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Sanctum Sanctorum	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 28254 -:- Recommendations : 3 -:- Currently Reading : 4
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Chapter Nine—In An Argument

            Malfoy arrived with a rush and whoosh of flames. Hermione had stepped briefly into the room to talk to Harry, but she retreated with a raise of her eyebrows when she saw him. Harry knew why. She didn’t trust herself to be polite around someone who had once insulted her so badly, at least not until she saw whether he was going to be polite to her husband.

            Malfoy brushed soot from his robes—he wore pale blue ones, as if this was a business meeting, although Harry supposed that was better than some of the other things he might have treated it as—and immediately looked at Harry. The way his eyes narrowed made no sense, however. Harry was alive and uninjured and still able to help him with his case. Harry inclined his head back and turned to Ron.

            Ron sat on a stool in front of the fireplace, sucking at his lip. He sat up when Harry stared at him, but not far. His shoulders still hunched.

            “All right,” Harry said. “What’s going on?”

            “I don’t know everything about what Weasley may have planned,” Malfoy said pleasantly, hooking his foot around the rung of another stool and tugging it towards him. He sat down and studied Harry with what looked like too much interest. Allies, remember? Harry tried to mouth at him. Nothing more, but apparently he wasn’t good at reading lips. “I plan to have sane allies.”

            “You’ll find that in us,” Harry said, and glanced at Ron for support. Ron winced and sat up all the way. His lip-sucking had increased to the point that Harry thought he might tear it off before he finally calmed down.

            “Really,” Malfoy said. “Weasley and I did have a surprisingly sane conversation this morning, I’ll grant you that, but I don’t know that someone being driven mad by Dark spells like the Retrovoyance Curse can be counted as sane.”

            I was right. He is going to bring in supposedly new arguments. But I doubt they’ll be new in anything but the mouth they’re coming from. Harry sat up and let his smile meet Malfoy’s glare, just as hard, just as polished. “I think you must have read a few books that told you the wrong name,” he said helpfully. “The books I read called it the Retrovoyance spell, not curse.”

            “That’s because you didn’t look far enough.” Malfoy crossed his legs and leaned back against nothing. Harry had to admire his grace, and hoped he would keep his mental balance with the same ease, although he would lose the argument. “It is a curse.”

            “I cast it on myself,” Harry said quietly. “No one else.”

            “And you think that the Killing Curse is any less Dark Arts because people sometimes use it to commit suicide?” Malfoy bared his own teeth now, and Harry noted no sign of yellowing in them, which seemed to be a common affliction of Potions masters. He’s too vain to stand for such a thing, doubtless. “The spell tugs you closer to the dead, you idiot. It gives you an affiliation with them that the living can’t disrupt.”

            “It makes me a better hunter, you’re saying,” Harry said. He kept his own voice calm, because that had been the tactic that most infuriated Ron in the past, and he thought it might work on Malfoy as well. From the way Malfoy’s hands clenched down, it was working. Disrupt his balance, throw him off, and he might never recover it. And I would rather not have him working with us than have him working with us and trying to sabotage our efforts.

            “No,” Malfoy said. “Not when it makes you take absurd risks. Not when it lessens your own fear of death, so that you might die in the process of capturing one criminal. Have you thought, Potter, that the one you capture today might be gentler than the one you miss capturing tomorrow, because you’re in the Dark Cells or too injured to take part? Or you’re dead?”

            “I don’t think about the future that way,” Harry said, surprised Malfoy would try such a tactic. Yes, Ron had, but he had expected a few differences. Will everything be the recital of familiar arguments? How disappointing. “There might also come a solid week with no one to hunt, or only minor criminals. Or I might have a course of speaking engagements for the Ministry instead. It’s ridiculous to imagine that I should guide my present behavior by fears for the future.”

            Malfoy closed his eyes and then opened them again. Harry grinned at him. “Am I foiling your expectations for the perfect Gryffindor?” he asked. “So sorry.” At least Ron knows better than to go by what I was like in school, since he was there to see me change over the years.

            I became stronger. Better. You’d think Malfoy, who uses the Dark Arts himself, would have seen that.

