Chapter Seven of 'A Reckless Frame of Mind'- Crisis
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Chapter Seven-Crisis
Draco paused outside the observation window, watching Potter, just to see if something had changed. But Potter once again lay in the grip of sleep, as if he were entirely innocent of all the fuss that had built up around him. Draco rolled his eyes. I wonder if he thinks that he has to lie even with his body.
He strode to the door and opened it. He had not sent a mediwitch ahead of him to tell Potter he’d see him this morning, because he didn’t want the git to have warning and he didn’t want the mediwitches to have something to gossip about.
The moment the wards parted, Potter rolled over to face the door, and his eyes flared open wide. His hand tensed, and Draco thought he was keeping himself from making a sudden movement that would probably alert half-a-dozen Healers and make them think he’d tried to commit suicide again. Then he let out an enormous whoof of breath, as though Draco had collapsed on his chest instead of merely walking into the room, and sat up, running his fingers through his indecently tangled hair and yawning now and then.
“What do you want, Malfoy?” he murmured, in a voice that said he knew it wouldn’t be anything interesting but he was willing to put up with it because he had no choice.
Draco felt himself starting to bristle, and took a deep breath of his own to calm down. Control. Calm. Gentleness. Even if he hadn’t planned on the latter two, at least for now, he would want to have the first. It was unfair that Potter could cause him to lose his composure so easily, but that only underlined, not excused, the necessity of keeping it.
“To talk to you, Potter,” he said quietly. “Just to talk.”
Potter only nodded. Probably he didn’t notice the difference in the tone of voice and believed Draco would conduct an interrogation like their last two sessions. He sat up on the bed and motioned Draco towards one of the chairs in front of it. He hid another yawn with the back of his hand, then licked his lips with large sloppy sounds and rubbed his eyes, causing a small rain of yellow sleep particles. Draco’s lip curled. Has no one ever taught him manners, or the meaning of cleanliness?
But then he reminded himself that Potter’s gestures were calculated to produce this effect, and he couldn’t fall victim to it. He never should have fallen victim to it in the first place.
Potter is a practiced actor, he reminded himself then, and sat down in the chair with some semblance of a smile on his lips. Of course, that made Potter draw back and regard him as if he were a snake. Draco found the expression heartening.
“Just to talk,” he repeated. “There won’t be any Psyche-Diving this time, and if you don’t feel like answering a question, tell me.”
Potter’s hands clenched. Draco had no doubt that if the idiot had been allowed a wand, it would have been pointed straight at him.
Violent, isn’t he, Draco’s mind tried to warn him, but Draco had seen violence from Potter in school and managed to live through it. He shrugged the thought off and caught Potter’s gaze in an intense lock from which he showed no interest in escaping. His breathing had quickened, but Draco could not tell which emotion drove it, anger or fear.
He wanted to know. He wanted to know everything about Potter. It was intolerable that he’d been locked out of his mind and soul for so long.
“I believe I know what’s wrong with you,” he said.
Potter flinched, the way he had when he suddenly wakened from the spell caused by Draco’s touch last time. Draco frowned slightly. Is thinking himself alone and powerless against the world that important to him? He doesn’t want help?
But he probably didn’t. Potter had always liked being special, Draco thought. It had been visible in his actions all throughout school.
“You believe in the Cassandra Curse, whether or not it’s real,” Draco continued. “And that makes you behave the way you have. Telling lies. Rejecting every attempt by your friends to get through to you, because if the spell was real, they wouldn’t be able to.” He paused. Potter’s eyes had widened with what looked like true panic now.
“Potter,” he said, and then changed his mind. He would associate himself in Potter’s mind with the mediwitches and Healers if he kept using that name. He wanted something different. “Harry. Listen to me. This is exactly the kind of case Psyche-Divers were created to handle. I can help you. I can heal you. Let me do it. I know you can still understand my words, and I’ve never heard that a victim of the Cassandra Curse was unable to recognize truth when he heard it. Let me in.”
He rose from his chair and strode forwards, sliding his hands around Potter’s jaw and the back of his neck before he could object.
*
Shite! No!
Harry could feel hope cresting against his stubbornness, and now he had visions of an impossible future, where Malfoy helped him and made him able to stay in the wizarding world. He could have his friends back. Or at least he could have an ally to help him search out the caster of the curse and make him reverse it. He could have-
I can’t have any of that. I made my mind up, remember? Going back on that decision now won’t help anyone.
He jumped when Malfoy’s hands touched him, and that they made his skin break out into a thousand goose-pimples was not why. In moments, with a combination of ducking and rolling across the bed as if Malfoy were a dangerous suspect trying to strangle him, he was free. He turned his face to the wall and shuddered.
