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Contracted	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 18657 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 1
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Chapter Thirteen—Two Evenings of Talk

            “All right, mate, are you going to tell me what’s really going on?”

            Ron leaned forwards across the table, his hand clenched on his Firewhisky. Harry grimaced and shrugged, looking around the Leaky Cauldron. No one was watching them, but that didn’t mean much. His conversations, even in private places with the most trusted of friends, had a way of ending up on the front page of the Prophet the next morning anyway.

            And you’re unused to that? You know that you can still play to fool Ron and the others, as long as you need to. It’s only around the Slytherins that you might need to change your tactics, or care what people say about you.

            Strangely, that bothered Harry instead of comforting him. Probably because he had had seen what real, honest friendship could be like between the Slytherins, and why should he and Ron have less than that?

            But he wasn’t going to tell the story of the contract in a public place, either. So he turned back to Ron, raised an eyebrow, and asked, “What are you talking about? The way that Sandborn is treating me, or the thing with Malfoy, or something else?” He pretended to take a swallow of his Firewhisky. He was an expert in making it look like he was swallowing all sorts of alcohol, and then casting a discreet Vanishing Charm at the end of the evening. He didn’t like doing it, precisely, but he would have liked losing control in front of someone else even less.

            “The thing with Malfoy.” Ron’s Firewhisky banged the table when it hit, and it looked as though his eyebrows were trying to twist themselves inside out when he scowled at Harry. “You can’t—the way it looked in the paper—Ginny said that Luna said that you looked as if you were encouraging him.”

            Harry snorted. “I highly doubt that that’s what Luna said,” he muttered. “But I know that only Ginny can translate successfully from Luna-speak.”

            Ron stared at him expectantly, not touching his drink now. That meant it was serious.

            Harry ducked his head and let himself fall fiercely into his second soul, leaving behind the doubts that plagued him about Malfoy, his friendships with the other Slytherins, and the game they were all playing. “It’s not serious,” he said. “But I think that sometimes I’m getting bored with life. Even our cases seem too safe lately, you know? And my marriage with Callia is going to be nice and safe and calm and quiet. Of course that’s what I want. I don’t really want to spend the rest of my life running from Dark wizards or someone like Voldemort.” It had taken Ron six years, but he no longer flinched at the name, instead watching Harry as if he waited for something more than this. “But sometimes it feels as if I could add a bit of excitement and spark. And pretending that Malfoy attracts me adds that.”

            Ron leaned in until their noses were nearly touching. Harry frowned at him and wondered if he’d underestimated how drunk Ron was.

            “Mate,” Ron whispered. “Is your engagement with Callia that boring? I didn’t realize—I mean, you sound happy when you talk about her.”

            Shit. Harry took a long drink of Firewhisky for real this time, because he was going to need the courage. His life was already spinning with too many complications. All he needed now was his friends figuring out that some parts of his life might be less genuine than they appeared. Ron would dig out of curiosity and concern for him, and Hermione would add to that her determination never to let anything interesting go, and Luna would add insights that Ginny would listen to, and—

            And his own near-hopeless feeling of being drawn to Malfoy in the Ministry corridor earlier would coat everything with stiffening slime, and force him to dance in patterns that he hadn’t chosen and couldn’t anticipate.

            “I love Callia,” he said. “I honestly do, Ron. Can you see me agreeing to marry her if I didn’t?” He gave his best friend an indulgent, impatient smile, the one he had perfected over the past few years. Ron and Hermione both thought that he had grown up at last, with just enough rebellion left in him to make him believable, but Harry had taken care to make them believe that his core values hadn’t changed. Wanting someone he loved was one of those values.

            “Well…no,” Ron conceded. “But then, why aren’t you just telling Malfoy he has no chance and driving him away?” He paused to take another drink. “I didn’t even realize that you liked men.”

            “It’s not men,” Harry said. “It’s not even him. I don’t think for one tick that he’s serious.” Another wrinkle to add to the complications, but then again, the crowd Malfoy was playing for didn’t include Ron. “And I don’t think for one second that I’m serious about accepting him, either. But…it’s something different. I’m a bit nervous about the wedding. I always wanted true love, you know, like my Mum and Dad had? And I wonder if she’s the right one.”

            Ron was grinning at him a second later, reaching out to squeeze his wrist. “Of course. I should have realized. I felt the same way right before I married Hermione.” He leaned nearer still and lowered his voice, as though he assumed some reporter was lurking in the Cauldron who would want to report on this specifically. “But, mate? It might not feel this way at first, tying yourself to someone permanently, but it is so worth it.”

