Chapter Eighteen of 'Changing of the Guard'- Proving the Point

[lomonaaeren]

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Chapter Eighteen—Proving the Point

Lucius met Draco in the entrance hall. Draco scrutinized his father carefully, knowing he must have moved very fast to get down the stairs from his study so quickly, but of course none of the strain showed on Lucius’s face. He displayed only the most perfect, most polished marble disdain as he stared down at Potter’s limp, still disguised body.

“Draco,” Lucius began, “I have already heard rumors of what you have done. I will not let you bring that man in here.”

Draco felt his eyes brighten and his breath come short. Was this the point at which he would insist on having his own way and Lucius, exasperated beyond reason, would disown him? Draco could feel his former plans wheeling around in his head like melting snowflakes, reorganizing and freezing into new lines.

“That man is my lover,” he said. “The man I’ve spent months with, and will spend the rest of my life with, the way I feel about him right now.” He didn’t miss the way Lucius’s lip curled, or the small step his father took away from them, as if being gay were contagious. “He has as much reason to be welcome in my home as I do, Father. Unless you would require the both of us to leave?” He arched an eyebrow, and waited. His heartbeat increased as Lucius continued to stare at him.

“You are rapidly straining my patience,” Lucius said. “More, you disgust me.”

No emotion in the words. That meant he was, indeed, telling the truth. Draco restrained a yelp of triumph. If he showed his father he wanted this, Lucius would reverse himself abruptly and attempt to discover the real reasons why Draco had wanted to be disowned later.

“And you disgust me,” Draco retorted, “because you cannot accept the evidence of love where it exists, because you want such a powerful force to flow only inside your narrow boundaries.” He put a possessive hand on Potter’s chest. It was a delight to him to feel the slow, deep breaths Potter was taking. Whether or not the other man would actually have chosen to sleep next to him was beside the point. He was sleeping next to him right now, and the emotions that surged through Draco were protective, glad, deep, exalted.

Lucius brought his hands sharply together, the signal he had used to call his son’s attention to him and break up arguments between Draco and Narcissa for as long as Draco could remember. It didn’t startle him now; it just built his anticipation higher. Draco watched his father, and tried not to pant.

“I have already heard rumors of what you have done,” Lucius repeated, as if the matter of Potter staying in the Manor were settled. “You sponsored a play that dealt—openly, mind you—with the sort of life you have degraded yourself to living these days.”

Draco snorted. “Of course I did. I think I can remember spending my own money, Father.”

Lucius twitched his head, as if he hadn’t really believed the report and its truth stung him. For just a moment, his eyes lowered. If it were still possible for Draco to take pity on Lucius, he would have felt it then.

“Draco,” Lucius murmured, and most of the veneer of his voice was gone. He extended one hand as if he would actually clasp Draco’s and tug him into an embrace, which had not happened in over ten years, since the first moments after the Battle of Hogwarts. “You must tell me. Why doesn’t a discreet lifestyle content you anymore? Why did you not consent to marry someone of our choosing? You could have kept your lover on the side. If he truly—“ Lucius swallowed as if the words he had to speak nauseated him. “If he truly cares for you, then he will understand your responsibilities to your family and to a great culture that is on the brink of vanishing. Such arrangements have happened in the past, and with perfect facility and happiness, with eyes and mouths shut where they needed to be. What possessed you to open yours?”

Strangely enough, Draco could give him a part of the truth there. Lucius probably would still not understand the terms that Draco used, but, in a way, it would be a relief to speak.

“I haven’t been what you wanted me to be for years,” Draco told his father quietly. “The affairs I had with men started out of curiosity, and boredom, and as a way to defy your strictures. And then they became important to me. I found that I could care for men quite as much as for women. I could not endure the thought of spending most of my time in a loveless marriage and only seeing my lovers on the side. And then I found Brian.” Strange, how natural it seemed to want to say Harry instead, in that moment, and how close he came to breaking apart his father’s world even further. “He is special. He is different. He is the one who could never be put aside for a wife, no matter how much I might want to respect you and uphold my duties to the family.”

