Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Sanctum Sanctorum	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 28253 -:- Recommendations : 3 -:- Currently Reading : 4
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this fanfic.

Chapter List
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Chapter Seven—In a Ministry Cell

            Harry listened. He was aware of his own heartbeat and Malfoy’s breathing, and the way that Malfoy shifted against him, as if he would hate to be caught with Harry more than simply caught, but he discounted that. He was listening.

            The silence stretched around and ahead of him. There was too much silence on the other side of the door, where the person who had opened it should be standing. Harry bared his teeth, but kept still himself. The person who hesitated there wouldn’t betray him into making noise, as he thought they were trying to do.

            He looked down at the floor, but saw no shadow. He sniffed, but found no scent. He grimaced in disgust. The person on the other side of the door was cautious, probably because they had found the door unlocked in the first place. The spell Harry had woven around himself and Malfoy, the closest he could get to recreating his Invisibility Cloak when he didn’t have it with him, would keep them from sight and casual hearing, but they couldn’t simply avoid detection altogether.

            The door opened further at last. Malfoy hiss-sighed into Harry’s ear, and Harry absently slapped at the back of his neck. He didn’t need Malfoy doing that, thanks.

            Malfoy stiffened in offense. Well, if it would keep him from being distracting, then Harry was all for that.

            Now the person was moving in. Now Harry could see the shadow, which didn’t explain the silence in which this person moved or the thrum of magic he could feel around him. Or her? The shadow was heavily cloaked and robed, and Harry could see no clues when he looked up and tried to catch a glimpse of the intruder’s face, either. In the absence of those hints, he tried to open his mind and find the truth from what was there to be observed, the way his instructors in the Aurors had taught him.

            The robe was rich, embroidered around the hem with shapes in golden thread that made Harry’s stomach crawl. He knew some of them from his study of Dark magical rituals, and although Malfoy would probably say that he was hypocritical to feel sick at the sight of them, at least Harry could trust himself not to use those rituals without a good reason. He had no idea if he could trust this person, because he didn’t know who they were.

            Enough. Harry banished his frustration with a crystal-clear blast of practicality through his mind, like a cold wind that blew aside the tattered fog. He would be as bad as Malfoy otherwise, who was hissing and shifting against him and basically acting as if he wanted to be discovered. He tapped the back of Malfoy’s knee with his boot, and Malfoy subsided. Harry thought he would probably find the expression on his face offended if he glanced at it, but he didn’t care.

            The robe slid and hissed along the floor in a way that also spoke of its crafting, and when Harry listened closer, he caught half-familiar syllables in that rasping. More listening, and they came clear enough to be completely familiar. The robe was saying, over and over, in Parseltongue, Change, change, change.

            Harry bowed his head and held it there, and didn’t realize his arms had tightened around Malfoy until Malfoy winced and so told him silently. That was bad, Harry thought absently. He had to be aware of his strength and his intentions at all times, or he could hurt someone, much worse than most people could, what with his magic and his temper and his mastery of branches of power that the Ministry didn’t want people to study.

            But his mind responded to that word.

            There was another Parselmouth around. Alive. Either that, or someone had found a magical breakthrough that would ensure they could comprehend and translate the snake language, but Harry doubted that. People had been trying for centuries without finding one. He had discovered those attempts when he began his serious studies, after Hogwarts.

            There is another Parselmouth.

            Or there is one, again.

            Harry watched the person in the robe come further and further into the room, pausing every few inches, but he also busied himself with shifting around until Malfoy leaned against him in a more comfortable position. Then he pushed Malfoy’s sleeve back, baring his left forearm. Malfoy stiffened for the fourth or fifth time, not that Harry was keeping track, and let out another indignant hiss between his teeth.

            Harry stared at his Dark Mark, striving to see whether it was different from the ones he had examined since the end of the war. If it was brighter, if it had turned blacker, if the snake turned its head aside from the skull…

            But no. It looked like the same faded grey mark Harry had seen a dozen times now, each time on the arm of a Death Eater he captured. He exhaled and dropped the arm, letting the sleeve fall back into place.

            Malfoy opened his mouth, probably to demand an explanation, and Harry placed an elbow next to his ribs and fixed him with a glare. Malfoy seemed to accept that an enemy seeking their blood probably should take precedent over getting an answer from Harry, and fell silent. But his eyes glittered with a promise.

            Harry shrugged. He would be more than happy to give the answer later, since Malfoy had been so obliging to show him that the Dark Mark was still the same and Voldemort had not returned.

            But right now, his mouth was dry with puzzlement. Where had they found another Parselmouth, then?

            You aren’t the only descendant of the Peverells. And for all you know, you and Voldemort are the only Parselmouths in Britain. Remember that Draco said Moonstone had lived in other countries. They could have got someone from one of them.

