Summary: The Sectumsempra incident during Draco's 6th year left him with unusual side effects. As a result, Draco finds himself gradually losing his 'senses' over the years after that. He could not feel pain, heat, cold and pressure. He could feel almost nothing. So he turned to drugs. Just so he could feel. Then he found something else more potent than drugs: Harry's touch. Because when Harry touches him, he could feel again.
Warnings: Disabled!Draco, Bottom!Draco, Dub-con, Dominant!Harry, Rough play, Drug use, Hints of open relationship(not between Harry and Draco).
Disclaimer: For the hundred thousandth time I don't own the characters, oh well, at least not those who matter! I wish I do but I don't! Even though I love them to bits.
Author's notes: The story was originally written for HP_intoxicated fest(on LJ). I took the liberty of using the prompt as the summary, because I think it sums up the story perfectly and, once again, I'm hopeless at summaries. Appleling - thank you for such a brilliant and original prompt (I only hope that I've made the most of it); Gypsyraeyven - my beta for her constant support (perhaps even supervision), hard work and cheerleading; and last but not least, knowmefirst - the mod, for her patience and understanding. Thank you all!
The Touch of a Saint:
Heretical Confessions of a Toxic Wizard
"All we have to believe with is our senses, the tools we use to perceive the world: our sight, our touch, our memory. If they lie to us, then nothing can be trusted. And even if we do not believe, then still we cannot travel in any other way than the road our senses show us; and we must walk that road to the end."
- Neil Gaiman
Heavy curtains prevented even a small ray of light from shining in. While the room was poorly lit and bare at first glance, its occupier, whose presence stood out in sharp contrast to his shadowy surroundings, didn't appear to be affected in the slightest as he sat motionless in a mahogany armchair, watching the fire roaring underneath the mantelpiece from a distance. The air was sultry and oppressive, tangibly thick with stifled urges to vent emotion. Yet outbursts seemed out of place here, in a ghastly silence where only the occasional sizzling noises escaped from the fireplace.
Our hero was a frail young man, probably handsome at some point in his life, if the high cheekbones and well-defined lips were anything to judge by, but whatever boyish prettiness he might have possessed was long gone, replaced by harsh, pointy features, too thin, too pale, as though he had been worn out on a long hike and was now at the brink of exhaustion, overwhelmed by fatigue.
With his shirt unbuttoned to the waist he was caught in a swathe of faint orange light, his porcelain skin flushed and mottled, platinum blonde hair plastered to his forehead. Beside him an oval table was barely visible beneath a cluster of bits and pieces: a Firewhisky bottle and glasses, various objects on a wooden tray, and a silver bucket.
A sudden crackling sound split the silence, shaking the young man out of his dazed state. Rattled, he waved his wand and held out a half-empty crystal glass just in time to catch fresh ice tubes, then stared at it intently. The rich amber hue of its contents was a thing of such beauty. Before long the excess humidity had taken its effect, creating a slightly iridescent, hazy manifestation on the glass surface. Like a child full of curious wonder, who had found a new world and set out to explore, he ran a thumb over etching streaks of sweat, fascinated by the moist texture.
He shivered and raised the glass to his lips, savouring the sensation of icy liquor sliding down his throat before settling to start a slow, sweet burn in his stomach. Amid the gloom, smoke curled up around a small oil lamp, which threw out a feeble yellow glimmer in a hopeless effort to illuminate. Over the heat there rested a ceramic bowl attached to a long pipe with an ivory stem. He drew a dark brown pill from the various whatnots on the tray and crumbled it into the bowl.
A cloying, stupefying vapour filled the room until he was barely conscious of himself… It was so easy to let the world languish. He placed the end of the pipe into his mouth and with one long drag everything faded away at a rapid, messy pace. He fell into deep water… so deep that he could no longer distinguish between the past and the present. He blinked, as sounds trickled in and out of his consciousness, pummelling a relentless march which was only made bearable due to the callous nature of his stupor…
He saw the images of what he had witnessed, but through a thick veil, void of sadness and terror. Instead he felt good, jittery. Heaven holds no pleasure of living, nor hell a haven to those who suffer. He heard himself giggling…
Reveries were only another form of awareness. He closed his eyes and sank deeper into the leather armchair, prepared to be claimed by the familiar feeling of vertigo that overtook him whenever he lost sense of space and time. Little by little he was dragged into the most slothful indolence, a vast abyss between what he knew and how he felt.
