Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

The Masks of Real Heroes	By : Aelys_Althea Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Slash - Male/Male Views: 17755 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: Many thanks to the wonderful J. K. Rowling who offered such a beautiful world for amateurs such as myself to frolick in. This is a not-for-profit fanfiction and all characters and original storylines of Harry Potter belong to her!

Chapter List
- 9
- 10
- 11
WARNING: this chapter contains depictions of rape and violence.

If you think this may be offensive or triggering, please don't read at least the first third of the chapter. I don't want to upset anyone unintentionally.

Chapter 9: A Return to Familiar Tortures
The emptiness of the house was apparent from the moment Harry swung the door hesitantly inwards. No lights beamed brilliance upon the shadows encroaching on the walls with the darkening evening. Not a voice uttered a croak, no feet shuffled on carpet. There was no squeak of a sofa as a body sought more comfortable seating.
Harry released his pent breath, a gasping sigh that deflated the tension in his chest. Yet in its place anxiety immediately set up residence. For if his uncle was not in the house, it would mean that he was on his way, would return at some point that night. To find his wayward charge once more perched in the comfort of his home. The thought of his uncle’s response, possibly incredulity but most definitely angry, sent a shudder dancing down Harry’s spine. He had to come back, though. He knew he had to. Dumbledore had told him to spend his holidays with his uncle, content in the knowledge that he would be ‘safe’. McGonagall had encouraged the same, recalling that his uncle had seemed ‘sad and regretful to see him go when he left for Hogwarts’ and that he would undoubtedly welcome his return, if only brief in nature.
Harry was under no illusions that his uncle had been regretful. Of course he was. But sad? It was almost laughable to consider; Stephen Defaux did not get ‘sad’. And yet, ignorant as the headmaster and his deputy had been had been, Harry found couldn’t disrespect his decision. Because they had told him to come back. To do otherwise would just be so…wrong. More so than the looming possibilities that awaited him in the summer.
Thrusting the thought to the side, Harry trundled his bulky trunk through the doorway. The experience left the impression of nothing so much as a jittery shopping trolley seeking to divert routes with the spasm of a single wheel. The loud, hollow thunk of leather on the walls made Harry wince, despite knowing he was alone in the house.
Well, almost alone. Lyssy murmured a faint yowl, as though she were party to his brooding thoughts and sought to comfort him with her presence. Harry spared a glance for the tiny cat following in his wake as he made his way towards his room, at the luminous eyes and tail curling low to the ground. Perhaps Draco was right. Perhaps she really was his familiar. She was certainly a much needed presence in his life, given she was the only friend he had for the majority of his teenage years.
The stray thought immediately brought a wave of sadness and longing into Harry’s chest, nearly overwhelming the residing anxiety. Yes, Lyssy had been with him for so long, but having a human friend was something that Harry had not appreciated until now. Had not even known he needed. Until they were no longer with him.
A lump settled in his throat at the thought of his friends. Of Draco. Of Neville, Ron and Hermione, of Blaise and even Pansy. But especially of Draco. They had parted on somewhat uneasy terms; Harry was unsure if Draco hated him for what he’d done, even if it was inflicted in attempted helpfulness, but regardless their relationship could hardly remain untouched. Even though Draco had been more withdrawn in the final week of term, Harry was sure it would be this that threw a spanner in the effortless workings of their friendship. He was startled by how much the thought saddened him. If only he had asked first. Why hadn’t he simply asked?!
Another sigh escaped his mouth as he dropped his trunk to the floor of the bedroom. His bedroom, he supposed, though it felt no more his own than it ever had. There were too many memories that hung in the stale air of the closed walls, memories that clashed in a putrid disaster with the vibrant images of his schoolmates. It drew a shudder across his shoulders, and Harry immediately wrapped the fond memories in a blanket of safety and isolation to hold them aloft from his contaminated surrounds. Like a treasured egg, he nestled the parcelled memories in the back of his mind, resolving not to touch them until he could build upon the meagre yet glowing supply.
Easing himself down onto the smooth covers of the quilt, Harry wiped his mind clear of thought, sinking into a state he had not revisited since that disastrous incident in Defence Against the Dark Arts what seemed so long ago. It was easier, to allow the cold, stark blankness to coat the surface of his mind than to allow his thoughts to manifest into possibilities, to drift towards memories of fondness. He didn’t want to contemplate his past, nor his future, which was most likely to reach an ominous climax in the near future. The projection of such fantasies often made the reality so much worse.
Idly, he ran his hand over Lyssy’s downy fur as the little cat leapt onto his lap and curled fox-like across his thighs. The sun outside his single window, seen in a hazy blur through the gossamer curtains, gradually slipped down beneath the jagged horizon of misshapen rooftops. Darkness smothered the house like a thick blanket but Harry made no move to switch on a light. He didn’t know how long he sat, immobile, his muscles gradually sinking into a dull ache of constant tension. The cold numbness he had settled himself into just barely withheld his dread.
Until the door opened.
In the silence of the house, the soft click of the door handle resounded like a gunshot. Harry flinched, closing his eyes as his ears unconsciously strained to hear every noise that followed. The scuff of shoes on the doormat, the jangle of keys as they were clipped onti the hook beside the door, a faint grumble of preoccupied mumbling.
The door to Harry’s room was only slightly ajar. Harry had fixed it just so as to provide as much of a shield as possible between himself and his uncle while still allowing ribbons of sound to slither into the room. Sounds that gradually made their way down the hallway.
