lomonaaeren

Title: Soldier’s Welcome (30/?)
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.

Thank you again for all the reviews!

Chapter Thirty—Breakthrough

Draco was drowning, struggling. Every time he found his feet and thought that he might prevent Nihil from taking control of his magic, another surge knocked him down and then more of his magic transformed. He could feel it draining away from him, a steady trickle like blood from a wound.

I will not allow this.

Draco fastened his mind on the cold disdain that his father had used when he heard of the Wizengamot’s sentencing him to Azkaban. Lucius had cared, of course, but he had pushed the emotions down under a façade of indifference and clung to his pride.

It was not the indifference Draco wanted but the stubbornness that meant their enemies couldn’t crush them. He gritted his teeth and thought of that. No Malfoy would die like this, because it would be too undignified.

He was not going to die.

He brought up his will and wielded it like a hammer against the magic that was encasing him, solidifying into place, no longer water but stone. He felt the tide pressing against him falter. Draco hissed in triumph.

He had much to live for. How was he ever going to persuade Harry to give him what he wanted unless he stayed alive? How was he going to be an Auror unless he retained control of his magic?

The evil force that seemed to be coming from both inside and outside his body at the same time hesitated for a moment. Draco forced his eyes open and saw Harry stumbling away from Nusquam. Good. At least he was alive—

Then the magic that was pulling at and devouring Draco came roaring back, and Draco realized that its cessation had never been more than a temporary pause. He fell again, and this time, when the waves closed over his head, even the memory of light and air and pride seemed to have been pressed out of him, and he could not stand.

*

Harry avoided the strike of the first organ-cat more by luck than skill. He’d forgotten how much better it felt to have someone to fight with. He’d taken for granted the way Draco stood at his back and the compatible magic that made both of them stronger.

Then remember how to fight on your own, damn it!

Harry whirled to the side and cast a mild wind charm, remembering Dearborn’s lessons: Use the advantages of your enemies against them when you can.

The cats were heavy and faster than he was, but they still weren’t perfect fighters. Harry’s wind slammed the first one into the second one and they went down in a messy heap, coiled intestines spilling around them.

Nusquam clucked her tongue. “I did tell Nemo that they needed more testing, but he always wants to use spells before they’re ready,” she murmured. “And resources, like you.” She glanced at Harry, her deep blue eyes amused. “No sooner does he know about the well of your power than he wants to drain it.”

Harry tried to concentrate on what she was saying, but he saw Draco’s eyelashes flutter just then and his partner heave himself to his feet. Harry turned towards him with relief. One thing he had learned in the last few minutes was that he hated fighting alone. If they could—

Then Draco fell over again, and his face went pale, and he gasped the way Harry could remember gasping when the grief magic was pouring into him and trying to change him.

There was no hesitation. It was what had to be done, so Harry did it. He flung a “rope” of his own magic to Draco, the way they’d been practicing when they wanted to drain each other without exhaustion. He felt it catch on whatever it was in Draco’s power or spirit that made them compatible in the first place, but there was no pull. Draco was too far out of it to draw from him, Harry decided.

He was dying.

Harry felt as though his heart was going to explode. He drove his magic into Draco, plunging it into his body like a spear, and then faced Nusquam and the intestine-cats and spoke one of the spells they’d found when they were researching magical beasts with as much force as he could. “Dilabor.”

The cats trembled and quivered; Harry still had to repel one of them, which was charging at his legs, with a Shield Charm before the spell he had used could take effect. But then it did, and their fleshy legs and thrust-forward heads simply fell apart. Harry smiled, though he could feel how much effort it took him to do so. Most of his power was flowing into Draco.

But the spell had worked as the book said it should. Experimental magical creatures were less stable than long-established breeds. The spell was meant to find the weak points in their composition and separate them.

