InsaneJournal

5.

…bleep…bleep…bleep…bleep…

“Could it have been done by a sword?”

“If it was, I’d like to see it. Look at this - the cut’s completely straight, exactly the same depth all along…I’ve seen the odd sword wound come through A&E - and plenty of blade wounds - and none of them have looked like this. All of them had some tearing. This is so perfect - more like a scalpel…used by a very experienced surgeon…”

Draco idly listened to the strange sounds and even stranger voices as he drifted somewhere comfortably far from full consciousness. That sounds painful - I’m glad that’s not me. The pain in his back, so complete and acute that it made up almost the entirety of his last memory - pain, gasping out “Charing Cross Road”, Potter trying to catch him as he fell out of the fire, more pain - was gone. In fact, his back felt almost completely numb - he could feel nothing but these strange little tugs on his skin… He drifted on, shutting out the voices…

“What’s going on with the transfusion? You did send the sample down, didn’t you?”

“I think there’s been some problem identifying his blood group. The sample seems to have been contaminated.”

“Well - take another one then.” A pause. Draco didn’t want to listen to them - he wanted them to just go away, so he could get back to floating in peace. “What do you mean - contaminated?”

His limbs were heavy, his back throbbed with pain, and he was no longer able to drift away. There was something warm and unnatural-smelling enclosing his nose and mouth, digging uncomfortably into the skin around it - the air he breathed in through it was cold and pure. His eyes seemed glued shut, but the feel of something sharp jabbing into his arm made him put in the effort to force them open.

Draco looked at the men in their strange pastel clothes, in the cold pastel room. He looked at the strange bleeping devices surrounding him. He looked at his red and bruised hand, felt the something inserted beneath its skin, looked at the tube attached to it, at the bag of clear liquid attached to that. One of the men was leaning over him, pressing some kind of tool against his skin - into his skin, because it had been that that he’d felt prick him - and he looked at the blood being sucked out into the tool…his blood, startlingly dark and red in the sterile room. The panic welled up inside him slowly, fighting against the numbing power of the horror that had got there first.

“Oh, it’s ridiculous, but Carla said the blood I sent wasn’t even human! Can you believe it? How the hell it was contaminated that badly I can’t say.”

The panic exploded through Draco’s body much as the pain had earlier. There was no room for anything else, not even the knowledge that his abused back was protesting madly as he lunged at the man, slapping the tool away from him. He tore the mask from his mouth; the air in the room was foul, a mixture of blood and disease and the overpowering chemical whiff of a potions experiment gone wrong.

“What the hell are you doing to me?” If his sense of smell seemed to have become abnormally sharp, then so had his other senses; Draco saw the beads of sweat on the man’s forehead, heard his frantically beating heart…the soft humming and whirring of the contraptions around him sounded more like a hundred dragons beating their wings. A hundred and one dragons, he corrected himself, as the man lunged for a switch and the machines made a new noise.

Exhaustion and pain-hiding numbness trickled down his limbs. Poppy-based potion? He only had time to glare suspiciously at the tube in his arm before he collapsed back against the bed, body helpless, mind clouding over. The man gently replaced the breathing-mask over his face.

“He was supposed to be under sedation.”

“He was. I don’t get it. He’s such a skinny little thing, and that dose would have knocked out a sumo wrestler…”

Where am I? What the fuck are they doing to me…? Both big, important questions, but not enough to anchor his mind - not when it just wanted to…

drift…

away…

*

Harry wanted to stay asleep, but he couldn’t. He kept his eyes shut, but the fine skin of his eyelids were no defence against the bright sunlight that wanted to wake him up, and his bedroom was very noisy for some reason. He put the pillow over his head, but while that blocked out most of the light, it only muffled the sounds - people talking, people moving about, the rumble of traffic.

You’re awake. Deal with it, Potter. Harry wondered how long the voice of his subconscious had sounded like Draco Malfoy. Not that it mattered, because it was right. He cautiously looked out from beneath the pillow.

The brightly-coloured curtains drawn around his bed told him he was in a hospital ward. The general décor and half-open window letting in the smells and sounds of central London told him that hospital wasn’t St Mungo’s.

