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Anarchy as Art	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 12617 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 3
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Chapter Fourteen—Different Views

            “I’m sorry, Mr. Potter, you want to do what?”

            Harry smiled cheerfully at the librarian in front of him and put down the few Sickles that he owed as a donation because he’d never been to this library before. While the library was technically free, the donations were suggested from everyone who could afford them, to make sure the library had extra money to buy new books with. “Look at the success stories you’ve gathered over the years,” he said. “I saw it advertised in the Prophet the other day. You’ve made a special effort to get stories of the war together, right? Documentation of the trials after it, and reports from eyewitnesses who were in the Ministry doing it, and memos from Aurors when the Ministry would release them, and interviews with everyone you could find?”

            The librarian blinked at him for a long time. She was red-haired, like Ginny, but she had her hair pulled back in the kind of severe style that Ginny didn’t like, and something of the pallor Hermione got when she’d spent a long time among books indoors. “Er,” she said at last. “Yes, of course. The Retrieval of the Lost project. But, Mr. Potter, you were in the war. Why would you need to look at it?”

            Harry laughed and pushed the Sickles across the desk to her. “Because just being in the war doesn’t mean that I know or understand everything that happened,” he said. “You might have experienced that yourself. Do you know everything about the library, just because you work here? Don’t you find that the knowledge overwhelms you sometimes?”

            “I—yes.” Now the librarian seemed flustered around him for the reasons most people were. She picked up the Sickles, which sparkled and clinked between her fingers. “I understand, Mr. Potter. I just didn’t think you were at the point in your life when you needed to look back and find a new perspective yet.” She glanced up and smiled timidly at him.

            “I need a new perspective on everything,” Harry said firmly. He looked around the library, which opened back from the front door in seemingly endless shelves. A staircase on the far wall led up to the first floor, where he knew still more books were kept, along with older scrolls and ledgers and private collections donated by older pure-bloods anxious to make good with the new world. “This is the way I should go, right?”

*

            After she had corrected him—the collection was actually on the ground floor, in a pleasant room with large windows that let in carefully controlled sunlight that never touched the shelves of material—the librarian went away, still looking a bit dazed, and Harry sat down and began to look through it.

            The Death Eater trial documentation was the largest group. Newspaper articles, minutes, memos, reports, even diary entries from the Wizengamot members who had died since then and left orders to give their private papers to the library, Harry flicked through them all, looking patiently for some mention of the Malfoy name.

            He found it in an article under a photograph that showed Malfoy—Draco—practically trying to duck out of the frame, his hands shielding his face. Harry stared at it, then shook his head. Strange, to think of the man he was now behaving like that.

            The article said a few uninteresting things in the first few paragraphs about the crimes that Malfoy had been judged for, notably being part of the Death Eaters, and who had presided at his trial. Harry skipped down, looking for what he knew was there, but which he couldn’t remember the exact wording of.

            Then he saw his own name, and on the second page found the nervous-looking photograph of him in the dress robes he’d worn to the Yule Ball, the only pair he’d owned, that the Prophet had insisted on sneaking in with everything else.

            Ah. Yes.

            ““…do hope that Mr. Malfoy leads a better life after this,” the Chosen One was quoted as saying shortly after the trial. “I hope that he can recover from the expectations that almost devastated him, the expectations of other people most of all. He isn’t a bad bloke, you know. It was trying to please others that got him into trouble.” The Savior of Us All paused to push his fringe back from his forehead to show the scar that he wears as a reminder, looking calm and wise. “Maybe he ought to concentrate on pleasing himself.””

            That was the quotation of what he had said, all right, though the reporter’s interpolations still made Harry roll his eyes. He put the paper down in front of him and leaned back thoughtfully to look at it, and at the pictures again. He didn’t seem so different from Malfoy when he considered the way that they both wanted to duck out of sight. Malfoy was just the only one who’d acted on his desires.

            As he did when he approached me.

            Harry sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. He hadn’t been in the library long, had barely looked at anything, and already his neck and back ached as though he had spent hours crouching over papers. That was a life of scholarship for you, he supposed, unless you were like Hermione, whose bubbling enthusiasm kept her alive all through it.

            Was it any wonder that Malfoy might have looked at those words and thought Harry was practically giving him his blessing to go out and live a life of crime? Since that seemed to be what pleased him.

            Harry paused, and flicked a few other papers aside, looking for the more recent ones that followed up on the stories of Death Eaters after the war, usually on the anniversary of the trials or Voldemort’s defeat. Yes, there were pictures of Malfoy transforming himself into the sleek philanthropist, appearing at Ministry functions of all kinds, balls, openings of places like this library, so pleased with himself that his smile practically wrote it across the air in lights.

