The Only Thing That's Real
By: Dreamfall
Summary: Harry has more on his mind than Voldemort and nobody has even noticed. But then, he's always been good at disguising his pain. When his schoolyard enemy is the one to find him out he's just relieved it's not somebody who actually cares about him. And Draco? Well, he figures he can have a bit of fun with a secret the Boy Who Lived doesn't want told.
Warnings: Child abuse (in the form of flashbacks, presently nothing graphic). Emotional, mental, physical, and sexual. Not nice. Don't read it if it's something you'd rather avoid.
Author's Notes: Chapters are in alternating first person perspective, Harry's in present tense because it seemed to fit his state of mind. Feedback is welcome, constructive criticism particularly so. If it's spelling/grammar/etc e-mail is better than actual comments, but whatever. Any feedback is good. Also, just so you know, this is gen. I am aware that it presently has overtones of H/D, but nothing will come of it. Sorry to disappoint, but Harry is not destined to have a relationship in this story.
Review Response: I have a livejournal containing responses to reviews I receive, as well as update notices, and maybe other story stuff if I get around to it. The address refuses to show up here, but it is the homepage link on my front page, or you can go to livejournal and loko up dreamfall(underscore)ff If I can figure out a way to make fanfiction show the webpage I'll add it in later. And if I can figure out how to make an underscore character show up, I'll replace the (underscore) with it:p.
Discoveries
I smiled to myself as I slipped past the portrait into the Gryffindor common room. I'd heard that idiot Longbottom repeating the password to himself to remember it and decided to take a look. Everyone had gone to breakfast and the coast was clear. Comfortable, I decided, looking around. Too comfortable. Make 'em soft and lazy. I wandered about, looking at this and that, pocketing a small crystal that had been carelessly left on a table. Then, after checking the time to be sure I had some left, I headed for the dorm rooms. They didn't have locks, I noticed in amusement. Damned proud Gryffindors. Potter's was easy enough to recognize when I got to it: the broom standing in the corner was a dead giveaway.
With a smirk, I began to look around. Not much of any real interest- no surprises. Clothes and school robes, text books, and quidditch books. One book with a blank cover which, when I tried opening it, snapped shut fast enough to catch my hand and I had to fight with it to get away. Journal, I thought, glaring down at the darkening bruise on my hand. Pity I didn't have time to try to get into it. I continued my explorations.
I snorted in disgust at the huge bucket of broom polish I found under his bed. Enough to last a whole quidditch team a semester. What kind of idiot needed that much? I pushed it aside, then paused as it sloshed. Broom polish doesn't slosh. I pulled it out and opened it. Certainly not polish, it was far too thin. It was a creamy white fluid hardly thicker than water. I leaned forward to sniff it, then, disbelieving, took a deeper whiff. Blood? Harry fucking Potter was using blood magic? To help his quidditch game, no less?
As I stared, laughing silently, a bit of the stuff vanished from the center of the bucket, leaving ripples in the surface. Some of this- this- whatever it was had just been used. The broom remained in the corner so it couldn't be for the broom after all. I did a quick charm to see if it was safe to touch and, finding that it was, pulled out a small vial and dipped it in, taking a sample. I closed the tub of 'broom polish' and shoved it back under the bed, then did a double take. The bruise that damned journal had given me was gone. A healing salve? It didn't smell like any healing salve I had seen before. Besides, I'd never heard of one with a blood base. I looked more closely at my hand but could find no sign of the bruise. Prodding the spot experimentally, I winced. It was definitely still there, but hidden. Now why the hell would Potter want to hide bruises?
My lips curled at the idea of love bites and scratches, but... the boy was single. I hadn't heard of so much as a rumor of him dating, and I would have. I hear about everything going on in this school. So what could it be... I filed the mystery to the back of my mind to think on later and moved to explore further. Dreamless Sleep potion. No surprise there. And yet- it didn't look right. I unstoppered it and sniffed. If that was Dreamless Sleep, I'd skipped five years of potions, I decided. Another vial emerged from my pocket and I poured carefully. A single drop slipped and fell to my hand. I nearly dropped the flask as a tiny splash-shaped bruise appeared on my hand. Carefully, using my left hand, I returned the flask to its previous location, stoppered the vial, and put it in my pocket. Then I turned my attention to my hand. I gently prodded the spot with one fingertip. The fingertip didn't bruise, but the spot on my hand smeared, widening.
