Chapter Eight of 'Ragnarok'- Blast

[lomonaaeren]

Chapter Seven.

Title: Ragnarok (8/12)
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 Eight—Blast

Harry couldn’t sleep.

He knew that he should. He had had a much longer and more exciting day than he could remember for years, and if Malfoy decided that he should see his friends tomorrow, Harry wanted to be prepared.

But his chest ached with the breaths he drew, and his head spun whenever he tried to fasten his eyes on something small and innocuous. His body didn’t appear to agree that he needed sleep, so he finally stood up and moved towards the fireplace, arranging the wood in it and blowing on it when the flames flared sullenly.

Everything is going to change.

That was the hardest part to think about, Harry thought, while the magic thrummed and hissed against his skin, playing it like an instrument. He had resigned himself to a dreary monotony, a life in which the people he killed or the artifacts he destroyed didn’t vary enough to make things different even for a day. All things that would have been different enough to be interesting were forbidden him: contact with other people not on the Wizengamot, learning new spells, hobbies.

How long is it since I played Quidditch?

Harry shook his head. It wouldn’t have been possible for him to think of or ask that question a short time ago. Malfoy had swept into his life like a devastating storm and altered the relation of everything to everything else.

Thinking about Malfoy, about the way he had looked when eating and the way he had leaped into the fire, Harry was astonished to feel a stirring in his groin. Well, it was true that he had been left aroused and unsatisfied when Malfoy snogged him the second time, but it had been a long time since he’d had any sexual contact, and one orgasm ought to have pacified his libido for the evening. Or so he’d thought.

I was probably just too depressed to think about sex most of the time.

Harry sat down in the chair that faced the fire, unzipped himself, and began slowly to stroke, letting his mind play like summer lightning over Malfoy’s dazzling smiles, his excitement and eagerness when he spoke of dominating the world, the recklessness with which he’d reached out and claimed his prize from the fire. He had become more like Harry, and Harry was becoming more like him. Maybe that was why he was so attractive.

Think of the way he focused on you as if he really wanted you and not just what you could do for him…

Harry came with a gasp and a flood of stickiness over his fingers that he felt the need to use an immediate Cleaning Charm on, so strange had the sensation become. Then he leaned back in his chair and frowned at the fire.

But he doesn’t really want me. He still wants what I can do for him. He couldn’t perform those rituals alone, and he probably couldn’t keep control of the wizarding world alone, either. Are you sure that you aren’t depending on him too much? Are you sure that you won’t fall in love with him and be left with nothing?

Harry lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. Those thoughts would have paralyzed him a week ago, and he could imagine how they would make Ron and Hermione react. But he didn’t think that he minded all that much if Malfoy was only using him while Harry himself felt something deeper. It wouldn’t be the first time. He had really believed in his job for the Wizengamot for the first year or two, until he realized that they saw him only as a weapon with no mind or morals of his own.

He would take his chances. At least Malfoy offered him a change and the chance to survive, and it was worth a risk to satisfy his deepest desires.

*

“Malfoy. A word.”

“Of course, Risidell,” Draco said, turning around and smiling at his sponsor as the older wizard bustled up behind him. His face was calm and helpful, while in his mind he mentally prepared a number of defenses, depending on whether Risidell was about to accuse him of insufficient support or spending too much time with Potter.

Risidell stood in front of him and glanced over his shoulder. Draco continued to wait with a patient smile, but he badly wanted to roll his eyes. That’s one way to make them notice what you’re doing, even if you can make sure that no one is lurking near. At least learn to look from the corners of your eyes.

“Rumors have reached my ears that you have had conflicts with both Madam Gilfleur and Mr. Kellerston,” Risidell said, facing Draco and still lowering his voice once the last of the other Wizengamot members had passed through the meeting room’s doors.

