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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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Chapter Thirty-Six—Tidings of the Avalanche

            “What do you want?”

            George studied Malfoy critically. His eyes had fluttered when he first saw them, as if he had expected someone else lurking outside his parents’ prison, or had a right to expect that. Well, perhaps he did, if he was sleeping with Harry. But George couldn’t gratify that particular wish.

            “We want to talk to you,” George said. “We haven’t had a chance to talk, have we? Just the four of us?” He knew without glancing over his shoulder that Ron would be cracking his knuckles in that casually threatening way he did so well, and which didn’t fit his real personality at all.

            “Four?” Malfoy’s eyes widened, and he put a hand on his wand, not at all subtly. His eyes darted into the darkness.

            Oh. “For now,” George said firmly, “you might as well accept that I still have access to the mind and emotions of my twin, even though he’s dead. It’ll make things a lot simpler for all of us, all right? And that way, we don’t have to pretend that anyone is crazy or anyone is friendly. Although I think our little brother and you are getting friendly.”

            Think about what you say before you say it, Fred snapped at him as protesting noises came from both Malfoy and Ron. It might encourage you, sometimes, to get through a day without any mistakes.

            “I didn’t mean it that way,” George said, which he would have said to anyone involved just then. “Of course not. We know you’re dating our Harry. We just want to find out whether you’re interested in killing him. That’s all.”

            Malfoy’s mouth dropped open, and he stared at George blankly. George couldn’t figure out why until Ron’s elbow nudged him in the ribs, and he leaned close to hiss, “Do you think he’d tell us if he was?”

            George sighed. Malfoys always confused him, especially when they weren’t Malfoys pointing their wands at Gryffindors and declaiming grand speeches about how they would finish them off soon. That was the natural place of Malfoys and all their kind, George thought. And the natural place of Fred was at his side, and the natural place of a Ron was with Hermione, and Harry…

            That puzzled him a bit, because he couldn’t imagine a good natural place for Harry when he thought about it. Well, it was possible that Malfoy would provide one. George focused on Malfoy again and said conversationally, “I think that you’re probably good for him, and too smart to destroy the one protection you have. But I don’t know for certain. So we came here so we could get a good look at you.”

            “Would you settle on one first-person pronoun and use it in the proper way?” Malfoy’s face was pale. “It would help me a great deal to know who I’m addressing and how many of you.”

            He’s still limited by conventional ways of looking at things, Fred murmured in the back of his mind. And you know that Harry isn’t, not when he can accept the way we are and he’s spoken to lightning. That might be a good sign for Malfoy’s ability to stand beside Harry, I don’t know.

            “Fine,” George said, because he thought that Fred’s observation was valuable but there was no subtle way to work it into the conversation right now. He’d already been unsubtle enough. “Then I want to know why you’re so interested in Harry, when you first came into the revolution focused on your parents.”

            Malfoy stood taller at that, and smiled as though George’s words had given him a jolt of bitter strength. “Isn’t that obvious?” he asked. “My parents are free now. I have to find something else to focus on if I want to remain relevant to the revolution, if I want to have Potter pay attention to me. And focusing on him is the way to do it.”

            “So you just want the position of power that being his concubine would give you?” George asked. He felt obscurely disappointed. He had hoped that what Malfoy and Harry had was something more than that; Merlin knew that Harry could use something like that, to keep him focused on reality and keep him from vanishing into the struggle between his own power and the strange, savage forces moving around him.

            “Concubine?” It was good, George thought, that some things hadn’t changed and Malfoy could still squeak in outrage. “Who says that? Of course I’m not trying to be that.” Then he caught control of himself, if the steady crack of his teeth was any indication, and shook his head. “But if you think that I care as much about Potter as about my parents—if you want to hear that I’m in love with him and I’d never betray him and that he’s my dream and my hero—then you’ll be waiting a long time.”

            “Bollocks.”

            I knew it was a good idea to bring Ron with us, Fred chirped smugly, and under the circumstances, George refrained from reminding his twin that it hadn’t really been his idea. He turned to see Ron stepping forwards. He hadn’t drawn his wand. He didn’t need to. His stare kept Malfoy pinned in place the way a Stunner might have.

            “What?” Malfoy’s voice was weak as he spoke the word, like the voice of a newborn ghost.

            “I’ve seen you with him,” Ron said. He was so steady, so calm, that George felt a burst of admiration. There were times that they could use that trait, too. Ron might not be the brilliant one in the family, like them, but he was the strongest. “Love? I think that’s a little much. But you think about him as more than the key to your parents’ safety and your own. People don’t look like that at the ones they’re manipulating.”

