In Mourning
Chapter 3: In Mourning
Harry’s dreams were plagued with Hermione’s screams echoing off the stone of the dungeon they were being held captive in. He and Ron were trapped in the basement of Malfoy Manor, and Hermione was being brutally tortured on the floor above them. They heard it all; every last agonizing scream, every crucio that wracked her body.
She never broke. Not once. She cried and whimpered on that hideous Persian rug in the middle of the Malfoys’ drawing room, but she never gave the demented witch what she wanted. Bellatrix’s angry screeching was equally ingrained in his memory, cutting through the dreamworld his subconscious had created.
Harry, in the skirmish while escaping his prison, helplessly looked on as Wormtail strangled himself. His metallic silver hand closed tightly around his own throat, crushing the life from him. Harry had felt pity in that moment—in the real world. He’d felt satisfaction at the rat’s demise, but still, there was the smallest ounce of pity.
Peter Pettigrew made a lot of mistakes that led to the deaths of so many…his parents included…but it was out of fear. He put his faith in the wrong people, and in turn, caused so much damage. In the end, he’d chosen to help Harry and Ron escape—to do the right thing for once. And he paid with his life.
The nightmare surged forward, and they would run up the stairs—endless stairs—climbing, climbing, climbing. They never reached the top, like an endless loop on a treadmill.
Harry woke to the mid-morning sun beaming through his still open curtains. But they had gotten to her. Dobby came. They had been safe. Dobby died. Another death on his hands…an innocent, pure life gone in exchange for his own.
His faded blue t-shirt clung to his skin, sticky with sweat. Another shower, then.
He washed and dried himself, feeling freshly broken for a new day…and the trials. Thankfully they would be held together, and it was only one trip to the Ministry. Besides Hogwarts, it was the last place he wanted to be. There were sure to be reporters and gawking bystanders. He’d probably wager there would be some hateful purebloods as well, just biding their time to strike when no one was looking.
CONSTANT VIGILANCE!
Harry groaned internally at the ghostly voice that had etched itself there. It would be better to arrive as a group. He knew that there was safety in numbers and besides, he’d probably have less anxiety walking in with Ron and Mr. Weasley.
He penned a quick note to Ron before realizing he didn’t have an owl to send it with…Hedwig was gone too. Harry wished he knew the spell Dumbledore had created to send messages via Patronus. He’d have to ask Mr. Weasley to show him later…although they all might have a hard time conjuring one for a while…if ever again.
Well, someone would be home, out of the seven residents—six—he’d be able to tag along with one of them.
How many Weasleys were requested to attend the trial? Ron, of course, and probably Ginny for the Department of Mysteries debacle. Mr. Weasley and Percy were both still working at the Ministry, so Harry figured they, too, would be in attendance.
His mind made up, Harry grabbed the bag Kreacher had laid out for him the night before with a new set of more professional black robes inside. He walked confidently toward the fireplace, throwing a handful of Floo powder in.
“The Burrow!”
Engulfed in the green flames, Harry spun like a top until he landed at the right grate, which was thankfully open. He landed in the fireplace, and ducked his head as he stepped out of the hearth.
Dusting the soot off his shoulders and shaking out his hair, Harry looked around the room. The worn, squashy sofa and armchairs sat invitingly from where they always had, but not a soul was there to engage them. A clatter came from the kitchen, and Harry headed toward the sound of dishes in the sink.
“Mrs. Weasley?” Harry called gently.
The matronly woman had her head in her hands, leaning over the sink, sobbing. Suds had splattered over the counter in both directions, and were slowly sliding down the wooden cabinets below.
At his voice, she straightened and wiped the tears from her face, plastering on the motherly smile he was accustomed to. If he hadn’t spent so much time with the family, he might not have noticed that it didn’t reach her watery, bloodshot eyes.
“I’m sorry to—“
“Don’t be silly, dear, you’re always welcome! Come, come, have you eaten anything today? You’re looking a bit peaky,” Mrs. Weasley ushered him into a mismatched dining chair and started to fill a bowl with porridge, sprinkling some berries on top before setting it in front of him.
