Come Hell or High Water: Chapter Two
Title: Come Hell or High Water
Author: Ebonie Rose/ aletes_muse
Rating: eventual NC-17
Pairings: As of yet only Harry/ Draco and Ron/ Hermione.
Warnings: Language, violence, slash, violent situations, sexual situations, oh and this story is a WiP. I’ll try to update it at least once every one/ two weeks but I’m not promising anything. Also, as with most of my fics, there’s a few lines/ paragraphs inspired by bouts of madness. I blame insomnia and an addiction to Cool FM.
Summary: Harry Potter is forced to bear the burden of being not only the Saviour of the Wizarding World, but the leader of the Light also. He must now make the right choices, the right moves, and think with his head instead of his heart. But Harry’s heart is calling him louder than before; telling him who to trust, who to be wary of ― who to love. This is a story of war and the light which can be found even in the blackest night.
Author's Notes: So, originally, I was going to wait a few weeks between chapters but I want to try and get as much of this story as I can out before DH is released, so it's going to be posted as is beta'd. Thank you to lunadragon for the marvellous beta, for pointing out things I never would have noticed, and for making comments that made me laugh. Thanks also to ravenqueen55 for her suggestions, encouragement, and e-mails which always make me smile. As always, concrit is welcomed and I hope you enjoy!
Previous Chapters: Chapter One
Chapter Two
The Unbreakable Vow
Hermione was standing by his bed, looking down at him with brown eyes filled with pity. He couldn’t stand pity; he hated pity. Pity was for the weak, for the people who buckled under pressure, for people who would have died long before they reached fourteen if they were forced to live his life. Pity was not for the likes of Harry Potter.
“Hermione,” he began slowly, preparing to launch into a scathing tirade about how she should really save her pity and concern for someone who would appreciate it. He didn’t get the chance to. Hermione leaned forward, a gentle smile ghosting across her face, and pressed a finger to his lips as she shook her head.
“Sh, Harry,” she said, smiling still. “Please don’t speak. I want to talk to you.”
He looked at her strangely for a moment. Hermione never asked Harry or Ron to be quiet and listen when she talked, she simply took it for granted they would. Finally he nodded and she smiled once more.
“Good.” She withdrew her finger from where she had set it on his mouth and settled back onto his bed, pulling her dressing gown tighter around her body against the night chill. “I wanted to talk to you about… about Dumbledore and Sirius and Cedric.”
“Hermione ―”
“Shut up, Harry,” she snapped. “I asked you not to speak. Let let me have my say, ‘kay?” She did not wait for his answer and just plunged forth. “I just thought we should talk about and get it off your chest. It’s not good to let emotions fester, really. We should talk more, Harry.”
She looked at him expectantly so Harry nodded his agreement although he felt it was rather a ridiculous thing to say: ‘We should talk more’. What did she think they were currently doing?
Waking tired people up from their much needed sleep, he grumbled to himself before returning his attention to the brown haired girl in front of him. She was watching him intently, her brown eyes drinking in everything about him and he felt decidedly uncomfortable. He shifted restlessly and the wafer thin sheet on his bed shifted with him. Hermione glared at him.
“Oh, honestly, Harry sit still will you!” she snapped, furious for reasons Harry couldn’t even begin to understand. “I’m trying to tell you how I feel about these matters so it can benefit you, for pity’s sake! It would do you well to listen and stop being so bloody selfish!”
Harry was too busy gaping at her to even begin to formulate a reply.
“The wind will change and you’ll get stuck that way, Harry,” Hermione said viciously. “So close your damn mouth! There, that’s better isn’t it?” Her voice had begun deceptively sweet, low, calm… caring. “Now, as I was saying about Dumbledore and Sirius and Cedric. Well “ ― here she leaned closer to Harry so now her lips were mere centimetres from Harry’s and, for one panicked moment, he thought she was going to kiss him ― "I think it was your fault. Stop looking so shocked, Harry, they are your fault. Everyone knows it; it’s just no one dares to say it. Well, I’m daring to say it Harry. I want nothing more to do with you. You use people and manipulate them so you can lead them to their deaths later. I’m tired of it, Harry. I’ve spent years following you into perilous situations because it was your current whim and I am just so… tired of it all. So don’t talk to me, Harry because it’s all your fault! All your fault, Harry. Can you imagine how much pain you’ve caused others because of your selfish actions? People are hurting because of you, Harry. People are hurting because you are a manipulative, malevolent, vicious human being. You don’t deserve to breathe the same air as decent people, Harry. You deserve to have been the one Snape murdered that night, Harry. It should have been you. Everyone would be so much happier then.
“And everyone would know then who you really are, Harry.”
His voice somehow returned to him, although it sounded hoarse and raw even to his own ears. “And who am I really, Hermione?”
A vicious gleam in her eyes, she leaned even closer then, a feral smile on her lips. She leaned so close, Harry felt her lips brush his before she murmured; “You’re a murderer, Harry.”
Harry awoke screaming.
~|~|~|~
“Are you alright, Harry?”
“Er... yeah, fine.”
“Harry, seriously, we’re your best friends you can tell us.”
“I’m fine, Hermione.”
“So you call screaming down a bunkhouse ‘fine’, Harry?”
“Yes, Ron, I do.”
“Harry, you are not fine. You’re suffering from depression, survivor’s guilt and your nightmares are increasing in regularity. Don’t think I didn’t notice all the Dreamless Sleep potion you’ve been taking over the summer. We’re worried about you, Harry. We’re your best friends and you have to understand you can talk to us anytime you want to.”
“I’m fine, Hermione.”
“Can you say anything other than you’re fine, please, Harry? We know you’re not! Why won’t you trust us?”
“I’M FINE!”
“… Well that went well didn’t it?”
“Shut up, Ronald.”
“Well, I did say if you pushed him he’d just disappear again.”
“Shut up, Ronald.”
“Well alright, you only had to ask……Hermione?”
“Yes, Ronald?”
“Will you pass the butter?”
~|~|~|~
The stark sunlight was playing havoc with his raging headache, and he could feel the all too familiar uncomfortable throbbing behind his eyes and in his temple beginning to form. Squinting ahead in the face of the bright sunligh, he rubbed furiously at his temples, trying to chase the headache away but not succeeding as he knew he wouldn’t. After a moment he stopped massaging his forehead and, sinking his hands into his jeans pockets, once more began to walk toward the small French town he had first found five days before.
He sighed as the memory of seeing Malfoy suddenly appeared on the fringes of his mind. He was sure it had been him; that hair and pale, pointed face were impossible to miss. He didn’t know what he had planned to do but he’d planned to do something: hex Malfoy and hand him over to Aurors, kill him, bring him back to the training ground, demand answers, something, anything. He’d meant to do something ― and he had. Still, he had not expected to find himself chasing Malfoy’s back down dark, twisting alleyways that had no pattern to them and ran seamlessly into one another. Since then he had avoided the town, he wasn’t sure why. He supposed it was because he didn’t want to run into Malfoy again. The more perplexing issue, however, was why he had not mentioned Malfoy’s appearance to anyone ― not even Ron or Hermione.
No, he didn’t want to return to the town but neither could he stay in the training grounds. He was tired, sore and angry. He had been led to believe they would be doing actual training for war here; magical war. As of yet however they had not been trained, not in the way they had been informed they would. There had been many instances when the whole camp was rounded up and forced to participate in physical activities, many of which involved running more than ten miles at a time. The first time Harry had attempted it he had been sure that Kingsley would kill him before Voldemort even got the chance. It had taken more out of him than he thought it would and this had resulted in Harry forcing himself to go for long runs whenever he got the chance. He had eaten little, slept less and run more than he talked, all of which resulted that, in the past five days, he had lost close to four pounds. He could not bear to put himself through another day of training. He was top of the class, so to speak. Now, thanks to his private endeavours, he could outrun close to every single person in the camp and, if not outrun them, he could outlast them at least. He was exhausted, annoyed and tired. They could spare him a few hours of peace. They they needed their main weapon to be healthy, happy and self-sacrificial after all.
He snorted at his inner monologue ― weapon, he though, how had he not realised it before? ― and, taking his hands out of his pockets, began to run although this time it was purely for fun. He had not realised how freeing running could be; the wind running through his hair, that familiar tight, burning feeling in his chest, the muscles in his legs screaming out in protest as he pushed himself and pushed himself until he couldn’t possibly go any further, the warm French summer sun beating down on the back of his too small, regulation deep green T-shirt. It hadn’t taken long for him to realise he loved the freedom of running by himself, instead of against others. He loved his freedom. It was only too bad he did not truly have his freedom.
He was barely sweating and his leg muscles were still fine when he arrived in the small town once more. He didn’t pay attention to those surrounding him; like the first time he had been here he could not understand much of what they said. Instead he made for the first place he recognised ― a small building that looked remotely seedy, with painted bottle green walls and a rack holding newspapers from the region placed outside. His eyes flicked up to read the sign as he came closer and with a feeling of smugness he recognised a phrase from Dudley’s French vocabulary books: coin magasin. Corner store, he thought gladly, or shop. Whatever, it still meant he’d found a newsagents.
Grinning, he slowed down and entered the small shop, and was quickly assaulted by the smell of stale smoke, burning incense, and the distinctive smell of newly opened glossy magazines. A tall man stood behind the counter, leaning lazily against the glass length of it, his bright blue eyes watching Harry suspiciously as he entered and the man's shoulder length, lank blonde hair falling into his face. Harry thought briefly that the man looked as pointed as Malfoy and had as large a nose as Snape. He wondered, with a brief shudder, whether Narcissa and Snape had had an affair and this ugly creature was the result. He felt a rush of sympathy for the bloke.
Giving the man a tentative smile his eyes wandered over the slim pickings available in the store: a handful of chocolate bars and crisps; a few ready made sandwiches that looked out of date; a few magazines and newspapers Harry didn’t recognise; plastic children’s toys and, as seemed to be custom in all newsagents, behind the counter was a large display of cigarette brands. There was a small turnoff in one aisle and Harry saw a collection of old movies, mostly black and white or starring ‘B’-list actors, and a fridge holding a staggering amount of alcoholic beverages. Rolling his eyes, he lifted a few packets of crisps, several chocolate bars, pulled a Coke can out of the fridge from beside a rather hefty bottle of champagne and wandered up to the counter. He set them down in front of the man who was still glaring fiercely at him, as if he suspected Harry would suddenly pull out a gun and blow his brains out. Harry suppressed the urge to chuckle at the thought of what the man would do if he pulled out his wand and shouted, “BANG!” Probably shit himself, he concluded, smiling genuinely at the man.
“Autre chose?” he asked, swiping Harry’s purchases through the till. For a second Harry stared at him, oblivious, with no idea what he was saying until he remembered: they were in France. These people spoke French, not English and certainly not gibberish as Harry had suspected he was doing. He wracked his brains, desperate to remember what the phrase meant and the image of his primary six teacher asking him if he wanted ‘autre chose pour dejeuner’ came floating into his head. Heaving a sigh of relief he beamed at the shop assistant, which caused him to back slightly away from him.
“Er,” Harry said, “n… um…”
His eyes fell on the cigarette display behind the counter. He had smoked before; Dudley had practically forced a cigarette into his mouth during the summer after fifth year, stating that if Harry was going to sit around and mope like a girl’s blouse he could at least look remotely ‘cool’ whilst doing so. Harry had scowled, as he had deemed it the proper response, but had accepted the cigarette anyway figuring that anything which provided a distraction from thoughts of Sirius was fine with him. He had started smoking and had quickly become if not addicted to it, at least partial. He couldn’t remember actually wanting to smoke; it was simply that the repetitive, rather soothing action allowed him time to let his thoughts drift to mundane topics and provided him with something to do when activities were not forthcoming. On returning to Hogwarts he had quickly found that it was quite easy to manoeuvre his way onto Gryffindor Tower’s roof from his dormitory window and was equally easy to find time alone to spend down by the lake a few times a day. Ginny had discovered his habit two days after they had begun dating after she demanded to know why he always tasted of smoke. She had instantly demanded that he stop smoking at once and he had agreed thinking, simply, that he would do anything to make Ginny happy.
Well, he thought savagely, she sure as hell isn’t your girlfriend anymore. Fuck Ginny!
He smiled once more at the shop assistant and, biting his lip, began to say, “Er, um, donnez-moi… er… um… er… des cigarettes?” At the shop assistants raised eyebrow he hastily added, “S’il vous plait, Monsieur.”
