Wake up, your dreams have come undone
The nightmares plague us until the morning comes
All is said and done, but ghosts still haunt us in the sun
Valiant Hearts - "Medusa"
Draco stumbled when Kreature apparated them into the front hall, the alcohol in his system making itself known. "Fffuck," he muttered under his breath, toes curling away from the icy cold wooden floor and Draco only then realised he was still barefoot.
Draco had never been to number 12, at least not when he was old enough to remember. Great Aunt Walburga had killed her husband and then herself in a fit of mourning after Regulus had died and Sirius had been imprisoned. The house looked as though it had been inhabited more recently than that, however, although it clearly had been left vacant for several months at least, judging by the dust. Whatever Kreature did around here, it clearly wasn't housework.
Looking around the long entry, Draco could see up to the first-floor landing where there was very clearly a door to some kind of sitting room hanging ajar, and the shadowed doors to what must have been the bedrooms. Decisively, Draco headed toward the stairs.
Before he could turn towards the bedroom hallway, he was stopped by the voice of Walburga Black. "Who dares enter the House of Black?!" She called out imperiously.
Sighing, Draco turned toward the woman. She was large with black hair piled on the top of her head in a loosely elaborate Gibson bun and high collared blue and black gown. She had a long, aquiline nose that reminded Draco of her son, Sirius, in the pictures he had seen in the Prophet, and the Grey eyes that he saw every morning in the mirror or when he looked at his mother.
"Hello Aunt Walburga. It's Draco. Narcissa's son?"
"Narcissa's son you say? Oh, my boy, look at how you've grown! Such a lovely young man you are," she cooed.
"Yes, thank you. If you'll excuse me."
"Of course, of course! You are always welcome in this house, nephew."
Escaping the fawning portrait, Draco walked past the sitting room to the first door. It was a bathroom, empty save for a large copper tub; the toilets presumably connected to each bedroom. It had very obviously been recently cleaned, which was surprising and perhaps indicative of Harry's presence in the house. It also very clearly had not been used, however, which was less hopeful.
The second room looked as if it were a Gryffindor dormitory and Draco wrinkled his nose. There, on the floor at the foot of the tall double bed was Harry's bag, but it looked untouched. The bed, while unmade, also looked like no one had slept in it for some time.
Moving on, Draco tried the second bedroom, a tidy guest bedroom in the family colours of black and blue. It, too, had been recently dusted although it looked like it had been years since it could have boasted of any occupancy.
The third bedroom looked as though it were another guest room, no personal decor or clutter on the walls or surfaces but…
Draco couldn't hear breathing within the room, but he could smell the faintly musky scent of an unwashed body, could feel in the air that it was occupied. Harry was definitely in the room, either sleeping or else hiding from him for unknown reasons. Dismissing the bed, Draco made for the window seat overlooking a lush garden nowhere near the London townhouse.
Moving slowly, Draco raised his hand to prod tentatively at the air and, yes. Draco gripped the fabric tight in his hand and ripped it off the body underneath. The action was sudden and violent but the pale, lethargic figure of Harry Potter responded slowly, blinking awake and turning his head just enough to peer up at Draco with listless, glazed green eyes, not even moving from where he lay curled against the glass pane.
Harry looked. Well, he looked frankly awful. His face boasted several days worth of stubble and his hair was greasy and unbrushed, flattened by the cloak which had lain over them for who knew how long. His skin was pale and thin and there were dark circles under his eyes as if no amount of sleep could alleviate the exhaustion settled in his thin bones.
And he was thin.
Granted, Harry Potter had never exactly been robust, and in their younger years, had often roamed the castle grounds in clothes too large for him. This wasn't an ill-fitted hand-me-down, though. It was an obnoxious orange Chudley Canons tee that Draco remembered seeing on him after Christmas their fifth year. And it hung. It was loose around him like Harry had lost weight he didn't have. His wrists were bone-thin and his face was gaunt. Draco had last seen him only weeks ago, but Harry looked like he had been locked away in Azkaban for years.
"Draco…?" he said weakly, brow furrowed slightly in confusion. "What are you doing here?"
"Your house elf came and got me," Draco said, watching as Harry's eyes darted behind him, glancing at the bed and then back at Draco. "What's happened to you, Potter?!"
"I died."
"You-" what do you say to something like that? "You didn't die, Potter, but you're going to. Circe, have you eaten at all?"
"I'm sorry, Draco," Harry said miserably, ignoring Draco's comments completely as he struggled to turn enough to put his legs on the floor. "I never meant for you to end up here."
