Neville
Metal restraints around his wrists and ankles, tightening magically with every ounce of struggle and drawing blood as they did. Draco’s captor stood far, face and body cloaked in black, head tilted as he stared.
“Scream. I dare you.”
Ron had to pull Harry out less than ten minutes into watching the memory on account of Harry having been twitching ‘like mad’.
“I think I’ll have to pass up on that pint, Ron.”
Harry was still blinking more rapidly than strictly normal, working to calm down and get his breathing back under control. Ron attempted a sort of smile that looked more like a pitiful grimace and clapped Harry on the back.
“Alright. We’ll try again tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry.” Harry didn’t know what else to say, really. He was still disoriented and quite shaken by the little he’d seen of the failed attempt at Draco’s murder.
“Don’t sweat it. And hey, tomorrow Mordecai will be there too. We can take turns.”
Harry nodded absently, following Ron out of the office and turning off the light behind them.
Travelling home was a bit of a haze. Every moment that Harry had, he found his mind trailing back, thinking of all that he’d seen.
And that wasn’t even close to halfway. Harry gathered that much because when he got pulled out, Draco still didn’t look as severely mauled as he had when he was found.
Harry’s night was less than pleasant, having been filled with what-ifs and flashbacks of what had happened. He got out of bed and ready for the day earlier than necessary the next morning, feet dragging to the Ministry as he rubbed at his eyes and attempted to suppress the eighth yawn of the morning.
The quicker he sorted through the memory and duplicated it, the faster he could return it.
But who would want to keep a memory like this?
When he arrived at the hospital, the first thing that happened was that he was gaped at by witches and wizards young and old, sick and healthy. He shook it off, making his way to the front desk and reporting as “the Auror assigned to patient Draco Malfoy’s case, may I see him?” That was followed by “but of course, Mr. Potter. Yes, absolutely. Right this way.” Harry, having not gotten nearly enough sleep to deal with this, dismissed her by stating “I know where his room is, thank you.”
Despite it being nearly noon when Harry opened the door to that small room, he found Malfoy asleep. Well, I’d probably spend as much time sleeping as possible, too. Maybe even too much, he summed, and walked over to Malfoy’s bed- Draco… Draco, Draco’s bed. Harry observed the contrast between his hair and the pillow beneath him, noting how the sun once again made it shine with an uplifting yellow glow. He blinked, then shook his- warm- shoulder gently to wake him. Draco woke softly, turning to see just who had made him. I didn’t think I’d ever associate Draco Malfoy with warmth.
His grey eyes still seemed a bit too dull, and his skin a bit too pale, for Harry. He swallowed, the realization that he really didn’t like seeing Draco so unwell being packed neatly away for the moment being.
“Uhm…” Harry stammered, hastily pulling the now safely duplicated vial out from the pocket of his Auror robes and holding it up in front of the two of them. “It’s been duplicated. You can have it back, now.
Harry told himself he was imagining things when he noted that Malfoy’s face had fallen slightly, his face losing even more colour- as though that were possible. His lips formed a thin line and his nostrils flared. He gave a short nod, his eyes glazing over as though he’d just put a wall up between himself and the rest of the world.
“Get on with it, then.”
Harry left quickly after returning the memory, ignoring the sharp swoop in his belly and the guilt he felt rising within him at making Draco keep such a horrifying event in his mind. He also didn’t feel particular to sticking around and watching how Draco would react to the memory sweeping across the forefront of his mind as it slithered its way to its rightful place where it had been taken from.
Harry spent the rest of the week rotating between Ron and Mordecai watching the horror-drawn spectacle of Malfoy’s attempted murder. They realized rather quickly that Draco passed out seconds after the point that Harry stopped watching previously, effectively staggering the memory and making it rather difficult for any of the three Aurors to watch with any consistency.
“I am God’s Wrath,” the distorted voice snarled, fury behind his slender frame, one that only looked menacing and gargantuan when seen in the perspective of a half-lucid and half-dead Draco Malfoy. Harry shuddered, watching as he brought a heated iron pipe down to his stomach. After several moments, the memory flickered away again.
Harry thought he might hear those screams for the rest of his life.
“Maybe there’s something obviously distinctive about their voice, and that’s why they use a charm to distort it.”
“It has to be Abscondita Orator,” added Mordecai, shaking his head as he opened a drawer for a quill, ink, and parchment. “And that means we’re screwed. It’s basically an obscurious charm but on your voice. This guy knows what he’s doing,” he sighed in frustration. “You’re next, Ron.”
Sighing, Ron put down his last forkful of food and stood, making his way over to the pensive.
