Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

The Masks of Real Heroes	By : Aelys_Althea Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Slash - Male/Male Views: 17641 -:- 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
- 10
- 11
- 12
WARNING: this chapter (again) contains scenes of rape and violence. If you think you may find this triggering to read, please, please don't.

Seriously, though, I'm sorry, Harry. I don't mean to be so cruel. It somehow just happened.
A/N: another warning, this chapter contains something of a MASSIVE plot divergence. Or, well, I see it as massive, as it's kind of integral to the canonical HP story line. Don't shoot me for straying; this is an AU.

Chapter 10 - Visions of the Past
His fingers weren't blue anymore; the threat of frostbite had been wiped from the pale skin. Even so, Draco couldn't help but shiver at how cold his friends hands were.
Sighing, he squeezed the limp digits between his own fingers, gaze falling back on the sleeping face. Harry had always been expressionless, and yet somehow the blankness of his petite features when lax in sleep were a whole new level of disturbing. Perhaps it had something to do with the burst of overwhelming emotion that Draco had witnessed two days before. Or perhaps it was because of what he now knew, what he'd seen.
Narcissa sat with him more often than not and while silence and contemplation most frequently gripped the room, mother and son were not averse to conversation. Such as that which had transpired that morning.
'Mother, we have to talk about it.'
Narcissa sighed. Sadness flooded her features, breaking through her cool mask of composure. Few realised the depth of her caring instinct, but Draco, who had always been a recipient, was not surprised at the show of concern.
'Draco, you know as well as I what this means.'
'No, I don't.'
'You do. You simply refuse to accept it because you fear for what it means for your friend.'
Draco shook his head, in denial of both his mother's words and what he knew to be true. 'I would have seen something before. I would have known-'
'Did you honestly not know? Not suspect something?' Narcissa paused, awaiting a reply but Draco avoided her gaze, staring at the pale duvet in fierce concentration. 'It is nothing to be ashamed of, my love. Many friends, kin and colleagues of victims of abuse are unaware-'
'I should have known.'
Sympathy rolling in waves from his mother, Draco tucked his chin further from Narcissa's softening gaze. A solemn smile graced her lips. 'You could not have know-'
'It's obvious. It should have been obvious. No one acts like Harry does for no reason.'
Draco's mother froze in the silence that ensued. Self-disgust, a flavour hitherto foreign on Draco's tongue, twisted his mouth in a scowl. Sadness warred with anger, colouring his vision a mixture of red-grey as they fastened upon his friend's unconscious face. Not angry at Harry, though. Never that. He stroked absently at the sheets, at the chilled skin, anything to simply soothe, but whether he sought to ease the discomfort of himself or Harry he was unsure.
'What should have been obvious, Draco?' Narcissa seemed oddly captivated by the movements of his hands. That in itself was not surprising. Draco wasn't one for displays of affection, but for some reason, when it came to Harry, he couldn't seem to help himself.
Opening his mouth to speak, Draco struggled for a moment to push the words around the lump in his throat. 'He…Harry doesn't like to be touched. Not just Pansy's hugging – no one really likes that – but even simple things, like a pat on the shoulder. He…towards the end of term he seemed to be getting better with it, but…
'He's always quiet. At the beginning of term, he never spoke unless he has a question in class, or unless he's been directly spoken to, even though he's smart and I know he has things to say. And his face – you know for the first month I didn't think he actually knew how to smile? And not only that, but frowning, crying, anything. He doesn't even look confused, not even when he obviously doesn't understand something. The first time I really saw anything distinctly emotive was when…'
Trailing off, the memory of that day in Defence Against the Dark Arts, so long ago it seemed, flashed through his mind. Draco closed his eyes, clenching his jaw in frustration as the pieces clicked abruptly into place. He had put off understanding because it was what Harry so obviously wanted, so desperately tried to maintain. To keep a secret. Now he wished he had pushed for an explanation. He would have…he could have…
'Mother, if it's his family, I won't let him go back to them.' Opening his eyes, he stared determinedly at his mother. Narcissa raised an eyebrow in mild surprise, though slowly nodded her head in acceptance. Somehow, Draco knew it wasn't so much an allowance of his desires but rather an acknowledgement of what she had already decided for herself.
The memory drew a duel ache of sorrow and blossom of appreciation from Draco's chest. Narcissa had always been accommodating of Draco's whims – at least within the bounds of propriety and safety – and Draco couldn't fathom how for even a moment he may have contemplated that she wouldn't have allowed him his way in this instance. Concerning another child no less. In hindsight, he was surprised that he had been the once to voice his standing first.
The door clicked and Draco raised his eyes from his friends face. His father and mother passed through the door, Narcissa oddly laden with a covered tray rather than leading a house elf. Draco disregarded the anomaly and quirked an eyebrow questioningly at them both. Lucius had been oddly pensive since Harry's arrival, and Draco hadn't seen much of him. His sudden appearance in the room was unexpected to say the least; Lucius never acted randomly.
