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Ch. 27: Day 13: Our Inner Demons
Back in Nott's tent, Moody was administering some liquid from a golden, glistening vial.
"What the fuck's that?" Draco demanded immediately upon escaping the frozen darkness.
Moody made sure that Thee emptied the vial, then he turned purposely towards Malfoy. "That, Recruit, is a sedative and pain killer," Moody snapped, emphasizing the Syltherin's position of power relative to his own.
Harry acted quickly to divert the hostile exchange surely destined to take place, "Sir, while you were gone, Malfoy and I found Recruit Zara Crowfeet. . . She was dead, sir; dead where she lay, on her bed. Malfoy thinks she was under a similar curse as Nott."
Harry's own words shocked him: it seemed incredible that those cold statements were his own. . . he had always felt pain so deeply that it was surprising to note evidence that he had grown more apathetic and callous. It was only a natural adaptation to dangerous and painful lives.
Moody did not think his comments odd in the least, his magic eye swiveling around to glare superstitiously at the Slytherins. "She probably was, and those two may not be the only ones involved in Dark Arts natsiness."
Tor, in his terror, had retreated to a dark corner of the tent, but Draco and Pansy remained standing to glare defiantly at the intimidating Auror.
"Our alliance to you makes our lives forfeit in the eyes of our families," Draco gritted out between clenched teeth, taking a dangerous (and very foolish) step towards Moody. "There are bleeding contracts out of our lives! Doesn't that make us worthy of your trust!"
Even the ever-suspicious Moody could detect the genuine desperation in his voice, and allowed himself a modicum of belief that he would have normally rejected out of hand. "It is not a matter of trust, Recruit, you of all people must know that. Nott here, and Crowfeet – they pledged their lives, to their credit; but they pledged lives to which others already had claim. It is hardly surprising that certain life debts are being called in now."
Moody's calm delivery was infuriating, and Draco wanted to argue and fight, to bellow and throw things as he had done earlier, but he was pretty sure the Auror would incapacitate him if he even tried. Besides, just looking at Thee's fading person was enough to sap his urge act. . . because the Auror was right: the Slytherins had pledged lives that were not theirs, knowingly. This lack of ownership over their own lives was, in all likelihood, precisely why there were so willing to risk death to fight Voldemort.
Amidst this tension, something suddenly started beeping.
Moody roughly got to his feet. It took him a moment of fumbling to lay his hands on an object in his coat pocket. Frowning intensely, he barked, "Do what you can for him, I must go. Only time will tell."
Then Moody departed, abandoning Harry and the Slytherins to themselves.
"Fuck!" Draco exclaimed, painfully kicking the desk. " If I wanted to watch my friends die horribly, I would've stayed loyal to bloody Voldemort!"
"Don't say his name!" Tor yelled fanatically, rapidly deteriorating into tears. He backed into the corner of the tent, huddling against the wobbly drawers, terrified of being struck down any moment. . . like quiet, sweet Zara. . .
Pansy left Thee's side, and knelt beside Tor. "Pull yourself together, man! You're not the one dying, at least not yet. We've gotta do what we can while we still can!"
Pansy looked desperately at Draco and Harry for support. The latter just nodded frantically, unable to deny her plea, but Draco was in no mood to be agreeable, "Like what, Pansy! Keep running drills at the North Pole while our parents are dying in battles in England!"
Draco's behavior was getting a little out of hand, and certainly not helping matters, so Harry opened his mouth so say, well, something –
Pansy was on fire and, apparently, a lot faster than him, "Why, Slytherin Prince," she began coyly, but with an undercurrent of growing anger. "If I remember correctly, it was you who persuaded us to ally ourselves with Potter and all this lot. . . just a few days ago it was. And now look at us!"
This time, Harry made sure to jump in before Draco. "Stop it! Both of you! There's nothing to do! So we might die! So what! This is war, people die! I'm sorry, but life sucks that way!"
Tor and Pansy were gaping at him as though he had betrayed their every hope (then again, they had never had much hope anyway); Draco, bizarrely enough, was sneering and nodding in absolute agreement; and Nott, of course, was oblivious, and several shades closer to death.
Moody did not return that night, no one did. Eventually, misery and exhaustion forced the recruits into a restless sleep on the frozen ground of Nott's tent. At some point in the early hours of the morning, Theodore Nott died with a strangled cry. Pansy said a few words over the body, including Zara in her heathen prayer, but no one else said anything, and no one cried. They were numb, and drained from lack of sleep, and lost in thoughts of their own impending dooms. Time stretched, as though hypnotizing zombies. . .
