Origin

It was all over and now... now he could see everything clearly. 

All he could think about was how he was so damn tired. 

The dungeon, or whatever this crude excuse for a cell the French authorities had shoved him into, was cold. Stony floors sucked the warmth from him, the sobbing of prisoners on the level above his head drifting down to his ears like haunting melodies. 

This wasn't Azkaban; there were no dementors or other foul creatures in the vicinity, but it could pass for it well enough. His bones hurt and seemed to clench together in a way they had not since the war. Since more than two years ago.

He eyed the shackles on his wrist, tugging on them lightly to judge their hold. Still pretty tight. As if he had expected a way out of them that would not compromise his position. He knew the material clingings to his hands well enough. 

On the outside, it was almost identical to obsidian, dark and smooth, but the mineral was not anything so mundane. It was part of the reason he felt like shivering out of his skin; there was none of that inner warmth, his magic, buzzing pleasantly through his veins, abundant and vital as blood. 

They had taken his shirt as well to better expose his skin to the freezing air. That, and to get better access to him when they put their wands and knives to good use. 

Deep, open cuts littered his body as if a rabid animal had attacked him in the dark, bruises decorating his skin like some grotesque abstract painting. He wore the colour red like armour now, from his blond hair to his knees. It was a miracle he had revealed nothing yet, not even a word since his initial capture. 

At least, not to his interrogators. 

Eight interrogations in three days. That was a record for him. The French's creativity with their methods exceeded his expectations as well, surpassing anything he had been subjected to so far. They had lopped off his fingers, leaving only one tiny tendon of flesh on each one connecting it to the knuckle so that they could slowly grow it right back. Then they repeated the process. It was excruciatingly painful. 

He was used to the pain, though. Compared to what he had been through, this was almost paradise. 

Shadows danced on the walls, cast to him in an eerie projection, the orange light from the candles jeering at him. Footsteps echoed in the hallways.

Someone screamed. 

He wondered if someone would rescue him soon. He wondered if he would be able to see his parents again by the end of the week. He had so much he wanted to say to them. 

All he wanted was to be in their arms. To leave everything else behind and to go back to the way things used to be. He thought he deserved a little peace and quiet, a little mercy in his fiasco of a life. The Ministry of Magic obviously didn't think so, nor did the rest of the people in his life. He was trapped with no way out. That certainly hadn't changed. The only thing that was different was that the cage had grown bigger. 

He was so damn tired.

He remembered when the Battle of Hogwarts had come to a close, as if it had happened yesterday. The rubble splattering the ground, blood both recently spilled and dry sprawled across the courtyard in an ugly constellation of dying stars. The body on the ground that had never looked so human, that was nothing more than that. The body of the man who had breathed down his neck for so long, threatened and tortured him, and broken his family. 

Looking at him had been like waking up from a long dream. Lord Voldemort died like any man. Because that's what he was. 

Not a monster like everyone wanted to believe, not the ethereal being the Death Eaters had made him out to be. No explosion of light he had somehow expected upon his death, no sunlight suddenly breaching the clouds as if his death chased all the darkness from the world. 

Just a body void of life on the ground. Nothing more than a man. 

"Still alive, are we?"

Wonderful, the bastard was back. He forced his lips into a smile, fully aware of how devilish it looked with the addition of the blood caked on his face. His grey eyes hardened until they were void of expression, just as they had taught him to do. 

"Careful, Potter, I don't want to die of a heart attack just yet."

Harry blinked in surprise. He squinted against the light, his eyes focusing on the tall, lithe man standing just outside his cell. Familiar blond hair and grey eyes gazed back at him, sparkling with a mixture of amusement and overwhelming concern. 

It was a combination he never thought he would see in this man of all people. He wondered if he had died and gone to the afterlife after all, if such a thing truly existed. 

"Remind me to never let you use my hair in a potion again," Draco frowned, his lips twisting into a grimace. The keys to the cell between his fingers as he twirled them lazily as if he would be more than content to leave Harry in that cell like some sort of animal on display. Harry, of course, knew that wasn't the case. The scream Harry had heard earlier must have been his interrogator being taken out. "You look ugly as hell."

"Bit like staring in a reflection?"

Harry managed a grin when Draco scoffed. He didn't look identical to the Malfoy heir, just the eyes and the hair. 

