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Sleepless	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 16095 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I am not making any money from this story.

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Chapter Seven—A Tilting Balance

            It was hard, Harry discovered, to stop staring at someone who had kissed you.

            Malfoy, who had chosen the expensive Italian—and Muggle—restaurant they sat in, seemed unconcerned. He chattered with the waiter in Italian, smiling at him in a way that suggested that perhaps he went around kissing people all the time. (And of course he spoke Italian. Harry didn’t know why he had started in surprise when the first words came out of the git’s mouth. He probably spoke French, too, and Latin, and Classical Greek, and anything that had once been a pretentious, educated person’s language).

            Malfoy had looked at him with a raised eyebrow when Harry jumped. Harry shook his head and muttered and went back to studying his menu. He finally chose a concoction that looked like it was mostly pasta. That couldn’t do him any harm, surely. Malfoy ordered something with at least ten syllables in its name and then leaned back in his chair, looking around the restaurant with a relaxed air.

            “This is true elegance,” he said. “To be shown to a table at once, but at a normal walking pace, with no waiting and no rushing.”

            “I think you were lying,” Harry muttered, and gulped at his water. Malfoy had attacked him from a completely random direction in the office, so Harry thought the best thing to do was attack from a completely random one back.

            Malfoy focused on him, and if only the narrowing of his eyes showed how displeased he was by the very idea, Harry had still caused the prat to give himself away. He felt vindicated. “Excuse me?”

            “I mean,” Harry said, with one more violent gulp before he put his water down, “I don’t think that you’ve ever been denied anything you want. The waiter showed you to a table at once, and you speak as though you’ve had plenty of chances to compare this restaurant with others like it. And you’re on a professional Quidditch team, even though they didn’t have to take you if they really hated you. So that must mean that you were lying about needing me to train you. You—you probably get treated just fine.”

            It was difficult to finish his speech under Malfoy’s withering stare. Malfoy leaned forwards and clasped his hands on the table, all his former ease gone. Harry felt a bit bad for stealing it.

            “Done yet?” Malfoy asked.

            Harry nodded and tried to study the menu again, then realized the waiter had taken them away and he couldn’t. He hid behind his water glass instead.

            “I was accepted because the Eagles’ Seeker trials were open,” Malfoy said. “No one who had seen me fly—and there was a large crowd—could deny that I was better than the other applicants for the position. They took me because they had to, but they could make me reserve, behind the bloke they already had, and they did. And they’ll get rid of me as soon as they can. When they have an excuse, perhaps when the idiot injures himself and I have to play and they can accuse me of cheating, then they’ll throw me off the team. I have to avoid that.”

            Harry sighed. “I just—Malfoy, you don’t have to do this. You could train with someone else, I told you.”

            Malfoy scoffed, leaning back in his chair and looking at Harry with strange intensity under his fringe. “Why would you assume I’d want to, given the extra information I revealed to you in your office?”

            The kiss. Right. Harry plucked at his trousers and peered at Malfoy under his fringe in return.

            “Don’t do that, you look like a sheepdog,” Malfoy said irritably. Harry sat up with a relieved smile—here was something they could fight about, a personal insult!—but Malfoy went on, and with a calmness to his words that suggested he was rehearsing something he’d often repeated to himself. “I told you the truth. I want to train with someone who can give me more than enough skills to remain part of the Eagles forever, or at least as long as I want to. And I fancy you. The Quidditch training was an excuse for me to approach you, but not an invented one. I do need your help.”

            “I don’t,” Harry said, and then had to shut up, because it seemed that Malfoy hadn’t finished. He held up a single finger so commanding that Harry fell silent and then scowled at the table, because he hadn’t meant to be such a coward.

            “I know what you’re doing. A relationship with me, or even the thought of one, frightens you. So you’re trying to back off and put distance between us, in the hopes that I’ll become frightened, too, or discouraged, and go away.” Malfoy shook his head at him with the same intensity he had used to glare. “It won’t work, Harry. I might as well call you that now, since we’ve snogged.”

            “I am not fucking frightened,” Harry protested, when he could catch his breath.

            “What a filthy mouth you have,” Malfoy murmured, and his eyes gleamed. “One can only hope that you’re willing to dirty it in other ways.”

            Harry pictured, because he had to, some of the ways that he might dirty it with Malfoy. From Malfoy’s wicked smile, he knew exactly where Harry’s thoughts had gone, and he liked it. Harry ground his teeth and pushed ahead. There had to be a vein of good sense in Malfoy somewhere; he’d never done anything that wasn’t ultimately for his own advantage. All Harry had to do was find it, and then he could show it to Malfoy, and Malfoy would express gratitude to Harry for saving him from a horrible mistake.

            “I’m not frightened. You just have to see that a relationship between us could never work, given my job and your job and my friends.”

