he’s memorised the lineage of everyone in the room. He walks through the tables, building conversation where it’s sputtered out, quieting the rowdier interactions.

“Tell me, Gryffindor–what do they call you?” Lucius asks casually, lowering his voice so it goes unheard over the din.

Harry knows Lucius has in all likelihood learnt his name, but he plays along with the charade. “Harry, Your Radiance.”

“Harry,” Lucius says mildly. “Tell me, Harry. Do you think Draco is a good man?”

Harry blinks, unsure, and behind him the voices are fading into asynchronous white noise. A server in Ravenclaw colours tops up their wine glasses and asks if he’d like more bread, but he shakes his head, still stuck on Lucius’ question. He feels a trap here, closing in on him, but he can’t move–not when the hall is full of people thronging the entries and exits and every square inch in between.

“Of course,” he says, tentative.

“Good.” Lucius turns to Draco, and Harry follows his eyes to where he is, standing inside a knot of soldiers who’d been fighting earlier, coaxing them into laughter.

“He’ll make a fine Ruler,” Harry says. It slips out of him before he realises, and he finds that he might half mean it. He’ll never be completely content with the idea of an absent Ruler–years of habit can’t be broken, after all–but here, in this sprawling castle, with magic crackling at his fingertips, it isn’t hard to forget, sometimes, who he used to be.

“You care for him,” Lucius says, head tilted, looking at him for the first time, seeing him.

“I–everyone in the castle does,” Harry says, and it’s the truth. There’s not a soldier in the castle who wouldn’t lay down their lives for Draco.

“Admiration is not love,” Lucius says dismissively. “They venerate the crown, they appreciate what he stands for–a prince, a future Ruler of one of the largest territories of the realm of Hogwarts. But you, you’d love him even if he was a commoner, would you not? Even if he were a Hufflepuff. Even if he were a Squib.”

Harry draws back. It isn’t a physical strike but the words still sting like whiplash. Lucius notes his reaction with narrowed eyes. He doesn’t know, Harry has to remind himself. He can’t know.

“Remind me of your family, if you will? Where did you say you–”

It happens in a second. Harry doesn’t know what it is or where it’s coming from, only that it’s sharp and fast and flying in the direction of Lucius. “Get down,” he yells, throwing himself on top of him as they both topple to the floor. The crown on Lucius’ head comes loose, clattering and rolling away. The hall has fallen silent. Under the table, Lucius sputters, and Harry can see Draco hurrying back to them. He rolls away and sits up, scratching at a pinprick on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I thought I saw–”

And then his shoulder bursts into pain, a fire that’s burning under his skin, searing out towards his arm, chest; over his thighs and down to the tips of his toes.

“Harry,” he hears distantly–Draco’s voice, as if through a tunnel. “He’s burning up. Send for Healer Brown. Now.” There’s a hand on his forehead and the touch is too hot, too fiery. He moves away with what little strength he has left. He can feel his body fighting it, the blazing heat that eats him up from the inside. But he can’t direct it, doesn’t know what he’s fighting, and so he lies back and writhes against the floor, spell sapping the strength from his bones and leaving only agony in its place.

“Out of the way,” a woman’s voice calls out, deep and commanding. She’s a blur somewhere behind Harry’s vision, and she catches Harry’s head just as it lolls to the side, and mutters a careful spell. “Your Radiance, I’ll need more energy–”

“Take it,” Draco says, his hand over the woman’s wrist, glowing brightly as the woman presses her palms against Harry’s chest and pushes inward, light glowing out from where his heart is, finding the dark corners where the spell has sunk it’s claws and prying it out. And even the excision is painful, piercing, tearing him apart from the inside; but just when he feels on the verge of surrendering, the burning sensation recedes, like water lapping against the shore, steadfast and calm, turning the pinch into a cool buzzing in his veins, drawing back the way it came. When his vision clears, Draco is on the floor by his side, peering over him with a look of complete exhaustion on his face.

“What–what–” Harry can’t muster the energy to say more. But Draco’s magic envelops him, and then the familiar tingle of Ron’s magic sweeps over him, and together it braces him as he sits up, leaning against Draco. Someone hands Draco a cup of water and he holds it to Harry’s lips, water dribbling down Harry’s chin as he drinks, but he can only manage a few mouthfuls.

“You were sweating blood,” Ron says, crouching by Harry’s side, genuine fear on his face. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Harry looks down, and sees blood dotting his clothes, a mass of red, dripping down his skin like little red pearls.

“It was this.” The Healer–Lavender Brown, Harry recognises–holds out a needle attached to a small pouch. “A Blood-Boiling potion-dart,” she says. “A second longer and you’d have been” –she darts a glance towards Draco, worried– “you’d have been dead.”

“It was coming for Lucius,” Harry croaks. “If it’d gotten to him….” He pauses, seeing something dawn on Draco’s face as he speaks.

“My father,” Draco says slowly, turning this way and that. “Where is he?”

Soft, questioning murmurs slice through the crowd as people move between them, searching. Draco’s expression turns pale, and he asks again, louder, “My father. The Ruler. Where is he?”

Another shock of chatter ripples through the hall as the crowd parts and the people scatter as there, lying limp on the floor, hands spread out and head falling to the side, is Lucius Malfoy himself.

“Father,” Draco calls loudly, running to him and dropping down, feeling for a pulse over his wrist, bending with his ear to Lucius’ chest. Ron helps Harry stand and he limps to where they are as the crowd makes way for them. Brown is already there, chanting furiously with her eyes screwed shut, and even more Healers join her, having arrived at the sound of the commotion.

“No,” Draco is saying, cupping his father’s face, now pale and empty, so devoid of the vitality of earlier. “No, no, no, no, no. Save him. Please.” His voice cracks at the end, expression broken open in torment, face turned ashen, but he doesn’t stop cradling his father’s head, closing his eyes as a single set of tears trickle down his cheeks,

The Healers join hands, wordlessly, and their voices grow louder and louder, spell-light shining brighter and brighter but Lucius does not stir once. He lies slack and unmoving on the cold stone floor. And when the spell ends, and the entire hall has quietened, Brown turns to Draco and shakes her head once.

Harry can see the exact moment Draco processes the news, locking it into some hidden part of his brain and smoothing his face to stand. “What was it,” he commands quietly, holding himself straight, tears wiped clean, not a single wavering note in his voice.

Brown summons Lucius’ wine glass, near empty, sticking a finger inside to cast a spell over the dregs. There’s a low flash, and the colour of the wine turns black, and Brown looks at Draco with such sorrow in his eyes, such regret, when she says, “A highly concentrated magically-enhanced dose of Belladonna. The treatment is… fruit from the Manchineel tree, which we have in our stores. We could’ve saved him if we’d gotten to him earlier but we were distracted with….” She trails off but the message is clear. All of this was deliberate.

Draco doesn’t blink. “Take him to the crypts to be prepared,” he intones, squaring his shoulders and enunciating tightly.

“Shall I requisition a Squib?” another Gryffindor asks, hesitant, but Draco clenches his jaw and shakes his head, barely opening his mouth to say, “No, I’ll prepare my father’s body myself.”

He beckons for Ron to bring Harry, and turns to leave. “Send a formal missive to the Capital,” he orders Goyle. “Tell them the Ruler of Malfoy is dead.”

Chapter 18: A Flurry of Preparations

Chapter Text

The weeks leading up to the coronation were spent in a perpetual, dizzy, occupied haze. The required week of mourning was observed, and Draco took up the duties himself: the Malfoy flag flew at half-mast, a white bolt of silk rippling by its side; tapestries in the halls were changed to white; strict dress codes were imposed. All the necessary rituals to keep up appearances, which Draco couldn’t care one whit for but knew he would have to do to eschew criticism. The passing of the throne was never a simple affair, he knew, only exacerbated by the circ*mstances he’d come into it by.

Harry helped where he could, even assisting with the embalming, which Draco knew was not an easy gift to give, and so he was grateful, even when Harry wrapped the shroud over Lucius’ cold body because Draco couldn’t bear to do it himself. But he’d made himself look upon his father one last time, feeling very much like he’d seen more death than he ought to; and when he shut the coffin lid, it felt as though he was shutting out a part of himself along with it.

Messengers were sent with the news all across the kingdom, to deliver the news in person, in town halls and city squares and village gatherings. Draco could have sent a patronus, but he wanted to show the people he cared. So he’d handwritten the messages himself and sent them out individually on the backs of his most trusted men.

Privately, he would mourn for years to come. His father was a great man, but more than that he was good; and there was much he had yet to learn from him. And now he would have to contend with the fact that he was well and truly alone, the last of the Malfoy line; and though the line would not die with him, he was still, for the moment, unmoored. He would not have the luxury of mistakes any longer; his father would not be there to fix them for him. He was the Ruler, and though he had never longed for the title as much as expected it, the weight of the crown still rested heavy on his shoulders.

Still, he was determined not to linger publicly on his father’s death any longer than he should. It would not do good to appear weak, especially when his enemies were strengthening their strongholds everywhere. So at the end of the mourning week, he shed his white robes and called for his father’s coronation tunic. It was a verdant green; lush like the roll of spring, like the thick trees that grew in the Parselwoods, like the horizon that spread during sunrise. It was every inch a reflection of his father: vitality and bounty and peace.

And it would not do at all.

So he sent for his seamstresses to make for him another tunic–not a better one, but one more suited to him, fiddling with the colours until it was just right. And when he stepped into the throne room and marched to the centre of the hall, the gasps travelled up to the ceiling. For he wore the Malfoy colours, but he wore them differently, green from head to toe–except it was green like the murk of the deep dark sea, green like the sky heralding a thunderstorm, green like the zing of the Killing Curse, and it was unmistakable for anything else. For with it he was sending a clear message, that he would not be cowed or bent or broken, so that whoever had come for his father would know that they had merely substituted one vengeance for another, one benevolent Ruler for his ruinous, ruthless son. And nothing would sate him short of blood.

After the coronation, the day was for celebration. Poets from Ravenclaw came into the castle halls and sang songs of praise in his honour. He held banquets for them in the lower halls and had food sent out to the rest of the commonfolk. He would need their support in the battles to come.

Coronations were also a game for many of his nobles, who competed for his favour amid his newfound power. He bestowed titles, gifts of honour, even land, to all of them in turn, carefully calculated according to their value and loyalty, though not too much that it might breed resentment. They in turn gave him gifts: from Goyle, an enormous wool carpet, stretching from one end of his hall to the other, handwoven with intricate patterns of silver and green and white; from Zabini, a reproduction of the Malfoy castle chiselled in white marble, towering taller than Draco. From Bulstrode, silk robes woven with spun silver that caught the winter light and shone, attire fit for a Ruler. From Flint, plates of gold that were thick and heavy, carved with Draco’s likeness and the likeness of his father.

The best gift of all came from the Pansy and Astoria, who’d pooled their resources together and sent him quartz, mined from the deposits under their forests.

“It isn’t much,” they said, when they presented it to him, “but our mines are mostly construction minerals, as you well know. This is the best we could do by way of gemstones while you sort out your Horcrux problem.”

He could’ve gladly embraced them both, right there in the centre of the hall, but instead he nodded, with all the courtesy the occasion befitted, thanked them deeply, and then, in his chambers, squeezed them both in his arms so tightly they’d had to squeal and break apart.

“You’re going to spoil my dress,” Astoria scolded, adjusting the drape of silk on her body.

“I’m sorry,” Draco said, though he really wasn’t sorry at all. He was, for a brief period, not happy, but certainly better. His Hufflepuffs had been taking longer and longer to find gold and diamond veins; and they’d soon be eating through their reserves at the rate he’s having to send the tax quota to Gaunt.

“I don’t understand,” Harry said, a few days later. “Can’t you use another metal to store the magic you’re sending to the Capital? The Horcrux wasn’t a gem.”

“The Horcrux is the product of an ancient and highly complex spell that’s since been lost to time. Nothing can come close to its capacity as a container of magical energy,” Draco explained, a little impatient. He’d been juggling meetings with his advisors all morning and was hoping to get some rest where he could.

“But how do you send all that energy to Gaunt?” Harry pressed. “Do you just–cart the Horcrux across the borders once a month and have him touch it?”

“Of course not,” Draco said, looking at him side-eyed. “The Horcruxes are keyed to his wand. His wand is an heirloom, passed down from the very first Gaunt. It’s simply a matter of saying the spell, and the energy transfers to him.”

“Oh,” Harry said, considering the information with his brow furrowed, as if being confronted with a mildly confusing puzzle.

Truthfully, it’s a lot to grasp. But Gaunt’s the only one alive who can do what he does to keep the realm from falling apart. Despite all his flaws the people need him, and so do the Great Houses. So Draco will have to shoulder the slights and bear the losses and send all the magical energy he can pack into gemstones from his dwindling mines to Gaunt while trying, desperately, to stop the gold draining from his kingdom any other way.

There is also, of course, the question of who exactly killed his father. Proof is a rare commodity, it seems, but even then, Draco thinks he has an idea.

“You’re like a faulty patronus, repeating the same thing again and again,” Astoria says. “You can’t start a war based on a whim.”

“It’s not a whim, it’s a carefully considered decision,” Draco bites back. They’re arguing in his council room, well past midnight, curtains drawn, doors locked, huddled around their maps. “Lestrange stands to gain the most from my father’s death. They’re not bound by the treaty any longer because father isn’t Ruler any longer–though if I’d known they’d sidestep the issue that easily–”

“You don’t know they did it–”

“It doesn’t matter!” Draco exclaims. “They’re smarting as it is from the loss of their Horcrux. They’ll be at our gates regardless of whether they did it or not.”

Astoria presses her lips into a thin line. “Be that as it may, without confirmation–”

“They’re not going to take credit for the murder,” Draco says incredulously. “Unless kingslaying has come back in style since I last checked.”

“What Astoria means to say,” Pansy cuts in sharply, “is that we will support you, Draco; but if Nott and Rosier join the fray we’ll have no choice but to fortify our kingdoms first. They’re not going to march north when they can just hop next door to us. And Astoria’s more vulnerable than I am.”

Draco takes a breath, eyes closed, as he realises they’re right; he can’t start a six-way war without at least an attempt at reconciliation. “I’ll call for a Mediation before Gaunt,” he says tiredly. He’ll hear what the Lestranges have to say before he makes any decisions of his own. It isn’t long before he’ll have to move to Gaunt himself to oversee the realm from there, replacing his father as a member of Gaunt's inner circle. He’ll have to leave Goyle in charge, he thinks. There’s no one he trusts more, and he can’t be worrying about the nitty-gritty details of Malfoy when he’s contending with the most powerful minds in the realm–a dangerous new game he’ll have to orient himself to.

“I’m going to need more allies,” he says, “and I’ll have to find them before the fighting starts.”

“Gaunt won’t send you any of the Capital’s soldiers,” Pansy says. “Are you–?”

“Yes,” Draco confirms, standing, “I’m going to take a trip to Black.”

Harry’s playing with Hedwig on the bed when Draco enters the room, cracking the door open just a smidge and slipping inside. “Oh, you’re awake,” he says when he sees Harry. “I thought you’d be asleep.”

It’s not an unreasonable assumption. Once Draco learned the extent of Harry’s magical prowess, he’d put him to work on the castle’s defences immediately, “As a learning experience,” he’d claimed, and Harry supposed it was, but the ward work still left him sore and tight after.

“Hedwig wouldn’t let me sleep,” he says, gesturing morosely to the Dementor flying in circles over his head, swooping down to get close to his face and sweeping back when he tries to catch him.

Draco smiles, a soft, tired thing. “Rest while you can,” he says. “We’re going to be travelling tomorrow.” He takes off his crown and places it in a box, fingers lingering over the metal just a bit. He misses his father, Harry knows, though he won’t ever admit it. Harry’s not going to push, but he’s tried to be there for him in other ways, help where he can. He doesn’t leave Draco’s side unless he’s working and, even then, it’s a quick dash to finish the task before he can be back by Draco’s side.

“Where are we going?” he asks.

Draco pulls his tunic over his head and a familiar spark of desire courses through Harry, at the rippling line of his shoulders, the narrow frame of his back. He’ll never get enough of Draco, never tire of him. “Come here,” he says, and Draco does, fitting himself against Harry and tumbling them both back onto the bed, exhaustion pouring out of him.

Hedwig flits over them both, cooing, and rubs himself against Draco’s cheek, once, before flying off to the ceiling and back again.

“Why does he have so much energy today,” Draco groans, yawning, and then Harry’s yawning too.

“I don’t know,” he says, and waves Hedwig closer, who makes a little nest out of blankets by the foot of their bed and curls up in a corner. “Goodnight,” he tells them both, but Draco is already asleep.

•·················•·················•

Morning comes sooner than the sun and Harry awakens in the dark with Draco. They get dressed and Harry practises drills as Draco sorts through a dozen petitions before first light, handing his orders over to Goyle to be carried out. From there it’s breakfast, and more meetings, and a bit of sword work and spell practice before lunch. It’s only after the next batch of petitions from the commonfolk are cleared that Draco stands from his desk, cracking his neck, to say, “It’s time.”

“For an afternoon nap?” Harry asks hopefully, and Draco frowns at him.

“Get the portal ready,” he says, fondly exasperated, and Harry goes.

Harry has to admit that travelling by portal is a marked improvement to carpet-riding. There’s no threat of thunder or rain or sandstorms, and they’re there within minutes, dropped onto the side of the mountain. A few Gryffindors greet them on the other side, ready for orders, but Harry grows confused, because besides the outpost there’s nothing but mountains that stretch for miles on all sides. “Where’s the castle?”

“Sirius is paranoid,” Draco says, gesturing to one of the Gryffindors, asking for something. “We’ll have to take a carpet.”

They go faster than necessary, in Harry’s opinion, past tall hills that taper out as they move towards the coast, until they hit a wall of smoke as thick as wool, shrouding the rest of the land in a sordid dark grey.

“Sirius calls it The Veil. It’s another precaution,” Draco explains. “To keep intruders out.”

He sends off a quick patronus and within minutes, the fog parts for them as they fly forward like an arrow shot into water, mist closing just as fast behind them.

“What did you do?” Harry asks, motioning to the clear path ahead of them, and Draco just shrugs and says, “I asked for permission.”

The ground below is completely invisible, and the smoke only thins when they reach the edge of the perimeter, opening into a small village hanging off the edge of a marshy forest. It’s a quick while later that they find the castle, a large island in the middle of dense mangroves, the only solid ground in a sea of scraggly roots. They hover over the edge until a space on the parapet is cleared for them, and then they descend.

“I apologise, but the Gryffindor waits outside,” one of the guards says, eyes pointing down, tone quiet and careful. “His Radiance acquiesced to an audience with you, Ruler Malfoy, and no one else.”

Draco stares between the two of them, and his eyes narrow into slits. “Fine,” he says, “Harry will wait outside.”

They’re taken through a set of stairs deep into the interior of the castle, past halls and doors bolted with thick, iron chains. It’s a lonely castle; hardy, but without anything to protect for all its sturdiness. The walls are blank, plain stone covered with spells that whizz faintly in the air, and the wind is thick and humid with moisture, swerving inside from all directions.

“Here,” the guard says, stopping outside a large set of double doors without a handle. “The Ruler waits for you inside.”

Draco nods to Harry once, then glances towards the guard briefly in acknowledgment, and steps inside the room as the doors swing open and a whoosh of air blasts out of it.

Sirius sits brooding on his throne, crown half tilted off his forehead, chin resting on his knuckles as he slouches to one side, leg straightened out in front. It’s the very picture of insouciance, and it grates on Draco’s nerves.

“Cousin,” Sirius says without shifting, and Draco looks around for a place to sit, but the hall is empty. A deliberate slight. He walks in measured steps to the centre of the hall, sounds bouncing off the cavernous walls, but he doesn’t say a word until he reaches the base of the throne. And then he climbs, one step at a time, until he reaches the very top; darts a hand out, quick as a flash, and Sirius whips his wand out to wave it at Draco, Slytherin-fast, but Draco just looks at him, tearing the lone tapestry off the wall from behind and setting it on the floor.

“I am a Ruler,” Draco says, channelling a wordless spell into the satin and transfiguring it into a chair. He sets it by Sirius’ side, and lowers himself into it, adding, “You will treat me as such.”

Sirius sighs, shaking his head and smiling to himself, a smile tinged with a kind of derogatory disbelief. “I have nothing you could want, Draco.”

The defeat in the words falls easily from Sirius’ lips, once so proud, so wicked. Now there’s darkness under his sunken eyes, and his hair is tangled and unkempt. The stubble on his jaw is short and prickly, and the entire effect immediately sets Draco on edge. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve come here looking for aid against Lestrange, yes?”

“I have called for Gaunt to mediate the dispute between us,” Draco says carefully, and Sirius snorts.

“The time for words has long since passed. You would be a fool not to prepare for war, and you are no fool, Ruler Malfoy.” He pauses. “Am I correct?”

“I have come to gauge your intentions,” Draco says. “Will you fight alongside us? Or them? Or will you not fight at all.”

“My intentions hardly matter,” Sirius says listlessly. “My hands are tied.”

“You are the Ruler–”

“My hands are tied,” Sirius says, sitting straight and righting his crown. “The only concession I am allowed is to warn you.”

“Warn me of what?” Draco asks, confused, and Sirius clenches his fists.

“When the war begins in earnest, I’ll be joining the fray, but it won’t be on your side.”

Draco jerks back. “Sirius, you can’t fight with them–”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Why?” Draco asks, standing. “What could they possibly offer you that you’d be willing to turn yourself into another Lestrange lackey–”

“Breathing room!” Sirius exclaims, also standing, throwing his hands in the air. They’re both panting hard, eyes wide and jaws clenched, mirroring each other. Then Sirius droops, shoulders falling, and he thumps back into his seat.

“What do you mean?” Draco asks softly.

“Lestrange’s Horcrux is missing,” Sirius says, and Draco holds his breath, offering out a tentative, “Yes,” and Sirius says, “So is Nott’s and Rosier’s.”

Draco purses his lips. “I fail to see how this is relevant.”

“Theirs wasn’t the first,” Sirius says, voice low, and it takes a second for Draco to understand. “The first Horcrux was stolen years ago, and that Horcrux was mine.”

Draco's come prepared for a lot of things, but he hasn't prepared for this. “How?” he asks, half a mind to hex Sirius into oblivion, for keeping quiet about it all this time.

“There was a woman,” Sirius says quietly, and Draco doesn’t want to hear anymore, can’t bear to.

“You fool. If your Horcrux is missing then Lestrange certainly didn’t–” he stops. “I fought Lestrange because I thought they’d stolen my Horcrux.”

Sirius looks at him from under disbelieving eyes. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not f*cking lying,” Draco says, incensed. “I went to war with Lestrange for this. They killed my father for this. And if we’d known–if we’d known–”

“Rodolphus didn’t kill your father,” Sirius says, “they were friends, whatever else they were. He wouldn’t do this.”

“Oh, so now you’re the font of all wisdom,” Draco snaps. “How did you manage to hide this from us–all these years–” Anger builds at the base of his throat, choking him from the inside out. “If you’d just said something–”

“You didn’t say anything,” Sirius points out, equally harsh. “You don’t know what it’s been like, having to rely on Nott–”

“Nott?” Draco pauses. “Nott’s been helping you? Not Lestrange?”

“Lestrange doesn’t even know,” Sirius says, “neither does Gaunt. We have an arrangement, Theodore and I. Once a month he gets cartloads of ore from my mines chock full of my share of the tax, puts it all in his Horcrux and sends it along with his own tax share to Gaunt. He even sends me half the ore back. Better him than Gaunt, who’d never let me see a whit of copper for my losses. I give him that and a few other concessions, and we’ve been making it work.”

“You haven’t,” Draco says. “He’s been draining your territory in so many different ways and you’ve let him. That’s why there’s no trade coming into Malfoy from Black, you’re sending it all to him at a bargain and it’s your commonfolk who are suffering for it–”

“What else can I do?” Sirius asks him. “What would you have done?”

“I–” Draco fumbles, more from rage than loss for words. “Certainly not this.” He draws away from Sirius. “This is why you won’t move against them?”

“Yes. If Nott calls for aid, I must go,” Sirius repeats. “I don’t have a choice.”

“Fine,” Draco says, thoroughly, furiously vexed by this turn of events. “You’re no Ruler, Sirius Black. You gambled your country away on the chance for a good f*ck and you lost. Your people deserve better.”

“I know,” Sirius says, “Draco, I know.”

There’s nothing more Draco can get out of him, he knows, watching Sirius retreat into himself, sinking back against his armrests and closing his eyes. So Draco leaves, doesn’t bother to say goodbye, leaving just the way he came, the violence of what will come weighing heavy in his heart. He wants to fall to his knees and scream for his father, scream at his father, for leaving him to deal with a fractured realm and a fractured heart; but instead he schools his face into silence and pushes open the doors, and manages a smile for Harry, saying, “Come, let’s go home.”

Harry smiles back, though it’s tinged with worry, and follows him.

Astoria is at her wit’s end.

She went straight to her library the moment she’d come back from Lestrange after their Horcrux operation, only stopping to show her face in the hall where the Leviathan Day festivities were happening. Her sister sat at the head of the hall wearing a crown of yellow sapphires and a bolt of golden silk, looking every inch the would-be queen she was; and she’d beckoned for Astoria and Astoria went, and endured the tedious minutiae of socialising with her sister’s advisors. They did not like her, she knew, nor she them. They were too calculating, too false, slipping from one mask to the next as easy as changing garments. She much preferred her books and her scrolls and her texts, and it was there that she sat day after day, months of research gone by with nothing to show for it. But she was determined, for she knew what she had seen when Harry blasted the roof of the Lestrange tunnels; and she’d seen it again when he mounted the Dementor and steered them all to safety. Only a wizard wielding extraordinarily powerful magic could command the hearts of Dementors.

As for what that magic is, well, that is something she’s still searching for.

She combs through old dusty tomes, chock full of half-mad fairytales and indecipherable script, discarding information as quickly as she finds it, until she’s ready to give up. There’s nothing she can pinpoint that can help them, but it can’t have been undocumented because it exists, and if it exists now, it’s existed before, and if it’s existed before, someone’s bound to have written about it. She just has to find it. There is a cost to everything, she knows, and a power like Harry’s is bound to have a cost twice as steep. The problem is she’s not sure Harry even knows he has to pay it.

“Come on,” she murmurs, flipping through the pages of her dwindling pile of books. There’s a highly explicit drawing of a demon of lust and death with tentacles sprouting out of highly dubious places, looking rather like the author’s fantasies more than anything useful. She tosses it aside and reaches for the next one.

It’s then that she sees it, sticking out of the shelf where it isn’t supposed to be, a children’s book on a shelf of spell instructions. She goes to pick it up and opens it on a whim, and it’s then that she remembers; and it’s then that she realises she’s been stupid this entire time, she’s had the answer all along, and she doesn’t stop to take anything as she hurries out of the Greengrass Library and straight down to the portal room telling her Gryffindors, “Hurry, I need to get to Malfoy. Now.”

“Harry is not a descendant of the Peverells,” Draco says exasperatedly, and Astoria whirls around and stomps towards him, hair coming loose from her braid, saying, “I didn’t say he was a descendant of the Peverells, Draco, you’re being deliberately obtuse–”

“Then what are you saying?” Harry asks, and Astoria tuts impatiently.

“I’m saying you’re the Master of Death. It’s the only explanation. You’ve an immense well of power inside you, you can control Dementors–”

“I don’t control Dementors,” Harry protests indignantly. “I just–ask them nicely for things.”

“Oh, pfft,” Astoria says. “You match all the documented descriptions!”

“You’re getting this from a fairytale! A children’s book!” Draco exclaims. “And even if I were to go along with your assumption for a moment–where are the Hallows? What’s a Master of Death without his Hallows?”

“I don’t know,” Astoria admits, slumping back into her chair. “That’s the part that has me stumped.”

The three of them made camp in the castle’s library after Astoria arrived, clothes in disarray, clutching a copy of Tales of Beedle the Bard, panting, “Drop everything and escort me to the library.” Draco cleared his entire schedule and then regretted it immediately when Astoria opened the book and pointed to the Tale of the Peverells and said, “Harry. That’s Harry.”

“Stop,” Harry says, now, looking between the two of them with a vexing combination of trepidation and annoyance. “Will either of you explain to me what you’re talking about?”

“Of course,” Astoria says, slapping her forehead. “It isn’t a Squib bedside tale.” And then she opens the book and points to the relevant portions, explaining, “You’ve heard the story of the Peverell brothers, how they found the Hallows and woke the Leviathan. It’s mostly rubbish, of course. They didn’t wake the Leviathan when they found the Hallows. That came long after. The three brothers were actually thick as thieves, and the point of the Hallows wasn’t power or invisibility or bringing back lost loves from the dead–although admittedly that is an exceptionally valuable bonus–the point of the Hallows was immortality.”

“I see,” Harry says, in a tone that suggests he isn’t seeing very much of anything at all.

“It’s quite simple! The wizard who owned all three Hallows could, effectively, cheat Death.” Astoria catches herself. “Well, evade. I don’t think anyone can ever truly cheat Death.”

Harry frowns. “You’re acting like Death is a person.”

“Death isn’t a person,” Astoria says. “They’re a being. A cosmic entity beyond the understanding of our mortal frame.”

“Death isn’t real–”

“People die everyday!”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it–”

“Next you’ll be saying the Leviathan isn’t real–”

“Oh, enough, please,” Draco interrupts tiredly, sighing, coming to stand between them both and glaring at them until they relent. “What Astoria is trying to say,” he continues, turning to Harry, “is that according to the real legend, Death entered an agreement with the first wizards to ever walk the earth. The first wizards were immortal, and they gave up that immortality in exchange for the Hallows. This way Death would have its people once the mortal wizards died, and the living wizards would have the tools they’d need to organise the ones alive. So Death created the cloak, the wand, and the stone, to help wizards. The cloak was to protect from disease, the wand from physical harm, and the stone from famine. That was the purpose for which it was created. And it was why the Hallows granted immortality–Death couldn’t trust a mortal to be able to wield the Hallows without succumbing to earthly temptations. And even then Death wasn’t satisfied, so it built a failsafe into the Hallows: that the moment the brothers would use it for personal gain, they would wake the Leviathan–and that’s exactly what happened.”

“What does this have to do with me?” Harry asks, and he’s not wrong to be confused, Draco thinks. Draco hardly understands it himself.

“Astoria seems to think you’re a Peverell brother reincarnated–”

“I didn’t say that, Draco, stop putting words in my mouth.” Astoria crosses her arms and glares at him and he grins back at her blithely. He can’t resist winding her up sometimes.

She ignores him, then, to continue, “The Peverell brothers could control Dementors–”

“I can barely get Hedwig to stop thwacking my legs while I’m sleeping! I’m not a–a Dementor enslaver or what have you,” Harry objects peevishly.

Astoria pauses, closing her mouth and opening it like she’s gearing up for a truly complicated question. “Who’s Hedwig?” she asks, and Draco snorts.

“Harry’s pet.”

“What part of this is amusing to you?” Astoria asks, displeased. “Being the Master of Death is a curse as much as it is a blessing. We’ve no idea how precise or exacting the title could be–”

“But I don’t have the Hallows,” Harry says, a little tentative, like he’s afraid he’s missing something. “I can’t be the Master of Death unless I have the Hallows, yes?”

“Yes, and no,” Astoria sighs. “The Master of Death is an identity. But the Hallows grant the Master of Death their powers–to protect against famine and danger and disease. For only the Master of Death can wield the Hallows, and if anyone else tried, the Leviathan would destroy them.”

“Wonderful,” Harry says. “There’s only the small matter of me being a Squib for the past two and a half decades. And the Master of Death sounds to be many things but he’s probably not a Squib.”

“Neither are you,” Draco says sharply, and Astoria shakes her head.

“None of this makes any sense. But all I know is you shouldn’t have as much power as you do, and you shouldn’t be able to communicate with Dementors. And if you do, it means you’re no ordinary wizard, and there’s a cost to that. There’s a cost to everything.”

Draco lets out a sharp exhale. He knows Astoria’s right, though he’s tried to avoid thinking about it for as long as he can, content to just bask in Harry’s magic, the strength of him, the endless depths of his core. But he can’t afford to stay complacent any longer, not when it could hurt Harry’s life; so he takes the book from Astoria and shrinks it into the tunic of his pocket, tucking it away safe, vowing to himself that he’ll vet and neutralise any threat that crosses Harry’s way–even the ones which might emerge out of fairytales.

Chapter 19: A Court of Justice

Chapter Text

The true story of the Peverell brothers, known only to the Slytherins and the Gryffindors of the realm, begins like this. Long ago, when the land was still fractured and its people broken, the Peverell brothers were called by the people to bring concord to the realm, and they agreed, and made a pact with Death–the Hallows in exchange for peace. Death granted it to them and thus the Peverell brothers ruled strong and true; under their reign the realm did prosper, and the harvests were always bountiful and the rain was always regular and the people were always hale and hearty.

But the brothers grew tired, as the centuries went by, until they could bear it no longer, watching their lovers turn to dust and their children grow old without them. So they met in secret, once more, and contrived to cheat Death, to die, and pass on the mantle to others that might be willing. In this manner they gave up immortality and hid from Death’s vengeance, but when it was time for them to die and they knocked on Death’s door, Death saw what they had done, and Death was furious. Death had warned them of the repercussions, long ago, the consequences of turning mortal, but they had not heeded it when they were young and foolish and only wanted to rule.

Now Death refused them entry into his kingdom, and condemned them to a half-life, to roam the earth as fugitives and wanderers, that the ground would not yield fruit for them and water would not bring them relief, and they would find no succour for the rest of their restless days. Saying thus, Death stretched forth its rotten hand and shook the sleeping Leviathan awake, to punish the Peverells and retrieve the Hallows. The Leviathan rose, wings spanning the length of mountains, and flew over the realm of Hogwarts. And where it flew, shadows descended upon the land and Dementors emerged from those shadows; and the Dementors did not pillage, or plunder, but prey, enveloping the people in clouds of dark mists and sucking the souls from inside them. And the Peverells looked upon what they had wrought, with horror in their human eyes, for the mortality had made them weak, and they no longer had the fortitude to stand for their people. So they vanished into the land beyond the mountains, and the Hallows vanished with them, and it was up to the people left behind to save themselves.

