Retribution

There was a certain staleness in the air that Draco Malfoy needed to crinkle his noise at. He couldn't quite place what it was. He had smelt Muggle antiseptics before but never ones that had magic mixed in them to overpower more than just simple muggle germs. He was quite certain, however, that the white washed walls of St Mungo's looked impeccably clean.

*

Draco had been waiting outside room 4D, ward 7, for about three hours now. He stood up from the plastic chair outside the room and began pacing again. The others had already left the room by then; only the guard outside remained though he never once looked at the young man as he walked back and forth. Draco had made sure that he would arrive precisely after everyone had left; he didn't want anyone seeing him here, though most of them thought he was dead anyway. A few who knew he wasn't didn't care to know what he had gone through to stay alive in the end.

He looked back into the small window in the door at the shrunken frame of Harry Potter lying on the crisp hospital sheets, a far cry from a proper bed. The bruises hadn't cleared off his face yet and locks of his hair had been burnt. Draco almost cursed out loud. His anger, which had come and gone dramatically in the past three hours, rose in his chest again and he stared hard through that slim porthole at the boy on the bed.

He pressed his hands against the closed door. What was the point? He wanted to howl at anyone that would stop to hear. He wanted to pick up the thin body inside the room and shake him and ask him and make him explain why he had to go through what he did. He wanted to tear at his chest and add to those running stains and make him talk. Let him know what no one knew. No one had the slightest idea. With Dumbledore dead, no one would ever know now.

The cold of the door began making his sweating palms go numb. He leaned his head against the small window, his hair falling down the sides of his face and sticking to his forehead and cheek. He moved away only when he realised the small of his back was getting cold as his tattered shirt had ridden up a little. He turned back to the chair and picked up his worn, Muggle jacket. He leant back against the wall next to the chair and shut his eyes, his mind drifting to moments he thought he had forgotten. He could almost hear the words that Dumbledore had said to him two years ago, as he stood in mock distaste in his office, echo down the hall. Those words that got him to where he was now.

*

"You know, Draco," Dumbledore had begun, moving behind his desk to sit down. "You are an exceptional student."

Draco smirked and took a seat in front of the aged wizard. What did this old sod have to say?

"Lately however, it appears your marks have been dropping considerably." Dumbledore stopped to look at him and Draco opened his mouth incredulously but was cut off. "It has also been brought to my attention, your new interest within the Dark Forest," Dumbledore continued, abruptly. He raised his chin and looked at Draco from behind his spectacles. "Perhaps this is what is distracting you from your studies?"

Draco shifted in his seat uncomfortably, but only for a moment. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Headmaster. What proof do you have?" He paused for a moment. "And excuse me, but are you accusing me of breaking school rules? I am a prefect. My father will here about this."

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair. "Now, now, Draco. You are not on trial here. You do understand that as the headmaster of this school I have a duty of care over my students."

Draco nodded stiffly.

"Is there something you want to tell me, Draco?" Dumbledore moved forward and placed his elbows on the desk. He looked intently at this student.

Draco tried hard not to look away. Instead, he looked directly back at Dumbledore's eyes and realised his mistake in doing so.

"No, Headmaster." Draco looked away, his lie painfully obvious. "I don't."

Dumbledore leaned even further in, the ever apparent twinkle in his eye shining brightly again.

And so it began.

*

The guard outside the door made a look of slight annoyance. Draco's timed tapping of his nails on the plastic arm of the chair had been going on for the past twenty minutes. The boy obviously did not notice this as he gazed into the empty white wall opposite him, as if he could find his answers within those cracks of paint. The guard cleared his throat loudly and caused Draco to sit bolt up, shaking his head out of it. He placed his face in his hands.

A nurse walked past and he tried to stop her. In his mind he had asked her, clearly, "How long can I stay here?" but judging by the fact that she kept walking and did not turn, he had just stared at her blankly.

Unnoticed, he still moved his hand as if waving her away as he turned back towards the door. This time he simply stood and stared at the door handle, unable to open it and face the truth inside. He glared at the handle. He was not such a coward.

*

Draco Malfoy, the only direct heir of the Malfoy name, to the Malfoy estate, to all the marks that the Malfoys must bear, was kneeling at the feet of the Dark Lord. He could feel the coldness of the wizard reach out across the room and along the floor, making his knees stiffen. He didn't dare look up, but rather kept his head bowed.

"Your father has served me well," Voldemort hissed. "I am assured that you will too."

It was not said as a statement of encouragement and Draco had a sudden feeling like someone drawing ice down his neck. It almost seared.

