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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 Forty-Five—As the Last Day Dawns

            Harry left the manor deliberately that afternoon, although he knew several people—including Draco—would have been happier if he stayed inside. He had something to do that he didn’t want anyone else witnessing. They would be tiresome about it, and he had had enough of tiresome.

            Ron and Hermione might have been happier, too, but since they were still inside Ron’s room with the door locked, Harry really couldn’t ask them.

            He wrapped a thin shield of fire around him that turned light aside and paced towards the edge of the treeline. The burned ground where he had called the dragons smoldered in response to his magic, but Harry ignored it. The only requirement he had for this little calling-out was privacy. In fact, doing it too near the burned ground would probably be counterproductive, since it would give the lightning stag ideas.

            Where a large tree threw its shadow across the grass, Harry halted. For a few seconds, he waited, listening to the breeze through the branches in front of him. He would call if he had to, but he was curious whether the lightning stag would come to him if he gave it enough patience.

            It seemed so. The air in front of him flickered, and then the stag was trotting towards him, antlers flicking back and forth between one moment and the next as though a careless student was incompetently Vanishing them. The rest of the stag’s body was solid, though. Harry wondered what that meant, and then put it aside. He had enough trouble understanding the stag’s reactions that were somewhat like a human’s, never mind the signs it made that were probably peculiar to it.

            He adjusted the shield of fire as it came nearer, and wrapped it close and tight around his face, like a mask. He half-wondered whether this would work; the magic came from the prophecy in the first place, or was connected to it in some weird way, and maybe that meant it couldn’t fool it. But if that was the case, then Harry would just have to lie with his voice and make it the most convincing lie he’d ever told.

            Somehow, he didn’t think he’d have much trouble with that.

            The stag came to a stop in front of him, all but rocking on its hooves, and stared at him doubtfully. Harry smiled with all his teeth and inclined his head. “I’ve decided,” he said, and didn’t have to work hard to make his voice aggressive, “that you were right.”

            The stag’s eyes widened, and the roads were in them again, bright and dark, both leading into the distance. Its ears pointed straight at him, and after a moment, it gave a hesitant scrape with its hoof along the ground, as though questioning whether he was telling the truth.

            Harry snorted. “Yes, I am.” He wasn’t, of course, it was the farthest thing from the truth, but he was striving to make it so in his mind, and he had no one with him at the moment to betray his lie by little unconscious signals. “It’s not—it’s harder and harder, living here, knowing I could obliterate anyone at any time just by opening my hand.”

            That part was the perfect truth. He had seen the way Draco looked at him, with awe Harry knew he would never have deserved if Draco hadn’t seen him destroy Pedlar with his fire. He had seen the other revolutionaries slinking around him, their heads bowed, their bodies shuddering as though they were flags being blown by the wind he brought with him. The fire inside him whispered uses for itself, and Harry knew that he could create far more than the Gryffindor common room that he had shown to Ron.

            Or destroy far more.

            Harry shook his head. He was storing up his magic for the massive, complicated explosion that would need to come out of the moments when George’s machine was ready. The explosion that would need all his magic, or it would fail.

            He smiled faintly at the terrible pun, and then noticed the stag was staring at him again, ears flattened as if it knew that he was trying to put it off.

            Harry shrugged at it. “I’m still trying to decide if I want to leave the way you want me to, though. The lightning road that takes me far away from my friends and anyone else I could ever be with—why would I want to choose that? I’ve been lonely most of my life. Now that I finally have a lover and my friends with me and a cause worth fighting for, you want me to abandon all of them?”

            The stag reared up and put its hooves on his shoulders, the way it had once before. Harry exhaled slowly and met its eyes. He wasn’t entirely without fear, but he didn’t think the stag would prefer to harm him instead of educating him.

            The roads grew closer and closer, until Harry could see only them, and not even the iris or pupil of the stag’s eyes anymore. The dark road only led to more darkness, he saw. Embers and cinders and regret. Take that road, and he would find everything burned away and no ability to recover it.

            The lightning road led into the future and showed him the future. There were palaces and towers of light waiting for him there, glittering landscapes that made Harry’s breath come short. He saw trees of colors he had never imagined, in the middle of gardens that burned with steady flame. He saw himself plucking fruit from the trees, and surrounded by a crowd of animals and people, who talked with him. He couldn’t hear their words, but the stag was telling him that he would never lack for company.

            The scene changed, and he was in a blurred otherworld, swimming beneath the water. There were more people, and more visions of light, more new colors and foods and wonders. And the stag’s eyes went on multiplying them, until Harry had lost track of the places that he might go by walking the lightning road.

