Plots
War is strict as Jesus
War is finer than Spring ...
- "Glory," Pippin
At sunset, he came.
She watched the lone figure emerge from the horizon, a dark shape against the red glow of the falling sun. He walked with the sure stride of a man on a mission and she marveled, bemoaned, that this war had made a seventeen-year-old seem so old. The hazy image of a smiling boy, fulfilled by Quidditch and oblivious to war and sacrifice, floated in front of her eyes before dissolving against the shifting colors of the sunset.
Perhaps it was never so. The luxury of innocence had eluded him in so many ways that, even now, when there are so many to mourn, she found herself grieving for what this man - this child - never knew he never had.
She shook her head. There was no time for this frivolity. The figure crossed the grounds to the main doors where she stood waiting. "Professor," he nodded.
For this, she sniffed. "I'm hardly anyone's professor these days, Potter." It had been at least a year since he was short enough that she could look down her nose at him. It was quite disconcerting to have to look up her nose at her former student, though she strove to maintain the same effect. "We're hardly more than a boarding house these days."
Harry looked beyond her at the castle. "How many have come?"
"A few dozen," she admitted. "Not just children, either. Whole families whose homes have been destroyed or who are just too afraid to do anything else have been flocking here." The school year was cancelled after Albus's death, but the staff couldn't bear to close the school's doors to those who needed a place to go.
Harry's jaw clenched for a moment before he schooled his expression. "I wish we could promise it were really safer here. I'm not sure it is."
"It is," she murmured, "as safe as anywhere, I suppose."
The last of the sun settled behind a cloud, and the grounds suddenly seemed much chillier than before. Harry tucked his hands in his pockets and sighed. "What can I do for you, Professor?"
"I'm afraid I've called you out here for unpleasant news," she said slowly, and hated herself a bit for causing his face to fall. They all knew what 'unpleasant' news was these days, as there wasn't really any other kind. 'Pleasant' news, after all, was when you didn't personally know the corpse, so you could at least feign some sort of professional distance, so you could pretend to be a dispassionate passerby for whom the death had no real impact. None of it could be called anything but unpleasant to her anymore, nor, she imagined, to him.
"Who is it?" His voice was monotone.
"Ernie Macmillan," she said. "And Seamus Finnegan."
His eyes closed, and for a moment, she thought he might be fighting back emotion. But a moment later, he met her gaze with dry eyes and a hard expression and nodded once, curtly. "Thank you for telling me in person."
"I thought you'd rather not read it in the Prophet."
"Right," he pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, and she was struck again by how much the summer had aged him. His eyes carried heavy bags and his face was thinner, almost haggard, as though sleeping and eating had become secondary to surviving and fighting and, ultimately, waiting. Her eyes swept over him in a quick evaluation and found bruises and scratches lining his exposed arms, as though he had been fighting wild beasts in preparation for his inevitable battle with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
"Are you quite well?" she said, more quietly.
He glanced up sharply. "Fine. I'm fine." And then he gave the castle a hard look, long enough to perhaps memorize its every curve and imperfection, and let out a tired sigh. "I have to be getting back."
"To the Burrow?"
"No."
"Oh, I presumed with the wedding -"
Harry shifted from one foot to the other, and she had a sudden flashback to a First- or Second-Year Harry, trying to avoid detention. "Ron and Ginny are there, of course. Hermione and I are doing some research and training at Headquarters."
"Ah," she nodded. "Perhaps I shall see you at the nuptials, then." In times of war, it seemed, everyone had to cling to whatever spots of happiness they could find.
"Sure, maybe," he shrugged, and then: "Take care of yourself, Professor." He looked at her intently, and she recognized the slightly desperate look of a person who expected to never again see anyone with whom he parted.
Impulsively, she reached out and squeezed his forearm. "You, too, Potter." And then she turned and entered the familiar confines of the castle. Safe or not, it was home, and it would remain a haven for those who sought it for as long as it stood.
Minerva McGonagall would die before she would watch Hogwarts fall.
~*~*~
At midnight, he returned.
The house was still and dark, and his feet crunched over the gravel outside the front door. The wind was dead, like everything, it seemed, and he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
A series of mumbled words released the house from its series of protection spells long enough to give Harry entrance. The front hall smelled like lavender and mint, and every time he entered, he found himself wondering if this was how his mother smelled: all soft and sweet and welcoming -
Perhaps returning to Godric's Hollow was a masochistic idea.
He toed off his muddy trainers and walked silently to the main part of the house. He needn't prowl; the house recognized him and the lights came on as soon as he entered the living room.
He wasn't alone.
Harry smirked and looked down at his guest, his honored visitor, who was posed just as he left him: stupefied and bound tightly to a wooden chair in the center of the room. The man's head was tilted gently to the left, his fingers dangling uselessly at the sides of the chair where once he clenched a wand.
Harry checked; the man's wand was still locked in the roll-top desk.
It was a strange sort of feeling, really. Harry never intended to take a prisoner. It was the Order's policy, after all, to turn over Death Eaters to the Ministry, useless as Harry believed this was. If they're not to be turned in, Harry thought, they probably ought to be maimed or killed. He had lost his deep respect for life about ten murders ago, and his patience for the Dark side was now firmly nonexistent.
