FIC: There Is No Resurrection of the Dead (1/7)
Title: There Is No Resurrection of the Dead
Author: Xandra ( gypsyflame)
Pairings: Harry/Draco, Snape/Draco, Snape/Harry/Draco, slight Draco/OMCs
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: About 35,400
Warnings: EWE, drug abuse, self-harm, non-explicit masochism, voyeurism
Summary: Auror Harry Potter is hopelessly in love with his partner, Draco Malfoy. But just when it seems like they might take their relationship to the next level, Draco’s old lover reappears. Apparently, rumours of his death have been greatly exaggerated…
A/N 1: Betaed by fbowden. Flic, I cannot express how much I appreciate all the time and effort you put into this fic with me. Your sharp eye, your keen insights, your emotional support…I’m not exaggerating when I say this would never have been finished without you. Thank you.
A/N 2: Story title comes from 1 Corinthians 15:12- “Now if Christ be preached that he rose from the dead, how say some among you that there is no resurrection of the dead?” Quote at the end of the fic comes from the same passage. Also, despite the opening scene, this is not a self-cutting, emo!Draco story, so please don’t let that deter you.
This fic is completed, but in the interest of not spamming people’s f-lists, I’ll be posting the chapters two a day, until the final chapter is posted on Thursday.
“How is he?”
Hermione sighed and pushed a stray lock of hair off her face, leaving a small smudge of blood on her forehead. Harry tried not to grimace.
“Stable, finally.” Hermione paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was strained and soft. “Harry, there was a moment when I really thought-”
“I know,” he said, cutting her off, not wanting to hear the possibility spoken aloud. “Is he awake?”
“Not yet.”
“I’m not leaving until he is. I want to know why he did such a stupid, ridiculous-”
Hermione lifted her hands to stop him. “Draco didn’t try to kill himself.”
“He slit his wrists open, Hermione!”
“Wrist, singular. He only cut the left one. And it wasn’t just the wrist. There were shallow cuts all the way up his left forearm. And with the amount of Muggle drugs that were in his system…”
“What are you trying to say?” Harry asked impatiently.
“I know you don’t like to talk about Draco’s masochism-”
Harry snorted and looked away.
“-but the fact remains that his injury is simply the result of a bout of self-harm gone wrong. We did a scan of his arm and found traces of rudimentary healing spells going back months, at least. This isn’t the first time he’s done this, but he was intoxicated. He accidentally cut too deeply.”
“How can you be so calm about this?” Harry exploded. “Draco’s out of control, he almost died, and you’re standing there talking about it like it’s the most normal thing in the world-”
“Of course it’s not normal!” Hermione hissed. “Masochism can be a healthy expression of sexuality under certain circumstances, but Draco’s taken it way too far. There are marks on his back-”
“What kind of marks?”
“Whip marks, most likely.” Hermione rubbed her eyes for a second. She looked exhausted. “He never bothered to heal them, unlike the ones on his arm, and the amount of scarring suggests it’s been going on for years.”
“Jesus,” Harry said, feeling sick.
“It gets worse. Some of the more recent wounds are still open, and they’ve become seriously infected. If he hadn’t had an accident and been brought to the hospital, the infection might not have been caught in time to prevent the onset of sepsis.”
“Okay, you know what? This stops now,” Harry said angrily. “And fuck your ‘healthy expression of sexuality’ bullshit. Draco is sick. He needs help, and I don’t care if you think that makes me repressed or whatever else you-”
“Harry!” Hermione exclaimed. “There’s no need to shout.”
Everyone in the hallway, Healers and patients alike, was staring avidly at them. Harry couldn’t have cared less what they thought of him, but he did have some respect for the fact that he was in a hospital, so he lowered his voice. “Hermione, Draco worked too hard to get his life back after the war. I’m not going to let him throw it away now, not because of something like this.”
Hermione smiled a little sadly and put her hand on Harry’s arm. “I know. And I agree. I care as much about Draco as you do, you know.”
I seriously doubt that, Harry thought, but he said nothing.
***
“I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” was the first thing Draco said when Harry and Hermione walked into his private room at St. Mungo’s.
“It’s lovely to see you awake, Draco,” said Hermione. She picked up the chart from the end of his bed and flipped through it.
“Isn’t it? I didn’t try to kill myself.”
