Fic: Choices - Part Fifteen
Finally here is the next bit of Choices, sorry it’s taken so very long. The chapter is a little longer than the previous ones. Some people have asked how many more chapters there are to be. The truth is I’m not sure, but I think there are two or three more to go.
I am very excited to be able to link to a piece of artwork by fanart_fairy *bounces*. Thank you VERY much.
And finally, my special thanks to both snottygrrl and luciology for their beta-ing and feedback. These two are treasures.
Part One -- Part Two -- Part Three -- Part Four --Part Five -- Part Six -- Part Seven -- Part Eight -- Part Nine -- Part Ten -- Part Eleven -- Part Twelve -- Part Thirteen -- Part Fourteen
Choices, Part Fifteen
Draco woke slowly. He snuggled deeper under the covers and was just considering whether to stay exactly where he was for the rest of the day when words from the previous night drifted into his consciousness.
You can stay here if you want.
He frowned and tried to recall if he’d heard them in a dream or if someone had actually said them. Then he remembered Potter falling asleep on the bed and how he’d covered the other man with the bedspread. Pushing himself up on his elbow, he looked around the room, but there was no sign of Potter who at some point had pulled the covers back over him before leaving.
With a quiet sigh, he dropped back and stared at the ceiling. Had Potter really said that? And if he had, where was he now? He listened carefully for any sounds in the flat, but there were none. Curiosity finally got the better of him and scrambling from the bed, he pulling on a robe and wandered through the deserted rooms.
There was no sign of Potter anywhere, except for a pot of coffee brewing in the kitchen. Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained, if Potter didn’t remember his offer then Draco would just bide his time until the man told him to leave. The only problem was that he needed to go back to his own flat and he wasn’t sure that if he left here he’d be invited back again.
He was just pouring out a cup of coffee when the front door opened. It was Potter.
“Oh ... you’re awake.” Potter didn’t attempt to hide his surprise. “I was going to leave you a note.”
Draco felt a chill start to spread from deep in the pit of his stomach. Potter had left him a note the previous morning and it had included Draco’s train fare home. He marshalled his features, trying to hide any disappointment; Potter had clearly forgotten his nocturnal comments. In the end he just nodded. “Oh.”
Potter continued as if Draco hadn’t spoken. “I made coffee because I wasn’t sure when you’d wake up. But there’s tea if you want.” He gestured at the tea caddy on the work surface and continued babbling. “However there might not be any milk.” Crossing to the fridge, he opened the door. “There’s a bit and I don’t think it’s gone off....”
“Coffee is fine.”
“I’ll get some later. I drink my coffee black so I didn’t check.”
“This is fine, Potter.” Draco picked up his mug, using it to warm his suddenly icy hands as he waited for the axe to fall.
“I’ve been down to security--”
The axe cut into Draco’s neck. Did Potter really think he’d have to forcibly eject Draco with the help of security guards? He scowled, ready to give a scathing retort, but Potter continued.
“--to tell them I’ve got a visitor staying.” Potter finally looked at Draco, possibly for the first time since returning. “That’s assuming you want to. You didn’t answer last night.”
Draco gave a shrug as if it didn’t bother him one way or another, but inside he thought he might be sick with relief. “Sure, if you want.”
“Well, it’s your decision.” Potter placed something that looked like a credit card on the table. “That’s instead of an ordinary door key.”
“I know about key cards.” Draco sipped at the hot coffee. He’d been to enough hotels with that particular door locking system over the last two years. Sometimes his clients would leave a card for him at the reception desk, normally discretely tucked inside an envelope so the staff wouldn’t realise anything untoward was going on. He liked those types of hotels; they didn’t charge by the hour and often his client would disappear once their time was up leaving Draco with a comfortable paid room for the rest of the night.
“Oh right. There’s a slot by the door here and another down in the lobby entrance. The code’s one nine eight zero. Just--” Potter took a breath. “--just don’t bring any of your clients back here.” He gestured at the door. “I’ve got to go or I’ll be late for a meeting.”
“Potter.”
His hand already on the door handle, Potter looked back at him. Draco noticed the other man was bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet as if desperate to get away as quickly as possible.
Draco’s lip curled in a sneer. “Do you really think I’d do that? Turn your flat into the best little whorehouse in London?” It wasn’t what he’d planned on asking; those questions had been more polite, such as ‘why are you letting me stay?’ and ‘is the Ministry really tracking me?’.
“I....” Potter gave an exasperated huff and pushed his hand into his hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“Draco....”
“What did you mean, Potter?” When the other man didn’t answer, Draco put down his mug and took a step forward. “Let me guess then. I’m a whore and you’re scared my reputation might rub off on your saintly self. God, you’re still the self-righteous prick you’ve always been.”
Potter’s cheeks flushed with anger. “Well fuck you too, Malfoy. I saved your stupid arse twice in as many days and you stand there like a petulant schoolboy. Would you rather I’d left you for Reynolds to finish beating the crap out of you?”
Draco rolled his eyes and gave a deliberately exaggerated scowl of annoyance. “So now I’m supposed to fall down on my knees to Saint Potter. What makes you think I couldn’t have sorted out Reynolds?” He’d dealt with Reynolds on many occasions since arriving in London and normally managed to handle the man’s propensity for violence. Reynolds was a control freak and as long as Draco acquiesced to him there were usually no more than a few bruises.
“He broke your arm, Draco! He raped you!”
For a moment Potter’s eyes sparked with dangerous emerald fire then as if realising what he’d said, the look vanished to be replaced by shocked revelation. It mirrored the look Draco knew was on his own face and he watched as Potter flushed again, this time with something akin to embarrassment.
Finally Potter looked away. “Look, you can stay or go, it’s up to you.” And with that he wrenched open the door and fled.
The door remained open and Draco stared at it for a long time as Potter’s words slowly sank in.
