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The Descent of Magic	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 18803 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this fanfic.

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Chapter Thirteen—From A Highfeather Direction

            “Madam Highfeather.”

            The face in Draco’s fire nodded stiffly. Draco leaned back and slung one leg casually across the other. In the end, he and Potter had agreed that it would be best if he handled the initial conversation with Highfeather as well as the initial letter. The letter she had sent back was full of enough insults that Draco knew she needed extra graciousness.

            And Potter…

            Well, Draco had to admit, rather against his will, that Potter had an unexpected share of gifts, but grace was not one of them, in any sense of the word.

            Highfeather stared at Draco for a while. But Draco’s father had used stares of the same kind to disconcert him when he was a child, and he had grown immune to them; Lucius would not have been satisfied until he did. He looked back, as unruffled as the stagnant pond he had seen in Potter’s back garden, and finally Highfeather nodded with less stiffness than the first time.

            “Your proposal is interesting,” she said. “But far from acceptable.”

            Draco spread his hands. “This is the part where my colleagues are inclined to stumble,” he said, blending several layers of emotion together in his voice specifically for Highfeather to read. “I told them that they could not expect our kind to change their traditional ways all at once. But you know Granger’s reputation as a fighter for the rights of magical creatures.” From the way that Highfeather’s brow creased, Draco was willing to bet that she not only knew it, she had been the target of Granger’s attempts to “free” her house-elves on at least one occasion. “And Potter is more suited to direct action than diplomatic negotiation.”

            Highfeather smiled, pleased, as Draco had known she would be, by the implication that she was as important as an affair of state. “Hence you,” she said.

            Draco inclined his head. “Hence me.”

            “What could be compelling enough evidence to make you side with the likes of Potter and Granger against your own kind?” Highfeather stared now like the hawk that was her family’s symbol, attempting to make Draco feel like a mouse.

            Again, the attempt met Draco and slid off him. He could control his emotions in these discussions, he reminded himself. It was his decision what he might do with them, and not Highfeather’s. He leaned farther back in his chair and smiled at her.

            “Evidence that I could not prove wrong,” he said. “Evidence in magical theories that no one had researched before Potter precisely because most of us tend to understand our relationship with magical creatures in more intuitive terms.” He was particularly proud of that circumlocution. “Evidence that said that wizards that had obeyed laws passed by the Ministry to treat house-elves better produced families of four or five children, and when those laws were rescinded, the number of children plummeted.”

            That made Highfeather’s eyes widen, as Draco had known it would. Though the wars with the Dark Lord were partially to blame, families of four or five children were unknown in the pure-blood world for the last six generations.

            At least, Draco thought reluctantly, his mind shuddering a little from the way it had to expand, in the traditional pure-blood world. The Weasleys were indeed pure-bloods and had been producing broods larger than that, although Draco found it hard to remember without a major effort.

            “There could be other causes,” Highfeather said, lowering her voice. “Correlation is not causation.”

            Draco blinked a bit, and then nodded as though seriously considering the point. In reality, he had nearly laughed aloud at Highfeather quoting a statement that Draco heard most often in Potions theory articles from Potions masters of Muggle background. He wondered if perhaps she had read the same articles, if only to know her enemy.

            “That is true, madam,” he said. “But in this case, I could not find another explanation that suitably fit the facts. Especially when families who benefited magical creatures in other ways, such as the Weasleys who initiated a treaty with the centaurs, found themselves with more children than normal. It is not all house-elves.”

            Highfeather’s eyes narrowed, as Draco had known they would. Many pure-blood families would find it to easier to benefit beautiful magical creatures like phoenixes or unicorns than to treat their house-elves better.

            “How interesting,” she said. “But not the kind of evidence that I would build a revolution upon.”

            You would not build a revolution at all, Draco thought. You would let things continue the same as they have always been, and you would let our children die.

            That made him want to laugh again, because he would sound exactly like Potter or Granger if he spouted that nonsense, and yet it had crept into his head, where normally his father’s thought echoed alone.

            He would deal with that later. For now, he gave Highfeather a deprecating smile and said, “I know. But it is enough for me to join forces with Potter and Granger on. If nothing else, if we can make sure that true pure-bloods are in control of this revolution…”

            He let the implication trail off. Highfeather raised her eyebrows and tilted her head slightly, as though the hawk was examining the prey from another angle before diving. And that was all Draco wanted, in truth. He did not think they would change her convictions today. This was about opening a breach in the otherwise impregnable wall of them.

            “Your perspective is interesting,” Highfeather said abruptly. “But I will see the evidence before I will decide.”

            Draco inclined his head. “Of course. Would you prefer that I owl you with them, or Harry Potter?”

            He watched with a faint smile as Highfeather’s chest inflated. She liked the implication that she was important enough for attention from celebrities, and Potter had the kind of power to his name—if he would use it, which at least seemed true for magical creatures if not for himself—that made the attention flattering despite his mother’s background.

            “He is to owl me,” Highfeather said. “And a personal word from him would not go amiss.”

