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Intoxicate the Sun	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 18051 -:- 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 Eight—Before the Fragmentation

            Draco stepped out of the potions lab, his completed potion in the vial, and paused. There was a new atmosphere to the house. And that was the best way he could put it, he promptly thought back to his own complaining instincts—they complained in his father’s voice—that wanted him to define what he was feeling more clearly.

            He couldn’t define it. That was the point. His mind buzzed and his skin crawled with the sensation that things were different.

            He knew how dangerous it could be to reveal to anyone else that he’d felt it, especially if it was something that he wasn’t supposed to notice in the first place. So he fixed his eyes forwards and trekked towards his room again, all the while keeping his ears and nose poised to notice concrete evidence. At moments like this, when he was trying to sense an approaching storm, those senses served him better than sight.

            Whispers. He heard whispers. The doors that had opened on rooms echoing with shouts and grunts of pain earlier that day now opened on an endless series of soft voices that sounded like the sea. Men and women wavered back and forth, and although he couldn’t see them, Draco imagined nods and charged, significant looks.

            The smell of sweat. Even as he scented it, however, Draco doubted that it was really there. Instead, it was a tale that his mind told itself to explain the subtler operation of perceptions far beneath the surface, perceptions that might not have even a name. He placed a hand against his brow for a moment, feeling faint, and then continued with a shake of his head.

            Sweat, as though someone had been training hard. Scarcely unusual in this place; Draco had seen already that Potter’s “revolutionaries” trained too hard, working themselves up to fight battles that would never come, never challenge them.

            But there were other reasons to sweat. Fear. Anger. Sex.

            Excitement.

            As soon as that name blazed into his thoughts, Draco knew it was the right one. He couldn’t have explained his conviction before the Wizengamot or anyone else who would demand strict truth and answers. But his father would have granted him the right to act based on it. His mother would have said that it was prudent to avoid going to a party because of it, or to attend one he’d not planned on gracing with his presence.

            Draco paused outside the door of his room and closed his eyes for a flicker of time that he doubted was visible to anyone else. But this time, he needed it, unlike the earlier pause.

            Merlin, but he missed them so much.

            That was no one’s business but his own, however. He made up for it by striding into his room and depositing his potion—the one Potter had asked for, the one that would make them invisible to Ministry Aurors and wards—on his desk. Then he reached into a hidden pocket inside his robe and pulled out the first of the sheets of parchment that Summers had given him.

            Draco smiled a bit. These parchments were a truly impressive achievement, and he spent a moment touching them and admiring the Ministry that could produce them. They were slick and gleaming, red-gold when you turned them to the light but looking like normal paper otherwise. Draco had a number of lies prepared in case anyone found them and questioned him, but he doubted the necessity of those lies. He didn’t plan to ever be apart from this particular set of little beauties.

            He wrote the basic facts of the potion that Potter had asked him to brew into his letter, as well as the interrogation and the obsessive amount of time that Potter seemed to spend with old books. The book that Draco had glimpsed was called Fortuna’s Wheel, and he had to admit that he couldn’t see what Potter would want with it. It was the insane ramblings of a witch named Mathilda Bonchance about the nature of magic and how she thought it manifested in the world. Since her theories had been proven wrong a long time ago, it was now only used in history courses.

            But someone at the Ministry who knew Potter better than he did might know what it was about, so Draco included it—along with the details of the experiment that George Weasley had had him perform, although the experiment consisted of gathering seeds and then separating them into two piles and made no sense to Draco.

            Then he folded the parchment precisely, twice, and turned to the fire already burning on his hearth. When he was sure that the flames were flicking hotly enough above the fire’s piled heart to sustain the magic he needed, he tossed the folded parchment into the fire.

            There was a momentary glow of red-gold, and then the letter vanished, without even ashes to mark it. Draco sighed. Summers had told him that the parchment would return to the place in which it was made: a brazier in a protected location, where someone would always be on hand to watch and rescue the unharmed message from the fire. Draco had to admit that it was a lot less risky than sending owls.

            And if I decide that I want the Ministry to lose, then I can lie to them more easily.

            He turned away and picked up the invisibility potion again. It was time to seek out Weasley and see if he could learn the secret of that machine he was building—and after that, Potter, to learn the source of the sweat.

*

            “You’re—insane,” Ron said. He had a hand on the side of the table in Harry’s room. Harry thought, sometimes, that it was all that was keeping him upright. He had been staring with that particular shocked look on his face since the moment when Harry explained what had happened in his room earlier that day.

