Chapter Text
He materializes in an abandoned alley behind a short line of red brick buildings. The weather is several degrees warmer here, in midday in the south of England, but the breeze is still brisk enough to make him shiver. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and moves toward the dark metal door just across from him in the dank alleyway.
Forcing down the rusted metal handle takes a fair amount of effort, and it gives with a light screech. He yanks the heavy door open, then steps into the back hallway of the pub he visited just yesterday. Strange how it feels like it's been so much longer.
He pulls his hair band out as he strides down the dim hallway, letting his dark waves fall in a curtain around his face, taking whatever small protection it will offer him.
As he enters the main room of the tavern Harry sees a flash of gold in the corner of his eye. An old-fashioned pocket watch, held in the pale hand of a tall man with dark hair. He leans against the bar as he flips the pocket watch open to check the time.
Harry beelines toward him.
The man turn, sees Harry, and gestures over his shoulder with a jerk of his head.
“Let’s go for a walk.”
He crosses the pub and exits through the front door, long coat flaring dramatically behind him, and Harry follows.
They walk quickly and in silence, striding side by side on the narrow sidewalk until they reach another shadowed alley, and the man turns purposefully into it.
Harry follows as his companion strides about halfway down the alley before stopping and pulling an item out of an inner coat pocket. He gives it a quick twist and Harry’s ears feel as if they’re stuffed with cotton before they begin to ring uncomfortably. The sensation disappears just as quickly as it arrived and suddenly a glaring Draco Malfoy stands just a few feet away from him in all of his pale, grumpy glory.
“You sure you can’t get me one of those?” Harry asks, gesturing to the small snuff box in the Slytherin's hand.
Draco ignores him, tense and very obviously on edge. His white-blonde hair is pulled back into a tail at the base of his neck, falling down to between his shoulder blades.
“You missed one, Potter,” he snarls, and Harry’s stomach drops.
“What?" His mouth is dry as the Sahara.
“You missed one,” Draco repeats. “You missed a Death Eater.”
“No, I counted—” Harry starts.
“Then you counted wrong,” Draco snaps, grey eyes flashing. “I just had the pleasure of listening to Rowle describe how the Chosen One himself defended a bunch of muggles at a shopping mall this morning.”
Harry’s stomach rolls nauseatingly before he rallies.
“So what? So Voldemort knows I’m with the Order and we're fighting him; that’s nothing new,” he says, his own anger flaring in response to his mounting anxiety.
Draco stalks closer, slashing his hand through the air in irritation.
“He doesn’t care about the Order, Potter. He wants you,” he says angrily. “And each time you go gallivanting off to save the day is one more opportunity for him to find you. All it takes is one mistake—”
But now it’s Harry’s turn to cut him off.
“If you think I’m going to let everyone else fight my battles for me—”
"Your battles? Why was this your battle?”
“They’re ALL my battles!” Harry shouts, hands clenched into fists at his sides.
Draco is towering over him now, pale eyes alight. Harry is forced to tilt his head up to glare back, mutinous.
“Don’t you ever get sick of the martyr act, Potter?” The Slytherin spits, an ugly sneer twisting his pointed features.
Harry clenches his jaw. “I will not sit back and watch as he kills innocent people, Draco,” he grits out.
The Slytherin looks on the verge of shouting but, after staring into Harry's hot gaze, just snarls and turns away in a huff.
“You’re going to get yourself killed doing something stupidly heroic, and then where will we be, Potter?” Though there is still anger in his voice, Harry can now make out the shades of worry and exhaustion tinging the words.
Harry doesn’t have an answer for him.
Draco turns back around, rubbing a weary hand over his face. He sighs.
“Theo is fine, by the way. No one noticed his absence,” he says, raking a hand through his hair. He looks tired, purple bruises marring the alabaster skin under bloodshot eyes, but Harry can’t remember the last time Draco didn’t look run ragged. Even in school he always seemed like he was at his wit's end.
“That’s good,” Harry replies honestly.
The Slytherin drops his hands to his sides before stepping closer again.
“Are you alright?” He asks quietly. All signs of hostility have evaporated from his tone, leaving behind only worry and concern. “Rowle said you’d been injured.”
