The Prince
Minerva McGonagall takes charge.
She leads Harry and Luna out of the Ravenclaw Common Room, down a flight of stairs, sends her Patronuses to alert the other Hogwarts Professors. Harry explains the way out of the Room of Requirement into Hog’s Head and McGonagall agrees to send students to the seventh floor.
Their plan is thwarted by the appearance of Severus Snape, who steps out of the shadows and into their path. His long dark hair is hanging around his sallow, gaunt face in greasy curtains. He’s dressed in his usual sweeping black robes, eyeing Harry with narrowed eyes.
In his rage, Harry had forgotten to put back his Cloak.
“Harry Potter,” he greets silkily, wand raised, one eye trained on McGonagall. He flexes his left arm. “I wondered … why the Dark Lord must be summoned so hastily.”
Hatred is boiling in the pit of his stomach. Harry throws a venomous glare at the man. He feels petulant enough to say, “Dumbledore knew everything that was happening inside the school at all times. Not really a true Headmaster, are you? Murdering the former one does not necessarily guarantee fame and power.”
Snape’s cold stare narrows to slits. “Only you would care about fame, Potter. Just like your father, still, I see.”
“Shut up,” Harry hisses, a hex at the tip of his tongue.
Mild surprise flits across Snape’s face. Harry has been extremely disrespectful towards Snape in the past, but never so bluntly rude, casual as if he’s speaking with a teenager. It gives him grim satisfaction and thinks he should have done it way sooner.
Snape, on the other hand, gathers his typical unreadable expression, as though he’s practicing Occlumency every waking hour. “The Dark Lord is on his way, Potter. You better leave while you still can. Your father would have, with his tail between his legs. Quite literally.”
Harry wants to throw another Cruciatus. Wants to throw every Dark spell he has in his arsenal and the only thing that stops him is the fact that Voldemort’s soul would relish in it, bask in it, encourage it. And Harry is in no mood to cater to his wishes at the moment.
It seems Snape realises this, because his wand becomes steadier, ready to deflect any incoming attack.
“Where is Draco?”
The question throws Harry for a loop. He blinks a few times before remembering that Snape had agreed to an Unbreakable Vow, had agreed to keep Draco safe, had agreed to protect him. But Narcissa is dead; the Vow must have broken. There is no reason for Snape to worry about his own precious life.
“None of your business.”
Something shifts on Snape’s face at Harry’s tone. He seems to pause for the tiniest of a second; his cold, black gaze trained on Harry entirely. Harry doesn’t budge. He stares back, daring for Snape to make a move –
And then Snape does.
It’s – well, it’s sudden but subtle. At first, Harry doesn’t realise it is happening at all, believes he is simply sifting through his memories since they are discussing Draco’s whereabouts. It’s natural for Harry to think about Draco, how he rescued him, how Harry would fall asleep watching his silhouette against the soothing cacophony of ocean waves. How Draco staggered, bloodied and exhausted, yelled at the three to climb the dragon already, how he was so sure that Nuri was harmless, wouldn’t munch on them for evening snack. How Harry watched him, constantly, waiting for Draco to just up and leave, declaring that being dead would be much preferable than dying by Harry’s side but Draco never did it. He slept beside Harry when Ron or Hermione would take night-time shift and Harry would fall asleep, listening to his ragged breathing because he’d broken his leg, because he had chosen to take part in Harry’s grand scheme.
Harry thinks of the most recent memory, the one where Draco had cried on the cold stone floor of the Room of Requirement, shuddered and trembled, clutched at Harry saying it was all his fault. And Harry thinks of the last time Draco had a meltdown, when –
Hermione pulls out the cup from her bag and places it between them, beside the innocent teapot. “He’s creating these.”
“Horcruxes,” Ron supplies.
Malfoy is staring at the cup like it might bite him. “What the fuck are Horcruxes?”
Harry clears his throat. “Part of his soul lives inside them.”
And then it’s downhill from there. His memories are rushing quicker than it is natural, as if someone is filtering through them, prodding and probing, running in empty hallways to open doors upon doors, shutting them just as promptly. It’s a chaos of colours and scenes and laughter trickles from somewhere, tucked between sheer panic and fear; there’s trying to shake some goddamn sense into you and a loud guffaw, followed with mate, I feel all the bullshit is worth it if I get to see Malfoy clacking in high heels.
Harry’s fingers are grappling to hold onto sand, every grain slipping through the cracks, and the more he tightens his hold, the faster they fall.
“You’re saying that – Harry’s body possesses a bit of soul of You-Know-Who from that night? That’s why their minds are connected? But that would mean …”
“I’m a Horcrux,” Harry says numbly.
“I’m sure being frozen is less painful than being burned alive,” Ron says sarcastically.
“Either way, we’ll know for sure seeing I’m a Horcrux myself.”
Ron grabs his elbow seriously. “Don’t, Harry. I really doubt that they both are right–”
“I was just joking–”
“I thought so,” Malfoy says with satisfaction. “You can’t just ask people that, Potter. You’re making murderers of others, because you’re ready to pay the cost. What about them?”
Harry swallows the nausea to no avail. “I guess I’ll just die in action, then.”
“No one is going to touch you,” Malfoy informs him matter-of-factly. “All the Death Eaters are under strict orders to capture you alive. Riddle wants to do the honours himself.”
Suddenly, Harry feels his mind yanked at, tugged at, pulled at so violently he stumbles into Luna. McGonagall sharply calls out Potter and Luna is wrapping her arms around his shoulder, but the damage is done.
Snape’s eyes are wide and startled, and Harry has never seen the man so shocked in his life. It transforms his face entirely.