“Yes, I heard you the first time.” Hermione replaced the chart and sat in one of the chairs next to Draco’s bed. “And I know. It was an accident. Not exactly an unexpected consequence of mixing potent benzodiazepines with sharp knives.”
Draco closed his eyes and settled back against the pillows, seeming slightly more relaxed now that he knew he wasn’t on suicide watch. “I didn’t think I was that far gone-”
“How could you be so stupid?” Harry finally burst out, his anger and fear compounded by his frustration at being ignored. Hermione and Draco both glared at him.
“Harry,” Hermione said sharply, “yelling is not going to help.”
She was right, of course. Yelling at Draco just tended to make him more stubborn, more willful, more absolutely certain that his course of action was the correct one. Harry knew that, but it was difficult not to yell when what he really wanted to do was grab Draco by the shoulders and shake him, make him understand how incredibly terrified Harry had been when, at the frantic urging of Draco’s house elf, he had Flooed over to find Draco bleeding and unconscious on the bathroom floor. And that fear was not assuaged by the sight of Draco looking small and pale and fragile in the hospital bed, his left arm bandaged from wrist to elbow.
Harry sat in the chair on the other side of the bed, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “Draco,” he said tightly, struggling to keep his temper in check, “why would you do this to yourself?”
Draco kicked his glare up a few degrees. “It’s none of your business.”
“None of my-” Harry started, but Hermione quickly interceded.
“Draco, you know I’m the last person to judge when it comes to these things, but you can’t go on like this. If you feel you need to experience physical pain for whatever reason, that’s fine, but you need to do it in a safe environment, with someone you trust. Not by yourself, and never, ever while under the influence of any mind-altering substances.” She paused, considering her next words. “I saw the wounds on your back.”
Draco stiffened, his lips compressed into a thin line, but he remained silent.
“They’re very badly infected,” Hermione continued. “I don’t know why you didn’t heal them, and you don’t have to tell me. But in the future, if you aren’t going to use magic to heal injuries like that, you have to take care of them the Muggle way. That means cleaning them out and disinfecting them. Do you understand?”
Draco nodded jerkily. Harry opened his mouth to say something along the lines of, there won’t be any injuries like that in the future, you silly little twit, and I’ll make sure of it, but shut it abruptly when Hermione gave him a dirty look.
“Now, about your arm- I’m hesitant to use healing spells, due to the frequency with which it’s been healed that way before. Overexposure can cause cellular regeneration to speed up to the point where it actually breaks down, achieving the opposite-” At Harry and Draco’s blank stares, Hermione paused and cleared her throat. “Anyway, I’m going to use a potion instead.”
“A particularly horrid one, no doubt,” Draco sniffed.
Hermione smiled. “It’s a topical potion. It’ll heal the wounds in small increments from the inside out. It takes a few days, but the healing is more thorough and there’s no risk of over-stimulating the tissue. I’d like to use it on your back, as well, once the infection is gone.”
“You’re the Healer.”
“Yes, I am. That said, I expect unquestioning obedience when I tell you to drink this.”
Hermione handed Draco a vial. He eyed it suspiciously. “What is it?”
“It’s to clear up the infection. Just drink it.”
He did, and the face he made was so awful that Harry had to laugh. “Merlin, that’s disgusting,” Draco gasped. “Why do healing potions always taste so nasty?”
“The same reason poisons tend to be sugary,” Hermione said, taking the vial from him and Banishing it back to the hospital potions lab. “Cosmic irony.”
“When can I go home?”
“Not until tomorrow afternoon, at the earliest. I’m going to keep you here for the rest of the night, and we’ll see how you feel in the morning.” Hermione stood and shook out her robes. “But even when you leave, I strongly recommend you stay with a friend for a few days. Or have someone stay with you. Just in case. You probably won’t be able to apply the potion to your back, anyway. And before you even suggest it, house elf magic will interfere with the potion.”
“He can stay with me,” said Harry, hating the pathetic eagerness in his voice but completely unable to prevent it. Draco rolled his eyes, but he didn’t seem truly annoyed by Harry’s presumption.
“I’m not staying in that God-awful mausoleum you call a house, Potter. It’s depressing. And your house elf is creepy.”
“Grimmauld Place is not depressing,” Harry said, feeling a little insulted. “At least, not anymore. And Kreacher just likes you, that’s all.”