“I knew about the conflict with Kellerston,” Draco said, choosing his tactic as he spoke. He couldn’t be sure of what Gilfleur would have told Risidell, and therefore, trying to match wits with her in lies wouldn’t be intelligent. He strolled over and sat down in the chair he had used during deliberations that day, folding his hands behind his head as he looked up at Risidell. “But Gilfleur? As far as I knew, we’d been getting along well. She’d given me advice, and I’d accepted most of it. If she feels badly because I don’t follow all of it, I’m not sure exactly what she would like me to change.”

Risidell’s mouth crimped. “She reminded me that you are young, and might not understand all the inner workings of the Wizengamot.”

“That’s true,” Draco said, still riding on absolute honesty. “But so far, I haven’t had any questions. I promise that I’ll ask questions when I have them.” He paused and shot Risidell another smile. “Unless there’s something I’ve stumbled over without knowing it. Would you care to tell me about it?”

Risidell studied him for a few minutes. Draco had the feeling that he was used to those who fell down and begged for mercy, but he saw no reason to do so. He waited, letting his smile fade in what would look like a natural manner, but never taking his eyes from Risidell until the man made a sharp noise and turned away in disgust.

“This is the simple truth,” he said. “Gilfleur feels that you are too interested in the power of the Wizengamot position and not in governing the wizarding world.”

Draco held his laughter back with an effort. Of course that was the closest Gilfleur could come to accusing him of powerful magic without revealing that she had it herself. And of course most of the Wizengamot was there for the power or because it was convenient for someone on the Ministry that they serve, rather than to become good governors.

Gilfleur was a lesser foe than he had thought her, Draco decided as he answered. “I am sorry for giving that impression. Of course I am young yet, and not as learned in wisdom as Madam Gilfleur is. I would like to prove that I’ll learn better in time and think more seriously of the great duty I’ve taken on. For the moment, can you blame me for exulting in the new position I’ve taken up?”

Risidell studied him narrowly. Draco smiled back. Given Gilfleur’s tactics and his own, there was no way that he would admit to knowing what she was truly talking about, the way that Risidell seemed to expect him to do.

“I reckon not,” Risidell said at last, his eyes still dwelling on Draco’s face. “But you realize that to have complaints made against you in the second week of your service is not a good thing?”

“Of course,” Draco said. “But when the complaints come from my inexperience and from an individual who has a mindless grudge against Death Eaters, I don’t see how I could have been expected to simply ensure they didn’t happen.”

“Kellerston remains a valuable member of the Wizengamot,” Risidell said, and his voice was a bit softer, “despite what you call a ‘mindless grudge.’”

I’m sure he does, Draco thought. All you need to do is convince him that some legislation has a relationship—no matter what—to destroying Death Eaters, and you’ll have a guaranteed vote. He looked vague and apologetic, and gestured with one arm. “I’m sorry for referring to him that way, but you must understand how that grudge looks from the inside. He’s had years to collect evidence, and yet he still seems to think that he can find secrets that the Ministry didn’t—but he’ll also accuse me, crudely, in front of others, as if he could intimidate me into surrendering. His mixture of tactics and lack of political grace make me grieve for him, and perhaps excuse an unintentional sharpness in my replies.”

Risidell turned away, but not before Draco got a chance to see his clenched fists. He smiled blandly and stood, following him out the door, wondering if Risidell would speak to him again.

He didn’t, and Draco bowed to him and went his way without a return bow. He wondered how detailed the suspicions that Gilfleur had shared with Risidell were. Risidell was in a better position than she was to track visits to Potter and odd goings-on within Ragnarok, since he was the one with the key to the wards.

I have to be careful. But then, I already knew that.

He was planning to take Potter to visit his friends today, since he’d already sent owls to Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. He suspected his need for caution in that room would be redoubled.

*

Harry closed his eyes. He wanted to faint, and he had to brace himself against the wall of the room that Malfoy had taken him into.

He could hear Ron and Hermione’s voices, for the first time in a decade, on the other side of the door.

He didn’t know how Malfoy had got them to visit the Manor, though he had to agree that it was the only place in wizarding Britain that they wouldn’t be spied on by the press. Ron had probably been belligerent about it. Hermione had probably convinced him to come.

