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.
Review Response: I have a livejournal containing responses to reviews, update notices, and maybe other story stuff if I get around to it. The address is refusing to show up on here, but it is under homepage on my front page, or you can go to livejournal and it is username dreamfall(underscore)ff If I can figure out a way to make fanfiction just show the webpage I'll replace this with 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.
Potions Test
Mind games were always popular in my family, and I learned to play them early and well. Playing with people with addictions is always easier, of course, and Potter so clearly had an addiction that I was shocked that nobody had noticed. Maybe not his friends or Dumbledore or McGonagall -- they were so obsessed with the Golden Boy's perfection that they wouldn't believe the truth if he told them under Veritaserum. But Snape should have seen. He wasn't taken in by the legend. So why didn't he see the shifting eyes, the frequent panic, the masks upon masks? Admittedly, I had the advantage of finding the Covrall first, but after that it was so obvious.
I watched his attempts to fight the need, no doubt to spite me, and waited him out, amused. After a couple weeks, when he was going even more frequently than he had been before our little confrontation, I followed him again. Crouching near him, watching as he cut new slices into his arms, funneling the blood into a little tube. I wondered how long he could keep this up. Surely, losing that much blood regularly and eating as little as he did, he'd have to get sick at some point? We didn't speak. He didn't meet my eyes. But I could feel the humiliation rising off of him like mist.
The first Quidditch match of the season came a few days later. Hufflepuff versus Gryffindor. Gryffindor won, but only because it was a short game. I could see Potter's strength draining out like water from a funnel, and within a quarter hour he was swaying on his broom. Nobody seemed to notice. He caught the Snitch before he fell off altogether -- dumb luck. The damn thing practically flew into his hand. I saw the madness fill his eyes as his teammates lifted them onto their shoulders. Saw his face twist into a mask of horror and terror they never noticed. Saw him escape before their little victory party even began. And found myself getting irritated.
I climbed after him in a fury, swung up to his branch, and glared down at his shivering form. "Potter,"I stated. He didn't look up from the drop of blood beading on the back of his wrist. A tiny scratch. He'd been doing that, lately. Wounds so small you could barely see them, watching the blood slowly creep out, moving along the lines of his skin like tiny maps of a crowded city, it's roads marked in red. I grabbed the front of his robes with one hand. That got his attention. He threw back his head in another of those soundless howls. I found it entertaining that he only screamed when nobody was touching him. All sound cut off instantly as soon as a hand landed on him. But right thenI wanted him to listen, not scream.
"Potter," I growl, irritated. "Look at me."
Reluctantly, emerald eyes, fever bright with pain and fear, met mine. To my surprise, sanity slowly entered them. He gulped and shut his mouth.
"You need to eat more, Potter."
He blinked. "What." Not enough energy in it to make it sound like a question.
I smirked at his confusion. "Deaf now, too?" He didn't answer. "I said I would let you know if I required something else of you. My next demand is that you eat more."
"Why?" he muttered.
"Because you're killing yourself."
"Why do you care?" he demanded. "You've always wanted me broken."
"No," I answer, amused. "I always wanted to break you. Watching you break yourself I find remarkably depressing."
"Don't watch."
"And give up my last amusement? I think not. Besides. I will beat you at Quidditch, Potter, and there's no point to it when you're practically falling off your broom fifteen minutes into the match."
His shoulders slumped further. Who would have thought it was possible for him to look even more wretched? I snickered. "So. At least two meals of every day, glance at me before you leave the table. If I nod, you can leave. If I don't, keep eating. And don't think those little tricks of pretending to eat will work with me," I added mockingly.
"I'm never hungry," he muttered, face so gaunt it resembled a Death Eater's mask. "Not that you care what I want."
"Potter, Potter, Potter," I murmured, drawing one hand lightly down his face and cupping his jaw, caressing his jaw line with my thumb. I laughed as his eyes drooped closed and his body began to shudder wildly. His opened in another silent scream. "Of course I care what you want. Where would be the fun in making you eat if it was what you wanted to do?"
