A Dream For The Dead

A Dream For The Dead

Chapter 17

The Firing Squad

The potion wasn’t working quickly enough. In some respects, magic was never as fast to take effect as its Muggle counterparts. Energy drinks worked ridiculously quickly on Harry. Attentiveness potions, or Pick-Me-Up Potions, however, were slow to take effect and generally did not last any longer.

Harry frowned at the empty bottle in his hand. He put the stopper back and slipped it into his pocket. He would need to refill it again at home, though he wondered if he shouldn’t just scrap the idea of those kinds of potions altogether and start drinking coffee again every two hours.

Perhaps his potions skills were the problem. He knew full well they were still lacking. He had never been able to understand the theory behind mixing ingredients. That could be the reason for his potions being so useless to him.

He made a mental note to ask Hermione to brew him some instead.

He rubbed his eyes behind his glasses, absently, trying to regain focus. It was approaching the nine hour mark and he was still waiting for Malfoy to wake up. He had told the rest of the team to go home and get some rest. He also ensured that all of their brooms were checked again by the Ministry (by officials that he, himself, approved) just to be safe. He knew that the attacks were focused on Malfoy, but it was always best to have all his bases covered.

Wood had fought him, determined to stay until Malfoy came around. Harry had none of it and forced him off. Wood, like all the rest of them, would be no use to Malfoy when he woke up. Particularly not if he was falling over from lack of sleep, himself.

Wood had grumbled and asked if the same was not true for Harry. Harry had presented his iron-clad argument that he was an Auror, needed to stay for Malfoy’s protection, and that reasonable arguments had never applied to him.

Or something to that effect. He couldn’t quite remember the details.

The truth, however, was that he was glad to see Wood go. He couldn’t quite bear to be around his old House captain, knowing that his investment in Malfoy was anything but ordinary. It irked him, and he couldn’t explain why.

He didn’t like the idea of Wood being … what was he? What did Harry think he was? Intimate did not seem the right word. It was too… romantic? No.

Harry just couldn’t bear to imagine Wood touching Malfoy, in any way. He couldn’t bear to imagine Wood pressing himself up against Malfoy’s pale, hard body, Malfoy moaning and running his talented hands all along Wood’s back.

No!

The whole scenario caused a violent lurch in his stomach that resounded like a growl in his mind. He tried to ignore the feeling, pretending it was nothing at all familiar. He told himself that he just didn’t want to see his old teammate be taken in by Draco Malfoy, sneaky, arrogant, annoying git that he was.

But Harry had a sneaking suspicion that that was not the case. Mostly because he had been plagued by fleeting images of Malfoy’s mostly naked, glistening body from the last time he had seen him at his home.

Harry shook his head and got up from his seat, making his way back towards Malfoy’s room. None of those things were important. He needed to ignore them and focus on the case. Malfoy needed his protection, needed his help –whether he was ready to accept it or not –and Harry was going to give it to him. He needed to just do his job and not think of anything else.

He hadn’t been out of the field for so long that he’d forgotten how to focus, had he?

He needed to check in with the Healers. He needed to know what was going on.

As Harry was coming up to the door, it opened and a slim figure was ushered carefully into the hallway. Harry couldn’t hear what was being said, but it sounded reassuring. Then he realized who the figure was.

“Thank you, Healer Nott,” Narcissa Malfoy said graciously, nodding her head. “Do owl me as soon as Draco is awake. I will take the news to his father.”

Nott’s reply was indiscernible to Harry but it must have been acceptable because Narcissa Malfoy nodded again and turned to him. When her eyes fell on Harry, however, they narrowed and her face turned stony. It looked remarkably as though her features were literally carved from stone. His throat tightened again and he felt every muscle in his body follow suit.

Fuck. Facing Voldemort wasn’t this intimidating sometimes.