The uneven step alerted Harry immediately to his uncle’s state. Drunk. Of course. And angry, if the continued cursing as he stumbled into the hallway walls was any indication. Harry barely dared to breathe, not a whisper escaping his lips as his widened eyes stared at the paper-thin gap between door and frame. Perhaps, if he was lucky, his uncle would simply pass the room and fall directly into sleep. Harry hadn’t alerted him to the timing of his return, only mentioned in a brief missive sent by Muggle post that he would be back for the Christmas break. He had received no reply.
His hopes died in a splintering mess when the white door swung inwards. Somehow, with that uncanny infallibility he possessed, Stephen knew he was there. The hinges uttered no squeak, yet the yawning opening seemed to sing a song of foreboding. The shadowed figure, illuminated only by the street lamps intermingled with moonlight streaming through the window, wedged itself in the doorway.
Had he always been so tall? So very large? His tie hung messily, half loosened with a wet stain running its length, his jacket slumped from his shoulders. The cuffs of his sleeves were crinkled in a careless fashion, white edges dirtied to a sweaty brown. The shadows of the night did nothing to favour his dishevelled appearance, rather enhancing the haggard smudges beneath his eyes, the crazed messiness of his mousy hair. His beard had grown out, the moustache pointed in a toothbrush-like bristle. It would have been almost comical had Harry not been so filled with dread.
An unexpected laugh rung from Stephen’s throat, humourless and hollow. ‘Ssssso. You’re back.’ It wasn’t a question, nor an accusation, despite the anger that smothered his uncle’s drunken slur. ‘Should we have a party, or are you a little too old for celebrations?’
Harry didn’t move, not even to breath, and didn’t dare blink for fear of taking his eyes off his uncle. He didn’t voice a reply, especially not to suggest the unlikelihood of such a celebration given they did not even recognise birthdays in the household. Any word would be a sign of weakness, an attempt at smoothing the situation into a less volatile state. Unlike Vernon, Stephen was smart. He would employ every weakness, every opportunity, to act upon his desires if given the slightest leeway. It was enough to keep Harry balancing on eggshells whenever in his presence. He didn’t break his line of sight, even when Lyssy leapt from his lap and darted for cover under the bed.
His uncle didn’t seem to care that he received no reply. He was likely too unbalanced by the alcohol swimming through his veins to even hear one had Harry uttered as much. Pushing himself into the room, he strode with an admirable attempt at steadiness towards the bed. His looming form was made even more daunting by Harry’s diminutive seat on the mattress.
‘Well? Nothing to say for yourself? I would expect as much, so much, as… much as given how quiet you’ve always been. But really, really Harry, not even a greeting for your beloved uncle?’
Even drunk and stumbling over his words Stephen managed to lace the term with sarcasm. The so-named ‘uncle’ had never lived up to the expectations the title insinuated. Harry remained silent, neck craned to stare almost directly upwards at the man. The faint whispers of breath that puffed from his open mouth tickled his eyelashes.
‘No? Then maybe you could just maybe esplain something to me. Ungrateful, it is. Up and leaving with barely a word from your blasted teachers. And goin’ to a foreign school? Some ‘Special School’? Have you no sense, boy? Have some crackpot old bastard teach you, teach you what you could just as easily as learnt at home? Huh?
‘It isn’t…’ The words died nearly as soon as they were spoken. Harry clamped his jaw shut, nearly cringing as the whispered, broken sentence settled in the air. What a fool! What had he done? He shouldn’t have spoken, he knew he shouldn’t have spoken, even in defence of his school, his relative haven. Just… He should have just kept his lips sealed. He had lost.
Stephen knew it too. A sloppy smile spread across his chin with all the elegance of a satisfied toad. Despite their differences in appearance, the smirk gave him an uncanny resemblance to Vernon Dursley. A smile that bespoke satisfaction that he had cracked the boy before him, that he knew he had the upper hand. It was what he had been waiting for.
With more coordination than his prior movements had suggested possible, Stephen latched a hand onto the neck of Harry’s jumper and jerked him to his feet. A swing of his arm, a half stumble and a bodily thump and Harry was pressed up against the wall of his room, bracing himself an attempt to retain his footing. Though his breath whooshed from between his lips in an audible gush, the motion was not entirely unexpected to Harry. His uncle had done so before, in the throughs of passion. What was unexpected was the ringing slap that smacked his head back against the wall a moment later.
Harry felt his mouth spring open, eyes widening in shock. He was not unfamiliar with physical violence; the Dursley’s had seen to such an acquaintance for the ten years he had been held in their grasp. But Stephen… Stephen had never intentionally struck him. Bruises, yes; the man was strong, his grip was firm - it was inevitable. But a slap?
The cruel smile widened. A maniacal glint flickered in Stephen’s darkly dilated eyes, visible even in the faint light. ‘Not expecting that, huh? Probably as surprised as I felt when you up and left. Do you… d’you feel it? Hmm? The sssuprise?’ The man cocked his head, raising his eyebrows in false interest. Not awaiting an answer, not expecting one, he continued. ‘Well, then I’ll just have to try again.’
Another open-palmed slap stung across Harry’s cheek. The smarting skin, the sting of inflammation, drew tears from his eyes, tears he furiously swallowed. It didn’t hurt, and he wasn’t upset. He simply… wasn’t.
Another slap, on the other cheek this time, and a dribble slipped through Harry’s eyelashes. Blinking frantically in an attempt to halt the threatening droplets, he peered through his glasses at the blurred image of his uncle. Please don’t let him have seen, don’t let him see me cry, even if it’s not real tears… It’s not!
