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Intoxicate the Sun	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 18051 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and I am making no money from this story.

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Chapter Sixteen--Trying

            "Mate, are you all right?"

            That was what Ron said at breakfast the next morning, in the large cafeteria that they'd converted the manor's kitchen into. Harry opened his mouth to say that he was fine. Of course he was. Malfoy had saved him from the shadow hounds, and no other threat had come after him all night. And now that he knew the spell to counter the shadow hounds, he could use it if anyone ever tried it on him again.

            Then he saw the way Ron was leaning forwards across the table, quivering like--well, like one of the hounds straining to get a chance at Harry. He saw the redness around his friend's eyes, the circles beneath them, the tight fist that the hand that didn't hold the table had clenched into.

            For once, Malfoy's voice in his head murmured, try acting as if you don't have a death wish.

            Harry still disagreed that he had a death wish, for the record. He didn't see where Malfoy got off telling him that he did. He wanted to retort to that voice in his head, to give some quick and laughing answer to Ron, and then go back to his books. Ron would do to serve in his place. The rebellion needed him more than it needed Harry right now.

            Those well-worn arguments burned away in the face of the intent stare Malfoy had given him, last thing, before he rose to go back to his bed. And in the face of the stare Ron was giving him now, because Harry hadn't responded at once that he was fine, the way he usually did.

            Harry met Ron's gaze again, and then nodded slowly. Ron cocked his head, not privy to Harry's private debate and thus misunderstanding the gesture. "You are fine, then?" he asked.

            "No," Harry said. "Not really. The Ministry used an artifact on me last night that made a pack of hounds chase me through my mind. Every time they caught me, I felt the pain and my heart stopped."

            Ron choked, his face bright red. "Harry," he breathed, before rising to his feet and storming around the table.

            Harry put up a calming hand, which only made Ron seize it and force it down onto the table, staring at him all the while. "If you're lying about this," Ron said, his voice shaking, "if you try to tell me that this isn't something I should worry about, when you've still got these hounds on your trail--"

            "Not that," Harry said, smiling at him and realizing that he ought to have told Ron that at once, because otherwise of course he'd worry. Had he really become that bad at reading his best friend, at interaction with other people? It seemed so, and the tense, angry way that Ron smoothed his hands down Harry's arm made him feel guiltier.

            But feeling guiltier just made him want to take risks and possibly die for people, and Malfoy had said that didn't work. Harry would go with his new tactic of telling the truth instead and see how that worked out.

            "The hounds are gone," he said, squeezing Ron's elbow before punching him in the shoulder. "Do you really think that I'd sit here and talk that calmly if they were still with me?"

            "Yes," Ron said.

            Harry blinked at him.

            "You've been strange lately," Ron said. "That's the best word for it, mate, the only one." His hands clamped down on Harry's arms now, his eyes darting back and forth as if more rapid movement would let him read the secrets contained in Harry's head better. "You've acted distant, and sometimes like you don't really care about m--I mean, the rebellion, or any of us."

            Harry shook his head. He hadn't realized it'd got that bad. Truly, he'd never meant to let it. "Ron," he whispered.

            "I'm not finished," Ron said. "If you really aren't in imminent danger of dying, then you'll let me finish."

            Abashed, Harry nodded. Ron bowed his head and seemed to concentrate for a moment, as though he needed to bring the words out of a hole deep in the middle of his mind where he'd stored them.

            "You've acted like you're the hero people wanted you to be in the war, or the criminal the Ministry wants to paint you as," Ron whispered. "Either one could have acted like you did--like you had more important things to think about than the little people who surrounded you, like nothing really mattered but the thoughts in your head. You took insane risks. You risked letting your wild magic loose when you hadn't told us that you could control it."

            Harry opened his mouth to say that there had been no danger when he burned the Inferi, and then closed it again. That night, he had been too drunk on giddy joy to care about the danger, and he knew it. Besides, if he had believed it was completely safe, he still hadn't told Ron or his other friends about it. He lowered his head and shrugged an apology as well as he could.

            Ron still went on with a harsh tone in his voice, but his hands squeezed Harry's arms once, gently, before he did. "Okay. And then there's the way you show up sometimes with these ideas, like Fortuna's Wheel, that you want other people to follow without a full explanation. It's--scary, all right? I don't know you anymore, and because I'm so much the leader, the others see my hesitation and don't trust you either. And I know that Hermione's worried about you cracking under this burden."