But prisoners of war ... It hadn't ever been in the plan. It had just seemed at the moment like the thing to do, like a reasonable and useful method of obtaining information. And now -
Now, he had an unconscious Death Eater bound in his living room. In his parents' living room. It had, Harry thought tiredly, better be worth it.
Almost lazily, Harry waved his wand. "Ennervate."
Bloodshot eyes flew open and darted wildly around; constrained limbs fought wildly against the thin ropes. Finally, he focused enough to see his captor, and looked at once irritated and bored.
"Potter," he sneered.
Harry's smirk widened. "Malfoy."
Malfoy's face was smudged with dirt, and his white-blonde hair was streaked with what appeared to be dried blood. "Still here," he said, almost to himself. He looked up at Harry, who still had his wand trained on his captive. "Decided what to do with me yet?"
Harry's grip on his wand tightened. He hadn't, actually. The spontaneity of the capture meant he really hadn't truly thought past each hour. It had been only luck - good for him, bad for Malfoy - that he even came across his classmate in the Forbidden Forest. But lack of a plan has never slowed him before. "Have you decided to cooperate?" he finally replied.
"Oh, right," Malfoy drawled in his signature tone. "I'll just tell you exactly where the Dark Lord is and what all his plans are." He laughed. It was a harsh sound, more like a dry sob than anything. "Is that how you saw this playing out, Potter? You thought you'd attack me - like a common Muggle, I might add - and I'd confide in you all the secrets of my Master?"
Harry raised his eyebrows. "Where was your Master when you were hiding in the Forest?"
"I wasn't hiding," Malfoy snapped.
"Out there all alone in the dark?" Harry lowered his wand and let out a low chuckle. "What, were you planning on attacking Hogwarts all by your lonesome? Out to regain Voldemort's favor?" Harry's voice wavered slightly at his own mention of Hogwarts. The castle remained the last symbol of hope, of safety. If it were to be compromised, the chaos that had been barely contained would most likely erupt. The panic would be unstoppable.
Malfoy winced as though he'd been slapped. "None of your business."
Harry folded his arms. "Where are his Headquarters, Malfoy?"
Malfoy only pressed his lips tightly together and met Harry's glare defiantly, angrily. If he weren't tied to the chair, he might have actually looked mildly threatening.
But Harry was hardly cowed. "Where is he heading next?"
Again, silence. Harry felt his pulse rising, his face flushing: everything he needed to know, every secret that could end this war, was sitting right there in front of him. Including the answer he most wished to know right now.
"Where," Harry all but growled, "is Severus Snape?"
That question, at least, made Malfoy's eyes shine with what Harry guessed was fury. "As if I would tell you any of that, Potter!"
Harry was in Malfoy's face before he even knew what he was doing, wand pressed firmly against the blonde's neck. "You will," he breathed, "tell me what I need to know."
He stayed there, only inches away from Malfoy's face, glaring into those gray eyes as if he could pull the truth out of them. Malfoy was breathing too quickly, almost hyperventilating; his lower lip was turning white from where he was biting it, but his eyes did not leave Harry's. Harry pressed the tip of the wand harder into Malfoy's pale throat, distantly surprised that his hand was so steady given the adrenaline that was coursing through him.
But Malfoy only narrowed his eyes and quite deliberately slowed his breathing. "Are you ..." he said, then swallowed, "going to torture me for it?"
And for a moment, with thoughts of revenge and a deep, rabid desire to know where Voldemort was - perhaps more so, where Snape was - Harry knew he could. The Cruciatus curse danced on the edge of his tongue, hot and bitter like blood, and he wondered what Malfoy's perfect aristocratic features would look like contorted with the tight pain of that spell ... thin lips wrenched open in a howl, pasty skin blotched with heat, fingernails clawing at the arms of the chair -
He blinked away the image and pulled away the wand. "Fuck you, Malfoy," and he turned his back.
Malfoy didn't reply, but Harry could hear his breathing leveling out, could hear the slight rasp in his lungs - how many nights had he been out in the Forest? - and could feel the glower at his back.
Heart still racing, Harry pocketed his wand and calmed himself by taking inventory of the room that had become a makeshift prison. The interior of his parents' house had been cleaned out sometime over the years but not fully repaired. The walls were still blackened, but he could see the underlying pattern of floral wall paper. Somehow, that sweet scent of vanilla and mint continued to lurk like a silent ghost, hovering over the scarce furnishings. The only furniture remaining when Harry arrived had been two wooden chairs, a badly marred table, and a bookcase encrusted with ashes. He'd spent the past two weeks trying to make the place livable, originally thinking he could use it as another base for the Order. The memories had been swirling around with the dust, but he had tried to stay focused on the task, to give it his complete attention.
Until yesterday. Until he stumbled upon Malfoy.
The heavy silence in the room was broken suddenly by the tapping of an owl at the window. Harry crossed the room and let in Hedwig, ignoring the fact that he knew Malfoy was watching his every move - waiting for a chance to break loose, Harry thought, or watching for any weakness that could set him free.
He read the slip of parchment quickly. Their missives were deliberately and necessarily vague, but Hermione's handwriting and code words were clear. "All right," he murmured to Hedwig, and she took flight.
"Love letter?" Malfoy leered, though Harry detected the genuine curiosity in the question.
"As I would tell you," Harry mocked, crumpling the parchment. "I have to leave for awhile."