            “The last objection, I can certainly see,” Malfoy said. “Though Granger seems tolerable now. But what have our jobs to do with it? My job is what finally drew us together, after all.” He examined his nails.

            Harry groaned. He wanted to bang his head on the table, but he thought that would have been a bit odd even here in this Muggle restaurant where no one knew them. He waited for several minutes instead, and in the meantime their food came, and Malfoy took many large bites of his and made noises that made Harry want to hit him.

“You have to see that this can’t work,” he said, and he hoped that his voice was calm, because he had certainly waited long enough for it to be. “Because—well, for a lot of reasons, but among them, the sheer stupidity of trying to be together. I would annoy you because I would go off and be a barrister and never be able to attend your games. You would annoy me because you would insist on playing on the road all the time, and I would never get to see you. And it’s, I never thought of you that way.”

            Not true, he decided then. It was becoming harder to lie to himself since he had taken up the study of law, even if he could lie to Malfoy, because he spent too much time thinking and studying and clearing out the inside of his skull from old beliefs and prejudices. You were fantasizing about the Draco in the dreams, a bit.

            But that didn’t mean he could think of the real Draco in the same way. Harry ate a bit of his food and then looked back at Malfoy, wondering what he would say.

            Malfoy was staring at him with burning eyes, full of delight. Harry stiffened. Exactly what had he said that Malfoy could interpret as cause for hope?

            “You’re giving it some thought.” Malfoy bobbed his head as though he was nodding to some grand favor Harry had done him. “That means that you must believe in it more than you’re willing to acknowledge to yourself. And that means that I might hope to look into your eyes someday and hear you speak my name with the passion that I want.”

            “Listen to yourself,” Harry said. “Do you really want this? You said that you were being pulled one way and then another. How do you know that I won’t drive you away just when you think that you could settle down with me?”

            Malfoy smirked at him in a manner that was familiar from school. “I’m willing to wait and find out if that actually happens, the way that I was willing to wait and see if I stopped fancying you when I started.”

            Harry did at least smack his forehead with his hand, which earned a startled glance from their waiter when he came up to ask if there was anything else he could get them.

*

            Ron leaned back in his chair and took a large drink of the Firewhiskey that he had had brought up halfway through his tale. “So that’s the size of it,” he said. “It’s murderers you’re defending, and if you had a decent thought in your skull, you would back away from it.” But he didn’t say it with the temper that Harry’s Ron would have used; he had been mellowed a bit by the whisky, perhaps.

            Or he just doesn’t care about anything, Harry thought, staring into the fire so that he could avoid staring at Ron. Ron had given him an accurate picture of what was happening in the world around him, or at least a semi-accurate one, as well as what had happened in Weasley family life as a result of Ginny’s death.

            Apparently Mrs. Weasley had gathered her children closer to her and tighter than ever, or tried. Most of the others had run away from it somehow: Charlie had moved to Romania, the twins had found some unknown backer to start their joke shop, Bill was traveling the world, and Percy had moved out into another house as soon as he could. (It didn’t surprise Harry to hear that he was working under Discipula, too). Ron was still at home, and he was still “one of the Weasley boys,” and even though he had won several chess tournaments, he seemed to think that he would never distinguish himself as anything more than his parents’ son.

            And although Ron didn’t know exactly what the events surrounding Ginny’s death in second year were, because he’d never been close to Neville, he was at least able to tell Harry that Voldemort hadn’t come back then. It was last year that he had really started showing his strength, the same way it had been in Harry’s world, and then Neville had defeated him in a spectacular duel.

            Sort of.

            Harry wondered if the duel could be said to have happened if all the people who talked about seeing it were witnesses paid by the Ministry.

            Then he shook his head and reminded himself that he couldn’t be sure that was true. Ron had told him that, but this Ron was singularly more cynical and distrustful than the one Harry was used to.

            Harry had tried angling towards the Potters whenever he thought that Ron might be amenable to that and unsuspicious. But Ron, although he had told him Neville’s parents had died in the attack that gave Neville his scar rather than going to St. Mungo’s as they had in Harry’s world, hadn’t said a word about James Potter or Lily Evans.

            Harry put the thought aside with an effort. He didn’t think he was here to find out why his alternate hadn’t been born, or whether he was living in another part of the world, or what had happened to him. Ron had been at Hogwarts and in Gryffindor, and if he had known Harry Potter, he surely would have said that Harry looked like him. Even if he was very different, he would have had something of James’s features, surely.

            The important people are the Malfoys. And Ron and Hermione. I want to do something for them. That must be the reason I came here. Because people in this world need my help, and I’m uniquely positioned to give it to them, in a way no one here can.

            Harry felt himself relaxing as he thought that. Hermione might accuse him of hero-addiction, Malfoy might act—incomprehensible—and trust him for stupid reasons, and Ron might doubt the whole effort of doing good in the war, but the one thing Harry knew how to do best was help other people.

