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Intoxicate the Sun	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 18051 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and I am making no money from this story.

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Twenty-Nine--Consequences
�� When Draco
opened his eyes, his first thought was, I'm
warm.
�� It was only
his second and later thoughts that traveled into the realm of Shit, What have I done?, I can't believe I
did that, and similar things, despite what he tried to tell himself later.
�� He turned
around slowly, though that was hard as a clutching arm was draped over his
waist and Potter shifted complainingly, muttering, when Draco moved. But he
went back to sleep in the next instant, or at least Draco assumed he did; the
wrinkles smoothed out of his face, his eyelids dropped straight down, and he
began to breathe in long, slow, deep breaths. Not quite a snore, Draco thought.
He must not have snored at all. Draco had slept beside him most of the night,
and he would have woken, since he was sensitive to things like that, with the
delicate refinement of a Malfoy.
�� He was a
Malfoy.
�� Who had
just slept with a Potter. Who had his parents free because of that Potter, and
still alive on sufferance because of a Potter.
�� Not just
any Potter, this Potter, who had
played such a large part in destroying his father's freedom and ambitions.
�� The father
who didn't care for him anymore, who had exasperated him enough last night that
he had come here looking for a pity fuck. Draco took a long breath and then
released it in a loose, shuddering laugh that he only kept soft so as to avoid
waking Potter up.
�� God. He was
a mess. He was in a mess. He didn't know what to do next, what to change in the
hope that its falling, its changing, wouldn't mess up something else that he
depended on.
�� He didn't
know who he was anymore.
�� And that was the main reason that he was
here in Potter's bed; he could admit it to himself if no one else. He was still
looking for someone who would help him define himself, by opposition if nothing
else. He had spent so long in his father's shadow that it was laughable,
pathetic. His father had taught Draco who he was in this constantly shifting
world, he had sheltered Draco and let him dream of the day that he would become
someone on his own.
�� But that
day had never arrived. Lucius and his protection and teaching were stripped
from his life suddenly, and Draco had sought them again, instead of seeking
something to replace them.
�� The way he
should have.
�� But the
admonition had the same problem with all the admonitions that Draco had ever
heard directed at him: from Snape, from Dumbledore, from the Death Eaters who
had thought he could be a worthy servant of Voldemort or should be, from
Potter, from the Ministry. They arrived too
late. Draco was already standing among the crumbling pieces of his life by
the time he received them, with no hope of picking up those pieces and starting
again.
�� I don't know what to do. I don't know what
to do.
�� The words
hammered in his skull, and he tried to breathe and found that the breath had
locked up in his lungs. Draco reached out and caught the edge of the bed,
flailing, his words coming out as fluttering whimpers.
�� "Draco?"
�� That was
Potter, the one sitting up behind him, the one who sounded alarmed for him, the
first person Draco had heard in days who did. He turned and buried his head in
Potter's chest, and his breath came rushing out of him, as though the hands
that Potter put gently on his back a second later were hammers or paddles. Potter
rocked him back and forth, saying nothing. Draco wondered how he knew that
silence was needed. There was a lot Potter knew or understood about him that
didn't seem easy to guess.
�� Or maybe it
was, and his parents were simply ignoring it to focus on their own special,
exclusive bond, one that Draco had never belonged to, one that his mother had
chosen over her only child...
�� The feeling
of suffocation descended on him again, and he punched Potter in the shoulder.
"Why did you have to be the one to rescue them?" he whispered,
pulling back so that he could stare into that old-young, wise-foolish,
green-eyed face. "Why did you have to be the one to change my life? It
couldn't be someone who didn't hate me, it couldn't be someone neutral, it had
to be you."
�� "I
don't hate you."
�� Draco shut
his eyes, turned his head away. The words continued to flow out of his mouth,
relentless, like diarrhea. "That makes it worse. Worse. Because that way, I have no one to blame because my parents
don't care for me. I came to you last night because I wanted someone to fuck
the pain away, someone to look at me with that light in his eyes that my mother
uses when she looks at my father. And now I know that you really did that, and
that I can't be angry with you, and that I'm getting angrier at you as a result
of it."
�� Potter was
silent for so long that Draco tensed. This was it, Potter was going to kick him
out of bed, and part of Draco's mind would be relieved even as the rest of him
wailed in loss. That would confirm the prejudices that were starting to take
root in Draco's mind, the long-held prejudices about Potter and how much he
hated what Draco represented, and although he would be alone again, at least he
would have something to define himself against. He would know who he was.
�� "Well,"
Potter said at last. "I won't deny that I'm a bit disappointed by
this."
�� Draco
leaped out of the bed, trying to ignore the fact that he was naked from the
waist up and that he could still feel a bit of crackling stickiness in his
pants from the come that they hadn't cleaned off, and pointed a trembling
finger at Potter. "Stop doing that!"
