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lomonaaerenRemember, DH SPOILERS in this story!
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Chapter Twenty-One—Councils of War
“What do you have for me?”
Draco was sitting comfortably in the chair in front of his fireplace, for once. Millicent was the one leaning through the green flames, extending a sheaf of papers in a heavy leather case to him. Draco accepted and flipped through them, searching for something understandable in a complicated maze of legal writing, while Millicent talked.
“I tracked the ownership of the manor where you were kept,” she said. “It’s called Necessity House now, though it was Brownburn Oaks at the turn of the century. The woman who owned it was called Lenore Banks—“
“Was?” Draco lifted his head, prepared to hear a tangled tale of false names and pseudonyms. He was almost disappointed when Millicent gave him a playful glance and shook her head.
“She’s dead,” she said. “Truly dead. We found a witness statement from several wizards who saw her death in a broom accident. The house was left to her younger sister, Angelica, who apparently lives out of the country. Perhaps in Bulgaria, since she apparently sent her children to Durmstrang. There was correspondence to that effect between her and Lenore.” Millicent half-closed her eyes, as if reciting from her own remembered summary of events. She probably was, Draco had to admit. Millicent had always had a good memory, which had assisted her with incantations and theoretical exams but interfered when she needed to come up with new facts and guesses on her own. “There’s no sign that Angelica is tied to Salazar’s Snakes, but I’ll keep looking for that.”
“Thank you, Millicent.” Draco held up the leather case of papers. “Even as little as you’ve found is a great help.”
“Prat,” said Millicent, but her eyes were shining. “We’ll track them, Draco, never fear.”
“I’m not afraid—“ Draco began, but then Millicent was gone from the flames, with a shout that sounded suspiciously like, “Shut up, Blaise, and stop whinging!” The Floo connection went dead a moment later, and Draco was not surprised to find it blocked when he tried it again. If he were Millicent, he wouldn’t trust himself with unguarded access to his house just yet, either.
He set down to sort through the mess of papers, and lost more than an hour in doing so. At least, it was afternoon when he looked up at the sudden knock of a beak against the window, and recognized a barn owl hovering outside the glass with an envelope clutched in its talons. Draco took out his wand and checked it over carefully for hexes and curses before he admitted the owl. He couldn‘t find any, but he didn’t relax until he recognized the signature on the envelope.
Even as he opened the letter, however, he wondered why Harry had sent an owl instead of Flooing or coming himself. Draco would have greatly preferred either option. His life-debt scars tingled at the mere thought of seeing Harry.
The letter was harsh, almost impersonal. Draco blinked, then shrugged. He supposed that Harry could be trying to recover some distance after their closeness of the other day. Or perhaps he thought that not coming into personal contact with Draco would slow the progress of the magic and their mutual life-debts.
Poor fool.
Dear Draco:
Hermione has spoken to Shacklebolt and a few of the other officials in the Ministry, and they agree that the threat from the pure-blood and Muggleborn extremists is serious. They’d like you to attend their council of war, since you have important information on these groups and you’re the only victim of a framing attempt that we know about for certain. The other times have either been rumors or there was more convincing evidence in the murders, Hermione said, so the cases have already been brought to trial. I’ll meet you at the Manor at four and escort you to the Ministry. I don’t think that we want to trust you to the Aurors, just yet.
See you soon,
Harry.
Draco felt a small smile play on his lips. He’s not trying to avoid me at all, then. He probably volunteered for the duty of escorting me. But he saw no need to come right now since he’ll see me later.
He quilled a reply and sent it on with the owl, though that probably wasn’t necessary. He latched his hands together behind his head and watched thoughtfully as the owl flew, though.
Didn’t Harry used to have a snowy owl? Beautiful bird. It must have died or wandered off. I should get him one.
*
Harry had thought he’d prepared himself for seeing Draco again, now that he knew the true source of the tension between them, but no, his smile was still shock-inducing and his blond hair, now worn pressed back as if he didn’t care who saw the silver scar on his forehead, made Harry want to touch it. He swallowed and looked away, even as he told himself sternly that he was just obeying Eaglethorpe’s directive. He was looking at men and seeing if he found them attractive.
Yes, but he said nothing about what to do when I found them too damn attractive, Harry groused to himself.
“We’re Apparating to the Ministry, I presume?” Draco asked. He’d met Harry at the iron gates at the end of the gardens, and he turned now and cast a spell on the wards that shimmered green about them for a moment before it disappeared. Harry assumed it was magic that would tell him if someone tried to enter the house or disrupt the Manor’s protections while he was away.
“Yes,” Harry said, and couldn’t resist smiling when Draco turned and looked at him inquisitively. He wouldn’t let what had happened yesterday change things too much between them, he told himself sternly. That would just convince Draco that he wanted the sexual relationship, or something equally ridiculous. Harry wouldn’t lead Draco on like that, since he couldn’t fairly return the feelings. “We’re to enter through the disused telephone box. You’ve been that way before?”
“Not in years,” said Draco, with a grimace both tired and rueful, reminding Harry how few times in the past decade he’d left the Manor. “I don’t want to risk missing my mark and Splinching myself. Care to help me with a Side-Along?” He held out his arm, and crooked it invitingly for Harry’s elbow.
Harry didn’t see much to do but step closer to him. Draco’s body warmth surrounded him at once, as if it were an aura of magic in and of itself. Harry licked his lips, and Draco’s eyes softened in something that might have been amusement. Harry hoped it was amusement. Then he wouldn’t have to think that Draco shared the feathery awareness beating through him like a second pulse.
