Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Incandescence	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 13843 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter; that belongs to J. K. Rowling. I am making no money from this fic.

Chapter List
- 5
- 6
- 7
Thank you again for all the reviews!

Chapter Six�Initiating
Contact

�� The first
thing Draco did when he got home was scribble a crisp letter to Angela
explaining that he probably wouldn�t be writing the book about Potter. It was
formal; it involved words, which he knew how to analyze and manipulate; and it
was easy, unlike most of the other decisions that he needed to make about the
Potter novel. Justice took it away with an eager hoot. Angela was one of
Draco�s few correspondents who kept owl treats on hand.

�� Then he
settled against the back of the chair and scowled at the ceiling.

�� I wish I knew what I was supposed to do now.

�� He�d
followed a procedure for his novels for so long that he felt rather lost
without one. He contacted the person he was thinking of writing about, received
permission for all relevant details, conducted interviews, decided which
details to include whole and which to transform or exclude, created an outline
that consisted of important scenes floating in a syrup of vague images, and
then began to write. Later would come the tearing-up of the outline, the
creation of a new one, cramps in his right hand from writing with a quill for
hundreds of pages, and much swearing. But at least he knew what destination he
was headed for with that process and had some idea of how long it would take.

�� He could
apologize to Potter for years and it might never take.

�� Then Draco
snapped his fingers at himself and sat up. He was acting like the villain in The Hope-Well, whom he�d based on
Theodore Nott during a particularly stupid period of his life, whinging about
hypotheticals when he had the power to change the hypothetical situation into
reality.

�� All I need to do is offer Potter something
solid, instead of nebulous apologies that he has every right not to believe. I
think Skeeter has probably �apologized� for prying into his life before, too.
Why should he believe me without evidence that I really want to help?

�� I need to find out something more about the
writer of the letters. Depending on how hard that is, it�ll give me not only
evidence to show Potter, but some indication of how much shit and deep water
I�m willing to wade through for him. And then maybe I can figure out why I�m so
interested in him when he won�t be the subject of a novel.

*

�� Draco
paused outside the Writer�s Labyrinth to conjure a mirror in his palm so that
he could look at his face. Yes, he looked artfully pale and disheveled�like
someone burning with a major secret, who wanted to confess that secret even as
he knew that it probably wasn�t the best thing to do. He smiled and dismissed
the mirror.

�� He didn�t
need to say anything aloud. He could construct a story out of his gestures and
facial expressions, and every writer in the Labyrinth�except perhaps the
historians and other authors of nonfiction, whom Draco often found
baffling�would know how to read it. Eventually, one of them would ask him what
piece of gossip or bad news he had heard, and Draco could fling his rock into
the calm pool.

�� He stepped
into the Labyrinth, and paused to read the scraps of writing pinned to the
first stone. They were mostly cryptic, only a single word, but sometimes a full
sentence or paragraph. All of them were from books popular at the moment.
Someone who read widely or had acquaintance with most of wizarding Britain�s
literary community and its current projects would be the only one who could
understand what the messages meant.

�� And, thus,
thread the maze.

�� It didn�t
take Draco long to notice that all the messages today were about love. Love
began with l, and so did left, and
thus he should take all left turns until he came to the second stone. Sometimes
the code was more complicated, with messages spelling out a pattern of turns in
different directions, but Elena Cassidy, who owned the Labyrinth, must be in a
simple mood today.

�� Draco
stepped into the maze beyond the stone. It was made of heavy brick and
contained several disorientation charms that were meant to blight a navigator�s
sense of direction. Draco laid a hand on the wall and let it guide him whenever
his head swam and rendered him uncertain of which way to turn.

�� Left, left, left, left. The maze seemed
to rise and fall beneath him, and swirl madly in several directions, but his
hand remained in place, touching reality. Draco made the final left turn and
came out in front of the second stone, a large piece of marble that looked as
if it had been chipped irregularly out of a quarry. The quarry had probably let
Cassidy have it for cheap.