Into this vacuum of power Gaunt did step, who was a steward in the court of the Peverells. He rounded up his people: Malfoy, Lestrange, Black, Nott, Rosier, Greengrass, and Parkinson, and led the charge against the Dementors with the Leviathan at their head. But in vain, for the Leviathan was too powerful, swallowing the magic their wands emitted, and spitting out shadows instead. It would not rest until it had found the Hallows, and Gaunt knew the realm might be razed before the Peverells were discovered. So he hatched a plan, and called up his soldiers, and together they met at the centre of the realm, in the heart of the Peverell castle. And as chaos and darkness spiralled around them and the walls crumbled to dust, as Dementors struck down the gates of their fortress to devour their dwindling armies, Gaunt and his people stood firm and true, joining hands and spilling blood, chanting a ritual known only to them. And each wizard gave one thing that meant most to them: a ring, a locket, a cup, a diary, a diadem, a sword, and a shield; and they poured their lifeblood into it, until their cores were drained and they could no longer perform magic.

But the deed was done, for with the completion of the ritual, the Horcruxes were created, and the Leviathan was forced into slumber, bound to the lifespan of the objects–that so long as the objects remained undisturbed and whole, the Leviathan would never wake; but if ever the Horcruxes were broken, the Leviathan would open its eyes once more, and fire would erupt from the ground as it took to the sky to finish what it had once started.

It was an imperfect solution, a bandage over a mortal wound; for though the Leviathan slept, it was a disturbed, tortured slumber, and in its restive state, it continued to send forth Dementors from across the icy desert it had been banished unto. So the Dementors came, across the narrow channel, and to defend the realm Gaunt knew a stronger leader would have to take the place of the Peverells. So he divided the land into eight parts, keeping the centre for himself, and the remaining seven he parcelled out to his vassals, and bade them build castles and cities to protect the people within. And to each of his vassals he gave one Horcrux for safekeeping, that through the Horcruxes they would send their kingdoms’ magical energy to him. Thus Gaunt would wrangle the energy of a billion cores and channel it into the spell, that the sleeping Leviathan would stay asleep, and the realm would be guarded from decimation.

While his vassals built castles and raised vassals themselves, Gaunt did not raise a city; he raised a castle so tall and dangerous, so impenetrable, that none would dare breach it. And he crowned himself High King, and crowned his vassals Rulers in their own right, that they would oversee their own kingdoms but answer to him. And from his seat at the centre of the realm, he oversaw, with his vassals’ help, the needs of the entire continent. And when he grew old, he passed on the mantle to his son, who in turn passed it to his son, each who added to the infinite indestructibility of the castle, until it became the most deadly fortress in all the realm, housing the deadliest line of wizards in all the realm: the Gaunts. With a magical prowess so unparalleled, the family grew to be the most feared wizards across the continent, able to level cities with a flick of their wrist, part seas, rend mountains. It was fitting that they ruled the land, then, from their impenetrable shield of a castle.

It’s there that Draco stands now, stone walls towering into the sky, turrets like arrows piercing the air above it, parapets long and broad with slits to pour out boiling oil and holes to shoot arrows. The atmosphere shimmers with spellwork, woven into the very fabric of the walls, like a thick curtain draped over the land. And then the curtain parts, and Draco enters, floating in on a carpet with Harry by his side, dismounting to let the castle Gryffindors take them to the High King.

The Capital Territory of Gaunt is unlike any other territory in the realm. It’s not a city, or a collection of cities and towns and villages. It’s a martial region, nothing but keeps and cantonments all the way to the borders, where Gryffindors train before they earn their rank and leave to serve in castles across the realm.

They arrive at the throne room, a long, rectangular hall with vaulted ceilings and pillars of iron that gleam sharp and black. Gaunt’s never aspired to aesthetic beauty; he values function over form, utility over grace. Even his throne is similarly built, intertwining shackles fused together over rows and columns, no padding or silk, just cold, hard steel; and his crown is a simple circlet with sharp, fiery points tapering upwards. He looks the same as he did when Draco last saw him, just a boy, walking beside his father to be presented to the court. Even then there had been something sharp and judgmental in Gaunt’s gaze, as if he was sizing Draco up not as he was, but as what he might come to be.

By the time they arrive, Rodolphus is already waiting for them with Rabastan and Theodore Nott by his side, retinue fanned out behind him. He stands at Gaunt’s right, and Draco takes his place at Gaunt’s left, both at the foot of his throne, and his own retinue arranges itself behind him, Pansy and Harry coming to stand by his sides.

“Draco Malfoy,” Gaunt says, with a voice as smooth as silk. Draco is wary of it in more ways than one. “I would congratulate you on your coronation.”

There are no condolences, no sympathy for the man who served him faithfully for decades. It isn’t Gaunt’s way, Draco knows, who would not do a single thing if he couldn’t get something out of it. And he doesn’t need to endear Draco to him, so he won’t.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Draco says, bowing partly. Pansy bows beside him, and the rest of his retinue bows low, following his lead.

Gaunt inclines his head, the barest movement. “You have called for a Mediation against Lestrange, and so the floor shall be yielded to you first.” He raises his hand and gestures towards Draco, who steps forward. “The Court is now in session. Present your case, and do it well.”

Draco nods, squaring his shoulders, and begins.

“I charge Lestrange with two counts. First, for the thievery of the Malfoy Horcrux. Second, for the murder of Ruler Lucius Malfoy.”

Hushed whispers begin to tremble through the hall, but Gaunt raises a palm, and they fall silent.

Draco begins again, louder, from the very beginning, the day of the missing Horcrux. He produces the knife they’d found, all those months ago fallen in the Vault, and a Gryffindor presents it to Gaunt who inspects it. Rodolphus glowers at him as he continues, putting on an impressive show of being shocked, but Draco ignores him. He outlines the chain of events, all the ways in which an additional Horcrux might benefit Lestrange, as Gaunt watches on, face as solid as stone. It’s a weak argument, Draco knows–what with Nott and Rosier’s claims–but he makes it anyway, for a weak argument is better than none at all.

When he finishes, and Gaunt hands over the knife to a Gryffindor to be kept aside, Draco begins his second count. “First, it is necessary to establish that my father was murdered, and that is easily proven.” He waves his hand and one of his Gryffindors presents the dart that Harry was shot with to the Ruler. “The use of the potion-dart combined with the poison in his cup” –samples of belladonna in a pouch of thick leather are levitated to the Ruler on a tray– “proves that it was, indeed, a murder. On the subject of why the perpetrator was Lestrange, I would present three reasons. Firstly, the potion-dart was made from the blood-rootworm, an insect found in abundance in the loam-fields of Lestrange. Secondly, the resources required to infiltrate the castle of a Great House of Slytherin may only be available to another House similarly situated. Thirdly” –he can’t help the way his head turns to the Lestrange camp. He wants them to see the rage burning in his eyes, he wants them to know that he knows, and he won’t rest until he’s made them pay. “Thirdly, Lestrange stands to gain the most from my father’s death; for with it, the treaty they signed with Malfoy at the close of the Battle of Malfoy Mountains is void.”

Gaunt considers all he has to say without so much as a twitch in his brow, sitting motionless as a statue, an unnatural stillness permeating his body, even the rise and fall of his chest invisible under his clothes. He beckons for Rodolphus to counter as Draco steps back, and Rodolphus steps forward, hands clenched but tone firm, presenting first counterarguments, and then a counterclaim.

“I claim that Malfoy stole the Lestrange Horcrux,” he says, turning to look at Draco from under narrow eyes. He details, in alarming, near-damning detail, the power behind the attacks, the skirmish in the throne room, even the Dementors–that Gaunt takes a special interest in, bidding him stop and provide the memory in a pensieve for Gaunt’s viewing later. It’s a namesake counterclaim, Draco knows. The Lestranges have less proof than he does for the murder of his father, but without the counterclaim their case is weaker than Malfoy’s is.

At the end of it, Gaunt stands, and the entire hall takes two steps back. He’s a tall man, broad, with a crop of jet black hair that stays permanently thick and dark, and a body that emanates power, discipline. “I have considered the claims of both Houses, and have weighed them against each other. And my judgement is this.” The hall holds its breath as he speaks, and though he speaks softly, his voice carries to the end of the room. “Malfoy presented proof, by way of knife and dart and poison, and provided substantial rationale for the commitment of the crime by way of benefits that may accrue to Lestrange. All this is noteworthy–”

Draco holds his breath, heart hammering against his chest–

“But the claim does not satisfy the threshold of proof for conviction. As such, I will set it aside.”

There’s a roaring building in Draco’s ears, vision blurring, breath coming fast and heavy. He knew this would be the outcome and yet it still stings, and only Harry’s solid presence by his side keeps him standing firm.

“Lestrange’s arguments were paltry, insufficient, and undeserving of consideration,” Gaunt continues, and it’s Rodolphus’ turn to stiffen, eyes going wide, jaw compressing, as Gaunt continues, “But Ruler Rodolphus’ claims have the virtue of being true, Ruler Draco, while yours does not.”

Draco really does take a step back, barely containing the fear that threatens to spill out of him. “I don’t–”

“Silence,” Gaunt commands, still in that deadly, unyielding voice of his. He isn’t looking at Draco, then, but at Harry, eyes narrowed, gaze penetrating, like he’s discovered something in him that he hadn’t been expecting; and Draco understands with sinking realisation that Gaunt knows–he’s taken one look at Harry and immediately seen the truth of him, the power roiling underneath his surface, and he’s connected the dots straight to the Dementor escape in Lestrange. Astoria’s warnings come unbidden back to his mind. “Who is the Gryffindor that stands by your side?” Gaunt asks, and it’s all the confirmation Draco needs.

Harry sucks in a breath sharply by his side, and Draco can feel him stiffen, can feel the situation spiral rapidly out of his control. He never should’ve brought Harry here, he realises. He’d become foolish, allowed his fondness for Harry to overtake his common sense. Gaunt can sniff out secrets like a bloodhound, and he’d walked straight into his house and handed one up to him on a silver platter.

“The Gryffindor is a cousin of the Bulstrodes,” he says, voice unwavering even though he’s lying through the skin of his teeth. “He is called Harry.”

“I have not been made aware of such a family line,” Gaunt says. The implication is clear. He knows Draco’s lying.

“He’s a distant cousin,” Draco says. “I won’t bore you with the family lines in between.”

Gaunt doesn’t push the question further, which only turns Draco doubly worried, because it means Gaunt’s fixated on something worse in his mind.

“You haven’t been sending your fair share of Gryffindors to the border, Draco,” Gaunt says, and Draco has to clench his fingers to stop them from shaking because he knows where this is going and he’s helpless to stop it. “Do you expect the rest of the realm to fight for your people while you reap the fruits of their labour? No, I’ll not allow it.”

“I’ll double the regiment we send next month,” Draco says, hoping it’ll be enough, knowing it won’t be, because it isn’t what Gaunt’s after; not really.

On the other side, the Lestrange camp wears smiles so hideously triumphant Draco wants to choke them. They’re being played, all of them. And no one seems to care but Draco.

“It’s not enough,” Gaunt says. “I will have the Gryffindor from your personal guard, to stay here and train in the capital.” There’s a dark gleam in his eye, calculating and cold, and Draco’s heart drops and his breath speeds and he doesn’t stop to think as he blurts, “No.”

“No?” Gaunt asks, surprise and menace mingling, and Draco curses himself. Harry’s still rigid by his side. Even the Lestranges are shocked.

“I mean–I meant–” Draco’s fumbling, he’s fumbling, and it shakes him to his core. He’s revealed himself for all the court to hear, his enemies, and the King he’s coming to hate.

“Draco,” Harry says softly, “I can–”

“You can’t,” Draco snaps, because Harry doesn’t know what they’ll do to him if he does; but Draco knows. “He can’t,” Draco repeats, louder, to Gaunt. “It isn’t my intention to deny you, Your Grace, but there are other circ*mstances that warrant my refusal.”

“And what, pray tell, are those circ*mstances?” Gaunt asks, voice cutting and cold. Draco’s this close to being stripped of his rank and his title himself if he doesn’t say something convincing, but he straightens his back and soldiers on, aware of every eye in the room on him, of every gleeful heart basking in his imminent failure as he says, “Harry is my–my betrothed.”

Whispers tear through the room that even Gaunt does not think to control, for he had not expected this, Draco knows. He might’ve anticipated Draco being deceitful or defiant or wary, but he hadn’t accounted for Draco falling in love. Because that’s what it is, he realises, filled with the urge to protect, leaving himself wide open in the process. And suddenly he feels like his father, wondering how many hits he’d had to take to safeguard Draco and his mother.

Gaunt just looks at him, like he can’t decide if Draco’s just made an extremely idiotic decision, or if there’s a hidden layer to this that he can’t unpeel. But it only takes a second for him to gather himself and ask, “The Greengrass princess?”

“The betrothal is broken,” Draco confirms, and he can feel his own people murmuring at his back, and he’s afraid he might be losing them too. But he’s not about to place a weapon as powerful as Harry into Gaunt’s hand, not just for Harry’s sake but for the sake of his entire kingdom. Because if Harry was put on the battlefield against Malfoy on Gaunt’s orders, Draco would be powerless to stand against him. He’ll not let that happen, even if it costs him the Greengrasses.

“The date of the wedding?” Gaunt asks, forcing him to speak it into the open, set a consequence to the lie, and Draco says, “Tomorrow.” Any later and Gaunt might requisition Harry anyway, for whatever short time they’d have in between, and Gaunt clenches his teeth, temporarily outplayed. He turns his glittering, angry gaze on the Lestranges, still gawping at the Malfoys, disbelieving of their good luck, and tells them, “I declare Malfoy as having broken the oath of peace they swore to the realm when they stole the Lestrange Horcrux. As is your right as the purveyors of truth, and as is my right as the deliverer of justice, you are free to retaliate by any means you see fit. Furthermore, I decree that the fosterlings sent to Malfoy be returned to Lestrange, if either of the two declare war.”

The Lestranges nearly crow in triumph, heads held high, smirks levelled squarely at Draco’s camp as they leave, and Draco follows them behind, his retinue bringing up the rear; and just as he’s at the door, Gaunt calls him from the front of the room saying, “You are aware, of course, that in six month’s time after the winter turns, you will have to come to my court to take up the duties your father left behind. I trust you will bring your husband.”

Draco turns, nodding to Gaunt once, wondering if he’s saved Harry at all or if he’s only delayed the inevitable.

Chapter 20: An Effervescence of Matrimony

Chapter Text

They don’t stop arguing until they’re back in their chambers, so loud that Harry’s sure half the castle and all of their retinue definitely heard their quarrel on the way back.

“I can’t–marry you,” Harry splutters, so many times that he’s lost count, and Draco groans and rolls his eyes and says, “Yes you can, and you will. I did this for you, you idiot.” And maybe it’s just that Harry doesn’t understand the threat that Gaunt possesses, or maybe he does, and he’s just not going to admit it to himself. But the thought still fills him with fear, that he’ll forget himself, that he’ll never leave; and then there’s the other part of him that wants to stay, that thinks of the future with Draco and likes it enough to wish for it, and that part of him fills him with even more fear, so much so that he doesn’t know what to do with any of it, because to soothe one fear is to exacerbate the other.

“I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for my magic,” he protests, and Draco rounds on him with his eyes wide, mouth flattened into a sharp line.

“How dare–do you know how many people would kill for a power like yours?”

“Well, according to you they’re having no trouble wanting to kill me for a power like mine anyway, so excuse me if I’m not feeling very grateful at the moment!”

They storm off in opposite directions, and then Draco realises he’s needed in his council room and Harry realises he needs to follow Draco there and they go to each other again reluctantly.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. “You’re going to be my husband. It’s just–sudden.”

“It’s the least of our problems is what it is,” Draco says, though his cheekbones have turned pink and he’s resolutely looking away. “I’ll need to speak with the Greengrasses.”

They talk through a two-way mirror–for convenience, Draco claims, though Harry’d heard Princess Daphne deny them both entry into the kingdom when Draco sent her a patronus asking. She’s understandably incensed, and insulting him in turn does nothing to alleviate the slight they’ve had to bear from Draco unilaterally dissolving the engagement.

“I’m sorry,” Draco speaks into the mirror, head bowed. The princess glares at him from the other side, chin raised, crown dazzling over a flowery braid.

“You do realise this renders the treaty of aid between Greengrass and Malfoy void,” she says. “Whatever oaths my sister might have sworn to you in a personal capacity are hers and hers alone.” It’s clear she’s outraged on Astoria’s behalf, though Draco spoke to Astoria first before he broke the news to Daphne. There’d been a lot of grovelling, at the end of which Astoria merely sighed, and shook her head like she’d seen this coming. “You did what you had to do,” she said, and didn’t begrudge Draco his decision, which only left him feeling worse, Harry knows.

The rest of the day is spent frantically cobbling together wedding arrangements suitable enough for a Ruler on short notice; and that’s only when Draco isn’t spending every spare moment going over their armoury and treasury figures with Goyle for the impending conflict with Lestrange. Then one of the Flints pulls him aside and presents a scroll to him with quick, pleading hands and an exasperated, “Please, Your Radiance. We must finalise the guest list.”

“Ask Goyle,” Draco groans, but Goyle’s burdened enough with work as it is, so Harry takes over, and recruits Ron for help, and they go over pages of floral arrangements and fruit basket tables and buffet options until Harry’s head is swimming in ingredients and his stomach rumbles in protest.

“Dinner?” Ron asks, thumping him on the shoulder and leading him down to the Gryffindor Halls, needling him about Draco the whole way down, though underneath the jokes there’s something warm and genuine, and Harry’s grateful for it. “He must love you very much,” Ron continues as they’re about to enter the tunnels. “He’s forfeited an entire allied kingdom for you.”

Harry’s heart lurches at the truth of it, and he opens his mouth though he doesn’t know what he’s going to say when he’s startled out of speech by a voice that calls, “Harry,” so urgent and indignant and familiar it can only be–

“Oh,” Harry says, deflating when he turns to stare at a woman with straw-yellow hair and pale skin, short enough that Harry needs to fold his chin down to meet her eyes. “I–do I know you?”

The woman rolls her eyes and waves a wand over her face, and her hair grows out long and curly and dark, and her back straightens as she grows taller and broader. Then Harry’s doubly surprised when he realises it’s– “Hermione!” Shock and delight and confusion mingle in his voice so much that it turns high-pitched and screechy and he has to clear his throat before continuing, “What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” Hermione demands. “I’ve been trying to corner you for weeks but you’re always with that blasted prince–”

“Oye,” Ron says, and Harry remembers his presence belatedly. “Do not slander the Ruler.”

“I’m not slandering him.”

“Wait a minute.” Ron leans forward to inspect her. “You’re that Ravenclaw seamstress with Princess Astoria,” he exclaims, and then he turns a shade of deep red which matches his hair and his uniform in a rather strikingly comical way.

“I–” Hermione turns scarlet, looking away quickly. “Yes.”

“I remember you,” Ron continues, though he looks away quickly then back again, shy. “Weren’t you supposed to leave with the princess? What are you still doing here?”

Hermione takes a step back, and then pivots sharply towards Harry to say, “I was looking out for you. Why are you here? Are they holding you hostage? Have they hurt you? Though what a Slytherin might need with a Sq–”

“A what?” Ron asks, as Harry widens his eyes at her from his side.

“Nothing, I–I’m here for Harry,” Hermione amends. “And I’ve been here this whole time which you might’ve noticed if you weren’t hanging off the arms of your most extraordinarily brilliant Ruler” –she breaks off to shoot a miffed glance at Ron– “but no! A few months in the castle and suddenly you’re happy to just swan about, oblivious as you please, not a whit of consideration for the people around you–”

“I’m alright, ‘Mione,” Harry says gently, stopping her tirade as he steps towards her and pulls her close. “I missed you.”

Hermione lets out a disgruntled huff, though it’s turning forced now, and her expression loses its pinched tightness. “Oh, I suppose I missed you too,” she says, and hugs him back. They hold each other like that, arms crushing each other’s shoulders, the familiar feel of Hermione’s hair, thick and coarse against Harry’s cheeks, her warm, calloused hands against his skin. He’s been missing home constantly, aching with the loss, and all this time there’d been a piece of home close to him, if only he’d opened his eyes and known to search for it.

“Right,” Ron says awkwardly into the silence. “Who’d like some dinner?”

Draco’s distrust of Hermione lasts all of two seconds, when Hermione flings herself vigilantly half over Harry, with such a blatant look of protective suspicion in her eyes that Draco has no choice but to defend himself against her instead of the other way around.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy, Ruler or not, if you step one toe out of line in this marriage you’ll have me to answer to,” she’s saying, hands on her hips, chin jerking forward. Draco has no doubt she’ll be a very inconvenient thorn in his side if he ever does manage to hurt Harry, but she’s Harry’s friend, so Draco allows her the liberty of anger, of speaking to him in a way he’d never have stood for otherwise. And he’s glad of it, that Harry might have someone besides himself, someone who will love him as purely as Draco does himself.

“I’ll take care of him,” he assures her, quietly, as earnestly as he can, and she looks between the two of them, furrowed brow slowly relaxing, until she takes a step back and says, “Oh. It’s like that.” Her demeanour turns markedly more affable after that, and she turns the rest of her attentions towards the wedding preparations, rounding up the Gryffindors and dispatching them all over the castle to do her bidding.

“I’m Harry’s kin,” she snaps tightly, when someone asks. “Now quit asking questions and do as I say unless you’d like to be hauling tables until midnight.”

“Yes, Lady Hermione,” a Gryffindor gulps, hurrying to carry out her orders.

“She’s a terror, isn’t she?” Draco says, half admiring her tenacity, half fearing her himself.

“She is,” Harry says, though it comes out fond.

•·················•·················•

Draco’s in his office, stamping his seal on some letters while Astoria arranges the shawl around his shoulders.

“Draco,” she says, gritting her teeth. “For the last time, put that missive down and turn around or so help me–”

“Alright, alright.” Draco sets his papers down hastily and turns to allow Astoria easier access. She adjusts his tunic and buttons his collar, dabs a hint of rouge on his cheeks and paints his lips a soft pink.

“There,” she says, stepping back and beaming. “You look beautiful.”

Draco’s barely got any sleep since last night, what with how late the preparations ran, and Hermione only allowed them to return to their chambers after she’d triple-checked that everything was in order. They fell into bed with barely any energy left and, in the morning, Hermione came back to their chambers well before dawn to cart Harry away to get ready. There’d been no time to think of anything but the logistics, to lose himself in the work, but now that it’s over and there’s no more work to be done, it hits him that he’s marrying Harry. He can’t help the smile that breaks out of his face, then.

“Happy?” Astoria asks softly, combing his hair. It’s a sweet question, so lacking in guile, an openness that he’d only ever expected from family, his father. It should have been his father in Astoria’s place, but if not for Astoria he wouldn’t have had anyone. Pansy wouldn’t know the first thing about weddings, exactly for lack of trying.

“I’m happy,” Draco says. He wears a long tunic that flows to his calves, thick with embroidery. The thread is fine, solid gold, woven in thin intricate patterns so minute it would’ve ordinarily taken months to make. But Hermione somehow managed to talk the head of the Malfoy Ravenclaw Tailoring Guild into sending their entire roll of members to work through the evening to see it done, which he’s still not sure he could’ve managed if he’d tried. He’ll have the thread removed and replaced after the wedding, of course, there’s no sense in wasting good gold, but for now he’ll leave it on, a show of prosperity and strength. Even stitches matter.

“All done,” Astoria says, pinning a section of his shawl in place with magic and stepping back. Draco can’t help the gratitude that swirls inside him, then, overwhelming him. He pulls Astoria close and gathers her in a hug, kissing the top of her head.

“You’ll crush your tunic,” she says, but Draco doesn’t let go.

“I’ll smooth it with magic.”

He takes her hand as she apparates them to the bottom of the mountains, craggy foothills giving way to open grassland and fields of wheat. The soil is freshly turned for the autumn planting, viridescent in the morning light and, in the distance, people mill forward in clusters, gathering for the wedding. Winds flow down from the hills around them, cool and quick, a whispering whoosh, brushing against Draco’s skin, and high above them mirroring charms float, transmitting the view from the dais for all to see.

It's an unconventional venue and an unconventional celebration, to invite commonfolk to a royal wedding, but many Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws worked through the night to set everything up, and they deserve to be here. Behind Draco, steps have been cut into the mountainside to create a terraced slope lined with cushioned seats, and guests have already begun to take their place. In front is a dais, raised from wood and decorated with an abundance of flowers spreading thick and vined: twining roses and marigolds orange as the evening sun, fiery tulips and jasmine perfuming the air. They bracket the dais like the frame of a painting, tall and towering, and floral twinings fall artfully from its frame. Beyond the dais more cushions have been placed on the grass, and it’s there that the Squibs gather, emerging out from the desert as one.

The wizards sit on the seats built into the mountain-face, separated by the dais from the Squibs, but even then they grumble, looking among each other with darting eyes and questioning words.

“It’s a bold thing you’re doing,” Astoria says.

Not just that he’s invited the Squibs. It’s breaking convention to marry a Gryffindor. To take a lover is one thing, a husband quite another. Not to mention the heir he still owes his kingdom. He isn’t doing himself any favours inviting Squibs to the wedding, especially when there are many in Draco’s court who begrudge him the wedding, to have chosen love over duty. His marriage to Astoria might have made them wealthy, but now half the trade agreements have been broken in light of the Greengrass withdrawal, adding to the fact that it’s become more expensive to broker deals now, and all the Greengrass merchants want restitution for the payments made on the promise of the union–payments now made in bad faith. To throw Squibs into the mix is like adding salt to the wound, to force wizards on equal footing with the people they’d grown up despising. Not to mention the Squibs themselves don’t like that their Ruler is marrying another man.

But Harry had asked, and Draco couldn’t think to deny him.

Pansy is climbing down the steps as Draco takes his place on the dais, people around them settling down. To their left sit the royal guests and their retinue, special carved chairs laid out for them. Among them, Daphne Greengrass, barely acknowledging him despite the place of honour, Theodore Nott, decked in mink and a knowing smirk; even Sirius, who shoots him a slight wave as he passes.

“Ready?” Pansy asks, a twinkle in her eye. She’s radiant in blue, the colour of the Parkinson sea and bright as the sky, sleeves embroidered with cloud-like white silk.

“I am,” Draco says, and he means it. He’s never been as sure as this about anything.

The crowd hushes as Pansy raises her hand, facing first the wizards, then turning to address the Squibs, signalling the start of the ceremony with a nod of her head.

The musicians begin their drums, a steady, throbbing pulse that vibrates through the air. Strings and flute follow, threading melody through the beat, graceful and soft. Harry appears on the steps of the mountain, and heads swivel towards him, arm in arm with the Ravenclaw – Hermione. And then gasps begin to shudder through the crowd, starting from the wizards and rippling all the way to the Squib encampments behind him. The guests closest to him are staring slack-jawed and shocked, and the others have their eyes trained on the reflections in the mirroring spells.

Harry walks down the steps with Hermione, back straight, mouth set, the beginnings of a smile sneaking out of the corner. His eyes shine and his skin glows in the morning light, hair as wild as ever. But that isn’t why the people stare.

Where Draco is decked in royal green, Harry is stark in cream, shades of it from head to toe. Squib wedding colours. He wears flowing trousers that ripple outward and gather at his ankles, and his tunic falls mid-thigh, flaring ever so slightly. A faint pattern is printed onto the fabric, a shade darker than the cream of the cloth, and the only hint of grandeur is the ornate shawl draped over his shoulder. He wears five strings of pearls around his neck, cream and white, a gift from Astoria, and one with an important message: that despite the broken promise, Greengrass holds no ill will.

But it is his eyes that hold the most attention, for he has foregone his lenses, and they shine emerald-bright, green enough to match the mountainside and the grass and the dew refracting over leaves.

“He’s turning heads,” Astoria whispers to him as Harry walks down. “Are you sure this was the right decision?”

It’s the principle of the thing, for Harry. Green eyes are a southern Squib staple. There might be more than a few green irises scattered amongst the Hufflepuffs and the Ravenclaws, but rare for a Gryffindor to display it so. That coupled with the wedding tunic, Draco wonders what the others might think. He’s not sure what to think himself, but it doesn’t matter.

Harry is beautiful, and Harry is his and, here in the morning mist, in the sounds of music mingling with the wind, their love is the only thing that matters.

At the centre of the dais is an altar of fire that Pansy lights, as part of the ritual, a remnant from the days of Peverell, when the people believed in powers higher than themselves, before magic had laid it to rest. The belief went, but the practice stayed.

Harry climbs up the dais as Hermione goes to stand by Astoria, and Draco holds out a hand to him. They smile, and it is as though they are the only two people in the world.

“Seven blessings from the seven great kingdoms be upon you,” Pansy begins, as they take their place behind the altar. They take turns leading each other around it, one round for each blessing. “From Parkinson, the blessing of prosperity. From Greengrass, the blessing of peace. From Black, the blessing of bounty. From Nott, the blessing of might. From Rosier, the blessing of wisdom. From Lestrange, the blessing of duty. From Malfoy” –here she pauses to look between them– “the blessing of love.”

They complete the final circle, and stand before the people, reciting the words they practised together, amplified by magic: “We have received the seven blessings. I have become yours, and you have become mine. Let us, hereafter, never part from each other. Let us share joy and sorrow, peace and conflict. May our nights be sweet as honey, and our days bright as oil. May we protect each other, as the ocean protects thirst, and the sky protects breath. May we shield each other from misfortune and pain. May we rejoice in each other through fortune and pleasure. As unshakeable as the mountains that trail the clouds, as immutable as the oceans that pierce the earth, so shall our union be permanent and true. As numerous as the grains of sand in the fields, so shall our love be vast and infinite.”

Astoria and Hermione approach them with a velvet box atop a cushion, open to reveal twin chains of gold, one with the pendant of a shell, and one with the pendant of a glacier of ice, moulded to signify their places of birth. They each take one chain, and turn to face each other.

“With this chain of gold, I bind you to me, heart, body, and soul.” Draco leans in and hooks the clasp around Harry’s neck, glacier pendant glinting brightly.

Harry glows with a smile he’s no longer trying to control. “With this chain of gold, I bind you to me, heart, body, and soul,” he repeats, and wraps the seashell chain around Draco’s neck, securing it.

When they turn to face the crowd, Pansy is waiting for them, a soft smile tracing her lips. “By the power vested in me as princess of Parkinson, I now pronounce you lawfully wedded.” She steps to the side, adding, “You may kiss.”

Image description: An illustration of Harry and Draco's wedding. Draco and Harry embrace each other, their foreheads touching, smiling, under a pergola decorated with white and orange flowers, and petals floating around them. In the background, lush, green mountains are visible under the bright, blue sky. Harry wears an embroidered beige wedding tunic, while Draco wears a dark green tunic embroidered with gold thread, gold detailing around the waist.

It was supposed to be simple, a restrained affair, a careful peck. But Harry looks at him with such wonder in his eyes, such ecstasy, that Draco forgets all convention as he grabs Harry by the waist and pulls him close, fitting his mouth against Harry’s and kissing him deeply, slowly, pouring everything he’s feeling into it, the rush of it turning his mind dizzy and his heart full to bursting.

“I am his, and he is mine,” Draco says, drawing back, his forehead resting against Harry’s. The sound carries to the very top of the mountains, to the edge of the fields where the Squibs sit.

“I am his, and he is mine,” Harry echoes, “from now, until the end of our days.”

The music reaches a crescendo, loud and joyous, as people all around them clap and cheer and gesture their praise. They step down off the dais, arm in arm, hands raised together, and people shower them with flower petals, strewn over them and over the path they’re to walk.

“Husband,” Draco says, feeling the words out, so full of warmth he feels it bubbling out of him, in the curve of his smile and the tears that shine in his eyes.

“It sounds less strange than I thought it might,” Harry says, as he waves to the crowd, smiling beatifically, mirroring the grin on Draco’s face. “I think I’m–”

He stops. A soft boom reverberates through the air. Conversation, flowing freely only moments earlier, quickly dies down. Another loud rumble judders low and deep from somewhere above them.

“What was that?” Harry asks, head snapping towards the noise. The people freeze, the music stops. “We should check–”

And then the mountainside blasts open, a massive chunk bitten out of solid rock, debris riding down the slope and straight onto the onlookers.

“Run,” Draco shouts, grabbing Harry’s hand and yanking him back as they apparate farther down towards the fields, cursing himself for allowing an outdoor wedding. The Gryffindors had done a full sweep of the land and spent hours fortifying the earth with the best wards they’d known, and it still wasn’t enough. It isn’t a natural landslide, which means it’s either incompetency or a mole, and there’s no time to find out which, but Draco’ll have the heads of whoever’s behind this when it’s over.

The other Gryffindors and Slytherins are quick to follow on his and Harry’s tail, intermingling with the Squibs on the other side, watching uncomprehendingly as the mountain crumbles into itself and the people standing there are swallowed by dust.

“We have to help them,” Harry says. The screams are louder now despite the distance, as a few people stagger out, coughing and retching against the floor. “We have to help them.”

“Harry, no–”

“I’m going back,” Harry says, shrugging off Draco’s arm. “They’re our people, and they need us, and we can’t hide while they’re being bludgeoned to death because they’re at a wedding we invited them to.”

He disappears with a crack before Draco can argue further, leaving him sputtering in the dust. He purses his lips, wrestling down his frustration, and turns, gesturing for the other Gryffindors with a jerk of his head. “You heard your Ruler,” he says grimly. “Follow me.”

They land right at the edge of the dust perimeter, and immediately have to work to dodge the boulder-sized chunks of earth and rock that threatens to crush them. “Cast a vision and dust-repellant charm,” Draco yells. “Gather the commonfolk under a Protego!”

It’d take too much energy to apparate them all out individually, so it’s the best they can do; and it’s gruelling work, rounding up the people while casting vision charms and shield charms, but they do it, largely thanks to Harry, who stands to one side barely outside the zone of rubble, arms outstretched as he holds the debris at bay, an umbrella of light over the people. The earth fractures against the dome of spell-light that surrounds them, opening up at the sides in little pockets for the Ravenclaws and the Hufflepuffs to enter and take shelter. “In there,” Harry shouts, calling for the other Gryffindors to escort the commonfolk under the shield, and they hurry to comply, grabbing two or three wizards at a time.

Draco rushes to Harry’s side and adds his own magic to Harry’s, strengthening the shield, feeling Harry ease up beside him, breath coming easier. The moment he plunges into Harry’s casting, he knows he’s out of his depth, and any assistance he can offer will be paltry. He strains to match Harry’s spell, the depth and the breadth and the power, and the energy is knocked out of him like a punch to his stomach, a huge rip in the core of his reserves. Still he persists, falling to his knees; and Harry drops down, joining him. If the Gryffindors are wondering at the sheer magnitude of Harry’s casting, none of them show it, weaving through the landslide to take cover inside the protego maxima, their own spells failing.

