Chapter Twelve of 'Love, Free as Air'- Ripples of Change
Chapter Eleven.
Title: Love, Free As Air (12/21)
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Warnings: Sex, angst, profanity, a bit of violence. Ignores the epilogue of DH.
Pairings: Snape/Harry/Draco.
Rating: R
Summary: Trapped in his Animagus form, Harry stumbles on Snape and Draco, who disappeared from the wizarding world years ago. His first task is to become human again. His second might be to help Snape and Draco with the same problem.
Author’s Notes: This story is being written for
heeroluva, who won a charity auction at
gulf_aid_now to raise money for the oil spill disaster in the Gulf of Mexico. She gave me the plot, for which I thank her. I’m not sure how long this story will be, though I estimate somewhere between 15 and 20 chapters. The title comes from a quote by Alexander Pope.
Chapter One.
Thank you again for all the reviews!
Chapter Twelve-Ripples of Change
Harry stared at the letter that lay on the table. It seemed to stare back. Then he told himself that was absurd, and tucked into the breakfast that Kreacher had prepared. He had to be calm and steady this morning. Hermione thought it was one of their last days of argument before the Wizengamot, and he might be called on to speak. Harry wanted to show those doubting eyes that he didn’t regret his choice for Draco to live with him.
Most of the time.
Harry snatched the marmalade and dumped so much of it on his plate that he nearly ended up with it in his lap. He cast a few Cleaning Charms and then went back to eating with what he knew was viciousness, unable to help himself.
It wasn’t Draco’s fault that Harry felt uncomfortable around him now, constantly asking himself questions. Draco had made it clear from the first that he was bent, or at least bisexual. Harry was the one who had chosen to invite Draco into his house instead of setting him up in a place of his own.
And it wasn’t that Draco was bent. At least, that wasn’t the problem. Harry simply had to ask himself questions now that he didn’t like, questions that had begun to come to the surface of his mind when the letter had arrived three days ago and weren’t answered yet.
If he didn’t find men attractive, if he had simply let Draco kiss him because it was the “polite” thing to do, why did he still lick his lips sometimes, thinking he felt the kiss again?
If he did feel physical attraction only for women, why hadn’t he thrown Draco off, or at least politely repulsed him, when he decided that he had to kiss Harry in the wake of the Wizengamot’s attack? Harry could be polite and kind to Draco without allowing that to happen. In fact, it would be kinder not to, if he really thought that he couldn’t become Draco’s lover and so any hopes that Draco entertained in that direction were, well, hopeless.
Harry bit into a piece of toast and watched the crumbs fly everywhere.
But he still felt the kiss, and he still was starting to think that maybe-
Maybe it wasn’t the most horrible fate in the world, if he had to spend a lot of time around a man who was bent.
Harry sighed and stared at Snape’s letter. At this point, he thought that was actually the simpler problem, despite his lack of solutions to it. It took a lot of courage to write back and to choose the right words, but not as much as it took to face up to his own problems, it seemed.
Except that you sort of did.
Harry nodded. He was at least marginally attracted to Draco. He could admit that to himself now. The problem would be admitting it to anyone else, including the object of his affections.
But if he could do that, he could write back to Snape. He would be careful, that was all. Polite, respectful, for the sake of the fact that Draco loved the bastard.
Harry snatched the letter and went upstairs. He had at least an hour before Hermione arrived; the Wizengamot had been moving the trial sessions later and later in the day, as if they assumed that would throw Hermione off her game. All it did was give her more time to prepare in the mornings and have her arguments in order, along with the courteous smile that she usually gave the Wizengamot before mowing them down.
She’d done a lot for them in the past fortnight. Harry thought it time for him to go to battle.
*
The letter came in with a sulky-looking owl who hopped from foot to foot, staring at him, and then abruptly turned and curled its head into the middle of its back. Severus frowned. This was uncommon behavior from a post-owl, and might indicate instructions to bite. He approached carefully, keeping one eye on the beak and talons.
But the owl stayed still, and in the end Severus was able to slip the envelope free from its bindings without a threat. The bird shook itself all over once the letter was gone, lifted its head once, and then shoved it even more deeply under a wing.
Severus stared a short time more before he understood. Trust Potter to have found the only shy post-owl in existence.
The combination of amusement and bewilderment proved a good one in which to start reading the letter.
Professor Snape (that’s the politest name I can call you):
Draco is fine. But he doesn’t understand why you’re writing. For that matter, neither do I. We thought you were glad enough to end it when he walked away. And if he returned, what would the difference really be? This is going to sound brutal, but you’re an old man. Set in your habits and your likings. Draco doesn’t seem to be one of those likings. I don’t think you can blame him for being wary.
