• 1-Political Axes
• 2-Ch 1
• 3-ch2
• 4-Ch3
• 5-Ch 4
• 6-5
• 7-6
• 8-7
• 9-8
• 10-9
• 11-10
• 12-11
• 13-12
• 14-13
• 15-14
• 16-15
• 17-16
• 18-17
• 19-18
• 20-19
• 21-20

Beta'd by Slyth "the wonderful" :-)

Draco was idly holding The Daily Prophet in one hand, his other hand busy lifting a second freshly baked croissant to his lips, when he saw it. He inhaled sharply, his face contorting in indignation as his complexion paled and his eyes narrowed hatefully, just before he flung the offending rag of a newspaper to the floor of the dining room, the croissant sailing after it as he rose angrily from his chair. He stalked into his study, over to the fireplace and dropped a handful of Floo powder, kneeling gracefully to make a call.

“Auror Harry Potter, Ministry of Magic, London,” Draco spoke into the flames, his voice nearly trembling with anger. He hated Floo communication. It seemed so arcane to him. Despite all the modernization the wizarding world had undergone in the last decade— accepting magically enhanced forms of Muggle travel, cooking, and even entertainment—the society still seemed unwilling to release its almost sentimental preference for Floo communication.

After being first connected with one perky secretary, followed by yet another, Draco’s face finally appeared in the fireplace inside Harry’s personal office.

“Draco? What a sur…oh,” Harry said upon seeing the serious expression on his lover’s face.

“Yes, oh, Harry. When were you going to tell me, or better yet, warn me?!” Draco demanded.

“I see the Prophet didn’t waste anytime,” Harry said with a grimace, averting his eyes away from Draco’s.

“You know each day’s edition is now magically updating like that Muggle telly news ticker nonsense. There is no lag in reporting breaking news, Harry. What were you thinking?!”

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. Draco had a way of making him feel like a recalcitrant schoolboy sometimes.

“Harry? I asked— ”

“I know, I know,” Harry cut-in, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t expect them to report it so soon. I…I didn’t want you to worry. You’ve been very worried lately,” Harry said sadly, his green eyes staring intently into Draco’s.

Draco released a deep breath, filled with aggravation.

“You can’t protect me, Harry, not like this. You tried this before, remember, when we starting seeing each other, when the press was busy vilifying me for stealing you from darling, sweet little Ginevra. Your efforts to shield me from bad news didn’t work then and it won’t work now. I thought you’d learned your lesson, Harry. Gods!”

Harry looked away from the flames, his lips mumbling a response Draco couldn’t quite make out.

“What?” The blond asked irritably.

“I said…I said, I’m sorry. I know I can’t prevent you from swimming in the shit that is my life, but can you blame me for wanting to, Draco? Can you?!”

Draco gave Harry a look of pity.

“No, Harry, I don’t blame you for wanting to keep the bullshit at bay. The reality is that you set yourself up to fail, and you set me up for needless shocks. I hate being caught off guard; you know this! You obviously knew this inquiry was happening before today; yet, you never once mentioned it. I am WITH you, you noble-minded twit. We have to be able to present a united front, Harry. And if one of us is in the dark, that leaves us both vulnerable. What if I had gone out today before I got wind of this, confronted by some skulking Skeeter wannabe? What then? What am I to say, Harry? How cool can I be when confronted with the allegation that my lover was supposedly diddling his younger, recently murdered subordinate?

“You and I have always had one thing going for us, which was that you and I knew everything about each other. That kept us impenetrable to outside forces that wanted to rip us apart. Those attempts failed because we had no secrets. None. So any bullshit that was reported, you and I already knew what was and wasn’t true.”

Harry looked as though Draco had just ripped out his heart and pissed on it.

“You know that there was nothing like that between me and Syl, Draco. You can’t really believe that tripe?” Harry asked, his voice shaking with hurt.

Draco looked at him with annoyance and sucked his teeth in a manner that would have had his late father smacking him with that infernal cane.

“Of course I know it’s not true, Harry, but that just it. I need you to be the one to come home and tell me these things are about to hit before they come barreling at me out of nowhere.”

“You’re right, of course. I’m sorry. Really,” Harry said sincerely, his green eyes wide and earnest.

Silence settled heavily between them for a few moments, until Draco announced he was ending the call to take care of some other business.

“Besides, kneeling at this hearth is killing my knees,” the blond complained petulantly.