Moving to rise from his seat, he was waved into stillness at his father's behest. 'No need for formality, Draco.' With that, the elder Malfoy flourished his wand before easing himself into one of the two conjured chair, wooden and rigid. Narcissa took her own seat beside him. She placed the tray on the bedside, still covered, but made no motion towards it further.
'Draco, there are some things we wish to discuss with you.' It wasn't a question, simply an informative statement. Lucius, apparently taking the lead today, leant forward slightly in his seat with a fortifying inhalation. 'What exactly do you know of Harry Defaux?'
Frowning, Draco flickered his gaze between his parents. There was no anger to be seen, even that which they concealed so famously well, but rather an unexpected intensity. It was enough to urge a fidget in his own seat. 'What do you mean?'
Lucius sat back slowly, leaning into his chair with a creak. An uncharacteristic sigh parted his lips. 'What do you know of him? Where he comes from, why he started school at the age tha the did? Who his family is?' That odd intensity captured Draco like an eagle with a hare in its sights as his father pinned him once more with his focus. 'Who is he?'
'I… Harry was apparently a late bloomer. He didn't display any magic until last summer, after which Headmaster Dumbledore approached him to enter our school.' An automaton response overtook Draco, his tongue relaying facts faster than his brain could register. 'At least, that's how the story goes. He lives in Paris, with his uncle…Steven? Other than that, I don't really know much.'
His own words rung hollowly in his ears, drawing him into a melancholy. It's true. I really don't know much about you at all, Harry. Draco felt his gaze begin to slide once more to his motionless friend before Lucius captured his attention once more.
'That is all?'
A hesitant nod was all Draco could provide. As his father turned his own gaze to Harry, Draco felt himself frown in confusion. 'Why? Father, what do you know?'
It was Narcissa who took up the thread of conversation. Evidently, Lucius had slipped into his mulish pensiveness once more. 'It is not so much what we know but what we suspect.' Following her husband's gaze, her eyes dimmed with sadness. 'As I was healing the injuries to his body, I found more than a few faded scars. Given what we know, what we suspect, of his personal past, that in itself is not unexpected. Save that one scar is infamous in itself.
'Upon Harry's back, down the length of his spine, there is a scar. It is no ordinary scar, and given my familiarity with magical fingerprints I am able to deduce the stain of a magical attack.' Narcissa paused, leaving the comment in the air momentarily. Draco barely breathed in fearful anticipation. 'Draco, have you ever heard of Harry Potter?'
The question baffled Draco for a moment. Nodding hesitantly, he felt himself speared once more by Lucius' swinging gaze. 'Potter is Harry's last name. He just told me that he hasn't used it in years, since he had adopted his uncle's surname when he moved in with him.' A sickly roil churned his gut at the memory; asked him but… Draco never remembered him saying he preferred such a term of address.
The elder Malfoy clicked his tongue in exasperation, a sound Draco was sure would never have passed his lips had they been in the company of others. 'You didn't think to mention as much?'
'Why would I? What is the relevance?'
Another click of Lucius' tongue was followed by a growl that seemed oddly nervous. 'Harry Potter is one half of what you could call the package and pair of the 'Boys-Who-Lived.'
Draco was momentarily stunned. Harry was-? Wait, wasn't Neville…? 'What? What do you -?'
Sighing in a deflated expiration, Lucius sunk back into his seat. 'I'll start from the beginning, or else it will make no sense.' He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts as his eyes settled on Harry's prone form. 'Fifteen years ago, as you well know, the Dark Lord sought the destruction of a young boy by the name of Neville Longbottom. It was his belief, through happening upon a prophecy, that a boy born in the end on July would be his equal and spell his demise. A boy born of those who had thrice defied him. An enemy, if you would.'
'What many people have now forgotten is that there was not one but two boys who met this criteria. The Dark Lord had a decision to make; one of them would spell his doom, while the other… It was a decision that could potentially lead to his destruction.
'The only true difference in circumstance between the two boys is their heritage. One possessed a pure bloodline, dating nearly as far back as the Malfoy lineage itself. The other was similarly ancestrally wealthy; however, the father of the boy took it upon himself to marry a Muggleborn. Hence, their child was a half-blood. Pureblood or half-blood? Tell me, Draco: which do you think the Dark Lord would have chosen?'
Lucius seemed to be genuinely curious as to Draco's response. For himself, Draco was a little shell-shocked to have realised that Harry came from any sort of upstanding heritage. Despite what most thought of him, he didn't despise Muggleborns quite to the extent as was generally thought. Or at least, not anymore. Such negativity had definitely taken a turn for the less negative in the past six months. Why such a change had overcome him he didn't know, but as such he remarkably scant compunction in befriending the slight 'Muggleborn' boy. Besides, he was interesting. Very interesting, and that somehow made up for the fact. Yet even with this acceptance, the realisation rocked him even further on the unstable foundations of what he thought he knew of who Harry was.
Dragging his attention back from his contemplation, Draco instead considered his father's question. The Dark Lord… Few outside of the innermost circle of Death Eaters knew anything of substance about the ominous figure. It was only the sincere adoration of Bellatrix Lestrange that afforded the Malfoys their seat on his higher table. Such a connection was what provided the trickle of knowledge on the Dark Lord that they were afforded. One point, laced with the fury that his aunt had barely been able to conceal, bubbled to the surface of Draco's thoughts.