            Harry smiled and nodded. “I’m sure you’re right,” he said, and then he managed to turn the conversation in another direction.

            But that night in bed, lying alone with his arms folded behind his head and his third soul the foremost one, he wondered how long the lie would fool Ron. He wondered if he wanted to fool Ron anymore.

            Well, for a while. He would explode if he found out how long I’d been lying, and it would be hard to deal with that right now, given everything else that’s happening.

            Harry stirred restlessly and turned over, shaking his head. He wondered when he had started thinking like this, exclusively cold and practical. Of course he knew why he had started it, and he knew he had committed himself to the deception because deception was the only way that he would ever get it done. His friends had to think that he wanted to work with Sandborn and act more mature than he had in Hogwarts, for the same reasons that they had to think he wanted to be an Auror. It wasn’t possible to have everything he wanted under the contract and also have friends questioning his every move.

            But his mind had chilled along the way, his soul had split into three parts, and he wondered if he was willing to pay that price anymore.

            You’ll have to continue paying it for the foreseeable future, he answered himself briskly. You were the one who got yourself into this fix, the one who chose to lie to your friends and all the rest of it. Malfoy and the other Slytherins are trying to get you out, but for that to happen, they need you to do what they tell you and not mess everything up.

            Harry fell asleep with a small, bitter smile after that thought. If it was one thing he’d got good at over the past seven years, it was doing as he was told.

*

            “And this was something you intended to happen, I suppose?”

            “You needn’t demonstrate how you can keep coming through my wards, Daphne,” Draco murmured, his eyes still closed. He’d had a dream about being honored as the hero of the wizarding world for freeing Harry Potter from Sandborn’s clutches, and he wanted to hold on to the fading sound of the cheers. “I believe in your skills now.”

            “That’s nice,” Daphne said. “But you would oblige me best by strengthening your wards so that they actually afford me some practice.”

            Draco sighed and opened his eyes. Daphne sat on the foot of his bed, peeling an orange. She shot him an amused glance when his stomach rumbled and placed a delicate quarter of the fruit into her mouth, closing her eyes for a moment.

            “Late night?” she murmured without opening them. “I did look for you to give you my news then, but you seem to have crash-landed in the soup by the time I reached you.”

            “The house-elves would whisk the soup away before that could happen.” Draco sat up and spent a few moments cleaning sleep from the corners of his eyes with whispered Vanishing Charms. Then he faced Daphne and nodded. “All right, you can speak your news and hand over the document at any time.”

            Daphne suspended her orange to smile at him. “How do you know that I got the document you wanted? Perhaps the wards at the Archives defeated me. Perhaps they changed the way they were guarding them, and Potter’s information was no longer current.”

            “You wouldn’t be here if that was true,” Draco said comfortably. “We would have heard of some mysterious death or accident at the Archives, and then you would have taken the place of the first person who came running to investigate it.”

            Daphne laughed and toasted him with the orange. “I’ll remember that you think I’m that good. It’ll be fun, someday, to convince you that your information is outdated.”

            Draco waited patiently, hands locked together behind his head now. Let Daphne play her teasing games. They were rather like the ones that he would need to play with Sandborn after the potion began to work—and even after, because of the nature of this particular potion. They were the toys of an expert, the claws that could not be lightly escaped. Daphne was worth every Galleon he had paid for her skills.

            When she had finished the orange, dried her hands on a small towel that one of Draco’s elves thoughtfully popped up to provide for her, and then drunk part of a glass of water, Daphne produced the document Draco had sent her to retrieve. She did it with a flourishing motion that meant she could either have magically summoned it from somewhere or simply taken it from her clothes with a sleight-of-hand trick. Draco snorted and accepted it, flipping it open.

            He sighed when he saw the list of names. “Yes,” he whispered. “I wasn’t sure they would have bothered keeping it, when they must know that it was vulnerable to kidnapping like this.”

            “There is no one like La Vie Dangereuse,” said Daphne simply. “They couldn’t have anticipated that I would show up and breach their security.” She paused to take another drink of water. “And I also think that they wanted the list for blackmail purposes. The Ministry doesn’t destroy anything they think might benefit them.”

            Draco grunted agreement and carefully read through the names—the names of those who had been ready to give testimony in the lengthy trials against him and his friends that had never happened. He had thought at the time that the Wizengamot’s lack of evidence combined with Potter’s standing up for them made the prospect of the trials uncomfortable. Now, of course, he knew that Potter’s bargain with Sandborn had circumvented the whole process.

            Which was as it should be. Draco would not have liked to spent that much time crouching in a cell at Azkaban, fearing that someone else would decide his fate.

