Chapter 6
"All killed by an Avada Kedavra curse. Hmm... I wonder whose modus operandi that is." Rowle's light eyes are cold.
"Oh for fuck's sake, this again, Rowle?" MacNair sighs in exasperation. "How many times have you done this and been proven wrong, over and over?"
"Fifteen of my people went in there! Ten were stationed outside! All dead. Tell me who else do we know of that's that swift and unrestrained with a Killing Curse? I can only think of one but he's dead."
"The Killing Curse isn't exclusive, Rowle. The Blood Traitors are excessive enough with it as well. So are you, if you recall."
"All our recording charms were disabled!"
"One bit of information was recovered from one of the outsiders' charms. It took a lot of work but it was managed. Might I suggest an unknown third party?" Yaxley's wand swirls a dark grey spell, a hazy image of a back, dark-haired, standing by the posters. Draco's hand tightens. "He may be responsible for it. We must find out who this is."
Rowle's teeth grinds. "The Undesirables are a threat, but there were only a few. There was no sign of this AK-happy Blood Traitor before. How is this possible? Rabastan Lestrange was one of our best! I can imagine the only way he was not swift enough to fight this third party was if he thought the man was one of his own. The only way none of this would have been seen is if they were all ambushed from an external source. Surely there is a traitor amongst us."
"What a load of ridiculous drivel. There is hardly any information of the comings and goings of what had even happened there. If there is evidence of one unidentified third party, who's to say there weren't others?"
"Malfoy's being awfully quiet."
"I have nothing to say," Malfoy says, unfazed.
"Or maybe you don't want to say anything."
"Why should I have anything to say about this? This was your raid, and you failed. Not surprising, considering how useless you are. You've always loved to sit back and let others do your work for you. If you were any good of a leader, you would have been there trying to capture the Undesirables yourself. And Rabastan Lestrange? Your best? Of course you'd think so. He was just like you."
"I suppose there was much to say after all." Augustus chuckles. "We know you've always had it out for our leader, Rowle. You'll say just about anything. How about you own up to the fact that you have no idea what you're doing? Maybe you should have let the rest of us in on your plans instead of alienating us due to your absurd paranoia and because you wanted credit alone for capturing the first and third Undesirables."
Rowle ignores MacNair. "Where were you when this happened?"
Draco's shoulders are relaxed, ankle crossed over a knee. "I was home."
"You should invite us over for tea sometime. I find it curious that no one knows where your home is. Why so secretive?"
"Perhaps I'm keeping away from bitter, ridiculous fools that like to make me out to be a traitor despite having no actual evidence or basis for it."
"Hiding away, more like. I'm sure you wouldn't mind giving us a memory of your evening on the 10th of January."
"I'm afraid I would."
"Why not?"
"I was attending to some confidential matters of utmost importance." This is all Draco has to say.
"Yes. Of course. Nothing to prove. Nothing to hide."
"For fuck's sake-" MacNair grits out.
"Enough," Voldemort bellows, slamming his hand down on the table. Tiberius, his snake, curls around the leg of his chair. Draco's secret is, after all, his as well. Rowle flinches. Draco smirks at him. "This is getting tiresome. If there is such doubt, all will be subjected to the R.a.L.P by the Legilimens Probers. As for Draco Malfoy, I will perform it on him myself."
Draco tenses. Rowle must have seen it, because now he's the one smirking.
***
"On your knees."
Draco's eyes are empty as they stare ahead. His heart pounds in his chest and the dread curls tight around his insides. He keeps his mind blank.
"Yes, my Lord."
He lowers slowly, to one knee, falling to the other. His head bows, as if in prayer.
Voldemort circles around him until he stands behind him, the tall form looming over him. Draco's hands tremble in his lap. He clenches it tightly, grits his teeth. The terror curdles through his blood. Voldemort's cold hand touches the top of his head.
The jolt of anguish in his head makes him clench his teeth against a cry, the air in his lungs scarce; he can feel the dark presence weaving rapidly through his mind and memories.
Draco's mind works with fluidity, creating an affect of indifference and vacancy so perfect it leaves him void of all emotion and thought at will. He is good at compartmentalizing. He is good at fooling others.
But the secret to Occlumency is this; be so good that you fool even yourself.
As the presence weaves through his mind, the world is as Voldemort wills it. Harry Potter sleeps as he has slept for years on a hard cot, an empty room of mildew and filth. Draco Malfoy is loyal to no one but the Dark Lord himself. And he knows nothing — nothing at all about what had happened; who saved the Undesirables, killed a room full of Death-Eaters.
The violent weaving, like a nail through the head, is pulled suddenly out of his skull, and Draco's mind is released entirely to himself with a gasp once more, his eyes shooting open.
He is shaking. He is cold all over. He can hardly breathe.
"Leave."
Draco nods. He stands to his feet. He must look calm, steady, as he does. His breaths are shallow in his throat.