A Muggle hospital, then. He wasn’t hooked up to any machines, and the only pain he had was a dull ache in his head. So he wasn’t seriously injured. How he’d got there was, however, a complete mystery. The last thing he remembered was standing baking in the heat, out in the grounds of Malfoy Manor, watching the trainee Aurors tackle the assault course.

The pyjamas he was wearing were definitely not his, Harry decided as he slid his legs out of bed. The last time he’d worn this many Union Jacks on his clothing was that mortifying time at primary school when the teachers had gone all patriotic over Andrew and Fergie’s wedding. In theory, it should have been a good day - getting to watch TV in school and everyone wearing fancy dress. Unfortunately, Petunia Dursley was very much in favour of the Royal Family, and got rather too much into the spirit of the thing - both Harry and Dudley had gone to school looking like they’d been attacked by a psychotic flag-seller. Those pyjamas would have brought a proud tear to her eye.

He went around to the end of the bed and took a look at the clipboard. The handwriting on it was even more unreadable than Ron‘s, but Harry’s eyes were drawn to the name at the top. David Brearey? Who’s David Brearey?

He was just pondering that when his ears picked up a new sound. Waves? The sea? That was impossible, but the sound was almost as strong as the traffic noises coming through the window. The morning was so hot there was a heat-haze hanging over the street below and the fans in the ceiling were going full-tilt, but an icy gust of wind ruffled the horrible pyjamas and raised goose bumps on Harry’s skin. The wind carried with it the scent of salt-water and seaweed…

There was obviously more wrong with him than he’d thought, if he was smelling and hearing the ocean in the middle of London. But as his eyes moved over the curtained off cubicle, they fell on the bedside cabinet, and the box sitting on it.

The box was familiar, even if Harry couldn’t remember where he’d seen it before. He knew that the leather straps now hanging from it, cut and useless, had once held it shut, and he felt very strongly that it should be shut, not propped open as it was now.

He went to shut it, but as he moved closer, he heard other sounds coming from it - angry voices, almost lost in the wailing wind and crashing surf. “-your fault, you stupid girl!”

“We did nothing wrong - we were in love!”

“You would destroy your entire family for love?”

There were things in the bottom of the box - what looked like broken bits of exquisitely carved ivory. Harry reached out -

There was a quiet cough behind him. “Um, I don’t think that’s wise.”

Harry spun around. He saw a head poked around the curtain - messy brown hair and dark eyes that stared at Harry with open curiosity. Hands pulled back the curtain, and Harry saw the body it belonged to. His visitor was a tall, strongly built young man who reminded Harry of Oliver Wood - especially when his face broke into a wide, confident grin. “After all, it’s probably loaded with Dark magic, and you don’t know how it got here. Also, when I saw it last, the straps were still intact. You didn‘t cut them, did you?” He held out a hand. “Ant Brearey.”

As he shook his visitor’s hand, Harry glanced toward the clipboard. Ant’s grin got even wider. “I told the ambulance guys you were my brother. Thought it’d make it easier for me to get in to see you.” He pulled out a squashed bag from one of the pockets of his over-sized leather jacket. “Grapes, bro?”

“I -” Harry snapped the box shut, cutting off the sounds and the smells. The runes carved into its blackened surface seemed to squirm beneath his gaze. “Um, thanks.” And he didn’t mean for the grapes.

Whatever the box was, whatever it contained, it positively reeked of the Dark Arts. He’d let Lupin have a look at it before he did anything so stupid as putting his hand in it.

“If you’re not my brother, how do you know me? Because I don’t know you.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t. I never got to Hogwarts. I know you by reputation, Harry Potter.” Ant fished around in his coat again. “And I’ve got a better present for you than grapes.”

It was a better present. Harry took his wand from Ant’s outstretched hand and smiled at him for the first time. “Are you a wizard?”

Ant coloured. “I’m a Squib.” He raised his chin and looked down on Harry from his greater height, as if daring him to make something of it. “My parents had me adopted by a Muggle couple when they realised, but I try to keep in touch with my roots. The Ministry of Magic actually pay me to look after the safe house -”

Safe house… Those two words were like a key, opening a door in Harry’s brain. One by one memories shuffled out and were inspected. Harry looked at his wand. He remembered Malfoy falling out of the fire, barely conscious; how he’d caught him in his arms, but his fingers had slipped in the blood flowing from Malfoy’s wounds, and Harry’s own legs had gone from beneath him; how he’d destroyed the fireplace to stop anyone following them from the Ministry. And he remembered the Ministry, too. At first the memories were fragments, but then the trickle of information turned into a flood, and Harry remembered everything. Putting it all together was a bit harder - for example, why did he remember having Malfoy on his back in the grass..?