�� "Stop
what?" Potter leaned an elbow on the bed and frowned at him. The frown was
good, Draco thought. It looked as threatening as any scowl that Potter had
tossed him in school, now that he knew what Potter was capable of. "Being
honest? If I did that, then I'd have to lie to you, and I'm neither good at
lying generally nor doing it to people I like."
�� "You're
acting as though it's reasonable, what I'm doing," Draco said bitterly.
"You're acting like you can forgive me for sleeping with you when what you
really want is some grand, romantic love affair. Why aren't you sneering at me
for not being a perfect Gryffindor? Why aren't you kicking me out?"
*
�� Oh. I know what he wants, now.
�� Harry had
seen the same hunger in the eyes of some of the people he'd debated with the
other day. Draco hungered for simple answers. He wanted someone to tell him
what was wrong and what was right, although maybe not for the same reasons as
other people. If Harry tried to explain the whole complicated, tangled, messy,
complex truth--such as that he'd fucked up and was trying to make up for his
mistakes now, or that he wanted Draco despite knowing that he wasn't
perfect--then it took time and they got more and more agitated.
�� But it was
the truth, that was the problem. And
the truth was complex, at least in this situation. For a moment, Harry found
himself envying people like Lucius Malfoy. Their lives probably seemed pretty
simple and straightforward.
�� Harry
nodded. He would give the truth, and hope that was enough, if Draco would let
him explain it.
�� "Because
I've already changed from the person you're talking about, the one who wanted
the grand, romantic love affair," he said. "I can't--I know I can't
have that with someone like you. But I want you anyway, because you burn with
the kind of determination I need."

�� "So
it's a selfish longing then?" Draco's face wavered. He didn't know if he
should laugh or get angry, Harry thought, and his magic purred beneath his
heart, telling him that Draco's heart was going far too fast and that he was
less calm than he appeared.
�� "Yes,"
Harry said, dryly. "You could call it that. But you could also call it
admiration. I would."
�� "Because
you're deluded."
�� Harry
rolled his eyes and bit back the sharp words that wanted to escape, about how
Draco would always find the one copper Knut in a heap of Galleons. "You
want to think that because you're not used to this," he said quietly.
"And because the one I want is you. That's it, isn't it? Because your
parents are turning away from you, and they're the only ones who ever wanted
you, you can't believe that someone else would."
�� For a
second, Draco's face was stricken, and then he turned away as if he would bolt,
lost shirt and all. Harry sprang up from the bed and brought one hand down, and
a new ward appeared over the door of his room, blazing with light and heat in a
way that left no doubt about what would happen should Draco come closer.
�� Draco
jerked to a halt and stood there, shivering and panting as though he assumed Harry
would strike him. Then he turned around and lifted his chin, his eyes shining
with hatred. Or at least, it looked like hatred. Harry ignored that, focusing
on the way Draco breathed. This was about more than his own feelings, far more.
It was about what Draco needed.
�� "Going
to keep me prisoner here, then?" Draco asked, his voice cracking down the
middle. "Like father, like son?"
�� "That
would be too easy for you," Harry said. "No. All I want to know is
what you intend to do next. Should we get you out a second way, so that no one
sees you emerging from my room and draws conclusions you don't wish them to draw?
Are you going to pretend this never happened?" That would hurt, but as
long as it was actually Draco's decision and not something that happened simply
because no one was brave enough to pin him down, that would be fine. "Are
you going to walk out hand-in-hand with me?"
�� "Definitely
not the last," Draco said sharply. "That would mean more people would
hate me than ever, and that it would be harder for you be taken seriously when
you talked."
�� Harry
smiled.
�� "What
are you grinning for?" Draco
hunched his shoulders as though bearing into a strong wind. "You have
every right to get angry at me."
�� "I'm a
little angry," Harry admitted. "But at least you're doing something
other than panicking right now. Fine. We'll keep it secret for now, and a
repeat is up to you. But that means you should get back to your bed before
someone checks up on you and then comes hastening to tell me that you ran
away." He raised his hand, and the stone wall next to his bed trembled and
rippled. The fire that burned it softened the rocks, pushing them back at the
same time, so a tunnel opened.
�� Draco
swallowed and stared at him. "Tell me that was there a moment
before," he whispered.
�� Harry shook
his head.
�� "Tell
me the owners of this manor built it, and I'm just now seeing it." Another
whisper.
�� "Why
should I help you lie to yourself?" Harry asked. "If anything, I'd
rather encourage you to be more honest with yourself. No. I created this
tunnel, but it's not very long. It'll travel with you, opening before and
behind, and then close after it leads you into your room."
�� "You
have so much power," Draco said,
his voice so low Harry had to concentrate to hear it at all. "Why would
you do this for me?"
