lomonaaeren

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Chapter Thirty-One—Consequences

Harry opened his eyes to darkness, and turned in several circles. He frowned, wondering what had happened to the lights in St. Mungo’s. Had someone canceled all the spells at once? Supposedly, that could happen with some bursts of wild magic from some patients, but it was still rather remarkable for it to happen to every torch and lamp and spell.

He opened his mouth to call for reassurance, especially because all his spinning hadn’t brought him near his bed yet. But someone chuckled, and then a point of brilliance floated before his eyes, bright enough to send afterimages searing across Harry’s vision. He placed a hand defensively over his face before he realized it was just a Lumos spell.

“Harry,” whispered Richard’s voice, and then the man was moving towards him, shaking his head slowly and tragically. “Did you really think you had escaped?”

Harry tried to answer, but it was a little hard when the inside of his throat seemed clogged with dust.

“That was one of the dreams the spell uses to make your transformation into the maze less painful, and to keep a spot of human consciousness alive in you, should the maze need it later.” Richard paused, and there was a mixture of interest and excitement on his face that made Harry want to vomit. “It gave you peace, comfort, healing, and whatever else you needed so that you wouldn’t lose all traces of yourself. But it’s time to come back now.”

“I don’t believe you.” But Harry could feel a dusty stone floor beneath him when he stamped a foot down, and his foot clacked and thumped as it would have if it were wood, if the Healers at St. Mungo’s hadn’t restored it.

Richard only shrugged, indicating the idea were entirely uninteresting to him. “I wanted to talk to you before you went back to supporting the maze and diffused your consciousness again,” he said. “Was the sacrifice worth it? Did you really love Draco that much?” He reached out and snagged something from the darkness. A quill and a parchment scroll materialized in his hands. He poised the quill above the parchment—it was already dripping with ink—and looked expectantly at Harry.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry spat.

“You don’t remember the sacrifice?” Richard blinked and drew on his own forehead with the quill for a moment, as if he didn’t want to waste the ink. “Dear. You’re further gone than I thought you were.”

“I remember the sacrifice perfectly,” Harry said, using anger to cover up the panic that was bubbling furiously in his chest. “But I don’t believe that you’re really here. How could you possibly visit me when I’m in the middle of a tree and don’t have a human body anymore?”

Richard laughed softly. “You were still built on the foundation of the Department of Mysteries, you know. As Draco was, in his time, when he was the flawed maze. And I’ve had absolute direction of the Department of Mysteries for twenty years. I made certain—changes—to give myself a way in, no matter what happens.”

Harry fell back a step. “No,” he said. “I remember now. Draco made your guts drag themselves out of you and wrap themselves around my branches—“

“That was a dream, Harry.” Richard dipped the quill into an invisible inkwell and began to scribble on the parchment. “Yes, definitely far gone—“

“I am not!”

“Committed to denying his reality and clinging to his madness, too.” Richard looked up and cocked a disapproving eyebrow. “Really, in many ways you’re a poorer subject than Draco was. He had the wits to accept his reality, no matter how painful and ugly.”

“I remember the truth,” Harry whispered, even as the darkness around him buckled and seemed to give ways to glimpses of stone walls and shining wooden doorways. “I remember—I remember that I thought myself lost, but I could still pull myself together and listen when Draco came to save me, and that’s what’s important. He saved me, just as he saved me so many times in the maze, and I saved him.”

“General dissolution of vocabulary,” Richard remarked aloud to the air as he scribbled on the scroll. “Fixation on trivialities.”

“Goddamn you,” Harry hissed, and stalked a few steps nearer, whilst Richard chuckled comfortably and shook his head.

“I’m not on the same level as you anymore, Harry. How exactly do you think you’re going to hurt me?”

“I’ll find a way,” Harry said fervently, and lunged forwards.

Richard took a step out of the way, waved his wand, and cast a larger stream of light onto the stone floor behind him. It illuminated Draco’s body, face upturned, mouth and nose crusted with blood, hands gone completely.

Harry found himself falling to his knees, vomiting, too shocked to speak. Richard’s voice spoke on from above him. “Convinced he can deny his sexual orientation, and yet reacts the way a straight man would to the murder of a love object. Reactions: extreme.”