The minutes feel like hours but it ends, eventually, a terrible, gradual decline, until the land stills and the blasts peter out into a low, dusty hiss. Harry’s shield is still up, though he drops his hands, exhaling deeply, and Draco himself is exhausted, sagging against Harry who catches him. The shield flickers but stands, boxing the people in, Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws all huddled together, robes torn apart, muddied and indistinguishable.

“We can take down the shield now,” Draco murmurs to him. “They’re safe.”

Harry closes his eyes. “One moment,” he says, breathing hard. “I’m–”

A boom, echoing, vibrating against the earth and knocking them off their knees as another explosion erupts inside the shield, fiery and red and angry, a wall of flames pounding against the shield. It happens in a moment. There’s no time to even scream as the people inside are devoured, charred into ash.

“No,” Harry screams, running towards them, but Draco pulls him back, straining.

“Harry, no,” he rasps, watching in horror as the shield-dome lights with fire, writhing and roving, a microcosm of destruction. “We have to keep the shield up.” His voice cracks. “We can’t let the fire escape. It’s Fiendfyre.”

There’s no wizard on earth who can contain Fiendfyre, but Draco knows what he’s seeing, the flames too red and smokeless to be anything but magic. Dark magic.

“I can’t–”

“You can,” Draco says, desperately. “You will. I’ll help you.” He joins his magic with Harry, once more, vision blurring, halfway unconscious, straining to hold up the spell. And then he’s jolted out of his drowsy haze by someone else’s magic, cool and clear, strengthening them both. He turns to see Astoria and Hermione, wands aloft, casting with their jaws set and their eyes straight ahead, and Hermione looks at him and nods. Behind them Pansy appears, leading what’s left of the Malfoy Gryffindors, and together they hold the shield, smothering the flames within, on and on and on, stifling the fire inside, until the last of it is snuffed out and they collapse in a heap together.

Chapter 21: A String of Decisions

Chapter Text

When Draco was a little boy, and he hadn’t learned how to swim yet, his father took him hunting. Past Bulstrode district, above Azkaban, all the way to the northern edge of the continent, where the ribbon-like River of Erised meandered in and out of the mountains. There were no boars in the frozen forests of the north, but there were Erymanthian Hogs, with tusks of ivory strong as steel and fur as soft as they were sturdy.

“You mistake me,” his father said, when they set down traps of rope levered against branches, much too small and flimsy for a Hog. “It isn’t the Hogs we hunt, but the hunters.”

Poaching was rampant in the northern forests, and the Hog was the perfect catch: ivory for weapons, pelts for winter coats; even their hooves were sought after, a key ingredient in the Felix Felicis potion. And the meat was full and hearty. The bounty from a single animal alone was enormous.

“There are precious few in the forests now,” Lucius said, stepping back. “We must protect them when we can.”

After they rounded up one clan of poachers after another, rope-bindings snapping around the rogues and apparating them straight to the cells under Zabini castle, Lucius took Draco to the River of Erised and asked, “Will you do as I say?”

“Yes,” Draco said, unthinking, and Lucius pushed him head first into the river. And Draco had thought he knew cold, but he had not known it like this, close and intimate, soaking into him, spilling into his sinuses and choking his lungs. Do not flail, his father’s voice whispered in his ears, a simple underwater spell, lie back and let the water carry you. So with his vision blurring and his breath sputtering out and his pulse fluttering rapid in his wrists, Draco had no choice but to follow that voice, letting himself go limp and feeling the water buoy him up to the surface, until his body lapped against the riverbank, frozen and shivering and unsurprisingly, alive.

“This is how I will teach you,” Lucius said, “for you have proven yourself capable to withstand it.” He turned and gestured with his eyes to a nearby corner of the river and, as Draco squinted, he could see the bank growing narrower and the water turning shallow.

“A ford,” Draco said. “I was safe.”

“This time,” Lucius said. “But you must train as if you are not. If you make mistakes, you will learn from them. If you had known of the ford, you would have thrashed your way to it. And you would have avoided water from this time on.” He paused, and hauled Draco up by the arm, standing tall and proud in his cloak of fur. “We are a mountain people, Draco, but that does not mean you cannot learn how to swim.”

Draco surveys the reports before him now, ciphers stacked up against lives lost and grain destroyed, feeling very much like he’s been thrown off the deep end of the middle of the ocean, no shore in sight for miles, wondering if his father might have done the same thing he’s about to do.

“Throw them in the dungeons,” he commands darkly to a Gryffindor standing at attention by his side. “They'll face a public Avada Kedavra tomorrow.”

The explosions were simple riggings, more mechanical than magical, barely any spell-traces to avoid the wards; and the Fiendfyre had to have been the work of a wizard inside the dome-shell. An operation orchestrated and executed to perfection. That’s twice now Draco’s been led from one trap to another, two times too many. He’s had the kingdom shut down and the borders closed–he’ll not be caught unawares a third time.

The men were captured with their wands out and poison in their collars at the edge of the Black border, ostensibly the last of the wizards responsible, hurrying to the portals before Draco had them sealed. They’d ingested poison, too, but fortunately for him Astoria was there, and she managed to wrangle a few castle Ravenclaws into fetching ingredients fast enough to fashion a crude antidote–they’d woken, pale and shaking, but whole. He’d immediately administered veritaserum and questioned them himself, hard and thorough, drumming up every question he could think to ask, but they’d been obliviated thoroughly. Only a single word remained in their minds, nearly erased but lurking carefully in the recesses of memory, a word so potent only the most rigorous Obliviation could have erased it: “Greengrass.”

“It’s obviously a set-up,” Daphne claims angrily, glaring at the rest of them gathered in the council room. “Greengrass had nothing to do with the explosion. Our pride is not so wounded that we’d see innocent lives lost over a broken betrothal.”

She might be telling the truth, or she might be double-bluffing, and Draco’s made such a mess of things that it could conceivably be any of the Houses, barring Parkinson, who orchestrated the attack.

Daphne tuts irritatedly at his indecision. “If I’d wanted to destroy Malfoy from the ground up, I’d not have been at the scene when it happened, and I’d certainly not have used soldiers incompetent enough to be caught.”

“Draco,” Astoria adds. “I can vouch for Daphne, and we can vouch for our mother, the Queen. Greengrass was not behind the attack.”

“Then who?” Draco snarls.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Theodore speaks up for the first time in the half-hour they’ve been in the room. “It’s Lestrange.”

All of them turn to face him, even Harry and Hermione who’ve kept their faces carefully neutral through the discussions.

“You’d be so quick to admit guilt on behalf of your own ally?” Pansy asks Theo, more questioning than accusatory.

Theo shakes his head. “I didn’t know of the attack, or I wouldn’t have come.” He turns to Draco beseechingly. “This war will tear the realm apart. Already, we’ve begun to take sides. If Rodolphus has more plans for Malfoy, he’s yet to share them with me. But I know him, as surely as I know you. He’s commanded armies longer than you, Draco, and he’s been ruling since before you were born. His only mistake, the last time, was underestimating you, and he’s not a man to repeat his mistakes.”

Draco raises an eyebrow and speaks through gritted teeth. “Am I to understand that your counsel,” he says, with venomous emphasis, “is purely altruistic? Or are you going to continue to pretend Nott wouldn’t be the worst hit after Malfoy if we did go to war?”

“It’s true, we’re not as resourceful as the northern kingdoms, nor the south,” Theo concedes, with a brief glance towards the Greengrasses and Pansy. Draco startles at the ease of the admission. “And it’s true that if the grain stops flowing to us from Lestrange, both Nott and Rosier will suffer through the winter. But it isn’t just us. War benefits no one, not even the victors.”

“Then turn around and sing this tune to the Lestranges,” Draco says savagely. “It wasn’t me who forced their hand.”

“But you did,” Theo says, crossing his arms. “Gaunt has decreed that Malfoy is in unlawful possession of the Lestrange Horcrux.”

“That is untrue–”

“Do you suggest the High King is wrong?” Theo asks, a slight glint in his eye, and Draco has to purse his lips and resist the urge to look away. He will not be cowed by Theodore Nott, of all the insufferable upstart princes in the realm.

“What of the murder of my father?” Draco asks, hard and unyielding. “Would you have me leave the perpetrators unpunished? I’ve sworn my revenge and I’ll see it through.”

He knows everything said in the room will be relayed to the Lestranges, so he infuses as much venom as he can into his words, hoping it’ll carry all the way to the castles of his enemies.

Theo hesitates. “I don’t know the circ*mstances of your father’s murder–”

“You were there in the Capital when I presented my case,” Draco interrupts coldly. “You know the veracity of my contention. I have been provoked to war, and I will answer in kind. There is no other answer I can give.”

“Draco,” Theo pleads. “There are other ways–”

“Then tell your allies–”

“He won’t listen,” Theo lashes out despairingly, hand thumping against the table. He catches himself, then, and stands straight. “Rodolphus is bent on retrieving the Horcrux and he’s not afraid to destroy the realm in the process. And neither are you. There are bigger things at stake than the petty quarrels between two Houses–”

“I must protect my people,” Draco says resolutely. “I must preserve their confidence. If I cannot avenge the Ruler, what hope remains for the commonfolk?”

Theo shakes his head, anger and dismay roiling together in his eyes. “Let it be on your head, then, when the land is torn apart.”

“On mine and Rodolphus’s,” Draco reminds him mockingly. “As you said yourself.”

“I’m leaving,” Theo spits, one final time, nodding to his Gryffindors, all pretence of civility dropped. “I must prepare my people for battle.”

The other Slytherins are quick to follow, though Astoria stays behind, shooting her sister and apologetic but firm glance. “My place is here,” she says, and Daphne nods and replies, “For now.”

They spend some time reviewing the losses. Draco sends out an order recalling the Malfoy Gryffindors serving along the Dementor border to fortify their ranks until replacements are promoted, and he sends missives to Zabini and Flint in the north requisitioning Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff Guild members to fill the occupational vacancies left behind. It’s steady, gruelling work, and soon Pansy has to leave as well until it’s just Draco, Harry, Astoria, and strangely enough, Hermione, who’s proven herself thrice as valuable as any of his other advisors, quick to identify the gaps in his logic and quicker still to fill them with solutions. She’s the one who has the idea to redistribute the existing Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs among different sub-Guilds across the districts, all the better to accommodate the new ones coming in from the north. There’d be less animosity if more of them were fresh faces.

And then of course, there’s the problem of raising funds. Wars cost money; money they don’t have.

“I’ll not raise the taxes if I can help it,” Draco says tiredly, staring at the numbers that blur together on the pages. “The people have paid enough.” He’ll either have to borrow from the Guilds, who certainly aren’t going to be positively predisposed to him in light of the wedding, or he’ll have to take out a loan from Gringotts–the continental bank nestled in the heart of the Gaunt Capital, horrifically penal interest rates and all.

“But what if you paid the people back,” Hermione says, biting her lip as she thinks, and Draco catches on immediately, wondering why he hadn’t thought of it himself as he says, “That’s–brilliant. I can’t estimate how long the fighting will last but I can reasonably shoot for repayment in a year’s time–”

“What are you both on about?” Harry asks, confused, and they both turn to stare at him, rolling their eyes in complete sync so that both Harry and Astoria have to take a step back.

“I’ll raise the taxes,” Draco says, raising a hand to forestall their objections. “But at the end of the year, the people will have the chance to claim it all back. Like loans without interest for us. We can stagger the collections through the year and, if we win, we’ll have enough time to raise the funds and repay the amounts and if not” –Draco shrugs– “the crown’s debts will revert to Lestrange along with the land they annex, and it’ll be their headache, not ours.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Astoria says, and Draco nods.

“Of course it’s not,” he says. “I owe it to my father to hold his kingdom together.”

“It’s your kingdom now,” Harry says quietly, moving to stand by him, and Draco takes him in his arms and clasps him by the elbows to say, “It’s our kingdom now.”

Harry removes his tunic – his wedding tunic, he realises, neither of them had the chance to get changed – and slides into the pool. Draco finds him there soon after, naked from the waist up and tugging at the drawstring of his trousers.

There are no words, just Harry’s outstretched arms pulling Draco into the water with him, nosing at his throat, at the sensitive skin behind his ear, breathing in the scent of him. If there’s anguish in Draco's heart, weariness in his chest, it seems to fall away when Harry draws back to look at him, the tension bleeding out of his body; and Harry wants to give him this, he thinks; these small comforts, these simple intimacies, when he can.

“Harry, I want–”

“I know,” Harry says, feeling the stiffness in Draco’s shoulders, his back. “We don’t have to do anything.”

“No.” Draco shakes his head, taking Harry’s face in his hands and pulling him close so their lips touch, just barely a hairsbreadth apart. “I don’t want to think about today, I just– I want you to have me.”

Harry feels himself turn hot, lust shooting through him so fast he has to close his eyes to calm himself. He grabs Draco, grip tight over his hips, and Draco’s legs wrap around his waist immediately. Soon their kisses turn hard and wet and messy, bodies flush against each other, co*cks sliding together in delicious friction. And then Harry tips Draco back against the edge of the pool and asks, “Can you– the spell– can you–” and Draco understands, instantly, and he snaps his fingers and Harry spreads Draco’s legs apart and growls, sliding in, saying, “f*ck, f*ck, oh god, Draco,” and Draco’s eyes are glazed over with lust, fingers tangled in Harry’s scalp, groaning loud and breathy, and Harry f*cks him, hips thrusting hard and fast from the get go, unable to help himself, bending forward to catch Draco’s mouth in a kiss, drinking up the sounds he makes, biting down his jaw, marking his throat bright red, and it’s too much– it’s too much–

“Harry,” Draco moans, eyes rolling back in his head, elbows braced against the edge of the pool, and Harry leans forward and grabs hold of Draco’s co*ck, tugging at it in quick, steady strokes, and Draco pushes his hips upwards, once, and holds himself there as he comes, head thrown back, chanting Harry’s name like a prayer; and the sight of him, flushed and panting and desperate, spread out on the stone just for Harry, it’s enough to send him over the edge; and he captures Draco’s mouth in a kiss as he comes, chasing the high, until he’s loose and lax and luxuriating in the afterglow.

The second time is slower. They spend a while rolling around in the large, canopied bed, wrestling and kissing and moving against each other, slow and languorous. Long enough for Harry to feel himself stir once more, Draco soft-eyed and loose-limbed underneath him, his fingers roving lazily through Harry’s hair, gaze unfocused and dreamy. Harry takes his time, foregoing the spells and summoning a bowl of scented oil, coating his fingers with it, slipping inside Draco, watching him writhe in slow, languid strokes against Harry’s hand. He wraps his fist around Draco’s co*ck with his other hand, and jerks him in time with the crook of his fingers, bending down to kiss him there, inhaling his scent, that intimate, musky smell of him down there. Draco shudders, hips rising from the bed, hands twining into Harry’s scalp, begging, “Ohhh, yes, Harry. Oh, please– don’t stop–”. Harry obliges, sucking at the tip and then bending down, deeper, bobbing his head, hearing Draco’s cries turn louder and higher and needier.

“No, don’t–why did you stop–”

“I’m going to f*ck you now,” Harry says, taking his hands and mouth away and turning Draco over, pulling him onto his knees and lining himself up, sinking deep inside, all the way to the hilt. “f*ck, yes.”

“Do it,” Draco says, voice breathy and muffled against the pillow, hands fisted tightly in the bedspread, and Harry does, pounding into him, thrusting hard and fast, no rhythm to it, just an impatient, desperate heat. “I’m going to–”

“No, don’t–don’t touch yourself,” Harry pants, head falling forward, feeling the heat inside him build and build and build, spiralling into climax, and Draco cries out and comes against him, almost surprised, falling forward against the sheets with his eyes closed and his hair ruffled and his lips kiss-swollen and pink.

“Are you alright?” Harry asks as he pulls out, tentative, and he barely gets a grunt in response; and then he falls against the sheets and stares at the ceiling, grinning to himself that he’s f*cked the words right out of Draco. “Are you sure you’re alright?” he asks again, just to bask in the glow of that victory, just to needle Draco into knowing it.

Draco just cracks an eye open, glaring as best he can, though it’s half-hearted, barely a glare at all, pliant and soft and spent. “Mmm,” he says weakly, and throws a carelessly proprietary hand over Harry’s chest, falling quickly into slumber.

•·················•·················•

There’s more work to be done in the morning. They rouse and get dressed and breakfast in the council room, poring over reports and funding estimates and grain inventory. Harry wanders away shortly, taking position by the window and practising footwork and drills, pushing his body until he’s loose and sweaty with exertion. After a while, Hermione joins them, the Gryffindors outside knowing well enough to let her through without question, and she brings Ron with her, who looks at them both sheepishly, cheeks red all over, and then it’s Draco’s turn to look between the two of them and say, “Oh. It’s like that.”

Ron hurries over to Harry, and they cast a muffliato over their corner of the hall as they begin to work side by side, moving through the warmups together and then practising with sparring swords. Ron’s better at it than he is, mind sharp and trained to look for holes in Harry’s newly formed technique, but Harry’s stronger, so the advantage evens out a bit, and together they work themselves up to a pleasant fatigue.

Hermione and Draco are in deep discussion when they return to the table.

“My advisors will be here soon,” Draco is saying. “I’ll have to give them something.”

“They’re not just your advisors, they’re your vassals,” Hermione says, rolling her eyes. “You’re the one who should be asking them for things. It’s your right to demand. The castles and the armies aren’t for decoration, they’re for war.”

“We don’t have enough Gryffindors,” Draco says, frustrated. “Even if they sent me every single Gryffindor in their garrison, and all the wizards still in training; and they manage to begin training the ones who haven’t started, we’d still be well short of the numbers we need.”

“What if you armed the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs?” Hermione asks, and Harry and Ron both gawk, taken aback, but Draco only shakes his head.

“We’re short enough as it is, especially with the explosion at the wedding. If I take every able bodied wizard and led them into a fight, there might not be anyone left to return, let alone anything left to return to. Not to mention we don’t have the time to train them or arm them, since they’re the ones we need to make the arms.” Draco says it in a low drone, tired, like he’s thought about it long and hard before discarding the idea.

“Then you need an army,” Hermione ventures carefully. “An army that’s easily mobilised, trained, primed to fight, and stationed in strategic locations.”

“It doesn’t matter what I need, it only matters what I have,” Draco says. He stares at the board of Hogwarts they’ve set up on the table, with tokens to represent every major and minor House in the realm, and coins to represent the numbers. “They outnumber us five to one. It isn’t a fight I can win. Not easily.”

“You’ve won against worse odds,” Hermione points out.

Draco shakes his head, eyes never leaving the board. “That wasn’t a war, that was a skirmish. This, on the other hand, is much bigger.”

“So you need an army,” Hermione repeats, and Draco finally looks up at her, frowning.

“I don’t have one. Unless you know of a ninth Territory in the realm of Hogwarts amenable to aiding our cause?” he asks, sardonic and sharp.

“I don’t know about a Territory,” Hermione says, turning her eyes back to the board. “But I do know of an army.” She points a finger over the tip of the continent. “They’re located in strategically sensitive areas, trained to fight, already mobilised. I think you could convince them to fight for you.”

Draco follows her eyes to the board and stares at where she’s pointing, uncomprehending for a moment, and then his head whips to Hermione, eyes wide with a shocked, “You want me to parley with the Carrowites?”

“Not parley,” Hermione says slowly, as if she’s still unsure of her own proposal. “Just– arrive at a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“That is the definition of–”

“Oh, fine,” Hermione cuts in. “Parley, arrangement, temporary truce. Call it what you want, but if you want to win this war, they’re your best chance. Even if you managed to talk Sirius Black into reverting back to your side, you’ll still have Lestrange and their allies, not to mention the Greengrasses–”

“The Greengrasses won’t fight,” Harry says. “Will they?”

“Not directly,” Hermione says. “But I know the princess and the queen. I’ve seen them rule, I’ve felt their edicts. They’re smart. They’ll not lose out on the chance to back the winning horse if they can get something out of it when the war is done.”

“Hermione’s right,” Draco says dourly. “The queen’s got to be funding the Lestrange war effort, at the very least. And she has a fleet. There’s every chance Greengrass enters the fray against us.”

“But–the Carrowites are Squibs,” Ron says, halting, as if he’s afraid to make his opinions heard. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but–what chance would a group of Squibs have against the combined might of the Lestrange Allied arms?”

“What they lack in power they make up for in numbers,” Hermione says, gesturing to the Carrowite reports strewn further across the desk. She picks up a token cut into the shape of the Carrowite symbol. “You’re also forgetting one crucial element.” She brings the token to the map of Hogwarts and uses it to tip the Lestrange marker down. “The Carrowites are immune to magic.”

Harry shakes his head. “You’re forgetting something too,” he says, frustrated at the fact that a Slytherin, a Gryffindor, and a Ravenclaw are once again making plans on behalf of the Squibs – even if the Squibs in question are of the treasonous variety. “You’re a Slytherin. You’re their enemy. Why would they fight for you?”

“Because he’s a Ruler,” Hermione answers, turning to Draco. “There are things you can offer them that no ordinary Slytherin can.”

As she speaks, the veracity of her words sinks into Harry’s chest like a lodestone, and even as he fields the uncertainty flowing out of Ron he can see it unfold in his mind: the Carrowites, impervious to magic, tearing through the bulk of the enemy forces; their own Gryffindors bringing up the rear; Harry singlehandedly cutting off their retreat. All the different permutations playing out in perfect clockwork, numerous scenarios Draco can control with his incisive, devious mind, now that he has something to control.

“Hermione’s right,” Harry acknowledges quietly, though it doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Draco is already nodding, eyebrows knitted tightly as he surveys the board, moving around pieces with renewed vigour, stationing soldiers in one place, then the next. “I’ll have to send them a message,” he says without looking up.

“It’ll have to be through one of your vassals,” Hermione says, adding some more pieces to the board, and Draco gives her an approving nod as he watches her rearrange the figures. “Bulstrode, maybe, though Goyle would be my first pick.”

“You’re surprisingly adept at Malfoy court politics for someone who’s only been around a few weeks,” Draco says, but Harry just shakes his head.

“That’s Hermione, for you,” he says fondly. “The brightest wizard of her age.”

In another life she might’ve made an excellent Slytherin, or even a Gryffindor, though Harry’s never seen her fight. She’s smart enough to navigate the tangle of palace politics, but wise enough to prefer learning the people’s problems. But now she’s here, for him, where any other person might’ve taken the first portal back home, knowing there’s nothing to be gained from staying back.

“You stole what from where?” she asked, eyes bulging out of her sockets when she heard what Harry had to say about his months in Malfoy. She took one look at him, one of her longsuffering, sweeping ones from head to toe, and sighed, “Oh, very well.”

“What?” Harry asked, still worried she was working herself up to a second extensive tongue-lashing about the perils of Horcrux stealing.

“I’ll stay,” she grumbled, and then crossed her arms and glared at his confusion to add, “I can’t very well let you traipse around alone in this viper’s nest of a castle with no one on your side but a Slytherin.” She sighed again, thwacking him on the shoulder. “You might as well introduce me to your Slytherin while you’re at it.”

He took her to their chambers, then, more worried about Hermione’s perception of Draco than Draco’s perception of her, but both of them took to each other quickly enough. Draco’d always prized a sharp mind above all else, and it was good that he did. Hermione was already proving herself invaluable to them both.

“I won’t send Goyle,” Draco says, finally looking up from the board of Hogwarts to address all three of them. Ron darts a quick glance to Hermione, and Harry himself is looking at her, trying to gauge her reaction.

She frowns. “Zabini? I still think–”

“I won’t be sending Zabini to parley with the Carrowites either,” Draco says. He summons a sheaf of paper and a quill, dipping it into an inkpot and marking the top of the page with his seal. “I’ll send a Gryffindor to the Squib borders with an advance missive.” He looks up. “I’m going to meet the Carrowites myself, and all of you will be coming with me.”

Chapter 22: An Alliance of Foes

Chapter Text

They took a portal the next morning, after a messenger had burst into the room at first light, huffing and puffing and clutching at a piece of parchment. Draco’d snatched it out of his hands to read a single word written in the dark, defiant scrawl of the Northern Common Tongue: “Come.”

He left his soldiers behind, fairly certain he’d be able to weather whatever tricks the Carrowites might have up their sleeves, not to mention Harry and Ron, who were accompanying him. Hermione brought up the rear, fussing the whole way, thinking up so many iterations of what might go wrong that even Draco became tired, taking her by the shoulders and forcing her eyes up, saying, “Stop fretting. You’re likely to make me forget everything we planned at this rate.”

That quietened her, suitably chastised, and Draco added, “You’ve been awfully, fervently helpful. Not that I’m ungrateful,” and Hermione looked him square in the eyes, jaw set, arms crossed, to say, “You’re the husband of my best friend. I’d do anything for him, and if that means helping you, then that’s what I’ll do.” She paused. “Even if you do have an overly inflated opinion of your own self-worth. You’re not half as clever as you think you are.”

“Still makes me twice more clever than most,” Draco said, winking at her. He’s come to enjoy these traded quips.

They stumbled out of the portal to the border that separated Lestrange and Malfoy, only to have one of the Carrowites find them there instead of the other way round with a crudely muttered, “No spells,” and a gesture to follow her through a roundabout, convoluted path that left them trekking through a portion of Malfoy jungle, followed by a slow carpet ride after. It was worrisome, the woman’s expert navigation of his forests, the fact that the Carrowites had magic carpets in their possession at all–a clear indication of some kind of wizarding involvement in their operations.

They stopped at the edge of the northern Lestrange forests, where more of the Carrowites joined them, decked in dark brown from head to toe wearing cloth caps flat against their foreheads. Some had knives in both hands and all of them stared at Draco warily.

“From here you will be blindfolded,” the woman who’d travelled with them said, and they didn’t have a chance to protest before strips of harsh jute were tied over their eyes, tight with stinging rope. They were bundled onto boats and carried, vessel tilting this way and that, riding the rapid roll of the river, straight into the lair of the Carrowites and, when they opened their eyes, their leader was waiting for them.

“Draco Malfoy,” the woman says, deliberately forgoing his title. She’s strong, muscled, with raven-dark hair and light green eyes, dressed no different from the others, in a patched tunic turned brown with wear, though she wears an armband of gleaming leather travelling up her right shoulder. She leans against a gnarled tree with large, twisted roots, and a few other men are climbing down from trees all around them. The forest might’ve been dense, once, but now patches of it have been cleared for tents and plantations, and a few crude fires have been lit over kindling. “We have heard your call for aid,” she says.

“I have heard your call for aid,” Draco returns, stepping forward. They’d come armed, and the Carrowites hadn’t tried to search them for weapons, not the least because they’d be plenty lethal even without.

The woman raises an eyebrow. “It was not I who sent you the missive.”

“A missive does not, a message, make,” Draco says. “The raiding, the reaving, the looting. The fires we’ve had to put out along the border. What was all that if not a cry for attention? I’ve answered the call, and you’ll be grateful I’ve answered it at all.”

“We didn’t raid and reave and loot because we were dying for royal attention,” the woman snaps. “This goes beyond–”

“I know,” Draco says. “I never said it was wrong.”

The woman snorts. “You’re not stupid at least, I’ll give you that.” She turns to climb the tree she’d been leaning against, snaking up the trunk to a dome-like wooden structure Draco’s only just seeing, half hidden in the foliage. “Well?” she calls, from up. “Unless you’d like us to negotiate while shouting our throats hoarse I’d suggest you follow me.”

Draco rolls his eyes and levitates himself up after her while Harry holds Hermione by the waist to cast the spell over them both. The woman is perched on a branch as thick as an elephant, crouching low and ready outside the dome. “Inside,” she says, jerking her thumb, and lifts the flap over the entrance to slip in. They follow her, stooping low, into a small room built into the side of the tree, sheltered with flats of wood and straw and rope bound together, with a rag in lieu of a carpet tossed over the floor.

“We may discuss without interruption here,” she says, sitting cross-legged on the floor and gesturing for them to do the same. They follow suit, sitting close to each other in the cramped quarters, Draco half on Harry’s lap for lack of space. The location is deliberate, Draco thinks, to discomfit them before the negotiations begin.

“If I may,” Hermione murmurs to Draco, and takes her wand out. The woman watches carefully as Hermione mutters a quick spell, and the room enlarges–not much, but enough that they’ve more breathing room than before, and don’t have to sit stuffed up against each other.

Draco nods to Hermione, and turns back to the woman.

“Your name,” he says, not a question, and the woman smiles at him haughtily and says, “Parvati Patil Squib.”

Draco hides his surprise. The Patils are a wealthy family from the Shafiq Province of Nott, one of the only Ravenclaws to own mining contracts in the south. He hadn’t known they had a Squib child.

“Parvati Patil.” Draco inclines his head, betraying nothing of his thoughts–and they begin.

“We have an army, as you well know. Forty thousand fighting soldiers–”

“And you’ll be willing to give them all to me?” Draco asks, hearing the threat for what it is. “A wizard is worth ten Squibs.”

Patil looks at him outraged. “You dare–”

“On the battlefield,” Draco cuts in. “Let’s not pretend that a sword is worth a wand.”

“We are immune to magic,” Patil says, equally harsh, looking beside Draco to Harry. “You’ll know the truth of that gift when you see us fight.”

“Maybe I will,” Draco concedes, sitting forward. “But I am merely establishing their differences.” Their worth, he does not say, but he knows Patil can hear it all the same. He lets it hang in the air for a moment before adding, “The price will be commensurate with the value of the service.”

“You were going to lose the war before it even began,” Patil throws at him. “I’m giving you a fighting chance. Can you put a price on that?”

Draco purses his lips. “Do you speak for your fellow Carrowites?” he asks. “Are you their queen? Do you speak for forty thousand soldiers? There can’t be more than a hundred in this camp.”

Patil laughs. “There are more of us than you know, Draco Malfoy. We know no queen but the leaders we elect when we must.” She gestures vaguely to the ground below. “My people follow me because they wish to, not because I have commanded it.”

“And what do they wish for?” Draco asks, prodding. “Land? Wealth? Acceptance? Fickle things, easily bought and paid for.”

“We are not a traitorous people.” Patil leans forward, back ever straight. “We do not delight in tearing down those around us so we can climb on their backs to glory. We know no Ruler but justice.”

“Then why join the fray now?” Hermione asks, brow knit tight. “I know it’s not out of some misbegotten sense of Malfoy morality.”

Patil swivels her head to the side to consider Hermione, mouth widening into a lazy smile. “Hermione Ravenclaw. I’ve heard of you. Seamstress of Greengrass, confidant of the Malfoy king-consort, and advisor to the king himself. How interesting that you find yourself here now.” She turns to Harry. “Not to mention you. I know of every Gryffindor family south of the Black Hills and I’ve never heard mention of you.” She leans back against the curved wall, a deceptively knowing glint in her eye that sets Draco on edge, though Harry holds her stare coolly to say, “I like to keep my affairs private.”

“Yet you’ve married the most popular man in Malfoy,” Patil says. “How curious.”

“That is neither here nor there,” Draco says. “You brought me here to negotiate so do it.”

“Very well.” Patil grins, a minor victory won. “Let’s see. We’ll want amnesty for the Carrowites for all crimes committed within Malfoy Territory.”

“Done,” Draco says. “What else?”

“Grain for our stores, armour for the soldiers who’ll fight; oh and, there is also the small matter of independence, of course,” Patil says brightly. “The deal won’t be struck without it.”

“Independence,” Hermione splutters, drawing back. Draco shares the sentiment. “You think forty thousand soldiers are worth a whole kingdom?”

“A kingdom is worth a kingdom,” Patil says, hard and shrewd. “And we’re helping you keep yours. I’d say that’s a fair trade.”

“And I suppose you’ll want to carve out your Territory from Malfoy?” Draco demands, teeth clenched, nails digging into his palms. Harry rests a careful hand on his back, and Draco should worry that it reveals more than it should, but he can’t bring himself to care, not when his only option is to destroy his own kingdom to save it. The Carrowites will want Azkaban and the grassland around it–because they’ve not the magic to cultivate further north along the mountains, which means Draco will be left with a ragged, moth-eaten ruin of a kingdom, halved with a sliver of mountain between it.

Patil snorts, shaking her head. “Not Malfoy. You can rest easy. We’ve no use for your desert prisons and your jagged mountains. What we want lies to the south.”

Draco’s eyes widen. “You want–”

“Nott,” Patil completes, and Draco has to work to force the relief off his face. Not Parkinson or Greengrass. “It’s where we’re headquartered,” she adds. “Our base in the Carrow District is just one of many.”

“Be that as it may, Nott is a Royal Slytherin House of the realm,” Draco says dryly. “However much you may think of our magic, it still won’t suffice to tear down the defences of a Ruling Territory.”

“I think very little of your magic, actually,” Patil says, lips pressing into a thin line, “and we’re perfectly capable of fighting our own battles when we can. It’s magic that is the divider, and so it’s that we need your help with.”

Draco turns to look at Hermione, and finds that she’s already looking at him. She’s understood, same as him. “You want me to help you tear down Nott castle so you can build your own Squib one in its place,” he tells Patil, and she grins.

“Right in one.”

“Why?” Draco presses. Tearing down the castle of a Royal Slytherin is no mean feat, he knows. They’re all ancient structures, built and fortified over centuries, warded up to the hilt with offensive and defensive magic. To destroy one would require a very large army–or a Horcrux, at the very least. Draco will have to use the Lestranges’ one if he agrees. “Nott Castle is a good defensive structure, if nothing else,” he says out loud. “There’s nothing to be gained from destroying it, and you Carrowites don’t strike me as the sentimental type.”

“Sentiment is different from principle,” Patil says, rolling her eyes. “The Carrowites want to establish a state that is uniquely Squib, uniquely non-magic. A place where all Squibs may seek safe haven, and be treated as people, as equals. And we can’t have that if we simply chase out the last occupants and take their place.” She pauses. “The land must be razed and rebuilt from the ground up. It is the only way.”

“The other Houses will never recognise your legitimacy,” Hermione says, still pushing. “And if there’s one thing Slytherins hate more than each other it’s outsiders. You think they’ll just stand by and watch as one of their own is brought to dust? They won’t allow it, because they’re selfish, because they’ll be thinking that if Nott goes down there’s nothing stopping the rest of them from following right after, and who’s to say one of them isn’t next?”

“Oh, I like you,” Patil says, eyes twinkling as she smiles at Hermione. “You say what you think. I respect that.”

“I didn’t say it to earn your respect,” Hermione says sharply. “I said it so you’ll understand what you’re asking for isn’t feasible. Even if you have the backing of all seven Royal Houses you’ll still have Gaunt to contend with.”

Patil shrugs. “Then he’ll just have to be convinced that a Squib State is in his best interests.”

