Were the Soil Not So Unforgiving My Love

Were the Soil Not So Unforgiving My Love

Chapter 3

The Pressure now of a Fog more Weighted


Harry’s mind was dreadfully clear. Horribly and terribly coherent. He knew why of course, he’d slept. He was not relieved. What he couldn’t exactly figure out, was where he was and how he had gotten there. He was comfortable, and warm. It was one of his ‘there’ moments. Harry had known he was going mad. He’d known, and full and heartily approved. As his world drifted in strange jagged pieces around him, he’d watched himself go down in flames with a smug sense of satisfaction. Take that, wizarding world, what are you going to do with your messiah now?


Shifting his arm on what he now realized were blankets, on what he was beginning to understand was a bed, he caught sight of his smooth unmarked forearm. And suddenly he knew exactly where he was and what exactly had happened to bring him here. Suddenly, the madness was not so much of a friend. He’d viewed it a temporary helpmate, something to get him away from the descending spiral of green he’d fallen into, but he’d almost killed himself. That was most definitely not his intention. Despite all of this ridiculous despair he was carrying around, he very much enjoyed living, and it had been his ultimate plan to find a way to get rid of all of this depression and slowly climb back out of his insanity.


That was not going to happen.


Remembering who had been present for his impromptu suicide attempt, he shifted to a sitting position, looking around the room for his ‘therapist.’ Malfoy was asleep in the humongous wing-backed chair that Harry kept in front of the fireplace. He’d shifted it to face the bed as the fireplace was understandably dank and empty, and was almost curled up in it; head snuggled into the back corner of the faded upholstery.


Harry had very little memory or understanding of how it was that Malfoy of all people came to be the caretaker of his sanity. He only understood that for some reason, he no longer minded. It was as if he’d gone through the arduous process of moving past their hostility, and he’d simply not been present for it. He felt, to say the least, cheated of a qualified distraction. He hoisted himself up and sat against his pillows. He looked around for his wand, knowing it must be close. For the first time, truly, he could say he was actually hungry. When he spotted his wand in Malfoy’s pocket, probably kept there to keep him from further hurting himself, he quietly whispered an accio and it soared into his hands. It was some of the only wandless magic he had ever mastered, that and lumos.

When it was cradled back in his hands, he smiled and whispered again, “Kreacher.”


The little elf, perhaps knowing from the sound of the summons that silence was especially desired, appeared with little more than the whumph of misplaced air and bowed in Harry’s direction. Harry nodded his head and gestured Kreacher closer.

Since the war, Kreacher had improved remarkably in both appearance and people skills. Harry had set him free completely by presenting him with a very small, but nonetheless respectable set of clothing. Dobby’s death had changed a thing in him, and all he really wanted for Kreacher was for him to do what he wanted, and to be happy doing it. Surprisingly, what had made Kreacher happy was to stay with Harry, and help him around the house. For the most part, when he was still eating, he’d cooked his own food, but Kreacher had helped him look out for the little things that Harry sometimes didn’t have time for.


“Would you please bring me something to eat, Kreacher, nothing big, broth and bread I think. And something for Mr. Malfoy as well, if you don’t mind.”


Kreacher nodded seeming thrilled that Harry was finally asking something, anything of him again. Harry had told him to stay away from the house when he started destroying things, because he hadn’t wanted to accidentally injure or insult him.


“Of course, Mr. Harry Potter, Kreacher will bring it right up.” Then he was gone again, with the sucking noise of air reclaiming its home. He returned his glance to the chair that Malfoy was sleeping in, and returned his thoughts to what was happening in his head. The green was still there. Even in this short time he’d been awake, it was starting to bother him again.


What bothered him the most was that, this coherence, this control, he knew it would be leaving him soon, and he would fall back into his desk and this time, he may not make it out of his pajamas first. It scared him. He had no control over when he stayed lucid or not.


Shaking himself out of his thoughts when Kreacher returned, he had to hold himself back from letting out a surprised guffaw. It seemed that despite the fact that he understood Harry’s stomach couldn’t take much, he’d felt the need to let out some pent up feeding, and brought a veritable feast for Draco. There was a monstrous bowl of broth for Harry and half a loaf of bread, and then there was a plate of chicken, a salad, a bowl of pasta, a bowl of soup, and a pitcher of pumpkin juice as well as a pot of tea for Draco.

He called the table in the corner of the room to sit between Draco and himself and let Kreacher set the food on it. Kreacher nodded at Harry and smiling encouragingly once more winked out of existence.


After the elf was gone, Harry moved the covers from his legs and waved his wand distractedly at the sconces on his walls, lighting the room more satisfactorily. He pulled the second chair from the other side of his bed to be on the other side of the table, and gingerly sat himself in it. Once he felt settled, he reached along one side of the table and shook the arm that Malfoy had left resting on the side of the chair.


