FIC: Fractured and Tethered, 1/7, Ron/Draco, NC-17
Title: Fractured and Tethered 1/7 [COMPLETE]
Author: Tarie
Pairing: Ron/Remus, Ron/Draco, implied Bill/Remus
Rating: NC-17
Length: 36,500
Summary: The war may be over, but the race is on to save Harry's life.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters and universe are property of JKR, Scholastic & other assorted publishers, and the WB.
A/N: Written for merry_smutmas 2006 for thrihyrne . Eternal thanks and gratitude to my beta readers, mad_maudlin and nqdonne. Without their suggestions and keen eyes, this fic would be a jumbled mess. Also thanks to inthesewalls and Maud for excellent suggestions during the pre-writing stage, to ella_bane and legomymalfoy for their unrelenting encouragement and for the late-night buddy-up writing sessions. Lastly, a huge thank you to Gina for being so incredibly accommodating and not killing me for stomping all over my deadline.
*******

"When figures from the past stand tall
and mocking voices ring the hall
Imperialistic house of prayer
Conquistadores who took their share
They keep calling me"
-Joy Division, 'Dead Souls'
**********

Around them, the air smelt putrid, like singed hair, burnt flesh, and sick-up. Even though the smell had only permeated the air moments ago, Ron couldn't recall for certain, but he suspected the sick-up had come from him.

"Ron!"

Hermione sounded quite a bit panicked, her voice high and shrill. When he glanced at her overtop Harry's head, Ron could see she looked even more panicked than she'd sounded. As for him? He would panic later. Panicking now would not help Harry, and helping Harry was absolute priority.

"What, Hermione?" Ron panted, hauling Harry's prone form as upright as he could between them. Harry was out like a light; he hadn't made so much as a peep when they'd shaken him or attempted to revive him with a Rejuvenating Charm, and they needed to do something about Harry's unconsciousness. Quickly.

"I can't– we can't heal this! We need to–"

"I know." She was all out of sorts and there wasn't any time for it. Snaking an arm around Harry's chest, Ron jerked his chin toward the splinters that made up what remained of Harry's wand. "Get that and let's move, all right?"
"Okay," she said breathlessly, snatching it up. As she stood, her arm went round Harry's other side, and Ron's bravado faltered as their best mate's head lolled from side to side.

"He's bad off." Of course he was. Ron had just seen Harry do what he'd been born to do and it was every bit as ugly as they'd feared it would be. The grassy knoll behind them was no longer green, patches of it smoldering in some places and splattered with blood or sick-up in others; the landscape was now just as ugly as the events that had transpired there minutes ago had been.

"He won't be for long," Hermione bristled, and promptly stuck out her wand hand.

Immediately there was a loud BANG, followed quickly by screeching tires and blinding, whitebright headlights. The Knight Bus skidded to a stop before them, and the hinges on the door squeaked almost impressively as it opened. Out stepped the rail-thin conductor with a spotty face and too-large ears. "Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or– Blimey! 's that 'Arry Potter?"

"Yes, it is," Ron said grimly, struggling, along with Hermione, to get Harry on board.

"'aven't seen 'im in a bit. My name is Stan Shunpike, 'n I once had 'im 'board when 'e was nothin' but a wee lad, that 'ne. Oi, Ern! 'Arry Potter's back 'gain!" Stan shouted gleefully, and Ron was glad that, for once, he was not on the receiving end of Hermione's glare.

"As you can see," she said through clenched teeth, working with Ron to manouevre Harry aboard, "we quite need to get him to St Mungo's rather quickly."

The two of them lowered Harry's limp form onto a bedstead. Harry's arms fell to his sides, chin drooping against his chest. Ron had to look away; Harry's mouth hung open, the lenses in his specs were shattered, and the sodding stupid scar under his fringe had burst or something; it was open once more, open rather wide. Blood ran in thick crimson rivulets down Harry's face, intermingling with soot and sweat and tiny pieces of something Ron didn't want to think on right then.

"Oooh, yes. No fare, no fare fer injured wizards needin' treatment," Stan said loudly. Forgoing the rest of his welcome speech, he flapped a handful of tickets at Ernie Prang, the ancient wizard behind the steering column. "Take 'er away, Ern. We've got ourselves a boy 'ero with a malady."