Friday night is the night in which Ron tries to convince Harry to go out and have a pint at the pub with some other friends.
Every Friday. Harry sometimes wondered why Ron didn’t get tired of asking when he knew that most of the time (really, more like all the time) Harry declined. Harry supposed that was what made Ron so amazing. He stuck by Harry, and maybe, just maybe, he knew that it was Harry’s unwillingness to deal with society as The Saviour that made him avoid going.
“Neville is going to be there, and he really wants to see us. Especially since he starts at Hogwarts soon and doesn’t know when he’ll be able to again.”
Harry pursed his lips while Ron awaited a response. He truly hadn’t seen Neville in a long time, and he hadn’t taken up Ron’s weekly offer in almost as long. But Malfoy- Draco was in the hospital because of a deranged murderer that he still hadn’t managed to catch. He was alone, probably in pain, probably still grieving his girlfriend-
Shit, he had a girlfriend. That’s right.
Harry rubbed at his eyes, suddenly keenly aware of the strain they held from just how little rest he’d been getting.
Maybe a drink at the pub wouldn’t hurt.
Ron’s eyes widened and his mouth upturned into an astonished grin as Harry stood with a resigned sigh and gathered his cloak.
“Let’s go to the pub, then.”
The atmosphere of the Seven Swans by Godric’s Hollow was warm and bright. Left and right, patrons stood and sat with their companions, nursing drinks and talking, whether it be about their days or “my horrid ex-boyfriend who cheated on me Owled me saying he wants me back! Can you believe the twat?”
When Harry entered with Ron, there were a fair few faces that turned and spotted him, eyes wide when they recognized their saviour. Some turned away to inform those they were with. Others just stared.
Neville spotted the two Aurors quickly, waving them over to a far booth in a corner. Harry huffed out a breath, thankful for the opportunity to go straight to a seat with brisk, hurried steps. Ron followed closely behind, awkwardly acknowledging the people whose eyes followed them to their seats unashamedly.
Harry sighed in relief as soon as the three of them were seated, casting a disillusionment over the booth as soon as he could. He knew that it didn’t stop the patrons from knowing where he was sat, but he also knew that they would, at least, all eventually grow tired of the strain in their eyes caused by trying to make him out as more than a blurry outline that their vision just ached to pass over, and they would all go back to minding their own business.
“I’m glad you could make it, Harry. Ron’s told me all about the case with Malfoy. Must be exhausting, eh?”
Harry let out a rueful half-chuckle-half-scoff, smirking. “You’ve no idea.”
“I swear Harry’s worked himself half mad on the case, Nev, and it hasn’t even been one week. Not even a week!”
Neville let out a long, low whistle, eyes rolling downward as he pushed his half-finished drink toward Harry.
“You need this more than me, mate.”
Harry rolled his eyes and pushed it back, mild enjoyment playing on his expression.
“Thanks, but I think I’d rather have a full one. Ron, be a mate?”
“O’course. Pint?”
“Yeah.”
Ron stood, taking the blow of stepping out of the bubble of safety cast by Harry’s disillusionment charm. He probably half expected it if Harry was being totally honest, but Harry also knew that Ron had no problem with it. He understood how much the public attention overwhelmed Harry.
Ron returned rather quickly with six pints levitating in front of him, which earned a small applause from Harry and Neville. He sat them down with a clunk, grinning.
“This should be enough for at least a half hour.” He pushed two pints towards each of us, then took the handle of the one nearest to him. “To Neville, starting his job as a Hogwarts professor soon, and to me and Harry, for the most tiring fucking week of our lives,” he chuckled, Harry and Neville as well.
“Bottoms up.”
Now there were nineteen empty pints on the table and three more half-full ones in front of each of the men. Harry was so delirious with fatigue and the alcohol flowing through his system that his face had taken a reddish tone. His right arm was spread across the table and his head rested on top of it. Neville was leaning heavily against the back of the booth, blinking a bit more often than was strictly acceptable for a sober person. The three of them were laughing wildly at a story Ron had told them about him and Hermione’s date night last week.
“It, was, Hilarious… Speaking of dates,” Ron pointed his chin toward Nevllie, still smiling. “How’s it going with you and Hannah?”
Neville rolled his eyes before closing them, letting out a loud groan as he moved from leaning against the back of the booth to leaning on his elbows which rested on the table. Harry chuckled.
