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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.

Chapter List
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Chapter Fourteen—Discussion and Dissension

            Harry woke slowly, but with a smile on his lips even before he opened his eyes. He knew who was there from the soft, steady pattern of breathing beside him. He had lain with Draco in his arms the afternoon before he was arrested and listened to it.

            When he opened his eyes, Draco was already leaning forwards to stare at him. Maybe he had noticed a change in Harry’s own breathing.

            “How are you?” Draco asked.

            Harry gazed back at him, fighting the impulse to ask that question for himself. He had been the one wounded by a Dark Arts curse, and it was only sense that Draco would want to know about him first. But Draco’s face was as pale as though he’d heard someone insult his potions-making. Besides, he’d unexpectedly confessed his love to someone who fainted before he could reply. Harry settled for reaching out, catching his wrist, and squeezing hard before he answered.

            “Better than I was. No headache. I managed to eat earlier.” He paused, then added, “Hermione told me that I’ll have to return to a holding cell as soon as the Healers are satisfied I’m in reasonable health.”

            “I almost think I should have killed my mother,” Draco said. He shoved his chair closer to the bed and bent over so he could kiss the skin beneath Harry’s left ear. Harry shivered and arched his neck to encourage him to go further, but Draco kept his lips in the same place, his body shaking so severely that Harry did his best to curl an arm around him despite the awkward angle he was at.

            “Never,” Harry whispered. “Words are enough, and knowing that she’s been arrested for what she tried to do to me. I think we should worry more about the people who are still free. Will your father do anything drastic because of your mother’s arrest, do you think?”

            “Not for several days. He’ll want to give the impression that he’s unruffled, that even this experience simply broke against the shield of his stoicism.” Draco exhaled, a warm, damp rush of air that made Harry squirm, unsure whether he felt more aroused or contented. “My parents are idiots.” Abruptly he pulled away so he could catch Harry’s gaze again. “But we have more important things to talk about.”

            “We do?” Harry wondered if something had happened since the last time he fell asleep to make the situation worse.

            “The words I said to you,” Draco murmured, and his hand had changed positions again, now smoothing up Harry’s right arm towards his elbow. “I meant them. I’m in love with you, and I have no idea how you had the courage to say those words to me first. Even knowing you love me back makes it hard.”

            Harry sat up at once, reaching out and embracing Draco. Draco grunted, maybe in surprise, maybe in protest at the idea of Harry moving. Harry didn’t know and he didn’t care. It wasn’t as though he’d broken a leg, and if he had a fainting fit or a sudden surge of emotion, Draco was here to help him through it.

            “I think that’s my kind of wooden-headed, stubborn courage,” he said into Draco’s ear and trailed his fingers through Draco’s hair, along the back of his neck, and down his spine as far as he could reach. “Your courage is different. If you put yourself down for not speaking the words earlier, I’ll punch you so hard.”

            Draco laughed, his voice shaky, but at least he wasn’t stuttering when he spoke again. Harry was half-sorry for that. He would have had no choice but to lay Draco back on the chair and kiss him senseless if he’d stuttered. “I know my courage is different. But I do wish I could have said the words earlier.”

            “Don’t. I wanted the words because you meant them, not because you thought you had to say them.”

            Draco nodded, his chin bumping and rustling through Harry’s hair. Harry closed his eyes and wished he’d heard of a device for pausing time, rather than reversing it, so they might stay like this and forget about the trials and the necessity of coming up with legal defenses against Diggory and Lucius.

            The door of the hospital room flew open. Draco stirred uneasily in Harry’s embrace, but Harry refused to let him go. There was no way anyone could shame him or make him feel embarrassed for loving Draco. He glared at the intruder.

            “Easy, Potter,” Millicent said, striding into the room with an amused glance at him. “I have no interest in pasty blond potions-makers, but I do need to talk to him.” She stepped up to the side of the bed and knocked on the back of Draco’s head, as if he hadn’t heard her voice and wouldn’t know who it was. Draco turned over and around to face her, slinging one leg through the arms of the chair, but didn’t remove himself from Harry’s hug. Harry hid his grin in Draco’s shoulder.

