CHAINS OF EARTH CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Apr. 2nd, 2010 07:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dysonrulesThe usual billionty of thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
alaana_fair for the fab beta!
Miss the beginning? Start here: PROLOGUE prologue
Chapter Thirteen
When once you have tasted flight,
you will forever walk the earth
with your eyes turned skyward,
for there you have been,
and there you will always long to return.
- Douglas Adams
Harry was alone when he awakened. He was not surprised, especially considering it was still daylight and Draco obviously had better things to do than sleep the day away waiting for Harry to wake up. Still, he was a bit disappointed to find Draco gone.
A quick Tempus Charm showed that it was only midday. He was starved, so he allowed Kreacher to fix him a sandwich while he took a quick shower and got dressed. He wolfed down the meat and cucumber laden bread, washing it down with two cups of strong tea. Thus fortified, he thanked the house-elf and Apparated to Malfoy Manor.
He appeared on Draco’s balcony, the scene of his recent impulsive kiss. Harry noticed the fresh snow on the railing had been disturbed—by an owl? A set of small footprints seemed to confirm the hypothesis. Obviously, a house-elf had retrieved the bird and taken it into Draco’s room.
Harry hesitated only a moment before putting his hand on the cold metal latch and turning it. To his surprise, it opened easily. He had expected it to be locked, even though the Malfoy wards would have warned Draco of any intruder. Thankfully, Harry was still allowed past the wards. He had wondered if Narcissa Malfoy would alter them to keep him out.
Harry drew in a breath when he saw Draco seated in a chair with his head tipped back, staring at the ceiling. A strange owl sat on the perch near the door—it hooted softly when Harry’s attention went to it. A piece of parchment lay on the floor at Draco’s feet.
“Potter.” The word was flat and quiet, devoid of all feeling. Harry felt a sense of dread upon hearing it. Something had happened—something that had little to do with what had taken place between them, and possibly everything to do with the scrap of discarded paper.
He took several quick steps forward and snatched it up. His breath caught when he read the words and he looked at Draco quickly. The grey eyes were closed and Draco looked oddly weary, almost defeated.
“When did this arrive?” Harry asked.
“Hours ago,” Draco said in a tone that suggested boredom.
Harry whirled and quickly examined the owl. Diagon Alley. The kidnappers had gone to Diagon Alley in order to send the note to Draco. Harry gathered up the bird, ignoring the surprised hoot and attempted flutter of wings. It obviously did not appreciate the manhandling.
“I’ll be back,” Harry said in a grim voice. With that, he Disapparated, taking the owl with him.
~~ O ~~
Hermione pushed the files aside in frustrated annoyance. She had gone through them piece by piece by piece, hoping to find some reference to the potion, but whomever had taken it had done an admirable job of eradicating all sign of it. The arrest record had been modified—that much was obvious once she knew what to look for. All mention of the recovered potion had been stricken from the file. The most telling evidence was a blank line on the Evidence Log itself where something had obviously been erased. A quick spell retrieved the words—even Vanished, ink left an imprint on parchment that could not be erased without more skill than that exhibited by the thieves.
It was small satisfaction to Hermione that she could recover lost words—she still had no clue as to the identity of the person, or persons, that had stolen it. The words: unidentified potion in clear glass vial seemed to mock her.
She thought again about the analysis report. Someone had to have seen the potion. They had to have taken it, examined it, extracted it and cast several spells on it. There should be a list of potential ingredients and a hypothesis of the intended effects, written by someone who had worked in the Department of Mysteries at the time of Gunther Pokeby’s arrest.
Hermione shoved all the papers back into a pile, closed the file, and went out, locking her office door with several spells. Her stride was determined as she made her way to the Personnel Department, pausing only once to fill a cup with peppermint tea. The records clerk liked it piping hot with a hint of honey. Hermione had accessed obscure records in the past; she knew the best way to get at them.
~~ O ~~
Potter returned in an obvious rage. Draco had tried to pull himself together after the Auror’s departure, and he managed to meet him with some semblance of composure. That composure was completely shattered when Potter walked through the balcony doors, hooked his fingers into the waistband of Draco’s trousers, and dragged him forward into a kiss.
It was bruising, intense, and altogether possessive. It also did more to steady Draco’s nerves than all of his brooding and cursing of fate, even with the added assault of the visions. Draco ignored them this time, concentrating on the feel of Potter’s lips and tongue. The Auror’s anger was tangible and it was not directed at Draco, but rather at Draco’s enemies. It was a heady thought.
