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A Reckless Frame of Mind	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 15025 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Chapter Nine—No Reservation of His Own

            “I’m glad we understand each other.” Draco leaned back in his seat and smiled at Laura Fallowchilde, who had her hands clasped and her eyes fastened on them, as if that would keep her from remembering the bargain she’d just made. “A move towards Harry Potter again, and you will be sacked. And in the meantime, you’ll keep any of the others from treating him too badly.”

            “Yes,” Laura whispered, and then snapped her head up and glared at him. “But only because I have no. Other. Choice.” Her hands were clasped tightly enough now that the stretched skin over her knuckles gleamed. “Not because I like him.”

            Draco spent a few more moments studying her in silence. Why was she so eager to convince him that she didn’t enjoy Potter’s company? He was the Psyche-Diver, and the one who had power over her. If anything, she ought to be groveling, thanking him for letting her keep her job. Unless she was too stupid to do it, which was not a possibility that Draco was ready to dismiss.

            It was almost unnatural, the intense distaste that Potter seemed to provoke in everyone who met him. Draco had been willing to put it down to the public’s fickle opinion of the wizarding savior in general, but this was something more.

            Almost like a curse.

            But then I would be affected by it, and I’m obviously not, he thought, and produced a small smile to hand to her. “I would never presume that you could be sophisticated enough to appreciate Potter’s company,” he said, and watched in delight as her face flushed. “But make one more move towards him, and you will hurt in more than the loss of a job, let me assure you.”

            There, finally, was the fear he’d been hoping to see in her eyes earlier. She dipped her head at him, stiffly, and then stood and looked towards the far wall, muttering, “Can I go?”

            Draco waved an expansive hand, and she backed hastily out of the office. In one hand, she clutched her wand, which Draco had given back to her against his better judgment. It had to be done, however, lest someone ask her where it was when she tried to perform the ordinary duties of her office.

            He leaned against his chair and shut his eyes. Then he shook himself out of the temptation to sleep here—he’d done it before, and he always woke with a bad temper and an ache in his neck—and rose to his feet. He wanted to be fully rested for the Psyche-Dive that he intended to conduct into Potter’s stubborn little soul tomorrow.

            He already looked forwards to it. The blue and the green had been beautiful enough that he wouldn’t mind seeing them again. And this time, he thought he knew how to get through the black whirlwind guarding Potter’s core. The books on the Cassandra Curse had offered little enlightening information in and of themselves, but combined with his realizations about Potter’s psychology after a year under his delusions, they had told him what was missing from any of Potter’s relationships right now.

            And thus, what he would need to bring back.

*

            Harry was suspicious.

            The mediwitch who had brought him his breakfast this morning was one he had never seen before, and she had talked to him calmly and sanely until he accepted the food she offered. She smiled each time a bite disappeared into his mouth, but Harry couldn’t really blame her for that, given how difficult he’d been. Perhaps there was some sort of contest going on, to see who could feed him the most, and she won it more decisively when he put the meal away willingly.

            Then he was left alone, but his skin prickled with awareness, and he was almost sure that someone was watching him through the invisible window. Harry feigned indifference, picking idly at the bandages on his wrists. He had shifted them enough that he could peer beneath them and check the progress of his wounds. They were healing nicely. By the time he had spent a few weeks in the Muggle world, he should have nothing but a pair of thick scars.

            Malfoy came in silently this time. He had a sober expression on his face, one that increased Harry’s suspicions. He stood up to meet the other wizard. Malfoy did not pause, as many people did when confronted with a wizard of Harry’s strength and reputation, but kept walking. His drawn wand swung in his right hand, low against his hip.

            “You’re not diving into my soul,” said Harry flatly.

            “Oh yes I am, Potter,” Malfoy retorted in the same tone. “And I don’t particularly care for the stance you’re taking towards me. I’m trying to help you, you git. What do you need from me? A signed statement of my good intentions?”

