Ass covering clause: Rowling owns all characters. Even my plot is not
terribly original.
To my reviewers: You have been few and far between, but it only makes me appreciate you more. To those of you impatient for a little HP/DM action, I promise that it will be worth the wait. The boys still have a while to go, but the wait will just make it all the better when it finally comes (no pun intended, mwahahaha!).
Chapter 5: Truth and Information
"I'm a loser and a user, so I don't need no accuser."
- Greenday, When I Come Around
After a good night's sleep, Harry woke energized and determined. Suddenly everything Draco had told him didn't seem so overwhelming. He was going to kill that bastard Voldemort and return the wizarding community to its rightful state. Or else he would die in the process. He would rather not die, but the important thing was that he do something, that he try. Waiting around for the world to end would surely have given him a nervous breakdown.
His first step was to bring Hermione and Ron in on certain facts, for he knew they could help; but it would be difficult to separate what to tell them from what would be best left unsaid. He was no good a lying, at dodging questions, or at telling half truths. It usually just seemed like the truth wanted to come out.
Late that evening, Harry knocked on Hermione's door and, upon being admitted, was completely unsurprised to see Ron there too. Still, he couldn't help the rush of curiosity as once again he could make out no hint of what they had been doing. Neither looked flushed or particularly rumpled (in Ron's case, no more than usual), nor were there any books lying about.
"Okay, guys. I have something to tell you."
With a groan, Ron plopped down on the bed. "These conversations never end well. You never have anything good to say. Unless. . . is this about the girl you've been seeing?"
Hermione raised a questioning eyebrow at Harry; she knew that Harry wasn't seeing any girl. She settled herself down next to Ron, to gaze expectantly at the Boy-Who-Lived, who was beginning to shuffle his feet nervously.
"Okay, so here goes. The truth is that I'm not seeing a girl. I've been working to acquire information about Voldemort and the situation outside of Hogwarts. This has been a bit difficult because, as I'm sure you're aware, the Order won't tell us a thing. I hate to be the same way, but if you don't push me for more than I can say, I can tell you some of what I've learned. And, maybe you can help."
Ron's mouth fell open with astonishment, and even Hermione looked surprised. Harry gave them a moment before continuing, thinking that if he could get to the actual information, maybe they would be distracted from the fact that he was keeping a lot from them. "So here's the thing. Voldemort's got some weapon that I've never heard of, and I need know what it is. They're called Givers, and they make him stronger, but that's all I know really, except that maybe we'd need to look in history books and in the Restricted Section to find anything on them."
His two friends were still looking at him with slightly startled expressions, but then Ron's transformed itself into a frown. "Givers? Isn't that what Vayla was? From the kids' story?"
He looked up at his friends, who were now looking at him with some surprise. "Uh, right. You wouldn't know about it, what with growing up Muggle and all. It's just this story about this butt ugly wizard, a real nobody, who one day meets Vayla, a powerful witch and a Giver. A Giver was supposed to be a woman whose love has the power to make men strong, or something like that. Anyway, in the story, Vayla falls in love with the poor guy and gives him the power to become a great ruler. Uhhh. . . I can't remember much else. I always thought the tale kinda sucked."
"Surely this doesn't mean some Giver, or whatever, has fallen in love with Voldemort?!," Harry blurted out, voice dripping with scepticism. Ron looked embarrassed at that, but Hermione, to the relief of both boys, looked thoughtful, then almost excited.
"Well, you've come to the right person! Super 'Mione to the rescue!" Both Harry and Hermoine broke into loud fits of laughter, as Ron looked at them indulgently, having long ago come to grips with their strange Muggle flavored humor. "Seriously, though," Hermione continued once she'd gotten her breath back. "I'll check out this whole Vayla the love Giver thing." And, of course, they dissolved into giggles again, this time also taking Ron along for the ride.
"This time I really am serious. Harry, you can count on me. I'll see what I can find, and given that I always find something, it's only a matter of time before I can tell you all you need to know about, well, anything. I'll even get Ron to help."
"Hey!," Ron protested.
"Oh, I promise, this is something you want to do," Hermione replied in a deep, quite unreadable tone. Harry couldn't tell if was a promise of reward or punishment, but Ron certainly seemed to know what she met.
