Chains of Earth Chapter Two (Harry/Draco)

[dysonrules]

Sorry for the delay!  I meant to post this morning, but I sent the wrong file to myself. *bashes head against wall*




CHAPTER TWO

 

Fly, dotard, fly!

With thy wise dreams and fables of the sky.

 

            -Alexander Pope

 

            Draco scowled after the Auror.  I look what?  Foolish?  Idiotic?  A laughingstock?  He wanted to shout at Potter in frustration.  The Auror had not looked amused, however.  His expression had been more akin to a child opening packages at Christmas.

            He stalked over and stood before the full-length mirror.  Draco studied himself, trying to see through Potter’s eyes.  What the hell had Potter seen?  Draco’s skin was still pale, his hair was still silver-blond, and his lips still curved in a perpetual sneer.  The massive gobs of fucking feathers were the only outward change.  He recalled Potter’s soft, “Oh,” and the strange look on his face.  Draco turned away from the mirror in disgust.

            Fuck, what of it?  The Gryffindor had always been odd, befriending giants and centaurs and Weasleys.  He probably saw Draco as just another pitiable creature that needed saving.  Regardless of what Potter saw or did not see, Draco was an outcast.  His only motive now was revenge.  He only needed Potter to point him in the right direction.

            A tentative knock sounded at the door and Draco felt an unwelcome surge of hope that Potter had returned and immediately strangled it to death with a grimace.  Was he really that desperate for companionship?

            His mother opened the door and took a hesitant step inside.

            “Draco?” she asked.  “Are you all right?”

            I still have feathers, if that’s what you’re asking, he thought dryly.  “I’m fine, Mother.”

            She walked to the desk and pretended to straighten the quills and jars of ink.  It was her latest affectation—focusing her attention on random items to avoid looking at her son.

            “He’s agreed to help you, then?” she asked, although she had to have spoken to Potter on his way out.

            “Naturally.  It’s his nature to assist lost causes and rescue the freaks of the world,” Draco said bitterly.

            She flinched and looked at him directly for a moment.  “We will beat this, Draco,” she said adamantly.

            He sighed, not in the mood to humour her.  Potter’s visit had reminded him of how much he had lost.  “I just hope he can lead me to the bastards that did this to me,” Draco said.  “Everything else is secondary.”

            “Revenge should be secondary to reversing the effects of the potion, Draco,” she corrected primly, causing Draco to suppress a sneer of disbelief.  He had been fundamentally changed.  Did she think he could just take another potion and be back to normal?  “I’ve spent the last two days going through every book in the library,” she went on, no longer looking at him as she minutely shifted a candlestick on the desk.  “I’ve found nothing yet, but there is a promising reference…”

            She rambled on, unaware that Draco no longer heard her.  He doubted even his father’s library had the answer to this situation.  If Draco had been changed by a spell, it might have been possible to reverse the effects, but potions tended to be more permanent and often irreversible.  His mysterious enemies had known what they were doing, at any rate.

            His mother finally ran out of self-reassuring words, gave Draco a weak smile, and departed.  He sighed.  She had not touched him since his return, which was not entirely surprising—the Malfoys were hardly demonstrative—but even a brief touch might have helped him fight the pall of loneliness that threatened to drag him into despair.  If his own mother would not even touch him…  Draco remembered Potter’s gentle touch upon his wing and the minute graze against his skin.  Was that the best he could hope for?

            He scowled and turned away from all thought of Harry Potter.  Draco would see him tomorrow, at any rate.  It somewhat annoyed him that he was looking forward to the visit.

 

~~ O ~~

 

            Harry left Malfoy Manor and Apparated home to number 12, Grimmauld Place.  He had forgotten to get Malfoy’s permission to tell Kingsley about the kidnapping.  It was serious enough to warrant the status of an actual case, rather than something Harry could spend his free time investigating.  It was possible that the crime was a vendetta against Malfoy alone, but if other purebloods turned up with wings, the Ministry would be challenged for not leaping into the fray immediately.

            Harry stripped off his clothing and thought about Malfoy’s wings.  It was an odd way to seek revenge, although in Malfoy’s case it had probably been the best possible vengeance.  Harry had sensed the depths of Malfoy’s despair even through the façade of sneering superiority.  Wings.  A pureblood of Draco’s status would see it as a sentence nearly as bad as death.

            Harry set the empty vial on the desk in his room and made another mental note.  He would need help to trace the potion, if such a thing were even possible.  It was too bad the wizards did not have anything akin to Muggle fingerprinting, or the vial itself might have been useful.  It was possible to trace the magical signature left on an item, but the perpetrators likely knew that and would have taken precautions.  Malfoy’s would also have overridden any signature when he handled the vial.

            Kreacher popped up next to him and whisked Harry’s dirty clothing away.  “Master Harry’s bath is being ready,” he said.

            “Thanks, Kreacher,” Harry replied absently.  “Please don’t touch this vial—I need to take it to the Ministry tomorrow.”

            “Yes, Master Harry.  Will Master Harry be needing dinner soon?”  The question was hopeful and Harry wondered if the old house-elf actually liked to prepare Harry’s meals, or if he simply despised the Weasleys enough to be willing to do anything to keep Harry from going.

            “No.  You’ll remember I’m going to the Weasleys' tonight.  You need not wait up for me.”

            “Kreacher is remembering, Master Harry.  Kreacher is only hoping Master Harry is being at home instead.”  The house-elf’s tone was thick with disapproval.

            “I’m still going, Kreacher.  Thanks, anyway.”  Harry stepped into the tub and cast a spell that sent the water up and over his head in a steady stream—his version of a Muggle shower.  Someday he would rig up some sort of curtain around the tub, but it was easy enough to cast a quick Drying Charm on the water that splashed onto the floor, so he knew he would probably never bother.

