Chapter Text
Draco hadn’t moved. Shadows that gathered in the corners of the room grew thicker as the candles began to die. He’d never been here this late. Or maybe it was morning. The window beneath the lake showed only darkness.
He breathed in, his throat trapping it like a valve, holding it there until it thinned. It came out strained.
Then he heard it. Something sharp. A gasp from the corridor. He stood fast, reaching for his wand. There was nothing there.
. . .
Up above, candles danced overhead in the Great Hall as a crowd sang verses of Odo the Hero. Sometimes the words slipped away and the tune would die, only to begin again from somewhere else among the sleeping bags, cots, or other bedding anyone cared to conjure.
George didn’t sing. He didn’t egg on drunk shirtless blokes wrestling each other to the ground, or even place bets on who would lose the most teeth.
He lay in a cot, his face in a pillow.
Fred was gone.
From a cot nearby, Ron watched him. He should've been there with George, his own face buried, but the air around him smelled like tea and calm. Hermione snored beside him—peaceful like the place wasn’t crumbling down around them—until George let out a long, frail whimper.
Hermione stirred.
. . .
High above, an owl gave a low, hollow hoot. On a hill by the castle, small winged bodies lay unnoticed and unburied, in a heap of crumbled stones. The owl screeched, circling the rubble in a low dragging sweep before flying through a window, finding a girl with dirt-streaked cheeks and a torn shirt.
“Mum,” Ginny breathed. “It's from Aunt Muriel.”
In the Entrance Hall, a bier strained under the weight of the shrouded dead. The trouble was nobody had bothered to separate loved ones from those who felled them, forcing the living to guard their dead from the mere wrongness of it.
“Mum . . . You have to stop!” Molly's hands ran through Fred's hair. The shroud rustled as it lowered, her hands cupping his cold cheeks. Ginny couldn’t watch again.
“I know.”
Around the hall, parents were weeping, standing with their children, taking one last look at those they lost.
Ginny could hear the rustling of a shroud being raised again to hide Fred one last time.
“I'm sorry.” She took Ginny's hand in hers. “It's just—”
“Mum, you don’t have to explain.” It came out too sharp. With her free hand Ginny fiddled with her wand, digging her finger in until it bit back. Molly was a mess of red eyes and wet cheeks.
“Where’s Harry? I want to see him.” Something like a smile formed beneath the dirt and tears.
“He's around here somewhere.”
Ginny wished she knew.
. . .
A door burst open in the dungeons. Two figures stood silhouetted against light from the torches blazing in the corridor. Then the door closed, shutting them in. From the light of the candles that now rasped against melted wax, he could barely make out their blond hair.
“Draco?”
The scent of home cut through everything.
“I’m not going to let them take you.” His mother’s voice frayed like tattered robes, but her hands were warm against his cheek. “I promise.”
“Shut up and let me think!” His father paced, emerging in the dying light. He looked a mess of pale skin and bloodshot eyes. “I’m not going back!”
“Lucius . . .” Narcissa spoke softly. Her eyes didn’t stray from her son’s.
“We’ll give them the manor if we have to!”
“Lucius! We go if we have to. Draco doesn’t. It’s the only thing that matters now.” She wiped away a tear. “Promise me.”
The only answer was silence.
The candles now hissed over muffled voices from the corridor.
“He’s coming.”
His mother’s hands ran soft through his hair. “Stay out of sight. You don’t exist. Do you understand?” He buried his face in her arms.
. . .
The wrestlers had stopped, now healing each other with teeth regrowing charms, wincing a little as they broke the gums. Odo the Hero was now just a droning hum.
George lay there. His stillness felt unnatural for someone who could manage a smirk even while asleep. And now whatever wound him went slack. Ron wished he didn't understand it.
Hermione found Ron’s hand through half-shut eyes. “After everything . . .”
“Won't even look at anyone.”
From beneath her pillow, she retrieved a small, beaded bag and plunged her hand in deep.
“Hermione,” Ron cocked his head, “what are you doing?”
“Getting my cauldron.” Sleep hadn’t quite left her. “He needs sleep and so do you.” His face must have mocked her. “What’s so funny?”
“You're the only one who'd try and brew in the middle of this whole bloody lot.” A hollow ringing stretched across the hall as empty bottles rolled on the stone. And the wrestlers were now passed out, hanging off their cots.