“Don’t even get me started…”
What followed was a long tirade about Neville’s love life, which, as Harry realized while listening to Neville, seemed to be quickly diminishing. Hannah had been practically ignoring Neville for the better part of the last three months, after a particularly explosive row. Neville admitted that maybe he had lost his temper unjustifiably, but in his defence, she was becoming increasingly distant anyway, no longer wanting to go out anywhere, cancelling dates, and leaving Neville no explanations as to why. According to Neville, she was also looking sicker and sicker, skin paling, figure slimming alarmingly, bags forming under her eyes, and she refused every last one of Neville’s attempts at nursing her.
“-We haven’t even shagged in, Merlin…” he let out a rueful chuckle. “I don’t even remember! It’s awful, mates… And the worst part is that I don’t entirely fault her. I mean, the war was hard for everyone.” Now, Harry and Ron were both leaning forward, also putting their weight on their elbows, listening intently and combating (failing to combat) the effects of their drunkenness.
“I get that it’s a bit crushing, losing your parents. You both know I get that... Harry, mate,” Neville reached forward and clapped his hand over Harry’s “You get it too, don’t you? I’m not terrible just because I can’t stand her constantly bringing up her mum.” He brought his hands back, rubbing at his face dramatically.
“Last week we had an at-home date- that’s another thing, she hates going out now- and I suggested we watch that Muggle film The Book Thief, and she just- burst into tears! Right there! Out of nowhere. ‘Mum used to love that one.’ And…” Neville sighed.
“Mate,” Ron interjected warily. He was sitting up straight now, well, as straight as he could muster at the moment, and folded his hands together, face etched into a frown. “You’re fighting with Hannah because she’s grieving her mum?”
“Wh- No… No, it’s nothing like that,” he began, huffing out a breath. “I-I get it. I get losing your family, but… That was about, what, two…? Three. Three years ago. She’s got to learn to live with it, at some point.”
Ron started shaking his head, somewhat at a loss for words, or at least, at a loss for words at this moment. But Harry took the opportunity to jump in. He was nodding furiously, tapping his hand on the table.
“I get it, Nev. Jeez… Three years and she’s still bursting into tears every time something slightly related to her mum comes up? That’s…” Harry began shaking his head. Ron looked between the two of them in abject horror, sobering up quite a bit.
“Harry, if Mum died during the war, I reckon I’d be pretty crushed, too.”
“But Ron, your mum didn’t die. And even if she had, you know you would have had to keep living either way. Do you think that it’s right to just sit there for the rest of your life unable to function just because you missed her? Do you think she would have wanted that?”
Ron stumbled over his words, his face flushing. “But… her mum died. She was murdered, Harry, by Voldemort.”
“And my parents weren’t?”
That shut Ron up quickly. Neville was nodding, his eyes shining like Harry had just given him the key that unlocked the mysteries of the universe.
“Exactly. See, I knew you would get it, Harry. She’s just…” Neville sighed. “And it hurts, too, you know? I’m still working past things that happened in the war. We all are. I get it.” Neville kept repeating that statement, as though he had no other way to express his sentiments toward Hannah. “But I can’t sit here and watch her refuse to go out, refuse sex, not be able to watch certain movies or eat certain foods, and just become increasingly more distant all in the name of her mum, meanwhile I’m working on my own problems. It’s just- It- It’s too much. We haven’t had a single conversation that doesn’t involve her bringing up her mum in so long. I’m walking on eggshells around her. Really.”
Ron sighed, gazing down at the polished wood table. “I get having too much on your plate, Nev, and maybe the two of you should talk about this. But… I still think it’s wrong for you to say that she’s grieving wrong. You get what I mean?”
“It’s not about grieving wrong, Ron,” Interjected Harry. “Not at all. Life continues with or without her. That’s the problem. And her refusal to come to terms with that is hurting Neville, now.”
It was becoming difficult to conceal any anger Ron had bubbling up throughout the conversation. He turned to Harry, gaze sharp.
“So now it's her fault that Neville is overwhelmed? No-”
“-No,” interrupted Harry. “She’s being childish, is all. Do you think I had time to just stop everything and mourn Sirius when I watched him die?!”
There was a silence that settled around the table, then, and Harry was sure that if it weren’t for the disillusionment, people would be staring. He ignored the way his heart rate sped up at the mention of Sirius’ name. He hadn’t even meant to bring him up. It had just… happened, and now Harry had stunned the table into such silence that he could have sworn all three of them became sober and quick. Ron cast his gaze back down, licking his lips before settling them into a straight line.
“I’m not even going to get into how terribly you’ve coped with all of that. Especially because I know most of it isn’t your fault. Nev, you need to find a way to talk to Hannah. And stop complaining about her loss. I’m going home.”
Ron grabbed his coat and was up and out quicker than Harry could blink.