“- there’s been some hair-raising times, but I never expected anything like this -” Ant came to a shaky halt as Harry sank down onto the bed, head in his hands. “Hey - are you all right?”

“There was someone else with me, in the flat. Another wizard.”

“The Death Eater? They brought him here too, but you don’t have to worry about that scumbag. He can’t hurt anyone - I took his wand. Don’t think he’ll bother you again, anyway - he was in a hell of a mess.” Harry looked up; Ant was grinning. “Did you do that? Because it was jolly fine wo- uff!”

Harry’s anger drove him to his feet and gave him the strength to slam the much bigger boy up against the wall. Ant nearly turned himself cross-eyed staring down at the wand pressed up against his chest.

“That Death Eater is on our side. That Death Eater saved my life - twice. He got injured rescuing me from Voldemort.” Ant flinched. “Your cushy deal with the Ministry is over, by the way - Voldemort’s taken over.” Ant twitched again. “I don’t think he’ll want to make deals with Squibs, do you?”

“You need to calm down, Harry. The doctor said you have concussion. Which means rest and sleep and no over-exerting yourself -”

“I will over-exert myself if you don’t start helping me! Where is he?”

“Intensive care, I think. Look - I’m sorry - I just saw the Dark Mark and - I didn’t realise he was your friend.”

Friend? Harry instinctively rejected the word. Whatever he and Malfoy were, they were certainly not friends. Reluctant allies, maybe.

Then he thought about Malfoy, the archetypal sheltered Pureblood, waking up wandless and alone, under the tender ministrations of Muggle medicine. Malfoy would think he was in hell. And the thought of that made Harry’s temper rise and his stomach twist into knots.

Ally or friend - he’d better be fucking ok.

*

Draco’s most recent attempts to swim toward consciousness had been extremely unpleasant. Whatever the Muggles were using to keep him quiet and pliable, it had a very strong hold on him.

Perhaps it simply wasn’t worth it. He could just stay in this dark, warm place, not asleep, but not really awake either, keeping the pain at bay and pretend to himself that it wasn’t real. That none of it was real. Eventually he would wake up on the cushions in Snape’s quarters, ready to face another day of scheming and lying and trying to avoid getting killed or disowned or worse.

Only that worse had already happened, hadn’t it? He was a wanted man, a traitor to the Death Eaters, forced to throw his lot in with Potter. Snape had promised that he would ’explain’ everything to the Dark Lord, and keep his family from suffering for Draco’s actions, but Snape had done this to him, hadn’t he? Only three people knew Sectumsempra, as far as he knew - Potter hadn’t cast it on him, Draco certainly hadn’t done it to himself, so that left Snape. And Snape never does anything without a good reason.

So what good reason could he have to slice Draco open? Especially with only one of the tasks Snape had set him accomplished…or was he giving the man too much credit? Could he really have been betrayed? Cast aside as no longer useful?

Looks like Potter’s abandoned me, too…

And now he was in the power of Muggles, being tortured or experimented on. Oh, the worst had definitely happened, and Draco was definitely awake. He couldn’t pretend any longer.

If he remained there, the bleeping of the Muggle devices would only drive him insane.

He reached up to his face and pulled off the mask. The air in the room didn’t smell as bad as it had on his previous awakening. A stab of pain in his hand reminded him of the tube that attached him to the machines. He tore off the sticky fabric on his hand with weak, clumsy fingers, and pulled on the tube.

What had been causing the pain in his hand was a needle as long as his finger. Draco stared at it in horror. Muggles really were barbarians - and sadists, to boot. Who could possibly believe that the best way to deal with an injured person was to stick needles in them and attach them to infernal devices?

A slow, sickened feeling crept over him. If this was how they kept people asleep - how would they deal with wounds?