Draco baulks. “How on earth do you plan to–”

“Oh, not me,” Patil interrupts him, affecting an exaggerated air, “I’ve absolutely no training in court diplomacy, I’m afraid. It’ll have to be you.”

Draco sees it then, in his mind’s eye, the trap closing in, the perfect plan, every step of it thought out, like they’d been waiting for him, like they knew he’d have no choice but to come. He’s wavering and Patil knows it, she can see it on his face, and he can see it on hers, that behind all the blustering bravado is a mind as sharp as it is keen.

“I’ll throw in something extra,” Patil says, “just to sweeten the deal.”

“What else could you possibly have that I would need?” Draco asks, raising a brow, and Patil draws a breath, smirking, to say, “Information.”

Draco surveys her for a moment, face wicked and closed, wondering at the truth of what she’s said. “There’s nothing you could know that I don’t.”

Patil shakes her head. “Oh, but I do, Draco Malfoy, and you know nothing–but I guarantee that when you’re done hearing what I have to say, you’ll be much more positively inclined towards… acknowledging our mutually aligned goals.”

“Tell me, then,” Draco says tersely, and Patil tuts.

“Not so fast. First, I’ll have your word.”

“We aren’t promising anything until we know what you’re promising in return!” Hermione exclaims. “You could be lying for all we know.”

“Fine,” Patil says, shrugging and sitting back, unfolding and folding her legs into a different position, looking laid back and unconcerned, no care in the world. “Then go. Leave. I know Malfoy Gryffindors are formidable, and you’ve got him on your side.” She points a finger at Harry. “News of the explosion at your wedding has travelled far, and I know enough to know that no ordinary wizard could’ve controlled the spread of Fiendfyre like that, which means Harry here’s worth an army all on his own, isn’t he? So go. Chance it with the numbers. But know that once you leave this forest, you will lose our goodwill, and you’ll never again have the chance to negotiate with us in good faith.” She levels him with a cool stare. “You need us much more than we need you.”

Draco hesitates, torn between leaving and staying, feeling the time ticking away like a countdown.

“And if you go,” Patil adds, licking her lips, “you’ll never know who it was who really killed your father.”

Draco freezes, and he feels his field of vision, the breadth of the entire world, narrow into the space between him and Patil. He’d been operating under the assumption that it was Lestrange, for his father did not have many enemies besides the ones foisted upon him by virtue of his birth, his title, his House. They were friends, whatever else they were, Sirius had said, of his father and Rodolphus. It returns to him now like a mockery. It isn’t possible that Patil might know something he doesn’t unless–unless– “It was you.”

“Me? Of course not.” She weathers Draco’s disbelief to add, “If you’re wondering whether the Carrowites were behind the attack, the answer is no. We don’t murder men at their own dinner tables.”

“No, only in the streets,” Draco says wryly. The urge is there now, stronger. He’d have an army at his back and his kingdom secure once more and the knowledge of his father’s murderer in his mind: a neat package. And the woman isn’t lying, whatever else Draco might think of her, there’s too much at stake for her to bargain based on a falsehood. “I won’t act against my House’s interests, whatever promises you may hold me to.” He’d sooner die from a broken Vow than live to see his kingdom fall into ruin.

“None of that,” Patil says, shaking her head. “I know for a fact that once you’ve heard what I have to say, you’ll want to help us.”

Draco swallows, though he doesn’t look away from her, plunging into the decision. “Very well,” he says, leaning forward and holding out a hand. “You have a deal.”

“Draco,” Hermione says, and even Harry turns to him, startled, but Draco waves them away.

“It’s my decision to make and I’ve made it,” he says. And then to Patil: “Tell me what you know.”

Patil smiles like she’s won, which Draco supposes she has, but before she says anything else she has Draco swear an Unbreakable Vow to Harry, which Draco belatedly realises he should’ve seen coming. “You can’t swear one to me, but a Vow is valid regardless of whom it’s sworn to. We’ve learned from Nott that even kings can go back on their word–especially kings. So you’ll swear the Vow to your husband and repeat after me.”

Harry looks at Draco, alarmed, saying, “It doesn’t seem right, Draco, it’s too dangerous–”

“All of my choices are dangerous,” Draco returns. “At least this way I’ll be the one dictating the board instead of being a pawn in someone else’s game.”

He says the words, glaring the whole time, exerting what control over the situation he can. And when he’s done and Hermione’s wand taps them both on the wrist, thread of light twining around their forearms, Patil looks relieved. A worrisome implication.

“Tell me now,” Draco says, steeling himself, waiting for the words that will cut him like a blow, that he’ll make himself bear for his father’s sake, and the sake of his vengeance. For the sake of his love. “Who was it?”

“Theodore Nott,” Patil says, and Draco stares at her, wondering with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach if he’d been wrong all along and the woman didn’t have any real intelligence to share–

“It’s the truth,” she says, steady and firm. “Who do you think’s been funding the Carrowites for the past five years? He’s got some kind of arrangement with the Black Ruler.”

It all slots into place, one by one by one, slowly, surely, so many lies, stacked neatly on top of each other, slotted so closely a single discovery would unravel the rest, but wound so tight that the discovery would be impossible. “Nott sent you to the borders. During the Battle of Malfoy Mountains, when I had to take Princess Delphini hostage, that was–the whole conflict was because of the Carrowites, because of you. I sent the Gryffindors to the borders to protect my people from you–which was what you wanted, wasn’t it? And you went straight to Lestrange and–did you tell them? That we set you up?”

“I wasn’t part of that operation,” Patil says airily, “though I doubt the need for it arose. Lestrange is hardly predisposed in any positive way towards you.”

“Why?” Draco snaps. “Why cause trouble between Malfoy and Lestrange? What’s in it for Nott? And why are you telling me now?”

Patil sits back, waiting a beat before answering. “I’ll answer your third question first.” She nods at Hermione. “You’re from Greengrass. It’s a long shot but I’ll ask anyway, if you’ve ever been to the Squib part of the Territory?”

“On occasion,” Hermione says neutrally. “What of it?”

“Well, colour me impressed,” Patil says. “So you’ll know what it's like for the Squibs there.”

“It’s difficult,” Hermione says, with an apologetic glance Draco’s way, but he understands. He won’t begrudge her this. “Their settlements are growing smaller and smaller because the wizarding districts keep expanding, their forests are dying, their people are starving, what little surplus they can set aside is swindled through taxes–” she breaks off. “But you know all this.”

“I do,” Patil says, “and I will tell you now, that the plight of a Greengrass Squib is infinitely better than a Squib from Nott.”

Draco understands immediately, and he doesn’t have to look at Hermione to know she’s got it too, but it’s Harry who answers. “You’re talking about the mines.”

“I am,” Patil says. “Hufflepuffs will do most anything, but they’re not so downtrodden and desperate that they’ll have to risk their lives for coin. Not so for the Squibs. Dozens die in the coal mines underneath the Fire Mountains, and the ones who live come away with nothing, barely a wage at all, if any. And half of them are children, recruited because they’re small and easier to send down the narrower tunnels, and the other half are too old or weak or tired to learn any kind of new trade. And all of their families are in direct debt to the Nott crown and will spend the rest of their lives trying to pay it off, which means they can’t leave the mines, let alone Nott Territory, even if they want to search for a better life anywhere else.”

“I understand,” Harry says. “I know it’s a horrific existence, and it boils my blood to see my–to see Squibs treated so–”

“Does it?” Patil asks, eyebrow raised. “How very gracious of you.”

“It doesn’t answer the question,” Harry says, ignoring the jab, though his face has turned cold and pained. Draco holds out a steadying hand to him, and Harry takes it, twining their fingers together, and Draco decides he doesn’t care what the Carrowite woman might think. The deal is made, she can think what she likes, and though she’s smirking slightly at them, she doesn’t comment.

“What do the mines have to do with anything?” Harry asks again.

“It was the deal we made with Theodore Nott,” Patil says. “An end to the mining operations and backing for an independent Squib state, in exchange for our support against you.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “A bad deal,” he says. “Theo was never going to follow through.” Nott relied too much on Squib labour to ever give it up in any meaningful way.

“We know that now,” Patil says humorlessly. “Hence why we’ve come to you.”

“Still doesn’t answer the question of why he’d want to instigate conflict between Malfoy and Lestrange,” Harry says, frowning. “Lestrange is allied to Nott, and Malfoy–well, it still doesn’t make sense.”

“All seven Royal Houses are competitors, in some way or another. There will always be power struggles. The point is to be the strongest of them all. And what better way to do that, then to pit your two biggest competitors against each other?” Patil asks, directing the question to him.

“It doesn’t matter what Nott wants,” Draco says. “Gaunt will see to it that the realm is preserved.”

Patil shakes her head. “You are exceedingly slow for a man famed across the continent for his mind. Theodore Nott wouldn’t move to destabilise the other Royal Houses unless Gaunt was out of the picture, which means–”

“He wants to overthrow Gaunt,” Draco says, understanding crashing into him like a house of bricks.

Hermione gasps. “Stop spouting lies. No wizard–even a Slytherin could hope to stand against the might of the High King–”

“How do you kill a king?” Patil interrupts. “Poison’s one way, but it’s ineffective. Another will step up quick to claim his place.” She chances a look at Draco, who regards her in silence. “The other way, the better way, is to destroy what makes him strong. To erase his legacy. Gaunt is an enormously powerful wizard, more powerful than the realm has ever seen, it’s true, but he’s only a man, and his true strength lies in the Houses that hold him up, the families that hold the realm together in his stead. A king without vassals is no king, much like a roof without walls is no house. Destroy the scaffolding, and you destroy the man.”

Draco feels his heart race. It’s outlandish, so outlandish that it could only be true.

“There are ways to accumulate power and kill a Ruler without resorting to violence,” Patil continues. “Annexing land, sowing dissent.” She pauses. “Stealing a Horcrux.”

Draco jerks his head back, eyes wide, mind reeling from the barrage of information, each piece as sharp and shocking as the last, too staggering for him to parse in any meaningful way. “It was Nott? But Theo claimed–” He stops, protests dying on his tongue. A stolen Horcrux is easy enough to fake.

“During the Battle of Malfoy Mountains, when Rosier sent all their soldiers to Lestrange, their castle was lightly guarded,” Patil says. “Easy enough for Nott to pay a pair of Carrowites to slip through the wards and take what he needed.”

“Why?” Draco asks, unable to conceive of anything else. “Why would Theo want this?”

“Why does any man aspire to power?” Patil asks in return. “You will have to ask him the answer. We are Squibs, unused to the motivations that guide these games you play. This game of Horcruxes.”

“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” Harry demands, but Patil just shrugs.

“We’ve nothing to gain from lying anymore,” she says. “And the truth of my words will be writ all over the troops Nott sends for the war effort. He has, how many? Three Horcruxes fuelling his troops and his kingdom.” Her mouth sours in distaste. “More than enough magic to stop manual mining, but he’s too much of a greedy bastard to stop.” She continues, “His Gryffindors will be neck deep in protective spells thick as iron walls, now that he’s got the Horcruxes to bolster his magic. You’ll know I’m not lying then.”

In a kind of convoluted, warped way, it makes sense, Draco thinks. All of it. In a single stroke, Nott redoubled its income with the money coming in from Black, and yet there was no evidence of the coin at work. The Territory is as poor as it’s always been, which means the money has to be going somewhere else, somewhere no one would think to look, and that’s where it’s gone–into buying soldiers and building armour for a war Nott might have started, but certainly didn’t intend to finish. Draco curls his fingers into fists. “So Nott has our Horcrux, and you’ll help us get it back.”

“We’ll help you win against Lestrange,” Patil says. “After that, what you do is up to you. As long as you destroy the castle and the Nott line, you can keep whatever you find in the ruins. We’ve no use for a wizard’s Horcrux.”

Draco purses his lips, thinking. If Nott has his Horcrux, it means he’ll need the Lestrange’s Horcrux to see the deal through. But once Draco has his own, he can return Lestrange’s back to them with none the wiser. It’s a dangerous plan, and he’ll have to fend off Lestrange in the meantime, but he knows he has no choice anymore. “Very well,” he says, nodding one last time and standing. “You’ve given me valuable information. I won’t forget it.”

“You can keep your gratitude,” Patil says, leading them out. “When the time comes, you’ll give us Nott instead.”

Chapter 23: An Unfolding of Tactics

Chapter Text

There was nothing left to do but prepare for war.

Draco received reports that Rodolphus was raising his banners, and Draco knew he had to do the same soon. There were arms and armour to be forged, supply lines to be drawn, strategy to be handed down to his commanders. He worked through the night, in the week that passed, consulting with his vassals on points of muster and vantage positions, staring at map after map after map until he could no longer close his eyes without seeing the Malfoy terrain in his mind.

“I still don’t trust her,” Hermione says, going through reports by his side. “She seemed so–”

“co*cky? Arrogant?” Draco raises an eyebrow. “The Carrowite woman’s a dream compared to some of the lords I’ve had to deal with. And she’s competent enough to warrant the confidence.”

“It still doesn’t sit right with me,” Hermione insists. “I was there in the council room the day of the explosion. Nott was counselling you not to go to war. You expect me to believe he started it based on the word of a Carrowite?”

“Nott also placed the blame on Lestrange, which fits with the rest of Patil’s story. If he wanted to sow discord between Malfoy and Lestrange, there’s no better way to do it than an explosion at our wedding. Not to mention Nott also knows Draco,” Harry says to Hermione, though he looks at Draco when he says it. “Draco’s made his distaste for Theo very clear. He was never going to listen to anything Theo had to say anyway.”

“Yes, yes,” Draco says, irritated. “Clever of him to pretend, I’ll grant him that.”

“Unless he wasn’t pretending,” Hermione presses, crossing her arms. “And now you’ve gone and sworn an Unbreakable Vow based on hearsay.”

“It isn’t hearsay,” Draco says. “Patil’s a reliable enough source. What’s done is done, and we’re only wasting time the longer we talk about it. I swore the Vow to Harry, and you’re the Vow’s Caster, and I don’t think either of you are going to band together and enforce the Vow upon me unto death, should I fail,” he quotes.

Hermione sighs. “Well,” though her mouth curves into a smile at the impression. “Then I’d suggest you start letting Harry win your arguments, from here. Who knows what he’ll do now that you’ve given him this power?”

Harry snorts. “I think Draco would rather die,” he says, softly nudging Draco’s arm, and Draco narrows his eyes back in return.

“I’m not that–”

There’s a knock, and the voice of a Hufflepuff attendant calls out, “Visitors for your Grace,” and before Draco can say anything, the doors are pushed open and Patil herself swaggers in, daggers on full display around her waist, hair short and choppy around her neck, Hogsfur cloak thickly draped over her shoulders.

“You didn’t start without me, did you?” she says, winking at Hermione, and Draco groans. Behind her, the doors open once more and Pansy and Astoria walk in, completing the set, and then Patil does a double take at Astoria, turning to Draco and adding, “I must say, if you’d told me you were going to surround me with a band of beautiful women at our next meeting, I’d have agreed to your terms much quicker.”

Astoria opens her mouth, blinking, unsure, though Pansy just regards the woman coolly. “You’re the Carrowite girl,” Pansy says, and Patil sidles up to her, sizing her up and down to say, “I’m a woman, Princess,” throwing the word out like an insult, and then abruptly facing Astoria to add, “You can call me Parvati.”

“That’s enough,” Draco says, rubbing his eyes. “We’ve enough to discuss without arguing, and whatever it is you’re doing,” he tells Patil pointedly.

They begin, and for all her snark, Patil’s got a sharp mind and a keen eye for battle, though her limitations come when she’s unused to factoring magic into the equation. Hermione helps, there, and what she lacks in strategy, Pansy more than makes up for; though it’s Astoria who’s most valuable, leaving him blueprints for upgrades to all their war equipment.

“We’ve received reports that Lestrange is mustering at two points,” Draco says. “Near the Parselwoods, here” –he points to the lowest point of Lestrange, to the east, just outside Goyle Province– “and up north here.” He points again to another area, higher up, just outside Zabini Province on the Lestrange side. “They can’t cross Azkaban directly, so they’ll be attacking us from above and below it, hoping to surround us.”

“The castle’s the most defensible,” Patil says. “And what they’re after’s inside it–”

“I don’t have it–”

“Oh, spare me,” Patil tells Draco, rolling her eyes. “I’m not one of your lackeys who’ll lap up your lies like it’s truth and come back for seconds. Everyone in this room knows you’re lying.”

“Draco,” Astoria says, a hand on his shoulder. “Let it go.”

“Careful, Princess,” Patil says. “Or I’ll start to think you like me.” She winks at her again, smirking roguishly, and Astoria looks away blushing, which irks Draco even more.

“We can’t make our stand here,” Pansy says, ignoring them. “It’s too risky for the kingdom.”

“No, it’s not,” Patil scoffs. “Higher than the f*cking Wall, this castle is. I’m sure of it. Nearly froze my tit* off reaching here. It’s impossible to climb the mountainside without magic, even for a Carrowite, and I’ve seen more hard labour than any of you can imagine. If the Lestrange Allied Forces do try to make it up the mountainside it’ll be easy pickings for our archers and your Gryffindors. Like shooting fish in a barrel–literally.”

Draco shakes his head. “No, Pansy’s right. They’ll have to cross Goyle and Zabini and Bulstrode to get to Malfoy, and they’re not going to quietly pass through and leave my people be while they do it, not after I took their grain and their princess at the Battle of Malfoy Mountains.”

“Well.” Patil shrugs. “You stole the grain–”

“I was owed it,” Draco tells her harshly. “And the point is that even if they did make it here without causing trouble in the Provinces, it’s as you said. Nott’s got more than enough magical energy to ferry a force up. One slip in the cracks is all they’d need to open the gates. And if they decide to lay siege....”

“Then what do you propose?” Patil asks, with narrowed eyes.

Draco responds, “We’ll take the fight to them. They’re starved for time as it is. They can’t march the northern armies south because it’ll take months, and our advantage lies in the fact that they’re splitting their troops because of it. Nott and Rosier will likely join the southern Lestrange forces, and Black’s army will join them from Black Hills, which means Rodolphus’ primary stand will have to be in the south. But there’s also the problem of the northern armies near Zabini–they’ll be hoping to overwhelm us there and in the south so the two armies can meet at the Malfoy capital, and we can’t risk that. So I’ll take a portion of our forces and meet them at Erised Point. The rest I’ll leave behind.” He nods at Patil. “You’ll bring a quarter of the Carrowites and join me.”

“You want me to defend Goyle Province, then,” Pansy says, staring intently at the map. “Against the primary force they’ll send through the Parselwoods.”

Draco nods. “You’ll have the bulk of my army, roughly even odds. I trust you can manage, though you’ll have to sail around Black and enter Malfoy through Basilisk Pass.” He looks up at her. “It’ll be a squeeze.”

“We’ll manage,” Pansy waves away. “I can take command of your forces after we meet them at–”

“You?” Patil asks, confused. “Not Harry?” She turns to him, then, asking, “Why are you fighting alongside Draco? It’s a waste of a perfectly good commander, and I’m sure wiser women than me have cautioned against putting all your kings in one basket–or battle, as it were.”

“I’m not a commander,” Harry says, lips pressing together tightly. “I’m a soldier.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Draco knows it, and so does Patil, as she tilts her head further, quizzically, to say, “What you are is a king.”

“I won’t leave Draco’s side,” Harry says resolutely, and Patil widens her eyes in understanding.

“So it’s like that,” she says, and leaves it be.

The rest of the day is spent working out the kinks, assigning commanders to pick out soldiers and hold training rotations. Once that’s done they stumble back to their beds, exhausted. Pansy had to leave as soon as they’d finished–to begin her own preparations, Draco knows. The fleet would have to be readied, and she’d have to consult with her own advisors on everything they’d agreed to. She had two, maybe three days, after which she had to set sail if she wanted to make it to Malfoy in a week’s time. Draco only hoped it would take at least just as long for Lestrange to muster his troops, though his allies had the regrettable advantage of being right across his border, or right across Draco’s. A disaster all round if there ever was one, though not unsalvageable.

“Stop thinking so much,” Harry murmurs, turning around and throwing an arm over Draco, loose and casual. “You’ve thought enough for today.”

“It isn’t like there’s a quota,” Draco says, though he burrows deeper under the bedcovers and turns in to face Harry. “Are you afraid?”

“No,” Harry says immediately. “Not when I’m with you.” He leans in close and touches his forehead to Draco. “I trust you. You’ll see us through this.”

“I hope I do,” Draco says, in a way that suggests the trust is both bolstering and burdening in equal measure.

“You will,” Harry insists, leaning close and catching Draco’s lips in a soft kiss. “I’ll help you.”

It’s a simple thing to say, but it’s said not in support, but as a fact, a familiar surety, that Harry cannot conceive of a reality where he wouldn’t stand by Draco’s side, that he’d fight a hundred thousand soldiers if it meant he could come home to Draco at the end of it, and keep him, and protect him, as sure and true as Draco’s protected him. And he knows Draco can read it all in the tone of his voice, the shine in his eyes, and he wonders when they’d opened themselves up to each other so much that they could read each other more in the words they didn’t say. So Harry doesn’t say I love you, and he hopes it’s one more thing Draco will read from him anyway, leaning forward to deepen the kiss, pushing Draco down. And Draco reciprocates, as he always does, how he’s never been able to deny Harry anything.

“Wait,” Harry whispers, drawing back. “Hedwig.”

“What about Hedwig,” Draco asks impatiently, and Harry shushes him, pointing to where he’s sleeping soundly at the foot of the bed, clumped together in a mound of blankets, and he casts a silencing charm, and a vision impediment charm over the bed for good measure, and rolls out of the bed, ignoring Draco’s confusion to skip to his side and carry him bodily off it, skin sleep-warm and soft, depositing him right in front of their large mirror, panelled into the wall from the floor to half above Draco’s head with a chair turned off to its side.

“I’ve always wanted to do this,” Harry says, murmuring against Draco’s skin and snapping his fingers. The clothes slide off Draco. In the mirror, his hair is tousled from the pillow, slipping finely through Harry’s fingers. He’s half behind Draco, hands settling on his waist, roving up and down his sides, over his chest, tweaking a nipple as he hears Draco gasp. “Look at you,” he says, watching Draco in the mirror. “You’re so beautiful.”

Draco flushes, and his vanity is a stunning thing, there in the darkness of his eyes and the way he pushes back against Harry, grinding against his co*ck, a hand moving up to twine around Harry’s neck, all the while watching them both in the mirror. “I know,” Draco says, and then guides Harry’s hand to his co*ck, saying, “I can see the appeal.”

It stirs something in Harry. He doesn’t want Draco co*cky and smart; he wants him out of his mind with pleasure, delirious. He grabs Draco’s hips with both hands and stills him, grip tight, digging into the hard flesh of his hip bones. “I’m going to f*ck you like this,” he whispers into Draco’s ear, and he can see what it does to Draco, the way he shivers at the words, lips parting, that sharp intake of breath Harry’s come to learn like his own heartbeat.

He whispers the spells and feels the rush of the breeze over his naked skin, and he pulls Draco tight against him, exchanging warmth and heat and touches; and then he summons the chair closer and lifts Draco’s thigh over it, murmuring the spell so he’s slick and ready, so easy for Harry, wanting. He slips two fingers inside and Draco’s eyes flutter close, gasping shortly as Harry works him open, slow at first, then faster, crooking his fingers so he can find the angle that has Draco moaning, throwing his head back so Harry can nip at his throat. “Ready?” Harry murmurs, and Draco just nods.

Harry takes his fingers out and guides his co*ck inside, gliding in, feeling Draco clench around him and watching his own face go blank in the mirror, heady with pleasure. Draco is already too far gone, impatient even like this, moving against Harry, one hand on his own co*ck and the other over Harry’s where he’s holding Draco’s hip. “f*ck me,” Draco gasps. “Just f*ck me.”

Harry groans as he does it, head falling forward, pulling out and pushing right back in, as deep as he can go, nosing at Draco’s throat, his jaw, watching his reflection. But Draco’s not looking at Harry, he’s looking at himself; and Harry lets Draco have this because he understands; he understands that these are the moments you discover yourself again: the way you like to be held, how you like to be f*cked, how much you like the feel of it. It’s supposed to be new and radical and terrifying, and it is, it is. He’s already turning dizzy with pleasure, panting against Draco, plastered against his back as he thrusts, shallow and quick, feeling it all, the tightness of Draco’s ass, the way he clenches around Harry’s co*ck. “So good, Draco. You feel so good.”

“Mmmph” Draco groans, eyes falling close as Harry lowers his hand, grasping Draco’s co*ck, and he can feel Draco tighten around him, that first clench of org*sm, and Harry keeps going, harder now, as hard as he can, jerking him off in time with his thrusts until Draco breaks, keening backwards, crying out against Harry and coming in spurts, and the sight of him in the mirror, wanton and loose and loud, is what does it for Harry, what sends him over the edge, and he grabs Draco’s hips and f*cks into him one last time, and holds him there as he comes, feeling it splinter through him, impossibly good, spilling deep inside Draco.

They sink to the floor after that, Draco sagging against Harry, both boneless and spent but so, so warm, filled with the kind of low, pleasurable contentment that sinks into their bones. Then Draco turns around and draws Harry’s face close with his palms, kissing him hard and desperate, like he wants as much of Harry as he’ll get, like he’s afraid he’ll lose him if he stops, even for a second, even if it feels like they have all the time in the world, caught in the quiet of midnight, in an unbreachable castle built into the clouds.

“I’m here,” Harry says, holding Draco in his arms, pressing him tightly to his chest. “You know I’m here.”

“I know,” Draco says, and kisses him again anyway.

It’s snowing when they reach Zabini, and they march on, making camp just past the outskirts of the last Hufflepuff district. Draco immediately takes Harry and apparates them to the River of Erised, flowing from the mountains at one spot and then reentering it from another, like a broad triangle in the middle of the snow, frozen solid into ice. He feels a familiar pang of longing at the sight of it, spindly trees shadowing its interior with fog, the landscape pure and unchanging as the last time he’d seen it, with his father. He isn’t cold–the warming charms take care of that–but he feels it in the air, the absence of heat, the absence of weight in the wind, brushing sharp and dry against his face.

“Why are we here?” Harry asks, reaching out a hand and letting the snowflakes flutter onto his palm. He’s looking at the sky with a kind of childlike wonder, fresh with discovery, and with a start Draco realises it’s his first time seeing the snow up close, out in the open and not cloistered from inside a window, feeling it fall into his hair, on his skin, under the soles of his feet, the way it sinks underneath them like a bed of beach sand, only thicker.

“I wanted to see the river,” Draco says simply. He’ll tell Harry later, he decides, and leaves him to enjoy this, the snow on his face free from the cold, little crystals of water turning soft against his skin.

They make it back to the camp where the soldiers have set up tents. Across the border, the Lestrange forces have gathered, a hammering, hulking mass that dwarfs the snow-crusted earth. Tomorrow, the fighting will begin, so he takes care while making the rounds tonight, sitting with his soldiers a little longer than he might have; and then he pulls aside a few of his most trusted Gryffindors, Ron at the helm, and gives them the instructions he’d thought out at the river, going back to the rest of his soldiers and telling them as much as he can without giving it all away.

“Can you do it?” Draco asks Harry, after Ron returns an hour later, just as the sun is setting.

“I think so,” Harry says. “I can try.”

“You have to,” Draco says. “Or else we’re all f*cked.”

The mood in the camp that night is tense, nerves palpable, thicker than the fog that crests the treelines, and though Draco counsels his soldiers to sleep well and deep, he knows none will truly be able to. For there’s blood to be shed in the morning, the scent of it already thick in the air, the promise of what’s to come hanging raw and unmistakable. Draco himself is all strung out, wound tight, and he spends the night pacing around the tent and doesn’t come to bed until Harry gives up all pretence of coaxing him, instead bodily hauling him up in his arms and onto their pallet.

“Sleep,” Harry says desperately. “You’ll be more use to us if you aren’t falling off your war carpet for lack of sleep in the morning.”

For once, Draco can’t think of an argument, and he falls asleep in Harry’s arms, coming awake in jerks, sleeping fitfully until morning. And when they wake, the Carrowites have arrived, having stolen into the campsite at night on carpets Draco’d sent for them earlier. His Gryffindors regard them warily, unused to sharing space with another Ravenclaw or a Hufflepuff in battle, let alone a Squib, but for the sake of their Ruler, they bear it.

“The others?” Draco asks Patil, when she dismounts from her carpet, the last to arrive, bringing up the vanguard.

“We did as you said,” she says. “Any word from Parkinson?”

“She sent me a patronus before she left,” Draco says, noting Patil’s frown, the way she presses her lips tight and tilts her head quizzically.

“Nothing since?”

“A missive via portkey after they crossed Basilisk Pass two days ago,” he says, “and another last night, from the edge of the Parselwoods.” She’d made good time, which meant she had to have been sailing hard. “I trust her. She’ll see us through.”

“I hope so,” Patil says grimly, a rare moment of camaraderie shared.

Around them, the Gryffindors and Carrowites are preparing for battle, wizards murmuring spells over their body and their armour, and Squibs sharpening their weapons and donning their armour.

He crosses to the end of the camp on silent feet and finds Blaise on the other side, surveying the Lestrange army milling together across the field, a deep frown over his face.

“It’ll be time soon,” he says, nerves well on display. He’ll hide them from his men, Draco knows. He’s a good fighter and an even better commander, but most anyone would worry at their disadvantage. “Lestrange outnumbers us two to one,” he says.

“I have a plan,” Draco assures, more certainly than he feels. “As long as you–”

“I know, Your Grace,” Blaise says, deferring to the honorific. “I’ll see it done.”

He leaves him there and apparates to Crabbe’s tent, who’s overseeing the Bulstrode army, offering him words of encouragement and going over the plan once more, before returning back to his tent where Harry waits for him. He helps Harry with his armour and then dons his own, steel rippling and moulding over his skin, lightened with enchantments. And then there’s nothing left to do but unfurl their war carpets and fly to the front lines where the soldiers have assembled, ready.

“It is the unfortunate fate of every Gryffindor born in the north,” he says, dismounting from his carpet, “to bear the burden of this war, this war that we did not ask for, this war we do not want. And yet it is thrust upon us, for we are Slytherins, and Gryffindors, and it is our duty to protect, to guard our people against this enmity that’s spanned generations. Each of you swore vows in the Citadel to serve the kingdom, and I ask that you hold true to them now.”

There are murmurs flicking through the camp. His soldiers are all Gryffindors, and courage is hammered into them from birth, forged into their bones through training. Under ordinary circ*mstances, he wouldn’t need to bolster their confidence, but it’s hardly an even fight, so he doesn’t begrudge them their doubts.

“I trust Draco,” Harry says, stepping by his side. “Our enemies underestimated him at the Battle of Azkaban, and it cost them dearly. He’s here, leading from the front, marching and eating and sleeping with us, where Rodolphus isn’t even on the field. He’s sitting safe up in his castle and letting other Gryffindors do the work for him. That isn’t the mark of a true king. A real Ruler leads, and we’re lucky that ours does. I’ll never underestimate Draco, and neither will our enemies, and neither should you. We must have faith,” he says, voice ringing loudly, his magic lacing the words, spreading to the corners of their camp. Draco can see it bolster the soldiers, standing straighter, heads lifted. It isn’t Harry’s words but his magic, Draco realises, calming the army and boosting them in equal measure, but Harry’s face when Draco looks at him is as impassive as ever. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

“Sound the horn,” Draco tells Blaise. “There’s no use in waiting.”

And then they’re off.

It’s a cold clash, steel ringing against armour. His Gryffindors flank the Carrowites, blocking spells and sending them spinning back to their casters, a funnel formation, trapping the Lestrange army with their own size so they can’t get to them all at once. Draco and the other Slytherins fly above them on carpets, assessing chinks in the defense and shoring them up. The Lestrange army is unused to fighting Squibs, and Draco can see the way they startle to find their spells fizzling harmlessly against the Carrowites’ bodies. Patil had been right, Draco realises, it really is an advantage. None of the soldiers know how to defend against someone without magic, accustomed to it as they are like a crutch. The sword and the wand complement each other in a Gryffindor’s training, but the disadvantage to it is that none of them can fully use one without the other, and by the time they do it’s too late. The Carrowites cut them down with relish. They do not need encouragement, Draco sees, not in the way his own soldiers did.

He’s flying side by side with Harry but they fall away from each other as opposing commanders rise to meet them. Draco recognises Prewett shouting spells at Harry, even as Yaxley draws close to meet him. He’s unlike his son, heavy and thickset, a formidable duellist, charging at Draco with his wand aloft and a roar in his mouth.

“Stupefy,” he yells, and Draco bends low and dodges out of the way as the spell goes zinging fast.

“Incendio,” he fires in return. The flames manage to catch the edge of Yaxley’s carpet, burning fast and bright, though Yaxley snuffs it out with a quick Aguamenti.

“Relashio,” Yaxley yells, but Draco dives out of the way again and shoots an Expelliarmus at Yaxley in return.

They bob in the air together, weaving and dodging, getting the feel for each other’s casting before progressing to the more dangerous spells. Yaxley shoots a cutting hex at Draco, which gets him square in the forearm, and then a slashing hex, and Draco retaliates with a slicing hex to Yaxley’s neck and another one at his leg in quick succession, though there’s a gash in his own shoulder from one of Yaxley’s earlier spells, seeping into his collar and down his arm. Below, the sounds of battle rage dense and loud, clanging like the beat of a bursting drum amid shouts and screams and the stench of blood, distant specks roving together.

A gust of sharp wind from Yaxley’s wand knocks Draco backward, carpet listing to the side, and he goes rolling over the edge and right over it, legs dangling in the air as he clings onto the carpet by its tassels.

“Give up, boy,” Yaxley says, voice menacing and mocking, flying closer as Draco grunts and strains against the carpet trying to haul himself up. His right arm burns with the pain from the wound, doubly agonising from the clench of his muscles. He can feel his fingers slip and his grip loosen and his hands flag from the weight of his body as he’s forced to let go–

–vision blurring, ears ringing, heart hammering as he falls, falls, falls–

Straight onto Harry’s carpet, a bolt of red light skimming over where Draco’d been just moments ago.

“Are you alright?” Harry asks urgently, stumbling to him as the carpet flows out of the way of combat spells. He checks Draco over for any visible wounds and mutters a quick healing spell as Draco nods, sitting up shakily.

“Take this one,” Harry says, gesturing to his own carpet and wordlessly summoning Draco’s, jumping onto it and whizzing away to hunt down another one of Lestrange’s commanders as Yaxley looms close once more.

