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The Boy Who Loved
Achilles Pelides: the poster boy for Gryffindor; the Golden Boy of Hogwarts; the boy whose reputation preceded his first words; the prophesied savior of the wizarding world.
The boy who already had, in fact, saved it unwittingly as an infant when the darkest wizard to ever plague the known world had tried to kill him.
Invulnerable, they called him.
No, his headmaster Chiron once warned him, not invulnerable. But damn near close, thanks to the myriad ancient protective spells his mother Thetis had cast on him mere weeks before the attack.
Patroclus Menoitiades: the quiet, unremarkable Hufflepuff; the thoughtful, caring boy who preferred Herbology or Care of Magical Creatures to Defense Against the Dark Arts or Quidditch; the sidekick, always.
Always asking questions, always with a book tucked under his arm, always breaking curfew to venture into the Forbidden Forest to study the flora that grew deep within. Well, that last habit only formed after befriending Achilles.
How the totally opposite boys ever became friends was a mystery and overflowing well of gossip among the students. They ran in completely different circles, after all – Patroclus had Briseis, outgoing Hufflepuff and the only saving grace to prevent Patroclus from spending his years at Hogwarts as a total wallflower. And Achilles – well, Achilles had the whole of wizarding-kind wrapped around his heels.
Why golden Achilles was so enamored with shy, insecure Patroclus when he could have anyone he wanted was still speculated about in the Prophet from time to time, whenever Achilles would garner attention for his latest heroic defeat.
But somehow, an incident with a troll nearly inhaling Briseis in a bathroom their first year had Achilles glued to Patroclus’ side ever since. Where one went, the other followed. How they always managed to sneak in and out of each other’s common rooms nearly every night and never got caught was an even bigger mystery than their relationship itself.
Every year, some form of peril or other would seek out Achilles – or so he insisted. Patroclus knew Achilles’ intrinsic desire for heroics; he thought it much more like Achilles to chase after danger, wand blazing, for any chance to play the savior he’d long been called.
And of course, Patroclus always got dragged along – not that it was ever really a choice, if he was honest (and let’s face it: he was a Hufflepuff).
Like at the end of First Year, when Achilles had sworn that Professor Agamemnon was trying to steal the Sorcerer’s Stone from the three-headed Cerberus hidden in the castle.
“This is our chance to finally expose him!”
Patroclus rolled his eyes. “Expose him?”
“For being evil! He’s using the Sorcerer’s Stone to try to live forever. I don’t know about you, Pat, but six months in and I’m already sick of his lessons. He always picks on us!”
“Yeah but he picks on everyone who’s not in his House.”
“You’re missing the point here.”
“Which is..?”
“Evil!”
Of course Achilles had to drag Patroclus into the forbidden room with him to try to stop Agamemnon himself after Headmaster Chiron didn’t believe him, and for good reason. Surprisingly, it’d turned out that Agamemnon hadn’t been the one to steal the Stone after all. Much to Achilles’ and Patroclus’ dismay, they got to look forward to another year suffering Agamemnon’s Defense classes.
And in their second year, when someone, the “Heir of Slytherin,” opened the Chamber of Secrets and unleashed a petrifying Basilisk upon the school.
“They’re calling you the Heir of Slytherin.”
“What? But that’s impossible, I’m not–”
“Achilles, think about it,” Briseis said with impatient urgency. “Your mother was a Slytherin and her whole family was, too.” She ignored the grimace he made.
Achilles looked to Patroclus for help, but he thought maybe she had a point. He wouldn’t say it in front of Briseis, but he was thinking about how Achilles had told him how the Sorting Hat had considered putting him in Slytherin last year. Achilles was as Gryffindor as they came, but he could be the Heir of Slytherin.