            “We’ve tried several spells against Lucius, and he’s protected from them all,” said Millicent crisply. “I need to know whether those defenses are only on the Manor or cast on his body as well.”

            “What are you doing to my father?” Draco demanded, but with a curl of his lip that told Harry how delighted he was.

            “Never you mind. It will be better as a surprise.” Millicent folded her arms. “I’m waiting for an answer.”

            “On both the Manor and him,” Draco said. “He’s also immune to most of the common poisons.”

            “Antivenins?”

            “No, the old-fashioned way. Small doses of the poison every morning before breakfast.”

            “I do hate pure-bloods sometimes,” Millicent told the hospital bed. “Does he use any Transfigurations? That cane of his. Is it only a cane, or will it attack me if I come close enough?”

            Draco blinked. “Father was excellent at Charms and Potions, not so good at Transfiguration,” he said after a moment. “But he’s protected against the common ones, as well—against your turning the ground to ice beneath him, for example. I think those enchantments are on his robes, but they’re on every set of robes he owns. There’s nothing special about the cane.”

            Millicent was smiling. Harry was very glad he hadn’t given her cause to smile like that at him. “I have no desire to get Lucius Malfoy naked,” she said. “But this tells me the second plan we thought of should work after all. It’ll simply need preparation to get through those ranks of defensive enchantments.” She nodded once to Harry, then turned and walked stiff-backed out of the room.

            Draco snorted and laid his head back against Harry’s shoulder again. “I hope they’ll let me be there when they work the spell, to see Lucius’s face.”

            “And this doesn’t bother you?” Harry had to ask, because Hermione and her detached analysis of the situation were one thing, but Draco and his history with his parents was something else again. Harry thought he understood Draco’s relationship with them now, but one mind-reading potion didn’t equate to living Draco’s life. “That Hermione and Millicent might destroy your father, and that your mother’s been arrested?”

            “Harry.” Draco reached up and found his wrist; Harry winced as he squeezed it. “I gave information against my mother—everything I could remember, including any Dark Arts spell she might have used and social contacts other than Diggory who could have managed to get her into the Ministry.” He turned, raised his hand, and stared up at Harry. His eyes had gone very dark. “You’ll give information against my mother, so Shacklebolt can prosecute her on every possible charge. I told her that she’d never win me or my affection back after attacking you. I’ll smile and nod if she’s sentenced to Azkaban for this.” He took a deep breath, though he hadn’t spoken the words particularly fast. “I love you. Would you have hesitated to make sure the person who hurt me went to Azkaban, if I had been the one attacked?”

            Harry leaned over and kissed the back of Draco’s head in response. Draco sighed and shivered once, then sat up and turned around, pulling away completely except for the hold on Harry’s wrist.

            “Now,” he said. “We’ve got to discuss your publicity campaign, the things you’ll say to the Minister about my mother and her attack, your knowledge of your paternal bloodline, and how to keep your face straight in a courtroom.”

*

            Draco arranged his features in a polite smile as the first patron stepped through the door. She was a small witch trying not to look too obvious as she gaped at the enormous ceilings of the house Millicent had chosen for them, and failing. Luckily, she focused on Draco soon enough where he stood by a desk he’d Transfigured from a feather, near the base of the staircase to the upper floors, and walked rapidly towards him. Draco relaxed. He had nearly been afraid that she was only someone come to gape at the new apothecary belonging to Draco Malfoy, and not a customer intent on Desire at all.

            “The rumors said—“ the witch began, and paused. This close, Draco could see a large string of sapphires gathered about her neck. She touched them for a moment as if they gave her confidence, then continued, “That is, I’ve heard some people say you’re selling Desire potion out of this shop.”

