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A More Worldly Man	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 10960 -:- 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 Eighteen—Up to the Challenge

            Draco sat back in his chair for a moment and breathed steadily, concentrating on an image of his father as he had looked the morning Draco received his Hogwarts letter. For a moment, he had paused in his reading of a Dark Arts book and looked up at Draco out of the intense contemplation that marked his every move and detached him from the world. He had stared until Draco found himself squirming, the eyes cutting at and marking him. And then Lucius had nodded once, that small gesture Draco would have cut off his right hand to achieve when he was eleven, and returned to his reading.

            Draco opened his eyes and seized the chunk of scrying crystal on the table in front of him, flinging it into the cauldron. He heard it clink and ring against the other ingredients gathered in the forming potion: a scale from a Hungarian Horntail, a piece of ice enchanted to keep it from melting, and a strip of silver wire that Millicent had told him once belonged to one of her aunts who was arrested for use of an Unforgivable. Because only a shallow layer of water covered them, the noises they made would be audible for quite some time.

            And all of that mattered. Even the bubbles that rose from the small amount of magic he had channeled into the water so far—invoking just enough heat to challenge the enchantment on the ice—mattered.

            Draco didn’t know what the entire pattern would look like yet, but he had taken several individual steps, and he was satisfied with each one so far.

            He tapped his fingers on the rim of the cauldron, because it seemed the right thing to do, and then sat back in the chair with his arms folded behind his head, breathing deeply. Both Millicent and Granger had left the flat when Draco said he wanted to work on the potion alone. Draco was grateful for the silence, even if it did seem to press hard on his head, pushing his eardrums flat and making his mind sing. It was the silence that would influence the potion in yet another desired direction. How many hours had Lucius spent alone in silence, staring into his own books and cauldrons, coming up with plans that would take months or years to play out?

            And that is his greatest weakness. He is so used to thinking in the long term that he forgets to think of immediate consequences. He assumed I would return to him because I couldn’t help myself, because in the long run my loyalty to my family would have to win out. He wasn’t capable of seeing the disgust and regret that played into my initial rejection and strengthened it over time.

            The room seemed to shift sideways. Draco opened his eyes and groped for a moment. He held a white eagle feather seconds later. He breathed on it and then tossed it into the cauldron. It floated gracefully down. Draco heard it settle on the surface of the liquid, making a far heavier splash than it should have been able to.

            He didn’t think he would ever be able to brew this potion again; already some of the steps were becoming cloudy in his memory, and though he knew they were right, he didn’t know why they were right, which was the secret to recreating a recipe. But he shouldn’t need the potion more than once. Either it would work right the first time, or Lucius would be warned and wouldn’t let them trap him again.

            Draco stood and leaned down to look into the cauldron. He was breathing fast and deeply, as though he had just run half a mile. He stared into the water and caught a shadow moving in the scrying crystal.

            Harry. What are you doing now? What would you advise me to do if you were here?

            The thought drifted through his head, as quickly replaced by another. The point of the thought about Harry was not what he would have advised Draco to do, but that Draco was thinking about him, the partner his father absolutely didn’t approve of, at the moment when he was brewing a potion to humiliate that father.

            He sat down again and closed his eyes, returning to the silence.

*

            Periods of rustling and arguing alternated with periods of silence. Harry waited for the Wizengamot’s decision, his hands resting on the arms of his chair. He wasn’t really calm, but he thought he had the ability to fool them into thinking he was, and that was all that mattered. Finally, Eleanor Williams cleared her throat and looked down at him.

            “How do we know that he wouldn’t manage to fool us by pretending to swallow the Veritaserum?” she demanded. “We don’t. We know nothing about him except that he can devour magic, and that he’s the personal friend of Minister Shacklebolt.”

            “And that I killed a Dark Lord,” Harry said helpfully. “You might want to mention that, too.”

            Williams ignored him, though her face tightened with hatred. “We can’t take the chance that he would lie to us,” she said. “And we have no one here whom we can trust to give him the Veritaserum correctly and carefully.”

