lomonaaeren

Chapter Twenty-Six.

Title: Parsimony (27/34)
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Harry/Draco eventually (mostly pre-slash), Ron/Hermione, mentions of Harry/Ginny and unrequited Snape/Lily. Gen relationship between Harry and Snape.
Warnings: Angst, violence, torture, AU after the last chapter of DH, ‘eighth-year’ fic.
Summary: After the war, Harry thinks he can finally focus on his friends and the dead instead of the whole world. But an enemy-turned-potential-friend and the dead coming back to life change his mind. Learning how to draw the line between selfishness and selflessness is only one of the things Harry’s going to learn.
Author’s Notes: This is a mostly-gen fic, despite the listed pairings. It will likely be pretty long and relatively slow in pace, though I hope to update it regularly.

Chapter One.

Thank you again for all the reviews!

Chapter Twenty-Seven—Swimming for the End

“If you had told me what was happening from the beginning, then there might not have been a need for this.”

McGonagall spoke quietly, so as not to wake Draco in his bed in the hospital wing, but she was staring at Harry hard enough to make him flush. Harry clasped his hands between his knees and took a deep breath, wondering if he could make McGonagall understand without explaining the whole situation with the Slytherins and other things that Draco might prefer to keep secret for now.

Yes, he could. He would tell the truth as far as he was able to, and then explain that the rest of it was secret as the result of a promise he had made to Draco. McGonagall was a Gryffindor, and she had lived through the war, just like him, when Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix had depended on keeping secrets to survive. Of all the adults in the school right now, Harry thought he could probably trust her to understand the most.

So he looked her in the eye and said, “Draco made a mistake. This summer, before he ever came back to school. I’ve been doing research with him to try and help him correct the mistake.”

McGonagall’s face went pale, and she looked at Draco as though calculating whether he weighed enough to be the instrument of something so deadly. “So…this magical exhaustion is the result of a ritual that he did to atone for his error?”

Harry shrugged and nodded at the same time. If she didn’t guess that Draco had also involved a potion, then Harry saw no reason to tell her, at least not until the distant day when he might be able to tell her everything.

“How did you find the books that concern the manipulation of time?” McGonagall turned to him now, and she had hold of herself in the iron grip Harry had used himself a few times, to keep from breaking down at a funeral. “We removed them even from the Restricted Section, as students no longer study it in any class or write essays on it.”

Harry blinked, and then understood where some of her pallor came from. He shook his head with a faint grin. “You’re not understanding, Headmistress,” he said. “Draco didn’t literally try to travel back in time and correct the mistake that way. He just did something that ought to make up for it, that ought to end the spell he cast.”

Slowly, McGonagall leaned back in her chair and nodded. “Then we need only fear the consequences of a charm or a curse, not—not broken time.”

“Yes,” Harry said, and gave her a sheepish smile. “Sorry to scare you like that, but I really didn’t think you’d take it that way.”

McGonagall took a few harsh breaths, and then she was her professional self again, leaning forwards to look Harry in the eye. “I need to know what you did, Mr. Potter. I need to know what kind of atonement for this mistake that Mr. Malfoy made could be performed on the grounds of this school. I presume it was not a sin against the Ministry, but against the staff or students, if it was here.”

“No,” Harry said.

McGonagall studied him from a different angle this time, apparently because she thought it might change his single word into a different single word. “Did you hear what I said, Mr. Potter?” she asked, and her voice had gone so soft and dangerous that Harry shivered and rubbed at his arms.

“Yes, I did,” he said. “And sorry. But the answer’s still no. I made a promise to Draco that I wouldn’t reveal any of this before he wanted me to. I had to reveal this much because I knew he was suffering from magical exhaustion and I couldn’t heal him myself.” Well, that and emotional shock, which I think I can do something about. But he wasn’t about to add anything into the conversation that he didn’t absolutely have to, in case it proved a lever for McGonagall to crack the riddle. “I think—I think I have to hold to my promise and do what I can for him, because that’s honorable.”

“You would lie to me?” McGonagall’s voice was soft, precise—and wondering. Maybe she hadn’t thought he cared about Draco that much, or had assumed that his days of lying to professors and running around doing things in the shadows were over when the war was.

“Not lie,” Harry said. “Just keep something secret for a little while. For all I know, Draco could wake up and tell me that it’s all right to tell you, or it’ll become obvious some other way.” He had wondered if the Slytherins might not make it clear what had happened, but when he thought about that more clearly, he doubted it. For one thing, that would involve admitting they were “weak” enough to fall victim to a Memory Charm; for another thing, they were already treating Draco like shit, and no one was likely to notice any difference between what they were doing now and what they had done before. “But I made a promise, and I don’t like breaking it. I don’t think it’s good to. Please don’t ask me to tell you.”

