lomonaaeren

Thank you again for all the reviews!

Chapter Four—What Harry Potter Decided

“But the game’s all over now.” Harry hated how quiet Astoria’s voice was, and especially hated the way she stared at her hands, folded in her lap, as if she thought that staring at them would relieve her of responsibility for dealing with this problem. “He knows that I’m not really writing the letters. I don’t see what good it can do to go on pretending that I am.”

“There’s a difference,” Harry snapped. He was pacing in front of Astoria, and he hated that, too. Usually, he went out of his way to prevent people from seeing him upset. But it didn’t really matter this time, he thought. He was upset, and Astoria had guessed that before she even saw the letter.

Besides, she was so distracted by her own worries at the moment that she was unlikely to notice if Harry was a little out of temper.

“What difference?” She looked up at him, and Harry could see how desperately she wanted his reassurance, how much she wanted to believe him. That was a good start, and encouraged him to stop pacing and smile at her. This would have been much harder if she had sat there sulkily weeping, or stormed out the door and declared that they had been fools to try and deceive Draco in the first place.

“He says he knows the writer isn’t you,” Harry said. “But he doesn’t know the writer is me. He’s sure of a negative, but not a positive.”

Astoria’s face fell again. “But it’s still one that will prevent him from wanting to date me again. And maybe that’s for the best.” She cleared her throat. That didn’t keep Harry from hearing a faint note of relief in her voice. “If he needs these letters to be interested in me, then how disappointed would he be when he finds out that I couldn’t write anything like them?”

Harry snorted softly. “More of Draco’s existence is lived in real life than on paper. I think you should be more worried what would happen if he found you boring there.”

“But this does matter to him.” Astoria picked up Draco’s letter again, which rested on the chair beside her. “You’re the one who said he had to be coaxed and enticed to notice me. The hook is more important to him than the bait, though.” She sighed and stood, sweeping her robes close about her. “I think we should simply accept that this scheme failed. I won’t have my chance with him.”

“You can’t walk out the door and be done with this,” Harry reminded her. “Draco knows you know something, now that you’ve quoted from the letters. He would still come and question you. Do you think you could resist one of his interrogations?”

Astoria opened her mouth, then paused, looking thoughtful. “Probably not,” she admitted. “But I don’t know what to do.”

“I have a plan,” Harry said. And he did. It had formed in his head as he paced, as if the frantic speed of his feet had forced his thoughts to run faster. He knew that, in some ways, that was the way it worked. It was why he had a pacing room. He smiled at Astoria, who looked both intrigued and wary. “And it will keep the letters intact, and it will keep his interest in you intact.”

“I hardly see how it can do both,” Astoria said tartly.

Harry Summoned a sheet of parchment and an inkwell. He already had a quill on the table across the room. “That’s because you haven’t seen what I’m going to write yet.”

*

Draco raised an eyebrow and closed the book. Tracking spells on owls were more difficult than he had anticipated. And it seemed that great horned owls were particularly resistant to that type of magic.

A pity. But at least it does show how clever my writer is, that she would choose such a bird to carry her post.

And it shows how impossible it is for my writer to be Astoria, who would never think of such a tactic.

He stood up, stretching, and wandered over to the corner of the gardens where his mother was resting. She was asleep when he reached her, and Draco stood watching with a quiet smile for a few moments. His mother rested much better at home in the Manor than she ever had in St. Mungo’s, which was one reason he had insisted on fetching her when he did, apart from general distrust in the Healers’ efficacy and their interest in a Malfoy patient. Her breathing was soft and even, her face regaining some color and fullness.

I would do anything for her, and anything for my children.

Draco paused suddenly, and turned to thoughtfully glance up through the broad fronds of the garden’s ferns at the glass ceiling, through which sunlight poured.

Would I be willing to put in the same amount of effort for my wife, I wonder?

It was a question he had never considered before. Somehow, his imagination had leaped often to his future children without touching on the wife who would have to come before that. Draco was not fool enough to surrender to passion or pure physical necessity and have bastards. Bastards could be legitimized, yes, but he wanted children with a true claim to the Malfoy fortune.

But his wife would not be a member of the family by birth. Would he be as loyal to her as he knew he could be to someone born of his blood?

He didn’t know. And that was disturbing.

Draco frowned and folded his arms, pacing in a soft, smooth circle around his mother’s bench, carefully not making enough noise to awaken her. Why haven’t I considered it? It’s a natural thing to think about. And why can’t I give an answer? At least I should be able to say, “My children are more precious to me than my wife,” and accept the existence of that preference. I cannot give the excuse that she is imaginary so far, because so are my children, and I have put in much work and effort for them.