Draco steels himself and raises his wand, readying for the chase once more, except this time he lays low, taunting, shooting spells to hurt and maim, but not to kill, drawing Yaxley further and further backward, and his troops move with him. Draco’s own troops have diminished alarmingly quick, but they’re still in formation, surrounding the Lestrange troops in a thin line from all sides, pushing back, boxing them in, though soon the Lestranges will eat through them.

Unless they reach the river.

“Stop playing with me, boy,” Yaxley says, irritated that Draco isn’t facing him head on. Draco makes himself small, allowing a few hexes to graze him, letting Yaxley think he’s grown tired and afraid. It isn’t a burst of adrenaline and nerves followed by quiet, it’s a slow, steady slog, keeping Yaxley engaged, inching slowly towards the river, zigzagging from left to right, lashing up and pitching below. By his side, Harry’s just knocked Prewett off his carpet and is aiding Blaise against Travers. Further ahead, Ron and Flint cast in tandem against Carrow. It’s working, Draco thinks, as they lure them inwards, deeper and deeper, across the riverline beyond the ice. The river itself is faded, hidden under mounds of packed snow, Disillusioned by the Gryffindors Draco sent out yesterday. The Lestrange forces don’t know the terrain like his own soldiers do, and Draco hopes desperately that none of them have noticed they’re fighting on snow where an iced over river should be, which is why it’s vital to keep the Slytherins occupied. His troops below have thinned, ringing the Lestrange army like a margin, Patil bravely leading the charge from the front as the ground behind them is littered with bodies: unconscious, limp, dead.

It’s now or never.

Harry blasts Prewett off his carpet and turns to Draco, nodding once before plunging downwards, landing just outside the river’s edge. The bulk of the Lestrange army is now across it, needle-like trees shooting upwards in the distance behind them.

“Now,” Draco shouts, the command amplified across the battlefield, and in quick, synchronised tandem, the Carrowites and the Malfoy forces fall back as instructed, drawing away from the river as the Lestrange soldiers look on, confused. They follow slowly, uncoordinated, but before they can get too close Draco lifts his arm and shouts, “Protego Maxima Triangulus!” and a bolt of light shoots up from the river on all sides, the modified shield charm Astoria’d once used against Harry, firmly locking them back on the other side of the river.

Harry strikes the iced river with both hands and fire emerges out of his fingertips, so bright and eerie it’s nearly like Fiendfyre, and under the onslaught the ice cracks open and breaks, melting so quickly half of it starts to evaporate, cloaking the air in a wall of white mist.

Draco cups his hands to his mouth and yells, “Not too much,” forgetting to use magic, but Harry hears him anyway, nodding back, and immediately the mist turns back into water, dropping down into the river in a rush as the heat from Harry’s magic travels thousands and thousands of miles, all the way to the the summit of the Fire Mountains, thawing the glacier that feeds the river; and there’s a great yawning creak and the sounds of a distant rumble as sheets of ice come tumbling down the slopes, slipping into the river and turning the currents deadly quick, bone-chillingly cold. The Lestrange troops struggle against Draco’s Protego, crashing into each other and running in circles as they try desperately to find where the shield barrier ends.

Draco lets the spell hold a moment longer, and then drops it, falling back against his carpet exhausted as the troops rush to the edge of the river, finding they can’t cross it. The currents are too rapid to ford, and they’re too clustered together to apparate without being splinched, bodies piling and twisting and writhing against each other. A few even fall into the river, sinking in seconds as they thrash futilely.

“Oh, you bastard,” Yaxley tells Draco, watching in horror as his men are cornered against the waters, as he’s helpless to stop it. “Move inward, you fools,” he shouts, voice thundering in the din, angry and panicked. “Spread out and apparate back.”

But when the soldiers turn, breaking away from the force to move further inward, the other half of the Carrowites finally reveal themselves, emerging from behind the prickly trees like ghosts materialising out of mist, weapons raised, charging at the Lestrange troops with all the bloodlust of years of pent up rage.

“You planned this,” Yaxley growls, turning on Draco, face red, eyes bulging as Draco says, “Of course I did,” feeling more than a little triumphant.

Yaxley shoots a last, scrambling look at his forces below, raising his wand in a last ditch attempt to shout, “Avada Kedavra.”

A blast of green light jerks out of his wand and Draco swerves down to avoid it, narrowly missing the spell, but Yaxley’s chasing after him, readying to cast again. Draco crouches low, flattening himself against his carpet, teeth gritted, nerves fraying as he swoops and swerves to avoid the next barrage–and that’s when he hears the scream, piercing the air shrill and high. When he turns, Yaxley is slumped against his carpet, iron shackles around his wrists, unconscious, and Harry’s floating up to him on his carpet behind.

“I thought you could use some help,” he says wryly as he nears Draco. Below, the battle is all but won. Lestrange’s numbers advantage has been thoroughly neutralised, Carrowites slicing through their ranks with ease as Draco’s Gryffindors on the other side of the river throw spells at them, trapping them on both sides. The few Lestrange soldiers that put up shields soon let them down to engage with the Carrowites, allowing his Gryffindors pick them off with ease. Some of his soldiers have even managed to get their hands on carpets, flying over the Lestrange forces to rain down curses before diving back out of spell range. There’s nowhere for Lestrange to run or hide. Not anymore.

“I did need some help,” Draco tells Harry in return, and they fly down together to call for the surrender.

Draco’s sorting through preliminary accounts of men and material lost, ordering his men to have sections of the field cleared to set up tents for the wounded, sending out potion tinctures and dispatching surgeons. He’s halfway done with the first set of reports when Ron bursts into Draco’s tent, stumbling against the table like he’s apparated mid-run. “We’ve just had word from Goyle,” he pants.

Draco’s eyes widen. “What news?” It’s too soon for the fighting to be over in the south; the fighting should’ve just begun.

“The troops have scattered on Goyle’s orders,” Ron says, and for a moment Draco blinks, uncomprehending, until Ron continues, “He managed to gather most of the soldiers into rendezvousing at a different point, so they can fall back to the capital, but it won’t be enough. They’re up against three armies.”

Draco takes a step back and nearly trips over the edge of the table. “What do you mean they scattered–what–why–”

“It was Parkinson,” Ron says, face ashen, grip white-knuckled over his sword. “Her fleet never showed.”

Chapter 24: An Acceptance of Birthright

Chapter Text

The combined might of Nott, Rosier, Lestrange, and Black stretches for miles, a swarming sea of soldiers marching in tandem. Harry surveys the scene Disillusioned from up above on his carpet, Draco sitting by his side, dread curdling his insides into ice. Even the bulk of the troops they’d left behind and the Carrowites combined wouldn’t be enough to hold them off without Pansy’s Gryffindors. And they’d be out of formation, confidence blown, afraid. Battle is a game of psychology as much as it is of numbers, Harry knows, because even if he doesn’t know war, he knows fighting, enough to know that it’s true.

“Where is she?” Harry asks, but Draco doesn’t answer, staring stricken into the distance. “Draco,” Harry says again, and he turns to face him.

“I don’t know,” he says, voice breaking, that calm, cool facade giving way to total petrification. “I don’t know what to do, Harry–why would she–”

“She didn’t betray you,” Harry says, pointing to the Black side of the marching army. “Black’s army should be about the size of Nott’s and Rosier’s, but it’s smaller.” True enough, the Black contingents are dwarfed by their other counterparts, though they march in front.

“She’d have told me if she was attacked,” Draco says, “unless something’s wrong,” almost like he’s hoping for it, because it’d still be only slightly less worse than the alternative. “We can’t let them reach the capital.”

“No, we can’t,” Harry says gently, an idea half-formed in his mind, starting to take root. “Will you trust me?”

Draco turns to him with his eyes wide, clutching his arms, hands travelling up to cup his face. “You can’t face three armies by yourself. You won’t survive.”

“I won’t be by myself,” Harry says, grasping Draco’s forearms. “I swore a vow to protect you. Let me see it through.”

Draco shifts closer to him, and Harry can see the colour of his eyes, striations like ink over grey water. Harry leans his forehead against him, a hand on his cheek, and Draco whispers, “Are you asking for permission?”

“Yes,” Harry says, eyes closed.

“And if I say no?” Draco asks, voice cracking.

“I’ll go anyway,” Harry says, and kisses him desperately, deeply, clutching at him with both hands and cupping his face, thumb swiping over his cheeks, down to his neck. Draco shivers under him, kissing back just as intense, fingers fisted in his tunic.

“Wait for me at the last Malfoy outpost,” Harry says, drawing back. “We’ll make our stand there.” And then he cracks away into the smoke of apparition before Draco can say another word.

It’s even colder than the last time when he lands at the centre of the Azkaban Prison, and it turns colder still the longer he stays, as if the Prison is alive and its goal is to leech the living of heat, of life. He rubs his palms together and summons a flame, holding it up to call, “Dementors, your Master summons,” the words coming from somewhere deep within.

They materialise from the pillars around him, like miniature cyclones swirling into existence, robes reforming over tattered bodies. They glide downwards, heads bent low, flocking into the room one after the other until there’s no space left for any more; yet still they come, crowding the corridors outside, stretching out and away, a terrible, swooping confluence of all that is dark in the world.

“Come,” Harry says, something stirring inside him, something great and gruesome and glorious. “Come,” he says again, stepping forward and out, out of this vast prison of demons, what was once a prison of men. He won’t leave his Dementors behind again, for they are his, and he knows this as surely as he knows anything. “Come,” he says, and they part for him like mountains breaking from valleys, seas dividing asunder, a glowing path at the centre of it, laid down for him like a carpet. “Come,” he says, and when he steps out, they follow, a wave of darkness spilling out from behind him, surrounding him like an embrace. “Come,” he says, as they prostrate themselves before him, arranging themselves at different heights like the rungs of a ladder, a staircase. “Come,” he says, and steps over them, one by one, climbing up, up, up, legs never tiring, every step ambrosiac, a gulp of fresh air after wading through smoke. “Come,” he says, surveying his Dementors from the top, settling himself over the last one, legs on either side, and the Dementor crows like it’s an honour.

“Come,” he says, and leads them to the armies of his enemies

“Harry?” Hermione asks Draco, the first thing she says when he sees him. She’s part of the force that’s tending to the wounded Carrowites, the preliminary force which retreated after the initial contact.

“He’s gone to get help,” Draco says tersely.

Hermione considers him with poorly concealed alarm. “From where?”

“I don’t know, Hermione,” Draco says, because he doesn’t, not really, only that whatever Harry’s going to do will have a cost. A great one. “I trust him,” he says, hiding his worry.

Around them, the bulk of their forces have gathered together, his Gryffindors maintaining formation on one side and the Carrowites banding together on the other. The army is nearly upon them, shaking the earth with the force of their march, a steady thud reverberating through patchy earth, stretching for miles.

“There’s too many of them,” Hermione says again, softly. “This isn’t a fight we can win. Even with you here.”

“I won’t offer my surrender. And you should’ve called me sooner,” Draco snaps, turning to Goyle. “At the first signs of trouble.”

“I had no cause to doubt Princess Parkinson,” Goyle says, still quiet but firm. “You would’ve done the same in my place.”

Draco looks away, though he knows Goyle is right, and he shouldn’t be angry with anyone but himself. All of this was his idea, after all.

“He’ll be here,” Draco says, still staring at the swarm of soldiers looming ever closer. “We just need to hold them off until then.”

“How?” Hermione asks.

Draco summons his armour, buckling it on carefully as he thinks. “I have an idea,” he tells them both. “Bring a coterie of your best Gryffindors and another carpet. We’ll fly to them under a flag of parley.”

•·················•·················•

It’s Theo who meets them under the flag instead of his father, along with Evan Rosier’s son, the prince. A host of Gryffindor guards stand behind them.

“Here to surrender?” Theo asks, eyebrow raised, and it boils Draco’s blood, his father’s killer prancing about in a manufactured innocence, creating chaos to serve himself.

“No,” Draco says, voice level. “I’m here to call for a Wizard’s Duel.”

Goyle’s eyes widen in shock, then in fear. He whispers something in Hermione’s ear and it turns them both ashen and pale.

Rosier scoffs. “Why would we risk it when our armies could clobber yours the moment we set them loose?”

“Because if not you’d be branded a coward,” Draco says, wand out against Rosier’s throat, striking like a snake as Rosier recoils back in haste. “Or are you afraid of me, Rosier?”

The Gryffindors on both sides have their wands trained on each other, but Theo gives them the signal and his side stands down.

“Rosier is afraid of you,” Theo says derisively, “but I’m not. I will accept the call.”

Draco has to work to keep the surprise off his face, drawing back, but Theo must see it anyway, for he says, “What? Did you not think I’d accept? I know you only see it as a delaying tactic, but I care about my people. About this realm. I won’t have bloodshed if I can help it.”

Draco looks at him incredulously, and then throws his head back and laughs. “You’re a fool and a liar” –Theo’s head jerks back, brow furrowed at the accusation– “and if I have to cut you down to save my people, then so be it.”

Already, Draco feels lighter, steadier, calmer. He can feel the magic coiling at his fingertips, waiting to be set free. Even the Vow, that unbreakable, shining light which ties him to the Carrowites is singing underneath his skin. He’ll have justice for his father and uphold his promise to the people; he’ll destabilise the House of Nott and retrieve his Horcrux from the wreckage. It’s the perfect plan, if only Draco can see it through.

“Hear my word,” Draco says, voice loud and clear, echoing towards both sides; carrying by wind and by magic, the ancient, customary words. “I, Draco of House Malfoy, Ruler of Malfoy Territory, issue the challenge of a Wizard’s Duel to Theodore of House Nott, Prince of Nott Territory. He has accepted the challenge. Gregory Goyle of House Goyle and Felix Rosier of House Rosier shall bear witness.”

The formalities done, the others leave, forming a wide circle around them, and Goyle and Rosier join hands to raise a barrier of rocks to ring the circle’s perimeter. Theo and Draco both shed their armour and meet at the centre. “Good fortune to you,” Theodore says, looking at him strangely, like Draco’s a puzzle with pieces missing. It turns Draco anxious, then, and he snaps out of it because it’s probably what Theodore wants, responding instead, “Good fortune to you as well,” injecting as much hatred as he can into the words.

The aim of a Wizard’s Duel is designed to strip a wizard of everything that makes them powerful, and reduce them to their base, most fundamental magical selves. Because the true test of a wizard isn’t their arsenal of spells–knowledge can be studied by anyone–but by the application of what they learn, the very rules of magic, of nature. So each wizard is assigned one of the four elements, and they may cast only with that element. A test of magical and mental strength, fortitude, and above all, creativity.

“For Theodore Nott, the element of fire,” Goyle calls out, rolling a four-sided dice, looking pale and shivering with his eyes closed, like it pains him to say the words. He’s right to feel so. Fire is the strongest element in a duel alongside air because it’s regenerative; it doesn’t need a source to grow from.

“For Draco Malfoy, the element of water,” Rosier calls smugly, and Draco has to resist the urge to groan. They’re miles away from the closest source to water, and Draco wishes they were back in the north, only ice and snow for miles. But they aren’t, so Draco snaps himself out of it. He’ll cast a million Aguamentis if it means defeating Nott in a duel.

They begin messily. Theo blasts a ring of fire at him and Draco drops down and rolls, spluttering as he stands. The fire is a long, crackling line, rope-like, and Theo wields it like a lasso, eyebrows drawn as he throws. Draco dodges once more and whips out an Aguamenti, though it sizzles out against the rope with no effect.

“Give up,” Theo says, firewhip crackling through the air as he smashes it down over Draco.

Draco blocks it with a shield of ice that’s so thin it’s already cracking. And that’s how it goes: the crackle of fire, the frizzling of ice, whip, dodge, whiz, smash. His tunic is burned through in places, skin turning dark and purple, the first smells of burning flesh rising through the air. There isn’t enough water for him to wield, no matter how many Aguamentis he can summon, and he can’t ice his wounds when Theo’s charging after him hale and whole. He twists out of the way of another attack, breathing hard, movements slow and laboured.

“Let’s end this, Draco,” Theo snaps, and whirls his whip like a lasso, until a cyclonic pillar of fire emerges from his whip, and he sets it chasing after Draco.

“f*ck.” Draco throws up a hastily conjured smokescreen of water vapour, palm to the floor as he struggles to find more moisture. Tufts of grass stick out in clustered patches, and Draco sends his magic zinging across the earth, draining the roots of their moisture.

The pillar of fire cuts through his vapour curtain with ease, sizzling through the air, as Draco jumps and dodges and tries to aim plant sap at Theo’s wrists.

“It’s useless,” Theo shouts, almost lazy, directing the fire around with a flick of his wand. He’s playing with him, Draco realises, and the thought fills him with so much rage he takes the last of the sap and aims it straight at Theo’s neck, thin as a needle, sharp as a blade. It whistles through the air and misses by a hairsbreadth.

“Try again,” Theo says, bellowing, “Serpensortia Ignis,” and his fire pillar morphs into snakes, slithering along the ground and encircling Draco where he stands, rearing up, mouths open wide to reveal sharp, fiery fangs.

“Yield,” Theo commands. Draco slices a snake across the neck and the other one bites his arm. It burns through his flesh and he cries out, sinking to his knees. “Yield,” Theo says, voice harder, “Unless you want–” And stops.

Something hits Draco’s cheek, cold and sharp, and when he looks up it’s rain, going from a drizzle to a deluge in a matter of seconds. Something in him unfurls, disbelief and succour all at once. He reaches a hand to the sky and water slithers around his arm like a whip, so much of it. He could do anything.

Theo turns pale, summoning his snakes back to full form, but now it’s an effort to maintain the spell amidst the downpour. And Draco doesn’t waste another moment as he summons more water and freezes it down into icicles, sharp enough to cut through flesh, turning around and throwing them like daggers. One catches Theo square in the shoulder and he stumbles back, cursing as his good arm goes limp and the fire sputters out. Draco throws another dagger at Theo but he bounds out of the way and summons the firewhip once more with his left hand. It’s still awkward and clunky, but deadly enough.

Draco turns and looks for a sign of Harry, for anything, but his army is restless and the space between them is as clear as ever.

“Parkinson isn’t coming,” Theo says, and Draco summons another ice dagger to throw at him, controlling its trajectory so it bends through the air and hits Theo square in the stomach. He keels over, firewhip flailing in the air and thudding against the floor, puttering out.

“What did you do to Pansy?” Draco asks, infuriated. “Why didn’t she come if–”

“It wasn’t me,” Theo pants, sitting up, though he conjures a weak flame and brandishes it at Draco. “Any further and you’ll burn.”

“Who was it?” Draco asks harshly, ignoring him to step closer. No one around can hear them, though they’re craning their necks to look over the low stone wall.

“It was Black,” Theo gasps, pushing himself upright, “but mostly Greengrass,” blood oozing out of his stomach as he clutches it, as if he’s holding his insides in. “You thought you could break the betrothal and there’d be no consequences?”

It hits Draco exactly the way it’s supposed to, and he stumbles to a stop, momentarily stumped. “Greengrass wouldn’t–” But he stops because Greengrass would, because Astoria might’ve forgiven him but it’s Daphne who’s the princess of Greengrass, ruling in her mother’s stead. And she’d never sworn a vow to him.

“Now you see,” Theo says, smile turning into a grimace. “Sometimes people lie.”

“Yes, like you,” Draco says, feeling murderous now, frenzied. The pain in his sides has reduced to a dull ache; he can no longer feel anything. He rushes the remaining few steps to Theo and grabs him by the shoulders, swatting away his fire with ease. “Why did you do it?” he asks. “Why?”

Theo stares at him, head tilted to one side, breath laborious. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you–”

He chokes as Draco grabs him by the shoulders, fingers digging into the open wound. “You killed him.”

“I’ve killed–a lot–of people,” Theo says, gasping through the words. “You’ll–have to be specific.”

Draco summons another ice dagger and draws back to plunge it into Theo’s chest, his heart, when Theo cries, “I yield. I yield. I yield.”

“No,” Draco yells, incensed, but it’s too late, and the others have already heard. The yielding signifies the duel’s completion and the stone walls are being lowered. “Coward,” he spits, still holding Theo by the collar of his tunic. “You killed my father for your own foolish, selfish ambitions.”

Theo lets out a grunt as Draco thrusts him back against the ground, and he struggles to sit up as he says, “You don’t understand anything–I didn’t–it wasn’t me–it was–” Before doubling over to cough.

Draco rolls his eyes, breath still coming in short, stuttering bursts, fingers curling into fists, but there’s nothing he can do to Theo now that the duel has been called. “There’s no use denying it,” Draco says acidly. “I know it was you.”

But Theo doesn’t respond, he’s still braced against the muddy grass, coughing and spitting out blood, hands scratching at his neck. “Theo,” Draco says, eyes widening as Theo thuds to the floor, taking long, gulping breaths, sounding choked off and strangled. “Theo!”

He looks around as the others rush into the circle, and Gryffindor Healers from both sides wade to the front with their wands out, pointing it at his neck to chant, but it’s no use–Theo has already stopped breathing.

“No,” Draco says shakily. “What happened–no.”

Rosier is pushing himself to the front, shoving the others aside. “It was you,” he accuses. “You killed him. We heard him yield–all of us did. And yet you still killed him.”

“I did not,” Draco roars. “I had nothing to do with it.”

“You were the only one in the ring with him–”

“It could’ve been anyone–”

“He was on our side,” Rosier interrupts. “We had no reason to want him dead. Unless you’re suggesting one of yours did it?”

Too late, Draco sees the trap. Rosier’s mouth is firm, just the hint of a smile, wicked and sharp, like he’s happy by the turn of events, and why shouldn’t he be? An unstable Nott makes for a stable Rosier, and with nowhere to turn, maybe Sirius might go to him for the Horcrux help. If Rosier knew. If this was Rosier’s doing.

“It wasn’t us,” Draco says. “On my honour as a Ruler, it wasn’t me.”

“It was someone,” Rosier says, warming up to the events. “Only blood can pay for blood. Will you, Draco Malfoy, offer yours in exchange for Theodore’s?”

“Of course not!” Draco exclaims, stepping back, as his Gryffindors flank him. “Think, Rosier. All of you. The battle was won. I defeated Theo. I’d saved my people from a battle they’re outnumbered three to one. Why wouldn’t I turn around and go home?”

“Because he killed your father,” Rosier says, and Draco jerks back. “I didn’t know you knew it, but I heard you say it. The moment he yielded and the barriers lowered, I cast the spell. I heard what you both said to each other.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Draco says harshly. “I’d never put my kingdom at stake for the sake of my revenge.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Rosier says, stepping back. “I think you’d do anything for the sake of revenge, Draco Malfoy, and that is your weakness.” He turns, gesturing for his retinue. “Sound the horn.” He turns back one last time, looking straight into Draco’s eyes when he says, “Now we march.”

Harry surveys the battlefield with cold, impassive eyes. Both forces are still intact, the front lines still holding, though it won’t for long. The Lestrange Allied Forces blanket the earth like a thronging shadow, ready to take the place of the soldiers who fall before them–unflagging, inexorable, powerful. Nott’s soldiers in particular seem untouchable, spells bouncing harmlessly off their contingents as they advance. It is as Patil said. He sees them through the gaps in the clouds, swishes of grey that break up the Gryffindor formations. A wave of something like anger washes over him–something like anger because he can’t remember what anger was like, before, watching the two armies clash like the swarming of insects, distant specks on the ground below, the power of a thousand Dementors to bolster him. Their power is his; he could crush both armies with a snap of his fingers, with a single word uttered. It takes an effort to remember why he’s here.

“Do you hunger?” he asks his Dementors, and their minds crowd against his, a teeming, seething mass with a single thought to answer: “Yes.”

“Not them,” Harry says, once again straining with effort, the will to hold his Dementors in place as they survey the Malfoy armies with relish. “There.” He points to the armies on the other side.

They descend from the clouds as one, a darkness that sucks out colour, lower, lower, until the forces stop fighting and turn upwards to stare. Where the Dementors travel, the earth turns black with decay, trees rotting and tearing from their roots, leaves shrivelling into dust. And above them all, on the highest Dementor, flies Harry, and he can see himself through his Dementors’ eyes, a crown of black smoke over his brow, eyes glazed over the colour of coal. The sun is a thin film behind his head and, as he gains ground, it disappears behind him entirely.

His Dementors hover above the Lestrange Allied Forces, spaced equally apart, covering every mile and turning to him as one. And as they look up, he opens his mouth, arms raised in benevolent grace to say to his Dementors, “Feast.”

The screams begin immediately.

The Dementors plunge into the soldiers, gorging themselves on souls that come up willingly, seasoned with fear and terror and cold confusion as they run like locusts, pushing and pulling and climbing over each other in their hurry to escape. Some make for the forests, but the Dementors get to them before they can reach the edge, and pull them away kicking and screaming as they drop to the floor mid-shout and their faces turn vacant. Harry directs his Dementor to drop him by the Malfoy forces so it can join the others. It lowers him to the ground and flies away, and he goes to Draco, who receives him with a kind of dreadful awe, saying, “Harry, what have you done?”

“Saved you,” Harry says simply, wondering why Draco’s asking him such a simple, pointless question. “Saved us.”

“No,” Draco says, stepping forward, a hand on his cheek, cupping him, full of frustrating concern. “What have you done to yourself?”

Draco’s touch is like a key, unlocking a hunger that feels profound and primal inside him, and he grabs Draco by the waist and pulls him close, uncaring of the soldiers around them as he kisses Draco, aggressive and animalistic, all tongue and teeth, hands roving over his back, his arms. Draco sinks into it, for a moment, before gasping surprisedly and wrenching away.

“Harry, what are you doing?” he asks, eyes wide, though his hands are still on Harry’s shoulders.

“I want you,” Harry says, low and desperate, the feeling of hunger straining against him, of want. “I need–”

“No,” Draco says. “Not now, not–not here,” he says, looking fragile and lustful and fearful all at once; and Harry doesn’t understand it.

“Fine,” he says savagely, turning away and taking off into the distance, a single soldier amid a flood of Dementors, tearing through their ranks, slicing, stabbing, strangling with his magic, forgetting the passage of time, the sinking of the sun–welcoming it, even, for with the rising of the moon, his senses turn sharper, and the darkness cloaks him like a magnificent shroud. He doesn’t count the number of Gryffindors that fall at his hand, doesn’t even notice them, like swatting flies in the service of his ravenousness–paltry individually, but there’s an army to be had, so Harry doesn’t slow. His Dementors soar ahead, clearing the path and leaving the best soldiers for him, knowing he’ll enjoy the chase, the hunt, the breaking of their body and spirit.

And then he feels a tap on his shoulder, and he has to tear himself away from the diminishing horde of bodies to turn around and find Draco, shrinking back ever so slightly to say, “Harry, that’s enough. They’re surrendering. They’ve surrendered.” He pauses. “That’s enough.”

“What?”

“They’ve surrendered. It’s over,” Draco says, hands on Harry’s shoulders, pleading, desperate. “You can stop now.”

He turns back, vision clouded, filtered black and brown, and he can see the other soldiers turning tail and running, trampling over each other, tossing aside weapons as they flee, a chaotic frenzy of fear. “I can’t–I don’t–” His mind is sluggish, the part of him that wants to talk. His tongue is thick and heavy in his mouth, struggling to form words that aren’t take and want and more. “I can stop?”

“Yes,” Draco says, holding him, hands travelling over his waist, his chest, over his face. “Please,” Draco says, voice small and soft. “You can stop now.”

“I can’t,” Harry says. “I don’t want to.” His body is still thrumming, still singing like an arrow set free from its bow. “I still feel–”

“I know,” Draco says. “Trust me. Call them back and I’ll help you.”

For a second Harry doesn’t think he knows how, but then he finds it, the will to pull in the Dementors, and he singles it out and holds it, a tiny gold thread glowing weakly in the dark of his mind, and he tugs on it, looking at Draco, remembering him, the sound of his laugh, the cadence of his voice. And as he remembers, the thread grows thicker, turning into rope. And with that rope he wrangles the Dementors down, drawing them away; and they come reluctantly from their prey, protesting all the way.

“Enough,” he says, teeth gritted, sweat dripping down his brow, snapping the Dementors back into place. They gather by the edge of the front lines until Harry says, “I will come back for you.”

He’s holding Draco tight, so tight he might bruise as they apparate back to their base, and Draco barks out orders all while Harry’s latched onto him, staring at him, unable to look away, battle-hunger giving way to another kind of need.

“It’s alright,” Draco says, taking out his wand. “It’ll be alright soon.” And then he turns and nods once, to Goyle and Hermione, before apparating them both away and straight into their bedchambers in Malfoy castle.

“Draco, what–”

“Take me,” Draco says, clawing frantically at his clothes, and Harry stops him with a hand catching his wrists, fighting himself every step of the way, gripping the table with his other hand as he says, “Draco, I can’t–I might–I might hurt you.”

“It’s alright,” Draco says, drawing him closer, pushing himself into Harry’s space, his hands on Harry’s chest. “I want you to–I want–”

Harry growls, feeling his hunger roar to the forefront, that deep down desire rearing its head once more. He tears at Draco’s clothes, his magic ripping the fabric apart and pulling his pants down, and he rams Draco up against the wall, hiking his thighs up around his waist until he’s braced against a tapestry, pupils blown wide, clutching Harry’s shoulders to gasp, “Do it. f*ck me.”

Harry whispers the spells and fingers him roughly, crooking his knuckles to find the spot inside Draco that has him moaning in pleasure, head thudding back against the wall. He leans down and catches Draco’s mouth in a crushing kiss, turning his lips red and swollen. “Enough,” he pants. “Enough, I want your co*ck. Put it in me.”

Harry groans and captures Draco’s mouth in another bruising kiss; he can’t help himself. Draco is writhing against him, legs vice-like around his waist, hips undulating sinuously. And Harry’s always been drawn to Draco like this, his power, how sensual it can be, how seductive. He adjusts his grip, fingers digging into the hard muscle of Draco’s thighs, angling his hips so he can slip inside, gliding in, the friction delicious and hot and everything he needs. “Yes,” he groans, f*cking Draco, ploughing into him hard and fast as Draco’s breaths begin stuttering, back hitting the tapestried wall roughly.

“More,” Draco half-whispers, half-cries, and Harry obliges, moving faster and faster, shifting a hand to Draco’s scalp and tugging at it so he bares his neck. Draco moans, going pliant under Harry’s touch, tilting his head further away and pulling Harry close by the collar. Harry bites him, licking, sucking, a trail of bruises travelling down his neck as Draco gasps and begs for more. “I’m close,” he says, and takes his own co*ck in his hand, tugging frantically as his eyes roll back in his head, whimpering, and he comes, Harry’s name a breathy shout on his lips, coating Harry’s chest and going limp in his arms.

Harry vanishes it all along with the rest of their clothes and carries Draco to the bed, who’s looking lax and beatifically sated.

Harry says, “I want–”

“Yes,” Draco murmurs, “do it.”

Harry presses back into him, hips pumping, elbows bracketing Draco’s head as he writhes on the bed, louder now, tears pooling in his eyes. “Perfect,” he says, looking out of his mind with pleasure. “Just like that, Harry. Yes, yes, yes.”

Harry feels it coming, the knot of pleasure building at the base of his stomach and spreading, hurtling through him as he pushes into Draco one last time and comes, biting down against his shoulder.

Draco is rosy-cheeked and glazed below him, chest and neck littered with marks, though he pulls Harry down, unselfconscious and says, “Are you okay?” slurring a little.

“Yes,” Harry says, feeling clarity pierce him once more, though it’s dulled by the exhaustion of fighting and sex. “I’m okay,” he says, and is pulled into sleep soon after.

The Malfoy crypts are overflowing with wounded Carrowites, lying everywhere on makeshift pallets except the stone tombs themselves. Hermione’s managed to gather together a few Ravenclaws and the Carrowites’ own field surgeons, and set them to working on all the soldiers who limp in, assigning them floorspace and patching up their wounds. They’d flown in on carpets, more serious cases first followed by the others.

Hermione hands a leather bit to Parvati who’s sitting on the pedestal of a towering statue. “Bite down.”

Parvati stares at her weakly, fatigue hunching her shoulders, though she dregs up enough energy to say, “Now this is a view I could get used to,” as Hermione gets on her knees to remove the hastily tied cloth bandage around her thigh.

“Good,” Hermione says, pressing a finger over the nicked artery, down against the bone. “It’ll be better if you aren’t thinking about it.”

“Thinking about what?” Parvati frowns, gritting her teeth and staring at the rod Hermione pulls out. “What are you–f*ck,” she shouts as Hermione places the cautery where her fingers had been moments earlier, and holds it there as Parvati shudders through it, breathing deep and pained as the iron burns her flesh.

“We have to control the bleeding or else you’ll die,” Hermione says. “Don’t move or it’ll hurt worse.”

Parvati’s fist is tight around Hermione’s shoulder, digging painfully, but Hermione doesn’t complain. She removes the cautery a few minutes later and begins cleaning the wound with a strip of gauze.

“I suppose I should thank you,” Parvati says faintly. “For saving my life.”

“This doesn’t mean I trust you.” Hermione wraps the linen around Parvati’s thigh.

Parvati rolls her eyes. “If anything it’s me who shouldn’t be trusting you. You’re a wizard aiding Squibs. That’s never ended well for us.”

She isn’t talking about the wounded, Hermione knows.

“I made an Unbreakable Vow with Draco and Harry to–”

“Oh, so the Ruler of Malfoy is Draco to you,” Parvati says shrewdly. “Quick to insinuate yourself among kings, aren’t you?”

“It–it isn’t like that!” Hermione splutters, drawing back. “Harry was my friend long before all this, and Draco is his husband!”

Truthfully, she’s worried for Harry. There was something off about him when he returned with the Dementors, a kind of chilling indifference, and underneath that there was a greed. She’d seen him fight before, but she’d never seen him enjoy it; and the way he’d kissed Draco by the front lines before charging off into battle, almost like that was a fight too, a prize for him to take and claim.

“Did you know about his Dementors?” Parvati asks more carefully, following her train of thought. She hadn’t been there but she’d had to have heard the news since.

“None of us knew,” Hermione says. “Or else we’d have told you at the Carrowite Base in Lestrange.”

Parvati considers her a moment, as if wondering whether to trust her or not, before sitting back and sighing. “And now the Nott prince is dead, and half the other forces have had their souls sucked out, and nearly every kingdom in the country has it out for Malfoy. He’s not doing himself any favours, allowing the Dementors to swarm about the capital like this, upsetting the commonfolk.”

“Worried you backed the wrong horse?” Hermione asks wryly, and Parvati snorts.

“Just a general comment. I don’t think it’s uncharitable to grant we’re lightly f*cked at the very least.”