The blonde man shook his head and lifted a random pack off the shelf. At Harry’s nod he handed them over and Harry hastily paid, after having much difficulty requesting a lighter as well, and left the small shop rapidly fumbling with the packet. He had just managed to rip the plastic wrapping off the box when his shoulder collided with a body and he stumbled forward, tripping over the person’s foot. A small yelp burst forth from his mouth and he reached out blindly, grabbing a handful of the clothing of the person he had just collided with. His fingers curled in the material and, for a second, he teetered as if he was about to fall, before his balance finally returned to him. Letting go of the clothes his fingers had grabbed to support him, still not looking up, Harry’s fingers deftly lifted a cigarette from his packet and he took it out.
Placing it between his lips, he mumbled, “Sorry, mate.”
Fumbling in his pocket for the lighter he had just purchased Harry began to walk off, head bowed, when behind him a soft voice said, almost imperceptibly, “Mate? Really, how common and, anyway, like we were ever ‘mates’.”
He knew that voice. Slowly, so as not to arouse Malfoy’s attention, he slid his hand into the waistband of his jeans and gripped his wand, drawing it out of the material. Once his hands were soundly clasped around the piece of wood he spun, swiftly, and watched Malfoy’s eyes widen in surprise. Harry smirked at him and, shifting his body so as to obscure his right side from passers-by, pointed his wand straight at Malfoy.
“Hello, Malfoy,” he said sneering at the Slytherin.
Malfoy swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing frantically, as his eyes flicked from side to side; searching for a means of escape, Harry supposed.
“Don’t even think of moving,” Harry said casually as if talking about the weather, “if you do, believe me I have no qualms about using any means necessary to ensure you cannot move. Understood?”
Malfoy sneered at him but still refused to settle the rather unnerving flickering of his grey eyes. “Please, Potter, in case you’ve forgotten I saw you duel against Sev ― um, Snape. You’re hardly up to my standard.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Please, Malfoy,” he said, imitating Malfoy’s drawl perfectly, “at the time I was overly emotional ― and I’ve been training since then. Believe me when I say I’ve improved.”
“Potter, if you could perform a decent Summoning spell it would be an improvement.”
“Ah,” Harry sneered, “but at least I can perform a Levitation charm, Malfoy.”
Malfoy flushed at the reminder of his failure to keep a goblet floating in the air during his OWLs. Although, in all honesty, it wasn’t much of a flush; his skin seemed to glow slightly but the embarrassing red tinge to his skin did not appear and Harry was momentarily jealous that Malfoy did not have to suffer through this particular affliction that he was doomed to bear. Harry cocked his head to one side and smirked at the pale boy standing across from him ― and then instantly regretted titling his head at all. His hair had grown at a rapid pace and now the tips brushed the tender skin half way down his neck and the length had done nothing for the unmanageability of his hair. Jet-black hair, the colour of a moonless midnight sky, still wound around his face in what Harry had deemed his unflattering curls although Hermione insisted they were gentle waves. Harry had no interest in such things however, what he did have a problem with was the way the slightest movement caused his hair to fall into his eyes.
Impatiently, Harry blew air out of the side of his mouth to shift the wavy, black strands out of his face only to have the wind blow the long strands back into his face. Malfoy sniggered at him, Harry glared, but this appeared to have no effect.
“Did anyone ever tell you that you desperately needed to visit the hairdresser’s, Potter?” Malfoy said, sniggering still.
Harry raised a hand and raked it through his hair, pushing the hair as far away from his face as he could get it without pulling it out. “Did anyone ever tell you that there’s an arrest warrant out on you?”
Malfoy nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. Brilliant isn’t it? I always used to wish, when I was a young boy, for an arrest warrant to be out on me. While all my friends had dreams of taking over the world, wooing some hot, young, rich pureblood witch or earning the world’s largest fortune, I sat in my bedroom telling my teddy bear how much I wished to grow to be seventeen, have an arrest warrant taken out on me and, as a result, be forced to sleep on mattresses that have more spring in them than a kangaroos hop.”
Harry felt his eyebrows rise up into his hairline and, biting his lower lip to suppress it at first, he let out a short burst of laughter. Malfoy raised an eyebrow and Harry quickly stifled his laughter. He wondered briefly whether to question Malfoy or make a sarcastic remark about his teddy bears. He decided to forego the latter.
“Malfoy,” he began his voice calm and perfectly even, coaxing he supposed, “What exactly are you doing here?”
“I thought I just told you.”
“No. You didn’t.”
“I did, Potter.” Malfoy flinched when Harry, on a whim, jabbed his wand forward, prodding Malfoy’s ribs. “If you weren’t so self-absorbed you may have picked up on the rather glaring hint that I was sleeping on mattresses that have more spring in them than kangaroos.”
Harry nodded. “And you may have picked up on the fact that, whereas I may be able to believe that on one level, it doesn’t answer my question. What are you doing here? Why the hell did you come here?”
“Oh for fuck’s sake Potter!” Malfoy spat. “I am not here to see you, I am not here to see any of your pathetic friends, I am not here to kill all the Muggles in this fucking town, and I am only here because I was forced to come here! I, frankly, don’t give a damn about you and your precious Order nor do I give a damn about why you are here, which I would consider highly suspicious as I sincerely doubt you’re one for French culture or cuisine. So, kindly, hand me over to the Aurors now or fuck off. Okay?”
“No, it’s not okay,” Harry snapped. “In case you’ve forgotten, you let bloody Death Eaters into the school! It is your fault that Bill’s disfigured for life and, as you just said, you don’t care ―”
“Mr. Potter, it would do you the world of good to lower your voice ― your less than dulcet tones are attracting unwanted attention.”
That voice. Harry knew that voice. It was a low voice, a sneering voice, which rarely talked above a whisper except to yell at Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws and indeed the world at large for being incompetent morons. It was a voice he had come to loathe easily ― one that flung insults his way whenever it could and one which had finally flung the Killing Curse at Albus Dumbledore. It was Snape.
“Are they now?” Harry murmured, almost disinterested. “Intriguing; couldn’t possibly have thought that a raised voice would cause unwanted attraction. Thanks ever so much for pointing that out.”
“You are welcome, Mr. Potter,” Snape drawled and Harry, listening intently, heard the soft sound of robes ruffling, which told him Snape was reaching for his wand. He turned slowly to stare his ex-professor in the eye. Snape, dark eyes glaring down at him, watched, noting that Harry only had a brief and limp grasp on his wand now.
Harry, forgetting himself, once more tilted his head to the side asking quietly, “Are you going to kill me too, Snape? I’m sure Voldemort would be pleased with you. His star Death Eater who murdered not only Albus Dumbledore but Harry Potter.”
“I assume he would be, Potter,” Snape said. “I, however, have no intention of killing you as of this moment nor do I have any intention of being the Dark Lord’s star Death Eater.”
Vivid green eyes swept over Snape’s face taking in everything about the man. His face, normally pale and sallow, had never looked as gaunt. Cheekbones jutted prominently out of his face, the sickly pale skin stretched over the sharp bones to a large extent. There were bags under dark eyes, which made his eyes only look even darker and bigger, the purple discolouration blending seamlessly with the dark black of his eyes. The older man looked ashen, ill and the sneer he aimed at Harry was decidedly wan. Looking at him, words Dumbledore had said to him floated into Harry’s mind; words in which Dumbledore had informed Harry that Snape was a good man. Written words, the last words Harry had received after Dumbledore’s death according to his will, which, even in death, proclaimed that Snape was a good man at heart. Harry snorted even thinking about it.
“Oh, really?” he asked. “Do go on.”
“With what, Potter?” Snape drawled and then his voice softened as he said to Malfoy, “Draco, come here. We’re going to go visit your aunt’s cottage.”
“We are not!” Malfoy sounded outraged, frightened and disturbingly annoyed.
Snape aimed his piercing glare at Malfoy now, taking his eyes off Harry for a brief second. Harry, seeing his advantage, stepped forward and wrapped his fingers around Snape’s wrist, digging his nails into the skin and using his other hand to forcibly take Snape’s wand from his grasp. He drew his arm up rapidly and aimed his own wand at the older man, joining it a second later with Snape’s own.
“Wouldn’t it be funny,” Harry said conversationally, “if you died by your own wand?”
Snape shrugged a malicious gleam in his dark eyes. “To the Dark Lord it would, I suppose.”
“Don’t think I’ll back down just because you compared me to dear old Tom,” Harry snarled. “I have no intention of ordering others to kill Muggles because, heck, I had a bit of a downer day today.”
Snape’s lips quirked upwards but the effect was not a genuine smile and, with his sickly complexion, he managed to look like the Bloody Baron. “Surprisingly enough Potter, that news is the best I’ve heard all week. It it releases a feeling close to elation.”
“Oh, I am glad,” Harry said sarcastically. “If there’s anything I can possibly do to make that feeling awfully close to elation return, pray tell. Maybe then I can actually do something,” he added in a bitter undertone. Looking up he noticed both Snape and Malfoy had raised their eyebrows and he fought the urge to shake his head at such blatant similar mannerisms. He didn’t really need anymore proof than that as to why he detested the two; they were too similar for him to do anything but hate them equally.
“Potter,” Snape said slowly, “I know you detest me and I know, in your mind, you have every right to. You, however, do not know all the facts, nor do I presume that I do. I do know more about the circumstances than you do, Potter, and I need you to understand them as they are: the facts, laid bare, if you will, for you to draw your own conclusions.”
“Why?” he asked suspiciously.
“Why what?” the older man asked, exasperated.
“Why do you need me to understand the facts, Snape, you dunderhead,” he grinned at Snape as he used Snape’s own personal catchphrase against him. Snape, apparently, did not miss the irony and smirked at him.
“Because, Potter ― and this is not easy for me to admit so don’t presume that this was my plan all along ― I need your help. More to the point, Draco needs your help.”
Malfoy, shock written across his pointed features, took the opportunity to finally add something to the conversation.
“I’m sorry, Severus, but I could have sworn you just said that I needed Potter’s help.”
Snape nodded. “I did.”
“You must be mistaken.”
“I am not.”
“You must be.”
“Draco,” there was a hint of warning in Snape’s voice now, “you did not misunderstand me; you need Potter’s help.”
“You must be mistaken!” Harry watched with a certain detached amusement at the anger on Malfoy’s face, which was quickly followed by a flash of his own anger towards the boy when disgust reared its face across Malfoy’s features.
“No, I must not be mistaken, Draco. Now kindly do not take a leaf out of Mr. Potter’s book and jump to conclusions before you know all the facts,” Snape snapped. “Now, can we go somewhere private? Potter keep my wand if you want. Call it an act of goodwill but if I wish it so you will find yourself Obliviated of the memory concerning our meeting and the subsequent conversation. That is,” Snape muttered, “if you agree to listen to me.”
“Why should I do that, Snape?” he demanded.
Snape rolled his eyes. “I remember Albus writing a letter, Potter. I do not know what was said within it but I know that he told me, should I be forced to participate in the Dark Lord’s activities after his death and you were not being cooperative, that I was to tell you to remember his last. Mad old bugger,” Snape finished his voice almost fond.
“Completely daft,” Harry murmured his agreement. “Manipulative, too.” Sighing, Harry extended Snape’s wand towards the older man. “Take it,” he ordered, “If you do one thing to make me regret it, the rather vigorous training I’ve been doing shall finally be put to bloody use and, Snape, I have also been trained regarding how to kill without magic, and if forced to I’ll use that knowledge. Are we clear?”
Snape regarded him for a long moment before nodding. “Yes.”
“Good,” Harry sighed, sinking his hands into his pockets, his fingers brushing against the packet of cigarettes he’d shoved into his jeans when he’d been reaching for his wand. “Let’s go then.”
~|~|~|~
Draco walked behind Snape, his eyes fixed on the man’s dark head, venom in his gaze. Potter was walking beside him, hands deep in pockets that were equally as baggy as the ones he’d seen him wearing that day by the fountain, also staring fixedly at Snape’s head. Both boys were ignoring each other to the best of their abilities and the tension in the air was so thick Draco suspected a Cutting Curse would be required to pierce it even the slightest bit. Suddenly, inexplicably, he felt the urge to reach over and yank Potter’s hair, pull his head back and… ‘And what, Draco?’ he asked himself. ‘What then? Say something witty and watch him burst into fits of giggles like Pansy? Hardly likely. This is Potter after all ― Potter who would not know a witty comment if it smacked him ‘round the head.’
