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Salt in Our Wounds	By : thewickednix Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 7362 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters portrayed herein. This is made for fun, not profit.

Chapter List
- 2
- 3
- 4
Part III

For Heads Unworthy

There are few things that are more horrifying than waking up and realising you�re not where you were when you fell asleep.
It�s the aching pain of movement and re-opened wounds that wakes me from a deep unconsciousness. Even before I open my eyes, I realise that something is different. Wrong. The air is unfamiliar, there is a sense of tension and the presence of other people in it.
I have no doubt of where I am.
Opening my eyes, my gaze falls on the high stone ceiling above me. A cold blue light falls into the room from somewhere behind me, probably a window. I realise I can�t efficiently observe my surroundings laying down. Taking a deep breath and bracing myself, I wriggle up into a sitting position. Every bone in my body complains at the movement, every muscle screams of the strain.
The room I am in is a small cell, stone walls all around me except where the wooden door lays. The door is equipped with a small barred window and a tiny trapdoor, only confirming what I already knew.
I am in Azkaban.
Suddenly I feel violently ill and my head starts spinning. I am forced to close my eyes, gripping my head with one hand to keep some sense of this reality. Touching my head, I realise that sometime during the time I was brought here, it has been bandaged. I feel bandages wrapped around my chest and back too, tightening uncomfortably as I breathe heavily. To my horror I also notice that my hair has been cropped short in a very sloppy fashion. Of course, they�d rather do that than to wash the grime and blood out of it.
Looking down at myself, I suddenly realise that I am not in a prison uniform, but in my own dirty robes. Strange, considering I am obviously already in Azkaban.
The thought sends a shiver down my spine. Azkaban. The worst possible shame and punishment.
Still, I don�t feel as bad as I thought I would. Naturally, that has a lot to do with that idiot Shacklebolt removing the Dementors from this place. Not that I am complaining, but one would think it was better for the Ministry when the prisoners went mad instead of just moped around in here, plotting their revenges.
The cell is not as bad as it could have been, albeit void of even a table to sit by. Looking around, the blue light suddenly catches my interest again, and I turn around to see a small window high above my head on the back wall. Tiny, but nevertheless, a window. I lean back to gaze out through it, seeing the pale moon floating over the dark blue sky, the starts glistening harmoniously behind it.
It�s the first time I have seen the sky in months, and I immediately feel a little lighter about my existence. Even without the Dementors there is a sense of despair and hopelessness to this place, but I don�t feel nearly as horrible as I always thought I would feel if I ended up in Azkaban.
To my further relief, I know that no one lives for long here, anyway.

With that thought my exhaustion takes over, I fall back on the lumpy bed, sleep claiming me immediately.

*******

�Harry, would you stop pacing! You�re getting on my nerves!�
I stop as if I�ve hit a wall, tuning to Ron. �I can�t help it! They put him in Azkaban, Ron!� I exclaim, stalking over to the table and slumping down on a chair. I slam my fist down on the table and Hermione jumps in her seat. Ron watches me with a sour look on his face, but for once he doesn�t express his thoughts.
Hermione leans forward, placing a comforting hand on mine. �You can still help him. He hasn�t been condemned yet, which is a good sign! They obviously don�t know what to do with him!�
Her words make sense, but they do nothing to ease my despair. �But the hearing isn�t until the 21st! How can I let him wait there for two weeks..?
Finally, Ron can�t take it anymore. He sighs exasperatedly. �Why do you care so much? Harry, it�s Malfoy!� Ron sneers viciously, stating the name as if it tasted bad on his tongue. �Think of all the things he�s done!�
My pent up rage and lack of sleep almost cause me to run up from my seat and knock Ron out of his chair. I resist, resorting to only yelling at him.
�He let me out! If it weren�t for him, I�d be dead by now, and Voldemort would have won!� Hermione grips my hand tighter, and I quiet my voice slightly, still looking straight at Ron. �You didn�t see the state he was in, Ron. Face all smashed up, so bloody and dirty I barely recognised him. He looked like he hadn�t been fed for weeks!�
Ron breaks the eye contact, lowering his gaze in shame. He still hates Draco, more than anything, but not even he can refrain from pitying the Death Eater. And watching my dear friend, I realise that if I can convince even him, maybe I can convince the Ministry.
The least I can do is try.
�I�m going to the Ministry,� I state, rising from my seat and walking towards the door.
�Do you want us to come with you?� Hermione asks, and I feel my heart ease a little at the knowledge that I have such wonderful friends that support me even through this. Even through a matter that they can�t quite understand.
Then again, if they knew even a part of the real reason why I can�t leave Draco in Azkaban, I doubt even Hermione would be as supportive.
�No need,� I respond, smiling gratefully at the bushy-haired girl. �I think it�s better if I talk to Shacklebolt about Malfoy myself.�
I am just about to turn around when I hear Ron�s quiet voice.
�Why can�t you just let it go?�

The words cut right through me. It is a question I have wondered about throughout these four years myself.
Sometimes I think I should let it go. Leave Draco to where he belongs, and get on with my life. My life which seems to have developed into all that I ever wanted, except for the tiny details of Draco�s presence in it.
Perhaps during the day, I could live with myself. I could forget. Bu during the long hours of the night, how could I ever sleep peacefully, knowing that I failed to aid him when he needed me. Knowing that a man who saved my life was sent to a life in Azkaban due to my fear of inconvenience for myself?
Knowing that I didn�t help him because I wanted to punish him for his deeds, for the years of anguish that he put me through by committing those crimes.
How can one love someone that does those things? Killing innocent people because of their blood? Letting them be tortured, raped, and brutally murdered?
Why, even knowing all the gruesome details of his deeds, can�t I seem to stop loving him?

In the end, it doesn�t matter how many times Ron or someone else asks that question, I can�t seem too answer it. So I continue out through the door, walking away from all the unanswered questions that seem to gather.
Even if I had an answer to the question, I�m certain that Ron wouldn�t like it.

******

�Let me get this straight,� Kingsley begins, his calm tone a strange contrast to his confused and frustrated expression. �You want to free Draco Malfoy?�
I take a deep breath and answer, fully aware of how utterly ridiculous I make myself. �Yes.�
Kingsley sighs deeply, furrowing his brow as he observes me. �You are fully aware of the crimes he is accused of, are you not?�
I nod. �I have been in the head of the investigation for four years. Yes, I consider myself fully ware of his deeds.�
The Minister shakes his head softly in confusion. �Then I am baffled. On what grounds do you believe that he could be released?�
�He helped me escape from the dungeons at Malfoy Manor,� I state the obvious, but it doesn�t have quite the expected effect on Kingsley. He only nods softly.
�We know that, but I doubt that will be enough to convince the Judge and the jury.�
�Think about it,� I begin again, more frustrated now. �He hated me for all his life. He had no emotional ties to me whatsoever,� I state, feeling a slight ache in my stomach and hoping to God that my words aren�t true. �Still, he helped me escape, risking his own life as well as his family�s.�
Kingsley nods attentively, indicating that my words make sense to him. But he still doesn�t look convinced.
I begin again. �If it weren�t for him, I�d most likely be dead by now, and Voldemort would have won the war. Malfoy may have done many horrendous things, but if it weren�t for him, we would have lost the war.� I exhale deeply, concluding my speech and crossing my fingers, waiting for Kingsley�s reply.
Kingsley remains silent for a long while, his brow intensely knitted as he stares out into oblivion. Finally, after I have been holding my breath for what seems like ages, he turns back to me.
�Are you willing to present your statement as evidence for the case?� he asks softly, piercing me with his gaze.
My words gets stuck in my throat, and for a second I feel like I�m suffocating. But I nod determinedly. My distaste for public appearances will not hinder me from saving Draco.
It seems that Kingsley senses my distress, even as I do not voice it. Not that surprising really, after all I have grown to know him pretty well through the years.
�You will not have to testify in court, just before the Judge and the jury. Overall, I think it is better if the matter is kept as private as possible. Unfortunately it is required that the trial is open for the public and the press, since we are handling the issue of a Death Eater.�
I feel some relief wash over me, it had been my worst fear to have to talk in front of the press and a hundred complaining civilians. The open trial is discouraging, but not unexpected. Trials of Death Eaters are always open nowadays, to prevent possible shoddy proceedings.
�That is fine,� I therefore state, already getting up from my seat when I recall another issue. �Can the trial be moved up from the 21st?�
Kingsley looks surprised, looking through some of the papers scattered over his desk. �I have to discus the issue with Judge Grachev. If possible, it might be able to move it up to next week, but I cannot promise anything without the Judge�s consent.�
I nod, breathing deeply once. �Thank you, Kingsley. I really appreciate it.�
The Minister nods, a friendly smile on his face. �Always a pleasure, Harry. I will contact you as soon as I have any information.�
I bid my farewells, and leave the office, hurrying out of the Ministry before the rumour has time to spread that I paid a visit to the Minister.
So far, I have done what I can. It might not be enough to let me breathe easily yet, but I am able to fall asleep that night with a somewhat lighter heart.