“Hang on,” he said, drawing Draco slightly towards him. “I’m good enough at Side-Alongs not to Splinch you, but I’m by no means an expert. Hermione is,” he added, in the futile hope that Draco would want to talk about her.
“Is there anything Granger isn’t an expert in?” Draco said, but it was light and teasing instead of a true complaint. He stepped forwards and leaned against Harry’s side, curling his other arm around Harry’s neck.
Harry realized he could look straight into Draco’s eyes, and that he could already feel a flush of excitement racing through his body, which would almost certainly cause an inappropriate reaction any moment.
He looked away, and concentrated on picturing the front entrance of the Ministry with all his might. Draco’s arms tightened reflexively around him, and the darkness and rush of Apparition seized them. Harry was glad when he felt concrete beneath his boots, and then the light returned and revealed the telephone box.
Draco was slow to let go of him. He was breathing fast, and Harry winced, wondering suddenly just how often Draco had really trusted his life to someone else like that.
God, the way his chest moved—
Harry closed his eyes. I am not getting turned on by someone’s breathing, he repeated to himself, so many times that he nearly blurted it aloud when Draco said something. He blinked his eyes open, shaking his head rapidly, and stared at Draco’s raised eyebrow. “What?” he asked, weakly and stupidly, he thought.
“Is it the best idea,” Draco asked, canting his head towards the telephone box, “to tell it we’re here to save the wizarding world?”
“You might as well,” Harry said, and tried to relax. He disliked the constant feeling of Draco’s presence he had—not just his warmth, not just his breathing, but an attunement to him, as though he would know in a moment when any foreign influence or new emotion passed over Draco. This is unnatural. I have a wife. “It’ll give you a badge anyway.”
*
By the time they reached the room high on the first floor of the Ministry, behind the Head Auror’s office, that had been designated for the meeting of their group, Draco was torn between laughter and an overwhelming awe that Harry had not yet attacked him out of sheer sexual frustration. The man was so easily manipulated.
Draco hadn’t even really needed the Side-Along Apparition. He had constantly but subtly brushed against Harry as they made their way through the Ministry’s Atrium and then up on the lifts, and Harry turned towards him each time, straining against what looked like self-imposed limits. (Or perhaps wife-imposed limits; Draco only knew that he hadn’t put them there). When they reached the room, paneled in dark wood, occupied by a round table, and dominated by a window that showed an enchanted view of the Thames, Draco made for an empty chair near the head of the table without comment. Though both his best friends sat in other places, Harry followed him, and sat down next to him, and arranged his chair facing towards the door so that he could shield Draco from any threat that came through it.
And only then did he seem to realize what he was doing, and he blushed.
Draco fought down his smile. Hermione Granger was there, and he thought she would probably know what he was doing to her friend, and not approve. He settled for snaking a hand through the arms of his chair, out of sight of any of the important personages in the room, and running a slow finger down Harry’s side. He did it firmly enough not to tickle, but lightly enough that Harry seemed to subconsciously feel the touch.
Harry’s eyelids drifted half-shut, and he dropped a guarded tension he’d been carrying with him ever since they met at the garden gates. His shivers were small, and soft, and regular as Draco repeated the motion over and over.
They were not shivers of cold, Draco knew, or of panic. The faintest flush of arousal touched Harry’s cheeks.
He’s mine, Draco thought, and drew a lazy letter M on Harry’s flank. He just doesn’t realize it yet. But he still has to make the first move. I don’t think that should be very long, now.
“We have serious affairs to discuss,” said the Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt, drawing Draco’s attention to him. “Should we ignore a piece of information yet in our possession or underestimate the seriousness of our enemies, we risk plunging the wizarding world into its third war in thirty years—one we may lose, this time. Please pay attention.”
Draco did, but he only stilled his hand and left it resting on Harry’s side, rather than removing it altogether. He hadn’t missed the signs of relaxation in Harry’s expression. A jumpy Harry Potter was not quite as bad as a third wizarding war, but it stood no chance of helping them.
*
Harry couldn’t bring himself to regret the fact that Draco was touching him in front of an entire room of people.
Well, not quite in front of them. But if someone looked under the table, they would notice that Draco’s hand was not curled tamely in the folds of his own robes.
At least it wasn’t between his legs—
Harry felt himself begin to harden at the mere thought, and pushed it away with a small, furious moan. Yes, all right, so Eaglethorpe was right about one thing: he could be attracted to a man. Now he should think about something else.
It was too bad there was no one in the room suitable for him to practice on, he thought with mordant humor. Hermione occupied the seat next to Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister, with Ron beside her, followed by several other members of the Blood Reparations Department and several Aurors who regularly worked with them. They could be trusted, Harry knew, and Hermione would have vetted their loyalty again before he and Draco arrived, as well as their feelings towards the Malfoy family and the Savior of the Wizarding World. Then came Harry and Draco, and beyond them were the other high-ranking Ministry officials involved in this: Linden Vance, a pale, whipcord wizard who was the Head Auror; and Fatima Sorrel, a Pakistani witch who currently ran the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Her face was tense and still. Harry sat up, and thoughts of his own personal crises dropped further and further away. Vance had no sense of humor and was always prone to take things over-seriously, but when Sorrel couldn’t at least muster a level glare and an even tone to her voice, things were bad.
Kingsley nodded to Hermione. She glanced down at the notes in front of her, though Harry was well-aware she didn’t need them.
She didn’t seem to see any need to soften her news. “We’ve identified at least five extremist groups working together on this one,” she said. “For the pure-bloods, Salazar’s Snakes and the Knights of Walpurgis—“
“Death Eaters?” Harry couldn’t help asking. He’d studied the early history of Death Eaters after the Second War, and he knew they had had that name at one time.
