CHAPTER TEN: Revelations

Minutes passed in which Draco didn't dare to move and hardly dared to breathe, but no sound came to indicate that the uncle would return and there was no movement from Potter's crumpled form either.

Draco's thoughts were in utter turmoil, more so than they had ever been, even when he had found out that his father had been captured and imprisoned. He had known what to feel, then: angry at Potter, his stupid friends and the stupid Order, and afraid for his family. Now, though… Now what the hell was he supposed to think, or feel, or do?

Harry Potter was being abused by his relatives.

There were no more excuses, no more convenient lies, no more denials. Draco knew the truth at last. He could have worked it out earlier; the signs were numerous and poorly disguised. But in as much as he had told himself that he wanted to solve the mystery, he had avoided the logical conclusion to the puzzle with steadfast determination.

But now he knew. And damned if he had any idea what he was supposed to do now.

Should he laugh? It was funny when Potter got himself injured, wasn't it? Draco had laughed at Potter's misfortunes plenty of times before. When Potter had his arm broken by a rogue Bludger and then the bones removed completely by an incompetent Lockhart, Draco had laughed. When Potter fainted because Dementors entered his compartment on the Hogwarts Express, Draco had laughed. When Potter fell from his broom during a Quidditch match because of the same horrible creatures and plummeted to what could have been a painful death if it hadn't been for the quick spell work of teachers and Gryffindors alike, Draco had laughed. During the dangerous tasks of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, at the retelling of Potter's torture at the hands of the Dark Lord, every time Potter had a 'funny turn' because of his scar, Draco laughed. It was what he did.

But somehow, right now, he couldn't find anything at all funny about the fact that Potter was being abused.

Should he feel a grim sense of triumph, then? He could almost view this as revenge for his father's imprisonment being conveniently exacted by someone else when Draco himself was unable to lift a hand to Potter. But then, Potter hadn't asked to be attacked by Death Eaters. Could he really be blamed for defending himself and his friends, or for the fact that the Order had come to his rescue? And hadn't his father's incarceration in Azkaban saved him from the torture and death that he almost certainly would have received from the Dark Lord for his failure?

Should he consider this valuable taunt material that he could use against Potter? The Boy Who Lived through a killing curse cast by one of the most powerful sorcerers in the world, unable to stand up against a fat Muggle. It was pathetic, wasn't it? No self-respecting wizard should allow themselves to be beat upon by such a lesser being, yet Potter hadn't even tried to defend himself. Surely it was a sign that Potter was a weak, useless excuse for a Gryffindor and Draco should use this knowledge to mock him mercilessly.

But Draco had seen Potter fight. He wasn't weak and he wasn't a coward. He wouldn't back down from a battle against Slytherins, or Death Eaters, or even the Dark Lord himself. But against his own Muggle relatives…? Draco didn't quite know how to reconcile the inconsistency.

Should he decide that he didn't care how Potter was treated and go on with life as normal, pretending that he didn't know? He had been doing a decent job of that over the past few weeks, ignoring the evidence of abuse and neglect that had been staring him in the face from day one. He could just sneak back to his room right now, go back to sleep and pretend that it had all been a particularly unpleasant dream.

What was the alternative? To send a letter to Professor Snape, or to Headmaster Dumbledore, or to the Child Protection division of the Ministry of Magic, or to the equivalent in the Muggle world? Would anyone even believe him? This was Harry Potter, after all: the Golden Boy of Gryffindor, the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the potential Hero of the Wizarding World. Potter was the last child in the world that anyone would expect to be a victim of abuse. Draco could hardly believe it himself and he had seen it with his own eyes.

How was it possible that no one knew? Surely Dumbledore would have vetted the Dursleys before leaving Potter with them all those years ago. Surely someone would have been sent to check up on him on a regular basis. Surely the teachers of Hogwarts would have noticed something. Surely Potter would have confided in his friends. How could so many people have missed this?

It seemed Draco was the only person who knew the truth about Potter's home life, and how was he supposed to deal with it? He hadn't signed up for this. All he had wanted was a safe place to stay for the summer holidays.

