Chapter Eight of 'Incandescence'- Intuition
Title: Incandescence (8/12 or 13)
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Warnings: Angst, profanity, manipulation. Takes place fairly far in the future after DH, but ignores the epilogue.
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione, Luna/Neville, Lucius/Narcissa.
Summary: Draco has become a successful writer by novelizing the lives of heroes from the war with Voldemort. He’s managed to charm the most difficult and reticent into talking to him. Now he thinks he’s ready for the ultimate challenge: persuading Harry Potter, who’s notoriously close-mouthed, to give him both the material and the permission for a novel based on him.
Author’s Notes: This is intended to be a fairly short novel, probably around 50,000 words (12 or 13 chapters), but I won’t rule out going longer.
Chapter One.
Thank you again for all the reviews!
Chapter Eight-Intuition
“You don’t have any proof.”
Potter had continued saying that, even as he admitted that he had no better guess than Yolanda for who might be sending those letters to him. So, Draco thought, as he shifted his shoulders against the wall he was hiding behind, this risk made sense. They had to get some definite proof she was behind threatening Potter and tossing ink into his eyes.
Breaking into her house, as Draco had first proposed, was apparently out of the question. So was slipping her Veritaserum, his second suggestion, and casting a curse on her that would make her start babbling everything she thought about Potter.
Working with an Auror is discouragingly narrow, Draco thought, as he poked his head cautiously towards the street. No sign of Yolanda yet. His ideas about morality take over from his common sense. That last curse isn’t even illegal, for Merlin’s sake.
Of course, when Draco volunteered to put his life in danger in order to find the information, Potter was all for it, even though he also cautioned Draco not to do anything stupid. Probably the way to Potter’s heart was to act like a Gryffindor, which explained why he’d come charging to Draco’s tower when he heard about the attack.
Draco took a deep breath and reminded himself that Potter was waiting around the corner at the other end of the street, within easy shouting distance, in case Yolanda attacked him now. He would also serve as a silent witness to everything that happened, so if she mentioned anything incriminating, she couldn’t get away with it by killing Draco.
Of course, that’s not much of a comfort to me, if I’m already dead.
Draco shifted his weight again. Why was he doing this? It might have made sense for someone he was going to write about, but prudence and his own reluctant decision had ensured that that wasn’t going to happen.
He was given no more time to ponder the question. Yolanda Timpany stepped out from between two houses and began to walk towards her own. She didn’t look to left or right, her eyes aimed straight ahead. After a close glance at them, though, Draco doubted she was seeing anything there, either. Her gaze looked distant and focused inwards.
Probably coming up with new ways to drive Potter mad. Draco shivered, reminded himself again of Potter’s close proximity and that he was as daring and strong as Yolanda was, and then stepped out into her path.
She halted and looked at him with that lack of expression she had apparently perfected years ago. Draco offered her a smarmy smile. “Yolanda. I had something to talk to you about. Do you mind if I walk with you?”
There was a long pause before she answered, which was usual with her. She always seemed to concentrate to come up with words, as if they were alien objects that she handled with care. Spoken words, at least. Draco had read enough of her stories to know how facile she was with a quill. “I am almost home. Speak with me later.”
Draco conjured up a twisted smile and tucked his hands behind his head with an elaborately casual stretch. “Alas, I’m afraid that I can’t. You see, I know about the gold mine that you’re trying to dig up with your references to certain visions. That makes it urgent that I talk to you before I have the temptation to spread the words to someone else’s ears.”
Yolanda’s stare drilled into him. Draco tried not to shiver as he thought about the people whose reputations she had ruined. You have Potter nearby, he reminded himself. And you know as much about words as she does.
“I adore riddling talk,” Yolanda said at last, in a whisper that sounded as if it came from snakes’ scales. “But not yours. That is strange.”
“Well, usually, the riddling talk isn’t directed against you.” Draco gave her a bland look and stepped forwards. “I’m sure you’ll agree that being cornered isn’t pleasant. Not that you mind doing it to others,” he added. He couldn’t leave any doubt that he knew about her actions against Potter-if she really was the guilty one.
Yolanda stood there, straight and slender as a pillar, never glancing away from him. Draco stared back, fascinated. It was easy to imagine her as a statue with a carved mask in the place of a face.
Easy, and fatal, he reminded himself. She’s dangerous. Never forget that and start thinking that she’s an inanimate object.
In the end, she lowered her gaze and gave the slightest smile. She had decided to bluff it out, Draco saw when she spoke her next words. “I would enjoy being cornered, as no one has ever managed to do it to me. But alas for you and me both, you have not managed it.”