! BREAK !
Sometime late in the predawn hours, the deafening blare of the wake-up horn rose even the heaviest sleepers. Stumbling out of Nott's tent, Pansy, Tor, Draco, and Harry noticed that their fellow recruits were, instead of making their ways towards the Mess tent, were congregating outside of it. With the help of a Sonorus spell, Macky was commanding the recruits to gather before him in basic lineup. Warily, they all joined their comrades, and listened as Macky announced that, "There has been an attack on the Ministry of Magic."
Many gasped, and there were loud cries of anger and outrage; somehow, Cho had materialized beside Harry, and was holding onto his arm tightly. Macky pushed on, "The information was leaked, so we were able to evacuate most of the Ministry and lay a trap. The Death Eaters walked right in."
Macky paused, but the eerie silence of the young soldiers urged him to continue, "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was not there, but many of his followers were captured and killed. . . We expect new recruits to be joining us soon. You will need to make them feel at home."
His words left so much to the imagination that many of the recruits continued to watch the Auror, hoping to somehow understand more; but amongst the usual suspects, unrest was formidable enough to manifest as disrespectful whispering and rude objection.
"Is there a problem!" Macky barked, striding forward suddenly to tower over Draco, Pansy, and Tor. As intimidating as his large figure was, it did not deter the accusatory glares of the three Slytherins: their reproach was somewhat misplaced (Macky was not responsible for the deaths of their housemates), but his ignorance and indifference was unbearable to three teenagers who had just spent several hours in the company of corpses.
Abruptly standing, so that his face was inches from the Auror's, Draco growled back, "Yes, there's a problem! Two of your soldiers died last night! Instead of being able to fight and die like warriors, magic killed them in their sleep at the ass-end of the world! I know no one cares, but this happened to two of my friends!"
Macky's face reddened in anger, ready to retaliate for his insolence, but not before Pansy had stood and shouted distraughtly, "They were two of my friends too!"
The Auror's moment of surprise was enough for Blaise to stand and call out, "Two of my friends!" He didn't know what was going on any more than any of the other recruits, but it didn't take a genius to look around and notice the conspicuous absence to two housemates. The Slytherins were suddenly in uproar, outraged and demanding to know what was happening.
Macky breathed heavily, trying to muster his patience, and striving to make the best of the situation. "You are right," he conceded loudly, clearly addressing the crowd, and choosing his words carefully. "Two of our warriors were taken from us tonight, their lives tied up with those that died. . . Their loyalty is not in question."
Macky paused, and many recruits found themselves curiously watching the Slytherins, who were only partially mollified by his words. "Our side did sustain several casualties at the Ministry of Magic. Should you have family or friends that you are concerned about, a list of the wounded and deceased will be posted outside the Mess tent by lunch. For now, you are to go to breakfast. Report to the training field at 0800. Dismissed!"
The shell-shocked recruits slowly made their way to the Mess tent, many returning first to their own tents to finish dressing. Frantic, ill-concealed whispers carried on the wind and bounced around stuffy tents; Tia, the Syltherin fifth year, was sobbing loudly, while several other Slytherins cursed in frustration and grief. Draco left them to mourn, retreating to his quarters.
Slipping out of his coat, he shivered despite the artificial heat. He collapsed, face first, on his cot, and breathed heavily. Gradually, the adrenaline flow slowed, and his anger grew cold. Then he sat up, stood up, and quickly got dressed. He hadn't a fucking clue what to do, but whatever it was going to be, it would surely require that he operate at maximum capacity: and that meant focus! No tantrums, no freak-outs, and absolutely no Harry Potter!
! BREAK !
0800 was a full hour later than they usually had to report for training. They warmed up with heavy exercise, followed by several rounds of dueling. Then the terrain was transformed with large glacial barriers and the recruits were divided into two camps. After fifteen minutes of hurried strategizing, a mock battle was staged.
On one side, Harry led a fast, five-pronged power-charge, while on the other side Draco and the twins maintained a monopoly on dangerous and unpredictable defense. Shadowing Harry, Cho was hit by the cowardice hex, so that she collapsed trembling and crying in terror. Harry aimed his wand at Draco and silently mouthed, Petrificus.