He sighed and made a conscious effort not to stoop as he walked. It was something his father had drilled into him at a young age. Narcissa Malfoy had not minded terribly if her son stooped while he walked as long as he smiled, made polite conversation and behaved appropriately with and around guests. She had been obsessed with image, insisting that Draco was brought a new set of robes once a week to keep up appearances, but even she had not minded if occasionally he faltered. Lucius Malfoy, his beloved father, had not been as merciful. The first time Draco had stooped whilst out on a shopping trip to Diagon Alley with his father, Lucius had told him to stop it immediately. He had but faltered later on in the day, his shoulders slumping unconsciously. When they had returned home, Draco had been struck with his father’s cane or disobedience. It had only been once but the blow was hard, the metal dragon head on the tip of the cane dragging into Draco’s skin, splitting it open. There was still a faint scar on Draco’s collarbone from the incident. It hadn’t taken long for him to realise that his father was deadly serious about proper decorum and was of the opinion that stooping whilst walking was not proper decorum for a Malfoy. He had threatened and punished Draco until he adhered to his will; and adhere Draco had. That was why he was here in the first place.
“Malfoy?”
His head whipped up, blonde hair flying through the air and grazing against his cheekbones, and he stared at Potter who was gazing at him, green eyes clouded with something Draco couldn’t place.
“What?” he snapped.
“Are… are… I mean, er… er,” Potter blushed.
Draco sniggered. “Potter, only talk to me when you’ve got a grip on the basics of the marvellous language that is English outside of ‘er’; otherwise you’re wasting my time.”
Potter’s cheeks coloured to an even deeper red hue and Draco tried not to snigger ― and failed. He almost apologised for finding hilarity in the boy’s embarrassment but it took only the memory that this was Potter for that feeling to be quenched.
“Shut up, Malfoy,” Potter hissed. “In case you missed the memo, you apparently need my help.”
“I highly doubt that,” Draco snorted glaring at the boy. He realised how badly the current red in Potter’s cheeks contrasted with the deep, dark moss green of the T-shirt he wore and instantly decided that he could not be seen with anyone dressed so poorly; even Snape was dressed better. Sighing, he shrugged his jacket off his shoulders and began deftly unbuttoning the pale green silk shirt he wore. Glancing up he realised Potter was looking at him, green eyes wide and an amusingly shocked expression on his face. Draco smirked at him. “My, my, Potter,” he murmured, “I had no idea you were such a voyeur.”
Potter shook his head. “I have no idea what that means, Malfoy.”
“Why am I not surprised?” he drawled as he slipped the last button out of its proper place. He could almost feel Potter’s palpable relief that he wore a black T-shirt underneath. “A voyeur is basically someone who watches, Potter. If you want a further explanation go ask that bloody bookworm friend of yours.” Sliding the shirt off his back he shook it out and thrust it at Potter saying, “Here.”
Potter spluttered and gaped at him until Draco, rolling his eyes, said, “Look, I don’t care how you look personally. I do, however, care what more important people think about the company I keep. It just so happens that if anyone sees me associating with a skinny runt wearing a Merlin awful shirt and jeans big enough to swathe Hagrid several times over I am no longer regarded as respectable. I can’t do anything about the jeans ― I can do something about the shirt. Now bloody well put that on before I begin to regret my munificent generosity.”
“Doesn’t munificent mean generous?” Potter asked, taking the shirt from his hands. Draco’s jaw dropped and he rolled his eyes at the younger boy.
“Are you telling me you know what fucking munificent means but not voyeur?” Draco almost laughed. “Merlin, Potter, if I didn’t think you were all kinds of messed up before I certainly do now.”
He watched as Potter yanked the silk shirt up his arms and flinched. Potter looked down at the buttons and, shrugging, obviously decided to leave them open, the pale green material flapping wistfully around the moss green T-shirt underneath. Potter glanced up at him and said, “Well, that’s good to know.”
“’Tis isn’t it?” Draco nodded. “Now, Potter, you just pulled a fine, expensive silk shirt on like it was a burlap sack. Kindly refrain in future.”
Potter stared at him in surprise. “Malfoy are you trying to say that you expect me to be wearing your clothes in the future?”
Draco could have sworn that in front of them Severus snorted and apparently Potter heard it too as they exchanged a brief, mystified glance before Draco answered. “No, of course not. I am simply stating that, in the case of dire emergency in which you will likely die unless you manage to get your hands on some decent clothing in future, treat my finery as if it were the Tiara Jewels those Muggles have.”
“Crown,” Potter corrected.
“Excuse me?” Draco asked blinking.
“You said Tiara Jewels ― it’s the Crown Jewels.”
Draco shrugged, uncaring. “Whatever. Tomato, to-may-to situation.”
“Hardly,” Potter said snorting. “To the best of my knowledge there is no such thing as the Tiara Jewels.”
“Well,” Draco mused, “seeing as your knowledge doesn’t even extend to the ingredients of a basic love potion I wouldn’t put too much stock in it if I were you.”
“That’s because love potions are illegal, Malfoy, in any shape or form ― even basic!” Potter countered hotly.
“Ah,” Draco said his voice deliberately low. “But then again, Potter, so is the Sectumsempra curse.”
Draco noted happily that Potter did not say anything further until they reached the motel he and Severus were staying at. Draco, eyes wide, glanced at Severus out of the corner of his eye and the man simply stared back, his face impassive. Draco resisted the urge to fidget.
"Severus," he began but was quickly cut off.
"Draco, we both need to discuss matters with Potter. We can not possibly do that adequately if we converse in a Muggle bar or in the middle of the street where anyone can hear our discussion."
"Well," Draco huffed, crossing his arms across his chest, "if you had only not insisted in staying in this godforsaken Muggle town that wouldn't be the case would it?"
"If I hadn't insisted in staying in this godforsaken Muggle town, Draco, it is highly likely that both of us would be dead by now," Severus pointed out as he ushered both Harry and Draco quickly into the dingy motel room Severus and Draco shared.
"Oh."
Draco said nothing more, choosing instead to watch Potter as he entered the room. His eyes, which still looked an unnaturally bright green, did not widen in surprise but rather began looking around the room quickly, eyes sliding from one item to another. He made no comment, just standing in the doorway taking in the scene before him as if entranced. Draco had to admit he was confused; he had been living in this motel room for just over a week and found nothing entrancing about it at all. It was smaller than his bathroom at Malfoy Manor; the windows were set high up in the wall and difficult to reach so the air in the room was musty and carried the smell of smoke, sweat and sex through the air. As Severus and Draco both required utmost privacy, the blinds were lowered and very little light managed to creep into the small room. One large bed lay in the middle of the room and, like Draco had told Potter, the mattress resting on the bed truly had more springs than a kangaroos step. Hard, sharp springs that prodded into his back and kept him awake so many nights that he had taken to sleeping on the floor or on the lumpy armchair shoved over to one side of the room. It was almost as uncomfortable as the bed but at least he did not wake up with a backache so distracting he would be forced to walk like a hunchback for two days. He had asked Severus why he refused to conjure a new bed and had received a curt answer, this was a secluded Muggle town and no magic would be expected to occur there. If it did the Ministry would no doubt attempt to discover where it had come from, which would mean trouble for Severus and Draco. So the room had stayed as it was: small, smelly and uncomfortable.
Draco wondered briefly if this was what his room in Hell would be like.
"Potter, sit down and stop gawking," Severus ordered, his curt tones breaking into Draco's wandering mind. Potter shuffled his feet for a second and made to sit on the armchair. Seeing his favourite place in the room about to be taken (not that there was much choice in the matter) Draco strided briskly over to the chair and gracefully sat on it, aiming a glare at Potter that he had perfected after years of watching his father and Severus. He did not know why, but he found himself excitedly waiting for Potter to begin an argument; when the other boy simply shrugged and sat on the bed he felt a wave of disappointment rise up inside him.
'Honestly, Draco,' he thought, 'looking forward to arguing with Potter? You really must be starved of human contact.'
Watching Potter squirm uncomfortably on the bed, a long list of insults automatically scrolled through Draco's head, their topics ranging from insulting Potter's atrocious glasses, to his friends, to his fame, to his family and back to his fashion sense. It was almost too easy, Draco concluded. Almost.
He opened his mouth to say something but Severus beat him to it:
"Potter, I trust you read the letter from Albus then?"
Potter nodded.
"Did you agree with what it said?"
Potter tipped his head back slightly, almost as if he had discovered something interesting in the ceiling. After a moment he shrugged.
"Is that a yes or a no?"
Potter shrugged again and Draco's eyes slid over to Severus. His cheeks had taken on a slightly yellow tinge, his black eyes were glittering and the skin on his face appeared to be stretched tautly across his bone, even more so than usual. Draco recognised the look and smirked. Really, if Potter was going to be so idiotic to think he would get away with not answering Severus he deserved whatever the older man could throw at him. Draco felt a bubble of anticipation rise up in him, but then Potter had to spoil it all by answering Severus.
"It's an I don't know, Snape," his soft voice murmured. "I don't know what to make of the contents of the letter. It was truthful, that I know, or truthful from his point of view at least. I had Hermione perform charms on the parchment to detect spell work and only one came up - a spell which forces the writer to only write the truth onto the parchment. So I had to conclude that everything in it must be the truth. There was some information contained that was obviously truthful, it was informative and I suppose you could say it helped me. However, there was also information in the letter that was... well, it was about you. And I don't like you so I choose to believe it was Dumbledore's truth, not the all-inclusive truth."
Severus sighed. "Potter, for a moment there you almost sounded intelligent."
Potter raised an eyebrow. "Pardon? What do you mean almost?"
"Exactly what I said; almost," Severus snapped. "Tell me, how long did you know Albus Dumbledore? Six years?"
"Yes." Draco noted that Potter sounded confused; Draco could not blame him. He was too, but he would not admit it. He strongly suspected that he was about to hear something he had not expected to hear and that Severus had refused to tell him before.
"Well, Potter, seeing as I have a little confidence that you are not a complete idiotic moron such as your good friend Longbottom I suppose you noticed how Albus did not once beg for anything?"
A gleam of recognition appeared in Potter's green eyes and Draco felt comprehension begin to dawn on him as well. For a moment he wondered how Potter knew Dumbledore had begged Severus and decided that he would need to inquire afterwards.
"I said," Snape repeated. "I suppose you noticed how Albus did not once beg for anything?"
"Of course I noticed!" Potter snapped, his eyes shining with fury. "Of course I bloody well noticed but I think that that fact may change when you're ill, shaking, poisoned and most likely dying and you are suddenly confronted with someone you trusted pointing a fucking wand at your face!"
Severus shook his head once more and sighed. "Potter, Albus had great strength of will. He refused to beg when Grindelwald had him at his mercy, and believe me when I say that was not a wanted position at all, such as your being at the Dark Lord's mercy is no doubt unwanted and painful. Albus did not beg when the Dark Lord threatened him, or when he killed most of his family in front of his eyes for revenge. He did not beg when the Dark Lord told him he could return his family, could return Lily and James Potter at a price and, even though you know nothing of it, again believe me when I say it was a position in which begging may have been quite useful. Again, Potter(,) he did not beg whenever doctors told him, six months prior to his death, that he would not live a year and there was nothing they could do. He did not beg for them to try and help him just as he did not beg me to not kill him. He asked me to remember a promise I had made and I fulfilled that promise by killing my mentor."
For a second no one spoke. Sometime during his speech Severus had made his way to sit on the bed and had rested his head in his hands in an uncharacteristic display of weakness. Draco, eyes wide with shock, glanced up to gaze worriedly at him. When his eyes shifted from Severus they landed on Potter. Potter whose eyes were wider than he had ever thought eyes could be, whose eyes were shining with unshed tears and blazing with a range of emotions that awed Draco to watch. Anger, disbelief, shock, understanding, acceptance, anger and curiosity all passed across that face before Potter next spoke.
"What promise, Snape?" His voice was low, controlled and Draco suspected there was deliberately no judgement in the tone.
"A promise I made during the summer leading up to your sixth year." Severus raised his head from his hands to look at both Draco and Potter. "A promise that came about after Draco's mother arrived at my house on Spinner's End."
When Severus did not continue and instead stayed silence, Draco was the first one to give in to curiosity.
