Come Hell or High Water: Chapter One
So, didn't expect to post this today but today seems to be my day for posting. So may as well.
Title: Come Hell or High Water
Author: Ebonie Rose
Rating: eventual NC-17
Pairings: As of yet only Harry/ Draco and Ron/ Hermione.
Warnings: Language, violence, slash, violent situations, sexual situations, oh and this story is a WiP. I’ll try to update it at least once every three weeks but I’m not promising anything. Also, as with most of my fics, there’s a few lines/ paragraphs inspired by bouts of madness. I blame insomnia and an addiction to Cool FM.
Summary: Harry Potter is forced to bear the burden of being not only the Saviour of the Wizarding World, but the leader of the Light also. He must now make the right choices, the right moves, and think with his head instead of his heart. But Harry’s heart is calling him louder than before; telling him who to trust, who to be wary of ― who to love. This is a story of war and the light which can be found even in the blackest night.
Author’s Notes: Due to my paranoia I have a small army behind me on this one and I want to thank each and every one of them: miniluv68, lunadragon, darth_elleth, faeriechii and Andria for reading over this and picking up things which my brain completely forgot to process and whipping it into some semblance of a story. I also want to think ravenqueen55 for reading over the first draft of this and telling me what she liked about it, and encouraging me to write more. I can almost guarantee I wouldn’t be as far on if they hadn’t. I hope you enjoy, comment and tell me what you think and there’s a brief note at the end as per lunadragon’s suggestion.
Come Hell or High Water
by Ebonie Rose
Chapter One
The Barracks and La Fontaine
They tried to tell them that they weren’t barracks, saying that they were simply temporary accommodation until they could arrange something better to inhabit, but Harry knew better. He had seen too many war movies not to. And the place ― the barracks ― were exactly like the ones in the movies. This particular bunkhouse, lost in the many small buildings that the barracks consist of, houses only ugly, inexpensive furnishings, has too many bunks squashed into the small room to be of much use and is dimly lit with only two small windows, one at the back and one at the front, which let in so little light they may as well have not been there. There was little free space and Harry, while standing in the doorway surveying the space, felt the familiar tightening in his chest that appeared whenever he was forced into a small space with innumerable other people. Behind him people were jostling each other relentlessly and he received more than one elbow to the ribs as they pushed past him to swarm into the barracks and claim a bunk, some of them throwing him concerned or dirty looks. Harry did not respond to any of them, instead choosing to let his gaze sweep over the room once more, this time searching for exits and weak spots. Obviously there was the door and the two windows, which were at once exits and weak spots. They would have to create another way of entering and leaving this godforsaken place. He didn’t trust regular means of entry ― especially during an attack.
“Harry,” a soft voice breathed in his ear, “are you alright?”
He didn’t respond, just nodded and the owner of the voice sighed disbelievingly before making her way to one of the bunks. She grinned at him and motioned for him to follow but he just shook his head. Instead, he slung his backpack down from his shoulders and, setting it on the floor, turned his back on the group and made to stride out of the barracks. A hand curled on his left bicep, and stopped him before he managed it, however. He glanced over his shoulder to find he was staring into his best friend, Ron Weasley’s, crystalline blue eyes.
“Hey, mate, you going somewhere?” he asked, concern evident in his tone. Harry still refused to speak, just shrugging. Ron clucked his tongue, and made an exasperate gesture that reeked of Hermione. Harry chuckled and Ron grinned at him. “If you are, you want some company?”
A soft smile appeared on Harry’s face. “Sure, Ron.”
The two boys ― for they were still boys; Harry was barely seventeen and Ron not much older ― turned and walked quickly out of the bunkhouse, leaving behind the buzzing noise of the subdued group, their legs eating up the ground between the Unplottable building and a small vineyard nearby Harry had noticed when they had first Apparated to this place in the middle of nowhere. Or at least it seemed to be in the middle of nowhere to him.
They walked in silence, neither speaking until they had found a place to sit in the vineyard ― perched on top of a rickety fence with chipped white paint. Harry hoisted himself up onto the rather unstable fence and, hooking his feet around a slate of wood, looked out at the grape vines growing around them. The harsh summer sun was beating down relentlessly on the green plants, causing the vivid green to look jealously on at the sun’s shining beauty. Harry knew just how they felt.
“Harry?”
He looked up at his friend, who was watching him intently, blue eyes worried and unsure. He forced a small smile onto his face and titled his head to the left, a gesture he had not been aware he used often until it had started irritating him immensely over the summer. “Yes?”
“Are… are you… I mean… you know…” Ron, who had never been particularly eloquent and was even worse when nervous or under stress, stumbled repeatedly over his words and Harry watched as a bright red blush, which clashed horrifically with his hair, climbed up his face and coloured his cheeks.
“No,” Harry said calmly. “No, Ron, I don’t know.”
Ron chuckled nervously. “I mean… I mean… Oh Merlin, I knew I should’ve got Hermione to do this!” Ron suddenly cried, throwing his head into his hands and wobbling the fence dangerously with him. “She’s so much better than me! I mean, I can’t even say it!”
“Say what Ron?” he asked, even though he had a sneaking suspicion he knew exactly what Ron wanted to ask him.
Ron took a deep, steadying breath and finally managed to mumble; “Are you alright, mate?”
“’M’fine,” Harry said, looking at his best friend like he was the one who should be asking the question and Ron the one to answer. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Ron looked at him incredulously. “What do you mean, why wouldn’t you be?! Harry, mate, have you lost your bloody mind! You watched… you watched Dumbledore die! And then (you) had to go back to those bloody Muggles! How can you possibly be fine?”
A soft smile appeared on Harry’s face and he reached out, clasping one of Ron’s hands to his in a reassuring gesture ― or at least he hoped it was. “Ron,” he began, “I’ve survived the Dursleys before and they were much better this summer because they knew I had to move out when I was seventeen. You should have seen them! They were incredibly eager to please me; they treated me like some kind of deity. I think they were scared that if they acted appallingly to me this summer I would come after them when I could legally do magic outside of school and hex their bollocks off or some such. Though why one summer would make the difference after sixteen years of neglect I don’t know,” he added softly, bitterly.