Instead of coming around gently, as Harry had intended him too, Malfoy jerked awake, his arm automatically yanking itself away from Harry’s grip. Harry slowly moved his arm back into his own space, like one around a frightened animal.


He calmly watched as Malfoy realized where he was and gathered himself. When he finally turned to look at Harry, he just remained quiet, letting the psychologist determine how to start the conversation himself.


Malfoy stared at him for a moment, as if determining who he was talking to, and then spoke, “I see that you are feeling much better, Potter.”


Harry was almost disturbed to note the near complete lack of malice behind the nickname, “Yes, thank you, the sleep did me good.”


He expected a few cutting remarks as to the reason he was where he was, clinical Malfoy might be, but some temptations were too great for the most professional of men. What he didn’t expect was the cautious, almost afraid look that he was getting from the man. Like if he wasn’t careful, he’d break something.


Harry did not like it.


For a moment, they just sat there, considering each other, Harry’s unease growing, and the discomfort on Malfoy’s face steadily hardening into a deep and painful displeasure.


Finally, that displeasure broke itself open into resignation, and Malfoy spoke again, “Am I correct in supposing that I am speaking to you and not your unfortunate illness?”


Harry smiled, understanding that Malfoy was just wary of his mood changes, “Yes, for the moment, I am in possession of my faculties, though of course I can’t tell you how long it’s going to last. I am sorry that you got dragged into this Malfoy, I can completely understand if you would like to beg off. I suspect this can’t be a very good summer activity for you.”


Malfoy seemed to be agitated, “Potter, do you think for one moment I would have agreed to do this if I didn’t want to. What makes you think that Granger could force me to do anything?”


Harry grinned, that was definitely what he was used to hearing, “My apologies, of course not.”


Miraculously, Malfoy just seemed more irritated, and then it melted slightly back into a kind of nervousness, “Listen, Po-Harry, I need to make sure you know something.”


Harry was a little taken aback by the name, but he just nodded, “Alright.”


“You were babbling a lot in our last session about some things that I wasn’t quite familiar with, so I went to Granger, to ask her a few cursory questions.”


He looked at Harry to gauge his reaction, and Harry wasn’t able to give him anything but polite interest. He wasn’t exactly sure where this was going.


“When I told her that I thought that some of the things I didn’t know might be affecting my ability to help you, she…well…”


Harry couldn’t understand what was so difficult for Malfoy to say, there weren’t that many sordid things in his past that he could think of, for most of his life, when he wasn’t fighting Dark Lords, he’d been pretty White Bread in his approach to the darker side of living, “Yeah?”


Malfoy finally stopped stuttering and looked him in the eye, “She told me the truth about the end of the war, Potter.”


Harry’s polite smile froze. His entire brain froze.



The end. Of the War. The real one.


He’d told them not to tell anyone.

And Mafoy knew, of all people, Malfoy.


He finally focused back in on the man, who seemed to be sitting up in the arm chair, as though worried Harry was going to fall out of his.


He tried to still his thumping heart, and make his muscles uncurl, but he was having such trouble, he bit out through almost clenched teeth, “How much did she tell you?”


Malfoy was leaning forward even further; his brow furrowed harder, “All of it, Po-Harry, everything, right down to the last sacrificial step.”


Harry felt his lungs seize slightly in his chest, and found himself trying to speak around a mountain. He felt a hand on his arm and heard faintly, “Potter?”


He looked up and finally recognized the emotion that had been lurking in the back of Malfoy’s eyes, pity.


His mind went green.


***************


Draco saw when Potter left. The green in the eyes he was staring at darkened and hollowed, and the infuriatingly relaxed features that he’d been marveling at during this strange conversation tensed into razor blades.


He hesitated briefly, and Harry went mad. He made another one of those odd abortive jerks, only this time it followed through into standing and Harry screamed at him, as though he hated that he was being looked at.


He turned over the heavily laden table that Draco was only just truly noticing and screamed again, his hands clawing and pulling at his head. Draco broke out of his stupor and stood to restrain him. If he could drag him back down before he fell all the way into his madness again, they might be able to avoid having to go through the entire cycle.


He stood and gripped Harry by the shoulders and then moved his hands to the man’s head. He turned the face to meet his and locked eyes.


The sheer madness there was…most devouring. It was like there was a green pit there, and if he just moved a little to the left he’d fall in there and never make his way out.


“Po-Harry, Harry. I know you can hear me, come on. What kind of hero are you, can’t even make it through one measly conversation without losing your marbles. Just focus on me. Focus on me. Be angry if you want, but focus on me. I think I know what’s happening to you, but I can’t be sure unless you come back. So just focus on me.”


