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Chapter Two—Fair Is Foul, and Foul Is Fair

Harry paused for a moment after Apparating, and stepped deliberately backwards so that he could enjoy the full effect of the Palliser House. He bumped into someone as he did so, but he hardly cared. Probably, that person would take one look at his face and back off with a handsome apology. There were advantages to being Harry Potter, and Harry had learned to accept some of them.

Besides, the photograph he’d seen in the Prophet simply didn’t do the house justice.

The front was a large façade with pillars, of course; there were some things that the new owners of manor houses seemed unwilling to give up, and the imitation of classical or Muggle styles was one of them. But on either side of the façade, Malfoy had added long shining sweeps of stone, undulating up and down like waves, with a silvery edge to them. Harry supposed they might actually be inlaid with silver. Tudor Palliser could certainly afford it.

The doors were divided into three, instead of two, and folded or swooped instead of simply swinging open or shut. Harry had to grin when two guests, arriving late enough behind the last ones that they hadn’t seen how the doors worked, leaped aside with startled shouts as they lifted majestically out of the way.

The upper floors of the house also swept and flowed instead of looming. Harry wondered for a moment why Palliser had wanted that—he had sounded, from his interview in the Prophet, the sort who would favor a house to impress and overwhelm—but then decided it must have been Malfoy’s design. And Malfoy had a reputation of persuading his clients to follow his suggestions, even if they’d marched into his office with something quite different in mind. Harry had seen his share of people leaving that office with puzzled frowns and consulting the plans in their hands as if they had materialized from nowhere.

Ron would say that his hanging about outside Malfoy’s office indicated problems. Harry was willing to believe that it did. So long as he didn’t actually intrude into Malfoy’s life, though, or attempt to claim his attention, he didn’t think the problem was serious. He knew he hadn’t a chance. He’d resigned himself to admiration instead of despair, that was all.

On the other hand, Malfoy had sent him an invitation for tonight. And if that didn’t indicate he might be allowed to hope, what did?

Harry took a deep breath and shook himself. Hanging about in the path to the house like a lovesick schoolgirl would accomplish nothing. And at least if he entered and Malfoy mocked or ignored him, he could get rid of the niggling hope that was making it uncomfortable to breathe at the moment.

Always face it head-on, he thought, as he followed a long witch in a ridiculous veil and train into the house. That’s for the best, and it gets the pain, if there’s to be pain, over quickly.

*

Draco was chatting to several of Palliser’s more amiable and stupid guests in the great hall of the house when Potter entered the room.

He always knew when Potter was near, always. It was nothing like a mystical connection between souls, as the romances Pansy read would have implied. It wasn’t even that he listened constantly for Potter’s voice or the sound of his step. (He couldn’t have heard such things immediately through the enormous crush of people Palliser had invited, anyway). What he recognized was at once more common and more subtle than that: the way that people stirred when Potter approached, the way they reacted to the “real, living hero”—as many people of Draco’s acquaintance were fond of repeating, never noticing the redundancy—among them.

First came the abstracted eyes, though many of the people involved might continue their conversations, especially in a crowd like this, where as many came to be noticed as to notice. Then came a slight wave of turning heads, often caught before it could cause many ripples. And third was a murmur unlike any other in existence. Envy compounded it, and the inevitable cynical sneer that Potter could not be everything the papers represented him as, never mind his spectacular destruction of Voldemort. But there was also enough awe and belief to leaven the lesser emotions in spite of themselves.

Draco hated having such thoughts. He hated noticing such things. He hated them with a passionate loathing that made him want to rip out eyes and force the idiots involved to choke on their own romance. But he would never allow such emotions to show in public.

And this time, he was the one who had caused them, because he had invited Potter, which Palliser wouldn’t have dared to do, or couldn’t have pulled off successfully even if he did. That gave him a feeling of control that soothed his disgust.

