Chapter Four of 'The Same Species As Shakespeare'- Not Wisely But Too Well

[lomonaaeren]

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Chapter Four—Not Wisely But Too Well

“Potter.”

Harry started. He must have fallen into a doze, or at least a trance, not to have noticed when Malfoy awakened. He looked up now, and found the other man’s eyes fixed on him. Malfoy looked as if he didn’t know whether to be annoyed, embarrassed, relieved, or grateful.

“Yes?” Harry asked quietly.

“What are you doing here?” Malfoy looked in several directions, as though expecting to see a pack of Weasleys ready to pounce on him. “Why hasn’t my father been informed?”

“He may have been,” said Harry, leaning back in the chair and trying not to look too intently at Malfoy’s hands. His wrists flexed and fell in strong, sensual motions that made Harry’s mouth dry out. He had caught, more than once, a glimpse of Malfoy through the windows in his office as he bent over a piece of parchment and scribbled plans for a new manor house. The difference between seeing that through glass and seeing it so close now was like the difference between being told about chocolate and eating it. “I didn’t go and inform him. I brought you to St. Mungo’s from the party and I’ve been watching over you since.”

“Why?” Malfoy raised his eyebrows at him. “Surely you don’t think that man, whoever he was, will try something again so soon after the last attempt?”

“We can’t be sure,” said Harry, making a quick decision that he could tell Malfoy the relevant particulars of the case, since he was involved in it now. Not everything, of course. It would be a poor Auror who let details escape into a place where the criminal’s ears could hear them. “We don’t understand him, frankly. At first we thought he only wanted to smear your name. You must have read the stories of him letting dangerous magical creatures free, making loud speeches in denunciation of Muggleborns, and trying to steal those items from Knockturn Alley.”

“Quite.” Malfoy grimaced. “Someone would begin to resurrect my past just as I start to emerge from its shadow.”

“Many people do seem eager to believe it,” said Harry, barely restraining the impulse to tell him no one in the Auror department did. Telling him that would require explaining about the connection between their wands and Harry’s ability to sense Malfoy’s. “I don’t, but then, I like to think I know you better than most people do.”

Malfoy laughed. The sound was sharp and lashing, like the bark of a hound eager on a hot scent, but Harry could hear the old sorrow behind it. He hadn’t spent so many hours observing Malfoy for nothing. “Because we were old school chums together?” he said, and curled his lip. “Don’t make me laugh. My throat still hurts.” He winced and lifted a hand to his neck, stroking the places where the bruises had been with light fingertips.

“I meant since then,” said Harry. He could choose to be less than cautious with his personal infatuations if he wanted. It wasn’t the same thing as revealing Auror business. And Hermione would no doubt make a fuss if he still wore the ring, because she wanted to protect him and didn’t trust Malfoy, but the ring had remained tucked firmly in Harry’s pocket. “I’ve—kept up with you.”

Malfoy watched him with sideways, speculative eyes. “Out of suspicion.” His voice wavered, implying that he was willing to be convinced otherwise. Harry had rarely wanted to do something more.

“At first,” Harry said. “And then I realized how many beautiful things you were doing.”

Malfoy blinked at him and turned to meet his gaze directly. “Wouldn’t you despise what I’m doing? Building manor houses for the pretentious rich who can afford them and want to pretend they’re pure-bloods?”

“I would despise it if you were only doing it for wealth,” Harry said. His heartbeat had sped up, but he doubted Malfoy could tell. He was sitting down, after all, and his voice and face remained calm. “But you’re an artist. I can tell how much these houses matter to you, even the ones where the owners would be happy with a malformed copy of the latest Muggle fashion. I can admire an artist, in the same way I could admire Professor Lupin when he taught Defense Against the Dark Arts, or Viktor Krum when he played Quidditch.”

*

Draco’s startlement had already melted into satisfaction, and a bit of impatience with himself for failing to anticipate this reaction. Of course Potter would have to wonder why Draco had decided to become an architect instead of huddle in the Manor with his father. That would fit the spoiled schoolboy he’d always known, whose pride was more important to him than anything else.