He had screamed loudly that night. No one was ever expected to be able to take the Mark silently. If they did, Voldemort knew he could not trust them. Such strength and will power was not required of a Death Eater, only a blind loyalty, which was proven in agreeing to take the Mark, not the act itself, it being only a brand.

Draco lay on a cold and uneven floor panting long after the others had left. His father did not treat him any differently than the other Death Eaters. He picked himself up eventually, knowing he shouldn't be proud that there had not been any tears in his eyes, but feeling that way anyway. He winced as he drew his robes back on, covering up his bloodied arm.

He stepped out of the room, face set. Draco had never suffered the spell of Crucio before but he knew that it would not compare to this. He turned on his heel and cowardly, as he believed at that time, went to tell Dumbledore that it was done.

*

Draco twisted the silver, round handle on the door and stepped into the room. He didn't look at Harry as he turned and closed the door behind him. The guard had not said a word; Draco was beginning to doubt his reliability.

He finally turned to face Harry, lying in that bed. He could see the scars clearer now, painfully so. The bruises on his neck were clear, the nurse had placed spells on them to heal quickly but Draco could tell they were deep. The boy looked like he had lost a few pounds but he couldn't have. The magic was simply drained out of him, Draco could see it in his face; it looked unusually soft. Most of the scars were being healed appropriately though Draco could see the tip of one on Harry's shoulder as his gown had slipped a little. It looked fresh; he guessed Harry wanted a keepsake, like the still present lightning bolt wasn't enough.

He stood at the edge of the bed and it took all his energy not to sneer outright at this damaged body. Draco couldn't remember a time when there had been such a passionate look of hate on his face as there was now towards Harry. For a moment the thought almost scared him. He sat down in the empty chair next to Harry and finally took his eyes off him.

The room had the expected air of moroseness. In such a short time, right after the battle, it was impractical to assume that Granger or a Weasley had time to make it look good. There was a vase of flowers but he could tell they were hastily picked or transfigured from something else. A few chocolate frogs and other, trivial get-well gifts were scattered around, looking very out of place.

Draco would have been surprised if the room was anywhere near cheerful; the Weasley's were mourning a loss of their own. Their dear daughter Ginny had died in a final backdoor mission for a few remaining Death Eaters that were escaping the final battle. Draco had always known it would be her and not one of the boys that would die for Potter in the end. He had gone so far as to mention it to Dumbledore and seen the confirmation in his face. He had known it too, but, as usual, had done nothing to prevent it from taking place. Not that Draco cared. None of the others had seen it, what he could see in her eyes, not that she'd ever known what he saw.

The second time that Draco Malfoy had ever spoken to Ginny Weasley had, initially, been much the same as the first.

*

"Leave him alone," Ginny said, much stronger than when she had been a small first year.

Draco turned from a snarling Harry to the red head, so different from her companions. She would have done excellently in Slytherin, unlike her brothers, if only she hadn't been a Weasley.

"Or you'll do what?" he said to her face. They stared at each other and for a second Draco could see a small flutter of realisation cross her face and eyes. She stopped giving him a look of contempt and it changed to fascination. They say she had seer ability. He hadn't known, at the time, whether it was true.

Harry stepped in at this point. "Just bugger off, Malfoy."

Draco turned to Harry, a little taken back by his non-verbal confrontation with Ginny. Harry saw the look on his face and narrowed his eyes a little, misinterpreting it. "I said, bugger off." He repeated it a little too forceful than usually necessary.

Draco got a hold of himself but didn't say anything. He cursed inwardly instead. He sneered once more at Harry, who now had an undeniably angry and hurt look on his face that Draco didn't even want to begin to place.

He turned and left. Ginny never said a word. Well, not to him, in any case.

*

Sitting in this new position, Draco was somewhat leveled with Harry's sleeping figure. He finally looked back on him from this angle. He could see that his eyelids were moving, his eyes racing underneath. He must be dreaming. Draco wondered momentarily what he could be dreaming of; probably the final battle, or something equally as dark. Draco shut his eyes again, not wanting to know all of a sudden. He had three very dark memories that he could recall, only three to which everything else paled in comparison. One of them involved Harry Potter. He didn't want to know if they shared this same thought.

What felt like hours passed while Draco sat hunched forward in that chair, his face a mask of concentration. He noticed a vein on Harry's arm and his eyes travelled along it, looking at the bruises that decorated the path. Bruises that were well deserved, he thought, bruises that were a payment for what those arms had left on his pale, white skin.

