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 9: When The Past Comes Back


Draco couldn’t believe the word even left his mouth. He’d agreed to something that, if he were in any other house than Molly Weasley’s, would be suicide. He hoped Molly had a plan that didn’t involve making Harry seriously angry at Draco, because, while Harry probably wouldn’t hurt him inside the walls of this house, Draco wouldn’t put it past Harry to drag him away bodily and kill him somewhere else!

‘Merlin save me! No wonder she needs help. Potter isn’t just stubborn, he’s bloody mental as well and means to stay that way. What the hell did I just get myself into?’

Molly was smiling like she’d just gotten a new lease on life, thanking and praising Draco, and Draco couldn’t help but feel good about that. She was, however, getting all misty-eyed, and Draco winced at the realization that he kind of wanted to do the same. He was only just well enough to control himself. When he’d been at his worst, he’d had no control over his emotions, and he’d humiliated himself completely. The fact that Molly didn’t judge him for it only made him want to help her all the more.

Harry could be heard downstairs, returning from his jogging, and Draco and Molly ceased their conversation for the time being. Draco suddenly realized that, in the course of their scheming, his right arm was almost finished, save for scarring that would be taken care of later.

Molly pointed out a selection of garments she’d put aside for Draco, and while Draco’s gut reaction was vague distaste, the more practical side of him acknowledged that his previous clothes were practically bloody rags, and it would be nice to wear anything warm after living in Muggle London in October!

Molly went back downstairs to look in on Harry, and Draco stared at his newly healed arm. It was amazing to him, that he’d come through what he had, and sometimes his past life seemed like nothing more than a bad dream. Other times, this surreal new existence in the Weasley house seemed like the dream, and he found himself terrified of waking up, back in the living hell he’d known for months.

He hated that he was so shaky whenever he stood up. He’d been so sick, for so long, that he’d grown used to coping with it…at least until his situation had gotten so bad that it became necessary to seek help. Draco closed his eyes, fighting off silent tears. He’d been a mess in Muggle London, and he’d been incredibly lucky that the Muggles who found him were basically kind-hearted. They hadn’t really been able to help him much, except to put clothes on him and feed him a bit, but even that had been a hardship for them.

He’d been like a wild animal then, so far from sanity that there hadn’t been much communication, and the only reason they’d been able to touch him had been that, until that time, he’d grown used to not fighting back. How ironic that, when his spirit had been completely broken, his captors had finally tired of him and discarded him, expecting him to die. Stolen drugs, stolen food and stolen clothes had been all that kept him alive, and the Muggles that provided such largesse couldn’t have known who they were helping.

The notion that Muggles were somehow a living offense against the magical world had left him during those weeks. Some things were the same everywhere. Some Muggles possessed the kindness of saints, others were more bestial than animals, and most were somewhere in between. It was impossible to feel the same about them as he once had, now that his outlook on life had been irrevocably changed.

Memories were coming back to him, clearer now that his health was returning. Hazy, nightmarish flashes of suffering and degradation. Things that made him burn with such shame that he wanted to kill himself rather than face that they had actually happened. Molly surely had guessed some of it, and that knowledge was painful enough, but she could never know the depth of it, nor all the details surrounding it. These were things that he didn’t dare speak aloud, for fear that, once shared, those memories would be made all the more real. Better to let them rest in a haze of fevered memory, never to be reviewed by choice.

Harry was still a problem, and a problem of epic proportions. How did it feel to be the Boy Who Lived, living with being every bit the killer that Draco had failed to be? Was that why he seemed so angry? What the hell could Draco possibly do to make him open up? Molly had notions of forgiveness for past sins and new friendship, but Draco cradled his doubts to himself.

Potter had always been a stubborn git. It was so Gryffindorish that it was pathetically stereotypical. Forcing a confrontation was impossible…the man would go homicidal, so Slytherin guile was the only option. There was a vicious brand of irony in the situation that would have appealed to Draco…if he hadn’t been right in the thick of it. Slytherin guile used to save a man who had probably made the class reunions for three generations of that house a moot point? Ludicrous!

It was somewhere to start though, and Draco needed a new life…the one he’d had before was gone. If Molly wanted his help, she could have it, and he really would try for her, because he literally had nothing else to do with his life than offer thanks to the woman who saved it, by making her dream come true.

There was bitterness in Draco, but it was muted. There was sorrow, and loneliness, and an anger at the world that was general in nature, but the vanity and arrogance that had been his birthright were gone. The urge to hurt those weaker than himself had been torn from him, because he had been the ‘weaker’, and he could never again look down at others the way he once did. Draco Malfoy was dead. Draco, on the other hand, had no idea what he should do with the rest of his life, but finally doing something for the right reasons had a certain weird appeal, and that would have to do for now.