            Someone else had stepped through the doors and was looking around uncertainly. Draco gave him an encouraging smile, then faced the witch again. “Yes, we are,” he said. “There are some restrictions, of course.”



            “Restrictions?” The witch stepped away from the desk as if she expected to have a snake set on her for daring to request Desire.

            “Simply to ensure we’re complying with the laws the Ministry decided on,” Draco said, and his voice must have been even more soothing than he’d charmed it to be, because the witch’s hand fell away from her sapphires. “We’re required to warn you about certain of Desire’s effects, for instance, and only sell you a certain amount at a time, and—“

            “Can you take that whole spiel as given, then?” the witch asked, and reached into a pouch hanging from her belt. From the sound of the clinks inside, it was heavy with Galleons. “I need some Desire soon.”

            “I completely understand the feeling,” Draco reassured her kindly, and he did. Though he had taken Desire only once and had quickly decided not to take it again, he had still felt an odd yearning for the potion. It had made him react with mental clarity that could have helped in other situations—but it had also affected the state of mind he needed for brewing potions, and that could not be borne. “If you’ll only listen a moment.”

            The witch assumed the air of a Muggle martyr tormented on the cross whilst Draco launched into the speech that included every single warning and caution the Ministry had imposed on them, such as the fact that Desire might affect the witch’s control of her magic. Draco looked at her face carefully during that part, but her expression never changed. The moment she saw the vial of blue-green liquid, her eyes had moistened and softened and her lips parted slightly, and she maintained that look until Draco finished speaking and she handed him the necessary Galleons. Then she slipped the vial hastily up her sleeve and hurried away from the shop as if afraid someone might try to steal it from her.

            The wizard was next, and then a pair of young witches who giggled and peeked over their shoulders so much Draco was sure they were escapees from parental supervision, and then a man with hard eyes who stared steadily at Draco as he paid for the potion. Draco shrugged at him and managed to make eye contact casually five times. If the man was a Ministry agent, as Draco suspected, he would find everything perfectly open and candid at Malfoy’s Magical Mixtures.

            (The name had been Harry’s suggestion. He had claimed it would make their selling of Desire look more innocent in the eyes of the Ministry. Draco had told him he was confusing innocence with girlishness, but considering how many reluctant agreements he’d managed to extract from Harry yesterday, he supposed he owed him one small victory).

            “I’ve heard about your recent misfortunes,” said the hard-eyed wizard as he accepted the vial of Desire potion from Draco.

            “So many of them, yes,” said Draco, and gave the man the companionable grimace he’d practiced in front of the mirror. “Ah, well. Any innovator in society must expect a few.”

            “I was referring to the most recent misfortune, actually,” said the wizard, and unfolded the Daily Prophet from his robes. Draco had made a point of looking at it before he came into the shop, so he could peer critically at the photo of Harry—several years old now—ducking into one of the shops on Diagon Alley, beneath a headline that screamed incoherently about magical creature blood.

            “Yes, not his best angle,” Draco agreed, and picked up another two vials of the potion as he saw the desperate-looking man coming up behind the wizard. “However, Harry’s never cared as much about how he looks to the public as what the papers are saying about him.”

            The wizard stared at him. “Your partner’s been arrested,” he said, “and that’s all you have to say?”

            “Yes, it is.” Draco raised an eyebrow at him and nodded over his shoulder. “Now, if you don’t mind, I do run a busy shop here, and I’m afraid you’re taking up space and time that I could use serving others.”

            The man stepped away, eyes not so much hard as confused now. They returned continually to Draco as he walked to the front of the shop, and he paused for a long scan before he went out the door.

            Draco kept the smile on his face, nodding patiently as the newest patron tried to explain to him, in stumbling words, why exactly he needed Desire for his self-confidence problem. He felt impatience clawing at him behind the mask, but he managed to suppress it quickly. He’d done that often enough with Cordelia Nott and other people much more annoying than this young man who was about to pay him forty Galleons.