He didn't even know who to be angry with. Potter, for not telling anyone? The Dursleys, for daring to mistreat a wizard in their care? Potter's friends, for not realising? Dumbledore, for leaving Draco here to discover this disturbingly confronting revelation about his school yard nemesis? Or himself, for taking so long to recognise the truth of the situation?

The cupboard was becoming cramped and stuffy, so Draco finally stepped out from his hiding place, still not knowing what he was going to do. He looked towards the door and then back to Potter. Leave, or stay?

Before he had consciously made up his mind, Draco found himself moving towards the battered and bleeding body.

He didn't know whether to be relieved or concerned that Potter was still unconscious, but at least he was breathing. His uncle hadn't managed to kill him, then.

He was in a bad way, though. His breathing was ragged, pained. A bruise darkened his cheek, interrupted by an angry thick welt that crossed over the outline of an older one to angle from his jaw, over his bloodied nose and up to his hairline. A lump had risen on the back of Potter's head, noticeable even under the messy mop of black hair.

But Draco's eyes were drawn to the edge of Potter's pyjama shirt that had ridden up around his chest. Deep, mottled bruising could not hide the ribs that stood out in stark relief, or the complete lack of any fat whatsoever around Potter's stomach. He was practically emaciated, as though he had hardly eaten anything since school had ended.

Draco now saw Potter's insistence that he not eat with their family at the dinner table in a new light.

He was seeing a lot of things in a new light now, actually. Like how he had found Potter in the throes of a nightmare with his teeth clamped down on his fist. He knew why, now, but after witnessing Potter wake up screaming from his strange visions numerous times in the past couple of years he should have realised sooner; Potter was very vocal during bad dreams. If his uncle's reaction to having his sleep disturbed in the middle of the night was always the same, it was no wonder that Potter would prefer to maul his own hand to silence himself than risk arousing his uncle's anger.

Draco felt a wrench in his gut – that uncomfortable feeling that might have been guilt – as he realised that if he hadn't interfered, Potter may have been able to avoid drawing any more attention to himself tonight. Draco had, however inadvertently, contributed to this latest beating even if he hadn't been the one wielding the belt.

I didn't know what would happen, he thought defensively, as though someone had accused him of wrongdoing. He was not accustomed to having a conscience. Bloody hell, I was actually trying to help him. It's not my fault that his uncle is a raving, abusive lunatic of a Muggle.

Even so, the guilt wouldn't leave him alone until he resolved to fix Potter up as best he could and get him settled back onto the bed.

Grumbling under his breath about Potters and Muggles and everyone else that had some bearing on this inconvenient situation he had somehow landed himself in, Draco snuck back into his own room to retrieve some of the potions he had stored in his trunk. He hadn't anticipated the need for healing and restorative supplies, but he thought he might have a few that could help.

When he returned Potter was still unconscious, curled into that protective foetal position favoured by infants and house elves – and mistreated adolescents accustomed to violence committed against their person, apparently.

Draco shook his head and set to work, gently rubbing in some salve to the visibly bruised sections of skin and watching as blacks and blues faded to the greens and yellows of older injuries. The welts he couldn't do much about, except apply some anti-inflammatory cream to the worst affected regions. He didn't have nearly enough to cover Potter's entire back, but he thought his efforts might have helped to reduce the pain a little.

He sat back on his heels, disappointed by how little progress he'd made. He still had the adapted Skele-Gro Potion to address the bones he had heard crack under the onslaught and a Revitalising Potion to lend Potter's body some of the additional strength it would need to heal more on its own, but those needed to be swallowed and so would have to wait until Potter regained consciousness. It all seemed woefully inadequate, though.

What Potter really needed was a professional Healer, like Madam Pomfrey, or Isy Mauldwin, or –

The realisation struck him like a thunderclap. Potter had been examined by a Healer, the night of the battle, and he had fought it tooth and nail. At the time Draco had wondered why, but now he knew – Potter had been afraid that she would discover the true extend of his injuries. If her reaction was anything to go by, she had seen Potter in a condition similar to the one he was in now and known that the damage could not have been cause by spells alone. At the very least, no known curse could instantly strip the fat from a person and leave them looking half-starved. It must have been obvious that something else was going on, but Potter had invoked the confidentiality clause of the Healer Code of Conduct Act (1322) which forbade her from revealing to anyone else what she had seen and consequently suspected.

