Chapter Twenty of 'Changing of the Guard'- Honesty, Damned Honesty

[lomonaaeren]

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Chapter Twenty—Honesty, Damned Honesty

Draco watched the shadows flicker across Harry’s face as though they were the shadows of swimmers underwater. Harry swallowed twice, then reached out and picked up his wand slowly from the side of the bed. He never took his eyes from Draco.

Draco only stared back. He was certain he had judged the previous terror in Harry’s expression correctly. There had been a moment when the shock was so great that the other man could think of nothing but fleeing or striking back. But if he had been going to do that, he would have done it by now. Draco’s own intact memory and physical health were proof of that.

Brian’s wand swished once, twice, and Brian’s face vanished. Draco didn’t allow the fact that he was impressed by the nonverbal reversal of Transfiguration to show. Of course Harry was powerful; he had known that for a week now. He was more interested in seeing those flushed features change, and in monitoring his own reaction.

Brilliant blue eyes changed to brilliant green ones. Draco had been trying to imagine them, or to invent them out of his own memory, but it wasn’t the same. He hadn’t been able to capture the way they would shine, or how the terror remained not far from the surface. Odd terror, he thought idly. Was Harry really that afraid of Draco’s vengeance? Even though he was the more magically powerful, and he had to know that Draco was not as angry at him as he could have been, given their emotional connection?

And the scar—the scar was back where it belonged. Draco shuddered a little with the sensation of rightness that traveled through him. It now seemed as though he had always known there was something off in Brian’s face, and had willed him to become Harry Potter even before he became suspicious.

Of course, perhaps that comes from your trying to rationalize your behavior after the fact.

Draco told himself to be quiet, and instead enjoyed the fact that he had Harry Potter in his bed, naked, armed but not striking, with Draco still inside his body. Draco shifted his hips a little to emphasize that, and Harry gasped and shivered. A small reaction, but God, it made Draco twitch with lust and deeper feelings that he wouldn’t dare try to name yet.

“Good,” he said quietly. “Now, I think you have some things to explain to me. And perhaps you should try being honest this time, hmm? You know I want the real you, so there’s really no reason to lie.” A Slytherin would have retorted that there was always a reason to lie, but from what Draco had seen so far of Harry’s acting skill and temper and readiness to take up the cause of social justice, he would not react like a Slytherin, however cunning he might be.

*

Harry controlled the impulse to laugh hysterically. Oh, yes, no reason to lie. Except that you’ve come closer than anyone ever has to ruining my life.

He was ruing bitterly that he had allowed his emotional involvement with Draco to become so deep and so complex. Yes, he had enjoyed what had just happened and didn’t think he could betray it. But it was flying straight for disaster. There was no way that Harry could simply hand his secrets over to the covetous hands of Draco Malfoy, and no way that Malfoy would ever relent until he had them. Everything Harry was, or had made himself, rebelled against this attempt at intimacy.

And as for Draco saying he wanted the real Harry Potter…

You have no idea what you’re talking about, Malfoy.

Lying it would have to be. But he would have to be oh so careful, because of his own damn bleeding openness to this. So Harry relaxed, a little, and dropped his wand to his side, and stared at his chest for a moment.

“You’ll laugh,” he said, aiming for the tone of someone sullen about being found out. If there was a chance Draco had recognized his more complex emotions, terror and panic and despair, Harry needed to lay down a false trail at once.

“Really.” Draco shifted his hips again, and Harry arched his back in spite of himself. He hadn’t had someone inside him for this long, ever. As a matter of fact, letting anyone inside him was rare; he couldn’t afford to lose control like that in a situation with a client, so he fucked those men if he fucked them at all. And the ones who fucked some random Muggle bloke with green eyes and tousled black hair never know who they’d shagged. “I can’t imagine laughing at anything you do—not in the way you mean, not sneering and smirking the way I did in school. I can imagine laughing affectionately.” Malfoy—Harry had to think of him that way, had to, it was the only thing that would work—lowered his voice. “I’ve seen part of what you can do. I know that you’ve lied about your magical strength and your emotional strength to the wizarding world for the last ten years, at least. Perhaps longer. And I honestly don’t think I would have caught you out if you hadn’t shown that strength forth in a moment of temper. Tell me, Harry, dear one, what I would laugh at.”

“Dear one” was a misstep—too light a name for what lay between them, or else mocking. Harry flung his head up in challenge, glad to take strength in the jarring note. Malfoy narrowed his eyes, nonplussed, but didn’t seem to recognize his own mistake.