A tongue darted between dry lips, moistening them to an even darker red. Stephen’s eyes were fixed on the trail of liquid running down to his chin. ‘Hurts, does it? Does it?’ Reaching forward, with a deliberate swiftness that caused Harry to flinch once more, the man licked the salty water from his face. It was all Harry could do to suppress a shiver from trembling through his body, to lock his limbs from retreat further into the solidity of the wall. Time apart had muffled the familiarity of the touch, heightening his disgust and loathing to new degrees. The conditioned numbness had crumbled over time. He was left bare, his skin nearly as sensitive and naïve as it had been that very first time. A flicker of painful memory caused him to clench his eyes closed briefly, locking his jaw.
When he opened them again, it was to another flinch at the darkness of his uncle’s eyes. Lust tinged the anger and the drunken glaze, a recognisable heat spreading across pale skin. With his hand still coiled in the neck of Harry’s jumper, the man dragged him from the wall, only to spin him around and crash him firmly back against the cold plaster, chest first. Harry’s breath gushed from his lungs once more, and he had barely managed to gasp another before it was lost again with a thrust of a broad hand to his head. Pressure built painfully, claw-like fingers piercing his scalp and forcing his face against the cool wall painfully, until a sickening crack broke through Stephen’s frantic puffing. Like a crushed insect, Harry’s glasses clattered to the floor, lenses shattered in pieces. A splintering twinge of pain settled on Harry’s cheeks as the sprinkles of glass grazed across his skin, cutting in stinging slices, before falling.
‘I…I told you, never, you never wear them in my house.’ It was the last coherent words Stephen said for quite some time.
Harry was thankful for the darkness, even thankful for the wall he was crushed against as it meant he didn’t have to look upon the frantic, jumbled motions of his uncle. It did nothing to quell the sensations, however, the achingly hard grasps of thick fingers, of one hand grasping his hipbones while the other stretched his arms painfully high and pinned achingly tight above his head. Soft licks beneath his ear were quickly exchanged for gnashing teeth that sunk into his neck, into a shoulder bared of clothing, upon his collarbone. Harry couldn’t fully suppress his pained whimpers, but settled for dropping his chin and muffling them against his chest as best he could.
Experience taught him not to resist, that it would only cause more pain and make it last longer. So he didn’t fight, not even when the painfully grasping fingers on his hips dropped to his jeans and, fumbling, tugged and yanked. The denim fell to gravity and crumpled to the floor. A shiver gripped him despite his intentions and a faint keen whimpered from his throat. Stephen pressed his own body, abruptly similarly bared from the waist down, firmly against his back. The throbbing heat, the man’s thick hardness pressed against the small of Harry’s back, nearly caused him to gag in disgust. Stephen’s frantic puffs were nearly verbal now, harsh gasps of drunken exertion and frantic desire.
The pressure on his back, crushing him to the wall, was the only thing that allowed Harry to keep his feet as, with sickening ease, the older man hitched one of his legs painfully and wedged it against the wall. That throbbing heat slid against his buttocks and, with fumbling, uncoordinated probes, the man thrust.
It was painful. More painful than Harry could remember. The lack of preparation, coupled with the time they had spent apart, only increased the pain. Harry couldn’t withhold a shuddering cry, his mind so caught in the tearing heat, the nauseating assault, that he couldn’t bother to smother the sound. He felt hot and cold in equal measures, clammy and shaking, the burning in his guts pounding in time with the thumping in his skull. A faint, satisfied laugh breathed into his ear, punctuated by another thrust that forced a second cry from his lips.
In short order, Stephen worked his way deep inside him, pressing closer, arms grasping ever tighter around Harry’s wrists and waist as he crushed himself further into him. Fully seated, the man paused briefly, gasping in lustful satisfaction. Bursts of laughter spurted from between his lips at the faint cries that wrangled from Harry’s lips. Harry panted in unison, each gasping breath throbbing an aching pain throughout his entire body. His body twitched in spasms. It was intolerable, it had to stop, it had to be stopped. But it was inescapable. It always had been. And Harry could only gasp in an attempt to quell the encroaching dizziness, the upwelling nausea, which clouded his mind.
When the impossible tightness had eased from intolerable to simply excruciatingly painful, the older man released another gasp, withdrawing slightly. A blissful moan was all the notice he gave before his fingers grasped bruising skin more tightly and, hips racing forwards, thrust once more, pressing Harry against the wall.
Harry barely moved. Pain and breathlessness fogged his mind with each scrape of his uncle’s arousal, each forceful thrust. The intense pressure of both Stephen and the wall made it nearly impossible to breathe. His cries died to breathy sobs. The dam of his tears crumpled easily, trickling dribbles freely from his chin. His body rocked with the motion of the thrusting man, bloody cheek pierced with shattered glass scraping against the wall and leaving streaks of glistening redness in a rusty mangled artwork upon the cream wallpaper. The grunts of his uncle were only barely audible over the rising thumping of his heart in his ears, pounding in his temple. He thanked the darkness briefly, once more, that he was unable to see his uncle’s face; the bile swirling in his mouth would have undoubtedly spilled through parted lips had he seen the lustful glee, the sadistic possessiveness, painting the man’s face.
He wasn’t sure how long it continued. Long enough for a patchwork of blood to mar the walls, and for his hips to have sunken into a paradoxically painful numbness. The feeling in his thighs had all but disappeared, only the grip of the man’s arm around his waist and the firm solidity of the wall keeping him upright. Even his sobs had died completely.
The swirling darkness in his head threatened to pull him under. For whatever reason, some survival instinct within him fought it, clutching at consciousness with feeble fingers. Finally, after an eternity of haphazard thrusting, Stephen froze in a seizure of pleasure and a searing wetness filled Harry. A sigh breathed hotly, wetly, into his ear. The familiar breath of laughter shuddered quickly on its heels.
‘Welcome home, Boy.’