Draco surveyed her as if he doubted his own eyes, then sighed. “Really? Despite what I know about golden owls, and letters that make references to seeing things, and the Hideous Hopfrog?” He shook his head and turned away. “An easy mistake to make, I reckon. I apologize for taking up your time. Now I must go and seek to pour my words into the ears of someone who will be more open to hearing them.”
Her hand landed on his shoulder and clenched down, her long nails biting into his skin. Draco kept his eyes turned away as he smiled. By the time he turned around again, he had made sure that his face was as grave as a judge’s. “Yes? Did you wish to speak words of farewell to me? I assure you, they aren’t necessary.”
Yolanda gave him a few moments’ scrutiny in silence. Then she said, “Every writer wants an audience. You have found a temporary one in me. But I would speak quickly. Information, unlike other forms of speech, is dependent on time for its value.”
“That’s true,” Draco said, widening his eyes into moons and his mouth into a gape as if he were struck by the wisdom of what she’d said. “However, maybe you’re not the audience I want. There is someone who would pay more for this information.”
Yolanda’s fingers became almost gentle. Draco held back a shudder with an effort, since she was still looking at him as if she was an owl and he was a mouse. “You and I,” she said, lowering her voice further, “we are artists. We do what we do for love of the craft and not of Galleons. Which would make the better audience? The one who will listen to you more attentively, or the one who would hand you a few coins for information like a common spy?”
That might even have tempted me, if I was the same person I was a few days ago, Draco thought ruefully. “You have a point there,” he said, and darted a glance over his shoulder. “But I don’t feel comfortable speaking to you in the middle of the street. A more private place-”
“You are welcome to the hospitality of my home.” Yolanda smiled in a way that Draco thought would guarantee her few guests. Of course, maybe she liked it that way. From what he knew of Yolanda, she spent most of her time alone, writing her stories and unerringly picking the best markets to send them to. The rumor was that she hadn’t had a story rejected more than once in years.
Draco managed a flat look. “From what I know of you,” he said, “you’re not only the better audience, you’re the more dangerous one. Forgive me for not wanting to step onto your ground immediately.”
Yolanda’s eyebrows rose and stayed raised. “You have a point,” she said. “I find you intriguing, Draco Malfoy, with your mixture of riddling talk and plain common sense. Yes, I will agree to meet you elsewhere, but it must be in a day’s time. I have an important mission to accomplish first.”
“What is that?” Draco asked. It would fit the character he was playing with her to ask boldly.
Yolanda’s smile rose from the left side of her lips and twined across her face. It was like watching a creeper grow in small leaps of time, Draco thought. “Finishing a story. I am sure you know the impulse.”
Draco nodded. He often completed the last chapters of novels like The Hope-Well in a single day, because he could feel the story in him shoving on to the end, a relentless pressure that made him uncomfortable and restless if he attempted anything else. “I must let you go, then,” he said, and released her arm. “Perhaps we might meet in the Three Broomsticks tomorrow?” That should easily be public enough for Potter to follow them without Yolanda’s noticing.
“I prefer the Hog’s Head,” she said at once. “Three-o’clock in the afternoon would be the most convenient for me.”
Draco bowed, although he would have preferred to set the time. “For me as well. I do most of my writing in the mornings.”
“We are matched in that one respect.” Yolanda gave him a bright look that vanished in the next moment as if she’d ended a Lumos Charm. She turned towards her house. “I look forwards to speaking with you tomorrow, Mr. Malfoy.”
Draco waited until she was in the house, waving wildly with one hand when she turned to look back at him in the doorway. For a moment, she stared, and he thought there was throbbing hatred behind her eyes. But as with everything that Yolanda Timpany did, it was hard to tell, and he was reluctant to press more closely in case she turned on him and made him into a character in her stories.
Draco paused.
I wondered what her motivation could be for going after Potter. But that’s the most likely one, isn’t it? That she writes about madmen, and she’s trying to make him into one so that she can write about him more easily.
Draco curled his lip. Yes, his writing and Yolanda’s shared some similarities; it gained part of its depth and resonance form the reader being able to identify the people it was based on. But Draco had always made sure his novels stood alone, so that if someone didn’t know enough of the history to recognize the model for his hero, at least he or she would get to enjoy a good story. It seemed that Yolanda could not do that.
And why should she? She writes satire. She destroys reputations if she can, because those people have irritated her or she has decided it would be fun to do so. Her mode of writing is fundamentally different from mine.
Draco Apparated back home to his tower, comfortably secure in his reasons to despise Yolanda. He might have to fear her as a conspirator and the person who had almost blinded him; he had no reason to respect her art.
*
“I don’t think your conversation with her constitutes evidence.”
