Footprints in the Sane- Prologue
I finally finished the prologue of my NaNoWriMo fic, which ended up being a grand total of 17 pages (single-spaced). Bit wordy for a prologue, but there are four protaganists for this story and I had to introduce all of them, so there you have it. The first chapter is close to being done as well, since I ended up writing both it and the prologue simultaneously.
I'll be posting the chapters here as I finish them, but I won't be submitting the fic to any archives until I've finished it and had a chance to edit it. Since I'm doing this for Nano, it's an extremely rough rough draft; mostly I'm just concerned with finishing it right now. Anyway, without further ado, I give you the prologue of Footprints in the Sane (which is the temporary title I'm using until I can come up with one I like better).
Footprints in the Sane
(Real title pending)
Prologue:
Empty Places
One thing Harry had learned very early in his life was that war was about waiting. Hours, minutes, days, months, weeks, years… There were so many ways of dividing up a lifetime, but in his life there were only two that mattered: the long, grey periods spent holding his breath, slowly suffocating, and then those brief, lightning bright moments of finally being allowed to breathe.
For the first time in several weeks there was a clear night. It was bitterly cold outside, and the stars looked like shards of ice buried in the sky. A hush had fallen over the large group gathered in the barn; it was a thick silence, tense and awkward, as though waiting to be broken. Harry could feel their gazes straying towards him and their hope was like a burden pressing against his shoulders. He stared at the ground, afraid that if anyone saw his face they would see the hatred and resentment festering there like a raw wound.
Finally, someone spoke. It was Remus Lupin, his back turned to the wide door where he’d been keeping watch. He regarded them all for a moment with eyes that seemed to shine a little too brightly in the darkness. Harry could tell that he was searching for something to say that would encourage them and banish the fear that gnawed at them from the shadows. But when Lupin eventually spoke, all he said was, “It’s time.”
Harry was the first through the doorway, his boots crunching as they broke through the thin layer of ice covering the snow. Clouds of steam rose from his mouth, dissipating slowly into the cold night air. Ron moved forward to walk beside him, his mouth set in a tense line across his pale face. There was an anxiety in his eyes that had little do with his own life and everything to do with the lives that were waiting for him to return home. Across the fields, moving quickly down the slope of a hill towards the standing stones in between them, were black robed figures, their faces obscured by bone white masks.
There was a strange sound, like the moaning of old trees bending in the wind; a low, creaking rumble. Dark silhouettes, their bodies as thick as boulders trudged down over the snow covered hills, surrounded by the sea of Death Eaters. There were so many, and for the first time Harry began to feel fear tightening like a thick cord around his neck. His heart trembled, and he struggled to breathe. Panic made his mind race; there were hundreds of possibilities rushing through his head of all the ways a body could be broken. Years of nightmares filled with Voldemort’s sins, black and graphic and grotesque reminded him of what his enemy was capable of.
And at once Harry began to feel the fear lessen as it was replaced by a hot, burning rage. Voldemort had held him captive for so long, invading his mind and breaking everything that Harry loved. He remembered Cedric’s stiff, unmoving body, the shock that had paralyzed him; he remembered the way Sirius had looked as he’d fallen through the veil, as though he were only the ghost of a man, and had never really been there at all; he remembered Dumbledore, all useless pity and compassion for a monster that had never deserved his forgiveness to begin with. And worst of all, Harry thought of the parents that he couldn’t remember, because Voldemort had stolen them from him before he’d even had a chance to know them.
He had been waiting his entire life for this moment. Years of secrets and riddles, always being kept in the dark while everyone else endangered their lives for the cause. Years of being Voldemort’s victim, powerless to do anything but prepare himself for whenever Voldemort would strike him next. There was an ocean of rage within him, boiling hot and surging against its bonds. He wanted to hurt Voldemort, he wanted to destroy him completely and utterly and force him to feel every deep and crushing pain that he had ever inflicted on Harry. His hatred for Voldemort and all who supported him consumed him. He would break them all.
When the fighting began, it was Harry who threw the first curse. He never hesitated. The body of the Death Eater crumpled to the ground, its masked face buried within the muddy snow. Everything was becoming grey and dirty, but Harry didn’t care, because for the first time in his life he felt free.
It was all so fast-the moment Harry’s target hit the ground, the world erupted into noise. Despite the Order’s smaller numbers, they were holding their own due to the fact that a number of Death Eaters were devoting their time and concentration to controlling the giants. It was proving to be a fairly consuming task, as well; giants were resistant to most lesser magic, and it took several men to hold them in check with charm-enforced chains, while a more powerful wizard used Imperio to force the giants to destroy the standing stones. These groups were the Order’s primary targets; they had been instructed to single them out and stop them at all costs.
However, in the heat of the anger coursing through him, and the pleasure induced by finally being allowed to release it, Harry moved through his opponents without thought, fighting now simply for the thrill of it. Adrenalin flooded his veins with power and the possibility of death made life a vivid, intense reality. It was like a drug, and he drank it in desperately, thirsting even as he did so for more.
A Death Eater stumbled forward, its mask cracked and streaked with blood. Harry could make out dark skin underneath, and the high cheekbones and long lashes of a woman. Her hood had fallen back, and long black hair tumbled messily around her face, wet and clinging to her skin like dark vines. She was a demon, her every movement filled with pain and fear and rage as her wand cut through the air savagely, and she screamed, “Diffindo!”
A flash of blinding blue-white light cut through the air like lightning, and just as suddenly Harry felt a trickle of liquid run over his chest as his shirt grew damp. He only had time for a brief glance downward to see the deep gash carved into the skin just below his collarbone. And then there was a flash of movement again, but Harry was prepared for it this time.
“Protego!”
The curse hit the Shield Charm with a crack, exploding into a thousand tiny shards of colored light. Taking advantage of his enemy’s momentary pause, Harry shouted, “Accio wand!”
The Death Eater’s wand shot through the air and Harry caught it easily. The wood was slick with sweat and blood, making it difficult to hold. He tightened his grip, raising one leg and snapping the wand upon it with a resounding crack. The Death Eater flinched, her body shaking as fear rolled off of her in waves. Underneath it Harry could feel her anger as well, black and seething, clawing her up inside.
“You stupid, worthless little boy,” she spat, her eyes locked on Harry’s. It was exhilarating to see the passion in that gaze, the fire that threatened to consume him at any moment. “You’ll pay for that, even if I have to rip you apart with my own hands!”
She lunged forward, long fingers reaching for him, clawing at whatever skin they met. He gasped as she dragged them across his cheek, leaving hot, bleeding welts in her wake. Anger gave her an unnatural strength, twisting in his arms like a snake, impossible to hold onto. He beat his fists against her sides, but she was immune to the blows. Harry hooked an ankle behind her leg and shoved as hard as he could, and the Death Eater gave a cry as she fell backwards into the wet snow.
“Incarcerous,” Harry incanted. Long, silver ropes, like cords of steel, snaked up out of the ground and wrapped themselves around her arms and legs. Power lifted him higher and higher as he stood there, some part of him knowing what would come next and reveling in it. It was like flying, free of all restrictions, unrestrained by rules or expectations, with only magic holding him up, keeping him alive. He could do anything.
Harry raised his wand and felt the power surge around him, as though he were standing in the middle of a great fire. The words were upon his lips before he had even thought of them. “Avada kedavra.”
There was a flash of green light and then the woman lay still before him. Just beyond her, Ron stood watching him, an accusation in his eyes. Harry looked away.
From there everything became a haze of death and violence. Harry’s eyes moved restlessly over the masks of his enemies and the familiar faces of his allies, searching for the pale, snake-like man whose unnatural features the Death Eater’s white masks sought to mimic. Harry found him within the midst of the standing stone circle, not fighting so much as simply killing whoever he came into contact with. Around them the enormous, hulking forms of the giants strained and groaned as they attempted to rip the great stone pillars from the earth.
Harry no longer cared why they were here. It didn’t matter whether the Death Eaters succeeded in destroying Stone Henge, despite the fact that it was so crucial to upholding the wards which protected the Wizarding World. Harry didn’t care about the tactical reasons anymore, or even the moral ones for stopping Voldemort. He would kill Voldemort because he had to, because the hatred inside of him was overpowering, and in the end it would inevitably destroy one of them.
For neither can live while the other survives…
The waves of black robes parted, and Voldemort stood before him. It was so easy to forget that Voldemort had ever been human; the man who stood before him now was so deeply steeped in the Dark Arts that they seemed to slide off of him, poisoning whatever they touched. His unnaturally bright red eyes glowed within his pale face, as if the fire within him were the only thing keeping his corpse-like body alive. Tom Riddle had made his body as corrupt as his spirit; there were no handsome features now to mask the ugliness that dwelt inside.
Harry’s fingers tightened around his wand. He watched Voldemort’s lips draw back as he hissed words in a language only he and Harry understood.
“It’ss intoxicating, isn’t it? I can ssee the way you ache for power; you’re sstarving for it,” Voldemort murmured, his voice lazy with confidence. Harry felt naked under that gaze, unable to hide the blood that coated his skin. “You’re sstarting to ssee it now, aren’t you? There are no friendss here, no deluded old man to convince you that you’re sstill ssane. We’re the ssame, Potter.”
Harry only had a second to put up a shield before Voldemort’s curse hit him. It rebounded off into the darkness, falling away like a shooting star.
“Stupefy!” Harry shouted, but Voldemort deflected easily. Someone bumped into Harry from behind and for a moment he lost his balance, and that was all it took for Voldemort to strike.
“Expelliarmuss!” Harry’s wand shot out of his hand and Voldemort caught it, holding the two brother wands in his pale fist. Voldemort’s smile was cruel. “I’ve been waiting far too long to desstroy you, child… I’ve dreamt of tearing you apart in thoussand different ways. Which shall I begin with, Potter? Perhapss, crucio?”
The curse struck Harry so quickly and so violently that he didn’t even feel himself hit the ground; he was conscious only of the pain, and the feeling of a huge, clawed hand ripping the scream from his throat. He writhed and twisted in the trodden snow, hands clawing at the air. His nerves screamed and Harry’s mind hovered on the edge, as brittle as glass, and it was only a matter of seconds before he would shatter.
