The Only Thing That's Real

By: Dreamfall

Summary: Harry has more on his mind than Voldemort and nobody has even noticed. But then, he's always been good at disguising his pain. When his schoolyard enemy is the one to find him out he's just relieved it's not somebody who actually cares about him. And Draco? Well, he figures he can have a bit of fun with a secret the Boy Who Lived doesn't want told.

Warnings: Child abuse (in the form of flashbacks, presently nothing graphic). Emotional, mental, physical, and sexual. Not nice. Don't read it if it's something you'd rather avoid.

Author's Notes: Chapters are in alternating first person perspective, Harry's in present tense because it seemed to fit his state of mind. Feedback is welcome, constructive criticism particularly so. If it's spelling/grammar/etc e-mail is better than actual comments, but whatever.

Review Response: I have a livejournal containing responses to reviews, update notices, and maybe other story stuff if I get around to it. The address is refusing to show up on here, but it is under homepage on my front page, or you can go to livejournal and it is username dreamfall(underscore)ff If I can figure out a way to make fanfiction just show the webpage I'll replace this with it in later. And if I can figure out how to make an underscore character show up, I'll replace the (underscore) with it:p.

Chapter Six
Answers

In some ways he was doing better. He was eating more, being a bit less secretive, or so they thought. Spent obvious time studying so they actually knew of it rather than being shocked at his sudden displays of the knowledge that he picked up from his stupid little defense mechanism. He made it a point to smile, to meet people's eyes, to laugh. And they didn't notice how much more frequently he was disappearing, how much thicker the wall dividing him from everyone else had grown, how he kept everyone from looking too long or too deep. He fleshed out a bit, and the bruised, hunted look faded, and slowly the worry for him began to fade. His friends knew it wasn't over, of course. He wouldn't spend time with them; but they thought it was just because he was angry. As if Potter had enough strength to be angry for more than a handful of seconds on end. He just used that expectation to avoid them without having to offer more explanations.

And I watched. I watched as his strength built back up and the slightest hint of his sanity grew back with it. He got a bit less jumpy, a bit less desperate-- but not a single day passed without a trip to the tree to carry him through. And, unlike the rest of them, I knew there was a time limit on it. Knew it wouldn't last. Because I was the only one who knew how long he had before he had to stop taking the Dreamless Sleep or open himself up to more questions. The only one who knew which choice he would make, if he considered it a choice, which I didn't think he did.

He had stopped even trying to hide from me, which was strange. He no longer looked away when I met his gaze; instead he sometimes latched onto my eyes as though they were a lifeline. I couldn't understand it, but it amused me for now, so I didn't break him. There was all the time in the world for that.

In potions class, Snape had stopped calling on him, frustrated by the absently accurate answers that offered no opportunity to take points from Gryffindor or even just sneer at the Boy who Lived. Once or twice, I'd even seen respect force its reluctant way into Snape's eyes as he watched Potter brew. Now he mostly didn't watch, probably for just that reason.

Potter had also gone to talk to Dumbledore a handful of times, apparently at the old man's request. He was probably worrying at the same mystery I'd all but unraveled, but judging by how he stopped summoning Harry, he'd had managed less well than I had. Each of those meetings left Harry smiling and reasonably social, not talkative, but cheerful enough. Right up until the moment nobody was looking and he could slip away unobserved to the tree. He managed to convince the old man, but it obviously cost him.

In the Hufflepuff/Gryffindor game, he almost lost the Snitch to Hufflepuff's Seeker, which would have been amusing. He didn't, of course, but it was a close thing, the two racing for it. Of course, if Summerby had the sense of a gnat, he would have fouled Potter instead of chasing the Snitch anyway. Hufflepuff was behind just enough that catching the Snitch would have still sent the win to Gryffindor. He should have just made sure Potter didn't get it, giving his team a chance to pick up a few more points before the next sighting. But you can hardly expect good sense from a Hufflepuff. He tried to catch the Snitch, thereby ensuring a Gryffindor win, since Potter never lost the Snitch once he was after it-- not unless he was made to. Like a dog with a bone, Potter. It was a stupid mistake that had me irritated enough to avoid the rest of my House and sneak off alone. I wound up at the tree not long after Potter did, and upon making the habitual climb up into his bubble of silence, was relieved to hear that he'd passed the screaming stage and moved on to the cutting. I have sensitive ears.