            Harry smiled a bit as he realized that his mind had automatically connected the person trying to find them now with his case against Schroeder and Moonstone. That might not be the truth here, as he had no evidence that resembled Campion’s stumbling confession to go on. He listened, though, and watched.

            The robe-wearer had come to a halt in front of the desk covered with parchment. As Harry watched, one pure white hand reached out of the sleeve and caressed one of the piles. The papers trembled and began to grow smaller. Harry squinted to watch them fly up the stranger’s sleeve like a flock of tiny white birds.

            Well. That’s one way to carry evidence out without someone seeing you do it. Of course, you want to be wearing a less conspicuous robe when you do it.

            Two piles vanished that way, and then the stranger seemed to have what he, or she, had come looking for. They turned back towards the door, although they jerked their head around for one last look at the room. Harry thought he could hear a nose working intensely under the cloak’s hood, but he had no idea whether that was true or not. He held his place and his peace, and finally the stranger glided out the door and shut it behind him.

            Harry bowed his head, sighed, and waited a count of one hundred, ignoring the way Malfoy struggled in his arms. He didn’t want to release him or the spell until he knew that the stranger wouldn’t come back to find something he had missed. And even then, when the spell collapsed and they faded back into sight, he cast a charm that meant any sound they made inside the room would be impossible to hear outside it.

            When he moved back and away, Malfoy tore himself free, wrapping his arms around himself as though to guard against cold. Harry nodded to him. “You have every right to feel that way,” he said. “I violated your boundaries, and I’m sorry. I couldn’t think of any other way to guard us from sight at the moment, but I could have if I’d considered it longer.”

*

            Draco wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what to say.

            That wasn’t something that happened often.

            He contented himself with a frigid bow of his head, and Potter stepped towards the desk, studying the bare space where the parchment had vanished. Draco sneered at his back, wondering what he expected to find.

            Potter, of course, had a spell ready. He had a spell for every occasion, Draco thought, and wondered idly for a moment if Potter had one that could help him find his tongue and deal with what he had felt as he stood there, wrapped in the arms of a predator. Potter had gone still when the stranger entered the room, and then he had wanted to look at the Dark Mark, which Draco kept wrapped up and bound away from everyone, and then…

            Draco didn’t know why, and he wanted to know. That price, at least, Potter owed him for what he had done.

            So he waited, until Potter had stepped back and shaken his head in frustration, muttering something about how it wasn’t there, and then said, “Was that person Voldemort?”

            Potter started and turned towards him, swaying a little on his feet. Caught off-guard by the name or the fact that Draco would speak it; Draco wasn’t sure which, but he did know that he felt vindicated. He wanted Potter as badly unbalanced as he was.

            Although, perhaps, it wouldn’t come because of an arm clamped around his chest, or a hand tearing back his sleeve to bare his left forearm. Draco kept himself from touching the Mark, but it was difficult.

            Then Potter swallowed and said, “I thought he might be, because of the way his robe talked.”

            “His robe talked,” Draco said flatly, and moved a step back, so that he would have some space to work with if Potter suddenly sprang at him.

            Potter nodded, not seeming to notice the way Draco had chosen to abandon him. His eyes were distant and cold, focused on a patch of air somewhere between the door and Draco’s Mark. “The hem of his robe whispered Parseltongue. Change was what it said, over and over. Just the one word. They have a Parselmouth, or they cracked the barrier that keeps most people from learning it. Most objects can’t be enchanted to speak it, you see. Only something that’s shaped like a snake, and even then, people who aren’t Parselmouths still can’t understand them.”

            Draco felt as though a wave had captured him and borne him backwards, to their second year and a snake writhing on the floor of the Great Hall, obeying the Great Harry Potter’s command. Draco had stood there and felt a passionate fool. He should have been the one with the gift, the glory, and the ability to make a dozen Slytherins go silent and stare, but he wasn’t. That had been the moment he’d decided he would hate Harry Potter forever.

            But this was different. “You looked at my Mark because you wanted to know how bright it was,” he said. “If he had come back.”

            Potter nodded. “My scar has faded so much that I can’t be sure, anymore. Sometimes it hurts, but only after I’ve cracked my head on something.” He gave Draco a quick smile which indicated that remark was meant to be amusing. Draco stared back at him, and declined to be amused.

            Potter looked away, and Draco wondered if he had won. If he wanted to. “I think this might have something to do with Moonstone and Schroeder,” Potter said. “It can’t be coincidence that someone took the recent arrest orders, after all.”

            Draco sighed. “We still have no idea what Moonstone and Schroeder are doing, or the real reason they wanted me arrested.”