“Is completely obsessed with me, more like.”
To be fair, Kreacher was slightly obsessed with Draco, fawning all over him whenever he was at Grimmauld Place. But Harry was pretty sure that the house elf didn’t obsess over Draco any more than Harry did himself. Did Draco think Harry was creepy, too? No, he definitely would have said something by now. Harry was positive that Draco didn’t know how Harry felt about him. He scowled. “I’ll stay with you, then.”
“I’m not a child,” Draco huffed. “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself, thank you.”
“You know, you’re absolutely right,” said Hermione. “It’s perfectly mature and adult to get smashed on Muggle Valium, slice your arm up with a ritual knife, and pass out in a pool of your own blood. How silly of us to be concerned.”
“There’s no call for the abuse of sarcasm, Granger,” Draco said haughtily, but Harry could see he was smiling.
“Well, if that’s all settled, I’m heading home. Ron must be wondering where I am. If he’s even still awake.” She patted Draco’s arm. “I’ll be in to check on you around noon. And you,” she added, looking at Harry, “don’t stay too late.”
Harry nodded. Draco squeezed Hermione’s hand and gave her a grateful look, which was really the closest to saying “thank you” that Draco usually came. Once Hermione had left, there was a long silence.
Finally, Harry couldn’t take it anymore. “Draco-”
“You should go home. You have work tomorrow.”
“Yeah, except that without my partner to back me up, I’ll be stuck at a desk doing paperwork all day.”
“Sorry,” Draco said unrepentantly, and in that moment Harry loved him so much he thought he was going to die.
“Draco, we should really-”
“Potter.” Draco paused. “Harry. I don’t want to talk about it. Just go home, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Harry went.
***
Later that night, Harry lay rigidly on his back in bed, rock-hard but trying desperately not to touch himself. It wasn’t that he had anything against masturbation, per se, and in fact he often enjoyed sending himself off to sleep with a good wank. The problem was that there was only one person he thought of while doing it, and after what had happened that night, it somehow seemed wrong. Draco was at this very moment lying in a hospital bed, helpless and weak and totally defenseless…
“Fuck,” Harry gasped, as the thought sent an undeniable frisson of excitement through him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this hard. God, what was wrong with him? How could he be so turned on by Draco’s vulnerability? He was perverted. He was a monster. He wanted to go back to the hospital and fuck Draco on that narrow little bed while Draco was too weak to do anything but lie there and take it and moan in ecstasy.
Harry shifted onto his side, then groaned into his pillow as his cock came into contact with the mattress and his hips gave an involuntary jerk. His right hand travelled down his body to rub at his cock almost unconsciously, and he yanked it away, gripping the side of the mattress instead. No. Absolutely not. If he had to wank, he would do it to his normal, everyday fantasies of Draco, not to this sick new one.
And it was a new one. All of his previous fantasies of Draco were fairly straightforward: Harry confessed his hidden desires- or Draco confessed his- and they had the kind of sex that Harry knew the real Draco would derisively refer to as “vanilla”. Actually, although he never would have admitted it, most of Harry’s fantasies were more romantic than purely sexual. And he had never, ever had this desire to…dominate.
Harry knew exactly what kind of sex Draco was into, and it had always made him feel sick. The thought of some man who didn’t give a fuck about Draco tying him up, beating him, fucking him with no regard for his pleasure, made Harry want to hit something. He would never hurt Draco.
The thought made him pause. He would never hurt Draco. He didn’t want to hurt Draco. In the fantasy he was trying so desperately to repress, Draco was enjoying the sex as much as he was. Maybe that made it okay?
Harry realized that his hand was on his cock again, and he sighed and gave in, shimmying out of his pants and kicking them onto the floor. He licked his palm and took firm hold of himself, stroking slowly and steadily from root to tip. He imagined going back to the hospital room and locking the door, ignoring Draco’s startled inquiries. He would strip off the bedsheet, then undress Draco silently. Draco would protest weakly, maybe even try to push Harry away, but his injuries left him too drained to be effectual.
Harry’s breaths grew harsher and his hand sped up as he imagined taking off Draco’s trousers and seeing that he was hard. Draco would turn his head away, embarrassed, but Harry would swallow that beautiful cock down to the base and make him gasp. And when Harry pushed his thighs apart, Draco would try to keep them together, but Harry was so much stronger…He would fuck Draco with his fingers until the man was a trembling, incoherent mass of need, begging Harry for his cock.
