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Night Flight	By : Massanie Category: Harry Potter > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 77567 -:- Recommendations : 6 -:- Currently Reading : 30
Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me and I'm not making any money with this story

Chapter List
- 24
- 25
- 26
CHAPTER 25: The Unforgiven (Part 1)

CHAPTER NOTES:

Thank you for all the wonderful reviews for the last chapter!

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At last, all that Draco and Blaise were left with was the thick, nocturnal silence that bore down on the manor's grounds as if it wanted to choke everyone and everything within. None of them moved or made the littlest of sounds, not even the House Elves, as if compromising the acoustic vacuum in which they existed was a sacrilege of such incredible dimensions, that it might cause them to drop dead where they stood.
It wasn't shock, though, nor fright. No, it was simple shameful guilt in its purest form; because they had lost him, had allowed Harry to gull them and give himself over without so much as one measly spell to try and keep him safe as they had promised.
Moments stretched to unbearable eternity and neither Draco nor Blaise even dared to look at each other, knowing that the realisation of their own failure would be mirrored in the other's eyes, silent self-accusations that couldn't be assuaged, just like the rage that would undoubtedly be found there, rooted in their bitter helplessness that none of them could honestly deny.
But after not even a minute, the stubborn, prideful refusal to admit defeat broke through the surface like dandelion through asphalt. They might never have been exceptionally brave, or noble-minded or compassionate. Not magnanimous, generous, open-minded or prepared to make compromises or sacrifices. They might be selfish and on occasion maliciously gleeful, inconsiderate, ruthless narcissists who'd remorselessly find any loophole in any system and exploit it without another thought.
But. They were stubborn and they were smart, inventive and resourceful. Most important of all though: they were persistent. Forced into a corner, they never gave up even if the odds were against them. When given a task so difficult and dangerous that no one sane could expect him to survive it, had Draco not still found a way to succeed? Had he ever allowed his failures to discourage him in his attempts to trump his childhood enemies, especially Harry Potter?

Were they not both survivors?
And yet Draco had to acknowledge, on some level at least, that the uncontrolled, barely visible tremors of his muscles resulted not from fierce anger alone.

He remembered his grand-father telling him these stories of course: pale, myth-like tales of old times when there still had been submissives and the mysterious objects they had created (like the time-turners that had been irretrievably lost in the battle at the Department of Mysteries because they needed the power and strength and control of a mated Vykélari pair to function properly); tales of the legendary duels that had been fought over the right to mate, and though Abraxas Malfoy had always only told him of those ancestors that had won, Draco had read in their own family chronicle that there had been a selected few that had paid their ambition with their life.
Even after all he had been through, Draco was, with his 18 years, not ready to die; he was painfully aware of the fact, the knowledge that he had still so much to lose. All the little pleasures, his riches, his family, his life, Blaise.

Harry.
Fight or flight? Draco usually knew the answer to that question without a doubt, his survival instincts were well developed and functioning perfectly. And he wasn't ashamed of his choices.

Money, honour, pride, his reputation. Even his freedom. Those things, while immensely treasured, were not worth his life. He wasn't a Gryffindor, he didn't value honour more than life, not even more than winning. He would fight dirty to prevail but if victory was impossible he would run before he got truly hurt and if his escape routes were hopelessly blocked he'd beg for his life rather than lose it. If it pleased the masses to despise him or call him a coward for this particular set of priorities, then that was not his problem.
But he had not hesitated to fight for his own life, and for his parents'. He'd fight for Harry and Blaise at a moment's notice.
That didn't mean he wasn't afraid or didn't wish there was another, an easier way. But there wasn't and that knowledge burned in his throat and made his hands tremble and sweat.
All that pent up fury, frustration and fear, Draco released with a single, long breath. When whining didn't help, then it was time to act, time to focus.
"Your family is atrocious." He stated heatedly, because it had to be said.
"Hmm." Blaise hummed a vague affirmative, his jaw clenched almost too tightly to form words. "Not more than yours."
Draco pursed his lips. Well, that he couldn't really deny. Still it wasn't quite that simple.

"Blaise." The blonde glanced at the darker Italian, his brow deeply furrowed. Family meant much to a pureblood, always would, the concept all too deeply ingrained in their upbringing, their society and traditions. Now they might be forced to directly go up against all that they had believed in and if their determination faltered for only a single, crucial moment, it might turn out to be better for Harry and for them to never have started.

"If they refuse to let him go, if we have to fight them…"
"We will dispatch them."

It was said in such a sober, unemotional manner that Draco felt himself relax, reassured that his fiancé wouldn't waver if a moment came where hesitation could cost them everything, heartened by Blaise's implicit trust that he wouldn't either. If Blaise trusted in him, Draco could trust in himself as well, even though he had no idea how they could ever succeed in overthrowing half a dozen wizards without any weapons at their disposal. It seemed almost foolishly naïve to believe in a successful outcome at this point. At least Harry Potter had always been blessed with an outrageous amount of luck and since they were on his side this time, Harry luck should be as well… their Harry. Their submissive.
"If Harry ends up mated though, before we get to him, don't kill his mate."
Inquisitively Blaise turned his dark gaze towards his lover, cocking his head at the splitter of ice he saw there, freezing those grey irises over.
"The stability of Harry's magic and life will depend on the continued existence of whoever it is." The blonde elaborated, once again looking to that very spot where the guardia and Blaise's uncle had emerged from the darkness, where they had waited to spring their trap.
When he continued, his voice was low, dropped by half an octave from pure hate. "But blind him, and castrate him and curse him with a loss of his tactile sense and taste so that he won't ever enjoy what he took by force."
Blaise nodded gravely. He couldn't really claim to be comfortable with the thought of doing something like that, but he couldn't and wouldn't deny that the end results would please him greatly. "We will find them before something like that becomes necessary."
Then he turned, his eyes ominously flying from one House Elf to the other until he found the one little female he was searching. The poor thing cringed as she found herself the sole recipient of her master's dark stare, even if the fury within wasn't directed at her.

