Chapter Twenty-Nine of "For Their Unconquerable Souls"- That Such People Exist
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Chapter Twenty-Nine-That Such People Exist
Draco woke.
Unlike his other awakenings lately, it wasn’t sudden, filled with a pounding heart, snatches of dreams he couldn’t remember, and immediate plans. It came as slowly as dawn across his eyelids and his soul, and he had stirred and pressed close to the warm body sprawled against him before he realized that it really had no right to be there.
And yet, his eyes opened without alarm, as though his body remembered the truth before his memory did.
Harry lay next to him, one arm around Draco’s shoulders, fingers tangled with his hair, the other draped above his head, as though he had fallen asleep halfway through a stretch. His chest moved easily, without the sobs of nightmare, without pain. Draco laid a hand on it and felt the warmth rise and fall.
Harry had eased Draco to sleep so gently that he had managed several hours of it without worrying about his father, and then he had joined him. Draco remembered asking for that, but it seemed strange that it should have been granted, just a few days after Harry was so adamant about Draco’s not joining him in his bed.
Where they now were.
Draco cast a glance around the rooms, wondering if Harry would want to keep them when he became lovers, or if he would consent to come to Draco’s chambers. Or perhaps they would be like Lucius and Narcissa, who did have their own separate bedrooms where they spent much of their time, but could move back and forth among them, share the two beds, and meet on “neutral territory,” in areas of the Manor that neither claimed, when they wanted to.
That’s what we can offer Harry, Draco thought, his hand rising to stroke Harry’s hair this time. Choices in return for his choices, gift in return for free gift. He’s giving us the ability to live without fear for Father, and in return, I hope he’ll appreciate the gifts of space and freedom.
Harry stirred, and Draco stopped his stroking; he didn’t want to interrupt the rest that Harry appeared to need. But Harry’s eyes opened anyway, and Draco found himself impatient to see the sleep-drugged haze clear from them once they did.
“Harry? Harry, wake up.”
Harry’s eyes cleared, and then he arched his neck and brushed his lips against Draco’s in a kiss so gentle, natural, and sweet that Draco had to blink fast to keep his eyes from flooding with tears.
Draco moaned once, and then broke the kiss, because he knew he would weep if it continued. He embraced Harry and dropped his cheek onto Harry’s collarbone again, where he had vague memories of its being when he fell asleep. “How did you do that?” he murmured. “I feel more hopeful about my father already, even though we haven’t done anything yet.”
Then he froze, wondering if it was a confession of weakness, if Harry would take it that way, the way Narcissa and Lucius most certainly would have-
But Harry laughed and began to massage his shoulders in a way that showed he had been paying attention when Draco gave him that massage in the library a few days ago. “It’s not me, it’s the sleep.”
Of course. Deny you have done anything good or great. It seems to be your way. But for the first time, Draco’s thoughts were tinged with affection instead of pure exasperation. He rolled his head slightly so he could look at Harry with one eye. “But you still knew when I needed to go to bed,” he said.
“If you’re determined to give someone credit for that, it should be Hermione. She’s the one who reminded me that we both needed to rest.”
Determined? Less determined to give credit than to hear you claim it, Harry. But Draco knew where that statement would get him at the moment, so he persisted in a soft, half-innocent tone. “Why did you rest with me?”
Silence for a moment, but Harry replied without any trace of offense in his voice. “Because I wanted to. And because you asked. And because you’ve shown that you can keep your more unreasonable demands under control.”
Simple. So simple. The kind of motivations I suppose might underlie my own decisions, but I have been taught not to see them.
For the first time, Draco wondered if it was a weakness, this understanding of the human mind and heart that his parents had insisted he attain to, and the constant analysis that was necessary to keep his position against those minds and hearts around him true.
But he didn’t think he knew the answer, and he doubly didn’t think that he could change even if he wanted to. He forced himself to think of other things.
“Is that all it takes to get around a declaration you make?” Draco made sure he sounded both surprised and smug. “You’re easier to handle than I imagined.”
Harry swatted him on the shoulder, and Draco heard a mild chuckle. He reveled in that enough to reveal a bit more weakness and possibly sound like a pouty child. “I’m hungry.”
