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Sleepless	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 16095 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
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Chapter Eighteen—Adjusting for Reality

            “Mr. Evans. The trial will begin soon.”

            Harry managed to control his start, and nodded to Discipula. He had thought she would say something like that, which meant she hadn’t managed to catch him off-guard. “Very well,” he said, shuffling the parchments through his hand and checking to make sure that his notes from Woburn as well as the responding letters from both McGonagall and Wellworth were there. “I’ll call my witnesses.”

            “Your witnesses, plural?” Discipula considered him with the same sort of skepticism that he had seen from other people when he said that he wanted to become a barrister in the first place. “You have more than one?”

            Harry grinned at her. He knew it was probably much too challenging a grin for the un-confrontational persona he’d been trying to show her lately, but sod that. No matter how he behaved, she seemed to think that he was an enemy, and behaving honestly had always had the greatest appeal for Harry.

            Well, most of the time, he amended, remembering the way that the Dursleys had shown their honest loathing of him.

            “Yes,” he said. “A character witness for each person I’m defending. I thought it best, since this whole trial is a matter of character and personality in the first place. Witnesses do sometimes change their stories, don’t they?”

            Discipula was still, cocking her head so that she could look at him more narrowly. Then she nodded. “It happens more often than we think, in fact,” she said. “And you should consider that it is common to all trials and all sides of trials, Mr. Evans.”

            Harry nodded and smiled and bowed, and then walked into the building that he was staying in, which he reckoned he should call his inn, shaking his head. For someone who had maintained political control for so many years, Discipula seemed uncertain about how to intimidate people.

            Or maybe she can intimidate people who know her and believe in the same things she does more easily, Harry thought, deciding that it might be an advantage not to be of this world.

            Ron was waiting for him, leaning against the counter on the ground floor of the inn and studying him with undisguised curiosity. Harry looked around, and found no one else nearby, as usual. He wondered if they were like him, barely spending any time here because they had business to attend to, or if they simply came and went when he wasn’t around. Ron was presumably making a living somehow.

            “I heard what you said,” Ron murmured to him. “Brave. But foolish.”

            “Why?” Harry glanced around again and, as usual, didn’t see the entrance to a separate eating room, so he turned back to Ron. “I’d like a few sandwiches and at least some cheese, if you can do that.”

            Ron nodded and shrugged at the same time, as if to convey that it would take up so little of his time or skill that he could go on talking to Harry. Sure enough, when he turned around to Summon the tray of food, he kept his head mostly turned to Harry and his mouth going. “There are people who’ve lost their positions in the Ministry, trying to oppose or manipulate Discipula.”

            Harry laughed. “I have no position in the Ministry to lose.” It was an effort not to say “your Ministry.” Malfoy’s presence in the research that Harry and Hermione had begun meant that he was thinking more about the difference between worlds now than he used to.

            He grimaced now, though, and forced the idea away. The important thing while he was in the dreams was the trials.

            Ron faced him fully as the tray of sandwiches and several pieces of some white cheese landed on the counter. Harry nodded and picked it up. He had intended to take it up to his room, but Ron continued talking and kept him there.

            “She doesn’t like to be opposed, either, and to face someone she might not be able to hurt. Keep that in mind. She might lash out harder if she’s afraid of you.”

            Harry shook his head in mild exasperation. “I still don’t know why she should be. The only thing that matters to me is to see justice done. If one group of Death Eaters walks free, does that matter so much to her?”

            “That,” Ron said, “is a really good question.”

            Harry rolled his eyes and retreated to his room, where he devoured all the sandwiches before he settled down to revising his notes. He knew the basics of courtroom procedure, of course, had known them for years, but he didn’t know who would be opposing him, and a lot of what Hermione—his Hermione—had taught him was based on knowing the tactics of certain opposing barristers who had notorious arguments they favored.

            Well, he couldn’t count on that. So he would have to stay as close to the facts as he could—the facts that his witnesses were willing to offer, anyway—and in the meantime, try to cast a bit of doubt on the purity of Discipula’s motives in allowing the Malfoys to die without representation or a proper trial.

            Of course, it would help if he had had any idea why she would want to do such a thing.

            He paused, then shook his head. Hermione would have a choice lecture to give him on how stupid he was for not working out a list of motivations that Discipula could have. They did it all the time when Hermione gave him historical cases and asked him to try and work out the motives of the judges who had made a certain decision, the barristers who had made certain arguments, or the criminals who had committed a certain crime before he looked up the case for himself.

            He began to write out what he considered possible motives. Not likely ones, because he still didn’t think that he knew Discipula well enough to say that. But there were all sorts of reasons that someone might want to keep the Malfoy trial from coming to a logical conclusion and hurry them into execution instead. So, what were they?