Last year, Draco had come up with a method to change someone's appearance without using the Polyjuice Potion. He created his own concoction that could give you the features of multiple individuals, depending on how you enhanced it. While Harry's facial features looked similar to Malfoy's, as if they were very distant relatives, the rest of him was a combination of random Ministry of Magic officials. 

"I certainly have not missed your rudeness." Draco had the cell door open and was by Harry's side in an instant. His deft hands quickly opened the shackles on Harry's wrists. They fell to Draco's waiting hands, which he lowered before placing them softly on the ground. A clamour like chains falling to the ground could attract unwanted attention.

With the release of his restraints, Harry felt his power flow back into him, slowly and steadily, like a trickling stream of water. His knees wobbled with the weight of it, his body shuddering at the terrifying energy that was both poison and salvation. He had gone days without his magic and doing so had taken its toll on him, almost like withdrawal symptoms. 

Draco ran his fingers over Harry's side, muttering a few basic healing spells. He was talented enough to do them without a wand, Harry knew, which was quite the accomplishment. More powerful spells though, like expelliarmus, protego, or Merlin forbid the Patronus Charm, would need more time and work. 

"You look absolutely filthy," Draco scowled. "I hope Robards forces you to take a vacation after we make it back to Britain. These many consecutive missions can't be good for you. It would wear even the most powerful wizard down, keeping up a disguise like you've been doing for months. Not to mention the injuries you sustain. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you have a death wish, Potter."

He sounded like Hermione, mothering him like that. Harry bit back a faint grin at the thought, knowing Draco would by the loosest definition not appreciate such a sentiment. 

He shifted to look at himself. The blood was almost gone from his hair and skin, the wounds expertly closed and healed. He still felt dirty though, like he hadn't taken a bath in years -- one thing even a well-performed scourgify couldn't fix.

"They're going to scar, but..." Draco trailed off, avoiding Harry's eyes. Harry knew what was meant to follow. What's a few more to us? "We'll need to make it out of the building before Disapparating. Their wards are quite strong, maybe stronger than the ones back home. You know where they put your wand by any chance? You might need it."

Harry looked down. He didn't know how to tell Draco that he had not brought it with him. It was too great of a risk. 

His wand was still back in his flat, miles away. It had been sitting there since he accepted this mission four months ago. 

From his change in posture, Draco had guessed at Harry's thoughts. His scowl deepened, the downward angle of his mouth becoming more pronounced, displeasure obvious on his face. 

It reminded Harry of how he had been at Hogwarts, sneering and contemptuous to those he believed to be beneath him. Harry still wasn't sure about himself, but all that had happened had definitely changed Draco for the better. 

"You are such an idiot," Draco hissed furiously. "What if you got into a situation worse than this one and you accidentally showed it to them? What then, hm? For Merlin's sake, Potter, have a little more common sense!"

"Draco darling, would you mind keeping your voice down?"

"When we get back, we're telling your friends. You need someone to talk to besides me. Evidently, I'm doing a pathetic job of looking after you. Get Granger or Weasley to do it instead. Tell them."

That was not an option. 

Harry ignored those words and raised himself to his feet, massaging his raw wrists. He waggled his fingers to make sure his interrogators had reattached them successfully. It turned out they had. They felt as good as new. 

"Are you even listening to anything I'm saying?" Draco demanded. His eyes were stony daggers, holding Harry in place. It was a fact Draco's father had never really managed to achieve after the war ended, not after fear of Voldemort broke him down completely. The raw determination in Draco's eyes was rare these days. 

"Not a word," Harry said, just to be infuriating. It did the trick, earning him the melodramatic package of both a scoff and an eye roll. He stepped out of his former cell, glancing both ways as if he was eight years old again and worried about crossing the streets. "The coast is clear. No guards coming from any direction so far."

Draco had planned this out perfectly. Harry had expected nothing less.

"How did they realise you were a spy?" Draco frowned. 

"It doesn't matter."

"Harry..."

Harry turned away from the silent plea, shoving his emotions deep down. He needed to be focused if they were going to make it out of France. The French Ministry was not just going to let them waltz out the front door now that Harry's mission was done. Now that he had what he came here for. 

That, and the information Robards had sent him to gather.

Draco sighed. His wand was in his hand, his knuckles tensed should he need to suddenly spring into action. He stepped up next to Harry and surveyed the path ahead of them for himself. "Huh, no guards."

"That is what I just told you."