“I missed you,” Potter said roughly. His hands moved to Draco’s waist and pulled him even closer. They kissed for longer than Draco thought was prudent. He wanted to know what Potter had found, plus the prolonged dance of tongues and lips was making it difficult to concentrate, especially when the blood that should have been feeding his brain had migrated to lower regions.
“What…?” Draco tried, pushed Potter away slightly, and tried again. “What did you discover?”
Potter sighed heavily and stepped back, as if putting distance between them would enable him to deliver bad news. Draco followed, unwilling to lose contact with Potter’s skin. He would rather not suffer premonitions every time Potter touched him. His fingers wrapped around Potter’s wrist and held lightly. Potter did not pull away.
“I’m sorry. The clerk in Diagon Alley did not remember anything, except that it was a man who ordered the message sent. He wore heavy black robes and a hood. The clerk remembered only that he seemed to have large hands. No identifying jewellery. He paid using a single Galleon and provided your address on a slip of paper. The clerk did not remember him speaking at all. To make matters worse, a Masking Charm was cast on the parchment to mar the magical signature.” Potter’s free hand rose to yank at his hair in a gesture of angry frustration and he cursed roundly. “I can’t believe this!” he half-shouted. “I can’t catch a single fucking break!”
Draco, who had been thinking the exact same thing all afternoon, suddenly found it important to reassure Potter, but once wound up, the Auror seemed to find it difficult to stop.
“And now they are sending you messages mocking me and my bloody inability to help you! To top it off, of course, you are scheduled to visit your father in Azkaban and he will have me mercilessly murdered when I least expect it. A quick jab with a wand in the middle of a busy street and a whispered Avada Kedavra and it will be over for me with none the wiser. Frankly, I often wondered why Voldemort never thought of that.”
Draco frowned, having no intention of allowing Potter to be murdered in such a callous fashion, wings or no wings, and made a mental note not to allow him out on the streets on a busy day. Granger would back him up.
“Potter,” Draco said quietly and lifted his other hand to cup Potter’s jaw. The green eyes fixed on his instantly.
Potter’s chest rose and fell as he took a deep breath and then he stepped closer to Draco once more. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just feel like I should be doing more. I know you want to be rid of these…” Potter’s hand reached up and slid over the edge of one wing, caressing the soft feathers and sending a shivery jolt of electricity quivering through Draco’s body. Potter either sensed the reaction or saw it reflected in his face, because his eyes went wide and dark as he brought his other hand up to repeat the motion on the other wing.
Draco thought it was hardly fair that he possessed an erogenous zone that Potter did not, but the bloody Auror seemed to derive just as much pleasure from watching Draco’s response. “Merlin,” Potter said breathily. “Are they really that sensitive?”
“Yes, Potter, damn you. They really are.”
Potter smiled—practically beamed—and Draco felt his heart flip over dangerously. He could not, would not, feel anything for Potter other than generic lust. And possibly admiration, but he had felt that for years, even though he seldom admitted it, even to himself. Draco could not, however, prevent the curious warmth that flooded through him as Potter stepped even closer, lips parting for another kiss.
A loud tapping sounded at the window, drawing Potter’s attention before he could complete the kiss. He frowned, obviously recognizing the owl.
“It’s Ginny’s,” Potter said stupidly.
Draco stiffened, but Potter did not seem to notice as he moved away and walked to the French doors. He flung one open to admit the owl, a tawny, speckled creature that flew once around the room before alighting on Potter’s shoulder.
“Hello, Arcturus,” Potter said fondly and caressed the owl’s pale breast. Draco felt a surge of jealousy that had little to do with the animal. He watched through narrowed eyes as Potter removed the note from its foot and unrolled it.
Potter frowned and allowed the tiny scroll to roll up. “I have to go.”
Draco sneered. “She beckons and you run? Even now?”
Potter threw him a glare. “It’s not like that.”
Draco felt a surge of anger that drowned his previous feelings of affection. “You need not explain to me, Potter. By all means, run back to her.”
Potter took a step toward him and lifted a beckoning hand. “Draco—”
“Just go, Potter!” he snapped. “You do not owe me an explanation. You do not owe me anything. We had an amusing interlude this afternoon and that is all there was to it. Run back to your real life, now.”
He raised his chin haughtily and glared at Potter, wishing he could believe his own words. Despite his defiant gesture, he wanted Potter. He wanted him very badly, even standing in his rumpled robes with his hair a wind-tousled fright and his green eyes staring balefully at Draco with an expression he had seen a thousand times. He wondered when he had fallen so hard; and finally admitted it required every ounce of his strength not to stride forward and take Potter into his arms.
