Chapter Forty-Three of 'Intoxicate the Sun'- Like a Doll
Chapter Forty-Two.
Title: Intoxicate the Sun (43/50)
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters; I am writing this for fun and not profit.
Warnings: Violence (lots of it), heavy angst, sex, references to torture and rape. Ignores the epilogue.
Pairings: Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione, possibly other minor pairings that might crop up along the way.
Rating: R
Summary: Harry starts a revolution. A revolution with spies, disaffected Aurors, dragons, Azkaban escapees, joke shop owners turned war strategists, and magical theories. And Draco Malfoy is one of the spies--deciding whether he should betray Potter for the sake of his parents, or the other way around.
Author's Notes: This will be a long story, and at this point I don't know how many chapters it's likely to cover. A lot of the chapters include politics and philosophy as well as action, so be warned.
Chapter One.
Thank you again for all the reviews!
Chapter Forty-Three-Like a Doll
“You think this’ll work?”
Weasley and Harry were speaking in low voices, as though they assumed the forest was full of spies that might want to stop their plan. Or, Draco thought, perhaps because Weasley did not trust him. He kept his eyes fastened straight ahead and stood listening to other things, including the pops of Apparition behind him as Granger’s allies disappeared. They had been out in the forest for several hours, laying together the groundwork for a “surrender” to the Minister that would be anything but.
The conversation surged again, and Harry said, “Yes, of course it’ll work. It fits nicely into the plan I’ve been contemplating.” So calm, Draco thought, as though he expected the world to fall at his feet and do his bidding. Perhaps he did. This was not the Potter he had known in Hogwarts, whose plans went wrong half the time and whose body and magic only seemed to truly obey him on the Quidditch pitch. This was-someone else.
“The plan that you still won’t tell me,” Weasley said. His voice scraped and crackled, with a raw patch in the middle. Draco cocked his head and moved closer. If there was some argument between them, then Harry hadn’t told him about it.
“I can’t tell you that because it would mean the lightning stag finding out,” Harry said, and his voice remained calm and confident, even as apology tinged it. “Which can’t happen, not if I want to survive the bloody plan itself. Sorry.”
Draco came up close enough beside them to see Weasley shut his eyes and shake his head. He muttered a word that might have been any number of insults and then whirled away. Harry watched him go with a faint frown, which he transmuted into a smile when he saw Draco watching. He held out his hand.
Draco hesitated before he went up to him, mainly to prove that he could. He had been disturbed by the change in himself over the last few days, the rush of emotion that consumed him whenever he looked at or listened to Harry. The compulsion he seemed to have to obey his orders without hesitation.
Is this what love feels like, or is it just his magic affecting me? Draco doubted he would ever know the answer; he couldn’t figure it out himself, Harry would only say what was most hopeful, and no one else was interested enough to help him figure it out.
“Are you all right?” Harry whispered, taking Draco’s hand in his and bringing it to his lips. His slightest touch stung with fire and raised slight blisters if he didn’t watch himself. He did now, but Draco still shivered from the power pressing down on his skin.
“I’m sorry that I didn’t give you the chance to speak in the meeting with Hermione’s allies,” Harry went on. He watched Draco with bright eyes that didn’t see everything, but still far too much for comfort. “I thought they would have a harder time trusting you if it seemed that you had a huge part in our plans.”
“Do I?” Draco took a step closer, determined, for once, to overcome these squeezing feelings of uncertainty that kept him silent and take the battle to Harry. “You made all of them without me tonight. I don’t think you need me at your side for anything but your personal comfort, do you? You could just as easily do this without me.”
Harry hesitated. Draco was glad to see the way his eyelids flickered, glad to know that he wasn’t entirely aloof and above it all.
“It doesn’t help much if you want a more active part, I know,” Harry acknowledged at last, slowly, as if he was exploring the idea the way that he might let his tongue explore a cracked tooth. “But I couldn’t do this without you. One huge part of my plan concerns you and your parents, and getting you to safety. And hopefully me being able to go with you, but that’s less important than the safety and the illusion and the surrender.”
“Safety, illusion, surrender,” Draco repeated. At least he knew more than Weasley about Harry’s plan, although he doubted that he could divine much about it from just knowing the names. But it was something, to realize it had three parts. “It sounds like it’s enormously complicated. Are you sure that you can do it by yourself?”
Harry caught his hand and squeezed, and this time the fire was more present, flowing over Draco’s fingers and curling about his palm as though it grew there. Draco stifled a pant to look up at Harry, wide-eyed. Harry was smiling back at him, but gently, as though he thought this might be the last time they would see each other.
