A Dream For The Dead

A Dream For The Dead

Chapter 22

Memories Defeat Us

It was impossible to tell just how long they had been at it. He tried to figure it out, a number of times, actually. Every time he tried to count back the days, however, he came up blank. All he could actually divine was that it had, in fact, been days that they had been going back over the letters.

Memory, particularly as you grow older, apparently becomes more and more fluid.

Harry ran a ragged hand through his hair as he stared at the haphazard pile of parchment before him. He glanced briefly to the other side of the table and noticed, much to his annoyance, that Malfoy’s pile was perfectly stacked and squared. He had the irrational urge to reach out and scatter them in spite. He refrained.

That would not help matters at all.

He had spent the last… who knows how many days, going over every single letter the so-called Dementor’s Kiss had sent. With every letter there was mentioned a memory, an event from the war. They were occasionally repeated, when the writer apparently believed the torture or victim to be particularly heinous. Still, even with the repetitions, there were innumerable memories that Malfoy was forced to relive for Harry’s benefit. He needed to know everything, everything. He needed to know precisely which events the writer was focusing on, what connected them, what was important about them.

That, in itself, was not the issue. Harry had long ago steeled himself to face the memories of the war. He had forced himself to relive them and wring them out of his own mind so that he could move on with life in a healthy way. Hermione had helped him, of course. She had forced Ron into it as well. She said it was important for them to talk everything out, rather than revisit the memories in a pensieve. She said it would be more healing to deal with them still inside their heads.

The week they spent in the dark corridors of their own minds was a harrowing one, but, when they emerged at the end of it, they were all stronger and closer than they had been before. If it was possible.

Having Malfoy recount the memories he had from his own tortures, his witnessed account of Voldemort’s madness, was hardly something Harry couldn’t deal with.

At least, he had thought so when he had asked it of the blond. He also thought it might do Malfoy some good to relive them, like it had once done Harry good.

He was rather wrong on both counts.

Hearing the words was one thing. Having to watch Malfoy’s naked chest heaving from the effort to control his breathing, his hands clenched, white-knuckled over the armrests of his chair, his eyes screwed shut, his jaw taught and tight as he fought to push out every word, his body shaking and the stray tears streaming down his face, having escaped his thick lashes… that Harry had not expected.

He had not been prepared from the onslaught of horror, fury and guilt that he felt at the sight. He wanted to be angry with Malfoy for being so emotional about the experiences, for reacting as though he was the only one who suffered, as though he had it harder than anyone else during the war, but Harry couldn’t. He wanted to scream and throttle Malfoy, to let him know that Harry had been forced to watch his friends and loved one die at the hands of a madman and, worse, die on his behalf. He had been forced to bear the knowledge that he was the only one who could defeat Voldemort and that, to ensure he managed, everyone he cared about would willingly give their lives for him to make it there. He had been forced to bury far too many people far too soon. He had been forced to die to save the world, to walk to his certain doom and accept it at the age of seventeen.

But Harry couldn’t bring himself to be angry with Malfoy. He couldn’t even find the hatred that he believed still lingered within him somewhere. He strongly suspected that it fled him at the first tear that rolled down the blond’s cheek, clearly unbeknownst to him.

Instead of throttling him, of yelling until he was hoarse and stomping out in an angry fit, Harry found himself holding Malfoy’s hand, clutching it, rubbing his wrist to reassure him, encourage him to go on.

Harry must have been losing his mind.

He couldn’t help it thought. Harry knew, even then, that Malfoy’s life was just as violently wretched as Harry’s had been. Sure, at the time, Harry might have proclaimed that Malfoy deserved whatever he got because he was the cause of Dumbledore’s death, in a way, but he didn’t really believe that. He did not believe it then and he did not believe it now.

Malfoy had been raised to think foolish things like Purebloods were superior to Muggleborns and that magic should be restricted to those of Pureblood descent. He lived his life along those lines for fifteen years, Harry suspected. He had never really been told otherwise and, though that did not justify his actions, it certainly helped to understand them.

Then Malfoy had learned the hard way that his beliefs were wrong and ingrained in his head by the rantings of a power-hungry madman. He lost everything to Voldemort’s insanity, just as Harry had lost everything, once. No, Malfoy had not lost his parents, but he lost his safety, his power, his dignity, his childhood and his future. He lost things that Harry had not lost and, when he forced himself to think on it objectively, they were terrible losses too.

If this had been the extent of Harry’s thoughts he might not have been as alarmed as he was.

