The Ultimate Revenge

The Ultimate Revenge
Chapter Two: Conversations with the Dead

And they've seen better days,
But sometimes they slowly die,
And you celebrate their lives by
Walking on their graves.
- Anika Moa, Harry and Leena's Song.

His heart beat in his chest so hard it hurt. He was tired, so tired, and wouldn't it be nice to just curl up here and go to sleep? He couldn't convince himself to care that there were bodies on the floor.

Dead.

He shook his head, as if trying to shake the fatigue loose. He had things to do, things that couldn't wait for a nap, never mind that his hands were shaking and his chances of being able to stand were small.

The room was small and dank, decorated twenty years ago and hardly touched at all since then. There were no windows, and the solitary light bulb was covered with the mouldering remains of a lampshade that might have once been orange, once. The bulb was probably blown, anyway, but he couldn't find the switch. Moot point. The light was still good enough to see Peter Pettigrew's body, twisted into shapes that no man should ever take. Peter had never figured out that it was unwise to switch sides in front of your master. He'd learnt quickly.

Dead, dead, dead.

Harry touched the body that had been Mr. Riddle's almost half a century ago, before his son had dug it up again to use for his own purposes. The body was cold, and Harry was hardly surprised. Voldemort had forsaken his father's body long before he'd been willing to surrender his immortal soul.

Harry spent a few minutes thinking very hard, his hands hovering over his fallen enemy's cold body. He had almost hoped that it would not come to this, although he had always known that the alternative was his death.

Everybody dies, he told himself. Voldemort had been living on stolen life, and Harry had simply taken that away from him. That didn't make Harry a murderer, did it?

The Death Eaters were not going to be very happy with him. That went without saying, but Harry said it anyway, listening to the sound in the small rooms. He imagined that he can hear the sound push against the sagging walls, being sucked through the wallpaper that was neither damp nor dry, and into the walls of this little house.

Concentrate.

Neville's parents had lost their minds because the Death Eaters (Bellatrix, that whore) believed the Longbottoms knew where Voldemort was. Harry wouldn't wish such a fate on anybody. The Death Eaters would be coming for him, soon.

They'd find Ron and Hermione, and use them. Torture them, until they lost their minds too.

He let out a ragged breath, and his heart rattled in his chest. He reached up, and began carefully pulling out hairs.

Draco's mind was racing. He couldn't believe it. He couldn't. He wasn't crazy, was he? He knew crazy; he'd seen the insanity shining in his aunt's eyes before she had thrown herself on the Aurors. No, he wasn't crazy.

Which meant that the man standing in front of him, looking bemused and a little concerned, really was Harry Potter.

Fuck!

Potter frowned down at him, reaching up to knuckle his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

"Are you all right, Malfoy?" he asked, managing to look genuinely concerned. "You look a bit pale...."

Draco swore that he heard a hastily cut off 'er,' at the end of that sentence. Bastard. Pale was fashionable, not that Potter would know that. Potter's dress sense had definitely not improved in seven years. His tan cloak didn't quite hide dark red pants and a long-sleeved shirt in a virulent shade of green, and.... What am I doing? thought Draco. I don't care about Potter's clothes! Potter!

He glared up at Potter, ruffling one hand through the grass he was sitting on absent-mindedly. "Oh, yes, Potter," he snapped. "I'm just fucking fine. My dead enemy has turned up to taunt me with stupid questions, but I'm just dandy."

"Might have said... might have told...." Potter muttered to himself, his frown deepening. Then he spoke up. "But... Neville must have told you." It sounded like a statement, but Draco could hear the edge of doubt underneath.

"Longbottom?" replied Draco. The ground was wet, and he could feel the moisture seeping through his trousers, but he resisted the urge to get up. He was not going to go bouncing around like a Puffskein in front of Potter. And one of his legs was going to sleep. "What's he got to do with this?"

