Chapter Four of 'Soldier's Welcome'- Nihil and No Rest

[lomonaaeren]

Title: Soldier’s Welcome (4/?)
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Rating: R
Pairings: Harry/Draco preslash, Ron/Hermione
Warnings: Violence (and plenty of it), profanity, references to sex, takes account of DH but ignores the epilogue, heavy angst.
Summary: It’s the first year of Auror training for Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and…Draco Malfoy, But with Hagrid, Snape’s second Pensieve, rogue Death Eaters, Auror classes, and someone trying to start a second war to worry about, Harry might not have the time to pay that much attention to Malfoy. At first, anyway.
Author’s Notes: This story is the first in a trilogy called Running to Paradise, which takes its title from a W. B. Yeats poem. Each story will be novel-length, and each will cover a year of Harry and Draco’s training as Aurors. Though there are a lot of fics out there about them acting as Auror partners, there aren’t as many about their training, so I hope to cover some original ground there. I’m indebted to a reader named SP777 for suggesting a training fic for me to write.

Chapter One.

Thank you again for all the reviews!

Chapter Four—Nihil and No Rest

“I want you to tell me again what you saw.”

Draco sighed. At least they had brought in Auror Dearborn to question him. The Auror instructors were nominally responsible for the first-year trainees, since they taught their classes, and of all of them, Draco found Dearborn the most understandable. The man had heard of elegance, while the word didn’t appear to have ever touched the eardrums of Jones or Ketchum.

But Dearborn’s fondness for precision did mean that Draco had sat here for hours answering questions about the Dark magic he and Potter had sensed and why they had rushed to confront it instead of shouting for help.

“Potter sensed the Dark magic first,” Draco began, “and tried to order me back into my room.”

Dearborn held up a hand. The onyx ring on his finger caught Draco’s attention, and he found himself peering at it in approval. The gold band was both finer and less ostentatious than he had thought. “I am certain that I know that part of the story. I wish to know again what you saw when you came around the corner.”

“I saw an illusion floating in front of the wall,” Draco said, “to the right side as one faces it.” Dearborn gave a small smile and nod to show that he appreciated the detail. “It resembled a man hanged with a snake, but the body was puffy, as though he had spent time in water before he died. From the transparency of the body, I knew it was an illusion.”

“That is more than Potter managed to sense,” Dearborn mused. “He said that he thought it was real at first, until the stench of Dark magic convinced him that someone had poured much power into making the image.”

Draco relaxed and smiled. So Dearborn thought him smarter than Potter, did he? That also showed the man was capable of appreciating reality.

On the other hand, harping on the difference between them would not tell Dearborn what he wanted to know, and might convince him that Draco was still obsessed with a petty rivalry from his schooldays. So Draco continued the story as he would have if Dearborn had not interrupted him. “The letters on the wall were written in what looked like a mixture of oil and blood. Nihil, they said. I saw no other letters. I am unaware whether this was a message or part of a name. The letters melted and ran when Potter cast his Finite.”

Dearborn paused a moment, as though he needed to stir Draco’s words in his mind through a medium compounded of other ingredients, and then leaned confidingly forwards. Draco felt a tingle of excitement, and had to hold himself still with an effort. They were seated on a pair of stools in Dearborn’s office, behind a tightly warded door, so Draco was at least sure that no one else could intrude or overhear.

“Potter was the one who dissipated the spells, then,” Dearborn said. “Is there, do you think, any way that he could have been involved in their creation?”

Draco stifled a sigh. A few years ago, he would have greeted such an opportunity to discredit Potter as sweeter than many fruits he had eaten.

But in this case, the strikes against it were two: not only had Draco felt how hostile Potter’s power was to Dark magic, which would have given him trouble casting spells that complicated, but he also knew that Potter had been out with Weasley and drinking shortly before they discovered the images. Alcohol would have destroyed the delicate control he might have relied on to cast the spells completely.

