Chapter Four of 'Corybantes'- Pensieve Thoughts and Pensive Thoughts

[lomonaaeren]

Title: Corybantes (4/10 or 12)
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence, OC character death, profanity, sex, mentions of random fetishes and suicide. Ignores the DH epilogue.
Summary: A mysterious death has occurred at Draco Malfoy’s club, Corybantes, which specializes in using magic to make its clients’ deepest fantasies come true. As Auror Harry Potter investigates, he finds himself admiring Malfoy’s courage and determination in achieving success. Which could be a problem, as there’s a fairly large chance that Malfoy is the murderer.
Author’s Notes: Corybantes were servants of the goddess Cybele who worked themselves up into ecstatic trances with drumming and dancing. Though applying to a different kind of ecstasy, it seemed a fairly good name for Draco’s club. This story will be about ten or twelve chapters long.

Chapter One.

Thank you again for all the reviews!

Chapter Four—Pensieve Thoughts and Pensive Thoughts

Harry watched carefully as Malfoy touched his wand to his temple and drew out a strand of memory that he deposited in the Pensieve in the center of the table. Malfoy could whirl around and cast a curse at Harry with his wand at that angle; nothing easier.

And maybe he would, since he seemed to have taken such a blow from those careless words of Harry’s earlier. The only thing Harry could do was stand ready and counteract the curse the moment he saw it flying.

But Malfoy stepped back and into the corner when he finished. He stared at the Pensieve, sighed, and turned his head by slow degrees to face Harry. “There’s the memory of what I saw in the room where Keatson died,” he said simply. “Go ahead and look at it, though I don’t know if you can discover anything to help you.”

Harry nodded. “Thank you.” His voice was clipped, but he couldn’t help that. He was struggling between regret at having hurt Malfoy and confusion over what else he was supposed to do. Malfoy had acted as though Harry had flung himself at his feet and begged for his tender attentions. It was distracting and stupid. Harry just wanted to get through the case and leave the club again. Malfoy had to have known that, since Harry’s distaste had been obvious from the first minute he entered Corybantes.

You can tell people what’s wrong as clearly as you can and still no one listens to you, Harry thought as he stepped up to the Pensieve.

He had never lost his dislike of ducking his head into someone else’s memories, since fifth year when he had invaded Snape’s and discovered more than he wanted to. But this was far from the worst thing about this case, so he did it.

There was the usual spinning and falling sensation, and then he came back to himself in a corridor outside the room Keatson had used. Shadow was looking anxiously at Malfoy, who had sprinted up to the door and was examining it with a frown. Harry could see other employees of the club behind him, one with a lizard’s crest, one with white fur all over her face, and one with a lion’s tail and scraping goat’s hooves that made Harry think uneasily of unicorn fetishists.

“The wards couldn’t have fallen and let someone inside,” Malfoy said. “That’s not possible.”

His voice was brisk and decisive, his face mobile with emotion as he looked between Shadow and the door. Harry was startled. Malfoy had never looked or sounded like that in front of him since he came to Corybantes. In fact, he seemed to go out of his way to be languid and decadent, or else more fervent in a way that rang all sorts of alarms in Harry’s mind.

That means he’s not being honest with me about his emotions. Not that he has to tell me everything he feels. But what’s the point of a deception that artistic?

Shadow leaned forwards and timidly touched Malfoy’s arm. “Do you think you should go in, sir? I mean, if you—”

She flushed and fell silent under the look that Malfoy cast her. Harry nodded slowly. So even when I’m not around, there are things he doesn’t want to talk to her about. Interesting.

“It’s my duty to see for myself,” said Malfoy softly, firmly, and then opened the door and stepped into the room.

Harry wondered if the body would be moved; it seemed that Shadow had already found it and then fetched Malfoy. But Keatson lay on the floor with his eyes turned up towards the ceiling. The blood around him was still fresh, and sparkled on his robes and the floor. The gaping wound in his throat looked no different from the way that Harry had seen it, except for the blood actually flowing from it.

