Fran's Archive: Father Figure
This story was originally posted in June 2003 just before "Order of the Phoenix" was published.
In January 2003, I collaborated on a story with Zed_Adams which took place during the summer between fourth and fifth year. What follows is my original draft that came from that discussion.
Father Figure
The shop was in an area of magical London Harry wasn’t really supposed to visit. He’d found it by mistake a week before after getting lost in the little side streets and alleyways that criss-crossed the secret enclave hidden from Muggle eyes. At first glance the bookshop looked exactly the same as those he had visited over the years since starting at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but one look in the window quickly made it clear that this wasn’t just another version of Flourish & Blotts. The books in Dickens & Gilberts (Antiquarian Specialists since 1542) would never find their way onto the Hogwarts reading list.
Harry had found himself stuck in Diagon Alley on his own after his family had decided to go on holiday without him. He had learned about this trip when Uncle Vernon had yelled at him to carry an extremely heavy suitcase downstairs. When Dudley had tried to get him to carry down a second case, Harry had refused, much to his cousin’s very vocal annoyance and it was only after struggling with the case that Harry had bothered to look at the luggage label. The Dursleys were flying off to Greece the following day, but more importantly, Harry was not. Nor was he allowed to remain in the house at Privet Drive on his own.
In a moment of panic, Harry had vented his 15-year-old temper on Aunt Petunia who had just shrugged at his concerns about having nowhere to go. Her reaction to his outburst had been to slap his face and then sneer, “Where are all your freaky friends now then?”
His ‘freaky friends’ hadn’t been able to help. Ron Weasley was on holiday with his brother in Egypt and Hermione Granger was with her parents in France. In the end he had tried to contact Hogwarts in the hope that he would be allowed back to the school, but Dumbledore and several of the teachers were busily strengthening the wards after the events following the Triwizard Tournament. They did not want a student getting in the way.
Thus he had ended up staying at The Leaky Cauldron with three weeks to kill until his fifth year at Hogwarts started. It had almost happened by accident that he had ended up spending his time researching the dark arts in general and Voldemort in particular. Events at the Little Hangleton cemetery seven weeks before had focused his mind in a way that all his former struggles with the Dark Lord hadn’t. He knew he’d probably never have the freedom to devote to this sort of research again, and what better place to find out more than in the darker areas of Wizarding London.
Harry pushed open the heavy door and returned a quick greeting from the shop assistant. The elderly witch had spoken to him briefly on his first visit, but since then she seemed happy to have the young wizard hide away upstairs reading her books.
He strode up the narrow staircase, two steps at a time, and weaved his way through the packed bookshelves to a small desk tucked out of the way. It was in a bay window overlooking a particularly boring, almost always deserted alleyway. In all the hours Harry had spent there, he’d probably only seen half a dozen people walking down it. Taking off his cloak, wet from an August thunderstorm, he pushed open the little window to let in what little air the clammy weather allowed, and quickly retrieved the book he had begun reading the previous day -- Reputations: Lord Voldemort, the True Story.
It was, like most of the books he’d found in the shop, nothing like the version of events chronicled in his standard history texts. Of course he didn’t believe it, but reading about the events of the Dark Lord’s reign of terror from the other side’s perspective was still enlightening. It was strange to find books that openly discussed topics such as pureblood supremacy and the dark arts, and he had wondered if the Malfoy library was full of these types of books.
He scratched absently at the small line of scar tissue in the crook of his right arm. He normally healed quickly (a good thing considering the injuries he had sustained in his four years at Hogwarts), but this cut just didn’t seem to want to mend. It had been nearly two months since Peter Pettigrew had cut Harry’s arm with a long, thin, silver dagger and used the blood to help resurrect Voldemort into a caricature of a human body. He still wondered occasionally if the dagger had been enchanted to prevent healing, but no one seemed prepared to talk to him about the possibility. Even Professor Dumbledore told him not to worry.
No one wanted to talk to him about the events that had ended the Triwizard Tournament. It was as if they all thought he was too young to understand what had happened -- that if they didn’t mention Cedric’s death then Harry would forget he had watched the boy drop dead at his side.
“Kill the spare...”
Harry shuddered at the memory Portkeying into the Little Hangleton cemetery with Cedric and of Voldemort’s words. He’d tried not to think about what had happened, but that just left him with nightmares. They were so vivid he would awaken screaming and drenched with sweat. Not that his aunt, uncle or cousin were concerned, all they complained about was the fact he kept waking them up.
A movement below drew him from his thoughts and he craned his neck a little. There were two people in the alleyway, both dressed in dark travel cloaks, which set off their white-blond hair. The taller man had a long walking cane and as he pushed the shorter person, he stuck the cane out so that it caught between the other’s ankles. Stumbling, he grabbed at the wall and backed up against it, turning toward his protagonist, his face now clearly visible.
“Malfoy,” Harry whispered as he quickly ducked out of sight.
*-*-*-*-*
Lucius Malfoy was in a foul mood. He had spent the morning trying yet again to placate Cornelius Fudge and most of the afternoon being dragged around shops by his constantly whining son. Lucius wasn’t quite sure who was the more childish and annoying, but he felt compelled to slap them both. The Minister of Magic seemed to need constant reassurance that the Dark Lord hadn’t returned. Lucius, of course, told the man what he wanted to hear even though Voldemort was currently residing in a pleasant little cottage on the Malfoy Estate grounds.
As for Draco, the behaviour Lucius had happily accepted from a 12-year-old was driving him to distraction now his son had reached 15. At 15 Lucius had already committed himself to Voldemort. At 15 he had accepted without any tears his Master’s Mark. At 15 he would have followed The Dark Lord anywhere without question.
The only commitment 15-year-old Draco had ever made seemed to be to himself and to go on constantly about Harry Potter and how badly he was treated compared to the Gryffindor. At 15, Draco whined like a girl. At 15, Draco was too scared of his own shadow to follow anyone anywhere. Lucius wouldn’t mind so much if the boy would stick up for himself occasionally.
Lucius’ mood wasn’t helped by the fact he should be spending time with his mistress rather than traipsing around Diagon Alley. He had planned on a few pleasant days in London with the Muggle-born witch (his ‘bit of rough’ as one of his friends succinctly put it), but Narcissa had insisted this would be an excellent chance for Draco to accompany his father because she wanted to take him to visit relatives in Ireland the following week.
Who was he, Lucius debated, to refuse his wife anything? After all it was she who had brought money into the almost bankrupt Malfoy family and it was she who could take it all away again.
He became aware of Draco’s chatter again as he stopped to look in a shop window in a little courtyard off Knockturn Alley. The shop was a new wand establishment and Lucius wondered what sort of trade it had. Of course the owner was discreet and asked no questions of his customers, meaning it was possible to get any type of wand you wanted. More importantly, Lucius knew that these wands couldn’t be traced back to the user, meaning the spells cast with them were totally anonymous.
“I’d like a new wand.”
Lucius frowned at his son. “You want a new wand?”
