lomonaaeren

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Chapter Twenty-Eight—Slytherin Applications of Law

Harry sighed as he watched the last owl winging away from the house. He’d sent several messages to Nusante and others involved with his group, giving contradictory information and hints at the identity of a possible traitor. Depending on which information reached the Ministry, he ought to be able to track the source of the leak easily.

He leaned back against the library table, stretching, his eyes falling half-shut. He hadn’t got as much sleep as he normally did last night, thanks to the excitement with Draco. He wondered if he shouldn’t curl up now and try to nap.

A thunderous knocking from the front door put paid to that plan. Harry rolled his eyes, forced himself back to his feet, and tracked down the stairs to the door, his emotions dancing just beneath the surface like a boiling cauldron. He didn’t yet know which ones were appropriate for him to feel about his visitor, and wouldn’t until he saw who that visitor was.

The magical signature revealed itself to him a few steps from the door: Ron’s combination of fire and stinging frost. Harry blinked, aligned his face and his soul into a smile of welcome, and opened the door.

Ron burst past him and whirled around near the base of the stairs, his wand out. He looked so upset that Harry wished for a moment Mrs. Black’s portrait still hung in the usual place, so he could have cursed her. Harry felt himself stooping, become even more somnolent and quiet in response. He did glance quickly out the door to make sure no one pursued Ron before he shut it.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. Hermione would have told Ron that Harry wanted to see him if he came home from the Ministry early—or, more likely given the timing, took his lunch at home—but a simple request shouldn’t have made him dash over here like this. His hair was practically standing on end with how he’d run his fingers through it, Harry thought in uneasy fascination.

“Do you know who they arrested this morning in connection with that terrorist group?” Ron asked, and dashed on before Harry could shake his head. “Draco Malfoy!”

Harry felt himself become very still.

“The idiot’s been arrested for flagrant public displays of homosexuality, and behaves as if he didn’t know that was disgusting, as if he had every right to walk through the world with his head up like a normal person,” Ron ranted, dashing around the entrance hall like a hungry lion around a cage. “He’s just—it’s not right! And then I tried to respond, and I’m the one who gets reprimanded? Fuck that!” He lashed out with his wand, and a section of Harry’s banister turned into green slime and dripped down the wall. “Shacklebolt said he’d talk to me later in that scary tone he always gets, and—“

“Ron,” Harry interrupted, and didn’t know the name would come out in the cold Harry’s voice until he’d spoken it. Ron froze, staring at him, his wand sliding slowly down the inside of his fingers. Harry needed some reason to account for his sudden change of mood, because it couldn’t be Draco’s name, but luckily he’d found it in Ron’s words.

“People who are gay are disgusting?” he asked quietly.

Ron’s face drained of color so fast that Harry thought for a moment he’d faint. Then Ron shook his head firmly and took a step forwards. “That’s not what I meant!” he said fiercely. “I didn’t mean you, mate. It’s just—most of the time I forget you’re gay, you know?” He reached out and clapped Harry on the shoulder, as if to prove that he didn’t have trouble touching a gay person. “You don’t flaunt it. You’ve never required me to act nice to some boyfriend of yours, and you don’t talk about kissing and f-fucking other blokes the way some of them do, and you know how to act like a normal person in conversation, which is a talent bloody Malfoy certainly doesn’t have. And you’re my best friend, Harry,” he added earnestly, gazing into Harry’s eyes. “I think that’s all much more important than who you choose to date!”

Harry swallowed boiling outrage. He should not have lost control so quickly and easily, he told himself. Whose fault was it that Ron believed Harry was no different than “normal” people? Harry had never told Ron that sometimes he went to the Muggle world to fuck men who wouldn’t care about the scar on his forehead. He had never let him into the secret of Metamorphosis, either, and so could he blame Ron when he acted in ignorance of that? He couldn’t tell them about Draco, either—

Except you promised, said the merciless voice. You said that you would come out of hiding and stand freely, visibly, at his side. Besides, what if the only reason Ron accepts you so easily is that you don’t seem gay to him? If you had tried to talk to him about your love life the way he talks about Hermione to you, would you have received his support? A celibate gay man isn’t threatening. An active one is.