Harry narrowed his eyes. There was one thing that he hadn’t expected, though given the non-specificity of the descriptions from Shadow and Malfoy, they could have told him about it and he might have assumed they meant something else. A long blood smear covered the floor behind Keatson, as if he had been dragged across the ground on his front before someone flipped him over. At least, Harry couldn’t imagine that there would be that much blood, thick as paint, in the smear unless it had come directly from the throat wound.

He walked forwards to look at the smear while Malfoy sighed and gave orders about cleaning up the room. If necessary, he would rewatch the memory to take note of Malfoy’s exact words and the expression on his face, but so far it didn’t sound like anything that he hadn’t expected.

The smear was easily a foot wide, and pointed like an awkwardly angled arrow at Keatson’s neck. Harry whistled through his teeth. He had a new possibility for how Keatson had died now, which the position of the throat wound had prevented him from seeing at first: he might have been facing his attacker and even struggled with him, then fallen to the floor with the blood literally spouting from the vein.

Shadow was the one who came forwards to magic the blood up. Harry turned to look over her ducking head and saw Malfoy standing with his arms folded as he looked down at Keatson. His face was bleak, but Harry didn’t see shock in the lines around his eyes.

He sighed once, and murmured something that Harry couldn’t make out and doubted he could even if he rewatched the memory. Then he stooped over the body and studied the robes and the blood for a moment.

This time, Harry was close enough to hear Malfoy’s words, which were soft but not quite a whisper. “Fantasy wasn’t enough to satisfy you in the end. I hope that you’re finally satisfied, and that your afterlife, if there’s such a thing, is happier than your life.” He let his hand reach out until his fingers hovered over Keatson’s cheek, though he didn’t actually touch the skin, and then gave him a small bow and stood up.

Harry snorted. That doesn’t sound like someone who was surprised that Keatson died.

Which meant that Malfoy might have been lying all along.

If he’s trying to protect someone in his club who did the killing just so he can keep Corybantes open, I’m going to kill him.

Harry shut his eyes as a whirling surrounded him, marking the end of the memory. He would have to ask Malfoy about his words, but he would try to do it without making the words harsh enough to wound him again.

If I only knew why my words wounded him in the first place.

*

Harry lifted his head from the Pensieve and shook his hair back from his face. Then he turned to Malfoy and opened his mouth for the first question.

Malfoy’s expression silenced him. In the time that Harry was viewing his memories, Malfoy seemed to have recovered his pride. His head was lifted as though he intended to break empires with his chin, and his hands were clasped behind his back. He could have been mistaken as courteous if you weren’t familiar with his face. But Harry had learned a good deal about that in the last few days.

“I don’t deserve to be scolded and taunted by you, Potter,” Malfoy said, his eyes glittering with cold light, his voice soft and light as snowfall. “I think from now on, we should confine our discussion purely to the topic of the case.”

It was what Harry had asked for. It was what he had thought only a short time ago he would have been grateful for.

But now an unexpected sense of loss shivered through him, and it was another moment before he could decide how to respond.

“I want to know why you spoke to Keatson as if you knew that he was likely to die someday,” Harry said. “You told him that fantasy wasn’t enough to satisfy him in the end. Why did you say that? It implies that you know how he died or at least why, and yet you told me that the fantasies in the rooms couldn’t kill the clients.” By the end of the speech, Harry’s confidence had come back. Malfoy’s reserve should have been present from the beginning. They would get along just fine now that he was behaving like a business owner unfortunately implicated in a crime instead of someone who wanted to—

What?

Despite Malfoy’s speech, Harry had to admit that he still didn’t know what the point of Malfoy’s little drama had been. He might have fantasies about Harry’s friendship, but he couldn’t think they would translate into reality in this particular situation, surely? Not when Harry had to suspect him and some of the people connected to Corybantes?

Harry meant what he had said: if he had met Malfoy outside the case, then he would have been more open to offers of friendship. But not when there was a dead body between them to make things so much more complicated.

