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Author's Note On Progress- I'd like to thank some of my readers for faithfully reviewing every chapter, it makes me feel that you're sticking with the story. I'll be honest with you- my vision of this story changes every time I write a new chapter, every time someone points out something they've gleaned from whats happening. That's why I really love the review system... your comments help me to understand how the events I portray are viewed, and I'm flattered to know that some of the nuances I wanted are actually coming through. And right now, I'd like to thank my big sister for all the help she's been. If I haven't mentioned it already, I'm not comfortable writing Draco yet. And Lucius is a complete mystery to me. Every time I IM her in a panic, she's always there to give me suggestions, and at times dialogue. I couldnt do this without you, 'nee-chan.
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Chapter Notes- I would like to thank Metallica and their CD "Master Of Puppets." Without them I doubt this chapter would have been successful.
Additionally, this chapter ends on a vaguely comedic note. I'm aware that this seems out of character for the story so far. But anyone who has read my writing knows it's difficult for me to do straight angst for more than three chapters. There will be more vaguely comedic moments in this fic, as the pairing just lends itself to occasional comedy. So, just letting you all know Im not losing my touch. ^^; At least I hope not.
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Blood stained his hands.
It was undoubtable. The rivulets of crimson tracking along his palms were real, and if they weren't, they would be. With time, only with time. It was his future, it was his past, twisting his mind, slashing though real and imagined veins and arteries, killing him with guilt. With time, only with time...
It was the darkness within the ice of those pale eyes that had told him the truth the very first time, expendable... Death was inevitable, murder was inevitable, the blood that slickened his palms and painted his cheeks would come and there was no way to stop it.
Always. Always there, the pain had always been there, the agony that tore into his brain with cruel ferocity. But never before had it brought these images with it, these visions of what could only be the future that awaited them all, the dusty streets running wet with the blood of children as their parents looked on.
Voldemort had his body now, and yet he continued to crawl along the insides of Harry's mind, tickling each synapse with his ruined fingers and laughing that horrible laugh of the dead.
So many would die.
The dreams had become relentless. He could see even now, the skulls dashed to splinters against the sidewalk, the wet blackness staining the ground, staining their bodies. They were Muggles, maybe, or Squibs, defenseless against whatever atrocity that would be visited upon them. Stupidly awaiting their fate only to cry when it was given to them. There had been no need to scar their bodies, to spill their blood, but it was infinitely more satisfying that way.
And wizards and witches would litter the streets, their eyes open and unseeing, the rats lured from their lairs by the scent of dead flesh, gnawing at the helpless hands, burrowing into the defenseless eyesockets to eat away the maggots that laid their eggs there. Victims of the Unforgivable Curses, maybe. Or maybe other spells that were too terrible to be named.
It was always them, those nameless faces that entreated him from beyond their murders to do something, to avenge them, to save them before they would have to die, save them from Voldemort because he was The Boy Who Lived, he was the only one who could protect them, and he would, no matter what he had to do, because it was his duty...
It was his duty to see that they lived. His duty to slaughter the countless number who would slaughter them, the Death Eaters, the hidden supporters who may well be their neighbors, their employers, their lovers, their children! Their parents!
It was murder or be murdered. The blood would stain him either way. No matter what, it would be his fault. No matter what. No matter what. No matter what. What was there left for him to do? Why should he even bother? He didn't want to die. He didn't want to die, not now, not ever, he was afraid of dying like his parents, afraid of dying and facing solitude forever, afraid to be alone in his guilt and his sin and his grief.
And it was then that the truest of the fears would strike, then, in the depths of his anger, his bitterness, it was always then... First it would be Ron and Hermione. Maybe they would die to protect him, like his parents. Maybe they would fall in battle beside him, eyes turning to expressionless marble, or maybe it would be at home. Nursing their first child, exclaiming over her little toes and shining eyes and soft cheeks. And then they would lay prone on the pure white carpet while her newborn blood dripped from her corpse to paint it in red, her first and last youthful transgression. They would be buried side by side, their baby between them. A happy family cold in the ground, dead because some Death Eater felt like toying with Uncle Harry some more.