            Another Drying Spell dealt with his hair, although he did not bother to try and comb it flat.  Mrs Weasley would generally tackle it as soon as he arrived, anyway.  She could not seem to help herself.  He paused with a momentary twinge as he remembered it has been quite a long time since she had mothered him, actually, which was hardly surprising.  He felt a moment of trepidation when he considered the evening ahead and shook it off with determination.  Dinner last week had been strained, but fine.

            He dressed quickly, realizing he was already late.  When he deemed himself presentable, he Disapparated.

 

            Harry appeared before the front door of the Burrow and knocked politely.  Molly Weasley opened the door and said, “Harry, how many times have I told you it’s okay for you to pop straight into the kitchen?”

            Harry smiled politely and gave his usual response, “Yes, Mrs Weasley.”  He felt a flash of sadness knowing the days he had felt comfortable popping into the Weasleys' house were long past.  He knew they invited him over out of sheer habit and enforced politeness.  Harry still accepted the invitations in a desperate attempt to regain something he knew was lost, possibly forever.

            “Come in and sit down.  Everyone else is already here.  We weren’t sure you were still coming.”

            Harry stammered an apology, but she ignored it and preceded him into the kitchen, which smelled heavenly.  His mouth began to water at the thought of beef and potatoes with thick gravy.

            “Harry, my boy, come have a seat,” Arthur said warmly.  Harry was almost ridiculously grateful for his presence.  Despite everything, Arthur’s affection had always seemed steady and constant.

            “Yes, Harry,” said Ron loudly.  “Come and grace us with your magnificent presence.”

            Harry suppressed a sigh and knew it was going to be a bad night.  Ron’s words were already slurred and a glass of Firewhiskey sat half-empty next to his plate.  Ginny threw Harry an apologetic look as he took the seat conspicuously open next to hers.

            “I’m surprised you bothered to join us at all, Harry,” Ron continued.  “Big shot Auror like yourself eating with us lowly common folk.”

            “Ron, that’s enough,” Arthur snapped.

            “Oh, is it, then?” Ron countered belligerently.

            “Maybe I should go,” Harry said quietly to Mr Weasley, noting the tears in Mrs Weasley’s eyes as she sat down across from Harry.

            “Oh, no, how about wonderful Harry Potter stays and I leave?” Ron offered.  “You always wished he was your bloody son, anyway, right, mum?  Perfect Potter, the perfect son.”

            “Knock it off, Ron.  You’re drunk,” Ginny said sharply.

            Ron laughed nastily.  “Drunk enough to tell the fucking truth, which you could stand a bloody big dose of, Ginevra.  You think he’s going to come crawling back to you one day, you stupid twat?”

            “Ronald!” Mrs Weasley yelled.  Her voice bordered on a shriek.  “How dare you speak that way to your sister?”

            Harry pushed back his chair and stood, feeling nauseous despite the tantalizing smell of the food and the fact that he hadn’t eaten since early that morning.

            “Yeah, let’s all just play pretend,” Ron jeered.  “It’s a Weasley trait, innit?  Ginny pretends Harry loves her, Mum pretends Fred isn’t dead, and me—well, I’ll just pretend I can still walk!”  He put both hands flat on the table and lurched forward, rattling the table and knocking over a goblet.  Ginny yelled, “Fuck you, Ron!”  Molly Weasley burst into tears.

            Harry backed away as Arthur got to his feet and reached out a hand, whether to stop Harry or grab him for support, Harry wasn’t sure.

            “I’m sorry,” Harry said.  “Oh, god, I’m so very sorry.”

            Ron slumped over the table, spilling food and knocking over his Firewhiskey when his arms gave out.  Molly sobbed openly into her hands and Arthur turned his attention to comforting her.

Ginny pushed away from the table.  “I’ll see you out, Harry,” she said.

            Harry felt like a coward when he fled the scene, but his relief overwhelmed the guilt.

            “I should not have come,” he said when the door shut behind them and the cool evening air hit his face.  He breathed deeply and felt like his chest might burst.

            “It’s not your fault.  He was fine last week.  I should have warned you he’d been drinking today,” Ginny said.  Harry chanced a glance at her and saw her beautiful face taut with sorrow.

            “Look, Gin, what he said—”

            “Don’t, Harry,” she said sharply.  “We’ve been over this a dozen times.  It’s true, after all.  You don’t love me.”

            I love you like a sister, he wanted to say, but he had uttered those words once before and the force of her rage had nearly flattened him.  Harry opened his mouth to say something, but Ginny cut him off.

            “Look, Harry, it’s not your fault.  None of us blames you for anything, not even Ron when he’s in his right mind.”

            “Yeah,” Harry said, not really believing her words.  Ron, for certain, blamed him, and rightfully so.  If Harry had only been a moment faster, paid attention a bit more closely…

            Ginny’s hand was on his arm, squeezing gently.  He dared not pull away, lest she see it as another rejection.

            “Tell your mum I’m sorry,” Harry said hoarsely.

            She sighed and nodded before she released him.  “I love you, Harry.”

            He winced as though she’d cut him, nodded foolishly, and Disapparated.  In his room, he stared at the vial on his desk and tried to find something to hold on to.  His world seemed suddenly composed of despair.

            He could not love Ginny, he could not help Ron, and he could not bring Fred Weasley back from the dead.  Maybe he could help Malfoy the Winged Wonder.

            Harry laughed and realized it bordered on hysteria.

            Some fucking comfort that was.

 

CHAPTER THREE