"Are you bringing back dinner?"
"Maybe I'm trying to starve the truth out of you."
"Oh, that's noble."
Harry snorted. "You tried to kill Dumbledore and almost killed two other students - including my best friend - in the process. You let Death Eaters into the school and watched as Dumbledore was murdered." Even saying the words now, Harry's heart constricted. "Do you think I care much about nobility anymore?"
Malfoy didn't answer, but he didn't sneer, either. He simply looked ... tired.
Harry shook his head. "I'll bring you back something. But until then, sleep tight." And before Malfoy could open his mouth, Harry drew his wand forward and said, "Stupefy."
Under the warm red light, Malfoy glowed for a moment before falling, almost gracefully, lax against the ties. Harry stared at him for a long moment. Asleep, Malfoy looked almost angelic, childlike, as if he had no worries. As if he were innocent.
But no one was innocent anymore, least of all Malfoy. Harry tore his gaze away and headed for the door. He would get the answers from Malfoy, somehow. And then he would get his revenge and end this war and take out as many of those sick bastards as he could.
~*~*~
Hermione's nose was tucked into a book when Harry found her at Grimmauld Place. For a moment, he could imagine she was still just an eager student, revising for her exams, instead of searching Dark texts for spells that could help them fight a war. Help them kill, to keep from being killed, if it were even possible.
When did it all start to seem so ... hopeless?
The summer started off well enough. Harry had returned briefly to the Dursleys and then caught up with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny at Headquarters. They'd been training under the guidance of different Order members - Remus, Tonks, Mad Eye Moody, Shacklebolt - and together they pored over all the information Harry had gathered from Dumbledore about Voldemort's past and the Horcruxes.
Then the attacks increased: always sudden, quick, and grisly. Muggles and wizards alike were the targets, and every day brought disasters worse than the day before. Bill and Fleur had postponed their wedding by two months after the twins were injured quite seriously in an attack on Diagon Alley. Now the summer was over, the wedding was looming despite continued security risks, and Harry felt no closer to discovering Voldemort's plans than he did the night Dumbledore died.
Hermione looked up when Harry cleared his throat, and she smiled. It didn't reach her eyes. "Harry. Where've you been?"
"Out," he muttered. "What do you need?"
She set down her book - 'Ancient Blood Magick & Draughts' - and swept her eyes over Harry. "Those are the same clothes you've been wearing the last three days."
"So?"
"So," she said, like a mother speaking to a small child. "You need to take care of yourself, Harry. You're not doing anyone any favors by prowling around the countryside without sleeping."
"I'm fine," he said, but instead of sounding irritated, he thought he probably just sounded weary.
She gave him a pointed look. "It's almost two in the morning. You were supposed to meet with Remus six hours ago to practice dueling. I've been waiting for you to show up."
"Shite. I forgot."
"I know."
"I'm sorry."
"I know," Hermione sighed. "Well, why don't you come and stay tonight at the Burrow? Then we'll all be there and ready for the wedding tomorrow afternoon -"
Harry pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "I'm not sure I can make it to the wedding."
"What?" she stood up suddenly, knocking two books off her lap. "Of course you're coming! You have to be there, Harry."
"I have something I'm working on," he mumbled. "I don't want to ... miss my chance."
Hermione gave him a look with which he was all too familiar: that slightly condescending, slightly worried look of reprimand. "What have you been doing? If you've got a lead, you've got to let the Order help you."
"It's not anything the Order can help me with." The Order, he knew, would turn Malfoy over to the Ministry. Then they'd never get anything out of him. Harry, at least, thought he has a chance. Maybe. Somehow.
"Then let Ron and I help you," she urged. "Harry, if you've gotten yourself into something dangerous -"
"I haven't," he snarled. "Just let me deal with it, okay?" How could Hermione help him? She'd chastise him for acting impulsively and probably even lecture him for keeping Malfoy tied up there. Inhumane, she'd say, as if Malfoy deserved civil treatment. And getting other people involved would only make it more complicated, anyway.
Hermione looked like she was about to start her second wind, and Harry cut her off. "Look. I'll try to make over to the Burrow tomorrow, but for now, I need to get back, all right?"
She heaved a sigh and shrugged. "Fine. Just promise me you'll get some sleep tonight, and that you'll be careful."
"I promise."
"And don't fight any Death Eaters without us, all right?"
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"Right," and she leaned forward quickly and hugged him. "I wish I knew how to make you realize you don't have to do any of this alone," she whispered.
"I know," he swallowed the lump that invariably rose in his throat whenever his friends told him this. "You be careful, too, okay?"
"I promise."
~*~*~
It was approaching three in the morning when Harry arrived back at Godric's Hollow. Malfoy was still resting as Harry had left him, chest falling and rising lightly. Fighting back a yawn, Harry unpacked the small bag he had prepared and spread out its contents on the floor in front of the chair.
"Ennervate."
Malfoy came to with a start, again looking around quickly before realizing where he was. "Back already?"
"Does time pass quickly when you're stupefied?"
"No. What did you bring me to eat?"
Indeed, Malfoy's eyes were wide at the sight of the array of food. It was hardly all that appetizing to Harry - just some leftover kidney pie, a dusty bottle of butterbeer, and some biscuits of questionable freshness. "Good enough for your Highness?"