"Never meant for me to come to this house? I can see why. It's miserable here, and I have some experience with miserable houses." He hoped the snark would goad Potter into some kind of response, but it clearly didn't.
"You're tied to me," Harry explained. "Because you were master of the Elder Wand, I think. Our souls are tied so you're here in this house with me." His eyes drifted back toward the bed and he frowned. "Or that."
Draco steadied him as he threatened to topple back over. Merlin, but he wasn't even standing up and he was losing strength. Kreature wasn't joking when he said that Harry Potter was dying. "Or what?" he asked distracted, panicky.
"Either you're tied to me, or you're tied to him. Because of the Mark, maybe." Draco flinched.
"What are you talking about, Potter?" he asked sharply. "You still have my wand, don't you? Kreature!"
"You're dead, too, Draco. You must be." Harry brushed the back of his cold, shaking fingers against the wound on Draco's cheek. Draco hissed in pain, pulling back as Kreature appeared in the doorway.
"Master Harry Potter!" Kreature greeted effusively. "Kreature is so glad to be seeing you!"
Draco was still looking at Harry when Kreature arrived and saw as what colour still remained in his pallid face drained away completely, his eyes widening like a frightened hare. His breathing became short and fast and Draco could see his pulse racing in the hollow of his throat. "Get him some water," Draco ordered without looking.
"Harry…" Draco started gently, but Harry interrupted.
"Shut up!" he screamed, trembling. "Shut up! This is all your fault!"
Draco backed away, hands raised in defence. "What? What did I do?"
"Not you," Harry answered, gaze fixed over his shoulder.
Draco turned around, seeing nothing.
"Harry, what are you talking about? Who are you talking to?" he tried to keep his voice soft and even, watching as Harry blinked his eyes rapidly, struggling to focus his gaze.
"He's Tom Riddle," Harry said. "Voldemort." Draco couldn't stop a full-body shudder in response to the name. "We're ghosts," he declared miserably.
Draco shook his head, looking at the spot Harry had his eyes trained on. "No one's there, Harry. You're not dead yet."
"I am," Harry argued. "We are. Me and Tom and you, now. Kreature can see us." As if summoned, Kreature returned with the water.
"Here is water, Master Harry. Drink! You is looking terrible!"
Harry avoided the elf's gaze, cringing away, holding himself like he could wrap himself up with just his arms. Had he been here hiding under his cloak all this time? Four days, Kreature had said.
Draco took the water. "Here," he said, holding the rim of the glass to Harry's dry, cracked lips. "Little sips or you'll make yourself sick, and I don't think you can afford to lose what's in your stomach."
Harry leaned back. "I don't need water, Draco, I'm dead."
"Ok. Fine. You're dead," Draco played along, unwilling to argue at this point. "Humour me, though. Take a sip."
Harry frowned and hesitated, eyes darting up uncertainly to search Draco's face. Eventually, he relented, bringing a hand up to help Draco guide it to his lips. Once the liquid touched his lips, his instincts kicked in and he took two huge gulps before Draco pulled the glass away, spilling a bit onto Harry's blue shorts. "Slow, I said."
"I could taste it," Harry said wonderingly. "I almost felt that."
"Power of the imagination," Draco made up on the spot. "We're wizards, anything we imagine is real. Just because we're dead doesn't mean we can't still enjoy things. You've been dead for ages, Harry, aren't you thirsty? Imagine this water is real. Just imagine for me, please? For me?"
Slowly, Harry nodded and Draco brought the glass back to his lips. Obediently, Harry took smaller sips, the immediacy of his thirst quenched for the moment. Draco sighed in abject relief.
"Mimsy!" he called, knowing the Call of her master would be heard despite the distance.
As he predicted, Mimsy popped into existence next to Kreature whom Draco had completely forgotten was still in the room with them, watching silently. "Kreature, make Master Harry a bowl of broth. Mimsy, pack my toiletries and bring them here. All of them." Orders relayed, the house-elves both disapparated to do their duties.
"All right, Potter. Time for a bath."
Carefully, Draco pulled Harry to his feet, steadying him when he wobbled, clearly light-headed at the change in position. He thought of picking him up, but ultimately decided to guide Harry slowly to the bathroom.
Harry's limited energy flagged about half way down the hallway but Draco pushed him onwards before finally arriving in the tiled room. Sitting Harry on a stool in the corner, Draco touched the tap, a flood of warm water quickly filling the large basin.