Snape’s wand arm has lowered slightly on its own accord. Breathing harshly, Harry straightens up. The first thought that runs through his mind is the game is up but then – well, Voldemort already knows that Harry is hunting Horcruxes down, coming closer and closer to making him a mortal man. Even if Snape rushes back to his dear Lord with the news, it wouldn’t really be news.
“Scared?” Harry taunts, letting his rage at Snape, at everything, consume him. He thinks he’s done being fearful, he thinks he might fly to the top of Hogwarts and scream, tell everyone what Voldemort is doing, has done, and someone should just finish him off already so that Voldemort can die. “You must be so proud of the man you’re serving.”
McGonagall is watching the two with caution. Harry knows how skilled of a Legilimens Snape is; he’s been his guinea pig more than he is comfortable admitting. Snape knows how weak Harry’s mind is, how shattered and fragmented it is, how to break the walls easily. On the other hand, Harry also realises that it took Snape no time to learn about things that are none of his fucking business.
Then Snape barks out, “Minerva, barricade the school. We cannot let the Dark Lord inside the castle, not until Potter finds the lost object. Where are the Carrows?”
By the time Harry and Luna return to the seventh floor, there’s a stitch stabbing in Harry’s side. He clutches at it and starts pacing frantically to open the Room. Halfway through his second walk, the door bursts open.
Ron, Hermione, Draco, and Neville are rushing outside.
“What the fuck happened, Potter?”
“Harry, are you alright?”
“Is it true? Is he coming?”
Harry’s heart thuds painfully. “How do you know?”
Draco thrusts his arm forward, the Dark Mark alive on his pale skin. It’s blacker than ever, the snake twisting and coiling. Harry wants to smack it away on pure instinct.
“Someone touched it.”
Harry grimaces, giving them a quick rundown of the events. What happened in the Ravenclaw Common Room and what McGonagall’s plan is, and how Severus Snape – Draco twitches at the name – is – is – well, helping their side.
“What in the bloody hell?”
Ron turns to Luna, believing that she might be the saner of the two right now. Luna merely shrugs and says, “He’s just as sane as I am.”
And this time, Harry wants to hug her, squeeze her tightly, kiss her in gratitude if he could get away with it. He, himself, has no clue why Snape can be trusted, except that Snape just learned of the Horcruxes and the first thing he did was to give Harry a chance to find it.
Of course, it can be a trap. Of course, Snape wants to protect Harry because if Harry lives, Voldemort lives. Of course, Snape has the perfect excuse to deliver Harry to Voldemort on a silver platter and Voldemort might keep him chained in a dungeon, keep him alive so that he could live. Of course, Snape has always been shady but Dumbledore trusted him, for whatever reason, and Harry thinks he wants to believe the old man.
Snape killed Dumbledore, beyond a doubt. But Snape has also willingly given Harry a vial of memories with instructions to use the Pensieve in the Headmaster’s office, said the password is Dumbledore.
Hermione looks at Harry as if she is considering Harry might be more damaged due to the Horcrux than they previously thought. As if Harry should get checked out by a Mind Healer, just to be on the safer side. Just to ensure that Harry’s judgement isn’t impaired.
They don’t believe him. Harry doesn’t blame them. He doesn’t believe himself either, at this moment.
“McGonagall has asked all the students to meet in the Great Hall. She wants to organize the defence for when the Death Eater troops arrive. They’ll be here any minute.”
Neville curses loudly; he retreats back inside the Room, declaring that they are officially at war. He promises to call the Order members. Luna trails behind.
“Are we seriously going to trust Snape?” Ron says incredulously. “After all the shit he pulled?”
Harry takes a deep breath in. He pulls out the glass vial from inside his jacket pocket, the thin wispy strands swirling in it. Hermione gasps.
“His memories,” Harry confirms, tucking it back in. “I need to see them.”
“The Chamber,” Ron reminds him, eyeing the lump in Harry’s jacket as if it’s a Horcrux, still unwilling to believe Snape. “Hermione and I will go that way.”
The sheer faith that Ron shows in Harry, against every rhyme and reason – Ron’s previous abandonment disintegrates into the ether as if it never existed in the first place, wiping away every bit of resentment Harry had harboured to the point where even Voldemort’s soul cannot snatch it towards itself to feast upon.
“Alright,” Harry says, removing the moleskin pouch from around his neck. He pulls out the cup, there’s a faint pulse and Harry’s insides jerk in response. He hands it to Ron without comment. “Draco, you come with me.”
They break apart. Ron and Hermione run along the corridor towards Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom while Harry leads Draco to Dumbledore’s office. Draco is strangely silent the whole way, doesn’t even react when the students dressed in pyjamas and night robes, stare, whisper, point amidst the terrified confusion.
When they reach the corridor, it’s empty. Harry glances at Draco from the corner of his eyes. Draco’s head is bowed, his jaw tight, and Harry gulps.
“What?” Harry blurts out, coming to a stop in front of the gargoyles guarding the office.
Draco looks up. His grey eyes are stormy like a hurricane, dark clouds gathering, assembling, rallying against the Earth, the wind picking up speed, rising, growing, mounting, and then there’s thunder rumbling in the skies, bolts of lightning cracking the Heavens in half.
Harry stops breathing.
When Draco finally speaks, his voice is hard, raw and whipping. “Severus wanted to help me last year. I refused. When the time came, he had to do it anyway because I was too chicken shit. I saw it with my own eyes, Snape using Avada Kedavara on Dumbledore. And then he rushed me to the Manor, telling me to stay in my room. I didn’t. I hid, instead, and heard him yelling at my Father. Mother came to me that night, said how much she loves me, how she never wanted this for me.”
