A/N: Chapter warnings for; explicit language, aftermath of torture, post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), description of injury.

We are currently experimenting a little on update schedules, and update days, so the next update would be on a sunday instead of saturday. Sorry for the one day extra wait!

Next update on 1st November, Sunday.

Chapter Eighteen: We murdered God

"God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers?..."

_ Friedrich Nietzsche (The gay science, Die fröhliche Wissenschaft)

...

There is a very delicate, willowy edge that separates Harry's mind from utter hysteria. And at the moment, Harry is standing on that edge, gazing into the endless wasteland that seems to go on, and on and on with nothing else in sight.

Then, it's time to change Draco's bandages again, Harry has to leave the rusty, cranking edge, and wring out a pink tinted rag to clean the blonde's wounds. Draco grumbles, Harry ignores said grumbles, and drops the rag back in the bowl, then he blinks his eyes to the edge once again.

He is standing leeward, and the wind is beating at him from behind, but Harry doesn't turn to see. He looks hysteria in the face, chuckles a bit out of sheer nerves and then blinks once more. Time to change the bandages, again.

These intervals, while appearing dull to a simple, narrow-minded person, sums up a real struggle for Harry, who cannot quite yet believe that he is not about to die, not about to be tortured, and also not about to bring doom to those he loves.

Snape saved them. He actually risked his place, dragged Harry and Draco out of their death pits and hurled them into a roaring fireplace instead. Well, at least they're alive. He's not sure the same can be said about Draco's Dad. He cannot believe he would ever regard said boy's dad with anything akin to… what… fondness? Pity?

Moody was sort of amiable to him. He has already left, but he'd been softer. And the nerve damage is permanent. And he said no one escapes Bellatrix sane. Harry feels those words etched in his bones.

It's a very tangled mess of emotions that Harry cannot handle. Not whilst he's only a step away from spiralling into irrational panic. His body is already having a disco on its own, he really doesn't need his mind joining the noodle party.

The cottage is by the sea, Harry notices all that blue enveloping the bottom half of the dusted windows as he's in one of those intervals, and has just finished wrapping Draco's shoulder.

The sound is nice, albeit a bit distant, Harry can still hear the crashing waves distinctly, even once he's back on the edge, and the howling wind drowns out the majority of other sounds and feelings.

In addition to the newfound sea, Harry has so eloquently discovered, the walls also have embedded sea shells into them, or at least, they have the impression of being embedded by real sea shells, Harry hasn't got up from the bed to check. He's just idly sitting next to Draco on the bed, his back protesting every second of his idle lounging, as his hands take their own vibe. In the most literal, and ironic sense of the word.

In Harry's game, 'Had everything gone right in his life', Harry imagines this being a casual sleepover. He imagines Ron and Hermione downstairs, probably arguing over food, imaginary Remus, who is now semi-attached to imaginary Sirius, just chilling in the water as imaginary Sirius himself finally puts that Hawaiian shirt to use, and sunbaths. Like a real vacation.

Harry doesn't shake like a rattlesnake, and Draco is just a really heavy sleeper. No one's dead. Or about to die. No one's bleeding to death, and no one is shaking all over like a worm during a mating call ritual.

Do worms even do that? Harry doesn't fucking care. He's one, tiny, step away from crying, and laughing and screaming, and crying some more.

He's alive. Draco is also alive.

He cannot fit that into the tiny and yet vast space in his head. Deep down, even in his cell, Harry knew that there was a tiny chance of survival, he even told Draco as such. But now that they're here, and Harry is alive, and so is Draco, however barely, he cannot seem to comprehend the repercussions of his own words.

During the next bandage change, before Harry can rid his own blood tinged hands from the pink hue, or discard of the damp rag, Draco's grumbling gets louder, and after Harry throws him a curious glance that's brimming over the edges with amusement, the boy's eyelids twitch. Draco is sure a talker. If only what he said in his sleep made any sense.

Then, Draco's eyes peel open, to find Harry intensely staring into his. They widen a fraction, take in Harry's manic smirk, and denote the surroundings before slowly rolling back to Harry. Wordlessly taking him in.