---
Harry did have a meeting to go to; one of those long drawn-out boring affairs during which nothing would be decided and everyone would rather be somewhere else. Which was why, instead of Apparating to the Ministry of Magic, he went, instead, to Draco’s flat. He went there because he felt guilty over his comments to the man -- so guilty in fact that he decided to collect some of Draco’s clothing so that the other man could leave if he really wanted to.
He stood now in the centre of the lounge, glass crunching under his feet, staring at the mess caused by Draco’s Wildfire magic and feeling a little confused. The Wildfire was still crackling around the room and animating Muggle objects. Over in one corner a vase of flowers was hovering a few inches above the top of a table and a woolly scarf was constantly transfiguring into a blue and white stripped rabbit and then back into a scarf again.
He’d felt the magic as soon as he had opened the front door and couldn’t help but wonder why no one from the Ministry had been sent to deal with what had happened. After all, Warren Dawlish’s surveillance team knew Draco Malfoy lived in the flat and they must have realised that it was Draco who initiated the Wildfire. And why had none of the neighbours bothered to check up either on the noise when Draco was being attacked or just to find out why he hadn’t been around for three days.
Then he realised that he could only feel the magic once he was inside the flat. Outside there was nothing except the general background energy that was part of the natural environment. It was, he decided, as if the building had been shielded in some way and that was preventing the magic from being detected. The only problem was to find out what spell was being used and why anyone would bother shielding a Muggle flat.
Drawing his wand, Harry cast a Finite Incantatem, but the Wildfire magic was strong and it took him several attempts to actually halt all the activity. The scarf finally became a scarf again and the vase of flowers settled gently back onto the table.
Then happy the Wildfire had stopped, he intoned a disclosure spell and, using his wand as a divining rod, he started a systematic search of the flat. When he eventually tracked down what was being used to dampen the magic, his eyebrows rose in surprise. Someone had pushed a wafer-thin sliver of haematite into the doorframe of the front door and it was that which seemed to be acting as the barrier.
The thin stone cut into his finger as he tried to extricate it, but eventually he succeeded and, holding it carefully by the edges, he moved to a window to study it in daylight. The haematite had been engraved with several symbols and using a revealing spell he found out that there were several spells linked to it as well. Unfortunately he had no idea what any of them were.
There was, however, one person who might just be able to tell him.
Carefully wrapping the haematite inside a plastic bag, he tucked it into his pocket. Then deliberately ignoring some of the more salacious items of clothing in Draco’s wardrobe he quickly began packing.
---
Draco wasn’t sure how long he stood staring at the open door, but his cup of coffee had long gone cold. Finally he closed it with a quiet click.
There was a mirror in the hallway and he paused before it to stare at his reflection. The face that looked back didn’t seem to be the one he remembered; there were tired dark smudges under his eyes and he looked, and felt, older than his years. He touched his cheek, then his forehead and finally pushed a hand through his hair. When had the lustre gone from the silver blond strands? The fingers travelled down to touch his mouth. And his lips. Where was the colour they usually had?
For two years he’d coped with everything this awful Muggle world had thrown at him. He’d done things that he didn’t even like to think about and sometimes wondered whether his body would ever really be his own again, but he had got through it.
He’d survived.
Then Potter had walked into his life again and everything seemed to be falling to pieces around him. He didn’t want to think about the two regular clients he was supposed to be seeing later in the day or what they would expect him to do for them or what they planned on doing to him.
He tried to remember one time in the last two years that he’d made love to someone. There had been plenty of sex and fucking, both paid and unpaid, but never lovemaking. In fact, the only time he’d shared a bed with someone that hadn’t resulted in sex had been the previous night, when Potter had slept on the end of his bed. What would it be like to sleep cradled in the safety of the arms of the Boy Who Lived?
It came as quite a shock to see a tear on his cheek and he stared at it, mesmerised by its journey over his skin. He hadn’t cried in a very long time.
---
There were many things that made Hermione happy -- chocolate and having her feet rubbed ranked very high on her list. Another was that she’d married Ron Weasley and was currently six months pregnant with their first baby. She also loved the fact she was her own boss, running a very successful charms creation agency. Everyone (including Ron) had assumed she would take up a post at the Ministry of Magic, but once she’d read the small print in her contract, she’d told them to take their job and shove it.
Now she spent her time designing charms and making hybrid Muggle/Wizard technology with the help of Neville, Ginny, Seamus and Colin. After much discussion they had chosen to be based in Muggle London, rather than in the Wizarding enclave of Diagon Alley, away from the all-seeing eye of the Ministry.
Of the things that made her unhappy, one was the fact that she’d never managed to persuade either Ron or Harry to leave their jobs as Aurors and come work with their friends. Eventually she would get her way though; she was very good at wearing people down.
She was deeply engrossed in an Arithmancy problem that she hoped might solve a particularly fiddly charm when there was a light knock on her open door.
Amber, her personal assistant, smiled as Hermione finally looked up from the stack of parchments on her desk. “Busy?”
“Just a bit.”
“You have a visitor.” Amber was just about to continue when someone else stepped into view. Harry smiled apologetically and shrugged a little. “I can send him away if you want.” The woman’s tone was sardonic and Hermione couldn’t help but smile. Amber and Harry were old sparring partners.
“Oh, I think I can give him a few minutes.”
Harry winked at Amber as he came into the room. Then closing the door behind him, he leaned back against it and gave an apologetic half-smile. “Sorry to drop in unannounced.”
“That’s okay, it’s always lovely to see you.” It was then she noticed the man was carrying a bulging holdall and a surge of anxiety flooded through her. Harry and Ginny’s marriage had been on very rocky ground for some time now (terminal according to Ginny), but she’d always hoped the two would manage to patch up their differences and sort things out. Did the bag mean that Harry had finally left the marital home?
“Oh, Harry.” She came to her feet with a little less grace than usual and went to his side, her pregnant state not helping with the emotions welling up inside her. “Please don’t tell me you’re moving out?” She took him into her arms.
