Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

A Black Stone in a Glass Box	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 10351 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and am making no money from this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Thank you for all the reviews!

Chapter Two--The Golden Mean

            "I wish that you would find something to do outside the house, darling." An outsider, Draco thought, wouldn't have heard the faint thread of strain in his mother's voice as she tried to concentrate on her newspaper.

            "I would," Draco said. "If I had any friends who weren't married, or if I could cast certain curses without the Aurors being interested in us." He contemplated the ceiling of the dining room and the new fresco that his mother had had made all along the top of the wall. That entertained him for about one minute. Great scenes from wizarding history weren't all that interesting to Draco when he'd had that history drilled into him from the time he could walk. "I'm bored," he announced again.

            Narcissa finally lowered her paper and scowled at him. Draco fluttered his eyelashes back at her. His mother had been the one who wanted him to come home, who had told him that it was time to stop wandering around the world and take up his responsibilities. But she hadn't suggested a certain duty he could perform since he got here.

            "Please find something to do," Narcissa said, her words clipped by her teeth.

            Draco leaned forwards and did some more eyelash-fluttering. "You made it sound like there were shiploads of things waiting here for me to do them. You haven't said what they are yet. Did you forget?"

            "You spit when you say shiploads," his mother said, and sipped from her cup of tea. "Please don't do it again."

            Draco put his hand up to his mouth in spite of himself, and then lowered it and scowled when he saw Narcissa’s faint smile. It was all very well for her, he thought. She was in that time of life when news and politics and money interested her. Draco was still exploring the limits of his magic, still learning what he could do and what he couldn't do, and sleeping with people and learning what different kinds of alcohol tasted like had been most of his life for the past year.

            But he could be serious. He could learn to be serious, and a worthy heir, as his father would probably describe it. The problem was that both of his parents had seemed relieved when he left, and they had settled into the life of a sedate, childless couple. If Draco was supposed to be starting a serious life, so far, they hadn't shown him how he should do that. And their only suggestions were boring.

            "No one mentions the war anymore," Narcissa murmured, without looking up from her paper this time. "I beg that you won't do so."

            Draco blinked. "But what happens when you have to talk about someone who's dead? Or a family who lost a lot of prestige, like Pansy's?" Though, to be fair, Pansy's family wouldn't have lost so much if she hadn't chosen to give interview after interview lamenting her careless remark against Potter right before the Battle of Hogwarts. Other people would have let it die if she had. But she'd exploited the only half-hour of fame she was ever likely to have, and invitations had died for her parents in consequence.

            "We don't talk about them, dear." Narcissa gave him another bright smile, and rattled the paper pointedly. "And I do have something that you could do for us. Your father had a line on a sure thing in the Ministry--"

            Draco muffled a groan. He'd heard his parents talk about this "sure thing" several times in the last fortnight. Apparently Lucius was confident he could ascend to a position of power behind the throne. The new Minister, Ivan Allenby, was richer in money than he was in friends. Someone who offered to show him the ropes, an older and wiser wizard who wasn't ambitious about being credited for his good ideas, might be received gratefully.

            "But it turns out Allenby has rejected his advances, for some reason." Narcissa shook her head with a faint frown and laid her hand on the paper, over the photograph that bore the smiling Minister's face, as if that would make him less likely to hear what she was talking about. "He said that he no longer fears Dark Lords. Your father can't go to the Ministry in person to investigate what that means, of course. I think you might be able to, Draco."

            Draco snorted and touched his left arm. "You think that my Mark is more faded than Father's? At least in the minds of those who care about that sort of thing in the first place?"

            "I think," Narcissa said, her words weighted in the way that meant they were supposed to land in Draco's mind and create impressions that would change his thoughts, "that you have the reputation as a shallow playboy uninterested in politics. Your asking will be put down to boredom and a fleeting interest, not the service of your family. Do this," she added, with a significant glance, "and your father might think more about the Abraxan you wanted."

            Draco smiled. That was blatant bribery, which meant they were back on ground he understood.

            "An Abraxan colt, remember," he said, standing up. "The true colors. None of these blond unwashed coats."

            "He'll remember," Narcissa said. "But going to the Ministry this morning would aid his memory."

            Draco saluted her and swirled upstairs to pick out his fanciest cloak. Well, his fanciest cloak that he had brought to England, anyway. If he was going to play on his peacock reputation, he should look the part.

