lomonaaeren | Chapter Eighteen of 'Soldier's Welcome'- Between Two Fears

Thank you again for all the reviews!

Title: Soldier’s Welcome (18/?)
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Rating: R
Pairings: Harry/Draco preslash, Ron/Hermione
Warnings: Violence (and plenty of it), profanity, references to sex, takes account of DH but ignores the epilogue, heavy angst.
Summary: It’s the first year of Auror training for Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and…Draco Malfoy, But with Hagrid, Snape’s second Pensieve, rogue Death Eaters, Auror classes, and someone trying to start a second war to worry about, Harry might not have the time to pay that much attention to Malfoy. At first, anyway.
Author’s Notes: This story is the first in a trilogy called Running to Paradise, which takes its title from a W. B. Yeats poem. Each story will be novel-length, and each will cover a year of Harry and Draco’s training as Aurors. Though there are a lot of fics out there about them acting as Auror partners, there aren’t as many about their training, so I hope to cover some original ground there. I’m indebted to a reader named SP777 for suggesting a training fic for me to write.

Chapter One.

Chapter Eighteen—Between Two Fears

The memories were eating Harry alive.

This time, the sensation was much more intense than it was when he relived his memories thanks to his fits. This time, he could feel the sensations as if they were happening again: the hunger gnawing at his belly when the Dursleys shut him in the cupboard under the stairs, the urge to be sick as he stared down at Cedric’s motionless body, the chill wind blowing on him as Sirius fell through the veil.

But mingled with it was the knowledge that all these things had already happened and so he couldn’t prevent them. He was helpless.

He tried anyway, of course. He darted through the veil after Sirius, and grabbed Cedric’s body to drag it out of the way, and turned to open the door of the cupboard so that his younger self could escape.

It was all useless. His hands passed through the images as they would have passed through Pensieve memories. He yelled for help, but his voice died in a heap of muffled echoes. He pounded on the door, and it stood up to him, dully solid. He found himself back on the other side of the veil as soon as he had gone through, with the streamers flapping mockingly at him and the stream of cold and restless voices whispering.

The present mingled with the past, bleeding into one another, and Harry didn’t know whether the more intense grief came from looking backwards or living it again. He didn’t think he could tell.

Already his thoughts were running like paint that someone had thrown water on. The moment when he stood before the veil and glanced over his shoulder, he saw Remus standing there and didn’t think it strange. It took him time to remember that Remus had died in the Battle of Hogwarts. And when he walked through the Great Hall, filled with motionless bodies, and found Remus and Tonks there, he had to struggle to remember poor orphaned Teddy.

Teddy?

The name pivoted through his head, attached itself briefly to Ted Tonks, and flowed on.

His childhood was mud when Harry turned to look back at it. There was a child in a cupboard, and he thought briefly that that wasn’t normal, but he really didn’t know. Maybe, where he came from, it was perfectly normal for people to shut children up in cupboards and not give them food and pretend they didn’t exist.

Where did he come from?

Somewhere strange, where beams of green light cut the sky and stabbed into the darkness through flapping curtains. Curtains that could kill people. Harry thought he had seen at least one person die that way. But someone else had held him back when he tried to follow. Someone who was large with a sad purple face, named Uncle Vernon, Harry thought. Or maybe Uncle Curtain.

He came from somewhere that used sticks as weapons. But he had left that place now, and he didn’t think he would need the stick he had taken from it anymore. Harry began to fumble absentmindedly for the stick, thinking it would be a good idea to break the pieces apart so that no one could use them as a weapon again.

Grief struck him as he watched a flash of green light stab past him and strike a woman with red hair and green eyes. She fell over, but she didn’t look real, Harry thought. Her scream was the real thing, stabbing through the darkness like the green light had and making him catch his breath and choke as the tears started to his eyes.