"Giallina. You said that Harry was being forced to leave. What happened exactly?"
Had the situation been a different one, Blaise might have felt a twinge of pity at the way the little Elf gaped at him pleadingly, eyes shining bright with unshed tears, her fists buried in the folds of the old curtain wrapped around her diminutive form and her whole body shivering, trembling violently. Blaise understood that she was afraid to receive clothes this time after having been lucky to escape that fate when she had sent away Harry's letter to his friends. The very same letter that had now convinced the guardia that Blaise and Draco were abusive bastards…
His compassion, though, was limited. Frankly, he wasn't interested in the guilt question or in soothing his servants. Not now. Only the information about Harry that she might have was important.
"Giallina doesn't know!" The Elf whimpered, looking up at him from beneath long lashes, as if barely daring to face him.
"Why then did you say that he was being forced to leave? Answer, Elf!"
"Sirs Ives and Adler Malfoy told her to alert the master. Giallina swears!"
Next to him, Draco grasped his arm and Blaise faced away from the pitiful sight of his servant towards his fiancé. "Adler must have seen Harry leave through the magical windows in the room his portrait is in."
Blaise nodded curtly, displeased and even disappointed to some degree, having hoped for more detailed information. But if Giallina and the two portraits had merely watched Harry sneak out through the park in front of the manor and then drawn their conclusions from that highly suspicious behaviour, then they would have no further information about Harry's or Granger's and Weasley's whereabouts; or whether his relatives had kidnapped even more of Harry's friends.
And yet, something didn't quite fit: if Adler had seen the whole fiasco from the moment Harry had left the building, why not send the House Elf that Blaise had given him? Why send Giallina, his husband's Elf? And how could they have been certain that Harry was being blackmailed when they had no possibility to know what went on within the house or what had been spoken during and after the submissive's escape attempt? After all, Blaise and Draco could also have had a row with their guest, thus making Harry leave of his own volition.

No. Ives and Adler had to know more.
Whether Draco shared his thoughts or read the scepticism from his expression, Blaise wasn't sure, but his fiancé looked at him intently, tight lines around his pursed lips, eyes steely and flashing with the brightness of a sharp mind that never stilled.

"We need wands, Blaise. Call whomever you trust and use whatever you need. You know the contents of my vault. Use it all if necessary."
It should have come as a surprise, Blaise thought. They were starting to create themselves an army of enemies, even going so far as to revolt against their own parents, risking a disinheritance. Rationality should dictate them to cut their losses, and make sure they still had enough to support themselves, to make problems disappear with gifts and bribes to the right persons. But the only unexpected element caused by Draco's demand was the lack of any surprise. Maybe because between the two of them and Harry they had been tossed out of the realm of logic long ago, having violated the laws reigning there a thousand times too often.
"And you?"
Draco cocked his eyebrows, grinding his jaw in a way that Blaise knew he hated when it was someone else doing it instead. "I'll go and see what Adler knows. Maybe we can figure out where they took him."

Not even a minute later, Draco ripped the door to his ancestor's room open, striding in with sure steps.
The round chamber was flooded with warm, golden light, a stark contrast to the dark gardens that were visible through the wide magical windows covering the entire circle of walls, giving the fallacious illusion that the room was standing by itself between all the trees, hedges and flowers, the patios and serpentine paths, even though it was right in the centre of the manor.
Draco couldn't help but scowl at the driveway leading away from the main house, where only minutes before, the guardia had trampled over Blaise's property, self-righteous and haughty as they took away their wands and placed them under house arrest, as they allowed or rather condemned their Gryffindor – stupid, sweet, moronic Harry – to enter an unknown arena unarmed and unprepared, facing off against an enemy that outnumbered him by far, that could never be underestimated: Blaise's relatives wouldn't have shown themselves if they were not utterly, positively convinced that they had correctly anticipated and were able to thwart each and every possible move either the submissive or the two dominants that had sheltered him could come up with.
How he wanted to let their eye balls dry up and wither away like snails on hot stones in the summer sun… but revenge would come later, once Harry was safe.
Breathing in deeply, Draco strode towards the tree-like pillar in the middle of the room where four paintings provided the portrait of his ancestor with room to manoeuvre around and the possibility to keep the entirety of the window front in sight.

