Chapter Text
Harry’s a little afraid that he’ll wake up to find that this has all been an elaborate dream, but he’s spooning Draco and his fair hair is still fanned across Harry’s bed.
Harry kisses the nape of his neck and breathes him in.
It’s almost frightening to be so close to what he wants.
Draco makes a sweet sound in his sleep and Harry smiles privately to himself. He’s quite kitten-like, cranky, and soft in equal measure.
Harry reaches up to peel the comforter off of his body. He’d like to suck Draco’s cock down and see if he can make him squeal again.
Draco shivers as the air hits his naked body and Harry catches sight of a bruise on his shoulder blade. Harry hums to himself. He’s got little interest in actually hurting Draco. He’ll have to be more gentle next time.
Harry continues to expose him, kissing gently down Draco’s spine when he catches sight of a constellation of bruises covering his back.
Harry sits up.
Draco never cried out in pain–and he should have if Harry was causing bruises like this.
Harry tugs the blanket off completely and bile rises in his throat.
Draco’s back is covered in wounds, some healing, some new. He’s a painting of black, and blue, and green, and yellow, and Harry can see ten bruises around his hips that look like fingertips. They look like someone has been holding him down cruelly and taking what they want.
Harry’s bookshelf groans and all of the books jerk forward and land on the floor.
Draco shoots up at the sound, looking around the room frantically.
His face softens when he catches sight of Harry but it immediately twists in concern.
“Harry, what’s wrong?”
Harry can’t speak. He’s going to be sick.
Draco seems to wake up enough to sense his nakedness and he gasps, dragging the covers up and around his body.
“Harry. Harry, it’s not what you think,” Draco says like he’s trying to calm a spooked horse.
Harry’s framed pictures fly off of his dresser, shattering against the floor one by one. The noise is startling in the relative silence of the room, and Draco gasps wetly for air.
“Please, Harry,” Draco begs, and it’s so unlike last night that Harry has to get out of bed.
“Let me see you,” Harry says tightly, clutching his head in his hands.
Draco shakes his head. No.
“I can’t, Harry, I can’t bear it,” he says, his face as pale as bone.
“You were glamoured last night, Draco. You’ve been glamoured all this time. Let me fucking see you!” Harry yells, and he’s never yelled at Draco before. He’s not even the sort of person who screams.
Draco is sobbing out right now, the blankets clutched tightly under his chin.
“I tried, Harry! When it first started. He knew Dark Magic and I was afraid!”
Harry’s temper cools as Draco works himself up.
“I tried everything. And he would just laugh at me. He said. He said, ‘it’s sweet when you fight,’” Draco says, his voice wet and tremulous.
“Then he said he would hurt her. He’d tell everyone the truth about her. He said he wanted me and if I wanted to keep her safe, he would have me.” Draco drops his covering like a puppet with his strings cut.
Harry groans like a dying animal when he sees the front of Draco’s body. He’s bruised and red, giant handprints on those soft thighs–on Harry’s thighs –a handprint around his fair neck.
“No, no, no,” Harry moans, unwilling to control the way the windows have started shivering in their panes.
“He won’t let me heal them,” Draco says dully. “He likes to see me like this.”
Harry’s crying and Draco’s fists are clenched in the bedding.
“You lied to me,” Harry says, one fist twisted in his hair.
Draco scrambles closer, his fair hair hanging over one naked shoulder. “I couldn’t tell anyone! I had to keep her safe. You don’t understand, Harry. Nobody ever kept me safe. I couldn’t let it happen to her too!”
Harry reaches out to cup Draco’s face in his palm. It’s the only part of him that’s untouched.
Draco’s eyes flutter shut and he wraps a hand around Harry’s. He takes a deep breath, as though he’s steeling himself.
“I’m sorry I’m not a virgin like you–like you thought,” Draco says brokenly, and Harry cries out so violently that Draco looks up at him in alarm.
Harry drags Draco’s bruised little body onto his lap, sitting heavily on the edge of his bed.
“Shut up, shut up about that, sweetheart. Circe. I don’t give a single fuck about that. You can’t understand, someone’s been hurting you, over and over and over again–” Harry says, trembling where he’s wrapped around Draco’s body.
Draco comforts him , his slender fingers running through Harry’s bedhead.
Harry buries his tears in Draco’s hair.
The truth about her.
Harry sits up, his grip on Draco even tighter. “Delphi’s not Lestrange’s child.”