McGonagall stared at him now with a different look in her eyes, but it wasn’t one that Harry recognized. Oddly enough, that made him relax, because he had seen adults about to scold him plenty of times, and this wasn’t that look.

McGonagall turned and gazed into the fire that burned on the far side of the hospital wing. “Very well,” she said distantly. “But you realize that you are going to serve several detentions for me. I cannot treat you differently from the other students, and as long as you are still attending classes here, then you are under our rules.”

Harry sighed and bowed his head. She might not believe it, but it really was a sigh of relief. “Yes, Headmistress. I understand.”

“Come to my office for your first detention at seven tomorrow night,” McGonagall ended, and gave Harry one more steady look before she stood and swept out of the hospital wing. Harry craned his neck to watch her go, and was almost ready when she paused again at the door, fingers digging into the stones.

“Will you promise me one thing, Mr. Potter?” she whispered. “Will you promise that you are not keeping this secret because you know that Mr. Malfoy would be punished for murder if this got out?”

“I can promise you, he didn’t kill anyone,” Harry said quietly. “I couldn’t cover that up. And I wouldn’t, not for anyone,” he added, a little relieved in and of himself to have found something he wouldn’t do for Draco.

McGonagall nodded, her shoulders relaxing, and then stepped out and strode down the corridor. Harry listened, but her steps seemed no less firm than ever.

He turned to the bed, only to find Draco lying there with his hands behind his head, awake and watching him. Harry started and reached for the glass of water that Madam Pomfrey had left on the table beside the bed, with stern instructions for Harry to give it to Draco the instant he woke up.

Draco opened his mouth to accept the water, which was flavored with lemon, but never took his eyes from Harry. Harry tilted the glass until Draco motioned for him to take it away, which really happened too quickly for Harry’s taste. Harry put it down on the table and knotted his hands beneath his knees, watching Draco warily.

“How much of that did you hear?” he asked at last, when it became perfectly obvious that Draco didn’t intend to speak first, no matter what happened.

“Enough,” Draco said, and then his eyes glinted, maybe because Harry felt the scowl building on his own face. “All right. The whole thing.”

Harry sighed and nodded. “So do you think that you’ll want to tell her anytime soon? Or should we just let her wonder?” He tried to smile, but his face felt curiously stiff. Maybe it was just because it was dawning on him, now, how close they had come to doing something completely stupid.

Draco shook his head, sitting up. “I would have to listen to lots of lectures about how I shouldn’t have done it, no matter what happened, and if I tell her what prompted it, then I would get lectures about torturing someone. And maybe arrested.” He spoke quietly, staring at his hands. “There are few people who would forgive me for what I did, you know.”

“Other people ought to understand what you were going through last year,” Harry said firmly, and reached for his hand. “Yes, you weren’t the only one who suffered, but that just means that you deserve more consideration from them.”

Draco looked up so suddenly that Harry thought he heard something pop in his neck. “And the way you think is another of those uncommon things,” he murmured, leaning forwards. “Don’t you see, Harry? There are people who would forgive you for doing something like this, but not me. Never me.”

“Well…I know that, of course.” Harry pushed at his fringe, and Draco’s glance darted up to it. Harry found that he was instinctively pushing it over to cover up his scar. He coughed in embarrassment and dropped his hand. “But that doesn’t mean you can never ask for forgiveness. If you’re right about my reputation, then having me on your side should improve your chances for a fair hearing, at least.”

Draco smiled sadly at him, and then took a deep breath and said, “There was something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

Harry nodded, thinking it was probably the potion Snape had promised that would let them see through the wards on Azkaban. “I don’t know when the potion will be ready, because Snape hasn’t got in contact with me yet—”

“I meant,” Draco said, “the reason that you’re defending me.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Is this going to be another of those conversations where you ask for certain things from me and I don’t know what they mean? I can get angry, if you want. Or I can tell you how proud I was of you for coming up with that ritual and using that potion and managing to get it just right to free your friends. If that’s what you want.”

“No,” Draco said, and hesitated, and then spoke in a rush that reminded Harry of Ron asking Hermione out for the first time. “You’re in love with me, aren’t you?”

Harry felt as though he had hot and cold running blood under the surface of his skin for a moment. He coughed, and caught his breath, and squeezed Draco’s hands until Draco made a protesting motion and stared at him. Then Harry sighed, and decided that he might as well own up to it.

“I think so,” he said. “Or at least I have a really intense infatuation with you.”

