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Part VII. Harry and Draco Save the Day.
Harry didn't think he needed Draco's loud sigh of relief to tell him that they had arrived safely back in Malfoy Manor, but it was nice to hear anyway. He opened his eyes and looked around, smiling and nodding approvingly at the sight of shining marble doorways, the soft-as-silk carpet under their feet, the rare tapestries on the walls.
"Well done," he started to say, but then Draco collapsed limply against him, and he had a sudden crisis to deal with.
Frantically, Harry touched Draco's throat and forehead, but his skin was only slightly warmer than normal. He didn't open his eyes when Harry called to him, but he did stir and murmur something about sleep.
"Of course," Harry said, sliding an arm around Draco's shoulders and leading him slowly down the corridor. Draco limped and stumbled, leaning against Harry all the while. Harry was filled with an odd mixture of worry and pleasure, as if part of him liked Draco's dependence on him. He put the thought out of his mind for the moment—not hard, with everything else he had to worry about—and whispered to Draco, "You must be tired, after shifting us to that place and then bringing us back here, your first controlled experiment in traveling like that."
"Hmmm," Draco muttered.
Mostly by remembering where they had first appeared in the Manor after escaping from the desert, Harry managed to find Draco's room. He opened the door and led him to the bed, which was larger and more richly appointed than he remembered. Well, Draco had imagined the ideal Malfoy Manor. Maybe he had given himself more ornaments and luxuries than he really had.
If I ever manage to decide what is reality, Harry thought, as he laid Draco gently in the middle of the bed.
"My neck hurts," Draco whispered.
Harry hurriedly arranged the pillows into a comfortable mound and propped Draco's head up, so that he wouldn't sag to the side and wake up with a painful twist there the way that Harry sometimes did. Then he pulled off his boots and tugged the sheets over him. Draco moaned slightly and extended his arm.
"What?" Harry asked, wondering if Draco had some hidden injury on his arm. When he looked, though, he saw not so much as a speck of sand on the sleeve.
"Please," Draco said, and opened his eyes. They were hazy, but with sleepiness alone, Harry thought, and not fever. "Stay with me?"
Harry swallowed and knelt on the bed, making Draco bounce slightly. "I don't know if you know what you're asking for," he said.
Draco frowned at him and pouted like a child. Harry knew that he shouldn't allow his own face to soften the way it did, because then Draco would realize the effect he was having on Harry. "'Course I do. Asking you to stay with me."
Harry gazed down at him for long moments, wondering if it would be so horrible to agree. Draco's lip was stuck out, his eyes wide open and fixed on Harry's face as if he could persuade him to agree just by staring. But Harry remembered the way Draco had stumbled against him, and the slight heat to his skin—and he could see the slight flush on his face if he really squinted.
He's sick. He's out of his mind at the moment with exhaustion and fear. You don't really know that it's the best thing for him if you stay, and he may not know what he's asking for.
"Why don't you sleep, and we'll talk about it," Harry said vaguely.
Draco closed his eyes with a smile of triumph and locked his hands on Harry's arm. Harry shook his head and blinked a little. He wanted to lie down next to Draco and drop into oblivion—
And then he thought of what Draco would say when he woke up and found Harry in his bed, if that wasn't what he wanted after all.
Besides, I have research to do.
So he waited until he heard Draco's breathing steady, and then he slipped out of the bed and out of the bedroom altogether, pacing up and down the corridor as he thought.
He didn't think that he could reach either Hermione or Kingsley. If the first Malfoy Manor had been just a product of Draco's imagination, then the owl might have flown out of it to any place imaginable. Or maybe the owl had been imaginary even if the Manor wasn't—Harry had found some of the truth in those Black family history books—and so his letter had miscarried.
He was on his own as far as research went.
Well. I can do this. Harry brushed his hair out of his eyes and chose to ignore the way his fingers shook. I've done harder research. Remember the Rose Murderess and the way that everyone was baffled when she singled out her next victim through pied roses? Well, you solved that one, and you can solve this one. Draco should have imagined, or put, or whatever he does with objects, all the books in the libraries that you need.
