Chapter 5
6.
If Draco’s going to help Harry Potter’s friends catch a rat, he’s going to be the one to catch the damn thing, and when he has the mangy vermin writhing in his hands—or, well, in a containment spell of some sort; he doesn’t want to actually touch it—they can beg him, and maybe he’ll strike a bargain to give it back.
Or maybe he’ll drown it in the lake, and tell Potter to buy the Weasley a cat, if he has to have a pet. Even for blood traitors like the Weasleys, a rat is too low.
Draco’s faster than Granger, at least; tall as she is, she’s thickly built and flat-footed, and the stairs are on his side, swiveling just as he approaches so that Potter and Granger have to circle around the outside as he darts directly down to the first floor, jumping over a vanishing stair and grabbing the banister to twist for the upcoming curve. Weasley disappears from sight on the ground floor as Draco catches up to Potter on the first-floor landing, Longbottom staggering after him, and Potter’s eyes light up with something as he spots Draco, and he abandons whatever chivalry has kept him in pace with Granger and sprints forward in a clear challenge. Draco pushes forward, and they’re neck and neck, ignoring the exclamations from the portraits and the few students straggling up the stairs, dodging around the fountain in the courtyard, and they’re both moving so fast they nearly crash into Weasley, frozen at the top of the stairs leading down to the path to the lake.
If Draco is panting heavier than Potter, it’s only because he hasn’t had the chance to keep up his endurance through quidditch, and he had ground to make up, so the contest wasn’t fair to begin with, meaning that by arriving at the exact same time as Potter, by all rights, he has won. And Longbottom’s melted into the wall, moaning, which is predictably pathetic.
The rat is not in sight.
“He went running out,” Weasley says. “I don’t—Hermione, do you know something that will—”
He cuts off as he turns and realizes that Draco is not, in fact, the mudblood, thank you very much. She’s just come into the courtyard behind them, panting so heavily she might be having an asthma attack.
“Malfoy!” Weasley exclaims. “What’re you—”
“Which way did he go?” Potter demands.
“Down towards the forest,” Weasley says, not taking his eyes off Draco. “I almost had him, but it’s so dark…”
“Lumos,” Potter says, in a stunning display of common sense. He must be entirely lacking in control, though; his wand lights up so brightly for a moment the whole slope is as clear as daylight, before Draco’s eyes burn and he has to close them.
“There he is!” Weasley exclaims, apparently immune—though when Draco forces his eyes open again as the light dims, he’s also scrubbing at his watery eyes. “I saw him, down on the path—”
“He’s… down… there?” Granger heaves, finally catching up, face drenched in sweat as she leans heavily against the wall by Longbottom. “We… we can’t…”
“Curfew’s not until eight,” Potter says.
“B—b—but… the—the forest…” Longbottom moans.
Weasley’s already gone.
Potter starts after him. “If he gets to the forest, we’ll just ask Hagrid—come on, Hermione; we’ll need you—Malfoy, would you just—” He pauses. Seems to be preparing to tell Draco to fuck off. But when he opens his mouth, he closes it again, shaking his head, and what Draco hears is, You're not scared, are you?
There might have been some apprehension about running off into the darkness with dementors surrounding the school, a murderer on the loose, and Weasley charging towards the Forbidden Forest, but when Potter asks like that? Definitely not. Draco draws his own wand as he pushes past Potter, casting lumos at a much more reasonable intensity, and chases after Weasley.
It takes him a moment to remember a better charm, a ball of uncontained witchlight that he sends zooming forward over Weasley’s shoulder, but it’s just in time to catch the rat on the next bend in the path below, darting off into the grass, before the light zooms down into the trees and snuffs itself out. Weasley lets out a bellow, Scabbers!, and charges on, and, yes, it isn’t the wisest choice Draco’s ever made, following after him, but there’s Potter darting forward past Weasley, and they’re curving around the castle, towards the greenhouse, away from the oaf’s hut, and as Draco sends forward another witchlight, it illuminates the glass ahead of them, and—
The rat disappears, but it’s clear where it’s gone: into greenhouse seven.
They slide to a halt at the wall, catching sight of the little hole that no one would have ever noticed, here in this back corner, and Potter holds up his wand, leaning towards the frosted glass.
