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Sleepless	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 16095 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I am not making any money from this story.

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Chapter Fourteen—Seeing What Happens

            “I wonder what she wants.”

            Harry smiled. He had been asking the same question about Discipula of Skeeter, but he hadn’t put it as bluntly as Draco did. Harry wondered if Draco was actually physically younger because of the difference in their timelines; Harry still didn’t have a good grasp on exactly how much time had passed between the end of the war and the start of the trials, since it was easy for the Malfoys to lose track of time and he wanted to ask around cautiously of other people. “I don’t know,” Harry admitted. “But when I learn it, then I’ll be able to oppose her more effectively.”

            “Sure wise words for one so young,” Narcissa said. “I think that you are really not so much older than our Draco, are you, Mr. Evans?”

            Harry looked at her cautiously. He had become aware, the last few times that he’d visited Draco and his family, that she was concentrating on him, observing him with an intensity that left frown lines in her forehead. Lucius had perhaps given that task over to her, Harry thought, because he sat back and simply twisted his cane between his fingers now, bowing his head when Harry glanced at him. Harry didn’t know what either of them, and didn’t trust them not to lie to him if he asked. It was nerve-racking.

            “I’m not that much older,” he agreed, and turned back to Draco. “Anything that you can remember about her would be helpful, you know.”

            Draco sighed. “I know. But she was just there, in the background. She was one of the Ministry officials at the Tri-Wizard Tournament, I remember that. And she was one of those people who always seemed to show up at Hogwarts when the Ministry had decided that it should be shut down or the Headmaster should be challenged. She showed up towards the end of second year when they wanted Dumbledore gone from the school because of the Chamber of Secrets, and towards the end of first year—but I don’t remember what for.”

            “Was she powerful then?” Harry asked, glancing at Lucius to tell him that he could contribute if he wanted to. “Working her way towards power? Standing in the Minister’s shadow and hoping that no one would notice her?”

            Lucius played with his cane.

            Draco sighed for a moment and closed his eyes, frowning the way his mother did now, as if he had to concentrate in much the same way to recall details. “I never heard anyone talk about her separately from the rest of the Ministry. Not even Pansy’s parents, when I was at their house. And they seemed like people who knew all about politics.” He didn’t have to say, Harry thought, that his parents hadn’t talked about her much, either. He would have known more details about Discipula otherwise. “I—well, she was as dangerous as the rest of the people in the Ministry who might have had a grudge against us, but no more than that. Until the war ended, and she was the one put in charge of us.” He looked helplessly at Harry.

            “But the source of her grudge?” Harry asked. “Could it be that she opposed something your father wanted to do as governor of the school?” He ignored Lucius, although he thought he could have addressed the question to him. Lucius probably wouldn’t answer anyway.

            “I never heard,” Draco admitted. He looked a bit embarrassed. “I always assumed that she hated us for the same reasons that other people did. Because we were rich and powerful. It was assumed that everyone was either our ally or our enemy, or that they’d like to be. Hatred or envy or fear. But not neutrality.”

            Harry smiled. He couldn’t imagine Malfoy apologizing for his family’s prestige that way. He wouldn’t care how comfortable Harry was or wasn’t with his family’s past. He would just go ahead and talk the way he wanted to.

            Yes, well, Malfoy is all about want.

            Harry ignored the possibly-uncomfortable turn his thoughts were taking so that he could concentrate on Draco. “Her family. You don’t know much about them, either?”

            Draco shook his head. “What I’ve already told you, and no more than that.”

            Harry sat back with a sigh. It seemed that he could do nothing more than wait for the lines already in the water, with Hermione and Skeeter, to snag a fish. “Well. Then I reckon that we’ll have to—”

            Someone knocked on the door.

            Harry turned around with a raised eyebrow. Though Discipula and her people had become a bit more polite lately about entering the room where they’d confined the Malfoys, they still didn’t usually knock. On the other hand, he couldn’t imagine someone else coming here unescorted. Discipula still didn’t want to let anyone through to them who wasn’t loyal to her.

