A/N: Chapter warnings for; explicit language, violence, self-harm (mentioned/referenced), war, and get some tissues.
Thanks a world to our beta! We hope you like this chapter everyone!
Next Update: Friday, September 17th
We decided to switch to weekly updates since there is only one chapter and an epilogue left of this instalment. We're working on the sequel :)
Chapter Forty one
Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing
and rightdoing there is a field.
I'll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass
the world is too full to talk about.
-Rumi
…
"Hurry, Draco," the hand urged him forward just a little bit, and Draco struggled to keep up with the man's pace. His feet dragged on the cobblestones and he felt a bit queasy.
"But I'm tired," he whined, it was quite true, he'd only just gotten off that horrid bus, trying not to puke. His parents would never have gotten onto such a vehicle. But Severus wasn't his parents, and he hadn't wanted to apparate after Draco had just eaten. The five sugar wands that Draco's parents really wouldn't have approved of.
Severus rolled his eyes, before pausing as he turned to Draco, "We're almost there," he said and glanced down at the letter in his hand, "at least I think so."
"I want to rest"
"My appointment is only going to last for so long so you need to-" then he groaned, closing his eyes, "Who am I talking to-" he bent and picked Draco off the ground, settling him on his hip as he picked up speed again, a fairly impressive feat seeing as Draco was almost seven, and quite healthy for his age. Not so easy to fling around and carry anymore.
Still, his godfather's adrenaline-issued anxiety pulled it off nicely. He walked, frantically darting his eyes around at the gloomy stone walls as they rushed from one street to another.
Draco, too young to fully understand the purpose but old enough to decipher Severus cursing his parents out under his breath, comprehended the urgency of this outing.
He'd rarely seen the man so hurried. It gave him a little piece of thrill too. He loved being in on a secret. And this felt like a secret.
When he had shown up to take Draco for the day, he'd given very explicit instructions to the young boy beforehand.
"Where we're going today is quite important, Draco," he'd said, helping Draco into his boots, mother and father had already departed for the day, "You need to be on your best behaviour."
Draco, of course, had readily agreed with a roll of his eyes. He knew the drill. As long as he behaved, Severus got to teach him things his parents didn't approve of.
Last week, he taught Draco how to extract salamander venom with an actual potion's knife.
"Of all days to babysit, shit…" Severus muttered, biting his lip, and scrutinizing the small village they'd found themselves in. The old cobblestoned houses stood in rows, several of them had tiny neat gardens attached to them, and some had little wreaths hung on their walls. Their houses—if they could even be called as such— were tiny. Slightly bigger than the flats he'd seen in Diagon alley, but still.
"Mother says cursing is wrong," Draco pompously said, gripping Severus' shoulder as the man shifted from one spot to the other.
"It's also wrong to tattle," Severus muttered, not really paying attention, his eyes fixed on one of the less conspicuous houses. The third one from their right.
Severus sighed, rubbing his eyes with his free hand, "They all look the same," he closed his eyes and groaned, "I don't understand why he insists on living here."
"Why?"
"In a nondescript muggle village when he could be—."
"Who?"
Severus glanced down at Draco, and then started striding towards the house he'd been eyeing. It was a little grey flat, with a wooden, carved door. All the windows were curtained.
"Here," he sighed again, this time in relief.
"Before we go, what are the rules?"
"Be polite, no cursing and play quietly in the corner," Draco rattled off.
"And I'll get you that bumblebee toy you've wanted as a reward. And?"
Draco grinned eagerly, bouncing in Severus' arms. He tightened his grip, "Don't tell mother and father."
"Good boy. Alright."
Severus cleared his throat, slowly settled Draco back down and approached the door. Knocking twice, he said, "The potion, that needs to be alternatively stirred counterclockwise for two hours lest it'll turn sour, is the moonstone poison."
Draco watched as Severus' breath hitched and the door creaked open.
With a stoic face, Severus extended a hand for Draco to take.
And Draco remembers quite vividly the most belly-rounded old man he's seen in his entire life, looming above him.
"Hello, Severus."
They've been walking for a few hours now, and Draco keeps looking around. That spark of recognition lighting his face every few seconds. Sometimes confusion.
Harry can't concentrate on his surroundings, he can't even concentrate on where he's stepping. Twice already Draco had to save him from tripping. And everytime Draco's hands touch him, swinging side by side, Harry's face heats up.
He keeps imagining it, last night. He's never felt that way with anyone, not even himself. Especially not himself. Draco's face, hands, and lips. His eyes, bright and only on him. The warmth and the peace.
Draco's hand on… Well. Harry swallows the squeal stuck in his throat. The bliss, the freaking pleasure, it had all overloaded his senses to a point, that even thinking seemed useless. He couldn't even move his legs afterwards.