It wasn’t Achilles, of course. It was actually Briseis’ friend Deidameia who had accidentally opened it via a diary she’d found and written in all year. The diary had been created by Hades himself, and had created a lifelike phantom that possessed Deidameia and taken her into the Chamber. And though Patroclus would’ve gone to rescue her alone anyway if he’d had to, Achilles had gone into the Chamber and left Patroclus safe in the caved-in entryway, only to return an hour later soaked in blood and half-carrying, half-dragging Deidameia with him.
And so their school years went, the worst by far Fourth Year – when Achilles had failed in his hero role for the first time. Seventh-year Hector had become collateral damage in Achilles’ battle against Hades, the “Dark Lord” of the wizarding world, who had named himself after the Muggle Greek lord of the dead.
They’d both been whisked away to a graveyard full of Hades’ followers, where the man himself awaited, and had killed Hector without a second thought. It had taken Patroclus most of the following summer to convince Achilles that Hector’s death wasn’t his fault, and that it didn’t make Patroclus think of him any less than he had before.
Now, in what should have been their seventh year, with Chiron dead and no more sage advice to give, and a second war looming over the wizarding world, Achilles and Patroclus were facing their biggest battle yet: find and destroy Hades’ seven Horcruxes. The dark magic was contained in random objects of his choosing, and contained bits of his soul so that he was practically the “Master of Death” he declared himself.
Only Achilles could do it, the prophecy they’d heard in their fifth year had said. Achilles, or no one. Achilles, or the wizarding world would continue being tormented by the greatest dark wizard of all time.
“Will you come with me? To hunt the Horcruxes?” Achilles whispered to Patroclus. He sounded as hesitant as Patroclus had ever heard him – nervous, almost. As if there was any chance at all that Patroclus would say no.
They were intertwined in Achilles’ bed, illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the curtains of his childhood bedroom in his father’s house. It was nearing the end of summer break, and Achilles had just decided mere hours before to forego his last year at Hogwarts to hunt for the Horcruxes.
“Of course,” Patroclus whispered back at once.
Not that it was ever really a choice (Achilles always swore Patroclus would make as good a Gryffindor as he did a Hufflepuff, brave and even more loyal than Achilles, willing to hold on with bloody knuckles to those he cared about. Patroclus always replied that he liked his House just fine, thank you, because he could be brave and honest so why wouldn’t he).
Achilles let out a relieved breath, like he’d been truly afraid Patroclus wouldn’t go with him.
“Briseis will be pissed if we don’t bring her, though,” Patroclus added as an afterthought, to relieve the tension. It worked; Achilles huffed again, this time a surprised laugh.
“Yeah, well, I can’t have you acting all noble to protect her and getting yourself hurt while I’m trying to protect you and hunt Horcruxes. It would be counter-productive,” he said, matter-of-fact.
Patroclus would’ve protested that he didn’t need Achilles to protect him, but that would’ve been as futile as telling the Ancient Greeks not to enter into a ten-year war over one woman.
Instead Patroclus turned his face into Achilles’ warm, bare chest and tightened his hold on him. “You’re wrong when you say I’d make a good Gryffindor,” he whispered, so quietly anyone else wouldn’t be able to hear him. But Achilles, of course, did – and he understood what Patroclus meant. He always did.
Achilles ran a gentle hand through Patroclus’ hair. “You’re not weak because you’re afraid, love. You’re brave because you’re still going even though you’re scared.”
Patroclus let out a shaky breath, but stayed silent. Achilles put a finger under his chin and gently guided his face until Patroclus was looking into his eyes. They were a green inferno, a glowing fire even in the dead of night.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he promised.
But Patroclus shook his head. “That’s not what I’m afraid of. You heard the prophecy. Either you kill Hades, or he kills you.”
Achilles’ eyes softened, the fire cooling.
“Don’t worry about me. No matter what happens to me, Hades will be gone once and for all, and you’ll finally live in a safe world. That’s all I need to know to not be afraid of that damn prophecy.”
So off they went, away from Hogwarts and deep into the woods, never staying in one place for more than a few hours. Moving, always moving.