“Duty is the one inflexible master,” Lucius said. “Not love. Nothing else is as important as the continuation of our traditions—in this case, the continuation of our family line. You could have come to me when you found yourself—“ Again he seemed to strangle. “Falling in love with this young man. I would have found some way to ensure that you did not suffer.”

“And what way would that be?” Draco smiled. “Giving him a potion that ensured he fell in love with someone else? ‘Persuading’ him to take exile from Britain? A long-lasting impotence curse, like the one you tried to cast on me?”

“Any and all of those would have been better than the dishonor you are bringing us to,” Lucius said, and for the first time a pale flame of anger was in his eyes.

Draco gazed steadily at his father. This was his version of the extended hand and the forgiveness his mother would have offered far more freely, Draco knew. Reject this effort at reconciliation, and the chances were good that Lucius would never offer him another.

Except that Draco thought he could live with that, now. Even if his plain ultimately failed, if he were to be disowned and then Lucius did not beg him back into the family no matter what happened, it didn’t matter. As long as he had his freedom to think and maneuver, his physical and political independence—

And Potter by his side.

Draco suffered a brief, intense wave of dizziness at the thought that Potter had become as necessary to him as the rest, and told himself to be very careful how he let his thoughts turn. He had not even seduced Potter yet; nor did Potter realize that Draco knew his true identity, and had got past some of his anger.

Still, it felt like a revelation in many ways.

“You do not believe as I do,” said Lucius, and then he turned and left the entrance hall, the line of his shoulders set and firm. Draco waited a moment, cocking his head. If his father set the wards against them and would not permit Potter to stay in the Manor, then he would call Rini and order the house-elf to direct him to Potter’s home. It was a risk, with the Aurors probably hunting Potter’s magical signature, and it would certainly reveal Draco’s knowledge of Potter’s real face and name. But perhaps speeding up the game would not matter. And Draco would not subject himself to the indignity of fighting with his father about this.

The wards did not rise, however. Draco cast a Feather-Light Charm on Potter’s body and swept him up the stairs into his own bedroom.

Potter looked strangely natural lying on that bed, Draco thought, as he arranged the other man’s head on the pillows. Then he snorted. Of course Potter looked strangely natural. He had spent the night there once before, the night he had fucked Draco.

With his eyes closed, however, he looked so much like Draco’s schoolboy nemesis that Draco really must have been an idiot not to have seen it before. Perhaps I can claim I was too tired from shagging to notice.

Draco thought he could get used to seeing Potter there for days on end, in early morning slants of sunlight and at night when the moon had risen. Of course they would live in the Manor until Draco’s parents disowned him, and when that happened, Draco would bring his own furniture with him to a nicer dwelling than Potter could ever afford. Draco was not about to stay in whatever tatty house Potter had appropriated for himself.

And perhaps you should stop thinking about this and think about what you’ll do when the Aurors arrive, and when the papers report on this, and when your mother questions you.

Draco laughed quietly and leaned back against the wall of his bedroom. He was not entirely sure that Potter was good for him. He made Draco’s mind spin and whirl and leap out of the neat pathways of plans he’d had laid for years, into new ones that might or might not lead to the places Draco needed to go.

But as of yet, Draco did not think he wanted to give that feeling up.

*

Harry opened his eyes with a startled gasp. For a moment, he could not remember how he had fallen asleep, or determine where he was now. He forced himself up on his elbows so fast his vision wavered and he went dizzy with the rush of blood.

Then Draco’s hand fell on his shoulder and drew Harry back to rest against him. “It’s all right,” Draco whispered into his ear. “You’re in the Manor, and my father made no fuss about our staying here. Nor have the Aurors shown up yet.” His other hand smoothed up and down Harry’s back, and Harry found his eyes fluttering shut in spite of himself. No one had ever stroked him just there before. He’d had no idea how much he enjoyed it, or that it would make his muscles as limp as marmalade.

Then he threw the thought impatiently into oblivion. “You cast a sleeping charm on me?” he asked, yanking away from Draco.

