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Incandescence	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 13843 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter; that belongs to J. K. Rowling. I am making no money from this fic.

Chapter List
- 11
- 12
Thank you again for all the reviews! This is the last
chapter of Incandescence. I hope
everyone enjoys reading it.

Chapter Twelve�Irradiated

�� Draco
swiped his hand through his hair and slumped back against his pillow. Then he
scowled at the far wall and muttered, �If you�re still able to take notice of
anything in the outer world any more, Yolanda, then I reckon you have your
revenge.�

�� He wasn�t
sure if it made matters worse or better that Harry had told him he was sure the
dead didn�t remember who they had been after a relatively short time in the
world of the dead, at least not in any connected, coherent pattern. Flashes of
memories were all that remained to them, like the fragments of many different
stories.

�� Draco
rolled out of bed and leaned against the wall of his tower, listening to
Justice preening on his perch in the next room. He reminded himself that he was
here, he was safe, and that if he really wanted Harry to spend a night or two with
him, then he could firecall him. Harry had spent the last few days hinting
gently that he didn�t think Draco entirely recovered from his ordeal at
Yolanda�s hands, and that he would be happy to help if Draco needed him.

�� Draco
sighed and dropped his head into his hands.

�� The
memories were coiling and rippling through his mind, surprising him with sudden
and shocking pain that he thought he had dealt with years ago. A normal dream
about a complicated chess problem or somehow having written a book that
appealed to everyone would be
interrupted by the vision of himself standing, wand in hand, eyes wide with
horror, while a random Death Eater writhed under his wand.

�� Or
Voldemort would be standing over him, threatening him with the deaths of his
parents if Draco disobeyed. It wasn�t even that Draco disobeyed all that often;
Voldemort was just mad enough to like to threaten people whether they did or
not.

�� Or he would
be back in sixth year, pressed by terrible crushing fear. He didn�t want to
kill anyone, but if he didn�t, what would happen to his family? And everything
had gone so badly wrong, shattering
his illusion that he was perfectly powerful and perfectly in control of his
life because he was a Malfoy.

�� Draco
lifted his head and dug his fingers into his hair, tugging on it until he was
calmer. Then he dropped his hand with a grimace, because that was something he hadn�t done since sixth year, either.

�� Well,
presumably the Mind-Healers knew what they were about. Draco went to find the
lists of words they�d given him to memorize. He�d only done it a few times each
day, because the words were not ones he found exciting and he would much rather
think about the stories that occasionally sparked in his head. Maybe he should
do it more often.

*

�� Two hours
later, he woke with a start from another nightmare and threw the Floo powder
into the fire without further delay, calling Harry. Harry appeared with a calm,
alert face�Draco supposed there had to be some
benefits from spending so much time awake at odd hours, such as being able
to do without sleep�and nodded when Draco explained the problem in stumbling
words.

�� Of
course,� he said, and a moment later he had Flooed in, stumbling over his cloak
as usual, and sat on the couch with his arms curled around Draco. Then he muttered
something in annoyance and tapped his wand on the couch. It promptly grew
bigger and more comfortable. Draco sighed in contentment as he rolled to the
side and piled his head on Harry�s chest.

�� So you�re
human after all,� he mumbled. �Never thought I�d see you admit the day when you
liked comfort.�

�� Harry
hummed in response, his fingers sliding through Draco�s hair and somehow
finding all the itchy parts of his skull that he most wished someone would
scratch. �Go to sleep, Draco. I�m here. I won�t let anyone or anything harm
you.� Draco thought he could hear a smile in Harry�s voice, though it was so
low and serious it was hard to be certain. �If someone tries, I�ll call on the
dead.�

�� He can, too.

�� Draco let
his arms sprawl over Harry�s chest and sank into sleep.

*

�� Er.�

�� Apparently
that was all Weasley could come up with to say when he found Draco and Harry
together in Harry�s office.

