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Chapter Two—Harry Is Clever, Draco Is Cruel

It hadn't actually been that hard to get an appointment to see the widow Ambrosius. She might breed house-elves, but she mostly had humans working for her, especially in the Diagon Alley office that took orders to breed certain types of elves. Harry walked in and leaned casually against a doorway until someone noticed him. In this case, that particular "someone" was a young witch with extremely blonde hair, who sat behind the desk in the front of the office and had just finished with another visitor. Then he straightened, pulled out the smile Hermione called the smile, and took a step forwards.

The smile had seen a lot of use in the past year, since Harry decided that he wanted to have relationships with men. He had worried about how to approach them at first, when he was only used to flirting with women, but he had quickly discovered that the gay wizards he met in pubs and at parties were mostly after the same thing he was: a swift fuck with an attractive partner. The attractive part was important. And Harry had practiced the smile in front of a mirror until he knew exactly how well it lit up his eyes and made them shine like open flowers in full sun. It made him more approachable, too, which was important with the lightning bolt scar and the reputation for continual arrests and captures he bore.

Now it was working on the witch in front of him. She flushed deeply and leaned back in her chair, one hand rising to pat at her hair as if she were worried about its escaping from a largely nonexistent style. Then she cleared her throat and tried to look professional.

Harry leaned on her desk and gave her a large dose of the smile so she would stop trying that silly thing, and then murmured, "I suppose you know who I am?" He could manage to sound bashful about his reputation when he tried, and he was trying now.

"I—I do, Mr. Potter." The witch cleared her throat again. "I don't suppose you want an order for a certain type of house-elf?" She ducked her head and peered up at him through her lashes. "You have reasons not to buy from us, after all."

Harry felt a small surge of admiration for her. She hadn't crumbled in the face of the smile right away; in fact, she had remembered his association with Hermione and Hermione's vigorous campaign to abolish the ownership of house-elves altogether. That didn't mean Harry would let her get away with denying him, but still.

"Actually," he said, leaning towards her and lowering his voice in a way that he knew thrilled the people he spoke to, "I'd like to make an appointment to see Mrs. Ambrosius." He turned his head and met her gaze full on with a pair of magnificent green eyes—or at least he was fairly sure they were magnificent, from hearing it so many times.

This kind of flirting still troubled Harry, in the part of him that bothered to keep track of his effect on other people. But it was necessary to get this job done—and sometimes the ordinary job, too, when they ran into people who were intrigued enough by the famous Harry Potter to confess their secrets freely. Harry had decided it was not his fault if people thought he was handsome because he'd cared enough to sacrifice himself for the world. It was useful, and as long as he could keep busy and perform the job he'd taken up, he didn't mind that much. It did them no permanent harm.

The witch swallowed, and then said, "Mrs. Ambrosius is very busy, you know. She's a mother as well as a businesswoman. No one just waltzes in and sees her, not even the famous Harry Potter." She seemed to know what effect he was having on her, to suspect it was deliberate, and to be fighting it.

Harry widened his eyes and bit his lip, a move that he knew made him look childishly innocent and desperate. "Oh, but I wasn't trying to waltz in," he said, and lowered his eyelashes modestly. "I was following the correct procedures, after all. I just want to see and talk to her, and I know that this is the place you have to make an appointment."

"Surely the Ministry could give you an order—"

"Oh, but it's not connected to a case." Harry let his cheeks flush lightly, keeping his gaze on his hands. "Not official. This is just a favor for a friend, a favor that involves me having a candid and clear conversation with the widow Ambrosius." He let his gaze wander back up to her, and lowered his voice once again. "I don't suppose you could let me visit her anyway, even though it's not official?"

The witch's hand wavered for a long moment. Harry, studying her with an eye sharpened by five years of Auror training and then ordinary work in the field, could tell she was intrigued, as well as uneasy lest she make a mistake her mistress would scold her for.

"All right," she said suddenly, at last. "But of course I have to tell her who's coming, and you have to realize that she may change the time and date of the meeting." She was already writing down a date that Harry recognized, from reading it upside-down, as next Thursday. "And if she does keep the same time, she'll expect you to arrive promptly." She handed the parchment over to Harry, who turned it and read the expected date, as well as 5:00, the former Malfoy Manor. "Will you be available to owl?"

Harry looked up with a smile that he hoped to make dazzling in its simplicity, even though it was not the smile. "I will be. Thank you very much—"

He let his voice trail off, and she flushed and murmured, "Cynthia."

"Cynthia." Harry caught her hand and kissed it, then strolled casually out of the shop. Let her have a glimpse of his arse, if she wanted one, as payment for her trouble.