Draco didn’t seem inclined to let him go; though his hands momentarily shifted their positions, he almost immediately replaced them and sighed into the hair that curled around the nape of Harry’s neck. “I did. You needed to rest after that spell you cast, and with all your talk of going to prison and facing the Aurors, I wasn’t sure you would.”

Harry ignored him as best he could, instead listening intently. Yes, he thought he could hear the faint cracks of Apparition when he concentrated. The Malfoys had wards on their house so that one could not simply Apparate in and out, but they would not have wanted those wards to conceal the sound of approaching enemies.

“The Aurors are here now,” he said softly.

Draco’s arms grew stiff for just a moment, his fingers curling as if he would stab them into Harry’s neck and spine instead of stroking him. Harry was glad. The slight pain from Draco’s expensively manicured nails digging into him cleared his head still more. He began recalling the script that he’d prepared for this moment, and ran a hand through his hair. It might be tousled from sleeping, and he wanted to make a small pretense at cleanliness. Best to look normal, as if he’d had no idea the Aurors would want to pursue him.

“How did you know they were here?” Draco breathed harshly, even as they heard the sound of the door opening into the entrance hall below and the shrill voices of house-elves announcing a visitor. Harry was not entirely sure whether Lucius or Narcissa would greet them first, but that hardly mattered.

“A spell that I cast to wake me up when they arrived,” Harry said, and shrugged as he sat up, finally forcing Draco’s hands off him. “Even if I was under a sleeping charm at the time.”

Draco gripped his shoulders and forcibly turned Harry to face him. “No one can track Aurors that way,” he said. “Not unless you knew exactly which ones were coming.” He eyed Harry contemplatively, as if the notion of Brian having acquaintances among the Aurors were not so far-fetched.

And this is another reason you need to leave, Harry told himself, even as his pulse quickened from that look. You’re giving him more things to think about. He’s either trying to track down Brian’s real history or he will start soon, and that is a complication you do not need.

“I can,” Harry said, and laughed a little as the expression on Draco’s face slid towards incredulity. “I’m an actor, Draco. I pay a lot of attention to fabric—to clothing in general, really. It’s important when you’re going on stage in costumes. And from there, I’ve extended the habit to other areas of my life.” He shrugged a bit. “The Aurors’ robes are mostly all made of the same material. The Minister instituted that a few years ago, I’m told, to make it easier for wounded Aurors under extreme circumstances to borrow each other’s clothing. Or some such thing. I didn’t follow politics that closely, until I met you. The charm alerts me when a group of people wearing robes of that material appears next to me. That’s all. Simple, yes?” He winked at Draco and rose to his feet, ready to face the Aurors.

Of course, if he had really allowed the Aurors to trace him without trouble, they would have uncovered Harry Potter’s magical signature. But Harry had advantages that other wizards didn’t. He hadn’t cast magic in public in a long time, making his magical signature harder to recognize. He regularly switched wands, and that led to his signature not being as stable as someone who used the same one all the time; it wasn’t well-known, but a wizard’s magic was influenced by the wood and core of the wand. Otherwise, any wizard would have been able to use any wand.

And Harry had sent a record of “Brian’s” magical signature to the Ministry two days ago, as a good-faith gesture. He was appearing an awful lot in public lately, he had said in his letter, and he wanted them to know who he was, just in case he was ever involved in something dramatic and with political consequences. The signature was a mixture of Harry’s with enough different bits and pieces—the influence from the different wand core and wood, the tendency to cast powerful spells, the imprint of a different personality and fascinations—that it should withstand inspection, much like a lie mixed with the truth.

He bounced “Brian’s” wand in his hand and waited.

*

Draco narrowed his eyes as he watched Potter face the doorway of his room. He looked like someone about to enter battle, as if he suspected he could actually fool the Aurors. Surely he had planned on revealing that he was Harry Potter to the few wizards and witches who would corner him, and then swearing them to secrecy? Draco could easily picture Potter being let off for his little pranks by an indulgent set of Aurors, especially with one of his good friends still in the Minister’s office. Draco had thought that was the reason Potter felt so confident going out in public, in fact; he had the web of lies about his magic and his living situation, but that would not have been enough for him to accomplish acting lessons and lessons in pure-blood culture, so he probably depended on the Ministry to cover for him.