Curious, I swirled it around, watching as the previous bruise re-emerged, unchanged. Disappearing reappearing bruises? What the hell was Potter up to?
Checking the time again, I quickly erased any sign of my presence and slipped back out of the dorm. I was down the hall and away moments before a group of Gryffindorks hurried back to their dorm for forgotten study materials. I strolled to my charms class, arriving precisely on time, and calmly ignored Pansy's hissed demand to know why I wasn't at breakfast.
It took me a few days to figure out what it was, but Potter's pet mudblood wasn't the only one who knew how to do research. I probably would have gotten it faster had not half of Slytherin been trying to hang off my arm, currying favor. This was mine. I didn't feel like sharing. So I had to lose them before investigating. Eventually, though, I found the reference and examined it carefully. Covrall and Uncovrall. Easy enough to make. The blood ingredient had to match in order for the Uncovrall to work. It appeared bloody difficult to remove without it- nearly impossible to remove by mistake. Only a charm that removed everything touching the skin: clothes, sweat, dirt, make-up, essential oils- even the mediwitches didn't use that one much because it does nasty things to your skin. So it seemed safe to assume that it could be removed only by the Uncovrall.
But what could he be hiding? I read through the description thoughtfully. It was good for hiding a lot of things- tattoos, bruises, scars, acne, pretty much any skin condition or minor injury. The tattoo idea was amusing, but surely he wouldn't have made so much just for a tattoo? It took a fair amount of blood, so he probably wouldn't make more than he needed. Which brought me back to blood. Harry fucking Potter, the quintessential Gryffindork, with so much honor he probably shit red and gold, was doing blood magic?
I put the book back on its shelf and wandered out of the library. Noticing Potter and his friends, my eyes gleamed with sudden amusement. Couldn't hurt to have a touch of fun... I strolled forward, my usual smirk in place, leaned over Potter's shoulder, and murmured, so softly nobody else would be able to hear, "Where are you getting the blood, Potter?"
He froze, the color draining from his face (which was already a touch paler than normal, I realized). Giving him a knowing grin, I sauntered away, not looking back as Potter's little friends started asking what was up and shouting belated insults after me.
For the next several days, every time Potter noticed me looking at him, he ran like a frightened hare. Except in classes, where he couldn't run, so he just swallowed, paled, and looked away. It was vastly entertaining, but I still couldn't figure out what Potter, of all people, would have to hide. Well, the use of blood magic. But what the hell was he using it for? His friends seemed baffled by this new way we interacted, and spent a lot of time glaring daggers at me. They occasionally attempted to verbally accost me, but Potter always rushed them away, making it clear that not even they knew his little secret. Intriguing.
"Professor," I paused after potions class after two weeks of fruitless contemplation. "Might I have a word with you?"
Potter, halfway out the door, paused, shooting me a look of pure terror, then was pulled out of the room by Ron before Snape noticed.
"Of course, Mr. Malfoy. What is it?"
I'd thought carefully about how I wanted to gather information. "I came across a recipe for something called Covrall-" I began.
To my shock, Snape's eyes sharpened, he grabbed me almost painfully by the shoulder and dragged me into his office, slamming the door behind him with a flick of his wand. "What have you done, boy?" he demanded, biting off each word.
I blinked. "Sir?"
"Have you taken the dark mark, then?" Snape asked, his voice fading from furious to resigned.
Now that was a thought that hadn't occurred to me. Could Potter have- but no. Of course not.
Snape's fingertips tightened on my arms and I realized I'd been staring, mouth agape, as I thought. "Answer me, boy!"
"Of course I didn't!" I finally answered, vaguely offended. "I told you last year I had decided not to serve the dark lord."
Slowly, life returned to the potions master's face and his fingers released their bruising grip. "A lot can change in a summer," he replied quietly. "You didn't take the mark, then?"
Regaining my haughty composure, I sneered slightly. "I have not and have no intention of doing so. I am not in the habit of having my word questioned."
