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Writ on Water	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 3959 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
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Chapter Ten—Avoidance In the Circle

            “This is the Circle.”

            “I could see that for myself, thanks,” Harry said dryly, and waited a moment for his eyes to adjust. But even with the dim lighting in this particular room, he had seen enough to know why it was called the Circle.

            This was a much larger room than he’d thought the Ministry would let the Mind-Healers have, considering that there weren’t all that many of them. The walls were pure and polished stone, as was the case with most everything in the Ministry, but here they’d made no attempt to decorate them or do anything except flaunt it. A ring of braided metals, copper and iron and gold, was set into the floor. Harry thought he would recognize others if he continued looking. There were sparks of dancing color in the Circle, flashing when he narrowed his eyes or turned his head to the side.

            Matron Isral didn’t give him time to recognize them, though. She put a bony finger in the middle of his back and prodded him forwards, and ignored him when he glared at her.

            “In you go,” she said.

            Harry bit his lip and tried not to take offense to the way she ordered him around. She probably did that with all her patients, and he seemed to have become one. And if there really was a hole in his memory, then he wanted it healed, although he still had no idea why someone would want to make one about a subject that seemed as ridiculous as this.

            He stepped into the ring and felt the thrum of power come up through his bones. He shuddered a little. Someone had invested a lot of magic in the Circle, once upon a time, and what he felt was probably the dullest edge of what it was capable of. He made sure not to touch the metal, to walk more towards the center of the ring.

            Then he turned around and faced Matron Isral, raising his eyebrows a little.

            She aimed her wand at him. Harry’s hand dropped to his wand before he could help himself, and she breathed out, “Legilimens.”

            Harry made a conscious effort to drop both kinds of barriers, the ones in his mind that might prevent the Legilimency and the defensive barrier of his magic that had promptly shimmered up and around him—

            And the world inside him rocked, and shook, and splintered apart.

*

            “You must tell me exactly what sort of help you expect with her.”

            Draco leaned back in the chair opposite his mother and sipped at his drink for a few moments before answering. His parents had obviously chosen a new wine in the years he had been gone, something light and fine that he didn’t recognize immediately. He would not reveal his ignorance, but turned his head slowly to study the room that time and prejudice had stolen from him.

            The furniture had not changed, nor had the fact that it was rigorously free of dust thanks to house-elves, but its position relative to the windows had. Draco found himself smiling thinly in appreciation of that. The fireplace had a new mantle, and there was new paper on the walls. Draco found himself wanting to examine it, to study the fringed flowers depicted there in more detail, but concentrated on keeping his eyes on his mother’s and his fingers tight around the glass that he held. She would give him nothing at all if she thought him weak.

            His mother just waited. Time had been kind to her, as Draco could see more clearly now without having the green flames of a Floo connection in the way. She wore her hair long, any silver in it so blended with the natural color that it was impossible to tell the difference, but caught back and up in a shining silver net. At her throat was the necklace of silver that she had worn when he saw her the other day. She studied him over the top of the wineglass as he regarded her, and with some of the same instincts.

            Draco nodded at last. Jourdemayne had been deposited, under the Draught of Living Death, in a bedroom near the top of the house, and house-elves watched over her in case she did manage the impossible and awaken. Draco had to admire his parents’ sense of style and thoroughness.

            “I believe that she has discovered information relevant to one of my cases,” he said. “And for my larger profit in life in general.” No, it had not been his imagination, the way his mother’s eyes narrowed when he said that she had something to do with his case, or the way that Narcissa’s fingers relaxed when he said that he would get more profit out of this. Careful, so careful. His parents were still prejudiced against Aurors, then, and only making the best of a bad bargain by telling him that he could remain one when he was their heir once more. “Time travel.”

            His mother gave a delicate sigh and touched the rim of her glass to the center of her brow as though using the coolness and smoothness to soothe a headache. “You fell for that old line? Oh, Draco.”

            Draco sighed back at her. “As far as I know, she has truly discovered it. It might be the clue to some of the strangeness I’ve found on this case, such as a woman who can erase memories. I do not think that that apparent ability is what it seems on the surface. And Jourdemayne herself is very confident that that kind of time travel exists.”

            “Oh, it certainly does,” Narcissa said, and sipped a little more. “Time travel in general, that is. But time travel without consequences does not.”

            Draco half-nodded. “I suspect that she is suffering from some of the consequences, notes from a future self that appear to plague her. But she will not tell me what they are. I need to understand what’s going on to advance my standing in the Auror Department, arrest the woman I think she is protecting, and make sure that only I keep the secret.”

            “Speak in first person plural, dear, not singular,” his mother said, catching his eye.