It was a full-body ache. Everything throbbed with the strain of simply holding itself together. He didn’t care to look, but felt the bruises dotting his waist, his shoulders, his thighs, ringing his bicep in a macabre mimic of an armband. He knew what he would see; a patchwork of greens, purples, blues and yellows, stains on his skin in various stages of healing after three days of stress.
Had it only been three days?
Moving only his eyes, the boy observed the steady rise and fall of the sleeping man next to him. Harsh breaths, nearly snores, would have kept him awake if his aching body had not. Each breath fluttered the overgrown moustache like curtains in the wind. A faint pool of drool seeped carelessly into the plump pillow. Disturbingly, maddeningly, the man looked to be at utter peace.
It was harder. So much harder than it had been. For the boy, his Christmas holidays had consisted of much the same treatment since he had turned eleven. Save the additional burden of the heightened aggression, it was nothing he hadn’t seen before. Even his uncle’s violence was not unfamiliar; Vernon had done far worse. The scars that still decorated his body attested to that.
Yet harder it was. And as the boy lay, silent in exhaustion, his mind turned unconsciously towards contemplation. He knew why. It was the ultimate cruelty, really, to be shown kindness, something better, only to be cast back into the pitiful darkness like a discarded toy once more. It was only worse that the kindness of the elderly headmaster, the upright Deputy, even the classmates of which he dared to consider friends, and the resulting pain that followed was entirely unintentional. He couldn’t hate them. He couldn’t even force himself to view them with the cold indifference he unanimously directed towards everyone. He was forced to admit that, whether he cared to deny it or not, he craved the compassion of the wizards and witches like a starving man craved bread.
He would endure. If only to return to the school after Christmas, he would endure whatever his uncle could throw at him. The headmaster had instructed he return to his family over the break, so he had. He had to stay, because… because…
Why?
Why exactly did he have to stay?
There was… there was really no reason to… except that he was supposed to.
True, he was not yet seventeen, the age of maturity in the Wizarding world, yet he had money. Lots of money, too, if the mountains of coins he had glimpsed in the Gringotts vault were more than leprechaun gold. Money was always an issue; removing such an issue from the playing field afforded an enticing liberty…
Could he? Just maybe, could he try?
The very thought of leaving again, following the guttural grunts of command his uncle had voiced, sent a chilling shudder through the boy’s body, a shudder that trembled aching limbs with an echo of pain. The prospect was terrifying. Terrifying, but oh so tempting.
Sliding his eyes once more to the prone figure at his side, the boy eased himself up into seating. Or attempted to. The pain in his hips, the strain in his thighs, triggered a whimper that he bit back only just in time. Instead, his made a slow, awkward roll onto the side of the bed, trembling legs slipping to the carpeted floor. It was an incremental process, made slower by the fact that the boy kept his eyes trained firmly upon the sleeping man cocooned loosely in pale sheets.
With bated breath, the boy rose onto his feet. He nearly fell back onto the mattress with nerve-wracking speed; his muscles protested like sleeping dogs kicked into wakefulness. Grabbing onto the bedside table, he composed himself briefly, before taking an erratic step from the bed. Then another. And another.
Determination set in. Fear and urgency washed away the fatigue and aches that sagged his limbs into doughy uselessness. Casting many a glance towards the sleeping figure, he quickly dressed himself once more, slipping the t-shirt and trousers discarded across the floor soundlessly over bruised skin. It was cold outside. More than cold. Frost opaqued the windows and snow drifted lazily down onto black-and-white gardens like falling fairy dust. Brief contemplation had Harry reaching towards a pair of boots at the back of the cupboard. He would need a thick jacket too, a scarf, maybe gloves…
All of a sudden, the silence was broken by a crackling snore. Heart jumping into his throat, the boy spun around, eyes widening fearfully at the prospect of being noticed. In doing so, his hastily constructed plans of escape fell to pieces.
In his hands, the heavy boots dropped from nerveless fingers and clattered against one another to a thump on the floor. Rolled just ever so slightly to kick against the foot of the bed.
The sound wasn’t overly loud, yet in the silence of the room a cannon may as well have been fired. A startled snort, and the man on the bed sat up suddenly. Eyes blinked blearily as sleep cleared, drifting hazily until they focused upon the immobilised figure of the boy standing not five feet across the room.
‘Boy, what are you…?’
The boy was frozen. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The man on the bed terrified him – he finally admitted as much, after denying it for so long. It was terror. He was a gaoler, and as the sleepy figure slung his legs over the side of the bed, face contorting into confused anger, the boy watched the swinging door to his gaol cell rapidly closing.
A muted cheep was the only thing that managed to draw him from his mounting terror. Eyes magnetised towards the sound, he could just discern the shadowed shape of the cat staring fiercely at him from the doorway. As though awaiting notice, the cat met his eyes, dipped her chin, turned, and darted from the room.
The distraction shattered his immobility like a rock through the surface of pristine water. Escape. He had to escape. It was now, or…
Abandoning the boots, not even considering an overcoat, the boy leap from the room. Adrenaline jolted with magical speed through his system, driving the protestations of twinging knees and screaming thighs to the recesses of awareness. Grabbing the doorframe, he swung himself from the bedroom and into the deeper darkness of the windowless hallway.
‘Wha- Boy! What are you-?’
The boy didn’t hear him. Only his fearful pants, the resounding thump of his heartbeat, throbbed in his head, drowning out all other sounds. With mindless precision, faster than he thought possible, he grasped the handle of the front door, flicking deadbolt and chain from their passage-impeding resistance, and launched himself into the night.
‘BOY!’
It was cold. That was all. Cold, and with a slight breeze. He didn’t care. It could have been a snowstorm and he would have leapt into the night with the same determination. Bare feet pounding through frosted grass, across the burning coldness of tarmac, Harry disappeared into the night. Only the dark shadow, darting in unison at his heels, accompanied him in his flight.