"Why are you doing this, Draco?" Harry asked weakly. "Why are you bothering with all this?"
"Because it will make me feel better," Draco answered honestly, though he knew Harry probably wasn't cognizant enough to parce out his true meaning. "And if you play along, you'll feel better, too. You're weak. You're… fading. You haven't bathed, you haven't, shaved, you haven't eaten. You're-" he cut himself off before he could say 'hallucinating', knowing Harry wouldn't respond well to that assertion.
Draco knew taking care of Harry's ablutions wasn't a priority but he also knew that once he got Harry to St. Mungos it would likely be ages before Harry would get anything but magical cleansings, and Draco knew first-hand how awful that was. He hoped if he could get Harry feeling more like himself it may help him come back from whatever delusion had gripped him.
"I don't want to be a ghost," Harry confessed so quietly Draco almost couldn't hear him over the running water.
"You're not a ghost," Draco said before he could stop himself.
"That's why Kreature can see me. I think you coming… our energy is probably really high. With just me and Tom, we could keep ourselves in balance but you… I don't want you to leave me alone with him… but I don't want to be a ghost. I don't want to go back to the living yet." He said the last as if it were a secret.
Draco suppressed a shiver at the words, grateful when Mimsy reappeared with a leather bag.
Draco thanked her and she nodded silently, disappearing as suddenly as she had come. Dumping the contents onto the floor, Draco found a bottle half full of an iridescent pink potion. He uncorked the bottle and poured some of the liquid into the water, shutting off the tap as he did. The water immediately took on a shimmering pink hue, the scent of roses filling the air.
Standing, Draco turned back to Harry, helping the man undress. For the first time, Draco felt no arousal at Harry's nude form. Apart from the stale musk, there was also the actual sight of his body to contend with. Without his clothes, Draco could see the damage that had been wrought. His stomach was hollow and Draco could count every one of his ribs. Harry had always at least bordered on being underweight, but never had Draco seen him so thin. He suspected the only thing keeping him going at this point was his magic.
He helped Harry settle into the tub, the water immediately frothing with bubbles at contact with the filth on Harry's skin. The potion would take care of the dirt and sweat but Draco had other supplies to exfoliate and moisturise his skin. There was a pitcher in a basket near the tub that Draco filled with the rosy water. "Tilt your head back," he ordered, shielding Harry's forehead when he complied, pouring the warm water into his scalp. As the water bubbled on his head, Draco reached for a bottle of Sleekeazy. He lathered the cream through Harry's shaggy curls and left it to do its work.
"Are you wanting to keep this beard?" Draco asked, holding Harry's face in his hand. Harry's eyes fluttered shut as he sighed into the contact.
"Harry," Draco said, pulling his attention back to the matter at hand. "Are you growing a beard out on purpose or do you want to get rid of it?"
"No…" Harry replied, trancelike.
"No, you want to get rid of it?" Draco asked, uncorking his vial of depilatory potion at Harry's affirmative hum. "All right, keep your mouth shut now so I can get this on you."
Harry pinched his lips shut and Draco rubbed the oily potion through the coarse stubble on his face.
"Tingles," Harry observed.
Draco grunted. "It's dissolving the hair. You'll know it's gone when it stops tingling."
"Oh… I just used a razor."
"Yes well, you're ignorant and your Weasleys are poor. Potions aren't cheap, you know. Granger might have some, though."
"Can you use it anywhere?"
"Yes… do you want to get rid of the rest of it as well?"
Harry nodded. "Get rid of it all."
Draco inhaled deeply. "All right."
Draco started at the bottom, propping Harry's leg up against the rim of the tub. He rubbed the potion into the little hairs on his toes and the top of his foot, following the line of his tibia up to his knee.
"How long has Tom been with you?" He asked, almost casually as he worked his way up Harry's thigh.
"Forever," Harry sighed. "His soul has been tied to mine since he tried to kill me the first time. When he came back after the Triwizard Tournament, he was in my head. I could feel his emotions. Whenever I dreamt, I could see through his eyes. Or Nagini's. I saw you sometimes."
"You… you saw through his eyes?"
"Eventually, he figured out how to send me visions when I was awake."
"That's… horrible."
Harry shrugged.
Draco lathered the oil between Harry's legs, rubbing the option over his bollocks and back between his crack. Harry gasped as Draco pressed his finger inside just enough to cast a wandless cleaning charm. "What I meant, though, was how long he's been with you in this house."