Hermione gave a short laugh. Anger had carved those lines around her eyes, Harry thought as he watched her, not weariness alone. And why shouldn’t she be angry? She was fighting people who wanted her not to exist. If his mother had still been alive, Harry knew he would have felt the same kind of anger. He hoped that Lily would have been in the forefront of those who wanted to repair the breach in the wizarding world, too.
“They wish,” she said. “But no, they’re a new organization that began two years ago and adopted the name.” She moved the top piece of parchment. “They claim credit for ten murders, but we’ve only found evidence linking them to one. Their main activity seems to be spreading rumors and trying to chase Muggleborns out of top positions in the Ministry and away from being professors at Hogwarts.”
Harry nodded. That could be quite destructive enough, given the unstable balance between the factions Hermione had described to him.
“Any sign of the Blood Dancers?” Vance asked, naming a pure-blood organization that had been notoriously violent in the five years immediately following Voldemort’s fall.
Hermione shook her head. “Either they’ve been disbanded at last, or these groups thought they were too unstable to approach.
“For the Muggleborn side, we have the Openers and the Radiant Lifeway.”
Harry grimaced. The Openers were an organization that used reasonable rhetoric—until you listened closely and realized they were demanding an end to all pure-blood institutions and traditions, even ones as harmless as the maintenance of family crests. The Radiant Lifeway was something different again, a group that claimed to have discovered “Light” magic to combat the Dark Arts. From what Hermione had told Harry, they were dangerously near a religious cult, and some of them had even said they’d been contacted by the spirit of Albus Dumbledore, who had aided them with their Light “rituals.”
“And yes,” Hermione went on, when Harry glanced at her, “they’re continuing their claims that Dumbledore would approve of them. And now they say they’ve seen him walking around, still alive, in the Forbidden Forest and near his tomb.”
“Wankers,” Draco said under his breath, giving Harry an abundance of unfortunate images. He grimaced and bit the inside of his cheek. He had to stop thinking about sex so much. Maybe Ginny had been right in what she said that morning, that he was having a crisis that usually happened to older wizards a bit young and needed to spend time with his children and away from Draco until he stopped tormenting himself with stupid visions of what could never be.
“You said five groups,” Sorrel reminded Hermione, leaning forwards. “The fifth one? Pure-blood or Muggleborn?”
Hermione closed her eyes. Harry suspected that besides him only Ron, of those at the table, knew her well enough to realize that that meant she was scared. Ron’s hand shifted about, and he would have caught Hermione’s wrist beneath the table, no doubt, and given it a comforting squeeze. Harry smiled slightly. At least someone here could get past Hermione’s considerable defenses.
“We don’t know,” Hermione said.
“How can you not know?” Sorrel had risen slightly to her feet. The scar on the side of her face stood out with some vehemence; a Dark wizard had come at her with his hand afire, from what Harry had heard, and planted it on her cheek before Sorrel had managed to slice his head off with the Decapitating Curse. “They reveal their allegiance at once, don’t they?”
“Not this time,” said Hermione grimly, and opened her eyes. Harry saw her turn slightly to the side, and knew she would have returned Ron’s hand to his lap. He wished she would have kept it. She needed more comfort than she allowed herself to receive, some—no, most of the time. “This group is our major enemy,” she said levelly. “We have some evidence that they started this entire thing—but nearly no information on who makes them up, or what they call themselves. Our contacts were barely talking. They seemed to assume that this group of people might actually have the power to punish them if they did, which hasn’t been the case in the past. And they seem to have a leader who’s extremely good at inspiring loyalty, so some of the contacts we talked to were true believers.”
“What do we know about him?” Kingsley asked.
“Her,” Hermione corrected, with a slight frown in Kingsley’s direction, as if to say that he shouldn’t automatically assume a powerful, dangerous wizard was male. “Not much. She speaks well. She knows spells that can make a letter dissolve from a distance, and apparently she knows enough mind magic to control the thoughts of her victims without resorting to the Imperius Curse. She hides her followers in sanctuaries that no one can track down. There are even rumors that she’s tamed a dragon and ridden it, but that’s nonsense. Dragons cannot be domesticated.”
“Has she a name?” Sorrel asked. At least she’d sat down again, Harry noted.
“The Laughing Lady, the Scarred Lady, the Masked Lady.” Hermione gave a weary shrug. “She always wears a mask, and everyone claims not to know what’s under it. Whether that’s true or just the power of her showmanship, who can say?”
She sat up suddenly, and spoke in a quiet, firm voice, as though to remind them that she was still formidable, however much the pressure of this discovery had worn her down. “Regardless of what her true name is or what she’s like, I think she’s our true foe. And I think there can be no doubt, based on the other information the Blood Reparations Department has discovered, of what she and her followers want. It’s to be all-out war, with the pure-bloods and the Muggleborns struggling to assert the superiority of their kind over the ashes.”
Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
He had known this was coming. He had known where his place would be if it did: fighting in the front ranks to protect his ideals and his children and the world he’d already died for once, beside Hermione and Ron.
A finger poked him in the side, and Harry turned his head, startled, and glanced into gray eyes.
He had to smile when he saw the determination burning in them. And Draco, too, it seems.
*
Draco nodded sharply when he saw Harry smiling at him. That was better. He had hated the war-weary expression that came over Harry’s face. Someone who was only twenty-eight shouldn’t look that old, even if he was a veteran of one war and the person directly responsible for ending another.
Into the silence that followed Granger’s declaration, he said, “I think I may have discovered another alias of the Masked Lady.”
Heads swiveled towards him, and Vance, the Head Auror, said in tones like cut diamonds, “Well?”
