55Chapter 39: R 5: Tom's Reason
Rape, part five: Tom's Reason
It was always tricky to summon their son; he only seemed to come when he felt like it, which was extremely frustrating considering the urgency of each matter they needed to consult him about. This time, though, they found no trouble summoning him at all, thank Merlin.
Timothy arrived in a peach-scented pink cloud of glittering smoke that even gave Piper a run for her money, a huge grin on his face and a set of new deep-green velvet robes with silver embroideries on sleeves and collar on his slim, pale Draco-esque body. When he saw their stunned looks of disbelief, he just laughed out loud and shook his head at the sight. "There, there," he said in an almost Snape-like manner that totally grossed Harry out, "don't look so startled. I am free! Free at last! I have never felt this good in my entire life!"
He laughed anew.
Harry felt an uncertain smile twitching in the right corner of his mouth. "Re-really …? That's good, I s'ppose …"
"Good?!" Timothy echoed. "It's brilliant!"
"I feel it, too," a small voice said next to Harry, and when he looked down, he found five-year-old Timmy there, and for the first time there was no scowl on his knowing face. He looked like any other normal little boy, his face slightly flustered with the excitement of play and with a new hunger for adventure more than apparent in his mysterious green eyes. It was wonderful to see him as carefree as a child ought to be, and not troubled with the sorrows of the world that he had been born to protect. No scars of the miseries that he had witnessed during his time travels were visible in his features now; he indeed looked happy and harmonious, just like his older, future self.
Harry patted the top of the boy's head, tears suddenly brimming in his eyes. "I am glad to hear that, Timmy," he said with honesty. But then he turned to the older Timothy with a grave expression. "You probably understand that Draco and I need to talk to you about Joz," he said in a conversational tone of voice, but there was nonetheless a trace of pain and loss in his words.
Regardless of what their daughter had done to their son—and regardless of what she was destined to do to their family in the future—he still loved her. She was his daughter.
Timothy nodded ceremoniously.
Harry showed him to a moderately furnitured room on the second floor, a room they scarcely used anymore and in which they could be alone and undisturbed during their talk. Since Piper believed the room to be unused, it was of no interest to her, and she was most unlikely to show up when there was no chance whatsoever of stepping in on a juicy scene. And her interruptions and interventions were the ones Draco despised the most.
Harry did not wish to upset him any more than all the bad news already had. So they sat down in the old armchairs that stood at the far end of the room, by the only window, with the drapes closed and the only light coming from an old lamp standing on the small coffee table between them. Its dim glow gave the room a cosy, yet ghastly air that perfectly suited the topics they were about to discuss.
Draco seemed to have lost some of his will to live lately, for he did not care as much for his appearance anymore. That day, he had not even bothered to fix his hair, but merely splashed some cold water on it in the morning. Nor had he cared for what he was wearing; a set of old, worn and torn black robes that made it perfectly clear that he was mourning. He was not wearing any shoes, and there were holes in his socks. His skin looked oddly grey, as if he was recovering from a serious disease. Dark rings under his eyes betrayed the fact that he had not got much sleep the previous two nights.
Harry felt sorry for him, and he wanted to make him feel better, but he did not feel all too good, himself, so it seemed rather stupid to try to cheer somebody else up at the moment.
Timothy studied them with concern in his eyes for a few quiet moments before deciding that it was best he speak. "I only did what I had to do," he told them solemnly, but there was a sort of sadness in his voice now, too.
Harry glanced up at him. "So you admit that it was you, then?"
It had been 25 hours since they received the owl with the message telling them that Joz was dead. Since then, Harry and Draco had discussed their options concerning James's disappearance and what they could do to help him. Neither of them had been able to get any rest. They were both grieving Joz, but at the same time, they needed to be strong for the rest of their family—James in particular.
It was just so hard …
"Yes," Timothy said boldly, and stuck out his chin in a true Malfoy manner. "I killed her, I'm not trying to deny that. It needed to be done lest I be her slave for the rest of my life. She was growing stronger, much more stronger than I could have imagined. Had she been allowed to grow at that rate, she would have been ten times worse at the age of 21 than she originally was. I don't know what they fed her at St Mungo's, but if it was meant to keep her in check it definitely had the opposite effect." He looked them over with grave eyes. "She would have used me to destroy the entire world, for she hated all wizards and witches that stood in her way. She wanted to rule the world, and I couldn't let her."
"How do you know all this?" Draco demanded. To Harry's surprise, he sounded as if he was considering to exclude Timothy from their lives from now on.
The blond boy met his eyes without the slightest trace of remorse. "I read her mind."
"Didn't know that was part of your special powers."
"It isn't, I just happen to be a bloody good Legilimens."
"You don't say."
"I do say."
Harry looked from his son to his husband. There seemed to be some sort of silent war going on between them, and he had no idea who was winning. He just hoped they could all come out of these trials as friends—family. He would hate for them to lose contact with the older Timothy since he was so valuable to them in so many ways.