“I’m having George build me a machine that I hope will help,” he said. “But if he can’t build it, or if it doesn’t work the way I expect it will, that leaves me to handle the magic alone.” He held out an arm, and the fire snapped into being and paraded around it, up to his shoulder. “It’s not something that I particularly want to do,” he added, speaking to himself now. “But my magic has to be stronger than I need for a reason, doesn’t it? And this is the most important thing in the world to me.”
He looked back at Draco. “And you’re the more important person,” he said simply. “I promise, I am going to do all I can to keep you safe, and to keep those you love safe.”
Draco nodded, and then nodded again. His mouth was dry. His tongue felt large and hot, disconnected from him. Surely that was the reason he said what he did next, because who could expect him to have control of it? “Does that include you?”
Harry blinked at him. Draco would have thought his meaning immediate and obvious, but it didn’t seem it was. “Excuse me? I can’t promise that I’ll be safe if I follow this plan, Draco. Not really. I’ll try, but in the midst of magic like that and what the prophecy might do to me if it figures out what I intend-”
“I meant,” Draco said, “that you owe it to me to keep yourself safe, if you’re really trying to protect the people I love.”
There was a moment when the forest seemed to wheel about them, the green shadows under the trees stopping, the light visible in the distance breaking into stars. Harry’s eyes widened, and Draco looked away, feeling queasy at what he saw in them. But he had spoken the words, he had taken the step. There was no going back.
“Oh,” Harry said, a soft sound, but one that Draco thought flat enough to encompass all the many and varied emotions he was feeling. Harry reached out, half-groping, and Draco caught and held his hand. “Oh. Yes. I promise.”
His fingers clenched down again, and this time the fire was visible in a phoenix-shaped flare of the kind that he had used to impress Granger’s allies. Draco bowed his head and let the flames touch his face briefly.
Then Harry was pulling him in, kissing him and kissing him as if his heart would break, and Draco understood more than Harry might have wanted him to about what he was feeling at the moment. He locked his hands in Harry’s shirt and kissed back.
*
I think we’re looking at this the wrong way. We assumed all three loops on the machine added up to a single goal. But what if each of them just works in a way that complements the other ones? If they do three different things and the purpose is to make sure Harry can channel the magic for each one, without those different blasts of magic interfering with each other?
George swiped his sleeve across his forehead and stood back, frowning at the machine. For the moment, he had something to think about other than Fred’s words. The machine-the bloody machine was growing. They were building it. That was great, that was wonderful, and it meant they could do what Harry asked.
But it sometimes seemed to George, in the last few hours especially, that they were no longer the ones building the machine. As though some larger purpose had taken over his hands and both their thoughts and begun to direct them.
George still didn’t know what the machine was for, and Harry’s original sketch was sometimes hard to interpret. But he had found himself adding a tiny, extra loop of reinforced pewter to the side of each of the large loops without needing to squint at the scribbles on the parchment. Were those scribbles loops or just doodles, or even an attempt at representing the shadows of the larger loops? George didn’t know, but he knew those small loops were supposed to be part of the machine that was actually taking form, and he had added them without stopping to think.
This was something that had never happened to him before. He had invented potions and pranks in harmony with Fred before that could sometimes feel like it, but even then, he was able to trace the addition of new ingredients or a new (and spectacular) side-effect to something they had discussed weeks or months ago. This wasn’t the case, since they had just started working on the machine and Harry had been less than helpful with telling them what it was for or suggesting which materials they should use.
Did you hear what I said?
George mopped sweat off his forehead again and stepped further back from the machine, just in case it could infect him with new ideas while it was sitting there. “I did,” he replied. “And it’s nothing more than what I thought from the beginning. The effects will complement each other, sure. Harry implied that much, if he didn’t say it.”
Fred growled wordlessly. And have you thought about what it could mean for the world, to have three bursts of magic unleashed on it at once like that, if Harry really is mad and doesn’t know what he’s doing?
George swallowed, hard. “We have to trust him,” he said after a minute. “He’s no more mad than we are, and we-we’ve achieved a lot, and it’s in the teeth of people who thought we were insane.”
You can hear me, and I can hear me, Fred pointed out. We’re in each other’s heads, so we can at least act as checks on each other. I haven’t seen any evidence that Harry’s been hearing voices other than the lightning stag. Do you really imagine the situation is comparable?
George nodded, but when Fred’s presence still clung to the back of his head, waiting, he sighed. “Yes, it is. Harry has a skill that most other people don’t understand and think he should exploit in limited ways. It’s the same thing with us and our skill at inventions. I’m sure Mum and the rest of society wouldn’t blame us for having stayed employed at the joke shop, instead of joining the revolution. Harry was the only one who saw the potential in us and managed to call us forth for it.”
