Amnesty - Part 1, H/D [NC-17]
Nov. 17th, 2013 04:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sesheta66Title: Amnesty - Part 1 of 3
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sesheta_66
Beta:dysonrules
Summary: Draco Malfoy, shunned by the masses and turned away from the Aurors more times than he'd care to admit, is taking out remnants of the Dark Lord's fan club himself – by being the best assassin money can buy. When the stone-cold killer happens upon a body lying in the alley, however, he can't leave the man for dead. When the man turns out to be Harry Potter, he does what anyone in his position would do – he brings him home.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Draco/Harry
Warning(s): None
Word Count: ~21K
Amnesty
by Sesheta
"Ten o'clock on Sunday for brunch," Draco confirmed. "I shall see you then, Mother."
Draco closed the Floo connection and proceeded to his study. He was pleased that his mother was making the effort. His father's death a year earlier had taken its toll on her, but she was slowly recovering. He'd made a point of seeing her on a weekly basis, but this was the first time she'd been the one to extend an invitation.
Part of him felt badly knowing that his mother lived all alone in the Manor. But in his line of work, Draco needed his privacy. And as adept as he'd become at hiding things from others – thank you Dark Lord for the motivation – he wasn't fool enough to think he could keep things from Narcissa. She had a mother's intuition, years of experience with Draco, and could hold her own in Slytherin house. All in all, it was best he remain where he was.
Back to business. Draco's tracking spell – a little known one he'd discovered in an old tome in the family library, and not, strictly speaking, legal – had worked and it was only a matter of time now. He waved his wand over the map of Shropshire he'd placed on the mahogany table earlier that day, watched an image materialise, and confirmed his quarry's position. Another wave of his wand and two others were revealed, seated at the same table. Draco had no idea who the hangers-on were, their images unclear and faceless, but it didn't matter. The group of nine had become three, and it was time to go.
Glamours in place and dressed in worn robes, Draco Apparated to the alleyway behind the pub. Several complicated motions of his wand later, he felt confident that no detection spells would disclose his true image.
With purpose, he entered the pub and took a seat at a table halfway between the bar and his target. He angled himself to appear casual, but sure the occupants would be able to recall only a general impression of a man on his own. His dark brown hair and eyes, olive skin, slightly husky build and inexpensive clothing portrayed a man not to be confused with the sophisticated one beneath. A slight Cockney accent when he ordered ale rounded out the image.
He sipped his pint and observed the three men. Mulcair looked much the same as he had the last time Draco'd had the unfortunate occasion to see him. A follower of the Dark Lord, he'd paired himself up with a werewolf crew, somehow managing to steer clear of them when they changed. His dull brown hair remained shaggy and unkempt and the five-day growth on his face fell short of a beard and far beyond fashionably scruffy. Draco barely held back a shudder as he recalled the stale stench of smoke and alcohol that tended to wrap itself like a blanket around the vile man. Many a night he'd lain awake when Mulcair had been in residence at the Manor. Not as frightening as the Dark Lord or Aunt Bella, the man had still made Draco's skin crawl. Tonight Draco – older, wiser, and far more experienced – wouldn't be losing any sleep.
The other two men, slightly less offensive to the eyes, kept pace with Mulcair shot for shot. Both slurred slightly as they spoke, their voices growing louder as the night trudged on. Draco waited for one man to lumber to the loo before he made his move. Ordinarily quick on his feet, Draco crossed the room at a pace more fitting his current stature.
"Barry?" he said to Mulcair when he'd noticed Skinny's eyes shift to him. "Issat you, y'big oaf?" Draco kept his voice conversational, drawing no unwanted attention to himself, though enough to be somewhat memorable. When Mulcair turned to face him, Draco looked directly into his eyes. He blinked once, slowly, and dropped the glamour on his eyes – something only Mulcair could see. As Draco's gaze bored into Mulcair's, he saw the recognition there. No one but Malfoys had those grey eyes, and they both knew it. Draco wanted him to know who he was. Needed him to know.
Before Mulcair could speak, Draco grinned and aimed his wand. "Avada Kedavra". Mulcair fell forward and his companion – possibly sober now, but still too slow – reached for his own wand. Draco stunned him and wiped his memory. Then he erected a Shield Charm on himself and calmly walked out the door.
He'd turned the corner to Apparate once more from the alley, but was stopped short by loud moaning. He saw the form of a man, curled up and writhing in pain. Careful to ensure that the man hadn't seen him, and that he hadn't been followed, Draco stood against the wall of the building and waved his wand. Gone were his glamour and clothing, replaced by a new set. His freckle-faced, ginger form approached the man cautiously, wand tucked into his sleeve.
The man groaned again, and as Draco moved closer, he knew why. Blood surrounded the body. What he'd thought was a curled up form was more of a heap, with left arm and right leg pitched at unnatural angles. The last time Draco had seen a body in such bad shape had been at a Quidditch match two years previous, after the player had plummeted over a hundred feet.
Draco approached cautiously, careful neither to spook the man nor get within range of his good arm. Aware of the irony of his situation – after all, he'd just killed a man in cold blood – he walked around the form to get a look at his face. And then stopped dead in his tracks.
"Potter?"
Another moan, this one slightly louder.
"Can you move?"
No response. A stupid question, really, but …
"I'm going to Levitate you, okay?"
Another groan.
Draco thought better of moving Potter and opted for some basic diagnostic spells instead. A few waves of his wand confirmed what had been obvious – a broken arm and leg – and so much more. Potter had cuts, abrasions, and bruising over most of his body, a dislocated shoulder, and a broken nose to match the arm and leg. Worse than all that, though, he had extensive internal bleeding.
His first instinct was to take Potter to St. Mungo's, but then he reassessed the situation. If Draco showed up at the hospital with a close-to-death Harry Potter in tow, the Aurors would ask all sorts of questions. Like what was he doing down an alleyway behind a building in which a man had just been killed? A dose of Veritaserum, without Draco properly preparing for it, might well seal his fate.
He cast a few spells at Potter – one to ease the flow of blood, one to numb the pain, one to keep him steady during Apparition, and one to bring him upright into Draco's arms. He'd do the rest at home where he had proper light, potions, and running water.
"I'm going to Apparate us both to my flat, okay?"
Potter's eyes rolled back in his head, and he let out a gurgling noise. Draco's heart raced. That was more disturbing than the puddle of blood. Before his brain caught up with him, he focussed on home.
Thanks to a last-minute Cushioning Charm, they landed softly in Draco's living room. He released Potter and set him gently onto the sofa, careful not to jostle him more than necessary.
"I'll be back in a moment. I'm going to pour you a bath so you can wash out all the … well, whatever disgusting things linger in that alley."
When he received no response, Draco went to his ensuite, dropped his new glamour and began filling the soaker tub with water and a mixture of healing potions. Draco's flat wasn't a hospital, but it was equipped like one. Occupational hazard. He knew that Potter's external injuries would be easy enough to fix up. The shoulder would be the trickiest part; Draco knew he needed to set it before the swelling would prevent him doing it properly. But he needed to get Potter's bleeding under control first, or else risk making things worse as he tried to put the shoulder back into place. Spells had nothing on potions for cleaning, and Draco needed to see the extent of Potter's injuries before attempting anything that might do more harm than good.
When the tub was well on its way to filling up nicely, he returned to his living room to find Potter in the same position. He panicked for a moment when he didn't see Potter breathing, but then his chest rose slightly and Draco let out his own breath. Fucking Potter. Why Draco thought the man might die now – after living through all he had done, including death, by age eighteen – he didn't know. Ridiculous, really.
"Okay, Potter, here we go."
Draco Levitated Potter once more, all the way to the bathroom, then vanished his clothes and lowered him gradually into the tub, watchful that his head remained above water. He risked a charm to hold Potter's head up, then slowly, methodically cleaned his cuts and abrasions.
In addition to the injuries Draco had discovered at the scene, Potter had broken ribs, but at least there didn't seem to be any dark magic involved. Small consolation, but at least now Draco could proceed with magic.
He Levitated Potter to the spare bedroom and laid him on the bed. He tried to shake away thoughts he hadn't had for some time. Thoughts of Potter in his bed, but under much different circumstances. He'd thought the fantasies he'd had back then were in response to Potter saving him from the Fiendfyre – hero worship and all that business. After a few of his more racy fantasies had seen him wanking to images of Potter beneath him, begging for Draco to fuck him harder and faster, Draco had forced himself to push them aside. He may be many things, but a masochist he was not. He knew nothing could ever happen between him and Potter, so he'd satisfied his needs with other men, real rather than imagined, men who didn't detest the mere thought of him. But now, with Potter here, in his home, he couldn't prevent those feelings flooding back.
As Draco willed himself to think about how much he'd hated Potter in school, he found himself less irritated by memories of Potter catching the Snitch than fascinated by how Potter looked atop his Firebolt. Feelings of jealousy over Potter participating in the Triwizard Tournament were replaced by interest in the man who, as a boy, was able to successfully dodge a dragon chasing him. Image after image appeared before Draco's eyes, only to morph into something he couldn't say was memory, but rather wishful thinking.