Then it would be Sirius, wonderful, warm, Sirius... Sirius with his sharp blue eyes dulled after that hideous flash of sickly green light, his dear godfather sprawled over the ground, dead... or perhaps mortally wounded, gasping his last breaths, begging him not to be sad, telling him in that soft and sheepish way that he loved him like his own son like he had that one time. Brave Sirius, sacrificing his life for Harry the same way his parents had. Caring, tender Sirius... Sirius would die, and Sirius would be only too glad to die for his sake, and without Sirius he would be so truly alone... the blood that had once flowed so hotly congealing in frozen veins.
It was those visions he couldn't stand, the only people he wanted to protect dead and gone- what good was he, if he couldnt save them? He would be a disgrace to the memory of his parents; to the strength they had given him. And his dear friends, who he loved more than he had ever loved life itself, how could he let them suffer anymore? Every day he lived and breathed he put them in danger, a danger he had to eradicate, if only for their sake...
And last, always last, always last came the peculiar horror from which he had been unable to free himself. Always last, always the moment that sent him exploding out of slumber in terror, always... always that smooth, pale face rouged with blood, grey eyes wide and lifeless, yet perfectly preserved in the terror, the betrayal that had frozen on his face in the instant of his final death... Knowing that his own father had been the one to end the life he had created, that he had shaped and ruled with his own hands. A life that had been lived in constant knowledge of his danger, the eventuality of his murder. Born with knowledge of his final betrayal, like some corrupted and destroyed Christ, crucified on his beloved fathers reputation. The first misstep he made would be his last. To protect the family name.
To protect the family name.
How could he get that face out of his mind? Dead, helpless, terrified and betrayed... when he knew, he knew that it would come. He knew it. How could he not know, when the man had said it to his face!
He would kill his own son.
His only son.
His child.
Draco Malfoy was no Death Eater. He knew that, he had known it ever since their detention in the Forbidden Forest first year. Draco was a coward. He didn't have the strength to kill a living, breathing person, not when he could be caught and punished for it. No loyalty was enough to risk death, not to him.
Except the one to his family.
He couldn't forget those eyes, those dead eyes, the frozen skin, the lips that would never sneer, never smirk, never insult him again. He didn't want Malfoy dead. He had never wanted Malfoy dead. He didn't want anyone else's blood on his hands.
It was Lucius or Draco. No matter the reality or lie of his dreams, he knew that much. The Death Eater would kill his son if he made a mistake. And Draco knew he would. Sooner or later. If it hadnt happened already, and Lucius was just biding his time.
A man who would kill his own son.
Draco, who seemed so small next to his father. Draco, who was helpless, defenseless, in the face of a man who thought nothing of murder. Draco, who was just like Hermione, he knew so much about magic, and yet lost to Harry in every duel theyd ever had... Knowledge and raw power were two different things, and if he werent so damn smart, he wouldnt have lived as long as he had... Draco, who had no hope of ever protecting himself from the man who had raised him and browbeaten him and led him and shaped him...
Draco, who prided himself on being Harrys archrival, and had acquitted himself so well to the position, and yet... how could he wish the pain he had grown up with even on his rival, even if he was an odious snot like Draco? How could he do it, when he had prayed so many times as a child to wake up and find it all a dream, and it had only grown worse and worse and worse until he would have rather slit his wrists than live another day?
How could he take away Draco's father?
"Harry?"
The worried voice seemed distant, muffled. He opened his eyes and searched through the grey, tired and worn, pushing aside the fog as the tiny figures in the distance came closer and closer.
Hermione was staring at him, her brow furrowed in obvious worry. She had a book open under her hand. On the table. He could see Ron with a mug of Butterbeer. He noticed rather belatedly that he had one too. How had they gotten to the Leaky Cauldron?
