Secondhand Robes

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.


Secondhand Robes (part 6)…by Samayel


A little dark haired boy, with cheap, poorly repaired glasses, shuffled about a Muggle kitchen, standing on a chair when occasion demanded he reach something too high up for him. His clothes were an abomination of leftovers that hung loosely off an underfed body, and despite being too young and too small by half, he was cooking breakfast as best he could.

Surly Muggles entered, and promptly stuffed themselves on a feast, only pausing to speak ill of the boy who had done all the work. Their piggy eyes watched him constantly, waiting eagerly for him to do something they could criticize or punish.

The fat man saw the way the boy was eyeing the last few sausages, as well as the last of toast and jam. Even though he had just stuffed himself to bursting, the great clod sneered and stared at the boy while he nibbled away at the last of the food, making certain that nothing was left behind.

As the family filed out, the boy cleared the table and washed the dishes. As soon as the Muggles had left, the little boy grabbed a sliver of discarded toast crust and rubbed it across the plates, gathering the last hints and crumbs of the food he’d watched but not tasted. Shaking with hunger, the boy looked like he would cry from joy when he tasted the mish mash of flavors attached to that crust of bread. Eggs, sausage, jam…evidently these were things the boy only tasted in secrecy, and even then only the most minute portions.

The fat man stepped back into the room and promptly exploded with outrage. The boy was literally pulled off the ground by his hair, slapped and cuffed repeatedly, and rudely shoved into a tiny cupboard beneath the stairs.

Locked in darkness, Harry Potter wept quietly, clutching his stomach, trying to remember how good that snatched morsel had tasted, and wishing he had gotten his hands on just a little more.

Draco was horrified by what he saw, but couldn’t pull himself away. He could feel Harry’s mind struggling against intrusion, and was surprised, not having known that Harry was familiar with Occlumency. The struggle to stay in Harry’s mind brought Draco back to his purpose, and he pressed on, despite his horror at what he had witnessed.

Flickering images of Harry’s childhood flashed before him, and Draco’s sense of revulsion grew with each one he saw. Dumbledore’s Golden Boy, the cosseted Hero Who Lived, was little more than a house-elf to the people who had raised him. Draco had endured two years of his father’s madness, and two months of privation that had been terrible in the extreme, but Potter’s childhood had apparently been a lifetime sentence in hell.

Hurled epithets, beatings, starvation, threats and labor. Draco dragged himself through with an effort of will, still trying to reach his goal, despite the rising nausea that cramped his body. All the while, he could feel Potter’s mind twisting and turning, trying desperately to expel Draco. At last, he found snippets of the present day, and went to work in earnest.

Harry was staring through the window of a Diagon Alley pub, disguised by Glamours, wolfing down a sandwich, and watching Draco through a window. Potter’s lip curled in amusement for less than a second, and then he stared soberly a few minutes, lost in thought. Potter chatted with his companions, and hearing of the seriousness of Draco’s situation, slipped off to make a deal with the barmaid.

Draco pushed forward again, sifting through day to day memories, until Diagon Alley appeared again…and this time Harry was entering the Halfway Inn.

Harry looked into the room whose locks he had spelled away, and saw first hand the squalor in which Draco dwelt. Worse, he looked upon Draco’s back, something which Draco had not bothered to hide by Glamour, as he thought he was alone. No one had ever seen the marks his father’s cane had left on him…until Harry.

Potter raised his wand…and Legilimized Draco! Draco watched himself crumple and fall, already exhausted from hunger, unable to muster a defense of any worth. Potter didn’t look like he even believed his own nerve. Seconds later, he turned and stumbled down the stairs, fleeing the Halfway Inn and Draco. Then the owls and letters flew, deals were struck, notions made real and accounts made ready. This…this was why Harry had done what he’d done.

Draco was preparing to pull away, when he caught the snippet of a dream. It was the memory of a dream in which he featured quite prominently. A dream where Harry wanted nothing more than to hold him close, and be held by him. The image shifted faintly; Dream-Harry and Dream-Draco wore no shirts, and the lean, dark haired boy was softly nuzzling Dream-Draco’s neck.

Draco snapped away from Harry’s mind with a gasp. Reality flooded in around him, and while Draco held his throbbing head, Potter was half-conscious on the floor, tears leaking down either side of his face.

Draco slid down to his knees, massaging his temples, trying to drive away the agony that accompanied a difficult Legilimization. His stomach clenched from dry heaves, and try though he might, he couldn’t drive the stolen images of Potter’s childhood away.