"I would love to say 'I told you so', but it seems wildly inappropriate in this situation," Harry says and the smirk transforms into a face splitting grin, only very slightly false.

"What the-"

Draco sees, as he blinks his eyes open to the irritating light, a halo of mangled hair and glasses.

He only stares, takes in Harry's face, framed by a halo of light as the other boy smirks at him, and for one hysterical moment, Draco actually thinks that he's dead, and he's in heaven, with Potter, shining under the glittering light.

Then he's slammed with the bitter truth, that firstly, if he were dead, he wouldn't be in this much pain, and Harry's hands wouldn't also be drenched in what Draco hopes is Draco's blood, and not the atrocious cuts on his own hand. The bed wouldn't creak either. And above all those small nitpicks…Who in their right mind would put Draco in anything resembling heaven?

The answer is a solid no. The only upside is, as Draco looks around the small, bleached room, with pale dusty walls and shells, he realises the lack of dungeon walls surrounding them. There are sea shells in the wall.

His eyes turn back to Harry, who is still grinning at him, his left cheek indented by a tiny dimple, as his toes lightly dig into Draco's side.

"I would love to say 'I told you so', but it seems wildly inappropriate in this situation," the smirk turns into a grin, and Harry leans into him. Draco's first thought is to scramble away but turns out that Potter is only shifting his legs, and the digging toes are gone.

"What the-"

Harry waits for him to finish his sentence, but Draco is out of words.

They're alive.

"We're not in the Manor?"

Harry shakes his head. The grin is still there. "No."

"We're alive."

"How much do you actually remember?"

Draco remembers a lot of things. But he's also aware that he had a very high fever while experiencing the majority of the things he thought he had experienced, so either they escaped on a camel's back while a bear fought off Rosier, or Draco needs to clear up those memories. In short, he's treading deep waters here.

"Severus," he starts, "He came for us. And you couldn't walk-" Harry's hair bobs as the boy nods his head, and Draco has the most irritating urge to battle the messy strands back in place. They're just all over the place.

"And-" and Father.

Draco's head drops, and he looks down at his bandaged chest and shoulder. He doesn't think about what may lay under the thick white gauze, he also doesn't think about the implications of his father's actions. He aided in their escape but didn't come along.

His father would never see the light of the sun again. Draco pointedly avoids thinking of such fate. Of how that bastard would flick his wand and torture his father, how he'd writhe and scream on their marble floors, just like Mother. But this time, alone. Without the comfort of knowing that his son was there with him in his last moments.

Draco hates himself for feeling even slightly relieved. Relieved that he wouldn't have to witness his father's death like he did with Mother. He wouldn't be able to take it. He knows he won't.

"Draco?" Harry's quiet voice cuts into his thoughts, and Draco looks up. Potter stares into his eyes as if he knows exactly what Draco is thinking about.

"Your father was very proud of you," he says. "I'm sure… I'm sure he's glad you're okay now."

Draco wants to scoff, hit Potter, and then punch some sense and logic into the other boy. No, Malfoys aren't glad, they're not self sacrificing, they're self aware. All his life, Draco's parents insisted on such principles. And just like that, when it came down to keeping Draco safe, they threw it all into the wind. As if it meant nothing.

His entire upbringing has been a sham. His parents are dead because of said sham and Draco doesn't need to hear Harry James Potter with his irritatingly messy hair to tell him it's okay. It's not okay. Father and Mother are dead. Severus might as well be. Draco is… disfigured.

Disfigured by a werewolf.

"Sloths can hold their breath longer than dolphins," Harry blurts out and just like before, the chaos in Draco's head clears, dissipates into thin air and draws to a perfect, incredulous blank.

He looks at Potter while processing his quite random, however carefully blurted words. Does Harry know that he has that effect on him? The ability to clear Draco's mind into a clean, blank slate?

"They can?"

Harry nods, then his gaze drops to the coppery looking bowl of water next to them, and he abruptly decides to get rid of it. Draco sees the way his hands shake as he plops the bowl on the nightstand. Harry sits next to him once more, the sound of waves are louder, and a small growling can be heard from the sky.

No rain yet, Draco can tell. It's just going to be a thunderstorm.