            It had been Harry’s suggestion that he go alone to the shop today, to show that neither Harry’s arrest nor Narcissa’s could stop him, and that the sale of Desire would proceed whatever Diggory or his father might try. Draco had been reluctant to reveal the house where they’d brewed Desire, but Harry said that was also a good thing; it made them seem settled, determined to get back into business, in a way that making the location vague and selling Desire by owl only wouldn’t. If Diggory tried another strike at the shop, it would be a matter of public interest; Draco’s customers could tell others that they’d been in that very building, and describe it, making any potential loss or damage more real.

            There was something to be said for Gryffindor politics, Draco had to admit, but they were nerve-racking—hence why he’d practiced grimaces and smiles last night, and made sure to steal every march on his enemies he could, by asking Granger and Millicent as well as Harry what they thought was likely to happen.

            He lifted out another two vials of Desire for the latest customer and launched into his explanation of the potion’s effects again, trying not to remember that Harry was probably sitting in a holding cell at the moment, being questioned by Aurors.

*

            “But you must be aware of something.”

            Harry smiled at Willowberry. In a way, he was coming to admire the man. Willowberry had saved his life by insisting on proper procedure and checking the guards on Harry’s cell at the right moment, and he’d accepted Harry’s words on Narcissa with nothing more than a few nods. On the other hand, he was sticking as closely to the interrogation, chasing down Harry’s least uncertainty or evasion, challenging him with lying whenever Harry paused to clear his throat or think, trying to trick him off-balance in the hopes of learning an unexpected honest answer.

            Willowberry’s loyalty was to the Ministry and its rules first, not to any one particular person. At least Harry could rest assured that this was one Auror Diggory and the Malfoys would never manage to corrupt.

            “I’m really not,” said Harry. “I grew up with my aunt and uncle. My aunt is my mother’s sister, her only living relative. She was deeply Muggle. I know she feared and envied my mother’s talents, and even begged to attend Hogwarts. If she could work any kind of magic, she would have, at some point during her life. She married the most normal Muggle man she could find, and my cousin has no talent, either. If you’re looking for magical creature blood, I’m afraid you’ll need to look elsewhere than my mother’s family.”

            Willowberry pursed his lips and blinked unhappily down at his notes, but Harry knew he was on the verge of giving up. The Ministry contained no information that could contradict Harry’s testimony; Muggleborns were registered as wizards or witches when they claimed their wands and their families were sworn to secrecy, but their heritage wasn’t traced in the way the pure-blood families traced theirs. If Willowberry wanted to insist that Harry had inherited some trace of Dementor or worse from his mother, he would have to go to the Muggle world and do the research himself.

            With a deep sigh, Willowberry drew a long, straight line across the parchment. Then he leaned forwards and peered into Harry’s eyes. “What do you know about your father’s family?” he demanded.

            “May I have a drink, please?” Harry asked politely.

            Never taking his stare away, Willowberry picked up the glass of water from the table between them and held it to Harry’s lips. Harry leaned forwards and sipped it. Since his hands were bound behind his back, the wrists and the forearms looped together with some kind of strong, light loops of metal, he had no other choice.

            He had thought of telling Willowberry and the other nervous Aurors who bound him that wandless magic didn’t need hands to work any more than it needed a wand, but had decided he’d terrified them enough for one morning. There were two other Aurors in the room, but they stayed near the door and flinched every time Harry moved, even if he was only settling back in the chair.

            Draco would no doubt scream at Harry if he knew about the bonds. Harry would tell him later. From the moment the Aurors had practically tiptoed into St. Mungo’s to escort him back to the Ministry, he had seen how seriously they took the charge of his being able to devour magic. Harry’s focus needed to be his freedom, since that was what he required to rejoin Draco. He wouldn’t resist the Aurors for the sake of pride alone.

            I don’t think even Draco would, once he got past the initial outrage, and he was all pride at one time.

            “Now,” said Willowberry, and put the glass back on the table with a small clink. “Your father’s family?”