He probably didn't hear, still lost in whatever madness he lost himself in. Still laughing, I swung down through the branches and returned to the school, a bounce in my step. Were it not for the fact that Malfoys do not whistle, I might have whistled a jaunty tune. I absentmindedly sent a hex to subtly entangle the feet of a group of Gryffindor first years playing tag, and didn't glance back as I heard the first startled shout.
The following morning, he didn't glance at me, so I figured he meant to go with lunch and dinner. It made sense, I decided. Breakfast he could go to early and pretend he'd eaten before his friends arrived. It was harder, at the later meals, for him to disguise how little he was eating, so if he had to eat more he might as well do it when people would soon begin to worry anyway.
At lunch, I chose a seat a little to the side of my usual, one from which I could unobtrusively keep an eye on him. Up to his usual tricks. I saw his eyes flicker towards me, and allowed a sneer so slight that my tablemates didn't catch it twist my lips as our eyes met, and he turned back to the table. Half a dozen bites later, he tried again, and my sneer was a bit more marked. His eyes were showing brighter, I noticed, his mask trembling. Twenty minutes later, he'd forced down a roll, a chicken drumstick, and a handful of vegetables, and was looking rather desperate. The reluctant gratitude in his eyes as he hurriedly fled the Great Hall made me smile secretly. He was hating this, and hated being grateful for his release still more.
Over the next few days, I developed a habit of disappearing at odd moments. I didn't want people to get into the habit of thinking Potter and I vanished at the same times, and they'd be less likely to make the connection if we also each disappeared when the other remained in sight. So I followed him only occasionally and often went off on my own, sneering down anyone who questioned me. Slytherin was my house: I didn't answer to its members, they answered to me.
Our first Quidditch game, a few days later, he won. A lucky Bludger glanced my broom when I was practically touching the Snitch. I didn't care, for all that I tore into my team like a rabid dragon for not blocking that Bludger. There didn't seem to be much point in defeating him, currently. He was a little stronger, but obviously far from tip condition. Again, nobody noticed, and I wondered how they could be so blind. I saw Weasley and the mudblood start after him when he again vanished towards his tree, and allowed a sneer to touch my lips as I moved to intercept them, Crabbe and Goyle flanking me.
"Do you smell something?" I asked my companions in the kind of voice that, although quiet, carries rather nicely.
They made a show of sniffing the air and donning revolted expressions. They knew their part.
"Poverty and dirt?" I suggested, and they shouted agreement as Weasley spun around, the mudblood grabbing his arm.
"Ignore him, Ron, he's just trying to get a rise out of you," she stated, glaring at me.
I raised my brows as though I had just noticed them, and deliberately breathed through my mouth. "Ah," I murmured, in the tone of one making a discovery. "Not dirt. Mud. I should have guessed."
Crabbe and Goyle cracked up.
Weasley let out a shout of rage and leapt towards me, only to be snatched out of the air by a long, white hand. How the hell had I failed to notice Snape there? I didn't let my surprise show, however, and simply continued to sneer.
"Twenty points from Gryffindor for assault of another student," Snape growled.
"But he was saying-"
"Five points for arguing. He said he smelled mud. No surprise there -- it's been raining off and on for a week. Detention tomorrow evening, Mister Weasley. And I would recommend that you" --he sneered at the boy-- "silently return to your dorm for the evening."
Weasley gave in with bad grace and allowed the mudblood to lead him away.
Snape turned to me and snapped, "Have you not yet outgrown Gryffin-baiting?" and stalked away without awaiting a response. I didn't let my surprise at that remark show, just led my cohort back towards the dungeons.
The next day, to my surprise, Potter spoke after his little bleeding session. I'd watched him for the whole thing, silently. I wasn't sure why I watched. I have no love of watching people in pain, whatever my reputation. But something drew me back from time to time. Probably, I just didn't want him to forget the power I held over him. To forget that I knew. But it did surprise me when he thanked me.
"What?" I asked, for once taken aback.
