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A More Worldly Man	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 10960 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Chapter Thirteen—Combinations of Justice

            Harry opened his eyes slowly. He knew by the cool color of the walls around him that he was in St. Mungo’s, on the Spell Damage ward. He hadn’t had to visit this place very often himself since he hadn’t chosen an Auror’s career, but he’d visited plenty of friends here.

            He let one hand smooth carefully along the covers, searching for his glasses and his wand. Someone caught his fingers. Harry turned his head sharply, though he couldn’t imagine that Narcissa Malfoy was sitting beside his hospital bed. Of course, he hadn’t imagined she’d be able to intrude into the Ministry either.

            “Harry,” said Hermione’s voice from the fuzzy bristle that was all he could see of her. “Do you feel well enough to eat?”

            “I’m well enough to hear the news, Hermione,” said Harry impatiently, and was gratified to hear his voice clear and strong and normal. They must have given him water whilst he was unconscious. Of course, there could be a question about how long he had been unconscious. He hoped it was only a few hours, but his luck didn’t run that way. “How long was I out? What did the Healers find in my mind? What happened to Mrs. Malfoy? Is Draco all right?”

            “At least you have the sense to ask after yourself first,” Hermione muttered, and then spoke to someone. Harry wondered if a Healer had been hovering nearby, listening to their conversation, or if St. Mungo’s had installed the voice crystals they’d been talking about for some time, which would conduct the words of anyone who spoke directly to it to listening mediwizards. “And nothing has happened to Malfoy in the seven hours since you fell unconscious,” she added, relieving Harry’s worry before it could start. “Mrs. Malfoy is in custody. The Healers found strange traces of Dark magic on you, and there’ll be a few effects that last some time.” She sighed out heavily. “Malfoy told me about what you said when he came into the cell. Why did you lie for her, Harry?”

            “It wasn’t a conscious decision,” Harry began. Hermione finally slapped his glasses into his questing hand, and he slid them onto his nose. He snorted when he saw her disbelieving expression. “I mean, I did choose to do it, yes, but it was more because I don’t want Draco alienated from his parents forever than because—“

            He fell silent before Hermione’s pointed look. “Do you think,” she whispered, “if the Weasleys were mad enough to do something like that to me, that Ron would have wanted me to lie just so he could forgive his parents later?”

            “You have a lower opinion of the Weasleys than I thought, if—“

            “Don’t try to distract me, Harry.” Hermione braced a hand on the edge of the bed and leaned forwards. “And before you can whinge at me about Malfoy not wanting his private concerns discussed, he was the one who told me to ask these questions. He’d be here to ask them himself, but he’s still answering questions about his mother’s wand and what other Dark magic she might have used to enter the Ministry. She’s refusing to talk, of course, and they can’t force her to take Veritaserum.”

            Harry chewed his lips for a moment. “What about me? I’m still in custody, aren’t I?”

            Hermione nodded. “Yes, but there are spells on you to make sure that you can’t use wandless magic without triggering four dozen alarm wards, and your wand is in the Ministry. You’ll return to the holding cells when they’re certain you’re well. They’re not as worried about you as they are about Mrs. Malfoy.”

            “That’s new.”

            “You didn’t see Shacklebolt. He looked as though he’d just snared a tiger he’d been hunting for years.” Hermione smiled briefly. “Not the sort of thing you want to get close to, but on the other hand, he can’t wait to take its claws and teeth away.”

            A Healer bustled in just then, preventing Harry from answering. She was an older woman he didn’t recognize, with a face so plain that he could readily believe her patients mixed her up with other Healers and mediwitches. She examined him for a moment, pointed her wand at his head, and murmured a spell he couldn’t hear. Harry tensed, but she only said, “I won’t hurt you, Mr. Potter. And yes, the spell damage is healing. But it will be some time before you can stop taking precautions.”

            “Precautions?” Harry didn’t like the thought of anything that might interrupt his relationship with Draco. “The spell was trying to freeze my emotions. Will I have to worry about that happening? Or will the person who cast it—“ he heard Hermione snort from the side, but it was his choice if he didn’t want to mention the name “—gain any sort of control over me from a distance?”