Harry dropped the holdall as he returned the hug. Then lightly kissing her on the cheek, he gave her a quizzical look. “Moving out?”
She nodded and gestured at the bag. “You know you can stay with Ron and me until you’ve sorted things out.”
Suddenly realising what Hermione was talking about, Harry hastily shook his head. “No, no, that isn’t mine.” He shrugged. “I’m ... collecting it for someone else.”
Leading him to a comfy trio of armchairs in the corner of the room, Hermione magicked a full tea tray onto the low table. “Actually, I had a long chat with Ginny last night.”
“Ah.” Harry responded knowingly as he sat down. “We’ve both decided we’re much better at being friends than partners. I haven’t moved out just yet, but to be honest we’ve been living separate lives for ages. You must know she’s been seeing Lee.”
Hermione reached for the teapot and poured them each a cup. “Well, yes. I just wasn’t sure how much you knew.” She took a deep breath. “You haven’t been home much recently.”
“I know, it’s ... look, Hermione, it’s got nothing to do with Ginny, we’re still good friends.” He chewed anxiously at a fingernail for a moment and then finally looked back at her. “I really don’t want to talk about this now. Can we save it for another time?”
Hermione considered whether to push the matter further, but there was something in Harry’s demeanour that told her it was time to back off. She had hoped that married life would give Harry a calm haven after what the final battle with Voldemort had done to him, but clearly he needed something else, something his friends and family obviously couldn’t provide. “Okay.” She nodded and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Just remember that we’re all here for you.”
He smiled. “I know. Thanks.”
She squeezed his hand again and finally released it. “So, what can I do for you?”
“I need you to put your spell detecting skills to work on something.”
“Why not ask someone in the Auror department?”
“I’d rather keep this between us for the moment.” Harry reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small flat object wrapped inside a plastic bag. “I wasn’t on an official assignment when I found it.”
She took the package and gave it a cursory glance. “This is haematite.”
Harry nodded. “That’s what I thought.” He wiggled a finger towards it. “There are symbols and things on it. You know all about ancient runes so I wondered you might be able to read what it says.”
Hermione squinted closer. “Well, they aren’t runes as such, more like magical symbols. Each one is probably linked to a spell, which gives us--” She quickly counted them, “--three on this side and two on the other. Where did you find it?” She watched as Harry worried at his bottom lip clearly debating exactly how much to tell her. “Harry?”
“I found it in a Muggle building full of Wildfire magic, but the magic didn’t seem to be visible from the outside. That had been pushed into the frame of the front door and I think it’s being used to block magical energy.”
“Wildfire?” She’d experienced the explosion of magical energy once during the war and knew how potent it could be. “And in a Muggle building as well. I’m surprised the Ministry didn’t pick it up.”
“It was that which got me looking for something that might be blocking it. Do you think you can sort out what spells are being used on it?”
“I’ll try -- anything to get away from the wretched Arithmancy problem I’m working on at the moment. What do you know about haematite?”
Harry shrugged. “Not much really.”
She smiled at the truth of his statement. Harry was most definitely not what one would call erudite. He was more of an intuitive wizard, which was probably why he got into more trouble than her husband, who, as it turned out, was actually much more scholarly than Ron cared to admit. “It’s normally used for spells that reflect back negative energies to the sender rather then blocking things. But you know that you can distort the original uses of spells, like twisting a heating spell to make the person you cast it on really cold. Distorting the spell makes it harder to stop because the victims’ immediate thought is that they are dealing with a cooling spell and by the time they’ve worked out what the spell really is they’re most likely too cold to do anything about it.” She looked up and raised a questioning eyebrow. “Is it in a bag for a reason?”
“I’m hoping I might be able to lift fingerprints off of it, to find out who put it in the door frame.” He sighed. “Not that Wizarding fingerprinting techniques are much good. Did you know that the wizard courts don’t allow them as evidence? They need a magical signature to confirm that a person is responsible for committing something. So the only way I can prove who created that,” he pointed at the stone, “is by isolating a magical signature from it. But as I found it in a Muggle building, I’m hoping whoever put it there will have spent enough time in the Muggle world to have a police record. Not that I have access to police records, but I’m hoping someone at the Ministry might be able to help with that.”
“Weeeell....” The single word was extended over a long breath.
“What?”
“I just might be able to help you with the fingerprinting. Colin has been working on a scanner gadget thing that we can link to a Muggle computer.”
“And?”
“And,” she gave a knowing grin. “Neville and Ginny have created a magical interface that lets us tap into Muggle websites.”
“You’re hacking into the Internet?” Harry’s expression was a cross between shock and admiration. “And there I was messing around with search engines like Google and not getting very far.”
“I don’t promise it will work. There’s still the problem of the way magic effects electrical equipment and sometimes the magic just overwhelms everything, but we can give it a try.” She got to her feet and moved back to her desk where she pulled her iBook computer from a drawer. As much as she loved magic there were some Muggle things that made life so easier, and one of those was a computer. It didn’t make spell work any easier though; when she’d first acquired the computer she had tried to use it to write spells and work on Arithmancy problems. It soon became clear that some magical things needed to be handwritten on parchment; it was as if they needed the connection between the magical person, the quill and the parchment in order for them to work.
The laptop chimed as she turned it on and she waited patiently for it to connect with the building’s wireless network. Yet another reason for choosing a building away from the Diagon Alley enclave were connecting to the worldwide web was impossible.
She was aware of Harry now standing behind her chair as she attached a small scanner to the computer. The device worked with a combination of Muggle technology and Wizarding spells. One of her many reasons for not working with the Ministry was their determination that Muggle technology shouldn’t encroach on the Wizarding community despite the fact that, increasingly, the younger wizards and witches were embracing it. There were more and more Muggle-borns now, and many of them wanted to adapt the technology they’d grown up with.