He never knew it could feel this good.
He's never imagined it being like this. Of course, he's heard the filthy talks going around the dorm. Some, even Ron indulged in from time to time. Talks about hot girls, and messy sex in the quidditch locker rooms, and why a lubricant charm never beats the real thing, and of course Dean and Seamus never made their sexual exploits a secret.
Seamus, before acting like a total asshole, used to jokingly call Dean's hands 'the whisperer'. Harry never understood that. He does now.
It's always been so vague to him, and crude and unattainable. He's never been quite obsessed with sex the same way his peers had been. So he just never put in an effort to understand the slang and in the midst of that terrifying bubble he could never be a part of, never participated in the discussions.
He was just a watcher. A standby.
Well, he purses his lips together, just to stifle the stupid grin threatening to take over his face, not anymore. He gets the obsession now, the pleasure, it's quite addictive.
He wants to take Draco's hands now, trace every little ridge, and line, lace their fingers together. He's already memorised every bit of his hands, he could recognise it blind, now. And still, he wants to hold it. Never let go. His skilled, adroit, knowledgeable hands.
"I think we're almost there, now," Draco says, and Harry startles, flushing. Had Draco said anything before this? He'd been too busy staring to pay attention. He hates how dazed he is but he can't help it. He's acting like a hormonal teenage fool. Which to be honest, he is, but still.
His fingers press on his lips, which look and feel normal now, not kiss bruised like last night. All evidence is gone. The sensitivity, the sting.
He knows if he were to shift that collar, he'd see some dark bruises on there. So meticulously put there by design.
Bruises that didn't magically appear, not like the scratches, and the weird small injuries all over him lately. Not like the faint scratches on his hands, and his tender, wrapped nails.
He figures that it must have happened when he did away with the mirror in the motel's bathroom, and he's just forgotten about it. It's been happening recently, and Harry honestly doesn't want to waste any time thinking about it.
They have more important things to deal with right now.
Harry shivers, and swallows, forcing himself to nod, even though he's already forgotten what Draco had said. He can't tell whether it's the thrill or this stupid thing that's been going on lately.
"-Oh and I remember that road, Severus was going absolutely bonkers..."
Harry might have missed quite a bit more than he thought.
"So if you've seen him before…" He swallows, "He remembers you too?"
Draco pauses for a moment, and then quickly nods, "Hmm I suppose so, yes."
Harry squeezes his hand, his breath catching.
"Okay."
He doesn't question it. He's tired of questioning it. He just wants to be with Draco, no matter how or when or where.
He smiles at him.
He remembers this place, how the air had been too warm, the sun too bright, and Severus too hurried. The memory is smudged around the edges, overshadowed by the much more joyous memory of finally getting that bumblebee toy Severus had promised, but he remembers enough. Enough to know they're on the right track.
It's not much farther than here, just a few… he's not sure.
He'll recognise the village when they get there, though. He's sure of that. It had been one of the most peculiar villages he'd seen, the type you'd read about in fairytales. With old, stone cobbled cottages, and the ever-present smell of moss. Dreamy place.
And garishly muggle.
Later, he'd been told by Severus, that while this was the place Slughorn lived in, there had also been other landholdings in several places. A few just for the extravagant parties he held. Draco hopes Valentina's information still applied, because if Slughorn isn't here, then-
Draco shakes his head, trying to dislodge the thought. He HAD to be there, he had to. Slughorn is their only hope, the only way he can help Harry. Otherwise, otherwise it'd be all for nothing. And he can't bear thinking that.
He's gripping Harry's hand, almost supporting his weight. At the start, Harry had been the strong one, more used to manual labour, to walking. Now, Draco could keep going for far longer than Harry, despite the exhaustion, the starvation, the sleep deprivation. His legs just seem to threaten to give away at random intervals, and Harry seems even more frustrated by it than he is.
He watches with a hawk's eyes, everything seems familiar, but in the same instance, it's all extremely foreign. It's a warped version of deja vu, except he's already been here. It's not a feeling, but dredges of old memories. Seven years old, and everything had looked so big, even lifted up, and held by Severus. The world felt overwhelmingly large.
Everything looks so small and mundane now, worse than before. His parents' voices echo in the back of his head, the reproaches about muggles, and filthy living, and stealing, growing steadily quieter the longer they stay on the run. They're nothing more than faint whispers.
He walks and spots that one house with the overgrown garden. It seems to have worsened over the years. As if no one's living there. Ivy climbing over the walls, bushes so thick he could imagine a whole hoard of monsters nestling beneath, large pots cracked under the weight of enormous plants.