“Potter,” she snarled, reminding him of an angry dragon protecting her brood. She stepped around him and turned to him, pressing one long finger to his chest and forcing him back against the wall with surprising force. Harry stopped himself from reaching for his wand. She was not going to attack him. That he knew for sure. She was just an alarmed and incensed parent. That was all. “You said you would protect him. You said you would find the culprit and keep him safe.” She glared at him and he had never quite been so frightened of anyone’s eyes. He shivered involuntarily and cursed himself. He was a bloody Auror and a grown man.

But then, he had always been particularly susceptible to weakness around people’s mothers. Molly Weasley was another perfect example of a woman who would force him to cower through sheer force of will, but even she was no match for Narcissa Malfoy.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” Harry began, thankful that his voice, at least, was showing no signs of discomfort. She ignored him.

“You said you would take care of him!” She was speaking in an urgent and accusing whisper but even that sounded like shrieking to him. “What did you do when I let you past the wards to his home? Why do you think I altered his wards to let you in like family?? Did you think it was just so that you could annoy him further? Drive him to madness and then let him get himself blown up?!” Harry frowned and forced himself up straighter.

“I am doing my job, Mrs. Malfoy,” he answered sternly. “This case is my first and only priority. I am doing my best to protect your son.” Her eyes flashed and then her face calmed into a haughty sneer. Apparently she was the one who taught Malfoy to look that way.

“Yes, and a great Auror you must be,” she hissed silkily. “When my son is lying in the next room, half dead.” She gave him an appraising look and Harry felt hot and humiliated in one swift stroke. “Your best clearly isn’t good enough, Potter.” She leaned in and suddenly her eyes were different. They were tinged with a fear and a horrible pain that made Harry’s heart clench. His anger faded slightly. “You must remember that his life is not the only one at stake, here. Scorpius is in danger too. No matter what you feel for Draco, his son should merit your full effort.”

Harry swallowed, the monster in his chest angry at the suggestion that Harry didn’t care if Malfoy lived or died. He ignored that and nodded to Narcissa.

“I will do better,” he promised. “I will find the culprit, no matter what it takes. I will keep Draco and Scorpius safe.” He spoke with a fervour that surprised even him. She stepped back, considering him and his words, and then nodded sharply before walking away.

Harry exhaled suddenly, unaware that he had been holding his breath. He slammed his fist into the wall behind him suddenly and sought the pain that followed. He relished it and let it soothe him, making the hole in the ground before him close up. He was tired and at his wit’s end.

I just can’t deal with any more Malfoy women right now… I never thought the day would come when I went looking for Malfoy’s company to calm down.

++++++

Pain. The fundamental link between all living creatures was pain. Pain and Fear. But Fear was logarithmic in nature, escalating rapidly, exponentially, but eventually reaching a point at which it can no longer worsen. You cannot be more than afraid. Terrified, horrified, frightened, scared… all of them words for the same emotion. You cannot go past it; you can only drown in it or defeat it.

Pain was arithmetic. It was unlimited. You could always feel more pain than you did before. It could always get more intense, more powerful, more painful. The body was designed to continuously be able to mark the differences in pain as it increased. It was designed as a warning that something was wrong and getting steadily more wrong. Even pleasure only reached so far and, eventually, turned into pain.

It was pain that enveloped him. It was pain that paralyzed him in its power. He fought to reach consciousness, fought to open his eyes, fought to be free of the constricting tentacles of pain. For hours he had been seeking to break through the fog the settled in on his mind. The fog was protection; he knew that. It was meant to keep him safe from the pain by keeping him unconscious. It was supposed to stop him from feeling it but it didn’t work.

There was simply too much pain.

But Draco didn’t care. He knew that if he could only manage to open his eyes, he could escape the pain. The pain was inside and if he could get out of his own mind, he would be free.

He fought to regain control of his muscles. His mind tested them, from deep within the fog. He sent instructions to various parts of his body. Twitch, he told them. Let me know I still have control.

First his fingers in his left hand. Then his right. He felt the very sudden, very slight jerks as his body attempted to comply, despite the pain. He moved on to his toes. One at a time, he demanded they move.

