Fair warning: The fourth scene here contains heavy slash. Don't read it if you don't wish to. It's been slightly edited from the version present on LJ and Skyehawke, to maintain the M rating.
Chapter Forty: Face the Darkness
Snape regarded the potion with a dubious eye.
Oh, it appeared innocent, a flask of primarily green liquid, which sometimes shifted and eddied and took on a glint of blue from the fire in the hearth. But he knew as well as anyone that it was not. It was a formed and balanced poison, capable of traveling through the Dark Mark to destroy a Death Eater.
Currently, that might mean any Death Eater. Snape wanted to change the composition of the potion to insure that he and Peter—and now, it seemed, Lucius and Hawthorn Parkinson, though Snape felt less inclined to trust them—would not be affected. To do that, there had to be a test.
"Just start, Severus."
Snape turned and glared at the man who sat beside him. Regulus crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out, as if to prove that he was more childish than Snape. Then he rolled up his left sleeve and held out his arm. Snape stared in silence at the black Grim that rested there.
"You can test the poison on me," Regulus urged. "I think Lady Death will protect me. She did say that I couldn't die until she came for me."
"And perhaps now and through the poison would be the means by which she decided to come for you," said Snape. "Have you thought of that?" He didn't add you idiot to the end of his sentence. He didn't need to.
Regulus shrugged. His eyes were happier than they had been in a long time. They always were when he was conducting childish arguments, Snape thought spitefully. "If she really means to kill me, it's inevitable, Severus. You could leave the poison alone, and then she would arrange to dump it on my head as I passed under it. Besides, I should be a useful control subject, shouldn't I? I don't have anything of Voldemort left in my arm, and you and Peter have less of him left there than the other Death Eaters. That means you can figure out the edges of his magic and learn how to tune the poison to only attack those who have a higher concentration of the Dark Lord in them."
"You realize," Snape murmured, even as he stood and retrieved the flask of poison from the shelf, "that you are speaking as if the Dark Lord were a burrowing parasite beneath the flesh, and not a Lord-level wizard?"
Regulus blinked innocently. "You mean he's not a grub? The pale skin and the lack of eyes fooled me."
Snape growled under his breath. Regulus would play like this, would attempt to bring humor into situations where it was not to be found. But what he said made sense. And while Snape could use both himself and Peter as willing test subjects, they were far likelier to die than Regulus was.
He picked up the flask of poison and looked carefully at the Grim on Regulus's arm, then down at his shadow. That shape was currently curled up in sleep, however, and seemed unlikely to object.
Snape drew his wand, and cast the spell he'd developed to work with the poison. Of course they would not have the chance to track most of the Death Eaters and splash the poison on them; they must reach out from a distance to kill them. This spell would turn his own Dark Mark into a conduit to transfer the potion, once they were sure that it worked.
He hissed the words quietly, and watched the Dark Mark begin to glow blue, a light that the potion picked up. Then, concentrating on the idea of impurities in the mark on Regulus's arm, traces of Voldemort, he carefully uncorked the flask and splashed a few drops on the Grim.
He felt the poison attack at once, sorting through the blackened flesh, chasing any traces of the Dark Lord—the caster of the Mark and the developer of the spell that created it. Snape was grateful, at this point in time, that Voldemort had insisted on being the one to Mark every Death Eater himself. If he had allowed his followers to do so, they would have had to figure out every single "lineage" of Marks and develop poisons that would annihilate each chain, back to the first person who had received the snake and skull from Voldemort himself.
Regulus made a pained grunt. Snape reached out and clasped his hand without taking his eyes from the Grim, or loosening his half-aware trance of the poison's shifting and searching.
This was the most self-aware potion he had ever developed, without a doubt. It raced through the twists and curves of the Grim, now in the flanks, now in the hindquarters, and pulled him along. The rest of the world became dim. Now and then Regulus clasped his hand more tightly, and Snape squeezed back, but most of his mind was riding along on that strange journey.
The poison could find nothing, though, the way that Regulus had said it would not be able to. Now and then it brushed up against the edges of a cold and dark power—Lady Death—but that was not what it had been trained to seek. It wanted what it had been trained to seek. It coiled sullenly in the middle of the Grim mark, and finally flushed back to the surface. Snape opened his eyes fully to see the blue-green liquid squeezing and pattering out of Regulus's arm, useless now, soaking the floor as little more than a puddle the color of algae.