But it's not the house he's been looking for. It's the one which is two doors down this one. The carved wooden door is the same as before, but the windows aren't curtained. They're boarded up.
Fuck.
Draco's heart claws up to his throat. He's there, he tells himself firmly. He's still there. He has to be.
"Draco?"
Draco realises that he's started shaking, and looks at Harry. His eyes are wide and questioning, and he doesn't know what house they need to go to. He doesn't see the boarded-up windows, not yet. He doesn't even see the house.
Draco squares his shoulders and tugs Harry along over to that house. There's dust gathering around the front porch, and a stack of muggle newspapers slowly rotting away. The door handle is rusted. Draco clears his throat and knocks once. Twice.
There had been a password, some code, that Severus had spoken.
He doesn't remember it now.
"Draco, are you sure this is the right house?" Harry asks tentatively. After they've waited in silence for too long.
"I'm sure," Draco croaks out, then coughs, and repeats himself, louder and clearer, "I'm sure."
"It doesn't look like anyone's living here," Harry says sceptically, and Draco marvels at how calm he looks. How can he not be crumbling inside? The only hope they had, the only thing that had kept them from giving up on their way, the destination, the reason they hadn't just been wandering aimlessly.
Boarded up inside an abandoned house.
"I know that," he snaps, and then immediately winces, "Sorry, sorry. It's just…"
Harry stuns him, with his thumb, sliding up Draco's wrist and settling on his pulse, exactly in the fashion Draco had done for him, the night prior.
Draco breathes and kisses Harry on the side of his head. It'll be fine. He'll think of something.
"We're here," Harry tells him, resolute.
It's comforting if anything. But Draco can't help it.
He can't take the image out of his head, nearly a dozen death eaters, perched behind the barred door. Waiting for them. Valentina and Bella and the others. Waiting their turn for a go at Harry again. Draco deeply inhales, looks at Harry and then nods again.
"It's just…" he turns his back to the door, "It could just be a trick. Deception. The boarded-up windows and all."
The chance is so minuscule, but he's right. He knows he's right. It's entirely possible that this is a charade, to warn off Ministry pests and death eaters. All of whom work for the dark lord anyways.
"Maybe he doesn't want to be disturbed. You know the Ministry has been taken over, they're monitoring everyone."
"... it has?" Harry's voice is small, and Draco turns to look at him, slightly alarmed at the change.
"What?"
"The Ministry, it's been taken over? How do you know that?"
"I-" Draco flounders, he's told this to Harry, right? He must have, why else would they not be using magic then?
If the Ministry workers could get to them before the death eaters, then Draco would have fucking put on a show right then and there in that fucking barn. The ministry can find them quicker, but since the majority is under his hold, due to a possible siege that might or might not have happened yet, the Death Eaters would be the one getting hold of them either way.
Draco opens his mouth, but can't imagine explaining that much context in a matter of seconds while they're stranded in front of Slughorn's porch.
"Valentina told me," he says finally, trying to sound certain.
Harry just nods and looks away. He looks like he doesn't give a fuck about anything anymore, "Try the door, maybe."
Draco does, but the knob doesn't turn. It's locked. "Please, Master Slughorn, if you're in there. It's me, Draco Malfoy. Professor Snape's godson."
Please, you bloody pompous twat. Please open the door.
He feels foolish, talking to an empty house. Or almost certainly an empty house. He clings to that tiny possibility. He'll go through this 'foolishness' if it means someone will answer.
He can't imagine anyone reacting favourably to a teenage boy calling out to them behind the locked front door. Much less a man who might not even remember Draco.
He shakes his head, of course, he remembers him. He's a Malfoy. Slughorn has his connections, and Malfoys are the best one you can possibly have. Or could have. Even if he doesn't remember meeting him, he would know of him. That should be enough.
There is silence, terse, awkward silence as Harry squeezes his hand and Draco squeezes his eyes shut.
"I am Draco Malfoy, I need your help. Please. We don't mean you any harm, we just need help-"
"Draco…"
The door creaks open and they both rear back, eyes widened and breath held.
"Do not move," an old voice growls at them, it's quite a familiar one, and in the dark, Draco can make out the man's faint features.
Draco slowly lets go of Harry's hand.
"Master Slughorn," he says, voice even, eyes trained on the wand pointed at them. He has no doubt that Slughorn is capable enough to strike them down before they could blink. Severus respects this man, and that says a lot about him.
"I've taken nearly a dozen of you pests," his voice is so at odds with the pleasant, jovial tone he remembers from his childhood, it sounds like the man wants to murder them in cold blood, "Do not move."
"We're not imposters," he says quickly, trying not to let his weariness make him snap. That'd definitely put the man on edge. Even more so than now.