Potter had made every effort to keep all of this a secret. Although, if Draco had been in his place he probably would have Obliviated the Healer rather than rely on her professional discretion. Gryffindors were entirely too trusting for their own good.

Noticing that the cream he'd applied had finished being absorbed and most of the swelling had reduced, Draco gingerly pulled Potter's pyjama top back down, effectively hiding the battered torso from view.

That's why he always wears a long-sleeved shirt, even when he's working outside on a boiling hot day, Draco realised as he carefully lifted Potter into his arms and transferred him from the hard floor to the only slightly softer bed. Touching the ratty linen gave Draco the strong desire to wash his hands and he didn't know how Potter could stand to sleep on it – except, he probably had no choice in the matter.

Damn Muggles, Draco thought darkly.

Trying to decide what would be the least painful position for Potter to lie in wasn't easy, but Draco settled on shifting the black-haired boy onto his side and propping a pillow under his head. Reluctantly, he tugged the ragged blanket over Potter's slim form, releasing the fabric quickly.

A glance at Potter's clock told him that the time was now 4am. He was tired and a part of him wanted to go back to his own room to sleep. But then again, he had absolutely no desire to revisit Potter's brutal beating in his dreams. Besides, he intended to have a… conversation… with Potter about everything he now knew and when Potter eventually woke seemed as good a time as any.

His mind made up, Draco lowered himself into the wobbly chair by the desk and leaned back with a gentle sigh.

An outside observer might have thought that Draco was standing guard over Potter, trying to protect him from further nightmares or undeserved attacks, making sure that he was okay and would live through the night. Which would have been a preposterous and completely incorrect assumption, of course. Draco was merely ensuring that Potter wouldn't try to sneak away and avoid the confrontation that was coming.

Any additional benefits that his presence could have were unintended and purely coincidental.

ooOOoo

Pain. Lots of pain. And yet, not so much pain as Harry thought he should be in, which made no sense at all. It would help if he could remember why he thought he should be in more pain than he was, but he hadn't quite reached that level of awareness yet.

He did, however, get the sense that someone was nearby, watching him. He hated it when people watched him. It usually meant that were waiting for him to make some sort of mistake that they could use against him. But really, how many mistakes could a person make while sleeping?

Snoring, he guessed, but that was okay because he never snored. Sleeping in? A pang of fright went through him, dragging his thoughts out of the twilight zone and closer to consciousness.

Which is when he remembered the other cardinal sin possible to commit while asleep: having a nightmare and failing to contain the noise.

He had gone to bed last night thinking of Si- of the Department of Mysteries. His mind had ruthlessly played out his memories of that night, up to and including the part when he had been screaming at Dumbledore… and then the Headmaster's office had become his bedroom at Privet Drive and Dumbledore had turned into Uncle Vernon and Harry had realised in a moment of blinding terror that he had been screaming out loud, and Uncle Vernon had heard him.

When he was at school, Harry was normally able to cast an Imperturbable Charm around his bed at night so he wouldn't disturb his dorm-mates with his frequent nightmares – although when he was having a Voldemort-induced vision the charm tended to shatter – but at Privet Drive such magic wasn't available to him. Still, over the years he had trained himself to bite down on his hand to prevent himself from yelling during bad dreams and usually it was successful. He didn't know what had gone wrong this time, but he had paid dearly for it.

And yet… his back didn't burn as much as it should, and the full-body ache was milder than it should have been, and he was quite sure that he was lying on his bed rather than in a crumpled heap on the floor. It was oddly reminiscent of the time he'd woken up on the couch in the living room after the implosion of magic that had knocked him out in the kitchen, and it had turned out that Malfoy of all people had been the one to move him.

As if on cue, a voice nearby drawled, "Waking up finally, are you, Potter?"

In a single movement Harry sat bolt upright, launched himself backwards to have his back to the headboard and yanked the blanket up to his chin.