"Yes, ma'am!," he barked, straightening his back and saluting (something else Hermione had taught him), but with a goofy smile on his face. "Will report as soon as we know something, Captain Potter!"
"You two are incorrigible," Harry said with a laugh.
*
In public, Harry and Draco's relationship hadn't changed a bit. There was still the occasional scathing exchange and though they weren't very frequent, this was a trend dating back from fifth year, not a new pattern. Harry and Draco met up on Tuesday to discuss matters more, for despite Sunday's conversation, there was much detail to be hashed over and Harry wanted to know as much as possible. They were still incapable of having a civil conversation, bickering constantly (as Draco seemed incapable of breaking his ingrained habit of being scathing, while Harry couldn't stop himself from retaliating), but they had attempted to get around this by simply not taking offence. Draco had explained that, according to his philosophy, words mean nothing and actions everything. Harry, of course, had had to point out that Draco did take offence, to which Draco had guilty confessed that this was because he was weak. Harry told him that he was crazy and Draco had agreed that it was a distinct possibility.
Harry also waited up for Draco again that following Thursday night. Again, Draco apparated into the Hogsmeade passage covered in blood and shaking like a leaf.
"That must be a bloody useful skill. How do you do it?," Harry questioned, watching with admiration as Draco healed himself.
"It's not hard, really. It just takes years of practice and some inherent talent."
"Well, that doesn't sound hard at all," Harry replied sarcastically. "Who would've thought that a Malfoy would have inherent healing talents?" With that he turned around to give Draco the privacy to heal the last of his wounds.
"I have all sorts of inherent talents, Potter. They're the only things my parents gave me, except of course this charming life." His last words came out laced in (physical) pain, then he removed his hands from his pants. "Lets get the hell out of here."
Harry had mercy and decided not to question Draco more, for the moment. He helped Draco to the kitchens, where Dobby again greeted them with relief and exuberance.
"So, what's your deal with Dobby?"
"He's to go tell Dumbledore with what little he knows the night I don't return. Bizarrely enough, he's almost family. He and this bastard teacher I had were practically the only beings I had contact with for the first six years of my life."
"What happened after that?"
"My parents deemed me old enough to behave and they moved me out of the white room that they'd kept me for as long as I could remember." Deadpan.
"Shit. It sounds like your folks and mine should get together and have dinner some time." Harry released a bitter laugh, to which Draco gave a wry smile.
"If you wanted your folks killed, maybe."
"Who says I don't?"
"You wouldn't do something like that. Or at least, I wouldn't have thought so before the whole Veritaserum incident."
But Harry didn't know how to respond to that; even he had noticed a certain moral flexibility that had developed in his character. The means no longer mattered, provided that they were justified by their ends. So the two boys sat and brooded for several long moments. It wasn't until Harry saw Draco's eyes drooping that he jerked himself from his stupor and helped Draco back to the Slytherin dorms. For his part, Draco was just relieved to have someone with which to share his burden. He recognized Harry as a kindred spirit simply by virtue of the fact that they both were (or at least felt themselves to be) responsible for the fate of the wizarding world. It was a responsibility that had isolated them both from everyone else, and yet now bound them together. The weight didn't seem so great, now that Harry shared it; and though he would not admit it, Harry felt the same way.
That Saturday, after a day holed up in the library (indeed, Harry had seen very little of Hermione since Monday; predictably, Ron had given up on research after only a day), Hermione appeared at dinner with a grim, but self satisfied smirk on her face. "Guess who pulled through for side of good again?," she whispered to them.
"Thank Merlin. I thought you were never going to leave that library ever again," Ron proclaimed. Hermione elbowed him and he pretended to be in pain. Harry grinned at them.
In the privacy of Hermione's room, she laid it on them; though when she began to recount what she had learned, her tone changed and it became clear that something about what she'd learned had angered her deeply.
"You were right, Ron, about the tale of Vayla. She was a Giver. In fact, there are a number of vague historical accounts from centuries and centuries ago of wizards and even a few witches who supposedly drew their power from their escorts, aka Givers. Sometimes these relationships seemed to be forged in love, but most of the time it rather hard to believe that the Givers were anything other than hostages who were being forced to empower their captors. Actually, about a handful of fairy tales told today had their basis in a history involving Givers. But eventually, the Givers seemed to die out, though some thought that they had simply learned to hide their powers to protect themselves from exploitation. They could do this because Givers are like Seers. They're human, they just have gifts. And that's about all I could learn about the Givers from the history books."
