lomonaaeren | Chapter Seven of 'A Determined Frame of Mind'- Telling Tales

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Chapter Seven—Telling Tales

“Do you have Veritaserum?” Harry asked, crouching down next to Shacklebolt and keeping his wand turned on him, as though the man might wake from a Stupefy and Obliviate and not make enough noise for them to hear him at once.

Still, perhaps it was a wise precaution, Draco admitted to himself. The Ministry had already proven smarter and more competent than he had thought they would be.

Or Harry’s enemy is.

“You would support the use of it, uncontrolled?” Draco teased Harry, while his mind raced through the several truths that had just been revealed, and how he would use all of them. “How shocking, Auror Potter.”

Harry made a rude snorting sound, which Batty would certainly object to if Harry ever did it while she was serving them at the table. As it was, Draco found a smile edging onto his face; Harry should make that noise more often, since it showed that he was getting back some sense of himself. Harry, looking at Shacklebolt still, didn’t notice Draco’s foolish expression. “I’m not an Auror anymore,” he said. “And nothing could persuade me to become so.”

“Really?” Draco asked. “Why not?”

Harry just stared at him. “You’ve read my mind and my soul,” he said. “You know why. I tried to commit suicide to get away from the Ministry and ensure they wouldn’t seek me out again. They saw me as a workhorse, nothing more.”

There was a thick bitterness in the back of his voice that Draco wanted instinctively to soothe. He doubted that now was the time, though. Harry had just asserted his independence rather strongly. He would reject any sign of caring as a sign of condescension.

“Well, you’ve answered my objections to Veritaserum,” he said, drawing his wand. “It’s easier to use Legilimency on him and read the truth of why he was sent here from his mind. I don’t have Veritaserum in the house, and we couldn’t keep him here long enough to fetch or brew some.”

“And it can be tracked.” Harry’s hand flexed open on his wand for a moment, and then closed convulsively. “I’d forgotten that.”

Draco nodded. “On the other hand, I know how to cover my tracks in another person’s mind. I did it the first time I spied out information from a Death Eater in order to survive.”

“I didn’t know you had to do that.”

Draco turned to face Shacklebolt, because Harry really would be suspicious if he saw the smile Draco could feel sneaking onto his lips now. Is that curiosity in your voice, Mr. Potter? The desire to know more about me, perhaps? He couldn’t be sure whether it was only the chance to save his life and act like an Auror again or something else, but Harry seemed more open than he had been when he went to wander in the gardens that morning.

“The war wasn’t a holiday for me,” he said. “Ask me about it sometime when we don’t have an Auror to interrogate.” And he looked into Shacklebolt’s slowly focusing eyes and aimed his wand. “Legilimens.”

The darkness came up and whisked him into the man’s mind. Draco concentrated on the memories he wished to see—those of the meeting in which Shacklebolt received his assignment to visit the Manor—and they rose up around him like solidifying smoke. Draco watched in interest as Shacklebolt stepped into Umbridge’s office and braced his back against the door. Clearly, he didn’t like her anymore than Draco and Harry had reason to.

Umbridge, in the memory, had a mouth as wide as her face, and she sent little flecks of spit flying when she talked. “Mr. Malfoy has been most helpful to the Ministry. However, there remains the fact that Harry Potter tricked him once and might trick him again. You’re to go to Malfoy Manor and pose as a rich patient wanting to take advantage of Mr. Malfoy’s Psyche-Diving skills. Arrangements have already been made for you to assume another identity and do so.”