“Interesting,” Nusquam said, her face alight with a deep smile. Harry realized suddenly that, except for blowing into the globe of light when Draco first collapsed, she hadn’t done anything yet, and his confidence diminished again. “And now, I’ll test you in my own way, rather than doing what Nemo and Nihil wanted.” She raised one of her hands away from the globe of light, spread her fingers, and then bent them inwards towards her palm.

Harry screamed. He could hear his joints popping and his arms bending in unnatural directions; he could feel his knees trying to ram themselves through the back of his legs. He crumpled, while his body began to tear itself apart and the pain increased to the point that he knew not even the Cruciatus Curse could have matched it.

But he kept pushing magic into Draco, because if he died, at least his partner might be able to survive.

And then suddenly the magic was flowing back towards him instead, pushed, hurled into his body, and Draco was rising to his feet, his eyes ablaze.

*

When he needed it, there was power there.

Draco didn’t realize where it must be coming from at first. He simply reached out, grasped the power greedily, and rammed it down the throat of the person he was struggling with. As moments passed, he had come to feel more and more as if someone was holding him down, pressing his wrists to his side and pressing the air out of his chest. But he could fight now, and he did, forcing his enemy up and away.

The power flowing over him ebbed, and Draco surged up, still gathering the magic, whipping it around him like a shield. The grief magic shredded as if it were paper, and Draco heard a distant shriek.

The magic was coming from Harry, he realized then. Of course it was. When one of them needed saving, the other was always there.

And on that note, Draco felt like laughing, because he thought he understood why Harry’s magic made their enemy flee. Harry had already survived one assault like this. Of course Nihil wouldn’t be able to convert his magic, when Harry had gained full control of it again.

Draco wound Harry’s power over and around and through his, and the alien magic slid away with a snarl. Draco continued chopping, because he wanted to be sure that their invisible enemy wouldn’t get any more bright ideas, and then he was opening his eyes in the room they’d entered and where he’d last seen Harry under attack by Nusquam.

Portillo Lopez’s office, he remembered, and then turned and saw Harry screaming on the floor.

He didn’t take time to think. It really didn’t matter what Harry was suffering from, just that he was. Draco threw the magic that Harry had handed him back at him, tossing it like rope, smooth coils of strength, filling up the empty place that Harry had left when he reached out to Draco.

The air between them began to hum and vibrate. Draco had thought of them as connected by ropes of magic before, but this was the first time he had thought that might be literally true. He could see the white-golden cords if he squinted, binding him and Harry.

A bolt of red light cut towards them, and nearly split them apart.

If I can see them, so can other people, Draco realized, with a shock that was like being slapped, and whirled to face Nusquam. She raised one eyebrow at him and lifted her hand. The golden ball of light had dissipated, but a new one of red was coming into view, growing and expanding as Draco watched. He was sure that it would grow big enough to swallow both of them if he didn’t do something about it.

Harry was recovering, the Dark magic that Nusquam had inflicted on him falling to pieces, but he still wasn’t back on his feet, which left their defense up to Draco. He snatched his wand and barked, “Tua mors!”

Nusquam had only one moment to look astonished before the air around her turned golden-bronze, like the inside of a desert sun. Draco threw his hand across his eyes to hold off the afterimages and turned back to Harry. He heard one thin, shrill gasp and then no more. He wasn’t worried.

Nusquam wouldn’t scream while she was the victim of that spell, because it was a spell that inflicted pain so intense one couldn’t scream.

He knelt down next to Harry and realized that Harry was shaking all over despite the dismissal of the curse. Draco frowned and traced his wand in a line from Harry’s shoulders to his ankles. “Are you all right?” he asked, wincing as bright red streaks appeared in the wand’s wake. The streaks showed how much pain Harry was in; the closer to scarlet they were, the higher the agony. These looked like spilled blood.

“Not really,” Harry admitted. He laughed breathlessly and leaned against Draco’s shoulder, staring up into his face. Draco blinked when he realized that Harry’s eyes shone with joy. “But you’re all right, so that doesn’t matter.”

