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Intoxicate the Sun	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 18053 -:- 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 Seven—Spy At the Beginning

            The Unplottable Manor that Potter had chosen to make his headquarters had its flaws, Draco thought. For one thing, there was too much dark wood and not enough light. That made its doors and ceilings feel heavy and oppressive, and Draco wanted to gasp in whenever he passed from a room that didn’t have windows to one that did. But he reckoned that Potter hadn’t built the Manor, so he couldn’t really blame him for that.

            No, it was what he did, and didn’t do, with the Manor that mattered.

            The first thing Draco saw was that there was no guiding sense of purpose to this “revolution” Potter had initiated. He had said in the papers, or at least the papers had claimed he’d said, that he’d started it because he felt the condemnation of Muggleborns was unjust, while pure-bloods got away with murder.

            (Draco, with two pure-blood parents in Azkaban for crimes that hadn’t mattered in the larger sweep of things or had never been committed in the first place, was more than usually well-prepared to resist the pull of that rhetoric).

            But no one talked about that. They seemed to assume that everyone already believed it, and needed no further persuasion. They didn’t even discuss plans that would include attacks on pure-blood families and rescues of Muggleborns from the horrible clutches of the Ministry. They trained for a general war instead and worked with magical artifacts that no one would let Draco near or describe when he was around.

            Draco snorted as he leaned back against the headboard in the bedroom he’d been given, tapping his knee idly. Perhaps his first report to Summers could consist of, “No real threat. Here’s the Apparition coordinates. Swarm down on them and destroy them now.”

            But he had observed the reactions of the Aurors with Summers, if not Summers herself, who was better at hiding her emotions than Draco had thought she was in their first interview. They had an almost superstitious dread of Potter, and they would go on fearing him until someone destroyed him. Draco knew he could send them everything they needed and they would still hesitate to go into battle, relying on Potter’s luck or prophecy or whatever it was that had let him defeat the Dark Lord in the first place to save him.

            All right. So I have to do something else.

            And based on what he had said when they first interviewed him, Draco knew exactly what it should be.

*

            “Thank you for your cooperation, Madam Granger-Weasley. You may go back to work now.”

            Hermione gave Auror Summers a wan smile and stepped out of the cell they’d kept her in overnight, stretching her arms over her head and rubbing the small of her back. The cell hadn’t been in Azkaban or even the Ministry’s lowest level that most resembled the prison; it was an ordinary holding cell for the criminals awaiting trial. They’d given Hermione a bed and a light and even books.

            Nonetheless, she knew it for an opening move in psychological warfare. They had wanted to make her reconsider her stance if she was really part of the rebellion or still secretly loyal to Harry. Time alone in a place with no windows or doors could make someone do that.

            But not Hermione, not with the memo still in her pocket and the conversation she’d overheard from the Aurors who guarded her door. (Honestly, what kind of Aurors were they when they didn’t even cast a charm against someone overhearing them on the cell door? Of course, since Harry had taken their wands, that was probably difficult.)

            “Thank you, Head Auror,” she said, and moved away slowly up the corridor, resisting the urge to look back over her shoulder. That would probably make her look too dramatic. But if she acted quiet and half-broken for a few days, that should at least convince them that they were on their way to convincing her.

            Keep your head in the midst of this, Hermione reminded herself. Don’t lose it because you’re so caught up in the deceptions and tricks that you and other people are playing on each other.

            She finally leaned against the wall, when she thought she was alone, and took out the memo from Desang’s sleeve. Since no one had come looking for it so far, Hermione didn’t think it’d been missed.

            To All Aurors, said the memo, in Gillian Clearwater’s powerful hand,

            You are herewith ordered to counteract any and all rumors of the Ministry using necromancy that you hear. Our fragile unity will be shattered if anyone comes to suspect that these are true. If you have need for more information, come to the Deep Caves.

            Hermione crumpled the memo up again, her heart beating so fast that she had to close her eyes. A day ago, those words would have meant nothing to her, other than as a source of teasing information. It was all very well ordering someone to counteract rumors, but did that mean that the Ministry was using necromancy, or not?

            But the conversation she’d overheard last night outside the door had told her where the Deep Caves were, and what they were.

            Nothing like going to see for myself.

*

            “Potter. I wanted to talk to you.”

            Malfoy’s pretentious, arrogant voice slithered down Harry’s spine like a spider made of oil. Harry grimaced and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his neck. Just because he had agreed to let Malfoy join the rebellion didn’t mean that he had any significant love for him. And Malfoy intruding into the time of day when Harry was reading most intensely and weaving his plans snapped the precious threads of his concentration.

            “What about?” he asked, not turning around yet. If this was going to be a waste of his time, then Harry would simply send Malfoy away and endeavor to recover the deep mood that had consumed him a moment before.

