Archive of Our Own

Harry, unable to keep his eyes open, feels himself lifted by claws, as if he’s a lifeless corpse, and he knows he’s being taken from the arena. What he doesn’t understand is how. He’s not dead. His heart is thumping against his chest, beating a manic rhythm against his ribcage, the stuttering contractions tangling around his lungs. His blood is pumping and he’s bleeding, but he’s not dead. How can they be taking him before he’s dead? He flinches as he’s consumed by the machine that will take him away from the games, like the other, less fortunate Tributes before him.

He knows he’s moving, but he learns no more than that before unconsciousness takes him. 

Harry wakes up slowly, and feels a soft, unfamiliar bed underneath him. He’s dizzy, and when he opens his eyes, and the lights are blinding. Harry tries not to vomit as he struggles to sit upright, his limbs feeble and shaking. Hands wrap around his shoulders, easing him back down, and he struggles as he blinks away the black spots dominating his vision. 

He face he sees is familiar, and unwelcome.

“Severus!” He slaps the man’s hands away, cringing from his touch. “What the hell is this?!”

Snape backs away, but he doesn’t retreat entirely.

“You’ve an interesting way of showing gratitude. Calm down. You’re putting too much strain on your body.”

Harry grimaces. 

“What the hell should I be grateful to you for?! You’re-”

His chest grows tight, and he starts coughing before he can finish the thought. Severus puts an arm around him while he’s too weak to struggle, doing something with the machine by the bed. The tightness begins to recede. He gasps, blood rushing through his limbs. 

“What’s wrong with me?” He splutters.

“Side-effects of the failsafe. You were taken out of the arena in a transport ship designed for dead tributes, not live ones. The chemicals inside it were supposed to guarantee your death, and prevent your escape.”

Harry blinks, staring at Severus, taking in the room around them. It’s nowhere he’s ever been, too dark to be the Capitol, too well-equipped to be home.

“Where am I?”

Snape smiles, but there’s malice in it.

“Welcome to District Thirteen.”

The machine beside him beeps, and he slips back into unconsciousness. 

He feels someone watching him before he’s fully awake again, and he struggles out of sleep, the haze sedation draped heavily over his body. His limbs feel lax and impotent. His mouth works, and Harry swallows before he realizes that someone is feeding him water. He coughs, chest twitching. He recovers before he can finally open his eyes.

“Draco.”

The other boy’s lips quirk.

“Welcome back, lover.”

Harry hisses, startling to attentiveness, then hisses as a phantom pain in his side draws him back down to the mattress. 

“You,” he snarls.

Draco nods. “Me.”

Frantic, Harry tries to remember where he is, the sleep-muddled parting words from Severus. He struggles upright, despite the quiet sounds of protest from Draco as he does. Glaring, Harry takes a gasping breath.

“You were going to kill me.”

Draco stiffens.

“If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.”

Harry scowls, trying to remember- everything. Anything. He remembers blood trickling down his neck, and pain. And Draco, his face hovering, the image blurred and confused. He shakes his head, trying to sort through his memories, occluded at turns by pain and sedatives. Draco waits, still and stoic, as Harry sorts through what he knows for sure, what he suspects, and what he’s not sure he believes. Finally, sighing, he looks up at Draco.

“Is this real?”

Draco nods.

“Extremely real.”

“I’m not in the arena anymore.”

“No.”

Harry swallows.

“Severus said I’m in District Thirteen. But District Thirteen is gone. I’ve seen the footage.”

Draco shakes his head.

“You’ve seen footage, yes. The same footage, year after year. We can go outside if you like, later.”

Harry grits his teeth.

“Why should I believe you?”

Draco cocks his head at him.

“Tell me Harry: what’s more likely? Severus and I somehow abducted you out of the games, at great personal risk. And only to construct an elaborate lie about an abandoned district, for our own nefarious entertainment, or,” he swallows a breath. “That President Riddle has been lying to you?”

Harry gulps. He’s not sure what to say to that.

Groaning, Draco stands, stretching. 

“The chairs here are criminal. No back support. Do you have any idea how long I sat there waiting for you?” He shakes his head. “I supposed it’s too much to expect a lick of gratitude from you.”

“What?!” Harry splutters, struggling with the blankets. “Gratitude?! For what?!”

Draco taps his own forearm; there’s a jagged scar across his skin.

“This. The Capitol would have been able to find you if I’d left it in. They couldn’t rescue you with it in.”

Harry blinks, feeling his own arm, remembering the cold bite of steel against his skin. 

Stop Harry. It’s over.

“You had an escape plan. From the beginning.”

Draco tosses him a mock salute.

“The boy who lived, and fuck the odds, he’s finally figured it out.”

“But I don’t understand.” Harry shakes his head. “If you knew you were getting out, why drag me along?”

Draco glowers.

“You’ve got it backwards, Potter. You’ve got all the pieces, and you’re still too thick to put it all together.”

Harry’s fists tangle in the covers, trying to get out of bed. He swings his feet around the edge with a grimace.

“Tell me.”

Draco watches his feeble attempt without a glimmer of pity.

“You were my escape plan, Potter. The ships, the secrecy, everything about the games themselves were about you, they always were. I had to do whatever it took to get you out. And in return, I got to tag along.”

Harry glares, remembering the last moments of the games with sudden, visceral clarity. 

“That’s all?”

Draco tenses, before he smirks.

“That’s all.”

I think I did love you. I want you to know.

Biting back an ache he’s not willing to explore, Harry steps forward, leaning on the bed for support, his tired legs wobbly, as if they’ve forgotten what it means to stand. 

“Why? Why me? What’s so special about me? Why was I worth the risk?”

Draco shakes his head, no longer surprised by Harry’s capacity for obtuse questions. 

“You’re the phoenix, Harry. You’re going to rise from the ashes, and lead the starving masses of Panem to rebellion.”

Harry has nothing to say to that. He’s left with the words all caught in his mouth, the sound of Draco’s footsteps receding the only company he has left. 

“They’ll all be killed!”

Harry scans the bland, unamused faces of the council. Severus is scowling in a corner, unsurprised by the spectacular failure the meeting has been so far. Blank, wan faces regard his tantrum without amusement. President Moody’s mechanical eye spins, scanning Harry without a trace of remorse. Finally, Harry appeals to Remus.