“Okay, let’s see if there’s anything on this.” Holding the scanner in one hand, she tapped it with her wand and murmured a quick spell. For a moment nothing happened then an image slowly appeared on the computer monitor. With a frown, she stared at the screen and used the trackpad to circle two areas on the image. “I can make out two prints.”
Harry leaned in for a closer look, watching as she isolated the prints from the stone. “How are you going to find out who they belong to?”
“By hacking into the Police database,” she grinned at him.
“I’m beginning to think that you were miss-Sorted, Hermione Granger. You are sounding more and more like a Slytherin.”
Hermione poked her tongue out. “I have too much class to be a Slytherin, thank you very much. Now, where was I?” She quickly logged into the Google search engine with the interface Harry was very familiar with. Then touching the control key with one finger, she touched the screen with her wand and spoke an incantation. The interface changed a little and she clicked on a button that hadn’t been there before.
“We’re in.” The new interface contained several icons, one of which was labelled simply Muggle websites.
“How do you know they can’t track you down?”
“Because the hacking is based on magic and we all know that Muggles can’t track it back.” She typed in several commands and with a look of triumph said, “Now let’s see if these prints are on the Police database.”
They both watched as the program worked through its search parameters and finally came up with several matches.
“There’s nothing for one of the prints, but the other has a match, Ian Reynolds.” Hermione clicked on the link and pulled up the police record. “And he’s a Squib.” Harry didn’t answer immediately and when she finally turned to him there was a look of shock on his face. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I know him.”
“You do?”
“Oh yes.” Harry let out a long sigh. “I’ve had a couple of run-ins with him recently. How do you know he’s a Squib?”
“The Ministry has lists of all known Squibs and they keep track of them so they know exactly where they are. When Dean found out about the list we added a cross-referencing program to this search facility.”
“They track Squibs?” The stunned look on Harry’s face was a picture.
“Is it really a surprise?”
“No, it’s just very familiar.” He took a deep breath and stared thoughtfully into the distance.
“Harry, I think it’s time you told me exactly what’s going on.”
---
The flat was in darkness when Harry got home and he wondered for a moment if Draco was still there. But he knew that he wasn’t alone, as if his own magical energy sensed Draco’s. He had spent the rest of the day with Hermione finally telling her just about everything, including how he’d met up with Draco and just who Reynolds was. At first he’d tried to hide Draco’s profession but in the end he’d told her that as well. What he did manage to keep secret was that his growing interest in Draco Malfoy had moved beyond the fact Draco was one of the banished.
Unfortunately, they hadn’t found out was what spells had been placed on the haematite sliver. Hermione had promised to keep looking, but she didn’t hold out much hope of sorting out the complex spell work at any speed.
He turned on a light, the soft glow illuminating the lounge and finally acknowledged to himself that he was feeling a growing sense of anticipation about seeing Draco again. Had it really only been seventy-two hours since Draco had come back into Harry’s life? It felt like it had been longer -- much longer -- and Harry knew he was beginning to get attached to the other man.
His only problem now was just what to tell Draco. How would Draco feel when he found out his pimp was actually a Squib. Not only that, but that there was a possibility some of his client list might actually be magical folk. After finding Reynolds’s police record, Harry had checked out the man’s bank account, which had payments from Gringott’s Muggle bank, though there was no way to trace who made the payments. Then when Hermione had been called away he had found a website with enough porn to keep half the world happy. There were even a few photographs of a blond called ‘Marcus’ and Harry had debated for a moment whether Draco actually knew what Reynolds was doing to him.
And just how angry would Draco be when he found out that Harry had told Hermione all about him?
Harry strode through to Draco’s room; the man was probably asleep, but he would leave the holdall for him to find in the morning. He tapped quietly on the door and when there was no reply, gently pushed it open. There was a lump under the covers and blond hair spread on the pillow.
“Malfoy?” The word was a whisper and the only reply was a slight shifting in the bed. Draco was obviously only pretending to be asleep. “Um, I’ve been to your flat and got you some clothes. I hope that’s okay.” He put the bag down on a chair and took the few steps to the bed. “If I’ve missed something then we could Apparate there tomorrow and collect anything you need.”
There was still no reply and Harry contemplated leaving, but there was something making him remain. Perhaps the other man didn’t want to talk to him after their argument earlier. But the important thing was that Draco was still here -- he hadn’t left in some sort of petulant huff.
Hermione had been less than pleased to find out about the sudden reappearance of their one-time nemesis. In fact, her attitude had been very much like Remus’; Malfoy got what he deserved, in fact he probably got off lightly. But Harry couldn’t help but wonder what his own fate might have been if Voldemort had been the victor. How would he have coped (or how would Ron and Hermione have coped) if he’d been thrust into a similar situation? Assuming, of course, that Voldemort had let him live, which Harry very much doubted.
He looked at the supposedly sleeping man and sighed. How did that saying go? There but for the Grace of God go I, or something like that.
Perhaps he should tell Draco what he’d found out -- about the haematite blocker in the flat, how Reynolds was a Squib and was taking money from wizards and that some of Draco’s clients weren’t Muggles. Harry assumed they knew who they were fucking and got some sort of kick from their whore being an ex-Death Eater. Were they the ones who treated Draco the worst, taking out their aggression on him for what Voldemort had done to the Wizarding world?
“Draco?” Again there was no reply and Harry turned to leave. But the memory of the previous night returned and he remembered just how easily he’d fallen asleep on the end of the bed, and how Draco had bothered enough to cover him with a blanket. Would it really hurt to stay again? He could be gone in the morning before Draco woke up and the other man need never know.
After a moment’s hesitation, Harry slipped off his shoes and climbed onto the bed. Lying on top of the covers, he was careful not to touch the other man who had his back to him.
Harry wasn’t sure how long he lay there, eyes closed, listening to Draco’s breathing. He was just beginning to drift into sleep when the bed shifted a little and he felt the solid weight of another body press against his side through the blankets. Without thinking he turned into the movement, snuggling close to the warm back.
