“Avada Kedavra.”
Avada Kedavra. The Killing Curse echoed in Harry’s ears. The dying shriek of the spider grew louder. Avada Kedavra! It was Moody spitting the curse; it was Voldemort hissing it. The spider cried, whined in Harry’s mind, howled in his ears.
The world flared green and black around him.
The echoes and cries came to a crescendo, the Killing Curse spat and hissed and shouted at him in numerous voices: Moody’s and Vernon’s and Petunia’s and Snape's and Voldemort’s. A darker, more purposeful flash of green came straight towards him—quick as lightning and even more damning.
And then the screaming began.
The spider twitched one final time, then stayed still.
A strangled, desperate, struggling inhale tore the class’s attention from the body to Potter. Potter, who was staring at the remains with wide, empty eyes. Potter, who was just barely trembling, who was just barely breathing, just barely present in his own mind.
It hadn’t been a closely guarded secret, last year, that the reason the dementors affected him so badly was because he could hear his parents’ deaths, could hear their screams. Having just seen the same curse used for the same thing was clearly too much for him.
“Harry,” Hermione called, gently shaking his shoulder. Potter didn’t respond. A tear escaped his unblinking eyes as he continued choking on his breath. “Harry!”
Moody watched as the Gryffindors crowded around their housemate, uselessly calling to him and shaking him and trying to wake him from his nightmarish reverie. All it achieved was jostling the boy in his seat, silent tears streaming down his face as he stared into nothing.
“Merlin‘s sake,” Draco’s exasperated voice startled the group. “You lot are bloody useless.” He shoved his way through the crowd, bent over to look more closely at Harry. When he straightened, there was a resolute gleam in his eye. “Pansy, get Pomfrey.” Pansy Parkinson nodded, and disappeared out the door. “Weasley, you’ll be fetching Dumbledore.”
“Who put you in charge?” Ron spat. Draco raised an eyebrow.
“Every single one of you idiots put me in charge when all you decided to do was crowd needlessly around and watch. I like to consider Potter my rival, and yet I'm the only one taking action? Get Dumbledore. Now.” Draco turned around, not waiting to see if the boy listened. He searched the crowd until he saw his own housemate. “Blaise.” Zabini raised his head, ready to follow Draco’s orders. “Snape was brewing Calming Draught this morning; it should be done by now. Have him bring some here, and Draught of Peace if he has it.” Blaise nodded and hurried away.
Draco was on a roll. “Granger.” She bristled, but he ignored it. He brought out his wand, and with a few muttered spells, the students and desks had been moved to make an empty space. A few more flicks of his wand transfigured a few textbooks into cushions, and one of Professor Moody’s chalkboards into a thick blanket. “Hold Potter’s hand, and keep him comfortable under the blanket.”
Hermione, clearly suspicious, grabbed the blanket, gently lowered Harry to the cushions on the floor, and covered him up, all while watching Draco through narrowed eyes. She knew it would help, and that was what mattered.
“Thomas, find McGonagall.” The Gryffindor didn’t argue, which just made Draco’s job easier.
“Moody.” Draco turned to the DADA professor, who had so far only watched the students with analyzing eyes. Upon hearing his name, his magical eye swiveled over to Draco, who promptly bit, “Fuck off. You’ve done enough.” Draco spun around and conjured more pillows and another blanket. “And for Merlin’s sake, Finnegan, hug Longbottom. Any blind man could see he’s in a right state, too.”