Draco forced himself to sit up. The room span around him with nausea-inducing speed, but his fingers were already groping inside the strange robe he was wearing. Opens at the back - convenient, that… He encountered more of the weird sticky fabric, which tugged at his skin painfully as his trembling fingers pulled it back, slid inside…

He felt sore ridges of flesh. From the feel of it, they hadn’t even closed the wound, just pulled the two edges together and - he felt something else, something that was prickly and -

Thread?! Fucking thread? They’ve sewn up the wound? Stitched me up?

Draco couldn’t help it - he laughed. He laughed until tears stung his eyes and he was gasping for air, but he couldn’t stop. Well - I’ve been stitched up in so many different ways these past few days, I suppose this is appropriate. Then the tears streaming down his cheeks were no longer anything to do with the laughter - he put his hands to his face and cried out of frustration, anger, pain, and sheer outright horror.

What am I going to do…? What the fuck do I do now…?

*

It took a shamefully long time to pull himself together. Terrified, mutilated and wandless he might be, but he didn‘t have time for self-pity. The Muggles would be back, to inflict more horrors on him - he refused to sit there quietly and wait for them.

When he’d pulled himself free of the machines, the steady bleep bleep bleep had turned into a continuous, high-pitched squeal that had the same effect on Draco as fingernails scraped over a blackboard. He twisted knobs and flicked switches, trying to shut off the noise.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

The voice was female, and somehow managed to mix kindness with indignation. As he turned around, he saw it belonged to a blonde woman in a white coat. She crossed her arms and gave Draco the kind of patronising smile he associated with nannies and healers. “While I’m glad to see you conscious and apparently feeling so well, you shouldn’t be out of bed.” I know best, so stop being such a naughty boy. “And you certainly shouldn’t be playing with the ECG.”

Draco presumed ‘the ECG’ was the machine; its noise was really starting to get on his nerves now. More than that - it felt like the noise was somehow getting inside him, merging with his panic. The woman didn’t look very dangerous, but -

He groped around on the bed behind him, found the long needle. “What are you going to do to me?”

The woman raised a eyebrow. “My name’s Alison Tyler,” she said. “I’m an infectiologist, and I don’t intend to do anything to you - except maybe help you.”

“If sewing up my flesh is your idea of ‘help’, I don’t think I want any more of it.” Draco pulled the needle away from its tube - it wasn’t much of a weapon, but it would have to do.

Damn woman - why is she blocking the bloody door?

That smile again. “You may not have a choice. Analysis of your blood has delivered some very interesting results.”

He didn’t know what the hell an ‘analysis’ of his blood entailed, but the idea of these Muggles having a part of him like that made him feel sick.

It was one of the first things drummed into children by their parents, right up there with ‘don’t go off with strangers’. Don’t let anyone take a part of you, whether it’s hair, skin or bodily fluids. And of all those ’parts’ that could be stolen and put to use against someone in a spell or potion, blood was the most potent.

She stepped forward. “Get back into bed, Mr - I suppose you do have a name? What is it?”

Names were potent, too. Draco backed away from her, gripping the needle as if it was a magical sword. He shook his head.

“Look - all we’re trying to do is help you!” She sounded frustrated.

She stepped forward again, and Draco told himself it was just a trick of the light, that stepping into the bright beams of sunlight coming through the window had just made highlights and shadows on her face where there were none before. Her face hadn’t really changed, hadn’t really become thinner, harder…familiar…

“I want to help you.” Her voice had changed too.

The pain in Draco’s back, the weakness of his legs - none of it mattered anymore. He didn’t even pause to wonder how the woman from his nightmares could have stepped out into the real world. He dodged her outstretched hand and ran.

*

“So, what are you saying? We’ve lost?”

Harry was rapidly getting sick of Ant. Not only did he insist on sauntering along, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, when Harry really wanted to run, but he kept asking stupid questions.

“We haven’t lost. Not yet.”

“But things are bad?”

“Voldemort has the Ministry. Yes, I think that’s bad.”

A nurse gave them a sharp look. Harry tried his best to look innocent. Just going for a little stroll with my visitor.

A stroll down to Intensive Care…

“That’s not just bad.” Ant said as they stepped into the lift. “It sounds like it’s all over.”

“There are lots of people who’ll keep fighting.”

“Like you.”