He was hollow, empty, except for that single flowing emotion, the sorrow that drowned him and made his mind flicker with odd-colored lights. He closed his eyes and saw a river behind his eyelids, strong and silver, dancing with red and green. The stream started to slow to a trickle, and Harry was relieved. That had to be the river of his grief. If it stopped flowing, then he had nothing to worry about.

Then someone called his name.

*

Draco had stepped forwards with the vague idea that he should drag Potter away from the red and black magic. He had drawn his wand, and he meant to cast a spell that would dissipate it at once.

Never mind that he hadn’t the slightest idea how to get rid of mingled despair and killing spells.

But then a streamer of red and black magic lashed at him and dragged him behind the flower that had consumed Potter, into what seemed to be the same space. Draco tensed, but nothing touched his mind. The streamer, once it had dragged him in, fell away from him as if the murderous magic had suddenly lost interest.

No, not lost interest, Draco realized when he looked up and saw Potter crouched on the floor, his eyes shut, his fingers crooked in front of him into strange and awkward shapes, his mouth open and held there as sharp screams emerged from it. It simply had another victim right now. It would probably turn on Draco when it had disposed of Potter.

Draco edged closer, wand at the ready, wondering what was happening to Potter. He had no blood trickling down his body, but he screamed as loudly as if someone had mortally wounded him. And something was strange, Draco thought. Something didn’t feel right as he approached Potter.

He had no idea what it was until he realized he had braced himself unconsciously against the welcoming pull of the compatible magic, and that it hadn’t touched him.

Draco swore and chanted a swift incantation that would allow him to see the ambient magic in the area. Most of the time, this was a useless spell as long as one was still in the wizarding world, but Draco was counting on the red and black magic to block out most of the spells that could influence his result so that he could see if what he suspected was true.

Sure enough, the red and black flower flared with dazzling silver light, but nothing intruded from beyond that. Draco used one hand to block the glow and studied Potter grimly.

He looked dull and empty. His magic was flowing out of him, coiling in the air next to him like a stream of visible wind. As Draco watched, it turned and proceeded towards the edge of the red and black flower. Merlin knew what would happen when Potter’s magic touched the entwined spells.

And Draco had no idea what he could do to stop it. According to everything he knew, one wizard couldn’t affect another wizard’s magic.

On the other hand, according to everything he knew, Potter shouldn’t have been able to pull on the compatible magic between them and drain Draco like he had when the “Death Eaters” were attacking. And there was supposed to be no spell that could work someone’s magic loose of their body like this anyway.

Draco shouted, “Potter!” at the same time as he aimed his wand at the floating magic and cast a barrier spell. The flowing stream hit the barrier, a variation of the Shield Charm, and writhed around it in confusion. Draco doubted it would take long to find a way over or through.

He really needed Potter’s help for this.

“Potter!” he shouted again, and this time he thought he saw Potter stir. Hoping it would be enough to awaken him from his trance, he constructed another barrier behind the floating magic and moved around to attack it from the side.

*

Harry tried to answer the call. He really did. But it felt as though someone had tangled ropes made of memory around his feet, and when he tried to decide who might be calling him and why he recognized the voice, he pitched headlong into another bout of grief. This was of the way Fred had fallen over, the grin frozen forever on his face, the rocks of the castle bounding about him.

My fault, Harry thought, his teeth chattering in the wake of the wind of regret that swept through him. If I had been a little stronger, a little faster, a little more alert, I could have knocked him out of the way and made sure he survived, or at least made sure that I died in his place.

The image wavered, and instead of seeing Ginny looking at Fred with tears in her eyes in the Great Hall, he was seeing her watch him with a sad, soft smile as she explained that she couldn’t deal with his nightmares.

“I need a hero, Harry,” she whispered in a voice that still twined through his dreams. “I need someone who came through the war more or less unscathed, because, you see, I have scars of my own. I need someone I can talk to about Fred, who will understand instead of mourning with me.” She paused, watching him with vague regret, and then added, “You’re just not strong enough. I wonder if you ever were.”

Harry shuddered and turned away in revulsion from her, hearing the voice call his name again.