Sitting on either side of Harry, both Ron and Hermione hung onto a brass bed pole each. Another BANG sounded and the bus was off in a flash. The bus's speed caused their bed to slide toward the back, and when it stopped moments later in a darkened London alley, the bed slid forward again. Glad that he'd more than likely already emptied the contents of his stomach in the field from which they'd came, Ron and Hermione hoisted Harry up and got him down the steps.

"Thanks," said Ron, and then Hermione and he both were too busy situating Harry betwixt them to watch as the Knight Bus took off again. Eyeing the end of the alley where it met with the store-lined street, Ron asked dubiously, "Right, then. So what's the plan?"

If Harry were awake and able to walk on his own, it wouldn't be any trouble at all to get to the red-brick store that housed St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. If Harry were awake and able to walk on his own, actually, they wouldn't be going to St Mungo's. However, Harry was quite unconscious and they needed to somehow get him to the front of Purge and Dowse Ltd. without much notice from the Muggles.

"Act a bit knackered," Hermione ordered, settling one of Harry's arms about her shoulders.

Ron goggled at her. "All of us?"

Her mouth set in a thin line, and Ron knew he'd just said something supremely stupid. "Okay, so we're knackered," he said quickly, and they lumbered out onto the street, holding Harry upright while pretending to be leaning on each other for support at the same time.

It wasn't long until they arrived outside the department store. Shuffling past the sign that read 'Closed for Refurbishment,' they stopped in front of a window displaying a dummy with a ratty ginger wig and a striped anorak.

Hermione leant her bushy head close to the glass, staring straight into the dummy's eyes. "We're here with Harry Potter and it's an emergency; he urgently needs to see a Healer."

The dummy's head jerked forward, its jointed finger crooking, permitting entrance. Simultaneously, Ron and Hermione took Harry up the elbows and stepped through the dirty glass. Ron blinked as they came out on the other side, standing in the centre of the crowded reception area.

Harry's trainers made loud scraping noises as they dragged him straight through the winding queue to the desk marked Enquiries.

The plump blonde witch seated there blew a rather large bubble with her Droobles, then snapped it. "There is a queue, luv," she said snidely.

"The queue," Hermione said scathingly, lifting Harry's chin up, "can wait."

The witch took one good look at Harry, her eyes rounding as big as saucers, and nodded emphatically, fat curled fringe bouncing about her forehead. "S-spell damage, I presume?"

"What does it bloody look like?" Ron snapped, and it took a rap from Harry's splintered wand about the ear to distract him from tearing into her.

"Come on, Ron," Hermione snapped, pulling Harry and, by extension, Ron, toward the set of double doors just beyond the desk.

"Fourth floor," the witch called after them, "but you won't have to–"

Before she could finish, the double doors swung open and three Healers in bright lime robes bearing Healer patches (wand and bone crossed over one another) swished and flicked their wands, Levitating Harry up. Hermione and Ron tried to hold onto him, but the Healers swished their wands again, propelling Harry forward at a much faster rate, and they lost their grip on Harry.

As Hermione and Ron rushed after Harry's floating form, Ron cried, "Oi! Wait there!"

Not one of the Healers turned round to look at Ron, though one did swish and flick once more with a large embellishment, sending Harry's levitating body flying through the doors just before they slammed shut.

Hermione and Ron rushed back to the Enquiries desk and glared at the blonde witch. "Where are they taking him?" they demanded together.

"The Siegfried Grunnion Ward; it's down the corridor from the Janus Thickey Ward."

Hermione and Ron raced to the double doors, which clanged noisily as Ron flung them open. Racing up the rickety staircase, passing manky-looking Healers in dust-thick frames, they didn't stop until they reached the landing signposted SPELL DAMAGE. Hermione swung the door open and led the way down the corridor until they found another door labeled 'SIEGFRIED GRUNNION WARD'.

"Where's Harry?" Ron asked loudly as they made their way inside to yet another reception area. This one was much smaller, more of a waiting room than anything else. A middle-aged witch with dark hair and bright blue eyes smiled kindly at them from behind her cluttered desk.

"Have a seat, dears. The Healers won't be ready for a time; they're working on your friend right now, the poor little lamb. He's banged up something terrible, isn't he?"