Finally, it ended. Harry lay gasping in the snow, his every breath sending spasms of pain through his body. It had all happened so fast, and Voldemort was standing there before him, and Harry knew he was going to die.
“You’re not tired already, are you, Potter?” Voldemort asked. He laughed. “That wass barely two minutess. However, if you’ve had enough of Cruciatuss, I’m sure I can find ssomething elsse with which to keep you occupied… Ossis fracto!”
There was a sickening crunching sound, and an unbearable pain erupted within Harry’s right leg where the curse had struck him. Harry could hear himself screaming over the noise of battle going on around him, but he was only aware of the pain and chaos crashing together within him. Voldemort moved in closer, till he stood only a few feet from Harry, looming over him. Harry bit his tongue to stop his screams, glaring up at him through the darkness beginning to cloud his vision.
“Sso thiss is how the Chossen One fallss,” Voldemort drawled. Behind him, Harry became aware of a huge, towering figure stumbling backwards toward them, chased by people clad in Auror’s robes. The giant raised its thick arms to protect itself as a barrage of curses thudded into its skin like arrows. A Death Eater rushed forward, and Harry felt a renewed surge of hatred as he recognized that low voice.
“My lord, the Aurors have arrived, we must retreat,” Snape called, coming to a halt by Voldemort’s side. The giant loomed ever closer, its feet sliding in the wet snow. Hot blood flowed from open wounds on its body, leaving wide trails of scarlet in its wake. It was going to fall, and its heavy girth would crush them easily, but Harry couldn’t move, and Voldemort had yet to notice its approach.
Voldemort hissed in frustration, never tearing his eyes away from Harry as he lifted his wand. “Then I shall finish him quickly…”
“There isn’t time--” Snape began, but he was cut off by a loud, rumbling cry as the giant, overcome by the Aurors, toppled and began to fall. Voldemort was speaking, his mouth forming the words of the Killing Curse, when Snape lunged, knocking the Dark Lord aside as the giant fell. Harry’s vision went black as its shadow covered him, and then someone was screaming horribly with pain, and he realized distantly, before losing consciousness, that it was him.
******
In their bedroom, everything was silent and washed with blue light. Hermione had been lying awake for hours, breathing slowly and counting heartbeats. She counted them in multiples of two: two, four, six, eight, ten… The minutes lingered as they passed, growing long and vague; slowly, they gathered in the room like a pale mist.
I’m not alone, Hermione reminded herself, even as she wrapped her arms tighter around a soft pillow, inhaling Ron’s scent and imagining it was him. If she tried hard enough, maybe she could conjure him here, into the protective circle of her embrace, where she could keep him for herself. Twelve, fourteen, sixteen…
Hermione wanted to feel guilty. Everyone she loved was out in the darkness, fighting and killing and… dying, and here she was, tucked safely in her own bed. But Hermione was too sick with fear to feel anything else. She wondered what would happen if tomorrow night and every night after that she went to bed alone and tried to fall asleep in a room full of blue light, the color of despair, while the mists of Lethe swirled around her mind. Whenever she closed her eyes she saw the bundle of life that existed within her, tiny and red like a pomegranate seed. It should have comforted her, but the bed was cool and silent and there were no arms to return her embrace.
Eighteen, twenty, twenty-two…
She closed her eyes, breathing deeply.
I’m (not) alone.
******
There is the taste of wine and ashes on his tongue, his passion burnt to smokey nothingness in his mouth. A faint movement, the whisper of breath against his skin; the feather-light touch of warm fingers trailing idle paths over his shoulder, down his spine, then gone. He drinks in the air, still and frozen in the inky blackness that wraps him like cool silk, encasing his boneless limbs. In the shadows he can smell magic, as tangible as the body beside his own; it speaks to him like music, without words. There are only breif flashes of color and emotion, dancing like burning flowers behind his eyes.
A voice, a breathless murmur in the dark; a name hangs there for a moment, caught in the endless space between them. His own words have left him, and he cannot reply-instead he lets sleep-heavy eyes slip open slowly, waiting as the dream-like smudges of color gradually form shapes and name themselves. Green eyes the color of death flash before him, gleaming with some nameless power that swirls through their depths like emerald poison. The realization that he knows this face buzzes at the back of his mind, angry and persistent; but in the dream, there is only the silent flow of words that cannot be spoken passing between them, lilting like some strange, unknown melody that he has only just become conscious of.
His lips part and he can feel the name on the tip of his tongue, hesitating there, half-formed in the confines of his mouth. He pauses, watching those eyes, feeling a thousand crimson emotions swirl through him like a blood-colored whirlwind, tearing at him from within. Finally, his voice returns and he speaks, and all the little pieces fall together to form one picture, one concept, one image that shatters the silence; the name, spoken now, waits for him, in the curling green mists of the other’s eyes.
******
There were only shadows to greet him when his eyes opened next, darkened with sleep and heavy with exhaustion. It was the dream again, plaguing him relentlessly for the fifth night in a row. He’d hardly slept at all over the course of the past week, and it was beginning to show in the dark bags that shadowed his eyes, and his increasing irritability. The cold air swam past his lips in deep breaths, trying to satiate the desperate need for it brought on by the dream.
What truly bothered him about it was that it wasn’t a nightmare; Draco could handle those, and had done so many times in the past. It was the fact that this dream seemed to be more of a message, or perhaps a warning, that troubled him. From what little he could remember of it he could draw no conclusions; certainly nothing worth losing his sleep over. There was only the vague memory of startlingly bright green eyes, and a name that lingered in broken fragments at the edges of his mind.
There was no concept of time here, in this dark old house, with windows that looked out upon the same bleak scenery day after day. However, from a clock resting on his nightstand, he gathered that it was seven AM. He thrust aside his blankets and swung his feet out of bed, allowing the cold morning air to nip at whatever skin it could reach.
The floor was as cold as ice, and no matter how many months he’d spent here, it still came as a shock to him when his bare feet touched the frozen wood. He hurried across the small room to an adjoining bathroom, murmuring “Lumos” on his way. Tall candelabras burst into flickering light, illuminating the old fashioned and dully furnished chambers.
He fought the urge to look in the mirror, already knowing what he would see if he did so. Everyday it was the same pattern. The dream would wake him in the early hours of the morning, and leave him too restless to fall asleep again. And every morning he would eventually give in and study his reflection in all its depressing detail, noting with reluctance the deepening shadows beneath his eyes, the way the grey of his irises seemed glazed with weariness, the lines that framed his mouth…
This was growing tedious. Something had to be done, or he was certain he’d either go mad or end up looking so disheveled that he’d die of shame. Pointedly ignoring the mirror, he strode past it, turning the water in the shower on with a tap of his wand. He pulled his clothes off, leaving them in a disordered heap on the floor to be cleaned by the house elf. It was then that, inevitably, his eyes rose slowly to the mirror, resigned, already knowing what they would find… and stopped abruptly in shock.
A strangled gasp was torn from his lips, his heart pounding so furiously within his chest that he was certain it would break free at any moment. Horror washed over him in cold waves, numbing his mind. Blood flowed down the glass in crimson streaks, smeared over the smooth surface like red paint. In the sink was a lump of meat, oval-shaped and lined with veins and cords of muscle-a heart. As he stared at it, dawning horror fighting with revulsion within him, the heart gave a tiny twitch, so small he thought at first that he had imagined it… And then it came again, stronger this time. The heart was beginning to beat.
Draco stumbled backwards, eyes still fixed on the heart as it lay in the sink, slowly beginning to beat again. With each tremulous movement, a fresh flow of blood would gush from its severed arteries, till the sink was so full of the red liquid that it ran over the counter and fell in waves to the floor. He continued to move away from the dark rivers as they stretched their long fingers toward him, inching further and further until his back came into contact with the cool wall, making the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
He was trapped now, pressed against the wall as the blood pooled around him, soaking his feet and rising to cover them as the room began to fill. Draco knew that he was panicking, but he couldn’t force his heaving chest to slow, nor could he calm the pounding of his heart. His mind felt as though it were wrapped in cotton, and his thoughts were lost beneath the fear that had risen up to conquer him. Waves of blood continued to fall over the counter, joining the growing sea of it that inched slowly up the walls, up his legs, climbing with such slow inevitability that it was impossible to escape.
The door was gone now, it had disappeared long ago; simply ceased to exist in Draco’s mind and was no longer real. The only things that were real anymore were the cold of the wall pressed against his back, and the warm, sticky blood that had reached his waist now and was creeping ever upward. In seconds it had reached his chest, and now his neck-Draco had only time for a gasp before it had risen to cover his mouth and nose, and then he was buried within it, drowning in the dark sea of blood.
His fingers scratched at the wall until his nails tore and he could feel the pain lancing through him, shooting through his nerves to reach his brain only to find that his mind was too numb to understand. He was going to die. Draco knew this, and this thought alone seemed to penetrate the fog that enfolded him, and yet there was still nothing he could do to stop it. The blood would fill his mouth and lungs, and his heart would stop and then he would die, Draco would die here in an ocean of red heat.
It was no less than he deserved.
This realization calmed him, and despite the desperate burning in his chest for air, despite the hammering of his heart against his ribs, Draco felt the panic begin to recede. The fog around his mind dissipated, leaving him oddly still, and he wondered if this was what death would feel like, just this wonderful nothingness without pain or thought. Just as darkness began to encompass him and all began to fade into oblivion, Draco’s eyes flew open suddenly and he felt air rush into his lungs again.
The blood was gone.
There was no heart lying in the sink, its muscles pumping endless amounts of blood through severed veins. When he looked into the mirror, Draco saw only his reflection, eyes wide and dilated, his complexion sallow; there was no hint of red, no flash of crimson anywhere amongst the blacks and whites and greys that made up his world.
There was nothing. Fear seized him again, and confusion; Draco placed one shaky hand against the wall, sliding down its length till he reached the floor, and there he wrapped his arms tightly about his knees, staring blankly at the counter before him.
What was going on?
The cold of the floor and wall seeped into his naked body, and shivers ran up and down his spine. He looked down at his hand, palm facing up, as pale and untouched as the rest of him. His fingernails were torn and the tips of his fingers an angry red, but there was no sign of the blood that had been there only moments before.