The struggles that Harry had been making against his hold were lessening, and animalistic pained whimpers and grunts were all the resistance he seemed to be able to maintaining.


Draco reaffirmed his grip on the sides of Harry’s head, “Focus, think.”


The green in those eyes was lightening again, filling in with consciousness and Draco almost screamed in relief.


The dark head of hair sagged in his hands and he let it. Potter collapsed to the floor, gasping breaths forcing their way out of his lungs, and Draco heard the faint sound of sobbing.


He was preparing to go down to the man and bring him up, when he heard the faint sound of speaking, “I hate it, Malfoy. I never know when I’m going to suddenly have no control over what I do or what I say, or what I want. Every time I start to feel a little safe, or comfortable, I see a flash of green out of the corner of my eye and something inside of me just…fails, and lets go.”


Draco really didn’t have an immediate response to that kind of a confession ready, so he just sort of sagged to the floor next to Potter and leaned his back against the chair, putting a weary hand over his eyes, “I know, Harry. And I know that it can’t be pleasant to think that something you never wanted anyone else to know is out, especially someone that used to be one of your biggest enemies. But I think I may have an idea as to what’s happening to you. If we’re lucky, its physical and it won’t be that hard to fix. If we’re unlucky, it’s also mental, and it’ll take a little bit longer, but I think I’ll be able to help. I’ll just have to do a little research; I think it has to do with the number of times you’ve been ‘killed’.”


He heard a faint chuckle and pulled the hand down. He was startled to see the tear streaked face of Harry Potter gently laughing at him from a crouched position on the other side of the turned over table, “What?”


“Ma..Draco, I’ve been fighting a Dark Lord since I was 11, I’ve been killed by him once, and I’ve been at the mercy of Death Eaters, I long ago stopped thinking of you as the epitome of evil. And I’ve spent the last few weeks of my existence doing nothing but breathing and researching the killing curse, if you want to ask me some questions, I’m pretty sure that will move you along just a little faster.”


Draco blinked in Harry’s general direction and shook his head, “Po-Harry, we really must work on these mood shifts of yours, they’re beginning to scare me.”


*****************



Harry felt himself slowly returning and he was fully aware thank you very much, that his method of coping, namely a brand of extreme coherency, was rather abrupt if you weren’t used to it. And the only person he could think that would be used to it would be himself. Chuckling at the stressed out look on Malfoy’s face, Harry set about getting up and reordering the food he’d spilled. Luckily, the soups and such had a house elf charm on them that prevented spillage and the pasta had been covered. The bread and chicken weren’t so fortunate, so Harry simply banished them to the far reaches of his kitchen bin. When everything was in place again, he sat down in the chair and waited patiently as Malfoy did the same.


When they were both situated, Harry spoke, eyeing his soup with his stomach, “I know you want to ask some questions about the curse, and you can explain your theories as to why I’m like this, but let’s do it while we eat, yes? For the first time in a while I’m actually hungry, so I don’t want to miss it.”


Malfoy was still quiet, but he nodded nonetheless.


Harry smiled. Again, he was experiencing that intoxicating burst of concentrated coherency, and he just felt so calm and pleased, though for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what the bloody hell he was so pleased about, “Great, well, just ask what you want to know, about the curse, or my symptoms.” He smiled again. He couldn’t understand why he did it, but he did.

****************

Draco had come to the conclusion that he couldn’t decide whether he disliked Sane Potter, or Insane Harry more. Sure, Insane Harry was rambling, and destructive and a bad host at best, but Sane Potter was always so calm and rational, and so bloody fucking happy.


Ultimately, he decided to just dislike them both equally.


He watched Potter happily begin devouring his soup and moved his mind on to thinking about what questions to ask concerning the curse. Potter had pretty much given him free reign over the field of interrogation, but there were so many different factors he was considering, that he felt it was best to just begin by explaining the details of what he thought was the problem.


“No one is exactly sure how the Avada Kedavra kills. All that is positive is that with the very notable exception of you, it is 100% fatal. There is no time of resuscitation; there is no time in which the proper healing can be administered. It kills, absolutely, and instantly. However, you are indeed an exception. You’ve been privy to its ‘charms’ twice in one lifetime. And you have survived both of those instances. It is my belief that even with your seeming resistance, being exposed to something with only the purpose of destruction of human life has had rather….well….concussive results on your body, and possibly your mind.”


He paused to study Potter’s reaction and almost laughed when he saw that Potter had paused, spoon halfway to his mouth.


Finally the spoon resumed its course and Potter nodded, “From what I’ve read that is a very distinct possibility.” He set down the spoon after consuming its contents and rested his chin on his hand, obviously going over the vast amounts of information he must have taken in with all of the books he’d been raping.