Draco put a hand over Harry’s shoulder and squeezed down hard for a moment. Then he said, “I think she used a twisted healing spell on you. We should get you to Portillo Lopez as soon as possible.” He lifted Harry carefully to his feet, restricting the flow of magic into him but not cutting it. He thought the addition of extra magic was probably the only reason that Harry wasn’t curled up in pain right now.

“What did you do to her?” Harry whispered, staring ahead of him in awe.

Draco looked over his shoulder and saw that the bronze glow had dimmed to a single outline of the right height to enclose a human figure. “I used a spell that isn’t Dark Arts,” he said smugly.

“I don’t know what that means,” Harry admitted, leaning on him. Draco lowered his head and sighed into Harry’s hair. This was nearly enough, even though Harry hadn’t made any open apology yet. He trusted Draco to take care of him, trusted to his superior strength at the moment, even though he had saved Draco in this battle as much as Draco had saved him.

“It’s one of the spells the Ministry would declare Dark Arts if they knew it existed,” Draco admitted. “It sets fire to the magic in your body and replaces it with pure mortality. You can think of it as really fast aging, if you like. Without our magic, a wizard isn’t any different from a Muggle.”

“I never thought I would hear you say that,” Harry muttered, hopping a bit and then flinching. Draco moved closer so that Harry could put more of his weight on him.

“I’m talking about a matter of magical theory here, not of blood,” he explained. Harry snorted. Draco chose to ignore that and continue. “So it’s as though the victim is suddenly stripped of the magic that allows us to live longer than Muggles, and then all the years are piled on at once. Like I said, it would definitely be illegal if they knew about it, but since they don’t, I can’t get into trouble for using Dark Arts.”

Harry started to respond, but suddenly stared over Draco’s shoulder. “Should it be doing that?”

Draco twisted around. The human-shaped outline was gone, but the pile of ashes that should have been left behind had failed to appear. Instead, there was a single slender piece of what looked like metal, spinning in place and flashing with the remnants of the spell’s light.

Then it fell to the ground with a bright tinkling noise. Draco waited for some moments before he drew his wand and spelled it into the air where he could get a better look at it. He didn’t walk up to touch it, however, and not simply because Harry needed his support.

Yes, it was a long, slim piece of metal, an oversized needle. It was brilliant and pale, as if it was made of platinum.

It looked innocent, or at least more innocent than a pile of ashes would have—and far more innocent than the organ-creatures that Nusquam had appeared with.

Nevertheless, Draco shuddered.

*

This time, the instructors had little option but to believe them, because they had the piece of metal and the remnants of the organ-cats—not to mention the body of the young woman pinned to the wall—to show them. But they hadn’t said anything original about it, not that Harry could hear. They simply talked on and on, coming back to the unknown facts of how Nihil and his followers were getting inside and why the Ministry’s wards never picked up on Dark Arts when they were about.

So Harry didn’t pay attention to them, because he didn’t see why he had to.

He kept his gaze locked on Draco instead, who was sitting with his knees propped up in front of him and his elbows resting on them. His head drooped, and he took slow, careful breaths. But when he looked up and found Harry watching him, he offered him a fake smile and tried to sit up the rest of the way.

Harry shook his head. Draco hadn’t taken any permanent damage from the attempt to transform his magic into grief magic, it seemed. And Portillo Lopez had managed to heal Harry’s wounds without much problem. As Draco had said, it was twisted healing magic that Nusquam had used, and regular healing magic could counteract it.

But Harry wasn’t worried about Draco’s body as much as his mental state.

Three years ago, Draco had been unable to kill Dumbledore when he thought the safety of his family depended on it. But he had used a spell that he knew would kill Nusquam tonight—even though they hadn’t found a body and so they didn’t know if it had really worked. He hadn’t hesitated. He had spoken coolly about the spell afterwards.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t suffering.

Harry wished Ketchum would stop arguing with Dearborn about how it was possible for their enemies to get in, decide whatever it was they were going to decide, and let them go so that he could comfort and confront Draco.

