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Chapter Twenty-Six—Debates

“More porridge, Master Malfoy?”

Draco had to admit that Harry’s house-elf made excellent food, even if Kreacher seemed to feel that porridge and nothing else was suitable for someone recovering from a physical injury. He nodded and held out the bowl, but Kreacher snapped his fingers and an entire new bowl appeared in Draco’s hands. Draco smiled and let Kreacher take the empty one instead. He looked over Kreacher’s head, but Harry still hadn’t returned from the loo. Maybe he’d gone to take a shower instead of relieve himself, as Draco had supposed.

Before the house-elf could leave the room, Draco cleared his throat. Kreacher turned back at once, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He really was eager to serve, Draco thought, and wondered if the difference between him and the Malfoy house-elves came from the people they served or the way they were treated.

“Master Malfoy needs something else?”

“I was just wondering if you could tell me a little about Harry,” Draco said. “I haven’t been dating him long, you see, and there’s still so much I don’t know.”

Kreacher’s ears rose almost straight up. “Master Malfoy is moving into the house?”

Draco blinked, wondering how Kreacher had drawn that conclusion from his words. “Er, not at the moment,” he said. The elf nodded, and his ears drooped again. “But I wondered how much truth there is to the rumors that Harry stays in the house all the time and never goes out for any reason. Does he spend much time here?”

“Master Harry is always moving,” Kreacher said, his voice taking on the tone of a familiar complaint. He tapped one over-large foot agitatedly on the gleaming wooden floor of the bedroom Draco had taken over. “He will not sit still for long, not even when he is sick. ‘Master Harry,’ Kreacher says, ‘do not overstrain yourself.’ ‘Master Harry, eat more.’ And he just smiles at Kreacher and says he doesn’t need to. Sometimes he says he doesn’t need to eat more because the person he is doesn’t need to eat more.”

Draco blinked again. “The person he is—“

“Trying to pry information out of my house-elf, Draco?” Harry stepped through the bedroom door, his hair wet and gleaming, his smile sharp enough to cut. He had on a shirt and a loose pair of trousers, Draco was disappointed to see. After all the time they’d spent around each other, surely it wouldn’t have bothered Harry to expose a bit of flesh, and Draco would have enjoyed it. Harry flicked a glance at Kreacher, and the house-elf squeaked and vanished.
“Just ask me if you really want to know.”

The words were friendly enough, but Harry’s eyes had gone shadowed, and he’d lost a little of the openness he’d shown last night. Draco didn’t know why. They’d only been apart for five or six hours, if the Tempus Charm he cast was accurate (and it always was), and Harry would have spent most of that time sleeping. Had he put up his barriers again solely because of the time? Had he thought of some consequence to their companionship that Draco had not?

“Sometimes house-elves know things that wizards don’t, even the wizards who own them,” Draco said, refusing to apologize. “But since you extended the invitation to me, I will. Do you spend a lot of time here?”

“Not really.” Harry waved his wand and dried his hair, then nodded at the porridge. “Are you going to eat that?”

“Impatient, or hungry?” Draco murmured, picking up his spoon.

“Impatient.” Harry stretched his arms over his head and paced back and forth. Draco watched him from the corner of an eye, and slowed the movements of his spoon when he thought he could get away with it. Harry was staring at the far wall, though Draco had already looked at it and knew there wasn’t a window there. “We’ll have to make decisions sooner or later, and have a conversation that I’m not looking forwards to.”

Draco laid his spoon down with a precise click. He supposed it was progress of a sort that Harry was confessing his dread of the arriving conversation rather than trying to avoid it or disguise his motives, but since Draco had no idea why he would dread anything, the statement was still irritating. “And what do you think we’ll talk about?”

Harry took a deep breath and turned to face him. His eyes were still shadowed, but now he was biting his lower lip, which calmed Draco a bit; Harry was even more nervous about this than he was, if that was possible.

“More like, what we’ll argue about,” Harry said. “Shouldn’t you finish that first?” He nodded to the porridge.

“I suddenly find myself without an appetite,” Draco said. “Disagreement with you does that to me.”

*

Harry cursed inwardly. He knew he should have followed the promptings of his common sense and kept out of the bedroom until Draco had finished his breakfast. He didn’t want to rush him, or injure him further. Yes, he had managed to heal Draco’s broken rib last night, but he was no expert at such magic and Draco still needed time to recover.

But he’d allowed his own impulses to overtake him, and what good did that ever do? There was a reason Harry kept such a tight leash on the part of himself that had got him into trouble during his years at Hogwarts, a reason he regarded that part of himself as the weakest one.