"My mother was at your house over the summer?" Draco asked softly.
"Yes," Severus nodded.
"She never told me."
Severus smiled ruefully. "I did not think she would. She came to me to request I enter into an Unbreakable Vow with her. Bellatrix was there also, awful beast of a woman. Of course, she's completely insane but not altogether unperceptive. She had doubts about my loyalty to the Dark Lord and berated Narcissa constantly for her decision to talk with me. When I agreed to participate in the Unbreakable Vow she nearly died of shock."
"Good," Potter said sharply and his voice was so laced with hate that Draco's head snapped around so he could look at him. Ice grey eyes bored into green ones for several moments before Draco remembered that he wanted to ask Severus something.
"What Unbreakable Vow?" he questioned. "What was it about?"
Severus sighed. "It was about you actually, Draco. Your mother had heard of what the Dark Lord wished for you to do and was not happy. She told me she wished that you had not agreed and Bellatrix told her to stop being dramatic; she said that if she had a son she would willingly sacrifice him for the Dark Lord's cause."
"Yes, well, dear Aunt Bellatrix was never the most empathetic person on the planet," Draco drawled.
"Draco, you must understand how much your mother was worried about you. Narcissa insisted that she could not allow you to go through... the mission on your own and begged me to watch over you, to guide you, if you will. She was hysterical, begging and crying and Bellatrix, as usual, sneered and made derogatory remarks. She was no help and I think Narcissa knew that her sister would not help you out at all. She asked me to agree to look over you at school, to try and help you and, finally, if it looked like you were going to fail I must complete your mission for you. She said, afterwards, that she would not have been able to bear it if you failed and then died because Albus was still alive."
"Mother can be overly emotional," Draco murmured, not really meaning the words but saying them anyway as an offhand apology. "Was... was she adamant that you agree?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
"This is all well and good," Potter said, "and rather... interesting I'll admit. But, Snape, this has nothing to do with what I asked you. What promise did you make to Dumbledore? I asked you nothing of a promise between yourself and Narcissa Malfoy."
"I know, Potter, but I needed Draco to know of the Vow, and you too. If you had listened you would've realised that I was magically bound to kill Albus if Draco could not." Severus stood and walked over to one of the windows, pulling the blinds up slightly to look out.
“I was bloody listening, Snape, but that hardly explains a promise with Dumbledore now, does it?” Potter said sarcastically, eyes blazing.
Draco watched as Severus’ fist clenched and silently begged Potter not to say anything to anger him further; after all this time spent living with the man he knew it was not pleasant when Severus became angry while ill and tired even if he would not admit to either condition. Potter, it seemed, either could not see Severus’ clenched fists or he chose to ignore this angry gesture when he opened his mouth.
“Listen, Snape, I don’t particularly trust you here and you are giving me no reasons to!” Potter spat. “All you’ve done is prove to me how loyal you are towards the Malfoy family!”
Severus whirled ‘round, black hair fanning out around his face and his dark eyes blazing angrily at Potter. “Shut your mouth, Potter. You know nothing of many matters, which you should be clued up on. Dumbledore himself admitted to mollycoddling you and not wishing to expose you to the evil of everyday people in the world! Believe me, now that Albus Dumbledore is gone there will certainly be no holding back from me! You shall hear what I want you to hear and you shall learn things you should’ve known all along. And one of the first things you should’ve known all along is what really happened the day you and Albus went off to hunt for the Horcruxes.” Potter gasped and Severus sneered. “Oh, don’t look so shocked Potter, of course Albus told me about the Horcruxes. I was the one who had to attempt to heal his blasted hand after all ― he wholeheartedly refused to visit more experienced healers at St. Mungo’s.”
“He … he refused?” Potter’s voice was shaking.
“Of course, Potter, don’t be naïve. I’m sure you know that Albus even looked forward to death, saying he could not wait for his next grand adventure,” Severus said sarcastically. “Foolish old man at times, but not always. You see he knew about the Vow Narcissa begged me to take part in ― I myself informed him of this fact. I also informed him as to what exactly the task entailed that the Dark Lord had set for Draco.”
Draco’s mouth fell open as he looked at the man standing in front of him. He had never even considered for one moment that the man had not been completely loyal to the Dark Lord ― there had been no reason to, especially after he killed Dumbledore. What he had questioned was why, if Severus had completed a task the Dark Lord wanted completed so fiercely, they were forced to hide out in seedy motels across Europe.
He couldn’t believe what he was being told; to even consider the idea would be preposterous. There was no way Dumbledore had known what his task had been. He had not fully believed that the man was completely unintelligent but, surely, if someone was aware there was a plan operating ― under their nose ― to ensure their imminent death they would go out of their way to stop it. And Dumbledore had not, for Draco would have known. Draco would have felt resistance surely ― the Room of Requirement would have stopped working, he would have been watched more closely, and he would not have been able to disappear from Quidditch or classes whenever he pleased. He should not have been able to do such things if Dumbledore had known he was going to die. He should have been doing something, for Merlin’s sake! He should’ve kicked Draco out of the castle, handed him over to the Ministry and dusted his hands completely of the Malfoy family. Draco knew without a doubt that that was exactly what he would have done, like he knew that Albus fucking Dumbledore should have done every single one of these things. Then the leader of the Light side would still be alive and Draco… Draco would be dead. But at least he would not have had to live with the guilt that ate at every moment he was awake.
“Severus are you joking?” he asked suddenly, voice curt. Severus and Potter both turned to stare at him, black and green eyes blinking in surprise.
“No, Draco, I am not,” Severus said softly.
“So he knew? He knew what my… my mission was and,” Draco heard his own voice catch slightly but did not pay much attention to it, “he let me do it?”
Draco’s gaze had shifted to his hands and he was now studying his fingernails intently, glaring at the cuticles fiercely as he blinked back tears he desperately did not want to fall. Potter had witnessed too many of his most humiliating moments before; there was no need to add another to the no doubt lengthy list. He saw shiny black shoes come into his eye line and felt Severus place a hand on his shoulder, but he still refused to look up, instead choosing to use the fingernail of his right thumb to push back the cuticles on his left thumb. Severus squeezed his shoulder reassuringly and Draco glanced briefly up, scowling at him before returning his attention back to his fingers.
“Yes, Draco,” Severus murmured, his voice close to Draco’s ear; “I suppose that would be a fairly accurate conclusion.”
Draco sunk his teeth into his lower lip and gnawed on the tender flesh for a moment before vehemently declaring, “Dumbledore was a crazy bastard who should have had me thrown in Azkaban.”
“Yes, I reckon he should’ve had,” a quiet voice said from the middle of the room. Draco’s head shot up, strands of white-blonde hair unfurling from behind his ears and falling in front of his face. He stared at where Potter was seated and expected to see the other boy glaring hatefully at him, green eyes sparkling with anger and words laced with disdain. None of this seemed to be the case, however. The words had been a simple statement, filled with no particular emotion, the eyes were inquisitive and Potter’s face was blank as he watched Draco intently. “But then again,” Potter continued, “I don’t reckon you’d have survived long in Azkaban.”
“And you would care why exactly?” Draco’s tone was similar to Potter’s: blank, non judgemental and receptive.
Potter tilted his head to one side once more, surveying Draco from behind old glasses that Draco recognised as the same ones Potter had been wearing the first time he met him, vivid green eyes bright. “I’m not sure why exactly,” Potter said, “but I think it may have something to do with the fact that, annoying, petulant bastard that you are, you still lowered your wand that night.”
Draco started. “Huh?” he gasped, eloquence forgotten.
Potter smirked. “You heard me, Malfoy. I saw you lower your wand that night. You wouldn’t have killed him would you?” he finished, his voice low, soft and sounding to Draco slightly as if he had just reached this realisation himself recently.
Draco’s eyes swept over Potter once more, taking in everything about his expression and body language, searching for some hint that Potter was playing him, was urging him to confess that that had been the case only to turn his small advantage to his own use, as many of his Slytherin friends would have. He did not find any such signs and had to remind himself that Potter was in no way akin to Blaise or Pansy.
“No,” Draco admitted, his eyes skittering away once more from both Severus and Potter and instead coming to rest on the blinds of the window closest to him. “No, I don’t suppose I would have.”
Potter did not speak, but Severus did.
“I suppose then that is a good thing I entered into an Unbreakable Vow with Albus also,” Severus sighed. “You see, Potter, there are many reasons surrounding why I killed Albus that night and I suppose you could say that the most important reason was because both Albus and I were convinced that Draco would not be able to kill the Headmaster. Draco, I do not wish for you to take this as an affront to your abilities whatsoever as it is not ― Albus especially was convinced that, at heart, you were simply to(too) good a person to kill someone because another did not like them. He said he did not believe you would spill his blood and that he did not wish for you to even reach the point where you were in a position to do so. However, he told me that he did not underestimate you and thought that, if you should have the chance, it would be a smart idea to insinuate myself into the situation and swing it so that I would be required to kill him.”
Severus stopped and glanced over at Potter. Draco, whose eyes had settled once more on Severus, followed dark eyes to where Potter sat, cross legged, on the mattress, his fists gripping the threadbare blanket, knuckles white. Potter glanced up and green eyes clashed with grey as they both regarded each other for a moment before Severus continued with his speech.
“Albus requested that I enter into a Vow with him, stating that should the chance come for either Draco or myself to kill him, I was to immediately take the chance. I assented with his request and questioned him about it afterwards. I was told that Albus did not wish to be killed by Voldemort or any of his other followers and, should the time come when this would inevitable, he would much prefer that I kill him for then he could go peacefully to his ‘next great adventure’,” Severus said bitterly. “He said he would write a letter that would be delivered by Fawkes to you should I or Draco be the ones to kill him. He implored me to find you after the deed was done.”
“That’s why you demanded we stay here wasn’t it?” Draco asked. “I said that we should leave, I told you that I had seen Potter and you still insisted that we would be safe here.”
“And we are,” Severus murmured.
Draco snorted and just barely restrained himself from responding crudely to Severus’ statement. It seemed Potter had no qualms whatsoever about talking crudely to Severus.
“Bullshit,” Potter stated, staring straight at Severus and Draco. Draco shifted uncomfortably in his seat under the weight of that green gaze. “If you knew I would be here then you no doubt are also aware of the fact that right now, not far from here, there is a rather large group of Order members training for this war. I reckon you also know that every single one of them would turn both of you over right away.”
“Ah,” Severus said, “but you did not, Potter. You did not inform anyone that you had seen Draco and, when you leave here, I doubt that you will tell anyone of our conversation, will you?”
Potter blinked at him and Draco wondered absentmindedly how it was possible for a male to have such long eyelashes. “How did you know I hadn’t told anyone about seeing Malfoy?”
“It seems that you underestimate how much I know your psyche, Potter.”
“It does rather, doesn’t it?” Potter sighed and dropped his head into his hands. When he next spoke the sound was muffled as a result of his hands being placed so closely to his mouth. “Snape, how exactly can I trust you?”
Severus placed one hand on the back of the armchair Draco sat on and leaned heavily against it. “Have I not given you enough information yet, Potter?” Draco did not miss how much sorrow seemed to be laced into Severus’ words and Potter appeared to have heard it also as he raised his head and looked right into Severus’ eyes.
“Set up a Pensieve.” Potter did not once glance away from Severus. “If you want me to believe you set up a Pensieve.”
Severus swallowed and stared straight back at Potter. “Why?”
Potter smiled, almost sadly, and said, “I cannot perform Legilimency but I can tell when a memory has been tampered with, Snape. If you want me to believe you I want to see the necessary memories, collected, in a Pensieve. Then I can view them and draw my own conclusions and, if they show what you told me and don’t appear to have been doctored, I can believe you.”
“What if they don’t?” Severus questioned.
Potter shrugged and uncurled his legs from under him, standing tall in the small room, glancing at both Draco and Severus as he walked towards the door, hand already on the door knob when he murmured, “Then, basically, you’re buggered.”
The door was opened quietly and Potter slipped through, shutting the door as quietly as it had been opened. Silence reigned in the room for quite some time, neither occupant wishing to say anything regarding what had just happened. Draco lifted a book from the pile he had purchased at the local bookstore days previously and, in an effort to stave off thoughts and memories he did not wish to dwell on, he immersed himself in the tale of Mrs Bennett’s quest to marry off her daughters.
It was only much later as he settled down for sleep that Draco finally realised that Potter had buggered off with his shirt.