Potter gave him a peeved look. "Neville's my Secret Keeper," he said, rubbing a hand through his hair, mussing it even more than it already was. "Didn't Dumbledore tell you anything? The note he gave you, that was written by Neville." He paused, shaking his head and making a tuft of hair that was sticking almost straight up sway ridiculously. "Bloody Dumbledore. So... what's the message?"

Draco couldn't help but stare. "Potter," he said. "I haven't seen Dumbledore..." Not since he gave me the title to Grimmauld Place, he thought, but Potter probably wouldn't understand that. "...in three years."

Harry froze, gaping at Draco, and when he spoke his voice was small and tight. "Dumbledore didn't send you with a message?"

Draco rolled his eyes, trying to ignore an itch forming behind his left ear. "No," he replied.

Harry looked startled. "And you haven't seen Neville, have you?" he asked. "Or got any mail from him, or anything?"

"Not even a Howler, Potter."

Potter had taken something out of his pocket and was tapping it with his finger. For a moment, Draco thought it was a spinning top like the one he'd had when he was two, but he quickly realised that it was a Sneakoscope, albeit the strangest one he'd ever seen. Potter held it up to his ear, and then stretched it out towards Draco and shook it again.

Draco paused in the act of stretching his almost-asleep leg out in front of him to glare at Potter, who ignored him to scrub at the Sneakoscope with the cuff of his cloak, and then peer at it suspiciously. Potter probably had plenty of reason to be suspicious of everybody, but Draco didn't care. He felt vaguely insulted.

He let himself down carefully, letting out a tiny 'oof,' as he did so, and suddenly found himself on the receiving end of Potter's glare. Draco scowled right back.

"So you've not had any contact with my Secret Keeper, but you can see me? I don't believe you." Potter no longer looked scared, or startled. He looked angry, and Draco found himself thinking of the expression Potter had worn in Umbridge's office that day in fifth year. "What have you done to Neville?"

Draco barely heard Harry. His own mind was too busy to pay attention. I haven't seen him, I know I haven't. But... I can see Potter. That's not right. He strained to remember seventh year Charms. A Fidelius Charm is strong binding magic. It cannot be broken unless the Secret Keeper willingly divulges the information or....

The Secret Keeper is killed. Fuck.

Fuck? It's Longbottom! You. Don't. Care.

"Malfoy. Malfoy! What have you done to Neville?"

"I haven't done anything to your precious Longbottom," he snarled. "But somebody else might have."

Potter's eyes widened almost comically. "Fuck," he whispered, unconsciously echoing Draco. He scrabbled in his pockets for a moment, dragging out a wand that looked like it had belonged to a Weasley or three before Potter had got his hands on it. Draco watched as Harry pointed the wand at his own forehead. He tensed, wondering what Potter was about to do, but Potter just whispered "Evanesco."

Draco frowned, wondering what the point of that had been, and the frown only deepened when he realised that Potter's grubby wand was now pointed at him. "Potter...." he growled, trying not to flinch away.

"Petrificus totalus," said Potter, and Draco tried to swear at him. His jaw wouldn't move. Bastard! He tried to move his legs, to get up, but only succeeded in making himself rock a fraction. He began to run through an internal litany of curses, some of which would have made even that foul-mouthed Weasley gasp and cover his ears.

Potter gave him an appraising look, and then disappeared with a crack.

Draco fumed. What right did Harry bleeding Potter have to petrify him, Draco Malfoy, in the middle of a public graveyard, while he went tromping off on an errand that could take who knew long to come back from?

If Potter came back. What if he'd just run off and was going to leave Draco here to wait until somebody wandered along to end the charm? Fucking, fucking Potter, thought Draco, squirming desperately. His ear was really itching now and his leg was still asleep and this was beginning to become really uncomfortable.

He tried yelling, and after a few minutes, screaming, but nothing would come out and he was starting to ache with the effort of trying to break restraints that weren't even there. I hate Harry Potter, he thought, and then mentally swore as he slowly tilted backwards and, unable to help himself, fell backwards.