"Did you learn what you needed to know?" Regulus's voice was slightly breathless.
Snape nodded. "The poison will seek traces of Voldemort," he said, eyes slightly narrowed as he watched the puddle. "I did not know that it would bring me along so intensely for the ride. It means that I will be there when most of the Death Eaters are destroyed." He considered the Yaxley twins and Indigena for a moment, then shrugged. It was unlikely the poison would kill them where a werewolf and blood curses had not managed. But if he could destroy the rest of the Death Eaters, he would count himself satisfied.
"That's a good thing, isn't it?"
"Yes." Snape looked up and met Regulus's eyes. "Peter, Hawthorn, Lucius, and I may be sick for a time—" he could not help but think it was the least Lucius deserved "—but it is the others who will die. Thank you."
Regulus gave him a strange, wistful smile, and stood. "I always like helping you when I can, Severus. Lunch?"
Snape nodded. There would be fewer students in the Great Hall now due to the time, and he had no class to teach after lunch today. He and Regulus could take their time and both speak and eat at leisure.
Regulus kept looking at him wistfully on the way to the Great Hall. Snape found that he had no idea why.
SSSSSSSS
Hawthorn had pictured her first days of freedom—if she ever had them—as days of solitude and silence. She would spend time in the Garden, behind locked and warded doors. She would gaze out the window at the dragonsbane and pansies surrounding the hawthorn bush, the memorial to her family. She would renew the charms and remove the dust that would have accumulated in her home during her long absence. She would relearn, if slowly, the political landscape of Harry's allies and friends.
She had never anticipated her first days back being a struggle against the Ministry, who were reluctant to accept that she had truly been under the Dark Lord's control.
Harry had offered her what help he could, but Hawthorn had refused it unless and until she saw that she could not regain her property and money any other way. She wanted to achieve things on her own. For so long, her mind and her will and even her body had not been her own, and it had taken Harry to bring her back from her hatred to freedom. She wanted to do this herself.
When she arrived at the Garden and found Aurors there, she had leveled her wand at them and asked in a cold voice what they were doing. They had tried to dismantle the Parkinson wards on the house, she found, but they were too ancient to respond well to that; the most they'd done was gone dormant and stop stinging anyone who walked through the door. The moment they sensed her, they were up and surging again, surrounding her in lines of light and flowers, and the Aurors looked more worried about that than about her wand.
One of them did answer her, however, a witch in her twenties with a pug nose, bright blue eyes, and an expression of nervous defiance. "We—Minister Juniper seized the property of known Death Eaters under martial law. We can use the house as a headquarters for as long as we like." She paused, and then, probably because she was in that temperament where daring and stupidity were the same thing, added, "And the Ministry has taken command of your funds, too."
"I see," said Hawthorn. The wards grew thicker at her back, and she knew they would listen to her, kill the Aurors if she told them to, but she did not wish to start her return to the wizarding world with murder. Humiliation would do.
"Protego," she told the wards.
The Aurors looked confused, since they connected the word with the Shield Charm and not the special commands Hawthorn had bred into her wards. They were even more confused when the lines of light surged forward and surrounded them, snapping at them with the heavy teeth of sundews and Venus-flytraps.
The pug-nosed Auror was the first to howl and dash for the door, her robes flying behind her. The rest followed shortly after, especially as the wards nipped at their ankles and their bums. Hawthorn watched, smiling, as one who fell sustained bruise after bruise before he could stand and scramble out of the house.
The witch did pause halfway down the path to yell hoarsely, "This is still the Ministry's house, and they will hear of this!"
"I'm looking forward to it," said Hawthorn calmly, and shut the door, and turned to attend to the disarray both Aurors and months without her had put into the house. The wards danced smugly around her while she cleaned.
The next morning, of course, she had received a polite demand from the Ministry to come to them at once and explain what she was doing in her house. Hawthorn had complied, and taken some pleasure in showing her amber eyes and her teeth to the terrified young wizard who had to greet her. He kept stumbling, staring, and doubtless remembering that there was still one night of the full moon left, before he finally ushered her in to "see someone."