"Which is funny considering that Dolphins need it more," Harry says after a beat, his body a warm bundle near Draco's chilled body. It feels surreal. And Draco has the inexplicable urge to lean into the warmth as the rumbles grow and the sky lights up with a booming thunder.

"Maybe they're just too lazy to breathe," he says instead, and wiggles his toes under the thick covers. They're about the only thing that currently don't hurt.

"Do you want me to close the window?" Harry asks as another lightning rattles the glass. He doesn't look particularly peeved or cold, and Draco shakes his head.

"It's fine. I like the sound."

"Have you ever noticed how it smells? Edgy and… electric?" Harry stares at him earnest and Draco finds himself nodding anyway, in spite of being absolutely clueless. Harry seems to know what he's talking about though and smiles.

"So, Snape is coming back with supplies a few days from now. He left us potions and there's food. We cannot leave this place, or send letters."

"My shoulder," it hurts.

"He said it'll be fine. He's gonna take a look at it later, I'm sure. Are you tired like I am?"

"I'm exhausted." Draco admits, sinking back into his pillows.

"Good." Harry says as he lies down next to him, still an arms length away, and barely enough to lay his head on a pillow. "I was secretly hoping you wouldn't be hungry, because I don't want to go downstairs alone." Then he pauses. "Is that irrational?"

"Not at all."

Harry hums and closes his eyes, lips curving in a smile that might have been out of place but just looks peaceful on his face.

Draco sighs, "Yeah, you did tell me so."

Harry's eyes snap open and he looks confused for a second, "Wha-" then he cuts himself off, "Oh. Yeah, I am ridiculously lucky. It's getting eerie, really."

"Or unlucky,"

"Glass half empty much?" Harry laughs lightly.

"Well, we did get captured first. And then rescued," Draco huffs, twisting his fingers in the blanket. "Besides, better to expect nothing and be pleasantly surprised than expect and be disappointed."

Harry's laugh teeters off and he sighs, "I guess."

Something about Harry's expression bugs Draco, so he adds, "But hey, we are both alive and right now and you aren't getting tortured, right?" That probably wasn't the best thing to say.

"Yeah, alive." Harry murmurs, lifting his hands. And Draco, irrationally rears back in bed, making pain flare up in his shoulder and torso, and his vision blanks out for a second.

When he opens his eyes he sees Harry looking at him with his mouth slightly open, hand still outstretched a little in front of him, but not touching. He is half sitting up now. "Draco, I-"

"I know," Draco mumbles, flushing as he gingerly arranges himself in a position which hurts the least. Harry still looks concerned but doesn't try to touch him. Draco notices his hands are shaking almost violently.

"Didn't Severus give you a nerve soother?"

Harry bites his lips and shakes his head, "We have them in the supplies closet, and I…" There is a downtrodden look on his face as he says, "I did take one a few hours ago."

For a second Draco wonders if he took the wrong Potion, but Severus is meticulous with his labelling and organisation, even Harry couldn't have had it wrong. Why do his hands still shake so much, then?

"Snape said the damage is permanent." Harry's voice is so low that Draco has to strain to hear it. Draco knows that, of course. Nerve damage. But knowing it and actually having it confirmed, seeing it himself, is another thing entirely. Especially when most of the damage was done right in front of his eyes.

"If you change the minced unicorn hair for a centaur's, you'll get molten chocolate instead of a cleansing potion," he blurts out.

"Really?" Harry looks taken aback.

Draco gives a shaky laugh, "Yeah. I once botched a potion when I was eleven, but when Severus confirmed that it was actual edible chocolate, I can't say I was too disappointed."

Harry chuckles, "Must have been nice, having a cauldron full of molten chocolate."

"Sure was. I ate it all in one day flat. Mother…" Draco blinks, but continues, "Wasn't pleased." Harry winces, Draco tries to ignore it and says, "Not that she could really do anything about the chocolate I'd already eaten. I couldn't eat the stuff for months after that incident."

Harry's hands are splayed flat on the covers, still trembling. Draco tries to ignore that too. His mother never got to live long enough to see the symptoms of her nerve damage.