            “Something important.” Malfoy walked up to the edge of the table and perched there, staring down at him with eyes that looked hungry.

            Harry shook his head. He was tired of generalities, especially because, if he was right, then the nature of what he wanted to do would require a lot of specific details that he would have to learn, and remember, and keep focused in his head. But he couldn’t explain that to Malfoy without explaining a plan that he still wasn’t sure of, so he put aside the book and focused on Malfoy. “Fine. What is it?”

            Now that he had Harry’s attention, Malfoy seemed suddenly unsure. He turned his head away and frowned. Harry rapped his fingers on the table and looked longingly back at the book. He wished that Hermione was here so they could sure a bit of a laugh over that, that Harry should ever be desperate to go back to reading.

            “I can brew potions for you,” Malfoy said quietly. “But I prefer to know to what end they’re being put.”

            Harry raised an eyebrow. “Well, of course. It would do no good if we asked you to brew a certain potion and you didn’t know what we wanted to use it for, would it? You might accidentally brew something dangerous.”

            Malfoy turned around and stared at him. “That wouldn’t happen, Potter,” he said, sounding somewhere between wounded and disgusted. “I’m an expert. I would never create something dangerous unless I meant to.”

            “I’ll keep that in mind,” Harry said dryly. “But otherwise, I don’t know what you mean. Of course I would give you specific instructions before I asked you to brew anything. Right now I don’t need you to do that, hence the lack of specific instructions.”

            Malfoy bowed his head and took a long, deep breath, as if he had to force tainted air out of his lungs. Perhaps he did. Harry didn’t have the impression that Malfoy was going to adapt to living with them easily. He watched him, and apparently Malfoy had managed to get himself under control, because he swallowed heavily and then continued.

            “I meant that I need to know the end goal of your revolution,” he said. “What will you be using my potions for? Will you be attacking the Ministry? What about people like me? I don’t want to use them against my friends.”

            Harry leaned back in his chair, staring at Malfoy thoughtfully. Malfoy shifted position twice before Harry decided to speak again. “I’m afraid a certain amount of that is inevitable, Malfoy,” he said. “Of course some of them are going to hate you for coming to us in the first place, and they’ll fight for the Ministry. You might have no choice about going after them if you want to defend your own life, and the goals that I hope you’ll adopt as your own.”

            Malfoy’s left hand curled into a claw. “And what are those goals?” he asked. “Exactly.”

            “Oh, that,” Harry said, a bit blankly. “I thought everyone knew. We’re going to attack the Ministry and force them to stop arresting Muggleborns for crimes that they’re perfectly willing to let pure-bloods get away with.”

            “There has to be something larger than that,” Malfoy insisted. “Or you would have started a reform movement within the Ministry, not a revolution.”

            Harry snorted. “Not really,” he said. “I was hardly going to start a reform movement when I knew that everyone would be waiting for it to fail, or that everyone within the Ministry would be looking to destroy it, would I? This is what I want, and I’m going to make sure that the Ministry, by the time the revolution is finished, thinks twice about using people as scapegoats in order to satisfy a few other people.” He snorted again, looking into the distance as he thought again about the Donner case. “Especially when we have a fucking confession and they still insist that, oh, well, there’s the possibility that Imperius is being used or a spell exists that no one has ever heard of to force confession and which can’t be detected like the Imperius.”

            “That didn’t happen,” Malfoy said.

            “I worked on the case where it did,” Harry said. He reached over and picked up the book. “Are you going to say anything important? We can still Obliviate you if you don’t want to brew potions for us or fight against your friends, you know.” Although probably not for much longer.

            “You don’t understand,” Malfoy said. “I don’t see how the goals that you’re pursuing lead to that end goal.”

            “So far, we’re fighting defensively,” Harry said. He wondered why Malfoy hadn’t figured this out on his own. At least it probably meant that Ron couldn’t complain about Harry revealing the information to him. Probably. “We needed to secure shelter and we needed to make sure that our enemies couldn’t attack us immediately. We’ll start doing offensive things soon.”

            “Like what?” Malfoy leaned forwards.

            Harry smiled. “No need to tell you when we’re still discussing it,” he said pleasantly. “That would ruin the surprise. But if you wanted to help, you could brew us a potion that would shelter us from sight and the Ministry wards.”

            Malfoy stood up abruptly and left again. Harry had the feeling that he hadn’t got what he came for, but that was hardly Harry’s problem. Malfoy should have thought harder and longer about joining a revolution if he really wanted different answers.

*

            Hermione cast an auditory glamour that ought to muffle her harsh breathing and the beating of her heart, and then stood tall in front of the mirror and examined her face. She had to cast a few more touches to darken her hair and make her eyes wider, but at last she was satisfied. It ought to look like Auror Desang was visiting the Deep Caves.

            It ought to.

