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Crimes of Passion	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 7423 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
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Part IV. To Answer.

            Draco stepped back from his cauldron and watched as the smoke billowed up to the ceiling. It was supposed to do that, but he still winced from the acrid scent. This was less complicated and more crude than most of the potions he brewed. But practical necessity could reconcile him to aesthetic ugliness.

            When the smoke slowed to a few wisps that smelled less like rotten eggs than rotting fruit, he reached out and plucked the surface of the potion with a finger. The liquid clung to it, forming a green sheath around the skin. Draco reached into his mouth, took out a drop of saliva, and added it to the sheath. At once it softened, sagged, and collapsed back into the potion.

            Draco nodded shortly. The potion had the scent of him, and he was the only one for whom it would work. Anyone else analyzing it would come up with the various muddled elements of a failed experiment. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, trying to think only calming thoughts as he waited for the potion to settle to a slow boil.

            Who had it been?



            He grimaced. That wasn't a calming thought, to know that someone had stood and watched him and Harry bicker, so close that Draco could have touched him if he had moved his elbow back. But he didn't think Harry had seen him, either, or he would have warned Draco with a flicker of his eyes, a nod of his head, something.

            You'reassuming that your initial impression of him from years ago is true, and that he isn't a good liar. But he managed to lie to you well enough about having tortured Herrington and Colnbrook that you believed him.

            Draco sighed. He didn't think Harry was in league with this person, or he wouldn't have been distressed by the thought of him or talked in such open terms about protecting Draco from him. But he had no idea who else it could have been but someone in league with Harry. An ally turned enemy? Was that the reason for the Carver's Curse? Or was the curse meant to draw Draco's suspicion away from the real reason, so that he wouldn't look too closely at this mysterious person while he was investigating the causes of Harry's actions?

            Draco shook his head. Once again, questions that led in no direction and had no end, that were meant only to distract him. He would not pay attention to them, because that would mean ignoring the far more intriguing web that was the center of this mystery.

            He had almost given up, he realized, before meeting Harry last night. The threads he touched melted away like dew in sunlight. He had begun to believe that no one except Harry knew anything--which would certainly be the best way for Harry to safeguard the secret--and that he would never yield any information to Draco no matter what Draco said or did. He had lived for four years with this sour love in the back of his mind. He could go on doing it.

            But Harry had changed things, as he so often did. Draco could no longer believe in his guilt, but he could believe in the watcher. Whether conspiracy, single enemy, or delusion that Harry had dreamed up, Draco intended to do as he should have done and confront it.

            It was so easy not to, though.

            Draco sighed. Yes, it had been. Without thinking, he had drifted into the mode of middling Malfoy--socially respectable Malfoy, Malfoy who had hauled the family name back into the regions of good taste again but could do nothing else with it. It was left to his son to be glorious, the way that his father, in a disastrous way, had been. Scorpius would have investigated and understood the mystery at once. Lucius would never have borne with Narcissa attempting to distance herself from him.

            Draco did, because that was the patched and muddled character he had.

            But there was no law of nature that said he must be that way. He would change things, by force if he had to.

            The potion gave a small noise that sounded like plastic parting from the sides of the cauldron. Draco took a step closer, took a deep breath, and dipped in a ladle that was large enough to make his arm hurt.

            When he held the potion closer to his nose, he almost fainted from the stink. It smelled like the efforts of several dozen dogs to bury a favored tree in shit, after the sun had warmed the tree for a decade. But he swallowed it anyway, and then stood there for a moment, swaying, while the potion changed the composition of his body and adjusted some of his glands.

            Draco opened his eyes, stepped out of the lab, faced a mirror, and thought about his nose running.

            It began to--immediately, dramatically, with large clots of snot dripping out of his nostrils. Draco thought about it stopping, and it stopped. After he had spelled himself clean, he blinked twice.

            His eyes turned red at the corners, and large, clear drops that were not tears leaked out of them. Another blink stopped that, another cleaning spell finished it off. Draco smiled and cleared his throat. When he spoke again, his voice croaked and limped, and he sounded as if a horrid cold would carry him away tomorrow. Again he cleared his throat, and this time he could bid his reflection farewell in a normal voice.

