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 7: Nightmares, Daydreams, and Bitter Ironies


Hands. Hands were touching him. There was no kindness in them, no warmth, and no affection. These hands only conquered and claimed, plundered and tore. He could barely move, he couldn’t fight, and panic filled him even as he struggled ever so faintly against restraints so thorough as to almost be a torture in and of themselves. This wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. Days didn’t matter anymore; it had been so long now that weeks and months had ceased to have meaning.

His life consisted of slop for food, fitful slumber in the cell beneath the earth, and those terrible moments when he was carried away to another room. This was only one of a hundred such moments, and all of them meant pain. Pain until his throat bled from screaming, and his screams were only music to the ears of his tormentors. Spells kept him awake when he collapsed from exhaustion, and he’d long since discovered that pain could plateau, taking him to a place where nothing worse could happen, and a creeping numbness overtook his reality. Only then would he become useless, and be returned, half-healed, to his cell.

He would heal, and gratefully lap his slop from his bowl, starved for every drop, sleep while curled in a single blanket stinking of blood and filth, and exist on the faint hope that this time it would be longer between journeys to that other room.

Hope meant nothing. They always came back. Sometimes it felt like only hours had passed, other times it seemed like days. They always came back. Rough hands would drag him, limp and utterly without spirit, down that cruelly short hall and into the room he’d grown to fear. He was on his way back to that room, and the hands that dragged him had no mercy in them.

Draco wasn’t really conscious of waking. His own screams echoed hollow in his ears, and when hands tried to touch his own, he scrabbled across the room and curled into a corner, keening pitifully. It was instinct, really, not thought that drove him. He wasn’t conscious in any discernable way until the spells hit him, and a potion slid down his throat, funneled carefully, and the magic slithered through him, stopping his panicked breaths, smothering his urge to scream, and slowing his thundering heart. A few soft and shallow breaths later, Draco’s world slid into blissful darkness.

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Harry collapsed back into his own bed. Part of him was savagely annoyed that Draco had woken him from sound sleep, but the surreal memory of having found Draco bound in his own sheets, screaming like a banshee, asleep even with his eyes open and trapped in some nightmare realm beyond his control, was still with him. It was yet another burden on a household, including Harry, that scarcely needed another, but Harry couldn’t feel much more than shock after seeing Draco Malfoy in such a state.

Molly had been right. Whatever had happened to Draco had been terrible beyond their ability to guess at, and tonight was proof positive of that. He’d tried to shake Draco awake, and the pale, blonde boy had just exploded into a panicked flurry, scrambling out of the bed and curling into a ball in the corner of the room, moaning like a wounded animal. It had taken several spells to immobilize and calm him, and a Potion of Dreamless Sleep to get him back into the bed and slumbering quietly. Less pleasant still, he’d had to Scourgify the sheets, which had been soiled in Draco’s fear-crazed state.

He’d sent Molly and Arthur back to their room afterwards, as they’d arrived just as he’d finished, and Molly thanked him kindly before toddling off back to bed. His heart was still racing from the entire affair, and it seemed unlikely that he’d find sleep again sometime soon, so he contemplated the matter of Draco Malfoy while he tried to relax.

The Draco he’d once known had been dangerous because of his arrogance, his contempt for others, and because of his foul temperament. There was no way to be certain which traits were still issues, and which had changed. Draco did seem different, but Harry wanted to know a lot more before he declared Draco ’harmless’. It was reasonable to give Draco a certain amount of space for now, but eventually he would have to push for details, even if they were uncomfortable. Death Eaters with a taste for torturing others couldn’t be allowed to roam free, and Harry had abilities, tools and connections that even the Ministry didn’t. A little information from Draco and he could bring the number of Death Eaters in England a little closer to zero.

‘What the hell could they have done to him…to leave him like this? He was always a bit of a sniveling, whiny, little piss artist whenever he got the slightest scratch, but there was nothing fake about tonight. The last time I saw anyone this close to the edge of insanity, it was Ron…after Hermione was killed. He’s a mess, but I have to have those names. What he knows could save lives, but…but I don’t want to hurt him.’

His last thought was the most sobering of all. NOT wanting to hurt Draco Malfoy?! Hell, he’d dreamed of hurting Malfoy for more than two years. Watching the bastard walk out of the Ministry with nothing more than a reprimand, and the confiscation of the Malfoy estate, had made Harry’s blood boil. Hurting Draco for all he’d done could have been a religious experience, and it had felt so good when he’d torn into him in front of the Burrow. He’d been almost blinded with anger when Draco had mentioned Albus, and Harry had felt like an angry god delivering his justice when he’d lashed out. How could things have changed so much in a single day?