Something crawled across his skin, leaving him itchy and heated in its wake… He looked down in bewilderment, suddenly alert and responsive. His eyes glazed over; at first he couldn't figure out why he was sweating, perspiration forming jagged paths down his glistening, unclothed flesh. Languidly his hand dropped upon heaving chest, fingertips grazing as gently and as slowly as the first snowfall. He tilted his head to one side, uplifted in the kind of contentment induced by delirium, in which no anguish ever afflicted his soul.
The sounds inside his head had gotten louder. How odd, he thought. He had never before heard yelling and heavy footsteps during his moments of indulgence. He struggled to sit up, trying to keep up with the latest happenings. It had become increasingly hostile. He could almost feel his eardrum vibrating to the pounding on the door. When it was forced open, piercing bright light flooded in like thousands of needles pricking his eyelids. He flinched, his eyes dry and sore, his vision blurred.
'Bloody hell,' he gasped, squinting into the blaze of light. 'Can't a man wank in peace?'
All at once the intruders stopped dead in their tracks, each staring at him in disbelief. As absolute stillness descended on the room, he burst out laughing.
'Look at him,' said one of the black robed men, pointing towards Draco with a freckled hand, and the galled ripple in his voice rang like a bell. 'Why am I not surprised? The slimy git is a druggie. He probably can't tell what day it is.'
'Gentlemen, gentlemen, if I may –' the proprietor chimed in, sounding annoyed.
Most people might wonder what to say, or whether to say anything at all under such circumstances. Madame Violet wasn't one of those people. At medium height, with long, thick brown curls neatly styled, and smart robes freshly pressed, she painted the very picture of respectability; to those who knew better she was an experienced businesswoman, well-versed in the needs of her clientèle, someone who remained sufficiently discreet and invisible until such an occasion beckoned otherwise, like now.
'I assume you're not here for anything as trivial as this...' she continued importantly, twisting a silk handkerchief in her hands. 'Besides, Mister Malfoy is in no condition to be questioned. Surely this can wait until tomorrow…'
There was a cough and a voice Draco recognised as that of Harry Potter said, 'It's not for you to decide what is incriminating and what's not. We're here because this place is under suspicion of illegal activities. From what I can see, dangerous substance rather falls under the category. Not to mention your establishment has come up in our report twice this month alone…'
'Obviously false accusations,' said Madame Violet defensively. 'There is no truth in it. I have nothing to hide.'
'What's all this then? Don't try to tell me those are Oriental incense balls burning?'
'I complied,' she replied coolly, 'with your request. I let your officers search the premises and you have found nothing but a case of pills. Now you are causing a scene. I've already stated my position on the matter. Mister Malfoy is not fit to go anywhere at the moment. You can't take him away while he's coping with comedown.'
'So you acknowledge the drug use?' another Auror, whose name Draco had forgotten, demanded.
'Mister Malfoy has told you before that he suffers from Hypoesthesia. Those pills are for medical purposes – '
'We're just supposed to take his word for it?'
'That's up to you, Mister Weasley,' said Madame Violet patiently. 'The specifics of Mister Malfoy's condition you will have to ask him yourself when he's feeling better. As for myself, like I said earlier, the most that you can do within the law is fine me…'
Draco plunged his head under the blanket Madame Violet wrapped around him to keep away the light and noise but it was of little avail, since Potter and his merry band of men seemed to think that he was obligated to take part in their ridiculous charade. He had no idea for how much longer the search went on, but the gut-wrenching nausea had already set in by the time they came back to his room. Merlin have mercy, he thought, arms folded across his puffed out chest, hoping they'd bugger off soon. He wanted to be alone until time ended…
'Hey, Malfoy... Malfoy!' someone barked near his ear. 'Wakey! Wakey!'