"For -- yesterday," he said.
I thought back, trying to remember any events of interest from the day before.
"Distracting them," he added hesitantly.
I laughed, realizing what he meant. "Dear, dear Potter," I purred. "I'm always willing and pleased to insult your friends."
He colored. "You kept them from following me."
"Well," I replied, "I'm enjoying our time together. Why would I want someone else intruding?"
"Well. You didn't have to distract them. I'm grateful that you did. That's all I'm saying."
I smiled, leaning forward until his eyes widened and his pupils began to dilate in near panic. He swallowed convulsively and every muscle in his body clenched. "Grateful, Potter?" I murmured. "Be careful who you're grateful to. Some people like to … get something in return." I laughed softly at his panicked breathing, leaning forward until we were practically touching. The veil of insanity dropped over his eyes, his mouth opened in that silent howl, and I slipped back down, out of the tree. He avoided meeting my eyes for the rest of the week.
As the days passed, Potter began to improve a bit, physically. He stopped looking quite so much like a scarecrow and took the extra eating in better part. He got better at gauging when I would let him go, and usually ate, albeit resignedly, not looking my way until he'd consumed an adequate amount. Which amount I raised a bit from time to time. Smirking at his betrayed glare each time I did so. But it worked. His stamina built slowly back up, and his Quidditch began to improve again. I was still playing dramatically better than he was -- and I was still losing, which infuriated me. Snitches liked Potter. With me, they always played hard to get.
Eventually I settled in to study. Snape's test was coming up on Friday and he'd be furious if I screwed up on it. He probably wouldn't be too happy if he knew the whole story with Potter, either, he'd want to tell Dumbeldore or confront Potter. Or possibly report it to the Dark Lord and somehow take advantage of it, but I'd doubted his loyalty on that front for quite some time. Having him tell Dumbledore would be amusing, but I still wanted in on the secrets first. I'd rather keep my game private.
I turned my attention more firmly to studying, focusing on the three potions Snape had said he'd be most likely to use. It wasn't really cheating to have a narrower range of what to study - just good focus. It wasn't like I knew which of the three it would be - I just knew it wouldn't be any of the other seven he'd discussed thus far. Given Potter's concentrations issues lately, he'd probably beat Longbottom in terms of infuriating Snape. Another amusing thought. It would only be better if the damned mudblood melted her cauldron. Now that would be a thing of beauty. If we were doing the Scar Ease Salve and I could just slip a touch of dragonwart into hers - but no. In a regular class I could probably get away with it, but Snape wouldn't let me intervene during a test. Not even for so good a cause as that. Better to simply ensure my own performance.
Pansy wandered in and draped herself over me. I bit back an irritated snarl, but sneered at her and murmured, "Pansy, darling, I'm studying."
She shifted a little further onto my lap, wrapping one arm about me. "But, Draco-"
I raised one brow mockingly. "Why, Pansy, have you gained weight?"
Perfect shock. "What?"
"I swear you're getting heavier. Off me, love, before you ruin my robes."
Her lips trembled and her eyes widened. Anger, I suspected, but she'd been trained since birth to clothe anger in the garb of hurt. "Unkind," she reproached, a measured tremor in her voice.
I flicked her cheek with one finger, still smirking. "Red eyes, too?" They weren't, of course. She'd been able to cry without negatively affecting her appearance for as long as I'd known her. "Dear, dear. Perhaps you'd best clean yourself up."
A flash of fury showed past the hurt, and I congratulated myself. Before she responded, though, Blaise's smooth voice interjected like a caress, "Pansy, he doesn't deserve you. Come to me, beloved - I'll treat you to the respect and adoration you deserve."
With one last vitriolic glare at me, she flounced across the room to flirt outrageously with Blaise. I returned my attention to my books, amusedly aware that she was regularly glancing my way to see if I was ragingly jealous yet. I considered calling her to heel with one burning look, but I really didn't feel like dealing with her at the moment. Ignoring her turned swiftly to forgetting about her altogether.