What he truly feels, as he turns and makes slowly for the door, is like a ghost.
He is no longer even there.
***
When he opens the door and walks out in the corridor, somebody is there.
There's a laugh; from the belly, amused and mocking.
"You're looking quite pale there, Malfoy." It takes a while for the owner of the voice to register. The hatred and disgust should come but it doesn't. He doesn't bother to look at Rowle's face. "I have never seen anyone come out of these looking like you do. Tell me. Did it hurt? Did you cry? I bet you still cry yourself to sleep every night, like a child, like you used to so pathetically whenever you were made to torture and kill someone. You remember that, don't you?"
Still, Draco does not look at him for a few seconds.
"I will take such pleasure," he says, deadly soft, "the day you are executed."
He looks at Rowle then, smirking.
"I did become His favorite executioner, didn't I? Oh, and punisher too. You remember that. Don't you?"
***
When Harry wakes, it's to the faces of Ronald and Hermione.
They are both sitting on each side of him, and they're leaning in, almost lying on their elbows to be able to see his face.
Hermione's smile is soft. So soft. And so is her voice, when she whispers, "Hi." Like to a baby. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and so is Ronald's, and they look exhausted. They look so tired it breaks Harry's heart.
"Hi," Harry whispers back. His voice is hoarse. It takes a while to recollect everything.
Harry blinks, bemused at the lack of pain as he remembers the anguish that sliced through him, his hand touching his stomach.
"Draco healed you," Hermione tells him, "You're okay now, Harry."
"I'm so sorry, mate," Ronald says, as he helps him sit up, reaches for the glass of water on the nightstand, "For all that shite we…"
"I don't blame you," Harry says, after the water has soothed his throat and his voice has returned, "From the sound of… everything, I can't blame you at all."
Ronald stares at him, nodding. He nods and nods. His eyes are stinging red again. He huffs, watery, pressing his hands to them. "Shite. Not again." Hermione takes his hand and grips it tight.
"It's been hell," Ronald says, after a long time when he's composed himself, swiping a hand under his nose as he sniffs. He is not quite able to look at Harry, "without you. Thinking you were dead all these years. It's been hell."
"We're so glad," Hermione says, a smile that is thick in her throat, "I still can't believe my eyes, really." She laughs, giddy and almost hysterical.
Harry looks at her, and him.
They are strangers. And yet, somehow, it is visceral. The way they love him is so tangible he has no doubt he loved them just the same too, even if he can't remember.
"Can I hug you?" is what he ends up asking, very quietly and hesitantly.
"Yes," Hermione nods, grinning, her voice as though she has been wanting to all this time but stopping herself, "Yes."
In the next second, they are both half on top of him on the bed, on each side of him, Hermione's arms around his neck and Ronald covering both of them with his arm. He is tall, much taller than in the picture. In the picture, they were so small, and young. They were happy. They did not know the grief they know now.
"Ronald," Harry says, but the way Ronald suddenly jerks back to stare at him with his brows furrowed, as if he said the most bizarre thing ever, makes him freeze too.
Then there's the most indignified, choked snort, a spurt of laughter. It came from Hermione, burying her face into Harry's shoulder. Then Ronald's break is splitting into a slow grin, too, and his shoulders are shaking with laughter.
"What?" Harry glances between them, confused. "What did I say?"
"That might be another reason why we didn't believe it was you," Ronald says in between laughter. "Damn Malfoy."
"No one calls him Ronald except Draco," Hermione explains, finally, still bright-eyed with amusement, "You used to call him Ron. That's what he goes by."
"Oh." Harry laughs a little.
"Haven't laughed like that in years," Ron murmurs, with a small huff, as if surprised that it was even possible at this point. It made Harry sad.
His loss of memory is almost a blessing, perhaps, in this one context; he can't remember all of the suffering they all must have gone through.
They lapse into silence.
"You can trust him," Ron suddenly says, "by the way. Draco's a git but… he really is on our side. We had to pretend he wasn't to protect him, in case you were a spy, but… he really does want to look out for you."
With that, if Harry had any doubt left of it, it all dissipated in that moment. His trust in Draco built over time on its own, almost without him even knowing it. But now it settles in him with perfect certainty.
"Right. Yeah. That's what I was going to ask about, actually — the things you were saying there about him."
Ron nods.
"So… you really don't remember anything about your life?"
"Not really… but I'm regaining things here and there," Harry tells Ron. He pauses. "You were both the first things I remembered about my life."
Hermione smiles slightly.
"What do you do here? I mean… it's not safe for you to go out right now, so…"
"I just...rest, I suppose, and Draco teaches me stuff. But I can't just sit here though all cooped up and wrapped in a bubble. I want to fight."
"But if you've been in a coma for years," Hermione says, "like you said back there… your body's likely not up to par, Harry. You have to fully recover first. And I'm guessing if Draco's teaching you all these things, he probably also has a plan."
"What has he been teaching you?" Ron asks.
"Everything."