"Adler!" He called out, his voice commanding and harsher than he had expected.
He hadn't even reached the stylized tree and the artful painting of the sun-lit, two-storey library which hung at eye level at the only cubic part of the pillar that was carved right into its middle, when the black clad form of his ancestor stepped onto one of the balconies overlooking the reading room beneath.
"Draco!" The portrait grasped the railing with both hands, leaning over it towards the Malfoy heir and before Draco even had the chance to demand the information he so desperately needed, Adler was already talking in urgent tones, yet still mostly collected. "You have to call that thrice damned House Elf back!"
Pressing his tongue against the smooth row of his teeth, Draco tried to rein in his irritation. "I don't have time for your peculiarities, Adler!" He snapped. "You know what just happened outside. I need you to tell me everything that might even remotely pertain to Harry's current whereabouts."
Adler pushed himself away from the railing, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he stared at his descendant coldly, and, Draco thought, even a bit defensively and it was the latter observation that had Draco stay quiet, listening expectantly.

"I might even be able to tell you exactly where he is –" the portrait drawled, "if you get that House Elf."
"What is that supposed to mean?" Draco asked with an exasperated sigh. "And no games, Adler! I really don't have any time for this. Harry doesn't."
The tiny jerk of Adler's head didn't escape Draco's notice and he knew, knew that whatever the portrait had to tell him would be highly unwelcome news and more than likely Adler's fault. His stomach clenched in sudden discomfort. Merlin, he didn't need even more bad news.
Adler didn't hesitate for one moment. But he tilted his head and watched him curiously as if all this was a test for Draco, as if he was cataloguing his every reaction to judge him later – for what, Draco didn't know.
"Severus Snape's spying potion." The portrait said with an air of nonchalance and a fairly intricate hand wave, never leaving him out of his sight.
"Adler!" Draco hissed impatiently, angry that the portrait was wasting precious time while there was someone out there waiting for Harry to be brought to him, waiting to take possession of the submissive and his magic in the most permanent way possible: by mating him forcefully. And what the hell had that potion to do with any…
The realisation hit him with the force and suddenness of a bludger.

By Morgaine's perfidy! For a moment, Draco found himself speechless, something that he could honestly claim didn't happen very often. But he couldn't even decide whether his thoughts raced or were pushed into momentary rigidity; too busy trying to find his way through the too many too conflicting notions and thoughts fighting for dominance within the too cramped confines of his head: outrage, mortification, hope …
Draco well recalled the potion that his godfather had invented to help the Malfoys avoid the worst of the punishments dealt out in the post war trials, the dark silver liquid that was like moonlight and shadows, duskier and a bit more viscous than the one used for regular Pensieves. It had been only meant for the Aurors investigating the Malfoy cases, though, to know which witnesses had to be bribed, which evidence needed to get lost, the exact dates and times the Aurors would search their homes… it should never have been used on one so dear and close to them and when Severus had suggested they use it on Harry, told them that he'd send a vial along with Ives's and Adler's portraits, neither Blaise nor Draco had ever intended to deign it with another thought or look, much less apply it to Harry's stunningly green eyes. Not when he might one day become a lover or a husband even.
It was sickening and mortifying: the reeling, horrifying knowledge that they had been spied upon, not only Harry, but all three of them, as they played pugna aerea with the Battellis or when they had talked about their past, their future, their secrets in that magical preserve. When they had danced together at the palazzo di vetro.
When they had kissed.
The rage over that burned white and hot within Draco. Those precious moments had been private! This had been their day: Harry's, Blaise's and his. Their first date, and maybe if fate continued to be cruel to them it would even be their last… no one had the right to sully the memory of this very day!
And yet, the Pensieve that now held Harry's memories from the last hours or even days – how long had Adler had the House Elf spy on them? – it might tell them where to search for their missing… whatever it was that Harry was.

The very idea of not taking advantage of that fortunate happenstance was inconceivable. Of course it was wrong that the Gryffindor had ever been subjected to the spying potion, but Draco would use it to his advantage nonetheless. Besides, he rather thought Harry might forgive him if it helped safe his friends and keep him from having to mate with his blackmailer.
If Weasley and Granger died, though, he'd be lucky if the sometimes hot blooded teenager would not enact some form of revenge …
Forcefully, Draco wrestled that counterproductive thought down. Harry and his friends had survived one of the most dangerous wizards of their time hunting them, along with a horde of followers, some of which ranked among the most sadistic and insane personas that Draco had ever had the misfortune of meeting (Fenrir Greyback still gave him the creeps and the only redeeming quality that the werewolf had recently acquired, was being dead). The two Gryffindors would survive, they might even find a way to escape on their own: as much as the thought displeased him – or not, given the current circumstances – Weasley and Granger were anything if not resourceful.
"I had the House Elf keep an eye on Mr Potter." Adler interrupted his thoughts, his voice tight. "When he rushed in here and told me that our guest was being blackmailed I sent Ives' Elf to alert you immediately, without waiting for it to give me any background information – at that moment your hummingbird had already left the manor. I wanted to send my Elf to get the Pensieve, but he didn't await any order beyond the initial 'go'… I might have been a bit harsh when giving the command."
Draco clicked with his tongue, eyes narrow as they fixed the small, dark figure in the painting with a burning glare. Yes, that he could very well imagine: Adler shouting at the Elf to go and the little servant leaving immediately without waiting for further instructions. Being already displeased and nervous at having to spy on his master, but unable to disobey all the same because Blaise had made him vow his unquestioning obedience to the portrait, the Elf probably took the chance to avoid any further orders that he might have perceived as a betrayal to his master. And really, the portrait had phenomenally exceeded his powers this time. Undoubtedly Draco would have to speak with Adler about his unwelcome penchant for taking liberties, and how to rid him of that habit. But not now.
He took a step forward, fingers flexing at his side with the desire to act. "Where is the Elf?"
Adler gave him a long, assessing look, probably knowing all too well that while Draco might refuse to address Adler's brazen behaviour now, the matter with the spying potion was far from being over and that he'd have to justify his actions in a very near future or possibly find himself in some secluded room in an uninhibited house with each and every version of his own painting as the only company; complete isolation just as Draco had threatened. Maybe that was why the portrait offered straightforward information for once.

