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The Marriage of True Minds	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 55082 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and I am making no money from this story.

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Chapter Six—Feeling the Same Emotion

            Harry kept his senses alert as he followed Malfoy across the darkened gardens. There was a faint rain falling, which tended to muffle the sounds and scents around him, or rather replace them with the sound and scent of itself, but he knew that they were moving to the west because he could see a faint glow of sunset light directly ahead of them. He glanced over his shoulder and confirmed the position of the house, as dark and featureless in this weather as a boulder.

            Then he made out the faint edges of balconies and of high windows, and turned away with a scowl.

            Malfoy slammed to a halt and turned back to look at him. Harry showed him a bland expression in the face of whatever the git was going to blame him for now. He hadn’t cast a spell since they came out of the house, hadn’t done anything wrong, and hadn’t done anything wrong in the first place. If Malfoy was trying to prove that his family was too noble to be sullied by Harry’s presence or something, he was doing a poor job.

            Malfoy ground his teeth and said, “It’s over here, and you’ll have to use your ring to enter it.”

            Harry drew in his breath to ask what it was, since he could only make out rainy darkness ahead of them, and then saw a dark shape separate itself from the rain. He would have taken it for a large bush, perhaps sculpted in the shape of a dragon, but Malfoy walked towards it slowly and reverently, and Harry had never seen him show that kind of attitude towards plants unless they were rare Potions ingredients. He followed, slowly.

            Malfoy reached out and laid his ring on the stone in front of him. That it was stone Harry knew from the faint tink the metal of the ring made as it met it. “Draco Malfoy,” he said, and the shape shuddered and seemed to rotate. Harry squinted. He still couldn’t make out what it was, especially with the streaks the storm was leaving on his glasses.

            Malfoy turned towards him, moving back so that he stood parallel to the shape at the same time. Harry blinked harder, trying to make out whether any light was coming from inside it, but could see nothing. “You have to use your ring and your name to enter it,” he said. “Your true name.”

            Harry didn’t give him a hateful look, because it would be wasted in the darkness. He held up his ring and tapped it randomly on what was probably fine marble, because everything in the Manor seemed to be made of marble that wasn’t made of wood or cloth. “Harry—Malfoy,” he said, leaving the long pause so that Malfoy would at least have some idea of how reluctant he was to do this.

            I’m not a Malfoy. I’m nothing like them. They ought to be kicking me out of here for having the bad taste to be born to the “wrong sort.”

            There came a soft groan from in front of him, and Harry staggered; he hadn’t realized how much of his weight he’d been leaning on the hand with the ring. Warmth and a thick, sweet scent blew out around him. He moved cautiously forwards.

            The space filled with light so sudden that Harry almost jerked back. Only the knowledge that Malfoy was watching kept him moving as he should. He knew that this light should have been visible from beyond the door, and that it hadn’t been argued for the presence of powerful, subtle magic.

            The space was larger than he had thought it would be, and as smooth on the inside walls as a mausoleum. Harry smiled a bit when he saw that he had been right and it was marble. He turned to Malfoy, opening his mouth to point out that he didn’t think this was a place that would prove anything to him. So he’d had to use his married name to enter it. All that proved was that the magic was as stubborn and stupid as a lot of other things in the Manor.

            And then he lost the breath he was gathering to say that, and simply stared.

            Malfoy leaned against the wall, giving him a smug look. Above his head was a niche in the wall, and in it stood a statue that Harry wouldn’t have been surprised to see flush with life, it was carved so skillfully. The woman had long, braided hair, and stood with her hands held out flat as though someone had taken a platter from them. The skirts she wore rippled around her legs, and Harry could see tiny folds in them that made him blink and shake his head, hoping the woman really had been carved and not Transfigured into stone.

            There was a legend at the bottom of the niche, delicate letters that spelled out the words Caroline Malfoy.

            “Everyone who has been part of the family is here,” Malfoy said softly. “Their statues change over the years, over their lives, and then reflect what they look like at the time of their death.” He paused, as though waiting for Harry to say something.

            Harry swallowed. “Well. It’s beautiful. But I don’t see what it has to do with me.”

            Malfoy nodded to something behind him. Harry turned around, his hand falling to his wand out of habit.

            There were other people carved in the walls, some near enough that Harry could make out every detail as he could with the statue of Caroline, others more distant. But the closest statue made him take the step backwards this time, even though it was right in the clear white light that seemed to shine from the carved eyes, which meant Malfoy could see it all.

            He was on a niche in the wall, too.

            Harry tensed, and tried not to let Malfoy see it. Malfoy might be able to guess the reason. Harry stepped towards the statue, and thought that the carved eyes shifted to look at him. But when he peered into them more extensively, he relaxed. No, they were simple stone and couldn’t move.