'The Dark Lord. He was a half-blood, wasn't he?' The faint nod, the glimmer of satisfaction in his father's eyes indicated Draco was on the right track. 'Given his… egocentricity,' Draco swallowed around the blasphemous words, 'he would have chased the half-blood, wouldn't he? The one most like him? Because… because only someone like himself could really challenge him.' It made sense in Draco's mind. In the eyes of the Dark Wizarding society, nothing could be more terrifying than to meet one's equal.
Lucius nodded, a small smile of satisfaction tipping the corners of his lips. 'Very astute of you, Draco. Indeed, at the time, it was speculated that the Dark Lord would seek the one who was most like himself; half-blood. The premise is simple: people ultimately fear themselves more than anything else. To come upon their equal would naturally be the most terrifying prospect.
However. The Dark Lord is… unique, not only in who he is and what he has done, but for his perceptions. It is my belief,' at this, the blonde man swallowed quietly himself, a notable motion of unease, 'that the Dark Lord is as powerful as he is for the confidence he places in himself. One does not become a feared and respected Lord by offering trust too freely. I believe he knows this; more, even, that he has developed an inability to place trust in anyone. But trust is like a physical essence; if it is not channeled externally, then it is internalised and instead manifests itself in complete confidence in oneself.'
Staring at his son firmly in the eye, affixing him firmly in his gaze. Draco felt himself shudder slightly. Any conversation that revolved around the Dark Lord sent shivers crawling like rogue spiders beneath the skin, yet his fathers words were somehow even more disconcerting. Lucius spoke as if the villain himself were almost...human. The thought was horrifying.
Ensuring he held his son's rapt attention, Lucius continued. 'The Dark Lord trusts no one, and so he ultimately can only trust himself. He has utter confidence in his own abilities, his own exaltedness. He does not fear himself, and so facing his equal would undoubtedly prove less fearsome to him than it would to another of greater… sanity.
'In addition to this, he holds purity high above any other quality. The hypocrisy of his very perception is one that I doubt will ever be understood. No one would dare try.' Lucius closed his eyes briefly, as though grounding himself against the fear such a possibility induced. 'Yet even so, despite his own delusions of grandeur and utter glorification of self, purebloodedness is deemed more worthy. More powerful, even. Why would the man not be wary that he deems more powerful, to see it as the threat?'
Draco was frozen in his attentiveness, barely breathing for fear it would disrupt his father's words. It was strange, to hear Luicus speak of purebloods and half-bloods with such objectivity. More than that, even in the comfort of their home, Lucius rarely voiced his speculations. Or relayed incriminating facts with such confidence - for it was apparent that Draco's father wholeheartedly believed his own words. 'So,' it was barely a whisper, and Draco struggled to push the words from his lips, yet his fathers extended silence bespoke a welcoming of the interrupted. 'He chose...Longbottom? Neville Longbottom is a pureblood. He tried to kill him to erase the possibility of his future demise?'
Lucius inclined his head. 'And so the legend, the Boy-Who-Lived, was born. On the thirty-first of October, fifteen years ago, the Dark Lord attempted to destroy Neville Longbottom. He failed, though killed Alice Longbottom in the attempt. The curse backfired, vanquishing the Dark Lord temporarily and leaving on the curse scar marking Neville's forehead in it's place.'
'But then...Harry's curse scar. If the Dark Lord went after Neville, why...?'
Lucius released a sigh, the second he had uttered that afternoon. It was disconcerting to witness the show of weariness, a sight so un-Malfoy. 'The Dark Lord is confident in himself, and likely similarly confident in his deductive abilities. Yet even he could not overlook the inkling of a chance that the other boy, that which he did not choose, would rise against him and pose a threat.'
A sharp intake of breath hissed through Draco's teeth as comprehension dawned. 'He tried to kill Harry anyway?'
A nod of affirmation from his father confirmed Draco's suspicions, though it hadn't truly been a question. 'Not himself, no. But on the same night he sent one of his subordinates to end the boy.' Lucius paused, and something like satisfaction curled the corners of his lips. 'They did not succeed, though, unlike the Dark Lord, the attacker was not nearly cast into the abyss wit the effect of a rebounding curse. Simply, her… toying with the boy, with the boy's mother, his father, was cut short.'
Draco shifted uncomfortably, clamping his lips together as a flood of bile rose in his gorge. His father's lip, curling in distaste, expressed a similar disgust at the 'toying'. 'Following this, it is likely only because of his complete immersion in the Muggle world that Harry was spared pursuit. After the attack, and the injuries incurred by the assassin and her subsequent imprisonment by those who arrived on the scene in time to save the boy, any further attempts very cut short. Harry was placed into protective care that would have only potentially destroyed any who approached with malicious intent. And though the chance arose to finish her assignment, evidently the assassin felt the likelihood of the boy remaining a threat scant enough not to risk further pursuit. And why would she? The boy was raised by Muggles, without magic.