The man's eyes closed for a long moment. Finally they reopened and he demanded, albeit more gently now, "Why do you ask of Covrall, then?"
"Well, Goyle was thinking of getting a tattoo, but his family was against it."
"Are you truly such a fool, boy?" Snape hissed.
"Sir?"
"Covrall is blood magic! Animal blood does not work. Unless you use your own blood, it's forbidden, and even then it's heavily frowned upon. You don't use blood magic to protect yourself from anything short of life and death!"
I nodded slowly. His own blood. Of course. Nothing else would have made sense. If it weren't so foreign to me, I'd have thought of it myself. But the idea of consciously bleeding yourself for a spell- well, who but a Gryffindor would think of such an idiotic scheme? Would Potter have used it for something minor? No. Snape was right about that, and even Potter probably would have thought it out better than that. "You're right, sir. I haven't thought this through. Thank you for your time, Professor."
"If I find you experimenting with blood magic, Malfoy-"
"Me, sir?" I shot him my best innocent glare. Or perhaps affronted was closer to it. I don't do innocent well. "Certainly not. " For a split second I considered naming Potter, but I wanted to learn the secret before the Boy Who Lived was expelled in disgrace.
Snape nodded. "Good. Dismissed."
I cut a bow and sauntered away, out of the office and towards the Slytherin common room to ponder my next step. Perhaps another word to Potter to let him know the trail was being followed? A smile crept across my face and I wrote an innocuous little note, then headed up to the owlery. I apologized to Wyvern for not using him for the delivery, but I didn't want him recognized. Using one of the school owls, I handed him the message. Since I wanted it to arrive during dinner, when I would be there to see it, I instructed the bird to wait to deliver it until the regular dinner mail run.
In the great hall, I let my eyes slide nonchalantly down the row of Gryffindorks, lingering for only an instant on Potter. Who looked, I realized, better than he should. Given his jumpiness, he probably hadn't been sleeping real well. And considering the amounts I had seen him eating, he should have been rail thin. A glamour, as well as the Covrall? I settled myself at my table in a place where I could keep an unobtrusive eye on him.
Potter put on a pretty good show of eating, I thought, entertained. No pushing things around, which would've been a dead giveaway. He raised his fork regularly. Just usually he put it down still full. Nobody noticed. What kind of idiots were his friends to not notice?
Evening mail came, right on time, and I saw the owl I'd chosen swoop down to drop a note to Potter amidst the confusion. He opened it cheerfully enough. Then the blood drained from his face and he stared at the slip of paper as though frozen. The Weasel said something to him, which apparently galvanized him into motion. He forced a laugh and thrust the note into his pocket. After a moment of forcedly cheerful conversation, he dared a glance towards me. I winked and turned my attention back to my food, feeling fully satisfied with the result, as he looked ready to bolt.
I ate with relative speed, then excused myself and wandered out of the room, concealing myself in a shadow to wait. Unless I missed my guess, Potter would be escaping his friends soon. He always did when especially upset. So far I hadn't succeeded in following him, but this time I was determined to discover where the Boy Who Lived was going. There he went! Predictable Potter.
Silently, I drifted after him, out of the school, towards the lake. I saw him flip up into a tree with the ease of long practice, heard loud breathing, almost sobs, that couldn't be from the exertion of climbing as he moved rapidly and surely through the branches. A harsh murmur. Then nothing. I could barely see him, crouched against the trunk, appearing almost merged with the wood, two thirds of the way up the tree.
After a long moment of hesitation, I followed. Moving so lightly hardly a leaf shivered at my passing, I scaled the tree. I froze, hardly more than a body-length below Potter's feet as the agonized screams sliced into my ears like knives. I looked up through slitted eyes, giving as little as possible to reflect the moon's light. Not that Potter seemed to have much awareness to share with anything around him anyways. He fumbled with something, agonizing shrieks still emerging from him with so little pause for breath I was impressed that he could keep it up. The suffering was enough to make me forget for an instant that I was getting the better of Potter. Only an instant, of course.
