Chapter Text
-chapter one-
July 31st, 1997
"Happy birthday, Potter."
Harry is sitting cross-legged on his bed, with his chin propped up on his left palm. His green bedsheets pool in his lap, tousled by a last-minute round of bed jumping, and a very short-lived wrestling match. Draco won, even though it's Harry's birthday, because"going easy on you isn't my thing".
Draco sits in front of him, resting on his knees, with a small gray box on his lap. The ribbon wrapped around it is green- like his duvet, and his favorite shirt, and his eyes. It glistens in the low-light as Draco hands it to him, a smug smile proud on his lips.
The box is rectangular in shape, and is cold under Harry's fingers. He grins as he lifts the box up higher, attempting to peer through the bottom to get a better look at his gift. After realizing the box is most definitely opaque, Harry gives the box a nice firm shake, which has Draco scrambling forward before he can do it again.
"No, idiot!" Draco hisses, smacking Harry on the arm. Hard enough to feel, but light enough to forget. "Don'tshake the f*cking gift- open it!"
Harry rolls his eyes and tucks the box into his own lap, sticking out a childish tongue at Draco.
"It'smy gift, Malfoy. I think i'll do with it whatever I please."
Malfoy's eyes narrow, his face shadowed as the nearby candle flickers. Harry notes somewhat lately that the color of Draco's irises match the color of the box, which only makes him like the gift more. His heart flutters as Draco crosses his arms over his chest, exposed forearms pale against the dark maroon of his jumper. Well, it's Harry's jumper, but he's letting Draco borrow it so the prat will stop complaining about being cold."Cold-blooded as a lizard you are, Potter. Like a f*cking snake, or something."
"Fine," Draco huffs, rocking back onto his heels. "Just know that if you do, you could wake up half of the sleeping people in this house, which I don't think either of us want."
Harry snorts, fingers looping through the end of the green ribbon. As much as he'd like to be scolded by Regulus for staying up late, he'd really rather not be murdered on his 17th birthday, especially when he's made the effort of getting up at one in the morning to open his gift. He doesn't shake the box again, which gives Draco back his sly smirk, and instead goes to work on removing the ribbon.
The glossamer falls away with a few gentle tugs, and Harry gently lays it over one of his knees, as to not wrinkle the delicate fabric. Draco hums as he does so, seemingly amused at his thoughtful care in undressing his present. Harry's cheeks warm as he carefully works a few fingers under the lid, and grunts slightly as it moves with apop. He slides the colored cardboard free, and is greeted with many varieties of crinkled colored tissue, and a small white envelope with his name on it. Not Potter.Harry, in Draco's familiar loopy script.
"Should I open the card first?" He asks, glancing up to Draco for confirmation. The blonde just shrugs, running a hand through his already-tousled fringe, as if doing so will smooth it back into place. He's worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, and Harry watches distractedly as he chews on the soft, pink flesh. Or, he'd assume it's pretty soft. He doesn't actuallyknow. It just looks that way. Not that he's looking at Draco's lips all the time, because that would be super weird.
"Whatever you wanna do," He shrugs. "It's yourgift, Potter."
Okay.
Harry ponders the envelope for a moment, before very gracefully setting it beside his green ribbon. As he tears into the tissuepaper, Draco releases a sigh Harry hadn't noticed him holding.Right choice, he thinks, though he's now very intrigued as to what the letter could say, and why it's got cool-headed-Draco so nervous. But first, of course, the present.
As Harry tosses aside light and colored paper, too eager to be careful, a pink flush creeps onto Draco's ears. It sits at the very tips, the furthest from his earlobe, where there's a small heart-shaped birthmark barely visible in the candlelight. Harry knows because when they were kids, and meeting for the first time, it was one of the first things Draco told him."My mother calls freckles angel kisses, so this means I've been kissed by an angel!"
Harry forces his gaze back to his hands, where he finally removes the last scrap of paper. Waiting beneath it is a gift that makes his heart pound against his chest, and his lungs grow heavy.
