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An Image of Lethe	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 21751 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 3
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Chapter Twenty-Three—Promises
            “How long do you think you can keep this up?” Draco asked quietly, as he shut the door of the library behind him.
            This library in the house had been stripped of books, and all of them moved elsewhere. That was where Astoria and Pansy must be at the moment, researching, Draco thought. He and Potter were here in this bare room with only a few windows clogged by the dusty remnants of curtains and a few equally dusty chairs sitting on the carpet.
            “The deception?” Potter flicked his wand at the door, and Draco flinched as he heard prompt screams. It sounded as though Potter was torturing him from outside the room, he realized. That would probably keep up the pretense that he was the same as any other follower, someone that the Dark Lord could torture when he felt like it. It was necessary. It was…
            Not the kind of thing Draco would have expected Potter to think of. And that maybe meant he was going to try and keep up the bloody pretense harder than Draco had thought he would, after all.
            “As long as it takes to build that reverse Lightfinder,” said Potter, and sank down on one of the chairs. Draco took the one opposite, studying him warily. Potter’s fingers were grinding and crunching into his knee, wavering back and forth, letting out tension. He saw Draco meeting his eyes and smiled back, sourly.
            “Why a reverse one?” Draco asked. “Do you think showing the Darkness as Light, or whatever you’re thinking, is really going to convince anyone?”
            “No,” said Potter. “I’m still waiting on confirmation of what happened when Zabini destroyed the original, but I’d say that it probably scattered fear across the crowd—either natural fear or magical fear of the kind that I think it was already causing. Why were so many people who should know better going along with the Ministry? Because of that irrational blast of fear that using the Lightfinder caused in those notes we found. At least, if they didn’t build it right, and we know they didn’t.”
            Draco blinked. “Okay,” he said. “So some of the irrationality we were facing might have been magical. So—”
            “So a reverse Lightfinder, built and then destroyed in a sufficiently public place, might be enough to give them their minds back.”
            Draco stared, and didn’t try to hide that he was staring. Potter shook his head as though the very gaze was an imposition, and added nastily, “What? If you’re going to tell me why that won’t work, then you’ll have to explain why the Lightfinder didn’t cause a lot of irrationality, when I think it did—”
            “I wasn’t going to tell you why it wouldn’t work,” Draco interrupted quietly. “I was going to ask you how you came up with the idea. Merlin, you weren’t even the one doing the primacy research on it back at the Black house.”
            Potter lifted his head, and his eyes glittered dangerously. “And because of that, you think me incapable of coming up with something like this?”
            “I just want to know how you did.” Draco stared at him again, his stomach and heart and pulse all leaping. “It’s—it’s brilliant, and it might work.”
            Potter relaxed slowly against the back of the chair, and then nodded sharply. “All right. That comforts me. I mean, I thought it would work or I wouldn’t have tried to propose it, but I wasn’t sure.”
            Draco only studied him for a moment, shaking his head. Potter looked back at him with raised eyebrows until he apparently got tired of the shaking head without further explanation, and said, “Okay. What?”
            “You’re so much more than I thought you were,” Draco murmured. “Even after the first time you pretended to fool Greyback and the others, I would never have thought you could hold your own in front of them for an extended period of time like this.”
            “I do it, or the lot of us don’t survive,” said Potter simply. “And since I’ve survived both Voldemort’s attempts to kill me and the Ministry’s attempts to put me in some magical machine they hadn’t finished yet, I’d like to go on doing it. Now. What did your father want to talk to you about? Did he make you promise anything?”
            Draco stared at him. “How did you know that I’d been talking to him?”
            “Because he slipped out of the dining room right after he did.” Potter flashed him a tired grin. “I knew that he would want to speak to you, of course. Did he?”
            “Yes,” said Draco, giving away the admission ungrudgingly, because Potter had impressed him so. “He said that he thought the two of us could fool you and make you think he had been working in your favor all along. Oh, he didn’t say it so bluntly,” he added, as Potter’s eyebrows rose in a different way this time. “But that’s what he meant. I think he never had any intention of trying to bring the Dark Lord back. He meant to lead the Death Eaters on his own, although I don’t know what he intended to do with them beyond that.”
            He hesitated, swallowed, and chose his side firmly and completely. “He also has a promise sigil on his wrist. Do you know what that is?”
            Potter looked blank, which reassured Draco a little. Potter might be much smarter and more capable than Draco had thought he was, but that wasn’t the same as knowing everything. “It means that he made a promise of some sort to the primal forces of magic,” Draco explained tersely. “They can be called on by name if you’re stupid enough to do that sort of thing, and you know the right names.”