*

Rough hands pushed Draco from the back and he stumbled, crashing into the wall. He was glad no one else was in the hallway. He turned quickly and drew out his wand, but Harry was already half pressed up against him, wand pointed at his throat.

"Why were you looking at Ginny like that the other day?" Harry almost spat at his face.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Potter," Draco said simply. "Why don't you ask her yourself?"

Harry narrowed his eyes but there was an obvious look of confusion on his face. Draco almost kicked himself; sometimes he wondered whether he really did want Potter to find out.

"What do you mean by that, Malfoy?" Harry asked, his lips barely moving.

Draco shifted uncomfortably as Harry's knee pressed into his thigh and his arm firmly on his chest, keeping him effectively against the wall. "If you can't even keep control of your own girlfriend, Potter, how can you possibly think you'll be able to win this war? Even if it is that slut, blood traitor Weasley."

Harry's hand reached up to Draco's neck, slamming his head against the wall, causing him to shut his eyes to try and shake off the jarring in his head. "Take that back, Malfoy. And she's not my girlfriend."

"Oh, she isn't?" Draco said, trying not to wince under the pain. "Could have fooled me. Then, she has had the whole school."

Draco could feel the spot on his neck where Harry's nail dug in deeply as he gripped even harder. He was sure blood would be drawn from the wound soon enough if Harry were allowed to continue.

"Although, so have you," Draco opened his eyes finally and looked right at Harry. A bead of sweat was forming on his temple. Draco had never seen such anger. Yet Harry didn't make a move.

"Not everyone," Harry said, his grip loosening.

Draco sneered and didn't answer directly to what Harry implied. "Fuck off, Potter."

"No, Draco. You're wrong. And didn't you once tell me that Malfoy's never lie?" Harry grinned darkly and his knee slid from against Draco's thigh to in-between his legs. "You obviously have to stay true to your words."

Draco tried to struggle but Harry's hold on his body was too strong. The wand pushed against his neck again.

"You're not seriously thinking this, Potter, and you know it," Draco said, coldly.

Harry smiled again and Draco wanted to look away; he had never seen such pure, uncontrolled hatred. Draco felt Harry's knee brush against him again as Harry's face came close to his. He moved his head away, straining to get away from Harry. He felt a sharp sting on his neck as Harry's tongue moved over the cut that he had left there. Draco tried hard not to whimper outright as Harry's knee continued to grind into him.

Harry pulled away suddenly and Draco knew it was because he felt the slight twitch beneath Draco's robes.

"You're sick, Malfoy," Harry said and moved off him completely.

Draco tried to sink to the floor, but Harry had stopped him by grabbing his arm and pushing up his sleeve. He could feel Harry's eyes glaring down at the mark.

"I should kill you right now," Harry said through gritted teeth.

"Then do it," Draco said, his eyes leveling with Harry's.

Harry let go of the arm and took a few steps backwards, not in shock, but in disgust.

"What are you waiting for, Potter!?" Draco almost yelled. "Do it! And do it now." He motioned to himself dramatically, his wand dropped on the floor.

They watched each other in silence for a moment before Harry, expressionless, turned and left.

Draco shut his eyes tightly and leaned against the wall, clutching his exposed arm. He finally slid down and slumped against it. It wasn't until three hours later that Professor Snape had found him and taken him to the infirmary that he opened his eyes

*

Draco felt something hot burn down his face until it reached his lip. He licked it, tasting salt. He brushed the offending droplet off his face with a sweep of the hand. It wasn't anything, he assured himself truthfully.

He stood up again as he realised he had forgotten something and drew out a letter from inside his jacket pocket. The words Harry Potter were inscribed on the front of the envelope in long, flowy handwriting. It was the last letter from Dumbledore. And in fact, the last thing that the old man had written. He had trusted Draco to deliver it should he die in the battle. On the way to St. Mungo's, he had continually told himself that this was the reason that he was coming back. This was the only reason that he was here in Harry's room. It was the same excuse he had told himself countless times over and always forgotten once he saw the boy at the centre of it all.

He moved over to the bedside table adorned with those tacky flowers and placed the envelope down. He didn't want to know what was written on the parchment folded inside. The one thing he ever dreaded in his last year of Hogwarts was opening letters from Dumbledore; he would never know exactly what he would find inside, but the feeling each time would be the same as the last. There were some things that he would never get used to.

Draco sighed and rolled his head from side to side, loosening the tight muscles. He couldn't remember the last time that he had slept.