Fucking hell. What was wrong with him? Draco needed to focus on the task at hand. If he could mend Potter and get him back to his own home, he could go back to the Potter-free existence that had served him so well.
Several waves of his wand later, Draco had determined that Potter did, indeed, have three broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder blade, a broken finger and arm, and a severely swollen, possibly broken leg. Another few waves and Draco had reset the shoulder, taped up Potter's ribs, and set the arm and leg so they didn't move.
While an unconscious patient made potions more difficult to administer, Draco managed to give Potter a mixture to stop the internal bleeding, repair a lung that had sustained damage from one of the broken ribs, and mend the bones. All the while, Potter said nothing. Except for a slight wincing when Draco reset his shoulder, Potter didn't react at all.
Several times Draco wondered if he was doing the right thing. Sure, he fixed himself up all the time, but this was different. This was Potter. Saint fucking Potter who had better not die while under Draco's care.
But what choice did Draco have? If he took Potter to Mungo's, they'd call in his merry band of Aurors, and then where would Draco be? Under investigation. They'd likely blame him for Potter's injuries and put him in prison. It wouldn't be long before they connected the alley where he'd found Potter to the scene inside the pub. And if Potter did die, Draco would spend the rest of his life behind bars, because proof or no proof, they'd make Draco pay for their saviour's death.
He was well and truly fucked. He looked at Potter's swollen face – not nearly as bad as that day when he'd been hauled into the Manor, but close. He reached for some healing salve and applied it cautiously over Potter's face, careful not to press too hard on the deeper lacerations.
Draco set aside the salve then brushed some stray hair away from Potter's eye. Fuck. Why was it always him? "You'd better not die on me, Potter."
No response.
Draco ran another series of diagnostic spells over Potter's form, satisfied himself that his patient was on the mend (bleeding had stopped, blood replenishment was well underway and bones were healing), and set an alarm to chime if Potter's condition declined or if he woke up. He got himself a cup of tea then settled himself in the chair beside Potter's bed.
An hour later, he checked again, determined that Potter was stable enough to withstand a sleeping draught without much risk, and gave him the potion. The deeper he slept, the better he would heal.
Draco remained in the chair most of the next twenty four hours, rechecking Potter's condition every hour or so and only leaving the room when necessary. By the time the day had passed, the swelling and bruising had gone away completely, his blood levels were nearly normal, and his bones had mended. The rest was up to him.
Potter's colour returned the second day, but he remained unconscious. Draco transfigured the chair in the room into a bed – his neck had protested after his night in the chair – and for the second night in a row slept next to Potter, where he could react quickly to any emergency.
On the third day, Draco risked leaving the flat for a quick trip to the store. He'd long ago cancelled his subscription to the Prophet – so much of it was utter drivel – but he thought it prudent to find out what the world was saying about the missing hero.
He picked up some milk and bread, and a few things Potter might eat when he awoke. If he awoke. Draco shook off that thought, unwilling to even consider such an outcome, and returned home.
He checked on Potter. No change. He tried not to worry, but it had been three days now, and he should have woken up. For all Draco could see, he'd healed. But what if he'd missed something? What if he had missed one detection spell? He replayed everything he'd done for Potter. He'd run every test he knew, and a few more besides, after consulting some old tomes. Still Potter slept.
He left the room, checking the alarms remained active, then settled himself on the sofa with a cup of tea and the Prophet. Better to see what he was facing. Nothing. Not one word. He flipped through the paper, cover to cover, but not one word about Potter. Did no one realise he was gone? How was that even possible? The man could have been dead. Would have been dead, had it not been for Draco. Where were the simpering hoards that worshipped at the altar of Saint Potter? More importantly, where were his fellow Aurors and his friends?
Draco glanced down the hall, wondering why no one seemed to care that Harry Potter was in his flat. Anger boiled beneath the surface. Draco didn't stop to consider why he felt this way, only that Potter deserved better. People should be out looking for him.
Once again, Draco questioned his own rationale for bringing Potter here instead of St Mungo's. Had he done more harm than good? Would Potter ever wake up?
Unable to stand his own thoughts, Draco retired to the spare room to watch over the man he'd once wished dead.
Draco dreamt of Potter that night. This dream was more vivid than ones from the past, now that Draco knew exactly what lay beneath Potter's robes and the baggy clothes he used to wear in school.
Potter, fully healed and more than enthusiastic, begged Draco to fill him.
Draco had three fingers inside Potter, stretching him and savouring the sounds Potter was making. "More," Potter urged.
Draco, mesmerised, watched his cock disappear inside Potter, then draw out. Again and again as Potter's moans filled the air. Potter's entire body shook as he clutched the covers.
Draco grasped and stroked Potter until he became a quivering mess. "Harder," Potter begged, his body arching to take Draco in as deeply as possible. Draco complied, savouring the feel of Potter contracting around him as he came, Draco's name on his lips. Draco followed a few strokes later, calling Harry's name into the darkness.
Harry drew Draco in for a leisurely kiss, sensuous and full of promise, more intimate than what had gone before.
Draco awoke, breathing rapidly, sweat covering his aching body. He turned to the other bed in the room and the object of his desire. He wanted this man more than he ever imagined possible. And Potter couldn't stand the sight of him.
Fuck.
Potter lay still. Breathing evenly. Unaware.
***
The next morning, four days after Draco had brought Potter to his flat, an alarm sounded softly. Potter was waking up.
Draco rushed from the kitchen, where he'd been preparing his mid-afternoon tea and trying unsuccessfully not to relive the previous night's dream over and over again.
Potter opened his eyes. Finally. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus. "Malfoy?"
Draco, afraid to speak – he was so relieved to hear Potter's voice – reached for the glass of water he'd kept on the night side table, trying desperately to free the lingering dream and its visions from his mind.
"What am I ... what are you doing here?"
"Shh," Draco admonished, reaching behind Potter's head to gently lift him and bring the glass to his lips. "Drink this."
Potter pulled back slightly.
"It's water, you git," Draco said. He heard an edge of hurt in his voice and reminded himself that he and Potter weren't friends, never mind anything else, no matter the images his mind conjured. "If I'd wanted to see you dead, I'd have left you in that alley rather than bring you back to my flat."
Potter frowned. "Your flat." He looked around, mulling over Draco's words for a few moments, then decided to trust him and take a sip. Stupid Gryffindor. That's probably what had got him here in the first place. Potter swallowed then said, "You're not a killer."
Good thing Draco wasn't the one sipping water at that moment, or he'd have choked. "I wouldn't be so sure," he said.
Potter shook his head, then leaned in for another sip. Draco tipped the glass slowly, watching Potter swallow several times before setting the glass back down and resting Potter's head back on the pillow.
"I'm sure," Potter said. "You don't have it in you. I saw you on the Astronomy Tower with Dumbledore. And during the war when Voldemort had you torturing people."
Draco looked away, not wanting to remember any of that.
"Your heart wasn't in it," he said. "You didn't get pleasure from other people's pain."
Draco looked back at Potter and raised a brow.
"Okay, maybe you got a bit of pleasure seeing me hurt, but you would never kill me." He looked at the glass, then back to Draco. "And it seems you wouldn't poison me either." His face turned serious. "You're a good person, Malfoy. Deep down, where it counts."
Draco had only ever heard Potter say positive things about him in court when he'd testified on Draco's behalf. And then it wasn't so much good as it was he's not really evil. And Draco suspected that Potter had only done it to appease his mother after she'd lied to the Dark Lord for him.
"You must be delirious, Potter," he said. He ran through all the treatments he'd administered. "I don't believe it's a side effect of any of the potions I've given you – the sleeping draught I gave you that first day has long since worn off – and I only used healing spells, so I have to conclude that you sustained some sort of head injury. Considering you just complimented me, perhaps multiple head injuries."
Potter managed to roll his eyes. Then he winced in pain. Draco laughed. "Serves you right for mocking your saviour," he teased.
Potter scowled. Then winced again.
"Stop thinking," Draco said. "It's obviously too much for your tiny brain."
"Arse."
"Stubborn git."
Potter grinned. "Guilty as charged."
"Okay, now I know something's wrong," Draco said. "You're joking. With me." He stood up, resolved to face the worst. "I'd been preparing to do this today anyway, if you hadn't woken up. Let's get you to Mungo's."
Potter shook his head and cringed. "Shit, that hurts."
Honestly. "Do I have to tie you down?" Draco asked.
Something flashed in Potter's eyes – something that looked altogether different from pain. Or anger. Or anything else he'd ever seen on Potter. Except in his own fantasies. Truth be told, he'd imagined it frequently enough over the years. He'd just never ... No. Surely not. Maybe being cooped up with Potter for the past four days had affected his brain, too, and he was seeing things.
