Title: System Discordia
Author: Eris Mackenzie
Rating: M
Warnings: Rape, torture, future slash (H/D), minor het, minor character death, adult language and situations.
Spoilers: SS, CS, PoA, GoF, Ootp, HBP.
Main Pairing: Harry/Draco
Secondary Pairings: Tonks/Remus, Hermione/Ron, more to come.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Any other none Harry Potter characters and/or affiliations are owned solely by their respective owners and the author makes no claim to anything except the plot concept of this particular work.
Summary: After a failed Death Eater rebellion headed by his father, Draco Malfoy is taken hostage and eventually found by Aurors. How will the rest of the wizarding world react to the fact that the Prince of Slytherin has a wish for the light? Post-HBP
A/N: Oh, man, I'm feeling proud. I actually got a chapter out without taking about seven months. About the room, though, I dunno…I just really, really like it. Kinda strange having an attachment to an imaginary room. Anyway, sorry if it bores anyone too much! Also, my beta had a concern with the interaction between Harry and his friends being a little too friendly. However, this will feed into something else, so hang on there for a little bit.
NOTE: if you are confused about the flat scene with the little girl, then go back to the second chapter and read the article that Harry is reading at the beginning. It will give you a better idea of what happened.
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Chapter Eleven: The Son of Traitors
"Tears are the silent language of grief." -Voltaire
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Cautiously, Harry scooted across the bed, stopping about half a foot from Malfoy's form. He was not sure what to expect, and it made him slightly uncomfortable to know Malfoy's eyes were on him, watching him. It was not that he was frightened, but something about the abrupt change of the aura around the room caused his skin to prickle in some peculiar semblance of tentacled anticipation.
"Come closer," Malfoy commanded.
Crinkling his eyebrows but nevertheless going along with the strange request, Harry did as asked and copied Malfoy's cross-legged position. He turned to face Malfoy, noting perhaps a little too closely that their knees were touching.
Harry watched as Malfoy leaned forward, his solemn face only scant inches away from Harry's own. Then, Harry felt a soft, delicate touch at his temples, and Malfoy's dry hands were on either side of his face. Harry's breath sped up without his knowledge, his face tinged a light rose. He suddenly wondered abstractedly what someone would think if he or she were to walk in right that second.
Harry opened his mouth, succeeding at first merely in a doing his best impression of a guppy, before he spoke.
"What are you -"
"Ssh…"
Harry was cut off by Malfoy's smooth, concentrated voice. For some obscure reason, the very sound of it made Harry suddenly envision pliable, smudged chamois leather draped over iron. Across from him, Malfoy had closed his eyes and looked to be focusing very hard on something. His warm hands on either side of Harry's face was strangely comforting, and Harry found his eyes closing of their own accord, allowing the small, circular rubbing motion of Malfoy's fingers against his temples to sooth his torrent of thoughts.
For the first half of a minute, there was nothing but the sound of the two men breathing. Harry's brows knit together, though, when he felt the first ephemeral, wispy trickles tingling at the corners of his brain where Malfoy's fingers were connected to his temples.
"Malfoy…"
Mellifluously, slowly, like a translucent muslin curtain fluttering in a cool desert night breeze, a feeling passed over Harry like nothing before. He understood at the very least that Malfoy was turning the key to unlock his mind, but it felt nothing like it had when Voldemort had done it. Rather than Voldemort crumbling down walls, Malfoy's mind washed over Harry like a tranquil cream wave whispering softly to him, breaking over his body with some exquisite hurt. Though it was an odd sensation, Harry welcomed Malfoy's caresses on his very psyche.
"What," Harry breathed. It was suddenly extremely difficult to form the slippery words that rounded and rolled across his lips. "What are you…"
"I'm showing you what it's like…being me," Malfoy whispered softly, "why I am this way."
Harry shivered as Malfoy's unexpectedly silky voice washed over him, twisted from the normal octaves to the most stimulating, yet peaceful sound in the universe. He did not know if Malfoy understood how he was making Harry feel, but he had an idea that the blond did.
Past the small, slight breathing tones he heard and could almost feel in the body which he now seemed to share, Harry became aware of an out of focus picture forming. Faint sounds and laughter came with it, as if he were in a theatre viewing an old film strip. A memory, came the conclusion, but it was not important.
Harry was suddenly looking up at Lucius Malfoy, but this was a younger, happier version of the man Harry had come to know. Harry stood at the elder Malfoy's waist, looking up, and it took Harry a second to understand that he was seeing the memory through Malfoy's eyes.
Lucius reached down, smiling at his son, as he picked him up and swung him in the air.
As the much younger Malfoy swished through the air, he giggled delightedly. They were outside, and a flash of blue birds and cool autumn air breezed his senses. From the sound of his voice and the chubby hands Harry could see clapping in front of him, Malfoy could not have been more than five years old.
"Again, Daddy, again!" the miniature Draco squealed.
"Oh, no, Draco." Lucius shook his head as he set his son down with a small smile on his lips. "I think Mummy's waiting for us."
Draco pouted and huffed as all small children do when they do not get what they want, but true to Lucius' prediction, Harry heard a warm voice - Narcissa's, he knew instinctively - call out, "Tea time, loves!"
"Mummy! Daddy wouldn't do it anymore!" Draco complained when he came into the mansion from the outside grounds where he and his father had been playing.
"What wouldn't he do anymore?" Narcissa asked with amusement as she set down a crystal saucer.
This was another person Harry did not recognise immediately; the woman seemed to glow with warmth, and her aristocratic beauty was even further enhanced by the happiness in her eyes. Lucius went to give her a quick peck and a "You look lovely," before he sat down at the elegant table where a delectable assortment of chocolate biscuits and the afternoon tea had been set.
Narcissa helped Draco sit atop his slightly raised chair before she herself sat and began passing around the teapot. It made Harry curious that they would not have simply magicked it all onto their plates or have had the house elves do it, but it appeared to be a tradition with the family.