"Where your fiancé is storing the unused furniture. Apparently."
Before Adler had even the chance to finish, Draco had already turned on his heels, striding towards the narrow door that stood out starkly from the circle of magical windows covering the room's walls.
"This is not over, Adler!" The Malfoy heir called out without even turning to face the portrait of his long deceased ancestor, just before the heavy door fell close behind him.

Blaise felt ready to scream, his heart beating so fast that it bordered on painful, his eyes stinging with frustration.
Of course he had known that they didn't have many allies, that it would be difficult to find someone willing and able to help them, but he hadn't quite expected this amount of opposition…

Blaise sighed deeply, rubbing with his fingertips over his brow. They never should have left Britain, their homeland, where they had friends and allies to stand beside them, where Harry had people willing to face hordes of grims and nundus and dragons for him at a moment's notice.
Neither Blaise nor Draco had ever spent enough time in Italy to form strong alliances of their own, most of Blaise's contacts were loyal to the Lanai family and to him, the somewhat estranged nephew and cousin and grandson, only by extension.
First he had tried contacting the three families that were currently engaged in the business of wand making in Italy – via the floo, since he had no mirror connections established with them – fairly confident that his and Draco's joined fortunes would open them the doors they needed to be unlocked. But all it had brought him were hurting knees and grey and white ash stains on his hastily donned, dark dress robes.
His first two choices hadn't even had their floo connections open which should not have come as a surprise, since it was a pretty common practice both in Italy and in Britain; after all, who wanted his home open to unwelcome and possibly dangerous visitors in the dead of the night? But he couldn't contact them any other way, unable to leave the manor's grounds without alerting the guardia and using an owl would take too long.

And the third wand maker, Oria Ragno, a wispy, elderly woman with grim lines around her narrow lips and even narrower eyes, refused to sell him even a practice wand, knowing that it would be illegal. It had been a heavy setback in Blaise's plans that the guardia had already alerted the wand-makers of his and Draco's ban of carrying any form of magical weapon.
From then on he had been met with one refusal, one failure after another. Acquaintances and friendships that he had made during his last visits before the war in Britain turned him away or didn't even answer, unwilling to openly show their colours in the rare cases they sympathised with him, but mostly outright refusing to even speak out against the Lanais, especially since helping Blaise and Draco would mean going against Vykélari law which would deliver them up to the mercy of the Lanais as the major source for representatives of the Vykélari Council, the very family they would agitate against.
The Ermacoras, the Caitos, the Sciarras, the Nieris… months of time spent together, years of correspondence – all for naught in the one situation where it would have counted.
Blaise couldn't even blame them, they had so much to lose as the Battellis summarized it so aptly:

"What do you want me to do, Blaise?" Tore had asked, his rough face tense with the gravity of the situation, fingers drumming on a side table sitting next to his arm chair. There had been deep, dark rings circling his keen eyes but that hadn't lessened the force behind his words.
"Even if you were to win – if, I say, because it is still very unlikely that you will find Mr Potter's whereabouts, much less win him back – even if you mated with him, I would still have gone against Vykélari laws and while you went back to England, I would have to stay here and if I was not thrown into prison by your uncle, then I would still have to content with a feud with the Lanais, a family too powerful for me or my significant others to take on. The Zabinis and Malfoys won't be here to protect us, and all of your considerable fortune won't be able to. I have a wife, Blaise! I have children! I won't endanger them, not for all the money in the world!"

He had paused then, sunken down in his arm chair, and he had looked decades older than Blaise knew him to be, the lines in his face more pronounced than was normal for a healthy man in his mid-fifties as he regarded him with pity.
"I am very sorry – for Mr Potter and for you – and I hope this will not poison our relationship, but I cannot help you."
Tore had closed the mirror connection then, leaving Blaise behind in the oppressive silence of the conference room with the certain knowledge slowly seeping into his consciousness that they were harrowingly alone.
Forsaken.
But there was no way Blaise would let Harry pay the price for their failure to assess their situation correctly, to keep him safe and protected.