            Draco smiled at her and bowed his head. “Sorry, Mother,” he said. “You know that I haven’t had much reason to do that in the last few years. We keep the secret, then.”

            Narcissa spent a few more moments gazing into the distance. Then she said, “And you will keep Auror Potter from learning of this discovery?”

            At the moment, I couldn’t tell him if I wanted to. But Draco would only admit that if he had to, such as if his parents contacted Harry and found out that Harry didn’t remember him on their own. He gave a small, graceful shrug and a sigh. “I must. I agreed to pay the price that you wanted, and I know that is part of it.”

            His mother unexpectedly leaned forwards and laid a hand on his knee. “We do not want unhappiness for you from this decision, Draco,” she said in a low voice. “We know that you must have paid your toll of that emotion and more these past seven years. We simply want you to—think about it. Imagine that you had your choice between your family and your future, and a limited, shut-in future that might involve you being in love with Harry Potter. Which one would you pick?”

            Draco half-raised his eyebrows. It was, or would have been, once, unlike his mother to make such an admission. He decided that he could profitably test it. “From which perspective should I choose? Myself as I was seven years ago, or myself now?”

            “As you were seven years ago, of course.” His mother gave him a strange look. “Would you really expect to judge fairly from your position after that time of suffering?”

            Draco pinned his lips shut to avoid snorting. Of course. His parents were prepared to offer him choices of a sort, but only in a way that made sense to them. And it didn’t make sense to them that the person he might have become was one he was proud of.

            Then again, if someone had asked him a few months ago, before he became partnered to Harry, if he would give up what he had to return to the Manor, he might have hesitated for a long time before he was sure of the answer. And then still be unsure.

            “I will think about your words, Mother,” he said, the same thing he had said so many times when he was an adolescent considering what would be best to do, and half-bowed his head. When he looked up, his mother had that faint smile that showed up more in her eyes and even the corners of her cheeks than her mouth.

            “Let us see what we can convince our guest to tell us,” she said, and set the wineglass aside to make her way upstairs, Draco close on her heels.

*

            Harry opened his eyes. He felt as though he had just been flung through a large pane of glass, and he reached down and felt frantically for a second at his arms and legs, expecting them to be covered with a hundred bleeding cuts.

            There was nothing there. So he turned to the Healers with his mouth open, already asking what in the hell they meant, making him feel these things.

            There were no Healers, either. Beyond the edge of the metal ring in which he stood was simply a vast, flat glow. Harry could see shades of white in it, hints of gold, but nothing more important, nothing more colorful. No buildings, no people, no rooms.

            Matron Isral used Legilimency on you, remember? he told himself, biting his tongue furiously against the temptation to cry out. What you’re seeing isn’t real. It comes from the images that the magic is creating in your mind. The same way that Snape would make you see memories that weren’t happening right then, they only passed through your mind because he was pulling on them.

            But Harry still had no idea what memory this was supposed to be. Or lack of memory? Perhaps the hole in his mind looked this way.

            Regardless, no one had appeared to tell him the way he should act or whether there was anything he could do to heal the hole. He stood with his arms folded, not moving from his position inside the Circle, and turned his head slowly in as many directions as he could from his position, observing everything.

            Still nothing but a glow. Harry listened hard, but it was soundless and without echoes, too. He reckoned that he probably wouldn’t have heard any sound if he’d spoken.

            Then something appeared beyond the Circle, the middle of the glow parting like a door to disclose it. Harry took a single eager step forwards, then reminded himself that not everything he saw here was going to be kind. He dropped his wand into his hand with a small flick and stood steady, trying not to strain his eyes. What he saw would probably come closer in its own good time.

            The figure took several steps, and then stood there at the very edge of the Circle, one hand reaching out as though the metal ring had a solid barrier of air or light above it, one it had to probe and touch.

            Harry stared at him, and he stared back. The pointy angles of the face looked a little familiar, a little like the ones that he’d seen in Lucius Malfoy’s face once upon a time. The shock of white-blond hair made something flicker in the back of his mind, reaching up like a plant’s tendril towards the light—

            And there it was, gone again. Harry growled under his breath and resisted the temptation to stamp his feet like a child.

            “Who are you?” he asked, because the image seemed to have at least a little life of its own and therefore might be able to talk.

            “My name is Draco.”

            Harry hesitated. Maybe the voice had made his blood leap and pulse more than it should have; maybe not. It was so hard to tell what might be real memories struggling to make an appearance and what might be just the hopes or fears or dreams of those memories he had.

            “Draco what?” he asked at last, wondering if the things the image told him would match up with what the Healers had claimed. Of course, there was really no reason that they shouldn’t, when the Healers had been the ones to open up his mind.

