No Desert

After the war,
you thought you'd be a hero,
after all that you survived.
If hell was meant for heroes,
then surely you've arrived.
(Gary Moore, After the War)

Chapter 1 ~ Lost

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, was driving him slowly, persistently mad.

Harry shifted restlessly on his hard-backed chair before getting up and taking up his pacing again. Eight steps to the door, four to the bed, but carefully because the bedpost had sharp metal edges, and eight back to the back wall.

In passing, he smiled at the lone painting that adorned the plain walls, and got a wink back from a ten-year-old Sirius Black. During his first few days in the Room, he had chatted with the portrait quite a bit, but listening to young Sirius and his plans for Hogwarts - which he was going to attend in the summer - was just too painful. It brought tears to Harry's eyes, which in turn confused and frightened the boy in the painting, so Harry tried to stay away from him as much as was possible in the smallish room.

He wondered who had hidden the painting here, safely out of sight after Sirius fell from grace with his family. Perhaps his father? His younger brother? Harry couldn't imagine that screeching crone in the hallway preserving the likeness of her hated firstborn.

He occasionally heard her voice muttering in the hallway, talking to herself when no one to yell at turned up for too long.

Eight trips around the room saw him back at the table, surveying his remaining provisions. A half-empty packet of crackers, a half-eaten Mars bar, and a green pear. He'd have to plan for a new expedition if Remus didn't come soon.

But of course he'd come - it was only a matter of hours, likely.

It might take me a few days, Harry.

And it had only been a few days - fifteen, to be precise.

It might take a few days, so keep calm and wait, and for God's sake don't take stupid risks.

Well, he hadn't. Mostly. But it had been fifteen days, and surely Remus hadn't expected him to starve.

And Harry had been careful. He'd taken his invisibility cloak, sneaked out into the hallway like a ghost, fearful of alerting Mrs Black's painting, and then slipped off into the pantry to the small hidden trapdoor Remus had shown him, Just in case.

He'd magicked his own little thoroughfare through the Ministry wards that surrounded Twelve Grimmauld Place, quietly blessing Bill Weasley for his lessons in curse breaking. When his tampering set off no alarms, he slipped through and crossed the two backstreets to the shabby Muggle supermarket located in Grimmauld Lane. It fitted the name of its location well.

Invisible shoplifting wasn't remotely as easy as it sounded, even if Harry could have relied on two good hands. The shop was crammed and tiny; not bumping into a customer or being observed fetching a packet of toast off a shelf with his invisible hand was tricky. When he slunk back towards the exit, he passed the newsrack, and saw his own face staring back at him, motionless and sullen, from the front page of the top tabloid. "KILLER POTTER - NEW REVELATIONS!" the headline screamed. Harry had flinched, averted his head, and run.

He had almost passed out while restoring the Ministry wards again - a worker in ill-fitting Muggle overalls came by to check on them every morning. Harry had just enough strength left to slip the invisibility cloak to the floor so as not to squash his booty before collapsing on the narrow iron bed.

When he'd regained consciousness, Remus' "few days" had turned from six to eight.

So he crouched in the Black Room of Retreat, sucking strength out of a stolen candy bar, while outside Muggles and wizards alike were turning every stone to find him.

The murderer.

The Boy Who Killed.

Not that it wasn't true. He had killed. But although he hadn't exactly looked forward to becoming The Boy Who Defeated You-Know-Who For Good for the wizarding world, he hadn't even dreamed that they would turn against him and hunt him like this.

Harry had never even seen the body, but he'd seen the horrified looks Ginny and Percy had given him from behind the group of Aurors that had been left to guard Hogwarts. Their reaction didn't even surprise him that much. Unlike Bill and the twins, Ginny and Percy had never forgiven Harry for that night almost a year ago, when the Death Eaters had stormed the Burrow, left their parents dead and taken their brother. Ginny, Harry knew, blamed herself as much as him for being out when it had happened, and still believed Harry might somehow have managed to fight the murderers off. Percy, on the other hand, simply blamed him for not dying in his parents' place, or being taken instead of Ron.

They had never found Ron's body, or received any information about his fate.

