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Parsimony	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 14122 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this fanfic.

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Chapter Fifteen—Conversations

            “Please stay behind, Mr. Potter.”

            Harry turned around with a calm expression on his face. He couldn’t say that he hadn’t expected this. Klein had watched him throughout class today, even when she should have been watching other people cast spells or explain why they had used a charm that she hadn’t specified they could use. He suspected he knew what this was about.

            Klein, to his surprise, simply watched him for a moment with a blank face, and then sighed. “Can we sit down?” she asked.

            Harry raised his eyebrows and sat with her in the chairs in front of her desk. She studied him intently for a few moments more, until Harry came to feel like an experiment in one of Slughorn’s jars. Then she nodded and set her hands in front of her as though intending to drive a Muggle car through a narrow tunnel.

            “I’m sorry,” she said.

            Not what I was suspecting it was about, after all. Harry had been sure she would tell him he was too violent in class and should never consider trying to get into the Auror program. He studied her now, and waited, but she said nothing, staring past him and through the door of the Defense classroom as though she heard her next group of students arriving. Harry finally sighed and said, “For what?” It was a politer conversation than he had planned to have with her, but she had started more politely, too.

            “I snapped at you when I should have realized that you would be suffering much the same thing that I am,” Klein whispered. “I am—rattled that Death Eaters came so close to the school on my watch, but you are their target. I faced Greyback along with other experienced Aurors, but you came to us and destroyed him. In each situation, you were the one in most danger.”

            Harry blinked. “I thought that was what you were most angry about. I mean, at first. That I wouldn’t stay behind the walls of the school and let you protect me.”

            Klein shook her head and glanced at him. “I was anxious about that,” she said. “But more angry that you did my job better than I could do it, and that you killed a dangerous werewolf that, yes, should never have made his way that far into the institution and whom we could not have held. You defended yourself. You killed those who would have murdered you.” She gave a smile that looked so painful Harry made an involuntary gesture, and she stopped trying to give it. “You made me—an Auror trained to defend and to kill in self-defense—redundant.”

            “And as for me being a serial killer?” Harry asked. His voice snapped with sarcasm before he could stop himself. Of all the stupid things Klein had said and done, he thought that was the worst.

            She winced and looked away from him. “That was another stupid move, born from anxiety. I had to name you something other than a better Auror than I was, successor to the training I should have absorbed better than I have.”

            “I’m not a better Auror,” Harry said. Shit, I thought I wouldn’t care what other people thought about me after the war, but I reckon I have to when they’re the ones actually involved in my safety and helping to guard me. “I don’t know the rules for keeping someone safe. I don’t know shit about the laws that you have for bringing in prisoners alive and questioning them, as I’ve proved.” Klein’s head twitched towards him, her lips parting as if she was going to reprimand him for language, but Harry plunged relentlessly on. He was going to say this if it killed him. “And I’m thinking now I don’t want to be an Auror, anyway. I want to be a Healer. You don’t have to worry about competition or me killing prisoners that way.”

            Klein stared at him, her eyes round as full moons. Then she shook her head. “Olversvald would also be wroth with me if I scared you off applying to the Aurors because of my criticism,” she said.

            “Wroth with you?” Harry blinked. “Who says that?”

            Klein’s hand arched down as if reaching for her wand, but she pulled it back. “Do not consider a career as a Healer unless you are sure it is what you want, Mr. Potter,” she said stiffly. “In many ways, your talent for violence could be an asset in the Aurors. You should not feel—pressured to change your mind because of my prejudice.”

            “Part of it’s reasonable prejudice,” Harry said. “Part’s not, but I can ignore that part.”

            “Mr. Malfoy did not seem to think so.”

            Harry shrugged. “I was in a worse mood that day than I am now. And Malfoy was—with me in a way he’s not been, since.” He wondered for a moment if he’d said too much, but surely Klein had noticed that Malfoy had sat as far away from Harry as possible in the classroom and simply continued sitting there when told to partner him, until Klein gave up and assigned him to someone else.