Inside, something shadowy leans back.
Weasley doesn’t even seem to notice, though; he’s already turned and started up towards the door at the far end. “Oy, blockhead,” Draco shouts to him. “You can’t go in there, that’s restricted, that is—”
“Bugger off, Malfoy,” Weasley shouts back.
Potter starts after him.
“Tell us you’re not that stupid, Potter,” Draco says, though he’s not sure why he bothers. “Seven is where Sprout keeps everything deadly—”
“If you're so worried, do you know any fire spells?” Potter asks grimly.
“I’m not lighting the collection on fire! Are you absolutely mental?”
"Well, no one's asking you to come!"
Draco’s not a coward, though, and when he glances back he sees Granger and Longbottom coming around the bend. Longbottom’s useless, but he’s a Green Thumb, so if he were fit enough to catch up he might’ve stood a chance at convincing them to stop… if he could get a single sentence out without stammering. Two unattainable hypotheticals, where Longbottom’s concerned, so… He’ll just follow Potter up to the end, and then head back to the castle, and won’t Severus be delighted to find four of his favorite students breaking into greenhouse seven?
But as he reaches the corner Weasley’s approaching the door at the far end, greenhouse one—and it’s already open. Whatever might be strange about that, he doesn’t seem to notice, running inside. “Slow down, you idiot,” Potter mutters, charging after him, and at the door, pauses to glance back towards Draco, a look that just screams, curious?
Damn, he’s good.
The greenhouses are lit only by moonlight and the pale glow of Potter’s refreshed charm. They navigate around the familiar workbenches filling the center of greenhouse one, through the narrow paths between the tightly packed beds of mundane vegetables and flowers of greenhouse two, past the dittany and aconite in greenhouse three, the lazily waving tendrils of flitterblooms and still tops of mandrakes in greenhouse four—and then in five, they’re onto plants Draco’s never seen before, ones that twitch as their steps crunch on the gravel, ones that glow and sway in the faint moonlight—they’ve slowed somewhat as they reached greenhouse six, Potter more carefully training his steps to keep perfectly centered on the much wider paths between the garden beds, and Draco swears he sees something moving in the corner of his eye…
As they pass through the door of greenhouse six, they’re treated to a familiar sight: the rat, charging right at them, and behind it, Weasley.
Between the yells of the other two, Draco tries the first spell that comes to mind, a hex that might have flipped the rat up into the air for him to catch had it not been such a small, moving target. It darts off to the right, under a raised plant bed filled with glowing mushrooms, emerging on the other side. Potter tries something that makes the gravel scatter a few inches off to its left, so clearly he's not the solution. As Draco runs to catch up he tries something more extreme, hoping he won’t need to do any more running once this works: he slashes his wand in a line, aiming ahead of the rat, and in a stunning piece of unregimented transfiguration the ground shifts and raises into a thin but solid stone wall, rising three feet before curving up and in like a stone tidal wave—
The rat crashes into it, just as Draco catches sight of something on the other side, a shifting of shadows racing forward, leaping over the makeshift wall towards them, four legs and eyes reflecting Potter’s light back at them, a sharp-toothed snarl—
Werewolf, Draco’s mind supplies, but he finds himself rolling down onto the gravel floor as the toll of the spell hits him and he tries to stop and all the momentum he had been pushing forward with pulls him back. Rocks dig into him, scraping across his face, as he scrambles back, away from the beast—
But it turns towards the stone wall, and the stunned rat, and shifts, lurching forward—and the black form stretches, shifting as the furry legs thicken, the tail swings down, vanishing into ragged cloth, and its back bends up and neck lengthens and straightens, fur lengthening and curling into hair—
“Peter,” the figure growls, still more beast than man. “We meet again, at last.”
Only, that’s not how werewolves work. They can’t just—just turn from wolf to man, and it’s not the full moon, either; that was a few days ago. Behind him, Weasley whispers something like bloody hell, and only a beat later—“Oy! That’s my rat!”
The figure turns sharply, as though it hadn’t even noticed them before, and as his face comes into view, the light catches on a pair of familiar grey eyes, and—
Sirius Black. Oh, God have mercy; they’ve found Sirius Black.
