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A Brother to Basilisks	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 85172 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 15
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this story.

Chapter List
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Chapter Ninety-Four—Bought With Blood
The white light around the artifact was glimmering when Lucius locked the library door behind him and turned to face it.
It sensed intentions, Lucius had come to accept. It only glowed a little when Lucius spilled some blood near the rune, or sat near it with books open and studied every scrap of information he could find about boxes even slightly similar. But now that Lucius was preparing to accept it, the glow was constant, and it flashed as Lucius took a step nearer.
Lucius swallowed. He knew the artifact would indeed rid him of his Dark Mark. He had a vial of his own blood, slowly collected over several hours, sitting off to the side, to activate the rune on the bottom of the box.
But he had still needed to gather his courage, even after drinking a Blood-Replenishing Potion so he wouldn’t pass out in the middle of the process. He had found out what the other price was, besides spilled blood, the one that Borgin might not have known about.
Still, Lucius feared the Dark Lord and what would happen when he began to call his faithful back together more than he feared this box. And he wanted to be alive to help his family more than he wanted to avoid pain.
He walked towards the table.
The white light flashed from the box as it had in the shop, covering the room with intense radiance. Lucius narrowed his eyes and sat beside the table, laying his Marked arm beside the box.
He didn’t think it was his imagination that the box turned a little towards him, the real silver ring on top vibrating.
Lucius flicked locking spells at the door that no one but him knew how to dissolve—not even Narcissa—and took up the artifact, turning it over. The silver ring contracted, but nothing else moved. Lucius uncapped the vial of his blood and began to drip it slowly onto the rune on the bottom of the box, turning it in spirals so the whole rune was covered.
The more blood he poured, the more the light coming from the box changed. The white was dim now, with shadows of red and gold creeping up the outside, like charged flame. Lucius felt the magic pressing down on him at the same time, constricting his throat and pinning his tongue to the bottom of his mouth.
Restricting how I can call for help or cast spells.
Knowing it would happen didn’t lessen how hard his heart was pounding.
When the blood fully covered the rune, the light had fully changed to red and sunk down until it was glimmering around the floorboards like someone had lit a fire in the room below, and there was a sensation like the Scold’s Bridle Spell holding Lucius’s mouth shut. He grimaced and eased his left hand towards the silver ring in the top of the box. In some ways, it would help. Neither Narcissa nor the house-elves would be panicked by his screams.
You wouldn’t have to go through this in the first place if you’d been smart enough not to take the Dark Mark.
Lucius nodded in acknowledgment of his own thoughts, and thrust his Marked arm into the silver ring on the top of the box.
It went far deeper than the size of the box suggested it should. But Lucius had expected that, and the small bucking motions of the box, and he only closed his eyes and bowed his head until his brow touched the table.
The box shuffled a few more times. Something long and cool touched Lucius’s Mark inside the box.
Then it began to eat.
Lucius screamed, but no sound emerged from his mouth. His jaw didn’t even tremble. He simply sat there, and the vibrations leaped through his own cheekbones and ears.
The thing had teeth. It ripped the Dark magic and the corrupted flesh from Lucius’s arm, and it didn’t stop. It went on eating, crunching through the blood and muscle and bone. Lucius felt pain begin to take over his mind in large cloudbursts, and feared he might pass out long before the transformation finished.
Then he felt it stop.
That was not the end, though, and Lucius sat still and breathed hoarsely for long moments before the box made another movement. Claws rippled up and down his arm—well, it could have been fingers, but Lucius thought of any creature that had teeth like that as also having claws. Something cool again ran up the chewed, gnawed mess he was thinking of as his forearm.
And white light struck out from the box again, something deep and triumphant and diamond-colored, and there was a groan that made Lucius start despite himself, pushing one palm flat against the table. Well, the one palm he had that was free of the box.
Coolness and a feeling like his arm was being wrapped in bandages dropped around his arm, and Lucius sighed and rejoiced in the ending of the pain far more than he had rejoiced in kneeling Marked at his Lord’s feet, those long years ago when his initiation had happened. The coolness went on and on, and then Lucius could pull out his arm. He knew that from the way the silver ring and the restrictions on his mouth and jaw relaxed at the same time.
He let his forehead slump onto his hands for long moments before he even tried to look at his left forearm. He was still shaking, vibrating as much with fear as the aftereffects. But he hadn’t made it this far in life by refusing to look at something so simple.
Lucius finally raised his head.
His eyes lingered past a few patches where it looked as though he’d been severely sunburned, and he winced at the thought of what people would say. Well, he would simply have to wear long-sleeved robes for a time around those who were not Severus, Narcissa, or Draco.
