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Sanctum Sanctorum	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 28274 -:- Recommendations : 3 -:- Currently Reading : 4
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this fanfic.

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Chapter Nineteen—In Too Deep

            “What do you have for me?”

            Potter’s voice, coming through the charm that connected Draco’s ears to his, was deep and soft, unlike the voice that he used when he spoke to Draco and Weasley. Draco shook his head, feeling his hair rustle against the couch on which he lay, but not hearing it. For the moment, his listening skills were completely overlaid by the reality that Potter was experiencing. Weasley was with him, guarding the door of the shop under a glamour, with the rumor that Draco was ill and couldn’t attend to business right now. He had orders to send up a flare of sparks that Draco would see, not hear, if he encountered trouble.

            Draco didn’t think he would. At the moment, Potter was the one in danger, the one in his second meeting with Eelhardt, where the apothecary had promised to introduce him to some of those who could answer his questions about the branching patterns on the ring.

            “Not as much information as you requested,” said Eelhardt’s voice, as sliding and slippery and blood-warmed as his surname, and Draco curled his lip without thinking about it. He didn’t get along well with Eelhardt for a variety of reasons, but the way he sounded when he tried to defend his pet Potions theories had a lot to do with it. “My allies are very close-mouthed. Not just everyone can share in the revolutionary nature of this knowledge, you know.”

            “Yes, I know,” Potter said. At the same moment, the impulses in the back of his head chanted in Draco’s mind, Kill him if necessary. Draco clenched a hand open and shut on the couch, and reminded himself that at least the thoughts were longer than one word right now. “But if someone can help me soon, so that I can do the Healing—”

            “You must be patient,” Eelhardt said, in the tone that Slughorn had sometimes used to scold the Slytherins.

            Potter settled back. Draco could feel him breathing, schooling himself into stillness. He didn’t know how much of that was for Eelhardt’s benefit and how much for Potter’s own, and wished he had insisted on the potion that would bind all his senses to Potter’s. He wanted to see the expression on his face—

            Which you couldn’t do with that potion anyway, idiot, because it would only show you what Potter is looking at, not the expression on his face. He can’t see his own face unless he’s looking into a mirror.

            It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that Eelhardt would have a mirror, but Draco had to take a few more deep breaths and will himself into calmness. Potter’s thoughts were settling at the same time, which helped. He concentrated on matching the current of his mind to those, and started when Potter spoke again.

            “I know that you can’t tell me right now, but is there a time limit? I would feel more comfortable with that, so that I know if I have to do something else to keep my daughter alive until—until the information is here.”

            Draco sighed. He had argued that Potter should pretend someone other than a child in his family was sick, because Moonstone and Schroeder might not trust him if they knew he had a child, but Potter had told Draco he knew what he was doing and to drop the subject. Now Draco understood. Only the idea of a child in danger could have enabled Potter to infuse his voice with that much thick, choking emotion.

            “I understand that,” said Eelhardt, and Draco heard a faint clicking noise that suggested the apothecary had patted Potter’s hand. Draco curled his lip so hard this time it split, and he spent a few moments dabbing blood up from it while still listening to the conversation. “But you must be patient. They agreed to send a representative to the meeting today, who will evaluate you. That’s not the same as agreeing to share the knowledge with you by a certain day or time.”

            Potter sighed softly enough to make the moon melt in pity. “All right. You’re right. Of course. Thank you for helping me.”

            Draco rolled his eyes. He should pretend to be this logical and calm all the time. It might get him better results than the way he runs around right now.

            A door opened, bells jangled, and Eelhardt scraped his chair back and rose. He was probably scraping a bow, too, Draco thought, but he couldn’t hear everything that happened around Potter through his ears, only what he noticed, and the sound of the bow might be too soft. “Master—Flowerease, thank you for coming.”

            Draco settled further back into the couch and smiled. He knew, though he suspected Potter didn’t, that no one among pure-blood families had the name Flowerease. But there were Potions texts that gave flowerease as a very old name for the moonflower.

            Moonflower. Which was almost the same as Moonstone.

            “Yes,” said an indifferent voice, a wind-voice, a storm-voice. “I am here.” Draco had never heard Moonstone speak, but he could easily imagine that it sounded like that. From the sound of things, Potter had risen to his feet and offered a bow of his own.

            Draco clenched his hand beside him again. Make it realistic, Potter. Get over your own objections to the idea of serving someone else. Moonstone will see through you in a second if you don’t.

            He might see through him anyway. When Draco had agreed that Potter should risk a second meeting with Eelhardt, he had never thought that Moonstone or Schroeder themselves might appear to confront them. On the other hand, Moonstone might feel confident enough that no one really suspected he was connected to this affair and therefore he could confront a minor Potions master who knew too much for his own good.

            Do the acting job of your life, Potter. Or it’s all over.

