Chapter Twenty-Five of 'An Image of Lethe'- Under His Wand
Chapter Twenty-Four.
Title: An Image of Lethe (25/?)
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairings: Eventual Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione, Bill/Fleur
Warnings: Angst, violence, minor character death
Rating: R
Summary: The Ministry finally has a way to test people for Dark magic and separate the Dark wizards definitively from the rest. Harry Potter undergoes the test, produces an utterly unexpected result, and finds himself swept up in a political conflict that materialized out of nowhere yesterday, it seems: the fight over whether Dark wizards have a right to continue mingling with "normal" society. Updated every Sunday.
Author's Notes: This story idea has been brewing in my head for several months. This will probably be a long one, and very political. The title is from a poem, "The Coming of War: Actaeon," by Ezra Pound.
Chapter One.
Thank you again for all the reviews!
Chapter Twenty-Five-Under His Wand
The pain that thundered through him was cruel and clear and bright, tearing through things that felt somewhat like his muscles and somewhat like a web in his mind. Draco screamed, and felt a barrier in the back of his throat break with his screams. He was doing-he was doing something that he wasn’t supposed to-he was-
He was writhing on the floor and reaching out with his hands towards Harry, who stood in front of that throne-chair he had made for himself, his eyes locked on Draco and his face pale. “Please!” he screamed. “Please! I’ll tell you what you want to know!”
The pain cut off at once. Harry was on his knees next to him in the next moment, dragging Draco around so that Draco’s head rested in his lap. Draco caught his breath, mind sprinting to the fact that Death Eaters might come back and watch them, and Harry’s cover as the Dark Lord could be blown in the next moment.
But that Harry would even risk blowing that cover, when he had been so conscious of it before and willing to do things that might make Pansy and Astoria or his friends hate him, caused a a soft sweetness grow and blossom in the center of Draco’s chest, tearing and clawing and thundering through his mind like the pain had.
It didn’t blot out all memory of the pain. But it helped, a lot.
Draco closed his eyes, and felt Harry take a cloth, or conjure one, and wet it down with water to mop his head. Draco’s lips turned up in a smile for which they didn’t have his permission. “You know that that doesn’t do much when I’ve been through a pain curse?” he whispered. “It’s not like I have a headache or I’ve been blinded by sunlight.”
“I can’t do much to make up for hurting you,” Harry returned quietly. “Let me do this. Let me pretend it makes a difference.”
Draco started and groped for his hand, which Harry let him have, but without stopping the constant soft scrubbing of his brow. “You’re making up for a lot,” Draco said fervently. “Never think you aren’t. I-”
“Hush. You shouldn’t have to reassure me, of all things.”
Draco fell silent. What Harry said made sense, and Draco knew he would have agreed with the words not that long ago.
Which just made the fact that he didn’t agree completely all the more frustrating.
But he lay there and let Harry baby him, and at last Harry murmured, “Now. Before we lose the effect of the pain. What was it that your father didn’t want you to tell me?”
Draco breathed in deeply. He felt as if he had been floating immersed in a pool of warm water, and now he had to step out and back into the cold and cruel real world, all the colder for the heat that had sustained him.
But he mustered his words. Harry was right. They had taken this risk, and Draco wasn’t going to be the one to make it useless. “He bound me with a promise web of some kind, although I didn’t recognize the sensations. And then he told me that he’d intended to encourage the Death Eaters onto greater and more stupid deeds, and eventually turn them over to the Ministry with the implication that he’d been on the Ministry’s side all along. He thought that would clear the Malfoy name.”
Harry was still as stone beneath him for a second. Then, about the time Draco had become concerned and was going to twist around and figure out if he was still breathing, Harry whispered, “So I mucked this up.”
“What?” Draco snorted when he understood the reasoning. It showed how close they were, he thought, that he was able to follow it, because most of the time he would have simply been unable to understand such stupid reasoning. “No, my father wasn’t going to be a hero and then you messed that up. For one thing, the Ministry would probably never have believed him, not after being twice shut up for being a Death Eater, and not after the way he vanished from Azkaban. Then he would have done something else worse to try and get our good reputation back. And besides-”
He winced as Harry shifted his balance. Harry eased him onto the floor at once and cast a Cushioning Charm that wouldn’t be visible from outside the room. Draco smiled. “Thanks.”
“The same one I used on my arse. That throne is bloody hard.” Harry waved a hand and smiled back at Draco. “You were saying?”