Draco sighed and tapped his foot against the floor. The reality of Auror work, he thought, was disappointing compared to the risks that he’d had his Auror characters undertake when he needed them to: daring rebellions against the letter of the law to preserve its spirit, whirlwind-like leaps of intuition, the convenient finding of clues that would point straight to one suspect. “But you agree that it was incriminating, at least?”
Potter leaned back against Draco’s couch. “Yes. Of course it was that.”
His face was private and closed again, the way it hadn’t been since yesterday. Draco wondered if he was regretting the plan that would let Draco lure Yolanda into a confession. “Then why can’t it count as evidence?”
“All we know is that Timpany appeared to recognize your allusions.” Potter could do a massive shrug; Draco wondered why he had never noticed how broad Potter’s shoulders had got in the last few years. “That may be proof she’s involved, but not the person who’s writing the letters to me or the one who attacked you, only their friend or accomplice. Or she may be thinking of something else altogether and it’s a coincidence that your words seemed to reference it.”
Draco stared steadily at him. “You don’t really believe that.”
Potter frowned. Some of the fire had come back into his eyes, which Draco was glad to see. Conversing with someone who acted perfectly calm about everything Yolanda had done to him was not his idea of a good way to defeat her. It just meant that Potter would probably go mad later and fire a curse at her when Draco was in the midst of setting up a particularly sticky trap for her to fall into. “No, I don’t. But I need evidence that will satisfy my superiors if they ever ask to see a report on this.”
Draco scowled. “Why?”
Potter gave him a faint smile. “Because, Malfoy, like it or not, I’m still an Auror. I don’t stop being one because I’m not in the office at the moment. I need to give Timpany the same consideration I would any other criminal, no matter what her crimes against me are.”
“I’m glad I’m not writing the book about you now,” Draco said, shaking his head. “I would break my mind trying to force myself to understand the way you view the world.”
For some reason, that caused Potter to give him a pleased look. Draco was unaware that having your mind called strange and broken constituted a compliment in Potter’s universe, but then, he was slowly learning just how many things he didn’t know about Potter.
“But that’s not what I meant,” Draco said, returning to his original line of thought because that one was unfruitful. “I meant that you aren’t investigating Timpany through official channels. You never reported her letters to anyone else in the Auror office, do you? So this isn’t a criminal matter. It’s a personal one, and you should be able to decide if we have enough evidence for you and punish her on the basis of that.”
Potter closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “Talking with you gives me a headache, Malfoy,” he muttered.
Draco raised his eyebrows. “It’s not my fault that you don’t read and so your brain is bombarded by larger words than normal for it when you spend time in my company.”
Potter concealed a snort that might have been a laugh. For some reason, it seemed important to him not to laugh in front of Draco. “Not that. I meant that you tempt me horribly to do exactly as you say.” He opened one eye and fixed Draco with a wry stare. “If you can’t understand the way I would approach this, I can understand your way of doing things all too well.”
“Sometimes,” Draco said brightly, “temptation is so brilliant and so persistent that it simply distracts one. Yield to it, and I’ve found that the temptation vanishes and leaves one free to think about other things.”
“And sometimes,” Potter said, “people who say things like that are only looking to win some sort of special dispensation for themselves.” He went on before Draco could do more than press one hand to his heart and look injured. “No. I won’t treat this as a special situation. You’ve set up the appointment with Timpany in the Hog’s Head. Good enough. I’ll accompany you and watch carefully in case she tries anything.”
“You’ll be in disguise, of course,” Draco said. If I don’t mention it, it’s possible that he would show up looking like himself because that would somehow be more “honorable.”
Potter rolled his eyes. “What do you take me for? They didn’t spend time teaching us Stealth and Tracking in Auror training for nothing. Yes, I’ll be there in disguise.” He grinned suddenly at Draco, who felt as though the grin were a punch in the chest. “That disguise will be s good that not even you will be able to spot me.”
Draco licked his lips. “Care to make a bet on that?”
“So long as we’re not betting anything illegal or using Dark Arts to secure the wager,” Potter replied automatically.
Draco sighed. “Someday, you need to stop being an Auror and start living a bit,” he said, and stretched out one hand before Potter’s outraged splutters could begin. “Of course not. I know a harmless spell that will cause intense itching if one of us doesn’t keep the bargain. Clasp my hand and repeat the incantation with me.”
Potter didn’t reach out to him, instead giving him a narrow-eyed look that filled Draco’s brain with fire.
“You trusted me with your deepest secret,” he snapped, “the one Yolanda’s been using to torture you for months, the one you admitted that you hadn’t told in all its glorious detail even to your best friends. After that, you’re going to balk at this?”
