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Sleepless	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 16095 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
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Chapter Twenty-One--Ducking and Diving

            Harry caught his breath after the words, and then made himself sit down and stare ahead as though nothing had happened. It would be worse than useless now if he revealed his agitation. Discipula would probably find some way to take advantage of it, and then who knew what would happen? And it would weaken Draco's confidence in him.

            When he glanced to the side, he saw that Draco's face was set. He was tapping his fingers against his knee as though he would learn more when he succeeded in drilling through the kneecap. Harry tried to smile reassuringly at him, and although he knew that Draco saw the smile because of the way he turned his head, he only gave a stiff shrug and faced the front again.

            "Is something wrong?" Harry whispered, while the Wizengamot thrashed about muttering to itself and Woburn prepared to take the stand.

            "Tell me what you think of me," Draco said.

            Harry blinked. He hadn't heard Draco use that tone before. "I think that you're closer to being declared innocent than your parents," he said. "It doesn't mean that the suspicion against you will diminish overnight, but it's likely that you'll make your way past that. I know you're strong."

            Draco turned to face him then. His eyes were wide enough to make Harry wince. His voice was low and taut with strain. "If you believe that, why do you insist on treating me like a child?"

            Harry blinked a second time. "I wasn't aware that I did."

            "You do." Draco turned his face away and added something else in a low, bitter tone that Harry didn't really catch. He thought one of the words was "better," though, and reached out so that he could put a hand on Draco's arm.

            "I'm sorry," he said. "Yes, I'll try to do better if I offended you somehow. Tell me how?" He felt a flutter of panic at the thought of losing Draco. He tamped it down hard. Such feelings weren't appropriate in the courtroom.

            Draco yanked his arm free, and since Harry had to go up and begin the questioning of Woburn then, he didn't really have time to try and soothe him. He tried to settle for a significant look, which Draco kept his head turned coolly away from. Harry gave a mental, helpless shrug and stepped forwards to confront Woburn.

            That was how he thought of it, anyway, although nothing in Woburn's erect posture and blank face said that he was uncomfortable. He simply waited, one hand laid on the stand in front of him, the fingers unnaturally still. Harry asked the first question that burned at the forefront of his mind.

            "Why are you willing to testify for Lucius Malfoy, sir?"

            "I know him to be an unexampled paragon of the virtues that he most represents," Woburn said. "I honor him for his truth to those virtues and his ability to live with and around the currents of the wizarding world."

            Which, Harry thought, is really just saying nothing at all. But he nodded as if it were a substantial answer. It was up to the Wizengamot and Discipula to try and undermine his defense, not Harry himself. "Do you think that Lucius Malfoy is capable of the crimes for which he has been charged?" All the while, he was watching Woburn, trying to judge from the flicker of an eyelid whether he was someone who could have decided who Harry was based on the family resemblance of his face to a Potter's, the way Discipula had.

            "Certainly not," Woburn said, with a slight shake of his head. "An examination of the dates on which these alleged crimes occurred should tell the Wizengamot that no one could possibly have committed all of them, since he would have had to Apparate from one battle to another with only seconds in between, and the witnesses always report him in immaculately clean robes and mask. He would, at least, have taken some minor wounds or show some sign of exhaustion."

            That's a point I ought to have made on my own, Harry thought, struggling to preserve a calm mask while he heard gasps and mutters from the Wizengamot. He nodded gravely and said, "That's a very good point, sir." He started to add another question, but Discipula leaned forwards and spoke sweetly, in a voice used to commanding crowds.

            "How interesting, sir. I'm sure that you could give us a list of those battles and the dates on which they occurred, couldn't you?"

            Woburn turned to look at her, and she stared back. Harry was glad that he wasn't between them at the moment. He had the distinct impression that their crossed gazes might have set him on fire.

            "I could," said Woburn. "If they would mean anything to you, someone who must have seen most of them."

            Discipula's face went so pale that Harry really thought she was going to faint.

"Excuse me?" she asked, in a voice that shook. She paused, and when she spoke again, it had steadied. "I did not have the good fortune to be present at the times when others, heroes, were engaging in the defense of our world."

            "Forgive me," Woburn said, with a distant smolder in his voice that Harry might have thought was flirtatious if he hadn't seen Discipula's reaction. "I meant that you would have seen most of the results of the battles. Philosophers I respect have insisted that one can see, in the traces of a vanished potion, the ingredients that went into making it. Looking at the grime and injuries of a battle must tell one something about what happened, or so I assume. Alas, I fear that I have as little experience as you do."

            This time, high spots of color burned in Discipula's cheeks, as though this statement was worse than the last one. Harry wondered why, and then shook his head slightly. No, his task at the moment was to remember the exact words and expressions as much as he could. He would put them into a Pensieve so that Malfoy and Hermione could help analyze them later.