When he looked up Ron was staring at him like he had suddenly grown Fluffy’s second and third heads.
“But, Harry,” he gaped, “what… what… what about Dumbledore?”
Harry shrugged. “What about Dumbledore? No, Ron, don’t look at me like that. Dumbledore once told me something: he said that death is not the end of an adventure, but the beginning of one. He wasn’t frightened of death; in fact, I think he rather welcomed the challenge of starting a new adventure. And, anyway,” he added, “everyone dies and Dumbledore was a very old man. He wouldn’t have lived much longer anyway.”
“WHAT?! Are you saying… are you saying that you don’t care that Dumbledore’s dead?! That Snape killed him?!” Ron screeched. The fence began to wobble drastically to and fro.
Harry shook his head. “No. That’s not what I’m saying. Of course I’m upset Dumbledore’s dead(,) but I’ve accepted it. He was old; it was inevitable. We’re all going to die, Ron, especially now that we’re in the middle of war. Why else would we be here in fucking barracks, preparing to train? We’re here to train for war, Ron. To learn how to kill, how to avoid being killed and how to hurt others; how to launch bloodthirsty attacks on people we went to school with. It’s going to be ugly, Ron, and I can’t promise that everyone is going to live, because they aren’t. It’s rather simple and we should just accept it. As for Snape,” he shrugged, “Snape will pay. Believe me.”
“I do, Harry,” Ron sighed. “And that’s part of the problem.”
For several long moments that seemed to stretch on forever Harry stared at his best friend, a mystified expression on his face before he said gently, “Getting cryptic on me, mate?”
“Possibly.”
“Oh.”
Neither said anything more for a long time.
~|~|~|~
Ron had left the vineyard long before Harry had and when he finally made his way back to the camp ― for it was a camp, according to those who had concocted the idea to start a training ground for the younger and newer members of the Order, with its multiple bunkhouses and large, empty fields for training ― it was approaching dusk. The sounds of cheerful talk and high-pitched laughter wafted through the air from the largest building, which Harry presumed was the canteen. Harry immediately decided to avoid it. He did not know half of the people there and those he did know he had no wish to confront. He already knew how they would behave: Ron, Hermione, Ginny and a few others would repeatedly ask him how he was feeling whilst everyone else would avoid him or determinedly pull him into a light-hearted conversation. He did not want to have to sit, surrounded by people, and feel the weight of their pitying stares.
Sighing angrily, he kicked a stone on the dirt path in front of him and began walking, unsure of where he was headed but remembering vaguely that when they had travelled to this place they had passed a small town somewhere east of their current situation. He let his legs carry him along the path, kicking up dust and letting it settle on the frayed bottom of his jeans. He had been walking for an hour or so, engrossed in thoughts that made little sense and swayed randomly from one to another, before the small town came into view. In truth, Harry was not even aware it was there until it was looming above him.
Momentarily unbalanced he blinked, surprised at the town’s sudden appearance, his eyes growing wider than normal behind his glasses. Vivid green eyes glanced quickly around the town and he instantly noted a large billboard set in the middle of a cobblestone courtyard, which he assumed contained information about the town. Sauntering over to the board, he peered at it and let out a frustrated groan. He should’ve known they were no longer in the U.K.; the weather was ridiculously hot for Britain. Still, he could not understand what had possessed the Order to locate their training grounds in France. For, according to the board, that’s where they were.
His eyes scanned down a list of documents, picking out a few phrases here and there he recognised: the little French he had been taught in primary school coming to mind and the phrases he often heard Dudley spout at random intervals swanning into his memory. Occasionally during the summer months whenever he was bored, he would glance over Dudley’s Muggle school work and he could remember, quite clearly, the French vocabulary books that were piled under Dudley’s bed, beside his multiple porn magazines, the vocabulary books graffitied over so badly he had had trouble reading even the English. He knew little French and knew instinctively that what little he did know would more than likely be said with an atrocious accent ― but he would try at least.
He turned from the board and scanned the surrounding buildings, hoping desperately to see a tourist information office. Surely someone there would speak English at least.
Ten minutes later Harry had decided that not only did no one in the immediate vicinity know where the tourist information office was; no one around seemed to speak English. Growling in frustration he stalked over to the water fountain in the middle of the cobblestone courtyard and perched on the stone wall surrounding the large water feature, and pulled his legs up to his chest. He dipped his left hand into the water, tracing his fingertips delicately along the surface of the water, and watched as the ripples spread far out from the point of contact and then disappeared. He paid no attention to his surroundings ― this was not overly stressful and did not require much concentration as Harry understood little of what was being said around him and cared even less. Occasionally he would hear brief snatches of English conversation but he pointedly ignored that too; he simply wanted to sit here, entranced by the ripples his fingers were making in the water, until he was forced to return to the training ground for the night. A time, he knew, that was drawing closer at an alarmingly rapid rate.
When he felt the first fingers of cold and weariness set in Harry pondered briefly whether or not to return to the training ground. He wondered whether anyone had noticed his absence and decided that more than likely Hermione would have noticed but not brought it up. He had arrived at the Burrow, exhausted and malnourished, two weeks into August, although he told everyone he had left the Dursley’s the moment he turned seventeen. No one had questioned where he had been, no one questioned where he went when he disappeared for long periods of time. In fact as the days wore on Harry became convinced that Hermione was the only one who still noticed ― aside from Ginny. Neither girl asked him where he disappeared to, nor did he doubt they would not ask now, although he knew from experience that he would spend the next few days receiving furtive, anxious glances from the two girls.
Sighing, he drew his thin denim jacket closer to himself in an effort to keep warm and sat that way, alone and almost completely still, for a long time.