“I meant what I said.” Malfoy’s voice was low. “I sometimes suspected that Keatson would destroy himself. I simply never thought that he would manage to use our club to do so.”

Harry blinked. “You told me that your fantasies couldn’t kill or permanently harm your clients no matter what happened.”

“They cannot.” Malfoy was standing very still now, and Harry suspected that he was trying to hold in frustrations of his own. “However, that would not prevent Keatson from trying to figure out a way around them. And the magic is experimental.” His nostrils flared. “It hasn’t been used long enough to work out every loophole. I tested it for the effects on our clients, our employees, and myself, and was not satisfied without meticulous research. That doesn’t mean that someone who was determined enough couldn’t have researched a way around my research, or noticed something about the interaction of spells that I didn’t.”

Harry restrained a shout at Malfoy, but it was difficult. “Why didn’t you tell me that at once? It would have saved me needless worry about you and Shadow and given a new direction to the investigation.”

“It was a conclusion that came to me just now, as I watched you with your head in my memories, and combined the new thought with my observation of Keatson’s behavior over the last several months.” Malfoy’s voice was cool. “May I have access to my memories now?” He brushed past Harry and extended his wand to pick up the silvery strand of thought.

Harry bristled but moved out of the way, because he wasn’t about to risk a physical confrontation with Malfoy right now.

“It was never my intention to scold or taunt you,” he told Malfoy’s back. “It was my intention to solve the goddamn case. Anything that gets in the way of that is a distraction that I can’t afford. And neither can you, if you actually want to keep Corybantes open and help people with their fantasies the way you said you did.”

Malfoy didn’t turn around or respond for long minutes, as though the process of fishing the memory out of the Pensieve was more complicated than it looked. Harry waited. He intended to look through Keatson’s personal effects, now that he had certain reasons to suspect suicide, and they would still be there when Malfoy turned to face him.

Then Harry started wondering why it was so important to for him to get Malfoy to face him, and he had to admit, with a small squirm, that he didn’t exactly know.

Very well, I do know. I want to understand Malfoy, and I want to apologize for hurting him, or see some acceptance of my apology. I can’t do that as long as he’s looking away from me.

Malfoy leaned an elbow on the Pensieve when he finally deigned to look at Harry. His eyes were deep and serious, and they searched Harry’s face in a way that made him uneasy. He straightened and pushed his hair behind his ears, then told himself that was a nervous gesture and he had no reason to make it. He dropped his hand and tried to look serious and professional.

“I have it on good authority,” Malfoy said, his voice colder than Harry had heard it since Hogwarts, “that the famous Harry Potter hasn’t taken a holiday since he joined the Ministry. I know that he hasn’t tried to take one, either. I know that no one knows him anymore, and the papers write stories about how cold and brooding he is. They weave a romantic fantasy around it, talking about their hero’s scarred soul and how he needs that special someone to melt his heart and move into it.” Malfoy sneered. “I deal in fantasies, Potter. I know exactly how much that one is worth.”

Harry frowned at him. “I’m glad you do. I have taken holidays sometimes in the past. I was just usually called back from them early. Tell anyone you see spreading that lie that you know better, from me.”

Malfoy shook his head. “I was speaking of that lie about your being a romantic, lonely hero. I know the difference between someone like that and someone who is cold and closed-off because he hasn’t bothered to let any human interaction into his life in years.”

“I have friends,” Harry said shortly. “I’m a godfather. I have co-workers in the Ministry I’m close to.” He thought of walking away, or of telling Malfoy that he had no right to this information, but either might jeopardize the investigation, and Kingsley wouldn’t like either of them. “You don’t know me any better than the papers do.”

“Maybe before you came here, I didn’t,” Malfoy said. “But I’ve seen hundreds of people walk into Corybantes with that little lost sheep look on their faces. They don’t know what they want when they come through that door.” He had straightened, and his voice had grown smoother and nobler. “One of the most beautiful things that we do here is teach them.”

