Chapter Thirty-Five of 'Changing of the Guard'- Potter's Party

[lomonaaeren]

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Chapter Thirty-Five—Potter’s Party

Harry rifled through the letters, then flung them away from him in a burst of temper. They scattered against the far wall and fell rustling. Harry stared at them, not moving even when Kreacher appeared abruptly next to him and said, “Master Harry is needing help?”

Harry shook his head. He didn’t think he could have confessed his intense disappointment not to have received a letter from Ron or Hermione yet even to Draco, let alone his house-elf. “Thank you, Kreacher, but no,” he said. “If you’ll just pick up the letters and put the thicker ones on top?”

Kreacher did so without a grumble, watching him with intense eyes that reminded Harry uncomfortably of Dobby. He managed to muster a smile, and Kreacher finally bowed and Apparated away to return to his household chores.

Harry ran a hand over his face, gave one deep sigh, and then began to read through the thick, important letters. Most of them were from Horace Longbottom’s correspondents, but a few were people connected to Caroline Garrett who had heard about her upcoming speech and wanted directions to the estate it would be presented at. Not many of them said anything about attending the party afterwards. Harry didn’t care. He had arranged matters with most of the party attendees already; no one in Nusante’s group was established yet as a traitor, thanks to the lack of Auror raids at any of the locations Harry had baited. If prominent names in the wizarding community chose to attend the party itself, either in genuine support or out of curiosity, they would be welcome, but Harry didn’t intend to waste time courting them when he would have to break through thick walls of prejudice in any case. He could only let them know what a movement like this meant and then leave it to them to make up their own minds.

Harry wrote a standard response to the most similar letters, then tapped his wand against a pile of blank parchment and cast a replication spell. His writing promptly spiraled across all of them, reproducing the words. Harry nodded in satisfaction. Of course, if any two of the recipients compared their letters, they might feel offended, but he simply had too many other things to do to waste time writing each one individually.

Especially since the party will be tonight.

He sat down in his chair to answer the more complicated letters, murmuring his thanks when Kreacher brought him a cheese sandwich from which steam was still rising. He was deep in consideration of the best way to phrase answers to what were more or less polite versions of the demand: Convince us to support you. We might, but you have decades of propaganda about the “unnaturalness” of gay relationships and the declining population to get past.

For each one, Harry chose different wording and whichever of several explanations he thought might work best, based on either direct knowledge of the person in question, his knowledge about their reputations, or the way they wrote in their letters. To concerned members of pure-blood families, he explained that many of their children didn’t desire to break away from the family altogether, but to end a deception that was intolerable to them. To the Ministry officials and the two Wizengamot members who seemed hysterically concerned about declining numbers of children, he pointed out the long pure-blood habit of having only one child and the reluctance of many wizarding families to adopt any child not related to them by blood, ensuring that some Muggleborns left the wizarding world and others went abroad into more welcoming environments or to distant relatives. To those investors, inventors, magical theorists, and prominent Healers who seemed convinced that gay sex led to unhappiness, madness, and early death, he chose a more personal tone, explaining that the stress came from mostly from being told that one must hide all the time, and referred to his own decade-long lie. He hoped those words would reach the Healers, at least, if not others. They should be well-acquainted with the way that fears of Dark Arts were often more detrimental to health than the Dark Arts themselves, especially curses that were rarely used.

He leaned back against his chair and rested for a moment when he’d answered the last letter, then reached for the sandwich Kreacher had left him. It was cold now, but he ate it anyway, slowly, trying to enjoy the contrasts of the soft bread and rather rugged cheese Kreacher favored for making them.

This was exhausting work, and in some ways he wished he could have left this up to Draco. But Draco had his own preparations to make, and he had agreed, reluctantly, that the Potter name would command more respect than his, especially considering his disowning. Instead, he was trying to persuade some of the pure-blood men and women he knew who had used Metamorphosis or who sometimes frequented the discreet houses and pubs that catered to gay clients to step forwards. Their number might be small, but considering the public furor when Draco had announced he was dating a man, they could cause ripples far beyond what someone like Nusante could.

If Nusante is willing to come at all.

