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Sleepless	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 16095 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I am not making any money from this story.

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Chapter Nine—Character Witnesses

            “Helen Wellworth?” Harry preserved his smile, although the woman who had opened the door of the house he’d come to was nothing like he’d expected.

            She was tall, her head crowned with a feathered hat, although as far as Harry could tell, she hadn’t been on her way out. She had a thin, pinched mouth, but bright blue eyes that suggested she was always on the verge of telling a joke. Her hands had long, slender white fingers, each one adorned with a silver ring. Her robes swirled around her, beautiful but a network of patches. It was hard for Harry to imagine Narcissa Malfoy being friends with a woman who seemed so—gaudy.

            “Hullo,” Mrs. Wellworth said, reaching out and clasping his hand as if they were old friends. Then she studied him and added frankly, “Not that I know who you are, mind, but I find that it pays to be polite to people.”

            Harry smiled in spite of his worry that she wouldn’t remember the Malfoys or want to defend them. After all, she could have come to their defense already if she wanted to. “My name is Harry Evans,” he said. “I’ve agreed to be the barrister for the Malfoys in their trial, since no one else seems interested in doing it.”

            “Ah, yes, I read about you in the paper!” Wellworth looked delighted at placing him. She stepped back and waved him into the house. “Won’t you come in?”

            Harry tried not to gape as he stepped inside. The hall had bronze paper on the walls and so many mirrors that Harry grew dizzy, watching himself walk through a forest of reflections. The shelves were made of wood, or at least Harry thought so until he rapped one with a shoulder in passing; they were solid bronze. Golden lamps and golden statuettes of cats and dogs in what seemed to be an Egyptian style stood everywhere.

            Harry’s wonder that the silent, elegant Malfoys he knew would be friends with someone like this grew, but he could hardly say that aloud, so he just followed Wellworth into the drawing room, blinking as he went and trying to decide what he would say. Perhaps this was a woman who appreciated honesty; at least, she hadn’t thrown him out of the house for being honest so far. He would try that, then.

            “Madam?” he asked, when they were settled into the drawing room—just as crowded with white furniture and knickknacks as the front hall had been with bronze and gold, and with mirrors—and a house-elf had brought them a tray of tea in a silver service. “I didn’t know if you realized it, but I am trying to free the Malfoys.”

            Wellworth gave him an amused look and sat back, sipping tea from her cup. She smacked her lips as she did so, and her sleeve, bright blue in background with patches of red and purple, swirled around her arm. “Yes, I did think that. I saw your photograph in the paper, and you didn’t seem to be someone who would give up easily, or take a case like this only for the fun of it.”

            Harry licked his lips and put down the cup, waving away the house-elf when it reappeared and tried to give him more milk. “I mean—Mrs. Wellworth, I want you to be a character witness for Mrs. Malfoy.” The more he thought about it, the more he didn’t know if he would be able to get Lucius off, or if he should try. “Are you going to agree to do that? You haven’t been by their side so far.”

            Wellworth laughed, which wasn’t the reaction Harry had expected, either. “Let me see,” she said, putting her cup down in turn, and allowing the house-elf to tend to it. “It would have been young Draco who gave you my name?”

            “Er, yes,” Harry said, and tried to tell himself not to have any preconceptions and just to react to what was in front of him. It seemed that he had to do that more and more often since he came to the dream world.

            Not that I’ll be coming here much longer, if Malfoy has his way.

            Harry grimaced and shoved the thought away. He tried not to think of the real world too much when he was here. The only thing it could do was confuse and slow his reactions. These people were separate, and he would deal with them on their own ground.

            “Yes, well.” Wellworth smoothed her hand down her robes and watched the cloth spring back into place. “I don’t think that his parents would have wanted you to come here—though perhaps they might not mind it if the alternative is to lose their lives,” she added, with the pleased air of someone making a new discovery. “I visited their house a lot when Draco was young. He remembers me fondly. But then my husband died, and I started getting strange, as I’m sure Narcissa would put it. They dropped my acquaintance. I could tell you what they were like, and I could testify for them, but I don’t think they would like it.”