            Malfoy folded his arms and turned his head away. His voice was muffled, as though he’d bitten on the inside of his cheek to be able to speak at all. “Think that, Weasel, do you? If someone’s good enough at manipulating, you’d never know it. There would be too many emotions in their eyes for you to pin down, and you would never know for certain which one was real.”

            “That’s what I mean,” Ron said. “You aren’t like that. I’m sure that you’d like to be, because it would mean that people couldn’t read you and you would be less vulnerable. But you’re as open as a first-year’s Potions book, especially to someone who’s had the chance to watch you. You look at Harry too often. You support him too openly. You feel safe and protected around him where other people feel afraid of his magic. That’s not all the time, because sometimes you do try to hide it, but it’s there. And there’s anger and resentment, too, but I reckon that’s only natural. It’s not every day that someone falls in love with his enemy.”

            Malfoy had gone still, the kind of defensive stillness that George had seen a lot of times before. He was ready when Malfoy turned and tried to cast a Memory Charm on them, and he reached out and slapped the git’s cheek. Malfoy blinked and gasped, the charm vanishing in a useless puff of air.

            “None of that, now,” George said, and it was Fred’s voice that came from his lips, although their voices had been so alike when they alive that he doubted anyone else noticed. Well, maybe Ron gave a start of wonder. George couldn’t focus on him, since they were busy with Malfoy. “It’s not a weakness for us to know it. Someone else might try to use you against Harry, or use what you just admitted against your parents. We won’t.”

            Malfoy shook his head. His lips were bloodless. “I can’t admit that,” he said. “You don’t know that. It’s not true.” His eyes darted to Ron as though he thought Ron would punch him for the try at Obliviation.

            “I think that you should count us as your allies,” George said, and he couldn’t have described whether that was Fred’s suggestion or his own. “We’re the only ones in the revolution, besides you, that you can trust to be fully behind Harry. Some of the others have good intentions, but they’re too afraid to stand behind him the way he needs. On the other hand, if he falters, you falter, and your parents are exposed to danger. So you might as well work with us.”

            Malfoy shook his head stubbornly. Locks of hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat. His eyes were wide and haunted. “You can never trust me, though,” he said. “There are people who have acted against their own self-interest before. I might turn against Potter. I was never the wisest person in school. You know that I’m selfish. What if I see more power in betraying him to the Ministry than letting him survive?”

            “When the Ministry would snatch your parents up and execute them or lock them away again like that?” Ron snapped his fingers, making Malfoy jump. “I’ll tell you what you’re not, is a very good liar. You can’t make us believe that you’ll possibly turn against Harry with words like that.”

            Malfoy bared his teeth in response, but said nothing. George thought they had cornered him, and he was frantically trying to come up with some way out of the corner.

            “Why does this bother you so much?” George asked quietly. There was a contained, waiting stillness in his mind, and he knew that Fred wanted the answer to the question he was asking as much as he did. “Surely you know that you have to trust someone so you and your parents can escape what might happen if the rest of them turn against Harry. Why is it so hard, having allies you can depend on?”

*

            This was never the way it was meant to be. We were enemies. My life can’t change this much.

            But Draco knew that that statement would only have made sense when he was locked in the dusty silence of Malfoy Manor. Sometimes he missed it. His life had made so much sense then, stripped down to hatred of the Ministry and ways to free his mother and father or at least visit them. If he was back there, he would know where everything was, what to do, what to dream, what to say.

            Instead, he had a pair of mad Weasleys who wanted to be his friends standing in front of him, and they thought that he was in love with Potter.

            Draco ground his teeth. He wasn’t about to admit something so ridiculous, especially because he didn’t know that he was in love with Potter. Weasleys saying something didn’t make it so, although he suspected Potter would disagree with him on that.

            “You’re my allies if I’m Potter’s lover, all right,” he said, glad that his voice was back under control. “But that doesn’t mean that you’re my allies in everything that matters to me. Would you give my parents wands?”

            “That isn’t a fair test.” Weasley—Draco grimaced at the thought that he might have to call him “Ron” to distinguish him from his crazy brother—stood with his arms folded and one jaundiced eye fastened on Draco. “You wouldn’t give them wands, either.”

            Draco stared at him. “I would,” he said at last, when he could speak through the terror. How could Weasley see that far into him? How could he read what he saw there? They had always been enemies, and that meant Weasley shouldn’t have cared enough to learn to read him.

            “No, you wouldn’t,” Ron said. “Because you don’t trust them. You haven’t tried to involve them in any of the discussions the revolution has had. You don’t release them from their rooms. You don’t trust them, or maybe they’re not sane enough to trust. And I know that Harry once hinted your father had attacked you.”