His strokes now so fast and rough that they were almost violent, Harry let out a loud moan as he thought of finally fucking Draco, finally thrusting his cock into that tight little hole. He would throw Draco’s legs over his shoulders and fuck him so hard that it would lift his arse off the bed. And Draco would love it, would grip Harry’s arms and plead to come, for Harry to make him come.
Harry let out a hoarse shout and came hard at the thought of Draco begging to come. Then he just lay there, panting and sweaty, feeling slightly shell-shocked.
Well. That had been…different. Suddenly, he was dreading seeing Draco the next day. And it wasn’t like he was just going to be seeing him at work; he was going to go home with the man. He was going to stay with him, probably for days, and probably in the guest bedroom that was just across the hall from Draco’s own. What if he had these kinds of thoughts again? There was no way he could wank in Draco’s flat. He would feel too guilty. And Draco would probably know.
What the fuck had he gotten himself into?
***
After a mercifully shortened day of doing paperwork in his depressingly empty office, Harry swung by Draco’s flat to drop off the bag he had packed and to pick up some fresh clothes for Draco. By three o’clock he was back at St. Mungo’s, knocking on the door to Draco’s room.
“Come in,” came Hermione’s voice.
Harry took a deep breath and mentally prepared himself to face Draco. He would not let Draco and Hermione know there was anything amiss. He would not act guilty. And, for the love of Merlin, he would not get an erection. He opened the door.
And any possibility that he might get an erection immediately vanished. Draco was lying on his stomach, shirtless, which ordinarily would have been fiercely arousing to Harry, but for the fact that Hermione was treating the wounds on his back. Harry had never seen Draco’s back before, but he had always imagined it was like the rest of him- smooth, pale, and beautiful.
It wasn’t.
Draco’s back was a mess. Practically every inch of skin from his tailbone to his shoulders was covered in a thick latticework of scars that ranged from so pale they were nearly invisible to a dark, angry red. Several of the open wounds were oozing blood. Harry stumbled back into the doorway, feeling nauseous.
“Jesus Christ,” he said.
“Don’t be such a girl, Potter.” Draco’s voice was slightly muffled by his pillow.
Hermione looked up from her salve application. “Harry, good. Come over and watch this; you’ll need to know how to do it.”
Harry closed the door and slowly made his way over to sit in the chair on the opposite side of Draco’s bed. Hermione dipped her hand into the jar of salve and spread a thin layer over the scars on Draco’s left shoulder blade. Draco let out a small hiss as she did so. Harry saw that his hands were gripping the pillow tightly.
Hermione noticed, too. “I know it stings, Draco,” she said. “But it’ll hurt less each time, as the wounds heal.”
Harry wasn’t so sure that Draco’s pained hiss had been an objection, but he kept his mouth shut.
Hermione continued to work her way down Draco’s back. “It’s important to use thin layers,” she told Harry. “Don’t overdo it, or it won’t be as effective. And of course, make sure you disinfect your hands first. Otherwise, the wounds could become reinfected. You know the spell?”
He nodded and watched as Hermione treated the rest of Draco’s back with quick, efficient movements, then bandaged him up. “Wait a couple of minutes for it to stop stinging before you get dressed,” she advised, casting a quick cleaning charm on her hands. “It’ll be easier to move around. And I’ll see you back here in a couple of days to check your progress, is that clear?”
“Yes, Mum,” Draco said.
Hermione ruffled his hair, ignoring his outraged sputter. “Be good,” she said. She looked at Harry. “Firecall me if there are any problems. No matter what time it is, all right?”
“Of course. Thanks, Hermione.”
“No problem.”
Once she was gone, Draco said, “Please tell me you brought me some new clothes.”
“I did.”
“Great. Could you just leave them on the chair? I’ll meet you outside in a few minutes.”
“Sure.”
When Harry didn’t move, Draco lifted his head and gave him an inquisitive look. Harry sighed. “Why didn’t you heal your back?”
Draco put his head back down. “You know why.”
“You healed your arm.”
“Because it would have been impossible to hide. If it hadn’t been necessary, I would have left those, too.”