The sight of Draco still angered him, and he resented the disruption of the one peaceful place in his life, but when he thought about it…really thought about it, he didn’t want to kill Draco anymore. He didn’t even want to maim or pummel Draco now. He’d never seen a human being so thoroughly lost in fear, and it was almost impossible to muster a genuine desire to hurt or frighten a person in such a state…even if the person was someone he’d loathed for more than eight years.

His heart had slowed its pace, and drowsiness was creeping steadily forward. Harry closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift pleasantly, only occasionally marred by the recurring memory of Draco’s expression of naked terror.

Blood. Blood on the walls. On his hands. The floor was both slick and sticky with it. The copper rich stink of it was in his every breath. It choked him and yet pulled him closer. Repelled and attracted at the same time. Blood was life, and he held the power to give it or take it. It was heady, intoxicating, sickly-sweet like treacle and yet as bitter as brimstone.

One mangled and ruined body was the same as another…and another…and another. Neverending. A cycle of destruction made necessary by humanity’s inherent flaws. Even if he killed and killed again until Judgment Day, the world would generate fiend after fiend, pulling him into the cycle of violence forever. Blood was in his past, and blood was his future.

The room was filling with it fast, a surging crimson tide that left him paralyzed. Floating on a tide of gore, the ceiling seemed closer, the air thinner and thinner. He was pressed to the ceiling, sucking panic breaths from the inch of oxygen left, and then there was none. Blind in an ocean of red, vaguely conscious of foul things brushing against him, a flotsam of death. He sucked in instinctively at last, and blood filled his lungs. Air. Anything for air! Darkness.

Harry woke in a cold sweat, fists clenched and muscles straining. His head pounded mercilessly, and he reached for the headache cure-all he kept handy these days. The nightmares hadn’t come until after he’d killed Voldemort and started his little crusade against the remaining Death Eaters. They’d come steady since then, some bad, some worse. At least tonight it hadn’t been the faces of dead friends begging him to find justice for them.

There was no hope for further sleep tonight. Harry rolled out of his bed and forced himself to do fifty sit-ups despite the fast fading pain in his head. He slipped into a faded and oft-patched favorite bathrobe, and wandered into the hall. Harry stopped by the entrance to Draco’s room, looking in at the boy he’d almost killed twice. Draco was still sleeping peacefully enough, but a taut miserable expression was still on his face. Even in dreamless slumber, protected by potions, he wasn’t at peace.

Harry sat down in the chair beside Draco’s bed. Molly’s knitting supplies were at the desk, and a new wizarding book, a recent best-seller, was there as well. Not Harry’s preferred reading material, but it would serve as a distraction. The last hours until daybreak whiled away with painstaking slowness, and Harry heard the sounds of Molly and Arthur stirring at last. The book was returned to the desk, and Harry headed back to his room to grab some clean clothes, then moved to the bathroom for a shower.

Harry let the shower warm while he peeled out of his bathrobe and shorts. The cold sweat of his nightmares had left him itchy and uncomfortable, and an early shower would set things to right. Perhaps, if Malfoy really was as harmless as he now suspected, he could enjoy a run into town and back.

Harry hadn’t merely grown more powerful magically, but also physically, through exercise, and mentally, through Occlumency and Legilimency. Years ago, Snape had mocked and ridiculed him for his lackadaisical approach to his studies. He’d been laughing at Harry even as he fled Hogwarts, Draco in tow, after murdering Albus Dumbledore in cold blood. Even if the greasy bastard was long gone from England, never to return, Harry took a grim pleasure in the knowledge that Snape had taken his threats seriously. It meant that even Snape had realized that, with the death of Voldemort, Harry had clearly come into the fullness of his strength as a wizard, and was no longer a half-educated, fumbling boy.

Harry slipped into the shower, enjoying the steamy heat and the way the water sluiced away the sweat and grime from his body. He lathered himself heavily with soap, and the scent of it cleared away the last memories of dream blood and fear from his palate. Harry’s impatient dick began to swell insistently, demanding attention.

Some people wanked before they slept, but Harry had long since started his day with it, since, as far as he was concerned, it was the perfect way to relax before starting the day, and fuck knows he needed to relax today. He leaned against the wall of the shower for support, and slid his right hand around just the head of his rapidly inflating prick.

It was a comfortable and familiar ritual; an act so commonplace, and yet still so pleasurable. Harry stroked himself in earnest, eyes closed, mind blessedly blank, just enjoying the moment for what it was.

Most people wanked to fantasies of some sort or another, and just as he was different from most in so many other ways, Harry was different here, too. Harry had very few of what could be called ‘fantasies’. When he wanked, his mind flickered with notions only of intimacy. What it would feel like to have the warmth of another beside him, or the ghost memory of lips against his own, this time the lips of a lover that knew him well, and not an insipid teenage crush doomed to failure. Harry found images like these enticing, and he imagined the sense of honest intimacy with another person as more intoxicating than any mere sexual act.

