Harry

Two months ago, he had told Kingsley about the box that he and Draco had found.

About the pictures on the floor, and the effort it took to open it, how Hermione thought they deserved a chance to look at if before the ministry took it away About the journal inside, the maps, the notes, the letters between Mad-Eye and Dumbledore. How despite everything they went through, it seemed like it still might not be over.

Kingsley had sifted through all of it, the expression on his face never changing. Harry wanted to ask what he was thinking but bit down on his lip instead, hard enough that he knew there would be a mark left behind. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. “So?”

Kingsley didn’t answer right away, just reached up and fiddled with the gold hoop earring he always wore. Harry tried to tell himself that was a sign of a leader who thinks before he speaks rather than a nervous tick. “Might be nothing.”

“But it might be something.” Harry didn’t want it to be anything, because this, those names staring up at him and the people Mad-Eye had said they killed, those were still his responsibility, his fight.

“It might be,” Kingsley snaps the leather journal he was leafing through shut, and shoved it all into his desk drawer, like he was putting away meddlesome paperwork. “Just let me deal with it.”

“But—”

“Potter.” He was the kind of man who inspires confidence, and Kingsley is able to stop any protests with only a few words and a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Let me handle it. I’ll let you know if I turn anything up. But until then?” He’s ushering Harry out of the office, and Harry could imagine him locking the door behind him, opening that drawer back up, andbing through it, because they both knew that even though people called Mad-Eye crazy, he knew a threat when he saw one. “Don’t tell anyone.”

That was two months ago, and Harry had tricked himself into thinking that maybe it wasn’t a real problem, that the fight was actually over.

He thought that, but now he’s having an Order meeting in his kitchen.

He really thought that this part of his life was done and over with, but apparently not, because here he was, calling for quiet in his own house with the remnants of the Order and Dumbledore’s Army staring back at him.

Dumbledore’s Army, he thinks, in those few seconds between being a friend and bing a leader again, looking at them all gathered here like some sorry class reunion. What a sorry bunch we make.

In the end, it is Ginny that gets all of their attention, standing up on a chair and whistling. She stumbles on the way back down, and there are snickers, but it stops as soon as he stands.

Once before, he had stood in front of a crowded room and told them that they were going to look for something, not knowing that he wasmanding them all to go to war, to fight for him, to die for him. Now, he has learned, and knows exactly what it means when he asks for their help.

“Mad-Eye left us a job to do.” He had decided on absolute honesty, because Dumbledore had always been caught up in a web of lies and half truths, and Harry didn’t not want to be that kind of leader. “We—Draco, Hermione, Ron and I—found a journal up in the attic, telling us about the people he suspects that were still out there, hiding, biding their time. Ones that might not have been supporters of Voldemort, but who were just waiting to ride the tide of his defeat to their own power, like he did with Grindewald.”

There’s a noticeable flinch when he said Voldemort’s name, but he ignores it, and moves to the blank wall instead, rolling down the spreadsheet that Draco had spent last night painstakingly creating. It listed the names and locations of suspects, their crimes, what they might be planning to do. Wizarding terrorists, hate crimes waiting to happen. “Kingsley came to me last night, which is why I asked you all here.” He felt nervous, more than he ever had before, because it was one thing to ask them to fight when they are young and think that war brings glory, but it is another when they have felt the truth of it. “These are the most credible threats.”

“And what’s that got to do with us?” Ge called out from the back of the group, his voice tight and angry. Harry tried not to flinch at the tone of his words—this was not an easy situation, and ever since the loss of his ear and the absence of Fred to hide behind, Ge hasn’t done well in crowds of people. The anger, he reminded himself, wasn’t directed at him. “The ministry can’t handle it?”

“The ministry is…inadequate for this particular situation.” Harry knew he had to choose his words carefully, unless Kingsley came after him for revealing secret information. “There’s still some concern of corruption, and this is sensitive information. We have to handle it independently, like we did before.”

There were only blank stares. “And why should we?” It was Ge again, sullen, angry, hurting. “How much more do they expect us to give?” He shook his head, then stood up so fast his chair fell to the floor. “No. I’m sorry, Harry, but I’m done.”

And then he walked out.

Harry didn’t really know what to do with that, because one of the constants of his life is that when it is time to fight, there have always been people willing to stand beside him, even when he wasn’t asking them to. And now that he was asking them to, he was getting no volunteers, no one to stand beside him, only Ron and Hermione standing silently behind him, like guards.