            He hadn’t spoken to Harry since the night Harry retrieved the Elder Wand from Dumbledore’s tomb and repaired the hawthorn wand. In fact, he had snatched the wand back from Harry and marched away, despite the wound in his side that still had to hurt him, and the broken arm hanging immobile at his side, and left Harry with dying words on his lips and Snape’s heavy glare on his back.

            Fuck, Draco. What the fuck else can I do? I’m looking, but I haven’t found a solution yet. I’m not Snape, and I’ll never be him, and if you’re blaming me for that, then you can find someone else to help you research, because I can change and try to improve, but I’ll never be anyone other than me.

            He glanced up to find Klein watching him with a speculative look on her face, and sat up, shaking his head. He didn’t have the right to expose Draco’s secrets to Klein, or to anyone really, despite how good it would have felt to talk about some things. “You ought to know I plan to go into the Forbidden Forest tonight,” he said.

            “For what reason?” Klein was looking at him now with a polite air that Harry found infuriating, but he clenched his teeth and reminded himself that he had agreed to this, to let the Aurors track his movements and guard him. He couldn’t go back on his promises every time he found them inconvenient.

            “To talk to the wolfwere,” he said. “The Death Eaters destroyed his children, and it’s still hard to tell why. He ought to know that at least some of them are dead and that they won’t be coming back to hurt him anymore.”

            Klein frowned, as if thinking about the amount of marking she had to do on the essays she’d just assigned, and then sighed. “If you agree to carry a Portkey with you to take you to safety in case of danger,” she said, “you can go.”

            Harry nodded. “All right. But can you get someone from the Ministry to make the Portkey that quickly? I thought it took special permission and a whole department was supposed to look over the requests, and—”

            Klein pulled out a silver pin that was holding up her hair and handed it over, silently. “The keyword is this,” she said, and pulled over a scrap of parchment to write something down. “Do not read it aloud,” she added sternly, handing it to Harry. “Memorize it and then make sure you say it only when you want to go.”

            Harry looked carefully at the paper, and then snorted. Pumpkin bread, yes, that was a good term, one that he was hardly likely to say casually. “Thank you, Professor Klein,” he said, Vanishing the parchment and standing up. He hesitated for a moment, then slid the silver pin into his Gryffindor tie. “I am trying to do the best I can, and I know that doesn’t always result in the best things for the Aurors, but I don’t want to sabotage them or anything like that.”

            “I see.” Klein leaned back in her chair and shook her head. “Go speak to the wolfwere as quickly as you can, Potter. Some Death Eaters may return to the Forbidden Forest, but perhaps not for a time, since they must know by now that Greyback is dead.”

            I don’t know if Greyback was the one giving them orders, Harry thought as he walked out of the Defense classroom and headed for lunch. But yes, whoever is ordering them around has to be more cautious than he was.

*

            “Wolfwere,” Harry called out. He was standing in the same clearing where they had met the first time, shivering. He cast a Warming Charm, and then wondered if creatures in the Forest could feel even that minor magic.

            He ended up shrugging irritably and pushing his wand back into his pocket. They might, but if Harry thought about how cold he was all the time, that would also distract from some of the alertness that he might use to defend himself.

            Golden eyes opened across the small pool from him, and Harry stifled a yelp. He leaned his back against a tree and nodded to the wolfwere as he came forwards, in the mostly-human form he adopted. He ended up sinking onto his haunches and staring at Harry in silence for a long moment before he spoke.

            “Have you found out who killed my children?”

            Harry shook his head. “As far as we can tell, the ones who killed your children were the ones in the clearing that night,” he said. “But the werewolf who probably ordered them to attack is dead. And he might have been the one who ordered the death of your pups, because he didn’t want other wolves around who could transform into humans.”

            The wolfwere cocked his head. “What is being done with the meat of the werewolf?”

            “You mean his body?” Harry carefully ignored some of the images that had come to mind when he heard that question. “I think the Ministry took it. They usually do take werewolf bodies to study, I think.”

            The wolfwere stared at him. Harry looked at the ground and shrugged. “I know, because I had a friend who was a werewolf and died in the war,” he mumbled. “The Ministry wanted his body. I took it away from them and made sure he had a burial. But no one wanted Greyback.”