Malfoy didn't take his eyes off the food. "Fine. Now untie my arms and let me eat."
Harry laughed derisively. "Yeah, right. I'm not letting you within strangling reach of me."
"Scared, Potter?" Malfoy looked at him then, and the words jolted Harry back five years - back to a dueling club, a snake, a bitter schoolyard rivalry that had somehow led them here.
And Harry replied: "You wish."
They glared at one another, Harry wishing now more than ever that he could have learned Leglimency, until Malfoy finally looked away. "Then how do you expect me to eat?"
Well. Shite. Harry looked down at the food and gritted his teeth. "I'll feed you."
"And how do I know you haven't poisoned it?" Malfoy went on, apparently not nearly as uncomfortable with the idea of being fed as Harry was.
"Guess you'll have to trust me."
"I'll never trust you," Malfoy spat.
Harry settled himself on the floor, cross-legged. "Then I guess we're even."
Malfoy eyed the food warily. "I hate cold kidney pie."
Harry shrugged. "I hate you."
"At least levitate it to me, then," Malfoy said, visibly shuddering. "I don't want your filthy hands anywhere near my mouth."
This arrangement seemed as good as any to Harry, so with some trial and error, he managed to levitate the food to Malfoy's mouth and let the boy eat at his own pace. A time or two the food smeared all over Malfoy's face, but Harry swore it was an accident.
The butterbeer was even more fun to levitate, and by the time the meal was finished, Malfoy looked like he'd been on the losing end of a Muggle foodfight. "I hate you, too, Potter," he said without rancor.
"Glad it's mutual."
"I need to use the loo."
Harry looked up at Malfoy sharply. He hadn't thought of that. "Well. I'll help you then," he muttered, mind racing through the logistics of levitating Draco to the loo and trying to make it all work without creating a horrible mess.
Malfoy looked equally horrified by the prospect. "No bloody way! You're not ... touching me!" A pink flush rose in his cheeks, and Harry was sure that he was blushing, too.
"Well!" Harry huffed. "Unless you want to, you know, go in your trousers -"
"Just untie me loose enough to have some privacy, then," Malfoy sulked.
"No."
"Potter!"
"No!" Harry started pacing in front of the chair, kicking the half-empty bottle of butterbeer out of the way. "Aren't there spells or something for ... relieving ...?"
"No. You'll have to let me go on my own," Malfoy said, suddenly sounding perfectly reasonable.
Harry rounded on him. "Tell me the incantation or I swear I'll let you piss in your pants."
Malfoy blinked. "You will not."
"Will too!" Harry smirked. "If it stinks too badly in here, I can always leave!"
Malfoy gave him a look that could only be described as a pout and relented. "Fine. It's relexius evaporo."
"If that spell loosens your ties, I'll stupefy you before you can blink."
"I get it, Potter."
With a nod, Harry raised his wand and cast the spell. Malfoy looked embarrassed for a second, then relaxed and closed his eyes. "Thank you," he said quietly.
"Anytime," Harry pulled up the second chair and collapsed into it, suddenly exhausted.
Keeping a hostage was turning out to be more work than he anticipated.
"Are you really that afraid of me?" Malfoy asked suddenly.
Harry snorted. "No. But I don't doubt you'll do whatever it takes to get out of here if given the chance."
"So would you," Malfoy pointed out.
"Exactly."
They both were quiet again, and Harry felt himself almost drifting off when Malfoy said conversationally, "I could kill you."
And for some reason, this was the funniest thing Harry had heard in a long time. "Could not!" he laughed.
"If you haven't noticed, Potter, it's not just a pretty tattoo on my arm," Malfoy's voice had the gloating quality that Harry was familiar with hearing at school: all talk, all fake. It was such an old game now that Harry rolled his eyes.
"Please. Voldemort -" he watched Malfoy flinch with an odd sort of satisfaction, "- gave you one task, and you couldn't even do that."
"You don't know what you're talking about," Malfoy said indifferently.
"Actually, I do," Harry said, sitting up straighter in the chair. "I know you were supposed to murder Dumbledore, but when you had him out there on the Astronomy Tower - wandless, sick, and at your mercy - you couldn't do it. You couldn't kill him, even with nothing to stop you, and then you couldn't do it with a herd of Death Eaters surrounding you!"
"Who told you that?" Malfoy's face was a shade paler, his voice a touch weaker.
"I was there. Immobilized, invisible, but there watching," Harry watched the realization dull Malfoy's eyes. "I saw Dumbledore offer you mercy, immunity. I saw how scared you were."
And with renewed fervor, Malfoy fought against the cords that bound him to the chair. "I wasn't scared! I was never afraid of Dumbledore, or of you, and I don't care if you think I was a coward for not killing him-"
"I don't think you're a coward for not killing him," Harry interrupted loudly. "I think you're a coward for trying, for letting Death Eaters into the school, for giving in to the Dark Lord out of fear!"
"You don't know why I did what I did!" Malfoy shouted. The cords were digging into his arms now, keeping his struggle from being at all successful. "You don't know what was at stake!"
"I think I've lost enough people to know what it's like, Malfoy," Harry hissed. "But you don't see me trying to kill innocent people."
"But you're still trying to kill people," Malfoy countered. "It's just that you can justify your murders with pretty little words, say that you'll killing the bad guys and that nothing you do is morally reprehensible at all because you're good and Light and honorable," he spat out the words venomously, "but you have no idea why I do what I do or what was going on that night."