            “But will I ever see anyone familiar?” he asked, when he could get his breath back and turn his head a little to the side, so he was no longer looking the stag straight in the eyes. “That’s the answer to the question I want. I might almost be willing to die, if I could get to see my parents again.” Or that would have been the case, before he found Draco, and came up with the plan that should see them all safe. “But it doesn’t look like I’ll ever cross to where they are. Am I ever going to see them? Or would I ever see any of my friends again, if I went with you?”

            The stag paused, staring at him. Harry raised his eyebrows and stared back. He didn’t think it was a hard question.

            The stag sprang away and began to pace in a circle, scraping a hoof up and down the grass. Harry nodded. It was the answer to his question that he had suspected, but had almost hoped wasn’t true, because it made his lie all the harder.

            “That’s the truth,” he said. “I’ll never see anyone I know again, and I don’t have the choice about when I leave one of those particular worlds to go to another one, do I? No choice.” That was why he had made the decision he had—not the one where he had burned Minister Duplais, because that wasn’t a choice at all so much as a bad-tempered lashing-out, but the one where he had decided to resist fate. He had made enough decisions under the influence of a prophecy. His choices from now on might be restricted by the past and his magic, but he would still make them.

            The stag glanced at him, then away. Harry caught the disgruntled look in its eyes, and smiled a little. “I think you would prefer it if I came along willingly and acted excited about all the pretty things you can show me,” he said.

            The stag’s small tail swished.

            Harry sighed. “As awful as I think that sounds,” he said. “Constantly traveling. Not being able to see anyone I know and love ever again.” He shook his head. “I think that’s what it has to be. I don’t have any choice.” There was no need to fake the bitterness he loaded his voice with when he said that.

            The stag lifted its head, and cautious, hopeful eyes fixed on him. Harry smiled sourly when he saw that. Of course that would happen. The stag was incapable of understanding that an acceptance like the one Harry was feigning was a cause for bitterness. It was just happy he was finally doing what it wanted him to.

            “I wasn’t meant for this world,” Harry said. “Not because I’m too good for it, but simply because that’s not the way I’m—built.” And he wanted to spit when he said those words, but again, that would only further convince the stag they were true. “I’ll go with you. I’ll take the bloody lightning road. I probably won’t be very happy, but I’ll do what the prophecy says I should, what the future says I should.”

            The stag bent down on its forelegs in front of him, and its ears twitched back and forth as though scooping sound from the air. Then it rose up and looked at him, long and earnestly, as if to say that he didn’t know how happy he had made it.

            Harry rolled his eyes. “Get out of my sight,” he said, not having to pretend to the sulkiness in his voice as he turned his head away. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore right now.”

            The stag’s hoof scraped gently against his leg, and then it jumped into the air and flew away like a comet in reverse. Harry waited a few moments, but it didn’t return. He didn’t know for sure that it would have if it suspected something, but he thought so. It seemed to have accepted his story because that story worked so well with what it expected of him.

            Harry snorted a little as he walked back to the manor. If it was that easy to lie and convince a celestial stag of his trustworthiness, perhaps he should have done the same thing with the members of the revolution who were angry at him for not being the hero they wanted.

            Then he saw the members of the revolution in his head again, and smiled sourly. He doubted he could have done anything they approved of, by this late in the game.

*

            From the private diary of Minister Gillian Clearwater:

            There. Now Graywood and Morgan have been captured, and the artifacts they stole returned to the possession of the Unspeakables. There is no one left to send me vague, threatening letters and declare that they will do me harm unless they are satisfied.

            There are undoubtedly other enemies out there, and they will emerge once Potter is defeated and they feel they can claim my attention. But it is entirely possible that I will retire once this immediate crisis is past. I cannot help but feel that it is my duty to remain in office until it’s over, since I was the Minister who presided over Potter’s small coterie turning into a ragtag revolution. But someone else can take up the work, and the threats, and the duties, and the pleasures (those are a small group) of the office once I’ve done my duty to the wizarding world.

            I’m looking forward to having some peace for once.

*

            A few days’ observation of the revolution was enough time to convince Hermione that, while Harry might still be hovering on the edge of madness and he certainly hadn’t been a good leader, there was nothing he could have done now to salvage the situation. Crawling at their feet and kissing them wouldn’t be good enough; neither would bringing in a victory. They had chosen their side, and the ones who didn’t feel like surrendering to Minister Clearwater certainly never said so.

            There were the ones like Veronica Dover who were calm and happy in the thought that they would go home after the surrender to the Ministry, and be able to live their own lives. (Why they thought that Clearwater or someone else wouldn’t take revenge on them, Hermione didn’t know. Perhaps they thought the officials and the papers would be satisfied with crucifying a hero, and leave them alone). They still sometimes talked about justice for Muggleborns, but not loudly, and they welcomed Hermione among them the way bees would welcome a wasp. They found some excuse to shut up or leave each time she opened her mouth, so she couldn’t really learn if anyone among them thought they were being unfair.