And in that moment, Ron knew 'later' had come; he began to panic. He could practically feel the colour drain from his face just as he could feel his throat become dry and scratchy. This witch saw injured magical folk with all manner of maladies; if she thought Harry was 'banged up something terrible', it had to be pretty ruddy bad, hadn't it? Sucking in great big breaths rapidly, Ron screwed his eyes shut. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be.

But it was, because he heard Hermione answer the witch.

"Yes," she murmured, and Ron opened his eyes, grabbing hold of her hand and squeezing tightly. Ron's head began to pound and he had to lean forward. His head hanging between his knees, he sucked in large gulps of oxygen. Harry wasn't simply 'banged up something terrible'; his life was hanging in the bloody balance! After everything was over, their best mate had slumped to the ground and he hadn't stirred one ruddy bit, no matter how hard they'd shaken him or how many times they'd tried to awaken him with a Rejuvenating Charm.

"Harry will be all right," Hermione said quietly, pressing her palm against his.

When Ron stole a glance at her, he could tell she didn't really believe her own words of conviction. Her face was waxen, her lips trembling. Once upon a time Ron had known how to get rid of that tremble, but their time together had long since passed and he wouldn't dare revisit it out of respect for her. As wonderful as his time with Hermione had been, they simply weren't compatible, a conclusion they both came to when Ron realised he was more attracted to men than women.

"He has to be," Ron said after a long period of silence. It was his turn to be the strong one and he knew it. "He's Harry, all right? Harry who'd faced a ruddy Horntail and lived to tell about it. Harry who–"

"Harry who bested the Whomping Willow so we could save you from Padfoot," Hermione chimed in weakly.

Ron shuddered, distinctly remembering how it had felt when the bone in his leg broke. "Harry who got through all those obstacles first year to save the Philosopher's Stone," he added.

"Harry who– oh, Ron," Hermione choked suddenly, her cheek unexpectedly pressed against his shoulder.

"Er." He froze for a moment, not sure if he dared touch her, all things considered, but then– Sod it all; she's my best friend. It isn't like that, not anymore.

Wrapping his arms around her small frame, Ron held her as though she were made of glass, strong yet fragile. Thinking back to what Mum had done for him when he had been upset as a boy, Ron made soft, soothing noises, rocking her gently from side to side. "Hermione, I know we've not been–"

Just then the doors to the Siegried Grunnion Ward opened and Ron caught a quick glimpse of mousy brown hair before a flash of amber light distorted his vision, making stars bloom white and dance about before his very eyes.

When he regained the power of proper sight, Ron blearily focussed on a large black camera with purple smoke billowing out of out its lens and the figure holding onto the camera.

"Colin Creevey?" Hermione sat upright, blinking in the photographer's general direction. Sodding strong flash, that.

"All right, Ron, Hermione?" Colin asked breathlessly, holding up his camera for all to see. "I'm with Daily Prophet now – Bonzo retired, so I'm working with Rita Skeeter." He pointed to himself proudly. "Me! Can you believe it?"
Ron blanched. "No, I can't," he said slowly, exchanging a look with Hermione, who had quite the murderous glint appear in her eye at the mention of Rita Skeeter.

"It took a long time, but hard work and constant vigilance got me the job!" Colin beamed, then whipped out an acid green quill and a scroll of parchment as he sank down onto the settee beside them. "What can you tell me about Harry's injuries? His current condition? How he received the injuries?" The quill hovered over the parchment, the nib positively itching to get moving.

"Colin," Hermione began, "I really do not think this is the time or place for you to–"

"Excuse me, dears?"

All three looked over to the kindly witch behind the reception area.

"Misters Rufus Scrimgeour and Oswyn Sweetecok from the Ministry of Magic are here to see you." Then doors swung open again, revealing the Minister for Magic and his assistant. Both big-headed gits.

"Mister Weasley, Miss Granger," Scrimgeour began, and Ron held up his hand.

"We're not interested in speaking to the likes of you," he spat.

"Well, well," huffed Sweetecok, a scrawny little bloke with a large pouf of hair, "is that any way to speak to your Minister for Magic?"

"It is when he's utter crap." Ron scowled and Scrimgeour laughed.

"Oh, undoubtedly you are simply suffering from shock, my boy." Hermione tutted and Scrimgeour gave her a broad smile. "Buck up you, you two! You witnessed a historical event, did you not?"