“No chance, sir,” Draco said. “I heard the sounds Potter made in the corridor when he came out of his room immediately. I’m sure that I would have heard him casting such spells. He never can be quiet,” he added. “And besides, sir, I don’t know if you’ve felt his magic at close range, but it’s oriented against Dark Arts, towards protective and defensive charms mostly. I think he kept the magic from hurting us more than it otherwise might have done, when he ended the illusion and the remnants of it raced towards it. There is no way that he could have created the illusion in the first place, however.”

“I accept your judgment, Trainee Malfoy,” Dearborn said, with a formality that made Draco look sharply at his face in case he had overstepped his bounds. But Dearborn merely looked thoughtful, not condemning. “And your magic? Do you believe that you could have either dissipated or created those spells?”

Draco lifted his head with a deep breath. He would not lie to himself, or to others, especially when the Aurors probably possessed spells that would let them figure out someone’s strength anyway. If he was in charge of the Auror program, Draco would certainly have researched a spell like that.

“No, sir,” he said. “My main talents lie in Potions. My strength is middle-of-the-road when it comes to incantations.”

Dearborn sat staring at him for so long that Draco wondered if it had been the wrong thing to say after all. But then Dearborn smiled slowly.

“You are more courageous in your honesty than most of the trainees I have met so far, Malfoy,” said Dearborn. He hesitated for a moment, then continued. “As I am sure you are aware, particular trainees establish mentor relationships with full Aurors in their second and third years of education. They may help them teach and train the first-years, as Auror Ketchum’s do, or they may mark first-year essays, or they may learn special skills if their mentor feels that they need exposure to subjects outside the common classes.”

Draco nodded, his heart pounding so hard that his throat felt full.

“I have not taken a disciple in years,” said Dearborn. “I have found that few students have talents for the sort of magic I teach, in all its variety, and I have found few who are honest about their strengths and weaknesses in that area. I would rather have no one under me than someone who is striving vainly to impress me.”

Draco licked his lips. Honesty had been the right choice so far. “I don’t know that I’ll ever be talented enough to be worth your time, sir.”

“There are other things I can teach than simply offensive and defensive magic.” Dearborn waved one hand, his ring flashing again. Draco admired the effect. He wore it at an angle that didn’t make it flare with every movement, which would be vulgar, but it was prominent enough that one couldn’t ignore it, which was proper for a sole ornament. “At the moment, I cannot explain more fully, because there are second-years who are still looking for a mentor and would try to latch onto me if they believed that I might be willing to entertain the notion. Can I trust you to keep quiet about this for now while I consider?”

“Of course, sir,” Draco said, and then took a risk. He knew that Auror Dearborn had a cousin who had died in the first war against the Dark Lord, presumably killed by Death Eaters. Draco had to know how he felt about pure-bloods in general and Draco’s family in particular before he put himself at the mercy of someone like this, older and with more knowledge of magic. “Malfoys know how to keep secrets.”

Instead of squinting or hesitating, Dearborn tilted his head back and laughed aloud. “I am certain that you do,” he said. “The last time the Aurors investigated Malfoy Manor, they could not find the end of the hidden holes and cabinets that Dark artifacts must be contained in. They needed to rely on your father’s good faith.” He gave Draco a speculative look. “Which makes me all the more intrigued that a Malfoy decided to become an Auror.”

Draco smiled with his eyelashes lowered and didn’t answer. It would do him no harm to keep a few of his own secrets.

*

Harry sighed and stared at the exam in front of him. He thought it unfair that they were having an exam in the second week of classes, but Hestia had said that the only way for her to be sure that they were keeping all the rules of Auror Conduct in their heads was to test them regularly.

Harry had been up late last night, answering question after question from Battle Healer Portillo Lopez, who seemed convinced that he had really cast the Dark Arts spells in the corridor that he and Malfoy found, or at least dissipated them with suspicious speed. When she was satisfied that he was innocent, she had still given him a lecture about the importance of evidence and destroying evidence.

Then Harry had gone to bed and found that no Silencing Charm he cast seemed to stand up to Ron’s thick snoring. He’d had probably three hours of sleep.

And now the words were blurring on the paper in front of him.

