Chapter Four of 'Harry's Project'- Harry Has a Cup of Tea, Draco Has a Point
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Chapter Four-Harry Has a Cup of Tea, Draco Has a Point
A nice cup of hot tea didn’t solve all the problems of the world. Harry knew that, even as he waved his wand to brew it and then heat it in a few moments. Hermione disapproved of such extravagance with magic; she said Harry ought to be able to wait for his tea to percolate like anyone else. But Harry had the magic, and, right now, he really had the need to feel a hot cuppa in his hand as soon as possible.
When he had not only that, but a burned tongue, a tingling throat, and a head focused on something else than Malfoy’s parting words, he felt able to sit down and stare a hole in his wall as he thought.
But no matter how he thought, he couldn’t find a way past Malfoy’s final prohibition. If he wouldn’t take anything Harry offered him, then how was Harry going to help? It wasn’t as though he could leave bags of Galleons and Malfoy Manor on the doorstep of the cottage in Hogsmeade and wait for the family to accept them if they chose to.
Harry paused, his cup halfway back to his throat. Then he put it down, resting it absently on his leg and yelping. A jump nearly sent tea sloshing everywhere. He shook his head and set the cup on the table beside him, then cast a spell that cooled the pain of the burn.
There was still something he could do. And Malfoy himself had given him the clue in some of his words-or Harry’s reaction to his words. Harry could no longer remember which one it had been, and considering how clear every one of their conversations was in his head, that was troubling. Maybe his thoughts had taken on self-protective coloration to make him stop hunting them.
Harry snorted softly to himself and rubbed his face. The whole point was, he could help the Malfoys without forcing the family to acknowledge that he was the one providing the help. It wasn’t as though Harry’s friends talked to them-
Or much of anyone else, it sounds like.
--And they weren’t receiving regular owls from Pansy, either. So it could look as though Harry had backed away and given up, but they would still receive what was due to them. Then it could be their free choice to accept or reject what he gave.
And meanwhile, he could look into giving them further help, easing their way back into wizarding society and lessening the hostility of their neighbors. That aid ought to be even easier to disguise.
Harry felt a moment’s disquiet. After sitting and reflecting, he knew why. He was capitulating, his pride insisted. Just giving up and letting Malfoy have his way. He was admitting Malfoy’s words were right without even trying to fight them.
But Harry knew it was the only thing he could do. Malfoy’s words had an element of truth to them (though not that much, because he hadn’t been around in five years and no one could diagnose a schoolboy rival accurately after that amount of time, much less on ten minutes’ reacquaintance), or they wouldn’t have stung him so deeply. And he couldn’t go back and keep battering at someone who looked like Malfoy did. Who had suffered like that.
Like they all did.
In his own drawing room, sitting on his own chair, with no tragic broken-winged angels to confront him and rake him with words-
(And since when did he think of Malfoy as an angel? His mind had a lot to answer for).
And with a cup of tea in his hand made just the way he liked it, Harry had to acknowledge that he had become different in the last few years. Even before he’d started picking fights with Ron all the time, he’d found himself hungry. The Auror cases he worked on occupied him completely whilst they were open, but the very effectiveness with which he rose to the challenge ensured that they were done with all the quicker. And he’d devised his own methods of answering reporters, playing them for his amusement, perfecting the smile, flirting with people who didn’t need to know they could never have him and who would do anything for a bit of attention from the famous Harry Potter.
Even considering that rationalization made him clear his throat and shift uncomfortably, then look over his shoulder to be sure Malfoy wasn’t behind him casting an Imperius Curse and forcing him to think all this. Then he remembered that he was resistant to Imperius anyway, and swore crossly.
So he had changed. So he wasn’t a very attractive person anymore, except in the most conventional ways. People liked the brilliance of his green eyes and the deep contrast of his dark hair with his pale skin. Harry was fairly certain of that, because he’d received compliments like that even when he covered his scar and went to Muggle clubs.