Kingsley’s memories surged with feelings of disgust. Draco gave a little nod to himself. He was fairly sure the Auror hadn’t known anything about the Cassandra Curse, or suspected that Harry was actually a victim of the Ministry. “But what am I supposed to look for? If Harry Potter isn’t there—“

“Ah, but he might be.” Umbridge held up one finger. “In a disguise so cunning that it would fool even Malfoy. After all, it happened once before, when he pretended to be his cousin. It wouldn’t be easy to fool someone as observant as a Psyche-Diver, and yet Mr. Potter managed. Understand,” she said sternly when Kingsley opened his mouth to object again. “We’re concentrating our efforts in other areas, as well. But we can’t waste the chance that Potter might want to repeat his triumph—he’s obsessed with doing so, according to our psychological studies of him—“

Draco snorted, secure in the knowledge that no one in the memory could see or sense him in any way. If they knew Harry’s current state of mind at all, they would realize that he was barely convinced he could have triumphs.

Although that might have changed with the way he took down Shacklebolt.

“—and so return to the scene of his former crime.” Umbridge fiddled with the small bow in her hair. The earrings she wore today were tiny lambs, gamboling about so cutely that Draco almost gagged. “You’ll just bind Malfoy after you gain access to the Manor, investigate his house for signs of Potter, and then Obliviate him. It’s a simple enough assignment, all in all,” she added, voice sharpening when Kingsley hesitated.

“Listen,” the Auror said. “I knew Potter. He wasn’t stupid, and he’s had his instincts sharpened by working on difficult cases. He might have fooled Malfoy once, but he wouldn’t count on doing it again. I doubt he’s at the Manor.”

“You have your orders,” said Umbridge stiffly. “Unless you want to actually disturb the Head of the Auror Office with your ideas…”

Kingsley didn’t want to. He accepted the file Umbridge gave him, bowed his head stiffly, and then departed. He hadn’t even asked the question Draco would have expected, about how he was to fool a Psyche-Diver who could read his mind and soul. Evidently he trusted enough in his own expertise to keep Draco talking until he could lull his suspicions and Stun him.

And it did work, didn’t it? They sent one of their best.

Draco dismissed that memory and spent a few moments roaming about, looking for any trace of knowledge that Kingsley might have concerning Harry’s case. There was still nothing. When Kingsley thought of Harry, it was with pity and a faint disgust that he had let himself be so manipulated and used by the Ministry for the sake of being free to tell childish lies. He was determined that he would be nothing like Potter, and he had treasured and valued his own partner even more since everyone he knew refused to work with a pathological liar.

If you could have known, Draco thought, lip curled as he slipped out of the Auror’s thoughts, you would have done anything to keep him.

“Was he the caster?” Harry asked the moment Draco opened his eyes.

Draco shook his head. “But he received a specific mission from Umbridge to come to the Manor, look about, and see what I knew,” he said. “And she implied that the orders came down from the Head of the Auror Office himself.”

Harry’s face reflected blank surprise for a moment, and then he shook his shoulders. “Pius Thicknesse,” he said. “Well. I’ve never had any conflict with him directly, but he doesn’t like me.”

“Why?” Draco asked. He hadn’t any clear picture of what Harry’s relations with his superiors had been like before the curse—or even after, he supposed. His strongest impression was simply that everyone in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had hated Harry after the Cassandra Curse had taken effect, but that wasn’t unusual. Mediwitches in St. Mungo’s had hated Harry after the Cassandra Curse had taken effect.

Harry looked up, blinking. “Oh,” he said. “I thought you knew.”

Draco’s smile curdled a bit; he couldn’t help himself. Harry had trusted Draco to tell the truth about what he saw in Shacklebolt’s mind, but he still wouldn’t volunteer much information about himself. “Yes,” he said. “Because you and I had so many willing heart-to-hearts.”

*

Harry narrowed his eyes, and controlled the surge of panic that told him he would fail if Draco took any dislike to him. Draco was still a Malfoy, and they would still jump on any distress they saw. It was no wonder Draco had been able to drive Harry in circles so far, manipulate him with nothing more than a brush of a hand on his shoulder or a careful word, or that he delighted in the soul-connection between him. He had been the one to create it, so even if he didn’t control it, precisely, he had the satisfaction of knowing that their strongest tie came from him.

