A/N: Okay, so, before I said that there was going to be a prologue... I changed my mind. Tee-hee. Also, I forgot to mention (in case it wasn't made clear), this fic takes place during the summer before their seventh year, and will continue onward from that point accordingly... I dunno how far I'm going to take it.
I don't usually write fanfiction... but this particular plot bunny kept hopping around in my head until I thought I was going to explode; so, I decided to write it down even though it might not be that good... needless to say, I was ecstatic to see the number of positive reviews that I got...
I won't reply to those of you who reviewed personally, simply because it takes up too much space. I'll try to summarize...
One of you said that you found it realistic– thank you! I try my best to make the situation as believable as possible, and keep the characters from getting too OOC... the thing that makes fantasies so enticing is the small chance that they might actually happen.
That being said, I had given a lot of thought to the different ways that I could have written Draco for this fic... I figure he probably is a little– er, a lot OC, but it works the best for this story, I think, and I still tried to make it believable, and like I said, even though it's not the only way I could have written him, it's... well, it's the easiest for me.
There was some other stuff... let's see... oh yes, someone suggested that I come up for a reason why Harry couldn't have stayed with the Weaseley's again... and I still haven't come up with a reason. I'm going to admit, this isn't a planned out piece; everything here is just what comes out as I'm writing, so chances are, it's not going to be completely and technically correct for most of the time. Let's just pretend that the Weasleys got tired of having Harry hanging around. Or not. I dunno.
I think I've rambled enough. Once again, thanks for the reviews, and now on with the fic!
Enjoy!
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Somebody Save Me
CHAPTER 2
Four weeks and a day into the summer holidays, North Gardens of Malfoy Manner
The lone figure of Draco Malfoy walked leisurely down elegantly cobbled stone steps. His silver blonde hair shone even in the dull light of morning as the stairs lead him away from the manner. He took a deep breath of the cold misty air, savoring the crisp feeling it left in his lungs and the shiver it sent down his spine. A stray lock fell into his sliver eyes, and he carefully tucked it back into place as he glanced at the murky overcast sky. An expansive garden of manicured hedges and ever-blooming flowers spread out before his calm gaze as he continued on his morning walk.
This recently acquired habit, however, was not a result of any particular fondness for the outdoors, nor admiration of nature, but rather an absence of anything better to do. What with his father being in prison, his mother being her usual distant self, and his summer assignments having been finished ages ago, he'd found himself bored out of his mind.
Not that he was complaining; contrary to popular belief, he was not looking forward to serving the Dark Lord. In fact, he'd wanted nothing to do with You-Know-Who and his followers for quite a while now. He'd not been in the position, however, to make that decision. So, he'd obediently followed Lucius's example of distasteful behavior and acted (rather successfully) as if he wanted nothing more than to be Voldemort's right hand Death Eater, and to see every muggle and mudblood dead and disintegrated. He spewed the prejudiced ideas of pureblood supremacy, just as any pure-blooded wizard should. And of course, he expressed nothing but loathing for one Harry Potter.
Truthfully, however, he did not cleave to any of his father's ideals, if that's what one could call them. He had nothing against muggles, or muggle-born for that matter. As far as he was concerned, they were just another group of people living on the planet. They ate and slept just like wizards, they laughed and cried and yelled and bled. They were people too, they just couldn't use magic. And they'd never done anything to hurt the magical community– if anything, the magical community was hurting them. Although, how they survived without magic, Draco would never know. He even held a small bit of admiration for them; to be able to live without something that he (and almost every other witch and wizard) took for granted every day seemed like no small feat.
Harry Potter, however, was an entirely separate issue altogether.