"Oh," Slughorn barks out a mocking laugh, slightly too high and loud, "And that's Harry Potter! You lot have gotten lazy," he sneers, his wand never wavering.
"Well, actually…" Harry begins,
"I am Draco Malfoy. I can prove it. Ask me something, anything," Draco interjects, they need his help. This is the moment, this is where it all comes to head. If they don't manage to convince Slughorn, then the man himself might just be their end.
"I've never met Draco Malfoy. Certainly not to an extent to verify his identity-"
"Yes, you have. You have. The day my godfather, Severus Snape, came to finish his apprenticeship with you. I was there, the child he brought with himself." There's a flicker of uncertainty on his face, before it hardens. This is a man who's survived two wizarding wars, and is prepared for a third.
He's not going to be convinced easily.
"You have ten seconds to elaborate before I blast you both to pieces and harvest your organs."
Draco wracks his brain. He'd been so young. Everything is muddied, and panic crawls up his throat as he rattles off whatever he can remember, just bits and pieces of that day, "Moonstone poison. And um… He used a golden cauldron. And you gave me a ginger cookie."
Slughorn freezes, and Draco's sure this is the moment he'll curse them, blast them off the radar, all their efforts would be for nought. He grips Harry's hand tighter, almost stumbling back, ready to bolt. A mistake, a mistake. He's said the wrong thing, he just can't remember. Or perhaps the man doesn't remember him.
And then Slughorn's eyes widen and his wand lowers- lowers.
"By god," he exclaims, and the shift from hostile to amiable is so jarring that Draco can't process it for a moment, "You're… And he's… By God! He really is Harry Potter. Goodness, gracious… You're supposed to be dead!"
Well, that's new. Is that what everyone's thinking? He can't dwell on it now, but perhaps it's a good thing. If everyone thinks they're dead, then the ministry won't be looking for them.
If that's what Severus thinks, he won't be looking for them either.
But none of that matters now, they've found Slughorn and he'd have a way of contacting someone firmly from the light side, someone who won't hurt them or turn them over to the Dark Lord.
Hopefully.
"Can we come in, please?"
Slughorn steps aside, opening the door all the way and ushering them in, "You boys don't look so good. Come on in, come on in." He stares at Harry, and he flattens his hair over his head in a gesture Draco's seen numerous times. But Slughorn continues staring, "Dear merlin."
"Sir?" Harry asks hesitantly, he looks entirely too overwhelmed. Draco is feeling the same way.
"Your eyes are just… uncanny, Mr. Potter. If I may. It's as if somebody glued Lily's eyes to your face," the man chuckles.
"You knew my mother?" The way Harry's eyes light up sends a pang through Draco's heart. This is a boy who never knew his mother, this is a boy who hunts for scraps for a shred of a memory, something to hold onto. And Draco wonders what's worse, to lose something you never knew, or to have known the love and then lost it.
"Knew her?" Slughorn snorts, leading them through a narrow, bare hallway and into a small living room. "She was my favourite student! Bright little spark. Are you boys hungry?" He asks, already lifting his wand and summoning something from the kitchen. He doesn't seem to notice Harry's flinch at his wand movements. There's clattering noises from inside, and Draco winces.
"We could use something to drink, yes," Draco mumbles, eyes scanning the room they're in. There's a low, worn-out couch leaned against one wall, and the rest of the room has several scattered cosy looking armchairs. The fireplace is dark, and sooty, but doesn't look like it's been used in a long while. The mantel place only holds an empty floo jar. No sign of the several pictures it had held there, or the antique cupboard he remembers, filled with several rare, magical artefacts and books.
He'd spent a considerable amount of his time gawking at them the last time. The room feels strangely bereft without it. Abandoned, unlived in. Although, he supposes that's what Slughorn had been aiming for.
Draco speaks up again, "Something hot, preferably. And do you happen to have any nerve soothers on hand?"
"Nerve soothers?" Slughorn's gaze drifts over to his cheek, and Draco has to stifle the urge to cover his face. "Lad, I'm afraid the gash on your face isn't gonna improve with any nerve loss-"
"Not for me," he cuts in.
"I see," his eyes flicker over the two of them, and Harry quickly clasps his hand together. It doesn't hide the shaking. "Well, yes. I should have some, how about a calming draught too? Lessens the shaking considerably."
"Thank you, sir," Harry says.
"So what brings you here?" He waves his wand again, presumably to summon the potions, and this time Harry doesn't flinch. "Last I heard of you, you went missing in Hogwarts," he points at the couch, urging them to sit.
"It's…" Draco exchanges a tiny look with Harry, "it's complicated, sir."
There's a particularly loud crashing sound from the kitchen, and Slughorn grimaces. Harry lets go of Draco's hand, "I can make the tea?"
