For several days, Harry cooks breakfast. He bathes and dresses himself.
It's when he leaves the house before Ron and Hermione wake when everyone in his life goes into a full-blown panic attack and he receives several Patronus charms asking where he's gone—is he all right—does he need help?
Harry shakes his head, but takes a moment to clear his thoughts.
"Expecto patronum!" At first, he's shocked to see the light wisp of magic from the end of his wand, but he's downright flabbergasted to see the stag—his stag emerge and shake from nose to tail. As Harry stares the beast over, he too shakes free, and begins talking quickly. "Hermione, Ron, I'm fine. I'll be back soon." He watches as the stag bounds off, a small smile dancing across his face just long enough for it to disappear behind a thicket.
He disapparates, but doesn't choose a destination, hoping only that he won't get splinched in the process. His feet walk without any sort of direction. When he looks up for the first time, he is slightly confused to find himself at the gates of Malfoy Manor. Having not realized he'd been walking so long, Harry scratches at the back of his neck, taking the moment to contemplate whether to go in or continue.
Knocking at the door seems the next logical step to his befuddled mind, so he raises a knuckle to rap gently. When Draco answers, both stare in shock without moving.
"Potter?" Draco recovers a little faster. "What are you doing here?" It isn't accusatory, but inquisitive. At Harry's blush and stammer, Draco continues, "I just wasn't expecting you is all. Please come in."
He turns and disappears through the door, leaving Harry on the step. After a moment, Harry takes a steadying breath, lets it out, and moves through the frame, shutting the door behind him. The movement echoes in the hall and he jumps. Each whisper of sound causes the hairs on his arms to stand up just a little taller, so he crosses his arms and pats himself, mutters, "You're fine, Harry," before trying to lower them—settling for tucking his hands in his trouser pockets.
By the time he reaches Draco, the other man has two tumblers poured. One he offers to Harry.
"You look like you need it."
Harry tries to refuse, says, "I don't think it's a good idea."
With a smirk, Draco sets the glass on the table and throws himself on a nearby couch.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Potter," he calls from the other side of the room, drawing Harry out of his memories.
Harry shakes his head, but leaves the glass where it sits. He walks around and takes a seat in a winged chair across from Draco. They continue staring at each other. Harry watches the slide of Draco's throat as he sips his drink, uncomfortable in the silence.
"I'm not sure why I came," he whispers, and then, "I should go." He moves to stand and Draco sits up.
Draco clears his throat. "You came here because you don't have anyone you can talk to."
In the chair, Harry stops moving, breathing, thinking.
"You came here because for some fucking reason, I know what you're going through."
He cocks his head at the blond and waits."
When Draco nods at the chair and says, "Sit," he does. Harry fiddles with the edge of his jumper, avoiding Draco's eyes. "Mine was nothing like yours." Green eyes meet steel grey and they collide from across the room. "I—as you know, my house was home to many wizards I'd rather not discuss."
Harry nods.
"Yeah," Draco barks, taking a sip of the liquor, "well, some of them had peculiar tastes in lovers." Harry winces and Draco shakes his head. "No—no, Potter, you don't get to pity me. This has nothing to do with you, so you'll let me tell it and be done."
Harry nods again, all words gone—having fled the moment Draco's eyes locked on his own.
"Several of them wanted to play with me," he scoffs. "Of course, being the host's son had its privileges." The corner of his lip curls in disgust and he begins to gesture with the tumbler, its contents sloshing wildly. "He-who-must-not—" at Harry's glare, Draco takes a large swallow and tries again. "Fuck you, Potter. Voldemort." He rolls the name around in his mouth as if it's something he can't quite chew through. "Voldemort had high hopes for me. He wanted to save me. He thought that I might be a good soldier for him if they didn't screw me up too badly, so he wouldn't let anyone do anything."
Harry looks up at him and sees the tremble in his jaw, the way his glass starts to slip—his other hand catching it before it falls.