            Money. It was astonishing how many crimes were caused by money, in one way or another. Before he began his training as a barrister, Harry had thought most crimes in the wizarding world came down to blood feuds and whose ancestors had done which wrong to whose; it certainly seemed like that was all the pure-bloods he had known in Hogwarts or Auror training talked about. But no, money was the main motive. People killed, lied, schemed, and mutilated to possess it.

            But in this case, while Discipula didn’t seem rich, she didn’t seem poor, either. And Harry thought he would have heard someone mention it by now if Discipula had been hovering on the edge of poverty or depended on the Galleons the Ministry paid her to keep her alive. Skeeter couldn’t have resisted tackling it in her exposés. Money remained a possibility, but not in the usual fashion, especially since Harry doubted that Discipula stood to inherit the Malfoys’ fortune.

            On the other hand, hadn’t Lucius said something the other day about the Galleons from dead pure-blood families going to the Ministry? Harry circled the word and drew a large question mark next to it.

            Let’s see. What else?

            Personal hatred was also a motivation; Harry had read about historical cases that came from that, too. But once again, none of the Malfoys seemed to have known what they could have done to Discipula to warrant what she had done to them in return. And she didn’t strike Harry as someone who was in the habit of making large, dramatic gestures that were out of all proportion to the original offense.

            Draco was an unlikely offender, in any case, being still a schoolboy during the time that Discipula was rising to power. That meant it most likely had to be Narcissa or Lucius. Harry wrote down both their names and sat back, trying to think what they could be lying about to him.

            Unfortunately, the answer that came to mind was everything.

            Harry grimaced, shook his head, and set the personal hatred idea aside with another question mark drawn around it for now. It could very well be true, but he couldn’t say it was without more confirmation from one of the parties involved, and he didn’t think he would get it unless Draco suddenly remembered something about his parents’ interaction with Discipula that he had forgotten to tell Harry so far.

            Draco…

            Harry sighed. He hadn’t got to see Draco in what felt like far too long, after Hermione had fed him that potion that edited the dreams and then he’d had to spend time preparing for the trial. He hoped that he would get back to him tomorrow, or later tonight; he never had any notion of how long the dreams were going to last.

            For now, though, he should pay attention to his list. Among other things, he wanted to show Hermione and Malfoy that he could focus on the business of being a barrister, not just his “obsession” with Draco.

            Discipula might simply be using the Malfoy trial to gain political power, though Harry wasn’t sure what more she could want. How would executing the Malfoys help her become Minister, for example? But he still didn’t understand everything about this strange universe, especially how everyone could accept Neville as the Boy-Who-Lived when they didn’t seem to know how he had killed Voldemort, so he wrote the notion down.

            Blackmail? Could the Malfoys know something about Discipula that she didn’t want anyone else to know? Harry added that motivation to the list, too, though he was more doubtful about it. He couldn’t see why Lucius wouldn’t have used the knowledge already to get out of prison, or at least spare himself. (He was more doubtful that Lucius would care about sparing his wife and son).

            The last motivation he could think of was that Discipula wouldn’t have wanted to execute the Malfoys if she was really in control, but had essentially been forced into taking this position because so many other people in the wizarding world wanted them dead. Harry snorted as he added three question marks next to that one. Discipula could play the earnest, concerned, moral woman cowed by public pressure all she wanted; he didn’t believe it for an instant.

            He sat back and studied his list. As yet, he had no idea which one was most likely to be true. It could also be a combination, which he always hated, because it pushed the possibilities in so many directions that he felt stupid when he couldn’t mentally keep track of them all.

            He started to stand. It wasn’t “cheating” if he went back to Draco now and started speaking to him, urging him gently to remember any detail about Discipula that he might have missed. Perhaps he could even set up a spell to ensure that they talked in a bubble of silence; Draco might speak more freely with the assurance that his parents couldn’t hear him and contradict him.

            Then the room wavered and darkened around him. Harry clutched instinctively at the table in front of him and looked around wildly, expecting an attack, but there was nothing except the same room, only dimmer.

            It could only mean that Hermione and Malfoy were calling him back to the world they thought was the only one. Harry bowed his head and lashed out with his will in clumsy, uncoordinated movements, not sure what he was doing, only sure that he wanted to keep the dream and they weren’t letting him.

            No! Stop—

            But the dream faded relentlessly, until Harry was drifting in a light doze from which he had no choice but to awaken.

*

            "I agree that it's disturbing."

            Those were the first words Harry heard when he opened his eyes, which he thought was excuse enough for not being in the best mood. He rolled over, opened his eyes, and glared at Hermione, who stood beside his bed with a notebook in her hands.