“That’s no rat,” Draco's homicidal fugitive of a second cousin rasps, and he looks between them, squinting against the light from Potter’s raised wand, between Weasley, and Potter, and the dark shapes of Granger and Longbottom, frozen in the doorway, and finally down at Draco. His lips curl into a sneer, and he advances— “Get me a wand, you’ll see, you’ll see…”
The words of Mother’s letter echo as clearly as if she’d spoken them to him: none can say what psychosis or pathologies may have brewed in his mind, what resentments he might have fostered for those living freely outside the prison walls. And suddenly Draco’s very aware that he’d let go of his wand as he tumbled, and it’s feet from his hand, and Black doesn’t have one—
They both lunge at the same time. But as Draco’s hand closes around the wood, and Black looms over him, there’s a flash of red light, and Black is thrown back into the stone wall. It cracks behind him, sending up a cloud of stone dust, giving Draco the moment he needs to get back to his feet, the world tilting as Potter grabs him and yanks him up, and Granger rushes in, her wand crackling with another spell at the ready, shoulder to shoulder with him—
“We need to run,” Potter hisses. “That’s Black—”
“He’s on Scabbers!” Weasley exclaims.
"I’m not getting murdered over a half-dead rat, Ron! I’ll hold him off—get up to the castle—”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Harry; we’re not leaving you,” Granger snaps. “And he could outrun me, anyway, especially if he’s an…” Her eyes suddenly widen. “That’s it, isn’t it! How he got into the castle, how he’s avoided the dementors—how he got out of Azkaban—he’s an Animagus!”
“Very clever,” Black says, and he leans forward—tries to, at least, but even Weasley’s remembered to get his wand out, now, and they all jab at him, though Draco probably couldn’t even cast Wingardium Leviosa as he is. Black freezes, and slowly brings his hands up, revealing them to be empty. “But I have heard about you, haven’t I? Hermione Granger, cleverest witch of her age, a Hufflepuff…” His eyes shift. “And Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom, Gryffindors… and you, Harry, a Ravenclaw…” His gaze shifts more, landing on Draco. “And a Malfoy.”
They’re all silent for a moment, and then Granger says, “He’s a Slytherin.”
“Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?” Black sneers. “How is old Luci? Still the coward, strutting into every room like he owns it? Ha, who am I kidding: with Cissa as his ball and chain, he probably can’t so much as breathe without getting permission…”
Mother’s warning was unnecessary. Draco’s grip tightens on his wand, useless as it is. “Don’t you insult my parents,” Draco sneers. “Mother could curse you sideways—”
“And you take after your mother, then?” Black says. “But, no, I’ve seen you strutting around Hogsmeade. You’re as weak as Lucius, aren’t you, always slithering around trying to get the best of people, whining that the world’s working against you… I bet you haven’t got a single friend, have you. What are you even doing here?”
“Shut up!” Draco snaps, and he jabs his wand forward, no spell, only anger in his hands—but he’s barely running on fumes, and it just hits the stone, more cracks forming, more pieces breaking to fall beside him. Black’s hands come up higher, but his smirk widens.
“What are we doing, Harry?” Granger hisses. “I don’t know the right spells—we need a Professor—the dementors—”
“Get off my rat!” Weasley yelps, voice breaking. “Give him—give him here!”
And Black’s smile falls. “That is no rat,” he says. “Just let me explain— “
“Of course he’s my rat, you maniac!”
“Ron,” Longbottom moans.
“Listen! Listen, he’s not— I saw him, in the paper, at the World Cup, and I knew, and— You’re Arthur’s boy, aren’t you? His youngest? I knew you, when you were a baby—I met you. Once or twice, at Alice’s place…" His eyes dart to Longbottom. "They wouldn’t hide, Alice and Frank, they wouldn't…” Black rasps, and his eyes shift again, squinting through the light at Potter. “Harry, please… you’re so much like James; let me explain—”
“Don’t,” Potter says quietly, “Talk about my father.”