            Not that there was anything simple about this, really.

            Harry had never thought he looked like that from the outside. His glasses and his scar seemed to dominate his face, although the scar was faded on the statue’s forehead the same way it was faded on his own, and he wondered how people managed to look elsewhere. At the same time, though, it was kind of nice to know that the weariness he felt wouldn’t be the first thing everyone automatically saw.

            He was wearing Auror robes, and he had his wand in his hand and his shoulder turned to the side as though he was coming around in a long sweep, preparing to knock down some airborne enemy. Harry stood on tiptoes as if he was looking at the wand, but his eyes darted to the statue’s back. The collar of the robes was pulled down a little from the neck. If he had to cast another glamour—

            Nothing. There were no scars on his back there.

            Harry exhaled in relief and what he could admit was a strange form of envy. He ran a hand through his hair and turned to look at Malfoy.

            “Impressive,” he said. “But I don’t know why you brought me here to show me it.”

            Especially because at least one of Malfoy’s claims had been proven wrong. The statues didn’t track every change that happened to a person. If one kept them secret, Harry thought, they didn’t show up. So the magic operated based on public perception, not reality.

            Then again, Harry had always known the Malfoys were like that.

*

            Draco stared at Potter. He had thought Potter was many things in the past few days—uncivilized, irritating, dangerous, unusually sensible—but never slow.

            “It means you belong here,” he said. “With us. With them.” He waved his hand at the rest of the statues. “You’re family. The marriage is real.”

            Potter sighed and leaned back on the wall as though Draco’s words had taken all the strength from his limbs for some reason. “We both know that it’s not real,” he said. “Why would we be courting the women we want to marry if it was?”

            “Not real in that sense,” Draco said, and shuddered. “I want to faint when I think of spending the rest of my life with you.”

            “Oh, really?” Potter gave him a fleeting grin. “That’s an improvement over the dry heaves that I get when I think about spending all that time with you.”

            Draco gritted his teeth and told himself not to be distracted into banter. It might be more comfortable than argument, but it was no more natural, and he had brought Potter here to acknowledge his point, not deflect it. “Real in the sense that the marriage bond means something to the family’s magic, even if it’s forced,” he said. “That’s what I wanted you to learn. You’re tied to the wards. You have a place within the house. It is our concern if you live, if you die, what you eat, how you rest, how healthy you are.”

            “No, it’s not.” Potter’s voice had lowered, and Draco wondered if he was imagining the intensity in it. His hand had closed on nothing, as if he held an invisible wand in front of himself. Draco eyed him warily, but Potter didn’t move closer; he just looked glassily into the distance. Draco knew he wasn’t admiring the statue of Caroline Malfoy, although it was in front of him with the way his head was pointing.

            “Yes, it is,” Draco said, and then paused to play those last two statements over in his head. They sounded like a pair of arguing children. He wanted more dignity than that for himself, at least. Dignity wasn’t something the Malfoy family was compelled to provide for all its members. “The house thinks you belong to it. The magic has created a statue of you because you’re the current heir’s husband. Doesn’t that matter to you?”

            Potter closed his eyes fully and ducked his head for a moment, as though he was standing up to the blast of a harsh wind. Draco wanted to shake his head, but the gesture would be wasted if Potter didn’t see it. So, instead, he waited until Potter spoke in a near-whisper.

            “No. Do you want to know why?”

            `”I’m sure you’ll tell me whether I want to know or not.” Draco turned his back and studied the distant wall, wondering whether the expression on Sebastian Malfoy’s face had always been that constipated or if he had died at an unfortunate moment. It was a long time since he had read that particular tale among his ancestors’ records.

            “My family is dead,” Potter said. “What I have left is the blood I carry in my veins, the money in my vaults, the deeds I do, and the family I chose. I’m going to marry into the Weasleys, but my family will still have the Potter blood and name.”

            Draco turned back to stare at him. That sounded like something he could hear a pure-blood saying, but there was also a strange edge to it. He stood there a moment in silence, trying to work it out.

            Potter went on before he could, and his next words sent Draco’s thoughts scattering like a startled flock of pigeons. “I don’t want anything from you. Nothing you can do will give me children of my own blood. You’ve even changed my name, not to mention absorbed my vaults.” His eyes came back to Draco, and they were more hostile than Draco could ever remember seeing them, even when he and Potter were both at Hogwarts. “I don’t want your care. I’ve got along fine for fifteen years with my friends and the Weasleys to care for me. And no one said that we had to cooperate in private, only in public, because that’s all your father cares about. Take your bloody care and shove it up your overly-fine arse.”