Draco looks around, the windows are still rattling with the force of the storm outside. He shifts his attention towards the mutlicoloured shells in the walls, and the jingling sounds of a wind chime being rustled violently.

"So, where are we?"

"Snape didn't say, but I'm calling this Shell Cottage." Harry shrugs.

Draco snorts, "Fitting."

"They're pretty." Harry says, his eyes flicking over the wall Draco was staring at.

"Are all the walls like this?" he asks, and Harry shrugs again, "More or less. Except the bathroom. That's tiled."

"Speaking of bathrooms. We stink,"

"Very eloquently put, Malfoy,"

"Seriously, Harry. Can we shower?"

Harry bites his lip. "Are you sure you can shower by yourself?"

"I'm sure I'll manage, I think the bandages need to be changed anyway."

"It's at the end of the hall. I really didn't look around much. I was mostly here. I'll help you there."

"Right," Draco says, and hopes he doesn't sound as nervous as he feels. It's absolutely ridiculous, it's just Harry. And it's just a short walk down the hall.

"Then maybe we can have dinner, after I have showered too. I lied. I'm actually really hungry."

Draco snorts again and painstakingly starts getting up. Harry moves suddenly, as if to help him up, but pauses last second, his hands hovering uncertainly. Draco grits his teeth and reaches out with his uninjured arm and grips Harry's shoulder.

Swinging his legs off the bed, Draco sits up more or less straight, but his hands are now gripping Harry's forearms. Grimacing, Draco subtly leans away a little, but doesn't relinquish his grip.

"Are you sure you'll be able to shower?" Harry asks, concern lining his face.

"I'm fine, Potter." Draco snaps, feeling useless as he struggles to his feet, only to have his knees buckle and plop back down on the bed. "Alright, I'm- I'm not fine. Just, give me a minute."

"Take all the time you want, I'm not going anywhere."

"Right," Draco murmurs before trying to stand again, this time he doesn't crumple again. Harry's hands provide a more or less steady anchor even as they shake. As soon as he can, Draco releases one of Harry's arms, righting himself on as little contact as possible.

Putting one leg in front of the other takes a lot more concentration than it should, but he manages with minimal staggering. After the first few steps, he also lets go of Harry's other arm and takes support of the wall. He starts making for the bathroom with Harry following closely behind. He manages to cover the last few steps without any support, even from the wall, and feels ridiculously proud of himself.

His shoulder hurts, in an awfully persistent throb, and he presses his lips together. Shooing Harry away, he opens the door with his leg, not willing to move his arms as they pull at the cuts on his torso. Harry looks like he wants to come inside with him but a scowl from Draco sends him hurrying downstairs.

Stripping is… harder than he'd thought it would be. Then again, walking was harder than he'd thought too. In the end, Draco manages not to completely embarrass his family name by howling like a small child as he peels the sticky bandages off his chest and shoulder.

His family name, as if that means anything anymore. Draco rolls his eyes at himself as he looks around the small bathroom, surveying the white frail looking shower curtain, and the porcelain tub. In spite of his better judgment, he heads to the shower, avoiding the mirror installed between the two cupboards to turn on the tap.

The shower protests a bit with a low cringe before sputtering to a steady stream, at first freezing cold, but eventually warm enough for Draco's standards. He limps under the water and sags under the comforting pressure on his back.

He stands there longer than should be allowed, Harry is supposed to use the shower after him, and Draco isn't cruel enough to use all the hot water. He doesn't know whether there's a magical heat generator supporting the plumbing in this place.

His godfather's hideout, as it happens. It's… less elegant, than Draco would have thought. For a person like his godfather, with ridiculously high standards that sometimes even exasperated Draco's parents, the man seems to be content enough with the rusty basin and shells in the walls.

It is well stocked at least. Draco thinks as he curses under his breath, trying to bend to pick up a fallen shampoo. It smells of vanilla extract and some herb that Draco cannot recognise. Probably Severus's own brew.

A smirk tugs at his lips as he awkwardly squirts a small amount on his palm, and starts washing his hair with his uninjured arm, his injured shoulder lying limp by his side as Draco awkwardly rinses and repeats the process two more times.

Three days without a proper wash had not been doing his hair or skin any favors.