And then Potter said the unthinkable. "Maybe later. For now I just think I need to use the loo and sleep for a few days."
Draco closed his eyes, willing his body not to react to the vision that flashed before them. "You've already slept for three days," he said.
"What?" Potter sat up quickly, then flopped back down, clutching his head in his hands. "Three days? What happened?"
"You've been here, in my guest room, going on four days now. I found you, left for dead, in a heap in an alleyway. I brought you here, figuring you'd prefer not to go to St Mungo's where the press would hound you relentlessly." It was as good a story as any. He sat on the edge of the bed and once more lifted Potter's head gently and gave him a sip of water. "I see now that I should have brought you there right away. I'm no Healer. I don't know what I was thinking."
Potter gripped his wrist – he was strong for a man who'd just recovered from near death. "You did the right thing. Thank you," Potter said. "I just have a headache. Probably from lying down for days. And some potions have that effect on me."
"See?" Draco said, worried now. "I didn't know that. I might have ..."
"Malfoy!" Potter flinched at the loudness of his own voice. "I'm fine. Well, I will be fine, eventually. You did the right thing, and I appreciate it." He grimaced in what Draco presumed was meant to be a smile. "But right now, if you don't mind, I really need to use the loo."
"Oh, right." Draco lifted Potter to a sitting position. "Shall I Levitate you?"
Potter scoffed. "I'm not an invalid."
"You're not?"
"Shut up. If it's not too much trouble, your highness, maybe just a shoulder to lean on until I can use the wall for support."
"Stubborn prat."
"I already acknowledged that. Now, if you don't mind?"
"Fine."
"In about five minutes, I'm going to want a full explanation of what happened, how you managed to stumble upon me, and why you felt it necessary to take care of me. I have to admit, that last bit baffles me, considering our past. But for now, I can't think past my full bladder and throbbing head."
"Mungo's," Draco repeated, not sure he wanted to have that conversation. Even if he'd been preparing for it while Potter was unconscious.
"I'm not going to the hospital. A headache tonic and some water should do the trick." His stomach growled.
"And maybe some food?" Draco asked.
"Probably not a bad idea. Now where's the loo?"
Draco pointed the way and watched Potter stagger a few steps before he caught up to him, pulled Potter's arm around his shoulders, and guided his stubborn houseguest the rest of the way.
"I can manage," Potter protested, though he remained too weak to put up much of a fight.
Draco walked Potter through the door to the toilet. "I'm not going to hold it for you," he said, "but I'll help you get there."
As he shut the door to leave Potter to his business, Draco thought he heard, "Pity."
Shaking off the image that conjured, Draco went to the kitchen to rustle up something for Potter to eat. When he heard the toilet flush, he set aside what he was doing to retrieve his patient.
He heard Potter stumble and asked, "You okay in there?"
More noise. "Er ... not really."
"I'm coming in," Draco warned. When he opened the door, he saw Potter sitting on the floor a few paces from the toilet, looking utterly exhausted.
"I guess I could use your help after all," Potter said, a mixture of embarrassment and frustration in his voice.
"Oh, how the mighty have fallen," Draco teased.
Instead of the expected retort, Potter responded by laughing. "Indeed," he said, leaning his head against the cupboard. "Hurry. Call the Prophet."
At first Draco thought it was a dig at his antics with Rita Skeeter in fourth year, but seeing the genuine mirth in Potter's eyes, he revised his assessment. Curious, he asked, "Are you joking with me ... again?"
Potter lifted his arm in silent request. "It's been known to happen," he said.
Draco reached down and lifted him, wrapping Potter's arm around his shoulders again and taking on most of the other man's weight. "Not with me, it hasn't."
"My mistake."
"Seriously, Potter, we need to get you to a Healer."
Potter shook his head. "Ow."
"Stop doing that!"
Potter smirked. "Gonna tie me down now?"
Damn it. Draco's body – or at least part of it – responded instantly to that thought. Yes, yes, yes! Do it! He willed himself to breathe. "Not now," he said.
Potter chuckled, clearly enjoying Draco's discomfort. "No Healers. I've seen too many already."
"But ..." You've clearly lost your mind.
"Hmm?"
"You're acting ... strange. Nice."
"I'm just acting like me," Potter said.
"But you aren't like this. You're ornery and argumentative and ... infuriating!"
"No I'm not."
"You are with me."
Potter allowed himself to be guided to the sofa, then frowned. "I guess you just bring out the worst in me."
"Yes, well, I suppose you do the same to me."
"You just don't know me," Potter said.
"Exactly! We don't know each other and we don't like each other. We are certainly not nice to each other." Draco nodded his head triumphantly. "Clearly you need to see a professional."
"Correct me if I'm wrong," Potter said, looking earnestly at Draco. "I was beaten to a pulp and you saved my life."
Actually, I just offed some Death Eater, stumbled upon you in the alley, and in a momentary lapse of reason, brought you here, instead of to St Mungo's. To protect my own arse from being discovered.
"Well ..."
"I'm fuzzy on the details – I think they knocked me out after beating me senseless, because I was at a cottage in the country, definitely not an alley in the city when it happened. And then, when I thought they'd continue kicking and punching me until I died, I felt a spell hit me and everything went black. Then I woke up here, with you, of all people, hovering over me, looking worried. I'd say what you did falls into the nice category."
Draco stammered, grasping for a believable explanation. "It would have been disastrous for me if the Great Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World and all that rot, died in my spare room, wouldn't it?"
He seemed to consider Draco's words, his lip twitching in amusement. "No doubt," he agreed. "But that doesn't explain how or why you rescued me in the first place and brought me back here. You could have left me there or dumped me somewhere else to be found."
"You were left for dead, Potter. I couldn't leave you like that. I couldn't leave anyone like that."
"Still, you could have taken me to the hospital. You didn't have to bring me here."
Draco's face flushed. "No, I didn't. Clearly I wasn't thinking." I had just killed someone; what do you expect? "Maybe I didn't want to get blamed for what happened."
Potter scowled. "Really?"
"Yes, really, Potter. Surely you realise that someone with my ... past ... might be considered, or rather assumed to be a suspect. I didn't fancy spending the next while in prison, if you hadn't woken up."
"So," he said, amusement in his tone, "you didn't want to get yourself in trouble?"
Draco nodded. "That's right."
"So watching over me for days, administering potions and spells and staying at my bedside – that was all just to protect yourself?"
Draco crossed his arms over his chest and nodded. "Of course."
"You nursed me back to health."
Draco took in Potter's face, remembering the swollen, bruised mess it had been. He resisted reaching for it. "You are hardly healed."
Potter scowled. "I'm not dead. Which I'm sure I would be had you not come along."
Draco, in an effort to defer, if not avoid this conversation entirely, escaped to the kitchen. "As I recall, you always liked shepherd's pie in school." He brought the dish and a glass of pumpkin juice into the living room and Accioed a portable table. He plunked the tray onto it. "Here. Eat."
Potter frowned.
"What?"
"You know what food I like?" he asked.
Of course I do. Draco felt his face redden under Potter's scrutiny. "You weren't the only one watching in school."
Potter opened his mouth, seemed to reconsider, then shut it again.
"It's from a pub up the road. Now eat," Draco demanded.
Potter took a sip of the juice, then looked intently at Draco. "Thank you."
Draco waved his hand at the food. "It's nothing."
"I meant for saving me."
"Oh. Well then." Draco wondered briefly if he'd ever bothered to thank Potter when he'd saved him from the Fiendfyre. He smiled. "Just returning the favour."
With that, they fell silent and Potter ate his food.
"Here," Draco said as he replaced the empty plate and glass with a serving of treacle tart and tea ten minutes later. He drew a phial from his pocket and placed it on the table. "Headache tonic. Earl Grey. Treacle tart. Enjoy."
"Careful, Malfoy," Potter warned. "I might start to think you care."
"Pfft," Draco said. "Don't be ridiculous. It's all strategic. After all, keeping Saint Potter happy can only bode well for me in the future."
Potter laughed. "Sure, Malfoy. Whatever you say."
After Potter took the tonic, he visibly relaxed.
Draco relaxed too. "Feel better?"
"Much, thanks."
"Good," Draco said. "I have to go out for a few minutes. Will you be okay on your own for a bit?"
"You trust me alone in your flat?" Potter asked.
Draco shrugged. "You're wandless, witless and can't make it to the toilet without help. And I have strong wards. No worries."
Potter rolled his eyes, this time without wincing. "Oh, Draco, you say the sweetest things sometimes."
"Twat."
"Go on," Potter said, waving him off. "Apparently I'm not going anywhere right now."
"Just lie down and rest," Draco suggested. "I'll be back in about twenty minutes."
"Whatever you say."
Draco went into town quickly and returned with some supplies.
"So," Potter said, "how did you become my saviour?"
"By complete accident. I was in London picking up some take-away. I found an out-of-the-way spot I often use for Apparating, and there you were."
"No sign of anyone else around?"