“Thank you,” he said sincerely. Truthfully, he hadn’t eaten since early last night, and even then it had just been more broth and a bit of bread. The sweetness was a welcome reprieve from his recently bland diet.
Mrs. Weasley patted his head like he was a small boy, her eyes growing distant as she went back to washing the dishes in the sink. She wiped away the stray bubbles from the counter, sniffling a bit.
“Ron will be down soon, but you’re welcome to join him in his room when you’ve finished your breakfast,” her voice was far away, like she was drifting to a different place, a different time. When she finished with the dishes, she glided out of the kitchen and into the back garden.
Harry quickly spooned the porridge into his mouth and washed his own bowl and spoon, leaving them to dry on the rack. He climbed the steps to Ron’s room, carrying the bag of new robes he’d brought with him.
He raised his hand to knock, but Ron was already there opening the door. “Oh, hey,” he said, surprised.
“Hey,” Harry jumped back from the door, startled. “I—er—I wasn’t sure where to go at the Ministry so I thought we could go together…if that’s alright with you—,” Harry fiddled with the hem of his shirt awkwardly.
Ron shuffled away from the door, letting Harry into the room behind him. “Yeah, ‘course.”
“So, did you think about what you’re gonna say?” Harry asked.
Ron shrugged, “I figured I’d just wing it when I get up there.”
A bubble of laughter erupted from Harry’s throat. He just couldn’t hold back the humor that washed over him at how the other boy—man’s approach was so utterly Ron .
“What? What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” Harry tried to get some semblance of control, “it’s just, I made a half-arsed list of things to talk about last night—like one Hermione would’ve made us do—and I just knew you wouldn’t have prepared anything at all.”
Ron’s lips curled upward slowly, and then he was laughing right along with his best friend. It was nostalgic in the best way possible, and for a moment, Harry felt like things might turn out alright.
“Should we get dressed?” He proposed through the fading laughter.
Ron nodded, “Guess so, Bill let me borrow some of his nicer robes that he wears to his meetings.”
“Kreacher had to go out and fetch me these,” Harry held his up. “Lucky he brought my trunk or I wouldn’t’ve had any clothes at all.”
The other man chuckled, “Goin’ starkers would definitely get those reporters talking.”
Harry grimaced at the mental image of his naked body plastered all over the front of The Daily Prophet .
“You’d have a lot of witches taking a page out of Romilda Vane’s playbook…” Ron’s face turned a variation of chartreuse as he recalled his subsequent poisoning. “You can count me out for checking your fan mail, by the way.”
They had both slipped on their nicer black robes, and looked into the single, small mirror in the room that hung surrounded by Chudley Cannons posters, assessing their appearances. Harry automatically tried to smooth down his wayward black hair to no avail, and Ron rubbed at his freckles like they were unsightly flecks of dirt he could remove if only he scrubbed hard enough.
“Last call! We need to get a move on if we’re going through the visitors entrance,” Arthur called through the door with a loud knock. He probably assumed Ron was still sleeping, which wouldn’t be totally unfounded.
Harry grabbed his wand off the bed, tucking it in the pocket of his robes, and giving himself one last look in the mirror. The two young men clambered down the stairs to the front door where Arthur was waiting for them.
“Where’s Gin?” Ron asked, looking around.
Arthur smiled brightly at Harry’s presence before answering, “She left with Percy about an hour ago, said she was worried she’d be late if she waited for you.” He winked at Harry.
Ron tried to protest, but the clock from the kitchen started to chime, signaling it was now two o’clock, and they would need to arrive at least a few minutes early.
The trek to the boundary of the anti-apparition wards took them a good fifteen minutes with Ron whinging about how hungry he was, but Mr. Weasley just ignored him. Harry didn’t mind it, for once, at least. Ronald Weasley complaining about the lack of food in any given situation was the most natural and normal thing Harry could think of, and it put him at ease.