Those storm cloud eyes scan over Harry’s figure, looking for any obvious wounds. Harry shakes his head.
“I’m fine, it was just a cut,” he says, mind flashing back to the fight and the glass ceiling raining down in twinkling shards around them. He recalls Cedric ripping the chunk of glass from his own arm, then winces as he remembers Cedric’s anger, and what Harry did to deserve it.
“Potter?”
Harry shakes his head again, breaking free of the memory.
“It’s nothing,” he says. Draco frowns, skeptical.
“Funny, I don’t believe you,” he says, thin lips pursed.
Harry looks away, jaw clenching, and Draco sighs.
“Always so dramatic,” he murmurs. Harry scowls, but the Slytherin just smirks at him before falling serious once more.
“Potter," he says, his voice soft, entreating. "Harry."
He’s only a step away, delicate-boned face stripped of his usual masks. Harry's heart squeezes, seeing the care bleeding through those normally closed-off features. “Please be more careful.”
Harry stares at him, and then from one second to the next Draco’s face changes. Like he's realized his own vulnerability, and they can't have that. Draco Malfoy can't be any less than cold, can't afford to be human.
Something mocking dances in his eyes when he speaks again.
“We’d all be doomed without the boy hero to save us."
Harry hates how he uses sarcasm to cover his momentary weakness, but he plays along, because that's who they are. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. Gryffindor and Slytherin. Golden boy and Death Eater.
“Oh, fuck you, Malfoy,” he says, though it has no power behind it. “Don’t tell me you risked blowing your cover to tell me to ‘be careful’?”
“Someone has to knock it into your thick Gryffindor skull,” Draco says.
A sudden gust of wind pulls several strands of fine blonde hair loose from his tail, whipping them across his face. He brushes them back behind his ears absently, then narrows his eyes when he catches Harry shiver.
“Where’s your coat?” He asks with a frown, and Harry looks down at himself before shrugging. He left his tent in a hurry, forgot all of his outerwear—coat, hat, gloves.
Draco pulls the dark green scarf from his neck and wraps it around Harry’s instead, residual body warmth seeping into Harry’s skin.
“They’re moving the horcrux on Sunday,” the blonde says, gaze on his hands as he gently tugs the scarf into place around Harry’s neck. “Aunt Bella will be at the Ministry all morning Saturday; that’s probably your best bet.”
“Thank you,” Harry murmurs, knowing this is the real reason he’s here, the reason Draco summoned him. It’s invaluable information.
Draco smiles ruefully before stepping back and pulling the snuff box out of his coat pocket again.
“Do me a favor and don’t get killed,” he drawls, and though he sounds like he couldn't care less Harry knows he means it.
Harry snorts. “I’ll do my best.”
“Do better than that,” Draco replies.
He twists the top of the box in the opposite direction as before. The cotton-ball sensation returns, then the ringing, and then Harry's staring at the tall, dark-haired stranger he saw in the pub a quarter of an hour ago.
Draco nods at him once and breezes past him, heading toward the main road, and Harry watches him go until he's rounded the corner and out of sight.
Harry takes a deep breath, then pulls the pink bracelet from his jacket pocket and activates the portkey to whisk him away.
He walks slowly back to his tent, hands tucked deep into his pockets. He pauses just outside the tent flap, listening hard, but no noise comes from inside. Maybe they’ve cleared out, and he’ll be able to have a night free from searching looks and accusing stares.
Of course, it’s entirely possible that they haven’t left yet and Hermione has just put up a silencing charm, but Harry decides to take his chances.
He steps inside his tent, letting out a sigh of relief when he finds the kitchen table empty. Even the cups have been put in the sink, which must have been Cedric’s doing; he, Ron and Hermione don’t often clean up after themselves, instead opting to reuse the same cups several times over before performing a cursory cleaning charm when the tea stains become too obvious to ignore.
There’s the soft sound of a book closing and Harry’s whirls around.
Cedric is standing by the bookshelf, hand on the cover of a large tome.
There’s silence for a moment, then Cedric speaks, staring at Harry with an unsettling neutral expression.
