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 23: Bent And Broken


It was almost noon before Molly finally broke down and sent Draco upstairs with two very strong Hangover Cures for Harry and Ron. It went against her better judgment to reward stupidity with easy relief, but she wanted them up and coherent sometime this week. Draco had a small tray with the two potions, and two cups of hot tea as well, balanced in his hand while he made his way upstairs.

The door to Harry’s room wasn’t actually closed, and a nudge from his foot opened it the rest of the way with a loud creak. The scene within was fairly predictable. Harry and Ron were still wearing their clothes from the night before, and the odor of vomit and whiskey hung in the air around them. Harry was draped halfway across his bed, with glasses askew, mouth open, and drool sliding down his chin, leaving a spot on his blanket. Ron was curled up on the rug in front of the bed, snoring like a hibernating dragon. All in all, it was a fairly disgusting sight.

Draco let the tray rattle a little when he placed it on the desk, hoping he wouldn’t startle Harry when he spoke. No need to risk harm by surprising a veteran hunter, after all. It was to no avail, since both boys remained entirely unconscious. Sterner measures were called for. Draco cautiously tugged at Harry’s sleeve.

“Harry…Harry. It’s almost noon. Time to get up. Come on, Harry. There’s tea…and breakfast downstairs. It’s still hot. Wake up already!”

One red-rimmed, green eye opened, and fixed Draco with a glazed expression of confusion. Harry grimaced, and closed the eye again. His voice croaked when he finally spoke.

“Dead. Dead people don’t…don’t need breakfast. Jus…just bury me.”

Draco held the Hangover Cure out, waiting patiently for Harry to look again.

“Molly made potions that will make you feel better. Hangover Cures…one gulp and you won’t need a funeral. All you have to do is wake up and try it. Please?”

Harry grumbled beneath his breath, and Draco unstoppered the potion and handed it to him, fighting the urge to laugh at Harry’s bed hair, which was admittedly hilarious. Growing it long had reduced its tendency to run out of control, but at the moment, it looked like an entire family of owls could have nested in it. Harry drank the potion down with a wince of disgust, then grabbed for the tea a second later, desperate to get the taste of the potion off his tongue.

“GOD! That’s bloody awful. I almost preferred the misery over that thing. Why does anything good for you have to taste like the backside of a Blast-Ended Skrewt?”

“I don’t know…but I’m wondering how you know what a Blast-Ended Skrewt’s backside tastes like. Eww! Can you wake up Ron? I’m pretty sure that, if I’m the first thing he sees with a hangover, he’ll wind up in trouble with Molly again…and I like my nose with this shape. Sound like a plan?”

Draco had delivered his comments with a convivial and pleasant tone, and no hint of his old mean-spiritedness, and Harry smiled and chuckled a little, surprised at the idea of Draco being amusing. It wasn’t a situation he was prepared for, but he rather liked it.

“Yeah. I think that’s a safe bet. Tell Molly we’ll be down in a bit. Tell her I’m sorry about both of us being ‘out of it’ last night, but Ron really needed a friend’s company. Hey! Wait a minute…how did you sleep last night?”

Draco looked away, sheepish, not wanting Harry to feel guilty about leaving him alone last night.

“I…um…I didn’t…sleep that is. Didn’t feel like it…and...”

“Merlin! I’m sorry, Draco. I would have kept a watch over you for nightmares…honest. I forgot, what with Ron needing to bend my ear and all. Shite. Tonight, okay? I’ll sit up tonight. You need to get some real sleep.”

The attention to his needs made Draco horribly uncomfortable. Thankfully, or perhaps unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it, Harry removed the subject from Draco’s mind by changing shirts, and the sight of Harry’s bared torso emptied Draco’s brain entirely. Draco turned away, hoping his cheeks hadn’t pinked while Harry could still see him, and started his way to the door in a hurry.

“It’s nothing. Really. Don’t worry ’bout it. Fine here. Just fine. See you…downstairs. Right. Good. Bye.”

Draco was gone and down the stairs in seconds. Harry pulled on a clean T-shirt, idly wondering if sleep deprivation was driving Draco scatty faster than expected.