            The Healer smiled, and her whole face was transformed when she did. Harry blinked and the smile was gone, but it lingered in his mind, and he found himself relaxing and smiling back. “Nothing like that. You will be subject to fainting fits. I’d advise not riding a broom for the next few weeks if you can avoid it. As well, stay in company as much as possible. We’ve sometimes seen cases like this where a patient left alone fell, struck his head on something sharp, and died without help.”

            Harry nodded soberly. He didn’t plan to be far from Draco or Hermione in any case.

            “You may also experience sudden surges of emotion, as your mind and soul try to compensate for the moments when they were under domination.” The Healer spoke briskly as she examined the contents of one of her robe pockets. She clucked her tongue in satisfaction a moment later, and drew out a vial filled with a brilliant orange potion that caused Harry to wrinkle his nose just looking at it. The Healer waved the vial at him. “This potion is only to be taken after you experience one of those surges and it’s completely gone. Even if you find yourself raging or crying—“

            Harry shuddered.

            “Wait. This potion is commonly taken earlier by men who can’t stand the thought of being weak, and the effects aren’t pleasant when you do that.” The Healer looked at him sternly. “Do you understand?”

            “I’ll make sure he follows instructions, Healer Mordant,” Hermione said, in the voice she’d used when she found Harry sleeping in the library instead of studying for his OWLs.

            Mordant? Harry tried to mouth to Hermione, but she was looking at the potion and the Healer, and not at him. The woman simply nodded, handed the vial to Hermione, and then left the room after casting a few more spells on Harry, which seemed to assure her that everything was well. She did mention before vanishing that a mediwizard would be in Harry’s room soon with a tray of food.

            “Mordant?” Harry asked when the door was safely shut between them and the Healer. “Seriously?”

            “You’ve heard worse names,” Hermione said absently as she turned the potion over in her hands. “How interesting. This one seems to do some of what your old potion did, but I wonder why it’s supposed to be taken after the fit rather than before? Probably due to the infusion of crushed gooseberries I can smell—“

            “Please tell me more about what happened,” Harry interrupted. He hoped he didn’t sound as snappish and impatient as he felt, but if he let Hermione wander away into a research spiel, God knew when he would get her back. “What will Kingsley do now? Will Draco come and see me soon?”

            Hermione reluctantly laid the potion on her lap and looked him in the eye. “Shacklebolt is considering matters seriously at the moment,” she said. “And that’s all I know, because that’s all he’ll tell anyone. But we did have a chance to talk to him before we came to your cell—Malfoy, and Bulstrode, and I.” Harry felt a stab of disappointment that he’d been deprived of the chance to see Hermione and Millicent meet for the first time. “He agreed that it wasn’t very fair to let Diggory use you to gain his political ends, but on the other hand, if he moves openly, he’s worried about what people will say concerning his politics.” She made a noise of disgust and frustration. “But we didn’t get a chance to finish the conversation, either. So the answer is that I really can’t guess what will happen next. Maybe we’ll know more when the questioning of Mrs. Malfoy—or Malfoy, really, since he’s the one who’s giving them all their information—is finished. Depending on the seriousness of the charges he can bring against her and what can be proved of her connection with Diggory, maybe Kingsley will change his tactics.”

            She’s calling him Kingsley now, Harry noted. That’s a hopeful sign. At least she isn’t as irritated at him as she could be. “And maybe not,” he said. “This is a politically ticklish position I’m in—“

            “You’re as bad as you were when you decided not to injure Mrs. Malfoy.” Hermione leaned forwards. “And don’t think you’ll get out of answering that question. Malfoy was very insistent about it. ‘Does he think I’ll give him up for anyone, even my bitch of a mother?’ was, I believe, the way he phrased it.”

            “I highly doubt that he called his own mother a bitch,” said Harry, when he could breathe past the sudden clutch of breath in his throat.

            “Maybe not,” said Hermione. She was smiling again, but it was a faint, pinched smile, and Harry knew that the question was hurting her. “There are other things I want to ask, Harry, and other things I want to tell you—though, as I said, God knows what’s going to happen next. Or I hope someone does, because I don’t. But now tell me why you’re holding your magic back. You certainly never forbore to defend yourself against Bellatrix Lestrange, or Voldemort, or anyone else.”

            “They weren’t dear to people I loved at the time,” Harry said quietly. “Hermione, what would have happened if Percy had turned out to be a Death Eater, the way we thought he might?” Ron had mentioned the thought as one that haunted his nightmares during the year they were on the run. “Or if some member of your family had turned against you?”