~|~|~|~
It wasn’t often that Draco Malfoy found himself questioning his godfather’s ability to be rational, but now was definitely one of those times. Since his godfather, Severus Snape, had murdered Albus Dumbledore before summer ― on his behalf ― the two had been on the run, wanted by the Light side and not welcome within the ranks of the Dark Lord’s Death Eaters. They had not stayed in one place long, which, Draco supposed, he may once have welcomed. It was not a commonly known fact that Draco was afflicted by a disease known as wanderlust and often felt incredibly uncomfortable staying in one place for too long. He had once dreamed of travelling the world, seeing sights he could barely imagine and drinking in culture like it was a fine wine. These dreams were dashed with Dumbledore’s death and, although he had now been in many different countries and cities, he had seen little outside his hotel room and the few pubs and cafés they came across. It had not been an ideal arrangement, but it had been a relatively good plan; the longer they kept on the move the longer they would be out of danger. Now though, Severus seemed intent on ruining what had so far been an extremely effective plan.
“Severus,” he asked the older man, watching as his godfather took a sip from the coffee mug in front of him, “are you stark raving mad?”
Severus barely managed to stop himself from spluttering his coffee out all over the café’s table, Draco noted with amusement. The older man was not as amused. Glaring fiercely at Draco he lifted a handkerchief to his mouth, dabbed elegantly at the corners of his mouth and took a bite of his omelette before deigning to answer Draco.
“Draco, are you of the habit of mistrusting my judgement?”
Draco snorted. “Yes, absolutely, that is why I have been on the run with you for the past few months and that is also why you have become the only contact I have to humans, besides waitresses and barmen.”
“I see your sarcasm has not been dampened by this experience.”
“And thank Merlin for that,” Draco said cheerfully as he sank his knife into his own dinner ― a French speciality he had not eaten before but had heard his mother order on many occasion. Personally, he had always thought the dish looked rather like the contents of one’s stomach, but it at least sounded sophisticated and Draco could never pass up the opportunity to express how truly sophisticated he was. “Otherwise,” he said absentmindedly as he attacked the mysterious meat, “where would you be?”
“Possibly in the company of a sane person?” Severus murmured and Draco glared briefly at him.
“Where would the fun be in that now?” Draco drawled. “Merlin knows many considered Jenny Weasley to be sane ― you could be stuck with her.”
Severus snorted. “I would have severely wounded the girl by now ― and its Ginny, or rather Ginevra, Draco, not Jenny.”
Draco chewed on a piece of meat and promptly decided that, if his upbringing had been that of someone else such as Potter or one of the Weasley brood, he would have spat the foul tasting substance out. “Do I honestly look like I care?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t even attempt to joke, Severus, you have absolutely no sense of humour and it just means that I, in comparison, look pathetic.”
“How exactly do you explain that, Draco?” Severus asked, clearly amused. “Do share with me the twisted logic your mind is able to produce.”
Draco gave a long suffering sigh. “Well,” he began, “you see when people hear your feeble attempts at humour, those people who are in the surrounding vicinity, they cringe, Severus, and look around to try and locate the person who has befouled the name of humour. When they realise it is you, and I am your travelling companion, I receive pitying looks and you receive scornful glares. It is really quite simply ridiculously apparent; I’m intrigued you didn’t notice before.”
Severus chuckled softly as he discreetly refilled his coffee mug with an almost imperceptible flick of his wand. “I am intrigued that you honestly believe you can carry that voice off.”
“I’ll have you know this voice makes me sound sophisticated, mature and dignified,” Draco said, pouting. “As any plebeian could tell you.”
“I rather think you sound like Lucius,” Severus said, casually, in a rather off-hand manner.
Draco stiffened immediately, his back ramrod straight, fury emanating from every pore of the boy’s being. Severus’ eyes narrowed as he realised what he had said and what the consequence of his words would be. He sighed and set his mug down on the table, his palms still pressed tightly against the (magically) cool china.
“Draco,” he started but did not get any further. Draco stood swiftly, almost knocking the table over in his haste to remove himself from Severus’ presence. He looked at Severus from behind shuttered eyes which were distinctly icier than they had been all summer. Severus fought the rather unfamiliar urge to simultaneously swallow in fear and apologise earnestly.
“Don’t you ever compare me to Lucius fucking Malfoy,” Draco snarled and, turning his back on his godfather, he quickly weaved his way through the tables in the rather small, high end but homey café. He nodded at the maitre d’, courteously, and, collecting his cloak, exited the café to find himself standing in the town square.
It was a quaint town, like many small towns in France’s vineyard country were. The high street ― and indeed many of the streets ― were paved with cobblestone, the houses were built in a haphazard pattern with no particular pattern in mind and many of them seemed to speak of working class lifestyles rather than those he was used to. Gingham, check and coloured curtains were parted to reveal glimpses of a comforting family life he had never seen, or glimpses of businesses, both prosperous and failing. There were many small signs and wooden information boards dotted throughout the town but the main attraction, to Draco anyway, was the feature from which the town got its name ― the Vierge Fontaine, or the Virgin Fountain. The name seemed rather ridiculous to Draco as he knew that, had there been a fountain anywhere in Britain named the Virgin Fountain, he would have went out of his way to ensure it remained virginal no longer. Not that he would perform sex acts on a fountain; that thought was entirely too disturbing and best left up to the Weasley clan to ponder.
He walked towards the fountain, his steps slow and measured. The wind was blowing strands of silver-blonde hair into his eyes and a few times he blew impatiently at the rogue strands. He had not had the luxury of a haircut in five months and his normally carefully cut and beautifully maintained hair was longer now, falling loose to surround his face so the ends brushed delicately against the skin just below his ears. He had never before realised how soft his hair was, having normally insisted on cutting it twice a month and gelling it back most days unless Pansy had insisted on otherwise. Now, he remembered why. The softness, the silky texture, of his hair was something that annoyed him immensely; it almost guaranteed that the weather would see fit to be windy and insist on blowing his hair into his face. He was still blowing stray strands of hair out of his face when he reached the fountain. Glancing up at the marble statue in the middle of the water, his grey eyes began to take in everything about the statue placed on the island there. It was … different.
He remembered his mother telling him once how the Vierge Fontaine had received its name but he could barely remember it now. All he could recall was that it involved a local girl named Claudette and a would be lover who had been stolen from her. He could remember thinking, when his mother had told him that Claudette drowned herself in the fountain in front of him because she could not be with the one she desired, that she was little more than an idiotic bitch. He wasn’t surprised to discover he still felt this way.