Swallowing, Harry looked away. Even if the merciless voice was correct—and surely even it had to be wrong some of the time—this wasn’t the moment to confront Ron with the conclusions Harry had just come to. Draco was in trouble. Rescuing him was more important than forcing his own view of things on someone else any day of the week.

“Mate? We’re all right?”

Harry tilted his head back and managed to smile at Ron. Perhaps the smile was a bit too sickly, but Ron and Hermione had only ever seen one side of him, and didn’t know the others existed. They weren’t used to reading the subtle nuances that Draco had seemed to notice and appreciate from the first. “We’re all right,” Harry said, and his voice sounded firm and convincing in his own ears. “I just haven’t been feeling well lately.”

Ron made soothing noises, and listened eagerly to Harry’s tissue of lies concerning insomnia due to nightmares about the war and no appetite even for the delicious food Kreacher cooked. He was as eager to put a moment that could have threatened their friendship behind them as Harry was, Harry thought. Maybe that explained why he left without a fuss, instead of wanting to stay and talk about Draco.

The moment the door closed behind him, Harry opened his eyes as a new person, his thoughts racing along in perfect agreement with the merciless voice.

He was going to rescue Draco. Ron said he had been arrested for “flagrant public displays of homosexuality”; somewhere in the Black library would be a book that detailed that charge and how to counteract it. And Harry already knew which persona he would use to invade the Ministry.

A few of the people he had created lived only on paper, as the authors of numerous letters to the Prophet and to various important wizards, persuading them to change their minds about laws or fads that might have threatened Metamorphosis. Harry had maintained friendly correspondences as well, ingratiating his other selves with some important older pure-bloods who rarely left their estates. It was time to bring one of those personas forwards and into the flesh.

Horace Longbottom should do nicely. He always wrote letters in an eminently respectable tone, on the finest parchment, and though his connection with the Longbottom family was tenuous, there was little chance of anyone finding that out; Augusta, Neville’s grandmother, had died a few years ago, and Neville himself had shown little interest in researching his bloodline. The combination of Horace’s age and his pure-blood status would win him a respect that few of Harry’s other identities could match.

Except Harry Potter himself.

Harry stiffened and shook his head. No. No, I can’t reveal myself for the sake of rescuing Draco.

And is there any other action you could reveal yourself for that would be as important?

Harry cast the spell that summoned the legal books, and another that would retrieve Horace’s file from Metamorphosis, a variant of the magic that had retrieved Brian’s file at his first meeting with Draco. As he concentrated on his reading, the first waves of panic retreated, smoothing into grim determination. He could and would storm the Ministry and rescue Draco, as much as Horace ever stormed.

Besides, it appeared Draco had been arrested under the Public Statute of Sexual Decency and Morality, 1900. There was a detail about that law the Ministry must have been counting on most people not to know, but which Harry did, and which they would find themselves sorry for ignoring.

Harry smiled and enchanted Horace’s file to hover in front of him, so he could refresh the details of this persona in his mind whilst searching for suitable robes.

*

Draco knew he maintained complete control of his face. Shacklebolt would undoubtedly have looked triumphant or nodded wisely if he had not. He did allow himself one slow blink. Then he leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers together as if he were considering his answer—which was, in fact, the case.

“That,” he said, “is a rather intriguing question.”

Shacklebolt’s arm flexed as if he were tightening his left hand into a fist, though he kept it below the level of the desk and Draco could not know for certain. At least it reassured him that Shacklebolt was indeed someone who would show tells when he was excited or thought he was on the trail of a right answer.

“Potter was there, then?” Shacklebolt breathed.

Draco frowned at him and raised one eyebrow. He would have to be careful in how he responded, but he had been in more dangerous and delicate situations before, with his mother especially. “I had been unaware of his presence,” he said. “What I would like to know is why he was rumored to be there. Surely you would know the truth of the matter at once? It was said after the war that the Chosen One might claim the Minister’s friendship. Why not Floo him and ask him directly?”

Shacklebolt’s muscles tightened. “This is an official Ministry investigation,” he said. “I am the one who should ask questions and not you.”