Always hunting, unaware that they were closer to a Horcrux than anyone else ever could be.
They never heard the second prophecy – the one that changed everything.
Hades could not be defeated until Patroclus died.
Patroclus, the accidental seventh Horcrux, created when his mother sacrificed herself for him when Hades attacked him as an infant. Just days before he’d attacked Achilles.
Until the Horcrux that was inside of Patroclus was destroyed, Hades still lived.
The Horcrux as entwined with his soul as the magic in his veins.
And to destroy the Horcrux inside of him, Patroclus almost certainly had to die.
And here Achilles was, hunting and destroying the very thing that lived inside of his Patroclus.
Achilles’ anguish upon learning the full truth of the prophecy was incomparable. His anger was greater than Patroclus had ever witnessed, and for the first time, Patroclus almost feared for Hades.
“No.”
Patroclus sighed, but he didn’t have the energy to sound playfully long-suffering like he used to when trying to reason with an obstinate Achilles. “You have to.” Achilles was already shaking his head. “My life isn’t worth the rest of the world.”
“You’re right,” Achilles nearly yelled, unconsciously stepping closer to and reaching for Patroclus, even as they fought. We are hopeless, he thought. “Your life is worth more than everyone else’s put together!”
Patroclus just barely won the fight against an eye roll. “Achilles,” he tried–
“No.”
Achilles stubbornly crossed his arms over his chest and stepped back when Patroclus reached for him, a plea in his eyes.
“I don’t know what world you live in, Patroclus, but there is never one where I would let you die before me, let alone be the one to fucking kill you.”
Then, Achilles’ bravado failed him, for maybe the third time since Patroclus had known him. His voice cracked, and tears pooled in his eyes. Patroclus felt tears sting his own. Somehow, seeing Achilles’ pain was more unbearable than any death he’d have to face.
Patroclus stumbled closer, making up the distance Achilles had created, the tears blurring that beautiful, anguished face. Patroclus stroked his face with a shaking hand. “You have to,” he whispered.
Achilles finally broke down. His sobs ripped, raw, through his chest, echoed from his throat to the forest around them. He would have fallen if Patroclus wasn’t so close to catch him. Patroclus lay him in his lap in a messy heap on the leaf-strewn ground, Achilles sobbing into Patroclus, Patroclus quietly grieving for Achilles, for what he knew he’d have to go through.
Later, when the tiny sliver of moon disappeared and the sun rose through the trees, Achilles still lay with Patroclus, in the same spot they’d fallen.
“I would rather they all die,” he said, normally smooth voice unrecognizably hoarse. Patroclus flinched from the raw anger.
He stroked Achilles’ hair, taming the lion of the boy in his lap.
“It will be okay,” he lied. “There’s a potion that can remove the soul without destroying the vessel.” That, at least, wasn’t a lie.
Achilles stiffened in his arms. “Why didn’t you say that before?” He spoke slowly, as if afraid of the answer awaiting him. Patroclus answered just as slowly.
“It may not work.” Achilles’ body coiled even tighter.
“It’s extremely advanced dark magic, and I would have to be strong enough to survive it.”
“We’ll have Chiron–” Achilles started. Then he remembered. They were all but alone.
Patroclus nodded, though Achilles could only feel the motion from where his head rested beneath Patroclus’ chin. “Machaon may be able to do it, but he’d need Briseis’ help. He’s still weak from his… stay with the Death Eaters.”
Patroclus felt a pang of guilt remembering how Machaon had been kidnapped and tortured by Hades’ followers. He’d been gone for months before anyone had found him.
“Bri should be able to brew it under his instruction.” Patroclus hesitated just enough for Achilles to read it in his face.
“Then?”
Patroclus hesitated again, but Achilles grabbed his hand and squeezed.
“Then, if I’m strong enough, the Horcrux will separate and I’ll survive.” More or less, he added to himself. He’d read enough about the spell to know how powerful its aftereffects were, even when successful.