Next Chapter
Author: Ebonie Rose/ aletes_muse
Rating: eventual NC-17
Pairings: As of yet only Harry/ Draco and Ron/ Hermione.
Warnings: Language, violence, slash, violent situations, sexual situations, oh and this story is a WiP. I’ll try to update it at least once every one/ two weeks but I’m not promising anything. Also, as with most of my fics, there’s a few lines/ paragraphs inspired by bouts of madness. I blame insomnia and an addiction to Cool FM.
Summary: Harry Potter is forced to bear the burden of being not only the Saviour of the Wizarding World, but the leader of the Light also. He must now make the right choices, the right moves, and think with his head instead of his heart. But Harry’s heart is calling him louder than before; telling him who to trust, who to be wary of ― who to love. This is a story of war and the light which can be found even in the blackest night.
Author's Notes: So, originally, I was going to wait a few weeks between chapters but I want to try and get as much of this story as I can out before DH is released, so it's going to be posted as is beta'd. Thank you to lunadragon for the marvellous beta, for pointing out things I never would have noticed, and for making comments that made me laugh. Thanks also to ravenqueen55 for her suggestions, encouragement, and e-mails which always make me smile. As always, concrit is welcomed and I hope you enjoy!
Previous Chapters: Chapter One
Chapter Two
The Unbreakable Vow
Hermione was standing by his bed, looking down at him with brown eyes filled with pity. He couldn’t stand pity; he hated pity. Pity was for the weak, for the people who buckled under pressure, for people who would have died long before they reached fourteen if they were forced to live his life. Pity was not for the likes of Harry Potter.
“Hermione,” he began slowly, preparing to launch into a scathing tirade about how she should really save her pity and concern for someone who would appreciate it. He didn’t get the chance to. Hermione leaned forward, a gentle smile ghosting across her face, and pressed a finger to his lips as she shook her head.
“Sh, Harry,” she said, smiling still. “Please don’t speak. I want to talk to you.”
He looked at her strangely for a moment. Hermione never asked Harry or Ron to be quiet and listen when she talked, she simply took it for granted they would. Finally he nodded and she smiled once more.
“Good.” She withdrew her finger from where she had set it on his mouth and settled back onto his bed, pulling her dressing gown tighter around her body against the night chill. “I wanted to talk to you about… about Dumbledore and Sirius and Cedric.”
“Hermione ―”
“Shut up, Harry,” she snapped. “I asked you not to speak. Let let me have my say, ‘kay?” She did not wait for his answer and just plunged forth. “I just thought we should talk about and get it off your chest. It’s not good to let emotions fester, really. We should talk more, Harry.”
She looked at him expectantly so Harry nodded his agreement although he felt it was rather a ridiculous thing to say: ‘We should talk more’. What did she think they were currently doing?
Waking tired people up from their much needed sleep, he grumbled to himself before returning his attention to the brown haired girl in front of him. She was watching him intently, her brown eyes drinking in everything about him and he felt decidedly uncomfortable. He shifted restlessly and the wafer thin sheet on his bed shifted with him. Hermione glared at him.
“Oh, honestly, Harry sit still will you!” she snapped, furious for reasons Harry couldn’t even begin to understand. “I’m trying to tell you how I feel about these matters so it can benefit you, for pity’s sake! It would do you well to listen and stop being so bloody selfish!”
Harry was too busy gaping at her to even begin to formulate a reply.
“The wind will change and you’ll get stuck that way, Harry,” Hermione said viciously. “So close your damn mouth! There, that’s better isn’t it?” Her voice had begun deceptively sweet, low, calm… caring. “Now, as I was saying about Dumbledore and Sirius and Cedric. Well “ ― here she leaned closer to Harry so now her lips were mere centimetres from Harry’s and, for one panicked moment, he thought she was going to kiss him ― "I think it was your fault. Stop looking so shocked, Harry, they are your fault. Everyone knows it; it’s just no one dares to say it. Well, I’m daring to say it Harry. I want nothing more to do with you. You use people and manipulate them so you can lead them to their deaths later. I’m tired of it, Harry. I’ve spent years following you into perilous situations because it was your current whim and I am just so… tired of it all. So don’t talk to me, Harry because it’s all your fault! All your fault, Harry. Can you imagine how much pain you’ve caused others because of your selfish actions? People are hurting because of you, Harry. People are hurting because you are a manipulative, malevolent, vicious human being. You don’t deserve to breathe the same air as decent people, Harry. You deserve to have been the one Snape murdered that night, Harry. It should have been you. Everyone would be so much happier then.
“And everyone would know then who you really are, Harry.”
His voice somehow returned to him, although it sounded hoarse and raw even to his own ears. “And who am I really, Hermione?”
A vicious gleam in her eyes, she leaned even closer then, a feral smile on her lips. She leaned so close, Harry felt her lips brush his before she murmured; “You’re a murderer, Harry.”
Harry awoke screaming.
~|~|~|~
“Are you alright, Harry?”
“Er... yeah, fine.”
“Harry, seriously, we’re your best friends you can tell us.”
“I’m fine, Hermione.”
“So you call screaming down a bunkhouse ‘fine’, Harry?”
“Yes, Ron, I do.”
“Harry, you are not fine. You’re suffering from depression, survivor’s guilt and your nightmares are increasing in regularity. Don’t think I didn’t notice all the Dreamless Sleep potion you’ve been taking over the summer. We’re worried about you, Harry. We’re your best friends and you have to understand you can talk to us anytime you want to.”
“I’m fine, Hermione.”
“Can you say anything other than you’re fine, please, Harry? We know you’re not! Why won’t you trust us?”
“I’M FINE!”
“… Well that went well didn’t it?”
“Shut up, Ronald.”
“Well, I did say if you pushed him he’d just disappear again.”
“Shut up, Ronald.”
“Well alright, you only had to ask……Hermione?”
“Yes, Ronald?”
“Will you pass the butter?”
~|~|~|~
The stark sunlight was playing havoc with his raging headache, and he could feel the all too familiar uncomfortable throbbing behind his eyes and in his temple beginning to form. Squinting ahead in the face of the bright sunligh, he rubbed furiously at his temples, trying to chase the headache away but not succeeding as he knew he wouldn’t. After a moment he stopped massaging his forehead and, sinking his hands into his jeans pockets, once more began to walk toward the small French town he had first found five days before.
He sighed as the memory of seeing Malfoy suddenly appeared on the fringes of his mind. He was sure it had been him; that hair and pale, pointed face were impossible to miss. He didn’t know what he had planned to do but he’d planned to do something: hex Malfoy and hand him over to Aurors, kill him, bring him back to the training ground, demand answers, something, anything. He’d meant to do something ― and he had. Still, he had not expected to find himself chasing Malfoy’s back down dark, twisting alleyways that had no pattern to them and ran seamlessly into one another. Since then he had avoided the town, he wasn’t sure why. He supposed it was because he didn’t want to run into Malfoy again. The more perplexing issue, however, was why he had not mentioned Malfoy’s appearance to anyone ― not even Ron or Hermione.
No, he didn’t want to return to the town but neither could he stay in the training grounds. He was tired, sore and angry. He had been led to believe they would be doing actual training for war here; magical war. As of yet however they had not been trained, not in the way they had been informed they would. There had been many instances when the whole camp was rounded up and forced to participate in physical activities, many of which involved running more than ten miles at a time. The first time Harry had attempted it he had been sure that Kingsley would kill him before Voldemort even got the chance. It had taken more out of him than he thought it would and this had resulted in Harry forcing himself to go for long runs whenever he got the chance. He had eaten little, slept less and run more than he talked, all of which resulted that, in the past five days, he had lost close to four pounds. He could not bear to put himself through another day of training. He was top of the class, so to speak. Now, thanks to his private endeavours, he could outrun close to every single person in the camp and, if not outrun them, he could outlast them at least. He was exhausted, annoyed and tired. They could spare him a few hours of peace. They they needed their main weapon to be healthy, happy and self-sacrificial after all.
He snorted at his inner monologue ― weapon, he though, how had he not realised it before? ― and, taking his hands out of his pockets, began to run although this time it was purely for fun. He had not realised how freeing running could be; the wind running through his hair, that familiar tight, burning feeling in his chest, the muscles in his legs screaming out in protest as he pushed himself and pushed himself until he couldn’t possibly go any further, the warm French summer sun beating down on the back of his too small, regulation deep green T-shirt. It hadn’t taken long for him to realise he loved the freedom of running by himself, instead of against others. He loved his freedom. It was only too bad he did not truly have his freedom.
He was barely sweating and his leg muscles were still fine when he arrived in the small town once more. He didn’t pay attention to those surrounding him; like the first time he had been here he could not understand much of what they said. Instead he made for the first place he recognised ― a small building that looked remotely seedy, with painted bottle green walls and a rack holding newspapers from the region placed outside. His eyes flicked up to read the sign as he came closer and with a feeling of smugness he recognised a phrase from Dudley’s French vocabulary books: coin magasin. Corner store, he thought gladly, or shop. Whatever, it still meant he’d found a newsagents.
Grinning, he slowed down and entered the small shop, and was quickly assaulted by the smell of stale smoke, burning incense, and the distinctive smell of newly opened glossy magazines. A tall man stood behind the counter, leaning lazily against the glass length of it, his bright blue eyes watching Harry suspiciously as he entered and the man's shoulder length, lank blonde hair falling into his face. Harry thought briefly that the man looked as pointed as Malfoy and had as large a nose as Snape. He wondered, with a brief shudder, whether Narcissa and Snape had had an affair and this ugly creature was the result. He felt a rush of sympathy for the bloke.
Giving the man a tentative smile his eyes wandered over the slim pickings available in the store: a handful of chocolate bars and crisps; a few ready made sandwiches that looked out of date; a few magazines and newspapers Harry didn’t recognise; plastic children’s toys and, as seemed to be custom in all newsagents, behind the counter was a large display of cigarette brands. There was a small turnoff in one aisle and Harry saw a collection of old movies, mostly black and white or starring ‘B’-list actors, and a fridge holding a staggering amount of alcoholic beverages. Rolling his eyes, he lifted a few packets of crisps, several chocolate bars, pulled a Coke can out of the fridge from beside a rather hefty bottle of champagne and wandered up to the counter. He set them down in front of the man who was still glaring fiercely at him, as if he suspected Harry would suddenly pull out a gun and blow his brains out. Harry suppressed the urge to chuckle at the thought of what the man would do if he pulled out his wand and shouted, “BANG!” Probably shit himself, he concluded, smiling genuinely at the man.
“Autre chose?” he asked, swiping Harry’s purchases through the till. For a second Harry stared at him, oblivious, with no idea what he was saying until he remembered: they were in France. These people spoke French, not English and certainly not gibberish as Harry had suspected he was doing. He wracked his brains, desperate to remember what the phrase meant and the image of his primary six teacher asking him if he wanted ‘autre chose pour dejeuner’ came floating into his head. Heaving a sigh of relief he beamed at the shop assistant, which caused him to back slightly away from him.
“Er,” Harry said, “n… um…”
His eyes fell on the cigarette display behind the counter. He had smoked before; Dudley had practically forced a cigarette into his mouth during the summer after fifth year, stating that if Harry was going to sit around and mope like a girl’s blouse he could at least look remotely ‘cool’ whilst doing so. Harry had scowled, as he had deemed it the proper response, but had accepted the cigarette anyway figuring that anything which provided a distraction from thoughts of Sirius was fine with him. He had started smoking and had quickly become if not addicted to it, at least partial. He couldn’t remember actually wanting to smoke; it was simply that the repetitive, rather soothing action allowed him time to let his thoughts drift to mundane topics and provided him with something to do when activities were not forthcoming. On returning to Hogwarts he had quickly found that it was quite easy to manoeuvre his way onto Gryffindor Tower’s roof from his dormitory window and was equally easy to find time alone to spend down by the lake a few times a day. Ginny had discovered his habit two days after they had begun dating after she demanded to know why he always tasted of smoke. She had instantly demanded that he stop smoking at once and he had agreed thinking, simply, that he would do anything to make Ginny happy.
Well, he thought savagely, she sure as hell isn’t your girlfriend anymore. Fuck Ginny!
He smiled once more at the shop assistant and, biting his lip, began to say, “Er, um, donnez-moi… er… um… er… des cigarettes?” At the shop assistants raised eyebrow he hastily added, “S’il vous plait, Monsieur.”