Harry grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck. For the last two days, Nusante had remained as frustratingly uncommunicative as Ron and Hermione. He had replied to Harry’s declaration that he would fight with the single sentence, You had better, and then not answered when Harry asked him if he would attend the party.

And Ron and Hermione…

Harry swallowed the last of the sandwich, ignoring the churning in his stomach. Then he closed his eyes and slid mentally into the space Horace Longbottom would occupy, so that he might deal with this situation.

I reached out to them. I owled them. They haven’t responded. Whatever comes next, they have to make the first move. I have too much to tell them to simply step blindly into their house, at what might be the worst moment of all. I want to preserve our friendship whilst still dating Draco, and that means choosing the best moment and meeting them on my own ground, so that I don’t become intimidated into choosing between Draco and them.

Besides, I’ve had too much to do the past few days to wait on them.

Harry opened his eyes and took a slow, deep breath. Yes, that would work. He still felt obscurely that he had betrayed Ron and Hermione by not going to them at once, or even by coming out at all, but he couldn’t wait forever for their response. Perhaps they wouldn’t make one, and Harry would need to send another owl after the party was done. Well, so be it. He wouldn’t let their friendship die without trying to save it, but he also wouldn’t put reaching out to them ahead of everything else he had to do.

He wasn’t comfortable, of course. But what about this situation was?

Harry rose to his feet. Draco had worried about what robes he would wear for that night during their strategy session yesterday, which had made Harry laugh. He’d pointed out that he probably knew more about fashion than Draco did, since he’d had to choose clothes as well as faces and histories for his personas.

Draco had paused, stared at him very directly, and said, “But those are what the other personas wear. What does Harry Potter wear?”

Harry had lowered his gaze and swallowed hard. It comforted him and made him excited that Draco shared Harry’s perception of the personas as separate people, not mere reflections of himself.

“I’ll find something,” he’d said.

“You’d better.” Draco had eyed him meditatively, then reached out and brushed Harry’s hair back from his face. His need to touch him seemed to have increased over the past few days, Harry had noticed, as though he were the one who needed reassurance that Harry wouldn’t vanish behind a wall of denial. “Among all the roles you’ve got to play, you’re my partner. You can’t show up in just anything.”

Harry faced his closet now and put his hand out, running his fingers lightly over the collars and shoulders of the robes that waited inside. He stopped for a moment when his fingers brushed over dark blue robes, but no, those were the ones Brian had worn to the Malfoys’ party. He shook his head and moved on.

He knew the ones he wanted when he found them.

*

Draco raised his eyebrows as he looked around at the site that Harry had chosen to place the party. One of his personas had taste, then, though Draco thought some of the acquaintances and friends he had convinced to attend would have preferred a manor house.

This was, instead, a groomed version of the wild garden where Harry had directed Draco and Caroline Garrett to meet him. The field sprawled across several gentle hills, with a distant gleam of Muggle lights to the west and south; the shimmers of Repelling Charms would keep any of them from stumbling close. The grass was thick but short, a luxuriant green that Draco approved. Small trees ringed by benches shaded fine paths, both of dirt and of gravel. As small and regularly-spaced as the trees, ponds caught the light of stars, moon, the fairy lights and paper lanterns swinging from branches and awnings, and tiny boats lit with Incandescence Charms and set drifting on their surfaces.

The banquet tables were placed in the middle of the field, between two small hillocks, away from any of the trees or even large bushes that might have masked the approach of Aurors. Draco approved that, as well. Harry had a sense of battle strategy, and had chosen the placement for the tables before Draco could suggest it. Long benches lined the tables, cleverly constructed to look as much like the Hogwarts House benches as possible, in hopes of rousing fond sentimental memories.

At the top of the rectangle formed by the tables glowed a bonfire, carefully and artistically contained in a ring of glittering quartz stones. Wizards and witches stood around it already, though it wasn’t yet fully dark and it certainly wasn’t cold, cradling platters full of food and talking quietly. Now and then one of them would cast a glance at the wards humming around the edges of the field, at the stage where Caroline Garrett would stand to give her speech, or at the circle of brilliant light near the largest gap in the wards, where Harry stood.

