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The Descent of Magic	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 18803 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this fanfic.

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Chapter Nineteen—Flight of Pride

            Harry sipped at his morning tea, glanced at the Prophet to make sure there were no recent stories about him and Draco and Hermione, then pushed the table back so that he could look at his knee again.

            No. It still hadn’t changed from the last time he’d looked at it, five minutes ago. A lump of flesh and bone, not so attractive that Harry would have spent all his time peering at it if it wasn’t necessary.

            But when he spread out his hand and flattened his palm gently on top of his knee, no tingling pain answered him.

            Harry took a deep breath. Draco had told him that the latest dose of the potion should start working this morning, but also that removing the memory charm had caused some of the original damage to recur, so Harry should float himself to breakfast this morning. Harry had done as he advised, lounging in bed yesterday after Draco had gone and then casting the spells this morning that meant he could get down the stairs without touching the ground. He even had the leg stretched out in front of him now, on a stool under the table.

            It was this morning, though. And the longer he waited to test it, the more courage Harry thought he would need.

            He pushed himself back from the table, ignoring the rattle and rustle of the dishes on the edge, and managed to stand with a hop that tugged his leg off the stool.

            He waited for the pain, and then realized that he was standing with one hand on the table and one on the back of his chair, and he hadn’t actually placed the foot flat on the floor yet. He snorted and let it lower, moving his hands at the same time.

            Draco had been right. His foot floated down like a feather, and although his knee still felt heavy and awkward, a boulder strapped to the rest of his leg, there was no pain. Harry realized that he was trembling, his hands clenched, waiting for the agony to break out on him.

            And it wasn’t because he didn’t trust Draco. It was because he had lived with the pain for so long that to be without it seemed stranger than to have it happen. Waking up without it was like waking up to find that he had changed his bedroom in the night.

            He might be able to believe, though, as moment after moment passed and still nothing happened. He hopped another step forwards, and then forced himself to walk with his legs right beside each other and functioning in the same way.

            The pain was gone. Even the first dose of the potion hadn’t been that successful, calming and dulling the pain to the point that Harry hardly felt it, but letting it linger. And he had been able to walk and kneel and climb the stairs with that.

            What could he do with this?

            “Master is being stupid!”

            Harry glanced up, and smiled in spite of himself. Kreacher stood in the doorway of the kitchen, his arms folded, and glared at Harry as though Harry had been letting someone else cook for him. Harry shook his head. “No, Kreacher. It’s okay. Draco—you know him, the one who’s been visiting all the time—gave me a potion that let me walk without pain.” He did remember that Draco had said he shouldn’t overdo it, since the cracks in the bone and flesh of his knee would still be there, and he could aggravate them if he went too far, but Draco couldn’t blame him for wanting to walk in his back gardens.

            Kreacher unbent a little. “Young Master Malfoy?”

            Harry rolled his eyes, smiling. “Yes, Kreacher. He made the potion for me, and he said that I could walk.” And there was something else that Harry yearned to do, although he knew that he would have to get away from Kreacher’s watchful eye before he got the chance.

            “Young Master Malfoy,” Kreacher repeated, almost under his breath, and looked up at the kitchen ceiling for a moment. Then he pointed a long, greasy fingernail at Harry and said, “Master Harry is following his advice. For half an hour.” He snapped his fingers, and a large, chiming golden clock appeared out of nowhere and hung in the air next to him. “Then Kreacher is coming to get Master Harry.”

            “Yes, Kreacher.” Harry tried his best to look properly chastened, though from the way that Kreacher eyed him, it didn’t work.

            “Master Harry,” Kreacher mumbled, and stamped off, back to his work. Harry immediately strode across the room and flung open the door to the garden.

            The back garden at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place was nothing much to look at, with the pond of stagnant water that Harry had spent so much time watching and the weeds that grew all over despite Kreacher’s devoted care. But it was also a place that Harry hadn’t spent much time in the last few years, and he wandered through it in delight now, picking up stones and carrying them along with him for the sheer pleasure of doing so. Once, even that minor added weight would have jostled his knee.

            But not now, and the glow and glare of weak sunlight on Harry’s head and in his eyes gave him still more to rejoice in. He kept walking until he glanced back and could see that he was out of sight of the kitchen window.

            The clock beside him chimed, and when he looked at it, Harry saw that he had twenty minutes left. He nodded. He hated to deceive Kreacher, but he knew the little elf would never let him do what he wanted to.

            And Harry had to do it.

            He lifted his wand and whispered the Summoning Charm. A moment later, his broom was hovering beside him.

            Harry closed his eyes and spent a moment lightly breathing to get rid of the memories that would inconvenience him. Then he slung his leg, both his legs, over the broom and lifted his hands.