Both Ron and Harry were looking at her raptly, with wide eyes - a look that, years ago, she had dubbed 'the learning expression'. So she continued, her voice darkening further with anger. "Several books in the Restricted Section were, however, particularly informative. You see, lending their power to others is not really the so called gift that these poor people have. Rather, they have a different sort of. . . well, life energy I guess. They are capable of imparting it to others and of manipulating it, and this allows them to do some forms of wandless magic particularly well, but they certainly cannot do anything like impart their magical power to others. Not naturally anyway."
Both Harry and Ron could tell from Hermione's lead up that whatever she was going to say was going to be horrible; and both waited tensely, awkwardly, as though waiting to see some awful accident that they could see coming a mile away.
"Here's where the really sick part comes in. For the most part, our encounters with ancient magic have worked in our benefit - or, rather, to yours Harry, since you are the one who has been saved and protected by such ancient magics. But not all of them need be so well intentioned. Once I read about it, I was so mad at myself. It's obvious. All of the most old and powerful magic is based in the most basic nature of humans - blood, love, hate, death, birth. . . sex." Hermione's voice had become so soft that it was almost hard to hear. Neither Harry nor Ron looked like they wanted to guess what Hermione was getting at.
"What are you talking about?," Ron asked tightly.
"The power of sex. There exist several spells that require sex, and the purpose of all of these spells in to transfer something between one person and another. One of the spells even allows somebody to drain the life out of another. Normally, this kills the drainee and creates a temporary crazed high in the drainer. The drainer has more power for a period of time, but is in no state to use it to achieve any rational ends. The drainer is literally made temporarily schizophrenic, and so the spell is not actually very useful. Except someone found a way to use it and not go nuts."
"The Givers," Harry supplied, feeling quite disgusted and a little ill. Ron had a positively pained expression on his face.
"Right. Their energy allows the drainer to take in levels of power that won't drive him or her insane, while at the same time leaving the victim alive to be used again and again. And this is why they are called Givers. Though it might be more accurate to call everyone else Takers."
There was a long, sober silence. Finally, Harry forced out, "Is there anything else?"
"Like the gory details?"
"No. I think I can live without those."
"Good. Because its even worse than what I've told you. What's required to make the spell take is. . . horrific. Horrific beyond even having one's life force sucked from them." There was another long silence, almost like a moment of silence out of respect for the dead - or, in this case, the horror. Finally, Hermione continued, tears in her eyes. "Harry. . . you have to save her. Vol-Voldemort's holding some poor woman hostage, torturing and raping her mind and body. And has been for who knows how long."
*
"Why didn't you tell me?," Harry growled at Draco, taking a menacing step towards the blond. He couldn't explain it, but Draco made him crazy too. Draco pissed him off and made him lose it the way no one else could. The fact that he hadn't told Harry about the Givers was enough to completely transform his burgeoning fondness and respect for the boy back into its original fury. No one could roller coaster his emotions like Draco. Indeed, neither was ever as volatile as they were in the presence of each other.
Harry hadn't taken more than two steps towards Draco before the latter had whipped out his wand and was pointing it at Harry. "You are sadly mistaken if you think our recent lack of hostility means I will let you manhandle me, even if you are angry. Step any closer and I WILL hurt you." His voice was quiet, but deadly.
"I wasn't going to hurt you, Draco," Harry said neutrally; and it was the truth. In his mind, he had seen him backing the Slytherin up against the wall, and getting in his face, yelling at him. But he hadn't wanted to hurt him. In fact, he had developed as soft spot for the other boy that firmly believed that he had suffered and was suffering enough and that he deserved no more, especially from Harry. "I was going to say nasty things, but I wasn't going to hurt you."
Draco was undecided for a moment, but then he lowered his wand, acknowledging to himself that he had a tendency to be overly defensive. But then again, he couldn't afford not to be.
It was a Sunday night again, after Slytherin quidditch practice and Harry's DADA sessions, and this time they had met in some windowless room in the dungeons that Harry had never been in before. Their skirmish had diffused the situation somewhat; but Harry still asked accusingly, "Why didn't you tell me about the Giver? That poor woman. . . It's so horrible I almost can't believe it. You should've told me."