            He turned and stalked out of the collection. Draco stood there, feeling as if he had become his own image in marble, before he ran after him. Potter was trudging back to the house as if he were the one who had to bear all the weight of the world on his shoulders. He probably missed being the poor little Savior whom everyone always coddled and forgave because of the burden of saving the world that he carried, Draco thought savagely.

            He caught up with Potter and spun him around, using one hand. He thought he heard Potter’s robe rip, but he didn’t care. He was too caught up in his rage, and his wonder that Potter could turn his back on a heritage so rich and various.

            “You idiot,” he said, and although he tried to control his voice, it burst past his control soon enough. “You fucker. Do you think that this is any easier for me, forced into a marriage with someone who’s always despised me rather than married to the woman I want to share my life and bloodline with?”

            “Yes,” Potter snapped at him.

            That took Draco aback the way Potter’s rejection of the Malfoy heritage had, and he remained still, giving Potter the chance to reply again instead of shutting up before the flood of Draco’s eloquence.

            “You have your family. You have your home. You’re living with the people who support you, and you weren’t forced to move out of a place that’s come to feel like home to you.”

            “Your flat can’t have been as nice as our Manor,” Draco muttered, but the retort was weak and swept aside by Potter’s impatient arm movement as much as his next words.

            “Yes, fine, it’s nice. But the bed being soft and the curtains being thick doesn’t make up for being here. Nor does being able to change the colors of the room when I like. Oh, I accept your mother means well, Malfoy. I know your father doesn’t and you don’t, but at least I’m not without allies here. The problem is, nothing you can offer is something I want.”

            “Name one thing that you haven’t been offered since you came here,” Draco said, taking a step away and folding his arms. “Name one thing that we couldn’t get for you, even with the forced marriage bond constraining some of our actions.”

            “Freedom and an engagement ring for Ginny.”

            Draco growled and rubbed his face. Of course Potter’s newfound maturity would desert him when he was angry. “I thought I explained to you that there are some things we simply have to endure so that my father will get bored with tormenting us—”

            “I’m tolerating them, Malfoy.” Potter’s voice was so low that Draco backed up an instinctive step before he thought about it. It sounded like the warning cough from a tiger before it charged. “I’m here instead of staying away on purpose until the bond starts hurting us. That counts as toleration, doesn’t it? Just because I won’t accept your gifts doesn’t mean that I’ll break and run. But you asked me whether I was satisfied or honored to be a part of your little rock collection, and the answer is no. Of course not.”

            “You said that you want children and your name,” Draco said. “You’ll have them. Not right now, but in a little while. I’m not asking you to sacrifice anything there that I don’t have to sacrifice as well.” He paused, and thought again about what Potter had said. This time, he thought he could identify the abnormality.

            “I know that you value love and family,” he said quietly. “Why do you think and talk of your children as a pure-blood would? Why are you valuing them so much more for what they can contribute to the family than for their existence, their presence?”

            Potter looked lost for the first time since he had ventured into the Manor. His hands opened, and he peered at Draco as if he had said something sensible at last. “I don’t—what do you mean? I want children because I want to be part of a family. Because I’m a poor little orphan and that’s what happens to all poor little orphans, don’t you know? Is that the reason you thought I’d want to be part of the Malfoys? Because I don’t have parents, and you thought I’d welcome yours with open arms?”

            Draco moved nearer. “I won’t let you distract me from this,” he said. “It’s odd to me that you would think about your children that way, yes, but I didn’t realize until now how odd it was. It’s as though—as though you think of yourself as a link in a chain between your parents and their grandchildren, but you don’t value yourself at all. You’re your name and vaults, and nothing else. I’m familiar with that habit of thought from some of my friends who feel that they failed their families during the war, but from you? I don’t believe it.”

            Potter coiled with tension, much the same way he had at dinner, but didn’t respond. Draco waited, his heart beating hard, his mind curiously blank. He honestly didn’t know what would happen next.

*

            Harry felt his heartbeat shiver him. What Malfoy said wasn’t true of him—Harry had never particularly thought of himself one way or the other, not like that—but he was thinking about Ginny.

            Is that all she is to me? A mother of my children and no more?

            No, that couldn’t be so, Harry reassured himself instantly. He remembered his longing to kiss Ginny when he saw her that afternoon. If she was just a means to an end for him, then he wouldn’t feel so strongly for her.

            But he might treat her like that even if he didn’t intend to. It was strange that the minute he found his chance of children and keeping his name threatened, he got that angry. As Malfoy said, the marriage wouldn’t last forever. Why couldn’t he take it calmly? Why was he burning on the edge of what felt like madness some of the time, and the rest of the time convinced that he would never get free because Lucius would never yield?

            The answer ran down into darkness.

            Because I nearly wasn’t around to object one way or the other three months ago. I could die, and with me all the chances would die for my family, since I’m the only member left.