            "I am sure that you are highly intelligent, sir," Discipula said, "and understand the battles in as much detail as if you had been there."

            "May I return the compliment?" Woburn asked. His voice was normal as far as Harry could tell, level, without any hint of hidden anger, but Discipula closed her eyes and swayed as if he had threatened her.

            It was only for a moment, and Harry doubted that anyone watching Discipula from an angle other than his could see it, which was probably why she had permitted herself to show as much weakness as that in the first place. She pulled herself upright in the next second and nodded in the way that someone would to a fellow duelist. Then the witch in the yellow robes interrupted again, demanding the answer to a question about whether Woburn had been a Death Eater with Lucius. Woburn's voice was amused as he parried that one.

            Harry decided that he would remember that private aside, but still stick with the usual run of questions he had prepared. To all of them, Woburn's answers were precise, pure-blood-friendly, and content-free. Harry nodded to him in admiration as he stepped down from the podium, despite his intense curiosity over the things he'd said to Discipula and the message Harry had received from him.

            "You're really very good at that, sir," he said.

            Woburn gave him a meaningless smile and resumed his seat. Harry was in time to see Lucius incline his head to him. Woburn gave him a flat stare back, more threatening somehow than the bland words he'd addressed to Discipula, and then turned away.

            Harry turned to question Wellworth. After she was finished, the Wizengamot would call for a summary of the evidence, and speeches from Harry and the team of wizards who had mustered the parade of witnesses for the other side. It made Harry's head buzz and feel lighter just to think about it.

*

            And then he opened his eyes.

            Harry sighed and sat up, digging the palms of his hands into his face. Of all the times to leave the bloody dream! He would have the memory to put into a Pensieve later, at least. That was something.

            As he shuffled into the shower, his mind went back, not to the words Woburn had spoken, nor to Discipula and the exchange between her and Woburn, but to Draco and the way he had spurned Harry's offer of comfort.

            I don't think of him as a child. He was wrong about that.

            Then, as he turned around to let the water knock the bubbles of shampoo off the back of his head, Harry felt a spasm of doubt.

            Well. I thought that he was.

            Malfoy had said that he thought the dreams were so strong and deeply-rooted because of Harry's need to be needed. And it made sense for that need to be anchored in Draco. He was the first person in the dreams to be friendly to Harry, and the one who had acted as if he couldn't stand alone, in contrast to his composed and closed-off parents.

            Harry grimaced a bit as he ducked his head under the spray and scrubbed his fingers through his hair. It would be sickening if he preferred the people he was attracted to to be like that, helpless and dependent and needing him to swoop in and be a hero for them.

            Sickening, but accurate, it looked like. If Draco had sensed that attitude in Harry's mind, then no wonder he was annoyed.

            I want someone who's independent and able to stand up to me as well as help me along and fight beside me, Harry thought, stepping out of the shower and grabbing his towel. Of course I do.

            But he remembered the fights he'd had with Ginny, which mostly seemed to center on the fact that Harry was doing something Ginny didn't want him to do. That had included things like buying her flowers, making her meals, asking her constantly about her day and not letting her ask any questions of her own, and offering to show her moves in Quidditch. Harry had just assumed it meant that he was more romantic than she was and they didn't care about the same things, so it was a good move for them to break up.

            Now he wondered if she had felt the same way as Draco had: that he was keeping her dependent, coddling and protecting her, but not really wanting her, or letting her want him or care for him in return.

            Harry felt as though the thought was clinging to him like cobwebs, and he tried to shrug it off while shrugging into his shirt, pants, and socks and casting quick Drying Charms on his hair. He hadn't brushed his teeth, but he could do that in a moment, he reassured himself.

            I didn't do that. I gave Ginny everything I thought she wanted or needed. I got her tickets to the games she asked for, and I booked us that holiday in Spain when she wanted that.

            But the memories were stubborn, and wouldn't be defeated, as though the words Malfoy--or, more likely, Draco--spoke were keys to open doors Harry had shut. They showed him Ginny asking what he'd like for his birthday, and Harry shrugging, smiling, and saying that to be with her was enough. They showed him Ginny getting into a Quidditch accident and Harry hovering over her bedside, but not telling her when he got wounded on one of his last days in Auror training from a miscast spell, at least not until he got taken to St. Mungo's. They showed him pretending he didn't have headaches, a sore stomach, or an irritated temper, all so that he could make her day perfect, while pouncing on her slightest confession of discomfort as though it was something he needed to fix immediately.

            Um, Harry thought helplessly at the end of that, when the images finally slowed and he realized that he was standing in the middle of his bedroom with his trousers halfway up one leg.