Striding with purpose towards an unknown destination, Draco thrust his hands into the semi-warmth of his pockets. The falling snow was not overly thick in inner city Paris, but it was enough to chill one to the bone had they not been dressed appropriately. Draco cursed the Ministry’s under-age magic laws that prevented him from casting his own Warming Charm, but quickly shrugged off his disgruntlement. The scarf wrapped around his neck was pulled high enough to cover his chin, a hat pulled low over his forehead, leaving only his nose and cheeks bare to the night’s chill. It was hardly concerning. Besides, he had more important things to focus on. If only he knew exactly what they were.
It had been nearly half a week since the Christmas holidays had begun, two days since he and his parents had retreated to the relative safety of France. Even now, after days of becoming accustomed to the reality of his situation, it still made Draco pause to think how drastically his life had been turned around. And how unexpectedly.
Upon returning home, Draco had immediately informed Lucius and Narcissa of the loss of the twisted tattoo on his forearm. He could still hear the shocked silence ringing in his ears as the same mixture of horror and wonder filled both of their expressions. It seemed an eternity before Lucius finally spoke.
‘How is this possible?’
So Draco had related, with as much objectivity as he could, exactly how the hated mark, the symbolic and magical tie to the Dark Lord, fading like a bruise under a Healing Charm. The explanation naturally led to more, less easily conclusive topics: who was the boy that had both the skill and the audacity to remove the mark of the Dark Lord? Was the Dark Lord aware? Had he felt the effective loss, the detachment, of one of his servants? What would he do if he had? What did this mean for them? And how could they avoid discovery, assuming he was still unaware?
Answering as succinctly as possible, Draco had attempted to enforce the same calm and rationality he had developed on the long train return trip from Hogwarts earlier that day. The Dark Lord was obviously not aware of Draco’s blatant show of treachery, regardless of how unintentional it was. That Lucius and Narcissa were not aware of the Dark Mark’s disappearance was testimony to that. Draco highly suspected that he would not have had a family to return to if He had been aware of the matter at hand. Somehow, Harry Defaux had removed him from the Dark Lords blanketing control without his knowledge. It left each Malfoy in a state of wary euphoria and steadily growing foreboding.
It was by unanimous agreement that the Malfoys then decided to retreat into the relative safety of one of their foreign Manors. Though none were so large as their British abode, the respectable dwellings held the added appeal that they created substantial distance between themselves and the Dark Lord. Not that they could truly escape his gaze if he sought to peer down upon them, but by forcibly removing themselves from his immediate reach they hoped that it would in turn smother his attention.
The Malfoy Manors were impressive in that they appeared in nearly every European country. Though admittedly many had not seen a Malfoy in generations, it did not mean that they were not available for habitation, nor kept at a less than impeccable state by devoted house elves. As such, the three weeks break held the prospect of a holiday in any number of European destinations. They knew it would be only a temporary reprieve; it would be a lucky break if they were not called to the Dark Lord’s audience at least once to determine the progression of Draco’s ‘secret mission’.
His parents had, graciously, left the decision of destination to Draco. It had taken little thought on Draco’s part; given the circumstances, and the constant topic of conversation, the memory of Harry Defaux was always near at hand. He knew it was irrational, not to mention entirely uncharacteristic of the image he had attempted to present his entire life, but the knowledge of Harry’s own locale over the three week break perhaps influenced his own decision more that he cared to admit. The slight smile and raised eyebrow of his mother and father respectively suggested neither were unaware of the true motivation for visiting the country. Draco ignored their suggestive stares; he could brush them off as inconsequential. Besides, Paris held a certain appeal; Draco pointedly ignored the fact that he had only been to the country once, when he was eight, and had been thoroughly unimpressed, despite what tourism preached.
Just such disinterest had made itself known within a day of retreating to the French manor. Lucius and Narcissa had been adamant that he remained indoors during the day at least, leaving him only the nights to wander in search of some reprieve from his growing boredom. Which left him with as much of a solution to his unexpected problem as he had before the suggestion. Who wanted to wander the streets of Paris in such freezing weather?
How he managed to even dredge up the emotional strength to feel bored in his current circumstances was beyond him, yet somehow, with the absence of the Dark Mark, a weight had lifted from his shoulders as though a laden pack had fallen to the floor. Despite everything, he had actually been able to sleep through the night again. He hadn’t realised how hard it had become to breathe until the release had dawned the revelation upon him. The inconceivable desire to run, to dance even, made any form of sedate activity next to impossible. He practically wore tracks in the floorboards for all the pacing he undertook.
Coupled with his steadily growing jittery energy, just that evening he had developed an Itch. That was what he called it anyway, and the journeying the increased tempo of his pacing had urged upon him had alerted him to a similar Itch developing in both his mother and father. Like a burr caught on the inside of one’s sock, it was impossible to ignore and only grew more irritating with time. And the most annoying thing? He couldn’t have located the source even had he been permitted use of his wand over the winter break. Lucius and Narcissa had, discretely but with enough obviousness that Draco had noticed, attempted to discern the nature of the discomfort but were at a distinct loss and so had both been forced to settle back into fidgeting passivity.
The Itch wasn’t a natural result of a build up of energy. That much Draco had determined. It was Narcissa’s response more than anything else that indicated as much. Exceptionally sensitive to magical phenomena, the woman had been in a state of discomfort that in any other woman would have seen them tearing out their hair. In Narcissa, it manifested as a jiggling of her leg as she stared furiously at her open book. The second time Draco passed through her parlour, nearly an hour after the first, he noticed that she hadn’t turned a page. It was oddly comforting to realise that he wasn’t the only affected by the strange, buzzing Itch.
