Chapter Twelve of 'Corybantes'- Epiphanies and Persuasions

[lomonaaeren]

Title: Corybantes (12/12)
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!

This is the last part of Corybantes. I hope you enjoyed it.

Chapter Twelve—Epiphanies and Persuasions

Draco opened his eyes slowly, as though his eyelids weighed far more than Harry knew they did. Harry clenched his hands tightly on the blanket and tried to look as calm as he could. His heart was beating in his ears rather than his chest, it felt like, and his muscles had a tension in them that not even a second massage could have soothed away, but he thought he had succeeded fairly well—

Until Draco looked up and met, and held, his gaze.

The tension between them pulled harder and tighter, instead of smoldering. Harry thought he could feel chains connecting them. Any moment now, Draco would try to buck and fight against those chains, and then Harry would have to lunge for his wand and immobilize him, and then this little interlude would be at an end.

And you will never know what you could have had with him.

Harry dismissed the sadness he felt at that ruthlessly. He wouldn’t let a criminal escape simply because that criminal had been good to him. He had to be an Auror, because it was only too obvious now that his attempt to be something else had been based on false promises.

And then Draco sighed, and dipped his head shakily, and reached out a hand to place it on Harry’s shoulder. “Oh, thank God,” he whispered. “You know. I was wondering how I would confess that.”

Harry froze again. He had no idea what he was feeling at this moment, or what he was supposed to feel. He was empty and hollow and he simply looked at Draco’s hand on his shoulder and then back into his face and waited for the explanation.

“Of course you don’t understand,” Draco said. His face and his voice were soft, if feverish, and he drew Harry to him and rolled them half-over on the pillow so that Harry’s neck and head were comfortably supported, partially by his arm and partially by a pillow. “Why should you? But relax, and I’ll tell you.”

Harry swallowed. “I don’t—I can’t condone a murder, Draco.”

“I know that.” Draco stooped over him, his eyelids fluttering and his color high. Harry rushed to remind himself that this was a murderer he was looking at, at least potentially. He hated the fact that he couldn’t repress his inclinations towards Draco the way he would have been able to, once. “Please. Just listen to me and you’ll understand.” Draco paused and smiled wryly. “It’s a good thing that I have at least some practice in explaining this. I had to tell Shacklebolt about it before it happened.”

“Shacklebolt.” Harry’s voice was hollow and dead, too.

“Oh.” Draco sighed and gnawed his lip. Harry could see traces of annoyance around his eyes. It was perversely comforting. “Yes, I reckon that will be the most difficult thing for you to accept. Shacklebolt knew about Keatson, and everything that his fantasies entailed. When I realized that Keatson sought death and would do anything to achieve it, I spoke to Shacklebolt and described the danger.”

Harry shut his eyes. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Why would one man with strange fantasies concern Kingsley that much?” He could at least guess why Draco had spoken to Kingsley at all, and so didn’t have to ask that. This case had been a political one from the beginning, what with the Wizengamot members concerned that their favorite playground might be closing. It would make sense for Kingsley to have been in communication with Draco.

“Keatson almost never spent his money on anything except Corybantes and the most basic necessities of life,” Draco said. “He was wealthy, wealthier than his will probably gave you any idea of. He was paranoid enough to conceal some of his Galleons under false names in multiple vaults, you know. And he easily turned petulant. If I refused him constantly—as I had to do if I wanted to keep him alive—then he was capable of turning his sullenness on the world, and hiring people who would create quite a bit of trouble.”

Harry didn’t need that further described. He had seen what horror could come out of Dark Arts practiced with the pettiest intentions, and there were a group of Dark wizards who hired out as mercenaries to fulfill commissions for wizards who didn’t know evil magic themselves.

Harry shuddered and swallowed. “So what did you tell Kingsley? Or what did he give you permission to do?”

Draco kissed his scar. “I knew you weren’t stupid,” he said, sounding thankful. “Shacklebolt granted me permission to fulfill Keatson’s fantasy, as the best solution to the problem. Of course there would still have to be an investigation, but it was far less damaging than what might have happened.”

“How did it happen?” Harry demanded, opening his eyes. It was hard, but he had to hold Draco’s gaze and see someone there, the real, flawed human being who had allowed Keatson to die, rather than an evil genius or his lover of the past hour. “You owe me the truth about that.”

“I still don’t exactly know,” Draco said. Far too calmly, Harry thought, narrowing his eyes. “My desire either coincided with his, which made the fantasies in the room act to kill him, or, because my desire coincided with his, his magic overpowered the wards on the room and made the fantasies answer to him instead. Either way, it was magic that killed him, in exactly the way he wanted to die. I promise you.”

