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 18: The Many And The Few


His gear and clothes from the night before were carefully stowed away, the shower had washed away any trace of his disheveled state from that morning, and Harry had groomed himself as best he could for Kingsley’s visit. The issue of The Daily Prophet that had been laying on his bed confirmed his awareness of Molly’s lingering outrage, and Harry hoped frantically that she wouldn’t do anything to compromise his cover while Kingsley was here. He honestly didn’t think she would, but she’d been terribly upset earlier, and she still hadn’t spoken to him yet.

Harry stepped out of the bathroom and headed down the stairs. Molly met him at the bottom of the steps, wearing a look that hinted at calm and a modicum of forgiveness. That alone was enough to make Harry’s heart leap. The idea of causing Molly pain or sorrow bothered him a lot, and it was not a thing he’d choose to let happen. She hadn’t understood why he was doing the things he did, or why Harry had no intention of stopping, but if there was a way he could make it up to her, or remind her that the Weasleys were more his family than any other had ever been, he would do whatever was necessary to show that he cared.

He needed a break anyway. There was a lot to be seen to here at home, with Draco topping the list, and he could use the time off to study, help Molly more, and think about some of things that had been gnawing at the back of his mind this past week. He’d executed a raid nearly every month for the last year, and if truth were told, he was just a little bit tired of it. Whatever Molly had to say was fine by Harry.

“Harry. When Kingsley gets here, we’ll speak no more of this, but I need you here. I want you to tell me that, as long as Draco is our guest, I can count on you being here to help. I pray that Kingsley isn’t coming with bad tidings, but I doubt we’ll be so lucky. You’ve shaken a hornet’s nest again, and we’re all reaping what’s been sown. I’m sorry I yelled at you earlier, love, but I must draw a line somewhere. I need help, and you need to stay out of trouble! Tell me honestly, Harry…can you do this?”

Her tone was that of a woman tired, and Harry chewed his lip a moment, torn between binding himself by swearing to something he might not be able to keep faithful to, and hurting someone he loved. In the end, there was only one real choice to be made.

“Aye. I’ll do it. I’ll stay in until Draco is well. I’m sorry, Molly. I know I…I let you down. I didn’t mean to, and I didn’t know Draco was going to need that much help last night. I’ll deal with…other things…another time, but for now, I’m here.”

Molly softened immediately, patting Harry’s arm.

“Thank you, Harry. I need your help more than I even know how to say. I just can’t do this alone, and he needs you, too. If you’ve paid a lick of attention to him, you’d know your opinion of him means the world to Draco. I think you might very well be the key to getting Draco on his feet and facing the world again. Please, Harry…I’m begging you, don’t disappoint me in this. I need you.”

Harry hid his surprise well, and promised his complete support, all the while picking apart the implications of Molly’s statement. It made sense, when he stopped and thought about it, but aside from seeing himself as a mingled threat and source of protection to Draco, Harry hadn’t realized that Draco considered him important in any meaningful way. It was a heady feeling, and altogether weirdly pleasant.

Molly tottered off to the kitchen, taking control of the meal from Arthur, who had a tendency to snack while he cooked. Arthur took his tea and settled in the living room, and Harry slipped back up the stairs. Draco awaited him, looking haunted, tired and pensive. He also seemed ready to talk, and Harry had had just enough time to think of a few things he wanted to say.

“Hey. I know you know Kingsley’s coming over tonight, but I don’t know if you heard about later this week. Ron is coming by for a night or two, and Charlie and Dula are coming over for supper about the same time, give or take a day. It’ll be a bit busy around here for awhile.”

Draco shuddered a little, as crowds of people weren’t really something he looked forward to. It was already difficult adapting to being so close to Arthur, Harry and Molly. Ron was not Draco’s favorite person from memories gone by, and he wasn’t holding out much hope that Ron would be as forgiving as Harry had been (and Harry had damn near killed him!) Charlie he’d only glimpsed a couple of times, and this Dula that Harry mentioned was a complete mystery.

“Dula? That’s not a Weasley…sounds foreign. Who’s Dula?”

“Oh…Dula is Charlie’s lover. Really nice fellow…you’ll like him. Pureblood from an old, European wizarding family. Great manners, very witty…he and Charlie make a pretty sweet couple. Molly just adores him. What’s wrong?”

Draco was staring at him like he’d just grown a second head. His eyes looked like they were trying to search out whether Harry was serious or not, and he looked like he was about to recoil with automatic disgust.

“You mean they’re…they’re…faggots?! That’s sick! Molly is alright with that? In her home? It’s just…just wrong! I can’t believe that.”