�� There was
only a single piece of parchment there today. Draco�s eyebrows rose, and his
suspicions about Cassidy�s mood increased. Be
careful when you enter the middle, he told himself, and read the message.

�� When the stars shine down on me, I feel
grieved, knowing that they have shone alike on life and happiness, death and
despair. I can take no comfort from their light.

�� Draco
sighed. He recognized the passage, all right; it was from the novel he�d based
on Dean Thomas, Self-Portrait With Roses.
Immediately after the character thought that, he fell to the ground and lay
there, paralyzed by his doubt, shaking with fear and unable to move. The
direction Draco had to move in was
obvious. But he didn�t like it.

�� Fuck you, anyway, Cassidy, he thought
crossly, and then stepped around behind the stone and jabbed one foot strongly
at the floor.

�� The brick
slid away beneath him with a grating sound, and suddenly he was hurtling
through a tunnel that twisted and coiled as it burrowed deeper into the earth,
a tunnel that was barely wide enough to contain his body. Draco found himself
unconsciously holding his breath, even though he knew very well that the tunnel
was equipped with Cushioning Charms and minor Repelling Hexes that would keep
him out of contact with the walls.

�� Around he
went until his head spun and he thought he might vomit, and then he landed in
the middle of a large pile of feathers. At
least it isn�t pine branches this time, Draco thought, as he climbed to his
feet and coughed and sneezed feathers out of his face. Sometimes Cassidy took
her moods out on her customers before they even reached the center of the
Labyrinth.

�� He stood in
front of the third boulder now, a white stone with a faint, eerie green glow
like foxfire around it. It was at least bright enough for Draco to read the
message pinned to the stone without a Lumos.
Much do I wonder at those who cannot love.

�� That was a
little more unclear, but there was no reference to going up or down there, and
no words that began with r. Draco turned left again, and, when he found only
spiraling walls instead of another stone with another message, he once more
began turning left every time he encountered a corner, hand on the brick to
guide him as before.

�� Soon he
heard a burst of laughter from up ahead and felt the warmth of a crackling
fire. He sped up, fixing the expression of nervous gossip-hoarding he�d practiced
on his face.

�� The center
of the Labyrinth was a large room, most of the time, though it varied in size
as Cassidy shifted the walls of the maze to her liking, the way that the routes
to reach the room did. Sharp corners and blunt, rounded projections broke up
the line of sight so that people could have private or public conversations as they
chose. There were seven fireplaces, or maybe five; Draco had never managed to
come up with a consistent count, and suspected that Cassidy changed that, too,
as she chose. Each bore a large and crackling fire with plenty of fodder.
Raised above the rest of the floor was the bar where Cassidy, a tall woman with
red hair and enough venom in her gaze for fifty Grangers, reigned in solitary
splendor.

�� The tables
were crowded tonight; at a glance, Draco made out most of the usual suspects,
like Denise, Yolanda, and Boot, and a few of the ones who never seemed to
venture out of their homes unless it was a special occasion. Rosemary Ashling
simpered about finishing her latest murder mystery to an awe-stricken crowd of
admirers, twining one orange curl around her fingers. Gabriel Wrexby, the only
man whose poetry Draco found more poisonous than Boot�s, was holding court in
the corner next to Ashling, declaiming part of his latest poem and then
breaking off to stare moodily into his drink. Draco shuddered in distaste as he
passed Wrexby and made his way up to Cassidy. At least Boot wrote in what was
recognizably English, instead of smashing words together to create nonsense phrases
such as �shinglebrooding.�

�� Draco.�
Cassidy nodded at him in a way that suggested she had read the advance proofs
of Golden Stories and approved. Draco
relaxed marginally. His deception would be much easier if Cassidy was
cooperating with him. �What will you have to drink tonight?�

�� Water.
Just water.� Draco shuddered and cast a glance around the room, turning in a
complete circle as he did so. When he turned back, Cassidy was regarding him
with that level glance that meant he had interested her. Draco pretended to
catch it with surprise, as if it hadn�t been his intention to provoke it in the
first place, and gave a little shamefaced laugh. �I must look a right mess,� he
added, and touched his hair self-consciously.