And then Harry opened his eyes and sat straight up in the muted light of St. Mungo’s, the images of the dream already tattering and fraying behind his eyes. His body still shook, though, and his throat still burned with what felt like the taste of bile from becoming sick to his stomach. He put his hand over his face and noticed it was also trembling, as though he were a Muggle who’d come into contact with pure electricity.

Someone knocked briskly on the door, and a moment later a mediwitch came in and stared at him critically. Her wand carried a Lumos charm, and Harry had to look away from her as his stomach did cartwheels through his torso.

“Mr. Potter? Are you all right?”

Somehow, Harry found the strength to smile. He didn’t know this woman personally, which was probably the only reason. “Fine, thanks,” he lied smoothly, and lay back.

“Did you have a nightmare?” The woman hovered at his bedside, concerned. “Nightmares are an ordinary consequence of trauma like yours. There are mild sleeping spells that can ensure you get your fill of rest without waking up like that, at least for a few nights.”

Harry shuddered at the thought of being unable to wake up from another nightmare of Richard taunting him, and determinedly shook his head. “No, I’m all right,” he murmured, and shut his eyes, faking a loud and obvious yawn.

The mediwitch retreated from his bed only slowly, stopping several times. Harry thought he heard her open her mouth, but thankfully, no sound emerged. Harry pretended to snore, and at last, she went away and shut the door gently behind her. He immediately popped his eyes open and stared at the ceiling.

His throat was still sour and hot, and the memory of what Draco had looked like dead inspired the temptation to jump up and run down the corridor to see if he was all right. But of course a visit in the dead of night would be reported to Agarwal and the other therapists handling their case, and Odd Robert had told him not to run, anyway.

Harry punched the pillow, and then lay down and tried to get some sleep. He feigned it well enough to fool the mediwitches who came by regularly to check on him, but not enough to gain any sense of rest from it.

*

“We’re just worried about you, Draco, that’s all.” The voice was female, very tired, and sounded older. It paused, and then added, in an irritated tone, “Yes, Draco, your father too. I can visit him in Azkaban, you know, and he’s been told about your disappearance and the consequences of it.”

Harry hesitated, resting one fist against the wall. He had come to fetch Draco for one of their mutual sessions with Agarwal, and he really shouldn’t be eavesdropping on what was most likely a private conversation between Draco and his mother. On the other hand, he wanted to hear what Draco would say in response to her.

It was no good, though. Draco’s next reply was too quiet for Harry to make out anything more than the general stubborn tone. Narcissa sighed and said, “You always were an obstinate child. I can understand why you have to stay here most of the time, but don’t you at least want to visit the Manor?”

Draco had probably folded his arms and shaken his head, because Harry heard no sound at all, and Narcissa sighed again, more loudly. She was walking towards the door in the next moment.

Harry retreated, then, and went around the corner. Narcissa Malfoy came out and stood gazing sadly back into the hospital room. Her mouth opened, probably to offer Draco a final piece of advice, but after a moment she stiffened her spine and walked away, as if remembering that someone else might see her acting like a loving mother.

Harry stepped into the room, then, and saw Draco sitting on the floor with his arms curled around his head, for all the world as if he were about to defend himself against a blow. Harry blinked, then crossed the distance between them slowly. He wanted to rush to Draco’s side, but that might scare him right now.

“Draco?” he whispered, kneeling down beside him. “Are you all right?”

Draco dropped his arms and stared at him, then gave a gentle nod. Maybe it was just the lack of words, but Harry thought he looked more like the Draco in the maze now than he had at any point since Harry woke up: pale, half-helpless, trying to defend himself but exhausted from the effort.

It was no trouble at all to gather him into another embrace and let him lean his head on Harry’s shoulder. He still didn’t say anything, but he didn’t refuse, either, and Harry thought that was the best he could hope for right now. He let Draco rest his head below his chin and simply absorbed the warmth of the other man for a moment.

But just a moment. Too much hesitation would make Agarwal look for them, and Harry didn’t think Draco needed that right now.