But it was a pretty damn small thing to be proud of.
So there. He wasn’t doing this because he wanted Malfoy to be grateful to him (which would just make him the kind of berk Malfoy had rightfully accused him of being) and he wasn’t doing it because of what Malfoy had said. God forbid. Harry Potter, whether or not he was a hero, didn’t do anything at the bidding of his old school rival.
He was doing this to regain his pride, and be a better person, and maybe get along better with his friends, too.
After all, he would have to live with himself, and Ron and Hermione, long after Malfoy was a distant memory.
With a satisfied nod, Harry drank the rest of his cup of tea.
*
Harry stood opposite the Malfoys’ house, under a Disillusionment Charm. He had observed for several hours, and each hour served to tighten his throat with outrage.
Everything Malfoy had said seemed to be true. The people walking past the house in the street gave it looks of contempt. Several boys-young enough that Harry wondered why they weren’t in Hogwarts-had crept up to the wards and tested them with several small spells, then wandered away in disappointment when nothing happened. An owl winging to the house with a Daily Prophet nearly took a Blasting Curse; it dropped the paper on the porch and vanished as soon as possible. A hand opened the door and snatched the paper inside. The door had just closed when a blast of red light landed where the paper had been. Harry wasn’t sure if the spell was just a Stunner or something more insidious, from this angle.
This was no life for anyone. Lucius might have deserved it-in Harry’s opinion, he still deserved Azkaban; there was no excuse for giving an eleven-year-old girl an enchanted diary that had almost killed her-but not Narcissa, who had crouched beside him in the Forest, eyes wide and terrified but still alert, and lied to the Dark Lord for him.
And not Draco, whose image was in Harry’s head every time he glanced at the house.
He settled back against the door he was leaning on; he knew that the owner of this particular house was out of town and wouldn’t be back for some time. Auror stake-outs had taught him patience, at least when there was the chance that he would learn something important. (His superiors had learned very quickly never to send him off on anything that looked useless, or Harry was just as likely to wander in through the front door and pick a quarrel with the suspect). He wanted to watch until nightfall. A small Tracking Charm, undetectable under the stronger magic of the Malfoy wards, encircled the foundation of the house; it would let him know when anyone left.
The Malfoy family still had some money, but Harry knew they couldn’t have lived on any small amount in their vaults for five years, not with even the most careful frugality. That meant someone had to be doing some job. Harry wanted to see what it was.
He wouldn’t put it past Draco, in particular, to be broken and right about Harry’s project, damn him, but still doing something nefarious in order to earn Galleons. After all, the wizarding world had hurt him. He might consider that he had a right to hurt it back.
It was midnight, and Harry had eaten the last of the peanut butter sandwiches he’d brought along and was thinking seriously about giving up his post, when the front door of the house opened. It did so slowly, cautiously, and then a wand stuck out and defused several spells that had hung in waiting on the porch. Harry would have got rid of them himself, but the whole point of this exercise was not alerting the Malfoys that he was watching.
Draco stepped out and spent a moment gazing critically up at the moon, which was three-quarters full. Harry wondered what for. He did know Malfoy should cover up that ghostly, glowing white hair and face of his soon, or someone would step out of their house and see him looking all unearthly and beautiful, panic, and probably summon the Aurors.
Luckily, he’d covered them in the next instant and was walking rapidly away from the village, his strides sure and quick. Harry went after him, wondering at himself for finding Malfoy beautiful.
This is Malfoy, remember? The person who insulted you so badly? The man you don’t even know is gay?
But Harry had to admit that it didn’t seem to matter. He’d become so used to sharing nothing more than one quick fuck with other gay wizards-it was all they wanted, and Harry had taught himself not to want anything more-that he’d also got used to looking at physical attractions first and foremost. If he was only going to spend one night with someone, his personality didn’t really matter as much as Harry’s ability to go to bed with him without being nauseated. Or getting a sexual disease, for that matter. Some of the gay wizards he’d met had the oddest ideas about what magic would make them safe.