*

            Draco wandered through the Ministry, paused in beams of sunlight from enchanted windows that made his hair glow as if lit from within, flirted, chatted, laughed, nodded amiably to people who gaped at his Malfoy features, and understood what was going on inside an hour. His father could have done the same thing, if he had cultivated the disregard of people since the war instead of fighting sternly for some sort of central place in the wizarding world. Watching from the edges was so much more fun.

            The Ministry had lived in fear of a Dark Lord since the end of the war. Draco could understand why. After all, they had left their own defense in the hands of a teenage wizard last time, and then had been invaded from the outside with relatively little effort. Resistance had been ineffective because too many people were compliant and afraid. If one mad overlord could look at a country like this and see it as ripe for the plucking, another could do the same thing.

            But in the last fortnight, the rumors had stopped circulating, suspicions had begun to die, and people were now laughing loudly at the same gossip that they would have given breathless credence to a month ago. They didn't pay attention to the wizards who had built up reputations and fortunes playing on those fears.

            And of course that was what Lucius had done. He'd tried to sell himself to Allenby as a reformed character, but also someone who had been close to a Dark Lord and understood the mindset that would make a wizard into one. It was an interesting tactic, and Draco had to admit that it would work in certain lights.

            Either Allenby was smarter than Lucius had thought he was, or he was caught up in the same spreading of relief and relaxation that had infected the rest of the Ministry. Draco's money was on the latter. Which meant it was the truth, since he never bet on any wager he wasn't sure to win.

            He could have gone home once he had that information. There was a soft bed calling his name, and a comfortable, house-elf-cooked meal. His mother would probably listen intently and go away to do something else, and Draco could nap without anyone calling him lazy or annoying another person with his complaints about boredom for a while.

            But this was more interesting than any other gossip he'd heard since he came back to England--certainly more interesting than the state of babies' nappies, which was all his married friends seemed to talk about. So he floated around the Ministry some more, and listened, and tried to determine where the change in attitude had come from.

            No one seemed to know.

            Draco paused in the corner of a corridor near the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and thought about it. Wasn't that curious, and somewhat entertaining? Most people seemed to assume that someone else had done something that others had found out about, and that was the reassurance. That was the source.

            But with most rumors, there was more substance. Draco had heard wild ideas about everything from horses that could run as fast as dragons to the best means to destroy Muggles forever, and embellishment and details were the name of the game. Someone had stolen the board here, and disguised the pieces. It was the anti-rumor.

            Draco wanted to know more.

            He thought for a moment, and then smiled. There was one person that would probably be at the center of any notion about Dark Lords, and who might be able to confirm it for him. Draco headed into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in search of Harry Potter.

*

            Who seemed to be nowhere to be found.

            Draco thought he must be out on a case at first, but then he wandered multiple corridors, listening, and found no sign of any of that. All Aurors liked cases and discussing them, whether or not those cases were theirs. Draco was sure he would have known in a minute where Potter was and who he was following, if he had been.

            But no, instead the Aurors Draco listened to talked about other cases and other people and the Ministry’s likely policies on things too boring to memorize until Draco wanted to drown himself in his tea. He put down the cup and walked straight for the lifts this time, shaking his head. He had found out enough to satisfy his parents. He would be back tomorrow.

            Then he leaned into a small office he’d mistaken for the bathroom and saw that unmistakable broom-head of hair bent over a desk.

            Draco licked his lips and felt his heart spring to life, with a swiftness that surprised him. He’d missed a lot of people while he was gone, including some he used to enjoy tormenting, but Potter was never on the list. Draco had to think about things like gratitude around him, and that was uncomfortable. Draco’s philosophy in life was to avoid discomfort whenever possible. It had worked out well for him.

            But here Potter was, and here Draco was, and it seemed fated. Draco stepped into the office and shut the door casually behind him.

            Potter looked up.

            Draco paused. Something was wrong, a realization that made his heart bound the way that seeing Potter’s bowed head had. The problem was, he had no idea what. Potter looked the same as ever, down to those awful glasses that you’d have thought the Ministry would have made him abandon.

            He nodded to Draco and said, “Take a wrong turn, Malfoy? The bathrooms are two doors down.” And he signed his name to the paper in front of him, shoved it into a folder, and stood up, walking past Draco to the door as though he assumed Draco would let him through without a confrontation.

            Draco, wavering, stuck an arm out in front of him. Potter halted there and looked at him like a particularly patient goat. Draco shook his head. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” was the first taunt that made it out of his mouth.

            “I don’t know why I should be, because the last time I saw you was at the trials,” Potter said. “And the last thing I heard, you were wandering around Europe. Probably causing all sorts of trouble for Aurors in other countries.”