            And in one…

            Harry leaned down and stared. He didn’t remember the particular Ministry party that the photograph appeared to cover; there had been so many he’d attended over the years to appease Thorin and his ilk that they blurred together into his mind into one large shifting, colored mass of poor lighting and bad food. But no, here it was, his face in a corner behind Malfoy’s shoulder as Malfoy laughed and talked and turned his head between the flunkies who stood on either side of him.

            And the expression on Harry’s face was—enlightening. He glared at Malfoy with the same expression that he might regard a plate of poisoned but delicious food.

            Harry sat back and looked up at the walls, wondering if they had witnessed Malfoy coming here to stare at those documents and confirm that it wasn’t his imagination.

            No wonder that he thought he had some grounds to pursue me, if he saw things like this.

            Of course, Harry had no proof that he’d done that. But it might explain some things, as it explained some things to Harry himself.

            Flipping through more documents revealed no others that had him and Malfoy in close proximity, and so Harry finally put them back in their proper places and left again, with another smile at the nervous librarian. His mind dazzled and danced and skipped past the new possibilities as he left the building and stood for a moment on the front steps, looking around the new and prosperous section of Knowing Alley that it was located in.

            I’ve been obsessed with him for a longer time than I thought. Of course, even then I probably thought he was a thief and wanted to prove it, but why did I care so much? I’ve never cared that much about anyone else Ron and I hunted.

            To the detriment of the case, sometimes, Harry knew, as he began to walk slowly through the alley to the Apparition point. He had wanted to prove a link to Malfoy with some of the illegal Potions brewers they found even when there wasn’t one, and that had caused him to overlook evidence that Ron had later been the one to put to good use.

            Sometimes he had told himself that it hadn’t mattered, because the things he was good at, like the chase and the capture, were enough to make him and Ron a powerful team anyway, and Ron was the one who was good at strategy. But thinking back over it now, his face burned.

            No. Quitting was the right decision. I wasn’t focusing on my job, I was acting unprofessional, I was putting Ron down and in danger and making him do a lot of the work, and I couldn’t have given the case to someone else because Malfoy would just have tormented whatever Auror decided to take it on. This is the best way.

            Of course, that still left open the question of what he would do now that he’d quit. But at least he was still alive, and Ron was still alive, to have the option.

            “Potter.”

            Harry looked up, and found himself jolting to a halt. Malfoy stood a few feet from him, at almost the intersection where Knowing joined Diagon, and was staring at him with a face as flushed as Harry’s own and eyes that burned like fireworks.

            Harry made sure he had quick access to his wand, although he knew Malfoy wouldn’t have confronted him here in public if he intended to do anything too mad. Even this early in the morning, there were witnesses around, a steady stream of people on their way to the library and wizards who wanted to do early-morning shopping. “Malfoy,” he said, in a tone that he tried to strip of every emotion. He’d let Malfoy have too much of him already.

            “I have to talk to you.” Malfoy took a single long stride that brought them considerably closer.

            Harry thought of several possible responses, from Well, I don’t have to talk to you to Sorry, I’m busy this morning. In the end, though, he was curious as to what Malfoy would say to justify himself.

            And maybe what he, Harry, would say in response. He was a much greater mystery to himself than he had ever realized.

            “Somewhere more private than this, I assume?” Harry flipped his hand at the chaos that surrounded them, and had the satisfaction of seeing Malfoy half-rear back and stare at him.

            “You’re coming,” he said.

            Harry bared his teeth, thinking of the night that he had made Malfoy do that. “Not yet,” he said. “I might as well spot the innuendo before you do.”

            That got him such a long and level stare that Harry believed for a moment Malfoy would take back the invitation. He didn’t seem to like or understand this Harry who challenged him. Hell, Harry barely understood himself.

            But then Malfoy jerked his head and said, “Fine. This way,” and led him out of Knowing Alley in the direction of Knockturn. Harry raised his eyebrows and followed, wondering if he should be worried about the stain on his reputation by going down that way. True, he was no longer an Auror, but the Prophet might still make much of it, and their spies—or people who would sell the story to them—seemed to be everywhere.

            Well. Harry cared less about that than he did about talking to Malfoy, whatever it was.

            Malfoy didn’t lead him into Knockturn after all, but over to a robe shop that someone had started in Diagon Alley earlier that year, only to learn that fits of enthusiasm by themselves weren’t enough to lure customers away from Madam Malkin’s. He produced a thin white key, and the door opened under his hand. Harry didn’t manage to muffle his snort, and Malfoy turned and gave him another of those piercing stares.

            “You apparently own the title to this property legitimately,” Harry murmured. “I’m shocked.” He stopped and then added, “Of course, the key might be magical.”