So they’re talking about it. Harry knew he couldn’t avoid it forever, but this hardly seems like the right time for it. Voldemort will be here soon with his troops, his troops that do not include Lucius and Narcissa. Draco seems to be thinking of the same exact thing because his face nearly crumbles again, the grey of his eyes shining, and then he blinks a few times, turns away.
“I know,” Harry says simply. “I was there.”
Draco’s head snaps back, his whole body freezing in shock. The pain is infused with anger at Harry; contempt curling his lips.
“Excuse me?”
“Astronomy Tower. Under the Cloak. Saw the whole thing. I wanted to kill Snape right then and there.”
Draco’s eyes narrow. “Snape, not me.”
“Not you.”
Harry flicks his eyes over Draco’s face. He studies it because it feels impossible to look away. Draco has always managed to catch his attention, ever since the moment they met at Madam Malkin’s when Draco was trying out robes and Harry had stumbled inside, lost and scared and thrilled. Even when Draco had barrelled into their train compartment, wanting to know who the famous Harry Potter was, extended his hand of friendship for reasons his eleven-year old mind had deemed important, but he had insulted Ron, insulted Hagrid, insulted Hermione. Draco had continued to actively go against Harry after that point, wanting to make his life as miserable as possible, mocking and taunting and vindictive and enraged.
Until Harry had witnessed his first meltdown in the bathroom, until Harry had seen with his own eyes that Draco Malfoy was as lost and scared as he was. Until Harry had extended an arm in invitation, a promise of solidarity if Draco promises the same in return. Bonded themselves with life and death because trust was foreign to them.
“Do you remember when we were eleven?” Harry says. Soft and nostalgic, smiling a little sadly because Draco is seventeen years old now, an orphan, and Harry wants to hug him.
Before Draco can form a response, before he can so much as twitch, the world shifts and Harry sways, grabbing the stone gargoyle for support as a high, cold, cruel voice permeates through the very walls. Absently, he notes that Draco has stumbled back, horrified, head whipping around to pinpoint the source of the voice.
*“I know that you are preparing to fight. Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me. I do not want to kill you. I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood.”
Harry grapples an arm forward blindly and Draco catches it; they straighten each other up, sharing a shaken look, realise that Voldemort’s Sonorous is imbedded within the air itself.
*“Give me Harry Potter,” Voldemort continues and Draco’s fingers tighten, “and none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter, and you will be rewarded. You have until midnight.”
The silence is deafening.
Then Draco snaps. “What are we waiting for?”
Harry doesn’t move. His fingers slacken but Draco doesn’t let go. His heart is hammering painfully, his ears are ringing, his eyes are becoming unfocused and Draco swims in his vision. It could be over. All of it. All Harry has to do is wait outside the gates for Voldemort and no one has to die. Harry can save them all.
“You can’t save everyone,” Draco says sharply, grey eyes latched onto his with thunder in them. “I don’t care what shitfuck, brain damaged, grand scheme you’re planning, but Severus gave you that vial for a reason. We need to see what it is before you do something profoundly stupid like walk outside with your bloody arms raised.”
“You heard him,” Harry says numbly.
“So?” Draco says. “Since when did we start to believe anything that bald dick says? Who’s to say that even if you surrender, he won’t just lay siege on the castle and kill everyone anyway? Granger and Weasley included. She-Weasel included. Hogwarts will go to ruins either way and you know it. What’s the fucking password?”
Harry swallows his heart down and fails. “Dumbledore.”
“Perfect,” Draco mutters as the stone gargoyles jump out of their way.
He drags Harry past them onto the moving staircase. He drags Harry towards the heavy wooden door and inside it. He drags Harry to the large table kept in the middle and lets go only when he has to search around the place to find the Pensieve.
Harry slowly gathers his bearings, blinking rapidly, taking note of his surroundings. They’re inside Dumbledore’s office. They inside Dumbledore’s office. Harry whirls around, searching, but all the portraits are empty. They must have scampered to other parts of the castle when Voldemort threatened war.
Harry thinks of Hermione and Ron, down in the Chamber of Secrets. He wonders what they might be thinking, if they’re panicking Harry would willingly agree to Voldemort’s terms. He hopes they would destroy the Horcrux regardless and knows that they will. It helps calm him down a little, gives him strength to move his legs, to walk towards the cupboard where the Pensieve is stashed and pull it out.
Draco makes a sound in his throat, irritated and huffy that Harry couldn’t have told him sooner he knew where the goddamn thing was, that he had to raid the place and waste precious time.
Harry takes out the vial just as Draco joins him. He tips the contents into the basin; the swirling magnifies, shapes and forms blooming indecipherably. Harry grips Draco’s elbow and pulls him under.
It’s his mother, ten years old, happily displaying magic to a terrified Petunia. Snape is hungrily spying on them – her – and Harry is rooted to the spot as he watches the meeting play out, Lily chastising Snape before chasing after Petunia to comfort her.
The scene dissolves, rapidly builds again.
Over and over and Snape is friends with Lily, is bullied by James and Sirius, and Remus and Peter don’t stop them even when they should.
Over and over and Lily is arguing with Snape outside the portrait of the Fat Lady, had to talk because Snape said he would not leave until Lily would do so, would stay right outside in the corridor even if it means the whole night.
Over and over and Lily is dead, James is dead, and Snape is crying like a wounded animal in Dumbledore’s office, hurt and betrayed and defeated, accusing Dumbledore of breaking his word.
Over and over and Snape hates Harry’s guts because Harry looks like James, and James had bullied him, tormented him, taken Lily away from him, had gotten her dead. He hates Harry because Harry has Lily’s eyes and nothing else of her, at least not in appearance, and he hates Harry because Lily was smart in Potions, brilliant at it, and he would never have Harry good at anything Lily was because she’s dead, and Harry is to blame as much as James.