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Harry stepped back into the house and headed for the kitchen. Several dozen laps around the Burrow had cleared his head of thoughts other than breakfast, and that was fine by Harry. Sweat was pouring off of him, and a serious endorphin rush from his exertions had buoyed his spirits. One of Molly’s breakfasts would set the morning back to rights, and Harry tucked in with gusto, wolfing down a meal that would have put Ron to shame, and Ron was rumored to have a ‘hollow leg’ when it came to food.

Harry smiled as Molly re-entered the kitchen. Her usual care-worn smile looked a bit more chipper than usual, and Harry liked seeing his friends happy. At the least, a smile meant that Molly wasn’t upset about Harry leaving Draco alone that morning. That line of thought didn’t bear further exploration, and Harry dropped it immediately, wished Molly a good morning, and concentrated on the food in front of him.

“Harry, love. Our guest is doing very well, but there’s quite a bit to do in the way of healing yet. I was hoping that after lunch you might be able to help me. I know you’re quite good at a few spells for cuts and such. Would you mind terribly if I asked you to cast them, while I work on some others that need salve?”

Harry suddenly lost his appetite. He couldn’t really say no, could he? He’d promised to help Molly as much as he could, and it would get Malfoy well sooner. It was just…just a matter of…

’I’ll have to look at him…in a room…with Molly. What if I….NO! There’s nothing wrong, nothing will happen, and that’s all there is to it! It’s just healing some cuts and nothing more.’

Harry nodded quietly and tried to return to his meal, but the food suddenly tasted like ashes. Why the hell did he feel like a man condemned to Azkaban? It was just a little healing. Closing a few little wounds…on Draco…leaving behind clean…healthy…pale…skin.

Shit.

Molly beamed at his seemingly untroubled acceptance. “That’s my boy! You’re a blessing to me, Harry.” Molly kissed his head while murmuring a bit more praise, and Harry felt himself blushing again. Only Molly could make him feel like a gawking twelve year old again. Sometimes he almost resented this power she held over him, but he also loved her dearly for it.

His name had been on the Weasley clock since the year he’d moved in. On his eighteenth birthday, Molly and Arthur had unveiled the clock, clearly showing Harry’s name upon the ancient device’s face, alongside Charlie, Ron, Fred, George, Bill, Fleur, Percy and their own names. That, more tellingly than any words, had told Harry that this was his home. It wasn’t a formal adoption, but it was as close as such a thing could come, and Harry loved them dearly for the gestures of love they’d shown him.

Molly went about organizing her new herb stores, and laid aside ingredients for later use as needed. Harry recognized ingredients for Calming Draughts and Scaradicate Salve. Apparently more was needed than anyone had expected, and that sent his thoughts spiraling back toward pale flesh, marked by torment. At least Molly wasn’t asking him to apply the salves!

Harry cleaned up after his meal, keeping the kitchen as orderly as Molly would have. One of the things that Molly had always praised him for was his personal habit of compulsively cleaning up after himself. She hadn’t any idea that it was rooted in Vernon and Petunia Dursley’s deliberate cruelty, and Harry let it stay that way. Even now, almost three years later, the notion of leaving behind a mess to be found by others made his hands itch to clean up, and his face would grow hot with shame, echoing the endless scolding and punishment that even slight infractions had brought. Molly’s praise was music in his ears, and Harry very nearly felt relief when he heard it, happy at the core of his being that someone felt he was good.

While Molly set about her task, Harry strolled through the house, rattling off small spells for dusting and cleaning as he went. He made his way upstairs, gingerly passing Draco’s room, and paused at the door as his peripheral vision caught a glimpse of what lay within.

Draco was curled on his side, his back to the door, and the sheet had slipped away just enough to reveal the bare flesh of his torso. The reddish-gray of old whip scars stood out in stark relief against snowy skin. The bones of his spine and ribs were sharply detailed, since quite a few good meals would be required to bring back a healthy weight. The cuts and burns that had once been hideously infected were now simply scabbed shut, scattered across his backside at random. As gruesome a scene as it may have been, Harry couldn’t stop staring.

He noticed that Draco was shivering slightly…or at least shuddering in his fitful sleep. It was warm and comfortable in the Burrow, so it couldn’t have been from cold. Harry found his hands itching to pull the blanket up higher…his feet were already moving…even while his mind shouted out against continuing.

Harry pulled the sheet and blanket up, intending to tuck them in near Draco’s neck, but it was a gesture that was doomed for failure. At the first feel of cloth being moved across him by another’s hand, Draco flickered into a panicked semi-wakefulness, shoving himself off the bed with a strangled cry, away from Harry, and he was crawling across the floor sucking in panic breaths before he realized where he was.