After some minutes of walking and pondering, Draco believed he had the answer. At least, it was the only one that survived the immediate brutal testing of his own questions.

I knew I would marry someday without believing I would. I need a woman who is worthy of me to marry, and I didn’t really believe I would ever find one.

Draco paused and spent a moment scanning the air for signs of a great horned owl, a small smile touching his lips.

But perhaps my writer is.

And as if his wishes had conjured the bird into being, Draco saw the owl coming towards him now. He reached up, caught the letter handily, and let the bad-tempered owl fly away into a corner to find shelter from the sun. It gave a sullen hoot at him. Draco ignored that in favor of tearing the envelope open.

He expected—

A declaration of surrender. An admission that the writer was not Astoria and a step closer to the real business of this writing, which Draco knew must be a meeting with him. An admiring acknowledgment of his power of penetration.

None of that was what he got.

I have spent years thinking you were a clever man. Many people spoke admiringly in front of me of your intelligence, and certainly, if you are as bored behind your mask as I think you are, you have a certain brute cunning to have fooled everyone into thinking you are content.

But at least I can admit my mistakes. That cleverness is a pathetic deception.

Draco stared at the letter with his mouth open. Then he reminded himself that a true Malfoy would never be caught like that, and quietly brought his jaw up.

What? How?

He couldn’t even finish his own thoughts. He sank back on the bench he had risen from and went on reading furiously.

You still have no idea who I really am. I can see that much from the sneering arrogance of your letter, which attempts to define negative knowledge as positive, and cast one hasty decision as the defining feature of my life.

Tell me, if I were not the person you name, would such a letter as yours encourage me to confess? Did you really think that you could intimidate me by using words on paper?

I have told you what I am. I am a conqueror. I require someone who can change and challenge me, and who changes himself in a dance with life that I begin to think you incapable of truly engaging in. That is knowledge from the quill that you claimed to believe because it would betray me to you. But you must not believe it, because you tried to cow me as you would a child.

Truly, Mr. Malfoy, you disappoint me. I begin to wonder if I was wise in writing to you at all. I had assumed that part of your public appearance was a deception, that you were not as humble as you presented yourself to be. But for you to be all pride and conceit? I did not anticipate that.

I should have. I know you. I knew you when you were a student in Hogwarts, and I remember how you struck out against people whose only crime was not bowing to you, as if that was on a par with actually attacking you.

But I gave you more credit than you deserve. I thought the years must have made you more flexible and capable of accepting contenders with some amusement. And yet, each time, you speak only of surrender, not of enjoying the contest.

Competition is the essence of life to me. I want an equal, a partner.

You do not. You want someone you can control, someone who will lie down beneath you and spread her legs and moan at you when you push into her. That is becoming abundantly clear.

Has it occurred to you that part of my behavior is a test? That perhaps I may be different in person than on paper? That I wanted to see the differences between your own public mask, the focus of admiring eyes, and what you put down in a letter that you think will be read by only one other?

You have failed the test. That, too, is becoming abundantly clear.

In memory of what could have been, I do offer you this last letter. Grimoire has been instructed not to wait for a reply.

Draco spun around. Sure enough, the owl was flapping heavily up through the trees and towards the skylight by which it had entered. Draco cast a quick Summoning Charm, but apart from a small wriggle of its tail feathers, the bird took no notice.

His teeth clenching so hard that they hurt his jaw, Draco looked back down and read the last paragraph before the signature.

Perhaps I will contact you at some time in the future, if I think you have made up for your faults with some truly gentlemanlike conduct. But that contact will be under my power and of my choosing. If you ever want to capture a wife who appreciates your (tiny) virtues, then I advise you to subdue your arrogance.

A sincere friend.

Draco found it hard to breathe for sheer rage for long moments; it was like trying to swallow smoke and not cough. He flung the letter down next to him and raised his wand, ready to cast Incendio on it.

And then he stooped and gathered up the parchment again, running his fingers over the words that spelled out exactly what was wrong with him.

Competition is the essence of life to me. I want an equal, a partner.

Draco came to the second uncomfortable realization about himself in an hour, then. That was what he wanted, too.

But he had gone about showing his desire for that contest in a bloody poor way.