The figure in the middle was obviously supposed to be Claudette. Glancing at her rendering, Draco decided that either the sculptor had taken liberties with the rendering of the statue or she had been unnaturally beautiful. Her statue’s cheekbones were high, her nose remarkably straight with a slight aristocratic upturning to it at the end. Her eyes were large and spaced evenly apart in her face, her lips large and full, her hair a wild mane of thick, untameable tresses that contributed to her beauty by giving her an air of rawness, an untameable quality. A fire in her soul, a certain passion about her being, Draco supposed. Her figure was what many girls aspired towards: a curvaceous figure with rounded hips and an ample bosom. Draco quickly decided that the artist must have taken liberties ― Draco had seen many women and not one of them looked like this woman had. Or, none but his mother and the Veelas although, in the back of his mind, he remembered thinking his Aunt Bellatrix had once been extraordinarily beautiful. The thought, which now scampered across his brain, made him snort aloud in amusement.
The admittedly inelegant snort drew the attention of a boy sitting on the other side. Draco had not noticed him sitting there, but when he saw someone shift in his peripheral vision he raised his head to see who it was. The boy wasn’t looking straight at him but rather around him, and from his body language appeared to be confused. Draco’s eyes swept over his form, taking in everything about him, including body language, as Severus had taught him too over the past few months. He was dressed in loose, light blue denim jeans with large patches of yellow and white dust from what Draco presumed where dirt roads clinging to the material. He appeared to be shivering, which didn’t surprise Draco: it was a warm night, yes, but it wasn’t of inhumane heat and the boy seemed to be wearing little more than a thin denim jacket ― although Draco assumed he was also wearing a shirt of some sort underneath. He was of average height, neither overly tall nor overly short, but seemed to be underweight, the baggy clothing doing nothing to hide this fact. Draco hazarded a guess that the boy was roughly his age for he had concluded it was a boy. No adult would sit in such a position, skinny legs pulled tightly to their chest. Still, no boy should look as if they had the weight of the world on their shoulders and the world had just chosen that moment to gain two hundred stone.
Draco snorted at his own humour. The second snort drew the boy’s attention to where he stood and Draco instantly wished he had stayed in the café with Severus, comparisons to his father be damned. His grey eyes widened in shock and he instantly clamped sharp, white teeth down on his bottom lip. The only words racing through his head were all to one effect: oh, shit. The boy’s eyes collided with his and any illusion Draco may have had about this just being one of those annoying, but not uncommon, look-alikes he had been seeing since fleeing Hogwarts were instantly dashed. In his life he had only seen one person with eyes so green that they seemed to be willing you to anger them just so they could shoot Avada Kedavra at you through them, as the colour of the eyes changed to the shade of the Killing Curse. Draco, watching as the eyes widened in recognition, swallowed and began walking backwards quickly. The eyes narrowed and the body they were attached to unfolded itself from where it sat. The instant feet touched cobblestone, Draco began to run.
However, one thing Draco had not accounted for was he did not know the town of Vierge Fontaine very well and his shoes, black leather boots with a heel of an inch and a half, were not exactly running material. This, though it hindered him, did not stop him from fleeing as fast as he could.
Damn, he swore into himself. Damn, damn, damn, damn. Wouldn’t you know it? Arrive in France in a little known town, free from connections to either the Black or Malfoy families when suddenly out of the blue pops Harry sodding Potter who so far he and Severus had managed to avoid. And Severus had been suggesting staying in this damn town for a few weeks!
Dodging the locals in the streets, Draco ran as fast as was possible, his breath coming quick and fast in his chest. He weaved through the thinning night time crowd and ducked into alleyways, following them to locations he knew naught of, fervently wishing that Severus would appear at any moment and Apparate him to safety. He had not mastered Apparation; he had not thought it necessary with Severus nearby. He could only curse his stupidity and so he did so as he ran, although it caused his breathing to constrict his chest more and caused his speech to sound incredibly laboured.
“Fucking Apparation… studies… useless… instructor… oh Merlin… I’m going… to… fucking die… from… lack of… oxygen… Oh, stupid, stupid… Draco… should’ve… learned… to… fucking Apparate… you… useless… sodding… bastard.”
Glancing back over his shoulder he was sure he had lost Potter and, in jubilation, decided that now would be an opportune moment to finally faint from lack of oxygen. He didn’t even manage this, however, instead settling on throwing himself at the nearest wall and sliding down it, the rough feel of the stones scraping through the flimsy material of his shirt and tearing at his skin underneath. He did not complain, however; he instead just slid down until he was sitting on the ground, clutching his chest, willing his breathing to cease its erratic pace.
It didn’t seem to want to comply.
He was positive he had been sitting there for quite some time, coughing desperately in an, admittedly dimwitted, move to restore air to his lungs. His breathing had slowed and the pain in his chest didn’t burn as much as he reached down to yank furiously at the shoelaces on his boots. He pulled the shoes off and, looping the laces together, settled them securely around his neck, a shoe resting over each shoulder. Sure it looked ridiculous, but the shoes had been ridiculously expensive and there was no way he would leave them sitting in a dark alley; the same way there was little chance of him wearing the shoes for much longer. His feet were sore and he was almost positive they were bleeding.
Getting shakily to his feet, Draco took a few tentative steps and saw blood seep into the material of his white cotton socks. He growled in frustration. One short, albeit painful, run and already he felt like he had run a marathon. He was woefully out of shape.
Wincing with every step he took, Draco made his way back through the maze of alleyways, back out into the town square and, in his socks and bleeding feet, ran across the square to duck into the seediest motel they had been able to locate in Vierge Fontaine.
Author’s Notes: When lunadragon was betaing this chapter for me she mentioned that she had never heard of the word ‘swanning’ and had to look it up on Urban Dictionary which apparently gave this definition: “The act of eating ones grenade, resulting in serious injury, or death.” This, however, is not the correct definition in reference to the context I use the word in. It’s common British slang for a simple word, ‘walking’, however it’s normally used in reference to a more snobbish, arrogant and self-assured walk, if you get my meaning. Hopefully, if you didn’t understand the meaning of the word before, you do now. Or, like me, you got to snort at Urban Dictionary’s definition and be overcome with glee that the people who comply dictionaries don’t know every definition.