He could have happily pitied Malfoy and tried to console him. He could have felt sorry for the git and taken solace in the knowledge that, while people had lost their lives to protect his, Harry had been surrounded by people who loved him enough to do that. Malfoy had only two people -perhaps only one, actually -who would have been willing to do that for him. Malfoy had been forced to hurt and destroy other people because no one would step up and protect him like they had protected Harry.

Harry wished, deeply, that he could just pity Malfoy and be done with it.

But he couldn’t. What he felt towards Malfoy, watching tears run down his face as his platinum blond hair fell over his eyes, attempting to shield the view of his vulnerability, was much deeper than pity.

Harry felt a pain grow in his chest and something lodge in his throat as he found himself grasping at the blond’s shoulder, trying to support him, trying to soothe him. He heard himself speaking in reassuring tones, offering words and thoughts that Harry hadn’t realized he believed until that moment.

And that was only the first day.

Since then, every day they went over a year’s worth of horrors. Malfoy would speak, his eyes usually closed, his body shaking through the worst parts. Harry always ended up touching him somehow. He would rub the blond’s wrist with his thumb, or he would grasp his shoulder. Once Harry had actually pulled the blond into a sideways embrace, his arm wrapped around his former-rival to try and give him strength. Malfoy never complained, never made any comment about the strange behaviour. He was too lost in his own memories.

He knew, as the days wore on and he found himself showing up ever earlier in the morning to be with him, after having left only hours before in the dark of night –only ever leaving Malfoy’s home at all because of his intense discomfort with Aurora –that something was wrong with him. He knew that he felt differently toward Malfoy than he had previously. Harry knew that he actually cared about the prat now. He actually, deeply cared for Malfoy.

That was the problem. That and the question of just how deeply did he care?

Add to that the fact that every trip down memory lane was generally accompanied with a massive hole opening in the ground to swallow them both, and Harry was thoroughly screwed.

Today found Harry with Draco’s head in his lap as he recalled how Voldemort had forced him to torture Rowle. Harry had seen a small portion of this during the war, given his insight into Voldemort’s mind at the time, but he did not see the whole thing. He had not known that Draco had been forced to put Rowle under the Imperius curse and then force him to kill himself. All for Voldemort’s amusement.

The memory had reduced Draco to the most violent shuddering fit that Harry had ever seen. He had coaxed him into lying down with his head in Harry’s lap –though Harry still wasn’t quire sure how the thought had come to him that this would be the best way to soothe the blond –and he stroked his hear. A image of Pansy Parkinson in sixth year sitting Harry’s very position, on the Hogwarts Express, struck him. He remembered thinking that Pansy stroked Malfoy’s hair as though anyone in the world would have killed to be in her place. Now, with his fingers in the soft blond locks, he found himself unconsciously agreeing.

At which point he forced the thought away and tried to focus on something else entirely. Unfortunately, the only thing at all enticing to draw his focus was Draco’s bare chest. He never wore more than a pair of light cotton, or linen trousers. He had explained to Harry, once upon noticing how Harry’s eyes were drawn to the exposed flesh, that his skin was still too sensitive to don anything more suitable.

Harry found, much to his alarm, that he did not mind. His eyes travelled the lean line of the pale body before him. The skin on Draco’s chest looked to be about as soft as his hair, but radiated a powerful heat that Harry feared to touch. He knew it was mostly a result of the burns, though no one would know it, just looking at him. There was no outward sign that he had ever been burned at all. Just the heat and his inhuman sensitivity to touch.

Harry’s eyes moved up to the scars over his shoulder. They were thin and spidery again, but still red rather than white. Harry’s heart clenched and he almost reached out to touch them, a silent apology. He wanted to apologize every time that he saw them, every time that he saw Malfoy. Only his pride and the knowledge that it was not the right moment stilled his tongue. He didn’t know if Draco would ever forgive him and, even if he did, Harry was sure he would never quite forgive himself.

Malfoy had his eyes closed, as usual, but the careful ministrations of Harry’s fingers somehow smoothed the pained wrinkles in his forehead. His face relaxed as Harry moved his hands and Harry was grateful.

It was twenty minutes of silence, Harry running his fingers through Draco’s impossibly soft hair, before Harry realized that they had finished the memory and Draco was no longer shaking. It also took him a moment to realize that a pair of piercing silver eyes were staring at him.

Harry’s hand stilled and he felt his entire body tense.

“I hope your hands aren’t greasy,” Draco said suddenly. His voice was quiet and calm and unnerved Harry deeply. He blinked. What did he mean?

Harry lifted his hands and looked at them, then rubbed his fingertips together. They seemed fine.

