Chapter 4: Beyond the Past

A/N: Here's some more, delving into the past a bit, also going into some more personal things. No action yet, but never fear, it should come in the next chapter or so. Also, you will recognize some parts of the passages from HBP, and I'm going to say right now that I don't own those portions, that they simply were used in the forming of my story, so please don't point it out as I am already well aware.

Draco's dreams were full of pain.

That was really the only thing he dreamt of anymore, but for some reason, the memories were more poignant than usual, and the vestiges of the torture inflicted on his mind and body seemed sharper, the scars deeper.

He remembered the first Cruciatus curse with a kind of wistfulness, though he had known even then that far worse was to come, that a Crucio for the magnitude of his failure was nowhere near enough. Then had come more curses, things far worse and far less merciful than the Sectumsempra Potter had accidentally performed on him only months ago.

Those nights, those days, those interminable hours during which he was tortured and kept in that place, in that house, they erased the memory of all other pains from his mind. Nothing physical compared with the ache in his bones and his body and the blood and waste and tears that dried on his body. Nothing compared with the invasion of his body and the abuse of his from until he was bleeding from practically every orifice.

Sometimes they turned to Muggle devices of torture, rather than those of the wand. Knives were particularly favored, delicate and sharp to trace pretty patterns on the smooth skin of his torso and back and arms and neck. He renewed the glamour covering them each morning.

He did not usually relive those parts. More often than not, he dreamed of the part that came after, the running. They had become lax in the security around him, after so many days of torturing him and the weakness of his body; it seemed that his escape was impossible, so why should they bother?

If Draco had been in his right mind, he never would have tried to run. But his mind had been torn, though not broken, by the time spent in the dark room with dark people and dark instruments of pain. And so he had stood and run, his legs taking him as far as he could before Apparating to an alley several streets over from Grimmauld Place. Snape had told him of its location, saying that in an emergency of the kind they faced that he could manage to override the Fidelius charm and help Draco to safety.

But after that Draco tried not to think. The torture he could accept and he could get past, his scars would heal and the torments they forced him to endure would eventually fade from his consciousness as well. But since coming to Grimmauld Place... he had no idea what was going on anymore.

His dreaming mind turned away from thoughts of a certain green-eyed Gryffindor and back to the running. Always the running. The thundering of his heart, the fire in his legs as he kept running, the burning in every single part of his body and the wounds that ripped and tore as he ran, blood dripping down him so that he slipped in it and nearly fell, but all the time he kept running, kept going, until finally he got past the wards to Apparate. So tired, so tired, just wanna sleep, just wanna die...

Draco brutally forced himself out of sleep and into consciousness, his breathing slightly quicker than normal, and a light sheen of sweat covering his shaking body.

He closed his eyes, visualizing the moment Potter had opened the door and he had collapsed into his arms. The Gryffindor hadn't gotten to see Draco as a bloody mess; Draco had learned to cast a wandless glamour years ago, as vain as he was, though it was the only bit of wandless magic he could do. A broken stone fountain with water that swirled in rather green patterns had cleaned off most of the blood.

A sound caught his attention, and he lifted his head at the noise. It was a soft sound, like a cry or a moan. Draco eased himself out of bed and padded into the hallway, careful to make no noise on the floor. Another gasp met his ears, and he wondered briefly if whoever it was suffered from a nightmare... or just a particularly pleasant dream.

He continued down the corridor, and as a soft cry met his ears, he stopped.

And cursed Merlin or God or whatever the fuck it was that just had to guide him right back to Harry Fucking Potter.

Rolling his eyes he cracked open the door, the reasonable part of his mind begging him to turn back, and that other part of his mind—the part that always seemed to take over when it came to Harry—told him to shut the door and see what was wrong.

Potter lay in his bed, but he was not still. His body twisted, writhed, the more pleasurable of his gasps intermingled with pained groans. Sweat gathered on his forehead, his upper lip, and a tiny drop escaped the dip of his throat to slide down his bare chest. Draco wanted to lick it off.

Instead he sat by the edge of the bed, wondering if he should wake the other man, when he heard at the end of a particularly erotic sound:

"Malfoy."

---------------

Harry's dreams were full of guilt.

"You go on," Malfoy told Pansy, and Harry's heart suddenly beat faster in his chest. "I just want to check something."

Pansy left. Now Harry and Malfoy were alone in the compartment. People were filing past, descending onto the dark platform. Harry was filled with a strange anticipation, even as Malfoy moved over to the compartment door and let down the blinds, so that people in the corridor beyond could not peer in. Malfoy bent down over his trunk and opened it again.

Harry remembered this, from early in his sixth year, and he had no wish to relive the embarrassment. He wondered why his mind had brought it up in the first place, as he hadn't thought of the occasion in months. But so deep in sleep, he had little control over his own thoughts, and so even against his will he peered down over the edge of the luggage rack.

