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Chapter Twelve—Malfoys Think One Thing, Potters Another

Lucius became faintly uneasy at the expression on Narcissa’s face as she stepped into his room. She had a smile touching the edges of her mouth, but her eyes shone hard and glass-like, and one hand had turned white—well, whiter than usual—where it clutched the edge of her skirt. That usually meant she wanted to talk, and since Draco was with him at the moment, discussing the effect that Lucius’s wounds might have on the Manor’s wards and would have on their standing in the pure-blood social circles, she would include him in the conversation. Lucius did not look forwards to debating his wife alone. Being caught between son and wife was rather like being caught between Scylla and Charybdis.

Draco, meanwhile, had let his lips very slightly part. Lucius shot him an irritated glance. He did not know where his son got his love of conflict; he was only sure it did not come from him.

“We have a problem that neither of you have anticipated.” Narcissa stood in the middle of his bedroom floor, her elbows bent and her hands clasped together so that Lucius could not tell which fingers belonged to which just by looking. Her head was bowed just enough that her hair shaded her eyes and she looked dangerous. Draco edged towards her, and his voice took on a measured eagerness, as if he were a snake charmer wrestling with a particularly recalcitrant cobra.

“And what is that, Mother?”

Narcissa turned her head slowly and pinned Draco with a metallic gaze. Draco’s eyes just grew brighter. Lucius checked a sigh. He had already learned, from the words Draco left out of sentences and the way his eyes crept up to stare at the ceiling when Potter was mentioned, that Draco entertained most unfortunate feelings for the Chosen One. Lucius could approve of admiration and the urge to seduce Potter for the good of the family. But Draco had given admiration before he had earned admiration in turn. Lucius did not like to think of his son suffering such a weakness in his dealings with Potter.

“You have assumed that Potter could keep up with our nuances, our expectations, and our rules about pure blood and the sharing and protection of it,” Narcissa said. “That’s not true. He needs more explanations. He suspects a trap buried in the bedroom I offered him.”

“Perhaps you smiled in the wrong manner when you offered it,” Lucius suggested. He knew that Narcissa’s smiles had often put him off when he was in a delicate mood.

“He showed his confusion and fear more openly with me than with either of you,” said Narcissa. Lucius saw Draco’s cheeks flush and tighten from the corner of his eye. “And though you may think you honor him by letting him grope his way through intellectual mists towards a destination, I assure you that you do not. He would prefer straightforward explanations, so that he might weigh them against his own expectations.”

“But Mother,” Draco began, in a soothing tone Lucius could not have drawn out of himself at the moment, “explaining like that wouldn’t work with him. There’s no way I can make him understand why the sharing of blood is so sacred to us. I already tried, and he laughed at me.” His voice carried a trace of hurt that Lucius hoped he would hide in front of Potter, for all their sakes. “So it’s best if we let him flounder for a bit. That balances the scales of relative power, and it shows him that he needs us as much as we need him.”

Narcissa twitched her head very slightly. “He does not think in terms of power dynamics, Draco,” she said. “And you should know that by now, considering what you told me. He will gladly give all of himself to heal his patient, and not think that it weakens him in others’ eyes. He won’t hold back and imagine himself in our debt because he owes us for knowledge.”

Lucius decided it was time to make a contribution to the conversation. Narcissa and Draco looked as if they might gladly stand eye to eye all night and clash their words like blades without making an advance. “Though he is ignorant of those dynamics, my lady, nevertheless they exist. We must obey them implicitly because we know about them.”

Usually Narcissa enjoyed his calling her his lady, but this time the gaze she fastened on him was too bright and unflinching. Lucius was hard put to it to look back at her blankly.

“It would be better,” said Narcissa, “if we remembered that Harry is part of the family now, and as such we should not be constantly holding contests with him in our minds, and finding him or ourselves wanting.”

“But that’s what we do among ourselves, too,” said Draco, his voice faintly bewildered. Lucius experienced a pulse of pure envy. Draco was still young enough not to realize that Narcissa could not be persuaded by a mere accusation of deviation from the rules. She broke too many herself. “You and I kept count of insults a whole winter through, once.”

“But we know,” said Narcissa, “that underlying such counts and scores and contests is love, and those challenges to one another’s wills and strength are one of the ways we express that love.”