That was when he realized that some of his memories were in the proper order once more, and he could attach names to faces. He lifted his head, his hand snapping down to his wand—

Which felt rough and useless against his palm, without that tingling spark he’d always got from it.

Harry cursed and dragged it frantically out of his pocket. Was it broken again? But no, it was strong and firm. He swished it, shouting, “Lumos!”, but no light shone from the end.

He felt different, come to that. He was weaker and heavier on his feet. He stretched his arms above his head and tried to feel the magic humming through him, but he couldn’t.

The wand didn’t lose its power. It’s me.

“Potter!” the voice cried again, and Harry knew this time that it was Draco, and that he sounded desperate.

Sheer determination sent Harry surging out of his mind. He had been useless to Ginny, not strong enough to support or save her, but it would be different with Draco, because it had to be, because he willed it so.

He opened his eyes and staggered to his feet. For a moment, he was disoriented—it seemed that everything he had been through, including the spell he had tried to cast with his wand, had taken place entirely in his head—but then he managed to focus on the situation in front of him, which was the important thing right now.

Drooping strands of red and black surrounded a small area of stone floor. Beyond the shifting tendrils, Harry could see nothing. They seemed to hang down from some central point, like the tentacles of an octopus. In front of him, Draco was raising Shield Charm after Shield Charm in front of a stream of floating blue particles, which kept trying to dart past him to reach the red and black strands.

Harry found his eyes fixed on the blue particles as if someone had nailed them there. Each grain shone with an individual gleam of light, and he was certain that this was his magic, translated somehow into a physical form.

He had to get it back inside him.

Somehow. Harry had to admit that nothing he had learned in either Hogwarts or Auror training had prepared him for his magic escaping.

He sprang up next to Draco and laid his hand on his shoulder. Draco leaned back without a sign of surprise and snapped, “We have to corral your magic back in your limbs. Do you have any idea about how to do that?”

“Let me think,” Harry said, staring at the blue magic and fighting the sinking sensation that Hermione, who had read so many books, would know what to do better than he did. A doubting voice whispered in his head that he had no idea what to do about anything, and that he had always let Hermione handle too much for his own good. The voice sounded like Ginny’s.

“We need to do something now, Potter.” Draco’s voice was a hiss as he stepped back towards Harry, his wand weaving frantically. His Shield Charms fractured almost the moment he raised them now, Harry saw. The magic seemed to learn what to do and become more bloody-minded the longer it was out of Harry’s body.

Harry licked his lips. He had no idea how he could help, since his wand was useless now. It was Draco who would have to—

Yes, exactly. It’s Draco who has to.

Harry experienced a fleeting moment of being grateful that it was him the red and black magic had attacked. He trusted Draco more than Draco trusted him, as could be clearly seen by the fact that Draco couldn’t call him by his first name yet. They had a chance of surviving.

Harry leaned forwards until his lips were next to Draco’s ear. “You need to direct the magic back into my body,” he whispered. “I don’t have a connection to it now. It’s beyond my reach. But I think you can pull on it the same way that I pulled on your magic the last time we faced the Death Eaters.”

Draco quivered as though Harry had touched a lightning bolt to him. He took a deep breath, but his voice was still uncertain when it emerged. “How can I? I mean, I’d need your permission, and you can’t give it if your magic is free.”

“I took from you without permission last time,” Harry murmured. His eyes were locked on his magic, trapped temporarily by the glass box Draco had conjured but already managing to work a tiny crack in the side as it searched for freedom. “I think you can take from me and send the magic where it belongs without permission.”

Draco shuddered once. “I don’t—I don’t know how—”

“I just wanted badly,” Harry snapped. His magic was out of the glass box now and heading towards the red and black magic as fast as a snake. “The only thing you have to do differently is focus on the magic in front of you instead of focusing on me. For God’s sake, Malfoy, hurry!” He clamped down with his hand, hoping that would inspire Draco.