            "If I started this war, I should be the one to finish it," Harry had to interrupt then, because Ron was making the same mistake that Malfoy had last night, assuming that Harry didn't realize the magnitude of his faults and his potential blame. "I should be the one to assume the risks and stand in the way of death."

            "You started this war," Ron said.

            Harry nodded cautiously. He couldn't read the exact tone in Ron's words, but it wasn't a question, so that had to be good.

            "You are sometimes the stupidest person on the face of the planet," Ron said. "But only sometimes. The rest of the time it's me, for putting up with you as long as I have."

            Harry spluttered. He would have pulled back, but Ron had already done that, pacing on the other side of the table and flinging his arms and his voice around in a way that Harry knew he would never have done if there were anyone else here. Being Ron's best friend meant Harry got to know all sorts of things about him that no one else did.

            At the moment, Ron didn't look as if he appreciated returning the favor.

            "You didn't start this war," Ron said, cutting around and pinning Harry in his chair with a scowl. "The Ministry was the one who decided to favor pure-bloods for no reason. The Wizengamot didn't have to take bribes. Pure-blood criminals didn't have to decide to take advantage of this and see what they could do. The Minister didn't have to dismiss your concerns."

            "Well, yeah, but I was the one who started the actual fighting," Harry said. He wondered if something had fallen on Ron's head during the night and made him forget that.

            "You didn't force anyone to join you," Ron countered. "Hell, you gave me the choice from the beginning, and what happened to Hermione was her idea." Harry had to smile. Even with no one apparently listening in, Ron would preserve Hermione's cover as a spy. Harry thought it was better than he could have done if he were as worked up as Ron was. "All the others came on their own. Even Malfoy," Ron added grudgingly. "This is our war, too. In fact, it's pretty insulting when you call it yours, mate, I'm not going to lie."

            Harry shrugged a little with his left shoulder. He was caught between wonder that Malfoy had been right and concern for Ron. "Well--sorry. But I reckon there's not much difference at this point. Would it really help that much if I stopped thinking that way?"

            "Yes."

            Another answer that threw Harry. He blinked at Ron and said nothing for a few seconds, which gave Ron a chance to plunge ahead and declaim to the ceiling.

            "It would help if you started acting like yourself, instead of this high-and-mighty hero that you think we want or the distant visionary that you have been acting like. It would help if you acted like you had a head for strategy, instead of assuming everything will work itself out because of your special luck. It would help if you got to know more of the people coming to us now, instead of leaving everything to me."

            "That's what I wanted to do so they would trust you," Harry pointed out. "Follow you. If something happens to me, the rebellion won't die."

            "Just after you finished saying that this was your war, that's less than convincing." Ron stopped pacing and directed the scowl at him from a closer distance this time. "What makes you think that substituting you for me is any better? Then, if I die, the revolution is still decapitated."

            Harry ran a hand through his hair.

            "Harry?" Ron had moved towards the table. "I'd like an answer."

            "There's not much of one," Harry muttered, resisting the temptation to put his head on the table and bang it there a few times. "I wasn't thinking. Or I thought that you could defend yourself better and I was more likely to die."

            "Because of these books that you've been investigating." Ron's eyes could have pierced steel.

            "The ideas, more precisely," Harry said. "But yes."

            "Death wish," Ron sang to the ceiling or the walls or whatever his audience was supposed to be this time. "Stupid bloody death wish." He took a step up to Harry and clamped his hand down again. Harry sat there, feeling the squeeze, the strength in Ron's hand, and how easily it could become worse than it was right now.

            "Survive," Ron said. "Act like you want to survive, at least. Fight with us. Lead when you can. Fight beside me. All of those would go a long way towards convincing us that you're not wasting your time with these books."

            "They taught me how to control Fortuna's Wheel and the wild magic that burned the Inferi," Harry said, a little stung. "I don't think that's a waste."

            Ron shook his head. "But things that only benefit you don't help much. That's why some of our fighters are thinking that you are the high-and-mighty hero, wrapped up in your own plans, thinking that you'll carry the fight with your own magic. You can't carry it alone, Harry. Show them you know that, and things will improve."

            Harry opened his mouth to say that no one really thought that, and then stopped as it occurred to him that he didn't know what people were saying about him, because he almost never came out of his rooms or out of his books. He shut his jaw and rubbed it. He had read some history of Muggle revolutions, trying to find out and avoid their mistakes; he had neglected the much more basic precaution of mixing with his fighters every once in a while.

            Malfoy had been right, though perhaps not in the ways he anticipated.

            "All right," he murmured.

            Ron looked as if he were getting ready for another speech, but he blinked at Harry and said, slowly, "You admit that you've been doing something wrong?"