Harry stood dumbfounded, half-furious at himself for letting this happen, wishing there were a way he could call this someone’s fault beside his own. Draco’s eyes were like saucers, and his thin chest was heaving like a bellows. Then he started to cry.

Draco had only dozed lightly, and his dreams hadn’t been vivid enough to remember thoroughly. There were images of Muggle needles piercing his flesh, and of bitter consciousness sliding away to peace. In a place outside himself, he’d watched silently while others had ravaged him, limp and uncaring, through the haze. It was all so fuzzy that it was hard to recall clearly, but the feel of someone touching him in his sleep had awakened his instincts…and he’d fluttered to wakefulness in an instant, fumbling to get away and tumbling to the floor when his legs had failed him.

It was just too much, being seen in such a state, remembering things he only wanted gone, enduring so much ’contact’ with people when he desperately wished to be left untouched, and sometimes even unseen. The stress of it struck hard and fast, and his will crumbled. He pounded feebly at the floor with his fists, biting back tears that wouldn’t quit.

“Fuck…fuck…FUCK! I HATE THIS! I hate it…IhateitIhateitIhateit!” Draco dissolved into a muffled sob of mingled self-loathing and helpless frustration.

“Look, Malfoy. I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to-”

“DON’T CALL ME THAT! JUST…JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!”

Molly arrived on the scene, and Harry looked at her with a silent plea for help.

“I just pulled his blankets back up…he looked cold…I didn’t mean to…for this…”

“It’s alright, Harry, leave this to me. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Molly cut him off with a look that suggested she understood perfectly, and a tone that soothed automatically. Harry left the room, still in shock over Draco’s reaction. He could hear the sounds of her speaking comfortingly to Draco through the wall, and even though he tried to read The Prophet and pick through his latest mail, he couldn’t push the image of Draco sprawled and weeping out of his mind.

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Molly spelled the sniffling boy back into the bed with a hasty Mobilicorpus, speaking to him as soothingly and plainly as she could. Sometimes a businesslike attitude was more effective than overt sympathy, and Draco’s state hinted at a desire to feel normal. To meet that, she kept her tone almost bored, as if it were perfectly routine to find him collapsed and sobbing on the floor.

“Right then…breathe deeply, Draco. Harry didn’t mean a thing by it. It won’t happen again. You’re as safe as can be here, love, and if you’d like a bit of Dreamless Sleep potion, we can let you have that nap properly this time, eh?”

Draco couldn’t stop shuddering. Molly’s kindness in the face of his pathetic display was unbearably sweet, but it couldn’t make his feelings of frustration dissolve.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it…when he pulled the sheet…I just…I have nightmares. I hate being like this…I just want it to stop. I know…I know he didn’t mean anything.”

He turned his head into the pillow after gulping the potion she handed him. “I just want it to stop. I’m tired…I’m tired of…of…of being scared. I don’t want to feel afraid anymore…but I can’t stop.”

Draco had whispered the last of it, refusing to look at Molly, because if he saw her face now, he’d lose his composure yet again. He could feel her weight shifting the edge of the bed as she sat down.

“You have the right to feel that way. Don’t feel like you have something to hide, love. You don’t. Not here. Not anymore. It may be a long while before those feelings go away, and you can’t hold them in all the time. Just be yourself, and no one here will blame you, or look down at you for it. If you want to talk about it, you can always talk to me, and if you don’t, I’ll still be here for you when you do.”

The potion slid over his jangled nerves, and exhaustion was replacing his terror and angst quickly. Draco was breathing slowly, feeling calmer and sleepier by the minute, while Molly just sat nearby, speaking calmly. After a long silence, he spoke, voice hushed so that only she could possibly hear.

“Needles. I dreamed about Muggle needles. I think they got bored. They gave me shots of Muggle drugs that made everything go away. I actually thought they were being merciful. They kept it up for weeks…and then they stopped giving me the drugs. I thought I was dying, it was so bad. I begged and screamed even though no one was hurting me; it was all inside. I raved and pleaded. I promised them anything. I offered anything they wanted…if they’d just give me some. I did ’things’ for them…willingly…for the first time…just to get more of that feeling. That was why they did it. They were tired of just using me that way while I screamed or passed out from pain. They wanted to make me beg for the chance to let them do it…they liked the irony.”

Draco’s voice trailed off, and the potion he’d taken pulled him into oblivious slumber, where even the most horrifying dreams could only flutter at the edges of his mind. He never knew that Molly Weasley left the room silently weeping, wondering if there was any hope at all for a world where such things were allowed to happen, and wondering briefly if she was even right to stop Harry from indulging his desire to kill the people who committed such acts.


TBC!!!