Hermione’s forced to agree. Between Harry’s Dementors, the unrest in Nott and Rosier, their mission for the Carrowites, Gaunt’s recent decree, and Parkinson’s war in the south, Hermione thinks that lightly f*cked is the understatement of the century. “Can’t get any worse though,” she says, and hopes against hope that it’s true.

Chapter 25: An Initiation of Repayment

Chapter Text

There are Dementors on the castle grounds.

They roam the battlements, turning cold air colder still, draining warmth from the soldiers around them. A few fly down to the Gryffindor cantonments in the lower slopes, on occasion, but they don’t cross, never straying too far from their master. Which is good, Draco thinks, as long as Harry stays in the castle. They’re an effective deterrent against enemy forces–but there won’t be a point guarding against outsiders when he can’t control the people inside his borders. And he’s rapidly losing his hold already. The people don’t like the Dementors, and why would they? The Slytherins have built an entire way of life around hating the Dementors, fearing them, and now Draco’s gone and married the master of them all, a foreign king, a commoner, one who likens himself to Squibs and wields an unholy amount of power. “Wars shouldn’t be won this way,” is the refrain he’s heard repeated, the words that trickle to him through spy reports from his Gryffindors across the kingdom. “Better to lose with honour than win with Death.”

Idiots, he thinks. After all he’s done to keep the kingdom together.

High King Gaunt was alarmed at the news. He gathered the Ruling families of the seven kingdoms together–unprecedented out of a Full Council session or all out war–and when Draco arrived, the capital was being fortified in a way he’d never seen before. Walls raised twice as high, mountain passes closed with rubble, gates fused into stone so none may enter except through highly regulated portkey.

“What is all this for?” Rosier asked, foolishly, because Gaunt would’ve told them anyway, and he hated being questioned.

“Never before has the line of Slytherins produced such an incompetent, inadequate, and inept crop of Rulers. What Horcruxes remain with us are no longer safe.” Gaunt turned his eyes on Draco, flashing angrily in the bright light of sconces. “Enough of your games. You will hand over the Lestrange Horcrux and be done with it.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Rodolphus crooned, and was immediately shut down when Gaunt directed his anger his way to say, “You mistake me, Rodolphus. I have asked Draco to hand over the Horcrux to me.”

“But–”

“He will send it to me,” Gaunt says, voice thundering, turning to Draco, “along with his husband, this man who controls Dementors.” His voice dropped to a sibilant hiss. “Such a wizard could prove useful in the fighting along the Wall, don’t you think?”

Draco had already denied Gaunt once, and he couldn’t deny him a second time. But if he didn’t hold out even a semblance of compliance, Gaunt may very well brand Harry a traitor for consorting with Dementors; and Gaunt knew that Draco knew it. “Yes, Your Grace,” Draco said, head bowed low, pretending to be cowed.

“The Horcruxes shall remain safe within these walls until I have deemed the threat sufficiently neutralised,” Gaunt declared. “Until then you may all resort to using gemstones to transport the magic tax quotas.”

The realm was a mess. They still hadn’t discovered who really killed Theo, though the Lestrange camp was quick to swing accusations at him, and Daphne and Pansy both had to portkey back to their castles and ready their Horcruxes for transport.

Gaunt bid the five of them to stay behind–Draco, Sirius, Rodolphus, Nott, and Rosier, and spent the better part of the evening casting Crucio at them, that infinite well of power swelling out of his wand and dousing the five of them as they convulsed on the floor, kneeling, keeling forward; and he’d spelled their mouths shut so they couldn’t even scream. Then Nagini had slithered into the hall, crawling menacingly past them, and she’d sunk her jaws into Gaunt’s wrist, slashing it open so that crimson blood spilled out. He held it over a goblet and collected it, and then levitated it to them so they drank, still on their knees, that venomous blood. And the moment the venom touched Draco’s lips, he was on fire, charring from the inside, an agony of unbearable intensity. And they all fell forward against the floor, lying there until an excruciating age later, when the pain did not dull but their body acclimatised to it, like flesh reforming over a sunken arrowtip.

“Nagini’s venom runs through your blood now,” Gaunt said, unstoppering a vial from his robes and drinking from it. “I have bound you to me through her poison. Until you retrieve your Horcruxes and present them to me, I will not heal you. You have” –he pauses– “one month before the venom corrupts your magical core. To fail me is to die.”

Apparition was pain; magic was torment. Draco could no longer cast without feeling the venom bubbling in his veins. He’d come stumbling out of the portal and straight into Harry’s arms, so delirious he could barely speak, and he spent the rest of the day, and the day after that, spasming into fitful half-slumber.

“What did he do to you?” Harry asked when he woke, eyes searching his own, hands possessive over his forehead.

“Nothing permanent,” Draco croaked, and had to close his eyes again.

Harry’d been ready to march single handedly on the capital with his horde of Dementors when he learned of Draco’s condition, and had to be talked down from it by a combination of Hermione, Ron, Pansy, Astoria, and even Patil, who had the most convincing argument of all: “Draco’s sworn to help the Carrowites against Nott, and deviating from that objective to go fight a battle based on a momentary flight of fancy isn’t furthering that objective in any way. Draco might have a month to live with a poison in his blood, but he won’t have a day if you get in the way of the Unbreakable Vow. The sooner we go to Nott, the sooner you can find the Malfoy Horcrux and hand it to Gaunt. He’ll be much more amenable to hearing Draco’s plea for a Squib State if he’s got a Horcrux to placate him on the side. Because in case you’ve forgotten, the plea was a part of the Vow as well.”

“Fine,” Harry said, a vein bulging in his neck, but he acquiesced.

Astoria and Pansy call again, later, faces sparking into view over the dual enchanted mirrors Draco keeps in his council room, and he summons Harry and Hermione to discuss.

“No one’s been able to portkey into Nott or Rosier since the borders shut down,” Pansy says. “You’ll have to travel by carpet again.”

“So will you,” Draco points out. “You can’t portal with the Horcruxes, it’s too much magic to transport over a single jump.”

“But then we won’t be able to come with you,” Astoria says, perturbed. “We can’t let you go to Nott alone. And I want to take a look at the venom in your blood.”

“There’s no time for that.” Draco rubs his eyes tiredly. “I can’t wait for you to come to Malfoy. It’ll take too long–”

“Then we can meet somewhere in the middle,” Astoria cuts in. “Rosier, maybe. And then we can fly to Nott from there.”

“I can’t,” Pansy says sharply. “Parkinson’s still reeling from the Greengrass invasion. I can’t leave my kingdom like this.”

“I’m sorry,” Astoria says softly, her reflection turning to Pansy’s. “I’m sorry, you know I–you know I didn’t know. If I did–”

“I know,” Pansy says, gentler now. “I don’t blame you for what your sister did, but it doesn’t change the fact of it.” She turns back to the rest of them. “I’ll send my Horcrux to Gaunt with a contingent of my strongest Gryffindors. It’s the best I can do.”

“I’ll go with them,” Astoria says. “I’ll bring my own retinue. Once I reach Rosier and find Draco, they can go ahead to the capital without me.”

Hermione looks between them, clearing her throat quietly. “I don’t think we should–there’s still something off about this. We have to be careful. We don’t know who’s stealing the Horcruxes or who killed Nott, and now we’re transporting two Horcruxes all the way across the continent. It makes sense to have at least one Slytherin in the retinue.”

“Our Gryffindors are more than capable,” Pansy says, an eyebrow raised, but Hermione shakes her head in frustration.

“It isn’t about how strong they are or how powerful. This isn’t an enemy they’ll face on the battlefield, or an enemy that’ll meet them honourably head on. This is an enemy that’ll do anything to get their hands on the last Horcruxes. Which means if we need to outsmart them, we need to outthink them. It isn’t power that’s important now but stealth, and discretion, and being astute.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Astoria says. “But if I accompany the Horcrux retinue to Gaunt I won’t be able to help Draco.”

“Goyle?” Draco thinks out loud. “One of the Parkinson or Greengrass nobles?”

“They’ll be needed in their own Territories,” Harry says. He turns to Hermione. “It should be you.”

Hermione baulks, baffled, turning pale and forcing a smile as if she’s half-convinced it’s a joke. “Me? I can’t–I’m a Ravenclaw. I’ll hardly be any use–”

“You’ll be even less use in Nott,” Draco says, latching onto the idea. “You’re not a fighter, but you’re one of the smartest wizards I know. If anything’s bound to go awry, you’ll be the first one to see it coming.”

“I–” Hermione looks at Harry, eyebrows pulled in tightly. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“But we need this,” Harry says, walking over to Hermione and grasping her by the shoulders. “There’s no one else we can trust with this.”

“One of your other advisors?” Hermione asks. “Surely, they–”

“They’re needed here,” Draco says. “There’s no one better suited than you.”

Hermione presses her lips together tightly, letting out a shaky exhale. “Fine,” she relents. “But I’m taking Ron with me.”

“Of course,” Draco says, inclining his head. “Anyone you need.” He looks around, double-checking for assent. “So Hermione will travel with us to Rosier, where Astoria will join us with the Horcruxes. We’ll hand them over to Hermione, who’ll deliver them to Gaunt while the rest of us go to Nott to destroy the castle.”

“What about you?” Pansy interjects, gesturing to Draco. “Gaunt will expect you to return the Lestrange Horcrux to him soon.”

“I’ll pretend we’re making for the Gaunt capital with it,” Draco says, hands clasped behind his back as he thinks. “No one will bat an eye if I’m ostensibly leaving on Gaunt’s orders. By the time they realise I’m not in the capital, we should have destroyed Nott Castle and retrieved all the Horcruxes. That should satisfy Gaunt enough to overlook the–detour.” Draco hesitates. “Hopefully.”

“That’s a lot of ifs,” Pansy says. “Be careful. And talk to Patil, the Carrowite girl. She might know something about Nott’s death. She followed his orders for years.”

“Also, Sirius Black,” Harry says. “He worked with Nott too.”

“I’ll see what I can learn,” Draco says, and with nothing left to discuss, they say their goodbyes and terminate the call. Hermione immediately sets off to find Ron and brief him, and Harry apparates out to be with his Dementors, who need constant vigilance, now, leaving Draco to find Patil.

“He had many enemies,” Patil says when he finds her, in one of the lower rooms in the castle, below the servant quarters where the Carrowites have been put up, sharpening a knife with a whetstone. “It could’ve been any one.”

“No one on our side of the field could’ve killed Theo,” Draco says, shaking his head. “It had to have been Rosier, or one of the other Gryffindors who were part of the parley.”

“Or a delayed poison,” Parvati points out. “Or a long range spell. Don’t tell me you don’t have those. You’ve used them against us plenty enough.”

Draco rolls his eyes and looks away. “But why would anyone kill him? And at the duel, specifically? There are plenty of other times they might’ve gone about it easier. He was marching with a travelling army and living in a tent. Much simpler to just break into a warded tent than cast into a wizarding duel arena, especially if it’s a long range spell.”

“Then it was poison,” Patil says, shrugging. “Or someone who wants to frame you. If it’s the latter, then it’s working. Half the realm thinks you did it.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Draco says, fuming. “I’ve no vendetta against Nott, not publicly at least. Unless Rosier decides to spread the word about my father’s death–which he hasn’t yet.” He smiles humourlessly. “Though I’ve no doubt he’ll get to it soon.”

“It’s because Nott was a Lestrange ally,” Patil says. “That’s reason enough.” She presses the flat of her blade against the whetstone and slides it up and down. “Do you remember what I said to you at our base in Lestrange? That everything is about power? The question isn’t why you would kill Nott, but why you wouldn’t. At least not to the commonfolk.”

Draco frowns. “How very gratifying to know that my people consider me a murderous bastard,” he says crossly, but Parvati just shakes her head, fingers pausing over the whetstone.

“It could be worse,” she says, sounding, for once, serious. “They could like you for it.”

Draco considers that a moment, before making his excuses and leaving. He finds he isn’t equipped to face Patil’s particular brand of honesty today.

•·················•·················•

It doesn’t take long for Draco to get a hold of Sirius through the enchanted mirror, and when Sirius tries, haltingly, to reference the incursion into Parkinson, Draco just waves him away. “I don’t care that you marched on my ally. War is war. I’m here for information.”

“I don’t know anything,” Sirius says tersely, and Draco tuts in impatience.

“Don’t say that. You were beholden to Theo for years. You must’ve picked up something.”

Sirius sighs. “Theo was–well.” He sits back against his chair, reflection flickering for a moment before stabilising. “He came to me one day, a few months after my Horcrux was stolen, and forced me to accept his help. He’d have gone to Gaunt with the knowledge, otherwise.”

“What was he like, then?” Draco urges. “Do you think he was hiding anything?”

“Of course he was,” Sirius says. “I don’t know how he knew my Horcruxes were missing, but I was too preoccupied to think of it. And on top of that he was–nervous. He kept fidgeting. Do you know the Gryffindors, Thomas and Finnegan?”

“Heard of them,” Draco says, cautiously curious. “Both the heirs died a few years ago serving on the borders, I think? A blow for both families, old as they are. They’ll need new blood to continue the line.”

“Yes, them,” Sirius confirms. “That was when he came to me. A bit before they were reported dead, but around the same time it happened. I checked the Wall records. They never actually served on the borders.”

“What does this have to do with anything?” Draco exhales, frustrated.

“I don’t know,” Sirius says. “But he was antsy that day, on edge.” He pauses, biting the inside of his cheek, an un-Sirius-like mannerism if there ever was one. “He said he’d discovered something. Something big. Something that was going to change everything. And then two of his most powerful Gryffindors were declared dead immediately after–don’t you think that means something?”

“I couldn’t say,” Draco says, though he knows there are no coincidences.

Sirius fingers his cuff, looking down. “He said to trust him. That he didn’t want to blackmail me and take my kingdom’s magic, except that he had no choice. Those were his exact words. I have no choice.”

You don’t understand, Theo had told him in the duelling arena. “He was trying to tell me something,” Draco says out loud. “Before he died. In the arena.”

“It must’ve been important,” Sirius observes pensively, “if he had to die for it.”

They hold each other’s stares, a moment, unsure of where to go from there as Draco lets the words sink into him, a sordid weight. “I don’t know what to do,” he admits finally. “It’s all so complicated, and the moment I seem to find one thread I can unravel, it takes me to a completely new knot instead.”

“Just cut the knot,” Sirius says dryly. “Quicker and easier for everyone involved.”

“Not everyone,” Draco says, shaking his head, though he offers Sirius a conciliatory nod and ends the call.

Harry sits perched on one of the battlements, crouched on the walls the way he used to when he’d hunt in the Greengrass forests. He isn’t afraid of falling, not anymore. His Dementors billow around him, content to just be near him, have their robes brush against his skin, basking in his presence and gaining succour from it. “I must go,” he tells them, and he can feel the petulance flow out of them, but he brushes it aside and hops off the ledge. Immediately, the Dementors part for him.

There are no Gryffindors on this side of the walls; the Dementors are adequate enough security.

He makes his way back to his chambers with practised familiarity, feeling the pull of the Dementors like a low hum at the base of his skull, fading the farther he walks. Memories of the battle appear to him in flashes: running through the field, striking down soldiers, setting his Dementors wild over the wreckage. It’d felt invigorating and freeing, but it also felt wrong. The zeal with which he wounded and maimed and killed, the belligerence of his attacking. Even the Gryffindors aren’t looking at him the way they used to, turning their faces from him in fear. And he hadn’t shaken out of his bloodlust until Draco brought him back to their chambers and forced it out of him; and the forcing had been–pleasurable, yes, but also rough, jagged, and Draco’d woken the next day with bruises down his back where Harry’d f*cked him against the wall.

There is a cost to everything, Astoria had told him once. And now the cost has caught up to him. Even now, he can feel it lapping at the edges of his mind, tugging at his humanity, dark and murky, the dispelling of it harder each time he calls upon his magic.

He sighs and enters the chambers to find Draco lying flat on his back over the bedcovers, spread-eagled, staring at the ceiling with a kind of unconstrained exhaustion.

“Did you speak to Sirius?” Harry asks, going to lie down by his side. Hedwig sweeps into view, immediately squeezing himself between both of them. She’d been understandably excited over the influx of fellow Dementors into the castle, but she always came back to their chambers at the end of the day.

“I spoke to Sirius and Patil,” Draco says. “I’m–tired.”

Harry knows it isn’t an easy admission. No one knows of the venom in Draco’s blood outside of his inner circle, and it’s an effort to pretend he’s fine, to cast magic publicly as if he’s capable of it without his capillaries bursting in protest. He’s taken to staying in his rooms to avoid it, gaunt and weak, colour draining from his cheeks, wearing glamours to hide his deterioration. It isn’t fair, Harry thinks, and not for the first time he feels rage seeping out of him, at the kind of cruelty that can exist in a Slytherin court, that a man may force poison upon his subjects’ bodies, and dispose of them as easy as snapping fingers–even after the men he’d hurt had given their lives in service to him. And no matter the distaste he feels for Lestrange and Rosier, he can’t help but feel an inkling of pity for them along with it. No one deserves to be slowly burnt to death every time they attempt magic.

“What can I do?” Harry whispers softly, and Draco just sighs, turning to the side, a hand flung over Hedwig and Harry both.

“Meet with my vassals,” Draco says. “Pacify them.”

“They aren’t angry,” Harry says.

Draco blinks. “We lied to them about the reason we went to battle. Of course they’re angry.” He begins to trace idle circles over Harry’s chest. “We’ll have a temporary truce with Lestrange now that Gaunt’s called for their Horcrux. That should mollify them somewhat.”

Harry nods uncertainly. “I’ll do my best.”

“Take Hermione,” Draco says, eyes closing.

“I’ll go now.”

“No.” Draco’s hand clutches his tunic tightly. “Not yet. It can wait.”

Harry looks at Draco, the soft fall of his hair, just a few shades off the colour of snow. The flickering of his eyelids, the frailty of his fingertips.

Harry hoists Hedwig up and sets her on the other side of the bed. “Stay,” he instructs, as wide, indignant eyes look back at him, vexed at having been removed from her sleeping place. He leaves a soft kiss on the top of her head and turns back to Draco.

“I’ll stay for as long as you need me,” Harry says, and Draco closes his eyes again, letting the last of his control drop, shuddering into Harry’s embrace.

“Oh, Harry,” he says, a murmur against skin. “If only you could.”

•·················•·················•

They leave in the morning, publicly this time, instead of stealing into the night. Draco’d airily waved off tentative offers for an escort or a retinue. “I’m a Slytherin and I’ve Harry with me,” he said coldly. “What we don’t need is Gryffindors slowing us down.”

Hermione and Ron meet them at the portal, and they’re transported to the edge of the Malfoy border within minutes, the tiny sliver of land that connects Malfoy to the Gaunt Capital. They’d have to cross into Rosier from there as soon as they could.

“You have everything you need?” Draco asks Hermione, a redundant question. They couldn’t go back now if they wanted without drawing attention.

“We do.” Hermione nods, hoisting herself onto one of the floating carpets. Ron follows behind “Shall we?” she asks.

Draco mounts his carpet, Harry helping him up and then climbing up after him. “Try to keep up,” Draco tells them, and then they’re off.

They fly hard, wind whipping against Harry’s face as they cut through the Gaunt Capital like knives. And this ride is different. Harry can use warming charms and spells to stop the vertigo that comes with flying so fast.

When night falls, they decide to eat while flying, laying out the packs and drawing the carpets close. But when Harry opens one of their bags Hedwig swoops out of it, twittering furiously at having been left inside for so long.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, laughing in delight. “How was I to know you’d be trapped in there? You’re not even supposed to be here!”

Hedwig buzzes about a bit more before floating down onto the carpet and snuggling up to him. Harry touches her robe and channels some of his warmth into her, his surprise at having found her, his delight. She drinks it in, rolling sleepily, and then slides over to Draco to rest on his lap.

“Ha! She likes me more,” Draco says gleefully, and Harry narrows his eyes at him in mock displeasure, though the effect is ruined when Hedwig startles awake at a bit of turbulence, and then nestles closer to Draco’s chest. Then, Harry smiles.

They eat silently, quickly, and even the strongest of spells can only do so much to ease the turning of their stomachs against the breakneck speed of travel, but they make do. Draco sleeps, some colour returning to his cheeks–he no longer needs to perform magic for the sake of the court when Harry’s there to cast for him.

Further ahead, on the other carpet, Harry can just about make out Hermione cocooned in Ron’s arms, huddling together as they sleep. He smiles, turning from there and relaxing by Draco’s side, an arm thrown over his shoulder, and though he hadn’t thought himself tired, he finds sleep waiting for him when he closes his eyes.

•·················•·················•

They reach the edge of the Gaunt-Rosier border the next night, just as their waterskins are emptying and the first caches of their food are cleared. There’s a small Squib village there, a cluster of houses amidst small plots of land growing tufts of scarce grass, and they make camp a few miles away from it, suitably distanced that none might catch sight of them and their carpets and, most importantly, their Dementor.

Ron works the fire, nursing it into a proper flame with magic, and then sets their pot over it. He takes out large chunks of meat and stock and vegetables he’s scrounged from the foliage, and sets it all to boiling over the fire. Hermione adds a bit of salt to the stew from one of their packs.

“So,” Harry says, after Ron ladles out the soup in small bowls for them all, and sets a preservation charm over the rest. “You and Hermione.”

“Well,” Hermione says nonchalantly. “Me and Ron. What of it?”

“Nothing,” Harry says, looking between them, rosy-cheeked in the shadow of the firelight, sitting casual and close to each other. “I’m glad you’re here. Both of you,” he says.

“Always.” Hermione tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and smiles at him, warm and honest. “Though it was easier when you were just a Squib in Greengrass.”

“You could move to Malfoy,” Draco says casually, leaning forward to take another helping of stew. “You’d be welcome at court. We could use a wizard like you.”

“I’d hardly be accepted,” Hermione says, voice going quiet. “Not in the places you’d want me to be.” Not in the places she’d want to be either–that goes unsaid.

“If you were to wed Ron,” Draco says, looking up from his bowl, “it would not be unheard of.”

Only years of proximity to Hermione tells Harry she’s squirming in her seat.

“Flattering,” she says, demure yet assertive. “But I think it’s too soon.”

“Why? Are you worried about what the family might say? The Weasleys are remarkably progressive.” Draco doesn’t seem to realise what he’s saying. “One of their older sons married a Hufflepuff.”

Something curdles in Harry’s stomach.

“What about a Squib?” Hermione asks sharply.

Draco blinks. “What?”

“Would they allow Ron to marry a Squib?” Hermione asks again, just this side of cutting, and Ron places a hand on her shoulder.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “You’re not a Squib–you’re–”

“My father’s parents were Squibs,” Hermione says abruptly, and even Harry’s surprised by the admission.

He finds her eyes with his own. “You never told me,” he says.

Hermione looks at him tiredly. “It was a secret. One my father kept closely guarded but–in the grand scheme of things it seems pointless to hold to it now.” She serves herself another bowlful of soup, taking her time with it, stretching it out deliberately. “My father was born into a mining family in the heart of Nott. He grew up in the Settlement. By the time he was four, he was down in the mines with his father.” She paused and looked up. “Have you heard what it’s like? My father, he’s told me stories. How the darkness is so thick you can choke on it, how the air is so sharp you can feel your lungs burning. Men went mad down there, and men were the lucky ones. If you were a child… they’d send you down the shafts, and set you to digging up the rocks with your bare hands. Can you imagine? Their hands would be smaller than my fists” –she cupped her slender fingers together, showing the small shape of it– “and their nails would bleed red and raw by the end of it.”

Draco listens to all of it with a clenched jaw, face hard, and by the end of it he folds forward to say, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but you aren’t–you don’t ever have to worry about it anymore.”

“Yes, I don’t,” she says bitterly. “Because” –she stops– “by some source of luck my father came into his magic when he was ten.” She looks away, drinking the last dregs of her soup straight from the bowl. “And then he moved to Greengrass, where no one would know him as a first generation wizard. I never met my grandparents. They probably lived and died in the mines.”

“Hermione,” Ron says, drawing her into him, and she goes willingly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry darling–” He kisses her forehead, soft, slow pecks, and cups her face in his hands. “You’re safe here. With us. You’re a brilliant wizard in your own right, and I won’t let anything happen to you. Neither will Draco or Harry. Malfoy isn’t Nott. It isn’t–it’s not like that where we are.”

“Isn’t it?” Hermione asks, though she’s looking at Harry when she says it.

Later that night, after Draco and Ron have fallen asleep, Harry shuffles over to Hermione’s sleeping pallet and finds her wide awake, looking up at the sky. She sees him and moves carefully out from Ron’s side, and they go to sit a short distance away from the camp.

“It’s so dark,” is the first thing she says. “The sky is–it’s not like Greengrass.”

There are no stars, no moon, just an endless canvas of inky black.

“Is this your first time?” Harry asks softly, his shoulder brushing against hers. “Going back to Nott?”

Hermione considers him carefully, as if she’s unsure. “No,” she admits. “I’ve been there before.”

“Before we met, then,” Harry says, and Hermione sighs, resting her head on his shoulders.

“Long before we met, Harry. I was very young the first time I came to Nott.”

“You’re still young,” Harry says, an arm around her shoulder.

She doesn’t look up at him as she says, “It’s all relative, isn’t it? In Nott, I’d be old the day I turned four. In the Greengrass Squib Settlements, I’d be old the moment I could bear children. If I were a Gryffindor, I’d be old the day I turned eighteen and joined one of the Citadels.” She stops, looping her arm through his and clasping their hands together. “It gets easier,” she says, “the higher up you are.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Harry says back, and yet he feels that great gap, that chasm between who he is and who he was, widen once more. And he finds he cannot cross it with memory alone, that he can no longer lay claim to his own suffering; and that is its own kind of curse, even if it is the greatest blessing of them all.

Chapter 26: A Transition to Action

Chapter Text

In the morning, they find the Squib Settlement in ruins.

Thatched walls have been set ablaze, charred tufts remaining, and the few brick houses in the compound have been picked apart so thoroughly, the foundation alone remains deliberately intact. The pathways are overturned with broken utensils, scraps of fabric, scant remains of communal living, and when Hermione crouches down to the soil and mutters a spell, the light in her wand turns a bright red. She goes pale as a sheet.

“What is it?” Harry asks, hurrying to her.

She shivers, standing. “The soil’s been salted. Nothing can grow here for years.”

“And there’s poison in the wells,” Draco says, coming up behind them with a thimble of water in his hand. “We should leave.”

“There could be survivors!” Harry exclaims, turning back into the wreckage, moving the rubble aside with his magic. But it’s futile. The Settlement is empty, not even a single body to be found. “Where is everyone?”

Draco’s looking around warily, standing in the centre as Ron and Harry work to pick apart the rubble. “We won’t find anything here,” he says, jaw tightening like he’s come to a decision he doesn’t like. “We should push inward.”

“I agree,” Hermione says.

The further they go, the worse the damage is. And at the very heart of the Settlement, decorative strips of cloth have been tied from pole to pole. A thin, red carpet stretches out and around in front, and rows of large banana leaves flutter weakly in the wind, meant to serve as plates for an outdoor feast. “A festival,” Ron says.

“Not a festival.” Draco gestures to a sandy mound in the centre, and Ron casts at it. The mud falls to the side revealing a raised firepit. “A wedding,” Draco says.

Harry feels himself shiver, at the desolation in this place, the ruin of it. There has been death here, so much death, the totality of it vast and devastating. He can sense it, the anguish and the agony and the helplessness, the drawing out of the deaths themselves. They had not been quick and easy, he could tell. Whoever razed this Settlement had received nothing but immense satisfaction out of it.

“They’re here,” he says, closing his eyes. “The bodies.” He holds out his hands and lets the feeling guide him, the stench of murder in the air, rancid and rank, the blood weighing it down. He goes to where the feeling is strongest, suffocating in its intensity, and stops by another larger mound just outside the wedding square, piled with crates of sand towering as high as three full grown men standing atop one another.

“Revelio,” he whispers, and the sand falls away, wooden crates creaking and tearing apart to reveal–

“No,” Hermione shrieks, the sound piercing and sharp and high. She runs to where Harry is and Ron is quick to follow behind, and even Draco’s looking on, horrified. For underneath the mound lies a pile of bodies, stacked on top of each other, overspilling, a grotesque tableau of arms and legs and lolling faces. And at the very top, teetering on the tip of the heap, is the lifeless form of a baby, lying so still it might still be asleep.

Harry drops to his knees, vision going dark and then so bright he still can’t see. The earth is trembling underneath him, rubble shifting, rocks breaking, and the wind picks up and the leaves and fabric hurtles around creating a whirlwind. He can feel, rather than see, the others stumbling to their knees around him, nothing to hold for balance as the ground shifts underneath them. But he can’t help himself: there is so much fury inside him, so much hate–at the perpetrators, yes, but mostly at himself. He’d become one of the most powerful men in the realm and he’d done nothing with it. He’d grown uncaring and complacent, trading strength of will for strength of arms, fighting another peoples’ war while his own starved and died. Unless they were killed.

“Harry,” Hermione calls desperately, fighting against the wind and the falling earth to claw her way to him. “Harry, it’s done. They’re dead. There’s nothing we can do about it anymore.”

What right did Harry have to forget? To feel a moment’s respite from the gaping, yawning gulf that was his failed responsibility. No, it was his duty to remember, to afflict this upon himself so he might feel a fraction of what it was to be who he was supposed to be, who he had left behind in his reckless, traitorous folly.

“If you hurt yourself now,” Hermione says, voice coming softer now, weaker, “there will be no one left to fight for them. You’re not allowed to punish yourself, not when there’s still work to be done.”

It’s the one thing Hermione could have said, the right thing, the thing that rings in his mind, a sliver of shining light in the cold desolation of his anguish. He hasn’t earned his grief yet, not when he’s done nothing to strike at the cause of it.

“Come back, Harry,” she says, and he feels the fight escape out of him, finally, falling to his knees in exhaustion, and Hermione runs to him, and catches him, and cradles him in her arms. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Ron start forward, but Draco presses an arm to his torso, holding him back. He understands, Harry knows, that this moment, this misery, is just for them, and no other may share in it in any meaningful way. Even their own claims to it are abstract, Hermione through a father’s father, and Harry through his past; and yet it is still better than the empathy a Slytherin or a Gryffindor might hope to share.

“Come,” Draco whispers, after what feels an age, crouching by their sides, an arm on both of them. Ron bends down to the other side, arms encircling them all, and they share a brief, necessary, painful moment of silence. And then Draco stands, and goes to the mound of bodies, holding out his wand.

“Draco,” Harry says warningly, confused, but it’s too late, and sparks emit from the tip of Draco’s wand, even as he falls to the floor by the feet of a man with his stomach slashed open. Draco grits his teeth and tries again, and again, and again, until fire emerges out of the wand, setting the bodies ablaze, and he feeds the spell as the fire travels from the bottom of the pile to the very top, flames licking into skin, flesh melting, clothes burning. A funeral pyre in the Squib custom.

“Draco.” Harry runs to him and gathers him in his arms, picks him up just as the fire spreads to where he’d been sitting. He convulses in Harry’s hold, the poison working its way through his core. Harry conjures up a pallet and sets Draco down as Hermione presses a cold compress against his forehead.

“Why did you do that?” Hermione asks, pained. “Harry or Ron or I could have done it. You needn’t have–”

“I did,” Draco rasps weakly. “I deserved to.”

Harry shakes his head. “This is not your burden to bear,” he says urgently, even as he knows it’s a lie, a lie he wishes he could make true.

“It’s your burden,” Draco says, closing his eyes. “It’s your burden and so it is mine.”

They summon the carpets, Hedwig flying alongside, and Harry carries Draco gently over to theirs, setting him down slowly and climbing up after him.

“We’ll stop at the next Settlement to buy what we need,” he says, Hedwig perched on his shoulder. “They should have some answers.”

They stop at an inn called Jolly Miner, just off the edge of the Slughorn Province, its walls peeling and its windows rusting on theirits hinges. Hedwig hides in one of the packs, and Ron sends off a Patronus to Astoria’s entourage while the rest of them requisition a flagon of wine and stale bread, watery broth to go with it. Draco leaves them to eat and approaches the countertop, flagging down the innkeeper.

“Nasty business, that,” the man tells them, when Draco mentions the Settlement. “I’ve no love for the Squibs meself but, burnin’ a whole village like that” –the man shudders– “don’t sit too right with me.” He leans closer, murmuring, “Plenty here who’ll disagree, ‘course.”

“Why’d they do it?” Draco asks, bringing the cup to his mouth, though he doesn’t drink.

The innkeeper shakes his head. “It was the girl. The Patils’ daughter.” He takes out a half-clean rag from a belt around his waist and begins rubbing mugs stacked on the counter. “Went and got herself saddled to a Squib, didn’t she? What’d she expect? That she could just up and leave and her family wouldn’t ‘ave minded?”

Draco sets his cup down with a thump, though the innkeep doesn’t notice, chattering on about the girl, the waste of it, dooming an entire village for her own foolish love. “The Patils–they hurt their own daughter?”

“They might have,” the innkeep says darkly. “But she’s their only heir, so I’ll bet they whisked her away before burning her boy’s Settlement.” He sighs, and shrugs. “It’s not uncommon, boy. Not in these parts, though I’m sure it’s worse in the north, isn’t it? You’ve got that northern look about you.”

“It isn’t like–this,” Draco says weakly, the image of the baby, teetering over the edge of the towering pile of bodies, still fresh in his mind, taking on an even gruesome character.

“Yes.” The man nods. “In some ways it’s worse. You just turn a Squib into the desert, or drop them off the edge of them mountains, eh?” He shoots Draco a wry smile. “What can you do? We need the Gryffs, all the blustering bloody lot of them.”

“Sometimes I think we deserve the Dementors,” Draco says, fingers tight around his cup; and the man shakes his head, tapping Draco on the shoulder to say, “No, lad. Not all of us.”

Draco gives him a shaky smile, though not ungrateful, and the man takes it as a sign to add, “You’re from the north, you said? What’s this about a Dementor King, then?”

Draco jerks back. “A Dementor King?”

“Aye. They say there’s a Dementor King in the north, and he looks like one ‘imself, with black eyes and a body like a Dementor and wings the width of three dragonspans.” He continues, lower, “They’re saying he destroyed the Nott and Rosier forces with a wave of his hand. And after, he tore the flesh off the deserters’ bodies and gorged, right there on the battlefield.” He pauses. “Now I’m not one to believe wild stories, but half the boys haven’t come back from the campaign yet, and none of us know what to believe.”

Draco maintains the man’s stare as evenly as he can. “There’s no Dementor King, I can tell you that much. My brother fought at the Battle of Parselwoods, and there was no monster. He was just a man. And the fighting stopped when the Nott line fell.”