"Well," his eyes pause over Harry's hands, but he says, "If you want to, sure, lad."
Something tells Draco that Harry isn't all too happy to be here.
"I need to speak with you," Draco mutters, and he's terrified not knowing whether Harry can hear him or not.
Slughorn is staring after Harry but then turns back to Draco. His wand has disappeared up his sleeve. His eyes look softer, concerned, a complete contrast to the growling, cautious man that had greeted them at the door. "Of course. Yes. And since the opportunity has risen...My condolences… Draco, was it?"
Draco blinks, "Condolences?"
"Your mother. Lovely woman… And your father. It must have been hard," he says kindly. And he sounds genuine. It occurs to him that aside from Harry, Slughorn is the only other person who's offered him sincere condolences. Draco has the sudden urge to cry, but refrains. There are more important things than his dead parents right now.
Slughorn, oblivious to Draco's desperation, nods his head. "Such a shame, they were very… bright people."
Draco doesn't know whether he should be agitated or touched. His parents, apparently, and quite obviously had not been in touch with the man at all. Draco assumes that's why Severus made him hide their first meeting. His parents never approved of a man who chose to live in a muggle village.
It's all nonsense, he thinks. Useless drivel, whatever his parents believed in.
He grabs the man's sleeve, out of urgency, because even a hint of abnormal activity is going to alarm Harry. Draco needs to be fucking discreet.
Slughorn's eyes dart to his, first in alarm, and then they narrow.
His eyes read Draco's face, the controlled distress, the taut silence.
"Quite a shame," he slowly repeats, and Draco nods. His own eyes dart towards the kitchen, where Harry's bustling around. Draco half expects him to start humming, but of course, he doesn't. He hasn't hummed in weeks.
Slughorn's eyes shift over his shoulder and then back to him again.
Draco squeezes the man's forearm and Slughorn hastily obliges. He leads them both back into the hallway and down the narrow corridor in front of a closed door.
"You don't look so good," Slughorn's remark is redundant, they both know it. Draco cuts to the chase.
"Well I suppose that's what happens when you skip sleep for two weeks," and once that is out, everything else just comes tumbling out of his mouth, relieved and blessed to be uttered, "It's a long story, too long for me to recount. But you are my last hope, sir."
"Draco, I'm afraid I can't offer you any protection from them. You know, much better than I do that-"
"No. No, it's not anything like that," he swallows, "Just...Valentina Parkinson told me you could help us. We walked for two weeks, and… Okay, that's not the point."
"Valentina," he exclaims, just a touch too loudly, "she got hold of you, and she helped you?"
"I know. I know. But Rosier…" Draco clears his throat, "He took Harry. And he put him under some...something. and it's making him self destruct or something. And-and Valentina said-"
He's aware, he knows how insane he sounds, how disorganized, how panicked. The truth is, Draco only spent the majority of their Roadtrip repeating those facts over and over in his head, constantly, every waking moment, in no particular order. He did it for two weeks, and somewhere along the way, the sequence vanished, and in its ashes remained an incoherent blob of 'Harry is in danger, Harry is in danger.'
"Slow down," Slughorn says now, he looks impressively calm, and not as confused as Draco was expecting him to be, "What sort of thing? Jinx, curse, charm?"
Well, technically, Draco doesn't know. He figured the probability of it being a curse was the highest through a half-assed process of elimination… but was it really?
He drops his eyes, "I don't know," he says.
Slughorn mulls his lips together, "Incantation?"
Draco's heart skips another disappointing beat, "I don't know."
"You're not really helping me narrow it down, boy." The man says.
Draco wrings his hands, "I wasn't there, I just know that when he goes to sleep…" how could he ever untangle the terror of Harry going to sleep and force them into words? When he goes to sleep…
Draco pauses, there are the annoying tears again, just falling down on their own accord, fucking up Draco's stoic first impression with the man.
"When he sleeps… he tries to harm himself," it's not enough, saying those words. He could never describe the bestial way Harry's body revolted against the boy himself, the way his limbs thrashed, and the emotionless expression stitched to his face.
"He tried harming himself," Draco repeats, "And he's having memory issues and-"
"Only when he's asleep."
Draco doesn't know. Was it? Was it only during sleep? He can't get over the irrationally insistent fear of having missed something. Maybe every waking moment was a struggle for Harry, maybe he knew. Maybe he wanted it.
"Yes." Draco's voice barely reaches his own ears.
"And he isn't aware of this," Slughorn asks, tapping his chin, and closing his eyes as if trying really hard to concentrate. Draco has seen that look, but with a few slight differences on his own parents' faces from time to time. His father used to go absolutely still, arch a brow and stare into the abyss, and his mother, she used to smoothen down her skirt, her eyes narrowed and her chin raised.