The spell ricocheted of the ice barrier and hit the ground near one of fellow Gyffindor. Who promptly threw a spell that whizzed past Harry's head, and he ran for the nearest cover, throwing hexes at any target he could spot, and drawing a lot of fire.
It only took an hour for almost everyone to be incapacitated. In the end, only four people were left standing – Oliver Wood, who had been petrified on his feet (a rarity, considering that most topple over due to imbalance); Tia, who had spent the entire battle hiding behind a remote barrier; Harry, who was managing to function despite having been glanced by a sensory hallucination spell; and Draco, who was stumbling around incoherently under Harry's own Confondus.
Macky was not pleased, and he let his ire known with almost ten minutes of solid yelling. Faster! Faster! FASTER!
! BREAK !
It was a somber crowd that entered the extended Mess tent, where a new group of recruits sat awkwardly at two additional long tables. These recruits were not the fiery believers of the twins' class, nor were they the desperate but determined Hogwarts students that comprised the second recruit class; instead, they were mostly the solemn and vengeful survivors of Voldemort's victims, lured into Dumbledore's ranks by the success of the incident at the Ministry of Magic.
After taking in this new group, the sweaty recruits split – about half filed into line to pick up lunch, while the other half pushed against each other to get a look at the Casualty List posted on the menu board. There were several exclamations of relief, cut short by a single broken cry, then no one voiced relief again, though two others were reduced to tears – including Cho, who clung to Harry and sobbed.
Harry couldn't help it: on a deep level, he felt the loss of all Voldemort's victims as though they were the loss of his own godfather. . . and of his parents. So he held her tight, stroking her soft hair, and his voice trembled when he whispered passionately, "I'm sorry, Cho. We'll get the bastards that did this. . . if they're not already dead."
Over at the Slytherin table, now two fewer in number, Draco clutched unconsciously at his knife (ostensibly provided for him to cut his soggy bread), his eyes discretely watching the scene at the Casualty List. Chang was a much more suitable companion for the Boy-Who-Lived, and he hated her a little bit for that; hated her for having all the simplicity that a happy, normal childhood can bring. Sure, the affair with the Diggory boy must have been traumatic, but she wasn't weighed down with sixteen years of mountainous baggage – and just like that, Cho Chang got to throw herself into the arms of Harry bleeding Potter. Draco's strengths lay in his ability to endure, to survive, not in competing for affection.
Unwilling to indulge his bitter, slightly obsessive thoughts, Draco channeled them outwards, to his morose housemates. "It seemed like the trap was pulled off pretty well, but they better be prepared for retaliation."
Milicent, Pansy, and some of the other Slytherins nodded. Blaise muttered, "And those who lash out at Him shall have their efforts revisited upon them ten fold."
Only Tia shivered visibly, but most chillingly recognized the words. Many had been raised on the Dark Lord's commandments, taught to them despite the death of Voldemort, or perhaps in anticipation of his return.
"Chaos is about to break out," Pansy moaned, voicing everyone's thoughts.
"I'm betting that these won't be the last new recruits," Draco asserted, gesturing around him with his knife. "This thing is about to get a whole lot bigger."
Of course, this was the last thing anyone wanted to hear, and the Slytherins as an entirety seemed to slump a little. Still, they made vague efforts to stomach their unappetizing lunches, while Draco chiseled into the wooden table, 'DRACO MALFOY WAS HERE.'
! BREAK !
The afternoon came and went, the grueling regiment bordering on routine. Eventually, the new recruits were brought out and ran through the first day ritual (to the mild entertainment of the others).
After dinner, those that weren't exhausted went outside for some slow football. It was more like kicking the ball around really, since many of the wizards had never played football – still, it was an acceptable alternative in a barren wasteland with no brooms.
After encouraging Clairden and Millicent to join the wannabe footballers, Draco stood still and watched them, taking advantage of the opportunity to clear his mind before a good night's rest.
"Draco!"
Of course, Harry Potter always manage to wreck even his simplest plans; and the loud crunching of snow indicated his proximity.
"What do you want, Potter?" Draco drawled, turning around. Ugh, that Chang creature was tagging along.
Sure enough, Cho was hiding behind Harry, holding his hand. Disgust was written plainly on Draco's face, and it made Harry suddenly nervous and uncertain, forcing him to stumble on his words. "I'd just like to talk to you for a bit. You know, about things."
Disgust was replaced with shocked outrage. He must have balls of magically-reinforced steal! How dare he bring her to talk about 'things'! Clenching his gloved fists, Draco hissed, "This isn't the place either, Potter. I wouldn't talk about anything with her here."