            The potion would give him, for the next twenty-four hours after his swallow, the ability to look sick or deep in mourning at command. The first would be helpful for fooling the enemy who had been spying on him and Harry, and making him think that Draco was incapacitated if necessary. The second could mime the emotion that Draco would never bring to the surface for strangers.

            Or people like the ones he was going to talk to now, out of desperation. He hadn't spoken to them in the past four years because they had nothing in common with Harry gone, and not since Harry had returned because he saw no reason to breach the wall of silence.

            Now, he wanted to see what Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger could tell him.

*

            "Malfoy?"

            The voice was practically a yelp, filled with so many emotions that Draco couldn't distinguish them all. He kept his head bowed, the tears leaking from his eyes, but made a mental note that Ron Weasley hadn't been prepared for his visit, the way that Draco would have expected him to be if Harry had warned him.

            "What are you doing here?" Weasley asked a moment later, voice calmer now, but wary. Draco looked up at him, blinking hard against the stinging irritation of the tears, and saw the wand aimed at him. He was standing on the doorstep of Weasley's small house in Hogsmeade, and he knew that he would probably feel the blast of a curse against his ribs any minute, unless he spoke quickly.

            "Weasley," he whispered. "Please. Help me. I need to catch up with Harry as quickly as possible. Do you know where he is? Where he's gone? I need to say--I'm sorry. I need to give him a message." He worked a convincing sob up in his throat, and the tears dripped faster. "I didn't understand why he did what he did, but I do now."

            "I don't know what you're talking about." Weasley was arching away from him as though he wanted to put some distance between himself and Draco, while all the time staring at him with dreadful fascination. "I haven't seen Harry for four years. You're wasting your time here."

            As he had been sure that Weasley hadn't been prepared for his coming at first, so Draco was sure that this was a lie. He only shook his head and stepped forwards as if he hadn't heard. Weasley wavered, on the verge of cursing him, but gave way with another kind of curse. Draco made out wooden walls and a cot in a corner where a red-haired toddler, probably one of Weasley's grandchildren, watched him with wide eyes, and turned away, sitting down on the nearest chair.

            "You have to get a message to him for me," he whispered. "You're his best friend, the one who must know where he's hiding. Someone had to help him heal from the Carver's Curse, and you're the best choice. Please, Weasley, just once. Even if he won't come and speak to me face-to-face, I think he owes me the chance to explain."

            "I don't know what you're talking about," Weasley repeated, but it sounded weaker this time. He flopped down in the chair next to Draco and sighed, scratching at hair that was riddled with grey now, just like Harry's, just like Draco's. "Bloody hell, Harry, you didn't tell me this would happen," he complained under his breath.

            Which only confirmed that Harry had been with him, of course. Draco stopped most of the tears with a blink, added a scratchiness to his throat, and whispered, "You'll tell me, then?"

            Weasley sat up and glared at him in what looked like honestly offended surprise. "What made you think that? Yeah, maybe I'll tell you something about him, because I have seen him. But you abandoned him when he needed you most. I don't think I'll forgive that, even if he does."

            Draco shook his head. "I would have defended him for the rest of my life. He confessed to me, and I accepted that." He hesitated. He wasn't sure that he could expose what he had felt at the time in front of a Weasley.

            "But it hurt so much already that you didn't have the strength for another battle," Weasley interrupted. "You should have done more, dug deeper, tried harder, but you were exhausted, so you let him go."

            Draco squirmed on his chair. He didn't know that he liked Weasley instinctively understanding what he had felt much better. He cleared his throat for reasons having nothing to do with the potion, and asked, "What do you know? When did you start believing his confession, or stop believing it?"

            "I never believed it," Weasley said simply. "My best mate would never do something like that. If he could have, I would have seen signs of it before then, as long as I'd known him. I hunted him down and beat the truth out of him. He was smart enough not to deny it when he saw that I already knew about the lies."

            Draco closed his hands into fists, but kept them hidden in his lap, so that Weasley wouldn't notice and get the wrong impression. That was what he should have done: keep up the hunt, keep moving, no matter what weapons Harry tried to wield against him. It was easy to say that of course Weasley had known Harry better, had known how he would react and what he would do, but that didn't actually lessen the sour tang of the guilt in the back of Draco's throat.