That person turned out to be Aurora Whitestag, to Hawthorn's faint surprise. It seemed the Acting Minister's favorite hound was reduced to licking at the bootstraps of freed Death Eaters. In truth, Hawthorn couldn't say she was surprised when she thought about it. Aurora was undeclared, and Juniper favored the Light. He wouldn't keep someone without his own fanatical devotion in a position of true power for long.
Aurora sat behind a desk and frowned at her. Hawthorn smiled back, and thought about murmuring that she was hungry—which happened to be true—but decided not to, in the end. She doubted that Aurora would react as badly to that as the young wizard at the desk in the outer office had.
At last, Aurora cleared her throat and looked down at the papers in front of her. "You do realize that you can't legally own property as a werewolf or as a former Death Eater," she said. "And property and money taken under martial law are used for the good of England, which means that claiming you should have them and can put them to better use makes you a traitor to your country."
Hawthorn blinked a bit. Then she said, "I was not aware that a law had been passed forbidding werewolves to own property once again. I am sure another rebellion would have started if it had."
Aurora blushed and bit down on her lip, then looked at her notes. "It—it's a provisional measure," she said. "Temporary. Most werewolves who live in London now are biting Muggles, inducting them into their packs. That's breaking the International Statute of Secrecy. Until the Ministry can make sure that you aren't one of them, it can't allow you back into your home."
"I'm currently in my home," Hawthorn pointed out. "The wards recognized me, and Parkinsons have possessed the Garden for centuries."
"Yes, but you aren't supposed to be there." Aurora looked at her as if she thought this would carry some weight.
Hawthorn shrugged. "As little as I care for legal fights, I will wage them. I have returned from my slavery to Voldemort. I have never bitten a Muggle." That I remember. The nights she had run as a werewolf without Wolfsbane were sketchy in her memory, but she did not know if she could have distinguished Muggles from wizards in that state unless Voldemort told her to bite only a certain kind of person. And he had been far more interested, generally, in sending her after his enemies, those people Harry loved. "I have not violated the Statute of Secrecy."
"Yes, but the Ministry has to be sure, you see." Aurora rustled the papers in front of her.
Hawthorn watched her for a moment, then nodded. "I see," she said. "You know that you can't truly do anything about my possession of my home, but you want to threaten me into thinking you can. And you know that if I went to Gringotts and demanded the money from my vault, the goblins would oblige me, thus possibly opening a rift between the goblins and the Ministry that you really don't want or need at the moment. And you haven't moved against the packs in London because they own little property that you really want, and because you're frightened of them. I understand the true state of things perfectly." She leaned nearer and winked, ignoring the flinch that the other woman gave, as if trying to get away. "Don't worry. I won't spread that outside the office. It will be our secret."
"That is not the true state of things at all," said Aurora, who had flushed again, and looked as if she desperately wished she had stronger words, or stronger beliefs, to back her up. "You are a criminal if you remain in the Garden. It is an Auror safehouse."
"No, it's not. It's my home." Hawthorn arched an eyebrow and sat up. "And if you don't agree to stop sending Aurors at me, they will get bitten. Perhaps. Perhaps I might simply bury them in my garden and give them to my flowers to eat."
"Do not even joke about that!" Aurora slammed her hand into the middle of the desk, perhaps hoping to startle Hawthorn, or wound her, since werewolf ears were more sensitive to sudden noises. "Or you will remind people of Indigena Yaxley, who killed the Minister."
Hawthorn felt an upsurge of hatred and violence as she recalled the night of the assassination, the night she had become a slave again. But she quelled it. There were more important things in life. Harry had told her that, but he should never have had to tell her. She should have been able to work it out on her own.
"I don't care," she said. "My home and my money are my own, and I demand that you return them to me immediately, or I will cause a scandal that the Ministry cannot afford."
Aurora hissed under her breath. "Don't you see that this is the wrong way to go about things? The Acting Minister will fight you. He doesn't care for werewolves, or for Death Eaters."
Hawthorn shrugged and stood. "You are the one who has to make this decision," she said. "You are the one dealing with me. Promise me my home and my money right now, and then the Ministry won't have the outcry."
Aurora closed her eyes, and looked slightly ill. Hawthorn watched her, and nodded slightly. She had smelled the wavering, the doubt, in the woman's scent. She was remembering that she had her own allegiances, beyond those to the Ministry. Or perhaps she had already begun to distrust Juniper before Hawthorn entered the fray. Either way, this was up to Aurora Whitestag now, and not anyone else.