Draco walked towards the wall and leaned heavily against it, rubbing his eyes and temples with the heels of his hands. Then he ran his hands through his hair, having failed to slick it back after his post quidditch shower. When he finally spoke, his voice was exhausted. "Potter. . . Harry. It is horrible, and that's why I didn't tell you. You need to focus on. . . her. . . in her capacity as a weapon, not as a victim. You need to be worrying about the fate of the wizarding world, not of one witch. Besides, there's nothing you can do for her. If you rescued her, you couldn't hide her - Voldemort is too connected to her, he could find her anywhere. And you couldn't protect her here, for he would come for her, and kill all the children that reside here, and maybe even destroy any hope of resistance. And she wouldn't come with you anyway. She knows that it would be useless, that she'd be captured again, only then it would be even worse, for she would have been revealed to be wilful and disobedient and so would have to be punished even more. She's not dead, Harry, which is more than you can say for a lot of people, and she's strong enough to survive, for now anyway. If you really want to save her, then destroy Voldemort. That's the only way to set her free."
"You still should have told me." There was no anger in Harry's voice (indeed, Draco's speech had left him rather depressed), but the principle demanded that he insist. "The deal was you'd tell me everything."
Draco looked at Harry, his sapphire eyes narrowing in anger, then he did something unprecedented: he turned away. He rested his forehead against the cool stone wall and said nothing. Finally, as the silence stretched to uncomfortable levels, Harry spoke again.
"Are you all right?," he asked awkwardly.
"Just a head ache," Draco replied tiredly. With a great sigh, he turned himself around and continued, "Anyway. We should stop meeting up so frequently, it's too suspicious, and even if Crabbe and Goyle are too stupid to BE suspicious, that doesn't mean everyone is."
Harry frowned, curiously unenthusiastic about the prospect of spending even less time with Draco. "When will I see you then?"
"If you don't mind missing the sleep, it might be best if we kept meeting on the nights I see Voldemort - at least then I have an excuse for being out of the dorms and its so late that none of your roommates are likely to notice anway." Harry nodded his agreement, for, in truth, it is something he would have done with or without Draco's consent. Last Thursday, waiting for Draco to reapparate from whatever hell he had apparated to, had been one of the more decidedly unpleasant experiences he had had in a long while. The wait had seemed to stretch forever and at several points in time he had thought the stress was giving him chest pains. There was no way he was going to be anywhere but in the secret passage during the time Draco was doing whatever it was he did with the Dark Lord.
XXXXX
To be continued. . .
As the author, I am completely biased. However, as the readers, maybe you can answer a question for me: Can you tell what's going to happen? Is it obvious? Please, if you are so inclined, tell me what you think is going to happen, so I can assess my story telling abilities. I'm trying to improve for YOU!
To my reviewers: You have been few and far between, but it only makes me appreciate you more. To those of you impatient for a little HP/DM action, I promise that it will be worth the wait. The boys still have a while to go, but the wait will just make it all the better when it finally comes (no pun intended, mwahahaha!).
Chapter 5: Truth and Information
"I'm a loser and a user, so I don't need no accuser."
- Greenday, When I Come Around
After a good night's sleep, Harry woke energized and determined. Suddenly everything Draco had told him didn't seem so overwhelming. He was going to kill that bastard Voldemort and return the wizarding community to its rightful state. Or else he would die in the process. He would rather not die, but the important thing was that he do something, that he try. Waiting around for the world to end would surely have given him a nervous breakdown.
His first step was to bring Hermione and Ron in on certain facts, for he knew they could help; but it would be difficult to separate what to tell them from what would be best left unsaid. He was no good a lying, at dodging questions, or at telling half truths. It usually just seemed like the truth wanted to come out.
Late that evening, Harry knocked on Hermione's door and, upon being admitted, was completely unsurprised to see Ron there too. Still, he couldn't help the rush of curiosity as once again he could make out no hint of what they had been doing. Neither looked flushed or particularly rumpled (in Ron's case, no more than usual), nor were there any books lying about.
"Okay, guys. I have something to tell you."