By nine o’clock, far from ‘winding down’ for the night, Draco’s pacing had begun to annoy even his parents, forgiving though they were. The Itch had grown to a demanding urge, an urge that positively begged action. It was with equal relief on Draco’s and his parent’s part when they agreed he could wander the streets to relieve the urge.
Hence Draco’s current status.
He didn’t know exactly what drew him onwards, but his feet insisted they had every confidence in their directional skills and heeded his queries with little regard. Even with the cold, Draco had to admit the faintly purposeful wandering was relieving. The Itch, while still strong, had died in its insistent pressure and merely lurked like a waiting shadow on the edges of his consciousness.
Chin down, staring fixedly at the ice-covered path crunching beneath his feet and mind devoid of any thoughts save the now-familiar twinging, it was with little wonder that when the Itch finally disappeared he stopped abruptly in his tracks. He frowned, raising his gaze, baffled at the sudden absence and dare he say a little disappointed that it had amounted to nothing. With a frustrated huff he registered his surroundings for the first time in what could have been hours, blinking through the feathery snowflakes that drifted lazily through the air.
He had wandered into a shadowed park, the orange glow of Muggle electricity hanging like miniature suns in the distance to illuminate the ice-slick road. Snow covered the ground, not overly thick but enough to blanket the frozen sprigs of winter grass and huddled evergreen bushes. Park benches dotted the sidewalk, empty as any sane person would be indoors in such weather, with the darkness of full-night now swallowing the last traces of holiday sunlight.
Draco puffed a faint cloud into the air and dug his hands beneath his armpits. Even with gloves it really was bloody freezing. Casting his gaze around the empty park, running his eyes over a distant lake that breathed wrath-like mist into the air about it’s flat surface, that odd disappointment arose once more. He turned to leave…
…And nearly crushed the darting shadow beneath his heel. A stumbling dance and a few staggered steps later and he regained his balance, gasping in startled exertion. He glared down at the dark little creature. A glare that quickly faded into bafflement, then astonishment as recognition dawned.
Lyssy uttered a faint meow, face scrunching and frosted whiskers sticking haphazardly from her cheeks. Enormous green eyes gazed up at him in desperation, that humanness and expressiveness evident only in familiars swirling in their luminescent depths.
Catching his breath, Draco dropped down to his knees before the little cat, barely registering the cold dampness that immediately seeped through the knee of his trousers. Reaching out a hand, he stroked a gloved finger between the cat’s ears, drawing on the familiarity between them to urge her closer.
What is Lyssy doing here? Surely… not without Harry…
As though she heard his thoughts, the little cat mewed another pathetic cry, butting her head into his palm before turning and darting off. Draco rose rapidly to his feet, peering into the gloom that nearly masked her passage and only barely making out the smudge of her shadow when she paused in her flight. Right beside a figure curled in a barely visible huddle on the curb of the footpath.
The world froze momentarily, as though locked in the icy confines of the snow. Not even his breath escaped, though the chill of the biting night still seeped between his parted lips. It couldn’t be… Launching himself into the little cat’s wake, Draco nearly skidded with the speed of his movement. Boots sliding upon the frozen pavement, he dropped instantly to the ground before the boy and the cat. His only recently regained breath caught again in his throat.
Harry was nearly frozen, and it was no wonder given that barely a thin shirt and worn jeans barred him from the merciless chill of the night. The arms locked around his knees had taken on a sickly paleness, and what Draco could see of his face beneath a tangled fringe was equally wan, eyes closed and lashes glittering with frost. Chapped lips had faded to a worrying purple and the toes poking from the hem of his jeans were curled and blue against the paleness of the sidewalk.
Once more regaining his breath, Draco reached out frantically and clasped the smaller boy by the shoulders. What was Harry doing?! Did he have a death wish?
‘H-Harry? Harry! What are…? Harry, open your eyes! You’re okay? Please be… you’re okay, right?’
Whether it was contact of gloved hands or the admittedly desperate pleas, Harry dragged himself from his hypothermic drowsiness. Shifting in his seat, arms tightening briefly around himself, his eyelids fluttered in a struggle to open. A dangerous blurriness met Draco’s gaze, for the first time seen directly without the filter of his glasses. His eyes were unexpectedly large, his uncanny resemblance to Lyssy made more apparent. Draco nearly sobbed, his heart attempting to clamber up his throat with rising anxiety. Unlatching his hands from Harry’s arms, he hastened to unbutton his thick overcoat, to offer anything he could to the boy who had done so much for him, come to mean so much to him.
‘Draco…’
The husky voice, barely a croak, caught Draco’s attention. Had he not been alone with the other boy, he would have never believed that such a word, laced with so much sadness, despair and longing, could have come from the huddled form before him. Harry rarely expressed overt emotion, barely if ever on his face and nearly as rarely in his voice. It was unnerving.
Raising his gaze to meet that of the frozen boy before him, Draco slowed in his disrobing. If the single word was enough to stop him in his tracks, Harry’s face positively choked his breath in his throat. For the first time, the first time ever, he watched as a flood of emotions wreaked a battle across the small boy’s petite features. His brows drew up into a trembling line, mouth parted and bottom lip shuddering. And his eyes, those eyes that never held anything but blank indifference, welled with tears and sadness and despair and need. Most of all, a desperate need.
Draco barely wrapped his arms around Harry before full-body sobs wracked through his shivering frame. In an explosion of pent-up grief, a wail was cried into his chest. Fingers rose seemingly of their own accord and latched onto Draco’s thick woollen jumper. Without thought, he wrapped his own arms around his friend – yes, without doubt, he was definitely a friend – and pulled him into the warmth and comfort of his embrace. And Harry, the boy who flinched at even a touch on the shoulder, melted with his sobs into the proffered warmth.