Draco was leaning close to the glass, his grey eyes resting on an elegant looking wand made of a very pale wood, so pale it was almost white. “Yes, I’m sure there’s something wrong with mine. That would explain why I have so much trouble with it. Potter’s got one with a phoenix feather core.”
“So, now you are blaming your wand for all your troubles. Is that why you allowed those Weasley brats to hex you on the train? Because your wand was useless?” He muttered a simple retrieval spell and his son’s wand obediently leapt from the pocket in Draco’s robes to Lucius’ out-stretched hand. “And your wand was responsible for your abysmal exam results?”
Draco reached for the shaft, but whipped his hand back with a yelp of pain as his father rapped it hard across his fingers. “The hexing on the train wasn’t my fault. It was Pot...”
“Of course it was Potter.” Lucius punctuated each word with a stroke of the wand on Draco’s shoulder. “It’s always Potter as far as you are concerned. But then his family didn’t get a call from the train company asking them to collect their unconscious son, did they.” Draco said nothing, his gaze fixed on his father’s shoes. “Did they?” The voice rose a little.
“No, sir.”
“I give you the best of everything, Draco. Clothes, school equipment, tutors. But you STILL manage to fail in everything you do.”
The boy fidgeted a little, but finally raised his head, eyes meeting those of his father. “I passed all my exams and I’m going to be a prefect next year.” He squared his shoulders and held his head erect.
Lucius pressed the tip of the wand under Draco’s chin, forcing the boy’s head back a little further. “Did you get top marks in anything?”
Draco tried to pull away from the wand; he could see people watching the little scene being played out between father and son. They looked but hurried on by, not wanting to be involved. “No sir.”
“You didn’t even manage to get top marks in Potions where....” Lucius paused, realising the shop owner was watching the little altercation through the window. He whipped the wand away, catching Draco’s throat, and grabbing his son’s shoulder, he hauled him down a small side alley, away from the busier thoroughfare. He pushed him a few feet forward.
“Do you have an answer for your behaviour, Draco?”
“This isn’t fair, father, you saw my report. It was good.”
“But not good enough.” Lucius hissed. “You clearly have no idea how to protect yourself -- being hexed by Moody is one thing. But by children? And I had to hear about the ferret incident from a family friend rather than from you. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
“No, I...” Draco was pushed forward again, deeper into the depths of the alleyway. He was about to speak when he felt the end of his father’s cane rap hard against his ankles, sending a shock of pain up his leg. He staggered as the shaft caught between his legs, throwing him off balance, and he stumbled against the wall. “Father...”
“Don’t answer me back. You will listen to me for once in your miserable life. I provide you with the best broom money can buy, yet you can’t even win a simple Quidditch match.”
“The competition was cancelled this year because of the Triwizard Tournament.”
“I told you to keep quiet...”
*-*-*-*-*
Harry crept to the open window, ducking down in an effort to watch the unfolding events without being seen. He could now see that it was, indeed, Draco and his father, but why was Lucius treating his son like this? Malfoy senior was currently admonishing his son in a way Harry would never had thought possible; the body language of both people spoke volumes. Draco was almost cowering back against the wall, while his father towered over him, the cane acting like an extension to his arm as the snake head top pressed against Draco’s chest.
Occasional words drifted up to the window. They consisted of things like ‘idiot’ and ‘disgrace’. Harry felt a dark smile slowly curve his mouth and he wished Ron could be here to see Draco getting his comeuppance from his father. It was almost too delicious for words to watch his rival, who had made his life a misery, getting a taste of his own medicine.
He was just wishing he could be down in the alleyway so that he could hear the tirade from Lucius when something happened which made him gasp. Draco finally responded with something that sounded like, “That’s not true. You know it isn’t.” Lucius’ hand shot out and he backhanded his son across the face.
Harry’s eyes widened as he realised the blow wasn’t just a slap. It had been hard enough to send Draco reeling to the ground. Lucius didn’t let his son get back to his feet either. As Draco tried to rise, his father twisted his cane round and pushed the silver snake’s head into the small of Draco’s back and uttered a single word that carried in the still air. “Crucio”
Harry dropped down to the floor with a heavy thud, trying to catch his breath. He thought he might black out as that single word transported him back to Little Hangleton and the excruciating pain Voldemort had inflicted on him with the same curse. It had been pain beyond anything he had ever known, as if his very being was on fire, and all he had wanted to do was die.
Closing his eyes, he tried to blot out the memory as words spiralled up from below, suddenly clear in the afternoon air, interspersed by choking sounds from Draco.
“You are a disgrace to the Malfoy name, Draco. I sometimes wonder if you are really my son. I’m ashamed of you and if you don’t begin living up to your pureblood heritage, I will throw you out.”
Harry struggled to his knees and looked out of the window again. He was just in time to see Lucius lift his cane and circle it over Draco’s body. He thought Draco’s body twitched under the cane, which Harry knew housed Lucius’ wand, and for the first time he could remember, he felt sorry for Draco.
“Look at you. Grovelling on the floor like a house-elf. At least Potter didn’t do that when The Dark Lord cursed him. He stood his ground.”
Like hell, thought Harry. The only reason he’d remained on his feet was because he was tied to the gravestone. If he’d been in Draco position, he would be been on the ground now. But to hear Lucius admit something that connected him to Little Hangleton sent a strange buzz through Harry. Fudge and others might refuse to believe Harry, but he now know he had been right all along -- Lucius had been there along with the other Death Eaters.
“Potter had a Mudblood mother but he flies better than you. His marks are better and he won the Triwizard Tournament. He’d probably make a better Slytherin than you as well.” Lucius pulled his cane away, ending the curse. “Get up.”
Draco tried to pull himself to his knees, the movement sending a bolt of pain through his body. Nausea hit him and despite all his efforts he threw up in the gutter. He could feel the look of disgust on his father’s face and the prod of his accursed cane in his side.
“I said get up!”
But Draco knew he couldn’t; the curse had left him as weak as a kitten and he wasn’t even sure his legs would hold him. He had been on the receiving end of curses before, but never like this ... nothing in his life had prepared him for this, nor for the fact it was his father performing the curse.
“I should have sent you to Durmstrang, they would have turned you into a proper wizard instead of this travesty I see before me. I can still send you there, Draco, don’t you ever forget that.”
He tried to say ‘no father’, but it came out as a whimper.
“Since you so determined to show your independence, let’s see you get home on your own without your wand or any money.” Lucius pocketed his son’s wand. “Then I might consider letting you return to Hogwarts.”
*-*-*-*-*
Reaching the shop door, Harry stepped out and almost ran straight into Lucius. He spun round, pretending to look into the shop window and gave a silent prayer that Lucius would just keep on walking. The elder man did just that and quickly disappeared out of the courtyard.
He waited for a few moments just in case Lucius might change his mind and return for his son before setting off down the alley way. Draco was still there, struggling to sit up, and Harry paused several feet from him. The Slytherin finally made it, sitting against the wall on the rain-damp ground, hugging his knees. His head dropped back against the brickwork, eyes closed, the only movement the rise and fall of his chest.