******

If possible, I feel even worse than I did in the dungeons at the Manor. A fever is plaguing me, causing me to roll and thrash in my sleep, the movement re-opening my wounds every night. I have been moved to a white room, much like in a hospital but with a door consisting of prison bars. As if I were in any condition to escape.
If this is what will kill me, I would have preferred the dungeons. An ugly Mudblood nurse comes in here once an hour, feeding me some disgusting potion that supposedly is lowering my fever. I haven�t experienced it to have any effect yet, but apparently it is supposed to very efficient. Bullshit, if you ask me. They just like torturing me in their own simple, subtle way. Hypocrites, the lot of them. At least I was honest about what I was doing.
Then there is the food. The disgusting chicken soup what they are trying to force me to eat, not realising that I haven�t swallowed a bite of food in months, my throat being so raw and my body so weak that I had to be kept alive with nutrition spells and potions. The nurse is forced to do that too, since I refuse to touch the soup, but she still insists on bringing the vile-smelling concoction into the room three times a day.
Still, what I long for most is not being able to eat, proper food, freedom, or even death. It is being able to tell these fucking morons where they belong. But the fact that I haven�t used my voice for anything else than screaming for four months, leaves me somehow unable to start off a single sentence. I haven�t lost my voice, that much is for certain, but to use it through words seems somehow distant to me.
And in the end, what would I say? What could I possibly have to say to these people? Telling them to stop treating me, to stop trying to save my life and let me die with some dignity? As if they would listen to a word I said.

�Malfoy! Are you awake?�
Well, if I wasn�t, now I am. I crack one open, observing the fool who decided to interrupt my silent reverie. A tall, dark-haired man, no doubt an Auror, is looking down at me. His expression is one of mixed loathing and fear, and I am utterly pleased of still awaking such a strong feeling, even as I�m lying immobile in a hospital bed.
When I do not answer, the Mudblood nurse standing behind the Auror speaks up. �He does not speak, Mr Jones,� she mumbles, looking uncomfortable as she glances over at me. Jones looks a little uneasy himself, and just for the fun of it I finally open both of my eyes, sneering viciously at the Auror. He tries to not look disquieted at this as he speaks to me.
�I have come to inform you that your trial is to be held next Wednesday, three days from now, that is.�
I cannot help the shocked expression that appears on my face for a second. A trial? I never expected to get one, as there can impossibly be any uncertainty over what I�ve done.
When I still do not answer, the man called Jones sighs irritably and continues. �I will then come here with a colleague, and we will escort you to the Ministry, where you will be questioned under the influence of Veritaserum.�

If the situation was another, I would have jumped up and hexed the Auror into the next millennium for those words. As it is though, I am chained to a bed and physically unable to move. Therefore, all I can do is to try to keep the distaste and rage off my face.
Jones seems to have done what he was sent here to do, and does not linger. He gives me one last disgusted look before he turns on his heels and practically runs out through the door. The nurse, uneasy about being left alone with me, quickly takes my temperature before also leaving. When she does, I am finally able to in a deep exhale express the desperation that has washed over me.

Veritaserum. Being forced to spill my uttermost secrets. The ultimate disgrace.
And here I thought my life couldn�t possibly get any worse.

End of part III
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Salt in Our Wounds