Maybe.

It came to Harry, when he thought those things and received no immediate confirmation from deep in his mind, that it was a long, long time since he had thought for certain that he really knew or understood his friends. They could have changed. Their personalities might not be the same, or their interests, or their lives.

Or their attitude towards him.

Harry suddenly realized that the voices in the other room had stopped. Malfoy had told him to enter when that happened. Hoping that he was still in enough time to prevent Ron from attacking Malfoy, Harry opened the door and stepped in.

Malfoy had brought Ron and Hermione to what Harry thought surely had to be one of the nicest sitting rooms in the Manor, if not the largest. The walls were painted in some sort of soft yellow color that made Harry feel he was standing outside in the sun. The windows showed visions of single large trees with arched branches that were soothing to look at. The walls were lined with bookshelves, the chairs were large and stuffed and brilliant blue in color, and the fireplace looked as if it were made of hand-chosen stones, creamy in color. The only intimidating touch was a large gold-and-crystal clock on the wall. Harry kept his gaze away from that as he stepped in, trying to look only at his friends.

His pale friends, who had both surged to their feet and then dropped back in the chairs as if their legs couldn’t hold them.

“Harry,” Hermione said, and her voice sent a painful pulse of familiarity through Harry’s body. At least that much hadn’t changed. “Oh, my God.”

Ron was trembling. He reached out as if he was going to shake Harry’s hand, or hug him, or maybe hit him, and then his hand dropped back again. His mouth opened, but no words came out.

In the silence, Malfoy strolled across the room and wrapped his arm around Harry’s shoulders. His walk was a strut, his stance so possessive that Harry couldn’t help glaring at him. Malfoy winked and grinned back, then told Ron and Hermione, “You have a lot to catch up on, I know. But the time that Harry can be here is limited, so I would prefer that you not spend half-an-hour limply staring at him.”

Hermione surged to her feet and ran forwards. Harry hugged her, shutting his eyes when he felt the firmness of his embrace. That was another thing that hadn’t changed, and he swallowed several times so that he wouldn’t start sobbing like a baby.

“You don’t have any right to touch him, Malfoy,” Ron said, in a deeper voice than Harry had known him to use before. When Harry glanced up, though, he had his wand out and trained on Malfoy, and that wasn’t new at all. “Get away from him.”

Malfoy hesitated, eyes sparking, and Harry thought for certain that he would tell them about becoming lovers. But in the end, he moved away with a graceful inclination of his head and an arch glance at Harry that clearly said, I’m doing this for you, not for them.

Harry hugged them both—Ron came up to join Hermione after that—and was unable to think of anything to say for what felt like a long time but was probably only five minutes. Hermione kept mumbling into his ear, but too softly for Harry to make out what she was saying. Ron swore, words that Harry would have been sure he didn’t know, and then he’d stop, shake his head, and start swearing again.

“I need to tell you what’s been happening,” Harry said finally, when he decided that Malfoy would start clearing his throat if they went on much longer. “I didn’t move to Australia, and you probably won’t like the story or the end of it, but you need to know.”

“Of course,” Hermione said softly, still holding him. She walked backwards towards her chair, and Harry had to come along perforce. In the end, though, she let him go long enough that he could sit on the arm of the chair rather than in her lap. Her eyes were huge and luminous as she lifted them to his face. “What—oh, Harry, what happened?”

“I want to know the same bloody thing,” Ron said, taking his chair. Then he seemed to decide that was too far from Harry and Hermione, and dragged the chair across the carpet towards them with several thumps. “What happened?”

Harry cleared his throat, remembering that he would have to tell them about the original ritual and his accidental murders of the Aurors as well as everything else, and began to speak.

*

Draco lounged against the far wall, seemingly paying as much attention to the book he held as to the conversation between Potter and his friends. He didn’t expect Potter to forget his presence as it seemed Weasley and Granger had, but he wanted to hear an honest speech, an honest story, and that was what it sounded as if he were getting.