“A pathetic crush,” Harry said defiantly. “I’ve wanted you for a long time, all right? Even though I’ve fucked other men and enjoyed it, somehow none of them quite made up for the dream of you, of having you. And then it turned out that you came to Metamorphosis and it—there was a chance I could have you for real.” He closed his eyes. It was no trouble to conjure a flush onto his cheeks. “This whole thing was the result of some silly schoolboy crush I never managed to get over. No wonder it went south. I never had a chance of pulling off this deception when the motive was—“

Draco spread his fingers wide over Harry’s sternum, digging his nails in just slightly. Harry blinked, and opened his eyes. Draco had shifted his hips again, and then leaned forwards, until his eyes were only a few inches away from Harry’s.

“Stop fucking lying to me,” he whispered.

*

Draco’s mood wavered back and forth for a moment, and then dropped straight into fury. He could not accept that Harry was sprawled here in front of him, their bodies still joined, the magic that had connected their minds and emotions still ebbing around them, the air thick and musky with the smell of sex, and lying as if he expected Draco to believe every word he said.

Harry reared back a bit, and his eyes narrowed. Emotions Draco did not know and could not read sped under the surface of his gaze. For a moment, Draco wished for the magical connection back, though it was too intense for everyday use. He would have given much to know exactly what made Harry so eager to pull away from him. Could he possibly have another lover? A partner, a commitment?

Draco shivered, his skin stung all over with his jealousy.

“I’m not lying.” Harry spoke the words slowly, in the manner that one would handle a recalcitrant child, adding to Draco’s fury. “I’m not proud of what I did, and you have every reason to hate me for it.” On the words “hate me,” he swallowed a little, as if he wanted that result and yet feared it. “You have your triumph over me now, you know, for every petty insult I hurled at you in Hogwarts.” Harry looked down at Draco’s hand on his chest for a moment, and his smile was bitter. “How does it feel to know that I was lusting after you for the past decade, that I couldn’t wait to get into your bed? That I’d do anything to fuck you, even play a part I obviously wasn’t very good at playing?”

A week ago, Draco would have believed him. He had been unable to imagine what motive Harry would have for playing this deception out. He had never imagined Harry could care for him so much, so perhaps this was the answer.

But no, it could not be. Draco refused to accept the notion that a skilled, accomplished liar, someone who answered him in bed and in conversation and in dancing the way Harry did, was at heart the pathetic schoolboy he was trying to portray himself as.

“You owe me more than that,” he said.

“I can’t give you more than the truth, can I?” Harry burst out moodily, and lifted a hand to run it through his hair, tugging fretfully. More and more of his sullenness seemed to be emerging now, Draco thought, as if he felt free to show it now that he’d told Draco the secret behind his behavior.

Or as if he were trying to make a pose more convincing, Draco thought, and his fury made him shake. He dug his hand deep into Potter’s chest, scraping skin up under his fingernails. Potter watched him with narrowed eyes, then yelped to keep in character with his pretense, a moment too late.

“You owe yourself more than that,” Draco told him quietly. He let no emotions into his voice now. He would use only concentration, that and the stare of his wide eyes that held Potter’s and would not let him look away. “You know as well as I do that I couldn’t have that kind of joining with someone who really would sacrifice everything for the chance at a fuck. Your motives are richer and more complex.” He bent forwards until he was near to slipping out of Potter’s body, his breath scraping across the other man’s ears. “And I want to know what they were.”

*

Not a chance, Malfoy.

Harry could feel his breath coming more easily now. This confrontation was more like what he had been expecting to happen if Draco ever discovered his secret. Anger, prying, desperation to see to the bottom of Harry’s deception.

It was what Hermione would have done had she uncovered his secret, too. And Harry had a number of well-honed defensive strategies for that moment; he’d played them out in his mind time after time. Construct a shallow lie and insist that it was the truth no matter how many times the other person asked him—that was the strategy he had chosen to follow. Hermione, or Malfoy, would eventually think Harry didn’t care enough about them to reveal the truth, and retire in frustration, cursing him. That would be the beginning of a loss of connections that Harry minded, minded terribly, but he had to preserve his solitude and his freedom to be who he needed to be at all costs.

So he held Malfoy’s eyes and mocked him in silence. Yes, it was a lie. Let him know that. He would never have the truth.

Malfoy kept up the staring contest, as though he imagined that would make Harry break. Harry had experience with much more accomplished and terrifying people, though, including Voldemort. So what if his soul flinched a little every time those gray eyes darkened? This bond Malfoy wanted them to forge could never survive. Did Malfoy really imagine that he and Harry could be lovers, openly, in the public, or crusaders for the rights of pure-blood sons and daughters to love whom they pleased? No. He was not that naïve. He would gradually recognize the truth, and someday, when he was married and in possession of the Malfoy fortune and living the life he was meant to, he might even look back on this moment and thank Harry.