Lucius looked away. Speaking so openly of that emotion ran counter to too many of his instincts. Of course, that was why Narcissa won so many of their arguments: because she had the courage to expose those twitching nerves to cold air.

*

Draco struggled for a moment against his shock. His mother did not normally say such words, and he had absorbed the notion that no proper Malfoy would say them, either. The words sounded vulgar—on the edge of falling into soppiness—and a Malfoy always avoided vulgarity. As long as the truths were known, did they need to be named aloud?

But he took his mother’s point. They knew the truths were there. Harry would not.

Still, he objected to changing their entire way of life because Harry had entered the family. Surely he should adapt to them, and not the other way around.

“I can get him to understand soon enough, Mother,” he said aloud. “That was the way we related to each other at school, a challenge and a rivalry. When he begins to understand how much lies behind those exchanges, then he’ll see that we don’t watch for weakness in each other for any horrid purpose, but only because doing so strengthens the family.”

“So you would go back to being a schoolboy around him, Draco.”

Draco held his tongue for long moments, studying his mother’s face. He didn’t think she was serious; she had understood his point and accepted it, because it was a good one, but she would twist his words around on him, of course, because she was trying to win. And he also wanted to prevent himself from saying something he might regret.

Narcissa stood with her hands clasped more loosely in front of her now, arms relaxed, which Draco regretted. He had sometimes been able to tell the extent of her tension from her elbows as long as they were bent. Her eyes were level, and though they occasionally flicked to his father, Draco knew that was to include Lucius in the conversation, not because she couldn’t bear to meet Draco’s gaze.

Bother, he thought absently, but he was aware of a feral delight in his soul as well, like a duelist circling for an advantage. He did enjoy these contests with his mother. Lucius was more likely to humiliate Draco, because his methods were cruder. Narcissa was more likely to baffle him. If Draco had to give in to defeat, he liked to admire the victor.

The way I admire Harry now.

And that gave him his answer. He relaxed his own shoulders, handed Narcissa his blandest smile, and replied, “Of course not. A schoolboy would throw down his broom in disgust when someone else was better than he was at Quidditch and storm off the field. A boy finds it hard to admit the strengths in someone else he dislikes, let alone respect them. What I will do is show Harry the charge of my own passion whilst also showing him that I admire and respect him. I think he will find such a combination irresistible.”

He could tell from the brief pause before Narcissa blinked that he had impressed her, especially by his unflinching use of the word “passion.” That blink was a salute from one opponent to another. Touché.

“And how should I relate to him, Narcissa?” Lucius’s voice was too heavy, too ironic. He could have achieved the same effect if he hadn’t laded his voice with acid. “Since you have come to dictate the way we shall.”

Draco met his mother’s eyes, and they shared a momentary glance of hopeless despair at the way Lucius, an experienced fighter and ruthless politician when he had to be, really did not understand subtlety at all.

“The role you play now shall do,” said Narcissa, voice light and sweet and cold as a snowflake. “Only lie back and enable Harry to treat you as a dependent patient, and all will be well.”

*

Draco smoothed down his forest-green robes—chosen because he thought the color might appeal to Harry, since he had stayed all night in the green bedroom Narcissa had selected for him—and then turned to Rogers. The old house-elf stood behind him, balancing a silver tray of food across his hands, his expression locked in the stubborn placidity that had made Draco pick him for this assignment. God knew Harry would fuss enough about being waited on by a house-elf. The last thing Draco wanted was for Harry to confuse and fluster one of the younger ones into a fit of weeping, leaving Harry free to slip out the door.

That wasn’t going to happen with Rogers. One might as well try to fool a mother dragon about her eggs.

“You know what I want you to do?” Draco asked. As trustworthy as Rogers was, it was best to check that he hadn’t interpreted his directions in creative ways. “Exactly what I want you to do?”

“Master Draco is being fussy,” said Rogers, only flicking one ear in the way that Draco knew a winged horse might when a fly landed on its hide. “Being fussy will be spoiling Master Draco’s skin.”

Draco raised a hand to touch his face before he thought about it. Rogers had controlled Draco’s behavior when he was sixteen for an entire year by remarking that certain bad actions would cause his skin to break out. Draco had his suspicions about the spots that he did find on his nose and chin during that time, of course.