The three men apparated separately to an alley near their targeted location. They had all used this entrance before, but this time it was finally on better—not good, but better terms. Mr. Weasley led them to the abandoned red telephone booth, and they all crammed inside together. Harry wondered how they had ever fit six teenagers in there at once.
Harry was closest to the phone, so he dialed 6, 2, 4, 4, 2 . He had to think out the letters, spelling MAGIC in his head as he punched the silver buttons that corresponded. The detached woman’s voice came over the speaker, and they answered the prompts, receiving their passes and being deposited at level eight.
Ron pushed the door open, and the three wizards quickly filed out of the box. They made it all of six steps before reporters and photographers were shoving cameras and Quick Quotes Quills in their faces asking for statements and photos.
Mr. Weasley pushed through the throng of paparazzi, leading them toward the main lifts. Arthur pressed the button to take them to Level 10, and they all hung on tightly as the metal box around them surged into motion.
By the time they reached Courtroom Three, it was nearing two forty-five, both Harry and Ron having checked their watches several times along the trip. Harry scrutinized the room as they crossed the threshold, not able to stop the whirling in his brain as it instantly started comparing the room to the other two he’d been subjected to in recent years.
It was smaller than Courtroom Ten, where he’d had his own trial, deep in the Department of Mysteries. Its lofty ceiling, however, gave the impression of being sunken in the depths of a darkened pit. The courtroom emanated despair and inescapability which, he supposed, was the entire point, though it didn’t make him feel any less anxious to sit there for a whole proceeding…especially if there were Dementors again.
Chatter flowed from a high, raised platform in which the Wizengamot members sat behind a balustrade. They were dressed in their rich, plum colored robes embroidered with a silver W to signify just how important they thought they were. There were some familiar faces among those present, though most were nameless to Harry.
Kingsley Shacklebolt was front and center, as acting Minister and Chief Warlock, and Percy Weasley sat to his left as the Court Scribe just as he had so long ago. Neville’s gran, Augusta Longbottom sat behind them, and when she spotted Harry’s gaze, she gave him a curt nod before turning back to harrumphing her disapproval of the conversation beside her.
Many of the about fifty or so seats were empty—their owners either had stepped down, were awaiting trials, or dead. It was bleak, but ‘twas the product of what had been brewing the last few decades. The government would need an overhaul of every department, starting with the removal of the sickness that had brought it to its knees to begin with. They would slice off and hack away at the diseased pieces until there was only the good left. At least they would as long as someone good like Kingsley was leading…
Good. What an odd concept. To them—Harry, Ron, the Weasleys—they were fighting for the good side. Objectively they were right…right? But to them—Death Eaters, pureblood sympathizers—the Order had fought for the bad, the side that wanted to destroy their way of life. He could see why they’d clung so tightly to their traditions. They were wrong, but he understood.
Fucking Slytherins.
Harry shook the empathy out of his brain and let his head rattle with its emptiness. He went and collected two stray Slytherins…well three? He hadn’t really spoken to Blaise but Luna was dating him so…? Three. He’d collected three little snakes to take home and protect and now he was suddenly seeing things from “other points of view”? No. Nope. No way. If Ron could see what just transpired in his head, he’d have clobbered him.
He’d be the Boy Who Lived Twice And Died Because He’s A Sucker For Lost Causes.
Theo wasn’t a lost cause though was he? He seemed like a decent bloke, a sweet one really. And Pansy. She just needed a hug, probably…or for him to keep the fuck away from her. Yeah, that was more likely it.
Kingsley had cleared his throat, directing everyone to take their seats. A woman sat down to his right, and Harry did a double take at her appearance. She had pale, pointed features with dark, almost black hair. Hers was more sleek than the witch he had immediately mistaken her for, but she had the same deep-set eyes. Andromeda Tonks was now on the Wizengamot, and he knew that today—and several other trials to come—would be extremely personal for her.