Harry waited until the silence had stretched some time, then said, lightly and sharply as sleet, “So. We’ve rather gone astray from the original goal of making your father disown you. Don’t you think we should get back to that?” He began to move up the bed, not incidentally making Malfoy slip out of him.

His heart hurt. God, all of this hurt. But he would choose pain over death. He had chosen so time and again in his life. Personal pain over the death of others was an even more familiar choice, and in this case, the hundreds of lives he’d created during Metamorphosis were all at stake.

“And if,” Draco said, his voice so deep that Harry had to pause and listen, he didn’t have any choice, “I were to tell you that I want you, and what we could have together, more than I want the future I can have by opposing Lucius?”

*

Draco could feel his mouth going dry with his own impulsiveness. All the instincts he had cultivated over the years were urging him to draw back, to accept that he had made a mistake and Harry did not want him in the way Draco had thought he did. And his pride was urging him to glance away as well, to drop his eyes and let it end. He had already made one enormously brave decision by giving up his knowledge of Harry’s secret and trying to make them more equal. Why should he have to continue making the sacrifices? Fuck Harry if he couldn’t respond.

But he had remembered what he could lose, and what he could have, perhaps, if he took the risk. And the shadows in Harry’s eyes had remained. This wasn’t a withdrawal he was happy with. He had probably chosen it only because he was certain that doing anything else would expose him to more pain.

And why was that? Draco still could not fathom the reasons that Harry had wanted to hide his power and become Brian, particularly when he didn’t seem to have used the Brian persona to establish a truly independent life, but that mattered less right now than having Harry at his side.

He rolled the dice one last time, swallowed his pride, and admitted another truth that the magic might have shown to Harry, but that Harry obviously hadn’t recognized if it had.

And he knew he had chosen aright when Harry shut his eyes and began to shake.

Draco smoothed his hand back and forth over Harry’s chest, ignoring everything for the moment—the trickle of semen escaping from Harry’s arse, his own cock lying limp and wet between his legs, an itch on his upper shoulder blade—but the feeling of smooth skin beneath his fingers and the way Harry’s breathing quickened, speeding up into the range which Draco knew meant real distress.

He had been right. Harry understood exactly what it meant for Draco to value the future with him more than a future with the Malfoy fortune.

Harry swallowed again, and made a low whining noise in his throat, as if to complain about the general unfairness of life. Draco just kept moving his hand back and forth. To try and soothe Harry now would be the wrong move, and Draco had made enough of those today. He would have to wait for Harry’s pride, his strength, his sense of fair play, everything that was in him, to act as reins and bring him to Draco’s side. A Gryffindor couldn’t let the plea Draco had just given go unanswered.

At last, Harry slowly opened his eyes. Tears gleamed at the edges of them, or else a shine of tears suppressed, and he met Draco’s gaze like a hunted animal.

“You don’t know what it would mean for me to agree,” Harry whispered. “I’ve spent—I haven’t gone out in public in ten years or shown anyone the strength of my magic for a reason, you know.”

“Tell me.” Draco formed the words with the shape of his lips alone, putting no breath behind them.

Harry gazed hopelessly at him, and yet with pride and passion just beneath the surface. Draco had to work hard to keep from cracking a smile. Yes, Harry could recognize Draco’s value, and he wanted him, too. Part of him must be reveling in this even as he fought it with most of himself.

“I can’t have a normal life,” Harry said. “The publicity, the pressure of people wanting me to play their hero even with Voldemort dead—“

“And you decided that people should think you were a pathetic recluse instead?” Draco interrupted, because he could not keep silent. It did fit with what he’d seen of Harry’s behavior, how the idiot had tried to pretend only a ten-year-long crush had landed him in Draco’s bed, but the disguise was a revolting one. There was no more reason to adopt it than to disguise oneself as a beggar instead of a prince, if one must go out in public masked. Harry certainly hadn’t chosen an ugly mask when he’d created Brian, had he?

Harry gave him an incredulous stare. “Draco,” he said, “I don’t want to be admired or valued. The more I am, the greater the chance that someone would look closely at me. The greater the chance of that, the more likely that they would discover I was Harry Potter. Even if they didn’t, they would try to recruit me into some game, political or magical or personal.” Harry shrugged, looking away. “It’s all games, most of the society now,” he muttered. “The pure-bloods play to keep their culture alive and to arrange marriages that will give them more power. The Ministry plays to reconcile the differing elements of the wizarding world to each other without letting on that’s what they’re doing. And there are so many games between the different Departments of the Ministry itself that just listening to accounts of them make me dizzy.”