            There were some people who had followed Pedlar and were still upset about her dreadful death. Hermione used the machinery of wide-eyed innocence to fool them; since she hadn’t been on the spot when Pedlar died, it was easy to pretend curiosity about exactly what it had been like.

            A young woman named Renee Skinner was perfectly happy to talk to her about that, and shook her head again and again as she and Hermione sat in the manor’s library. “I could have told her that she shouldn’t challenge him,” she whispered. “But she had that wild impatience some people have when they know that what they’re going to do is right and they won’t listen to you. And he still had no right to kill her.”

            The people I know who behave with that sort of impatience are all eleven or twelve years old, Hermione thought, but made sure to keep the thought out of her eyes as she nodded and murmured and encouraged Skinner to talk. She did, staring out the window that looked towards the forest and twirling a blonde curl moodily around her finger.

            “I want to talk about this to someone,” she said. “But everyone else seems to have forgotten that Pedlar ever existed.”

            Hermione nodded again. Something else that made her doubt Skinner’s sincerity was her tendency to call Pedlar by her surname all the time, but, well, Hermione still had no real idea how close they had been. Skinner kept that information as secret as she could. “Do you think that Potter regrets killing her?”

            Skinner snorted. “Hardly. Or he would have shown some sign of it before this. He didn’t even show any remorse for branding her.” She looked at Hermione sideways. “Are you sure that you want to listen to this? I know you’re his friend, or you used to be, and that means you won’t want to hear bad things about him.”

            Hermione leaned back in her chair and let her eyebrows rise a little. “I’ve spent hours and hours down the years fighting my political enemies and watching the papers smear me when they can,” she said, and gave Skinner a chill little smile. “I’m used to bearing unpleasant news. Don’t think that I would have asked if I didn’t want to hear the answer.”

            Skinner spent a little longer staring at her, but Hermione had plenty of practice in maintaining masks of all sorts by now, and spying among the revolutionaries was different from spying in the Ministry. She knew that she could go back to Ron’s arms and bed at the end of the day and receive his comfort.

            Rather enthusiastic comfort, come to think of that, Hermione remembered, and bit her lip to hide her blush.

            “Are you listening to me?”

            That was Skinner, Hermione’s punishment for forgetting where she was even for a moment. She sat up and tried to pin a serious expression on her face, nodding. “Of course,” she murmured. “You will excuse me, I hope! I simply relapse into consideration of what my life is like now that I don’t have to worry about dealing with the Ministry, and how different my future looks now than it did a week ago, and I forget the present.”

            After a few minutes of staring at her, Skinner nodded. “Well. I think that Potter isn’t mad. He’s worse. He was thoughtless of her comfort and pride when he branded Pedlar, but by the time he killed her, he knew exactly what he was doing. He let her have the duel that she wanted—” Skinner’s voice broke. She spent a moment clearing her throat, and then continued, the bitterness as pronounced now as salt in some of the soup Hermione was eating around here. “And he knew that she would lose it. But she went to her death convinced it would be a glorious victory, and everyone would finally see that she was right. Yes, he’s worse than mad. He’s cruel.”

            Hermione wished she could feel sure about denying that, too. But watching Harry slide through the manor like a shark through a school of minnows made her hesitate, and wonder. He could have taken someone into his confidence, and explained that he had a plan to handle the Minister and the surrender. But he hadn’t. He had let everyone stir and sit and wonder, and while Ron had taken over the leadership and issued all the commands, Harry didn’t retire quietly into the background the way he should have. He went on pushing and putting himself out there, and it had to be hard for Ron. He never complained, but Hermione had seen the lines setting around the corners of his mouth.

            “Granger?”

            Hermione blinked, came back to herself again, and didn’t correct Skinner, who after all wasn’t a close friend and couldn’t be expected to care about her married name. “Thank you,” she said. “You’ve been helpful.”

            When it was too late to reconsider, Skinner started to fidget in her chair, her hands clenched in front of her. “You won’t tell him?”

            “Harry?” Hermione snorted. “No. I asked you to tell me. And I suspect that he already knows what everyone thinks, anyway. His magic is powerful enough to let him find that out.”

            Skinner stared at her. “How?” she demanded. “I thought his magic was only good for burning things.”

            “And finding things, and creating things, and summoning dragons,” Hermione pointed out, and stood. “You should probably worry more about what he’s going to do next, not what he already knows.”

            Skinner frowned. “I thought you might be different from him,” she said quietly. “I thought you might actually care about what we’re suffering because of him. And instead, you speak as though you were never more than a curious friend who had already decided to take his side.”