And besides … if he had indeed gone back in time all those times to somehow change some gruesome event that would eventually get Draco killed and leave Harry all alone … then Harry definitely wanted him to continue. He did not want Draco to die, obviously, not until they were really, really old and it was time for them to go. Not at thirty-something. It was too soon.
"Look, I made it quick and painless. Stopped her time with a flick of my wrist, 's all. She just fell asleep. I am sorry I killed your daughter—twice—but it had to be done. It really did, Draco. Compared to her, Pywercaseley is as dangerous and blood-thirsty as a butterfly."
He was probably right.
So why did not Draco believe him?
"Look—it's in the newspaper," Harry said, a somewhat puzzled note in his voice.
Draco snatched the Prophet out of his hands. "Let me see."
He swiftly skimmed the article about James's escape from Azkaban. The Ministry ensured all that they had the situation under control, and that they would soon have young Mr. Potter-Malfoy in custody again. Because of the "break-out," both the Ministry and the Prophet had come to the conclusion that James was indeed guilty of the rape on Helen Abbott, daughter of their old school mate Hannah Abbott, apparently, and the fact that he had managed to break out of Azkaban at such a tender age was (to them) a clear sign that he knew some serious Dark Arts.
Draco angrily threw the paper aside. "Those bloody dimwits! He didn't break out of his own free will—he didn't have a bloody choice!"
Harry knew exactly what he meant, so he put a reassuring hand on the blonde's shoulder. "The Ministry doesn't know that James can transport himself through time when he hiccoughs," he objected mildly, "let alone that he can't control his hiccoughing."
Draco wrenched free of him. "He's no more monster than they are! How dare they write this dung in their filthy magazine?! I will fucking have them answering to me about this …"
He began to storm out of the room, but Harry followed him and stopped him before he could use the parlour fire to travel to the Ministry or the Prophet office or wherever he had been about to go.
"No!" he said firmly. "You can't go there, Dracums, you'll only make it worse! It's not worth it. Let them search the world for James if they want to—they won't find him anyway. Do you remember when he was little and went to the Dark Plane? He consciously chose to go to the Dark Plane when he hiccoughed, remember? That means he has at least a bit of control over this strange power of his, so he will probably be hiding somewhere in time where they can't find him.
"Just relax, Dracums, it'll be all right. He's safe from them, believe me. We don't have to worry just now. Look, I'm going to go to St Mungo's and see if I can have a chat with the victim. You stay here, all right? Do not leave the Manor—you're pregnant and we really don't need to get you into trouble just now. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
The blonde muttered incomprehensively. Then he shrugged and stalked off, sulking.
Harry sighed, and Disapparated.
St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was uncannily quiet when Harry arrived, and he almost expected to find every single Healer and patient dead. A small fear was itching in the back of his mind; What if Timothy really had gone mad from all the times Joz had used him to channel her fury and do her dark deeds? What if he had not only killed Joz, but everyone at the entire hospital …
His fear was quenched rather quickly, though, when a couple of female Healers emerged from a room, quietly debating with each other. They fell silent when they spotted him twenty feet further down the corridor and swiftly turned around as if fleeing from him.
Sighing with resignation, Harry walked over to the room where Helen Abbott was lying in absolute silence, her eyes staring blankly up into the ceiling without seeing it. The moment he saw her, he knew that there was no use trying to talk to her; she was still far off in some inner world of hers.
She looked so small, so vulnerable … He felt a need to protect her.
Now that he had lost yet another child—yes, he still felt as if Tom had been a separate person, just as much his son as James was—he knew how precious and brittle life was, and he wished for this girl never to have to go through what he had endured. So many losses …
He wished for her to wake up from her catatonia and lead a quiet, happy life together with people that loved her.
He returned to the Manor with a new sadness, but also with a helplessness that was slowly eating away at him from inside. What were they supposed to do? What the Hell were they supposed to do?! They could do nothing at all to help James with the victim still mentally unreachable and Harry banned from Hogwarts … and with the Ministry tampering with all the evidence.
"Draco?" he called, rubbing his temples because he was starting to get a nasty headache, and walked up the stairs towards their bedroom. He needed to change into more comfortable clothes and lie down for a bit. "Draco, could you bring me some Headache Killer Potion, please?" he added as he reached the third floor and headed for the open bedroom door.
The blonde appeared in the doorway when he was rummaging through his wardrobe for something loose and soft. Harry turned around and saw that he carried with him a goblet of steaming potion in one hand and a bowl of strawberries in the other.
He put the goblet on the desk. "Here you go, gorgeous," he said, and threw a berry into his mouth. He looked much more vibrant and lively than he had just an hour ago, and Harry was glad to see that he was smiling jubilantly as he munched on the red berries. Then he gave the raven-haired man a quizzical look. "Want one?"
Harry shook his head. "No thanks, I think I'll just have this," he said, and swept the potion in three great gulps.
