Chapter 7: Pain Burns, so does Forgiveness

Tears contour the edge of his face like burning hot tracks, and Draco can't stop shivering, can't shake away the thought that Harry Potter has his arms around him, is hugging him. It's mental — it's wrong — and Draco doesn't think he will have a single scrap of pride left, not after this.

Draco goes rigid. He doesn't know this feeling, doesn't know this strange, intoxicating combination of warmth and comfort. It's foreign, and it makes him feel trapped, like there's no where to go other than forwards, and that in itself is frightening, because whenever there has been a way out, Draco has always taken it. He struggles, tries to push Potter away, but Potter, like the stubborn bastard he is, won't let go, and somehow it just makes Draco want to cry harder.

So he does, and he sobs as his hands come up to shove at the other boy's chest, but Potter's arms are now locked around him, and Draco's squirming only brings their cheeks closer together. Potter's face is rough with stubble, and it grazes Draco's skin.

Potter's hair is soft, though, Draco can feel it at the corner of his eye, smudging his tears, making him tremble with the urge to simultaneously brush it away and pull it closer, grip onto something that will ground him to reality, to the suffocating air of the bathroom.

What is this feeling? Why does it feel as though something hot and angry and dangerous is about to break out of Draco's chest?

Why isn't he trying harder? Pushing Potter away, screaming at him, doing something — anything, to get the Boy-Who-Lived away from him?

Why doesn't he fight?

Instead he succumbs, lets his grief encase him like a cocoon. And he doesn't care that Potter sees him break down, sees the aristocratic traits of his Malfoy name decompose. He only gives in, clings onto his enemy's shirt, curling his fingers into the fabric like iron vices, until he is closer, closer, too close, and Potter's body is hard and unyielding, his shoulder bony beneath Draco's chin.

And then Draco realises — this is an embrace. And the only other person who has ever done this to him is now dead.

Draco's heart clenches and he takes a guttural breath, but all he gets is a mouthful of rain and sweat and something spicy, and it's so good that it's distracting — so Draco inhales, again and again and again, until all he knows is that smell, the smell which he suspects belongs to Potter. The smell which should make him nauseous but instead makes him think that he'll be okay, that if he concentrates hard enough on it he'll be able to breathe without feeling like there's a knife in his chest.

But that knife is still there, and as his rational side begins to resurface from being smothered by Potter's scent, it shouts at him, tells him that he needs to move, tells him his anger needs to burst forth, because if it doesn't, he just might break.

And then Draco thinks of The Order's promise, the reason why he's here — here in Potter's arms — and every ounce of his pain and fury swirls into a torrent of lies lies lies.

He flinches back, and when Potter grabs his shoulders to still him, everything explodes.

Draco forces what strength he has left into thrusting his weight against Potter's torso, and there's a series of muffled grunts and deep, ragged exhales before Potter is thrown onto his back, his hair splayed over the tiles, with Draco's knees on either side of his hips. Draco's hands circle around Potter's neck, and Draco has no idea what he's doing, he only knows why; and that's because someone needs to pay, someone needs to deal with the wounds of a broken promise.

But his growl dies in his throat, because Potter's eyes are shining, penetrating, and they are not the eyes of a man who is an inch away from his death. They dig into Draco's soul, and they are green, so green, that it nearly hurts to look at them. His hands slacken, but Potter doesn't move, he only stares, resigned, knowing, and Draco gives a disgruntled sob of desperation, because Potter should be scared. But he isn't.

"You can't kill me, Malfoy." Potter says it softly, full of certainty, and it makes Draco look away, look down at his trembling hands, because it is so true that it causes something like failure to wriggle in his stomach. "You're not like them."

Draco's eyes widen, hidden beneath his hanging strands of hair, and his fingers clutch at Potter's shirt. He thinks about months at the Manor, months of fighting to stay unseen, to stay alive, months of screams and blood.

"Stop it — shut up," he hisses, and Draco doesn't know if he is saying it to Potter, or to his own thoughts.

"You're not."

Draco is like them. He hurt and he tortured and he killed. "You don't know shit, Potter!"

"I know that when you were asked to kill an unarmed man, you lowered your wand."

Draco shakes. He licks his lips, and they taste like salt and despair. "You're wrong —"

"I was there. I saw it."

"No… No — you're a fucking liar," Draco seethes, his voice like venom, and he leans down, his face nearly level with Potter's.

"I was underneath an invisibility cloak. I saw you falter, and I saw Snape finish it."

Draco freezes, but Potter's eyes hold nothing but an unwavering, earnest truth, and he doesn't know what to do, doesn't know what to say.

