Fic: 'Hurt' HP/DM R
Title - Hurt
Author - softly_sweetly
Beta - marguerite_26 and lesyeuxverts00 - thanks ladies!
Rating - R
Word Count - ~1,000
Characters/Pairings - Harry, Draco, Unrequited Draco/Harry
Warnings - Angst, Drug Use,
Disclaimer - I own nothing but the plot lines. I make no money from this, and mean no offence by any scene depicted within this story. All characters depicted in sexual situations herein are above the age of consent.
Summary - Draco saw him there every week as he stood under a Disillusionment charm and looked out over the grave of what he had once wanted to inherit. Harry would pace and yell, pupils dilated and limbs shaking with the cold. Draco relied on that sight more than he cared to admit.
Author's Notes - Written for my mission_insane Inspired by Songs table, which can be found here. The song I've used is Johnny Cash's version of Hurt, lyrics can be found here Though it's inspired by a song, it is not a songfic, *grin*
Draco saw him there every week as he stood under a Disillusionment charm and looked out over the grave of what he had once wanted to inherit. Harry would pace and yell, pupils dilated and limbs shaking with the cold. Draco relied on that sight more than he cared to admit.
~o~
“Forget your damn wand; the wards are down, kick the bloody door in!”
It had all been so easy. Wizards were spectacularly nonplussed by weed, and Harry had been able to buy it from the licensed shop in the weeks after the war. It helped him relax, helped him calm himself down when the nightmares got unbearable, when funeral after funeral began to get on top of him. Harry wouldn’t call himself an addict; after what he’d lived through, he was well within his rights to smoke a joint on the weekend, or after a particularly hard day at work (where the other Aurors resented his passage straight into the department without attending basic training). He wasn’t the only wizard that smoked it; plenty of his friends would come round and share a joint and a bottle of Firewhisky with him on a Friday night.
“Shit, he has back-up wards. Murphey, get them down now!”
But after a few months, the joints stopped working. Maybe it had been a bad batch of weed, but when Harry had ventured into the Muggle world and sought out a dealer, their product hadn't worked either. When he mentioned it in passing to a guy in a club, one of Harry’s regular contacts, the guy passed Harry a little plastic bag with three white pills in it.
“Okay, the wards are down. Can we kick it in?”
“Yeah, we can pay him damages later.”
Ecstasy was incredible. Everything looked bright and colourful again, in a way it hadn’t since long before Harry hit puberty. Sounds resonated in his head, letting him dance to a tune no one else could hear. And if people at work noticed he was smiling more, drinking ridiculous amounts of coffee, getting more done, no one complained. Ginny didn’t like the pills, but Harry would never make her take them. If she wanted to be left behind in her cold, dark world then that was her lookout. He wasn’t going to force her to take them; he didn’t even beg for her to stay in his colourful flat when she moved back in with her parents.
“Jesus fucking Christ. Potter! Harry, wake up! Shit, someone call the Healers; let them know we’re coming in.”
Harry noticed that the colours were getting duller only gradually. He’d been assigned to desk-work after one too many outbursts at a member of the public, and his little cubicle was soon nothing but shades of grey. It hadn’t been hard to find something stronger; Harry had magic on his side. Vernon and Petunia still lived on Privet Drive, and through watching them he found Dudley, professional Boxer now. Following Dudley led him to a ferrety-looking man who dealt steroids to athletes - Harry had always known Dudley was a cheat - and that man led Harry to another dealer, someone who had medicinal grade diamorphine ampoules, and was only too willing to sell them to anyone with enough money and the right look of desperation in their eyes.
“What have you got?”
“We got a tip that he could be in trouble, and we found him like this.”
“Merlin, are those track marks?”
“Just get him sorted!”
Harry didn’t know who’d have called the Aurors, or how they’d have gotten past his wards. He vaguely remembered starting work in the Department, before he was fired, and having to register the wards on his home, but surely they’d have forgotten about that. Unless Hermione told them. Hermione would have Firecalled the Aurors, or Molly maybe. Perhaps even Neville - it had been a long time since Harry responded to any of Neville’s owls from Hogwarts. How could they want him to give up this feeling of calm, of relaxed euphoria where nothing really mattered?
“Harry, we need to know what you’ve taken, so that we can get it out of your system. Harry? Can you hear me?”
They couldn’t understand what it was like living with the ghosts of the war that followed him; the constant feeling of being hunted, the knowledge he was a killer, the screams that woke him up, they sounded so real. His friends couldn’t understand that he needed to escape, and that throwing himself into his work didn’t do that. He just needed to take the edge off of his memories, and if they’d begrudge him that then they weren’t his friends to begin with.
And if the injections sometimes made the ghosts come back tenfold, made them chase Harry through never-ending corridors where screams were piped in through the vents, then Harry could offset that against the dull stupors where everything was okay, and nothing could touch him.
~o~
“Healer, the Press are here.”
Draco sighed, nodding his head and pushing back from the observation window. It wasn’t a Wizarding drug Potter had taken, and from the track marks Draco suspected heroin. As the world had watched Harry spiralling down into hell, the one constant had been Harry coming to the mass graves. Draco had relied on that sight. When Harry hadn’t shown tonight, Draco hoped that this wouldn’t be the outcome.
Straightening his robes, he turned around and walked out of the ward. Flinching at the sudden onslaught of flashes and smoke, he cleared his throat. “I’ll release a short statement, and there will be no questions. At 6:45pm Harry Potter was brought into St. Mungo's requiring immediate medical attention. He is currently in a stable but critical condition. I will remind you all that the wards are magically protected to refuse entry to those without proper magical clearance. Do not try to get in.”
Turning his back on the shouted questions, on the demands to know if Harry had overdosed, Draco went back to his patient. He had a vested interest in Harry surviving.