---
29th January 2006
I am very excited to be able to link to a piece of artwork by fanart_fairy *bounces*. Thank you VERY much.
And finally, my special thanks to both snottygrrl and luciology for their beta-ing and feedback. These two are treasures.
Part One -- Part Two -- Part Three -- Part Four --Part Five -- Part Six -- Part Seven -- Part Eight -- Part Nine -- Part Ten -- Part Eleven -- Part Twelve -- Part Thirteen -- Part Fourteen
Choices, Part Fifteen
Draco woke slowly. He snuggled deeper under the covers and was just considering whether to stay exactly where he was for the rest of the day when words from the previous night drifted into his consciousness.
You can stay here if you want.
He frowned and tried to recall if he’d heard them in a dream or if someone had actually said them. Then he remembered Potter falling asleep on the bed and how he’d covered the other man with the bedspread. Pushing himself up on his elbow, he looked around the room, but there was no sign of Potter who at some point had pulled the covers back over him before leaving.
With a quiet sigh, he dropped back and stared at the ceiling. Had Potter really said that? And if he had, where was he now? He listened carefully for any sounds in the flat, but there were none. Curiosity finally got the better of him and scrambling from the bed, he pulling on a robe and wandered through the deserted rooms.
There was no sign of Potter anywhere, except for a pot of coffee brewing in the kitchen. Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained, if Potter didn’t remember his offer then Draco would just bide his time until the man told him to leave. The only problem was that he needed to go back to his own flat and he wasn’t sure that if he left here he’d be invited back again.
He was just pouring out a cup of coffee when the front door opened. It was Potter.
“Oh ... you’re awake.” Potter didn’t attempt to hide his surprise. “I was going to leave you a note.”
Draco felt a chill start to spread from deep in the pit of his stomach. Potter had left him a note the previous morning and it had included Draco’s train fare home. He marshalled his features, trying to hide any disappointment; Potter had clearly forgotten his nocturnal comments. In the end he just nodded. “Oh.”
Potter continued as if Draco hadn’t spoken. “I made coffee because I wasn’t sure when you’d wake up. But there’s tea if you want.” He gestured at the tea caddy on the work surface and continued babbling. “However there might not be any milk.” Crossing to the fridge, he opened the door. “There’s a bit and I don’t think it’s gone off....”
“Coffee is fine.”
“I’ll get some later. I drink my coffee black so I didn’t check.”
“This is fine, Potter.” Draco picked up his mug, using it to warm his suddenly icy hands as he waited for the axe to fall.
“I’ve been down to security--”
The axe cut into Draco’s neck. Did Potter really think he’d have to forcibly eject Draco with the help of security guards? He scowled, ready to give a scathing retort, but Potter continued.
“--to tell them I’ve got a visitor staying.” Potter finally looked at Draco, possibly for the first time since returning. “That’s assuming you want to. You didn’t answer last night.”
Draco gave a shrug as if it didn’t bother him one way or another, but inside he thought he might be sick with relief. “Sure, if you want.”
“Well, it’s your decision.” Potter placed something that looked like a credit card on the table. “That’s instead of an ordinary door key.”
“I know about key cards.” Draco sipped at the hot coffee. He’d been to enough hotels with that particular door locking system over the last two years. Sometimes his clients would leave a card for him at the reception desk, normally discretely tucked inside an envelope so the staff wouldn’t realise anything untoward was going on. He liked those types of hotels; they didn’t charge by the hour and often his client would disappear once their time was up leaving Draco with a comfortable paid room for the rest of the night.
“Oh right. There’s a slot by the door here and another down in the lobby entrance. The code’s one nine eight zero. Just--” Potter took a breath. “--just don’t bring any of your clients back here.” He gestured at the door. “I’ve got to go or I’ll be late for a meeting.”
“Potter.”
His hand already on the door handle, Potter looked back at him. Draco noticed the other man was bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet as if desperate to get away as quickly as possible.
Draco’s lip curled in a sneer. “Do you really think I’d do that? Turn your flat into the best little whorehouse in London?” It wasn’t what he’d planned on asking; those questions had been more polite, such as ‘why are you letting me stay?’ and ‘is the Ministry really tracking me?’.
“I....” Potter gave an exasperated huff and pushed his hand into his hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“Draco....”
“What did you mean, Potter?” When the other man didn’t answer, Draco put down his mug and took a step forward. “Let me guess then. I’m a whore and you’re scared my reputation might rub off on your saintly self. God, you’re still the self-righteous prick you’ve always been.”
Potter’s cheeks flushed with anger. “Well fuck you too, Malfoy. I saved your stupid arse twice in as many days and you stand there like a petulant schoolboy. Would you rather I’d left you for Reynolds to finish beating the crap out of you?”
Draco rolled his eyes and gave a deliberately exaggerated scowl of annoyance. “So now I’m supposed to fall down on my knees to Saint Potter. What makes you think I couldn’t have sorted out Reynolds?” He’d dealt with Reynolds on many occasions since arriving in London and normally managed to handle the man’s propensity for violence. Reynolds was a control freak and as long as Draco acquiesced to him there were usually no more than a few bruises.
“He broke your arm, Draco! He raped you!”
For a moment Potter’s eyes sparked with dangerous emerald fire then as if realising what he’d said, the look vanished to be replaced by shocked revelation. It mirrored the look Draco knew was on his own face and he watched as Potter flushed again, this time with something akin to embarrassment.
Finally Potter looked away. “Look, you can stay or go, it’s up to you.” And with that he wrenched open the door and fled.
The door remained open and Draco stared at it for a long time as Potter’s words slowly sank in.