But Draco had changed. And Potter had become a bit of an aesthetics expert. Draco wondered for a moment who had taught him that, what lover, because Potter had always been so physical that he wouldn’t have learned such an appreciation for beauty anywhere else.

But Potter’s past lovers didn’t matter. Convincing Potter to take the last few steps closer to Draco did.

He looked down at his blankets and let himself blush. Of course, he cleared his throat harshly, because Potter wouldn’t expect him to like being embarrassed. “I wouldn’t call myself comparable to any of the great architects of the past,” he said. “Morgana Hundel, for instance—“

“I don’t care about them. I care about you.”

Draco jerked his head up and stared at Potter. Luckily, his real reaction and the rehearsed one would be the same thing this time.

Potter had turned a brilliant red himself. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I mean, I don’t care about their work,” he said. “I barely know their names, and I’ve never seen anything extraordinary in their houses when I’ve looked at them. I saw you become what you did, and I could connect with the beauty in your houses from the first time I looked at it.”

Awkwardness, repeated words and all, the confession made Draco feel as if he were holding a mask sculpted of solid gold.

“Then—“ Draco said, and had to stop speaking for a moment, because gladness was choking him. That was all right; Potter would take it as only a sign that other emotions had overwhelmed him. “Then I might be able to tell you what I can’t tell anyone else, even my father.” He shivered and shook his head. “In the last few years he’s become a stranger to me. All he ever does is brood on the past and wonder what he could have done to change it, instead of trying to move forwards the way I’m doing.” There. If my father thinks of trying to warn Potter off because he’s “concerned” over what he likes to call my “obsession,” that ought to put paid to Potter’s listening to him.

“Of course,” said Potter. “You might tell me anything.” He was leaning forwards, and there was a tremulousness in his face that made Draco want to scream aloud with triumph. For the first time, Potter looked vulnerable to him, to something Draco might do, rather than to harm in general. When Draco hurt him, he would endure all the more pain because of who it was. Then Potter seemed to realize the way he looked and leaned back in the chair, clearing his throat again. “I mean,” he said, almost stammering, “Aurors are trained to take confessions, but also to hold what other witnesses say to them in absolute secrecy. You don’t need to be afraid I’ll tell someone else what you say to me.”

Oh, Potter. Such a Gryffindor. It doesn’t become you to vow anything but the truth. If Draco could have any thoughts about Potter tinged with fondness, it would have been these, the ones that pointed out Potter’s weakness so conclusively. Draco leaned forwards and lowered his voice, in part to disguise the husk of joy in it. “Good,” he said. “I’ve been afraid of this impostor for some time now. I wondered if he wasn’t only trying to smear my reputation but to end my life.” And he had sometimes wondered that. It was Potter’s fault if he took that statement to imply that Draco was worried.

“Why?” Potter’s eyes were enormous. “I can see why you didn’t approach the Ministry. We haven’t exactly treated anyone with your last name fairly in the past.” He smiled grimly, probably remembering the months Lucius had spent in Azkaban before the Wizengamot deigned to notice that he’d spent most of the war as a quiet spectator, and even managed to help a few of Voldemort’s prisoners to escape. “But what did he do to threaten you specifically?”

“I’ve received my share of odd owl post since the war,” Draco said. “But lately, there have come a few death threats that aren’t in the old style.” Those letters didn’t actually exist, of course, but Draco could “create” them easily enough. And they would be just the bait Potter needed to feel sorrier for him.

Potter winced. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve got some like that myself. You can almost get used to living with your life constantly in danger, and then something changes and you realize you were only used to one version of that danger.”

Startled, Draco stared at him for long moments before he realized that Potter would of course have received threatening post from fans who wanted to be with him, as well as the Death Eater associates who blamed him for killing their Lord. But he spoke as if the problem had continued for more than a few months. The Prophet had never indicated it had. Perhaps they’d simply lost interest in the story?