He, himself, is to blame and he plays his role magnificently in penance. He hates Harry, but he could never hate Lily, no matter how angry she was at him, no matter how she never saw his love, no matter how she never could have accepted it because Snape was a Slytherin, intellectually curious, loved Dark Arts and was brilliant at it.
It’s all tragic and sad, and Snape clutches Lily’s dead body, not even registering that her one-year-old kid is in the crib behind him, crying his eyes out, the lightning scar on his forehead red-raw.
Dumbledore is spending time with Harry, lots of it, and Snape hates it. It’s unfair, he rages, when Snape is the one putting his life on the line every single day to protect a kid he hates, a kid that is not even his, and Dumbledore still doesn’t trust him.
And then when he does, Snape wishes he hadn’t.
Because Harry has to die, because Harry is the last Horcrux to be killed, and Voldemort himself has to do it.
And Dumbledore wants to make him out to be some hero, appeal to the compassionate side of him that doesn’t exist, digging and asking questions, questioning if his loyalty has shifted. Snape draws out his wand, sneering at the mere idea of it, and the fondness in his eyes as he watches the silver doe leaping gracefully around him is unmistakable.
*”After all this time?”
*“Always.”
Because, of course. Lily was Lily Evans before she was Lily Potter, but that doesn’t matter because Lily was always Lily, would always be Lily, and therefore, would always, always, have Severus.
McGonagall has carted the younger students off to Hog’s Head through the Room of Requirement, allowing of-age students the choice of staying for the fight. The Order members have divided the castle amongst themselves in battle preparation. Snape is there when Harry and Draco enter the Great Hall, being backed into a corner by Arthur Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Remus Lupin.
Harry bolts across the room, cutting through the masses, ignoring the greetings and voices calling out to him. He hears Blaise’s distinct drawl of Draco, what –
“Wait, wait, wait,” Harry throws himself between them, arms wide apart just as Draco skids to a halt beside him, his own wand raised in warning.
The shock of seeing Harry, and seeing Harry with Draco, and seeing Harry and Draco physically defend Snape is overruled by righteous anger. At least, on Kingsley and Remus’ part. Arthur, on the other hand, seems more willing to hear Harry out, or perhaps unwilling to hurt Harry in any case.
“He – he’s fine,” Harry pants. “Snape is – Dumbledore trusted him.”
Remus takes a step forward. His face is slashed through, but he seems younger than Harry has ever seen him. Harry has the strongest desire to ask where Teddy is. “Until he killed Dumbledore.”
“No,” Draco snaps, standing his ground. “He didn’t.”
“No?” Arthur repeats incredulously, the way Ron does. Ron does it the way Arthur does. “What do you mean no?”
“Draco’s right. Snape is – we trust him. He’s on our side. You can ask Dumbledore,” Harry waves a hand vaguely. “If you can find him, you can ask him. He’s visiting other portraits.”
“Harry,” Remus sighs, looking haggard and stressed out. “I need you to be sure, okay? You – you said Mr. Malfoy could be trusted–”
“He can be–”
“And now you’re telling us that the man who killed Dumbledore can be trusted? The man who is a Death Eater, served You-Know-Who the entire time, can be trusted?”
“You said it once,” Harry replies. “You used to believe in Dumbledore’s judgment when I didn’t. That Dumbledore must know something that we don’t, or – or – something –”
“We don’t have time,” Draco interrupts, vibrating with impatience. “Harry, don’t launch into a bloody speech.” Harry nearly brains himself when he snaps his head towards Draco The Annoying Lecturer, and also because this is the first time he’s called Harry Harry. “Look. Severus is here, isn’t he? Even after the Mark burned.”
“It could be a trap,” Kingsley points out.
“Yes, it could be,” Draco agrees. “Or it’s not. If Harry Potter here is fucking pleading –”
“Language,” Arthur reprimands.
Draco continues loudly. “Fucking pleading, then you might want to listen to your Chosen Hero. Give him the benefit of the doubt that he knows what the fuck he’s doing –”
“You really think that?” Harry asks in a dazed voice.
Draco tsks in annoyance. “I don’t because you rarely know what you’re doing; such as right now, I’m trying to help your case and you’re making it worse. Really, how stupid can you get? Where the fuck is Granger when I need her? Never mind, what I’m saying is that we’re wasting time because the geriatric villain is right outside and we need Severus because he’s a bloody brilliant wizard to have in our corner! Who cares if you think it’s last minute?”
Harry snorts before he can help it. Draco slowly turns his head, looking like he wants to murder Harry himself, Vow or not, Horcrux or not, Voldemort or not, and it only makes Harry laugh harder.
“What the fuck is your problem now?”
“Geriatric villain,” Harry chokes out, clutching at his side. “You’d become a great writer, Draco. Seriously. I would have read every single article of yours.”
Draco’s face just – shuts down. Harry loses the laugh, his heart tumbling inside his chest, tripping over itself. He gulps, trying to focus on the problem at hand. He glances behind him at Snape, catches his eye for the first time since the Pensieve and Snape’s expression is carefully neutral.
This man had loved Lily. Loves Lily the way Lily loved Harry, selflessly, instinctively, simply for existing. It appears that Snape never needed any other reason to fall for her; perhaps there was never any falling in love but simply being in love and it’s too much to truly wrap his head around it.
So he nods a short, curt nod in acknowledgement.
Snape flicks his eyes away.
