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.
Truth and Lies
The shock of realizing how close I am to betraying myself shakes me slightly out of the daze. If I let them see, let them know-- I cut the thought off with my apology. Draco ignores my gratitude, but I have to say it anyway, before pushing back the loose sleeves of my robes and getting rid of the Covrall. I reach for my knife, but a hand catches my wrist.
Holding--
Hurting--
A stern voice growls, "Look at me, Potter! Now!"
Unwillingly, I obey. Disobedience brings --
Confusion. Blue-gray eyes? But--
Oh. "D-- Draco?" I hardly recognize my voice. Has it always been so weak? So wavering?
"Who else?" he sneers, although there's a flicker of surprise in his eyes at something. I try to wonder what, but the thought vanishes, leaving me staring down at my wrist.
"Sorry," I apologize. "What--" With the memory broken, I reach again for my knife, but his grip doesn't relax.
"No knife. You're fixing cuts, not adding more, remember?"
And memory boils back. Potions class. They saw. Not really saw, but saw enough and would see more if I didn't fix the cuts. Heal them away, make the careful patterns and the random gashes fade into my arms as though they never were. "Forgot," I admit. Reluctantly, I draw my wand instead and cast a series of short spells. My breath quickens as I watch the cuts fade away, painting pink over red and white over pink and silver over white and tan over silver until there's almost nothing left. I stare down at the stranger's arms, wondering why I'm looking at them, who they belong to. Why they move when I move. I hear a soft, high-pitched keen, and can't seem to stop it even when I realize it's mine. Until a hand touches my wrist and the sound vanishes from my lips, because I can't scream when someone's there -- it's not allowed.
"Come on." My eyes jerk up at the words, and I see again the white-blond hair and gray-blue eyes, and my breathing slows slightly as I realize where I am. Where I'm not. "Snape'll wonder what took me so long."
I nod and slowly apply Covrall once more, calming slightly at the familiar look of clear skin. If I just take off the Covrall, they'll be back to normal. Mine again. It's just Covrall. I'm used to that. I follow as he leads me to the infirmary, trying my best not to focus on my arms.
He coolly relates the sequence of events from potions to Madame Pomfrey, and I listen, trying not to hear him. Trying not to see her reaction. She makes me lie down and gives me a quick once over, and then sharply tells him to tell Snape that my detention will have to wait till tomorrow. He looks disappointed, but his eyes dance as he smirks at me when she turns away, and then he leaves me alone with her. Mediwitches are better than doctors. They don't touch you. They don't poke and prod and touch -- they hardly even question. Their spells give them all the answers they think they need, all the answers I want them to need.
I can't hide my relief when she smiles reassuringly, but maybe she thinks I'm just relieved that she didn't find anything serious. I guess that is what I'm relieved about. Only not the way she thinks it. Might think it. Whatever. A little frown line has formed between her brows, like she knows she's a Beater short of a Quidditch team, but it fades with the smile. She says I'm okay, and I don't burst into hysterical laughter, so maybe I am. She says my blood's thin, but explains that it's probably because I haven't been eating enough. She asks me why I haven't been eating, why I haven't been sleeping, and thinks I mean visions when I say I'm having nightmares. But I say no, just nightmares, because I don't want Dumbledore trying to get hints of Voldemort's activities from my dreams -- I don't think he'd find anything useful. I bite back another laugh that tries to gurgle up.
"Dreamless Sleep should work, then, and Professor Dumbledore will probably want to talk to you anyway -- dreams are best not ignored even when they're not visions. What about the eating?"
"I just haven't had much appetite lately." Which is perfectly true. Food tastes foul, even the best of it, and nothing rests easily on my stomach. Even looking at it sometimes makes me feel ill. And damn Malfoy for making me eat it anyway. And damn everything for making me be grateful to him for making me eat it -- because I know as well as he would that if she'd seen me as I looked before he started, it would be a far more difficult job to convince her it was nothing important.
"Well, sleeping better may well help," she says, thoughtfully. "We'll try that road before I try potions to heighten your appetite. Why didn't you come talk to me about this, Harry?"
I shrug uncomfortably, hoping she'll let it go. How could I talk to her? Why should I talk to her? What good would it do? Would it make her understand? She couldn't understand. Nobody could -- and everything would be worse if they did. So why bother?
"Gryffindor courage doesn't mean you can't ask for help, you know," she points out, gently. I wonder which house she was in, in school. She wasn't subtle enough to be a Slytherin. I heard a lot of healers came from Hufflepuff, maybe she was one of them?
"I know," I say, when I realize she's waiting for an answer.