He was content with that hypothesis until he realized that he’d started feeling marked by Malfoy’s personality first, and only then noticed his looks.
This was a problem. But since Harry was tracking Malfoy like one of the criminals he usually hunted, he was supposed to be thinking like an Auror, not like someone looking for a one-night stand. He made his mind be Auror-like, clean and sharp and hard.
Then he cursed himself for his unfortunate choice of words.
Then he saw that Malfoy was turning into the Forbidden Forest, walking without hesitation between a pair of trees with arched branches twining together like the reaching limbs of an Acromantula, and Harry had to pause and seriously consider his devotion to duty. Did he want to help Malfoy that badly?
Well, yes, he did.
Damn it. This was such a problem.
Harry cast more spells that would muffle the noise of his footsteps to the sharp ears of the beasts living in the Forest, and some spells that hopefully would take the edge off his smell. Since humans didn’t have much of a sense of smell, wizards had never really perfected olfactory glamours; even werewolves and Animagi couldn’t describe the scents well enough to give an idea of how they should be defended against, though they could test certain specific spells.
Harry cursed himself for reciting useless facts as though he were preparing for an Auror exam when he realized he’d let Malfoy get quite a distance ahead of him. He entered the Forest with the quietest sprint he could manage.
He nearly stumbled face-first over Draco. He was bending down, gathering up a sprig of some herb and holding it up to the moon. Then he nodded and tucked it into a pouch at his waist before bending low and scanning the brush again.
Oh. Harry blinked. Potions ingredients. He’s obviously gathering potions ingredients. That must be how he lives. Either brewing the potions himself, or sending ingredients to those who want them.
He doubted that he would see anything interesting, but he tagged along after Malfoy for a little while longer, watching him examine the trunks of trees and cut off moss, thrust his hand into a tangle of briars and extract a single night-blooming flower, and look above himself to catch a falling leaf. Sometimes his hood slid off, and then his hair would gleam, and he would look like the angelic apparition Harry had first considered him to be.
Not angelic. Damn it.
But he still looked damn good. And Harry was aware of a steadily growing feeling of relief as he watched Draco gathering his potions ingredients, at one point stopping to banish the full pouches with a flick of his wand-presumably he’d sent them home-and shake out some empty ones that he bound to his waist.
Relief that Draco’s work wasn’t degrading. Relief that he hadn’t been reduced to something illegal, or dangerous, in order to support his family and maintain at least a little independence from the philanthropies the Ministry ran, which probably wouldn’t welcome them anyway.
Then something crashed nearby, and Harry was reminded that this work was dangerous, in its own way. He lifted his wand and aimed away from Malfoy, looking steadily into the tangle of trees that he thought the crash had come from. Malfoy had looked up at it, but then a small plant growing near the ground had distracted him. He was digging at it with a silver knife, but apparently the roots were proving stubborn.
Harry’s attention snapped to the side again as he saw a creature shifting about in the shadows. It looked like a winged lion, or maybe a winged tiger. He couldn’t see it clearly enough. He didn’t recognize the creature, either, which probably meant it was one of the unique abominations the Forest bred-or one of Hagrid’s new pets. It was eyeing Malfoy’s back and licking its jaws hungrily.
Harry moved before it could. One spell bound its legs together, a second bound its wings as they thrashed open in instinctive panic, and then he Levitated it above the ground and hung it over the branch of a tree. Let it stay there until Draco was well away. By then, it would probably be hungry enough to seek easier prey.
Part of him wished that Draco would look up, recognize the spellwork binding the winged beast, and want to thank his savior. A kiss would be acceptable, Harry thought, just so he could see how that mouth tasted.