            “Do a Body-Bind on me,” Harry said. “Lengthen my tongue. Then place the drops on it and cast a spell that would cause it to retract into my mouth. That would ensure I couldn’t interfere with the potion.”

            “Do we take our orders from a prisoner, or from our own principles and our own justice?” Williams turned to face the rest of the Wizengamot, her robes swaying about her. Harry didn’t think it was a coincidence that the motion meant she didn’t need to look into his face. “We should do what we feel to be right. We should make thoughtful, conscientious decisions. We cannot with a prisoner talking to us like this. Gag his mouth.”

            The other members of the Wizengamot moved about uneasily and muttered, or were silent. Even Prunella was shaking her head, though slowly, as if she would like to be convinced of Williams’s words if she could. Harry called out, “If you gag me, how am I going to give you answers to your questions?”

            Williams swung around to answer him again, but another member of the Wizengamot interfered, a plump witch with spectacles and frizzy hair who made Harry think of what Hermione would probably look like when she was seventy or so. “That’s a reasonable question, Eleanor. We have to offer him the chance to tell the truth, even if we can’t give him Veritaserum. We have to know what he says was his motive for devouring that Greengrass girl’s magic.”

            “Does it really matter?” Williams demanded. “We know that he’s someone who doesn’t care about a witch losing her magic. What else do we need to know?”

            She went too far, Harry thought, feeling a sharp surge of triumph strike through him like the sparks from a fire as he saw the other witches and wizards sitting back in their seats, putting some distance between themselves and Williams. She might be Diggory’s ally, but not everyone here is, and they need some pretenses to conceal the ugly truth from them.

            “I think we should be cautious about saying such things,” said the frizzy-haired witch pleasantly. “After all, even if this is a trial at which the Minister shouldn’t be present because he could not fairly condemn a friend, we will need to have a certain set of Pensieve memories to give him.” Williams paused, and Harry reckoned she hadn’t thought about how the Pensieve memories would look; she was more anxious about sentencing him. The frizzy-haired witch continued, “And I would like to see what he has to say for himself. Young man, did you know that making a witch or wizard into a Squib is a crime so heinous that at one time the sentence to Azkaban was automatic for those who did so? Without a trial, without questioning? Then it was discovered that different causes of the phenomenon existed. Some magical creatures can do it, and some humans with magical creature blood. Some few wizards can do it deliberately. And then it’s sometimes an accidental consequence of powerful spells. So new laws were created, to prevent us from sentencing people unfairly. You are being tried under the law that says you have magical creature blood, and therefore must be registered with the Ministry and kept away from wands. No non-human beings like goblins or house-elves are allowed to carry wands, of course. Do you know why this particular law applies to you?”

            Harry worked hard to conceal a smile, especially when Skeeter practically did a tap-dance on the back of his neck. The witch had explained clearly and coherently, and she had given him some time to calm down and think about what he wanted to say in response. Yes, she was an ally. “I don’t understand it, madam, really,” he said, and then paused. “Could I hear your name?”

            She smiled at him. “Winifred Firstfruits.”

            “As far as I know, Madam Firstfruits, my mother was completely Muggleborn, and came from a purely Muggle family.” Harry shrugged, making his chains rattle. The Aurors on either side of him stepped closer with drawn wands. He ignored them. Skeeter scrabbled again, and Harry was sure “his calm, composed defiance under pressure” would become an important point in the inevitable article. “It’s possible that there’s magical creature blood buried in my father’s family, but if so, I have no idea what it would be, and no one has ever mentioned my father showing signs of it, or hinted that I could have trouble because of it.”

            “Has anyone done research as yet to find out?” asked a wizard who was buried so far back in the rows of seats Harry couldn’t see him well.

            “I think that Minister Shacklebolt’s Aurors were doing some, yes, and also trying to find out if my mother’s family might have had hidden magical connections,” said Harry, and then shook his head and sighed heavily. “Alas, none of them could be here today to present their evidence.”

