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A More Worldly Man	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 10961 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Chapter Seventeen—Hostile Audience

            “Do you feel like telling the truth this morning?”

            Harry hid his smile behind the bowl of porridge Willowberry had brought him. Most of the time, the Auror retreated outside the holding cell whilst Harry ate, as if he wanted to give him a little privacy or didn’t like his table manners. Now he sat in the chair across from the bed and stared steadily, speaking his questions in an inflectionless voice. So far, Harry hadn’t bothered to answer any of them. He wanted an audience. It was the basic principle of the plan he and Draco had come up with when he was still in hospital: make confessions where more person than one can hear them, so that there will be the word of multiple witnesses if something goes wrong. Act in public whenever possible, so no one can accuse you of trying to hide evidence. Force Diggory and the Malfoys into the open, where they would do worse than in the shadows.



            “I will ask until you tell me,” Willowberry said, and leaned nearer. “Until you look me in the eye and tell me.” For the first time, the smooth surface of his voice cracked, and Harry could hear the plea he thought the man would have liked to use all along, if he hadn’t been worried about looking weak. “Do you know what it would mean to the wizarding world if they found out their hero simply stayed silent like a sullen child and then had to be dragged to justice? You can maintain your reputation better if you speak.”

            Harry looked halfway up and let his smile be seen this time. “Diggory and the Malfoys have done their best to ruin my reputation in any case,” he said. “And there are some people who will never trust me again no matter what I do, because they don’t trust anyone who can eat magic. I think it better that I should please myself.”

            Willowberry edged the chair closer. “But you could give something back to the world,” he said.

            “Something back?” Harry snorted and picked up another spoonful of porridge. Someone had added honey to it, which was thoughtful. Harry let it play around his tongue and continued to look at Willowberry the way he had at Snape during his sixth year, without quite meeting his eyes. “What do I owe them?”

            “You caused them fear when it was revealed that you attacked Daphne Greengrass,” Willowberry replied swiftly. His entire face had taken on a soft flush, as if he were a worshipper who’d just seen his god. “This would relieve the fear. If they know that your magic comes from a particular strain of blood in you—if you were part Dementor, for example—the unknown would become the known, and they would be more sympathetic to you when the trial began.”

            “If I confessed such a thing,” Harry said, and licked the spoon, “it would be akin to saying that there’s no need to try me, because you could sentence me as a magical creature under the law.”

            “Wouldn’t it be better to be honest than dishonest, whatever happens?’ Willowberry wheedled. The flush spread over his cheeks, and Harry wondered if he was remembering sins committed in his own past—assuming that he had ever committed any and hadn’t been born the Ministry’s perfect lackey.

            “And I am being honest.” Harry smiled at him. “And sensible. A friend of mine told me that the Wizengamot hardly ever finds humans guilty under this law, so that means I won’t be found guilty.”

            “But you might have magical creature blood in your line and not know it.”

            Harry set the porridge bowl aside and sat up. He was getting tired of this nonsense. “Then imploring me to stop lying to you would have no effect whatsoever.” He tried to catch Willowberry’s eye now, simply to emphasize his words.

            The Auror was leaning forwards so far he had almost fallen off his chair. His fingers were locked around his wand as though he imagined he could use that as a club should Harry reach out and try to devour his magic. His eyes were brilliant and stared directly into Harry’s. Whatever he was, it wasn’t a coward.

            And then—

            Harry winced and lifted a hand to his head as a sharp pain stabbed at him through the eyes. A brief whirl of memories dashed across his mind, and he wondered for a moment equally brief if this was a consequence of the spell Narcissa had used on him. But no, those sensations were familiar from older times still.

            Harry broke eye contact with an effort and looked down at his hands. He made his voice as innocent as possible. “Have you told anyone that you’re a Legilimens, Willowberry?”