            Hermione touched the slender spellbook in her robe pocket that she was relying on to protect her if it turned out that someone suspected her, and then stepped out of the house and into the sputtering rain that had lasted for the past five hours. She drew her cloak close around her and shut her eyes.

            No Apparition coordinates had ever given her so much trouble. Well, that only made sense, Hermione thought, as her mind churned and bubbled and she had to clap her teeth shut against the impulse to scream and laugh at the same time. She had been given those coordinates freely by other people or learned them herself, rather than putting them together from the disjointed pieces of an overheard conversation.

            Pictures of gaping cavern entrances, a high mountain slope both below and overlooking them, a grey sky like the one that threatened right now hanging above it all…

            Hermione felt the squeeze of Apparition, and could only hope that it would take her to where she wanted to go. She landed with her head spinning so hard that it was long moments before she could lift it and look about her.

            Yes. She was on the slope of a higher mountain than she had ever seen. She didn’t know exactly where she was, only that it was somewhere in Britain, because inter-continental Apparition wasn’t possible. Probably somewhere in Wales, she thought, to calm her heartbeat. She took a few steps towards the nearest cave.

            Two wizards appeared in front of her. Hermione halted, looking at them, and was glad for the last glamour she’d used. She didn’t want to look as though she was nervous in front of guards as stern as these.

            “What are you doing here?” demanded the one on the left. Hermione glanced at him quickly, but didn’t know him; she was sure that she would have remembered those intense grey eyes if she’d ever seen them. And he couldn’t be an Auror, given the wand he was pointing at her. “You visited last week.”

            “Matters have changed,” Hermione said, and was glad, too, for the long conversations she’d had with Desang that had enabled her to get the voice right. “Or why would I have this?” She held up her wand.

            The wizard examined her more closely. He stood taller than she did, but Hermione had long since decided that she wasn’t going to let herself be intimidated by something like that. Instead, she stood there as if bored, and a reluctant smile pulled at his lips, finally. He stepped back and gestured her forwards with a sweep of his head. The other wizard glanced at him, but vanished back into the caves when the man gestured.

            “You could have warned us you were coming, you know, Andrea,” he said chidingly, reaching out to grasp her hand.

            Hermione reminded herself just in time not to flinch. The first name, and the way that he planted a kiss on the back of her knuckles, implied a different sort of relationship than the one she’d thought obtained here.

            “No, I couldn’t,” she said. “You have no idea how mad things have been lately. I barely got away.” She looked after the man who had left and had to make a wild guess about the doubt in his eyes and the relationship he had to Desang. “He won’t tell?”

            The wizard laughed. “You know that John adores you as much as the rest of us do! No, he just takes his job seriously, that’s all.”

            Useful information, Hermione thought, and tucked it away in the back of her mind. She took a brisk step towards the caves, and the wizard walked with her, only letting go of her hand when he had to dismiss a ward of some kind.

            “How did you get a wand?” he asked. “The last thing we heard, Potter, Merlin rot his bones, had taken all the wands from Aurors who were still loyal.”

            Hermione hid a shiver and wondered how literally the “Merlin rot his bones” was meant. “I was chosen for a special task,” she whispered. “The Minister made sure that I was first in line for the wands when they started rematching Aurors with them.”

            “What task?” The wizard gave her an encouraging glance. “You know that’s the sort of thing that you can tell me, Andrea.”

            Hermione took a deep breath, again, and shook her head. “There’s so many traitors,” she said sadly. The wizard made a swift movement, and she looked at him. “Not you. But even the notion that you’re carrying a secret for someone could make you a target. I don’t want to do that.” She smiled at him gently.

            The wizard walked stiffly for a few more steps, and then he sighed. “Damn you, you’re right,” he muttered. “We still don’t know how Potter got to so many wizards and Aurors, after all. Maybe he read their secrets right out of their heads. It’s better to make sure that as few people know as possible.”

            Hermione closed her eyes for a moment as they stepped across the threshold of the cave. She had to swallow both her fear and her gratitude that her lie had gone over the way she intended it to.

            “Paul?”

            They seemed to be addressing the wizard beside her. He nodded to Hermione and kissed her on the cheek. Hermione hid another shiver, partially out of pity that he thought it was Desang he was kissing and partially because his lips were cold. “Sorry, dear,” he said. “Another bloody meeting. They can’t improve that latest summoning circle.” He hurried deeper into the cave, calling out as he went, but Hermione lost track of his voice and what he was saying as she turned and surveyed the cave in front of her.

            She had suspected what was happening. Of course she had. That didn’t make the reality that exploded on her like a dropped firework any better.

            Inferi marched through the cave, practicing clumsy fighting routines, or leaned against the wall, staring with soulless eyes. In one corner hung several dozen skeletons, and the stare of their eyes was in some ways worse. Circles smoked on the floor. Numerous chants resounded in Hermione’s ears.