The blonde man shook his head and lifted a random pack off the shelf. At Harry’s nod he handed them over and Harry hastily paid, after having much difficulty requesting a lighter as well, and left the small shop rapidly fumbling with the packet. He had just managed to rip the plastic wrapping off the box when his shoulder collided with a body and he stumbled forward, tripping over the person’s foot. A small yelp burst forth from his mouth and he reached out blindly, grabbing a handful of the clothing of the person he had just collided with. His fingers curled in the material and, for a second, he teetered as if he was about to fall, before his balance finally returned to him. Letting go of the clothes his fingers had grabbed to support him, still not looking up, Harry’s fingers deftly lifted a cigarette from his packet and he took it out.
Placing it between his lips, he mumbled, “Sorry, mate.”
Fumbling in his pocket for the lighter he had just purchased Harry began to walk off, head bowed, when behind him a soft voice said, almost imperceptibly, “Mate? Really, how common and, anyway, like we were ever ‘mates’.”
He knew that voice. Slowly, so as not to arouse Malfoy’s attention, he slid his hand into the waistband of his jeans and gripped his wand, drawing it out of the material. Once his hands were soundly clasped around the piece of wood he spun, swiftly, and watched Malfoy’s eyes widen in surprise. Harry smirked at him and, shifting his body so as to obscure his right side from passers-by, pointed his wand straight at Malfoy.
“Hello, Malfoy,” he said sneering at the Slytherin.
Malfoy swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing frantically, as his eyes flicked from side to side; searching for a means of escape, Harry supposed.
“Don’t even think of moving,” Harry said casually as if talking about the weather, “if you do, believe me I have no qualms about using any means necessary to ensure you cannot move. Understood?”
Malfoy sneered at him but still refused to settle the rather unnerving flickering of his grey eyes. “Please, Potter, in case you’ve forgotten I saw you duel against Sev ― um, Snape. You’re hardly up to my standard.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Please, Malfoy,” he said, imitating Malfoy’s drawl perfectly, “at the time I was overly emotional ― and I’ve been training since then. Believe me when I say I’ve improved.”
“Potter, if you could perform a decent Summoning spell it would be an improvement.”
“Ah,” Harry sneered, “but at least I can perform a Levitation charm, Malfoy.”
Malfoy flushed at the reminder of his failure to keep a goblet floating in the air during his OWLs. Although, in all honesty, it wasn’t much of a flush; his skin seemed to glow slightly but the embarrassing red tinge to his skin did not appear and Harry was momentarily jealous that Malfoy did not have to suffer through this particular affliction that he was doomed to bear. Harry cocked his head to one side and smirked at the pale boy standing across from him ― and then instantly regretted titling his head at all. His hair had grown at a rapid pace and now the tips brushed the tender skin half way down his neck and the length had done nothing for the unmanageability of his hair. Jet-black hair, the colour of a moonless midnight sky, still wound around his face in what Harry had deemed his unflattering curls although Hermione insisted they were gentle waves. Harry had no interest in such things however, what he did have a problem with was the way the slightest movement caused his hair to fall into his eyes.
Impatiently, Harry blew air out of the side of his mouth to shift the wavy, black strands out of his face only to have the wind blow the long strands back into his face. Malfoy sniggered at him, Harry glared, but this appeared to have no effect.
“Did anyone ever tell you that you desperately needed to visit the hairdresser’s, Potter?” Malfoy said, sniggering still.
Harry raised a hand and raked it through his hair, pushing the hair as far away from his face as he could get it without pulling it out. “Did anyone ever tell you that there’s an arrest warrant out on you?”
Malfoy nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. Brilliant isn’t it? I always used to wish, when I was a young boy, for an arrest warrant to be out on me. While all my friends had dreams of taking over the world, wooing some hot, young, rich pureblood witch or earning the world’s largest fortune, I sat in my bedroom telling my teddy bear how much I wished to grow to be seventeen, have an arrest warrant taken out on me and, as a result, be forced to sleep on mattresses that have more spring in them than a kangaroos hop.”
Harry felt his eyebrows rise up into his hairline and, biting his lower lip to suppress it at first, he let out a short burst of laughter. Malfoy raised an eyebrow and Harry quickly stifled his laughter. He wondered briefly whether to question Malfoy or make a sarcastic remark about his teddy bears. He decided to forego the latter.
“Malfoy,” he began his voice calm and perfectly even, coaxing he supposed, “What exactly are you doing here?”
“I thought I just told you.”
“No. You didn’t.”
“I did, Potter.” Malfoy flinched when Harry, on a whim, jabbed his wand forward, prodding Malfoy’s ribs. “If you weren’t so self-absorbed you may have picked up on the rather glaring hint that I was sleeping on mattresses that have more spring in them than kangaroos.”
Harry nodded. “And you may have picked up on the fact that, whereas I may be able to believe that on one level, it doesn’t answer my question. What are you doing here? Why the hell did you come here?”
“Oh for fuck’s sake Potter!” Malfoy spat. “I am not here to see you, I am not here to see any of your pathetic friends, I am not here to kill all the Muggles in this fucking town, and I am only here because I was forced to come here! I, frankly, don’t give a damn about you and your precious Order nor do I give a damn about why you are here, which I would consider highly suspicious as I sincerely doubt you’re one for French culture or cuisine. So, kindly, hand me over to the Aurors now or fuck off. Okay?”
“No, it’s not okay,” Harry snapped. “In case you’ve forgotten, you let bloody Death Eaters into the school! It is your fault that Bill’s disfigured for life and, as you just said, you don’t care ―”
“Mr. Potter, it would do you the world of good to lower your voice ― your less than dulcet tones are attracting unwanted attention.”
That voice. Harry knew that voice. It was a low voice, a sneering voice, which rarely talked above a whisper except to yell at Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws and indeed the world at large for being incompetent morons. It was a voice he had come to loathe easily ― one that flung insults his way whenever it could and one which had finally flung the Killing Curse at Albus Dumbledore. It was Snape.
“Are they now?” Harry murmured, almost disinterested. “Intriguing; couldn’t possibly have thought that a raised voice would cause unwanted attraction. Thanks ever so much for pointing that out.”
“You are welcome, Mr. Potter,” Snape drawled and Harry, listening intently, heard the soft sound of robes ruffling, which told him Snape was reaching for his wand. He turned slowly to stare his ex-professor in the eye. Snape, dark eyes glaring down at him, watched, noting that Harry only had a brief and limp grasp on his wand now.
Harry, forgetting himself, once more tilted his head to the side asking quietly, “Are you going to kill me too, Snape? I’m sure Voldemort would be pleased with you. His star Death Eater who murdered not only Albus Dumbledore but Harry Potter.”
“I assume he would be, Potter,” Snape said. “I, however, have no intention of killing you as of this moment nor do I have any intention of being the Dark Lord’s star Death Eater.”
Vivid green eyes swept over Snape’s face taking in everything about the man. His face, normally pale and sallow, had never looked as gaunt. Cheekbones jutted prominently out of his face, the sickly pale skin stretched over the sharp bones to a large extent. There were bags under dark eyes, which made his eyes only look even darker and bigger, the purple discolouration blending seamlessly with the dark black of his eyes. The older man looked ashen, ill and the sneer he aimed at Harry was decidedly wan. Looking at him, words Dumbledore had said to him floated into Harry’s mind; words in which Dumbledore had informed Harry that Snape was a good man. Written words, the last words Harry had received after Dumbledore’s death according to his will, which, even in death, proclaimed that Snape was a good man at heart. Harry snorted even thinking about it.
“Oh, really?” he asked. “Do go on.”
“With what, Potter?” Snape drawled and then his voice softened as he said to Malfoy, “Draco, come here. We’re going to go visit your aunt’s cottage.”
“We are not!” Malfoy sounded outraged, frightened and disturbingly annoyed.
Snape aimed his piercing glare at Malfoy now, taking his eyes off Harry for a brief second. Harry, seeing his advantage, stepped forward and wrapped his fingers around Snape’s wrist, digging his nails into the skin and using his other hand to forcibly take Snape’s wand from his grasp. He drew his arm up rapidly and aimed his own wand at the older man, joining it a second later with Snape’s own.
“Wouldn’t it be funny,” Harry said conversationally, “if you died by your own wand?”
Snape shrugged a malicious gleam in his dark eyes. “To the Dark Lord it would, I suppose.”
“Don’t think I’ll back down just because you compared me to dear old Tom,” Harry snarled. “I have no intention of ordering others to kill Muggles because, heck, I had a bit of a downer day today.”
Snape’s lips quirked upwards but the effect was not a genuine smile and, with his sickly complexion, he managed to look like the Bloody Baron. “Surprisingly enough Potter, that news is the best I’ve heard all week. It it releases a feeling close to elation.”
“Oh, I am glad,” Harry said sarcastically. “If there’s anything I can possibly do to make that feeling awfully close to elation return, pray tell. Maybe then I can actually do something,” he added in a bitter undertone. Looking up he noticed both Snape and Malfoy had raised their eyebrows and he fought the urge to shake his head at such blatant similar mannerisms. He didn’t really need anymore proof than that as to why he detested the two; they were too similar for him to do anything but hate them equally.
“Potter,” Snape said slowly, “I know you detest me and I know, in your mind, you have every right to. You, however, do not know all the facts, nor do I presume that I do. I do know more about the circumstances than you do, Potter, and I need you to understand them as they are: the facts, laid bare, if you will, for you to draw your own conclusions.”
“Why?” he asked suspiciously.
“Why what?” the older man asked, exasperated.
“Why do you need me to understand the facts, Snape, you dunderhead,” he grinned at Snape as he used Snape’s own personal catchphrase against him. Snape, apparently, did not miss the irony and smirked at him.
“Because, Potter ― and this is not easy for me to admit so don’t presume that this was my plan all along ― I need your help. More to the point, Draco needs your help.”
Malfoy, shock written across his pointed features, took the opportunity to finally add something to the conversation.
“I’m sorry, Severus, but I could have sworn you just said that I needed Potter’s help.”
Snape nodded. “I did.”
“You must be mistaken.”
“I am not.”
“You must be.”
“Draco,” there was a hint of warning in Snape’s voice now, “you did not misunderstand me; you need Potter’s help.”
“You must be mistaken!” Harry watched with a certain detached amusement at the anger on Malfoy’s face, which was quickly followed by a flash of his own anger towards the boy when disgust reared its face across Malfoy’s features.
“No, I must not be mistaken, Draco. Now kindly do not take a leaf out of Mr. Potter’s book and jump to conclusions before you know all the facts,” Snape snapped. “Now, can we go somewhere private? Potter keep my wand if you want. Call it an act of goodwill but if I wish it so you will find yourself Obliviated of the memory concerning our meeting and the subsequent conversation. That is,” Snape muttered, “if you agree to listen to me.”
“Why should I do that, Snape?” he demanded.
Snape rolled his eyes. “I remember Albus writing a letter, Potter. I do not know what was said within it but I know that he told me, should I be forced to participate in the Dark Lord’s activities after his death and you were not being cooperative, that I was to tell you to remember his last. Mad old bugger,” Snape finished his voice almost fond.
“Completely daft,” Harry murmured his agreement. “Manipulative, too.” Sighing, Harry extended Snape’s wand towards the older man. “Take it,” he ordered, “If you do one thing to make me regret it, the rather vigorous training I’ve been doing shall finally be put to bloody use and, Snape, I have also been trained regarding how to kill without magic, and if forced to I’ll use that knowledge. Are we clear?”
Snape regarded him for a long moment before nodding. “Yes.”
“Good,” Harry sighed, sinking his hands into his pockets, his fingers brushing against the packet of cigarettes he’d shoved into his jeans when he’d been reaching for his wand. “Let’s go then.”
~|~|~|~
Draco walked behind Snape, his eyes fixed on the man’s dark head, venom in his gaze. Potter was walking beside him, hands deep in pockets that were equally as baggy as the ones he’d seen him wearing that day by the fountain, also staring fixedly at Snape’s head. Both boys were ignoring each other to the best of their abilities and the tension in the air was so thick Draco suspected a Cutting Curse would be required to pierce it even the slightest bit. Suddenly, inexplicably, he felt the urge to reach over and yank Potter’s hair, pull his head back and… ‘And what, Draco?’ he asked himself. ‘What then? Say something witty and watch him burst into fits of giggles like Pansy? Hardly likely. This is Potter after all ― Potter who would not know a witty comment if it smacked him ‘round the head.’