Draco disliked store rooms, the inevitable disarray and the mouldy smell of dust; large rooms cluttered with useless clobber that was either too precious to be thrown away but had been replaced by something worthier of the space in one of the actually inhabited rooms of the manor; or they were tokens kept in one's possession out of some sense of indebtedness because they had been tasteless gifts from friends and family. Either way Draco felt that one would be best advised to just sell the stuff and make it to money before it lost all its value.
In this case, the long hall harboured the remnants of the furnishings that Blaise's father had bequeathed his only son with along with Lanai manor, reminders of a man that Blaise had never known, a man that had given him life and had been killed by his own mother, something that Draco's fiancé fervently didn't want to be reminded of. And so he had locked away all those chairs and tables, cabinets and showcases, the décor and carpets and everything else, had it brought to this store room and hidden away beneath white linen sheets never to be touched by daylight again, creating a hall of ghosts. Haunting ghosts of a man that Blaise secretly wished to have known, guiltily so, because the desire was a direct accusation of the only family that was close to him: his mother, the black widow.
Unsurprisingly, Draco was glad that his dark Italian lover was two stories above him, trying to secure them some assistance or weapons at least, while he stood in front of seemingly endless corridors formed in between clusters of linen covered furniture, watching and waiting tensely and anxiously as Blaise's servants searched for the soft glow of a Pensieve or the pale skin of a House Elf hiding somewhere.
He had tried calling for Adler's little servant first, but without success, which lead him to the obvious conclusion that the Elf either was immersed in the Pensieve and thus unable to hear him or he wasn't in the room at all. Draco just hoped he hadn't taken the precious bowl with him that continuously filled itself with whatever Harry saw and heard. He had no time to search everywhere for Adler's foolish Elf, and he needed to see those memories urgently, even if the thought filled him with cold dread. Harry had been so full of fear, so desperate and he couldn't imagine what might have pushed him into such a state when he had been so composed and brave while flying through fiendfyre, while duelling with the Dark Lord in person, taunting him on the same battlefield that had demanded so many lives, so many fellow students…
Draco shook himself, clenching and unclenching his fists at his side. Damn it, why couldn't the Elf have come to him, why couldn't he have thought for himself and been helpful for once?
His lips curled back in a silent snarl as his anger rose again, more powerful with each passing second. Perhaps it was unjust, but he didn't quite care about fairness right now, it was better than feeling helpless and out of his depth. And if he got Harry back, Draco swore he would employ human servants for anything but the simple cleaning tasks, servants that could actually anticipate their master's needs with logic and a brain that weighted more than one and a half pounds! Granger would like that as well, if he had understood their sweet hummingbird correctly…
"Master Draco, sir!" A shrill cry caught his attention, letting his head snap to the right from where he had heard it. Immediately guilt threatened to trip him up for having thought his fiancé's servants quite so useless and he released a heavy breath he wasn't aware of holding as he saw that intricately decorated stone bowl being levitated towards him, shimmering like a beacon of silver light. By Merlin, he had never seen anything so beautiful…
"Set it down!" He ordered, striding towards both Elf and Pensieve, finally feeling as if he could breathe freely again.
With almost no sound at all the bowl settled on the stone floor, handled with so much care by the Elf that levitated it – Alfar, Draco ascertained as he looked up briefly, already having sunken to his knees in front of the shadowy, silvery swirling liquid.
"Well done, Alfar." He praised quietly. "Now leave me alone but remain close by in case I need you."
Large eyes flashed with pleasure as the relatively tall Elf bowed to him so deeply his trembling ears swept over the somewhat dusty tiles. Silently Alfar raised himself to his full height again before gathering his fellow servants with his usual efficiency and within moments, Draco was left alone in the store hall, the silence enveloping him like a cocoon in which his own breathing and the rustling of his clothes with each movement echoed ominously.
He knew what he should do, knew there was no time to lose, but the very thought was harrowing in more than one way; and the silence filled his lungs, making him feel completely isolated, alone with a distasteful task, a necessary evil.
The thing was, Draco couldn't use the Pensieve in the usual fashion by leaning over it and falling into its silvery depths, for it would undoubtedly take him too long to watch all the memories inside and evaluate them and all the while it would fill up with even more visions as the spell kept pulling images and sensations from Harry, making his task a never ending one.
No, there was really only one choice, one possibility to examine the various contents in a short amount of time and catching up to those that were happening right now: by absorbing them, sucking them up into his own mind as if they were his very own, as if he had been the one to live through them. But while that might not have been dangerous per se (it wasn't as if one might lose one's mind or suffer repercussions of a similar graveness) it could be a rather unsettling experience, depending on the memories. And on whether one had own recollections of the happenings. Normally the mind just accepted a single thought, as long as it wasn't too traumatic, as a distant memory that one couldn't clearly integrate into a contentual and temporal context. But if it overlaid with an existing one, then the multiple perspectives were difficult to deal with and absorbing another person's remembrances could lead to nausea and even mild shocks, the mind fighting the obvious intruder like a body would a foreign object. The experience might be pushed to overwhelming proportions because one did not only incorporate the visual and acoustic aspects of a past happening, but also emotions and sensations.

The Pensieve was only a method to visualise a thought, but it contained real, complete memories with everything a wizard had experienced.
What Harry had experienced. At least since the last morning when Draco and Blaise had left him alone with Ives and Adler to prepare their date, which was the last possibility Adler had had to have the House Elf apply the potion to the Gryffindor's eyes. Draco would have to violate his trust utterly, by disrespecting every ounce of privacy he had possessed during these last eighteen hours.
It was not something he'd particularly enjoy doing – or, to be honest, it was rather the thought of confessing to Harry later, that disagreed with him. But he would nonetheless see it through and brave the consequences once they arose. If he could concentrate enough to manipulate the Pensieve without a wand, that is…
Well, he wouldn't know if he didn't try.
Huffing out a sigh, Draco leaned closer to the surface of the swirling liquid, careful to stay far enough away to not be sucked right into the memories. It was so much darker than a regular Pensieve, Draco thought, frowning in deep concentration as he brought his fingertips to meet the silver: his thumb for will and logic, his index finger for ambition and his ring finger for his subconscious that might guide his magic if only he let it.
The liquid was cool upon his skin but oddly dry and insubstantial, more like cold, thick air than any substance he knew, but at the same time it enfolded his fingers tightly like water and when he carefully sent his magic forth, feeling out the patterns and streams within, the silver thoughts swirled and danced merrily – danced for him. They felt oddly familiar, like a magical signature that he knew by heart and suddenly he realised with a shocking clarity, his pulse fluttering like a dying bird and his throat closing up, that this mass of liquid silver was the only token left from their time together; if they failed, he might never again have more of Harry than these memories, these fragile, fleeting, wispy ghosts, pathetic images of lost dreams that would never have a chance of being repeated, that would fade over the years to come until Draco would never be sure any more what had really happened and what his mind had orchestrated to comfort and entertain him. These were more precious than his own memories, though, because they were filled with Harry's lively spirit, his bright emotions, his own sensations – and he was nearly overcome with the greed to have them, especially if he should never have anything more.