She sighs. "You'll stay here for today, I think. Tomorrow, if all seems well, you can go back to classes." She hesitates a moment, then adds, "You can't continue to use the concealment charms, Mr. Potter."
I don't answer, but my breathing quickens and I can see hundreds of staring eyes looking at me, looking through me, judging me.
"I know it's hard, but you can't heal if you don't face the problem. And concealment charms are a constant drain on magic -- It's not safe for you to use them for any great length of time."
I manage a jerky nod.
"I'll give you some dreamless sleep potion, as well," she states. "Just a swallow, mind. It shouldn't take much for most nightmares, and there's not enough to you to require a very large dose right now. I shall have to trust you not to overdose on it, Mr. Potter. When more is used than necessary, it provides a sense of ... relaxation. It's much like drunkenness but without the hangover. And it is extremely addictive. So I shall give you only a week's worth at a time, and in a month or so, if the dreams don't go away, we'll have to look into it further."
I nod again, knowing that looking into it further would mean looking for the meanings and causes of the nightmares, which would probably mean the magical equivalent of a psychiatrist. I won't ask for more after a month, whether the dreams continue or not. And I'll have to be careful about her warning for overdoses -- I can't risk any state of mind that's like drunkenness -- foul breath blowing on my neck in heavy pants, the reek of alcohol in my nose -- no! I fight back the thought. That's not why. Can't risk getting loose-tongued. Talkative. Can't chance giving anything away.
The swallow of potion she gives me tastes horrific, but the foul taste is immediately dulled by a sense of separation, which gives way to fatigue, which gives way to glorious nothingness.
When I open my eyes again, it's shortly after dawn. I feel better than I have in weeks -- months! Sleep is a glorious thing, and I wonder if I really will be able to sleep for a whole month. It occurs to me that even at this low dosage, the potion could be frighteningly addictive. I make a show of eating heartily when Madam Pomfrey returns, admit that I slept extremely well, and receive her permission to go to the dorm, change, and head for classes. The euphoria lasts until Ron and Hermione corner me on my way to Charms and pull me aside, into an abandoned classroom.
"What's going on?" Ron demands.
"We're getting late for class?" I offer.
Neither of them are amused by that one. "How could you hide how bad things were from us, Harry?" Hermione asks, hurt and anger mixed in her eyes. I focus on the hurt. Hurt doesn't make me panic. "We love you, you git!"
"I'm sorry," I mutter, just wanting them to leave me alone. "I didn't want to worry you."
"Didn't want to worry us--" Ron starts.
Hermione cuts him off with a wave, laying her hand lightly on his shoulder, stepping closer to me, nearly toe to toe, and I force my breath to stay steady. "Harry, we're allowed to worry about you," she says earnestly. "We're your friends." I hardly hear the words, focusing on not jerking away from her, wondering why she has to stand so close. "Aren't we?"
"Of course you are!"
"Then why do you keep hiding things from us, Harry?"
I can't think clearly enough to form an answer with her so close, so I give in to the need to pull back, putting several feet between me and her. She doesn't follow, just stares at me through distressed eyes, one hand still limply clinging to Ron's shoulder. Somehow the words spill out. "Because sometimes it hurts more to share than to keep things to myself." My voice is harsh and brittle and I can't make it stop even though I don't want to be saying this, I can't be saying this. And I just keep going. "I admit it, okay? It's not that I don't want you to worry, not mostly at least – I'm more selfish than that. It's because talking hurts. Having you know more would hurt me, Hermione, and I'm so sick of hurting! Talking isn't going to make me feel any better, and whoever said that sharing pain halved it must have been insane!" I'm practically panting for breath as I finally manage to stop talking, staring at them, willing them to let it go.
"Knowing what, Harry?" she asks gently.
I stare at her for a long moment in shock, and then shake my head in wonder, only containing my bark of laughter because I couldn't get enough breath to release it. "You didn't hear a single word I said, did you?" I finally ask. I don't wait for a response, I just push past her, ignoring her plea for me to wait, Ron's mutter of, "Nice one, Mine." It says something about how upset she is that she doesn't round on her boyfriend but simply begs me to listen.
They fall in beside me and I manage not to flinch away. I wonder if it's a mark of friendship that they refuse to leave me alone, although at least they stop asking questions for the moment. Hermione even whispers an apology. Then they fall silent, looking so hurt that I feel guilty. Which, in turn, makes me angry -- angry enough that I managed to stay focused through the entire class.