He sighed and resisted the temptation to glance over at Hermione. She’d explained with some smugness the rules in Auror training about cheating. A trainee would be assigned double the amount of work in class for the first offense and kicked out of training for the second. Harry knew that there was no way he could survive those punishments. He was struggling to keep his head above water as he was, and the extra lessons in dueling with Malfoy would be enough of a burden.

If he was kicked out of Auror training, then he had nowhere else to go. His best friends were there.

Harry looked up and blinked suddenly. Hestia gave him a stern look, but since Harry immediately turned his face to the wall, she seemed to assume he was only staring off into the space in the middle of intense concentration. Harry caught the edge of her smile of approval.

It’s a pretty pitiful reason to want to stay in Auror training, Harry thought, scratching his nose, if the only reason you can think of for trying is that your best friends are doing it, too. What happened to protecting people? What happened to learning this because you want to keep fighting Dark wizards, and you need to know these things to fight Dark wizards?

Harry nibbled his lower lip for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and turned back to the exam.

He’d just learned something about himself that he didn’t particularly like. Maybe his motives for taking the training were mixed instead of pure after all. Maybe he had less direction and less strength of will than he’d always suspected.

But at least he could try to do his very best now that he was here, and not get kicked out through sheer incompetence.

*

“I would have thought that you’d got enough practice dueling as it was, Malfoy.”

Potter’s voice was neutral, and he removed his trainee’s robes without any insulting slowness or quickness. Draco still narrowed his eyes, watching as Potter draped his robes across the back of a chair, because where Potter was concerned, an insult was inevitable.

Potter’s face was set when he turned around, though, and the way he flourished his wand and raised an eyebrow just spoke to someone having to do a job that they didn’t particularly like. Draco decided to accept the mask as the truth for a moment and answer. “Not in dueling as such. Running away isn’t good at teaching that, and most of the Death Eaters who were supposed to ‘train’ me did no such thing.” He sniffed as he stripped to his own shirt and trousers. “The Auror program is far superior in that respect.”

Potter stared curiously at him. He wore a white shirt that had seen better days and dark trousers that looked as if a white cat had rolled on them. “Why did you become an Auror anyway?”

“My steadfast good nature,” Draco said in a completely inflectionless voice as he hung up his robes on the hook in the wall. “It flows out of me in boundless copiousness and must be shared with the world.”

Potter rolled his eyes and dropped the subject, to Draco’s surprise. “How many standard dueling spells do you know?” he asked, pacing across the room until he was almost on the other side of it, and standing opposite to Draco.

“Tell me what you define as a standard dueling spell, and then I’ll answer the question.” Draco cast a minor protective charm on his robes. He didn’t want them getting scorched and stained by Potter’s enthusiasm.

“What the NEWTS called it,” Potter said, his voice changing slightly. Draco stared at him. The words were broader and more polished at once. He kept his eyes on Draco’s face, and for once, there was no mockery in them. He looked almost handsome when he relaxed like that, Draco thought. “A spell used to incapacitate an enemy, cause them minor pain, defend yourself, heal minor wounds so that you can continue fighting, or alter the immediate environment for purposes of incapacitation or defense.” He spun his wand through his fingers, as though he were trying to think of any categories he was forgetting, then snapped his head down in an odd, bow-like nod. “That’s it.”

“Not major pain, then?” Draco knew plenty of curses like that, and let his voice imply so.

As he had hoped, Potter’s face wrinkled in disgust like the skin of a withered berry and the odd appealing aspect to him disappeared. “Of course not, Malfoy,” he said. “The purpose of a duel is supposed to be to bring down and demonstrate your superiority to an opponent, not kill him.”

Draco felt his eyes light up. Surrounded by people who looked at him sidelong and wouldn’t stay in the same room with him, as well as by Aurors he didn’t dare show less than humility in front of, it would be very satisfying if he could demonstrate his superiority to Potter.

“Yes, I thought that would intrigue you,” Potter said, with a tolerant look that Draco didn’t like at all. It suggested that Potter knew him in some way, and that was simply not true. “Now tell me how many you know.”