Severus gritted his teeth and spent a long moment, through the silent flash of rage that followed, reminding himself that Harry Potter had been Muggle-raised-to the cost of all of them. He would not know that wizards were not “old” at forty-four, that some considered even seventy on the near side of youth.
But I do think that he has strong feelings for you still, because he would have been able to dash off an indifferent letter to you himself if he didn’t care. So. Here’s what I’m going to recommend. That you write a letter to me as if you were writing to him, and describe at least one or two concrete things that you would change for him, not vague promises. I’ll show it to him if he agrees, and if he doesn’t, then I’ll write back and tell you what I think. I’ll keep a channel of communication open, which both of you seem to want, no matter how conflicted the desire is in Draco’s case. I think that’s the best I can do right now, and the most that it’s fair to ask me to.
Below that was his signature, still looking as though he had braced his elbow on a trembling jar of pickled slugs when he attempted to write it, despite all the years that had passed since Hogwarts. Severus slowly laid the letter down, staring at it.
That was-more honest than he had thought it would be. On the other hand, he supposed that was the result to be expected when writing to Potter. Potter might play games through inattention to the words he used, which in turn would cause confusion in others, but he was unlikely to have trouble facing the sheer emotions, which Severus thought was a contributing factor in both his and Draco’s problems.
Very well. Now what to do?
Now, Severus thought, he would have to make decisions, and then write back. He had what he had wanted: Potter acting as a mediator between him and Draco. It remained to be seen whether he could grasp the nettle.
*
“And in conclusion, the placing of my client in Azkaban would be due to outdated prejudices, no more reasonable or confirmed than the prejudices against Muggleborns that have persisted in our society.”
Draco felt a thrill race through his soul as he listened to Granger. He hadn’t thought much about what would happen to the girl if she survived the war when she was in school, or after, but it was clear that she was born to argue like this. She paced up and down in front of the Wizengamot, not looking at all intimidated by the fact that she had to raise her head to see their faces, her eyes bright with intelligence and her hands freely waving. Now and then they clenched into a fist, but only to emphasize a point. She gave the impression of someone who could unite passion and logic and offer brilliant points from the midst of a fire, Draco thought.
Potter leaned forwards beside him, and Draco glanced at him. His eyes were fixed on his friend, and Draco would have said, from the rapt expression on his face, that he noticed nothing else. But suddenly he turned to the side and gave Draco possibly the sweetest smile he had ever received.
Draco swallowed and looked down. Potter briefly took his hand and squeezed it. No one could see it from above, Draco knew, so he allowed the gesture, even the flutter of Potter’s fingers over the skin of his wrist a moment later.
Potter had been odd this morning, both bold and tentative, as if he was building up to a conclusion or wanted to ask Draco’s permission for something without being sure if he would receive it.
Draco decided not to worry about it for right now as he watched Granger’s argument come to a ringing close. For the next few moments, he was going to be thinking about his freedom, not his love life.
Granger bowed to the Wizengamot and turned around to gather up the huge stack of parchment she appeared to have memorized this morning, since she hadn’t looked at it once while she was talking. The Wizengamot stirred and muttered as if they were being released from a dream and then hastily got out of their chairs. Draco smirked. He couldn’t blame them for wanting to deliberate in private, away from the people who had managed to unsettle them.
“Nothing for it but to wait,” Potter sighed, flopping back in his chair.
Once again, his fingers brushed Draco’s wrist. Draco turned his head and stared at him frankly this time. Potter blinked, then flushed and turned his back, coming up with something to speak to Granger about. From Granger’s faintly bemused tone when she responded, Draco didn’t think it was urgent.
What…?
But no matter how many answers Draco tried to fit into the pattern, he couldn’t come up with anything. Potter was just nervous and reaching for reassurance, perhaps-but that wouldn’t have to involve touching Draco. Potter was regretting that he had turned Draco’s kiss away-but he had seemed so adamant. Potter was nervous about something else.
Well, what?
Perhaps the letter to Severus? I haven’t heard him mention that lately.
Draco spent the time between the Wizengamot’s departure and their return in more of a ferment than he’d thought he would, although he didn’t say anything. His gaze stayed on Potter more than Granger, despite Granger smiling at him several times. He kept coming up with half-concrete theories and having to discard them. And then he would decide that certain elements of the theories he’d already formed were better and return to them, worrying at them like a stubborn dog with a bone.
The Wizengamot filed back into the room sooner than Draco had thought they would come. He swallowed and sat up very straight. Granger took up her position in front of the table as if she meant to guard him from a charge.