“You can’t agree with this. You know what they’ll do to everyone back home. The minute they see my face on screen, alive and well, everyone in District Twelve is dead.” He crosses his arms. “I won’t do it.”

Lupin spreads his open hands over the table.

“Harry, we haven’t got much choice.”

Harry grits his teeth. In the corner of his eye, he sees Severus shaking his head. 

“I told you, this was a waste of time. The boy doesn’t understand how to prioritize.”

Snarling, Harry turns on Snape, He’s ready to unleash all the pent up rage he’s been containing since he first saw the bastard’s sneering face on television, and knew he was the man that killed his father. A quiet voice behind him stops him, though Lupin is standing and ready to step between them if necessary. 

“The solution is obvious, really.” Everyone looks at Luna, present only due to her incredible skill as an engineer. She blinks, her eyes wide and sparkling, even in the gloom of the council chambers, where even the light is rationed. 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to explain it to us, Luna.” Remus takes a step closer to Severus. “We seem to be missing the point.”

She smiles.

“Well. If Harry’s right, District Twelve will be burned to the ground when the Capitol realizes what’s happened. We need to let them.”

Harry shakes his head, but Severus cuts off his retort.

“If only he would see reason-”

“No.” Luna shakes his head. “We need to let them burn down the District. Not the people who live there.”

Harry blinks as he realizes what Luna’s getting at.

“You mean bring them here.”

She nods. Moody grunts.

“Impossible. We don’t have the manpower, or the space, or the time!” He slams his fist down on the table. “The Capitol is vulnerable now! In a month, in a year, they won’t be! We have to strike while we’re still ahead.”

Harry shakes his head.

“Then do it. But until everyone I know will be safe, you’ll have to do it without me.”

Brooding and miserable, Harry strides back to his bunk. He can’t deal with another reproachful glare from Severus, Or, for that matter, the grating concern from Lupin, or the expectations of his so-called rescuers. At the sound of hushed voices, Harry doubles back, searching for the source of the sound. Peering inside an abandoned storage closet, the sound grows more distinct. He recognizes Draco’s voice, rasping with menace.

“Get off, Barty.” There’s a scuffle, and something falls from one of the shelves. Harry backs away, not wanting to be seen, but their argument is consuming the two, and don’t notice his presence. 

“Calm down, Draco. Someone will hear.”

There’s another scuffle, and something shatters.

“Then step away,” Draco growls. “Our arrangement is over.”

“It’s over when I say,” there’s a low rumble. “And not before…”

There’s a loud snap, and a baritone yelp. Before Harry can step back, Barty Crouch stumbles into the corridor, clutching his cheek. A few fat droplets of blood trickle through his fingers. Glaring at Harry, he darts into the shadows, headed for the council chambers. 

“You never saw that.”

Harry spins. Draco stands in the doorway, tucking in his disarrayed robes. He’s unsettled, his breathing ragged, his hair just slightly askew, and his cheeks are pale. 

“Are you all right?”

Draco’s expression turns sour as he lets loose a bitter scoff.

“If we agree on anything, let it be at least there is no pity between us.”

“I don’t pity you!”

Draco laughs, but he doesn’t argue. 

“Just keep what you saw to yourself.”

“But he was-”

“He’s useful.” Draco grits his teeth, and he forces his next words out in a staccato hiss. “Now that Plutarch is dead, Barty Crouch is one of our only spies in the games.” He glances at Harry, his eyes hooded in the gloom. “You didn’t know, did you? That was his punishment for your disappearance. The official word is, he’s on holiday. I suppose it’s true.” His lips quirk. “Death must be a holiday, compared to this.”

Harry shakes his head.

“It’s not right. He was going to-” 

“But he didn’t. I took care of it.”

“That didn’t sound taken care of.”

Draco eyes him.

“Are you so jealous of my honor, Potter? I’m afraid I tarnished it long before you came along.”

Harry feels himself flush. 

“Because that meant so much to you.”

Draco shrugs.

“Maybe it did. Don’t presume to know me, Potter.”

Harry glares, quelling the urge to reach out and strangle the other boy. 

“You told me I was your escape plan. That I was the reason you got out alive.”

Draco nods.

“And your performance as such was admirable. But, as entertaining as your sense of propriety is, I won’t have you mucking up the rebellion any more than you already have. You will not disclose Barty’s interests to anyone. He’s too essential. And anyway,” he swallows. “It’s not your secret to share.”

Draco tries to slide past him, but Harry catches his shoulder, forcing him back.

“You can’t really care.”

Draco cocks an eyebrow.

“About which thing, Potter? Be specific.”

“About the rebellion. You said-”

“I don’t. Ideology is meaningless. This regime will be just as miserable as the last. The only difference will be the players warming the seats of leadership. I intend to come out of this war on the winning side.”

Harry stiffens.

“You’re only looking out for yourself.”

“As I have always done. Seeing as nobody else is concerned about my well-being, I don’t think a little self preservation is out of order.” He cocks his head at Harry. “You would do well to take after me. If not for yourself, then for the people you care about.”

Harry rolls his eyes.

“The best thing I can do for them is nothing.”

“Wrong.”

“They want me to be a spokesperson for the war. For their war. I’m not naive, no matter what you think. The minute I step in front of the camera, the lives of everyone I’ve ever known will be forfeit.”

Draco nods.

“As things stand now, you’re correct. I propose a solution.”

Harry shakes his head.

“I can’t trust you.”

Draco scoffs.

“Because I was your enemy in the Arena?”

“Because you used me.”

Imperious, Draco rolls his eyes. 

"Of course I did. Don't be obtuse. I told you from the start that I intended to live."

Harry does grab him then, slamming him up against the wall. He snarls, one hand around his throat, the other hand caressing his cheek with a dangerous amount of pressure. 

"What are you here for then? You got what you wanted. You're not dead yet."

The other boy smirks, impervious to the pain, though his breath is rasping beneath the weight of Harry’s grip. His posture is nonchalant as he touches Harry’s hands. Not gripping, not struggling, just skin over skin, and Harry curses the electric feeling. As if every sense is igniting his nerves underneath Draco’s fingertips. Just biology. Just memory. Just senses. 

"Maybe I feel like returning the favor."

“It won’t work.”

