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Loup-garou	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 8099 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and I am making no money from this story.

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Chapter Two--Thylacine's Lair

            Draco looked over the last ledger, and then shut it with an echoing snap. The snap seemed louder than it should have with two people in the office, but for the last half-hour Lisa had been so still that Draco couldn't hear her breathing.

            "Here," he said, extending the ledger to her. "Even if you lose out on some of the clients that only my personal charm can lure to the Valley, there are still enough coming in the next month to make up any lost profit. And all the lenses have been repaired. Watch the large one in the house nearest to the pool, though. It's less stable than the others, and tends to crack again in a few weeks."

            Lisa shut her eyes, as though to contemplate the large lens in the house nearest the pool. In reality, Draco knew that she would think about nothing so sensible. "Must you, Lord Malfoy?" she asked flatly. "Do you think that being gone for a month will give us reassurance about what you intend?"

            "No," Draco said.

            Lisa's eyes snapped open, and she stared at him.

            "I intend to give you no reassurance," Draco said. "Why should I? You can do well enough on your own. You can send me a thought through the Mark when you need to, and I can communicate with you in the same manner. No need for clumsy owls. I will return in an instant if a crisis arises."

            "Or what you consider a crisis," Lisa said, but the thought was half-breathed, and she was already falling back from him, holding the ledger and staring at the floor, as though it would give her an answer to her qualms.

            "Yes," Draco said. "Remember whose thoughts should be in your head." He rose to his feet, wondering for a moment if Potter's rebelliousness had infected his other Marked ones. Lisa, though, showed no signs of hexing him and taking off to the other side of the world. She just stood there, ledger securely in her arms, and shivered.

            "Tell me what it is you fear," Draco said, because the emotions flowing through the Mark had acquired that pointed edge. "That Potter will kill me? That I will never return and you will be left holding the ledger forever? I promise that will not happen." In the unlikely event that he did die, Draco had already set up certain magical precautions that would ensure Lisa would not hold the position of leader forever. She was unsuited to it, given her cowardice.

            "I fear that you'll lose your way," Lisa said bluntly, gaze rising to his. "That Potter will enchain you with desire and kill you that way. Not your body, but your ambition, your magic, your greatness."

            Draco paused. Despite his determination to act without regard to what Lisa thought of him, the ideas she had just expressed held him. "You think I have greatness," he said, tasting and testing the word.

            "Yes, of course," Lisa said, holding up her left arm. "You came up with the Mark. You tamed us and subdued us, and most of us fought harder than Potter did." Draco carefully removed one of the points he had used to give Lisa for understanding the way the world worked. "You came up with a way to drain other wizards' magic and give yourself the power, when for many years most Dark wizards had thought the second step was theoretically impossible. You are great."

            Draco tilted his head down, as if modestly, and let his stance do his talking for him. He knew that Potter had felt his emotions through the Mark, but none of his others had ever done it.

            But his brain was busy with her assertion, and his own lack of belief in it.

            What had he done with his stored magic? Nothing except create more lenses that would increase both the drain on the magic of visiting wizards and their compulsion to visit Fox Valley again, strengthen his control over his Marked ones, and take revenge on Robards, who had betrayed him. His ambition had no channel.

            He had the strength to become a Dark Lord, but not the desire. He had seen the path that war led down, and did not see why he should follow it. He despised Mudbloods, but they were among his customers, and his time tasting and employing their magic had taught him how wrong one of the common misconceptions was: they were no weaker than pure-bloods. In fact, some of the families with scions weakened by inbreeding displayed far less vigor than the wild strain of Mudbloods.

            He had thought that he remained quiet because that meant less chance of those who had more power than he did noticing him. And he wasn't stupid. There were still other people in the world with more power than he had. The Ministry. Some of the Dark wizards in Europe. A few of the werewolf packs. They could take his invention from him, and no one would care.

            But the excuse had worn thin now, as much in the face of Potter's scorn as of Lisa's unshakable belief.

            He had to do something with his power. He was no better than Dumbledore if he did not, who had accumulated control and then sat with his hands tied by his own ethical scruples.

            "Thank you, Lisa," Draco said abruptly. "You have given me something to think about." Her eyes brightened, and she reached out with one hand as though she would touch him, but he gave her a smile that made her shrink back again. "Now, go on a walking tour of the lenses. You need to be able to distinguish the echoes of one lens's magic from another's in an instant if a ward sounds alerting you that one is cracked."

            Lisa bowed to him and scuttled out, rustling the ledger she held as if it contained all the answers. Draco touched his mouth and watched the movement repeated in the mirror above his desk.