Still, Draco knew enough by now that he might as well go ahead with the subject. Harry leaned back on the wall and did what he could to show patience and invincible calm, instead of the champing pain on his nerves. “You’ll want me to go about in public with you now,” he said. “To stand at your side as Harry Potter instead of Brian Montgomery. To put the power of my name behind the rebellion.” He paused. “And behind your rebellion as well, I suppose, though since Lucius has disowned you already you don’t need my name for that.”

Draco had narrowed his eyes, but his hands had not moved. Harry wondered idly if he had learned his poised immobility from his mother or his father. It did wonders for him, either way. He certainly didn’t look like the kind of man someone would want to argue with.

Too bad I have no choice. I should have seen this last night. We’re just too different, in some ways, for it to be a good thing that he has the secret of Metamorphosis now.

Harry knew he would still have done the same thing again if offered a Time-Turner, however. He had owed Draco the truth; he had owed Draco whatever he asked for, and Draco had chosen the truth. And there was still a crawling, shrinking relief in him, emanating from that weakest and most deeply-buried part of him, that someone besides him knew. Carrying the secret had been a weight of its own.

But in other ways, this was an enormous problem. Draco might think Harry’s deceptions and disguises were clever and Slytherin and fascinating, but he wouldn’t for long. This was only one of the reasons.

Harry knew better than to believe this could work out smoothly. He would have to ride it out as best as he could, though, because he was attracted to Draco, he did want to be with Draco, and Draco did know.

“You’re saying,” Draco murmured, “that you want to remain disguised.”

“Yes,” Harry said.

“This has to do with the reasons that you’ve never revealed yourself as gay? That you’ve never told anyone else you run Metamorphosis? That you haven’t used your name and your power as you could have, to claim some respect for yourself?”

“What power?” Harry said, before he could stop his own words. He flinched when Draco glared at him. Damn it, the weak part of me is speaking again.

“Do not play stupid,” Draco said. “You know very well your magic could have won you all the attention, admiration, respect, or fear you desired. Yet you preferred to act the weakling.” His hands briefly clenched in the sheets, as if he were fighting himself. “And those reasons you still don’t want to confess to me.”

“Yes,” Harry said quietly. He held Draco’s eyes. “Is this the ending of any connection we might share, then? Do you regret I told you?”

Nausea churned in his stomach and relief swirled dizzily behind his eyes. Draco’s rejection now would hurt terribly, but it would also allow Harry to continue as he had been. At the moment, with reality crushing the little paradise he had briefly found in Draco’s arms, Harry was not sure which one he wanted more.

*

Draco frowned, the sharp retort he had drawn breath to make dying in his mouth. He examined Harry with narrowed eyes. He was missing something he should have grasped and understood instinctively, and God knew there were enough mysteries around Harry already.

Harry had his arms crossed behind his head, an easy, relaxed posture Draco was sure was fake, especially with the flickering movements of his eyes and the tremor in his voice. When he happened to shift to the side, his shoulders bunched and stayed that way, tense. His expression struggled for stoic, with flashes of other emotions easily visible behind it.

And now Draco felt stupid. He said he was a good actor. What if he’s acting around me, too? What if he’s showing me what he thinks I want or need to see, instead of the true, honest him?

The truth was probably more complex than that, because Draco had easily been able to tell when Harry was lying before, and now he wasn’t sure. However, the question had sounded real enough. He started by answering it, relaxing his own posture and smiling as much as he could under the circumstances.

“Of course I don’t regret it. You sound as though you’re awfully certain I’ll leave you at any moment, Harry, as if I’m looking for some excuse. You should know that’s not true.” Draco lowered his voice, filled it with affection. “Why would I be looking for one, you imbecile? I showed you what your trust means to me. I want to retain it. I hardly could if I rejected the first great revelation you’ve offered me out of turn.”

Harry’s head jerked sharply to one side, and his eyes lost their shadows for the first time that morning, widening and letting in the light. He dropped his hands from behind his head, crossing them at the waist, and looked long and steadily at Draco.

He still didn’t smile, but Draco thought he was getting through to him now. He waited. Harry cleared his throat and then spoke in an unsteady voice. “I—of course. I should have known that.” He paused, his muscles still tense, locked and trembling as if he were about to bolt, and then blurted out, “I’m trying to trust you. It’s harder than I thought it would be.” And then he looked mortified he’d said that.

But Draco relaxed, because he understood much better now. Harry feared bad reactions from his friends if he told them about Metamorphosis. Why shouldn’t he fear the same thing from Draco, once he’d had time to think about it, once a disagreement came about between them, even if Draco had initially been swept away in the rush of emotions?

And I am dearer to him than any friend.

