Author's Note: We're drawing to the end, as I keep saying, and I'm starting to try wrap things up. It's going to be a bumpy ride, but I'm going to try and answer all questions that may be hanging about. Anyway, enjoy this chapter. Not a lot happens, I warn you.
Acknowledgements: To all those who are patient…
Disclaimer: The characters don't belong to me.
Coeur Corrompu
Chapter Twenty
I know you think that I shouldn't still love you or tell you that
But if I didn't say it well I'd still of felt it
Where's the sense in that?
I promise I'm not trying to make your life harder
I'll return to where we were
I will go down with this ship
And I won't put my hands up and surrender
There will be no white flag above my door
I'm in love and always will be
I know I left too much mess and destruction to come back again
I caused nothing but trouble
I understand if you can't talk to me again
And if you live by the rules of it's over
Then I'm sure that that makes sense
I will go down with this ship
And I won't put my hands up and surrender
There will be no white flag above my door
I'm in love and always will be
Dido - White Flag
Looking forward all he could see was darkness. It was almost as if someone had turned the light off, then blindfolded him and then stolen his vision away from him. There was a distinct lack of shadows that unnerved him. If only they were there then he might be able to make out where he was. Shed some light on the situation, so to speak.
Maybe this was it. This was death and there was nothing but this waiting for him in eternities to come. Never had he thought it'd be so painful though. There had always been this assumption that when he died it wouldn't hurt one bit - a flash of white light, just for good measure, and then nothing. A complete absence of emotion and feeling would overtake him. Peace would reign at last and he'd be able to sleep a dreamless, endless sleep.
This was defiantly none of that.
His right arm was throbbing rhythmically against his flesh. The fingers of his left hand itched to sooth it away, but felt like lead. Along the line of his rib cage there was an intense ache. His mind conjured up images of purpling bruises edging up his flesh. Then there was the problem of his eyes. They seemed glued together with ripping pain. It was raw and fresh - something that might have delighted him in previous times, but now added to his biggest bother. Curiosity.
If he wasn't dead, which he was pretty sure he wasn't, then where was he? For the first time in a long time, Draco Malfoy felt completely lost in his own body. There wasn't even a clue to relieve his pulsing mind. It was annoying, irritating and frustrating beyond belief. He demanded answers, and they were to be met immediately. The problem with this was that he had no one to throw his disposition upon.
The air smelt fresh - almost floral. It lacked the clinical smell of a hospital, so he drew that one out. There wasn't even a hint of sweat, or the stench of men who had to stoop to spoil their own clothes. So it wasn't a prison. It didn't exactly leave many options open to his desperate mind. Potter would never have let him go home…
Humming. He could hear it now. At first he hadn't been sure whether it was his own body reacting to his situation, but it had a tune and rhythm. An edge of sweetness laced the voice, but he couldn't place it.
There was a creak and a hiss of wood sliding against carpet. Someone had opened the door to his…cell? Room? Was it even his? Their footsteps moved closer and the humming got louder. It became more real, with uncertain notes and hesitations. To him it sounded almost as if the person couldn't remember the tune, but had a couple of bars entwined with their consciousness.
A groan escaped his lips. It hadn't intended to come out that way, he thought. It was supposed to come out as a question, any question that would tell him where he was and what was happening. Last time he'd been completely aware, Potter still had him holed up in that dank room. Then he'd injected him… After that it all became a little blurry around the edges.
The person whose presence was dominating the room, moved closer. All humming had ceased and it felt like he was being studied. He felt like an insect under the microscope, flinching between the sheets of glass and suffocating under the intensity of the world. Something brushed against his right hand, and a weight was placed on, what he considered to be, the bed. His body was limp and gravity pulled him into the new dent on the mattress, until he connected with the other person.
When he'd been under the influence of the drugs given to him by Potter, Draco had dreamt. It had not been the happy dreams of one who has tired themselves out, but the restlessness that only memories can bring. To him it had felt like he was constantly tossing and turning. His body ached in all the wrong places, and nothing to rid him of the notches of tension. Then there had been the actual dreams themselves. They had been vivid sensations that crawled up his spine with razor sharp claws, only to lose its footing and slide back down scraping away all his flesh with it. It was unbearably predictable - the precise moment where he felt himself burning.