Their visible and bright delight, a gaping of their mouths breaking into laughter, upon seeing him turn into a sparrow right before their eyes is a memory he wishes he could frame in a picture.
"Something else I wanted to ask," Harry says, "How did they manage to break the wards? Was it because I was seen going through?"
"Unlikely," Hermione says, "They came in almost right after you. They would have had to take a lot of time to observe us in order to pinpoint all the hinges of our wards. They wanted to attack us inside the safehouse, and catch us off guard as well. So they had to have been there for a while."
***
Harry is standing in the doorway when Draco comes home.
He walks past Harry as if he does not see him at all, and he is deathly pale. His eyes are hazy, somewhere far away. His brows are pinched, as if he is in pain.
"Draco?" Harry asks, blinking in bemusement as his eyes follow him. Ron and Hermione had left that evening; with a hug and a promise that they will be alive when Harry sees them again; that they will see him again.
Draco doesn't seem to have heard. He just climbs the stairs silently, wearily, and looks ready to fall from exhaustion.
Did they do something to him?
Did they hurt him?
They could not have found out; or else Draco would not have come back home and --
The thought scares Harry, he realizes. It scares him to think of Draco not coming home. That it would be because of Harry himself if it should ever happen.
If Harry is found out, he knows Voldemort may not want to kill him, but he can still take him and do a lot of things — use him against his friends.
He would kill Draco for his betrayal.
But if they didn't find out, then what was Draco punished for? Why did he look so lost?
Harry decides to give him his space and simply watches Draco retreat to his room. He retreats on his own as well.
All through the night, however, the worry lingers until he is agitated with it; he can't stop thinking of Draco's face, features delicate on a strong facial structure, overcome by something haunting. He can't stop worrying that Draco is not okay.
He can't shake off the feeling that something is wrong.
So Harry gets up and out of bed and pads down the corridors towards Draco's room.
The door is unlocked, for once, and Harry can hear retching from the inside, gasping. Draco is on the bed sideways, back to the room, trembling violently.
"Draco? Draco!"
By the next second, Harry is at his side, in front of him so he can see his face, grappling for his shoulders.
"What's going on? Why are you--?" His voice sounds panicked, his hands frantic and all over him. He can barely hear himself over the pounding of his own heart.
Only then does he see the vial in Draco's hands. Harry blinks, brows furrowed, reaching for it in Draco's grip and turning it over to see the label.
Anti-Cruciatus Effects
Draco's face is drained and sweaty. Harry resists the urge to swipe the blond hair stuck to his temple. His eyes are glazed. His chest is moving, slow and deep, breaths raspy with pain.
His fingers are twitching, flexing, as if seeking grounding.
Harry takes it into his own, letting him hold it tightly until it hurts. He doesn't know where it came from; he just does it, and it seems to help.
"I'm here," Harry murmurs, "I'm right here." He doesn't know if Draco's can hear him.
He must have knelt there for almost an hour, as Draco trembled, muscles locked with such tension and anguish he would have felt like stone. He knelt there until Draco fell asleep, long gloved fingers tangled around his. He didn't undress and his mask is left on the nightstand. Harry slips his fingers out and takes his shoes and belt and gloves off, so he will be comfortable, and reaches for the blanket at his feet; pulls it up to drape it over his shoulders, the side of his curled body.
And Harry does brush his hair off his sweaty forehead then.
He doesn't know what happened, exactly, but there is knowledge somewhere embedded deep in his mind, brought to the forefront.
He knows Cruciatus aftereffects only happen when someone has been under it to such an extent and duration almost beyond durable.
Harry stands to his feet, and begins to turn and make for the door when he sees it.
There is a picture on the nightstand.
The closer Harry steps to it, the clearer it becomes in his view; the better he is able to make out what he is seeing.
There are two school boys in the picture; a blond boy in green robes, leaning in close towards the black-haired boy as they are caught in laughter. Draco looks as if he is drinking him in, face bright and eyes crinkled, where Harry is turned to him.
The picture is worn and faded with age and use, creased at the edges by the grip of fingers over years.
Harry glances at Draco's prone form, asleep.
The picture stays on his mind for half the night.
He thinks about the fingers creases, as if it has been held for years and years, and how close it was to Draco; on the nightstand beside his bed, as if it would be something he reached for often.
He thinks about the way they looked in that picture - about how Harry himself looked. They looked like they were in love.
Harry dreams of Draco that night and jolts awake; fragmented dreams that felt too real and vivid to only be dreams.
Above all was his heart racing fast in his throat. Above all was the love still seeping warm through his body. It was visceral; it was memory as well.
In the dream, they were in a field, lying by each other under a rain-grey sky. Harry's head was so turned to him that his cheek touched grass, his entire body as drawn towards him as could be. His chest was vibrating with laughter under the white shirt of his uniform. He was watching Draco laugh, his gray eyes to the sky, unaware. He had felt the love in his throat as if he had known it all his life