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 15: Dinner…And A Horror Show


Dinner was quite pleasant at the Burrow that night. Molly had been in rare form, setting the table with a perfect roast, meat sliding off the bone and soaked in its own juices and a few of her spices. Vegetables had browned along the edges of the pot, and all the flavors had soaked together. Draco was in heaven, and against all expectations he might previously have held, heaven looked a great deal like Molly’s kitchen.

Harry was quiet, but polite, all through dinner, obviously preoccupied with thoughts of his own. Arthur practically glowed with pleasure, devouring his meal with abundant good cheer and joyful glances in Molly’s direction. For her part, Molly took great satisfaction from the busy sounds of people enjoying their meal with gusto, and dined with a self-satisfied air about her the entire while. Draco savored every bite, but felt his heart stop when a glass of red wine was poured for him. Sweat broke out on his face and lip, and he felt a faint and fast growing urge to run. He stared at his plate, pretending the wine wasn’t there, and forced himself to concentrate on the delicious food in front of him.

The stuff sat there, taunting him with fleeting visions and ugly memories he desperately wished to shake off, all through the meal. The food was magnificent, and the atmosphere was calm and convivial, but Draco’s heart was pounding in his chest.

“Do try the wine, Draco. It’s a very fair vintage.”

‘Enjoy the wine, Mr. Malfoy. It’s a quite remarkable vintage.’

“NOnonononoNO!”

The explosion from Draco halted the meal entirely, and he was suddenly cognizant of having slipped into memory instead of reality. Flushed with humiliation, Draco stared at the floor and stammered apology.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I…I just forgot…where I was for a moment. I should…I should go-”

Arthur broke in quickly. “Draco, there’s nothing wrong with all that. Enjoy your meal. We’re just happy to see you down here and looking well. A few meals like this will set you right in no time.”

A wave of Molly’s wand, and the wine floated through the air, dividing itself between the glasses of the others, while the glass returned to the sink to be washed later.

“There you go, dearie. Not to worry, love. If you don’t want a glass, you can just tell us. No one will be offended if you ask for something else. Now take a few deep breaths, and remember that everyone here is glad to see you at this table tonight. Alright, love?”

He felt ridiculous. A fragment of memory reduced him to an idiot at supper, when he should be grateful to be here. It was hard to resist Molly and Arthur’s relaxed attitude, and Draco took a few breaths, felt a shred of calm return, and tucked back into his supper.

Only Harry watched in silence. Unlike the others at the table, only he knew what it meant to feel the lines between the present and the past blur before his eyes, and seeing Draco experience the same thing troubled him more than he liked to admit.

Dinner passed easily enough, after Draco’s single outburst, and in the aftermath, they sat and spoke of lighter things. Arthur informed them of Percy’s recent promotion to Second Assistant Undersecretary to the head of the Department of Magical Creatures. Percy had fallen from grace alongside Cornelius Fudge, and had been thoroughly investigated by the Aurors when Death Eater corruption and influence within the Ministry had been uncovered a year later. His inflated sense of self-importance, and his ridicule of his own family, had come to a screeching halt after Kingsley Shacklebolt, during his first weeks of employment as the new Minister of Magic, delivered a thundering rebuke to Percy, explaining that his continued employment was entirely due to the superb record of his father, who had been lauded as a hero of the war against Voldemort. After being ruthlessly grilled by Shacklebolt, Percy came home with tail between his legs, the perfect prodigal son, and begged forgiveness, which was quickly given.

Percy was quite competent in his own right, and had finally worked his way up in his new department, and had mellowed considerably since the shattering of his ego two years ago. Even Harry had to admit that Percy’s visits were fairly enjoyable. He was perhaps the most cerebral of the Weasley family, and Harry found conversation with him more enjoyable than it had been years ago. Mostly, he was just glad that the ugly rift between Molly and her son had been healed, since it had been damned hard to see the pained expression on Molly’s face each time Percy was mentioned. Good news for Percy was good news to Molly, and Harry rather enjoyed her happiness.

Molly stood to put away the dishes and such, and Harry helped as always. Draco stood up awkwardly, not sure what to do, and started picking up small things, like the cutlery, to ensure he wouldn’t drop anything precious or breakable if he got shaky. Molly turned from the sink and looked at him in confusion.

“Draco. That’s very kind, but you needn’t do a thing. You’re our guest, we can’t have you worrying over all that truck. Go sit down with Arthur and relax, and Harry and I will have this done in just a few minutes.”

