When His Screams Died

WARNINGS: Mentions Rape, torture, angst, disturbing subject matter.


This is the conclusion.


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Part 2


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Rescue came, unexpected and nearly late, though Harry didn’t remember much of it. Recovery from his injuries took time and winning the war took longer but finally finally it was all said and done and the world laid in ruin.


He didn’t even have the pleasure of killing him himself, the elder Malfoy, his mangled body one of the dead. Harry didn’t care, too numb to defile his remains or anything of the sort but kept searching, turning over the black clad bodies, desperate, suddenly, to find him.



He was not among the dead.



The Ministry was in shambles, but it was the first thing Harry asked, requested really, demanded, was to know where he was. He got sympathetic looks at that, they looked at him as if they knew why he asked. Trauma, he heard them murmur, revenge. They knew how bad he had been when they rescued him, how close to death, and what horrors he had lived through at the Malfoy residence. He was told that they’d do what they could.



He knew then that they had him.



He was alive, the boy whose face wouldn’t leave his memories, drawn and desperate and miserable. He was alive but they were keeping him from Harry, and black rage built inside of him. He nearly took down what remained of the Ministry in his anger. He held back of course, it took every ounce of willpower he had and as soon as he cleared the building he lashed out, reducing half of the road outside to rubble without even drawing his wand. He was very lucky there were no muggles on the street just then and he sagged against the building, groaning at his own lack of self control.



In his minds eye he saw the fear on their faces, as he had stormed from the building, fear of him, the strongest living wizard, of what he would do.



He let them have their fear.



*



Nearly a month had past when he was summoned back to the Ministry. He felt an ominous sense of dread as they lead him deeper and deeper into the heart of the building, down floors even he hadn’t known existed. Here he could see cages lining the walls and realized with a sickening start that Azkaban wasn’t the only prison in the wizarding world.



They stopped in front of one such cage and Harry could see it was him. No doubt about it, the dull color of once silver hair. He was curled in a corner, atop a small nest of blankets, naked, and Harry’s hand clenched around his wand in anger.



“Would you like to inspect him before he is released into your custody?” the wizard next to him asked, his voice monotone, bored. Harry stared at him, now bewildered.



“What?” he asked.



A parchment was conjured out of nothing and the man began to read. “One Draco Malfoy, Death Eater, sentenced to be left in the custody of one Harry Potter, to do with as he sees fit, up to and including death, until upon which time he decides to dispose of the body, at which point the remains are to be handed back over to control of the Ministry.”



Harry’s blood ran as cold as ice as he stared at the man in horror. He snatched the parchment from him, read it himself. It said that and more and fury bit at him, making the cages around them rattle, startling the boy in the cage in front of them awake.



*



He sat up and whimpered as he heard him approach, pressing himself up against the corner, trying to get away when there was no place to go. As Harry neared he could see that his eyes were shut, sewn shut with what looked like black thread, a blinding spell, and he felt anger hit him again, cold and hard and deep. He stopped, crouched down beside the other, noticed how tears leaked from under his cursed eyelids, tracing clean tracks down the dirt on his face.



He thought for a moment, then gathered the hem of his robe in his hand. Reaching out he gently pressed the fabric to the others cheek, then brushed at it, trying to sooth the dirt away.



Draco stilled. He remained frozen for several seconds, tension vibrating through his skinny frame, then suddenly he had launched forwards, knocking Harry’s hand away, clenching at his robes and drawing a hand up. Blind fingers sought his face, landed on his glasses, he felt them, and then he froze again.



“No,” was the unexpected word to come out of his mouth, and he drew away, shoving himself back into the wall. Terror seemed to wash across his face.



“It’s okay,” Harry frowned and reached out, taking his arm and trying to bring him forwards again but Draco recoiled, a small sob escaping his mouth.



“No.” And the terror grew, so much that he could actually smell it, thick and heavy in the air around them.



“I’m not going to hurt you!” he said quickly, and knew then that he meant it. He reached out, took the other boy’s upper arms in his hands, again trying to draw him near in some sort of comfort.



“You will,” Draco breathed past strained sobs. “You will,” he repeated as he twisted, trying to get away. And then he uttered the damning words Harry already knew. “You’re my executioner.”



*



He sat, small and insignificant in the center of the bed, sheets bunched around his waist. He was still naked, as he had been when brought to the house. Harry had had to curse him to sleep the night before, his panic had been so great, and removed the blinding curse after that. He had washed him as well, and had been angry since then, at the abuse it appeared he had suffered during his month of imprisonment.



He had been fed however, and not extensively damaged beyond bruising, and in better shape than Harry himself knew he had been. He had realized it was because the Ministry wanted, expected, him to repay his torment in kind, and had not hurt him that much because of it.



Harry walked into the room and made his was over to the bed. He sat on it, looking at the other. Grey eyes met his briefly, then looked down. His thin fingers knotted in the sheets. He was quiet now, and sane, unlike the overwhelming panic of the day before.



“Hello,” Harry greeted, reaching out and touching his jaw. Draco flinched, then looked up at him again, and Harry shuffled closer. “I told you, I’m not going to hurt you,” he said again. There was desperation swimming in the other boy’s eyes and he opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again.



“What is it?”