Draco kept his voice soft and cheerful, the same voice he might have used to coax a timid wild animal close. “Of course I would like you to take your place at my side, but I think that’s impossible right now, for many reasons.” Harry looked at him with such shining gratitude in his eyes Draco had to fight to keep from preening. He did harden his face and tone enough to add, “But we should work towards that. I will, eventually, want to date you in public. And in the future, please ask me what I’m likely to want, rather than assuming I’ll argue with you like a goat butting his head against a stone wall, or give up on you the moment I don’t get my way.”

Harry flushed, and nodded. Then he said, “What should our strategy be, then? I enjoyed last night, but kissing and confessing secrets is hardly the way we can spend all our days, not if we want to be productive.” A note of wry humor had crept into his voice which Draco took a moment to revel in before he answered.

“It depends on what you mean by ‘productive,’” Draco said, and this time Harry smiled. Glad to see it, Draco smiled back, though he made a mental note to himself not to expect all their arguments to be this easily settled. “I intend to continue my support of Nusante and his followers. My name is associated with it now, and backing out would look weak. Besides, it will anger Lucius.” That won an even broader smile from Harry, though this one flashed and went quickly. “However, I know next to nothing about safe meeting places in London, or about the best ways to send positive messages about homosexuality through plays and other art. My contacts in the Ministry are also limited.” He leaned forwards. “I want to lend monetary support. I want you to make the plans.”

Harry’s face froze. Then he said, “You know, Draco, exaggerated stories about what I did during the war aside, I’m really not that great a planner.”

Draco blinked for a moment. Then he said, “I wasn’t talking about the war. And as for your not being good at planning, that’s a load of bollocks. Who carried out Metamorphosis under pure-blood noses for a decade?”

Harry flinched a little, then stood straighter. Draco had to admit he didn’t understand this reaction, either.

But some of them you want him to explain on his own, remember?

*

He—he thinks I can do this. I told him the truth, told him how I’ve hidden behind other people and fled from my responsibilities, almost broke down in his arms, and lashed out and wounded him physically, and he still has confidence in me.

Harry could not remember the last time he had felt this heady mixture of support and trust coming from another person. References to Metamorphosis still hurt more than he’d thought they would, and somehow he’d forgotten that of course Draco would factor his new knowledge of Harry into his future plans. But Draco was willing to believe in him, despite everything, and that made Harry determined not to let him down.

You cannot, the merciless voice insisted in Harry’s head, the first time he had heard it that morning. He barely concealed his start; he had thought he’d put it away and gone back to being the cold Harry, mixed with glimpses of the weak one Draco seemed to see against Harry’s will. The voice was a most strange persona, not fading away when it was told to and talking back to Harry, whilst the others were simply different people. You cannot fail him, not as long as you have breath in your body.

It might happen anyway.

But not with your willing cooperation.

No.

And with the merciless voice pushing at him, Harry made a gesture he knew he could never have done otherwise. Holding Draco’s eyes, he smiled a little and said, “Well. It’ll be some time yet before I’m ready to let my name or my face be associated in public with homosexuality. Still, it’ll happen eventually.” Making that commitment caused shivers to race up and down his spine, but the softening of Draco’s face was worth the fear. “What if I were to spread the rumor that Harry Potter does support Nusante and the struggle? What if I were to offer a hiding place in London where no one would think to look for them, because the house is so well-hidden?” He made a wide circling gesture around at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “But someone must know you live here. Someone would figure it out, and probably sooner than we want.”

He said we, the merciless voice pointed out.

I know he did, Harry snapped back, still reeling with the wonder and the shock of it, the implication Draco was with him, even in decisions he clearly didn’t agree with. Then he continued, “There are ways to disguise that. We’ll give them the Apparition coordinates, the exact coordinates, so that they’ll Apparate in on the doorstep. I can easily disguise all traces that I live here.” Draco’s eyes narrowed a bit, but Harry didn’t think it looked threatening and so didn’t pursue the subject or allow his confidence to deflate. “And I’ll adjust the wards to cast a modified illusion spell. Anyone who gets curious will think he’s looking at another street entirely. It’ll be that much harder to betray from the outside, if we do have anyone who thinks to score points with the Ministry by trying.”

“We still don’t know where they got the information about the first meeting,” Draco murmured.

“Exactly.” Harry took another risk. He was dizzy with the sensation of doing so, but he had support. He couldn’t have forgotten that even if the merciless voice didn’t constantly whisper in his head to remind him. “I do have contacts in the Ministry. I can talk to Ron, and he’s happy to give me all sorts of gossip if I ask the right questions. I’ll try to learn both who gave the meeting away and how much they know now.”

Draco chuckled. “And the art?”