"Why are you so determined to be bad?" Potter whispers hoarsely.

Draco doesn't have an answer. He grits his teeth, his eyes wild, "Why are you so determined to be good?"

"Because," Potter jerks beneath him, and it makes Draco foggily aware of their positions, "Because I know it's the right thing to do. And deep down, you know that too."

And Draco just loses it, "What the fuck do you know!? You know nothing about me, Potter, fucking nothing!" His hands fly back to Potter's shoulders, and he shakes them with bruising force.

"I know you're here for your mother," Potter chokes out, "And now she's — g-gone."

Draco growls, but he lets go, and he just punches punches punches, beats Potter's chest, and Potter doesn't fight back, not even when his glasses are broken and his face is framed with red scrapes. He only watches mutely, trying to steady his breathing, as Draco begins to cry again, without restraint, his lips parted over ruptured howls of sorrow, his knuckles purple and his head bowed.

And when he finally quietens down, something tells him Potter has done this on purpose, offered himself as an outlet, and when Draco slumps to the side and Potter shakily crawls to his knees and says, "It gets better," Draco doesn't think he will ever know someone as stupidly self sacrificing as Harry Potter, and even though it drives him insane, it makes something warm and inviting throb a little in his chest.

Just a little.

Harry sucks in a breath.

"Sorry," Hermione murmurs from behind her wand, "if you'd just keep still." She continues healing the cuts around his jaw, because they both remember the last time Harry tried healing magic on his own face, he'd mucked it up and ended up growing orange facial hair for days.

"Thanks," Harry mutters, thinking of the unpleasant memory.

Hermione smiles for a short second, but then her face turns serious. "I won't be doing this again if you decide to go and get in a fight with Malfoy."

Harry sighs, "It wasn't a fight. It was — I dunno. He needed it."

Hermione's brow crinkles, "Needed to punch you in the face?"

"Sort of," Harry grimaces, "I know when — after Sirius died, I went mental in Dumbledore's office, breaking things. I just needed something to take it out on, you know? And I reckon Malfoy needed the same."

"So you offered your face?"

Harry opens his mouth to speak but snaps it shut, his face burning, because he'd gone into that bathroom prepared to offer his sympathy, but scarily enough, upon seeing Malfoy's distraught and tormented features, Harry had decided that he would do whatever he could, if only to see that snarky smirk back on Malfoy's face. Thankfully, he is saved from answering when Hermione steps back and stows her wand at her hip.

"All finished… Um — how is he, by the way?"

Harry looks at her, somewhat startled, while his hands come up to feel his newly smooth face, noting Hermione has given him a shave while she was at it. "Er…" Broken. Devastated. Shattered. "He's coping. What'd you expect from someone like Malfoy?"

Hermione's face falls. "Everyone's human, Harry. Don't forget that."

Harry rubs fatigue out of the lines of his face, exhaling. If only Hermione knew just how much he'd come to realise about Draco Malfoy's humanity, she wouldn't be throwing him this reminder — she'd think Harry was positively unhinged.

Harry gives a solemn nod of dejection, then brightens, because he's just thought of something brilliant. "Thanks again, 'Mione, but er — there's something else I need your help with…"

Draco stares into the empty air, his knees nearly numb with cold from the hard press of the tiles, and his stomach churning with the need to vomit.

The sickness doesn't come, and Draco thinks that maybe it has something to do with Potter's parting words, but he refuses to dwell too hard on it, refuses to put a name to that infuriating feeling in his chest. He will never owe Harry Potter anything. That's the way it's always been, the way it always will be, and the sooner Draco gets out of this hellhole, the quicker that fact will solidify in his mind. Because he's too close, dangerously close, to feeling something like gratitude.

His mother is dead. And that's all that matters.

It's not his fault. It's The Order's fault.

His mother is dead. And Draco couldn't save her.

It's not his fault. It's not it's not it's not.

He growls, sends his already battered fist into the vanity. His knuckles crack and throb, but that's okay, it doesn't hurt, nothing hurts as much as the giant, gaping hole in his chest. And for some deranged reason, Draco almost wishes Potter were back in here, telling him it'll get better, coming near enough so Draco'll be able to smell that smell and forget everything he's ever known, everything except Potter and his goddamn scent. Fuck. Why does it have to be this way? If only Draco had been free, free from a war, free from sides and responsibilities, then his mother would have been safe.

But it isn't his fault. He won't let it be his fault.

It isn't Draco's fault. So he buries everything, every emotion, he bottles it away and hides it somewhere he'll never find it. He's good at this, good at not caring. He replaces sadness and remorse with anger, calms his fury with a facade of apathy, and then he's okay.