Draco came towards him from the back; he was the only person, as far as he knew, who had been trusted with the coordinates of an Apparition point within the wards but not overshaded by them. Still, Harry heard him coming and turned around. Draco flattered himself a moment by thinking that Harry must have recognized his footsteps.

Then he halted, literally between one step and the next, and stared at Harry in amazed admiration.

He’d pulled, from God or Merlin knew where, dark green robes that brought out the shine of his eyes without striving to match them. They were exquisitely tailored, too, emphasizing the broadness of his shoulders and the strength of his arms without being so tight as to seem tawdry or cause for Draco’s jealousy. The collar was ornamented with a touch of gold that looked stunning next to his dark hair.

Harry smiled. Draco thought he was the only person there who would have seen a touch of uncertainty in it.

“I told you I knew something about fashion,” Harry said.

Draco took a long step forwards and touched the shoulder of the robes with the edge of his hand, making sure not to brush Harry’s body with his finger. Harry’s eyes fluttered shut in pleasure nonetheless, and he turned more fully towards Draco. His wand remained aimed at the gap in the wards, and Draco was sure Harry could have reacted at once if any danger had appeared.

“I wondered,” Draco said softly, “because when you appeared as a persona, you were always about achieving a particular effect. And the effect you wanted when you appeared as Harry Potter was one of weakness, or at least to show people that you weren’t as impressive as they thought you were. I wondered if you would dare to choose clothes that make you genuinely handsome, genuinely desirable.” He couldn’t stop touching the sleeve of the robes, and he couldn’t stop himself from swaying closer to Harry, who lifted his head and parted his lips as if he were drinking in some delicious perfume.

“When it’s important,” Harry whispered, “I can do that. You don’t have to tell me how much depends on our success tonight, Draco.”

“And after tonight?” Draco moved his hand up and stroked the skin of Harry’s neck. He knew people were watching. Their eyes didn’t deter him, any more than Garrett’s amused attention in the garden the other day had. He did want to show how clearly Harry belonged to him, how he wasn’t available for some other gay man to take to bed or straight witch to try and “convert.” And a certain amount of public demonstrativeness was probably necessary at this stage in the game, to show their critics and detractors they weren’t afraid.

Bollocks, he thought then. I just like touching him.

“Of course I’m fully committed to the struggle now.” Harry was frowning at him, his eyes clear and steady, as though he doubted Draco’s sanity for questioning him.

“After tonight,” Draco said, “will you show yourself as so handsome again? Because you should. You deserve to wear fine clothes without caring what anyone will think of you for doing so. You deserve to eat fine food without worrying that the Prophet will castigate you for spending too much money. You deserve to be happy.”

“Hedonist,” Harry murmured, and leaned near enough to press a kiss to Draco’s cheek. Gossip had already started behind them, and at least one camera flash had exploded. Draco reveled in the fact that the knowledge of what happened here would no doubt travel swiftly to Lucius. “I don’t need those all the time to be happy.”

“But you need them sometimes,” Draco replied insistently. “Everyone does. Will you let yourself have them, sometimes?”

“It may have to be more than sometimes, if I’m to date you.” Harry raised his eyebrows at him. “And the answer is yes.”

“Good,” Draco said, and moved his hand down Harry’s shoulder to touch the fine material of his robes again.

Harry swatted his hand away, smiling at him. “You should circulate among our guests,” he said. “They’re here on my invitation—“

“Mostly.”

Harry inclined his head to admit the truth of that, but didn’t allow any hint of the truth into his words. “But you’re the one who’ll convince them to stay.” He turned to face the gap in the wards, which looked out on the only hillock in the field not enclosed within the protections. “I’m better at the dramatic gesture. You go use your small talk and your smile and your connections and your knowledge of politics to win us the numbers and supporters we need.”

Draco smiled. Harry was one of the first people he had ever heard talk about those things without a slight undertone of contempt; even men like Lucius, to whom they were weapons of choice, spoke of them as if they were worth less than wands and open confrontation. Draco didn’t see the reason for open confrontation if it could be avoided and people persuaded or charmed instead.