Harry rubbed his hand against his forehead. Draco caught his hand and kissed that, too, as if he wanted to kiss everything that touched Harry’s scar.

“I don’t—I don’t understand what the point of this was,” Harry said at last, haltingly. “Yes, yes, I know that you had to handle Keatson somehow. But why not tell me about it from the beginning? Kingsley chose me because he relied on my discretion. He could have trusted that I would keep the real reason behind the investigation a secret.”

Draco cocked his head and gave him a small smile. “Did you think I lightly killed one of my clients?” he asked. “Did you think that I lightly agreed to accept the responsibility of making my club a murder scene, when Shacklebolt held that knowledge over me and could blackmail me if he wanted to? No. I demanded a price from him.”

“Well, what, then?” Harry asked, his exasperation stirring out of the deep frost that had seemed to grip his emotions until now. “Because having an unwitting Auror wander around Corybantes strikes me as an odd one.”

“You,” Draco said.

Harry pushed himself to the opposite side of the bed. Draco raised his head, the expression on his face vanishing behind a calm, cold mask. Harry wrapped his arms around himself and flushed when he remembered that he was still only wearing pants.

“I…” Harry said, and bit down savagely on the broken remnants of his trust. “How could you? I thought—”

“Everything I said to you about desiring you, and wanting to help you relax and accept your fantasies, is still true.” Draco’s voice had deepened, and his eyes held that same unnerving look of longing that they had when he confronted Harry after his Polyjuice disguise melted away. “This hasn’t changed any of that. But Shacklebolt and I couldn’t tell you the truth behind Keatson’s death, either, for two reasons. First, I don’t think that you would have accepted it, no matter how discreet you tell me you are, without knowing something about Keatson’s fantasies and the way that Corybantes normally works. It was best to let you discover that on your own.”

“And the second reason?” Harry once again had no idea what to feel, whether he should open his arms to Draco or scrub at his skin to rid himself of Draco’s taint. And he hated that he was considering the first option.

“You would never have agreed if we told you,” Draco said quietly. “Shacklebolt thinks you should relax as much as I do, though I care about you as a person solely and he doesn’t want to lose one of his best Aurors or his friend. Putting you into an environment like this was our best chance to show you that your control was faltering.”

Harry ran his fingers over his scar again. He wished he knew what to do. He hadn’t anticipated a confession like this when he thought that he could trust Draco. He wanted to get out of the bed and accuse Draco of betraying him.

But then he would have to go to Kingsley and accuse him of betraying him, too.

And after what he had seen in Draco’s Pensieve letter…after the way Draco had touched him during the massage…after the look in Kingsley’s eyes as he told Harry to take a holiday, which Harry understood better now…Harry didn’t think he could.

“I don’t like this,” he told the blankets, because something in the room that was not Draco had to understand his helplessness.

Draco put a hand beneath his chin and forced his face up. Harry glared at him, but evidently the glare wasn’t enough to deter Draco from leaning forwards and fastening his lips gently to Harry’s. He didn’t try to introduce his tongue, which Harry was grateful for. He didn’t think he was ready for that right now.

When Draco drew back, he said, “I knew that you might react this way, which is part of the reason I’m glad you thought of it for yourself. I’ll leave if you want me to.” His jaw tightened, and so did his clasp on Harry’s chin, which showed how clearly he didn’t want to. “I’ll let you have the time and the space to think about it. Just as long as you promise that you’re not going to cut me off altogether.”

Harry swallowed. He should probably push Draco out of his bed and roll over and show him his back. He should talk about how his trust had been broken, if not betrayed. He should do all these things that he thought were good and right and noble and self-denying and self-protective.

That he would have thought were good and right and noble and self-denying and self-protective a few hours ago, anyway.

But every fleeting touch of Draco’s hands woke the memory of how they had felt on his back and on his sides, and on his cock. Harry flinched under his internal scathing condemnation of his weakness, but he couldn’t pull away.

I’m weak. I’m stupid. I’m thinking too much about myself.

The fact remained, though, that he had reached the end of his rope, and if Draco went away, then Harry knew he would fall apart again. He shuddered at the thought of going through that by himself, and what he might decide was a good idea if he managed to survive it.

“What have you done to me?” He whispered the question, not sure if it was an accusation or not, leaning forwards to study the way Draco’s eyes darted about. “I can’t—I can’t just roll over and let you do whatever you want, but I can’t send you away, either. Did you cast a mind control spell that weakened me somehow?”

“No,” Draco said. His voice was deep and smug, but that still gave Harry no warning of what he would say before he said it. “There are these things called hormones, you see.”