            Malfoy only shook his head as though Harry’s conclusions wearied him and then flung the door in front of him wide. Harry had a glimpse of dusty emptiness before Malfoy pushed him inside and shut the door behind them.

            Harry immediately cast a Lumos, and ignored the way Malfoy jumped and flinched when he drew his wand. If they were about to fight, Harry wanted some glimpse of his surroundings and knowledge of where to move.

            It looked as though the unfortunate robe shop owner had taken his stock with him when he moved out. There was nothing in the whole vast front room but a few chairs, a pile of wood next to the fireplace, and a wide table covered with a cauldron and vials of green crystals. Harry sniffed at them.

            “Powdered Viridian Boar’s eye,” he murmured. “So this is where you make some of that Explosive Draught that you sell so readily.”

            “The people who buy it could use for knocking down inconvenient walls,” Malfoy said. From the sound of his voice, he had circled behind Harry. Harry remained looking at the table. He wasn’t about to show fear in front of Malfoy if he could help it. “I don’t make them use it to blow up their enemies.”

            “But you know what it’s likely to be used for,” Harry said conversationally, keeping his face forwards. “Is that the way you operate, Malfoy? Lying in bed at night and making up excuses for what you know is perfectly likely to happen?”

            There came a silent rushing noise. Harry dropped to his knees and rolled behind the table, and Malfoy stopped running. Probably didn’t want to run into the table and knock his ingredients over, Harry thought, leaning his head against a leg and grinning despite himself. Viridian Boar’s eye was expensive.

            He became aware of a looming thought in the back of his mind, about whether he ought to report Malfoy and his illegal ingredients to the Ministry.

            In the end, Harry shook his head. The Ministry would only ignore the report even if he made it, or, at best, launch an investigation that would go nowhere because Malfoy would remove the evidence first. Harry was done doing things for the Aurors.

            “Why must you be so difficult?” Malfoy hissed at him.

            “Sorry that I don’t roll over and play dead when other people want me to,” Harry said, grinning madly up at the mostly invisible ceiling. Dangling cobwebs were the only thing he could see of it. “It’s a habit, I reckon.”

            Malfoy snorted and stalked in a circle. Harry closed his eyes and listened to him doing it. The idiot was making too much noise for someone who hoped to sneak up on Harry. Which at least suggested, Harry thought, shifting and rolling over, that that wasn’t what he intended to do.

            What was, then?

            “I brought you here because I wanted to talk to you,” Malfoy said, his voice echoing loudly in the confined space. “But it proves itself impossible, as usual.”

            That caused something to twist in Harry’s brain, like an explosion of silent white light behind his eyes. He wrenched himself out from under the table and stood, stalking towards Malfoy.

            Malfoy didn’t attack him at once, the way Harry had thought he might. He stood there, blinking, and so his head rocked on his neck when Harry dealt him the ringing slap on the jawbone that he wanted to give. Even then, Malfoy raised one hand and waved it ineffectively in front of him, as though he couldn’t understand what had happened.

            “You brought me here to talk to you, and then attacked me,” Harry said flatly. “It doesn’t matter how much I irritated you with that remark about the Potions ingredients, you were already circling behind me with your wand aimed at my back. In what realm of what world is that talking?”

            Malfoy lifted a hand to the handprint blazoned bright on his cheek, and carried on staring. Harry waved his arms at him, too angry to do anything but stand there and yell, even if it would have been wiser to run out the door right now.

            “You idiot. I went to the library this morning to look up what I said about you after the trial, and yeah, it was there. All the hopes about how you would live a better life, and deserved to do something for yourself. I acknowledge I’ve been obsessed with you for bloody years, and I would have lived a better or at least a more sensible life if I knew it.

            “But you haven’t helped! What kind of gesture is sending a cream pie after me? And breaking in and hanging your photograph on my wall? I get it, you wanted my attention focused on you as long as I was an Auror, and you didn’t know any other way to get it. But now I’m not an Auror and you’re doing the same bloody shit. Maybe consider that it won’t work now that I’m not obsessed with your crimes! What else can you do? What other tricks do you have up your sleeve? Or are you still a thief and that’s all you’re going to be, because you can’t think of anything else to do, any other way to relate to me, now that I’m not an Auror?”

            By the end, he was shouting hard enough and loudly enough to please even Ron, if he had been there and witnessing the conversation. Malfoy stood there with his eyes wide and the expression on his face stark. Harry stopped, panting, and decided to give him a chance to answer.

            “You have five minutes to say something,” he murmured, surprised at the calm tone he was able to call to his own voice. “Then I walk out that door, and next time, I think I’ll just refuse to talk to you.”

            Malfoy closed his eyes and stood there. Harry faced him with his blood buzzing. He didn’t know what he expected more, for Malfoy to make no response or for him to make a stupid one. Well, either way he was ready.