�� Not as
much as you usually do,� Cassidy said, and pushed a glass of water across the
bar to him. �What�s troubling you?�

�� The notion
of a criminal hiding in our community.� Draco seized the glass and drank the
water off at one gulp, though as always Cassidy kept it cold enough to kill a
shark. �I understand there�s such a thing as artistic integrity, but threatening
murder because you want to write about a murder is a bit much, even for me.�

�� Cassidy
went still, and there were sidelong glances from either side. Draco kept on
staring into his glass, even though he wanted to burst out laughing with
triumph. He had judged his audience well. Writers, even more than most people,
had a sensitivity to certain words. �Murder� was certainly one of them.

�� How much
evidence do you have for this?� Cassidy asked.

�� Draco knew
this was the moment when he had to tread most carefully. Cassidy had�uneasy relations with the Ministry. What
she had once done or been arrested for, Draco didn�t know, but he did know that
she didn�t tolerate the slightest hint of lawbreaking in the Labyrinth. If
someone committed a crime, she would make sure they were no longer welcome
among her customers.

�� Luckily for
himself as well as his ploy to plant gossip that would circulate around to the
writer threatening Potter, Draco was a good liar. More than a decade of
twisting and transforming the truth to suit his purposes had taken care of
that.

�� Enough.�
Draco shut his eyes, because they would reveal less that way, and shuddered,
gripping the bar as if he was about to fall over. �I�ve seen the threatening
letters written to someone who certainly hasn�t committed a crime one should
threaten murder over. I know that the ink and parchment that went to make up
the letters were such as only a writer would use. I�ve seen the way that the
victim has to look over their shoulder and watch out for everyone because they
don�t have a clue where the threats are coming from.� After a moment, he had
decided not to reveal Potter�s gender. It could be too much, especially since
the rumors must have spread that he was trying to write a novel about Potter by
now.

�� Cassidy
swiped with unusual force at the bar. �If I catch the person doing this,� she
said, with calm that Draco knew could hide a Dark curse, �then yes, I would
make sure the Aurors knew exactly who it was.�

�� Draco hid
his delight with a shrug that he made as casual as possible. Cassidy would make
sure word of his made-up story spread, and in the reactions to it, then Draco
thought he would catch a glimpse of the culprit. �Thanks, Cassidy. It disturbs
me.� He took on an earnest expression and deployed one of Granger�s arguments.
�Maybe we should think more about the real people around us instead of just the
stories we write about.�

�� Cassidy
nodded fierce agreement and refused the Sickles that he tried to offer for the
water. Draco lingered for a while, telling his story over to those people who
hadn�t been able to hear it the first time and elaborating it with the details
he felt it was safe to use. Scrooge�s Self-Strengthening Sheets seemed an
innocuous detail, as well as the confirmation that the victim�s behavior was
becoming increasingly erratic as a result of the threat. That last, at least,
was something the criminal already had to know about.

�� Draco felt
quite pleased with himself when he returned the way he had come, retracing his
steps through the maze. (He did check each stone first to make sure the
messages that told the way through the Labyrinth hadn�t changed). He had
offered bait that might make someone bite, but not enough details to lead
anyone who snatched at it from curiosity straight to Potter. And he had
signaled himself as an interested party, which meant that gossip in the matter
would come to him.

�� He chuckled
as he rose back up the tunnel and landed near the stone that bore the
inscription from his own novel. Perhaps this would be enough solid evidence for
Potter, who could be told to keep his eye on the literary community and give it
a good shake now and then to see what happened.

�� Someone
seized him around the throat and spun him, slamming his face into the brick
wall. Draco felt the pressure of something cold and hard against the middle of
his back, and breath against his ear. His attacker didn�t speak, though, and
didn�t stand close enough that Draco could feel anything about the body, so he
didn�t know who it was, how tall, or even whether male or female.

�� He went
limp and slid to the ground as if he had fainted. That gave his attacker a
momentary puzzle as they attempted to juggle Draco�s body with the weapon or
wand that they�d been holding on him.