            I reckon that I might have a problem with admitting that I need people to need me after all.

            Harry sighed and sat down in the middle of his bed. All right, so he had this problem. That didn't change the main challenge of the dreams: he had to find out why they were happening and stop them, but he also had to find a way to help Draco and his parents. It didn't change a thing that they weren't real. That just made it more urgent that Harry help them, in the end.

            Draco would say that that was another symptom of this delusion that you have, Harry thought, and then tensed. He wasn't sure which "Draco" he meant.

*

            "There's no one named Woburn alive that I know of. There used to be one, yes, but he died years ago." Malfoy leaned back in his seat at the kitchen table and took a long, slow sip of the Firewhisky Harry had got him, frowning into the distance. "Besides, I don't see why he should be able to trade barbs with Discipula like that. He wouldn't have fought in the war."

            "Voldemort would have courted him, surely." Harry rubbed his temples. He had a headache, and had refused the Firewhisky Malfoy offered to pour for him in return. Malfoy had raised an eyebrow when Harry sat down with a glass of butterbeer in front of him instead, but said nothing. "How can you be so sure that he wouldn't have fought in the war in a different world? One where people probably think that he's mostly a mask for disgraced pure-bloods?"

            "You're treating the characters in your dreams like they're real again, instead of figments of your imagination," Malfoy told him, with a tolerant look.

            "You were doing the same thing a minute ago," Harry retorted, and had the satisfaction of seeing Malfoy look briefly uncomfortable. It was something he would never have taken satisfaction in when he was with Ginny. That thought made him speak more quickly on the next words than he meant to, which must be why he didn't convince Malfoy. "Besides, what makes you think that I knew anything about Woburn in this world, or whatever Discipula's family name was again? That must be a sign that the dreams are more real than you think, if I'm imagining the existence of people I wouldn't have any reason to imagine."

            Malfoy gave a delicate sigh. "Which of the two of us has studied dream magic and consulted dream magic experts, Harry?" Harry felt a slight jolt in his gut when Malfoy used his name, one that he decided to ignore for now. "Your dreams are capable of reminding you of things that you only heard once, or in passing, and then buried in your subconscious. You could have heard the names Woburn and Mondragaron and enough to know that they were pure-blood. What significance you chose to invest them with after that is up to your, of course."

            Harry sighed back, but it wasn't as though he knew enough to refute Malfoy's point. "Fine. What did you find out about Discipula's family in this world?"

            "The Mondragarons had no children in this or the last generation, at least not in the direct line," Malfoy said. "Apparently, the woman who would have been her mother was barren. Nor is there anyone like her among the cousins of her family." He opened one empty palm, smirking, in Harry's direction. "Sorry, but it seems as though your dreams are trying to cheat you with irrelevant details again."

            Harry shook his head and tried a new tactic. "Did they seem false to you, when you looked at them in the Pensieve?"

            "I only looked at one," Malfoy said. "And you could well have chosen a memory that you think was especially clear. In fact, that was the justification, wasn't it? That you chose a memory when you especially remember Discipula being present, instead of a moment when my counterpart was?"

            Harry decided that he would ignore the attempt to draw him into an argument. "It still seems odd that I would have made up personalities so detailed," he said. "And I'd like you to look at the memories from last night. Two things happened that I'm not sure I understand." He laid his wand against his temple before Malfoy could argue and drew out the memory of Woburn communicating with him and the memory of Woburn's and Discipula's sparring match. When he dropped them in the Pensieve, Malfoy just nodded to him and then plunged his head beneath the surface. Harry was glad that that part had gone well, at least.

            He looked up as the door of the house opened and Ron stepped into the room. When he saw Malfoy, he just grunted and walked past without speaking a word. Harry smiled at him. He knew it had taken Ron more of a struggle than he wanted to admit to accept Malfoy into his home.

            "Thanks, Ron," he mouthed.

            Ron shrugged and ducked into his own bedroom, shutting the door with a normal click rather than the slam Harry had expected. Harry leaned back against his seat. If he wanted to date Malfoy, then perhaps having him around Harry's friends would work out after all.

            I reckon the question is really whether he wants to date me, when I would probably drive him as mad with wanting to constantly look after him as I did Ginny.

            Harry took a slow, deep breath. The facts remained the same no matter what he thought about, though: Malfoy was still infuriating, and Harry still had to get Draco and his parents out of legal trouble, rather than abandon them. He could have all the revelations in the world about himself, and they wouldn't change his duty.

            Quicker than he expected, Malfoy surfaced from the Pensieve and stared at him. Harry raised his eyebrows. He was determined that Malfoy would be the first one to speak about what he'd seen.