When Draco finally stands, stilling every tremble in his body with the force of his indifference, and gazes into the mirror, he sees his own chiselled remains, eroded with grief. His eyes are bloodshot, their greyness nearly unrecognisable amongst the blackness, and he has to try for several minutes to set the hard line of his lips, because they still look too wrong, too sad.

Draco doesn't know how long he's been in there, in fact he has contemplated staying in the bathroom all night, but rationalised that his attic room will be somewhat warmer, and when he edges open the door the hallway seems a lot darker.

It's so dark, in fact, that Draco almost misses Potter hovering in front of him, as though he's been standing there debating whether or not to come in. Draco's heart jumps with the fright of seeing a barely illuminated figure — and that's all, it has nothing to do with what happened, with what was said and done, and everything to do with the way Potter is a bloody creeper. Draco scowls, but doesn't say anything, thankful for the darkness and for the way it hides his unexplainable, mortifyingly red cheeks.

"I — er — I thought maybe…" Potter trails off.

Draco glares at him, wishing his tongue would work, wishing it didn't feel like if he speaks he'll collapse.

"Here," Potter shoves something into Draco's hands. It's a warm plate, and Draco can smell something delicious, like steak and kidney pie, something that nearly makes him forget what the boy in front of him smells like. Nearly.

Draco's frown deepens, and, hoping that Potter sees it, he grudgingly snatches the plate and stalks off, leaving Potter looking after him. Draco can feel the heat of his gaze somewhere between his shoulder blades, and it makes him want to throw the meal on the floor. But he won't, because he's starving, and there's no use showing Potter his stubbornness, no use trying to maintain a face which they both know is a front. Not when Potter has already seen so much more, so much of what Draco has never shown to anybody before — his vulnerability.

And Draco doesn't know what's worse, the fact that it was his enemy who'd seen it, or the fact that when he reaches the attic room Draco comes face to face with a newly built door, and it makes that … warm thing… twinge in his chest once more.

It's before the sun has risen next morning when Harry emerges from the bathroom and is intercepted by a very furious looking Draco Malfoy.

"Don't think, that this changes anything, Potter — because it doesn't!" The blond snarls, and Harry can only blink and rub a hand through his still-wet hair, because he doesn't know whether Malfoy means what happened the day before, here in this very bathroom, or if he's talking about the transfigured bed Harry and Hermione had set up in the attic room yesterday afternoon.

"Alright," Harry says slowly, "got it." He tries to move around Malfoy, his pyjamas bundled up in his hands, but before he can so much as take a step he is slammed back into the door.

"No matter how many pathetic mattresses you conjure — how ever many fucking tears you see me shed, I'll always hate you! That'll never change," Malfoy spits, his words barbed with something that makes Harry's chest sting a little, but maybe that's just from the way Malfoy's arm digs into his sternum, holding him in place.

Harry takes an uncertain breath, not knowing what to say, not knowing if he can say anything at all, because Malfoy's face is close enough for Harry to make out the flecks of blue in his steel-coloured eyes, and it's unsettling.

Malfoy lets out an impatient noise when Harry doesn't reply, and makes a rough, shoving movement which crushes Harry further into the hard wood, and Harry is thankful, because for a never-ending second he had been taken hostage by the undeniable aesthetics of Draco Malfoy's eyes.

"Okay…" Harry all but whispers, watching the way Malfoy's nostrils flare, the way his lips thin over a jutted, angry jaw, and it doesn't once dawn on him that maybe he should be taking out his wand and defending himself, instead he only stares, and ends up being both incredibly grateful and aggrieved when Malfoy finally lets go of him and strides away.

Harry returns to Sirius's room with his heart in his throat, thankful for the way the nervousness over what he's about to do tunes out the memory of Malfoy's eyes. He laces his trainers with shaking fingers and grabs his cloak, and after peeping into the Drawing room and seeing the way his two best friends sleep with their fingers intertwined, he heads down to the kitchen to grab some food to take with him. Incase something happens and he can't come back.

He stuffs a few apples into his rucksack, and is about to leave when Ron's groggy voice stops him. "'Arry? What you doin'?"

Harry swivels around, guilty, and lies, "Nothing, just — just hungry." He takes an exaggerated bite out of an apple, but it's too late, and Ron's eyes widen with understanding as he takes in the sight of Harry's rucksack.

"Going somewhere?"

"Look, Ron, I just need some fresh air. You stay here with Hermione today —"

"No — no, you can't do this, mate, it's dangerous."