"Malfoy, what are you-" He fumbled for his glasses and shoved them onto his face, bringing the room and – yes, it was Malfoy – clearly into focus. "-doing in here?"

The blonde was lounging comfortably in his chair, rocking it on the uneven legs as though they were a deliberate feature rather than a result of Dudley-induced damage. He didn't seem at all perturbed by Harry's half-panicked reaction to him being there uninvited. "Waiting for you to wake up, of course. Took you long enough."

Unwillingly, Harry glanced toward the clock and winced at the knowledge that he had once again failed to make breakfast for the Dursleys. The only bright side was that-

"Your uncle left for work an hour ago," Malfoy said.

Startled, his eyes jerked to Malfoy's face, which was calm and unreadable. Harry didn't know what to make of what he'd just said; why would Malfoy feel it necessary to inform him of Vernon's departure?

"You should drink those, by the way, before we have our little chat," the blonde continued, waving a casual hand toward the bedside table and the two Potion bottles sitting there that Harry had previously failed to notice.

"Chat? What- why- where did you get those?" Worry flared in his gut. "You didn't- please tell me you didn't break into the cupboard under the stairs- why would you-"

"What possible reason would I have to break into a cupboard?" Malfoy asked, looking momentarily puzzled. Then an expression of dawning comprehension appeared that Harry liked even less and Malfoy breathed, "Your school trunk is in there? Why-" He closed his mouth, tossed his head and continued, "No, Potter, those are from my own personal stores." His chest puffed out slightly. "I brewed them myself."

"Snape had you practicing how to brew poisons, did he?" Harry eyed the potions with enhanced distrust.

"I'll have you know, Potter, that Professor Snape recognised my extraordinary talent and allowed me to advance to N.E.W.T level potions ahead of time. I have been training to brew many different potions, including the Skele-Gro and Revitalising potion set before you, while some other poor unfortunates are still needing to take remedial classes just to keep up with the rest of the grade."

Remedial Potions – Occlumency with Snape – his failure to block out the visions from Voldemort – the false vision of Sirius being tortured that convinced Harry to go running to his rescue and forced Sirius to instead rescue him…

Harry snarled, angry with himself and Snape and the rest of the universe. "I'll tell you where you can shove those bloody potions."

"Now, now, Potter, play nicely. They've been brewed perfectly, so they're much more reliable than any concoction you could come up with. There's no need to fret." He waited expectantly, as though he seriously expected Harry to reach for the bottles. When Harry made no move to do so, Malfoy frowned and prompted, "Go on, drink up."

"Why?"

"Because you need them. And if you don't do it voluntarily, I'll force them down your throat myself."

Even if he did need them – as a reminder, his ribs chose that moment to give a particularly painful twinge – why would Malfoy think that he did? And for that matter, why would Malfoy try to do anything about it anyway?

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Oh honestly, Potter, you really are paranoid. I swear on my magic that those potions will not kill or harm you in any way. Now will you drink them?"

Harry wasn't inclined to trust Malfoy's word and he was fairly sure that a proper Wizard's Oath required a wand to make it official, but still, Malfoy appeared earnest oddly enough. And what did it matter, really, if the potions killed him? Dumbledore would just have to find a new hero.

"Fine," he muttered. He downed the contents of the two small bottles.

The supposed Skele-Gro burned familiarly as he swallowed it and moments later he felt stabbing, splintering pain in his chest which worsened and then abruptly faded, taking the soreness of his injured ribs away with it. The other potion tasted far better, like warm honey and milk that spread the warmth out to the tips of his fingers and toes. He felt more awake, then, and stronger than he had been all holidays.

"Huh," was all he could say and Malfoy smirked.

"Better, Potter?"

"Yes, but-" He frowned, eyes narrowing. "But I was fine to begin with."

Malfoy's eyebrows lifted. "Has the definition of 'fine' changed recently, or is your interpretation of the word just warped?"

"What are you implying, exactly?"

"I'm not implying anything. You were not fine and you still have a long way to go before that word could be logically applied to you, but at least you no longer have cracked ribs."

"Cracked ribs?" Harry said disingenuously.