Harry chose, then and there, to take a second step towards establishing himself as independent from Draco. The information could be important, so he wouldn’t conceal it. But he would offer it in a completely indifferent manner, so that the things Draco learned wouldn’t be a greater invitation towards intimacy.

I’m giving him trust. That’s not the same thing as intimacy.

“All my superiors were uneasy around me,” he said evenly. “For a while, they thought I would take advantage of the popular sentiment after the defeat of Voldemort to establish myself in the Auror Department on that alone.” He rolled his eyes when he saw Draco’s minute flinch at the Dark Lord’s name. For God’s sake, he’s been dead and gone for nine years. “When I chose to go through the training program, they thought I’d disrupt it. When I became an Auror, they thought I’d insist on taking all the high-profile cases with the chances for the greatest prestige. When I showed myself willing to do scut-work, too, they kept waiting for the day I’d become bored with being an Auror and go into politics. It was rather tiresome. Nothing I did could convince them of my good intentions.” He shrugged. “I suppose the period of my constant lying was almost comforting for them. At last I was acting out and trying to get away with claiming special treatment, the way they always thought I would.”

“You don’t think,” Draco began slowly, “that one of them might have cast the Cassandra Curse? Someone with a good deal of power tried to put you into the Janus Thickey ward to rot. Someone powerful in the Ministry, like Pius Thicknesse—“

Harry shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. They were ever so pleased that my solve rate went up while I was under the Curse, so that I actually looked better to the press, and made them look more competent, in turn. Assuming that they had the brains between them to recognize the Cassandra Curse and use it, I would think they’d bet on that as the end result. All the supposed victims died, either because they drove people away and then became victims of situations they couldn’t handle, or because they committed suicide. They wouldn’t have wanted that to happen to me. I had to choose suicide as a means of convincing the Ministry I was crazy and couldn’t work anymore; they didn’t believe me when I said I was tired, and they kept assigning me to more and harder cases.”

“But they’re the best candidates we’ve found so far,” Draco argued. “And Umbridge’s orders came—“

“From Thicknesse, yes.” Harry’s voice was flat. He could see Draco frown about that. He did not care. “He’s the Head Auror, so of course they would have to come from him. But I still think the Curse is a work of malice, from someone who hates me personally. We did try to convince them that I’m a master manipulator and a dangerous political player, after all. They were just being cautious by sending Shacklebolt here.”

*

Draco eyed him in silence. That temporary openness had blown off like a storm, and Harry watched him with green eyes wary enough to show that he’d continue the argument for hours, if Draco didn’t let him have his way.

Draco dipped his head, conceding the debate for the moment. Besides, what he planned to use Shacklebolt for would draw the attention of Harry’s enemies no matter who they were. If disgruntled Ministry officials were distracted and thrown off the trail along with the actual caster of the Curse…well and good.

“Here’s what we should do, since you were kind enough to cast a Memory Charm on him already,” he said. “We’ll send him back with a tale that he did find you here—“

“What?” Harry demanded, an incredulous look on his face.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Hear me out.” Harry folded his arms and gave him an unimpressed look, which made Draco wonder just how much confidence stopping Shacklebolt had handed him. An uncomfortable amount, perhaps. Draco wanted Harry to recover, yes, but he would prefer that the idiot not rebel against him while doing it. “This adds to your ‘master manipulator’ aura. You were living in my house and I didn’t even know it. You’d fooled me completely. But when Shacklebolt here confronted you, you bragged about your plans to set up an attack at the Ministry itself and then fled, since he’s still the better duelist.” He eyed Harry. “Will they believe that?”

Harry sighed. “Better make him believe that I was caught off-guard, or caught up in my bragging. Otherwise, no, most of them would have the sense to realize that he couldn’t defeat me.”