It was good to know that Harry shared his opinions, or at least valued Draco’s talent at these things.

“I will,” he said, and brushed the side of Harry’s neck one more time before he moved away, content to see that Harry turned his chin towards the touch, his eyes falling half-shut.

*

Harry contented himself with a glance over his shoulder now and then, ostensibly to check on any disruptions that might have occurred in the party itself. If the atmosphere was peaceful each time and he took the opportunity to watch the cautious faces that became relaxed as Draco spoke, the hands that reached out as if they would touch him when he lingered near, and the laughter he caused and provoked—soft, sympathetic laughter, not the braying kind that would have meant the people around him found him ridiculous—that was no one’s business but Harry’s own.

Whenever he looked beyond the wards again, his magic lifted above him, swirling and beating like invisible wings. He had cast several spells that should make violence impossible, but it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that someone could recognize and counter them, especially an experienced Auror. He’d set trip-wards on the spells, as well, to let him know if anyone even tried to counter them.

His eyes were in constant motion, sweeping the hills, the field, the tables, the gatherings of gay wizards and witches and the straight ones who uneasily eyed the others, the trees, and the isolated benches or conjured chairs where some people sat as observers. He watched the others who had volunteered for guard duty, as well. Several of them were Nusante’s friends. Harry thought he could count on their devotion to the cause. But maybe they would think that their loyalty to Nusante should come first.

He listened to Caroline Garrett’s speech rather than turning to watch it; he’d had no doubt she would speak professionally, and she did. She summarized many of the basic misperceptions of those who were gay or bisexual, including the idea that they were only in it for the sex and that openly gay activity would ensure the demise of the British wizarding population, and demolished them with a few well-chosen words. At points her audience laughed; at others, Harry felt the intense, listening silence behind him as they leaned forwards to catch the nuances of her speech. When Garrett stepped down from the stage to move among her audience and answer their questions on a more personal level, some of Harry’s tension had dissipated. The number of people won over by purely rational arguments would be small, because this was such an irrational prejudice, but those who were present, Garrett would do her best to reach.

He felt the differing motion of the crowd behind him after that, as more people drifted towards the tables and the center of the field, where a large space of grass had been trimmed flat and smooth for a dancing floor. Harry smiled when he glanced over his shoulder and saw a small number of couples standing hand in hand and looking around in perplexity. They had been promised music, but obviously saw no musicians.

Harry raised his wand and cast the spell that he had earlier draped over the trees and time-delayed, to wait for this moment. Quivering lines of blue and silver flashed through the dusk for a moment, and then released the contained Weird Sisters tune, a song appropriately called “Pride and Honor.” Laughter and cheering started when the waiting dancers recognized the notes, and Harry heard some of them begin to spin, clap their hands, and stamp their feet in time with the beat.

He triggered the second part of the spell with a small downwards motion, and voices began to sing the lyrics. The beginning was simply a high cry of “Pri-ii-iii-de!” that reverberated over the noise of voices and bodies. Harry couldn’t resist the urge; he turned around and watched the people of the rebellion, his people, to see what they would make of it.

The edge of the dance floor nearest him hosted a lesbian couple who were whirling around each other, matching not the current pace of the song but one which would pick up in a few moments. They both wore golden robes, and the robes mingled at the edges, as did their flowing, unbound hair, though one was a redhead and one was dark. Then the dark one leaned in and began to openly kiss the redhead, a sight Harry couldn’t imagine taking place in any other gathering in wizarding Britain right now. Even the establishments devoted to the satisfaction of gay and lesbian tastes had a furtive atmosphere about them, as though they existed only for sex; dancing would be too open, too hard to disguise, whilst if Aurors or strangers suddenly appeared, sitting or standing patrons could pretend to be talking to each other as friends only.

The redhead wound her arms around the dark-haired witch’s neck and kissed her more passionately, causing them to lose their place in the dance. That hardly mattered. Other people were beginning to dance if an observer cared about that, and Harry was as happy to see openness and eagerness as he was a polished performance.