It shocked Harry how stunningly normal and loving Malfoy's parents had been. Harry, along with most of the school, had thought that Malfoy had grown up with the same coldness he displayed to the outer world.
"Daddy wouldn't play anymore," Draco huffed.
"Well, dear, it was time for tea." Narcissa smiled indulgingly as she patted the napkin she placed under Draco's chin. "You don't want to get hungry later and have nothing to eat, now do you?"
"But, Mummy…" the little boy whined, swinging his legs against the chair.
It was at this time that the picture started fading, blurring back to how it was before. The last thing Harry could make out was Lucius laughing, a bizarre sound Harry decided, and leaning over to muss the fine hair atop Draco's head.
Instead of going back to that calming blank wave, the images morphed straight into another scene. However, this one was quite a bit more sombre.
Harry was in a dark hallway, peeking into what appeared to be a lit study. He stood a little taller, his head past the ornate oak wainscoting beside him, but he could not have been more than a few years older than in the last memory, perhaps seven or eight.
He could hear voices speaking urgently in the room, but Harry had the impression that at Malfoy's age he did not quite understand. However, Harry was not as young as Malfoy and could well comprehend what was going on.
"Narcissa, he…I can feel it. He's planning something again. The Dark Lord. It's barely there, but his calling gets stronger with each passing year."
Lucius was on his knees, his head cradled in Narcissa's lap. Narcissa's slender hands flowed through Lucius' hair as she sought to comfort her distraught husband, but Harry was under the impression that he needed much more than that simple touch. The air in the room, Harry could feel, confused the younger Draco, but to Harry it was the discomforting, oppressive atmosphere of impending worry. Unfortunately, the feeling was all too familiar to the Boy Who Lived.
"…What do you plan to do, Lucius?" Narcissa's voice was soft and caring, but she sounded almost reserved in her questioning.
It was obvious what Narcissa thought about the situation, but it struck Harry just how much faith she must have had in her husband to allow him to make such an important decision.
"I -" Lucius shook his head. A look of near pain crossed his features. "I don't know," he finally whispered. "I won't loose you both to that monster, not again. I don't want Draco to have to go through that. He's too good for this, too innocent."
Narcissa, for all of her goddess-like distance, looked like she was about to cry. "He…is our son."
The blond witch tilted Lucius' face up to hers as they shared a mutual kiss of foredoomed grief, and the scene blurred out.
A young man with knotted brown hair and tear-streaked eyes was tied, on his knees, in the middle of a cold, square, stone room. They must have been in a dungeon. Blood had dried shut a phenomenally large gash along his hairline, but, when he moved, parts of the wound reopened and seeped red droplets. Draco stood just outside the cell opening, spying as he had been in the last memory. Harry saw a brief reflection of Draco's face in a small puddle on the floor. He was possibly ten years old; baby fat still rounded his cheeks.
Lucius stood before the man, an unfamiliar cold look in his eyes, something that Draco had never seen.
"What did you say to them, Bordeaux?" he said in an iron voice.
Combined, Harry and Draco had to force down a shiver at the sheer lack of mercy in Lucius' words. Harry knew that if that man resisted Lucius, it would not go down well for the wizard.
"I didn't say anything!" the man sobbed. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Draco stifled a gasp behind his hand as he saw his daddy strike the man hard across the face. The cry of shock and stunned pain on display made Draco feel bad, almost guilty, inside.
"I didn't say anything!" Bordeaux moaned. "I didn't say anything…"
It was obvious, however, that Lucius did not believe him. The older blond wizard stepped up to Bordeaux and grasped a handful of his mousy brown hair in his fist so hard that his knuckles turned white. Draco jumped and felt tears sting his eyes when, abruptly, his father slammed the man's head into the floor. A corona of wet, vivid red splattered like a mutant and morose painting of a halo on the grey stone. Why was his daddy doing these mean things?
Lucius did this over and over again until the man's pleading had quieted to a mere agonised whimper.
"Please…" Bordeaux whispered past a thin film of blood. "Please, I didn't do it."
The picture faded out right before Lucius raised his wand arm, a spell on his lips, but Harry knew, without needing to see, what he was going to do. He, also, knew that Draco would never look at his father the same way again.
It was strange the next few moments, or hours, or days, years. Harry saw little snippets of Draco's life as if it were flying by on a viewing screen, going too fast to get a clear depiction but seeing enough to compile a theory nevertheless.
Harry found it disconcerting to see his own self, both younger and more present, speaking to Malfoy, duelling with him, or all-out fist fighting. Harry could feel Malfoy's hurt that Harry had unknowingly or purposefully caused that had been hidden so well behind the grey eyes out of which he now peered. He saw his own mouth form words that had burned, and Malfoy standing in front of the mirror later that night wondering if they were true. Was it honestly like that? Was he really so despicable? Malfoy wondered.
Harry could barely keep his emotions separate from those of Malfoy until they finally ran together into a molten mixture of laughter, confusion, frustration, doubt, and a prominent amount of sorrow and pain.
He was shown that Malfoy had never been that cold, heartless pureblood that Harry had always assumed he was. Inside, Malfoy felt more than he showed, cried more than most, was a new definition of a bleeding heart. He felt the first betrayal of Malfoy's parents in the form of the Cruciatus curse even though he knew it was for his own good to understand the way that the Dark Lord worked. Harry felt a burning hate directed at himself for the way things had turned out for Draco, despite his rational mind knowing it was not true. Harry found himself wishing he had looked closer at Malfoy during their school years to see the dark circles under his eyes or the way that he had gone days without eating because it had made him sick.
Harry was vaguely aware of his hands sliding up Malfoy's arms and tapering down past his sharp joints to his hands, felt his fingers twining with Malfoy's own as he continued pouring his life story into the only person who would listen, who had ever bothered to.
Harry whispered Malfoy's name like a prayer painfully forced from his lips as another image flew past his mind's eye. The answering, solid warmth of Malfoy's hands tightening around his own was comforting. He thought he felt an inkling of regret and pity and perhaps something less certain before it was whisked away on a cloud into another memory.