Well, if this doesn't just cut the bloody mustard. He was lying on his back now, his face fixed into a glare that was currently pointed towards the overcast sky. His legs were stuck out stiffly at an odd angle, and as the wind brushed across his backside he realised that it was most definitely wet from sitting on the damp ground.

Draco was going to hex Harry Potter all the way to next bloody Sunday. If he every saw Potter again. He was going to use every jinx and curse he knew, and the best thing was that it didn't matter that he wasn't going to be a model citizen, because Potter was dead. Legally. Potter couldn't report him. Nobody else could see Potter.

Perfect.

There was a crack, and suddenly Draco could hear Potter laughing at him. Bastard. But he'd come back, and he was laughing, which probably meant that Neville Longbottom was absolutely fine.

Not that Draco cared.

Potter's face appeared suddenly as he leaned over Draco, and Draco wanted to reach up and strangle him. He didn't need a wand. Bare hands would suffice, but he couldn't use either.

"Comfy there, Malfoy?" inquired Potter, grinning maliciously.

Take it off me, you fucker, Draco thought, trying to send his thoughts out to Potter.

Potter sighed. "Finite incantatem," he said, flicking his wand at Draco's midsection. Draco struggled up immediately until he was standing upright, one hand scratching madly at his ear while the other went for his wand.

"You utter fuck!" he hissed. "What the hell did you do that for?" He tried to surreptitiously stretch his sore legs.

Potter gave him a surprised look. "I don't trust you to stay put," he said, like he was stating the obvious.

"You didn't have to fucking petrify me!"

"Would you have stayed here if I hadn't?" snapped Potter, and Draco drew himself up short. Of course I would have, he wanted to answer, but he knew that was a lie. Why in Merlin's name was he reluctant to lie to Potter? He'd done it so many times at Hogwarts. What was different now?

You've gotten used to being good, answered an insidious little internal voice. You like it.

You want to impress Potter.

Draco shoved that thought away hard. Malfoys weren't good. Nor did they care. It was patently ridiculous....

"How's your family, Malfoy?" said Potter. Why was Potter so good at surprising him?

And what sort of stupid question was that? He looked at Potter, really looked, and saw that he looked sort of ashamed, although Draco was damned if he knew why. "Dead," he answered. "All of them." As you well know, thought Draco, staring beyond Potter to his family's mausoleum. He'd been reciting their names to himself only half an hour ago.

"Oh," said Potter, who had progressed to embarrassment. "Sorry," he muttered, staring at his feet, and all of a sudden Draco felt inexplicably sad. Stop it, he said to himself. You're not going to start mourning them now.

He fumbled for something to say, and blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Weasley and the Mudblood are better actors than I thought."

"Don't call her that," said Potter in a way that seemed almost automatic. Then the words sank in, and Potter's response was amazing. His head snapped up and his eyes shone as he leaned towards Draco, his whole taut. "You've seen Ron and Hermione?" he asked, his voice thick.

"Not since your funeral," replied Draco. Potter's hung his head. "Don't tell me they don't know that you're alive?" He was astonished. Those three had always done things together. Draco would have assumed - had assumed - that they were in on Potter's little secret. Except that they clearly weren't, given the way he was acting.

Potter looked sombre. "I did it for their sakes, you know," he said distantly. He swallowed, hard. "If I hadn't... if I hadn't, you and your lot would have gone after them."

Draco stared at Potter. "What a lot of utter bullshit, Potter," he said. Harry gaped at him. "You faked your own death to protect them from a bunch of people you could have beaten with your wand-hand behind your back?" He paused a second. "Typical melodramatic Gryffindor," he added, because the 'your lot' had stung, although he would never admit it.

For a moment Potter looked like he was going to explode, and Draco felt like crowing happily, but all too quickly his expression became bewilderingly calm. "You went to my funeral?" he asked gently.

It took Draco a moment to understand what Potter was trying to ask. "Don't make anything of it, Potter," he said.