            “No, I’m not,” Harry said evenly. This was a perception he had known he would have to fight, and that was one reason he had started with Ron, who trusted him and loved him and must eventually believe him—although hauling Ron abruptly out of the training session he’d been engaged in leading meant that the manor buzzed with rumor. “I can show you.”

            Ron took a step backwards. “I’d like you not to deprive yourself of the ability to cast any more spells, thanks,” he snapped. “Unless you’re lying.”

            Harry smiled. Ron thought he was telling the truth even if he didn’t know how or why Harry would do something like this, and that was an encouraging start. “I solemnly swear not to take any more spellcasting abilities away from myself,” he said. “But I can show you with the one I already removed.” He faced the table and flourished his wand at it with enough emphasis to make Ron duck out of the way again. “Reducto!”

            The wand never even shivered in his hand. Harry had wondered what it would feel like to perform this spell in front of someone else, without the initial burst of excitement to sustain him. What it felt like was nothing, as though he was speaking a nonsense word or an English one that couldn’t power a spell. The wand sat in his hand.

            After a moment, Ron said cautiously, “You might have mispronounced the spell, mate. Or maybe it’s your wand.”

            Harry tossed the holly wand to Ron, who caught it and then looked as if he wished he hadn’t. “Try with it, then,” he urged. “You can use this.” He tossed a handful of parchment that bore useless notes from useless books into the air.”

            “Reducto!” Ron called, and the air shivered around him as the parchments blew apart into a flurry of paper flecks. He stood in the middle of them, his mouth open, until he caught Harry’s eye and shut it hard enough to almost catch his tongue in his teeth.

            “You see?” Harry asked quietly, and reached out for his wand. Ron tossed it back to him, his breath shallow.

            “This means,” he began, and then stopped.

            “Yes,” Harry said. “I’m going to cast it on other people—on anyone who’s allied with the Ministry and the Wizengamot. And I think the first thing to go will be Memory Charms, followed by the Imperius Curse, They won’t be able to use them anymore. That ought to reduce their ability to make up lies for the trials and have them believed.”

            “It would,” Ron said. “It would.” Then he hesitated, eyes clouding.

            “Go ahead,” Harry told him. He wouldn’t be a good leader at all if he refused to listen to the objections of people who knew more than he did.

            “I think we might face rebellion in our own ranks if we tried to use this spell,” Ron said slowly. “It feels a lot like taking magic away from other people, making them Squibs. There’s little that’s feared more among pure-bloods. And I know that not all of the people following us are pure-bloods,” he added, before Harry could say it. “But that’s the reaction they would have, and others would probably agree. I feel a chill myself, here.” He laid his hand over his stomach. “Is this a good thing to introduce into the world, Harry?”

            “It’s the only thing I can think of that will actually alter the nature of the game,” Harry said. He wished that Ron could share his joy without a care, but he also knew that Ron was giving him the best advice he could. “We might win the war, but it would be so easy to become as bad as they were, only this time we would be giving the break to Muggleborns and going hard on the pure-bloods when they committed a crime. I’ve read some Muggle history, and revolutions become the regimes they replace. That’s not going to happen to us. The only way we can make sure of that is by placing certain magic beyond everyone’s reach. We’ll use it on our enemies first, but I want to show them that I’m perfectly willing to use it on myself as well.”

            Ron watched him with a troubled gaze, still. “Do you think that’s not going to be enough?” Harry added.

            “I don’t know how you’ll do it,” Ron said. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea to get rid of Memory Charms when they’re sometimes used in Healing and to protect us from Muggles. I don’t know that altering the whole nature of reality is a good thing.”

            “I don’t know for certain, either,” Harry said. “I know that those two spells are the ones most often used to protect pure-bloods who are actually murderers and torturers. And what can we do if not change the nature of magic so as to force them out?”

            He waited. Ron struggled in silence for a moment. “The Imperius curse is illegal,” he said at last.

            “But the Aurors got special dispensation to cast it during the first war with Voldemort,” Harry reminded him. “And it’s used anyway by people who won’t get in trouble because they can bribe the Wizengamot.” He leaned forwards, feeling for a moment as if he was two people, the one passionately interested in convincing Ron, the other watching from a distance to see what happened when the conviction began to cross Ron’s face. “They don’t care. They break the law, or make a tool of it for their own ends. I want this to stop. This is the only way I can think of.”

            Ron’s eyes slid away from his, and he nodded at last. “Yeah, mate,” he whispered. “I reckon it is.”

            “If you think of another way, let me know,” Harry said gently. His history reading had included plenty of stories about leaders who went mad with power, too. He would keep away from that as best he could, though it might not be entirely avoidable. “This seems like a terrible weapon. But I don’t know what else to do.”