Draco snorted, although he sounded a little shaky. “I don’t think an infatuation would make you do everything that you’ve done for me, Harry,” he said, squeezing Harry’s hands and finally bringing his head up so that their eyes connected.

“You’d be surprised how intense my emotions can get,” Harry murmured. And now he was the one who had trouble not looking away. Well. Just further proof that Draco isn’t a coward, and that everyone has things they find hard to face. “But, yes. This was what you wanted to prove that you’re more than a charity project to me, wasn’t it? Congratulations.” He managed what he hoped was a natural-looking smile, though he wasn’t totally sure about that. “You are.”

Draco considered him carefully for a few minutes. Then he leaned towards Harry and kissed him.

It was on the cheek, not the lips, and Harry was horribly aware—to the point that his skin was tingling—all the while of how someone coming in through the door of the hospital wing would see them. But at the same time, he felt the way that Draco’s fingers squeezed down on his until Harry thought he would break something, and Draco made a little grunt of satisfaction in the back of his throat as he pulled away.

“Did that—did that tell you something?” Harry licked his lips. His throat was parched, but he didn’t think water would have satisfied his thirst.

“That I’m too scared to kiss you on the mouth yet? Yeah.” Draco shrugged.

Harry snorted despite himself. “So, are you in love with me?” He couldn’t have imagined asking that question yesterday, but now it was important.

Draco hesitated before he replied, and Harry felt what seemed like a sinking sensation in his chest. He did his best to ignore that. He had known that Draco probably didn’t feel for him what he felt for Draco, and that didn’t matter to the important things, like whether he could help Draco fight his father or not.

“I don’t know,” Draco said. “This summer—I never thought about anything like that. I had too much else to think about.”

Harry found that he could breathe again, and also smile. “Oh, if you think that I was secretly pining for you over the summer, then think again,” he said lightly, and squeezed Draco’s hands. Draco glanced at the door to the corridor, but he could do that all he wanted. Harry didn’t hear anyone else coming, which meant no one was there to see. “This obsession started when I saw you on the Hogwarts Express and realized that something weird had happened.”

Draco’s eyes jerked back to his face. “Sometimes I think that I am just another of your charity cases or your mysteries,” he snapped, and yanked again, nearly making Harry sprawl forwards on the bed.

“You’re not,” Harry said quietly. “But how could I think that I might fall in love with you when there was nothing to go on? As far as I knew when the school year started, you’d just be someone I used to hate. Someone who helped me last year, but we had life-debts between us, and that should hopefully be the only connection we still shared.”

Draco frowned at him. “All right, fine, so you didn’t feel anything more for me until we started working together to solve the mystery of what happened to my friends.”

“And until I found out that you had lied to me, and that was why we were getting nowhere at first,” Harry added helpfully.

Draco moved his hands fretfully for a moment, but in the end they stayed locked in Harry’s, instead of being pulled away. “Why did you decide that you wanted to be around me, after that?” he asked.

“We’ve been over this,” Harry reminded him. “But you felt remorse about it. And you tried to solve your own problem, and in the end, you were the one who came up with the solution that actually worked. And you yelled at me, and told me that you wanted to succeed on your own. I never could have fallen in love with someone who remained as cringing and as dependent as you were in your first few years here. You always depended on someone to back you up then. Your father, or Umbridge, or Professor Snape. Now—now you’re acting on your own, and I’m finding that the person you are when you’re out of the shadows is someone I rather like.”

“I acted alone during my sixth year, too,” Draco muttered, but he was smiling.

“I never realized that you wanted me to be that specific, but okay,” Harry said. “I like you when you’re acting on your own and not bringing Death Eaters into the school. That more the kind of thing you wanted to hear?”

Draco’s mouth, predictably, turned down. “And that’s why this is hard to deal with,” he said. “You can’t just decide to forget about what happened between us.”

Harry snorted and rolled his eyes. “What made you think I would forget?”

“The way you’re talking.” Draco waved one hand around, which meant he had to take it away from Harry. Harry waited patiently for Draco to finish waving it around, and then clasped it again when he was done. Draco stared at him, but kept on going. “It’s as if you think our pasts and our presents are entirely separate, as if you think of us as different people now.”

“We were always different people,” Harry pointed out, grinning. “Who’s forgetting about the past now?”

“I meant,” Draco said, his voice lowering to a tone that Harry didn’t think he’d ever heard from him before, “different people from our past selves. The summer didn’t change us that much. We can never forget what we were. Don’t joke about this, Harry.”