The undeniable presence of his wings stopped him. His stupid, bloody wings. If he was still a man, he would not have held back from claiming Potter as his own. But he did have wings. He was little more than a sideshow attraction now, and Potter was still the Saviour of the Wizarding World. Despite the voice inside that screamed for Draco to be selfish and demand Potter for himself, he knew the man deserved better.
Harry Potter deserved a normal life.
“Go,” Draco said before Potter could speak.
The prat tried, anyway, opening his mouth and taking a step forward.
“Go!” Draco shouted.
Potter’s jaw clenched. He nodded, turned, walked through the doors into the swirling snow, and disappeared.
For the first time in a long time, Draco thought about the potion he had brought back from the well.
If you wish to atone for your crimes, you will drink it. We cannot promise you a painless death, but it will be quick, and your miserable existence will come to a swift end.
His miserable existence.
~~ O ~~
Harry stared at Draco, hating the coldness in his silver eyes. What had prompted it? Draco had been pliant and almost affectionate, prior to the arrival of Ginny’s owl, leaning into Harry’s touch and returning his kiss. Harry had been hopeful for a continuation of the amazing scene at number 12, Grimmauld Place, but now it seemed not to be.
He turned and went out, wishing Draco had given him a chance to explain. He was more concerned than he had let on. He had ignored Ron’s summons this morning, but Ginny’s note was more alarming.
Harry,
I need to talk to you about Ron. It’s urgent. It has nothing to do with you and yourdisgusting revelation. I’m at home. Please come as soon as possible.
Ginny
The situation with Ginny was a ticking time bomb. He had tried to forget it during the interlude with Draco, but he knew time was running out. Harry needed to try and defuse the situation as quickly as possible.
He frowned, wondering at the mention of Ron. Coupled with the earlier message, it seemed almost ominous.
He Apparated straight into her living room, assuming that the urgency of the message would excuse him barging in—even while he hoped she wasn’t wandering around unclothed. He doubted that was a possibility any longer, after his disgusting revelation.
The room was empty. “Ginny?” he called.
“Harry!” She hurried out of the kitchen, seemed about to throw herself into his arms, and then halted awkwardly. Harry’s lips thinned. He wanted to shout that he was the same person he had always been—only her view of him had changed. He kept silent, knowing it would have been a waste of words.
“Hi, Ginny. What’s this about Ron?” he asked.
She bit her lip. “It’s not really about Ron,” she admitted. “I wanted to talk with you and didn’t think you would see me unless I had a better excuse.”
“Of course I would,” he replied, slightly relieved that it wasn’t about Ron, but feeling a different tension crawl through him at her words.
“Will you sit down?” she asked politely and gestured toward the sofa.
He nodded even while wondering how long this would take. He wanted to get back to Draco and address that situation while it was still raw. Between what had happened between them, the ominous letter, and the impending visit to Azkaban, Draco had to be feeling slightly frantic.
I shouldn’t have left him, Harry thought as he sat down, schooling his features into a placid mask. She would only draw out the conversation if he gave any sign of impatience. He suppressed a sigh and waited as she sat at the other end of the sofa, as far from him as she could get while still sitting on the same piece of furniture.
He snorted. “It’s not contagious.”
She flushed. “About that, Harry. Are you sure? I mean, it’s rather sudden, don’t you think? Isn’t it possible you are just confused, or something?”
He blinked at her and realized he should have expected it. She had not even accepted that they were officially broken up. Why had he assumed she would accept the fact that he was gay with anything but the same denial?
“Ginny—” he began, not even certain where to begin. How could he make her understand that it was not a bloody choice, it was who he was; that it had nothing to do with rejection her and everything to do with finally accepting something that had always been a part of him? He dragged a hand through his hair in frustration.
The fireplace flared, suddenly. “Ginny?” Molly Weasley’s voice rang out. “Are you there?”
“Merlin, it’s Mum!” Ginny cried and sprang to her feet. “Harry, would you—? Oh dear, Mum was very upset last night. It’s probably best if she doesn’t see you here. Not yet. Would you mind… um?”
“Leaving?” he offered and got to his feet, hoping he didn’t seem too relieved.
“No! I really need to talk to you about this!” Her lips thinned and he almost groaned aloud.
“All right; what do you want me to do?” he asked.