Harry scowls at Severus, sitting across from him at the table, arms crossed. The man returns Harry’s glare, his expression icy.

“You don’t know that.”

Severus rolls his eyes.

“It’s a tactical nightmare. Too many people, too much room for error. We have no means of communicating with the people on the ground. And we still have no place to put them. We have limited resources here, Potter. Now, if you are quite finished wasting our time here…”

“Actually.” Luna grasps Harry’s hand underneath the table, quieting him. “I’ve been doing some calculations with Aberforth. If the timeline for the invasion goes as planned, we have enough resources to last.” She smiles. “The only thing we don’t have is manpower. And District Twelve has that in abundance.”

Severus glowers at them.

“Children. Injured miners. Starving civilians. What use are they to us? We don’t have a guarantee any of them will enlist.”

Harry closes his eyes, remembering Hermione’s arms around him before he boarded the train, wiry and strong beneath her loose dress. Old Bathilda Bagshot selling rat soup at the market. Ron, putting in tesserae every year to help feed the vast Weasley brood. Neville, beaten half to death by Peacekeepers when he kept them from using a starving kid for target practice. Ginny, bold and fierce, determined to hunt with him in the woods, despite her mother’s protests. His parents’ faces, displayed year after year, a macabre memorial to their tragic love story an annual precursor to Hunger Games. Susan Bones, eyes wide and determined as she stepped off her platform a second early. 

“They’ll fight. Put a weapon on their hands and an army at their backs, and they’ll lead the charge.”

The silence is raw. To his left, Remus leans back in his chair, nodding thoughtfully.

“Harry is probably right. We could triple our numbers, and the Capitol would be none the wiser.” He rubs his hands through his gloves. “And it would be striking image.” He glances at Harry. “You’d do it? After we got everyone out safely?”

Harry gulps.

“After everyone is out. Yes. I’ll do whatever you want.” He thinks of Draco without meaning to. “All I want is to keep the people I care about safe. This is the only way.”

Harry opens his eyes, trembling. 

His fists tangle in the sheets and his throat is raw from screaming. He struggles to remember District Thirteen, not obliterated by bombs, but thriving beneath the surface, and plotting its rebirth. He gasps. His room is pitch black, the power rationed and turned off automatically at night, an artificial cycle of darkness and light. Not a forest. There’s no rockslide. No Pansy Parkinson grinning, cheeks spattered with blood. No fire lapping at his heels. 

He groans, willing the tremors in his chest to subside. He wraps himself in a blanket, shivering. Not safe. He’s never been safe. 

Knowing he won’t be able to fall back asleep, he gets dressed and leaves him room. The council chambers are abandoned, so late at night. Without turning on the light, Harry finds the remote to the television hooked up to the Capitol broadcasts. He knows how to find what he’s looking for by now.

Seventeen years ago, James Potter sat across from a younger, less altered version of Rita Skeeter. The stage is wide and the lights are bright. His father was tall and wiry, definitely from the Seam. His unruly black hair coiffed and primped by some stylist. He looks uncomfortable decked out in clothing that Harry assumes cost more than a months’ worth of rations for a small family. His expression is hard. Even though Harry’s seen this footage a thousand times before, it still gives him a thrill of pride to think that his father didn’t play along with the charade. James adopts the posture of a soldier about to go to war, sitting with his back straight, his shoulders wide. Not exactly photogenic. 

“James, is there anything you’d like to say to the folks back home who might be cheering for you?”

James grins, and his eyes turn feral.

“Lily. I’m coming back for you. You and our son.” He lets the gasps wash over the audience. “Think of a good name for him. I’ll tell him I love him soon.”

Harry closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to see the rest. 

Harry doesn’t understand what she’s talking about most of the time, but Luna is kind, and she was on his side in his argument with the council. She’s odd, but he trusts her more than most, and she was clever enough to survive the games and orchestrate their escape. And until District Twelve evacuates, she’s also the only friend he has. 

He wouldn’t be friends with Draco even if the other boy hadn’t been avoiding him since Harry had seen him with Barty. 

“See Harry? This will keep the cameras from noticing what’s happening. The Capitol will just see a loop. See?”

He doesn’t, but he nods anyway. Luna smiles.

“It’s all right if you don’t. The important thing is that it will work.” She stretches. “If you have time, there’s something I would like you to see.”

She leads him down, further down than he thought the complex could go. Harry feels his ears popping as they descend further into the earth, the stairs and corridors lit with dim lamps. The air feels damp and thin, devoid of oxygen, but Luna walks with a mantle of surety, familiar with every odd twist and turn. The concrete walls all look the same to Harry. The numbers on the doors are meaningless to him, but when she stops and nods, she looks certain.

“It’s through here.”

He opens the door. Beside him, Luna turns on the lights. They flicker and swell, illuminating the carvings on the wall. Harry traces the words underneath his fingers. they wrap around the walls, covering them entirely. 

“What is this?” He turns to see her smiling.

“It’s the Order of the Phoenix.” She gestures to the wall. “Every name. Anyone who’s died for this. For you, Harry.”

He gulps.

“I never asked anyone to die for me.”

She shakes her head.

“I know you didn’t. But you’re going to. Very soon.”

“No.” He rasps. “I don’t want that.”

“Harry.” Her voice is quiet and smooth. “People are already dying. They’re going to keep dying. You’re the one that can give people something worth dying for. You can make a difference.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

In response, she traces her fingers over the intricate carvings, tracing circles and lines. “Here.” Her fingertips rest on two names in particular. She lifts them. “Look, Harry.”

He squints, the words difficult to read in the dim light. When he does, he feels his eyes go wide, not trusting himself.

“Luna.”

“James Potter.” She whispers. “And Lily Evans.”

He blinks.

“They weren’t here. They couldn’t have been.”

Luna nods.

“They were part of the network. District Thirteen has been fighting for a long time.”

Harry swallows, and his throat still feels dry.

“You think they would have wanted me to? To…fight this war?”

She shrugs.

“I think they would have wanted you to be safe.”

He’s not fully conscious when he realizes the hands around his shoulders aren’t reaching for his throat. He’s being comforted. Harry claws at the blankets, struggling even as a calm, distant voice leads him back through the bloodshed of another gruesome nightmare. 