'Ironically, such a turn of events more than anything justifies the Dark Lords lack of trust in his subordinates.' Lucius' gaze became piercing as he met Draco's eyes. 'He does not trust, but even he cannot be in two places at once. At least, not realistically. He had to use a tool in his place, for taking action against one boy would inevitably lead to the heightened protectiveness of the other. The Dark Lord had to utilise the tools he had on hand, and there is one tool he has honed so finely that they would gladly destroy the world for her master. Do you know of whom I speak?'
Clenching his eyes shut, Draco felt his jaw squeak with the strength he clenched his teeth together. Rage boiled within him at the very prospect. For he knew. He knew exactly whom his father spoke of. 'Aunt Bellatrix.'
Lucius only nodded shortly in reply. Opening his eyes, Draco saw his lips were press so thinly they were barely a white line across his chin.
'Indeed. The embodiment of insanity herself, yet a completely different strain to that of the Dark Lord. Unwavering and destructive loyalty can be a terrifying thing.' It was Narcissa's quiet voice that cut though the tense hush of the room. Draco shifted his attention towards his mother in shock. There was little love lost between sisters; how could there be, when there was so much fear? Yet the ice-cold venom in Narcissa's voice was more frightening than the chilling rage Lucius was prone to expressing. Narcissa stared straight back at him. 'When my sister told me of what she had done, years later and only after her escape from Azkaban… To attack a child after brutally destroying their family…' Narcissa's jaw tightened into a visible knot. 'Bellatrix crossed an unforgivable bridge and never looked back. I lost my sister that night, years before I even realized it, yet without the release of death as a heartless demon is all that was left in her place. The only reason I have not professed the depth of my disgust to her and isolated myself from her completely is the memories of our past. Otherwise...' She trailed off ominously.
Draco wasn't the only one shaken by his mother's ice-cold words. Even Lucius seemed on the verge of trembling. If a tone could drip hatred and curse death, than Bellatrix would have fallen in a heartbeat. Draco struggled to maintain his composure, shifting his eyes to Harry. The chill of his mother's admission seemed to have quenched his own rage. Search as he did, he couldn't seem to find a flickering trace of it. The only emotion that simmered below the surface was a deep, dark upwelling of sadness. His friend had been hurt, too many times for one so young, for anyone, and he had struggled through it entirely alone. It made him mentally cuff himself for not realising sooner.
Resolutely pumping himself full of determination - he would help Harry if he had to smother the other boy kicking and screaming beneath his aid, as unlikely as that would be - he fixed Narcissa with a stare. The hardness had not left her eyes, but it was not directed at him, instead brushing over him like a feathery wind. 'Mother, I want to help him. Harry is my...friend. And if that means protecting him from Death Eaters, his own family, or both, I am willing to do anything. Even,' and here he took a deep breath, 'even if that means standing against my own aunt. You say you will not disown her mother? But if she tried, even tried, to touch Harry, I would kill her.' The force of his own words had him nearly quailing in his seat, but he maintained his firmness, straightening his back.
The coldness dimmed in Narcissa's eyes as pride took its place. Unexpected, as Draco had just professed his rather-less-than familial intentions for her sister. 'And I would expect no less of you, my son. Friendship is a bond that is irreplaceable, and deep trust and compassion priceless. Something the Dark Lord and my sister have forgotten.'
Draco felt a snort tickle his throat, but suppressed it out of politeness. 'That's rather un-Slytherin of you, mother. What happened to self-preservation and putting oneself above all others?'
An odd look was mirrored on both of his parents' faces. 'Is that what you truly believe being a Slytherin is?' Lucius sounded more curious that angry, startled rather than irate.
Shaking his head, Draco dropped his eyes from their unreadable stares. 'Not me, exactly, but just about everyone else. We have our friends, of course, but nothing comes before boosting one's own status.'
'Even family?'
Cringing slightly under the query, Draco offered a one-shouldered shrug. 'I didn't say I agreed with the general concensus.'
An bloated pause caused Draco to raise his gaze. Lucius and Narcissa were caught deeply in a wordless conversation, irritation and sadness tugging their features respectively. Narcissa sighed softly, closing her eyes. 'How sad, to see how far such a noble House has fallen.' Fixing Draco in her penetrating stare, she adopted an almost-scolding tone. 'Slytherin is about honour, pride and cunning. But most importantly, it is about family, and knowing just where to place your trust. This...skewing of perceptions is likely a product of our times, and yet I cannot help but be struck by how misunderstood the children of this generation have become. That students will fill the stereotypes impressed upon them rather than remain true to the foundations of what they are.' She exhaled heavily in despair.
'I didn't say I agreed with it.' It was Draco's turn to pin his mother with a stare, and she startled her from her sudden melancholy. 'I don't know what I really believe anymore, but what you say about stereotypes... I can't say that I completely agree with even the House structure themselves, anymore. It seems far too rigid. People don't fit so perfectly into categories. They change, grow. Harry can attest to that. You know, when he was sorted, the hat placed him in all four Houses.'