            Lucius, he noticed when he glanced back at him, was smiling.

            Since no one else volunteered to do so—Draco was staring at the door in shock—Harry stood up and went to open the door.

            The man who stood beyond it was extraordinarily tall. Harry had to take a step back so that he wouldn’t feel like he was craning his neck to see into the bloke’s face. His hair was long, thick, and white, as long as some wizards kept their beards. Or so Harry thought; since most of it was coiled into a smooth braid, he couldn’t be sure. He had a cane like Lucius’s, though since it was hung on his arm, Harry was fairly sure that he didn’t need it.

            His eyes were cold and dark and contemptuous. Harry wondered for a moment if he had seen him before, but then realized that, no, he had simply seen that manner before. It was the way that Death Eaters used to look at Muggleborns.

            “Let me in,” he said, his voice slightly tinged with an accent Harry didn’t recognize. “I have come to be a character witness for Malfoy.”

            Harry stood up as straight as he could and decided that looking startled or frightened would be counterproductive. “Woburn?”

            “Yes,” he said, no more than that, and stooped so that he could pass under the doorway. Harry backed up to let him, all the while thinking furiously but trying to keep his face calm and relaxed.

            The man didn’t walk into the room; he glided. Harry was willing to bet that he had attached spells of some kind to his robes, because it was the only way Harry could imagine anyone moving that way. Woburn turned around in the middle of the chamber and scanned the walls as if he were looking for weaknesses where someone could break through.

            Then he faced Harry and stared at him. His expression showed nothing, but Harry had the feeling that he was concealing a sneer anyway. Someone like him always would be, and Ron had said that Woburn was always the very highest of the pure-bloods or a mask for them. Of course he would disdain someone Muggleborn.

            “You are the fool who has appointed yourself Lucius’s barrister?” No attempt to make this more friendly, Harry thought. Well, he could live with that. He looked the man in the eye and nodded once.

            “Why?” Woburn asked.

            Harry would have liked to check out Lucius’s expression then, to see if it was still a smirk. He had seemed confident that Woburn would defend him without further prompting once he learned of the need. Harry wondered what it would take to convince Woburn to do it, the way he seemed to want to be persuaded. “Because he deserves a fair trial just like anyone else,” Harry said. “They all do.” He reached out and squeezed Draco’s hand. Draco responded gratefully, though he never took his eyes from Woburn’s imposing figure. “If someone else had volunteered, I wouldn’t be standing here. But no one else did, so I am.”

            “You are the last resort, then,” Woburn said. “Someone who reluctantly acts when he must, when others have failed him.”

            Harry laughed a bit. “I’ve never thought of myself that way,” he said, when Woburn stared at him. “I’ve thought of myself as someone people could trust because I wouldn’t act quickly just because someone else wanted me to or because I could be bribed or wanted the public’s good opinion, but because someone else honestly needed me. But the way you see me works, too.” He was relaxing, oddly enough. He wondered if Lucius’s hostility had prepared him for someone like this.

            Woburn bent closer as if he wanted to peer into Harry’s eyes. Harry let him, though he couldn’t imagine what Woburn would see. Madly dancing demons? Dishonesty? Of course he wouldn’t believe what Harry had said.

            “You have no reputation to risk,” Woburn whispered. “No one has heard of you before, and no one will care if you fail.”

            “The Malfoys would care,” Harry said. “Draco might die, and his parents. Yes, I would like to avoid that happening if I can. There are consequences to my failure, though they might not be ones that would matter to you.”

            Woburn took a step back this time. Harry hoped that whatever he had seen in Harry’s face was too much for him, but he was too good at controlling his expressions; no emotion disturbed them even now. “Are you implying that I should help you with the case because of what might happen to them? It is true that I know Lucius. It is also true that you have offered me no incentive to speak out.”