Draco accepted that with a nod. “The day after our little plant here carries the story back, I show up, expressing outrage that you were in my house and demanding that the Ministry catch you. I appear more firmly an ally of the Ministry than ever, since I forgive them for sending an Auror to investigate my home and bind me.” He let a thin smile pass over his mouth. “And in the meantime, Shacklebolt here is under strict orders to collect that file that you saw on Ambernight’s desk and turn it over to me.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Are you going to cast the Imperius Curse on him?” His hand moved to his wand again, as though to say he would hex Draco before he’d let him do it.

Draco shook his head at him. “The Unforgivable Curses are really no worse than any other set of spells, you know. You can brew a suggestion potion and command anyone who drinks it. You can cause pain with the Dark Arts. And if you slice open the femoral artery with a Diffindo and then prevent your victim from healing it, she’ll die just as surely as if you’d cast the Killing Curse at her.”

Harry tapped his wand. Draco sighed. Legalistic Gryffindor. He’s still that, no matter what kind of an outcast he calls himself. “It’s not the Imperius Curse,” he said, to settle his Auror’s sensibilities. “It’s a form of Legilimency. Shacklebolt will be in a dream state half the time, and be convinced that it’s from a hit on the head he took while he was dueling with you. He’ll retrieve the file, but only when he can do it undetectably, and hand it over to me as soon as possible. And then he’ll forget he ever did it. He’d be able to deny that he’d done it under Veritaserum, which is not the case with someone under the Imperius Curse, unless they’ve also been ordered to lie.”

“And you’re sure that someone won’t see the traces in his mind? I’ve heard of Unspeakables in the Department of Mysteries—“

“Let’s just say,” said Draco, the corner of his lip lifting a bit, “that in developing the discipline of Psyche-Diving, I investigated and learned about varieties of mental tampering that no one else will even recognize.”

Harry stared at him. Then he shook his head. “And have you used any of them on me?” His tone was—mostly—joking.

Draco caught his eyes, though, and wouldn’t let him look away as he said, “Of course not. And if you distrust my declaration, I’m perfectly willing to send away for some Veritaserum, drink it in front of you, and then repeat that particular truth. If you have the guts to repeat that particular accusation.”

Harry turned his head away, his cheeks flushing lightly. Draco was glad. He could accept that some of Harry’s distrust was the natural consequence of spending so long under the Curse and having not a single ally while he acted to save himself, but Draco was becoming quite tired of the idea that he, who had sacrificed a piece of his soul for Harry, was in the same category as the person who had cast it.

“Understand?” he whispered, when some moments had passed and Harry’s blush had grown deeper. “Do you understand that I would never do that to you, and that I don’t appreciate your implying that I would?”

*

Harry bit his lips over the impulse to apologize. He hadn’t done anything wrong, after all. He’d just been defending himself, the way he needed to, since his little bit of trust and his ignorance of Draco’s ultimate motives wouldn’t let him think that Draco would absolutely pass up the temptation to rearrange Harry’s mind. He might think of it as harmless fun, but the temptation would still be there. He was perfectly willing to manipulate Kingsley’s thoughts, after all.

But Kingsley isn’t you.

Harry took a deep breath, and decided to swallow his pride for right now. He didn’t have to let his apology mean much. “You’re right,” he said. “I—I believe you wouldn’t do that, at least.” And maybe I do. “I’m sorry.”

There was a long silence. Harry didn’t know what Draco thought, because he kept his head turned determinedly in the opposite direction. The longer he thought about this, the worse he felt, and the more he wanted to elaborate on his apology.

But that might mean falling into a trap, trusting Draco more than he should. He needed to be more on his guard than ever, now that he fully understood how accomplished Draco was with mind magic, and how dangerous. It was a difficult thing, but Harry would rather waver along that line, and sometimes make mistakes, than fall over it completely and only realize he’d lost part of himself when Draco dropped him like a hot rock at the end of this.