Achilles let out one final, pained sob into the night.
That night, they fell asleep right there on the ground, Achilles shivering, not from the cold.
“Not that I’d ever doubt your strength, babe, but are you sure this is the only option we have?”
Achilles had taken to pacing while Machaon and Briseis worked, preparing the potion Patroclus was to drink.
“Horcruxes are extremely forbidden in modern magical research. All we know of them comes from surviving research conducted by Zeus.” Machaon spoke as he worked, stirring in a rare, powerful herb Patroclus remembered only briefly reading about in Herbology.
Patroclus cast a quick, concerned look at Briseis. She hadn’t seen the light of day in nearly a month since they’d begun brewing the potion. But, truthfully, most of his unease was for Achilles. If he didn’t survive, would Achilles fight long enough to defeat Hades? Or would he follow right after Patroclus in his grief, leaving the prophecy to end in Hades’ eternal rule of damnation?
He wanted to believe Achilles would at least live to fight, if for no other reason than to take revenge on the being responsible for Patroclus’ death. Even if it wasn’t the right reason, Hades needed to be stopped. But remembering Achilles’ premature grief that night in the forest, he wasn’t sure Achilles could put aside his emotions and do what he had to. Nor was Patroclus sure he wanted Achilles to put himself through that, taint his own soul with murder, especially in the name of Patroclus’ vengeance.
His breath caught in his throat. Impossible, perceptive Achilles heard it and immediately stopped his pacing. He strode over to Patroclus, took his hands, and squeezed. Achilles’ green eyes were as intense as ever, but Patroclus couldn’t look away.
“Patroclus,” Achilles whispered.
Somehow, it was more comforting than any other words Achilles could’ve said. He didn’t speak again, only stroked the back of Patroclus’ hand with a soothing thumb.
This, Patroclus thought with a breathtaking pang of sadness, is what I will miss.
Patroclus didn’t realize he’d started crying until Achilles pulled him into his chest. Patroclus buried his face into Achilles’ chest, and let out a muffled hiccup into his robes.
“Shh,” he whispered, moving to gently rub Patroclus’ back with one hand and stroke his hair with the other. “You’ll be okay. I know you’re strong enough for this.”
“But,” he tried to protest, but he couldn’t get the words out through his gasping breaths.
“You’re the strongest person I know, Pat. No one’s got a bigger heart than you.”
Patroclus shuddered, nightmarish images of the future playing in his mind: Achilles dead by Hades’ wand, their friends and family imprisoned under his rule. He burrowed further into Achilles until colors danced behind his eyes, replacing the images.
They stayed like that until Machaon called out to them. “The potion is finished.”
Patroclus sucked in a breath, trying to gather his supposed strength. Achilles gave him one final squeeze, then let go and grabbed his hand as they walked to the table with the potion.
Patroclus’ red-rimmed eyes met Briseis’ uncharacteristically somber gaze. She tried to mask her fear, but Patroclus knew it was there. It only made him feel worse. If this didn’t work – if I’m too weak – it wouldn’t just hurt Achilles.
Briseis had been his first friend when he’d gotten on the train that first day of September so long ago. He’d lived with his alcoholic, abusive father who had hidden the truth about magic and what really happened to his mother from him. He’d always blamed Patroclus for her death. (“She was trying to protect you! It’s your fault she’s dead! And for what? So this worthless excuse for a son could live?”)
But Briseis had been kind to him from the moment they met on the train, and if he had argued with the Sorting Hat to be put in Hufflepuff over Gryffindor like it had wanted, her Hufflepuff sorting five minutes prior may have been the reason.
Patroclus squeezed Achilles’ hand and let go. He stood in front of Briseis and waited for her to meet his gaze. She finally stopped pretending to study her sleeve and looked up.
Her tear-streaked face broke his heart.
“Oh, Bri,”
She cut him off. Her voice fierce as ever, it didn’t betray a hint of the sadness on her face. “Don’t. Don’t say you’ll be okay. Don’t say that any of this is fine. I can’t,” her voice cracked. She closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. “I can’t handle this without you.”