Harry quickly caught up to Ron and Mr. Weasley who sat off to one side of the room next to Ginny, Neville, and Luna.
Rabastan Lestrange was brought in first. He was a tall, thin man from what Harry remembered of him in the Department of Mysteries. The majority of the memory revolved around the shock at seeing a full grown wizard fall into the bell jar in the Time Room where his head kept switching between his own and that of an infant. It had either worn off, or someone from St. Mungo’s had set him right again, but Harry couldn’t help but wonder if his mental capacity changed correspondingly with the head size and age… Had he permanently lost any cognitive function?
The man before him now, was a scarecrow; skin and bones. Azkaban had done him no favors either time, and it appeared his third imprisonment—while only a few days—had broken the man. His hair was a limp, dull gray, and his eyes were empty. Visions of Sirius flashed before his eyes—when Harry had first seen him in the Shrieking Shack…emaciated, starved. But Sirius had had a reason to live; a reason to spark something within him.
This man had nothing left. Rabastan was led to one of the two chairs in the center of the room, where he was magically locked into it. His wrists, knees, ankles, and neck were strapped into place, but he didn’t struggle. Instead, he stared blankly in front of him.
The next guard appeared, leading the other criminal to his seat. Tall like his brother, Rodolphus Lestrange had been a thickset man before his second capture. Azkaban had also taken much from him, though his hair was more of the salt and pepper variety rather than full on gray.
This one had vigor left in him, and when the restraints began to snake around his joints, Rodolphus tried to jerk away unsuccessfully. His eyes seethed with hatred as he stared down the remaining members of the Wizengamot. Harry was just grateful he hadn’t looked his way, though it seemed inevitable considering the whole reason he was there was to stand up and give testimony against them.
The charges were rattled off, and Harry honestly lost track of them all after the first seven or so. The Lestrange brothers had a rap sheet three miles long. By the time Kingsley had finished listing their transgressions, and Percy transcribing them, they were already thirty minutes into the trials.
It was a long afternoon. Each of the witnesses were required to give an in depth retelling of the crimes they had witnessed from the two wizards before them. When it was Harry’s turn, he found himself getting lost in the memories as they replayed like a movie in his head.
He spun the tale of the battle in the Department of Mysteries, just as Luna, Neville, and Ron had before him, though he and Neville were the only two to make it till the end still conscious and somewhat mobile. Harry told them of the attack he’d seen Rodolphus mount against Ron and Tonks during his liberation from the Dursleys. He spoke of the stray Unforgivables he’d seen them use at the Battle of Hogwarts. It was enough, he thought as he looked up at the plum robed men and women watching him.
The Death Eaters were given several opportunities to speak on their own behalf throughout the process, but only Rodolphus said anything, and it had nothing to do with proving their innocence.
“He’ll rise again! You’ll all see! It happened once and it will happen again!” The man grinned maliciously. “Send us to Azkaban,” he goaded, “we’ll just escape again!” His unhinged laughter bounced off the walls of the chamber, haunting echoes.
“Tom Riddle is dead. He will not return,” Kingsley announced, regaining order from the court as even the members of the Wizengamot had begun to murmur at the prisoner’s declaration. “I believe we have heard enough here, let’s take a vote, shall we?”
Andromeda called out from her seat, “Those in favor of conviction?” She raised her own hand and every other remaining member did as well.
“Wonderful,” Kingsley grinned cheerily at the two convicted Death Eaters before him.
“We’ll just escape again!” Rodolphus shouted hastily, grinning widely, his eyes not blinking as he stared every person he walked past in the eyes.
Kingsley shuffled the papers around on his desk, “No, you won’t.”
“Oh? And why’s that Minister ?” he snarled.
“You will be taken back to your holding cell now,” was Kingsley’s only reply, though Arthur looked concerned at the statement.
“He won’t be able to escape, will he?” Ginny voiced what they all were worried about when she saw her father’s reaction to the Minister’s statement.