And he had a life debt to repay.
Author - softly_sweetly
Beta - marguerite_26 and lesyeuxverts00 - thanks ladies!
Rating - R
Word Count - ~1,000
Characters/Pairings - Harry, Draco, Unrequited Draco/Harry
Warnings - Angst, Drug Use,
Disclaimer - I own nothing but the plot lines. I make no money from this, and mean no offence by any scene depicted within this story. All characters depicted in sexual situations herein are above the age of consent.
Summary - Draco saw him there every week as he stood under a Disillusionment charm and looked out over the grave of what he had once wanted to inherit. Harry would pace and yell, pupils dilated and limbs shaking with the cold. Draco relied on that sight more than he cared to admit.
Author's Notes - Written for my mission_insane Inspired by Songs table, which can be found here. The song I've used is Johnny Cash's version of Hurt, lyrics can be found here Though it's inspired by a song, it is not a songfic, *grin*
Draco saw him there every week as he stood under a Disillusionment charm and looked out over the grave of what he had once wanted to inherit. Harry would pace and yell, pupils dilated and limbs shaking with the cold. Draco relied on that sight more than he cared to admit.
~o~
“Forget your damn wand; the wards are down, kick the bloody door in!”
It had all been so easy. Wizards were spectacularly nonplussed by weed, and Harry had been able to buy it from the licensed shop in the weeks after the war. It helped him relax, helped him calm himself down when the nightmares got unbearable, when funeral after funeral began to get on top of him. Harry wouldn’t call himself an addict; after what he’d lived through, he was well within his rights to smoke a joint on the weekend, or after a particularly hard day at work (where the other Aurors resented his passage straight into the department without attending basic training). He wasn’t the only wizard that smoked it; plenty of his friends would come round and share a joint and a bottle of Firewhisky with him on a Friday night.
“Shit, he has back-up wards. Murphey, get them down now!”
But after a few months, the joints stopped working. Maybe it had been a bad batch of weed, but when Harry had ventured into the Muggle world and sought out a dealer, their product hadn't worked either. When he mentioned it in passing to a guy in a club, one of Harry’s regular contacts, the guy passed Harry a little plastic bag with three white pills in it.
“Okay, the wards are down. Can we kick it in?”
“Yeah, we can pay him damages later.”
Ecstasy was incredible. Everything looked bright and colourful again, in a way it hadn’t since long before Harry hit puberty. Sounds resonated in his head, letting him dance to a tune no one else could hear. And if people at work noticed he was smiling more, drinking ridiculous amounts of coffee, getting more done, no one complained. Ginny didn’t like the pills, but Harry would never make her take them. If she wanted to be left behind in her cold, dark world then that was her lookout. He wasn’t going to force her to take them; he didn’t even beg for her to stay in his colourful flat when she moved back in with her parents.
“Jesus fucking Christ. Potter! Harry, wake up! Shit, someone call the Healers; let them know we’re coming in.”
Harry noticed that the colours were getting duller only gradually. He’d been assigned to desk-work after one too many outbursts at a member of the public, and his little cubicle was soon nothing but shades of grey. It hadn’t been hard to find something stronger; Harry had magic on his side. Vernon and Petunia still lived on Privet Drive, and through watching them he found Dudley, professional Boxer now. Following Dudley led him to a ferrety-looking man who dealt steroids to athletes - Harry had always known Dudley was a cheat - and that man led Harry to another dealer, someone who had medicinal grade diamorphine ampoules, and was only too willing to sell them to anyone with enough money and the right look of desperation in their eyes.
“What have you got?”
“We got a tip that he could be in trouble, and we found him like this.”
“Merlin, are those track marks?”
“Just get him sorted!”
Harry didn’t know who’d have called the Aurors, or how they’d have gotten past his wards. He vaguely remembered starting work in the Department, before he was fired, and having to register the wards on his home, but surely they’d have forgotten about that. Unless Hermione told them. Hermione would have Firecalled the Aurors, or Molly maybe. Perhaps even Neville - it had been a long time since Harry responded to any of Neville’s owls from Hogwarts. How could they want him to give up this feeling of calm, of relaxed euphoria where nothing really mattered?
“Harry, we need to know what you’ve taken, so that we can get it out of your system. Harry? Can you hear me?”
They couldn’t understand what it was like living with the ghosts of the war that followed him; the constant feeling of being hunted, the knowledge he was a killer, the screams that woke him up, they sounded so real. His friends couldn’t understand that he needed to escape, and that throwing himself into his work didn’t do that. He just needed to take the edge off of his memories, and if they’d begrudge him that then they weren’t his friends to begin with.
And if the injections sometimes made the ghosts come back tenfold, made them chase Harry through never-ending corridors where screams were piped in through the vents, then Harry could offset that against the dull stupors where everything was okay, and nothing could touch him.
~o~
“Healer, the Press are here.”
Draco sighed, nodding his head and pushing back from the observation window. It wasn’t a Wizarding drug Potter had taken, and from the track marks Draco suspected heroin. As the world had watched Harry spiralling down into hell, the one constant had been Harry coming to the mass graves. Draco had relied on that sight. When Harry hadn’t shown tonight, Draco hoped that this wouldn’t be the outcome.
Straightening his robes, he turned around and walked out of the ward. Flinching at the sudden onslaught of flashes and smoke, he cleared his throat. “I’ll release a short statement, and there will be no questions. At 6:45pm Harry Potter was brought into St. Mungo's requiring immediate medical attention. He is currently in a stable but critical condition. I will remind you all that the wards are magically protected to refuse entry to those without proper magical clearance. Do not try to get in.”
Turning his back on the shouted questions, on the demands to know if Harry had overdosed, Draco went back to his patient. He had a vested interest in Harry surviving.
And he had a life debt to repay.