*

            This was not normal Dark Arts addiction. Draco would give Weasley—and, he supposed, Granger—credit for that much insight.

            Potter didn’t argue with a manic gleam in his eye. He didn’t keep one hand continually on his wand, as he would have done had he feared attack from any corner. He didn’t scream that he had no problems and begin hurling curses or objects to make Draco leave the room. He displayed no twitches, no signs of incipient paranoia.

            But that only made him all the more dangerous, all the more prone to suffering he could control and not demonstrate . Those eyes could darken any moment, the wand could sweep out, and no one would expect it and be ready to counter it because they would think Potter incapable of doing such a thing.

            That left it up to Draco.

            He opened his eyes again and shook his head. “Have you thought about what might happen if you get caught, Potter?” he asked. “Or if you go so far into the world of the dead that you can’t return to the living?”

            “The Ministry knows me as its tool,” Potter said, sneering at him. The expression was shockingly out of place on his countenance, Draco thought, and had to struggle to keep his own expression mild. “And I told you. Being drawn towards the world of the dead only means I value them more, and I won’t abandon them to injustice simply because that would be the prudent course.”

            “How far would you go?” Draco asked, and poured friendly interest into his voice. From the way Potter stiffened and glared at him, he recognized the new tactic, but not its importance. Draco pitched his voice to its most lulling and leaned forwards. “Would you neglect the living for the dead? Would you abandon a victim who needed your help to chase after a fleeing murderer? Would you spend your weekends in graveyards instead of with your friends?” Then he paused and nodded, as if enlightened. “Wait. Weasley tells me you already do.”

            “The living come first,” Potter said. He sounded as if he were reciting from some sort of Auror handbook. “They always do. I would never abandon a victim to comfortless solitude. Of course not. That’s why I have a partner.”

            “Oh, well done, good show,” Draco said, watching from the corner of his eye as that shaft went in under Weasley’s ribs. “Because of course that’s what’s most important. That your partner be the one to clean up the living while you chase the murderers and get the glory.”

            “I don’t want glory. I want justice.”

            “Which is merciless when necessary.” Draco gave him another friendly smile. “How many of your captures have died ‘resisting arrest’?”

            “If you knew,” Potter said, and his voice lowered and his eyes were the color of coal again, which only made the desire twist in Draco’s stomach, “what some of them have done, what they would get away with if they were brought before the Wizengamot—”

            Draco snorted. “Come, come, Potter. Not all those Dark Arts addicts are rich and can afford an adequate defense. Not all of them are sane enough to impress the Wizengamot with their appearance, in fact. And only a few of them are like Campion, with connections enough to ensure they won’t pay the price. The Ministry is misguided in many ways, but it would punish the vast majority of those you bring in. Try again.”

            Potter surged to his feet. Weasley shrank away. Draco didn’t look at him, because he knew the importance of not taking his eyes from Potter, but this time his stomach bounded with an emotion far from delight or desire. That was part of the reason the precious fool could never argue with Potter, because he feared him. The other part would be that lingering affection, the one Draco didn’t feel. He might admire Potter in some ways, he might feel gratitude for his rescue of Draco, he might wonder at his control, but he would never think that he had been a friend and so had to be above criticism.

            “What are you saying?” Potter whispered. “That you have faith in the Wizengamot as some arbiter of justice? Your experience with Lucas Schroeder’s grudge against you should have taught you differently, I think.”

            “I have more faith in it than you have,” Draco said. “And more faith in it than I have in you. The lone killer, the lone hero stalking and striking down those the Ministry misses. That’s what you fancy yourself, isn’t it? And that’s why you use the Dark Arts, why you use the Retrovoyance Curse despite those warnings you must have read, because they’re included in every book that mentions it. No, Potter is above the rules, he always was, they don’t apply to him because his cause is so righteous—”

            Potter slammed towards him, covering the distance so fast Draco would have been impressed if he hadn’t expected this. He drew the crystal vial from his robe pocket before Potter could pin him against the wall and smashed it over Potter’s head.