And, strangely, some of the madness seems to fall away. There sits Black, huddled in tattered robes, hands empty and a cracked stone wall at his back—a rat, apparently, beneath him—and he starts to plead:
“Harry, you have to understand—it wasn’t me, I didn’t— I would never—it was Peter—”
“Peter?” Potter demands, voice getting louder. “Peter Pettigrew?”
The man Black murdered? The proof he was at least sympathetic to the Dark Lord's cause?
“I didn’t kill him! I tried, oh, I tried—I would have torn him apart for what he did, but he went and blew it all up, and now—”
“You’re mad,” Potter says. “Mad.”
“Yes, he is.”
They all start at the voice, and turn to find Severus in the door, pale in his fury, Lupin, of all people, just behind him—and Black leaps at the chance, quite literally, but Severus is faster, wand already in hand, and a spell rushes past Draco, so close he stumbles from it, and it catches Black in the chest, knocking him back into the stone with a gasp of pain. He falls aside, coughing, and Severus steps forward, a quick gesture urging the four of them out of the way, and another spell sends ropes hissing forward to wrap like snakes around Black. Severus steps closer, and reaches up and casts another spell, a blue light that pushes through the glass ceiling like it isn’t even there, streaking up into the sky and out of sight.
“Black,” he says, voice low and dark, his masks fractured but revealing something behind them Draco has not yet seen. “I have heard that the dementor’s kiss is almost unbearable to watch, but to see you finally reach the end you deserve…”
“Remus,” Black croaks out, ignoring him, his body twitching like he’s trying to force himself through the ropes. “Remus, my old friend… they switched, please believe me, they thought—no one would ever think it was him—it was him… it’s Peter… it’s…”
“Silence,” Severus commands, and a jab of his wand sends another flurry of ropes, coiling around Black’s neck and across his open mouth like a gag.
“Peter?” Lupin echoes.
“Do I need to tie you up too?” Severus demands, turning towards him. “As far as I’m concerned, Lupin, the dementors can enjoy a feast of two…”
“I’ve told you a hundred times if I’ve told you once, Severus: I’d like him back in chains as much as you,” Lupin says. “But…” He steps forward, not seeming to notice as Severus’s wand comes up again, and peers down at Black. He’s pale too, dark circles under his eyes, coming down from the effects of another bout of his illness, supposedly… “No… it couldn’t be… but if that is Peter…”
“The rat?” Potter demands.
“Are you all bloody mental!” Weasley exclaims. “That’s not—Peter—whoever—that’s Scabbers! My rat, Scabbers! He’s been in my family for ages—”
“Thirteen years?” Lupin asks.
“—and—yes?”
“Since November of nineteen eighty-one, perhaps?”
Severus, now, is peering at the rat, too. “You’re suggesting…”
“You’re all mental!” Weasley repeats.
“It’s a simple spell. May I?”
“No!”
Lupin barely glances at Weasley. He’d been asking Severus, clearly, and is already moving to grab his wand. “It won’t hurt him, if we’re wrong, Ron,” he says.
“...do it,” Severus forces himself to allow. “But I’ll be watching very carefully…”
“Now, hold on—”
But before Weasley can finish his last protest, Lupin turns, flicks his wand towards the rat, and—
When Black had shifted, it had been a smooth transition. With the rat, though, it’s a horrible, grotesque thing to watch. The legs grow first, lengthening like a spider’s, tall around the body, and then it begins to writhe, the torso elongating and broadening and skull beginning to grow faster, almost, than the previously loose skin can keep up with it; the shabby grey fur sinks in on itself, everything stretching so tight the bones look about to burst through—and then out through the skin pushes tightly woven grey cloth—muggle clothes, a coat and trousers that hang, clearly too large on the body, and as it shakes the body rolls over, revealing the garish sight of a straining skull-like head, a rat’s face stretched out across it, and slowly the beady black eyes begin to grow, but struggle to find their new sockets, rolling about madly. The whiskers multiply out into wispy facial hair, and the nose grows longer, but doesn’t quite turn—the teeth grow, then shrink, but not quite enough, his mouth apparently unable to fully close—
The man who stares up at them, when it settles, looks more rat than human, still. And as he blinks up at them, and scrambles to move, rolling to try to run on all fours, tripping over his newly gangling limbs, it’s clear his mind is only half-changed, too.