Draco wasn’t sure how long they huddled together on the sidewalk; he was only faintly aware of the dampness of his knees becoming more pronounced, of the icy wind slipping frozen fingers into the loosened folds of his overcoat. It was only when the shuddering sobs of the boy in his arms faded to silence that he moved.
Dropping his gaze down to Harry, pressed firmly into his arms, his eyes widened in fear. His friend had slipped into sleep - or unconsciousness, it was difficult to determine which – and now trembled with such intensity that Draco was surprised he hadn’t noticed with the tightness of their embrace. Concern pushed to the forefront as he noted once more the other boy’s pallor, the now deeper purple of his lips.
Slipping a hand from his glove, Draco pressed curled fingers to Harry’s cheek and nearly hissed. Cold. Too cold. It was a wonder he wasn’t frozen solid.
Again the thought fluttered briefly though his mind – what was Harry doing in the middle of a park in central Paris, dressed for summer in the dead of winter of all things? – but urgency thrust the thought aside for later contemplation. Right now, action took priority.
Finally managing to slip his overcoat from his shoulders, Draco draped the thick folds around Harry’s shoulders. The motion was made infinitely more awkward by the worrying limpness of his friend. Satisfied that the material that effectively swam upon the smaller boy’s frame would at least protect him from the bitter edge of the night, he fastened his arms around Harry’s shoulders and under his knees and eased himself, wavering, to his feet.
It was perhaps the only time he thought of Harry’s diminutive size as being an advantage; had he been any larger, Draco doubted he would have been capable of lifting a youth his own age, let alone carry him any distance. Readjusting his fingers, setting his shoulders, Draco took a ragged breath before setting off at a trot through the darkness of the empty park. The shadow of the little cat, yowling faintly in distress, followed close on his heels.

‘Mother!’ Panting, Draco’s throat constricted painfully. ‘Father!’
The cold air drew into his mouth in sharp breaths, released as smoke like a steam engine. Sweat streamed from his forehead, slickening the hair that escaped his hat and froze in the deepening chill of the night. Shrugging his shoulders, Draco hitched the limp boy in his arms higher once more. What had seemed a slight burden initially now weighted like a ton of bricks. All four limbs of Draco’s limbs ached from exertion. He hadn’t realised just how far he had wandered into the night
With another swing of his leg, he booted the door once more. ‘Mother!’ For the first time, Draco cursed the sheer size of the manor. Likely in their respective sitting rooms, Narcissa and Lucius could have been no further from the front door. Grunting with a breathless mumbled of frustration, he edged further into the protective shadow of the doorway. The wind was picking up; he had to get inside, but his reluctance to release Harry from his hold, even briefly to open to door, provided a barrier to the warmth of the indoors.
Finally, with a spark of inspiration, he recalled the name of one of the house-elves assigned to the French establishment. ‘Mancy!’
A crack disrupted the low whistling of the wind, preceding the appearance of the house-elf by a split second. Dressed in a rather elaborate patchwork of doilies, the gangly creature barely seemed to register the cold. Her eyes widened as she gazed up at Draco and the figure he cradled.
‘Master Draco! What is you doing out in this freezing cold?!’
‘No time, dammit, just open the door!’
Nodding her head vigorously, ears trembling, the elf swung from her fixated immobility and stretched on tip-toes to thrust the door open. Striding past her, nearly bowling the creature over in his haste, Draco sunk into the warm embrace of the manor.
‘Mother! Father! Where are you?’ Inside, his voice echoed, carrying throughout the house. Glancing once more to Mancy, he didn’t even pause to scold the elf for fumbling lazily with the door. ‘Mancy, send my parents to the downstairs parlour. Immediately. I have to speak with them at once.’
Barely sparing the time to nod her compliance, another crack bespoke the elf’s departure. Following his own directions, Draco strode purposefully through towards the parlour, boots leaving a trail of wet footprints in his wake.
The downstairs parlour was one of the cosiest in a house of admittedly un-cosy rooms. A fire crackled constantly in a marble hearth even in summer, illuminating dark leather couches with an orange glow and bathing the polished floors and thick rug in a ruddy light. Edging around the glass coffee table artfully boasting an assortment of gnarled bonsai, he eased Harry onto the delicate two-seater chair with rapidly weakening arms.
The dark-haired boy still trembled, despite the warmth Draco had practically radiated upon him. His eyes were frozen closed, ice coating his lashes and interweaving them into solidity. The purple of his lips gave him a deathly appearance – it was nerve-wracking to behold.
Shedding his gloves, Draco knelt beside the couch, squeezing both of Harry’s small hands in his own. He huffed breaths into their iciness, breathing life back into the deadened skin. Please be alright, please be alright…
‘Draco, what are you doing? What is this?’
The demand broke the nervous silence with surprise more than anger. Turning, Draco met his father’s eyes as the tall man strode through the doorway, followed a moment later by a silent Narcissa. Both sets of eyes widened minutely when the registered the scene before him.
Before his parent’s could speak, Draco eased himself to his feet. He retained his grasp on Harry’s fingers, firmly but not tightly. For some reason he couldn’t make himself let go. ‘Father, mother, this is Harry Defaux.’
That simple statement seemed to allay any anger that gripped either adult, affronted as they were at the unexpected intrusion of the stranger. Narcissa started forwards in concern, while Lucius raised a perfect eyebrow questioningly.
‘You happened upon your friend – the boy who is responsible for removing your mark – in the middle of Paris. In the middle of winter. In the middle of the night.’