She didn’t just mean him; she meant the war. Briseis had lost her parents to the first war, when Hades’ wife Persephone tortured them for their defiance against Hades. They’d been in the psychiatric ward of the magical hospital ever since, and Briseis had been taken in by Machaon as a baby. This war against Hades was as much hers to fight as Patroclus or Achilles.
But if the potion didn’t work…
He’d be leaving them both alone.
The weight on his bones in that moment of realization was crushing enough to bring him to his knees.
Briseis was closer, but before even she could react Achilles was there, holding him up before he could fall and whispering comfort in his ear.
“You’ll be okay. I know you can do this. We’re here, we’re not leaving.”
Guilt felt like bile in his throat.
“No,” he rasped through his sandpaper throat. “You both need to leave. I don’t want you to see me–” He faltered, not wanting to say the words. If he did, he was afraid they would come true.
“That’s not an option.” Whatever mess of the frightened boy he’d been in the forest all those weeks ago was gone. The man in front of him now was all lion, fierce and unyielding and strong enough for everyone in the room.
It was the Achilles who had stood up and fought Hades again and again, doing as a child what grown wizards died trying.
“You do realize we should be the least of your concerns right now,” Briseis scolded, back to her former self for a moment, at least. She pushed Achilles to the side enough for her to hover next to him in front of Patroclus. Achilles frowned but let her, and Patroclus let out the barest of smiles at the little scene.
Achilles and Briseis both caught the ghostly grin on his lips before it faded, and almost simultaneously – for Achilles would always be quicker – they both reached for him. Patroclus ended up awkwardly sandwiched between them as they not-so-subtly fought for a tighter hold on him. He let out a startled laugh.
Machaon’s voice, old and soft yet commanding attention, broke through his distraction.
“Patroclus, I apologize for interrupting, but if this is to happen tonight it must happen now.” According to Machaon, there was some alchemical aspect with the moon in prime position to aid the magic that he couldn’t quite grasp with his heart hammering in his ears. He just nodded numbly and pulled out of the group hug.
There it was, on the table: a tiny vial of rust-colored liquid that was somehow supposed to remove a piece of a dark lord’s soul embedded with his own.
How was he supposed to swallow it when his throat felt too tight for even air?
Achilles stepped up behind him, front pressed to Patroclus’ back. Steady.
Patroclus reached a shaking hand for the vial, but Achilles was faster. He held it up to Patroclus like a shot, and Patroclus stared into his eyes for a last moment of selfishness.
This is what I will miss, he thought.
The green of those eyes, always, always burning with something – mischief, laughter, passion, fire. It was no wonder the world was enamored with him. One look in those eyes and you were consumed.
A burning ocean.
(If he was going to die in a few minutes, Patroclus would have to remember to thank Thetis for that.)
Neither of them blinking, no one breathing, Achilles tipped the vial into Patroclus’ mouth.
Somehow, he swallowed.
For ten tense seconds, nothing happened. Patroclus was about to ask Machaon what exactly they were waiting for, but he got his answer.
Excruciating, blinding pain raced through his entire body, starting in his throat where the liquid had gone down and racing white hot through his veins, until his whole being burned.
He might have screamed, he wasn’t sure; he couldn’t hear anything through the pain.
It built, endlessly, until Patroclus was sure he was going to die, for how could anyone survive such pain?
It did end, eventually. Abruptly. He didn’t even have time to register that the pain had stopped before he was out cold on the ground.
Achilles’ only thought upon seeing Patroclus writhing in agony was his name.
Incomprehensible, unhelpful, and fraught with blind panic, Achilles was as decomposed as he’d ever been in his life. Even facing Hades and his own certain death were easier to live through than this.
Patroclus. Again and again, a broken record.
Patroclus.