Draco felt a flash of rage at the idea. Yes, he had to indulge the people who fell for Potter’s fame or his deeds; they couldn’t know that the debt he owed Draco was older than all that. But threats by post were too personal, too much of an intrusion on the territory Draco had claimed for himself. At least they could challenge Potter with wands in their hands and fight him on ground that Potter was a master of. Draco had chosen intrigue as his weapon partially because of Potter’s lack of skill at it.

“Malfoy?”

He was staring, Draco realized. He shook his head and continued, “He only sent me three letters, and it’s possible that they didn’t come from him. But he spoke of how my face would be torn soon, and how all the success I’d achieved since the war was worth nothing, because he would make it be worth nothing. Those letters came in the space of three weeks soon after he started committing crimes with my face, and I hadn’t received any for a year before that. The timing is too much of a coincidence.”

With satisfaction, he sat back and watched Potter lap the lies up. The more hooks Draco had in his mind, the easier he would be to control.

*

Harry was inwardly swearing at himself for not suggesting that Kingsley speak to Malfoy sooner. Of course the impostor had to have some sort of personal animosity to Malfoy to persist for so long; he’d been committing crimes the same way for more than seven months, instead of switching to another persona when he realized that his crimes weren’t getting Malfoy arrested. But partially because the Aurors were more likely to treat Malfoy as a suspect than an innocent victim, Harry had always persuaded Kingsley not to request an interview.

Of course Malfoy would be in danger from that animosity, and Harry wanted to fling curses at the mere notion of the bloke they were chasing writing threatening letters. Now they had an actual attack to go with it. The man was growing desperate, perhaps simply for attention, and had stepped up his methods. Merlin knew what he would do next if not stopped.

“I’ve thought—“ Malfoy began, and then paused, looking away.

“What?” Harry asked at once. He felt he knew every line of that mobile face after watching it as Malfoy slept. He knew that that twitch around the mouth meant something important.

“I’ve thought of asking for protection from the Ministry,” Malfoy whispered. “But could I trust the person assigned to me any more than I could trust the man impersonating me?”

Harry leaned forwards. If fate had taken many things away from him, he thought, his parents and a normal childhood and then a life free from the taint of celebrity afterwards, at least it had given him this.

“Do you think you could trust me?” he asked.

Malfoy’s eyes fixed on him. He appeared to be giving the question serious consideration, something Harry was grateful for. Agreeing too quickly would have made Harry wonder about his motives.

*

He fell for it. Oh, Potter, your struggles as you try to get out of the trap are going to be so beautiful.

Draco started thoughtfully at Potter for a long moment, then thoughtfully at the hospital bed. He cleared his throat as if he were going to speak, and then shook his head.

“You don’t think you can trust me?” Potter’s voice was flat and gentle. If he was disappointed, he was hiding it well, but Draco thought that was only because he wasn’t looking into Potter’s eyes at the moment. He would see confusion and hurt if he were.

“I think I might be able to,” said Draco. “But the Ministry would never let you protect me, would they? Not their top Auror, whom they need for so many other cases. And I’d want protection at both my office and the Manor. I know I’d be reluctant to let someone I cared for live in the home of a notorious Death Eater.”

Potter laughed. Draco frowned. The sound caused an involuntary reaction in him, a jerk below his waist as if his cock was stirring. That would have to be attended to. Draco couldn’t have a sexual relationship with Potter until he had decided if that was the best means of revenge or not.

“To be honest, this particular case of your impostor has been driving Kingsley mad,” Potter murmured, leaning forwards until Draco could feel his breath on his cheek. He was sure Potter had no idea how close he had got, or that he would be able to pull away even if he knew. “We simply can’t find any leads, and we can’t tell what his motives are, so we can’t know where he’ll appear next. The Prophet mocks the Auror department for it when it isn’t busy trying to get out of the lawsuit the parents of the Child Catcher’s victims brought against it. I think Kingsley might be willing to let me go for a few days if it means that we’d be more likely to solve the case.”