He knew he would need certain spells, so he cast them then: the Awareness Charm, which would sharpen his senses and keep him awake when he was tempted to fall asleep; the Muscle Relaxer Hex, which the Auror Corps had adapted so that it just kept you loose and calm instead of relaxing you so much you fell over; and the Pepper-Up Imitation, which delivered a jolt to the system like the Pepper-Up Potion when he started to doze. It was possible the Manor had real Pepper-Up Potion, but Harry didn't know where it would be if so, and he wasn't about to wake Draco up and ask.
Then he spent a few moments leaning against the wall and catching his breath and ordering his thoughts into calm patterns. Yes, he could do this, but he had to be in a particular frame of mind to do so. If worries about Draco constantly intruded on him, that would be a problem.
When he opened his eyes again, he thought he had succeeded in quelling most of the emotions that could be a distraction at a time like this. With a faint smile and the hope of making another discovery like the one that he'd announced to Draco on that black sand, he went into the libraries.
He felt absurdly as if he were leaving Draco's door unguarded. He told that part of himself to shut up.
*
Draco woke free of pain and worry for the first time in what felt like months—which it might be, for all he knew. Even though he felt calmer now that he had an explanation for what was happening to him, that didn't mean he had gained all his memories back.
He started to roll over and bury his nose in warm flesh and hair. He had been promising himself that whenever he woke from nightmares. Maybe Harry wouldn't like Draco touching him just for reassurance, but lazy good morning touches were excusable for all sorts of reasons. Draco felt better trying to pretend it was a casual thing when he was halfway between sleep and waking than when he was fully asleep.
But he met cold sheets instead, and silk was a poor substitute for Harry. Draco drew himself up and glared at the spot where his best friend should have been, offended.
How could he leave me alone like that? Doesn't he know that I would need comfort after a revelation like that? That I must be protected from the consequences of not noticing what was happening to me earlier?
Besides, something Draco had noticed in the past was that Harry often didn't take care of himself if he hadn't spent a night in bed. He wouldn't take catnaps during the day like so many Aurors, saying that it was a "dereliction of duty." Draco had found him at his desk more than once, using spells and potions to keep awake and immerse himself in paperwork or research, and had forced him to go home. It was even more offensive that Harry thought he could get away with neglecting his health in Draco's home.
It's for both our good that I'm going to confront him, Draco thought virtuously, and set out to do it.
*
Harry sat back and stared at the ceiling of the Black library. It turned slowly in and out of his vision like an immense pinwheel, causing him to blink and stare more than once, but he didn't care. His research had paid off.
He understood, now.
It turned out that there were clues to the Black family members in the past who had been able to do something similar to Draco, if one just looked. The Black descendents who wrote about Metamorphmagi had a habit of underlining where and place and a few other words. Harry would have just thought it was an odd habit yesterday, but now he understood.
Yes, there had been people with an ability like Draco's before. And its control depended on the will and the imagination, rather than on the imagination alone, in the way that Metamorphmagery tended to. Draco would need to know what he truly desired before he could separate that from the underlying reality.
The area altered was small, the books indicated—usually about the size of the Black family home. And it moved around as the person who created it moved around. Now Harry could understand why the last photograph taken by Auror Brinsley's camera had showed Stonehenge even though he was nowhere near Stonehenge. He really had died in the field where his body was found, but he was perceiving Stonehenge, because that was what he was seeing at the time.
He was seeing that.
The books had suggested something else, something profoundly strange that Harry doubted he could have thought of on his own. The perceptions of the person who created and altered the place were all-important, but they weren't necessarily shared by everyone who wandered into the place he made up. Perhaps Draco hadn't actually seen Stonehenge; instead, that was the vision Auror Brinsley's mind had constructed out of the mingling of magic and reality he was offered.
That made things more complicated, and Harry was slowly coming to accept that they might not ever know how many of the creatures chasing Draco were "real." Perhaps some of them were disguised people drawn into his reality as he roamed the countryside, who had chased him because they thought he might let them out of the trap of the forest or desert. Perhaps some of them had been exactly the way Draco imagined them. And perhaps some of them had been something else altogether, but seen differently by the people who encountered them.
Monsters? The snake that poisoned Auror McCormick? The sea that swallowed Auror Henslow's body?
Harry shook his head and rubbed his brow, which hurt and ached in a way it hadn't since Voldemort. He didn't really know where to go for answers if the books didn't offer them.
