Rating:
R
House:
Schnoogle
Characters:
Draco Malfoy Harry Potter
Genres:
Drama Slash
Era:
Multiple Eras
Spoilers:
Philosopher's Stone Chamber of Secrets Prizoner of Azkaban Goblet of Fire Order of the Phoenix Quidditch Through the Ages Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them
Stats:
Published: 09/02/2003
Updated: 06/01/2004
Words: 97,555
Chapters: 13
Hits: 86,243

Windfallen

Cinnamon

Story Summary:
A new Unforgivable is spreading like wildfire and only Harry Potter is immune to its power, and only he can soothe its effects. When Draco is hit by the curse and left for dead by his own side, a misguided sense of duty compels Harry to care for him, and in doing so, he learns more than he ever thought possible about nightmares, hatred, love, and above all, the true nature of forgiveness. Harry/Draco, semi-consensual Charlie/Harry, Ginny/Lucius, and Ron/Ginny. Post-Hogwarts, post OotP, and very dark.

Chapter 04

Chapter Summary:
A new Unforgivable is spreading like wildfire and only Harry Potter is immune to its power, and only he can soothe its effects. When Draco is hit by the curse and left for dead by his own side, a misguided sense of duty compels Harry to care for him, and in doing so, he learns more than he ever thought possible about nightmares, hatred, love, and above all, the true nature of forgiveness. Harry/Draco, semi-consensual Charlie/Harry, Ginny/Lucius, and Ron/Ginny. Post-Hogwarts, post OotP, and very dark.
Posted:
11/10/2003
Hits:
5,393

Windfallen

Chapter four: Disease


Do I care anymore - if there's a new beginning
The simple plan is broken
Every time it's given
I needed thrust and love but grab the hand of hate
To help me up again
To fuck me up again
Destroy all you see
Tattoo the world - change everything
Save the world for me...

Lucius did not like to laugh himself, but he liked to hear Ginny laugh. He did not like to dance but liked to watch her dance. He liked to see her clothed in silk, satin, and velvet, see her hair shine, liked it when she left it down and wild around her. He liked to feed her things she’d never tried before, liked the way her eyes widened when he did things to her he’d never done before, brought her to places she’d never before even dreamed were real. He liked to call her his flower, his blossom, his pet. He said she tasted like vanilla, the purest of tastes.

He kissed her, and every time he did, her eyes would flutter shut and she’d forget her old life completely, forget the poverty and the loneliness and how desperately she had wanted to be noticed and touched, cherished and worshipped as no one in the world seemed to want to, until Lucius. He kissed her and she closed her eyes, every time.

He kissed her and she screamed. Her eyes flew open and Ron’s flew open and they were so close and so similar that for a moment, Ginny thought she was looking into her own eyes in a mirror. He blinked; she didn’t. The illusion shattered and she flinched.

“Oh god,” Ron whispered. The words caused his lips to move against hers again and she scrambled away as quickly as she could. “I thought you were asleep—I mean, I wasn’t… wasn’t thinking, I… Oh god. Ginny, I didn’t mean to scare… I was just… I’m sorry, I wasn’t… I was going to whisper in your ear.”

Did she believe him? Ron’s ears turned red when he lied and just now, his entire face was burning. She stared at him, shocked, and her lips were tingling. She couldn’t tell if it was from memory or from Ron’s lips on hers.

“Okay,” she said faintly, accepting his excuse. He looked incredibly relieved.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said again, imploringly.

“Okay.”

He scrambled off the bed and backed towards the door. Ginny warily slipped back until she was curled against the pillow, quilt pulled up to her chin. “G-Ginny?” She closed her eyes and did not reply because she knew, instinctively, she did not want to hear what he had to say. “You taste like vanilla.”

And she wanted to die.

***

Harry woke up suddenly and sucked in a startled breath because he’d had the strangest dream. Malfoy was lying with his back to him and curled up in a tight ball, the way he always slept, and Harry stared at the place where his neck met his shoulder with a strange intensity as he struggled to remember the dream and why just looking at Malfoy disturbed him so.

And then he remembered what it was that was disturbing him and remembered that it wasn’t a dream and he flinched, sitting up with a faint moan.

They hadn’t kissed and they wouldn’t ever kiss and anyone who ever ever tried to say otherwise was mad and as crazy as Pansy when she’d suggested to him that he could ever love Draco Malfoy, who fought for the wrong side, who killed Harry’s friends, who worked for the man who had killed Harry’s parents.

But this Malfoy hadn’t done those things. This Malfoy couldn’t even get out of bed or say more than a sentence at a time. This Malfoy had paper-thin skin and eyes as dark as bruises and lips that were dry and chapped.