            “You look as though you’re planning something.”

            Harry started and looked up. He had forgotten that Ron was still in the room, and now he was leaning forwards, eyes narrowed, as though he had the ability Harry’s best friend sometimes possessed, to see inside his head.

            “You have to have given up your plan to defend the Malfoys,” Ron said, half a demand. “You have to see that Lucius Malfoy is nothing but evil incarnate, if he could kill an eleven-year-old girl.”

            Harry licked his lips. It was hard to tell what Ron’s bitterness hid, unlike Hermione’s. She would talk without an invitation, but Harry didn’t think she would attack him. Ron might talk along and then launch himself at Harry’s throat when he learned that Harry had never intended to stop being the Malfoys’ barrister.

            “Even if I agree on that,” Harry said, “what about his wife and son?”

            Ron sneered. “I don’t know the bitch, but Malfoy was a git during school. The world won’t be worse off for having him out of it.”

            Harry thought of the broken Draco who had reached out to him trustingly, even when he had known it would irritate his parents, and shook his head. “I’ve spoken with him at length,” he said. “I don’t doubt that he was a git when he was a child, but right now he’s someone condemned and fighting for his life.”

            Ron rose to his feet with dangerous slowness, staring at him the entire time. Harry gripped his wand, but Ron didn’t punch him. Instead, he said, “I told you that. I gave you my secrets. And you can’t give me anything in return.”

            He stalked out before Harry could say that that sentiment was worthy of a Slytherin—which, in retrospect, was probably a good thing, or Harry would have got punched—and slammed the door to behind him.

            Harry licked his lips. Well, that could have gone better.

            But he had more information now, and that would help guide his reaction to the Malfoys. He stood up and went to put the lamp that was burning on the windowsill out, so he could go to sleep.

            Do I have to sleep in the dream? Well, if he didn’t, Harry was sure he would find a way to make good use of his time.

            He paused when the lamp first went out, because he had heard a noise in the corridor. When he listened again, he didn’t hear it. But just as he was about to shake his head and dismiss it as his imagination, he heard it: a scurrying that sounded as if it was going towards the stairs.

            Harry waited a few more moments, heart pounding, then eased the door open and studied the small crack of open space and light he could see beyond it.

            Nothing.

            There was no reason for him to suspect that a spy for Discipula had been watching him, but that was what Harry believed anyway, implicitly.

*

            “Harry? Are you sure that you’re all right?”

            Harry nodded wearily to Hermione. It was strange. When he went to sleep in the dream, it was as if it stopped, and he had slept better last night, in the sense of having real, deep, dreamless hours, than he had in days. But he was groggy and tired today. The dreams seemed to be good for him, instead of exhausting.

            “Well, keep up,” Hermione said, after studying him for a moment. “We have a trial to observe this morning that’s similar to the Death Eater trials.” She opened the door of the courtroom and stepped inside.

            Harry all but bounced as he strode after her. He couldn’t remember Hermione mentioning that before, and he thought it was important. Who knew what he could learn here which could help the Malfoys in the other world?

            The courtroom, like most of them, was a small, bare room, with enough seats for the judge and the witnesses and the small jury wizarding law required, but not much else. Even the barristers often had to stand—or maybe they were expected to stand all the time anyway, when they were making their arguments. That wasn’t something Harry had figured out. Hermione Transfigured a few grains of dust into another pair of chairs and shoved them into the corner. Harry sat down, winced, and then cast a Cushioning Charm. Hermione was good at Transfiguration, but she often didn’t think enough about comfort at the time she was performing the spell.

            “What’s he done?” he whispered to Hermione as they watched the prisoner step into the room, chained between two Aurors.

            Hermione gave him a hard look. “Now I know something’s wrong,” she said. “You usually read the case file.”

            Harry shrugged. “I’ve been busy lately, what with the Quidditch training you thought it would be such a good idea for me to have with Malfoy.”

            Hermione’s eyes widened and her face softened. “Oh, is that going well, Harry? I do hope that you’re going to be friends. If you can show Ron that you can get over your grudges from the war, then maybe—”

            “The case?” Harry reminded her, because people were starting to file in and he thought the trial would start soon. He wanted to have some idea of what he was looking at before then.

            “Yes.” Hermione gave him one slightly suspicious look, as if she knew that she had good reason to be concerned about him but couldn’t remember what it was, and then turned back to examine the folder she was clutching. “They arrested a Dark potions brewer called Max Andrews. His barrister is trying to claim that he was only collecting ingredients for his cousin, who’s living in a country where they’re not illegal. And it’s true they’re having trouble tracing specific Dark activities to Andrews. If he’s been active in the last couple of years, he’s been remarkably discreet.”