This one was much farther into the future, just a few months ago. Harry had just enough time to recognise the flat building from one of the many London newspapers he had scoured before his eyes were wrenched away.
This memory was different, Harry noticed immediately. He was seeing it, not through Malfoy's eyes, but of those belonging to an onlooker.
In the background, far away in the room where Harry's physical body sat, he could hear Malfoy's voice speaking. It was faint, blowing away with the wind and coming back in full force before flying further.
Despite everything I've done and that has happened to me, despite all that my worst memory is of a little girl.
People were dying, falling over in heaps everywhere. It was chaos, a rampage, on a London street.
Then, Harry saw Malfoy amid all this madness and turmoil, all this ash and fire. His robes were streaked with grey and something darker, wetter, far more pungent and liquid. Blood. In his right hand he held his wand extended, white-knuckled. Harry fought down a shiver of unease at the stony, unaffected look on his face. He could have been strolling through a park but for the crimson slicked over his hands and face, spattered throughout his hair.
The Death Eaters had stormed through the flats, and there was chaos everywhere. Everything was burning, and there wasn't an airwave without a scream riding on it. I was one of the last to get there. I had hid in the back lines. My stomach kept clenching, and I could barely feel my fists. I was so scared. They had been watching me to determine if I would betray…
Harry watched in horror as Malfoy walked down the avenue, not killing, no, but the dead expression his eyes when he looked down at the people begging for mercy was anaesthetised, deadened. Like he did not even care. Someone was crying, sobbing, but there was no one in sight who had the time for that.
Someone ran past me - a woman, I think - and suddenly I was racing down the street. I wanted out of there as fast as I could.
Harry's sight was burning a red world as blood began blurring his vision. He was confused for a moment before he realised, horrified, that it was from the other people falling all around him. Piles of them, dozens, all along this grey-bricked road.
I heard Mulciber behind me, yelling something at the others. They ran past me, toward the others that had somehow escaped…then…then through all of this screaming and death, I saw this little girl with blond curls holding a handkerchief in one hand. She was just…standing there, under a broken streetlamp, watching it all happen.
Harry watched Malfoy walk closer to the little girl, something unknowable in his eyes, but it resembled pity, sympathy, destitution. It was the look of a cornered man with only one option, and it was not one he wanted.
She was so innocent…so scared. Terrified. None of it had anything to do with her.
"Haha, well, look what we have here."
Harry recognised Mulciber, one of the many Death Eaters he had come to despise, as he strolled up a few feet behind Malfoy.
"Nice work, Malfoy, you caught us a good one."
At first I didn't understand, but then I heard Rabastan Lestrange laughing to the other Death Eaters, saying something about what children like her were made for.
Suddenly, Harry saw Malfoy's face in the Room of Requirement, but it was like staring at him through gauze, faint but there. Tears were marring his eyes, turning them to churning, roiling mercury.
I couldn't let them use her like that! I knew what they were going to do. I know what…what I did was…
Malfoy shook his head. The tears spilled out from under his closed lids; Harry felt them splatter on his knee to settle into miniature saltwater oceans. Suddenly, Harry wished he could move.
Harry saw the memory Malfoy walk up to the girl, raise his wand…
It was better than what they would have done. It wasn't right, gods, no…
"Avada Kedavra!"
…but it was better than that.
Harry felt his own disbelief and shock mixing with Malfoy's own as that beautiful little girl was enveloped in fatal green light, the colour of Harry's own eyes. When it vanished, she fell to the ground, her eyes still wide open in shock and confusion but now faded to a sick, reptilian sheen. Limp as a rag doll, Harry thought weakly.
Her handkerchief blew down the street.
In the next darkness, Harry heard an agonised, forced scream and knew unthinkingly that it was Malfoy getting punished for his insubordinance. He could barely hold down his abrupt rage and feeling of utter iniquity for whoever was inflicting such pain on the blond. It wasn't right, but it was better than that.
It switched again.
Calm. Grey. Cold.
Draco was lying in a single bed. The room was bare, dingy, and dank, the look of a hundred other desolate hotels on back street alleys. The blond was naked and frigid with the chill underneath the scratchy, stained sheets. Gooseflesh rose in millions of sarcastic salutes against the cloth, but it was nothing compared to the deadened miasma swirling sickeningly inside of his head.
Everything was quiet. Everything was flat.
Outside, Harry could hear the rain falling. Pit-pat-pit-pat….
The room whirled like a nauseatingly macabre wheel of fortune as Harry realised it was Draco's hot tears puddling in his eyes.
Shame, that one word quietly screamed into Harry's consciousness. Shame.
Never in his life had Draco felt such utter dirtiness under his skin, like a thousand itching insects burrowing into his insides. It burned. And it would happen again and again until the Dark Lord saw fit.
Beside him, a man stood and gathered his clothes.
"This is what you're made for, Malfoy," Harry remembered someone saying. It was strange, a memory within a memory. "This is your punishment for being who you are."
Malfoy looked about the room with a stony gaze.
Around the table sat half a dozen traitor Death Eaters, all captains and generals of individual legions within the Dark Lord's army. Malfoy's father had contacted them after months of planning, and now they were all betraying their master for a common cause - freedom.
One by one, they nodded. Harry felt the hidden relief flood behind Malfoy's mask.
"Then, this is what must be done."
Harry found himself following along with Draco's speech. The knowledge that Malfoy had stored away in his own brain was mapped out before Harry, suffused into his consciousness.
Malfoy was slinking low in a field in the dark night. He saw Malfoy standing in a room, a glowing orb directly in front of him, watched as the spiteful Bellatrix Lestrange burst in and killed his comrade. Now, Harry understood just what the Burning Ball was.
Then, he was bombarded with a scene even worse than before.
At the sight of Malfoy bent over the table, covered in blood and vomit and Merlin-know-what-else, Harry fought down his gag reflex. When he realised what the Death Eater behind Malfoy was doing to him, Harry gasped.