            The broom rose beneath him as gently as it had always done, as smoothly, and Harry bent his knee back along it with no sign of pain. He laughed, and the broom twirled in response. Harry clamped his hands down, and the broom shot up, and up, and up, until the air in Harry’s lungs ached and he had to remember that he wasn’t seventeen anymore.

            Not seventeen, but not dead, either. That was the most wonderful thing Malfoy had taught him, Harry thought, as the broom swirled and danced and kicked beneath him. That he could be out in the world, and although the damage to his knee would probably always be there, it didn’t need to be equally bad each and every day.

            He dipped and dived, and ignored the clock when it chimed beside him. There was wind in his eyes and wind in his ears and wind in his hair, and he was having too much fun to care what some rusty old timepiece said—

            “Master Harry!”

            Harry winced. He felt like a scolded owl often looked, and he immediately landed in the garden beside Kreacher. The house-elf stared at him as if Harry had broken his leg, and Harry nodded to him.

            “Sorry, Kreacher,” he said. “But I needed to fly.”

            Kreacher’s chin quivered for a second. Then he reached out and flung his arms around Harry, with a loud sob. Harry blinked and patted the little elf’s back, wondering what the hell had got into him.

            “Master Harry is alive again,” Kreacher whispered.

            Harry tightened the clasp of his own hands, and ignored the way that Kreacher’s dirty ear-hair tickled his arms. This was better than any other ending to the flight, he thought, bowing his head and closing his eyes. Even being allowed to fly longer than he had.

*

            Draco woke up in his Potions lab. This was becoming a tradition, he thought, stretching, and so was the frightened house-elf who hovered in his doorway, squeaking.

            “What is it, Orty?” he asked, tilting his head back and letting his throat flex as he yawned. Once, such showy, luxurious gestures would have been beneath him, beneath any Malfoy. But he was more than just a Malfoy, and he didn’t mind as much if other people around him thought so, too.

            As long as it didn’t interfere with his ability to negotiate with pure-bloods and help their work, anyway.

            “Master Scorpius is being here!”

            First Astoria, now Scorpius. That’s a tradition, too. Draco stood up and gave the elf a smile that made it blush. “Bring him to me, please. I’ll be having breakfast in the long dining room.” And he strode past Orty, his head cocked and his steps firmer than they would have been a week ago if he had been told that he would need to confront his son.

*

            He heard the distant sounds of argument, but if Scorpius was rowing with a house-elf, he would have better odds convincing one of the distant portraits to take pity on him. At least they might think that someone of their blood should have his own way. Draco continued eating the breakfast laid out for him, mostly kippers, and reading through the Daily Prophet. There was little that concerned him or Potter directly this morning, except an article about a donation Alicia Highfeather was making to set up a unicorn reserve. Draco smiled through the sourness of the last kipper.

            “Father.”

            Scorpius spoke that word so coldly. A short time ago, that would have hurt Draco, reminded him that his son thought he was worthless.

            Now he remembered that his son hadn’t been able to make him stop speaking or embarrass him in public, and he laid the paper down and gave his full attention to Scorpius. “You wanted to speak to me?”

            Scorpius jerked to a stop, his hands braced on either side of the curved doorway into the long dining room. Draco gestured to Orty, and the little elf snapped his fingers. In minutes, an empty plate and cup were standing next to a pulled-back chair, and a kettle had floated in to pour steaming tea into the cup. “Come and have breakfast if you want,” Draco added evenly. “You know that Orty will bring anything you like.”

            Scorpius swayed back and forth, kicking one leg. Draco watched two different kinds of pride struggle in him, and then he strode forwards and dropped into the chair. “I can’t stay long,” he said, haughtiness frozen on top of his voice like ice. “Al is expecting me back.”

            Draco nodded to him as he took another sip from his own cup. “You’re setting up your shop for your prank-selling business?”

            Scorpius, reaching for his cup, jerked his hand in a way that certainly would have made it spill if he was holding it. For the sake of the carpet, Draco was glad that he had moved a little slowly. “How did you know about that?”

            “Mr. Potter mentioned something, I think.” Draco cradled the cup of tea against his chest, and let the subtle warmth creep up his hands and arms. “Or you did, one of the times that Al visited. Anyway, I know that’s where your skill lies. You’re a fool if you don’t try to make something of it.”

            Scorpius straightened and let Draco see the underside of his nose. “Oh, so you think I’m a fool.”

            “Only if you don’t try to take advantage of your gifts,” Draco said. “And since it seems that you’re going to do that, I have no reason to think that you’re a fool. Try to keep up, Scorpius.”

            Scorpius’s throat bobbed, and he seized the tea and dashed it down his throat almost savagely. He would have said something else, Draco was certain, but hot buttered scones appeared on his plate, and he had to content himself with gulping them. Butter got on his fingers. He licked it off, his eyes locked on Draco.