            He was scanning Harry intently as he spoke. Harry fought the temptation to squirm and flush under his gaze. Not even people in Diagon Alley, back when he was likely to attract stares of awe rather than disgust, had looked at him like this, as if they wanted to know all his secrets.

            He can’t know them, Harry reminded himself, and pushed intensity into his own gaze. “That would be nice, yes,” he said. “But since I know you’re incapable of any good act, removing your wand and your presence from this room would do.”

            Incredibly, that made Malfoy smile. “Sit down,” he said. “This is likely to be rough on both of us.”

            Harry opened his mouth, and then the wand twitched and was pointing at him. He had to shut his mouth and back towards the bed, his gaze darting distrustfully between the wand and Malfoy’s face.

            “If you want anything to happen,” said Malfoy softly, his face reflecting a different emotion now, one Harry didn’t believe he’d seen there before, “to be freed from the curse or the delusion you have that you’re under one, you’ll need to sit down, and you’ll need to trust me.”

            Harry laughed aloud. Malfoy’s face tightened and his mouth twitched, but he didn’t back down. The first two things pleased Harry; the last did not.

            “You will have to,” Malfoy said, and his voice dipped into a softer register than Harry had heard from him, even yesterday after he rescued him from Fallowchilde’s clutches. “Like it or not, Harry—and I know you don’t—I’m the only one who can save you now.”

            Harry shook his head, panic rising in his throat. If Malfoy were to have that power over him, he would be worse off than he already was. A door had swung open in front of him, but he couldn’t step through it because he would not be beholden to his enemy. He didn’t care what he had to do to get out of that. He would do it. He would do anything—

            Malfoy’s hand landed on top of his, and then encircled his wrist, squeezing gently. Harry hated that more than any gesture he’d made so far, even the intimate touching he’d condemned Harry to a few days ago, because during that, he’d seemed to be taking his own pleasure as well. This felt like a gesture meant to calm and soothe and reassure, and since he knew Malfoy wasn’t capable of any of those things, it left Harry doubting his own senses.

            “It will be all right, Harry,” Malfoy whispered.

            Harry whipped his head up, mouth opening, desperate to tell Malfoy not to call him by his name, not to call him anything—

            And the wand was there, pointed at his face, and Malfoy’s eyes were steady and steely, and he whispered, “Legilimens.”

*

            The moment the darkness of Potter’s mind enclosed him, Draco used the spell that he normally didn’t employ in his Psyche-Dives. The spell he had wielded on his first journey was used to move his consciousness into another person’s soul; it was based on the concept of transmigration. But it was communication rather than a journey that Draco needed now.

            “Anima mea ad tua,” he whispered.

            The magic around him shimmered and ground together like enormous ice floes. Then the darkness began to turn in stately circles, and Draco closed his eyes as he felt his body twist in answering rings. The Soul-Linking Spell was never comfortable, but the dizziness and temptation to reject the connection that was blossoming between him and Potter only lasted a moment.

            Then he flicked his eyes open, and once again he was seeing the glorious, overwhelming blue-green arches of Harry’s soul, and once again he was unable to think of him as anything but Harry.

            He drifted, waiting. If the spell had worked, Harry should be able to see his soul, too, now, and he would be taking the first steps down a road that must lead him to the conclusion that Draco meant no harm.

*

            Harry flung a hand up in front of his eyes as the room around him exploded into pinwheels and flashes of light.

            His first thought was that Malfoy had somehow blinded him, or turned on him like everyone else—like all his friends, like everyone who had come to hate him under the curse—but the light did not fade like afterimages, or completely take his sight. Instead, it spread out and then flattened, running up the walls, turning them translucent, and scooping under him and bearing him from his feet, like a wave of water. Harry tried to brace himself, but directions and weights, pressures and objects, no longer seemed to have the meanings by which he had known them.

            He looked up, gasping, and found himself in a place so beautiful that it froze his heart with wonder for long moments.