“Yeah, I guess I should go and read the fucking piece of shit the Prophet calls a newspaper.”

“Don’t,” Draco said firmly.

“Why not? I mean, you’ve practically told me they are reporting what the warlock tried his best to imply. That perhaps Syl was killed by me as part of some lover’s quarrel.”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean, not exactly?” Harry asked. “What else would it be? Corme obviously has a hard-on for me, and not the good kind.”

“No, it seems that the media—that is what we are still laughably calling them— has chosen to speculate that Syl was perhaps killed by me in a jealous rage over you.”

“You’ve got to be joking!”

“Wish I were,” Draco said, his mouth pinched in anger.

The blond winced as Harry proceeded to unleash a slew of profanity that would make Molly Weasley wash his mouth out several times with soap.

“That’s…that is going way too far,” Harry said roughly, his anger almost palpable through the Floo.

Draco could see where this was headed. If Harry was one thing, it was extremely protective of those he called family. He didn’t suffer anyone threatening those he loved.

“Harry…Harry, listen, take it easy. Let me handle this,” Draco intoned, hoping to calm Harry’s ire.

“NO! I’ll handle it. I’ll blind that bitch Skeeter for life! How she ever got to be the editor-in-chief of that rag I’ll never know, but I know one thing, I’ve given her a pass for far too long.”

“That’s not the way, Harry. You are playing into their hands. Think about it. Your temper is rather legendary, no matter how rare it has been on display. You do something reckless and you may lend more credence to the rumors.

“Your team needs you now more than ever. Syl needs you. Don’t take yourself out of the game— not like this.”

Harry relaxed back into his chair, almost defeated as Draco’s wise words sunk in.

“What about you? What will you do? If they have suggested that you had a hand in this, the Class 3s will have to follow up on it, no matter how far-fetched. You’ll be questioned, probably under truth serum. I…I doubt I can stop it.”

“It’ll be fine. We both know I had nothing to do with it, so that stops that wild centaur chase cold. I’ll involve one of my solicitors. They will ensure the questions stick to those pertaining to Syl and nothing else. As for Skeeter…we bide our time. We take her on the Slytherin way,” Draco added, his eyes cold and hard.

Harry nodded slowly, not even bothering to question Draco further. He knew exactly what his lover meant, and for the life of him, he couldn’t help but feel a little twinge of pity for Skeeter and the Prophet.

“Are we agreed, Joseph?” Avery said, sitting quietly next to the fireplace in Guillmere’s study.

The Frenchman startled but a moment as he entered his study, slamming his briefcase down on top of his desk in irritation.

“Charles, I have asked you repeatedly not to sneak about! Circe! I know ghosts who make more noise.”

Avery remained stoic, watching as Guillmere hung his outer robe neatly in a nearby closet, all the while muttering curse words in French. He really is a dandy, Avery thought somewhat nastily, watching the careful way Guillmere smoothed out his shirt and adjusted his tie and cufflinks, before running a manicured hand through his wavy, auburn hair.

Once Guillmere was seated at his desk—a terrifyingly ornate piece of antique furniture that was far too enormous for the study— he took up a stack of post and began idly thumbing through it. The passing minutes and obvious disregard made Avery’s blood boil.

“Are we agreed?!” Avery spat through clenched teeth.

Guillmere paused mid flip through the stack of letters, his posture going rigid as he looked up into the face of his partner.

“No,” Guillmere countered, his tone equally as hard. “You made your point and I listened, but ultimately the decision is mine. Leaking the spell and Potter’s involvement will only lead him to us. As it is, he knows nothing of my involvement in all of this, and I intend to keep it that way. We are too close to the goal of having Potter removed from his post to blow it now on some rash get-back move on your part.”

“I thought you were smarter than this Joseph. By releasing the details of that Auror’s death to the press, detailing the effects of the spell, we would be handing Potter’s head to the public on a platter. Just one hard shove and Potter goes flying off that self-righteous pedestal like dust in a hurricane,” Avery rambled, his fists clenched and his eyes bright; too bright, thought Guillmere.

“What are you on?” Guillmere asked, his voice low and accusatory.

“Mind your own, man. I’ve got it under control.”

“Charles, you gave that shit up back in uni. Why? Why would you do this, now of all times? That shit is risky at the best of times. Right now I need you…you need yourself, to be tip-top, not letting Muggle drugs do your thinking for you.”