            Harry snorted a little. “I’m the barrister. If I want you called as a character witness, they won’t stop me from having it done. But of course, I won’t make you do it if you don’t like it,” he added, remembering that Wellworth had no particular reason to owe anything to him.

            She beamed at him. “What a nice young man you are! Some of the young ones like Draco could learn courtesy from you. But I wouldn’t want to make your job harder than it has to be. The Malfoys won’t like it. You have to know that.”

            “My job is to save their lives, if I can,” Harry said shortly. “I’m not sure that I can keep them out of prison. But they’ve already put obstacles in the way of that, to the point where I’m listening to Draco instead of his parents now. Will you come?”

            Wellworth laughed again, a big, strong laugh that seemed to go to the center of her chest. “Cleverness, sense, as well as manners! Yes, I’ll come.”

            For the first time since this Draco had started to talk to him, Harry ended that visit to the dream world with a sense that he had really accomplished something.

*

            “A moment, Potter?”

            Once again, Malfoy had come seeking him at the office, but this time, he didn’t have to fight his way up the stairs or yell outside the window; he was leaning against the doorway casually instead, and Hermione was regarding him with a certain measure of admiration.

            “Thank you for that book you sent me the other day, Malfoy,” she said, which at least explained why she didn’t seem uncomfortable around him. “It was fascinating.”

            Malfoy smiled at her and nodded, but he somehow did it without taking his gaze from Harry. His eyes pinned him in place, and Harry found himself giving his head a little, irritated toss, as if he could shed the clinging weight of Malfoy’s gaze that way. Malfoy’s smile softened, and he came a step nearer.

            “We could have our discussion here,” he murmured, “but I doubt that you would want Granger interfering. Would you?”

            “You’re bribing her,” Harry whispered back harshly. “Who told you that you could do that to my friends?”

            “Bribery, what a name,” Malfoy said, turning around with a mild snort and leading the way towards the door. “You’ve obviously spent too much time in the study of law, Potter. You’re twisting things around now and losing the real meaning of words, the way that barristers have a tendency to do.”

            Harry pinched his nose, trying to calm the headache that had started to life behind his eyes. Hermione, he saw when he looked at her again, had stood up and was frowning at him in concern. She knew what he looked like when he was hurting. Harry gave her a quick headshake and a faint smile, and she nodded and sat back down, although she turned to Malfoy with a sterner frown this time.

            “I hope that you aren’t wearing Harry out with these Quidditch games,” she said. “He didn’t tell me that you had one today.”

            “Oh, you have to practice every day at something if you want to become good,” Malfoy said airily. “Good enough to be professional, at least.” He smiled at Harry. “In return for his time, I give Potter practice in associating with someone he can’t stand, and in reading someone’s actions and motivations. I think that’s training that will stand him in good stead when he seriously goes into the courtroom.”

            Hermione laughed in spite of herself, or so it sounded to Harry’s ears, at least. “I think you’re right, Malfoy. Well, take him away, then.” She waved a hand and turned to rebury herself in books.

            Harry followed Malfoy glumly down the stairs from his office, muttering when he was sure Hermione wouldn’t hear them, “That was a dirty trick.”

            “I have no idea what you mean,” Malfoy said, turning big, innocent eyes on him. “I gave her the book because I thought she would enjoy it, and because I had no more use for it. It was a book on interpreting dreams, as it happens.”

            Harry jerked to a stop and glared at him. “If you told her—”

            “You must think that I’m mental and stupid, at the same time, to wish to share your confidences with the whole world.” Malfoy waved a hand in much the same way Hermione had. “No, I want you to have someone available to you who can help you, if I can’t or if you run away from me.”

            Harry had been about to take another step, but he pulled his foot back and stared at Malfoy. Malfoy’s smile had vanished completely this time, as if he had anticipated Harry’s reaction, and he leaned towards him with wide eyes and folded arms.