“The Avada Kedavra curse wasn’t always a killing curse you know. It started out, all the way back in the middle ages, as a spell used by the healers to get rid of disease. No one is exactly sure where its origins lie, but they have narrowed it down to the Arabic ‘abra kedabra’, which means ‘may the things be destroyed’ and the Aramaic ‘abhadda kedhabhra’ which in turn means ‘disappear with these words.’ It is believed that the use of the spell for healing purposes was discontinued when better methods were discovered, because when the spell drove the disease from the body, it also ripped away a good chunk of that person’s life force or magic.”


Potter took another spoonful of the soup and then continued thoughtfully, “It is believed that the curse didn’t take on its deadlier meanings until the last 20 years of the 17th century. Some of the less than helpful wizards of the time molded and warped the spell until its primary function was the removal of life force, though it did still heal. If you’ll notice, every person found killed by it, not only has no mark of death, but they also are missing any illness they might have already been suffering from. Once they’d shifted the balance of the spell, they were able to use it on their enemies and no one would know they were murdered, because even if priori incantatem was used, all they would see would be the use of a severe healing spell.”


He chuckled bitterly, “If you think about it, it really was terribly clever of the bastards. Unfortunately, now it’s only recognized as the killing curse, and all of the once useful healing properties have been forgotten.” He turned back to the soup, still speaking, “Another interesting factoid, when the curse was used on me, my magic not only rejected the killing aspect, but the healing one as well. I’ve had glasses all my life and after the Battle of Hogwarts, I was still covered in ruddy scratches and bruises.”


Draco was a little stunned at the fount of information he’d received. If that was just the response to one question, he’d hate to think what would come up if he asked everything he could think of.


But once he thought about it, the explanation was helpful. The ripping of the life force during the healing could explain the melding of the physical and the mental in Potter’s illness.


Draco finally began to pick up his fork to eat the food that had been salvaged, and an anomaly in the story made itself known. He put a bite of the pasta in his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully while he formed his question, “If this information is correct, then why is it that you didn’t experience these adverse effects after the original exposure?”


Potter’s hand stilled, a minute pause, but noticeable, “In the first decade of my life, I was unfortunate enough to have a few medical problems; the general unpleasantness they caused masked the ill effects I would have been suffering.”


Draco cocked his head curiously, and brought another bite to his mouth, when he’d swallowed, he voiced his confusion, “We can assume from your current example that the symptoms of the curse could be narrowed down to complete loss of appetite, sleep deprivation, irritability, and psychologically speaking an extreme amount of fear and paranoia. What illnesses would mask these?”


When the dark head of hair refused to raise itself and kept itself stoically focused on the soup bowl, Draco realized he was moving into generally unsafe territory, but he still received a response, “Starvation eventually results in a lack of appetite, nightmares mask sleep deprivation, fear devours irritability and danger results in paranoia.”


Oh, he was most definitely interested now. The voice had been flat and toneless, the head still, the spoon in the bowl. There was another tidbit of his oh so interesting life that Potter had not told him of, and he wanted to know about it, now…for purely scientific reasons of course.


“What caused you to be victim to starvation and danger, Potter? What made you afraid?”


“A rather unfortunate gene pool.”


“What?”


“I fail to see how this can be at all your business Malfoy?”


“I am only trying to help you heal Potter.”


“Then LEAVE THE PAST THE BLOODY FUCK ALONE!”


The shout had pushed Draco unconsciously back in his chair as the head finally came up and the jungle gaze pinned him across the table.


He supposed he’d deserved that.


Potter, infuriatingly enough, was grinning, and Draco could only find it in himself to be irritated at his own idiocy. He’d sunk down to the level of Malfoy/Potter, and it was stupid. He hated though that Potter was smirking, as though he’d known Draco couldn’t stay professional forever.


He wanted that smirk gone….really gone.


“What, Potter? Was the pampered touch just not gentle enough for you, did they not give you absolutely everything you wanted? Well isn’t that just a tough little life.”


Well…the smirk was gone. But Potter’s eyes were hollowing out again and Draco was absolutely positive that he’d really fucked up this time. Potter didn’t have an abortive jerk this time; he just stared past Draco’s right shoulder into a space unknown. Suddenly, the eyes were jerking from side to side, afraid of something.


Before Draco could decide what to do, Potter left his chair and ran for the door, and he had a feeling the study was going to regain its primary inhabitant. He sighed, he knew it was his fault, but he was tired. They’d made a good bit of progress, which was the best he could hope for.


He moved downstairs, getting ready to go home.


He cast one more look back towards the study; Potter hadn’t even made it from his pajamas.