Draco drew out the leather case of papers and explained what Millicent had told him. By the end of his short speech, Granger had dragged the letters from Angelica to Lenore Banks across the table and was comparing them with another piece of parchment from her file. Then she looked up, eyes dilated with excitement, and actually smiled at him. Draco fought to keep his jaw from sagging. Malfoys had more dignity than to be stunned just because Mudbloods who had hated them for most of their lives smiled at them.
“This is her handwriting,” she said. “Or, at least, the same disguised handwriting that she used for other letters. She’s the one who warned the Salazar’s Snakes about you and Harry going to Diagon Alley, Malfoy. Thank you.”
“So we should start looking in Bulgaria?” The hefty Auror who spoke, seated next to Weasley, sounded relieved to have a direction.
“Looking towards it, anyway,” said Granger absently, rifling quickly through the papers she held. “I doubt she’s there anymore, or that she ever was. But she may have left traces behind. She probably went there to recruit, at least, since there were so many potential Dark wizards at Durmstrang.”
Draco felt compelled to point out a failure of her logic there. She probably wouldn’t thank him for it, but he didn’t feel the need to be thanked for such a service to the British wizarding public. “And why would they, Dark or not, care about a war in the British wizarding world, Granger?”
She glanced up at him, but it was Weasley who answered. “Because the Aurors have finally connected some rumors of international troubles with these groups, Malfoy,” he said tightly. “And the Masked Lady is offering help to Bulgarian pure-bloods, too. If they can manage it in Britain, they’ll serve as an inspiration to those who might want to start a war of hatred in other countries. The prejudice towards Muggleborns is even worse there than it is here.”
Draco grunted noncommittally. He wanted to remind Weasley that Bulgaria and other countries in Eastern Europe had never had a wizard like Dumbledore, both powerful and popular, and willing to lend his voice to the cause of peace. But if the idiot didn’t know his history already, despite being pure-blood himself, Draco saw no reason to help him. He didn’t have as much influence on the direction of the future war as Granger did.
“There’s one more thing,” said Granger. “Almost the only thing we could learn for certain besides the Masked Lady’s false names and that she wields a vast amount of power in the underground community. They want you dead, since they know that you won’t be with them, Harry.”
For a bizarre moment, Draco had thought she was addressing him, but of course the Malfoy name no longer carried the prestige it once did. And if the Savior of the Wizarding World would not be their pawn, they would have to kill him.
Draco wondered idly if Harry was even aware of what respect his name commanded. It wasn’t all about silly witches dashing up to him in the middle of Diagon Alley and begging for photos and autographs. The story of what he’d done for them at Hogwarts against the Dark Lord had spread. Dying to ensure their safety…well, that kind of self-sacrifice could prompt undying trust in return. There were probably at least a thousand people willing to kill for him.
“That’s obvious, Hermione.” Harry sounded irritated. Draco slid the finger up and down his side again, and the muscles quivered and relaxed beneath his touch.
“You don’t understand, Harry.” Granger’s eyes were serious. Draco appreciated that. “The threat is very real. I’ve discussed this with Kingsley and Linden and Fatima already, and they agree that you should have bodyguards.”
Harry snorted and folded his arms. “Really? Drawing them from where? The Blood Reparations Department, which is already struggling to cope with everything they’ll need to do when this war properly begins? The Aurors, who might have been infiltrated, and where some people still distrust me for not becoming an Auror myself? Random volunteers, any of whom could be working for this Masked Lady? No, Hermione. I’ll protect myself. I have to.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Harry,” Draco said, before Granger could reply. Harry turned on him in outrage; Draco sat firm, and met his eyes. “You’re more of a target than anyone here, excepting Granger and the Minister. You need this protection, and I’m going to ask you to accept it.”
“You don’t have the power to command me to accept it,” Harry hissed. Draco knew he was talking about the life-debts, though no one else there would. At least Harry had learned some discretion.
“I know that,” said Draco. “I’m just asking you, and asking you to consider whether you can honestly afford to refuse guards.”
“Provide me with someone trustworthy, and I’ll consider it,” Harry retorted.
“Well,” Draco said, “I’d be happy to take up the post myself.” He quite enjoyed the shocked looks that flew at him from around the room.
He didn’t expect the flare of heat in Harry’s eyes.
*
Harry should not have focused on the body part of bodyguard. He knew he shouldn’t have. It was unworthy of both of them. He glanced away from Draco with a quick breath, focused on Hermione, and said, “Yes. Fine. All right. Choose whom you think you can trust, and then we’ll discuss the arrangements.”
He waited impatiently for the end of the meeting. He didn’t dare look at Draco again, and he leaned casually away from his hand when Draco tried to reestablish that contact. Friendship was one thing, and so were involuntary sexual thoughts. But he couldn’t let them interfere when he needed to be professional.
Besides, he had something to ask Hermione when the meeting was done and she could legitimately concentrate on other things. If anyone would know a way out of the net the life-debts were weaving around him and Draco, she would.
It’s for Draco’s sake as well as mine, he told himself, several times, when his attunement to the other man made him aware of Draco coughing or shifting in his chair or sighing under his breath. What kind of lover can I be for him, when I can’t even kiss him with desire because my marriage vows would object? We can’t follow the road that he thinks the life-debts are preparing for us, and that’s all. It’s very simple.
And of course I’m loyal to Ginny, too.
He refused to give up and let the life-debts have their way, any more than he would let the Masked Lady and her allies have the wizarding world. He had never given up in his life. Surrendering to pleasure was just as stupid, just as undignified and shameful, as surrendering to pain, and Harry was disgusted with himself for being tempted.
It will not happen. I swear it.