            “Why?” Harry asked. His throat was dry, and he had to clear it and repeat the words a bit more loudly before Malfoy acted as if he heard him.

            “Because I care about you,” Malfoy said. “You thought that was exaggeration? No. I don’t know how things will work out. It could well end up that we can’t stand each other, and we won’t date. But that won’t lessen the fear I feel for you, regarding these dreams. Someone else should be able to help you if I can’t.”

            Harry shook his head, not in denial but in disbelief. “The dreams haven’t done me any harm yet, Malfoy,” he said. “I don’t know why you’re so certain that they will. And you know as well as I that we don’t have a game today.”

            “I know,” Malfoy said. “We’re going to see someone I think can help us.”

            Harry thumped a hand against the wall. “No experts in dream magic, either.”

            “Oh, in this case, she merely provides the atmosphere,” Malfoy said, starting down the stairs again as if he were absolutely certain that Harry would follow. “She won’t know what’s happening or why we’re there. As it happens, I’ve taken other people there before, too. She gives me the atmosphere, and takes the money, and asks no questions.”

            Harry bit his tongue and followed, reluctantly. He really should have turned and gone back to the office to study his books, but two things kept him moving. The first was that Malfoy hadn’t betrayed him so far, and Harry trusted him, bizarre as that was.

            The second was that he couldn’t help being curious about seeing a place where Malfoy had brought other boyfriends. At least, it sounded as if he had brought others there from his method of describing it.

            Malfoy Side-Along Apparated him when they reached the street. Harry tried not to notice how strong the arm around his shoulders was, and then tried not to notice himself noticing.

*

            “Lean back and relax, Mr. Potter.”

            The woman’s voice was cool and professional, and she seemed to see nothing wrong with the way she was massaging his head with two cloths, one on other side, both of them scented with some kind of lavender water. Harry grimaced and did as she asked, if only because bursting free and trying to make Malfoy pay for humiliating him right now would be inconvenient.

            The “place” Malfoy had spoken of as if it were important and mysterious and worth a lot of money to him, or even capable of curing Harry of the dreams, had turned out to be a shop run by a Muggle woman who believed in the fake kind of witchcraft that Muggles did. Crystals hung in the windows, gently tinkling when they opened the door. Harry could see suggestions of crystal balls, and statues of unicorns, and candles in a hundred and one scents, out of the corners of his eyes while Malfoy spoke with the woman.

            Her name was Acacia Moonflower, or at least she said it was. Harry had tried hard not to laugh in her face. He had tried harder when she told him, in all seriousness, that soaking his hair as if he was at a hairdresser’s while she massaged his temples with cloths scented with lavender and cinnamon would be relaxing for him.

            Now he had lost the smile, because she had really made him sit in a chair, and really made him lean his head back, and really made him put his hair in a bowl of scented water—he would have to clean and clean himself before he went back to the house, unless he wanted Ron and Hermione to ask loads of questions about a new girlfriend—and really started the massage. A scented candle burned in front of him. Moonflower had said something about it being “the smells of a wild forest.” To Harry, it just smelled moldy.

            He rolled one eye to the side and found Malfoy standing there, looking grave, not at all as though he was concealing laughter, though Harry knew he had to be. He could see why Malfoy had brought them here; as a Muggle, this woman wouldn’t know who Harry was, and wouldn’t be tempted to report him to the Prophet. But it was ridiculous to think that he actually believed she could help, and that meant he had to have another purpose.

            “Well?” Harry snapped.

            Malfoy gave him a stern look. Moonflower pushed the cloths down a bit more firmly. “Really, Mr. Potter,” she said. “I must insist that you relax.” Then her voice became the calm, chanting drone that it had been so far, mostly via repetition of his name and meaningless syllables that she said “held great power.”