Next Chapter
Title: Come Hell or High Water
Author: Ebonie Rose
Rating: eventual NC-17
Pairings: As of yet only Harry/ Draco and Ron/ Hermione.
Warnings: Language, violence, slash, violent situations, sexual situations, oh and this story is a WiP. I’ll try to update it at least once every three weeks but I’m not promising anything. Also, as with most of my fics, there’s a few lines/ paragraphs inspired by bouts of madness. I blame insomnia and an addiction to Cool FM.
Summary: Harry Potter is forced to bear the burden of being not only the Saviour of the Wizarding World, but the leader of the Light also. He must now make the right choices, the right moves, and think with his head instead of his heart. But Harry’s heart is calling him louder than before; telling him who to trust, who to be wary of ― who to love. This is a story of war and the light which can be found even in the blackest night.
Author’s Notes: Due to my paranoia I have a small army behind me on this one and I want to thank each and every one of them: miniluv68, lunadragon, darth_elleth, faeriechii and Andria for reading over this and picking up things which my brain completely forgot to process and whipping it into some semblance of a story. I also want to think ravenqueen55 for reading over the first draft of this and telling me what she liked about it, and encouraging me to write more. I can almost guarantee I wouldn’t be as far on if they hadn’t. I hope you enjoy, comment and tell me what you think and there’s a brief note at the end as per lunadragon’s suggestion.
Come Hell or High Water
by Ebonie Rose
Chapter One
The Barracks and La Fontaine
They tried to tell them that they weren’t barracks, saying that they were simply temporary accommodation until they could arrange something better to inhabit, but Harry knew better. He had seen too many war movies not to. And the place ― the barracks ― were exactly like the ones in the movies. This particular bunkhouse, lost in the many small buildings that the barracks consist of, houses only ugly, inexpensive furnishings, has too many bunks squashed into the small room to be of much use and is dimly lit with only two small windows, one at the back and one at the front, which let in so little light they may as well have not been there. There was little free space and Harry, while standing in the doorway surveying the space, felt the familiar tightening in his chest that appeared whenever he was forced into a small space with innumerable other people. Behind him people were jostling each other relentlessly and he received more than one elbow to the ribs as they pushed past him to swarm into the barracks and claim a bunk, some of them throwing him concerned or dirty looks. Harry did not respond to any of them, instead choosing to let his gaze sweep over the room once more, this time searching for exits and weak spots. Obviously there was the door and the two windows, which were at once exits and weak spots. They would have to create another way of entering and leaving this godforsaken place. He didn’t trust regular means of entry ― especially during an attack.
“Harry,” a soft voice breathed in his ear, “are you alright?”
He didn’t respond, just nodded and the owner of the voice sighed disbelievingly before making her way to one of the bunks. She grinned at him and motioned for him to follow but he just shook his head. Instead, he slung his backpack down from his shoulders and, setting it on the floor, turned his back on the group and made to stride out of the barracks. A hand curled on his left bicep, and stopped him before he managed it, however. He glanced over his shoulder to find he was staring into his best friend, Ron Weasley’s, crystalline blue eyes.
“Hey, mate, you going somewhere?” he asked, concern evident in his tone. Harry still refused to speak, just shrugging. Ron clucked his tongue, and made an exasperate gesture that reeked of Hermione. Harry chuckled and Ron grinned at him. “If you are, you want some company?”
A soft smile appeared on Harry’s face. “Sure, Ron.”
The two boys ― for they were still boys; Harry was barely seventeen and Ron not much older ― turned and walked quickly out of the bunkhouse, leaving behind the buzzing noise of the subdued group, their legs eating up the ground between the Unplottable building and a small vineyard nearby Harry had noticed when they had first Apparated to this place in the middle of nowhere. Or at least it seemed to be in the middle of nowhere to him.
They walked in silence, neither speaking until they had found a place to sit in the vineyard ― perched on top of a rickety fence with chipped white paint. Harry hoisted himself up onto the rather unstable fence and, hooking his feet around a slate of wood, looked out at the grape vines growing around them. The harsh summer sun was beating down relentlessly on the green plants, causing the vivid green to look jealously on at the sun’s shining beauty. Harry knew just how they felt.
“Harry?”
He looked up at his friend, who was watching him intently, blue eyes worried and unsure. He forced a small smile onto his face and titled his head to the left, a gesture he had not been aware he used often until it had started irritating him immensely over the summer. “Yes?”
“Are… are you… I mean… you know…” Ron, who had never been particularly eloquent and was even worse when nervous or under stress, stumbled repeatedly over his words and Harry watched as a bright red blush, which clashed horrifically with his hair, climbed up his face and coloured his cheeks.
“No,” Harry said calmly. “No, Ron, I don’t know.”
Ron chuckled nervously. “I mean… I mean… Oh Merlin, I knew I should’ve got Hermione to do this!” Ron suddenly cried, throwing his head into his hands and wobbling the fence dangerously with him. “She’s so much better than me! I mean, I can’t even say it!”
“Say what Ron?” he asked, even though he had a sneaking suspicion he knew exactly what Ron wanted to ask him.
Ron took a deep, steadying breath and finally managed to mumble; “Are you alright, mate?”
“’M’fine,” Harry said, looking at his best friend like he was the one who should be asking the question and Ron the one to answer. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Ron looked at him incredulously. “What do you mean, why wouldn’t you be?! Harry, mate, have you lost your bloody mind! You watched… you watched Dumbledore die! And then (you) had to go back to those bloody Muggles! How can you possibly be fine?”
A soft smile appeared on Harry’s face and he reached out, clasping one of Ron’s hands to his in a reassuring gesture ― or at least he hoped it was. “Ron,” he began, “I’ve survived the Dursleys before and they were much better this summer because they knew I had to move out when I was seventeen. You should have seen them! They were incredibly eager to please me; they treated me like some kind of deity. I think they were scared that if they acted appallingly to me this summer I would come after them when I could legally do magic outside of school and hex their bollocks off or some such. Though why one summer would make the difference after sixteen years of neglect I don’t know,” he added softly, bitterly.