            He would hunt Potter and bring him down, to make him the tame wolf Draco had envisioned, hunting at his side. That might not tell him what to do with the rest of his life. But it would be a good challenge.

            A good waking from the long sleep.

*

            "Is there a reason that you're looking at the medical magic books, Harry?"

            Harry started and lifted his head. He had lapsed into a dreaming state over the latest book he was looking at, half-reading the words and half-trying to imagine what good they would do him against Malfoy, and so he hadn't heard Hermione enter the library. He turned around and found her standing behind him, hands on her hips, eyes so wide open that he couldn't tell whether she was trying to avoid falling tears or angry shouts.

            "Yes," Harry said, rubbing his eyes. "I had a dream that gave me a possible way to take off the Mark." More lies, but what could he say about the truth? "I thought I remembered something that I read in one of the books that would help," he added with a sigh, looking at the books piled beside him. Luckily, none of them were just about amputation, so the possibility that Hermione would guess what he was working towards was small. "But I didn't find anything. I was remembering wrong, or I reckon that it's in one of the books I haven't consulted after all."

            Hermione's face softened, and she came closer, glancing at the titles of the books in his pile before she turned to the one he was reading. "What was the method?"

            "Um..." Harry tried to stretch his frantic scrambling for an idea out into what seemed like a thinking silence. And then an idea that he had thought of last week and rejected came to him, saving his arse. "I thought that maybe, if I removed the skin where the Mark was and came up with something that would remove the link to my magic at the same time, it would work. What do you think?"

            Hermione touched her lips with one finger, eyes shadowed. "It might. I don't know how deep the Mark is, so I can't say for sure. Would you let me look at it?" She drew her wand.

            Harry nodded as if he wasn't wary of her finding out something she shouldn't, and held out his left arm. He averted his gaze as soon as possible from the stylized running fox, though. He hated the way it looked, like a brand. Even the scar on his forehead had never felt so much like that to him, maybe because Voldemort hadn't put it there deliberately.

            Hermione waved her wand over the Mark and intoned several soft incantations, one of which made the Mark glow purple, the others of which didn't seem to do anything. At last she slid the wand into the sheath on her left sleeve and stepped away, shaking her head and frowning. "I don't understand. Those spells ought to have shown me the Mark's magical connections and how deep into your skin it ran, whether it was comparable to a scab or a scar or something in between. But all it does is return this nullity, as if I were casting the spells on a mirage."

            Thank you, Malfoy's paranoia, Harry thought. He covered up the Mark again and shrugged. "Then I might as well continue researching, right? I mean, if we don't know, then I might find a collection of spells I can use."

            Hermione smiled for the first time in what seemed like several days. "Yes, you're right. And any of the spells we try might work." She reached out and gently put one hand on his back. "I think you've done enough for now, though. You look as if you'd been up most of the night. Come and have breakfast."

            Harry nodded and stood to come with her. When her back was turned, he did cast a Tracking Charm on the books, so that if she or Ron put them back on the shelves before he was done, he'd be able to find them again.

            He didn't think his friends would deliberately sabotage him even if they understood what he was doing; they were much more likely to insist that he go back and turn himself into the Ministry for Robards's murder. But they might gather up the books for another reason, and Harry didn't want to waste time finding them again.

            He had the impression that time was important.

*

            "My lord."

            Draco concealed his sneer as he stepped out of the private Floo into the home of Reynard Higgins, the "confidential agent" recommended to him by several of his contacts in Britain. The man had no idea why Draco deserved the title. It was simply the greeting, combined with his deep bow, that he would use to any male visitor.

            "Mr. Higgins," he said, and looked around the room he had stepped into. It was decorated and furnished in a violent color somewhere between orange and brown that made Draco's head ache with its lack of taste. Higgins had only two chairs, but the hearth took up most of the room. It, at least, was made of plain grey stone. Draco addressed it rather than Higgins as he said, "I need a room here in High Rock, and information on all wizard dwellings anywhere in Australia."

            Higgins almost swallowed his tongue. "My lord," he said in a voice that remained steady only through obvious effort, "that will take some time to gather."

            "You don't keep a list of all wizards living here on hand?" Draco asked. He knew that Australia's wizarding community was smaller than the one in Britain, despite the size of the continent. Many of them were, apparently, recent immigrants who either tended not to have children or sent their children to school elsewhere.

            "No," said Higgins. His face was the color of weak tea, but he did add, "If you wished to have a list of all the residents of High Rock, that of course would be easier to procure."