            "Yeah." Harry twisted to his feet. If things had gone as badly wrong as he thought they had, or at least as they could have, while he was hiding, then he had to get out there and start correcting some mistakes right away. It would take a while, because they wouldn't believe that he had changed at first, and it would also take an effort for him to tear himself away from his books. He had been so sure that he could solve the revolution's problems that way, that it was a better solution than charging ahead the way he had when he burned Minister Duplais.

            But his wild magic was still fire, even if he had its burning under control now, and he had still begun this with an uncontrolled, wild act of aggression. Toned down a bit, his temper could be the best help for the rebellion.

            He started towards the door from the cafeteria, and Ron grabbed his arm and held him still. Harry looked at his arm patiently, then at Ron's face when Ron acted like he still didn't get it. "You have to let me go if I'm going to speak with the others," he said.

            "I told you that you've been doing something wrong," Ron said. "You admitted it. Where are you going? I'll need you to admit that at least seven times before I start absorbing it."

            Harry laughed in spite of himself, both at Ron's words and at the bewildered expression on his face, which didn't match up with them. "What do I always do when I do something wrong?"

            Ron cocked his head. "Something worse?"

            Harry rolled his eyes and punched his best friend in the shoulder. "Wanker. No, really. I'm going to go and do something to make up for it." He tugged away from Ron's suddenly slack grip and started trotting again.

            "Most of our fighters aren't up yet," Ron warned him, catching him as Harry turned towards his bedroom. "And they might be happy to hear that you've changed your mind about being stupid, but they won't want to be woken up at seven in the morning just to hear that."

            Harry laughed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been genuinely amused over something other than someone's reaction to his spells. "Yeah, I know. I have something else to tell them, too."

            "What?" Ron looked as if he didn't know whether he should be cheering or backing away.

            Harry closed one eye in a slow wink at him. "Why should you get to be better and closer to me than all the rest of them? You'll hear about it when they do."

            He walked into his room and picked up the map that he'd drawn weeks ago while Ron fumed in the corridor outside. He had expected to feel weighed down by the confirmation that Malfoy had been right, but instead, his steps seemed to float, and he was humming under his breath.

            Harry paused, holding the map, when he realized that he hadn't told Ron that Malfoy had been the one responsible for casting the spell that drove the hounds back.

            Then he shrugged. He didn't know if Malfoy would want him to reveal that. Harry would leave it up to Malfoy, to see what he did and said, and take his cue from the git's behavior.

            It had been a long time since he'd done that, too.

*

            Draco woke with a hard clench of his fist at his side. He'd been squeezing the bedcovers, it seemed, and they had finally fallen away from between his fingers and left his nails to dig into his skin. He sat up, touching his head on both sides. It didn't hurt, but it felt as if it should. He hadn't slept well, and before that, he had performed a powerful spell for someone he hated.

            At least it hadn't been a spell that should be kept sealed and private to the Malfoy family, this time.

            Not that that might make much difference to his father. Draco knew Lucius would have no love for the Ministry that had locked him away, but he sometimes wondered whether that lack of love might extend to the man who had brought down the Dark Lord and made his imprisonment necessary in the first place. Would he forgive Draco for working with Potter?

            That can only matter when he's free, Draco reminded himself, and used his tongue to clean off a piece of annoying fluff from his teeth. He would go for breakfast soon, but he wanted a few more minutes to recover first. If someone saw him looking like this, they would either grow suspicious or mistake his confusion for weakness, and Draco would like to avoid either result.

            When someone rapped resolutely on his door, he turned with a start, and then made himself relax and sit with his hand flattened out on his knee. "Who is it?" he called.

            "Potter."

            And yes, that did sound like Potter's voice. But Draco wondered at the tone behind it, the bubbles of light like the kind found in champagne, the laughter that tinged his words.

            Perhaps he'd told someone else what Draco had done for him and they'd made him see it for the joke of fate it was, or perhaps he'd laughed himself sick over the things Draco had told him at the same time. Either way, he wasn't someone Draco could hide from. Resigned, he stood and walked over to the door, trying to clean more pieces of fuzz off his teeth as he opened it. He wasn't worried about cleaning the expression from his face. That would happen automatically the moment he met Potter's eyes.

            Potter reached out and caught his hand, which lingered on the edge of the door. His eyes were so bright that Draco felt his gut tighten. He wouldn't have been able to do that himself if he'd tried.

            "Thank you," Potter said. "What you told me is already paying off."