            I never knew that someone understanding and sounding sympathetic would hurt this much.

            But Draco knew the truth, all the truths that Weasley wasn’t admitting right now. He knew what his father had done to Weasley’s little sister in their second year. He knew the long and bitter rivalry between their fathers. He knew that his father had fought against Weasley when he was still a Death Eater, attacking the Department of Mysteries. That meant Weasley couldn’t forgive him and care for him the way Draco did, and Draco would trust the fate of his parents to no one else.

            Except Potter. Who you know cares for you, enough to want you and bed you two times, but doesn’t care for your family.

            Draco shuddered, and snapped, “It doesn’t matter. It would be suicide to ask for more than I have, and it would be political suicide for Potter to give me more. But you needn’t pretend that you’re concerned over my family still being imprisoned.”

            “I don’t care that much, no,” Weasley said. “But if there’s a permanent solution, then I’m in favor of it, because it would give the revolution one less thing to hate Harry for and it would stop distracting him.”

            Draco relaxed his arm muscles. That much he could understand, and it seemed much likelier to him than a sudden, feigned friendship would have.

            “And because you’re important to Harry,” Weasley finished. “I know he would be concerned if Hermione’s parents were the ones in this situation, or mine. So I have to be concerned about yours, too.”

            Draco ground his teeth and shook his head. “You don’t have to pretend, I told you.”

            “This isn’t pretending,” Weasley said. “This is what has to happen now, because Harry wants you.” His eyes were as bright and unflinching and painful as sunlight. Draco had thought Potter’s gaze was bad, but at least Potter knew something about wildness and secrets and darkness and boring through walls to get what he wanted. Weasley looked as if he didn’t know the same things and yet was still just as strong. “So. I think, based on what we’ve seen, that we can trust you. Right?” He cast a glance at the twin.

            The twin grinned at Draco. Draco cringed on instinct. He had always hated it when they did that in Hogwarts. Their pranks were difficult, humiliating, and hard to recover from, and he thought it wouldn’t have changed that much now that there was only one of them.

            “As much as we trust anyone who’s not family or Harry,” said the madman. “Sure.”

            “It’s not the same,” Draco said. “I would still sacrifice anyone and anything if it would help me better my family’s position.” He was speaking quickly, the words tripping over each other. It was the way he would have spoken to Potter, but Potter would have known enough to listen and not argue, to give Draco the deep silence—or the hands and tongue—he needed. Weasleys always argued.

            “No, you wouldn’t,” Ron said. “I thought you would betray Harry to the Ministry, but you haven’t.”

            “Because he’s my best protection. Sleeping with him is a way of influencing him.”

            “Not the best way,” the madman said suddenly. “None of his relationships since school have ever lasted long. It would be best if you became his friend. But you didn’t even have to do that. He became fascinated with you instead.” He broke off, nodding his head as though listening to a voice inside it. Draco shuddered, not wanting to imagine whose the voice was or where it came from. “Yes,” he said. “I concur. You could have used the fascination against him in different ways. You could have asked for other things. But instead you were content to wait until he raided Azkaban and got everyone free, and in return you swore that oath that your parents wouldn’t escape or cause trouble.”

            Draco licked his lips and closed his eyes. He was out of defenses, and he didn’t know if the Weasleys would let him keep any of the secondary shields that he might have used to protect himself.

            “Is it so bad that someone thinks you’re a good man?” Weasley asked, and then he gripped Draco’s shoulder. Draco blinked and opened his eyes, to find Weasley leaning in earnestly, staring into his face as though Draco would give him the answers through his expression instead of his mouth. “Is it so bad that someone values you for more than what you can do for them?”

            Draco shook his head. “You value me because I’m important to Potter. You just admitted that, it’s not as though you can deny it.” Well, they still could. Draco would have tried if it was him. Then again, Gryffindors rarely lied because they weren’t quick-witted enough to think of good deceptions.

            “As long as you keep on supporting him and your parents and showing that you don’t want to kill anyone because of blood prejudice, then I think you’ll do well,” Weasley said. “And that’s enough for me to define you as good in the circumstances.”

            Draco’s lips were so dry that he didn’t think he could use them to speak, but he tried. “You don’t know everything I’ve done.”

            “Then tell us.” The madman, slipping forwards as if he thought that Draco needed someone on the other side to keep from fleeing. “We can’t know about it or possibly forgive it if you don’t tell us.”

            Draco shivered. But he couldn’t tell them about almost betraying Potter to the Ministry, because that would cause him to lose any place he might have had here. He would have to be careful about what he said.