Suddenly, he felt strong arms closing around him and the blonde's chin resting on his shoulder. What was weirder was, he thought he actually heard him purring like a cat …
"Er, Dracums …?"
The blonde kissed his shoulder gently, seductively. "Mmmm, I love your body, Harry … it's so manly …"
"You know, I kind of have a headache—"
"'Kind of' won't get you anywhere," the blonde chuckled, and tightened his grip on Harry's waist.
He gasped involuntarily when teeth closed around his earlobe and the tip of Draco's tongue licked away at his neck. The blonde chuckled obscenely again. Moved his left hand up under the shirt that Harry had just put on while unbuttoning Harry's trousers with his right. All the time, he kept kissing and licking Harry's neckline while Harry unconsciously leant back against him and cocked his head to the side to allow more access to the areas the blonde was assaulting.
"I wanna make love to you," Draco whispered in his ear, nibbling at his earlobe again.
Harry gave a trembling gasp, slowly succumbing to the blonde's hot touch on his prickling skin. His trousers open, the blonde went about unbuttoning the shirt; it fell to the floor less than fifteen seconds later. He played with Harry's nipples a while, Harry moaning and pleading for him to continue, leaning his head back with his mouth open in a silent plea.
Draco dug his way into Harry's trousers and muttered wordlessly with content when he discovered that he was not wearing any underwear as usual, and with a determination that totally prevented any further objections from Harry's side, he took a firm grip on his manhood and immediately began to stroke him.
Harry cried out involuntarily, his chest heaving up and down at a desperate break-neck rate. His heartbeats accelerated, his muscles stiffened. He could not help himself …
The blonde stroked him with ferocity, grunting low in his throat as Harry began to thrust into his hand.
He put a finger inside the raven-haired man's open mouth, and Harry hungrily sucked on it.
Then suddenly, he stopped. Withdrew his hand.
Harry whined in protest and disappointment. He had been so close …
But it soon became apparent that Draco merely wanted to be a part of the fun, rather than settling with just being the cause of it. He muttered a simple spell that discarded the rest of Harry's clothing and then did the same to himself, then he ruthlessly pushed him down onto the bed.
Harry glared up at him. "Hurry."
The blonde laughed and placed himself on top of him. With his lips to Harry's, he murmured, "Don't worry. I'll be instant and thorough."
And thorough he was. He made Harry scream and shout and thrash and buck with seemingly no effort at all, and he himself seemed insatiable! It was as if he could go on for ever, and it never seemed to be enough to quench his sexual hunger. He just came at the raven-haired man again and again and again … It was amazing how someone could get wood so often and so easily, even after three hours of non-stop love-making!
At least Harry was exhausted …
Unfortunately, Draco was not. For the tenth time or so, he touched Harry in a way that made it impossible to misinterpret his intentions. He sighed, getting tired with the blonde already. "What has gotten into you?!" he exclaimed, beside himself.
The blonde laughed. He bore down on Harry's lips anew. "Love. Pregnancy. Strawberries."
The strawberries.
Strawberries contained loads of zinc!
Blimey …
"Er … how many did you have?" he asked awkwardly.
The blonde seemed to think back. "Umm … I don't know, maybe three bowls?"
"Three bowls?!" Harry echoed in fright. "But they probably hold about two hundred each! At the least!"
Draco shrugged. "Yeah, so?"
I'm gonna be killed! Harry thought in horror. With all those strawberries—all that zinc in his system—he is bound to continue for days in a row; there will be no satisfying him! Oh, man, I am so dead … he's gonna fuck me to death. Literally!
He hastily scrambled out of bed, magicked his clothes back on, and ran out into the hallway. He heard the blonde calling quizzically after him, but he ignored him. Pregnancy combined with zinc … he had to hide!
He spent two pleasantly quiet hours in the parlour together with the children, happily aware that Blaise would live past his fifth birthday now that Joz was dead, and there was no sign of Draco. Later, when he went out into the kitchen to fix himself a snack, however, the blonde surprised him by jumping him from behind and once again succeeded to seduce him by touching a few sensitive spots …
He was equally ambushed outside the library, and coming out of the first floor bathroom (swiftly being pushed back inside), and down by the lake … Harry thanked Merlin that none of the kids had walked in on them! (And that Piper had not...)
But when the evening came, he had had quite enough. Afraid that the blonde would try to coerce him into sleeping with him again, he had resorted to sitting in the parlour with Piper, whom was knitting a sweater for Natsumi by hand. He was sitting on the arm of one of the couches, watching her hands as if transfixed. After a while, he became aware that his mouth was hanging open and that he was drooling a little.
He swiftly wiped his chin on the sleeve of his shirt.
Stealthy footsteps came up behind him …
He spun around, trying to escape, but it was too late; the blonde's arms were already around him in a deadly grip.
"Not again!"
If he tried to wrench free, he would probably lose a limb or two, and he was not prepared to make that sacrifice. He remembered all too well the pain of re-growing all the bones in his right arm after an unfortunate encounter with the quack Lockhart, so he figured that it must be excruciatingly painful re-growing an entire limb. (Or could you just re-attach it to the body?) Harry did not know, and he was not prepared to find out.