There was a dull flash above me, metal. Then, with a few final whimpers, the screaming stopped. I felt my muscles slowly unwind with the relief of silence. The whimpers died to harsh breathing, then even that slowed, calmed. Something dripped and fell on my face. I knew without raising a hand to wipe it off that it was a drop of blood. Without consciously working it out, I'd figured out what he was doing in the past few minutes. I hesitated, torn. My mind was telling me to retreat, to contemplate, to examine the evidence and explore it until it made sense. Some other urging, something I didn't quite recognize, told me to go farther up. Deciding to give in to curiosity -- deciding that the urging was merely curiosity -- I climbed higher.
I thought it quite possible that Potter would not have noticed me at all had my added weight not caused the tree to sway in such a way that his precious funnel threatened to spill. He lunged for it and we were suddenly eye to eye. Potter blanched, grabbing the little tube with its attached funnel and shoving his arms behind his back, face empty of anything but shocked terror.
"Lumos," I murmured, then squinted in the sudden light, although the ball was small. I smiled slightly. I'd known Potter had looked too good. His eyes were sunken and dim, his hair lacked luster, his tear-damp skin had a grayish pallor, hug bags hung beneath his eyes, and he was extremely underweight. The green eyes snapped closed in response to the light, and one shoulder twitched, but he didn't reach up to hide his eyes, instead just turning his head to one side. For an instant, my breath caught. He looked horrible, yes, tear-stained, exhausted, anguished, lifeless pale, thin- but he had a gorgeous neck. And those eyes.
"Hello, Potter."
He swallowed convulsively.
"I want to see your arms."
"No," the whisper hardly reached me, even through the few inches that separated us.
"I really don't think you can stop me. Come now. Hold them out like a good boy."
He shook his head once, sharply, eyes still closed.
A thin smile twisted my lips. I leaned forward, bracing myself against the branch, pinning Potter back against the tree. Another scream burst from him, but, an instant later, it cut off as though a switch had been flipped. To my surprise, he didn't struggle. He just cringed back, eyes clenched.
Keeping him pinned easily, I grasped one arm and forced it out, under the illumination of my light globe. For an instant, I froze. How old were the oldest scars? Months? Years? They ranged from barely visible white lines to thick ropes of scar tissue to scabbed or healing wounds to fresh cuts, still bleeding.
"Potter, Potter, Potter," I murmured in tones of mocking sorrow. "What have you done to yourself? What would Dumbledore say?" I wondered aloud. A visible tremor ran through him. "I should tell him, of course," I added. "Warn him that his Golden Boy is carving himself into prime steaks." Potter muffled a sob. "Look at me, Potter."
The small figure didn't move. I reached up with my free hand and forced the face towards me, ignoring his shuddering. "Open your eyes," I ordered, harshly.
Clearly reluctant, the deep green eyes opened, unfocused behind a veil of tears not yet escaped.
"Look at me!"
Slowly, the eyes focused on my face, half-crazed with terror and an anguish which I guessed was not physical.
For a long moment our eyes locked. I sneered. "So this is the Boy Who Lived," I murmured, ignoring the shudder that ran through him. "The wizarding world's last and best hope of salvation."
Potter winced, eyes drooping closed again.
"Look at me!" I shouted. The eyes snapped back open, a tremor running through the boy. "What is it, Potter? You couldn't take the pressure?" I demanded. "Too many adoring fans demanding autographs? How could you, of all people, do this?"
"Why don't you just give me to your master and be done with it?" he whispered, no question in the tone.
"And lose this excellent opportunity? Besides," I sneered, "what would Voldemort want with you? Look at you!"
The face collapsed but, I noticed, intrigued, the name didn't seem to effect him. Not that it ever had before, but surely if the dark lord were driving him to self mutilation hearing his name should have a bit more effect? Instead, Potter looked almost ... disappointed? The shame was clearer, but that was disappointment. He wanted to be given to Voldemort? This was seriously screwed up. I pushed the thought aside. Of course I wouldn't give him to my father's master-- I had no wish to crawl at the dark lord's feet. Or anyone else's, for that matter.
"So," I murmured silkily. "What will you do for me if I promise not to tell Dumbledore?"
A look almost of humor crossed his face. "Nothing," he said, his voice a harsh whisper from his previous screaming. "You could still tell Snape and he would tell Dumbledore."