            “It sounds like Muggles summoning demons,” said Potter, blinking rapidly.
            Draco shrugged, uncaring. “I don’t know if demons are real or not, or what Muggles do. But the sigil is a circle of skin on your wrist that means you made a promise on your magic. You have to do something in return for them, or—well, losing your magic is the least of it. You’re much likelier to go mad or die.”
            “What did he call on it for?”
            Draco relaxed again. Potter had asked the most important question. “He needed help breaking out of Azkaban. I’m more worried about what he promised in return, though. He used to make me promise I would never do something like that. For him to…”
            Potter leaned back against the chair and spent a moment staring through one of the grimy windows, tapping his fingers on his leg. Draco watched him, trying to understand the emotion that was turning like a whirlwind in his chest.
            He was looking to Potter to get them out of this. As though Potter was his leader, in some ridiculous way, like the lot who was always depending on him to win the war.
            Draco grimaced. He supposed he could make a habit of relying on Potter if he didn’t do it too often.
            “Yes, it is strange,” said Potter at last, sitting up and shaking his head. “But I don’t know what he would have promised it, either. I’ll do what I can to find it out.” He leaned in and held Draco’s eyes for a second. “I have Parkinson and Astoria researching on the reverse Lightfinder. The Death Eaters think it’s some Dark project, of course.” Potter rolled his eyes for a second. “I really can’t believe how stupid they are.”
            Draco grunted, but said nothing. Until a few years ago, he would have been among the stupid Death Eaters, and probably among the ones buying Potter’s little act, although he hated to think that.
            “You, I need something different from.”
            Draco tried not to sit up, or let his chest inflate, or do any of the other ridiculous things that his ego was suggesting he should when Harry Potter needed something from him. “Yes?” he asked, a bit warily.
            “I need you to hold your father at bay, for one thing, and listen to his plans, and convince him that you’re on his side if all else fails.” Potter hesitated for a second, his eyes distant. “And advise me on what else I can do to convince them that I’m Voldemort. Explain who certain people are, what power structures they fell into when he was still alive, things like that.”
            “Right,” said Draco.
            Potter took a deep breath. “And run important missions for me, if you can. I think I’ve convinced the Death Eaters for now that I’m going to contact my friends only in order to taunt them, and not to explain what’s really going on and how they can help. But that pretense won’t work forever. I need you to run messages, sometimes.”
            Because he trusts me. Draco felt a hard stab of pride, and told himself to stop being stupid. “I can do that, too.”
            Potter smiled at him abruptly, and Draco felt as though he was standing waist-deep in sunlight. “I would never have asked you if I thought you couldn’t,” he said simply.
            Draco nodded and cleared his throat so that he could speak without embarrassing himself. “And what will you be doing while I’m doing this?”
            “You mean, besides convincing a bunch of Death Eaters that I’m Voldemort and trying to use the research that Parkinson and Astoria bring me to construct a reverse Lightfinder?” Potter stood up and stretched.
            “Yes,” said Draco. “Surely not even that can occupy your every waking moment.”
            Potter grimaced. “Thinking about ways to make contact with my friends and get them to listen to me instead of simply striking.”
            “If I thought I would do any good, I would do it for you,’ said Draco, and stood up to face him. “But I think they would only decide that I was a corrupting influence or something.”
            “Probably.” Potter gave him an exhausted smile. “For now, let’s go and get some sleep. Make sure that you get something to eat, too.”
            “I already did, in the kitchens.” Draco lifted his head and snorted, because he might like the feeling of having Potter as his leader, but there were limits. “I don’t need you to watch out for me as if you were my father.”
            Potter stepped up beside him and pressed his shoulder. Standing this close to him and looking into his eyes, Draco found himself oddly short of breath. He had to stand straighter to compensate for his own weakness, and hoped that he looked as though he was even taller than he was.
            “I wish I could take the place of your father,” Potter whispered. “Merlin knows the man in that place hasn’t done you much good.”
            Draco said nothing. He would have disagreed about that before the war, or even during it, but his mind kept flashing back to the promise sigil on his father’s wrist, and it was very hard to disagree now. Potter looked at him as if he knew at least some of Draco’s thoughts, and pressed down on his shoulder blade again.
            “But I can’t take his place, and I have to ask hard things of you, too.” Potter shook him lightly for a moment. “Just do what you can, and help me, and I’ll help you. And make sure that Parkinson and Astoria come safely out of this, too,” he added, as if he thought that Draco might think he’d forgotten about them.
            “Of course,” Draco said quietly, and turned to watch Potter walk to the door of the room. “But what about you?”