The crack of Rogers appearing was instant, and stole some of the force of the declaration. Draco rolled over when he smelled venison, and fresh fruit, and ice cream, and newly-baked bread. His stomach gave a little burble, but it was lost, he thought, in Rogers’ words and in the fact that Harry was already moving to the end of the bed as if he thought Rogers needed help in carrying the tray.
“Master Harry and Master Draco are needing many different kinds of strength.” And the elf stepped back, leaving Harry to pile the food on the plates.
Time to see how much he really has learned to appreciate the things about me that once irritated him. “Fetch me bacon,” Draco said, his voice deliberately prissy. “And some of the chocolate, and some of the ice cream. And then you can come here and feed me strawberries with your fingers.”
Harry snorted. He did place the food Draco had requested on a plate, but then he gave it to him, in a way that said he wouldn’t be adverse to dumping the food all down Draco’s shirt if he didn’t sit up. Draco gave him a disappointed stare. Harry shrugged. “What can I say? Kisses are one thing when a patient is sick, but sex is another.”
Draco ducked his head so his hair shielded his face, and took the first bite of chocolate, in part so he wouldn’t ruin the mood with a sneer at Harry. Sex is another indeed. Has he really never lost himself in sex with one of his lovers when a patient was sick or a case had him frustrated?
Knowing Harry, and knowing the quality of the people who had taken him to bed before this, Draco decided it was entirely possible he hadn’t. And though he was confident he could break Harry of that bad habit, he didn’t want to try to do it at the moment, when they both had food on their laps and Harry was feeling kindly disposed to him.
Instead, he watched Harry under his fringe as the other man ate, occasionally pausing to lick bacon grease from his fingers, at least until Draco levitated some napkins towards him. Harry accepted them with a nod, and refused to look embarrassed. Draco rolled his eyes in silence, and continued studying his table manners. Polite enough, though not as polished as a pure-blood upbringing would have required, and perhaps that showed the Muggles could teach him something appropriate after all.
But Draco also saw the sometimes violent way Harry snatched at food, and the way he ate it quickly once he had it, as if he didn’t quite believe someone wouldn’t come along in a moment to take it away. Draco’s lips tightened. They did starve him. I wonder if he ever hoarded food?
And then the perfect idea of revenge came shining to him, so that Draco had to hide his smile with his own piece of bacon so that Harry wouldn’t glance up and wonder what he was grinning about, in the midst of sorrow.
I know. If they deprived him of food, then the best revenge would be a potion that did the same, but in such a way that it’s not easy for them to simply vomit it up and forget about it. A permanent potion. A violent potion. A cruel potion.
Draco began to daydream, because the best potion was not actually in existence; rather, he would need to combine a potion that left the drinker always hungry and one that reduced the taste of any food to that of ashes. He ate as he dreamed, and was surprised to look down and discover that his plate was empty. He thought about fetching more, but refrained when Harry eyed the platter. If he wanted more food, then he should have his free choice.
Rogers approached the bed then, bowing and extending a piece of parchment. “This is Mistress Narcissa’s response,” he said.
Ah. My mother must have gone to spy on the responsible Death Eater families already, Draco decided, and came close so he could read the letter, which Harry had taken. Harry, meanwhile, was glaring at Rogers. Draco decided not even to attempt to decipher that. He thought the years Harry had spent around his Mudblood and Weasel friends had skewed his sense of priorities towards house-elves strangely.
My sons, the letter began, and Draco was absurdly pleased that Narcissa had referred to Harry that way, if only because it would show Harry even more how accepted he was within the family.
I have now been to visit the Burne-Jones and Neverlong houses. I made sure to choose female relatives I thought would not know about the plan, so they would have no reason to suspect me, but might betray incriminating answers from innocent ignorance. They have confirmed that their Death Eater relatives have spent much time by themselves lately; Angela Burne-Jones in particular complained about this, as she had wanted to show her new dress robes to her aunt and uncle.
More significantly, in each house was a new painting of a star-shaped pattern, which I have sketched below. Both the ladies seemed very proud of it, and mentioned that it was a recent purchase, a sign of some alliance pending between families. They thought it to be a marriage alliance. Might it have something to do with Lucius’s condition?