            “Draco Malfoy.” The figure leaned against the apparently solid air above the Circle now and stared at him. Yes, grey eyes, the way Harry remembered staring into above Lucius Malfoy’s wand. In looks, there was no doubt that he might be who the Healers had claimed he was.

            “And you were my partner,” Harry said, glancing around again. Would there be a Healer here, to tell him if he was getting it right, or direct his thoughts back on track if they saw him getting off it? He had no idea, but he didn’t think so. He would have to handle this on his own.

            Bloody Healers. They think you can heal someone by just putting him back in contact with the right person, sometimes.

            “Yes,” Draco said then, pulling Harry’s reluctant attention back to him. “Auror partner. And partner in other things.” He lowered his voice and gave a faint smile that made Harry’s stomach tug and leap again.

            “I—they didn’t say that,” Harry said, shaking his head and retreating a step from the edge of the Circle before he could stop himself. Then he locked his legs and refused to go any further. There were Healers watching him, there had to be if they had made this image of Draco appear in front of him, and they wouldn’t get to accuse him of cowardice.

            Although part of him thought he should be more worried about what the man in front of him thought than what the Healers did, which was ridiculous. He had to be only an image. Matron Isral had said that his memories were destroyed, and so had Mind-Healer Estillo. That meant there was nothing left to conjure this Draco out of.

            “I’m saying it,” Draco said, and raised his eyebrows in a way that Harry knew he must have found annoying more than once. “The knowledge isn’t gone, you know. It’s covered over, taken elsewhere, put—” For a moment, his right hand formed a claw shape and rose as though it would split open the air and drag the truth out. Then he exhaled hard and dropped it back to his side. “Anyway,” he added, though Harry didn’t think he had established the thrust of a coherent argument at all. “The knowledge is still here, if you can find it. It’s connected to the twisted you were hunting.”

            At least that made sense. Harry did remember the Socrates Corps and the twisted he had pursued, and how to hunt them. “Do you think if I hunt her down, then I might get back the memories?”

            “I don’t know.” Draco’s smile twisted. “I’m a combination of the deep-reaching magic that Matron Isral is doing and your own memories and your desire to see me again.”

            “I have that?” Harry blinked. That was more startling, in some ways, than being told that he had lost memories in the first place.

            And it filled him with a burning desire to have the memories back, because someone he wanted to see was precious.

            “But I can tell you what your own mind advises,” Draco said, drawing his attention again. He had his hands braced against the outside of that invisible wall now, and was leaning forwards with a face so serious that Harry took a step towards him in spite of himself. “It says that yes, you have to find her. I think—I think it would be best if you looked from the side, if you tried to find her by indirect means instead of direct ones.”

            Harry shook his head. “If she’s this powerful, then the biggest problem is going to be finding her at all.”

            Draco made a soft noise of agreement, but didn’t take his eyes off him. “Maybe. But you were thinking of going to interview Jourdemayne, weren’t you?”

            “Well, yes,” Harry said, and tried to tell himself that this was part of Legilimency, finding out the impulses and secrets in one’s mind and moving them around until they came to the fore. “She seems the logical choice, since at the moment she’s the only lead I have who would know much at all about Nancy.”

            Draco gave him a twisted smile of the kind that Harry felt sure they had also disagreed over in the past. “Yes, you’d think so,” he said. “But Jourdemayne refused to tell you the truth once before, and there’s no reason to think she would start now. Go in a different direction. See if the Mind-Healers can help you break the grasp Nancy’s power has on your mind if they approach it as something more than a destruction of memories.”

            Harry grimaced. “I have to stay around them?”

            “I think that’s something I do,” Draco answered, in a soft, rich voice, as if talking to himself. “I think that I make you face what you don’t want to face, and I’m definitely the one who encouraged you to start seeing a Healer in the first place.” He paused and cocked his head as though studying Harry from an angle. “You don’t take care of yourself the way you should, you know.”

            Harry just shook his head, too bewildered at the moment to argue. “I hate Healers,” he said. “And they might already have done as much as they can by revealing the existence of the hole in my memories. If they’ve never run into someone like Nancy before, I doubt they can cure what she’s done to me.”

            “I don’t think it’s her just destroying the memories,” Draco said. “Or I wouldn’t be here. As you thought, I couldn’t come back, you couldn’t see me, if I was totally destroyed, even in memory. There’s something else going on.”

            Harry hesitated, then nodded, once. It wasn’t as though he had any other leads at the moment beyond Jourdemayne, and if he had interviewed her once before with a partner, it could scare her off if he appeared without one.

