Please Be There If I Remember

Chapter Fifty-Five: Hazy

Crimson liquid stained the side of Draco's school robes, and sharp pain blossomed on the edge of his skin as the cutting curse sailed past his heart, instead latching onto his side. Draco shot a curse back at his assailant.

The cut didn't seem deep, but the pain was searing, and he lost his footing as another green light was poured his way. Loose magic from the fighting clogged his already stuffed senses. He was exhausted—physically and mentally—and fear was holding him hostage with a firm grip around his lungs. At least Harry seemed to be faring better.

The two had been split up when a large, black mass had come hurtling between them, and Harry's attention had immediately drifted to Lucius as he and Sirius—I'm pretty sure that's my second cousin—fought his father. Draco would have joined if Avery hadn't come back with a snarl, and now he was stuck fighting a full-fledged Death Eater with very little practice in his arsenal.

Draco noticed belatedly that he was losing.

"Confringo!" he yelled, a bright yellow string extending from his wand as it soared toward the man. It missed, hitting the far wall where an explosion ripped its way across the dark brick.

Avery noticed his distraction.

"Crucio!" He seethed, and when Draco turned back, a shield on his lips, red blocked his vision, and he was hit.

Fire.

Draco was on fire.

His very nerves had been set alight, and like a torch, Draco screamed. A sob was ripped from his throat, and the pain, oh Merlin, the pain.

It was as though someone was tearing apart his body apart—his skin was peeling, his bones unmaking, his heart was burning, and though it had been seconds, it must have been hours for it didn't stop, it wouldn't leave—

Draco breathed.

His body stopped writhing, and after a moment he breathed again. Distantly, he was aware that he had fallen to the floor, and his side began to hurt more, but it was nothing, could never be anything, compared to the tear of the Cruciatus curse.

His whole body twitched, shivering as though he'd been dropped in ice, even though his insides felt hot and blistered. When he opened his eyes, his heartbeat jumped and skittered.

A slash of bright orange hair flowed through his vision, and through his slitted eyes he saw that someone had thrown Avery to the ground and was pummeling him with fists.

It was Ron.

For a moment, Draco thought he was hallucinating—that maybe he was still under the curse, and this was his brain's way of coping, of trying to stop the surge of pain. But it looked so real, blood splattering Ron's freckles and moans of agony coming from the curled-up Death Eater on the floor.

When he stopped writhing, Ron stopped punching, and with a grunt, he yanked Avery's wand off the floor and snapped it in two.

Looking back at him, his face scrunched up, as though he was embarrassed.

"I didn't do this for you. I did it for Harry, alright? And, uh...you okay, mate?"

Draco could only nod shakily as Ron stared at him for one more moment before turning and joining the fight again. Draco wondered oddly at how so much could have changed—he knew, somewhere in a faraway part of his mind, that Ron wasn't really telling the truth. That the yell of outrage and power behind the punches was something that couldn't be faked, and it wasn't all for Harry.

Ron had done it to save him, or at least partially. Rolling over on his stomach, he used his arms to sit upright, his stomach churning at the movement, even though he knew that there was nothing left in it but bile.