"It's such a shame, then, that he wasn't around to be my savior when the boys came calling." At Harry's confused look, Draco smirks. "Oh, you don't know who they are? They're a dirty little secret. Voldemort had a group of wizards that even he didn't trust to be loose in public. He tried keeping them at the island, but they wouldn't stay; they never did. I remember—"
Here Draco grips the tumbler so hard his knuckles go white and the vein at his temple throbs.
"—I remember falling asleep in my study. I was working on plans for getting them into Hogwarts—" At Harry's huffed breath, he raises a hand and continues, "—and they barged in. Instead of leaving to find somewhere else to sleep their binge off, they locked the door. There were two. You see, names didn't matter to any of them, so I never knew who they were, nor did I want to."
"All I knew was the pain. My head was smashed into the desk and I was in a fog through everything." Draco lifts his glass, staring through the liquid as if wading through it. "Though I blacked out several times, I clearly remember the first pulling my pants down and kicking at my feet. The next thing I remember is his cock burning its way through me. Screaming didn't matter, as they'd gagged me with my own pants." He takes another long pull here, then stares hard at Harry. "My own fucking pants, Potter."
Harry whispers, but Draco can't hear.
"What?"
"I said I'm sorry." The words are so soft that he doesn't think Draco's heard until the other man begins to laugh.
"You're sorry? You're not as sorry as I am." He drops the tumbler to his thigh, absently rubbing a finger over the edge as if he'll fall in. "Once the first finished, the second took over. It's a shame he wasn't as small as his friend, because even with the prep of the first, I wasn't ready. I wasn't ready. He tore me. I could feel the blood running down my thighs. I felt the dry rub and rip as he continued to move in and out, somehow not injuring himself. I felt him come inside me as if I was just an empty hole to fill."
Harry's shaking, his entire body covered in a sheen of sweat as he relives not only Draco's terror, but his own.
"I am more than what they did to me."
Harry isn't listening.
"Do you hear me, Potter?" At his name, he looks up. "I am more than what happens to my body. It took months of wallowing in my room, letting the others mark me with shame, ignoring my friends, and feeling like I was worth less than nothing, to realize that I was still me. I am something." Harry can feel the weight of his stare. "You are something."
Harry doesn't notice when Draco moves closer. The other man stays outside of arm's reach, but keeps talking. "You can fight this. I am not your enemy, but I can be if you need me to."
The question on Harry's face brings a soft smile to Draco. "Do you want to know how I started to move past it?"
A small, shaky nod is all he gets.
"I found someone to fuck." The abrupt answer is not what Harry expects and he flinches. "Not rape, Harry. I found someone to fuck. Someone willing to be fucked. I found someone who was willing to let me work through my shit and be on the receiving end of it." He reaches out a hand slowly, places it on Harry's knee. "I am not your enemy, but if you need me to be, I can do that."
Harry jumps from the chair and stammers something unintelligible before running out the door.
He disapparates as soon as he's through the gates and collapses inside his room. Ron and Hermione hear the thud and rush to see what's happened. Seeing the heap of wizard on the floor, they move to comfort him, but he shudders away from their advances.
They look to one another for one agonizing moment before retreating. "We'll be across the hall if you need us, Harry."
The silence is more than he can swallow, and he chokes on it until the effort is too much—too much— and exhaustion pulls him under.
His room is a safe place. It's the only place where Harry doesn't have to listen to robotic drone of other people trying to tell him everything will be all right or that he just needs to get out into the world again.
When he knows Hermione and Ron are sleeping, he sneaks down the hall and out the back door to the garden. The smell of dew on the grass, the feel of it between his toes is euphoric. Some of his plants have died in his absence, so he removes them, discards them in the rubbish as if they've never existed. He sits cross-legged, pondering the empty holes in the earth as if they're opening—beckoning him to plant himself there and take his chances.
What if he is like those plants? What if he wasn't supposed to live? What if his expiration date has come and gone and he's just living on borrowed time—someone else's time?
Harry grabs at his hair, fists it tightly and tugs. The silent screams of that night come back to him as he doubles over. Grass cradles his forehead and he feels the dew wetting his pajama pants at the knees. It spreads slowly up his thighs, cooling him—bringing him that much closer to the corpse he feels he is.