            Draco had always hated the sound of the word "procure," which rolled off people's lips with a sneering undertone. He looked at Higgins, and he backed away, bowing, and said, "Of course, my lord, your wishes will be attended to right away. Your room is ready," he added, and rang a small bell set into the wall that Draco doubted he would have noticed until his attention was called to it.

            A house-elf appeared, wearing an orange towel, and led Draco in silence through the rest of a convoluted house and to another Floo. On the mantle were a bowl of Floo powder and a small pamphlet saying, THYLACINE'S LAIR.

            Draco looked from the elf to the pamphlet, questioning whether he should speak the name to get to his destination. The elf bowed again, and so Draco cast his handful of powder in along with his voice.

            When he opened his eyes in the room he'd been directed to, he laughed aloud. This had taste, which meant Higgins had nothing to do with it.

            The walls were made of plain, pale blue stone, a color Draco had never seen before, and the furniture--large bed, chairs, writing desk, tables, footstools--was in pale colors to match it. The bed had proper sheets, pillows, and two sets of blankets, as well as Cooling Charms in case one's desire wasn't for heat. When Draco stepped up to the headboard to examine it, he saw that the wood was covered with delicate carvings showing thylacines: standing, hunting, pacing, guarding with their backs up. He nodded. It was acceptable.

            After all, it wasn't as if he would have to stay here very long. Higgins would retrieve the list of names for him, he would learn where the Weasleys lived, and he would go after Harry there. The taming and wrestling to the ground that he wanted to do with Harry could always take place back in Fox Valley.

            Although it would be a shame not to use the bed, at least once.

*

            "Did you sleep well, mate?"

            Harry nodded his lie and took another forkful of scrambled eggs. Ron grunted and took another forkful of bangers. Hermione had already finished breakfast, spelled the plates to clean and dry themselves, and gone off to do her work for the day in the Australian Ministry. Ron apparently worked in Prevention of Fires, which alternated between insanely busy, actively busy during training, and not busy at all. Today was one of the "not busy at all" days, Harry guessed wisely.

            He picked up another forkful of eggs and studied Ron. Two years in Australia didn't seem to have changed him much, except that he'd finally stopped peeling and developed a respectable tan. He was as tall as ever, as hungry as ever, as red-haired as ever.

            Well, there's one other difference, Harry thought as he continued eating. The silence.

            He couldn't remember a breakfast at Hogwarts when Ron hadn't been full of chatter, speculation, jokes, insults, complaints, and plans for Quidditch or free periods or tricking Slytherins. This Ron ate as though there was nothing more fascinating in the world than his food, and never looked up.

            Harry didn't think it was because Ron didn't want him here. But they had drifted apart, barely communicating in the last few years, and Harry thought Ron knew better than Hermione did that he was hiding something.

            "When do you intend to go back to England, mate?"

            Harry started a little and nearly dropped his fork. He looked up to find that Ron's eyes were locked on him, and--yes--they were shrewder than Harry could wish when he had something of this magnitude to conceal. He shrugged as casually as he could and picked some more at his food.

            "I don't know yet. I reckon it would depend on whether I can get some information about Malfoy, whether he's been captured and stopped or not."

            "I don't understand why you don't just let the Ministry know." Ron shook his head, frowning. "Even if some people there don't like you, there has to be someone concerned about a Dark Lord like that." He paused. "Do you think that Malfoy is a Dark Lord yet?"

            Harry had to laugh. "I think he wants to be, or at least wants to think of himself as someone who has the potential, but not yet, no. He just wants to sit around sleekly admiring himself--" and making a few people's individual lives hell "--and commanding his servants to bring him wine and tea while he grows fatter and fatter with the money and the magic he's taking in."

            Ron nodded. "Then I'd think the greatest danger is that he might lend the magic to someone else for evil purposes, or come up with a way to Mark just about everyone in the world. You should still let the Ministry know about him."

            "I know," Harry said. "I'm going to write to them."

            Ron nodded as though the issue was settled, and then started talking about one of the fires he'd helped put out last month. Harry listened, more than willing to learn about Ron's life, although it reminded him how deep the gap between him and his friends was now.

            Still better than the life I would have had if I had stayed in Fox Valley as one of Malfoy's Marked Ones.

            Towards the end, Harry thought, he had been sliding down the slope into the darkness, about to give up in rage and despair the way Lisa had. Or, worse, he had been allowing Malfoy to seduce him, to believe the git's talk about crimes not needing forgiveness and Harry being fuckable--as if that excused what he had done, or what he was about to do, with regard to Robards.

            Was being horrified about what had happened enough? Was hating that part of himself and condemning it to death enough?