Harry could not kiss the Malfoy who killed and placed his loyalties blindly, but maybe he could kiss the Malfoy that let him touch him, hold him, whisper to him. The Malfoy that needed him. Other people had needed Harry before, but for much more complicated things than respite from nightmares and personal demons. They had needed him for salvation and for guidance and for hope. Hope was far too delicate a thing to be handled by Harry Potter, who had spent eleven years living in a closet. But human touch and respite from nightmares? He could give that. Even to Malfoy, who was everything Harry was supposed to hate. Did hate.

Malfoy rolled over and he smiled sleepily. He was not coherent, or he would have scowled or frowned. That sweet and small smile was very nearly Harry’s undoing, because he could kiss a boy who needed him as Malfoy did before, but he could love a boy that smiled at him like that.

Harry held his breath until Malfoy had drifted off to sleep again, and then he rolled out of bed, scrambling to get dressed and hurrying from the room.

Pansy was in the kitchen and she cast a cool glance at him over her shoulder before rummaging some more in the cupboard. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said.

“It’s your fault,” Harry snapped. “Power of suggestion, that’s all.”

She smirked. “Are you sure?” She didn’t even have to ask what he was talking about.

“Yes I’m sure!”

Closing the cupboard, Pansy shrugged. “Alright then, Potter. I’m having a shower, you’ve got towels in the bathroom, I trust?” She sauntered down the hall and into the bathroom without waiting for a reply.

He stared down the hall after her for a long moment before turning back towards the kitchen, feeling shaken and nervous. Running fingers through hair already wild and messy, Harry shook his head. “It’s contagious,” he mumbled, referring to Malfoy’s madness.

There was a knock on the door and his head snapped around. Staring at the door for a long moment, he let out a careful breath, his nervousness not decreasing any. No one could know that Pansy and Malfoy were there.

He opened the door a crack and peered out. It was Charlie, and Harry suddenly found himself wishing he hadn’t answered the door at all.

“Harry,” Charlie greeted. He looked like hell, face paler even than normal, hair standing on end and tangled from running his hands through it, eyes red and tired. “Can I come in?”

“Yes,” Harry replied, because it was his fault that Charlie looked like that. His fault Ron had the same haunted look in his eyes. His fault that Ginny had been taken at all.

Charlie came in and Harry excused himself and went down the hall to the bathroom. He used his wand to unlock the door and slipped inside.

It was steamy inside, and the mist swirled around him and fogged up his glasses. “Pansy?” he hissed. “It’s me.”

“Potter,” she drawled, not sounding at all distressed to find herself suddenly sharing a bathroom with him, despite the way she clutched the edge of the shower curtain. “What the hell do you want?”

“There’s someone here,” he told her. “Stay in here, no one can know you’re here, especially not Charlie. I’ll get rid of him, stay in here until I come and tell you it’s safe to come out, alright?”

“Whatever,” she said, not sounding all that inclined to obey, and Harry hoped fervently that she would.

His hair was beaded with water from the heavy mist in the bathroom when Harry returned to the living room, after having cast a silence charm around the door to mute the sound of the shower. Charlie was sitting on the couch, and he smiled warmly when Harry slipped into the room.

“I was in the neighbourhood,” Charlie said. “Thought I’d come by and see how you were doing.”

“I’m fine,” Harry said.

“You haven’t been on any missions since the new curse was discovered, have you?”

“None of us have, we’re focusing on finding a cure,” Harry told him.

“Mmm.” Charlie shifted a bit, seeming to look anywhere but at Harry. “I’ve missed you.”

Harry’s knees gave out and he fell onto the couch opposite him. “You have?” he said weakly, because he could not imagine that he would like where this conversation would lead.

“Yes.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath, and when Harry opened them, Charlie was sitting beside him, scanning his face worriedly. “Are you alright? You look ill.”

“I’m fine,” Harry said. He was trying to think of something to say that would make Charlie leave and yet not hurt his feelings, because Harry had hurt the Weasleys so badly already.

Charlie touched his face. “You look tired,” he said. “I haven’t been sleeping much myself. Ginny’s falling apart, I think it’s getting worse, not better. Ron’s terrified.”

Harry flinched. “I-I’m sorry,” he whispered. “It’s my fault.”

Charlie did not tell him it wasn’t, did not reassure him, did not forgive him. Only studied his face in silence and then leaned forward, and kissed him.

It was Harry’s fault. They had taken Ginny while she had been in Harry’s care, in his protection. He hadn’t been strong enough to keep her safe. And so Harry kissed him back, all the force of his desperate desire to make things different, make things better, deserve some sort of absolution for destroying the one family that had ever accepted him unconditionally, all of those things, mixed into the kiss and making him tremble.