"Hawwwyyyyyy …" The blonde was drooling worse than him.
"Gerroffme!" he yelled, and tried to brush him off.
"Oh, but why? I want you, and I know you want me, too …"
Piper looked up from her knitting, and Harry swore he could see her eyes swell up to thrice their original size as if she had used a non-verbal Engorgement Charm on herself. She cocked her head. Soon she would begin to drool, too.
That was something he did not need to see.
"No, I don't want you, I've had enough of you already, now let go!"
"But Harry … I have needs, and I need you to satisfy them …"
"I've already done that twenty times today!"
"Twenty times?" Piper exclaimed, and looked as if she had missed something incredible.
Harry ignored her. He coldly pushed Draco away, but he bounced back as quickly. To his great embarrassment, he actually began to plead and whimper. "Oooh, please, Dracums … not again … just leave me alone! Go jerk off or something, you claim to do that all the time so why not now?"
"Because that's no fun …" He started to lick Harry's ear, and Piper sniggered approvingly.
"The strawberries, eh?" she stated knowingly. "I warned him he might be like this, but did he listen?" She shook her head in mock resignation.
Harry stared at her in shock. "You knew about the strawberries and you didn't warn me?!" he accused.
"Of course I didn't warn you, I would have missed all this fun entertainment! Who do you take me for?"
Draco kissed him on the neck.
Harry directed his wand at him and said, "Stupefy."
The blonde fell down rigid and did not move.
Piper blinked at him sheepishly for a couple of seconds, then she shook the bafflement out of her body and turned to face Harry again. "That was highly unnecessary," she pointed out.
Harry shrugged. "He was in the way. Now, tell me, where the Hell did he get all those strawberries from?" He had a feeling he already knew the answer.
"I got them for'im after he saw me eat some earlier today," she said simply. "He said it looked so delicious he wanted some for himself. I didn't think it'd be that bad if I gave him some …"
"Some, no! But three bloody bowlfuls?! Are you out of your friggin' mind?!"
"Not really, no. But he just kept asking me for more—you know, pregnancy binge—and so I gave him more. But I warned him about eating too much zinc … Didn't listen, though, and how surprising is that? Never listens to a word I'm saying, that boy …"
"And how surprising is that?!" Harry cut in incredulously. "How the bloody fuck did you get him that many strawberries, anyway?" Immediately after asking that question, he regretted it, because Piper raised her wand and muttered, "Accio strawberries!", as a demonstration, and next thing he knew, their coffee table was loaded with fresh strawberries.
Harry in vain tried to tell her to stop—"No! Don't do it again! No mooooore!"—but the strawberries just kept on coming, one after the other, and the pile on the coffee table grew and grew and grew and grew and—
It was too much for him to take. Too much.
And when he fainted, the Stunning Spell came undone and Draco woke up to a mountain of strawberries …
Timothy paid them another visit three days later, and for once he actually had good news. Well, sort of anyway … And what was better was, the effect that the strawberries had had on Draco had finally worn off completely and Harry was safe from his attacks.
The blond boy was beaming when he announced that he had found James. "He's in the Dark Plane," he told them solemnly, "and he is quite fine. I am not surprised he sought solace there when the Ministry had him imprisoned … I know that the Dark Plane is no good place for a boy his age, but at least we can now conclude that he is definitely out of reach to the Ministry, and that is a good thing indeed."
"That it is," Harry agreed generously, but his intestines were twisting with anxiety.
"Er, has he tried to contact V-V-V—He Who Must Not Be Named?" Draco asked worriedly, evidently thinking along the same lines as Harry.
"I'm afraid I can't say for sure whether he has or not," Timothy apologised. "I just received notice from Bond saying that James has turned up in the Dark Plane and that he will not be persuaded to go back. If he only stays for a short time there will be no risk of acute disturbances in the flow of time, so I suggest that you get your arses working on proving his innocence ASAP, please. I would suggest you confront your ghosts …" he finished, and winked knowingly at Harry before he disappeared.
They blinked sheepishly. Confront their ghosts …?
And then it suddenly hit Harry. He knew what they could do. What they had to do.
"Tom …"
Draco looked at him with knitted brows. "What? Tom? Why are you bringing him up all of a sudden?" he wondered in lack of understanding and suspicion.
Harry rose from his seat and eagerly tugged at the blonde's arm. "Because I know how we can ask him whether or not he actually raped that girl!" he exclaimed excitedly, and ran all the way up to the third floor and into the library. With confidence, he picked out the correct book on the Dark Arts and rapidly searched for the spell they needed to do. After going through the book twice without finding it, he frowned and checked the cover. No, it was the right book, so why …?
"Harry, what are you doing? That's some seriously Dark magic, and you don't—"
"Oh, right! I tore that page out years ago!" he expelled, slapping himself on the forehead. "I saved it for future use …"
Now the blonde looked seriously anxious. "Saved what for future use?"
