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Bard of Morning's Hope	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 9573 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and am not making any money from this story.

Chapter List
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Thank you again for all the reviews!
Chapter Seven—Repairing Holes
            The morning had been—tolerable, Draco had to allow. Potter had escorted them around his wards, letting his mother recognize blood protections and point out things that could be fixed. He had smiled and nodded at Draco, instead of getting upset at him, when Draco questioned the previous strength of his wards.
            “Yes, they really weren’t enough,” he’d agreed, taking a step back and critically surveying the shimmering stack of lines around the house. “I thought the addition of the silver fire would be enough, but with the Bard inside the wards…” He shrugged.
            “Then I don’t understand,” said Draco, and kept his voice as casual as he could, because his mother was looking sternly at him and wouldn’t forgive him if Draco messed this up. “Why are you bothering to strengthen the wards if the Bard can just get inside them?”
            Potter nodded to him again. “I’m planning something that I hope will shove the Bard back outside the wards and force him to respect them.”
            Draco licked his lips. “What is that?” Last night, he had been almost hopeless. He didn’t know why he had awakened and managed to save his mother, but he couldn’t attribute it to any slip-up on the Bard’s part when he didn’t know.
            “We need to make some tests,” said Potter, and sighed and set his shoulders. “Come on, let’s talk about this back inside the wards. There might be spies for the Bard that could listen in.” He hesitated, then added, “He’s either part of the Muggleborn Legion, or has spies inside their walls, I’m certain.”
            Draco blinked and followed him. “How do you know that?” he demanded, the instant they were inside.
            “Don’t be impatient, Draco darling,” his mother murmured as she took a seat on the other side of the table and looked at Potter critically. The house-elf popped up and put a cup of tea in front of her. Narcissa didn’t acknowledge the service, and the elf bowed in what looked like ecstasy and vanished again. “I think Auror Potter is just about to explain.”
            “Yes.” Potter nodded at her and looked at both of them until Draco sat down with a resigned sigh. Then Potter did get on with the explanation. “A member of the Muggleborn Legion came to visit me yesterday, claiming that one of his people had vanished and that she must be the one responsible for the Bard attacks. The timing is beyond suspicious.”
            “But the Aurors believed his story, of course,” Draco said, because that was how his luck would run.
            Potter speared him with a single glance. “They believed it enough to look for this Tatyana Kingston he claimed had disappeared. But there’s no trace of her, and so we’re sure that she’s a distraction at worst, a Bard ally but not the Bard herself at best.”
            Draco looked his mother and mouthed the name “Tatyana Kingston,” but she only shook her head. Draco hadn’t expected her to have familiarity with a Muggleborn name if he didn’t himself, but it was still a disappointment.
            “What do you think you can do to prevent a Bard attack?” he asked, and turned back to Potter.
            Potter studied them for a second, and Draco restrained his mouth. He didn’t think Potter was being deliberately provocative. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts, and Merlin knew that would be a long process, Draco thought.
            His mother gave him a light frown, as if sensing the tendency of his thoughts. Draco shrugged at her, unapologetic. He had to put up with Potter somehow, and that meant teasing in his mind if he couldn’t do it aloud.
            “It’s beyond unusual that the Bard didn’t finish the attack,” Potter began. “It’s at least a hopeful sign that, once we moved you here, he couldn’t attack as well.” He hesitated again, then said, “The only thing that really changed beyond your arrival was the arrival of your keepsakes.”
            It took Draco a moment to understand what he meant, and in the meantime, his mother had already understood. She stood up with a hiss. “How dare you say that I should destroy the mementos of my husband,” she said, and then she choked and sat back down, drawing one corner of her new shawl up to wipe her eyes.
            “No,” said Potter quietly. “I’m not saying that. I want you to send the photographs and so on back to the Manor.” He hesitated, then added, “I think the Bard would be more likely to enter through an image of his victim than through your clothes or—or your toothbrushes, but I would send those back as well.”
            “So he can go into our house and be waiting for us when we go back?” Draco asked viciously. “Oh, yes, Potter, marvelous plan.”
            “Listen.” Potter spun back around to face him, and Draco had to admit a certain admirable quality about him when his face was ignited like this. “We already know the Bard has access to the Manor. For whatever reason, his attack was different here, and your mum survived. If we can experiment a little, then maybe we can finally trap him, or at least make sure that he can’t hurt you while you’re here.”
            Draco frowned. He had to admit that that suggestion had merit, which was all the more reason for disliking it. “What kind of experiments are you talking about?”
            “I’m going to add wards of silver fire in the rooms themselves,” said Potter, and darted a glance at Draco’s mother. “With your permission, I’d like to keep one image of Lucius and ward it. To see what happens if the Bard tries to make another entrance.”
            “You will not destroy it,” said his mother, and she didn’t rise, but the white-knuckled grip of her hands on the arms of her chair were enough warning of what would happen to Potter if he did, Draco thought.