'Go get stuffed, weasel!'
'Resorting to name calling, are we?' said the ginger rat and Draco knew, just from his tone, that he was smirking. 'Get up! You have some questions to answer – '
'No – '
'You don't have a choice. You have to get up! We need to question you – '
'I said no, now GET OUT OF MY FACE!' Draco roared, searching for his wand. 'Otherwise, I swear – '
'You swear what, ferret? What can you possibly do when you're all curled up in a little ball, sniffing drugs…'
Who the hell had died and made weasel the man of the moment? Draco didn't give him a chance to finish. One thing he had learnt in his youth was that people tended to shut their trap – kind of difficult not to – with a wand held to their throat. He couldn't help wondering if it wasn't him who had gotten caught, would they be making such a fuss? Over a fucking case of pills!
'Mister Malfoy! Mister Weasley!' squealed Madame Violet, drawing the handkerchief to cover her mouth. 'Please, it's uncalled for – '
Potter, the Greatest Saviour incarnated since Merlin, according to 'From the Closet to Heroism: An Unofficial Biography of The Boy who Lived', had apparently decided to interfere, taking it upon himself to step between raised wands. 'Don't!' he hissed, his words dropping like hot oil on fire.
Draco looked at him mockingly. Good to know some things never change.
'Drop it, both of you!' said Robards, the Head Auror, striding across the room. 'I mean it. Put those away! We don't need that!'
'He started it…' the weasel argued, still aiming at Draco. 'What, scared? You should be! We've got more wands on our side…'
'Stop provoking him!' said Potter, shooting his friend a warning glare. He grabbed Draco's outstretched arm and pushed it down. 'Not a good idea, Malfoy, unless you'd rather get yourself arrested for assaulting an Auror.'
'Mister Robards,' said Madame Violet, in a scandalised tone. 'Is this how my client is to be treated? I am inclined to file an immediate complaint to the Wizengamot.'
'Alright, alright, there will be no need for that,' said Robards authoritatively. 'Let's go to your office, shall we? Ron, you're coming with me. No argument! If someone really has been reporting false crimes, I wanna know who it is that is so determined to waste our time and the Ministry's resources... Madame Violet, think harder. I want you to compile a list of names, competitors, customers or former employees, anyone who had any grievances against you… '
Draco hardly noticed as the Aurors followed Madame Violet from the room. Disorientated, his heart pounding from the unexpected sensation Potter had left on his arm a moment ago, he slumped back into the armchair, suddenly feeling the need for support. It was… too real, and too much like what he had remembered….
'Harry, you stay here,' Robards whispered, stopping Potter at the door, 'get Malfoy's story checked out and deal with him as you see fit.'
The Auror left and the room was once again quiet. Draco kept his lips closed even though he was laughing inwardly. Little did he know, Robards might just have hand-delivered him a way out of this mess...
'Are you all right?' he heard Potter say softly. 'Do you need a minute?'
'What do you want to know?' asked Draco.
'Err, ok, let's cut to the chase. Makes everyone's life easier.' Potter settled down into one of the chairs around the table. 'Who made you those pills? Did you make them?'
'Does it matter?' Draco muttered, neither confirming nor denying.
'Look, we can either do this here, or in a holding cell down at the Ministry. Your choice – '
'I haven't seen you in years and the first drink you offer me is Veritaserum? Very smooth, Potter, I must say.'
'This is an Auror investigation, not a negotiation,' said Potter in a clear, steady voice. 'You were inhaling – that alone means you've broken the law. The usage of Angel's Trumpet is heavily controlled and regulated. You can buy powder in prescribed amounts to make potions, but all other products are off limits. No healer in the country should have anything to do with pills made from Class IV substances if they value their licences.'