Wiping tears from his eyes, he blinks up at Draco Malfoy, and thinks that his night terrors must be playing a cruel joke on him. 

“What do you want?!” He curls up into himself, backing up against the wall. Draco cocks his head to the side.

“A full night’s sleep, which I haven’t had in a month, thanks to you.” He nods, gesturing at Harry’s face. “And from the looks of it, you haven’t either.”

“Piss off.” Harry hits his teeth. “So sorry I can’t just walk away from a massacre with my psyche intact. Some of us have empathy.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “I never said I was intact. Only that have the decency I keep my trauma to myself. Are you going to scoot over?”

Harry glances at Draco’s hand, resting mere inches away on the bed.

“What?”

Huffing, Draco leans closer.

“You sleep better when I’m nearby.”

Harry swats him away.

“What, no I don’t! Get off!”

Draco doesn’t budge, glaring at him, steely resolve in his pale gray eyes.

“You do.”

Harry glares right back. 

“Have you been spying on me then!”

Draco snickers. “Hardly. I’ve been shushing you through the door.” When Harry doesn’t respond, he grunts. “I never came in before. You quieted faster this time.”

“And I’m just supposed to trust you?”

“No. You’re supposed to go to sleep. Now, are you going to move, or will you make me sleep on the floor?”

Harry licks his lips, but he doesn’t budge.

“What do you want, Draco?”

Draco sighs, looking him over. For a moment, it seems that, just once, he’s about to tell the truth, all of it, unabridged and uncensored. It reminds Harry, unreasonably, of the night in the arena they’d slept up in a tree. Draco had flipped off the cameras, unabashedly insulting Plutarch and the Games. Harry had been terrified of the retribution the game makers might have had in store for them, but he’d been awed, too. 

Draco runs his fingers through his hair, close-cropped recently. 

“I want the boy who lived to go to sleep. Can you manage that?”

Groaning, Harry scoots to the side.

“You’re not going to leave, are you? Fine. You wore me down.”

Smirking, Draco settles onto the bed.

“What every gentleman wants to hear.”

When Harry wakes up, Draco is still there. Without words, they decide not to discuss the arrangement. When Draco returns again the next night, Harry doesn’t protest, he merely makes space on the mattress before the lights go dark.

“Again!”

Snarling, Harry glares at the camera. He’s sure that if he never sees another camera in his life, it will be too soon. His costume feels stiff, his hair has been gelled and tugged at and styled to within an inch of its life, and no mater what he does, the way he says the lines just isn’t good enough. Lupin steps forward before Harry can once again fail to deliver the performance everyone is depending on him to give. 

“I think Harry might need a break.”

A few members of the crew nod. Rufus Scrimgeour steps away from the camera, scowling. He starts consulting his assistants about the lighting, or some other mundane detail Harry can’t be bothered to interest himself with. 

“Here you are Harry,” Remus hands him a small, tight-wrapped parcel. Harry unfolds the paper to reveal a nugget of chocolate, and looks up to see Remus with one finger pressed against his lips.

“Our little secret. Eat. It’ll make you feel better.”

Harry pops the chocolate into his mouth before anyone can see, then stretches.

“Not quite your forte, is it?”

Harry shrugs.

“It’s what I have to do.” He rolls his eyes as one of the make up artists reaches for him, re-touching his ‘look’ for the umpteenth time. “I need to get used to it.”

Remus’ lips twitch, his mustache crinkling. 

“Perhaps there’s something else you feel you’re better suited to?”

Harry closes his eyes as the make up brush swipes over his nose. He’s never had a lot of time to think about things he might prefer to be doing. Everything he’s done, since he was a child, was about trying to survive. And later, paying the Weasleys back for their kindness, trying to keep those he’d grown to love safe. He thinks of hunting in the woods, baiting traps with Hermione, and of learning to cook with Ginny. He remembers breaks in the mine- once the work became familiar to him. Joking with Ron like they weren’t hundreds of feet underground. What does he want to do? Unwittingly, he thinks of Draco, and hopes his flush isn’t evident.

Glancing at Remus, he suspects that it is.

“I don’t know.” He coughs, covering his embarrassment, glad Remus has no way of knowing the source. “I think, for once in my life, I’d just like something to be real.”

“You need to be closer to the action. You need to see everything.” Draco props himself up on his elbows, glowering. “What? You asked.”

Harry shrugs. He hadn’t, but Draco seems comfortable enough taking liberties with their conversations, and the battle doesn’t seem to be one worth fighting.

“You think I need to be a soldier?”

Draco grimaces.

“No. They wouldn’t let you anyway. You’re too valuable.” He closes his eyes, thinking, his lips moving minutely. “But you need to be up close. Really see what’s going on. They can’t give you a script and expect you to be inspiring.”

Harry shakes his head.

“You try convincing them. Valuable or not, I don’t think they’ll listen to me.”

Draco snorts.

“They already have.”

Harry cocks an eyebrow at him. 

“They have. Look at you. Did you, or did you not, convince the Council to give you everything you wanted? They’re taking a huge risk evacuating District Twelve. All so you’ll parade around in front of a bunch of cameras and talk about how nasty the Capitol is. Doesn’t seem like a fair exchange to me.”

Harry disagrees, but he keeps it to himself. The lights go out, and Draco rolls over. Harry can still see the whites of his eyes in the darkness, and shudders, remembering nighttime in the Arena. He knows they’re both far away, knows there aren’t murderous Careers patrolling all around them. It doesn’t help.

“Harry.” Draco whispers his name, not moving. “Harry, you’re here.”

Harry nods.

“I know.”

Cautiously, slowly, Draco slips his hand across the mattress, on top of the sheets, giving Harry plenty of time to back away. He doesn’t. Draco grips his hand, hard, not bone-crushing, but present and unavoidable. 

“This is real, Harry. Whatever else it may be, this is real. You’re not going to wake up in there again. You’re okay.”

Harry shudders, then closes his eyes, and tries to sleep.

To his surprise, he does. 

During his rare moments off Harry finds himself following Draco. He doesn’t realize it at first. It begins in small ways, exercising together, seeking him out in the cafeteria. He tells himself it’s only because Draco’s company is preferable to eating alone. He doesn’t think about the fact that he could go and meet Luna wherever she’s working, or that Remus would be willing to excuse himself from Severus if Harry wanted to talk. 

