Chapter Six of "Ragnarok": Clash

[lomonaaeren]

Chapter Five.

Title: Ragnarok (6/12)
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairings: Harry/Draco
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Heavy violence, gore, sex, angst, manipulation, discussion of suicide, arguably Dark versions of both characters. Ignores the epilogue.
Summary: Draco Malfoy, at thirty, is the youngest member of the Wizengamot. He thinks he has achieved the highest political power of which he’s capable—until he learns the secret of Ragnarok, the elite corps of wizards who deal with “unsolvable” problems for the Wizengamot.
Author’s Notes: This will be, I think, a fairly short story, somewhere between 12 and 15 chapters, and perhaps even shorter than that. It involves fairly cynical versions of the characters. The title is the name of the event that, in Norse mythology, was supposed to kill the gods.

Chapter One.


Thank you again for all the reviews!

Chapter Six—Clash

“Mr. Malfoy. What are you doing here?”

Draco smiled and dipped his head to Gilfleur as though it was a coincidence that he had run into her at Atlas’s, the most exclusive restaurant in wizarding London. “Madam,” he said. “Don’t mind me. I realized that I hadn’t had the eels here in years. It was a treat that I couldn’t readily afford for some time, of course, and I’m afraid that dreams might have made it more delicious in my head than it could ever be in reality. But I had to try.”

Gilfleur half-relaxed, though Draco could see the careful way she kept her hands at her sides, as if she would have to snatch her wand out of her pocket. “The eels are still very good,” she said. “But I didn’t expect to see you here so soon after you joined the Wizengamot.”

Draco raised a curious eyebrow. “Why not?”

He watched Gilfleur struggle with that for a moment. He was sure it had to do with money and that carefully cultivated image of half-genteel poverty he’d come up with, but of course Gilfleur could hardly say that. She had expected him to turn his head to the side, politely allowing the hint without commenting on it.

“I don’t know,” Gilfleur said, and she seemed to have decided to play the innocent rather than apologize. Her eyes widened and her teeth all but flashed at him. “At any rate, I hope that you enjoy your meal.” She bowed to him and started to turn away.

Draco moved his lips as if repeating her words to himself. If she glanced over her shoulder at him, that was all she should see.

In reality, he was repeating a spell he had studied over the past few days and practiced until he could do it without his wand. He stood in place, watching her go as if admiring the swish of her blue-green robe, and awaited the result.

The spell briefly made Gilfleur’s shoulders glow as if the light had caught on a particularly bright thread in her robes. One reason Draco had chosen to use this one instead of another was the subtlety of it. That spark, and the spell rebounded back to Draco, carrying the information that he needed.

Yes.

Draco smiled, tilted his head, and allowed himself to close his eyes for a second in enjoyment of the sweet victory. Then the waiter came to lead him to his table, and Draco followed willingly, wishing only that he had someone he trusted enough to dine with right now and explain to. He could explain to Potter, but having him appear in public, in an area that contained a Wizengamot member, would have taken more planning than Draco wanted to expend for such a small and self-indulgent pleasure.

The spell had seen beneath Gilfleur’s defenses, and revealed her little secret to him. It was no wonder that she had become nervous around him after seeing him touch Kellerston.

Gilfleur had been through her own rituals to raise her power.

*

Harry didn’t think he’d slept in a day, though of course it was difficult to judge the passage of time here unless he kept to the strict, day-imitating schedule that the Wizengamot had dreamed up for him. He would sit down or stretch out to sleep, and then he would have to leap to his feet as another possible, cloudy vision of the future exploded across his senses.

Could he do this? Was it possible?

And each time it seemed as though he could answer yes to more and more of the visions.

His magic surged and circled in him, and Harry sometimes spoke to it, asking it wordless questions, ordering it to destroy a tiny patch of carpet or one of the pebbles stuck between the larger stones of the fireplace to make them balance. Each time, it obeyed. And each time, Harry could feel the pull in his groin, the ecstasy that made him groan and pant and stagger.