In a series of swift movements, Aurora seized what looked like the deed to the Garden, scrawled her name at the bottom, took up another sheaf of parchment, and signed again. Then she handed both in silence to Hawthorn, who took and studied them. One was, yes, the deed to the Garden, and the signature revoked Ministry possession of it. The other document ordered that Hawthorn have the money in her vault released to her, or an equivalent amount of money, if Galleons had already been taken out and used for something else.
Hawthorn nodded to her. "Thank you. See, that wasn't so hard."
Aurora sighed and ran a hand through her hair, but, in the end, shook her head. "Your problems aren't mine, Mrs. Parkinson, and my problems aren't yours," she said quietly. "I'd appreciate it if you would leave now."
That's the truest thing anyone has said since I entered the Ministry. Hawthorn nodded to her again, and took her leave. The wizard behind the desk in the outer room shrank away from him as she stalked past him. Hawthorn looked once over her shoulder and gave a single, deep sniff, as if she were memorizing his scent for the hunt that night. He kept himself from fainting with fear, but, by the look of it, that was a near thing.
Only when she had left the Ministry entirely and was walking in Muggle London did Hawthorn take a moment to lean against a wall and take a deep breath, because only there could she be sure there weren't Aurors and wards watching her.
She could collapse. She could give in to the remnants of slavery and hatred in her mind.
Or she could go on and live, the way she would have to. She had lost so much already. She could not let another loss cripple her.
She stood upright, shook her head, wrinkled her nose at the immense amount of rubbish in Muggle London, cast a Disillusionment Charm on herself, and Apparated home.
SSSSSS
Draco opened his eyes slowly on the morning of Halloween. This ritual would begin the moment they woke, and continue until the moment they fell asleep. That meant his shadow should be extending across the floor by now.
It was.
Draco caught his breath. His shadow was the color of ink, sharply defined even against the green carpet of the Slytherin bedroom. It overlapped the edge of the bed, ran along the floor until it met the wall, overcame a good portion of the wall, and then flowed into the loo. He propped himself up on an elbow, and the shadow moved with him, but not as far as it should have.
Of course, it also shouldn't have been cast that far by the low amount of light in the room, either. The Casting of Shadows was a means of embodying the Darkness in a courting pair; the size of the shadow referred to how much they had of traits like selfishness, greed, and the will to dominate others. It was Draco's soul that shed this particular blackness, not his shoulders and arms.
And that had an effect on the way he reacted and thought about this day, of course. He was deeply pleased by the look of the shadow. He was what he should be. No one else should dare to try and change him. He would do anything for those people he cared for, but that number of people was extremely small. And he would demand what he wanted at the most inappropriate times and in the worst situations. He was a childish brat in many ways, but then, most of the people who would criticize him for that were not people he had to listen to.
Behind him, Harry gave a little sigh and stirred.
And the bedroom vanished in night.
Draco caught his breath in surprise before he realized what must have happened. Harry's shadow was so large and so black that it had swallowed his own; in fact, it extended across the bedroom like a swathe of night. He reached out and ran his hand through the blackness, smoothing his hand up and down. It felt cooler than he had expected, but it warmed up quickly, like flesh exposed to a snowstorm and then brought inside again.
A hand gripped his shoulder, and Harry's voice whispered, "Draco?"
"I'm here." Draco turned, groping his way through the night, and felt his elbow bump into Harry's shoulder. "Sorry," he said, and then he caught the edges of Harry's face and kissed him fiercely.
Harry gave as good as he got, leaning forward until Draco was pressed flat into the bed, biting and nipping as if he couldn't have enough. Draco had expected that to happen, and his pleasure grew.
A moment later, Harry drew back with a gasp. "What am I doing?" he whispered.
"This is the side that you normally keep caged coming out, Harry," Draco said calmly. "And that's the reason I said that I wouldn't mind having sex when we were in the middle of this ritual, but that you might not like it. I don't think you'll be able to hold yourself back from doing whatever you want with me. And I like that." He moved his legs up, clasping them around Harry's waist, and squeezed tightly.