'Wow, kept yourself informed, haven't you?' said Draco dryly. 'I made the pills. Anyone can if you have moderate skills and a good recipe. They're for my own personal use. I'm not hurting anyone. What I choose to indulge in is hardly a matter worthy of the Ministry's concern – '
'What I don't get,' interjected Potter, 'is why you can't at least stick to the potions? You have a respectable job. You certainly don't need a lecture about the adverse effects. Why do you risk it? And in a brothel no less? If you have to do it, there must be a better place than this.'
Draco looked down, unwilling to admit to Potter that it seemed a convenient choice at the time; he couldn't take the chance of his parents finding out what he was doing, and Madame Violet was discreet. It was a beneficial arrangement for both parties.
'The draught doesn't work for me so well,' said Draco after a while. 'It hasn't for some time.'
'Well, if your condition is deteriorating, that's a matter you should take up with your healer. You may think you're not affecting anyone else, but that's not the issue here. Angel's Trumpet has to be handled by skilled medi-wizards, whether you agree with the law or not – '
'I have specialist knowledge!'
'You are a researcher, not a practitioner,' said Potter, emitting a sigh. 'And you're the patient, which makes you biased. You can't administer your own medication, especially when it's made from a dangerous substance.'
'Fine. Just tell me the amount and where to pay – ' Draco cried, his voice now shaking with anger. 'This is absurd! It's not my fault the law fails to acknowledge my needs – '
He paused mid-sentence, feeling extremely frustrated at being treated like a criminal. Calm down, he said to himself. Arguing with Gryffindors on principles would get you nowhere because they thought only themselves were allowed to break rules.
'How bad is your condition?'
It was the last thing he'd discuss with Potter. 'What's it to you?' said Draco, with a snort. 'If I say I can't feel anything without the pills, would you make the charges go away?'
'I can let you off with a warning,' said Potter, 'providing you check-in with your healer. You need to give me the names of your supplier, too, and whoever else is involved.'
'Really?' drawled Draco, light grey eyes narrowing. 'To what do I owe this… courtesy?'
'Umm, I've heard… about your illness,' said Potter awkwardly. 'I'm not unsympathetic.'
That was the joke of the century.
Turbid thoughts raced through Draco's mind. He heard his teeth grinding, his gaze fell upon Potter's hands, rough against the damask table linen, reflexive but strong... then to his own, long, bony, protruding from shirt sleeves. He pressed them down, pushing and pushing until his fingers were bent and his knuckles were twisted.
Unexpected rage rose in white bright waves until he was drowning in it; there he was, face to face with his boyhood adversary, who glanced back across the table, healthy and whole, looking as though he actually gave a damn. It made Draco want to snap, to rip the pretentious mask off Potter's stupid face, because even if Potter could deceive the entire world, Draco knew better…
'You will let me go,' he smiled complacently. 'You won't charge me, or throw me into Azkaban.'
'And how did you come to that conclusion?' asked Potter, surprised.
'What's her name? Hazel? Heather? Quite a performance it was, not what one expects to find at the back of Knockturn Alley, you banging a blonde out in the open…'
Potter's countenance began to change, his eyes darkened, lips pressed into a thin line. In a cold voice he crackled, 'You don't know what you're talking about.'
'Does your weasel friend know you like to get rough with random trollop behind his sister's back in dark alleys?' Draco went on. 'You have it all on a platter – what drove you to do it? The weaselette holding out on you? She wouldn't play naughty games?'
There was a loud thud, followed by a blur of action: chairs falling down, bottles and glasses being knocked off the table and crashing to the floor while Potter lurched forward, grabbed Draco by the collar and pulled him up in one swift motion. Then he saw in plain sight something he had realised for a long time, that underneath they were of the same stock, blackened, damaged… one wasn't better than the other…
Punch me, Draco silently challenged him. I wouldn't feel a thing; no pain, no pressure, no temperature…
'You worthless prick!' Potter shouted, face inches away from Draco's. 'You never change!'
Do they ever?
No, that wasn't true because he did, in a manner of speaking…
'Cut me loose,' breathed Draco, pressing on. 'I'll keep your secret. We can't have the entire world finding out our hero's dirty laundry, can we?'