It had been ten years since someone else had touched him. Harry had never made any attempt to remedy that, either, the same way he had made no serious attempt to see his friends. Why should he, when the magic would kill him soon? And when he was so guilty, and would probably destroy anyone he slept with when his magic became excited or when he discovered them cheating on him?

Now, though, Malfoy had given him another way to look at it. Harry hadn’t done anything to solve those problems because his primary desire was to survive, and he’d become obsessed with that instead, in circumstances that didn’t seem to promise much. He had always been less of a good person than he thought himself.

He wanted to see Malfoy again.

Harry thought of summoning a house-elf, but it was unusual for him, and the last thing he wanted to do right now was ring an alarm in the mind of any Wizengamot member. He would have to wait until his next meal—whenever that was—and demand another message delivered. Or perhaps he would simply tell Malfoy that he was leaving, risky as that was, and direct Malfoy to meet him in Grimmauld Place.

A new shiver ran down his spine, and Harry opened his mouth to taste the air, feeling puzzled for a moment. This pleasure was like and unlike the pleasure he had started to feel when he used his magic slowly.

Then he traced it to its source, or thought he did, when he remembered how he had felt while the house-elf stared up at him, when he pictured Malfoy’s likely expression if Harry tried to give him an order.

He liked the thought of commanding people.

Or part of me does, Harry thought when that single moment of shock had pulsed through him like a sunburst.

I wonder what Malfoy would say to that?

He probably wouldn’t be pleased. He was the one who had begun this association, after all, and he probably thought of himself as still the one in charge. And he was a member of the Wizengamot during the period in wizarding history when it was actually powerful and dangerous. Someone like that wouldn’t be willing to accept a lesser position.

Harry also couldn’t simply say that his magic was more powerful and so he should lead. Malfoy’s magic was weaker but more flexible than his; Harry could only threaten to kill him, while Malfoy could hurt him to the point of death without killing him if he wanted. And Harry knew almost nothing about the political configurations of the outside world except what he had managed to pick up by accident when on his hunting missions and from Ron and Hermione’s letters. He needed someone who could watch out for him.

Harry nodded slowly. He wouldn’t order Malfoy around, then. He would simply make it clear that he was not a helpless tool or a passive one to be fitted to Malfoy’s hand. He had acted like that, but only when he thought there was no hope otherwise. The moment he had some, he was going to grasp his life and change it.

Malfoy and he would be allies, not master and puppet, and not Wizengamot member and executioner, the way Harry had acted with Malfoy’s peers. It would be that way, or Harry would know why not.

*

Draco was still chuckling when he reached home. It was most ironic that Gilfleur had hidden her powers so well that Draco couldn’t find them without a special check, and then had betrayed herself the moment she realized—from seeing Draco reach out and touch Kellerston’s heart; it had to be that, since it was the only display of his extra magic that Draco had made in front of her—that someone else had them, too. Draco would have been interested and tried to find some way to make an alliance, to trade knowledge. Gilfleur could only go to someone she knew had the power to kill inconvenient enemies and demand a death.

Without actually daring to unleash Potter yet. Draco paused thoughtfully inside his front door and allowed his house-elves to remove his cloak while he thought. That was unusual. What could Gilfleur be waiting for? If she was afraid that Draco would learn her secret, or betray it, or compete with her, then she could have killed him before he was warned. After all, she had no idea that he and Potter were allies, and she would have had no reason to think that Potter would refuse her, so ordering him to kill Draco held no risks.

Something to think about, Draco decided, and then noticed one of his elves was bowing and scraping in front of him the way they only did when they bore news that would potentially displease him. He sighed. “What is it, Silpy?”

“I’m here.”

Draco straightened quickly. Potter was striding down the corridor towards him, looking taller than Draco remembered. Although that could come from the aura of power that moved with him, spreading around him like wings or a cloak.