"A spell I'm sure you'll find interesting." And when Draco only gave him worried looks, he added: "How to Summon the Dead."
"How to summon …" His voice trailed off as he finally understood where Harry was going. "Tom … he knows if James did it or not …"
"Exactly!" Harry stated, and steered the blonde into their bedroom. It took him a while to find the torn-out page, but when he did, he pored over it and checked if they had everything they needed to summon their spirit of choice.
They set up a five-feet-in-diameter circle consisting of ten black candles on the floor of an unused room and conjured some lavender-scented incense. The room was dark except for the ghostly flickering of the candles. They sat facing each other in the middle of the circle, and between them, Harry had put a small bowl in which a mixture of herbs had been measured up. Now they only needed to add two more things.
One: something belonging to the deceased and that would automatically call him forth after uttering the spell. After many hours of searching through the Manor they had finally found the wand that he had carried when he first came to them through the bathroom wall.
Two: three fat drops of their own blood, which would seal the spell.
They added the last 'ingredients' and chanted the spell. Since the protective spells, enchantments, and shields they had put about inside and around the Manor were so complex and well-done, there was absolutely no risk of the Ministry detecting the use of Dark Arts within its walls. They were absolutely safe to perform their little séance.
They uttered the long, complicated spell and waited.
A bluish-black spiral of thick, billowing smoke erupted from the bowl between them and slowly, lazily rose up towards the ceiling. It circled the room, stealthily, almost as if it possessed a dark conscience of its own. But then the smoke lifted and a tall, eerily glowing shape emerged from their depths. As it came closer, they recognised it as Tom Malfoy. He was transparent, just like any other ghost, but he glowed oddly green as if the Killing Curse had permanently dyed him.
He blinked at them both in bewilderment as he spotted them on the floor. "Harry? Draco? Why are you …?" He fell silent and surveyed his surroundings with growing alarm. "Did you bring me back to the Manor? Why did you bring me back to the Manor?" he asked with great confusion.
Harry gestured for him to sit down next to them in the circle. To his surprise, Tom almost immediately did as he was told. "We've summoned you," he explained to their son, "to ask you a few questions about your past."
Tom raised both eyebrows in astonishment. "About my past? But you should know all about it now, shouldn't you? You've done your research, haven't you?" His eyes shifted between them rapidly.
Draco shrugged. He would not meet Tom's eyes, and Harry assumed it was because he was afraid of crying if he did. Instead he pretended to be really interested in the patterns on the marble floor.
Harry decided it was best if he handled the interrogation. "James is thirteen now," he told Tom in a warm, friendly tone, trying to convey to him that he need not be worried or alarmed. He saw the bafflement in his son's green eyes and quickly added, "Your Aunt Piper has invented her Infinity Potion—I take it you are familiar with it?"
Tom just stared at him for a while. Then he nodded. "Yeah, I'm familiar with it. Took it myself when I was twenty, didn't I?" His voice trailed off, and he played with his sleeve for a while.
Nobody said anything.
"So, am I … a happy kid? Or am I already … you know …"
Yeah, Harry thought he knew where Tom was going. "I would like to think that you are happy," he said with honesty, "but you don't talk to me much. It's my own fault, I know, I've been working too much and spending too little time with my family—that's all going to change now. Before it's too late."
He cast a glance at Draco. The blonde was watching him with a dreadful scowl on his forehead.
"You're unhealthily obsessed with the Dark Arts, though," Harry went on, once more turned towards Tom. "Didn't think you'd take after your great-uncle Snape, and certainly not in that aspect … but I guess it's all right as long as it's just an interest. Just so you know, I'm gonna kill you the day you start using those spells!" he joked, trying to make the atmosphere a little lighter in the room.
Tom did not smile. "Well, that'll happen in about two years if he's doing everything I did in my past …"
"In two years?!" Draco exclaimed, and finally looked up at Tom. "What the Hell will happen in two years?"
Tom looked reluctant to say anything more. "I got tired of all the wrongs everyone did me … so I took up great-uncle Snape's hobby of creating my own Dark spells and jinxes … tried them on the creatures in the Forbidden Forest to make sure that the effects were the ones I desired before I used them on the kids that were bullying me."
The blonde inhaled violently in an insulted gasp. "You did what?!"
"You should understand, Dad. You were bullied quite badly yourself, weren't you? For dating Harry, I mean."
"Still no respect for me," Harry said resignedly, and shook his head.
"What do you mean you were bullied?" Draco demanded. "Who the fuck bullied you? I'll kill them before you can curse them and get yourself into more trouble! And why did they bully you? What did you do to them?"
A bitter grin curled Tom's lips. "Gee, you're always so nice to me, Daddy, always so supportive, and you always know just the right thing to say, don't you?" he stated sarcastically.