            "The hounds came back?" Draco asked cautiously. Why else would Potter have been smiling like that, unless they had returned and he'd been able to fend them off with the spell Draco had shown him?

            "No," Potter said, and then tossed back his head and laughed a little, the sound seeming to bubble up from within his throat and out into the air like water from a leaking fountain. "No, something totally different. What you told me about not having a death wish and letting other people close to me once in a while."

            Had he said that? Draco was certain he'd phrased it differently. "Good," he said. "Now let me return to my sleep."

            "You weren't asleep, or my magic would have told me," Potter said with utter certainty, and went on before Draco could ask what he meant. "Besides, everyone is getting up just now--everyone except the people who were up all night training, I mean. I have an announcement to make, and I don't want anyone to miss it."

            Draco shook his head. "Most of your people still don't trust me or consider me part of the revolution. I don't have to be there."

            Potter bent his gaze straight on Draco. Draco choked as if he had an old wound in his throat. And in a way, this was an old wound, or at least tearing at the scab on one. He had once wished for Potter to look at him like this, his eyes full of light.

            "You were the one who let me see that they didn't really consider me part of the revolution, either," Potter whispered. "That I was in danger of losing them. That my real responsibility was to live for them, not die for them."

            "I never said that," Draco began, on firmer ground here. He remembered enough of his little speech to Potter the night before to be certain.

            "This is your doing as much as anyone else's," Potter said, his face soft. "You're important to the revolution, and this is something you'll want to hear. Please?"

            Who's said "please" to me since my parents went to Azkaban?

            Draco shook his head, but it was in response to his thought, not Potter's words. Potter seemed to know that, because he tightened his grip on Draco's hand, playing the knuckles as if they were a piano's keys. Draco started. He had actually forgotten Potter held his hand. That was something--unexpected.

            "Please," Potter said again. "I know that you could hear about it later, but I want to see your face when I say it."

            Draco relaxed a bit. That sounded as if Potter was going to play a prank on him, and while Draco wouldn't enjoy that, it at least fit within the normal boundaries of their relationship as it was set out in Hogwarts. "I promise not to laugh or look around like an idiot," he said. "Or call you an idiot in front of everyone else. Is that enough promises to let me skip this?"

            Potter moved closer to him. Draco hated the way their robes brushed, the way Potter kept control of his hand, the way he bent his head and let Draco smell the cheap shampoo he'd used that morning. But not enough to move away or break his grip, apparently.

            "No," Potter said. "Please?"

            "You can tell me what it is right here, without an audience," Draco said weakly. He looked away from Potter's face, because seeing it at the moment would make him do something stupid.

            "You deserve to have the acknowledgment in front of everyone," Potter said. "Unless you'd prefer that they don't know about you saving me from the hounds? I haven't told anyone else that yet, because I didn't know how or when or what you wanted them to hear about it."

            Draco closed his eyes. It wasn't even Potter's ridiculous morals that made him have to do it. It was because he hadn't been offered a choice like that in years, and hadn't expected one now. Of course Potter would go ahead and make the decisions for both of them, because that was what he did.

            "All right," he said, because it was stupid and he wanted out of this moment more than he wanted to be away from the eyes of the audience Potter would give him. "You can tell them about the spell. I--don't want to be there, though."

            Potter leaned further forwards, until Draco could feel his bloody breath on his own knuckles and Draco's cheeks and eyebrows. "Please," he said. "They'll be looking for you. I owe everything to you, right now. Including what we're going to do next."

            "The announcement?" Draco murmured, not opening his eyes.

            "Yes," Potter said. "If you come with me and let me honor you in public as you should be honored, then I'll tell you what we're going to do before we get there."

            Draco flicked his eyes open. "Very well," he said. "I accept." Perhaps it would be something he could put in his next report to the Ministry.

            Potter smiled at him from far too close, his eyes afire and his cheeks flushed. His breathing was rapid. He moved his hold from Draco's hand to his sleeve, toying with the cloth, flicking it, until Draco wanted to grit his teeth and scream at him to get on with it already.

            "We're going after Azkaban," Potter said. "We're going to free all the prisoners there, including your parents, and offer them shelter."

            The world turned inside out, and Draco would have fallen if not for the support of Potter and the doorway. He closed his eyes and shook his head. He couldn't speak.

            Once again, Potter seemed to understand. He stood there, holding Draco, for a moment, and then he turned and towed him fiercely down the corridor, leaving Draco to stumble and hurry trying to keep up.

            A perfect microcosm of the way his life was working out lately.

*

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Intoxicate the Sun