Draco turned, the crowd drawing apart between him and Potter as he called out the hero’s name, calmly, confidently. The imbecile stepped forwards, and those green eyes met Draco’s with a combination of wonder and wariness that poured soothing water over the soul-burns Draco had taken from him long ago.

I fascinate him. Draco gave his brightest smile, and Potter’s face shone with a tentative one in return. As the treasure fascinates the pirate, as the criminal fascinates the Auror.

Still, as Potter put out his hand and Draco gracefully took it, there was another metaphor in his head, one he hoped to make true as soon as possible.

As the snake fascinates the bird.

*

Lucius Malfoy put down his wineglass rather forcefully on one of Palliser’s delicate end-tables. The witch standing nearby gave him a pointed look and shifted away. Lucius murmured an apology without taking his eyes from the scene playing out before him.

Draco, you are a fool.

Lucius stepped back, drifting towards the wall. No one took any particular notice. He wore a glamour that shielded his features and made them resemble some cast-off Black’s; in fact, Draco had suggested he adopt the face from one of the portraits of her “beloved relatives” Narcissa had brought along to the Manor when he married her.

Narcissa, sighed that second voice he seemed to carry around with him now, the whisper like the brush of a silken handkerchief.

Lucius ignored it and continued moving gently away from the chattering and clucking flock until he had a good view of his son. Draco had particularly insisted he attend the party, though in disguise to appease Palliser’s sensibilities. Lucius was sure now that he had been intended to witness this meeting.

And now the only question is why.

Potter spoke with open friendliness in his face, and held out his hand to Draco first. Lucius frowned. His son would note the movement; he was less likely to see the friendliness. Lucius had long since realized that Draco could hardly control himself when Potter was mentioned, though about all other things he might be as cool as the stone Lucius was leaning against.

He has a weakness for our widely beloved hero, and if I understood why, then I think I would possess the key to the gates of my son’s soul.

Draco had a faint smile on his face as he let Potter clasp and press his hand. To someone who had known him from birth, that was not an effective mask. His mouth had a tightness it should not have possessed at a casual meeting, and he leaned slightly forwards, as if he wanted to emphasize his greater height to Potter. Such an effective tool of intimidation should never be displayed too openly, but after this length of time, Lucius doubted Draco would listen to him no matter how gently he tried to hint that. Draco was convinced that Lucius’s mistakes during the wars and during the years between, in the Dark Lord’s service before he officially announced his second rise, had disqualified him to offer advice.

And now, when Lucius spent much of his time in his study among his deceased wife’s diaries and other effects, Draco was tempted to conceive of him as separated from the flow of important events altogether.

Yet he wants me here to observe this change in his life, as he doubtless hopes to make it.

Lucius bit the corner of his cheek sharply. He would not have worried so about his son if Draco had had more self-knowledge. That had been the second war’s gift to Lucius. He saw his faults, his failures, his limitations in so clear a light it made him wince. The time he spent trying to learn his dead wife’s mind was part of an effort to correct them.

But Draco saw only his own strengths, and thought acknowledging a weakness was tantamount to falling prey to it.

Lucius settled his back firmly against the wall. He was observing, yes, and at the moment he did not know which gesture would make the situation better and which would send it spiraling towards the floor of the abyss. He would retain his silence and his place for now. That was all anyone could ask of him.

*

Malfoy was handsomer in person than his photographs, or close encounters with the man imitating him, had led Harry to expect. He shone like the stone outside, pale hair tied with a silvery ribbon and drawn back from his face to lend the best emphasis to the clean cheekbones and long jawline. Harry stifled laughter as he realized how very well Draco Malfoy and Palliser House suited each other; it was a showcase for its architect, not its owner. Would Tudor Palliser ever realize that?

And will you ever realize that you’re running into danger?

Harry started. He always did when Hermione spoke to him from a distance like that.

“Is something wrong?” Harry thought he was probably imagining the concern in Malfoy’s tone, but even imagination had the power to make his heart beat faster.