Smiling faintly at the way Rogers had the power to affect him even now, he raised a hand and knocked carefully in the middle of Harry’s door. The wards slipped out to brush along his skin with fine edges that would turn sharp in a minute if he was of the wrong blood. But Draco was Malfoy, and they faded away to a soft hum and sparking light in a few moments.

No one responded. Draco raised an interested eyebrow. Perhaps that was a good sign. Harry might have slept so deeply in the comfortable bed—much more sumptuous than the half-ruined contraption that had passed for his resting place in his house—that he hadn’t awakened at the first sound.

Draco’s imagination provided him with a picture of what a rested, half-naked Harry might look like. Draco’s common sense told his imagination to sod off. He and Harry had a lot of work to do before they reached that point.

Another knock, and still no answer. Draco then kept knocking with light motions, confident that Harry would hear and respond to him sooner or later. After all, he would probably find it embarrassing if Draco sent in Rogers to shake him out of bed, and Narcissa had assured Draco she’d told Harry that house-elves had access to the room no matter what the setting of the wards.

At last Rogers cocked an ear and remarked, “Master Harry Potter is coming.” The ear twitched again and cocked at a sharper angle, and then a frown lit his face in a way that still had the power to make Draco shiver. He would never forget looking up at that frown over a book of his father’s that he’d torn half the pages out of and filled with doodles. “Master Harry Potter is coming from the direction of the library. He did not sleep in the bed provided. Master Harry Potter is very naughty and would have his hands ironed if he were an elf.”

Draco raised his eyebrows, and then lowered them and scowled. So Harry was still trying to reject their gifts, was he? Of course he was. He was Harry Fucking Potter, who had decided that he might as well throw himself away on patients who ignored him and superiors who denigrated him, because it wasn’t as if anyone would ever appreciate him. And when he did encounter appreciation, he regarded it as he probably would the idols of a foreign culture, if he had ever traveled outside Britain, which of course he hadn’t, the uneducated idiot.

Well, Draco would have to confront him with his errors. Yes, he would be gentle as per his mother’s instructions, but Harry could not be allowed to go around rejecting their hospitality and acting as though he believed the Manor a trap. It would make him less of a Malfoy.

When the door flew open, Draco was ready. He allowed himself to blink a little, and no more, when he saw Harry with a large red imprint on one cheek that was probably the result of the library table, his hair standing on end—actually, if Rogers hadn’t told him where Harry had slept, Draco probably wouldn’t have noticed that—and the crusted remains of drool on the side of his chin. No doubt he hadn’t showered, either, though one of Draco’s first priorities would have been to use the magnificent loo attached to this suite of rooms. Harry had probably refused to look into the loo for fear of being contaminated.

“I’ve brought you breakfast,” he said, and gestured to Rogers. Rogers did not bow, which was more of a compliment than Harry might suppose; at the moment, he was too busy studying his new charge intently, gathering information on what he would need to change about him, and what he would gently suggest needed changing, and what contests he would gracefully lose. “And a few more books from the downstairs libraries that I thought you might need. And a map to my father’s room.”

He unfolded the map from his robe pocket. Do you see, Mother? I can be considerate. And he showed it in his next words, too, choosing them as carefully as he could so they would come across as supportive and not condescending to Harry. “I understand the Manor can be a little overwhelming for someone not used to it.” And then he smiled, because he couldn’t contain himself at the thought of finally being able to share jokes with Harry, the way he had wanted to so many times at Hogwarts. “I wouldn’t want you to get lost down in one of the cellars and starve. Imagine me trying to explain that to Granger when she came hunting for you!”

Harry blinked at him, tapping his fingers on the edge of the doorway, and then scowled thoughtfully. Draco hid a smile that would have had a distinctly different meaning. Harry didn’t know how to hide his thoughts to save his life. No doubt he imagined he was being deep and inscrutable, but Draco could read all the emotions passing behind his eyes.

It will be particularly pleasant to see those emotions passing behind his eyes when we fuck for the first time.

Then Draco disciplined his imagination again, because Harry was actually saying, “Please come in,” and stepping out of the way. Draco strolled in as if it were the first time he had seen this room and stood looking politely around. The politeness soon became real interest; he had forgotten how beautifully his mother had decorated these rooms. He walked over to the wall to examine one of the tapestries whilst Rogers set up the breakfast tray. He did watch from the corner of his eye as Rogers drew out a tray from the bottom of the bed and magical legs materialized under it. Harry watched with wonder, as though he had never known that magic could be used that way.