Suddenly, urgently needing to feel Malfoy, to bear down this unexplainable pain racking his soul, Harry automatically reached out, grasped the present Malfoy, and pulled him into his lap.
Malfoy did not protest. Instead, he allowed Harry to pull him closer, his shoulders arching rearward to accommodate his awkward position, and he rested his blond head atop Harry's.
"Ssh…it's okay. It's okay, Harry," Malfoy whispered.
Harry shivered, still in his magic-induced trance, and buried his face in Malfoy's shoulder. It was not okay.
"Stop!" Draco screamed.
All around him, he could see bodies hanging, a whole forest of them. Then, suddenly, his father was being gutted, but wait, was that his mother instead?
Harry's mind felt like it was on fire one minute, submerged in ice the next. Vaguely, he could hear someone whispering something, an enchantment or a curse, but it did not matter. All that mattered was the torment that was ravaging his body, altering his mind into a beaten muscle, tired and defenceless. His lower belly churned with molten pain and sheer heat; Harry could almost feel the warm blood flowing out over his skin.
"Fucking whore!"
"Harry…" Someone whispered his name, a sound of pure anguish and need. Draco, it was Draco. It was like layering sensations as Harry felt his arms tighten around Malfoy when he, also, had the feeling of being Malfoy strung over the table.
He could not tell if it was blood or Malfoy's tears that was wetting his skin.
The images were gradually slowing. Harry saw his own face in front of him, twisted in concern and something less definite, from that day in the Infirmary. Harry felt the unexplainable relief that had flooded Malfoy's system at the sight of Harry's familiar face, his bloody hands clutching Malfoy's own, and then the plunging realisation that Harry had left him the next day.
As the last vision faded like a broken film strip from his mind, Harry gradually became aware of his surroundings again, of his arms around Malfoy, of the small shaking permeating the blond's frame. He felt surreal now that he was alone again in his mind.
Harry realised, as a hot, wet droplet smeared against the skin of his neck, that Malfoy was crying again.
"Oh," Harry whispered. His voice was shaking. "I'm so sorry…I'm sorry…" And he really was sorry, more so than he had ever been before in his life, sorry for suffering so horrible that had been forced to be born that should not have been.
He squeezed the young man closer, cupped Malfoy's head in the palm of his hand. Harry threaded his fingers through Malfoy's hair, massaging his scalp like he remembered some kind-fingered, lilac-smelling apparition doing once. Malfoy continued his quiet tirade of grief, his silent homage to pain.
"Do you understand now? Do you understand?" Malfoy said weakly past some obscure suffering.
Harry did not need to reply as he felt the tears start prickling his eyes. Something wet and salty slid down Harry's own cheek to be licked away on the curve of his mouth.
'It is not fair,' Harry thought fiercely. Flashes of the images he had just seen kept running through his mind. Harry's own body ached as if it had been the one afflicted. 'I won't let that happen again. He did not deserve it.'
Of all the racing, throbbing thoughts in Harry's mind, the only one that made it out of his mouth was, "I'm sorry."
"Just…just…" Malfoy could not seem to say what he wanted, so he fell back into the comforting vortex Harry's thoughts provided.
"Please hold me." Malfoy's voice within Harry's mind was pleading, nothing more than a watery whisper, and it broke Harry's heart.
Harry gritted his teeth. As he turned his head, Malfoy's matte skin whispered across his lips, beating fiercely with every pulse of Malfoy's heart. Harry imagined himself floating along those beautiful red rivers to discover the secrets of Malfoy's body, the very tissues that made him up.
They sat there lingering, long enough surely for Malfoy's joints to ache from the position, until Malfoy's tears were but a scant few. The pain had dulled down to a bearable level, but Harry was not willing to give up their physical connection just yet. As he trailed his fingers down Malfoy's spine, Harry felt himself accepting what he had seen, accepting this mismatched man. That did not make him any less sorrowful.
When Malfoy's breathing had evened out, the room became quiet. It was some time before either of the men spoke, and when they did it was about what they had just shared.
"That little girl was the first person I ever killed, you know," Malfoy murmured quietly, almost as if he did not want to face Harry's judgement.
"What?" Harry asked softly, turning his head slightly toward Malfoy. The blond had returned to his position of leaning his head on Harry's shoulder, but his face faced outward, away from Harry's gaze.
"That night, Voldemort had given the Death Eaters orders to raid the flats," Malfoy spoke gingerly as he took his time explaining. "It was a large establishment, and a lot of people were already asleep. The Death Eaters killed some in their beds - a mercy, if it could be called that. I was told to go with them. I knew I was being judged, put on trial so to speak. It was my first mission with the squad. Terrorism, that was what I was a part of."
Harry stayed silent as Malfoy continued talking. This was his story, and Harry knew he would be told the whole thing. Mildly, Harry's fingers stroked the nape of Malfoy's neck. It seemed to help the blond think as his sentences came less fragmented and stronger.
"There was all of this confusion, and people screaming. Fires had been started in the building that forced the residents onto the street. I guess it didn't matter to the Death Eaters that they were in broad view, because they killed the people anyway. Innocent people; they had done nothing wrong. Just like that little girl…" Malfoy trailed off.
"It was…a hard decision," Harry said slowly. "If she had lived, worse things would have happened."
"Yes, but what if she had somehow been able to escape?" Malfoy sounded almost angry at himself, his voice tilted toward frustration that revealed how familiar a topic this was for him. "I took away any semblance of that change when I cast the Killing Curse."
Harry opened his mouth, then closed it after a moment, and sighed. "…You'll never completely know. That is what makes decisions so difficult. No one can predict what would have happened if they chose otherwise."
"I know…" Malfoy said tiredly as he closed his eyes and exhaled. "But I can't help thinking about it."
Harry decided not to comment as the silence stretched on. He knew that Malfoy understood what had transpired between them and what his views were on it. After a few minutes, Harry merely shook his head, glanced at the clock, and saw that they had been sitting there for nearly three hours.