Mr. Weasley shook his head. “No, but it’s not procedure to take them back to a holding cell either. They’re usually taken straight to Azkaban from the courtroom if found guilty. I’ll just have a word with Kingsley.”
Arthur quickly made his way over to the balustrade to get the new Minister’s attention before he could sweep out of the room. The two chatted briefly, one looking rather pleased with himself, and the other a bit tense.
When Mr. Weasley approached his children and Harry, he looked beyond worried. “The Wizengamot has voted that all Death Eaters bearing the Dark Mark and found guilty will be given the Dementor’s Kiss immediately upon conviction. The Lestranges will not be able to escape, but if they did, they’d be no threat to anyone. They’ll be zombies for the rest of their natural lives.”
Mr. Weasley did not look convinced that this was the right way to go about things, but the wrinkles on his forehead and between his brows said he didn’t have any better ideas either. Arthur returned to the members of the Wizengamot to garner more information about the remaining trials.
“So, anyone have any plans for the evening?” Neville asked hopefully.
Ron shrugged and Ginny shook her head, but Luna just stared at Harry with her large blue eyes until he finally let the cat out of the bag.
“I—er—I’m having tea,” he said awkwardly, not wanting to admit who it was with.
Neville jumped at the opportunity, fishing for his own invitation. “Really? Who with?”
Harry pulled at the collar of his shirt beneath his robes, suddenly feeling like he might choke on his own saliva. “Um..er…it’s—Theo Nott and Pansy Parkinson?” His voice squeaked up at the inflection, making it sound like a question, when he knew for a fact that’s who he would be seeing. From the pointed looks he was getting from Luna, he gathered she and Blaise would be attending too, then.
“You’re having tea with them now? You’re joking, right?” Ron snarled, and it was instantly like they were back in the dungeons arguing over the same thing they were about to start up again. “So they’re not Death Eaters, big deal?! They’re terrible people, Harry! How can you go so low?”
“Ronald Weasley, you listen to me!” Luna’s high pitched voice, usually dreamy and serene, was fevered and angry. “You don’t know the first thing about any of them! Your prejudice is unseemly. Don’t you see that you’re pushing Harry away because of your grief?” Her cadence had slowed toward the end, trying to appeal to his more reasonable side.
“My prejudice?! I—I—,” Ron stammered, unable to comprehend that Luna Lovegood of all people had just told him off.
Harry pulled the invitation Pansy had sent from his pocket and handed it to Ron, “Actually you were invited too.”
Neville looked heartbroken at being left out, his lips turned down in the corners. Ginny put an arm around his shoulders as if to say I didn’t get invited to the shit show either .
“You expect me to go have tea with them? Me ?! You’re havin’ a laugh—take Nev with you, I’m sure he can hold his tongue much better than I can.” Ron pushed Neville toward Harry with his empty hand, the other still clinging angrily onto the invitation.
“I wouldn’t mind,” Neville offered sheepishly. “Theo and I get on pretty well, and Pansy’s easy enough to ignore.”
“You and Nott get on?” Ron roared. “What the bloody hell?! You’ve been consorting with the snakes?!”
Neville’s face twisted in disgust. “You weren’t there last year, Ron. Theo and Pansy, Blaise and Draco, hell, even Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis helped some—they all helped! They kept the younger students from being tortured. They helped members of the D.A. get into hiding and gather supplies! You weren’t there, Ron!”
The werewolf’s chest was heaving as he fought down his newly intense righteous anger. He was protecting part of who he considered pack, Harry realized. Was he part of Neville’s pack? He hoped so, but he had a feeling he would have to earn it. This new Neville—not the wolf, but the man—was strong in character, and Harry admired the hell out of him. He’d follow Neville Longbottom into battle any day…just hopefully not any time soon.
“So it’s true?” Ron looked to Ginny, the last piece to corroborate the story he’d already been told twice.
Her hardened eyes told Harry everything he already knew. There was no lie. The Slytherins had stood up when called upon, and Harry felt vindicated in trusting them.