There was blood in the blond hair and on his right cheek was a livid red mark where the back of Lucius’ hand had hit him. Across the mark were three cuts and Harry wondered if Lucius had been wearing a ring. He watched as Draco raised his fingers to the mark, prodding it as he opened and closed his jaw. Then the same hand dashed across his eyes, wiping away tears.
Harry thought for a moment about just walking away, but he couldn’t leave Malfoy like this, especially if he was stranded with no wand and no money. He finally cleared his throat and said quietly, “Malfoy.”
The blond head whipped up, eyes widening as he realised who had spoken and he quickly looked away, hiding his injured face. “Potter. Just piss off and die,” Draco hissed.
Harry stood his ground and deliberately held back a similar derogatory retort. “Are you okay?” He took a few steps closer. “I saw what happened and --” Draco’s head dropped to his knees. “And I know what that feels like.” He crouched down. “The Cruciartus curse. I know what it’s like.”
“Well, bully for you.” Draco looked up again. Harry was close enough now to see that the blow had blackened Draco’s eye as well. “You didn’t see anything, Potter. Just get lost.”
The two boys remained silent, neither moving as the thunder rumbled around. It was only as the rain started to fall again, that Harry finally spoke. “You can’t stay here. I’ve got a room at the Leaky Cauldron. You can come there and get cleaned up.”
“I can stay where I bloody want.”
“In the rain?”
“In the rain.”
“Fine. Suit yourself.” Harry came to his feet, pulling up his hood against the steadily falling rain. He started back down the alley, but paused again and looked back. Draco was still on the ground, his head on his knees. Maybe he couldn’t get up, Harry debated, remembering how weak the curse had left him. He clenched his teeth, if he just walked off and left him, he’d be as bad as the Slytherin. But didn’t Draco deserve this after everything he’d done?
No, Harry decided. No one, not even Draco Malfoy deserved to be treated like that.
*-*-*-*-*
Draco had been to the Leaky Cauldron, but he’s never stayed in one of its rooms. His family had a very pleasant townhouse in one of the better areas of Wizarding London, where his mother held parties and his father entertained his mistresses. Draco had met the latest one and was amazed to find she wasn’t that much older than he was -- 18 ... perhaps 20. His father was making a fool out of himself and Draco wished he had the audacity to tell him that to his face.
Potter’s room reminded Draco of a dormatory at Hogwarts. Sparsely furnished, it had a large bed, a desk with a rather rickety looking chair, and a chest of drawers. At the foot of the bed was Potter’s school trunk and the Gryffindor’s owl was currently watching him from the windowsill. There was also a door leading to what he assumed would be the bathroom.
He stood just inside the room feeling more than a little awkward and wondering what the hell he was doing here with Harry Potter. The dark haired boy was currently knelt in front of the trunk rummaging through the contents -- school uniform, Quidditch robes, stupid mis-matched items of clothing that had become Potter’s trademark. He watched Harry’s hands as they searched, a finger occasionally rising to push his glasses back up the slope of his nose or to push a shock of black hair from his face.
Finally Harry looked up at him, a towel and flannel in his hands. “You can use these.” He got to his feet, looking a little gawky in his movements. Draco had noticed that his long-time adversary seemed to have grown several inches since the end of the school year and didn’t seem to be comfortable with his new height yet. Harry sidestepped towards the door and pushed it open. “This is the bathroom.”
Draco didn’t move, in fact he wasn’t sure he was able to. The after-effects of the curse had cramped muscles and made his very bones ache. Could it cause long-term problems, he wondered. Affect his ability to think ... fly ... walk ... write? His head ached as well, a sick nauseous pain that left him with blurred vision and a buzz in his ears. At the moment the bed looked the most inviting thing in the whole world.
He took a step forward, feeling like there was lead weight in his boots. Another step and he was at Harry’s side. The bundle was thrust into his arms and Harry spoke again. “Do you need any help?”
“No.” Draco stepped into the bathroom and closed the door.
Pursing his lips, Harry stared at the door. “Well, Hedwig,” he muttered. “So much for thank yous.” The owl rustled her wings and then fluttered the short distance to Harry’s shoulder where she nipped affectionately at his hair. He reached up and scratched at her head. “You know, I’m almost tempted to write a letter to Ron. I wonder what he would think if he knew who was in my bathroom.” The owl hooted a response and pecked at Harry’s shirt pocket. “Are you looking for something? You want a treat?”
He crossed to the desk and rummaged in a drawer for the bag of owl treats. “Here you go.” She took them, one-by-one, from his fingers while he continued talking to her. The rain was harder now, splattering through the open window and onto his desk. He quickly pulled the window shut and let Hedwig hop down onto the desk to finish her treats.
The sound of smashing glass from the bathroom made Harry jump and Hedwig screech. He leapt to the bathroom door, flinging it open. Draco was sitting on the edge of the bath, shoulders bowed, hands hanging limply between his legs. On the floor shards of broken glass glinted in the light.
“Malfoy.”
Grey eyes finally met his. “I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I was trying to move the bottle and it slipped.” Draco’s hands were trembling.
“I said it doesn’t matter.” Harry reached for his wand, cleared the mess up, and turned his attention to the Slytherin. Draco had made no move to deal with the visible signs of his father’s attack and from his posture and demeanour, it was clear he wasn’t dealing with the mental aspects of it either.
“Do you want me to heal that?” Harry waggled his wand at the marks on Draco’s face.
“You can try, but it won’t work.”
“Oh?”
“He’s charmed them so no one else can heal them with magic.” Draco prodded gently at his face. “That way I have to ask him to get rid of them.” He finally looked up. “And if you tell anyone that I will kill you.”
Harry’s eyebrow rose. First Lucius hits Draco, then curses him with one of the Unforgivable curses, and as a final punishment he charms those injuries so Draco can’t heal himself. He knew Lucius was a monster -- a Death Eater of the highest order -- but to do something like this to his own son? It made Harry feel sick. “Take off your cloak, and sit down here.” He grabbed the chair from the desk.
“Why?”
“So we can sort you out. If we can’t use magic then I have some Muggle stuff...”
“No!”
“Oh, for god’s stake, Malfoy!”
“Muggle medicine makes me ill.”
“Sure.”
“It does. I’ve got a very sensitive metabolism.”
Harry swore under his breath. “I should have left you in the gutter.”
“Fine, I’ll just leave now.” Draco got to his feet, took a step and almost passed out. It was only Harry’s quick reflexes that stopped him landing face down on the floor. Gasping slightly, Draco let Harry take his weight for a moment and didn’t struggle when he was lowered onto the chair.
“It’s the curse. I felt it for days afterwards.” He sat on the edge of the bath and eyed Draco critically. “It felt like my bones had been shredded.”
“Who cursed you?”
Harry got suddenly to his feet and disappeared into the bedroom, returning with a small wooden box. He sat back down and tapped a finger nervously on the box. “It was Voldemort.” If nothing else, the admission got Draco’s attention. “Well, you know he’s back.” There was anger in Harry’s voice now. “Remember what you said on the train?”