"No one. Just you and a lot of blood."
"You didn't hear anyone Apparate or drive away?"
"Nothing. I got the feeling you'd been there for some time, if the volume of blood surrounding you was any indication."
"Take me there."
Shit. He'd hoped not to lead an Auror of all people nearly right to the scene of a more fatal scene, one that he'd caused. "Excuse me?"
"Take me back to the alley."
"Are you sure you want to go back there now? Shouldn't you report to the Aurors first?"
Potter ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in his look. "I want to see if being there jogs my memory, before I contact Kingsley."
Shit. Of course Potter would call the Minister himself. Draco tried not to panic. "Wait a minute." Draco went into his study and returned with a stone bowl covered in ancient runes. "How about this for your memory?"
"You have a Pensieve?"
"Naturally. Father purchased it for me for my eleventh birthday." At Potter's confused expression, Draco hastily added, "To help me with my studies."
Potter grinned. "Bet that helped you keep your stories straight."
"Very funny. If that were its purpose, I'm sure you could have used one yourself."
"No doubt." Potter chuckled. "Were we even allowed those at Hogwarts?"
Draco shrugged. "I don't believe they were banned."
"Probably best I didn't have one," Potter said, humour falling from his face. "I don't know how healthy it would have been to relive some moments."
"Oh, come on," Draco said. "Don't tell me you wouldn't have replayed your many battles with the Dark Lord to all your simpering fans. They'd have positively wet themselves to watch you in action." I wouldn't have minded seeing that myself.
Potter cringed. "Not a chance." He looked directly into Draco's eyes. "I was thinking of some of my less stellar moments." He let his gaze drop to Draco's chest, then he reached out and touched the spot where, years ago, he'd hit Draco with a spell and ripped open his chest. Draco stood rooted to the spot. "I'm so sorry," he said. "I don't think I ever properly apologised for that."
Draco's hand spontaneously reached up to rest on Potter's. "Snape told me that you didn't know what the spell did."
Potter pulled his hand away. "It was stupid. I could have killed you. Nearly did."
Draco wasn't sure what to make of this Potter. "I was about to hit you with an Unforgiveable, you'll recall."
"It's still no excuse. For fuck's sake, I stopped Voldemort by disarming him, not ripping him apart."
Draco grinned. "Good to know you viewed me as more of a threat."
"That's not funny!"
"No," Draco agreed. "But it is in the past. Where it should stay."
"You saved my life."
"And you saved mine. More than once. You saved a lot of lives." The world is a better place because of you. "Stop beating yourself up over something you can't change."
Potter ran his hands through his hair, nearly pulling it out by its roots.
"I forgave you a long time ago," Draco said. And he had. He'd just never realised it.
Potter closed the few feet between them and pulled Draco into a bone-crushing hug. "Thank you."
When Potter released him, Draco said, "Okay, this is officially surreal now."
"Sorry. I didn't mean to ..."
Draco regained his composure, brushing imaginary lint from his shoulders. "Quite understandable," he said. "I am, after all, rather fetching. Difficult to resist."
Potter's eyes darkened and his cheeks flushed.
Interesting.
"Right, then," Draco said. "Let's take a look at those memories of yours and figure out who attacked you."
Potter looked around. "Er ... my wand?"
"About that." Draco drew his own wand and offered it to Potter. Something he'd never imagined himself doing willingly. "When I found you, there was no sign of it." When Potter hesitated, Draco pressed his wand into Potter's hand. "You can use mine. I know for a fact that it works for you."
Potter nodded. He concentrated for a few minutes, drew a silver strand from his temple and placed it into the Pensieve.
When Draco stepped forward to travel into the memory too, Potter said, "You don't have to do this."
"I know, but I want to." Potter tried to argue, but Draco cut him off. "Second set of eyes and all that." Besides, I want to see if I recognize the bastards that did this to you.
Draco's stomach lurched, though he wasn't sure if it was from what he'd witnessed or from Pensieve travel. Potter leaned on him, still unsteady on his feet.
"You need to see a Healer."
"I'm fine. Just a bit off kilter from the Pensieve." Draco narrowed his eyes. "Really, I'm fine. I need to talk to Kingsley."
"Are you going to the Ministry now?" Draco led him to the sofa. "Do you think it wise to Floo just at this point?"
"Might not be such a good idea." Potter rubbed his temples. "I think I'll just send him an owl, if you don't mind."
"Of course not." Draco brought Potter some parchment, a quill, and a bottle for Potter's memory. "Write what you'd like and I'll send it for you."
"I can send it myself."
"Or you could stay on the sofa and rest while I send it."
Potter mumbled something unintelligible under his breath, but handed the sealed parchment and bottle to Draco when he was done.
Twenty minutes later, Draco's owl returned with a reply. Potter read through it quickly, muttered something, then read it again.
"What did he say?"
"He's keeping the memory as evidence for now, and …" Potter rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. "He thinks we'll have a better chance of catching them if they think I'm dead."
Draco thought about that. "It might make them more careless, if they don't believe there were any witnesses." Potter continued to look uncomfortable. Draco sniggered. "You're pissed that you can't find them yourself, aren't you?"
Potter scowled. "As if you wouldn't be."
He had a point. "True."
"I can't go home, in case they're watching the house. I can't go to work. I was already on mandatory leave after my last case, so no one is expecting to see me there." Ah. That explained why no one had been looking for him. "And I can't go anywhere public if I'm supposed to be dead."
"Plus you're not in any condition to be alone, especially without a wand."
Potter groaned. "Hermione will be impossible."
Draco raised a brow. "I thought you three were inseparable."
"Let's just say she's not the easiest person to live with." Draco snorted. He could only imagine. "Besides, she and Ron live together now and …"
"Being a third wheel not your idea of fun?"
Potter shuddered. "Definitely not."
Draco pretended to mull over Potter's predicament for a couple of minutes. No sense sounding too enthusiastic. "You could stay here."
Potter laughed. "You can't be serious."
"Why not?"
Potter looked genuinely surprised. "Why would you want me here?"
Draco shrugged. "Perhaps I want to ensure you don't die." Potter smirked, but before he had a chance to say anything sappy, Draco added, "I can't let all my hard work go to waste. Besides, the spare room is already set up. Might as well use it."
Potter studied him. "If you're sure."
"Good. That's settled then."
Potter chuckled.
"What now?"
"I'm imagining what Ron and Hermione's reactions will be when I tell them where I'm staying."
Draco grinned, picturing the Weasel's face. Then he remembered Granger's right hook from school and dropped the smile. "I'll leave you to that discussion."
He picked up his Pensieve and retired to his den. He had some work to do.
When he heard Potter speaking through the Floo, Draco pulled out his wand. He drew several memories he'd long since buried and placed them in the stone basin. Locking the door first, he dove into his past.
He'd had a vague recollection of their faces when he'd watched Potter's memories. Now he had names.
Now he had his next job.
Part 2
Author:
sesheta_66Beta:
dysonrulesSummary: Draco Malfoy, shunned by the masses and turned away from the Aurors more times than he'd care to admit, is taking out remnants of the Dark Lord's fan club himself – by being the best assassin money can buy. When the stone-cold killer happens upon a body lying in the alley, however, he can't leave the man for dead. When the man turns out to be Harry Potter, he does what anyone in his position would do – he brings him home.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Draco/Harry
Warning(s): None
Word Count: ~21K
by Sesheta
"Ten o'clock on Sunday for brunch," Draco confirmed. "I shall see you then, Mother."
Draco closed the Floo connection and proceeded to his study. He was pleased that his mother was making the effort. His father's death a year earlier had taken its toll on her, but she was slowly recovering. He'd made a point of seeing her on a weekly basis, but this was the first time she'd been the one to extend an invitation.
Part of him felt badly knowing that his mother lived all alone in the Manor. But in his line of work, Draco needed his privacy. And as adept as he'd become at hiding things from others – thank you Dark Lord for the motivation – he wasn't fool enough to think he could keep things from Narcissa. She had a mother's intuition, years of experience with Draco, and could hold her own in Slytherin house. All in all, it was best he remain where he was.
Back to business. Draco's tracking spell – a little known one he'd discovered in an old tome in the family library, and not, strictly speaking, legal – had worked and it was only a matter of time now. He waved his wand over the map of Shropshire he'd placed on the mahogany table earlier that day, watched an image materialise, and confirmed his quarry's position. Another wave of his wand and two others were revealed, seated at the same table. Draco had no idea who the hangers-on were, their images unclear and faceless, but it didn't matter. The group of nine had become three, and it was time to go.
Glamours in place and dressed in worn robes, Draco Apparated to the alleyway behind the pub. Several complicated motions of his wand later, he felt confident that no detection spells would disclose his true image.
With purpose, he entered the pub and took a seat at a table halfway between the bar and his target. He angled himself to appear casual, but sure the occupants would be able to recall only a general impression of a man on his own. His dark brown hair and eyes, olive skin, slightly husky build and inexpensive clothing portrayed a man not to be confused with the sophisticated one beneath. A slight Cockney accent when he ordered ale rounded out the image.