Yes, now on to the eyelids.

He fought hard. They were heavy as led and seemed to be glued shut. He was only dimly aware of anything outside the pain, outside his goal. Draco had no idea how long he had been inside the pain. He had no idea where he was or what caused the pain. All he knew was that he had to escape.

After what felt like years, Draco’s eyelashes fluttered slightly and finally his lids slid open over unfocused eyes.

The fog was still in place, thick as ever and refusing to dissipate.

I need to see again…

So Draco willed the fog away. He demanded that it leave him. Eventually, it did, and his vision slowly cleared. Now he could focus on the important questions.

Where was he? What had happened? How long had he been enveloped in pain?

He found himself staring up at a mildly familiar ceiling. His body ached terribly, but the pain’s intensity had, as he had suspected, lessened, at least momentarily. He tried to move his hand and was rewarded with a violent surge of agony. His throat rasped as he tried to whimper, or scream. He couldn’t tell what he was trying to do, but it didn’t work anyway. He could hardly make any noise. His throat was raw and dry. He felt as though he had swallowed fire.

Then images occurred to him. Flashes of fire and dust and wood before him, obscuring a crowd and blinding him. He remembered a violent force pushing him, and with that violent thrust, he felt another wave of agony.

Ah yes, that’s right.

Draco’s surroundings came into clearer relief as the knowledge flooded back to him. He forced a groan from his injured throat and then rolled his eyes, as though the whole thing was more of an inconvenient chore than a life-threatening situation.

“Fuck,” Draco breathed because he had expended all of his noise on the groan. He tried to push himself up, ignoring the steadily increasing pain, and found himself pushed gently back down onto the pillow. It hurt more violently than any of his own movements and there were burning points on his chest where he had been pushed.

He felt an agonized shriek tear through him that sounded much more like the groan of a wounded bear.

“Sorry,” a familiar voice told him. Then there was a foreign weight on the bed next to him suddenly. “But you’re not going to be going anywhere.”

Draco’s mind sought out a name for the voice and then, bitterly, found it. He tried to curl his lips in a snarl but even that hurt. He settled for a slight frown.

“Potter,” he attempted to spit, but it came out more like a question. He tried to swallow to wet his throat but couldn’t.

“I’m here,” Potter answered quietly. Draco tried to roll his eyes again but his lids were fluttering shut and he had to direct more of his energy to fight that than anything else. The weight on the bed shifted and he felt something cold pressed to his lips. “Drink this. It’ll help.”

Draco tried to… well, he wasn’t sure what he was trying to do. Regardless, it didn’t matter. His lips parted slightly and Potter took the opportunity to tip what was surely a vial of potion into his mouth. His tongue was flooded with a thick, cherry-flavoured liquid. He swallowed to keep from drowning in it and felt the pain start to subside, followed by the fog.

He still hurt –everywhere –but it was far more bearable. He opened his eyes with much less difficulty as the vial was removed from his mouth and looked up at Potter.

Who was clearly the one sitting on his bed.

Draco coughed slightly, the liquid rumbling strangely in his chest. He was sure that wasn’t a good thing, but decided to ignore it.

“What are you doing here, Potter?” Draco asked, his voice still hoarse. He tried gingerly to move his arms. He found that his right hand was tense, his fingers curled around nothing. He glanced down at them and realized that he had probably continued to clutch the Snitch, even in his unconscious state. He flexed and tried to relax his fingers into a more natural position. Potter’s eyes followed him as he moved.

“Guarding you,” he answered eventually with no hint of contempt. In fact, he seemed strangely mesmerized by Draco’s movements. Draco immediately stopped.

“I don’t need you guarding me, Potter,” he answered coldly. Potter let a hint of a smile twitch at the corner of his lips and Draco exhaled sharply at the sight of it, causing a jolt of pain to course through his chest. He realized deftly that his scarring had been bandaged again.