"Mal -" Harry stopped for a second as he heard his own voice. It felt ridiculous to address Malfoy by his last name. Harry felt that after all they had shared, perhaps… "Draco, you must be exhausted."
Malfoy looked up at his given name, surprise trying and failing to express itself. The blond just nodded as if that was not what he had expected but would accept, this new, small but monumental, change.
"I am," he replied softly. "It's late."
Malfoy stirred from Harry's lap and slid back onto the bed. Harry noted, as always, how cold it felt when the blond backed away.
They did not need to consult with each other to understand that they both needed rest, and a lot of it. By mutual consent, Harry crossed the room to the other bed and began pulling down the sheets. It was funny, but Harry thought he would have been awkward around Malfoy had he known he would have been shown something so raw earlier; now, however, all either of them felt was a numb, cottony fatigue.
Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Malfoy headed into the bathroom. The sound of running water could be heard as Malfoy rinsed his weary face and quickly brushed over his teeth. He returned to the bedroom and began mechanically getting dressed in his night clothing, pulling the soft material over his skin with forced movements.
Harry copied Malfoy's nightly routine to some extent, but he was too eager to sleep that he skimped over most of them. Harry pulled his sheets back and took off his glasses.
"…Harry?" Malfoy called his name quietly into the darkness.
Instinctively, Harry turned around but could not make much out of anything.
"Yeah?" he answered.
Malfoy was quiet for a moment and Harry thought maybe he had been hearing things when Malfoy timidly requested, "Will-will you stay over here with me tonight?"
"What?" Harry squinted in the dark, trying in vain to get a better glimpse of the blond to make sure he had heard correctly.
"I…It would make me feel better…I…" Malfoy's voice softened in hesitation before fading to nothing.
The room fell silent for a few moments, though not in a dismissive manner. Harry could almost feel Malfoy's churning thoughts as he waited patiently for the other man to speak.
Finally, Harry heard Malfoy admit, "I feel safer when you're around."
Harry stayed rooted, his mind going over what Malfoy had just asked for several seconds. Then, after a while, he slowly nodded. He knew that Malfoy needed him right now.
"Sure," he answered, carefully nonchalant, as if this kind of thing happened all the time.
Malfoy sighed, and Harry could tell from the sound of it that Malfoy was relieved Harry had not pushed the issue.
"Do you have a side of the bed you prefer?" Harry asked as he ambled back over to Malfoy's side.
Malfoy shook his head, and Harry shrugged before sliding over to the far left side. The bed dipped slightly with Malfoy's added weight before he, too, stretched out.
In retrospect, the absurdity of the situation would have made Harry gawk at any other time. However, for the moment, as his eyes closed, the warmth, security, and knowledge that he was not alone was well worth it. He felt at the back of his mind that Malfoy agreed.
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It was strange, Harry decided, having someone else in bed with you.
As Harry's mind slowly surfaced, he sensed something was different but did not immediately remember what had happened the previous night. He was unconsciously enjoying the reassuring warmth of the body curled to his right when he finally did recall. Harry's immediate instinct was to snap open his eyes, but he forced himself to lie still and prostrate so as not to disturb Malfoy, whom Harry was almost certain was still sleeping peacefully beside him.
Harry drew in deep breaths as his thoughts raced through the new memories that had crowded it the night before. As the images scrolled past his mind, Harry felt a mirror of those emotions he had felt stir deep in his chest. However, he knew that he could not get upset over them so early in the morning, for judging from the soft, filtered sunlight it could not have been more than nine or ten o'clock.
After he had gone through, categorised, and re-familiarised himself with the majority of Malfoy's memories, Harry finally did open his eyes. At first, he was a little startled by how close Malfoy and himself were; scarce inches separated their faces. Just how innocent the blond wizard looked while asleep made Harry's mouth quirk into an unexpected smile. It was ironic, considering how much of the world Malfoy had been forced to see in so short a time. Innocent, he was anything but.
The initial surprise soon faded, however, and Harry was left wondering a little bizarrely about trivial things such as just how unexpectedly comfortable and warm-blooded the legendarily stoic Draco Malfoy was.
'Draco…' Harry tried out Malfoy's first name in his mind. The Latin name rolled strangely across the terrain of his brainwaves, but it was not a wholly unpleasant experience. It would still take some getting used to, he ultimately decided.
For some reason, Professor Binns, the ghost of a history teacher, popped into his mind, and it took Harry a second to figure out why. He nearly laughed aloud at the connection when he remembered a lesson on ancient Roman myths several years before; Acteon, a mythical hunter who had accidentally stumbled upon the bathing goddess Diana, had gotten torn apart by his hounds for punishment, one of whom was named Draco. It just went to show that whether a hound or a dragon or a person, Draco would not stand to be enslaved.
Harry's thoughts were pulled back to the physical when Malfoy - Draco, he reminded himself - moved. A small sleep moan hummed through Draco's throat as he shifted in his slumber. Draco's right hand (his wand hand, Harry remembered) came up to rest itself in front of the curvature of his face, his fingertips barely grazing the tip of his nose. His legs curled underneath him into a further fetal position as his knees situated themselves just above Harry's, pressing the knobs of bone and flesh into his legs. Harry held his breath for a second, fearing the blond man would awake, but Draco's eyes did not open. He stilled a moment later.
He really was too delicate to be a man, Harry mused as his gaze set on Draco's face. His skin was paler than the night before, his cheeks tinged a soft, powdered rose. Upon his high, aristocratic cheekbones, Draco's fair eyelashes rested softly, as if to brush away the merlot shadows that finely dyed the skin around his eyes. Draco's lips parted in his sleep, and his pink slip of a tongue flickered out for a brief flash of a second. Yet, for all his near frailty and diaphanous beauty, there was still something elusive about his features that bespoke of something much stronger, fiery, and unarguably masculine. No, he would not be confused with a woman on any terms.
Harry was so lost in his thoughts that he did not notice until much later that Draco had awakened and was watching him as intently as Harry had been. The blond's gaze was not accusing or suspicious, however. He was simply looking at Harry, a gesture that did not mean anything more than it was.