            Draco inclined his head. “Of course,” he said. Next time, it would be Potter in front of the fireplace and not him, and that would just have to do. He would coach Potter beforehand, and he might not do too terribly when reading from Draco’s prepared script. “I will ensure that he does so.” It wouldn’t be a bad idea for Highfeather to get the idea that pure-bloods were in control of the really important things that Potter was doing, at all levels. From the smile that broadened across Highfeather’s face like blood spilled on snow, she knew and appreciated all the nuances that Draco had meant to put into the remark.

            That led to the traditional exchange of pleasantries at the end of a firecall, and Draco leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed, feeling much better than he had when the call began.

            “How did it go?”

            Draco started and turned his head. It was still possible for him to forget that he had invited Potter over to the Manor this morning. He had agreed to stay out of the study while Draco made the firecall to Highfeather, in case she saw him over Draco’s shoulder and imagined that Draco wasn’t in absolute control. But he leaned against the doorway that led into the dining room now, his leg wrapped in the charms that Draco had showed him which would keep it from contact with anything, and cocked his head curiously.

            Draco shrugged. “Well enough.” He stood up and took an impatient step towards Potter. “Did you take the potion this morning?”

            “Half the dose last night, and half the dose this morning.” Potter stepped with his good leg, and the bad one automatically floated along beside him, rather as though he was leaning on a bobbing crutch for support. It looked awkward and ugly, and Draco wondered that he could bear it, but perhaps anything was better than sitting in the middle of Grimmauld Place for the thousandth day in a row, starting at that ugly paper. “I haven’t noticed any effects yet, though.”

            “You wouldn’t,” Draco said, with a shrug that he hoped looked casual to Potter. He would use his emotions as necessary in the conduct of this task, but he didn’t want to show every change of mood to Potter. “It will take a few days to work.”

            Potter nodded. “I know,” he said, and smiled at Draco. Draco blinked. Where was that smile when he wanted to influence people as an Auror? A few of those, and the wizarding world would have followed at his heels. “I wanted to thank you again for doing this.” He paused. “And I wanted to do something for you, but I forgot to mention it last night in the excitement over the potion and the discussion of what we should do about Highfeather.”

            “Go on,” Draco said, and folded his arms to conceal the beat of his heart. With his glasses, Potter might not be observant enough to notice that, but just in case, Draco ducked his head to conceal the flutter of the pulse in his throat as well. “Explain to me what you wanted to give me, and what you’ve already done.”

*

            He looks nervous.

            But Harry wasn’t about to point that out, not when Malfoy had already given him this potion and done so much for him—not because he had to, but because he wanted to. Of course, it meant that Malfoy simply enjoyed the challenge of brewing and not anything to do with Harry, but that really didn’t matter. He had still overcome his prejudice to do this much, and that, to Harry, was an amazing achievement.

            Now let’s hope he can overcome his prejudice against someone else talking to his son.

            “I know that Scorpius respects me,” he said, leaning his back briefly against the wall. The charms that Malfoy had taught him were wonderful, and kept his weight off his leg, but it was still a strange sensation for someone who was used to sitting instead of standing. “And he doesn’t respect you, much.”

            Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, and Harry could feel the arctic chill that came sweeping over him. “Thank you for informing me of that extremely obvious fact,” he said, words so clipped that Harry could have used them to shave with.

            Harry shook his head. “I disagree with the reason he doesn’t respect you. I think he doesn’t know you very well.”

            “He knows me well enough to use you as a weapon against me.” Malfoy’s mouth had gone small, and he checked the distance between him and Harry as though wondering how many Muggleborn germs he would have to rub away. Harry hadn’t seen that look since the first afternoon they were working together.

            Harry sighed. “I didn’t bring it up to scold you. I scolded him, actually. Sort of. Firecalled the Gryffindor common room and didn’t tell him it was me at first because I sent him a letter and he refused to speak to me.”

            Malfoy blinked. “What?”

            “Apparently you’re the source of all evil,” Harry said, determined to carry on rather than try to answer questions that he didn’t think he understood as yet. “And when I tried to point out that the source of all evil and someone who hated me enough to kill me wouldn’t work on a project like this, he told me you were a liar and you must be in it for some other reason.”



“I threatened to disown him,” Malfoy said. “I’m fairly certain that he thinks I’m only working on this to try and produce another child.”

Harry paused and looked at him. “Are you?”

            “Thinking of revoking the aura of sainthood that you tried to extend to me?” Malfoy was sneering now, in the best tradition of the schoolboy Harry had known at Hogwarts, his arms up and his mouth pursed. “You might as well. You know that I’m not exactly what you imagined, because you can’t comprehend somebody who’s lived as a pure-blood all his life.”

            “I don’t think I can understand without you explaining, no,” Harry said, and flashed him a quick smile that Malfoy didn’t seem to know what to do with. “I’m not that arrogant. But I do think that you’re not a villain, any more than I’m a hero. I hope you won’t disown Scorpius. But I also hope that Scorpius can learn that you’re not someone who really needs his disdain.”