"My apologies, it seems I took a page out of your book and didn't listen to a word you said. Now, before you come up with what you surely believe to be a clever comeback but what I know is a pathetic one, we should really get going. Unless you've become attached to this cell of yours."

It took them five minutes to clamber up the winding staircases leading to the upper levels. 

The dungeons the French had held Harry in, Draco revealed on the way, were in the lowest levels of the French Ministry, where they kept all the high-risk prisoners. 

Harry was just glad that they had not shipped him off to Azkaban or the French equivalent of it. For all the pain he had gone through in the cell he had just left behind, he knew it wouldn't hold a candle to what his godfather had endured for twelve years. 

He told Draco as much, which he responded to with an exaggerated sigh and an exclamation of Harry's stupidity.

"They just want to interrogate you, Potter," Draco grumbled. "No one's going to brave Azkaban just to talk to you, not when they can do it from the comfort of their own home. Idiot. Here I thought that all the Auror training actually did some good for your brain. But you're still just as stupid as a bloody first year."

When they arrived at the bottom of the staircase leading to the atrium, Draco pulled out two flasks and two uniforms from his charmed pocket, one silvery and one white. He shoved the white uniform in Harry's direction -- a prisoner's garb -- along with a flask. A sniff from the container made Harry grimace. Polyjuice potion this time. He downed it without giving himself time to think about it and shrugged on the uniform. 

It tasted disgusting. 

He looked up and saw a man with dark hair and black eyes standing where Draco had been moments before. A poorly shaven beard stood out against pale skin. The face of one of his interrogators, likely the one Draco had taken out on his way to Harry's cell. 

Harry looked down at himself and was greeted by slightly tanned skin and ginger hair. His eyes felt heavy with natural eye bags, his posture slumped and hunched forward. 

Draco's new form looked formidable, frightening even, especially with the hard glint in his newly dark eyes. 

Harry, on the other hand, looked pathetic. He even felt disgusting. If the French officials caught up to them, they would go for Draco first, perceiving him to be the greater threat. Exactly what Draco intended to happen. 

Harry wanted to punch him for it. 

Then Draco moved behind him and grabbed Harry's wrists, pulling them behind his back. Harry allowed himself to be forced into the submissive, defeated position. He trusted Draco to get him out of here. He'd done so countless times in the past. 

"Your name is Oren Deveraux," Draco whispered. "You were on a reconnaissance mission for a french terrorist organization -- fanatics with diluted ideas from Grindelwald. I broke you last night, and you told me the location of one of your bases in Marseille. I'm taking you there to check that your information is accurate if it's not, I'm supposed to kill you. Got that?"

Draco pulled the door open and shoved Harry through without waiting for an answer. 

The introduction of more light burned Harry's eyes and made them water. He let the tears fall. Draco had disguised him as a prisoner who had betrayed his companions. Crying would be in character. 

Other Ministry officials nodded at Draco as the two of them made their way through the atrium. They all seemed respectful, some even bothering to salute whoever's face Draco wore. 

All Harry got were looks of revulsion, but he was fine with that. As long as they made it out and back to Britain in one piece. And it looked like they were going to make it. Maybe the French would let them waltz out the front door, after all. 

That, of course, was when everything went wrong. 

"Mr. Malfoy."

The hands holding Harry's stilled.

Harry made a conscious effort not to stumble, and he knew Draco was doing the same. They kept walking without a falter to their steps, giving no sign of response to the identification. Part of Harry admired Draco's composure; the Malfoy must have been terrified. The other part was thrown into a state of panic. 

Their luck ran out when something pulled the two of them back, forcing them to stop. 

Harry spared a glance over his shoulder and saw a woman with long, dark hair. Her arm was on Draco's shoulder, her grip tight and unyielding. She looked to be a stern woman, the graveness of her presence almost comparable to that of Professor McGonagall. 

Draco looked her dead in the eyes, a single eyebrow raised. 

"Surely you've mistaken me for someone else, Madame Lucinda," he drawled, not a flicker of fear present. His voice was heavy with a flawless French accent that made Harry question everything he ever knew. When had Draco learned to pull that off? "You are the one who ordered me to pay a special visit to Devereaux here."

The woman -- Lucinda, Harry supposed -- smiled. There was no warmth in her expression, nor any sign of belief in Dracos' claim. "Mr. Malfoy, I suppose you are unaware of the regulation Britain passed half a year ago regarding Death Eaters such as yourself. We identified you the moment you apparated into France."