“I’m inclined to disagree,” Potter informed him, leaning over to adjust Draco’s pillows as he tried to rearrange his position. Draco’s eyes widened as Potter acted, apparently unconscious of what he was doing. He leaned back when Draco had stopped shifting. “Given that your number of hospital visits from the past month rivals my number from the past year, I’d say you sorely need me guarding you.”

Draco stared at the man, deadpanned. Potter’s arm came up again and carefully brushed a stray lock of hair out of Draco’s face. His muscles tried to tense, but couldn’t and more pain shot through him. He hissed and Potter retracted his arm as though he had touched fire. His cheeks tinged slightly red, he murmured an apology of some kind.

“Are you confounded, Potter?” Draco shot. Potter pursed his lips and cocked an eyebrow.

“I’m just trying to help,” he offered oddly. “You clearly need my help, whether you want to admit it or not. You look like you’re in pain.”

“Of course I’m in pain, you idiot!” Draco snarled, jerking forward and then collapsing back because of the agony that shook him. Potter moved to grasp Draco, but thought better of it. He turned instead and summoned a small jar from the table on the other side of the bed. He opened the jar and picked up a brush from the other table. Dipping it into the jar, he began to pain Draco’s torso –much to Draco’s shock –with a thick white substance. Probably a healing salve for burns. Draco’s eyes followed the motions over his body as Potter covered every red spot with the thick cream.

Draco bit back a moan as the cool cream soothed him. He did not want to think of the fact that Potter was the one applying it.

“Why are you doing this?” Draco hissed, unable to open his mouth enough to speak properly. Not while Potter was painting him. Potter only glanced up at him.

“The Healers were working on you for nine hours,” he explained quietly. “They healed the most serious wounds and set the others in bandages. Some had to go off shift and others had to get to other patients. They told me you were stable enough that, if you woke up, I could apply the salve and that would be enough. They said that you would be able to leave in a week if someone applied the salve daily.” He bit his lip momentarily as the brush dipped down past his navel and flicked at white fabric.

It was only then that Draco realized that he was completely nude, covered only by a small strip of white linen. His body was so hot from the burns that he hadn’t noticed. His lips parted again and he shivered involuntarily when Potter’s brush forced the white linen further down. Draco realized that, given the origin of the explosion, most of his burns would probably be in areas that Potter should not be brushing.

“Potter, stop,” he told him abruptly. Potter stilled and then looked up at Draco. His face was mostly blank but his bright green eyes broadcast with utter clarity his personal discomfort. Draco faltered in what he was going to say. “That’s not what I meant.” A muscle twitched in Potter’s jaw.

“I know,” he answered softly, then sat up, board straight, as though he only just realized what he had been doing. “I told you. I’m guarding you. I took your case and promised that I would protect you at all costs.”

Draco’s eyes flashed and he was filled with a bitter anger. He wanted to hit Potter, or hex him. He wanted to make him leave and never come back. He wanted to ignore the fact that his mind wandered over to Potter whenever it had the chance, whenever Draco didn’t occupy it with more important things.

“I don’t need your protection,” he told him again, but the words sounded empty, even to him.

“You clearly do,” Potter answered, this time more annoyed. “Someone is clearly trying to hurt you, Malfoy.” He made a vague gesture at him. “The Healers said that the spell could have been far more damaging than it was. In fact, the magic was restrained.” He looked directly into Draco’s eyes now and Draco felt himself sucked in. “Whoever did this, Malfoy, wasn’t trying to kill you. They were trying to torture you.” Draco stopped breathing but did not let his gaze falter. Potter’s eyes were filled with a silent plea that Draco knew Potter was far too proud to speak aloud. He couldn’t quite endure the sensation of drowning in those eyes. “And someone in the Ministry is clearly involved, either because they were the one who tampered with your broom, or because they didn’t actually bother to check it. Negligence is just a culpable.”