"Yeah, you bloody write that on your forehead, you bloody insolent brat! Why have you never listened to us?! The Dark Arts are bad! That's what killed your grandparents—and I'm not talking about my crappy parents now—that's what killed thousands of wizards and witches back in Vo-ho-ho, He Who Must Not Be Named's time, and that's what's killing people now, in that bloody arsehole Pywercaseley's stupid name! Why don't you ever listen to that?! You've seen what it can do! Hell, you bloody even saw Pywercaseley curse Harry when you were little!"
Harry put a reassuring hand on the blonde's arm. "Draco, he was two, I don't think he remembers—"
"I don't give a bloody crap!"
"I know you don't, but just let him answer, alright?"
Draco crossed his arms defiantly over his chest and looked like a big baby, but at least he shut up.
"I did listen," Tom said, and surprised them both. "I listened every time, every day, every second that you two lectured me about it. But you were both using the Unforgivable Curses over and over while fighting the Death Eaters, so I thought if you could do them, then I could, too. And … I got really frustrated. All you ever did was tell me all these bizarre and scary tales about the Dark Arts to frighten me from using them, but you never congratulated me when I did something good."
"Now, that's not true—" Harry began.
"Yes, Harry, it is. You never congratulated me. All you ever said was, 'That would've made my father proud,' and I've lost count of all the times you told me I 'wore his name well.' You never saw me, father, all you saw was a miniature James Potter growing up in front of you, and you always looked at me with that sick hope that one day I would actually turn into the father you never knew."
Harry blinked. "What? But I've never—"
"Oh, haven't you now?" Tom said in a most Snape-ish manner, but he also succeeded to bring in a little of the old know-it-all Percy in his voice. "Are you trying to tell me that you've never said 'You have to live up to your grandfather's name, James, you have to honour your namesake and ensure that he can be proud of you?' Never, ever?" He snorted scornfully. "I don't believe you. You're a lousy liar, you are, and blind to your own foolish mistakes."
Harry did not know what to say. He did not want to hear it—did not want to admit to himself that it was true. But it was. Come to think of it … one of the last things Tom had said to him while he was still alive was those exact words. You never saw me—you only saw your father.
He had chosen the name Tom for himself—they had not given it to him, had not even thought about giving it to him. And after everything that happened during those weeks—the murder on Hermione, the rise of the new Dark Lord, Tom's attempts at killing Harry, Draco ending up killing Tom instead—they had not wanted to name their baby Tom, because the name seemed jinxed.
And what had he done? Harry had suggested the name James. Had not he all along seen his father in the face of his son? Had not he in fact hoped, on some deeply sick level, that James would indeed grow up to be a perfect replica of the late James Potter, both physically and at heart?
"Oh, God, I'm twisted," he moaned, and buried his face in his hands.
Draco slowly stroked his back. "No, you're not," he whispered. "You're just a typical orphan, Harry. Just a typical orphan."
He did not want to hear that, either. But he allowed the blonde to soothe him.
Ultimately, it was time to ask the question they had summoned him for. Ironically, Draco was the one to do it. "Tom … when you were thirteen … did you rape a girl named Helen Abbott?" he queried bluntly with a sharp glint in his silver eyes.
The ghost was startled. "What? But how could you …? I told him to erase those days for me …"
Harry frowned at his words. "What? You told someone to erase those days for you? Who?"
The fact that the boy had actually asked someone to erase those particular days seemed ominous; it almost gave Harry a feeling that their son had lied to them, that he had in fact done it. But that could not be … could it?
Tom appeared to be considering his options. But then he sighed with resignation. "I told Bond to erase those days for me because I didn't want them to haunt me for the rest of my life," he confessed weakly. "Unfortunately, he couldn't erase my memories of it as well … He downright refused to, and I couldn't ask anyone else to erase them for me since nobody else remembered those days. And I sort of saw it as my punishment … for everything that happened later …"
His voice died away, and it almost looked as if he had tears in his eyes when he defiantly turned his face away from them.
Harry felt a deep need to console him and put a cautious hand on his arm before realising that he was a ghost. His hand went straight through his son. For some reason, it made him incredibly sad.
"Tom … What happened to you?" he asked carefully with compassion in his voice.
To their surprise, Tom laughed bitterly, a laughter that almost made him sound crazy. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you … But I can tell you this: I never raped that girl. I would never do something like that to another person."
Harry and Draco both exhaled in deep sighs of relief.
"The ironic thing is … I was the one who was raped," Tom said, and now there really were tears in his eyes.
For a few long seconds, none of them spoke.
Then: "What?" Harry thought he must have got that wrong.
But Tom looked him deep into the eyes—eyes so much like his own—and nodded solemnly. "Yeah, ironic, isn't it?" he continued as if Harry had said 'Really?' instead of 'What?' "Right before I left …"
"Left?" Draco echoed. "Are you talking about when you came to us …?"
"Yes," Tom confirmed. "I was one of Lord Pywercaseley's most devoted followers, as you've probably figured out, and … I'm sorry, it's too painful to talk about. I, er … I can show you instead, if you'd like."