“That was ... It was...”
“I really don’t care. Malfoy. We both know the truth even if others want to deny it.” The two locked eyes for a moment, each daring the other to deny Voldemort’s existence. “You’re right about Muggle medicines, but these are different.” He opened the box. “These are made from herbs and things. No synthetic chemicals.” For a moment he thought Draco was going to argue but finally the Slytherin just nodded.
Both drifted into silence as Harry started to clean up the various injuries. There was a cut just in the hairline and the three inflamed scratches on Draco’s cheek. He let out a hiss of pain as Harry dabbed the damp cloth over the gashes. Harry murmured a quiet apology as his free hand cupped the other side of Draco’s head to stop him pulling away.
Satisfied with the cleaning, Harry rummaged in the wooden box and brought out a tube of salve. He squeezed a little on to his fingers. “This should help with the healing and take away the pain.”
Draco looked dubiously at the fingers. “What is it?”
“Calendula and Hypericum.” Draco raised a questioning eyebrow. “Marigold and St John’s Wort. Both great for healing cuts and things like that.”
“You’ve turned into quite the little nurse, haven’t you, Potter?” The words were sarcastic but the tone was half-hearted. “When did you start learning things like this?”
Harry began to gently apply the salve to the injuries, his fingers lightly running down Draco’s cheek. “When I got home from school. I found a book in a second-hand shop and it looked like a good idea to learn some first aid that didn’t involve magic.” Draco managed a snort of derision, which made Harry smile. “Remember that when you’re injured and have lost your wand.” He brushed fingers through Draco’s hair, trying to pull it back from the cut. The fine hair refused to remain out of the way and eventually he pushed most of it behind Draco’s ear and managed to get the salve on the injury.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Draco closed his eyes; only to open them almost immediately as Harry took hold of his hands. Instinctively he drew them back, but the other’s hands trapped his fingertips. “What are you doing now?”
“I’m just checking.”
Taking a deep breath, Draco allowed the other boy to continue. He’d never touched Harry like this. Actually he considered he’d never really touched Harry at all. Oh, there had been occasional shoulder charges in Quidditch matches or even jostling in crowded corridors, but never deliberate touches like this. He watched the hands as they ran lightly over his skin, cleaning his grazed palm which had taken the brunt of his weight as he had fallen.
His eyes flickered from the hands to Harry himself. Why didn’t the boy do more to look after himself, Draco wondered. Look at that untidy hair and the t-shirt that wasn’t quite long enough to cover his stomach, and the faded, threadbare cords. Anyone would think The Boy Who Lived had no money, which Draco knew wasn’t the case. His father had told him of the fortune in Harry’s Gringotts vault. If he had a personal income, Draco knew he wouldn’t be walking around looking like that.
“There.” Harry let go of him and almost immediately began tidying away his supplies.
Draco watched for a moment. There was part of him that wanted to believe this was all some strange plot of Harry’s to get at him. Maybe the salve would give him big green blotches on his face or something like that, but he got the impression Harry genuinely wanted to help.
“Why did you bother?” Harry looked round at him, surprise registering on his face. “I mean, if it had been you in the gutter, I’m not sure I would have helped.”
Harry shrugged and went back to his work. “No one, not even you, deserves to be treated like that, Malfoy.” With that he returned to the bedroom. “I’m going to get something to eat and drink. You shouldn’t try to walk too far after what’s happened.”
Draco glared at nothing in particular. “Saint Potter!” he sneered to the empty room. “I’m not one of your little charity cases.” He got up; wobbled a little as vertigo flashed through him and thought for a moment he might pass out. The sensation eventually passed and he walked gingerly back into the bedroom. Hedwig followed his every movement and Draco glared at her for good measure. “What are you looking at? Bloody owl!”
His head still throbbed a little, and Draco sat on the bed, finally lowering himself onto his back. He didn’t want to think about what his father would say when he got home. Didn’t want to even contemplate what the man had done to him earlier. Being disciplined by his father wasn’t a new experience, Lucius thought nothing of punishing Draco for what he considered faults in his son. But this had been different ... this had been ... personal.
He turned on his side, curling up a little. Malfoys were strong, his father had told him countless times, Malfoys take their punishment stoically and don’t cry. Malfoys are cold-hearted bastards who never have friends, only acquaintances. Malfoys are....
Draco took a hitched breath.
Always lonely....
*-*-*-*-*
Harry found the Slytherin asleep on his bed. He put the tray down on his desk and studied the sleeping form for a moment.
“You could have taken your shoes off first,” he murmured.
He fiddled with the lacings for a moment, and finally managed to remove both shoes without waking the boy. What was he supposed to do now? There was no way he was just going to leave Draco here on his own. An image of the other boy rummaging through his belongings actually dragged a smile across Harry’s face. There wasn’t exactly anything that Draco might find of interest, but the idea of him trying on some of Dudley’s hand-me-downs was worthy of a smile.
Sitting at the desk, Harry found a sheet of parchment and began to write. Dear Ron, you’ll never guess what happened today...
The quill paused above the paper, dripping a single drop of black ink onto the creamy surface. He glanced over his shoulder as the sleeping figure and he knew he couldn’t share this with his best friend. To share would mean explaining about the curse and Harry knew that wasn’t something he wanted to make common knowledge. It was too personal ... too painful.
Instead he picked up a book and, toeing off his own shoes, crossed to the bed. Carefully he sat down next to Draco, leaning against the headboard, and started to read. Draco mumbled something in his sleep before settling against the warmth of Harry’s leg.
*-*-*-*-*
... The weather is just so nice, Harry. I wish we could have sorted it out so you could have joined us here. Hope you aren’t too lonely stuck in Diagon Alley on your own. Mum and dad say that I can stay in London for a couple of nights before going to school, so they’ve booked me into the Leak Cauldron on 30 and 31. Will see you then. Love Hermione.
Harry read through the chatty letter for a second time before tucking into the box he had started keeping important things in. There had been a letter from Ron as well and it looked like the three friends would have a couple of days together before returning to school.
He’d deliberately left the third letter to last. The owl delivering it had been one he had seen before at school and he knew it belonged to Draco. The small envelope contained no outward markings, not even a Malfoy stamp in the sealing wax. Across the front written in copperplate letters was his name -- Harry Potter.
Sliding his finger under the wax (his nails has been bitten to the quick since events at Little Hangleton), Harry opened the envelope. Inside were a little card and one shiny silver Sickle. He hefted the coin, a refund for the one he had given Draco the previous day to pay for his Floo trip home.
The card wasn’t signed, but said simply “Thank you”.
Harry smiled as his hand brushed against his leg where he could almost still feel where Draco’s weight had pressed. He slipping the card back into the envelope along with the Sickle and thoughtfully adding it to the box. Then after giving the Eagle owl a drink, several treats and a quick scratch behind its ears, Harry sent it on its way.