�� Harry
smiled. The magic sang in him, strong and pulsing beneath the surface like a
volcanic explosion of its own. "Because I want to, and it hurts no one
else."
��
�� Draco stood
there looking at him for a moment more, as if he didn't consider that an
adequate answer. Then he shook his head and walked past Harry into the tunnel.
Harry got ready to manipulate the stone so it would drop shut behind Draco and close
him in. While Draco was the one more likely to suffer if someone found out what
had happened, Ron would probably come to check on Harry soon, too.
�� "Why?"
�� Draco had
turned to look back at him, his arms folded as though he was cold--or as though
he could hold the weight of the revelation that Harry would hand him away with
that simple gesture. Harry met his eyes and shook his head.
�� "You
know the reason," he said. "I've declared it several times now, and
if you didn't hear it, it was because you didn't choose to listen."
�� Draco
closed his eyes. "Say that I'm listening now," he muttered, voice as
harsh as a raven's. "Say that I want to know, and that I don't think
you've told me clearly enough yet."
�� "I'm
in love with you," Harry said. "There's a lot that I would do for
you, not much I wouldn't. But you're the one who has to decide how much you
want that to mean. If it doesn't mean anything more than last night--" He
took a deep breath, and tried not to reveal how much effort it took to do so.
The thing was, of course he had to let Draco make the decisions, there was no
other way that this would work or could go, but it still hurt. "Then it
doesn't."
�� Draco
turned and fled down the tunnel. Too much
honesty, Harry thought dryly as he listened to Draco's heartbeat moving
through the wall, so that he knew when he should melt more stone and when he
should solidify that part of the passage Draco would no longer need. Did the poor little Slytherin
get scared?
�� But even
that wasn't fair, because Draco had endured far more than Harry had in the past
seven years, and he had never been as bad as Harry thought even when his House affiliation was all Harry
saw.
�� "I'm
sorry," Harry whispered, and leaned back on his pillow, closing his eyes.
He'd had little sleep last night, for a variety of reasons, and it would be
wise to get some now. "But I hope you make up your bloody mind soon."
*
�� I think we have it this time.
�� George
snorted and studied the design on the piece of parchment, most of which Fred
had drawn by working through his hands. "That was what you thought we had
last time, and it didn't work out."
�� You didn't let me help last time.
�� "I did
so! I listened to your bloody stupid suggestions, and that mess is what
resulted." George gestured around him to where the scorch marks and the
marks of the chains still shone on the walls. "If you'd let me plan
everything--"

�� It's not my fault that you're stupid at maths--
�� "Thinking
lightning could be caught in a cage, hah,
if you'd remembered symbolism was important we should have used some other
way--"
�� You've always ignored the obvious, Fred
snapped, in that way he had of dragging a conversation completely off target. You approved the cage, too. So we need to
find some way of capturing it that isn't a cage. What then, Mr. Genius? George
knew Fred was looking out of his eyes at their new design on the parchment,
which rather resembled the Muggle things Hermione had
told them about once, called roller coasters. I think this is going to work. It's as wild as the lightning, but it'll
channel it.
�� "If
the problem is that you can't control lightning, then one design won't work any
better than anything else," George complained. "And you know that
Hermione told us these roller coasters are--are used for entertainment. I don't
think the lightning wants to be used that way, either."
�� Then come up with another way, little
brother, Fred goaded him. You think
that you're so much smarter than I am? You think that you understand all the
intricacies of the symbolism that I don't? Then come up with your own design.
�� "I
will!" George turned his back on the new design in a radical declaration
of distrust and paced up and down the room, ignoring the needling sensation
that was Fred poking about in the back of his brain.
�� You can't figure out a way to make lightning
dance on the head of a pin, let alone at Harry's command. Give it up and let me
help. Fred paused, as the full force of George's thoughts bounced back to
him, and then added, In a few hours, when
you're sorry for that, I'll come back. The sensation of him vanished.
�� George
closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. There had to be some way through the paradox that he and Fred had discovered. They
had to control the lightning, but lightning hated to be controlled. Or couldn't
be controlled, which amounted to much the same thing. George wasn't entirely
sure if they were dealing with magical sentient lightning or only a natural
phenomenon that he and Fred had the same feelings about, but either way, it
could cause problems.
�� What they
almost needed, he thought grumpily, was a way to design lightning bolts
themselves, designs that changed second by second, contenting any wild
intelligence the lightning had and at the same time putting the kind of
limitation on it that Harry would need to wield it...
�� George's
head jerked up, and his eyes flew wide.
�� It might be possible. Might.
�� There was a
sulky stir from Fred in the back of his head. George ignored it as he ran to
his desk and started flinging parchment to the sides in feverish haste, looking
for an unused piece.
�� He had it,
but it was such a fleeting thought, it would twist out of their mind in a
moment. They had to get it down, now.
�� And then they would see who was the genius
inventor around here.