“Only that I remembered a report left undone,” Harry lied smoothly. No, he would never be as suave or controlled as Malfoy, but he had years of practice lying about reports to Kingsley—though usually about how advanced they were, not the other way around. “Thank you for inviting me here.”

Malfoy smiled, and that changed his face in ways Harry had thought impossible; specifically, it brought warmth into those harsh and critical gray eyes. “You are the one who chose to favor me with your presence. I’m sure you must have more calls on your time than I do.”

“I don’t know,” Harry managed to say, whilst his heartbeat increased and his eyes searched Malfoy’s face again for a meaning he didn’t expect to find. He said me, not us.

That is not significant, snapped Hermione’s voice in his head. Honestly, Harry. Think about what self-interested motive is behind his invitation. That’s where you’ll find the trap lurking.

Harry desperately wished he could rip the copper ring he was wearing from his finger and hurl it across the room. At one point, Hermione’s telepathic charm, which allowed her to speak to Harry and Ron across immense distances and read their more intense thoughts, had seemed like a wonderful idea. It would allow her to keep track of them when they ran into dangerous situations as Aurors and let them ask her questions they needed answers to. But she was even more suspicious of Malfoy than Ron was, which took some doing, and she was showing it in a highly inconvenient way.

“I might be famous now,” Malfoy said, with a little laugh, “but I still don’t have the cachet of the Savior of the Wizarding World.” Spoken in his voice, the familiar, hated title sounded bearable. He picked up Harry’s hand and tilted the finger with Hermione’s charm on it to the light. “That’s a handsome ring.”

Harry laughed, conscious that he was laughing too loudly and that his face had flushed in a way that made his attempt at normality a lie. And he could know that without Hermione speaking a warning in his head, thanks. “That? It’s not so handsome. No gold, no silver.” He nodded towards the room around them. “Nothing like the color scheme you’ve used here.” And then he felt like an idiot, because there was more silver on the outside of the house.

But Malfoy’s smile was slow and pleased, as though no one who came up to him that evening had taken the time to make many specific comments. “Precious metals aren’t everything,” he said, and now his fingers were actually toying with Harry’s ring as if he would tug it off his finger. Yes, please, Harry thought, head filled with feverish imaginings of what would follow that. “I’ve always been fond of copper. It’s useful, in situations where silver and gold aren’t. Practical. One often needs more practicality to balance a surfeit of beauty.” He raised his eyebrows suddenly and looked down at the ring. “And it seems this little ornament you think isn’t handsome has a rather powerful charm on it.”

He can sense the magic? Hermione exclaimed, her voice fainter since the ring was hovering over Harry’s fingernail now.

Of course he can sense the magic, Harry snapped back. He’s studied everything from Arithmancy to aura observation in order to make his houses more magical.

Hermione’s voice sank and became quieter and fiercer, which was a good trick for something entirely silent in the first place. I don’t like this, Harry. He invited you too suddenly; he’s taking too violent an interest in you. Get out of there.

Harry ignored her. He was confident he could handle himself around Malfoy, who had let the ring slide back onto Harry’s finger and was patiently waiting for an answer to his implied question, giving him a bright glance. His hands lingered, brushing Harry’s wrist and knuckles, and now and then his eyes darted down as if he were fascinated but didn’t want Harry to think he was.

“The charm allows me to keep in contact with my friends,” Harry said. “It came in useful during the war, and it’s not bad now that I’m an Auror.”

Harry!

This charm is enough like other communication spells that he would have known I was lying if I pretended it was anything else.

Hermione went on to say other things, mostly about how irrational he became around Malfoy, but Harry ignored them as well. He’d dreamed and watched from afar for years, and now he was close to Malfoy, close enough to see the tiny flecks of blue buried in the depths of his gray eyes. Everyone who said that Malfoy looked exactly like his father was wrong. Harry, at least, would have known them apart by their breathing in a dark room.