Draco stiffens. “Harry, no. Harry.”
Harry disentangles himself, walking very calmly toward his wardrobe.
He’s fully dressed, black robes and all before Draco even manages to stand on his feet.
“She’s a parselmouth,” Harry says, and Draco’s eyes are crazed.
“He made me swear not to tell you,” Draco says, wrapping his slender arms around himself.
“He’s fucking raping you,” Harry says, pulling Draco into his chest, “because Voldemort is Delphi’s father.”
Draco collapses at the words. Harry doubts anyone has ever said it aloud.
“Harry,” Draco pleads like he knows no other words.
“Stay in the house.” Harry waves his hand, fiddling with the wards. Grimmauld is unplottable but he layers on some defensive wards that are only used by the Ministry as a final precaution.
Draco shakes his head. “Don’t leave me, Harry!”
Harry picks him up, tucking him back into bed.
“Stay here. The wards won’t let you leave, regardless, but I’d like you to listen to me.”
Draco’s crying again, his eyes glazed over. “I fucking hate you, Harry Potter,” he says, his face twisted.
Harry kisses his forehead.
“I know, sweetheart.”
-
He traces Rudolphus even though the man is under house arrest and isn’t permitted to go anywhere except for a few pre-approved places.
Harry doesn’t have a plan.
He tears through the wards like paper, wand at his side. He wants every bit of his power for this.
Rudolphus is sitting in an armchair, a glass of liquor in his hand.
He casts avada kedavra carelessly, as though he’s just been waiting for the opportunity.
There’s a Trace on Unforgivables.
Harry doesn’t have much time, then.
Harry bats it aside without blinking, and this makes Lestrange sit up.
“Haven’t you heard?” Harry says, “I can’t be killed.”
Lestrange smiles, his teeth a sickly yellow from years in Azkaban. “Some people are more myth than man,” he says.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” Lestrange continues, tapping his wand against his thigh with his free hand.
“Draco didn’t come home. It was only a matter of time.”
Harry’s face twitches at Draco’s name leaving Lestrange’s mouth.
“If we’d met a few years ago, you might have gotten what you’re after. A quick death,” Harry says.
Lestrange smiles. “And now?”
Harry comes closer, pushing away thoughts of Draco’s battered body.
“Magic takes intent. Curses take a little more.” Harry smiles. “But the real magic is in creation. Wizards like you are content to follow. You’ve mastered crucio and imperio and you’re very good at causing pain. But you’ll never be able to create pain out of nothing.”
Lestrange’s body grows stiff.
“You’re going to burn, Lestrange. They’re going to lock you back in Azkaban for that Unforgivable. You'll never find peace.” Harry says.
Animus conscius, Harry curses, and the pale blue light envelopes Lestrange’s body before he has time to react. His frame tenses involuntarily and then relaxes.
Lestrange stands up once he realises he still has the power to do so, hurling bright red crucio at Harry’s person.
He knocks it away with a flick of his wand. Protego.
“This is where it gets fun,” Harry says.
-
Hermione sucks her lower lip into her mouth.
“Oh, Harry. What could he have done to deserve something like this?” She says, her eyes large. “You created this?”
“ Simulacro vis aeternum ,” Hermione reads, the parchment shaking. “This is phantom pain. Continuous. Pain inflicted on another to be replicated in the perpetrator. Forever.”
“And this,” she says, her voice shaking, “ animus conscius. You’ve made it so he can never go mad.”
Hermione flips her wand up and in an arc, reinforcing the wards in her already-heavily-warded Ministerial office.
Harry is very calm when he answers.
“One day I’ll be able to explain. Or Draco can tell you himself. But I want you to know,” Harry says, rolling up the curse and casting an incendio, “He deserved worse.”
Hermione’s eyes are wide.
“Harry. Harry Potter. You can’t mean–”
But Harry’s already left, closing the door softly behind him.
-
Harry watches as Draco meticulously casts the spell that makes the tulips bloom and die on a loop.
He’s in charge of the gardening spellwork for the Ministry’s upcoming gala, and he practices on Andy’s flowers as often as he can, obsessed with getting it perfect.
He’s in a peach coloured skirt today, one that Harry bought him. Harry can’t stop himself from buying Draco everything he looks twice at.
Delphi is screaming at Teddy in the background and Draco looks up at Harry, his right cheek smudged with dirt.
“Is it beautiful, Harry?”
Harry smiles.