            "When he told me the reasons he had to leave the wizarding world, I agreed with him, although I thought it was stupid for him to have got himself into that situation in the first place." Weasley sneaked a sideways look at him. "And that reason is the one thing that I know he would never want me to tell you, Malfoy, so you don't want to waste your breath asking."

            Draco blew the wasted breath outwards and gave a short nod. "Fine. Then perhaps you can tell me something else. Why did he come up with a false confession for me?"

            "To make you stop asking," Weasley said. "Yes, you were exhausted at the time, but you would have recovered, and then you would have hunted him down. Stay persistent for long enough, and he might have been unable to avoid talking to you. And that would mean all his effort was wasted."

            Draco leaned forwards. He knew Weasley didn't care about him in the way that he did Harry, although he'd grudgingly accepted Draco and Harry dating. "Tell me one more thing, then, Weasley, since you know his secret," he said. "Do you think he's right, and that the secret he's concealing would destroy me?"

            Weasley winced, and was silent.

            "Well?" Draco pressed. He hadn't realized how his heart was beating until he spoke the words. He licked his lips and pressed ahead some more as Weasley stayed silent, staring at his feet. "Do you think so?"

            "I think it would have, yes," Weasley whispered. "But I also don't think that he had the right to make the decision for you." His eyes rose to meet Draco's as if dragged. "I think you should have been the one to set certain boundaries. He acted on what he assumed was true about you, rather than what he knew was true."

            "But you think he's right anyway," Draco said. His breath was coming so short that he felt as if he was about to faint. He swallowed and shifted his feet. He wanted to say something else, but he didn't know what.

            "Yeah." Weasley rose to his feet as though someone had come into the room and seen him sitting politely next to a Malfoy. "This has been a great visit," he said cheerily. "But you really should go now."

            Draco shook his head. "A few more questions. What was he doing that evening when he found Herrington and Colnbrook? One aspect of his confession that never made sense to me was why he was at that particular point behind the Ministry at that particular point in time."

            Weasley gave him an astonished look. "Because he works there," he said, and instantly corrected himself. "Worked. Why else would he run across a random torture session in the middle of--" His mouth slammed shut, and Draco smiled, because someone else in the room knew what being about to faint felt like.

            "I see," he said. "So he wasn't the one who tortured them. Thank you for telling me without telling me." He stood up himself and made his way towards the door.

            Weasley trailed him, clucking like an anxious house-elf. "You don't understand, Malfoy," he said. "I didn't--I mean, a best friend's defensive instincts aren't the most reliable guides to the situation, you know?" He chuckled. It made a sickly click in his throat. "I didn't mean that he ran across it. I meant that he caused it. Of course."

            "You already said that you never believed he did it," Draco said quietly. "At least have the grace to use proper English now. You said what you meant, but you don't have to worry. Harry won't hear about this from me, and if he ever learns of it, then I hope I can convince him not to count it as a betrayal."

            Weasley folded his arms. "Everything's a mess," he said. "I have to worry about you defending me to my best friend, when he should just have had the courage to speak the truth to you in the first place or the luck not to be involved in this. Or the sense to never start dating you," he added.

            Draco had the feeling it was a weak shot, taken from a past where things had been simpler, at least for Weasley, but there was no reason for him to accept that, either. So he bared his teeth back and said, as sweetly as he could, "I often wonder what would have happened if one went further back, and I'd met him first, before you could ask to see his scar."

            Weasley was still spluttering when Draco Apparated.

*

            "I know which potion you've used, Malfoy."

            Hermione Granger--she'd kept her own name after the marriage--announced this without looking up from the stack of paper in front of her, doubtless mostly forms that she needed to sign in her position as Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Draco blinked, sent a silent command to clear his throat and his eyes of the phlegm and tears he had intended to produce, and then sat down across from her to study her.

            Granger made an annoyed sound in her throat finally and looked up, shaking her hair back from her face so that it made a sort of frizzy halo around her ears. Draco bit his lip to avoid blurting out any of the unfortunate things that had occurred to him when he saw that.

            Granger leaned forwards and said, "I know that you aren't sobbing about Harry. That's not like you. You did your weeping in private after he left. You want to know, now, why he went and what he thought was more important than staying at your side."