This was one evening out of a life that had known trouble and danger, but far too little fun. He could afford it.

*

Draco could feel his blood singing.

He had waited so long for this. He had watched Potter and known what he ate and read the newspapers and paid others to tell anecdotes about him—which they were often happy to do, knowing that their meetings with the Famous Harry Potter were as close as most of them would ever come to royalty—but it was another thing entirely to have Potter’s skin under his, ripe for the tearing or the taking as he pleased.

No one else in the room could possibly be equal in power to him at the moment. His hands trembled, and Potter stared at them, then looked back up at Draco with a faint smile of surprise. Let him. Let him think anything he wanted, so long as he didn’t laugh, and didn’t mock, and didn’t draw away.

“A useful charm, then,” said Draco, and bent close as if considering the ring. It did intrigue him. The real purpose, though, was not to admire the braided copper that made up the dull piece of jewelry, but to let his breath travel over Potter’s skin. He shivered, like any other man, but he didn’t act offended, as someone who thought of Draco as repulsive would. He took a subtle step closer, in fact.

Draco felt dizzy. Of course, this was all a calculated effect. Potter should admire. He should be hopelessly in love with Draco by the end of the evening, and he would be if Draco could manage it. It was the least he could do to repay all the time Draco had lavished on him in the last few years.

And really, the debt was even bigger than the simple investment of time. Other people in wizarding Britain had to think of Magnificent Harry Potter, because he loomed so large compared to their petty lives. But Draco had wealth and fame and a career he enjoyed and that demanded a great deal of intellectual effort from him. He was no mindless worshipper, but a delicate and difficult convert. If Potter didn’t appreciate that, he was a fool.

“You’re speaking as if it were useful to you.” Potter’s voice was high, and he seemed to realize it. He cleared his throat. “Why’s that?”

“Why,” Draco said, letting his eyebrows climb to his forehead, “we wouldn’t want Britain’s most esteemed Auror, the one who keeps us safe from the monsters under our beds, to die, would we?”

And he let his lips brush the back of Potter’s hand.

Potter didn’t stare at him, enchanted. Instead, he grabbed Draco’s shoulders and threw him to the floor. The air ripped apart with the sound of screams, and Potter snapped his wrist down in a sharp motion that slid his wand out of his sleeve and into his palm. He looked down at Draco, probably forcing himself to ignore the way he straddled Draco’s hips.

“So sorry to interrupt you,” he said, “but that criminal who looks like you is here and about to cause trouble.”

And he rose in moments and launched himself into the crowd like a terrier after a rat—which, Draco thought in rage and confusion at the way Potter’s departure seemed to take the breath out of his lungs, was all the dignity he deserved.

*

Lucius had been aware of the young wizard standing in the shadow of a pillar for some time. He had stared at Draco, but Lucius found it easy to accept the idea that he was merely paying his son the tribute he deserved (or at least that the echo of Narcissa’s features in his deserved). It wasn’t until he stepped out into the middle of Palliser’s party that Lucius’s attention became riveted. The young man was nearly a perfect copy of his son, and he did not wear glamours. Instead, his body hummed with the glow of powerful magic almost perfectly settled into place. He had used spells to acquire blond hair, gray eyes, and pointed features, and except for the wand he aimed at Draco and Potter and the lack of fluidity in his motions, Lucius might have been taken in himself.

Lucius started to take a step forwards, though his limbs seemed weighted with water and he knew he would never reach the man in time.

That didn’t matter, as it turned out, because Potter had twisted Draco to the ground and flung himself on top of his body. The spell the impostor launched started the back of Potter’s cloak burning, but he didn’t seem to care. Instead, he sat up, said something to Draco that made his face turn red, and then flew into the crowd.

The man who thought he could imitate a Malfoy had already made some progress towards the door by judicious use of his elbows. When people didn’t get out of the way quickly enough for him, he lifted his wand and cast a crackling, buzzing yellow curse directly at one of the ornamental pillars.