“I keep telling you,” Harry said, feeling his control grow more fragile and crack as Malfoy recovered his. “I’m not a client. If you stopped trying to relate to me like I was, then maybe both of us would get ahead in this case.”

“But you could be,” Malfoy said. He paused, his eyes darting over Harry as though he could see something more behind his face than what Harry wanted to show him, and then added, “And I think you should become one.”

Harry swore under his breath. He allowed himself that indulgence because he knew he would explode otherwise, and that would set the investigation back further. “You keep letting this get in the way of telling me the truth and cooperating with me,” he said, when he could manage words that weren’t obscenities. “And I told you, I have to solve the murder first. I owe that to Keatson, and to Kingsley, who put me on the case himself.”

“And what about what you owe yourself?” Malfoy whispered.

Harry paused. He was so angry that he had expected words to come to his lips immediately, but they didn’t. He frowned uneasily, knowing how Malfoy would interpret that.

“I can’t answer that question,” he said at last, when Malfoy’s lips had curved in a smug grin that seemed to creep further and further up the sides of his face. Harry turned around and started towards the door of the club. “I assume that the people responsible for keeping Keatson’s documents know about the connection to the club?” he added over his shoulder. “I don’t want to betray any information that’s secret.” He knew the question was stupid as he spoke it—after all, Corybantes was the place Keatson had died, so his executors knew about that if nothing else—but he needed some time to recover himself.

“You don’t know the answer to that question because you’re a coward.”

Harry stopped, his shoulders rising in irritation. He told himself that he should keep marching. What was there in Malfoy’s words but one more insult? He didn’t have to listen to it; he didn’t have to admit it had any influence over him. He could leave, and Malfoy would realize he had said something stupid and have to consider it.

But for some reason, he couldn’t choose to depart, any more than he could choose about having a hook embedded in his flesh. Malfoy’s words had caught him that powerfully. Harry turned around and tried uselessly to keep his face smooth as he said, “Tell me why I’m a coward.”

Malfoy detached himself from the Pensieve and slinked towards Harry. His eyes were bright with a cat-like satisfaction, and even though he didn’t touch Harry this time, he didn’t need to. His gaze was as heavy as a touch.

“Because you’ll probe into hard truths as long as they concern other people,” he said. “You don’t want to think critically about the choices you’ve made or what they’ve cost you. You don’t want to change your behavior when it might be hurtful.”

Harry felt his mouth fall open slightly. That was not at all what he had expected Malfoy to say. Among other things, it seemed impossible that he should have hurt Malfoy that much, since this was only his second day of investigation into the crime. And he doubted that Malfoy knew or cared about anything he might have done in the last few years to hurt Ron, Hermione, or Kingsley.

“Look,” he said at last. “I have thought long and hard about how I have to handle my emotions. I’ve seen enough horrible things that I wouldn’t survive if I just went about blathering my feelings with an open mouth and sobbing because I wanted to shed tears. I know that there’s a cost to it. But the cost would be worse if I was open.”

“Be open in private, then,” Malfoy said, and his voice had turned smoky with intensity. “Show the world the hard Auror they need to see, and keep your private self for those who can appreciate it.” He was still five feet away, but Harry felt the pressure on him as if the distance separating them was a few inches. “For me.”

Harry wanted to laugh, to scoff, to march away, or to give Malfoy a serious speech about how that was impossible while he still had to suspect Malfoy of lying or at least of preventing Shadow from telling Harry the truth. But the answer was so unexpected that he stood there, blinking, and didn’t give the absolute denial that he should have.

“It doesn’t matter what your fantasies are,” Malfoy said, his face pinched and hungry, like someone who’d stood next to a feast for hours while he was starving. “I’ve seen worse. Besides, I don’t believe you could ever have revolting fantasies.” His voice was caressing, and he leaned forwards as if he wanted to stroke Harry’s arm, but didn’t actually do so. “I’ve hosted people more paranoid than you are, too. You wouldn’t have to worry about your secrets escaping to the outside world through me or any of my employees.”