The realization that none of it had been real began to dawn on him. The heart, the blood… all of it had been little more than a hallucination. He sucked in a deep breath, listening to the sound of the water running in the shower, pounding against the floor. Clouds of steam began to fill the room, and the mirror was soon covered in a layer of hazy condensation. Rising shakily, Draco forced himself to cross the room and step beneath the fall of hot water, scalding his frozen skin till it was dotted with color. There was no reflection in the mirror as he passed.
******
Harry opened his eyes slowly, squinting as he tried to see in the dim light. There were chains binding his wrists to the wall above his head, and the stone floor beneath him felt damp with mildew. His cell was a shallow niche carved into the rock wall, with thick iron bars across the entrance. He could see other cells along the opposite wall, some with two or three prisoners held within. Across from him strange, golden eyes were watching from the shadows. Through the pain clouding his mind he began to realize where he was: the Death Eater’s stronghold.
The Order had tried so many times to find this place, hoping desperately that it might still be possible to save some of those who had been captured. It was ironic that now that Harry had found it, he wanted to be anywhere but here.
“Who’s there?” came a rough voice from the cell opposite his, where the yellow eyed person had moved closer to the bars, revealing the haggard face of a man. His features were so lined with scars and dirt it was impossible to guess his age, but Harry could tell that, on some level, he was very old.
“I’m… Ron Evans,” Harry lied, settling for the first names that came to mind. A pang of guilt arose within him at the thought of when he had seen Ron last, watching him on the battle field. He hoped desperately that Ron, at least, had escaped; he deserved to survive this war far more than Harry did.
“Never ‘eard of you,” the man spoke, not bothering to offer his own name in return. Silence fell over them for a moment, and Harry realized the man wasn’t going to speak again. The quiet was suffocating, filled with memories of the night before and fear that threatened to crush him.
“Have you been here long?” Harry asked.
The yellow eyes regarded him solemnly. “We all have.”
Harry realized that what he was about to ask wasn’t particularly tactful, but at the moment he couldn’t be bothered much with manners. “Why have they kept us alive?”
Before the man could reply, an unnatural howling echoed through the prison, impossibly loud. It was an animalistic sound, but underneath that was something strangely human that made a shiver of fear run down Harry’s spine like cold water.
The man laughed, a dry, rusty sound. “You call this life, boy?”
Heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway, and the old man went silent, disappearing into the shadows of his cell once more. Peering out between the bars, Harry could make out a tall, sallow skinned man walking quickly toward him, his black hair falling like curtains on either side of his face. Instantly the cold of the prison disappeared, as well as his pain; heat flowed through his veins and tinged the world with red.
Snape stopped before Harry’s cell, his dark eyes sweeping over Harry briefly. He tapped his wand to the bars, whispering an incantation under his breath. With a loud groan, the door began to slide away.
“Snape,” Harry hissed, the name becoming sibilant and snake-like upon his tongue. Snape froze, eyes widening fractionally.
“Potter,” he acknowledged, speaking quietly, his languid voice hiding whatever emotion his face hadn’t. “I realize that this may be difficult for you, but if you wish to escape from here alive, then you will do as I say. If you struggle, or attempt to fight this in any way, you will die and there will be nothing I can do to prevent it.”
Confusion warred inside of Harry with anger, but before he could speak Snape had drawn his wand again and leveled it at Harry.
“Imperio.”
A calm settled over Harry’s mind, blanketing the smoldering anger. Snape watched him for a moment, as if to see whether or not Harry would fight. But the pain and fear was gone and Harry’s mind was finally, peacefully empty. Snape said something that caused the chains to release his wrists, and then a smooth, persuasive voice inside Harry’s mind urged him to rise.
Even through the curse Harry could feel that something was wrong with his leg as he rose and tried to follow Snape out of the cell. As soon as he placed his weight upon it, it crumbled underneath him and he was crashing toward the stone floor.
NO, Harry thought with a jolt, becoming suddenly aware of the sticky web of magic encasing his mind. Pain lanced through him, white hot and maddening. Desperately, he pushed on the thin strands trapping him, holding him tight like an insect caught in a spider’s web. Even as he thought this, he could feel Snape moving in like a dark predator, ready to seize him and subdue him again.
NO, Harry shouted furiously, trying to force the word past his unmoving lips. Snape tightened his hold, but the bonds were beginning to weaken and any second now they would snap.
“Finite incantatum,” Snape muttered, and at once Harry was aware of lying on the cold floor as the horrible pain in his leg washed over him. “I should’ve known better than to think that you would ever be capable of letting go of your insufferable arrogance, even for the sake of preserving your own life. Very well, Potter, we’ll do it the hard way instead. Petrificus totalus!”
Harry’s body stiffened under the full body bind, his nerves screaming. Never having been placed under the hex while injured, Harry had had no idea of the kind of agony it could cause. It felt like a heavy pressure had just been wrapped around his broken leg, tightening like a vise. He wanted to cry out but he was paralyzed, and his lips where frozen shut.
“Mobilicorpus,” Snape intoned, and Harry’s prone body followed him out of the cell and down the long hallway. They walked for nearly ten minutes before coming to a stairway cut into the rock, descending down in a curving spiral. After a short while they stopped on the staircase, and Snape tapped his wand against the wall beside them. A door appeared in the previously blank rock, leading into a dark corridor. They entered, and Harry could hear the grinding of the stone door closing behind them, encasing them momentarily in darkness.
“Lumos,” Snape said, and they began to move forward again. Harry was sick with pain, and he began to drift in and out of consciousness. The dark tunnel seemed to go on forever, illuminated only by what light stretched past Snape’s dark form. It was like a nightmare that he couldn’t wake up from.
Harry had passed out again, and was startled awake by a loud noise, like rocks grating together. They had finally left the cave prison, and stood outside now on a rocky precipice facing an open field. The light was blinding after the dimly lit caves, piercing Harry’s eyes like arrows. Squinting, he could make out the shadowy, jagged form of a forest bordering the meadow, and beyond that, steep, grassy hills.
“I’m going to release you from the hex, Potter, but do not think that I will hesitate to use it again should your temper overcome you,” Snape warned. “Finite incantatum.”
Harry drew in a sharp breath as he was released from the hex. His first instinct was to hurt Snape as badly as possible, but his wand had been taken (and probably destroyed), and Snape was clearly the one in power in this situation.
Snape regarded him with a mix of caution and condescending amusement until he was certain that Harry had his emotions in check. “I’m glad you’ve decided to make an effort at behaving like a civilized human being for once. We haven’t very much time, Potter, and it is crucial that we leave here immediately.”
“Why are you doing this?” Harry was surprised at the roughness of his own voice when he spoke, his throat still raw and sore. He struggled to stay awake, grasping onto consciousness like a handful of sand.
“You’re ability to listen and comprehend what I’m saying to you clearly hasn’t improved since you left school,” Snape snapped impatiently. “Didn’t I just say we have very little time?”
Snape grabbed hold of Harry’s arm, his wand in his opposite hand. Harry felt the beginnings of Apparition taking hold of them as Snape said, “It’s time we were leaving, Potter.”
******
Just like she had done nearly every day since she’d gotten married, Pansy woke up to an empty room, got dressed silently, walked down a silent hallway and a long flight of stairs, and entered a dining room where she and Terry ate in silence. Even the sound of silverware tapping against their plates began to fade; there was nothing but the quiet, the taste of coffee and the distance that stretched between them like a deep canyon.
Pansy wondered idly if it was possible to become mute simply by never speaking. She thought constantly about breaking the silence, obsessed over the possibility of standing up one morning and screaming so loudly and with such immeasurable force that she shook the house to its very foundations and brought it crumbling down around them. She closed her eyes and imagined the windows shattering and little pieces of glass and snow raining down like silver confetti. The beams would crack and the walls collapse and Terry would just sit there, immersed in his book, oblivious to the power of Pansy’s fury.
There was a gentle popping sound, and a house elf appeared beside her, presenting a sealed letter on a silver tray. Pansy accepted it wordlessly. It read:
My dearest Pansy,
I hope you are well. Everything is wonderful here. Your father just had a marvelous success at work this week; the details are rather too complex for me, I’m afraid, but suffice it to say that his business is doing quite well and he’s very excited about the recent expansion. Your sister wrote me the other day, with the news that she and Christopher are expecting another child. Rosalind is just as happy as you’d expect her to be; her words were absolutely glowing with excitement. As for myself, I am overjoyed to see my family doing so well, and I can hardly wait to see you, dear.
Your father and I will be stopping by this afternoon to help with the plans for your upcoming birthday. It’s hard to imagine my little girl is going to be twenty years old in just a few weeks. Don’t worry yourself too much about the party; you know we’ll take care of all of the arrangements for you.
Your loving mother,
Elizabeth Parkinson
The letter slipped out of her fingers and landed softly on the table. Pansy stared down at it blankly. It was so like her mother to talk as though everything were perfect, despite the fact that there was a war going on, despite the fact that people Pansy had grown up with, gone to school with, were out there dying for something they believed in; despite the fact that Pansy herself would have been glad to die out there with them, even though she didn’t believe in anything.
And she supposed she should feel happy for Rosalind, her wonderful older sister, happily married with two beautiful children and another on the way. She was everything that a woman was supposed to be. Everything that Pansy tried so hard to be, even though it tore her up inside and threatened to destroy her. Pansy had done her duty as a loyal daughter by staying out of politics and marrying the man her parents had chosen. And now she was meant to produce an heir, even though Terry never touched her. Her mother kept waiting for the good news, and Terry’s parents always turned expectant looks upon her whenever they visited. Pansy tried so hard not to see the accusations that existed in all of their eyes every time they left in disappointment. And most of all she tried to suppress the overwhelming relief when, night after night, her door never opened and she fell asleep alone.
Terry began to rise from the table, finally closing the book he’d been reading. He glanced over at Pansy, as if only just noticing her, his gaze distracted. “A letter from your parents?” he asked.
She nodded. “They’re coming over this afternoon to help with the arrangements for my birthday party.”
Terry frowned. “Your birthday…?”
“It’s on the twenty-third, remember?” Pansy reminded him.
He nodded absently. “Right, of course. I suppose your parents are staying for dinner tonight?”
“Yes. I’ll take care of any preparations.”