            Hermione was silent for long moments, then said, “I think I’ve never been so grateful to be Muggleborn.”

            Harry nodded. “And that’s the reason,” he said. “I couldn’t hurt Mrs. Malfoy, even if she really is a Death Eater in heart and soul and always was. She’s Draco’s mother. How in the world would he live with the grief and the guilt, if he thought that his relationship with me played some part in her killing?”

            “I’m glad that I’m Muggleborn,” Hermione said loudly, “because that means there was no chance of anyone in my family being a Death Eater, and thus no chance of you holding back stupidly in the war.” She leaned forwards, and Harry drew back. Her face looked like the face of a Fury at the moment; Harry had been hired to take photographs of some statues of the Furies on a Muggle building that a client wanted duplicated on his own home. “Harry, you can’t just lie back and accept what happens to you because of who’s doing it.”

            Harry clenched his hands into fists in front of him and didn’t answer. He still didn’t know how to tell anyone about the way he had endured the Dursleys’ insults when he was young because he had hoped they would love him if he was good enough. After that he had endured the insults because of sheer determination not to let them see him cry, but the first impulse still remained with him. And he had buried some of his worse disagreements with Ron and Hermione, at least after they were all adults, because he didn’t want to listen to the long arguments that resulted.

            The potion probably helped. I wonder if I’ll get angry more often as the potion works its way out of my system? Harry grimaced. And will I be able to tell when that happens as distinct from the emotional surges I might suffer as a result of Mrs. Malfoy’s curse?

            “You can’t,” Hermione repeated. “And if you really won’t defend yourself against the Malfoys, then Bulstrode and I are going to do something permanent about them.”

            Harry snapped his eyes up to her face again. “Hermione, you can’t.”

            “Malfoy gave us permission.” Hermione smiled at him, and once again it was a Fury’s smile. “He only said that he didn’t want to know what we were planning, so there was no way he could betray it or persuade himself to interfere.”

            Harry shut his eyes. He couldn’t reconcile the words Hermione reported Draco had spoken with the grief and pain he’d seen in Draco’s mind when he viewed those memories of the Malfoys. Draco regretted his rupture with his parents; he must. He would have gone back to them if he could. Allowing Hermione and Millicent to hurt Lucius and Narcissa, or not convincing Draco to stop them, would be as wrong as making Narcissa a Squib in the first place.

            Then Harry shivered. If he thought that Draco didn’t want this to happen, he would have to accuse either Draco or Hermione of lying. And he could not believe that, not with the part of him that had called upon the memories of his love and burned away the control Narcissa had over his mind. At best, he would be second-guessing Draco and acting against him for no better reason than because he would feel regret and grief if his parents were alive and he were fighting them.

            But maybe the situation really was different. Slowly, Harry forced himself to remember what he had actually seen in Draco’s mind, instead of what he had anticipated finding there, or what he thought most natural, or what he wanted for Draco. And along with Draco’s pain that he had had to break away at all was the irritation that his parents were so stupid as to let themselves be trapped into false beliefs in the first place, anger that they’d never changed their minds, and regret that they’d made his own path in life harder.

            Those emotions were all real. Harry knew he would ignore them at his peril, just as he would stand in Hermione and Millicent’s way at his peril.

            He sighed and then looked up. Someone was coming towards the door, from the footsteps in the corridor: probably the mediwizard with the tray of food. Harry leaned towards Hermione swiftly. “Promise me that you won’t kill them,” he said.

            “I have no intention of being tried for murder,” said Hermione loftily. “Or for use of Dark Arts. Or for anything.”

            It wasn’t a promise to be merciful to Lucius and Narcissa; it wasn’t a promise to be anything but undetectable, really. And it was all Harry had time or right to ask for. He leaned back against his pillow and nodded to Hermione.

            As he ate the unappetizing lunch the mediwizard served him, Hermione told him how Willowberry had alerted them to Harry’s danger, and their project of going to the Ministry to retrieve Littlesmith in the first place. By the end of the recitation, Harry was smiling, and telling himself that of course he could trust Hermione.

            And then he was left alone, since Hermione had patted his hand and told him Draco would be along shortly, and for the first time he could return to the memory of the words spoken just before he’d passed out.

            He loves me.

            Maybe that’s why he was willing to see me stand up to his mother, if it would make her stop hurting me.