Lucius raised a thin eyebrow - the equivalent of a shout of surprise in anyone else - while Narcissa released a surprised huff as all three Malfoys turned back to the boy lying limp and pale in the bed. For a moment Draco wondered exactly how they had gotten so far off the topic at hand.
Evidently Narcissa felt the same, for with a setting of her shoulders she leant forward in her seat. It was apparent to anyone who knew her that she was taking control of the scene. 'A puzzling boy, to be sure. I would so like the chance to meet him. And I believe that he has slept for far too long. There is nothing in his physical state to elicit a prolonged unconsciousness. It is most concerning.'
'Something similar happened before, a couple of months ago at school. He was hit by a Visio timora and became comatose for several days.' Draco felt anger sizzle inside him once more; not for Pansy, though. Or, well, not very much. She hadn't been fully aware of what she was doing and they were practicing curses against one another. Even so, if he could travel back to that day, he would smack the girl over the head for even contemplating such a spell.
Narcissa hissed quietly. 'Given the circumstances, I can readily imagine how such a spell would induce a response such as this. It may explain the current situation. I can't say I wasn't expecting to proceed as such, but I had rather hoped...'
Turning towards the small tray she had set upon the beside table, Narcissa removed the linen cover to expose a trio of vials of varying colours. The far left glimmered a faintly sparkling red, while the middle a soft, dark green. It was the final vial that caused Draco to emit his own hiss, however.
'Why would you give him that?'
Narcissa didn't spare him a glance as she took the shimmering vial in her hands. 'A psychological blow cannot be healed by unconsciousness and constant reliving of the offending event.' Narcissa didn't even glance towards him as she raised the vial shimmering in mother-of-pearl and peered at it for a moment. 'I can comprehend the physical and psychological basis for his mental retreat, but Harry has been sleeping for far too long already. I had hoped he would awake of his own accord, relatively healed, but it appears that is not going to happen. He would have done so already if it were. I'm going to draw him from his memories and into the sleep he needs. For that, his mind needs to be receptive to my intrusion.' She gestured tilted the vial meaningfully. 'Hence, the psychological relaxant.'
She was so practical, so factual in her explanation, that Draco felt almost foolish for refuting her, even with his knowledge of the potentially damaging effects of the potion. Her likeness to Madam Pomfrey was astounding, especially accounting for their completely opposing characters and physicality. But Narcissa was a master of mind-magic, a skilled Legilimens and well-practiced in Occlumency. Her skills in mind-healing had once been actively sought. Likely still would be if she accepted clients. If anyone could assist Harry escape from the state he was in, it was she.
From the stare she was giving him, somehow Draco got the impression that she was asking his permission, though what control the young blonde had over the situation he was unsure of. With a hesitant nod, her lips thinned in a smile of grim satisfaction before popping the cork off the vial. Even from his seat, Draco could smell the faintly metallic scent that wafted from the potion. Eyes fixed upon his mothers motion, he watched as she ever-so-carefully tipped the contents over Harry's mouth. The liquid poured in a distinctly un-liquidous fashion, breaking into a smokey wisps as it escaped the glass mouth and darted between Harry's faintly parted lips, inhaled with each shallow breath.
'If it appears he is in pain, administer the sedative.' The focus on Narcissa's face barely spared words for the order as she waved a hand at the red vial. 'If I am not once more aware within thirty minutes, provide me with the Stabiliser.'
Draco and Lucius were still nodding their affirmation when Narcissa closed her eyes. She reached blindly across the bed, pressing a palm across Harry's brow and bowing her head to her chest. Draco squeezed Harry's fingers slightly in his own. Legilimancy frightened him; any mind-magic frightened him, superseded only by compulsions as the most terrifying of magics. Yet he held faith in his mother, and if Harry needed the help, who was he to stand in the way?

Narcissa Malfoy had always found Legilimancy to be a disconcerting experience, regardless of how accomplished she became. She was not a cruel person, despite that many perceived her as a cold, hard-hearted witch. It pained her to inflict distress upon another, and there was just something so harsh about witnessing another's secrets laid bare. It did not help that the most painful secrets were often those she confronted the most, hurt and sorrow drowning out the faintly glowing happiness of fonder memories.
Sinking into Harry Potter's thoughts left Narcissa with a feeling of dark greyness. There was no other way to describe the foggy waters that surrounded her, studded with shimmering glimpses into memories before they drifted past, caught like a ribbon in a current. Nowhere could she make out the tell-tale blinding whiteness of pure happiness. Occassionally the greyness lightened in areas and she caught a glimpse of memories shrouded in fondness – brief snippets showed a boy stroking the arching back of a cat, accepting an extra apple from the woman at the grocer, receiving the thanks of an old man as he gathered his scattered belongings off the rain-slick pavement – but there was no luminescent, pure white glow. It was unhinging and achingly saddening. Depressing. Narcissa immediately knew she would not be witnessing the usual surplus of teenage woes that gripped most young wizards and witches.