“The basics of defense,” Draco said. “The Shield Charm and spells like it. Body-Binds and the Stunner. Petrificus Totalus and its variants. Some hexes and jinxes such as the Jellylegs and the Tripping Jinxes. Nothing of minor healing spells or defensive Transfiguration.” He shrugged when Potter stared at him. “That wasn’t the sort of career I thought I was training for at the time.”

Impossibly, Potter’s eyes softened, and he gave a single nod. “Whereas I was,” he said. “And I can’t imagine that a lot of the people here know more than you do.” He moved on while Draco’s soul still rang with the lightning-shock of a compliment from Harry Potter. “Can you do the Patronus Charm?”

“I’m not likely to have much use for it, am I?” Draco countered. He knew that Potter could produce the Charm quite well, having been on the receiving end of it at one point, and had no desire to give the man much room to flaunt his expertise for the sake of flaunting it. “Since we’ll mostly face Dark wizards rather than Dementors.”

“All knowledge is worth having,” said Potter, with a pompous expression.

Draco scowled. It was one of Auror Dearborn’s favorite maxims and most frequent sayings in class, and so Potter had neatly trapped him. “All right, then,” he said grudgingly. “Show me.”

“A happy memory first,” Potter said, lifting his wand. “That’s the fuel for the spell.” He drew in a deep breath, as if he thought that the spell wouldn’t respond if he didn’t say it loudly. “Expecto Patronum!”

A silver stag leaped out of his wand and circled the room once. Draco had more chance to see and admire it when it wasn’t chasing him down, and had to admit it was impressive. The stag halted, looked towards him, and flicked its ears in interest before turning back to Potter as if to ask what he wanted of it.

“You can command your Patronus to carry messages, too,” Potter said, without taking his eyes off the stag. His expression was open and peaceful now, and Draco tapped his tongue thoughtfully against his teeth. It came to him that it wouldn’t be amiss for him to relax a bit in Potter’s company, as long as he kept enough of an edge to be instantly alert when Potter attacked. “So they’re useful even when you’re not battling Dementors.”

He extended his hand towards the stag. “Go tell Ron that I’m busy studying tonight in a private place and won’t join him for dinner, please.”

Draco caught his breath on a sneer; he wouldn’t tell a piece of his own magic please. But as the stag bowed its antlers and then leaped past him and through the wall, Draco caught a whiff of Potter’s magic like a gentle breeze. He licked his lips. This time it came to him as a taste more than a smell, tart and pleasant at once, like a peach just beginning to become overripe.

“Did you want to try that first?” Potter asked. “Or something else?”

Draco turned around to stare at him again. The reminder of their compatible magic had put him off-balance; that had to be why he said what he did. “You’re being an awfully compliant teacher when I forced you into this, Potter.”

Potter’s head rose and his eyes flashed. “I happen to like instructing people who want instruction,” he said coldly. “Of course, Malfoy, if you prefer to resist and taunt me, then it’s all the same to me if I leave now.”

“I’ll report you to the Aurors,” Draco said.

Potter gave him a silent look of scorn, and Draco felt himself flush. That had sounded childish and he knew it.

“Did you want to try the Patronus Charm first?” Potter repeated, after a moment’s tense silence. “Or something else?”

Draco cleared his throat. “That first.”

Potter fell out of the way, and Draco aimed his wand in front of him. He focused his mind at once on the most intense memory he had, the one he had used to comfort and warm himself when he was forced to torture people: the memory of his mother sitting with him and reading him stories one morning when he was four. They had sat on the green grass of the Manor, and the peacocks had stalked around them and tapped gentle beaks against Draco’s head, and the sun had been so bright that sometimes Draco needed to shield his eyes from it.

He waited until he could feel both the sunlight and his mother’s love for him, bright and coiling around him with the same level of warmth. Then he aimed his wand and shouted, “Expecto Patronum!”

Nothing happened, except a faint trickle of silvery mist from his wand.

Draco glanced at Potter, expecting to see him snickering, but Potter simply shrugged when he saw Draco staring. “That happened to me the first hundred times I did it, too,” he said. “Even though I was concentrating as hard as I could on a happy memory. You can’t expect to master all the defensive spells quickly. Try again.”