*

            “If you’re certain there’s nothing else you can tell us, Mr. Malfoy?”

            “I think I’ve told you even more than I remembered,” Draco said dryly, staring at the list he’d compiled, and shaking his hand to ease the cramp where his fingers had practically molded to the quill. He’d written out lists of the Dark Arts spells he knew his mother could perform, as well as every spell he’d heard her mention as one she’d studied. He’d listed the potions he’d observed her brewing, which were fewer than the spells. There were names of social contacts made through her parties, people she’d spoken of with disdain, and the sorts of people she considered worth cultivating, though she might never have come into contact with them. Shacklebolt had become grim and quiet when Draco’s list of the last had grown to encompass half the Ministry.

            Poor idiot, Draco thought, not unkindly, as he watched the Minister nursing a second cup of tea on the other side of the small table in the room they occupied. He’s been Minister for seven years now—almost eight, really—and he’s still surprised to find corruption among his inferiors? If anything, having an incorruptible superior makes it worse. They’ll either plot to force him out and bring in someone who will let them do just as they like, or they’ll squabble for the scraps of power he drops.

            Try telling that to him, though. Gryffindor for certain.

            Draco rubbed a hand across his brow. He’d been up all through the night, except for a few hours of sleep snatched at Harry’s bedside, and then he’d spent the entire morning in the Ministry, making these lists and answering questions about what he thought his mother might have wanted. He’d barely had time to think about the particular Gryffindor he loved.

            Bloody inconvenient time to find out I’m in love, but there you are. When he’d seen Harry staggering with a bright glow of magic around his head, indicating that his mother had used Dark Arts directly on Harry’s mind, the only thing he could think of was that all those glittering gold emotions and passions and neuroses he had so admired might be destroyed or broken forever. And the notion made him want to spend the rest of his life in a dark room.

            Then he’d realized Harry was lying to protect his mother, of all people, and he’d been torn between shaking Harry furiously and kissing him at least as furiously. He scrubbed at his eyes with crooked fingertips and let out a rusty chuckle. Neither would have been the right choice at the time, so he’d made a little speech instead and then watched Harry fall limp in his arms, his eyes glazed, before he could respond.

            Well, Harry would remember, even if he found it better to forget, or hardly dared accept the notion, or tried to argue that Draco had been flooded with worry and couldn’t mean what he’d said. Draco would make sure of it. Declaring he was in love had made him feel vulnerable, as if he had a second heart traveling around outside his body that anyone could destroy at any moment. If Harry had felt like that, Draco was ashamed for not having returned the sentiment at once. They would both need all the support they could get.

            “Mr. Malfoy.”

            Draco looked up slowly; he was still more used to hearing his father addressed with that name. Besides, the voice that had spoken was careful, but not with dislike. Shacklebolt stood next to him, his frown heavy and his hands spinning the teacup slowly, as if he were contemplating suddenly turning and dashing it onto the floor.

            “Yes, sir?” Draco asked, when it seemed that Shacklebolt would say nothing further without prompting.

            “I’m grateful for your help,” Shacklebolt began. “The entire Ministry should be.” He cleared his throat. “And whilst I understood that your mother had angered you greatly just before you began to compile these lists, it still can’t have been an easy thing to do.”

            Draco concealed his smile under a grave nod. He really should have remembered one of the occasional good things about Gryffindors: their guilt complexes. Shacklebolt felt he owed Draco a debt. Draco was too Slytherin not to take advantage of it.

            “If there’s anything I can do—“ the Minister was saying.

            “There is,” said Draco. Shacklebolt looked at him askance, and Draco reckoned he’d wanted Draco to wait before he claimed the debt. Too bad. “Struggle as hard as you can for Harry. Stay within all the legal limits you want, but don’t stint him what he’s owed simply because you’re worried about what you’ll look like to Diggory.” Draco narrowed his eyes. “Leave Diggory to me.”

            Shacklebolt’s frown deepened, perhaps because he was remembering that Draco wasn’t exactly a political animal, but he said gently, “I would have done that for Harry in any case, Mr. Malfoy. I consider Harry a personal friend, though many times in the last few years he hasn’t relied on me as much as I would have liked a friend to do.”

            “Very well.” Draco leaned forwards. “Then grant me five minutes of private conversation with my mother.”