“Great. I’ll be in my office then, should you need me.” Terry gathered up his book and left. The door shut quietly behind him and Pansy felt her shoulders slump as the tension left her. She could just imagine Terry, ensconced in his tower of books, an impenetrable fortress of intellect. She had only vague ideas of what he studied in there, and quite honestly she didn’t really care much. It was an obsession. Every day he would disappear into his office where he would spend hours hunched over his books, scratching notes onto endless sheets of parchment. Sometimes she wondered if he were somewhat mad. It wasn’t normal for anyone to become so caught up in something, and this passion of his was disturbing.
He would forget to eat and bathe, only falling asleep when his exhausted mind forced him to collapse with fatigue. The only thing that ever seemed to drive him to act normally was his compulsion to always appear neat and proper. On the occasions that he let himself become untidy, he would lock his office door and refuse to let anyone in until he’d made himself presentable. Pansy had no idea what caused Terry to act the way he did, and there was nothing that she could do about it either. As his wife it would be inappropriate of her to discuss her husband’s weaknesses with others, and besides which she had the feeling that Terry’s parents had always known.
And so Pansy was trapped in a marriage with a man she didn’t want, who was so lost inside his own broken mind that he rarely even acknowledged her.
Pansy stared down at her mother’s letter for a long moment. Then she pressed her wand against the parchment and said, “Incendio.”
Moments later Elizabeth Parkinson’s words had been reduced to ash.
******
The house was empty when Draco finally made his way downstairs to the dining room for breakfast. An ancient house elf appeared to ask him what he preferred to eat, as it had every single morning since he’d come to Spinner’s End nearly two years ago. Clearly the pathetic creature was becoming senile, but Draco couldn’t find it in him to really feel anything more than a distant pity for it as he recited, once again, that he took coffee (with cream but no sugar) and muffins with butter and lemon curd. The old elf nodded and began to trudge its way slowly towards the door, but then turned back for a moment, frowning as if trying to remember something.
“Master Snape tells us to inform Master Draco that he will not be returning until…” the elf drifted off, and Draco tried not to sigh impatiently- it would only distract the blasted thing. “… until later,” the elf finished at last.
“Very well. Thank you,” Draco said unthinkingly, and then winced as he realized what he’d said. I really am going mad, Draco thought dismally. Hallucinating and being kind to pathetic old house elves… Clearly he’d spent far too long in hiding. Living with Snape, though, it was bound to happen eventually…
Draco had not really expected Snape to return so soon. While Snape had refused to tell him what was really happening, it was obvious that something important had taken place last night. A dangerous task from the Dark Lord, or a battle, perhaps… Whatever it was, he hoped that Snape returned safely. The idea of being stranded in this decrepit old house didn’t bear thinking about.
His breakfast appeared magically on the table before him, and Gimpy, or whatever that old elf was called, appeared beside the table with a loud crack that would have startled anyone who wasn’t expecting it.
“Will Master Draco be needing anything else?”
Draco waved his hand dismissively as he took a long sip of his coffee. “No, that will be all.”
With another earsplitting crack it disappeared again, presumably to some distant corner of the house where it could wait for death in peace. Draco frowned bitterly at his own thoughts, wishing he himself didn’t feel as though he were waiting for the same thing.
He ran a hand through his hair, still damp from his shower. He’d given up on bothering to keep it tidy, since the only other human being he saw anymore was Snape, and Merlin knew he certainly didn’t give a damn about Draco’s appearance. He’d had to give up on pretty much anything resembling a normal life once he’d gone into hiding. Aside from Snape and the occasional letter from his mother, he was completely isolated here. It was hardly any wonder that his mind was beginning to deteriorate now as well.
He had to leave. The thought had been building up within him slowly for the last few weeks, and now it felt like an ultimatum. If he continued on here as he’d been doing, he would go mad. Anything was better than this half-life, hiding within Snape’s shadow as the threat of the Dark Lord hung over him, a constant reminder of his betrayal. He would leave England, go to Europe, perhaps; anywhere was better than here.
Draco stared at his hands, his fingers torn and raw. Everything was beginning to fall apart now, and if he didn’t escape soon, he would never be able to put himself back together again. It was simple: he would give Snape what he wanted, have him released from his vow (which he should never have taken in the first place), and then he would leave.
Unfortunately, actually doing all of that was rather more complex. It would take some time to gather everything for Snape, and then he’d have to make arrangements of his own for money and accommodations. Heaven only knew how he would leave the country without the Ministry detecting him. He winced as he realized that the only way out would be through muggle means.
His mind drifted back to the terrible hallucination from this morning, and he felt his doubts swept away by a firm resolve. He had no choice; he would do whatever it took to leave to leave this place.
Draco was just finishing up breakfast when he heard a noise in the front room. It was strange that Snape would be back so soon, and even more worrying was the fact that he didn’t appear to be alone. Draco could make out the sound of voices now, Snape’s low tones and another younger voice, which sounded vaguely familiar.
Draco passed into the hallway outside the dining room, and stepped into a dusty cloak closet. Spinner’s End was full of all kinds of nooks and crannies, most of which Draco had discovered over the past year and a half that he’d spent in hiding there. Whenever anyone came by, mostly other Death Eaters, Draco would be whisked away to some dark corner where he would be forced to wait for hours until Snape released him.
This particular hiding spot had a more practical purpose, however. It had a tiny hole through which one could peer out into the front room - or what passed for Snape’s living room, at any rate, shabby and ill cared for though it was. He pressed his eye up against the hole, and was met with complete darkness. It took Draco a moment to realize that Snape must have predicted that Draco’s curiosity would get the best of him, and accordingly positioned himself directly in front of the spy hole.
Heartless old bastard, Draco thought with affection.
“You may as well come out, now,” Snape said, in a voice that was clearly intended for Draco. “I may require your assistance with this… matter.”
Draco, feeling a bit embarrassed having been caught and annoyed with himself for being so predictable, slipped out of the closet and opened the door into the living room. And promptly stopped in shock when he saw who was lying on Snape’s ragged old couch, apparently unconscious.
“Potter?” Draco asked, rather needlessly. It was obviously him; no one else had such unbelievably untidy hair or a rather unique knack for leaving Draco completely speechless. “What in Mordred’s name is he doing here?”
“Sleeping, it would seem,” Snape replied sarcastically. “Only Harry Potter would be so thickheaded as to fall asleep in the presence of his enemies.”
Draco took another look at Potter, and realized that he probably wasn’t asleep so much as passed out. Saying that he was a complete mess would be a bit of an understatement. He was covered, from head to toe in dirt and blood. His robes were torn across the chest, and he could make out a deep gash, crusted over with dried blood. There were long scratches across his face, and he was heavily bruised; here and there he could see broken capillaries under his skin, a sign of prolonged exposure to Cruciatus. The list of all the things that were physically wrong with Potter could have gone on for quite some time even on a good day, Draco mused. And this is definitely not a good day.
“What are you planning on doing with him?” Draco asked, somewhat cautiously. If Snape intended to kill Potter, he wasn’t really sure he wanted to be around when it happened. He hated Potter, undoubtedly, but unfortunately murder made him a bit squeamish. To put it lightly.
Snape glared at Potter’s prone form. “Healing him, to begin with; then getting rid of him as promptly as possible.”
“May I ask why?”
Snape gave him a look that said “No, you may not” in about ten different ways, each more crude than the last.
Draco sighed. “Right. What do you want me to do, then?”
“Bring me the essence of almond, borage, fig marigold and a bottle of Firewhisky,” Snape answered. “I’ll get the rest.”
The rest turned out to be several bandages, a small cauldron filled with water, and a shot glass (because Snape was too well bred to drink from the bottle). Snape instructed him on how to prepare the Bone Restoring Potion, and Draco set to work chopping the borage leaves while Snape began cleaning the open wounds and applying healing potion. Fortunately the potion was fairly simple to make (he remembered learning it back in third year at Hogwarts), and took all of ten minutes to brew.
“Ennervate,” Snape said. Potter drew in a sharp breath and his eyes opened, peering up at Snape in confusion. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Potter. I trust you slept well?”
Potter seemed to come back to his senses then. He glared at Snape. “Where am I?”
“I was kind enough not only to save your life but also to offer you the hospitality of my own home and you repay me by interrogating me like a common criminal,” he sneered. “I suppose the Boy Who Lived could hardly lower himself to a simple thank you.”
Potter sneered. “I have nothing to thank you for. I would have rather have died in there than accept your charity.”
“And I would have been more than happy to let you!” Snape growled loudly, nearly shouting. Draco was surprised at the venom in Snape’s voice and the tinge of color rising in his face; as always, it was only Potter who could infuriate someone to the point of losing control. He had always had that effect on Draco as well, but it was a little frightening to see it on Snape, who was usually so composed and withdrawn.
Snape seemed to become aware that he was close to losing control, and he closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. When he opened them again his eyes looked like shuttered windows, indifferent and condescendingly private. “I was merely repaying my debts, Potter. I assure you, if I could have, I would have murdered you myself. I would like nothing better than to see you dead… And the next time we meet, I will take every measure to make sure I do.”
Draco watched the look of hatred passing between Snape and Potter and felt like an outsider. He was certain that if Potter had had his wand at that moment he would have tried to kill Snape himself. The pure hate radiating off of Potter was like something tangible, a thick dark substance like oil, reflecting whatever was directed toward it. Draco had experienced that anger before, been on the receiving end of it more times than he could remember. But Potter had been younger then, and he had still seemed innocent. Now, there was very little that Draco would have considered Potter incapable of.
Potter rose shakily from the couch, his face contorted with anger, and tried to walk. He only managed to stumble a few steps before his broken leg collapsed and he fell to the floor with a loud crash. Snape swore but didn’t attempt to approach him; instead Draco moved forward and grabbed Potter’s arm. Potter looked up at him in surprise, obviously only just noticing Draco’s presence. Draco was about to say something sarcastic about Potter’s observation skills and lack thereof, when their gazes met and all his words left him.
It was him, Draco realized with that slow wonder of an epiphany. In my dream-it was him.
Potter just watched him, saying nothing, as Draco helped him back onto the battered couch. An emptiness descended upon Draco’s mind, strange and blank and quiet. He handed Potter the vial of Bone Restoring Potion wordlessly. Looking at his eyes was like looking at death Draco realized and just as suddenly he understood the dream. It had been so much more than a message; it was an inevitable truth.