“Just, ah… hide in the bathroom for a minute. I’ll get rid of her.”
Merlin. He rolled his eyes, but obediently walked down the hall as Molly called out again.
“I’m here, Mum!”
In the short hallway, the open door to Ginny’s room caught his eye and he bypassed the bathroom, wondering when she had changed the colours in her room. The last time he had seen it, her colour scheme had been vaguely Gryffindor red, but now it was much paler. In fact, it was… grey?
He stepped inside after glancing over his shoulder to make sure she was occupied with Molly’s Firecall. It probably wouldn’t do for him to be caught in her bedroom after the latest drama, but he was curious. What had possessed her to change things? And when had she done it? He hadn’t been in her bedroom for months, even before Ron’s accident.
The muted grey tones were made even more sombre by an odd-looking painting hanging over the bed. It was abstract, with splashes of colour in black, grey, and green. Harry knew art was interpreted differently by each viewer, but he interpreted the painting as garish and depressing. The green reminded him of the terrifying blast of an Avada Kedavra. He shuddered and wondered why she liked it enough to put it in her bedroom, of all places.
Shaking his head at the strangeness, he started to leave, but the open door of the wardrobe caught his eye. He saw the sleeve of what looked like a Quidditch uniform and walked over, after confirming the sound of voices still drifting down the hall. He pulled at the sleeve, wondering if Ginny had applied for a Quidditch position. He had always thought she liked working for the Ministry. She seemed happy enough with her job.
Instead of Quidditch robes, the sleeve was attached to a fancy-looking feminine dress robe, edged in lace. He dropped it in embarrassment with a grin. She would really think he had gone round the twist if she came in and caught him fondling her clothing. As he was turning away, he noticed a bit of silvery fur toward the back of the hanging clothes. Even to his untrained eye, it looked expensive.
He reached in and pulled it out by the wooden hanger. It was a long cloak of some sort of black fur, edged with thicker fur in a silver hue. Harry ran one hand over it, marvelling at its softness while mentally comparing it to the feel of Draco’s hair.
The thought of Draco made him draw in a sharp breath. The cloak did not look at all feminine. The frog at the throat was a silver cord and matching button in a thick knot-pattern. Merlin, it couldn’t be. Harry’s mind raced. What had Draco been wearing when he was taken? Harry struggled to remember. A black nundu-fur cloak, trimmed in silver fox.
It couldn’t be.
He heard the sound of footsteps and swung around—a moment too late. A sharp blow caught him on the back of the head and sent him to his knees. He fought against blackness and reached for his wand, but a large set of fingers caught his arm and bent it backward. Not Ginny, then, he thought in bemusement as his chin slammed into the hard floor.
He fought to stay conscious, even as he kicked out, hoping to connect with something, but a blow to the ribs was his reward for that effort. Other hands roughly searched his clothing and finally came up with his wand, while the first kept a tight grip on his arm, nearly wrenching it from the socket.
Harry twisted his head, trying to get a look at his attacker.
“Don’t hurt him too much. We might need him.” Ginny’s voice was as angry as Harry had ever heard it. “Harry, you prick. You should not have gotten involved. Why didn’t you give Malfoy’s case to someone else? You hate him.”
Harry was barely listening. He craned his neck and blinked against the tears welling in his eyes from the pain. Her face swam into view and beyond that—the man who held him.
“Why?” he asked. He dragged his other hand slowly out from under himself, despite the wrench given to his shoulder. His fingers sought for the chain around his neck.
“Or do you hate him? Now that I know about your sick preferences, Harry, I’ll bet you had a different reason for taking the case, yeah?” The sneer was evident in her tone. “Let’s get him out of here.”
The chain around Harry’s neck parted with a sharp tug and he whispered a spell as he was jerked onto his back. He scissored his legs in the same movement, driving one foot upward and connecting with something solid. The man grunted and Ginny made a huffing sound of annoyance, but the kick was enough of a distraction. Harry’s out-flung arm allowed the chain to release from his fingers and slide beneath the wardrobe with barely a whisper of sound.
A booted foot smashed down on his abdomen, forcing the breath out of him and threatening to crush his spine into the floor. He glared up at the twisted features of his burly attacker. “I wouldn’t do that again,” the man advised with an ugly sneer.
“Better do as he says, Harry,” Ginny advised, twirling his wand in her fingers. “It will go easier on you, at least for now.”
The boot didn’t relent, holding him down and preventing his diaphragm from allowing precious air into his lungs. He struggled for each shallow breath as darkness flickered around the edges of his vision.