Shit. 

"I suppose we know who this prisoner is," Lucinda mused, turning her pale blue eyes to Harry. They twinkled in triumph, and for a moment, they reminded Harry of another pair of blue eyes. He slammed his Occlumency barriers up immediately, reinforcing them over and over again, brick by brick. "As far as I know, you are not allowed to work unless it's by his side, Mr. Malfoy. It's a pleasure to meet you at long last, Mr. Potter. You as well, I suppose, Death Eater."

Draco scowled. "I assure you the pleasure is all yours."

Lucinda laughed and leisurely pulled out her wand. "I'll make a deal with you. Answer a question for me, and I won't kill you where you stand. I'm sure Britain won't be too upset with the loss of one of your kind. Some of them would probably rejoice if I were to make you disappear. No one would come looking for you."

Harry would. 

"My kind?" Draco echoed. 

"The Dark Lord's dogs."

Harry clenched his fists, reigning in his rising temper with much effort. He would have thought that after nearly two years of service, Draco would have earned some goodwill from people. That did not appear to be the case, at least not with the French. Harry had underestimated the power that fear had over these people. 

"Where are the Deathly Hallows?"

Draco froze. Harry didn't. He had been expecting the question. 

Harry looked around and saw that guards dressed in black cloaks were surrounding them. Each entrance had four of them barricading it. Escaping would not be as easy as Draco had previously made it seem.

"The what?" Draco asked innocently. 

"You know what I'm talking about. Your Lord possessed one, I'm told."

Draco stepped forward, crowding her personal space, but she did not back down. On the contrary, his anger seemed to please her. "He is not my Lord. And I am not a Death Eater."

Lucinda smirked, only turning to Harry. "Mr. Potter, will you answer? If not that question, perhaps you can tell me what you met with the Minister about during your imprisonment. She seemed quite eager to talk to you when you requested it. Unfortunately, no one besides herself and you seem to be privy to the contents of your discussion."

Draco's head snapped towards Harry, eyes widening in confusion. 

"What would you want with the Deathly Hallows?" Harry asked. 

"Britain cannot be trusted with all three of the Hallows, Mr. Potter. It's too big of a risk for the rest of the world. Imagine if someone united them and became the Master of Death. Someone like that cannot be allowed to exist. What if someone as evil as Voldemort did so? A self-proclaimed successor of his? The rest of the world would not stand a chance."

Draco pulled out his wand and pointed it in Lucinda's direction. His temper made his fingers tremble. "I take it you're not going to let us go quietly?"

The guards surrounding them closed in. Harry took a sweeping glance in their direction, his fingers tingling with static. A calm washed over him as he brought his hands to his sides.

"No," Lucinda said. 

"That's too bad," Harry sighed. "I was hoping to avoid a fight. You can trust me when I say that if you leave us alone, if you let us go on our way, you will be all the better for it."

The threat was enough to finally break Lucinda's composure. Harry had a reputation in the Wizarding World, after all, and not just for being the one to put an end to the Dark Lord's reign of terror.

He watched as her eyes flicked down to his empty hands, some of her shakiness easing away when she saw he did not have a wand in his possession. He took it that she was unaware that he did not need one.

"I can't," she said finally. 

Unfortunate. Harry nodded solemnly and cut a look towards Draco, whose eyes widened for the second time. He quickly ducked to the ground. A split second later, Harry had his hands in the air, their position a mockery of surrender. 

Pyrkagia, he thought.

And the French Ministry of Magic turned to hell. 

The scene changed. 

“Do you have the slightest idea of what you’ve done?” The woman shrieked, her wand pointed directly at his heart. Her fingers were trembling, tears swelling up and spilling down her cheeks. Her nose was tinged red, her eyes puffy with crying and lack of sleep. Even with all that, she still managed to appear formidable to Harry. 

He threw his legs up over the armchair, lounging back on his seat like they were back at school. It was almost the same setting, too. 

The fireplace twinkled and sparked to their right, its heart a pleasant warmth that radiated through the cold atmosphere. Red banners hung from the ceiling, once the colour of one of the four Hogwarts houses, now a symbol of something far greater and significant. 

The main difference was the rage in her eyes as she looked at him. The disappointment, betrayal, and whatever else was going on in the mind of Hermione Granger - it was all there for him to see, clear as day. 