Harry swallowed, and Draco could feel him fighting the impulse to grind back, press down, and bring them both to orgasm, and ignore the fact that they had classes today. "I suppose this is why the joined couple is considered irrevocably joined after this," he whispered. "They've seen things about each other that no one else ever will."
"Partly," said Draco. "Of course, this ritual was also designed to bring out obsessive and jealous qualities around each other, and until it was formalized as the point where no one could interfere, there were—well, incidents of one partner tearing someone apart whom they thought was eyeing the other one."
"Draco."
He chuckled and reached up, this time making sure to cradle Harry's face gently. "You don't need to sound so distressed, Harry. I honestly don't think anyone will try to snog me, given your shadow and your presence. And I also think that you can control yourself from dispensing jealous violence. Just think about me instead." He arched his neck and kissed Harry once again. Harry made a low purring noise, like the rumble of some great cat, and returned the kiss with interest, once more.
And then the shadow dissipated, at least for Draco. Familiarity with it did let the partners see each other. He noticed at once that Harry's eyes had deepened in color, the way that they had when he was exploring the connection between Voldemort's mind and the pool of blackness in the bottom of his own thoughts. His expression was conflicted, twisting between passion and incredulity that he could feel that kind of passion.
Draco liked it. He thought that had been one thing Harry never understood about him: how he could be so unafraid of not only Harry's magic, but also his darkness.
The simple answer was that Draco was a Dark wizard, and he still could not imagine Harry hurting him, no matter which personality facet possessed him at the moment.
He kissed him one more time, lingeringly, and this time got the response he wanted, hard and demanding, the response that Harry was too afraid of himself to give most of the time. He clasped his legs around Harry's waist hard enough to wring a grunt out of him, and tried to roll them over so that he was on top.
Harry pushed back down instead, holding him still, and this time reached out with obvious intent to remove his pyjama top.
Draco sighed happily, at least until Harry started kissing him breathless again. They could be a little late for breakfast. No one who mattered would mind.
SSSSSSSSS
Harry knew what the ritual was supposed to do. Everything that he'd read and which Draco had told him about the purpose of it made sense. So he wasn't surprised to feel the emotions surging up in him.
He just—he'd never realized to what a large extent they were present in him, as long as he gave himself free rein to feel them.
Yes, his ability to control himself could account for some of it, and so could his fear of expressing emotions like this, but still, it was just much easier to think of himself as not jealous.
It wasn't that easy to realize that, after the first few moments in which their shadows had reduced people to stunned stares and whispers, he was watching anyone who looked at Draco for too long. Most of the stares probably weren't sexual. They were probably discussing how selfish he was, from the shape of his shadow, or how he could stand to be partnered to someone who, with a shadow like that, resembled the next Dark Lord.
But Harry didn't like it, anyway.
It was a stupid emotion, silly, primitive. It wasn't as though the school was filled with people dying to court either of them. It wasn't as though Draco, having been the one to initiate a ritual that lasted three years, would leave him to run off with the Hufflepuff girl who sighed dreamily after him as she left Transfiguration. And she was a fifth-year, anyway, so she was probably just entertaining innocent dreams.
He didn't like it anyway. He found himself with the strongest desire to hide Draco behind his back for the majority of the day, or shove him in a closet and make love to him until Draco forgot there was such a House as Hufflepuff. He growled at the girl, who started and scurried away when she saw him watching.
Draco, of course, was enjoying himself hugely. He didn't deliberately flirt with anyone else—he was rather occupied in watching people who stared after Harry and hissing at them—but he did sit back sometimes, and look at Harry with a smug smile, and revel in the close attention.
Do I not pay attention to him, normally?
Not this closely.
And Harry knew that, in one part of himself, but it was as though his normal mindset, for one day, had become a painting, and this kept-out part had surged forward to become the reality. He knew how he usually felt, but that didn't matter when he was watching Draco lick butter from his fingers and knew that Michael, across the room at the table where he ate with other refugees, was watching, too.
Harry wanted to slam Michael against the nearest wall and demand that he stop staring.
He went to Arithmancy with Draco bristling, on edge, his magic and his shadow both snapping around him like banners. Professor Vector did ask him to calm down so that the windows she opened to throw light into the classroom would actually be effective. Harry acknowledged her with a grunt and tried to concentrate on his equations, instead of the way he wanted to hunt Michael down or take Draco somewhere and shag him silly.