Harry jumped up, letting the chair tumble backward behind him. "I know that your dear friend Snape killed Professor Dumbledore in cold blood! How do you justify that? That he double-crossed the one person who gave him a second chance?" Almost shaking with a sudden rage now, Harry kicked the leg of Malfoy's chair soundly. "But you wouldn't know anything about loyalty or second chances, would you?"
"And you don't know anything about Severus Snape!" Malfoy was yelling just as loudly as Harry, shaking every bit as much. "You don't know what he went through, what he did for me, what he's doing right now to -" and Malfoy cut himself off, shut down, stared intently at a spot on the floor in front of Harry.
"What's Snape doing?" Harry demanded. "Where is he, Malfoy?"
Malfoy didn't move, didn't even seem to breathe.
"Tell me," Harry ground out. He was looming over Malfoy now. He could easily reach out and shake it out of him, beat that unblemished face until it bled, until he told ...
"I," Malfoy finally said quietly, "will let you kill me before I will tell you anything."
Harry stood there, panting, as if he had run a marathon instead of arguing. Harry knew, as surely as he knew anything, that if he found Snape, he would find Voldemort, and he would at least have his revenge if he didn't also win the war. And maybe that would be good enough: but he first had to find Snape.
He had to avenge Dumbledore.
"Well, Malfoy," he said finally, and just as quietly. "I might take you up on that." And he stalked from the room, leaving Malfoy awake and prone in the chair.
Harry stomped through the hallway, up the rickety stairs, and into the first bedroom. It was nothing more than a burnt-out hole with a transfigured mattress in the middle - he didn't even know if it was his nursery or his parents' bedroom or what - but Harry crumbled gratefully onto the makeshift bed and buried his face in the fabric. Fearful as he was to admit it to himself, he knew he couldn't keep Malfoy there forever. He knew he had to figure something out, had to come up with a way to get Malfoy to talk. If he could get his hands on Veritaserum, he would in a heartbeat, but it was being guarded fiercely given the prevalence of Death Eaters around.
And Harry had a feeling that even the Cruciatus curse wouldn't get Malfoy to talk ... if Harry were truly willing to do it.
He had the treasure chest - he had Malfoy. He only had to find the key to get to the secrets.
But how ...
He slipped into darkness with thoughts of Malfoy, Snape, and dark curses rolling through his fatigued mind, and knew nothing else.
~*~*~
When he woke, the sun was high in the sky.
The contrast of sunlight in the blackened room was both startling and depressing, and Harry stumbled off the mattress and toward the stairs. His head was throbbing and his stomach was complaining loudly. In his efforts to feed Malfoy with minimal contact, he himself had forgotten to eat. Hermione would have a fit.
Hermione. Wedding at the Burrow. Right.
He returned to the living room to find Malfoy awake, quietly watching Harry as he entered. "Good morning," Harry's voice was hoarse, from yelling or exhaustion or some combination thereof.
"Is it?" Malfoy lifted one eyebrow. "Looks like shite from where I'm sitting."
Harry stepped closer and froze. The dirt on Malfoy's face from their scuffle in the Forest was now streaked with tear trails. His eyes, cool and calculating as ever, were undeniably red-rimmed. "Malfoy, were you ... crying?"
"No," Malfoy scoffed. "It's just the dry air in this bloody dump. What is this, the Mudblood's home?"
"Don't call her that," Harry said automatically. "And no. It's not." He hesitated, then went on. "It was my parents' house."
"Your parents -" Draco started. "You mean, this is where ..."
"Yes. This is where."
Malfoy seemed to shrink in his seat and didn't reply.
Harry cleaned up the mess made by the previous night's dinner and, after a minute of vacillation, glanced up at Malfoy. "Why were you crying?"
"Mmm. I was thinking about how pathetic it must be to be you."
"Ha, ha."
"Really, I mean," Malfoy blinked innocently. "Having to kidnap old nemeses just to have someone to talk to -"
"I ought to silence you," Harry grumbled.
"Well, then you'd never find out anything."
"Not like I am anyway, am I?"
Malfoy sobered. "No, you're not. And I can't help but wonder how long you plan on keeping this up."
Harry sat back on his haunches. "Before, what, I off you?"
"Before you give up."
Harry met Malfoy's gaze. "I never give up."
"Whatever gets you off, Potter."
"I assure you," Harry said gravely, "watching you weep and complain and snivel does not get me off."
"True," Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Last time you saw me cry, you decided to try to murder me."
Unbidden, the horrific memory overtook Harry's mind: Malfoy, face and chest covered with scarlet blood, hands moving uselessly to stop the pain, the water in the bathroom mixing with the pools of red ... "That was an accident," Harry gasped, feeling as suddenly shameful as he did when Snape caught him at that awful scene.
Malfoy didn't look triumphant at this statement, just ... resigned. "Only you could claim to use potentially lethal Dark Magic accidentally."
"I didn't know what the spell would do," Harry admitted.
"As if you wouldn't have cast it anyway."
"I wouldn't have."
"Sure," Malfoy said, but he stared plaintively at Harry.
"Do you ..." Harry cleared his throat. "Did it scar?"
Malfoy cringed, then looked down. "See for yourself."