Draco had, simply put, extremely mixed feelings. On most days, surface level emotions controlled his view on the raven-haired adolescent. He was a Gryffindor, The-Boy-Who-Bloody-Lived, and that and his apparenthero complex were enough to make Draco disdainful of him. His temperamental attitude and insufferable righteousness were enough to make Draco dislike him with a passion. And the fact that no matter how hard he tried, Draco could never seem to best him at anything... well, that was enough to make the prideful young Slytherin wish that Harry Potter would sink to the bottom of the lake and never come back up... and while he was at it, be eaten by the giant squid... who would then have indigestion and end up chucking the remains back up... et cetera, et cetera.
There were moments, though, when Draco was truly honest with himself... and it was times like those that he knew that most of his ill feelings toward Harry stemmed from his rejection on the train in their first year... He knew that he was actually, though it pained him to even think it, envious of Harry, who always had the uncanny ability to be the center of everything. Draco had been raised to be the best, the cleverest, the most worthy of recognition; but that recognition had never come, what with everybody being distracted by the famous Harry Potter. Even the professors, save Snape, seemed to favor Harry and his Griffyndor friends above everyone else. Harry had a certain flair for being the center of attention... there was just a natural attraction to him that most people couldn't ignore...
And when Draco fought with Harry, whether it be verbally or magically, in crowded halls or deserted classrooms, he could see the fire of anger and barely leashed power blazing in his emerald eyes. The young Slytherin's heart would beat faster with each encounter, his insides squirming with adrenalin, and in the later years, leaving him excited in a way that no one else had ever made him feel.
He'd beaten his head against the wall at the hopelessness of the situation, though it left his thoughts swirling in a rather ruthless cycle; Eventually, the headache (from beating his head against the wall—what? you thought I was kidding?) would make him yield slightly, and he would stop briefly to acknowledge the fact that he didn't hate Harry... and if it was a particularly bad headache he would give in further and admit to even fancying Harry, if only for the split-est of seconds. But then he would realize (with a pause in the beating to give the wall a break) even if he accepted the fact that he had less than hateful thoughts toward Harry, the sentiment would never be returned... Harry hated him. That would never change. There was not even the slightest of chances of that. Not at all.
Then the head beating would start all over again.
And Slytherins, as we all know, are not known for their honesty. They are known for their cunning and self-preservation– and it had definitely been in his best interest to maintain a nice, healthy dislike for Harry Potter.
He was still a proud and arrogant Slytherin; he still thought he had a right to be proud of his bloodline and house; he was intelligent, cunning, and magically talented; he did not, however, wish to rage war against the majority of the wizarding (and all of the muggle) community following a psychotic hypocritical bastard who'd kill him once he lost his usefulness. As stated before, he wasn't stupid; he saw his fathers brain washing tactics and short-sighted prejudices for what they were. And he'd had enough time to make up his own mind.
So, he'd actually been relieved when Lucius had been captured after the fiasco at the Ministry at the end of fifth year, despite his acting to the contrary. The way he figured it, the longer his father was magically sealed behind bars, the longer it'd be before he had to deal with anything serious concerning his assumed allegiance to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. And when that time did come, well... he'd just have to figure it out then.
After all, even if he wasn't planning to fight for Voldemort, he hadn't planned on fighting against him either. But who knows? Maybe he'd deflect to the light side anyway– just to keep him from getting bored...
The past year, after all, had not been all that entertaining.
Though he suddenly found himself with a new freedom with the imprisonment of his Father, he hadn't planned on doing anything extravagant to exercise said freedom. And indeed, when sixth year had started, not much changed... well, not too much anyway. To anyone that had been paying attention, there were actually quite a few things that were different from his previous years at Hogwarts.
Having decided that the Death Eater lifestyle was not for him, Draco no longer felt the need to hold up former pretenses. He no longer troubled himself with associating with those he knew to be loyal to the Dark Lord... Parkinson, Crabbe, Goyle, Zabini... and a handful of others. He mostly ignored them(save an icy glare or two at Pansy when she tried to cling to him), much to their confusion and eventual anger at his subtle betrayal.
