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The Heart of the Matter	By : Jad Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 7323 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
Notes:

This is singularly for my own sanity and amusement. It won't be beta read unless noted, so now you can see how truly horrifying my writing is before someone makes it presentable. I'm experimenting with relationships, pairings, and sex in general - there will be het and other slash pairings pre-H/D, so prepare yourselves.

Additional Warnings:

Bullying, bigotry, explicit sex (eventually), first times all around, insecurity/self-hate, violence, murder, off-stage torture, and a dash of teenage infidelity (I don't think this really counts, but some people seem bothered by it. The way I see it, they're teenagers.)

Chapter 1

'Responsibility is the price of freedom.'

—Elbert Hubbard

: : :

The last epithet Draco Malfoy had ever imagined would apply to him was that of 'blood traitor'.

Malfoys were purebloods in every sense of the word, his family unwaveringly loyal to the Dark Lord and his cause; it was the ideology he'd been born into, the way he had been raised, trained, and tailored into a man. Draco accepted without question that he was better than the rest of the world simply because of his heritage, his father's wealth and political power collateral factors.

Even from Azkaban, Lucius' reputation commanded high respect and granted him power; he wove threads of blackmail and threat enough to turn the Ministry inside-out without so much as lifting a finger. His son supplemented his presence where required, a position Draco considered a compliment; acting as the representative of such a man was an honour not to be taken lightly.

He would make his father proud, even if he had all but soiled himself standing in the presence of the Dark Lord at barely sixteen, enervated, terrified at the task he had been given to make up for his father's failure. To earn his father's right to live, to protect his mother, to uphold everything that gave his life meaning. Malfoys were not blood traitors, even in the face of annihilation. Draco would acquiesce to the Dark Lord's command, even if it meant forfeiting the rest of his life for a cause he trusted and believed in but had never quite understood.

He would make his father proud, he told himself again. He would protect his mother. He had to. No Malfoy in history had earned the title of blood traitor. Draco did not intend to be the first.

He didn't realise at the time that this moment would become the fork in the road of his life. This was the moment he had to decide; was he a murderer, or a traitor?

'Draco, Draco, you are not a killer.'

To kill in cold blood—

'No harm has been done...'

—or to betray those he loved.

'...you have hurt nobody.'

This was not a decision any sixteen-year-old should ever have had to make. But, no, he would not give in. He could not cave. He couldn't take the easy way out. He'd got this far... he was the one with the wand. His grip on it tightened; he stood up straighter, holding his chin higher. 'You're at my mercy...'

'No, Draco,' Dumbledore said calmly. Much too calmly for a weak, injured, unarmed old wizard held at wand point. Blue eyes watched Draco from behind their half-moon spectacles, as serene and pastel as the afternoon summer sky. 'It is my mercy, not yours, that matters now.'

At these words, Draco was overwhelmed with a blinding haze of fury at everything; at Dumbledore, for being so fucking calm and benevolent all the time, even in the face of his own demise; his father, for failing and expecting Draco to pick up the pieces; the Dark Lord, for being the biggest hypocrite of them all, and for forcing him to make this decision; at the whole war, for stealing his life away before he knew what the hell had happened.

He was sixteen. He should have been worrying about where to spend his summer holidays, hoping he'd get that new Firebolt prototype for his birthday, wondering whether he'd ever get his hands up Pansy's skirt, or if the Headmaster had enough brains to make him Head Boy in seventh year...

And with a sudden jolt, looking down the smooth, dark wood of his wand to his target, Draco realised how very unlikely his having a seventh year was anymore; how very unlikely even having a seventeenth birthday had just become. He fought the strong urge that gripped his insides to flee to his dormitory and close the curtains and disappear under the covers. He didn't want to be here, didn't want to make this decision.

Dumbledore continued to watch him with that bright, halcyon gaze, silent and patient and far too understanding of a boy who'd come in here with the intent to kill him. Those eyes were offering Draco everything he'd been trying to find all year.

Safety. Compassion. Forgiveness.

A way out.

The tip of his wand faltered; slowly, at first, his wrist dipping an inch, then two, and suddenly his arm dropped to his side, sagging as if the weight of the world had dragged it down. He was barely able to keep his knees from following suit. He hated Dumbledore—always had—but not enough to kill him. Not enough to kill anybody.