*

Draco wanted to snap that he didn’t know what to do, that he thought this was stupid, and that Potter’s plan didn’t have a chance of working—

And then he realized he would sound exactly as Potter did when he said he had to think. There wasn’t time, and Draco didn’t have any ideas. He had to adopt Potter’s stupid plan and hope for the best.

He reached back to clasp Potter’s hand where it rested on his shoulder, having the vague idea that it might be easier if they were touching, or at any rate if he was returning the touch. Then he made himself look at those floating particles, no matter how strange it was to think of them as the magic he had felt pulsing and entwining with his, and silently commanded them: Return to me. Return to us. Return to him.

The particles wavered towards him as if someone had pushed them from the side, but then continued on their straight path. Draco gritted his teeth. Want it badly, Potter said. As much as I hate to take his advice…

“Come here,” he hissed.

The magic bent this time, and flowed around him, and pierced his body. Draco cried out. Briefly his skin felt stretched around the amount of power it was trying to contain. It seemed that he might burst like DeChancie.

Then Potter leaned towards him and grabbed both his hands at once, roughly spinning Draco until they faced each other.

Their hands turned blue and golden before Draco could say anything, and he choked as magic—rather like a mixture of sand and honey—filled his throat. It came bubbling up his throat, and Draco opened his mouth, hoping that Potter was close enough to catch it. He didn’t fancy it dripping on the floor. God knew what he would have to do next—drink it, lap it up, roll it into a ball…

Potter leaned close and placed his mouth over Draco’s, making a noise like a house-elf confronted with a mountain of dust.

Draco froze, dreading to feel the touch of Potter’s tongue, dreading this business altogether, but Potter simply made the elf noise again, and this time Draco realized that he was sucking in air. The magic went with the air, flowing into Potter’s mouth and making his body stiffen as though someone had punched him in the solar plexus.

The next instant, he had released Draco’s hands and was doubled over, uttering muffled cries, and Draco was left to lick his lips and wonder why they were still tingling so hard, when Potter hadn’t touched them.

Much.

*

Harry hadn’t realized before how much magic affected him. He had never been without it, even as a child when he had lived with the Dursleys and believed there was nothing special about him at all.

It was like the ability to move—something he never noticed until he was in a Body-Bind. There was warmth filling the empty places in his chest, now, and making his heart beat more strongly than it would have done otherwise, and making his lips tingle and smart as though he’d split them.

Or maybe they smarted for a different reason, Harry thought as he straightened back up and saw Draco watching him with dazed eyes, touching his mouth lightly.

There was no time to think about that. The faint light around them vanished and the space seemed to grow smaller, and Harry knew the black and red flower had contracted, shutting them in. Angry bubbling noises worked their way out from the tendrils. It was going to work to drain the magic from him again, and maybe Draco, as well.

Already the memories flickered along the edges of his mind. Harry could feel grief pushing at his eyes, forcing tears from them.

“We have to act against the magic,” he said, his teeth gritted so that he wouldn’t surrender. Draco didn’t sound as if he were surrendering. Harry should be strong enough to overcome what the magic was trying to do to him, too. “Black is despair. Red—is anger. You told me that.” He had to swallow back more tears as they streaked down his face. “How can we fight them?”

“We can try to do what we did before,” Draco offered.

Harry shook his head. “I don’t think that will work. I’m already—overwhelmed—by this.” He blinked furiously and leaned against Draco, trying to use the solid weight of the other man’s body to detach himself from the floating world that the magic was trying to escort him into. “I can’t—I don’t think I can keep on my feet long enough to concentrate and give you the compatible magic that you need.”

“What exactly happens to you when the magic touches you?” If Draco was irritated or angry, Harry couldn’t tell. He was speaking briskly, yes, and probably keeping a wary eye on the magic, but he also sounded as if he was trying to solve an interesting problem that Dearborn had set them.

