Redeem Me

DISCLAIMER: Warning! I make no claim to any property of J.K. Rowling's, and am in no way profiting by this. I do offer her my sincerest thanks for allowing us this garden of the mind in which we play. Further Warning! This story...and likely any I ever write…are dominated by gay themes and characters. That's how it is, if this in any way makes you uncomfortable...do not read further.

Redeem Me…by Samayel

Chapter 11: Yesterday And Tomorrow


Draco slumbered fitfully, despite the Potion of Dreamless Sleep he’d taken. The potion could take away the dreams, and the images that haunted him by night, but they couldn’t take away the physical memories of pain and fear that were with him constantly. Only time could do that, and time was ticking away ever so slowly, making Draco frantically wish it would hurry.

A small gasp and he was awake, edgy in the darkness, blinking owlishly and praying that there was nothing lurking in the gloom to harm him. In seconds, his vision adjusted to the faint hint of starlight from outside, and he breathed a sigh of relief and allowed himself to relax, thankful that he was alone.

It was exhausting, pushing himself to get well, working overtaxed muscles each day until they shrieked in protest, but he refused to be an invalid burden any longer than necessary. Molly had been too kind already, and he wouldn’t abuse the hospitality that he was so grateful for, not even if it killed him.

The quiet was welcome. It gave him time to think, and he needed that time desperately, for there was so very much that needed thinking about. Harry topped the list. Harry was an enigma, wrapped in a mystery. He’d seen Harry’s violent side more than once, and he knew it was real, and a thing to be feared, but it had vanished these past few days. Now Harry seemed grimly quiet, and determined to help Draco recover. He didn’t grimace at the sight of Draco’s scars, and he didn’t abandon Draco at a needful moment again. He just stoically, silently, stiffly assisted Molly or aided Draco at every turn. The only sign of emotion he’d gotten from Harry had been the day before.

Draco had walked, or rather limped, to the bathroom without the assistance of Harry or Molly, for the first time. Upon reaching the door, he turned back, smiling giddily, happy just to have something to be proud of, even if it was something as pathetically normal as walking unaided to the toilet for a piss. Harry smiled back, nodding soberly, a tiny acknowledgment of approval that made Draco’s heart leap in his chest. It wasn’t much, but it meant something, and that was enough.

The previous two days had been the best he’d had all year. Eating food that made his mouth water for more until he was full to bursting, escaping nightmares through the Potion of Dreamless Sleep, and watching the painful wounds that had covered him from the neck down slowly disappear. It was grueling, enduring such close contact while his head screamed for him to flee, but he was making it, and Molly had praised him several times for his efforts. Even Harry, who hadn’t spoken a word on the subject, seemed to hold a grudging admiration, and oddly enough, Harry's approval mattered the most, because it had been the hardest to gain.

Draco thought back through the years, mentally kicking himself for the things he’d done. So many opportunities wasted and ruined, and so many people left hurt in his wake. He’d had everything in the world at his fingertips, and he’d pissed it all away…just to be like his father.

‘How the hell did I ever look at him with envy? Father never treated me like anything but a pet; giving me treats when he was pleased and tearing into me when he wasn’t! I wanted him to be proud of me…for anything…just once! I’d have done anything to make him happy. All it got me was this fucking Mark and a life that wasn’t worth a shit until this week!

It had got him worse than that actually. Most of a year in Snape’s safe house, hiding in a cellar and living on the staples that Severus could provide when he was able to visit. He’d had a lot of time to think during that period, since there’d been little else to do, and Snape had been…well…enlightening, to say the least. One night of Draco’s carping and whining about the fix they were in and the state of the safe house, and the normally taciturn professor had snapped. He’d slapped Draco so hard it had knocked him halfway across the room, then roared at him in a voice that not-so-subtly threatened murder.

“YOU ARROGANT LITTLE FOOL! DO YOU KNOW WHAT I’VE JUST DONE FOR YOU! YOU UNSUFFERABLY SPOILED, IGNORANT, MEWLING LITTLE BRAT! I’VE KILLED…KILLED FOR YOUR INCOMPETENCE AND PRIDE.”