Harry couldn’t have known how much Draco loathed himself, even as the words left his tongue, almost unbidden. Draco pulled away from Harry automatically, recognizing the early warning signs of Harry’s anger quickly surfacing. Harry’s face was already darkening, and his jaw was clenched tight even while he spoke.

“They’re also some of the best friends a person could ask for, and I’d trust them with my life! SO…if you have anything else to say about them, get it out now, because if you offend them while they’re here, they might go easy on you, but I’ll give you something worse than nightmares to worry about! Just remember…you’re the guest, and the rules here say that they’re welcome! Is that clear?”

“Y-yes. ‘kay…got it! I’m sorry…sorry, Harry!”

Draco kept his eyes low until Harry stormed out of the room, painfully aware of the sweat forming fast on his brow and face. The entire conversation had been a horrible accident, and his face was burning with what he knew was shame. He’d misjudged everyone in this house, thinking that as purebloods, they’d share a view common with other purebloods, like his father, and he’d humiliated himself in front of Harry, which didn’t sit well at all. Even so, the very notion of people who…who did those things with each other…voluntarily…was just vaguely sickening, and it threw memories in his face that he wished fervently could be erased.

It was wrong. If he hadn’t been doped, if he hadn’t had to, he would never have done those…those fucking horrible things! Not for any reason! He wouldn’t have felt that way around Harry if he hadn’t been screwed up from the things he’d done. It was LeStrange’s fault! He wasn’t a fucking bender…he couldn’t be! Rodolphus had said those things to make him go along with it, and the drugs could have made anything feel good. What MacNair had done…that was reality…that was what it was really like. Hurtful and sick and wrong and evil.

Draco felt himself starting to hyperventilate, panic breaths coming faster and harder. He fumbled with the bottles on the counter and uncorked a Calming Draught, taking a long pull before he resealed it. He could actually feel the magic creep through him, slowing his pulse, leveling out his mind, and allowing deep slow breaths that stopped his head from spinning. He wasn’t fit for company like this. Kingsley Shacklebolt scared the hell out of him, and frankly, Draco had no urge to sit across a table from the man, biting his tongue and worrying over supper.

He made up his mind to stay up here tonight. Now…if only he felt comfortable with the notion of sleep, he could do something about the exhaustion that was overtaking him, but he couldn’t fully calm his mind, and in slumber the nightmares and memories that taunted the edge of his conscious mind would grow bolder and show themselves, and Draco shivered, afraid of what he knew would come when his will unclenched and sleep claimed victory over him.

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


Kingsley Shacklebolt arrived just before six, dressed sharply in his working robes, having left the office mere minutes before his arrival at the Burrow. Molly fussed over him as if he wasn’t a leader of the wizarding world, and Arthur was a dear friend, who had never played upon his time in the Order to advance his career, and had never in the memory of others done more than try to do his job well, content to be a family man through and through. These were people that Kingsley trusted thoroughly, and he wouldn’t have traded them for a thousand votes. Some things just didn’t have price tags, and friends like these were just such a thing.

Politics had taught Kingsley a few things, though, and one of them was how to smile when deeper thoughts were crossing his mind. There was tension in this house, and it was almost palpable, taking on a life of its own. Harry, Molly and Arthur all looked tired, careworn and frayed about the edges, as if all their nerves had been battered of late, and Kingsley didn’t fail to note this. He asked after their well-being, genuinely curious about their health, and he was surprised to learn that the younger Malfoy had gained sanctuary here. That certainly explained some of the tension. He’d expected it to be a by-product of Harry’s nocturnal pastime, but harboring a convicted and released Death Eater threw off his theory about Harry completely. The only Death Eater he could imagine near Harry was a dead one, and doubly so for Malfoy!

Dinner was served by seven, and after state dinners and rich foods he’d never seen the like of, a good beef stew and fresh bread and butter was a nice change of pace. Plus, Molly’s knack for spices hadn’t failed her yet, and Kingsley thought back to the hard days of the Order, operating out of 12 Grimmauld Place, fueled only by a desperate hope for survival, and Molly Weasley’s cooking. There should have been an Order of Merlin for her at the war’s end. Molly had kept dozens of bellies full, running a kitchen almost eighteen hours a day for most of a year. He’d come to miss seeing these once familiar faces, and it embittered him slightly that he’d been forced to come with ill news, some of it penned by his own hand.

Harry was the real enigma here, and no clear sign indicated that anything was amiss. He seemed quiet and pensive, but that was just Harry, and he’d been a solitary, thoughtful boy back when Kingsley had first met him. There was a faint hint of nervousness when Kingsley asked for an introduction to Draco, even though he’d met the boy before, but that could be read as meaning no more than mild surprise at Kingsley’s interest in someone he’d interrogated over a year ago.