Slughorn isn't subtle. Even his silence is boisterous and all over the place.
"No," Draco replies again, "I don't think he is. It's gotten worse, so much worse."
Perhaps it's not that there are no words to describe the horrible situation they're in, but rather Draco's inability to use them.
There was no worse when it came to deterioration. It was a process. Stage after stage. And by Draco's estimation, Harry is rapidly approaching the last.
He holds the man's gaze, and instead, tries to convey his terror silently, through his eyes.
"And you think, I should help you based on what the Dark Lord's mercenary promised you?" Slughorn raises a sceptical eyebrow and Draco flushes.
"You don't understand," he says hotly, "We had no other choice. It was this, or get captured by… the ministry or the Dark Lord."
Slughorn is looking more and more concerned with every passing second, it sends Draco's skin prickling. "Draco, do you realise he's the Boy Who Lived?"
"Yes, obviously," he almost snaps. This feels like a surprise quiz and he's getting all the answers wrong.
"And you've just been dragging him around, making him walk for weeks without a shred of defence while he is clearly in no state to defend himself?"
"Well, I…" Draco splutters. Slughorn has a point, he knows he has a point, and… "I wasn't...I didn't know what else to do," he finishes lamely. He still doesn't know what to do.
"Contacting Dumbledore for one? Draco, he is Harry Potter. If he had died, that would be on you. Him being hurt now? That's still on you. They will blame you. Even if it's not your fault."
"I was desperate. I can't let any harm come to him and she said-"
"You trusted Valentina Parkinson!" Slughorn interrupts, and Draco's taken aback by the vehemence in his voice. He almost stumbles backwards, and Slughorn visibly steadies himself before continuing, "How could you possibly have known that she wasn't the one who put the curse on him?"
Draco clenches his fists and grits his teeth. Hadn't they made it, though? Hadn't they made it to Slughorn despite all odds? He'd hoped for relief here, not… not this checklist of everything he's ever done wrong.
"Alright, I think I'm done being reproached. I fucked up, I know." He takes a deep breath, "I'm sorry. Please, believe me when I say that if a single hair is hurt in his head I will lose my shit… Please. Just let's save this scolding for later. Please."
"I think you should still know that you have put his life in an immense amount of danger. Very stupid, and irresponsible."
"I know. I know but he can't die. That's what kept me going, and I know it was dumb, and… And because I can't-You have to help us, please. Curse me all you want, but just save him," he whispers, gripping the man's arms, wholly aware that he is willing to go down on his knees if that is what it takes, "I will compensate in any way I can," he will beg, he will slave away, he will kiss the man's boots and chop off his own fingers. Anything. Just anything for them to get back to safety, for Harry to be okay again, "I don't have any money right now but-"
"Slow down, Draco," the man interrupts him, his eyes crinkling with slight amusement, "Just like your godfather, are you? So eager to get your way," he pats him on his bad shoulder and Draco winces.
Slughorn frowns at his wince, but when Draco says nought, he drops it, "I need to examine him."
Draco inhales, "Okay."
Slughorn raises his eyebrows, "He needs to know why I'm examining him. So I can make his concoction."
Draco had to tell him. That's the gist of it. He can't just have some strange man examining him out of nowhere. He can't keep up with the lie anymore.
Panic grips him like a second cloak and Draco, if only for a moment, finds it hard to breathe. Harry will freak out. He will then be angry. Furious really.
Draco deserves it, he knows he does. And, he can finally rest easy, just knowing that Harry will be okay. The rest doesn't even matter at this point.
"Do you promise to help him?" He asks, beseeching. Begging comes so easily to him now, fuck pride. There is no pride, if there is no Harry, "That's all I ask. Please help him. And then...can you get us back to Severus somehow?" He stutters a bit when it comes to the man's name. And he realizes with dismay, how much he's missed him, a familiar face, even one that he wasn't particularly fond of, "I know you have connections."
Slughorn pats his other shoulder, still frowning, "How about we take this one step at a time…"
"I'm cursed?"
Time stops.
Or maybe it doesn't. Maybe the concept of time that he has in his head, is different. It would explain things, because his mind isn't the same, so time according to his mind shouldn't be the same either.
So time stops, and he stands, and maybe for the first time in a very long time, realization dawns on him. A moment of clarity, through weeks of blurred images and memories.
Sirius was right. He'd always been right. Harry had been stupid to not trust himself.
He'd told him, time and time again that something was wrong. And Harry knew it was, he never ignored it on purpose. He didn't feign ignorance, the something clouded his judgment. There was no judgment, to begin with.