They were going to return Potter to the Order, and then Draco would give Snape what he wanted, and then Draco would leave. It was as simple and as complex as that.
Draco looked into Harry’s eyes and died.
I'll be posting the chapters here as I finish them, but I won't be submitting the fic to any archives until I've finished it and had a chance to edit it. Since I'm doing this for Nano, it's an extremely rough rough draft; mostly I'm just concerned with finishing it right now. Anyway, without further ado, I give you the prologue of Footprints in the Sane (which is the temporary title I'm using until I can come up with one I like better).
Footprints in the Sane
(Real title pending)
Prologue:
Empty Places
One thing Harry had learned very early in his life was that war was about waiting. Hours, minutes, days, months, weeks, years… There were so many ways of dividing up a lifetime, but in his life there were only two that mattered: the long, grey periods spent holding his breath, slowly suffocating, and then those brief, lightning bright moments of finally being allowed to breathe.
For the first time in several weeks there was a clear night. It was bitterly cold outside, and the stars looked like shards of ice buried in the sky. A hush had fallen over the large group gathered in the barn; it was a thick silence, tense and awkward, as though waiting to be broken. Harry could feel their gazes straying towards him and their hope was like a burden pressing against his shoulders. He stared at the ground, afraid that if anyone saw his face they would see the hatred and resentment festering there like a raw wound.
Finally, someone spoke. It was Remus Lupin, his back turned to the wide door where he’d been keeping watch. He regarded them all for a moment with eyes that seemed to shine a little too brightly in the darkness. Harry could tell that he was searching for something to say that would encourage them and banish the fear that gnawed at them from the shadows. But when Lupin eventually spoke, all he said was, “It’s time.”
Harry was the first through the doorway, his boots crunching as they broke through the thin layer of ice covering the snow. Clouds of steam rose from his mouth, dissipating slowly into the cold night air. Ron moved forward to walk beside him, his mouth set in a tense line across his pale face. There was an anxiety in his eyes that had little do with his own life and everything to do with the lives that were waiting for him to return home. Across the fields, moving quickly down the slope of a hill towards the standing stones in between them, were black robed figures, their faces obscured by bone white masks.
There was a strange sound, like the moaning of old trees bending in the wind; a low, creaking rumble. Dark silhouettes, their bodies as thick as boulders trudged down over the snow covered hills, surrounded by the sea of Death Eaters. There were so many, and for the first time Harry began to feel fear tightening like a thick cord around his neck. His heart trembled, and he struggled to breathe. Panic made his mind race; there were hundreds of possibilities rushing through his head of all the ways a body could be broken. Years of nightmares filled with Voldemort’s sins, black and graphic and grotesque reminded him of what his enemy was capable of.
And at once Harry began to feel the fear lessen as it was replaced by a hot, burning rage. Voldemort had held him captive for so long, invading his mind and breaking everything that Harry loved. He remembered Cedric’s stiff, unmoving body, the shock that had paralyzed him; he remembered the way Sirius had looked as he’d fallen through the veil, as though he were only the ghost of a man, and had never really been there at all; he remembered Dumbledore, all useless pity and compassion for a monster that had never deserved his forgiveness to begin with. And worst of all, Harry thought of the parents that he couldn’t remember, because Voldemort had stolen them from him before he’d even had a chance to know them.
He had been waiting his entire life for this moment. Years of secrets and riddles, always being kept in the dark while everyone else endangered their lives for the cause. Years of being Voldemort’s victim, powerless to do anything but prepare himself for whenever Voldemort would strike him next. There was an ocean of rage within him, boiling hot and surging against its bonds. He wanted to hurt Voldemort, he wanted to destroy him completely and utterly and force him to feel every deep and crushing pain that he had ever inflicted on Harry. His hatred for Voldemort and all who supported him consumed him. He would break them all.
When the fighting began, it was Harry who threw the first curse. He never hesitated. The body of the Death Eater crumpled to the ground, its masked face buried within the muddy snow. Everything was becoming grey and dirty, but Harry didn’t care, because for the first time in his life he felt free.
It was all so fast-the moment Harry’s target hit the ground, the world erupted into noise. Despite the Order’s smaller numbers, they were holding their own due to the fact that a number of Death Eaters were devoting their time and concentration to controlling the giants. It was proving to be a fairly consuming task, as well; giants were resistant to most lesser magic, and it took several men to hold them in check with charm-enforced chains, while a more powerful wizard used Imperio to force the giants to destroy the standing stones. These groups were the Order’s primary targets; they had been instructed to single them out and stop them at all costs.
However, in the heat of the anger coursing through him, and the pleasure induced by finally being allowed to release it, Harry moved through his opponents without thought, fighting now simply for the thrill of it. Adrenalin flooded his veins with power and the possibility of death made life a vivid, intense reality. It was like a drug, and he drank it in desperately, thirsting even as he did so for more.
A Death Eater stumbled forward, its mask cracked and streaked with blood. Harry could make out dark skin underneath, and the high cheekbones and long lashes of a woman. Her hood had fallen back, and long black hair tumbled messily around her face, wet and clinging to her skin like dark vines. She was a demon, her every movement filled with pain and fear and rage as her wand cut through the air savagely, and she screamed, “Diffindo!”
A flash of blinding blue-white light cut through the air like lightning, and just as suddenly Harry felt a trickle of liquid run over his chest as his shirt grew damp. He only had time for a brief glance downward to see the deep gash carved into the skin just below his collarbone. And then there was a flash of movement again, but Harry was prepared for it this time.
“Protego!”
The curse hit the Shield Charm with a crack, exploding into a thousand tiny shards of colored light. Taking advantage of his enemy’s momentary pause, Harry shouted, “Accio wand!”
The Death Eater’s wand shot through the air and Harry caught it easily. The wood was slick with sweat and blood, making it difficult to hold. He tightened his grip, raising one leg and snapping the wand upon it with a resounding crack. The Death Eater flinched, her body shaking as fear rolled off of her in waves. Underneath it Harry could feel her anger as well, black and seething, clawing her up inside.
“You stupid, worthless little boy,” she spat, her eyes locked on Harry’s. It was exhilarating to see the passion in that gaze, the fire that threatened to consume him at any moment. “You’ll pay for that, even if I have to rip you apart with my own hands!”
She lunged forward, long fingers reaching for him, clawing at whatever skin they met. He gasped as she dragged them across his cheek, leaving hot, bleeding welts in her wake. Anger gave her an unnatural strength, twisting in his arms like a snake, impossible to hold onto. He beat his fists against her sides, but she was immune to the blows. Harry hooked an ankle behind her leg and shoved as hard as he could, and the Death Eater gave a cry as she fell backwards into the wet snow.
“Incarcerous,” Harry incanted. Long, silver ropes, like cords of steel, snaked up out of the ground and wrapped themselves around her arms and legs. Power lifted him higher and higher as he stood there, some part of him knowing what would come next and reveling in it. It was like flying, free of all restrictions, unrestrained by rules or expectations, with only magic holding him up, keeping him alive. He could do anything.
Harry raised his wand and felt the power surge around him, as though he were standing in the middle of a great fire. The words were upon his lips before he had even thought of them. “Avada kedavra.”
There was a flash of green light and then the woman lay still before him. Just beyond her, Ron stood watching him, an accusation in his eyes. Harry looked away.
From there everything became a haze of death and violence. Harry’s eyes moved restlessly over the masks of his enemies and the familiar faces of his allies, searching for the pale, snake-like man whose unnatural features the Death Eater’s white masks sought to mimic. Harry found him within the midst of the standing stone circle, not fighting so much as simply killing whoever he came into contact with. Around them the enormous, hulking forms of the giants strained and groaned as they attempted to rip the great stone pillars from the earth.
Harry no longer cared why they were here. It didn’t matter whether the Death Eaters succeeded in destroying Stone Henge, despite the fact that it was so crucial to upholding the wards which protected the Wizarding World. Harry didn’t care about the tactical reasons anymore, or even the moral ones for stopping Voldemort. He would kill Voldemort because he had to, because the hatred inside of him was overpowering, and in the end it would inevitably destroy one of them.
For neither can live while the other survives…
The waves of black robes parted, and Voldemort stood before him. It was so easy to forget that Voldemort had ever been human; the man who stood before him now was so deeply steeped in the Dark Arts that they seemed to slide off of him, poisoning whatever they touched. His unnaturally bright red eyes glowed within his pale face, as if the fire within him were the only thing keeping his corpse-like body alive. Tom Riddle had made his body as corrupt as his spirit; there were no handsome features now to mask the ugliness that dwelt inside.
Harry’s fingers tightened around his wand. He watched Voldemort’s lips draw back as he hissed words in a language only he and Harry understood.
“It’ss intoxicating, isn’t it? I can ssee the way you ache for power; you’re sstarving for it,” Voldemort murmured, his voice lazy with confidence. Harry felt naked under that gaze, unable to hide the blood that coated his skin. “You’re sstarting to ssee it now, aren’t you? There are no friendss here, no deluded old man to convince you that you’re sstill ssane. We’re the ssame, Potter.”
Harry only had a second to put up a shield before Voldemort’s curse hit him. It rebounded off into the darkness, falling away like a shooting star.
“Stupefy!” Harry shouted, but Voldemort deflected easily. Someone bumped into Harry from behind and for a moment he lost his balance, and that was all it took for Voldemort to strike.
“Expelliarmuss!” Harry’s wand shot out of his hand and Voldemort caught it, holding the two brother wands in his pale fist. Voldemort’s smile was cruel. “I’ve been waiting far too long to desstroy you, child… I’ve dreamt of tearing you apart in thoussand different ways. Which shall I begin with, Potter? Perhapss, crucio?”
The curse struck Harry so quickly and so violently that he didn’t even feel himself hit the ground; he was conscious only of the pain, and the feeling of a huge, clawed hand ripping the scream from his throat. He writhed and twisted in the trodden snow, hands clawing at the air. His nerves screamed and Harry’s mind hovered on the edge, as brittle as glass, and it was only a matter of seconds before he would shatter.
Finally, it ended. Harry lay gasping in the snow, his every breath sending spasms of pain through his body. It had all happened so fast, and Voldemort was standing there before him, and Harry knew he was going to die.