His fingers shake as he reaches into the bottom of the box, and gently raises what can only be the most beautiful pistol he's ever seen. The handle is warm and ready in his palm, and the barrel gleams low and dangerous in the light. He looks up at Draco with his mouth dropped open, rendered fully and entirely speechless. Draco grins back at him with the most brilliant smile Harry's ever seen, and then scoots closer to tap his finger against the weapon.
"It's a Smith and Wesson Pistol, Model 41. It's top of the line in terms of Rimfire Pistols, and is used for acute precision over distance, rather than close-firing. It's one of the best .22 target pistols ever manufactured, and one of the easiest to shoot- which is good for you, since you're a terrible shot."
Harry turns the gun over in his hands, pulse racing a mile a minute, and not because Draco's sitting a little too close to him.
"It's- god, Malfoy, it's f*cking beautiful."
Draco scoots impossibly closer, so that Harry's knees bump against Draco's thighs. Draco's gaze is fixed on the gun rather than Harry, which he's only thankful for because his cheeks are burning, and he'd rather not be teased about it.
"The barrel and frame are carbon steel, and the safety is a thumb, which I know you like. You always reach for the .22 when we're in target practice, so I figured that's the one you'd like the best. Not to mention the grip is wooden, which I got to pick, since I know you'd choose something infuriatingly normal, like oak or something."
Harry laughs, but the sound comes out choked and wet. Of course Draco would sh*t on him on his birthday, because who else would?Somebody needed to keep him humble.
"I'd choose something terrible, for sure. What did you end up picking?"
Draco's eyes are sparkling, and his flush has moved to his cheeks.
"Mahogany."
Like you, Harry thinks, but doesn't say.Like how your cologne smells.
Like how you taste.
"Perfect," Harry whispers, though he's not sure if he's taking about just the gun, anymore. "I really love it, Draco. Thank you."
Draco stills at the use of his first name, though now that they're older, Harry thinks he might start using it more. After all, Draco used his on his card. Maybe now that they're both seventeen, they're supposed to address each other like that- like adults.
"You're welcome Harry," Draco whispers back, and Harry's not sure hecanhandle Draco calling him by his first name. It feels strange- but not a bad strange. Just adifferentstrange. "Don't- uh, forget the card."
"Oh- right, uh," Harry looks to the envelope with wide eyes, eager to open it, but not wanting to set his present down, either. "Wanna just- read it to me?"
Draco blinks rapidly, like he's fighting away invisible tears, but nods as he reaches for the note. Harry watches carefully as his thin fingers break open the green wax seal, and slip out the small card of yellowing parchment. Draco's hands shake as he unfolds it, and Harry for a moment wonders how long ago he wrote it, if the paper is already changing. Draco's gray eyes scan the writing, then flick back to Harry, and then scan the writing again. After a few minutes of this, he just folds the paper back up, and takes a deep, shaking breath.
"Draco?" Harry says, his voice hardly above a whisper. "What is it? Are you okay? I can read it, I just need to-"
"It's okay," Draco rasps, something in his eyes steeling through the silver. "I just think it's going to be easier."
"Easier?" Harry questions, his heart beating a little too fast. "Easier to what?"
Draco's inching forward again, and this time, he doesn't stop where he normally does. He moves until their faces are close enough for Harry to feel the hot air of his exhale, and smell the mint on his breath.
"To show you," He murmurs, eyelashes fluttering slightly. "What I can't say."
Their lips touch for the first time, and Draco's are just as soft as Harry thought they'd be.
***
August 7th, 1999
It's been two years, five days, and seven hours since Harry Potter last saw Draco Malfoy.
Two and a half days after Harry's 17th birthday, Draco and his family disappeared from the Dark Lord's armada stronghold, and never returned. Originally, the Malfoys had been assigned to a super-secret mission by the Dark Lord, one of which Draco could not share the details of, and left for Birmingham with the intentions of coming back in twenty-four hours, tops. They never did.
Some said that Lucius, one of the Dark Lord's inner circle, and head of the Malfoy family, had become overwhelmed with the pressure of his position as General, and had used the mission as an opportunity to flee with his family. Others said that they had run off to join the resistance, and were in cahoots with Dumbledore and his Phoenixes until they met a timely demise. Others said they failed the mission, and were too ashamed to return.