"We're not talking about it." Hermione crossed her arms about her chest, and Ron highly suspected she would have stamped her foot were she not bone-weary and exhausted.

"Surely," the assistant interrupted, wheezing slightly, "you can tell us how Mister Potter did it?"

"We could, but we won't. Just leave off, will you?" Ron spat. As far as he was concerned, the Minister was a crock of shit, just looking to use Harry for his benefit, and Ron wouldn't have it.

"Harry," Hermione said coolly, "defeated Volde–"

"Hang on a mo!" Colin piped up, producing a second scroll of parchment. The quill leapt onto the new scroll while the other one rolled itself closed, obviously all used up. "And...go!"

"Harry defeated Volde–" She threw up her hands, face mottling red. "You know, this is terribly ridiculous."

"Yeah," Ron agreed, "it really sodding is. Our best mate is IN THERE–" He pointed at another set of double doors. "–and we've no idea what's wrong with him, and you lot want sordid details about how we watched our best mate become forced to be a fucking–"

The doors swung open yet again, revealing Mad-Eye Moody and Dedalus Diggle, his tall purple hat leaning precariously on one side of his head.

And then Ron just couldn't take it anymore. "–become a fucking murderer! BEASTLY BLOODY BASTARDS, THE LOT OF YOU," he roared, then rushed straight at reception, kicking the large desk.

"Weasley, get ahold of yourself," growled Moody, stumping over to him.

"No, I WON'T," Ron bellowed. Hermione shrank back against the wall, while Scrimgeour's assistant edged toward the door. FLASH-FLASH went Colin's camera while Scrimgeour nodded his head mock sagely and Diggle fiddled anxiously with his hat. "HARRY'S IN THERE, MOODY, AND–"

"There is far too much commotion in here," said Remus Lupin smoothly, quietly closing the doors behind him as he entered. "Hello Hermione, Ron." He nodded at each of them in turn, politely taking the Minister by the elbow. Ron's mouth clamped shut and Hermione steered him back to the settee while Remus murmured quietly to Scrimgeour, ushering him out the door while his assistant followed closely behind.

Moody gave Diggle a shove between the shoulder blades. As they filed through the door, he said, "We'll be back when you're ready to talk." To Ron, he added, "Mind your temper, boy. Focus on Harry, eh? What would Molly say if she were still alive?"

"Oi, Ron!"

Ron's head jerked toward the sound of his name and then there was another flash of amber light. "Fucking HELL, Colin!"

Hermione leapt to her feet. "Colin, there's a lovely tea room on the fifth floor. I expect you'll find it fascinating there." And with that, she all but pushed him out the door before collapsing on the settee.

For quite some time, Ron and Hermione had the waiting area to themselves, though Remus did pop in to tell them he'd be upstairs taking tea with Colin Creevey should they have need for him. They'd played so many games of Naughts and Crosses that Ron's eyes began to cross, and then they moved on to Hangman. After he'd been hanged five times, they quit playing games altogether and just waited.
Just when Ron's stomach began to rumble and tea was beginning to sound rather nice, a balding, pudgy Healer walked into reception. After mopping the sweat from his brow with the cuff of his robe sleeve, he cleared his throat and rocked back on his heels.

"Mister Weasley? Miss Granger?" he asked, looking round the reception area curiously.

It was empty save for the witch behind the messy desk and them. Ron's brows raised and he disguised a laugh as a cough when Hermione made a small exasperated noise and stood. "Yes, that's us," she said briskly, wiping her hands on the sides of her robe.

"Perhaps," the Healer said, "you'd care to sit down."

Resolve setting in his shoulders, Ron pushed himself to a stand. "I'd care to know what condition our mate's in. That's what I'd care to do, actually."

"Yes, well, it's your decision," he said gravely.

"Can you just get to it?" Hermione cut in impatiently.

"Yes, yes." Avoiding looking directly at them, the Healer busied himself by rolling up the sleeves of his robes. "It appears that Mister Potter has a– that is to say, he–"

"You don't know what it is, do you?" Ron worried his lower lip, panic beginning to set in once more.

The Healer ruffled. "Of course we do."

"Well, then. What is it?"