Friday, I strolled into the potions room, amused by the panic of the students around me. Especially from the Gryffindors, of course. They knew Snape would give them no breaks. I spared a glance at Potter and my eyes narrowed. I was growing rather skilled at reading his condition, despite his magic -- not by the look of his face, but by the way he moved. In this case, mechanically. Completely without grace. There was no sign of panic in him, no sign of enough life to be able to panic. I turned back to the front of the class. The door slammed open and Snape swirled into the room.
"The test is Bone Growth Serum," he announced. A groan ran through the room. "The recipe will be up for the first twenty minutes of class. That should give you ample time to gather and prepare the necessary ingredients, so you'll need to remember only the proper order and actions." I allowed myself a secret smile. Twenty minutes would be time enough to gather ingredients -- if there were no delays. And the order in this particular potion was non-trivial. I was relieved that I'd taken the precaution of memorizing all three potential potions. Not many would pass this test.
With a mutter and a flick of his wand, Snape caused the recipe to appear, and everyone rushed to gather ingredients, frequently turning to check the recipe. I gathered mine with quiet assurance, glancing up only to check quantities once or twice. Potter never looked back. He didn't look confident - there wasn't enough emotion in him for confidence - but he never hesitated and moved as though there were no rush, waiting until nobody else was grabbing at an ingredient before he moved forward to take his share. But there was no energy in any of his movements. No expression on his face. My gaze flickered over to Snape, who was gazing steadily at Potter through narrowed eyes. Potter didn't notice as he set his heat and began to mix together ingredients.
I snorted softly and got to work, sparing only a tendril of attention to keep an eye on Potter and Snape. Which was enough to warn me an instant before Snape suddenly snapped, "Potter!"
Others weren't so fortunate I saw several people jerk, nearly spilling their carefully measured ingredients, and heard one agonized moan - no doubt Longbottom. My lips curled into a grin.
Potter didn't jump. I suspected he didn't care enough about what was going on around him to be surprised by it. He looked in Snape's direction but not, I think, actually at him. I'd become something of an expert at recognizing where Potter's eyes were focused, I can usually tell even when his back's to me. This time, I was almost sure his eyes weren't focused further than a foot in front of his face. "Sir?" he responded, voice emotionless.
"You have not once glanced at the instructions, Mr. Potter."
He didn't respond. No question had been asked, after all.
"How do you explain that, Mr. Potter?"
"I know the recipe, sir."
Snape sneered. "Do you indeed? And I always thought Gryffindors were supposed to be scrupulously honest."
A murmur shot through the room, and I almost cheered as I saw Harry's eyes finally focus, anger burning in them. It lasted only an instant before burning itself out. "Are you accusing me of cheating, sir?" The anger was gone, and he sounded merely curious.
"Well, Mr. Potter," Snape purred, "here is what I see. I see one student who has never before shown any gift with potions moving flawlessly through a complex serum without so much as checking the recipe. Further, I see his eyes mostly unfocused, his attention clearly more elsewhere than here." He flicked his wand and muttered a word, and smiled nastily as Harry began to glow. "And I see that he has spells cast upon him. Have you a better explanation for this series of coincidences you would like to offer, Mr. Potter?"
"No, sir."
A shocked silence followed by another wave of whispers. I rolled my eyes. Weasley leapt up, face as red as his hair, trying to protect Potter's honor. The mudblood looked physically ill, completely white, horrified at even the thought of her friend breaking her precious code of academic honor.
Snape looked triumphant. "Tell me how you did it," he demanded.
"Did what, sir?"
"Cheated."
"I didn't cheat, sir." Another murmur.
"You just admitted that you did!"
"No, sir. I said there wasn't a better explanation I wanted to offer, sir."
The strangest thing about all this, in my opinion, was that nobody but me considered the fact that he wasn't getting angry odd. Potter! Accused of cheating! And answering in that lifeless voice that seemed to suggest that it didn't really matter either way. How could they not notice that? Not think it was totally out of character? Perhaps they thought he was baiting Snape. It was certainly effective, albeit completely unintentionally.