“You’re not tired already, are you, Potter?” Voldemort asked. He laughed. “That wass barely two minutess. However, if you’ve had enough of Cruciatuss, I’m sure I can find ssomething elsse with which to keep you occupied… Ossis fracto!”
There was a sickening crunching sound, and an unbearable pain erupted within Harry’s right leg where the curse had struck him. Harry could hear himself screaming over the noise of battle going on around him, but he was only aware of the pain and chaos crashing together within him. Voldemort moved in closer, till he stood only a few feet from Harry, looming over him. Harry bit his tongue to stop his screams, glaring up at him through the darkness beginning to cloud his vision.
“Sso thiss is how the Chossen One fallss,” Voldemort drawled. Behind him, Harry became aware of a huge, towering figure stumbling backwards toward them, chased by people clad in Auror’s robes. The giant raised its thick arms to protect itself as a barrage of curses thudded into its skin like arrows. A Death Eater rushed forward, and Harry felt a renewed surge of hatred as he recognized that low voice.
“My lord, the Aurors have arrived, we must retreat,” Snape called, coming to a halt by Voldemort’s side. The giant loomed ever closer, its feet sliding in the wet snow. Hot blood flowed from open wounds on its body, leaving wide trails of scarlet in its wake. It was going to fall, and its heavy girth would crush them easily, but Harry couldn’t move, and Voldemort had yet to notice its approach.
Voldemort hissed in frustration, never tearing his eyes away from Harry as he lifted his wand. “Then I shall finish him quickly…”
“There isn’t time--” Snape began, but he was cut off by a loud, rumbling cry as the giant, overcome by the Aurors, toppled and began to fall. Voldemort was speaking, his mouth forming the words of the Killing Curse, when Snape lunged, knocking the Dark Lord aside as the giant fell. Harry’s vision went black as its shadow covered him, and then someone was screaming horribly with pain, and he realized distantly, before losing consciousness, that it was him.
******
In their bedroom, everything was silent and washed with blue light. Hermione had been lying awake for hours, breathing slowly and counting heartbeats. She counted them in multiples of two: two, four, six, eight, ten… The minutes lingered as they passed, growing long and vague; slowly, they gathered in the room like a pale mist.
I’m not alone, Hermione reminded herself, even as she wrapped her arms tighter around a soft pillow, inhaling Ron’s scent and imagining it was him. If she tried hard enough, maybe she could conjure him here, into the protective circle of her embrace, where she could keep him for herself. Twelve, fourteen, sixteen…
Hermione wanted to feel guilty. Everyone she loved was out in the darkness, fighting and killing and… dying, and here she was, tucked safely in her own bed. But Hermione was too sick with fear to feel anything else. She wondered what would happen if tomorrow night and every night after that she went to bed alone and tried to fall asleep in a room full of blue light, the color of despair, while the mists of Lethe swirled around her mind. Whenever she closed her eyes she saw the bundle of life that existed within her, tiny and red like a pomegranate seed. It should have comforted her, but the bed was cool and silent and there were no arms to return her embrace.
Eighteen, twenty, twenty-two…
She closed her eyes, breathing deeply.
I’m (not) alone.
******
There is the taste of wine and ashes on his tongue, his passion burnt to smokey nothingness in his mouth. A faint movement, the whisper of breath against his skin; the feather-light touch of warm fingers trailing idle paths over his shoulder, down his spine, then gone. He drinks in the air, still and frozen in the inky blackness that wraps him like cool silk, encasing his boneless limbs. In the shadows he can smell magic, as tangible as the body beside his own; it speaks to him like music, without words. There are only breif flashes of color and emotion, dancing like burning flowers behind his eyes.
A voice, a breathless murmur in the dark; a name hangs there for a moment, caught in the endless space between them. His own words have left him, and he cannot reply-instead he lets sleep-heavy eyes slip open slowly, waiting as the dream-like smudges of color gradually form shapes and name themselves. Green eyes the color of death flash before him, gleaming with some nameless power that swirls through their depths like emerald poison. The realization that he knows this face buzzes at the back of his mind, angry and persistent; but in the dream, there is only the silent flow of words that cannot be spoken passing between them, lilting like some strange, unknown melody that he has only just become conscious of.
His lips part and he can feel the name on the tip of his tongue, hesitating there, half-formed in the confines of his mouth. He pauses, watching those eyes, feeling a thousand crimson emotions swirl through him like a blood-colored whirlwind, tearing at him from within. Finally, his voice returns and he speaks, and all the little pieces fall together to form one picture, one concept, one image that shatters the silence; the name, spoken now, waits for him, in the curling green mists of the other’s eyes.
******
There were only shadows to greet him when his eyes opened next, darkened with sleep and heavy with exhaustion. It was the dream again, plaguing him relentlessly for the fifth night in a row. He’d hardly slept at all over the course of the past week, and it was beginning to show in the dark bags that shadowed his eyes, and his increasing irritability. The cold air swam past his lips in deep breaths, trying to satiate the desperate need for it brought on by the dream.
What truly bothered him about it was that it wasn’t a nightmare; Draco could handle those, and had done so many times in the past. It was the fact that this dream seemed to be more of a message, or perhaps a warning, that troubled him. From what little he could remember of it he could draw no conclusions; certainly nothing worth losing his sleep over. There was only the vague memory of startlingly bright green eyes, and a name that lingered in broken fragments at the edges of his mind.
There was no concept of time here, in this dark old house, with windows that looked out upon the same bleak scenery day after day. However, from a clock resting on his nightstand, he gathered that it was seven AM. He thrust aside his blankets and swung his feet out of bed, allowing the cold morning air to nip at whatever skin it could reach.
The floor was as cold as ice, and no matter how many months he’d spent here, it still came as a shock to him when his bare feet touched the frozen wood. He hurried across the small room to an adjoining bathroom, murmuring “Lumos” on his way. Tall candelabras burst into flickering light, illuminating the old fashioned and dully furnished chambers.
He fought the urge to look in the mirror, already knowing what he would see if he did so. Everyday it was the same pattern. The dream would wake him in the early hours of the morning, and leave him too restless to fall asleep again. And every morning he would eventually give in and study his reflection in all its depressing detail, noting with reluctance the deepening shadows beneath his eyes, the way the grey of his irises seemed glazed with weariness, the lines that framed his mouth…
This was growing tedious. Something had to be done, or he was certain he’d either go mad or end up looking so disheveled that he’d die of shame. Pointedly ignoring the mirror, he strode past it, turning the water in the shower on with a tap of his wand. He pulled his clothes off, leaving them in a disordered heap on the floor to be cleaned by the house elf. It was then that, inevitably, his eyes rose slowly to the mirror, resigned, already knowing what they would find… and stopped abruptly in shock.
A strangled gasp was torn from his lips, his heart pounding so furiously within his chest that he was certain it would break free at any moment. Horror washed over him in cold waves, numbing his mind. Blood flowed down the glass in crimson streaks, smeared over the smooth surface like red paint. In the sink was a lump of meat, oval-shaped and lined with veins and cords of muscle-a heart. As he stared at it, dawning horror fighting with revulsion within him, the heart gave a tiny twitch, so small he thought at first that he had imagined it… And then it came again, stronger this time. The heart was beginning to beat.
Draco stumbled backwards, eyes still fixed on the heart as it lay in the sink, slowly beginning to beat again. With each tremulous movement, a fresh flow of blood would gush from its severed arteries, till the sink was so full of the red liquid that it ran over the counter and fell in waves to the floor. He continued to move away from the dark rivers as they stretched their long fingers toward him, inching further and further until his back came into contact with the cool wall, making the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
He was trapped now, pressed against the wall as the blood pooled around him, soaking his feet and rising to cover them as the room began to fill. Draco knew that he was panicking, but he couldn’t force his heaving chest to slow, nor could he calm the pounding of his heart. His mind felt as though it were wrapped in cotton, and his thoughts were lost beneath the fear that had risen up to conquer him. Waves of blood continued to fall over the counter, joining the growing sea of it that inched slowly up the walls, up his legs, climbing with such slow inevitability that it was impossible to escape.
The door was gone now, it had disappeared long ago; simply ceased to exist in Draco’s mind and was no longer real. The only things that were real anymore were the cold of the wall pressed against his back, and the warm, sticky blood that had reached his waist now and was creeping ever upward. In seconds it had reached his chest, and now his neck-Draco had only time for a gasp before it had risen to cover his mouth and nose, and then he was buried within it, drowning in the dark sea of blood.
His fingers scratched at the wall until his nails tore and he could feel the pain lancing through him, shooting through his nerves to reach his brain only to find that his mind was too numb to understand. He was going to die. Draco knew this, and this thought alone seemed to penetrate the fog that enfolded him, and yet there was still nothing he could do to stop it. The blood would fill his mouth and lungs, and his heart would stop and then he would die, Draco would die here in an ocean of red heat.
It was no less than he deserved.
This realization calmed him, and despite the desperate burning in his chest for air, despite the hammering of his heart against his ribs, Draco felt the panic begin to recede. The fog around his mind dissipated, leaving him oddly still, and he wondered if this was what death would feel like, just this wonderful nothingness without pain or thought. Just as darkness began to encompass him and all began to fade into oblivion, Draco’s eyes flew open suddenly and he felt air rush into his lungs again.
The blood was gone.
There was no heart lying in the sink, its muscles pumping endless amounts of blood through severed veins. When he looked into the mirror, Draco saw only his reflection, eyes wide and dilated, his complexion sallow; there was no hint of red, no flash of crimson anywhere amongst the blacks and whites and greys that made up his world.
There was nothing. Fear seized him again, and confusion; Draco placed one shaky hand against the wall, sliding down its length till he reached the floor, and there he wrapped his arms tightly about his knees, staring blankly at the counter before him.
What was going on?
The cold of the floor and wall seeped into his naked body, and shivers ran up and down his spine. He looked down at his hand, palm facing up, as pale and untouched as the rest of him. His fingernails were torn and the tips of his fingers an angry red, but there was no sign of the blood that had been there only moments before.
The realization that none of it had been real began to dawn on him. The heart, the blood… all of it had been little more than a hallucination. He sucked in a deep breath, listening to the sound of the water running in the shower, pounding against the floor. Clouds of steam began to fill the room, and the mirror was soon covered in a layer of hazy condensation. Rising shakily, Draco forced himself to cross the room and step beneath the fall of hot water, scalding his frozen skin till it was dotted with color. There was no reflection in the mirror as he passed.