The next year was going to be very interesting indeed.
~Fin
In January 2003, I collaborated on a story with Zed_Adams which took place during the summer between fourth and fifth year. What follows is my original draft that came from that discussion.
Father Figure
The shop was in an area of magical London Harry wasn’t really supposed to visit. He’d found it by mistake a week before after getting lost in the little side streets and alleyways that criss-crossed the secret enclave hidden from Muggle eyes. At first glance the bookshop looked exactly the same as those he had visited over the years since starting at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but one look in the window quickly made it clear that this wasn’t just another version of Flourish & Blotts. The books in Dickens & Gilberts (Antiquarian Specialists since 1542) would never find their way onto the Hogwarts reading list.
Harry had found himself stuck in Diagon Alley on his own after his family had decided to go on holiday without him. He had learned about this trip when Uncle Vernon had yelled at him to carry an extremely heavy suitcase downstairs. When Dudley had tried to get him to carry down a second case, Harry had refused, much to his cousin’s very vocal annoyance and it was only after struggling with the case that Harry had bothered to look at the luggage label. The Dursleys were flying off to Greece the following day, but more importantly, Harry was not. Nor was he allowed to remain in the house at Privet Drive on his own.
In a moment of panic, Harry had vented his 15-year-old temper on Aunt Petunia who had just shrugged at his concerns about having nowhere to go. Her reaction to his outburst had been to slap his face and then sneer, “Where are all your freaky friends now then?”
His ‘freaky friends’ hadn’t been able to help. Ron Weasley was on holiday with his brother in Egypt and Hermione Granger was with her parents in France. In the end he had tried to contact Hogwarts in the hope that he would be allowed back to the school, but Dumbledore and several of the teachers were busily strengthening the wards after the events following the Triwizard Tournament. They did not want a student getting in the way.
Thus he had ended up staying at The Leaky Cauldron with three weeks to kill until his fifth year at Hogwarts started. It had almost happened by accident that he had ended up spending his time researching the dark arts in general and Voldemort in particular. Events at the Little Hangleton cemetery seven weeks before had focused his mind in a way that all his former struggles with the Dark Lord hadn’t. He knew he’d probably never have the freedom to devote to this sort of research again, and what better place to find out more than in the darker areas of Wizarding London.
Harry pushed open the heavy door and returned a quick greeting from the shop assistant. The elderly witch had spoken to him briefly on his first visit, but since then she seemed happy to have the young wizard hide away upstairs reading her books.
He strode up the narrow staircase, two steps at a time, and weaved his way through the packed bookshelves to a small desk tucked out of the way. It was in a bay window overlooking a particularly boring, almost always deserted alleyway. In all the hours Harry had spent there, he’d probably only seen half a dozen people walking down it. Taking off his cloak, wet from an August thunderstorm, he pushed open the little window to let in what little air the clammy weather allowed, and quickly retrieved the book he had begun reading the previous day -- Reputations: Lord Voldemort, the True Story.
It was, like most of the books he’d found in the shop, nothing like the version of events chronicled in his standard history texts. Of course he didn’t believe it, but reading about the events of the Dark Lord’s reign of terror from the other side’s perspective was still enlightening. It was strange to find books that openly discussed topics such as pureblood supremacy and the dark arts, and he had wondered if the Malfoy library was full of these types of books.
He scratched absently at the small line of scar tissue in the crook of his right arm. He normally healed quickly (a good thing considering the injuries he had sustained in his four years at Hogwarts), but this cut just didn’t seem to want to mend. It had been nearly two months since Peter Pettigrew had cut Harry’s arm with a long, thin, silver dagger and used the blood to help resurrect Voldemort into a caricature of a human body. He still wondered occasionally if the dagger had been enchanted to prevent healing, but no one seemed prepared to talk to him about the possibility. Even Professor Dumbledore told him not to worry.
No one wanted to talk to him about the events that had ended the Triwizard Tournament. It was as if they all thought he was too young to understand what had happened -- that if they didn’t mention Cedric’s death then Harry would forget he had watched the boy drop dead at his side.
“Kill the spare...”
Harry shuddered at the memory Portkeying into the Little Hangleton cemetery with Cedric and of Voldemort’s words. He’d tried not to think about what had happened, but that just left him with nightmares. They were so vivid he would awaken screaming and drenched with sweat. Not that his aunt, uncle or cousin were concerned, all they complained about was the fact he kept waking them up.
A movement below drew him from his thoughts and he craned his neck a little. There were two people in the alleyway, both dressed in dark travel cloaks, which set off their white-blond hair. The taller man had a long walking cane and as he pushed the shorter person, he stuck the cane out so that it caught between the other’s ankles. Stumbling, he grabbed at the wall and backed up against it, turning toward his protagonist, his face now clearly visible.
“Malfoy,” Harry whispered as he quickly ducked out of sight.
*-*-*-*-*
Lucius Malfoy was in a foul mood. He had spent the morning trying yet again to placate Cornelius Fudge and most of the afternoon being dragged around shops by his constantly whining son. Lucius wasn’t quite sure who was the more childish and annoying, but he felt compelled to slap them both. The Minister of Magic seemed to need constant reassurance that the Dark Lord hadn’t returned. Lucius, of course, told the man what he wanted to hear even though Voldemort was currently residing in a pleasant little cottage on the Malfoy Estate grounds.
As for Draco, the behaviour Lucius had happily accepted from a 12-year-old was driving him to distraction now his son had reached 15. At 15 Lucius had already committed himself to Voldemort. At 15 he had accepted without any tears his Master’s Mark. At 15 he would have followed The Dark Lord anywhere without question.
The only commitment 15-year-old Draco had ever made seemed to be to himself and to go on constantly about Harry Potter and how badly he was treated compared to the Gryffindor. At 15, Draco whined like a girl. At 15, Draco was too scared of his own shadow to follow anyone anywhere. Lucius wouldn’t mind so much if the boy would stick up for himself occasionally.
Lucius’ mood wasn’t helped by the fact he should be spending time with his mistress rather than traipsing around Diagon Alley. He had planned on a few pleasant days in London with the Muggle-born witch (his ‘bit of rough’ as one of his friends succinctly put it), but Narcissa had insisted this would be an excellent chance for Draco to accompany his father because she wanted to take him to visit relatives in Ireland the following week.
Who was he, Lucius debated, to refuse his wife anything? After all it was she who had brought money into the almost bankrupt Malfoy family and it was she who could take it all away again.
He became aware of Draco’s chatter again as he stopped to look in a shop window in a little courtyard off Knockturn Alley. The shop was a new wand establishment and Lucius wondered what sort of trade it had. Of course the owner was discreet and asked no questions of his customers, meaning it was possible to get any type of wand you wanted. More importantly, Lucius knew that these wands couldn’t be traced back to the user, meaning the spells cast with them were totally anonymous.
“I’d like a new wand.”
Lucius frowned at his son. “You want a new wand?”