"I didn't do it!" he had screamed at the half-circle of Aurors barring his way when he returned. But they stood grim-faced, and Harry had almost been able to feel the panic that was smouldering under the forced calm of their expressions. They hadn't believed him, and all Harry had been able to do was to duck their curses and run. Half-dead already after the duel with Voldemort, he'd barely got away, only breaking down once he'd reached the Shrieking Shack.

Remus had found him there, delirious with shock and writhing in pain from his crippled wand hand. But Harry had already made the abysmal mistake of sending Hedwig to the Weasley twins, begging for help. The Aurors had staked out all of his friends and potential allies, and only had to follow his owl on her way back with the reply to storm his hideout. They'd only barely escaped with their lives, and Harry just hoped the twins were not in trouble for trying to aid and abet a fugitive. He had worried about Remus as well, but the piercing look the man had given him the one time he'd tried to point out he might be safer away from Harry's presence had thoroughly discouraged him from bringing up the topic again. They had gone to hide in Muggle London until the Muggle press started to run warrants for the capture of the "assassin" who had allegedly murdered "a retired elderly statesman" and now was on the run, armed, dangerous, and do not approach but notify the authorities!

Number Twelve Grimmauld Place seemed like a last option, although it was watched by the Ministry as a potential retreat for Harry, whom the Daily Prophet had taken to calling "You-Know-Who in his new body". Or rather not the house itself but one of its rooms... one that nobody could find unless they belonged to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. The Black Room of Retreat, only accessible with a password that was passed on from Black father to son, from mother to daughter. A password that Sirius had shared with Remus - and James - after his estrangement from his family during their schooldays.

So far, the Room had withstood one Ministry search party, and though Harry hoped that this expedition had satisfied the authorities, he was optimistic that it would also befuddle them a second time round. Harry gave Sirius' painting a watery smile and succumbed to the temptation of one of his remaining crackers and the last bite of chocolate bar to appease his grumbling stomach. Then he curled up on the lumpy mattress of the bed. It hardly alleviated the bite of the metal grid underneath, and Harry cradled his aching, warped right hand against his chest protectively.

The rebound from the Curse he'd thrown at Voldemort had hit his wand and twisted his wand hand into a gnarled claw that looked like nothing so much as the dried-out husk of a dead spider with its legs stuck up in the air. And it was spreading: at first, only to his fingers and palm, but then to his wrist, and now he sometimes thought he felt twinges of that not-quite itch that preceded transformation right up to his elbow. Harry kept it hidden inside his robe sleeve most of the time because looking at it sickened him, and he suspected it was the reason why he felt so drained and feverish all the time, inclined to lie and sleep for hours on end.

...

He must have fallen asleep despite the discomfort, because a small, unfamiliar sound shocked him awake. He pulled himself up into a sitting position, shivering with dread. Unlike his mother, Sirius' portrait never made a sound unless spoken to, and the faint lurching feeling which accompanied the Room of Retreat shifting its position through the house was noiseless, although it made Harry's gorge rise every time.

No, there it was again, unmistakably - a voice? Harry held his breath and listened hard. He jumped when the hallway echoed with a furious, ear-splitting scream.

"Intruders! Mudbloods and Halfbloods, defiling the Ancient House of Black with their presence!"

Whoever had entered Grimmauld Place, they had set off the portrait. Remus? But Remus wouldn't have been so careless, would he? Not after showing Harry how to avoid it, and warning him not to disturb it for fear that Ministry observers might be alerted by the racket. But... but perhaps Harry had been cleared, and Remus had come to tell him he was free, that it was all over?

"... in pairs, and will someone shut that horrid thing up, for Merlin's sake?" an unfamiliar voice rose over the din, dashing Harry's hopes. Not Remus - another raid.

He scrambled for his wand and slid off the bed, dousing the Everburning Torches along the walls with a left-handed wand wave. The sheer effort had him reeling on his feet for a moment. Then he grabbed the invisibility cloak from the ground and threw it on, almost poking himself in the eye with his wand while pulling up the hood. Not that he truly expected discovery - the Room was inaccessible to all without knowledge of the password. But he just felt safer being as well-hidden as possible. Strange how quickly he'd adapted to the behaviour of a hunted animal...

Even through the walls, he could hear the footsteps of the search parties as they came closer, intermingled with occasional shouts and curses. Remus had reactivated some of the house's multiple defences as a distraction before he left. Harry just hoped he wouldn't come back right now and run into a search party. But Remus wouldn't - he was too cunning to be caught.