“No, they’re fine,” he answered oddly. Was Malfoy worried his hair had made Harry’s hands greasy? Harry recalled that he used to play with Ginny’s hair and would end up with greasy fingers by the end. She said it was a function of the natural oils in hair. Draco’s hair did not seem to have said oils.

“I should hope so,” he said rather haughtily. Harry blinked again. “If your insistence on playing with my hair has somehow transferred grease to my head, you shall pay dearly.”

Harry furrowed his brow and then rolled his eyes. Of course, of course, Malfoy was worried about keeping his own hair in pristine condition rather than being concerned that Harry’s attempts to soothe him might cause him any discomfort.

Right.

“You’re a twat,” Harry informed him with every intention of removing himself roughly from under Malfoy’s head. His body, however, would not cooperate.

“Says the man who just spent twenty minutes purring as he played with my hair,” Draco replied with a slight smirk. Harry flushed red, his blood vessels apparently betraying him entirely.

“I was not purring,” Harry shot back hotly. He buried his fingers in Malfoy’s hair again and pressed his fingers into his skull, just above his ear where he knew there was a sensitive spot. Draco’s eyes fluttered against his will and he hissed darkly. “And you didn’t seem to mind when you were talking about Rowle.”

Draco tensed and his eyes flew open, glaring at Harry. Harry knew he should not have said that, but he was embarrassed and an embarrassed Harry Potter was not a rational one.

“Using my emotions against me, Potter?” Draco hissed, his voice low. “How very Slytherin of you. Apparently you’ve been spending too much time with me. It’s beginning to wear off. I’m shocked you don’t get disinfected every night.”

“Just shut up,” Harry snapped, using both hands to palm against Malfoy’s skull, giving him a very thorough massage. The blond gasped slightly and his eyes closed again. His mouth was slightly parted as Harry worked and he fought the clearly insane urge he had to find out what Malfoy’s mouth tasted like. “You know that I’m only here for the case.”

As soon as he had said it, Harry knew that he shouldn’t have. It hadn’t quite come out the way he wanted it do. He immediately shut his mouth and Draco’s eyes opened again. This time he forced himself up, off Harry’s lap and out of his hands. Harry nearly moaned at the loss.

“How could I forget?” Draco snarled. “The Great and Noble Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, would never associate with a Malfoy for longer than was deemed necessary by law.”

Harry opened his mouth to retort but Draco had forced himself up too quickly, intending to get off the couch entirely. He stumbled and fell back down onto the sofa, his sensitive skin brushing roughly against the coarse covering. He hissed and swore loudly, his entire body tensing and curling in reflex.

“Are you alright?” Harry asked, getting to his feet quickly to help Malfoy adjust himself back down on the couch. He tried to touch the man as gently as possible so as not to further aggravate his skin, but it was little help.

“Of course I’m not alright, Potter!” Malfoy snapped at him, his eyes tightly shut from the onslaught of feeling. “My bloody skin hurts to be touched even lightly, my family is being threatened by some psychotic anti-Voldemort, my wife can’t seem to decide whether to fawn over me or chuck things at me and I have to spend all my time in the presence of someone who would rather be plucking his own eyeballs out than sit with me another moment.” He spoke so quickly Harry wasn’t sure he caught everything. He frowned deeply as he tried to smooth out Malfoy’s limbs so that he could relax. “I think alright is quite the opposite of what I am.”

Harry kneeled on the floor in front of the couch and stared at Malfoy’s angular face. The blond was staring straight up at the ceiling as though looking anywhere else might cause some kind of cataclysm. Harry reached out to smooth his hair again and found the grey eyes trained on him when he touched the locks again.

“I wouldn’t rather be plucking my eyeballs out,” Harry told him quietly, refusing to look anywhere but at Malfoy’s hair.

“But you’re only here for the case,” Draco mocked, rolling his eyes. He did calm down, however, under Harry’s touch. Harry licked his lips unconsciously.

“No, I’m only here as much as I am for the case,” Harry tried to amend. “Surely you get sick of having to see my –what was it you called it? –my ugly, specky face all day, every day. But I don’t mind spending time with you. Even if you are a twat.” He sighed. “I told you I wouldn’t leave you.”

Draco only stared at him as he ran his fingers through his hair. Harry’s jaw was tight but his fingers were relaxed and gentle. It didn’t seem normal. They both stopped talking for a few moments, their eyes locked as Harry stroked Draco’s hair. Then, Malfoy opened his mouth as though to say something and suddenly winced and hissed again.