The rest of him was glad for what happened, which involved Draco tugging loose the stubborn plant with a grunt of triumph and continuing on his way into the Forest. Sometimes, Harry thought, trailing him, it was all right not to be thanked. It was okay if someone else didn’t notice and laud him for every little thing.
It was all right, sometimes, to be part of the background and let someone else be the center.
*
“That’s…a rather unusual favor to be asking, Harry.” Kingsley Shacklebolt’s eyes were narrowed shrewdly, and he surveyed Harry through his glasses as if Harry had come in to register as a treefrog Animagus.
“I know, sir.” Harry made sure to keep his face respectful as he leaned in to show his earnestness. Shacklebolt had never let him get away with half as much as his other superiors. There were times Harry had resented that. Now, he was grateful. It kept him grounded, and he already knew that he could expect no particular special treatment. “But I think it’s at least what the Ministry owes the Malfoys.”
“Not what it owes you?” Shacklebolt asked. Harry had asked the favor in his name, after all, claiming the debt that Shacklebolt had told Harry he owed Harry, personally, as a member of the Order of the Phoenix.
“Well, that too, but the public face is going to be that of the Ministry reopening the Malfoy case because they feel the punishment went too far,” Harry said firmly. “And in the meantime, they’ll be protected. All persons in a case still open are entitled to protection if they need it.” It was a line from the Auror Code, repeated over and over to the trainees until it sank into their stubborn heads. Harry himself had had particular difficulty in learning and remembering it at first, because he’d had to serve as bodyguard to a bunch of people he knew had helped in entering Hogwarts and torturing students. But he had overcome his objections and obeyed, escorting them from the courtrooms to their cells and back, and never physically harming them. Now other people could learn to overcome their objections to the Malfoys.
“They never did anything that would warrant this,” Shacklebolt said. “People will be suspicious.”
Harry stared at him. “Narcissa Malfoy saved my life,” he said. “Draco Malfoy did too. And Lucius stayed out of the Battle of Hogwarts as much as possible. I don’t think they’ve done anything to deserve the kind of harassment they’re getting over losing their case, either.”
Shacklebolt sighed. “You’ve got to understand, Harry. There were an awful lot of Death Eaters people couldn’t reach, either because they died in the Battle of Hogwarts or because they’re in Azkaban now. The Malfoys have become the scapegoats for all the Death Eaters. People can take their petty revenges on them and feel content.”
“You knew about this?”
“I suspected it,” Shacklebolt corrected him, “particularly when I saw how they were treated immediately after they lost their money.”
Harry stared at the man for a moment, then shook his head. “And you just let it happen?”
“Had we tried to contain it, something worse would have happened.”
Harry made a frustrated noise and pounded one fist on the arm of his chair. “With all due respect, sir, that’s nowhere near enough, and you know it.”
Shacklebolt simply shook his head, looking resigned and infinitely weary. “Sometimes, Harry-no, all the time, probably-things are more complicated than you think they are. And less black-and-white than you think them, too.”
“Well, this is a point where things get very simple,” Harry growled. “You said that you owed me a debt. Repay it by opening the Malfoy case and granting them the protection they need for the moment.”
“The Wizengamot already made their decision, and they won’t reverse it. What do you think will happen after a few weeks of protection, a month at the most?” Shacklebolt raised his eyebrows.
“By then, I hope to have another solution to the problem,” Harry replied, and stood up. He had an appointment to meet Ron and Hermione for dinner, and he actually hoped to keep it this time, rather than skipping it because he had to work or wanted to find someone to sleep with.
*
“Potter!”
Harry turned in startlement. The last thing he had expected to see was Draco Malfoy trotting down a corridor in the Ministry towards him, red in the face, trailing two other Aurors behind him who were barely able to keep up.
Malfoy looked incredibly pissed off, deliciously hot, and much better than he had-in so many ways-when Harry had last met him in the drawing room of his home. Harry grinned and leaned against a wall, folding his arms in front of him as he waited.