Harry cleared his throat. “It’s tempting, Malfoy.” It had to be tempting, or he would have found his inner balance and moved away by now. And fuck, he did have that bloody ache that wanted expression of some private emotions, wanted to lie still and trust that the person holding him would not betray him.

He would give a lot for a good massage, for that matter, where he could just concentrate on the loosening of his muscles in a way that he couldn’t when his mind was running on the case for the next day.

The case.

His discipline rescued him from an indulgence that he knew he couldn’t afford. Harry opened his eyes and shook his head. “But not while I’m on an investigation,” he said. “And not—I don’t think you would want to see me around here.”

Malfoy’s face closed, and he stepped back again. “What have I said since you’ve entered my doors that has given you that impression? If anything, the impression I wanted you to take is the opposite one.”

“I did hurt you with what I said,” Harry said quietly. “And there’s nothing I can offer you in return, except money, which you seem to have plenty of.” Malfoy’s face grew longer and more strained. Harry shrugged. “My fantasies aren’t elaborate. I don’t want to change myself into an animal, like Shadow, or have wild sex against a wall. There wouldn’t be much for you to do or arrange for me.”

“Even that is more than I knew before,” Malfoy said, and licked his lips. “Thank you, Potter. I have a much better idea now of why you wouldn’t consent to come to Corybantes.” He stepped around Harry as if he was going back to his office, then bent and brought his lips near his ear. “And a much better idea of how to make sure that you do consent.”

Harry shivered and folded his arms. “You give off a creepy air at times, you know,” he said, in an attempt to turn the conversation light again. “I wondered whether you were drugged or hadn’t had enough sleep when I was questioning Shadow.”

“I had been dreaming of you too long,” Malfoy said, his voice smooth. “When I realized that my dream was close to me, in the flesh, I’m afraid I acted like an idiot. I didn’t think about how that would look to someone who of course hadn’t shared the same dreams with me, who didn’t even know that I had them.”

“You dreamed about me?” Harry’s words croaked. He was half-convinced that he’d moved into a surreal world where the opposite of what he expected happened every day. He’d probably go around the corner and see Ron in the embrace of a lamia next.

“You hadn’t picked that up by now?” Malfoy’s hand slid down onto his shoulder and squeezed. “I’m not sure if I’m more displeased or startled by your innocence.”

Harry tensed and stepped away. Malfoy dropped his hand at once and stood looking at him, instead of trying to pursue him and pressing the matter. Harry shook his head, feeling as if his breath were coming short, though he knew that in reality he was breathing as freely as ever. “I don’t—I have no idea what you want me to say. This is a shock, Malfoy.” His voice was rising, and he cut it off with a little huff.

“I know,” Malfoy said. His eyes looked enormous again, but this time, from the small smile that he wore, Harry thought he was simply having trouble containing his excitement. “But I’ve told you now. It’s up to you what to do about it. Of course you don’t have to come to Corybantes simply to indulge my fantasies. I’d much prefer it if you came to indulge your own.” He took a step away, with a smirk fastened in place.

“I couldn’t live up to your fantasy,” Harry said, snatching at straws, because the thought that Malfoy would be satisfied by him was stranger than the thought that Malfoy wanted him. “I couldn’t compare with your dreams.”

“Why don’t you let me,” Malfoy asked, his voice deepening, “be the judge of that?” He winked at Harry, and this time left the corridor.

Harry shut his eyes and slapped lightly at his own cheek. Corybantes was a place of dreams, but for fuck’s sake, that was no excuse for falling into those dreams when he visited the club.

The slap didn’t wake him up. He still stood there in the heated dark and listened to groans and gasps and distant laughter, and coped with the fact of being someone’s fantasy.

But even that didn’t make sense, he thought as he left. He’d known he was plenty of people’s fantasies, and he hadn’t reacted like this. What Malfoy had said and did to him made sense now.

What didn’t was his own response.

Chapter Five.