The pillar groaned, cracked down the middle, and shattered into shining chunks that dropped rattling into the spectators, who only now began to move. Potter dropped to the ground, rolling in a motion that simultaneously put out the fire on his cloak and brought his wand into the proper position.

“Sustineo,” he said, in the voice of a man who pronounced such spells every day.

The air around him turned glassy and hardened, then flew up and away from him. In moments, it had split, and a series of small transparent pillars had grown up over the crowd, interposing themselves between the attending wizards and the falling pieces of stone. When they were hit, they quivered, bent back and forth until the threatening shards had settled to the floor, and then vanished like the air they were made of.

For a moment, Lucius diverted himself wondering how Potter had known that he didn’t have to waste time or magical strength supporting the ceiling. Then Potter stood, wiped ashes and dust from his clothing and his hair, and turned to locate Palliser in the midst of the crowd.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I couldn’t prevent the interruption to your party, but I do hope that you’ll excuse it, since I also prevented further damage to your house.” He gave a quick smile and strode out the doors.

Lucius could hear the buzzing moving through the crowd, and knew that another episode in the Potter legend was being born, one that would attribute half a hundred sayings more witty and gracious to him by the morning, and add half a dozen other more dramatic spells. From the expression on Draco’s face, he knew it, too, but he was the one who had chosen to take it as a personal insult.

Lucius drifted back to the table that held his wineglass, picked it up, and sipped thoughtfully. This was the first time the impostor had attacked Draco directly. And that led to the question of what he might want, if not to besmirch Draco’s reputation. No one could doubt that Draco was an innocent victim if he was seen in the same place as his double.

And that touched Malfoy honor, and perhaps Draco’s safety as well. Lucius was still a father if he was no longer a husband. He would protect his son to the best of his ability, though Draco was now the beloved fool.

*

Harry made a point of walking out onto the path that led to the house and checking for the assailant, though he had heard the crack of Apparition and knew it was pointless. The pillar had been a distraction—a deadly one. Harry chewed his lip thoughtfully. This was the first time their criminal had shown he was directly willing to take life, though some of his other crimes could have resulted in death if they had gone further.

And he wanted Malfoy dead.

Frowning, already composing his report to Kingsley in his head, Harry stepped back into the house. He was reluctant to leave Malfoy, but he suspected he had already ruined whatever chance he had by bolting after the attacker instead of staying to shelter him, as Malfoy would no doubt have prissily demanded. Harry grinned, imagining that conversation.

He came to the place where he had left Malfoy, and was startled to see the man still sitting on the floor, his head bent and his arms wrapped around his torso. Harry’s first, awful thought was that he had pushed him too hard and he’d broken his ribs or his tailbone.

Your concern for him is touching, Hermione said, voice full of light acid, but don’t you think you should leave him to the Healers even if so, and go report to Kingsley?

Harry slipped the copper ring off his finger and into his pocket. He would receive enough of a scolding when he returned to Grimmauld Place. Just now, he wanted to concentrate on the man in the room he most respected. He had looked up at Harry’s approach, and the people hovering around him had also drawn back; Harry could see that his face was pale and his forehead covered with a sheen of sweat.

“Are you all right?” Harry asked.

“I—I think—“ Malfoy took a deep, gasping breath and then, quietly and with dignity, fainted.

Kneeling down next to him, Harry saw blue bruises beginning to appear on his throat, like the marks of strangling fingers.

He reacted without thinking, snatching Malfoy up and racing towards the doors. Someone followed him, of course, but Harry’s attention was for the gravel in front of him, and the Apparition point. In seconds, darkness squeezed them both, bearing them away to St. Mungo’s.

*

Despite the uncomfortable jouncing motion of Potter’s arms and the intense concentration using wandless magic to cause the bruises on his throat took, Draco smiled.

Chapter 3.