On the other hand, there was a ray of hope. Harry shared Draco's perceptions, except for the one of himself as a monster, and had since the beginning. And it had been perfectly obvious from Draco's behavior last night that Draco was seeing Harry as human now that they were in the Manor.
I can perceive what he does. I can move with him—because I'm seeing almost everything as he sees it. The books did say that the ones who understand Metamorphmagi are usually their spouses and best friends. It's probably as simple as the other Aurors and the people whom Draco met as he roamed around not knowing him, whilst I did.
Harry yawned, and then chuckled at himself. It wasn't so long ago that he could stay up all night and still be ready to run several miles in the morning. He knew that, being thirty now, he couldn't count on the same strength as he'd had when he was younger, but it was always annoying to be reminded.
He lifted his wand to cast another Awareness Charm. He thought he'd learned most of what he needed to know from the books, but there was always the chance that he'd missed a stray fact. And with a talent as rare and unknown as Draco's, stray missed facts could be deadly.
"What are you doing?"
Harry nearly dropped his wand as Draco barged through the door. It seems to be my fate to be startled by Draco in libraries, Harry thought, even as he studied his friend's face closely. He was relieved to see that the faint flush and heat of the fever appeared to have disappeared completely.
"How are you feeling?" Harry asked.
"Fine," Draco said, bristling as though Harry had insulted his parents instead of asking about his health. "I'm not the one who spent a full night in here researching."
"How do you know it was a full night?" Harry considered Draco his friend, yes, but he thought it incumbent on him to point out the limits of Draco's knowledge whenever he could. That was a service friends owed each other. "I could have slept a few hours, and then—"
'I know how you get when you're protecting someone." Draco, Harry was slightly indignant to see, was eyeing him the same way he'd eyed Draco a moment ago. "You'll do everything except sleep, if there's something else that you can do instead. And you're probably thinking that Shacklebolt and Granger and anyone else who might help you is outside this—this spell bubble or whatever it is, so you have to do everything all on your own. That would make you even more frantic."
Harry blinked, a little startled that Draco still knew him so well after three years apart, and then shook himself. "Well, I think I found part of the answer," he said. "The magic is a blending of reality and imagination. The main reason, I think, that other people didn't see what you saw and go with you from place to place is that they didn't love and trust you. I was able to see your perceptions—most of them—and travel with you because I knew you."
Draco narrowed his eyes as though Harry had done something even more offensive than insulting his parents—insulting his hair, perhaps. Harry blinked and wondered what he had done wrong now. But then Draco demanded, "Why did I see those monsters?"
Harry relaxed. It seemed the topic had caught Draco in spite of himself, and he could forget whatever anger against Harry he might have harbored—maybe for not figuring out the cause of the curse faster. "I don't know that. But it could be as simple as your imagination having created the creatures in one place and carrying them from that to another 'world,' the way we discussed yesterday. Or perhaps something traumatic happened to you at the moment your ancestor granted you the gift that caused you to see them, and they remained in your mind and memory after that, imprinted into the places that you changed. Do you remember anything more of what your ancestor did than her words?"
"No," Draco admitted, sounding half-angry again. "And you're not going to distract me. You found solid answers. Good. Now you need to rest." He marched forwards and grasped Harry's hands, yanking him out of the chair.
"It would be good to rest," Harry said, slightly perplexed. "I did intend to go to sleep when I found the answers I wanted—"
"Which could be another week," Draco said firmly. "But instead, since I'm here, you're going to sleep for at least a few hours now, and then eat something, and then sleep again." He tugged Harry in the direction of the door.
"Did I do something wrong?" Harry asked, when he'd been hurried most of the way to Draco's room and Draco was still striding along, muttering words under his breath that never quite formed into the accusations Harry knew he wanted to make. "I mean, I know that I sometimes don't sleep enough, but I really would have, and missing a few hours one night won't kill me."
Draco spun around and stared at him. Harry looked back, and blinked again, as it seemed he had a habit of doing this morning. There was an odd suppressed emotion in Draco's face, some strong feeling barely held back with a mighty effort. Harry wondered if something else had happened in the few hours they'd been separated. Had Draco perhaps transported himself elsewhere by mistake, and only been able to return to the Manor by concentrating hard?
"I woke up this morning," Draco said, each word like a falling anvil. "And you weren't there."