“But having me with you might make you less likely to solve the case,” said Draco. “It’d be depriving the Ministry of your investigative skills, and maybe the attacker, whoever he is, would back off when he realized I had protection.” Potter would be suspicious if he raised no objections and didn’t sound as if he were half-reconsidering his own idea. Besides, it was true that the Aurors couldn’t find their own arses without Potter. He had no particular merit, he didn’t deserve all his success, but his peculiar luck seemed to turn up the trails of criminals more often than not.

“Having you safe would be a good thing,” said Potter. “And Kingsley might ask me to remain in hiding at first, under a Disillusionment Charm, so that our enemy wouldn’t know you had protection. He’d be likely to reveal himself then.”

Draco drowned a growl of discontent. He wanted as many people as possible to see Potter following at his heels like a tame dog. But he could put up with temporary inconveniences to achieve his grand victory over Potter. God knew he’d been doing it long enough. It wouldn’t do to make his eagerness cause him to fail in sight of the goal.

“If you think he’d agree,” he said, looking up, “maybe you could suggest it.”

*

Harry was sure he could have taken down the impostor without his wand just then, if the bastard had chosen to appear in the room. The relief and the triumph of Malfoy’s agreement made his feet lighter and his magic surge within him.

“I will,” he said. “But it would help if I could explain things in more detail to Kingsley. Do I have your permission to tell him about the threatening letters?” In reality, he planned to do so anyway, because it was important to the investigation, but without Malfoy’s permission, he would make sure Kingsley confined the information to those Aurors who could keep silent about it.

Malfoy swallowed. Harry wondered if he was thinking about the people—and Harry was sure they existed—who would pay for information like this. Harry had to keep from snarling as he thought of them. He wanted to stand guard over Malfoy at the moment and protect him from the whole world. He should be left to create art in peace, without having to worry about someone trying to steal his reputation.

You want more than that, laughed his own conscience.

Harry ignored that. Yes, he did, but it would be wrong to press Malfoy for closeness when he’d just barely survived an attack. It would be enough to stay in the same home with him, and watch his houses come to life under his hands in the office.

“You can tell him,” Malfoy whispered. “Just—don’t spread it widely, please?” He looked up at Harry with appealing eyes. “And if I answer questions about it, then I would like you to come with me.”

Harry nodded. He would have reached out a hand and placed it on Malfoy’s arm, but he was sure it would shake and give him away.

If Hermione and Ron could see him at the moment, they would have to admit he’s more than a soulless monster, he thought. They love me, I know they want the best for me, but the prejudice against the Malfoy name is still strong in them.

*

Draco kept his eyes tamely on the floor as Kingsley Shacklebolt questioned him. Potter had asked Draco if he was well enough to leave St. Mungo’s and go to the Ministry, but Draco had refused, thinking Shacklebolt would probably be more powerful on his own ground (and that he might also have access to spells that would facilitate the detection of lies and other tricks, which would be noticeable if he tried to cast them in St. Mungo’s).

The Head Auror took a seat opposite him and frowned. “Harry tells me that you’ve asked for protection, and why,” he said bluntly. “I wanted to ask you some questions before I simply assigned my best Auror to you for an indefinite period.”

Draco saw Potter shift uneasily. He was standing near the door; he’d offered to leave during the interview, but Shacklebolt had said it wouldn’t be necessary, and Draco preferred him nearby, so that he could intervene, as he doubtless would, if Shacklebolt said something too awkward for Draco to handle.

He is so much the same, Draco thought, with a hunger he couldn’t name directly. He would have to watch that, too. He did not want unknown emotions upsetting his plans. Uneasy under praise. He revels in it, I know he does. I suppose the modesty is a show he’s kept up for the masses so long it’s become instinctive.

“How threatening would you say the letters you received were?” Shacklebolt asked.

Draco allowed himself to glance over his shoulder as if he suspected that the attacker was behind him. When he turned back, Shacklebolt had a tinge of sympathy about his eyes, and Potter looked as if he had a hard time not stepping away from the door and reaching for Draco.