“I went outside to look for you… I couldn’t find you.”
Though he tries to hide it Harry notices the tension in him, the tight line of his shoulders. He seems on edge, much like Harry felt earlier.
“If you’re going to yell at me, just go on and get it over with,” Harry says, and he can feel his own shoulders tightening all over again, readying for a fight.
He doesn’t row with Cedric often, but when he does it’s always dreadful. Harry forgets sometimes how much he relies on Cedric for advice and support and companionship until they fight. Each time, Harry is left feeling unmoored without his anchor, lost in the miasma of his own chaotic mind and jumbled emotions. He’s been dreading this moment since Cedric shouted at him this morning in Victoria Quarter, and as much as he doesn't want to fight he’d rather just get it over with at this point—the waiting is killing him.
Cedric stares at him for a moment longer, then turns to put the book back on the shelf, pausing with his hand resting lightly on the spine. He stands there for a moment, unmoving, before speaking again.
“I’m not going to yell at you,” he says, and Harry immediately feels irritation flare.
“Why not? You should,” he says hotly. What is Cedric playing at? He's supposed to tell it like it is, to be brutally, if politely, honest. It’s one of the reasons Harry trusts him as much as he does.
Cedric finally turns around, eyebrows raised.
“Do you want me to yell at you?” He asks, and though his voice is calm, Harry can see there's something else in his eyes, too. Guilt, maybe, though what Cedric would have to feel guilty for Harry has no idea.
“Yes!” Harry snaps, throwing his hands in the air. “Yes! I want you to yell at me! I want you to tell me that I’m a terrible person, that I’m no better than the sodding Death Eater I cursed. That you can’t believe I’m the one everyone is dying for, some bloke who casts Unforgivables as easily as a cheering charm.”
And all of a sudden Harry's breath is coming fast. His face feels hot, his throat is suddenly unbearably tight.
Cedric’s grey eyes have gone wide. He doesn't respond, just watches as Harry struggles to control himself, before he abruptly strides across the room, stopping just in front of the Gryffindor.
“May I?” He asks. Harry doesn't know what he's asking but it doesn't matter—he nods. He feels off-balance, angry and guilty and confused, but even when he's like this, even when Cedric is angry at him, he trusts the other man implicitly.
Cedric wraps his arms carefully around Harry’s body, pulling him into a hug.
Though Harry’s grown some since school he'll never be a large man, and Cedric has always been bigger than he is, taller and broader in the shoulders, enough so that Harry feels enveloped in his hold. The Hufflepuff is all towering strength and steadfast determination; he’s kind and dependable and a good soldier always, but Harry knows he has his own rough edges and moments of crushing defeat when he thinks no one is looking. He’s wound tight, maybe even tighter than Harry himself, and Harry’s arms are wrapping around Cedric in return before he's even aware they’re moving.
It’s a hug, but it’s something else, too. Harry can’t put it into words, how he feels swallowed by it, by every inch of his body that’s in contact with Cedric’s. His hands are moving of their own volition, reaching up to grip the back of Cedric’s jumper in tight fists. He can feel the hard muscle of Cedric’s body against his own and a shiver runs through him.
Cedric’s arms squeeze tighter.
“You’re not a terrible person,” Cedric murmurs into his unruly hair.
Harry says nothing; his throat is too tight. He just fists Cedric’s shirt a little tighter.
“You’re not,” Cedric repeats adamantly, fiercely, breath hot where it threads through Harry's strands and tickles his scalp. One of Cedric’s hands comes up to the back of Harry’s head, stroking the dark waves there.
“I would never think that of you, Harry, no matter what you do,” the Hufflepuff says, his voice gentling again.
Harry squeezes his eyes shut tight, the burning in his throat intensifying.
He buries his face in the crook of Cedric’s neck, inhaling the scent he usually only gets little hints of, when they’re sitting pressed together during a stakeout, or when Cedric passes by his seat on the small sofa in the Hufflepuff's tent, fetching Harry a cup of tea to help calm the post-mission adrenaline high. The smell of him is intoxicating, masculine, and makes Harry remember the cold stone of Hogwarts, old books, the fresh cut grass of the quidditch pitch.