The hands twisted the fabric harder, so hard the fingers were turning white. He didn’t reply.



“Mal – Draco,” he said, loath to speak his last name now. He grasped the sides of his face, turning his gaze to meet his own. Tears had formed in his eyes, spilled over and he let out a small wretched sound as he fell forwards, burying his head against Harry’s chest, clinging to his clothes. Harry held him, fingers carding into the white blond locks, trying to make soothing noises to reassure him. It happened without him thinking really, pressed a kiss to the top of his head as he patted his hair and suddenly Draco had lifted his face, mouth seeking his own and they kissed or rather Draco kissed him, hard and desperate. He pulled away enough to utter the words “please” against Harry's mouth, then kissed him again and said it again, a mantra, please, please, please, please and suddenly they were back on the bed, Harry on top of him and then he touched him…



Something snapped. Harry drew back, then struck out in fear and anger. He could see him now, the face in front of him was no longer the boy but the father and he HATED him hated him and wanted to make him suffer and he hit him again and again and again until stuttered pitiful cries finally broke past the roaring in his ears.



“I’m sorry… sorry, stop… stop…” and the voice didn’t belong to the father but the son and Harry recoiled. He was off of him in a flash, barely glanced at the damage he had done before he ran from the room, leaving him there to bleed on the sheets.



He collapsed himself, down the hall from the room, hands embedded in his hair as he broke down as well.



*



He had to send him back to the Ministry. He couldn’t do this, willing torture another human being, no matter who that person was. He told Draco that, hours later, the expression on his face remote as he cleaned the cuts and bruises he couldn’t heal with his wand. Draco shivered under his gaze, then turned his head towards the wall. “They’ll kill me,” he said quietly.



“I’ll kill you,” was the quick retort.



“I’d rather it be you,” was the reply and Harry stared at him.



“You can’t possibly mean that,” he brushed a thumb over a swollen cheek and Draco winced. “You really want that?”



“I deserve it.”



“The FUCK you do,” and now Harry was livid. “You never touched me.”



He looked miserable. “I never helped you.”



“And what were you going to do, Draco? Really? We both know you’re too much of a coward to…”



He was crying, again, quietly, face down turned and his hands twisting the sheets again, and Harry’s rage slipped away as quick as it came. “What is it?” he asked. He approached again, wary this time, and carefully sat on the bed beside him.



Draco looked up at him suddenly, his eyes lost. “In – in school. I wanted, I wanted to be with…” he stopped, hesitated, then started again. “To be your friend. And then my father, he ruined EVERYTHING, not that I had much of a chance…” he looked away and now his bruised cheeks were flushed as he studied the wall.



He got it, or at least he thought he did, what Draco meant to say and couldn't. It was weird and not a little frightening to think the other had feelings for him. He hadn’t known. Hadn’t even guessed really, though he supposed it made sense with the kiss and before, with all the visits and how Draco would carefully clean him just to see him past his battered face. He remembered the night he had cried, the night his arm had been broken, and how Draco had sat with him. He rubbed his arm on reflex.



“Does it still hurt?” Draco asked softly, catching the hand motion.



Harry shrugged. “Sometimes,” he replied. His stomach twisted suddenly, repulsed. “Draco,” he said and there must have been somethin in his voice because Draco turned back quickly, his eyes dancing with unexpected fury.



“I've got a death sentence on my head. Either you’ll kill me or they do,” he reached out and Harry didn’t have time to draw away as fingers caught his sleeve. “Pot – Harry. Just do it,” he looked wretched. “Please. Don't send me back there--”



Harry stared at him mutely, wondering what could make him want to stay here, with a person who was meant to kill him, who had beat him only hours before. What could possibly be worse... and then he knew, he knew because he had lived through it, knew that there were far far worse things and what small kindnesses he had shown him so far were more than he could expect elsewhere.



Draco dropped his sleeve and fell back.



He watched him, watched as he curled away, eyes down, defeated. Resolve welled up inside of him at that, a protectiveness that hadn't been beaten out of him, courage he somehow still had. He grit his teeth, then drew in a deep breath, steadying himself. Then he reached out he grabbing the other boy by the jaw, wrenching his head up to look at him. Surprised and fearful eyes met his own.



“Don’t touch me again,” Harry said slowly, a warning in his voice. Draco looked stunned and he continued. “Next time I might do permanent damage.” And he let him go with a small shove.



Draco fell back on his elbows, confused as he stared at Harry. When Harry didn't do anything, say anything he slowly sat up again. His eyes widened. “You’re not sending me back?” he asked, and Harry thought he saw a glimmer of hope in those eyes.



“No,” Harry’s jaw worked. “Or killing you,” he added. “If I can help it. I’ll ask them to reverse the sentence.”



Draco gasped softly. “You don’t understand. It’s not because of you that I was sentenced,” he shook his head. “I'm a Death Eater. I’ve killed people. You can’t just make those charges go away.”



Harry felt cold again but fought to keep his temper in check. It was a struggle. “Did you want to kill anyone?” he asked.



Draco shook his head again, his eyes wide, slightly horrified. “No, of course not, I…”



“Then let me do what you couldn’t,” Harry replied, bitterness in his voice to go with the determination. “Let me help you.”



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