Chapter 22.
Thank you again for all the reviews!
Chapter Twenty-One—Councils of War
“What do you have for me?”
Draco was sitting comfortably in the chair in front of his fireplace, for once. Millicent was the one leaning through the green flames, extending a sheaf of papers in a heavy leather case to him. Draco accepted and flipped through them, searching for something understandable in a complicated maze of legal writing, while Millicent talked.
“I tracked the ownership of the manor where you were kept,” she said. “It’s called Necessity House now, though it was Brownburn Oaks at the turn of the century. The woman who owned it was called Lenore Banks—“
“Was?” Draco lifted his head, prepared to hear a tangled tale of false names and pseudonyms. He was almost disappointed when Millicent gave him a playful glance and shook her head.
“She’s dead,” she said. “Truly dead. We found a witness statement from several wizards who saw her death in a broom accident. The house was left to her younger sister, Angelica, who apparently lives out of the country. Perhaps in Bulgaria, since she apparently sent her children to Durmstrang. There was correspondence to that effect between her and Lenore.” Millicent half-closed her eyes, as if reciting from her own remembered summary of events. She probably was, Draco had to admit. Millicent had always had a good memory, which had assisted her with incantations and theoretical exams but interfered when she needed to come up with new facts and guesses on her own. “There’s no sign that Angelica is tied to Salazar’s Snakes, but I’ll keep looking for that.”
“Thank you, Millicent.” Draco held up the leather case of papers. “Even as little as you’ve found is a great help.”
“Prat,” said Millicent, but her eyes were shining. “We’ll track them, Draco, never fear.”
“I’m not afraid—“ Draco began, but then Millicent was gone from the flames, with a shout that sounded suspiciously like, “Shut up, Blaise, and stop whinging!” The Floo connection went dead a moment later, and Draco was not surprised to find it blocked when he tried it again. If he were Millicent, he wouldn’t trust himself with unguarded access to his house just yet, either.
He set down to sort through the mess of papers, and lost more than an hour in doing so. At least, it was afternoon when he looked up at the sudden knock of a beak against the window, and recognized a barn owl hovering outside the glass with an envelope clutched in its talons. Draco took out his wand and checked it over carefully for hexes and curses before he admitted the owl. He couldn‘t find any, but he didn’t relax until he recognized the signature on the envelope.
Even as he opened the letter, however, he wondered why Harry had sent an owl instead of Flooing or coming himself. Draco would have greatly preferred either option. His life-debt scars tingled at the mere thought of seeing Harry.
The letter was harsh, almost impersonal. Draco blinked, then shrugged. He supposed that Harry could be trying to recover some distance after their closeness of the other day. Or perhaps he thought that not coming into personal contact with Draco would slow the progress of the magic and their mutual life-debts.
Poor fool.
Dear Draco:
Hermione has spoken to Shacklebolt and a few of the other officials in the Ministry, and they agree that the threat from the pure-blood and Muggleborn extremists is serious. They’d like you to attend their council of war, since you have important information on these groups and you’re the only victim of a framing attempt that we know about for certain. The other times have either been rumors or there was more convincing evidence in the murders, Hermione said, so the cases have already been brought to trial. I’ll meet you at the Manor at four and escort you to the Ministry. I don’t think that we want to trust you to the Aurors, just yet.
See you soon,
Harry.
Draco felt a small smile play on his lips. He’s not trying to avoid me at all, then. He probably volunteered for the duty of escorting me. But he saw no need to come right now since he’ll see me later.
He quilled a reply and sent it on with the owl, though that probably wasn’t necessary. He latched his hands together behind his head and watched thoughtfully as the owl flew, though.
Didn’t Harry used to have a snowy owl? Beautiful bird. It must have died or wandered off. I should get him one.
*
Harry had thought he’d prepared himself for seeing Draco again, now that he knew the true source of the tension between them, but no, his smile was still shock-inducing and his blond hair, now worn pressed back as if he didn’t care who saw the silver scar on his forehead, made Harry want to touch it. He swallowed and looked away, even as he told himself sternly that he was just obeying Eaglethorpe’s directive. He was looking at men and seeing if he found them attractive.
Yes, but he said nothing about what to do when I found them too damn attractive, Harry groused to himself.
“We’re Apparating to the Ministry, I presume?” Draco asked. He’d met Harry at the iron gates at the end of the gardens, and he turned now and cast a spell on the wards that shimmered green about them for a moment before it disappeared. Harry assumed it was magic that would tell him if someone tried to enter the house or disrupt the Manor’s protections while he was away.
“Yes,” Harry said, and couldn’t resist smiling when Draco turned and looked at him inquisitively. He wouldn’t let what had happened yesterday change things too much between them, he told himself sternly. That would just convince Draco that he wanted the sexual relationship, or something equally ridiculous. Harry wouldn’t lead Draco on like that, since he couldn’t fairly return the feelings. “We’re to enter through the disused telephone box. You’ve been that way before?”
“Not in years,” said Draco, with a grimace both tired and rueful, reminding Harry how few times in the past decade he’d left the Manor. “I don’t want to risk missing my mark and Splinching myself. Care to help me with a Side-Along?” He held out his arm, and crooked it invitingly for Harry’s elbow.
Harry didn’t see much to do but step closer to him. Draco’s body warmth surrounded him at once, as if it were an aura of magic in and of itself. Harry licked his lips, and Draco’s eyes softened in something that might have been amusement. Harry hoped it was amusement. Then he wouldn’t have to think that Draco shared the feathery awareness beating through him like a second pulse.