Draco, he thought wildly as darkness enveloped him. Merlin, what have they done?
~~ CHAPTER FOURTEEN ~~
alaana_fair for the fab beta! Miss the beginning? Start here: PROLOGUE prologue
Chapter Thirteen
When once you have tasted flight,
you will forever walk the earth
with your eyes turned skyward,
for there you have been,
and there you will always long to return.
- Douglas Adams
Harry was alone when he awakened. He was not surprised, especially considering it was still daylight and Draco obviously had better things to do than sleep the day away waiting for Harry to wake up. Still, he was a bit disappointed to find Draco gone.
A quick Tempus Charm showed that it was only midday. He was starved, so he allowed Kreacher to fix him a sandwich while he took a quick shower and got dressed. He wolfed down the meat and cucumber laden bread, washing it down with two cups of strong tea. Thus fortified, he thanked the house-elf and Apparated to Malfoy Manor.
He appeared on Draco’s balcony, the scene of his recent impulsive kiss. Harry noticed the fresh snow on the railing had been disturbed—by an owl? A set of small footprints seemed to confirm the hypothesis. Obviously, a house-elf had retrieved the bird and taken it into Draco’s room.
Harry hesitated only a moment before putting his hand on the cold metal latch and turning it. To his surprise, it opened easily. He had expected it to be locked, even though the Malfoy wards would have warned Draco of any intruder. Thankfully, Harry was still allowed past the wards. He had wondered if Narcissa Malfoy would alter them to keep him out.
Harry drew in a breath when he saw Draco seated in a chair with his head tipped back, staring at the ceiling. A strange owl sat on the perch near the door—it hooted softly when Harry’s attention went to it. A piece of parchment lay on the floor at Draco’s feet.
“Potter.” The word was flat and quiet, devoid of all feeling. Harry felt a sense of dread upon hearing it. Something had happened—something that had little to do with what had taken place between them, and possibly everything to do with the scrap of discarded paper.
He took several quick steps forward and snatched it up. His breath caught when he read the words and he looked at Draco quickly. The grey eyes were closed and Draco looked oddly weary, almost defeated.
“When did this arrive?” Harry asked.
“Hours ago,” Draco said in a tone that suggested boredom.
Harry whirled and quickly examined the owl. Diagon Alley. The kidnappers had gone to Diagon Alley in order to send the note to Draco. Harry gathered up the bird, ignoring the surprised hoot and attempted flutter of wings. It obviously did not appreciate the manhandling.
“I’ll be back,” Harry said in a grim voice. With that, he Disapparated, taking the owl with him.
Hermione pushed the files aside in frustrated annoyance. She had gone through them piece by piece by piece, hoping to find some reference to the potion, but whomever had taken it had done an admirable job of eradicating all sign of it. The arrest record had been modified—that much was obvious once she knew what to look for. All mention of the recovered potion had been stricken from the file. The most telling evidence was a blank line on the Evidence Log itself where something had obviously been erased. A quick spell retrieved the words—even Vanished, ink left an imprint on parchment that could not be erased without more skill than that exhibited by the thieves.
It was small satisfaction to Hermione that she could recover lost words—she still had no clue as to the identity of the person, or persons, that had stolen it. The words: unidentified potion in clear glass vial seemed to mock her.
She thought again about the analysis report. Someone had to have seen the potion. They had to have taken it, examined it, extracted it and cast several spells on it. There should be a list of potential ingredients and a hypothesis of the intended effects, written by someone who had worked in the Department of Mysteries at the time of Gunther Pokeby’s arrest.
Hermione shoved all the papers back into a pile, closed the file, and went out, locking her office door with several spells. Her stride was determined as she made her way to the Personnel Department, pausing only once to fill a cup with peppermint tea. The records clerk liked it piping hot with a hint of honey. Hermione had accessed obscure records in the past; she knew the best way to get at them.
Potter returned in an obvious rage. Draco had tried to pull himself together after the Auror’s departure, and he managed to meet him with some semblance of composure. That composure was completely shattered when Potter walked through the balcony doors, hooked his fingers into the waistband of Draco’s trousers, and dragged him forward into a kiss.
It was bruising, intense, and altogether possessive. It also did more to steady Draco’s nerves than all of his brooding and cursing of fate, even with the added assault of the visions. Draco ignored them this time, concentrating on the feel of Potter’s lips and tongue. The Auror’s anger was tangible and it was not directed at Draco, but rather at Draco’s enemies. It was a heady thought.