“Peter?” Lupin asks, voice hoarse. “Is that you?”
The rat-man stops moving, and his nose twitches. After a moment, he manages to turn, though he bends his whole torso with the effort, and lurches back onto his knees. His tongue darts out over his lips, beady eyes squinting, and he speaks—
“Remus?” His voice is reedy and creaking, jaw too stiff to enunciate clearly. “My old… friend…”
Lupin, it seems, doesn’t know what to make of this, his wand hovering uselessly before him. He glances back and forth between Black—shaking with rage, eyes fixed on the rat-man, Pettigrew, as he struggles in his bonds—and at last, he glances over to Potter, still holding his lumos-lit wand between them, looking at Pettigrew with gaping alarm.
Pettigrew spots Potter, then, too, and falls forward with a strange kneeling shuffle that Severus stops by bringing down his wand. “Harry,” Pettigrew whines. “Harry, you look so much like your father, except your—”
And Lupin’s trance breaks. “You don’t get to talk about them!” he snarls, face contorting as much as Black’s, but there’s nothing to hold him back, and when he slashes his wand, Pettigrew is thrown back into the rubble of the stone, where Black kicks at him. “You don’t—” He starts coughing, heavily, but grits his teeth through it and carries on in a wheeze, as though the change has broken something horrible and angry free in him: “—get to talk to Harry, after what you did! Traitor!”
“You don’t understand,” Pettigrew wails. “He would have killed me! I couldn’t—”
“It would have spared us this now!” Lupin brings up his wand, setting his stance. “Would have spared me having to… goodbye, Peter.”
And he draws his arm down—and Draco knows exactly the words on his tongue, the one curse Father would never so much as threaten—Severus isn’t moving, and—fuck, they’re all just going to—to stand here and watch Lupin kill this—
“Stop it!” Potter snaps.
Lupin freezes, mouth open in an ‘ah’, and slowly turns his head. “Harry, this man is the reason James and Lily are dead!” he says. Tears have broken free of his wild eyes, tears of pure rage. “Your parents! You’ll never know them—we’ll never see them again—”
“So?” Potter says. “You’ll murder him, get rid of… Black’s evidence, get yourself a life sentence, is that it?” Lupin’s wand drops from it’s jagged path, and Draco lets out the breath he’d held. You can’t cast an Unforgivable if you hesitate like that. There won’t be one here tonight—at least not from Lupin. There is still at least one Death Eater here, after all, if not three.
“Harry—”
“You told me earlier today, you’d like to live in a way that would make your old friends proud,” Potter said. “Did you mean my dad, or did you mean the murderer?”
“Unfortunately,” Severus finally says, “he makes a good point.”
Pettigrew seems to have come to the same conclusion that Draco has, because he sags in clear relief, though his beady eyes are looking at Severus now. “Severus,” he entreats, “you know—you must know—you don’t disobey the Dark Lord—”
And, oh, Pettigrew clearly doesn’t know a thing about Severus, because all it took was the use of his first name for Severus’s nostrils to flare, and Draco takes an automatic step back. “You,” Severus says darkly, “are nothing more than filth. Vermin. As far as I’m concerned, the dementors should take all three of you, and the world would be a better place for it. If I shall have to content myself with one, then it will be you. Pettigrew.”
“Or maybe we could get them to the castle without letting anyone get kissed?” Potter says, not without impatience. He glares at Severus fearlessly. “I want to know what exactly is going on here. Without… murdering anyone.”
Lupin shifts, and sighs, coughing weakly. His rage has retreated somewhat, though Draco’s never going to be able to listen to one of his mild lectures without thinking of it. “Yes,” he says, turning back to Pettigrew and brandishing his wand. “We deal with this… Legally. It’s more than he deserves—but we’ll be sure to get him a cell entirely sealed. No animagus tricks. But for now… I think… stupe—”
And that’s when Pettigrew lunges.