Draco was glad Harry had turned his face away when he had. It gave him a moment more to arrange his own face into an appropriate expression, instead of the gape that he wanted to give.

Potter didn’t want to be admired or valued.

Now, granted, Draco could appreciate that Harry was not the attention-seeker he’d always thought him to be in Hogwarts, but there was a difference between glorying in attention and wanting, needing, human connection. The fact that Harry didn’t want other people to smile at him, touch him with gentle hands, prize him…

Something was dreadfully wrong with Harry Potter.

But Draco doubted he would get more information if he pressed now. It was, perhaps, a secret Harry would trust him with in time, as their mutual courtship continued, and he realized how deeply entwined they were with each other’s lives.

And the thought of a mystery he hadn’t discovered yet whetted Draco’s appetite. The intense magical connections he’d read about between lovers always seemed to lead to boredom. When they knew everything about each other, what reason did they have to stay together? But this was delightfully different, a reticence Draco couldn’t wait to get inside, but was sure would not be dangerous to him; Harry wouldn’t let it be dangerous to him.

He pitched his voice at the same low, hypnotic level that had attracted and held Harry’s attention once before. “Everything may be games, but this is a different game, Harry. A dance. A contest.” He paused delicately. “A love affair. Will you share it with me? I can think of no one else I would rather have at my side.”

*

Harry couldn’t breathe, for long moments. Even when he could, he felt as though he had just fallen from a cliff.

Suddenly, many things he had wanted without knowing he wanted them seemed within reach. He could have them if he simply stretched out a hand. Equality, a partner, freedom, a shared defense against all the people who would scorn him for revealing he was gay in public, perhaps love—

And then he remembered what he was, who he was.

Someone could have all that, yes. But that person was not the stretched, thin version of himself who huddled beneath the surface, nor the personalities he had created. They were not meant to stand the glare of the full sunlight. And Draco was falling in love, or trying to be in love, with someone who only existed in the bed with him.

Harry experienced a desperate, rich, full sadness, stronger than any emotion he’d felt in years whilst in his own skin, except for the terror when Narcissa had discovered his identity. There was no way out of this. No way to have it. No way to let Draco down gently—

So it would have to be harshly.

Harry took a deep breath, the new plan squirming into his head and taking up residence there. He would assume Draco was telling the truth for now; in fact, he’d probably used the truth as special sugared bait for the Gryffindor he assumed Harry still was. He wanted Harry, did he? Then he would seemingly be able to have him, and then Harry would show him why it couldn’t work. Violently. Inside a week, so Narcissa wouldn’t reveal her knowledge of Harry’s identity to other people besides Draco.

It would hurt, but Harry didn’t know a way to break a connection this visceral without pain. The most important part of it was ensuring that Draco could go on afterwards, that this didn’t wound him mortally.

I don’t think it will, Harry thought, staring into Draco’s shining eyes. He’s a survivor. He might end up less trusting, less willing to reach out and touch someone else again, but I think that’s where he was heading anyway. He never expected to find this happiness, did he? So he’ll have a few shining moments of it, and that will have to be enough. It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, as the Muggle poet says.

The voice of his conscience said, cold and quiet and clear: You cannot do this to him. You cannot harm him in such a fashion.

Harry, who had not lived by his conscience but by his need for the past ten years, smiled at Draco and placed one hand in his. “Yes,” he said. “A different game begins this moment, I think.”

*

I still don’t have him entirely.

Draco wanted to be frustrated for a moment, but the smugness he felt at partially capturing Harry was too delicious. Probably, Harry’s inexplicable reluctance was connected to whatever secret he still concealed. But Draco could charm him out of the one and discover the other, and he was sure that it would only make him fall further in love with Harry.

Could I fall in love with him?

If I couldn’t, then I would know by now.

Draco leaned forwards and kissed Harry lightly. Harry returned the kiss with his eyes half-shut, his lips parting and his tongue darting uneasily around Draco’s, as though he thought he should somehow kiss differently with his real face revealed.

“Now,” Draco whispered, leaning back, “I think we should discuss the next phase of the rebellion. I assume that you arranged a meeting with the rest of the dissidents for a certain time and place. What was it?”

Harry smiled, a half-startled expression, as if he hadn’t thought Draco good enough to be able to reason that out. “Yes,” he began. “Four-o’clock tomorrow, in an old house at…”

There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Draco thought as he listened, his desire growing. But now that I don’t have to pretend I don’t know who you are, I can show myself more honestly and openly. You’re going to fall in love, too, Harry. I think you may already be halfway there, from what I saw in the magic, but halfway isn’t good enough.

I don’t mind falling, as long as you fall alongside me.

Chapter 21.