Potter's hands flew to Draco's neck and remained there, a darkly solemn expression on his face as if he was contemplating how much force it would take to strangle Draco who, in turn, recoiled... Not out of fear for his life, but at the crushing feeling of compression. Impossible, he gasped, how was this happening?
In utter shock he began to pummel anything that came within striking distance, twisting and jerking frantically. It was then Potter loosened his grip and let Draco collapse to the floor.
What was that?
Forcing himself to concentrate, he heard Potter say, 'I won't arrest you now… But watch yourself,' then in a louder, more significant voice, 'because I will be!'
Silence fell upon the room after Potter had stormed out. Draco picked himself up slowly off the floor and dropped back into the armchair, completely lost in thought. The memories he had been holding back were threatening to resurface, bringing with them the hope he had long given up; that of being able to touch where his hand had landed. For too long it had been easier not to expect a positive outcome than repeatedly being driven to despair by overwhelming disappointment, but now…
There was only one way to be sure.
'Disassociated Sensory Disorder is very rare and incurable. Patients' quality of life can be improved with potions but there are side effects. You may experience loss of appetite, nausea, migraine... Mostly it's down to you. You need to learn how to live without one of your senses… Unfortunately, the one you're losing is arguably the worst one to lose…'
'I've come for a second opinion,' Draco said heatedly, 'you just told me nothing I don't already know.'
'I'm sorry, Mister Malfoy,' the healer replied matter-of-factly. 'I know it's not easy for you to come to terms with such a condition…'
'Any theories on what caused it in the first place?'
'Could be spell damage, or poison, perhaps even a defect that wasn't previously diagnosed, set off by a trigger. We can't say for sure. It's a highly unusual occurrence, next to non-existent given the kind of sense in question.'
'I DON'T have a prior undiagnosed defect,' Draco spat, eyeing the half-witted man with displeasure.
'Very well, have you been hit with anything lately?'
x
It had been years since he last set foot in the Leaky Cauldron. He had difficulties with dexterity, and couldn't very well distinguish different stimuli; selective sensory loss had effectively rendered his other senses untrustworthy because they had heightened over the years to compensate, all of which made loud, bright, crowded public places potentially hazardous for him.
Even while on draughts he had good and bad days. Some days were more manageable than others; his limbs and body functioned better, although they took considerable time to perform ordinary tasks. When it was bad, he would knock things over, and bump into countless objects or people that came his way. Those days he felt like a prisoner in his own body, so he hid at home – at least there he knew the precise location of everything.
And perhaps he really was a coward, because he didn't want the world to see him handicapped.
But tonight he had a mission.
If he was right, he would know soon enough. He'd figured that it was best not to get his hope up lest he be disappointed once more.
Peering out from under a hood Draco decided that the pub was dark, shabby, stinky, and more raucous than necessary. Behind the bar a blonde, pink-cheeked witch took his order but didn't care to look twice at him the whole time. She looks familiar, he thought, as he wandered off with a Butterbeer in his hand. Draco wasn't thirsty; he merely wanted to blend in on this particular Friday night. And, ironically, had succeeded. Nobody seemed to notice a cloaked man walking in a pained, self-conscious manner; for all they cared he was just another merry patron too into his drink to walk in a straight line.
In the dim light his eyes caught a flash of flaming hair which seemed to scream, 'Here! Here!' and gave away his target quicker than using a Four-Point Spell. Potter, in Muggle clothes, had his arm around one of the redheads.
He found a small table behind a half-filled bookshelf, likely unoccupied due to its isolated placement. Then he waited quietly.
'Ar, yeh should've seen Roger's face, I always knew he'd fall fer that – '
'… I don' reckon it'd be safe…'
'Honestly, get a grip – '
Draco paid no heed to the tawdry chatter. As close as he was to these cheerful, carefree people, he was in a numbing, distant place. Pushing the hood back slightly he glanced over and saw Potter whispering in his girlfriend's ear, who threw her head back and giggled. He waited.