Harry looked behind him, almost surprised to find Cho there: she had been following him around for ages it seemed, sniffling, like a beaten puppy. Her older brother had died at the Ministry the night before, but even before then she had seemed so fragile, so lost, and so utterly out of place in this war and wasteland.
Then he looked back at Draco's distorted features. The curl of his lip, and that deep scowl – Draco was almost a mirror image of his father in that moment. . .
Draco could see the drama playing out on Harry's expression, but all it did was make him impatient with the whole situation. He really didn't want to be dealing with this shit right now, he needed to just collapse into unconsciousness; so he moved away, to leave, prompting Harry to quickly call, "Later, in your tent then? Without her?"
Frustrated, and annoyed, Draco just flung over his shoulder, "I'm going to sleep, don't bother."
Determined to catch up with the blonde as quickly as possible, Harry wasted no time steering Cho to her tent and recommending rest.
"I don't want to be alone," she admitted pathetically. She knew, deep down, that there was nothing real between her and Harry, but he made her feel safe in this hellish place where people died at a distance, and where she spent her days in debilitating fear.
It had been easier to compartmentalize the fear before being hit with the cowardice spell that morning. The hex had been lifted, but not before thorough exploiting her greatest fears, and now they were raw and vulnerable, and tears swelled in her dark eyes.
Harry crumbled: Cho's crying act had long grown old, but it still managed to get to him. Reluctantly, he followed her into her tent. He put her to bed, then lay next to her and held her until she fell asleep.
! BREAK !
For the third time in as many nights, Harry woke suddenly.
Crap! He hadn't meant to drift off for so long, he wanted to talk to Draco. He quietly tugged on his robe and boots, then terminated the light before quickly leaving Cho. He ran through the biting cold to Draco's tent, where scratched on the burlap and whispered loudly, "Malfoy! Wake up!"
Draco had not lived as long as he had by being a deep sleeper: he jerked awake and reached under is pillow for his wand. "Who is it?" he demanded.
"It's Harry."
Draco rolled his eyes. Then he illuminated his quarters and rolled out of bed, padding across his cold 'floor' on bare feet. He removed the safeties from his flap and let his visitor in. Harry briefly eyed Draco, who looked quite appealing with ruffled hair, in pajama pants and a t-shirt. Compared with the thick outdoor robes that everyone generally wore, this apparel was quite revealing of the strong body it clothed.
Draco rubbed his neck. "What are you doing here? What awful thing has happened this time?"
Harry shook his head and lowered his hood. "Nothing. Well, yet anyway. I just wanted to check in, and you always seem to up around this time."
Draco stared at him incredulously. Check in!
Then suddenly, his brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed. "Whose robes are you wearing?"
Bewildered, Harry looked down at his robes. It took him a moment to realize that it was a female cut, and that it actually felt slightly more snug than his own. Glancing up at Draco, his face flushed deeply.
Draco put two and two together faster than Harry could come up with an answer, and the ball of jealousy in his gut flared so sickeningly that he could no longer ignore it. His grand plans to be unaffected by Potter were not executing too well. "You slept with her!" he accused wrathfully.
"No! Well, yes, I did. But nothing happened! We only took off our robes and laid together! She didn't want to be alone," Harry tried to defend, struggling to get the mal-fitting robe off as quickly as possible.
Distressed by how betrayed he felt, Draco backed away to put some distance between himself and the Gryffindor. He hated the feeling of jealousy. Being a Malfoy, he had wanted for nothing – save affection; when he was a child, that had meant affection from his father, and he had been jealous of all the everything that meant Father never had any time . . . except for that. "Just leave, Potter." Draco sighed. "I need to sleep."
Draco sat on his cot and glared meaningfully at Harry, clearly expecting him to make an exit. Instead, Harry slowly moved closer, as though approaching a wild animal. "Maybe I could sleep here, with you?" he suggested hopefully.
Harry had good instincts, because at that very moment Draco's eyes tracked his every movement, like any wild creature would. His muscles were tense, though that might be from chill, and was still enough to be hiding in plain sight. It was something he was quite apt at, except that it never worked because so many people were looking for Draco Malfoy.