“You’re shaking,” Charlie whispered, nuzzling him.

“I know.”

And then Charlie kissed his neck and Harry let him. Harry kept shaking, and now it was a mixture of guilt and terror that caused him to tremble, and he wanted to run, but a voice in the back of his mind kept telling him that he deserved this. Maybe if he submitted to this enough times, he would finally have done something worth being forgiven for. If Charlie needed this, Harry would give it.

But he was so scared.

He closed his eyes and held his breath, and Charlie didn’t notice. Harry flinched when Charlie pushed his shirt up over his head, because the sleeve of the shirt tore and the sound broke the silence so suddenly. He was breathing heavily, from panic and terror, but Charlie thought it was something else, and Harry held absolutely still.

Then he was lying on his back and Charlie was stretched overtop of him and Harry’s eyes were still closed. Charlie kissed his lips, his ears, his throat, and Harry didn’t move. And then Charlie’s hands were lower, struggling with Harry’s trousers, and Harry lifted a hand to his shoulder.

“Please,” he whispered, but the other word stuck in his throat. “Please, please, Charlie,” he sobbed, but Charlie didn’t understand. Harry was pushing at him weakly, and his eyes were filling up with tears and Charlie wasn’t listening, wasn’t looking. “Don’t,” Harry managed finally, hoarsely. “Please don’t, I can’t, I’m sorry, I --”

Charlie lifted his head, eyes wide and startled. “Harry?” he asked, worried. “Harry, what is it?”

Harry never got the chance to reply, even if guilt hadn’t closed his throat at that moment and made his head spin. How could he refuse Charlie this, after what Harry had cost him? After what he’d cost all the Weasleys? Tears ran down Harry’s face suddenly, a storm of them.

But there was a flash of light and a snap of energy as Charlie was torn off him and slammed into the far wall, cracking the plaster.

Harry was stunned and lay very still for a long moment, and then he sat up, very slowly.

Pansy was standing in the doorway, looking very satisfied, holding a wand in one hand. Malfoy was leaning heavily against the wall behind her, looking cold and pale and unreadable.

“What… what have you done?” Harry whispered, slowly turning to look at Charlie, who lay, unconscious, against the far wall.

“Deserved it, far as I can tell,” Pansy said easily, putting her wand away.

“Deserved it?” Harry cried. “I deserved it!”

“You told me if he touches you one more time, you’ll die,” Malfoy said very quietly, moving carefully into the living room. He looked stronger, though still very weak.

“Then I deserve to die!” Harry shouted. “You don’t understand, you don’t know! He needed me and it’s something I could give and I was willing to give it and I have to give it because if I give enough of myself to them, then maybe I’ll make up for everything!” Tears were still running down his face and he kept choking on his words.

“Didn’t look like you were willing to me.” Pansy was watching him blandly from the kitchen.

Harry shuddered and sucked in a deep breath. “God,” he whimpered, closing his eyes.

Malfoy touched him lightly on the shoulder and spoke very softly, so not even Pansy could hear. “You did nothing to them for which you should be made to pay, and certainly not that way.”

Opening his eyes and staring at Malfoy through a haze of burning tears, Harry slowly shook his head. “It was my fault that Ginny was taken and tortured and raped. It was my fault that Ron was injured in battle and can’t do magic anymore. It was my fault that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were killed.”

A slow and sharp smile spread over Malfoy’s face. “Raped and tortured?” he asked blandly. “Is that what Ginny called it?”

“Ginny hasn’t said a thing about it.”

“Nothing happened to that girl that was not consensual nor unrequited,” Malfoy said easily, even if he was panting a little from the effort it took to walk from the bedroom to the living room. “As for the rest of it…” He shrugged. “Weasley did not have to go into battle, you did not force him. And there are casualties in war. Arthur Weasley knew that when he picked the losing side.”

Before Harry could reply, Charlie moaned weakly and woke up. Harry turned to him and would have pulled away from Malfoy, who still had his hand on Harry’s naked shoulder, but the sudden fury in Charlie’s eyes made him freeze.

“Malfoy…” Charlie hissed.

Harry stepped away so suddenly that he nearly fell, and Malfoy’s hand slipped off his shoulder. It didn’t matter, Charlie had already seen.

“Well,” Pansy sneered from the kitchen. “That’s unfortunate.”

Charlie moved faster than a man who had just been thrown across the room should have been able to move. He did not attack Harry, nor Malfoy or Pansy, who both watched him, extremely interested in his reaction. Harry was terrified.

After Charlie had Apparated from the apartment, for one long moment, Harry stood there, his eyes tightly closed. Then, he said tightly, “You’ve got to go.”