He sighed and made a conscious effort not to stoop as he walked. It was something his father had drilled into him at a young age. Narcissa Malfoy had not minded terribly if her son stooped while he walked as long as he smiled, made polite conversation and behaved appropriately with and around guests. She had been obsessed with image, insisting that Draco was brought a new set of robes once a week to keep up appearances, but even she had not minded if occasionally he faltered. Lucius Malfoy, his beloved father, had not been as merciful. The first time Draco had stooped whilst out on a shopping trip to Diagon Alley with his father, Lucius had told him to stop it immediately. He had but faltered later on in the day, his shoulders slumping unconsciously. When they had returned home, Draco had been struck with his father’s cane or disobedience. It had only been once but the blow was hard, the metal dragon head on the tip of the cane dragging into Draco’s skin, splitting it open. There was still a faint scar on Draco’s collarbone from the incident. It hadn’t taken long for him to realise that his father was deadly serious about proper decorum and was of the opinion that stooping whilst walking was not proper decorum for a Malfoy. He had threatened and punished Draco until he adhered to his will; and adhere Draco had. That was why he was here in the first place.
“Malfoy?”
His head whipped up, blonde hair flying through the air and grazing against his cheekbones, and he stared at Potter who was gazing at him, green eyes clouded with something Draco couldn’t place.
“What?” he snapped.
“Are… are… I mean, er… er,” Potter blushed.
Draco sniggered. “Potter, only talk to me when you’ve got a grip on the basics of the marvellous language that is English outside of ‘er’; otherwise you’re wasting my time.”
Potter’s cheeks coloured to an even deeper red hue and Draco tried not to snigger ― and failed. He almost apologised for finding hilarity in the boy’s embarrassment but it took only the memory that this was Potter for that feeling to be quenched.
“Shut up, Malfoy,” Potter hissed. “In case you missed the memo, you apparently need my help.”
“I highly doubt that,” Draco snorted glaring at the boy. He realised how badly the current red in Potter’s cheeks contrasted with the deep, dark moss green of the T-shirt he wore and instantly decided that he could not be seen with anyone dressed so poorly; even Snape was dressed better. Sighing, he shrugged his jacket off his shoulders and began deftly unbuttoning the pale green silk shirt he wore. Glancing up he realised Potter was looking at him, green eyes wide and an amusingly shocked expression on his face. Draco smirked at him. “My, my, Potter,” he murmured, “I had no idea you were such a voyeur.”
Potter shook his head. “I have no idea what that means, Malfoy.”
“Why am I not surprised?” he drawled as he slipped the last button out of its proper place. He could almost feel Potter’s palpable relief that he wore a black T-shirt underneath. “A voyeur is basically someone who watches, Potter. If you want a further explanation go ask that bloody bookworm friend of yours.” Sliding the shirt off his back he shook it out and thrust it at Potter saying, “Here.”
Potter spluttered and gaped at him until Draco, rolling his eyes, said, “Look, I don’t care how you look personally. I do, however, care what more important people think about the company I keep. It just so happens that if anyone sees me associating with a skinny runt wearing a Merlin awful shirt and jeans big enough to swathe Hagrid several times over I am no longer regarded as respectable. I can’t do anything about the jeans ― I can do something about the shirt. Now bloody well put that on before I begin to regret my munificent generosity.”
“Doesn’t munificent mean generous?” Potter asked, taking the shirt from his hands. Draco’s jaw dropped and he rolled his eyes at the younger boy.
“Are you telling me you know what fucking munificent means but not voyeur?” Draco almost laughed. “Merlin, Potter, if I didn’t think you were all kinds of messed up before I certainly do now.”
He watched as Potter yanked the silk shirt up his arms and flinched. Potter looked down at the buttons and, shrugging, obviously decided to leave them open, the pale green material flapping wistfully around the moss green T-shirt underneath. Potter glanced up at him and said, “Well, that’s good to know.”
“’Tis isn’t it?” Draco nodded. “Now, Potter, you just pulled a fine, expensive silk shirt on like it was a burlap sack. Kindly refrain in future.”
Potter stared at him in surprise. “Malfoy are you trying to say that you expect me to be wearing your clothes in the future?”
Draco could have sworn that in front of them Severus snorted and apparently Potter heard it too as they exchanged a brief, mystified glance before Draco answered. “No, of course not. I am simply stating that, in the case of dire emergency in which you will likely die unless you manage to get your hands on some decent clothing in future, treat my finery as if it were the Tiara Jewels those Muggles have.”
“Crown,” Potter corrected.
“Excuse me?” Draco asked blinking.
“You said Tiara Jewels ― it’s the Crown Jewels.”
Draco shrugged, uncaring. “Whatever. Tomato, to-may-to situation.”
“Hardly,” Potter said snorting. “To the best of my knowledge there is no such thing as the Tiara Jewels.”
“Well,” Draco mused, “seeing as your knowledge doesn’t even extend to the ingredients of a basic love potion I wouldn’t put too much stock in it if I were you.”
“That’s because love potions are illegal, Malfoy, in any shape or form ― even basic!” Potter countered hotly.
“Ah,” Draco said his voice deliberately low. “But then again, Potter, so is the Sectumsempra curse.”
Draco noted happily that Potter did not say anything further until they reached the motel he and Severus were staying at. Draco, eyes wide, glanced at Severus out of the corner of his eye and the man simply stared back, his face impassive. Draco resisted the urge to fidget.
"Severus," he began but was quickly cut off.
"Draco, we both need to discuss matters with Potter. We can not possibly do that adequately if we converse in a Muggle bar or in the middle of the street where anyone can hear our discussion."
"Well," Draco huffed, crossing his arms across his chest, "if you had only not insisted in staying in this godforsaken Muggle town that wouldn't be the case would it?"
"If I hadn't insisted in staying in this godforsaken Muggle town, Draco, it is highly likely that both of us would be dead by now," Severus pointed out as he ushered both Harry and Draco quickly into the dingy motel room Severus and Draco shared.
"Oh."
Draco said nothing more, choosing instead to watch Potter as he entered the room. His eyes, which still looked an unnaturally bright green, did not widen in surprise but rather began looking around the room quickly, eyes sliding from one item to another. He made no comment, just standing in the doorway taking in the scene before him as if entranced. Draco had to admit he was confused; he had been living in this motel room for just over a week and found nothing entrancing about it at all. It was smaller than his bathroom at Malfoy Manor; the windows were set high up in the wall and difficult to reach so the air in the room was musty and carried the smell of smoke, sweat and sex through the air. As Severus and Draco both required utmost privacy, the blinds were lowered and very little light managed to creep into the small room. One large bed lay in the middle of the room and, like Draco had told Potter, the mattress resting on the bed truly had more springs than a kangaroos step. Hard, sharp springs that prodded into his back and kept him awake so many nights that he had taken to sleeping on the floor or on the lumpy armchair shoved over to one side of the room. It was almost as uncomfortable as the bed but at least he did not wake up with a backache so distracting he would be forced to walk like a hunchback for two days. He had asked Severus why he refused to conjure a new bed and had received a curt answer, this was a secluded Muggle town and no magic would be expected to occur there. If it did the Ministry would no doubt attempt to discover where it had come from, which would mean trouble for Severus and Draco. So the room had stayed as it was: small, smelly and uncomfortable.
Draco wondered briefly if this was what his room in Hell would be like.
"Potter, sit down and stop gawking," Severus ordered, his curt tones breaking into Draco's wandering mind. Potter shuffled his feet for a second and made to sit on the armchair. Seeing his favourite place in the room about to be taken (not that there was much choice in the matter) Draco strided briskly over to the chair and gracefully sat on it, aiming a glare at Potter that he had perfected after years of watching his father and Severus. He did not know why, but he found himself excitedly waiting for Potter to begin an argument; when the other boy simply shrugged and sat on the bed he felt a wave of disappointment rise up inside him.
'Honestly, Draco,' he thought, 'looking forward to arguing with Potter? You really must be starved of human contact.'
Watching Potter squirm uncomfortably on the bed, a long list of insults automatically scrolled through Draco's head, their topics ranging from insulting Potter's atrocious glasses, to his friends, to his fame, to his family and back to his fashion sense. It was almost too easy, Draco concluded. Almost.
He opened his mouth to say something but Severus beat him to it:
"Potter, I trust you read the letter from Albus then?"
Potter nodded.
"Did you agree with what it said?"
Potter tipped his head back slightly, almost as if he had discovered something interesting in the ceiling. After a moment he shrugged.
"Is that a yes or a no?"
Potter shrugged again and Draco's eyes slid over to Severus. His cheeks had taken on a slightly yellow tinge, his black eyes were glittering and the skin on his face appeared to be stretched tautly across his bone, even more so than usual. Draco recognised the look and smirked. Really, if Potter was going to be so idiotic to think he would get away with not answering Severus he deserved whatever the older man could throw at him. Draco felt a bubble of anticipation rise up in him, but then Potter had to spoil it all by answering Severus.
"It's an I don't know, Snape," his soft voice murmured. "I don't know what to make of the contents of the letter. It was truthful, that I know, or truthful from his point of view at least. I had Hermione perform charms on the parchment to detect spell work and only one came up - a spell which forces the writer to only write the truth onto the parchment. So I had to conclude that everything in it must be the truth. There was some information contained that was obviously truthful, it was informative and I suppose you could say it helped me. However, there was also information in the letter that was... well, it was about you. And I don't like you so I choose to believe it was Dumbledore's truth, not the all-inclusive truth."
Severus sighed. "Potter, for a moment there you almost sounded intelligent."
Potter raised an eyebrow. "Pardon? What do you mean almost?"
"Exactly what I said; almost," Severus snapped. "Tell me, how long did you know Albus Dumbledore? Six years?"
"Yes." Draco noted that Potter sounded confused; Draco could not blame him. He was too, but he would not admit it. He strongly suspected that he was about to hear something he had not expected to hear and that Severus had refused to tell him before.
"Well, Potter, seeing as I have a little confidence that you are not a complete idiotic moron such as your good friend Longbottom I suppose you noticed how Albus did not once beg for anything?"
A gleam of recognition appeared in Potter's green eyes and Draco felt comprehension begin to dawn on him as well. For a moment he wondered how Potter knew Dumbledore had begged Severus and decided that he would need to inquire afterwards.
"I said," Snape repeated. "I suppose you noticed how Albus did not once beg for anything?"
"Of course I noticed!" Potter snapped, his eyes shining with fury. "Of course I bloody well noticed but I think that that fact may change when you're ill, shaking, poisoned and most likely dying and you are suddenly confronted with someone you trusted pointing a fucking wand at your face!"
Severus shook his head once more and sighed. "Potter, Albus had great strength of will. He refused to beg when Grindelwald had him at his mercy, and believe me when I say that was not a wanted position at all, such as your being at the Dark Lord's mercy is no doubt unwanted and painful. Albus did not beg when the Dark Lord threatened him, or when he killed most of his family in front of his eyes for revenge. He did not beg when the Dark Lord told him he could return his family, could return Lily and James Potter at a price and, even though you know nothing of it, again believe me when I say it was a position in which begging may have been quite useful. Again, Potter(,) he did not beg whenever doctors told him, six months prior to his death, that he would not live a year and there was nothing they could do. He did not beg for them to try and help him just as he did not beg me to not kill him. He asked me to remember a promise I had made and I fulfilled that promise by killing my mentor."
For a second no one spoke. Sometime during his speech Severus had made his way to sit on the bed and had rested his head in his hands in an uncharacteristic display of weakness. Draco, eyes wide with shock, glanced up to gaze worriedly at him. When his eyes shifted from Severus they landed on Potter. Potter whose eyes were wider than he had ever thought eyes could be, whose eyes were shining with unshed tears and blazing with a range of emotions that awed Draco to watch. Anger, disbelief, shock, understanding, acceptance, anger and curiosity all passed across that face before Potter next spoke.
"What promise, Snape?" His voice was low, controlled and Draco suspected there was deliberately no judgement in the tone.
"A promise I made during the summer leading up to your sixth year." Severus raised his head from his hands to look at both Draco and Potter. "A promise that came about after Draco's mother arrived at my house on Spinner's End."
When Severus did not continue and instead stayed silence, Draco was the first one to give in to curiosity.
"My mother was at your house over the summer?" Draco asked softly.