Potter looked up when I settled on the branch next to him, and something very like a smile crossed his face. "He'd lost track of points," he stated conversationally, returning his gaze almost at once to a line of blood welling from the crease of his elbow.

"What?"

"I could tell you were annoyed with Summerby for not fouling me. I thought you should know that he wasn't just being a Hufflepuff."

"Why would you think that?" I asked doubtfully.

He glanced over again. "I asked," he said simply. "Told him he should have in that situation. He was embarrassed, too. Said he'd missed a Gryffindor goal."

I rolled my eyes. "And that's less Hufflepuff?"

He didn't reply, lost in the flow of blood over his skin, and I didn't press the matter, realizing rather abruptly that I'd just had a conversation with Potter that hadn't included threats, blatant discussion of blood, or insults. At least not towards each other, and for some reason most Hufflepuffs didn't seem to be insulted when you described them as Hufflepuffs. And that was the other thing-- we had not only had a conversation-- we'd had a discussion about a Hufflepuff, and that was completely unaccountable.

Feeling somehow shaken, I descended from the tree and made my way back to the dorm to study. Some things just don't bear thinking about, and having civil conversations with Gryffindor heroes about Hufflepuff idiots is very much among them.

Slytherin's next game with Gryffindor was a week later, a couple days after Potter ran out of Dreamless Sleep and well after he'd been intended to, since he'd used it sparingly. He was already using concealing charms again, this time a modified charm that wouldn't be revealed by most common revealing charms. It was rather a nice piece of work, actually, one I'd studied when I realized what it was the first time I saw him dismiss it. I had to spend nearly two weeks learning to use it myself-- it seemed the sort of thing that could come in handy.

Under the charms, he was pale again, and his eyes had the bruised look that betrayed lack of sleep, but he hadn't lost too much weight so far, though his appetite was flagging again. I thought he'd probably fly a pretty good game. He didn't disappoint me as we mounted up, he rose with his old grace, so high he was barely a speck within seconds. I followed at a more leisurely pace, knowing that the Snitch wouldn't show itself for another ten minutes at the very least, and began making lazy loops when I reached his altitude.

He glanced around as we circled the pitch, his attention half on finding the Snitch, half on nothing discernable. We were high enough up that the shouting crowd seemed far away and even the amplified voice of the obviously partisan announcer was muted and unclear. I kept a strand of awareness on the game below, keeping track of who was scoring and how often, but held most of my attention on seeking the Snitch. And a tiny portion I reserved for Potter, who could start swaying on his broom at any moment. Not that I'd do anything, of course. It wasn't my problem if he fell to his death in the middle of a Quidditch game-- as long as nobody could pin it on me somehow. I just wanted to be sure that if he did fall I was well away from him at the time.

He suddenly plummeted down, and I was racing after even before I realized that he'd seen the Snitch. When I did, I caught my breath and started chasing that rather than him, wanting desperately to win, just this once. It moved to the side, and I altered course slightly, seeing Potter continue straight as though he hadn't even seen the motion-- straight down face first, the ground rushing up impossibly fast, and he wasn't adjusting course to catch the Snitch.

My course changed without my conscious direction, and I lay flat against my broom, diving after him faster than free fall, all the speed of my broom and gravity working together rather than fighting, which let me gain on him rapidly. I could hear the shouts and cheers of the school now, but couldn't discern any individual voices, or even words; it was just a buzz of noise as I passed him mere feet from the ground and pulled up. His eyes focused on me, and something strange passed through them, but he was moving too quickly for me to read it as he wrenched his broom around, pulling up and looking around for the Snitch-- which had vanished.

And I could have had it.