---
Harry did have a meeting to go to; one of those long drawn-out boring affairs during which nothing would be decided and everyone would rather be somewhere else. Which was why, instead of Apparating to the Ministry of Magic, he went, instead, to Draco’s flat. He went there because he felt guilty over his comments to the man -- so guilty in fact that he decided to collect some of Draco’s clothing so that the other man could leave if he really wanted to.
He stood now in the centre of the lounge, glass crunching under his feet, staring at the mess caused by Draco’s Wildfire magic and feeling a little confused. The Wildfire was still crackling around the room and animating Muggle objects. Over in one corner a vase of flowers was hovering a few inches above the top of a table and a woolly scarf was constantly transfiguring into a blue and white stripped rabbit and then back into a scarf again.
He’d felt the magic as soon as he had opened the front door and couldn’t help but wonder why no one from the Ministry had been sent to deal with what had happened. After all, Warren Dawlish’s surveillance team knew Draco Malfoy lived in the flat and they must have realised that it was Draco who initiated the Wildfire. And why had none of the neighbours bothered to check up either on the noise when Draco was being attacked or just to find out why he hadn’t been around for three days.
Then he realised that he could only feel the magic once he was inside the flat. Outside there was nothing except the general background energy that was part of the natural environment. It was, he decided, as if the building had been shielded in some way and that was preventing the magic from being detected. The only problem was to find out what spell was being used and why anyone would bother shielding a Muggle flat.
Drawing his wand, Harry cast a Finite Incantatem, but the Wildfire magic was strong and it took him several attempts to actually halt all the activity. The scarf finally became a scarf again and the vase of flowers settled gently back onto the table.
Then happy the Wildfire had stopped, he intoned a disclosure spell and, using his wand as a divining rod, he started a systematic search of the flat. When he eventually tracked down what was being used to dampen the magic, his eyebrows rose in surprise. Someone had pushed a wafer-thin sliver of haematite into the doorframe of the front door and it was that which seemed to be acting as the barrier.
The thin stone cut into his finger as he tried to extricate it, but eventually he succeeded and, holding it carefully by the edges, he moved to a window to study it in daylight. The haematite had been engraved with several symbols and using a revealing spell he found out that there were several spells linked to it as well. Unfortunately he had no idea what any of them were.
There was, however, one person who might just be able to tell him.
Carefully wrapping the haematite inside a plastic bag, he tucked it into his pocket. Then deliberately ignoring some of the more salacious items of clothing in Draco’s wardrobe he quickly began packing.
---
Draco wasn’t sure how long he stood staring at the open door, but his cup of coffee had long gone cold. Finally he closed it with a quiet click.
There was a mirror in the hallway and he paused before it to stare at his reflection. The face that looked back didn’t seem to be the one he remembered; there were tired dark smudges under his eyes and he looked, and felt, older than his years. He touched his cheek, then his forehead and finally pushed a hand through his hair. When had the lustre gone from the silver blond strands? The fingers travelled down to touch his mouth. And his lips. Where was the colour they usually had?
For two years he’d coped with everything this awful Muggle world had thrown at him. He’d done things that he didn’t even like to think about and sometimes wondered whether his body would ever really be his own again, but he had got through it.
He’d survived.
Then Potter had walked into his life again and everything seemed to be falling to pieces around him. He didn’t want to think about the two regular clients he was supposed to be seeing later in the day or what they would expect him to do for them or what they planned on doing to him.
He tried to remember one time in the last two years that he’d made love to someone. There had been plenty of sex and fucking, both paid and unpaid, but never lovemaking. In fact, the only time he’d shared a bed with someone that hadn’t resulted in sex had been the previous night, when Potter had slept on the end of his bed. What would it be like to sleep cradled in the safety of the arms of the Boy Who Lived?
It came as quite a shock to see a tear on his cheek and he stared at it, mesmerised by its journey over his skin. He hadn’t cried in a very long time.
---
There were many things that made Hermione happy -- chocolate and having her feet rubbed ranked very high on her list. Another was that she’d married Ron Weasley and was currently six months pregnant with their first baby. She also loved the fact she was her own boss, running a very successful charms creation agency. Everyone (including Ron) had assumed she would take up a post at the Ministry of Magic, but once she’d read the small print in her contract, she’d told them to take their job and shove it.
Now she spent her time designing charms and making hybrid Muggle/Wizard technology with the help of Neville, Ginny, Seamus and Colin. After much discussion they had chosen to be based in Muggle London, rather than in the Wizarding enclave of Diagon Alley, away from the all-seeing eye of the Ministry.
Of the things that made her unhappy, one was the fact that she’d never managed to persuade either Ron or Harry to leave their jobs as Aurors and come work with their friends. Eventually she would get her way though; she was very good at wearing people down.
She was deeply engrossed in an Arithmancy problem that she hoped might solve a particularly fiddly charm when there was a light knock on her open door.
Amber, her personal assistant, smiled as Hermione finally looked up from the stack of parchments on her desk. “Busy?”
“Just a bit.”
“You have a visitor.” Amber was just about to continue when someone else stepped into view. Harry smiled apologetically and shrugged a little. “I can send him away if you want.” The woman’s tone was sardonic and Hermione couldn’t help but smile. Amber and Harry were old sparring partners.
“Oh, I think I can give him a few minutes.”
Harry winked at Amber as he came into the room. Then closing the door behind him, he leaned back against it and gave an apologetic half-smile. “Sorry to drop in unannounced.”
“That’s okay, it’s always lovely to see you.” It was then she noticed the man was carrying a bulging holdall and a surge of anxiety flooded through her. Harry and Ginny’s marriage had been on very rocky ground for some time now (terminal according to Ginny), but she’d always hoped the two would manage to patch up their differences and sort things out. Did the bag mean that Harry had finally left the marital home?
“Oh, Harry.” She came to her feet with a little less grace than usual and went to his side, her pregnant state not helping with the emotions welling up inside her. “Please don’t tell me you’re moving out?” She took him into her arms.
Harry dropped the holdall as he returned the hug. Then lightly kissing her on the cheek, he gave her a quizzical look. “Moving out?”