“I doubt the Death Eaters would have gone along with it as well as he thinks they would,” Draco finished quietly. “So no, you didn’t ruin some grand plan that would have resulted in the capture of all Death Eaters. Why should the Ministry have stopped using the Lightfinder even if they’d captured them all? They would think there were Dark wizards still hiding somewhere in the population.”
Harry nodded once, slowly, and then nodded again in a more convinced and convincing manner. Then he chuckled.
“What?” Draco asked, looking around. It didn’t sound like the kind of laughter Harry would have given if anyone else had come into the room and he needed to fool them, but Draco couldn’t see any other reason for it, either.
“You know what’s really messed-up?” Harry helped him sit up and lean against Harry’s chest. Draco closed his eyes as his head spun dizzily. “That I’m the one demanding reassurance from you when you’re not only hurt, I’m the one who hurt you.” He touched Draco’s shoulder once, and then his wand moved swiftly over Draco’s muscles. Draco sighed as soothing coolness flowed through him. Harry obviously didn’t know the Healing spells that would totally cure a pain curse, but he knew both other charms and the fact that you needed to wait to apply them. “Anyway. There wasn’t anything else you needed to tell me?”
I can’t really tell him that I want to close my eyes and just lean against him forever, Draco thought wryly. “Not really,” he murmured, and did let his eyes slip shut. “My father wants me to plot against you, of course. But you probably already knew that.”
“Get close to me, earn my trust, and then crush me from within?” Harry’s voice was dry. “Yeah, I reckoned. That’s pretty much what Voldemort politics are like, after all.”
Draco sighed out, his voice soft and dry. His hands ached, and his shoulder muscles still trembled, but he honestly felt as if he could fall asleep here and not wake up until someone tried to move him.
Although maybe that has less to do with Harry’s magic than with the nature of my bed.
Just as Draco’s eyes popped open in alarm at that thought, Harry touched his shoulder once more and murmured, “Thank you for the warning. Now. I think we’re going to show the others that you’ve been the victim of one of his mood swings. I tortured you. Then I decided that you could be more useful to me doing something else, and cured you.”
“All right,” said Draco. He knew he probably wouldn’t be able to walk or act without pain for a short while, anyway, so Harry’s idea made more sense than some Draco could have come up with. He reached out and caught Harry’s arm before Harry could completely shift away from him and stand up, though. “You know that you can’t betray what I told you in front of my father, right?”
Harry rolled his eyes. “No, actually, I thought I’d go have a nice chat with him about this.” He shoved Draco gently in the middle of the chest, and then ended up leaving his hand there, while he looked steadily into Draco’s eyes. “I know that. And I appreciate the impulse that you have to want to protect me anyway.”
Draco flushed and tried to turn away. “I…”
“I was the one who tortured you, and you’re still trying to protect me,” Harry insisted, and his voice was thick. “I won’t forget that.”
Draco knew he should probably look away, that nothing good could come out of the look they were exchanging, but their eyes clung anyway. Harry was smiling in an approving way Draco thought he once would have given his soul to see.
But he wasn’t a child at Hogwarts anymore, or the boy who had lain awake at night envying Harry and his friendships, and Ron Weasley’s friendship with Harry, either. He cleared his throat and nodded. “You did what I asked you to do.”
“Still.” Harry’s hand lingered on his shoulder, and Draco couldn’t help it. He shuddered a little with nerves, and Harry at once took away his hand. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Go and tell the others that I’ve decided to keep you near me for a while. Try to present it as some mark of favor, and at the same time show them that you’re terrified of me. That will make them think I’m keeping you near me for some sort of sinister reason.”
“What do you want me to do when I’m with you?” Draco kept his voice clear of inappropriate emotion, but he couldn’t keep his mind clear of inappropriate thoughts.
“Advise me, mostly,” Harry said wryly. “I still don’t know as many of the Death Eaters as I should. I’m going to ask you to tell me their names, and tell me who they are and what their weaknesses are on a regular basis.”
“You’re dealing with without knowing their names?” A moment later, Draco wondered why in the world that had surprised him. As it was, he only stared at Harry instead of doing something else, and Harry nodded and shrugged.
“It’s worked well so far. Why should someone like Lord Voldemort bother addressing his servants by name if he doesn’t want to?”
There was a trace of bitterness in his voice that made Draco react. He lunged forwards and grabbed Harry’s wrist, glaring at him. “You’re not to speak of yourself like that. Is that clear? You’re not the Dark Lord.”
“And you’re not someone who needs to comfort me all the time,” Harry said back harshly, at once, his arm twisting as if he was going to fling Draco’s hold off. “You’re someone I tortured, and who’s already done enough!”