Only Harry and Regulus, who arguably knew the Malfoys best, were unperturbed by the rumors. They both knew Lucius was too much of a coward to actually defect, and that Narcissa was too attached to the rest of the Blacks to leave without saying goodbye. Harry knew that Draco wouldn't leave him, not after what he'd told him on his birthday.
The Malfoys were dead, presumably. In war, assumed deadisdead, so the Malfoys were mourned like corpses would be.
Regulus lost a cousin. Bellatrix lost a sister. Harry lost his best friend.
Harry lost Draco.
The three of them, the last two of the Noble House of Black, and the Heir to house Potter, held a small and private funeral. Harry and Draco's friends, Blaise, Pansy, and Theo came. Crabbe and Goyle were not allowed. Bellatrix's husband, Rodolphus, and his brother, Rabastian, came. Regulus invited no family, because his parents were dead, his brother was a traitor, and Harry was already going. His friends, Barty C. JR, and Evan, were out on a mission for the Dark Lord, and couldn't come either. The eight of them buried empty boxes, watching as the cold, dark earth consumed the memories of people they never thought would leave.
Harry buried Draco's gray box and the yellow letter inside. He'd never been able to make himself read it, and the paper was surely soaked with enough tears that the writing was no longer legible, anyway.
With Draco, Harry buried any notion of happiness he'd ever possessed. He didn't need it. Not after the world had given him what he'd always wanted, and then ripped it away from him 48 hours later. War is a cruel and unforgiving mistress, and Harry didn't intend on falling victim to her ruthlessness ever again. His circle did not expand. In fact, it closed in.
He stopped hanging out with Crabbe, Goyle, and Theo. He still saw them occasionally, on missions and other things, but didn't make an effort to see them outside of work. He didn't visit Rodolphus and Rabastian as often, but he'd never really spent much time with them anyway. Harry had his core four, and that's really all he needed.
Regulus, Pansy, Blaise, Bellatrix. Bellatrix, Blaise, Pansy, Regulus. He needed no one else.
Except for the Dark Lord, of course. But he's a bit of a different case, considering he's in charge ofeveryone. Harry rarely questions his allegiance to the Dark Lord, because he knows what the Dark Lord thinks ofhim. He calls Harry one of his Prime soldiers- one of his best Assassins. Regulus had beamed in pride at that, having been Harry's teacher, and all. The only times he does doubt, are times that relate to Draco Malfoy, and the mission he had been unable to disclose. To keep matters simple, he doesn't think of it. Not very often, anyway.
Harry is a killer. And he's a good one at that.
Most people would be concerned by his lack of fear when a gun is pressed to his skull, or his ability to wiggle out of rope binds in less than thirty seconds. Most people would cringe at the nearby sound of gunshots, or flinch at the crack of a whip on their back, but he does not. Most people would've either been caught, killed, or ruined by this job by now.
Harry Potter is not most people. He has Regulus Black to thank for that.
Harry's Regulus was the first person to rescue his life, and had continued to do so his entire childhood. Regulus was the one to save him from his parent's burning home, and then watch it collapse with their bodies still inside. Regulus was the one who taught Harry his ABCs, and took him outside at night to stare up at the stars. Regulus showed Harry how to shoot a rifle, and hardly miss. Regulus showed him how to skin a rabbit, and not be grossed out by the blood and guts. Regulus was there the first time Harry killed someone, and was there to rub his back while he vomited afterward.
Harry doesn't remember his father, but he remembers Regulus, and he doesn't think he needs much more than that.
Regulus who said, "Reg-u-lus, Harry, not Reggie," When he was learning names.
Regulus who called himidiot more thanHarry, because "If you're going to act like a fool, I'm going to call you one."
Regulus who told him that he looked exactly like his father, but had his mother's eyes.
Regulus who held his hand at Malfoy's funeral, even though he was much too old to be doing so.
Regulus who wiped his tears and said: "You don't have to be strong for this part."
Harry's not sure if he ever was told how to love anyone, but he didn't really need to be. He loved Regulus without needing to learn how to. It just came naturally, like a name to lips, or tears to eyes. He's probably the only person Harry has ever loved, and he's okay with that. He doesn't count what he felt for Draco, because it hurts too bad.