His throat works hard, clicking and heaving on sobs he doesn't know what to do with. When the tears begin to freely roll down his cheeks, Harry leans over the nearest plant, touching the soft petals, absorbing the deep violet color in the dark and watches as a tear lands then slides slowly to the ground. He waters his garden with the emotions he can't speak, in the night when all else is asleep.
By the time Harry stands to move away from his flowers, he feels another sort of longing. His wet feet slap against the floor, but he doesn't have the presence of mind to care. Toes dragging, he ends up back in his room with the door firmly closed.
Harry closes his eyes, but sees only a strong jaw and eyes to match. He doesn't want this. He doesn't know what to do with this. So far, he's been able to avoid anything related to these base sort of needs, but tonight it's too much. The throb in his groin is an ache he's struggling to ignore.
Sitting in the middle of his bed, Harry stretches his legs out before him, watching as his erection tents his pajama pants. They still stick to his knees where they're wet, but there's no mistaking the desire of his body—the want of something he doesn't know how to give. He whines softly as his cock brushes against his thigh, feels a roiling in his stomach of both pleasure and disgust. The mixture is overwhelming and his eyes flutter, lips pulling back in a grimace.
His fingers slide down to brush against the covered skin and his head turns away quickly, feeling bile rise quickly to the back of his throat. He's not quick enough, as the vomit lurches upward and pools in his mouth. He empties his stomach on the bed, his fingers now clutching at the blankets. Once he's done heaving, he casts a quick cleaning charm and rushes to the bathroom to brush his teeth.
The mirror shows him a man he doesn't recognize. He closes his eyes and turns away, goes to sit at the table because he just can't muster the courage to lay in his bed.
"What am I doing?" he asks as he lifts the familiar quill, stroking the shafts between thumb and index finger.
He fumbles through the stacks of old correspondences on his desk to find an unused bit of parchment and begins scratching out a letter. Several sentences are crossed out before finally rewriting the entire thing because it is completely illegible. With one last read, he thinks it's ready to be sent.
Draco,
There are so many things in my head right now that I can't say. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to get the words out. I guess it all comes down to not having a clue what to do with any of it.
I'm sorry for showing up at your house without warning and bringing up memories you'd rather not think about. I'll find a way through this somehow.
-Harry
The response takes half the night and Harry wakes from the scratch at his window. He wipes away a bit of drool from the desk where his head rested before standing to let in the eagle owl.
All it says is "The offer still stands."
He sits in the chair for several days, only leaving to shower and grab the food Ron and Hermione leave him. They worry—often calling to him from the door, but he doesn't let them in. He doesn't let anything in. From his window he sees the plants in the garden wilting beneath the sun from lack of water; he doesn't have the energy to go down the stairs and nourish them when he can barely take care of himself.
The bit of parchment from Draco sits on the desk, crumpled from being read over and over again. Those words stick in the back of his throat and he can't swallow them. He can't make any sense of them—of what he's supposed to do now.
There's a knock at the door. Harry groans, clutching at the table's edge.
"Harry?" It's Ron. "Harry, I'm coming in. You can't stay in there forever. It's not healthy, mate."
Harry's heart beats double-time as he hears the door creak open.
"Go away!" He spins toward Ron, wand in one hand and parchment in the other. Ron looks at him. The look of pity is too much and Harry can't handle it. "I told you to leave me alone! I don't want you here!"
"You need to—" A wandless stinging jinx hits Ron's left shoulder. "—the hell, Harry?" He grips the shoulder and tries to rub it out, giving Harry a look of confusion and hurt.
Looking at his best friend, injured by his magic, Harry's eyes are wide—scared. Ron tries to step forward, but Harry moved back.
"It's all right, Harry. I'm fine. You just—"
Harry disappears in a loud pop of disapparition, his normal, quiet ability gone in the wake of blind fear.
When he comes to a stop, he's doubled over with palms resting on his thighs. He can't concentrate with rain shielding everything around him. The sky has emptied its reserves, making it difficult for Harry to see where he is. As he starts walking in a direction—any direction—the shivers start. He's still wearing his pajamas and is entirely unprepared for this weather. The chill rain soaks him through and he's clutching at himself. Though he carries his wand, his mind is too far gone to cast a warming charm or an impervious shield. Harry walks, allowing his feet to take him where they will.