“And you have the answer to your question.” Draco raised his shoulders once and let them fall limply. “He was not there, to my knowledge. I am merely wondering why you brought me here in order to demand answers, when you could have spoken with him and obtained them with less time and trouble. Potter is not a good liar.” And if he questions that statement, I will know he possesses some dangerous information.

“Potter deserves his privacy,” Shacklebolt said. “We merely thought—“ His gaze sharpened. “You are hiding something, Malfoy.”

“Am I?” Draco widened his eyes. He had let a muscle jump in his cheek when Shacklebolt made his statement about Harry. That had been deliberate, of course, but he doubted the Minister could follow him this far into the game of baiting and hidden motives. “Well, perhaps I am wondering why I was brought here to answer questions about the rebellion when I was arrested for a different reason, under a different law. Hiding such curiosity can be difficult.”

Shacklebolt muttered words under his breath that Draco politely paid no attention to, then folded his hands in front of him on the desk. “Listen, Malfoy,” he said. “An honest answer for an honest answer. We suspect Potter because we know it was incredibly powerful magic that counteracted our raid on the meeting in the manor house. And not all of us have been taken in by the pretense that Harry is weak. I’ve felt his innate magical strength a few times. I’ll indulge the falsehood in public if he wants me to, as a favor to a friend, but if he’s turned to criminal activity…” He let the words trail off and leaned forwards, eyes intent. “We need to know what you know.”

Draco lowered his eyes and nodded gravely, biting the inside of his cheek, but far enough back in his mouth that the gesture wouldn’t show from Shacklebolt’s angle. The Ministry had arrived somewhere near the truth by approaching from a completely skewed angle, as usual.

Draco had learned two pieces of valuable information, however. Harry would have to realize that his pretense of weakness wasn’t as iron-clad as he would have liked.

Perhaps that will encourage him to drop the pretense altogether and emerge into the sunlight the sooner.

“My involvement with the rebellion is more limited than you have supposed,” said Draco, and gave a slight grimace, raising his eyes back to Shacklebolt’s. “I do wish that our society was more hospitable to my sexual orientation, yes, but pursuing my affairs in public is not my ultimate goal.”

Shacklebolt snorted. “That part, I never believed.”

Draco nodded. Let me never say that my father did me no favors. The selfish, cold reputation of the Malfoy family was so prevalent that no one would believe Draco had acted for the sake of others when he sponsored the rebellion. Shacklebolt’s own preconceptions would do more of the work of convincing him than any lies Draco could weave.

“Therefore, I am not deep in Nusante’s councils.” Draco touched his fingers thoughtfully to his lips. “But I do think it’s odd that he’s suddenly gained the courage to move—to rewrite his play, for instance, even knowing what had to follow. Why move now, when his rebellion could have started at any time, years ago or years in the future? They’ve received confidence from somewhere. That confidence could perhaps come from Potter’s presence, but more likely from somewhere else entirely. I think I would have recognized him.”

Shacklebolt’s eyes fired. Draco could practically see the lie taking root in his mind. “And perhaps from your own very public actions as well.”

Draco laughed. “I acted only for my own good, I told you. I made no speeches. I did nothing but dance with my boyfriend—“ he found it amusing that the Minister flinched at the word “—and announce we were dating, as well as kiss him in public a few times. If someone else wanted to take that as a signal to rebellion, they did so without my encouragement. The only direct encouragement I have given Nusante and his people is money.”

Shacklebolt relaxed. “And you know nothing about the magic that stopped our Aurors from fulfilling their obligation with the raid?”

“I would have said it wasn’t Potter, but now?” Draco shrugged. “I don’t know.”

The Minister nodded. “Then perhaps I can see my way to reducing the fine you’ll pay for the public displays of homosexuality—“

Someone knocked on the office door. Shacklebolt shifted his chair backwards, somehow missing the files piled on the floor and shelves behind it, though Draco had no idea how. “What is it?” he called, his voice flat. “I left word that I was not to be disturbed!”

The door opened. An older wizard, with a gleaming mane of white hair and a beard that rivaled Dumbledore’s, put his head around it and gave Shacklebolt a sword-sharp smile. “My name is Horace Longbottom,” he said. “You told me once that I had leave to disturb you whenever I liked, Minister.”