Harry and Regulus are best friends. Mentor and student. Father and Son. They would, and have, killed for each other. They love each other, most of the time.
"Are youf*cking kidding me?" Harry hisses, blood spurting from a fresh wound on his side.
Now is not one of those times.
Regulus dances away from Harry, a shorthand dagger twirling between the thumb, index, and middle fingers on his left hand. Sweat is streaking across the skin above his brow, and his long dark hair is pulled into a haphazard ponytail at the nape of his neck. On his cheek is the smallest of minuscule cuts; the only blow Harry managed to land after sparring for over an hour. Other than that, Regulus looks flawless, as he usually does.
"Get moving," Regulus says, his voice rasping between breaths. "You've come home with bigger wounds than that. f*cking hit me."
"I'mtrying asshole," Harry seethes, spinning his own dagger through his fingers. "I just didn't know we were doing f*ckingblows today. My entire side is open."
"If you were moving faster, you wouldn't have gotten cut."
"Dickwad."
"Idiot, get your feet under you."
"Where else would they f*cking be?"
Regulus darts forward, his dagger gleaming with fresh blood as he crashes into Harry's side, jabbing an elbow into his stomach. Harry ducks low, swinging out a leg that knocks into Regulus's bad ankle, all while swiping his blade across the nearest adjacent calf. It might be playing dirty, butapparentlythat's the only way Regulus knows how to play.Prick.
Regulus sucks air through his teeth, stumbling back far enough for Harry to take the offensive, but never stumbling or falling down. Harry slashes with his right arm, and is blocked with a blow from Regulus's left. The two of them dart across the sandy floor of the training arena, salt and gravel spraying as they push back and forth, never quite catching an upper hand. Harry's wound pours hot and wet down his side, but he's too busy gritting his teeth and trying to stab Regulus's exposed shoulder to notice.
A trail of red sand tracks their progress around the circular training grounds, accompanied by footsteps, and the occasional large dip of dirt where someone hit the ground. They dance for what seems like hours, exchanging small blow after small blow, trying to fell their opponent. They're fearsome competitors, and an even more fearsome duo. Nobody targeted has ever escaped Regulus and Harry alive, which is a fact that feeds both of their egos a bit too much. Nobody is invincible, after all.
Which is why after bleeding from an open wound for fifteen minutes, Harry drops to his knees and calls hail Mary. Regulus stands over him, panting as the blunt edge of his blade presses into the tanned flesh of Harry's neck. He's woozy, and a bit delirious. His head is spinning, and Harry worries for the quickly-eaten breakfast he'd wolfed down an hour or so ago, stirring violently in his stomach.
"Uggghagh," He groans, wincing as the sandy grains dig into his knees. "I'm tired."
Regulus rolls his eyes and removed his blade, tucking away the knife as he reaches to help Harry up from the ground.
"And if I was in the Order of the Phoenix, you'd be dead."
"As if the birds can fight as good as you," Harry grumbles, pressing hard against his wound as he helps Regulus drag him out of the arena. "And they wouldn't keep fighting me after they'd gutted me. They're righteous andheroic and all that bullsh*t."
Regulus snorts, bumping his elbow against a button after they've exited the arena, shutting off the floodlights and changing the ground back from sand to concrete. Harry's not quite sure how that one works, but it does every time.
"There's nothing heroic about fighting a losing battle. Putting people out on the front lines just for cannon fodder. Dumbledore has no idea what he's doing, but he has the numbers to pretend like he does. Bodies on the war front make them feel like Martyrs- like they have something worth fighting for."
"That's stupid."
"No kidding. Sit down right there- I'll grab some antiseptic and you can get patched up."
"You're making me do it myself?" Harry slouches onto a nearby bench, trying not to wince when his side screams in agony. "But you're like, my caregiver,and you're the one who wounded me."
Regulus turns toward a cart of medical supplies, and doesn't turn as Harry continues to complain.
"You can lick your own wounds, Harry. You're not a baby anymore."
"Licking wounds sounds very unsanitary," A new voice says, coming from the exit tunnel of the Arena's 'infirmary'. "As a medical professional, I think it's a really sh*tty idea."