“I missed you,” Potter said roughly. His hands moved to Draco’s waist and pulled him even closer. They kissed for longer than Draco thought was prudent. He wanted to know what Potter had found, plus the prolonged dance of tongues and lips was making it difficult to concentrate, especially when the blood that should have been feeding his brain had migrated to lower regions.
“What…?” Draco tried, pushed Potter away slightly, and tried again. “What did you discover?”
Potter sighed heavily and stepped back, as if putting distance between them would enable him to deliver bad news. Draco followed, unwilling to lose contact with Potter’s skin. He would rather not suffer premonitions every time Potter touched him. His fingers wrapped around Potter’s wrist and held lightly. Potter did not pull away.
“I’m sorry. The clerk in Diagon Alley did not remember anything, except that it was a man who ordered the message sent. He wore heavy black robes and a hood. The clerk remembered only that he seemed to have large hands. No identifying jewellery. He paid using a single Galleon and provided your address on a slip of paper. The clerk did not remember him speaking at all. To make matters worse, a Masking Charm was cast on the parchment to mar the magical signature.” Potter’s free hand rose to yank at his hair in a gesture of angry frustration and he cursed roundly. “I can’t believe this!” he half-shouted. “I can’t catch a single fucking break!”
Draco, who had been thinking the exact same thing all afternoon, suddenly found it important to reassure Potter, but once wound up, the Auror seemed to find it difficult to stop.
“And now they are sending you messages mocking me and my bloody inability to help you! To top it off, of course, you are scheduled to visit your father in Azkaban and he will have me mercilessly murdered when I least expect it. A quick jab with a wand in the middle of a busy street and a whispered Avada Kedavra and it will be over for me with none the wiser. Frankly, I often wondered why Voldemort never thought of that.”
Draco frowned, having no intention of allowing Potter to be murdered in such a callous fashion, wings or no wings, and made a mental note not to allow him out on the streets on a busy day. Granger would back him up.
“Potter,” Draco said quietly and lifted his other hand to cup Potter’s jaw. The green eyes fixed on his instantly.
Potter’s chest rose and fell as he took a deep breath and then he stepped closer to Draco once more. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just feel like I should be doing more. I know you want to be rid of these…” Potter’s hand reached up and slid over the edge of one wing, caressing the soft feathers and sending a shivery jolt of electricity quivering through Draco’s body. Potter either sensed the reaction or saw it reflected in his face, because his eyes went wide and dark as he brought his other hand up to repeat the motion on the other wing.
Draco thought it was hardly fair that he possessed an erogenous zone that Potter did not, but the bloody Auror seemed to derive just as much pleasure from watching Draco’s response. “Merlin,” Potter said breathily. “Are they really that sensitive?”
“Yes, Potter, damn you. They really are.”
Potter smiled—practically beamed—and Draco felt his heart flip over dangerously. He could not, would not, feel anything for Potter other than generic lust. And possibly admiration, but he had felt that for years, even though he seldom admitted it, even to himself. Draco could not, however, prevent the curious warmth that flooded through him as Potter stepped even closer, lips parting for another kiss.
A loud tapping sounded at the window, drawing Potter’s attention before he could complete the kiss. He frowned, obviously recognizing the owl.
“It’s Ginny’s,” Potter said stupidly.
Draco stiffened, but Potter did not seem to notice as he moved away and walked to the French doors. He flung one open to admit the owl, a tawny, speckled creature that flew once around the room before alighting on Potter’s shoulder.
“Hello, Arcturus,” Potter said fondly and caressed the owl’s pale breast. Draco felt a surge of jealousy that had little to do with the animal. He watched through narrowed eyes as Potter removed the note from its foot and unrolled it.
Potter frowned and allowed the tiny scroll to roll up. “I have to go.”
Draco sneered. “She beckons and you run? Even now?”
Potter threw him a glare. “It’s not like that.”
Draco felt a surge of anger that drowned his previous feelings of affection. “You need not explain to me, Potter. By all means, run back to her.”
Potter took a step toward him and lifted a beckoning hand. “Draco—”
“Just go, Potter!” he snapped. “You do not owe me an explanation. You do not owe me anything. We had an amusing interlude this afternoon and that is all there was to it. Run back to your real life, now.”
He raised his chin haughtily and glared at Potter, wishing he could believe his own words. Despite his defiant gesture, he wanted Potter. He wanted him very badly, even standing in his rumpled robes with his hair a wind-tousled fright and his green eyes staring balefully at Draco with an expression he had seen a thousand times. He wondered when he had fallen so hard; and finally admitted it required every ounce of his strength not to stride forward and take Potter into his arms.