Draco narrowed his eyes and watched Potter speculatively. He wasn’t sure if coming here and moving around like this in the middle of his unshielded magic was a threat, but he didn’t think so. Potter had his face set, but not in an angry way. It seemed as if he had shut his expression like a wall, refusing to allow anything to break him now. One hand was curled at his side, and Draco thought it could as easily reach out as strike. Once or twice, when he had come to a halt in front of Draco, he twitched as though he resented Draco’s scrutiny, but that didn’t have to mean anything.

“Welcome to Malfoy Manor,” Draco said. “May I inquire why you decided to visit me today?”

“The Wizengamot didn’t come,” Potter said. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes such a brilliant green and his pupils so dilated that Draco wondered if he’d drunk something to give him courage. But he could smell nothing on him, and, from the way that Potter’s eyes darted around the room, Draco thought the explanation was simpler: that he hadn’t been in someone else’s house on a visit in a decade. Then Potter took a deep breath as if hearing his thoughts and snapped his gaze back to Draco’s face, keeping it there. “They usually come—I mean, by this time—by this time in the day, I know if they’re going to give me a commission. I didn’t think anyone would miss me.”

“You are undoubtedly right,” Draco said. He wasn’t entirely sure about that, but then, he also didn’t think that any members of the Wizengamot would confront Potter directly if they started to suspect his loyalty. “Welcome.” He reached out and hooked a hand under Potter’s arm. “Would you like to come and have something to drink?”

Potter shook his head, and a glitter of magic, white as light reflected from rippling water, raced along the backs of his hands. “Not a good idea.”

“Perhaps not,” Draco said, as calmly as he could when he felt the magic thrumming beneath Potter’s skin for only the second time. “But you’ll take something to eat, at least. A first taste of the luxury—do pardon the pun—that will be yours when you start coming into your birthright.”

Potter jerked his head to the side like a startled horse, and Draco let him go. Potter stood there in the middle of the corridor, hands twisting so hard that Draco thought he would break a bone. Well, he had healing potions if that happened.

“What is this?” Potter asked abruptly. “What are we working towards? Are you going to—to rule the world, and you need my help? Or is growing your power its own goal? Or is it something else?”

Ah. Draco felt as though he could finally put down a burden he had been carrying for years. He took Potter’s arm again, and this time, Potter let him.

“I’ve been waiting to tell someone that for a very long time,” he said. “Appreciative audiences are so hard to find. Won’t you come and sit down? And while you eat, I’ll talk.”

*

Harry had forgotten what fresh fruit tasted like.

No, wait, that wasn’t true. He had got oranges and apples from the Wizengamot, and sometimes berries in season, or what he assumed was in season, since he wasn’t exactly living in the same world as anyone else.

But it had never tasted the same. It had tasted musty, or it broke apart in his hand before he could get it to his mouth, or the juice was just little drops instead of the long streams that broke through when his teeth pierced the skin of this fruit. Harry suspected that he wasn’t being rational or making a fair comparison; maybe this fruit tasted so much better because it was eaten in freedom rather than as a slave.

But that didn’t matter to him. He didn’t have to care. He devoured the strawberries, raspberries, slices of orange, and slices of melon that Malfoy offered him, and had to fight the temptation to lick his hands afterwards rather than wipe them off, especially when the house-elves brought in bread so thickly drizzled with butter and honey that Harry was hard put to find the taste of the scone underneath them. The food was sweet, and plentiful, and fulfilling, and Harry ate and ate, with no sense that he could only have what the house-elf provided him and he was selfish to ask for anything else.

And he listened.

Malfoy leaned back in his chair on the other side of the small table, watching Harry with a faint smile as he ate. Harry glared at him now and then, hoping to show Malfoy that he couldn’t buy Harry with a good meal. But Malfoy’s smile never had a trace of contempt, only of wistfulness, as if he wished that he could enjoy the food as much himself.

Or as if he thinks that I should have had this long since.