Harry wanted to say something, but he could not think of what, so he just sat there staring back at Draco. It was strange, something he had never done before, this simple, peaceful acknowledgement. It seemed that there was a whole jumble of things lately that were seeming odd. Although Harry should have felt awkward, and he did at first, the feeling melted back into the void from which it had come, leaving only a faint reminder.
"How are you feeling?" Harry finally asked, breaking the silence with the gentle utterance.
"Fine," Draco replied. He blinked once, twice, and then spoke again. "I suppose you're still curious from last night."
"A little," Harry admitted reluctantly. "But if you don't want to talk about it, then…"
"No," Draco said, shaking his head slightly, "I can handle it. What is it that you want to know?"
"Well, what you did last night, showing me your memories, is that normal?" Harry's eyebrow quirked upwards. "Is that something anyone can do? It seemed so…strange. No offence."
"None taken." Draco shrugged a little. "Truth be told, I didn't exactly want to show you that way, but it could not be circumvented. For someone who has never been under that type of memory stream, well, it can often times be traumatic."
"Memory stream?" Harry enquired. It was not a term he had heard of before, but it seemed appropriate.
"Showing my recollections to you through my own memory path waves," Draco explained. "It is somewhat of a special ability of mine. Only certain witches or wizards called psychosomatic conjurers can do it without some type of outside aid. I am one of them. This was one of the reasons Voldemort did not want to give up the Malfoy line; we have a history of psychosomatic conjurers in the family."
"What's so special about them?"
"They are a myriad of sorts." Draco twisted his lips as he thought. "Some of us can perform advanced magic as infants without wands, others can break into even Azkaban with a single spell. My own abilities are not quite so extensive, but they often change throughout time. I can influence others' bodies, make them think things that never happened, and no magical trace is ever left behind. It is like the Imperius Curse in that I can govern the person I cast on, but it could never be linked back to me as the person has no idea that I am there - everything appears to be by their choice. It is very subtle.
"Another thing that I am good at is spell seeing; that is I can actually plot out a spell's magical pathways like someone would see a three dimensional road map. I can break a spell or twist it into a curse, much like how a jewellery maker can weld a ring, without needing to cast over it or cancel it out. Magic is energy - you just need to know how to see and manipulate it."
Harry took advantage of the pause as he mulled over what Draco had just said.
"So, you could be inside my head making me do things right now?" Harry said aloud.
"Yes," Draco answered genially. "But do you really think I am?"
Slowly, Harry shook his head. "No. But this…in your memory, I can hear someone inside your head. If you specialise in mind magic, how did he do that?"
"Well, you see," Draco admitted, "I never said that we had unbreakable mind barriers. Most of us have anything but. Due to the nature of our extreme connection with magical energy, we cannot shut ourselves off to it, even for our own safety. Being a psychosomatic conjurer is both a gift and a hazard."
"So if I wanted, I could break into your mind?"
"Right now, probably. I'm still in mental exhaustion from sending everything to you last night. What I meant was that if someone who had the ability was hell bent on breaking into my mind, I would have very little defense. It is because of how weak our mental resistance is that the after-effects are so devastating."
'So that was what they were doing to him.' It dawned on Harry. 'They were traipsing their magical feet all over his brain. But he never showed even a hint that he was suffering so much.'.
Harry did not realise that he had spoken out loud until Draco answered him.
"I did not show it because I had been trained not to do so. When it gets rammed into you enough times, it becomes a reflex."
For a second, Draco's eyes became cold and distant. Then he seemed to come back to himself, and they melted again.
"…It has been hard for you." Harry's statement was not meant to gain an answer; he simply wanted Draco know that he acknowledged him.
Draco smiled faintly. "Yes," he said carefully, "but hasn't it been so for everyone at some point?"
Harry opened his mouth to speak when the small tinkling of pendulum chimes told him that it was now eleven o'clock.
"We should get up," Harry sighed reluctantly. "I'm pretty sure McGonagall was going to swing around sometime today. She and Ed were going to finish up at the house."
Draco's eyes dimmed for a second. "Yeah, I'm sorry about that. The boggart."
Harry lifted the corner of his mouth in what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Don't be. It brought us this far, didn't it?"
This earned Harry a quirky smile and shake of the head as Draco flipped off the covers and stood. As Harry followed his lead, he saw a small flash of creamy skin between Draco's shirt and the waistband of his pyjama trousers when Draco stretched.
"I think I'm going to go take a shower." Draco said as he let his arms fall back to his sides. "I could use it after cleaning that filthy mansion yesterday."
"Yeah, me too," Harry agreed, his eyes not leaving Draco's form. 'Stop it,' he scolded himself. "You go ahead and use it first."
"Thanks," Draco murmured as he headed toward the bathroom. "I won't take very long."
"Take your time," Harry said, and Draco nodded before shutting the door.
The sound of the showerhead spray pattering on the porcelain a moment later was ridiculously soothing.
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McGonagall and Ed ended up arriving a couple of hours later. Harry was just drying his hair when he heard the knocking on the door and knew it could only be them.
"Good morning," he greeted as he opened the door. "Come in."
He gestured toward the chairs in front of the window, and they both sat. Draco was in the bathroom brushing his teeth and would probably be out within a few minutes. Harry rustled his hair one last time with the towel he had in his hand before he dropped it to his side.
"How is Mister Malfoy doing?" McGonagall enquired aptly, skipping straight past the usual greetings. Her hands were folded atop her robed knees. Her family ring, an golden eagle in mid-flight over a crest of arms, caught the light and reflected it against the wall.
Harry glanced at the ajar bathroom door before he answered.
"He's okay now."
Both McGonagall and Ed looked somewhat doubtful, and Harry knew he would have to say something. For some reason, Harry did not want to share what had transpired between them the night before - it seemed too personal - but he wanted to lay their worries to rest.
"We…had a talk," he settled finally. Harry figured it was a safe, yet vague enough explanation. "He told me about it. I don't want to go into details, but he's all right now. I promise."