"It's just as dangerous as if it were you or Hermione!"

"No, it's not — I thought you agreed to be the one to stay here and let us —"

"This is important —"

"Does this have anything to do with Malfoy's mum?" Ron asks dubiously.

"I — what — no," Harry stumbles over his words, then sighs, because Ron has stuck by his side for six years, and he isn't going to back down now, "Fine. Yes. I was going to use the pastilles, get in quickly and quietly, have a look round and suss out the layout, find out what I can, and then — then go after Umbridge."

Ron shakes his head in disbelief, hurt plain on his face. "You never learn, do you, Harry?"

Harry smiles weakly, "You sound like Hermione."

"Can you imagine how she'd feel if she woke up and found out what you'd done? We're in this together, mate."

Harry pulls at his damp hair, "You don't understand, Ron — I have to do this alone! Because if something — if anything happens to you or Hermione I'll —" He breaks off.

"We're with you 'till the end, mate. We know the risks," Ron says quietly.

"You're mental," Harry replies, dumping his bag by his feet and leaning heavily against the bench. Ron takes a seat on the table, his legs pulled up on a chair as he picks lint from his pyjama pants.

He gives Harry a questioning look, "Dumbledore wanted you to tell us, remember? He knew we wouldn't let you go alone."

Something in Harry's stomach jumps and then plummets at the headmaster's name, "I know."

"'Mione's going really batty with the planning, she reckons we should wait another couple of weeks."

"We can't," Harry's voice is automatic, "we don't have that much time." He doesn't need to say what they both already know; we don't have the time to wait for more people to die. They've killed one of their own, what does that tell us?

"When, then?" Ron prods, his tone eager.

Harry takes a deep breath, "Friday. This Friday. They're always worn out by the end of the week. Just incase, you know?"

Ron nods, and slowly his face spreads into a firm smile of determination. "Right. Friday. I'll break it to Hermione… She's not gonna be happy."

"Yeah," Harry murmurs, "s'pretty hard to be happy these days." His thoughts drift to Malfoy, who is most definitely not happy, who will be alone in three days time, and Harry doesn't know what to do, what to tell him, what will happen if they don't return. And for some reason, it makes him scared.

Outside of the kitchen, frozen in the darkness of the hallway, Draco Malfoy stands with his breath caught somewhere between his throat and his lungs.

He hears someone coming, heavy blundering footfalls — Weasley, and with all the silence Draco can force into his own steps, he backs away and climbs stair after stair, willing the thumping torrent of emotions in his chest to calm the fuck down.

Confusion. Curiosity. Fear. What the hell did Potter want with Umbridge? Where were the fuckwit Trio galavanting off to? What would happen to him after they left, would they just leave him here to rot? Draco supposes he doesn't really care if that were the case, because he has nowhere else to go, nothing left for him, but dying is difficult, and Draco would rather not die if at all possible.

The most important question, however, is what does any of this have to do with his mother, and why does Potter care?

Harry told Ron if anything happens to him he can have his Firebolt. Ron tried not to look too ecstatic and grudgingly consented for Harry to take his turn in going into town, seeing as Ron wouldn't let him go anywhere near the Ministry yet. Harry had told a mild fib, saying that he only wanted the fresh air and the chance to scab today's edition of the Prophet, not that he had plans to peruse muggle department stores and pick up some more necessities for their housebound Slytherin.

Now, Harry's face, which is disguised as a middle-aged bearded man, is flaming hot as he tries to casually walk up and down the male underwear aisle. He supposes this could be a lot worse — if Malfoy were a female, Harry would be in an even more mortifying situation. But the simple truth of it is, Harry has absolutely no idea what kind of underwear Malfoy wears. In fact, the mere thought of 'underwear' and 'Malfoy' in the same sentence makes something in his stomach burn, makes him want to run the hell away.

He's drawing attention to himself, he knows, because that's the second time the bleached-haired grandmother has cast him a look of suspicion. Harry wants to tell her she probably has it easy, no doubt shopping for her elderly, couldn't-care-less-about-clothes husband. If Harry were to pick out the nude-coloured, saggy bloomers she is dumping in her trolley, for Malfoy, then he is more than certain that he would be bludgeoned to death.

Harry rubs his palms together, glad when the old woman wheels her trolley out of the aisle, giving him one last wary look over her shoulder.

This shouldn't be so damn awkward, Harry is after all, a male, and for all other people know he could be shopping for himself. Maybe he should just get Malfoy the same kind he wears, but he suspects if Malfoy were to ever discover that fact the bludgeoning would still be headed Harry's way. Then again, no matter which type Harry ends up choosing, Malfoy is just as likely to have a haemorrhage.