’Titchy little thing, he is. Wonder what was…OH! Damn it! The last time he saw a guy peeling off clothes he probably got fucking raped! Jesus, Potter! Why not just whip the knife out in front of him again? How could I forget this shit? First he can’t sleep because I got drunk last night, then I scare him off when he brings me a Hangover Cure and tea…I’m a complete prat!’

Irritated with himself beyond reason, Harry threw a dirty sock onto Ron’s head. Ron snored one last time, pulling in a deep breath laced heavily with the scent of Harry’s foot after jogging a mile. The snoring abruptly ended in a fit of coughing. Ron rolled over and spat the sock away.

“Oooh-bloody hell, mate. Wha-what was ’at for? Me fuckin’ ’ead hurts something awful. Don’t need ya to ruin my lungs too!”

“It’s noon, mate. Your mum’s got food waiting…and she made Hangover Cu-”

“GIMME! Ow…my head. Mustn’t shout, right…gimme the bloody cure. C’mon.”

Harry handed the other bottle over, and Ron sucked it down like it was the sweetest nectar known to man. Then he belched and flopped back onto the rug while the potion did its work.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell. That’s better. Much better. Noon, huh? So be it, then. Let’s get a bite.”

“Draco brought tea as well. It’s on the tray. That’ll get that potion taste out of your mouth before breakfast.”

“Malfoy brought it? And you drank it? Did you check it by spell first, or do you just like living dangerously?”

Ron eyed the remaining cup with unveiled suspicion. Harry shook his head.

“Get over it. He’s not evil, Ron. I’m not even sure he ever was. Not that he didn’t try back in the old days, but face it, he never quite managed to be anything more than mean. And it’s Draco now…not Malfoy. He doesn’t even want his last name anymore. Hates it. Do me a personal favor and just call him Draco, okay?”

“If you say so, mate, but I’d rather call him Ferret-boy. Just not where Mum can hear me.”

Ron drank the tea, sipping carefully before he risked anymore, then decided it was safe enough and downed the rest with gusto. They made their way to the kitchen and tucked into the plates of food that had been left for them. A decent meal did a lot to take Harry’s mind off his lingering guilt over spooking Draco, but he resolved to make it up to him tonight.

Molly sniffed at them with an air of disapproval while she made lunch for herself and Draco, but didn’t tear into Harry or Ron over their conduct the previous night. Harry had been prepared for the worst, but he suspected that Molly knew why he’d let himself get drunk with Ron. Some things simply had to be shared, and Ron couldn’t have even spoken about Hermione if he hadn’t been full of whiskey. Harry had never been drunk before…tipsy maybe…but never drunk. He hadn’t really liked it much, but he also couldn’t have mentioned certain memories without the hazy fog that the alcohol had given him. He didn’t remember all of it, but he remembered both of them crying over Hermione and Ginny. It hadn’t been pretty, but in an odd way, it had been necessary. Molly had a keen eye for matters of the heart, especially when her children were involved, and this was no exception. The mere fact that she wasn’t shouting was a form of grudging acceptance.

Draco peeked into the room nervously, and took a seat at the table to wait for lunch, eyes flicking back and forth between Harry and Ron, unsure of what to say. Harry broke the tension.

“Thanks for bringing all that up. It’s late already, and with Charlie and Dula coming I should have been up hours ago.”

Ron perked up noticeably.

“Oy! Charlie and Dula are gonna show up? Great. Haven’t seen them in months. Not since the Quidditch season started. I wonder what they’ve been up to. Last I heard, they’d just got that female Spiny-Backed Bluescale to breed. Hope it took this time. She’s one of the last three females of breeding age for that species left in the world.”

Draco finally took a gamble and spoke up.

“Sounds amazing. So they don’t just tame dragons, they also do species preservation work?”

Ron hesitated a moment, his instincts at war while he contemplated the insane reality of breakfast conversation with Draco Malfoy, then he answered.

“Um…yeah. Anyway, Charlie got named a Conservator for an entire preserve last year. Loads of status in that. Youngest Conservator working today. Dula probably would have been named for it, but his family is really powerful in those parts of the country, so they picked Charlie instead. They didn’t want anything that looked like a political favor to a powerful family. Not fair really. Charlie’s qualified and all, and he’s the best when it comes to crisis handling or a direct intervention with a dragon, but Dula has a lot more savvy with people and government. The two of them together make a great team.”