“I do have some ideas on that as well,” Harry admitted, biting his lip. He was debating whether he should tell Draco that he had been Elizabeth Gouldier. But this was probably enough risks for one day. Draco would be irritated if he learned that Harry had been acting a persona right under his nose. “However, I think we can leave the bulk of the planning up to Nusante and the people who want to work in the same field. They’re the artists, after all.”

“True enough, for now.” Draco leaned back against the pillows and stretched. He had removed his shirt to sleep, and Harry found his eyes following the muscles in Draco’s arms and shoulders with more than friendly interest. Draco noticed him looking and breathed deeply on purpose, which flexed his muscles. Harry flushed.

Draco took the mercy on him the voice in Harry’s head would not. “I can ask among my own pure-blood friends to see if anyone might have any idea who passed the information on to the Ministry. And it’s time I softened them up. They’ll talk to me, I think. By now, they’ll have heard of the disowning, and they’ll want to know how in the world I could be so reckless.” He held out a hand. “Come here. I’d like to kiss you before I leave.”

Harry stepped forwards and bent his head. This kiss was less intimate than the one they had shared last night, but also lazier and slower and less urgent. They didn’t need to rush, Draco seemed to be saying, because they had plenty of time to know and explore and tease each other. Harry was panting nonetheless when he drew away, and half-hard.

Draco smiled at him, but didn’t say anything about it. He rose to his feet, retrieved the shirt hanging on the back of a chair, and slung it over his shoulder. As he followed Harry down the stairs to the entrance hall, Harry glanced back at him and found his eyes fixed on the distance. He was humming under his breath, the way Harry often walked down these stairs when things were going well and whistled.

He can focus his whole attention on me, and he can also relax enough around me that he doesn’t have to pay attention to my every little movement. Harry flushed again. Honestly, he needed to stop acting like a delighted puppy when he learned something new about Draco.

If reacting like a delighted puppy keeps you aware of how much you owe him and how much he can give you, then that is the right thing to do, said the merciless voice.

Deliberately, Harry focused his thoughts on being the cold Harry, the one who saw and thought far ahead, the one who had the strength to do things he didn’t necessarily like. That would banish the merciless voice, the decided shift to another persona. And something occurred to him, because he was thinking like his cold self, which had not been answered so far. Pausing with his hand on the front door, he turned and asked Draco, “How did you learn where I lived? Is it a hole in my wards that someone else could exploit?”

Draco looked up and shook his head. His hair hung shining around his head, even in the relatively dim lights of the hall, and Harry found himself admiring it. Well, the cold Harry did have a libido.

No, he doesn’t.

Harry snarled a little and held himself still. Draco was staring at the place where the portrait of Mrs. Black had once hung and looked as if he wanted to ask a question about it, but he drew himself together enough to answer Harry’s instead.

“A house-elf followed the owl I sent you a few days ago,” he said, smiling at Harry again. “He waited until your elf was out, then sneaked into the hole he’d left, convincing the house that he was Kreacher on the way.” Draco looked insufferably smug, but Harry supposed he had a right to.

“All right.” Harry nodded. “So long as it’s not a weakness I need to patch up.”

Draco stepped up to him and laid his hands on his shoulders. He looked at Harry from so close Harry tilted up his chin, anticipating another kiss, but Draco simply stared intently.

“I think you have fewer weaknesses than you pretend,” he murmured, and released Harry from his hold.

Frozen, Harry watched Draco step out the front door and casually tug on his shirt. Then he Apparated. Harry found himself obscurely grateful that Draco had dressed before he went, even though the wards would have prevented anyone on the street from getting a good glimpse of him.

You might at least admit your own jealousy, the merciless voice said.

Harry put his hands in his pockets to keep them from shaking and turned away abruptly. He would don the mask of the Harry who was Ron and Hermione’s friend and guide Ron’s conversation subtly towards events in the Ministry. Yes. He would keep his promises to Draco and lend his support to the rebellion.

And he would banish this inconvenient persona he had assumed who did not seem to know how to leave him. He would.

*

Draco arrived at the London flat and frowned lightly as he realized two men were leaning against the wall outside the door. Clients, this early in the morning, and important enough the people at Malfoy’s Machineries had sent them ahead? He hoped it was not some trouble with a new product.

He assumed his business face at once, and nodded courteously. “Gentlemen. Can I help you?”

“In fact, you can,” said the nearest one, stepping forwards, and Draco only then recognized the Auror cut of his robes. He tensed. The other man moved to flank his partner. The first one, a tall, blue-eyed, dark-haired wizard who resembled Brian too much for Draco’s taste, gave him a hard smile. “By coming with us quietly. Draco Malfoy, you are under arrest for violating the Public Statute of Sexual Decency and Morality, 1900, through flagrant displays of homosexuality.”

Chapter 27.