            Harry closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. Yes, something else had to be going on here than a sincere desire to help. He just didn’t know what, and that made him think there was something he was missing, and that irritated the fuck out of him, and that made him wonder how much Malfoy really cared for him, or if his so-called desire had turned into the desire to torment Harry for a day.

            The chant and the burning of the candle and the scrubbing with the cloths went on, but Harry didn’t feel one bit more relaxed. Malfoy finally murmured something to Moonflower, and she stepped away. Harry sighed in relief and started to sit up. Maybe they could finally get out of this place and into a more useful one now.

            Then he realized that Malfoy had taken Moonflower’s place and was massaging Harry’s head, his scalp, rather than his temples. He was using a damp cloth, though, which meant the scent was still going to sink into Harry’s hair, and he would still have to answer a lot of uncomfortable questions that he had no use for.

            “Malfoy, what the fuck?” he snapped, struggling to sit up.

            “Hush, Harry.” Malfoy’s fingers dug deeper and seemed to find a pool of tension that Harry hadn’t known existed in the middle of his hair, releasing it. Harry sagged back with a small moan of complaint and relief, not caring that his head had splashed into the water. Well, not caring right now, anyway. He was sure that he would care as soon as he could muster up some enthusiasm for caring. “I know that you don’t trust a stranger to take care of you. That’s why I’m doing it. I want you to have one of your dreams in a controlled setting, so that we can observe what effects it has on your body.”

            “You’re mad,” Harry breathed, but his head was sagging sideways and his breath was coming more and more softly. Astonishingly, it did seem as though he was about to go to sleep, despite the surroundings that he didn’t trust and the Muggle woman watching from a few feet away.

            Oh, and the person he didn’t trust who was now throwing his back into massaging Harry’s scalp. He couldn’t forget that, either.

            “Malfoy, you can’t,” he said, but his voice was slurred, and his eyes shut. He couldn’t smell anything now but the scent of the candle and something else that might have been Malfoy’s own scent, small and confident and sweaty and natural. He tried to struggle back to the surface of his mind, tried to remember what Malfoy couldn’t do.

            “Hush,” Malfoy said again, and Harry felt the briefest, most fragile touch against his temple, something that might have been a kiss. “Hush, Harry.”

            Confused and worried and feeling very strange, but also more relaxed than it seemed he had been since the dreams invaded his life, Harry gave in and fell into darkness. Malfoy’s fingers continued stroking and petting him all the way down.

            Harry’s second-to-last thought was that Malfoy had to be deeply interested in him—at least at the moment—to touch him like that without caring what a Muggle woman thought of him.

            His last one was that, of course, Malfoy planned to Obliviate her, and that made things make sense.

*

            “I’m glad you’re back.”

            Harry smiled and clasped his hand down hard on Draco’s. He’d returned from Wellworth a few minutes earlier, but from the moment he stepped into the Malfoys’ prison, Draco hadn’t been able to speak. He’d just held Harry’s hand and gazed into his face with an intent mixture of curiosity and relief. Once or twice he’d opened his mouth as though he was going to speak, but each time he cut himself off with a shake of his head.

            “Thank Merlin,” he finally murmured.

            Harry eyed the Malfoy parents, who were watching him and Draco out of the corner of their eyes while pretending not to, and murmured, “Are you all right? Have they been feeding you regularly? Abusing you?”

            Draco’s gaze went to his parents at first, but then he seemed to realize that Harry meant the people under the command of Discipula. He blushed and shook his head. “No,” he said. “And we get food regularly. I don’t know. It has nothing to do with that. It’s just that…you feel like you’re my only friend here.”

            He spoke that with shining eyes, and Harry was forcibly reminded that he’d never seen an expression like that on the face of the Malfoy he knew in his world. Well, why would he have? He’d never helped that Malfoy the way he was helping this Draco.

            Harry squeezed his hand and then let it drop, aware, among other things, of the way that Lucius stared at them for having touched in the first place. “Well, I am here, and Mrs. Wellworth has agreed to testify. She’ll edit the testimony a bit, since she knew your parents more when you were young than recently.”