The others are still not entirely on-board with this dramatic shift in Harry’s loyalty. Despite Harry repeating that Dumbledorewants this and don’t ask me how I know, I just do and Draco’s consistent irritated snaps of just because you’re older doesn’t mean shit and how he’s done with old blokes acting like they are always right and then Snape finally extends his left forearm, shaking his long sleeves back; Draco gasps, Harry yells but Snape is pointing his wand at it –
“Sectumsempra.”
There’s blood, so much of blood. Harry’s shout dies in his throat. He watches with horrified fascination as Snape immediately starts to murmur a series of incantations, like a comforting song, the same he’d done for Draco last year. In Harry’s peripheral vision, he can see Draco grimacing, touching his chest to soothe the phantom pain there.
The bleeding stops. When Snape calmly says Scourgify, the mess disappears, and the Mark on his arm has a long gash right in the middle of it. The scar is still fresh, red and raw.
“I thought – I thought,” Draco says, then takes a stuttering deep breath. “I thought no one could get rid of it.”
Snape catches his gaze. “Some Dark magic requires equally powerful Dark counters,” he intones as if they are in a DADA class. “The Mark isn’t gone, not completely, but merely wounded. This act is more metaphorical than literal. Now that I have your attention, shall we talk strategies, unless you wish to test my, admittedly very thin, patience?”
Kingsley decides it’s good enough for him so he immediately launches into Snape’s role in the battle. Before he can really get into it, though, Snape glares at Harry and Draco, who are still staring with gaping mouths.
“Did you take care of the object, Potter?”
Harry’s jaw snaps shut. “No, Sir.”
Snape is thoroughly unimpressed. “As much as I gathered, it’s a lost object. It might be an entirely new concept for you but might I suggest you search for it?”
“Severus–” Draco takes a step forward. “I – I don’t know if you’ve heard–”
“I know,” Snape says shortly. “The Manor threw us out.”
Draco stills. “It – it did?”
“Yes. Murdering the current Master does that until the next Master gives express permission to enter the premises.”
“The Grimmauld Place let you inside,” Harry mutters, head ducking. The dots are still connecting in his mind, slowly but surely, and every new piece of awareness is as overwhelming as the last one. “Even when I didn’t give my express permission.”
“You gave it to the Order,” Snape states coldly.
“So the Manor is safe?” Draco asks, unable to contain the eagerness in his voice. The prospect of still having a house to go back to, even if it’s an empty one, must be relieving after weeks of camping and nearly dying.
“Yes.”
Draco sways on his feet. Harry automatically places his hand on Draco’s back, holding him up. Snape supremely decides to ignore them, turning to Kingsley instead. Arthur steps away to join Harry.
“Where’s Ron?” he asks anxiously. “Is he safe? Is he here?”
“Yes,” Harry quickly replies. Arthur sighs in relief; the ages melt off him and he looks younger than he did a few seconds ago. “He’s here, Mr. Weasley. In the castle, I mean. He’s just in another part with Hermione. They’re fine.”
“Oh, good,” Arthur gives a small smile. “I’m glad to see you’re fine, too, Harry. You three really had us worried there doing Godric knows what. Bill informed us about, ah, Mr. Malfoy’s – sudden appearance. You made the right choice, young boy.”
Draco glares back. “Being here cost me my parents. Don’t give me shit about greater good. I don’t care about greater good.”
Arthur is taken aback at his words, at his tone, and he glances at Harry to understand this situation. Harry winces back, shrugging. He can’t exactly argue Draco’s point since he’s telling the truth, and he can’t counter Arthur, either, since that’s the truth, as well.
Finally, Arthur says, “I’m sorry about your parents.”
Draco glares harder, gulping down his anger. He swivels on his feet, comes face to face with Blaise, stops. A tense silence stretches out between them and then Draco says, “You’re staying.”
Blaise’s eyes crinkle in amusement. “So are you.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I know.” Another pause. “Do you?”
Draco doesn’t reply. His shoulders are tense, head still on his neck. When he speaks, there’s a slight tremble in his voice. “Are we going or what?”
“Right.” Harry throws an apologetic look at Arthur, then Remus, and scrambles after Draco.
He pushes past Blaise awkwardly, feeling like the shittiest person in the whole world. He thinks that, perhaps, similar to Regulation of Magical Potions, Regulation of Vows – if that’s a thing – must also be overwhelmingly useless. Really, who lets stupid gits like him simply hold another individual into death-oaths like it means nothing? As though trust can be overridden with magic. Dumbledore must be rolling in his grave.
Or portrait. Or whatever.
Once they’re outside the Great Hall, Ron and Hermione are running down the steps. They’re entirely drenched in water.
“Harry! Harry, we did it!” Hermione cries, flinging herself at Harry. “Oh, you’re here. You’re here, thank Merlin. We thought – we thought – you – Harry, don’t you dare listen to him!”
Ron throws himself at them as well, his long arms encircling the two. “Fuck. Fuck. Harry, don’t do anything stupid, mate. Just – just keep your head on. We’re going to figure out what we can do without – well, you know.”
“Murdering me?” Harry suggests, heart sinking, but keeping his voice light. He hugs them back fiercely. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. Ron, listen. Your dad’s in there. You should go meet him.”
“I will, in a bit. Did you find the diadem?”
“No, we’re going to look for it now. We were – we were busy.”
“With what?” Hermione asks suspiciously. “Did you see the memories, Harry?”
“Yes,” Harry nods. “We did. Snape is in there, too. Planning and all. He’s – he’s really on our side. Ask Draco if you don’t believe me.”
Draco raises one thin eyebrow. “I really doubt they’d–”
“Is it true?” Hermione demands.
Draco stares, stunned, silent.
“Is it?” Ron insists. “Malfoy, you saw the memories? What were they?”