Malfoy slid to a halt in front of him and announced, “I know you did this. And I still won’t collapse at your feet with gratitude.”
“I know that,” said Harry. “Or I would know it, if I had the slightest idea what you were talking about.”
“This!” Malfoy waved his hand at the Auror guards, who looked offended to be referred to by such a dismissive relative pronoun.”We have protection when we go to Gringotts now. We have people watching our house so no one can curse it. My mother removed some of the wards, and we’re getting regular post only, no Howlers. And our case has been reopened.” He stopped, panting, and stared hard at Harry.
“I’m sorry,” Harry said, cupping a hand around his ear. “I still haven’t heard the actually objectionable part of this.”
Malfoy leaned closer. “I told you I didn’t have to take anything you offered,” he hissed. “I meant it.”
“Oh, I know,” said Harry. “Jolly good thing it’s the Ministry offering this, isn’t it?”
“You can’t-“ Malfoy said, and then stopped.
Harry shrugged. “I have no power to open a case the Wizengamot has already decided, Malfoy. That was all the Minister’s doing. He does have the ability to look around on his own, you know, and he can actually make a competent decision once in a while.” Now the Aurors were glaring at him, but Harry didn’t care. Shacklebolt knew perfectly well what Harry thought of his policies towards the Malfoys. “So I’m not forcing my way into your house and your life anymore. One might think you miss me.”
Malfoy looked as if he didn’t know whether to draw his wand and curse Harry, or simply take the shorter route of strangling him. Finally, he drew a long, hissing breath, and said, “I know this was your doing somehow. I’ll prove it.”
“Good,” Harry said. “That ought to keep you out of trouble.” He tipped his head mockingly to Malfoy. “Now, if you excuse me, I have a meeting with Pansy Ambrosius that I don’t want to miss.” He turned his back and started walking away again.
“You’re still playing hero!” Malfoy yelled after him. “You still want a cheering crowd bowing down to your every move!”
“Oh, not really,” Harry said. “I won’t intrude on you again.” He glanced over his shoulder and winked. “Donating anonymously and using my name and power to do real good instead of entertain myself and earn applause has proven unexpectedly addictive. But that doesn’t mean you’ll ever have to acknowledge it.”
Malfoy just stared hard at him. Harry shrugged once and slid around the corner, already mentally preparing the list of files he’d need to take home and review after his meeting with Pansy.
Then Malfoy came after him again, and blocked his way forwards with an arm. Harry looked at it pointedly. “There seems to be an arm in my way,” he said.
Malfoy whispered into his ear, “The reason I wasn’t so shocked by the little revelation you made the other week is that I’m gay myself. And you needn’t think that doing this will let you get into my pants, Potter.”
“Conceited, aren’t you?” Harry asked, in a normal tone of voice. “You’re assuming I’d like to, and I haven’t given a single indication I would.”
“I saw the way you looked at me back there,” said Malfoy. “And during your little stalking episode in the Forbidden Forest, which I sensed you doing, thank you very much.”
Harry blinked for a moment. He really had thought Malfoy hadn’t sensed anything.
On the other hand, that he had and had managed not to betray it was just one more thing to like about him. Harry smiled, and Malfoy took a sudden, violent, springing step away from him.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked in a broken, raw, new voice. “Stop looking at me like that. It hurts.”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Harry told him softly. “If I want to like you, I will; that’s my decision. And if I want to help you, I will; that’s my decision, too. Your choice, still, as to whether to return the liking or accept the help. But you can’t stop me from trying. You’ve opened my eyes. Don’t think you can chain my limbs.”
Victory, he thought, as his words evidently made Malfoy pale and falter the way his had made Harry hesitate. But he couldn’t follow up on the victory. It would have to be Malfoy’s choice to come to him. He was human, after all, and a big boy. Surely he could make his own decisions.
And then Harry turned, whistling, and went on his way to his interview with Pansy.
Chapter 5.