Hermione's hand caught hold of Ron's, and he inclined his head to hers, wondering how in Godric's name the Healer was going to answer her question. Obviously Harry wasn't dead; the Healer would've told them that right away. Judging from all the hemming and hawing, however, Ron was prepared for the worst.

"Mister Potter appears to be in a very deep sleep."

"Wake him up, then!" Ron said, his free hand unclenching a bit; perhaps this wasn't so bad after all.

"I'm afraid it isn't that simple. He hasn't responded to any attempts to revive him, nor any external stimuli. His breathing has shallowed, becoming irregular, and we've had to attach a breathing trumpet to his airways to assist him."

"You've stuck breathing trumpets up his nose and in his gob?" Ron asked incredulously. "And he's not woken up?"
"He's in a coma, Ron," Hermione explained, and the Healer nodded.

"Quite like a coma, yes."

"Then why didn't you just bloody SAY so?" Ron demanded.

"Because it isn't a coma, not as we know it. He hasn't had trauma to the head, other than superficial wounds. He hasn't any traces of poisons in his blood, nor are any of his humours unbalanced. It's terribly odd, to be frank," explained the Healer as he bustled toward the ward's exit.

"What can be done for him?" Hermione questioned.

Ron figured Hermione was already mentally going through a catalogue of information about comas and Healing Magic, and he smiled for the first time that day.

Hand on the brass knob, the Healer looked over his shoulder at them. "We don't know."

And then he was gone, leaving Ron and Hermione to stare at one another helplessly in the middle of the tiny waiting room.

The Healer had been gone all of five minutes before the reception witch offered to show them to the ward where Harry had been placed. It was much different from the Dai Llewelyn Ward Ron's dad had been in many years ago after that horrid snake bite, though it wasn't quite as bleak as what Ron remembered the Janus Thickey Ward looked like. The Seigried Grunnion Ward wasn't really so much of a ward as it was a single room. It was barely any larger than the crap cupboard Ron remembered seeing once at Harry's aunt and uncle's. There weren't any windows, but there was a small wardrobe was crammed in a corner and two rickety-looking chairs sat on either side of the small bed. Harry was propped up on a few pillows, his face newly scrubbed and clean (breathing trumpets stuffed in his gob and up his nose), though Ron hadn't any idea where his spectacles had gone. Not that Harry needed them at the present, mind.

Swallowing against a lump in his throat, Ron forwent the chair and perched on the side of Harry's bed. Hermione did the same, and they both reached for Harry's hand at the same time.

"We're not leaving you, mate," Ron swore.

"Not until you're ready to walk out of here," Hermione added.

**********

They stayed beside Harry while Order members, Ministry officials, reporters, and well-wishers paraded out over the next few days. It was exhausting, but they were afraid to leave Harry's side just in case. Just in case what, Ron wasn't sure, though he knew he didn't want to risk missing anything important.
When Hermione and he weren't busy answering questions, recounting the last moments of Voldemort's life, or attempting to keep down bland hospital food, they spent their time playing Exploding Snap or Wizards Chess. Sometimes they played quietly, while other times they talked about the war and how it had affected life as they knew it.

The world wasn't remotely like the one they'd once known as Hogwarts students. Many people died at the hands of Death Eaters or because of their affiliation with them. All of Ron's family, Fleur included, had been killed when two Death Eaters stormed the Burrow, looking for Harry, Ron, and Hermione during Christmas hols two years past. Only Bill and Percy had been spared as Percy had been on an errand for Scrimgeour at the time and Bill had been on a mission with Kingsley for the Order. Tonks and Hestia Jones died investigating a lead on Fenrir Greyback many months ago. Parvati and Padma Patil, along with Cho Chang and Terry Boot, died defending an Order safehouse somewhere outside of Mucking. The Malfoys were all dead, as was Walden MacNair and Nott the elder.

Many others whom had been associated with or connected to Voldemort in some way were locked up in Azkaban, most without a proper trial by the Wizengamot. Scrimgeour and his new band of cronies claimed the Ministry needed to be vigilant and take precautionary measures to ensure that history would not repeat itself. They'd even taken to seizing the assets of the imprisoned and auctioning off estates to raise Galleons for War Relief Funds. Though he despised the Ministry's tactics, Harry had placed the winning bids on a few of the estates only a few months ago before they set out to collect the final Horcrux. Ron hadn't understood why Harry'd done such a thing, though it made sense later when Harry had explained he wanted to use the properties for something good after the war was over. When he put things that way, Ron had understood immediately: even after Harry would defeat Voldemort, he'd still have that Saving People thing of his, and buying crap properties and turning them into Something Good would allow him to continue to do that.