Pansy stands leaning against the wall, her short hair curling above her shoulders with the post-summer humidity. She flashes Harry a sh*t-eating grin as she struts into the room, wearing one of Blaises's jumpers that looks suspiciously like one Harry lost a few weeks ago, but whatever. She breezes past Regulus on the medi-cart, grabbing rubbing alcohol and fluffy white bandages as she goes. She plops beside Harry on the bench, her eyes sparkling as she gestures to his torn shirt.
"Take if off," She says. "And do it quick, before I change my mind."
"I could kiss you right now," Harry sighs, relieved, tugging his shirt over his head with the arm that has the least bruises. Regulus barks a laugh at the familiar joke, but doesn't turn as he focuses on cleaning his own wounds. Pansy wrinkles her nose in disgust, tapping cotton balls into the bottle of alcohol before wiping them carefully down his side.
"Ew, don't say gross sh*t like that," She fake-gags, a smile breaking through when Harry laughs, then consequently groans in pain. "You really did a number on him, Uncle Reg. What did he do? Forget to clean his room again?"
"Not your uncle, and it's Regulus," Regulus replies, which is what he always says when Pansy calls him 'Uncle Reg', which is very frequently. "And Harry was being an ass about vacuuming yesterday, so I thought he deserved it."
"You sliced me open because I didn't want tovacuum?" Harry wails, sitting up off the wall so Pansy can wrap the bandage fully around his torso. "This is ridiculous. Child abuse, most definitely. I should report him to child services, right Pansy?"
"They don't want you either," Pansy snorts, ripping the end of the bandage with her teeth. "And you should know by now that I side with Uncle Reg on everything, because he's always right, and you're most definitely wrong."
"Thank you, Pansy," Regulus says, hiding his smile as he returns his extra supplies to the cart. "And I'm not your uncle, and it's Regulus."
Pansy ducks her head in acknowledgement, her sh*t-eating grin returning as her black bob swings with her.
"Understood, Uncle Reg."
"Stop calling him that, you'll give him an aneurysm," Harry teases, pushing himself to his feet. His side already feels a lot better just after being cleaned. Pansy's a miracle worker, and is definitely one of the best medics they have in their ranks. She does wonders on the training grounds, as well as the battlefield. "He's weak and frail as is."
"I forgot that Uncle Reg is an ancient old man," Pansy drawls, looping an elbow through Harry's as they follow a grunting Regulus back through the tunnel she came through. "Practically half in the grave, I'd say."
"Knocking on Death's door," Harry agrees.
"Nudging the bucket."
"Staring at the light."
"If you two don't stop talking, theleast of your worries will be my death ofold-age," Regulus hisses, blue-grey eyes flashing. He deflates slightly as they enter the common area, his shoulders slumping while he rubs at a sore rib. "You two take years off my life."
"Oh, Harry- wehaveto stop," Pansy says. "He doesn't have enough time left for us to be pining his life away."
"I agree," Harry says, flashing Regulus a toothy grin. "We have to preserve what's left of him for the time being."
Regulus hides a laugh behind a cough, muttering something about 'next session, it's the other side', before wandering into the HR barracks. Only the highest ranking officials are allowed to sleep in the main building- Harry and Regulus included. A handful of healers, generals, and members of the Sacred 28 take up the rest of the rooms, and the Dark Lord's suite takes up the entirety of the third floor. Harry and Regulus were moved in a little over a year ago, when they successfully took out a shipment of bombs bound for the Order, and wounded the few snipers Dumbledore had managed to recruit in time for the full moon.
The Dark Lord said that they had done more than enough to earn their spots at his high table, and they'd dutifully done their parts to stay there ever since. Harry had killed who he'd been told to kill, tortured who he'd been told to torture, and kidnapped who he'd been told to kidnap. Harry quickly found that when you liked the smell of copper, it didn't really matter how much blood was on your hands. Metal was metal, and praise was praise.
"You're a killer," The Dark Lord told him once."You have a darkness in you. I can see it in the way you wield a blade, and the way you aim a rifle,"
Harry had been surprised, because he'd never received such direct praise from the Dark Lord before. It was one thing to be told 'good job', or 'adequate work', for his killings- and another thing to be complimented on how he does them. His heart had swelled with something akin to pride, though not quite strong enough to make the cut.