Harry shrugged, a little uncomfortably, and snagged another scone from the mess of butter and honey, leaning back to listen again. Malfoy had already told him, in more detail, how he had struggled to master the rituals that would grant him extra power, how he had risen and started working towards the Wizengamot once he saw all the political strength was tending that way, how he had watched others fail around him and learned from their mistakes. But he hadn’t yet got to the question Harry had asked him.

Perhaps that had been on purpose, now that Harry thought about it. He wasn’t sure that he could have listened properly before now.

“What do I want?” Malfoy stirred one finger around the outside of his glass and met Harry’s eyes with wide, bright ones. “No less than to be the strongest wizard in the world. I want to stand at the highest point, look out, and know that no one can challenge me. Simple, you might think, but it’s not as simple in practice. There are natural deficiencies in my talent to be overcome, and my training, and my temperament. It took me years to realize that while magical power was one way of measuring strength, it wasn’t the only one, that I had to have political skills and money to go along with that.”

“I thought you didn’t have that much money,” Harry muttered, leaning back with a dish of strawberries and cream, as his mind locked onto rumors that he’d heard a few years ago.

“Illusion,” Malfoy said. “I have enough to buy luxuries and make bribes. More than that, no, not yet. A lot of it has gone on the rituals. But I’m much less poor than I would lead people to believe—one reason that I almost never invite them to the Manor.” He paused, fingers stroking the bubbles that covered the top of his glass. Harry wasn’t sure what he was drinking and wasn’t sure why he should care. “And what do you want?”

Harry glanced quickly at him, to see if this was a joke. But Malfoy’s gaze was steady and inviting, and he looked as if he would believe almost anything Harry said.

Harry swallowed once and then murmured, “Freedom. I—didn’t realize how much I wanted that until you started talking about it, but then I ventured out yesterday after we spoke. I went to a shielded place and used my magic to destroy a few objects there, but it wasn’t enough. So I commanded my magic to destroy something slowly, and that worked. It worked. I realized that I didn’t have to stay behind wards all the time if I wanted to keep the rest of the world safe. I want to walk where I wish, and do what I want, and do other things with my magic than simply destroy, as exciting as that could be.” He swallowed the last strawberry with regret, closing his eyes so that he could savor the tingle on his tongue.

“You deserve to have that,” Malfoy said, and his voice was warm. “I think our desires complement each other. Be powerful, and you can never be made a slave.”

Harry opened his eyes. His head was clearing somewhat from his daze of pleasure. “How does that work, though? If you want to be the most powerful wizard in the world, then you’ll need any ally, even me, to be second-best.”

Malfoy’s eyes were enormous in the firelight, the grey irises flickering with the dancing flames. He reached out and Harry took his hand as though he had planned to clasp it. Malfoy pulled him closer, closer, until Harry had to rise to his feet and take a step forwards or risk upsetting the little table between them. Malfoy had stood up at the same time and put his drink down, though Harry hadn’t realized that.

Now he brought his hand around so that his wrist rested against the back of Harry’s neck and whispered, “I could tolerate an equal. As long as there is no one stronger than me. I need to stand highest. I don’t need to stand alone.”

He called his magic to the surface of his skin again.

Harry shut his eyes. This was what he had wanted, he thought in a rush of feeling like falling out of a cloud into midair, more than he had wanted freedom or control of his magic in the last few days or a good meal. He had wanted to touch Malfoy again while the fire leaped through him, this holy fire that advanced and retreated and rose and spiraled around him in a shining gyre.

Malfoy sighed. Harry couldn’t tell what he was feeling. He didn’t care. He reached out and laid his hands on Malfoy’s arms, sinking his fingers deep.

The fire danced into his hands.

Harry gasped. Shimmering curtains of heat swayed around him, parting and stroking against his skin like gauzy cloth, billowing and sighing. Harry tilted his head back while keeping his hands in place, bending towards the floor, trying to understand how the heat he was only used to in his groin could be throbbing from every part of his body at once.