They exchanged a knowing look. Draco had never been inside anyone's memory before, but Harry had more experience in it than he himself would have liked. Yet, they could not refuse this generous offer. Tom was willing to expose himself and his most degrading, humiliating moment in life just so they could understand him better.
They had to do it.
They plunged into a memory of what seemed to be a very dark day, and it felt extremely weird since they were actually going to see their own future—or, rather, what might become their future if Timothy could not change the past. They were standing in the hallway on the first floor of the Manor and everything was unnaturally quiet.
Draco surveyed the hallway as if he had never seen it before, and then he knowingly tugged at Harry's arm.
Tom was standing just inside the front door, his back to the wall, rubbing his closed eyes with slow movements. A small dresser stood to the left of them—a dresser they had not yet bought, by the look of it, because neither of them recognised it. Harry walked up to it to have a closer look at the framed pictures that stood atop it. Naturally, they were all moving pictures.
He picked one up. It showed their entire family, all of them smiling broadly. But somehow, it did not seem genuine. Although ten-year-old-or-so Timothy waved happily at the camera and teenage James had his arm comradely around Joz's shoulders, their merriment seemed faked. As if they were all trying to keep up appearances. Harry also noticed that Blaise was not in the picture. Did that mean that he was already dead by that time? Was that why their smiles looked so forced, so plastic?
"That was the last picture we ever took," someone said by his shoulder, and he jumped.
Tom was standing only a foot from him, gazing down at the picture with sadness in his green eyes. "With the whole family, I mean. That was only two days before …"
His words died away, and Harry thought he saw grief in the young man now.
Draco had eased forward and stooped down to pick up something from the floor. Until then, Harry had not even noticed that one of the framed photos had fallen to the floor and smashed. When the blonde straightened up, he held a torn picture in his right hand. "This is me," he said with wonder. He turned to look at the others. "Why has this been torn apart? And where's the piece featuring Harry?"
Harry realised that it was the picture of them sitting under that tree by the lake in the Hogwarts grounds. When they were fifteen and had just fallen in love. But now it sported only the roots and a small stump of the tree, which appeared to be bleeding, and a very puzzled Draco who seemed to be looking for something.
Harry had been torn out of the picture along with most of the scenery.
He frowned suspiciously. "You did this, James?" It was the first time he addressed Tom with his proper name, and it seemed to shock and unsettle him.
But before he could reply, a call came from the parlour. "James! Would you come in here for a moment, please?"
The boy by the door jerked, and his features turned murderously cold and furious as he stalked up the hallway towards Harry's voice.
They followed in awe and curiosity.
Harry-of-the-future, still looking twenty or so, stood by the French windows of the much-changed room and looked very grave. Troubled. Apparently, he had not slept for days, because he sported deep, black rings under his eyes. "Why'd you do it?" he asked the younger Tom as he entered the room through the archway.
"This isn't what I wanted you to see, by the way," the ghost of Tom told them with a shrug of his shoulders. "It happens in about five minutes or so."
Harry surveyed the room. It did not look inhabited anymore. It looked … like a ruin. There was no sign of Piper's creative hand, and certainly no sign of any children having lived there for some time. What the Hell had happened to this place?
"W-what is this?"
Harry felt a pang of fear at the sound of the blonde's weak whisper and could hardly force his body to turn around and see what his husband was referring to. Then he saw it. Some sort of small wooden dresser stood against the wall, and on top of it hundreds of tiny candles in different colours were burning. The entire wall had been plastered with photos of Draco. Thousands of candles in different sizes and colours were standing around the dresser, taking up a fourth of the floor in the parlour, and they were all burning brightly.
At a closer look, Harry saw that several small objects had been put on display on the little dresser. The locket necklace that Draco always wore around his neck. A torn-off Slytherin weapon, probably taken from his old school robes. A bottle of Draco's favourite herbal shampoo. The blonde's wedding ring. His old, tattered wand, now burnt and shrivelled. A lock of silver hair …
"What the fuck is this?!" Draco demanded, horrified.
Harry swallowed hard. "I think I know what it is," he said reluctantly. "It's an altar, isn't it?"
And as he said that, he noticed something else about the altar. Above the small dresser was a meticulously, carefully made banner, ink on the finest parchment you could find: To my beloved Draco. You will be with me for ever. I am sorry.
A chill passed through him.
The blonde swirled around at him. "An altar?! What the hell do we need an altar for?!"
Harry could not meet his eyes when he answered. "You don't need any altar, obviously, but I do. You … you're dead. Isn't that right, James? Draco's dead, and this is my altar to him. Timothy told me Draco would die unless I got my act together and acknowledged that my family is more important to me than my work. He told me that's what he's intent on changing. Draco's death."
Fear widened the blonde's eyes. They glowed eerily golden in the candlelight. "I'm … I'm … dead?" he whispered. "How could that've happened? You … you didn't look older than sixteen in that picture …"
So he had understood that that was why they had not taken any more pictures.