Although he was straining his ears, Harry failed to connect the low murmur outside with the password to the room. When the door slid open unexpectedly, he jerked so hard that his muscles hitched in protest. He froze against the wall with a terrible feeling of exposure despite the cloak, and stopped breathing altogether.

A cloaked shadow appeared in the doorway. It held a wand in a gloved hand, and a quick flick of it set the torches alight again. Their dim light illuminated the threatening wand, but couldn't penetrate the shadowy face beneath the hood. The figure took a few steps inside, scanning the untidy bed, the lone pear on the table, and finally Sirius' youthful portrait on the wall. When the hood stared directly at Harry's invisible form, his heart beat so painfully against his ribs that he thought for a moment it might be a Dementor. The man - Harry suspected it was a man - toured the room once, raised the crumpled bedsheet with his wand for a moment, and paused to give a soft snort at Sirius' painted face, which scowled darkly. At last he turned and walked back to the door.

Harry's insides twisted with relief. Then the figure swung around in the doorway, wand aimed.

"Accio invisibility cloak!"

The thin fabric of the cloak was ripped off Harry's body, to end up in a crumpled mass in the man's outstretched fist. It had happened so fast that Harry was left pressed up against the wall, clutching his wand and staring with all the paralysed terror of a rabbit that had noticed the circling bird of prey just one second too late.

Very slowly, the man lowered his hood, revealing familiar patrician features and pale hair.

"Oh no."

Only when the sound of his own voice reached his ears and the arrogant mouth twisted into a cruel smile did Harry realise he'd spoken aloud.

"Mr Potter." A wealth of satisfaction swam in those two words. Lucius Malfoy exhaled contentedly. His eyes travelled over Harry's body, narrowing in contempt at his raised wand, and widening a fraction at the sight of his crippled right hand.

"It seems your race is run at last," Malfoy drawled.

Harry clutched his wand tighter, shivering with the excess adrenaline that pounded through his nerve system.

"I won't go down without a fight," he warned, keeping a tremble out of his voice with some effort. He was in no shape to duel a Death Eater, let alone more than one, and he knew it. "Don't think avenging your Master will be easy," he challenged.

Malfoy tutted with infuriating condescension. "Oh no, Mr Potter, you misunderstand your situation. Our dear Minister - my old friend Cornelius Fudge - has been graceful enough to offer me a full pardon for that unfortunate... episode in my life, in return for some substantial remunerations, of course." He chuckled. "No, I'm here to assist the Department of Magical Law Enforcement due to my familiarity with the Black residence. A grim dwelling, as you will surely agree. And yet, it has yielded great treasure."

Rage blossomed in Harry's chest. This bloody Death Eater wanted to use him to repair his tarnished reputation and to take revenge for the death of his Master at the same time. He ground his teeth, drawing himself up against the wall, ready to strike.

Malfoy's lips curled in a vile grin. "There are eleven Aurors and Hit Wizards in this house with me. All it will take is one spark-" he did a small wriggle with his wand, which began to glow bright red at the top, as if the alarm spell was itching to burst out "-to bring them all down on you. With odds like these, even a stalwart hero like you might contemplate surrender rather than battle."

"Not bloody likely!" Harry sneered, realising that it must make him look like a cheap copy of the man himself. "If you think I'll let you drag me to prison to boost your reputation-"

"No, you misunderstand me again," Malfoy interrupted with a 'lapped the cream and dismembered the bird' expression that would have put even Arabella Figg off cats for good. "There will be no Azkaban for you, Mr Potter. There is a pair of Dementors outside, waiting for you to be released into their care. The Ministry does not desire your capture - it has ruled that you be given the Kiss immediately after apprehension."

Suddenly, Harry's innards seemed to shrink up into a tightly compressed ball that burned against his ribs. Surely it couldn't be true! Surely they couldn't condemn him to such a fate without even hearing him out, not like Sirius... Sirius. He did not even need to see Malfoy's satisfied face to realise that of course they could.