            Weasley shouted. Potter drew back with a cry as the tiny shards of crystal fell down around his ears and the potion within spilled over his head, turning his hair into a dripping, sticky mess vaguely tinted with green. He lifted one hand as though to shield himself against it, too late, and then stared at his hand and the thin covering of potion on it.

            Draco pressed near in turn, and laid his hand on Potter’s chest, watching in pleasure as the potion spilled over his scalp and the sides of his neck. Traditionally, this potion had to be drunk to be effective, but the time he had spent creating a version that was absorbable by the skin was well-spent. “Now, you’ll listen to me,” he whispered. “You won’t have any choice.”

*

            It was like having a rope in his mind.

            Harry could feel the hammering thoughts, the same kind he had felt when he crouched over the dead girl’s body and realized more than one person had done this to her, the same kind he had felt when he realized Campion was probably connected to this crime. They ravened and strained in him, directing him to kill or at least harm those who would stop him. The dead deserved no less than justice.

            But there was a rope on those thoughts now, a leash holding them back. Harry kept trying to muster up the rage that would let him raise his wand and blast Malfoy without a second’s thought—the rage that had driven him forwards just a moment ago—but he couldn’t. When he thought about Campion and Schroeder, though, the rage was there, pouring through him like a black sea.

            But he looked at Malfoy and couldn’t imagine harming him. He took a step backwards and reached out to catch the fireplace mantle.

            “What have you done to me?” he whispered. His muscles tightened, but he couldn’t bring himself to flee, either. All his sharpest instincts had been dulled.

            “Ensured you’ll listen to me.” Malfoy’s hair had become a bit ruffled when Harry charged him and he flung the potion, but not much. He took a step towards Harry, leaning into his face, and Harry flinched back. “You can’t attack me because it will seem insane to you to do so. I’m not working with an ally who might stab me in the back at any moment. No. You’ll listen to me. You can’t ignore me. My words matter to you.” He reached out and laid one hand on the side of Harry’s neck, the way he’d done in the office they’d broken into. Harry’s muscles twitched, but he couldn’t bring himself to move away from the touch. “Don’t worry. You can still attack your enemies. But I’m not your enemy.”

            “Anyone who smashes strange potions over my head and controls my thoughts is my enemy,” Harry said. He hardly recognized his own voice. He strained against the control Malfoy seemed to have over him, that net that bound his motions and his thoughts, but he only ended up rebounding right back into it. It was endlessly flexible and strong, he sensed, and he didn’t know a spell right now that would shatter it.

            But I’ll find one.

            “No, I’m not, Potter,” Malfoy said, and his voice was calm and reasonable in a way Harry found himself pausing and listening to. Malfoy’s hand moved on his neck, caressing up and down, and then dropped to his shoulder and worked back and forth, as though admiring the shape of the bone. Harry stared at him, hated him, and couldn’t move away. “I wanted to clear your head and give you a means of thinking about things. Think. You saved me last night, risking your safety to do so, and then you were ready to attack me this morning. Why?”

            Harry ground his teeth, and said nothing. In truth, it was hard to remember the impulse that had pushed him to his feet to curse Malfoy. But that was only the potion, Harry reassured himself. Not because he hated the idiot, or because he was influenced by the Dark Arts in the way they’d been talking about. It couldn’t be. He had maintained his sanity under the influence of the spells, and he had proven that to Ron and Hermione again and again. Malfoy had no new arguments.

“What you said,” he muttered. His own voice was muffled, which he also hated, but he still couldn’t move away or come nearer. “It made me angry.”

“Because I spoke the truth?” Malfoy was mocking him, but it sounded gentle to Harry’s ears. That only maddened him further, because he knew it wasn’t true, but the minute he felt rage, it joined the other emotions yelping and dancing behind the net. “That must be it. You’re not used to hearing it, and you’ve developed an allergy.”

“No,” Harry hissed. “Because—because you sounded like Snape. That was the same kind of shite he used to say, that I thought myself above the rules and I wanted to break them, I thought I was special. I’m not.”