            “I wanted it,” said the wolfwere. “I wanted to eat of it. That would mean that I might see his memories, dream his dreams. I might learn why he wanted to kill my pups, if he was the one who wanted to.”

            “Well,” Harry said, trying to imagine the Ministry’s reaction if he owled them demanding a steak from Greyback’s shoulder or something of the kind, “I could ask them if they would let some of it go. But they might not, and it’s not something I thought to ask about, because I didn’t know about it.”

            The wolfwere made a gesture with one hand, which he brought back around in front of him and held unnaturally still on the ground in the next second. “You have done something,” he said. “Will you do more?”

            “About your pups?” Harry shook his head. “I think there’s still someone out there, someone who told the werewolf and the others what to do, but I don’t know if they knew anything about your pups.”

            The wolfwere showed his teeth, and Harry raised his eyebrows and stood still. Maybe his scent showed fear, but he was trying not to show it in his body language. “I will keep a guard,” the wolfwere said. “I will find the ones who killed them, if they come back. They carry a foulness on their left side. I can scent it. I will find them.”

            “A foulness—oh, right,” Harry said, thinking of the Dark Mark. He wondered for a moment why the wolfwere hadn’t reacted to Malfoy like that, but he was probably smart enough to realize that Malfoy had been on Harry’s side.

            At least, he is sometimes.

            Harry shook the thought away. Another thought, for another time. He couldn’t do everything at once. Another thing he had tried to teach himself this summer.

            “If I guard,” the wolfwere said, “you will come, and listen to me. Other people will not. And they will kill me if I go to the school.”

            Harry blinked at him. He seemed to discuss being killed with more calmness than Harry thought it warranted. On the other hand, some of his children were dead already, and he lived in a world where, every day, he hunted and killed his food. Perhaps the fact of death mattered to him less and was less important because of that.

            “Yes,” he said. “I’ll come back and listen to you.” He hesitated, wondering how well the wolfwere could keep track of time in the human way, and then glanced around at the forest and had an inspiration. “What if we meet every time the moon changes?” he asked, pointing to where the half-full moon was rising out of the trees. “When it begins to lose more of its light, then I’ll come to you and we can discuss again.”

            The wolfwere glanced up at the moon, baring his teeth again as though the light was his enemy, but then dipped his head in a short, choppy bow. “As you will,” he said. “In the time between, you will guard in your walls. And get me a piece of the werewolf’s body.”

            “I’ll ask,” Harry said, and the wolfwere dipped his head again and loped into the woods. Harry thought he saw a small blur and ripple as his body changed shape into a wolf’s again, but he wasn’t sure, and when he called his name tentatively, there was no response.

            Harry stood there for a moment, sighing, and then turned and slogged determinedly towards the Shrieking Shack. If Snape was right, then he ought to have some kind of potion by now that could determine what the magenta color to Harry’s face meant, and Harry could think of no better cover for his visit to Snape than the Aurors already knowing he was in the Forest to visit the wolfwere.

*

            “Drink it all at once.”

            Harry eyed the vial of potion in front of him with resignation. Of course Snape had come up with something thick and blue and soupy that smelled of rotten cheese. But he held his nose and swallowed it, reminding himself that Skele-Gro probably tasted worse.

            His stomach cramped and twisted, and he almost spit out either the potion or the food he’d eaten for dinner that night, he wasn’t sure. He sat down with a thump and leaned his back against the wall of the Shack, concentrating on his breathing and the rhythm of his stomach pounding up from his belly. One, two, cramp, one, two, three, cramp.

            “It should start working soon.”

            Harry nodded in acknowledgment of Snape’s words, but kept his eyes closed, because he wasn’t sure what would happen if he opened them. The room might be spinning dizzily around, too, and then he would vomit, and then Snape would feel his hard work had been wasted.

            Which he would be right about, really, Harry thought, giddily pursuing his thoughts in another, different spiral. Harry had brought him the ingredients, but he couldn’t muster a tenth of the brewing skills that Snape could. Which might be a problem if he was applying to be a Healer. On the other hand, Healers didn’t brew most of their own potions unless they had a delicate and sensitive medical issue, because they didn’t have time. They had mediwizards to do it for them.