            Malfoy spent another few minutes staring. Harry shifted his weight again. The bobbing leg didn’t hurt, but it was a disconcerting sensation. Maybe he’d learned to live with pain so well that lack of it bothered him as much as feeling it did.

            “You can’t influence what I do,” Malfoy said at last, in a curiously flat voice.

            “I thought I already did,” Harry said. “I influenced you to create the potion you gave me, and I influenced you to join forces with me instead of decide that you needed to prove my theory wrong at all costs.”

            Malfoy’s muscles rippled like a tiger’s, but he relaxed his jaw before whatever words he was planning could come out. When he finally spoke, Harry had the feeling that he’d thought more deeply about the words. “That is separate from what influence you might hope to exercise over me in the matter of my son.”

            Did you know that you sound constipated when you speak through your nose like that? Harry thought, but decided that it would hardly be productive to say that aloud. “All right. I acknowledge that. Do you want me to back off and stop talking to Scorpius? I can do that, if you would prefer.”

*

            Small stars danced in the corners of Draco’s vision, and his mouth jerked, and his stomach twisted, and he wished he knew what to yell at Potter.

            Or if he should yell at him.

            What was the worst Potter could do? Draco had already lost Scorpius in the most important ways, the ones that mattered. Astoria would tell him the things Draco had confessed to her on his wedding night, and that meant Scorpius would turn his back further. Draco couldn’t get along with someone who had no respect for him, and no respect for what the Malfoy line meant. If Scorpius walked away from him, that was only the more formal recognition of the split that Draco’s words and intentions had already put between them.

            He shrugged and turned his back, towards the table where he had already laid out the parchment and ink and quills that Potter would need to write his owl to Highfeather. “Do as you please. I don’t think he’ll reconcile with me, but you’re welcome to try.”

            There was a silence that stretched long enough that Draco looked over his shoulder, wondering if Potter had fallen to the floor. But no, Potter was giving him another of those breathtaking smiles that were enough to overcome the world.

            “Thank you,” he said simply, and then began float-limping towards the table. “How would you advise me to address her? Madam Highfeather, the way you did?”

            Draco stepped back and blinked. Then he buried himself in the comforting minutiae of a pure-blood culture he knew well, and said, “Yes, that would be acceptable. You should also try to convey the impression that addressing her is one of the great joys of your life, and that you’re awed and humbled to be approaching her. Without actually saying that outright, of course. Even she would distrust that much flattery.” He leaned towards Potter. “Do you think that you can do that?”

            “I learned a little about flattery when I was an Auror,” Potter said easily, and sank into the chair, propping his leg off to the side. “Even if it wasn’t as extensive as this, it ought to be drawing on lessons that I’ve already learned.”

            Draco nodded and watched over his shoulder as he began to write. Potter’s writing was neater than on the parchments and notes Draco had read from him, but perhaps that was the difference between a public document and ones he had thought only he and a few other people would read.

            That made Draco wonder if they should preserve the general messiness and the shapes of the letters when they made copies of Potter’s notes for other people. On the one hand, it might be easier to read if they standardized them; on the other, it would reassure people who thought Draco rather than Potter was the originator of the theory, and it would give a pleasing air of authenticity that would combat those looking for mistakes.

            “Like this?” Potter asked, and leaned back to hand Draco the letter.

            Draco started. He hadn’t realized that he’d fallen into what was practically a daydream over his strategy plans. He reached out and took the letter, eyeing the flourishes on the signature. He wondered for a moment if Potter had signed his Auror memos this way.

            It wasn’t perfect, but Draco didn’t want to correct the mistakes, because they were ones that fell on the side of convincing Highfeather that Potter was someone she could manipulate. The correct amount of flattery and bluster from someone who felt inferior in the presence of pure-bloods—which Highfeather would naturally assume Potter did. And a nice closing paragraph about how he looked forward to any new information Highfeather could give him about his notes and theories.

            Draco smiled in spite of himself, and looked up to give the short praise that he thought was due Potter for writing something like this. He found Potter leaning on the back of his chair with his arms folded in front of him, a faint smile of his own on his face.

            “What?” Draco demanded.

            “I like watching you,” Potter said simply.

            Draco could have frozen, could have stared, could have demanded to know what he meant. But in the end, it wasn’t worth asking. He simply nodded and turned away with the letter in his hand, preparing to fetch Potter’s notes and theories.

            “Really like it,” Potter said behind him, in the kind of musing, dreaming voice that Draco had used before when he was talking to himself and didn’t really care if anyone else heard him.

            Draco elected to keep walking.

*

            dominique1: I’m sorry to hear that. And Harry is hoping the same thing.

            RRose: Thank you!

            ChaosLady: It’ll take a few days to be sure of that. Thanks for reviewing.

            unneeded: I don’t think anything but Draco behaving as he is right now for a long time can convince them, and even then, he’s going to have a long struggle to make them think it isn’t just part of a plot.

            moodysavage: He doesn’t want to admit gratitude or anything that feels like pleasure at Harry’s reactions, that’s for sure.
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The Descent of Magic