He sipped his pint and observed the three men. Mulcair looked much the same as he had the last time Draco'd had the unfortunate occasion to see him. A follower of the Dark Lord, he'd paired himself up with a werewolf crew, somehow managing to steer clear of them when they changed. His dull brown hair remained shaggy and unkempt and the five-day growth on his face fell short of a beard and far beyond fashionably scruffy. Draco barely held back a shudder as he recalled the stale stench of smoke and alcohol that tended to wrap itself like a blanket around the vile man. Many a night he'd lain awake when Mulcair had been in residence at the Manor. Not as frightening as the Dark Lord or Aunt Bella, the man had still made Draco's skin crawl. Tonight Draco – older, wiser, and far more experienced – wouldn't be losing any sleep.
The other two men, slightly less offensive to the eyes, kept pace with Mulcair shot for shot. Both slurred slightly as they spoke, their voices growing louder as the night trudged on. Draco waited for one man to lumber to the loo before he made his move. Ordinarily quick on his feet, Draco crossed the room at a pace more fitting his current stature.
"Barry?" he said to Mulcair when he'd noticed Skinny's eyes shift to him. "Issat you, y'big oaf?" Draco kept his voice conversational, drawing no unwanted attention to himself, though enough to be somewhat memorable. When Mulcair turned to face him, Draco looked directly into his eyes. He blinked once, slowly, and dropped the glamour on his eyes – something only Mulcair could see. As Draco's gaze bored into Mulcair's, he saw the recognition there. No one but Malfoys had those grey eyes, and they both knew it. Draco wanted him to know who he was. Needed him to know.
Before Mulcair could speak, Draco grinned and aimed his wand. "Avada Kedavra". Mulcair fell forward and his companion – possibly sober now, but still too slow – reached for his own wand. Draco stunned him and wiped his memory. Then he erected a Shield Charm on himself and calmly walked out the door.
He'd turned the corner to Apparate once more from the alley, but was stopped short by loud moaning. He saw the form of a man, curled up and writhing in pain. Careful to ensure that the man hadn't seen him, and that he hadn't been followed, Draco stood against the wall of the building and waved his wand. Gone were his glamour and clothing, replaced by a new set. His freckle-faced, ginger form approached the man cautiously, wand tucked into his sleeve.
The man groaned again, and as Draco moved closer, he knew why. Blood surrounded the body. What he'd thought was a curled up form was more of a heap, with left arm and right leg pitched at unnatural angles. The last time Draco had seen a body in such bad shape had been at a Quidditch match two years previous, after the player had plummeted over a hundred feet.
Draco approached cautiously, careful neither to spook the man nor get within range of his good arm. Aware of the irony of his situation – after all, he'd just killed a man in cold blood – he walked around the form to get a look at his face. And then stopped dead in his tracks.
"Potter?"
Another moan, this one slightly louder.
"Can you move?"
No response. A stupid question, really, but …
"I'm going to Levitate you, okay?"
Another groan.
Draco thought better of moving Potter and opted for some basic diagnostic spells instead. A few waves of his wand confirmed what had been obvious – a broken arm and leg – and so much more. Potter had cuts, abrasions, and bruising over most of his body, a dislocated shoulder, and a broken nose to match the arm and leg. Worse than all that, though, he had extensive internal bleeding.
His first instinct was to take Potter to St. Mungo's, but then he reassessed the situation. If Draco showed up at the hospital with a close-to-death Harry Potter in tow, the Aurors would ask all sorts of questions. Like what was he doing down an alleyway behind a building in which a man had just been killed? A dose of Veritaserum, without Draco properly preparing for it, might well seal his fate.
He cast a few spells at Potter – one to ease the flow of blood, one to numb the pain, one to keep him steady during Apparition, and one to bring him upright into Draco's arms. He'd do the rest at home where he had proper light, potions, and running water.
"I'm going to Apparate us both to my flat, okay?"
Potter's eyes rolled back in his head, and he let out a gurgling noise. Draco's heart raced. That was more disturbing than the puddle of blood. Before his brain caught up with him, he focussed on home.
Thanks to a last-minute Cushioning Charm, they landed softly in Draco's living room. He released Potter and set him gently onto the sofa, careful not to jostle him more than necessary.
"I'll be back in a moment. I'm going to pour you a bath so you can wash out all the … well, whatever disgusting things linger in that alley."
When he received no response, Draco went to his ensuite, dropped his new glamour and began filling the soaker tub with water and a mixture of healing potions. Draco's flat wasn't a hospital, but it was equipped like one. Occupational hazard. He knew that Potter's external injuries would be easy enough to fix up. The shoulder would be the trickiest part; Draco knew he needed to set it before the swelling would prevent him doing it properly. But he needed to get Potter's bleeding under control first, or else risk making things worse as he tried to put the shoulder back into place. Spells had nothing on potions for cleaning, and Draco needed to see the extent of Potter's injuries before attempting anything that might do more harm than good.
When the tub was well on its way to filling up nicely, he returned to his living room to find Potter in the same position. He panicked for a moment when he didn't see Potter breathing, but then his chest rose slightly and Draco let out his own breath. Fucking Potter. Why Draco thought the man might die now – after living through all he had done, including death, by age eighteen – he didn't know. Ridiculous, really.
"Okay, Potter, here we go."
Draco Levitated Potter once more, all the way to the bathroom, then vanished his clothes and lowered him gradually into the tub, watchful that his head remained above water. He risked a charm to hold Potter's head up, then slowly, methodically cleaned his cuts and abrasions.
In addition to the injuries Draco had discovered at the scene, Potter had broken ribs, but at least there didn't seem to be any dark magic involved. Small consolation, but at least now Draco could proceed with magic.
He Levitated Potter to the spare bedroom and laid him on the bed. He tried to shake away thoughts he hadn't had for some time. Thoughts of Potter in his bed, but under much different circumstances. He'd thought the fantasies he'd had back then were in response to Potter saving him from the Fiendfyre – hero worship and all that business. After a few of his more racy fantasies had seen him wanking to images of Potter beneath him, begging for Draco to fuck him harder and faster, Draco had forced himself to push them aside. He may be many things, but a masochist he was not. He knew nothing could ever happen between him and Potter, so he'd satisfied his needs with other men, real rather than imagined, men who didn't detest the mere thought of him. But now, with Potter here, in his home, he couldn't prevent those feelings flooding back.
As Draco willed himself to think about how much he'd hated Potter in school, he found himself less irritated by memories of Potter catching the Snitch than fascinated by how Potter looked atop his Firebolt. Feelings of jealousy over Potter participating in the Triwizard Tournament were replaced by interest in the man who, as a boy, was able to successfully dodge a dragon chasing him. Image after image appeared before Draco's eyes, only to morph into something he couldn't say was memory, but rather wishful thinking.
Fucking hell. What was wrong with him? Draco needed to focus on the task at hand. If he could mend Potter and get him back to his own home, he could go back to the Potter-free existence that had served him so well.
Several waves of his wand later, Draco had determined that Potter did, indeed, have three broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder blade, a broken finger and arm, and a severely swollen, possibly broken leg. Another few waves and Draco had reset the shoulder, taped up Potter's ribs, and set the arm and leg so they didn't move.
While an unconscious patient made potions more difficult to administer, Draco managed to give Potter a mixture to stop the internal bleeding, repair a lung that had sustained damage from one of the broken ribs, and mend the bones. All the while, Potter said nothing. Except for a slight wincing when Draco reset his shoulder, Potter didn't react at all.
Several times Draco wondered if he was doing the right thing. Sure, he fixed himself up all the time, but this was different. This was Potter. Saint fucking Potter who had better not die while under Draco's care.
But what choice did Draco have? If he took Potter to Mungo's, they'd call in his merry band of Aurors, and then where would Draco be? Under investigation. They'd likely blame him for Potter's injuries and put him in prison. It wouldn't be long before they connected the alley where he'd found Potter to the scene inside the pub. And if Potter did die, Draco would spend the rest of his life behind bars, because proof or no proof, they'd make Draco pay for their saviour's death.
He was well and truly fucked. He looked at Potter's swollen face – not nearly as bad as that day when he'd been hauled into the Manor, but close. He reached for some healing salve and applied it cautiously over Potter's face, careful not to press too hard on the deeper lacerations.
Draco set aside the salve then brushed some stray hair away from Potter's eye. Fuck. Why was it always him? "You'd better not die on me, Potter."
No response.
Draco ran another series of diagnostic spells over Potter's form, satisfied himself that his patient was on the mend (bleeding had stopped, blood replenishment was well underway and bones were healing), and set an alarm to chime if Potter's condition declined or if he woke up. He got himself a cup of tea then settled himself in the chair beside Potter's bed.