“Hang on,” he said, drawing Draco slightly towards him. “I’m good enough at Side-Alongs not to Splinch you, but I’m by no means an expert. Hermione is,” he added, in the futile hope that Draco would want to talk about her.
“Is there anything Granger isn’t an expert in?” Draco said, but it was light and teasing instead of a true complaint. He stepped forwards and leaned against Harry’s side, curling his other arm around Harry’s neck.
Harry realized he could look straight into Draco’s eyes, and that he could already feel a flush of excitement racing through his body, which would almost certainly cause an inappropriate reaction any moment.
He looked away, and concentrated on picturing the front entrance of the Ministry with all his might. Draco’s arms tightened reflexively around him, and the darkness and rush of Apparition seized them. Harry was glad when he felt concrete beneath his boots, and then the light returned and revealed the telephone box.
Draco was slow to let go of him. He was breathing fast, and Harry winced, wondering suddenly just how often Draco had really trusted his life to someone else like that.
God, the way his chest moved—
Harry closed his eyes. I am not getting turned on by someone’s breathing, he repeated to himself, so many times that he nearly blurted it aloud when Draco said something. He blinked his eyes open, shaking his head rapidly, and stared at Draco’s raised eyebrow. “What?” he asked, weakly and stupidly, he thought.
“Is it the best idea,” Draco asked, canting his head towards the telephone box, “to tell it we’re here to save the wizarding world?”
“You might as well,” Harry said, and tried to relax. He disliked the constant feeling of Draco’s presence he had—not just his warmth, not just his breathing, but an attunement to him, as though he would know in a moment when any foreign influence or new emotion passed over Draco. This is unnatural. I have a wife. “It’ll give you a badge anyway.”
*
By the time they reached the room high on the first floor of the Ministry, behind the Head Auror’s office, that had been designated for the meeting of their group, Draco was torn between laughter and an overwhelming awe that Harry had not yet attacked him out of sheer sexual frustration. The man was so easily manipulated.
Draco hadn’t even really needed the Side-Along Apparition. He had constantly but subtly brushed against Harry as they made their way through the Ministry’s Atrium and then up on the lifts, and Harry turned towards him each time, straining against what looked like self-imposed limits. (Or perhaps wife-imposed limits; Draco only knew that he hadn’t put them there). When they reached the room, paneled in dark wood, occupied by a round table, and dominated by a window that showed an enchanted view of the Thames, Draco made for an empty chair near the head of the table without comment. Though both his best friends sat in other places, Harry followed him, and sat down next to him, and arranged his chair facing towards the door so that he could shield Draco from any threat that came through it.
And only then did he seem to realize what he was doing, and he blushed.
Draco fought down his smile. Hermione Granger was there, and he thought she would probably know what he was doing to her friend, and not approve. He settled for snaking a hand through the arms of his chair, out of sight of any of the important personages in the room, and running a slow finger down Harry’s side. He did it firmly enough not to tickle, but lightly enough that Harry seemed to subconsciously feel the touch.
Harry’s eyelids drifted half-shut, and he dropped a guarded tension he’d been carrying with him ever since they met at the garden gates. His shivers were small, and soft, and regular as Draco repeated the motion over and over.
They were not shivers of cold, Draco knew, or of panic. The faintest flush of arousal touched Harry’s cheeks.
He’s mine, Draco thought, and drew a lazy letter M on Harry’s flank. He just doesn’t realize it yet. But he still has to make the first move. I don’t think that should be very long, now.
“We have serious affairs to discuss,” said the Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt, drawing Draco’s attention to him. “Should we ignore a piece of information yet in our possession or underestimate the seriousness of our enemies, we risk plunging the wizarding world into its third war in thirty years—one we may lose, this time. Please pay attention.”
Draco did, but he only stilled his hand and left it resting on Harry’s side, rather than removing it altogether. He hadn’t missed the signs of relaxation in Harry’s expression. A jumpy Harry Potter was not quite as bad as a third wizarding war, but it stood no chance of helping them.
*
Harry couldn’t bring himself to regret the fact that Draco was touching him in front of an entire room of people.
Well, not quite in front of them. But if someone looked under the table, they would notice that Draco’s hand was not curled tamely in the folds of his own robes.
At least it wasn’t between his legs—
Harry felt himself begin to harden at the mere thought, and pushed it away with a small, furious moan. Yes, all right, so Eaglethorpe was right about one thing: he could be attracted to a man. Now he should think about something else.
It was too bad there was no one in the room suitable for him to practice on, he thought with mordant humor. Hermione occupied the seat next to Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister, with Ron beside her, followed by several other members of the Blood Reparations Department and several Aurors who regularly worked with them. They could be trusted, Harry knew, and Hermione would have vetted their loyalty again before he and Draco arrived, as well as their feelings towards the Malfoy family and the Savior of the Wizarding World. Then came Harry and Draco, and beyond them were the other high-ranking Ministry officials involved in this: Linden Vance, a pale, whipcord wizard who was the Head Auror; and Fatima Sorrel, a Pakistani witch who currently ran the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Her face was tense and still. Harry sat up, and thoughts of his own personal crises dropped further and further away. Vance had no sense of humor and was always prone to take things over-seriously, but when Sorrel couldn’t at least muster a level glare and an even tone to her voice, things were bad.
Kingsley nodded to Hermione. She glanced down at the notes in front of her, though Harry was well-aware she didn’t need them.
She didn’t seem to see any need to soften her news. “We’ve identified at least five extremist groups working together on this one,” she said. “For the pure-bloods, Salazar’s Snakes and the Knights of Walpurgis—“
“Death Eaters?” Harry couldn’t help asking. He’d studied the early history of Death Eaters after the Second War, and he knew they had had that name at one time.