Harry sighed, and stroked Draco’s fingers, smoothing his own fingers up and down them. It was absurd how fascinating even Draco’s knuckles were, he thought, as though the slightly different texture of them was something Harry should spend years investigating.

“I’ll try not to,” he said. “But I do feel the summer changed me. I wanted to change. Last year, I was—I was a sacrifice, and I was a hero, and I was someone who just wanted a normal life and thought I was never going to get it. But then I decided that if I wanted that normal life, I had to make it for myself. So I did.”

Draco snorted and shook his head. “Not an option for me.”

“Why not?” Harry asked. “It’s true that you don’t have as much prestige as you used to, but you can make your own way in the world. Act different enough from your father, and people will start to notice you aren’t him.”

Draco stared at him. Then he sighed and said, “Harry, trying to establish myself on my own this late in the game is—just not going to work. It would for you, because people still respect your name. You might have trouble moving out of the shadow of your own deeds, but you’re the most prominent member of your family. You probably always will be.” The sour note in his voice was envy, Harry thought.

Harry opened his mouth to say that he would give all his prestige up to have his parents back—

And then sighed. That was true, and it wouldn’t solve their problems right now. He said, “I can help you.”

“Then my prestige becomes a borrowed reflection of yours.” Draco ducked his head and moved it sharply to the side, his hands hurting Harry’s before he snatched them away. “I don’t want that. At least, with my father’s shadow, I expected to grow up in it. But I don’t want to be overshadowed by my famous friend the way Weasley is.”

“Ron doesn’t feel that way,” Harry snapped, and took Draco’s right hand back, since he was using the left to smooth his fringe back and seemed to want to keep it free more. “He used to feel in the shadow of his family, sure, because he thought all his big brothers were brilliant. But he learned what he could do during the war, and he knows that he has nothing to be jealous of where I’m concerned, either.”

“Isn’t that nice for him,” Draco said, voice soft and vicious. “Excuse me if the war wasn’t a learning experience for me.”

“If I’d only listened to what the war taught me, then I would know how to die and nothing else,” Harry said, leaning forwards, getting in Draco’s face. Draco’s eyes focused on him, wide and startled, but at least he was listening, at least he was looking, and Harry thought that might be the best way to get through to him. “I didn’t. I made myself otherwise. You can do the same thing, I told you.”

“I have to have the will to do that,” Draco said. “I have to have more fame than the war left me with. I don’t have those.”

“Then you have the will to sit around and sulk for the rest of your life?” Harry demanded. His voice was rising, but he didn’t think that mattered. Madam Pomfrey was asleep in the back of the hospital wing, and the door was shut, so they would hear if someone opened it to come in. “That’s all you want to do? Nothing else? Not raise the fortunes of your family back up, not help your mother, not earn your friends’ friendship back again?”

“Those are the things I would like to do if I could,” Draco said, as if explaining to a small child. “But I can’t.”

“How do you know you can’t?”

“Because my friends will never forgive me, and neither will society.” Again Draco eyed Harry sidelong, as if he assumed that he had acquired brain damage sometime in the last few minutes. “That’s all.”

“Maybe they won’t,” Harry had to agree. “But you don’t know that. You’re just afraid of the hard work involved. You just want an excuse to give up and skive off. You always wanted one. I remember the way you whinged on when Buckbeak attacked you, and pretended your arm always hurt worse than it could have from just a scratch—”

“Fuck you, Potter,” Draco hissed, his eyes glittering. Harry liked that. It made him look considerably more alive. “It did hurt.”

“You kept going,” Harry continued. “You tried to get my attention even though you knew you would never have my friendship—or you thought you did, and look what’s happened now. You tried your best to help and save your parents. You might have saved the whole world by not revealing me at the Manor. You can change things. Maybe not to the exact result you want, but in some way. You’ve already changed it just by being a snotty, cowardly whiner as a teenager. What’s going to happen when you’re a much stronger adult?”

Draco’s mouth fell open as he stared at him. Harry stared back, his heart hammering and his chest tight, and this time when Draco lunged forwards and kissed him, it was on the lips and Harry felt it with his tongue and his mouth and his teeth.

Harry tried to wind his arms around Draco’s neck, to keep him there, but Draco pulled back and anxiously shook his head, and so Harry tried to calm down and wait. He licked his lips again and again, getting the taste, absorbing it. His heart dazzled him with its speed, but he could wait when Draco was looking at him like that.

“If I can love you,” Draco said softly, “it’ll be for moments like that, for the way you challenge me, the way you drive me on, not because of what your fame can do for me.”

“And that is exactly your kind of romantic declaration,” Harry said, and leaned forwards to steal another kiss.

For the moment, he didn’t need any other kind of happiness.