“Go away, Malfoy,” he said, and hated the fact that his voice broke in the middle. Was he really that close to being overcome, just from a simple touch? If so, he hated his body almost as violently as he had come to hate the curse. “I don’t need your help, I didn’t want it, and I didn’t request it. I tried to kill myself, remember? You should think that I want to die, and that I resent being brought back.”
He closed his eyes and hovered for a few minutes in the darkness with his heartbeat, hoping against hope that that would make the difference to Malfoy. The curse should make him hear ingratitude and the unattractive fear of a coward in the words.
Please, let him hear that. I can’t afford to trust him. And I’m such a weakling that I probably would try to trust him if he kept on.
*
Draco stared at Potter’s turned back, astonished. The words made him want to bridle. Potter had no clue about what was in his head, and here he was, trying to read Draco’s mind when it should be the other way around.
But, once again, his body language was speaking a different message than the words, as it had last time Draco touched him. Draco blinked, and blinked again. He had the feeling that he should be seeing different things, but he fought past the conviction, and did his best to see what was actually there.
Potter, turned in on himself like a turtle pulling all its legs into its shell, his shoulders shaking and his hands clenched. A frightened child, Draco thought. He was tempted to jeer-the sight was pathetic-but he clung to the mantra of control, calm, gentleness, and whispered, “I’ll think what I want to think, thank you very much.”
Then he slid onto the bed and took Potter into his arms.
*
Harry relaxed when he heard Malfoy’s words. I did put him off. Thank God. Of course, no one that arrogant likes being told what thoughts should be in his head-
And then he found himself in an embrace for the first time in far too long, and the warm, strong arms were drawing him back against a warm, strong chest, and Malfoy arranged his head so Harry could hear a heartbeat in his ears.
“I decided I’d rather do this instead,” Malfoy whispered into his ear, and then began to rub soothing circles in the middle of his back.
Harry froze. All his emotions threatened to overwhelm him at once, as if the rubbing hand were drawing them closer to the surface. Yes, it was his body that was making him react this way, and he could not stand it.
He didn’t need anyone any more. And Malfoy was not going to succeed where his friends had failed. That would be an insult to Ron and Hermione.
It occurred to Harry that his thinking was perhaps not of the clearest anymore, but who could blame him? He had to battle not only the curse that had isolated him for a year, but also the efforts of his greatest enemy, who had grasped an effective idea for once in his life-of course, at the time that it would be most inconvenient for Harry-and seemed intent on making him break down.
He dug his elbows into Malfoy’s sides.
*
Draco was a bit surprised at how much he enjoyed holding Potter. The loud gasps the other man gave were not attractive, and bits and pieces of his subconscious urged him to push Potter away. But at the same time, it was a pleasant thing to make him tremble in a rush of what could only be pleasure-Draco refused to listen to the impulses that tried to convince him it was something else-and see the way his eyes squinted shut, as if he were trying to deny that Draco could have a heart like anyone else.
It was pleasant until Potter stuck him in the ribs with his elbows, at least.
Draco gasped in surprise, and Potter started to wriggle away from him. But Draco had understood what the maneuver was for the moment Potter enacted it, and he wasn’t about to let his prey escape that easily. He flopped forwards instead of letting go, so that Potter fell down on the bed beneath him.
Draco was proud of his self-control, since now his impulses were urging him to give as good as he got, return pain for pain. But that had been what everyone who had known Potter in the past year had done, and they had all failed with him. Draco would win if it took effort that reduced every bone in his body to mush.
He rolled over onto his side, tucked his arms around Potter’s chest once more, and then drew him in so closely that they rested together like lovers, and Potter would have to hurt himself to break free.
“I still want to help you,” he whispered into Potter’s ear, and waited a moment to see how the git would react to that.
Well, that and to enjoy the weight and warmth of a fit body in his arms. Really, he was only human.
*
Harry had the idea that if he squeezed his eyes shut tightly enough, maybe the inner voice that urged him to listen to Malfoy would drain out his ears.
They were lying in a position Harry had only ever occupied with Ginny, and his skin was burning, and his heart was pulsing like a badly-beaten drum in his ears, and it was a physical effort to keep his arms up, folded in front of his chest like a barrier, and not stretch them around Malfoy. His stupid, primitive, backwards body didn’t care who was holding him like this, only that someone was.
I don’t want any help. I don’t need any help.
And still his memory sped, trying to immortalize every moment they lay this close together, in preparation for the years when Harry knew he would have no one at all.
God, he wanted to give in so badly, especially when Malfoy murmured the words, “I still want to help you” again, and his breath tickled Harry’s ear, and he felt the soppiest impulse to turn his head and rest his cheek against Malfoy’s.