She nodded and gestured at the bag. “You know you can stay with Ron and me until you’ve sorted things out.”
Suddenly realising what Hermione was talking about, Harry hastily shook his head. “No, no, that isn’t mine.” He shrugged. “I’m ... collecting it for someone else.”
Leading him to a comfy trio of armchairs in the corner of the room, Hermione magicked a full tea tray onto the low table. “Actually, I had a long chat with Ginny last night.”
“Ah.” Harry responded knowingly as he sat down. “We’ve both decided we’re much better at being friends than partners. I haven’t moved out just yet, but to be honest we’ve been living separate lives for ages. You must know she’s been seeing Lee.”
Hermione reached for the teapot and poured them each a cup. “Well, yes. I just wasn’t sure how much you knew.” She took a deep breath. “You haven’t been home much recently.”
“I know, it’s ... look, Hermione, it’s got nothing to do with Ginny, we’re still good friends.” He chewed anxiously at a fingernail for a moment and then finally looked back at her. “I really don’t want to talk about this now. Can we save it for another time?”
Hermione considered whether to push the matter further, but there was something in Harry’s demeanour that told her it was time to back off. She had hoped that married life would give Harry a calm haven after what the final battle with Voldemort had done to him, but clearly he needed something else, something his friends and family obviously couldn’t provide. “Okay.” She nodded and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Just remember that we’re all here for you.”
He smiled. “I know. Thanks.”
She squeezed his hand again and finally released it. “So, what can I do for you?”
“I need you to put your spell detecting skills to work on something.”
“Why not ask someone in the Auror department?”
“I’d rather keep this between us for the moment.” Harry reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small flat object wrapped inside a plastic bag. “I wasn’t on an official assignment when I found it.”
She took the package and gave it a cursory glance. “This is haematite.”
Harry nodded. “That’s what I thought.” He wiggled a finger towards it. “There are symbols and things on it. You know all about ancient runes so I wondered you might be able to read what it says.”
Hermione squinted closer. “Well, they aren’t runes as such, more like magical symbols. Each one is probably linked to a spell, which gives us--” She quickly counted them, “--three on this side and two on the other. Where did you find it?” She watched as Harry worried at his bottom lip clearly debating exactly how much to tell her. “Harry?”
“I found it in a Muggle building full of Wildfire magic, but the magic didn’t seem to be visible from the outside. That had been pushed into the frame of the front door and I think it’s being used to block magical energy.”
“Wildfire?” She’d experienced the explosion of magical energy once during the war and knew how potent it could be. “And in a Muggle building as well. I’m surprised the Ministry didn’t pick it up.”
“It was that which got me looking for something that might be blocking it. Do you think you can sort out what spells are being used on it?”
“I’ll try -- anything to get away from the wretched Arithmancy problem I’m working on at the moment. What do you know about haematite?”
Harry shrugged. “Not much really.”
She smiled at the truth of his statement. Harry was most definitely not what one would call erudite. He was more of an intuitive wizard, which was probably why he got into more trouble than her husband, who, as it turned out, was actually much more scholarly than Ron cared to admit. “It’s normally used for spells that reflect back negative energies to the sender rather then blocking things. But you know that you can distort the original uses of spells, like twisting a heating spell to make the person you cast it on really cold. Distorting the spell makes it harder to stop because the victims’ immediate thought is that they are dealing with a cooling spell and by the time they’ve worked out what the spell really is they’re most likely too cold to do anything about it.” She looked up and raised a questioning eyebrow. “Is it in a bag for a reason?”
“I’m hoping I might be able to lift fingerprints off of it, to find out who put it in the door frame.” He sighed. “Not that Wizarding fingerprinting techniques are much good. Did you know that the wizard courts don’t allow them as evidence? They need a magical signature to confirm that a person is responsible for committing something. So the only way I can prove who created that,” he pointed at the stone, “is by isolating a magical signature from it. But as I found it in a Muggle building, I’m hoping whoever put it there will have spent enough time in the Muggle world to have a police record. Not that I have access to police records, but I’m hoping someone at the Ministry might be able to help with that.”
“Weeeell....” The single word was extended over a long breath.
“What?”
“I just might be able to help you with the fingerprinting. Colin has been working on a scanner gadget thing that we can link to a Muggle computer.”
“And?”
“And,” she gave a knowing grin. “Neville and Ginny have created a magical interface that lets us tap into Muggle websites.”
“You’re hacking into the Internet?” Harry’s expression was a cross between shock and admiration. “And there I was messing around with search engines like Google and not getting very far.”
“I don’t promise it will work. There’s still the problem of the way magic effects electrical equipment and sometimes the magic just overwhelms everything, but we can give it a try.” She got to her feet and moved back to her desk where she pulled her iBook computer from a drawer. As much as she loved magic there were some Muggle things that made life so easier, and one of those was a computer. It didn’t make spell work any easier though; when she’d first acquired the computer she had tried to use it to write spells and work on Arithmancy problems. It soon became clear that some magical things needed to be handwritten on parchment; it was as if they needed the connection between the magical person, the quill and the parchment in order for them to work.
The laptop chimed as she turned it on and she waited patiently for it to connect with the building’s wireless network. Yet another reason for choosing a building away from the Diagon Alley enclave were connecting to the worldwide web was impossible.
She was aware of Harry now standing behind her chair as she attached a small scanner to the computer. The device worked with a combination of Muggle technology and Wizarding spells. One of her many reasons for not working with the Ministry was their determination that Muggle technology shouldn’t encroach on the Wizarding community despite the fact that, increasingly, the younger wizards and witches were embracing it. There were more and more Muggle-borns now, and many of them wanted to adapt the technology they’d grown up with.