And undeniably that fear was there, hanging over his head ominously like the Sword of Damocles. However confident he felt, however much he trusted in his and Blaise's abilities and refused to acknowledge the possibility of another failure, a tiny part of him could not ignore the fact that Harry might now never become theirs.
If it should come to that, he at least wanted to have this meagre portion of Harry's life, this one day of seven years of knowing each other where the three of them had truly been happy together. Close.
Determined, Draco closed his eyes and brought his fingers up, pulling with him a wisp of dark, shadowed silver and pressing it against his forehead, to absorb the essence of a thought, of a memory not his own.
And the world shifted, unsteady and volatile as his mind sought for a way to align it with his own recollection of the past day. Suddenly there were memories warring against one another in a violent battle, happenings that had taken place simultaneously but that his mind couldn't quite reduce to a common denominator. Before his inner eye fleeting sensations of a few hours ago uncoiled like fragile blossoms opening themselves to the feeble morning sun, hints of voices and sounds and smells and images: The softness of a blanket beneath his legs, the warm sun light on his skin and the smell of grass and flowers and magic. And Harry sitting in front of him, gesticulating animatedly as their hummingbird told him and Blaise of his adventures; Draco had been so surprised at this new perspective of the happenings at Hogwarts, and a bit irked that Harry had freed the hippogriff that had attacked and hurt him, but content all the same that Harry was sharing this with Blaise and him. But he also remembered watching a dumbfounded mirror image of himself gape at him with blatant disbelief while he told him tales of fantastic time turners, dark dementors and stubborn hippogriffs, about animagi and werewolves hunting students – tales that he had really lived through, had experienced himself. Or not? Logically he knew he couldn't have, because at that time he hadn't even been outside of the castle, but that didn't make it less real…
Draco shook his head jerkily to ban the sudden light-headedness threatening to make him feel faint and slightly sick, trying to ignore that inner conflict, this paradox. It was unimportant, insignificant, unrelated to the happenings of the past day!

… Only one treasure he held onto and pulled closer to himself: the vague, somewhat guilty mirth that had unravelled in his chest during the story telling, the little sparkle that had lit his insides at the realisation that they could overcome their past together. Especially since this relief hadn't been in his chest, but Harry's. And Harry's joy that he now remembered.
A poisonous, self-flagellating memory for sure, because it made his fury rise again and mingle with painful regret and loss: their Gryffindor had been more than just comfortable in their presence, he had been happy. Somehow after years of obsessive enmity and vicious fighting they had managed to build some form of deep comfort and familiarity together, a sense of trust that whispered of … something, something that could have had the potential to grow into something great and beautiful. The proof was in his very mind! Tangible and real. Nobody could, would be allowed to take that away!
Again his fingers dipped into the bowl, more quickly, more determined, more frantic. Again they let yet another thought vanish into the furrowed skin of his brow.
And sweet Merlin!
The smell of flowers and candles had gently wafted through the air, it had been so beautiful a night with the soft music weaving a perfect background to their dancing as he was held between two chests, two pairs of arms beneath his legs and back. A bark of laughter, embarrassed and mirthful and so very genuine as it rang through the darkness; it had exploded from his own belly and at the same time speared his chest, because the boy he held so close was vibrating with it. There had been the reassuring pressure of arms around him holding him intimately close and at the same time not… he had been so very happy, so surprisingly comfortable in the arms of Blaise and Draco – or smug, really, holding Harry – so light, as if nothing was real aside from this very moment…
"Harry…" Draco pressed his burning eyes shut at hearing his croaking voice. He was trembling, trying to hold onto Harry's affection, so warm and giddy in his chest. Shit! Damn it…
The memory was so precious – so useless!
Again!
With shaking fingers, Draco caught the next silver lining, the next gleaming memory. And then another when it didn't show him what he needed, and another. Reliving their whole date bit by bit, scene by scene in a seemingly random order, while the images and the emotions wreaked havoc in his mind, unsettling him more than he had thought possible. But he didn't allow himself more time to accept the overwhelming visions, to linger on them, rushing through them instead as if he were running over a path of glowing ambers.
Underneath him the breath-taking landscape of Italy rushed past as he was racing over it in the chariots pulled by the Pihassan, feeling the wind in his face and playing with his hair and the exhilaration of this contest filled his chest, the pleasure of being the centre of Blaise's prideful boasting – "That's my colibrí!" – because Harry had launched a successful sneak attack at their opponents.
Adler smirked at him and he – Harry – felt wary and confused because Ives had been so very angry at his husband who watched him like a mouse caught in a trap, the blue eyes unsettling and cold and smug, and he looked so wrong in that painted rose garden in his black, sombre attire. A hooded crow between colourful flowers of nostalgic beauty.
Harry's fond exasperation as he listened to Draco and Blaise making up excuses for losing the game of aerial combat to the younger Battellis; it mingled so well with Draco's own pleasure as he made the submissive smile, made the Battelli children crow at them. Blaise had loved it as well, his dark eyes shining brightly and the gentle spark of desire for the dark Italian speared two chests at once.
How Harry had distrusted the Battellis at first, how he had assessed them like possible enemies before dismissing them as most likely harmless. And Draco had stood at his side, nervously awaiting Harry's judgement of the Pihassan, of the Battelli's, of his and Blaise's plans for the day… and he wanted, Draco wanted his trust, wanted to take on the responsibility of keeping all of them safe and Harry could give him that, it wouldn't undermine his independence – "Okay." – the joy was visible in his expression and Harry smiled at him softly. Covering Draco's soft lips and being kissed by Harry, flooding this gorgeous body with waves of power he received and by Merlin, he looked so breath-taking like this, dazed and drunken on magic, his magic! But he hadn't really been looking, had he? He had been staring at the submissive that had done this to him like a besotted fool…
More and more reminders tore through his brain and Draco's skin felt too tight to breathe in, like leather drying too quickly and hardening in the too warm air. It was too much, all these too deep emotions that were curiously close to what he felt for Blaise… a little less ripened perhaps, not as defined, but still there with a similar flavour, and so obviously on their way to becoming just as strong.