That’s another thing that could be fun, Draco thought, and allowed himself to imagine sharing ordinary magic with Harry for long, blissful moments. There were numerous spells that the Malfoys used to make their lives pleasant and easy which wouldn’t have been allowed at Hogwarts, for fear they would make the students lazy. He wanted to watch Harry’s eyes brighten the first time he understood how easy it was to enchant dust away from important books, or sharpen the memory so that the sight of a beautiful sunset would stay fresh and clear within it always.

Then Draco saw Harry turning towards him, so he “allowed” himself to notice the absolutely straight covers of the bed and the unrumpled pillows. Frowning in mock concern, he asked, “Were the pillows not to your liking? Or the colors, perhaps? Whilst my mother chose a room she thought you would appreciate, we don’t at all mind if you alter the colors of the covers and pillows. This is your room for the duration of your stay in the Manor.”

Harry coughed a little, with that disgruntled sound most non-Malfoys used when they didn’t realize they were coughing at all. “It’s all beautiful,” he said. “As it happens, I fell asleep in the library, working on several clues that I think might give me an insight into the curse plaguing your father.”

Draco straightened and allowed some of his disappointment to show in his face. Of course he was working. Of course. He doesn’t think of anything else, he doesn’t think he’s worth anything else. What damaged him so badly? The world’s expectations? “So you would rather sleep in a library chair than in a bed my mother offers you?” he whispered.

Oh, how Harry flinched under that one! His eyes sought the bedroom floor, and he twitched as though a whip had stung him. “I—” he said, and then stopped for a moment, as though he had finally realized he was an idiot. But even if he had, the epiphany was unlikely to last, so Draco worked to drive it in.

“No, I think I understand.” Draco made sure to give the smile that many people had mentioned made him look like Narcissa. Harry might have some reciprocal tenderness for her, since she understood him so well. “You can’t believe we would give you something like this, can you? You’re looking for the trick, the trap,” and he remembered a tale he had read once that was not the artifact of wizarding culture, “the poisoned half of the apple. And my mother makes a convincing evil queen.” He ran a hand over his hair and sighed. He had to overcome ancient scolding and Rogers’s glare to make himself touch his hair in such a careless manner, but he managed it, and pride flushed him.

“You’ve read Muggle fairy tales?” Harry blurted. His eyes had grown wide with fascination.

“Let’s say that even a book of those looks good when it’s within reach and you’re trying not to wake a sleeping baby in your lap,” Draco said wryly, remembering the entire afternoon he had spent trying not to wake his baby cousin. Andromeda Tonks had agreed to let Draco come over and see small Teddy Lupin for a few hours, whilst reminding him sternly that she would snatch the baby away again if he cried out. Draco had rocked Teddy until his arms were numb before he fell asleep, and after that, he didn’t dare shift just in case Teddy screamed and Andromeda turned him into something small and slimy. “I’ll swear any oath you like that we’re not trying to hurt you, though. What you did when you shared your blood with Father—it’s special.” See, Mother? I am trying.

“I still don’t really understand why.” Harry folded his arms and seemed oblivious of Rogers’s death glare. He didn’t consider that stubborn gesture appropriate for a Malfoy, Draco knew. The glare had been enough to break Draco of the habit, but of course this was another way that Harry had to be the exception to the general rule. “If I’d used another spell that transferred my blood into his veins, would you have acted this way? Or is it only the Heart’s Blessing Spell that’s so special?”

Draco bowed his head and smiled. It was that or grind his teeth in exasperation until the enamel came off. “It’s the blood,” he said. “It’s a symbol we can respect and appreciate. Without it, you can offer us many other favors and we would still have to keep you at a distance.”

“Who says that?” Harry asked. “The Special Committee to Make Sure All Pure-Bloods Follow the Rules?”

“You would be surprised by the attempts there have been over the years to create organizations that approximate that one,” said Draco, and again Harry blinked with curiosity. That was the way to ensnare him, Draco thought, keeping his gaze steady on Harry’s face. Lead him with hints and traceries of information. If he explained as fully as his mother wanted him to, Harry would think he was being treated like a child. “But no, we’re acting in accord with a sense of tradition. Stupid, perhaps, to not be able to respect ourselves without a sharing of blood, but there you have it.