Snape stalked closer to him while Draco scrabbled across the floor, still stunned from being struck by his once favorite professor.

“I tried to help you, labored on your behalf, beseeched you to trust me, swore an Unbreakable Oath that could have been the death of me…just to protect you, and carried you to safety after your whimpering cowardice left me no choice but to kill for you! My lifespan and yours could well be counted in hours because of you! It might just have been easier to kill you and let the Oath kill me! You will obey me in all things, and you will do so in SILENCE. If you cannot do this, I swear I will turn you out into the hinterlands after snapping your wand myself, Oath be damned! Have I made myself clear?!”

And that had been that. Draco had whimpered his assent, cringing in fright, and he’d obeyed Snape’s every word like it was gospel. Months had crawled by while he ate and slept, waiting for word from Severus. He’d nearly gone insane, and he’d contemplated suicide or flight any number of times, but for some stubborn reason, he’d clung to life and endured until, finally, word came that the war was over.

Potter had won, the Dark Lord had fallen, his allies were scattered and fleeing, and the Ministry was rounding up every person with a Dark Mark under the auspices of Kingsley Shacklebolt, the new Minister of Magic. It was then that Snape told Draco everything. It was then that he learned of Severus’ true loyalties, and learned that the man Snape had executed for Draco’s sake had been his only stalwart friend for more than a decade. Snape Apparated the both of them to the Ministry, and gave himself and Draco over to their custody for eventual trial. It was the only hope they would have for a life rooted in something other than constant flight, and Draco had been too numb to do anything but follow along in shocked silence.

The Manor had been confiscated, and his father was sentenced to Azkaban in absentia, until his corpse was recovered from the basement of Riddle manor. Draco's mother resided in a ward at St. Mungo’s, having been tortured by Voldemort until mad, all because of Draco’s failure, and Draco himself spent months answering questions and enduring Veritaserum interrogations until every detail of his life until that day had been recorded as evidence. When their trials finally came, he’d been set free, primarily because of his youth, and because of Snape’s testimony regarding his unwillingness to kill Albus Dumbledore. The loss of Malfoy Manor, and the loss of his parents and family fortune, were held to be sufficient punishment.

Snape had been set free as well, the evidence from his own mind clearly proving that he had been Albus Dumbledore’s agent, and that the former Headmaster had been aware of Draco’s plot since the beginning of the year. Dumbledore had chosen to risk death rather than let Draco be incarcerated or caught, which would have resulted in the prompt execution of Draco’s parents. It was an unthinkable sacrifice that the Headmaster had made, apparently despite Snape’s frequent admonishments and protests. He’d gone to incredible lengths just to gamble on the chance that Draco would refuse to kill. And he’d been right.

Draco felt tears leaking down his face, burning hot trails down his cheeks in the cool, still air of night. These weren’t even his worst memories, in fact, what came later made these seem like a time of joyful innocence.

Snape had taken them back to the safe house, where renegade Death Eaters couldn’t reach them, and was preparing to make arrangements for lodging elsewhere. That was when Potter’s letter had arrived. Snape had packed his things, muttering about ’psychotic upstart brats with more power than brains’ and left for Germany, where an old associate was willing to offer him a bit of work and cheap lodging. He’d left Draco behind with an icy glare and a cold answer to Draco’s pleas for assistance.

“Draco. The Oath ended when I fulfilled your task and saved your life. I have endured the sight of you for months as a final payment to Albus for his kindness, but I am finished here. You are the final and pathetic product of an upbringing so lacking in basic decency, that I have no doubt that your failure as a human being will become the stuff of cautionary tales to the children of others. You have cost me my home, my career, my country, and my oldest friend. I would wish ill upon you, but I’m certain that you will bring far more upon yourself than ever I could conjure. There is a pouch of Galleons on the mantle, you have your wand, your wits, and the advantage of youth. If you cannot make something of yourself with such a start, it is the fault of no one but yourself, and I wouldn’t pity you, even if I could. As inappropriate as the word may seem for the occasion…farewell.”