Lunch makes me wish desperately for my concealing charms as I feel eyes upon me. Some are horrified, some fascinated, but they're all watching me, judging me. Finding me wanting. Most of the comments are too soft for me to hear. I wish the rest were, too. I don't want to hear them talking about me. About what's wrong with me. About -- They all watch in sick satisfaction as I eat, trying to catch me out, measuring the amount I consume. I don't meet the gaze of anyone at the Gryffindor table. I don't meet anyone's eyes at all throughout the meal. Except Malfoy's. I have to look at him before I can leave. I can't bring myself to resent it too much. I'm almost grateful to him for making me eat -- I hate it, but if he hadn't the staring would be worse, the concern more intense. And I don't think I could take much more intensity right now.
He nods permission the first time I catch his gaze, which surprises me. Maybe he pities me. I don't question my luck, just push back my plate and rise, freezing as Hermione clutches my arm and tells me I haven't eaten enough. I jerk away without answering. The only person whose opinion matters says it was enough, and I know full well that if I try to eat much more with all these eyes on me, I'll sick up. Why do they all have to stare at me?
A hand grabs my sleeve and I pull away without looking. But even as I keep walking, I feel larger hands I can't escape spin me into a wall. I keep walking as the howled insults that go with the hands drown out the fascinated murmurrs of the students. When I get out of the hall, I walk blindly forward, trying not to feel the hands as they gentle into a parody of tenderness, the shouts dropping into foul whispered obscenities.
And I'm shaking -- shaking so hard my head is snapping back and forth, which doesn't make any sense with my chest pressed so hard against the wall by his weight that I can barely breathe.
A voice cuts through the hissed insults, harsh and angry, but not his. "--me, Potter! Damn it, look at me!"
Unwilling but obedient, my eyes open and I try to hold still as my head jerks forward and back, sent by the hands that are clenching my shoulders and shaking -- my mouth opens but no noise comes out-- it's bad to make noise, so my howl is soundless, helpless, hopeless.
"Look at me, Harry!"
Obediently, I focus on the angry blue eyes -- blue?
Oh.
Apparently he realizes that I'm seeing him now, because he stops shaking me even as the ghost hands fade with the realization that they can't be here. He can't be here. I don't have the energy to respond to Draco's words, I just sag into his arms and shiver in reaction.
He groans in disgust and pulls me to one side of the hall, letting me drop beside a large statue. I sink down the wall and am faintly surprised to hit the ground rather than simply continuing to sink through the floor, through the earth, falling forever. I pull up my knees and bury my face in them, shuddering.
"You are a mess, aren't you, Potter?" he sneers.
I can't find it in me to be offended. I hardly hear him as he keeps talking. He's already started fading -- another voice is taking over, a hand sliding down my back, scratching -- a furious complaint of blood under fingernails.
"Look at me!" he snaps, and my head jerks up into the icy blue gaze locked on me. I hold it desperately, confident in the knowledge that if these eyes are here, he is not. I think the world would end if they were ever in the same place -- which might not be such a bad thing, I muse. He wouldn't be there if the world ended. Neither would Voldemort, or any of the people who wanted so much of me. Best of all, neither would I.
I stare into blue eyes, trying to separate past from present, and suddenly realize that his mouth is moving. "What?" I manage to whisper.
He starts to roll his eyes, and as soon as they're not locked with mine, memories surge forward. Before I get more than a flash of teeth in my neck, his gaze locks back on to mine and the memories are shoved back by his intense stare, leaving me shivering but relatively focused.
"Bone Growth Serum." He says the words slowly, enunciating as though speaking to an idiot. "What does it contain?"
"Powdered dragon scale," I whisper automatically. "Preferably from an older dragon. Scales from along the spine ridges are best." I feel fingernails at the thought, and the blue before me begins to fade.
"Oh no you don't-- Look at me!" He snaps, and my eyes refocus. "What else is in it?"
"Denweed. Young. In its first spring. The younger the better, and it has to be fresh."
"Good. How much?"
"Three sprigs, each as long as your forefinger. Shredded. A splash of milk from a unicorn mare," I continue without prompting this time, and then keep going, each word driving old memories a little further back as I struggle to recall every detail of the brew.
"Good," he murmurs when I finish. He closes his eyes in a deliberately long blink, and I take a long breath and release it, relaxing slightly. "Good," he repeats. "Now I'm going to be late for Transfigurations. You owe me."
"Thank you," I manage to mutter weakly, still drained by the strength of the flashback.
"Remember what I said about gratitude," he snaps, but he holds my gaze while he says it, not letting the horrors rise fully this time. Still, a shudder runs through me at the reminder, but I manage to stand up, swaying slightly, and watch as he walks away, refusing to hurry even though he was late.
"Thank you," I whisper again, knowing he can't hear me.