Then it slipped out, as easy as a laugh.
“I love you, Hermione.”
Her eyes widened. There wasn’t much room from his cot to hers, but it was all he had to pace. “That's stupid. It's only been a day.”
“Ron.”
“Just forget I said anything!” He could feel the sweat starting to bead on his brow.
“Ron!” She tugged his sleeve, pulling him down. “It's not stupid—because it hasn't really only been a day, has it?” Her brown eyes were soft, the light from the stars overhead dancing in them. “I love you too. I knew before Christmas.”
The words hung there, heavier than the castle walls that barely held. For a moment, he could feel the cold air and the locket chain pulling heavy at his neck.
“Ron, what's wrong? I thought you'd be—” She covered her mouth. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—”
“It's okay.” He wasn't so sure.
It was a tight fit for two people, but she laid him down anyway, his arm over her. He stared into the hair that tickled his nose. She spoke quietly, tapping his hands as he held her. “What matters is you’re here now. With me.”
It sounded right. He wished he believed her.
. . .
Molly hadn’t moved except to wipe tears away as she leaned against the bier. Close by, Andromeda locked eyes with her—a shared, silent pain between them before turning back to her daughter and Remus.
“Ginny, love . . . Tell me about you and Harry. I never quite heard the story.”
She’d been expecting this, but how much to tell, she didn’t know. “It happened after the quidditch final. I played seeker because he had detention—Snape. He kissed me in front of everyone. I had no idea.”
Her mother gave something like a squeal that ended in a heave. “That’s lovely, dear. Like a storybook.”
His birthday kiss—she kept that to herself. That was theirs, not anyone else’s.
But where was he?
The day unravelled unevenly, and the whole thing stunk. Sweat and stone dust. Blood and butterbeer. Too much hope for so much death. And now a burning gathered behind her eyes and he wasn’t there. He left somewhere in the middle. Of course Ginny understood it. How could she not? It didn’t help.
. . .
Deep in the dungeons, a door opened as if the latch wasn’t there. A tall man stood in the doorway.
“Let’s get this over with.”
He strode in. The torches roared as though they’d never stopped. He snuffed the candles like he was doing them a favor. “Sit.”
Draco’s parents looked at each other, both pale and gaunt, before obeying.
“Kingsley, surely there’s been some sort of misunderstanding.” Lucius spoke as if the matter were as simple as an unpaid fine for a thin-bottomed cauldron. “You remember those dinners at Cornelius’s. It’s me we’re talking about.”
Draco froze at the name. His insides twisted.
“Those were fun days. I was almost as naive as you still think me, Lucius.” Shacklebolt snapped his fingers and pointed to the seat next to Narcissa. “Draco!” From among the rusted cauldrons, Draco edged forward.
“Please,” his mother begged, but Shacklebolt merely drew three wands from his robes and placed them on the desk. Not given. Not guarded. Close enough to reach.
“Who’s going?”
Draco could see his father’s hands tighten, but the slick smile didn’t fade.
“Kingsley.” His father’s voice had an edge to it. A warning. “I know too many people at the Ministry for this to—”
“I am the Ministry now. You and your friends have seen to that. You didn’t give any of us a choice in the matter. Now,” Shacklebolt picked up one wand. “Lucius Malfoy. Escaping from Azkaban. Conspiracy to overthrow the Ministry.” He picked up another. “Narcissa Malfoy. Conspiracy.” He picked up the last one—hawthorn— and turned to Draco, eyes flashing dangerously in the torchlight. “I bet you’ve been missing this.”
A minute ago, he felt his insides twisting. He wasn’t sure if there was anything left now.
“This one is interesting. This one took thought and ingenuity. Sneaking Death Eaters into the school. Resulting in the death of its headmaster. Now—who’s going?”
His father’s hand crept toward the desk.
. . .
The revelry died. The singing gave way to snores and whistling wheezes. Up above, the stars in the ceiling began to hide themselves as Ron and Hermione lay on a cot. Ron let the quiet settle in. It pressed on him.
How much did Ginny know? Had Bill told her? Did he tell their parents? Or George?
A honking snore from nearby pulled him back.
Ron looked over. George’s head rested on the pillow now, his chest rising and falling in slow rhythmic breaths. The blanket rustled as Hermione turned, resting her head on Ron's chest. “How is he?” she whispered.
