Temptation on the Warfront

10

Harry hits the forest floor hard, damp leaves clogging his throat and his wand digging painfully into the crease of his elbow. He coughs and splutters, tries to sit up, but he's had the air knocked out of him, and moving is difficult.

Images from the last hour are dancing behind his eyelids — Umbridge's outraged expression before being stunned — the screams of muggleborns and halfbloods as they were chased by an endless number of dementors — hundreds of fliers with his own face plastered on the front, blocking his vision — Hermione's hand reaching for his and Ron's as they vaulted into the Floo Network.

Now, Hermione's calling his name, and Harry barely has time to register their success before he latches onto a whimpering sound, like someone's dying, and Harry's panic increases drastically. He reaches a hand out to find his glasses, shoves them onto his face, and then struggles onto his knees.

Sharp twigs cut through the now too-loose trousers, but Harry doesn't care, he only crawls to where Hermione kneels over Ron, her hands covered in red — in blood. "Mione— what — Ron —"

"Harry — my bag — quick!"

What's left of the afternoon light seeps in through the trees, making the shadows darker than they should be. Harry finds it, Hermione's small beaded bag, and with shaking hands he opens it, following her croaking instructions and accioing a small bottle of dittany.

"What — what happened to Ron— where are we!?" Harry's breathless, and he can't focus properly, can't look away from the gaping flesh wound on his best mate's shoulder. Ron thrashes his head from side to side, and Hermione whines, pleads for him to hold still.

"Ron's been splinched."

Harry winces, and when she doesn't reply to his other question his panic morphs into something bigger, spreading out to encompass the person they left behind, "Why're we here? Hermione!?"

Hermione throws an anxious glance over her shoulder at him, like she doesn't have a moment to spare, and rushes out, "Yaxley grabbed hold of me as we disapparated and I couldn't shake him off — and then we landed on the doorstep and I — I couldn't — we couldn't stay there!"

Harry's eyes widen, and it takes him one, two gasping inhales to realise what this means. "But Malfoy —"

"Forget him, Harry — we can't go back!"

"But —"

"Harry, don't you see? This was going to happen on Friday anyway — and even if the plan had gone smoothly we mightn't have been able to go back! It was becoming too dangerous — the Death Eaters knew someone was inside — they just didn't know how to get in!" Hermione turns back to Ron, brushes her trembling hands over his face. "Ron — it's okay —"

Harry doesn't listen, he tunes everything out, and his ears start to ring. They lead Yaxley right onto the doorstep, which means he's now a Secret Keeper, and could bring any number of Death Eaters back with him. Back to Malfoy. Wandless, defenceless, stupid Malfoy.

Harry doesn't see Hermione begin to circle around them, putting up warding spells, he only stands numbly, the Horcrux around his neck weighing him down. Harry's hand is shaking as he tears the tie from around his neck and then tucks the locket under his shirt, alongside Hagrid's pouch.

He grabs his rucksack from where it lies strewn at his feet, and then shrugs it on his shoulder after pulling out his invisibility cloak.

"Harry — Harry, what are you doing?" Hermione's looking at him now, stress in every inch of her body.

"I'm going back." His voice is thick with resolution, and he throws a worried glance at the now unconscious Ron.

"You can't —"