Draco paused, then limped to the counter and deposited his handfuls of silverware. He raised his chin just a little defiantly, and looked Molly directly in the eyes.

“I want to help. I can’t do much, and I haven’t a wand, but it would make me feel better. Please? Just tell me what I can do.”

Molly’s smile was a reward in itself. As it turned out, Draco hadn’t the faintest idea how to handle doing dishes largely in Muggle fashion, but he caught on quickly enough, and by leaning on the counter he was able to stay upright through the entire affair. It was nice to engage in a task of simple repetition, which cleared his mind quickly of ugly thoughts, and so clearly pleased his hostess.

Harry had a curious and amused expression throughout, watching Draco fumble with concepts like drying plates by hand with a clean towel, and at least his looks were all vaguely approving, if a trifle surprised. The small reserve of energy that Draco had left was exhausted before it was all finished, and he was grateful for the soft chairs in the living room, and for the cup of tea Molly handed him before they rested.

A fire was crackling softly in the fireplace, Molly was knitting, and Harry and Arthur were playing a game of wizard’s chess with passing skill. Draco watched the scene quietly from his chair, and felt a certain casual lassitude creep upon him. His mind drifted, observing the surreal tableau of normalcy before him, and wondering over how he could ever have become a part of it. Even tea couldn’t keep him awake, and Draco felt his eyes drag shut several times before sleep claimed him.

Some time later, Harry was celebrating a rare victory over Arthur, who had taught Ron everything he knew of wizard’s chess, and Molly interrupted with a hushed request.

“Poor thing. All worn out by a trip down the stairs and a few dishes. Harry, dear, use a spot of magic and see him off to bed will you. Haven’t the heart to wake him.”

Harry nodded agreement, and with an outstretched hand, lifted Draco from the chair without disturbing him. Draco floated along behind him, breathing softly, sound asleep all the way to his room. A quick gesture and the sheets and blankets had sorted themselves out, and Draco was tucked in without so much as a hand laid upon him. Harry stood by the door for a few minutes, staring at the wee slip of a thing that rested quietly a few feet from him.

’What the hell am I thinking? He really is…he’s fucking beautiful like this. I never thought I’d use the word innocent for Draco, but that’s how he looks. Innocent. Good. Peaceful. I wish he’d always been like that. God, I wonder if I’d have wound up in Slytherin...if he’d just been like this when we were kids. Would we have been friends? Would I have kissed him? If he’d been thoughtful, and sweet, and kind…I think…I think I could have fallen for him. It wouldn’t have been so bad, being a poof, if I could have been one with him. I guess that’s all shite now. He can’t even be touched without panicking, and I doubt he’d look at another bloke after all he’s been through, even if he were bent to begin with. Fuck all. Isn’t that the way it always goes with me? This close to something I want, and still a million miles away. Sleep well, Draco. I’ll make the bastards that did this to you pay someday.’

Harry returned to the living room downstairs, and sat up with his tea, feigning tiredness while his mind whirled with plans for tonight. Hours passed, and Molly and Arthur headed off to bed, leaving Harry to his own devices. He returned to his room and began to dress himself for his chosen work.

Black robes slit at the thighs for ease of movement, belt and sheathed knife in place, and throwing knives and garrote wire safely placed. Flash charges were pocketed, and charmed jewelry slid into place around wrists and fingers. At last, Harry placed the Dampener around his throat, tucking it into his shirt, feeling the cool silver of the amulet glide against his skin. All that was left was to wait. Let a little time pass for Molly and Arthur to properly fall asleep, and then he could leave.

Harry calmed his mind and stilled his thoughts with the precision of an accomplished Occlumens. Here, in the silence of his mind, nothing could distract him from his goal. Flickering possibilities caromed through his mind. Possible choices to make during his attack. Ward matrices, means to cut off escape, spell choices to quickly immobilize or in other ways render his enemies helpless before he exacted their final payment for their crimes. The clock ticked softly and slowly beside him, and just as midnight came, Harry stood calmly and headed for the door. As he passed Draco’s room, his tranquility was shattered by a small voice that addressed him quite directly.

“So it’s true…what The Prophet said…what all those people said about you. It’s true.” Draco’s voice sounded genuinely rueful.

Harry bit back a growl, and answered curtly, still staring down the hall to the stairs while the muscles in his neck tensed.

“Go back to sleep. This is none of your concern.”