He isn't surprised to end up on Draco's doorstep. However, his hands stay firmly attached to his sides. Knocking would be difficult. Instead, he stares at the door for quite a long time, hugging his arms close to himself, waiting—for what, he isn't sure.
By the time he's just about to collapse from the cold, when his lips are twitching and he can't keep his body still in an attempt to stay warm—the door opens.
It's the familiar drawl that gets him to look up. "Did you plan on standing out there all day, Potter?"
Harry looks up into Draco's eyes, but doesn't answer; can't answer.
"You look like shit," is all Draco says before he walks away into the manor.
The door is open. He could walk in and get out of the rain. He could follow Draco, possibly get some warm clothes, something warm to drink. It takes him nearly an hour to process these thoughts. He's shutting down—piece by broken piece. Harry steps through the door and uses the frame to keep from collapsing. His fingers can't grip the door, but he uses the back of his hand to close the door behind him.
Draco is in the same room they sat in before, lounging on the same couch.
"You're dripping on my carpet, Potter."
Harry looks down, then up at him. He croaks, "Why do you care?"
Draco sits up and stares him down. "You really don't remember, do you?"
Harry doesn't answer.
"That night—you don't remember anything... after?"
Harry grits his teeth against more than the cold in his bones and shakes his head.
"It was me, Potter."
He starts to move toward Draco, to assault him as best as his sluggish body will allow, but Draco raises a hand.
"It wasn't me that hurt you." Harry stops. "I'm the one who found you."
Harry's knees finally give way. He falls to the ground and Draco gives him a moment before taking a big breath and moving closer.
"I found you in the alley and put you through the Floo. You were a mess," he pauses, letting Harry absorb what he's saying. "I figured you wouldn't want anyone to find you like that."
Harry slumps further toward the carpet, the rain sloughing off him to create a lake in which his tears can freely land. At first, they are silent, like whispers as they move down his cheeks to fall on his already soaked clothing. Once it comes back to him, though, Harry's shoulders jerk and his chest heaves with the effort of containing everything he's been carrying for so long. He bends over and starts to scream silently, his mouth trying to say everything—everything. Eventually, sounds start to slip. They begin as whimpers and escalate to screeches and wails.
Draco reaches out slowly. When he touches Harry, the other man doesn't flinch away. He wraps his arms tentatively around Harry and holds him, collecting the pieces as they drift away on the ocean of broken souls.
"Harry?" Draco squeezes his shoulder. "You should get cleaned up. We need to get you warm. You'll get sick like this."
Harry doesn't respond. He stays wrapped up in Draco's lap whimpering softly.
"Come on, Harry." Draco moves to stand and pulls Harry from the floor. Surprisingly, the other man follows.
He leads Harry to his suite, to the shower. Harry doesn't move. He's a statue. Draco sighs and takes a step toward him, waiting for the explosion or anger. Instead, Harry stands with an empty stare, unmoving. Draco starts to undress Harry, then moves him toward the shower.
Harry feels naked in so many ways, but he is empty—so empty.
He manages to wash himself, to scrub at his skin until it's raw. Draco sees what he's doing and walks into the shower.
"Potter, what the fuck are you doing?" His cold fingers wrap around Harry's wrists and the flannel drops to the floor. Harry's eyes see Draco's clothes, now wet. His hair is plastered to his forehead and Harry can only think unclean—I'm unclean.
He looks up as if he didn't realize what he was doing.
Draco picks up the flannel. He pulls Harry from the shower and hands him a towel. The other man shivers despite the steam in the room.
"What do you need right now, Harry?"
Silence.
Draco stops Harry's slow hands. "Harry, what do you need?"
"I-I don't know."
Harry is lost—lost to the world, to Draco, to himself.
Shivering beneath several blankets on Draco's bed, Harry watched the other man kneel before the flames of his Floo. Hermione's frantic gesturing makes him feel… something. He's not sure what, but there is something sparking in the depths of him, though he can't name it. She looks across the room at him and Harry hears her threaten to come through, but Draco dismisses her with a wave of a slender wrist.