�� Draco
looked up with a lazy smile from the opening paragraph he�d been scribbling on
a piece of spare parchment. Lately, paragraphs and words had been haunting him,
swirling around in his head but refusing to form into a coherent story. That
was the opposite of the way he usually started, with a character and at least a
shadow of a plot based on that person�s real actions during the war, but the
words were so insistent that Draco wrote them down anyway. �Yes, Weasley? Was
there something you wanted?�

�� What are
you doing here?� Weasley at least had the sense to shut the door before he
almost bellowed the words.

�� We�re
friends,� Harry said, glancing up at his partner briefly before he turned back
to finishing a report on a case that Draco knew to be much more boring than the
Timpany case, because Harry had lectured him about it in exhaustive detail. He
looked innocent when Draco complained and said that he merely wanted to make
sure that Draco had some idea of the truth if he wrote about Aurors again. �Or
dating. Or something.�

�� Weasley sat
down hard in his chair, which Draco had noticed was never clean. Sure enough,
several pieces of parchment crinkled and cracked in protest, and he had to
stand up and pull them out from beneath his arse before he continued. �Harry,
the last I knew, you hated him for breaking into this place.�

�� Not his
shining moment,� Harry agreed, with a sideways glance that made Draco flinch.
No one scolded like Harry. Of course, Draco didn�t care about anyone the way he
cared about Harry, which made the words sink the deeper. �But we shared some
experiences and some truths that make me inclined to trust him.� He shrugged
and continued working on his report.

�� But,�
Weasley said, and then stopped, apparently baffled as to what he should do
about Draco�s presence if Harry didn�t find it objectionable.

�� Draco kept
his face turned downwards so Weasley couldn�t see his smile, which would
probably spoil things, as he scribbled out the next sentence that had come to
him. And in light embrace the darkness. Then
he paused and realized that that wasn�t a full sentence, and perhaps he shouldn�t
be thinking about Weasley when he tried to compose; obviously it had a terrible
effect on his writing.

�� He returned
to his original thought. Harry had told him that this was the best way to
handle Weasley: act as though something was merely part of reality, and there
was a much larger chance that Weasley would accept it because someone else had
accepted it. Harry called it �guiding� his best friend. Draco saw it as more
proof that Harry should find other friends. Between Weasley�s shovel of an intellect
and Granger�s dagger, the poor man had no idea what a normal mind looked like.

�� We�re
still trying to decide what our relationship is,� Harry said, with a small
shrug and a smaller smile in Weasley�s general direction, and then went back to
working on his report. Draco stared at his parchment and tried to figure out
how to turn that irritating fragment into a complete sentence.

�� Weasley sat
down at his own desk, still giving them nervous glances from time to time.
Harry ignored him so serenely that Draco ceased to watch for pranks from the
corner of his eye and became more involved in figuring out how to continue this
story.

�� If it was a
story. If the various whirlpools in his head meant anything.

*

�� I do not
like to think that I once welcomed Yolanda Timpany into this place.�

�� Draco sat
back with his glass of wine. Delicate Summerlands wine, the very best, and a
red so bright that it was hard to look at. Draco hadn�t asked for that; Cassidy
had simply given it to him after he told her the tale of Yolanda�s death. She
leaned on the bar now, staring at the nearest corner where a fire blazed.

�� You
couldn�t have known,� Draco said. �Or rather,� he added hastily, as Cassidy
glanced back at him with that slow way of turning her head that a bull would
use, �you knew as much as the rest of us did. Yolanda wrote about real people,
and she made use of political victims. None of us realized how much she made those victims, rather than simply
picking them up because she paid attention to the papers.�

�� You are
quite certain of her ultimate fate?� Cassidy turned a wineglass over in her
hands as if looking for flaws in it. The way her fingers curled around its edge
reminded Draco of a rock formation he had passed on his way into the Writer�s
Labyrinth tonight, ready to spear anyone who took the wrong turning. He
shuddered and buried his uneasiness in the Summerlands wine. It was strange to
realize that Cassidy frightened him more at the moment than the memory of
Yolanda did, but so it was.