            Harry studied the man who was leaning back in the chair for prisoners. He looked more than slightly bored. His stubble was bristly and dark, like his hair, and although Harry couldn’t see the color of his eyes from this distance, he thought they might be blue. “Why do you say that his case is like the Death Eater cases?”

            “Because they were going on hearsay there most of the time, too.” Hermione smoothed her hands over the cloth of her robes, frowning. “I know there was eyewitness testimony for a lot of the things that happened, Harry, but most of the Death Eaters wore masks when they attacked, and most of them didn’t have one signature curse. Someone might think that Bellatrix Lestrange was attacking them, but could they really be sure? Especially when it was in the heat and the chaos of a battle, and they were focused on surviving?”

            “Oh.” Harry blinked. He knew, from the trials as he had experienced them and from what he was reading about them now, that not every witness was trustworthy, but he hadn’t thought to doubt them as much as it sounded like Hermione thought he should.

            “It could just be that someone wants Andrews to go to Azkaban as a scapegoat for someone else,” Hermione murmured to him. “Someone more powerful. I suspect someone in the Ministry.”

            Harry scowled. Politics. He had hoped that he would leave politics behind when he left the Aurors behind.

            Then he shook his head. He was doing a miserable job of that, if it was really his goal. He had become involved in the political defense of the Malfoys in his dreams, and making friends with Malfoy in the real world—if it ever happened—was a political act that the papers would pick up on. Making friends with someone who had been a Death Eater was never neutral.

            As the trial began, Harry did his best to pay attention. He would be facing hostility and skepticism like he saw on the jurors’ faces the next time he went into the dream, although probably greater. He doubted that anyone here hated Andrews the way that most people in the dream seemed to hate the Malfoys.

*

            “I have a name for you.”

            Harry smiled at Draco. He had come up to announce that to Harry the minute Harry was ushered into the room where he would speak with the Malfoys, although his parents continued to sit in chairs and turn their heads away. Harry wondered if part of the reason he liked Draco so much was that he was open and friendly and obliging. He couldn’t call the Malfoy in his world that. Sure, he told the truth, but it never made sense.

            “The name of someone who could vouch for your parents?” Harry asked. This time, he had made sure to bring parchment and ink with him. He fumbled for the quill in his pocket and then for the inkwell.

            “Yes.” Draco paused for what was probably dramatic effect until Harry looked at him expectantly. Then he said, “Wellworth.”

            “Is that a family, or a person?” Harry wrote down the name anyway, although he didn’t think he would forget it. He was trying to remember if he had ever heard the name in the waking world. It sounded slightly familiar. During one of the law cases Hermione had insisted he study last month, maybe?

            “A family. Well, a family once. It’s mostly an old woman now, about Augusta Longbottom’s age.” Draco’s fingers clasped together. “She’s called Helen. I nearly forgot about her. I met her once when I was six. She was a close friend of my mother’s.”

            “Draco, do not betray us.” Narcissa’s voice didn’t crack, but it had so much stress and strain and tension in it that Harry wasn’t sure how she managed to avoid it.

            “It’s not betrayal!” Draco snapped, turning around suddenly and standing up to his parents in a way that Harry hadn’t thought he would ever do. “I’m saving our bloody lives, all right? Maybe you’ve given up and want to die, but I don’t! I’m young! There’s a world out there that I want to see and travel through and make!”

            He was trembling, his hands shaking. Harry thought he would crush something delicate if he were to touch it, but right now, he was admirable. Harry smiled at him, and when Draco turned back and caught sight of that smile, he seemed to grow in size twice over. His eyes shone like stars, and he caught Harry’s hand and clutched at it the way he had that first day. Dream. Whatever. Harry found it hard to remember that time passed more slowly here, and for the Malfoys, it had only been yesterday that he’d agreed to defend them.

            “Perhaps we should reconsider, Narcissa.”

            Stunned, Harry turned to gape at Lucius. Draco’s father was standing tall and staring at them. No, at their joined hands. In the back of his eyes was a secret smile, and his fingers rapped against thin air the way they once would have rapped against the head of his cane.

            Harry didn’t know exactly what that meant, any more than did Draco, who beamed with enthusiasm and started chattering away, or Narcissa, who simply sagged against the chair back, but he knew he didn’t trust it.

*

            polka dot: Harry certainly trusts him less after Ron’s revelations.

            SP777: Harry is doing homework, but it’s not always shown.

            And Harry is not convinced by Draco’s Rico Suave act. (Yes, I know the song).

           There’s no reason for the AU Harry to be born, necessarily, if so much else happened differently.

            Wölkchen: Thanks! At the moment, Harry isn’t thinking about a relationship with either of them seriously, since there’s so much that could go wrong with either one.

            Harry thinks Hermione and Ron need help, too, and is on the case.

            MewMew2: Thank you!

            Esper: Thanks! I think Harry is beginning to feel like there’s too much going on to keep track of.
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Sleepless