“Hmm.” The man stares at Draco a moment, but Draco doesn’t look away.

“Thank you for the food and drink,” he says, nodding to the innkeeper once and getting up.

They trundle up the stairs together and take the largest room where pallets of straw have been laid out loosely; and Hermione claims the single, small bed while the rest of them settle onto the floor. Hedwig flies out of his pack, and perches by the windowsill, twittering lightly before settling in, and Ron dozes off quickly enough, Hermione following soon, until it’s just Draco and Harry, staring at each other across the width of the pallet, Harry looking at him with soft, hazy eyes.

“Hey,” Draco says. “Are you alright?”

“They’re calling me a Dementor King,” Harry says. He heard the innkeeper, then.

“That’s not who you are,” Draco reassures. He slides closer to Harry, one hand on his cheek, feeling the warmth there, the movement of his jaw; the dip of his cupid’s bow and the slope of his nose. There’s still a hardness to his face, and when Draco reaches a hand to Harry’s forehead, he can see the hair there has begun to turn silver.

“Who am I, then?” Harry asks, and Draco sees that pain in him, of having to straddle so many worlds and never truly be a part of any of them, yet fighting for every single one. To bear the burden of so many identities, and share in none of the belonging that comes with it.

“You’re my husband,” Draco says. “You’re a king.”

Harry leans his forehead against Draco’s as if he achesd. “Sometimes, Draco, I barely feel human.”

Draco’s fingers tighten over Harry’s waist. He wishes he could soothe Harry, conjure a better pallet for him and have him fall asleep in Draco’s lap, with Draco’s fingers in his hair, but even without the curse bubbling in his blood, it would have been too risky, if anyone were to barge in, or catch a glimpse of the room through the door. Ravenclaws did not waste magic on frivolities, and Hufflepuffs avoided inns altogether.

They nearly doze off when there’s a click from the door. Everyone turns instantly alert. Harry shuffles to the door and opens it, tentatively, wand out in front, posture tight, before straightening and turning to announce, “They’re here!”

Astoria hurries inside in a flurry of flimsy cotton, draped over her in the Rosier style, bunched like a strap over her blouse. It’s disconcerting, seeing her dressed in commonfolk clothes, neck devoid of adornment, the flat expanse of her stomach half-exposed, ringed by a thread-like belt. She seems not to mind, however, and sits unselfconsciously on the bed by Hermione, legs folded.

“Draco,” she says, and holds out her hands, and he goes to her, small frame fitting easily inside his arms. He kisses the top of her forehead, and finds the smell of jasmine emanating faintly from her hair.

“I’m glad you made it,” he says. He’d been worried, but Astoria was travelling with Gryffindors, and that wasis always a significant protection.

“It wasn’t easy,” she admits. “None of my soldiers could blend in like civilians.”

“Where are they now?” Ron asks.

She makes a face. “They’ve split up, and I’ve left them with moving portkeys.” She holds out the bangles on her wrists, wrought iron and painted over.

“A moving portkey?” Hermione asks, taking Astoria’s hand in her own and turning the bangles over. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

Astoria smiles at her. “One of my latest inventions. They come in pairs, so the holder can apparate to wherever the other pair is.” She removes a few bangles and drops them in Hermione’s hand. “It’s much safer than apparition.”

“That’s–brilliant,” Harry says, looking over Hermione’s shoulder at the bangles. “It could be so useful in battle, during sorties. If you could send more people through–”

“No,” Astoria says softly. “I won’t have them weaponised. The spellwork is encrypted so no one can try.”

Harry looks caught, as if he’s surprised by himself. “I– you’re right,” he says. “I didn’t think.”

There’s a beat of silence where they stare at him, Ron placing a tentative hand on his shoulder, Hermione turning to meet his eyes.

“Harry,” Draco says.

“We should rest.” Harry turns, busying himself with the pallet on the floor and stretching out. “We leave tonight after dinner.”

Hermione nods. “Are any of your Gryffindors in the inn with us?” she asks Astoria.

“A few,” Astoria says. “We’ll meet outside the city walls and split apart then.”

There are general murmurs of assent, after that, some mundane conversation, until all words fade into silence and they fall asleep tangled together, one giant heap on the floor, the bed left unused.

“You have everything you need?” Harry asks, clasping Ron on the shoulder. They’re half-crouched in a ditch outside the city, Astoria, Hermione, and Draco conversing with the Greengrass Gryffindors on one side, Ron and Harry a few feet away.

Ron nods, and Harry can just about make out the movement against the darkness of the night. “Be careful.”

“You too,” Harry says, tilting his head towards Hermione. “Take care of her.”

“She’ll be the one taking care of me,” Ron says, with a smile, and goes to where Hermione is busy demonstrating something with her travelling pack.

“It’s been magically Extended,” Hermione is saying. “And it’s impossible for someone to steal from the pack unless you know exactly where you’ve placed it.” She reaches inside and pulls out a loaf of bread, and then puts it back in, handing the pack to Astoria. “Try finding the loaf.”

Astoria does, her entire arm disappearing into the deceptively small pack, but when she pulls it out, her fingers are empty. “Impressive,” she says, eyes bright.

“Keep the pack,” Hermione tells her, shouldering another one. “You can give it to your Gryffindors to store the Parkinson and Greengrass Horcruxes.”

“Safer than what we’ve been doing,” Astoria says, and gestures for her soldiers to make the transfer. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” Hermione smiles at her and turns, taking Ron’s hand in her own and clutching his elbow. “We should be going.”

“Be safe,” Harry says, a small lump in his throat, and then Hermione breaks away from Ron to hug him, and she clings to him tighter than Harry expected, face buried in his shoulder, body pressed tight against his own. “Hey,” he says softly. “I’ll be fine.”

“I know, I just–” Hermione tightens her grip, before pulling away and stepping back. “I just worry.”

“Draco will–” he stops. Draco can’t do anything with the curse. “I’ll take care of us both.”

“You have to,” Hermione says, vehement. “Whatever happens, you must protect yourself.”

Harry nods as Draco joins them to add, “Be careful, around Gaunt. When you deliver the Horcruxes–try to stay out of his way. It’s better if you don’t catch his attention.”

“I’ll remember that,” Hermione says, biting the inside of her cheek like she’s steeling herself.

They climb onto the carpets, then: Astoria, Hermione, and Ron on one carpet, the three Greengrass Gryffindors on the other. Glamours settle over them, a soft, shimmering blanket obscuring them from view, nothing but a slight disturbance in the air to show for it, and the grass rustles and leaves begin to rise as they take to the skies, gone in the space of a few seconds.

Draco takes Harry’s hand in his own and leads him to their carpet, and Harry helps him strap their new supplies onto it. Hedwig peeks out of his pack, staring at them both from under large, unblinking eyes.

“We’ll have to fly hard if we want to make it in time,” Draco says, stroking Hedwig’s head lightly. “If the Horcruxes reach him first and he finds Lestrange’s isn’t among them, he’ll send his own Gryffindors after us.”

“I can get us there in time,” Harry says, helping Draco onto the carpet. It’s the poison, he knows, encumbering Draco, turning him weak, and though he can hide his fatigue well enough in front of the others, he lets the act fall when he’s with Harry.

“I’m sorry to ask this of you,” Draco says, a hand on his cheek. “I dislike– making you–”

“You aren’t making me do anything,” Harry says gently, holding his forearms. “We’re doing what needs to be done.”

Draco surveys him a moment, and then nods, moving to allow Harry space on the carpet. “I’m grateful, nevertheless,” he says, as Harry clambers on, “but now we fly straight to Nott Castle to find our own Horcrux. There, the real test begins.”

Chapter 27: A Confluence of Understanding

Chapter Text

Parvati’s waiting for them the moment they cross the border by the first outpost town, looking for all intents and purposes like she’d strolled down from Malfoy with nothing but the pack on her back and the knife strapped to her waist.

“You got here before we did,” Harry says, sounding incredulous. He’s right to think so, Draco knows; they were flying so fast all colour in the sky had drained to grey as they moved, and still they’d been beaten by a Squib.

“Only by an hour,” Parvati admits, shrugging. “Come, the others are waiting for us.” She pulls out a carpet rolled and folded under a bush, and springs onto it, leading at a brisk speed. Her carpet doesn’t seem to slow or run out of magical energy—pre-powered, Draco thinks, wondering which wizard she’d had to hoodwink into enchanting it for her. Or maybe it was more than one.

“How did you find us?” Draco asks her, drawing their carpet to her side.

“This is Patil territory,” she says with a smirk. “My sister might hold sway over the cities, but the streets of this Province are mine.”

“Shafiq is the Lord of this Province,” Draco observes, and Patil snorts.

“That man grows old, and his son is weak. It is well known that the Patils commandeer the Shafiq Seat.” She hesitates, growing quieter. “Their son was to be married to Padma.”

“We saw,” Harry begins, carefully, “a Settlement on the edge of Rosier–”

“It was Padma’s fault,” Parvati says, nostrils flaring, hands clenching as she turns away. “She condemned an entire village to die for the sake of her flights of fancy. She should have known our parents wouldn’t throw away a chance to tie themselves to the Slytherins. But a wedding–word got out and, even weakened, the Shafiqs still hold sway–the insult was too great.”

“What of the man?” Draco asks, and Parvati shakes her head.

“I will not blame him,” she says. “It is too much to–lay that at his feet. He would have–never–not without encouragement from her.” She bites her lip. “You must know, Squibs do not interact with wizards. It would have taken a lot of persuasion to coax him into talking.” The words come out too bitter to sound impersonal.

“You loved him,” Draco guesses.

Parvati blinks, looking surprised. “I did not know him,” she says. “But that is our way. We do not need to know a person to love them. Not like you Slytherins, so different from each other. From north to south, your castles, your clothes, your jewellery. But Squibs are the same everywhere. Their pain is our pain.” She pauses. “We grieve for our desert brothers in the north, our sisters living huddled by the coasts in the south, our children dying under mountains in the east, our old starving under hegemony in the west. The experiences are universal, so is the suffering.”

“Not for long,” Draco says. “The Kingdom of Nott will be yours soon.”

“Does that make you feel good?” Parvati asks him cuttingly. “That you are helping us? Does it appeal to your sense of righteousness?” She glares at them both. “We earned your help on the battlefield. A kingdom is the least of what is owed to us, but you are not giving it to us, for what is given can be easily taken away. We are fighting for it.”

Draco purses his lips, nodding carefully, and they spend the rest of the journey in half-silence, stopping along wayside inns for food, taking turns to venture into cities for supplies. Still, they arouse suspicion, one person buying provisions for three, and after that Parvati has to accompany either Draco or Harry, concocting fictions and hoping a big appetite can explain away the excessive purchases.

“We’ll have to stick to Settlements from now on,” Parvati murmurs to Draco, after the last baker had stared suspiciously as they’d purchased eight loaves of bread. “And we’ll have to conserve food, eat less. We’re leaving a trail.”

“Maybe if you hadn’t haggled so much, we’d be less memorable,” Draco grumbles back, and Parvati’s grip tightens on his arm, brow knitted to say, “He was overcharging us! If we’d paid his first quote, we’d have roused even more suspicion.”

So they stretch their supplies, eating sparingly, conserving what they can, even if it slows down their pace, until they’re a night’s ride away from the Nott Castle, nestled just at the base of the Fire Mountains. They risk a fire and make camp a short distance away from the edge of the Nott Capital border, emptying out the last of their food.

“We’ll have a proper meal at the Carrowite Headquarters,” Parvati says, tearing off a piece of bread and dipping it in watery stew. “I’ll meet you outside the castle when you’re done.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Draco says smoothly. “We’ve come for the Horcruxes. Once we destroy the Nott castle, we’ll be able to find the Horcruxes, or we’ll force the King to tell us where it is.”

“And then what will you do?” Parvati asks. “Will you hand them over to the Gaunt King?”

Draco sets down his bowl. Truthfully, he hadn’t thought that far. But he has the Lestrange Horcrux, and after he infiltrates the Nott Castle with Harry, he’d have the Nott’s, Rosier’s, and his own Horcrux. It’s an unimaginably infinite trove of power.

“Tempting, no?” Parvati says, mouth twisted mockingly. “To have all those Horcruxes to yourself? You could even overthrow Gaunt.”

“That’s not what we want,” Harry says sharply. “We don’t want power or control. We just want to help–”

Parvati pivots to him.

“It isn’t a matter of what you want,” she says, and there’s a hint of regret there, a hint of pain. “It’s a matter of what must be done.” She turns back to Draco. “Isn’t that why you killed the Nott prince?”

“I didn’t kill him,” Draco fumes, for all the good it’ll do. “It was–I don’t know what it was.”

“Right,” Parvati says sarcastically. “The heavens opened and a divine power smote down your biggest enemy as a favour to you personally.”

“That’s not it,” Draco says. “There’s something I’m missing.”

“Maybe it’ll come to you tomorrow,” Parvati offers, and Draco thinks it’s genuine until she adds, “Maybe a fit of holy inspiration will strike right as you’re about to tear down the castle walls.”

“Shut up,” Draco says grumpily, and Harry lays a hand on his arm.

“Let’s rest,” he says. “We’ll need it.”

“You especially, no?” Parvati gestures to Draco with her bread. “You haven’t cast a single spell since you came here. Why is that?”

Draco turns cold. He forces himself to relax, shoulders flattening, arm thrown carelessly over the back of the log he’s leaning against, ignoring Harry’s warning look to wave his hands over the flames.

Pain spikes up his arm, the curse fighting to the forefront, but he maintains Parvati’s gaze steadily. The fire they’re using to heat the stew quickly dies out. “We should rest.”

Parvati raises an eyebrow. “You hide it well,” she says, unrolling her bedding and getting ready to sleep. “But not well enough.”

Hermione’s in the middle of learning how to make a three-dimensional air-shield from Astoria when Ron taps her on the shoulder.

“It’s late,” he tells them both kindly. “You’ll need your wits about you when we enter the Gaunt Castle tomorrow.”

Astoria smiles at him gratefully. “Thank you, Ronald.” She turns to Hermione. “Sometimes I forget–I talk too long–”

“No,” Hermione insists, quickly. “The knowledge is precious. Thank you for teaching it to me.”

They huddle together by the fire until it dies out and they fall asleep soon. Hermione herself is only half-unconscious, tossing and turning. They’re so close to completing the mission, and yet the final hurdle is still to come. It sets her on edge.

It’s then that she hears the rustle.

She’s immediately awake, crawling away from Ron and Astoria, wand aloft. And when she concentrates, the sound turns louder: the crunch of footsteps against the dirt, the breaking of twigs, but the wards haven’t been set off, which means–

“Get her,” a man’s voice says from somewhere behind. Hermione jerks away and runs back to where the others sleep, just managing to kick dirt against Ron’s face before she’s dragged away by thick fists clamping over her arms. Ron wakes quickly, wand in his fist, hair sticking up as he shouts a spell. It misses. The others stir, but there’s a hand clamped over her mouth, a blindfold slipped quickly around her eyes, and the last thing Hermione sees is her Extendable Pack roped out of its space, the Greengrass Gryffindors scrambling after it, and then the world goes dark.

To Harry’s surprise, no one stops them as they enter the Nott Castle. The guards give them a cursory once over and part. “Her Radiance is expecting you,” one of the Gryffindors says, and guides them into the castle.

“Don’t tell me you sent word in advance,” Parvati says out of the side of her mouth to Draco, but Draco’s too wary to answer.

“Of course he didn’t,” Harry says. “Did you?”

Draco shakes his head, eyes still darting about. “Something’s wrong. Why would the Gryffindor say Her Radiance? The Notts don’t have a queen.”

“I suppose we’re to find out,” Parvati says. They’re made to wait outside the door to the throne room, while the Gryffindor goes through to herald their arrival.

Inside, it isn’t the Nott king, or even one of his lords on the throne, but Druella Black, dressed in a deep, regal bolt of blue silk, the ends draped over her head like a hood. A goblet encrusted with gems dangles from her fingertips, and she eyes them with narrowed eyes and a straight back as they enter. With a slight tilt of her head, the Gryffindors melt away towards the exits. There’s no one in the hall except them, and two guards at the foot of her throne.

“Took you long enough,” Druella says, taking a shallow sip from the goblet. “I trust your journey was well?”

“Dispense with the pleasantries,” Draco says curtly. “What are you doing here? Where is King Nott?”

“Dead.” She says the word as if it irritates her to say it. “Fortunately for you, that’s one less person to kill.”

“I did not kill Theodore,” Draco grits out. “He wasn’t a threat to me.”

“I know.” Another sip. “And yet you were quick to brush his death aside.”

Harry steps forward, then, saying, “You were expecting us.”

“Astute of you.” Druella nods. “I have been waiting.”

“Then you know why we’re here,” Draco says, with a dawning awareness. “You–always knew.”

“I know a significant number of things,” Druella says, leaning forward, taking another sip from that gaudy goblet. “I know that you will not find what you seek here.”

“And how do you know that?” Harry asks.

Druella rolls her eyes and smiles, sardonically, to say, “I worked with Theodore Nott. And now the boy is dead, and you’ve come here on a fool’s errand.”

“Give us the Horcruxes,” Draco commands, voice turning louder. “I don’t know why you’re holding this castle, but your guards are no match for us, even the ones outside.”

“I am not in possession of the Horcruxes,” Druella says casually. She takes another long, deep sip of her drink. “And I know for a fact they’re not in the castle.”

“You’re lying,” Draco snaps, and Druella laughs, a cruel, derisive quality to it. She snaps her fingers and the goblet floats to where they stand. Harry moves in front of Draco protectively.

“Oh, don’t be so afraid,” Druella says. “It’s only Veritaserum. You can taste it, if you like. I know you’re strong enough to throw it off, but age has, regrettably, caught up to me.”

Draco’s head shoots back to stare at her as Harry plucks the goblet out of the air and peers inside. It’s a clear, transparent liquid, a slight waxy sheen to it. He hands it to Draco who sniffs it, and dips the tip of his little finger inside to feel the texture.

“It is,” Draco says, eyes wide in surprise. “Why would you–”

“Why does anyone?” Druella cuts in, waving her hand so the goblet reverts back to her. “So that you would trust me when I spoke. It would have been too suspicious otherwise.”

“You did not have to come here,” Draco says sceptically. “You might have avoided suspicion altogether. You could have sent a letter, or a patronus, or portalled yourself–”

“All useless, considering it isn’t you, I wanted to speak to, King Malfoy, but you.” Druella downs the last dregs of Veritaserum in the glass and points with it to Draco’s right, where Parvati stands, eyes wide as saucers.

“What do you mean–”

“Your charade is at an end, Parvati Patil Squib,” Druella announces, “and I am not strong enough to stand in your way. But I have taken the Veritaserum for your benefit, so you will hear me now.” She pauses, mouth firming into a thin line. “What you aim to do can only end in ruin, and sorrow, and untold suffering. But when the deed is done, come find me in the marshes of Black. I will return to my ancestral home and wait for you.” She stands. “You will need my help–all of you. You will need to know what I know, what it was that Theodore revealed to me before he died. We must work together.”

“Enough with your riddles,” Draco says, stepping closer to her. “Tell me what you mean–”

“It’s too late,” Druella says. “I wish you best of luck.” And just as Draco reaches her throne, she touches her fingers to a pendant around her neck, and disappears in a cloud of sapphire smoke, her guards following behind.

Harry stares after her, the hair on his arm prickling, the hall turning eerily quiet. “She didn’t leave,” he says slowly–too slow, “she was escaping.” He turns. “Draco–”

Parvati’s on Draco quicker than an arrow, a knife to his neck, his hands caught behind his back.

“Parvati,” Draco says, deceptively quiet. “What are you doing?”

“There’s been a change of plans,” she says briskly as other soldiers trickle out, emerging from the shadows, behind pillars, dressed in Carrowite leathers from head to toe, holding an assorted mismatch of weapons, as deadly as they were varied. “You’re coming back with us to the Carrowites Headquarters.”

Harry raises an arm to cast; he thinks he could bring the wall down on them while shielding himself and Draco, and he’s about to do just that when Parvati pulls Draco up further, the tip of her knife pressing into his skin. A single drop of blood wells down his throat. “Move and I cut his throat,” she warns.

“We’re here to help you,” Draco says indignantly, cataloguing the room. “If you wanted something from us you’d just have to ask.”

“This isn’t something you’d be happy to hand over,” Parvati says, as another soldier marches up to her with a set of chains. Harry watches, horrified, as the chains are fastened onto Draco’s wrists, still bent behind his back. “Or would you be happy to give us the Lestrange Horcrux?”

“What?” Draco splutters. “Why would you want–”

“That’s not your concern,” Parvati interrupts. “Well, not yet, at least. But we do need the Horcrux, and we needed a pretext for you to bring it here. We never actually planned to tear down the castle.”

“I don’t understand,” Harry protests. “You said–you wanted to build a better life for the Squibs. That’s why we’re here.”

“I did say that,” Parvati says. “That's why we have to do this.” She signals to the women behind Harry, and they approach with another set of chains. “Surrender, Harry.”

“The chains won’t hold me,” Harry says. “I could snap out of them in a second.”

“Not these ones,” Parvati counters, a slight smile on her face. “But if you’d like some more incentive…” She snaps her fingers and two men bring an upright sack to the front, tied in the middle with thick, tight twine. One of the men cut open the top, which falls away to reveal–

“Hermione.” Harry rushes to her, but is barred by the other Carrowites. “What did you do to her?” he snarls.

She’s bruised, with a black eye and hair shorn short and choppy, a cut on the side of her cheek. One of the Carrowites removes her gag and she gasps out, gulping for air, “Whatever they’re asking you for, Harry, don’t do it. They stole the Parkinson and Greengrass Horcruxes. Take the Lestrange one and run–mmph–” They wrestle the gag back over her.

“I can’t use a Crucio,” Parvati says, striding over to Hermione. Draco tries to move, but he’s flanked by other Carrowites, and when he tries to cast, nothing comes out. “Don’t try, Malfoy. It won’t work.” She presses a fist into Hermione’s side, carefully, and Hermione cries out in pain, nearly doubling over if not for the woman holding her up. “She looks a bit worse for wear, doesn’t she?” Parvati replaces her fist with her knife. “But I can do worse.”

“Don’t touch her,” Harry gets out, voice low and rough. “Please, don’t–don’t hurt her.”

“I won’t if you put on the chains,” Parvati says, “or I’ll have to kill your husband and your friend both.”

Harry looks at Draco in chains, the Carrowites circling them, guarding the door, lining the walls, surrounding him from all sides. It was so foolish of them to enter here without portkeys, to fail to take precautions. He can’t apparate without Draco, and Draco can’t apparate on his own anyway, even without the chains inhibiting his abilities.

“There are more of us outside,” Parvati says. “Eight hundred, to be precise. You may be strong, but we will overpower you through sheer force of numbers. You cannot escape.”

Harry closes his eyes, clenching his jaw and holding out his hands. “Why are you doing this?” he asks. “What use are the Horcruxes to you?”

The men tighten the chains around his wrists, and the moment the metal touches his skin, he feels his magic dampen, like it’s being smothered by a blanket. He channels a simple Lumos, but nothing comes out, and he turns cold. “What is this?”

“An invention from an old wizard friend of mine,” Parvati says. “I’d love to stay and tell you all about it but I’m afraid we must go.”

“Wait!” Harry says desperately. “Set us free. We can help you. Without us, you’ll never find the other Horcruxes Nott hid in this castle.”

Some murmurs break out among the Carrowites, a low hum that spreads through the crowd. Parvati snorts, and then bursts out into full blown laughter. “Oh, you poor, foolish wizard,” she says, in between breaths. “It was never Nott who stole the Horcruxes, but the Carrowites all along.”

And then she makes a quick gesture with her hands, and Harry feels a disturbance in the air, a sharp pain exploding across his skull, and then the world turns dull and his head turns dizzy as he falls to the floor, unconscious.

Draco wakes slowly, groggily, in a dark room with strategically carved out holes to let in sunlight. The ground below him is solid earth, and the walls are more stone than brick, unevenly shaped. They’re underground, he realises. The Carrowite Headquarters. He looks around, finding Harry propped up by the other end of the room, eyes closed. head lolling forward.

“Harry,” he calls, voice raspy with disuse, pouncing towards him, but a force pulls him down, a weight on his ankle, chained to the wall behind him.

“It’s no use,” a voice says, and when Draco turns, a man holding a lit wand steps into view, one of Astoria’s guards. “You’re–”

“Yes,” the man says. “But I haven’t served the Greengrasses for a long time.” He takes out a large, twisted key and plugs it into an even larger lock, twisting it open. “Come, she waits for you.”

Draco has no choice to accept. His hands are still chained behind him, but the guard unlocks his ankle manacles, and he limps out of the dungeon, the door sliding shut behind him, latching of its own accord. It’s a low-ceilinged cave on the other side with wall sconces nailed onto stone, throwing light eerily onto the floor. The guard leads him up the corridor and out into another cavern, spacious, where a single table has been set up with two chairs on either side. Parvati waits for him at the table with a game board set up.

“Sit,” she says, seeing him.

The guard gives him a firm push and he goes stumbling into the chair. For a moment, they just consider each other.

“What do you want?” Draco asks. He squeezes his eyes shut, momentarily, willing the dull ache in his head to fade.

Parvati leans forward, legs crossed. It’s an unusually ladylike posture for her. “I’d like you to play Shatranj with me.”

He should’ve expected it, and yet it still manages to push him into a startle. “Why?”

“There are two ways to take the measure of a man,” she says, one hand on the table. “One is on the battlefield, the other is on the board.”

“You’ve fought by my side before,” Draco says.

“I would prefer an additional confirmation,” Parvati returns, sweeping her hand over the board. “The game is yours to begin.”

Draco refuses to look at the table. “Why am I here?”

“I will not give you any answers,” Parvati says, “until you play.”

Draco feels his jaw lock up, and he makes no effort to hide it as he holds Parvati’s stare a moment longer, before looking down. “The pieces are out of position,” he observes.

“I took the liberty of making some moves on your behalf, before you came,” Parvati says. “You will see that you have me at an advantage.”

And so he has. He’s starting from a much stronger position, having taken one keep, two castles, and a dragon already, while Parvati only has two of his knights. He could end the game in as quick as three moves.

“You get one question per move,” Parvati continues, and oh, there it is. “When the game ends, I will give you no more answers.”

Draco nods. It will be a different kind of exercise, then, to keep her from falling on her sword, to play a prolonging game, instead of a winning one. He moves his knight cautiously forward, and she brings her queen onto the front lines.

“You said it was the Carrowites that stole the Horcruxes,” Draco says. “Is that true?”

“Yes,” Parvati says. “A waste of a question.”

“Why did you do it?” Draco asks, and she tuts.

“You must make another move before you ask again.”

Draco glares at her and turns his attention back to the board. He could win the game with a single step. It’s an effort to rewire his training, to lose instead of win. He moves his knight back to its initial position.

Parvati raises an eyebrow. “If you plan to merely oscillate your knights across a couple of squares, I won’t give you any answers.”

“It’s an acceptable Shatranj tactic,” Draco points out.

Parvati crosses her arms. “I don’t care,” she says. “Here, you follow my rules. No more of that.”

Draco nods, changing tack. “How did you do it?”

“It was easy,” Parvati says, bringing out her last dragon prematurely. “We took the Black Horcrux first, sent a woman in. Sirius was easy enough to seduce, to control. From there it was easier still to reach out to Theodore. He had–his own objectives, but we offered to work for him and he accepted. Though really, he was working for us. Everyone underestimates Squibs.”

“What did Theo want?” Draco asks quickly, sifting through their conversations in his head, but Parvati only looks pointedly at the board.

Draco makes another minimally risky move. “What did–”

“Consider what you are about to ask,” Parvati interrupts. “Do not waste your questions.”

Draco finds himself grinding his teeth. He works through the chronology of events, slowly. “The second Horcrux that went missing was the Malfoy Horcrux,” he says, mostly for his own benefit.

“It was the hardest Horcrux to steal,” Parvati agrees, “but we had the Black Horcrux’s energy reserves. I’ll give you that tidbit for free,” she adds.

“You stole it,” Draco continues, still thinking. “There was a knife in the Malfoy vault–you planted it–”

“Very good,” Parvati says.

“The border skirmish, the Battle of Malfoy Mountains. It started because of Carrowite trouble in the Settlements.” Draco sits back, the revelation crashing into him like a wall of bricks. “You wanted to instigate a Malfoy-Lestrange conflict. Why?”

“I could tell you,” Parvati says, “but I think you can work it out for yourself.”

Draco pauses. A picture fits itself together in his mind, a rolling chain of events, kickstarted long before he’d entered the narrative. “The Nott and Rosier Horcruxes were stolen after the border skirmishes,” he realises. “You waited for them to send reinforcements to aid Lestrange against us, and then struck while they were away.”

“Right in one,” Parvati says.

“And then my father died,” Draco continues eyes darting. And then he hesitates. “Did Theodore kill him?”

There’s something about Parvati, then, the slight twitch of her fingers, the brief jerk of her head, barely perceptible, but there. “Make a move,” she says.

Draco’s fingers are trembling. He knows, even before he moves his castle at random, what the answer will be. “I’d like to change my question.”

“Do it.” Something in Parvati’s voice comes out cracked.

“Theo didn’t kill my father,” Draco says, and when he looks into Parvati’s eyes, he sees the truth of it. “Did you?”

Parvati hesitates, and then she plucks a small vial out of her sleeve, bubbling a soft green, unstopping the cork and passing it to him. “Smell it.”

Draco gives her a look.

She rolls her eyes and takes a whiff first, passing it to him once more, and his eyes widen in surprise as he recognises what it is. “Why–”

“You’ll see.” She plucks the vial out of his hand and downs the entire thing in one swig. “Parvati didn’t kill your father,” she says sadly, as the polyjuice antidote begins to work. “I did.”

Draco watches, first in confusion, then in horror, as Parvati’s facial features are rearranged, hair lightening and turning long, skin darkening in the light. “No,” he chokes out.

“Yes,” Hermione says, awfully, agonisingly gentle, and Draco forgets to breathe.

“Hermione? I don’t–” But he does, he does understand. It’s always been her. It couldn’t have been anyone else. “Harry trusted you,” he says. It’s all he can think to say. “I trusted you.”

The guards start towards him, but Hermione holds out a hand and they stand down. Draco falls back into his seat with a thud. “How could you?” he begins again, softer, and Hermione looks away.

“I did what needed to be done,” she says. “We had to destabilise the north to get to the Parkinson and Greengrass Horcruxes. The hope was that they would come to your aid against the Lestrange faction, and we would slip into the castles while they fought for you in the north.” Hermione shakes her head. “Unfortunately for us, Daphne Greengrass had other plans, and the Parkinson-Greengrass battle was fought in the south. We couldn’t risk a mission in the middle of a warzone–but fortunately for us, the Gaunt King ordered the Horcruxes moved. And a moving Horcrux, outside of the Vault, is much easier to steal.”

Draco forces his shaking hands still. “You had a way to secure every Horcrux but the Lestrange’s.”

“Yes.” Hermione almost smiles, then, but doesn’t look at him. “We did not account for the fact that you might want to steal his Horcrux too.”

It fits, in a kind of egregiously obvious way; all of it. At every turn, at every incident, every time a decision was made, Hermione’d been there. She was in the castle before his father died, though she’d only revealed herself after. At the council room, she was the one who’d suggested that he ally with the Squibs, at the wedding– “The explosion was you,” he says, more statement than accusation. “You needed to wipe out half our forces so you could volunteer the Carrowites’ help. You knew it was the only way I’d agree to bring the Lestrange Horcrux south, if it were payment for an army. And after that, at the Wizard’s Duel. You were there too, watching with Goyle, part of my–retinue. You killed Theodore.”

She doesn’t deny any of it, weathering his words stoically.

“Why?” he asks.

“You haven’t–”

“Enough with your games,” he roars, slamming his fist over the board as he stands. The pieces rattle, and he takes his dragon and pushes it straight through the path Hermione’s made for him, knocking out her queen, ending the game. “There,” he says. “I made a move. Now tell me why you killed Theodore. He was going to tell me something, before he died. Something you wanted hidden. What was it?”

“Sit down, Draco,” Hermione says evenly. The guards on either side of him approach with their swords out.

He sits.

“Theodore wanted the Horcruxes to overthrow Gaunt. That much is true,” she says. “I don’t know why he wanted to do it. I put it down to–an upstart prince wanting power.” She shakes her head. “But it was something else. He was working with Druella–he’d discovered something about Gaunt. He didn’t trust us enough to tell us.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Draco says.

Hermione bites her lips. “This is one conclusion you could’ve come to on your own, Draco. You blamed him for killing your father. He knew it was the Carrowites. He made the connection, and realised we were playing a double game.”

Theo had always been true, Draco realises. Whatever his play was, he’d never lied to Draco, never hurt him. He’d been used by the Carrowites, just as Draco himself was. He was trying to warn Draco, and he’d paid for it with his life.

“What do the Carrowites want with the Horcruxes?” Draco asks at last, and Hermione stands, and holds out a hand to him, saying, “Finally, you ask the important question.”

Chapter 28: A Revelation of Wills

Chapter Text

Harry dreams.

When he dreams, the visions don’t bloom in colour, but in shades of menacing grey. He’s in his Settlement, running over dead grass to hunt a rabbit, and when he turns, knife in hand, a fire erupts from somewhere beyond the treeline, smoke rising so high Harry can see it from the floor. And suddenly the fire is by his feet, licking up his legs, and there’s blood dripping down his knife, until he drops it, and that melts into the fire too. They did this, voices whisper, and then the scene shifts.

There’s a little girl, running along the floor, and Harry can hear the patter of her footsteps, the tinkling sound of her laugh; he can feel the spray of sand against his own feet as he chases her, a game he plays with the Settlement children–except she isn’t playing with him, she’s running from him, she’s afraid of him, and when he reaches out a hand to catch her, it isn’t a human hand he sees but two withered claws, curling against the fabric of her dress so sharp that she screams. Harry jerks back, and finds himself floating, dark and hateful and full of deathly magic, but by the time he can release the girl, the scene shifts.

He’s next to a woman who sometimes works the fields with him, full of stories and longing for the written word. She leads him to a firepit and they sit around it boiling broth, and she’s telling him a story, because she’s always been a storyteller, about a room full of books, in a castle on top of a hill in another life, another world. I could have had this, she says. They took it away from me. And she’s throwing a skewer at his face, the hot coat searing into his skin like a brand, marking him. Your fault, she says. This is your fault.