Harry stared into his face. He was probably being foolish, but he thought he could tell if Draco was lying to him—at least now, when Draco was so open and vulnerable and not at all the mysteriously-acting club owner who had confronted Harry during the first part of the case.

Mysteriously-acting? I wonder if his actions were only strange to me in the same way that my actions were strange to him; we would have understood each other perfectly if we simply understood each other’s mindset.

“I still don’t understand,” Harry said. He kept his voice low. He didn’t know what would happen if he spoke about these things at a normal volume, but he didn’t think he wanted to find out. “Can two days change me so much? I would have been marching you into Kingsley’s office and ordering you confined to Azkaban only yesterday.”

“This change has been coming for a long time,” Draco replied. “I kept enough of an eye on you to realize that you were slowly crumbling under the constant pressure of tackling the worst cases by yourself. That was another reason Keatson’s obsession worked out perfectly for me. I wouldn’t have wanted you to fall apart alone.” He said the words lightly enough, but his hands clamped down on Harry’s arms hard enough that he knew there would be bruises in the morning.

“And what’s your theory about the fact that I’m not taking you to Azkaban right now?” Harry asked. “At least if you’re right and you didn’t cast any mind-altering spells on me.”

Draco’s smile faded and he studied Harry so hard for long moments that Harry squirmed, his face flaming. When Draco spoke again, he was doing it from some deep place within himself that made Harry think this might be harder for him to talk about than his fantasies.

“I wanted to gratify Keatson’s desires. I told you that. But you are the one who’s been the center of my fantasy life for years, appearing in my dreams, with your own private courts of thought inside my mind. This was never about the chance to get Keatson out of the way as much as it was the chance to soothe you and save you and see that you have everything you deserve.”

Harry now very much wished that he’d never asked this question, but crawled underneath the bed and died of embarrassment instead. It felt as though every inch of his skin was taut and hot, and his mouth was burning. But he doubted that this could be harder to pass through than the decision to trust in Draco. He stayed still and waited, while Draco’s voice wavered and descended. At least he’s not perfectly confident, either, Harry thought. At least there’s that.

“I think—I hope—I want to believe that you’ve really changed,” Draco said, “that you’ve fallen apart and realized that yes, I was right and you were dangerously close to losing control of yourself altogether. There’s no going back from a realization like that, not if it’s deep enough. I hope that you’ll decide to move forwards with my help. I think you want that as much as I do, though I’m not sure you can admit it yet.” He paused and pressed a hand to his own burning cheek. “I can barely admit it,” he whispered, “admit how much I want it, how much I’ll despair if it’s not true.”

Harry shuddered and shut his eyes.

He knew what was sensible, what had been sensible since he woke up: denounce Draco and take him in and demand that he stand trial as a murderer. Ultimately, it had been his magic that killed Keatson, whether that magic escaped from his control or not. Draco didn’t seem to think there was a way to find that out. Harry thought there might be.

But that wasn’t what he wanted to do, or, probably, what he could bring himself to do.

Blame it on the sex. Blame it on the orgasm. Blame it on the fact that Harry hated the way his mind felt when it was flying apart and would like to avoid that feeling again for as long as possible.

The fact remained that, just now, just for a space of time that he told himself was tiny but which kept lasting minutes longer than he meant it to, Harry was thinking of what he wanted rather than what he should do.

And even worse than that, a question was appearing in his mind with fierce, quiet insistence that grew worse and worse as he sat there with Draco holding him.

Why not? Who would it hurt if I went after what I wanted for once?

Harry swallowed and opened his eyes. Draco stared at him, then looked away, as if he thought that that would seem too much like he was trying to influence Harry. Harry urged him back with his hands on those flushed cheeks until they were facing each other again. If he had to look at Draco when he was feeling vulnerable and too open, then Draco would have to look at him in the same moment.

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for telling me the truth. Thank you for desiring me the way you did. I think that’s the only way I would ever have had the courage to face what my longings implied. If it was with someone who was less than totally devoted to me, then I would have never trusted them.” He ran his fingers up and down the creases next to Draco’s eye, trying to learn them. “But I can’t live like this.”

“I understand.” Draco sounded as if he was drowning. “Then I’ll leave, and you won’t have to see me again.” His gaze snapped up to Harry’s face suddenly. “Just promise me that you’ll continue living without the barriers, without repressing yourself—”

“I mean that I can’t live with you simply denying yourself for me,” Harry interrupted hastily, before Draco could punish himself any further for a mistake Harry had made. “I want you to have what you want. And yes, I know that fulfilling my fantasies fulfills yours.” That was because Draco had opened his mouth, brow wrinkled. “But I don’t even know if you got to come when you were touching me. I don’t want to go from one extreme to the other, from being completely selfless to completely selfish. Please help me live a balanced life.”