Draco darted his eyes from the ancient wizard to Shacklebolt, fascinated when Shacklebolt bowed his head. “Of course, Master Longbottom,” he murmured. His words held a tone of wary respect Draco wouldn’t have thought many people outside the pure-blood social circles capable of. “You’ve sent me many—ah—fascinating letters. It might be of more interest to you, however, if you visited me at a later time. I’d certainly have more ability to talk to you as your conversation deserves then.”

Longbottom stepped into the office. Draco leaned back in his chair and studied his face for resemblances to the hopeless Neville’s. He could make out a few lines that might be the same, but Horace’s brows and cheeks were heavier, his forehead lined with wrinkles, and his eyes a brilliant, arresting blue Draco would certainly have paid attention to if a classmate possessed them. He held a cane in his left hand, the head a golden gryphon, with which he made pointed gestures as he talked. Oddly, his right hand coiled close to his body, as if he had long ago burned or injured it.

“I’ve heard exactly what this boy has done,” Longbottom said, and nodded dismissively to Draco, though his cane made a wide gesture at the same time. “And I’ll tell you, Shacklebolt, the law you’ve arrested him under won’t fool a good legal scholar for a second.”

Oh? Draco thought, his interest in the old wizard increasing. More to the point, the Minister had narrowed his eyes and leaned forwards.

“Now, Horace—“

The cane swung around and pointed straight at the Minister.

“Master Longbottom,” Shacklebolt amended, sounding faintly irritated at having to do so. “You know that most of these laws haven’t been used in decades, and I’m sorry to have to use this one now. But my charge is the safety of the wizarding world, and unfortunately, the group Mr. Malfoy has associated himself with poses a threat to that safety.”

“Then arrest him under some law that will keep him in your custody for more than a few hours,” Longbottom retorted smartly, his wrinkles drawing up until his eyes seemed as bright and piercing as a hawk’s. “The Public Statute of Sexual Decency and Morality, 1900, demands the arrest of both partners participating in the flagrant public display of homosexuality. Otherwise, it was feared that the law would be misused, with specious claims of such behavior being lodged against their enemies by jilted lovers or those who wished to cover their own adultery.” He looked at Draco directly then, and Draco hoped he concealed his flinch; those eyes were disconcerting. “And you seem to have only one young man here.”

Draco permitted himself a small smile. He had read something like that in his study of his father’s legal books, yes, but he had not remembered it before now. He folded his hands in his lap and waited to see what Shacklebolt would say in response.

The Minister narrowed his eyes and exhaled slowly. “You are not acting in any official capacity for the prisoner,” he said.

“I’m acting in the capacity of ‘official watchdog of the Ministry’s reputation,’” Longbottom retorted, and his cane bounced off the Minister’s desk. “Consider what will happen when word gets out that you not only arrested someone who’s gay, but you did it on insufficient evidence and without fulfilling every requirement of the law. The public’s a powder keg at the moment, Minister.” Draco didn’t understand the reference, which was probably Muggle, but Shacklebolt did, if the way he swallowed was any indication. “Can the Ministry afford a false step? Can you?”

“I don’t understand why you’re interested in this issue,” Shacklebolt said, picking at his robes with fussy care. “You’ve always given the impression that you’re on some lofty mountain, watching the antics of the rest of us, and amusing yourself that way.”

“I can always make an exception for extreme stupidity,” Longbottom said, and he turned so that the cane aimed at Draco. “Or extreme bravery.”

Draco concealed a snort behind a polite nod. Of course someone from a Gryffindor family would look at his recent actions in such a way, rather than the actions of someone looking to get disowned. Privately interested in the issue of sexuality or not, Longbottom was still of the generation before his parents’, which was even more conservative when it came to matters of sexuality and the duty of every child to have further children and stay in the good graces of the family. He could never understand that someone might prize his freedom above the continuation of whatever pure-blood line he belonged to.

“Given the obscurity of the law,” Shacklebolt was saying now, quietly, “it is unlikely that anyone will realize I have violated it with Mr. Malfoy’s arrest.”