            “I told you what I’d be doing,” Potter said, and paused with one hand on the door, turning to look at him in bafflement. “That’s the strategy I plan to pursue. I wouldn’t lie.”
            “I didn’t mean that,” said Draco. “Who’s going to take care of you and make sure that you come out of this alive?”
            Potter blinked as though the thought had never occurred to him, and Draco stifled his irritation. Then he smiled at Draco in a way that did cut through the dimness of the room like a comet, and shook his head.
            “I hope you will,” he said. “And circumstances. And I’ll fight as hard as I can for myself, don’t worry about that.” He opened the door this time, and added over his shoulder as he concealed the glamour, “Remember to limp.”
            Then he was gone, and Draco sat down and stared into space. He should have trusted Potter to take care of himself, Merlin knew. The tasks in front of Draco were hard enough without that additional worry, and he knew Potter had survived worse.
            At least, he thought so. He hoped so.
            But the image of that last smile remained with him, and helped to strengthen him.
*
            Harry lay down, but his mind wouldn’t stop racing even when he kept his eyes closed and breathed softly, in rhythm with his heartbeat, and refused to move. That trick had always worked to get him to sleep at the Dursleys’.
            This was worse than the Dursleys.
            Harry finally gave up, and rolled over and reached for his wand. If he had to, he would cast a spell that would give him the sensation he had rested without actually requiring him to sleep. He had to do something to make sure that he was ready to face the troubles and confrontations of the next day.
            I don’t want to do this.
            But he had started, and even if he could say that the original idea for him to imitate Voldemort had been partially Draco’s, still. It was one he had gone along with, one he had relied on it to convince Greyback and the others to leave Grimmauld Place originally, one he had used to keep them free from the Ministry and give them a relatively safe hiding place, and one that he was going to rely on to try and get them back into the wizarding world.
            And then? What if the reverse Lightfinder ends the irrational fear and panic that’s running rampant over them, and it still isn’t enough? They blame you for imitating Voldemort when they find out?
            Harry lay there and let the doubt and fear tear through him, roll through him. Then he considered all the worst-case scenarios, the looks of hatred that would be on some faces, the people who would turn away from him.
            But not the people that mattered most, his friends and the Weasleys. He was sure of that, as sure as though he had breathed in their promises to stand by him. They had stood by him when he was an accused Dark wizard, and they would be smart enough to understand the true intent behind the messages he was having Death Eaters deliver. If they stood by him, then he didn’t need to care about anyone else.
            Well.
            Harry clenched one hand in the sheets behind him. It would be hard beyond hard if Draco and Astoria and Parkinson turned away from him now.
            But worst with Draco. You can admit that.
            Harry nodded to himself. Yes, it would be. And he supposed it was possible that once they were back in the wizarding world and he had a chance to live a somewhat normal life, Draco would walk away without a backwards glance. He might decide that he and Harry had paid all the debts they owed each other, life-debts and everything else, and he might as well leave him behind. It was a worst-case scenario to be thought of along with all the others.
            He considered it, he thought about it, and then he discarded it. He had an uneasy alliance with Parkinson, though it wasn’t enough to make him want to see her dead. And he thought Astoria was still fearful enough around him that he wouldn’t blame her for wanting to be away. But Draco…
            Draco knew his plans. He had kept following Harry into this even when he saw his father among the Death Eaters here. He would understand, no matter how limited their contact was after this.
            When did understanding become the most important thing that I could get out of anyone else?
            When you started seeing looks of hatred and mistrust on the faces of Aurors and others who should have believed you.
            Harry sighed a little. Yes, all right, he could admit how profoundly he wanted that, and…
            And his mind was closing down, drifting slowly in the direction of darkness. He could do this, after all. He could sleep.
            Harry smiled, and fell asleep to a dreamed vision of Draco’s face.
*
            “What is this?”
            Draco’s head snapped up. Once again, it was Potter’s voice and yet not. The deep, drifting, booming cadences of it, the hatred at the back of it, all that was the Dark Lord. And it made Rabastan Lestrange, standing in front of him with a leveled wand, whirl around and drop to his knees in a most satisfying way.
            “My lord,” said Lestrange, and he lifted his face and looked at Potter in a way that made Draco have to work to keep his own face expressionless, in spite of the danger they were in. “I know you tortured him yesterday, and he forfeited your favor. And…”
            His voice trailed off. Potter was standing in front of him with one arm wrapped around his chest, his legs slightly spread and his eyes locked on Lestrange’s. Draco silently marveled. It was amazing, the way that Potter could imitate Voldemort’s mannerisms that way. Of course, having been in the Dark Lord’s head undoubtedly helped, but it still seemed as though there was a shard of soul somewhere in him right now.