But Draco knew.
He knew.
"Harry," Draco starts but Harry can't hear him over the ringing in his head.
He'd done the worst thing by sending Sirius away. Not when he's needed him the most. Sirius would've known what to do, he'd have said the right thing. His gaze turns towards the tray he'd dropped. He hadn't even noticed. The cooling tea is seeping towards his feet. He stares at the shattered ceramic.
'Are you sure he's telling the truth?' Sirius had asked him outright.
"About what?"
'About you.'
He has no idea how to react. So he stands, numbly, like an idiot and just replays the conversation he's heard over and over again.
"Is that normal? Maybe we should-"
Everything is fuzzy, and there's a tight pressure in his chest. Like something burrowed in there and then expanded. He can hardly breathe. The bruises, and his nails and the bite marks, all start crashing down on him.
He's done that to himself. He bit himself, and scratched himself and wanted to kill himself. And he hadn't known. For weeks. Harry feels weirdly violated, having had no control of his own body or actions, and not even have known about it.
"Are you happy with your life? Do you want to live it?" Harry remembers that, through the haze of being awake for so long. He remembers Draco asking him that. Who would ask anyone whether they wanted to live their lives?
"I have a calming draught in my living room somewhere-"
He's cursed. There had been something wrong with him. He hadn't been going crazy all by himself. It hadn't been the exhaustion or the starvation or the torture. He should've known. It had been a curse. There was something in his head.
A curse that Draco knows about, a curse he'd known about all along and kept hidden from him. A lie he managed to maintain over the weeks, through all his breakdowns and all the affectionate talks and touches. He let Harry be assaulted, in a warped sense of the word, and he just stood by and...what had he done?
He looks up sharply when he sees movement. Draco moving towards him, as if to touch. Harry takes a step back, stumbling and barely managing to keep himself from falling.
"Don't touch me," he says, his voice coming out raspy and as though it doesn't belong to him. He feels filthy, disgusting, and he wants to tear himself out of his body for real and be someone else. What had Rosier done to him? This wasn't torture, it was a death warrant.
"Harry," Draco looks pained. Is he actually? He could never understand the pain that Harry is feeling so acutely right now. The utter sense of betrayal and failure and hatred and self-loathing that just cascades in a deluge in every coherent thought.
Maybe this had worked out in his favour. Maybe Draco was all too happy that Harry was fucked up by Rosier. Is he happy that Harry had let down his walls enough, trusted Draco enough to be this devastated about the betrayal?
"Don't touch me," Harry repeats, calmly.
"Okay fine," Draco raises his hands in the universal gesture for surrender, "Do you want to-"
He wants. He wants it to stop for one. And he wants to scream, and he wants to turn and run away and never look back or return. He wants his cave, the safety and the darkness and the privacy to just say whatever the fuck he wants, because right now, in this very instance, the only thing he can think about is, 'what if I don't love him. What if it was all the curse, purposefully making me want to sabotage myself and what if he knew that.'
"-For you to stop talking right now," he breathes, "Or I swear to God Draco Malfoy, I will kill you with my bare hands," he says flatly. He will. He will do it, he's shaking now. Not just his hands, his entire body is shaking, because he's trying so hard to contain the volcano that's going off in his guts.
He's heard enough of Draco to last him an eternity. He's heard enough of promises and kisses and touches.
"I promise I'll never let anything happen to you."
You fucking liar, Harry thinks.
"I'm sorry," Draco says miserably. Harry sneers.
"No, you don't get to do that," he shakes his head, and takes another step backwards, balling up his fists. "You don't get to do this." There's an itching under his skin, he just… he needs... "You will shut your fucking mouth, right this fucking moment or I swear-"
"Mister Potter, I realize that tensions are running high, would you rather we spoke somewhere private?"
Harry barely even glances at Horace. This man knows nothing. And he has no business butting in. This is between him and Draco. Harry needs to deal with them one at a time.
"You lied to me." He wants to throw something at Draco. He wishes he were at the opposite end of the hallway, to pick up that ugly vase and throw it at Draco. Hurt him as much as he's hurting Harry.
He wants to pick up the broken shards of the broken cups under his feet, and he wants to stab it into Draco's heart and wrench it just so he feels the same way Harry is right now.
"Harry-"
"I wasn't finished," Harry cuts him off sharply, he breathes hard, every inhale whistling through his nose, the lights flicker above them, it's Harry's doing, his magic rather, he feels it, like static electricity, struggling to burst out of his skin, "You lied, and I believed you." He lets out a short, self-deprecating laugh, "That's on me. That's on me. I shouldn't have trusted you. I never thought you were capable of hurting me, even though you have done so…"
'Liar! Liar!' His head echoes, liar liar liar liar. They've been here before. In this exact place and moment.