Loosening the rigid hold on her own mind, Narcissa allowed her consciousness to seep, to blend into the river of tumultuous thoughts and overwhelming feelings, easily allowing the assault of images to pass over her, through her, and only glance as a passive observer rather than sinking into the amateur role of a participant. It was easy, with the relaxant, and the barriers of a conscious min were similarly absent. Yet the thoughts were a jumble; there was no order. Not that she was truly expecting any. The boy was injured, both mentally and physically. He wouldn't wake. It was no surprise that his memories would be a disordered mass of confusion.
Asserting her own steady hand of control, Narcissa abruptly stilled the roiling swells, the coiling ribbons, into silent tranquillity. Breathing a mental sigh of relief as the psychological assault ceased, she turned her attention towards her goal. It was a challenge identifying the source of greatest pain, sometimes even more so than drawing the subconscious mind from constantly reliving the event. It was not, however, difficult to determine the memories that caused the boy the most distress. They were coloured a thick, matte blackness, a darkness that forbade the entrance of light and stood out even against their grey surroundings like a crow amongst pigeons. Pain seemed to pulse from the smudges of blackness like a throbbing heartbeats.
Feeling the magnetisation, the Narcissa allowed herself to be drawn into the nearest cloud of darkness. A mental chill settled on her perceived shoulders and the darkness cleared briefly for a theatre-like scene to play before her eyes. A small boy, dark-haired and wan with hollow cheeks and wide terrified eyes, cringed under the verbal attack of a whale-like man above him. Purple-faced and lips coated in flecks of spittle, the man waved his hands in gesticulated fury, each slash of his arm causing the boy to sink further into his crouch on the floor. Within moments, the image dissipated, darkening, before the cloud unwrapped its folded embrace and released her.
Narcissa frowned mentally. The instinctive hatred for the portly man, coupled with an abrupt wave of protectiveness, boiled loathing through her veins. The boy had been small and thin, too thin, and the fear in his eyes was something she had seen only in victims of her hated Death Eater fellows. Helpless fear and heartbreaking acceptance. Distaste clung to her mental tongue as she drifted onwards. The boy had been young, very young. That memory was not the one which caused the boy immediate pain.
Sinking into another cloud of darkness, Narcissa glimpsed only a second before immediately thrusting it away. The boy, slightly older, slumped broken on the floor, a smear of blood trickling from his nose and a sporting a blackened eye as a larger boy, much larger, sneered over the top of him, a baseball bat hefted in his hand. The woman felt her physical body shudder with a distance awareness at the violence of the bigger boy and hastily turned towards another smudge of blackness.
The boy, younger even than the first, cast like a discarded sack into a tiny cupboard beneath a stairwell.
The whale-man, belt in hand, lashing air and welted skin in equal fervour with the heat of his fury.
A gang of youngsters chasing the black-haired boy up a tree, the terrified child clinging to the brittle bark and trembling as the larger boys jeered at him from below and waved pointed sticks.
A woman, horse-faced and bone thin, thrusting the boy's face dangerously close to an open stove-top with claw-like fingers tangled in his hair, gesturing furiously towards a plate of toast and blackened bacon.
Image after image, show reels of hatred and fear spread pestered for attention. See me, feel me, I hurt, it hurts!
She stopped.
Suspending herself in the blank greyness, nausea threatened to throw Narcissa from her Legilimens. She had seen pain dealt out in droves to wizards and witches of all ages, though blessedly had never been forced to participate herself, yet never had she witnessed such repeated acts of violence against one so young. And this was different, a different sort of violence to that she was familiar with; there was no amusement in it, save perhaps for the ignorant power-play of the fat boy, but instead a distinct hatred, a resentment towards the small boy. It hurt, it hurt, in an entirely unfamiliar way to witness such coldness.
For whatever reason, even the Dark Lord shied from raining his hatred down upon children. Even a monster such as himself didn't descend to such depths. The plague of images played on a reel in Narcissa's mind, bright in their immediacy. She closed herself off briefly to her surroundings, reasserting control, before opening her mind once more. In each of the memories she had witnessed, Harry Potter had been young. She needed to search nearer to the present, direct her thoughts specifically.
Focusing with determination once more, the woman shifted towards another shadow, one with a faint glossiness that indicated a newer memory. Sinking through the curtain of blackness, she stepped hesitantly into the scene beyond, foreboding already gripping her mind.
An empty hallway was the first thing she saw, a hallway bedecked in sparse adornments and washed in the colour of rain clouds. Only a low table, supporting an empty vase and pictureless frame, disrupted the expanse of carpeted floor space. Narcissa frowned, puzzled for a moment at the absence of the boy. It was his memory after all. She was about to sink back into the memory-river when the stillness was shattered with startling immediacy.
A young boy – she suspected he was about ten or eleven, though he looked horribly small for his age – crashed into a wall at the inner end of the hallway. His thin, pale legs, bare beneath only a nightshirt, trembled at the knees. Gasping in heavy sobs, he glanced behind him, eyes wide and frantic. A moments pause, and he was tearing down the hallway towards the door, passing through Narcissa's apparition in his progress as he would a ghost. Fumbling fingers yanked at the latch, frantically attempting to unlock the front door, fingers straining for the chain-lock that dangled tauntingly just out of reach.
'Where are you going, my boy?'