Harry's emotions echoed this truth, Draco's own did and Blaise's most likely as well. It was cruel that he should only recognize it only now, and it tautened his whole being until he felt as if he was close to snapping.
And still he went on until – finally – he remembered what he had dreaded and searched for, as another sliver of silver entered his brow.
There could be no doubt now, Hermione and Ron were used against Harry and by Merlin, it made Draco's flesh crawl to remember the deep affection he (no, Harry) held for them. Not because he was repulsed, but because that man played with those emotions like a puppeteer with the strings connected to his toys' limbs.
And god, they looked so broken, so uncharacteristically fearful! The determination to get them out of this nightmare he, Draco and Blaise had pulled them into had made his emotions freeze temporarily. But he couldn't bargain with the devil… and Ron was tortured for his defiance and he couldn't do anything, anything at all to save them! The screams! The screams tore through the air, so loud and shrill, ripped through every fibre of his being and he just wanted it to stop. He begged and pleaded but the cruel bastard was only challenging him more with every gaze and he knew he wouldn't release his friends before he had Harry's complete submission.

So he gave it...
The pure flood of emotions was overwhelming, it clouded his mind and left Draco gasping for air, his knees hurting from the cold, hard stone tiles, and the sour, bitter taste of bile in his mouth. He couldn't… couldn't think past the memories, they were smothering him… he needed them out!
Trembling fingers pressed against his forehead and he willed the hurtful thought to stick to them, so that he could pull and tear it out of his head. It was much more difficult than scooping it up from the Pensieve had been, but he managed it, pushed past the sluggish resistance and with another shiver it was gone, leaving only the vague feeling that there had been something to remember… it was such a relief to be free of it, such a horrible knowledge that this was what Harry had felt like, must be feeling like right now.
Panting, Draco lowered the memory into the bowl to the few other, swirling thoughts. The surface rippled like water, whirled like mist.
With his forefinger he prodded the liquid with intent and the Pensieve was activated: the silvery mass started to swirl quickly for a few moments until it started to become transparent and still, a looking glass showing Harry's rooms from above like a window in the ceiling.
Draco bent lower over the shallow bowl until his nose touched the cold, not quite solid substance and with an almighty lurch he was thrown forward, falling into the familiar icy-cold and black whirl pool that sucked the mind into the very heart of a memory.
A memory of chaos that welcomed him with a cacophony of screams and howling wind and Harry's shouting as he landed on the floor of Harry's rooms, the Gryffindor himself kneeling next to him, his magic racing around him like a tornado, completely out of control and the threads of the curtains that once had been draped over the two-way mirror flew around him in a whirlwind, partly obscuring his cowering form. His face was a grotesque grimace of desperation and horror as he tried to get that madman to stop torturing Weasley.
"I'll do it! Please stop, I'll do it – I'll do it!" Harry cried out, beseeched the kidnapper of his friends through the storm of his magic, hot tears flowing down his face and Draco wanted nothing more than to take him into his arms and apparate him out of this nightmare. But it was too late. This was the Harry of the past and he had already had to live through this hell. In Blaise's own home – practically under their very noses.
That didn't stop him from reaching out, though, his pale fingers hovering over the golden skin of Harry's cheek that he couldn't touch, reddened now from his shouting, from the strain and agitation. And, even as silence once more settled around him after the cruciatus curse was broken and Granger's and Weasley's terrified whimpers were once more hidden behind a privacy spell, he knew that Harry was thinking about killing this man, not with the delusive righteousness of an executioner, but with the despairing hopelessness of someone who didn't have a real choice. Someone forced to commit an unspeakable atrocity for the greater good.
"What have they done to you, Harry?" He whispered, thinking of Dumbledore, Voldemort, all the choices Harry had been forced to make and had been so unprepared for. Of this kidnapper who was now pushing the Gryffindor in a corner once again.
Behind him, the man spoke up and Draco reluctantly turned away from Harry's quickly donned, horrible expression of composedness, facing that devil with a whole new level of hate swamping him.