It would start, as most dreams start in this mortal coil, at home. There would be a sense of safety which was unexplainable for Draco, for home had never been that safe a place for him. First there had been his father who destroyed that for him. Most people thought he'd been abused in some manner, made to act the way he did by his upbringing. In some ways they were right, but wasn't that a parents prerogative? Weren't they supposed to impose a civilisation upon their young? Teach them proper social behaviour? It wasn't Lucius' fault that Draco had turned out the way he had, he had simply influenced it. There had been the restrictions and goading, but all parents wanted their children to be perfect. It was all very well putting the blame upon him, but it wasn't true. His father had loved him to the best of his ability, and had taught him everything he thought Draco needed to know. Teenage naivety had led to him hating Lucius for his methods - it was true that he had hated the man to the very core. Now though, he understood that he would always love Lucius, because without him he wouldn't be here at all.
Then there had been the sense of a prison about the home. A time was set for when he had to be home, in bed, up in the morning. Everywhere he went in the house seemed like there was someone watching him and criticising his judgements. There were times when praise would be awarded, but only when he did something which had taken a lot of effort. The young Draco had been too lazy for effort. If he wanted something he would buy it because working was too time consuming. Again though, they wouldn't have been parents if they hadn't paid him any attention.
So it would start at home, where a younger Draco would be walking along the corridor and down the grand stairs. He would glance up - there was a gallery landing above him and a child was dragging a stick along the rails. It filled the house with a beaten, dirty, foreboding music. Someone was screaming in the kitchen and he would turn quickly and run to the source. When he reached there though he had aged and grown tall enough to touch the top of the door frame. His fingers had brushed it absently as he sailed through. On the floor lay Narcissa crying, her arms spread high above her head, her dress ripped open and blood was pooling on the floor. Above her stood Ginny - a knife in her bloodied hand.
'I had to cut the cord,' Ginny had said loud and clear. 'If I didn't, you wouldn't be able to leave here.'
Draco had run over to his mother, kneeling down to look at her more closely. He had asked what was wrong, over and over again. Even recalling it made him panic. There was nothing he could do to save her and it scared him.
'See what you've done to me,' Narcissa whispered.
Then he was staring at the gravestone. He hadn't been able to save her after all. Her words had been right. As he began to cry though, he felt a presence behind him. Turning he saw the little boy from the house, the stick still in his hand.
'I brought you this,' the boy said, placing a button in Draco's hand. 'I took it from her dress. It was a pretty dress but you shouldn't have broken it like that.'
'What?' Draco had asked in confusion.
'You have blood on your shirt…'
No longer did the boy stand in front of him, but Harry Potter. His face was blank, and he didn't look threatening at all. To the left of him was a girl… The girl from the ceremony the Parkinson's held. The girl he had decided to love because no one else seemed to understand his pain, and then had killed to give her peace. It was a mercy killing. Her head was rested on Potter's shoulder and she was smiling at him eerily.
'We are the same,' Harry would say, opening his hand to reveal an exact replica of the button. 'Murderers and lovers alike. We kill because we love. Without it, what would we be, but flesh and blood. No one remembers the heroes…'
Then it would start again. Replaying itself and making less sense each time it occurred. It scared him though. There was something about that little boy with the stick and the button. He had tried not to over analyse it though. It would only bring him pain in the end.
Soon the dreams had ended though and now he was here, in this limbo state.
A hand brushed across his forehead lightly. He turned his head away from it; he didn't want anyone touching him. The hand followed though and lay flat across his forehead. A little sigh escaped the person's lips. It was defiantly a woman, with delicate fingers like that. She smelt of cooking and something else…disinfectant. Not exactly appealing, he considered, but better then most things.
'I know you're awake,' she said.
Suddenly his eyes were open. It was as if her voice had triggered them. His vision was blurred round the corners - nothing but a watery image of white and blue. Blinking a couple of times he tried to focus on the woman beside him. Finally he managed to find her beside him and looked hard, squinting.