Lacking the presence of his Father's previous instruction, he spent the year delving into his studies, and avoiding the Slytherin common room like a rogue bludger. He likewise ignored students in other houses as well– though he no longer bothered to uphold the appearance of petty prejudices, he wasn't about to go and be all fluffy and friendly either. Not that it wasn't tempting where a certain emerald eyed Griffyndor was concerned... But, he'd been over that already, hadn't he?
There was something odd going on though, Draco noticed... Usually, the Griffyndor Golden Trio could be seen gallivanting around being cheerful and bothersome (not that Draco himself had done anything worthy of their attention), but for the whole of their sixth year, he hardly saw them at all... either that, or they had simply become less noticeable. And when he did see them, be it a passing glance in a hallway, or quick look in the great hall, they all seemed pale and exhausted, like they'd just been in a particularly horrible Care of Magical Creatures class. He knew that class could be dreadful, but honestly, they looked like someone had died...
Of the three, however, Harry seemed the worst off, and Draco suspected that the only reason that Granger and Weasley weren't fairing well was because Harry wasn't. Said bespeckled adolescent almost always appeared as though he hadn't gotten more than a few hours of sleep. He was pale and never, not once, did he smile that entire year... not a real smile anyway. Sure, he'd give a small lift of the corners of his lips to be polite, but it was not real– there was not sparkle in his eyes, or pleasantness in his voice. Draco found that he missed Harry's laugh.
So it was with outstanding O.W.L.S., a mild worry niggling at the back of his mind, and an expectation for a banal summer that Draco returned home at the end of the year.
And where exactly did that leave him? It left him strolling in the Northern Gardens, bored out of his mind, that's where. He sighed, glancing lazily at the charmed shrubbery around him. His cool, but unguarded gaze swept leisurely around him as he strolled; His mother had always expressed a fondness for the gardens, and she made sure that the house elves kept them healthy and trim...
'Although,' Draco thought, 'They seem to be slacking on their jobs...' He squinted slightly as he spotted a rebellious begonia bush that was very un-trim indeed. It was squashed and uneven, with many of its branches, flowers and leaves bent, broken, and littering the ground. The young Slytherin walked towards it with mild curiosity. As he looked it over, his eyes strayed up to the sky; his eyes widened and his eyebrows raised on their own accord as he saw a broom flying in lazy circles not twenty feet above his head. As he gazed, perplexed, at the broom above him, he continued to walk along the perimeter of the bush—
Until he abruptly stopped walking, having suddenly found himself on the ground, his feet entangled in what appeared to be an invisibility cloak– with somebody else still in it; he could only see an arm and a leg peeking out from under what seemed like nothing, though Draco knew there was a whole body there... it had been solid enough to send him sprawling, after all.
Draco stared blankly at where his feet would have been, before swiftly righting himself, drawing his wand, and furiously wrenching the cloak away to see just who had decided to take a nap on his front lawn.
"Potter!"
Draco stared incredulously, mouth agape (and anger forgotten), at the unmoving body over which he had tripped. His features slowly shifted into a grim frown as he noticed the Gryffindor's condition; His body was riddled with cuts, scrapes, and bruises, as well as large gash on the back of his head that seemed to still be bleeding. He was much to pale, was most definitely malnourished, and his breaths were so shallow that Draco had to lean close to see if he was breathing at all. The blonde gasped softly as he saw just how much blood had been lost over what must have been overnight; he blanched as he realized with a start that he was kneeling in a small pool of blood.
"What the hell happened to you Potter," he murmured in a constrained voice which leaked his barely constrained horror, 'And how in Merlin's name did you end up here, of all places...' He pushed a torrent of questions from his mind, and decisively gathered the frail body into his arms, his own brain to fuddled by shock to bother with magic.