Snape looked furious. Angrier than I'd ever seen him. Almost he seemed to grow, looming over Potter, who finally began to respond, affected by that looming menace as he hadn't been by the accusations. To my eyes, he looked terrified, keeping from fleeing by the narrowest stretch. Nobody else seemed to notice that, either.
"Are you mocking me, Mr. Potter?" Snape's voice grew softer when he was really angry. That seemed to anchor Potter somewhat, though I didn't think he was such a fool as to believe that Snape was less dangerous than he would be if he was shouting.
"No, sir."
"Then explain yourself at once!"
"I didn't cheat, sir."
"Then how did you know the potion spot on?"
"Study, sir."
"Oh?"
"Yes, sir."
"Elaborate," Snape snapped.
"I've been repeating potions recipes whenever I have free time."
"When?"
He hesitated, then actually flinched when Snape growled out the question again, voice harsh. It said something of just how angry he was that he missed that flinch. Very unlike my House-head. "Mostly when I can't sleep, sir."
"A pretty story. And the magic?"
"Unrelated, sir." There was an edge of desperation in his voice, now. I regretfully decided that he was about to be unmasked. He'd gained some weight since I'd started insisting he eat, but he still looked like death warmed over, and I wasn't ready for our private game to end yet. Oh well. I prepared to look startled.
As I expected, Snape's patience snapped. He flourished his wand, hissing a few sharp syllables, and cast a general dispel on Potter. It was as well that he was thoroughly startled by the result, because his expression was enough to make me lose my attempt at surprise and have to struggle just to keep from laughing outright. Dead silence filled the room, so it was good that I managed to suppress laughter. It couldn't have gone unmarked.
Every eye was glued on Potter. He looked much better than that first time I'd seen him, but far from well. His skin was pale, though the gray tinge had faded enough that I had to look for it to see it, there were huge bags under his lusterless eyes, and although not as dramatically skeletal as he had been even a few days ago, he was still considerably too thin.
"What is the meaning of this, Mr. Potter?" Snape demanded, the anger drained from his voice. I was almost sure there was an edge of concern, which made my eyebrows rise slightly in surprise.
"Sir?"
A flicker of irritation. "Why the glamour?"
"I didn't want to worry anyone."
"You stupid, stupid boy," he snarled, suddenly furious again. "Did it not occur to you to go see Madam Pomfrey?"
"No, sir."
"Fifteen points from Gryffindor for pure stupidity." There wasn't even a murmur of complaint from his friends. They were probably bright enough to see that this time it was a perfectly fair criticism. "And a week of detention. Starting tonight, pending Madam Pomfrey's approval. Be here at nine."
"Yes, sir." Still no emotion.
"Mr. Malfoy!"
"Sir?" I asked, having by now managed to curb my emotions.
"Escort Mr. Potter to the infirmary at once. Return to me with Madam Pomfrey's diagnosis as to whether he is eligible to attend his detention this evening."
I couldn't hide the smirk, but this time it was perfectly appropriate. "Certainly, sir," I agreed, gesturing politely for Potter to precede me out of the room. When we were out of the range of sound, I turned on him. "You'd best heal everything down to scars."
"What?" he asked blankly.
I rolled my eyes. "You must realize she'll use diagnostic magic. Scars shouldn't show through, but if you've got anything that's just scabbed over -- anything that's still tender, or anything -- you'd better fix it.
His startled oath was the most natural reaction I'd seen from him in weeks. It would have reassured Snape immensely, I thought, amused at the reminder of Snape's reaction to Potter's look beneath the glamour. It had been lovely.
Potter pulled out his little tube, and I jerked him into an abandoned classroom, ignoring the way he stiffened and his mouth opened in a soundless scream. "Idiot! Not where anyone could see!" I snapped.
It startled him enough that hints of life crept back into his eyes. "Thanks."
I snorted.
"I mean it. If not for you, I'd -- they'd--"
"Get on with it, Potter!"
He nodded, and obeyed.