He made the journey upstairs, tea in hand, and found Draco sitting alone in a bed that seemed large only because of the younger Malfoy’s now slender frame. The scars that coated his bared shoulders caught Kingsley off guard, and Draco had a gaunt, hunted look about him, like an animal that had been brought indoors to be a house pet, poorly adapted to suppressing survival instincts that had been necessary for too long, and wouldn’t vanish quickly. The boy stared edgily at him, fidgeting with the sheets nervously.

“Hello there, Mr. Malfoy. Quite a surprise to find you here. I hope sanctuary here in the Burrow is treating you well.”

Draco flinched visibly at the use of his surname.

“Please, sir. It’s just Draco. Please. I’m…I’m getting better. Thanks to them.”

“I see. You look like you went through a bit of a rough patch. You’re lucky to be under Molly’s care. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have look after me when I’m under the weather, and I’ve missed her cooking for over a year.”

Draco looked stuck between nervous tension and an urge to speak. His eyes flicked down, avoiding Kingsley’s. Auror instincts said that guilt was at play, but Kingsley suspected a bit more.

“I…rough patches happen…when you have nothing to offer anyone. Molly’s wonderful. I’d have died if she hadn’t taken me in.”

That comment vaguely chastened Kingsley, who was well aware that the Malfoy holdings had been stripped by the Ministry. The profits had helped settle war debts, and along with other property of former Death Eaters, had been instrumental in balancing the budget this year.

“Hmm. True enough. You know, Draco. There’s no reason you have to stay a stranger to the Ministry. You were sentenced, and your debt to society is paid. No further action will be taken against you. Anyone who did something like that would be a vigilante, and we don’t approve of that kind of thing.”

He phrased his comment carefully, placing the bait in a way he’d mastered as an Auror. Draco looked piercingly at him, wheels rather obviously turning in his head.

“Really. Welcome me back with open arms, would they? Jobs galore thrown at me feet? I wouldn’t think anyone would feel like holding a parade for my return to wizarding society, especially since they were more interested in kicking me while I was down just a month or so ago.”

Bitterness dripped from the blond boy, and Kingsley chose his next words with care.

“It’s not as though you had a record of heroism, Draco. No offense intended, but if you’d had some public record of service to the wizarding community, people might have reacted differently. Perhaps information that might speed justice along, or help apprehend at-large suspects. You’d be surprised how fast people make allowances for a person with a few spots on their record, as long as they’ve shown a clear willingness to change.”

“Just what do you mean? You think if I’d had names to name instead of spending the war in a safe house with Snape, I’d have a job and a life instead of being pelted with trash? Is that what you think?”

Kingsley hadn’t really expected such vitriol. He’d been Minister just long enough to get used to being treated with the utmost respect, but Draco had obviously grown a bit of nerve since they’d last met, and he’d probably figured out that this wasn’t an official visit. Kingsley laid his last card on the table.

“Not at all. I’m just telling you point blank that, if it were widely spread about that you helped bring criminals to justice, the right kind of press could help you get a new start.”

Draco looked utterly repulsed, and folded his arms across his chest, revealing still more scars, and Kingsley wondered where they’d come from. No answers seemed forthcoming, and Draco’s final words sealed the matter.

“I’m not a Death Eater. The only thing left from my life before this is the fucking Mark, and if I could cut it off, I would. You said I don’t owe anything more…my debt is paid…and if that were true, I would have seen some proof of that by now. If you’d wanted help, the Ministry wouldn’t have raped my brain for three months after Snape brought us in, and if helping me had been that important, you wouldn’t be staring at the fucking scars on me. I might spend the rest of my life getting by and steering clear of the Ministry, but if the building collapsed tomorrow, I couldn’t be bothered to spit on the rubble. Sell your deals to someone who still believes in them.”

Kingsley nodded amiably, rather admiring the boy’s guts. Whatever had happened to Draco Malfoy, he wasn’t the shell-shocked brat that had accompanied Severus Snape out of hiding at the end of the war. Frankly, the changes were impressive, if a little disturbing. Kingsley stood to leave, offering a brief nod respect.

“Well. You’ve made your feelings plain, but if you ever change your mind, you know where to reach me. It’s your life, son, and good luck with it. I mean that. Perhaps we’ll see you again sometime, Draco. Good night.”

Draco gave a petulant huff, and remained silent even as Kingsley left the room and headed back down to see the others. Malfoy either had nothing of real worth to share, or he was genuinely too embittered by his experiences to strike any deals with the Ministry. Kingsley still had a long chat to have with Harry, and the letter in his pocket seemed to burn, demanding attention. This was the part of the night he dreaded most.