“It’s – it’s a long story,” Draco answers in a strained voice. “But yes. Severus is – he’s loyal to – Dumbledore.” Then he gathers his bearings and says, “Dumbledore knew I was ordered to kill him, knew it the whole time. He sent Snape to protect me and told him that when the time comes, Snape has to do it.”
Hermione gasps, her brown eyes wide and shining. Ron’s mouth falls open.
“Trust Dumbledore to plan his own funeral,” Ron mutters finally. “Always said it, didn’t I? He’s a complete crackpot. Utter nutcase.”
“I have to agree with you on that, Weasley,” Draco sighs, sounding suddenly exhausted. “I was thinking. The diadem – it’s a lost object.”
Hermione straightens up immediately. “Yes.”
“Hidden inside Hogwarts.”
“Yes.”
“A place only Riddle knows well.”
“Yes.”
Draco nods. “Which is the best place in this castle to hide magical objects? Hide it in such a way that no revealing charms would work? Meaning they are concealed against every bit of magic inside the castle? Hint, hint: Vanishing Cabinet.”
The answer is on Harry’s tongue before he realises it’s been there the whole time. “Room of Requirement! Of course! I hid my Potions book in there! And there were lots of other objects – like really a lot. It was an entire city and–”
Harry stops. He thinks his insides might curl up and wither.
“What?” Ron prods. “And what?”
“It’s in the Room,” Harry says breathlessly, heart thumping. He feels a mixture of emotions at the revelation. The sooner they find objects, destroy them, the sooner Harry dies, too.
Don’t. Not the time. Just. Keep it together.
“Draco, you’re a genius,” Harry tells him. “Fuck, how did we miss it? Come on! Everyone must have left through the Room. I think we can convert it now. What’s the time, Ron?”
They’re already running up the grand staircase as Ron huffs out, “Ten to midnight!”
His breathing is harsh and ragged. His footsteps are echoing as he rushes along the paths created amongst the towers of lost objects, searching, searching, searching. It’s been an entire year since he was last in this room. He remembers the panic and anxiety, how scared he had been that he’d almost just killed Draco Malfoy, and that Snape was absolutely going to murder him with his bare hands.
“Anything?” he calls out, eyeing the dog-eared textbooks, stale candies, rotten items that are indecipherable.
“Not yet,” Ron replies somewhere from right.
“Nothing,” Hermione replies somewhere from left.
“I hate this,” Draco replies somewhere from back.
Harry keeps looking, focused only on this task, thinking absurdly that perhaps he could have learned meditation. Hermione had once lectured him and Ron on how it helps with regulating emotions, compartmentalizing your thoughts, and keeps the mind calm. He desperately needs it right in this moment.
Twenty minutes since entering the Room and they still haven’t found it. Harry is acutely aware that the battle must have begun, it’s past midnight, and even if they can’t believe everything Voldemort says, Harry knows that he will keep his word when it comes to this. The man relishes in abusing power and what better way to do so if not an all-out war?
The thing is, Harry wishes he had a few more years at least, knowing that he doesn’t. Knowing that they can’t afford it. Knowing that the longer he lives, more people will die. The irony is, of course, that Voldemort wants to hunt him down, lure him out, and Harry wholeheartedly agrees with him.
It’s just that – if he could destroy all the other Horcruxes first, that would be nice. He could die – not happily – but peacefully. Content. Knowing he did what he had stepped out to do.
It’s time to go home.
Harry sees the Cabinet first. A thin layer of dust has settled onto it. On a whim, he grips the handle and pulls it open, waiting with bated breath, stupidly thinking that he might see the inside of Borgin & Burkes. He wonders if he’ll step inside – outside – escape. For an infinite second, he allows himself the privilege of guilty pleasure, the thoughts of warm sun beating on his skin, of wind whipping through his hair, of stars reflecting on a still, silent lake.
But it’s empty; just a wooden cabinet. Harry’s eyes sting, his hand falls from the handle, and he nearly crumples right there. He would have if Hermione suddenly hadn’t shouted out –
“Harry, I think I found it! Oh, no, wait. My bad.”
Ron curses loudly, the sound echoing in the cavern.
“Granger!”
Harry continues onward. He sees it just as it was last year, the statute of the ugly warlock on which Harry had perched the Horcrux, believing it to be hilarious at that time. It still is honestly, just in a non-hilarious way.
He shuts his eyes, takes a few deep breaths, extends his arm to pick it up when there’s a shout, a stream of bright light, and the diadem soars through the sky to land in another heap of lost objects. Harry whirls around.
Crabbe and Goyle. For the love of all that is holy –
“What are you two doing here?” Harry hisses, wand pointed, glaring eyes flicking between the two. “Shouldn’t you be hiding behind your mummy and daddy now that Draco no longer protects you from yourselves?”
Crabbe’s face twists in malice. He takes a threatening step forward. “Draco never had the balls to do shit. We would know. It was humiliating enough to be witches last year; but the Dark Lord has shown us the truth.”
Harry swallows down the urge to throttle him with bare hands as much as possible. Starting a fight right now with two goons might be devastatingly satisfying; it is not the priority. “What truth is that?”
Goyle puffs up his large chest. Harry has the distinct experience of witnessing Dudley, if Dudley was dumber. “People are tools. Draco was only using us, you know. The Dark Lord promised us our own toys. We’ve been practising with the Carrows.”
“Oh, have you?” Harry inches towards his right. “What makes you think the Dark Lord isn’t using you, too?”
Crabbe sniggers condescendingly. “Who cares if he does? He’s the Dark Lord, Potter. He can do whatever he wishes. If we keep listening to him, we get rewarded.”
“Draco wasn’t rewarding you enough?”