            Harry thought at the moment that he most dreaded Malfoy recapturing him not because he would be trapped and lose his freedom, but because he might lose his conscience and become a wretched parody of himself. There had to be a way to get rid of the Mark. He'd go back to the books this afternoon.

*

            Draco finished the list that Higgins had given him and tossed it on the bed in disgust. The Weasleys weren't listed. While the wizarding communities in Australia weren't large or numerous, they were scattered, and Draco was distinctive, even under a glamour; true breeding would always show itself, his parents had taught him. He didn't think he could visit them and retain his anonymity for long.

            Not to mention that he had already warned Harry through the magical searching he had done using the Mark.

            Perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea to do a more delicate search, Draco thought, leaning back against the headboard and closing his eyes, listening to his heartbeat until it became musical again, a drum of confidence and security, not the arrhythmic song of a panicked animal. I could locate an image through his eyes and do more to track him down that way. He had hoped that, once he landed in Australia, he would be able to simply turn his head and fix on a direction towards his Marked one the way he could in Fox Valley, but Harry was still too far from him.

            I shall have to redesign the Marks so that I can use them more widely, he thought, and amused himself with ideas for how to do so until he was sure that he could make the search safely. He laid his hand over his left arm and again sketched out a window in his mind. This time, he paid attention to the frame and the sill, creating them out of the same distinctive pale wood and with the same carvings as the headboard behind him.

            He thought that part of his problem with the last hunt was that he had been relying too heavily on the Mark, creating a sense of reaching out towards Potter without much of a sense of himself. Potter had felt Draco's desire to find him and leaped to block him as soon as he could. This time, Draco would lean on his magic, his side of the Mark, and try what was essentially a passive search: projecting a match for Potter's Mark into the magical atmosphere and seeing what responded.

            He made himself stop breathing for a long moment, holding his breath until sparks exploded behind his eyelids. Then he released it with a long whoosh, and thought of the weight it had acquired in his lungs, how his heart kicked and bounded against his chest, the relief of the cool new air pouring in.

            The sensations combined with the magic of his Mark and formed a circle, a flowing set of feelings that Draco knew no one other than himself could sense. Then he held his breath, let it out a second later than before, and so widened the circle. Sitting still, he grew bigger and bigger.

            And he cast resonances of the Mark and his intentions in the direction of anything that wanted to respond to them. Draco was counting on making contact with at least a few other minds like his own, perhaps some other wizards meditating, but also with Potter and his Mark.

            The window frame in his mind grew sharper and brighter. The circles of breath grew wider and wider. Draco knew they would inevitably weaken as they traveled further away from him, like all concentric circles, but he should be able to cover the entire continent before the magic ran out and left him exhausted.

            If Harry was still in Australia--and where else would he have gone?--Draco would find him.

*

            Harry brushed at his temple and frowned into the book on amputations he was reading. It felt as though a particularly persistent fly was brushing past him again and again. Harry had already looked for it, to cast a Shooing Charm, and hadn't seen it. Well, presumably it would land on his book at some point and he would see it clearly against the white pages.

            The books weren't helpful. They kept saying that he had no chance of surviving an amputation unless he had someone else there to cast the necessary spells and stanch the blood flow, because he would be in too much shock and pain to do so. And dying wasn't part of Harry's plan unless suicide was the only way to keep his freedom. He would much rather that Malfoy died, instead.

            Well, that's another plan.

            Harry's fingers opened. He watched them and imagined them closing around Malfoy's throat, crushing it, leaving deep red finger imprints on the bastard's pale skin. He would love to kill him that way, without magic, without offering a chance for the prat to steal from him. He would love to watch the life drain out of his eyes.

            Abruptly he shuddered and buried his head in his hands, wishing out of the corner of his mind that the fly would go away.

            This Mark is turning me into a monster.

            But there remained little choice: if he couldn't get rid of the Mark, then he had to kill Malfoy. Perhaps he should be studying methods of murder, instead. Harry grimaced and closed the book he was reading, standing up to put it on the shelves.

            The fly seemed to ram straight into his head, and he caught a glimpse of Malfoy, leaning back in a large pale chair, hand on his arm, hair ruffled behind him, lips parted, eyes shut.

            Harry knew it wasn't a memory of Malfoy from Fox Valley. He knew, therefore, what it must be, and he struck as hard as and as fast as he could, shoving raw magic into the Mark and down the connection to Malfoy.

            The image in his head wavered like a pond with a stone tossed into the middle of it. Harry snatched his wand. If it was possible to kill Malfoy from a distance, then he was going to.

            Got you, bastard, he thought hysterically, a moment before the Malfoy in his head opened his eyes and the battle was joined.

*

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