Only Ash Remains

Chapter 2

Harry tries half-heartedly to pull away as he's dragged down the street, hand clasped firmly in Ginny's relentless grip. They're headed to Luna's biweekly Tuesday Brunch — a tradition he's thus far managed to avoid since it takes place in a cozy little teashop on Diagon Alley in full view of passersby. He stares at the cobblestones, hiding his face from anyone who might recognise him. The sun is warm on his neck. He's debating protesting, even though he knows Ginny will ignore everything he says anyway so it seems rather pointless, when he hears the sound of a scuffle.

He turns his head, frowning, to look down the alley they've just passed, drawn to the sound like iron to a lodestone.

Ginny sighs impatiently as his footsteps slow. "Come on, Harry, we're late as it is."

"But someone could be hurt. I have to help."

"You're not an Auror, Harry," she groans, "Remember? You could have been, but you turned them down. Call them, if you must, but don't get involved."

Harry pulls away from her, his fingers slipping through hers as if they're made of water. "I didn't turn them down," he says distractedly, "I just didn't reply yet."

"Harry, I mean it," she says. "If you go down there, I'm leaving without you—"

But it's too late, because he's just caught a glimpse of a drawn, pale face, a shock of blond hair, and he's ignoring her words, running down the alley without conscious thought.

It's like he's been peering out at life through a haze of fog and it's suddenly lifted. The scene before him is clear and sharp as a razor's edge. He can almost taste it, like those perfect winter days where you can see for miles.

He sees the three figures standing rigid in the early afternoon light, and it's the first clear thing he's seen in so long that for a moment he just stares, drinking it all in. Ginny's voice comes to him from far away; it's easy to let her words run off him.

He sees the wands raised and the cloaked assailants closing in and Malfoy's grey, grey eyes going impossibly wide as he sees his doom bearing down upon him, and Harry doesn't think. He acts. It's what he does best. He draws his wand on the masked figures and shouts "Expelliarmus!" because that's the only thing he can think of in that moment — get their wands.

As usually happens, since the end of the war, his magical strength is unpredictable, and in the next moment eight wands are sailing toward him and smacking thunk thunk thunk against his palm.

The alley breaks into chaos as eight bodies start to flee and he's shooting off tripping jinxes and body binds without thought and the masked, cloaked assailants are running, running, until the sound of their panicked footsteps falls away. In the end, only one man falls with a soft "Oomph" and Harry turns to the Malfoys, standing pale and proud in the centre of the alley, giving the masked figure on the ground a sharp kick as he does so.

His eyes never leave Malfoy's.

For a moment, there is silence, broken only by the soft grunts of the body on the ground, and then Harry speaks. His body still thrums with adrenaline, but he keeps his voice even.

"Malfoy. What's going on?"

Malfoy draws back like an affronted cat; Harry half expects him to hiss. "What does it look like, Potter?" he spits. "We were attacked. Tell me, is Expelliarmus really the only spell you know? I read you killed the Dark Lord with it — is that true?" He curls his lip. "All the dangerous spells you know, and you choose Expelliarmus?"

"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry says, suddenly weary. He feels the chill of the night air, gets a whiff of rotten fruit from the garbage bins at the end of the alley. He remembers the bathroom in sixth year, Malfoy's blood on the floor. So much blood.