            “Of course not.” Potter stared at her as though she was the one suggesting mad theories of impossible magic, not him.
            Narcissa struggled for a second. Then she inclined her head. “I have a photograph that you can ward.”
            “Yes,” said Draco quietly. “I think it’s a good idea.”
            Potter shot him a quick look. Draco held his eyes and said nothing. It was true that he wanted to pick at Potter; that his father had only died yesterday; that he didn’t think Potter was taking this seriously enough, when the Bard had also attacked them in the house that was supposed to be their best sanctuary.
            But he appreciated Potter was doing all he could. Even the best Auror in the business couldn’t do much to arrest someone who could apparently appear and disappear through keepsakes, and play some sort of game with wards. Draco lowered his head and let out a long, slow, shaking breath.
            He could acknowledge that. He didn’t have to like it.
*
            Harry stepped back and slowly nodded. The photograph of Lucius, the only one not sent back to the Manor, was covered with crawling networks of silver fire now. Snape’s legacy to him hummed and crackled more vigilantly than ever. Harry sometimes thought, uneasily, that a bit of Snape’s memories lingered in it, and approved when Harry was trying something new and innovative to protect Slytherins.
            Or perhaps it only picked up on his own urgency, which was certainly deep enough.
            Harry curled his fingers into his palm and hissed a little. It seemed impossible that the Bard could have come through a photograph in the first place. And it didn’t answer the other questions Harry had about the Bard’s other attacks. There had been kill sites without images of the victim in them, and others that had only portraits. A few of the Death Eaters had died outside, or in temporary but heavily warded safehouses. How in the world could the Bard have a link to every one of those places? It was one of the many mysteries to how the Bard operated.
            And a question I won’t solve right now, Harry thought, as he turned around and found Malfoy standing in the doorway of the spare room behind him. Malfoy nodded to him with the distant expression on his face that Harry knew meant he was going to make trouble.
            “We will need new clothes to replace the ones we are sending back to the Manor,” said Malfoy, and raised his head haughtily when Harry looked at him, as if thinking Harry would dispute that. “Even the ones that we’re wearing now, since we also brought them, and the ones we wore yesterday, since both of us were in the room where my father died.” For a moment, his voice broke, and he looked away.
            Harry would have been content to remain in silence for a moment, to let Malfoy take his time to recover his poise, but Malfoy had it back as if he had never lost it. He plucked at the shirt he wore. “Unless you want us both naked, of course,” he added.
            Harry’s breath caught a little as he thought about Malfoy naked. Narcissa wasn’t in his mind at all; he just blinked at Malfoy and thought, and there was a glow to the image that he hadn’t seen in a while.
            Then Malfoy turned and glared at him again, and ruined the glow. No, Harry was being an idiot. Malfoy would never—he would be insulted if he knew the barest glimpse of what Harry was thinking. Harry nodded. “Then I’ll summon Grimstone and Adbar. They’ll accompany me as we take you to Diagon Alley.”
            Malfoy sneered. “You think that all the clothes shops we want to patronize are in Diagon Alley?”
            “Well, where are they, then?” Harry asked, thinking there must be some secret hidden wizarding village that was all shops and swaggering pure-bloods.
            “In Knockturn Alley.”
            Harry froze for the briefest second. Then he shook his head. “No, Malfoy. Are you insane? The Bard must have allies—he has to, to manage some of the devices that probably let him get in—and they’re probably all over Knockturn Alley.”
            “You don’t know that.” Malfoy was smiling, but in a way that made his eyes gleam like steel instead of simply shining. “After all, I know the Lestranges died far away from all centers of civilization.” He looked straight at Harry. “We need clothes. That’s not under dispute. And the shops of Diagon Alley do not have what we require. That is also not in dispute.”
            “Yes, it bloody is!” Harry crowded a little closer. Malfoy only stood his ground and didn’t retreat, which Harry had to admit was unexpected—and bloody inconvenient. “Can’t you just shop at Madam Malkin’s?”
            He sounded a little desperate, and from the small, satisfied curve of Malfoy’s smile, he knew it. “No. She doesn’t have our measurements. We would have to spend hours, perhaps a full day, out in order to have the clothes made. And have you forgotten that there are perhaps as many dangers in Diagon Alley as in Knockturn? There are people there sympathetic to the Bard. In fact, they may be more plentiful in the ‘Lighter’ areas than in the Darker ones.”
            Harry rubbed his forehead and the headache forming behind his scar. Malfoy laughed. “Come on, Potter. You knew that we would need clothes.”
            “Yes, but I thought that you would go to normal shops,” Harry muttered, his mind racing. He couldn’t take an Auror escort along into Knockturn Alley. The place survived based on treaties with the Ministry that Harry didn’t know about and wanted to destroy, but he didn’t have the power to do that. And right now, the survival of the Malfoys was what he had to consider, not why the Ministry put up with all that corruption a few miles from its doorstep.