******
Harry opened his eyes slowly, squinting as he tried to see in the dim light. There were chains binding his wrists to the wall above his head, and the stone floor beneath him felt damp with mildew. His cell was a shallow niche carved into the rock wall, with thick iron bars across the entrance. He could see other cells along the opposite wall, some with two or three prisoners held within. Across from him strange, golden eyes were watching from the shadows. Through the pain clouding his mind he began to realize where he was: the Death Eater’s stronghold.
The Order had tried so many times to find this place, hoping desperately that it might still be possible to save some of those who had been captured. It was ironic that now that Harry had found it, he wanted to be anywhere but here.
“Who’s there?” came a rough voice from the cell opposite his, where the yellow eyed person had moved closer to the bars, revealing the haggard face of a man. His features were so lined with scars and dirt it was impossible to guess his age, but Harry could tell that, on some level, he was very old.
“I’m… Ron Evans,” Harry lied, settling for the first names that came to mind. A pang of guilt arose within him at the thought of when he had seen Ron last, watching him on the battle field. He hoped desperately that Ron, at least, had escaped; he deserved to survive this war far more than Harry did.
“Never ‘eard of you,” the man spoke, not bothering to offer his own name in return. Silence fell over them for a moment, and Harry realized the man wasn’t going to speak again. The quiet was suffocating, filled with memories of the night before and fear that threatened to crush him.
“Have you been here long?” Harry asked.
The yellow eyes regarded him solemnly. “We all have.”
Harry realized that what he was about to ask wasn’t particularly tactful, but at the moment he couldn’t be bothered much with manners. “Why have they kept us alive?”
Before the man could reply, an unnatural howling echoed through the prison, impossibly loud. It was an animalistic sound, but underneath that was something strangely human that made a shiver of fear run down Harry’s spine like cold water.
The man laughed, a dry, rusty sound. “You call this life, boy?”
Heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway, and the old man went silent, disappearing into the shadows of his cell once more. Peering out between the bars, Harry could make out a tall, sallow skinned man walking quickly toward him, his black hair falling like curtains on either side of his face. Instantly the cold of the prison disappeared, as well as his pain; heat flowed through his veins and tinged the world with red.
Snape stopped before Harry’s cell, his dark eyes sweeping over Harry briefly. He tapped his wand to the bars, whispering an incantation under his breath. With a loud groan, the door began to slide away.
“Snape,” Harry hissed, the name becoming sibilant and snake-like upon his tongue. Snape froze, eyes widening fractionally.
“Potter,” he acknowledged, speaking quietly, his languid voice hiding whatever emotion his face hadn’t. “I realize that this may be difficult for you, but if you wish to escape from here alive, then you will do as I say. If you struggle, or attempt to fight this in any way, you will die and there will be nothing I can do to prevent it.”
Confusion warred inside of Harry with anger, but before he could speak Snape had drawn his wand again and leveled it at Harry.
“Imperio.”
A calm settled over Harry’s mind, blanketing the smoldering anger. Snape watched him for a moment, as if to see whether or not Harry would fight. But the pain and fear was gone and Harry’s mind was finally, peacefully empty. Snape said something that caused the chains to release his wrists, and then a smooth, persuasive voice inside Harry’s mind urged him to rise.
Even through the curse Harry could feel that something was wrong with his leg as he rose and tried to follow Snape out of the cell. As soon as he placed his weight upon it, it crumbled underneath him and he was crashing toward the stone floor.
NO, Harry thought with a jolt, becoming suddenly aware of the sticky web of magic encasing his mind. Pain lanced through him, white hot and maddening. Desperately, he pushed on the thin strands trapping him, holding him tight like an insect caught in a spider’s web. Even as he thought this, he could feel Snape moving in like a dark predator, ready to seize him and subdue him again.
NO, Harry shouted furiously, trying to force the word past his unmoving lips. Snape tightened his hold, but the bonds were beginning to weaken and any second now they would snap.
“Finite incantatum,” Snape muttered, and at once Harry was aware of lying on the cold floor as the horrible pain in his leg washed over him. “I should’ve known better than to think that you would ever be capable of letting go of your insufferable arrogance, even for the sake of preserving your own life. Very well, Potter, we’ll do it the hard way instead. Petrificus totalus!”
Harry’s body stiffened under the full body bind, his nerves screaming. Never having been placed under the hex while injured, Harry had had no idea of the kind of agony it could cause. It felt like a heavy pressure had just been wrapped around his broken leg, tightening like a vise. He wanted to cry out but he was paralyzed, and his lips where frozen shut.
“Mobilicorpus,” Snape intoned, and Harry’s prone body followed him out of the cell and down the long hallway. They walked for nearly ten minutes before coming to a stairway cut into the rock, descending down in a curving spiral. After a short while they stopped on the staircase, and Snape tapped his wand against the wall beside them. A door appeared in the previously blank rock, leading into a dark corridor. They entered, and Harry could hear the grinding of the stone door closing behind them, encasing them momentarily in darkness.
“Lumos,” Snape said, and they began to move forward again. Harry was sick with pain, and he began to drift in and out of consciousness. The dark tunnel seemed to go on forever, illuminated only by what light stretched past Snape’s dark form. It was like a nightmare that he couldn’t wake up from.
Harry had passed out again, and was startled awake by a loud noise, like rocks grating together. They had finally left the cave prison, and stood outside now on a rocky precipice facing an open field. The light was blinding after the dimly lit caves, piercing Harry’s eyes like arrows. Squinting, he could make out the shadowy, jagged form of a forest bordering the meadow, and beyond that, steep, grassy hills.
“I’m going to release you from the hex, Potter, but do not think that I will hesitate to use it again should your temper overcome you,” Snape warned. “Finite incantatum.”
Harry drew in a sharp breath as he was released from the hex. His first instinct was to hurt Snape as badly as possible, but his wand had been taken (and probably destroyed), and Snape was clearly the one in power in this situation.
Snape regarded him with a mix of caution and condescending amusement until he was certain that Harry had his emotions in check. “I’m glad you’ve decided to make an effort at behaving like a civilized human being for once. We haven’t very much time, Potter, and it is crucial that we leave here immediately.”
“Why are you doing this?” Harry was surprised at the roughness of his own voice when he spoke, his throat still raw and sore. He struggled to stay awake, grasping onto consciousness like a handful of sand.
“You’re ability to listen and comprehend what I’m saying to you clearly hasn’t improved since you left school,” Snape snapped impatiently. “Didn’t I just say we have very little time?”
Snape grabbed hold of Harry’s arm, his wand in his opposite hand. Harry felt the beginnings of Apparition taking hold of them as Snape said, “It’s time we were leaving, Potter.”
******
Just like she had done nearly every day since she’d gotten married, Pansy woke up to an empty room, got dressed silently, walked down a silent hallway and a long flight of stairs, and entered a dining room where she and Terry ate in silence. Even the sound of silverware tapping against their plates began to fade; there was nothing but the quiet, the taste of coffee and the distance that stretched between them like a deep canyon.
Pansy wondered idly if it was possible to become mute simply by never speaking. She thought constantly about breaking the silence, obsessed over the possibility of standing up one morning and screaming so loudly and with such immeasurable force that she shook the house to its very foundations and brought it crumbling down around them. She closed her eyes and imagined the windows shattering and little pieces of glass and snow raining down like silver confetti. The beams would crack and the walls collapse and Terry would just sit there, immersed in his book, oblivious to the power of Pansy’s fury.
There was a gentle popping sound, and a house elf appeared beside her, presenting a sealed letter on a silver tray. Pansy accepted it wordlessly. It read:
My dearest Pansy,
I hope you are well. Everything is wonderful here. Your father just had a marvelous success at work this week; the details are rather too complex for me, I’m afraid, but suffice it to say that his business is doing quite well and he’s very excited about the recent expansion. Your sister wrote me the other day, with the news that she and Christopher are expecting another child. Rosalind is just as happy as you’d expect her to be; her words were absolutely glowing with excitement. As for myself, I am overjoyed to see my family doing so well, and I can hardly wait to see you, dear.
Your father and I will be stopping by this afternoon to help with the plans for your upcoming birthday. It’s hard to imagine my little girl is going to be twenty years old in just a few weeks. Don’t worry yourself too much about the party; you know we’ll take care of all of the arrangements for you.
Your loving mother,
Elizabeth Parkinson
The letter slipped out of her fingers and landed softly on the table. Pansy stared down at it blankly. It was so like her mother to talk as though everything were perfect, despite the fact that there was a war going on, despite the fact that people Pansy had grown up with, gone to school with, were out there dying for something they believed in; despite the fact that Pansy herself would have been glad to die out there with them, even though she didn’t believe in anything.
And she supposed she should feel happy for Rosalind, her wonderful older sister, happily married with two beautiful children and another on the way. She was everything that a woman was supposed to be. Everything that Pansy tried so hard to be, even though it tore her up inside and threatened to destroy her. Pansy had done her duty as a loyal daughter by staying out of politics and marrying the man her parents had chosen. And now she was meant to produce an heir, even though Terry never touched her. Her mother kept waiting for the good news, and Terry’s parents always turned expectant looks upon her whenever they visited. Pansy tried so hard not to see the accusations that existed in all of their eyes every time they left in disappointment. And most of all she tried to suppress the overwhelming relief when, night after night, her door never opened and she fell asleep alone.
Terry began to rise from the table, finally closing the book he’d been reading. He glanced over at Pansy, as if only just noticing her, his gaze distracted. “A letter from your parents?” he asked.
She nodded. “They’re coming over this afternoon to help with the arrangements for my birthday party.”
Terry frowned. “Your birthday…?”
“It’s on the twenty-third, remember?” Pansy reminded him.
He nodded absently. “Right, of course. I suppose your parents are staying for dinner tonight?”
“Yes. I’ll take care of any preparations.”
“Great. I’ll be in my office then, should you need me.” Terry gathered up his book and left. The door shut quietly behind him and Pansy felt her shoulders slump as the tension left her. She could just imagine Terry, ensconced in his tower of books, an impenetrable fortress of intellect. She had only vague ideas of what he studied in there, and quite honestly she didn’t really care much. It was an obsession. Every day he would disappear into his office where he would spend hours hunched over his books, scratching notes onto endless sheets of parchment. Sometimes she wondered if he were somewhat mad. It wasn’t normal for anyone to become so caught up in something, and this passion of his was disturbing.