He probably said it, probably screamed it, probably sobbed it. He didn’t know. He didn’t care. The only thing in this wretched world that mattered was Patroclus. He needed to stop hurting, he needed to live. But the only way for him to live was to hurt.
Achilles had never known greater pain in his life.
He would face Hades one thousand times over, one million times over, if it meant an end to this torture.
Patroclus.
He only snapped out of it when Patroclus hit the ground. Silent. Still as the dead.
“No,” he gasped, crouching beside him. His hands were everywhere, senselessly searching for – anything to show that he was still alive.
“No no no, Patroclus! Don’t go,” he sobbed.
He felt hands on him, gentle but they felt like vices, moving him away, taking him from Patroclus.
“Achilles, you need to move out of the way and let Machaon do his job,” Briseis was saying, as gently as he’d always heard her speak to Patroclus but never quite to him. He’d never let her; there’d been too much envy from both sides, jealousy from his.
But now there may be nothing left to fight over.
But now–
Achilles pulled violently at his hair, golden strands falling to the ground around him, feet from where Patroclus lay still, Machaon hovering over him. Like if he pulled hard enough, Achilles could yank out whatever cord was keeping his brain wired when his lover lay on the floor not breathing.
Patroclus was always the quieter, more thoughtful one of them. It was one of the things Achilles loved most about him: the rest of their schoolmates were so brash, so constantly distracted by some gossip or other that mattered naught; but never Patroclus.
Achilles made him abandon his books on more than one Friday night, but there was never a time that Achilles’ heart didn’t melt at the sight of Patroclus, curled up on the quilted sofa in his common room, nose in a book, or painstakingly tending to his impromptu garden on the window ledge.
Achilles loved everything about him. He relished the times he could bring Patroclus out of himself, startle a laugh until he couldn’t breathe; make him blush at sly, whispered compliments in the middle of Agamemnon’s lectures.
Most of all, he loved when the traces of Patroclus’ childhood didn’t reach him, when he was confident enough to truly let himself go around Achilles: make jokes, challenge him to competitions they both knew he’d lose, follow his golden heart and lead on an adventure instead of follow.
Achilles would give anything to never hear him silent again.
Time moved slowly, dragging Achilles further into his own mind without Patroclus really there – to talk him down from the dangerous edge he was on, soothe him with his gentle poetry. Would he ever hear it again? He could not bear eternal silence.
What was a soul without its mate? Even with a fragment of the darkest, most evil wizard in all of history always inside of him, always touching his own, Patroclus was the purest, most kindhearted soul Achilles was sure had ever inhabited the earth. What kind of world waited with him no longer in it? He could not bear to live in it.
Time dragged, as it does when one needs it to race. But it moved. Eventually, Machaon was confident enough to let Achilles move him.
“He has a pulse, and his breathing is steady.” Achilles, too, could breathe again. “Move him onto that cot, please.”
Gently, as gently as if he were cupping water in his bare hands, Achilles lifted Patroclus, supported his head, lay him on the threadbare sheets. He was warm, as warm as when Achilles would sneak into his bed at Hogwarts, or cuddle him in his room at his father’s home during the summers. Not so much like the past year on the run, from forest to forest in the dead of winter, when they’d lain naked out of desperation for body heat more so than passion.
He was here, he was breathing, he was warm. Alive. Now he just needed to open his eyes.
Time flowed faster, after that, like a river in early spring, lethargic but liquid after being endlessly frozen.
At some point, Machaon retired to his room upstairs to rest. He returned before Achilles got up once. Briseis had fallen asleep in the chair in the corner, the robe she’d taken off of Patroclus’ fevered body clutched in her worrying hands.
Achilles did not sleep. He did not let go of Patroclus’ hand. If he even blinked, it hardly made a difference.
He watched Patroclus, waited with baited breath for any sign of waking.
Yes, the screaming stopped. But the stillness was paralyzing.
Regaining consciousness was a slow process. Regaining movement was even slower.