By the time he's holding a washcloth, he's busy musing about the time his parents had first taken him to Diagon Alley for ice cream- at the tender age of five, the earliest he can recall, he had the biggest chocolate orange scoop of his life- much to his father's horror, it's a fond memory, and Draco chuckles, if only for a beat before he realises what would become of his father.

He knew what he was doing. Draco is one hundred percent sure of that. Malfoys rarely did anything out of mere impulse. He himself hadn't started helping Potter on an impulse. His father hadn't risked his life to save him on an impulse.

But that raises another question, if his father had done this out of meticulous planning and Slytherin strategies, with the outcome plastered clearly to the front of his mind the whole time… why him? Why him and not mother?

That's not fair. If father had the guts to stand up against the Dark Lord, why not do it when his wife was on the line?

Draco stifles the image, snuffs it out of his mind and starts to roughly scrub his skin to a pink, heated hue that's pruned under the steaming water. He has no idea how long he has been standing there. He's honestly starting to feel a bit dizzy. But he soldiers on, and finally after what seems like forever, turns the tap off.

He moves towards where the towels are piled up, grabbing one and ever so slowly patting down his body, mindful of his injuries.

Then he makes the mistake of looking up.

His reflection stares back.

For a very minuscule moment which also stretches out an eternity, Draco can't recognize himself. He refuses to recognize the reflection as himself. Even in the throes of grief after his mother had been murdered, Draco hadn't looked this bad.

His face is gaunt, thinner than ever. And the dark circles under his eyes look like someone punched him. His lips are blanched of all colour and his skin is just short of ashen. But that's not the worst of all.

Of course, he knows that his face is disfigured, for Merlin's sake, he'd felt the deep etched pain which still hasn't really abated. But feeling and looking are two different things.

It's ugly, a thick red line gouging his skin from below his eye and stretching down to his jaw. His torso is worse. Two jagged lines where Greyback's claws had raked through him. Draco shudders and closes his eyes, as if it could stop the onslaught of memories and sensation. He wraps his hands around his abdomen and ignores the stinging. And when he tightens his arms, pain flares up in his shoulder and he gasps, eyes flying open.

He is in Shell Cottage with Harry.

Greyback isn't here.

He breathes.

Really, his torso would be scarred worse than his face. And his face could have been much worse. He shouldn't get to complain. After all, there were glamours to cover up the worst of it.

But he knew he can't hide behind a glamour forever.

With a last shuddering breath, Draco tears his gaze away from the mirror and the unfamiliar boy in it.

There are a lot of things in the pantry, Harry finds. Things that shouldn't have survived that long in a pantry for sure. Milk, and eggs and neat little packets of magically frozen meat aside, Harry actually finds fresh fruits and vegetables, also under a preservation spell. And by the looks of things, the pantry itself has been magically tempered too. Harry honestly couldn't see the end of it beyond the abundance of food and raw materials all crammed in there.

As he grips the edge of the dust coated cupboards, Harry purses his lips for a beat before blindly reaching and bringing out a few ingredients for a quick meal, mashed potatoes and some chicken. Maybe a salad. Harry barely stops himself from gorging on the fruit and vegetables and allows himself one small apple, as he closes the pantry and surveys the ingredients.

He cannot bundle them all up in his arms. He has to make the trip to the kitchen table and the cupboard at least twice, because if he shakes too much and any of the packets fall, Harry might as well fall down next to them.

Draco comes in, clad in an unfamiliar set of clothes that Harry hadn't seen before, but assumes that he must have found them in the closets or something. Draco doesn't look at him, he looks awfully cross and Harry isn't feeling much better.

He works around the boy in utter silence, clenching his hands repeatedly before retrieving things, to only momentarily stop the trembling so he can hold things like a normal person.

Not that he is, by anyone's standards, a normal person. Now he's an invalid too.

He eyes the potatoes with suspicion as he wields the knife. 'I'm going to peel your skin off,' he thinks with the tiniest amount of glee as he holds the small brown kissed potato in his hands.

The potato innocently stares back and Harry scoffs, putting the edge of the sharpened knife on the skin, then he presses the blade onto the potato, moves the knife down...all the way to his finger.