            “I don’t know much about them,” Harry admitted. Willowberry’s eyes lit up like a ferret’s, and he scribbled on the parchment. “My father was an only child. His parents were quite elderly when they had him, which might have been the reason they petted and spoiled him so much. I know he was quite the talented wizard at Transfiguration; he became an Animagus before he was of legal age.” Harry saw no reason not to reveal the secret, now that the Marauders were all dead. He was sure James would have preferred that the Ministry know everything reasonable than that they accuse Harry of keeping secrets and hold him longer.

            Would he have approved of my dating Draco?

            Harry pushed the thought impatiently away. The reason he had found it so hard to understand Draco’s permanent estrangement from his parents was that he had none. It was useless to worry about their approval on this or that question when he would never know the answer, and when he needed all his concentration for the challenge in front of him.

            Willowberry almost lunged at him, though he managed to stop himself with a hand laid flat in the middle of the table. “What kind of Animagus?”

            “A stag,” Harry said, mildly interested in why Willowberry would need that question, but knowing he wouldn’t be told if he asked.

            “Not even a predator.” Willowberry leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “And you never met any aunts, uncles, cousins, or great-grandparents?”

            “Given the age of my grandparents,” Harry said, “I’m pretty sure their parents were dead by the time I was born. As for any other siblings, no, nothing. I think my father might have been the only child of an only child, but I don’t know for certain.”

            “Magical creature blood has been known to skip one or two generations,” Willowberry said, as if to himself. “Perhaps your grandfather was simply clever at hiding it, and of course your father died so young that it might have had no time to manifest.”

            “Please do investigate and let me know if that’s true,” said Harry, leaning forwards. “I’d love to know more about my father’s family, since I seem to be the only one of them left, and I don’t even know what I’m the heir to.”

            Willowberry frowned at him. Harry just looked back, radiating earnestness. Draco had advised him to cooperate with the Aurors as much as possible, not only because it would give him his freedom sooner but because it would let him live up to his original reputation of brave and honest Gryffindor. The more people who saw him acting like that, the less powerful the rumors of him as some dark and deadly monster would be.

            “We will investigate, you may be assured of that,” said Willowberry at last, and then walked behind Harry to tap on the bonds with his wand. The other Aurors tensed, but Willowberry lifted Harry to his feet with an arm beneath his as if he did this every day. “Now—“

            Someone knocked on the door of the interrogation room. Willowberry looked up in annoyance, and Harry ducked his head to smother a grin. The taller Auror moved, on Willowberry’s nod, to open it.

            “You can’t really keep me from the most influential story of the decade, you know,” said a familiar voice the instant it opened. “The people have a right to know the truth.” Rita Skeeter stepped into the room, a parchment floating beside her with a Quick-Quotes Quill already dashing away. “Tell me, Mr. Potter, how does it feel to be wrongfully imprisoned for an act that was not a crime?”

*

            Mangacat: Thanks for reviewing!

            Alice O’Donnell: I understand. Since I’m working from reading rather than personal experience with the gay pride movement, and trying to adapt it to a wizarding world, I don’t think “Changing of the Guard” can pass expert evaluation.

            I do write original work, though that’s pure fantasy.

            Thrnbrooke: Here it is!

            Lilith: Thank you! Here, at least, Harry uses his goodness to his advantage.

            Yume111: Thank you!

            Hermione doesn’t understand why Harry would hold back on Narcissa because a) she still doesn’t like the Malfoys much and b) the injury was to a friend. She gets considerably more upset when it’s personal.

            Draco, at this point, doesn’t care what his mother does except as he has to counteract it. He made his speech to let her know she’s been cut out of his heart and life. He wouldn’t reconcile with his parents unless he had some proof they’d changed as he had—and that’s extremely unlikely to happen.

            Draco’s magic was not in danger before, only his life. Thus why his parents didn’t fight for him before this.
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A More Worldly Man