She took it. Harry had become very good at knowing when eyes were following him.


Harry Apparated to the white gravel path outside Malfoy Manor, and then raised his eyebrows.

The Malfoys' former home had certainly changed.

Gone were the wall and the iron gates that had closed it off from the world on the day that Harry came to return Draco's wand. Instead, the house was surrounded by a clear, spreading strip of land sculpted into small hillocks, with rich green grass covering them. Small, single trees perched on the hillocks above equally small and singular ponds. Here and there a cluster of wildflowers grew, but never high enough or brilliant enough to severely challenge the trees. Harry felt himself relaxing without effort. This was the kind of place that he would have liked to live.

The white gravel path ran to the front door. As Harry clapped the knocker, he glanced up in admiration at the house. It had been dark and brooding before, looking as if it had been built by someone with more money than taste. (Of course, it had been built by a Malfoy). It was pale now, with white and blue stone worked into twining patterns among the dark wood and black stone, and the myriad windows were thrown open to the sunlight.

The door opened at once, and a graceful, dignified house-elf, taller than any Harry had ever met, bowed to him. "Master Harry Potter is expected," the elf said. Even its voice wasn't as squeaky as the others'. "If he will come in and make himself comfortable in the front drawing room? Mistress will be with him shortly."

Harry followed the elf through a variety of glittering corridors with actual restraint behind the decorations, and found himself in an octagonal room obviously meant for viewing the sunset. The window was the focal point of the entire set-up, and showed the light coming in perfectly across a delicately trimmed expanse of lawn. Harry sank back into a comfortable chair, and found himself with a cup of tea in his hand. He blinked and looked up, but the elf had already departed.

He had just a few moments to sip and glance around before Pansy Ambrosius walked calmly through a door on the opposite side of the room he had entered by. Harry stood up without having consciously decided to do so.

Pansy Parkinson in Hogwarts, from what he could remember, had been pug-nosed, square-faced, and not particularly attractive even without the constant sneer on her face. This woman was beautiful. Harry hadn't spent a lot of time appreciating female beauty in the past year, but he hadn't foresworn women altogether, and he felt a stirring of interest.

It wasn't just her face, either, which had a deep tinge of healthy color to rival the sunset, or the carefully brushed dark hair hanging to her shoulders. Her expression had changed and relaxed. She was a woman in command of her environment, by the tilt of her head and the direct stare of her eyes, and she knew it. Harry had always found self-confidence attractive.

He offered her his hand. Pansy clasped and shook it, then let him kiss the back of her fingers. She merely watched him thoughtfully, and didn't blush the way most people of Harry's acquaintance would on being touched by him.

"A favor for a friend," she repeated, as if he had just now spoken those words to Cynthia. "What does that mean, Potter?"

Good. She won't dance around the subject. "I learned recently," Harry said, "by accident, that the accusations the Malfoy family made a few years ago were true. The Ministry did arrange to illegally transfer their money and buildings away from them. Where they went, the Malfoys weren't sure at the time, because they were prevented from finding out who owned their homes afterwards. But now I know that their property was an 'anonymous' gift to Ambrosius Holdings."

"Yes, that's correct." Pansy watched him curiously. "I can assure you that I believed it was anonymous at the time, and did not learn the truth until after my husband's death."

Harry blinked. He'd been prepared for at least a little opposition. "All right." He bit his lip for a moment, then said, "Well, I've come to ask you if you would consider restoring their homes to the Malfoys. And an amount of Galleons comparable to the amount of Galleons Ambrosius Holdings took from them."

Pansy smiled a little, then looked away from him. "Why?"

Harry relaxed. This sounded more like the conversation he'd already planned out in his mind. "Because I know that you've made a fortune on your own, above and beyond the Ambrosius fortune, given your breeding of house-elves," he said. "I would like to see that fortune remain with you, whilst at the same time, you restore the Malfoys'. You don't need that money—"

Pansy laughed and turned to regard him again. "Once could argue that the Malfoys don't need it, either. They're living well enough, aren't they?"

"Better than many people," Harry had to agree. "But I've been to see them, and it's wrecked their spirits. Or at least Draco's spirit. I didn't get to see Lucius or Narcissa."

"Ah, Draco." Pansy sat down in the chair nearest her and arranged her dress robes prettily over her knees. They were a pale mauve color, just the shade of the sky above the setting sun, and Harry had to admit they made her look like a queen. "Draco's spirit is so easily wrecked." She glanced up at him, tilting her head back and baring her throat. Someone else might have thought this made her the picture of vulnerability. Harry knew better. "One might wonder why you care, when you were always his enemy in school?"

"I'm bored," Harry said. "And this is something to do."