The familiar questions raced through his mind. What had Malfoy wanted to hide from Pansy? Was he about to see the mysterious broken object that was so important to mend?

"Petrificus Totalus!" The shout came, as he had known it would, yet he could not help feeling surprised as he was instantly frozen. As though in slow motion, he toppled out of the luggage rack and fell, though this time it seemed almost as if he floated down, to gently lie on his back. The curse didn't seem to be working right, either. Instead of being completely paralyzed, it was as if he were immersed in warm molasses, unable to move except for very slowly, like heavy weights were attached to all his limbs.

"I thought so," Malfoy said jubilantly. "I heard Goyle's trunk hit you. And I thought I saw something white flash through the air after Zabini came back..."

His eyes lingered for a moment upon Harry's trainers, and slowly slid up the rest of his body to his face, so that Harry's entire being was flushed by the time the cold grey eyes returned to his.

"You didn't hear anything I care about, Potter. But while I've got you here..."

Harry wished fervently that he could close his eyes. He knew how this part ended—his nose broken and blood all over his face, and the humiliation of Tonks finding him. But instead of the elegantly shod foot crashing down on his face, Malfoy knelt beside him and threw one of his legs over Harry's hips so that he was straddling the immobile boy.

"While I've got you here..." he said again, and Harry gasped as he felt two strong hands sliding up his torso, the palms and fingers digging into his muscles and creating a delicious friction in their wake. Thumbs grazed tauntingly over his nipples through his shirt as they passed, sliding up along his neck with an almost feather-light touch to tangle themselves in his dark hair.

"Malfoy," he wanted to whisper, tried to say. "Draco."

His lips parted against his will as Malfoy's face came closer to his own and the blond rolled his hips forward in a way that had Harry wishing he could moan, wishing he could press closer, wishing he could do something, and he didn't think that something would exactly be pushing Malfoy off of him.

Malfoy's hot breath wafted across his ear, and he let out a strangled gasp as the Slytherin sank his teeth into the sensitive flesh of Harry's ear. "You can, if you want to."

What? Harry so desperately wanted to ask. What can I do?

Malfoy's smirk suddenly transformed, his face splitting into a sinister smile that Harry's nightmares were all too familiar with. "Scream."

And suddenly he was falling, or not falling, but cold dark air was rushing past his face and beating at his body, and this must be what dying he feels like, because what else could it be?

He was back in the graveyard, tied to the tomb, he cried out as the knife pierced his flesh and that shrill cackle echoed in the air. Cedric suddenly appeared before him, looking dazed as he stepped away from the Tri-Wizard cup. But that didn't make sense. Cedric was already dead, long before Harry's arm was cut open.

"Then we shall correct that, shall we?" And this time it was the real Voldemort, of flesh of the servant, and blood of the enemy, and bone of the father, standing in black-robed glory and mockery blazing at Harry from the red slits of his eyes.

Cedric died again as a jet of green light split the darkness.

Sirius fell through the veil again, that expression of surprise etched permanently into his features. He fell though again, and again, and again, and each time Harry tried to save him, tried to change something, but nothing changed.

His dreams were rushing past him now, taking him past trivial things and fears and revisiting all the moments that he never wanted to think of again. That moment that Dumbledore was hit with a jet of green light and propelled off the Tower, when Harry couldn't move or breathe or do anything but stand there and pray to anything and everything that it wasn't true, that it couldn't be true, that please, God, Merlin, please, don't let it be true.

And suddenly he was seeing Malfoy again, this time with his back to the door, the blond's hands clutching either side of the sink, his white-blond head bowed.

"No one can help me," said Malfoy. His whole body was shaking. "I can't do it... I can't... It won't work... and unless I do it soon... he says he'll kill me..."

That was the point Harry realized the blond was crying, tears streaming down his pale face into the grimy basin. The next part seemed to fast forward, and suddenly Harry watched himself shouting "SECTUMSEMPRA!" and he knew that the next moment there would be blood everywhere, so much blood, and Harry was screaming, screaming "No! No! I didn't know! I didn't mean to!"

Dream Harry's head jerked as his eyes flew to his own chest, and now it was his own body that had been ripped open, and his own life's blood that flowed out of him in deep, dark rivulets of crimson.

"No!" he shouted again. "I didn't mean to hurt him! He was an accident! I'm sorry! I'm sorry about all of them. I'm sorry about all the people I've killed. I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

"Potter."

And there was Malfoy's voice, so vivid in his dream, standing before him with a bleeding chest also, gaping wounds where once-perfect alabaster skin had been. Harry shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"Potter." His name repeated from his long-time rival's lips, but it sounded distinctly annoyed and perhaps the tiniest bit concerned now.

The Malfoy before the mirror came forward slowly until they were nearly touching, and calmly wrapped his arms around Harry, pressing their bleeding chests together, letting the blood mingle and mix.