Finally Portillo Lopez brought her wand down in the middle of the table. The bang of it startled the others and brought Draco’s head up. Harry had seen her getting ready to do it, which was the only reason he didn’t jump. Aunt Petunia had banged a frying pan that way sometimes.

“Leave the theoretical magical considerations for the classroom, gentlemen,” Portillo Lopez said. She was on her feet, and the scarf wound about her hair dangled half-loose as she surveyed them with hard eyes. “No matter how they accomplished it, our enemies are able to get inside the building. We need to deal with the consequences of that.”

Harry found himself smiling. There was a reason that Portillo Lopez had become his favorite of the instructors, even though he didn’t always do well in her classes. Hestia was nice, but she couldn’t take charge in a situation the way Portillo Lopez could.

“You’re right, Maryam.” Dearborn rubbed his forehead. He looked haggard, and Harry wondered if that was because Draco, his mentee, had been the victim of yet another attack. “Forgive me. It’s time to admit that we can’t handle this on our own.” He lifted a hand as if he anticipated objections, though from what Harry could see, none of the others had opened their mouths. “We should tell the Head Auror that we have two trainees who require bodyguards. If they did manage to kill this woman calling herself Nusquam, then Nihil and the rest will probably try to take revenge. If they didn’t, then they are still likely to be involved in further attacks. These madmen have proven that they will halt at nothing to get rid of them.” He looked at Draco and Harry, his voice hopeful but his eyes hopeless. “Neither of you can remember anything that might explain these attacks?”

Draco shook his head. “Just that they must have infected us at some point because they tried to take control of my magic now and Harry’s magic over Christmas holidays, sir. And we don’t know how they did it, or when they did it. Who knows if they’ve done it to other people? They probably did it to the fake Death Eaters.”

“I think I know how they did it,” Portillo Lopez said quietly. “You said that the woman who faced you held a globe of light?”

Harry nodded and put an arm around Draco’s shoulders. Draco was starting to look overwhelmed, and Harry wanted to show that he was there to support him.

Draco shot him a startled glance. Harry gave him a glare for being stupid back and turned to face Portillo Lopez again.

“I examined your magic when I examined you, Trainee Potter.” Portillo Lopez’s face was grim. “And from the testimony Trainee Malfoy gives, I believe you were infected through light.”

Harry blinked. “Infected through light?” he asked. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Harry!” That was Hestia, her voice shrill. “You will show respect to Battle Healer Portillo Lopez.”

Harry gaped at her. Hestia was normally the last one who cared about such things.

“It is all right, Hestia,” Portillo Lopez shook her head slightly, never looking away from Harry. “I find the theory hard to accept myself. But I found traces of—I can only call them traces of reflections in your magic, Trainee Potter. Something you saw gave you the infection, which Nihil or Nusquam let lie dormant until they wanted to use it.”

“But that means…” Ketchum sounded as if he were strangling. “That means they could strike anywhere, at any time. We can’t stop seeing things.”

“Yes,” Portillo Lopez said. “And we must call on the Minister now. I believe that Trainees Malfoy and Potter should be moved out of the barracks and into a more secure place, to be determined by the Head Auror and us. They may still continue to attend classes, but they need rooms where they can relax in true peace, without fear of grief magic or experimental beings. And I wish them to have bodyguards that will accompany them to classes as well.”

Harry stiffened. “Won’t people say that’s special treatment because I’m the Boy-Who-Lived, Battle Healer?” he asked.

“It’s special treatment because you have so nearly been a murder victim multiple times.” Portillo Lopez examined him coolly. “Send any complainers to me. I will deal with them.”

She would, too, Harry thought, from the look in her eyes. He leaned back against the wall and went back to not listening, because now Ketchum and Dearborn were arguing about who should be appointed as bodyguards and all the names were names of people he didn’t know. He shut his eyes, the better to focus on his thoughts.

If he was going to be sharing a room or rooms with Draco, then it became even more urgent to actually bring up what was on his mind tonight. He wouldn’t tolerate living in the same small space with someone who was rude to him or someone he was accidentally hurting.