Draco was leaning close to the glass, his grey eyes resting on an elegant looking wand made of a very pale wood, so pale it was almost white. “Yes, I’m sure there’s something wrong with mine. That would explain why I have so much trouble with it. Potter’s got one with a phoenix feather core.”
“So, now you are blaming your wand for all your troubles. Is that why you allowed those Weasley brats to hex you on the train? Because your wand was useless?” He muttered a simple retrieval spell and his son’s wand obediently leapt from the pocket in Draco’s robes to Lucius’ out-stretched hand. “And your wand was responsible for your abysmal exam results?”
Draco reached for the shaft, but whipped his hand back with a yelp of pain as his father rapped it hard across his fingers. “The hexing on the train wasn’t my fault. It was Pot...”
“Of course it was Potter.” Lucius punctuated each word with a stroke of the wand on Draco’s shoulder. “It’s always Potter as far as you are concerned. But then his family didn’t get a call from the train company asking them to collect their unconscious son, did they.” Draco said nothing, his gaze fixed on his father’s shoes. “Did they?” The voice rose a little.
“No, sir.”
“I give you the best of everything, Draco. Clothes, school equipment, tutors. But you STILL manage to fail in everything you do.”
The boy fidgeted a little, but finally raised his head, eyes meeting those of his father. “I passed all my exams and I’m going to be a prefect next year.” He squared his shoulders and held his head erect.
Lucius pressed the tip of the wand under Draco’s chin, forcing the boy’s head back a little further. “Did you get top marks in anything?”
Draco tried to pull away from the wand; he could see people watching the little scene being played out between father and son. They looked but hurried on by, not wanting to be involved. “No sir.”
“You didn’t even manage to get top marks in Potions where....” Lucius paused, realising the shop owner was watching the little altercation through the window. He whipped the wand away, catching Draco’s throat, and grabbing his son’s shoulder, he hauled him down a small side alley, away from the busier thoroughfare. He pushed him a few feet forward.
“Do you have an answer for your behaviour, Draco?”
“This isn’t fair, father, you saw my report. It was good.”
“But not good enough.” Lucius hissed. “You clearly have no idea how to protect yourself -- being hexed by Moody is one thing. But by children? And I had to hear about the ferret incident from a family friend rather than from you. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
“No, I...” Draco was pushed forward again, deeper into the depths of the alleyway. He was about to speak when he felt the end of his father’s cane rap hard against his ankles, sending a shock of pain up his leg. He staggered as the shaft caught between his legs, throwing him off balance, and he stumbled against the wall. “Father...”
“Don’t answer me back. You will listen to me for once in your miserable life. I provide you with the best broom money can buy, yet you can’t even win a simple Quidditch match.”
“The competition was cancelled this year because of the Triwizard Tournament.”
“I told you to keep quiet...”
*-*-*-*-*
Harry crept to the open window, ducking down in an effort to watch the unfolding events without being seen. He could now see that it was, indeed, Draco and his father, but why was Lucius treating his son like this? Malfoy senior was currently admonishing his son in a way Harry would never had thought possible; the body language of both people spoke volumes. Draco was almost cowering back against the wall, while his father towered over him, the cane acting like an extension to his arm as the snake head top pressed against Draco’s chest.
Occasional words drifted up to the window. They consisted of things like ‘idiot’ and ‘disgrace’. Harry felt a dark smile slowly curve his mouth and he wished Ron could be here to see Draco getting his comeuppance from his father. It was almost too delicious for words to watch his rival, who had made his life a misery, getting a taste of his own medicine.
He was just wishing he could be down in the alleyway so that he could hear the tirade from Lucius when something happened which made him gasp. Draco finally responded with something that sounded like, “That’s not true. You know it isn’t.” Lucius’ hand shot out and he backhanded his son across the face.
Harry’s eyes widened as he realised the blow wasn’t just a slap. It had been hard enough to send Draco reeling to the ground. Lucius didn’t let his son get back to his feet either. As Draco tried to rise, his father twisted his cane round and pushed the silver snake’s head into the small of Draco’s back and uttered a single word that carried in the still air. “Crucio”
Harry dropped down to the floor with a heavy thud, trying to catch his breath. He thought he might black out as that single word transported him back to Little Hangleton and the excruciating pain Voldemort had inflicted on him with the same curse. It had been pain beyond anything he had ever known, as if his very being was on fire, and all he had wanted to do was die.
Closing his eyes, he tried to blot out the memory as words spiralled up from below, suddenly clear in the afternoon air, interspersed by choking sounds from Draco.
“You are a disgrace to the Malfoy name, Draco. I sometimes wonder if you are really my son. I’m ashamed of you and if you don’t begin living up to your pureblood heritage, I will throw you out.”
Harry struggled to his knees and looked out of the window again. He was just in time to see Lucius lift his cane and circle it over Draco’s body. He thought Draco’s body twitched under the cane, which Harry knew housed Lucius’ wand, and for the first time he could remember, he felt sorry for Draco.
“Look at you. Grovelling on the floor like a house-elf. At least Potter didn’t do that when The Dark Lord cursed him. He stood his ground.”
Like hell, thought Harry. The only reason he’d remained on his feet was because he was tied to the gravestone. If he’d been in Draco position, he would be been on the ground now. But to hear Lucius admit something that connected him to Little Hangleton sent a strange buzz through Harry. Fudge and others might refuse to believe Harry, but he now know he had been right all along -- Lucius had been there along with the other Death Eaters.
“Potter had a Mudblood mother but he flies better than you. His marks are better and he won the Triwizard Tournament. He’d probably make a better Slytherin than you as well.” Lucius pulled his cane away, ending the curse. “Get up.”
Draco tried to pull himself to his knees, the movement sending a bolt of pain through his body. Nausea hit him and despite all his efforts he threw up in the gutter. He could feel the look of disgust on his father’s face and the prod of his accursed cane in his side.
“I said get up!”
But Draco knew he couldn’t; the curse had left him as weak as a kitten and he wasn’t even sure his legs would hold him. He had been on the receiving end of curses before, but never like this ... nothing in his life had prepared him for this, nor for the fact it was his father performing the curse.
“I should have sent you to Durmstrang, they would have turned you into a proper wizard instead of this travesty I see before me. I can still send you there, Draco, don’t you ever forget that.”
He tried to say ‘no father’, but it came out as a whimper.
“Since you so determined to show your independence, let’s see you get home on your own without your wand or any money.” Lucius pocketed his son’s wand. “Then I might consider letting you return to Hogwarts.”
*-*-*-*-*
Reaching the shop door, Harry stepped out and almost ran straight into Lucius. He spun round, pretending to look into the shop window and gave a silent prayer that Lucius would just keep on walking. The elder man did just that and quickly disappeared out of the courtyard.
He waited for a few moments just in case Lucius might change his mind and return for his son before setting off down the alley way. Draco was still there, struggling to sit up, and Harry paused several feet from him. The Slytherin finally made it, sitting against the wall on the rain-damp ground, hugging his knees. His head dropped back against the brickwork, eyes closed, the only movement the rise and fall of his chest.