“It makes me relive my worst memories as if they were happening around me again, but also the knowledge that they’re in the past and I can’t do anything to change them,” Harry said. Sirius. The name lay on his tongue, and he had to gag hard before he could be sure that it wouldn’t be the word he spoke next. “All the grief comes rushing out on me, and—”

“Grief magic.” Draco’s voice hissed, and Harry turned his head blindly towards the sound, focusing on the fact that almost none of his worst memories included Draco to anchor him in the present. The memory of Dumbledore’s death on the Tower promptly tried to ambush him, but Harry gritted his teeth and held it off and away. “Of course. A magic that combines despair and anger would be likely to result in grief. And since you have so much grief, it affects you more powerfully.” Draco’s voice grew muffled on the last words, as if he didn’t like saying them, but in the end he took a deep breath and held his wand up, from the movement next to Harry. “Lean against me, Potter. Pass control of your magic back to me.”

Harry bowed his head and muttered, “I give you permission.” It was all that he seemed capable of, when his mind was full of Dumbledore’s white face and the hatred that had twisted Snape’s expression when he cast the Killing Curse.

*

Draco shook his head. He should have seen this before. The magic didn’t pull up memories of anger from Potter, which indicated that its nature was more complex than a simple mixture of spells. Grief involved both despair and anger at different stages.

He reached out and focused on blasting the magic to nothingness. His desire grew as he felt Potter leaning more weakly against him, and he waited until he thought Potter was about to slide to the floor and his own longing couldn’t grow any more. Then he bellowed, “Reducto!”

The Blasting Curse left him powered by both his magic and Potter’s, and Draco felt as though someone had turned him inside out and flayed the skin from his body. He wanted to collapse, but now Potter was holding him up as much as Draco held him. Draco leaned his head down, and panted, and watched as the bright block of energy flew towards the red and black magic.

The tendrils frayed where the Blasting Curse touched them, and then began to unravel and rip apart. Draco blinked when he saw the Blasting Curse double back and attack again. He had wanted that to happen, but since it wasn’t in the original nature of the spell, he hadn’t been sure if it actually would.

The magic fought harder than it had when he and Potter confronted it in Draco’s rooms, but in the end it didn’t succeed any better. The air outlined by the light, the only visible effect of the Blasting Curse, charged back and forth, chasing and then rending apart the last remnants of that terrible flower that had swallowed Potter. Soon enough, Draco could step forwards, dragging Potter with him, and find himself out in the light of the interrogation room again, next to DeChancie’s forsaken skin.

Potter shuddered and tried to stand upright. Draco held him in place without turning his attention from the battle. “You won’t be able to stand, if the way I felt after you drained me is any indication,” he murmured.

“You don’t need to take care of me.” Potter sounded so like a child trying to convince his mother that he should stay up past his bedtime that Draco smiled.

And then he remembered that Potter didn’t have a mother, and the way Potter had trusted him to use his magic.

And the way Potter had taken his magic back when Draco drew it into himself.

He stopped smiling and whispered, “It’s my privilege to take care of you.”

The last of the red and black magic finally disappeared. Draco turned around, checking out of habit to be sure that both he and Potter had their wands, and considered the skin on the floor. Then he shook his head.

There was no hiding this. The Aurors could count, and they would notice that a prisoner was missing. And that no one had come to help them meant that the grief magic hadn’t triggered the Dark Arts wards on the Ministry. This was something entirely new, something they would have to confess to the instructors and ask for their help on.

Draco smiled grimly. He had a few questions of his own to ask, too, starting with the scantiness of the protections on the “Death Eaters.”

He turned to the door out of the room, and paused. Scored on the wall in enormous black and scarlet letters was the word NIHIL.

And beside it, another. FIN.

Draco raised an eyebrow. He calls himself after nothingness and he proposes an ending. At least we know that much about him.

He kept the Latin firmly in mind as he opened the door, and began arranging the battle in his mind as he dragged Potter down the corridor, making up a report of it that the instructors could listen to.

It was easier to think about that than about the way Potter had trusted him, or the way his lips ached.

Chapter Nineteen.