Harry drew back, afraid he had caused it. Malfoy’s fingers were splayed wide over the seat cushions and he bit down on his lip.

“The salve is wearing off,” he murmured through his teeth. Harry made an indistinct sound of acknowledgement and picked up his wand.

“Accio healing salve,” he called out. After a few moments, a jaw came whizzing into the room and nearly took Harry’s head off. He caught it and uncapped the thing. It smelled faintly of vanilla and he idly wondered if it tasted like vanilla too, but then glanced around. There was no brush in sight, or cloth to apply the lotion to Malfoy’s body. Usually Draco applied the salve to himself, in his own room no doubt, while Harry sat alone and pondered the letters.“Do you have a brush?”

Malfoy blinked and briefly glared at him, but Harry was sure that there was something other than displeasure in the grey eyes. Confusion? Concern? What was it?

“What? No,” he answered roughly. “Look I can apply it myse –” he started but as he lifted his arm a hiss cut off his words. He dropped it back on the sofa and hissed again, frustrated. Harry smirked momentarily to himself.

“You were saying?” he hummed. Then it occurred to him that if Malfoy couldn’t, in fact, apply it himself, and there was no brush or cloth, Harry was going to have to rub it over Malfoy’s body with his hands.

The knowledge did not distress Harry nearly enough, which was distressing in itself.

“Just shut up, Potter,” he shot back half-heartedly. “Don’t get any ideas, Potter, no matter what Skeeter writes about me.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry asked, completely puzzled. Draco stared at him for a moment, one infuriating eyebrow quirked.

“You really don’t read the Prophet, do you?” he asked enigmatically. Harry shook his head. “Hmm. Pity.” He looked away from Harry again. “On with it then.”

Harry swallowed and resigned himself to the fact. He dipped his fingers into the jar and scooped out a portion. He licked his lips again and took a moment to breathe deeply before smoothing his fingers over Draco’s flat stomach. He realized he could have started with the arms, which would have been more neutral, but Harry Potter never started with the easy route, did he?

Cursing himself he continued to spread the unguent over Draco’s smooth, hard muscles. He couldn’t hesitate now. He massaged over the flesh in smooth circles, steadily moving outward from the initial point of contact. He tried to focus only on the skin directly around his fingers as he worked and tried not to pay attention to the fact that Malfoy’s stomach was very fit and his skin was very, very smooth, despite whatever invisible burns there may be.

He felt his cheeks flush again as he drew his fingertips over one of Draco’s nipples. It hardened under his touch and he tried not to think about the fact that his trousers suddenly felt rather tight. A sharp intake of breath on Malfoy’s part brought him back down to earth. He pulled away abruptly and looked over.

Draco’s eyes were closed and his lips were parted. He was breathing rather heavily, as though he had been holding his breath while Harry applied the salve. Realizing that his stomach had not been moving during that time, Harry understood that Draco probably was holding his breath.

The grey eyes opened to stare in confusion at him.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked rather stupidly. Draco continued to stare intensely at him. His brows were knitted together as though he was trying to figure Harry out. Harry wasn’t sure why he was so confusing but he shrugged slightly.

“No,” he answered in a breathy whisper. Harry relaxed and replaced his hand where it had been. He continued to rub and ran his fingers over Malfoy’s other nipple. It hardened as well and another gasp escaped the blond’s lips. It was then that Harry realized that the experience was not painful for Draco, but rather enjoyable.

Harry found himself smirking rather wickedly and then tried to shake it off his face. He must be completely insane. The smirk would not leave, however, apparently stuck in place.

“Does it feel good?” he asked, vying for indifference but achieving something rather flirty instead. Malfoy gasped again as Harry repeated the movement over his nipple.

“Yes,” he breathed, apparently unable to lie. Harry’s smirk widened and he purposefully continued to tease Draco’s nipples, completely giving way to his own insanity. He pinched one gently, earning another, louder, gasp on Malfoy’s part. The sound went straight to his –now hard -cock and Harry stilled.

He was getting –or rather, was already there -aroused at touching Draco Malfoy.

This was not good. Not good at all.

This was wrong. And terrible. And unprofessional and, oh, Merlin, Malfoy was enjoying it.

Harry immediately moved his hand away from Draco’s nipples and back down to his stomach where he had still missed spots. He scooped out more of the salve and cleared his throat, hoping to break the hot tension in the room.

“So, er, about the case,” he started lamely. Malfoy tensed briefly and then relaxed visibly. Harry hadn’t realized how tightly wound the blond seemed to be. “I think I have some insight into who the sender might be.”