"Thank you, my Lord. Regulus was an excellent teacher."
"That he is,"The Dark Lord had smiled, his lips thin and his skin pulling."I'm glad he had the foresight to keep you."
"Psst, earth-to-Potter," Pansy hisses, tugging at his sleeve beside him. "Did you hear anything I just said?"
"Definitely not," Harry confesses, blinking as he exits his mind and returns to his body. "Sorry, Pans. What were you saying?"
"f*cking boys," Pansy grumbles, her eyes fixed straight ahead. "I said: Look, it's the returning party," Pansy's lips twist into a cringe. "And they all look pissed."
Harry follows her gaze to the small group coming into the common area, all wearing battle-beaten black robes, and ripped skin covered in bloodstains. The party is significantly smaller than the one Harry had seen leave the morning before, which makes his stomach churn in an awful way.It must've been really bad, he notes.They didn't even bring back the bodies.
Pansy starts as Blaise stumbles from the throng, his cape ripped in half and a large gash splitting the skin above his left eye. He looks to be in better condition than most of the party, which is saying something, since he still looks like sh*t. Harry reaches Blaise before Pansy does, and makes quick work of supporting him on his shoulder, and dragging him over to a nearby couch. Some rich-born woman curses him for getting blood of the sofa, but one glare from Pansy is enough to send her huffing out of the room. Blaise groans heavily, muttering expletives as his head falls over the back of the couch, exposing his bruising neck.
"I need to get some things," Pansy says to Harry, harsh and quickly. "I'm going to the infirmary. Tell them I'll be right back with Madam Croft."
Harry nods and extends the message to the nearby group commander, Daphne, who makes quick work of spreading the message to her entire team.
"Come on, let's get your cape off," Harry says to Blaise, pulling his friend from the velvet couch to make quick work of his remaining cloth. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"
"Nope," He rasps, voice raw and grinding. The sound of it makes Harry shiver, and matches the purpling bruises scattering his neck. "I was one of the lucky ones."
"What the hell happened?" Harry asks, frowning as he uses a finger to push Blaise's jaw to the side, giving a better view of the wound. "It was just a supply jump, wasn't it? Did you get ambushed?"
"Not... exactly," Blaise starts. "We made it to jump zone fine, and were watching all of these shipments come in..." He pauses, eyes going dazed. "It was a lot of Phoenix higher-ups. Ones we never see on stupid sh*t like Recon. Moody. Weasley. Granger. Black."
As if the mention of his brother summons him, Regulus strides back into the common room, wearing a fresh set of robes, and a glare that could kill. The two boys watch as Regulus joins Daphne in the center of the room, talking in quiet hush before disappearing together in the stairwell- the one that leads to the Dark Lord's quarters. Harry blanches internally.It must've beenreallybad.
"Sirius was there?"
"Yeah. He and that sniper he's always with. The one with the floppy hair."
Remus, Harry thinks. Regulus certainly won't be happy to hear that Lupin is back and running again, especially after retiring so many years ago.
"Who else?" Harry presses, seeing Blaise's eyes start to drift shut. "Breathe, Zabini. Pansy's coming. Keep talking."
"Lupin, Moody, Granger, Black," Blaise groans. "The second-youngest Weasley. Stupid-faced one. The brothers were there too, the twins," Blaise's lips stretch into a cruel grin. "Greyback got one of them."
"Keep going," Harry says, watching as Pansy and Madam Croft burst back into the room, carries armfuls of medical supplies and solemn expressions. Pansy tosses Harry bandages, antiseptic, and a balm he assumes is for the bruises. He starts on Blaise's forehead while she begins working on the rest of the party, too busy grinding her teeth to speak to them. "What happened after you got there?"
"Daph split us in half, and we flanked the crates on both sides. Black was none the wiser, and their sniper was on the ground. Bomb-bitch Granger was already unpacking, and Moody had the Weasleys distracted. It all seemed so easy," Blaise's gaze turns dark. "And then, before we could even ambush,heshowed up."