“The first was more odd than anything else,” said Draco, and shivered. “Some phrases about tearing my face, tearing it to shreds and then burning the shreds. I suspected it was from a disgruntled Death Eater and Vanished it. As you no doubt know,” he added, arching his neck a little, “not many former Death Eaters have achieved the same success I have.”

“I know,” said Shacklebolt grimly, in a tone that made it clear to Draco he wouldn’t have achieved that success if Shacklebolt had been able to intervene. “And the other two letters?”

“Threatened my success,” Draco said. “They were full of threats against my business, and then the same weird sentence about tearing my face away, which was all that told me they were from the same writer. The hand changed each time.” He saw Shacklebolt and even Potter come alert, as if his lie had told them something important. So sorry not to be of help to your investigation, he thought. If Potter had ever been of help to me, perhaps I wouldn’t need to do this. “I Vanished those as well. My father would react—badly—if he saw them lying about.” He lowered his voice confidentially. “Ever since my mother’s death, he’s been a bit less than sane.”

Potter nodded, as if that confirmed an old theory of his. Shacklebolt was staring at him, obviously deep in thought. “And you think Harry could protect you against these things?”

“He was very impressive tonight,” said Draco, and let his voice warm, though his eyes only stole to Potter for a moment. He was staring at the floor again. Draco wondered how long it would take that modesty to wear away when they were alone together. Surely he must have some pride in his lovemaking skills, to keep the lovers he’d had; no one would want someone who cringed and fawned all the time.

Draco forced his brain to move on from that, though, because dwelling on Potter’s past lovers was like swallowing vinegar. “Not only did he manage to save my life, when I had no idea this enemy was behind me, but he’s quick of insight. When the impostor knocked down a pillar, Potter realized at once that he had to protect the crowd from the falling stone, not hold the roof up. The only way that could happen would be if he’d looked at the pillars and known they were ornamental from the first.”

Potter flushed brilliantly. Draco knew this “insight” came from Potter’s close attention to his houses, and so did Potter. Draco tipped Potter a slow wink as Shacklebolt looked away to write something down, as much saying, I won’t tell if you won’t. Potter looked reluctantly enthralled.

“And you won’t accept anyone else from the Ministry?” Shacklebolt said.

“I haven’t seen that anyone else would risk their lives for me,” Draco said shortly. Though his delight in finally getting close to Potter outweighed it, he did feel some irritation that someone had nearly killed him that evening. A trained Auror at his back would be no bad thing. But someone like Weasley? Of course not. He couldn’t accept that.

Shacklebolt settled back in his chair with a sigh. “Harry made other arguments when he visited me, even more convincing,” he said. “Very well. Harry, this is your case for the immediate future. Make sure that you act as a bodyguard for Malfoy, and accompany him everywhere.” He gave Potter a glance that Draco didn’t know the significance of.

But Potter apparently did, because his lips thinned before he nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Does that refer to some past mistake? But Draco decided it didn’t matter if it did, because he had everything he needed: Potter willingly at his side, giving him time to work out plans.

Draco had known for years that he needed this. What he did not yet know what he should do. Immense, rich vistas of vengeance opened out in front of him.

And Potter was gazing at him trustingly. Draco smiled back, ignoring Shacklebolt’s presence in the room, and effortlessly concealing the thought running through his mind at that moment, which was, Do I start with wrapping my hands around your heart or your soul?

Chapter 5.

Comments

[leftye.livejournal.com]

It's sort of interesting how obsessed H&D are about each other. They each follow the other around and collect memorabilia. If I didn't know better, I'd think this was a bond story, with Harry and Draco under a compulsion, but rationalizing it to themselves differently. Harry thinks the obsession is love, while Draco takes a turn to creepyland.

[lomonaaeren.livejournal.com]

I don't know if Harry thinks he's in love with Draco. He just knows he's fascinated, and he doesn't want to let go. Draco is much more sure it's hatred.