“I think we should all go,” Luna suggested gently, her voice back to its lilting sing-song nature.
“I can’t,” Ginny said glumly, “I should really go check on Mum and George.”
“I’ll go too—,” Ron tried, but Ginny held up a hand to stop him.
“No, I’ll get them, you go with Harry. You obviously need to see it for yourself. Now, go, and don’t be a prat, or Pansy will eat you alive,” She warned before joining her father at the other side of the quickly emptying courtroom.
Harry looked at Ron expectantly, “So…?”
“Let’s just get this fucking thing over with,” he grumbled, following Harry, Luna, and Neville toward the lobby. When they stepped out of the lift, reporters scrambled to surround them, shouting questions about the trials.
“Harry Potter, have you begun preparing your statements for the Carrow trials tomorrow?” a stout, balding man yelled, holding his quill and pad of paper right under his nose as he craned to hear Harry’s nonexistent answer.
He hadn’t received another summons…unless they sent it this morning after he’d left already. Another trial so soon? He knew the Ministry was trying to get through that particular portion of post-war rebuilding efforts, but daily double trials seemed excessive.
An oval-faced, gray haired witch took his momentary befuddlement as an opportunity to ask, “What can we expect from the Malfoy trials? Have you been given a date?”
Harry hadn’t even thought about the Malfoys since Narcissa had spoken to him immediately after the battle. He’d assumed they would be taken to Azkaban like everyone else, but now that he knew Kingsley’s plan for punishment, he felt concern for the woman…
He sincerely hoped she hadn’t taken the Dark Mark. She had saved his life, and he would do his best to repay the favor, he decided. A life for a life.
“Neville Longbottom, is it true you’ve been infected with Lycanthropy? Is it even safe for you to be out in public? Who allowed you to be in the Ministry?” another witch accused, sneering at Neville.
Harry stopped in his tracks, the rage was back, seeping out of his pores with no way to reel it back in. It felt like black tar oozing out of his skin, but he had no intention of controlling it.
“Excuse me? I’ll not stand by while you not only disrespect one of my best friends, but a war hero, for God’s sake! He helped kill Voldemort, and fought off Death Eaters, protecting cowards like you!” Harry’s chest heaved, “Where were all of you during the Battle of Hogwarts? Safe at home, sipping tea and writing your rubbish articles? If you’ve got a problem with Neville Longbottom, then you’ve got a problem with Harry Potter.”
Harry shoved past the gobsmacked reporters, dragging Neville with him by the elbow. He just assumed Luna and Ron were close behind, and when they made it back to the row of fireplaces, he grabbed a handful of powder and ducked into the emerald flames until they spit him out in the Leaky Cauldron.
Luna, Neville, and eventually Ron appeared in the hearth, and Harry let Luna lead the way to their destination. Winding through the streets of Diagon Alley became quite the challenge. When they would come across a new group of pedestrians, all it took was for one on-looker to recognize one of their faces and the whole crowd would stand stock still, watching their every move with such intensity Harry started to feel on edge.
He was checking down every darkened alley they passed, for what, he wasn’t entirely certain. He tried to make a mental note of the appearance of every witch or wizard who stared just a little too long. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck and forearms had raised to full mast, and he couldn’t shake the feeling they were being watched.
Which they were. It was pretty obvious. But Harry had this roiling in his gut like something nefarious was inching ever closer. He stole a sideways glance at the others, and Ron and Neville had the same look about them—shoulders hunched ever so slightly, eyes scanning the busy commercial district. Something was up. He’d bet twenty galleons that Neville would smell or hear whatever it was before they even got close to any danger, but Harry still kept his guard up.
CONSTANT VIGILANCE!
The dark blue and gold awning was visible now, as they approached the building Nott had bought as a haven for the Slytherins. Luna veered around a few starstruck shoppers who’d caught sight of Harry and Ron, who both attempted to avoid the girls’ gawking. Luna’s pace quickened, and the boys tried to keep up. Neville pushed ahead, roughly elbowing and shoving bystanders out of the way as he caught the scent of something they couldn’t yet see.