Harry was silent for a moment, having a brief internal debate over whether or not he should really say what he wanted to say. Of course, he wasn’t a Gryffindor for nothing, so what came out of his mouth next was, “Do you think this is what he would have wanted for you?”
Draco went completely, absolutely still. “Fuck you,” he said finally.
“I’m not trying to be an arsehole, Draco. I’m just worried about you.”
“Well, you don’t have to be. I’m fine.”
That statement was so obviously far from the truth that Harry didn’t even bother trying to refute it. He couldn’t force Draco to confide in him or accept his help, and he was pushing his luck with that last comment as it was. He stood up, leaving the bag of Draco’s clothes on the chair.
“I’ll wait for you by the Floo,” he said.
***
Harry managed to keep his comments to himself for the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening. It was rare that he got to spend so much time alone with Draco outside of work, and he relished every moment of it. Once you got used to the arrogance and sarcasm that Draco threw around like flowers and candy, he was really quite enjoyable company.
And his flat- which was more like a small house- was amazing. After all three of the Malfoys had been cleared in the aftermath of Voldemort’s defeat, Lucius and Narcissa had made a well-advised move to the South of France, and Draco had boarded up Malfoy Manor. As far as Harry knew, Draco hadn’t been back since. Understandable, after everything that had happened there.
A few months ago, Harry had insisted on installing a television in Draco’s living room. He had claimed that it was to familiarize Draco with Muggle culture, but really, it was so that he could see the strange mix of fascination and horror that Draco got on his face when he watched it. And that was how Harry came to spend most of his afternoon watching Draco watch reruns of EastEnders.
“Do Muggles really act like this?” Draco asked at one point.
“Probably a few,” Harry said. Draco shook his head in amazement, and Harry disguised his laugh as a cough.
They were just finishing up the dinner that Draco’s house elf, Jilly, had made them when Harry was startled by a sudden loud beeping noise. Draco rolled his eyes and withdrew a small neon sphere from his pocket that looked like a Muggle marble. It was obviously the source of the beeping. Harry stared at it.
“What the-”
“Granger gave it to me. Apparently she doesn’t believe me capable of remembering to take my own medication.” He gave the marble a shake. “Quiet, you.”
The beeping subsided. Draco stood up. “I left the salve in the living room. It’ll be easier there, anyway.”
Harry followed him, quiet now that the prospect of touching Draco was about to become a reality. He just hoped to Merlin that he wouldn’t embarrass himself. Or make Draco uncomfortable. Oh, God, what if he got hard and Draco was so offended he threw him out?
In the roughly five and a half seconds it took to walk from the dining room to the living room, Harry had gone from rather content to completely terrified. He kept his jaw clenched tightly shut as he watched Draco unbutton and shrug off his shirt, aware that if he didn’t, it would drop open in a very unbecoming manner. While Draco’s back had been…disturbing, to say the least, his chest was exactly what Harry had expected: leanly muscled and smooth, with small, pale pink nipples that hardened when exposed to the cool air. Harry swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.
Draco, oblivious to Harry’s staring, placed the salve and a roll of fresh bandages on the coffee table, then sat down on the couch and began unwrapping his left arm. “I’ll do my arm first, and then you can do my back.”
“Uh…okay,” Harry said, after an inappropriately long pause. He sat in an armchair and watched as Draco cast a disinfecting spell on his own hands and then applied the salve to the cuts on his arm and wrist- which, Harry was glad to see, were not nearly as bad as the marks on his back. Draco’s movements were brisk and businesslike, but Harry still detected the way his breath caught slightly as he touched the wounds, the way he bit his bottom lip at the sting. Harry could feel his cock start to rise. There was no way he could do this.
Draco re-dressed his arm, Banished the dirty linens, and spelled his hands clean. He stood up and eyed the couch critically. “Hang on,” he said, “just let me…” With a flick of his wand and a muttered spell, he enlarged the couch enough so that they would both be able to fit on it comfortably. He lay down on his stomach and looked over at Harry. “Come on, Potter, we don’t have all night.”
Harry stood up and walked over to the couch slowly, almost reluctantly. He sat down next to Draco and stared at the man’s bandage-covered back. At the last minute, he realized he had forgotten the disinfecting spell and cursed.
Draco seemed amused. “It’s not that complicated, Potter. You take the salve and you put it on the skin. There’s no need to get so worked up about it.”