"I was fifteen," Tom told them.
"Fifteen?!" Draco echoed hysterically. "But you're thirteen now! That means … I only have two more years to live!"
Harry violently grabbed his wrists and forced him to look at him. "Don't say that!" he warned. "Don't you dare say that! You are not dying, you hear?! You are not dying on me! I won't let you! And Timothy won't let you. He and Jonas will do everything they can to protect you and prevent that from ever happening. Trust me, you will not die."
"But …"
"It's happening!" the ghost of Tom interrupted, and tugged at their sleeves. "C'mon, we need to go if we're to catch it! Quick, I'm running away!"
Indeed, the Tom in the memory had slammed the back door open and run out into the gardens, and he was moving fast! They had to give it everything they had just to keep up with him, but when they reached a glade in the forest line beyond the lake, they did not have to run anymore. Tom had stopped to catch his breath, and he was not alone, either.
Pywercaseley was there with him.
"Well, well …" the Dark Lord was saying. "Are you prepared to make your sacrifice yet?"
Tom knelt by his master and bowed deeply. "I am at your service, my Lord, you know that. What is it that you need me to do?"
An ugly sneer distorted the ginger-haired man's features. "What no other man can do for me." He pointed his wand in the direction of the distant Manor. "Accio Priberty Potion." A few minutes later, a small bottle of potion had flown into his outstretched hand.
The boy on the ground had stiffened.
Harry had a real bad feeling about this. He looked up at the ghost of his son. "He's not going to … is he?"
"Oh, yeah."
Very reluctantly, they watched as Pywercaseley Stunned the boy, but somehow managed to prevent his head from becoming paralysed, and forced the potion into his mouth and down his throat. Tears of fear glistened in his eyes, and he kept saying "No, no, no, no …" when it dawned on him what the Dark Lord had in store for him.
Pywercaseley ruthlessly forced open Tom's robes and forced himself on him. It was unbearable to watch any more; the boy's pained and frightened screams echoed over the open plains and travelled all the way out over the lake. He yelled for his master to stop, to spare him, to not humiliate him in that way, but he could do nothing to push the older man aside. All he could do was lie there helplessly, immobile, and bear it.
His loud sobs tore Harry's heart apart.
Suddenly, he understood the troubled, angry man that had come to them all those years ago. He had endured so many tragedies … being raised to be a replica of Harry's dead father, being accused of a brutal rape he did not commit, the death of the father he had so long adored and idolised … and then this.
Harry slowly began to understand why Tom had been so full of wrath and resentment, but there was still one question to be answered. "Why did you want me to kill you?" he asked the ghost.
In reply, Tom lifted his transparent robes and exposed his belly. "I was pregnant," he said, and it was evident that it was painful for him to talk about it. "With his child." There was immense hatred in his voice as he said that, and Harry could not blame him.
When he looked closer, he could see the small bump on the young man's belly. There had definitely been something growing inside of him when he died.
He let the robes fall into place again. "Now that you've seen this, it is time to return to your time."
Harry felt the pull in his stomach and the odd feeling of floating upwards through nothingness, and then they were back in the empty room on the second floor. The ghost had served its purpose—even more so than they both would have wished. But before he left them, he said, "I think it is better for both of you if you forget what you saw in this house in that memory. The memory of the rape you will need to go on with the investigation. You need an extra spark to inspire you. But the rest, I will help you forget."
Draco snorted in disbelief. "Ghosts can't do magic!" he objected with conviction.
A strange smile twitched in the corners of Tom's mouth. "No? Then you obviously don't know me that well, do you?"
"Potter!"
A distant call from the floor below them. They exchanged a quizzical look. That voice belonged to none of their friends. Who could it be calling on them at this hour?
"Nobody calls me Potter anymore …" Harry said with suspiciously knitted eyebrows.
They hurried downstairs.
There were half a dozen Death Eaters in their parlour. And one of them was holding his wand to a petrified Piper's throat. "One step closer and I kill her," he warned evilly.
"Really?" Draco asked almost hopefully.
Harry hit him on the arm. Then he addressed the Death Eaters. "What do you want?"
The one holding Piper laughed demonically. "We want you, Potter. Come with us or she's dead."
Harry hesitated.
Draco made a dismissive gesture. "Ah, what the heck! Kill her, why don't you? She's a bloody nuisance, anyway. Never wanted her here, I did, but did she listen? No! Instead she moved her entire family in here as well! And do you know how many children has popped out of her uterus the past ten years?! Seven! Seven! Yeah, kill her, that'll lessen the load for all of us."
"Draco!" Harry admonished, shocked.
The Death Eater only laughed harder. "Maybe you want me to kill her, but what about your son?" he asked with self-satisfaction.
The blonde flinched. "What?"
"Pywercaseley found little James lurking about the Dark Plane and took him for a little field trip," the big man informed them. "If you want the boy, Potter comes with us."