Harry shook his head, and was relieved to find the movement no longer left him shaking and nauseous. “Not really. I mean, I will keep fighting - I just don’t have a choice about it. Other people do.”

Ant looked at him. He had the black box cradled under one arm, and his knuckles were white where he gripped it. Harry felt suddenly sorry for him. Ant lived his life as a Muggle, but he didn’t have a Muggle’s blissful ignorance. He knew about Voldemort, what he and his followers were capable of. He knew what would likely happen when the Death Eaters tightened their grip on the Wizarding World, and their leader was free to look towards the Muggles. But Ant had no magic, no way to defend himself or the people he cared about. He must be terrified.

“Voldemort won’t win,” Harry said. “I promise.”

Ant looked at him as if he was a hero; Harry wished he hadn’t said anything.

The lift doors opened. As they stepped out into the corridor, a nurse pushed past him, followed by a big man in a security guard’s uniform. They’d come out of the corridor’s one open door. And from that door came the sound of a heart monitor. Someone was flat-lining.

Harry told himself that there was nothing to suggest that Malfoy was in there. But the continuous wail of the heart monitor was a chilling sound, and it drew him over to that door. His mind painted pictures to go with that noise - Malfoy dead, or being worked on by a resuscitation team. He didn’t want to look, but couldn’t help himself.

No Malfoy. But no other unlucky patient either - the bed was empty. Someone had obviously been in it, though - the sheets were thrown back and a saline drip, which had apparently been attached to someone until very recently, dribbled liquid onto the mattress.

By the window, two doctors were having a low-voiced but heated discussion. One of them looked up. Harry quickly pulled his head back, but she was already running to the door.

“I just wanted to see my friend,” he said. “I got told he was down here.”

“Blond kid?” she asked. Something about the intensity of her expression made alarms ring inside Harry’s head, but he nodded. “He’s run off. We’ve got people looking for him, but if you’ve any idea where he might be headed, you have to tell us. It’s very important we find him as quickly as possible.”

“I don’t know where he might go.” And that was the truth. “He’s not from around here.” So was that.

Her eyes glinted. “Where is he from?”

Harry stared at her. “Um, Egypt?” She frowned, and Harry decided it was time to feel ill again.

He sagged against the wall, feigning faintness, and Ant was suddenly at his side, completely the attentive brother. “I knew this was a bad idea. We should get you back to your own ward, bro.”

“Wait a minute -”

“If you want to question David any further, it’ll have to wait until later,” Ant said firmly, steering Harry away from the doctor. “Can’t you see he’s tired?”

*

The burst of energy, powered by fear, had passed. Draco hid in a cupboard full of the pastel-coloured garments, which rustled like paper as he collapsed amongst them, and tried to decide on his next move.

His lack of a wand was his biggest concern. Until he’d solved that problem, all the others, like where to go and who he could trust, weren’t even worth pondering.

Why couldn’t Potter have dumped him at St Mungo’s? While that might have been as good as handing him back to the Dark Lord, at least he’d be amongst his own kind - and being treated by healers with a more civilised idea of medicine.

He didn’t really blame Potter for leaving him. Given the same circumstances, Draco would probably have done the same thing - when you were running for your life, a badly-injured companion could only be a hindrance. If I hadn’t been under very strict instructions from Snape, I would have left him in the Ministry, rather than dragging him -

Oh. Right.

Considering the state Potter had been in when they had escaped the Ministry, Draco would hardly have slowed him down that much. In fact - Draco shrunk back amongst the robes as he heard footsteps stop outside his refuge - Potter was very likely somewhere in the same building.

Not that that meant Draco was going to go looking for him. I might be going mad, seeing my ancestors in the faces of random Muggles, but I’m not that mad. Not yet, at least.

I have to get out of this place -

The cupboard door opened. Draco stared up at the person in the doorway. He was with some Muggle, and he was wearing the most hideous pair of pyjamas Draco had ever seen in his life, but in that moment, Harry Potter looked glorious.

*

For a moment, Harry stared at the boy sitting amongst the scrubs and didn’t recognise him. His eyes took in the hospital robe hanging loosely from thin shoulders, the dishevelled hair falling into a face that was all shadows and angles, pale eyes made brighter still by the dark smudges beneath them - then all that was in his arms, hugging him so tightly it was almost painful.