            Hermione gave her a thin smile. “I’m his friend, yes. But I wanted to know how you regarded him, and if he had been crazy in some way that I didn’t know about, then I would have been concerned. Instead, though, you speak as though he can never do anything right in your eyes, and you tell me stories I knew already. I knew that before I came here, actually.” She sighed. “You need new stories, or you need to reconsider what his magic can do and why it frightens you so much—although I know you won’t.”

            “You don’t know anything about me,” Skinner said, shoving her chair back from the table hard enough that the table knocked against Hermione’s knees.

            “And you don’t know anything about him,” Hermione took some pleasure in saying, offering Skinner another thin smile before she walked away.

            Her legs were shaking, her hands were shaking, and she had to pause along the way to duck into a small alcove, lean against the wall, and clear her head. She would have to write a message to her allies soon, telling them to put Clearwater off as long as possible, and explaining what had happened. With the way that Raggleworth and Smithson tore things to pieces, she would have to be at her brightest and sharpest to fend them off.

            And she knew that these thoughts weren’t new. Harry had dealt with them for months now, and they were the reason he had turned the revolution over to Ron and kept his plans private (well, that and because he wanted to avoid the prophecy’s scrutiny). Why was this affecting her so strongly now, when they were so near to finishing the revolution and achieving what they wanted?

            Maybe because I have something else to concentrate on rather than just fooling Clearwater and meeting with my allies now.

            Hermione straightened up and nodded. That was true. She didn’t have to spend as much time thinking about survival, so her thoughts were free to spread out and find new things to occupy them. Let enough weeks pass, and she would become the person she had been again, worrying about the laws and customs and traditions of the wizarding world more than she did the fleeting things that occupied her time now.

            If we all survive what Harry has planned.

*

            Draco stayed awake that night to watch Potter sleep.

            Harry. You can call him Harry. What else would you call him?

            Draco swallowed, and continued watching. He didn’t get to do this often. Harry was so paranoid about his safety that he kept his own eyes open most of the time, watching Draco, or watching the flame that Draco knew represented his heartbeat, and which he had seen only once or twice. Harry wanted to keep it hidden in case someone tried to steal it, or crush it, or some such silly thing.

            It was strange, Draco thought, to watch Harry shifting in his sleep, his lips occasionally opening and letting out another meaningless garble of words, and his chest rising and falling, and his hands reaching out and grasping, and know that this man was the one he had fallen in love with.

            Hell, it was strange to look at someone who wasn’t his parents, or himself in a mirror, and know that he was in love with them at all.

            Draco shut his eyes and leaned forwards, coming down with his head on Harry’s chest. Even that didn’t wake him up. Draco thought dealing with the stress of the coming surrender had probably made Harry sleep more deeply than normal. He just turned his head to the side, opened his lips so he could sigh, and went even more strongly into sleep. Draco reached down and let his hand hover near Harry’s cheek, cupping it in midair.

            Harry opened his eyes and turned his head. His lips made a small kissing sound an inch from Draco’s palm. Draco smiled at him and tried not to regret that he hadn’t been able to make Harry stay asleep longer.

            “What is it?” Harry murmured. “Are we going to be swamped by revolutionaries intent on forcing the surrender early?”

            Draco shook his head, and closed his eyes against the wave of love—what else could it be but love, uncomfortable and strong and pervasive?—that tried to overwhelm him. “No,” he said softly. “I like watching you sleep, that’s all.”

            Harry blinked at him, and for a few moments Draco thought he was going to say something about vulnerability. Instead, he snapped his fingers, and for a moment tendrils of fire winked around his hands and arms. Draco knew the flames were doing something, but he couldn’t figure it out.

            Then the flames dived into Harry’s mouth and nose, and sent up a small cloud of smoke. That cleared, and Draco found himself gazing on Harry’s face.

            He was asleep once more. He had somehow used his magic to send himself to sleep, although Draco didn’t know how fire magic could accomplish that.

            Draco reached out and smoothed the sheet down Harry’s chest, making it lie flat. His fingers were trembling. Then he curled up beside Harry and let his head and hands rest on his chest, both at the same time.

            Yes, it was love.

*

            From the private diary of Minister Gillian Clearwater:

            Granger was lying. All along, it was a trap. Desang told me about her last moments with Granger, and—

            We will destroy them. I’ve promised myself that. And Potter needs to be put down for the good of the wizarding world.

            But I am going to destroy Hermione.

*

            SP777: I will be interested to see your speculation concerning the traitor, because I am almost certain it’s different from what I intend. ;)

            And yes, now I know what you mean.

            AlcyoneBlack: Thank you! I’m really glad you’re liking this story so much, and sorry that the new chapter was so long in coming.
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Intoxicate the Sun