*

            “What did you say your name was?”

            “Rosefield,” Harry murmured back in return, never taking his eyes off Moonstone. He was sure it was Moonstone. He didn’t know why he was sure, since this man wore a glamour, a clumsy one that rose like heat shimmers above his face. Of course, he probably thought he was so much in control here that he didn’t need to wear anything more subtle.

            But there was something familiar about him, about his magic, that scraped and sang across Harry’s nerves. He felt himself starting to nervous attention every few seconds, and wondered if Malfoy could feel that through the impulses in his head. Perhaps so. Harry knew he was feeling it because some of Moonstone’s magic had been used near the little girl whose memories he had taken with the Retrovoyance curse.

            Whether or not he had killed her himself, Moonstone had cast some spells on her. And he might have stood by while she was tortured.

            Kill him, the back of his mind suggested, gentle, and in his head the sobbing and wailing of Moonstone’s victim arose. But Harry would not allow those impulses to control him, not here, not now. He carefully pushed them back, and sat watching Moonstone instead, his smile fixed on his face.

            I can’t do that yet, sweetheart. Not yet. To get vengeance for you and all the other people abused under this system, we have to have proof.

            The voice blew away like a candle snuffing out. But Harry didn’t have time to think about it, because Moonstone had begun to speak again.

            “How did you find out about the patterns that you showed Eelhardt, Rosefield?”

            Harry would have blinked at Moonstone’s arrogance, but he had seen it before. In Wizengamot members, in Head Aurors, in the Minister. All of them thought they could order other people around and those people would have no choice but to submit, because the authorities had power and the ability to deny their petitioners whatever they wanted.

            Harry wondered if one reason he had always been less susceptible to manipulations like that came from the conviction of his own power. He was Harry Potter, he was powerful magically, and he had the press on his side if it came to that. He hadn’t needed the cringing fear that was a tool of political survival to so many others.

            But he needed to feign it now, so he bowed his head and began to murmur the story that Malfoy had come up with. “Sir, I—I found a reference in a letter I was assigned to process—”

            “Where do you work, then?” Moonstone had leaned forwards and had his big hands on his knees, his eyes, blue in the glamour, locked on Harry.

            “The Department of Lost Artifacts, sir,” Harry said. He paused, then added, “And Rosefield isn’t my real name, sir, and this isn’t my real face.”

            Moonstone let a small smile shine on his lips. “I knew that,” he said. “But your story had better be real. You know what I can do to you if I don’t like it.”

            Harry nodded. Then he thought some downturning of his eyes and cringing of his shoulders would work wonders, since Moonstone had begun to stare at him, and might be wondering who this man was who wasn’t afraid of him. “Yes, sir,” he whispered. Moonstone let out a little breath and waved a hand at him to go on, so Harry rushed forwards, tripping over his own tongue at times. “I—I found a letter that had those drawings on it, and mentioned something about Healing. My daughter, sir. She’s sick. She won’t live much longer. The Healers tell m-me her sickness is eat-eating her magic.” He closed his eyes and put a hand over his eyes, thinking about the way he would feel if Ron or Hermione or even an innocent child he didn’t know was suffering that disease. “I thought I could find someone who could teach me to capture magic. If I can hold it, or if my daughter can, and that heals her magic—I can do anything, sir. Anything at all for her.”

            “Who sent this letter?” Moonstone asked.

            Harry swallowed and looked up. “I went to make a copy of it, sir, and the only thing I could copy was the patterns. The address and the writing went illegible the moment I looked at them.”

            Moonstone leaned slightly back into the cushions of the dingy couch he sat on. Harry didn’t nod, but he felt the relaxation spread through his body anyway. Yes, that was the way. Moonstone would know that spells to keep someone other than the intended recipient from reading a letter were common, but didn’t always work perfectly on the first try, especially if the person who read the letter had a similar magical signature to the person who should have received it. Harry’s story was plausible enough for a first hearing, and he intended to work with Malfoy to strengthen it later.

            “The patterns led you here,” Moonstone murmured, cocking his head.

            Harry nodded. “Yes, sir. I’d already gone to Potions masters, hoping they could help me with potions to fend off the disease, and they were the ones who told me about someone who’d researched magic like that. Galen, I think his name was? And they were the ones who sent me to Master Eelhardt here.” He cocked his head at the man beside him, who looked like he would have preferred Harry to forget about him.

            “We can trace you,” Moonstone said, with the idle tone of someone who was looking inwards and didn’t care about what he was saying. He probably didn’t, Harry thought. He was someone else who was used to power, in his case having the power to threaten someone into giving up an investigation through sheer fear. “If it turns out that you’ve lied to us, then we can cut the lines you opened easily enough.”

            Harry bowed. “I know, sir. I’m not trying to betray you. I’m willing to do whatever work I have to do to get the potions or magic or whatever it is that can help my daughter. I’ll pay any price. Please.”