When he looked up Ron was staring at him like he had suddenly grown Fluffy’s second and third heads.
“But, Harry,” he gaped, “what… what… what about Dumbledore?”
Harry shrugged. “What about Dumbledore? No, Ron, don’t look at me like that. Dumbledore once told me something: he said that death is not the end of an adventure, but the beginning of one. He wasn’t frightened of death; in fact, I think he rather welcomed the challenge of starting a new adventure. And, anyway,” he added, “everyone dies and Dumbledore was a very old man. He wouldn’t have lived much longer anyway.”
“WHAT?! Are you saying… are you saying that you don’t care that Dumbledore’s dead?! That Snape killed him?!” Ron screeched. The fence began to wobble drastically to and fro.
Harry shook his head. “No. That’s not what I’m saying. Of course I’m upset Dumbledore’s dead(,) but I’ve accepted it. He was old; it was inevitable. We’re all going to die, Ron, especially now that we’re in the middle of war. Why else would we be here in fucking barracks, preparing to train? We’re here to train for war, Ron. To learn how to kill, how to avoid being killed and how to hurt others; how to launch bloodthirsty attacks on people we went to school with. It’s going to be ugly, Ron, and I can’t promise that everyone is going to live, because they aren’t. It’s rather simple and we should just accept it. As for Snape,” he shrugged, “Snape will pay. Believe me.”
“I do, Harry,” Ron sighed. “And that’s part of the problem.”
For several long moments that seemed to stretch on forever Harry stared at his best friend, a mystified expression on his face before he said gently, “Getting cryptic on me, mate?”
“Possibly.”
“Oh.”
Neither said anything more for a long time.
~|~|~|~
Ron had left the vineyard long before Harry had and when he finally made his way back to the camp ― for it was a camp, according to those who had concocted the idea to start a training ground for the younger and newer members of the Order, with its multiple bunkhouses and large, empty fields for training ― it was approaching dusk. The sounds of cheerful talk and high-pitched laughter wafted through the air from the largest building, which Harry presumed was the canteen. Harry immediately decided to avoid it. He did not know half of the people there and those he did know he had no wish to confront. He already knew how they would behave: Ron, Hermione, Ginny and a few others would repeatedly ask him how he was feeling whilst everyone else would avoid him or determinedly pull him into a light-hearted conversation. He did not want to have to sit, surrounded by people, and feel the weight of their pitying stares.
Sighing angrily, he kicked a stone on the dirt path in front of him and began walking, unsure of where he was headed but remembering vaguely that when they had travelled to this place they had passed a small town somewhere east of their current situation. He let his legs carry him along the path, kicking up dust and letting it settle on the frayed bottom of his jeans. He had been walking for an hour or so, engrossed in thoughts that made little sense and swayed randomly from one to another, before the small town came into view. In truth, Harry was not even aware it was there until it was looming above him.
Momentarily unbalanced he blinked, surprised at the town’s sudden appearance, his eyes growing wider than normal behind his glasses. Vivid green eyes glanced quickly around the town and he instantly noted a large billboard set in the middle of a cobblestone courtyard, which he assumed contained information about the town. Sauntering over to the board, he peered at it and let out a frustrated groan. He should’ve known they were no longer in the U.K.; the weather was ridiculously hot for Britain. Still, he could not understand what had possessed the Order to locate their training grounds in France. For, according to the board, that’s where they were.
His eyes scanned down a list of documents, picking out a few phrases here and there he recognised: the little French he had been taught in primary school coming to mind and the phrases he often heard Dudley spout at random intervals swanning into his memory. Occasionally during the summer months whenever he was bored, he would glance over Dudley’s Muggle school work and he could remember, quite clearly, the French vocabulary books that were piled under Dudley’s bed, beside his multiple porn magazines, the vocabulary books graffitied over so badly he had had trouble reading even the English. He knew little French and knew instinctively that what little he did know would more than likely be said with an atrocious accent ― but he would try at least.
He turned from the board and scanned the surrounding buildings, hoping desperately to see a tourist information office. Surely someone there would speak English at least.
Ten minutes later Harry had decided that not only did no one in the immediate vicinity know where the tourist information office was; no one around seemed to speak English. Growling in frustration he stalked over to the water fountain in the middle of the cobblestone courtyard and perched on the stone wall surrounding the large water feature, and pulled his legs up to his chest. He dipped his left hand into the water, tracing his fingertips delicately along the surface of the water, and watched as the ripples spread far out from the point of contact and then disappeared. He paid no attention to his surroundings ― this was not overly stressful and did not require much concentration as Harry understood little of what was being said around him and cared even less. Occasionally he would hear brief snatches of English conversation but he pointedly ignored that too; he simply wanted to sit here, entranced by the ripples his fingers were making in the water, until he was forced to return to the training ground for the night. A time, he knew, that was drawing closer at an alarmingly rapid rate.
When he felt the first fingers of cold and weariness set in Harry pondered briefly whether or not to return to the training ground. He wondered whether anyone had noticed his absence and decided that more than likely Hermione would have noticed but not brought it up. He had arrived at the Burrow, exhausted and malnourished, two weeks into August, although he told everyone he had left the Dursley’s the moment he turned seventeen. No one had questioned where he had been, no one questioned where he went when he disappeared for long periods of time. In fact as the days wore on Harry became convinced that Hermione was the only one who still noticed ― aside from Ginny. Neither girl asked him where he disappeared to, nor did he doubt they would not ask now, although he knew from experience that he would spend the next few days receiving furtive, anxious glances from the two girls.
Sighing, he drew his thin denim jacket closer to himself in an effort to keep warm and sat that way, alone and almost completely still, for a long time.
~|~|~|~
It wasn’t often that Draco Malfoy found himself questioning his godfather’s ability to be rational, but now was definitely one of those times. Since his godfather, Severus Snape, had murdered Albus Dumbledore before summer ― on his behalf ― the two had been on the run, wanted by the Light side and not welcome within the ranks of the Dark Lord’s Death Eaters. They had not stayed in one place long, which, Draco supposed, he may once have welcomed. It was not a commonly known fact that Draco was afflicted by a disease known as wanderlust and often felt incredibly uncomfortable staying in one place for too long. He had once dreamed of travelling the world, seeing sights he could barely imagine and drinking in culture like it was a fine wine. These dreams were dashed with Dumbledore’s death and, although he had now been in many different countries and cities, he had seen little outside his hotel room and the few pubs and cafés they came across. It had not been an ideal arrangement, but it had been a relatively good plan; the longer they kept on the move the longer they would be out of danger. Now though, Severus seemed intent on ruining what had so far been an extremely effective plan.