Harry's blood goes cold in his veins.He? As in the commander of the Order? The General of the Rebellion?Hewas there?
"Dumbledore?" Harry whispers.
"No," Blaise spits. "Worse. His brand-new Angel."
Harry swallows, thick and angry. Even if Blaise isn't pleased, encountering one of Dumbledore's best foot soldiers is much better than actually encountering Saint Dumbledore himself. If they had, Harry doubts they'd be sitting here now, having this conversation.
"An angel? What do you mean?"
"The prat introduced himself before he f*cked us all over. Said he was the "Angel of Small Death", and was working for Dumbledore now. He told us to surrender, and we didn't," Blaise's eyes glaze over. "It was a f*cking massacre, Harry. I've never seen anyone in the Order fight like that, and once we'd started brawling, Black and his goons ran in too. Whatever they're doing, they're getting better at it."
"The Angel of Small Death," Harry wonders aloud. It's a name he's never heard before, but one that he won't so easily forget. Perhaps it's a reference to a long-lost deity, or something. It's on theme with Saint Dumbledore, at least. "Sounds pretentious."
"You're telling me," Blaise says, cracking a small smile. "I was laughing my ass off before the f*cker decided to slam me into a bomb crate. None of them went off, obviously. Or I'd be super dead."
"The Angel did this?" Harry asks, swiping the salve Pansy tossed him over Blaise's bruises. "I'll kill him."
"My hero," Blaise grunts rolling his eyes. "Andno. This was actually idiot-face Weasley. I got too close to Granger, I suppose, and he went apesh*t. Took Theo AND Daph to haul him off. I got a bullet in his leg, though, so I doubt he'll be at any rendezvous anytime soon," Blaise grins. "It's so easy to clip a bird's wings."
"Harry!" Regulus's voice sounds over the commotion in the room, dulling it considerably. "I need you. Get over here."
Harry glances between Blaise, Regulus, and the salve all over his fingers- before frowning.
"I'm kinda in the middle of-"
"Potter," Regulus hisses, his voice low and dangerous. The dull roar of the room falls near-silent. "TheDark Lordrequests your presence. I suggest you get f*cking moving."
And with that, he ducks back into the staircase, robes whirling and eyes flashing.
"I got it," Pansy says, suddenly appearing beside him. "Go, Harry."
Harry looks helplessly between his friends, apprehension crawling up his throat.
"But-"
"Go."
And Harry does.
He takes the stairs two at a time, arriving at the top of the banister in only a few minutes. His heart is pounding, his head is aching, and his stomach is churning. Harry is now facing the wrath of both Regulusand the Dark Lord, the only two people that he makes a pointnot to seriously piss off. If he makes it out of this summoning alive, and lives to tell the tale, it'll be a story that haunts him for generations.
The Dark Lord's quarters are expansive, and expensive, and are constantly guarded by combat sentries. Harry offers them a covert nod as he ducks into what is commonly called the 'War Room', but also serves as the Dark Lord's study. The shelves are lined with ancient artwork and even more ancient books, covertly disguising their yellowing pages with strong leather covers and gold-emboldened spines. Harry once wandered through the shelves, running his hands over the delicate bounds as he searched for a book on Astrology. He eventually found it, but not before stirring enough dust to leave him sneezing for days after.
Today, the study is almost entirely abandoned. A round, cherry wood table sits empty in the center of the room, looking entirely too bleak without a map stretched across it. The matching chairs have been pushed aside, all but for two, one on each hemisphere of the appliance. At one end sits Regulus. At the other, sits the Dark Lord Voldemort.
What Harry actually knows about the Dark Lord is very little, and he'd like to keep it that way. The King of the Death Eaters, once known as Tom Riddle, doesn't often engage in small, sit-down chats like this one. Harry's most often seen him prowling over a map of upper-east Europe, where the Order of the Phoenix have laid their claim to the land. He spends hours pouring over that spot, moving around figurines that represent footsoldiers, hitmen, and navy forces. Sometimes the borders change, as one side gains or loses land. Most of the time, they stay stationary. Today, that beloved map is in shreds on the ground, dappled with bloodstains.