            Harry wrenched himself forcibly from those thoughts. They would just have to lie alone, he thought. He wasn’t following them. He wasn’t going to allow the darkness that much hold over him. It had defined a certain period in his life, and now it was over. He had made sure of that.

            “I think you’re wrong,” he told Malfoy. “It’s an unfortunate way to talk, but I do want a family, and I do want children of my own, and I don’t want children named Malfoy. I think all those are perfectly natural wants.” He turned his head away and started to walk towards the Manor again, making himself go slowly although the muscles in his calves quivered. If he could convince Malfoy he was normal, then he stood a chance of actually behaving that way at the moment.

            Malfoy caught his arm. Harry stopped, but kept looking at the house, a softly glowing shape in the darkness. Harry wondered if that came from the wards or the sheer number of lights the house-elves must keep going. Harry thought of lamps and fires flaring in unused rooms for the convenience of three people—four, with him added—and snorted. Yet another difference between them he would never understand. What was the point of having rooms that you would never use?

            “You puzzle me, Potter,” Malfoy said softly. “You puzzle me so much that I want to talk to you further, and understand.”

            “And if this was Hogwarts and Professor Dumbledore was still alive, I’m sure he would applaud your commitment to House unity,” Harry deadpanned back, and pulled his arm free. “But as it is, I don’t want to do anything that would make you feel uncomfortable. I don’t want you to do anything that you don’t have to do.” He marched towards the Manor with military precision, wondering if Malfoy would criticize his lack of grace.

            Malfoy snarled and caught up with him again. Harry could feel the git’s gaze on the side of his face. He ignored it with relative ease. Just because someone looked at him didn’t mean he had to respond. That had been one of the hardest lessons he had to learn. It used to be that one of his Auror trainers could upset him with a stare that went on too long. Now, he knew better.

            “Do you always reject sympathy that prissily?” Malfoy asked. “I’m less amazed now that you have so few friends, and have to wonder at you having that many.”

            Harry sighed. He hated being the one who had to explain this to Malfoy. Why didn’t he understand it, when he had been the one to propose this course of action in the first place? “Yes, when it involves you asking about things that don’t concern you and aren’t real, like the way you think I think about my future children. We ignore each other when we can, we have civil conversations when we can’t, and we wait for the end of this bond. When your father sees that you’re not angry anymore, that you’re perfectly indifferent to me, don’t you think that he’ll release the bond?”

            Malfoy caught his arm again, this time with enough force to spin him around. Harry went, because the alternative was letting his Auror defensive instincts take over and put Malfoy flat on his back on the earth, but he stared hard, and didn’t relent when Malfoy leaned towards him and he could smell the sweetness of dinner on the bastard’s breath.

            “I’m not indifferent to you,” Malfoy sad. “I never have been. My father knows that. It’s part of the reason that he chose you to bond me to.”

            Harry sighed again. He was tired of this conversation, weary as he always was these days when evening came around. He wanted to go into his room and draw the bed curtains so that he could pretend the room was a normal size and the fire was the normal, tame one on his own hearth. “Fine. I don’t care. I apologize for whatever way I stepped on your toes just now. But what I said still stands.”

            “I offered you sympathy. You rejected it.”

            Harry blinked at him from the corner of one eye. If he didn’t know better, didn’t know that Malfoy would never express such emotions in front of him, he would have said that Malfoy was hurt. But no, that couldn’t be—and if he thought he really had offered Harry sympathy, Harry wouldn’t trust his perceptions of his own emotions anyway.

            “You asked me questions,” Harry said. “Not really the same thing.” He picked up the pace again, and this time left Malfoy behind. He didn’t stop until he was in his rooms, and could shut the door behind him. At least the birch wood, if not the gold and silver inlay, had taken his protective spells well. He turned to renew them, rubbing his stomach. The too-rich dinner sat uneasily on it, as he had known it would.

*

            Draco was still staring after Potter when the night became cold and house-elves came out to cluck at him about the wetness. Draco permitted them to herd him in and get him a mug of warm chocolate, and didn’t think about Potter again until he was sitting before his fire.

            Draco found Potter confusing. Either he should act like the noble Gryffindor Draco remembered or the civilized person he had seemed to be a few times. The constant wariness and the way he flickered back and forth between moods didn’t add up to any consistent pattern Draco was aware of.

            But one thing was certain. Draco hadn’t behaved the way he should have to a guest or part of his family over dinner tonight, when he had mentioned the Mudblood insult. He would have to make up for that. He would have to be polite, inquiring, solicitous.

            And from what he had seen tonight, doing so would irritate Potter even more.

            Draco smiled and finished his drink. He loved it when his will and manners ran side by side.

*

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The Marriage of True Minds