“Okay, let’s see if there’s anything on this.” Holding the scanner in one hand, she tapped it with her wand and murmured a quick spell. For a moment nothing happened then an image slowly appeared on the computer monitor. With a frown, she stared at the screen and used the trackpad to circle two areas on the image. “I can make out two prints.”
Harry leaned in for a closer look, watching as she isolated the prints from the stone. “How are you going to find out who they belong to?”
“By hacking into the Police database,” she grinned at him.
“I’m beginning to think that you were miss-Sorted, Hermione Granger. You are sounding more and more like a Slytherin.”
Hermione poked her tongue out. “I have too much class to be a Slytherin, thank you very much. Now, where was I?” She quickly logged into the Google search engine with the interface Harry was very familiar with. Then touching the control key with one finger, she touched the screen with her wand and spoke an incantation. The interface changed a little and she clicked on a button that hadn’t been there before.
“We’re in.” The new interface contained several icons, one of which was labelled simply Muggle websites.
“How do you know they can’t track you down?”
“Because the hacking is based on magic and we all know that Muggles can’t track it back.” She typed in several commands and with a look of triumph said, “Now let’s see if these prints are on the Police database.”
They both watched as the program worked through its search parameters and finally came up with several matches.
“There’s nothing for one of the prints, but the other has a match, Ian Reynolds.” Hermione clicked on the link and pulled up the police record. “And he’s a Squib.” Harry didn’t answer immediately and when she finally turned to him there was a look of shock on his face. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I know him.”
“You do?”
“Oh yes.” Harry let out a long sigh. “I’ve had a couple of run-ins with him recently. How do you know he’s a Squib?”
“The Ministry has lists of all known Squibs and they keep track of them so they know exactly where they are. When Dean found out about the list we added a cross-referencing program to this search facility.”
“They track Squibs?” The stunned look on Harry’s face was a picture.
“Is it really a surprise?”
“No, it’s just very familiar.” He took a deep breath and stared thoughtfully into the distance.
“Harry, I think it’s time you told me exactly what’s going on.”
---
The flat was in darkness when Harry got home and he wondered for a moment if Draco was still there. But he knew that he wasn’t alone, as if his own magical energy sensed Draco’s. He had spent the rest of the day with Hermione finally telling her just about everything, including how he’d met up with Draco and just who Reynolds was. At first he’d tried to hide Draco’s profession but in the end he’d told her that as well. What he did manage to keep secret was that his growing interest in Draco Malfoy had moved beyond the fact Draco was one of the banished.
Unfortunately, they hadn’t found out was what spells had been placed on the haematite sliver. Hermione had promised to keep looking, but she didn’t hold out much hope of sorting out the complex spell work at any speed.
He turned on a light, the soft glow illuminating the lounge and finally acknowledged to himself that he was feeling a growing sense of anticipation about seeing Draco again. Had it really only been seventy-two hours since Draco had come back into Harry’s life? It felt like it had been longer -- much longer -- and Harry knew he was beginning to get attached to the other man.
His only problem now was just what to tell Draco. How would Draco feel when he found out his pimp was actually a Squib. Not only that, but that there was a possibility some of his client list might actually be magical folk. After finding Reynolds’s police record, Harry had checked out the man’s bank account, which had payments from Gringott’s Muggle bank, though there was no way to trace who made the payments. Then when Hermione had been called away he had found a website with enough porn to keep half the world happy. There were even a few photographs of a blond called ‘Marcus’ and Harry had debated for a moment whether Draco actually knew what Reynolds was doing to him.
And just how angry would Draco be when he found out that Harry had told Hermione all about him?
Harry strode through to Draco’s room; the man was probably asleep, but he would leave the holdall for him to find in the morning. He tapped quietly on the door and when there was no reply, gently pushed it open. There was a lump under the covers and blond hair spread on the pillow.
“Malfoy?” The word was a whisper and the only reply was a slight shifting in the bed. Draco was obviously only pretending to be asleep. “Um, I’ve been to your flat and got you some clothes. I hope that’s okay.” He put the bag down on a chair and took the few steps to the bed. “If I’ve missed something then we could Apparate there tomorrow and collect anything you need.”
There was still no reply and Harry contemplated leaving, but there was something making him remain. Perhaps the other man didn’t want to talk to him after their argument earlier. But the important thing was that Draco was still here -- he hadn’t left in some sort of petulant huff.
Hermione had been less than pleased to find out about the sudden reappearance of their one-time nemesis. In fact, her attitude had been very much like Remus’; Malfoy got what he deserved, in fact he probably got off lightly. But Harry couldn’t help but wonder what his own fate might have been if Voldemort had been the victor. How would he have coped (or how would Ron and Hermione have coped) if he’d been thrust into a similar situation? Assuming, of course, that Voldemort had let him live, which Harry very much doubted.
He looked at the supposedly sleeping man and sighed. How did that saying go? There but for the Grace of God go I, or something like that.
Perhaps he should tell Draco what he’d found out -- about the haematite blocker in the flat, how Reynolds was a Squib and was taking money from wizards and that some of Draco’s clients weren’t Muggles. Harry assumed they knew who they were fucking and got some sort of kick from their whore being an ex-Death Eater. Were they the ones who treated Draco the worst, taking out their aggression on him for what Voldemort had done to the Wizarding world?
“Draco?” Again there was no reply and Harry turned to leave. But the memory of the previous night returned and he remembered just how easily he’d fallen asleep on the end of the bed, and how Draco had bothered enough to cover him with a blanket. Would it really hurt to stay again? He could be gone in the morning before Draco woke up and the other man need never know.
After a moment’s hesitation, Harry slipped off his shoes and climbed onto the bed. Lying on top of the covers, he was careful not to touch the other man who had his back to him.
Harry wasn’t sure how long he lay there, eyes closed, listening to Draco’s breathing. He was just beginning to drift into sleep when the bed shifted a little and he felt the solid weight of another body press against his side through the blankets. Without thinking he turned into the movement, snuggling close to the warm back.
---
29th January 2006