Malfoy laughed at him and stepped away from him, sitting down again. Harry took the chance to retreat to the other side of the room, although he never took his eyes off Malfoy. He was able to glance quickly sideways at Ron, but he hadn’t moved. He looked composed and grave, in fact, as if he didn’t think it an outrage that Malfoy had smashed that potion over Harry’s head.

Does he hate me, too? I don’t understand this.

            “You may be right,” Malfoy said, “in that you don’t think you’re anything special. The other possibility is too stupid to contemplate.” He went briskly on before Harry could demand to know what the other possibility was. “Anyway. We have to plan. And you’ll refrain from using any Dark Arts on my watch, Potter.”

            Harry snorted. That much defiance was left to him. “I thought you said it was only the Retrovoyance spell that was the problem. I can use anything else and you’ll be content, won’t you? Considering it was partially Dark Arts that freed you last night.”

            “They get you noticed by the Ministry, fool,” Malfoy murmured, the scorn ringing as clear as a crystal bell in his voice. “They get you taken to the Dark Cells. That’s the last thing we need right now, with them already predisposed to notice you. So. Stop using them, or I’ll use a different potion. A worse one.”

            “I won’t let you,” Harry said, but his voice rose and fell and then dwindled away into silence. He buried his head in his hands. He hated this potion.

            “Listen,” Ron said into the silence, speaking as though he was trying to intervene in an argument between Hermione and Harry, and didn’t know which side to choose. Harry snorted. Is it even a question? But I forgot, he agrees with Malfoy I should stop using the Retrovoyance spell. “I think he’s right, Harry. This is something big, something the Ministry is willing to arrest people to stop. I think we should be concentrating on what’s out there from Schroeder and Moonstone, if that’s the other person involved. Not fighting amongst ourselves.”

            Harry’s muscles tightened in what he wanted to be a rejection, but Ron spoke sense, and he agreed. Reluctantly. He lifted his head and sighed. “Fine,” he said. “I don’t know what’s going on, but there’s no doubt it’s deliberate. And it’s important, for some reason, that they not let anyone find out who the children were, even if they were Muggles and so it’s unlikely anyone in the wizarding world would recognize them. Hence scraping the faces off.”

            “You couldn’t trace the girl’s magical signature, then?” Malfoy asked, and leaned still further backwards. Harry wanted to see him slip off and smash his ugly head open on the floor, but the wish had no force behind it.

            “You weren’t listening,” Ron said, with a severe frown in Malfoy’s direction. “She was a Muggle. No magical signature of her own to catch our attention, and either it had been too long since someone killed her or else they took care to scrub away their magic. No signatures from the people who kept her, either.”

            “People,” Malfoy repeated, and quirked one eyebrow up. “Well, that would fit with the way Campion’s spoken, and that we think more than one person is working together. But do we know they have a group of employees working to target these children, instead of just one brute?”

            “Because I heard more than one voice through her ears,” Harry said, and took a certain vicious pleasure in the way Malfoy’s shoulders hunched at that, as if reminding him of the existence of the Retrovoyance spell was criminal.

            “Very well, so you did,” Malfoy said, as if that was something Harry had explained to him before, and went on. “So. The first thing we need is some news of Moonstone’s whereabouts. If he’s in England, that would explain how he’s able to reach Schroeder and the Ministry so quickly.”

            Ron shook his head. “He could firecall them as quickly if he was on the Continent.” Harry nodded to him. Thanks for pointing that out.

            “Moonstone doesn’t issue orders like that,” Malfoy said, voice so soft Harry felt as though he was watching leaves drift on the wind. “He prefers to oversee the projects he takes on in person. He doesn’t delegate, and he doesn’t trust.”

            Ron grunted. “Fine, but is there more than one person named Moonstone? Campion was positive about the name. We don’t want to decide it can’t possibly be him, or that it has to be him, without more proof.”

            “Of course we have to have proof,” Harry said. He was amazed that neither of them had yet suggested the obvious course, but, well, needs must. “And I know the best way to get it. Place a spy on Schroeder. He’ll have to meet with someone eventually, either Moonstone himself or someone who helps take care of the children, in order to clarify his orders. We’ll get proof when he does, and then we’ll have Pensieve memories.”