There was blood in the blond hair and on his right cheek was a livid red mark where the back of Lucius’ hand had hit him. Across the mark were three cuts and Harry wondered if Lucius had been wearing a ring. He watched as Draco raised his fingers to the mark, prodding it as he opened and closed his jaw. Then the same hand dashed across his eyes, wiping away tears.
Harry thought for a moment about just walking away, but he couldn’t leave Malfoy like this, especially if he was stranded with no wand and no money. He finally cleared his throat and said quietly, “Malfoy.”
The blond head whipped up, eyes widening as he realised who had spoken and he quickly looked away, hiding his injured face. “Potter. Just piss off and die,” Draco hissed.
Harry stood his ground and deliberately held back a similar derogatory retort. “Are you okay?” He took a few steps closer. “I saw what happened and --” Draco’s head dropped to his knees. “And I know what that feels like.” He crouched down. “The Cruciartus curse. I know what it’s like.”
“Well, bully for you.” Draco looked up again. Harry was close enough now to see that the blow had blackened Draco’s eye as well. “You didn’t see anything, Potter. Just get lost.”
The two boys remained silent, neither moving as the thunder rumbled around. It was only as the rain started to fall again, that Harry finally spoke. “You can’t stay here. I’ve got a room at the Leaky Cauldron. You can come there and get cleaned up.”
“I can stay where I bloody want.”
“In the rain?”
“In the rain.”
“Fine. Suit yourself.” Harry came to his feet, pulling up his hood against the steadily falling rain. He started back down the alley, but paused again and looked back. Draco was still on the ground, his head on his knees. Maybe he couldn’t get up, Harry debated, remembering how weak the curse had left him. He clenched his teeth, if he just walked off and left him, he’d be as bad as the Slytherin. But didn’t Draco deserve this after everything he’d done?
No, Harry decided. No one, not even Draco Malfoy deserved to be treated like that.
*-*-*-*-*
Draco had been to the Leaky Cauldron, but he’s never stayed in one of its rooms. His family had a very pleasant townhouse in one of the better areas of Wizarding London, where his mother held parties and his father entertained his mistresses. Draco had met the latest one and was amazed to find she wasn’t that much older than he was -- 18 ... perhaps 20. His father was making a fool out of himself and Draco wished he had the audacity to tell him that to his face.
Potter’s room reminded Draco of a dormatory at Hogwarts. Sparsely furnished, it had a large bed, a desk with a rather rickety looking chair, and a chest of drawers. At the foot of the bed was Potter’s school trunk and the Gryffindor’s owl was currently watching him from the windowsill. There was also a door leading to what he assumed would be the bathroom.
He stood just inside the room feeling more than a little awkward and wondering what the hell he was doing here with Harry Potter. The dark haired boy was currently knelt in front of the trunk rummaging through the contents -- school uniform, Quidditch robes, stupid mis-matched items of clothing that had become Potter’s trademark. He watched Harry’s hands as they searched, a finger occasionally rising to push his glasses back up the slope of his nose or to push a shock of black hair from his face.
Finally Harry looked up at him, a towel and flannel in his hands. “You can use these.” He got to his feet, looking a little gawky in his movements. Draco had noticed that his long-time adversary seemed to have grown several inches since the end of the school year and didn’t seem to be comfortable with his new height yet. Harry sidestepped towards the door and pushed it open. “This is the bathroom.”
Draco didn’t move, in fact he wasn’t sure he was able to. The after-effects of the curse had cramped muscles and made his very bones ache. Could it cause long-term problems, he wondered. Affect his ability to think ... fly ... walk ... write? His head ached as well, a sick nauseous pain that left him with blurred vision and a buzz in his ears. At the moment the bed looked the most inviting thing in the whole world.
He took a step forward, feeling like there was lead weight in his boots. Another step and he was at Harry’s side. The bundle was thrust into his arms and Harry spoke again. “Do you need any help?”
“No.” Draco stepped into the bathroom and closed the door.
Pursing his lips, Harry stared at the door. “Well, Hedwig,” he muttered. “So much for thank yous.” The owl rustled her wings and then fluttered the short distance to Harry’s shoulder where she nipped affectionately at his hair. He reached up and scratched at her head. “You know, I’m almost tempted to write a letter to Ron. I wonder what he would think if he knew who was in my bathroom.” The owl hooted a response and pecked at Harry’s shirt pocket. “Are you looking for something? You want a treat?”
He crossed to the desk and rummaged in a drawer for the bag of owl treats. “Here you go.” She took them, one-by-one, from his fingers while he continued talking to her. The rain was harder now, splattering through the open window and onto his desk. He quickly pulled the window shut and let Hedwig hop down onto the desk to finish her treats.
The sound of smashing glass from the bathroom made Harry jump and Hedwig screech. He leapt to the bathroom door, flinging it open. Draco was sitting on the edge of the bath, shoulders bowed, hands hanging limply between his legs. On the floor shards of broken glass glinted in the light.
“Malfoy.”
Grey eyes finally met his. “I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I was trying to move the bottle and it slipped.” Draco’s hands were trembling.
“I said it doesn’t matter.” Harry reached for his wand, cleared the mess up, and turned his attention to the Slytherin. Draco had made no move to deal with the visible signs of his father’s attack and from his posture and demeanour, it was clear he wasn’t dealing with the mental aspects of it either.
“Do you want me to heal that?” Harry waggled his wand at the marks on Draco’s face.
“You can try, but it won’t work.”
“Oh?”
“He’s charmed them so no one else can heal them with magic.” Draco prodded gently at his face. “That way I have to ask him to get rid of them.” He finally looked up. “And if you tell anyone that I will kill you.”
Harry’s eyebrow rose. First Lucius hits Draco, then curses him with one of the Unforgivable curses, and as a final punishment he charms those injuries so Draco can’t heal himself. He knew Lucius was a monster -- a Death Eater of the highest order -- but to do something like this to his own son? It made Harry feel sick. “Take off your cloak, and sit down here.” He grabbed the chair from the desk.
“Why?”
“So we can sort you out. If we can’t use magic then I have some Muggle stuff...”
“No!”
“Oh, for god’s stake, Malfoy!”
“Muggle medicine makes me ill.”
“Sure.”
“It does. I’ve got a very sensitive metabolism.”
Harry swore under his breath. “I should have left you in the gutter.”
“Fine, I’ll just leave now.” Draco got to his feet, took a step and almost passed out. It was only Harry’s quick reflexes that stopped him landing face down on the floor. Gasping slightly, Draco let Harry take his weight for a moment and didn’t struggle when he was lowered onto the chair.
“It’s the curse. I felt it for days afterwards.” He sat on the edge of the bath and eyed Draco critically. “It felt like my bones had been shredded.”
“Who cursed you?”
Harry got suddenly to his feet and disappeared into the bedroom, returning with a small wooden box. He sat back down and tapped a finger nervously on the box. “It was Voldemort.” If nothing else, the admission got Draco’s attention. “Well, you know he’s back.” There was anger in Harry’s voice now. “Remember what you said on the train?”