When Harry finds himself wandering the halls around Draco’s room, he admits to himself that he wants to see Draco, and curses himself for an idiot. 

He turns around, determined to go back to his room and brood, when instead he runs into Barty Crouch. 

“The hell!”

Barty steps back when he realizes who ran into him, frowning down at Harry.

“You.”

Harry shrugs, trying to step around Barty, but the man continues to block his path. 

“I hear things aren’t going well with the Propos.” Barty grins, and from Harry’s angle, it only looks menacing. “I always thought you were a bit overrated. Perhaps they’ll see their error in judgement soon.”

“Get away from me!” Harry snarls, trying to think of another way to his room that doesn’t involve barreling through Barty Crouch. He comes up empty. 

“You don’t like me, do you?” Barty licks his lips. “Do you think I’m filthy, boy?”

Harry stiffens, the words hitting his spine like ice.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Barty touches his cheek, the faint scar there illuminated in the bleak light. 

“You saw. Bit like the pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think?” 

Harry shakes his head.

“I just know better than to trust a Gamemaker.”

Barty tuts, feigning disinterest, stepping by Harry with sly ease.

“Keep pretending you don’t want my sloppy seconds if it suits you. You and I both know the truth. It’s not as if the whole world didn’t see it.” He winks as he turns a corner, his footsteps fading. 

It’s only then that Harry notices the fresh bite mark on his wrist.

Heart pumping, Harry runs down the hallway, trying to remember where he’d seen them the first time. Storage closet. He bolts, stumbling around a few confused electricians returning to their bunks after the late dinner hour. He skids to a stop outside the storage unit. Frantic, he almost rips the door off its hinges. The light is dim, and he can’t see anything. Gasping, he whispers, keeping his tone even.

“Draco?”

There’s a clatter in one corner, and Harry heads for the noise. Draco is standing, facing the wall, haunched over and wheezing, his shirt tangled around his fist. He turns when he hears Harry’s approach, shielding most of himself from sight.

“I’m fine,” he whispers when he sees Harry. “He didn’t touch me.”

Harry steps closer, reaching for him, then stops himself.

“Draco.”

“I said I’m fine!”

Harry gulps.

“No, you’re not.”

Draco glowers at him over his shoulder.

“What do you care? You don’t like me. You definitely don’t trust me. Why should you care?”

Harry shrugs, then gives up, leaning his back against the same wall Draco is facing. Cursing under his breath, Draco retreats further into the corner. Harry toys with the frayed hem of his own shirt. He watches the threads rubbing against his fingers instead of looking Draco in the eye.

“I can’t trust you. That doesn’t mean I don’t care what happens to you.” 

Draco looks up at that, his voice haggard.

“Do you?”

Harry wants to look away, but he forces himself to be brave.

“I do.”

Draco’s lips tremble, almost imperceptible beneath his guarded facade. 

“The things… that I said. I wasn’t lying. I let the people in the Capitol use me, because I thought it would keep us safe. They lied. I should have known they would lie.” He chokes on the last word, shuttering his expression against the flicker of hurt and pain that Harry sees there. Once again, Harry stops himself as he reaches for Draco, not wanting to shock him. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong Draco. You did what you had to. You did enough.”

Draco nods, more to himself than to Harry.

“I’m still filthy though. I have to live with it.”

Harry shakes his head, and this time, when he reaches for Draco, he can’t stop himself in time. He touches his chin, tilting it forwards and upwards. Their faces are only inches, and then centimeters, mere seconds apart. 

“There is nothing wrong with you,” he whispers, and then he kisses Draco, fierce and without reserve. 

They stumble in the dark, the lights gone out before they made it back to Harry’s room. Harry closes the door, and when he turns around, Draco is already sprawled out on the bed, purring and wriggling. 

It stops Harry in his tracks.

“Draco.”

He hears more than sees Draco as he straightens.

“What is it?”

“I, um.” He swallows, and his throat still feels dry. “I’m not ready. For more. Much, anyway.”

Draco cocks his head, but he doesn’t argue. Harry still feels the need to fill the silence, and the words come stumbling out.

“It’s that, before. When we. Um. I thought I was going to die. I thought we both were, and I didn’t. I mean. It’s not you. I want. Well. I think I do anyway. But I don’t. Know.” He sighs. “I’m sorry. That was all probably really confusing.”

Draco just shakes his head, tossing the covers aside.

“Just get into bed. But I’ll not be cuddled with if I’m not getting any.”

Smirking, Harry does as he’s told.

And if they wake up the next morning with their arms around each other, Harry is willing to redefine the meaning of the word ‘cuddle’ if it means it gets to keep happening.

The first refugees from District Twelve trickle in.

Harry forces himself to be there, to face them. It’s not that he isn’t happy- he’s elated. District Twelve wasn’t a warm place to grow up, by any stretch, but people found kindness, when they could. If no one helped him when he was starving, Harry can’t find it in himself to hold it against them. Not when they were all barely scraping by as it was. Not when the Peacekeepers objected so… viscerally to handouts. Not when he’s not sure he wouldn’t have done the same. 

Draco doesn’t join him. 

It’s almost a relief. Remus stands by his side, and Severus is glowering nearby. Their presence is enough to deter any uncomfortable questions about his actions in the arena.

He stands at attention in his phoenix uniform. To his left, Scrimgeour is directing the photographers. Harry tries to withhold his grimace. He knows that the rebels need to take every opportunity they can for a glamor shot that will actually be useable. He soon gets swept up in the rush of refugees, shocked at how pleased they are to see him. He was sure they’d be wary, if not outright hostile. 

“It’s your role, Harry.” Remus pats his shoulder, encouraging him to mingle. “They’ve wanted this for a long time.”

Harry tries to look every one of them in the eye. He knows he might not really be saving them. Some will be encouraged to join the army, and he doesn’t doubt that many of them will. The battle ahead isn’t going to be bloodless, if it’s even winnable. And that’s if they don’t all get blown to pieces by the Capital the minute his Propos start airing. 

“I just hope it’s worth it.” He gulps. “I hope the cost isn’t too high.”

Remus nods. Behind him, Harry hears Severus scoffing as he departs, disgusted by Harry’s sentimentality. 

None of his friends arrive on the first day. 