            Still, he wished he had known about the debt earlier than this. He would not have suffered Potter to spend so much time sinking into the emotional ice that it was better left up to the Slytherins to navigate.

            “Thank you,” he told Daphne at last, snapping the sheet closed and tapping his wrist thoughtfully with it. “I only have to figure out how to use this now, and the wizarding world can explode into flames.”

            Daphne smiled, her knees looped up to her chin and her arms dangling around them as she watched him. “Are you really going to do something that public?” she mused. “I was under the impression that you wanted to lay silent, invisible pressure on Sandborn and the Wizengamot until they did things your way.”

            Draco waved a hand. “Some of the pressure is invisible and silent, but why not give everyone flames that they can watch, so they won’t look for the quieter threats?”

            “I approve, of course.” Daphne stretched her arms over her head and then let them fall back to her sides. Draco watched her eyes shine. So much more brilliant and alive than Potter’s, he thought, but he looked forward to bringing out the light in Potter’s that much more. “Do you know, I sometimes think that I should tell Astoria about me, but I am afraid that she might say what I do is too flashy. Too common.”

            Draco blinked. “How can it to be too flashy when no one has ever connected you and the name of La Vie Dangereuse?”

            Daphne gave him a small smile. “The tricks that I use,” she said simply. “The fact that I pursue valuable but also high-profile objects, like this list of names. And the magic I use. No, they may not be able to figure out that it was me or how I did it, but they always know that someone was there.” She paused and cocked her head to the side. “I’ll be interested to see how you create this distraction and how Astoria reacts. I may reveal myself to her, depending on what she thinks of it.”

            Draco squeezed her arm. “I would be proud to have a sister like you, if my parents had ever decided that I was to have a sibling. Yes, watch her if you must, but don’t forget that you have charms to offer beyond your simple thieving abilities. I would never ask you to do this if I didn’t have confidence in you.”

            “Thank you,” Daphne said simply, and squeezed his hand back before she stood up and made her way out of the room. Draco didn’t watch her go. He had to admit, some of the mystery and excitement in his life was preserved by not knowing exactly how she got through his wards.

            It was only later that he realized a silver ring he’d been wearing on his right hand was gone, and had been gone since she squeezed it. The ring was set with diamonds, and had a few etchings of interest to pure-blood collectors, and by now it was undoubtedly sitting on such a collector’s mantelpiece in France.

            She had stolen it to see what he would do, of course. Draco smiled, and did nothing about that particular object. He had no interest in interfering with Daphne’s chances of persuading her sister to accept her career, or in outing her too early.

            Besides, by then he had more than enough else to concern him.

*

            “Madam Rettern.”

            This time, Astoria was there when the old bird summoned Potter. She sat silent and motionless under a Disillusionment Charm in a corner of the room where they met, one of the Wizengamot’s safehouses. She hoped that by watching them together, she could let Rettern know when Potter showed signs of being receptive to her offers and when she should back off and let him alone.

            Potter took Rettern’s hand in a polite gesture and gave it an absurdly polite kiss. His stride was smooth and confident. He had none of the boiling trouble in his eyes that Astoria had seen when she spoke to him in his house. He took a seat and accepted the tea that Rettern offered him, and listened politely as she moved through her opening gambits.

            Rettern used the normal bribes that would work so well on so many, her voice soft and persuasive as water dripping onto stone. Potter pretended to sip the tea—his motions were deceptive and practiced, but Astoria sat at an angle where she could watch how full his cup remained—and listened without comment.

            “I can promise you one thing that no one else can,” Rettern said at last, and Potter gave her a meaningless smile. Astoria shook her head. She didn’t know what to make of Potter’s particular brand of stoic acting. Most people would either show some real interest or some feigned to get Rettern off their backs. Potter wrapped himself in indifference and sat there. It made Astoria wonder what he did want, other than perhaps an end to the contract—which he would not have sought if Draco hadn’t thought they should pay their debt—and if the faculty of wishing was dead in him.

            If it was, then she would have to tell Draco as well as Rettern to be careful around him.

            “What is that?” Potter asked, when he seemed to realize that Rettern wanted a genuine answer, not simply passive receptivity.

            “Peace,” Rettern said. “If you will do one thing, and one thing only, for me during the investigation, then I will call in favors from the Wizengamot and ensure that you are not required to speak or act in public again for the rest of your life.”

            Potter’s hand trembled on the cup. He stilled it at once, so fast that Rettern might not have noticed. But Astoria did.