With a groan, Ron plopped down on the bed. "These conversations never end well. You never have anything good to say. Unless. . . is this about the girl you've been seeing?"
Hermione raised a questioning eyebrow at Harry; she knew that Harry wasn't seeing any girl. She settled herself down next to Ron, to gaze expectantly at the Boy-Who-Lived, who was beginning to shuffle his feet nervously.
"Okay, so here goes. The truth is that I'm not seeing a girl. I've been working to acquire information about Voldemort and the situation outside of Hogwarts. This has been a bit difficult because, as I'm sure you're aware, the Order won't tell us a thing. I hate to be the same way, but if you don't push me for more than I can say, I can tell you some of what I've learned. And, maybe you can help."
Ron's mouth fell open with astonishment, and even Hermione looked surprised. Harry gave them a moment before continuing, thinking that if he could get to the actual information, maybe they would be distracted from the fact that he was keeping a lot from them. "So here's the thing. Voldemort's got some weapon that I've never heard of, and I need know what it is. They're called Givers, and they make him stronger, but that's all I know really, except that maybe we'd need to look in history books and in the Restricted Section to find anything on them."
His two friends were still looking at him with slightly startled expressions, but then Ron's transformed itself into a frown. "Givers? Isn't that what Vayla was? From the kids' story?"
He looked up at his friends, who were now looking at him with some surprise. "Uh, right. You wouldn't know about it, what with growing up Muggle and all. It's just this story about this butt ugly wizard, a real nobody, who one day meets Vayla, a powerful witch and a Giver. A Giver was supposed to be a woman whose love has the power to make men strong, or something like that. Anyway, in the story, Vayla falls in love with the poor guy and gives him the power to become a great ruler. Uhhh. . . I can't remember much else. I always thought the tale kinda sucked."
"Surely this doesn't mean some Giver, or whatever, has fallen in love with Voldemort?!," Harry blurted out, voice dripping with scepticism. Ron looked embarrassed at that, but Hermione, to the relief of both boys, looked thoughtful, then almost excited.
"Well, you've come to the right person! Super 'Mione to the rescue!" Both Harry and Hermoine broke into loud fits of laughter, as Ron looked at them indulgently, having long ago come to grips with their strange Muggle flavored humor. "Seriously, though," Hermione continued once she'd gotten her breath back. "I'll check out this whole Vayla the love Giver thing." And, of course, they dissolved into giggles again, this time also taking Ron along for the ride.
"This time I really am serious. Harry, you can count on me. I'll see what I can find, and given that I always find something, it's only a matter of time before I can tell you all you need to know about, well, anything. I'll even get Ron to help."
"Hey!," Ron protested.
"Oh, I promise, this is something you want to do," Hermione replied in a deep, quite unreadable tone. Harry couldn't tell if was a promise of reward or punishment, but Ron certainly seemed to know what she met.
"Yes, ma'am!," he barked, straightening his back and saluting (something else Hermione had taught him), but with a goofy smile on his face. "Will report as soon as we know something, Captain Potter!"
"You two are incorrigible," Harry said with a laugh.
*
In public, Harry and Draco's relationship hadn't changed a bit. There was still the occasional scathing exchange and though they weren't very frequent, this was a trend dating back from fifth year, not a new pattern. Harry and Draco met up on Tuesday to discuss matters more, for despite Sunday's conversation, there was much detail to be hashed over and Harry wanted to know as much as possible. They were still incapable of having a civil conversation, bickering constantly (as Draco seemed incapable of breaking his ingrained habit of being scathing, while Harry couldn't stop himself from retaliating), but they had attempted to get around this by simply not taking offence. Draco had explained that, according to his philosophy, words mean nothing and actions everything. Harry, of course, had had to point out that Draco did take offence, to which Draco had guilty confessed that this was because he was weak. Harry told him that he was crazy and Draco had agreed that it was a distinct possibility.
Harry also waited up for Draco again that following Thursday night. Again, Draco apparated into the Hogsmeade passage covered in blood and shaking like a leaf.
"That must be a bloody useful skill. How do you do it?," Harry questioned, watching with admiration as Draco healed himself.
"It's not hard, really. It just takes years of practice and some inherent talent."