His world was nothing, and suddenly Patroclus felt everything.
His body was one giant ache. Whatever little light there was made his head pound like it had his first time drinking firewhisky. He even reduced himself to pure force of will to try to get his arms, a foot, an eye to open. Try as he might, Patroclus could not move.
Even his mind was too sluggish for his usual racing panic. He could hardly think but for the throbbing in his temples.
But there – through the pain.
The slightest feeling of skin on skin. A hand.
I would know him in death.
“Achilles.”
The hand jerked back in shock. A chair fell over. A moment of still, utter silence.
Then, hands on his face, his body, in his hair. “Patroclus?”
Distantly, he heard, “I’ll get Machaon.”
The hand brushed his hair from his face, and Patroclus unconsciously leaned into it. He opened his eyes before his body could change its mind.
Achilles was his entire field of vision, leaning over him, gloriously illuminated in the dim light Patroclus had been cursing not five minutes before. Now, he lauded it.
Patroclus tried to right himself, but it was too much too soon for his protesting body. He cried out before he could stop it.
“Don’t move,” Achilles scolded. He retreated but came back a minute later with an armful of pillows. By the time Patroclus was settled with them under his back so he could actually sit up, Briseis was guiding Machaon arm in arm down the stairs.
“Patroclus!” she cried happily, near-breathless with relief.
“Briseis,” Patroclus said, just as breathless, grinning.
“Where can I touch you?” Achilles asked.
Out of habit, Patroclus blushed. “What?”
Achilles grinned innocently. “You know what I mean. Can I lay with you, or are you in too much pain?”
“It may be wise to give him space for some time,” Machaon said, coming to stand on the other side of the cot. “This is the first known attempt and success in separating a Horcrux from a living vessel.”
Achilles reeled back in shocked horror. “First attempt?” he shouted.
“Achilles,” Patroclus murmured. He waited for green eyes on his. Achilles automatically relaxed and focused on Patroclus. “Horcruxes are highly illegal on their own, and I told you how research on them is forbidden. Without a test subject, there’s not a lot we can know about them.”
“That’s right,” Machaon nodded sagely. “The potion was merely a hypothesized formula – until tonight.”
Tension seeped into the air.
“Patroclus,” Machaon continued, turning and looking down at him. “How do you feel?”
“Pretty awful,” he admitted. “But when I first woke up I couldn’t even move, so I’d say this is an improvement,” he joked. The weak attempt worked only on Machaon, who gave him a thin smile. Achilles and Briseis had twin looks of outrage.
“‘Improvement’? You nearly died!” Briseis yelled. Patroclus sank further into his pillows.
“It’s not my fault,” he mumbled, chastised.
She threw up her hands. “No, but you could take it a little more seriously.”
“And you had me believe this had been done before,” Achilles cut in. He was giving Patroclus the angriest look he’d ever directed at him – which was still more hurt and concern than anger, but.
“Because I knew you’d never let me do it!”
“Obviously!”
“I had to! You know what was at stake!”
“That’s not your sacrifice to make!”
“It kind of was!” Patroclus shot back.
“Alright, that’s enough,” Machaon cut in, before Achilles could retort again. Patroclus sat as straight as he could, not backing down from his argument.
He had had to do this. If he remained a Horcrux, there was no chance of Hades ever dying. And Achilles would die for sure when they fought again. Patroclus couldn’t let that happen. Even if it had meant his own almost-certain death, he had to do what he could to help Achilles survive this war. For what was the world without its Golden Boy?
Achilles stayed just as stubborn, arms crossed over his chest and staring at a point on the wall above Patroclus. Patroclus was, of course, the first one to break.
He sighed and opened his arms despite the aching protest. “C’mere,” he mumbled, ignoring the prickly feeling of being watched by both Briseis and Machaon. Achilles melted, settling into Patroclus’ arms without a second thought.
Briseis sighed and led Machaon away. “Come on. Let’s give them a minute.”