For fuck's sake, why do British men have to have so many bloody underwear options?

His eyes flick from plain navy y-fronts, to bright red, basketball patterned boxers, and he sighs.

Harry is insane, somewhere along the line in his years of magical schooling, he must have lost the plot, lost his mind, because when all hope seems lost, Harry thinks, 'what the hell,' and randomly picks several pairs of colourful, gaudily patterned boxers, and even if a painful bludgeoning is awaiting him in the near future, Harry somehow manages to see the humour in all of this.

Buying clothes for Malfoy would be a lot easier if Malfoy were actually here, but shopping with Malfoy is something Harry not only thinks is highly impossible given the blond's situation, but just as likely to be conceded to as tap dancing with Voldemort.

Harry doesn't think about money when he pays for jumpers, t-shirts and socks — he has more money than he'll ever need, and if he's honest with himself, he has a lot more fun than he should, especially when he finds a shirt which has 'Feed Me and tell Me I'm Pretty,' printed across the front of it. Harry snorts, rights himself when he thinks he probably shouldn't be laughing to himself in public, especially when he's wearing the skin of someone shady.

He buys the shirt as well and heads into the bathroom, shutting himself in a stall and shrinking all the items he bought to fit in his rucksack.

After taking another swig of polyjuice potion and resisting the urge to gag, Harry apparates home with a grin.

When he walks through the door of Number 12, Hermione is waiting for him with her hands on her hips. "Harry Potter. You have some explaining to do."

"Er—" Harry looks over her shoulder, "Where's Ron?"

"He's in the kitchen. I can't believe how irresponsible you are! What was so important that you —"

Harry, who has been trying to sneak past her, whirls around, "You said it yourself, Hermione! 'We can't stay here forever!' Remember? But Malfoy'll have to, won't he?" Harry is surprised at the tone of his voice, and Hermione is too, her eyes wide as she stares at him, shocked. "Sorry," Harry mutters, apologising for his outburst, and Hermione's face softens.

"We've been going over plans all day," Hermione says quietly, and even though she sounds assured, Harry can detect the anxiety behind her words. "Tomorrow Ron and I will follow Mafalda, Cattermole and Runcorn, just to make sure we know their schedules."

"Right," Harry says sullenly, because no matter what he says to make them change their minds, his friends won't be convinced. He knows that Friday will be different. Friday will be the day where Harry will be back in the shoes of a leader, the one who makes sure the other's stay behind his back, the one who does what he can to play his part in this war.

Harry makes it halfway down the hall before Hermione says, "Malfoy hasn't come out all day…" Harry turns, and when Hermione looks at him as though he's the solution to this problem, he just shrugs. Harry doesn't know what he can do, doesn't know why Hermione tells him this, because when Malfoy's being a bastard there isn't a thing anybody can do to stop him. Yet for some reason they both know this won't stop Harry from trying.

Harry sits with his back against the attic room door, swapping an apple from hand to hand, watching the way moonlight reflects off its surface. He hasn't knocked, hasn't even alerted Malfoy to his presence, but he enjoys the silence, and the way it feels like he isn't alone.

"Malfoy," Harry says quietly, almost a whisper.

Malfoy's voice greets him quickly from inside the attic, almost as if he's been waiting for this, "Potter."

And Harry is surprised, because it's a lot louder than he expected, as though right now Malfoy is the mirrored image of Harry's position, only on the other side. Harry's breath catches as the weight of the metaphor hits him in the chest, because that's exactly who they are, he and Malfoy, two sides of the same coin, and while Harry might have hated it once, he now finds it comforting.

"Are you hungry?" Harry asks.

Malfoy seems to hesitate, "No."

Harry leans his head back against the wood, and with the action comes a curious thought, needing to be answered. "How come you've never asked for your wand?"

There is no reply for quite a long time, and Harry thinks that maybe Malfoy has fallen asleep, and wonders whether it'll be too intimate for him to fall asleep too, right here, almost back to back.

But then, "why do you care, Potter?"

Harry frowns into the blackness, resting the apple on his knee. He knows Malfoy is probably asking about more than just a wand, but it's late and he's tired, so Harry only replies with, "Why do you care if I care?"

Harry hears a muffled growl, "I don't."

Harry smiles, and with a yawn he stands and places the apple on the floorboards. "Goodnight, Malfoy."

Malfoy doesn't say anything back, but as Harry walks away and rounds the corner, he hears the creak of an opening door, and he knows the apple won't be there in the morning.