He ran as fast as his burden would allow back to the manor, through it's regal front doors and up the main stair case. The door to his bedroom flung unceremoniously open as he rushed in and gently lay Harry down on his bed. Draco's heart was beating furiously as he wrestled over what to do next. Hesitating for only a moment, he whipped out his wand and murmured a few scanning charms to assess the damage, his mind already listing necessary potions ingredients for affective blood restoratives, pain relievers and–
Draco cursed softly. It was worse than he thought, which was rather remarkable considering that he had been expecting the worst; the spell he had cast made hidden injuries visible via different colored lights that settled atop the skin over wherever the injuries were. His eyes began to hurt from looking at Harry, whose skin was plagued by those lights in several areas. Where the light formed condensed, blue lines on Harry's left arm, both legs, and many places on his painfully visible ribs, Draco knew there were fractures and breaks in the bones. Where the light misted in pools similar to spilt, red ink all along Harry's torso, there was internal bleeding. And when it swirled ominously purple around the unconscious boy's head, Draco realized that Harry had a concussion, in addition to a cracked skull. Not to mention all the (literally) bloody gashes and swelling bruises that had been visible without the spells...
Draco felt a combination of nausea and amazement; How could someone survive through something like that? And more importantly, how the hell would they get that way in the first place?
He took a deep breath, steadying himself. At this point, the only thing he needed to worry about was keeping Harry Potter alive.
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The first thing Harry noticed as he slipped back into semi-consciousness was the soft bed in which he lay. Eyes still closed, he experimentally twitched fingers– silk sheets... interesting. He wondered briefly where he might be, but decided he'd find out soon enough. He took a deep breath, tensing in expectance for pain from his ribs, but none came. He let the breath out with surprised relief and, having been encouraged by his seemingly improved condition, shifted a bit more, testing his boundaries. He almost smiled– nothing hurt. He'd have to thank who ever had healed him. Left with no reason not to, Harry took another deep breath and opened his eyes.
He blinked at the blurry nondescript ceiling and sat up with the intention of searching for his glasses. He needn't look far, however, as he found them being held out to him by pale, elegant fingers. He blinked back mild surprise, and gratefully took them with a muttered, "Thank you..." Putting them on, he felt the familiar security that always came with getting his glasses back, and then remembering that he was not alone, looked up curiously into calm grey eyes.
"Malfoy!" he exclaimed, nearly falling backwards in an unorganized attempt to get further away from him. "Wha- I... What are you doing here?" Harry's brain was addled with the instinct to curse the Slytherin before him into the floor boards, but the confusion that was there also was over-riding said instinct.
Draco's eyebrow raised upward with obvious amusement as he said, "Well, I do live here, Potter,"
Harry continued staring with disbelief for a few moments before he said, in a hard voice, despite the panic that fluttered in his stomach, "Alright then, what the hell am I doing in your house... and why haven't I been strung up and handed over to Voldemort, or something of the sorts?" 'Not that I'm complaining...' he thought.
Wincing slightly at Voldemort's name, Draco replied, "To answer your first question, I was hoping you could tell me that... it's not everyday that I walk through the gardens to find an unconscious body lying in the begonias. As for the second, it will most likely surprise you to know that my loyalties do not lie with the Dark Lord... nor did they ever."
Harry simply stared, startled and bewildered, at the calm Slytherin before him. His face was absent of sneer or smirk or scowl, and he looked almost... normal. And though his words could have easily been twisted with malice or disdain, they weren't; Draco spoke plainly and purposefully, something that Harry had never heard before.
'Why on Earth is he being so... civil?' Harry pondered as Draco spoke. Still eyeing him suspiciously, convinced that this was, without a question, all a plot to lull him into a false sense of security, Harry hostilely demanded, "And why should I believe that? What makes you think that I'll suddenly trust you after nothing but insults and harassment from you for the past six years?"
Draco took a deep breath and reached into his robes for his wand. Seeing Harry stiffen, he slowed his actions and, holding the Gryffyndor's wary gaze with his own, pulled out his wand holding it in the traditional non hostile manner; it was loosely in his grip, held only with the tips of his fingers and thumb, and he then set it on the night stand that was next to the bed.