            “Any price?”

            Moonstone was showing his teeth as he spoke, but his eyes and voice were both brighter. Harry knew he thought he had found a rein. Loop it around the neck of the man who promised to do anything, and you might have the man who would die for you, kill for you, fight for you without thinking of the consequences.

            Harry knew that, because there had been times when he had felt that way, usually right before they raised a Potions lab or house where they could be fairly sure a Dark wizard was hiding.

            “Yes, sir.” Harry fixed his eyes on his hands as though too afraid to look Moonstone in the face anymore, and wondered what Malfoy was making of this conversation. Perhaps he would tell Harry that he was an idiot and not to be so stupid, but Harry didn’t know, so it was best to proceed and not give away any hint that he was waiting for external input.

*

            You’re playing a dangerous game, Potter.

            Draco let out a short, huffing breath as he listened to the conversation Moonstone and Potter were having. It was true that Potter was better-suited to this role than Draco was, having more experience assuming glamours and roles, and that he might have met Moonstone before, unknowing, in some of the shadier meetings he had attended. The man was said to be extraordinarily sensitive to magical signatures, so even if Draco had only spent a few hours with him at a time, he might have recognized him.

            But they hadn’t known Moonstone would show up to this meeting. The real reason Draco had sent Potter was that he would have the skills necessary to fight himself out of the meeting if it turned violent, and they were less likely to suspect Potter of being out at all, considering he was supposed to be occupying a Ministry cell at the moment.

            Still, Draco wished he was there.

            But not all the drumming on the pillows behind his head with a closed fist would make it so, so he relaxed his body and concentrated on the voices still welling through his ears, along with clothes rustling, bodies shifting, coughs, breathing, and the other clutter of what someone with this spell functioning heard, whether he liked it or not.

*

            “Then if I told you that there’s someone who needs to be controlled,” Moonstone went on, voice rich and smooth and utterly persuasive, “someone who is interfering with our ability to bring the magic-taking to fruition, you would do that? Someone you could reach easily at the moment, someone who has a reputation as fearsome but has been rendered toothless?”

            Harry swallowed, because the man he played would, and spent an endless moment in contemplation of his ragged nails. Then he looked up and nodded. “If you can tell me what you mean, sir. You said controlled. Did you—did you want me to use the Imperius Curse on them?” His voice sank on the words, because his character would.

            And in reality, Harry hadn’t used the Unforgivable Curses since the war. They were too noticeable, especially for someone who already resented the power of his name and was looking to get him in trouble with his superiors.

            “Not as such,” Moonstone said, and Harry could see why people might flock to him, given how firm and bracing his voice had become. “Not as such. The Curse is illegal, and causes problems if the caster’s will is not stronger than that of the victim. I do not know how strong your will is, yet.”

            Harry tried to firm his back and look up at Moonstone with all the speed and dignity that his character would employ, rather than the kind he would use himself. It was hard to judge, and he respected, more than he had before, the work of Aurors who spent months undercover and blended into their roles. Harry had done so for short times, not through the thousands of daily interactions that might be required. “I will try to prove that it’s strong, sir. What do you want me to do?”

            “You are not a Potions master yourself, Mr. Rosefield?” Moonstone changed his posture on the couch. Harry blinked and shook his head. To him, it looked like Moonstone was about to get up, but Rosefield wouldn’t notice that.

            “No, sir. I can buy any ingredients that you need me to, though,” he added, and let his eagerness leak into his voice. “I can—I have—I still have some Galleons left. Anything for my daughter.”

            “Of course,” Moonstone said, and his voice lowered. “Then your task will be to feed the Draught of Living Death to Harry Potter.”

            “Harry Potter, sir?” Harry let his voice squeak, because that was better than breaking out into the giggles of breathy laughter than he otherwise would have made. “But—he’s a great Auror, sir! He’s the Chosen One! The entire Ministry protects him!”

            “I think you will find that not everyone in the Ministry appreciates him,” Moonstone said, and linked his fingers together over his belly. “Besides, at the moment he’s in a holding cell, pending an investigation into his recent behavior. You can reach him much more easily, and slip the Draught into his food.”

            More blinking and shuffling while Harry had Rosefield think it over. “But, sir,” he said at last, “won’t they notice the Draught? Won’t they figure out what’s going on and wake him up again when he falls asleep?”

            “This Draught—is rather a special one,” Moonstone said, and spent some more time linking his fingers together and nodding. “Rather a special one, and not one that can be easily defeated, as you will see.”

            As you will see. Harry hated the sound of that. On the other hand, he was playing a desperate man, and he was desperate, himself, to find out whether Moonstone and Schroeder were involved in the issue of kidnapping children after all and what he should do if they were. He breathed out, blinked, and squared his shoulders. “Very well, sir,” he said. “If you can—if I can—if I can help that way, I will.”