An hour later, he checked again, determined that Potter was stable enough to withstand a sleeping draught without much risk, and gave him the potion. The deeper he slept, the better he would heal.
Draco remained in the chair most of the next twenty four hours, rechecking Potter's condition every hour or so and only leaving the room when necessary. By the time the day had passed, the swelling and bruising had gone away completely, his blood levels were nearly normal, and his bones had mended. The rest was up to him.
Potter's colour returned the second day, but he remained unconscious. Draco transfigured the chair in the room into a bed – his neck had protested after his night in the chair – and for the second night in a row slept next to Potter, where he could react quickly to any emergency.
On the third day, Draco risked leaving the flat for a quick trip to the store. He'd long ago cancelled his subscription to the Prophet – so much of it was utter drivel – but he thought it prudent to find out what the world was saying about the missing hero.
He picked up some milk and bread, and a few things Potter might eat when he awoke. If he awoke. Draco shook off that thought, unwilling to even consider such an outcome, and returned home.
He checked on Potter. No change. He tried not to worry, but it had been three days now, and he should have woken up. For all Draco could see, he'd healed. But what if he'd missed something? What if he had missed one detection spell? He replayed everything he'd done for Potter. He'd run every test he knew, and a few more besides, after consulting some old tomes. Still Potter slept.
He left the room, checking the alarms remained active, then settled himself on the sofa with a cup of tea and the Prophet. Better to see what he was facing. Nothing. Not one word. He flipped through the paper, cover to cover, but not one word about Potter. Did no one realise he was gone? How was that even possible? The man could have been dead. Would have been dead, had it not been for Draco. Where were the simpering hoards that worshipped at the altar of Saint Potter? More importantly, where were his fellow Aurors and his friends?
Draco glanced down the hall, wondering why no one seemed to care that Harry Potter was in his flat. Anger boiled beneath the surface. Draco didn't stop to consider why he felt this way, only that Potter deserved better. People should be out looking for him.
Once again, Draco questioned his own rationale for bringing Potter here instead of St Mungo's. Had he done more harm than good? Would Potter ever wake up?
Unable to stand his own thoughts, Draco retired to the spare room to watch over the man he'd once wished dead.
Draco dreamt of Potter that night. This dream was more vivid than ones from the past, now that Draco knew exactly what lay beneath Potter's robes and the baggy clothes he used to wear in school.
Potter, fully healed and more than enthusiastic, begged Draco to fill him.
Draco had three fingers inside Potter, stretching him and savouring the sounds Potter was making. "More," Potter urged.
Draco, mesmerised, watched his cock disappear inside Potter, then draw out. Again and again as Potter's moans filled the air. Potter's entire body shook as he clutched the covers.
Draco grasped and stroked Potter until he became a quivering mess. "Harder," Potter begged, his body arching to take Draco in as deeply as possible. Draco complied, savouring the feel of Potter contracting around him as he came, Draco's name on his lips. Draco followed a few strokes later, calling Harry's name into the darkness.
Harry drew Draco in for a leisurely kiss, sensuous and full of promise, more intimate than what had gone before.
Draco awoke, breathing rapidly, sweat covering his aching body. He turned to the other bed in the room and the object of his desire. He wanted this man more than he ever imagined possible. And Potter couldn't stand the sight of him.
Fuck.
Potter lay still. Breathing evenly. Unaware.
***
The next morning, four days after Draco had brought Potter to his flat, an alarm sounded softly. Potter was waking up.
Draco rushed from the kitchen, where he'd been preparing his mid-afternoon tea and trying unsuccessfully not to relive the previous night's dream over and over again.
Potter opened his eyes. Finally. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus. "Malfoy?"
Draco, afraid to speak – he was so relieved to hear Potter's voice – reached for the glass of water he'd kept on the night side table, trying desperately to free the lingering dream and its visions from his mind.
"What am I ... what are you doing here?"
"Shh," Draco admonished, reaching behind Potter's head to gently lift him and bring the glass to his lips. "Drink this."
Potter pulled back slightly.
"It's water, you git," Draco said. He heard an edge of hurt in his voice and reminded himself that he and Potter weren't friends, never mind anything else, no matter the images his mind conjured. "If I'd wanted to see you dead, I'd have left you in that alley rather than bring you back to my flat."
Potter frowned. "Your flat." He looked around, mulling over Draco's words for a few moments, then decided to trust him and take a sip. Stupid Gryffindor. That's probably what had got him here in the first place. Potter swallowed then said, "You're not a killer."
Good thing Draco wasn't the one sipping water at that moment, or he'd have choked. "I wouldn't be so sure," he said.
Potter shook his head, then leaned in for another sip. Draco tipped the glass slowly, watching Potter swallow several times before setting the glass back down and resting Potter's head back on the pillow.
"I'm sure," Potter said. "You don't have it in you. I saw you on the Astronomy Tower with Dumbledore. And during the war when Voldemort had you torturing people."
Draco looked away, not wanting to remember any of that.
"Your heart wasn't in it," he said. "You didn't get pleasure from other people's pain."
Draco looked back at Potter and raised a brow.
"Okay, maybe you got a bit of pleasure seeing me hurt, but you would never kill me." He looked at the glass, then back to Draco. "And it seems you wouldn't poison me either." His face turned serious. "You're a good person, Malfoy. Deep down, where it counts."
Draco had only ever heard Potter say positive things about him in court when he'd testified on Draco's behalf. And then it wasn't so much good as it was he's not really evil. And Draco suspected that Potter had only done it to appease his mother after she'd lied to the Dark Lord for him.
"You must be delirious, Potter," he said. He ran through all the treatments he'd administered. "I don't believe it's a side effect of any of the potions I've given you – the sleeping draught I gave you that first day has long since worn off – and I only used healing spells, so I have to conclude that you sustained some sort of head injury. Considering you just complimented me, perhaps multiple head injuries."
Potter managed to roll his eyes. Then he winced in pain. Draco laughed. "Serves you right for mocking your saviour," he teased.
Potter scowled. Then winced again.
"Stop thinking," Draco said. "It's obviously too much for your tiny brain."
"Arse."
"Stubborn git."
Potter grinned. "Guilty as charged."
"Okay, now I know something's wrong," Draco said. "You're joking. With me." He stood up, resolved to face the worst. "I'd been preparing to do this today anyway, if you hadn't woken up. Let's get you to Mungo's."
Potter shook his head and cringed. "Shit, that hurts."
Honestly. "Do I have to tie you down?" Draco asked.
Something flashed in Potter's eyes – something that looked altogether different from pain. Or anger. Or anything else he'd ever seen on Potter. Except in his own fantasies. Truth be told, he'd imagined it frequently enough over the years. He'd just never ... No. Surely not. Maybe being cooped up with Potter for the past four days had affected his brain, too, and he was seeing things.
And then Potter said the unthinkable. "Maybe later. For now I just think I need to use the loo and sleep for a few days."
Draco closed his eyes, willing his body not to react to the vision that flashed before them. "You've already slept for three days," he said.
"What?" Potter sat up quickly, then flopped back down, clutching his head in his hands. "Three days? What happened?"
"You've been here, in my guest room, going on four days now. I found you, left for dead, in a heap in an alleyway. I brought you here, figuring you'd prefer not to go to St Mungo's where the press would hound you relentlessly." It was as good a story as any. He sat on the edge of the bed and once more lifted Potter's head gently and gave him a sip of water. "I see now that I should have brought you there right away. I'm no Healer. I don't know what I was thinking."
Potter gripped his wrist – he was strong for a man who'd just recovered from near death. "You did the right thing. Thank you," Potter said. "I just have a headache. Probably from lying down for days. And some potions have that effect on me."
"See?" Draco said, worried now. "I didn't know that. I might have ..."
"Malfoy!" Potter flinched at the loudness of his own voice. "I'm fine. Well, I will be fine, eventually. You did the right thing, and I appreciate it." He grimaced in what Draco presumed was meant to be a smile. "But right now, if you don't mind, I really need to use the loo."
"Oh, right." Draco lifted Potter to a sitting position. "Shall I Levitate you?"
Potter scoffed. "I'm not an invalid."
"You're not?"
"Shut up. If it's not too much trouble, your highness, maybe just a shoulder to lean on until I can use the wall for support."
"Stubborn prat."
"I already acknowledged that. Now, if you don't mind?"
"Fine."
"In about five minutes, I'm going to want a full explanation of what happened, how you managed to stumble upon me, and why you felt it necessary to take care of me. I have to admit, that last bit baffles me, considering our past. But for now, I can't think past my full bladder and throbbing head."
"Mungo's," Draco repeated, not sure he wanted to have that conversation. Even if he'd been preparing for it while Potter was unconscious.
"I'm not going to the hospital. A headache tonic and some water should do the trick." His stomach growled.
"And maybe some food?" Draco asked.
"Probably not a bad idea. Now where's the loo?"
Draco pointed the way and watched Potter stagger a few steps before he caught up to him, pulled Potter's arm around his shoulders, and guided his stubborn houseguest the rest of the way.