            “You speak of spying on a member of the Wizengamot as if it’s simple,” Malfoy murmured.

            Harry shrugged. “It is. If I use some of the spells that I know—”

            “None classified as Dark,” Malfoy intervened.

            Harry glared at him. “It doesn’t matter which ones I use, surely, as long as I don’t use them in the Ministry itself,” he said.

            “No,” Malfoy said. “It does. Use of more spells creates a spiral of addiction it is not easy to break out of.” His eyes were bright and calm, and he looked at Harry as if nothing had ever been less interesting than he was. “Use something else to spy on Schroeder. There must be those who can be bought for garden-variety bribery.”

            “There’s the Extendable Ears, too,” Ron intervened, looking between them as though he expected Harry to burst into flames. “George makes them so you can use them from a distance now. And most of the Departments in the Ministry still don’t think to ward against enchanted objects like that. They’re too occupied with the more dangerous artifacts.”

            “We have to remain in one place to use the Extendable Ears,” Harry pointed out, because no one else was mentioning that and it rasped on his nerves. “We don’t want to follow Schroeder around. We want a spell or an object that can alert us from a distance. The whole point is to make sure he doesn’t learn who suspects him.”

            “He already knows about you arresting Campion, Potter,” Malfoy said, “and he’ll learn soon about you freeing me from arrest by those Aurors, if he doesn’t know already. We need to learn more about them, but we don’t have the advantage of absolute surprise. And it’s surprising to me you don’t realize that we don’t need it.”

            Harry choked back the scream he badly wanted to give and smiled blandly at Malfoy. “Explain, then,” he said. The idiot wants to be a mastermind badly enough, let him act like one.

*

            Potter half-tamed was almost worse than Potter wild, Draco thought, studying the rearing blackness in the back of his eyes. With one major difference—Potter half-tamed couldn’t use magic against him.

            That was enough of an advantage to let him keep his temper even when Potter was obviously trying to goad him into roaring. He leaned forwards and raised an eyebrow. “Make it seem as though your adventure in the Dark Cells chastened you more than it did in reality.” Which is not at all. “Let Campion go—”

            Potter snarled at him. There was something inhuman behind the sound. Draco gracefully let it die away, because he didn’t try to reason with mad dogs, and then said, “You’ve already got as much from him as you’re going to get. Lose interest, to all intents and appearances. Visit me openly one more time, and put on another show for my assistants, asking if I’m well and all the rest of it. After that, we visit each other by Floo only, or Apparition into secluded places that aren’t as easy to spy on.

            “And as you drive forwards an ordinary Auror investigation from your end—which can still achieve good results, with two as skilled as you on the case—I’ll brew a potion that should allow us access to Schroeder’s thoughts. It will take us longer to gather the evidence, I grant you that—”

            “And more people could die.” Potter’s eyes had that wildfire look.

            Draco made himself shrug. “They might already have done that. They could do that every day. But it’s better than Schroeder and Moonstone retreating in a panic and shutting down their operation, or killing all the children and starting over again somewhere else. Lull them. We’ll find them. We’ll discover what the connection is, if there’s a connection.”

            Potter quivered in his seat. Draco glanced at Weasley and saw him watching his friend instead of Draco, which was a good sign.

            Or might be.

            Finally, Potter said, “You think we’ll learn more that way?”

            Draco nodded.

            “And you’ll swear to help even if it doesn’t bring you anything that you have a use for?”

            Draco laughed at him with his mouth open. “Potter. Schroeder insulted me personally and professionally with the way he arrested me and planted an incompetent assistant in my shop. There is nothing I want more right now than revenge on him.” Other than for you to have your sanity back, perhaps.

            A moment flowed past them, like a grain of sand falling in an hourglass. Then Potter nodded and held out his hand.

            Draco stood to clasp it. Potter still looked at him like a chained wolf, but he could live with that for the moment.

            And in the long run, I will teach him better.

*

            SP777: Thanks! I hope this chapter was unexpected, too.

            AlterEquis: And here is another!
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