“Come on,” he whispered. “We’ve got an angry therapist waiting for us. Or, if she’s not angry, she’s probably thinking of things to be angry about.”

He thought he felt Draco smile against his neck.

*

“You continue to resist having visitors, Mr. Malfoy.” Agarwal’s voice was quiet. “I’m told that your mother had to beg permission from me, Smythe-Jones, and two other Mind-Healers working on your case to see you, instead. Why is that?”

Draco shrugged. His head was bowed. He hadn’t let go of Harry’s hand since they arrived in Agarwal’s office, and he shifted over to be nearer to him every time Harry adjusted his position. Harry was divided between worry and heart-rending pity. Agarwal had told him the state would be a normal one when he had a partner as scarred as Draco was, but that was the first time Harry had experienced it outside the maze.

“Verbal answers, please, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco looked up, slowly. His eyes were a pale, misty gray, drained of any light of life. “I just don’t want visitors,” he said. “My mother wasn’t a part of the life I lived down in the maze. She didn’t support me during the three months I worked to free Harry because she didn’t think I could get him back.” He curled into Harry like a kitten crouching away from an abuser. “I don’t know if she’ll support me being with him now.”

“Have you asked her?” Agarwal said.

Shrug.

“Have you seen any of your friends since Harry was freed?”

Shrug.

“Do you want to see them?” Harry asked, because he thought that might be more the problem here.

Shrug.

Agarwal sat back, gazing at Harry intently. Harry blinked, then realized she wanted him to take a hand in solving the problem.

He almost panicked. He wasn’t a therapist, or a Mind-Healer, or anyone who had any sort of training or education in how to heal people.

Agarwal raised an eyebrow. Harry could almost hear her thoughts. And that’s one reason for you to do this, so that you can become good at more than blind heroics.

“Um, Draco,” Harry said, and turned towards him. Draco was already lifting his face eagerly, and Harry winced a little. He could see the joy his mere presence brought reflected in Draco’s face, and whilst he understood the source, it still reminded him far too much of the rabid idolization some of the fans of his name put him through. “You said that your mother wasn’t a part of your life in the maze.”

“Right,” Draco whispered, and leaned in, eyes tracing every feature of his face with fascinated devotion. Harry’s discomfort increased. I want him to be able to stand on his own feet, and look at me with anger sometimes, over more than the length of time it took me to understand how things between us are, he thought.

“But your life isn’t in the maze anymore,” Harry pointed out, carefully. “You’re out of it, and you’ll be out of it for the rest of your life, however long that is. Isn’t it better if you get accustomed to people who aren’t me?”

Draco paused for a long moment. His eyes flickered. Harry didn’t understand half the emotions appearing in them.

“You’re not rejecting me,” Draco said at last, though his voice wavered up and down, setting the words somewhere in between a question and a statement.

“No,” Harry said, and the speed of his answer, along with the hand he lifted to Draco’s cheek a moment later, appeared to reassure the other man. “Never,” he whispered, and kissed him gently, pulling back before it could turn into something heated. He might be more comfortable going further soon, but not in front of Agarwal. “But I can’t be around you all the time, either. Don’t you think you should see your friends, and your parents, and learn to lead a life independent of me?”

Draco’s gaze dropped, and he started picking at the couch, whilst his hand in Harry’s tightened its grip. A moment later, he shrugged again.

“I think it would be a good idea,” Harry said. If Draco needed Harry to make this decision for him, then he would. “Just the way I have friends outside the maze and St. Mungo’s, too. It’s the best thing for the both of us, Draco, so that we don’t get so tangled up in each other.”

Draco’s shoulders hunched, and he muttered, “If you think it’s a good idea.”

“I wish you wouldn’t do it only because I think it’s a good idea,” Harry said.

Draco’s head came up, the motion quick, defensive. “I just don’t want to see anybody else!” he snapped, and dropped Harry’s hand. “What’s so hard to understand about that? Do you think I want my mother watching me writhe with nightmares? Or vomiting because I’ve just discussed what I did to Pearl?” He turned a little green, but went on glaring at Harry. “You know! I don’t have to explain it again to you! She doesn’t, and neither do my friends, and I don’t want to talk to them about it!”