"Nonsense, Granger. The man needs sleep. Let him be for the night."
Hands wrap around her shoulders and she disappears. Ron takes her place. "It's all right love," he says to her, then turns to face Draco. He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the nape for a moment before looking him dead in the eyes with a sigh. "Is he all right?" Ron asks, nodding toward Harry's still form.
Draco mulls it over. "No, Weasley, he's not." At this, Ron nods again, as if the answer is expected. "He might be, with time—" he pauses here, "—and space." A pointed look at Ron is enough for the other man to get angry.
"He's my best mate, ferret! You don't need to tell me what he needs."
Draco scoffs. "Obviously I do. You two have been mothering him like a child. He is not a child."
Ron is taken aback and shuts his gaping mouth. "All right."
"All right."
The Floo call ends and Draco spins on his heel to stand. Harry can't feel his toes, but continues trying to wiggle them anyway. It's some time before he realizes the cold is not just from the weather; he's in shock.
"Potter?"
The call is quiet, as if Draco's afraid anything louder will shatter him, break him into a thousand pieces beneath the blankets.
"Potter, you need to sleep." He moves forward with stealth wrought from years living with a sadistic dark lord. The bedside drawer slides open with a whisper, his fingers wrapped around the knob in such a way as if he's done it every night. "Here," he says, as he thrusts a vial at Harry. "Take this."
Harry doesn't think. He doesn't ask what the potion is—he doesn't care.
Within moments, he's blissfully asleep.
It isn't difficult leaving the manor. Draco sleeps like the dead and Harry doesn't sleep much. Perhaps it's the itch beneath his chest, the need to do something—say something—but he feels irritated and restless in the mornings. The halls are empty and the door swings quietly, leaving a trail of heavy footsteps in his wake.
Hermione finds him in the garden.
He's wrangling with a bush and she nearly rushes forward at his muffled, "Fuck-what the-MERLIN DAMN IT ALL!"
That's when she sees what he's struggling to plant: a rose bush. She steps forward and coughs softly. "Harry?"
He looks over his shoulder quickly, then goes back to arguing with the shrub.
"Do you need some help?"
He shakes his head, uses the back of his hand to wipe at his forehead and absently notices the blood trickling from several knuckles. "I've got it," he says gruffly, twisting the plant into place. "Thank you." His eyes lift to meet hers and she pulls a lip between her teeth to watch.
"All right then. I'll just wait until you're done."
"Mrmph" is all she gets in return.
Settled in the corner of the garden, Harry pats the last bit of soil and rocks back on his heel. He absently casts a Scourgify and most of the dirt disappears from his clothes and hands. Hermione steps forward to pick a thorn from his elbow, wondering how he's managed such a feat.
"Harry?" she asks again. When he turns to her, she's surprised to see the clarity in his eyes, the startling life that's apparent there. Her fingers wrap around his forearm and he doesn't flinch. "Are you okay? Last night…"
"I know." His hand finds hers and squeezes. "I've been a right shit lately." He chuckles as her forehead falls against his shoulder and her responding laughter is light on the air. "I'm sorry, Hermione."
"There's nothing to be sorry for."
The silence is comfortable, welcoming after the words trapped between them for so long.
"Can I ask you something?" She puts her chin on his shoulder now. At his nod, she continues, "Why the rose?"
He smiles, but it's a soft smile—not a harsh, wide grin that splits the face in a mockery of laughter. "It's the sweetbriar rose. Someone told me I needed to plant some roots, that it would help me heal. I'm hoping the idea will catch on."
Harry leans down, places a gentle kiss at her temple, then makes his way inside.
It takes just a moment to find the familiar parchment and tuck it into his pocket. When the tug of disapparition takes him from the room, he doesn't smile; instead, the shift at the edge of his mouth is something hesitant—something new.
This time, there's no guesswork involved. Harry lands precisely where he meant to. As he walks past the manor gates, the door opens and a wisp of blond hair disappears down the hall. One hand clenched in his pocket, Harry closes the door quietly behind him.