So we shouldn’t question him because he extended a courtesy to us? But the best use of his trust in us might be to tell him when he’s going wrong. You know no one else will.
George snorted hard enough to get a few flecks of moisture on the defensive shield that they’d wrapped around the machine. “Wrong, mate. No one in the revolution except us and maybe Malfoy does anything but tell him he’s wrong, day in and day out. Add the Ministry to it, and he’s getting the full chorus. There’s no reason for him to do anything if we start yelling but pull back and stop trusting us.”
If he hurts the world…
“We don’t know that he will. Hell, for all we know this machine will be the saving of the world.” George reached out and patted the air near the shield charm. “Without more information, we can’t say one way or the other.”
Fred was silent for a few seconds. Then he said, So you’re asking me to take it on faith. All of it, all the damage he could do and all the power he could wield.
George nodded. “Everything that we’ve done, we’ve taken on faith so far,” he said, when he felt the pressure in his mind and realized that Fred was waiting for him to say more. “That he could summon dragons. That he could actually remove prisoners from Azkaban without harming them before he burned down the place. That he could use the machines we made for him. That he could control the revolution for long enough to land it somewhere. That he wasn’t mad.” He paused, sighed out, then said, “That he believed us, that you were real. So. This is only one more thing.”
It’s the last thing.
George nodded, his eyes fastened on the shimmering loops of metal that soared out of the middle of the machine. “Think you’re right about that. One way or the other.”
*
“Enter, Hermione.”
It was hard, Hermione thought, sweeping into the Minister’s office just behind her command, to face Clearwater after seeing her husband, and feeling Ron’s hands on her shoulders as he whispered to her, and seeing in his eyes that his belief in her had never wavered, not for a moment. Why? It should have given her a jolt of strength to finish up her last few days in the Minister’s “service,” not made it harder.
But it did. Hermione gave Clearwater a smile full of teeth and bowed her head, murmuring, “If you please, Minister, I come at your request.”
To her, at least, it felt horribly different from the responses she had given when she was under the Imperius Curse-then she had sounded more cringing, weak and compliant-but Clearwater seemed not to see that. She just nodded back as if Hermione’s response held no surprises, then stood up and made a gesture towards the far side of the office. Hermione, following the motion of her wand, saw a Disillusionment Charm suddenly turn pale and fall away like watery glass.
Beneath it stood a tall woman in hooded robes. The robes were black with scarlet edging, Hermione saw-dramatic. The hood was pulled so low that Hermione stood no chance of seeing her face, but the shape of her body proclaimed her female.
“It is time for allies to meet,” Clearwater said, but the smile on her face was fake, and her hold on the wand too tight for this to be someone she trusted. Hermione tried not to show that she’d noticed, tried to keep her smile bright and false and her eyes a glittering mask over nothingness. “Please reveal your face, Auror.”
Auror. Hermione felt a cramp twist in her belly, and that was the hardest thing to keep off her face so far. As if in a dream, she saw the woman put her hands to the sides of her hood and fling it back-dramatically, of course, she would do everything dramatically-to show Auror Desang’s face.
Someone under the Imperius Curse would show no reaction. She wouldn’t care about her relationship to the woman before the Curse, and if the Minister introduced her as an ally she would accept her that way.
So Hermione calmed her breathing and showed no sign, standing there with the same idiot’s smile and fixed gaze. Desang stared at her, and Hermione stopped the nervous swallow she wanted to give. Aurors would probably have more experience with the Imperius Curse than a Minister would. On the other hand, Clearwater had been an Auror herself, and Desang hadn’t been around to see what Hermione looked like when she was still firmly under Clearwater’s control. It ought to be possible to fool both of them, though Hermione had no idea whether she would achieve it.
“That’s her,” Desang said, and the loathing and the satisfaction lay in her voice like iron blocks.
“Very good.” Hermione wondered if she imagined the way that Clearwater stepped to the side, getting in between them. “Hermione, you’ll be working with Andrea for the duration of the week. I want you to go over the reports I gave you yesterday, file them, and follow any instructions Andrea gives you.”
Hermione bobbed her head happily and murmured the expected, “Of course, Minister,” that she traditionally used to greet all her orders. Desang continued to watch her, breathing as silently and slowly as a snake ready to strike. Hermione didn’t directly meet her eyes; she wouldn’t unless she was told to. She hoped fervently that was an acceptable move for someone under the Curse to make.
“Fine,” Desang said, and exchanged a glance with the Minister. No doubt they meant no one outside their little pair to be able to interpret it, but Hermione knew what they were saying perfectly well. A cramp of a knot twisted together in her belly. Desang wants to get revenge on me. She must, and Clearwater will probably let her the minute I’m no longer useful to her.