“I said I was sorry,” he repeated, when the silence had become unbearable. He forced himself to turn around and meet Draco’s eyes again. The soul-connection between them chose that moment to start humming again, the way it often did when they were on the edge of an open argument with each other. Harry grimaced. At least it gave him something to focus on besides the hurt that he’d caused Draco. “Are you going to get to work on Kingsley’s mind?”

Draco gave a barely perceptible nod, and then bent over Kingsley, though he kept eye contact with Harry until the moment when he actually needed to look away in order to use his Legilimency. Some of the accusation had left his gaze, but it was still penetrating, as though he never wanted Harry to forget how much he’d offended Draco.

And that was ridiculous, because why should Draco care about what Harry said when it didn’t affect his ultimate goal?

But then Harry reminded himself of the realization that he’d come to in the gardens, that he still had no idea what Draco wanted from him. Maybe the strain on their tentative friendship was intolerable in some odd Malfoy, Slytherin way. Maybe Draco was still thinking that Harry’s distrust would get in the way at a crucial moment in their plans, and Harry would hesitate instead of letting Draco save his life or rescuing him.

So Harry stood by quietly while Draco gave Kingsley his false memories and his undetectable orders, and mumbled a farewell before he vanished into his room again. He had to write another letter, this time to Ginny. He wouldn’t send it even if the Curse was lifted, thanks to Ginny’s acceptance of another lover and the ending of their engagement, but he had always been able to pour his heart out to her unhindered. She listened to him better than Ron and Hermione could.

Harry needed that, right now.

*

So far, their plans had worked out. Draco had received nothing but sympathetic murmurs when he visited the Ministry in false outrage, and Umbridge, at least, seemed to count on him as a firm ally, judging by the number of owls he’d got from her.

Draco would have been more satisfied if Harry wasn’t back to treating him carefully again, watching him with confusion in his eyes and answering questions in a polite, neutral manner, but he couldn’t have everything. And he was used to waiting for what he wanted, thanks to his years as a Psyche-Diver, even if he did become horribly impatient while he did it. And at least carefulness and confusion and neutrality were better than the panic that had once lit Harry’s face when Draco got too close.

The other man seemed to be struggling with decisions and concerns that Draco couldn’t share. Draco bit his tongue a dozen times a day to avoid telling Harry that he wanted to share them, and why didn’t Harry talk to him and see if he didn’t find that easier than working through his muddles alone? But he had to refrain. Harry was delicately balanced right now, more than he had been since coming to the Manor. Draco might get what he wanted if he remained silent and casual just a bit longer.

But Merlin, it was difficult.

That realization he’d come to in his bedroom the morning he enchanted Harry only grew stronger. He wanted Harry for more than the satisfaction of helping him, for more than the reputation he might gain once the Cassandra Curse was broken, and for more even than the pleasure of touching him. He wanted the man who had a blue-green soul and whom he’d thought worthy of a piece of his own. He was even willing to wait for Harry to come to him, though the waiting had swiftly acquired overtones of torture.

Let something happen soon, he asked any fate who might be tempted to look kindly on him.

And then, something did.

Draco and Harry were eating breakfast one morning five days after they’d sent Shacklebolt back to the Ministry when a large tawny owl swooped through the window. Draco accepted the outsized envelope from it, and fed it bits of his eggs while he tore the envelope open. A file spilled into his hands, bearing the name Harry Potter—the same file Harry had described as being on Lila Ambernight’s desk.

Harry was at his side in an instant, closer than he’d come in days. Draco allowed himself a private thrill as he hesitated solemnly, then opened the file.

The top parchment was a copy of the statement that St. Mungo’s had created when Harry was admitted to the hospital after his suicide attempt. Written in a sprawling hand across Auror Ron Weasley’s signature as the person who had found and stopped him and the confirmation of Harry’s birth date, height, weight, and other personal information was the phrase Finally. May he stay there.

And Harry went still, and whispered, “I know that writing.”