            “If she says anything about me that she does not have the right to say,” Narcissa Malfoy said remotely, “than I shall deny it.”

            Harry raised an eyebrow. “And condemn your son to death? He wants to live, even if you don’t.”

            Narcissa sat rigidly for a moment, her lips compressing. Lucius stepped towards her and bent over her. Harry couldn’t see if he kissed her, touched her, or did something else, but when he stepped away again, Narcissa was nodding.

            “Very well,” she said. “For his sake, she may testify.”

            Harry raised an eyebrow and turned back to Draco. Draco didn’t notice, though. His gaze was fixed on his parents, and the yearning in his expression would have told anyone more sensitive than they were what he really wanted.

            It certainly told Harry.

            He’s lonely. His parents have each other, and they’re united in mind and purpose, but he doesn’t have any siblings, any friends, or any partners. It’s no wonder that he feels like he has to depend on me.

            Harry winced at the end of that thought, though. He could support Draco through the trial, but what would happen after that? There was no way that he and Draco could stay with each other permanently. To try would be a breach between Harry’s two worlds.

            But then again, why not? If he continued dreaming every night, what would be the practical difference between that and his life now? He and Draco could be friends, perhaps. He could help him to see that there was a life outside of his parents, and perhaps help him find people who would accept him.

            When Draco turned back towards him, Harry didn’t stop his smile from becoming warm. Draco stared at him in surprise, lips slightly parted, and Harry had to cough and turn his head so that his pitying reaction to that wouldn’t be obvious.

            “McGonagall owled me as I was coming back from Wellworth’s house,” he said, and drew the letter from his pocket. “She says that she will come to the trial and testify for you, Draco, if not for your parents.”

            “She worked with me during the time that I was a school governor,” Lucius said, swinging one hand idly back and forth. Harry thought he missed the cane Harry used to see him with in his own world. “Does she have no good word to say about me?”

            Harry blinked. “I don’t know,” he said. “I didn’t ask her, and she didn’t volunteer details. Do you think she would actually say things we could use? Or would her words be more of a detriment to us than anything?” He didn’t think there was any way in the world that McGonagall would lie for someone like Lucius Malfoy.

            “Perhaps a detriment, yes,” Lucius said. “I see that you know her reputation.”

            Harry chose to ignore that. Lucius and Narcissa, as well as Draco, had heard him confess that he was from another world, after all. If Lucius chose to hint around about that information, Harry didn’t have to give anything more away. He turned back to Draco. “This is the strategy that I want you to adopt. I think there’s someone who might be interested in covering your story in the papers, and who I can get in here to see you.” He would just have to hope that Rita Skeeter was an Animagus in this world, too. “Would you talk to her if I can bring her?”

            Draco stared at him with eyes gone suddenly sharp. Then he shook his head. “I think I know who you’re talking about, Harry, and she’s against us,” he said. “She would have come in and talked to us before this if it was more fun to interview us than write about the scandal of our trial.”

            Harry smiled at him. “Yeah, but I wasn’t part of the equation before. I think I can offer her something that would make her come. But then it depends on you.” He reached out and put his hand on Draco’s shoulder, since Draco looked small and shrunken, more lonely and in need of support than ever. “Would you talk to her?”

            Draco bowed his head. Harry could appreciate the silent struggle he was fighting. Harry himself had tried to use the press to get the word out about something more than once, but each time, he’d had to overcome his initial repugnance about being an object of their staring curiosity in the first place.

            “I’ll do it,” Draco said, with a nod that, Harry knew, practically sealed his fate.

            “Brave man,” Harry said solemnly.

            Draco glanced up as if to see whether Harry was mocking him, but Harry only smiled at him, and Draco bowed his head and actually leaned against him with a small sigh.

            Harry stood there, feeling that fragile burden resting against his heart, avoiding the stares of the two senior Malfoys, and feeling as though he would rather die than let Draco down.

*

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Sleepless