            Moonstone regarded him for a few more minutes, smiling. Harry let himself fidget, because Rosefield would be nervous, and he kept taking his eyes away from Moonstone’s to glance around the shop. It was still gloomy, but Harry could make it out a bit better now that he had spent some time inside, away from the sunlight. He could see the mirrors with discolored frames, and the cauldrons filled with what looked like scraped bits of leaves to Harry but were undoubtedly important to someone, and the shine, here and there, of silver instruments that had somehow escaped the tarnish.

            “I am curious about you, Mr. Rosefield.” Moonstone’s voice drew Harry’s attention back. “I have never heard of you before.”

            “Well, I haven’t heard of you, either,” Harry snapped, and then pretended to cower. That brought his hand close to his wand, which was a good thing in this situation, even if he definitely didn’t intend to use it. It could comfort him and make him less likely to cast a curse in the end. “I’m sorry. I meant—I meant that I don’t expect anyone to pay attention to me, and then I haven’t heard of you when I talked about this magic, and—I have to trust.”

            “Hm,” said Moonstone, ambiguously, and stood up. “You will be given instructions as to where to go, Mr. Rosefield. And the Draught that has been treated and prepared for Potter. You will understand that it is for the best that we should not meet again.”

            “Of course, sir,” Harry said humbly, inclining his head and keeping his eyes on the floor. He could see Moonstone swishing towards the door, and felt his heart beating fiercely. Perhaps Schroeder would come to the next meeting, and Harry would even manage to discover a few hints about Campion.

            Moonstone paused near the door out of the shop and glanced back at him. “There is one more thing you should know, Mr. Rosefield,” he said. “One more thing you should realize that would make you a success at your mission. Or at least a better success than you can be right now,” he added, correcting himself with a small, bemused smile.

            Harry met his eyes, this time shaking only with feigned fear. He could go back to Malfoy and they could decide what to do about Moonstone between this meeting and the next, after all. He had nothing to fear now. “Yes, sir?” he asked.

            “You should not try to project such a frightened air when your magical signature is so powerful,” Moonstone said gently. “It’s dishonest, impolite, and frankly inclined to make me mistrust you.” He held up a hand and made a small gesture, touching his thumb and first finger together in a circle.

            Disillusionment Charms Harry hadn’t sensed tore open along the walls, and bulky men in dark robes poured into the room. Not Auror robes, was all Harry had time to notice before he shot to his feet and tried to Apparate. There was that much mercy, that they might not know who he was—and that because the glamour he wore came from a potion, they couldn’t simply cast a Finite and dissipate it right there.

            His magic slammed against anti-Apparition wards that he hadn’t sensed going up, either, and was slung back into his body with a force that made him gasp. At the same time, the first Stunners hit him.

            Harry began to slump, but managed to fight it long enough to cast two spells nonverbally: the Patronus Charm and a glamour that would somewhat disguise the distinctive stag shape of his Patronus, making it look more like an antelope than a deer. He mumbled desperately, “Moonstone taking me. Hasn’t removed the glamour yet, but might manage. Magical signature—”

            The Stunners took effect then, and as the Patronus bounded off through the wall and towards Ron, Harry slumped down into darkness. His last conscious thought for some time was that at least he hadn’t used any Dark spells or the new spells he had invented that would cast off quite a lot of magical energy for the Ministry to detect, which might inspire Moonstone to be a little less desperate.

            Malfoy would be proud.

*

            Draco’s eyes snapped open, and he lay on the couch, the spell that had connected him to Potter going silent as he stopped hearing things. For a moment, his hands opened and lay there, as helpless and relaxed as his muscles.

            Then Draco jerked himself to his feet and went to yet another of the potions cupboards that he kept in his flat. He knew people who would have thought that he was stupid or paranoid for keeping this many potions around, but the worth was proved now. It had kept him busy at the time, costing him nothing but labor, and now he had them when he needed them.

            He closed his eyes, spent a moment calming his heartbeat and breathing so that he would sound halfway normal when he talked to Weasley, and shook his head.

            Moonstone didn’t recognize his signature, but he did recognize the power of it. I wonder how long it would take them to remove the glamour?

            Ridiculous. A useless question. Draco grimaced and forced his eyes open. They knew that Moonstone had Potter, and would probably recognize him soon, and they knew how he had done it. That would have to suffice for the moment.

            Relentless, he reached into his cupboard and began to draw out the weapons that he would need for going to war.

*

            SP777: Thanks! Glad that you had the fresh image of alligators in your head; that makes it more interesting.

            No, the last scene wasn’t cut off too soon. I usually plan the chapters to be about that length.

            AlterEquis: Harry speculates that they’re scraping the faces off to lessen the chances of identifying the children.
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