Harry's voice was friendly but firm, and after a few moments the unsure expressions faded off of the two witches' faces.
"Well," Ed finally broke the silence, "that certainly is good to hear. If there was anyone who needed someone to unload on, it was that poor boy."
Harry could not have agreed more, but before he could voice this, McGonagall said, "If you are both feeling up to it, the house is ready, and you can move in anytime you wish."
"Yes," Harry said, "I need to check with Draco, but I think we're good to go."
McGonagall raised her eyebrow at Harry's use of Draco's given name, but she wisely did not comment.
"Alright, then," she said carefully. "We'll give you some time to talk it over, and then -"
" - That won't be necessary." Draco had come out of the bathroom and stood in the doorway. "We are ready to leave. The only problem is the luggage."
"The house elves can take care of that," McGonagall replied matter-of-factly. "It will be transported by Floo to the house. If you want to take any valuables with you now, however, that is fine."
Draco shook his head. "I'm good." He looked over at Harry. "What about you?"
Harry shook his head. Draco was acting so much more freely with the headmistress and Ed now; perhaps there were more advantages from sharing with him last night than Harry had thought.
"Well, it seems all is in order. Same plan as yesterday, lads." Ed smiled as she stood.
With a nod, Harry and Draco retrieved their cloaks, and the group went underway.
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All too soon, the great façade of number twelve, Grimmauld Place was towering above Harry's head. With a slight feeling of déjà vu, Harry walked up to the peeling front door and opened it with Draco at his side and the two elder witches to his rear.
As soon as they walked into the front hall, he could see a difference from the day before, even after they had cleaned. The long corridor was no longer dark and gloomy but filled with a floating, healthy light. The walling and floors, though still faded and a little worse-for-wear, were clean and spotless, giving the house an almost welcoming aura.
"Wow, you guys did a really good job," Harry commended as he grinned at their thorough handiwork.
"Oh, it wasn't all us," Ed waved it off with her hand. "Your friends helped out a lot, too."
"Who?"
Harry's question was unwittingly answered when into the room walked Hermione with Ron close at her tail. The brunette instantly beamed a smile over at Harry when she caught sight of him. She set down the small bouquet of wildflowers she must have picked from the garden out back and hurried her footsteps.
"Harry!" Hermione greeted happily. "How are you?"
Before Harry could react, Hermione flung her arms around him and gave him an affectionate hug. Out of habit, Harry's arms closed around her small waist and hugged her back.
"I'm fine," Harry smiled. "How are you and Ron?"
"Oh, we're fit as fiddles, mate," Ron grinned. He, too, gave Harry a hug before stepping back. "Well, you certainly look better. Finally ate something, eh?"
"Hah, yeah. Hogwarts' cooking does that to you," Harry said amiably before glancing back at Draco, who looked a little ill at ease and unsure of what to do.
Harry ignored the subtle looks of surprise on his friends' faces when he turned, grabbed Draco by the crook of his elbow, and tugged the blond wizard up alongside him.
"Draco's been doing okay, too," Harry said, introducing his companion to the couple.
At first, Hermione and Ron both were dismayed at how friendly Harry was acting with Draco. However, Hermione soon recovered, being the well-mannered woman that she was.
"Oh, y-yes," Hermione stammered. While she was trying, she was having a hard time thinking of what to say. "Well, that certainly is a good thing. How are you…Draco?"
She glanced up at Harry as if to ask 'is this okay?' before he nodded. Beside him, Draco remained oblivious to what the friends had communicated.
"I'm fine, thank you," Draco answered in a soft, nearly contrite voice.
Hermione appeared almost startled at how mannerly Draco was being before she smiled at him. With a discrete nudge to his side from Hermione, Ron spoke up.
"So…Malfoy," Ron began, taking his time as he struggled to make conversation with a person he had only called Ferret for the past few years. "Er…the house…um…"
The gods bless her, Hermione swiftly plunged in and mended the discussion before the silence became too awkward.
"I think what Ron is trying to say is that the house looks lovely," the brunette interrupted quickly.
Harry sent her a grateful smile as Draco looked at her in visual surprise. As Draco thanked Hermione, Harry was delighted to see the blond actually smiled somewhat timidly at her. Hermione, for her own part, seemed pleasantly pleased and smiled wholeheartedly back. Perhaps this was not going to be so bad after all.
"This isn't it all, now," Ed grinned cheerfully. "There's still quite a few floors left to look at. Not quite what I'd call 'home sweet home', but it's getting there."
"It really is spectacular." Harry smiled warmly. "Thanks a lot. We appreciate it."
"Then, let's tour around the newly cleaned house, shall we?" McGonagall stepped up to the group and invited them along.
In the end, Harry and Draco did not get a single minute alone to synthesize their thoughts over their new home as they walked through room after gigantic room. It was beginning to get dark from the muddled, bluish light that began to flood the house through the windows. After McGonagall and Ed had left into the second hour, Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Draco had settled down at the large, circular table in the middle of the kitchen, upon which a large, piping teapot and a plate of half-eaten biscuits rested after they had all had their share. Draco, predictably, had not eaten much in front of their guests, and Harry made a note to make him eat a snack before they retired for the night.
"Dico vicis," Hermione recited. The wispy face of a clock appeared from her wand and floated before her. "Well, it looks like we ought to be leaving. It's nearly six o'clock."
Ron pushed his plate away and yawned. "Yeah, this has been entertaining and all, Harry, but the little lady is still making me do a couple of things at school. Plus, McGonagall isn't going to let us stay out much later. We're lucky we even got to come today."
"Well, we are still seventh years, Ron," Hermione reminded him, sounding an awful lot like Mrs. Weasley as she did so.
Harry stood when the clock in the front hall, a few minutes early, began to ring. It was a rather morbid tune, like something out of a funeral home. Harry made another mental note to get it changed.
"The Floo powder is over by the grate if you need it. In the red flowerpot." Harry pointed toward the healthily roaring fire behind them.