�� Yes. When
Potter kills someone, they stay dead.� Draco hadn�t been able to tell the full
truth without revealing Harry�s gifts, of course, but he had been able to say
that Harry had engaged in a duel with her and a rescue of Draco.

�� A pity.�
Cassidy sighed out the words and put the wineglass down. When she turned, Draco
found himself pinned with a sharp gaze. He blinked back at her, wondering what
he had done wrong that she should look at him like that.

�� You have
expressed more melancholy this evening than I have ever seen you do,� Cassidy
said. �And it has been nearly a month since your Golden Stories emerged, with no rumor of your working on a new
novel. Are you still a writer?�

�� Draco
smiled as he understood, though he couldn�t relax. Cassidy wanted to know
whether she should still admit him to the Labyrinth. �I have a story brewing,�
he admitted. �But so far it has no title, and it�s only scattered bits and
pieces, and I can�t focus it on one figure the way I usually do.� She was the
first person he�d told. Draco liked Harry a lot, but he simply didn�t
understand the deep urge to tell stories that Draco had, and he had to pacify
Angela and his other editors with vague promises of a tale that he was trying
to figure out the best way to tell. Angela thought it was the Ollivander novel,
and kept suggesting titles that were all terrible. Draco hadn�t wanted to know that his copy-editor knew
that many horrible puns on �wand.�

�� Good,�
Cassidy said unexpectedly.

�� Draco
blinked. Cassidy leaned forwards across the bar and poked one fingernail into
his shoulder. Draco hid a wince and hoped that no one else had noticed. Of
course, most of the people in the Labyrinth�s central nook had been leaving him
strictly alone this evening once they realized that Cassidy wanted to hear him
talk.

�� You�ve
been writing the same way for more than a decade,� Cassidy said. �Your writing
is showing signs of weariness and strain. You should take a different path and
write in a different way.�

�� Draco
leaned forwards. �Don�t tell me that until you�ve read The Hope-Well.�

�� Cassidy
looked unimpressed. �I�ve read all your other novels, Malfoy, and I can trace a
clear progression. Yes, you gain more control of your technique, and I�m sure
you still write the endings and beginnings of your stories in a fever of
enthusiasm. But the middles sag and lose their way. The last one didn�t have
anything like a plot. Fire in the
Darkness was clear enough at points, but then it would sink back into a
slough. It�s all to the good if you have to change your method and start
writing in a different fashion.�

�� Telling
stories about the war is what I do,�
Draco said patiently. �And basing my novels on the life histories of people in
the war is what I do. If I didn�t, I
wouldn�t be a different kind of writer, I would be a non�-writer.�

�� Cassidy
laughed. �You do not know how many times I have heard versions of that,� she
said, when Draco glared at her. �From writers of mysteries, of romances, of
comedies, of tracts to free house-elves. It seems as if a new kind of story
might be stirring in your head. Rejoice in your good fortune and listen to it.� She paused thoughtfully.
�Besides, have you thought about what you�ll do when you run out of heroes to
write about? Somehow, I can�t see you deciding that the minor, ordinary stories
of the war are worth your time.�

�� Draco
stared sightlessly at his wineglass, turning it around until a drop of
Summerlands escaped down the rim. He had independent confirmation that what
Cassidy said was right. Before all of this mess, in the first flush of his
enthusiasm for writing a novel about Harry, he had decided that there was no
other way for his Heroic Lives series
to end. He�d been thinking of capping it even then.

�� But why
should he? He was young for a wizard, thirty-four in a life that would probably
last more than a hundred years, and he didn�t want to spend the rest of it
doing nothing, even in the graceful fashion that his parents did nothing.