A deep, amused baritone turned both Narcissa and the boy's heads back the length of the hallway. Narcissa flinched at the sight of the man, broad and heavy, unruly in his state of partial undress. His own trousers were unbuckled at the waist, buttoned shirt open to reveal dark hair curling in tight coils across his chest. He looked incredibly big, and Narcissa wasn't entirely sure it was a product of the boy's perception.
'Please…please let me out, I don't want to-'
'Don't want to?' The hulking man's face split in a grin beneath his immaculate moustache, words breaking through the hushed yet hysterical mumbling of the boy still fumbling with the door. Narcissa cringed, only barely retaining her presence in the face of the boy's obvious distress. She longed for nothing more than to leap from this memory, to free herself from immersion in the terror that hung light a cloying perfume in the air.
Her attention was drawn once more to the man as he continued. 'Vernon assured me you wanted to come, cherie.' The sardonic smile breathed irony. 'Don't tell me you wish to go back.'
A pitiful whimper bubbled from the boy's throat, barely audible as he hid his head against the door. His fingers ceased in their tugging, helpless, simply clutching the polished steel like a lifeline. Narcissa unconsciously stretched a ghostly, hand-like tendril towards the boy, wispy finger passing through his quivering shoulder. Her attention, fixed as it was on the trembling child, was only returned to the man as he approached close enough for his footsteps to resound upon the carpet with thundering clarity in the echoing depths of the memory. In the shadow of her own 'hand', thick calloused fingers gripped the boy's shoulder.
It happened so fast, Narcissa wasn't sure exactly how they ended up on the floor. Somewhere in the process, the low table had overturned and the vase shattered in a mosaic of broken china across the carpet. The man pressed himself over the wriggling boy, one arm pinning him across the chest while the other heaved both knees upwards towards his bony shoulders. A pitiful shriek rose frantically, louder than any utterance Narcissa had heard from the boy prior, until it broke in a croaking sob.
It took a moment for her to register just what was unfolding before her. The frantic thrusts of the man, the pained sobs of the child, groans that nearly drowned out the boy's cries. Horror and disgust sent her reeling. She would have retched had she a mouth with which to gag. The man… to the boy… he had-
The memory dissipated like a breath of smoke. Narcissa drew in upon herself, the mental equivalent of falling to her knees. Erratic heaves of her mind-presence nearly shook her from the monotonous greyness of the boy's mind. Drawing in further, she strove for the mental clarity, the sureness that made her a master Legilimens. She had never found it so hard to attain.
When eventually relative peace had settled upon her mind, Narcissa felt a coldness seeping through her. Not the coldness of forced nonchalance, but rather a numbness. She had to see this to the end, to help the boy in the only way she could. If it meant seeing…more…she would at least give the boy the compassion of witnessing his pain through to the end. The boy in the last memory was not nearly as old as that which Draco had carried through her door. She needed to see more, see closer to the present. If that meant wading through the thorns that pierced his mental quilt, she would do so,
Turning and falling blindly into another cloud of darkness, she nearly shuddered at the image that met her. The boy, older now, perhaps fourteen, lay limply in a wide bed. A thick, hairy arm slung heavily across his chest, nearly stilling the faint rise and fall. As she watched, the sleep-ruffled head of the man, the assaulter, the disgusting creature that dared to smile at the boy beside him, leaned over and pressed a hungry kiss upon the corner of the boy's mouth.
It was nearly as horrifying to see the complete detachedness of the boy's expression. As if he didn't see, didn't feel, the weighty presence of the man above him. His eyes, glazed and heavy-lidded, did not even blink. His lips made no move to respond to the crushing pressure of the larger man.
Suppressing the urge to launch herself at the villain, fruitless as the attempt would be, Narcissa eased herself from the memory just as the man heaved himself onto his elbows, into a more aggressive position. A shudder wrapped her presence once more as the images faded.
A sick heaviness had settled onto her mind. She had no doubt that, had she been observing as an onlooker from her physical form, the contents of her stomach would be decorating the floor and tears would be trailing shamelessly down her cheeks. No one deserved this, much less a boy, a helpless child. She had seen pain, she had seen loss, and sorrow, and misery in droves. In the face of the endless assault the boy suffered, the brief, blinding bursts of torture seemed somehow dimmed.
Suddenly, wishing to be free of the suffocating jumble of memories, Narcissa launched herself to the most recent memory she could sense. The desperation of her desire drew the cloud towards her in a frantic magnetised effect. The nearly reflective glossiness of the blackness was nestled against, yet not touching, an unexpectedly pale chain of memories, nearly white in their purity. A fond memory, even happy, the happiest she had seen so far. The contrasting darkness of the most recent memory was almost sinful.
Taking a steadying pause, Narcissa sunk into the clouded folds of the memory.

It happened so suddenly that Draco nearly started in his seat. Narcissa's mouth dropped open in a shaky gasp as motion once more eased the tension from her bowed form. With trembling fingers, his mother dropped her hand from Harry's brow and clamped it to her mouth. The paleness of her cheeks had faded to a sickly grey and as her eyes opened, a haunted visage met the anxious stares of both Draco and his father.