            "And why he came back," Draco said, seeing no reason not to play along since she seemed to know everything already. "That's the complete list."

            He might have imagined the hint of a smile at the corner of Granger's mouth. "I promised him," she said, "that I wouldn't reveal anything."

            "That promise has loopholes," Draco said. "Or you would have ordered me out of the room right away."

            "I don't know that you deserve to know what they are." Granger's eyes hardened again. "Considering that you abandoned him without a backwards glance at the last."

            "After he told me that he'd tortured and nearly murdered two people," Draco said. "Adolescents, who compared to him were harmless. Even if they attacked him, he was trained to handle it in other ways. He was very convincing, shuddering as if his own actions disgusted him. I can see other reasons for that, now, but I believed him at the time. And I do resent that he trusted you and told you the truth over me." He hadn't realized, until he heard the deepness of his voice on those last words, exactly how much he resented it.

            "Ron beat it out of him, and Ron told me." Granger shook her head. "But I really see no reason to tell you. You can find out other ways."

            "I've already tried asking Harry, asking Herrington and Colnbrook, and asking you," Draco said. "And--" Then he stopped, because he doubted that Granger, who worked in the Ministry, would approve of his looking up the trial testimony that Shacklebolt saw fit to keep inside his desk. "I don't know what else you would advise me to do," he finished, with a huff that he knew was childish, but only made Granger blink at him slowly, as though she was considering his words.

            "You're the one who has to figure that out," she said at last, and started to turn back to her paperwork. She did pause to add, "And you'll have to decide if the truth you might learn if you question him is worth the pain of learning that truth."

            Draco tried to ask her what she meant, but his words met a stubborn wall of silence. In the end, Draco stood up, shaking his head, and moved towards the door. Granger continued to work behind him, or so he thought, but when he paused, Draco realized that he couldn't hear the scratch of her quill.

            "I am going to find out what's going on, and I am going to get him back," he said softly, listening to the way that silence rang. "That's a promise."

            "Then I reckon you've decided the pain of learning the truth is worth the truth itself," Granger said, and the scratching started again.

            Draco let the door fall to behind him, despite the temptation to slam it.

*

            "Are you well? I thought you hadn't been looking yourself lately."

            Once again, Amanda Galloway had lingered behind to speak with him at the latest meeting of the United Potions Masters, and once again Draco shook his head to find her topic of conversation so personal. He kept his face bowed so that she wouldn't see his expression, though, busying himself with constant sorting of papers and closing of folders.

            "There were a few nights I didn't sleep well," he said. "Blows against the wards. The necessity for making sure that some of the enemies my father and my son made haven't crossed the boundaries."

            "I would worry about Potter before I would worry about schoolboys," Galloway said, and lowered her voice after an ostentatious glance at the door. "People are still seeing him in Wiltshire, you know."

            "Yes," Draco said, and tucked away the last of his folders. "I read about that in the Prophet." He gave Galloway an edged smile that he hoped would encourage her to speak of something else or back off, and started to step around her, towards the door.

            She put her hand on his arm, ignoring his look. "I wanted to offer you something," she said. "A gift."

            Draco kept his hand at his side. People like Galloway, while allies, never gave away something for free. "Or a loan," he said. "What's the interest?"

            Galloway's smile was slow in coming. "You did a service for me sometime ago," she said. "I don't think you noticed at the time, but you removed Ernest McKay from my back."

            Draco frowned. He could vaguely remember that McKay had been disruptive a few years ago, and Draco had finally assigned him to a task of historical research that would take six months even with house-elves to do the mundane tasks. "I didn't know you were enemies," he said. That was the sort of thing he should have known about, the sort of thing that could well tear apart the United Potions Masters.

            "I would call us rivals," Galloway said. "I could have handled him, but you sent the message, which I appreciated, that you wouldn't allow his grandstanding to control the meetings. I though I could repay you with a potion, but your own skills are greater than mine." She said it with no envy or bravado that Draco could hear in her voice. She was someone who admitted the plain truth and saw no reason to admit more than that, Draco thought. "Now, though, I've invented a potion that might play its part in keeping you safe." She dug a glass vial out of her pocket and held it up so that he could see it, not yet extending it.