Avery swallowed thickly, his pulse racing. He was fine. More than. Muggles made a big deal about speed because their systems, their pathetic little brains, were ill equipped to handle it. He didn’t care what Joseph said; the drugs had never once caused him to falter. Guillmere shook his head and clasped his hands together when he saw the stubborn resolve in his friend’s eyes. There was often no getting through that thick skull sober, much less hyped-up on drugs.

In the aftermath of getting booted from the Aurors Guillmere had watched his friend flounder, unable to refocus on a different profession, so keen had been his desire to become an Auror. All during their uni years, Charles had but one goal, had talked of one thing—becoming an Auror. Once that was ripped away the wizard slowly came undone, spending his time obsessing unceasingly about Potter and getting back at him for blowing his chance. It was so trite, so uncreative a motive for revenge, but then again, Guillmere supposed when one got right down to it, most reasons for payback were. He on the other hand had a much larger goal. Since becoming a British citizen he had set his sights on the highest office and he’d be damned if he lost out because Avery couldn’t hold his shit together under pressure.

“Charles, listen to yourself,” Guillmere said gently, standing and coming from behind his desk to walk over to Avery. He placed a hand on the other man’s shoulders, seeking direct eye contact with those dilated pupils. “By now Potter has to know that the spell was stolen, along with the files on his team. I’ll bet you fifty Galleons that as soon as the healers informed Potter of the extent of that Auror’s injuries Potter knew how it happened. If we don’t take a step back we’re asking to be exposed.”

Avery jumped up, eyes alight with a touch of madness.

“If the public knows it was a spell Potter created, if they saw what kind of madness he’s been up to… add a little loose conjecture and they will believe that if he could create such a diabolical little spell, then it is no stretch to think he’d use it. It won’t be hard to lend credence to any speculation that Potter might be involved in this Auror’s death,” Avery said firmly. “Corme has essentially laid it out in the press already. The scandalmongers are all ready and set to toss that little Malfoy poof into Azkaban on mere suggestion. I didn’t think the love triangle idea had legs, but I’ll admit I was wrong. It’s tracking. Now, add in that it was Potter’s spell…it’ll be the end of him.”

Guillmere stepped in close to Avery, his face locked in a scowl that made him look twice his age. Avery was speaking as though his decision had been made, that Joseph had not already said no to his desire to feed more to Corme and the press.

“And I told you when we started this little project that this was MY game. My show! You don’t like it, you know how to get lost,” roared the Frenchman. “You want Potter dethroned for getting you booted from the Aurors, stealing your chance at a righteous life, well here I am working to give it to you. This is Potter, Charles. If you want him, you’ve got to go at him where it matters. I’m doing that, but we’ve got to be smart— pace ourselves. Corme suckles what I give him like mother’s milk, this is true, but even he will begin to ask uncomfortable questions if he were to hear the details of Potter’s spell from me. How would I explain this knowledge? The warlock is ambitious and blinded by his own self-importance, but he is no fool. Be patient. Soon he’ll have what he needs to remove not just Potter, but Shacklebolt as well. The love-triangle story alone will be enough to cast unending suspicion on Potter.

“If we are to succeed, Charles, then you cannot have the vapors every time one of my decisions conflicts with your own. It was the same shit when we caught that Auror. You didn’t want to use the spell, I did. That is what got us to this point. So, strap on your wand and buck up, man. We are nearing the endgame here. My pet warlock has told me that it is without doubt that Potter will be suspended pending the inquest; his team will be left in shambles and without direction; public opinion is beginning to sway and doubt is filling the air. We don’t need the spell details to accomplish our goals.”

Avery looked into the fire, almost as though he had not heard Guillmere at all, his gray-blue eyes unfocused and slightly wild.

“Yes, we’re nearing the end. But Potter will not rest until this entire scheme exposed. So, what does it matter if we release all his dirty little bits to the press? If I know Potter—and I fancy I do—he will see those responsible dealt the hand of justice—with or without the aid of that Auror badge. He’s predictable that way,” Avery stated distractedly into the fire.

“No, my dear man. Corme is the key. He insulates me.”

“What of me, then?” Avery asked quickly, his head whipping around to look at Guillmere then, his eyes hard and flinty. “I am a wanted man now.”

Guillmere settled back into his seat, confident and relaxed, a soft yet sinister smile on his face.

“Yes, you are. You’d do well to remember it.”