Harry hissed under his breath when he saw the pattern, which Draco did think, after a glance, looked like the Mirror Maze he had seen hovering above his father’s body. He was occupied, however, with his mother’s wording. Marriage alliances were not conducted by an exchange of paintings among pure-blood families, though sometimes other gifts were given. It was unlike his mother to bother with a silly lie such as that, though of course Harry would not know it was a lie. Draco wondered if she had been distracted by something else as she wrote, and therefore had written down the words without thinking about them, as a sloppy kind of protective camouflage if someone besides Harry or Draco read the letter.
And if she was distracted by something, what was it?
“This is the pattern of the Mirror Maze in Lucius’s mind,” Harry said quietly, holding the parchment out to Draco. “I’m sure of it. How that would make the Maze interact with the dreambane purge, I don’t know, but-”
Draco did. His eye had lighted at once on the spiral pattern that prevailed in the heart of the Maze, meshed around though it was with clinging webs and lines. “No wonder the bloody potion didn’t work. Nothing with dandelion seeds in it would work, laid against a star-pattern like this. There are variations of the purge that the books recommended, but I had no reason to think that the standard potion wouldn’t suffice.”
Harry laid a hand on his shoulder. “No, you didn’t.”
Comfort, and instinctive now. Draco looked up with a fierce grin. Father is not the only one who will profit from having a Healer in the family. Mother is not the only one he cares for.
“I can tell you how the potions I try next would work with this pattern, if you can tell me how you plan to undo the spells and in what order.”
Harry smiled, said, “Let’s go, then,” and stood.
Draco followed him to the library. It was one of the first times he had done research in company-if he did research with other students in the Potions mastery program, it was too likely to become competition for honors-and he thought he could grow used to it.
*
Narcissa shook her head ruefully as she sank into the chair beside Lucius’s bed. She didn’t know what she had been thinking when she sent that letter to Harry and Draco. She had intended the lie about marriage alliances to be one she spoke to Angela Burne-Jones, so the family would think she had mistaken the painting entirely and come up with a stupid story on her own, and not suspect her. Instead, she had written it into the letter.
And why? Because she had been too busy devising schemes that would justify her vengeance on the Burne-Jones and Neverlong families, and discarding every one of them as she imagined the look in Harry’s eyes.
I have perhaps allowed one son to have too much influence over my actions, as the other has long had his share of influence over my heart.
Narcissa sighed and leaned back in the chair, her eyes intent on Lucius’s face. He lay unchanging, of course, under the Congelo spell that Harry had cast, but Narcissa could find enough to look at in the still lines of his mouth, in his eyelids that always seemed about to tremble though she knew they couldn’t, and in the carved nose that had caught and held her attention when she met Lucius for the first time; he had reminded her almost of Severus Snape in looks even though he was more beautiful.
And as she looked at her husband, red-black anger rose in her. She could not let the enemies who had done this to him escape unscathed.
But neither could she hurt them too badly, because Harry would be hurt if she did. He might even turn away in disgust and horror. Narcissa had never been certain how well Gryffindor morality and conscience matched the sense of “fair play” that seemed to lead them to think Slytherins and Dark wizards dying in war was fine.
“What can I do, Lucius?” she asked her husband. “Two laws of our family are in conflict, and whilst that has happened before, I do not remember it happening in such a pitched battle. We must demonstrate our strength; we must avenge any wounds that members of the family suffer. That is a sign of love. But we must also protect the members of our family, and do nothing that will alienate them forever. The Malfoys can survive other conflicts, as long as everyone remains safe within the walls of the home. Long confinement and shared goals will force them to forgive each other eventually.
“I fear Harry would not remain here if I violated his moral conscience too badly. But then, would you feel I did not love you enough, if I did not seek to humiliate and destroy those who have done this to you?”
Narcissa reached out a hand as if she could break through the time-stopping charm and touch her husband’s face, though she knew very well she couldn’t. In the end, her hand fell back to her side, and she occupied herself with simply looking, the thoughts racing through her head and circling around.
The anger burned like a cloud of smoke and flame; the thought of hurting Harry doused it like water; her love for Lucius kindled it again.
It is all very well to talk of the conflict of love and duty, the way Mudbloods do, but they say little of the conflict of love against love.