            There was a brief, uncomfortable pause; then Firstfruits said, “I would be interested in knowing how you took the Greengrass girl’s magic, and why. What cause could there have been to deprive a witch of that which separates her from Muggles?”

            Harry hid a grimace. He was glad he had never known before how many people seemed to regard magic as more important than life itself. He would certainly have thought of the wizarding world with more sourness, instead of the wonderful haven he had needed after Hagrid took him away from the Dursleys. “She was torturing my lover,” he answered. “She used Legilimency on him, spells that nearly killed him whenever he tried to tell someone else what was happening to him, and Memory Charms. He forgot what they did in bed together, until she shoved the memories back into his mind a short time before I rescued him.”

            “I don’t believe that,” Williams said loudly. “Of course, he’s on trial for his freedom, so why should he tell the truth?”

            “I can offer you my Pensieve memories of the event,” Harry said steadily. “Or you can give me Veritaserum under the conditions that I discussed before. I’ve offered to take it. You can’t fear legal trouble from that.”

            Williams sneered at him, and Harry shut his mouth hard. Of course, she could fear legal trouble from that, since a confession that everyone in the Wizengamot knew to be true would be unlikely to send him to Azkaban, as Diggory desired. And who knew what hold Diggory had on her? Harry wondered idly if she knew about Diggory’s stated position to remove some of the pure-bloods from the Wizengamot and replace them with Muggleborns.

            “We will deal with testimony alone,” Prunella said. “Isn’t the word the greatest indicator of truth?”

            “No,” Harry said. “You’ll need to have some evidence under the law for which you’re trying me, madam. If I’m not a magical creature, then I’ve been wrongfully accused, and will need to be freed.”

            “As it happens,” said Williams, and turned her head towards the far door as it began to open, “we have someone here with evidence that says otherwise.”

            Harry turned his head and found himself staring into the calm, composed face of Charlemagne Diggory.

*

            Draco was moving fast, tossing in twists of ribbon from the table, scrapings of unicorn hoof, lavender petals, anemone petals. Some ingredients he breathed on or caressed before he threw them in, but the madness of brewing was on him now, and he couldn’t have said which were which. Each symbolic significance—his father would require black unicorn hoof scrapings to modulate his mood, he would need the anemone petals because of the blood he had shed in the past under the Dark Lord—shone forth in his mind for a moment and then melted. There was always the next one rising, the most important one for one heartbeat, before he moved on to the next. He bit the corner of his lip savagely and watched the blood drop into the potion, then lifted his wand and channeled his magic so violently into the cauldron that the water leaped up and nearly overflowed the rim.

            Then it fell back, and the madness was over. Draco staggered several steps away from the table and sat down hard—unfortunately with no chair beneath him. When he fell on the floor, he closed his eyes and breathed evenly for some time. His hands were curled helplessly on his chest, his fingers cramping.

            But it was done.

            When Draco stood up and went back to look in the cauldron, limping slightly and massaging his head from the unexpected violence with which it had contacted the floor, he saw the potion shimmering quietly and beautifully in the cauldron. It was the color of crystal, with a tiny vein of red at the bottom. Draco smiled. He had dreamed it would look like that, and he was conscious of that dream now.

            A variant of the Desire potion, yes, but as intimately tuned to Lucius as Harry’s potion had been tuned to him—drawing on Draco’s knowledge of his father to make the bond perfect, and his brewing skill to render the execution flawless.

            Draco controlled the urge to touch the potion. It looked like perfect ice with blood imprisoned beneath the surface, but it was liquid, and if he touched it now, the salt from his skin might upset its balance. It needed some moments to cool yet and let the magic he’d poured it into be evenly distributed before he could take a vial.

            Stepping back, Draco cast the strongest wards he knew above the cauldron, forbidding anyone from approaching within three feet of it. Then he snatched his cloak and strode towards the door of the flat.