“It’s the spell I’m balking at,” Potter muttered, “not the bet.” But at least he looked properly ashamed of himself, and reached out until his hand clasped Draco’s. Draco arranged their hands carefully so that they were in the proper position, fingers fully entwined and palms upright rather than parallel. The way that Potter patiently moved his fingers where Draco directed, only snorting and muttering comments under his breath instead of trying to pull away, gave him a secret thrill.
Once that was done, Draco cleared his throat importantly and lifted his free hand to tap their fingers with his wand. “Solido quipped,” he whispered, and the spell coiled around their wrists in shining silver bands that Draco knew looked like manacles. As anticipated, Potter shifted uneasily in his chair and tugged a little.
“What does that mean?” he asked. “It looks a bit too much like an Unbreakable Vow for my taste.”
“It’s not,” Draco said peacefully, never taking his eyes from the bonds of the spell. “You ought to know that I would never be stupid enough to use an Unbreakable Vow for something like this, given how much chaos Vows have caused in my life.”
Potter flinched, but a moment later a thoughtful expression crept across his face and he nodded. “Yes, I should have thought of that,” he said. “Carry on, Malfoy.”
Draco did his best not to gape. He thought it was the first time one of his insults had ever produced something positive where Potter was concerned. Instead, he cleared his throat and said, “We’re going to make a bet that I can spot Harry in his disguise at the Hog’s Head. If I can do it, then Harry owes me an evening of conversation where he talks about himself honestly and without disguises of any kind.”
Potter made a sound that combined a laugh and a sigh of disgust. “What should I ask first? Why you’re demanding that stake or why you’re calling me by my first name?”
“The spell demands first names.” Draco looked up and, boldly, into his eyes. Potter was looking at him with slightly downturned mouth and a very wide, very earnest gaze, but it didn’t look as though he was about to pull away. That was enough for Draco. “As for the other, I’m not going to write or publish a book about you, but I do want to know about you. All about you.” He lowered his voice and leaned forwards a bit. He didn’t know the exact nature of his attraction to Potter, but it existed and wanted to be indulged. That was good enough for him, especially because it was probably the most morally harmless thing he wanted of Potter.
Potter coughed and looked vaguely uncomfortable. Then he nodded and said, “I accept the stake from-Draco.”
Draco stared back at the silver ropes coiling around his wrists so that he could avoid showing his surprise and his avid desire for Potter to say his name again. “The spell accepts what you have promised,” he said. “And what is the stake you’ll demand, Harry?”
For a moment, Potter licked his lips and fidgeted, so that Draco thought he would never make his demand before the spell faded. But in the end, he said, “All right. If Draco can’t spot me when I’m in disguise, then I want him to spend an evening with me learning what Auror work is really like.”
Draco sat still, stunned. Potter glared at him from the corner of one eye and added defensively, “Well, you got all the details wrong in your book about Hermione, you know.”
It’s better to move on before he changes his mind and demands something harder to fulfill. Draco said, “I accept the stake from Harry,” and the spell shone and tied them more tightly still. For a long moment, their hands were one glowing mass of silver. Then the light dissipated, and Potter drew his fingers free slowly, looking back and forth between Draco and himself as if he couldn’t believe that was all there was to the spell.
“Tell me more about why you wanted a conversation with me,” Potter said at once. “After all, you’ve been having conversations with me for two days now.”
“Yes, but those have been focused on strategy, what we should do about Yolanda and what kinds of secrets she might have found out from you.” Draco waved his hand, keeping his voice light and airy. Let Potter start suspecting this was important to Draco, and there was no knowing what he would demand. “I want to know more about you. A conversation seems like the best way to do it.”
“I don’t grant interviews.” Potter said that through a polite smile, if you counted someone who looked as if he’d like to tear out your throat as polite.
“And I know that,” Draco countered, with a noble sigh. “This is a talk, not an interview. I won’t use any of the details that you tell me. I just want to know more. Haven’t you ever felt a devouring curiosity, even when you knew the information wouldn’t be useful to you?”
Potter flushed and looked down at his hands. “Yes,” he said, so softly that Draco only knew what the word was because he was familiar with Potter’s past history. “But I can’t comprehend why I should have become an object of curiosity for you.”
“Don’t ask me.” Draco rolled his eyes. “My mind chooses the oddest subjects to want to know more about.” And that was the truth, as far as it went. After all, a nebulous desire to get closer to Potter didn’t count as a reason.
Potter looked up and spent a few moments studying him. Draco met his scrutiny blandly. “I wasn’t lying,” he said, when that had gone on for a while. “I won’t use this meeting as an interview.”
“I know,” Potter murmured, rising to his feet. “I was looking for something else.”
Of course, he was out the door before Draco could ask him what that something was.
Maybe he doesn’t know any more than I do, Draco decided, staring after him and trying to decide how he felt about making such an impression on Harry Potter.
Chapter Nine.