Harry chipped in next, feeling a bit more comfortable once Ron showed signs of being civil with Draco.

“You wouldn’t think politics would be such a big thing when it comes to dragon handling, but it’s the same as anywhere else. Even so, they really put everything they’ve got into the preserve, so it’s a real treat to see them for more than a couple hours. They don’t get a lot of time off. They usually can’t even stay more than a day or so during the holidays. It’s a shame, too, ‘cause they’re great fun.”

Draco had been interested in the dragon parts of the conversation, but too much talk of Charlie and Dula was beginning to wear on his nerves. Likable or no, at the moment, the subject of anything or anyone queer was not to his liking.

“So, how about those Cannons?”

Ron looked confused, which was reminiscent of their school days, but he took the change of subject in stride.

“Fine. Good enough, anyway. If it hadn’t been for that tight-arsed ref, I’d still be playing in tomorrow’s game. I’ll be there for show, of course, but I’ll never make it onto the pitch. They pulled in Wilson from the second string to play for me. He’s got a good arm, great really, but he loses his wind if the game runs too long…he never holds back enough energy. Seen any games lately, Mal- I mean Draco?”

“No. I…I was…I was out of circulation for awhile. It’s nice to catch up. Who’s at the front of the league these days?”

“The Falcons, the smug prats, but they lost their Keeper last week. Some kind of botched spell at home. He’ll be in St. Mungo’s for another week yet. Their next couple of games might take them out of the running if they can’t hold to the same level of play they showed at the start of the season. If they lose a game, and the Cannons win tomorrow, we’ll have a shot at the lead in a few more games. Keep your fingers crossed for us.”

“I used to be a Falcons fan…at school, but since you’re the only person I know who actually made it onto a professional team, I suppose I could cheer for the Cannons. Were the try-outs as tough as I heard?”

Draco became aware of the fact that he was actually interested in the conversation. He hadn’t thought about Quidditch, except in the fleeting fragments of dreams, since he’d taken shelter in Snape’s safe house. Ron became more animated as he continued, gulping down breakfast between sentences.

“Bloody brutal! They had us in the air for hours, all positions, constant change-ups, the works. Then when everyone was completely knackered, they made us play a full length game against the current team. Only me and Banford made the team…out of more than twenty prospects. The practices are pure hell, too, but I love it. Endurance is my edge. I already have a powerful swing working for me, but I have to work to keep my precision at peak. There’s a few players I can think of right off that have better form, but they can’t play a two hour game and keep their edge…that’s when I own the pitch!”

“I used to dream about pro Quidditch. I miss it. Do you ever get tickets to give out? I haven’t seen a game…live…in years.”

Ron suddenly realized that, despite the good time he was having, he was a breath away from giving free tickets to someone he’d hated for seven years, and not without a few good reasons. He was silent a moment, then answered hesitantly.

“Yeah. We do. Sometimes. I’ll see what I can do and get back to you on that.”

The terse tone in Ron’s voice killed the conversation, but Draco didn’t complain. He’d been surprised by getting along this well. Molly served lunch for herself and Draco, and they chatted lightly, mostly of recent wizarding news that didn’t involve Harry, until Draco excused himself to take a shower. Mostly he just wanted to get away from the awkwardness of sitting with Ron, but he also wanted to look acceptable for company, since he hadn’t slept properly, and it was a newfound pleasure to take showers without a chair. Taking a proper shower made him feel like he wasn’t a bloody invalid, and that would set his mood right if nothing else would.

Draco took along fresh clothes, the ones that fit best and still looked half decent on him, and set the shower to heat while he stripped.

In the mirror before him, his own image taunted him cruelly. He’d always liked the way he looked when he was in school. Now looking in the mirror made him wince. At least his ribs weren’t quite so easy to count, now that some flesh was beginning to reappear. He’d probably gained ten pounds in just the last week or so. He privately thanked Molly for being a saint, because her meals were at the root of his recovery right now. The scars were depressing, but at least one arm was beginning to look better. Molly had applied salve that morning, since Harry was clearly incapacitated. His skin color was much better than before, but he’d still be pale until he could get some decent sun next year. Maybe then he’d start looking a little like the person he’d once admired in the mirror.