He felt like a polished jewel, the light of magic reflecting off his facets, turning his body to colored glass.

“Potter,” Malfoy choked. Harry opened his eyes and stared up at those hot grey eyes so far away, and wondered what Malfoy was feeling from him. Surely not the same thing, because Harry couldn’t control his magic the same way.

But it was enough to make a curl of brilliant blue flame emerge from his throat as Harry watched.

Harry surged back upright and captured Malfoy’s lips, sticking his tongue into Malfoy’s mouth to pursue that curl of flame. Malfoy cried out into his throat and seized him, pulling him so near that Harry’s head ached from the proximity. They swayed back and forth, supported by magic or the table or the chairs; Harry could feel only a solid, real presence near them, not tell what it was.

Malfoy turned then and laid Harry down. Harry went willingly, because he could cling to Malfoy and bring him with him, so that they lay there, chest to chest.

The magic hissed around them, and warbled, and twined, and Harry found himself on a pile of shifting scarlet snakes, dazzles of light vibrating past his eyes. He opened his legs, clasped them shut against Malfoy’s hips, and arched up.

Malfoy closed his eyes with a shaky groan. The fluttering of his lashes complemented the flashes of radiation Harry could see working through his veins. He opened his mouth and clamped it onto Malfoy’s throat like a vampire.

Malfoy shuddered and huffed above him, hands flying across Harry’s sides. Harry was the one in control here, the one anchored, despite lying beneath Malfoy. He laughed and felt the scrape of scales across his skin before he humped his hips forwards crudely but powerfully, once, twice, again.

Malfoy was shaking. Harry knew his orgasm was coming.

And the magic came with it.

The fire rushed out of the hearth and whirled around them both, spinning a net of crimson weighted with gold at the corners. Malfoy’s body grew so warm beneath Harry’s hands that he would have had to let him go in pain if not for the delighted answer of his magic, which felt destruction around it and knew it could rise. Their powers reached out and grabbed each other, familiar as two hands, as the Floo powder and the power that would swing Harry through the fire to his destination.

His body was afire. Harry could feel his skin crisping and curling away, his bones bursting apart in explosions of heat. His back arched again and again, out of his control, simple spasms. His legs were having convulsions, and he wasn’t in control anymore. The magic gathered itself and sprang, using its claws to tear and rasp at him, and he came as if he was dying, as if he was splitting, as if he was burning.

The pleasure was so intense that it spun him apart. Harry shattered into stars, into sparks, on a dark background. He descended into nothingness, accompanied only by the keen sensation of his own helpless whimpers.

He opened his eyes into stillness.

Malfoy lay sprawled on top of him, mouth open, head hanging. His blond hair clung to his cheeks, plastered there. Harry tried to pull a strand of it away and found he couldn’t. Malfoy grunted and stirred in discomfort, blinking hard. His eyes were stuck shut with what looked like powdered diamonds.

Harry turned his head.

They didn’t lie in the midst of desolation, but it was bloody close. The furniture around them was scorched, the carpet gaping with black holes. Stones had been shredded loose from the fireplace, and the walls were scored with the passage of their flight. The curtains on the windows had blown away. Harry looked down and realized they were lying on the remnants of the small table, which had become a few exhausted snakes.

“Wow,” he whispered.

Malfoy looked down at him. Harry met his gaze, fearless for the first time in years.

*

Draco had not intended to destroy one of the finest rooms in the Manor. He had not intended to have sex with Potter, for that matter, or do anything but touch him with a bit of his magic to show him what could be.

But for the first time in more than a decade, he had tasted a new form of power. And his heart was alive in his chest with something keener and hotter and more painful than joy.

He said nothing, because words could not convey what he felt, but simply coiled his tongue around Potter’s lips and let that be his answer.

Comments

[absynthedrinker]

Holy Moses! That was stunning! Sexy,smart and magical. Wonderful!

Peace,
Bubba