“Yes,” said Longbottom. “A pity, that. Or it would be, if I didn’t have owls ready to fly, first to my relatives and then to that other young fellow, that Raymond Nusante, explaining the circumstances.” He smiled, a smile that Draco would not like to have directed at him, and stroked the upper part of his beard, halting his hand oddly halfway down his chest.

Shacklebolt watched him with narrowed eyes for some time, then bowed his head and said, “You win, Master Longbottom. I can assure you that not every contest between the Ministry and the forces of change will be so easily won.”

“Of course not,” Longbottom said, coming over to stand behind Draco, as if his presence were necessary to unlock invisible chains. “But consider the way you’ve opposed them, instinctively, in your mind. The forces of change always win in the end, Minister. The ancient oak tree falls. The ocean eats the coast away. The young dragon kills the old one. Is that what you want to see happen to the Ministry?”

“Those metaphors are somewhat easier to understand than the ones in your letters,” Shacklebolt said dryly, and Draco heard a tone of uneasy amusement in his voice. On some level, Draco thought as he rose to his feet, he was enjoying the contest, which was probably the reason he was prepared to let Draco go so easily.

“I thought I should choose simpler ones, as I did not know whether I would be confronting a simpleton,” Longbottom said, and gestured with his cane to indicate Draco should precede him out the door.

Draco did so, listening intently in case Longbottom should say something incriminating to the Minister before they left. There had to be a price to this; saviors didn’t swoop out of the sky and rescue him because of his inherent goodness. But Longbottom only bade the Minister farewell, and then shut the door of the office quietly.

Draco turned to face him. “Why?” he demanded.

“Can you ask that question?” a far too familiar voice said from beneath the beard, and the cane briefly tapped against the blue eyes. They flashed green.

Draco stiffened, his breath stolen for the moment. It was one thing to have Harry tell him that he was good at disguises and the strangers that Metamorphosis provided to others, and another to witness it.

“Incredible,” he said, at last, because it was too late to mask his reaction in any case. “I never would have associated Longbottom with you.”

“It’s a persona I’ve been waiting some time to assume,” Harry/Longbottom replied, and then the green eyes became blue again and his voice deepened. “And you will have to tell me what made you rate a private talk with the Minister.” He began to stride down the corridor as if he owned the Ministry, nodding to the Aurors and hurrying flunkies they passed. Draco was certain he had taken at least part of his commanding manner from Dumbledore.

“When we can be more secure,” Draco murmured. “Some of it concerns you.”

Harry’s step didn’t falter. “I should have anticipated it might,” he said calmly.

Draco kept his eyes on Harry for the rest of the journey, trying to break down the Longbottom persona into its component parts so he might see how Harry had changed himself. It was difficult. Even granting that he acted somewhat like Dumbledore, and that the swinging of the cane—a Transfigured wand, Draco was now certain—was an obvious mannerism, the parts together formed a smooth and seamless whole. Several times, Draco found himself thinking of the old man as “Longbottom” as he watched him sneer at people who gaped, or stop and aid an ancient witch to step into the lift, murmuring courtesies that had gone out of fashion fifty years ago.

And he knew the truth.

Or part of the truth.

Draco was more sober and thoughtful than he had been even immediately after the arrest by the time they emerged from the Ministry. So far, he had mostly seen the potential for useful deception in Harry’s disguises. Now that he had witnessed one of them in action, he had come to appreciate how completely Harry subsumed himself in them, surrendered control to the persona he called forwards.

He can make others believe in them because he believes in them when he’s wearing them.

How can I trust him? How can I know when he’s telling me the truth and when he’s not? I’ve known so far—or believed I’ve known. But he had motive not to fool me at the time.

And what happens if he lies to me because he believes that’s what I need to hear—or because he really does believe what he’s saying, even though it’s not the truth?

Longbottom/Harry pointed towards a particular fireplace as they entered the Atrium. Draco had just turned towards it when a hand caught his shoulder. He turned, already drawing his wand, ready to battle Weasley.

Then a second hand joined the first and a pair of lips clamped themselves to his as if they intended to drain his soul through his mouth.

Draco laughed aloud, because he knew only one person who kissed like this. Staggering away from the other man, he glanced at Harry, pleased to see a brief tightening around his current eyes that could have been jealousy.

Chapter 29.