We’ve had to give performances all our lives, he thought, straining his neck to catch a glimpse of Draco’s pale hair. He was dancing in the middle of the floor, but by himself, which soothed a jealousy Harry hadn’t realized he was beginning to feel. As good little sons and daughters, as people interested in the opposite sex and marriage and babies and nothing else. This is freedom. Freedom we had to create, temporary freedom, but it’s the more precious for that. And they’re not going to take it away from us.

Harry felt his soul blazing with something he could have called contentment, though it felt fiercer than that. It wasn’t joy, because it had its tinge of anger, and Harry thought joy should be pure.

Pride of his own, maybe. Commitment to upholding that pride no matter what happened, what came next.

This is what starts a revolution, he thought. Not declarations made in the heat of the moment. Seeing what it can accomplish, getting a hint of the way things can change, and falling in love with that vision.

A movement outside the wards alerted Harry. With reluctance, he removed his eyes from the dancing figures and turned to face the hills again.

Nusante stood staring at him, his hands clenched into fists.

Harry blinked. He had expected Nusante not to appear when he hadn’t done it by the time Garrett began to give her speech. But he was still welcome. Harry nodded slightly and stepped out of the way so he could pass.

Nusante didn’t move. Instead, with a quick, shaky voice that told Harry how frightened he was without the need for any deep reading into his character, he snapped, “I want you to know that I still intend to be important in this rebellion.”

“I know that,” Harry said.

“You can’t take my place,” Nusante said. “Either of you.” His eyes flickered to Harry’s side as if he expected to see Draco standing there. Harry was pleased with his look of faint surprise when he realized Draco was elsewhere. He wanted other people realize that they were united, partners, no matter where they were.

“We didn’t want to try,” Harry said. “What I think you should realize is that Draco’s case and his financial contributions are a source of publicity at the moment, and so is Harry Potter’s outing. Wouldn’t it be better to accept that than to worry about whose name is on people’s tongues?”

“It’s not that simple,” Nusante snarled. “Movements can collapse or falter depending on who leads them, and who’s perceived to be leading them.”

“I know that,” Harry repeated. “What I won’t allow you is to destroy this—“ he gestured over his shoulder to the party again “—because you’re jealous of fame I never wanted in the first place, or a plan Draco succeeded in because of pure courage.”

Nusante’s eyes followed Harry’s hand. A moment later, his face softened. He opened his mouth as if he would reply, then shut it again. His expression had settled into a marrow-deep yearning Harry understood all too well. These were his companions, his friends, his natural kindred, and he longed to be among them.

“I understand,” Nusante whispered. “That you achieved this is a good beginning.” He turned back with such a quick movement Harry heard his neck pop, and added, “But it’s not good enough, not enough to excuse ten years of hiding and lying. You have a lot to make up for.”

Harry dipped his head slightly. He was sure Draco would disagree, but he could understand Nusante’s words with the part of him that was most Gryffindor. He did owe a debt. He might not want his fame, but he could have done good things with it if he had acted immediately after he killed Voldemort. It would be harder now, and with the vision of freedom burning in his blood, he had to regret not making it easier for himself, never mind other people.

“I’ll try,” he said.

Nusante stepped past him without another word. Harry watched him go for a moment, then turned as he heard a second pop of Apparition.

Lucius Malfoy stood staring at him.

Harry felt a moment of dull, hammering panic. Then he remembered that this man had disowned Draco, and that Draco was fully committed to war with his father, if he had to be, in order to eventually get what he wanted most in the world.

Harry grinned and jerked his thumb back towards the party. “You’re welcome to go in,” he said in a normal tone, then lowered his voice conspiratorially for the next words. “But I think I should warn you: there are men kissing in there.”

He waited for Lucius’s response, confident in a way he hadn’t felt in twelve years, since the moment immediately after Voldemort had crumpled to the ground, waiting for his opponent’s attack and unafraid.

A voice spoke softly, shyly, in the back of his mind.

I think I could like being this Harry Potter.

Chapter 36.

Comments

[tari_sue]

The calm before the storm? I hope he keeps on liking this Harry :D

[lomonaaeren.livejournal.com]

There are some things that could make him decide against it. Hopefully, they'll grow lesser in number as time goes on.