"I can explain-"
'You are a bastard,' when had that been?
"How could you lie to me about this?" Harry's vision is blurring, he wants to make it hurt, "You saw me, you knew what was happening, and you just...what, didn't care enough?" he forces his eyes to stay narrowed, he wants to see the impact of his words on the boy. He wants to see the pain, a light bulb explodes behind them, "Did you think it was funny?"
Of course, Draco revelled in his suffering. And even if not, he took advantage of it. He'd played Harry.
"No! Obviously not I just-"
Harry steps up to him, the ceramic shards crunching under his feet, grabs Draco's wrist, and presses his thumb, harshly to his pulse, he then brings it up between them and leans close.
"I don't feel you," he whispers, viciously even though his own heart clenches in the utter pain that this should be causing Draco, "and I'm not here, and neither are you."
This time, it's Draco who flinches, trying to pull away from Harry. "I'm sorry," he whispers.
Harry presses harder, even as it sends jolts of pain through his fingers, up to his wrist. Draco winces, and Harry tries to take some sort of vindictive pleasure in it.
But there's no pleasure. Just anger, and hurt, and betrayal. There's a storm bubbling inside him, he just wants to… let it go. He forges on, "Don't say sorry. You did your job, the courtesy handjob, more than enough I assure you… in assuaging your guilt, so if I ended up fucking killing myself you'd think to yourself-"
"That is not true!" Draco says, horrified, finally managing to yank his hand away from Harry. He's flushed red, with anger or embarrassment, Harry's not sure.
The hideous vase shatters, making both Draco and Horace startle again. Harry clenches and unclenches his hands. He wants to break everything. His insides are all twisting together. It's incomprehensible. He'd thought they had something real, something good. Harry had not felt lonely for the first time in his life. A real presence.
He'd actually thought someone cared about him that way. He'd never thought anyone would be interested in someone as ugly on the inside and outside, and as undesirable and as messy as him romantically. He was resigned to it. He knew he would never live long enough for that someone to be found. Someone like Draco, who'd kissed him and hugged him and touched him for the sake of Harry being himself.
But it had never been real.
It was a matter of convenience.
Another figment of his imagination. He remembers last night and the memory isn't accompanied by the burst of contentment that it had before. It's just that Harry was easy. Harry was right there. He might have died and no one would have known about them. Tears streak his face.
"-At least the poor sod got handfucked before he died. Nice job, really cunning," his voice breaks at the end.
"If you-"
Harry ignores him, turning towards the man who's been watching them from the sidelines, looking lost. "And you?" he says, and Horace startles, staring at him with wide eyes. He doesn't look awed anymore, rather incredibly alert and uncomfortable. "Horace Slughorn, am I correct?"
"Yes, lad," the man says warily.
"Used to teach potions at Hogwarts, didn't you?"
"Yes?" he looks confused.
Harry smiles sardonically, and turns to Draco, "Not only you lied to me, about me wanting to fucking kill myself, you brought me to the man who's responsible for my parents' death,"
"What?" Draco says, his voice going high with alarm as he takes a step away from Horace. The man himself looks just as baffled.
"What are you talking about-"
"I know what you told him," Harry says, "I know you liked him the best, and I know you told him all about Horcruxes. I know your secret," he watches as Slughorn goes pale, eyes widening. Draco watches, bewildered. Then hesitantly opens his mouth, but Harry beats him to it.
"See your bunch, it's all the same." Every single one. All Slytherins, manipulative and only looking out for themselves. "Cruel, and manipulative. I can't believe I cared about you, I sent Sirius away for you-" and now he can't get him back because everything's gone. And it's Draco's fault.
"You don't understand-"
Harry sees red, how dare he? How dare Draco talk about Harry not understanding it, when Draco's the fucking clueless one. Does he have any idea what Harry's been going through? Any shred of compassion for what he put Harry through? The horror, the uncertainty, the way the world fell away from under him? The violation of not having a shred of control over his own fucking body?
"I don't understand? How could you possibly understand me losing my mind? All the while I've been parading around, a walking corpse, while you conspired with Voldemort's fucking mentor!"
Slughorn and Draco both flinch violently at the name. Draco goes ashen.
"Harry!"
"That name!" Slughorn says at the same time, "Do not invoke his name, you idiotic boy!" he hisses.
"Oh, what's in a fucking name?!" Harry throws his hands up, raising his voice considerably, "Voldemort! Voldemort! Fuck Voldemort and Fuck you and... and fuck Draco fucking-"
"It's not a name!" Draco cuts him off, rushing towards Harry, "It's a beacon you-"
"You and your fucking names and-"
There's a crash.