A polite request and a stroll around Molly’s backyard began, Harry a pace ahead of him, a wry smirk plastered onto his face, quite out of place on the boy he’d known years ago. Harry had changed in a lot small ways, during the war and after, and it showed now.

“Malfoy looks like he’s been put through a grinder. Any idea what happened, Harry, or is he not sharing the details with anyone?”

“Death Eaters, Kingsley. You know…the ones the Ministry can’t seem to catch. Some of them get bored just hiding out for months, so they murder and torture others just for kicks. You might want to deal with that sometime soon.”

The irony in Harry’s little speech was not lost on Kingsley.

“Harry, you know the Auror service is doing what it can, and doing it better than they used to. These things take time. A year after the war and out of more than a thousand Death Eaters and sympathizers, there are only two dozen cases left on the docket. We picked up VanHoek just last week. If you’d join in with us, sign on as an Auror proper, we might be able to pick the rest up before another year goes by. I was hoping you’d bring your talents back to the team, Harry.”

Harry snorted mildly. “No offense to you personally, Kingsley, but the Auror service couldn’t catch a cold while running through London naked in January. Most of the people you processed turned themselves in because courts could still be easily bought back when you first took office. I won’t say you haven’t cleaned things up…you really have, but it’s still a rotten system, and even you can’t fix it. A lot of the others only turned themselves in because Azkaban is survivable. They don’t fear the Ministry, or justice…they see it as an alternative to dying. You’re their one hope of escaping the debt they owe, and that’s all that keeps them coming to you. You know why I quit working with the Ministry and the Auror service, and it was final.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Harry. I know what you’ve been doing, and no matter how you paint it, it’s still wrong. The Prophet is past hinting at it, and when even they can figure something out, it means a problem has reached epic proportions. Do you understand me? I’m out of time and excuses, Harry. I can’t cover for you anymore. I know you never asked me to, and maybe I was kidding myself that you were doing some good, but it’s gone too far.”

Kingsley handed Harry the sealed parchment he’d brought with him.

“Harry, your Free Agent License has been revoked. I can’t have bodies turning up in the streets, and I may not have any solid proof that it’s you, but I have to do something. There will be a press conference tomorrow, and I’ll be citing you as a ‘person of interest’, and announcing the suspension of your license during investigation, but nothing more. You haven’t left me any choices, Harry. I’m asking you, as a friend, to let it rest, and let the Ministry handle things from now on.”

Harry’s smirk never wavered. His look was one of amused disinterest. He let his will float the paper into the air between them, and let it burst into flame and slowly convert to ash.

“Revoke my license…I’m retired, after all. That won’t stop your killers. Remember Jacoby? The one I arrested…the one who bribed his way to freedom…then killed two Muggle girls before he was captured again? Another glowing success of the Ministry’s, wasn’t he? The Ministry is broken, ineffectual, and ultimately unworthy of the trust people have in it. You’re the captain of the sinking ship, not me. Apparently, the will of the people is that certain killers should go free, and others shouldn’t. Sometimes the people are wrong.”

“Damn it, Harry! I’m not here to talk politics with you. I’m trying to warn you about what’s coming. It isn’t your job to decide innocence or guilt, and it damn sure isn’t yours to decide the punishment, either! The wizarding world is run by democracy…and I happen to believe in it.”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t. If it doesn’t work, if the many can’t act quick enough to protect the few, then maybe someone who can…should.”

There was a dangerous gleam of zeal in Harry’s eyes when he spoke, and yet he looked at Kingsley with a quiet and curious expression on his face.

“Merlin, Harry! You’re talking about despotism. No one person is fit to rule the world, and you sound like You-Know-Who when you say things like that. Do you have any faith in me at all? I’m trying the best I can, fixing the system one broken rule at a time, and I won’t last much longer if I keep covering for you! I’ve said what I have to say, and I’m done discussing this. I just hope you don’t force a confrontation neither of us would want!”

Kingsley trudged back toward the house, and Harry’s last comment made his legendary self control fluctuate for just a second.

“You should hope so…because it would be terribly embarrassing for the Ministry to lose against one man…and you…would…lose.”

Kingsley wished a terse farewell to Arthur and Molly, and returned to the end of the walk. He stared at the Burrow a moment, kicking himself for being a sentimental fool. These people were friends, but a cancer was growing here that would someday have to be excised. He no longer had the luxury of thinking of people as individuals…he had a nation’s worth of wizards and witches to think of. It was a lousy end to a hard day, and tomorrow wasn’t looking any better.

TBC!!!