“Go where?” Pansy snapped, coming in from the kitchen, an apple in her hand. “I’m not afraid of him.”

“He’s gone to the Ministry. You’ve got to go.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Malfoy said coldly. Harry spared an instant to wonder why they both seemed so intent on staying when they’d been fighting to go since they’d arrived.

“Besides, he won’t turn you in to the Ministry,” Pansy said reasonably. “You’re Harry Potter.”

“Percy disowned his entire family when he thought they’d done something wrong by going against the Ministry,” Harry snapped. “Any one of them would turn me in for harboring not only two enemies, but a Malfoy. Especially since Ginny was taken.”

“And what do you propose?” Malfoy sneered. “You’re just going to let us go and deny whatever Charlie says he saw? Honestly, Potter, they’ve got truth potions that’ll fix that soon enough.”

“They’ll have me charged as a spy,” Harry said quietly. He fetched the parchment that Pansy had signed and destroyed it. “I’ll stall them while you two get away.”

Pansy’s eyes were very narrow. “Why would you let us go and give yourself up so we have a chance?”

Glancing at Malfoy, Harry said, “Because I owe Malfoy a few favours.”

Malfoy was suddenly standing before him again, scowling. “You think you owe the entire world a fucking favour, Potter,” he snapped.

“Just get out of here!” Harry shouted. “They’ll be here any minute.”

Malfoy's jaw tensed with fury, and he walked away silently, going into the bedroom and returning a moment later, pale and out of breath. He was holding one of Harry's jumpers, and he jerked it over Harry's head roughly, covering his naked chest. Sudden tears flooded Harry's eyes and he pulled his arms through, hugging himself, sniffling a little. With a strange and dark glare in Harry’s direction, Malfoy hissed, “Don’t think I won’t be coming for you, Potter.” And then he grabbed Pansy’s hand and they both Apparated out of the flat.

***

The holding room at the Ministry of Magic for accused spies was a dismal place. Harry didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there, trying to explain himself to countless officials he’d never seen before, and he wondered almost distantly if Dumbledore would be able to get him out of this mess, or if he’d even bother to try.

There was a metal table on rickety legs in the center of the room, and three chairs, one occupied by him and the others, for the moment, empty. The walls were gray stone with cracked mortar, and the floor brown tile. There was a single door directly across from Harry, and he stared at it emptily. His wrists were shackled to the arms of the chair.

If one more person stared at him blankly and asked, “Why, Harry? Why?”, Harry was going to scream.

He knew that if he wasn’t Harry Potter and he’d been caught harboring Lucius Malfoy’s son, he’d have been executed by now.

None of the Weasleys had come to see him, but he had thought he’d heard Ron shouting a short while before. Whether in his defense or condemning him, Harry didn’t know.

The door opened, and Harry glanced up. It was Lupin, and Harry went cold all over.

“Harry,” his old professor greeted, looking solemn. “You’re the last person I would have expected trouble like this from.”

He tilted his chin defiantly and said, “I’m not a spy, if that’s what you mean. Whether you expected it or not, it’s not true.”

“Charlie Weasley said you knowingly allowed Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson in your apartment and attempted to distract him while they snuck out.”

“Is that what he called it?” Harry asked mildly. “An attempt at distraction?”

“What was it then?”

“Punishment.”

“Whose?”

“Mine.”

He sighed. “Harry. I want to help you.”

“Then get me out of here.” Harry shrugged as best he good while shackled to the chair. “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt our chances in the war, you know that.”

“I know that, Harry, but your record seems to point otherwise.”

“My fucking record.”

Delicately, Lupin said, “I know that you did not mean for Arthur and Molly to be put in harms way, Harry, because I know you. I know that you did not mean for Ginny to be taken while the two of you were alone together. And I know that you tried as best as you could to protect Ron in that battle. But the Ministry doesn’t know you, doesn’t know that you would never hurt them. And now this? Evidence is mounting against you.”

Harry wasn’t feeling quite so defiant now, with all his past sins thrown in his face that way. “Fuck the evidence,” he said, but his voice was weak. Was this just another part of his punishment? Maybe if he went along with this, confessed to this, it would give them enough to punish him for what he’d done to the Weasleys. Maybe then he’d be done paying.

“Harry. Why did you let Draco Malfoy into your home?”

Closing his eyes, Harry took a deep breath. “He’s an old friend,” he said, because he deserved death if that’s what they chose to give him. “He’s an old friend from school. I’ve been feeding him our secrets for months.”

“Liar,” Lupin snarled, and it was the closest Harry had ever seen him come to losing control while in human form. “Tell the truth, Harry, because this is your only chance. The Ministry feels that evidence is so strong against you that they can execute you without the benefit of Veritaserum. This is your one chance. Why did you let him into your home?”