            Silence ensued, so pure and concentrated that Harry knew it could only end with Willowberry lashing out at him with a spell. Therefore, he continued speaking through it, adding a slight tone of humor to his voice. “I’ve had people read my mind before, and do a bloody poor job of it. It isn’t supposed to hurt, according to Draco, and I trust him more than anyone else in the world. But I reckon one reason you’ve gone undetected is that you’re such a weak Legilimens in the first place. Aren’t you?” He finally looked up again, achieving eye contact this time without fear. He knew where Willowberry’s wand was; it must have been concealed in his sleeve before he started pointing it, to let him make the gesture for the spell without Harry seeing it.

            Willowberry had edged back on his chair this time, and was breathing harshly. The hand that held his wand shook. He wanted to aim and fire a curse, Harry thought, but his own code of ethics was probably telling him what a bad idea it was to attack a prisoner—particularly this one, at the moment.

            “You were ashamed for keeping the secret,” Harry murmured, “but at the same time, you couldn’t bring yourself to betray that you’d studied an art the Ministry disapproves of at all. I understand your insistence on honesty now. We often see our greatest faults as the greatest faults of others.” He pitched his voice lower, as soothingly as he could. “The only thing that remains now is what to do with you.”

            Willowberry’s muscles tensed further, but still he didn’t move, and the expression on his face now was one of agonized indecision. Harry thought he was safe from a Memory Charm for the next small while.

            “I don’t want to betray the secret for nothing,” Harry said. “You seem to be a good employee of the Ministry despite doing something illegal. You’ve treated me decently—for the most part.” He paused meditatively. “In fact, I think that’s what I’ll ask for. Stop begging me to tell the truth. What I told you is the truth, and you’ll just have to accept it as such.”

            “That’s all you want?” Willowberry whispered. “I tried to use Legilimency on you and treated you wrongly before that, and you only want the wrong treatment to cease? You don’t even want a promise that I won’t read your mind again?”

            Harry chuckled. “Is that really what you call reading my mind?” he asked. Willowberry flushed. “But yes, that’s all I want.” He didn’t say that one reason he was refraining from blackmail was the fact that Willowberry still had the greater power in the situation. Better to leverage what he could from him rather than demand too much and make him strike back.

            The Auror rose slowly to his feet, staring at Harry the entire time. Harry waited, his hands braced on his knees. If Willowberry tried to use Legilimency on him again, he would consider any bargain off and yell for the guards in the corridor as loudly as he could.

            Willowberry cleared his throat. “You are—fairer than I thought you were,” he said. “With your ability to devour magic and your Slytherin partner, I thought you would be Slytherin in your actions, as well.”

            Harry concealed a snort. Of course, considering all the rules Willowberry adhered to, it shouldn’t really be a surprise that he wasn’t capable of thinking beyond the old roles of the Hogwarts Houses.

            “I will not distrust your word in the future.” Willowberry briefly bowed his head. “And I will add my voice to those speaking in front of the Wizengamot to ask that you be given clemency. Of course, this means that we will no longer interact, since I cannot think of you as a prisoner from an objective distance.”

            He slipped out of the room before Harry could do more than blink in surprise. He’d forgotten to take the porridge bowl and spoon with him, too. Harry licked the latter one more time, then shoved the bowl away from him and lay back on the bed.

            They had Littlesmith and Willowberry, now, as well as the recording of the confrontation Draco had hoped to provoke Diggory into if all had gone well. Harry wondered for a moment if they could accumulate other weapons before the trial started.

            Of course, they wouldn’t have had to do this in the first place if Diggory could have just left well enough alone, and accepted that Harry and Draco would brew Desire and Harry didn’t want to support him.

            Harry found himself snarling, his fists digging into his knees, his head and throat filled with choking rage. He rolled over and slammed his fists and knees into the bed, harder and harder as he thought about what Daphne had done to Draco and what their silent war with Diggory and Nott had cost him.

            The rage built until he was glad no one was in the cell with him, because he would have injured them. And at the same time, he regretted no one was with him, because causing pain would have eased his intense emotion.

            The feeling ended as suddenly as it had begun, leaving Harry weak and sick and shaky, as if he had just avoided a long fall. He shivered. That must be one of the surges of emotions the Healers described, he thought. Even his thoughts were distant and seemed to originate from behind a glass wall.

            He still had the potion that Healer Mordant had given him. He fumbled for it, his hand shaking. What had she said? Mostly that he should wait until the feeling was gone before he took the potion.