            It was still daylight, and that meant he should have time to request a careful, guarded visit to Harry in his holding cell. Draco had a triumph to share.

*

            Harry gripped the arms of the chair, and then tried to consciously relax his fingers. Of course, someone might already have seen, but he would as soon look unruffled even if he couldn’t convince them that he was unruffled.

            “I would be extremely curious for any information about my background,” he said, and forced himself to look directly at Diggory. “For obvious reasons, I never learned much about my parents. If I have unknown relatives, then I’d like to visit them and explore their connections to my mother. Or is it father?”

            Diggory came a few steps nearer. He was smiling, the same pleasant smile he’d used when he was still trying to court Harry and Hermione into supporting him. But Harry had learned to watch his eyes, and those were bright and mean, with a glint in the back of them that promised no one in the room any good. Harry braced for the jolt he thought would throw him out of his pretended self-confidence.

            “I bring no information about your family line,” said Diggory, and held up a glittering vial of liquid that surged back and forth. Pensieve memories, Harry knew at once. “I bring information that will, however, prove you were arrested and tried under the right law. Only a magical creature could have stripped Daphne Greengrass’s magic in the way you did.”

            Oh, Draco, if only you were here, and they could see your memories, Harry thought. Or if Littlesmith was, and could give statements about Daphne’s tendencies to torture her lovers. On his neck, Skeeter had gone still, perhaps simply in intent fascination, perhaps because she was aware that it would take a lot to help him now.

            “I do hope that the memories will be projected on one of the screens that I saw briefly at the Malfoys’ party,” he said. “I would be curious as to what they show, since it must be quite a different perspective than the one I took when I was present in Greengrass’s house.”

            “Why did you have to break into her house?” Firstfruits asked, standing up so that Harry could see her better—or perhaps because she wanted to make herself known, Harry conceded. He doubted anyone in the room was thinking first and foremost about making him comfortable, with the exception of himself. “Such charges were briefly mentioned when we were told that you were to be tried. Even if you wanted to take her magic for some reason, why didn’t you obtain an invitation and then do so? You have enough celebrity appeal to be able to win an invitation to any function you wanted.”

            “Because she was holding Draco Malfoy captive in her house and torturing him,” Harry said, catching the line she had tried to throw him. “And I wasn’t disposed to knock on the door and wait until she answered.”

            “Instead,” said Diggory, “he ambushed an innocent woman in her own home and devoured her magic. The pain he caused her is extreme.” He shuddered, his face pale for a moment. He was a very good actor, and in that moment Harry hated him. “I have rarely wished I had not delved into Pensive memories—it has been a necessity more than once, in my occupation—but that is one set of memories I grieve over having to show.” His voice was perfect, too, solemn and low, but clear enough to be heard by everyone in the courtroom.

            “She was not innocent,” Harry said. “She was torturing Draco, and if you would give me Veritaserum, you would see that I speak the truth.”

            Diggory smiled at him. He was in full control here, Harry thought, and had no reason to give in to any of his requests. Harry felt his fingers clench on the arms of the chair again. Was there some way he could hint at Skeeter’s presence here and the embarrassment Diggory would face when the story got out without actually giving her away and endangering her?

            “I think Veritaserum a barbaric custom,” Diggory said. “Have you read the statistics on the wizards who die each year from swallowing it? A surprising number of people are allergic to aspen leaves, one of the minor ingredients. I think it better for your safety, Mr. Potter, that we refrain from using it. Of course I think you need to be in Azkaban so as not to endanger innocent lives any longer, but there is no reason to kill you.”

            “I’ve requested it,” said Harry, and gambled wildly. “Under normal Ministry procedure, no one can refuse me the potion if I willingly take it.”

            “Under normal Ministry procedure,” Diggory agreed softly. “But this isn’t a normal case. You’ve already drained one witch of her magic. What might you do again, if you grew angry enough?” He held up the vial so that everyone could see it. “He devoured Greengrass because he was angry, sirs and madams. What would happen if he lost his temper now?”