(And Draco, who was across the room, hidden in the back, but Harry was trying not to look at him because it was more distracting than anything else.)

“Look,” He said, weakly, and words were not enough to explain why they should let themselves be drawn back into this. “You don’t have to. I get that, that you’ve given enough. But someone has to do this, and I’m going to try, even if I have to do it alone.” The only response was a tilt of the head from Ginny, a silent agreement passing across the room that told him he didn’t even have to ask. As for the rest, they still looked uncertain. “I’d like some help.”

It was Percy who ended up breaking the silence, leading the rest to the cause. “I’ll fight.” He shoved his glasses up his nose, a gesture born from nerves “Was late to the last fight. Might as well make up for it now.”

Harry swallowed hard, then nodded, grasping onto Percy’s hand when it was offered. “Good,” He said, talking around the emotions welling up in his throat. “We’ll need you.”

He ends up alone with Seamus, staring at the Black family tree. Seamus was tracing all the burn marks, and Harry could not stop staring at the mark that used to bear his godfather’s face. He didn’t know why the thing was still up.

(Probably Kreacher.)

“You don’t have to do this, you know.” Harry knows he should have left it alone, but when he saw Seamus in the back, pale faced and looking like he was facing the worst thing imaginable, he had felt the guilt ball up in his stomach. “You’ve done enough.”

“And what, just sit and watch all the others fight?” He laughed, a sharp and biting sound that cut through the air. “I don’t think so.”

“But—”

“But I tried to off myself once and everyone’s afraid I’ll do it again?” There was no laugh now, just tense anger falling off the sharp line of his shoulders. “Don’t worry, Harry. I can fight just as well as I could before.”

“That’s not…” He sighed and scrubbed at his face, tired, wishing they had all left him alone. That’s all he ever wanted, was to be left alone. “That’s not what I meant, Seamus.”

“I know.” He didn’t look the same, but there were flashes of the old Seamus shining through at odd moments, like when instead of a hug he turned and punched Harry as hard as he could in the arm, like that meant everything was iven. Harry thinks he is still expecting to see all the old versions of his friends when he looks at them, never mind that those people left him long ago. “It’s alright, Harry.”

They move away from the tapestry without talking about it, like they didn’t want to see the reminder of it anymore “Besides,” Seamus grins, then, and an image of him smiling through a mouthful of blood flashes in Harrys mind, the memories rising up at the worst times. “I’ve got some people to pay back, don’t I?”

Revenge. They all have their things they hang onto in order to get themselves through the day, and it seems that Seamus has found his.

When the house clears, it is only him and Draco, alone.

They’re cleaning up the kitchen, throwing away bottles and evaporating the leftover food. Harry can tell that Draco is following behind him and cleaning the spots he missed, even though it really didn’t make a difference. It was still the cleanest house to have ever existed.

“You really think this will keep going?” Draco asks. His voice was so quiet that Harry barely heard him, but he felt it, too, the need to talk about important things in hushed voices, like it might make them less real. “More fighting?”

“I think we have to try.” Harry said, and it was ridiculous that they were talking about battle plans while he was holding a wash rag in his hand. “We can’t just give in.”

“You could.” Draco didn’t need to talk loud, now, because he was close enough that Harry was reminded of that almost kiss in front of Hermione’s apartment. We can’t, Draco had said, tearing himself away, and then Harry was left staring at empty air. “You could let someone else handle it, for once. Give them a turn to be a hero.”

Harry wanted to. He had wanted to feel what it was like to live a normal life, where the nightmares weren’t visiting him every night and he wouldn’t be wishing that all his friends woulde home safely from a mission he had sent them on. “I can’t just walk away.” Draco’s hands had found his way to the pockets of Harry’s hoodie, and Harry didn’t know what to do with that. He wanted to push him away, like Draco had pushed him away. “That’s not who I am.”

Draco smiled, then, a beautiful and wistful expression on his face. “I know.” His hands reached out to smooth down Harry’s hair, trying to tame the wild tangle that it always forms, and then it fell away, disappearing. “I’m going to help you this time.”

Harry didn’t want that. He wanted Draco safe, at home, where Harry didn’t have to worry. But there was no cause for that kind of treatment, when Draco was insisting that they were nothing more than flatmates. “Okay.” He grabbed onto his hand, but Draco just shook his head. No, he had said and must have meant it. We can’t

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