            "That's--impossible," Malfoy said. "At least, I would have thought it was impossible before now for you to construct political dialogue like that." He was looking cautiously at Harry, as if that difference changed everything else about Harry in the world.

            Harry snorted. "So it seems you're presented with a stronger chance that the dreams are real glimpses into another universe, don't you think?" he asked cheerfully.

            Malfoy only frowned at him, face gone cool. "I think you would prefer that," he said. "Can I ask why? You're acting more sensible about other things, but you still cling to this notion of its reality. Is it just that you don't want to look foolish for having invested so much of yourself in it?"

            Harry shook his head impatiently. "It feels real. And yeah, I know that's not a convincing argument when you can't actually have the dreams yourself, but that's the way it is. It's like asking someone if the water he's drinking is real. It's an insulting question when he's felt it as much as I have."

            Malfoy waited a few moments, as if expecting another answer from him, and then said, "Very well. I can't tell what Woburn means, or who he would be. The spell that puts words into someone else's head is one that many people know, but not many use it. It's considered rude, if not actually illegal the way that Legilimency is without Ministry permission."

            Harry nodded. "And do you think that he could really know I'm from another universe, or does he mean something else?"

            "I can't know that," Malfoy said. "I suspect he's probably an expert at controlling his features, and the glamour can't help."

            Harry blinked. "He is wearing a glamour, then?"

            "Oh, yes," Malfoy said. "You can see it, sometimes, trailing behind him like a sleeve when he makes certain gestures. It's not something most people would see," he added, with what seemed like unnecessary generosity. "But it's there."

            Harry worried at that a moment, then gave up. He still thought his best chance was to corner Woburn and speak to him privately. "What about Discipula's secret? Does it involve the war?"

            Now Malfoy frowned, rapping his knee impatiently as though he wanted to break through the skin to the bone. It reminded Harry of the gesture Draco had made, and he looked away. "That's what I don't understand. After hearing those words of Woburn's, I would have thought it was most likely that she was a Death Eater. It would make sense, then, that she's persecuting them, since one of them could betray her to her employers. But...I can't imagine that my father wouldn't know it, if that was the case. And he would certainly have used the knowledge to save himself."

            Harry manfully resisted the temptation to point out that Malfoy had just acted as if the Lucius in the dreams was real. "All right. But something else about the war, something that doesn't involve her being a Death Eater? Could she have been an Auror who used Unforgivable Curses, or something like that?"

            Malfoy made an irritated motion with one hand. "I doubt it. But how can I know? I still can't get into the dreams, and there are things that I simply can't know, because I don't know their full story."

            "I could tell it to you," Harry offered. "Or put all the dreams in Pensieves."

            "You'd leave out details, and we don't have the time for that. We still haven't figured out what the sounds you make in the dreams mean." Malfoy looked at him full-on. "This is quite a change of heart. What made you come to it?"

            Harry let out a small sigh. He'd known that he would have to confess to Malfoy, but that made it no more enjoyable when the moment finally arrived. "I was thinking about what you said, that I only had the dreams in the first place because I need to be needed. And about some of the things that Draco in the dreams said, too." Malfoy made a face, but kept silent. "And I realized--that was the way I treated Ginny. I never let her care for me because I was so busy caring for her. Maybe the dreams did originate that way. But I want to solve the mystery of Discipula and the legal problem anyway. Knowing they're false doesn't make them less real to me."

            "It should." Malfoy leaned forwards, looking as if various emotions fought beneath the surface of his face. "That's the way they draw you in. You can't do anything to help these people, you don't have to do anything to help these people, because they don't exist. Get that through your head, and I think that you'll do a lot better. Right now, you might admit intellectually that they're not real, but you want to stay in them. And so they grow new complexities to keep you there."

            Harry stared at Malfoy. "I don't understand you," he said. "You're arguing that I'm using all these details of pure-bloods I only heard about once or maybe twice, coming up with alternate versions of all these people I know, and inventing mysteries out of my own head? I'm not a storyteller, Malfoy, and the only dreams I've had this vivid are the visions that Voldemort put there. I think it's more likely to be a combination of your spell and my mind and something else. Maybe the spell opened a door to another world that I wouldn't have seen otherwise."

            Malfoy started to answer, but Harry only heard the breath escape his teeth before he paused. He froze so comprehensively that Harry at first thought that someone had cast a Body-Bind on him, but looking over his shoulder, he saw no one there.

            "That's it," Malfoy whispered. "I should have seen it, but I didn't want to admit that there was something there. My own blindness."

            "What?" Harry wanted to pound his hand against the chair, but he remained still and was proud of himself.



            Malfoy leaned forwards and grinned at him. "I think I know a way that I can enter your dreams."

*

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Sleepless