Now the problem became whether she should try to convince the Minister that she could be useful, longer, or simply hang onto until the moment, a week from now, when the revolutionaries were scheduled to surrender. Hermione considered that, then muffled a snort. No choice, really. People under Imperius didn’t have motivations or initiative of their own. Any plan she proposed would sound silly and false, and not originate with Clearwater.
I’ll have to survive. Assuming Desang doesn’t do anything literally Unforgivable to me between then and now. Hermione would break cover if she had to to spare her own life, and hope that her actions couldn’t be traced back to her allies or Ron and Harry.
She turned away and walked towards her office, carrying the new files the Minister had given her and fixing a smile on her face that ought to stand up against any casual glances Desang would give her. Of course, how many of them would be casual?
There was also the temptation to hold her breath against the scrutiny, to resist as hard as she could, to keep her muscles coiled in constant readiness. Hermione had to hide a grimace as that thought struck her. And how long could she keep that up, before her guard would inevitably relax or Desang would notice and wonder?
“Hermione.”
For a moment, Hermione pondered whether someone under the Imperius Curse would respond to her first name. She compromised, dawdling to a stop and turning around like a clumsy toy. She kept her face bright and blank, and bobbed her head again without saying anything. Even asking, “Yes?” might be too much.
Desang watched her, eyes narrowed, her wand spinning lightly between her fingers. Hermione wondered for a moment how she had come to be matched with a wand again, but she couldn’t allow that curiosity to show in her eyes. Someone like Hermione-under-Imperius wouldn’t remember from one moment to the next that Desang had ever been parted from her wand, or what she had done before she became the Minister’s obedient slave, unless the Minister wanted her to recall it.
I hate this. Hermione had to admit that she didn’t know how spies like Snape had survived, or how people like Lucius Malfoy, who’d lied about being under the Imperius Curse during the first war, functioned. Keeping up a simple deception for a few hours at a time when she was in the Minister’s sight was exhausting.
“I know what you did to me,” Desang said, and surged a step forwards before she seemed to control herself by sheer force of will. She stopped and showed her teeth. “You needn’t think I’ll let you get away with it.”
Hermione widened her eyes in naïve puzzlement. Careful, careful. Don’t let her see you breathing too fast. “What I did to you,” she echoed, and stood there like a doll waiting to be posed.
“Yes.” Desang slid her fingers up and down her wand again, and Hermione controlled a violent shiver. I can’t let her see what that does to me, I can’t. Someone under the Imperius would have no reason to be afraid. “When the Minister doesn’t need you, then I’ll be allowed to exact my revenge.” She smiled at her. “I think I’ll order you to simply march straight into the wand. That ought to be fun. Knowing that you can’t turn around and can’t resist.”
“It will be fun,” Hermione said, simple Hermione, bobbing her head on her neck and resisting the temptation to bolt. Inside, her brain knocked against the inside of her skull and her heart hurled itself against her ribs.
Desang moved closer, her smile gone, her pulse jumping so violently Hermione could see it. She reached out and put a hand on the side of Hermione’s face, tilting her head back and forth. Hermione’s skin crawled, but she went with it. Was it harder than what Ron had done, by trusting her and Harry when they must both seem mad to him? Was it harder than what she had done so far, walking around and letting the Minister believe she had her on a leash?
“You ruined my life,” Desang whispered. “I know that the revolution couldn’t have got as far as it did if not for you. I know my name would never have been ruined and people wouldn’t have distrusted me if not for you.” Her hand closed down on the side of Hermione’s face, her fingers pinching the skin, and Hermione winced in pain before she could stop herself. Luckily, if that wasn’t a reaction she should have had, Desang was too occupied with her accusations to notice. She bent close enough that she was practically breathing in Hermione’s eyes. “I’m going to enjoy the time I make that up to you so much.”
Hermione held her breath. She thought that Desang might actually go mad in the middle of the corridor and kill her right there. Her actions seemed erratic enough to do so, and if she got her revenge, she might not mind the punishment that the Minister gave her later.
Then Desang pulled away and turned her head aside, closing her eyes as if she had to recover from her own daring. “Come along,” she said in clipped tones, turning her back. “There’s information about Potter that I want you to give me.”
Hermione followed her, tucking away the fear and reminding herself that this was the part she should have no problem with. She could divulge all sorts of harmless truths that didn’t matter now, because the revolution and Harry were poised to change everything and the Minister already knew them.
What she didn’t know if she could do was keep up her playacting to the extent that she reckoned she probably needed it.
Fly with those burning wings when you need to set them on fire, Hermione. You’ve done well so far.
Chapter Forty-Four.
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