“Severus,” he asked the older man, watching as his godfather took a sip from the coffee mug in front of him, “are you stark raving mad?”
Severus barely managed to stop himself from spluttering his coffee out all over the café’s table, Draco noted with amusement. The older man was not as amused. Glaring fiercely at Draco he lifted a handkerchief to his mouth, dabbed elegantly at the corners of his mouth and took a bite of his omelette before deigning to answer Draco.
“Draco, are you of the habit of mistrusting my judgement?”
Draco snorted. “Yes, absolutely, that is why I have been on the run with you for the past few months and that is also why you have become the only contact I have to humans, besides waitresses and barmen.”
“I see your sarcasm has not been dampened by this experience.”
“And thank Merlin for that,” Draco said cheerfully as he sank his knife into his own dinner ― a French speciality he had not eaten before but had heard his mother order on many occasion. Personally, he had always thought the dish looked rather like the contents of one’s stomach, but it at least sounded sophisticated and Draco could never pass up the opportunity to express how truly sophisticated he was. “Otherwise,” he said absentmindedly as he attacked the mysterious meat, “where would you be?”
“Possibly in the company of a sane person?” Severus murmured and Draco glared briefly at him.
“Where would the fun be in that now?” Draco drawled. “Merlin knows many considered Jenny Weasley to be sane ― you could be stuck with her.”
Severus snorted. “I would have severely wounded the girl by now ― and its Ginny, or rather Ginevra, Draco, not Jenny.”
Draco chewed on a piece of meat and promptly decided that, if his upbringing had been that of someone else such as Potter or one of the Weasley brood, he would have spat the foul tasting substance out. “Do I honestly look like I care?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t even attempt to joke, Severus, you have absolutely no sense of humour and it just means that I, in comparison, look pathetic.”
“How exactly do you explain that, Draco?” Severus asked, clearly amused. “Do share with me the twisted logic your mind is able to produce.”
Draco gave a long suffering sigh. “Well,” he began, “you see when people hear your feeble attempts at humour, those people who are in the surrounding vicinity, they cringe, Severus, and look around to try and locate the person who has befouled the name of humour. When they realise it is you, and I am your travelling companion, I receive pitying looks and you receive scornful glares. It is really quite simply ridiculously apparent; I’m intrigued you didn’t notice before.”
Severus chuckled softly as he discreetly refilled his coffee mug with an almost imperceptible flick of his wand. “I am intrigued that you honestly believe you can carry that voice off.”
“I’ll have you know this voice makes me sound sophisticated, mature and dignified,” Draco said, pouting. “As any plebeian could tell you.”
“I rather think you sound like Lucius,” Severus said, casually, in a rather off-hand manner.
Draco stiffened immediately, his back ramrod straight, fury emanating from every pore of the boy’s being. Severus’ eyes narrowed as he realised what he had said and what the consequence of his words would be. He sighed and set his mug down on the table, his palms still pressed tightly against the (magically) cool china.
“Draco,” he started but did not get any further. Draco stood swiftly, almost knocking the table over in his haste to remove himself from Severus’ presence. He looked at Severus from behind shuttered eyes which were distinctly icier than they had been all summer. Severus fought the rather unfamiliar urge to simultaneously swallow in fear and apologise earnestly.
“Don’t you ever compare me to Lucius fucking Malfoy,” Draco snarled and, turning his back on his godfather, he quickly weaved his way through the tables in the rather small, high end but homey café. He nodded at the maitre d’, courteously, and, collecting his cloak, exited the café to find himself standing in the town square.
It was a quaint town, like many small towns in France’s vineyard country were. The high street ― and indeed many of the streets ― were paved with cobblestone, the houses were built in a haphazard pattern with no particular pattern in mind and many of them seemed to speak of working class lifestyles rather than those he was used to. Gingham, check and coloured curtains were parted to reveal glimpses of a comforting family life he had never seen, or glimpses of businesses, both prosperous and failing. There were many small signs and wooden information boards dotted throughout the town but the main attraction, to Draco anyway, was the feature from which the town got its name ― the Vierge Fontaine, or the Virgin Fountain. The name seemed rather ridiculous to Draco as he knew that, had there been a fountain anywhere in Britain named the Virgin Fountain, he would have went out of his way to ensure it remained virginal no longer. Not that he would perform sex acts on a fountain; that thought was entirely too disturbing and best left up to the Weasley clan to ponder.
He walked towards the fountain, his steps slow and measured. The wind was blowing strands of silver-blonde hair into his eyes and a few times he blew impatiently at the rogue strands. He had not had the luxury of a haircut in five months and his normally carefully cut and beautifully maintained hair was longer now, falling loose to surround his face so the ends brushed delicately against the skin just below his ears. He had never before realised how soft his hair was, having normally insisted on cutting it twice a month and gelling it back most days unless Pansy had insisted on otherwise. Now, he remembered why. The softness, the silky texture, of his hair was something that annoyed him immensely; it almost guaranteed that the weather would see fit to be windy and insist on blowing his hair into his face. He was still blowing stray strands of hair out of his face when he reached the fountain. Glancing up at the marble statue in the middle of the water, his grey eyes began to take in everything about the statue placed on the island there. It was … different.
He remembered his mother telling him once how the Vierge Fontaine had received its name but he could barely remember it now. All he could recall was that it involved a local girl named Claudette and a would be lover who had been stolen from her. He could remember thinking, when his mother had told him that Claudette drowned herself in the fountain in front of him because she could not be with the one she desired, that she was little more than an idiotic bitch. He wasn’t surprised to discover he still felt this way.