            She narrowed her eyes, but made no movement, including the light scratch on the cushions that she and Rettern had arranged as a signal that Potter was actually interested. Potter was too interested, and this was not a bargain Rettern had told Astoria she would offer. Astoria wanted to be sure, first, that the gift Rettern would give Potter was not inimical to their interests.

            “I don’t think you understand very well what I mean by peace,” Rettern said eagerly, when Potter simply sat there. So perhaps she had noticed his hand tremble after all, Astoria thought. Damn. “The Wizengamot’s collective power is not often used. But together, we can force the papers to stop writing about you in anything other than the most general terms, and reporters to stop pursuing you. Or, at least, we can ensure that there are consequences for doing so. The reporters might spend time in Azkaban.”

            “I can’t ask for that,” Potter said, but his voice was weak. “They’re just doing their jobs, and sometimes what their editors tell them to do. I can’t say my privacy is more important than that, just—just because I want to.”

            And now he’d betrayed himself. Astoria scratched, because otherwise Rettern would know that she had been holding back with a potential agenda of her own or else think her a simple-minded fool to mistake Potter’s obvious yielding. Rettern shot Astoria a bright, narrow smile, and focused on Potter again.

            “Aren’t you tired?” she whispered. “I know that the work you do for Sandborn, more than anything else, is to act as a public voice for the Ministry. Anyone who listens can know that your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, that you speak with a weary tone in your voice, that you say what Sandborn wants you to say and not what you would prefer to. Surely, Auror Potter, surely you want a change in that.”

            “Assuming you were right,” Potter said, and he had almost managed to clasp his stoic mask back in place, “why would you let a tool like me escape you? You would probably want to wield me once you had lessened Sandborn’s power.”

            Rettern’s smile turned sweet and cutting. “No. I would have no more need of you. I don’t keep tools I don’t need.”

            Astoria stared with her mouth open, glad for the charm that prevented anyone from seeing that. She expected Potter to rebel when Rettern admitted that she saw him as a tool. Most people would have. Draco would have, and so would any of the lovers he’d had in the past, including Astoria herself.

            But Potter only sat still and watched the Wizengamot member with eyes of ice and iron. And he listened as she explained, telling him soothing lies about the power of the Wizengamot and their ability to control the press, saying that no one would want him anymore when the Ministry that he had made his home fell, pointing out that most of his power now lay in what he had become in the years since the war and not in the defeat of the Dark Lord, which meant that he could count on being left alone by others when the new power was gone.

            Potter twitched now and then, his face paling and then flushing, and his hands now and then shook on the cup of tea. They were subtle signals, but Rettern had been in politics for decades and Astoria knew she hadn’t missed them. Potter found this seductive, this idea that he could lay down his public mantle and vanish into nothingness—more seductive than the mere idea that he would have the power to define his future.

            Why, for God’s sake?

            That was a question Astoria would have to answer, and soon, before their plan to clear their debt to Potter could proceed much further. If Rettern’s investigation did not free them of their potential financial troubles, she would also have to come up with another plan to do so.

            Astoria was irritated when she left, although of course she did not show it as she bowed to Rettern. Potter was more complicated than she had thought, and she saw little of the acting ability that Draco had claimed he had.

*

            Harry lay in his bed that night with his eyes closed and a new, sharp pulse beating in his throat.

            He knew what Rettern really wanted, of course. That was obvious. He had looked into the eyes of too many people who hated him over the years not to recognize it. She wanted to destroy Sandborn, this was a quest of personal vengeance, and she thought Harry would be her best means of achieving it.

            Harry saw no reason to cooperate with her unless she could offer him a gift of equal value. But then she had, and she had even sounded sincere about her ability to provide it, without the telltale signs of a lie that he had been trained to watch for.

            It hurt, this longing twisting in him like a fishhook. If he could go somewhere that no one knew him, no one would pursue him, and start again, live an utterly ordinary life. His magical abilities weren’t beyond the ordinary, as everyone else thought they were, and Rettern was right; he was now more famous for his speeches and his Auror arrests than his scar. Get rid of those, settle somewhere else, and he could have anonymity.

            It hurt, too, to think of leaving his friends behind, and it hurt to think of refusing Malfoy. But…

            He was so tired. And what Malfoy wanted of him would require confrontation, challenge, change. If he could have what he wanted without that, if he could escape...

            It was nearly dawn before he fell asleep.

*

            Erin_49: At the moment, Harry isn’t sure that he wants to be alone with Draco any time soon.

            red713: Oh, always, and that’s a lot more fun for Draco than it is for him.

            SP777: Interesting image!

            Oh, because it is? Draco is much more used to this sort of playacting and constantly changing dynamic than Harry is.
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