Or Harry, I suppose.
But in the center of it all was a patch of skin that looked as though it had come from a newborn. Lucius stared at it, and stroked it. He was expecting, he realized as his fingers prickled along his new skin, to feel something there that remained of the Dark Mark. Ridged lines, raised ones, or a twined snake and skull. Something more than what he had, which was…nothing much.
But it was gone. It was really and truly gone.
And then Lucius slid out of his seat and to the floor of the library, his arms wrapped around himself and involuntary sobs choking his throat much like the spell had until now.
The mistake he had made in his youth, the one he had regretted long before the Dark Lord’s destruction at Potter’s hands, was gone.
He wept for nearly half an hour before Narcissa came and insisted, in a quiet voice that Lucius knew better than to disobey, that he take down the spells preventing the house-elves from coming to him, and then he had to concentrate hard so he could do the spell to let her in wordlessly. Narcissa crossed the threshold with a determined stride, and halted when she saw him.
Lucius turned his left forearm outwards so she could see it.
“My dear,” said Narcissa. And she covered the distance between them in what seemed like a single bound and provided him with her flank to lean against, while Lucius closed his eyes against the tears he couldn’t keep from coursing down his face.
*
It had been a long, long time since his mind had felt so clear, that thoughts of cold, grey water and bedraggled fur didn’t get mixed up with the present thoughts of Harry and how badly he had failed him.
“Mr. Black?”
Sirius opened his eyes reluctantly. He knew why Lughborn wanted him to pay attention, but he wanted to spend more time in the center of his mind. He knew he was getting better, clearing away old memories—like the swim from Azkaban to the mainland in his dog form—and sorting them into their proper places. And he was getting rid of the madness, too.
They were in the large, pleasant sitting room that Lughborn had taken to letting Sirius meditate in. Dull browns and subdued golds were everywhere, except for the glittering marble blocks that enclosed the fireplace. Sirius jolted his mind out of contemplating the flames and turned around to blink at Lughborn. “What?”
“I thought you should see this.”
He was holding out a copy of the Coeur de Lion, one of the newspapers the Lughborns took in on a daily basis. Sirius had to admit it seemed a lot more reliable and informative than the Prophet, not that that was a struggle.
But it wasn’t often that Lughborn wanted Sirius to read any of the articles in it. He said it would only set back Sirius’s recovery to be worrying too much about affairs outside the house and his sanity. Sometimes he let him read the Quidditch section, and sometimes the gossip pages, full of initials and nicknames Sirius knew nothing about.
From Lughborn’s drooping moustache, and the fact that he was touching the front page, Sirius doubted it was either Quidditch or gossip this time.
But when he flattened out the paper on the floor in front of him and stared down at it, he found he hadn’t been prepared at all for what it was.
There was a picture of Harry there, looking so thoroughly worn and terrified that Sirius immediately wanted to change into a dog and swim back to Britain again, as if that would help. There was a moving thing in the corner of the photograph that was probably the basilisk’s tail, but Sirius couldn’t look away from Harry’s eyes.
“What happened?” he whispered.
“You could start by reading the headline.”
Sirius jerked away from Harry’s face, flushing. It was true that Lughborn had told Sirius he tended to focus too much on just one thing, and should pay attention to his surroundings more, but Sirius hadn’t realized that applied in situations like this.
“It applies in all situations.”
“Quit reading my mind,” Sirius muttered, even though he knew it was more like his face, but he did look at the headline.
BOY-WHO-LIVED KILLS DUMBLEDORE?
Sirius choked, and read. Or tried to. There were details flying through his comprehension like sparks from a firework. Dumbledore was dead. He’d kidnapped Harry. The basilisk had killed him. Harry was going to be put on trial, or so the Coeur de Lion reporter thought. Nicholas Flamel had been involved somehow. Something about impersonating Moody.
“I have to go back,” Sirius said, and he couldn’t hold onto the paper anymore, it just crumbled through his hands like snow. “I have to help him.”
“Will you help him the way you are right now?” Lughborn’s voice arrested Sirius before he even got off the floor. “Or will you just prove another distraction when he needs to avoid distractions?”
Sirius hissed, feeling as though someone had set his fur on fire and wouldn’t put it out. “I could help him!”
“Not the way you are. He needs his godfather at his side, yes, but a godfather who is strong—both mentally and physically.”
Sirius lowered his head into his hands. He wanted to disagree and scream at Lughborn, but he knew that would only get him some more hours of meditation and light scoldings to “behave and think of your future.” The most infuriating thing of all about Lughborn was that he never seemed to get angry.