“He was never grateful,” Goyle replies, his fury at the apparent injustice done to him making him uglier. “Not once. He just wanted his revenge on you, year after year. That’s all he cared about.” He continues in a snippy, whining voice. “Potter won the House Cup! Potter won the Quidditch Cup! Potter thinks he’s so bloody brilliant, it makes me sick! Father is angry at me! He thinks I’m as dumb as a Mudblood. He thinks I deserve to be bested by Granger!”
Harry’s blood is boiling. He’s oddly offended on Draco’s behalf. He remembers the outright fury in Draco’s voice when he’d said they’re my friends and Harry had countered it with but you used them. But this – he thinks at least Crabbe and Goyle could have shown the same loyalty Draco has shown them.
“You two deserve each other,” Harry says, quivering with rage. “Draco is better off without you.”
Crabbe smirks. “We are better off without him, Potter. You don’t get it, do you? Without him, we are thriving. He was always so scared of truly going Dark, it was pathetic.”
Harry swallows a string of words. His head is pulsating, his insides churning, his wand thrumming in his palm with crackling magic. He’s about to say fuck it and throw a Ginny-special Bat Bogey Hex at the very least, but they are interrupted –
“Vince? Greg?”
Draco is standing behind them, eyes wide with disbelief. There are more footsteps coming in their direction; Harry strains to hear but it’s just Hermione and Ron, asking him if everything is alright.
Crabbe spins around. “Draco.”
“What are you doing, Vince?” Draco asks, grey eyes flicking around him, slowly advancing towards them. “How did you find us?”
Harry can’t see Crabbe’s expression but he tenses slightly. “We followed you. Saw you with Potter in the hallways. Draco, you betrayed us.”
Draco is still progressing. He’s gripping his wand tight in his fingers, trying to process a way out of this situation. Harry has his own wand trained on Goyle.
“I did,” Draco agrees, nodding, as if he’s discussing weather. “Technically, not you, in particular, if that helps.”
Crabbe grunts. “Doesn’t matter. He told us to kill you.”
Harry freezes and so does Draco. Hermione and Ron dash around the corner at the same time and immediately come to a pause, wands drawn. They’re on the other side, though, near Draco, so Harry continues to inch towards the right slowly.
“Are you going to?” Draco asks, eyes narrowing to slits. He sounds like he wants to believe Crabbe wouldn’t kill him, but probably wouldn’t be too surprised if he did.
“Do I have a choice?” Crabbe counters. “It’s you or me, Draco. I choose me.”
And then there’s a smirk crawling up Draco’s lips, proud and tragic and approving. “The Slytherin choice of self-preservation. I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
There’s a tense moment of silence. Hermione, Ron, Draco facing Crabbe and Harry facing Goyle. Harry experiences a sense of déjà vu. Time slows down, crawls, and Draco meets Harry’s stare over Crabbe’s shoulder for the briefest of second and then –
He winks.
And Harry Potter blinks.
“Petrificus Totalus!”
Draco’s spell misses its mark as Crabbe dives to the right. Hermione is quick to rectify it, crying out Impedimenta but Goyle throws up a shield charm around them both. Harry is quick to pitch himself in the pile of magical objects, frantically digging and shovelling broken quills, old books, cracked inkpots, fungus-covered candies and chocolate. He had seen it falling somewhere near here … where is it?
Ron puts up a shield charm around Harry and himself, providing cover as Draco and Hermione duck and dodge streams of bright light and loud bangs. Harry keeps one ear trained on the chaos behind him, fingers itching to draw his own wand, but he ignores it. He feels the soul inside him thrashing and jerking, pulling Harry the other way, away from the battle, from danger, where it can be safe.
“Bombarda!” Draco’s voice rings out at one point.
There’s a screeching explosion that rents the air. Splinters are raining around Harry; Ron’s shield charm is still holding and the bits of debris bounce in invisible air, ricocheting in different directions.
“Incarcerous!”
Hermione shrieks and the shield wavers. Harry risks a quick glance over his shoulder. Hermione is struggling with ropes sliding around her throat, choking her. Crabbe and Draco have been blasted away to either ends, buried under useless junk.
“Ron, go!”
The shield disappears. Ron aims an angry Levicorpus and Hermione breaks free just as Goyle is hoisted up in the air, dangling by his ankle, his robes falling down to reveal his underpants. Harry shuts his eyes, just for a moment, just to get Snape’s face out of his mind, his father’s smirk and Sirius’ laughter, Lily’s rage on Snape’s behalf –
Draco is rising to his feet, dusting off his clothes, shaking himself loose. He points at the debris, commands, “Oppugno!”
Quills shoot off in Crabbe’s direction, pointed and lethal. Crabbe grabs a wooden table-top and holds it up. Draco follows it with Piertotum Locomotor and the table bounces to life, straggling Crabbe with its legs, curling around his wrists and throat.
Hermione and Ron are easily keeping Goyle in check. Harry leaves them to be once more, but just as he’s about to turn –
Draco ducks down as a jet of bright green light shoots from Crabbe’s wand, the spell hitting the pile of wreckage where Draco’s head had just been.
“Don’t kill him!” Harry shouts, voice thundering in the room, abandoning his search instantly. “DON’T KILL HIM!”
In the ensuing distraction, Ron Stuns Goyle immediately. Crabbe doesn’t understand that Goyle has been merely Stunned, because he lets out a roar of rage, waving his wand in the air frantically, barks out an incantation –
Searing heat instantaneously blooms, cutting across the space in all directions. Harry barely hears Hermione’s shriek of Fiendfyre before he’s darting away from it. He feels the sizzle lick against his back, curling on his spine like a lover, deafening and soaring and mounting, higher and higher –
Harry is scared. He’s scared because he has no idea how the others are faring, if they’re even alive. He needs to make sure they’re alright but there is no escaping the chimeras, the dragons, the phoenixes, the inferno itself, chasing after him, alive, sentient, uncontrollable.