He suddenly realized that Potter was not the only one crying. Draco had never used Legilimency on another person before. It had been practiced at his father’s behest, but never used. He’d had no idea that it would be like this. He felt dirty, ashamed, and terribly ill. Potter’s voice snapped him out of his sorry state…and back to the reality of what he’d just done.

“Draco,” Potter croaked, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it. Now you know. I just wanted to make it right. I didn’t want anything from you. I just wanted you to be okay. Nobody deserves to starve like that. I just want you to know…I admired your strength then. A lot of other people would have fallen apart.”

“Can’t…I…my head…” Draco’s vision was still off a bit, but his headache was quickly centering behind his right eye. He unstoppered the bottle he had left on the floor while Potter watched in apprehension. Then Draco drained the contents in one long gulp.

“What are you doing?! Draco, that’s Verita…”

“Relax, Potter,” Draco answered gruffly. “It’s a headache cure. You don’t think Snape leaves the ingredients for controlled substances where I can get at them do you? He’s Slytherin, remember? I just used the Veritaserum threat as a bluff. I wanted leverage, not a sentence to Azkaban. Gimme a minute…please. It hurts like hell.”

Harry closed his eyes while he waited. He knew everything that Draco had seen. His face burned with humiliation.

He knows! He knows about the dream. I’m ruined…completely ruined. Just when the fucking notion of seeing him now and again looked kind of good, he had to see that! I should have known better. I should have…

“Potter.”

Harry opened his eyes and looked to Draco hopelessly. Draco sat beside him, holding his knees to his chest, still looking vaguely ill. Harry waited, half afraid of what Draco might do next, now that he’d seen the truth.

“Potter. I…I’m sorry.” Draco wiped vaguely at his eyes, refusing to look straight at his still prone victim.

“I didn’t know. I didn’t imagine. I…your family…they…I had no right to…” Draco tried to shake his head and clear the images of violence and degradation from his skull, but nothing worked.

Harry was astounded. Draco…Draco fucking Malfoy!…had just apologized…with sincerity! There was just no precedent for an event like that. Harry leaped on the chance for damage control.

“Accepted…on one condition.” Draco finally looked at him with mingled guilt and curiosity. “You forgive me…for doing that to you. I wasn’t even thinking when I did it. I saw your back and I just needed to know what happened to you. I didn’t think about how it would feel after…knowing. If I’d known…I never would have done it. Do you forgive me?”

Draco nodded morosely, still haunted by images of another’s pain. “Forgiven. Finite.” Draco removed the Body Bind with a flick of his wand and held out his hand.

“We tell no one. Ever. Just go on with our lives, and treat this like it never happened. Okay?” Draco’s hand was still open and waiting.

Harry reached for the hand he’d refused so many years ago, and let Draco help him up. His knees buckled for a second when he stood, and a wave of dizziness hit him (the cruel after effects of being Legilimized.) Draco caught him beneath the shoulders and pulled him back up, steadying Harry until he recovered.

They looked at each other suddenly, both their eyes wide with mixed surprise and uncertainty. Harry’s dream played through both their thoughts as their eyes met and locked, each trying to read the other’s intentions.

Draco stepped back first, looking away nervously, and began to gather the evidence of their meeting; pocketing his empty bottle and handing Harry his cloak and wand.

“I…I have to go. I guess. I’ll…see you around.”

Harry folded the cloak across his arm while Draco hesitantly turned and began to walk away. His heart was pounding in his chest like a bass drum. He sighed and walked back to the window, now burdened with new thoughts that needed careful examination. He was surprised when he heard Draco’s voice again.

“Pot…Harry?” Draco stood at the doorway, looking weirdly angelic and demonic in the flickering torchlight of the hall.

Harry turned with a start, his breath caught in his throat.

“The robes…the books and everything. Thank you. Just…well thanks.”

Then, quite inexplicably, Draco ducked his head as if embarrassed, and hurried out and down the stairs. When the footfalls were gone, Harry was still standing by the window, trying to make sense of all the madness he’d taken in so quickly.

In just a single crazy hour in the middle of the night, Draco had attacked him, Legilimized him, apologized to him, shook his hand, and thanked him. He hadn’t said a word about the dream, but Harry had the oddest feeling that it had been at forefront of Draco’s mind all along. And something about that made Harry’s heart skip a beat in his chest.

The trip back to Gryffindor tower had never seemed so long, and, even tired, sleep came but slowly, haunted by dreams of gray eyes and soft hands.