Draco did. And again. And again. On his last attempt, he thought the silver smoke was a bit brighter, but otherwise, there was no change. He turned at last on Potter, glaring and expecting to see him looking either bored or angry.

*

Harry was more and more sure that something strange was going on, at least as related to him and Malfoy.

When Malfoy began to cast, it was as though every hair on Harry’s body stood to attention—as though someone had called his name and started cooking his favorite thing to eat at once. Harry had fought the temptation to take a step forwards, astonished. He knew that nothing like that had ever happened before.

His first thought was that Malfoy had cast some spell that forced Harry to respond to him like a child, but when Harry glared at him, he found Malfoy too involved in the failure of his Patronus Charm to take any pleasure in Harry’s confusion. He certainly would have been watching and smirking if he’d cast a spell like that, so Harry was forced to conclude that it was something else.

When Malfoy finally grew too disappointed at his non-success to hide his disappointment and whirled around, Harry was busy with a question that should put aside his temper tantrum. “Why do I feel comfortable when you use your magic?” he demanded.

Malfoy blinked, shut his mouth, opened his mouth, and then said, “Because our magic is compatible.”

“I never felt anything like that at school,” Harry argued, and then blinked himself. “What’s compatible magic?”

“Of course you didn’t.” Malfoy sneered at him. Harry found himself relaxing. He’d missed that expression when Malfoy looked frustrated, the way that Harry remembered feeling when Remus tried to teach him the Patronus Charm. Malfoy had looked too human.

(Remus, said the sharp voice of his grief, and tried to drag him underwater and into a fit of memory. Harry resisted. He didn’t have the time to have a fit in front of Malfoy and explain to him everything that involved. Fuck, he hadn’t had time to explain it to Ron and Hermione yet).

“You would only feel my magic like that after both of us came of age,” Malfoy explained, and then went on to answer Harry’s second question as well, which was unexpectedly generous of him. “Basically, it means that two wizards have a similarity in their magic. Not a similarity in talent or strength, but a similarity in the way it feels.” He probably saw Harry’s skepticism, because he rolled his eyes. “I didn’t exactly choose to have your magic heal and refresh me either, Potter.”

Harry gnawed his lip. “What are the practical consequences, though?”

Malfoy sounded extremely reluctant, but he answered after a moment. “We can cast together, and combine our magic, in the way that you usually need a ritual to do. But we can only do that after we get used to each other,” he added quickly, as if he thought Harry might want to try it right now. “And we’ll feel stronger and more comfortable in each other’s presences. Usually, wizards with compatible magic become friends.”

Harry laughed. “Well, not much chance of that.”

“Exactly,” Malfoy said, sounding relieved to be rid of the subject. He smiled slightly, which Harry decided definitely should not be encouraged. It made him even more human than the frustration. Ferrets didn’t smile like that. “I consider it an unfortunate coincidence that there should be no reason to encourage. Now. I will return to the Patronus Charm, but I want to see you cast it again first.”

Harry cast it comfortably enough. The stag galloped around the room and then stopped and stood staring at him, waiting for orders. Harry sighed. If he looked long enough, the stag would remind him of the past—his father and the silver doe that had come to lead him to the Sword of Gryffindor.

(The memory of Snape caused the worst fits, but luckily Harry had always been alone when they came. And anyway, he didn’t need to think about them, any more than he needed to think about the rest of the war).

“I think I have it,” Malfoy said, and gathered himself so that he could whip his wand down.

Harry watched it and thought about asking whether the compatibility of their magic had made it easier for him to use Malfoy’s wand.

But that wasn’t something they wanted to pursue or which had anything to do with their being in the Aurors. So why should he care about it?

If I’m going to be here, then I need to rededicate myself to the purpose of protection and defense, anyway, and not go wandering down side-paths of speculation about Malfoy. He’s not that interesting.

Chapter Five.

Comments

[lomonaaeren.livejournal.com]

Thank you!

I think Draco is latching onto the first person who shows an interest in him, but then, that's partially the fault of the other instructors for not showing much interest in him, and partially Draco's for not seeking out other people like that.

You'll get more detail on Harry's fits very soon.

Eventually, Draco will get a Patronus form.