            And now, if I reach out with wandless magic to do anything, they’ll panic. Harry glared at Diggory and let the full force of his hostility show for a moment. Diggory looked back calmly. Harry supposed his desperation had subsided when he realized that he was able to destroy Harry if he wanted.

            “And that is a sign that he is of magical creature blood,” Diggory said. “Part incubus, in fact. It is not well-known, but incubi can prey on magic—and as Daphne Greengrass was undoubtedly in a room prepared for sexual play, Mr. Potter used her lust to power his rage. The combined force of the emotions destroyed her.”

            “I dispute that I have incubus blood,” Harry said quietly. His heart was beating very fast, and he wondered absently if Skeeter could feel it through her feet. “What proof do you have?”

            “Why, the memories, of course, and the shadows and the blue fire you summon,” said Diggory. “As for your question about the screens that show the memories, I’m afraid we’ll have to give that idea up. I believe the Wizengamot members should experience this for themselves, so that they may gain some idea of what they are judging.” He signaled, and Prunella stood and hurried toward him with a Pensieve.

            “Are you not afraid,” Harry asked, no longer feeling he had any choice, “of what might happen when someone learns that, in fact, incubi don’t have any of the traits you mention?”

            Diggory looked straight at Harry. “I am telling the truth,” he said, and didn’t bother hiding his smile.

            “Did you hear my question?”

            “I hear the desperate pleadings of a man who wants to escape just punishment for his crimes, and will say anything to do so,” Diggory replied, and poured the vial of memories into the Pensieve.

            Harry sank back into the chair to think. It seemed likely that the Wizengamot would judge him guilty now, and even if Skeeter revealed the story and made Diggory look like enough of a fool to lose the election, it would be hard to reverse a sentence to Azkaban. For most of the wizarding world, the very fact that the Wizengamot had come to that decision, no matter how they had been guided or persuaded, would be a powerful statement.

            He would have to come up with another tactic.

            If allowed enough time whilst the Pensieve passed around the room and people looked into it, he might even think of one.

*

            Draco narrowed his eyes at the Auror who barred his way to the holding cells. “What do you mean, he’s been taken for trial? The Minister would have to be present at his trial, and I just saw him; he granted me permission to visit Harry.”

            “Why would he tell you?” the Auror retorted. He was a bored-looking young man with pasty skin who rather reminded Draco of Theodore Nott. “You’re a personal friend. You don’t have a place in the courtroom.”

            “I’m a witness,” Draco said. “I do have a place. And there were other witnesses we were going to call.”

            For the first time, the Auror showed signs of uneasiness, darting a glance over his shoulder as though he expected support to materialize out of thin air. “I—I don’t know anything about that,” he said.

            Draco studied him with narrowed eyes. It was perfectly obvious that the man belonged to Diggory. But whilst challenging him might break him and cause him to tell what he knew, it would probably also take far too long. Draco gave a stiff bow instead, mustered a sigh, and said, “Well. If he’s been taken for trial, there’s nothing I can do.”

            The young man’s face shone with relief as Draco turned away. Once around the corner, he lengthened his strides until he was as near to running as he could get away with in the Ministry.

            He suspected there was a Minister who would be rather interested in hearing about this.

*

            Christabell: Thank you! And well, they couldn’t refuse in a regular trial, but this is a place where they’ve stopped caring about rules. Harry has a few people in the Wizengamot who might care, but they aren’t his allies in the same way Draco and Hermione are.

            Mangacat: Thanks! You can see the outlines of the plan to humiliate Lucius in this chapter.

            SP777: The main problem with Harry sending Skeeter away to fetch someone else (as I believe you were implying) is that then he’d lose the advantage of having someone besides him who can report on the secret trial. Besides, there’s a high chance she might not make it out of the room without being noticed.

            Thrnbrooke: Thanks for reviewing!
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A More Worldly Man