"Oh, yes, thank you." Hermione, also, stood and smiled. Her tawny eyes twinkled and reminded Harry of gilded amber in the firelight. She really had become a beauty while he had been away. It was no wonder that Ron was infatuated with her.
She and Ron both thanked Harry and Draco for their hospitality as they headed towards the hearth. Just before she threw her handful into the blaze and right after Ron had disappeared, Hermione turned around and smiled at them.
"Hey, Draco," Hermione called.
Harry looked to his left where Draco was standing, faintly apprehensive at being singled out.
"Yes?" he replied uncertainly.
"You made the right choice," she said enigmatically with that undying sparkle still in her eyes. "Just remember that."
Three seconds later she, too, vanished into the flames, and Harry turned back to Draco, who had a contemplative look scrolled across his features.
"What was that about?" Harry demanded.
Draco merely shrugged and smiled faintly to himself. "Maybe…she is not so bad, after all."
Harry tried to understand the exchange but ultimately gave up.
"Forget it," Harry said. "It's getting late. Wanna check out our room before it's time to sleep?"
"Oh, that's right," Draco mumbled. Obviously, he was trying to sound like it was nothing, but Harry could tell that he was still nervous over the Boggart.
"They removed the cabinet. They told me," Harry reassured Draco.
Draco nodded absentmindedly as he gave the motion to start walking towards the door.
"Oh," Harry breathed as he remembered one more thing that McGonagall had told him, "I had forgotten to tell you. Apparently, McGonagall and Ed could only find one bed that was usable here. The rest had been gotten rid of when the Order started using this place, or the valuable ones were placed in storage. They said that we could change the bed once another two were brought out of storage."
Draco did not say anything.
"Though it's a large bed, so, you know, it shouldn't be too bad…" Harry prompted the conversation then left off to wait for Draco's answer.
Draco merely glanced to one of the nearby darkening windows, not making eye contact.
"Alright," he responded neutrally after a moment.
As they began ascending the long, winding stairs to the second floor, Harry wondered whether or not McGonagall and Ed had made any major changes to their room or not. He doubted it, but then one never really knew with those two.
When Harry opened the door, however, he immediately felt at home.
It was dark in the room, lit only by chilled, clear moonlight that spilled through the series of windows. The wooden floor was not only cleaned but waxed, too, and the windows were shaded subtly with sheer, gauzy curtains. The carved, white marble fireplace that they had found the day before at the other end of the room beheld a large, wrought silver mirror above it, much like the one that had been in the Room of Requirement but significantly larger. A silver grate sat in front of the gaping hearth to close it off. The sizable crystal chandelier that hung suspended in the middle of the room was sparkling with the cool light that reflected off of the mirror.
In front of the windows to Harry's frontal left, there sat two green, upholstered armchairs; in between them sat an elegantly carved wooden table and antique brass oil lamp. Three bookcases full of both wizarding and Muggle classics rested in successive intervals between the windows. Several other articles of furniture dotted the room, but all lent their own unique appeal to the gentle, aristocratic atmosphere. There were no paintings on the walls yet, but Harry was undeniably certain that Draco would remedy that problem within time.
Then, at the far end of the room, sat a large canopied bed raised up on a wooden platform with two steps. It was obviously meant to be the beauty of the room. The woodwork of the bed frame itself was unquestionably exquisite, carved into a manner of delicate flower stems and ornate swirls, but it was the cloth that won the prize. As Harry finally moved from his gaping position near the door, he ran his fingers along the beautifully woven fabric as Draco watched him with a small smile. His eyes took in the intricate pattern of soft gold and lovely crèmes that formed a map of fairy tale lands and rising mountains across a plane of pastel green. The draping, heavy canopy above that rested on the support of the solid bed posts was an exact replica of the duvet. Across from the bed was a set of twin chiffoniers.
The room looked and felt like something out of the nobility and an age that had long since past, an age of beautiful faces white with arsenic powder, golden corsets, and delicate masquerades at ballrooms filled with chocolate and wine. However, there was something about it that calmed Harry completely, giving him a sense of tranquillity that he rarely felt nowadays.
"Wow…" was all that he could say.
Draco chuckled faintly. "You can say that again." He shook his head lightly. "I didn't think that they would go through all of the trouble of actually finding heirlooms like these when they could merely conjure up replacements like they had with most of the other rooms."
"Heirlooms?" Harry repeated, looking over at Draco in the moonlight.
Draco nodded. "Yes. The furniture in this room is antique, probably as old as anything at the Malfoy Manor and most likely just as valuable. And this coverlet," he trailed his fingers along the fabric, "while no doubt ten times as durable as cotton, is almost certainly older than several generations of my family."
Draco turned back to Harry.
"It was probably a wedding gift, judging from the amount of sheer effort put into it. Wedding gifts are always the best because pureblood families like to show how much money their families have and impress their newly acquired relatives with their lavish spending," Draco explained. He stopped for a second before pointing to the fabric. "You see how the colouring is faded, however? It was likely very vibrant when it was new. But I prefer it this way."
"Why?" Harry asked, confused but genuinely curious. He was amazed at how much Draco had inferred simply by seeing the quilt. He had never really thought about things like that before.
For a second, Harry was caught by the utterly unguarded smile Draco gave him as he said, "Because it shows that it was used. And if it was used so much, it must have been loved."
Harry laughed a little as he shook his head in wonder. "You know…never mind."
"What?"
"No, nothing." Harry smiled. "Now, I think you need to eat something more. You don't like eating in front of other people, I take it?"
As Draco shook his head and began speaking, Harry pressed his hand into Draco's back and led him out of the door and back downstairs.
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When they finally did get to bed, Harry reflected back on what Draco had said about the quilt. He glanced over at the sleeping man and could not help a smile that he was quickly becoming accustomed to appearing from spreading across his lips.
"Draco Malfoy…you surprise me at every turn…" Harry murmured before he timed his breath with Draco's and, in minutes, fell asleep to the feel of enveloping warmth.
End of Chapter Eleven.