            There were—mountains around him. They were rounded like hills, but they were definitely mountains, from their sheer size, and he hovered somewhere near their peaks. They shone so brightly that Harry felt tears start in his eyes. They were green, matted jade, streaked with chips of black that might be forests or the absence of forests, and drifting winds of purple, and lazy strands of gold that thrilled Harry in odd ways. If asked, he would have said that Malfoy could never have had such a Gryffindor color in his soul.

            Wait. How do I know--?

            But he did. The knowledge was like air, lapping over him in undeniable waves. This was Malfoy’s soul he saw, and the name Malfoy warped and twisted in his head, too distant and lacking intimacy for the place in which he now hovered. It was Draco here, Draco who had this soul variegated with darkness, but also with the colors of life. Harry could not think of green, even a green so dark and close to poison as this, as anything else.

            “Harry,” said Draco’s voice, coming from the air in front of him and making the air that cradled him throb like a drum.

            Harry shut his eyes and refused to answer. This was some trick again, and he would not surrender to it.

            “I know you can hear me.” Draco’s voice was low and amused, but Harry could hear that the amusement was not directed at him. It was simply there, and Draco was joyful at the chance to share his soul with someone else. “This spell reveals us to each other. My soul to yours, Harry, that’s what the incantation means. I’ve never willingly showed anyone else this. It only worked in a few desperate cases. I don’t think yours is that desperate yet. I simply wanted to show you this.” His voice deepened to a coaxing purr. “Don’t you think I ought to be able to see yours?”

            “You can see it,” said Harry, and hated the way that his voice came out thin and frightened. He fought the impulse to tuck an arm around his face, too, which would hardly do him good. “And I didn’t invite you in, I’ll have you know. What else should you be able to see?”

            His voice was less hostile than normal. He simply couldn’t speak that sharply to someone whose soul he was staring at. Fucking Mal—Draco. Harry ground his teeth against a deep sense of violation.

            “There’s a dark mass blocking your core,” said Draco calmly. “It’s either the curse or what you believe to be the curse. I know you know this exists, Harry. Lying to me about it won’t make a great deal of sense, not when it’s hovering right in front of my eyes. Let it down. Let me in.”

            Harry was discovering how sincerely he could hate sincerity. He shut his eyes and took several deep breaths, but the only air available carried a sense of Draco to it, and made him aware of several things he hadn’t known before, such as the purple spots in Draco’s soul representing his dislikes and impatience. Harry was sure there were multiple purple spots with his name on them.

            “Go to hell, Malfoy,” he said, even as his voice tried to twist away from him and admit the more intimate name past his lips.

            Silence for long moments. Harry hoped that Draco had given up. Why shouldn’t he? He was being paid for this, but he would be paid just the same if he declared Harry fit for only the Janus Thickey ward and stepped away from his soul.

            “No,” Draco whispered, and his voice was closer than before, richer, warmer. Harry whirled around, but he continued to drift alone—or as alone as he could be in a place like this, where he could smell Draco’s scent, and every small wind felt like the other man’s breath on his cheek. Harry was unfortunately familiar with that sensation after the time two days ago when Draco had held him close and murmured into his ear. “You can’t put me off that easily. You never could put me off, Harry. I could always draw a reaction from you, and when I ignored you, during sixth year, you drove yourself mad trying to find out what I was doing.”

            “Because you were a Death Eater!” Harry shouted, thrashing. He went nowhere, of course, with nothing solid to press his body against.

            “But you still hunted me,” Draco whispered, and Harry knew he was smiling, wherever his ugly face was. Of course, he disbelieves me, and he probably thinks I was secretly lovesick for him. Harry had never encountered someone as vain about the effects of his looks on other people as Draco was. “You still couldn’t leave me alone. And now we can’t leave each other alone, Harry. What you need to do is trust me. Trust will bring that barrier down. You can see my soul. You could feel it if I intended you harm. I don’t. You know I don’t. Let me in. Let me in, now.”