            “No,” Potter said. “But there are too many coincidences, including that this mysterious stranger appears from nowhere the evening both arrests happen.”

            “It could be someone else,” Draco said. He made his voice as pointed and heavy as he could, a series of falling rocks that Potter would be a fool to ignore. This was the kind of thing Potter would simply have to deal with as long as he wanted to remain partners in this enterprise with Draco. Potter might trust his own feelings and perceptions more than anything else, but Draco did not. “It could be that we’re tracing several threads here, and missing the section where they tie into a knot, because we’re looking at something else.”

            Potter considered him, head tilted to the side like an owl. Then he nodded. “That’s possible,” he said. “But how likely do you think it is?”

            “That doesn’t have much to do with the possibility,” Draco pointed out. “We have to look with open minds, not assume one thing or the other is true.”

            Potter smiled, and his fingers played for a moment down his wand. “I have to think that way,” he said simply. “If I take too long to make up my mind in battle, then there’s the chance that someone could attack me and kill me. The end.”

            Draco rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Potter, but that’s not the case with almost anything else,” he said roughly. “And we’re not in battle right now. I want to go slowly and investigate this as it should be investigated, rather than assume that we have powerful and terrible enemies hidden out of sight in every shadow. Do you understand me?”

            “Yes,” Potter said unexpectedly. “You’re saying that’s what I have to do to keep you as an ally.”

            Draco blinked and nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I am.” He waited a few moments more, but Potter didn’t seem inclined to say anything else. “Do you accept?”

            Potter sucked air through his teeth and looked at the empty space of floor where the figure in the “talking” robe had stood. Draco moved to the side, and then paused, wondering whether he wanted to be sure that the shadow on Potter’s face at the moment was, indeed, just a shadow rather than lines of worry.

            “I don’t know,” Potter said. “I trust Ron. I trust Hermione. There’s almost no one else.” He glanced at Draco over his shoulder. “I’m trying to decide if you can be admitted to that company.”

            Draco raised his eyebrows, and said nothing. There seemed nothing to say. Even his offense at Potter’s presumption was out of place here, because Draco knew it wouldn’t matter one whit to Potter whether he was offended or not. Potter would make his decision to listen or not listen.

            So he stood there, with half-hatred boiling through his veins, because he felt that he was on trial again, and that was a feeling he had never learned to like. He didn’t like Potter setting himself up as his judge, either.

            But then, Potter had saved him twice that evening, once from arrest and once from discovery by someone who would probably turn into an enemy when he discovered Potter and Draco spying on him, whether or not he already was one. Potter had earned the right to a little indulgence.

*

            This is strange.

            It was. Harry couldn’t remember the last time that someone had asked him something like this. Criminals didn’t ask him things, they just fled. Witnesses asked him questions, but those were informational or placating anyway, just questions like, “And will I be all right?” The Ministry didn’t ask, it ordered. And between him and Ron and Hermione, all the important things had been said a long time ago. Only if Harry wanted to bring up something that would change them would he have asked them a question like this.

            He studied Malfoy. Malfoy shifted once, and then stood still. The expression on his face, which looked to be carved of grey marble, was nothing like the adoring one he had worn in Plumm’s vision. There was that, at least.

            Still, Harry thought a moment later, he was being stupid. This was giving Malfoy’s question too much weight. So he wanted Harry to spend a short time longer considering who their enemies might be before assigning them to discrete categories. That was not such a harsh demand. Harry shook his head.

            I won’t let him become that important to me. Plumm’s vision stands a greater chance of coming true if I do.

            “All right,” he said. “I concede that someone coming into this office to steal papers might not be connected to Moonstone and Schroeder. And if he’d suspected we were here, he would have searched harder.”

            Malfoy exhaled hard, his brow wrinkling as he stared at Harry. “Good,” he said a moment later, his voice louder than he seemed to expect, because he blinked and shook his head. “Good. Then you’ll allow me to tell you what I think?”

            Harry smirked and leaned back a little, gesturing. He could hardly stop Malfoy if he wanted to, not if they were equal allies.

            Malfoy gave him a half-glare, and then nodded. “We’ve stumbled onto something a few people are interested in,” he said. “It would not surprise me if political rivals of Moonstone and Schroeder came to steal the arrest order, because they’re interested in why they would want a lowly Potions master arrested.”

            Harry snorted. “You can apply the word lowly to yourself without bursting from the indignity?”

            “Surprisingly, yes,” Malfoy said, and his nostrils flared. “I’ve had to learn certain lessons in humility since I’ve been alive after the trials.”

            Harry raised one hand, then realized he didn’t know what he was going to do with it and dropped it with a shrug. “Right, sorry. Go on.”

            “An apology?” Malfoy cupped his hands in front of him the way a child might when cradling a blown kiss. “I may faint.”