And though some invisible force ought to have stopped him, Harry slowly moved forward toward Malfoy. The cords bound him at his arms, legs, and waist, but Harry could easily grasp the bottom hem of his jumper. Malfoy was determinedly not looking at him, and Harry trained his eyes on the fair skin under the jumper as he lifted it upward.
It took great effort not to let his reaction show. Though Malfoy's face was unmarred by the curse, a white jagged line ran from his left pectoral muscle down to the right side of his abdomen, faint but visible. Harry unconsciously started to touch it with his forefinger - the scar was raised slightly but otherwise felt smooth - and then jerked away when Malfoy shivered underneath him.
He backed away abruptly. "I'm sorry."
It tickled."
"No, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I did that to you."
Harry might have just said he wanted to be Malfoy's best friend, as disgusted and appalled as the blonde looked. "That's what enemies do, Potter, isn't it?"
"I shouldn't have ..." Harry began, then shook his head. "Why were you crying that day?"
He expected Malfoy to tell him to bugger off, that it was none of his business, but instead, Malfoy just exhaled slowly and said, "I was fucking scared."
"Of what?"
"Nothing. Everything," his face scrunched up as if he were puzzled. "It was all too much, you know. I had both sides after me, and there didn't seem to be anyway I could succeed or even come out of the situation alive."
"You were afraid of Voldemort?"
"Would you stop saying his name?" Malfoy hissed. "And of course I was afraid of him. Anyone who serves him has to have a healthy fear of him if they wish to stay alive. But that's part of it. I just, that day ..." he tapped his fingernails on the arms of the chair restlessly. " ... I guess I was just wishing I had someone else's life."
Harry didn't answer.
And Malfoy went on: "I'm sure think I should have just done myself in, saved everyone the trouble. Maybe that would have been noble. But it wasn't just about me, anyway. If I failed ..." his throat works, and when he speaks again, his voice is a bit softer. "They would have killed my mother, too."
Harry watched him, let the silence creep over them, until Draco spoke again. "Is that what you wanted to hear, Potter?"
"No," Harry said. "And if it's true, then I pity you."
"If it's true -"
"Because telling me a sob story isn't going to get me to set you free," Harry turned away from Malfoy. "I have to go."
"It's the truth, Potter. Whether you want to believe it of me or not."
"I don't particularly care one way or the other," Harry said, voice carefully distant. "You know what I want from you, and the rest is all details."
"Fuck you."
"No, thanks," Harry made a show of moving his chair back to its original place against the wall. "I'll be back later."
"I hope you're not going out in public," Malfoy said under his breath.
"Why?" Harry moved to face him again.
"Because you stink."
"Fuck you."
Malfoy shrugged. "Don't say I didn't warn you."
"I won't," Harry raised his wand. "And, so you don't get into any trouble while I'm gone - Stupefy."
If there were any ill effects of being stupefied more than once per day, Harry only hoped that eager honesty would be one of them. He started to the door then, looking down at his filthy clothes, decided that a shower might not be the worst idea he's ever had.
He didn't, after all, need Hermione lecturing him all afternoon.
~*~*~
Harry showed up an hour late to the wedding and earned reprimanding looks from Hermione, Mrs. Weasley, and Ginny - at once. Bill and Fleur were just finishing their exchange of rings in the gazebo in the backyard when Harry slid into his reserved seat beside Ron in the front row. It might have been easier to sneak in if there were more than twenty people in attendance, but given the times and the security measures, any get-together was inherently dangerous these days.
After the ceremony, he chatted idly with some of the guests, congratulated the happy couple - Bill was looking much better these days, though his personality was a bit fiercer - and eventually slipped away into the quiet of the Burrow while the others mingled outside. Even when it was mostly family gathered, Harry felt a bit out of place. Joy grated on his nerves; since Dumbledore died, he'd found himself even more of a loner than in years past, and the fact that he might not live long enough to even have a wedding blunted his enthusiasm for Bill and Fleur's happy day.
"All right, Harry?"
Harry turned and found Remus sitting on the ratty old sofa beside the fireplace. "Fine, Remus. How are you?"
Remus made a non-committal sound and shrugged. "I've got something I need to give you privately."
"Oh?" Harry glanced out the window. The rest of the party-goers were immersed in watching Bill and Fleur cut their cake. "What is it?"
Remus stood and dug into his pocket, pulling out a small money bag. Harry started to protest - if anyone needed spare Galleons, it was Remus - but Remus held up a hand to silence him. Then, with a slight flick of his wand and a few murmured words, he opened the bag and pulled out something small and golden ...
"The locket," Harry breathed, and darted forward to inspect it.
It was - his heart had surely stopped beating now, he thought - Merope's locket. The one he and Dumbledore had sought in the cave. "The Horcrux." Unbelieving, Harry ran one shaking finger over the serpentine 'S' engraved on the weighty necklace ... this was it ...
"Where did you find it?" he looked up at Remus.
"Well, it took work, let me tell you," Remus smiled slightly. "But we found it secreted away among Kreacher's things."
"Kreacher ...?"
"Kreacher, who would never let a Black heirloom be lost if he could help it."
Harry furrowed his brow. "But ... Black? ..."