"Did you think you were alone?" Harry asked, understanding now, or thinking he did. "Did you think I'd gone? I promise, Draco, I wouldn't—"
"I knew you were probably in the house somewhere," Draco said, in a tone that said he wouldn't have put it past Harry to have gone to the moon in his spare time. "But you weren't in the bed with me." His grip on Harry's hands abruptly tightened to a crushing one. "And I promised myself that I could touch you when I woke in the morning, and then you weren't there, and it annoyed me."
Harry felt as though his breath was coming too fast. It was definitely too short. He was going to lose his balance, and he didn't know why. "But why would you care about touching me?" he whispered.
*
For a moment, Draco thought Harry would fall over, and he knew this was his chance, his way out. Harry would collapse. Draco could scold him about neglecting his health and drag him into the bedroom, arrange him on the bed, and then go out and bury himself in books or ordering the house-elves around. And when Harry woke up, he would probably be glad enough to forget about this.
But Draco didn't think he wanted that to happen. He knew exactly why he'd thought of Harry's being in his bed this morning as a treat.
And why should I deny myself that? I've been denied everything in the last few months, and denied security before that, thinking I had to somehow transform myself to be worthy of just existing. Draco didn't remember that much about his years in France, but he knew this. The haunting feeling of inadequacy was with him even now, when he thought about Harry's possibly rejecting him.
But he had lost too much in the months and years away from Britain, wandering through strange and wild places. He reached out, laid one hand on Harry's shoulder, clasped his chin with the other, and murmured, "I think you know that."
Harry lunged forwards and, unexpectedly, started kissing him. Draco froze for a moment, but closed his eyes the next. He'd wanted this, hadn't he? And if Harry was enthusiastic about it, so much the better.
And, bloody damn, the kiss was good.
Draco had been kissed by experts in his time, but he didn't think he'd had a tongue lick over his lips like this, or dart into his mouth and out again like a hummingbird, or give individual attention to each of his teeth. He moaned under his breath and wrapped his arms around Harry's shoulders. Harry molded himself closer, grabbing the back of Draco's head and holding it still as he licked and sucked and bit, and then started to make his way down Draco's neck.
Draco opened his eyes. Harry's eyes were half-lidded and shining.
"I thought—" Harry whispered, and shook his head. "I wanted to lie beside you. But I thought you didn't know what you were saying when you asked me to stay and might be embarrassed or resentful when you woke up. I don't want you to resent me, Draco."
"And for how long has that been your goal in life?" Draco couldn't help teasing, though he gasped as Harry scraped sharp teeth down his throat in punishment.
"I've never wanted you to resent me since we became friends. But this—it's more recent. I missed you. I felt sorry for you when I started to realize what had happened. I admired your strength. And yes, I do think you're handsome, and I used to wonder if you were a good fuck." Harry hummed under his breath. "Now, do you have any more probing questions, or can we get back to what we were doing?"
The pause had been long enough for some of Draco's scattered thoughts to return, and he shook his head and pulled himself back from Harry. "Later," he said. "You're tired—"
"Draco."
Harry looked so disappointed that Draco almost gave in, but both common sense and the opportunity to make Harry cooperate and take care of himself stopped him. "Later," he repeated. "I want you awake enough that you can actually concentrate on what you're doing."
"I could do that," Harry muttered. Still, he let himself be pulled along to the bedroom. Draco knew that Harry had used a different room when they were last in the Manor, but he didn't really care. Harry was sleeping in his bed.
I have Harry in my bed.
He reveled in the surge of triumph that spread through him when Harry sprawled on his pillows, and even more in the way that Harry extended a hand, silently demanding his presence in the same way that Draco vaguely remembered doing last night. He crawled onto the bed and curled up next to Harry, draping one arm and one leg over him. He doubted that he would sleep much, since he'd rested so thoroughly already, but this gave him more time to touch Harry and memorize his skin.
Harry sighed, yawned, and quickly fell asleep. Draco remained awake for a few hours only, stroking his hair and shoulders and watching his face when Draco's fingers scraped some particularly sensitive spot of skin, before he began to drift off himself.
His last thought was that Harry hadn't pressed Draco to know when he'd begun to think of Harry as more than a friend.
Of course not, Draco thought, feeling oddly smug. He knows that I won't make a confession that quickly, that honestly, the Gryffindorish way he made it.
He knows me. He sees me.