            “What did you say, Potter?” Harry heard a rustle as Snape bent closer on the other side of the circle.

            Harry swallowed the words and the giggle that wanted to accompany them and shook his head. He had said, “Will you be my mediwizard?” but Snape didn’t need to hear that. He needed to hear the reactions to the potion, what it was doing to Harry. Harry spent a long time breathing deeply and steadily, clearing his throat and his stomach out.

            Then he opened his eyes. “Has my face changed color, sir?” he asked Snape.

            Snape rocked back on his heels, staring at something. Harry assumed it was his face, but Snape’s eyes were focused in an odd way, as if he was staring through Harry’s cheeks rather than at them. “No,” Snape said at last, abstracted. “I thought from the beginning that such an idiosyncratic reaction would need time to fade, and it seems I was right.”

            “Right.” Harry waited. “Er,” he said at last. “So what happened?”

            “It is—” Snape made a half-helpless gesture with one extended hand. “It seems that, once again, you manage to baffle the experts, Potter,” he murmured. “Your face color indicated, I thought, that some traits of your personality would be exaggerated. And I thought those were more likely to be the protectiveness and the sense of territoriality that werewolves usually exhibit when not committed to pushing away their nature, as Lupin did, or serving a more powerful master, as Greyback did.”

            Harry controlled the urge to point out that Snape had already told him all that. He was finally getting answers, he didn’t want to discourage that. “All right, sir. But what appeared that told you it’s more than that?”

            “There is a glow in the air around you,” Snape said quietly. “It would be pure silver if the indicator potion had been wrong and you had the lycanthropy infection after all. It would be blue if it showed only strongly influenced personality traits. It would be white if the blood had no effect on you.”

            “And what color is it?” Harry asked, hoping that he kept the whine from his voice that wanted to creep in.

            “Green,” Snape replied, finally meeting his eyes instead of looking in a different direction. “It’s green.”

            “Wonderful,” Harry said dryly, and a brief, answering smile flashed on Snape’s face. Harry shook his head. “Anyway. Anything you can remember about what that might mean?”

            “Out of the colors I mentioned,” Snape said, as brisk as if he was teaching a Potions class to brew a Boil Cure, “it is closest to blue, and therefore I still believe that your personality has been influenced. But blue and yellow combine to make green.” Harry didn’t roll his eyes at the obviousness of that answer, though he came close. “I will have to research what the yellow could mean, and for that, I will need some of the books that you can find in Slughorn’s quarters.”

            “The library wouldn’t have them?” Harry asked. He didn’t think that he could set up another spell laying blame on the Slytherins this time. The last one he had used had been a fairly complicated glamour to fool Slughorn’s wards, and had resulted in three weeks of detention for all the Slytherins. But it would look suspicious if that happened twice.

            “They are personal copies of Dark books, so no,” Snape said, dry in turn. “And I need my notes and marginalia, not the books themselves.” He paused, then said, “Potter, how are you going to take them from Slughorn? I need them, but if that would put you in danger, I don’t wish to do it.”

            Because that would endanger his flow of ingredients and news from the outside world, Harry reminded himself, before he could taunt Snape for caring. He shrugged a bit. “I’ll ask Slughorn if I can borrow them, if you give me specific titles. He’ll be thrilled to think that I want to improve my brewing skills.”

            Snape gave him such a long stare that Harry thought he would mention he’d had wards on his books against lies, too. Instead, Snape grunted and nodded. “That should work,” he said. “You are more resourceful than I thought, Potter.”

            “Draco doesn’t think so,” Harry muttered, and then flushed, although Snape probably couldn’t see it under the magenta color of his face. Well, one unguarded utterance was always going to get out.

            He started to apologize, but Snape held up his hand. “I would not judge the general level of your skill, either as a researcher or a brewer, by what Draco requires,” he said dryly. “He has rather specific requirements.”