The crowd had formed a semicircle around the entrance to the flat, which was odd in and of itself. Theo seemed like the type to make a spectacle, but somehow Harry was certain there would be a lot more noise involved. The green door was closed, but it had a crimson handprint dripping down the front of it.
Harry shoved past the last few bystanders in his way, determined to help whoever it was that had been injured.
Blaise Zabini was propped up against the door, barely coherent. His shirt was slit open at his shoulder and part of his chest, while blood poured out of the wound beneath. Harry joined Neville and Luna in assessing his condition, quickly taking over the scene.
He briefly considered Kingsley’s offer to join the Aurors.
“What happened?” Harry asked quickly. He was in crisis mode now, there would be time to consider job opportunities later.
Luna shook her head, tears streaming down her pale cheeks, “This wasn’t supposed to happen. I didn’t see it happen.”
“It’s not your fault,” Neville hugged her tightly, “we weren’t here yet. There’s nothing you could’ve done.”
Harry peeled back the blood soaked shirt, getting a visual on the source of the bleeding. The shape of the cut…he’d seen it before. He’d done this before.
Blood spurted from Malfoy’s face and chest as though he had been slashed with an invisible sword. He staggered backward and collapsed onto the waterlogged floor with a great splash, his wand falling from his limp right hand. Slipping and staggering, Harry got to his feet and plunged toward Malfoy, whose face was now shining scarlet, his white hands scrabbling at his blood-soaked chest
“Harry?” Luna’s delicate voice quivered, pulling him back to the present.
Wand already raised, Harry attempted to copy Snape’s countercurse he had used. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the memory, but further on. He couldn’t focus on the guilt he felt about Draco Malfoy right now. Luna needed him to help, so he would help.
Harry did his best imitation of Snape’s song-like chanting, “ Vulnera sanentur .” He kept the chant steady as he traced his wand over the outer edges of the cursed flesh, working further inward with each movement of his wrist. The dark, blood stained skin knit itself back together, leaving angry, raised scars, but the bleeding had stopped.
Several cheers and wolf whistles from the crowd behind them, reminded them all they still had an audience. The positivity was countered, however, by a loud round of boos and heckling scattered throughout the gathered onlookers.
“Let the monster die!” one shouted angrily.
Another sneered down at them as he spat, “How can you heal one of them ? They killed my sister!”
“He didn’t kill anyone!” Luna shouted, standing up to glare forcefully back at the second man.
“Says you!” The man scoffed, “Aren’t you that Lovegood girl? Yeah, your father writes that Quibbler nonsense! Shouldn’t you run home to your fantasy land with made up creatures and your crazy daddy?” He was grinning maliciously now.
Ron’s wand was at the man’s throat. “Leave.”
“I—I didn’t want no trouble,” the man looked between Ron and Harry, recognition of how he would appear in the media dawning on him, having just provoked Harry Potter and Ron Weasley only days after Voldemort’s defeat. The man scurried down the nearest alleyway before they heard a faint crack of apparition.
“Let’s get him inside,” Ron helped Neville hoist Blaise up while Harry held the door open. It took all four of them to get Blaise up the narrow steps and into the flat.
Before Harry had gotten completely into the flat, a shrill scream and the shattering of possibly a teacup and saucer sounded from the kitchen. He rounded the corner, carrying Blaise’s legs and assisting to maneuver his body onto the sofa. Theo jumped at their entrance, but quickly brought over a blanket, vanishing the beyond repair garments once the unconscious man was modestly covered.
“Do you have any dittany?” Harry asked both Theo and Pansy, gesturing to the skin that had already begun to scar.
“Pansy, dear, go fetch the dittany from my bag,” he gently prodded the startled witch into action. She walked in a daze, barefoot, over the shattered china beneath her feet and Neville winced at the fresh wave of copper that scented the room. Her bloody footprints trailed deeper into the flat while she went to look for the requested item.