            She gritted her teeth—this was no time to faint—and began to move forwards as if she knew where she was going, vaguely following Paul. All the while, the concealed camera under her cloak snapped and muttered to itself.

*

            Draco seriously considered leaving the manor after his conversation with Potter. Despite Potter’s claims that he could keep Draco in one place and the evidence of his magic, Draco considered himself free.

            There was nothing here. Potter didn’t have a plan, he didn’t understand the implications of what he was doing, and that meant he could be no serious threat to the Ministry. The moment the Ministry figured that out, they would simply attack and halt the spying, and there went Draco’s hope of freeing his parents.

            Draco closed his eyes at the last thought and dug his fingers into his eyes. No. He could not give up on his parents, no matter what happened.

            Which meant that, if the Ministry wouldn’t free them and Potter had no plan, Draco had to seek out someone who would help him. Or create that person, if they didn’t actually exist. He sat up at the thought and stared at the wall of his room. Someone had carved a circle there long ago and adorned it with a face.

            Yes, why not create one? Potter had the resentment against the Ministry and the power that Draco needed. More people would flood in to join him. He could be poised and sent in a new direction, or a wider one. Draco was wise enough to know that Potter would never abandon his goals completely. Justice simply called too strongly to a Gryffindor.

            But he could be persuaded that there were other people in need of justice. Draco knew it, as strongly as he knew that he couldn’t give up.

            So. He would stay with Potter for the moment, send his reports to the Ministry in case they still meant to keep their promise of helping him, and work to change Potter’s mind. There were a number of tactics that he could use to do so, knowledge unfurling in Draco’s mind and stretching new tendrils to the light like a growing vine.

            The best one, he couldn’t choose yet, but he would begin something that would be the first step in any one of them. He would go and brew the potion that would convince Potter that he should be trusted, listened to, and eventually given what he wanted.

            Draco was smiling as he stepped out of the room to seek the potions lab that he knew George Weasley spent the most time in. He knew that he would have to share space and time and ingredients with the crazy bastard, but that hardly mattered. Everyone who liked could look at his potion and make inquiries about what he was brewing. None of them could understand it.

            As it happened, he bumped into someone as he left the room, and the person gripped his arm to steady it. Draco blinked and found himself looking down at George Weasley.

            Weasley nodded to him and said, “Ah, yes, just the man we were looking for.” Draco looked around instinctively, but saw no one next to him. Perhaps Weasley thought he was a king, Draco decided cautiously. From what he knew of the twins’ arrogance when it came to their time in school, Draco didn’t think that was impossible.

            “Come with us,” Weasley said, and swept down the corridor. “We could use your help with the next device we’re working on.”

            Since they were going to the lab anyway, Draco didn’t object, but followed meekly along. He could work on the potion in a few hours.

            And who knew what the Ministry might consider sufficient payment for the glimpse of one of the Weasley twins’ infernal machines and its innards?

*

            Harry faced the far wall and licked his lips. This was—dangerous. Difficult. He still wasn’t sure that he understood the book completely even after all the time he had spent reading it. He was probably stupid to be trying this.

            None of that kept him from lifting his wand, sucking in enough air to make him feel lighter on his feet, and then snapping his hand towards the far wall. “Reducto!” he snapped.

            The inner wall collapsed. Harry winced as he watched the falling and rumbling blocks. He had forgotten how strong he could make a Blasting Curse when he wanted. He ignored the feet that pounded towards the door and the fists that pounded on it. He had put up wards that would take them forever to get through, and he hadn’t hurt anyone.

            He closed his eyes, envisioning the page of the book that told him the most about the spells that he wanted to perform. It was a picture of Fortuna’s Wheel, done in so many colors that the only ones Harry could remember accurately at first were the eye-catching green and gold. But he focused his mind, and they came into being: the single scarlet spoke, the one that shone like a sapphire, the white gown of the blindfolded woman who stood beside the Wheel, and more.

            Holding onto the image, he forced it deep, down into his mind, and held it there, too, thrumming through his veins, the way he’d held onto the magic that he’d used to blast his way through Hogwarts’s wards. Then he let it all go in a spiral through his wand, not so much magic—it didn’t have an incantation associated with it, even a nonverbal one—as a force. It spread through the air in front of him. When Harry opened his eyes, he could feel it there, although he couldn’t see it.

            He smiled and flicked his wand again. “Reducto!” he cried.

            This time, nothing happened. Harry tried several more times to cast the Blasting Curse, and again and again, power failed to rush up his arm and out his wand. Harry sagged back against the table and shut his eyes, still ignoring the confused shouts from outside his door.

            He had taken away his own ability to perform the Blasting Curse, a spell he had decided to sacrifice because there were plenty of others he could cast.

            If he was right, and the procedure would work on other people in the same way…

            There would be very little that could stop them.

*

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Intoxicate the Sun