Shaken, pale, Harry whispered, “Maybe I deserve to die. I deserve to be destroyed.”

“Why?” Lupin snapped. “What have you ever done to deserve this? I know you’re not a spy.”

Eyes burning, Harry opened them, saying desperately, “You don’t understand. I killed them. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Dead because I’m so stupid! I deserve to be destroyed for that. And for Ginny. And Ron. If they are going to use those things to convict me now, then I deserve it!”

“Harry. Listen to me. You did the best you could.”

“And it wasn’t enough!”

“No one could have saved them from the suffering they’ve undergone.”

“I’m not just anyone, I’m the Boy Who Lived. I’m a fucking hero. And look at all the suffering and death and pain I haven’t stopped! People look to me to lead them and I can’t even save my best friend from losing everything that ever mattered to him!”

“He still has you.”

“I’m the worst thing that ever happened to Ron,” Harry spat. “I deserve to die for it. For all of this.”

Controlling his frustration by breathing heavily through his clenched teeth, Lupin ground out, “People die in war, Harry, and people are hurt. That is the cost of war. And I will not let you be one of the casualties because of your own misguided guilt!”

“It’s not your choice,” Harry said quietly.

Lupin stared at him for a long moment and then stood abruptly. “Dumbledore will be in to see you before they take you.”

Harry stared at the table and didn’t reply until Lupin was almost at the door. “Thank you, Lupin,” he said softly. “For trying, anyway, and for being so convinced of my innocence.”

Lupin didn’t say another word.

When the door opened a while later, Harry didn’t bother looking up. “I’m not sorry,” he said, still staring at the table. “If you want me to cry and beg you to save me, I won’t.”

“Happy to hear it, Potter.”

His head snapped up; Pansy was standing in the doorway, looking vaguely amused. “Pansy? What the fuck are you doing here?” Harry cried.

“I’ve come to fetch you.” She smirked. “Had to kill a few people to get up here. Never saw it coming. I can be nearly invisible when I want to be.”

Harry wasn’t listening. “Where’s Malfoy? You left him alone?”

“My presence wouldn’t help him now, even if the curse took him.” She came into the room, closing the door behind her, and knelt beside him, using her wand to undo the tricky binding spells the Ministry had cast on him.

“Why did you come for me?” Harry asked her, after a long moment of silence during which she’d managed to free his wrists.

“He needs you.”

“Why?”

She spared him an irritated look. “Haven’t you figured it out yet, Potter? It’s Dementor magic. What’s the one defense for Dementor magic?”

Harry blinked. “Patronus.”

“Good boy,” she sneered. “And who is the strongest Patronus in our year? Or ever, even? You’re his.”

“What?” Harry whispered, as she freed his ankles. “I don’t understand. I’m his what?”

She snorted impatiently. “His Patronus. Not all of us are graced with memories meaningful enough to conjure up our own.”

Harry shook his head, still bewildered. “Surely there are those on your side who can cast the spell. Surely they would be just as effective. I don’t understand why you risked everything to free me.”

“There is no one else,” she told him, freeing one of his ankles. “That shouldn’t come as a surprised, you’re the Boy Who Lived. You’ve been one-of-a-kind since you were a baby. Surely you knew that. You survived the Killing Curse. Of course your touch would rekindle hope and all that rot.” She waved an airy hand. “There’s more to it than that, but really, now’s not the time. Has he told you what his nightmares are?”

“No.” Harry got to his feet.

“I know them and I will not abandon him to them. Are you coming, or do I have to bind and gag you?”

“I’ll come,” he told her, and she smiled brightly and took his hand, pulling a Portkey out of her pocket. It was a bedraggled teddy bear. Harry felt the familiar jerk in his stomach as he was torn from the holding cell, and he squeezed his eyes shut and did not open them until Pansy let go of his hand.

They were in what seemed to be a cavern, lit with oily torches in brackets that were attached to the stone walls, which glistened with moisture. He stood in a narrow chamber with a low ceiling and a passage way twisting off ahead.

“Where are we?”

“Don’t expect me to tell you all our secrets.” She tossed him a teasing smirk. “I heard you were a spy.” Motioning for him to follow, she led the way down the tunnel. “We’re underground, a secret location accessible only by Portkey, or by those who know exactly where we are. No one knows the exact location except for the Malfoys, and me, only because Draco told me.”

“Then Lucius Malfoy knows where this place is?” Harry asked in a panic.

“He won’t bother to come here. He’s disowned his son. What sort of self-respecting man wants an heir who’s lost his mind?” she said sarcastically. “Come on.”