*
�� Hermione
leaned back in her chair and shook her head at the stack of parchments that
stood in front of her. In one corner of her mind, she wondered why the Minister
had wanted her to investigate something so ridiculous. Yes, there were
prophecies that could apply to Potter if one stretched one's thoughts in a new
direction and then twisted them out of shape, but the thought that any of them
actually would was laughable. She
should be doing something else, something she had the time and talent to do.
�� Then her
mind changed and flexed, and a hot flush of shame crossed her cheeks. Who was
she to think that any task the Minister set her was ridiculous? Clearwater would have her
reasons. Hermione was the ridiculous
one, the one who should be punished for doubting the Minister.
�� A corner of
her mind grabbed and seized the ideas she was thinking of, and held them close
to her chest. They were important.
�� But two
seconds later, she had forgotten why again.
�� Hermione
shook her head and turned to the prophecies she had thought likely to refer to
Potter. They were obscure, of course, and could cover any events in the several
decades since they'd been given, but there were enough close correspondences
that she thought the Minister would want to see them anyway.
�� One said
simply Mabel Prism at the top,
presumably the name of the Seer. (If one believed in Seers. Which Hermione
didn't. But the Minister had set her to this task, which must mean the Minister
did believe, which must mean that they had some value). Beneath it was a
rambling collection of lines, several of them crossed out. Hermione didn't know
if that meant Prism had changed her mind after reciting the prophecy or if the
person copying it down had made mistakes. Probably the latter. She copied the
canceled lines onto her master sheet of parchment anyway, and hoped that the
Minister would be happy with her for it.
�� When the summer of the kings comes,
�� When they are ripest and fullest in
flower,
�� When they swell and drip with the
rot and fall to the forest floor,
�� There shall come a stream of clear
water
�� And a fire.
�� The fire shall burn a new path,
�� Across the earth and across the sky,
�� And those who follow shall find
�� Their heart's desire at the end of
that path.
�� The water shall seek to quench the
fire.
�� The fire shall seek to evade the
water.
�� The fire shall blossom from earth
and from sky,
�� And take the fire-wielder far away.
�� The second
line and the fourth and the ninth were crossed out. Of course the ninth was,
Hermione thought scornfully. The idea that those who followed Potter would find
any contentment or satisfaction, the sort that were supposed to accompany a
heart's desire, were laughable.
�� (One part
of her mind breathed rebellion and memorized the prophecy, canceled lines and
all, and the other part of her mind refused to breathe the same air).
�� But the
reference to clear water was too intriguing to pass up, so Hermione copied it.
She felt a wriggle of pure pleasure pass through her, and smiled. Minister
Clearwater might feel better when she realized that she was clearly meant to
defend the wizarding world against Potter's ridiculousness.
�� The other
prophecy she thought most important--in the sense that anything from a
self-proclaimed Seer could be important (no, it was; yes, it was not)--didn't
show anything like so clear, but Hermione had locked onto it because of the
constant references to fire. This time, there was no Seer's name on the
parchment. Hermione wondered if that meant it was older than the other one, so
old that the person who made this copy had lost the original recording of the
prophecy.
�� Summer turns. Summer fails. Summer dies.
�� The end of the summer has proclaimed
once before
�� The fall of the dark one, dire at
need.
�� Now the prophecy passes into
ripeness,
�� And the fire swells forth, falling
in fountains.
�� He destroys the dead, he laves the
living
�� In fountains of fire, in deeds of
destruction.
�� There are mountains he will move and
make tremble;
�� There are islands he will isolate
further.
�� He laughs with the lightning, he
soars with the storm,
�� And like them he chooses his change
from second to second.
��
�� Summer turns. Summer fails. Summer
burns.
�� The moment when the wide wings sweep
wider,
�� When the lightning laughs and the
storm swings down
�� Is when he will choose his change
for all time.
�� They might
have until the end of the summer, then. The problem was that Hermione didn't
know if the reference was literal or not. It sounded so in the second prophecy,
but not in the first one, where the "summer of the kings" might be
referring to the time of the Ministry, who had controlled the wizarding world
like kings.
�� (Never.
Never. She must never believe that).
�� Hermione
gathered up her documents and left, shutting the door of the prophecy storeroom
firmly behind her. She did wonder what treasures she might be leaving there,
what prophecies might refer to Potter without her knowledge--
�� (There was
one, a scrap of paper, she had glanced at and thrust down, to the bottom of the
pile, forcing herself to forget--)
�� But she
shook her head and carried the chosen documents carefully to the Minister. She
was the one, with her superior intelligence and her ability to command, who
must decide.
*
�� SP777:
Draco is scared, now, and it's going to take him a little more time to get over
his fear of the consequences. But I wouldn't have labeled this story
Harry/Draco if he never did.
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Intoxicate the Sun