But he... he couldn't. He'd tried, over the last few years, to acquaint himself with the thought of death, in the same way one prodded a cold, slimy potion ingredient with one finger to see if it could still bite. But he couldn't face a Dementor, not wandless, not after that terrible night in the Forbidden Forest when he'd tried to throw himself over Sirius' Stunned body like a human shield. The mere thought of them... mouldy, dirty robes, scabbed hands gripping him, leprous lips inching close until their putrid breath mingled with his and... He recoiled, and stifled the sound that threatened to escape him, knowing it would sound too much like a sob altogether.

"I did not kill Albus Dumbledore!"

There was blank despair behind that statement, and he could not keep from making it even though he knew it would be to no avail. Malfoy couldn't care less, whether he believed him or not.

"Oh, I know that, Mr Potter. Just as I know that this scarred head of yours is not harbouring the fugitive spirit of Lord Voldemort. In fact," he smirked, "I happened to be privy to the Dark Lord's plan to have someone strike at Dumbledore with Polyjuice at the same time as he himself destroyed you. And yet, you will surrender your last conscious breath into the mouth of the vilest creature known to wizardkind. Don't you find that ironic?"

Harry moistened his dry lips.

"You won't take me alive to throw to the Dementors, Malfoy."

"No, Potter, I won't let you goad me into killing you. I'll have my companions in here before you can cast your first spell - the thought of watching you struggle and whimper in the arms of the Dementors is just too precious to pass up."

For an instant Harry wondered if it was possible to turn the Avada Kedavra on himself, and thought that he could hear Voldemort laughing, like a cold touch from the grave on the nape of his neck.

Malfoy cocked his head, plainly savouring Harry's despair.

"And don't think that animal Lupin will come to your aid at the last minute, Potter. Your infuriating luck has run out this time."

"Remus?" Harry whispered.

"The werewolf has been caught trying to procure an illegal Transcontinental Portkey in Knockturn Alley over a week ago. Considering Undersecretary Umbridge's new Magical Creatures Containment Act, it was unlikely to be for himself, so the authorities assumed - correctly, I suppose - that he was acting on your behalf."

"Is he all right?" Harry's tone of voice was as blank as his face, while his mind was gibbering, oh please, let him be alive!

"He chose to fight and had to be put down, I was told. I assume he preferred death to capture and interrogation, where he might have given you away under Veritaserum. You seem to inspire that kind of suicidal loyalty in your associates." Malfoy's lip twisted. "I'm glad not to be your friend, Potter."

Something hot and painful pricked Harry's eyes as he tried - and failed - to swallow around the lump in his throat. Remus! His shoulders slumped and he stared intently at his shoes. He couldn't look at that cruel face gloating over his misery or he would burst into tears. All he wanted to do was to slide to the floor and beat his fists against the wooden floorboards until one of them gave. Remus was dead - he had enough Legilimency to know Malfoy wasn't lying - and once again Harry was at fault. It made him wonder if a Dementor's Kiss was enough to make up for that. He winced - Remus, for one, would not have taken kindly to that sort of self-destructive thought.

Malfoy had allowed him the moment he needed to restore a semblance of composure, most likely because he enjoyed his quarry wallowing in self-recriminations. Now he decided to twist the knife a little further.

"Yes, Potter, your last protectors are dead; your Mudblood girlfriend has fled the country with those Muggle parents of hers, and the two obnoxious Weasels are to stand trial for treason against the wizarding world for trying to help you. It looks as if they are going to take up the cell in Azkaban that you won't be needing any more." He sighed blissfully. "I had hoped to be there when you received this news, but I didn't dream I would have the chance to impart it to you myself. Misery suits you, Potter."

Harry gave him a look of pure hatred and prepared to bring down his wand. Even if he couldn't win, perhaps he could at least make the bastard bleed.

A sudden yell from the landing made him jump, and swallow a strangled cry of panic.

"Malfoy? Everything all right up there?"

The former Death Eater observed Harry's face with a haughty smirk, disregarding his wand completely as if it wasn't even a remotely serious threat.

"So - aren't you going to plead with me to save you, Potter?" he asked softly.

Harry laughed bitterly, threadbare nerves showing. "Yes, as if that would do me any good! You'd love that, wouldn't you? That would make for a good story to tell your Death Eater cronies over a drink."

"Perhaps I could be swayed by an appropriate dose of humbleness, Potter?" Malfoy suggested almost playfully, while Harry strained his ears to listen for footsteps on the stairs.