Harry followed, still confused. “I still don’t understand what you meant. Why Malfoy needs me.”

“You’re a guiding light. Hope and forgiveness. A hero.” She tossed the words absently over her shoulder as they walked, and they echoed emptily in the caverns.

“But I don’t know how to be,” he whispered.

She turned and smiled, a strange and not at all pretty smile. “You don’t have to know how, you just are. Not even we are immune to your light.” It was said sarcastically, but Harry still felt moderately reassured.

She brought him into another cavern chamber, and Malfoy was lying on a bed there, asleep. He looked a great deal better already, though still weak. The dark shadows under his eyes had eased somewhat, and his breathing was more even, and not as light.

“The potions are beginning to heal his body and return his strength. Madness is draining,” Pansy told him. Harry was terrified; this was not the Malfoy he’d kissed or started to fall in love with, the fragile Malfoy who fell asleep in his arms every night. This was the Malfoy who killed and smiled while he did it, who called Hermione a Mudblood and made Ron want to commit murder. This was Lucius Malfoy’s son, and Harry suddenly felt incredibly stupid for having forgotten.

***

Her eyes were wide and Ginny wondered how long she’d been there, lying on her back and staring at the ceiling. She couldn’t remember. Things were getting twisted, a morbid montage of images and voices swirling together in some mad nightmare that she had suddenly realized was not a nightmare at all. It was Ron’s fault that he’d broken the fragile crystal world of memories she’d constructed around her for protection while she waited for Lucius to come for her. Everything was Ron’s fault. Everything.

She had been sleeping and he had come into her room and woken her. She hadn’t wanted to wake up; she had wanted to keep dreaming of Lucius’s voice and his hands on her. But Ron hadn’t cared.

“Ginny, Ginny,” he’d called, shaking her, and she’d woken. “You were having a nightmare,” he’d told her, stroking her hair.

He was her nightmare. “Don’t,” she’d snarled, scratching at his hand. He drew back and she could sense his fear.

“Ginny,” he’d begged. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

She was up and out of bed in an instant, hurrying towards the window. “I can’t do this,” she said, her mind snapping just a little. “I’ve got to go to him. I’ve got to go to him, he needs me. I’m his light. I laugh because he doesn’t know how.”

He’d caught her by her arms and held her when she twisted and struggled. “Draco Malfoy is nothing, how can you want to leave me—leave us—for him?”

She froze and turned slowly in his arms, until she faced him and was pressed against him, her face mere inches from his. “Draco?” she repeated blankly.

“We can forget it, Ginny. We can forget whatever happened, with Draco, with all of it. Forget it and be my little sister, please, please.”

She touched his face and frowned. “I told you. I told you, didn’t you listen? You didn’t listen. It wasn’t Draco. It was Lucius.”

Ron flinched, and she wondered if he had remembered that at all, or if he’d blocked it out. “No,” he told her. “He wouldn’t have hurt you. He’s… he’s old.”

She smiled up at him beautifully because he finally understood. “That’s right,” she said approvingly. “He wouldn’t have hurt me. He loves me.”

“What? Ginny. Ginny you’re fucking crazy,” Ron told her, and his voice trembled with the effort it took not to shake her, throw her against the wall, knock some kind of, any kind of, sense into her.

She snarled because she did not believe him, could not believe him. She wasn’t crazy, and loving Lucius was the only thing keeping her sane at the moment. Well, if this existence of suspended animation counted as sane. The fact that it depended on keeping memories perfectly preserved like a delicate snow globe around her sort of threw doubt on that. She tensed and started to panic. It wasn’t true, Ron wasn’t right. She wasn’t crazy. Lucius loved her. “Liar,” she hissed.

“If he loves you, why the fuck did he hurt you? You were bloody and broken when Harry found you! If he loves you, why has he destroyed you and twisted you this way?”

“He didn’t hurt me, that wasn’t him. It was V-Voldemort…” Her voice was tiny and sounding more lost by the moment.

“If he loves you, where the fuck is he now? Lazing about in Malfoy Manor like a fucking king while you waste away here like fucking Repunzel? He’s not here, Ginny, he’s not here, and I am, and I love you more than he ever fucking could! He hasn’t come for you. If he loves you, how could he ever let you go? Because I do, and I couldn’t let you go, not ever.”

She stared at him wildly, tears stinging in her eyes and then pouring down her pale cheeks. Sobbing low in her throat, she tried to pull away, twist out of his arms, do anything she could to get away from him and deny everything he was saying to her because it was not true. It couldn’t be true. Everything she was now, everything he had sculpted her to become, rested on the idea that he loved her. Worshipped her. She was his princess, his doll.