Harry carefully sat down next to him, a little close for comfort. Draco felt so strange all sudden, and had a dreadful sense of needing to tread softly on unholy ground. He was on the edge of something terrifying; he fancied he could see exactly what Harry would do, and what would happen. . . It made him afraid. "Harry," he protested hoarsely. "This is a really bad idea. I can't –"
His words were cut off by Harry's fingers, lightly stroking his cheek; and Draco's body knew without direction how to respond to such developments –
Draco closed his eyes and leaned into Harry's caresses, trying hard to keep his mind as empty as possible. The horrible abyss, irrational and undeniable, was close, pressing against his consciousness, on the verge of breaking through and drowning him in its dark madness. Harry leaned near and Draco tried to whisper, "I'm scared," but Harry covered his lips and kissed him long and tenderly.
Harry's tongue begged entrance, and Draco's lips parted automatically to allow the wet warm probing. It was slow, almost enjoyable; so much less demanding than Father even at his gentlest. For a moment he was distracted and tempted by these dark thoughts, but was pulled back by the genuinely enjoyable experience of Harry nibbling softly on his neck and ear.
"Draco," Harry mumbled in his ear, breath warm and earnest and sexy, "We don't have to do anything, we can just sleep."
Draco didn't believe that for a second. How many times was Father going to tell him to just go to sleep? WHY! So he could wake up getting molested! No way!
But Draco wasn't seven anymore, he was healthy (save for a couple acute hang-ups), sixteen year old male: his body was aroused by Harry's attentions. Graceful without even trying, he pressed himself up against Harry, as he had against Father as a child when he had craved attention, any attention.
Sitting on the bed as they were, this was an awkward position, so Harry maneuvered them so that they lay next to each other on the cot. Propped up on his elbow he gazed worriedly at the intense, unreadable expression of the gorgeous, uncharacteristically complacent boy before him. "Are you okay?" he asked genuinely, though his baritone betrayed his own arousal.
Draco nodded, but he knew it wasn't true; he wasn't okay, and yet he kept on, as though his goddamn autopilot was on goddamn autodestruct.
He licked his lips nervously, inhaling raggedly. It was enough provocation for Harry to kiss him again, leaning their bodies together as he did so. Draco breathed in suddenly as Harry's knee came into firm contact with his hard-on, and he could feel Harry smile against his lips. Shifting his weight, Harry draped himself on top of Draco, pushing his own erection along the firm thigh.
Draco closed his eyes tightly and abruptly gripped onto Harry for dear life, his body tensing and trembling against the horrors that had suddenly attacked his mind.
The humid panting in his ear, the trespassing touch on his child's skin; sweaty and too hot, suffocating the mind and body. . .
It felt good now, but it was going hurt soon –
A singly salty tear squeezed through the tight clamp of his eyelids. Memories that he couldn't bare to dwell on suddenly dwelt on him, dragging him through haunting and humiliating experiences that tortured him in a way they never had when he was just a little boy. Panic swelled up in his gut. . .
! BREAK !
It took a moment for Harry to realize that something really was wrong, even after Draco's fingers curled into a death-grip on his sweater. It was the trembling that tipped him off. . .
Face buried in Harry's neck, Draco whisper was muffled, but Harry made it out all the same, "Father."
Harry jerked away, prying Draco's hands off his shirt. Upset, and worried, and angry, he jumped to his feet and moved to the corner of the tent so that he could stare powerfully at the canvas for an extreme instant. The focus exercise (courtesy of Snape, ironically enough) helped a little, and he braced himself as he turned back around.
Draco was gone.
Well, it gave him a mild, unappreciated adrenaline rush, but Harry could hear faint whimpers, and the scratch of movement against the canvas floor. He approached the cot, then bent over to look under it.
In Harry's tent this space was taken up by drawers, but here Draco had scrunched up into a feotal ball. The sight tore at Harry's heart, and the signs finally fell into place: the constant edginess, the avoidance, the flashbacks, the attacks. It was Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. PTSD. Sirius had suffered from the same symptoms for many months after escaping Azkaban. Harry had only witnessed a couple, but it was enough.
"Draco. . ." he called soothingly, laying on the floor so that he could reach under the cot and lightly stroke his back. "Draco, come on out."
Draco. Come on out.
An eternity away, those words echoed in corners of Draco's mind, ignored as thought obsessed with his trauma like a child picking at a scab.
Why did it hurt so much! It was just the past! Those times, those brief encounters in a childhood deprived of affection – those were some of his most cherished memories, weren't they!
The conflict was bittersweet agony. . .
. . . Draco. You're okay now. Everything's okay. . .
! END CHAPTER !
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