"You know, Potter, when those hard white things protecting your heart and lungs fracture because they were kicked a few times too many?"

Harry's eyes widened – Malfoy was bluffing, or guessing, or something, he couldn't actually know that the ribs had cracked under a few powerful blows from Uncle Vernon's foot. He couldn't know that they were injured at all – it wasn't like he could perform a diagnostic charm without getting in trouble for underage magic. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"No? So you don't remember your uncle beating you into a bloody pulp, then?"

"What?!"

Harry scrambled off the bed so that it was between him and Malfoy, backing into the corner with the blanket still clutched in his hand. His mind was tripping and stumbling over Malfoy's shocking pronouncement; he couldn't respond fast enough with some clever, misleading comment.

"I- I don't know what you- heard- last night, but I have nightmares sometimes and- and I thrash around a bit. My uncle would never-"

"I didn't just hear, Potter," Malfoy interrupted, "So lying isn't going to get you anywhere."

What the hell does that mean, didn't just-? "I'm not lying. I have nightmares all the time, just ask Ron or my relatives…"

"Oh, I know you have nightmares," Malfoy assured him. "I also know that your uncle doesn't take too kindly to being woken up in the middle of the night because of them."

"What?" Harry didn't like this, he really didn't like this.

"There's no use in denying it, Potter," Malfoy said, getting to his feet. "I caught the whole show." He started to walk around the end of the bed, cutting off any chance for escape.

Harry pressed himself closer to the wall, willing it to swallow him so he wouldn't have to hear what he was so afraid that Malfoy was going to say next.

"I saw you having the nightmare, I saw your uncle come charging in like some mad hippogriff, I saw him yell at you to wake up and then throw you across the room. And then I saw him physically assault you like you were nothing more than a disobedient house elf."

Unexpectedly, Harry felt anger bubble up inside him at the reminder that Dobby had once belonged to the Malfoys. "That's rich, coming from a member of the family that mistreated Dobby so badly that he was driven half-mad before I freed him."

Malfoy looked momentarily taken aback. "That's… neither here nor there, Potter. The point is-"

"That is so bloody typical of you, Malfoy! You think that you're so high and mighty, the pureblood prince, and anyone else – half-bloods, Muggle-borns and house-elves alike – are so far beneath you that it doesn't even matter if they get Petrified or killed by a basilisk, or forced into ironing their own fingers and smashing their head with a desk lamp because you don't think they're worth a damn!"

"So you care what happens to a house-elf like Dobby to the point of risking my father's anger to set him free, but you don't care that you yourself are being abused by your own relatives?"

Harry recoiled like he had been slapped in the face. "A-abused?"

"Yes, Potter. Your. Relatives. Are. Abusing. You."

Harry shook his head so frantically that his glasses nearly went flying off. "No, no, they're not. You don't know what you're talking about."

"I saw what happened last night, Potter," Malfoy insisted, stepping closer so he was only two feet away, eyes like burnished steel boring into him. "It was verbal and physical abuse, and I can tell it wasn't the first time that it's happened. Not to mention the neglect that is evident by your emaciated body and appalling clothes."

"It's – it's not abuse. I admit that my uncle can get – can get a bit carried away, sometimes, when he's punishing me…"

"Punishing?" Malfoy sounded incredulous. "Potter, you were having a nightmare. In any normal family that would earn you cuddles and hot chocolate, not a thrashing. Besides, beating you to within an inch of your life is not an appropriate punishment no matter what you may have done wrong. It is abuse, plain and simple."

Harry wanted to argue more, but he couldn't seem to form the words, his mouth opening and closing with no sounds coming out.

"Do the professors at school ever strike you when you break the rules?" Malfoy asked rhetorically. "Do you think the Weasley patriarch ever takes a cane or a belt to his children when they misbehave? Do you imagine that any civilised human beings would deliberately starve a child or dress them in rags unless they were having extreme financial difficulties – which, by the way, it is clear the Dursleys are not? The worst punishment I've ever received from my father was a few Stinging Hexes against my behind and he's a bloody Death Eater! The way that you are treated by those despicable Muggles is sick and wrong, and not normal by any stretch of the imagination."