“So don’t talk to them about it!” Harry slammed his hands together in his lap and glared back. He had to remind himself that a mere argument would not ruin the love between them, not if it was stronger than a straw. “Just joke with them about it. Or let your mum pamper you, if that’s what she wants to do and if you can endure that. But—“

“But that’s what I am now!” Draco rose to his feet, his fists working open and shut. Harry kept a wary eye on them, not entirely sure he wouldn’t be hit. “The maze is part of me, it’s the most important part of me, and—“

“It’s not.” Harry stood up to face him. “Damn it, Draco, it never was. I know that you’re not just a victim. That was the most important lesson I learned down there, I think, to see you as an ordinary person, not a victim and not someone hopelessly scarred by this!”

“I’ll bear the wounds for the rest of my life.”

“Yes, but that’s no excuse for not living.”

Draco abruptly turned away, his shoulders heaving. Harry reached out to him, not sure if he was engaging in dry heaves or sobs, but Draco shrugged him off and ran out of the room. Harry started to go after him, but Agarwal’s voice interrupted him. “If you wouldn’t run, please, Harry? I am not Odd Robert and am not experienced in restoring someone whose lungs have just shut down on him.”

Harry winced and sat down on the couch, fighting the temptation to just dig his fingers into his hair and hang on. “I handled that badly, didn’t I?” he whispered.

“Not at all,” said Agarwal thoughtfully. “He did need to hear those things, and he is more likely to accept the words from you than from anyone else. And there is the chance that his own anger will make him realize that he cannot depend on you for everything.” Her voice altered. “And you need to spend more time with your own friends, Harry.”

“I know.” Harry hid a yawn behind his hand.

“Did you not sleep well last night?”

Harry opened his mouth to lie, then closed it again. This telling the truth and being a committed, responsible adult, as much for Draco as for himself, was more tiring than he had thought it would be when he agreed to it. “Nightmares,” he said shortly. “I don’t think I got back to sleep after that.”

“Describe the nightmares to me, please.”

Harry did, slowly, wincing every time a word sounded particularly out of place or stupid. But Agarwal just listened silently, now and then nodding when Harry paused in search of encouragement.

Still, he couldn’t help wishing Draco was there instead.

*

Harry was trying. He really was. But the endless repetition of simple spells that should have worked, and only ended up coming out of the walls or irradiating stones beneath his feet or doing nothing at all was frustrating him, and Odd Robert’s brand of humor wasn’t working for him today.

“Now just try another Lumos,” Odd Robert instructed him. He was standing a little closer now, but he still had a number of protection spells shimmering around him, none of which helped Harry’s temper. “Strangest thing, but that spell does seem to be the key. Once you master that, you tend to master others more easily. I suppose there’s a reason that it’s one of the first spells most magical children learn. Only ever had one patient who didn’t do that one first.” He paused meditatively. “Of course, she had been a penguin.”

Harry gritted his teeth and aimed his wand at the ceiling. Odd Robert had suggested he do that so he could be sure he was the one actually causing the light effect when it appeared. “Lumos!” he said, and so what if it was a bark instead of the calm tone that Odd Robert had told him worked best when he was trying to realign his body and his magical core?

A square piece of the ceiling detached itself and dropped silently at his head.

Harry stared up at it, and only got out of the way in time because Odd Robert had hurled himself forwards and bowled him to the floor. The chunk of ceiling, caught in one of the Mind-Healer’s protective spells, hovered a few inches above them. Harry threw his breath out of his lungs and covered his face with one arm. “I hate this,” he moaned.

“Imagine my nonexistent delight in telling the Repairs Department what you did to this bloody thing,” Odd Robert said dryly. Harry looked up to see him trying to force the chunk of ceiling back into place with a simple Reparo spell. It wouldn’t go “Funny thing,” he went on casually, never looking away from the block of stone and wood. “The only time I’ve seen effects like this happen is when my patient’s pissed off, and not that calm after all. The magic picks up on the adrenaline and gets channeled into something that would stop a hostile attack—in this case, crushing the skull of someone annoying inside the building.”

“Oh, sod off,” Harry muttered, his throat burning with a mixture of confusion, shame, and anger.