            Or, not ready, he thought, as the moments passed and Malfoy stood there and Harry’s buzz didn’t diminish. He was so caught up in the moment and finally confronting what lay between them that he just had to hover there, caught between worlds, between times, one when Malfoy had made a move to finish off this whole bloody thing and one when he hadn’t.

            Finally, Malfoy began to whisper.

            “I read what you said after the trial, and I read what you said after my father’s trial, and I heard your defense of my mother. And it seemed to me that it was worth doing something other than hiding in the Manor after all, because there was someone out there who really did believe that we weren’t worthless and I could do something about it. I could get my life back. There was someone who would appreciate what I did.”

            Harry stared at him. “I was your ideal audience,” he said at last. “I was the one that you thought would be—what? Impressed, intrigued maybe,” he went on, answering the question before Malfoy could. “Certainly caught.”

            Malfoy nodded, his head half-bowed. “I was sure that you would—see the motivation behind it sooner or later. I never expected you to stay in the Aurors, you know. I knew what they were going to become when I watched the Wizengamot speakers at our trials. More rules-obsessed than ever, trying to prove that nothing like the takeover that the Dark Lord did would ever happen to me again.”

            Harry frowned at him. “Even if I hadn’t become an Auror, why would you think that I could approve of the Dark Arts?”

            “Because I didn’t think that you would stay the upright little Gryffindor you were, either.” Malfoy’s voice was full of smoke and ashes. “You thought I could become something more than what I was. You’d been through war, and fighting the Dark Lord, and death. How could someone stay the same after that? If I could change, you could.” He raised his head and stared unwaveringly at Harry.

            Harry held his eyes, and his voice was gentle as he answered, “Not that much.”

            Malfoy shook his head and turned away. Harry stood there in the dark room in front of him, and once again waited. But he had the feeling that Malfoy didn’t intend to break the silence this time, that nothing would.

            Unless he did it.

            So he took a deep breath, and did.

            “There’s nothing I can give you, nothing that helps take away the sting that I’ve given you so far,” he said. “But I can say that I know myself now, and for whatever reason, I’ve been equally obsessed with you. I think—I think that it happened because I was sure that you would change after the war, too, but not the way you did.”

            Malfoy’s hair caught a small gleam of light it hadn’t a moment before, the only thing that showed he had turned his head towards Harry and begun to listen.

            Harry licked his lips and whispered, “And I think part of me was jealous that you got away with everything, that you could be the darling of the reporters and not act like you were sacrificing everything when it was so hard for me to be polite to them, and that you had the respect of the Ministry even though you were a criminal. I found a photograph where I was glaring at you at one of those parties. Why would I be doing that when I wasn’t jealous of that kind of attention? Because—because I think you were showing me that it didn’t matter, that you’re right about the Ministry, that in spite of them saying that they focus on peace and justice it’s not the kind of place I belong, and the world isn’t the way I thought it was.”

            Malfoy’s hair gleamed a little more, and one corner of his face became visible.

            “That nothing I can do,” Harry said, and his voice was dying despite himself, as he thought back to the way that Thorin had probably got right back up after that Stunner and gone right on, “will change things.”

            Malfoy just continued waiting.

            “So I have to do something else.” Harry drew a long, rattling breath, and shrugged. “I think you showed me the value of chaos. I’m not going to approve of what you do, but I can’t be the kind of priggish Auror that I was trying to turn myself into, either. I don’t know myself, but that means I know what I don’t know. That means I can find out.”

            Malfoy faced him fully now, and said, “I don’t know, having considered you my audience for so long, if I can deal with knowing that you’re not watching.”

            “That’s all right,” Harry said, and showed him the ghost of a smile. “Having chased you and resented you for so long, I don’t know that I can look away.”

            Malfoy’s lips parted, and Harry nodded. “It can’t be the way it has been,” he said. “It can’t be the way I envisioned. It’ll have to be something else.”

            And he turned and left before he did something stupid, such as kissing Malfoy. It wasn’t time for that yet.

*

            SP777: Well, I am glad that someone liked that scene! A lot of people seemed to think that Draco was being far too childish for it to be funny.

            As for the scene with Thorin, Harry did feel damn good at the time, although, as he realizes here, the effect probably didn’t last.

            unneeded: Yes, Harry still needs to figure out what to do with himself, but Draco’s going to have to figure something out, too.

            Makoto_Sagara: To be fair to Thorin (I can’t believe I’m about to say this), the main problem was that Harry wouldn’t go along to get along, which Ron manages to do. He lashed out instead or demanded of himself he really believe what Thorin was saying. Both were impossible.

            And yes, neither one is completely mature, I think. Although Harry might have no chance but to ignore Draco if Draco doesn’t change his tactics.
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