Theo tucked in the cashmere blanket around Blaise’s legs, his movements stuttering only once when his hand brushed Harry’s in passing. Harry ignored the contact, more intent on waiting for the essence of dittany to apply to the freshly stitched wounds.
Blaise was lucky they’d arrived when they had. Harry was shite at healing charms, that had always been more of Hermione’s forte. She was calmest of the three of them in a state of panic, or at least knew how to focus her jittery energy into saving their lives. He’d done it this time. Harry. She’d be so proud of what he’d just done.
He realized his heart was hammering in his chest. He’d felt it start to slow when they’d entered the flat, but it was running a marathon now. Harry noticed Theo’s proximity, and took a deep breath—could he hear it? Harry hoped none of them noticed how frantic his pulse was, or how erratic his breathing had grown. Why now? The perceived danger was over…
“What happened?” Pansy handed Harry the bottle of dittany and started to pace across the room while he bathed the irritated skin with dropperfuls of the clear liquid.
“Dunno,” Ron answered since no one else seemed willing to pay attention to her question. “We showed up and he was already like this… Why does it look like a funeral in here?”
Harry actually looked around the room for the first time since he’d entered the flat. There was a black sheet draped over the mirror that hung above the mantle, and Pansy and Theo were both dressed in all black.
Pansy shot the redhead a scathing look, and Ron sneered back defensively. “We’re in mourning, Ronald, aren’t you?”
“Wha—you asked, and I answered! Obviously he was attacked,” Ron snarled.
Pansy rolled her eyes, “Obviously. But why?” She pointed to the web of scattered lightning that had healed into faded dark lines.
“It was Sectumsempra,” Harry cut in before one of them hexed the other. “I’ve seen it before.”
Ron placed a reassuring hand on Harry’s shoulder, and oddly enough, Theo did the same on the other side. “Not many people know that spell,” Nott stated.
“Us, Snape,” Harry started ticking the list off on his fingers.
“—Snape’s dead.” Ron cut in as if crossing the ex-professor’s name off a sheet of parchment. “Anyone else from your side?” He looked toward Pansy earnestly.
She scowled. “ Our side ? Listen here, you filthy little weasel, the only—and I mean only— reason you are still standing is because I left my wand in my room. You can kindly get the fuck out of my flat—“
“Technically it’s my flat,” Theo corrected, earning his own, personal death glare.
“I don’t care who’s flat it is, I’m leaving. Harry?” Ron said gruffly as he turned toward the door, looking back at Harry expectantly.
Harry shook his head, “I’m gonna stay until he wakes up.”
“Whatever. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Harry looked puzzled, “What’s in the morning?”
Ron’s face dropped all its ire and affront, “Fred’s funeral. We’re starting at sunrise.”
Silence enveloped the room, thick with tension and sudden empathy. They had all lost so much, of course emotions were running high, and tempers were hot.
“Weasley,” Pansy called out before he could make it to the door.
Ron stopped to shoot her a look of disdain. “I’m leaving, alright?!”
Pansy’s face was on the edge of contrition, though, and she looked to Theo for support. The tall brunette nodded. “Please, stay,” she said a bit softer.
She choked a bit on the words, but they were sincere considering they were meant for Ron Weasley, one of the people she detested most in the world. Pansy’s face wasn’t dramatically different, she still had that “I want to murder you and bury you in an unmarked grave” look to it, but her eyes had softened at Ron’s loss.
Ron was incredulous. His head snapped between Harry, Theo, and Pansy, not sure what to make of the request. Deciding for him, Harry put his hand on Ron’s shoulders, guiding him to an empty seat at the dining table.
“So why did you invite us here?” Harry drew the attention away from the diffused pair of bombs.
Pansy uncharacteristically chewed on her lip, not answering, but waving her hand in Theo’s direction instead. The taller man nervously took center stage, wringing his hands as he looked between the two infiltrating Gryffindors.
“I may have something that can bring Draco and Granger back.”
“WHAT?!”