Hermione gave a short laugh. Anger had carved those lines around her eyes, Harry thought as he watched her, not weariness alone. And why shouldn’t she be angry? She was fighting people who wanted her not to exist. If his mother had still been alive, Harry knew he would have felt the same kind of anger. He hoped that Lily would have been in the forefront of those who wanted to repair the breach in the wizarding world, too.
“They wish,” she said. “But no, they’re a new organization that began two years ago and adopted the name.” She moved the top piece of parchment. “They claim credit for ten murders, but we’ve only found evidence linking them to one. Their main activity seems to be spreading rumors and trying to chase Muggleborns out of top positions in the Ministry and away from being professors at Hogwarts.”
Harry nodded. That could be quite destructive enough, given the unstable balance between the factions Hermione had described to him.
“Any sign of the Blood Dancers?” Vance asked, naming a pure-blood organization that had been notoriously violent in the five years immediately following Voldemort’s fall.
Hermione shook her head. “Either they’ve been disbanded at last, or these groups thought they were too unstable to approach.
“For the Muggleborn side, we have the Openers and the Radiant Lifeway.”
Harry grimaced. The Openers were an organization that used reasonable rhetoric—until you listened closely and realized they were demanding an end to all pure-blood institutions and traditions, even ones as harmless as the maintenance of family crests. The Radiant Lifeway was something different again, a group that claimed to have discovered “Light” magic to combat the Dark Arts. From what Hermione had told Harry, they were dangerously near a religious cult, and some of them had even said they’d been contacted by the spirit of Albus Dumbledore, who had aided them with their Light “rituals.”
“And yes,” Hermione went on, when Harry glanced at her, “they’re continuing their claims that Dumbledore would approve of them. And now they say they’ve seen him walking around, still alive, in the Forbidden Forest and near his tomb.”
“Wankers,” Draco said under his breath, giving Harry an abundance of unfortunate images. He grimaced and bit the inside of his cheek. He had to stop thinking about sex so much. Maybe Ginny had been right in what she said that morning, that he was having a crisis that usually happened to older wizards a bit young and needed to spend time with his children and away from Draco until he stopped tormenting himself with stupid visions of what could never be.
“You said five groups,” Sorrel reminded Hermione, leaning forwards. “The fifth one? Pure-blood or Muggleborn?”
Hermione closed her eyes. Harry suspected that besides him only Ron, of those at the table, knew her well enough to realize that that meant she was scared. Ron’s hand shifted about, and he would have caught Hermione’s wrist beneath the table, no doubt, and given it a comforting squeeze. Harry smiled slightly. At least someone here could get past Hermione’s considerable defenses.
“We don’t know,” Hermione said.
“How can you not know?” Sorrel had risen slightly to her feet. The scar on the side of her face stood out with some vehemence; a Dark wizard had come at her with his hand afire, from what Harry had heard, and planted it on her cheek before Sorrel had managed to slice his head off with the Decapitating Curse. “They reveal their allegiance at once, don’t they?”
“Not this time,” said Hermione grimly, and opened her eyes. Harry saw her turn slightly to the side, and knew she would have returned Ron’s hand to his lap. He wished she would have kept it. She needed more comfort than she allowed herself to receive, some—no, most of the time. “This group is our major enemy,” she said levelly. “We have some evidence that they started this entire thing—but nearly no information on who makes them up, or what they call themselves. Our contacts were barely talking. They seemed to assume that this group of people might actually have the power to punish them if they did, which hasn’t been the case in the past. And they seem to have a leader who’s extremely good at inspiring loyalty, so some of the contacts we talked to were true believers.”
“What do we know about him?” Kingsley asked.
“Her,” Hermione corrected, with a slight frown in Kingsley’s direction, as if to say that he shouldn’t automatically assume a powerful, dangerous wizard was male. “Not much. She speaks well. She knows spells that can make a letter dissolve from a distance, and apparently she knows enough mind magic to control the thoughts of her victims without resorting to the Imperius Curse. She hides her followers in sanctuaries that no one can track down. There are even rumors that she’s tamed a dragon and ridden it, but that’s nonsense. Dragons cannot be domesticated.”
“Has she a name?” Sorrel asked. At least she’d sat down again, Harry noted.
“The Laughing Lady, the Scarred Lady, the Masked Lady.” Hermione gave a weary shrug. “She always wears a mask, and everyone claims not to know what’s under it. Whether that’s true or just the power of her showmanship, who can say?”
She sat up suddenly, and spoke in a quiet, firm voice, as though to remind them that she was still formidable, however much the pressure of this discovery had worn her down. “Regardless of what her true name is or what she’s like, I think she’s our true foe. And I think there can be no doubt, based on the other information the Blood Reparations Department has discovered, of what she and her followers want. It’s to be all-out war, with the pure-bloods and the Muggleborns struggling to assert the superiority of their kind over the ashes.”
Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
He had known this was coming. He had known where his place would be if it did: fighting in the front ranks to protect his ideals and his children and the world he’d already died for once, beside Hermione and Ron.
A finger poked him in the side, and Harry turned his head, startled, and glanced into gray eyes.
He had to smile when he saw the determination burning in them. And Draco, too, it seems.
*
Draco nodded sharply when he saw Harry smiling at him. That was better. He had hated the war-weary expression that came over Harry’s face. Someone who was only twenty-eight shouldn’t look that old, even if he was a veteran of one war and the person directly responsible for ending another.
Into the silence that followed Granger’s declaration, he said, “I think I may have discovered another alias of the Masked Lady.”
Heads swiveled towards him, and Vance, the Head Auror, said in tones like cut diamonds, “Well?”