"Are you ready to come to us now Mr Potter? Out of your own free will?"
"Laughable." Draco spat contemptibly. Harry's compliance in this would never be out of his own free will, whatever pretence that man wanted to uphold.
But he forced himself not to listen to the deadness in his nightingale's voice as he breathed a short "I will" in answer, focusing instead on the kidnapper himself, trying to find out where the man was, where Harry would be brought to.
As loath as he was at having to admit it, Draco didn't know him. Most of Blaise's relatives wore their hair long just as the purebloods had done for centuries once they left school and started to build their own lives and his face was plain and nondescript, a face like one might find thousands in Italy.
Polyjuiced then, most likely using the hair of a muggle, or possibly some transfiguration spell. And since the room he was in was unfamiliar to Draco as well, Harry's Pensieve memories were not applicable proofs for the guardia to convict Blaise's uncle, whose presence at the manor could be explained with Harry's letter because as a representative of the Vykélari council he had the duty to pursue any hint to the infraction of Vykélari law. For all they knew, it could be a complete coincidence that Harry was blackmailed the same evening that the council was notified of the letter.

Reluctantly Draco had to admit that it was ingenious; a clever fallback option in case the actual plan had failed and Harry either had went to Draco and Blaise for help or had been hindered in his escape from the manor. Harry wouldn't be able to identify his kidnappers until after he had left the protection of Blaise and Draco and met his future mate.
And then, after Harry would be mated, there would only be three witnesses who could truly give evidence to the identity of the kidnappers: Harry, who would not be able to go against the family of his mate-to-be, and Weasley and Granger.
They were the only weaknesses in this plan, and perhaps the ones that held the answer Draco so desperately needed.
For the first time since this all began, Draco focused all of his attention on the two forms cowering almost pathetically there on the floor of this weird, flying muggle vehicle. It probably shouldn't be, but the sight was like barbed wire entangling itself into the coils of his guts. Of course witnessing torture always made him sick to the stomach, ever since he had experienced for himself that it rarely ended in something other than death and these were Harry's friends; for his sake at least he didn't want them hurt or dead.
Weasley lay trembling on the ground, having curled into a foetal position as if that could save him from yet another curse and his back was heaving with violent sobs that Draco couldn't hear due to the privacy spell and he was unbelievably, selfishly glad for this small mercy. Only the previous morning this young man, who was now little more than a pile of misery and fear and pain, had threatened him, had sworn retribution under the Tiwaz vow for every injustice they might do his friend. It was surreal and grotesque and just plain wrong.
Next to Weasley, Granger still rocked herself back and forth, her hands pressing against her ears in a feeble attempt to shut out the world. Her lips were moving quickly as if she murmured to herself, or beseeched her captor, or possibly prayed.
Frowning and tilting his head, Draco stepped closer to the pair, watching those red lips move soundlessly, too quickly to understand anything.
What had they done to her, that she was so broken so quickly? She might be a mudblood, but Draco knew from his own experiences with the Golden Trio that she was brave, a true Gryffindor at heart. By Mordred, the girl had been tortured before by one of the Dark Lord's most feared followers and only minutes later had fought her way out of Draco's manor. That was not something Draco could or would forget any time soon.
No, this was not like Granger at all. Not like Weasley at all, and the question that filled Draco with dread remained: what had they done?
At that moment, a thin film of magic spread over the surface of the mirror, enveloping it completely and Draco raised his eyes to see Harry standing some feet away, his palms pressed to the reflective glass, his expression frozen and stiff. And the mirror shrank, the sides travelling towards the middle where it was held on the wall with hovering charms until it was nothing more than a little pane the size of a matchbox.
With a far too jerky movement, Harry plucked it from the wall and laid it onto his naked, left forearm. And Draco remembered this part, even though he had not paid attention to the kidnapper this last two minutes as he explained his plan to Harry, remembered it from when he had absorbed the memory earlier. Now he could do nothing but watch helplessly as his Gryffindor attached the shrunken mirror with a sticking charm and disillusioned it so that it was almost invisible against the golden tan of his forearm.
He would leave the manor, conspicuously through the front door, so that if something might go wrong and he was discovered, the guardia would be able to observe Draco's and Blaise's hopefully dramatic and determined attempts to keep him inside, thus strengthening the guardia's already carefully fanned impression of them abusing Harry. And if he alerted anyone, his blackmailers would be able to hear it and his friends' lives were forfeited.
Such it had been planned and such it had been engineered.
Blaise and Draco had walked right into the trap laid out for them. But not again.
Slowly, Draco stood. By now, Harry must have arrived at his final location, where undoubtedly he would meet the Vykélari dominant that had been chosen as his mate. Since the Lanais didn't know of the spying potion, they would now probably abandon their masquerade and show Harry their real faces, lead him into one of the manors the family owned and which both Blaise and Draco would be able to identify. It was time to leave this memory and examine Harry's latest ones.
No one tricked a Malfoy and got away with it. Except one Harry Potter.

CHAPTER END NOTES:
Whew… well, I hoped you liked the chapter.
The next scene was actually meant to be a part of it, but I didn't get around to writing it yet. Anyway, thanks for reading and if you have the time, I'd be grateful to hear your opinion!
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Night Flight