            But it was gone. The mere thought of attacking someone else right now, let alone killing, made him sick. He gulped the potion and shuddered as he felt it working its way down his throat, chalky and with an unpleasantly sweet aftertaste.

            He laid the empty vial down next to the porridge bowl and curled up on his side. If he could get a few hours’ sleep, he thought he would wake with a clearer head.

            He’d barely shut his eyes when he heard the sound of the wards on the door parting. He rolled over, hoping that this wasn’t more of the Aurors arriving for an interrogation. He hadn’t been told he would be questioned today, but then, why would he be? Keeping him in the dark meant they held a measure of power over him.

            “Potter,” said the Auror who stepped in, a woman with straggly blonde hair and a grimy face. “Fair warning. You have an hour before your trial begins in front of the Wizengamot.”

            Harry stared for so long that she began to leave the cell. Then he shook his head and managed to say, although his tongue still felt heavy with the potion, “I thought the trial wasn’t going to be for days yet, until they’d accumulated all the evidence they need to try me.”

            The Auror glanced back at him and lifted her right shoulder in an impatient shrug. “I’m not the one who makes the decisions, Potter,” she said. “Complain to the Wizengamot when you see them, though I doubt they’ll regard you.” She started to leave again.

            “Can I have parchment and ink?” Harry blurted. “I need to send an owl.”

            The Auror gave him a cold, clear smile. “And why would I do that?” she asked. “Your trial’s to be closed. No one allowed there but you and officials from the Ministry. They decided it was safer that way, after the assassination attempt that Malfoy made on you.”

            And she shut the door, leaving Harry shaken, hoping desperately that none of the surges of emotion caught up with him during the trial, and hoping, too, that Draco would somehow sense what he was thinking by a miracle and choose that day to come to the Ministry and investigate the Wizengamot’s courtroom.

*

            “There’s one problem with that plan,” Draco pointed out patiently. Actually, there was more than one, but he thought Millicent and Granger determined enough that they would only listen to the most pressing. “My father isn’t likely to trust any letter I send. He may come, yes, but he won’t meet us in a public place, which you need for your vengeance, and he’ll come prepared. He might easily take me hostage or hurt me before you could cast your spells, whatever they are.”

            Millicent frowned at him, then gave several long, slow nods. She turned away to whisper furiously to Granger. Granger stood with her arms folded, eyes fixed severely on Draco as if she thought he was being difficult on purpose.

            Draco shook his head and lay back on Granger’s couch. He felt oddly restless. He’d gone to the shop and sold Desire half the day, until he reached the end of his supply and had to close. To the indignant patrons arriving late, he’d shrugged apologetically and said that, with Harry in prison, he didn’t know when he’d have the chance to brew more.

            Several of them had marched away with set and determined faces. Draco hoped they would do something to challenge or protest Harry’s unjust imprisonment, though he had no idea whether their tactics would actually work.

            Granger and Millicent, meanwhile, had spent the day writing letters, receiving post, and, now, debating the best way to draw Lucius into public so they could take their revenge on him. Having Draco write an apologetic letter was right out, and they should have known that. Lucius would certainly read any letter Draco sent, but that didn’t mean he’d agree to follow the instructions in it.

            Draco himself was not certain that he wanted to write such a letter, even assuming he could achieve the proper apologetic tone. Why should he have to pander to his father’s mad beliefs when he had told the truth to his mother? If anything, perhaps he should write a letter to Narcissa advising her to tell Lucius what Draco had said to her.

            But Mother probably doesn’t believe me, either, Draco thought, and tucked his arm over his face. They never will, because that would mean having to confront the cracks in their own beliefs. If I’m never coming back to them even when it would be in my own best interest, then I left not because of my own stubbornness and stupidity, but because they didn’t manage to teach me well enough. Who knows? I may look as mad to them as they do to me.

            “Yes, it would work,” said Millicent, recalling Draco’s attention abruptly.

            Granger shook her head. “You’re wrong if you think Malfoy would agree to enter the same house with someone he’d consider a Mudblood.”