            But he said it without interest, as though Draco was just an item on a list. Draco blinked. Of course it made sense that Potter would pursue more glamorous and dangerous criminals than Draco had ever been, but none of them had been Potter’s boyhood rival. Potter ought to have tensed up and worried that Draco would make a cutting remark about weasels, at least.

            “What’s wrong with you?” Draco asked, seeing no reason to dance around the subject the way he would have with his family or friends.

            “I’m late delivering this report.” Potter reached past him for the door, sticking his arm under Draco’s.

            Draco leaned on the door this time, and Potter turned his head to look at him. But the anger didn’t go deep enough in his eyes, somehow. It flashed and died out, like a spark falling from the fire instead of the true flame that would have burned there, and Potter turned and walked over to the hearth in the corner of the room.

            “I reckon I’ll have to deliver it by Floo,” Potter said, and bent down to cast powder into the flames.

            Draco gaped at him. Then he said, “No, seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you, Potter? You never would have taken that kind of insult from me, once.”

            “That was when I didn’t have more important things to worry about,” Potter said, and faced the flames. “Head Auror’s office.” He cast a few spells on the folder, presumably to protect it from fire during the ride.

            Draco didn’t think, because not thinking had also worked out well for him, for the most part. He strode forwards, waited until Potter had bent down again to fit his head under the mantle, and then kicked him in the arse.

            Potter staggered, catching himself before he pitched forwards into the fire, but only just. He turned around, staring at Draco and shaking his head. There was a slight question in his eyes, a question that could become anger. Draco remembered the cousins of that demand in Potter’s face during their sixth year. He spread his hands and smiled, ready to go for his wand if he had to.

            Again the flash of emotion spent itself and died. Potter sighed, said, “You always were a child, Malfoy,” and threw the powder again.

            Draco cast an idle spell that whirled up a little breeze and dissipated the powder before it hit the flames. Potter was left staring at nothing but an ordinary hearth.

            “You’re an idiot.”

            No passion in his voice. No intention to curse Draco, it seemed. Potter sounded as weary as Draco’s parents sometimes sounded when they spoke of or to him, though of course without the love that Narcissa and Lucius put into their smallest word.

            And that was the most exasperating thing Draco had discovered since he came back to England.

            He snatched up Potter’s Floo powder and smashed the bowl, sending the powder drifting all over the floor. When Potter reached for his wand to charm it to come near him, Draco scattered it, stamped on it, and scraped his foot in it so that most of the powder clung to his boots and robes. There would be a job of cleaning on them both to do later, but that was one reason Draco had house-elves.

            Potter stared at him, his wand motionless at his side. Again the spark of irritation in his eyes, again the fading.

            Draco nodded. This time, he was sure, as sure he had been that all rumors about Dark Lords ceasing had been unnatural. Potter was under a curse, and it made sense that that was linked to the rumors vanishing, because Potter had been the last one to defeat a Dark Lord, and involved in preventing other people from becoming them. So someone was probably making an evil plan, and had enchanted Potter not to care about things, to ensure he stayed out of it.

            Well, Draco didn’t plan on letting things rest like that. He reached out and grasped Potter’s wrist, tugging him to the door.

            “What are you doing?” Potter’s voice spiked at the beginning of the sentence, but was flat and dead by the end. He didn’t try to escape as Draco opened the door and scanned for people nearby before he herded Potter towards the lifts.

            “You’ve been cursed,” Draco said. “I’m going to find out what it is and what I can do to reverse it.”

            “You don’t have to. It doesn’t affect your family.”

            Draco closed his lips into a smile. He wouldn’t betray his father’s ambitions to Potter, but he had to admit he was looking forward to doing this for reasons that had nothing to do with what he had discovered about Dark Lords, and nothing to do with what Lucius wanted.

            “But it affects my boredom,” he said, and got Potter to the lifts without anyone stopping them. Potter didn’t fight, either, only leaned on the wall of the lift and looked at Draco with blank, still eyes.

            There’s got to be a golden mean of serving my family and contenting myself at the same time, and I may have found it.

*

            SP777: Thanks. His friends will probably think that he’s an idiot, too.

            delia cerrano: Any change in the sacrifice and the way it’s enacted will change Harry’s feelings.

            moodysavage: You are right about how much it bugs Draco.

            Seiren: Thank you!

            unneeded: Yes, he can. In this case, it only affects the way Harry feels, not how he lives.
- 1
- 2
- 3
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

A Black Stone in a Glass Box