            Harry snorted. “You would probably think I was stupid if I did try to offer you one. You despise my kind, and what can I offer to someone who’s fabulously rich? I could try a different kind of bribe than the monetary one, but I know nothing about you, so it would be stupid to try until I do.”

            Woburn leaned forwards again. Harry half-thought that he would keep swaying, like a reed in the wind until he saw something that made up his mind for him. Harry had had the impression of a man of great force and power when he came in, but he didn’t seem inclined to do anything but make minor factual statements so far.

            “Who are you?” Woburn breathed.

            Harry mentally rolled his eyes. Was this all going to happen again? He didn’t see any reason to repeat what he had already told everyone involved, since Woburn could have heard of this through other channels. But possibly he wanted to hear it from Harry’s own mouth, to check the story for inconsistencies, so Harry began obediently to recite. “My name is Harry Evans. I’m part of a large family of Muggleborn wizards who educate themselves away from Hogwarts, and marry among Muggles, and don’t give a shit about your precious pure-blood ideals. I wouldn’t have turned up at all except that I got curious and restless.”

            Draco, he saw, was looking at him with obvious pride from the corner of one eye. Harry grinned back. It took little to make Draco happy, he thought. In this case, it was just knowing a secret about Harry that a stranger didn’t. Harry wondered what other gifts he could bring Draco, ranging from the simple to the complex, when the trial was over and he didn’t need Harry in the capacity of barrister anymore.

            “I had heard that,” Woburn said, and the way he spoke made Harry bristle. Woburn oughtn’t to have asked him to repeat that cover story if he already knew it. But before Harry could interrupt, Woburn went on. “And it is not the truth. I know things about you that you do not know. One of them is when you are lying.”

            “What I said is the truth,” Harry said. “I want to be a barrister, I’m Muggleborn, my name is Harry Evans, blah blah blah. What else do you want me to say?” He didn’t think Woburn could know he was from an alternate universe just by listening to him, so he tried not to feel defensive.

            Woburn’s eyebrows bristled out as though he was picking up Harry’s words through them. Then he clucked his tongue. “It is a lie about your name,” he said. “And I believe it is also a lie about your heritage. Someone who is Muggleborn would not talk so to someone who is pure-blood.”

            Harry sneered at him. He could see why Lucius apparently got along with the man, but not why he had hoped for help from him as long as he retained Harry as his defender. Woburn was bound up in all the old prejudices and stereotypes, and Harry doubted there was any way to get through to him. “Believe what you want. The fact remains that I’m here to help. I don’t think you can do the same thing,” he added, to end the interrogation and draw the focus back to where it should be, on Woburn’s own disposition and goals.

            Woburn took a slow step away from him and stood there for a moment with eyes half-closed, as though he was trying to determine whether he should respond at all to Harry’s impudent words. Then he nodded. “It does not matter, perhaps,” he said, and Harry had the distinct impression that he was addressing someone else, someone not visible in the room. “I will still do what I came for. I may be a bit slower in leaving. That is all.”

            Then he turned around and faced Harry again, his expression as smooth and closed-off as it had been before, but perhaps not impossible to get something out of. “How may I serve you, Mr. Evans?”

*

            “Have you reconsidered?”

            Harry blinked. Malfoy seemed to have acquired the habit of dropping in on him at any point during his day, whether it was outside courtrooms or in his office or at a time like this, when Harry was walking towards the building he shared with Hermione and trying to figure out how he could charm, or at least use, Woburn.

            “Reconsidered what?” Harry asked, and then realized he sounded like an idiot. Malfoy was giving him that sort of slow, scornful look he reserved for idiots, anyway, and Harry didn’t want to look like a moron around him, though that was probably vain (in more than one sense). “Going to a dream expert? You already told me that they said it was nothing dangerous.”

            “I still think they’re wrong,” Malfoy said, but he held up a hand when Harry opened his mouth angrily to contest that. “We don’t have to talk about it. In fact, it’s better if we don’t. No, I meant reconsidering dating me and helping me with Quidditch games.”