“Ah - so it’s like that, then?”

Harry heard Ant’s comment, but ignored him, because painful was, in a strange way, rather nice - as his arms closed around the slim, strong body, his fingers twisted in the thin fabric, then unexpectedly slid over hot, smooth skin. Malfoy flinched and pulled free.

“I thought you didn’t approve of ‘cosy human contact’.”

Malfoy curled his lip. “I thought I was stuck among the Muggles. Trust me, I would have been dishing out cosy human contact to Weasley if he’d opened that door.” He met Harry’s eyes and sneered. “And then I would have had to kill him. Now - give me my wand.” Harry looked at Ant, who immediately began searching in his jacket. “You gave my wand to a Muggle?”

Colour flooded across Ant’s face. His fingers were tight around the wand as he pulled it free. “I. Am. Not. A. Muggle.”

Harry looked at Malfoy, facing the point of his own wand, and marvelled. Ant was red-faced and shaking with anger; Malfoy, shorter and slighter and clad only in that ridiculous robe, should have cut a pathetic figure in comparison, but he stood there, back straight and head held high, radiating anger and injured dignity. When he spoke, his accent was at its most patrician - every syllable dripped with disdain. “Then what are you?” Long fingers curled around the wand. “Certainly no wizard.”

Harry heard a sound like bacon sizzling, and as Ant hissed with pain and snatched his hand away, he smelt the sickening smell of burnt flesh. Malfoy hugged his rescued wand to him much as he had Harry earlier. Ant shoved his fingers into his mouth. “No wizard,” Malfoy said again, and Harry wanted to thump that cruel smile off his face.

He contented himself with grabbing Malfoy’s arm. Just the way he hates it. His fingers dug hard into muscle - too hard. And I hope it hurts. “Ant’s helping us.”

“Helping you perhaps.” Malfoy twisted free, and started tugging at the opening of his robe. “Look what they’ve done to me, Potter.” The tie at his neck gave way, and the robe gaped open, exposing an expanse of white skin - and the red, puckered wound and black stitches that marred its perfect porcelain smoothness. “Look.”

“Did you take the dressings off yourself?” Harry said. “Because you really should keep those stitches covered.” The words were automatic, almost meaningless; he found himself transfixed by the mutilation. Malfoy snorted.

“Bit hard on the eye, Potter? Believe me - it feels even worse than it looks.”

“I bet.” And it looks like vandalism. It was a peculiar thing, to see something perfect about someone he’d always detested, and to mourn the loss of that perfection. Those delicate looks had always been so resilient - for all their fights, all the bruises Harry had left on that pale skin, Malfoy always bounced back, nothing made a permanent mark on him. Well, almost nothing. Harry had never seen the full extent of the scarring his own curse had left, but he knew it was there.

Funny how the guilt hadn’t faded over time, but just became stronger.

“Bringing you here probably saved your life,” Ant said. He glared at Malfoy as if he’d like to add a few wounds of his own. “Be glad I didn’t just leave you to bleed to death.” Because you’d deserve it, his expression said.

“You? You brought us here? This is your fault?” Malfoy spun around to face Ant, his eyes bright with fury; Harry promptly stepped between them.

“No - this is Snape’s fault - all of it. I don’t know what’s going on in his head, but he’s the one who sent you to help me, then cursed you when you were doing just that.”

Malfoy didn‘t deny it, but the way he glared at Harry suggested that, whoever he was blaming for his current state, it certainly wasn‘t Snape. “He didn’t kidnap me, though, did he, Potter?”

“No, but I bet he was the reason you were at the Manor.” Malfoy’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. And that’s one to me - I’m not so thick as you seem to think, am I? Malfoy looked at Ant, and the box he was carrying. The expression on his face suggested that the box might leap out of Ant’s arms and attack him. “And what the hell is in that thing?”

“I don’t know - I don’t think I want to.” Malfoy’s shoulders sagged; his posture was suddenly not so proud. “How did you know I was in here?”

“I -” Harry faltered. Had he known? All he remembered was a sudden overwhelming urge to open that particular door, regardless of what might be behind it. He found himself looking at the box. He could smell the sea again, and a slow, unpleasant sensation crept up his spine. “I don’t know,” he said, echoing Malfoy. And I don’t think I want to.