Pansy laughed again, but this time the sound seemed to startle her as well as Harry. And it was delighted, Harry thought, feeling his hopes rise again. If he could intrigue Pansy, then he didn't have to impress her. He might be able to make her listen, and that was the primary goal.

"You mean," she said, leaning forwards, "that you're fighting like an enraged hippogriff for the Malfoys because you're bored?"

"This isn't an enraged hippogriff," Harry said. "I haven't smashed into your house, held you at wandpoint, and demanded that you give them their houses and their Galleons back, have I?"

"Maybe that comes next." Pansy clapped her hands, smiling. "Oh, Potter, I don't think anything has surprised me in so long. My life is interesting and very pleasant, but not very often unexpected." She paused, studying him, then added, "Of course, that doesn't mean that the Galleons and properties are yours for the asking. I want to know more about why you're here instead of bellowing like an enraged bull through the corridors of the Ministry."

"I've investigated the case as far as it can take me," Harry replied, settling back into the chair he'd risen from. It really was very comfortable, and the tea at his elbow was still hot and very good, probably a property of the cup, or maybe the house-elf's magic. "The only person identifiable transferred to the Brazilian Ministry five years ago. The others are so well-hidden that nothing I do uncovers them. I never promised the Malfoys revenge, and I don't think I'd be able to get it for them. On the other hand, maybe I can win this."

"Mm-hmm." Pansy narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. "And what was Draco's reaction when you went to visit him?"

"Stunned is not too strong a word for it." Harry grinned in remembrance. "He tugged me into the house and looked up and down the street as if Hit Wizards were going to come down on us at any moment."

"He always did have a tendency to paranoia," Pansy said softly, whilst the shadow of a memory passed over her face. "If he was doing something secretive—and he always was—he was convinced that everybody knew about it, or was waiting for the chance to know about it and ruin it for him." She glanced sideways at Harry. "I can't imagine that he's really letting himself trust you'll win concessions for him."

Harry frowned and sat up a little straighter. "Well, he should. I'm not going to destroy your house—it's his house, really—" Pansy responded to the baiting only by raising her eyebrows a little higher. "But I will keep coming and talking to you until you get tired of me and give the houses and the money back."

"It would be very easy for me to shut you out, you know." Pansy put her palms together and smiled at him. "Easier than you can imagine."

"Then I'll find a way in, and keep talking to you." Harry pretended to flick an imaginary piece of lint off his sleeve. "Until you get bored, and desperate, and give the Malfoys the houses and money to get me to go away."

Pansy laughed again. "I believe you would." She paused meditatively. "Well, Potter, I don't promise anything yet—except another chance for you to try and convince me. You can go and tell Draco that I've invited you for another conversation a week from now, and see what he makes of that." A fond smile crossed her lips as she rose. "Probably something horribly dark, twisted, and evil," she murmured, as she started to exit the room.

"Why?" Harry called after her. "Are you bored, too?"

Pansy looked over her shoulder. "Say, rather, that I'm bored with the way everyone talks to me," she answered. "Since my husband died—and he was a good man in many ways, say what you will about his age—I've had very few people near me who will speak the truth. They dress it up too prettily. And they're all too afraid of losing their jobs to do otherwise. Besides, I would sack them if they were rude to me. But you—you're like the one figure in a medieval court who could speak truth to the ruler."

"The Seer?" Harry asked with a frown. He hadn't studied much Muggle history.

"The jester." Pansy smiled at him again, and swept out. A moment later, the house-elf came to escort him to the front door.


Harry rolled his eyes as he knocked on the Malfoys' front door. Draco had demanded Harry come muffled in a large cloak, so that was what he'd done. He was, of course, getting more attention whilst bundled up like a Death Eater than if he'd simply strolled down the street as himself and knocked on the door. The people watching could always have assumed the Malfoys had done something else that required the intervention of the Ministry.

The door opened on his fourth knock, and strong, pinching fingers dragged him inside. Harry swore and tried to tug himself away from the grip, but it remained until the door had slammed and been locked shut with several wards.

He finally batted the concealing cloak away from his face and saw Malfoy staring at him hungrily with a pale, strained face. Harry smiled in spite of himself. He did like being regarded that way. All the times that Malfoy had gone out of his way during school never to depend on Harry, never to treat him like anything special, and now he had no choice but to depend on him, and on the Gryffindor heroics he'd pretended to despise.

"I've had my first conversation with Pansy," he said casually.

Malfoy's fists clenched, and he seemed to keep himself from reaching forwards and ripping a hand down Harry's cheek only with the greatest of effort. "And?" he echoed, his breath coming short.