            Harry closed his mouth and swallowed. Nothing about the dreams, other than one incidental remark. No moaning about how Draco couldn’t give Harry everything that Malfoy could, or how Malfoy couldn’t decide if he wanted Harry.

            It was almost enough to make him wonder whether this was the real Malfoy. A surreptitious glance up and down his body revealed no shimmer of a glamour, though, or any sign of a flask that could contain Polyjuice Potion.

            Malfoy gave him a glance back that said he knew exactly what Harry was looking for, and that it amused him. Harry shook his head and hurried on into the neutral territory that it seemed Malfoy had opened. Well, relatively neutral, anyway.

            “How much do you really need someone to help you with Quidditch?” Harry asked. “Have your teammates threatened you or refused to let you Seek the way they should? Has your trainer threatened to drop you? You seem concerned about a threat that could well be imaginary.”

            Malfoy touched his fingertips together and raised his face to the skies. When Harry stared at him, he said, “I’m thanking God. It’s wonderful that you can have a coherent thought in your head or express it in words of more than one syllable.”

            Harry kicked him in the shin. Malfoy hopped up and down, ignoring the stares from the people they passed, and announced, “That’s a threat. I think I should hire Granger to defend me. She’d win.”

            “Prat,” Harry said, but he was half-grinning, or feeling as if he wanted to, anyway. “Answer the question. Was this Quidditch training mainly the excuse to approach me, or do you really think they’d get rid of a good Seeker because of your past?”

            “It’s nothing as blunt as what you’re talking about,” Malfoy said, dropping his foot, although he still walked with a slight limp that Harry knew he must be exaggerating. “It’s more of an atmosphere. Eyes catching eyes. Certain conversations ceasing when I enter the room. People making statements that they then abbreviate when they see me. Or worse, they know they should take them back—the rules of politeness mandate that much—but they don’t want to because they actually believe them when it comes to me.”

            “Some of that might be paranoia,” Harry pointed out as kindly as he could. Hermione had often accused him of being oblivious, but Harry thought that was preferable. At least he reacted to real threats when they were actually in front of him.

            Malfoy glanced at him with burning eyes. “Perhaps. But I do think that the danger is real. They’ve been interviewing potential Seekers lately. And you forget, I’m only a reserve Seeker. I want to move up.”

            “Of course you do,” Harry muttered. “What was it the Hat said? ‘Slytherin loved those of great ambition?’”

            “Come off it.” Malfoy whirled around abruptly, facing him. Harry blinked, finding himself caught in an intense confrontation as unexpected as Malfoy’s playfulness earlier had been. The people around them gave them nervous glances and walked faster, now, rather than seeming puzzled. “You know that that’s a load of bollocks. It only exists because the Founders were fantastic arses sometimes and they wanted a convenient way to categorize their students. Unless you’re going to tell me that you believe all that rot about Gryffindors being pure and brave while Slytherins are the only ones in the school with any cunning. Why wouldn’t we have won the war, if we were?”

            Harry sighed and looked around, half-hoping that someone would decide their precious Savior was being harassed by a nasty Death Eater, just so that he could get out of this row. But the people around him kept walking, as usual, head lowered and eyes fastened on the ground, and Harry knew that he would get no help there. He turned back to Malfoy and tried to find the words.

            This is one reason it’s easier with Draco. We don’t have the history of the war and our history together fucking us up.

            “It’s a convenient way to talk,” he said. “I still call people Slytherins and Gryffindors, and I know people who do. I don’t think all of them believe it as much as we used to when we were dumb little kids, but they still say it. And I don’t know you well at all, so why not say it?”

            Malfoy eyed him with the same level of intensity as before, then let out a quiet laugh and bowed his head, rubbing the back of his neck. Harry remained cautious and still, but it seemed as though Malfoy wasn’t going to act like a raging wanker right this minute, which was always an advantage.