He wished it could hurt more. He almost prayed for the guilt that he knew wouldn’t come. Because he didn’t regret what he had done. Not one bit. He had been forced to take action; there had been no other way. It was just unfortunate that his friends didn’t understand. 

Still, he vowed to try to reciprocate her efforts. She could have gone straight to someone else, someone like Shacklebolt, and gotten them to ‘talk’ to Harry instead but she had come herself. That meant there was a small part of her that was willing to hear him out. He could not waste an opportunity like this. 

“I have my reasons.”

“And those are?” Hermione challenged. 

“You,” Harry said simply. “Ron, Ginny, Neville, Luna. Draco. You know that they’re going to come after you. They have already done it to you and Ron. Don’t you see how they are, what they’re willing to do so that they can stay in control? I can’t just let them continue.”

“Are you sure all of this is happening because of you?”

That caught Harry off guard. “I beg your pardon?”

“Harry…” Hermione swallowed, her wand hand shaking violently. “Have you ever considered… All of this seemed quite sudden. What if… What if he’s controlling you? You have to let yourself think about it - this is all out of character for you…”

Harry wondered if he had ever felt as hurt as he did at that moment. 

Hermione continued with her speculation, murmuring something. Suddenly, it was like Harry was standing in a movie where the volume was muted. Every sound was muffled, from her grave, accusing voice to the crackling of the fireplace. Then two words broke through. “... I’m sorry.”

A boy with violet eyes emerged from the shadows, his expression one of panic and fear. His hand was outstretched as he ran forward, screaming something that fell deaf on Harry’s ears –

Green light exploded into being. 

Darkness crept over the room, swallowing it whole like a python made of shadows. Harry’s world was plunged into shades of black. It pressed in on him from all sides, squeezing him and holding him in place. 

“Harry…”

He wrenched his wrists from the tendrils of shadows grabbing onto him, clinging to him, and slammed his hands over his ears. He clamped down on them as hard as he could, but the voice seemed to be coming from inside his own head. It was smooth, grating. It sent shivers down his spine, but something kept him from moving, from running away. 

None of what he had seen so far made any sense. 

Why would he be captured by the French Ministry? What business could he have had with the Minister? Why had he used dark magic? Fiendfyre of all things… If he didn’t know any better, he would say that it all had just been a dream. 

Except he did know better. 

Everything had felt incredibly alive. He had been aware of himself in a way he had only been while delving into Voldemort’s mind. His surroundings were too sharp, too lively, that he felt as if he might suffocate from the realness of it. 

He risked bringing a hand from his ear to punch himself in the face. Hard. His nose crunched, and he felt blood trickle down from his nostrils. It should have been enough to wake him up, but when he opened his eyes, he was still met with darkness. 

His heart raced, pounding against his rib cage as if trying to break free. He was hyperventilating. 

Was this what a panic attack felt like?

“Wake up,” he whispered to himself. “Wake up, wake up…”

Shut up, shut up. 

"Let this be the final trial of prisoner Harry James Potter."

"They say Death is not the end..."

"No going back now."

"To arms and fucking revolutions. To whatever end of this hell."

"Harry? Harry, what's going on? Talk to me!"

Harry sobbed, pounding his fists against his head. It was too loud. The voices were tumbling into his head in a frenzy, overlapping as if someone was playing every song in the world while expecting him to pick out each one’s distinct rhythm and tone. Everything was just too loud loud loud loud

He screamed. 

He woke up in the Forbidden Forest with Narcissa Malfoy crouching over his figure. Forest leaves were scattered beneath them, a slight burning sensation hovering over the general area of his heart. 

His heart started beating again, and he knew she would be able to hear it, would be able to feel it if she took his pulse. And take it she did. 

A hand snuck beneath his shirt, pausing as if contemplating her decision before continuing on its path to his chest. Harry could feel the shock run through the woman like a current, her quick breaths that came out ragged and fearful. 

She knew. He was alive. Voldemort’s killing curse had failed a second time. 

“Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?”

“Yes.”

The hand stilled, pulling back as soft as her whisper. 

Harry wondered what she would do. If she sold him out to the Dark Lord, he was finished. Surviving two killing curses was impossible, and Harry wasn’t willing to take his chances with a third. It was all up to her now, and he could do nothing but lie there on the floor like a wounded animal; helpless to listen as his fate was decided by a woman who had no reason to lie. 

“He is dead!”