*

Draco woke up on the morning of June 20th, 1998, not completely unaware that within the next 48 hours, either Voldemort or Harry would be dead.

He had dressed slowly that morning, taking his time in front of the mirror; untying and retying his shoes, adjusting his Death Eater robes, running a brush through his hair one last time even though he knew he'd have to put the hood up. He was in no hurry.

Draco had not been surprised when he had been initiated into Voldemort's inner circle. With his desperate attempts and failures, Voldemort needed someone in Draco's position, whether it be vulnerable or not. Draco knew that Voldemort did not trust him completely; he was still technically a student at Hogwarts, even though the school had been closed for months, and excellent at Occlumency, thanks to Severus Snape. No one ever said that this was the reason, however, only that it was done and Draco, in the place of his father, would organise the final mission. Voldemort had not been stupid enough to place Draco in charge of actually leading it, but Draco almost wished now that he had. At least then he wouldn't have had to do what he did. Perhaps he could have gone into the battle then. Perhaps he could have accidentally thought the wrong people were the right people in the foray. Perhaps he could have, in the end, have helped the Dark Lord achieve his goal. He couldn't think of it now.

As the final plans were laid out, Draco saw detail by detail the course that the night would be taking and the final battle to be had. He stole away as many of the plans that he could and when he left, wrote down everything onto a parchment where he knew it was safe and went to hand it to Dumbledore himself.

Every time he walked down the passage that Dumbledore had created in secrecy just for him, he was sure a Death Eater would be lurking behind him, that he would turn a corner and would be confronted with a black hood and a terrifying mask. As much as he hoped for this, it never happened and he was forced to walk down that long passage and meet Dumbledore, betray his name and succumb to his fate.

As he handed the piece of parchment to Dumbledore he knew that it would be the last time that he'd see him. He stared at the wrinkled hands that took it and realised that it was over for him. That whether Voldemort lost or won, it would not matter because his role was done, his life's purpose had been met and he had saved the wizarding world. He had saved Harry Potter.

He smiled incredulously when Dumbledore gave him a look of gratitude and handed him Muggle clothing to wear. He was to leave. He was to hide at a specific location in the Muggle world where no one would find him and he would, presumably, be safe. Where no one would know that it was him and not Potter who truly did it in the end. He held out a few copies of the plans he had in his keep, the ends being scrunched slightly as he gripped them too hard.

This was it.

No more standing in Dumbledore's office in his Death Eater robes.

No more attending meetings and torturing Muggles.

No more doing the job that no one else had the courage to do.

No more opening of letters and finding out that tonight was the night that he could be killed.

No more spiteful stares at everyone in the hallways.

No more green flashes.

Flashes of green eyes.

Draco took the Muggle clothes and left Dumbledore's office for the thousandth time, but this time was the last.

*

Draco stared hard at Harry, whose eyes were lightly shut, lips pressed together, muscles in his face tense, obviously still dreaming. He drew his fingers along the sheets of the bed, pausing near Harry's hand. He saw an involuntary twitch of Harry's pinky as his finger brushed it.

Draco bent over the sleeping boy and leaned his head forward. He pressed his lips softly against those under his, his eyes shut tightly. He pulled away only slightly and opened his eyes; Harry's face was an inch below him.

"I never did it for you, Potter," he said bitterly.

His lips couldn't help but sneer as he said those words and his bared teeth reflected the contempt in his eyes. He noticed Harry wince in his sleep and moved away entirely, looking away from the somewhat prone figure.

He stood in the room a moment longer but realised that he had no right to be in there now that he had delivered what he needed to. It was almost dawn and in a couple of hours someone would be coming to check on The Boy Who Lived. He had no idea where he was going but he made his way over to the door, pausing in front of it, his hand again unable to twist the silver handle. He could hear the rustle of sheets behind him as Harry began to wake and Draco's knees suddenly felt like they were liquefying. He turned his head slightly, looking at Harry again, but the boy hadn't opened his eyes. His face looked quieter and not as pale as it was when Draco had first walked into the room. This comforting him slightly, Draco was able to open the door and begin to step out.

He was stopped his tracks, half way out the door, when he heard a forced voice behind him.

"Then who did you do it for, Draco?" Harry's voice was cracked. "Yourself?" More than cracked, it was as dry and raspy as he had ever heard anyone's voice be. "I should have killed you when I had the chance."

Draco bowed his head slightly, as if nodding, but didn't turn around. Harry obviously didn't know a thing. "I told you that, Potter. And Malfoy's never lie."

He stepped out finally and closed the door shut behind him.