Lucius was even faster to respond than his son. Lurching from his chair, the elder wizard dropped to his knees beside his wife, placing a hand upon her knee and peering up at her bowed head worriedly. Draco froze in his rush around the end of the bed, staring at the picture his parents made. How different they were from the cold, heartless witch and wizard they presented to the public eye. The sadness in Narcissa's eyes and the concern of equal intensity in Lucius's disregarded any claim that could be made to their emotionlessness.
Feet planted on the ground, immobile, Draco watched as Lucius gently took Narcissa's hands in his own, drawing them from the pale purple of her lips. 'Tell me?' There was no force or command in his words. Only concern, and it was directed solely at his wife.
Narcissa drew in a shuddering breath, locking her jaw. Draco was startled as she raised her gaze to meet his. There was so much sadness and compassion, and yet nearly overwhelmed by fury, that it positively seeped from her eyes. Draco had to drop his chin to fight against the desire to shrink from her intense stare.
'I saw... something that I should have never seen. Yet I am eternally grateful that I did. At least now, someone may be able to...' Another wavering breath and her voice dropped to a whisper. 'Poor child. To strike a child with the intent to injure is an abomination itself, but that... No one should have to endure that. And he just a child. I swear, if I ever meet the monster who claims to be his guardian I will take great pleasure in crippling him before destroying him completely.'
The vehemence in her harsh words tightened Draco's shoulders in a shiver. Dread flooded him and he glanced first at his mother and then to Harry's still form. He was still asleep, and yet somehow seemed more naturally so. His breathing had deepened slightly, and the frown knitting his brow smoothing to innocent ease, eyes loosening from their strained clenching. Upon the wide mattress that looked far too big for him, he resembled nothing if not a child curled in his parent's bed. Not that he would have ever had the opportunity to do just that, Draco suddenly realized with a clenching of hit gut.
Sadness immediately latched on to the writhing dread that knotted in his gut, and Draco sunk down onto the end of the bed. 'What did you see?'
Narcissa shook her head resolutely. 'I cannot tell. Suffice to say that I will never let that boy return to his uncle.' The venom that overlaid the word twisted it into an ugly resemblance of the figure the term suggested. Fastening her penetrating gaze upon her son, the woman breathed command and intensity as she spoke. 'Draco, you will look after him. He has been hurt more than anyone his age, more than anyone ever, should have the misfortune to even witness, let alone experience.'
Draco nodded in acceptance, cringing slightly as the words conjured a wave of possibilities in his mind. Just what had happened to Harry? He knew it was bad, painful, horrendous even; nothing that wasn't could induce the screaming fit he had witnessed in Defense Against the Dark Arts, nor draw someone into a comatose state in an attempt to recover from the emotional blow. It made him sick to contemplate, and he naturally felt himself slide further along the bed, shuffling back to his friend's side to grasp his hand once more.
Narcissa appeared satisfied with the response. Some of the paleness had faded from her cheeks, yet the haunted shadows in her eyes remained. Dropping her chin to face her husband, she hushed her tone to a quiet ferocity that Draco could only just make out. He kept his face directed towards Harry, knowing the words were not for him.
'We will find that man, Lucius. I care not that he is a Muggle, nor that his French residency grants him reprieve from British Wizarding laws. You know wizarding laws will always shy from confronting the Muggle judicial system; any attempt to avoid confrontation will only sweep the situation under a rug.' Her lip curled fiercely. 'But that monster, he must be punished. And if the world is too oblivious to realise as much then I will do so myself.'
To his credit, Lucius did not question his wife's motives. He simply dipped his chin in consent. 'I will see what I can do. What can you tell me of the man?' Rising to his feet, Lucius drew Narcissa to standing beside him, one hand placed upon her forearm and the other supportively resting against the small of her back. Wordlessly, the pair withdrew from the room, pausing only to cast identical glances over their shoulder as they passed through the doorway. Draco could faintly hear the whisper of their continued conversation, muffled by their retreat, which gradually faded into silence.
Gritting his teeth against the tightness in his chest, Draco sidled further up the mattress to his friend's. He didn't know exactly what Narcissa had seen, didn't know the tortures of Harry's past, but he shuddered as a glimmer of horrifying suspicions formed in his mind. No one should have to endure that… He thrust the thought to the side, though it hovered tauntingly on the edges of his consciousness, sneering at him with possibilities. Coldness swept through him. How had he not seen it? The fear of touching, his expressionlessness, the natural quietness, to say nothing of the fact that he never spoke of his family. Each could be brushed off as a common quirk, but together?
Unconsciously, Draco's free hand rose to brush Harry's fringe from his pale face. Still pale, but thankfully not that horrible greyness of barely an hour before. Across his cheek were a faint, very faint, netting of nearly healed scars. With detached curiosity, Draco wondered which of many possibly crimes had inflicted such a wound. Guilt rushed through him, that he hadn't noticed something that was so pivotal to his friend's life. That he hadn't somehow protected him. Never again, he promised, would Harry have to suffer alone. Never again.
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The Masks of Real Heroes