"Well, that doesn't sound hard at all," Harry replied sarcastically. "Who would've thought that a Malfoy would have inherent healing talents?" With that he turned around to give Draco the privacy to heal the last of his wounds.
"I have all sorts of inherent talents, Potter. They're the only things my parents gave me, except of course this charming life." His last words came out laced in (physical) pain, then he removed his hands from his pants. "Lets get the hell out of here."
Harry had mercy and decided not to question Draco more, for the moment. He helped Draco to the kitchens, where Dobby again greeted them with relief and exuberance.
"So, what's your deal with Dobby?"
"He's to go tell Dumbledore with what little he knows the night I don't return. Bizarrely enough, he's almost family. He and this bastard teacher I had were practically the only beings I had contact with for the first six years of my life."
"What happened after that?"
"My parents deemed me old enough to behave and they moved me out of the white room that they'd kept me for as long as I could remember." Deadpan.
"Shit. It sounds like your folks and mine should get together and have dinner some time." Harry released a bitter laugh, to which Draco gave a wry smile.
"If you wanted your folks killed, maybe."
"Who says I don't?"
"You wouldn't do something like that. Or at least, I wouldn't have thought so before the whole Veritaserum incident."
But Harry didn't know how to respond to that; even he had noticed a certain moral flexibility that had developed in his character. The means no longer mattered, provided that they were justified by their ends. So the two boys sat and brooded for several long moments. It wasn't until Harry saw Draco's eyes drooping that he jerked himself from his stupor and helped Draco back to the Slytherin dorms. For his part, Draco was just relieved to have someone with which to share his burden. He recognized Harry as a kindred spirit simply by virtue of the fact that they both were (or at least felt themselves to be) responsible for the fate of the wizarding world. It was a responsibility that had isolated them both from everyone else, and yet now bound them together. The weight didn't seem so great, now that Harry shared it; and though he would not admit it, Harry felt the same way.
That Saturday, after a day holed up in the library (indeed, Harry had seen very little of Hermione since Monday; predictably, Ron had given up on research after only a day), Hermione appeared at dinner with a grim, but self satisfied smirk on her face. "Guess who pulled through for side of good again?," she whispered to them.
"Thank Merlin. I thought you were never going to leave that library ever again," Ron proclaimed. Hermione elbowed him and he pretended to be in pain. Harry grinned at them.
In the privacy of Hermione's room, she laid it on them; though when she began to recount what she had learned, her tone changed and it became clear that something about what she'd learned had angered her deeply.
"You were right, Ron, about the tale of Vayla. She was a Giver. In fact, there are a number of vague historical accounts from centuries and centuries ago of wizards and even a few witches who supposedly drew their power from their escorts, aka Givers. Sometimes these relationships seemed to be forged in love, but most of the time it rather hard to believe that the Givers were anything other than hostages who were being forced to empower their captors. Actually, about a handful of fairy tales told today had their basis in a history involving Givers. But eventually, the Givers seemed to die out, though some thought that they had simply learned to hide their powers to protect themselves from exploitation. They could do this because Givers are like Seers. They're human, they just have gifts. And that's about all I could learn about the Givers from the history books."
Both Ron and Harry were looking at her raptly, with wide eyes - a look that, years ago, she had dubbed 'the learning expression'. So she continued, her voice darkening further with anger. "Several books in the Restricted Section were, however, particularly informative. You see, lending their power to others is not really the so called gift that these poor people have. Rather, they have a different sort of. . . well, life energy I guess. They are capable of imparting it to others and of manipulating it, and this allows them to do some forms of wandless magic particularly well, but they certainly cannot do anything like impart their magical power to others. Not naturally anyway."
Both Harry and Ron could tell from Hermione's lead up that whatever she was going to say was going to be horrible; and both waited tensely, awkwardly, as though waiting to see some awful accident that they could see coming a mile away.
"Here's where the really sick part comes in. For the most part, our encounters with ancient magic have worked in our benefit - or, rather, to yours Harry, since you are the one who has been saved and protected by such ancient magics. But not all of them need be so well intentioned. Once I read about it, I was so mad at myself. It's obvious. All of the most old and powerful magic is based in the most basic nature of humans - blood, love, hate, death, birth. . . sex." Hermione's voice had become so soft that it was almost hard to hear. Neither Harry nor Ron looked like they wanted to guess what Hermione was getting at.