Harry furrowed his brows. "I don't know… a few days…? It's hard to tell time like this." Draco bet it was. "He told me we're the same. He said I was just like him. I think he was right."
"You are not like him!"
"You don't know that."
"I know that he was a sadistic, megalomaniacal psychopath. You said you saw through his eyes? Saw the things he did?"
"Well, yes, but-"
"No. You are nothing like him. Any connection you had to him was just sheer bad luck."
He rubbed the depilatory potion over the trail of hair leading up to Harry's navel. He bit the inside of his cheek as he ran his hands up to Harry's thin chest and under his arms. Finishing with that, Draco worked in silence lathering a his sea sponge with a moisturising body washing solution, following his previous route up Harry's body, washing away the dead skin cells, leaving his skin smelling of spices.
It was after Harry's hair and body had been rinses and his nails had been clipped and filed smooth that Kreature finally appeared with a large, steaming mug of fragrant broth.
"Master Harry Potter is not wanting something more? Kreature can cook a feast for Master!"
"No," Draco snapped, taking the mug from the elf and handing it to a sleepy Harry. "At this point too much food could hurt him. Leave now. I'll take care of him." That came out more sincere than he meant it to. But it was true.
Harry sipped the hot liquid, eyes slipping shut at the warm heat and rich flavour. Draco sat against the tub watching him drink. He didn't know what more to do for him.
"I have to take you to St. Mungo's, Harry."
Harry paused, eyes fluttered back open. He stared at Draco in incomprehension for a moment. "You can't," he said eventually.
Draco shook his head. "I know you think you're a ghost, but you're not. You're alive and you're sick. You're seeing things that aren't there. Harry, you're dying and I have to do something. You have to go to hospital."
"But we're dead," Harry argued.
"No, we're not. You're delusional and I was just punched in the face. I deserved it, you should be pleased. I'm taking you to St. Mungo's."
"No."
Draco rubbed his face, pulling Harry to his feet and helping him out of the tub, wrapping him in a large towel. "You don't actually have a choice in this, Harry. You're going to hospital."
"They can't see me."
*You're not invisible Harry. You need help."
"No!" Harry struggled out of his grip, holding the towel around himself. "They can't see me!"
"Harry…"
"They can't see me!" He screamed.
Draco flinched back at the sudden explosion. Mentally, he redefined the word "can't". "Okay…" he said slowly. "Okay, you don't want them to see you. What if we go somewhere they don't know you? You'll just be another patient. Practically invisible."
"Everybody knows me," Harry says miserably, eyes tearing.
"What about the muggles? A muggle healer would have no idea who you were."
"Doctor."
"What?"
"They're not called healers. They're doctors."
Draco waved it away. "Okay, a muggle doctor then, would you go to a Muggle hospital where no one knows you? They wouldn't see you. You'd just be a collection of symptoms to them. They won't see you."
Harry was crying, slumped and shaking against the wall but he didn't cringe away when Draco reached for him again, nor did he resist when Draco pulled him out of the room and into Sirius' bedroom to find him a change of clothes. He pulled out what seemed like a clean pair of jeans and a striped blue and white henley, along with a clean pair of boxer shorts. Draco dreamt of buying the boy a new wardrobe. He helped Harry into his clothes, seeing his wand on Harry's bedside table as he slipped the shirt over his head.
"All right," he said, "how do we get to a muggle hospital?"
"Nine-nine-nine," Harry mumbled.
"What?"
"You've to call nine-nine-nine."
"I- Okay. I have no idea what that means, but I'll figure it out. Hold still, I'm going to cast a feather-light charm on you so I can carry you downstairs; I doubt you'd make it on your own." Quickly casting the charm, Draco slipped an arm under Harry's knees, guiding Harry to hold on around his neck as he lifted the other boy into his arms. Walking out of the room and turning towards the stairs, Draco caught sight of Walburga. Or more accurately, Walburga caught sight of Harry.
"HALF-BLOOD FILTH!" She screeched. "BLOOD TRAITOR! DISGUSTING, UNWORTHY MONGREL IN MY HOUSE!
"Shut the fuck up!" Draco yelled over her, Harry hyperventilating in his arms whispering about needing that thrice-damned cloak. "One more word out of you and I'll set your bloody canvas on fire, and the rest of this miserable house with it!" He ignored the sweat that broke out on the back of his neck at the thought, mind flashing to that night, to Vince, but the words were already out of his mouth. They had worked, too. Walburga snapped her mouth shut and glared at them both.