            Ron squeezed his hand in silence and slipped out of the room. Harry half-expected him to turn around and offer one more caution; he had never said that he thought this was a good idea, after all, only acted as if he wouldn’t oppose it.

            But he didn’t.

            Harry looked down at the book and swallowed. The technique it described was hard. Fortuna’s Wheel was one way of intertwining oneself with the magical world, which the book said should be pictured as a still wheel, only turning at the whim of chance. But if one focused hard enough on one incantation, then one could turn the wheel for that piece of magic, for oneself.

            Harry’s hand lowered and he brushed his fingers over the still pages.

            One might be able to add magic, as well.

*

            Hermione leaned against the wall of her house and shivered. Then she shivered some more. Then she stood up and cast the Finite that would disturb her glamour and bring her back to looking like herself, instead of Desang. She wasn’t sure that she could take a moment more of that.

            The photographs she’d taken in the Caves required a short time to develop. She looked away from them and spent only a few moments deciding where to send them. Some—the replicas or poorer copies—could go to Harry, but although he could use them, he didn’t have the means to publicize them immediately. Most of them should go to Luna and the Quibbler.

            They’re using necromancy. They really are.

            Hermione looked longingly towards the shower. She wanted to jump in and scrub off the grey film of dust and rot that seemed to have settled on the skin. But she shook her head as she remembered what else she had to do. If too many people remembered or thought that Desang had gone into the Deep Caves with a wand, then the trail would lead too clearly back to Hermione. She’d Obliviated everyone at the Deep Caves who got close enough to see her face—easy enough when there were so few of the living there and many more Inferi—but she also had to lay down a false trail for an easier suspect.

            She gave a faint smile as she set about writing the letter. This part would be a positive pleasure.

*

            George’s mind hummed as he bent over the latest toy that Harry had set them to producing—or, well, given them permission to produce. George was conscientiously considering the fact that Harry didn’t know what it did yet. But if he did know, he would have approved.

            Big changes coming, little brother, Fred whispered in his ear.

            George nodded and hoped that he didn’t look too ridiculous with his tongue sticking out between his teeth while he carefully levered the next bit of silver into the machine. He had chosen a wheel for this design, both because it would be convenient for what they wanted to accomplish and because Fred had shown him a dream last night with a constantly turning wheel in the background. Fred hadn’t told him what it meant, though. Stupid blighter. Thinking he could keep secrets just because he was dead.

            Not just because of us, Fred said. But because of Harry.

            George looked up and in the direction the voice had come from. Fred didn’t appear, but he didn’t, often. Seeing him was different from hearing his voice, because then George was seeing hallucinations. “Do you think we should invent something to—”

            Help keep him sane? It was even easier for Fred to complete his sentences now that he wasn’t there anymore, but inside George’s mind. George grinned. Fred waited a few moments, then said, We would have to understand his mind—

            “Better than we do now,” George said, mostly to show that he could finish sentences, too, if he wanted to. “Yeah, I agree. But that’s no reason not to think about it.”

            How many other things are we thinking about?

            “Loads,” George said happily, and bent over his wheel again. This was much more fun than sitting forlornly in the shop and trying to pretend that he didn’t hear Fred, because that was what would make Mum and Dad and Ron happy. They were alive again.

            The door of the design room opened. George ignored that at first, because he knew that it would only be Harry and he would wait for whatever he wanted. But then Fred touched the back of his neck and whispered in his ear, and George realized that the person who had entered the room didn’t breathe like Harry.

            It was still enough to make him stare when he turned around and saw who it was, thought.

            “Sod off, Malfoy,” he said, but his voice was weak with his disbelief, and that was all Malfoy needed, apparently, to stroll into the room and look around as though he’d been invited.

            Fred whispered a spell to him, and George whispered it to his wand and the machine in turn. The machine shimmered a little and the design changed, at least on the surface, where someone was most likely to look. Even if Malfoy saw what they were working on, he wouldn’t be able to replicate its true form.

            “How fascinating,” Malfoy murmured. George turned and saw him bent over a stack of plans. He relaxed, though, because Malfoy wouldn’t be able to make anything of the plans even if he did steal them; they were only half-complete. The other half of the plans lived in Fred’s brain, and Malfoy would never talk to him.

            “Aren’t they?” George agreed, standing and strolling over to Malfoy. Since they didn’t know Fred was there, most people didn’t guard themselves against observation from him. From closer up, George might be able to let Fred see something Malfoy was hiding. “I don’t know if I’ll get the chance to use all of them, though.”