And he hated the Dark Lord enough not to.

Dumbledore released a breath Draco had been unaware of him holding. 'My wand, please, Draco.'

There was a terrified scream followed by a howl of rage somewhere downstairs. Draco snapped out of his stupor as the noises of the world restored awareness of his current situation, and without thinking he Summoned Dumbledore's wand with a muttered Accio. With only a moment's hesitation, he stepped forward and, hand trembling, handed it back to the Headmaster.

Dumbledore was watching him with irradiant eyes, and something warm and tingling—something he briefly considered might be pride—unfurled in Draco's chest before he was thrown back into the here and now by Dumbledore raising his wand, once again a power to be reckoned with.

Pointing it at the far wall, he said, softly, 'Quickly, Harry, we don't have much time.'

Draco's blood froze and he wheeled around. From nowhere, Harry Potter emerged, rolling his Invisibility Cloak up in his arms. He looked positively furious; at him, Draco thought at first, but Potter rounded on Dumbledore instead. 'What the hell were you thinking! If he hadn't—he could have—'

'Now is not the time, Harry,' Dumbledore interrupted, his voice, though still quiet and even, now with an underlying urgency. 'The important thing is that he did not, though he had the opportunity.'

His gaze turned from Potter to Draco, who could feel himself flushing, tense with suspicion and indignation. 'The two of you must get under the cloak and keep out of the way.'

Potter began to open his mouth, doubtless to protest, but Dumbledore raised a hand to silence him without looking away from Draco. 'You may disagree with me later, Harry. You agreed to follow my orders, without question. Both of you, under the cloak, now.'

Potter's eyes snapped to Draco. He still looked furious, but he opened the cloak anyway and without so much as waiting for a response, stepped up to Draco and threw it over the both of them.

'Out of the way,' Dumbledore reminded them in a whisper. Over his words, Draco could hear the distant thudding of someone running up the stairs... several someones...

'Move,' Potter hissed, seizing Draco by the elbows and dragging him backwards.

Potter's grip was vice-like and probably would have been painful, had Draco not been so completely benumbed with fear as the door to the Astronomy Tower abruptly burst open, quelling any impulsive desire Draco had had to pull away from Potter. Four figures piled in, shrouded in dark cloaks. One of the group—short, a woman from the look of it, stepped forward, her wand raised.

'Alecto,' Dumbledore said pleasantly. 'Forgive me if I cannot say it's good to see you again.'

'Don't play coy, Dumbledore!' she warned. 'Where is the boy?'

'I'm afraid you'll need to be more specific,' Dumbledore replied patiently, 'for there are many boys housed in this institution.'

'Any will do for me.' The words were uttered through a nasty, low snarl. 'I'm not picky, Dumbledore. You know that.'

'My goodness,' Dumbledore said, sounding mildly surprised. 'Is that you, Fenrir?'

A throaty, bark-like laugh answered him. 'Miss me?'

'No,' Dumbledore said, managing to sound genuinely regretful. 'I really can't say that I have.'

His calm blue eyes swept the group as he held his wand in front of him, raised but not threateningly so. An enormous, blonde Death Eater with a brutal-looking face stepped forward beside Fenrir, eyes narrowed and wand held high. Dumbledore acknowledged him with a slight inclination of his head. 'It's been quite a while, Thorfinn.'

'Enough of this!' said the short, stumpy figure by Alecto's side, his wand also raised. 'We don't have time for your games, Dumbledore!'

'Games?' Dumbledore said mildly. 'These aren't games, my dear Amycus. These are manners.'

Draco could hear more people coming up the stairs. He wondered why none of the Death Eaters had attacked Dumbledore yet; he may have been armed, his eyes fixed and his wand held confidently, but he was still outnumbered four-to-one and slumped weakly by the opposite wall. Draco could practically sense the Death Eaters' fear of this old wizard, all too cowardly to strike first, shooting one another furtive, sideways looks in the hope of provoking someone else into making the first move. Dumbledore observed them silently, motionless.