“It’s wrong.”

Harry turned and let his eyes bore into Draco’s, and Draco flinched first, ducking his head. He could almost feel danger hanging in the air around him, and no matter how kind Harry had been lately, the very real fear that he might be hurt crept through him.

“You. You’re telling me what’s right or wrong? Somehow I don’t feel obligated to justify anything to you.”

The contempt dripping off Harry’s voice stung, but Draco pushed a little further, keeping his head low and his body passive. He didn’t want to give any impression that might spur violence, and his past had taught him well to placate predators.

“If anyone ever knew what ‘wrong’ is, it would be me. You…you shouldn’t be doing this. You’re supposed to be a hero…not a murderer.”

The last words came like a whisper, but Harry felt red rage overtaking him, and he was over Draco in a heartbeat, hands flexing while he fought, as best he could, his own urge to strangle silence from Draco. Something dark and horrible loomed in the front of his mind, and Harry needed a vent for that anger before he exploded. Draco whimpered and closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

“You defend them? After what they did? You should be cheering for this. I can make them all pay. They’ll never hurt anyone again. Unless…unless you want them out there, killing, maiming, raping. Are you still owned by that fucking stain on your arm? I could find out. I could open that mind of yours and see for myself. You’ve got names, faces, places, details you haven’t shared. Are you hiding them? You want them free? Tell me who they are, and what you remember that would help me find them, or I guess I’ll just have to peel open your brain and pick for memories until I find what I want!”

The threat of being Legilimized was worse than any threat of physical violence could ever be. Draco quailed and broke into muffled tears.

“Don’t! Don’t do that. I…you can’t see…I’ll do anything you want. Anything! Please, please don’t do it. Anything but that. I’ll tell you whatever you want. I’m not hiding anybody. I just don’t…I don’t want to think about them…I want to forget! They belong in Azkaban, Harry. It shouldn’t…it shouldn’t be you…doing this. It can’t be you…it’s wrong…it’s wrong…it’s wrong.”

Draco had curled into a fetal ball, tangled in sheets, holding his knees to his chest while lying on his side, squinting through tears and flushed with terror. He remembered Harry with his knife, just after he’d arrived, but this…this was a colder, crueler Harry than he could possibly have imagined, and it was just wrong. It shook his view of the world right to its core.

Harry stood, wide-eyed and nostrils flaring, hovering on the brink of violence while he watched Draco come unglued. Only the fact that he was in his own home, and the keen awareness that Draco was not a threat, kept him from striking out with mind or body. Harry spun on his heel and walked out.

“I’ll deal with you later. I have somewhere else I need to be.”

Soft steps down the stairs were all that were heard in the Weasley house, and Harry was gone into the night, leaving Draco to shake and cry alone, terrified by what he‘d gotten himself into.

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

In a cheap motor lodge in Leeds, a man of middle years, once plump, but now gaunt from more than a year of privation, dithered with a few possessions and a knapsack. One place was just like another, and it was time to move again. This time he’d Apparate to Brighton, then perhaps to Glasgow. Never the same place, always a place large enough to hide in.

He held his knapsack close, and willed himself to Apparate. Nothing happened. He tried again, but the results were the same. A chill sweat broke out on his face, and the hairs on his neck stood up. Something was terribly wrong. Anti-Apparation Wards had gone up around his room. He made for the door with wand ready.

The door literally exploded inward, flinging him to the foot of the bed, covered in flinders. Before he could roll upright, a whirlwind of black was above him, and a booted foot slammed into his chest, knocking him back to the ground even as he struggled to rise. He scrambled for the wand he’d dropped, chest aching from the kick he’d received, and a heartbeat later the cruel shadow whirled above him and a steel-toed boot connected with his jaw. The pain of it was blinding, and he rolled back with a moan.

“Mercy. I…I surrender.”

“It’s too late for that.”

The voice that answered him was a furious hiss, as frightening as the hiss of his old master, the man that had branded him for life with the Mark that made him unredeemable in the eyes of the world.

“You had no mercy…then. Now you beg? There was time for begging, but you wasted it. Now you’re nothing but a lesson for the others to witness.”

Moonlight through the window showed a silhouette in robes, an enormous blade in one hand, leaning close. Twin flickers of red, and his arm ached as it hadn’t in more than a year. As the blade slashed once across his throat, and a fountain of red descended, Kaminski’s last words were spoken in abject terror.

“Mercy…my Lord.”

TBC!!!