Draco frowned and tapped his finger against his teeth. Was it possible that, in the long parade of people praising him and bowing to him and allowing him to take his place in society again, he had lost the edge that would allow him to win a competition like this? He had pitied Lucius’s poor decisions that had led him to become a Death Eater and wondered how they could have happened. But here he was, making decisions of the same quality, if not as devastating for the family.

It was hard, to think that his pride was perhaps not justified. And it was harder still to think it was up to his writer—or Astoria, if it was truly she—to contact him again, since Draco had no means of finding the owl.

Then Draco jerked his head and whirled towards the tree where the owl—Grimoire—had been sitting.

Unless…

He ran to the tree and ran his fingers gently over the bark. In a moment, he had located what he wanted: a single dark feather, tipped with a spot of white that Draco thought was shaped like a teardrop. He wondered if that was a good sign or not.

Then he smiled and spun the feather between his fingers. He might have to change his mind and humble himself a little, but he would not become superstitious and start thinking that random marks on owl feathers meant he was doomed to shed tears himself or something of the sort.

There was sympathetic magic that could be performed to locate a creature or a wizard based on its body leavings: blood, nail clippings, and the like. It was rarely performed much anymore because it was considered so basic and lowly, which, ironically, meant that Draco would have to spend some time studying it.

But he was a true Malfoy, and not the caricature of one that he had become in his writer’s mind. He would not disdain to use the smallest weapons to win this contest.

And how sweet it will be, he thought, as he jogged into the Manor and towards his private potions lab, to show my writer that I can reach her if I wish. That is not the same as making a statement that I know who she is. It should be strong enough to intrigue her, but not forceful enough to irritate her.

If someone had outlined this situation to Draco a day before and asked him what he would have felt if he was in the middle of it, Draco would have laughed. Pride was the center of his being. He could not sacrifice it for a woman he didn’t know, especially someone who might be the insipid Astoria Greengrass.

But he was smiling now.

*

“I haven’t asked you this before, Harry.” Hermione put her glass down and leaned forwards. “But I have to now. Are you sure that you know what you’re doing as regards Malfoy?”

Harry sighed and spent a moment toying with his own glass, which contained a soft, sweet wine, the perfect accompaniment to the chicken he had cooked. Draco would probably think his tastes were plebian, but Harry didn’t care. He was too proud of himself for making meals that were fit to eat. He’d never had to do anything so complicated at the Dursleys, even when Aunt Petunia made him make the meals, and his lack of talent for Potions wasn’t a good sign, either.

At least I know she didn’t ask me before because she was too busy eating. Harry looked up into his friend’s eyes and answered honestly. “I’m not sure. Not anymore. After the last letter, he started suspecting that Astoria hadn’t written it.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows. “That quickly? Harry, what did you do?”

Harry bristled. “Why do you assume I did anything? Why couldn’t it have been something Astoria did, or just Draco exercising general cleverness?”

“Because you wouldn’t look quite as forlorn if it was someone else’s fault.” Hermione’s fingernails rang as her hands folded together, and she leaned across the table to stare directly into his eyes. Her voice had become quiet, and Harry recognized the tone that she used when she especially wanted to persuade someone of something. Of course, Hermione usually wanted to persuade someone of something, so that wasn’t much different from her usual tone. “Harry, even if you get his attention, do you really want to start a relationship with him based on deception? I can’t see him forgiving that.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I explained this already. I’m not starting a relationship with him. Astoria is starting a relationship with him.”

“That won’t work, either.” Hermione shook her head. “Why are you doing this? Why are you trying this?”

“And I already explained that, too.” Harry ran a hand through his hair, wondering why no one was listening to him. Astoria had reluctantly agreed to his plan to send a mocking letter back to Draco, even though Harry knew it was perfect and the only way to convince Draco he was mistaken about the writer’s identity—or, rather, to get him to ignore that issue. “Because she’s the one who can make him happy.”

Hermione shook her head, and her eyes had softened. This was the side of her that most people didn’t get to see, Harry knew. Years of working in the Ministry, often in capacities that other people would like to see her demoted from, had hardened her. “You don’t know that, Harry. Maybe there’s some other woman out there.”

“Then she hasn’t come forwards,” Harry said stubbornly, inflexibly. “And I don’t have time to look for her.”

“Time?” Hermione raised her eyebrows. “Does he have some deadline for getting married?”