“That was ... It was...”
“I really don’t care. Malfoy. We both know the truth even if others want to deny it.” The two locked eyes for a moment, each daring the other to deny Voldemort’s existence. “You’re right about Muggle medicines, but these are different.” He opened the box. “These are made from herbs and things. No synthetic chemicals.” For a moment he thought Draco was going to argue but finally the Slytherin just nodded.
Both drifted into silence as Harry started to clean up the various injuries. There was a cut just in the hairline and the three inflamed scratches on Draco’s cheek. He let out a hiss of pain as Harry dabbed the damp cloth over the gashes. Harry murmured a quiet apology as his free hand cupped the other side of Draco’s head to stop him pulling away.
Satisfied with the cleaning, Harry rummaged in the wooden box and brought out a tube of salve. He squeezed a little on to his fingers. “This should help with the healing and take away the pain.”
Draco looked dubiously at the fingers. “What is it?”
“Calendula and Hypericum.” Draco raised a questioning eyebrow. “Marigold and St John’s Wort. Both great for healing cuts and things like that.”
“You’ve turned into quite the little nurse, haven’t you, Potter?” The words were sarcastic but the tone was half-hearted. “When did you start learning things like this?”
Harry began to gently apply the salve to the injuries, his fingers lightly running down Draco’s cheek. “When I got home from school. I found a book in a second-hand shop and it looked like a good idea to learn some first aid that didn’t involve magic.” Draco managed a snort of derision, which made Harry smile. “Remember that when you’re injured and have lost your wand.” He brushed fingers through Draco’s hair, trying to pull it back from the cut. The fine hair refused to remain out of the way and eventually he pushed most of it behind Draco’s ear and managed to get the salve on the injury.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Draco closed his eyes; only to open them almost immediately as Harry took hold of his hands. Instinctively he drew them back, but the other’s hands trapped his fingertips. “What are you doing now?”
“I’m just checking.”
Taking a deep breath, Draco allowed the other boy to continue. He’d never touched Harry like this. Actually he considered he’d never really touched Harry at all. Oh, there had been occasional shoulder charges in Quidditch matches or even jostling in crowded corridors, but never deliberate touches like this. He watched the hands as they ran lightly over his skin, cleaning his grazed palm which had taken the brunt of his weight as he had fallen.
His eyes flickered from the hands to Harry himself. Why didn’t the boy do more to look after himself, Draco wondered. Look at that untidy hair and the t-shirt that wasn’t quite long enough to cover his stomach, and the faded, threadbare cords. Anyone would think The Boy Who Lived had no money, which Draco knew wasn’t the case. His father had told him of the fortune in Harry’s Gringotts vault. If he had a personal income, Draco knew he wouldn’t be walking around looking like that.
“There.” Harry let go of him and almost immediately began tidying away his supplies.
Draco watched for a moment. There was part of him that wanted to believe this was all some strange plot of Harry’s to get at him. Maybe the salve would give him big green blotches on his face or something like that, but he got the impression Harry genuinely wanted to help.
“Why did you bother?” Harry looked round at him, surprise registering on his face. “I mean, if it had been you in the gutter, I’m not sure I would have helped.”
Harry shrugged and went back to his work. “No one, not even you, deserves to be treated like that, Malfoy.” With that he returned to the bedroom. “I’m going to get something to eat and drink. You shouldn’t try to walk too far after what’s happened.”
Draco glared at nothing in particular. “Saint Potter!” he sneered to the empty room. “I’m not one of your little charity cases.” He got up; wobbled a little as vertigo flashed through him and thought for a moment he might pass out. The sensation eventually passed and he walked gingerly back into the bedroom. Hedwig followed his every movement and Draco glared at her for good measure. “What are you looking at? Bloody owl!”
His head still throbbed a little, and Draco sat on the bed, finally lowering himself onto his back. He didn’t want to think about what his father would say when he got home. Didn’t want to even contemplate what the man had done to him earlier. Being disciplined by his father wasn’t a new experience, Lucius thought nothing of punishing Draco for what he considered faults in his son. But this had been different ... this had been ... personal.
He turned on his side, curling up a little. Malfoys were strong, his father had told him countless times, Malfoys take their punishment stoically and don’t cry. Malfoys are cold-hearted bastards who never have friends, only acquaintances. Malfoys are....
Draco took a hitched breath.
Always lonely....
*-*-*-*-*
Harry found the Slytherin asleep on his bed. He put the tray down on his desk and studied the sleeping form for a moment.
“You could have taken your shoes off first,” he murmured.
He fiddled with the lacings for a moment, and finally managed to remove both shoes without waking the boy. What was he supposed to do now? There was no way he was just going to leave Draco here on his own. An image of the other boy rummaging through his belongings actually dragged a smile across Harry’s face. There wasn’t exactly anything that Draco might find of interest, but the idea of him trying on some of Dudley’s hand-me-downs was worthy of a smile.
Sitting at the desk, Harry found a sheet of parchment and began to write. Dear Ron, you’ll never guess what happened today...
The quill paused above the paper, dripping a single drop of black ink onto the creamy surface. He glanced over his shoulder as the sleeping figure and he knew he couldn’t share this with his best friend. To share would mean explaining about the curse and Harry knew that wasn’t something he wanted to make common knowledge. It was too personal ... too painful.
Instead he picked up a book and, toeing off his own shoes, crossed to the bed. Carefully he sat down next to Draco, leaning against the headboard, and started to read. Draco mumbled something in his sleep before settling against the warmth of Harry’s leg.
*-*-*-*-*
... The weather is just so nice, Harry. I wish we could have sorted it out so you could have joined us here. Hope you aren’t too lonely stuck in Diagon Alley on your own. Mum and dad say that I can stay in London for a couple of nights before going to school, so they’ve booked me into the Leak Cauldron on 30 and 31. Will see you then. Love Hermione.
Harry read through the chatty letter for a second time before tucking into the box he had started keeping important things in. There had been a letter from Ron as well and it looked like the three friends would have a couple of days together before returning to school.
He’d deliberately left the third letter to last. The owl delivering it had been one he had seen before at school and he knew it belonged to Draco. The small envelope contained no outward markings, not even a Malfoy stamp in the sealing wax. Across the front written in copperplate letters was his name -- Harry Potter.
Sliding his finger under the wax (his nails has been bitten to the quick since events at Little Hangleton), Harry opened the envelope. Inside were a little card and one shiny silver Sickle. He hefted the coin, a refund for the one he had given Draco the previous day to pay for his Floo trip home.
The card wasn’t signed, but said simply “Thank you”.
Harry smiled as his hand brushed against his leg where he could almost still feel where Draco’s weight had pressed. He slipping the card back into the envelope along with the Sickle and thoughtfully adding it to the box. Then after giving the Eagle owl a drink, several treats and a quick scratch behind its ears, Harry sent it on its way.
The next year was going to be very interesting indeed.
~Fin