            No, an Auror escort would signal the end of the truce for some people, and would certainly draw fire. But how could he keep the Malfoys safe in the middle of a swarming crowd of Dark wizards, warlocks, hags, and black apothecaries?
            A second later, Harry started to grin in spite of himself. The same way he had kept them safe, or tried, from an enemy that was deadlier than anything he had ever faced. He would need a disguise, but in the middle of Knockturn Alley, that was a given. Harry Potter wouldn’t be able to get more than a step without someone casting a curse at him.
            Harry knew what disguise he would use, too.
            “You’ve seen sense?” Malfoy sounded somewhere between delighted and disgruntled.
            Harry turned and gave him a sweet smile. “You could say that. For the moment, the biggest problem will be making sure that you have enough Galleons to look like you belong with me, instead of the other way around.”
*
            Draco wanted to sneer, but he didn’t, because that would mean Potter had too much attention from him.
            Of course, he also wanted to gape, because the figure who had met him and his mother at the bottom of the stairs in the drawing room was very different from the one that Draco had last seen ducking into the bathroom. But not different in an impressive way, Draco reassured himself hastily. In fact, he was fighting to hold in laughter, not a gasp.
            Really.
            Potter had somehow become almost a foot taller, and he wore a tall hat that was pointed in a severe way. Draco had only seen the equal on McGonagall. He also wore a long black cloak that draped over his shoulders and entirely hid whatever apparatus he was using to achieve the extra height. His hair had gone silver and thin, and his eyes were blue and fixed straight ahead. He nodded to Draco and Narcissa without looking at them and moved towards the door. Draco wondered if it would be hard for him to turn his head, and suspected it would.
            Which, of course, made Draco wonder why in the world he had adopted this disguise, when it would only lead to someone slaughtering him when they came up and he couldn’t spin around to hold his wand. Or, more to the point, it would lead to someone slaughtering Draco and Narcissa.
            “This is the best disguise you could imagine?” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth as they stepped into the garden.
            Potter’s eyes turned sideways and gave him a steady, aloof stare. “This disguise of mine has a reputation in Knockturn Alley,” he said, and his voice was a little high-pitched and had a different accent. Draco blinked, not able to lie to himself now about being impressed. “As someone who is bad to cross.”
            Draco considered that, then nodded. “I never meant to go without glamours, you know,” he reminded Potter. “Only in the shop will Mother and I have to appear as ourselves, because Madam Royal doesn’t see anyone with glamours on.” It was caution and good sense in a place like Knockturn, but also practical, when it came to her business, Draco knew. She couldn’t take accurate measurements or choose good colors if she couldn’t see someone’s real face or height.
            “Then put them on,” said Potter, and his eyes rolled back to staring into the distance.
            Bristling a little, Draco did. He had grown practiced at appearing as a nameless Muggleborn during the war when the Dark Lord had sometimes sent him on “scouting” missions—useless in reality—into Muggle areas. His spell combined features of several Muggleborn students he had known at Hogwarts: that one’s weak chin, this one’s brown bristles. He knew the spell by heart, still.
            His mother had done much the same thing when Draco turned to look at her, above all hiding her distinctive blond hair and delicately Black features. She looked like a Muggle matron with an elevated nose and upper lip.
            “Good,” said Potter, although Draco didn’t know exactly how he had swiveled his eyes to see their new appearances. “Now, follow close behind me. Leonis Klein has followers, not companions.”
            And he strode away. Draco listened hard this time, and was sure that he heard a creaking. He shook his head. That was riskier than if Potter had used illusions to achieve his new height. Someone would probably notice.
            On the other hand…
            Draco had to smile a little. Who would care enough to refer to it openly in Knockturn Alley, that center of illusion, deception, and supposedly miraculous cures? Of course Potter’s disguise would only work there, and not in an open area like Diagon Alley, where, especially since the war, more people were wont to comment on unusual things in case they were signs of a new Dark wizard attack.
            Yes, Potter had chosen his disguise well. And for it to have an established reputation and name, he had been in Knockturn Alley more than once. It wasn’t just size that would keep someone safe there, either. Potter had contacts. Influence.
            Draco followed him obediently, his eyes on Potter’s back. The black cloak flapped and swayed arrogantly.
            Potter would never be Draco’s favorite person, but he thought he could get to like this new version.
*
SP777: I reread sections of my own stories, but usually not the whole thing. After all, I already know what it says.
Do you mean a story about someone who creates spells? I’m not sure what else a Spellcaster story is.
Yes, the protection of Snape’s memories is pretty exclusively for Slytherins.
Kain: I think the Bard is pretty inherently theatrical. Otherwise, he would just kill them with slit throats or something.
Harry trusts Hermione completely. It’s never crossed his mind that she could be the Bard. Glad that you’re enjoying all the theories, though! I hope the final revelation of the Bard’s identity will be as interesting.
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Bard of Morning's Hope