"I can manage," Potter protested, though he remained too weak to put up much of a fight.
Draco walked Potter through the door to the toilet. "I'm not going to hold it for you," he said, "but I'll help you get there."
As he shut the door to leave Potter to his business, Draco thought he heard, "Pity."
Shaking off the image that conjured, Draco went to the kitchen to rustle up something for Potter to eat. When he heard the toilet flush, he set aside what he was doing to retrieve his patient.
He heard Potter stumble and asked, "You okay in there?"
More noise. "Er ... not really."
"I'm coming in," Draco warned. When he opened the door, he saw Potter sitting on the floor a few paces from the toilet, looking utterly exhausted.
"I guess I could use your help after all," Potter said, a mixture of embarrassment and frustration in his voice.
"Oh, how the mighty have fallen," Draco teased.
Instead of the expected retort, Potter responded by laughing. "Indeed," he said, leaning his head against the cupboard. "Hurry. Call the Prophet."
At first Draco thought it was a dig at his antics with Rita Skeeter in fourth year, but seeing the genuine mirth in Potter's eyes, he revised his assessment. Curious, he asked, "Are you joking with me ... again?"
Potter lifted his arm in silent request. "It's been known to happen," he said.
Draco reached down and lifted him, wrapping Potter's arm around his shoulders again and taking on most of the other man's weight. "Not with me, it hasn't."
"My mistake."
"Seriously, Potter, we need to get you to a Healer."
Potter shook his head. "Ow."
"Stop doing that!"
Potter smirked. "Gonna tie me down now?"
Damn it. Draco's body – or at least part of it – responded instantly to that thought. Yes, yes, yes! Do it! He willed himself to breathe. "Not now," he said.
Potter chuckled, clearly enjoying Draco's discomfort. "No Healers. I've seen too many already."
"But ..." You've clearly lost your mind.
"Hmm?"
"You're acting ... strange. Nice."
"I'm just acting like me," Potter said.
"But you aren't like this. You're ornery and argumentative and ... infuriating!"
"No I'm not."
"You are with me."
Potter allowed himself to be guided to the sofa, then frowned. "I guess you just bring out the worst in me."
"Yes, well, I suppose you do the same to me."
"You just don't know me," Potter said.
"Exactly! We don't know each other and we don't like each other. We are certainly not nice to each other." Draco nodded his head triumphantly. "Clearly you need to see a professional."
"Correct me if I'm wrong," Potter said, looking earnestly at Draco. "I was beaten to a pulp and you saved my life."
Actually, I just offed some Death Eater, stumbled upon you in the alley, and in a momentary lapse of reason, brought you here, instead of to St Mungo's. To protect my own arse from being discovered.
"Well ..."
"I'm fuzzy on the details – I think they knocked me out after beating me senseless, because I was at a cottage in the country, definitely not an alley in the city when it happened. And then, when I thought they'd continue kicking and punching me until I died, I felt a spell hit me and everything went black. Then I woke up here, with you, of all people, hovering over me, looking worried. I'd say what you did falls into the nice category."
Draco stammered, grasping for a believable explanation. "It would have been disastrous for me if the Great Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World and all that rot, died in my spare room, wouldn't it?"
He seemed to consider Draco's words, his lip twitching in amusement. "No doubt," he agreed. "But that doesn't explain how or why you rescued me in the first place and brought me back here. You could have left me there or dumped me somewhere else to be found."
"You were left for dead, Potter. I couldn't leave you like that. I couldn't leave anyone like that."
"Still, you could have taken me to the hospital. You didn't have to bring me here."
Draco's face flushed. "No, I didn't. Clearly I wasn't thinking." I had just killed someone; what do you expect? "Maybe I didn't want to get blamed for what happened."
Potter scowled. "Really?"
"Yes, really, Potter. Surely you realise that someone with my ... past ... might be considered, or rather assumed to be a suspect. I didn't fancy spending the next while in prison, if you hadn't woken up."
"So," he said, amusement in his tone, "you didn't want to get yourself in trouble?"
Draco nodded. "That's right."
"So watching over me for days, administering potions and spells and staying at my bedside – that was all just to protect yourself?"
Draco crossed his arms over his chest and nodded. "Of course."
"You nursed me back to health."
Draco took in Potter's face, remembering the swollen, bruised mess it had been. He resisted reaching for it. "You are hardly healed."
Potter scowled. "I'm not dead. Which I'm sure I would be had you not come along."
Draco, in an effort to defer, if not avoid this conversation entirely, escaped to the kitchen. "As I recall, you always liked shepherd's pie in school." He brought the dish and a glass of pumpkin juice into the living room and Accioed a portable table. He plunked the tray onto it. "Here. Eat."
Potter frowned.
"What?"
"You know what food I like?" he asked.
Of course I do. Draco felt his face redden under Potter's scrutiny. "You weren't the only one watching in school."
Potter opened his mouth, seemed to reconsider, then shut it again.
"It's from a pub up the road. Now eat," Draco demanded.
Potter took a sip of the juice, then looked intently at Draco. "Thank you."
Draco waved his hand at the food. "It's nothing."
"I meant for saving me."
"Oh. Well then." Draco wondered briefly if he'd ever bothered to thank Potter when he'd saved him from the Fiendfyre. He smiled. "Just returning the favour."
With that, they fell silent and Potter ate his food.
"Here," Draco said as he replaced the empty plate and glass with a serving of treacle tart and tea ten minutes later. He drew a phial from his pocket and placed it on the table. "Headache tonic. Earl Grey. Treacle tart. Enjoy."
"Careful, Malfoy," Potter warned. "I might start to think you care."
"Pfft," Draco said. "Don't be ridiculous. It's all strategic. After all, keeping Saint Potter happy can only bode well for me in the future."
Potter laughed. "Sure, Malfoy. Whatever you say."
After Potter took the tonic, he visibly relaxed.
Draco relaxed too. "Feel better?"
"Much, thanks."
"Good," Draco said. "I have to go out for a few minutes. Will you be okay on your own for a bit?"
"You trust me alone in your flat?" Potter asked.
Draco shrugged. "You're wandless, witless and can't make it to the toilet without help. And I have strong wards. No worries."
Potter rolled his eyes, this time without wincing. "Oh, Draco, you say the sweetest things sometimes."
"Twat."
"Go on," Potter said, waving him off. "Apparently I'm not going anywhere right now."
"Just lie down and rest," Draco suggested. "I'll be back in about twenty minutes."
"Whatever you say."
Draco went into town quickly and returned with some supplies.
"So," Potter said, "how did you become my saviour?"
"By complete accident. I was in London picking up some take-away. I found an out-of-the-way spot I often use for Apparating, and there you were."
"No sign of anyone else around?"
"No one. Just you and a lot of blood."
"You didn't hear anyone Apparate or drive away?"
"Nothing. I got the feeling you'd been there for some time, if the volume of blood surrounding you was any indication."
"Take me there."
Shit. He'd hoped not to lead an Auror of all people nearly right to the scene of a more fatal scene, one that he'd caused. "Excuse me?"
"Take me back to the alley."
"Are you sure you want to go back there now? Shouldn't you report to the Aurors first?"
Potter ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in his look. "I want to see if being there jogs my memory, before I contact Kingsley."
Shit. Of course Potter would call the Minister himself. Draco tried not to panic. "Wait a minute." Draco went into his study and returned with a stone bowl covered in ancient runes. "How about this for your memory?"
"You have a Pensieve?"
"Naturally. Father purchased it for me for my eleventh birthday." At Potter's confused expression, Draco hastily added, "To help me with my studies."
Potter grinned. "Bet that helped you keep your stories straight."
"Very funny. If that were its purpose, I'm sure you could have used one yourself."
"No doubt." Potter chuckled. "Were we even allowed those at Hogwarts?"
Draco shrugged. "I don't believe they were banned."
"Probably best I didn't have one," Potter said, humour falling from his face. "I don't know how healthy it would have been to relive some moments."
"Oh, come on," Draco said. "Don't tell me you wouldn't have replayed your many battles with the Dark Lord to all your simpering fans. They'd have positively wet themselves to watch you in action." I wouldn't have minded seeing that myself.
Potter cringed. "Not a chance." He looked directly into Draco's eyes. "I was thinking of some of my less stellar moments." He let his gaze drop to Draco's chest, then he reached out and touched the spot where, years ago, he'd hit Draco with a spell and ripped open his chest. Draco stood rooted to the spot. "I'm so sorry," he said. "I don't think I ever properly apologised for that."
Draco's hand spontaneously reached up to rest on Potter's. "Snape told me that you didn't know what the spell did."
Potter pulled his hand away. "It was stupid. I could have killed you. Nearly did."
Draco wasn't sure what to make of this Potter. "I was about to hit you with an Unforgiveable, you'll recall."
"It's still no excuse. For fuck's sake, I stopped Voldemort by disarming him, not ripping him apart."