Harry tensed slightly, eyes clenched, as the peak of climax drew closer. He was too far gone in the act to stop himself, slave to the rising tide of orgasm, when the final images flitted across his mind’s eye. Velvet soft skin, nearly as white as marble, and the tanned and calloused presence of his hand made a stark contrast. All this was well enough, until the alabaster flesh in his mind displayed the faint mark of a scar.

Harry finished the shower in seconds, grabbed a towel and dried himself off with brutal efficiency, donned his clothes, and stomped into the hall with every intention of going for a run as soon as he could reach the door. Only a foot from the door to his room, Malfoy lay in the hallway, crying without shame, collapsed on the floor.

“Got dizzy.” Malfoy sniffled pitifully, flushed with shame while Harry stared in confusion.

“What are you even doing out of bed? You’re under three spells and as many potions. What the fuck did you think would happen?!”

Malfoy huffed in frustration, looking at Harry with an exasperated pout. “I just wanted the bathroom. I don’t want a damn chamber pot! I couldn’t even make five fucking steps before I fell. Help me up, please?”

Harry froze. This was not the ideal moment for Draco to need a hand…from Harry. The image of pale flesh, marred by cruelty, was made real in front of him, and Harry stood stock still, unsure of what to do.

Draco took it as a refusal, and looked wounded by it at that. “FINE! Don’t need you…don’t need help. I can do this. I can…do this.”

Harry watched as Draco pulled himself across the floor with his hands, not quite on his hands and knees, staying low and near the wall to keep his balance. All the while, he muttered to himself tersely, ignoring Harry entirely. Harry snapped out of his reverie and stepped in front of Draco, who looked up in annoyance, half-expecting a mocking sneer, only to find Harry’s extended hand waiting for him.

“I’m sorry, I just…I didn’t know what to say for a moment. Take my hand.”

Draco stared at him uncertainly, a mixture of resentment and fear struggling across his face.

“It’s okay, Malfoy. I want to help…really. I made my point earlier, as long as that’s clear, we’re fine, so just take my hand and we’ll get you there…alright?”

“It’s Draco…not Malfoy. Just Draco. Please.”

Draco took the offered hand, but was surprised by the weird look on Harry’s face when their hands met. Harry’s strong, dark and calloused paw closed around his pale right hand, and Draco was struck by the contrast between them. He also thought he recognized the look on Harry’s face; to Draco, it looked like disgust and horror. He used his other hand to right himself against the wall, for balance, and shifted his hand to Harry’s shoulder, using the taller boy as a crutch.

“I fucking hate this. I hate being like this. It’s a fucking shite state of affairs. I…I can’t help it.”

He was half-talking to himself, but he was aware that he had an audience in Harry, who was moving very slowly beside him, letting Draco set his own pace, and looking away the whole while, despite the fact that Draco was now wearing an old pair of pajamas that Molly had left out for him. Apparently he was so hideous that Harry Potter couldn’t even look at him. How fucking pathetic. Harry finally spoke first, breaking the tension between them for a second.

“I know. I…I’m sorry about the other night. I shouldn’t have…well…shite…I shouldn’t have lost my temper, but I did. Can’t undo it, but I can try not to let that happen again. C’mon, given our history, could anyone have expected anything different?”

Draco didn’t mention that what he really hated was having no choice but to touch someone else. He did let his mind reel at the revelation of an apologetic Potter. To be honest, he hadn’t expected an enthusiastic welcome, and in fact, he’d been so feverish that he couldn’t even remember exactly when the idea of seeking out Harry had come to him.

“No. Not really. I…I think…I hoped you’d kill me.”

Draco’s voice sounded very small, but horribly matter of fact. Thankfully, they’d reached the bathroom, eliminating the need for further conversation, since after a statement like that, neither of them knew what to say. Draco slumped in and let Harry close the door, then dragged himself along the counter until he reached the toilet. He was light-headed and sweating from head to toe, but at least he wasn’t squatted over some god-awful chamber pot like a complete invalid.

Draco went about his business, and when he was ready to leave, he fumbled his way to the door and opened it, clinging to the counter for support.

Harry Potter was no where to be seen.

’That bloody prick bastard! He fucking left me here. Sod him! I can do this my bloody self. If crawling is what it takes, so fucking be it!’

He was sweating and miserable when he made it back to the bed, and it had taken some ten minutes of his life that he hoped he wouldn’t have to repeat, but he’d done it. Potter was an ass, and that was all there was to it. An occasionally homicidal, insensitive, and obnoxious ass.

‘So why does it hurt so much…knowing that he looked at me in disgust?’


TBC!!!