They spent some time mutually glaring, and then Draco said, “If I want to do more than this, I will. Are you really going to stop me?”
“No. I need you too much.”
Harry made the admission with his eyes on the floor as if he hated to make it, but Draco’s heart swelled hot and heavy and longing inside him.
“Listen to me,” he said, and poked Harry in the palm of the hand until Harry looked up at him. “If I want to help you, I will. If I want to be with you and pretend to crawl and whimper because that’s what the other Death Eaters will expect, then I will. You understand? You don’t get to dictate what I will and won’t do.”
Harry promptly rolled his eyes at him. “I wouldn’t do that.” But he was smiling, and Draco knew that had been what Harry really needed to hear. He didn’t want to be reminded that he was Voldemort, and as long as Draco had some spirit and could answer him back, he wouldn’t believe it.
“Good,” said Draco, and turned towards the door. “Now, I probably have to go reassure Pansy and Astoria that you didn’t kill me, and disappoint the rest of them with that fact.”
“Good-bye. Thank you, Draco.”
Draco let himself glance back once and nod. If he did more than that, he thought, he would never be able to leave.
*
“My Lord. Here is the information I have been able to uncover about Slytherin’s vault.”
Draco had already made sure Harry knew this woman’s name was Arsinoe Rosier. She held a heavy book in her arms and stood before the throne with her head bowed, but Harry knew enough about body language to watch the curve of her neck. She didn’t look all that bloody bowed. Harry held back a snort.
“Yes,” he said, and stretched the last s out until he saw Rosier shiver. Then he extended his hand and beckoned. On Parkinson’s advice, he’d glamoured it until it looked longer and paler than before, with shinier nails. He could never physically turn into Voldemort, but making it look as if he was was a good idea, he thought.
Rosier certainly eyed his hand with approval as she passed the book up to him. Harry looked down and didn’t let his face change, although the page of ancient vellum was so yellow and the letters so thick and dark and written in such a strange, curly script that he thought for a second he wouldn’t be able to read it.
Then he saw the trick of the letters, how the e’s looked as if they were turned backwards and the f’s were long and splashy, and he nodded and started reading.
Rosier stood at the foot of the throne with her head bowed, watching him through lowered eyelashes. Harry caught her doing it and stared back, coldly, until her head did dip down completely and she shivered. Harry sneered and went back to reading.
At the end, he slammed the book into his lap. “You told me that you could not have known this tale if you had not found it in an old diary,” he whispered, and waved the book back and forth. “Does this look like a diary to you?”
“I did the research I begged you to let me do, Lord!” Rosier fell on her knees. “I told you that my cousin found a grimoire, my Lord, and this is that grimoire. I didn’t remember the name, and I had to search hard until I found it. I promise, my Lord, that-”
Harry let her run on until he got bored, and then cut her off with a hard gesture. “Perhaps you told me, at that,” he said reluctantly, and pretended to read some more, although he had absorbed the importance of the words the first time, until he nodded and lowered the book down to his lap. “Arsinoe,” he said, and made the word a caress, so that she trembled and flushed and dared to creep a little nearer to the throne on her hands and knees.
“My Lord?” she whispered.
How sickening, Harry thought, as he reached out to cup a hand around her cheek. I would rather touch Draco this way.
That thought fell into what felt like a dark, quiet pool inside him, and Harry was more than startled to realize it was no exaggeration. He meant it. He would rather touch Draco, and he’d welcome the chance to do something more than simply comfort him after a curse that he himself had cast.
“My Lord?”
He didn’t have time to deal with that revelation, which honestly felt almost impudent, as though something had cast it into his head from the outside and was laughing at his inability to deal with it. But Rosier was still here and staring at him from eyes that had gone cloudy with doubt, and Harry needed to assert himself so that he could keep Draco, and his friends, and everyone else, safe.
“You have done well,” Harry whispered. “I shall not forget it.” He drew his wand, having already decided that he wanted to do this to a certain Death Eater. He just hadn’t decided which one until today. Rosier trembled as she watched him hold up the wand, but didn’t scramble away. “Serpensortia!”
The spell formed a glittering grey snake with a black throat that turned around and stared up at him with savage eyes. Harry knew what it was, because he had tried hard to conjure that specific serpent. A black mamba. He showed his teeth as he hissed, “Stay with this one, attack other people in black robes who attack her, and turn on her if she attacks me.”
The mamba immediately became docile, as that snake in the Dueling Club had when he spoke to it all those years ago. It swarmed over to Rosier and swayed beside her, coiling up when she stared at it instead of moving. But when Rosier stumbled back a few steps from his throne, the snake moved with her, head turning back and forth in vigilant guardianship.