            And Harry felt a warm push, as though Draco had shoved at him with his fists wrapped in sunset clouds, and he felt himself tumbling, spinning, dropping into new awareness and a sharing he had never felt before. The distance between them closed with a snap, and when he opened his eyes again, he saw blue and green spangled through the arches of Draco’s soul like fireflies in the middle of a dense jungle.

            He saw the barrier Draco was talking about, too, the brooding black cloud in the midst of the wilderness. That was the curse’s formation to protect the truth from a Psyche-Diver.

            And he was powerless to lower it even if he wanted to, because he didn’t control the curse.

            He smiled bitterly, and waited for Draco to react to the knowledge spreading through them both.

*

            Draco hadn’t known that the further connection of their souls would actually work, even though he had willed it to happen. And he had never seen anything as beautiful; he would have willingly lingered to admire the sight, since he doubted he would see anything more beautiful in the future, either.

            But he had a more important concern, right now. He swam towards the drifting shape of Harry and wrapped him in tight arms, drawing him closer. Their souls swayed nearer in response, blending, and glinting arches jogged, and colors floated in and out of each other like butterflies made of water, and Draco caught his breath in a sob. He could feel Harry trembling against him, as if struggling not to give in to the beauties of the sight himself.

            “This is so much better than being alone,” Draco murmured into Harry’s ear, aware that he spoke as if in a fever, and thus couldn’t quite control or stop or portion out his words. “Isn’t it? And it’s what you can receive from me, if you just offer me your trust. I’m certain that I could trust you, you know, and not jus because you were once a Gryffindor, but because I’ve seen your soul.” His hands couldn’t stop moving, roaming up and down Harry’s back and around his shoulders to drape over his neck and rest loosely on his chest. They weren’t touching in bodily reality, of course, so the sensations weren’t the same as when he’d cradled Harry on his hospital bed. Instead, he felt tiny scraps of knowledge drifting into his head: Harry’s favorite foods, how much he missed the warmth and security of the Weasleys and their home, that Harry had sometimes awakened early to watch the sunrise and wished he could do it more often. He wondered what Harry was learning about him, and couldn’t wait to ask. He entwined his legs with Harry’s, until he was sure they couldn’t get much closer, and nuzzled into Harry’s neck. “You can trust me. You’ve seen my soul. That’s enough, isn’t it? Take down the whirlwind over your core, Harry. Let me in.”

            God, he was dizzy with desire—and it wasn’t physical, or sexual, but simply the intense longing to see past that blackness to the core. His fingers were digging into Harry’s hair, venturing beneath the image of robes he wore here to skim along his skin. Thicker and faster the knowledge came: that Harry had sometimes wished he was ambidextrous so that he stood more of a chance of catching the Snitch, that he’d nearly died on a case involving a rogue animal breeder who turned out to have a chimera in his shop, that he liked to sleep on his left side, that he had spent most of his childhood in a cupboard… Draco whined and touched his tongue to Harry’s neck, no longer caring that their bodies sat stiffly inches from each other. He’d never descended this deep, never opened himself so far or spun his mind and soul into someone else’s so deeply, and he was shaking with the urge to feel reciprocation. “Please, Harry. Please.”

            He felt Harry relax against him, and their souls were so entangled now that Draco could barely see the whirlwind; patches of black and purple from his own soul covered it. Harry tilted his head back towards him, and Draco waited for the permission he was sure to receive now. Harry owed it to him.

            Harry whispered, “I can’t remove the block on my core.”

            And he was lying, he had to be lying, and Draco’s rage that he could try to deceive him, here, now, when they were seeing everything about each other, exploded between them and rent them apart.

*

            Harry shut his eyes and held back his pain as their entwined minds—and souls, he supposed he had to admit—separated. It hurt, yes, but not nearly as much as the idea that Draco had gifted to him, freely and without reservation, something beautiful and valuable that he couldn’t accept.