I felt a flash of pride, but didn't waste time wondering what the hell I was proud of. "Very well. If I promise not to tell anyone. More- if I promise not to deliberately help anyone discover the truth."
"What do you want?" He was regaining a hint of spirit now, his tone almost mocking as he added, "Hoping I'll throw a few quidditch games to you?"
My hand tightened painfully on his jaw and green eyes unfocused again as a shudder ran through him. "I'll beat you at quidditch without your help," I hissed, furious at the insinuation.
"Haven't yet," he mocked. Then the energy seemed to drain out of him. "What do you want, Malfoy?"
"Maybe I want to see what you look like nude on emerald silk sheets," I snapped.
His response startled me. I'd expected, well, a rude comment perhaps. Not the suddenly glazed eyes, arching body, mouth open in a soundless howl more horrible than the earlier screams. What the fuck? Could Potter have-- Could someone have-- No. The thought was ridiculous. Dumbledore would know if- Potter was just afraid of the concept, I told myself firmly.
"Shut up, Potter," I growled, although the other boy had made no sound. He collapsed as though struck, face falling into his knees, arms wrapping protectively about his head. "it was a joke, Potter," I stated. "I've never felt the need to blackmail anyone into my bed and, in case you haven't seen yourself lately, you're hardly tempting at the moment." Nothing but his damned neck, anyway. And with the bruise from my own angry grip marring that, even it wasn't that appealing. Despite popular belief, beatings were not my thing.
Eyes only half open slowly returned to my face. "What do you want from me?" A hopeless whisper. Broken.
I considered him for a long moment. "For now, let's just say that you keep this tree as your escape. If you break again, come here. Just like you've been doing."
"Why?" he whispered.
"So I can find you if I want to. Oh, don't worry," I added, sneering at the boy's shudder. "I won't often. If at all. But I want to be able to. If something else comes to mind -- well -- I'll let you know. But if I see you breaking away from your friends and I decide to come out here and you're not here, why then I'll be so concerned I'll have to report the matter to the headmaster. For your own good, you know."
"So the price of your silence is to let you be a voyeur to my misery?"
I smiled. "I hadn't thought of it in those terms, but yes. You sum it up rather nicely."
"I could just stop," Potter whispered.
My sneer twisted up a notch. "Could you?" I murmured, nothing but mockery in my tone. The Golden Boy's eyes fell. "I didn't think so."
"I want to go back to the school," Potter whispered.
"What, no more blood?"
He winced. "Not tonight."
"Very well, then."
He waited, perhaps thinking I was going to leave, but I just leaned back a bit, just enough that he could squeeze past me. He tried to glare at me, but couldn't meet my gaze. I smiled.
Reluctantly, he flushed the last of the blood in the tube into whatever container he stored it in, and summoned a bit of Covrall, smoothing it over his arms with practiced assurance. He moved to put it away, but I stopped him.
"May I?" I asked, holding out one hand imperiously.
Reluctantly, he handed over the tube. I squeezed a bit of fluid onto my hands and reached forward, amused when Potter jerked back. I easily followed the motion and spread the fluid over his bruised neck and chin, smiling slightly as he shuddered. My fingers lingered for an instant on his neck before I drew my hand away. Potter sat perfectly still, tears trembling on his eyelashes.
"You don't want fingerprints on your face, do you?"
"The concealing charm takes care of my face," he whispered.
"Why bother with Covrall, then?"
"If something happened, an accident, an injury--" he paused an instant, then shrugged. "The mediwitch would see.
"Potter," I said slowly, not sure why I was even asking the damn question, "why don't you just heal them?"
His expression twisted into the most perfect despair. I'd seen it once before. On the face of the mother of a nine-year-old girl my father was practicing atrocities on. The mother was in a full body bind, unable to close her eyes or look away. Her expression changed, though. Indeed, it was being recorded to send to Voldemort. That despair was what made me realize that I could never be a deatheater. Not strong enough, my father says. There was a time I thought my father was always right. It irritated me to see that on Potter's face. It took away some of the fun in hurting him. Not all of it, of course.
I almost didn't hear his whispered answer. "They're the only things that keep me sane."
After a couple of minutes, when he still hadn't moved or even opened his eyes, I got bored and left.