�� I want to
be a writer,� he muttered. �I have to tell stories.�

�� And I want
you to be a writer, so that I can continue to welcome you here,� Cassidy said
placidly. �It seems to me that you�re ignoring the obvious�a way that would let
you write about the war and use experiences that you know well and yet would
change the direction of your writing in a way that would give it new force.�

�� She turned
aside to deal with a moping young poet called Anna Grayson whom Draco
considered much too influenced by Boot. Grayson wanted water and sympathy, and
got the former. Draco tapped his fingers on his knee, out of Cassidy�s line of
sight; she only became more obstinate when she sensed that someone was
impatient.

�� What do
you mean?� he burst out when she
turned back. �Of course I want to know how I can go on writing about the war.
It was the central event of my life. It defined a generation. Its ripples are
still present all around me. Tell me.�

�� Cassidy
leaned forwards. �By using the experiences of the person you know best,� she
said. �Yourself.�

�� Draco
stared at her. His mouth was open, he knew, and he probably looked like Neville
Longbottom had when Draco first said that he wanted to interview him. But he
couldn�t manage to close it yet. It was necessary to let out all the hot air
that was suddenly driven out of his head by solid, glittering comprehension.

�� Oh.

�� The story
that bucked to be told and would give him no coherence. The memories that, once
stirred up, proved that he could not encompass them in the neat little story
he�d told Harry after all. The sentences that insisted on coming out as
fragments, because he didn�t yet dare to realize who the subject was.

�� Now he
knew.

�� My next
novel is going to be the story of my
experiences during the war,� he muttered. �Or my next two novels. I was
involved in the war before it officially broke out.� He stared over Cassidy�s
head. �Maybe the next three. I�ll
have to tell some of my family history�or the history of the family based on
mine�for it to make sense.�

�� Cassidy
smiled, and refilled his glass.

*

�� I�m going
to write my next book about myself.�

�� Luna ducked
her head so that she could look under the table for Wrackspurts, but she didn�t
do it fast enough to prevent Draco from noticing her quick smile. �That�s a
wise decision,� she said. �I always felt that you needed more words to tame
your own life, though it ran wild around you while you sought for the words to
tame others�.� She turned and looked at him earnestly. �And wild things can be
very beautiful.�

�� Draco
laughed and sipped at his tea, which had a different taste than usual this
time. A taste of lemon? Perhaps it was. And he liked it It was another trait
that he would add to the character rapidly developing in his imagination. �I
don�t even pretend to understand you most of the time, you realize that?�

�� Almost no
one does,� said Neville, sticking his head into the room from around an inner
door. A new ridged scar marked his forehead that looked like a hoofprint, and
he bore a similar shallow scar on his right cheek. Draco surmised that the
black unicorn had been real enough to leave those marks, at least. �Dearling, do
you remember where I put the notes on alternate ways to tame a unicorn foal? I
really think I might have better luck with one of them than with the full-grown
adults.� He ducked back into the other room before Draco could ask any questions
or Luna could reply. She shook her head with mock mournfulness at Draco as she
rose to her feet.

�� I would
blame him for not being able to keep things organized,� she told Draco, �but I
know that the Nargles steal his notes. He can�t help it.� She reached across
the table and squeezed his hand. �Have you told Harry about your story yet?�

�� Not yet,�
Draco said, with a wince as he realized that Luna had said �yet� and he�d repeated
the word immediately. It sounded bad in his head. �I�m saving it for an
opportune moment.�

�� I�ve found
that we make our own opportune moments,� Luna said, �the way you did when you
chose to give up the notion of putting Harry in a story.� She nodded several
times, though Draco had the feeling that she was greeting denizens of the house
invisible to him, and then hurried off to help Longbottom with his notes.

�� Draco
finished the odd-tasting tea and smiled.

*

�� It�s very
daring,� said Angela, stirring the ice in her glass with one finger. �A
departure from what you�ve done so far. Striking.� She spent a moment more
playing with the ice, acting oblivious of the tension that Draco knew she could
feel. Then she looked straight at him and smiled. �Original.�

�� Draco
relaxed. If she said that, he knew he had her approval to go ahead and write
his book.