“I came from watching you,” Draco said.

Harry caught his breath, but told himself not to be seduced by the pure passion that seemed to be flaring in Draco’s eyes right now. This was important. He didn’t know if Draco had heard him, but for the moment, he was acting like he hadn’t. Well, Harry refused to let that moment pass.

“I want you as a lover,” he said. “Who wouldn’t, after the way you touched me?” Draco tensed and gave a tiny jerk of his head. Harry went on. “I want you around because I want to get to know you better. And that’s my own desire, I think. I told you, I can’t accept simply devotion and fulfillment. I’m not a customer of Corybantes. I’m—confused. I need your help to figure out what I’m supposed to be doing now.”

Draco tilted his head forwards. His hair fell into his eyes, and Harry no longer found it as easy to tell what he was thinking, which was doubtless one of Draco’s purposes. “You’re not angry about what Shacklebolt and I did, then?” he asked lowly.

“I don’t know yet,” Harry said. “I should be, but I’m not that angry, and I think I’ll need some time to get used to this.” He paused, then added in a meditative tone, “It probably helps that I haven’t liked Keatson since the first time I saw those drawings.”

Draco laughed, then coughed. His hand shook as he ran it in a quick swipe, a swift caress, down the middle of Harry’s chest. “This is what I’ve wanted,” he said. “I feel like I’m being handed a dream.”

“You aren’t,” Harry said, and this time he tried to make every word as sharp and hard as an iron arrowhead. Draco had to pay attention. “You don’t know me, not in the way you think I do. You don’t know whether I’ll be hard to get along with or not when I finally start acting normal again. You don’t know how much I’ll keep of my prudishness and how often I’ll disapprove of Corybantes. You don’t know when I’ll be ready for sex.”

“But I can find out.” Draco leaned nearer and nearer, the smile on his face dazzling. “Which would be hard if I was locked in Azkaban.”

Harry caught his wrists. “And you don’t mind that things are going to change and I won’t be your perfect puppet forever?” he asked, his eyes searching Draco’s face. “If nothing else, I know how you manipulated me into coming to Corybantes, and I’ll be watching for other tricks like that.”

Finally, Draco’s smile faded and he looked appropriately serious. “I realize that,” he said. “I can’t say I’ll never try to trick you again, either. That’s—the way I am. When it seems like the best way to get something, I do it.”

“Then keep in mind that next time I might not forgive you as easily,” Harry said, releasing him. “This time, you and Kingsley happened to be right. But that won’t always be the truth.”

Draco rested his hand on Harry’s chest, above his heart, and seemed to listen to the beat. Then he said, “You don’t understand, Harry. I know that you feel required to give me all these dire warnings, like the responsible adult you are, but I don’t care. I’m too giddy to. I finally have you, and that’s enough.”

Harry opened his mouth to object, but Draco caught his eye and whispered, “Can we ignore it for right now? Can I bask in finally having you? Please.”

Harry didn’t have the heart to deny him, since this was the first purely selfish request that Draco had made of him, and because he felt much the same way. He shouldn’t be rejoicing in this. He should be mature and sober and consider all the consequences of everything.

Draco dipped his head and blinked hard.

Well, fuck. Harry would be mature in the morning.

He leaned forwards and kissed Draco. Draco kissed him back, and draped himself over Harry’s body, closing his eyes. Harry wrapped his arms around him, wondering how well he would get to know the angles of his shoulders and ribs.

A sharp sound at the door caught his attention. Harry turned his head. If a Dark wizard had managed to sneak into his house through the wards, then he would—

Instead, Ron stood there, staring at them both. Harry stared back. Would Ron choose this moment to argue with Harry about vanishing?

Ron gave Harry a gigantic grin and a small bow, then turned and walked out of the room as if he had never meant to intrude.

Harry shuddered once and closed his eyes. This was mad. He half-expected to wake up in one of the fantasy rooms at Corybantes and find out that he had dreamed up everything.

Nothing ended like this—none of his cases, anyway. He wouldn’t stop having nightmares. He would have to return to his job, and he would have to deal with the fact that Draco’s job made him distinctly uncomfortable.

But at the same time, he knew neither he nor Draco had the heart to deny this, and couldn’t do it any more than they could stop having fantasies.

We’ll just have to live with it, I reckon, Harry thought, and fell asleep with a cautious mixture of happiness and confusion.

And perhaps a bit of the sense of coming out of the darkness, at last.

Or finding a haven within it.

End.