“We’re embattled in wizarding society, Potter, and have been for years.” He shook his head, mostly in disgust at his slip in addressing Harry by his last name. “I know it seems otherwise, but a few powerful individuals placed in the Wizengamot and the Ministry are only enough to mask the reality, not change it. We have fewer and fewer families we can safely marry into if we want to keep our bloodlines pure. Many of the classes that taught our children what we needed them to know have been dropped from the Hogwarts timetables. More than the fair share of pure-blood criminals occupies Azkaban, when you consider what a minority we are in wizarding Britain. So we have to treat our homes as fortresses, and the rest of the world as enemies, or at best tentative allies.”

So much truth. And it was so relieving to speak it aloud. Draco understood a state of war better than a state of love, but his parents knew all this, so it was another truth that went unspoken.

But too much silence might convince Harry he was hiding something, so he looked up and smiled. He made it as bright as he could, as delighted, and saw the way Harry’s face opened towards him. Love-starved. He must be.

And a sneaking suspicion entered Draco’s mind and lay down and made room for itself. He would not think of it much right now, in case it influenced his behavior in ways Harry was able to detect and took offense at, but he would remember it. Why was it that Harry had never mentioned or visited his Muggle family, at least not that the voracious press could find out about? Why did he seem to be wary of normal human contact, as well as the people who wanted to use him for his fame?

“You broke past those barriers in one of the few ways you could do so,” Draco said, and felt as if his honesty was carrying him out over an eleven-thousand-foot drop, “by mingling your blood with ours and defending our family at the same time. The second says that you’re a possible ally; that in combination with your blood makes you a part of the Malfoys.”

Can he ask for a clearer explanation than that? I don’t think so.

“But look,” Harry said, with strained patience in his voice, “that doesn’t make sense. You can’t—adopt someone because he offers you his blood.”

“Yes, you can,” Draco said, startled into speech. How did Harry think pure-blood families continued when there were no direct heirs left in a line? “In the old days, it was how pure-blood families conducted all adoptions. A freely-given gift of blood was precious, considering how much effort each family went through to keep the line pure and ensure that enough children survived for long enough to produce the next generation.”

“But I did it accidentally.”

Draco wanted to purr, or at least reach out and cradle Harry’s face in his hands. I don’t want to destroy all his illusions. His innocence is delicious. “That makes it better still. We can be sure you weren’t scheming to win a place in the house or come closer to our fortune.”

“But you don’t really know me.”

“We know what you did.” Draco cocked his head to the side, wondering. Why wouldn’t Harry think it reasonable to judge someone by his actions? That had been the basis of Harry’s morality all his life, from what Draco knew of him. “That’s enough. That’s all that’s important.” He gave Harry another smile, and had to contain a chuckle of pure joy at the way his body swayed towards Draco. This form of seduction was both easier and more fun. “And perhaps you don’t know us all that well either, hmmm?”

Harry smiled back as if charmed in spite of himself. Draco considered, then let his expression open. This honesty without assurance of an equal return was terrifying, but Harry’s ignorance might protect Draco there, as well.

But the longer the mood lasted, the more of a chance Harry stood of figuring out that Draco wanted him more right now than Harry wanted Draco. That was an unacceptable vulnerability. Draco made his voice brisk. “At any rate, I’ll escort you to my father’s rooms after you finish refreshing yourself and eating. Are your notes available in the library?” He looked at the library room, but paused. These were Harry’s rooms. It was for him to invite Draco further in, if he wanted to.

In several senses of the word.

Harry shut his mouth and swallowed hard. “Some notations in the margins of the three books there, but I don’t know how well you can understand them,” he said, his tone prickly with expertise.

Draco smiled again. “I’ll still make an effort. I should know more about healing than I do, given that I’ll be a Potions master and healing potions are the largest percentage of any brewer’s stock.”

He slipped into the library, aware of Rogers making a muffled growl in his throat. Harry needed to eat and bathe, and Rogers was more than competent to handle that.

Besides, Draco needed to get out of that room for a moment. He was flying or falling or leaping when he spoke to Harry and showed his true emotions, and, family or not, he was simply not used to being surrounded with so much truth.

Chapter 13.