With a hiss Harry drops the bloodied knife, startling a pensive Draco as he clutches his cut finger, glaring at the potato with uncharacteristic malice.

'You little shit,'

A moment of silence passes between him and the potato, with Draco just staring from the sidelines as Harry picks up the knife once more and attacks the potato again. And again. And again.

"Harry,"

Three neat cuts line the exact same finger as Harry bears it in an agitated silence. He drops the knife, and grips the bloodied potato with vigor.

The potato is infuriatingly still, albeit now covered in an exaggerated amount of blood. The little fucker seems to be basking in it.

Harry is essentially battling one potato. And he's losing.

"Maybe you should-" Draco starts.

"Fuck you," Harry growls and attacks it with a knife again, this time utterly uncaring as the knife nicks his fingers in the process. Draco watches on in engrossed silence, his eyes wary and his mouth slightly open. Harry drops the bloody, now bare potato into a bowl, then smirks at it.

"Guess who's getting boiled," he mutters aloud, quite accidentally as it happens, and Draco abruptly stands, his chair scratching on the tiles. Harry looks up at him.

"That's it," Draco says, advancing on him to seize his injured hand. "I'm not watching this blood bath anymore. Come on."

Harry protests. "I'm making us mashed potatoes."

"With fingers on the side." Draco firmly but gently toys the kitchen knife out of his hand and takes Harry's hand to the basin. "I've tolerated this enough."

"I'm gonna shower in a moment anyway." Harry rolls his eyes. "I also would have washed the potatoes."

"Your finger cuts are bleeding way too much. That's a recurring problem, else that potato wouldn't be bathed in your blood." Draco positions Harry's limp hand under the tap and turns it on.

"Huh." Harry hadn't known how much his hand was stinging until the cool water soothes it, "I guess so yeah."

"Does it always happen? When you cut something?"

"No. Not at all. This is recent." Harry's voice is a bitter mutter as Draco looks at him with unconvinced eyes, before sighing.

Harry watches as Draco holds his hand under the cool but tapering stream of water. They stand there for about three minutes before Draco calls it quits.

"I'm getting you some bandages. Hold it there, and don't touch the knife," Draco warns, looking like he's afraid Harry would take the knife and start chopping off his own fingers any second.

"I'm not a child, you know," Harry yanks his hand away, cradling it against his chest. His fingers feel stiff and his arm is aching up to the elbow. They're still shaking.

"Just don't bleed to death while I'm gone," Draco shakes his head and turns to leave. It's imperceptible, but Draco is still walking a little stiffly, gingerly. Harry thinks about calling him back, to make him sit and rest, but by then Draco is gone from his sight and Harry is too tired to bother.

Harry thinks that perhaps he's been too passionate about the potato as he looks down at his pink hands and the stinging cuts. In his pursuit to feel normal for no more than a minute, Harry has turned into a psychotic asshole. He slumps down in a chair, elbows on the table as he leans on it.

Draco returns with a vial and a muggle looking first aid kit, making Harry raise his eyebrows. Draco waves his hand, "I assume you'd know how to use this stuff." Setting it down on the table and opening it, he hands Harry the vial. "When is Severus coming? He should-"

"I'm fine." Harry is getting irritated. Shaking, cutting, what was next? Paralysis?

"I was making dinner," bloody potatoes.

"Maybe we should have something lighter tonight," Draco remarks lightly as he starts taking out stuff from the kit, before Harry stops him and rummages around for the bandaids.

Draco sends him a questioning look, so Harry answers while peeling one open, "They're like small pieces of gauze with a light sticking charm."

Draco looks reluctantly impressed as he follows Harry and gently places two more bandages on some of the deeper cuts.

Then sense kicks in, Harry looks down at his tattered shirt, realizing for the first time since they've arrived in this place, that he's still in the clothes he was tortured in, still carrying the remains of a cell. It looks awful, especially with the gory scene of blood on it now. It smells worse.

He drinks the blood replenishing potion. Tastes like shit.

He exchanges an awkward nod with a miffed Draco and silently heads out of the kitchen.

Harry ends up taking that shower.