Furious with myself, I regained altitude, feeling his eyes on me. I didn't meet his gaze, didn't turn until I heard a choked cry of pain and turned to see Potter cling to his broom as a Bludger dropped away from his back where it had struck, setting itself up for another attack before a blur dropped before it and a bat struck, sending it across the field.

"Okay, Harry?" the beater demanded, tone worried.

"Sure -- just a glancing blow," he called back, and I wondered who the hell he thought he was fooling.

That question was answered by the blinding smile the beater sent toward Harry before the other boy swept away to protect another teammate.

"Glancing blow?" I asked, knowing nobody else was close enough to hear.

He looked up at me and offered a slight smile. "I'm okay."

"Whatever," I muttered, turning my attention to once more methodically seeking the Snitch.

When I saw it, I raced for it, Harry tight behind me, but I couldn't spare a glance at him, focusing on catching the Snitch -- my finger's were on it, I could feel the beating wings against the palm of my hand -- and it jerked to one side, escaping my grasp, landing perfectly in Harry's, who looked over at me uncertainly as the crowd below burst into cheers.

Teeth gritted, I headed down, dismounting my broom and narrowly avoiding the desire to throw it down and stomp on it. It wasn't fair. It had been mine. If I didn't know better, I'd think he'd used magic on the damn thing-- but he didn't care enough. And even if he did, he was too Gryffindor for that kind of trick. I didn't say a word to my team, just stalked towards the locker room. I paused as I heard Madam Pomfrey demanding to know how badly Harry was hurt and, when he said it was nothing, insisting that he remove his shirt. He did so and turned his back toward her -- but not before I'd seen the perfectly clear, unmarred skin of it. He met my eyes, read something in them, and his gaze turned frightened and pleading. I snorted and stalked into the locker room to shower and change.

My team followed me, annoyed at the loss, but commiserating and wondering if Potter had found some way to cheat rather than realizing that at one point I could have won the game and that I hadn't. Apparently only a few spectators had managed to follow that whole exchange, and none of them from an angle that allowed them to see that neither Harry nor I had been chasing the Snitch the moment before we pulled up, the moment before it vanished again. That, at least, was a relief, since I wasn't at all sure I could have helped but hexed anyone who confronted me about that. Although perhaps that would have been for the best. I was furious with myself and it would have been rather nice to have someone to take it out on.

Eventually, of course, I realized that I had someone. Because I knew perfectly well that Potter had been hit square, and even if I had missed it, that look he sent me would have given him away. That had been no glancing blow, and yet he had no bruises. He was obviously using Covrall on his back, but why? He wasn't cutting there. First off, it would be too awkward, second, I'd know -- and most of all, because he had to stare at his cuts, watch them. And he couldn't do that if they were on his back. So what in the world was he hiding now?

No longer needing to be patient with mysteries regarding him, and pleased to have something to do, I headed for the tree, knowing I wouldn't have to wait long. I didn't. He soon was there, and I let him reach his usual spot and then immediately told him to take off his shirt.

The familiar madness filled his eyes, but I had no wish to humor him right now. "Now," I snapped, and he obeyed, head bowed, hands moving automatically, undoing his robe, dropping it to hang about his waist, and mechanically removing his shirt, holding it in limp fingers, breathing hard, eyes down.

"Turn around."

A soft whimper escaped him, instantly silenced, and he turned his back towards me. I touched it and he shuddered. Pressed a bit harder and every muscle in his back clenched and he released a whimper of pain -- and then went perfectly still and silent.

"That's what I thought," I announced, pleased that my theory had been proven. "Give me the vial." Then, when he didn't respond in any way, I shook his shoulder slightly. "Potter. Give me the vial."

He fumbled at his pocket and pulled out the vial. I murmured the charm that set it to draw from the basin of Uncovrall, poured a bit out into my hand, and rubbed it onto his back. The first thing I saw was a mass of bruising, a broad circle and mottled black and dark purple, covering his right side, just above his waist. Then I saw the scars and wondered how I'd overlooked them for even that one instant.

There were a lot of them.