            Draco studied the potion inside carefully. It was red and viscous, trembling with what might have been the natural motion of Galloway's hand or some internal property of its own. Internal property, Draco diagnosed after a moment, and that thick scarlet color, with floating black bits like dried blood, meant it had a dragon's blood base. Lots of interesting things to build on a dragon's blood base, but Draco had never seen any that looked exactly like this potion.

            "Interesting," he said quietly. "What does it do?"

            "It works a bit like Felix Felicis," Galloway said, which made Draco jerk his head around, because brewers had been searching for a potion that would replicate that one's effects without using all the expensive ingredients for years. Galloway looked amused, though, and shook her head. "Works a bit like it. It only affects one aspect of your life, not all the myriad ones that Liquid Luck can. And it's best if..." She paused a moment, searching for words, and Draco waited in silent fascination. He had no impatience where his craft was concerned.

            "It works best if you pour a bit of your own blood into it," Galloway said.

            Draco had misunderstood the nature of her hesitation. He looked Galloway right in the eye and shook his head.

            "There's no law on the books against blood magic if you use your own blood in a potion," Galloway said quickly. "Only the blood of others, and only in spells. You'll be the one ingesting this potion. It affects only you."

            "If it works like Felix Felicis, then I suspect the Ministry might categorize it as a potion affecting others," Draco murmured.

            Galloway smiled. "Only if they know about it. And I don't intend to register it." She dropped the vial into Draco's hand. Draco was impressed that she had read his body language enough to know that he would catch it instead of allowing it to drop and shatter. He held up the vial to his eye again and shook it. The potion traveled far too slowly from side to side, more slowly than it should if the dragon's blood base was pure.

            "You've accomplished something grand, if this is what I think it is," he said casually, without turning away from the potion. "I can't imagine why you wouldn't credit for it."

            Galloway snorted. "Because I always intended the potion to be for my use and the use of perhaps one other, someone who required it. And because there are some people I've met whose names or crimes I would have to expose if the potion was mass-produced, or even common."

            Draco nodded. He could appreciate such restrictions. He started to slide the vial into a pocket, and then paused. "How long does it last? Twenty-four hours, or until sunrise or sunset?"

            Galloway smiled. "This is why you're the best of them," she said. "Few of them would have asked that question. Twenty-four hours. I hold by the numerical definition of a day in preference to the solar definition."

            Draco nodded. That was a preference he would record in his notes, and keep in mind in case someone ever asked the United Potions Masters of Great Britain for a brewer who followed that rule. It also gave them something plausible to talk about, in case anyone had noticed Galloway lingering behind.

            They parted soon after, and Draco kept his hand away from his pocket and the vial that rode there, but he could still hear the soft sloshing.

*



            Draco coughed. The potion was full of a thickness that doubtless came from the shredded nightshade Galloway had added to the base, and it had taken forever to swallow, as if he was choking dry bread down. But it was done now, and once again he waited beside the wall where Potter had come before.

            No, he thought then. I might as well make the full transition if I'm going to call him by his first name part of the time. He's Harry.

            Harry was a creature of habit, and more to the point, Draco doubted he would have come back to the wizarding world at all if he really didn't want Draco to figure this mystery out. Draco had planned on investigating the place where someone had attacked Herrington and Colnbrook, but thanks to Galloway's potion, he thought this might offer a more helpful route.

            He paced back and forth and tried not to imagine that he could hear the potion sloshing in his stomach. He couldn't. Everything he knew about potions with a base of dragon's blood told him that his stomach would have broken it down to its components almost at once, with some space and time left over for dealing with the dangerous ones like the shredded nightshade, and that the magic would have spread through his limbs by now.

            Luck, Galloway had said. Draco had concentrated as hard as he could on finding out the answer to why Harry had come back but didn't want to tell him the truth, and that would have to do.

            He stared up at the moon and thought about casting a Disillusionment Charm on himself. But he wanted Harry to know he was here from the beginning. That way, he couldn't say later that Draco had tricked him. Draco was trying to do more than find an answer; he was trying to rekindle a love affair that he had once thought would last forever.

            I want that back.