But now…

He had not panicked at finding himself in the Manor. He didn’t seem indignant that Draco had cast the sleeping charm. He just stood there, grinning slightly when the first Auror stepped into the room, a fat, tall man with a face rather like a melted pork pie.

Perhaps he intends to cast a Memory Charm on me the moment the Aurors are finished talking. Draco loosened his wand in his sleeve. It was a practical precaution in other ways, too, he mused, as the Auror cast him a glance of disgust.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Potter said, nodding as another Auror stepped into the room. “Can I help you?”

“You’re Brian Montgomery?” The second Auror carefully checked a piece of parchment he was carrying. The first one snorted. He had contempt ground into the lines around his eyes like dirt, but he was casting Potter covert glances anyway. Draco tasted vinegar jealousy in his mouth.

“Yes,” Potter said, and gave them a little self-deprecating smile that wasn’t among Brian’s usual gestures. Draco frowned, trying to figure out why that bothered him. Perhaps Potter simply hadn’t had cause to use that smile around him. “I suspect you want me to ask me some questions about what happened in the Theater-in-the-Round this afternoon?”

“Yes,” said Pork Pie. “Your wand, if you please.” He held out his hand, and Potter nodded and handed over his wand with a touch of ceremony. Draco hid a snort. So there were pieces of the Brian personality still there.

How mixed are they? How interleaved? I wonder if I would see the real Potter even if I pinned him down and told him I know the truth?

The first Auror cast a number of spells on the wand, whilst the second pressed questions on Potter—boring ones. When had he arrived at the theater? Had he come with the intention of causing a disruption? Who had he come with? Did he know the play was going to take the dramatic turn it had?

Potter answered them in the manner of a perfect liar. He didn’t look at the ground and pretend false innocence, the way Draco knew he had in Hogwarts. He didn’t fidget and look uncomfortable in the wrong places. He didn’t show too precise and diamond-edged a recall, the way he would have done had he practiced his story over and over. He told the truth of events simply, plainly, with a sigh of annoyance now and then when he glanced at the way Pork Pie was handling his wand.

Draco recognized the spells Pork Pie was casting as the kind that would identify a magical signature. He stiffened with anticipation. Surely someone would recognize Potter’s magic. How could the most famous wizard in Britain go unrecognized?

Then Draco remembered the lies Potter had spread about. And he remembered the sheer power of the magic that Potter had used in the Theater-in-the-Round. Was there any record in the Ministry of the boy Potter had been using a spell like that? Or would their records show only minor hexes and jinxes, perhaps an Unforgivable or two? The Aurors would not even bother to check, perhaps, if they thought the “real” Harry Potter a weak wizard.

Finally, Pork Pie made a hacking sound and cast Potter’s wand back at him. Potter caught it with a neat underhanded motion that caused Draco’s eyes to narrow. That movement would have betrayed him, I think, even if I didn’t know. He obviously has played Quidditch before, and he was obviously a Seeker.

“Nothing,” Pork Pie said, talking to his partner instead of Potter. Potter just raised his eyebrows and nodded, as if to say I told you there was nothing wrong with my story.

“I thought not,” said the second Auror, in a tone of satisfaction that made Draco glance at him. He was stealing covert looks at Potter, too, and they were filled with decidedly more approval than Pork Pie’s had been. When he briefly caught Draco’s eye, in fact, he gave him a fleeting smile and a wink.

Well. Perhaps our revolution is not without allies in the official establishment, after all. Draco gave a brief, chilly smile in return, and stepped up to put a hand on Potter’s side. Potter, oddly, tensed instead of relaxing the way he should have at a show of support. But the Aurors were departing with cordial farewells on the part of the younger—who had introduced himself, but whose name Draco hadn’t bothered to catch—and evil-sounding grunts from Pork Pie.

Potter yawned widely when they were gone, and said, “Well, that’s over for the moment. And you were right, it was easier answering their questions here than in a holding cell.” He winked at Draco in turn. “Now, if you’ll just tell me when we should meet next, I’ll go home.”