'Why didn' ya charge Maalfoy da other day, 'arry?' wheezed the-brother-Weasley, thick-tongued. 'I'd let hiss assss rootten ein 'zkaban… Who gives a tosss if he' a sick puppy…'
Granger glanced around quickly and made a 'hush' sound.
'Don't think Robards wants that talked about…' said Potter irritably, pulling out his wand and plunging everyone around him into silence.
Their expressions, however, had revealed more than they realised; Potter and the brother weasel, both defiant, Granger, reproachful.
The Lovegood girl - whose mouth moved wordlessly below a warped shelf while a beetle bounced around on her hair band above - must have said something to lighten the mood, that they all laughed, along with the bar witch, now standing next to Longbottom. Even Granger pushed a strand of short, still bushy hair off her face and smiled.
He studied the worn wallpaper, trying to shrug off the stiffness in his chest. The group of them together recalled vague, indistinct memories that bore little association to the present. Sometimes he caught Potter's moving face in the Daily Prophet and was reminded of a ghost he had laid to rest. Now he was calling upon a blast from the past out of his own freewill, and never so much had he missed his friends, with whom he now only exchanged polite correspondences. Except for Gregory, who trained security Trolls for a living. He was the only one who didn't regard Draco with his lips trembling like a fish out of water. Neither was he lugubrious, and it was oddly comforting. Sometimes, Draco had thought, despite his simple ways, Gregory might be the wisest of all of them.
His heart gave a leap. Potter had gotten to his feet, alone, heading towards the back. Draco followed, wand in his sleeve, until he was stopped by a group of wizards and witches keen to persuade him into joining their celebration. For a moment he lost sight of Potter, but that way led to either the bathroom or back door, so assuming Potter wasn't sneaking off, there was only one place he could've gone. Hurrying from the scene he scurried along the corridor, leaving a few angry people rubbing their shoulders, and came to a halt outside the bathroom. A man was whistling on his way out. Draco took a deep breath and pushed.
Potter stood alone with his back to the door, his head bowed low, washing his hands unsuspectingly.
Draco walked over to the basin. In the mirror a blue-eyed wizard looked back at him, brown brows raised matching his expression. He felt strangely calm, and he could hear the music from the pub, the sounds of water splashing and rushing down the pipes… Instinctively, Draco flicked his wand. 'Confundo!' he whispered.
With a perfect, close-range aim the effect was instantaneous. Draco steered a confused Potter into a nearby cubicle, knowing that he had limited time before anyone else walked in.
'Who are you? Why am I here?' said Potter, ricocheting off the door frame.
'It's fine,' said Draco softly, pointing at the toilet seat. 'You had a bit much to drink. Just… sit here, would you?'
Potter beamed and did what he was told, leaving Draco terrified as hell. Only a trembling sense of triumph sustained him. He was being stupid. This was as good as a chance he was ever going to get, and Potter's friends might come looking for him if he took too long. Oh, blast it!
He knelt down and seized Potter's hand.
His vision had become distorted. Draco blinked but it wouldn't clear. Potter, under the influence of Confundus Charm, seemed to have found a new amusement as he pushed at Draco's cheek with one callused, moist finger. He wouldn't stop sniggering while he poked, each time dipping more wetness to every bit of skin he touched.
'Why are you crying?' Potter asked, wiping Draco's tear-stained face with the back of his hand.
Was he? Draco let out the breath he had been holding and gulped. Once the lid was taken off, he could no longer contain himself. It was too embarrassing, and the stupid grin Potter had been sporting didn't help the foggy veil in his eyes at all; if anything, he felt even more wretched. For all the pain and misery life had inflicted, it had to be Potter, it always led back to Potter…
He heard a loud gasp, and then he was swept into a tight hug, with a hand patting his back clumsily. It took Potter several attempts to lower Draco's head on to his shoulder. Draco, who was far too upset to care how much of the details Potter would recall later, sobbed into the fabric around Potter's neck in a tiny toilet cubicle. It was nice, to feel the warmness of an embrace that he couldn't otherwise seek from his mother…
xxx To be continued... xxx