"Yes," Severus nodded.
"She never told me."
Severus smiled ruefully. "I did not think she would. She came to me to request I enter into an Unbreakable Vow with her. Bellatrix was there also, awful beast of a woman. Of course, she's completely insane but not altogether unperceptive. She had doubts about my loyalty to the Dark Lord and berated Narcissa constantly for her decision to talk with me. When I agreed to participate in the Unbreakable Vow she nearly died of shock."
"Good," Potter said sharply and his voice was so laced with hate that Draco's head snapped around so he could look at him. Ice grey eyes bored into green ones for several moments before Draco remembered that he wanted to ask Severus something.
"What Unbreakable Vow?" he questioned. "What was it about?"
Severus sighed. "It was about you actually, Draco. Your mother had heard of what the Dark Lord wished for you to do and was not happy. She told me she wished that you had not agreed and Bellatrix told her to stop being dramatic; she said that if she had a son she would willingly sacrifice him for the Dark Lord's cause."
"Yes, well, dear Aunt Bellatrix was never the most empathetic person on the planet," Draco drawled.
"Draco, you must understand how much your mother was worried about you. Narcissa insisted that she could not allow you to go through... the mission on your own and begged me to watch over you, to guide you, if you will. She was hysterical, begging and crying and Bellatrix, as usual, sneered and made derogatory remarks. She was no help and I think Narcissa knew that her sister would not help you out at all. She asked me to agree to look over you at school, to try and help you and, finally, if it looked like you were going to fail I must complete your mission for you. She said, afterwards, that she would not have been able to bear it if you failed and then died because Albus was still alive."
"Mother can be overly emotional," Draco murmured, not really meaning the words but saying them anyway as an offhand apology. "Was... was she adamant that you agree?"
"Yes."
"Oh."
"This is all well and good," Potter said, "and rather... interesting I'll admit. But, Snape, this has nothing to do with what I asked you. What promise did you make to Dumbledore? I asked you nothing of a promise between yourself and Narcissa Malfoy."
"I know, Potter, but I needed Draco to know of the Vow, and you too. If you had listened you would've realised that I was magically bound to kill Albus if Draco could not." Severus stood and walked over to one of the windows, pulling the blinds up slightly to look out.
“I was bloody listening, Snape, but that hardly explains a promise with Dumbledore now, does it?” Potter said sarcastically, eyes blazing.
Draco watched as Severus’ fist clenched and silently begged Potter not to say anything to anger him further; after all this time spent living with the man he knew it was not pleasant when Severus became angry while ill and tired even if he would not admit to either condition. Potter, it seemed, either could not see Severus’ clenched fists or he chose to ignore this angry gesture when he opened his mouth.
“Listen, Snape, I don’t particularly trust you here and you are giving me no reasons to!” Potter spat. “All you’ve done is prove to me how loyal you are towards the Malfoy family!”
Severus whirled ‘round, black hair fanning out around his face and his dark eyes blazing angrily at Potter. “Shut your mouth, Potter. You know nothing of many matters, which you should be clued up on. Dumbledore himself admitted to mollycoddling you and not wishing to expose you to the evil of everyday people in the world! Believe me, now that Albus Dumbledore is gone there will certainly be no holding back from me! You shall hear what I want you to hear and you shall learn things you should’ve known all along. And one of the first things you should’ve known all along is what really happened the day you and Albus went off to hunt for the Horcruxes.” Potter gasped and Severus sneered. “Oh, don’t look so shocked Potter, of course Albus told me about the Horcruxes. I was the one who had to attempt to heal his blasted hand after all ― he wholeheartedly refused to visit more experienced healers at St. Mungo’s.”
“He … he refused?” Potter’s voice was shaking.
“Of course, Potter, don’t be naïve. I’m sure you know that Albus even looked forward to death, saying he could not wait for his next grand adventure,” Severus said sarcastically. “Foolish old man at times, but not always. You see he knew about the Vow Narcissa begged me to take part in ― I myself informed him of this fact. I also informed him as to what exactly the task entailed that the Dark Lord had set for Draco.”
Draco’s mouth fell open as he looked at the man standing in front of him. He had never even considered for one moment that the man had not been completely loyal to the Dark Lord ― there had been no reason to, especially after he killed Dumbledore. What he had questioned was why, if Severus had completed a task the Dark Lord wanted completed so fiercely, they were forced to hide out in seedy motels across Europe.
He couldn’t believe what he was being told; to even consider the idea would be preposterous. There was no way Dumbledore had known what his task had been. He had not fully believed that the man was completely unintelligent but, surely, if someone was aware there was a plan operating ― under their nose ― to ensure their imminent death they would go out of their way to stop it. And Dumbledore had not, for Draco would have known. Draco would have felt resistance surely ― the Room of Requirement would have stopped working, he would have been watched more closely, and he would not have been able to disappear from Quidditch or classes whenever he pleased. He should not have been able to do such things if Dumbledore had known he was going to die. He should have been doing something, for Merlin’s sake! He should’ve kicked Draco out of the castle, handed him over to the Ministry and dusted his hands completely of the Malfoy family. Draco knew without a doubt that that was exactly what he would have done, like he knew that Albus fucking Dumbledore should have done every single one of these things. Then the leader of the Light side would still be alive and Draco… Draco would be dead. But at least he would not have had to live with the guilt that ate at every moment he was awake.
“Severus are you joking?” he asked suddenly, voice curt. Severus and Potter both turned to stare at him, black and green eyes blinking in surprise.
“No, Draco, I am not,” Severus said softly.
“So he knew? He knew what my… my mission was and,” Draco heard his own voice catch slightly but did not pay much attention to it, “he let me do it?”
Draco’s gaze had shifted to his hands and he was now studying his fingernails intently, glaring at the cuticles fiercely as he blinked back tears he desperately did not want to fall. Potter had witnessed too many of his most humiliating moments before; there was no need to add another to the no doubt lengthy list. He saw shiny black shoes come into his eye line and felt Severus place a hand on his shoulder, but he still refused to look up, instead choosing to use the fingernail of his right thumb to push back the cuticles on his left thumb. Severus squeezed his shoulder reassuringly and Draco glanced briefly up, scowling at him before returning his attention back to his fingers.
“Yes, Draco,” Severus murmured, his voice close to Draco’s ear; “I suppose that would be a fairly accurate conclusion.”
Draco sunk his teeth into his lower lip and gnawed on the tender flesh for a moment before vehemently declaring, “Dumbledore was a crazy bastard who should have had me thrown in Azkaban.”
“Yes, I reckon he should’ve had,” a quiet voice said from the middle of the room. Draco’s head shot up, strands of white-blonde hair unfurling from behind his ears and falling in front of his face. He stared at where Potter was seated and expected to see the other boy glaring hatefully at him, green eyes sparkling with anger and words laced with disdain. None of this seemed to be the case, however. The words had been a simple statement, filled with no particular emotion, the eyes were inquisitive and Potter’s face was blank as he watched Draco intently. “But then again,” Potter continued, “I don’t reckon you’d have survived long in Azkaban.”
“And you would care why exactly?” Draco’s tone was similar to Potter’s: blank, non judgemental and receptive.
Potter tilted his head to one side once more, surveying Draco from behind old glasses that Draco recognised as the same ones Potter had been wearing the first time he met him, vivid green eyes bright. “I’m not sure why exactly,” Potter said, “but I think it may have something to do with the fact that, annoying, petulant bastard that you are, you still lowered your wand that night.”
Draco started. “Huh?” he gasped, eloquence forgotten.
Potter smirked. “You heard me, Malfoy. I saw you lower your wand that night. You wouldn’t have killed him would you?” he finished, his voice low, soft and sounding to Draco slightly as if he had just reached this realisation himself recently.
Draco’s eyes swept over Potter once more, taking in everything about his expression and body language, searching for some hint that Potter was playing him, was urging him to confess that that had been the case only to turn his small advantage to his own use, as many of his Slytherin friends would have. He did not find any such signs and had to remind himself that Potter was in no way akin to Blaise or Pansy.
“No,” Draco admitted, his eyes skittering away once more from both Severus and Potter and instead coming to rest on the blinds of the window closest to him. “No, I don’t suppose I would have.”
Potter did not speak, but Severus did.
“I suppose then that is a good thing I entered into an Unbreakable Vow with Albus also,” Severus sighed. “You see, Potter, there are many reasons surrounding why I killed Albus that night and I suppose you could say that the most important reason was because both Albus and I were convinced that Draco would not be able to kill the Headmaster. Draco, I do not wish for you to take this as an affront to your abilities whatsoever as it is not ― Albus especially was convinced that, at heart, you were simply to(too) good a person to kill someone because another did not like them. He said he did not believe you would spill his blood and that he did not wish for you to even reach the point where you were in a position to do so. However, he told me that he did not underestimate you and thought that, if you should have the chance, it would be a smart idea to insinuate myself into the situation and swing it so that I would be required to kill him.”
Severus stopped and glanced over at Potter. Draco, whose eyes had settled once more on Severus, followed dark eyes to where Potter sat, cross legged, on the mattress, his fists gripping the threadbare blanket, knuckles white. Potter glanced up and green eyes clashed with grey as they both regarded each other for a moment before Severus continued with his speech.
“Albus requested that I enter into a Vow with him, stating that should the chance come for either Draco or myself to kill him, I was to immediately take the chance. I assented with his request and questioned him about it afterwards. I was told that Albus did not wish to be killed by Voldemort or any of his other followers and, should the time come when this would inevitable, he would much prefer that I kill him for then he could go peacefully to his ‘next great adventure’,” Severus said bitterly. “He said he would write a letter that would be delivered by Fawkes to you should I or Draco be the ones to kill him. He implored me to find you after the deed was done.”
“That’s why you demanded we stay here wasn’t it?” Draco asked. “I said that we should leave, I told you that I had seen Potter and you still insisted that we would be safe here.”
“And we are,” Severus murmured.
Draco snorted and just barely restrained himself from responding crudely to Severus’ statement. It seemed Potter had no qualms whatsoever about talking crudely to Severus.
“Bullshit,” Potter stated, staring straight at Severus and Draco. Draco shifted uncomfortably in his seat under the weight of that green gaze. “If you knew I would be here then you no doubt are also aware of the fact that right now, not far from here, there is a rather large group of Order members training for this war. I reckon you also know that every single one of them would turn both of you over right away.”
“Ah,” Severus said, “but you did not, Potter. You did not inform anyone that you had seen Draco and, when you leave here, I doubt that you will tell anyone of our conversation, will you?”
Potter blinked at him and Draco wondered absentmindedly how it was possible for a male to have such long eyelashes. “How did you know I hadn’t told anyone about seeing Malfoy?”
“It seems that you underestimate how much I know your psyche, Potter.”
“It does rather, doesn’t it?” Potter sighed and dropped his head into his hands. When he next spoke the sound was muffled as a result of his hands being placed so closely to his mouth. “Snape, how exactly can I trust you?”
Severus placed one hand on the back of the armchair Draco sat on and leaned heavily against it. “Have I not given you enough information yet, Potter?” Draco did not miss how much sorrow seemed to be laced into Severus’ words and Potter appeared to have heard it also as he raised his head and looked right into Severus’ eyes.
“Set up a Pensieve.” Potter did not once glance away from Severus. “If you want me to believe you set up a Pensieve.”
Severus swallowed and stared straight back at Potter. “Why?”
Potter smiled, almost sadly, and said, “I cannot perform Legilimency but I can tell when a memory has been tampered with, Snape. If you want me to believe you I want to see the necessary memories, collected, in a Pensieve. Then I can view them and draw my own conclusions and, if they show what you told me and don’t appear to have been doctored, I can believe you.”
“What if they don’t?” Severus questioned.
Potter shrugged and uncurled his legs from under him, standing tall in the small room, glancing at both Draco and Severus as he walked towards the door, hand already on the door knob when he murmured, “Then, basically, you’re buggered.”
The door was opened quietly and Potter slipped through, shutting the door as quietly as it had been opened. Silence reigned in the room for quite some time, neither occupant wishing to say anything regarding what had just happened. Draco lifted a book from the pile he had purchased at the local bookstore days previously and, in an effort to stave off thoughts and memories he did not wish to dwell on, he immersed himself in the tale of Mrs Bennett’s quest to marry off her daughters.
It was only much later as he settled down for sleep that Draco finally realised that Potter had buggered off with his shirt.
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