"Harry," the voice finally said. "Nobody's going to care if you're sorry if you never wake up. Snap out of it, you ponce."

With a start, Harry opened his eyes, realizing that it wasn't his dream at all, but that Draco Malfoy was sitting on his bed, his face masked with careful disdain.

"What?" he said dazedly, trying to recover himself from the fog of sleep.

Malfoy sneered. "And again your incredible intelligence is displayed." There was a pause in which Harry tried to be angry, but failed. He was still thinking about his dreams. As if reading his mind, the blond suddenly asked, "What were you dreaming about?"

Harry shrugged, using the action to disguise his still-shaking limbs. "A lot of things," he replied evasively.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "And what were some of these things?"

There was several moment's silence, and Harry bit his lip. What should he say? The truth. The truth was somewhat more complicated than he wanted to think about. "Some of—some of what happened between us last year, but it was different. You, er, turned into Lord Voldemort and told me I could scream if I wanted to."

"I hope you don't compare me with Vo—the Dark Lord. You know I'm much more attractive."

"Whatever, Malfoy."

The blond cocked his head to the side. "What else?"

"Cedric dying, Sirius dying, Dumbledore dying, splitting your chest open, though for some reason I was bleeding, too."

Malfoy's nose wrinkled in distaste. "That sounds remarkably... pleasant. So was that why you were moaning my name?" He added the last as a casual question, so simply that Harry almost missed what it was entirely.

But a moment later he blinked, and his eyes widened, his thoughts flashing back to the dream and Malfoy's closeness to him on the train.

He nodded. "Yeah, that was it."

The Slytherin still had a slight smirk on his face, his sly expression managing to worry Harry and simultaneously want to kiss the other man. He shook his head. Fuck, this was getting ridiculous.

"What are you going to do?" Harry asked abruptly, sitting up so that his back was to the headboard.

"What do you mean?" The grey eyes were filled with confusion as he shifted farther onto the bed and into a more comfortable position.

"I mean after all of this, if I—if we win. What will you do?"

Malfoy was very quiet for a minute. When he spoke, it was with a studied nonchalance. "I never really thought about it. Was going to live off my fortune, basically, but now I'm not so sure. But it's not like I'll survive."

"You're going to survive," Harry said, rather fiercely. "You're going to live."

He was suddenly confronted by an intense grey stare, and the flecks of blue mixed in with the grey were mesmerizing, so that he didn't think he could look away if he tried.

"Then I supposed I'd like to do something with Potions. I am quite good at it, you know, Snape wasn't just nice to me because I was a Slytherin. So I reckon that's it."

Harry nodded, his eyes still locked with Malfoy's. Why was it so hard to look away? Why did it seem so important that he not look away?

"And what does the great Harry Potter want to do with the rest of his life?" The sound of Malfoy's voice managed to break the spell that his eyes had cast, and Harry looked away, down at the blankets twisted in his hands.

"You mean if I survive?"

Malfoy snorted. "If you survive? Of course you're going to survive. You're Harry Bloody Potter, how could you possibly not?"

Harry's smile when it returned to his face was strained. "I guess I want to be a Healer."

A single blonde brow raised. "A Healer? What happened to Auror, defeater of all evil?"

Harry shrugged. "I think I've had enough people die around me, thanks. And I think I've fought enough evil to last several lifetimes, and I haven't even finished off the big bad yet. I don't even know if I will. It's kind of a lot to ask from a seventeen-year-old, don't you think?"

Malfoy simply nodded, his expression distant. "It is a lot to ask," he said after a moment, his voice low.

Several minutes of silence passed. Harry shifted on the bed, his thigh brushed the other man's. Grey eyes flicked up to his, thought they betrayed nothing other than indifference at the subtle contact. Malfoy's slim thigh pressed back against his own.

Harry moistened suddenly dry lips with his tongue, trying not to think about the look in Malfoy's eyes as the man watched his actions.

"We should get some sleep," he said suddenly, feeling some of his more sensitive portions responding to the gleam in Malfoy's eyes and the warmth of his skin through the thin pajamas.

Malfoy nodded and carefully eased himself from the bed, using Harry's thigh as leverage to help himself up. The hand that braced itself on the Gryffindor's thigh was rather higher than was strictly necessary, and Harry could feel each individual finger pressed against him.

"Good night, Potter."

"Good night, Malfoy."

As the Slytherin was about to disappear into the hallway, Harry called out to him. "Malfoy... um, er—"

"Yes, oh eloquent one?"

The note in Malfoy's voice was not scathing, but rather a warm teasing that went straight to Harry's groin. He swallowed. "Let's have that Quidditch game tomorrow, then?"

Something resembling a smile crossed the blond's face for a moment, and a challenging expression rose to his face. "May the best man win."

A/N: So, guess how many reviews I want? An infinite number! That is, in fact, correct! Also, it will make me feel like writing this faster, though no matter what the next chapter will be posted eventually.