"You said the note left in the cave was signed 'R.A.B.'" Remus had switched into teaching mode, it seemed, and had all the patience of a man giving a historical lecture. "And since that person had to have been someone who was both acquainted with Voldemort and, frankly, dead ... We deduced that it was most likely Regulus Black, Sirius's brother. And he had kept it at Grimmauld Place."
Harry couldn't take his eyes off the locket. In this piece of gold was part of Voldemort's soul ... The thought made his stomach clench and, at the same time, gave him an undeniable thrill of power. "How do we destroy it?"
Remus sighed. "That's the problem. But I thought I'd give it to you for safe keeping until we figure that out."
"I don't know that it'll necessarily be safe with me," Harry said uncertainly. "But thank you. If I can get to Hogwarts, perhaps Minerva's found more of Dumbledore's memories for the pensieve ... and maybe there's some hint there as to how he destroyed the ring ..."
The shadow crossed Remus's face at the mention of the ring. "You know who might know how he did that?"
Harry felt the familiar roll of anger rise in his chest. "Snape. He healed Dumbledore's hand after it was cursed by the ring. Dumbledore said he saved his life - so of course he would have to know what happened, how Dumbledore managed to exorcize that part of Voldemort's soul from the ring!"
Remus nodded. "Yes, but finding Severus might be just as arduous as finding the other Horcruxes."
"I'll find him," Harry swore, shoving the locket deep in his pocket. "I promise you, Remus, I will find him, whatever it takes, and I will find out what he knows about the Horcruxes." Harry pressed his lips tightly together for a moment, then looked away from Remus. "And then, I swear it, I will kill that mother fucker."
~*~*~
"Do you know what a Horcrux is?"
"What are you going on about, Potter?"
"I said, do you know what a Horcrux is?"
Malfoy was staring up at Harry, obviously nonplused. Harry had revived him only to immediately start interrogating him, wand leveled at his hostage unwaveringly.
"What, is that one of Hagrid's infernal beasts?"
"No!" Harry whipped his wand away in frustration. "Did Snape tell you anything about a ring?"
Malfoy's features went rigid at this. "I'm not telling you anything Snape has told me -"
"A ring, Malfoy!" Harry shouted. "Anything about the ring that cursed Dumbledore's hand -"
"Is that what did it?" Malfoy murmured, sounding only vaguely interested. "Thought perhaps he was petting that stupid Phoenix when it reached its burning day or something ..."
"I need to know what Snape said about it."
"And I need to not be tied to a chair in this pile of rubble."
Harry shoveled one hand through his sweaty hair, pacing once more in front of Malfoy's chair. "Look, I'm the one with your life in my hands here -"
"And look!" Malfoy smiled winningly. "I'm still perfectly fine, and you've gained nothing at all, and you can't learn anything I don't want you to know because you're too much of a pansy to even keep a hostage correctly -"
Smack!
Harry's hand had connected with Malfoy's face before he could even register the motion. He drew away, watching a pink mark appear on Malfoy's face, before swinging back and hitting him again, harder, closed-fisted.
But Malfoy didn't move, except to turn his head with each strike, and didn't look away from Harry. "Does that help?" He said finally, only the shake in his voice betraying the pain.
Harry let out a strangled sound and sat down on the floor right there, pressing one hand against his own mouth.
And Malfoy watched, disinterestedly, until Harry collected himself enough to look up at him. "This isn't working," he said finally.
"Well, give the boy a bloody medal," Malfoy said.
Harry ignored the comment and regarded Malfoy thoughtfully. "Dumbledore offered you protection."
"Yes," Malfoy looked wary.
"Would you have taken him up on it?"
Malfoy frowned. "Would you take me?" At Harry's bemused look, he added, "You're in charge of the whole resistance now, aren't you? So the question's yours, Potter. Would you have me on your side?"
Harry paused. "I think you could change sides. I don't think you're capable of being absolutely loyal to Voldemort. If you were, you'd have killed Dumbledore that night."
"Well, thanks," drawled Malfoy.
"But I don't trust you," Harry went on. "And I would never trust you to be a spy."
"Who said anything about being a spy?"
"I thought you did."
Malfoy shrugged. "Dumbledore offered immunity, safety, a hiding place. Fuck being a spy. Too messy for me, really."
Harry narrowed his eyes. "You're just saying you want to be on our side so I'll let you go so that you can run straight back to the Death Eaters and Snape."
"Maybe," Malfoy admitted. "But you're the one who brought it up. I was just trying to understand my options." He gave Harry a haughty look.
"You're a real piece of work, Malfoy," Harry said. "You'd give up everything you've purported to believe in just to have someone to protect you, because you're too much of a coward to protect yourself."
"Are you saying you want me to be a Death Eater? Because that would be consistent?"
Harry leapt to his feet. "No. I'm saying that we only want people on our side who are loyal to the cause, not just afraid of dying." He leaned forward, stopping inches from Malfoy's face. "Because we are not afraid of dying."
Malfoy's eyes looked solemn then. "It's not about living, Potter," he said slowly. "It's about having something worth living for."
Harry blinked.
Malfoy continued: "I couldn't just join your side and be your happy little Dark-fighter because, much as I might dislike serving the Dark Lord, I still hate Mudbloods. I hate what you Muggle-lovers have done to Wizarding society. I hate that pure blood families are watered down and dying out, and I hate that our culture has been tainted by the influence of outsiders." Harry opened his mouth to interrupt, but Malfoy kept going. "And for the same reasons, maybe I don't make a good Death Eater. I hate Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers, but I don't have a burning need to kill them all. I just want to live the life I've been raised to live, to have the things to which I am entitled. To raise a family, inherit the Manor, and buy a Quidditch team.