*
They gathered in Lucius’s bedroom two days later, and no one said anything, Draco thought, because there was nothing to say.
He had sent his mother a message explaining the delay; they wanted to be absolutely sure that the new potion would work on rats before they tested it on Lucius. His mother had accepted that. Now she stood out of the way, her gaze passing back and forth between her sons’ faces but revealing nothing of what she felt. If she had not felt enough trust to let them continue, though, she would have stopped them by now.
Harry was trembling as he looked at Lucius. Draco wondered if it was from the sheer magnitude of what they were about to do or because the Congelo charm had frozen everything, including the blood on Lucius’s face and body. Of course, it was not like either a hero or a Healer to faint at the sight of blood, but maybe Harry had never had a love of seeing such things.
Narcissa moved up behind Harry as he lifted his wand and it shook. “I trust you,” she murmured.
Draco gave her a loving look that she returned fully. He wanted to tell her how much it meant to him, that she would give this reassurance, but he doubted he would have the chance before Harry had to act.
Harry began to chant.
He rolled through the spells with a confidence that Draco would have found almost offensive, if he didn’t know how great a nervousness that confidence hid. Harry had woken in sweats and shaking for the last two nights; the rest they’d shared together in his bed had been his last unbroken one. Draco had opened his eyes several times on his divan in the lab to see Harry pacing back and forth, reciting incantations under his breath and lifting his wand as if he would curse himself for each mistake.
But now he went through them, and Draco could feel the tension in the air, the peeling back of magic, the fading of spells that had been meant to destroy his father, and the way Harry’s power twisted back and forth, like an invisible creature made solely of fangs.
Once, the Mirror Maze appeared as a dark reflection over Lucius’s face, strong enough to cast a shadow on his cheekbones. Draco tensed. But it faded in the next moment, and Draco thought he heard the faint scream that powerful Dark curses sometimes gave when slain.
He grinned, and moved a step closer to Harry, ready to lend magical strength if it were needed.
But Harry chanted on, never a faltering, never a hesitation, though his eyes were fixed and staring, wide and desperate.
Draco felt humbled as the words rolled on. He knew most of the spells Harry defeated, but he couldn’t have cast them with the same uninterrupted concentration Harry was using to remove them. In fact, he doubted he could have brewed this fast. He always liked to pause and consult the recipe when he had time; it was better to have a slight delay and a small blow to his pride than to brew the potion wrong. Besides, the renewal of memory always meant he was likely to brew it right at some later date.
Harry danced on, his skill and his grace growing as his voice sang out the last notes of the last of the spells.
How can he say he’s not a Healer? Draco’s heart was pounding, hard and gladly, the way it always did when he was a witness to some spectacle of great beauty or wonder. Not one in a hundred of them can do what he just did. And a mediwizard is just a name, one that may conceal a great deal of skill.
The moment came when he would need to pour the dreambane purge down Lucius’s throat, just before Harry removed the Permanency Spell that had been meant to make the Dark curses endure despite all attempts to remove them. Draco stepped up to Lucius’s head and looked down at his father’s face, still covered with clotted blood. It seemed, nevertheless, to be freer and more relaxed than it had been. The shadows of most of the curses that had harmed him were gone.
Harry was waiting. Draco looked up and held his eyes as he poured the potion down Lucius’s throat, rubbing firmly to make sure he swallowed. Harry whispered the final Finite.
The air turned cold. Draco felt a coil of power struggling and lashing against the bonds of Harry’s, trying to get back to Lucius as Harry’s magic flooded around it like a river and separated it from its hold. Narcissa took a step forwards as the contest continued, which Draco knew was unusual; it was not as though she could do anything, and most of the time she would have known that.
He had a hard time holding himself in check, even knowing that the potion was his only contribution here.
And then the tension snapped, and the Dark power drained away. Lucius lay there, free at last of all curses, of all poisons.
Harry swayed on his feet. Narcissa made a tearing sound in her throat.
Draco smiled at Harry as he laid a hand on his father’s hair, and tried his best to flood the smile with every emotion he felt at the moment: gratitude, affection, pride, admiration, and lust from the sheer strength of Harry’s magic.
It must have worked, because Harry flushed.
Chapter 30.