            Shacklebolt’s face stiffened. Somehow, his hands remained easy and relaxed; perhaps he spun the cup a little faster than before. Draco admired the effect. Shacklebolt must have used it to fool some of his political enemies before. “Mrs. Malfoy is in custody,” he said. “I couldn’t allow you to do anything that harmed her.”

            “I know that,” Draco said. “And I truly would not. I only wish to speak some words to her.” Words that will damage her more than a curse ever could.

            The Minister leaned forwards and scanned Draco’s face carefully. Draco controlled his irritation—why was his trustworthiness being doubted now, when he’d just been thanked for providing all sorts of truths to the Ministry?—and contented himself with staring back until Shacklebolt coughed and turned away.

            “Five minutes,” he said, waving a wand. An hourglass appeared in the air in front of him, and sand began to flow between the bulbs. “No more than that.”

            Draco knew better than to protest that he would lose some of the allotted seconds getting into the cell where his mother was being held. He stood, bowed, and strode out of the nondescript little waiting room. Shacklebolt must have given some sort of signal behind Draco’s back; the Aurors standing outside the door of the room across the corridor parted, though reluctantly, and let Draco into Narcissa Malfoy’s presence.

            She was sitting and looking at the far wall as if there were a window there, even though there wasn’t. The Aurors had decided against a cell with an enchanted window because they thought she was too dangerous and might manage to use its magic somehow. Draco approved of this decision.

He shut the door behind him with an audible click. Narcissa didn’t bother to look around.

“I suppose you wouldn’t be interested in telling me how you entered the Ministry,” he said conversationally. “Of course, based on who deserted his post and who was enchanted, they can trace the people who let you through eventually.”

Silence. Narcissa might have been a wax statue for all his words affected her.

            “And I suppose you won’t want to describe the lingering effects of the spell you cast on Harry.” Draco nodded to himself. “That’s all right. He’s in St. Mungo’s now, even if he is still in custody and will have to return to a holding cell immediately after he’s healed, and they’ll eventually cure him. Harry’s own reputation will force them to it.”

            “Which reputation?” Narcissa asked, in that soft voice that had forced so many people down the years to lower their own to hear her. “The one as a dangerous, inhuman magical creature?”

            “For some people, that doesn’t trump twenty-seven years of considering him a hero.” Draco had made a vow to himself that he wouldn’t lose his temper if he actually achieved this interview, so he said the words calmly. “But, as I said, I don’t think you’re interested in telling me those things. So I’m here to tell you something instead.”

            Narcissa turned to face him at last. Her blue eyes were the color of shadows on snow, the shadows that would lie beautifully across a person whether they were sleeping or freezing to death.

            “I’m never going to come back to you,” Draco said. “You forfeited my allegiance when you pulled that stunt on Harry. It doesn’t matter if Diggory wins the election, if you make it impossible for me to practice potions in Britain, if Harry’s arrested and sent to Azkaban. None of that will make me obey you. I’m free, forever, and it’s myself and Harry I owe that freedom to. Not your teaching, not your service to a madman, not that stupid Unbreakable Vow you forced Professor Snape to swear that ended up getting so many people killed. My soul will always have escaped from you.”

            He turned around and left the cell just as Shacklebolt opened the door to let him out. He could feel his mother’s eyes on his back.

            He hoped the shadows in them were burning.

            But Draco shook his head when he stepped into the corridor, and took a deep breath, and reminded himself of where and who he was. Then he headed for St. Mungo’s to sit with Harry in the brief time they were allowed.

*

            gentlenightrain: Thanks for reviewing!

            Mangacat: Narcissa is indeed incapable of understanding Draco, but not incapable of smart political moves. Even if she’s unable to testify against Harry, there’s still the evidence of Harry actually eating magic to contend with.

            Dezra: Thanks very much! As for Littlesmith, maybe his testimony won’t work, but he’s the current trump card.

            avihenda: Thank you!

            Lilith: Harry is very sweet. But now he’s beginning to think about what Draco really wants instead of what he thinks Draco wants.

            Yume111: No, this Harry is very far from thinking himself worthless. But he really doesn’t want to hurt anyone connected to the people he loves, even if those people are trying to kill him.

            I like your reasoning for why Harry wins the battle.

            Draco’s true attitude towards his mother is clearly on display in this chapter.
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A More Worldly Man