He doesn’t know how long he runs, dodging streaks of blazes, blazes that are obliterating everything in their path, consuming, seeking the scattered souls. Harry runs, knowing without actively thinking that the diadem has been destroyed. It’s just him and Nagini now, human and serpent, Draco, the namesake of a dragon, the serpentine Slytherin, the fox –
“Harry! Harry!"
"POTTER, YOU STUPID ARSE!”
Harry turns to the ceiling ahead of him. Draco is on a broom, hand stretched out, pale face reflecting fire, stormy grey eyes reflecting fire, white blonde hair alight with fire; he looks like he’s on fire except he’s not, except that he’s just human not dragon, not a serpent, not a fox, but maybe all three, all at the same time.
Hermione and Ron are rocketing on another broom. Harry grips Draco’s waist tightly, head buried in his shoulder blades, not caring that he’s dampening his white shirt with his tears.
Draco will live. He’ll be pissed as fuck, but he’ll live.
The air outside in the corridor is cool and crisp.
Harry gulps it down like a dying man, wiping at his cheeks and eyes. Draco is collapsed against the opposite wall, face pinched, lips trembling, jaw tense. Hermione and Ron are panting, catching their breaths, holding onto each other for support.
For a few minutes, there’s nothing except the distant shouts, bangs, screams of the battle around the castle. The windows lights up from time to time, the night sky illuminating with magic. Shattering glass and exploding metal can be heard throughout, the destruction traveling and carrying itself, like Basilisk slithering in the pipes.
“It’s just Nagini now,” Harry says eventually. His voice is shaky but that’s alright.
“Harry,” Ron catches his gaze. He’s absolutely serious when he says, “Look inside his mind. See where he is. The snake will be with him.”
Harry nods, agreeing. Nagini will be with him. Taking a deep breath, he shuts his eyes and his scar splits open. It must have been hurting for a while now but he had locked it away. There were more pressing issues at hand. Now, though, it’s easy to seek him out, to just … connect. Like exhaling.
Voldemort is in the Shrieking Shack. He’s not alone, though. Nagini is coiling inside a protective enchantment, hovering near his shoulders.
He feels – enraged. Deadly. One flick of a wand and Harry Potter will die. One single spell, the one that did not work the last time because Lily Potter, the stupid Mudblood, did something. It does not matter; Lily Potter’s blood runs through his veins, too. He is immune to it, immune to what had happened seven years ago …
Nonetheless, something is wrong.
This wand … it is not working properly. Sure, he has successfully completed great deeds but it is no different than what he might do with any other wand. The Wand of Destiny is meant to be his, meant to work in ways unimaginable. And yet …
He had stolen the wand from its previous owner against their will. Albus Dumbledore lays dead in his coffin, on the very grounds he had vowed to protect and failed. Severus has done it remarkably well –
Severus.
Where is Severus? He has not joined the Death Eaters. He is, in fact, nowhere to be seen. Why? Is Severus really upset about the Malfoys? He had been rather fond of Narcissa … not the way he had been fond of the Mudblood, definitely, but the Mudblood was merely a fleeting conquest. Perhaps Severus is disappointed with the young boy, the boy who escaped his own home, his own parents, escaped him – the Dark Lord – to assist Harry Potter …
He will admit: he had underestimated the young boy. He did not think the terrified weakling would manage to survive this long. Nevertheless, he has been taken care of. The Slytherin boys were only too eager to serve me. Friendships do not matter, after all. Staying alive does. Dumbledore must surely know that now, dead as he is, rotting in his broken dreams.
He needs to speak with Severus. If Severus is behaving like a child, upset that the Dark Lord has taken his shiny object away, he must be reprimanded. Of course, that is aside from the fact that perhaps Severus needs to die.
How should I Summon him? I wonder …
Harry pulls away.
Draco, Hermione, and Ron are hovering over him expectantly.
“He’s in the Shrieking Shack,” Harry says, heart thudding against his ribs. “Nagini is in a bubble. And he’s looking for Snape. He – he wants to kill him.”
Draco flinches back. Hermione and Ron exchange a heavy look, and Harry can relate. After everything, knowing what he knows now, Harry has mixed feelings about the man.
On one hand, he’s been downright cruel and terrible to Harry. He has abused his position as a Professor and bullied Harry every chance that he got. Harry is not his father. He is not his mother, either. Harry is Harry and Snape could not see past his hatred, could not treat Harry as he deserved. Harry never expected anyone to kiss the ground he walks on, no; however, he definitely could have lived without Snape’s unfair treatment.
On the other hand, Snape has served Lily like no other person ever has or probably ever will. He has put his own life on the line every single day, stayed in close proximity to Voldemort and lied to his very face. Over and over and over. For years.
When it comes down to it, though, Harry is not a murderer. Really, there’s only one man he had wanted to kill and he wouldn’t even get the sweet opportunity to do so himself.
“We need to warn Snape,” he declares firmly, rising to his feet.
Draco still looks shaken by the events. If Harry could, he would have liked to give an out to Draco to catch a breather. First his parents, now his friends … and Draco himself almost died …
Harry shakes it away. “Draco, did you catch what he’s meant to do? Where he must be?”
“Not really,” Draco says roughly, then clears his throat. When he speaks, it’s still just as bad if not worse. “He’s not on the front lines, I suppose. Someone could have reported him to Riddle right away.”
“Right,” Harry says, thinking. If not on the front lines … “Let’s send a Patronus.”