The struggle is swift. Pettigrew, decrepit as he looks, is fast, and Lupin is nearly dead on his feet, and he knocks Lupin’s arm aside, sending the spell off into the plants—something in the far corner catches fire, but Pettigrew manages to pull Lupin in front of the hex Severus flings, and Lupin lets out a gasp as he topples back, and his grip must loosen because Pettigrew grabs his wand and in an instant takes aim at Draco and Potter, and then Severus in front of them with a shield, only to drop it a moment later—too soon: Granger’s flung something at Pettigrew, but he deflected it, and just so it’s caught Severus, his wand spinning away he topples back—Pettigrew’s racing past them, towards the glass walls—
Behind Severus, Draco can just make out Pettigrew’s next words, voice cruel when it’s not begging: “Goodbye, my old friends.” And Severus is on his feet, but it’s not fast enough, because Pettigrew’s slashing Lupin's wand through the air, and with a rasp of dark words—
From where Pettigrew is standing comes a burst of heat and light that sends the world into chaos. It burns, bright reds through his eyelids—they’re all going to die—this is not how Draco wanted to die—he’s got to survive—he opens his eyes—
It’s… beautiful, for the moment. Severus towers above him. From Severus’s hands spreads a blue light, curving out into a dome over their heads, the shrapnel of the shattering greenhouse falling against it, glimmering as it crashing down—but as Draco stares he realizes it is not just magic: it’s laced with blood, rivulets like veins through thin skin. And Draco doesn’t need to have read half the books he’s snuck from Father’s study to know that Severus is casting from a branch of magic in the grey zone of legality—and definitely, cast wandlessly and desperately, a branch of magic that could very easily drain him dry—
“Protego,” he shouts in Potter’s ear under the din. “Cast it, Potter, now!”
Potter doesn’t even question him, so he must know the spell already—his voice is lost, but as dramatically as he’d cast lumos on the slope before, he forces a shield spell out through Severus’s, a clap echoing around them as it pushes through, and Severus, thank God, has enough presence to drop his spell before Potter’s pulls his out further than he can hold it—
And finally, there’s silence around them again.
Severus stumbles, but Draco’s on his feet to catch him from going down. Behind them, Weasley or Granger lets out an awful high-pitched moan. Potter stands there with that stupidly forceful protego, and Lupin crouches down, pulling Black more firmly under the dome of it.
And around them, in the wreck of shattered glass, twisted metal, and burning plants, the greenhouse opens to the sky in a jagged-edged maw. Pettigrew, Draco realizes, is gone.
“Fuck,” Black spits as Lupin gets the rope away from his face. “Fuck! He’s done it again—I’ve got to—”
“We need to get up to the castle,” Lupin says, pausing to look towards Severus. “The dementors will be here any minute, and Severus… fuck,” he echoes, and tears at the other rope.
Rather hysterically Draco thinks, a proper Professor wouldn’t swear, while, as if in agreement, Severus rasps: “Fuck.”
“He’s getting away, again!” Black shouts. “I’m not going to stay here—not going to let them get me—not yet. Not until he’s paid for what he’s—”
Severus tries to turn, then, and lets out a ghastly sound as he does, grabbing at Draco. The skin of his hands, Draco realizes, is shredded; they must have been exposed to the glass—
“Severus—we have to have to get you help,” Draco exclaims. “Madame Pomphrey—”
“Dittany,” Severus hisses.
“Dittany!” Draco glances around wildly. This is—was a greenhouse! “Longbottom—”
“I—I’ll get it!”
“No!” Lupin shouts—and he’s coughing again. “He might be—we stay together, he’s got a wand now—”
“He could lose his hands!” Draco snaps.
And then Black’s on his feet, ropes pooling around him. “I’ll go after Peter—Remus, I’ll—”
“You’re not going alone!” Lupin says. “Don’t be stubborn—”
“I’ve been after him on my own a long time, Remus—”
“And look where that’s got you! You’re not—leaving me! Not again.”
The silence is heavy. Potter finally seems to realize that the explosion is over, and drops the shield; there’s a clamor as the shards that piled up along the edges of it cascade in. Nowhere near them, but it makes all of them jump.
“You’ve not got a wand, Remus—”
“Neither have you!”
“You’re going after him?”
It’s Weasley who interrupts, and the two arguing men glance over at him in surprise.
“I’m sorry, kid, but he’s not just your pet rat—”
“I got that,” Weasley snaps, and he jabs his wand forward. “Here. You want to catch him? Take this.”