Odd Robert gave up and let the chunk of ceiling settle to the floor. His gaze was sober as he studied Harry. “It’s obvious you’re not in the best of moods, but you need to be in the best of moods for this, you understand? Take the afternoon off. Don’t run on your way back to your room, but try a few push-ups or other simple exercises in your room.” He held out his hand for Harry’s wand.

Harry clutched it for a moment, not wanting to surrender what had been his one security in the maze. If Richard came back in his dreams that night, it would be a comfort to have the wand under his pillow—

Then Harry remembered he couldn’t use it properly anyway, and visions of burning the building down around his ears came to him. He flushed and handed it over. Odd Robert nodded approvingly.

“It’s so much hard work,” Harry muttered resentfully, trying not to use too much speed as he stretched his arms over his head.

Odd Robert grinned. “But just think of how good it will feel when you finally get your magic back! All the sweeter for the effort put in.”

Harry mourned that punching the older man was probably too much of an effort for his overtaxed body, too.

*

Ron and Hermione were waiting for him when he got back to his room. Harry felt his face brighten in a smile. He hadn’t seen them in a few days, and at the moment, speaking with anyone who wasn’t a Mind-Healer looked good.

Hermione stepped forwards and embraced him, hard. Harry hugged her back enthusiastically, but he got a little worried when she continued to hug him, instead of releasing him as she usually did.

Add to that the fact that Ron was meeting his eyes soberly over her shoulder, and Harry could feel his breath already coming short with fear. He pulled back from Hermione and demanded, “What is it?”

“Someone in hospital talked,” Hermione said quietly, smoothing his fringe back from his forehead. Her finger traced his lightning bolt scar briefly, as though taking comfort from it. “They’ll be sacked if the St. Mungo’s authorities find out who it was, but they probably won’t.”

“Talked about what?”

“About what Malfoy did when he was in the maze,” Hermione said. “And what you did, too, apparently. Skeeter is publishing articles calling for you both to be arrested for use of Unforgivables and Dark Arts, and she suggests punishment for Draco because he tortured innocents, too. The clamor’s growing. Shacklebolt will be forced to respond, and although he can hold this tide at bay for a while, that won’t last for long.”

And Harry, who had expected to explode with rage if someone else threatened Draco—

Maybe it was Odd Robert’s warnings about what anger could do to him. Maybe it was because of Skeeter’s involvement. Maybe this was just the final capstone on a supremely shitty day. Whatever the reason, Harry felt himself go cold, his anger deepening and turning black.

Hermione took a step back from him. Ron blinked and said, “You all right, mate?”

“Oh, perfectly,” Harry said. “I just need to get a message to Shacklebolt.” He smiled a little, and Hermione gulped. “You’ll take it to him, won’t you?”

“Er—sure, Harry,” Ron muttered.

Harry nodded, then looked around the room in distraction. Luckily, by the time he turned back, Hermione had already produced writing materials. Harry nodded his thanks, sat down, and started writing a short letter to Shacklebolt.

He knew the Ministry was capable of hushing up public scandal when it wanted to. It had done an excellent job after the first war with Voldemort, and then again during his fifth year when Fudge had wanted to deny that Voldemort was back. Harry wanted Skeeter shut down and prevented from spreading her horrible rumors now, or he would reveal exactly what had happened in the Department of Mysteries under the Ministry’s oblivious nose.

He and Draco would have to face the consequences of their actions. He knew that. But later, when they had healed enough not to crumble in the face of questions. Hounding them when they hadn’t even been approved to venture out of hospital yet was simply not to be endured.

He had just handed the letter to Hermione when the door to his room burst open. Harry started to his feet, prepared to face down Skeeter or overly inquisitive mediwitches, but it was Draco who flew over to him and huddled in his arms and whispered into Harry’s ear, “Make them stop. Please.”

Footsteps trampled down the corridor after him, and Skeeter poked her eager face around the door a moment later. “Now, now, Malfoy, the public has a right to hear what happened down there!” she trilled.

Harry smiled. Then he rose to his feet to defend Draco.

Now, here’s something I’m good at.

Chapter 32.