It’s how magic would smell if it had a scent, Harry thinks, not for the first time.
His throat is still too tight to speak so he stays quiet. Cedric continues to hold him, right there in the middle of Harry's tent, and Harry can feel the tension easing from both of their frames the longer they stay pressed together. He wonders if he could fall asleep here, standing up in Cedric’s arms, and thinks the answer is yes. He feels safer here than anywhere else these days.
After a long while, Cedric shifts back, peeling his body away from Harry's front. The cold air rushes to fill the space between them and Harry shudders. Cedric chafes Harry’s upper arms and adjusts his scarf, smile going tight as he does so, hands lingering on the expensive green fabric.
“This isn’t yours,” he comments. It's not a question, but Harry answers anyway.
“No."
Cedric fingers the embroidery, the sinfully soft fabric of the scarf brushing against the skin of Harry’s neck.
“Is this Draco’s?” Cedric asks.
Harry is surprised Cedric uses Draco’s first name—the two have never been friends, and as far as Harry knows they haven’t spoken to each other since Hogwarts. But it also just like Cedric to take Harry at his word that Draco is trustworthy, and that he deserves respect.
“Yeah,” he replies.
Cedric frowns, dark brows bunching together. He’s still fiddling with the scarf, distracted. Harry is intensely aware of how close Cedric’s long fingers are to his bare skin, how just a slight shift of his hand would bring them brushing against the his neck.
Harry's tongue darts out to wet his lips and he watches as Cedric’s gaze darts down to track the movement. Then those grey eyes flick back up to Harry’s.
He's still standing very close.
“Are you…” The Hufflepuff starts, trailing off. He clears his throat, seems to gathers his courage. “You and Draco?” He asks, and Harry gives a small shake of his head.
“Not for a while.”
He doesn’t move, instead letting Cedric continue to mess with the scarf for a moment longer, his heart in his throat the whole time. Then, to both Harry's disappointment and relief, Cedric drops it and takes a step back.
Harry lets out a low breath, watching the other man as the softness and vulnerability is slowly, painfully subsumed by the stark, dependable warrior.
“Do you really not want me to go?” Cedric asks. It takes a second for Harry to understand that he’s asking about the Grimmauld raid and Harry’s desire to leave Cedric behind.
“Yeah, I really don’t want you to go,” Harry says, and both of Cedric’s eyebrows shoot up, surprised. He obviously hadn’t expected such an honest answer. “I don’t want anyone to go. It’s dangerous, and I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
Cedric’s expression morphs, looking unimpressed. “That’s not what this is about. You were upset the second Ron brought me in here yesterday. If you didn’t want me to be part of this, then why did you agree to it?”
He means the inner circle. He’s visibly confused and frustrated, but underneath that there’s hurt, too. He hides it well, but Harry knows him. The Gryffindor feels a sting of guilt, but it’s drowned out by his own chronic frustration at his inability to keep his friends safe.
“I didn’t really have a choice,” he says waspishly. “I was outvoted.”
Cedric’s face closes off. “Well then, I apologize for the inconvenience,” he says, voice cool.
“It’s not like that,” Harry snaps, irritated.
“Then what’s it like, Harry?” Cedric bursts out, throwing his hands in the air. “You’ve been avoiding me since Ron and Hermione brought me in here yesterday. You say you want to leave me behind on a mission that you know I need to be on. You won’t even look at me, for fuck’s sake. Tell me what it is then, Harry, because to me it seems like you want me as far away from you as possible.”
Harry is shocked into silence. He doesn’t know what to say.
Cedric’s not wrong, if only because Harry wants to protect him from the danger that stalks Harry like a second shadow. But he also doesn’t want Cedric to go away—he wants Cedric by his side all the time, to bounce ideas off of and to play exploding snap with and to sit with in silence after a long, difficult day.
He doesn’t say any of that.
Cedric’s face shutters even more at his silence and there's a sharp pain in Harry’s chest as he watches Cedric pull away from him. He knows he’s being unfair, knows none of them are safe no matter what he does, but he can’t seem to open his mouth and deny the other man's words.