Thick, ragged scars like he'd been cut with something jagged and not overly sharp. Long parallel grooves where he'd been beaten with a belt or something similar till it tore and cut. Something on his shoulder. Something-- I swallowed heavily as I realized the circular mess had been made by a mouth, a human mouth, biting as hard as if it was trying to tear a chunk out of him. I sat back so quickly I nearly lost my balance and fell out of the tree. Catching myself, I clutched a branch and just focused on breathing.

He wasn't moving, I realized after a moment. Not at all. Barely even breathing.

"Potter?"

No reaction from him, and the only one from me was a slightly disturbed sense of how tentative my voice had sounded. Malfoys aren't tentative.

"Potter!" I snapped, irritated. "Turn around!"

He turned back around, graceful as a first year's golem, and waited, breathing fast and light, eyes down.

"Look at me," I ordered.

His eyes closed for a moment, then opened and rose to focus somewhere around my chin.

"Look at me!" I insisted, needing to see his eyes, to read what was going on.

Reluctantly, his eyes rose, focusing on me, and I just had time to read warring fear and pain and resignation before a wave of startled confusion drained a bit of the strength from the others, and then tentative relief washed everything else away before it. "D--Draco?"

And there he went using my name again.

"Yeah. You didn't make those scars."

He stared at me, confused.

"The ones on your back," I clarified impatiently.

He began to shiver, which grew into trembling, which moved on to shuddering so hard I wondered if he'd fall from the tree, eyes locked on me in some kind of horrified dismay.

I resisted the urge to shake him, knowing it would only push him deeper into his insanity. "Did you?" I pressed.

His head jerked in a way that could have just been the trembling, but that I took to be an answer to my question.

I hesitated, eyes drawn once again to the bite on his shoulder, the edge just visible from the front, and forced them back to his face, trying again to fathom what could possibly have happened. "Was it--" my voice stopped and I swallowed, half in the discomfort in speaking of him, half in irritation at having let that discomfort show. "The Dark Lord?" I forced myself to finish without too noticeable a pause. It seemed such an odd thought. I didn't know much about him; my father was no more eager than anyone else to talk about him -- less, maybe. He'd be more likely than most to be punished for gossiping about his Lord. But I had gotten the impression that he'd never lower himself to physical torture -- why bother, when there were spells that were so much more effective? And while most of the scars could have been caused by spells, albeit rather coarse, unsophisticated ones, the bite -- that was teeth. That wasn't a spell, of that I was sure. But who else could it be?

He made a choking sound that slowly evolved into a hysterical laugh and then collapsed into a sob. I reached out unthinkingly, touching his shoulder, and the sound cut off as abruptly as if I'd cast a silencing charm. I sighed and withdrew my hand. "Potter. Look at me."

His eyes jerked up, red-rimmed and bright, and again sanity slowly filtered into them.

"So it wasn't the Dark Lord, then?" I offered after a moment.

A hint of a shattered smile tilted his lips. "No," he admitted, voice quiet and hoarse.

I hesitated, not knowing what to say, how to ask, if I wanted to know the answer. Pretty sure I already knew the answer. And I wanted to know if I was right, wanted to know whether I'd put things together properly, wanted verification that I had succeeded in the investigation, so I said, "The muggles."

A long, long silence before he finally whispered, "Yeah."

"How long...?"

One shoulder jerked, in something that may have been a shrug, although I'd never dignify it with such a name. "Some, for years. Forever. It got-- worse. Lately. Since I started school."

The question I'd had no intention of asking burst from my lips, and I hated how my voice sounded; lost, confused. "Why?"

"Because they can," he offered. "Because they hate me. Because magic is evil," his voice was starting to change, losing that almost conversational tone, becoming something he spoke by rote. "Because I'm bad. Because I--" he choked on the words, then continued with a flash of terror, hurrying as though to hide the hesitation, "ask for it. Because--"

"Potter!" I finally gave in to the need to shake him, needing him to stop, to just shut up, and my fingers clenched on his shoulders as I shook him till his teeth rattled, until the words died in his throat and his mouth opened in that silent scream, eyes clenched, face pale. "Look at me, Potter!" I shouted.