“Again!”

Minerva McGonagall pinches the bridge of her nose as Harry fails, rather spectacularly, to achieve the correct form. “You’re going to smack yourself in the nose one of these days. The recoil is not to be fucked with.”

Harry tries not to snicker; something about her accent makes the constant stream of profanity more humorous than intimidating. Minerva herself is another matter. Petite and wiry with age, Harry is completely sure she could maim him six ways through Sunday if she were so inclined. He covers his mouth as if in concentration in an attempt to hide the smirk creeping across his lips. Judging from her frown, he knows he’s not successful. 

“You want to be in the field, Potter?”

He shrugs.

“They won’t let me. This is all for show.” He examines her expression. “Isn’t it?”

She doesn’t budge.

“That is not an answer to my question.”

He hoists the gun again.

“Show me.”

The footage keeps playing, over and over and over again. Whenever Harry closes his eyes, he can see President Riddle, his demeanor serene against a coarse white background. You think that you can win. His voice sibilant and soft. You will fail. Harry grits his teeth, knowing that he’s dreaming, that he’s half awake already, knowing that if he can just claw his way back into consciousness-

Not only will you fail. You will destroy Panem. 

It always starts with the fire. He’s not sure if it’s because of the work he used to do in the mines, or a trick of his subconscious, but the flames made the strongest impression. District Eleven. Growers and sowers, not builders. Harry hadn’t realized that most of their homes were built from clay and wood. When the Victory Tour made its stop, when Astoria delivered her drawn up speech, one man stood in the center of the audience, his finger in the air. Then others followed. Then the Peacekeepers stepped in. There were torches, why were there torches? They went up like little matchboxes. 

Harry cringes. It’s the sound that hurts. Hundreds of voices, crying out in pain, singed and bleeding, and then nothing. Silence. The tape ends. 

Draco’s hands are on his shoulders. Harry opens his eyes. Draco looks down at him, panting. His grip is tight. He’s sucking on his lower lip, and Harry can’t be sure in the dim light, but it looks swollen, and perhaps bloody. Draco’s eyes are wide, but unafraid. It’s just the darkness. He’s shaking his head, cursing under his breath, and Harry can feel it on his chin, warm and almost solid and most definitely real. Not hot. Not burning. Alive.

“This is real.”

Draco rolls his eyes, but there’s still a flicker of concern there.

“Yes Harry. This is a real pain in the ass.” He groans, rolling over. “I told you not to watch.”

Harry shrugs.

“I had to know.”

Draco nods, covering his eyes with his palms.

“And now you know. It doesn’t change anything.”

Harry thinks it does, but he doesn’t say so. Sometimes it’s easier, just recounting facts.

“President Riddle is killing people.”

Draco snorts.

“A time-honored tradition in Panem. Or hadn’t you noticed?” When Harry doesn’t respond right away, Draco uncovers his face, quirking an eyebrow at him. “There’s this institution for child-murdering. They call it the Hunger Games. Maybe you’ve heard of them?”

Harry snorts. Draco strokes his wrist, and Harry doesn’t stop him. It’s quiet for a moment, the air punctuated by the soft sound of their breathing, the rustle of the shared coverlet, the murmur of the air vents. Draco rolls onto his side, watching Harry. It makes him feel odd, but Harry doesn’t stop him. 

Finally, Draco makes a ‘hmf’ sound, lying back down.

“What?” Harry whispers.

“You’d be useless without me, you know that, right?”

Harry bickers, laughing, content with the knowledge that Draco is right. 

Harry pulls Draco close, squeezing his waist. Draco huffs, pretending to be put upon, but he doesn’t move away, either.

“This is going to be awkward, isn’t it?”

Harry feels himself flush, but he doesn’t pull away either.

“Does it matter?”

Draco shrugs, shaking his head.

“No. I suppose that’s what I get for turning traitor with you though”

Harry kisses his cheek, and the plane lands with a mechanical grunt. 

Hours later, Draco is fuming.

Harry had to track him down, finally finding him in the last place he would have thought to look just that morning. Draco is brooding in his room, and there are subtle signs of disarray everywhere. His dresser is askew, slanted just a few centimeters from the wall. The sheets on the bed are dented, as if someone has been sitting and standing and sitting and standing and sitting back down over and over and over again. And Draco himself is wild eyed and frustrated, though he’s bottling it well. There are tight fissures around his lips and eyes that give him away.

Harry has no idea when he started knowing this boy so well.

When did he come to realize that Draco kicks the furniture when he’s frustrated? That he wakes up earlier in the mornings so that he’ll have time to make the bed. That Draco will bite down on the corner of his mouth when he’s trying not to cry.

“Draco-”

“Leave it Harry.”

Harry crosses his arms in front of the door.

“Make me.”

Draco rolls his eyes, lips pursed.

“Do I need to insult you? Fuck off.”

Harry shrugs.

“You can try. You probably owe me some, all things considered.”

Draco glares.

“I don’t want to be pitied.”

Harry groans.

“Will you at least talk to me then?”

Draco’s posture is tense and tight.

“What is there to discuss? Our sordid love affair?” He puts that last in air quotes, flicking his hands impatiently. “Should we have it out about how I used you, again? Because that subject is oh-so entertaining for me! Or should we try to figure out whether I’m a Capitol spy here to ensnare you? Shall we discuss the way the Weaslette threatened to kill me should I even go near you-”

“You mean Hermione. She’s not a Weasley. Not yet anyway.”

Draco makes a furtive gesture, as if he’s tempted to tear out his hair.

“That’s not really the point though, is it?”

Harry sighs, leaning back against the wall.

“No. No it isn’t.”

Draco takes a few deep breaths, regaining some of his composure. His skin is pale, and he looks too thin. Harry closes his eyes for a moment, ashamed of how little he’s thought about Draco’s well-being these last few weeks. 

“I’ve been relying on you so much.” He whispers, but he knows Draco hears him, the way his heard jerks and his eyes perk up. It’s impossible not to notice, now. 

“It’s fine. I shouldn’t have expected- I don’t. I don’t expect anything.” Draco looks him in the eye, and Harry feels like he’s been set on fire. “It’s like I said. You were keeping me awake with your mewling. I was just keeping my best interests in mind.”

Harry bites back an angry retort.