He had to make Malfoy let go, he understood with sudden clarity. The longer they stayed like this, the closer he came to deciding that he should risk his entire plan and just charge in.
He didn’t think he could push Malfoy away without hurting him badly, though, and that was still against his morals. A few bruises in a tussle were one thing, but the Cassandra Curse had not succeeded in making him into a monster, disregarding every other life but his own, and he was damned if it would.
So it would have to be words.
He took a deep breath and prepared himself to speak.
*
Draco was discovering that, irritating as Potter was when he talked, he could be quite a good pillow when he shut his mouth and consented to lie still.
Quite a good one. Draco couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed himself this much outside of fucking and generally irritating people. The same pleasant sensations he guessed must be overwhelming Potter, if he gaped witlessly like that, made Draco grumble low in his chest and shift closer. If Potter would stop being an overdefensive idiot and embrace him back, it would have been even better. Draco’s shoulder blades were starting to get jealous of all the warmth his arms and chest were receiving.
Draco nuzzled his nose into Potter’s hair and sniffed. Nothing spectacular about the smell, but it was hot and close and human, and Draco had never objected to any of those. He wondered if he could coax Potter to hook their legs together. No harm in trying, perhaps. He moved a knee forwards and nudged at Potter’s stiffened limbs.
Who knew the soft-hearted idiots around him could have a good idea once in a while? If this was what persuasion led to, then Draco thought he should use it more often.
And then Potter spoke, and it was obvious that he’d filled his words with as much venom as he could.
“If you’re really that desperate for a fuck that you’re reduced to molesting your patients, Malfoy, then I’m sorry for you. Even I have better self-control than that, and you know I have a horrible temper.”
He doesn’t really believe that, Draco thought, and rage exploded in his chest, because by bringing up fucking Potter had transformed their warm intimacy into something other than Draco had wanted it to be. And now he couldn’t just lie here and hold Potter without also thinking of the way he might use his body weight in other contexts.
He did that on purpose. He wanted to spoil this.
Draco was not in the mood to let it be spoiled, even if it had been. He could lie just as well as Potter-probably better, since he had twenty-six more years of practice. And right now he tamped down his more immediate reaction and just let out a gusty sigh, following it with a yawn that Potter imitated despite himself.
“I think if anyone’s desperate, it would be you, Harry,” he murmured. “After all, how many people can you find to fuck when you’re under a curse like the one you’re under? Or, at least, the one you believe yourself to be under?” He moved one hand up Potter’s spine to caress his hair. Tugging on it just a bit also tugged a low noise from Potter. Draco repeated it, but this time Potter clamped his lips shut and glared at him. Their faces were so close together that Draco had to fight to keep his eyes from crossing. “Not very many,” he continued, still keeping his voice soft, considerate. “And that’s another thing we can talk about. Your frustration. Anything that you wish to talk about, I’m here for.” He shifted his other hand to trace Potter’s shoulder blade, making sure to keep it as non-sexual as possible.
“As if I’d share anything like that with you, Malfoy.”
And now he’s lying about his own desperation. He really would share it with me if I could convince him to let me inside his barriers. Draco decided it was time for another concerted effort, one that might take him past Potter’s mental barriers as well as the physical ones.
“But you have to share it with someone,” he said, directly into the git’s ear. His arms tightened reflexively when Potter tried to turn away. “Caging up all your emotions, all your truths? Don’t you know people have gone mad from less?” He once again caressed the back of Potter’s neck, and then used his grip there to pull their faces together. He rested his forehead against Potter’s and looked into his eyes, trying to summon sincerity, which was not something he had a great deal of practice at.
“I don’t want you to go madder than you already have,” he whispered. “I want to know. I promise, you can trust me. Psyche-Divers have all sworn the Healer’s oath that anything said by a patient remains in strictest confidence, unless you give us permission to share it.” He was cupping Potter’s cheek now, and he thought it was a shame that nothing like this had ever happened before, or he might have known just how wide those green eyes could open, how Potter’s breath smelled when he was hurriedly gasping in air. “And you don’t have to give me permission to share what you say with your friends. I’m a bit selfish, you know. Malfoys often are, and Slytherins more so. I’d enjoy knowing I’m the only one you ever confessed those things to.”
There. All truth, and all matching what he already knows about me, and all spoken while I’m holding him like a lover-or, at least, a friend. He can’t ask for more than that.
*
And he really expects me to believe that he’d keep his word?
That Malfoy would keep any oath he gave to Harry was impossible. The prat hated him still, or he wouldn’t have made such a determined effort to force him to confess when Harry had made it clear that he wanted to be left alone.