And he didn’t want to ignore Draco’s pain, either.

*

Draco looked around his rooms distrustfully. The instructors had pinned him and Harry in here for tonight, until the “secure place” and the bodyguards could be arranged tomorrow. Two third-year trainees were on guard at the door now.

It was all so foreign. Here he had assumed that he would be treated as a pariah by the Ministry for all his years in the program, until he forced them into respect, and now they were treating his life like it was a precious object.

Maybe that’s only because I’m with Harry and they don’t dare treat us differently.

He glanced over to Harry, who had been unusually quiet ever since the door shut behind them. He started when he realized that Harry’s eyes were fixed on him and he was nodding slightly, as though he’d finished a private conversation with someone else. He took a long stride towards Draco.

Draco backed up a step and watched him cautiously.

“I want to ask you a question,” Harry said. “And I want to tell you something.”

Draco raised his eyebrows and waited. But it seemed that Harry wasn’t actually going to say anything until Draco acknowledged him, so he nodded and said, “All right. What is it?”

“I want to ask if you’re suffering because you tried to kill Nusquam.” Harry stepped towards him again. “I know that you have problems killing.”

Draco swallowed and ran his hand over his face. He didn’t want to talk about this. He’d assumed that Harry wouldn’t even think of it, as inconsiderate as he’d been lately, and he could deal with his feelings in peace.

But no.

Trying to put a lid on the resentment that bubbled up in him, Draco took a slow, deep breath and said, “I thought about this a lot, carefully, before I entered the Auror program, because I knew that I would probably have to kill Dark wizards at least once if I fought them. And I’ve come to terms with it. If someone is threatening me and—my partner, then I have no hesitations about striking. I’ll think about it a lot for the next few days, but she was hurting us. That made her fair game.” He hesitated, then added, “Besides, I don’t think she’s really dead.” The instructors hadn’t been able to agree on the significance of the platinum needle that Draco found, but that didn’t matter. He couldn’t have killed someone so powerful and dangerous so easily.

Harry nodded. “All right. Now for what I have to tell you.” He was suddenly a lot closer to Draco, and Draco was still blinking and wondering when that had happened when Harry began, his voice low and powerful.

“I hate the way you’re treating me right now. You’re acting as though I can never be good enough for you. I hate that. My manners and my looks and my habits aren’t the most important parts of my personality. My personality is. So either you admit that you’re doing it and apologize and stop, or I curse you. And don’t think I won’t find a way around the compatible magic to do it, too.”

Draco opened his mouth. Then he shut it. After what had happened that night, all his elaborate justifications for his behavior were floating somewhere far below the surface of his mind.

“You could walk away,” he said instead.

Harry lunged suddenly, and then Draco’s robes were in his fists and his face was open and raw and determined in a way that Draco couldn’t look away from.

“Walking away is not an option,” Harry hissed. “Never. It’s just not. Not with the way that I feel about you.”

“Which is what?” Draco asked. Harry kept silent, though his face turned red in frustration, and Draco smirked. He hurt mentally, but at least he might have the consolation of winning this victory over Harry. “You don’t know, do you?” Draco asked, softly, tauntingly. “You can’t say it. So that must mean that your feelings aren’t nearly as strong as you think they are, after all—”

One of Harry’s hands rose and traveled through Draco’s hair. Draco yelped as Harry pulled on his head.

Pulled him straight forwards and into a kiss that made Draco’s lips bleed and his tongue spasm and his mind stop running in astonishment.

Harry pushed Draco into him and himself into Draco, their mouths ramming together, teeth clicking. Then Harry stepped back and ripped his hand free of Draco’s hair. Draco swayed without his support, and nearly fell. His mind was bursting with tiny stars, and he couldn’t think of a thing to say.

Especially not when he saw the fire in Harry’s eyes.

“What does that fucking tell you?” Harry asked flatly.

Chapter Thirty-One.