“Don’t do that.”

“What?” Draco crosses his arms. “Pretend I’m a cold-hearted, unfeeling bastard?” He shakes his head. “Keep on using you and act as if that’s all this is?”

“Draco-”

“No! Stop it!” He growls. “Should I just think about you in terms of what I can gain from hanging about? Because all those are things you’ve accused me of, Potter. And it seems like all your friends wish to do the same.”

Harry begins to lash out, but then he cringes. Draco is right. Cruelly, painfully right.

“I’m sorry.”

Draco’s lip curls.

“For what?”

Harry sighs. “For thinking those things. You and I both did,” he flushes, “what we had to do. But that doesn’t mean we’re any less because of it.” He looks at Draco, and waits until the other boy is looking back. “We’re alive. That’s what matters.”

Draco shudders.

“All right.”

“No.” Harry steps closer, giving Draco time to pull away if he needs to. “You and I are in this together. We’re both- we’re both pawns here. You were right about the games.” He smirks, and Draco returns it tentatively. “We’re still playing. The rules are different. But our alliance is real.” He holds out his hand. “And anyone who disagrees can fuck right off with that.”

Draco snickers.

“That was almost good enough for a Propo. Shame the topic is completely inappropriate.

Harry shrugs.

“I’m not so sure. Compassion and forgiveness seem like good themes. It would be nice if there was more of that in the world we’re building right now.”

Draco’s lip twitches.

“I was thinking more along the lines of whether we’ll end up in bed together. I know the Capitol would be dying to know. If they didn’t think we were, you know, dead.”

Harry is to embarrassed to let loose more than a stuttered chuckle. 

“I am sorry Draco.” He shakes his head, changing the subject. “I’m sorry my friends made you feel small.”

Draco laughs, the sound of his voice hollow and dry in the bare, sterile room. He tosses his head, surveying Harry with a wan expression.

“I’m dead to anyone I’ve ever loved. You can’t hurt a ghost.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say to that, so he holds out his hand, waiting for Draco to take it. After a moment, he does, squeezing gently.

“I think dinner is starting soon.”

Harry nods.

“Walk down together?”

Draco straightens his shoulders, donning the proud mantle of bravery Harry rarely sees him without. 

“I suppose. If you’ve nothing better to do.”

Harry immediately spoils the effect by tickling him. 

And if the dining hall goes silent when they walk in together, hand in hand, neither one of them deigns to notice. Harry sits beside Luna, calmly not taking his eyes off Draco. Luna scoots her tray aside, looking at the refugees from District Twelve. 

“How silly of them,” she comments, her voice light and serene. “Draco would make for a very incompetent double-agent.”

Draco unwinds for long enough to take offense at the comment, forgetting that he’s defending himself from a less irredeemable crime than the original accusation. When Hermione is led by a humble, if confused, Ron, to join them at their table, none of them comment. By then the conversation is about the upcoming Propos, and Luna’s new experiments with Harry’s costume. 

Outside, Harry thinks, barely suppressing his grin. 

It’s only to shoot a few Propos. And he’s dreading them, to his core. Except. He’s outdoors. Having spent the majority of his childhood sleeping in an abandoned (and roofless) tool shed, one might think he’d had a surfeit of the elements. But the mines have instilled upon him a healthy mistrust of being underground, and the tense pressure of District Thirteen has slowly been grinding away at his bones.

Or at least, it feels like it.

He stretches his arms above his head, slinging the gun strap carelessly over his shoulders. Minerva allows him this momentary breach of decorum, a small smile crossing her lips so fleeting he might have missed it. 

“Enjoy it while you may, Harry.”

He does, taking deep, gulping breaths of the clean, clear air. It smells like pine and rust and rain and mud. And sunlight! It feels so good to remember what sunlight feels like.

“All right everyone! Gather up!”

Scrimgeour speaks to everyone on the crew about mood and angle and setting the tone for the Propo. Harry quickly loses interest in it. Barty watches him, a wicked gleam in his eye, and Harry tries not to glower. He’s respecting Draco’s wish to keep the matter private, but he doesn’t have to like it, and he’s resolutely chosen not to. 

He sits as far away as possible from him on the flight, and he doesn’t answer Remus when he asks if everything is all right. It’s difficult not to brood, but he can pass it off easily enough as nerves. It’s not like he’s used to air travel, and the last plane he was in did try to kill him. 

And the sight of District Twelve is a sufficient distraction soon enough. 

The first of the Propos aired a few hours ago. No video, not yet. Just pictures of Harry in his phoenix suit, black and gold armor with shades of red in the shape of wings on his shoulders. He’d been able to provide a decent-sounding narration, and the sound bite playing over the images is, he must admit, haunting. If we burn, you burn with us. The Capitol has been airing the footage from District Eleven all morning. Harry can’t imagine it’s having the desired effect. 

When they land, Harry has to catch his breath, covering his mouth and nostrils. The smell is sulfurous and nauseating. 

District Twelve is a crater.

Everything, everything is gone. The bombs destroyed houses, fields, the mines, there is nothing left except soot and outlines where buildings used to be. Harry closes his eyes, remembering that everyone got out, that District Twelve was empty. The only people left were the Peacekeers. Remembering what they’d done to Neville Longbottom and Charlie Weasley, he can’t say he feels any remorse. 

Beside him, Remus is shell-shocked.

“I didn’t…” He shakes his head. “You were right, Harry. I thought, maybe, I knew they would retaliate. But this.” He closes his eyes. “Such a waste.”

Harry can only nod. He swallows, trying to clear his mouth of the taste in the air. 

“Harry?”

Minerva looks patient and worried. He adjusts the gun straps, curt, and begins to walk through the smoldering memory of District Twelve. 

He points. There, that was the school. I went there when I could. Over there is where the mines were. That was the Weasley’s house, now crumbling to ash. The security team follows him through the market. He tells them about the time he spent hunting with Hermione, teaching themselves how to make snares. We traded our rabbits for flour and eggs. He shows them the fence, the little hole he used to crawl through. 

District Twelve might not have been wealthy. The paint was always peeling and the walls were paper-thin. It might not have been safe. Not with Peacekeepers and sickness and tesserae and reapings. There was never enough to go around, and it was lonely, so lonely. Too many bellies and never enough food. And he spent so much time afraid. But this place had been home.