"Welcome, Harry Potter," The Dark Lord says, lifting his gaze. His pupils are sharp, and angry, and somewhat remind Harry of a snake. People used to say that Tom Riddle was once a very attractive man, now only reduced to remnants after years of chemical testing. High cheekbones. Silken voice. Flawless skin. The rest of him is more monster, than man. Mere slits in place of his nose. Thin and cracking lips. Those snakelike eyes. "I appreciate your haste in joining us."
"I'm sorry I could not be here sooner, my Lord," Harry says, dipping his head in respect. The man might not be beautiful, but he's killed more people than Harry's ever seen, and for that, he deserves to be acclaimed. "Can I assume this has something to do with the recent Supply jump on the Western Front?"
"You assume correct," The Dark Lord sneers. "I believe you've already been filled in by Mr. Zabini, and will not be needing the gaps filled by Regulus or myself."
"No, my Lord."
"Excellent," Voldemort leans back into his seat, and crosses his spindly fingers under his chin. "Regulus, if you'd introduce Mr. Potter to his correlating next assignment."
"Yes, my Lord," Regulus chimes, glancing at Harry long enough to draw him forward. "Just reassurance, but you've spoken with Blaise about our new...adversary?"
"The Angel of Small Death," Harry says, chills running down his spine, and not because the Dark Lord's eyes are following him. "That's what Blaise called him."
"The Angel of Small Death, indeed," The Dark Lord smiles, bearing sharp and glaring teeth. "Do you know how many soldiers he killed today, Harry?"
"I don't."
"Seventeen. Ten all on his own. Have you ever heard of a Phoenix turning so violent? Killing so many just because they can?"
Harry's mouth feels entirely too dry. Regulus isn't looking at him.
"I haven't, my Lord."
"Of course not," Voldemorts says, playing his elbows on the table, and using the backs of his hands to prop up his chin. "Because this Angel isn't a Phoenix. Not at all."
"I'm sorry, I'm not sure I understand," Harry questions. "Blaise said that-"
"Harry," Regulus sighs, his eyes closed. "The Angel is one of ours."
The temperature in the room drops a few dozen degrees. Harry can feel the goosebumps rolling across his skin, anchored in place by Regulus's words, repeating over and over in his mind.One of ours.
"Miss Greengrass was smart enough to get a physical description of the Angel- one I think you'd be inclined to hear," The Dark Lord dips his head. "Regulus."
Regulus looks downright ill.
"My Lord-"
"Read it."
"Steel gray robes, long sleeves. No discernible features besides an ornately-carved mask. Stark blonde hair," Regulus's voice falters slightly. "Around 6'1", or 6'2". Lean but muscular build. Skilled in hand-to-hand combat, but preferred long-range. Two daggers. One gun. Used blades for killing,"
Harry's chest feels cold.
"Exhibited traits similar to those found in Death Eater training barrage,"
His throat feels tight.
"Exposed hands showed pale skin,"
His fingers twitch.
"And when exposed without the mask, shared a striking resemblance with the deceased- Draco Malfoy."
Harry's going to be sick.
Sick, because Draco is dead. He has been, for a really, really long time. Harry's cried over it. Wailed to the heavens. Torn apart his combat partners, and after that didn't fix him, tore apart himself.
Harry Potter has been building himself back up for the past two years, because Draco's death shattered him. He's been searching through shadows, combing through clusters, and dusting shelves just to find the smallest scattered shards of himself. He buried Draco in the ground, and part of Harry went with him.
"Draco Malfoy is dead."
"Unfortunately, it seems that he is not," Voldemort's voice is like a blade in his ears, dragging down, drawing blood. "As you can understand, defectives from our ranks are extreme liabilities."
"He knows the code of conduct, my Lord," Regulus says, his voice just as sharp, but not trained at Harry. "It is a very serious offense to leave your ranks, with a very clear punishment if one does."
"Wonderful," The Dark Lord claps his hands together, turning to meet Harry's gaze. "I'm sure you can already expect what I'm going to ask of you."
Harry does. He really wishes he didn't. He's being addressed, so he has to respond.
"I do, my Lord."
"Harry Potter, can you fell me an Angel?"
Harry doesn't want to, but the worst part is, he knows he can.
"Yes, my Lord."