            She nodded to show him that she knew he was awake, and then went back to consulting the notes. "The twitching hands and the rapidly moving eyes are there," she said. "And more than once I heard him grunt or saw him flinch as if he had been hit. Did you see the same thing, Malfoy?"

            Harry resisted the urge to bury his head in his arms. He had told Hermione about Malfoy's causing the dreams in the first place with trepidation, because he had been afraid that she would be so angry that there would be no way to persuade her to work with him. Instead, after an initial five minutes of yelling at Malfoy that he was stupid and should never be allowed around Harry again and that she thought his pretense of friendship with the Quidditch training was pathetic, Hermione had become too interested in Harry's unusual reaction to the spell to scold Malfoy further. She started speaking to him as though he was someone who could help her, instead, and compared notes with him on the dream magic that he had already looked up and she had just started to study.

            Harry turned to look at Malfoy instead. He was sitting in a chair, and he had his own book of notes in front of him, in the form of a ledger stuffed with blank parchment--or scribbled parchment, Harry saw with some dread. Had the git really taken that many notes just while Harry had his short nap?

            "Yes, I saw all of that," Malfoy said. "Did you notice a pattern in the grunts? At one point, I counted them as four minutes apart, but they started moving closer together as the dream progressed."

            "Yes." Hermione made a sharp motion with her quill; Harry had to duck as the ink flew. "That's the reason I suggested that we wake him up. It sounded as though he were being hurt, and I don't want that to happen." She gave Harry a long, worried look, and tapped the quill against her notes. "You really have no idea what you're dealing with in these dreams, Harry. You should have told me about them right away."

            Harry grimaced and decided that he might as well try to use one of the things she'd been talking about before he went to sleep against her. "I think you can understand why I didn't. They're addictive, or so you mentioned. I wanted to keep having them, and I knew that you would try to take them away."

            Malfoy coughed. Harry turned over to glare at him, and Malfoy sighed. "Direct your anger at me if anywhere, Harry. I'm the one who caused this, and I'm the one who should have told you so when I saw the way they were affecting you."

            Harry shook his head, exasperated. "And what's that way? So far, all you've reported are a few movements and sounds in my sleep, which I could be doing all the time anyway." There was Ron's report of hearing Harry call out Draco's name, too, but he didn't know if Hermione had told Malfoy about that.

            "It's still serious," Malfoy said. "Dreams this strong and continuous always are."

            Harry groaned. "Then, please, tell me why," he said. "What does the dream magic theory say about them? You told me that you'd been to experts, and they all told you the dreams were harmless," he remembered belatedly. "So I understand why you want to study this, but I don't understand why you're convinced they're dangerous."

            "Actually," Hermione said, in that bright, clear, cold voice that Harry had learned to cringe from in terror, "I'd be interested in knowing the same thing. If the experts seemed to feel that the dreams weren't caused by a spell--"

            Malfoy cursed and sighed. "I didn't dare tell them all the circumstances of the case," he admitted grudgingly. "I thought for certain they'd figure out I'd cast the original spell. And I didn't know much about the dreams then, only what Harry told me."

            Harry moved in irritation. He didn't know why, but he didn't like it when Malfoy called him by his first name. It felt like an intimate caress across bare skin that he hadn't earned the right to.

            Or maybe I like it too much.

            Harry rubbed at his eyes. He, Malfoy, and Hermione had been working together for only a few days to try and learn the origin of the dreams, and already his thoughts were confusing him and driving him mad.

            Malfoy wasn't terrible in close quarters. Harry could even admit that he found some of the attention flattering.

            But he also couldn't forget that Malfoy had cast the spell on him in the first place, and that he didn't understand Malfoy's obsession. He wouldn't take up with someone who had treated him as horribly as Malfoy claimed that Harry had treated him.

            "I see," Hermione said, with a heavy, significant glance that cheered Harry up a bit, as it reminded him that she could be annoyed with other people. "Perhaps you should go back to these experts and admit that you lied, and then ask them about the case with all the details in the proper places?"

            "Mentioning Harry's name?" Malfoy stared at her. "Wouldn't that give him even more publicity that he didn't want?"

            He actually noticed that? Harry blinked and added his voice to the chorus before Hermione could bowl Malfoy over unassisted. "Yes, I think he has to keep my name out of it, Hermione. There's no reason that would matter."

            Hermione raised her eyebrows. "And if the experts are missing something because these dreams happened thanks to your curse scar, or you walking to your death--what you thought was your death--in the Forbidden Forest?"

            Malfoy whipped around and stared at him. Harry could guess why. He hissed at Hermione, but she didn't look impressed, as she usually didn't. She just stood there, quill poised, and faced him down with all the majesty of logic.

            Harry finally nodded. "Yeah, all right. But can we at least speak to experts on the Continent, who might be less fascinated by the chance to make Harry Bloody Potter into an experiment? I think Malfoy said the best ones are on the Continent, anyway, and not in Britain."

