Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Ancient and Noble Houses	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 29877 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this fanfic.

Chapter List
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Chapter Forty-Six—The Dark Tide
            Draco stared into the darkness. He knew something must be there, because Harry’s body almost convulsed in Draco’s arms from his screams, and he wasn’t the sort to start screaming about nothing. But all Draco could see was the same thick, satiny blackness that had carpeted his eyes from the moment they came in here.
            Draco wasn’t stupid. He knew the darkness was unnatural, and that the description of the ordeal in the book promised true danger. How could he help if he couldn’t see anything, though?
            And why hadn’t the room tried to confront him with an image of his own soul yet?
            Draco dug his hands into Harry’s shoulders, trying to cut through the screams and give Harry something that would ground and steady him, something unlike the terrible vision that he must see—however he saw it. “Harry, Harry,” he whispered into his ear. “Can you hear me? You’re still alive, and I’m still here. Whatever it is, it hasn’t torn me apart. Can you hear me? I can’t see anything!”
            There was a long, sliding whine from Harry’s throat, and then he did manage to choke off the sound. He reached up and scratched at Draco’s arm. Draco winced, but didn’t pull back. For all he knew, that might take the one fragile anchor that was still holding Harry to sanity with it.
            “Can’t you see it?” Harry whispered, in such true agony that Draco clutched him closer without exactly meaning to. “Can’t you—it’s here.” He ducked his head, flinching, and tried to curl up against Draco. Draco cradled him, listening as intently as he could. He had thought for a second there was a snarl, or a wash of fetid breath over his face, but if that was really Harry’s soul, it seemed to have decided against showing itself any further.
            “Nothing is happening to me,” he whispered into Harry’s ear. “That’s good. I like that. It means that I’m more ready to help you.” He hesitated, his mind working furiously, darting over the notes in the book, the only source of information they had found. Yes, Kreacher had talked about the ordeal, too, but it wasn’t like they could really trust Kreacher.
            The book hadn’t said anything about the ritual bathing being for protection, had it? It had talked about purification and cleansing, and that was it.
            Draco swallowed. He was suddenly sure what had happened, and it made all the more sense when combined with the way that the house’s influence had retreated, or seemingly retreated, from Harry in the last few weeks.
            “I think the cleansing was a stripping of the defenses you had,” he whispered into Harry’s ear. Harry tensed against him, but didn’t move away. “Think about it. Why would facing their souls make the Blacks fit heirs?”
            It took forever for Harry to make his mouth respond, but his voice answered Draco in level, if sluggish, tones. “Because—because it drove them mad, and the house wants mad heirs.”
            “It doesn’t want them if they’re completely insane,” Draco disagreed. “They have to be sane enough to know when it’s appropriate not to use Dark Arts, and to know what’s best for the house.” It was a hard task to keep his voice level, especially because he knew that Harry was starting to shake again. “But I see what you mean,” he added quickly. “But—think about this. Why would showing them their souls accomplish that?”
            A wild laugh bubbled in the back of Harry’s throat; Draco could actually feel it happening against his hand. “If you could see what I see, you wouldn’t ask that,” he whispered.
            Draco took a deep breath. They had made a bargain to wake each other up, and although he didn’t really want to hear what Harry saw, he thought this was the only way he could keep that bargain. “Describe it to me.”
            Harry froze and tilted his head back. Draco felt his head move, at least, but it was of course impossible to see anything in the stupid inky blackness. Draco bit his lip savagely and managed to stand still, although he wanted to retreat more than anything.
            “You don’t want me to,” Harry whispered. “I care for you, and I won’t.”
            “If you cared for me, you would fulfill my requests, and give me something other than the title of your consort,” Draco muttered back at him. “Come on, Harry. Are you going to do what I want or not?”
*
            Harry felt as though the floor was tilting under him. And maybe it was. It wasn’t like he could see it.
            He could see his soul, right in front of him, wheezing breath that now smelled like a twisted version of Amortentia across his chin. And that made him remember the disappointment he had given Ginny, when he broke up with her, and then didn’t get back together with her again this year. He was a horrible person. Who knew what hurt he might have caused, that he didn’t even know about? Hurt that came from him being famous and other people wanting the fame, like Ron—
            “Harry!”
            His head snapped sideways as Draco shouted that in his ear. He staggered, but when he opened his eyes, his soul was still right in front of him, drooling and snarling. It never seemed to alter its position no matter how his own changed. Harry understood, dully, what that meant. It was telling him that he couldn’t run, that it would be right there until he accepted it.
            “What?” he whispered, because he had to answer Draco, but it was impossible to turn his head.
            “Listen to me,” Draco said. “I want that description, and I want it now.” He paused, and Harry thought the pause was strange, but then Draco’s words drove into him, and he forgot about it. “You dragged me into danger, you know. Giving me and my mother the money and the title of Black heir just means that I’ll have to face this next, if you fail.”
            Harry closed his eyes. That didn’t diminish the vision of the beast, but it did hurt. And although he didn’t know why Draco would want to share this vision and have that nightmare in his memory, too, Harry had to do his best to oblige him. He had already fucked up Draco’s life enough, dragging him in here.
            “I—I see a beast that looks a little like a werewolf,” Harry whispered. And he did see it. He would always see it, now. He half-thought that he would spend the rest of his life in the ordeal room, in the darkness, with Draco breathing impatiently in his ear and the beast whooshing into his face. “But not as hunched. Its teeth stick out, and its eyes have all the mad thoughts I ever had.”
            “I didn’t know you were crazy before this house claimed you, Potter.” Draco’s arms tightened around him.
            Harry tried to draw away. The name was another mark of how he had failed Draco. If his friendship had been real, if he hadn’t failed, then Draco would actually address him by his name.
            But Draco sighed a second later, muttered something, and said, “I’m sorry, Harry. Can you explain?”
            Harry took a deep breath, and tried to say, “I had—thoughts. I hated my relatives. I thought about torturing Bellatrix Lestrange. I had a piece of Voldemort’s soul inside me.” He felt Draco stiffen even further, but he was in the middle of the fucked-up explanation now, and knew he wouldn’t be able to stop it early, even if Draco asked him questions. “I fought a basilisk. It poured venom into me. I was killing ghosts before I was thirteen years old. I nearly died so many times. It’s all over me, the filth.”
            Silence. Harry thought for a second Draco would unwind his arms from his waist and walk away now that he knew how evil Harry was. He wasn’t even supposed to be in the ordeal room. He would probably find his way out without trouble.
            And then Harry would be left alone with the beast, and he would go mad.
            “I was right,” Draco murmured, and then he raised his voice. “You’re being left vulnerable to seeing the worst parts of yourself. That was what the bathing was all about. Not protecting you. Washing you clean—of your sanity, of the ability to think the best about yourself. It leaves you exposed to the ordeal. The house let you go. No wonder. It knew that it would reclaim control of you here.”
            Harry shook his head. He knew Draco would feel the motion, and so he whispered, “Then—you don’t think that this is real?”
            “I think that your reaction to it is less sane than it would be if you hadn’t been through that bathing,” Draco said, his voice steady. “And here’s the proof: I’m here in the same room, and I see the darkness, but I don’t see your soul.”
            Harry drew breath to reply—
            In the seconds before his soul snarled, choking and hateful, and leaped at Draco across his head.
*
Delia cerrano: If Draco is right, what Harry is seeing is not the normal vision of his soul that he would have seen without that bathing.
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Ancient and Noble Houses