            There isn’t, right?
            Draco threw the thought away as unworthy. He had much better things to worry about if he was going to keep his footing in this game.
            “I tortured him yesterday,” Potter agreed, and came a few steps forwards. “And I nearly did the same to you, Lestrange. I could have done more.” His voice was a deep purr now, or a hiss. Draco didn’t distinguish between the sounds when it came to the Dark Lord, and he couldn’t do it now, either. “But since when is my mercy for you to decide?”
            His wand came to rest on the crown of Lestrange’s head right above his ear. Lestrange was whimpering now, although he attempted to close his lips and keep the sound from getting through. Potter leaned down towards him and whispered something Draco couldn’t make out.
            A second later, Lestrange screamed, and Draco jolted in spite of himself. He could see the way that Lestrange was clutching his ear, and he knew that something must have happened, that Potter had used a spell. But he couldn’t tell which one until Lestrange removed his hand and Draco could see the dark spot on the side of his head and the smoke that rose from it. An electrical spell, then. A localized lightning bolt.
            A piece of Lestrange’s blackened ear fell to the floor.
            “Think on my power,” Potter whispered, and this time, Draco, and all the other Death Eaters who had come running at the scream and now cringed back against the walls, could hear him perfectly well. “Think on my mercy. Think on what it means, that I let you live now.” He paused, but Lestrange said nothing. “Because the lives of my followers are mine to take. Not yours.”
            He turned away with a hollow chuckle when Lestrange did nothing but whimper, and strode towards the far side of the dining room. He hadn’t made it all the way across, though, when he paused and gestured with his head sharply in Draco’s direction. “With me, Malfoy.”
            Draco hurried over at once, crouching and submissive. He gave one more glance at Lestrange as he passed him, checking that it wasn’t just a glamour or trick Potter had used.
            No. Part of Lestrange’s earlobe was gone, and so was part of the outer shell of his ear. He hadn’t dared to move from the place where he was kneeling, either.
            This close to Potter, Draco could see the lines that radiated up from the corners of his crinkled eyes and set teeth. He made one sharp, low noise, and Potter let his gritted jaw relax and gestured Draco along with a crooked finger. They made their way out of the dining room and into a corridor that had a few empty portrait frames and a blasted grey spot on the wall where someone had probably used it for target practice.
            Draco watched in silence as Potter raised a few spells that would prevent anyone from seeing or hearing into the corridor.
            Then Potter sagged against the wall and uttered a harsh, choking sound, one that Draco wouldn’t have been surprised to hear an Inferius utter. His hands were over his face, and he drew one down precisely, his nails raking lines of blood.
            “You can’t do that,” said Draco, in a soft voice. “You know what they’ll think if they see the Dark Lord with visible wounds.” He flicked his wand in a small charm that scraped over the scratches Potter had created and papered them over with new skin. “I know you despise yourself, but there are more important things than that.”
            Potter closed his eyes for a second, and then nodded. “You’re right. There are.” He stood up and took a step down the corridor, another mask settling over his face. He walked away without much care for where he was going, Draco thought.
            And that was what made Draco catch his arm and swing him around. Potter looked at him with his lips framing a silent question. Draco made a rough gesture with his head and dragged Potter against him. Potter stumbled and went with it, ending up against Draco’s chest with his eyes shut and his hands groping as though he wanted to touch something on Draco that wasn’t his chest or shoulders. Draco felt one uncertain finger brush through his hair.
            Draco held him in as quick and as understanding an embrace as he could muster, before letting him go. He tried to say, with his hands, that Potter had done what he could in sparing Lestrange pain and still impressing the Death Eaters enough to spare their lives. He tried to say that he knew this wasn’t easy, and he didn’t think Potter was evil.
            He tried to say all that, and then he let him go.
            Potter gave him a faint smile before he turned to resume his journey up the corridor again. Draco followed.
            It was important that Potter keep his sanity and not fall too far into the game, or none of them would survive this at all. That was the reason Draco had done it.
            It was the only reason he would need to give, should someone ask. It was a strong reason, a solid reason.
            Not the only one that existed. But Draco was the only one who needed to know that.
            Though, from the curve of Potter’s lips he could see from the side, he might know it, too.
            Draco pondered that, then shrugged. If it keeps him sane, what does it matter?

*
moodysavage: Hey, Draco thinks so, too!
moon: Thank you!
Anon: Thanks!
Severus1snape: That’s okay! I really appreciate you reviewing and finding that out.
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An Image of Lethe