The undeniable presence of his wings stopped him. His stupid, bloody wings. If he was still a man, he would not have held back from claiming Potter as his own. But he did have wings. He was little more than a sideshow attraction now, and Potter was still the Saviour of the Wizarding World. Despite the voice inside that screamed for Draco to be selfish and demand Potter for himself, he knew the man deserved better.
Harry Potter deserved a normal life.
“Go,” Draco said before Potter could speak.
The prat tried, anyway, opening his mouth and taking a step forward.
“Go!” Draco shouted.
Potter’s jaw clenched. He nodded, turned, walked through the doors into the swirling snow, and disappeared.
For the first time in a long time, Draco thought about the potion he had brought back from the well.
If you wish to atone for your crimes, you will drink it. We cannot promise you a painless death, but it will be quick, and your miserable existence will come to a swift end.
His miserable existence.
Harry stared at Draco, hating the coldness in his silver eyes. What had prompted it? Draco had been pliant and almost affectionate, prior to the arrival of Ginny’s owl, leaning into Harry’s touch and returning his kiss. Harry had been hopeful for a continuation of the amazing scene at number 12, Grimmauld Place, but now it seemed not to be.
He turned and went out, wishing Draco had given him a chance to explain. He was more concerned than he had let on. He had ignored Ron’s summons this morning, but Ginny’s note was more alarming.
Harry,
I need to talk to you about Ron. It’s urgent. It has nothing to do with you and your
Ginny
The situation with Ginny was a ticking time bomb. He had tried to forget it during the interlude with Draco, but he knew time was running out. Harry needed to try and defuse the situation as quickly as possible.
He frowned, wondering at the mention of Ron. Coupled with the earlier message, it seemed almost ominous.
He Apparated straight into her living room, assuming that the urgency of the message would excuse him barging in—even while he hoped she wasn’t wandering around unclothed. He doubted that was a possibility any longer, after his disgusting revelation.
The room was empty. “Ginny?” he called.
“Harry!” She hurried out of the kitchen, seemed about to throw herself into his arms, and then halted awkwardly. Harry’s lips thinned. He wanted to shout that he was the same person he had always been—only her view of him had changed. He kept silent, knowing it would have been a waste of words.
“Hi, Ginny. What’s this about Ron?” he asked.
She bit her lip. “It’s not really about Ron,” she admitted. “I wanted to talk with you and didn’t think you would see me unless I had a better excuse.”
“Of course I would,” he replied, slightly relieved that it wasn’t about Ron, but feeling a different tension crawl through him at her words.
“Will you sit down?” she asked politely and gestured toward the sofa.
He nodded even while wondering how long this would take. He wanted to get back to Draco and address that situation while it was still raw. Between what had happened between them, the ominous letter, and the impending visit to Azkaban, Draco had to be feeling slightly frantic.
I shouldn’t have left him, Harry thought as he sat down, schooling his features into a placid mask. She would only draw out the conversation if he gave any sign of impatience. He suppressed a sigh and waited as she sat at the other end of the sofa, as far from him as she could get while still sitting on the same piece of furniture.
He snorted. “It’s not contagious.”
She flushed. “About that, Harry. Are you sure? I mean, it’s rather sudden, don’t you think? Isn’t it possible you are just confused, or something?”
He blinked at her and realized he should have expected it. She had not even accepted that they were officially broken up. Why had he assumed she would accept the fact that he was gay with anything but the same denial?
“Ginny—” he began, not even certain where to begin. How could he make her understand that it was not a bloody choice, it was who he was; that it had nothing to do with rejection her and everything to do with finally accepting something that had always been a part of him? He dragged a hand through his hair in frustration.
The fireplace flared, suddenly. “Ginny?” Molly Weasley’s voice rang out. “Are you there?”
“Merlin, it’s Mum!” Ginny cried and sprang to her feet. “Harry, would you—? Oh dear, Mum was very upset last night. It’s probably best if she doesn’t see you here. Not yet. Would you mind… um?”
“Leaving?” he offered and got to his feet, hoping he didn’t seem too relieved.
“No! I really need to talk to you about this!” Her lips thinned and he almost groaned aloud.
“All right; what do you want me to do?” he asked.
“Just, ah… hide in the bathroom for a minute. I’ll get rid of her.”
Merlin. He rolled his eyes, but obediently walked down the hall as Molly called out again.