But he wasn’t here and Ron was and he hadn’t even bothered to come for her after Draco had stolen her away.

The foundations of crystal memories she’d built so carefully all around started to crack and then crumble, and she fell against Ron’s chest, sobbing brokenly, twisting her fists in his jumper.

Her mother had knitted it, she remembered. Had knitted it for Christmas the last Christmas she was alive.

“Shh,” Ron whispered, stroking her hair. “It’s okay, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

He carried her to her bed and lowered her carefully on it, kissing her face all over, kissing away her tears.

Ginny let him, because Lucius wasn’t there, and maybe he never had been.

***

Pansy left him in the chamber with Malfoy, and now that their roles had effectively been reversed and Harry was the one being held prisoner, he wondered why she hadn’t bothered to take his wand from him. And why she’d left him with Malfoy, who she was so desperate to protect. Harry could easily smother him in his sleep and then this entire thing would be finished.

He didn’t, though. Instead, he sat on the cold, stone floor, hooked his arms around his knees, and studied Malfoy while he slept, all the while wondering how much of Pansy’s mad theory Malfoy had heard, and if he agreed with any of it.

Because it was obviously untrue. It made no sense.

Harry also wondered, hesitantly, if he was disappointed that, when Malfoy had promised to ‘come for him’ before leaving his flat, it was, apparently, for no other reason than because Harry was the only relief for the curse.

He had a sudden image of following Malfoy around for the rest of his life, touching him every time madness threatened, and strangely, very strangely, it was not a panicky thought. It was rather comforting, somehow, because Malfoy didn’t let anybody touch him. Just Harry.

He thought about Lucius Malfoy, just a little bit. About what sort of father could disown his only son because of a madness that he had helped create? He worried about the other victims of the curse and wondered why he didn’t hate Malfoy for being an instrument in that curse. And he wondered, most of all, when Malfoy would wake up, and if he would remember their almost-kiss.

Harry was so lost in his thoughts about that almost-kiss, that he didn’t even notice when Malfoy did wake up, didn’t notice Malfoy watching him in silence, for almost ten minutes. And then he jumped a bit.

“Oh, Malfoy,” he said in a rush. “I thought you were still sleeping.”

Malfoy’s eyes looked better. Less glazed and hazy, more alert and sharp, the way Harry remembered from school. He sat up carefully, the blanket he’d been curled up under falling to the stone floor. “Potter,” he greeted, cocking his head and smiling strangely. “She got to you before they had you executed, then?”

“I don’t understand why she wasted the time,” Harry said quietly. “I deserved it.”

“Then why did you bother to come? You could have fought, brought the Ministry down on her before she could escape.”

He glanced at Malfoy and then away quickly. “Because maybe there’s something I can do other than give my life to make up for all the pain I have caused.”

Laughing softly, coldly, Malfoy sneered, “And what would that be?”

“Save you.”

There was a strange silence, and then Malfoy was walking from the chamber. “I don’t need you to save me, Potter.”

He was gone before Harry could reply, but Harry shouted after him anyway. “Then why the hell did you bring me here?”

Malfoy’s strange laughter was the only reply.

Harry certainly wasn’t going to go running from the chamber after Malfoy. He certainly wasn’t going to follow the stupid prat around shouting at him. The madness had obviously begun affecting Malfoy even in his lucid moments.

So he waited three minutes before taking off at a run down the tunnel.

He followed the sounds of Pansy and Malfoy’s voices, into a chamber where they were seated at a wooden table with candles floating up near the stone roof and casting a soft glow. Pansy was forcing Malfoy to eat, offering him apples and grapes, with pumpkin juice to drink, and Malfoy was teasing her and laughing. Apparently he was feeling better.

Harry stalked into the room and instantly, the teasing atmosphere changed. He didn’t care. “Right,” he snapped. “Now someone can tell me just why the fuck you both felt it imperative to bring me here.”

“Better than letting them kill you,” Malfoy said blandly, taking a bite of his apple. “I’d have thought you’d be grateful.”

“You’ve never done anything in your entire fucking life for anyone that did not have something in it for you, Malfoy.” Harry scowled.

“Of course there’s something in it for me. You may have noticed, but I’m rather cursed at the moment.”

“You told me just a minute ago that that isn’t why I’m here,” Harry cried, frustrated. “You told me you don’t need me to save you!”

“Well, I don’t,” he said, shrugging. “I need you to do much more than that.”

“Right, you’re going to have to start at the beginning, I’m not a fucking mind-reader. What are you talking about?”

It was Pansy who answered. “There’s an unforeseen complication with the curse,” she said, looking, for the first time, uncomfortable. “A long-term effect. We didn’t test it long enough to know it would happen before we used it.”