Patroclus tried to hide a wince, but Achilles caught it. “Here,” he said, and shifted so that he was lying flat on his back on the cot. He pulled gingerly Patroclus on top of him so that he was resting comfortably on his chest. Patroclus sighed, finally feeling some of the aches ease out of his muscles.
“Better?” Achilles whispered into his hair. Patroclus nodded and felt Achilles kiss his head in response.
“Let’s hope none of the other Horcruxes are people,” Patroclus mumbled into Achilles’ robed chest. “I don’t think I could handle putting someone else through that.”
Achilles stiffened. “You know I wanted you to leave it,” he said defensively.
“And what? Hades can never die? Everyone he’s ever killed – my mother, Chiron – it was all for nothing?”
“You don’t know what it was like,” Achilles shot back, “to see you in so much pain, not knowing if you would even survive! I couldn’t do anything to help you, I couldn’t take your place. They call me the Savior, but I couldn’t even save you from this.” Achilles was crying; Patroclus could feel the warm tears running through his hair like summer rain.
He sat up. “Achilles,” he whispered, touching his face. “This is not your fault. I shouldn’t have survived at all, but I did. Now we can focus on killing Hades once and for all.”
Achilles was nodding, but his eyes were far off. Thinking. “Chiron said you survived the attack as a baby because of your mother sacrificing herself to protect you.”
Patroclus’ eyes widened; he felt winded. “I survived the Horcrux separation from some lingering protection from my mother.”
He felt Achilles’ hands on his face. “You’re alive,” he whispered, like for the first time he truly believed it.
Invulnerable, they called him.
It wasn’t true. If Patroclus had died, Achilles may have lived long enough to defeat Hades out of vengeance, but he would have smiled at death when it came for him. His weakness, his vulnerability, was the boy lying stricken in his arms, skin a pale, far cry from its normal olive complexion, from his brush with death hours before.
“I’m here,” Patroclus whispered, hands laid over Achilles’, grasping. Reaching.
Achilles kissed him, all desperation and love spilling past his lips and into Patroclus. Like he could refill the void Hades’ soul left, if only he loved him enough.
When Hades invaded Hogwarts, he extended a little invitation to Achilles. Come to the Forest, and face me like the man they think you are.
He went.
Patroclus followed.
“Go back to the castle,” Achilles begged.
Patroclus took a page out of Achilles’ book – Stubborn: How To. “I’m not leaving you.”
Achilles stopped walking, dug his heels into the dirt. “You did not survive removing a Horcrux just to die from being noble!”
“Maybe I’m still protected by my mother’s magic,” he reasoned. “You’re not going alone.”
So they went, side by side as they’d always been.
Hades was amused for all of five minutes. But he’d caught on to them hunting and destroying his Horcruxes long ago, and it was only because Achilles was Achilles that they’d managed to outrun him.
When Hades saw the combined power of their magic – well, he didn’t revel in it. He managed to bring Patroclus down with a Cruciatus Curse, but his glee at seeing Patroclus writhe on the ground lasted the length of time it took Achilles to draw his wand and cast a Killing Curse.
When Hades went down, it was over.
The Cruciatus broke, and Patroclus went limp. He gasped for air, and Achilles was by his side, Hades’ body ignored for the moment.
“Patroclus,” he breathed, hands flitting everywhere for signs of injury.
“I’m okay,” he managed. He sat up but was nearly thrown back down with the force of Achilles’ hug. Despite the exhaustion tugging at every corner of his mind, every inch of his being, Patroclus smiled wanly.
“It’s over.”
Achilles nodded feverishly against him. “We did it, Pat.” He pulled back to look at Patroclus. Despite the last year on the run and the last hour locked in battle with an extremely powerful wizard, Achilles still looked golden.
“God, I love you,” Patroclus blurted out, helpless as ever to his effect.
Achilles beamed at him before pulling him in for a kiss. “I’m so glad we didn’t die,” he breathed against Patroclus’ lips.