"But that doesn't seem to be an option right now," Malfoy acknowledged softly. "I can have the protection of one side and the wrath of the other - though right now, I think I have the wrath of both. I have to stick with who's loyal to me."
"And who is that?" Harry asked, already knowing the answer.
"Severus Snape," Malfoy said. "And that is why your side will never protect me and why I can never trust you. Because Snape is protecting me, and I will be loyal to him until I die."
Any amity created by Malfoy's speech dissolved with those last sentences, and Harry clenched his fists at his sides. "Snape murdered the very man who promised to protect you."
"If your worldview is that simple, Potter," Malfoy said, eyes flashing. "Then I feel so, so sorry for you."
"If Snape could double-cross Dumbledore, then how do you know he won't betray you as well?"
Malfoy leaned forward in the chair as far as the bonds would let him. "You don't know anything about us!" he exclaimed. "You don't know what he's done for me, how much he's risked -"
"I know he swore an Unbreakable Vow," Harry said.
"Yes," Malfoy spat. "And who's ever done that for you, Potter? Snape cares more about me than he does for himself, and he will never betray that, and neither will I!"
At once, Malfoy's protestations looked comical to Harry, and he let out a harsh laugh. "What, are you in love with him?"
Malfoy's face burned crimson. "You are such a simple, stupid, ignorant dolt -"
"Are you a pouf, Malfoy?" Harry asked, mock seriously. "Do you have a crush on your old, greasy Potions Master?"
"You're pathetic, Potter," Malfoy said, looking away. "It would be like having a crush on my father. Though maybe that's your thing." But as biting as his words were, Harry had the sudden impression that he had hit some sort of a nerve.
"Disgusting," Harry muttered. "I need some sleep."
"And I need food and my bodily functions managed," said Malfoy dully.
Fifteen minutes later, after Harry had silently fed Malfoy, adjusted some of the cords so as to not cut off circulation, and cast the digestive relief spell, he started toward the stairs. "'night, Malfoy."
There was no answer, but halfway up the stairs, Harry swore he heard a sniffle.
~*~*~
Sleep eluded Harry that night, despite the excitement of the previous days, and after an hour of tossing and turning, he tugged on his jeans and crept back downstairs to check on Malfoy. The house creaked and moaned around him with each step. Somehow the place seemed more alive at night, as if the house could remember the tragedy that befell its inhabitants after dark in the past and stayed alert now to protect itself.
Harry shivered.
The lights were still on in the living room, and without a sound, Harry slid into his chair facing his sleeping prisoner. Malfoy's chin was tucked against his chest, and he snored softly. Harry almost smiled. Awake, he made Harry's blood boil. Asleep, he seemed almost ... human.
And really, after the past year during which Harry spent more time thinking about Draco Malfoy than he did his schoolwork or even Quidditch, he was hard-pressed not to feel like Malfoy was an infuriating but ubiquitous part of Harry's life. It seemed deeply ironic that now, after years of contempt, the knowledge Harry needed to win the war might only be learned by manipulating - or allying himself with - Malfoy.
The wind howled outside and Malfoy's head swung sideways abruptly. Harry froze, but Malfoy was still asleep. His eyelids were fluttering wildly, and his throat worked noiselessly for a moment. Then:
"Yes ..." It was a whimper, heavy with sleep, but the words were clear. "Don't want ... make me stop ... "
Harry leaned forward, watching Malfoy as if he'd never seen him before. His fingers were flexing around an invisible wand, and he tossed his head backward and moaned. "There ..."
Malfoy let out a gasp, and then groaned: "Harry ..."
The ground might have fallen out from under Harry, but he couldn't move. His jaw fell open, and he watched as Malfoy's face tightened. "Don't ... stop ..."
Harry stood up quickly and moved forward, sure Malfoy was faking, that this was a sick joke. But Malfoy kept writhing against the ties, his eyes moving jerkily under his eyelids, and - Harry looked away, flushing - something prominent tenting his trousers.
Harry rushed up the stairs, no longer caring if he woke up Malfoy, and flung himself on the mattress in his room. Could it be ... He rubbed at his cheeks, willing away the blush. No wonder it seemed like he had struck a nerve with Malfoy, calling him a pouf. He was - but it wasn't Snape after whom he was lusting.
It was Harry.
A slow grin spread across Harry's face. Certainly, he knew from experience, young men could dream about all sorts of things, and it didn't always indicate conscious desire. But calling out his name ... having, for all intents and purposes, a wet dream about Harry ...
It had to have some basis. There was, after all, supposed to be a fine line between love and hate. Or, at least, lust and hate.
And as suddenly as the flush in his face, Harry had a brilliant idea. He didn't need to threaten Malfoy to get him to take him to Snape. He didn't need to torture him to get him to genuinely help the Order. No.
He needed to seduce him.
He needed to get Malfoy to fall in love with him.
And if with love came loyalty ... then Harry could get everything he needed to win the war and exact his revenge on those who had taken away the people who mattered most to him.
All he needed was ...
Draco.