            Draco gave him a faint, pleased smile, and then began to fade, along with the flat glow that lit the landscape outside the Circle, until Harry was once again opening his eyes in the middle of a more normal-looking landscape. No, not even landscape, just the room where the Mind-Healers had brought him to the Circle once before.

            And in his head was an image of Draco. He had no idea how accurate it was, compared to the real man, and part of his deep mind still whispered that the Mind-Healers might be tricking him. But he could hold onto it, and it didn’t fade immediately, memory-altering magic or no memory-altering magic, which he thought was a good thing.

            Matron Isral stepped up to the edge of the Circle and inspected Harry as gravely as though he was a summoned demon. “You will let us help you?” she asked in a soft, dry voice.

            Harry clenched his fists once against his instinctive dislike of Healers, and then nodded. “I reckon so,” he said.

*

            When they stepped into the room where Jourdemayne was lying, Draco flicked his wand once to banish the Draught of Living Death from her system. It was a spell that not many Potions masters knew, let alone others, but, well, he had done his share of Dark study and of spells that he could use when he wanted a poison or potion out of someone in a hurry. It had even come in useful when he was partnered with Kellen Moonborn, before Harry, when one of their suspects had taken a swift-acting poison rather than surrender his secrets. Draco charming it out of him had put a stop to that nonsense.

            Before Harry.

            Yes, that was the way that he thought of many things now, in relation to Harry. And it was not fair that Nancy had made Harry forget him and thus deprived Draco of even the possibility of a reciprocal relationship. He would make Harry remember, and he would make Harry think of himself in a different way.

            And Draco in a different way, come to that.

            Jourdemayne opened her eyes, and moaned, and blinked. For long moments, she stared blankly at Draco, so blankly that he wondered if he had done something to her brain by giving her such a large dose of the potion. Then she forced her eyes shut and turned her head away, shuddering frantically. Her skin visibly crawled and she raised her hands as if she would claw her way through the ropes that bound her. Draco moved closer, watching her carefully for some sign of an allergic reaction to the potion.

            “Why did you do that?” she whispered. “Why did you—you couldn’t have known. You couldn’t have known what would happen when you brought me here. Tell me you didn’t know.”

            “Many of the things that could happen to you have not happened yet.” That was his mother, sitting back in her chair and watching with quiet interest that Draco thought would terrify the shit out of him, if he was a prisoner. “If you tell us what you know willingly, they never will.”

            Jourdemayne simply whimpered and bowed her head. “No one knows what I know,” she moaned. “No one knows what’s going to happen. But I do.”

            Draco flickered a glance at his mother, and saw her eyebrows rise. Although he thought she had believed him when he said Jourdemayne’s Order had discovered time travel, it was one thing to say that and another to prove it. But this certainly sounded as though Jourdemayne had some means of gaining knowledge from the future, partial though it undoubtedly was.

            “Tell us what’s going to happen, then,” said his mother, and leaned a little forwards, as if she would reach out and pat Jourdemayne on the head.

            “No,” Jourdemayne whispered. “That’s the point, that you can’t know that, you won’t—”

            And on it went, with Draco and Narcissa being as patient and as accommodating as they could, and Jourdemayne refusing to utter anything more than cryptic words and vague pronouncements. His mother stood up at last, raised her eyebrows at Draco, and stepped out of the room. He knew that she would summon one of the house-elves and order them to cook a certain food, of the kind that would go well with certain drugs and potions.

            Draco shook his head as he looked at Jourdemayne. “You could make this simpler and earn yourself freedom by telling the truth,” he said. “If you wanted to kill me, I know the secret must be important to you, but we could protect you from your enemies.” Given the strength of the wards around the Manor, it was not an idle joke.

            Jourdemayne twisted around to look at him, her face flushed and almost-fever streaked in the nest of her tangled hair. “It’s not me who wants to kill you,” she whispered.

            Draco raised his brows. “And who tried to curse me? Your evil twin?”

            Jourdemayne began to laugh hysterically, and couldn’t stop. After several attempts at reasoning with her, Draco finally curled his lip and stepped out of the room. Frankly, he didn’t think he would do much damage to Jourdemayne’s mind, no matter which potion he inflicted on her. She adequately tortured herself without outside help, it seemed.

*

            Wölkchen: Well, thank you very much! I do like this particular plot, and the way that I’m going to get it resolved, which is planned out. Glad to know you enjoy my stories so much.

            unneeded: Yes, I think it’s very interesting.

            SP777: Healer Estillo doesn’t really deal with the other Socrates Aurors, so she thinks it better to work with Harry instead.

            Well, remember what we’re seeing from is Harry’s altered perspective. One he reason he usually dislikes her is because of the way she acts around Draco.
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