"She agreed to see me again." Harry relented and offered a little more than that when Malfoy's shoulders slumped. "She seemed intrigued by me. She said it was the first time anything had surprised her in years."

Malfoy's face lit up, a transformation that actually made Harry wince a little; it emphasized how hopeless he normally looked. He clamped his hand down on Harry's arm again, but luckily on a different patch of skin this time, so Harry could bear it.

"That's wonderful," Malfoy whispered. "That's more than she's given anyone in years. That's more than I thought she would ever give anyone." He let his eyes drift shut for a moment, as if contemplating a delicious taste.

Harry studied him unobtrusively. Yes, he thought he preferred Malfoy this way, not full of spite but forced to acknowledge his own humility. It was too bad that nothing Harry said had managed to really shock him last time, but there was always this conversation.

Malfoy's eyes abruptly snapped open, as if he had heard Harry's thoughts, and he frowned. "What are you smirking about, Potter?"

"I didn't know I was smirking," Harry said honestly. He paused, and then, because doing good for the Malfoys hadn't done anything to quell his desire for exciting rows, he added, "How does it feel?"

"How does what feel?" Malfoy dropped his arm and retreated a few paces, his hand going not-so-subtly to the robe pocket that held his wand. Harry rolled his eyes and snorted aloud.

"Not that, you prat," he said. "You know you couldn't best me in a duel, anyway. How does it feel to know that, when your money and your home are restored, you'll owe everything to the one person you hate most in the world?"

Malfoy clamped his lips shut. A moment later, listening carefully, Harry actually heard the sound of his teeth grinding together. He laughed.

Malfoy shot across the distance between them. Harry didn't bother lifting his arm to defend himself. He let Malfoy grab him and bear him backwards until his spine hit the wall next to the staircase. And then he laughed directly into Malfoy's face, and shook his head.

"Potter."

Harry shut up, frowning. He couldn't tell exactly whyhe shut up, but the tone of Malfoy's voice had something to do with it. There was something heavy and hurtful in Malfoy's voice. It was—

Well, it sounded like the way Harry had spoken after Sirius fell through the veil.

But that couldn't be, because Harry really doubted Malfoy was capable of that depth of emotion. He was just opening his mouth to argue back when Malfoy started speaking again, in that same thick way, and Harry found himself helplessly compelled to listen.

"You are not the person I hate most in the world, Potter. That was the Dark Lord, and he's gone." Malfoy's hands shifted to his shoulders and he leaned in, sneering. Harry couldn't blink, and couldn't look away. It was most disconcerting. He wondered if Malfoy had somehow cast a spell on him.

Right. Wandless and non-verbal? He was never that good.

"But you are the person I despise most in the world," Malfoy went on, his words descending into a snarl. "You show up here, prancing around, expecting me to appreciate what you're doing, even though you're less than gracious about it. Even though your motive for acting this way is boredom, so much less noble than almost anything else you could have settled on." His breath was coming more quickly now, and his hands on Harry's shoulder were like cage bars. Harry struggled weakly for a moment. Malfoy just clamped down harder. Harry felt a muted surprise. He hadn't thought the idiot was this strong, either.

"You don't see me as human," Malfoy said, every word a near-bark. "You think I'm just a toy to be played with, and put back on the shelf when you're tired of. You want to spin me around like a top, get your fill of desperation and pitiful gratitude from me, and go your way. You want to make an enormous mark on our lives and never be touched yourself.

"Let me tell you something, Potter. The things we suffered in these past few years have changed us. You'll never mark us the same way. If you win back the money and the houses for us, we'll take them, but you'll never have our gratitude. I'll never acknowledge you in the street and fawn on you. I'll never drop my eyes when you walk by.

"Why?"

He paused. Harry shifted his feet, again weakly trying to get free, both incredibly fascinated and incredibly sure that he didn't want to hear the end of this proclamation.

"Because I know what you are," Malfoy whispered, his lips a few inches from Harry's ear. "Because I know that you still require validation from other people for doing something good. You can't be heroic without your cheering crowd. Even if the crowd is just one person. Even if you know that they really shouldn't be grateful to you at all.

"I won't be your public, Potter. The best way I can repay you for what you've really done, and not what you've only pretended to do, is to refuse to acknowledge you at all. I'm not a pet. I'm not a toy. I'm not a project."

He stepped away from Harry and stood with his arms folded, staring. Harry could have borne a look of loathing in his eyes. What he didn't like was the contempt facing him.

He opened his mouth, wanting to protest, wanting to say that he wasn't like that, even if he was doing this because he was bored—

Malfoy sneered at him.

And this sneer, Harry couldn't face. He turned and walked out of the house without glancing back, his heart galloping wildly within him.