Draco nearly sighed his exasperation at the redundancy of his father’s statement. Instead, he composed himself appropriately, sinking back down on his haunches as Narcissa dropped onto the couch beside the unconscious boy. ‘I somehow…stumbled across him. I think it might have had something to do with that, um, magical itch from this evening.’
Lucius’s brow furrowed, but Narcissa only nodded her head faintly in agreement. Running her eyes over Harry, she raised a worried hand to her chin. ‘Yes, I can sense the same signature coming from him. It is faint, though. This is not good.’
Leaning forward, Narcissa pulled Harry upwards slightly and began to shrug Draco’s coat from his shoulders. ‘Draco, help me undress him.’
‘What? Why?’
‘He’s frozen and wet. It will only keep him cold. We need to remove the source of distress before I move on to remedying his state if we don’t want him to get worse.’ All practical efficiency, Draco’s mother set her jaw determinedly. Always level-headed in a stressful situation, she immediately took control.
Draco jumped to her assistance. His own urgency, the worry that roiled like a living thing in his gut, overrode any modesty he may have felt about disrobing his unconscious friend. In swift order, mother and son stripped Harry of shirt and jeans nearly frozen solid to his skin while Lucius presided over them with a thoughtful frown. The garments slapped heavily onto the wooden floor but neither heard it. All three froze in their movements, eyes fastening upon the revealed skin.
It was smattered with dark smudges, and not the darkness that still captured his fingers in a worrying purple. Bruises spread in a sick artwork of blues, purples, greens and yellows over deathly pale skin, more than could be counted around Harry’s jutting hipbones, bony shoulders and skinny arms. Even a trail of knut-sized spots dotted down his thighs, a ring around his ankle. It was a horrifying sight and Draco felt his throat tightening painfully.
‘What is -?’
‘No time, Draco. Later. He’s hypothermic; if we don’t do something now, the frostbite will set in and he’ll be at risk of losing fingers.’ Narcissa, breaking from her focus, set about with her practicality once more. ‘Mancy!’
The house-elf appeared in a second, as though she had been awaiting the call. ‘Mistress, what can I be getting-?’
‘Warm towels, dry-heated, but not hot. Blankets, lots of them. And a robe, small, but as warm as we have.’ Narcissa listed off her requests as she pulled her wand from the pocket of her robe, eyes scanning Harry as though making a mental assessment of his condition. ‘And quickly.’
‘Yes, Mistress.’ Another crack and she disappeared.
Narcissa was almost frighteningly efficient in her administrations. Within moments of Mancy’s return, she had ordered Draco to swaddled Harry in the folds of softness. As soon as he was finished, she shooed him from her path in a gesture reminiscent of Madam Pomfrey and set about mumbling incantations beneath her breath.
Moving to his father’s side, Draco observed the conduct with a mixture of fascination and ever-present worry. Harry hadn’t moved since he had been placed upon the couch, but Draco had utter confidence in the capabilities of his mother. She was something of a healing master, after all. Not physical healing, per se, but healing nonetheless. He didn’t miss from the corner of his eye the faint glimmer of fondness, of satisfaction, that Lucius failed to conceal as he watched with similar attentiveness as his wife paced before the couch, raining spiralling patterns of magic onto Harry’s unconscious form. Draco though they had at least some effect; Harry, or the few patches of skin still left bare, seemed slightly less blue.
When the last of the sparks finally settled, Narcissa waved her wand once more. Harry rose slowly and steadily from the couch, hovering beside the witch as she placed a hand upon his shoulder. It was an odd sight, Harry’s head the only part of his body visible and that only barely. The cocoon of blankets nearly drowned him completely.
Narcissa slipped up to his side, resting a hand on the soft bundle of blankets. ‘Alight. Mancy, I want the bed in the first guest room warmed and a fire lit. Draw the curtains too; we don’t need any of the chill from outdoors coming in.’ Mancy nodded, not even bothering to reply this time, and disappeared. Turning towards father and son, Narcissa offered a tight smile. ‘I’ve worked about as much as I can do physically. His body should be perfectly fine. It is the magical strain that I’m worried about. His core is very faint.’
Worry creased her forehead. Draco would have been surprised at the concern for a stranger if he hadn’t known his mother better. Few people knew how caring the woman truly was. She hid it well.
Shifting his gaze towards his floating friend, Draco stepped forward and similarly placed a hand on his cocoon. ‘Can you help him?’
Narcissa shrugged one shoulder. ‘We shall see. I think rest would be best for the moment. If he remains stable or improves, then my part is done. If he doesn’t…’ She trailed off once more.
‘And the bruises?’
A sigh. ‘We shall deal with one thing at a time. I have done my best with healing the worst of them, but I do not want to put his body under too much magical strain in the state he is in. We will wait until he awakens.’
Draco nodded his acceptance. That Harry was stable was truly his only concern for the moment. As his mother had said, the rest could wait. Lucius, however, was not having it.
‘And what of his sudden appearance? A teenage boy wandering the streets in the middle of the night wearing nothing but a thin shirt and jeans? Narcissa, you can’t tell me you don’t-’
‘We shall discuss it when he wakes.’ Quietly but firmly, Narcissa exerted her dominance. Lucius clamped his lips together, pausing as though contemplating continuing, before bowing his head. In public, Lucius held the reins, but in the privacy of their home Narcissa reigned with the iron first of a dictator, though not nearly so obnoxiously.
Nodding her satisfaction, Narcissa strode with her eternal grace from the room. The cocoon of blankets floated lazily in her wake. Draco, biting his lip in barely restrained worry, followed behind.

A/N: Thank you to all of my wonderful readers - new and returning. If you would, please leave me a review to let me know what you think of my story. Thanks :)
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The Masks of Real Heroes