"Harry, are you all right?" It was Hermione again, her slim hand closing the book she had been perusing. "You haven't said a word since Malfoy left. Are you feeling all right?" In a gesture he would have labeled motherly, she pressed the back of one palm to her forehead and the other to his, gauging his temperature with a wise nod. "You're a bit warm, Harry. Have you been getting enough sleep?"
Had it been anyone else asking him that question, the retort would have been swift and merciless. It was a ridiculously clinical diagnosis. But... it was Hermione.
It was Hermione. His friend. Hermione.
"I guess not," he lied quietly. He had been getting plenty of sleep. Most of it had been riddled with nightmares, but if anything, his problem was an excess of rest. When he was curled up in bed, he could pretend none of this was actually happening. "I'll do better since we're back to school, though. I'm fine, Hermione."
"Hmmmm." It was obvious that she didn't quite believe him, as she never bothered to hide such thoughts. "All right. Just be careful, Harry. You have far too much to worry about as it is, without falling sick on top of it all."
"Mmm." Harry stared into the amber depths of his drink.
There was a silence at the table for some time, Hermione returning to her book and Ron obviously enjoying his drink. Harry hadn't touched his, it seemed. He couldn't stand the smell of it anymore. Not since... not since seeing the grief that poor house-elf had drowned away in its intoxication, the betrayal of Crouch, her blatant refusal of her freedom, the freedom Dobby loved so much...
Dobby...
Malfoy...
It was more than he could stand, how everything came back to Lucius Malfoy, somehow.
He had planned to take Cedric out for a few illegal rounds after they had won the Triwizards Tournament together. A victory for Hogwarts that had become the murder of a good, innocent boy, just because he was there with Harry Potter.
For no other reason.
Harry glanced up from his untouched drink, watching the two who sat with him surreptitiously. Hermione was reading, Ron was knocking back his drink, his eyes focused solely on the top of the girl's head as she scanned the pages. It was such a normal scene, the uncomfortable hiding of a mutual crush, each unknowing that the other felt the same way.
It was as saddening as it was touching.
After all, who knew how long they would have...?
"And what a beautiful scene this is," whispered an all-too familiar voice directly in his ear. "How long will it be before they pollute the wizarding gene pool beyond repair, I wonder...?"
Harry spun around, barely keeping his balance enough to remain in his rickety chair, to stare in an irritated bewilderment into cool grey eyes. "What do you want, Malfoy?" he managed to spit out.
"I want many things, Potter," Malfoy answered smoothly, a familiar smirk twisting the thin lips hed seen stained with blood in so many nightmares. "An assurance that the entirety of the new Weasel generation is impotent is by no means the least."
"I see you're without your bodyguards," Ron snapped quickly. "Not a good idea, Malfoy. Might get ya hurt."
"Well, I see that you're not without your usual foul odor," Draco replied with the sardonic wit that was going to get him punched someday, if it hadn't already. "A handy assurance that no one will dare come near you, except perhaps your Mudblood friend there. And that would only indicate that her sense of smell is as bad as her taste."
Harry heard Hermione restraining Ron behind him, and glared up at Malfoy. "What is it?" he enunciated. "Or do I have to draw you pictures before you get that you're not quite welcome?"
Those eyes regarded him silently for a moment, then returned to the usual steel. "I want to speak with you in private, Potter," he said crisply. "Come along."
"If you're gonna talk to Harry, you're doin' it in front of us," Ron demanded, tone noticeably surly.
"No, I'm not," Draco refuted easily, then tapped one foot on the ground. "Are you coming, Potter? I don't have all night, you know."
Harry regarded him silently, in the same fashion the other boy had just carried through. It wasn't as though he would be in any danger if he went. Malfoy was alone, and he did have his wand. And if the blond tried to pull anything...
Harry was at least four inches taller than him. And a good deal broader.
"This better be good," he said shortly, rising from the chair to his full height and looking down at him. Draco craned his neck, an obvious annoyance burning in his eyes.
His archrival came up to his chin.
Harry avoided a nasty grin and merely followed.