“I’m here, Mum!”
In the short hallway, the open door to Ginny’s room caught his eye and he bypassed the bathroom, wondering when she had changed the colours in her room. The last time he had seen it, her colour scheme had been vaguely Gryffindor red, but now it was much paler. In fact, it was… grey?
He stepped inside after glancing over his shoulder to make sure she was occupied with Molly’s Firecall. It probably wouldn’t do for him to be caught in her bedroom after the latest drama, but he was curious. What had possessed her to change things? And when had she done it? He hadn’t been in her bedroom for months, even before Ron’s accident.
The muted grey tones were made even more sombre by an odd-looking painting hanging over the bed. It was abstract, with splashes of colour in black, grey, and green. Harry knew art was interpreted differently by each viewer, but he interpreted the painting as garish and depressing. The green reminded him of the terrifying blast of an Avada Kedavra. He shuddered and wondered why she liked it enough to put it in her bedroom, of all places.
Shaking his head at the strangeness, he started to leave, but the open door of the wardrobe caught his eye. He saw the sleeve of what looked like a Quidditch uniform and walked over, after confirming the sound of voices still drifting down the hall. He pulled at the sleeve, wondering if Ginny had applied for a Quidditch position. He had always thought she liked working for the Ministry. She seemed happy enough with her job.
Instead of Quidditch robes, the sleeve was attached to a fancy-looking feminine dress robe, edged in lace. He dropped it in embarrassment with a grin. She would really think he had gone round the twist if she came in and caught him fondling her clothing. As he was turning away, he noticed a bit of silvery fur toward the back of the hanging clothes. Even to his untrained eye, it looked expensive.
He reached in and pulled it out by the wooden hanger. It was a long cloak of some sort of black fur, edged with thicker fur in a silver hue. Harry ran one hand over it, marvelling at its softness while mentally comparing it to the feel of Draco’s hair.
The thought of Draco made him draw in a sharp breath. The cloak did not look at all feminine. The frog at the throat was a silver cord and matching button in a thick knot-pattern. Merlin, it couldn’t be. Harry’s mind raced. What had Draco been wearing when he was taken? Harry struggled to remember. A black nundu-fur cloak, trimmed in silver fox.
It couldn’t be.
He heard the sound of footsteps and swung around—a moment too late. A sharp blow caught him on the back of the head and sent him to his knees. He fought against blackness and reached for his wand, but a large set of fingers caught his arm and bent it backward. Not Ginny, then, he thought in bemusement as his chin slammed into the hard floor.
He fought to stay conscious, even as he kicked out, hoping to connect with something, but a blow to the ribs was his reward for that effort. Other hands roughly searched his clothing and finally came up with his wand, while the first kept a tight grip on his arm, nearly wrenching it from the socket.
Harry twisted his head, trying to get a look at his attacker.
“Don’t hurt him too much. We might need him.” Ginny’s voice was as angry as Harry had ever heard it. “Harry, you prick. You should not have gotten involved. Why didn’t you give Malfoy’s case to someone else? You hate him.”
Harry was barely listening. He craned his neck and blinked against the tears welling in his eyes from the pain. Her face swam into view and beyond that—the man who held him.
“Why?” he asked. He dragged his other hand slowly out from under himself, despite the wrench given to his shoulder. His fingers sought for the chain around his neck.
“Or do you hate him? Now that I know about your sick preferences, Harry, I’ll bet you had a different reason for taking the case, yeah?” The sneer was evident in her tone. “Let’s get him out of here.”
The chain around Harry’s neck parted with a sharp tug and he whispered a spell as he was jerked onto his back. He scissored his legs in the same movement, driving one foot upward and connecting with something solid. The man grunted and Ginny made a huffing sound of annoyance, but the kick was enough of a distraction. Harry’s out-flung arm allowed the chain to release from his fingers and slide beneath the wardrobe with barely a whisper of sound.
A booted foot smashed down on his abdomen, forcing the breath out of him and threatening to crush his spine into the floor. He glared up at the twisted features of his burly attacker. “I wouldn’t do that again,” the man advised with an ugly sneer.
“Better do as he says, Harry,” Ginny advised, twirling his wand in her fingers. “It will go easier on you, at least for now.”
The boot didn’t relent, holding him down and preventing his diaphragm from allowing precious air into his lungs. He struggled for each shallow breath as darkness flickered around the edges of his vision.
Draco, he thought wildly as darkness enveloped him. Merlin, what have they done?