The figure in the middle was obviously supposed to be Claudette. Glancing at her rendering, Draco decided that either the sculptor had taken liberties with the rendering of the statue or she had been unnaturally beautiful. Her statue’s cheekbones were high, her nose remarkably straight with a slight aristocratic upturning to it at the end. Her eyes were large and spaced evenly apart in her face, her lips large and full, her hair a wild mane of thick, untameable tresses that contributed to her beauty by giving her an air of rawness, an untameable quality. A fire in her soul, a certain passion about her being, Draco supposed. Her figure was what many girls aspired towards: a curvaceous figure with rounded hips and an ample bosom. Draco quickly decided that the artist must have taken liberties ― Draco had seen many women and not one of them looked like this woman had. Or, none but his mother and the Veelas although, in the back of his mind, he remembered thinking his Aunt Bellatrix had once been extraordinarily beautiful. The thought, which now scampered across his brain, made him snort aloud in amusement.
The admittedly inelegant snort drew the attention of a boy sitting on the other side. Draco had not noticed him sitting there, but when he saw someone shift in his peripheral vision he raised his head to see who it was. The boy wasn’t looking straight at him but rather around him, and from his body language appeared to be confused. Draco’s eyes swept over his form, taking in everything about him, including body language, as Severus had taught him too over the past few months. He was dressed in loose, light blue denim jeans with large patches of yellow and white dust from what Draco presumed where dirt roads clinging to the material. He appeared to be shivering, which didn’t surprise Draco: it was a warm night, yes, but it wasn’t of inhumane heat and the boy seemed to be wearing little more than a thin denim jacket ― although Draco assumed he was also wearing a shirt of some sort underneath. He was of average height, neither overly tall nor overly short, but seemed to be underweight, the baggy clothing doing nothing to hide this fact. Draco hazarded a guess that the boy was roughly his age for he had concluded it was a boy. No adult would sit in such a position, skinny legs pulled tightly to their chest. Still, no boy should look as if they had the weight of the world on their shoulders and the world had just chosen that moment to gain two hundred stone.
Draco snorted at his own humour. The second snort drew the boy’s attention to where he stood and Draco instantly wished he had stayed in the café with Severus, comparisons to his father be damned. His grey eyes widened in shock and he instantly clamped sharp, white teeth down on his bottom lip. The only words racing through his head were all to one effect: oh, shit. The boy’s eyes collided with his and any illusion Draco may have had about this just being one of those annoying, but not uncommon, look-alikes he had been seeing since fleeing Hogwarts were instantly dashed. In his life he had only seen one person with eyes so green that they seemed to be willing you to anger them just so they could shoot Avada Kedavra at you through them, as the colour of the eyes changed to the shade of the Killing Curse. Draco, watching as the eyes widened in recognition, swallowed and began walking backwards quickly. The eyes narrowed and the body they were attached to unfolded itself from where it sat. The instant feet touched cobblestone, Draco began to run.
However, one thing Draco had not accounted for was he did not know the town of Vierge Fontaine very well and his shoes, black leather boots with a heel of an inch and a half, were not exactly running material. This, though it hindered him, did not stop him from fleeing as fast as he could.
Damn, he swore into himself. Damn, damn, damn, damn. Wouldn’t you know it? Arrive in France in a little known town, free from connections to either the Black or Malfoy families when suddenly out of the blue pops Harry sodding Potter who so far he and Severus had managed to avoid. And Severus had been suggesting staying in this damn town for a few weeks!
Dodging the locals in the streets, Draco ran as fast as was possible, his breath coming quick and fast in his chest. He weaved through the thinning night time crowd and ducked into alleyways, following them to locations he knew naught of, fervently wishing that Severus would appear at any moment and Apparate him to safety. He had not mastered Apparation; he had not thought it necessary with Severus nearby. He could only curse his stupidity and so he did so as he ran, although it caused his breathing to constrict his chest more and caused his speech to sound incredibly laboured.
“Fucking Apparation… studies… useless… instructor… oh Merlin… I’m going… to… fucking die… from… lack of… oxygen… Oh, stupid, stupid… Draco… should’ve… learned… to… fucking Apparate… you… useless… sodding… bastard.”
Glancing back over his shoulder he was sure he had lost Potter and, in jubilation, decided that now would be an opportune moment to finally faint from lack of oxygen. He didn’t even manage this, however, instead settling on throwing himself at the nearest wall and sliding down it, the rough feel of the stones scraping through the flimsy material of his shirt and tearing at his skin underneath. He did not complain, however; he instead just slid down until he was sitting on the ground, clutching his chest, willing his breathing to cease its erratic pace.
It didn’t seem to want to comply.
He was positive he had been sitting there for quite some time, coughing desperately in an, admittedly dimwitted, move to restore air to his lungs. His breathing had slowed and the pain in his chest didn’t burn as much as he reached down to yank furiously at the shoelaces on his boots. He pulled the shoes off and, looping the laces together, settled them securely around his neck, a shoe resting over each shoulder. Sure it looked ridiculous, but the shoes had been ridiculously expensive and there was no way he would leave them sitting in a dark alley; the same way there was little chance of him wearing the shoes for much longer. His feet were sore and he was almost positive they were bleeding.
Getting shakily to his feet, Draco took a few tentative steps and saw blood seep into the material of his white cotton socks. He growled in frustration. One short, albeit painful, run and already he felt like he had run a marathon. He was woefully out of shape.
Wincing with every step he took, Draco made his way back through the maze of alleyways, back out into the town square and, in his socks and bleeding feet, ran across the square to duck into the seediest motel they had been able to locate in Vierge Fontaine.
Author’s Notes: When lunadragon was betaing this chapter for me she mentioned that she had never heard of the word ‘swanning’ and had to look it up on Urban Dictionary which apparently gave this definition: “The act of eating ones grenade, resulting in serious injury, or death.” This, however, is not the correct definition in reference to the context I use the word in. It’s common British slang for a simple word, ‘walking’, however it’s normally used in reference to a more snobbish, arrogant and self-assured walk, if you get my meaning. Hopefully, if you didn’t understand the meaning of the word before, you do now. Or, like me, you got to snort at Urban Dictionary’s definition and be overcome with glee that the people who comply dictionaries don’t know every definition.
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