Jaw clenched, eyes hard, Cedric stares at Harry for a last, long moment before he turns on his heel and leaves. Walking away, exactly like Harry never wanted him to, out of the tent and into dusky twilight.
Harry lets him go. Then he snatches a forgotten plate from the dining table and hurls it into the kitchen where it smashes against the refrigerator, ceramic pieces skittering across the linoleum floor. He lurches over to the old couch, collapsing onto it heavily and dropping his head into his hands.
People arrive in twos and threes as the week goes on.
They’re immediately debriefed by Ron, Hermione, Cedric, and Harry, then given some food and a place to rest. The last people to arrive are Remus and Hestia, who are led into camp by Neville on Friday afternoon—he was the one sent to fetch them from the rendezvous point at the nearby lake.
Remus gives handshakes all around and a kiss on the cheek to Hermione before sitting at the small kitchen table and pouring out tea for everyone. Hestia is more free with her affections, passing out hugs to all of them before joining Remus at the table.
“How have you been? How’s Emmeline?” Harry asks them, opting to stand. He’s been sitting a lot lately, going over plans from Grimmauld so often that he sees them on the backs of his eyelids when he attempts to sleep each night.
Remus smiles mildly. “You know Emmeline… She’s in her element.”
They all nod, because they do know. Emmeline was a spy in the first war, and took up the task again in the second before anyone even needed to ask her to do so. She’s a spitfire of a woman, quick with words and quicker on the draw. She can talk a person in circles before they even realize what the conversation is about, and Harry has always enjoyed hearing stories of her escapades.
Hestia laughs lightly at Remus’s response. She’s much younger than both Remus and Emmeline but has always gotten on well with them, preferring to work with Remus out of Emmeline’s basement most of the time. Harry has always liked her; she’s kind and upbeat, and very competent. She’s quite good at healing spells, too, which is a skill many of them sorely lack.
“Emmeline is doing just fine,” she agrees, smiling, cheeks rosy, and they all smile back. It’s hard not to; her good mood is infectious.
“We, on the other hand, are very interested in what you have for us here,” Remus says, looking at each of them in turn: Harry, Ron, Hermione, Cedric, and back to Harry. He lingers a little longer on Cedric but says nothing about his presence.
“Well, there’s something we need to do,” Hermione starts, “and we need a large group of people with all different kinds of skill sets. We need casters and fighters, people sensitive to dark magic, portkey specialists, healers—”
Ron cuts her off. “Long story short, there’s something we need at Grimmauld Place and we have to steal it by tomorrow.”
Harry told them about his impromptu meeting with Draco at the Falcon Pub, and what Draco said about Saturday being their best chance to obtain the horcrux. Their current plan is to make their move tomorrow morning while Bellatrix is occupied at the Ministry of Magic, though they've given themselves only thirty minutes to complete the task—they can't risk being there if she returns early from her business, so the faster they get in and out, the better.
Remus’s eyebrows shoot up almost into his hairline before they drop again, bunching together, carving deep lines into his forehead. He looks old, so much older than his thirty-nine years. Harry supposes fighting on the front lines of two wars for most of his life will do that to a man.
“Grimmauld is owned by Bellatrix Lestrange,” he says slowly, stating the obvious, as if they could have forgotten. As if Harry could have forgotten how she came into possession of it.
“Yeah, we know,” he says, biting back his sudden irritation. “But we don’t have a choice. We have to get the thing now. Our contact says they’re moving it tomorrow; this is our only chance.”
Remus is silent for a moment. “And I suppose this object is important enough that you feel it’s worth the risk of breaking into Bellatrix Lestrange’s home?”
“Got it in one,” Ron says humorlessly.
Hermione sighs. “We know it sounds like a suicide mission, but we do have a solid plan. If you can look it over, see if we’ve missed anything…”
She trails off, uncertain.
“Professor,” Cedric says respectfully, and Remus looks taken aback; it’s been ages since any of them have called him Professor. “We value your opinion, and would appreciate any input you have. The plan is good, but there are some weak points. Having someone look at it from a different angle might help iron out some of the kinks.”
Remus studies him for a moment before nodding.