�� A moment
was all Draco needed.

�� He rolled
out, from under the attacker, screaming and kicking and biting and flailing.
Several of his punches landed, and the analytic side of him thought that was a
good thing, because he could watch for glamours to disguise bruises now among
writers of his acquaintance. But the other person reacted quickly, too, and
snatched up a bottle of something lying nearby that they sprayed in Draco�s
eyes just as he tried to haul himself upright and see who this was.

�� Draco
screamed and had to claw at his suddenly burning eyes. Whatever this was, it stung, as though someone had just jammed
needles on fire into his head. He wanted to stand up and pursue the footsteps
running frantically into the distance, but he had to curl up on his side
instead and fight to keep from vomiting from the pain.

�� It was
Cassidy who found him; she had always been good at charming the Labyrinth to
respond to certain sounds and movements, and then following up on those sounds
and movements. She splayed her hands over his ribs and murmured into his ear,
�I reckon you didn�t see who attacked you.�

�� No,� Draco
gasped. �I don�t�what went into my eyes?� He�d been too involved in his pain to
think about it before, but now he had to start wondering if he was going to be
blind because of what the attacker had done to him.

�� A mixture
of inks, from the marks on your face.� Cassidy held a wand over his eyes and
murmured something, a healing spell which contained no Latin words Draco
recognized. He only knew it was a healing spell because a blessed coolness
flooded across his eyes, and he slumped back in relief against the floor of the
Labyrinth as the air in front of him brightened and sparked back into cloudy
colors. �I didn�t think there were inks that could be mixed that way,� Cassidy
continued, her voice light. �I shall have to reconsider.�

�� Draco was
glad to climb to his feet and lean on her. Cassidy would take care of him. More
than that, she would make every effort to find the deranged person who had done
this and take them apart. This was an illegal attack on the grounds of the
Labyrinth. She would consider it an attack against her.

�� I�I did
think of one thing,� he said, gasping a little, as Cassidy moved the walls of
the Labyrinth around them with grumbling sounds so that they could reach the
entrance faster. �This was so quick that it had to be someone who was there in
the center when I made my announcement. I don�t think someone could have sent
an owl, and I know that the fireplaces there don�t permit Floo calls.�

�� There are
a few other possibilities,� Cassidy said, �such as a telepathy spell. But, yes,
at the very least, that would imply that someone who was there tonight knows
the identity of the person sending the death threats, because that�s the only
reason they would have to spread the news abroad so quickly.�

�� Draco
nodded, and then winced as he stubbed a toe against the wall. He blinked. He
was seeing more and more every minute, but �better blurriness� wasn�t really
that much better.

�� I suppose
that the Labyrinth didn�t tell you who it was?� he asked wistfully. He wasn�t
sure about how much the magic of the place allowed Cassidy to be in communion
with it, but it was reasonable that it might have told her the identity of the
attacker as it had told her it was hurt.

�� No,�
Cassidy said. �I have tried to respect my clients� privacy, and as every writer
is welcome here and many are new, I have not wanted to set up wards that admit
only certain people.� She was silent for some moments as they paced around a
large corner, and then she added, �I may sharpen the wards.�

�� For a
moment, Draco felt a bit of pity for the mysterious writer.

*

�� St. Mungo�s
released Draco soon enough, saying that Cassidy had done a good job of healing
his eyes and that they�d never seen anything like the weapon used on him. It
was a mixture of inks, but apparently it had been increased in potency with a
chemical from an animal called the Hideous Hopfrog. Draco left them chattering
excitedly over it and came home to his tower with a sense of relief.

�� Justice
greeted him with several nips and hoots that suggested he hadn�t been fed
enough lately. Draco tossed him a dead mouse and collapsed into his chair,
shutting his eyes. The room was swirling around him, and he wanted to go to
bed.

�� But he had
a letter to send first. If he kept this knowledge to himself for much longer,
then Potter would probably accuse him of being in league with the threatening
writer.

�� Draco
snorted and went searching for parchment and ink. I could wish that I had that much creativity, to make a weapon out of
ink.