Malfoy made an incomprehensible sound and then forced his eyes open. He did not look at Harry though. He stared resolutely at the ceiling.

“Oh?” he asked, feigning lightness. “What’s that?”

Harry tried to pretend that he wasn’t rubbing cream dangerously close to Malfoy’s pelvis. He also stared determinately away from the hem of the trousers Malfoy wore. He had no interest in what way or may not be hard beneath those trousers. None at all.

“Well, given the events described,” he said in his best attempt at professionalism. “I think that the author of the letters was someone imprisoned at Malfoy Manor during the war.”

He said this all as though it must be some heavy revelation and then paused to allow it to sink in. Time passed and Malfoy did not quite respond as quickly as he should have. Harry opened his mouth to say something but Draco cut him off.

“That’s it?” he asked sharply. Harry frowned.

“What do you mean, ‘that’s it’?” Harry shot, his hand stilling but not leaving Malfoy’s stomach. “That’s pretty good! It narrows down the list of suspects to –what? –a handful of people?”

Draco snorted and rolled his eyes. This time he looked at Harry and his old mask had fallen back into place. Harry’s frown deepened.

“A handful?” he asked sardonically. “Try several hundred, Potter.” Harry gaped.

“Several hundred?” he asked, aghast. “There were that many prisoners here?”

“Over the course of the war, yes,” Draco answered, somewhat bitterly. “There were hundreds at different times. Some were killed by Voldemort, yes. Others were weakened and the Imperiused before they were released, others still managed to escape.” Draco’s voice was soft again, much as it had been when he described his memories. “Voldemort didn’t Obliviate anyone, then. He was far too sure of his win. He didn’t care about anyone but you, really. Anyone else didn’t even register as a threat.” Draco paused, his lips pursed and then added. “And that’s not to mention the families of the victims who survived. They probably told their stories to their loved ones.”

Harry’s face fell and he stared at Malfoy’s stomach for a long while. Every lead he had in this case inevitably led to a dead end, or else to too many possibilities. How was he going to solve this bloody case and keep his promises?

“Wonderful,” he said sarcastically. “What do you propose, then? Have you any better ideas?” His voice was rather harsh as he spoke. Draco hissed again as Harry accidentally brushed over his still raw arm. Harry pulled back and frowned. He leaned down without thinking and blew softly over the skin there. Malfoy shivered visibly.

“What are you doing?” he asked, shocked. Harry stopped and blinked, looking up. His cheeks burned and he realized that he needed to pay very close attention to his own body when he was around Draco, lest it betray him again.

“Oh, Muggle thing,” he answered sheepishly. “Cool air helps soothe burning skin…” he trailed off, stunned into silence by the look Malfoy was giving him.

Harry was so confused.

“I think that we need to consider matters from more than one angle,” the blond said suddenly. Harry blinked, having forgotten what they were talking about only a moment before. He cursed himself. Some Auror, I am. “I don’t think that the author would reveal themselves in one aspect of the letters. I think we need to use several aspects in order to pinpoint them.”

Harry nodded as he listened. Yes that was logical. Certainly a better idea than Harry had thought of on his own. He cursed himself, his lack of partner, and Malfoy all in one go. Then he found himself thinking that Malfoy really would have made a fantastic Auror had the Ministry allowed him to join the corps.

Then he scolded himself for some unknown reason and looked away.

“So where do you suggest we start?” Harry asked, with only a mite of bitterness in his voice. He was still far too confused with his own reactions to Malfoy and actions to actively make a decision.

“First, I need to get back out there,” Draco said with a determination Harry hadn’t heard in him for… well, ever. “I can’t just putter around the house any longer. I need to start going to practice again. We have another match soon. And I certainly have no intention of letting this,” he paused to think of an adequate term. “Terrorist think that I’ve gone into hiding.”

Harry snorted slightly and looked back at him.

“How do you propose to do that?” Harry asked, somewhat bemused. Malfoy could hardly wear clothes, let alone play Quidditch. The blond stared fiercely at him and, in all seriousness, informed him of his plan.

“I must go to the spa.”

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A/N: Ahhh random ending there. I bet you didn't see that coming! 8D *headdesk*

Also, I promise there will be NO MORE chapters like the last one. Well... wait. I promise that that was the most vivid and disturbing imagery you'll come across in this fic. No more of that, I promise. There. Yes. That was the worst of it. I think. I know some of you felt nauseous and what. I don't blame you. :) I swear that's the worst.

LOVE to you all. Sorry for not posting yesterday. It was my birthday XD. *huggles to all* Reviews = LOVE.