            “But I promised to help him, and I can’t,” Harry said, climbing to his feet. “That’s what bothers me. If I’d researched further into the spell, or faster, or understood more of what I’d read, or had more of an idea about what I’m looking for, then I could have done something more.” He sighed and shook his head, clearing out as much as he could of the bloody ideas. “What are the titles, sir?”

            Snape was still looking at him. His mouth opened once or twice as if he would speak, and Harry thought he heard him mutter something about, “Why should I?”

            “Sir?” Harry asked, studying him. If there was a chance that he might persuade Snape, even accidentally, to help Draco like Draco had wanted, then he would stand here for the rest of the night if he had to.

            Snape looked up at him, and sighed. “You could do better if you knew more about what you were looking for,” he said. “So you said. Mr. Potter—I did not want to mention this, but I see no reason to assist Mr. Malfoy’s delusions or to help him conceal what he is covering up. He cast that spell himself.”

            Harry sat down. He didn’t realize he was planning to until he was sitting on the floor of the Shack, and then he stared at his hands and blinked and looked back up at Snape and looked at the wall and blinked. Then he shook his head. “He couldn’t be,” he said. “He couldn’t possibly have done that.”

            “Do you accuse me of lying, then?” Snape’s voice cooled, and Harry thought he was glad that they had stepped back from a moment that could have become uncomfortably emotional for both of them. “I would be happy to answer such a charge from you with proof, Mr. Potter, but sadly, I do not have many of my books here. The ones you intend to fetch for me will contain some proof that will add to what I am saying, but not all of it.”

            “Why would he cast it?” Harry whispered, staring at Snape. “He wouldn’t want his friends to turn against him, or to put himself in physical danger.” He tried to think of an explanation that involved devious plots to stay out of Azkaban, but that was ridiculous. Draco had his freedom now. If this had been a mistake like that, then he could have explained it to Harry from the beginning.

            Besides, getting out of Azkaban because you’re dead isn’t a smart plan.

            He tensed, thinking about sixth year and wondering if Draco was always smart when he was under stress. Some of the plans he had come up with kill Dumbledore were incredibly risky because someone else could touch the cursed necklace or drink the poisoned mead. They were superficially intelligent on the surface, but not much so in practical reality.

            “Almost certainly,” Snape said, “he cast it because he had done something that betrayed his past or his secrets unacceptably in front of the other students. That spell is a version on a Memory Charm, Mr. Potter. It replaces one specific incident with crystal-clear ‘memories’ of what the caster wants the victim to remember, and the victim doesn’t question them as much as they would question the blurry remnants of an Obliviate. Of course, this spell is also less powerful in being less extensive, in covering a lesser period of time.”

            “Such as a single night, perhaps?” Harry whispered.

            “Almost certainly, Mr. Potter.” Snape’s voice descended a little. “We do not yet know why he cast it. He may have had a good reason.”

            “But why not admit that from the beginning?” Harry spat, standing up. “It would have been so much easier to help him if I knew what spell it was, if he was asking for help with a mistake instead of this mysterious persecution—”

            “And betray his broken pride to someone who had always been an enemy and a rival?” Snape stared into his eyes, both eyebrows rising. “Come, Mr. Potter, you know better than that.”

            Harry paused, feeling his anger rise off him like steam. Then he sat back down. “Can you write down the titles of the books you need?” he asked, as calmly as he could manage. “I’ll go fetch them and bring them back tomorrow night.”

            And tomorrow, Malfoy, you and I are having a little talk.

*

            ChaosLady: You mean with Draco? No, not that would be too much to hope for.

            unneeded: That was what I thought. Although Klein and some of the other Aurors might not agree.

            SP777: Thanks!

            Zip: No problem. It’s nice to know that people want to read my stories.

            Well, here you find out something that Draco and Snape were talking around, and one of the reasons that Snape didn’t really want to research the spell.

            For the same reason Harry couldn’t use Hermione’s wand to heal his wand in DH. Draco’s wand was deliberately broken, and the Elder Wand could heal it, but not an ordinary one.

            ang: Draco is upset about the spell, but he hid the real cause for the reasons Snape states here.
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Parsimony