“Sleeping. I think.”
“Oh, Ron. How awful. I’m so sorry.”
He didn’t respond. George’s breath hitched in his sleep, a small and broken groan escaping him, before going silent once more.
“You’re thinking of staying,” Hermione whispered.
“I don’t know.”
“You can, you know.”
Ron answered quickly. “I want to be wherever you are.”
“In the library? Learning magic you’re never going to use?” Her head rose and fell as he breathed.
“If they’ll even let us back.”
“They’ll just have to, won’t they? But you don't have to go. Not if you don't want to. I love you, but I'll be okay.” Her fingers curled into his shirt.
He didn’t answer.
“We’ll make it work,” she whispered. “Every holiday. Hogsmeade. We’ll write every week.”
“Maybe.”
Several slumberers shifted, tucking their heads under blankets as light drifted through the windows. Above him, the last stars faded to reveal cracked stone and buckling vaults. Ron whispered into the morning.
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’ll never leave you again, Hermione . . . I promise.”
He was answered with the softest snore.
. . .
Draco’s chair in the dark seemed impossibly far away. His throat closed again, breathing becoming labored, but Shacklebolt sat with steepled fingers.
“Kingsley. I am surprised at you.” Lucius spoke as if they were negotiating the price of a horse. “Without a real trial, I can’t be looking at anything more than a year.”
Although they sat level, Draco could see his father’s eyes hang low and to the side toward his wand. Shacklebolt did not look away.
“If you’re waiting for the Wizengamot to form again, you’re going to be waiting a long time. In Azkaban. Be reasonable.”
“Please, Lucius,” his mother whimpered. “Just go.”
He paid her no mind. His hand rose from his lap, a finger coming to rest on the edge of the desk. For a heartbeat, Shacklebolt’s eyes dropped, then snapped back.
“You’re going, Lucius. The only thing left to determine is what happens to the boy. I can arrange adjacent cells if need be.”
Narcissa broke. “Please. I'll go. Just not him.”
His father’s legs trembled as he held himself just above the chair.
That’s when he saw it.
His father’s hand jumped. The room blurred. When it stilled, Lucius had a wand held at his throat.
“That was unwise, Lucius. Azkaban is running out of cells.”
There was a yelling outside. The door burst open. “Kiss him! It all started with him!” a man screamed, rattling the cauldrons. “My son was—And my daughter, he—It was him. I want him kissed!”
He grabbed Lucius by the hair and put a wand to his temple.
Draco shrunk.
“Where’s the dementor?” There was a rancid sweetness on his breath, the whiskey clinging to his scream.
Narcissa spoke as if they were the last words she'd ever manage. They came out in a whimper. “I’m sorry—about your children.” He only pulled harder, Lucius shrieking in pain.
The wands were still there. Draco kept his hands at his side.
“Molly needs you. So do your children.” Shacklebolt spoke softly. “Fifteen years, Arthur. He’ll be locked away. From Ginny. She’ll be far stronger in that time than he could ever hope to be.”
Arthur. The name hit like stone.
Weasley's hand was trembling but the wand tip stayed firmly on Lucius's temple. He pushed—too hard, his father’s scream more desperate than terrible. The wand looked as if it might go clean through.
Weasley sobbed and let go entirely.
“Thank you, Arthur. I know this has been hard. We’ll talk later.”
The guard walked in. A hard, final clack of metal cut through the air as shackles snapped closed around his father’s wrists.
“Draco,” Shacklebolt softened as he spoke, but his eyes still flashed dangerously. “Professor McGonagall says you may return here next year. You are to do it.” He disappeared into the corridor, leaving Draco trembling with his sobbing mother, wands still on the desk.
. . .
Harry didn’t know any of this. He had no idea Ron and Hermione were planning their future. And he didn’t see the last carriage bound for Azkaban pass just feet from his window in Gryffindor Tower. He didn’t even know that Ginny listened for his footsteps from the bier, her head turning at every slow, uncertain shuffle.
He lay in his bed, curled and alone. He couldn't hear that at that very moment, witches and wizards throughout the castle—and across Britain—were toasting, in loud, raucous voices,
“To Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived!”
He knew none of it.
And if you told him, it wouldn’t have made any difference.