His eyes snapped open, but didn't focus.

"Look at me! Now!"

They focused this time, and there was that familiar change from terror to confusion to relief as they stayed latched almost desperately on my own.

"Heartsease potion," I snapped, knowing his little rituals. He began reciting ingredients mechanically, but soon the panic faded a bit from his eyes and he relaxed just a little, and I realized that my fingers were still digging into his upper arms hard enough to bruise. I forced them to release their grasp, and he looked faintly surprised, stumbling for a moment in his recitation before continuing, each facet of the familiar routine calming him a little further. Finally, when he finished the recipe and seemed as close to sanity as he ever did, I tried again. "So your -- the muggles have been beating you your whole life? More in the last few years since you started at Hogwarts?" There was something strange in my voice, something I didn't recognize, but I couldn't worry about it right now, had to finish, to get the whole truth.

He swallowed convulsively, then nodded.

I didn't let myself hesitate or flinch over my next question. "How long has he been raping you?" As the madness rushed forward I snapped, "Focus, Potter! Look at me! Answer the damn question," I added when I had regained his attention.

"Su-- just-- just this summer," he whispered, stumbling over the words. His eyes flinched away from mine, dropping, then started back up almost desperately, locking on again.

And that was it. That was what I'd been trying not to suspect since the first time I saw him up here, the thing I'd been searching for. And I knew I could totally shatter the Boy who Lived. Could break him into fragments so small spells couldn't even find them, much less reassemble them. If I wanted the Dark Lord's favor, which, of course, I didn't, I could become his favorite with just a few words. Could destroy Potter completely. The knowledge flashed through my mind as I let him stare into my eyes, knowing that I could make him crumble just by looking away. I let the knowledge sink into me, trying to remember why I'd wanted to know, why I'd been picking at it until I was sure. Just this summer. Just. It seemed like such a strange word to use.

"I'm sorry."

I tried to figure out what he was apologizing for until I realized with a shock of horror that the soft words had come from me and not him. And that they didn't feel like enough. Felt useless and helpless and unconnected.

He blinked, madness washing over him with the closing of his eyes, then gradually receding again. "Me too," he finally said, and I was relieved that he'd interpreted my words as some sort of sympathy rather than an apology. Because Malfoys don't apologize.

"The bloodhound potion," I stated, wondering if he even knew that one, as it wasn't going to be studied until nearly Christmas.

His brow wrinkled slightly. "But I'm--"

"Now," I stated, voice firm but something there, something I didn't understand, couldn't interpret. He began to recite it, voice trembling as I swung around the branch to be behind him. "Keep going." And he did, though the effort it took was clear. I had to tell him again when I touched his back, spreading the Covrall out, hiding the evidence once more. My hands were freezing, but he didn't complain, just kept mechanically reciting instructions, panic bound up in every word but not quite escaping. When I was satisfied with my handiwork, I moved back around in front of him, catching his eyes again, and his shoulders slowly released some of the tension they'd been holding.

We stared at each other for a long time, and then I handed him back the vial, and he splashed Uncovrall on his arms without looking, revealing the massive spiders' web of scars, and one of his hands crept to his waist, pulling out the knife with a grace he had for nothing else but flying, and as the first line of red appeared on his arm he finally dropped his eyes from mine to focus on it instead, drew a long shuddering breath, and released it, tense muscles releasing.

By the time he stopped, he was pale and weak, hands clumsy as he covered his arms once more and put away the knife and returned the vial to its hiding place in a pocket. But his face was as close to peaceful as ever I'd seen it, and when he looked at me he smiled that smile -- the one I couldn't understand how he had. How could a boy who's family did that to him, who did to himself what he did -- how could he possibly have that smile?

When he swung down from the tree, practice wasn't enough to make up for weakness and he stumbled. I steadied him before he fell, and released him when he regained his balance. It wasn't until hours later that I realized that he hadn't cringed or stiffened when I caught his arm and held him up.