The shower was steaming the room up, and Draco quit his maundering, stepping into the stream of hot water and just enjoying the scent of the clean soap he was using. It was good just to clean himself, or even be clean at all, again. He was attending to the cleanliness of his private parts, when his groin responded to the attention by swelling inconveniently.

‘Shite! This again. It can’t wait forever. It’s either deal with it or face stained sheets and shorts. Might as well get it over with.’

Draco gingerly tugged at the head of his penis, woefully out of practice, and lacking real enthusiasm for the task. His body responded anyway, since it hadn’t actually experienced pleasure for a very long time. He tried to keep his thoughts neutral, just concentrating on the once-familiar feeling of his own hand, but it wasn’t working particularly well. His mind flicked back to snogging sessions with Pansy Parkinson, and that almost killed the mood. It had been fun enough then, but it lacked luster in hindsight, and it had really just seemed like ’the thing to do’ at the time.

Try as he might, Draco couldn’t bring himself to a level of excitement that would make an orgasm possible. The effort was beginning to make his hand and wrist sore, and the entire matter was beginning to annoy him. He hadn’t wanted to do this in the first place, and it would have been nice if his supposedly needy body would just cooperate with him.

He took a break, shaking his hand and wrist to stop the faint cramps in them, and leaned forward, resting his head against the shower wall.

’You know what you have to do.

It would have been comforting to say that his inner voice wasn’t his own, or that the idea came from somewhere else, but Draco knew perfectly well what would excite him. It was just a matter of allowing himself to think of it. In the meantime, his rampant member was bobbing eagerly in the shower, waiting for his absent hand to return to work. Draco put one hand against the wall to steady himself, closed his eyes and sighed, then wrapped his hand around his stiffened penis once again.

Harry’s hand was in his, calloused and warm. Harry was gently rubbing salve into his skin. Harry was doing sit-ups in his room, perspiration dripping from his brow, tanned skin shining while wonderfully defined muscles flexed and strained. Harry’s shirt was coming off, sliding up past an abdomen carved from stone, over shoulders that were handsomely broad, but not at all bulky. Harry was smiling. He was smiling at Draco, relaxed and happy, and it was a smile that showed off a face that, when the glasses were gone, was stunningly handsome, oddly serious, and yet genuinely open. He wondered what Harry’s lips would feel like…

Draco’s groin pulsed and exploded, and his entire body shuddered to match his pounding heartbeat. Hot come trickled down his fingers, spattered against the tiles and fixtures, and drained away as the shower continued to pour water down his shoulders and back, and ultimately to the floor of the tub. Draco had bitten his lip so hard that it was bleeding, and his vision was swimming wildly. If he hadn’t had a hand on the wall to steady himself, he’d have fallen over for sure. He flopped against the wall, panting, then slid down, sitting in the tub while the stream of hot water still ran down and onto him. Then Draco quietly cried, periodically scrubbing his face to let the tears wash away, mingled with droplets of red from his bitten lip.

’I’m a fucking queer. No wonder those things happened to me. They took one look at me and knew what I was. I’m not even just queer. I’m worse. I’m queer for Harry Potter. I should ask Molly for some clothes to keep and try my luck again in Diagon Alley. Or maybe Shacklebolt could help me even if I don’t have any real information…if I just act nice and cooperate with them. I can’t just…be here…like this…with him. I’m sick. Fucking sick…and bent. Father would puke to look at me now. If my mum could still speak she’d fucking curse the day I was born. I’m shite! Nothing but worthless shite!’

Draco cried until he’d emptied his head of tears, and until the water had developed a noticeable chill. Shivering, he shut off the shower and fetched up a towel, drying himself quickly and avoiding the sight of himself in the mirror. He dressed and groomed himself with his back turned the counter, not willing to look himself in the eyes, knowing he might very well crack if he did. Company or no, he decided he might just as well stay upstairs tonight, and keep to his room with a book or two until sleep took him. He didn’t want or need any more reminders of his ’condition’, and the company coming tonight would be nothing but that.

Draco slipped down the hall and into his room, grabbed a book and sat down. It might be a long evening, waiting for others to come to bed before he dared to sleep, but it was better than facing what awaited him below. Draco took a few deep breaths to calm himself, then opened a book and started to read.


TBC!!!