Draco grinned. "Good to know you viewed me as more of a threat."
"That's not funny!"
"No," Draco agreed. "But it is in the past. Where it should stay."
"You saved my life."
"And you saved mine. More than once. You saved a lot of lives." The world is a better place because of you. "Stop beating yourself up over something you can't change."
Potter ran his hands through his hair, nearly pulling it out by its roots.
"I forgave you a long time ago," Draco said. And he had. He'd just never realised it.
Potter closed the few feet between them and pulled Draco into a bone-crushing hug. "Thank you."
When Potter released him, Draco said, "Okay, this is officially surreal now."
"Sorry. I didn't mean to ..."
Draco regained his composure, brushing imaginary lint from his shoulders. "Quite understandable," he said. "I am, after all, rather fetching. Difficult to resist."
Potter's eyes darkened and his cheeks flushed.
Interesting.
"Right, then," Draco said. "Let's take a look at those memories of yours and figure out who attacked you."
Potter looked around. "Er ... my wand?"
"About that." Draco drew his own wand and offered it to Potter. Something he'd never imagined himself doing willingly. "When I found you, there was no sign of it." When Potter hesitated, Draco pressed his wand into Potter's hand. "You can use mine. I know for a fact that it works for you."
Potter nodded. He concentrated for a few minutes, drew a silver strand from his temple and placed it into the Pensieve.
When Draco stepped forward to travel into the memory too, Potter said, "You don't have to do this."
"I know, but I want to." Potter tried to argue, but Draco cut him off. "Second set of eyes and all that." Besides, I want to see if I recognize the bastards that did this to you.
Potter stood in a playground surrounded by a group of children. He picked them up one and two at a time, twirled them around, then chased them, giggling, around the yard to a shed. They exited, armed with broomsticks and a Quidditch kit. Potter waved his wand, creating a barrier beyond which they couldn't fly.
Draco watched, transfixed by Potter with these children he'd never seen before.
"Sorry," Potter said, shaking Draco from his concentration. He looked embarrassed. "I wasn't sure when the perpetrators showed up, but this was the last place I'd been before the attack."
Giggling drew Draco's attention once more. He watched Potter barrel-roll on his broom, to the entertainment of his young audience. Draco smiled, then caught Potter watching him. "Who are they?"
"Orphans. Mainly from the war."
A young boy stood away from the rest, gripping a broom tightly but not flying. "And that one?"
"That's Braeden." Potter's expression saddened. "He witnessed his parents killed by Death Eaters. His mother plummeted to her death, falling off a broom at Braeden's feet after being hit by the Killing Curse."
A vision of Narcissa, staring at him with lifeless eyes, sent a shudder down Draco's spine. "I don't think I'd fly either if something like that happened to me."
"That would be a shame," Potter said. "But he'll ride eventually."
"You sound confident."
"I am." He smiled and Draco's heart skipped a beat. "When I first met him, he wouldn't even come outside. Now he watches and he holds his own broom. Watch." Potter rested a hand on Draco's arm and pointed.
Draco's arm warmed at the touch and he looked at the boy. Braeden, after ensuring no one was watching him, put the broom between his legs and ran around in circles.
"See?" Potter said. "It's only a matter of time before he's giving me a run for my money."
Draco laughed. "A tall order, that."
Potter frowned. "How so?"
"Just that it wouldn't be an easy task to challenge you on a broomstick. I ought to know."
Potter smiled again. "Likewise. You know, besides professional Quidditch players, you're the best I've seen on a broom."
"Will wonders never cease. Harry Potter paying me a compliment."
Potter nudged him with his shoulder. "Don't get used to it."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
Draco returned his attention to the memory. Potter said his goodbyes, to much objection from the children, called out to an unseen woman inside, then walked out to the street. As memory Potter approached a car, Draco saw two men watching him. "There," he said, pointing them out to Potter.
Potter's eyes narrowed. "That's them."
Memory Potter opened the door to a red sports car and climbed in.
"Really, Potter? A Gryffindor red car? You are so predictable."
"And I suppose you would suggest a Slytherin green instead?"
"Better than red."
"It's a sports car!"
"What do you even need a car for? You're a wizard."
Potter smirked. "It's fun. You should try it sometime."
"Not a chance."
"What's the matter, Malfoy? You scared?"
Of course I'm scared. It's a Muggle death trap. "Don't be ridiculous."
"Good. I'll take you for a drive someday."
"Didn't you already nearly die?"
"Shut up and watch."
They climbed into memory Potter's car, much to Draco's dismay. He reminded himself that he couldn't get hurt in a memory and made sure the real Potter didn't see his fear.
Along the way, the two men appeared periodically, obviously following memory Potter. When he stopped the car and got out at a small cottage, he popped the boot and reached inside. The two men pounced, throwing a Stunner and Summoning Potter's wand.
"Stupid!" Potter said. "How could I have been so stupid?"
"You didn't know you were being followed."
"I should have known."
Mad-Eye Moody's image flashed in Draco's mind. "Constant vigilance," he said.
Potter nodded as he watched the attack. "Exactly."
The men punched and kicked and hit memory Potter with curses until, after fighting his best, Potter fell to his knees. The larger one kicked Potter repeatedly in the ribs while the lanky one kicked him in the back. Draco winced. He'd seen the injuries those kicks had caused.
When Potter, face bloodied and raw, looked barely able to take a breath, Scrawny hit him with a Stunner and memory Potter collapsed. The memory ended and they stood once more in Draco's living room.
Draco's stomach lurched, though he wasn't sure if it was from what he'd witnessed or from Pensieve travel. Potter leaned on him, still unsteady on his feet.
"You need to see a Healer."
"I'm fine. Just a bit off kilter from the Pensieve." Draco narrowed his eyes. "Really, I'm fine. I need to talk to Kingsley."
"Are you going to the Ministry now?" Draco led him to the sofa. "Do you think it wise to Floo just at this point?"
"Might not be such a good idea." Potter rubbed his temples. "I think I'll just send him an owl, if you don't mind."
"Of course not." Draco brought Potter some parchment, a quill, and a bottle for Potter's memory. "Write what you'd like and I'll send it for you."
"I can send it myself."
"Or you could stay on the sofa and rest while I send it."
Potter mumbled something unintelligible under his breath, but handed the sealed parchment and bottle to Draco when he was done.
Twenty minutes later, Draco's owl returned with a reply. Potter read through it quickly, muttered something, then read it again.
"What did he say?"
"He's keeping the memory as evidence for now, and …" Potter rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. "He thinks we'll have a better chance of catching them if they think I'm dead."
Draco thought about that. "It might make them more careless, if they don't believe there were any witnesses." Potter continued to look uncomfortable. Draco sniggered. "You're pissed that you can't find them yourself, aren't you?"
Potter scowled. "As if you wouldn't be."
He had a point. "True."
"I can't go home, in case they're watching the house. I can't go to work. I was already on mandatory leave after my last case, so no one is expecting to see me there." Ah. That explained why no one had been looking for him. "And I can't go anywhere public if I'm supposed to be dead."
"Plus you're not in any condition to be alone, especially without a wand."
Potter groaned. "Hermione will be impossible."
Draco raised a brow. "I thought you three were inseparable."
"Let's just say she's not the easiest person to live with." Draco snorted. He could only imagine. "Besides, she and Ron live together now and …"
"Being a third wheel not your idea of fun?"
Potter shuddered. "Definitely not."
Draco pretended to mull over Potter's predicament for a couple of minutes. No sense sounding too enthusiastic. "You could stay here."
Potter laughed. "You can't be serious."
"Why not?"
Potter looked genuinely surprised. "Why would you want me here?"
Draco shrugged. "Perhaps I want to ensure you don't die." Potter smirked, but before he had a chance to say anything sappy, Draco added, "I can't let all my hard work go to waste. Besides, the spare room is already set up. Might as well use it."
Potter studied him. "If you're sure."
"Good. That's settled then."
Potter chuckled.
"What now?"
"I'm imagining what Ron and Hermione's reactions will be when I tell them where I'm staying."
Draco grinned, picturing the Weasel's face. Then he remembered Granger's right hook from school and dropped the smile. "I'll leave you to that discussion."
He picked up his Pensieve and retired to his den. He had some work to do.
When he heard Potter speaking through the Floo, Draco pulled out his wand. He drew several memories he'd long since buried and placed them in the stone basin. Locking the door first, he dove into his past.
He was home for Christmas and the Dark Lord had taken over his family home. A line of simpering fools streamed through, day after day, sucking up to him, hoping to win his favour. There! Bradshaw. Scrawny.
Another memory, just before returning to school. Scrawny was talking about his cousin, Murphy, from Salisbury.
A third memory, from Easter hols. Murphy. Draco recognized Potter's second attacker.
Draco pulled himself back to the present.
He'd had a vague recollection of their faces when he'd watched Potter's memories. Now he had names.
Now he had his next job.
Part 2