“Ron,” Potter starts, moving closer, too. “You don’t—”
“He was my pet, Harry,” Weasley says. “And Percy’s, and Charlie’s—I’ve been feeding him, taking care of him—I’ve had that bastard in my bed. In Ginny's bed. And that’s Charlie’s wand.And if he—if he’s really the one who sold out your parents—”
Severus makes another wheezing sound like he’s trying to speak, and Granger, thank Merlin, has the sense to point her wand back towards greenhouse three, squeaking, Accio Dittany!
“He is,” Black says, and he reaches forward and takes the wand, but he’s looking at Potter, too. “I swear it—I would do anything, anything if I could go back and save them, but I… Harry, I’m so, so sorry, I…”
“Then take it, and go,” Weasley says. “We’ll—we’ll tell them. We’ll get the aurors after him, too. Just—don’t lose him.”
Black meets Weasley’s eyes again as his hand falls. “Sorry about the rat,” he says shortly. “And… thank you.”
And then, with one final glance towards Lupin, he turns and leaps through the air, the black shadow of a dog scrambling over the rubble. Potter grabs Lupin by the robes as he tries to go after them—Don’t!, Draco can hear him command, but the rest is lost as Longbottom shakes dirt from the roots of the entire dittany plant Granger’s managed to summon and brings it over for Severus.
Abominable at Potions as he might be, Longbottom doesn’t even need instructions to start pinching the leaves from the stem and passing them to Draco, who puts seven on Severus’s tongue and slowly shifts so as to give support with his shoulder but free his hands.
“The water must be—”
“Don't child me, Severus,” Draco snaps as Granger summons a goblet—silver, of course—and fills it with a quick water charm, passing it to him. “You’ve had me doing this for ages.” He rolls the remaining leaves in his hand, damaging them just enough to speed up the process before adding them to the water. “Trust that you've taught me this much, won’t you.”
He steels himself to cast the spell to send it all spinning, an extraction charm that makes it all steam, a minor transmutation to drop it all at once to the point just before freezing—all of this Severus watches like a hawk, though silently, for once, slowly chewing the leaves, and everyone else watches, too. Lupin must know some basic healing, being a Professor, but he makes no move to help—not that he looks any more fit for it than Draco. Granger's turned her aguamenti on the plants burning closest to them. Longbottom’s carefully tracing down the plant and separating out the stem into smaller cuttings, using a conveniently upturned pot to deposit the largest portions in, and Weasley’s shuffled over to whisper in Potter’s ear—useless, the lot of them. At least Severus understands the process, having been the one to teach it, and the leaves must be giving him some strength; he lifts his hands before Draco can ask him to, and though his breath goes hissing out as Draco slowly pours the infusion across the exposed flesh, no insults or curses are spit.
When the water is gone, the skin is still torn, but most of the blood has stained the run-off pink, leaving the remaining skin pale and flayed. Not healed, but not bleeding, anymore, and even so quick a tincture will halt his condition from worsening, at least.
“You need a healer,” Draco says, tossing the goblet away, ignoring the dizziness that makes it multiply before it rolls off under a burning bush.
A burst of energy comes from Lupin’s direction, and Draco starts, thinking, now he’s going to help? But it’s no healing charm, it’s a barrier, thin white light—a partially-formed Patronus Charm. His body shakes, the light flickering.
“Harry,” Lupin says softly.
Far above them, a shadow moves across the waning moon.
Potter hesitates for only a moment, glancing over towards Draco and Severus, and Granger standing a few feet away, and Weasley, beside him, and Longbottom, looking up with wide eyes, before he flicks his wand to dismiss the redundant lumos. As with everything, he casts quietly, and, for a moment, Draco thinks weakly—
And then a shape crashes forth, charging through Lupin’s thin barrier before Draco can get a clear glimpse of it. Severus lets out a choking sound as it bursts forward, light illuminating more dementors than Draco had ever imagined were stationed at the school as they turn to flee—
And then there are more lights, emerging from the castle like meteors tracing through the sky—and Severus tugs at his sleeve, and Draco helps him up to hobble towards the castle.