Without another word, Draco carried Harry down the stairs and into the dusty sitting room, onto one of the firm and uncomfortable reception sofas.
"Stay here, I'll be right back." He sprinted towards the door, throwing it open and turning to the adjoining house on the right. There were a number of names on the plate by the door, each with their own button, but Draco ignored them all, opting instead for banging on the front door until someone eventually came to answer.
It was a woman in about her sixties with short hair and a long housecoat.
"Yes, what is it?" she demanded, irritated.
"My uh, my friend is ill. He needs to go to hospital."
The woman crossed her arms. "So call nine-nine-nine."
"I can't."
"Haven't you got one of those mobile phones?"
"A what?"
"You don't know what a mobile phone is? And your house doesn't have a telephone?"
Draco growled in frustration and confusion. "No. It's not my house, it's my friend's house, and neither of us has a 'phone', either mobile or telly."
The old woman looked at him with suspicion, clearly weighing his story to determine how likely it was that he was a grifter trying to steal from her. She must have judged him sincere though as she allowed him inside. "All right, then, come in. You can use mine"
The interior of number 11was vastly different than that of number 12. The stairway was brought to the front of the building with a long wall cutting the entry into a small communal area, with a long hallway leading to a windowed back door which presumably let out into the garden. A doorway marked 'A' was at the opposite end of the wall from the stairwell, the table in front of the door boasting a large potted fern sitting atop a crocheted doily. The old woman led him through the 'A' door which turned out to be a flat taking up most of the ground floor apart from the entry. A kitchen took up the space to the left with a sitting room straight ahead. There was a small hallway in the back of the house where Draco assumed were the bedroom and water closet.
The woman walked them into the sitting room and pointed at an odd contraption on the end table. "There it is, then. Go ahead and make your call."
Draco could only assume this must be some kind of 'phone', possibly the telly one, whatever that meant, as it didn't look mobile at all. But then again one never really knew with muggles. Draco took hold of one piece and intuitively held it to his ear, hearing a long droning tone but nothing else. He noticed the numbered buttons and, on a guess, pressed the number 9 three times. There was an odd trilling for a moment before he heard a voice."
"Emergency. Which service?"
Eyes closing in relief, Draco said, "My friend is ill. I need to take him to hospital but I don't know how to get him there."
"All right, one moment please while I transfer you."
There was another tone followed by a different voice. "Ambulance service, what is your emergency?"
Again Draco explained.
"All right, what are his symptoms?"
"Um… I think he hasn't eaten in several days. He's extremely thin. He's weak and trembly. He can't really walk on his own. He has a difficult time staying focused. He also thinks he's dead; delusional. And hallucinating."
"You said he thinks he's dead?" the voice asked a little incredulously.
"Yes, I don't know how long that's been going on for, but he keeps saying he's a ghost. I think that's why he won't eat? He keeps saying not to bother. Look I don't actually know, I just arrived an hour or two ago."
Draco answered her questions and rattled off the address to number 12 Grimmauld place, explaining that he didn't know the phone number he was calling from, that he was at a neighbour's house and he had no phone on hand. Eventually, the girl on the other end let him go, citing a twenty-minute wait time. Draco thanked the woman and saw himself out of the house and back to Harry.
Thankfully, the boy was right where he had left him, curled against the arm of the sofa. Draco accioed his comb and the bottle containing small bubbles on mouthwashing potion. Popping a bubble into Harry's mouth, Draco tackled his hair while he waited for the 'am bue lance' which would presumably take Harry to whatever backward hell the muggles passed as a medical facility. He didn't have much faith in the muggles being able to help his mind, but hoped, at least, that they could at least bring him away from the brink of death.
Even if they had to tie him down to do it.
Twenty minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Draco answered and brought them into the sitting room where Harry had fallen unconscious. The - whoever they were - barely spoke to Draco before they were lifting Harry onto a stretcher and carrying him outside.
"Does anyone else live in this house?" One young man asked Draco who shook his head. "It's been abandoned for years," Draco said truthfully. "Harry inherited from his uncle when he died. He doesn't have any other family."
The man nodded. "You'd better come with, then."
Draco nearly cried with gratitude before he was led into the large, imposing vehicle. Climbing inside, Draco sat silently while the emergency responders bustled around him saying things he didn't understand.
Then the carriage rumbled and Draco gasped as they began moving.
His only thought, overwhelmed by everything that was happening, was that he could really use some of that birthday cake right about now.