            “We wouldn’t have to tell him that.”

            “But I would have to appear to do what you’re describing.” Granger ran a hand through her hair in agitation. It didn’t appear to have any effect, from what Draco could see. “And assuming he didn’t walk away immediately, assuming he did accept the drink from me, you still don’t know it would have the effect you’re describing.”

            “I know Lucius well.”

            “Not that well. Even Harry only managed to figure out how I would respond because he’d asked me and he could observe my behavior to see how my actions would bear out my words. We have no chance of observing Malfoy in his private moments, and I’d hate to risk our vengeance on something with less than even chances of working.”

            “Maybe better than even,” said Millicent, and turned to look at Draco thoughtfully.

            Draco sat up and watched them in silence, ready to drop to the floor and roll if Millicent’s wand turned to aim at him.

            “We did want to keep our vengeance a secret for some time,” said Millicent, her smile as hard and glittering as her eyes. “But which did you want more? A surprise, or the chance to possibly humiliate Lucius through the skill that drove you away from him in the first place?”

            Draco leaned towards them. “I think you know the answer to that.”

*

            Harry took a quick glance around the courtroom as he was hurried towards the chair in the middle of the floor. It looked much as it had when he was brought there to be tried for using underage magic, though the Wizengamot members weren’t as overwhelming as they’d been to his fifteen-year-old self.

            Nor, he realized as he was seated in the chair and bound with the chains on it, were they all present. Kingsley was missing. So were several familiar faces Harry had often seen in association with the Minister, his assistants and undersecretaries. All the other people who held formal membership in the Wizengamot—judges, old pure-blood witches and wizards, some of those who sat on the Hogwarts Board of Governors—looked to be there. Harry curled his fingers into the chains and resisted the impulse to give them a mighty yank, which would probably unsettle his audience further. If Diggory hadn’t arranged for the trial to be moved up himself, his tools on the Wizengamot had.

            Some of them met Harry’s gaze now and smiled, or simply raised an eyebrow, as if challenging him to challenge them. And Harry couldn’t, because he had no evidence on them, only on Diggory and the Malfoys, and whilst he could protest, he was likely to be ignored.

            They had left one obvious gap, however, and even if they had prepared counterarguments, he would be stupid to ignore it.

            “I was under the impression that Minister Shacklebolt would be attending my trial,” he said casually as the Aurors stepped away from his chair and trained their wands on him. “After all, his people were the ones to arrest and hold me, to escort me to and from hospital, and to interrogate me as to the existence of magical creature blood in my family lines.”

            “Minister Shacklebolt has been—unfortunately delayed,” said an older woman Harry didn’t know, who wore her white hair piled onto her head in a towering cone which a pointy hat couldn’t cover. She had only two teeth, and she bared them when she smiled at Harry. “We did try to reach him by owl and Floo, but when he didn’t respond in a few hours, we decided we must simply hold the trial without him.” She spread her hands in a gesture of regret. “Since all matters of the trial will eventually be part of public record, we didn’t feel it worthwhile to disturb whatever important business has engaged him.”

            She smiled more broadly, and Harry realized he had no idea who she was, and wouldn’t know even if she had given her name. His retreat from the wizarding world in the last five years had deprived him of much useful knowledge. Even though he’d never intended to go into politics, he could have kept up with those who entered the Wizengamot and their politics. As it was, the only thing he really knew was their commitment to tradition and that only a few of them were Muggleborn.

            He widened his eyes and kept his voice as polite as possible. “Still, wouldn’t it be best to wait for him? Minister Shacklebolt has a temper, at times, when he isn’t included in official procedures that he should have been notified of.”

            The witch laughed, and as far as Harry could tell, it was a sound of genuine amusement. “Mr. Potter,” she said. “I’ve studied your history and talked to people who knew you at school. Your concern for rules has, in the past, been minimal.”

            “I’ve tried to learn better, in the last few years,” said Harry, trying to sound modest, but the witch shook her head briskly and turned away from him.