            "Not all of them," Malfoy said. "But enough diversity of opinions exists, especially in France and Spain, that I don't think we need consult anyone who might leak your name back." He was studying Harry with bright eyes, although Harry didn't know why. Perhaps he had done something nice without noticing it. Just paying attention to him might count as "nice" in Malfoy's personal universe.

            Then Malfoy blinked, perhaps because he had noticed Harry staring at him, and seemed to become more professional. "We also need to think about how the spell might have interacted with special qualities in Harry's mind to make these dreams arise in the first place," he muttered, and busied himself with staring into his notes as if they would tell him the answer.

            "Tell us more about the spell," Hermione said. "If it had worked as it normally should have, what would be the effect on Harry's mind?"

            "He would have started thinking about me more often," Malfoy said, with the kind of calm assurance that Harry associated with having used the spell before, instead of just having memorized a description in a book. He scowled and told himself that hecould be a little more generous with his suspicions; Malfoy was potentially giving up a lot to help him. Maybe. "He would have found himself curious about me, and seeking me out--but not in such a way that it would violate his usual habits or his character. I would have known why, of course, and watched for him, and started conversations that were about relatively neutral topics, like Quidditch. I would have made sure not to antagonize him."

            "And you could have done all that without the spell," Hermione said softly. "Simply by speaking to him." She regarded Malfoy with a mixture of pity and wonder that Harry knew would probably make him uncomfortable, and seemed to if the way he glanced away and straightened his robe collar was any indication.

            "I did try," Malfoy said, so softly that Harry wondered if Hermione could make out all the words. "He never seemed to glance at him. The few times I saw him after the trial, he stared straight past me, or walked away from me."

            "Because I was trying not to get into an argument," Harry said, when Hermione turned to him. "How was I to know that he sincerely wanted to be friends? If he does now," he couldn't help but add. "Someone who turns to that kind of spell--"

            "It was wrong," Malfoy said with immense dignity.

            Harry blinked. "Excuse me?" he echoed, but was aware of the way that Hermione put her hand on his sleeve. He bit his tongue and tried to stay calm when he spoke. "What do you mean?"

            "It was wrong to cast that spell on you," Malfoy said, staring at Harry as if he thought that that would unlock some door in Harry's head by which the words could enter his brain. "Yes, I should have asked. But I was bloody terrified and humiliated after my earlier attempts didn't work, all right? But I should have asked," he tacked onto the end, as if he'd realized that Harry might not be that impressed by a self-justifying apology.

            Harry shook his head slightly. "I--all right," he said. "Fine. But how was I supposed to know that you just wanted to talk when you tried? You even told me that I should avoid him," he added, turning to Hermione.

            Hermione looked uncomfortable enough herself that Harry wondered if she didn't have any good answer for a problem like this, either, although he wanted to think she did. "I don't think we should blame each other for what happened in the past," she finally said. "It's obvious that we all misunderstood each other, and that things would have been easier if we talked. But we can't alter that. We can only go ahead and try to understand what's been happening to Harry." She nodded, apparently satisfied with that.

            Malfoy sighed and bowed his head. "Yeah," he said. "We should."

            Harry eyed him sideways. He didn't know that he would trust the git even with Hermione's say-so; it smacked too much of just allowing Malfoy to get away with things, the way that had seemed to happen so often in school with Snape and the Slytherins. And Malfoy hadn't apologized until just now. Why should he get the same kind of blanket understanding that Harry was willing to extend towards the Slytherins in general who had been pressed into fighting for Voldemort because their families did?

            He did apologize, though. And fighting for Voldemort was worse than casting this spell on you, so you should be able to forgive one if you can forgive the other.

            Maybe, Harry conceded, and decided that they should all return to the original topic of conversation before they became caught up in self-loathing. "All right. So what kind of interaction do you think a spell like that could have with my mind, Hermione? How are the dreams like it?"

            "Well, the addictive nature of them certainly is," Hermione said, restored in a moment to her comfort zone. "You're thinking about Draco all the time, whether you've recently seen him or not." She stared at Harry, who nodded reluctantly. "And the dreams are a way to visit him, so you've been going to sleep more often and getting upset when you took the potion that prevented you from dreaming."

            "But there are also differences," Malfoy interrupted. "From what Harry says, the spell created a whole elaborate dream universe for him. Why should the dreams be like that, instead of just focusing on a different version of me?"

            He and Hermione were off and running, and Harry leaned back on the pillow, scowling at the ceiling. Yes, the dreams were disturbing when looked at in that light, but he didn't think either of them had considered one thing:

            There were still people in the dreams to be helped, when you got right down to it.

*

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Sleepless