"Better?"
Harry gave a small nod and, though obviously still suspicious, seemed to relax a little at this. Draco proceeded to lift up the sleeve on his left arm, showing clear, unblemished skin.
Harry was about to protest that just because Draco hadn't the Dark Mark yet, didn't mean that his allegiance wasn't with his father and Voldemort. He was stopped, however, when Draco spoke softly, "Five years, Potter... if you'll recall, last year I did nothing... not once did I bother you or Weasely or Granger. Although, I dare say you were in no condition to notice..." Draco's blank features had shifted into a soft frown, and as Harry continued to display an amusing combination of a incredulous gape and a rivalrous scowl, he thought he saw a flicker of emotion in Draco's eyes.
Harry suddenly felt very tired. Swiftly shifting from defensive confusion, shock, and suspicion to a milder level of perplexity and resignation, he heaved a heavy sigh, and pulled his knees up to his chest. Resting his forehead against his knees, he effectively ignored the boy next to him and tried to think logically. He supposed that if Malfoy had wanted to do anything to him he could have done it while he'd been unconscious. This notion did not quell his uncertainties, however, and he couldn't help but wonder what could have possibly caused the sudden change of heart. For, up until now (or the end of fifth year rather, Harry supposed), the young Slytherin had made his loyalties known, and in the clearest of ways.
It was just so odd... their rivalry had always been constant– for Malfoy to act in any way other than that of an insufferable git was... well, unfathomable. Harry somehow felt like the foundations of all his beliefs were beginning to crumble beneath his feet.
Harry sighed again. Regardless of Malfoy's intentions, Harry still had to figure out what to do next. His head was starting to hurt again, but the rest of him felt fine. He'd be well and able enoughto try and fly somewhere else... but the problem still remained: where exactly could he go? 'Any where but here... this is just too weird.'
Raising his head with the hopes of gathering himself and strolling out of Malfoy Manner without drawing any attention to himself, he was stopped once again by something being held out to him. A phial filled with a sickly orange potion.
"For the headache."
All plans of escape momentarily forgotten, Harry looked skeptically from the phial, to Malfoy, and back at the phial again.
Draco gave a small huff of annoyance and rolled his eyes. "Oh, for the love of magic, Potter, it's not poison..." he grumbled, swiftly recalling the offered potion and uncorking the phial. Taking a small, demonstrative sip, he swallowed, re-corked the phial, and returned it to it's position of offering.
Harry watched Draco warily for any ill effects, and then, steeling himself for a foul tasting potion, he took the phial and downed the orange solution.
Mildly surprised by the lack of disgusting-ness (it was pumpkin flavored), Harry handed the phial back to Malfoy with another mumbled "Thanks..." and proceeded to stare awkwardly at the dark bedspread as the pain in his head began to ebb.
"You had a concussion and a cracked skull," Draco explained, flopping down gracefully (Harry didn't realize it was possible for any one to flop gracefully...) into an armchair that was next to the bed. "In addition to other things. The potion I gave you was a combination of pain killer and healer for the concussion, and I already healed the crack– it'll probably still be little tender, but the potion will help. You'll also have to take nourishment, hydration, and blood restoratives within the hour." Again he spoke in that smooth, calm, emotionless voice that left Harry perplexed.
Feeling stifled bythe mixed feelings of suspicion and reluctant gratitude, Harry couldn't stop himself from asking, "But why? I mean... I thought you hated me... why would you bother..." Harry trailed off, feeling slightly helpless as his reality somersaulted around him; his friends had, though perhaps unintentionally, abandoned him, and his enemy was healing him. Something had gone terribly wrong with the world.
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A/N: I actually don't know if begonias grow on bushes, but it sounded good at the time...
Sorry it took so long to update... like I mentioned before, my literary inspiration is seldom and rare... N E who... hoped you liked it. Please review, it would make my toes happy.
;-;Adrian Winter;-;