Potter's grip had not loosened and Draco's elbows were growing stiff, bruises surely forming. One of his hands also held his wand, which was pointed at the group of Death Eaters, ready to attack from behind the safety of the cloak if necessary. Greyback was closest to them, and Draco could smell the dried blood on his clothes.

It was beyond Draco how Potter could even pretend to be brave enough to fight in this situation—as if he could do anything anyway, against three armed Death Eaters and a fucking werewolf, even with Dumbledore there. He could feel Potter's breath on the back of his neck, shallow and even, the heartbeat against his back remarkably calm, as if used to standing in the face of its own demise.

Draco would never have let Potter this close to him before, sod the circumstances, and he was sure Potter felt the same, but both knew better than to move. Instead, he wanted to say something, to ask Potter what the hell he should be doing, if he should be doing anything, or should he just get out of the way, because he didn't feel able to charm a lock open at the moment, much less send a curse flying at the snarling, ragged form of Greyback standing ten feet from him.

The atmosphere was so thick he could have sliced it with a knife, and just as the air felt like it was about to break, Snape barrelled into the room.

Draco felt Potter go rigid behind him, his heart skipping a beat and then plunging into overdrive. The hand holding his wand released Draco's elbow, and he held it higher, steadier, aiming it directly at Snape. Draco turned his head to look at Potter over his shoulder and mouthed, 'What the hell are you doing?' but Potter ignored him, eyes narrowed and focused on the Potions Master.

'Severus!' Alecto hissed, whirling on him. 'Where the hell have you been?'

Snape ignored the question. 'Have you found the boy?' he demanded.

'This old fool's hiding him,' Amycus snapped, gesturing at Dumbledore. 'I bet my life—that boy's bad blood, just like his filthy cousins.'

Snape's eyes flickered briefly to Dumbledore; no words were exchanged, but some sort of understanding must have passed between them, because Draco suddenly found himself forced to the floor by hands on his shoulders as the room erupted in an explosion of lights and colours and bangs, like some sort of massive, spectral firework.

Someone shouted in surprise, Draco heard an enraged snarl nearby, and there were several loud thuds. Another spell exploded right above where Draco and Potter lay on the cold floor, still concealed beneath the cloak. Before Draco could recover from the shock, he was hauled to his feet by strong arms, which ended up belonging to Potter; Draco hissed and wrenched away from him.

Potter ignored him, wrapping the cloak back up in his arms. There were three bodies on the floor; Fenrir was gone, but the other Death Eaters lay Stunned in a haphazard pile between Snape and Dumbledore.

'Thank you, Severus,' Dumbledore said quietly, before looking to Draco, who was still edging away from Potter but unsure of where else to go. 'I must assist the others. You know what is required,' he said. He conjured a quill and parchment out of thin air and began writing very quickly against the wall.

Snape walked over to him and, once he was finished, took the parchment with a nod. 'I counted half a dozen on my way up.'

Potter moved to follow Dumbledore on his way out, but Dumbledore halted him with a forcible gesture. 'No, Harry, you are to go with Professor Snape and Mr Malfoy.'

'What?' Potter snapped. 'The bloody hell I—'

'Disagree with me later, Harry,' Dumbledore said once again, very firmly. 'You are to accompany Professor Snape and Mr Malfoy. I will send an owl. Go.'

As Dumbledore turned and exited down the stairs, Potter started forward. 'But—'

'Potter!' Snape's fist crushed the parchment in his hand. He stepped forward, cutting Potter's route short. 'You heard the Headmaster, and you will do as you're told. Draco—' Snape's eyes flickered to his student, cold and hard, '—now is not the time for delays. Read this, quickly, and memorise.'

Draco blinked briefly at the parchment Snape shoved at him but did not take it. He didn't care what was written there, or where Snape intended to take him. He didn't even care that Potter was supposed to go with him. It felt like Dumbledore's words had hooked onto his stomach and dragged it out of the tower with him.

'But,' he began, looking between Snape and the door, 'what about my mother? He said he'd—'

'Read it,' Snape snarled again, in a tone that demanded obedience. He offered the note once more and this time, albeit grudgingly, Draco accepted it. Smoothing the wrinkled parchment, he read the narrow handwriting quickly:

The Headquarters to the Order of the Phoenix can be found at

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.

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The Heart of the Matter