Potter sat down beside Draco and brushed his hand over Draco’s again, and Draco was certainly going to say something sharp to him later, when they had more time and he wasn’t being sickened by visions of this all being for nothing, that he might have to go into Azkaban and away from the clean sunlight and the unexpectedly pleasant company.
“Yes, well.” The woman chosen to speak for the Wizengamot wasn’t one that Draco knew. She had pale hair, neither quite grey nor quite white, and she cleared her throat every half-second. “Yes. Well. We have decided.”
“I thought so,” Granger said, with a deadly courtesy that made Draco have to nip his lips, and the woman turn pale.
“We declare that Draco Malfoy is a free man, without danger of going to Azkaban, and without danger of being convicted for Death Eater crimes in the future, as long as he does nothing wrong again,” the woman said.
Draco barely heard the addition of those last words. He had to shut his eyes and then sit there, his body trembling, paralyzed, although what he wanted was to caper up and down the floor with joy.
Potter did quite enough of that for him, in a way, by springing to his feet with a wild whoop and flinging his arms around Draco. Draco breathed in the scent of salt and skin and hair and stared up at him. Potter bent towards him, eyes so wide that Draco could see how one might drown in them, the way so many people had at school and during the war and probably after that, if he really had dated a lot.
“You’re free,” Potter whispered. “I’m so happy.”
The Wizengamot members were retiring again, as if disgusted, and Granger was pacing towards them, as sleek and unruffled as a great cat that had wounded its prey. “I’m happy that you’re free,” she said. “I’ll give you a few days to recover, and then I think we should start the next part of this project.”
Draco, dazed, stared at her. “What?” As far as he knew, now that he was free, he could do other things by himself, such as trying to find a place in the Potions economy of the British wizarding world.
Granger raised her eyebrows in what looked like slight disapproval. “Getting your mother free, of course. She was condemned in much the same unfair manner.”
Draco had to put his hand on her arm wordlessly, because there was no way that he could speak.
*
It had been only a few hours since the Wizengamot verdict, but Harry felt as if he had lived through a whole month. He found it hard to keep his eyes away from Draco, and his mouth filled with saliva and laughter too often for him to feel normal.
It was wonderful that Draco was free, of course. Harry hadn’t lost the giddy joy that had consumed him when he heard the words. And he was grateful to Hermione for doing such a good job and being willing to do such a good job for someone it was reasonable that she still might dislike.
But it was more than that.
Draco was more than that.
Harry could say honestly that he still wasn’t drooling over the man’s arse, or brooding on the color of his hair at night, or starting awake with an erection because he’d had an erotic dream. It wasn’t the substance of crushes like the ones he’d had on women before and which seemed to occur between men in the wizarding novels he’d read to humor Hermione. If he wanted to go on saying that he found women more attractive than men, that was certainly true.
But it was also true that he found Draco literally more attractive than most women. His shoulders seemed to call for touching, and the nape of his neck, and his arms, and his hands-relatively safe places that Harry could brush with his fingers without drawing much attention. His bowed head and frowning mouth made Harry want to lift and trace them, respectively, before he made a joke that turned the frown into a smile. He wanted to sit by and listen when Draco was talking about potions, although he didn’t understand most of it; that was for the pleasure of hearing Draco’s voice ripple and break on his ears.
Can you like someone even if you don’t fantasize about sleeping with him?
Or fantasize about it much, anyway.
Hermione had given him a knowing look before she left. Harry had tried his best to ignore it. After all, he hardly knew if Draco would feel the same way. There was Snape, still. There was the fact that Harry had rejected him once, and Draco might be proud enough to resent that and not want it to happen again. And there was no saying that Draco found Harry pleasant to look at or be around. He could be a matter of convenience, more than anything else, and that kiss the other day a way to say thank you.
Maybe.
Harry got the chance to figure it out when Kreacher brought them dinner, a delicate roast beef that made Harry’s mouth water just thinking about it. Harry walked behind Draco’s chair to get to his own, and his hand had gone out and trailed lightly along the nape of Draco’s neck before he thought about it.
Draco spun his chair around and stood up with a muttered curse. Harry recoiled and stared at him. “What’s the matter?”
“You keep touching me,” Draco said, his voice deep and his eyes looking as if they had sunken back into his skull. “I hate it, because I don’t know what it means. I thought it was an accident, but it’s happened too much. So. What does it mean?”
Harry swallowed air and stood there shifting awkwardly from foot to foot for a moment. As if someone had held up a crystal ball and showed him the future, he saw the two ways that this could unfold.
He could smile and shrug and dismiss Draco’s concerns, and the subject would retreat into the background. And Draco would start avoiding him more often, and then eventually find another lover of his own, maybe even Snape again, who would give him what he actually wanted.