            A movement near him made him drop and crouch, but it was only Harry, manifesting out of the darkness and staring at him with wide eyes. A moment later, he shook his head and tucked his wand away, looking over Draco's shoulder as though he expected to see the hidden watcher there.

            "Hullo, Harry." Draco kept his voice as relaxed and cordial as he could. "I hope that you don't think I'm making your life more difficult by ambushing you like this, but I couldn't see any other way of making sure I would meet you."

            "You are making my life more difficult, just by existing." Harry pushed both hands through his hair. Then he dropped them and spoke with a fragile dignity. "Draco, I've told you all I can. I hope that you'll accept it and step away from me to live a better life. What are all the sacrifices that I've made for, if not for that?"

            "You once knew me better than that," Draco said evenly. "In fact, you constructed a detailed false confession to throw me off the trial because you knew I wouldn't stop digging until I knew the full truth."

            Harry's muscles tensed. "You can still give it up," he said, voice toneless. "Draco, I've labored to keep you safe, as well as ignorant. Yes, the truth would destroy you, but it might do more than that."

            "Or more literally than that?" Draco shook his head. "I want to know who has such power to threaten you, Harry. If it's political enemies that I've made through my activities in the last few years, then I think I might know better how to fight them than you would. And I know it's none of your friends, or Weasley and Granger wouldn't have spoken to me in the way they did."

            Harry blinked at him. "You went to talk to Ron and Hermione?"

            "Of course," Draco said. "I love you."

            Harry closed his eyes and whispered, "I would have given the world to hear that four years ago."

            "Then I'm sorry I wasn't more persistent," Draco said. He became aware that his palms were sweating and wiped them off against his trousers. He was trying to be calm, but it was more difficult than he had expected, like holding a large glass ball while walking with a bucket of water on his head. "But I have been now. I think I deserve your trust and confidence if anyone can, Harry. Won't you tell me?"

            Harry took a step towards them, and then paused. His face was so bright with misery that Draco lost his last shred of belief--if he had had one left--that Harry had actually tortured Herrington and Colnbrook.

            Instead, he had protected someone who had. Draco wondered if he had been on the wrong track and it was actually someone else Harry loved, like his former wife or one of his children. But no, that wouldn't fit with the statement that the truth would destroy Draco if he found out.

            "I'm sorry," Harry whispered. "I can't."

            He turned aside, and one of his pockets flapped open in the moment before he Apparated. Draco tasted the dragon's blood of the potion in his throat and swallowed, but not to get rid of it. He had the feeling that he knew what this was as he watched the parchment sweep out of Harry's pocket and to the ground. He picked it up and smoothed it out.

            It was a letter. It bore no signature, and if there was a seal, it had been stripped off, possibly by Harry when he opened it.

            Dear Mr. Potter,

            How are you? I believe it's four years since we last spoke. You know why, and I know why, and I must say, it's been a delight to watch you writhe in pain from a distance. I have someone who sends me regular reports from the Muggle world. As I'm sure you'll remember, I know all sorts of people.

            I've honored the bargain we've made, but I find myself growing bored. Being good takes no effort for you, but it requires holding back my impulses and ignoring the people who would suffer from a dose of my punishment if I wasn't doing the holding back. I find it distasteful. And I begin to think that your suffering and the fate I avoided because of doing what you asked are not reward enough to make up for denying myself.

            I want to start closer to home this time, however. Four years changes many things. But I also want you to come back. It might be that an expression of agony on your face would make up for the denial.

            So. Do come back. We'll see how long the dance lasts this time, how close one of us comes before we cross over the line.

            And keep in mind that this is your fault. If you hadn't looked at me and recognized me for what I was the first time we met properly, then I wouldn't have begun to flaunt my talents, and everything would have stayed exactly the same. You could have had the life you want and need, and I could have had mine.

            Draco clenched his fingers shut on the letter and Apparated without thought, landing in the meeting room of the United Potions Masters of Great Britain. There, he leaned against the wall and let his heart roar in his ears like water would if he were drowning.

            He needed no signature to identify the letter-writer, as he would have needed no time to identify the footprints of the watcher if he had been thinking. Or perhaps, if he had more easily parted the curtains of his mind to let the incredible thought in.

            It was Scorpius's handwriting.

*

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Crimes of Passion