            “Prunella?” she asked, and another witch, this one gray-haired, nodded and took over the proceedings, calling out a long list of names. Harry tried to watch the nodding heads and connect the names with faces, but they went too fast—he did notice that the white-haired witch was named Eleanor Williams—and for the most part they weren’t names he was already familiar with, meaning he lost precious moments trying to figure out if he’d heard of them before.

            He could, of course, lash out with wandless magic, strongly enough to free himself from the chains on the chair. The attack would trigger wards and bring more Aurors running to Stun him, but he might be able to do—something—in the moments before they took him captive again.

            And every one of those actions is only more likely to condemn you, assuming that they aren’t about to do so anyway.

            Harry’s attention was distracted by a sudden tickle on the back of his neck. He shuddered, for a moment thinking that one of the Aurors who had attended him into the room was pressing her wand there. But the tickle continued, and crawled slowly around the side of his throat and down to the collar of his shirt, where he could just glimpse it.

            It was a brilliant beetle, with a marking like a pair of spectacle around its antennae.

            Harry was afraid he stopped breathing for a moment, but given that the Wizengamot members were still responding to the list of names that the woman named Prunella called out, he didn’t think anyone noticed. Then he thought of the Aurors with their wands trained on him and their eyes alert for any sign of magic or defiance, and started to shiver with awareness of the risk Skeeter was taking.

            Skeeter, however, had already crawled back into his hair. Harry turned to face the Wizengamot again, determined this time. He still wanted to be polite and calm enough that they didn’t sentence him to Azkaban just on general principles, but knowing that someone was here to witness and record his words, he would speak those words.

            The calling of names finished at last, and Prunella leaned forwards to stare at him. “You will speak only when spoken to, Mr. Potter,” she said. “You will answer every question fully and truthfully. Is there anything about these requirements you do not understand?”

            “What assurance do I have that I’ll be believed even if I tell the truth?” Harry demanded. “I told the interrogators there was no magical creature blood in my mother’s or father’s families to my knowledge, and that’s still true. But if I say it in front of the Wizengamot, will they accept that, or accuse me of lying?”

            He imagined that he felt the beetle’s legs tap at the nape of his neck in excitement.

            “The Wizengamot will, of course, determine truth even as it determines justice,” said Prunella.

            Harry took a breath so deep and held it so long that it made faint stars burst in front of his eyes. Then he took a risk. If the Wizengamot accepted his request, it was probable he’d say things he’d regret, but he didn’t think they would dare accept it. And their reaction would be interesting for his silent audience to report, whatever happened.

            “I would like to request that the trial be conducted whilst I’m under the influence of Veritaserum,” he said quietly.

            Prunella’s eyes widened in shock. Eleanor Williams whipped her head around and all but snarled at him. Take that, Diggory, Harry thought. He was as sure as he could be without direct proof that she was one of the Wizengamot members allied with the bastard.

            On his neck, the beetle’s legs scrabbled with glee.

*

            Sophist: Thank you! This series’ plot is turning out to be more complex than I originally envisioned it, by quite a bit.

            Mangacat: Thank you! Both Willowberry and Kingsley figure heavily into the story’s conclusion.

            Purple-er: Thank you!

            Yume111: Don’t worry about not having time to review, hey, sometimes I don’t have time to write!

            Draco is a little more rattled now, and much more ready to take Diggory on.

            Harry doesn’t think Desire is psychologically addictive. He thinks he himself was weak for relying on it for so long—and his own potion wasn’t the exact same recipe as Desire, so that might add weight to his argument.

            I’m glad you liked the scene with Skeeter. And I do tend to think of her as Slytherin—or maybe Gryffindor, given how many dangerous situations she goes into willingly for the sake of a story.

            Diggory is suffering political pressures from various people he managed to persuade into backing him. The loss of Cordelia Nott’s money has also given him problems. This isn’t something I can really comment on at this point, partially because it will be revealed in future chapters and because it’s not something Harry and Draco can know.

            Diggory thought Draco was going to attack him.

            Harry didn’t look into Willowberry’s eyes because he thought complying at that moment would only result in more ridiculous demands. And he truly doesn’t fear Willowberry; he’s very rule-bound, and pretty ethical with it.
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A More Worldly Man