“M-my Lord?” She sounded decidedly less eager this time.
Harry waved one hand. “A reward. You have served me well, and I wish for that service to survive. Make sure that you tell the others not to attack you even in a practice duel. The snake will bite anyone who tries.”
Rosier bowed, and held the bow until Harry hissed at her in irritation. Then she ran from the room, her face dazzled and glowing, followed by the black mamba.
Harry sighed as he leaned back on the throne, although he concealed it by placing his fingers together in front of his face as if contemplating an evil plan. Draco had told him Rosier was one of the most intelligent and therefore dangerous of the Death Eaters. At least he had a chain on her in some senses now.
And I hate that I have to think that way.
Harry shook his head as he sat up and chopped his hand down, and Fenrir Greyback came into the room by prearranged signal. He would think this way and act this way for as long as he had to, so that eventually neither he nor his friends nor ordinary wizards that the Ministry was grabbing and trying to stuff into the Lightfinder would have to.
“My Lord?” Greyback whined in turn, all but rolling on his back.
Harry concealed his disgust and leaned forwards. “I have a task for you…”
*
“I don’t blame your father. I blame Potter.”
Draco sighed a little. Astoria had been concerned about him, but he thought living under the constant strain of being around Death Eaters was taking its own sort of toll on her. She had retreated back to the books around them as soon as she believed he was all right, and even now she was plunged nose-deep in one particular musty tome, scribbling notes down on the parchment beside her. Draco would have liked to close his eyes and go to sleep for a while. It was the quietest room in the manor.
But Pansy was in front of him, and the look on her face told him sleep was far off for him.
“I was the one who came up with that plan,” Draco told her, trying not to wince. His muscles ached a lot more than they had done when he was with Harry. Harry had done what he could, of course, but Draco would feel that for a while. “If I hadn’t, then he would never have done it, because I wouldn’t have been able to tell him about it at all! You’re being unreasonable about this, Pansy.”
Of course, telling Pansy that was never a good way to get her to back down from something. She only held his eyes and asked demandingly, “And you think that he won’t do it again?”
“Torture me for information?” Draco gave a little twitch of his head. “Not unless my father binds me with another secrecy spell, and of course I’m going to try and prevent him from doing that.”
“I didn’t mean that.” Pansy folded her arms. “From the way you described it, you had to comfort him when he had one of his little attacks of conscience right after. He puts himself first, even when he says that he’s doing it for your sake or something. You ought to take him at his word and demand that he pay more attention to you, if he’s really dying to do that.”
Draco had to snort, because Pansy’s analysis accorded so perfectly with what Harry had said. “He apologized for demanding so much comfort, in fact. He said that I was the only one who should need comforting.”
Pansy stared at him.
“Not surprising that you were wrong about him, is it?” Draco added slyly. “I know you don’t like this and you don’t like him, but you should know that he’s only playing this part because he was forced into it.”
“He was the one who chose to go into the Ministry like an idiot, going after Lethe,” said Pansy, discarding common sense as usual. “And he was the one who chose to go along with the Death Eaters instead of dueling them.”
“Even Potter isn’t good enough to handle five people at once,” Draco told her. “And I don’t regret the decision.”
Pansy looked down. Draco thought for a second she was looking at the floor because he’d managed to subdue her, but then realized that would be foolish to think, and followed her gaze. His hand was trembling.
Draco frowned and folded it on his lap, away from her prying gaze. “Aftershocks,” he told her firmly. “Which is to be expected, all things considered.”
“Mmm.” Pansy’s eyes were half-lidded as she looked at him. “And of course you would defend him.”
Draco laughed, a choked-off sound that seemed appropriate to the circumstances. “We’re in a situation that we can’t survive without him,” he said. “I think making the best of it is what we should do.”
“He promised to protect us, and he’s doing a piss-poor job of it.” Pansy pointed at his hand again. “You just remember that the next time you start to defend him.” And she plopped down on the seat beside Astoria.
Draco sighed and leaned back on the chair, closing his eyes, after all. Pansy didn’t understand. Draco couldn’t blame her, when he didn’t know the nature of the strange connection between him and Potter himself. He just hoped that Pansy wouldn’t try to interfere, which would probably do more harm than good.
And he knew that, strange connection or not, he wouldn’t give this up. He couldn’t.
There was something strangely mesmerizing about the turn of pages and the scratching of quill on parchment. Draco sighed and fell asleep, into dreams where someone held him and whispered to him, and he was the center of attention after all.
But in the dream, he could touch back.
Chapter Twenty-Six.
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