Draco drew out the leather case of papers and explained what Millicent had told him. By the end of his short speech, Granger had dragged the letters from Angelica to Lenore Banks across the table and was comparing them with another piece of parchment from her file. Then she looked up, eyes dilated with excitement, and actually smiled at him. Draco fought to keep his jaw from sagging. Malfoys had more dignity than to be stunned just because Mudbloods who had hated them for most of their lives smiled at them.
“This is her handwriting,” she said. “Or, at least, the same disguised handwriting that she used for other letters. She’s the one who warned the Salazar’s Snakes about you and Harry going to Diagon Alley, Malfoy. Thank you.”
“So we should start looking in Bulgaria?” The hefty Auror who spoke, seated next to Weasley, sounded relieved to have a direction.
“Looking towards it, anyway,” said Granger absently, rifling quickly through the papers she held. “I doubt she’s there anymore, or that she ever was. But she may have left traces behind. She probably went there to recruit, at least, since there were so many potential Dark wizards at Durmstrang.”
Draco felt compelled to point out a failure of her logic there. She probably wouldn’t thank him for it, but he didn’t feel the need to be thanked for such a service to the British wizarding public. “And why would they, Dark or not, care about a war in the British wizarding world, Granger?”
She glanced up at him, but it was Weasley who answered. “Because the Aurors have finally connected some rumors of international troubles with these groups, Malfoy,” he said tightly. “And the Masked Lady is offering help to Bulgarian pure-bloods, too. If they can manage it in Britain, they’ll serve as an inspiration to those who might want to start a war of hatred in other countries. The prejudice towards Muggleborns is even worse there than it is here.”
Draco grunted noncommittally. He wanted to remind Weasley that Bulgaria and other countries in Eastern Europe had never had a wizard like Dumbledore, both powerful and popular, and willing to lend his voice to the cause of peace. But if the idiot didn’t know his history already, despite being pure-blood himself, Draco saw no reason to help him. He didn’t have as much influence on the direction of the future war as Granger did.
“There’s one more thing,” said Granger. “Almost the only thing we could learn for certain besides the Masked Lady’s false names and that she wields a vast amount of power in the underground community. They want you dead, since they know that you won’t be with them, Harry.”
For a bizarre moment, Draco had thought she was addressing him, but of course the Malfoy name no longer carried the prestige it once did. And if the Savior of the Wizarding World would not be their pawn, they would have to kill him.
Draco wondered idly if Harry was even aware of what respect his name commanded. It wasn’t all about silly witches dashing up to him in the middle of Diagon Alley and begging for photos and autographs. The story of what he’d done for them at Hogwarts against the Dark Lord had spread. Dying to ensure their safety…well, that kind of self-sacrifice could prompt undying trust in return. There were probably at least a thousand people willing to kill for him.
“That’s obvious, Hermione.” Harry sounded irritated. Draco slid the finger up and down his side again, and the muscles quivered and relaxed beneath his touch.
“You don’t understand, Harry.” Granger’s eyes were serious. Draco appreciated that. “The threat is very real. I’ve discussed this with Kingsley and Linden and Fatima already, and they agree that you should have bodyguards.”
Harry snorted and folded his arms. “Really? Drawing them from where? The Blood Reparations Department, which is already struggling to cope with everything they’ll need to do when this war properly begins? The Aurors, who might have been infiltrated, and where some people still distrust me for not becoming an Auror myself? Random volunteers, any of whom could be working for this Masked Lady? No, Hermione. I’ll protect myself. I have to.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Harry,” Draco said, before Granger could reply. Harry turned on him in outrage; Draco sat firm, and met his eyes. “You’re more of a target than anyone here, excepting Granger and the Minister. You need this protection, and I’m going to ask you to accept it.”
“You don’t have the power to command me to accept it,” Harry hissed. Draco knew he was talking about the life-debts, though no one else there would. At least Harry had learned some discretion.
“I know that,” said Draco. “I’m just asking you, and asking you to consider whether you can honestly afford to refuse guards.”
“Provide me with someone trustworthy, and I’ll consider it,” Harry retorted.
“Well,” Draco said, “I’d be happy to take up the post myself.” He quite enjoyed the shocked looks that flew at him from around the room.
He didn’t expect the flare of heat in Harry’s eyes.
*
Harry should not have focused on the body part of bodyguard. He knew he shouldn’t have. It was unworthy of both of them. He glanced away from Draco with a quick breath, focused on Hermione, and said, “Yes. Fine. All right. Choose whom you think you can trust, and then we’ll discuss the arrangements.”
He waited impatiently for the end of the meeting. He didn’t dare look at Draco again, and he leaned casually away from his hand when Draco tried to reestablish that contact. Friendship was one thing, and so were involuntary sexual thoughts. But he couldn’t let them interfere when he needed to be professional.
Besides, he had something to ask Hermione when the meeting was done and she could legitimately concentrate on other things. If anyone would know a way out of the net the life-debts were weaving around him and Draco, she would.
It’s for Draco’s sake as well as mine, he told himself, several times, when his attunement to the other man made him aware of Draco coughing or shifting in his chair or sighing under his breath. What kind of lover can I be for him, when I can’t even kiss him with desire because my marriage vows would object? We can’t follow the road that he thinks the life-debts are preparing for us, and that’s all. It’s very simple.
And of course I’m loyal to Ginny, too.
He refused to give up and let the life-debts have their way, any more than he would let the Masked Lady and her allies have the wizarding world. He had never given up in his life. Surrendering to pleasure was just as stupid, just as undignified and shameful, as surrendering to pain, and Harry was disgusted with himself for being tempted.
It will not happen. I swear it.
Chapter 22.