            “What, and bang the memory out of your head?” Harry folded his arms, not sure what to make of the way they were talking to each other, but deciding to ignore it. “Go on.”

            Malfoy half-smiled, as though he knew that he could make Harry uncomfortable by insisting that they continue discussing this, but courteously refrained. “There’s no way to tell at this point,” he said. “We don’t have enough evidence. Going back to your partner and learning what else Campion may have confessed would tell us more.”

            Harry snorted again. “Campion had told us as much as he knew. I interrupted too early, of course, but he doesn’t have much else to give.”

            Malfoy stared at him, and only then did Harry realize that he had assumed without thinking about it that he was right, and discarded Malfoy’s suggestion. He sighed. It would take some time to get used to working with someone who wasn’t Ron. “Right. Sorry. Well, let’s go, then.” He moved towards the office door.

            Malfoy followed behind him, not speaking. Harry wondered if he was angry, and then wondered why he cared. Angry or not, Malfoy had agreed to come with him. That was really the only thing that should matter.

            Perhaps not. But we need to figure out the parameters of this mess first.

*

            There was no warning. One moment, Draco was walking down the corridor with Potter’s back ahead of him, and they seemed to aim in the direction of a particular interrogation room.

            The next instant, Potter had seized him and borne him backwards, and Draco found himself standing behind a barrier of white lines in midair, trying to catch his breath from where he’d hit the wall. He reached out and touched the barrier, with sparked at him hard enough to sting his fingers. Draco pulled his hand back with a hiss and narrowed his eyes, trying to see through the barrier.

            It grew hazier as he watched, though still nothing like clear, and then he could make out Potter standing in the corridor, in front of two bulky figures who wore grey robes edged with white. One had his wand trained on Potter; the other turned her head, scanning the corridor slowly, as though she knew Potter had cast a concealing spell but couldn’t trace it.

            Draco held his breath. He didn’t know who they were, but if Potter had taken the trouble of casting the barrier, then he didn’t think he wanted them finding him.

            In the end, the woman oriented back on Potter, and joined her companion in pointing her wand at him. Potter kept his hands out and his head tilted down in a way that suggested he was feigning innocence. Draco could picture exactly the shade of green his eyes would have turned, and had to bite his lip to hold back a snort. Making sounds, despite the probable protection of the barrier, didn’t seem like a good idea, either.

            “You have been using Dark magic in the Ministry,” said the man.

            Potter tamely bowed his head and moved his hands forwards, slowly, so that they were in the right position for someone to clasp ropes or chains around them. “I plead guilty,” he said. “My mind has been stressed, and I know that I have engendered political conflict with the prisoner I arrested tonight. I have no choice but to spend a little time in your care.”

            The woman sighed, and her posture relaxed. “That’s the same thing you’ve said the last few times, Potter,” she said.

            “What, everything?” Potter’s voice lilted up, and Draco had to admit that, if you listened to the tone alone, he would probably make a magnificent liar, capable of convincing you of anything against your will. “You’re sure? Down to the prisoner I’ve arrested that would stir up conflict between different political factions?”

            “Yes,” said the man, and by the way he shifted and folded his arms, he was less than impressed by Potter’s excuses. “You will spend the night in a cell, and possibly much more time than that, depending on the disruption.”

            Potter nodded and handed over his wand, which the woman made vanish into a pocket. Watching him, Draco wondered if that mattered. Potter might be fully as dangerous without his wand as with it, although perhaps he couldn’t perform spells that would be as strong.

            They wrapped chains around Potter’s wrists, and he stood there and let them. That didn’t fit with the picture Draco had built of him, of someone who argued with everything and trusted his own feelings more than anything else. But Draco couldn’t figure out what it did fit.

            A good actor, perhaps. Someone who could be arrogant with Draco, who was only a new ally, but calm and gentle with the Ministry, his employment and the source of half the power he carried. Draco wondered what Weasley would think when he didn’t come back, and what exactly these people were. Unspeakables, perhaps, but he doubted Unspeakables would wear robes that ugly or have left their faces visible.

            As they began to pull Potter away, he shot a glance back over his shoulder. Draco could read the warning in it, but he hadn’t expected the reassurance. It seemed as though Potter understood the doubts he might have and was trying to make sure that Draco didn’t do something stupid because of them.

            Of course, Draco was going to do the sensible thing. He waited until Potter was out of sight and the barrier spell had faded, and then he cast his own Disillusionment Charm and walked, fast and quietly, out of the Ministry. Once back at his shop, he would send an owl to Weasley giving information and requesting it.

            He would find out what was happening, even the things that Potter evidently didn’t want him to discover.

*

            SP777: Well, you’re probably going to be waiting a while for your wishes to come true! Sorry.
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