“What long term effect?” Harry looked at Malfoy in panic, as if he could see the effect there, on his face. He couldn’t.

“It’s contagious.”

Harry felt a rather cold shock run through him, and he stared at her for a long moment. Everything, including the candlelight, seemed to freeze. And then, hoarsely, he whispered, “What do you mean, contagious?”

“I mean that everyone who comes into contact with the victim, sometime in the near future, experiences the same symptoms. Everyone. Except you.” She looked at him meaningfully, and then at Malfoy. “Draco hasn’t contaminated you. I was contaminated before I came for him. The difference between first-hand victims, those who were hit with the curse, and those they infect, is that the second-hand victims begin experiencing the effects gradually, and they get worse with each passing day. I’ve been taking the potions since the beginning, so I’m barely affected, yet. But it’s getting worse.” She shrugged and looked away, and there was an uneasy silence.

“It affects everyone?”

“Everyone on our side who had any contact with the test subjects. Those infected never stop being contagious, and the number coming down with the symptoms is expanding exponentially by hundreds an hour. Most don’t even realize they’ve been infected for days after they have contact with a victim. It’s an epidemic, and it will, slowly but certainly, affect every man, woman, and child.” Her voice was quiet, and she couldn’t meet Harry’s eyes.

“What sort of contact?” Harry whispered.

“Touching, even brushing shoulders.”

“Everyone will catch it?”

“Everyone but you.”

He flinched and didn’t speak; no one did. Malfoy was watching his face carefully for a reaction, and Harry didn’t know what sort of reaction he was qualified to give. Fury won out. “You set this loose on everyone. Everyone’s going to lose their fucking minds and you and your stupid fucking allies just randomly let this thing lose because it was easy? You didn’t even know this was going to happen, did you? You just condemned the entire world to being trapped in their fucking nightmares forever without a fucking cure and all because of… of arrogance? Of wanting purebloods to be superior? The curse doesn’t care who’s pureblood or not, it’s going to attack everyone, and now you’re telling me that there’s no cure?”

“There is a cure,” Malfoy said quietly. “You.”

There was another silence, as Harry stared blankly at him, and then Pansy broke it, saying dryly, “And for the record, Potter, for someone who claims not to know how to be a hero, that was a very heroic speech.”

“You let this thing out and it’s preying on every innocent person in the world and now you want me to stop it?” Harry said shakily, ignoring Pansy. “How?” His voice sounded incredibly small.

Malfoy ran a hand through his hair, looking, for the first time, unsure. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Fuck,” Harry hissed, squeezing his eyes shut. “Why me, though? Why hasn’t it gotten me yet?”

“We don’t know that either,” Malfoy told him. “Just that you’ve been exposed to it a number of times and have no symptoms. And you haven’t, had you? Had any symptoms, I mean.”

“Of nightmares, or insanity?” Harry said faintly, remembering the almost-kiss. “Or both?”

“Either.”

“This entire thing is a nightmare,” he said, after brief consideration.

“You know what I mean.”

“No. Nothing.” Harry turned away. “Why? Why wouldn’t I— I mean, Dementors affected me worse than anyone in third year. Why would I be immune now?”

“I’m not sure,” Malfoy said, studying him. “But it’s got something to do with the Patronus.”

“And that’s why you brought me here. To figure it out.”

“Yes.” Malfoy smiled a little, a slight smile that flickered over his lips and unnerved Harry considerably. But he was looking tired again, and he grimaced. Pansy leapt to her feet and scolded him soundly, forcing him back into his bedchamber.

While they were gone, Harry took an apple that Pansy had left on the table and studied it, deep in thought. If what Pansy had said was right, then the plague would spread slowly, not counting those who were the carriers, the ones hit by the curse. So they had time. But that also meant that Dumbledore was affected, the families of those hit at the battle he’d been at, the nurses and doctors and anyone any of those people had touched since. It had been days. Even if they weren’t feeling the full-force of the symptoms now, they would be, soon enough.

Pansy came back and watched him from the opening to the cavern. Without looking up, he said, “If I do this, if I find a cure somehow, will you take it and use it on your side and leave my side to die?”

She snorted. “Don’t be stupid. They’d just infect my side all over again. Besides, I don’t care about sides or war or any of this. I just don’t want Draco to be left to his nightmares. He is my side. Nothing else matters.”

Harry studied her. “You love him.”

“It’s very easy to do,” she said simply, before walking away.


Author notes: The song lyrics at the beginning of this chapter come from Sevendust's song Disease. This entire chapter is dedicated to Meghan, who I forgot to mention in my last chapter, and thus hope to get her to forgive me here. Special thanks to my betas, as always.