And then he was gone. Draco stayed in the safe house until the last crumb was eaten, and when his stomach ached from hunger and he feared starvation worse than the wrath of leftover Death Eaters, he left for Diagon Alley. He’d been jeered at when recognized, harried from every haven, cast out of every inn and shop, and even pelted with merchandise by vendors in the street. Glamours allowed him to seek refuge and purchase food, but even they had their limits, and each time someone penetrated them, he was found out and chased away. His old ‘friends’ lived in mortal fear of capture, even though they had never been Marked. Their association with a known Death Eater had tarnished them already, and with Potter and the Aurors hunting people down by the score, no one dared to risk housing him.

The money ran out long before other’s fear or contempt for him did, and that last month in Diagon Alley had been sheer hell. His old clothes were threadbare and filthy, and he’d been nicking food out of trash bins at the end. Running into another person who bore the Mark had felt like a miracle…just having someone near him that didn’t hurl curses and stones had been a relief. And that had been his downfall.

Draco pushed his memories away and returned to his musings over what to do about Harry. There were things in his mind he fervently wished could be Obliviated, but to remove most of a year from his life would leave him a drooling idiot. He had to learn to function in spite of those black and horrifying thoughts that dogged him. If he didn’t, madness awaited.

Harry had been quiet during the evening. Far quieter than normal. He’d almost seemed friendly until some five or six hours ago. When Draco had woke from his after dinner nap, Harry had been sitting in the chair beside the bed, calmly reading an Occlumency text. His face was inscrutable, grim and serious, and he seemed irritated with Draco from the start, but too reasonable to show it in any obvious way.

Something was amiss, and Draco was sure of it. He could almost feel the palpable change in the atmosphere around him. Without a wand, he’d learned to use the few senses available to him as much as possible, and if one could call the knack of reading moods and possibilities a ‘sixth sense’, then Draco had honed his to razor keenness. Harry had something on his mind, and it was something new.

Draco suddenly had the oddest thought. All his Slytherin cunning and guile were bent to a single task: helping save Harry Potter from himself. How ironic was that? It actually felt…good. He didn’t have any purpose when he came here, save for a desperate, last-chance grab at survival or a quick and easy death. Now he had a purpose, and it was a good one. Maybe he wouldn’t go about it like a Gryffindor would, but he was doing something basically…noble! The very thought made him smile. Who would have imagined that? Still, how to help Harry when he barely opened up at all, and how to move the topic subtly toward Harry’s habit of seeking out and murdering former Death Eaters?

Inspiration struck Draco in a flash. Just as Draco had examined his own past, Harry needed to look at his, and rather than starting at the end, which was made up of Harry’s actions now, he could start at the beginning…The Dark Lord’s death. That was when Molly said it all started. If he asked Harry for the story of Lord Voldemort’s destruction, it would at least open the door to future conversations with a similar theme.

Draco curled against the pillow and wiped the half-dried tears off of his face. He pulled the sheets and quilts back to rights and tried to calm his mind for sleep. The potion he’d taken earlier that night guarded his mind against nightmares, but not against the cruel barbs of memory in the waking world. He was tired, and more than a little sore, but he had a plan, and that gave him a sense of satisfaction as he drifted back to sleep.

Silenced by spell and sitting in his own room, Harry sat up late into the night, as restless and hungry as a great cat, whetstone in one hand, blackened steel in the other. No one save him could hear the grind of metal against stone, and he honed his weapon of choice to razor sharpness. Tomorrow night, another one of them would finally pay. The Ministry couldn’t seem to catch them, but Harry could, and when he did, people slept safer for what he‘d done. For every weeping relative that claimed injustice, a hundred victims of the war lay still and silent in graves throughout England. Where was their justice? A few hundred in Azkaban? Where was mercy when Hermione died? Where was fairness when Ginny was killed? Would any of those he hunted have shown a shred of decency to another human being, Muggle or wizard alike? Draco was living proof of their unrelenting thirst for evil. Harry would settle the score. Blade ground against stone long into the night. Tomorrow. Tomorrow another one would pay.

TBC!!!