"Was it... nice?"

"No. Not really," said Draco, trying to remember six years ago. "It was... well. Most of the people there were miserable for one reason or another. Probably because everyone else was so happy. Dumbledore said a nice little bit about you, and then Weasley... Ronald said something, and then... what's his name, older Weasley, works for the Ministry... Parsley? Came up and told us that your ashes would be interred in the Ministry of Magic. Great honour, and all that. End of funeral."

Potter sniffled loudly, and it was Draco's turn to gape. Was Potter crying? Potter sniffled again, and then looked up at Draco. There were no tears in his eyes, and Draco didn't know whether to be impressed or dismayed.

"I need you to come to Neville's with me," Potter said softly, running his hand through his hair again.

"What!?" said Draco, taking a hasty step back. "Bugger off!"

"Why not?" replied Potter. He sounded as petulant as he looked, but he grimaced soon afterwards. "You shouldn't be able to see me, but you can. I want to know why."

"And you're going to let Longbottom poke at me until he can figure it out? Not going to fucking happen, Potter. I've seen what he's like at magic, remember. He'll turn me into a goat!"

"You know something, don't...." He went for his wand even before he'd finished, but Draco had been waiting for it, and his own was out quicker.

"Expelliarmus!" he hissed, and smirked when Potter's wand zoomed out of his hand and off into the distance.

He gave Potter one last glare and stalked off, sliding his wand into his pocket as he walked.

"Malfoy!" yelled Potter. Draco didn't bother to look back until it was too late: Potter was lunging at him. Draco tried to duck, only succeeding in putting his head directly in the path of Harry's outstretched hand.

"Argh!" Potter barrelled into him heavily, knocking him over. They landed heavily, Potter's elbow driving into Draco's side as Draco twisted precariously to shove the meat of his thumb into Potter's cheekbone.

Potter struggled to get off him. The air had been knocked out of Draco's lungs and he tried to take a gasping breath as the world shifted without warning.

There was the brief and all-too-familiar sensation of hurtling along a Floo passageway, and then Draco felt his backside connect with hard cobblestones, shortly followed by his shoulder and then his already-sore head. He swore. "Get off me, Potter," he gasped, simultaneously trying to push Potter away and clamber out from underneath him.

Potter looked as if he had been punched where it hurt as he rolled off Draco, who snarled as Potter put all of his weight on Draco's arm in the process. "Ow, Potter! Fuck!" he said, struggling to stand.

"What...?" murmured Potter distractedly, lying on his back and rubbing at his elbow.

"The Field kicked us out, Potter. Thanks to your brilliant move, there." They were in the tiny courtyard in front of the tall gates to the Field of Bones. He sauntered over to them trying to surreptitiously rub life back into his hip. He shoved a palm against the gates, swearing copiously when they wouldn't open. "And... fuck, Potter," he added, remembering. "You've lost me my flowers! Arsehole."

"Flowers!" snapped Potter, who had managed to get up onto his knees. "My wand's in there!"

Draco snarled at him. As if he cared about Potter's bloody wand. He'd spent the last seven years envisioning the conversation he'd have with Potter if he ever saw him again, and it had not been like this. At all. Potter hadn't changed in the slightest. He still expected everyone to obey him.

Well, Draco wouldn't stand for it. He wasn't going to stay and let Potter drag him off to be treated like Longbottom's own personal pincushion. Or worse, Longbottom's cauldron. He drew himself up to Disapparate, his wand already swinging, when Potter's head snapped up, looking straight at him with hatred in his eyes.

Draco almost faltered, but the magic was already taking hold of him. He felt himself stretch, groping for Grimmauld Place, and hardly noticed when Potter lifted his hand, pointing it directly towards Draco. Nor did he hear clearly as Potter snapped, "Obliviate!"

The magic finally snapped with a loud crack, dragging Draco with it, and his last thought was that he hadn't found Grimmauld Place yet.

Where was he going?