            “I mean that you’re not considering what I did in the past,” he said. He thought it a feeble defense, but then again, they were Gryffindors. They would have listened to and believed shakier things. “That we were enemies, that I tried to trick and betray Potter more than once, that I sold information about him to the newspapers—”

            “You seem as if you’re loyal now,” Weasley said. “And that’s what we need to know. If you betray Harry now, then of course we’ll hunt you down and hurt you. But that’s not the same thing.”

            Draco passed a hand across his eyes. He was shaking. He wondered if it would be so bad to accept the help of the Weasleys, if that would give him some idea of what to do with his parents.

            Your parents would never accept help that they knew had come from the Malfoys’ hereditary enemies.

            Draco wondered for a moment if his mother would, and then dismissed the notion. She was thoroughly Malfoy these days, after the way she had bound herself to Lucius and taken up the notion that she had to listen to him and do exactly as he did. There was nothing Black left in her, nothing pragmatic that would say it was all right for her to accept a certain kind of help because the Weasleys hadn’t been her enemies.

            “Yes, all right,” he said. “But I can only promise to be loyal as long as Potter and you can protect me and my parents. If something better comes along, then I’ll abandon you as fast as I joined you. My first loyalty has to be to my family.” He wondered if he sounded half as desperate to them as he did to himself.

            The Weasleys seemed to have decided that he did, or that they had nothing to worry about for another reason. They smirked at him, and then the madman nodded and said, “If you come back to the lab, then I think we can come up with a few ideas for making sure that your parents are safer.”

            And who is the we being invoked here? Draco thought, but he knew it was the best offer he was going to get. Even Potter hadn’t said that he would get the same kind of dedicated help. He went with them.

            Maybe the universe knew what it was doing, after all, when it arranged for him to run into Weasleys first.

*

            Harry waited a few minutes after he had shut the door of his room behind him, but nothing happened. No one came knocking and demanded an audience. No one tried to break it down and insist that they had to duel with him for Pedlar’s honor or because she was an ally. No representative came from the Ministry with a miraculous offer of truce.

            Draco didn’t seek him out, asking for help.

            Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out the small scrap of parchment that Hermione had sent him. He hoped it was a sign she had regained control of her own mind, rather than being under Imperius, as he and Ron had discussed. He couldn’t be sure, though, and he didn’t dare send something back until he was.

            It was a prophecy, and the copy of it was in Hermione’s neat handwriting, but Harry knew it had to be much older than that. It made sense that the Ministry would have access to copies of prophecies after all, that the stores he had smashed in the Department of Mysteries had not been their only ones.

            He cannot stand who will not fly,

            He cannot live who did not die,

            He cannot brave who cannot yield,

            He cannot conquer, he cannot shield.

            The one branded by fire to fire returns,

            The one he trusted is the one who turns.

            Into heat he goes, who out of heat came,

            And the stag calls him to embrace the flame.

            He will end cleft from his true desire,

            And so he ends, or else ends the fire.

            Harry licked his lips. The meaning of the prophecy seemed straightforward, at least compared to the one he had labored under when he was trying to kill Voldemort. He couldn’t stay with the revolution; he had to fly away on this lightning road that the stag had shown him. He couldn’t stay the leader of the revolution because he couldn’t make compromises and most of his people didn’t trust him, and that seemed to indicate that he couldn’t protect them or resist the Ministry for long, either.

            He would go back to flame the same way he’d come out of it, and that sign was the lightning scar on his forehead. Someone he trusted would betray him. He already knew what the stag calling on him to embrace the flame meant.

            Those last two lines, though.

            Harry clenched his fingers through his hair. They sounded as if they meant that he would lose Draco, or else he would lose everything else—the future that the lightning had promised him, his life, his promises, his friends. If he had to choose between them, Harry knew what he would have to do.

            But he also knew that the choice would destroy him.

            He closed his eyes. The memory of the books he had read when he was trying to think of ways to take the danger of the battle on himself came back, and their cautions against prophecy. They could be interpreted so many ways that those interpretations often influenced what happened. People would do certain things—the way Voldemort had chosen to mark Harry instead of Neville—because they were so sure they were right.

            This prophecy was more straightforward than the others. Less room for ambiguity, less room for any choices except the one that it seemed the Ministry and the lightning wanted him to make.

            Harry opened his eyes, and looked again at the last two lines.

            But he already saw another way. He would simply have to seek the right moment to make that choice.



*

            SP777: The problem with holding back is that when Harry did that, it didn’t work either and people were convinced that he needed to take up more of a leadership role.

            No, I’ve never used my real name in a story.

            kit: Well, I hope that you enjoyed the conversation!
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Intoxicate the Sun