“Of course, Cedric. And, please, there’s no need to call me Professor; it’s been a long time since I was a teacher to any of you,” he says, smiling.
Cedric smiles back gratefully.
“Thank you,” Hermione says with feeling.
The stress of this mission weighs on all of them. It's clear in the dark bags under their eyes, their abominably short tempers. None of their missions are easy, but missions like the one they're planning now always bring a lot of sleepless nights, staring into the darkness as they imagine everything that can go wrong, all the ways the people they care about can get hurt. The sheer amount of people that need to be involved, the dangerous location, and the knowledge that they cannotafford to fail makes this one especially heavy.
They get down to business then, discussing their current entry and exit strategies (Ron’s strength), Grimmauld’s floor plan (where Remus’s expertise is invaluable), and wards they can expect (Cedric excels in this area, having studied curse breaking and ancient runes for a short stint after Hogwarts; his family is also one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and so grew up learning much of the old-blood ways).
Hermione and Harry work with Emmeline on assigning teams, matching people in ways that ensures every group will have at least one witch or wizard with warding experience. Cedric is tasked with training those individuals later on what to expect and strategies for breaking through the Grimmauld wards undetected.
It’s several cups of tea and hours later when they finally resurface, exhausted but feeling much more confident in their plan for the following day. All they have left to do now is brief the teams, run through Cedric's mini-wards training sessions, pack their equipment, and get some sleep.
They decide to have a bite to eat before gathering everyone together to go over the plan, so they all head out to the fire where Charlie is cooking a mysterious but no doubt delicious stew—he inherited Molly Weasley’s cooking skills, which they put to good use whenever he’s around—while listening to Fred and George wax poetic about the last Death Eater that stumbled into one of their more vicious traps.
Every person currently at the camp joins them that evening, including Seamus, who is feeling well enough today to travel the thirty or so steps from the medical tent to the campfire circle—with Katie’s help. Lavender still doesn’t know what curse was used on him in Leeds, but thankfully it seems to be wearing off with time; he’s dizzy and disoriented less often now, though he does still need assistance to walk more than a few steps without falling. It’s much better than when he first woke up after the battle, when he was so dizzy he vomited until he passed out again.
Harry looks around the circle at all of the faces there and thinks morbidly how every single one of them could be dead by this time tomorrow. Fred and George and Ginny; Anthony, Ernie, Cormac, and Michael; Neville and Lavender; Hermione, Remus and Hestia. Cedric.
Even the people not joining them on the Grimmauld raid are in danger, because every single one of them is in mortal peril every single day. Ron, Charlie, Seamus, Katie, Angelina, Oliver, Luna. They could be called out tonight on a different raid, or ambushed two days from now and captured, or Avada Kedavra'ed in their sleep.
There is no such thing as safety for them anymore, for any of them. There are Order members all over the country risking their lives every single minute, including now, spying on the Dark Lord and his followers, and Harry just wants it all to be over. He wants his friends to know peace, and safety, and happiness.
Sometimes he wonders if it’s all even worth it, if he should just… Stop. They want to live in a life without the Dark Lord's tyranny, but… What kind of life is this? Is there even a point to fighting if this is all they will ever get?
He startles when someone drapes a thick blanket over his shoulders. He doesn’t feel cold, but he also can’t feel his extremities, so he supposes he might be. The heavy blanket comforts him nonetheless. He burrows into it, looking over his shoulder to see who gave it to him.
Cedric looks down at him, hands still resting on Harry’s shoulders where he wrapped the blanket, and Harry’s stomach twists. Cedric’s eyes reflect the fire, flames giving them an otherworldly glow, and Harry can’t look away.
“ – right, Harry?”
He tears his eyes away from Cedric’s, looking across the circle to find Ginny laughing and waiting for his validation. He missed what was said entirely but answers anyway: “Yeah, right."
She seems satisfied, Her attention returning to where Fred and George are gesticulating wildly as they recount some adventure or other. He watches them for a second, thinking vaguely of better times—the Gryffindor Common Room, the Quidditch Pitch, the Burrow—before he tears his gaze away and looks up again.
But Cedric has gone, and Harry feels colder than before, despite the warm blanket.