He was amazed, as he listened to Potter, how well simple words could wear the guilt Potter felt. He didn’t use fancy descriptions; he didn’t appear capable, as Draco was, of making someone feel present at a ritual with speech alone. But he paused in between his sentences, and frequently lowered his eyes, and moved his hands back and forth as if playing with invisible rocks, and between that and the words themselves Draco knew the guilt.

Weasley’s face went white and red alternately as he listened. Granger clung to Potter’s hand with an expression that said she was dying to interrupt but thought it wouldn’t be the best course right now. Draco wondered if she sensed, as he did, that Potter might not ever tell the story again if he was interrupted as he spoke.

Potter reached the part where he had labored for ten years under the Wizengamot and replied to their post with excuses. Weasley’s face went red again all the way to his hairline, and this time he did interrupt.

“How could you do that to us, mate?” he whispered, with an expression like a tragedy. “How could you lie all those years? We would have helped you. We would have found you some place where you could die in peace.”

Draco tightened his hands on the book, but decided that speaking up now would be counterproductive. It said much that all Weasley could think of doing about Potter’s magic was giving him a peaceful death. And he probably couldn’t read at all the ambiguous glance Potter cast him. Of course, he wouldn’t know that his former best friend wanted to survive above all else, that dying with dignity wasn’t enough.

I hope, at least.

But Draco dismissed the thought with a small twist of his head. No, he was confident of his analysis, that Potter’s greatest desire was survival and therefore he would not turn his back on it now to walk away with Weasley and Granger. Draco knew that he couldn’t trust in his own charms to hold Potter when their true acquaintance was so recent, but desires and wishes that ran that deep were sure allies.

“I was guilty,” Potter said in response to his friend’s question. “I wasn’t sure how you would respond when you found out that I’d murdered people. I didn’t want to—to put you in a false position. And I was afraid of what the Wizengamot might do to you, and to me.” He winced and sighed. “You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve asked myself whether this was the right decision, but as time passed and the lies piled up, it was easier simply to let it go on.”

“But for so long?” Granger was looking at Potter with melting eyes, but Draco had seen people with melting eyes like those before, and they inevitably revealed the steel behind the glaze when the person was pressed hard enough. “Couldn’t you have discovered some solution before this?”

“How?” Potter asked simply. “I had no one who would support me, and I thought that you would probably hate me if you ever found out the truth.” He sighed and swiped a hand through his hair. “And that’s where Malfoy came in. He was the one who gave me the courage to approach you, and he was the one who set up this meeting.”

Draco lowered his book and stepped forwards as Granger and Weasley pivoted around to stare at him. “That’s right,” he said smoothly. “I would appreciate it if you both told me what you think of Potter’s career now, and the fact that he’s finally ready to emerge from hiding. Disagreeing with his decisions is one thing, but if you’re going to fight us, then I need to know.”

“Why would we fight you?” Weasley was glancing back and forth between the both of them, alert, as befit someone who worked as an Auror. “Unless you mean to play the Dark Lord and take over the wizarding world…”

Potter jerked too hard at the conclusion of that sentence for even Weasley to miss. As he turned around and stared with wide eyes, Draco inclined his head and murmured, “Yes, something like that. Though I resent being compared to a Dark Lord. I require neither masks nor a stupid name for my followers. In fact, having people know and fear my face strikes me as a rather good tactic.”

“Harry?” Granger’s voice was small and frightened. “You can’t—you realize that you can’t really agree with this, right?”

Potter took a deep breath. “The Wizengamot is the most powerful political body in the wizarding world right now, Hermione,” he said, with more calm and more insight than Draco had expected. “They would try to stop me once they found out I was planning on breaking free. You can’t fight them through the legal system. They make the laws. And they tried everything they could to keep me away from you and keep me a depressed prisoner for ten years. It would be a war no matter what. Malfoy’s price for helping me fight that war is that I help him gain power. And my magic is only suited for destruction, unless I manage to make changes that, frankly, may not be possible. Yes, I think that gaining power of my own and fighting at Malfoy’s side is the only thing for me to do.”