            Draco made only as much of a grimace as he would have if he were in a worthy restaurant and saw someone unworthy of being there, and turned back to the paper. Highfeather had told the fawning reporters that she simply wanted to preserve the beauty of unicorns for future generations, and it had nothing to do with what Draco and Potter promoted. Draco finished his tea, and wondered if he should contact Highfeather and allow her to boast at him. It might have some salutary effects, and keep her from taking anything out on Potter.

            “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”

            Draco blinked. He hadn’t forgotten Scorpius was there, but he hadn’t expected him to lead with a declaration so vague. “What on earth do you mean?”

            Scorpius flushed and pounded one fist on the table. But the long dining room was well-named, and the table fit the size. Scorpius’s plate trembled; Draco’s own dishes didn’t move. “I mean that you have no idea what effect your little experiment is going to have on real people’s lives!”

            Draco let his eyebrows arch. “We hope it will improve treatment of house-elves. That sounds like a rather beneficial impact on the lives of real people.”

            Scorpius raked his hair up. It had red and gold streaks through it now, but Draco thought Scorpius could remove them if he wanted to. That meant Draco should tolerate them. Besides, they had more important things to argue about, he thought. “Not that! I mean that you don’t know what pure-bloods are going to do and say, just to make sure that they’re on the right political side in this debate.”

            “Better than some of the things they might have done and said,” Draco said. He let his voice drawl, feeling out the things Scorpius was talking about. He had no idea why Scorpius would be offended on the behalf of the prejudiced. He had thought Scorpius’s anger against the idea came from a grudge against Draco alone. “What do you mean?”

            “I mean that people are going to—they’ll bankrupt themselves trying to do something good for magical creatures, to have children.” Scorpius’s face had flushed all the way to the tips of his ears, which Draco remembered only seeing a few times before.

            “You don’t really believe that,” Draco said, and leaned his folded arms on the table. “Why don’t you tell me what you really believe?”

            Scorpius wavered back and forth. Draco expected him to storm out the door at any moment, his determination not to do anything Draco told him to do stronger than his desire to argue.

            Then he shook his head and blurted out, “I believe you’re lying to everyone, that you’re getting close to Al’s dad and using him for political advancement! You can’t believe what you’re saying you do! I’ve heard you talk about—Mudbloods.” He hurled the word at Draco like a javelin.

            “I’ve said that,” Draco agreed. “But think about matters before you accuse me without thinking, Scorpius. Do you believe that Granger-Weasley would work with me as long as she has if I was insulting her at every turn? And do you believe that I could control my bigotry if I was as bad as you thought I was?”

            “You despise Mr. Potter.” Scorpius’s eyes had almost vanished in his squint. Draco decided that he must be sure to mention, later, in another context, how ugly it made anyone who did anything like that.

            “I used to,” Draco corrected him. “But I think we work well together, and I’ve done enough experimental brewing for him to be sure of his gratitude.” He would not tell his son, no matter the pressure, about the trust that Potter had expressed in him. That was his private gift, and his alone.

            Gift? Are you not overvaluing it?



            No. Draco decided that then and there, but had no time to come to terms with the decision, because Scorpius was still rushing and rattling on.

            “You couldn’t have changed your mind so quickly. You must be lying.” Scorpius had pushed his chair back and stood with his hands braced on the edge of the table. Draco was sure that he was one centimeter from forcing his finger down his throat and vomiting up everything he’d eaten that morning, just to show Draco that he didn’t need his fine fancy breakfasts.

            Draco shrugged, waited until Scorpius’s eyes had focused on him again, and said, in the mild tone that he knew would infuriate Scorpius the most, “Believe what you want.”

            Scorpius whirled and slammed out of the house. Orty squeaked and popped after him, probably to make sure that he didn’t damage the front door.

            Draco leaned slowly back in his chair. He thought for a moment of changing the wards to keep Scorpius out the way he had Astoria, but rejected the idea. Scorpius was still his son, his blood relative, and his heir, and would be welcome inside the walls of Malfoy Manor and the wards of his heritage whenever he liked.

            Whether or not he liked.

            Smiling, Draco stood and moved in the direction of his lab. He had a congratulatory letter to write Highfeather, and would think best near the scene of his most recent triumph.

That means you should really go over to Potter’s house.

But that he would not do, not until he had a reason. It wouldn’t do to let Potter think he was too attached.

*

TalisRuadar: Harry will talk to him about it if no one else does.

And Harry does think that the warlocks were upset at losing their illegal potions-brewing business through his investigations.

ChaosLady: Thank you!

unneeded: That was the main reason the Healers couldn’t function to find the true source of the spell, yes.

The bezoars started out to let Draco fight through the spell on his own memories when he was brewing the potion for Harry, so he used them to the same effect when facing the Pensieve memories.

Yes, that line about the leg was a typo.

SP777: I don’t know how much romance it will have in, which is why I classified it the way I did.

Draco may have been in love before, but he’s very strongly prejudiced against the idea of being in love with a half-blood.
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The Descent of Magic