            He had never thought he would know sympathy for Draco bloody Malfoy.

            But he hadn’t expected to know that Draco wrinkled his nose when he was tired, either, or that he listened to sappy love songs on the Wizarding Wireless Network when no one else was about, or that he missed his mother, who had remained in Europe for several years now, not daring to set foot on British soil. That he had five different kinds of smiles to parcel out to friends, strangers, enemies, lovers, and those people he wished to think well of him but whom he didn’t actually like, and practiced them all in the mirror. That he took care of himself because he liked to look good, whether or not he had a lover at the moment to appreciate it. That his delight in Psyche-Diving came from a strong desire to dominate other people, but that he had never used that to hurt his patients—only to taunt them and remind them what they owed to a former Death Eater before he healed them.

            Here was a man Harry would have been honored to call his friend, even as he disagreed with him on several things.

            But the Cassandra Curse made things impossible between them, and it was better that Draco be struck away. He could join the other people who had already given up on Harry, and Harry could leave behind someone else who wouldn’t be hurt by his going.

            He opened his eyes, to find himself seeing the hospital room again; their mingled souls were gone. Draco was sitting on a chair in front of him, blinking slowly; a film seemed to clear from his eyes in the next moment, and he glared at Harry.

            Harry could bear only a moment of the gaze before he looked away. He had wounded Draco deeply with his rejection, and it would do no good at all to explain that it wasn’t his fault, since Draco would only hear a lie. He couldn’t apologize, either. That would be salt on the wound. So he clamped his lips tightly together, and waited for the scorn he knew would come.

            It did.

            “I cannot believe,” Draco said, hissing every word, “that after what I showed you—after what I would have given you—you have the nerve to cling to your stubborn pride and your delusions.”

            Harry said nothing.

            “Look at me, goddamnit!”

            But Harry didn’t have the strength to, so he simply examined the bandages on his wrists, and listened to Draco—no, think of him as Malfoy, it’s easier that way—stand up and storm out of the room. The door banged so sharply that it nearly flew back open, but the wards caught it and guided it shut.

            Harry closed his eyes. For long moments, he felt the temptation to tear open the bandages on his wrists and finish the job that he’d already begun. Yes, spells would go off when he did, and they’d taken his wand and any possible weapons from him, but he still had his teeth.

            Carefully, slowly, he guided his mind away from that desperate brink. Yes, he’d thought about suicide. No, he wouldn’t do it.

            He’d always overcome his pain and scrambled on. So long as he was still alive, he could do nothing else. And killing himself would be to admit that his enemy, whoever had cast the curse, had won.

            Gradually, his breathing quieted. Harry lay back on his bed, and told himself that Draco would get over this eventually, and probably be grateful for the reprieve when Harry vanished. Why would he want to share himself with someone so ungrateful?

            The truth? Dra—Malfoy wouldn’t.

            Harry squirmed onto his side. He should sleep, gather his strength.

            That it took hours for him to fall asleep meant nothing. The curse still possessed him. It was still driving him on. Malfoy shouldn’t feel bad. He’d made the best effort he could against it, and there was no shame in being defeated by a spell so complex and powerful.

            That was certainly the way Harry had comforted himself during his own failures of the past thirteen months. And the comfort that could apply to him could surely apply to Malfoy.

*



            Mangacat: That’s a very inventive explanation for what might have happened to the creators of the curse. Of course, I can’t tell you that you’re right or not. ;) And yeah, the Healers don’t take the same vows Muggle doctors do, or Draco’s profession (forcing people into health) would be impossible.

            KLS: Laura’s hatred got the better of her.

            Draco_Harry_lover, MadnessWithinMe, lietothedevil, ravenshadow, jbj1031965, paigeey07, ponyapril, thrnbrooke,

            Lunatic with a hero complex: Thank you for the very nice review! I’ve added you to the mailing list at the address you gave.
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A Reckless Frame of Mind

Chapter Nine—No Reservation of His Own