            “I told you that I don’t know how I feel about you,” Malfoy murmured. “But I must feel something strong, or why would I react to a careless phrase that way?” He blew out his breath quietly and met Harry’s eyes. “I hear the same phrase used in all seriousness to dismiss me and my history by my teammates, however. I don’t like it.”

            Harry nodded, still unsure. He wondered if he wanted to date someone who had such strong mood swings on a consistent basis. “All right. I’ll try to remember not to say it again.”

            Malfoy gave him a meltingly sweet smile. It took Harry a moment to work out the reason why. He had promised as gravely as though he and Malfoy were already dating, or—whatever. Harry looked ahead, counting the number of steps that remained to his building. The sooner he was out of this confusing situation, the better.

            “I still want you to practice with me,” Malfoy said. “I still think that I need the practice, to be good enough that they can’t dismiss me.”

            “If the prejudice is as strong as you described, then they’ll find a way to dismiss you sooner or later,” Harry said. He could understand what Malfoy was going through if he reached back far enough in his memory. “All those people at Hogwarts, they knew one day that I wasn’t the Heir of Slytherin, and the next day they were willing to believe it. So I knew they didn’t really support me as a hero; they were uneasily fascinated with me, wanting me for what they thought was this unique talent to survive the Killing Curse but not really understanding or liking me. It’s the same situation with you. Instead of practicing harder and trying to achieve the impossible, find another Quidditch team that will treat you like the person you deserve to be treated as.”

            Malfoy stared at him with a strange, soft expression on his face. This is confusing, too, Harry thought. He found himself wishing he was asleep, longing for Draco. Draco was so much simpler. Harry knew what he had to do, and even when he was dealing with problems in that other world, it was people like Discipula who caused them, not his Draco.

            “You are,” Malfoy said.

            “Er.” Harry decided showing his confusion could do no damage this once, when he had no idea what Malfoy was talking about. “What?”

            Malfoy reached out and started to act as if he would seize Harry’s hand, but when Harry flinched automatically in anticipation of the pain, Malfoy just paused and laid his hand gently along Harry’s arm instead. “You are treating me like the kind of person I deserve to be treated as,” Malfoy said. “I didn’t think you would, but you are. And it’s not even difficult for you.”

            “Yes, it is,” Harry said, feeling obscurely threatened by the wonder in Malfoy’s voice. “I’ve irritated you and disregarded your advice, remember? It’s true that I think you should be on a Quidditch team that treats you as a good Seeker, but that’s the kind of thing I would do for anyone, not—not a special gift to you or anything.”

            “Like I’m anyone else,” Malfoy said. “That’s special enough. You’re not treating me like a Death Eater anymore. A Slytherin everyone has to abuse. Being treated like other people is more than enough. That’s what no one else can do, though.”

            For an alarming moment, Harry thought Malfoy might lay his head on Harry’s shoulder or something. He cleared his throat and stepped back, trying a weak joke. “If I’d known that was all it took to get you to behave rationally, I would have done it weeks ago.”

            “I’m going to take your advice,” Malfoy went on, apparently ignoring Harry’s latest words as they weren’t worthy of a response. When Harry reviewed them in his head, he had to admit that they didn’t sound very worthy. “Challenge a few of the people who sometimes act as though they want to pat me on the head and sometimes as though they expect me to murder them in midair. I’ll ask them what they really mean. If they can’t give me good answers—and they should; it affects the team’s play when they can’t trust someone on it—then I can leave and find something else.” His face shone with determination.

            “Er,” Harry said. “Are you sure you want to? You might not find something as good.”

            Malfoy laughed at him, low-throated. “What? You won’t recommend courage to someone else even though it does so well for you?”

            “That’s not what I meant—”

            “Don’t worry, Harry, I won’t hold you responsible if it doesn’t work out,” Malfoy said airily, kissed his cheek, and went off with the same kind of strong stride he had shown yesterday in the courtroom.

            Harry blinked after him. He had no idea what Malfoy would do next.

            This “seeing-what-happens” thing is a bit unnerving.

*

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Sleepless