“Gone.” He doesn’t remember when he started saying it all out loud. Not far away, Remus has the palm of his hand pressed against some rubble. Harry can’t even recognize it. “It’s all gone.”

“Is there anything else you would like to say, dear?”

He looks at Minerva, realizes she’s blurry, and he doesn’t remember when he started crying. 

“Why?”

She shakes her head; it’s Remus who speaks.

“It’s just like Sirius.” He closes his eyes. “He killed a Peacekeeper the day they took James. They kept him alive just long enough to watch him die in the Games.” He clutches his chest. “They goaded him into it. They used Lily. An eye for a goddamn eye is all it is, but the Capitol’s had all the guns and all the food and all the power. They’ve taken twenty-four of our children for every one of theirs.”

Minerva has been watching Harry. She places a delicate hand on Remus’ shoulder.

“Is there anything you want to say, Harry?”

He shakes his head, then nods.

“I just want it to stop.”

He can hear the camera crews cursing, but Minerva is still watching him with her patient, gentle stare.

“I know dear. I know. It’s what we all want. An end to all the pain, and all the fighting.”

Harry shakes his head.

“But that’s not enough. It’s not enough for this,” he opens his arms, “to be the last of it. Because the Capitol will still be there. Exploiting us.” He swallows. “And there will still be Tributes.”

Minerva nods. 

Behind her, Scrimgeour is becoming impatient. 

“And what about the Capitol? Isn’t there anything you want to say to them?”

Harry glares.

“This. This is the cost of your luxuries, and your security. You can live your lives with your petty dramas, and out here we will be bleeding and starving and dying,” he can feel himself shaking. “-our people are burning, and we will bring the fire to your doorstep if we have to. If that’s what it will take for you to reckon the cost.”

Scrimgeour is nodding, and Minerva steps forward.

“And President Riddle?” She coaxes. “What would you like to say to him?”

He took my father, Harry thinks. My father would have fought him if he could. He takes a deep breath. This is my fight now. He closes his eyes, then opens them. This is what it takes to be brave.

“I survive. Despite the odds. I survive. You wanted me dead President Riddle, but I’m rising from the ashes. And now I’m coming for you.”

Harry doesn’t speak. The plane is quiet, a small mercy. No one pushes him to share, or comment on the footage. Barty is occupied in a muted discussion at the front of the plane, and Harry is grateful. Even Remus keeps his distance, encompassed by his own personal griefs. Harry allows himself time to brood, pausing only to take one last breath of fresh, piny air. It smells like autumn. It’s nice.

Hermione is waiting when they land, and for a moment he forgets their quarrel. She doesn’t ask questions. He closes his eyes, and her arms fall around him. He clutches her tight, his fingers tangled in her folds of her dress. She makes a small noise. He hears himself whimper, tastes the ashes in his mouth, and he clutches her to his chest. “It’s gone,” she whispers. “It’s really all gone.” He nods, knowing he can’t find the words right now. 

Later, they talk.

“Harry, I saw you die.” She shudders. “I saw it from every angle. And he- Draco,” she gathers herself. “Draco is the one that killed you. Can’t you see why I was nervous?”

He nods, understanding, though he wishes he didn’t. She places her hand on his, looking up at him with warm hazel eyes. 

“Harry. I know. Well I don’t, not really. But I know you haven’t been snatched, or tricked. I know you’re still you. And that’s all that matters. Whatever there is… whatever he means to you.” She winces for a moment before she continues. “It’s all right. It doesn’t change anything.”

He nods.

“Thank you, Hermione.” He sighs. “Honestly, I don’t know what I feel. I don’t even know if it’s all right to feel. But I… I like him. I care about him. Even if he is a ponce. And… we’re allies. We were allies in the Arena, and it’s the same here. I never know what to expect, but I know he’s on my side.”

Hermione nods.

“Do you trust him?”

Harry swallows.

“I might.”

The silence is stilted for a moment, before Hermione looks up and around them. They’re alone. As alone as they can be, at any rate, in an open cafeteria. 

“Speaking of.” She looks up from her meal. “Don’t you usually eat together? Where is he?”

Gone.

Harry’s skin feels clammy, and his words get caught up in his throat. He feels a strangled laugh shudder through his chest, hands shaking. 

“Harry?”

Hermione’s voice sounds far away. Gone. Taken. Gone. He clenches his teeth. You can’t hurt a ghost. Draco was wrong. Draco can bleed. Draco can scream his throat raw. Draco can have his body disappeared, his mind snatched, his smirk turned sour, his clever tongue torn out. Gone. When Harry opens his eyes, everyone is staring at him, baited, waiting. He feels himself stretched too thin, his spine bent beyond broken. 

“I’m going to get him back.”

Hermione sniffles. 

“Oh, Harry-”

“No.” He unclenches his fists. “I know what I’m doing. I’m going to get him back, or I’m going to die. There’s no middle ground. There’s no waiting here while they hurt him to punish me. I you want your precious phoenix so badly,” he turns to glare at President Moody. “Then you can do everything in your power to help me. But I’m going, whether you’re with me or not. I don’t care if I have to walk all the way to Voldemort’s doorstep. I won’t leave him.”

Moody waits out the tirade, then nods.

“I don’t believe that will be necessary, though I can appreciate your enthusiasm.”

That night, Harry makes a Propo.

He does it alone, and it's only for himself. It's a promise. It's a list of things he's never said. A list of things he hadn't had the courage to say. I will find you, he whispers to the cameras. He's wearing the phoenix suit, and he's sweating. His mouth tastes like bile. He's recorded a thousand words, and none of them felt right. I will bring you back. He can only think of Draco. He knows he's alive, because he's not prepared to believe anything else. I will find you and I'll bring you back, if it't the last thing I do. Just Draco, and Barty, smiling. Barty, gone with a few key members of the rebellion. And Draco.

Draco, Draco, Draco.

I will keep you safe. I will win this war. I may die in a fire or drown in this storm. But I'm coming for you. I won't leave you.

He closes his eyes, feeling hot, bitter tears threatening to boil over. He ignores them. 

I won't leave you.

He makes the promise to an empty room. 

He doesn't sleep, he doesn't complain. Training starts in the morning. He's ready.

I won't leave you.

He's ready.