“If I can’t do anything,” he whispered, “why did you show me this article?”
“Two reasons. First, I know you worry about your godson, and I thought you deserved to know that all is not well with him.”
Sirius leaned back on his heels and looked up mutely. Lughborn gave him that look he usually used when he was teaching Sirius about Occlumency and the way he would be able to learn it someday, when his mind had healed more.
“Second, to give you a goal. Harry needs all the allies he can get. You need to heal and get home to him. Work harder.”
Sirius started, and then nodded frantically. He knew he still had a lot of memories to work through: most of the time in Azkaban, and the terrible moment when he’d come running to Godric’s Hollow and realized that James and Lily were dead. Lughborn was having him sort backwards, from the most recent ones, and Sirius still had years to go.
“I’ll do it. I’ll make sure that I’m there when Harry needs me.”
“Good. It seems that his guardian has managed to avert a trial for the moment, based on the news that I have received through other channels, but Harry will still require his godfather for long months after this. I think he is only beginning to accept the trauma of seeing someone die in front of him.”
Poor Harry. Left all alone with a basilisk and Snivellus for guardians. Sirius closed his eyes. Lughborn kept telling him he had to sort through his hatred for Snape, too, but Harry was the clear and shining beacon in Sirius’s mind right now.
For Harry. I’ll do this and make sure that we can get back together and I can fight to protect Harry the way I couldn’t protect Lily and James.
I have to.
*
It seemed to take forever for the last spasms of pain to die away, and the shapes that floated and tumbled in front of his eyes to make sense. But in the end, they did, and Remus raised his head and stared panting through the window of the dim little hut where he’d taken shelter when the full moon hit.
He scrambled up on shaky legs, and coughed. Blood dripped on the floor. He’d put powerful enchantments on the door and caged himself in with two goats. The only thing left of them was some splashes of blood, dirty fur, and cracked bones.
But that was all right. Remus wasn’t going to think about the disgusting meals he had to survive on, or the way that he’d spent so long being Dumbledore’s dupe when it was obvious that man didn’t care about Harry at all.
He’d started to lament when he heard the news of how Dumbledore had died and what Harry was going through, but then he’d realized there was no point. He’d spent too much time blaming himself already. Thirteen years, really, if you took the starting point as the night Peter had betrayed his trust.
Remus spent half an hour resting, and then ten minutes washing his mouth out with water and casting spells that put his hair and robes into some kind of proper order. Then he walked out of the hut and Apparated to the next close point he remembered, a tiny magical village on the edge of the Black Forest.
He’d stayed away long enough, and shivered long enough. Now he was on his way home.
And he was going to help Harry. For once.
*
“I need to know if you’re angry with me.”
“Why would I be angry with you?”
It was the absent way Harry said it that worried Draco. After all, technically Harry had lots of things to be angry at him about, including the way Draco had talked to his father and volunteered political lessons for Weasley. But Harry was gazing intently into a book in front of him in the library, stroking Dash’s neck, and hadn’t looked up when Draco plopped down at the table next to him.
“Look at me.”
“Mmm.”
Dash stuck his head up around the side of the table and gazed at him. Draco flinched even though he knew Dash would never kill him. At the moment, it seemed like a warning to leave Harry alone, a reminder of what could happen if one of them “looked” at him.
But Draco didn’t care. He had to know.
“Do you blame me for going and telling Father like that?” he asked, lowering his voice, even though the library was mostly deserted and he intended to stay vague so no one would know what he was talking about anyway.
Harry looked up with a sigh. His gaze was distant in ways that Draco disapproved of. “I don’t blame you.”
“Oh. Why? Professor Snape seems to.”
“I think Professor Snape is overprotective. I mean, yeah, I have a lot of enemies who want to kill me, but…” Harry hesitated. “I think Professor Snape blames people who are close at hand because he can’t blame every single enemy I have.”
“Like the Dark Lord,” Draco whispered.
That made Harry’s eyes sharpen, but not in a way he liked. “His name is ‘Voldemort,’ Draco. Three syllables. Can you say it?”
Draco turned his head away. He knew what Harry wanted, but that didn’t mean he felt like giving it to him.
Harry pressed his hand and kept on pressing it, a steady, warm strength that made Draco exhale. “I’m not going to blame you if you can’t say it,” he said, which was a lie that made Draco turn around to glare at him. “But I did want to know if you can.”
“Of course I can! I can form my lips and tongue around the syllables,” Draco said, and made sure it sounded haughty. “The same way that you can roll on your broom and do a Wronski Feint and pull up before you hit the ground. That doesn’t make it a good idea.”