Harry could answer, and then-
The crystal ball failed there. There was no guarantee that it would work out.
He decided that he would rather step into the unknown than the predictable future that first choice would make for him, and so he did it, though he gnawed at the inside of his cheek for a long moment first.
“I think I’m more attracted to you than I thought I was,” he admitted. “I haven’t slept with a man before. I hadn’t thought-well, there was no reason to think about it when I’d only ever found women interesting. But now I think you might be the exception.”
Draco’s eyes narrowed. Harry couldn’t blame him, and he winced, but then braced himself. It wasn’t as though Draco could do anything that would damage him permanently, like kick him out of the house. It would hurt if he decided to go somewhere else or to distrust Harry from now on, yes, but Harry would survive it.
Even if it felt like he might not.
“This is abrupt,” Draco said coldly. “Is it because I’m your favorite kind of person to rescue, the helpless little one who’s dependent on you?”
“No,” Harry snapped. “I never date people I rescue, most of the time. I want to help them, and dating doesn’t help them. It’s something I want to do when they can agree that they want it, too. I’ve had more than enough of people deciding they want a hero for a boyfriend,” he added bitterly, thinking about two of the women he’d dated right after Ginny. He’d probably been more vulnerable to it, then, because he had wanted to prove that he wasn’t a failure. But that didn’t mean he would do it again.
“I don’t think of you as a hero,” Draco said. “I think of you as someone who helped me, and I’m still not sure it’s right.”
Harry nodded, not looking away from him now. He thought he should show how seriously he took this. “I know. I’ll do what I can to help you. But you have to be the one to make the decision.”
Draco’s hand curled into a fist on the tabletop. “What about Severus? What did you say in the letter you sent him?”
“That he should make concrete changes if he wanted you back,” Harry said, and tried to sound normal and not jealous. From the sharp glance Draco gave him, he wasn’t sure he’d succeeded. “And that I would be willing to show you the letter when it came, if you wanted to see it. He hasn’t sent it yet, of course. I wouldn’t keep that from you,” he added, wondering if Draco thought he would.
But Draco made a dismissive gesture. “You haven’t thought about the perils of trying to date me when Severus still has a claim?”
“He doesn’t have a claim unless you decide that he does,” Harry said, startled into simply speaking of his thought process. “And the same thing goes for me. I’m not going to hold back anymore because of what I fear. I did that, and it was useless and just resulted in a lot of lies to myself.”
“So it’s my decision.” Draco’s eyes had almost vanished in the slits he’d made of them. He cast a glance at their food and then shook his head as though denying to himself that it was getting cold. “That’s the case.”
“Yes,” Harry said. “After you’ve gone so long without the ability to make up your mind, you deserve every chance.”
Draco ran his fingers over the table. Then he said, “I don’t think I’m hungry,” and turned and charged towards the stairs.
Harry shrugged in resignation and sat down to eat his dinner, summoning Kreacher so that he could put Draco’s food away and keep it warm for him. He had done the best he could, and spoken nothing but the truth. It was astonishing how much lighter that made him feel.
Of course, Draco might choose to go back to Snape. Or move out. Or date Harry but then still go back to Snape.
But it would be his choice. And that was the point; that was the thing he had wanted to help Draco do. Harry wouldn’t have felt comfortable making the choices for both of them any longer by keeping his attraction to himself. Draco had a lot to deal with, but it was all out in the open and he knew what it was. If he chose to ignore some of it, then at least he could.
*
Draco paced up and down in his room and tried to imagine what kind of letter he would write to his friends about this situation, assuming he still had any friends who were talking to him.
Dear Blaise, it’s not everyone in the wizarding world who can boast that he had a proposition from Harry Potter as well as letters from a former lover in the same week, but now I can…
Pansy, you’ll never believe how many people want me, or who…
Millicent, how did you make that decision to move out of your parents’ house? I could use some advice…
Draco stopped and laughed aloud, but cut it off after a moment. The sound was painful, in more than one way.
The last letter was the truest one. He had wanted more freedom. And suddenly he had it, the world around him expanding in a dozen dizzy directions. Draco wasn’t sure that he could make all the choices that he had to. What to do about Potter, how far to go with Potter, whether Severus was worth listening to, what concessions he would demand if he was, what he should do next, whether he should wait until after his mother, at least, was free before he made any decisions at all…
Draco shuddered and bowed his head. No, he didn’t know what to do, and it hurt. It hurt more than he had ever imagined it could, sitting in his small, cramped garden and dreaming of more space.
Chapter Thirteen.
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