Harry gave him a weak glare as he cast the disinfecting spell on his hands. Then he reached out and removed the bandages, which had the unexpected but quite welcome side effect of considerably dampening his libido. It was next to impossible to maintain an erection when staring at the ruin of Draco’s back. He began applying the salve, in thin layers like Hermione had showed him.
He was so preoccupied with doing a good job that it took him a minute to realize that Draco’s quickened breathing and restlessly shifting hips were a decidedly unnatural reaction. He paused. “Does it hurt?”
“Not really,” Draco said, his voice breathier than Harry had ever heard it. “Stings a little.”
Harry continued with his ministrations, but even looking at the angry welts on Draco’s back weren’t enough to kill his hard-on this time. He finished as quickly as possible, trying- unsuccessfully- to ignore Draco’s nearly inaudible gasps and the subtle way he was moving his hips against the couch. When he was done, he laid his hands gently on Draco’s shoulders.
“Are you hard?” What?
“What?” Draco said, echoing Harry’s thoughts.
“Are you hard right now?” Harry asked, not knowing where the words were coming from. Well, no, he knew where the words were coming from; what he didn’t know was where he was finding the courage to say them, and it was a little frightening.
“Are you serious?”
Harry took hold of Draco’s shoulder and turned him over gently, aware of the wounds on his back.
“Potter, stop,” Draco said, but he didn’t put up much more of a resistance. Harry’s eyes fell on the unmistakable bulge in Draco’s trousers, and his own cock hardened further. Draco looked away, embarrassed, and it was so much like Harry’s fantasy of the previous night that he felt dizzy for a moment.
“It’s just a reaction to being touched,” said Draco, avoiding his eyes. In response, Harry took Draco’s hand and put it on his own erection. Draco’s eyes snapped back to Harry’s, surprise written all over his face. “Oh,” he said, and gave a gentle squeeze.
Harry gasped and fell forward, catching himself with his hands on either side of Draco’s head. Draco looked up at him, his eyes wide and grey and so, so beautiful. Harry leaned forward…
…and jerked back abruptly as the emergency call buzzer on Draco’s Floo sounded. Draco cursed and bolted upright, and he and Harry managed to disentangle themselves and be sitting on opposite sides of the couch by the time Kingsley Shacklebolt’s head appeared in the fire. Kingsley took in their flushed faces and Draco’s shirtless state with his normal impassiveness, which Harry had never been so immensely grateful for.
“Minister!” Draco gasped. “What- is something wrong?”
“I apologize for disturbing you, Mr. Malfoy; I know you’re still recovering, but I need Harry. Healer Granger-Weasley told me I could find him here.”
“What’s going on, Kingsley?” Harry knew Kingsley would never have used the new emergency-call feature that had been installed on all Aurors’ Floos after the war unless it really was an emergency.
“You’re needed at the Ministry,” he said. “Urgently.”
“Draco’s on leave-”
“This isn’t an Auror matter,” Kingsley interrupted. “We only need you.”
“I’m supposed to be looking after him-”
Draco rolled his eyes. “I think I can take care of myself for a few hours,” he said. “Just go. I’ll be fine.”
“What about your back?”
“I’ll get Jilly to bandage it up.” Sensing Harry’s objection, he lifted a hand. “I’ll wait for the salve to sink in first, so her magic doesn’t interfere. Go.”
“If you’re sure-”
“Tonight, Potter,” Kingsley snapped, and it had been so long since Harry had heard him use that tone that he immediately jumped up.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said to Draco, and stepped through the Floo the instant Kingsley’s head disappeared from it.
***
“What’s this all about?” Harry asked Kingsley as they strode through the dungeon-like hallways of the tenth floor of Ministry, which was completely deserted at this time of night.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he replied. “This is one you just have to see for yourself.”
“That sounds ominous.”
Kingsley just shrugged.
They stopped outside of one of the Ministry’s nicer holding cells- the ones usually reserved for the higher-class suspects. Kingsley removed the complicated ward from the door. “After you,” he said.
Harry gave him one final look, but Kingsley’s expression wasn’t giving anything away. Harry pushed open the door, walked into the room, and stopped dead in his tracks.
“Holy. Fuck,” he breathed.
“Quite,” said Severus Snape.
Chapter Two