�� How many
books are you thinking of writing?� Angela asked, brisk suddenly. �How much
time will you cover? And do you have a title for the first one yet?�

�� Two or
three,� Draco responded, sipping at his own drink. He bit delicately at the
ice; he was trying to break himself of the habit of swilling ice around in his
mouth, since Harry seemed to dislike the sound of teeth impacting on it. �I�ll
cover my life up to the time when I became a writer, since that was the first
attempt I made to deal with my memories. And I don�t want to write a book about
my memories that also deals with my attempts to deal with those memories. There
is such a thing as being too recursive.�

�� Indeed.�
Angela gave a delicate shudder and leaned forwards. �Did I tell you about the
latest book of poems that Boot tried to sell us, Draco? Absolutely awful. Every
poem only used synonyms of three words, and when one of those words was �eye,�
his creativity was stretched to its limits.�

�� Which are
never very far away in the first place,� Draco murmured, and listened to her
story, and laughed.

�� She either
didn�t notice that he had carefully avoided answering her question about the
title of the first book, or, more likely, knew that now was not the time to
pursue it.

��

*

�� Of course,
when the moment came that he sat down facing a piece of blank parchment and had
to produce, Draco knew what that title would be.

�� Harry
stepped up behind him and cleared his throat. Draco leaned back to look up at
him. Harry�s eyes were soft still with sleep, his hair tangled, his chest bare.
Draco felt a pulse of intense satisfaction that would have taken them back to
the bed if they both didn�t have work. He captured Harry�s hand and squeezed.

�� So you�re
starting your new story,� Harry said, his voice as gentle and deep and warm as
his eyes. �About you.� His hand came down strongly on Draco�s shoulder in a
grip of approval that made Draco hum, though he didn�t look away from the
parchment again.

�� Yes.�
Draco dipped his quill in the ink and paused for a long, delicious moment. The
words would fill his head when he needed them, but this hesitation before he
began the writing made him think he must know what it was like to be a young
dragon, walking towards a cliff for the first time, ready to spring and see if
his wings would carry him.

�� What are
you calling it?� Harry whispered the word into his ear, intimate and thrilling
and mingling memories of last night with Draco�s sense of anticipation.

�� For answer,
Draco brought his quill out and wrote the title at the top of the page with a
glittering flourish.

�� Incandescence.

�� End.

*

�� yaoiObsessed:
Thank you!

�� Snivelly:
Thank you!

�� This
chapter is definitely the last one. I think it ties up most of the loose ends
nicely.

�� I think you
should probably read Bloody But
Unbowed first. (People have told me it worked the other way around, but�)
Bloody But Unbowed is the �main� story, from Harry�s POV alone. For Their
Unconquerable Souls was written mostly to show the backstory and what the
Malfoys were thinking of Harry�s actions, and so there are some important
scenes from Bloody But Unbowed that get skipped in that story.

�� butterpie: Harry
will do a lot better now that he has someone who understands him.
Unfortunately, showing that through Draco�s POV is pretty difficult, so I have
to imply it.

�� TemporaryCriminal:
Thank you! I did have a lot of fun with this story and this particular
characterization of Draco.

�� Thrnbrooke:
Hope you liked it.

�� jenny:
Thank you!

�� SP777:
Thanks so much! I know that Draco in the earliest parts of the story often
seemed like a jerk, so I am glad you like him. He was always meant to be
charming.

�� Some of his
writing habits are patterned after mine. Not, thank goodness, his
breaking-and-entering habits.

�� And we�ll
see. At the moment, what�s occupying me is the outline for a trilogy based on
an idea you gave me: about Harry and Draco training to be Auror partners.

�� FallenAngel1129:
Thank you! I hope you enjoyed the last chapter.
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Incandescence