�� He thought
about it for a long time, but all the words that came to mind seemed wrong.
Then he thought about the way that Potter kept trying to duck out of
photographs, and scowling at people who came to look at him, and putting
himself out in public anyway, because he believed that his principles should
triumph over his discomfort.

�� Someone
like that would best appreciate a simple letter that told him exactly what he
needed to know, and had no hint of fawning.

�� Draco
smiled.

�� Dear Potter:

�� I think that I may have discovered a clue to
the identity of the person writing you those letters. I told you that I think
it�s an author, and this evening I released several vague accusations�suitably
vague enough to protect your identity, I assure you�that I knew someone in our
community was causing trouble. I did this at the Writer�s Labyrinth, a
well-known gathering place, and in the presence of twenty or thirty people I�m
acquainted with at least vaguely. I know the bait was taken, because someone
attacked me as I was leaving. I unfortunately didn�t get to see who it was;
they hit me in the eyes with an ink-based weapon that blinded me and ran away.

�� This is the list of the people who were
gathered in the Labyrinth last night:

�� He put down
all the names that Cassidy had mentioned; she had a keen eye and a quick
memory, and she�d given him that list before she left St. Mungo�s. Draco didn�t
add any notes about who he personally thought was a more likely suspect. At
this point, he really didn�t know, in part because he didn�t know who among
those people had bought Hell�s Fields Ink or would have access to Hideous
Hopfrogs.

�� When he
finished the list, he finished the letter with a simple sentence: This should give you the beginnings of an
investigation.

Yours,

Draco
Malfoy.

He felt tremendously purged when he
finished, as though he had just accomplished a much more daunting task than a
letter. He gave it to Justice, who was gracious enough after the mouse to do no
more than hunch when he heard Potter�s name. Draco gave him another mouse to
sweeten him up and sent him on his way.

He did examine his eyes in his
mirror before he went to bed, since the Healers had said he should, but saw
none of the redness or popping veins they had warned him about. Pleased, he
fell asleep easily.

*

�� Someone
pounded on the door of his tower.

�� Draco made
sure to have his wand ready to hand when he opened the door. That attacker was
not about to take him off-guard twice.

�� Potter
pushed past him, spun around, and stood there glaring at him. Draco blinked.
Obviously Potter had received his owl and read it this time, but he had no idea
why Potter had come to hunt him down instead of writing him back or ignoring him.
He decided that, as the intruder, Potter could speak first.

�� For long
moments, it didn�t seem as though he would. He was breathing harshly instead,
his green eyes so bright it almost hurt to look into them. Draco maintained his
stare and his silence nonetheless, and finally Potter shook his head.

�� You�re
stupid. Brave, but stupid.� His voice grated as if it physically pained him to
admit what he was going to stay next. �And I could use a contact in the
literary community who can investigate this. But only on the condition that you
promise me that you�re not going to
write a novel about me.�

�� Done,�
Draco said simply.

�� And, in the
end, it was painless, because even an unborn story couldn�t compare with the
physical reality of Potter here, looking at him with eyes that displayed
perplexity and worry and a cautious trust.

��

*

butterpie: Thank you! And you�re exactly
right. Luna doesn�t want Draco to hurt Harry, and she thinks that both Draco
and Harry could use another friend, so she offers what understanding she can to
Draco.

Lunatic with a hero complex: Thank
you! Draco�s writing is therapy,
though at this point he mostly ignores that aspect. It�ll be brought home to
him again before the end of the story.

Thrnbrooke: Draco has already made
his decision.

YoukaiHakkai: Thank you! I�m really
flattered that you�ve given my stories a chance on their own merits, and that
you think I�m a good writer.

Snivelly: Thank you! I usually find
Luna the hardest HP character to write. This time, I think I did a better job
than I do most of the time.

I think one reason Draco is
interested in Harry is because of that complexity. He can�t immediately put him
in a category and judge him the way he can other people.

hieisdragoness18: Even more
importantly, he wants to know him as more than a hero he can transform into a
fictional character.
- 5
- 6
- 7
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Incandescence