He’s at the edge of the ocean, water foaming and lapping against his feet, right where he used to collect seashells with Remus, mending nets so they could dive into the water and catch fish. Except now the water is alive, and it’s locking around his feet, slimy and slippery and tight, pulling him, and everyone in the Settlement surrounds him with pitchforks, stabbing at him, poking and pushing and prodding him into the water, blades tearing into his skin, blood running hot and black down his chest. Why, Harry screams. He’s going to sink into the water, he’s going to drown. Don’t do this.

Then fix it, they say, and Harry opens his eyes.

“f*ck.”

He doesn’t remember what he dreamed, only that it was horrifyingly vivid and has him shaking as he wakes. The crown of his head aches dully, as if from a blow, and when he tries to reach a hand to touch it, he feels the sharp pull of chains around his wrist. He looks up. The room is empty, though there’s an ankle chain just like his unlocked and loose, lying on the floor.

“Draco!” he shouts, but there’s no response besides the echo of his own voice. He tries casting, but only that snuffed-out feeling of emptiness greets him where his magic should be. Pulling against the chain is also useless, and only chafes his skin.

And then there’s the susurration of shadow, like the sound of a curtain fluttering against a window, and Hedwig flutters out of a corner, making vague, frantic noises as he pulls against Harry’s chains.

“You found me! Good boy,” Harry exclaims quietly, scrunching his face, half-smiling as Hedwig rubs against his cheek. “It’s no use,” Harry adds, when Hedwig goes back to fussing with the chains. “They won’t come off.”

Hedwig draws back, coming to float at eye level, communicating with him silently.

“If I had the keys, I wouldn’t be here,” Harry says, still blinking the bleary aftertaste of his dreams away. “I don’t know where they are.”

Hedwig flits over to the bars of the prison, before coming back.

“You see a guard?” Harry asks.

Hedwig performs a vague up-down motion that Harry takes to be yes.

“He has the key?”

Another yes.

“Go get it,” Harry whispers to him, and Hedwig melts into the shadow, slipping out of the room, moving through cracks and crevices. He returns a while later, a ring of keys tangled in his robes, dropping it onto Harry’s lap; and it’s a bit of a struggle, cuffed as Harry’s wrists are, but he manages to pry the chain on his ankles loose with the keys. He fits the prison door key into the lock with his hands stretching out from the inside.

The door swings open with a loud, wincing creak, and when Harry steps out, six guards lie slumped on the floor, eyes shut like they’re sleeping. Harry turns back to Hedwig. “You didn’t hurt them, did you?”

Hedwig twitters indignantly.

“I am grateful!” Harry says, rubbing his wrists and shaking his legs, sensation seeping back into his feet. His magic is still suppressed by his wrist cuffs, and none of the keys fit the shape of its lock, so he has to feel around the walls to move, keyring clutched tightly in his fingers as he steps his feet out, tentatively, checking for depressions or steps on the ground. It’s slow, tedious work, but he meets the edge of a second cell door, iron cold under his palm, and Ron’s voice calls out, “Who’s there?”

“Ron!” Harry fumbles with the keyring, and feels around for the lock, shoving them in one by one until one of them slots all the way inside and turns with a click when Harry twists. “It’s me, Harry,” he says.

“Harry?” Ron’s voice is low, uncertain, but there’s recognition there. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you, but there’s no time,” Harry says, running to him, undoing the wrist cuffs and pulling him into a half hug. Despite it all, it’s good to see Ron, to find a friend in enemy territory. He’s missed him. “The Carrowites are planning something. We have to find Draco and stop them. He’s got to be here somewhere.”

“Not here,” Ron says, coughing. “I saw one of the guards come in earlier and take him somewhere at wandpoint. Too dark for me to see where, but they crossed this cell.”

“Direction?” Harry asks, pulling him up to his feet. He’s got cuffs around his wrists like Harry, but he’s rolling his shoulders and standing up straight. There’s still strength in them, they can still fight.

“That way,” Ron says, jerking his head, and they hurry out of the swinging doors, into darkness.

“I like Astoria,” Hermione throws out, an incongruous addition to the conversation. “She reminds me of myself. Of what I might have been, if I were allowed the pursuit of study, instead of trade.”

“It isn’t her fault you were born a Ravenclaw,” Draco says, and Hermione shakes her head.

“I don’t begrudge her the station.”

“Then why bring her up?” Draco freezes, suddenly frightened. “You didn’t–hurt her? She was with you–”

“Astoria is unharmed,” Hermione says. “Or, well–if any harm befalls her, it would not be the doing of a Squib.”

“Of course,” Draco spits. “You’ve only left her to face Gaunt’s wrath alone, losing the last two Horcruxes, no one to stand by her, not even her Gryffindor guards.”

“She’s escaped,” Hermione informs him. “Gaunt is searching for her as we speak.”

“He’ll find her,” Draco frets. “She can’t hide from him for long.”

“Soon, she won’t have to,” Hermione says, something worryingly cryptic about it.

Draco regards her. “What do you mean?”

Hermione changes tack. She forces Draco to his feet and leads him down the long expanse of the wall. “Who are Squibs, Draco?”

“Hermione,” Draco says. “What is this.”

Hermione falls silent for a long while, minutes ticking by, and Draco resists the urge to kick the wall with his feet.

“Squibs are the offspring of wizards who cannot perform magic,” Draco intones monotonously. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Yes,” Hermione says, stopping by the edge of a door and unlocking it with a key the size of her forearm. “Do you know why some are born with magic, while others go without?”

“No,” Draco says impatiently. “Next you’ll ask why some are born with dark hair, or–or without a limb. I don’t know. It’s just the way things are.”

Hermione sighs. “Astoria would’ve understood,” she says, and pushes the door open. Inside, the room is filled to the brim with weapons, pointed, menacing knives, curved like scythes; bows of all shapes with arrows by the quiverfull; maces hanging from the walls, even detachable claws made of bronze, glinting sharp around clay hand-sculptures. And at the centre of it all is a table, and Parvati emerges from under it, still rummaging around in the containers underneath.

“Hermione, have you seen the–oh.” Parvati’s eyes rake indifferently over Draco, stopping ever so briefly at the chains around his wrists.

“Is it really you this time?” Draco asks, riled, and Parvati smirks and says, “Yes. Hermione’s that wizard friend I was telling you about.” She shrugs, and waves her palms in the air mockingly. “Surprise.”

“How?” Draco asks, stepping forward. “Why?” He turns to Hermione. “What did she offer you? Whatever she did, I can offer–”

“I want nothing from you, Draco,” Hermione says. “And I was the one who sought her out.”

Draco stares at them both, bewildered.

“Go on then, don’t keep him waiting,” Parvati says, fingering her knives lazily. “I’ve been dying to see his reaction.”

“To what?” Draco demands.

Hermione holds out a hand, and Parvati bends down, dutifully, to pick out two vials of something red and thick–blood, Draco realises, as Hermione holds them out for him. “Can you tell the difference between these two vials?”

“No,” Draco says tersely, sensing a trap.

“Neither could I,” Hermione says. “Not at first glance, at least. It drove me up the wall.”

“What did?” Draco asks.

“Wizards and Squibs,” Hermione says. She sets the vial down and turns to him. “Haven’t you ever wondered how they’re different from each other?”

“No,” Draco says. “I have not.”

“Typical.” Parvati rolls her eyes.

Hermione continues, “I couldn’t find a difference, so I stopped looking for one.” She picked up sheafs of parchment and rifled through them. “There was a wizarding group and a Squib group and control groups for both.”

“And?” Draco prods, morbidly curious despite himself. “What did you find?”

“There was only one difference,” Hermione says, handing the papers to him. It’s filled with ciphers and shorthand numericals, but Draco can make out the meaning if he squints. “The wizards were healthier.”

“What?” Draco looks up.

“They were healthier,” Hermione repeats. “That was the only difference between wizards and Squibs.”

Draco drags himself back to Hermione’s notes and studies them with renewed vigour. There are columns, demarcated clearly with uniform figures across all clinical tests. The only point of divergence in both groups is muscle mass and– “What’s this?” he asks. “Score of Nourishment?”

“It’s a health indicator,” Hermione says. “Your Nourishment is directly proportional to your health. I haven’t named the individual indices yet–”

“Hermione, this is all theoretical,” Draco says, setting the papers down. “If what you’re saying is true, letting the Squibs run to fat is all it’ll take to turn them into a wizard.”

“It’s not that simple,” Hermione protests, vexed. “The stronger you are, the stronger your magical core is. and I knew you’d be like this, so I’ve brought proof.” And then Parvati leans forward, one foot in front of the other, stretches out a finger pointing upwards, the way a child might do when they’re first learning magic, and whispers, “Lumos.”

Draco gasps. Because on the very tip of Parvati’s finger, flickering weakly, is a light.

“I’ve always been a Squib,” Parvati says. “My parents sent me away because I was a Squib. But when Hermione came to me, all those years ago” –she extinguished the light– “I had to try. She found us the money, put a bunch of Squibs on a good diet, a Slytherin diet. Kept us away from smoke and dirt, boiled our water. Even then, I was only able to summon a light last year.”

“Impossible,” Draco says. He stumbles backward, shoulders hitting the wall, feeling like the floor is scrolling out from under him. “It isn’t– it can’t be.”

“It’s true,” Hermione says. “It’s not an innate primacy that sets Slytherins apart, it’s just–your wealth. Your privilege. Your access to education. A hale mother, with a well-developed magical core, is much more likely to give birth to a baby with a strong core as well. But if the mother’s core is already withered, the baby’s core becomes frail. And further down the classification you go, the weaker your magic gets, until it disappears with Squibs altogether.” She pauses. “But with enough rehabilitation…”

“It scares you, doesn’t it?” Parvati asks. “How powerful we could be if we had magic? We’re already hardier than any of you magically pampered lot.”

“Is that what this is about?” Draco asks, forcing his breathing under control. “Are you trying to–Nourish the Squib population? Is that why you need the Horcruxes?”

“Not in the slightest,” Hermione says. “This isn’t a problem of magical energy, it’s systemic. Who’s going to pay to have all the Squibs fed and housed and clothed? Not the Slytherins, who have the means, and certainly not anyone else, who couldn’t even if they wanted to.”

“Then what are you trying to do?” Draco asks, exasperated, metal chafing against his wrists as he grips the table. “Find the coin yourselves? Alchemy, maybe? Is that what this is about?”

“It isn’t about coin,” Hermione says, a little more bite to it. “To say coin is the solution would be akin to using a sliver of gauze over an arrow wound. Better than nothing, but hardly effective. It would require a developmental effort decades into the future, to build Squibs better homes, to find alternative ways of waste disposal, to give Squibs proper Healing attention. There isn’t–one magical solution that can fix everything. It’d take administrative overhauls and all sorts of other policy changes–nothing is ever so simple. You should know that.”

“Well,” Parvati says, “there is one magical solution,” and draws from inside her blouse a ring threaded through a chain: a single large solitaire nestled within six prongs of gold. The Lestrange Horcrux.

Draco’s hand flies to his own neck, the gesture unconscious, dread curdling deep in his stomach, but Parvati tuts.

“You think we’d let you keep it?” She shakes her head. “Without your magic, it was pathetically easy to snap it off your neck.” She gestures for Hermione to bring Draco along, and they cross the end of the cavern to another door, smaller, half-hidden to the wall.

“There is one other way,” Hermione says softly. “It is the sacrifice we must make.” And then she opens the door.

There are six Squibs already, sitting cross-legged on cushions around a fire, knives in their hands, each holding one Horcrux in their lap. A space is left in the centre for Parvati, and she takes it. “Blood of a Squib, freely given,” she says, and cuts inside the tip of her ring finger, a shallow slash, droplets of blood falling into the fire.

“Hermione,” Draco says nervously, taking a step back. “What is this?”

“The Horcrux Ritual,” Hermione answers. She holds him by the shoulders and steers him to the front.

“The Horcrux Ritual,” Draco says, “was meant to create the Horcruxes.”

“It can also destroy them,” Hermione says, and Draco’s knees nearly buckle out from under him as he sways to the side, understanding, finally, what the aim had been all along. “No–Hermione–why?”

“Magic is the source of all inequality,” she says grimly, voice low over the chanting from the ritual circle. “Magic is how the Slytherins control everyone else. Without magic, there will be no more pain, no more suffering. All people would be equal.”

“You mean to–eradicate magic?” Draco says, half question, half disbelieving statement, the words so jarring he can hardly hear himself. “How–” he breaks off. He can’t speak.

“There is a ritual,” Hermione says, swallowing, partway nervous herself. “A–a failsafe. I found it in the Black Castle library years ago. It shrinks the magical cores of all wizards within a singular landmass. An irreversible curse.”

“What if it fails?” Draco asks, grasping at straws.

“It won’t.” Hermione shakes her head. “It might only fail without adequate magical energy expenditure. And we’ve all seven Horcruxes. The energy inside them will be exactly enough to power the ritual to completion.”

Draco pictures it, for a moment, an entire world rid of magic, stripped clean of the very thing that keeps it functioning, keeps it alive. Even his imagination fails. “Hermione, this is madness. Without magic–”

“We will adapt–”

“–it’s not about adapting,” Draco bites out frantically, grabbing Hermione by the shoulders over her collar, clutching as much as his chains will allow. “The Horcruxes keep the Leviathan asleep–if they break–if the Leviathan wakes–”

He wrenches out of Hermione’s grasp and makes a dive for the circle, but Hermione whispers a jinx and he trips onto his knees. And then he finds himself boxed in on all sides, an invisible resistance in the air–Astoria’s spell, used against him.

“The Leviathan is a myth, Draco,” Hermione says. “There’s no proof the Leviathan exists, and Dementors can’t feed on Squibs. They attack them, on occasion, but Squibs know how to defend themselves, and the others will learn.”

Draco falls back on his legs, looking down, chest heaving as he struggles to control his breathing. “Gaunt is many things: he’s ruthless and conniving and cruel, but he isn’t lying, not about this.”

“What’s one lie to a man like him?” Hermione asks. “Even without the Squibs, there are far more Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs than Gryffindors and Slytherins. We could storm the capitals across the realm and seize all the castles tomorrow, if we wanted. The only thing holding us back is that we need you, we need Gaunt. Without him to maintain the Horcrux spell, the Leviathan will come for us all. Except there is no Leviathan–only the idea of it Gaunt uses to control us.”

“That’s ridiculous! Gaunt is the only wizard who can stand in the Leviathan’s way if it rises!” Draco exclaims. “Without magic, we’d be lost. We’d be obliterated.”

“That’s the lie,” Hermione says. “That, right there. Have you never wondered why Gaunt is so powerful? So inordinately formidable? No wizard is inherently stronger or weaker than any other, not by a large margin. We’ve established that. Then what is the source of his power?”

“Harry–”

“Harry’s is death,” Hermione cuts in. “The source of Harry’s magic does not come from himself. But there can only be one Master of Death, and it isn’t Gaunt. So then what is his source?”

Draco pauses. The answer, when he puts his mind to it, is so glaringly simple, he feels the sudden, hysterical urge to laugh. “You think it’s the magical taxes,” he says.

Hermione nods. “It is the only explanation for Gaunt’s power.”

“Is this what Theo discovered?” Draco asks, thoughts jumbling together.

“No.” Hermione steps into Draco’s shield-spell and grabs him by the elbow. “I don’t know what Theo discovered, but it doesn’t matter.” And then she’s shoving him into the circle, and there are ropes, tying him to hooks on the floor by the fire, and he can feel it crackle against his face, the heat stifling and prickling in equal measure as he’s forced to hold his hand over the fire.

“Blood of a wizard, forcibly taken,” Parvati intones, and slices his finger, letting drops of blood sizzle into the fire, and Draco watches, in horror, as she draws out a basilisk fang. “With this implement, I commence the ritual.” She holds it over the fire and it blackens unnaturally. Her own face is open, manically bright, and when the darkness coats the fang she draws it back, holding it over the first Horcrux to say, “Now we begin.”

It took them a while to make it out of the dungeons, but after, Harry and Ron had followed the walls, hand in hand, Hedwig leading the way, past a room with an upturned game board and an armoury stocked full of weapons. It led to an open door, and Harry had half a mind to simply barrel through it at the sound of Draco’s voice, but Ron had shot out a hand and held him back.

“Listen,” Ron said, and they had. They’d heard everything.

“Hermione–it was her–” Harry voice comes out thick, he can barely speak, and beside him Ron’s face is ashen.

“It can’t be. It can’t be true,” he’s saying, but Harry only half hears him. “They have Draco,” he says, voice low. He turns to Hedwig and instructs, “Go find help. Return as soon as you can.”

Hedwig chirps dutifully, nestling against his cheek one last time before melting back into shadow.

“Where did you send him?” Ron asks, but Harry only says, “He knows where he’s supposed to go,” and shoves the door open.

Hermione has her wand out and aimed at him before she even registers who it is she’s pointing at, but when she does, the hesitation is more than enough time for Harry to knock the wand off her grip. “Harry, I can explain–”

“I heard your explanations,” Harry says, dropping her wand to the floor and stamping it into two. “Move.” He runs to the centre of the room, where Draco is tied and gagged, eyes bulging as he jerks his head to the side.

Harry feels a movement, the air on his arms standing on end, and he manages to dodge just in time to turn and find a knife in the air where he’d been. It feels almost good to move again, his body coming alive at the exertion after so long spent inert. He bends upright and elbows the man in the stomach, and then knees him in the face once more when he doubles over in pain.

“Ron, cover me,” Harry yells.

He runs to Draco, working clumsily on the knots of rope around his arms while Ron covers his back to hold the others off. Six of the Carrowites have left their seats, and only Parvati remains, sitting on a cushion, eyes closed and chanting, Hermione assisting her with the words. The sword and the shield are already broken, and Parvati’s begun twisting the fang into a diary, something black and viscous oozing out of it.

“The Horcruxes,” Draco tells him, and it’s all that needs to be said. Harry unloops the last of his knots, and Draco breaks free just as the Carrowites overwhelm Ron.

It passes, as combat does, in a haze of adrenaline and rage. It’s awkward having his range of motion limited, but he can still bend and kick and throw a punch. He and Ron take three of the Carrowites each while Draco dashes back to stop the ritual. The diadem lies shattered in pieces, precious stones flaking into the dirt as Parvati chants over the cup, next.

“Don’t do this,” Harry says to the man before him, pivoting away from his strike. “This isn’t the way.”

The man looks haggard, older, but he’s deceptively strong, the kind of strength that’s built not through training but hard, gruelling labour. “I have to,” he spits, accent gruff and cold, a little pained. He snatches up a shovelling rod and brings it down over Harry, and Harry’s too boxed in to move so he reaches up, catching the rod between his cuffs, stopping the blow with his chains.

“You don’t like the chains?” the man asks, breathing hard. “I know what that’s like. Us Squibs’ve had them since before we were born.”

Harry staggers back. There is the sense of time unspooling, stilling, slowing just for him. He still fights, still blocks and dodges and strikes back when he has to, but it’s far away, from a distance, as if he’s watching himself from the outside. He knocks the Carrowite unconscious and takes his rod, wielding it like a spear as he cleaves a path through the people. There is the sound of something shattering, another Horcrux destroyed, another step closer to the end. Harry can’t think. A woman comes at him with a rod and he meets the blow from below. There are bruises on his arms, welts on his knuckles. There’s blood on the floor, his and Ron’s and the Carrowites’; wizards and squibs, all mingled, indistinguishable. His sides ache. He thinks he could fight forever; he thinks if he stopped, he’d fall and never get up.

Someone screams. Bodies lie strewn across the cave floor. Draco and Ron grapple with the last of the stragglers as Harry runs straight to Parvati, jabbing Hermione aside. He brings his wrists around Parvati’s neck where she’s kneeling, twisting to choke her with the chains. She doesn’t budge, even as his muscles strain with the effort of squeezing. She raises the fang to the Lestrange ring, the last Horcrux out of seven, but Harry kicks her palm until it goes skidding aside.

The others stop. They turn to stare at him.

“Give up,” Harry says, still odd, still out of sorts. “Drop the ring.”

Parvati struggles against him uselessly. Even shackled, he is no match for her. She chokes out, “No.”

“It’s over,” Harry says. “You’ve lost.”

Parvati’s knuckles are tight, ring clenched so hard the ends of it cut into her palm. Rivulets of blood run down her palm. “Harry,” she says, and turns, as much as she can, and holds out her hand. “Hermione told me who you are.”

She hands him the ring.

It’s so small. It glints in his palm strangely, even in the dim. Your fault, someone had said to him. He thinks of a girl hurrying through the Settlement, whips cracking over bent backs, bodies piled high as a castle, homes burnt into ash. It had never been his fault. But it could be, it could be.

“Harry,” Draco says, something like a warning, but Harry has already released Parvati. He bends to pick up the fang.

Ron tenses towards him. “What are you–”

And then Harry drops the ring to the floor and spears through it with the basilisk fang; watches it shatter into pieces with a soft, tinkling snick.

Image description: An illustration of Harry breaking the last of the Horcruxes. He kneels on the stone floor of the cave, dark brown, with the ritualistic fire in front of him. Pillows and broken Horcruxes lie strewn about—the sword behind Harry, the diadem at the bottom-centre, and the diary to the left—scattered around. The ring, the last Horcrux, is at his feet and emits red tendrils of magic. Harry has his shackled wrists raised, a basilisk fang in his fingers. He sports several scratches, bruises and blood stains on his skin, and his black shirt is half open, showing a part of his wedding necklace.

Silence.

“Not bad,” Parvati rasps, “even for a newly-turned wizard.”

It hits Ron and Draco the same time it hits Harry, the sensation of something ripping out from inside him, tearing apart his organs and clawing its way out like a parasite forced out of its host. Magic has always been a violent thing, Harry thinks distantly, and so of course the excision of it would also be violent. He falls to his knees, heaving onto the dirt as the pain scissors through him in waves, until there is nothing left inside him to expunge; and that feeling, the submerged, liminal feeling of a suppressed magical core, disappears completely into the ether.

“Parvati,” Draco says, lurching to her, voice shaking–although from anger or terror Harry can’t say. “Unbind us.”

Parvati takes out a key tied to her belt and removes all of their shackles, too tired to argue, all out of retorts. Draco barely waits for the manacles to fall before his hands are in the air, looping, waving, twirling. “Lumos,” he whispers, and then louder, “Lumos. Lumos. Lumos.”

Nothing.

Harry doesn’t try to cast. “Draco,” he says, and then flinches because the look in Draco’s eyes is–it’s–betrayed. “Draco.”

“No,” Draco says, staring at his hands in horror. “No.”

The ring has lost its eerie glint, and lies half buried in the dirt, so ordinary. Harry crouches on the floor to pick it up, and then just sits, head buried in his hands. He’s so tired.

Hermione’s hand falls on his shoulder, and when he looks up, the feeling in her eyes isn’t gloating or victorious but pained. She knows, Harry thinks, that there was never a way for him to come out of this without betraying some piece of his soul.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and sits by him. She gives him her hand and he takes it; gives in to the urge to collapse against the floor.

That’s when he hears it, a rumble so faint he might’ve missed it if he weren’t half-pressed to the ground. He stands on shaky feet and holds a hand out for silence. The others stare. There is a single, teetering moment of restored calm, Harry just starting to relax–and then the floor begins to shake.

“Move,” Harry shouts, losing his footing and nearly falling back to the ground, the same time as Parvati yells, “Landslide!”

They run out of the room, walls creaking and groaning around them as entire sections of the floor crack apart and the air turns oppressively stale, fumes rising from the fissures in the ground; and it’s hot, blisteringly hot, bludgeoning them with a heat that has Draco’s skin turning red just from exposure.

“This isn’t a landslide,” Hermione says, and before she can say anything else, fire erupts from the ground, molten like glass in a forge, spreading viscid and menacing over the floor.

“Follow me,” Parvati cries.

They rush behind her, dodging falling segments of stone, leaping over rubble as they move.

“I thought the mountains were dormant,” Hermione shrieks.

“They were,” Parvati responds. But there’s no time to say anything else as the cave threatens to collapse, debris scraping over skin as they weave desperately through the imploding tunnels. Breathing is difficult. Visibility turns shallow and dark. The only light comes from what flickering sconces have survived the wreckage, and they lie scattered far between. Harry’s lungs burn. He reaches forward and yanks Draco backwards, as a section of stone skewers the place Draco was standing near, and then Draco has to push him out of the way as another crack forms in the floor under him.

“How much farther?” Harry pants, after too many wrong turns to count.

Parvati’s had to backtrack and retrace, over and over, half the exits either blocked or destroyed. “I don’t know,” she says, stuttering as she runs. She leads them down a winding tunnel, so narrow they have to walk in a single file. They make it through even as the path crumbles behind them, but when they reach the other side, it’s a dead end, piled with rocks from floor to ceiling.

“No,” Parvati whispers, hands over the blockage, trembling. “No, no, no. f*ck. No.” She bangs her fists against the rocks, before sliding onto the floor on her knees.

“We can go back,” Ron says urgently. “There must be another way.”

“There isn’t,” Parvati says. “All the exits are blocked. f*ck.”

For a long moment, no one says anything, and the only sound is the ominous juddering of stone against earth.

Hermione is the first one to move, making her way across to sit by Parvati’s side, saying, “There’s nothing for it now. At least it’s done.”

“What you did is the reason we can’t escape,” Draco snaps. “You–how could–both of you–after everything–”

“Draco,” Harry calls again, softer, and Draco whirls on him, pushing him against the wall and banging his fists against Harry’s chest to say, “And you. I trusted you most of all, I–I loved you–” he breaks off, eyes shining, a single tear slipping down his cheek.

Harry cups Draco’s face in his palm and swipes a thumb, catching the tear. “Stay with me,” he says, and it comes out pleading, and to anyone else the words might be redundant, but Harry knows Draco understands. That if they’re going to die, side by side, in the deepest pit of a rupturing mountain, let them do it together.

“f*ck you, Harry,” Draco says, and hugs him, melting into Harry’s embrace, arms tight around his waist, and Harry holds him, feeling for the first time the fragility of him, so delicate, like a fluttering bird resting in the palm of his hand.

“I love you,” Harry says. “Whatever else you might think, that, at least, is true.”

They slink to the floor, still holding each other, right by Parvati and Hermione; and then Ron inserts himself between them, and they huddle together, all five of them, a mismatched, motley crew, hands held tightly, heads resting on shoulders. And despite the discord, the lies that stray between them, right then they might as well be the only five people in the world, the last bastions of an old world order, the first ones to die in the new.

“For what it’s worth,” Draco tells Hermione, “you would have made an excellent inventor.”

“I know,” she says, and then after a beat: “You’re taking this better than I expected.”

“I’m incensed,” Draco says. “But we’re going to be burnt to a crisp in a matter of minutes, so–perspective.”

Parvati huffs out a breath at that. “You are capable of rational thought on occasion,” she jokes, though there’s no bite to it. “I’m impressed.”

Draco snorts. Ron rests his forehead on Hermione’s shoulder, but she’s too short for him so he turns, and rests his head on Harry’s shoulder instead. Harry laughs, even as the first of the magma begins to seep into the chamber.

“I’m sorry I dragged you into this,” he says, and Ron shrugs, replying, “It could’ve been worse. I could’ve had my soul sucked out by a Dementor.”

Harry pulls back, shoulders jerking up.

“What?” Ron says, but Harry shushes him, because there, beyond the smoke and the rubble and the disintegrating walls, is the sound of wings flapping.

No, Harry thinks, not wings, but robes.

“Hedwig,” Harry exclaims, watching him sweep into the room triumphantly quick, tears welling in his eyes. “You found help!”

“From where?” Parvati asks, clutching Hermione’s hand as she stares.

“The Land Beyond The Realm,” Harry says. “The Dementor’s Desert.”

And as the next Dementor swoops in behind Hedwig, another following on its tail like a train of satin, the others devolve into relief, because they do have a way out; they can still fly, and there’s the joy of that survival, infectious as they climb over the Dementors, relief so great it dwarfs all other wounds–that even in the midst of all the strangling conflict, salvation was a thing they shared.

Chapter 29: An Epilogue of Commencement

Chapter Text

Druella sits at a desk across from Sirius Black, who’s looking at her like a man intent on wringing out all her secrets–which she supposes he is.

“Alphard was always my favourite uncle,” he says, with an air of affected indifference. “I miss him dearly. As you must miss Cygnus.”

“Yes, well” –Druella sets her glass of water on the table, charmed to look like wine– “Cygnus spoke fondly of Regulus, before his passing. You must pass him my regards.”

A beat of silence.

“Regulus works for Gaunt, now,” Sirius says. “I hardly ever see him.” He leans forward. “Maybe you can convey your wishes to him yourself when you next travel to the Capital.”

Druella senses the test. “I have no interest in anything Gaunt has to offer,” she says. “Quite the opposite.”

“What are you planning?” Sirius asks.

“Oh, nothing grand,” Druella says, “just a reshuffling of the cabinet. Times are changing.” She pauses. “Are you willing to adapt?”

Sirius considers her carefully. “Why?” he asks. “Why come to me?”

“Because you can be useful,” Druella says simply. “The balance of power will soon shift, and I intend to land on the right side of it.”

Sirius opens his mouth to answer–

A sound. Such a sound. Ear-splitting, agonising, shaking the walls with the force of its tenor. It settles into her bones like the jaws of a shark, like needles erupting from inside her skin. There is a quality to it, so colossally boundless that she cannot tell if it is agony or ecstasy; only that it is all-encompassing: a cry that hunts the farthest corners of the realm to inhabit each soul it touches, ruthless in its intensity. And there is a desire there: a craving to be known and remembered and feared. An immortal cry of the highest retribution. A roar of re-emergence.

When it fades, the silence is jarring, almost too precious to break.

“What was that?” Sirius whispers, eyes wide with fear. The doors to their chamber burst open as some of his Gryffindors enter, glancing at their table nervously.

Druella snaps her fingers and attempts to conjure a flame. She fails. “What I feared has come to pass,” she says, the weight of it finally settling into her stomach, the excruciating, violent gravity. “Double the patrols and close the castle walls. Begin stockpiling measures.”

The Gryffindors glance nervously to Sirius, who only takes a moment to weigh his options before nodding. “See it done,” he tells them, and waits for them to leave.

“Do you know what it was?” he asks her again.

Druella stands, sucking in a shaky breath. “It has passed out of living memory, so none may truly corroborate, but if I had to hazard a guess–”

She pauses, looking straight into Sirius’s eyes.

“The Leviathan,” she says, “has awakened.”

Letter from Princess Druella Black to King Harry of Malfoy

I hear congratulations are in order, King Harry—that it was your effort to break the final Horcrux which exterminated magic from the realm. Forgive me if I do not share the Carrowites’ sentiments. The Leviathan looms large ahead.

I will be brief. The literature available to us is scarce. I do not need to impress upon you the urgency with which we must address the issue. To that effect, it is necessary that I divulge some matters of import that Theodore made known to me, before his premature demise.

The Carrowites were correct about one thing: the magical prowess of High King Gaunt is, indeed, unnatural. They were, however, incorrect in assuming the source of that excess magic came from the taxes paid by the commonfolk—and, of course, in negating the subsequent authenticity of the Horcrux ritual entirely. Although I do not labour under the delusion that Gaunt was not pilfering from the stores for himself—power-hungry as he is—the true source of his power comes from an older, more primordial instrumentality: The Deathly Hallows.

Allow me to explain.

A few years ago, Prince Theodore formed an elite task force of his best Gryffindors, spearheaded by the heirs of Houses Finnegan and Thomas. They infiltrated Nagini’s Keep in the Gaunt Capital, and located a room deep within it, where they found a unique stone embedded in a curious crosshatch of spellwork. Before they could investigate, they were bitten by Gaunt’s snake, Nagini, and soon succumbed to its venom. Fortunately for us, they were able to portkey back to Nott to brief Theodore before they passed. Subsequent examination of their memories indicated that the stone so discovered, was, in fact, an exact replica of the Resurrection Stone from old texts in the Rosier library. Theodore wrote to me of the discovery with a copy of the memory, and I personally cross-referenced it against what scrolls I could find on the subject. We were working together to expose Gaunt, before Theodore was killed in the Duel.

The Gaunts worked closely with the Peverells before their fall. It stands to reason that if Gaunt has the Resurrection Stone, he might be in possession of the Elder Wand and the Invisibility Cloak as well. It would certainly explain his disproportionately expansive magical power.

The only way to defeat the Leviathan for good is for the Master of Death to wield the Hallows—on this, all ancient texts concur. Nevertheless, Gaunt kept the existence of the Hallows a closely guarded secret, and used the Horcruxes instead to bind the Leviathan into a loose slumber. His intentions are easily discernible: a population under constant threat of attack, is an easier population to control. On this, too, the Carrowites were correct.

The way forward is uncertain. The only information accessible to us is this: you, Harry, are the Master of Death, as evidenced by the incontrovertible proof of your control over Dementors. I recognised it, when I heard the news of the Parselwoods Battle, and so did Gaunt. It was said that Gaunt took a special interest in you when you visited his castle. No doubt he saw your power, that great, roiling wellspring, and wanted it for himself—or he needed you eliminated. Regardless, all the legends are of accord in that only the Master of Death may put the Leviathan to rest for good. For better or worse, King Harry, you are now the realm’s sole hope.

Gaunt’s status is unclear. He has either holed himself up in the Gaunt Capital, or fled the realm entirely. Both situations do not bode well for us. Without the Hallows, you cannot hope to face the Leviathan, and without magic, the realm cannot aid you. The primary task before us, therefore, is to bring back magic. To recreate the ritual of the Horcruxes a third time—but there is a catch. To perform the ritual to reignite magic, one needs magic. And there are no more Horcruxes, no other sources of energy we may draw upon. Save the Hallows.

The Hallows are the last magical instruments left to us with the capacity to originate magical energy cognate with the Horcruxes. Retrieving the Hallows thus serves a dual purpose: to relocate magic and release it upon the realm once more, and to use it in our fight against the Leviathan.

I heard the call, as you must have, as every citizen of the realm must have. The hour is nearly upon us, the day when the Leviathan will rise from the frozen wastes beyond the ocean, and come to claim the vengeance it was once denied. We must band together, all Rulers of all Territories, and mount an offensive against Gaunt. If he flees, we must hunt him. If he attacks, we must defeat him. With the Hallows in his grasp, he will be truly formidable, but with the Hallows in yours, King Harry, we might stand a sliver of a chance to survive.

Consider all I have said and fly to me at the earliest. I understand your Dementors are useful in that regard. I also understand that the administration of your kingdom is of importance, especially in these trying times, when all magical systems have broken down. Crops will fail, conflict will abound, suffering will exacerbate. We must be wary on all fronts. Burn this letter once you and your husband have read it, and speak of this to no one.

I will be expecting you.

Until then.

Yours in confidence

Druella Black

Chapter 30: Appendix II

Chapter Text