He would forget to eat and bathe, only falling asleep when his exhausted mind forced him to collapse with fatigue. The only thing that ever seemed to drive him to act normally was his compulsion to always appear neat and proper. On the occasions that he let himself become untidy, he would lock his office door and refuse to let anyone in until he’d made himself presentable. Pansy had no idea what caused Terry to act the way he did, and there was nothing that she could do about it either. As his wife it would be inappropriate of her to discuss her husband’s weaknesses with others, and besides which she had the feeling that Terry’s parents had always known.
And so Pansy was trapped in a marriage with a man she didn’t want, who was so lost inside his own broken mind that he rarely even acknowledged her.
Pansy stared down at her mother’s letter for a long moment. Then she pressed her wand against the parchment and said, “Incendio.”
Moments later Elizabeth Parkinson’s words had been reduced to ash.
******
The house was empty when Draco finally made his way downstairs to the dining room for breakfast. An ancient house elf appeared to ask him what he preferred to eat, as it had every single morning since he’d come to Spinner’s End nearly two years ago. Clearly the pathetic creature was becoming senile, but Draco couldn’t find it in him to really feel anything more than a distant pity for it as he recited, once again, that he took coffee (with cream but no sugar) and muffins with butter and lemon curd. The old elf nodded and began to trudge its way slowly towards the door, but then turned back for a moment, frowning as if trying to remember something.
“Master Snape tells us to inform Master Draco that he will not be returning until…” the elf drifted off, and Draco tried not to sigh impatiently- it would only distract the blasted thing. “… until later,” the elf finished at last.
“Very well. Thank you,” Draco said unthinkingly, and then winced as he realized what he’d said. I really am going mad, Draco thought dismally. Hallucinating and being kind to pathetic old house elves… Clearly he’d spent far too long in hiding. Living with Snape, though, it was bound to happen eventually…
Draco had not really expected Snape to return so soon. While Snape had refused to tell him what was really happening, it was obvious that something important had taken place last night. A dangerous task from the Dark Lord, or a battle, perhaps… Whatever it was, he hoped that Snape returned safely. The idea of being stranded in this decrepit old house didn’t bear thinking about.
His breakfast appeared magically on the table before him, and Gimpy, or whatever that old elf was called, appeared beside the table with a loud crack that would have startled anyone who wasn’t expecting it.
“Will Master Draco be needing anything else?”
Draco waved his hand dismissively as he took a long sip of his coffee. “No, that will be all.”
With another earsplitting crack it disappeared again, presumably to some distant corner of the house where it could wait for death in peace. Draco frowned bitterly at his own thoughts, wishing he himself didn’t feel as though he were waiting for the same thing.
He ran a hand through his hair, still damp from his shower. He’d given up on bothering to keep it tidy, since the only other human being he saw anymore was Snape, and Merlin knew he certainly didn’t give a damn about Draco’s appearance. He’d had to give up on pretty much anything resembling a normal life once he’d gone into hiding. Aside from Snape and the occasional letter from his mother, he was completely isolated here. It was hardly any wonder that his mind was beginning to deteriorate now as well.
He had to leave. The thought had been building up within him slowly for the last few weeks, and now it felt like an ultimatum. If he continued on here as he’d been doing, he would go mad. Anything was better than this half-life, hiding within Snape’s shadow as the threat of the Dark Lord hung over him, a constant reminder of his betrayal. He would leave England, go to Europe, perhaps; anywhere was better than here.
Draco stared at his hands, his fingers torn and raw. Everything was beginning to fall apart now, and if he didn’t escape soon, he would never be able to put himself back together again. It was simple: he would give Snape what he wanted, have him released from his vow (which he should never have taken in the first place), and then he would leave.
Unfortunately, actually doing all of that was rather more complex. It would take some time to gather everything for Snape, and then he’d have to make arrangements of his own for money and accommodations. Heaven only knew how he would leave the country without the Ministry detecting him. He winced as he realized that the only way out would be through muggle means.
His mind drifted back to the terrible hallucination from this morning, and he felt his doubts swept away by a firm resolve. He had no choice; he would do whatever it took to leave to leave this place.
Draco was just finishing up breakfast when he heard a noise in the front room. It was strange that Snape would be back so soon, and even more worrying was the fact that he didn’t appear to be alone. Draco could make out the sound of voices now, Snape’s low tones and another younger voice, which sounded vaguely familiar.
Draco passed into the hallway outside the dining room, and stepped into a dusty cloak closet. Spinner’s End was full of all kinds of nooks and crannies, most of which Draco had discovered over the past year and a half that he’d spent in hiding there. Whenever anyone came by, mostly other Death Eaters, Draco would be whisked away to some dark corner where he would be forced to wait for hours until Snape released him.
This particular hiding spot had a more practical purpose, however. It had a tiny hole through which one could peer out into the front room - or what passed for Snape’s living room, at any rate, shabby and ill cared for though it was. He pressed his eye up against the hole, and was met with complete darkness. It took Draco a moment to realize that Snape must have predicted that Draco’s curiosity would get the best of him, and accordingly positioned himself directly in front of the spy hole.
Heartless old bastard, Draco thought with affection.
“You may as well come out, now,” Snape said, in a voice that was clearly intended for Draco. “I may require your assistance with this… matter.”
Draco, feeling a bit embarrassed having been caught and annoyed with himself for being so predictable, slipped out of the closet and opened the door into the living room. And promptly stopped in shock when he saw who was lying on Snape’s ragged old couch, apparently unconscious.
“Potter?” Draco asked, rather needlessly. It was obviously him; no one else had such unbelievably untidy hair or a rather unique knack for leaving Draco completely speechless. “What in Mordred’s name is he doing here?”
“Sleeping, it would seem,” Snape replied sarcastically. “Only Harry Potter would be so thickheaded as to fall asleep in the presence of his enemies.”
Draco took another look at Potter, and realized that he probably wasn’t asleep so much as passed out. Saying that he was a complete mess would be a bit of an understatement. He was covered, from head to toe in dirt and blood. His robes were torn across the chest, and he could make out a deep gash, crusted over with dried blood. There were long scratches across his face, and he was heavily bruised; here and there he could see broken capillaries under his skin, a sign of prolonged exposure to Cruciatus. The list of all the things that were physically wrong with Potter could have gone on for quite some time even on a good day, Draco mused. And this is definitely not a good day.
“What are you planning on doing with him?” Draco asked, somewhat cautiously. If Snape intended to kill Potter, he wasn’t really sure he wanted to be around when it happened. He hated Potter, undoubtedly, but unfortunately murder made him a bit squeamish. To put it lightly.
Snape glared at Potter’s prone form. “Healing him, to begin with; then getting rid of him as promptly as possible.”
“May I ask why?”
Snape gave him a look that said “No, you may not” in about ten different ways, each more crude than the last.
Draco sighed. “Right. What do you want me to do, then?”
“Bring me the essence of almond, borage, fig marigold and a bottle of Firewhisky,” Snape answered. “I’ll get the rest.”
The rest turned out to be several bandages, a small cauldron filled with water, and a shot glass (because Snape was too well bred to drink from the bottle). Snape instructed him on how to prepare the Bone Restoring Potion, and Draco set to work chopping the borage leaves while Snape began cleaning the open wounds and applying healing potion. Fortunately the potion was fairly simple to make (he remembered learning it back in third year at Hogwarts), and took all of ten minutes to brew.
“Ennervate,” Snape said. Potter drew in a sharp breath and his eyes opened, peering up at Snape in confusion. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Potter. I trust you slept well?”
Potter seemed to come back to his senses then. He glared at Snape. “Where am I?”
“I was kind enough not only to save your life but also to offer you the hospitality of my own home and you repay me by interrogating me like a common criminal,” he sneered. “I suppose the Boy Who Lived could hardly lower himself to a simple thank you.”
Potter sneered. “I have nothing to thank you for. I would have rather have died in there than accept your charity.”
“And I would have been more than happy to let you!” Snape growled loudly, nearly shouting. Draco was surprised at the venom in Snape’s voice and the tinge of color rising in his face; as always, it was only Potter who could infuriate someone to the point of losing control. He had always had that effect on Draco as well, but it was a little frightening to see it on Snape, who was usually so composed and withdrawn.
Snape seemed to become aware that he was close to losing control, and he closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. When he opened them again his eyes looked like shuttered windows, indifferent and condescendingly private. “I was merely repaying my debts, Potter. I assure you, if I could have, I would have murdered you myself. I would like nothing better than to see you dead… And the next time we meet, I will take every measure to make sure I do.”
Draco watched the look of hatred passing between Snape and Potter and felt like an outsider. He was certain that if Potter had had his wand at that moment he would have tried to kill Snape himself. The pure hate radiating off of Potter was like something tangible, a thick dark substance like oil, reflecting whatever was directed toward it. Draco had experienced that anger before, been on the receiving end of it more times than he could remember. But Potter had been younger then, and he had still seemed innocent. Now, there was very little that Draco would have considered Potter incapable of.
Potter rose shakily from the couch, his face contorted with anger, and tried to walk. He only managed to stumble a few steps before his broken leg collapsed and he fell to the floor with a loud crash. Snape swore but didn’t attempt to approach him; instead Draco moved forward and grabbed Potter’s arm. Potter looked up at him in surprise, obviously only just noticing Draco’s presence. Draco was about to say something sarcastic about Potter’s observation skills and lack thereof, when their gazes met and all his words left him.
It was him, Draco realized with that slow wonder of an epiphany. In my dream-it was him.
Potter just watched him, saying nothing, as Draco helped him back onto the battered couch. An emptiness descended upon Draco’s mind, strange and blank and quiet. He handed Potter the vial of Bone Restoring Potion wordlessly. Looking at his eyes was like looking at death Draco realized and just as suddenly he understood the dream. It had been so much more than a message; it was an inevitable truth.
They were going to return Potter to the Order, and then Draco would give Snape what he wanted, and then Draco would leave. It was as simple and as complex as that.
Draco looked into Harry’s eyes and died.