“I mean, I don’t have time now that I’m sending the letters.” Maybe, Harry acknowledged ruefully, other people are having trouble understanding me because I’m not explaining myself well. He stood up, pushed his chair back, and began pacing restlessly. The dining room was too small to be ideal for this, but Hermione thought it was ridiculous that he had a room only for pacing and refused to eat there. “Astoria is the best candidate. She understands what I’m doing and she wants Draco badly enough to take all the risks that come with it. Someone else would have to be fed the explanations all over again, and in the end they might decide to tell Draco the truth.”

“All right,” Hermione said. “So her stake in this is equal to yours; I get that.” She spread her hands. “But I still think it would be best to go to Malfoy, explain why you started this in the first place, and find out if he’s interested in men at all.”

“I know he’s not.”

“So confident a declaration,” Hermione said. “From someone who also thought that Malfoy would never see anything wrong with the letters and would just tamely fall in love with Astoria.”

“I was wrong about that,” Harry admitted. “But I’ve never seen him in a situation like this, so it was natural to be wrong about it.” He couldn’t figure out why Hermione smiled then, so he pushed doggedly on. “But I’m not wrong about this. I think Draco would probably make a big announcement if he wanted to date men. He would show that he’s modern and progressive enough—for a pure-blood—not to care so much about children and marriage. But he hasn’t.”

“Maybe he just wants Astoria for a mother of his children, then,” Hermione said. “Have you considered that?”

Harry snorted. “Of course I have.”

Hermione looked wrong-footed for once, which made Harry grin, because it was hard to catch her by surprise. “And is that really the kind of wife you want to help him win?” she asked carefully.

“If she’s agreeable to it, and it’ll make him happy,” Harry said, not really understanding what the point of the conversation was, “why not?”

Hermione closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead as if trying to massage away a headache. “Harry,” she said in a low voice, “it matters because she might deserve more than just to be a mother to Malfoy’s children.”

“She’s a pure-blood, too,” said Harry dryly. “I think she expects to have children, or at least one. Narcissa Malfoy just had one.”

“You make it sound so sensible,” Hermione muttered. “But it’s not. I know it’s not.”

Harry shrugged cheerfully. “If it ends up making Draco happy, and Astoria happy, then who cares? Who else would be left to be hurt?”

“You,” Hermione said, staring at him.

Harry shook his head. “But I never had a chance at the deepest possible happiness anyway. At least I’ll get the secondary happiness of helping the man I love.”

Hermione spent the rest of the evening looking at him in concern, but since she didn’t actually voice an objection, Harry presumed he’d got away with it.

*

“Darling?”

Draco glanced up. He had one small portion of the owl feather isolated under an upside-down bell of blue glass, and was watching intently as it cycled through a red potion. If he had done the calculations and performed the spell correctly, the potion should be able to tell him where the owl was at this moment.

It was a surprise to see his mother standing in the door of the potions lab. She usually never came here, saying that it reminded her too much of St. Mungo’s. But maybe this was a good sign. Maybe she was recovering. It made Draco’s belly ache as if he were going to vomit to see his proud mother so broken and weak.

“What is it, Mother?” He made sure to shield the potion with his body as he stepped forwards, just to keep her distress down to a lower level.

“I found this in the garden,” Narcissa said, holding out the piece of parchment, “and I thought it was very unusual.”

Draco cleared his throat when he realized it was his writer’s letter. In the excitement of finding the owl feather, he’d left it behind. “Well, yes,” he said, and tried not to picture his mother reading the section where his writer had talked about Draco wanting a woman who would writhe beneath him and spread her legs. “Er. It’s a letter from someone who won’t tell me her name. Supposedly it’s Astoria Greengrass, but I have my doubts.”

Narcissa drew herself up with a small snort. “Well, I certainly would, in your place!”

“Do you know something about Astoria that I don’t?” Draco asked in interest. “Or the Greengrass family?” He thought he would know Astoria better than his mother, since he’d been in her company more often in the past few years, but on the other hand, his mother was much more familiar with old pure-blood secrets.

His mother gave him an unreadable look for long moments. “Darling,” she said at last, “if I had to guess, with no prior knowledge and no name to guide me—”

“Yes?” Draco asked eagerly, wondering if he was about to steal the ultimate march on his writer.

“I would say,” Narcissa said, enunciating every word as carefully as though it were testimony about Lucius’s crimes before the Wizengamot, “that this letter was written by a man.”

Draco staggered and caught at the table behind him. He felt as though one of his own potions had exploded, with no noise but a great deal of force and white light, into his face.

“I—see,” he said.

Chapter 5.