            “Because the Ministry might win the war?” Malfoy eyed him with a gaze more thoughtful than George had expected from the little shit who’d let Death Eaters into the school.

            “No,” George said. “Because the ones I want to invent take up so much time and materials.”

            Malfoy blinked, as if disappointed by such a materialist answer, but inclined his head in that faux-gracious way he had anyway. “Ah.” He hesitated, then added, “I’m brewing potions for Potter.” Strange how he still says Harry’s name like he hates him, Fred murmured, and George agreed. “If you need something, let me know.”

            “I’d think that you’re the one more likely to need something,” George said. “We’ll have more ingredients than you do.”

            Malfoy scratched the back of his neck and looked half-embarrassed, but only half. “There’s knowledge that a Potions master possesses that you don’t,” he countered. “I can offer you advice.”

            A lie, Fred hummed.

            George nodded in agreement with his twin, rather than with Malfoy, and gave him a pitying glance when Malfoy pressed closer as though he assumed he was going to be let in on all manner of important secrets. “We can brew our own potions, thanks,” he said. “And I know exactly why you’re here.”

            “What?” Malfoy did a good innocent act, but George and Fred had been masters of false innocence since long before he was born. George only watched until Malfoy began to realize that he couldn’t charm his way out of this situation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Malfoy said, but in a lower voice than before.

            “You’ve always been jealous of Harry,” George said. He wished that someone else could be here, because the stricken look on Malfoy’s face was too perfect, but one couldn’t have everything. He had enough of an audience with Fred’s snickers urging him on, anyway. “When you heard that he was leading a revolution, you hurried over because you just had to find a way to sabotage it. And you hope to do that by finding out how we brew our potions and power our machines and then destroying them. No, I don’t think so. You can stay here because Harry believes your interrogation. But no one else did, you know. They follow Harry and they’re loyal to him, but they know that you aren’t. They’ll be watching for the moment when you think yourself unobserved and try to move against Harry. And then you’ll find yourself tossed out on your arse, if you’re lucky. I’d think that Harry would be more likely to cast a spell that removes your intestines and then give you a week to find new ones. Or maybe he’ll hand you to us for experiments. We could use someone, and we don’t have many volunteers.”

            “I came here because I wanted to free my parents,” Malfoy said. His voice had gone soft, and he did nothing but stand in place as though he assumed that would make George’s suspicions sheer away from him. “For no other reason.”

            “That’s a good line to get you into Harry’s presence,” George agreed kindly. “But it’s not the truth.” He leaned closer. Malfoy, to his credit, didn’t back away, but he couldn’t hide the nervous flicker of his eyes. George was pleased. “Just remember,” he whispered. “When you think that you know how things work, we’ll be there to teach you otherwise.” He winked and pulled away.

            “You and what army?” Malfoy muttered, but his voice was subdued, and he slinked out the door a moment later. George turned back to their latest invention, adding to Fred as he went, Do you think he took the hint?

            No, Fred said. He’s too jealous to do it. Sooner or later he’ll do something supremely stupid, and even Harry will have to understand that he’s no good for the revolution.

            George nodded in respect of that good sense, and then removed the glamour he’d placed over their newest design and stared at it. No, it turned out that they needed more silver on the other side, and when he appealed to Fred, Fred agreed that it would be a good idea, along with opals on the opposite side, which meant they needed to tell Harry that they needed opals…

*

            I thought I had hidden better than that.

            Draco swallowed the ashes of his pride as he shut the door of his room behind him. The only consolation was that Weasley hadn’t thought Draco was a spy for the Ministry. Jealousy of Potter was the motive that Draco would have to play up to should anyone accuse him in the immediate future.

            More disturbing was the notion that no one trusted him but Potter.

            Draco grimaced and felt as if he was biting into a lemon. Then my course is clear, both to blind the eyes of the fools and to make sure that Potter comes over to my cause if I can persuade him. I’ll have to—act as if I’m drawn to him against my will. As if I was jealous, but fascinated, and humiliated at the fact that he appears to be my best chance. When the feathers stop flying and they stop squawking about that, then perhaps they’ll be in the right mood to see me as a fool along with them.

            I have to fit in, after all.

            Draco shook his head. He might as well get started right away, and that meant carefully considering the approach that he would take to Potter.

He considered and rejected pure hero-worship. Potter’s recent attention to books suggested that the time when he had appreciated that, if at all, was past. The same thing applied to trying to strike up an innocent friendship or apologize for what had happened between them in their Hogwarts days.

Only one option stood out to him when he had finished his mental list, as if inked in a different hand.

            It must be seduction.

*

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Intoxicate the Sun