“You only have to tell the truth, and people will help you!” Granger sprang to her feet. Draco wondered idly if her head ever hurt from the crown of self-righteousness she wore. “I promise, Harry! When you come forwards and tell the tale, then the Wizengamot will begin to fall—”

“No, it won’t,” Draco said quietly. “I agree, if this had happened ten years ago, then that might be feasible. But now? Why don’t you tell Potter what his reputation is like in the outside world, Granger?”

Granger fell silent and glared at him. Potter tilted his head. “Let me guess,” he said, in a heavy, ironic tone that Draco hadn’t known he was capable of using. “I’m seen as a coward who ran away and no longer matters. Or at least someone who isn’t relevant.”

“I—yeah, that’s closer to right,” Weasley said quietly, and then avoided Granger’s astonished gaze. “But Harry—we can help you change your magic. You don’t have to rely on Malfoy. Fuck, why would you?”

Potter hesitated, and Draco raised his eyebrows as that wandering gaze came to his face. He hadn’t thought to counter this particular tactic in his own conversations with Potter earlier, but why should that matter? Either Potter would choose him or he wouldn’t, and either Draco would be able to change his mind if Potter chose against him or he wouldn’t.

*

Harry wanted to believe in what Ron was saying. It would have been wonderful to join with his friends again, one last adventure to solve the biggest problem. He could imagine working with Hermione, their heads together over books, and Ron drinking beer with him in a pub and condoling with him on the false attempts.

And then his mind simply slammed into a blank wall, because he couldn’t imagine that he would get away with working with his best friends for long before the Wizengamot learned about it.

And what would happen to his friends then?

Harry shook his head slowly. “This isn’t something I would have chosen on my own,” he said, “but the thing that has the best chance of working. Malfoy is a Wizengamot member and can meet with me without arousing suspicion, or at least not too much. Besides, the rituals require two powerful people to perform them, and I don’t think either of you would qualify.”

“Harry,” Hermione whispered. “You could plunge the wizarding world into war again. Think about that.”

“It won’t happen,” Malfoy said, giving her a charming smile. “I promise that I have no desire to destroy my latest conquest.”

Hermione ignored him so thoroughly that Harry found himself impressed. She wouldn’t take her eyes from him, and she wouldn’t give up, it seemed, the power to compel by her gaze alone. “Harry,” she repeated.

Harry took a deep breath. He would have liked to say yes to Hermione and turn his back on Malfoy.

No, you wouldn’t. The Auror you used to be would, the boy you used to be would, but not you.

Harry nodded slowly. Yes, he was the one who wanted conquest and power, who wanted freedom to act without the Wizengamot looking over his shoulder, and the one who had discovered that he liked giving orders and having Malfoy for a lover.

Besides, even if his friends weren’t aware of it, he could feel the ten years standing between them like a wall. It would take a lot more for them to recover their friendship than just one meeting, and even if Ron and Hermione were willing to pretend that everything was the same, Harry wasn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m going to work with Malfoy.”

Ron whipped his wand up. Harry stepped back, not sure what to do. He didn’t want to unleash his destructive magic on his best friend, but he couldn’t defend himself otherwise.

Malfoy whispered something, and both Hermione and Ron slumped down, eyes shut and heads hanging as if they were hypnotized. Harry blinked at him.

“I thought that might happen,” Malfoy said calmly. “We should discuss adequate precautions, whether a geas not to speak of these matters would suffice, or whether we should modify their memories. I’m willing to follow your recommendation and even conduct a ritual, if you think that would do less damage to them.”

Harry swallowed. “All right,” he said. “We’ll be careful.”

He had made the decision, and he could feel the last scraps of the person he had once been—Harry Potter, Auror, friend of Ron and Hermione, hero of the wizarding world—dry up and blow away like ashes.

Comments

[absynthedrinker]

When I was a child, I spoke and thought and reasoned as a child. But when I grew up, I put away childish thing

Not a nice to be emotoionally, but once done........

Peace,
Bubba