Harry was wiser in the ways of the world than that now. Even lonely, even with his body so starved for contact that he wanted to do nothing more than lie here for hours on hours and days on days, he knew better than to believe a lifelong enemy who suddenly seemed to have acquired a conscience.
Harry shook his head, eyes locked with Malfoy’s, and said, “The day I tell you something before I tell it to Ron and Hermione is the day you prove yourself a hero, Malfoy.”
There, he thought in triumph as the other man went pale. I should have thought of doing that before.
It was well-known that Malfoy had been anything but heroic in the war; one of the most famous Daily Prophet photographs showed him throwing his wand in the air and fleeing madly when the battle went against the Death Eaters. That had been the one battle in which he ever participated. He had been caught by Aurors a few moments later, and volunteered “information” on his cohorts before they could even get him into a cell. As it turned out, all that information was either inaccurate or evidence that the Aurors knew well already, and so while they hadn’t gone hard on Malfoy, they hadn’t granted him an Order of Merlin, either. Both sides wished he would quietly cease to exist, since he wouldn’t do them the favor of choosing a set of principles and staying with them.
He wants to believe whatever he likes, but he isn’t willing to fight for those beliefs, Harry thought, staring hard into Malfoy’s eyes. Contemptible, that is.
*
Draco couldn’t pretend to be unaffected any more, or that he wanted to stay close to Potter any longer. His breath was coming in short gasps, his hands clenching, and his arms freeing themselves from Potter’s body before he consciously ordered them to do so. He rolled away from the other man and sat up, burying his forehead in his hands.
He hated to show such weakness, but he couldn’t help himself.
Potter was saying that, under certain circumstances, he could have believed Draco heroic. That was what lay beyond the lie and the hyperbole on the surface.
Draco had never encountered one person in nine years who had said that to him. He had been sure he never would.
And that the one person who would say it was stubbornly refusing help, even help that Draco didn’t have to bend and offer him…
Draco shot a wicked glare over his shoulder. Potter simply raised an eyebrow at him. He tried for a smirk, too, but couldn’t quite pull it off.
And his eyes told a different story.
Draco found himself once again battling the impulses of his mind that told him to just turn his back on Potter and recommend him for inclusion in the Janus Thickey ward, or at least treatment by another Psyche-Diver. Those eyes would never match the smirk in mood, because those eyes were haunted and lonely. The truth screamed from them because Potter couldn’t help himself from showing it, any more than he could have helped showing his pleasure at Draco’s touch the other day.
He still stood the chance to prove himself a hero in Potter’s eyes. And he knew how to do it. Was he going to give up at the first obstacle?
No, goddamn it. No, he was not. Enough of Slytherin remained in him that he had the ambition to prove himself. Creating Psyche-Diving from scratch hadn’t been enough to do it. Surviving the war had just made others glance at him with quiet scorn in their eyes. But if he freed Potter from this unnatural obsession with the Cassandra Curse, they must see that he was capable of extraordinary things, and honor him for it.
And just because his extended hand had been slapped away-again-and he was feeling the same mortification he had during the war was not reason to give up.
He straightened his shoulders and regarded Potter coolly until the forming smirk faltered. Then he said, “You have twenty-four hours to come up with a good defense against me, because the next time I’ll be even more willing to listen to you.”
And then he turned his back and walked out.
Let Potter deal with the fact that he hadn’t managed to drive Draco away.
*
What does he need? A bloody engraved invitation to go fuck himself?
Harry ran a hand down his face in frustration. He was still panting as if he’d run a race, and his body ached in new ways-as if it had become used to being doubled, to having another pair of arms to be embraced by and another face to stare into.
What’s the matter, Potter? Need a hug? he thought to himself in Bellatrix’s voice.
He had to get a grip on himself.
What he was most afraid of was that continued exposure to the Cassandra Curse had made Malfoy somewhat immune to it. No one had spent this much extended time in Harry’s company since the curse took hold. Malfoy seemed able to ignore some of the signals Harry gave off that were pestilent to anyone else, and he had accurately read the truth behind some of Harry’s statements-or, at least, controlled his anger resulting from them.
Let him push a little further, and he might discover the whole truth.
Harry would never let Malfoy have that kind of power over him.
He would have to consider altering his escape schedule. He still thought he needed three days, so that he could rest and let his wandless magic come back to full strength, but if he could make the staff at St. Mungo’s wish him gone before then, purely because they hated him so much, then he wouldn’t have to run the risk of escaping on his own.
Let the games begin, then.
The moment the first mediwitch entered, Harry set himself to be as obnoxious as possible.
Chapter 8.