"Sorry, I don't do humble," he shot back, just as softly. "And didn't you just tell me how much you got off on imagining me with the Dementors?" Just go ahead and strike already, Harry thought tiredly. He couldn't pull off the valiant act much longer - he was far too close to hysteria.

"Malfoy?" The voice again, closer this time. "Are you all right up there?"

"It is a tempting image, indeed," Malfoy admitted, disregarding his companion's inquiry. "But I think it would be over far too quickly after all." He cocked his head. "I might be induced to offer you a Portkey out of here, Potter, if you can bring yourself to ask for it."

"A Portkey right into the Malfoy family dungeons, you mean?"

"A Portkey to a destination of my choosing, of course," Malfoy acknowledged, unperturbed. "It is merely a question of what you are more afraid of - me, or the Dementors."

"I'm not afraid of you," Harry stated. It wasn't even bravado. The man himself did not scare him. What he could do - now that was a different question, right?

Don't! Harry's inner voice admonished. He'll just laugh in your face and call the Dementors anyway. But then who was left to expect him to go down with heroic defiance? He was only human! If grovelling to the bastard bought him time, good, and if not, he'd be dead or worse too soon to agonise over betraying Gryffindor honour.

"All right!" he hissed as heavy footsteps started to trample up the staircase to the landing. "Please help me get out of here, Mr Malfoy."

There was a sarcastic ring to the words that Malfoy would have to be deaf to overhear. But to Harry's surprise, he did not rise to the bait. Without taking his eyes - or his wand - off Harry, he called,

"Everything's fine here, Dorkins - I'm just checking the bedrooms for Vanishing Cabinets. I'll be down in a moment."

The footsteps stopped mid-stairs.

"Fine!" came the reply.

Over the retreating steps of the wizard, Harry stared at Malfoy, still somewhat flabbergasted that he hadn't given him away.

"We'll have to discuss your definition of humility at some point, Mr Potter," Malfoy stated with a cold glint in his eyes. "But you'll have your Portkey - in exchange for your wand."

My wand, Harry thought. Yes, take the last thing I could defend myself with, why don't you? Only that even casting something as simple as Jelly-Legs would probably bowl him right over, not that it would even scratch the bastard. Or the ten Aurors downstairs. Or the Dementors.

"And of course you will owe me a life debt for saving you from certain capture and execution," Malfoy added.

"But you want to capture and execute me yourself," Harry objected without much energy. Dying at Malfoy's wand was preferable to being thrown to the dogs by an ignorant Minister and a gullible wizarding public. Unlike them, Malfoy had a reason to want him dead, and whatever he was, at least he wasn't a cringing bureaucrat like Fudge.

"A technicality," the Death Eater waved him off. "But you should make up your mind now, Potter. My... associates will get impatient very soon."

Malfoy reached into his pocket and pulled out a triangular Knut. He touched his wand to it, and the small coin glowed for a brief moment before reassuming its previous dirt-bronze colour. Malfoy raised it to his lips and whispered something, too softly for Harry to understand. Then he lifted his eyes to Harry's and offered him the bespelled coin between middle and index finger.

"Your decision?"

Harry stared at the innocent little piece of metal in despair. If it really was a Portkey, it might just as well dump him right outside on the front porch at the feet of the Dementors. And even if not - if he let go of his wand, he was as good as dead.

When he looked back at Malfoy, the amused twitch of the evil bastard's mouth showed only too well how much he enjoyed Harry's vacillations. He raised a questioning eyebrow, and Harry threw caution to the wind. If the only options were die now or die later, he'd choose later.

He held out his wand.

Malfoy took it, and made it disappear into his robe pocket. Harry's empty hand fell to his side, and he eyed the Knut between Malfoy's fingers with a mixture of apprehension and resignation. His fate was, quite literally, out of his hands now. He was unarmed and held at wandpoint; Malfoy could do whatever he wanted with him. The Death Eater seemed to think the same thing, because a slow, disconcerting smile took shape on his face.

"A very... Slytherin choice, Potter," he commented. He threw the Knut, and even left-handed Harry caught it out of the air with the effortless speed of seven years of Seeker practice. As his fingers closed around the irregular shape, Malfoy added, "May you live to regret it."

Then the familiar pull in his stomach set in and grabbed him away from Grimmauld Place for good.

~ tbc. ~