"You don't understand – what I'm like when I'm here, what I've done to them. I ruined their lives; they didn't want to have anything to do with m-magic, and then I was dumped on their doorstep and they took me in anyway, even when it meant that they had another mouth to feed and a veritable lightning rod for strange and unpleasant occurrences… And all I do is mess things up for them, like that business deal of Uncle Vernon's that I ruined, and blowing up Aunt Marge, and getting Dudley attacked by Dementors, and drawing the attention of Voldemort and Death Eaters to this house and putting their lives in danger, and-"

"Potter!" Malfoy barked and Harry realised he was rambling. He sucked back the stream of words, automatically taking his lip in between his teeth to stop himself from saying anymore. "Nothing, and I mean nothing, that you do gives them the license to abuse you. If Dumbledore knew-"

"But he does know," Harry interrupted. He remembered that conversation with Dumbledore all too well. The older wizard had admitted that he had known all along that Harry would suffer at the hands of his relatives, that by leaving Harry there he had condemned him to 'ten dark and difficult years', but his priority was keeping Harry alive. "He knows, and he thinks it is regrettable, perhaps even mildly upsetting, but in the grand scheme of things it doesn't really matter as long as I'm safe from Voldemort."

"Grand – scheme-" Malfoy spluttered, "-Potter, you're not even sixteen years old yet! You shouldn't have to be thinking about any 'grand scheme', you should be concerned about your own welfare."

Harry straightened, levelling a steady gaze at the blonde. "I'm not a child anymore," he said calmly, "and I haven't been – not really – since the day my parents died. I'm here for a purpose: to fight Voldemort. I have to stay alive until I'm ready to face him. That's the only thing that matters."

Malfoy ran his fingers back through his hair, mumbling something along the lines of "I can't believe I'm hearing this". "Don't you care, Potter? Doesn't it upset you, the way you're treated here?"

Harry shrugged. "I'm used to it."

"But why? Why haven't you fought back?"

"We're not allowed to do magic outside of school and if you haven't noticed already, my uncle is at least four times bigger than me. Do you really think I would stand a chance against him?"

"Then why haven't you run away? Isn't there somewhere else you can go? You're the Boy-Who-Lived – surely any family in the wizarding world would be glad to take you in. I bet the Weasleys would adopt you in a heartbeat, if you asked them."

Harry glared, all the more annoyed by Malfoy's suggestion because he had actually considered it himself more than once. "I thought Dumbledore explained to you about the blood wards. Nowhere is safer than here."

Malfoy flung his arms up into the air. "Anywhere is safer than here! If you weren't a wizard, the way your uncle treats you probably would have killed you by now."

If I wasn't a wizard, my uncle wouldn't hate me so much and he wouldn't have to treat me like this just to keep me in line. "He wouldn't take it that far."

"You should leave," Malfoy insisted. "You shouldn't have to put up with this nonsense."

"If I leave, the blood wards fall. Our sanctuary from Voldemort will be irrevocably destroyed and he would be onto us before we could so much as reach the end of Privet Drive. Or have you forgotten so quickly the Death Eater attack we barely escaped from only a few days ago?"

"But-"

"No. I can survive being knocked around a little over the summer. I won't endanger you, or the Weasleys, or anyone else just because Uncle Vernon goes a bit overboard with his punishments sometimes."

"You should at least tell someone…"

"No!" Harry snapped, stepping forward forcibly so that he was standing practically nose to nose with Malfoy, cold green eyes blaring a warning that he reinforced with words. "This stays in this house; no one else is to know about it, do you understand me? If you tell anyone, I promise you will regret it."

Malfoy swallowed and retreated slightly. "I was just trying to help."

"Well here's a newsflash for you, Malfoy – I don't need or want your help. I don't need help from anyone. I've managed just fine on my own since the day Voldemort – oh, grow up, would you? – since Voldemort murdered my parents. So just mind your own business, alright?"

"Fine," Malfoy muttered. "Just forget it."

"I intend to," Harry said, pushing past the blonde to get started on the day's chores.

Malfoy stared after him silently.

ooOOoo