Draco’s frustration abruptly caught fire. Potter had weathered the storm without a bow of his head. He had simply accepted the sleeping charm and Draco’s bringing him here as if it didn’t matter. He had done everything on his own, beautifully and perfectly and without slowing down once.

As if he didn’t need Draco.

Despite his promises to himself that they wouldn’t have sex again for the present, Draco burned with the desire to affect Potter in the one way he knew he could. He whispered, “We’re not quite done yet.”

“Oh?” Potter eyed him in a bewildered manner, as if he couldn’t imagine what Draco wanted, which made Draco growl even as he lowered his mouth to the other man’s and kissed him, long and hard.

His body immediately burned with need, and he heard Potter’s soft, startled gasp and felt the erection brushing against his with as much satisfaction as he’d felt the first time he opened Malfoy’s Machineries.

And then Potter was pushing firmly against his chest, stepping out of his arms, his eyes narrowed and blazing, and saying the words that Draco could not accept, could not believe, not in his current mood and not in any other, as much for the cool tone in which they were delivered as for their meaning. “I’m not interested right now, thanks.”

*

Harry was furious with himself. He was sweating as if he’d been tossed head-first into a bonfire, his hands shaking. He’d felt the urge to stand where he was and let Draco have his way, or wrap his arms around the other man and take Draco to bed.

Betraying his disguise was one thing; it could be recovered from. Getting emotionally involved when their magic reached out and bound them together—Harry would have challenged Lucius Malfoy himself to resist that. But putting himself into a situation he knew would make him emotionally vulnerable, with an excellent chance that Draco could find out who he really was, when he knew he’d have to leave in less than a week and when he’d promised himself that he wouldn’t have sex with Draco any more…

No. Harry felt a sharp-edged wave of self-loathing rising over him, and shook his head against it. He couldn’t flop down and sulk the way he usually did when he made a mistake like this, and he couldn’t employ his other indulgence when he’d been weak and stare into the reverse Pensieve. He kept his eyes sharp and his resolve firm by taking a few steps away from Draco.

Draco just stared at him as if he had no answer to Harry’s refusal. He was panting, too, his gaze keen and his hands trembling in the moment before he clenched them into fists and put them behind his back. His voice stung like sleet. “I want you. I could quite clearly feel that you want me, too. Don’t try to tell me you’re not interested.”

Harry’s breath caught. Unwittingly, it seemed, he’d stumbled on to a way to deeply insult Draco. Maybe this would make him care about “Brian” less and back away.

“It’s true it’s been a long day, and I was bored,” Harry said casually. “And perhaps a little aroused, with the way our visitors kept eying me.” Draco’s expression was quickly streaming past incredulous and heading straight for purest fury, so Harry twisted the knife a little more. “You don’t know a lot about my past. Didn’t I tell you that I get bored relatively easy? That it takes more than the offer of a few exotic positions to keep my interest? And since that’s all you have to offer me, I might as well take my leave.”

Draco’s lips parted in a snarl. Harry smirked at him one more time and turned his back. His self-loathing was searing him, but this should finally put an end to the most unwise action he’d ever taken—

Draco’s arms slammed into the wall on either side of him, pinning him there. Harry whirled around, snarling himself now, trapped, enraged—

And Draco kissed him, biting him hard, forcing his tongue into Harry’s mouth, his own rage boiling through the kiss—

Harry realized what was going to happen as the air turned red and silver around them, and tried madly to Apparate. But the Manor’s Apparition wards were too strong for him to break without more concentration, and he had dangerously exhausted his magic earlier.

Or perhaps he had already waited too long.

Once again, their magic connected across the gaps between them. Once again, their emotions flowed into each other, rushing, drowning Harry in Draco’s desire like a waterfall.

And no option was possible for either of them at that moment but passionate surrender.

Chapter 19.

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[lomonaaeren.livejournal.com]

They would, but Harry is more interested in resuming his life at this point than being unstoppable with Draco. Or so he thinks.