It was her.
'Don't look at me like that. I'm not in the mood.'
Standing up, she moved away from his bed and he felt an uncomfortable cold spot at his hip. He wanted to sit up and grab her back. Make her sit with him for a little while - explain to him what he was doing here. His lips refused to cooperate with his request to call out though and his body was in no shape for movement.
'What you did was stupid and unforgivable,' continued to voice. 'If it were up to me you would have been left there to rot. Rot and decay! But no, they needed you back, so lucky for you. You should be glad I didn't kill you myself with all the worry you put me through.'
He wanted to smile. Of course she wanted to kill him, but that just showed that she liked him all the same. Ginny Weasley might not be the perfect person, but at that moment there was no one he would rather have seen. She would be irrational for a while and curse him, but soon she would come to the bed and makes sure he was warm, maybe even fluff his pillows a little. A good pampering sounded good.
'I know what you're thinking, too, so stop it. I'm not being irrational and I don't want to get into your trousers. In fact I can't believe you're even thinking about that in your condition.' Ginny wandered over to the bed and peered down at him. 'So why did you do it? I'm not willing to believe you were just that plain stupid! I cried over you, thinking I would never have to see you again. Now look at me, cleaning you up and changing your sheets. It's degrading really seeing as it's your entire fault!'
'Ginny…' he managed to grumble out.
'Yes?' she asked with a hint of concern.
'Shut up,' Draco said with what he hoped was a sneer. 'You're babbling…is giving me a headache.'
'Oh is it now?' she said with a large fake smile. 'Well you know what to do then, don't you? Leave…oh but you can't, because you're still healing. Never mind you will just have to suffer a headache.'
'Ginny…'
'What now Malfoy?' Ginny said with a huff. Her hair was piled up onto the top of her head, and she appeared to be wearing dungarees with a large t-shirt underneath. It wasn't exactly what he'd hoped for, but beggars couldn't be choosers.
'Why are you dressed like a farmer?'
'That would be because I'm mucking out the pig,' she said with a growl and slapped his good arm.
'That's no way to talk about Potter,' he said in a croaky, sandpaper voice.
Silence followed that remark. Ginny stared at him, with a frown creasing her forehead. It was obvious that she was deep in thought, but he couldn't for the life of him work her out. Ever since he'd started this journey she had baffled him. One minute she was cold and full of sarcasm. The next she was warm - no, fiery - and wanting him to play along with her. Well he wasn't nice like perfect Potter, and even though he allowed himself to be caught up in the story, it was never real. He wasn't who she wanted to be with - she just thought so because of the fiction. It was very manipulative, but completely true. This story wasn't going to have a happy ending, even if he thought he wanted it too.
Then it dawned on him what he had just said. He had spoiled their usual sparring by hitting a little too close to reality. No doubt she would know about Potter now and what the truth really was. That didn't mean that she would want to hear it though. It would make things complicated. Ginny wouldn't be able to understand that it was just a job in the end and that life was about getting things done.
Ginny probably held the romantic notion that things were either good or bad. In this case Potter would be the bad guy, and he the good. She was wrong though. They were both just doing their job. Getting things cleaned up before someone noticed - tying up the loose ends. There was hate between him and Potter, and someone was wrong, but it couldn't be determined who.
Who was the good guy?
'Sorry,' he whispered. 'For a second there I forgot.'
'No need to be sorry… I understand,' she added as an afterthought.
'Which part exactly?'
'The part where we say goodbye and I go back to being the girl, who never will get over Perfect Potter,' she said turning away from him. 'The part where you disappear and become the bad guy again. The part where Harry is in the right, when in fact he isn't. The part where we pretend that nothing unusual happened.'
'That's a lot to understand,' he said calmly. There was something about the way she was talking that made him feel nervous. He didn't want her to understand all those things. He wanted to disappear, when he was ready, and for her to hate him. He wanted her to hate Harry for what he had done to him. 'Maybe you're wrong.'
'No,' she said brightly, walking over the door. 'I'm not wrong.'
'How can you be sure?'
'Call it woman's intuition.'