“His name had a Taboo on it during the war, I know. It doesn’t now. Say it.”
“How do you know he didn’t put the Taboo back on it the minute he—did what he did?” Even indignant, Draco remembered their potential audience and lowered his voice. From the challenging way Harry stared at him, that wasn’t on the agenda.
“How do you know that he isn’t sneaking into Malfoy Manor right now to kill your parents?” As Draco spluttered, Harry’s eyes softened and he shook his head. “Sorry, Dash is right, that was too sharp. But we can’t live our lives in fear, Draco. That’s one thing I agree with Dumbledore about. We’re giving him too much respect if we side-eye the shadows every time we refer to him.”
Draco glared. Harry only looked back; Draco couldn’t even call it a glare. His eyes were too bright and direct for that, the pressure he had on Draco’s hand too steady. He squeezed again, and Draco stared down at his robes and sighed.
He wondered if Harry understood all the training he’d been through to respect powerful wizards, to give them a wide berth and find out how best to use the connections the Malfoys had forged to them. Even the way Draco referred to Dumbledore had undergone that change; he’d always used that title aloud in mixed company until Dumbledore had fled the school and betrayed Harry. He might think uncomplimentary things, but that wasn’t the same as saying them.
“Draco? I only wanted to know if you can. If you can’t, that’s fine.”
Draco swallowed and looked up. “What do you think Voldemort is doing?” he asked, lips barely shaping the word.
Harry’s face lit up brighter than his eyes. He leaned forwards and put one hand on the table, as if he was going to brace himself during a speech. Draco looked down at it automatically, which meant he missed the hand that rose to his face until it touched his cheek. Then he started and looked up.
Harry kissed him, long and slow, and Draco gasped. It felt like forever since they’d done this, even though it was only a few days. But a lot had happened since then, and a lot had continued to happen, and Draco threw his arms around Harry’s shoulders and gave himself fully over to it.
Harry actually licked both their lips, and Draco shuddered and slumped back in his chair, which broke the kiss. Harry pushed his crooked glasses up his face, looking pleased with himself. Dash swayed back and forth next to the table and looked the same way.
“See? You can do it.”
“You’re the only one I would do it for, though,” Draco muttered, his mouth burning with exhilaration and his head whirling. “I mean, you don’t have to think that I’m going to talk about him that way in front of your friends.” He pushed his fingers through his hair and tried to ignore the sensation of people staring. They’d ignored it so far. “And I asked you a question.”
Harry grinned back through his slightly swollen lips and nodded. “I think he’s going to gather as many followers as he can. That obviously means calling some of the—” he lowered his voice, too “—Death Eaters back together. But he’ll probably call on some of the contacts he has who were never arrested. All the Death Eaters who had suspicion thrown on them at one point would be a little too obvious.”
Draco eyed him. “Is that your reasoning or Dash’s?”
Harry had the grace to look embarrassed. “A little of both, with some of Professor Snape’s thrown in.”
Draco nodded. “Well, Father has already contacted some of the pure-bloods who would make strong allies for either him or you. He’s hoping to get them on your side, of course. And he’ll speak to them,” he added, seeing the way Harry’s eyes had widened. “You’ll have to meet them eventually, but not right away.”
Harry leaned back with a tiny, happy sigh, and let his hand stroke Dash’s back. “Good,” he muttered.
Draco leaned his head on his fist. “Why are you so nervous about it? You’ve had political power since you were eighteen months old.”
“And didn’t know about any of it until three years ago,” Harry disagreed. “I’ll get used to it because I have to, but I’m never going to be—I don’t know, comfortable with manipulating people. I know it needs to be done,” he added, probably because he saw Draco opening his mouth. “But I’m not comfortable with it.”
Draco considered that doubtfully. He knew Harry was telling the truth, but it was incredibly hard to imagine feeling that way himself.
Still…
“We’ll protect you,” he said. “Dash and Professor Snape and Father and me. And lots of other people you can probably barely imagine yet, people who will want to ally themselves with you. And some of them will be sincere.”
Harry gave a small smile and reached out. Draco took his hand and pressed a kiss into the center of the palm, ignoring the immediate rustle among the Ravenclaws to their left.
“Merlin, I’m happy you’re here,” Harry said, voice low and eyes intense.
And even though he looked over at Dash right after that and smiled, so maybe he meant him, too, Draco decided that that first compliment was only for himself.
*
SP777: Better than a mistrial, this has stained Fudge's political reputation. That's the real guarantee against it happening again, at least like this.
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A Brother to Basilisks