Draco sat next to him and innocently did equations of his own, which didn't help. His narrowed eyes at anyone who came near Harry were probably less noticeable than Harry's scowl.
That led Harry back into the pattern of thought about how he normally didn't look at Draco like he was the center of the universe. And that presented him with a nasty idea.
What if that means that someday, he does get fed up with not being important enough to me, and leave? What if he takes a lover who actually gives him the attention he deserves, and doesn't make him play second fiddle to a war?
The thought, once lodged, burned in his belly like a hot coal. And Harry finished Arithmancy with one desire firmly in mind. He waited until Draco had taken a step past the door in their usual direction, then grabbed his hand and pulled him in the opposite one. Their shadows paced them. Harry paused once to study them, and saw his shadow, snake-shaped, carrying Draco's dragon-shaped one in a bundle of writhing coils, tongue flickering hard and eyes maddened.
"Harry?"
"Here." Harry threw open the door of the nearest room and raked it with his eyes. His sense of other people's magic had already told him it was empty, but he wanted to make absolutely sure. Other people didn't get to share what he was about to do with Draco.
"Harry—"
"Hush," said Harry, and shut the door behind them, and shoved Draco up against the wall. Draco blinked at him, then shook his head.
"I haven't been looking at anyone else," he said, softly.
"I know that," said Harry, and fell to his knees in front of him, undoing his trousers with hands that shook with eagerness and impatience. "I'm just making sure that you never do, either."
Draco opened his mouth to retort, and then his eyes rolled and his head fell back against the wall. Harry knew why. He had not only opened Draco's trousers by then and fastened his mouth rather firmly around him, but he had done what he'd never dared before and brought his magic directly into play. A current of it was coursing through Draco's skin where Harry's hand rested on his groin, running like stinging, biting lightning.
"Harry! What is that—why did you never—"
Harry ignored him. For one thing, it wasn't as though Draco couldn't figure out the answer to that question if he searched for it. More to the point, he had more important things to do.
He sucked, hard, not with the gentleness that he'd always used before, and which he knew Draco deserved. He'd always been afraid—of losing control, of hurting Draco, of frightening him. Now he knew that he wasn't going to hurt Draco, he couldn't frighten him, and, well, what was the Casting of Shadows about but letting down barriers?
His magic gathered in his mouth. This time, Harry commanded it to ride his tongue, increasing the sensation, taking the pleasure that flowed out of Draco's body and feeding it back, until Draco could also feel what Harry felt, such as the way Harry had to work to keep his teeth wrapped back and away when he really wanted to use them.
"You can," Draco whispered.
Harry glanced up at him, never stopping his task, and silently rejoiced. Draco's eyes had gone so hazy that Harry doubted he could see far, and his hand trembled as he reached down to stroke Harry's hair.
"Please," Draco said. "A bit of using your teeth—is all right. I don't—" And he arched his back, unable to finish the sentence, as Harry curled another loop of pleasure through him.
So Harry used his teeth, just a bit, then used his tongue to soothe the hurt, and then sent the pleasure flowing forward again. This was more delicate work than he'd ever used it for. That didn't matter. He knew his magic would do exactly what it was told.
And so would Draco.
Draco came hard, with a cry that rather made Harry hope people were passing up and down the hall, so that everyone could hear him. He swallowed what landed in his mouth and licked his lips equally hard, sitting back and catching Draco as he slid down the wall, then leaning close so that he could nuzzle his nose into his hair.
"I really, really want you," he said.
Then he paused, wondering if he should say that he really, really loved him, instead. But Draco's eyes were open, and he saw the doubt, and he reached up and dragged Harry's head down to his, kissing him thoroughly. Harry knew what he was saying clearly. He could hear of love whenever he wanted to. He knew Harry loved him. He wasn't as sure of Harry's lust.
"Now," said Draco, when he'd recovered a bit, "I want you to put up locking and silencing spells on the door, and fuck me properly." He raised an eyebrow. "And, before you ask, yes, I know we're going to miss Transfiguration. It's worth it."
"I wasn't even thinking about that, to be honest," Harry muttered, and reached down to pull Draco's shirt off.
Draco's voice was full of pure, if breathy, triumph.
"Good."