On the fourth day of their beside vigil, Remus Lupin came to visit without Moody, Diggle, Shacklebolt, or any of the other Order members, which was immediate cause for suspicion.

"Hullo there, Professor," Ron greeted, barely looking up from the chessboard. Ron's knight obliterated one of Hermione's rooks, and Ron chortled. He could practically hear Hermione's eyes roll in her head.

"It's just Remus, Ron. I haven't been your professor in some time," Remus said gently, and then he gestured toward the chessboard. "I see you're keeping your spirits up," he noted, Conjuring a rickety chair for himself.

"We have to," Hermione said gravely, turning away from the chessboard at the foot of Harry's bed. "He hasn't had any progress."

Remus nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. With one flick of his wand, Ron packed up the chessboard, looking at Remus expectantly.

"Maybe you aren't seeing any progress because you've been spending every waking hour here," he suggested with a small smile. "Time tends to blur and details begin to get lost when exhaustion sets in."

"Harry needs us." Ron scooted off the foot of Harry's bed and leant back in an uncomfortable wooden chair.

"Harry also needs you to take care of yourselves."

Damn. Ron couldn't argue with that. Harry would be irked if he knew how much fussing Hermione and Ron had done over him. Still, he couldn't just very well leave, could he? "Yeah, well..." Faltering, Ron gave up trying to work out a line of reasoning.

Turning to Hermione, Remus asked, "Hermione, how long has it been since you've seen your parents?"

"Two months," she said quietly.

"Don't you think they'd like to see you? Don't you think they're worried about you?" he asked quietly.

"I suppose so," Hermione admitted, "though I've been sending them post and–"

Clasping her shoulder lightly, Remus continued, "Why don't you go home, Hermione? Get a bit of rest, sit with your parents." Looking to Ron, he added, "And you, Ron. Why don't you go home? Sleep for a bit, refresh yourself."

"I don't have a home anymore, Prof– Remus," Ron said automatically, mouth twisting as his chest tightened painfully. "Percy's in the States and it's just Bill there now. The Burrow isn't a home; it's a bloody nightmare. 'm not going back."

"Bill needs you, Ron," Remus said, and Ron's jaw clenched.

Right again, Professor. After Percy left for the States, Mr Lovegood had taken care of Bill during lunar cycles for a time, though now there was no one left to help Bill, not since Luna's father had passed on the month before.

"He can't go back to the Burrow." Hermione looked from Remus to Ron and back again, and he was grateful for her help. Yes, he wanted to help his brother just as much as he wanted to help Harry, but there wasn't any way he could ever set foot inside the Burrow again. It was just too damned painful.

"Go to the manor, then."

Ron sputtered. "Malfoy Manor?! Have you gone completely round the twist?"
"As a matter of fact, I haven't," Remus said with a slight smile, "despite what other wizards may say. Harry has barely set foot in the place since he bought it; he'll be needing someone to watch over it and oversee the cleaning while he's incapacitated. You'd be helping Harry, Ron, and it would be a place for you to assist your brother and for yourself to get the rest you clearly need."

Though Ron was loathe to admit it, the manor was the nicest of all the properties Harry had acquired and it would make the most sense to start cleaning it out so it would be properly ready for Harry to renovate for one of his Saving People projects if he got better. When he got better. It was certainly large enough, from what little Ron had seen of it before, and undoubtedly there would be a place for Bill to stay during the lunar cycle.

"I'll do it," Ron said finally, and Hermione's brows raised in surprise.

"You will?"

"Yeah." Lifting his chin, Ron looked from Hermione to Remus. "If she agrees to go home to her mum and dad as well, I'll do it."

"But what about–" Hermione started, but Remus held a hand up to intervene.

"I'll watch over him. It's the least I can do."

"All right, then," Hermione said, standing.

She and Ron exchanged an uncertain look as Remus stood to place an arm about both their shoulders. "Thank you, for Harry's sake."

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