Draco swallowed, which was still a feat because of his burnt throat, and nodded only once. He wasn’t sure what he was agreeing to. He didn’t want Potter’s help. He didn’t want Potter in his life because he knew it would only turn it upside-down. He knew that the gaping vortex that opened up in the ground every so often was a result of Potter, more than anything else.

But he couldn’t let Potter leave, either. Not now that he was so close.

“I could have told you the Ministry was against me from the get-go, Potter,” Draco grumbled quietly. Potter’s stare evened.

“Well you haven’t been telling me anything,” he replied. Draco’s eyes were hard and cold. “Have you?”

“What do you want to know?” Draco drawled, his mouth downturned in a stubborn frown. He couldn’t quite breathe with Potter so near him. He was frustrated with the knowledge. Potter leaned in closer, as though he believed that Draco was more likely to tell him the truth if the words had to cross a shorter distance.

He might have been right.

“I sent the shards of your broom for tests,” he said in a deadly serious voice. “The spell cast on it was meant to ignite when you pulled one of your spectacular, trademark dives.” Potter’s voice changed when he spoke the word ‘spectacular’ and it resulted in a fleeting smirk upon Draco’s lips. “I know your first game didn’t involve any diving and didn’t last longer than three seconds, but between then and this game, shouldn’t you have had practice? Wouldn’t you have done some dives then? Explain to me how it only triggered after you won the game against the Falcons.”

Draco could tell, then, that Potter still suspected him of being involved in some convoluted way. Draco frowned and rolled his eyes.

“I didn’t go to practice, Potter,” he answered coolly. Potter’s eyebrows disappeared behind his messy hair and Draco waited for the disbelief to allow him a question.

“You don’t practice?” he asked, incredulity ringing clear like a siren. Draco pursed his lips.

“I didn’t say that,” he snapped. “I said I didn’t practice between this game and the last.” He shifted and tilted his head to the side. “Practice, in Quidditch, is meant to either improve your flying –which I need not do –or else improve your focus in the game. At least for a Seeker.” Potter stayed quiet, but his eyebrows made no move to reappear. Draco narrowed his eyes. “You can’t practice catching the Snitch because the act itself never changes. You can’t know where the Snitch will be in a game and so the act of chasing it outside of a game is rather meaningless. All you can do is train yourself to find it.” Potter’s eyebrows slowly descended and Draco let his smugness creep into his features. “So when I do practice, it is simply to hone my focus.” He took a deep breath. “And I don’t really think it can be improved upon anymore. Practice, now, is just a means of supporting the rest of the team.”

Potter rolled his eyes and laughed humourlessly. Draco glared at him.

“You are that arrogant?” Potter shot, his previous kindness disappearing. Draco wasn’t sure if he felt more or less comfortable this way. “You really believe you are so good you don’t need to practice.”

“No,” Draco snapped, sitting up straighter and sending jolts of pain through him once more. “I just knew that it was more important for me to rest my body after being attacked, then to bother trying to improve my already spectacular skills before the game against the Falcons.” The use of Potter’s own word against him clearly jarred his retort. He opened and shut his mouth a number of times before settling on a sigh, resigning himself to the fact that Draco was not involved in his own sabotage.

“Alright,” he answered quietly. “You’re right.” Draco’s eyebrows shot up this time and he let a smirk draw up his mouth before it disappeared again. “But I needed to make sure. I need to know everything if I’m going to protect you and keep my promise.”

Draco’s mind stirred and his heart beat hard in his chest. His expression shifted sharply through anger, confusion and curiosity. He swallowed and then looked up at Potter, his eyes seeking out something hidden.

“Who did you promise?” Draco asked, the words sounding rough though he had barely whispered. Potter froze momentarily but then turned to Draco and his eyes held a determination he had only seen once before: during the war. He pressed his hand gently to Draco’s. Draco fought the wince that the pain demanded.

“I’m promising you.”

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A/N: This whole fic is not sitting well with me but I intend to finish it. Mrf. Something is not right. I hope you liked this anyway.

Reviews are love! *throws love at you*