"What are you talking about?," Ron asked tightly.
"The power of sex. There exist several spells that require sex, and the purpose of all of these spells in to transfer something between one person and another. One of the spells even allows somebody to drain the life out of another. Normally, this kills the drainee and creates a temporary crazed high in the drainer. The drainer has more power for a period of time, but is in no state to use it to achieve any rational ends. The drainer is literally made temporarily schizophrenic, and so the spell is not actually very useful. Except someone found a way to use it and not go nuts."
"The Givers," Harry supplied, feeling quite disgusted and a little ill. Ron had a positively pained expression on his face.
"Right. Their energy allows the drainer to take in levels of power that won't drive him or her insane, while at the same time leaving the victim alive to be used again and again. And this is why they are called Givers. Though it might be more accurate to call everyone else Takers."
There was a long, sober silence. Finally, Harry forced out, "Is there anything else?"
"Like the gory details?"
"No. I think I can live without those."
"Good. Because its even worse than what I've told you. What's required to make the spell take is. . . horrific. Horrific beyond even having one's life force sucked from them." There was another long silence, almost like a moment of silence out of respect for the dead - or, in this case, the horror. Finally, Hermione continued, tears in her eyes. "Harry. . . you have to save her. Vol-Voldemort's holding some poor woman hostage, torturing and raping her mind and body. And has been for who knows how long."
*
"Why didn't you tell me?," Harry growled at Draco, taking a menacing step towards the blond. He couldn't explain it, but Draco made him crazy too. Draco pissed him off and made him lose it the way no one else could. The fact that he hadn't told Harry about the Givers was enough to completely transform his burgeoning fondness and respect for the boy back into its original fury. No one could roller coaster his emotions like Draco. Indeed, neither was ever as volatile as they were in the presence of each other.
Harry hadn't taken more than two steps towards Draco before the latter had whipped out his wand and was pointing it at Harry. "You are sadly mistaken if you think our recent lack of hostility means I will let you manhandle me, even if you are angry. Step any closer and I WILL hurt you." His voice was quiet, but deadly.
"I wasn't going to hurt you, Draco," Harry said neutrally; and it was the truth. In his mind, he had seen him backing the Slytherin up against the wall, and getting in his face, yelling at him. But he hadn't wanted to hurt him. In fact, he had developed as soft spot for the other boy that firmly believed that he had suffered and was suffering enough and that he deserved no more, especially from Harry. "I was going to say nasty things, but I wasn't going to hurt you."
Draco was undecided for a moment, but then he lowered his wand, acknowledging to himself that he had a tendency to be overly defensive. But then again, he couldn't afford not to be.
It was a Sunday night again, after Slytherin quidditch practice and Harry's DADA sessions, and this time they had met in some windowless room in the dungeons that Harry had never been in before. Their skirmish had diffused the situation somewhat; but Harry still asked accusingly, "Why didn't you tell me about the Giver? That poor woman. . . It's so horrible I almost can't believe it. You should've told me."
Draco walked towards the wall and leaned heavily against it, rubbing his eyes and temples with the heels of his hands. Then he ran his hands through his hair, having failed to slick it back after his post quidditch shower. When he finally spoke, his voice was exhausted. "Potter. . . Harry. It is horrible, and that's why I didn't tell you. You need to focus on. . . her. . . in her capacity as a weapon, not as a victim. You need to be worrying about the fate of the wizarding world, not of one witch. Besides, there's nothing you can do for her. If you rescued her, you couldn't hide her - Voldemort is too connected to her, he could find her anywhere. And you couldn't protect her here, for he would come for her, and kill all the children that reside here, and maybe even destroy any hope of resistance. And she wouldn't come with you anyway. She knows that it would be useless, that she'd be captured again, only then it would be even worse, for she would have been revealed to be wilful and disobedient and so would have to be punished even more. She's not dead, Harry, which is more than you can say for a lot of people, and she's strong enough to survive, for now anyway. If you really want to save her, then destroy Voldemort. That's the only way to set her free."
"You still should have told me." There was no anger in Harry's voice (indeed, Draco's speech had left him rather depressed), but the principle demanded that he insist. "The deal was you'd tell me everything."
Draco looked at Harry, his sapphire eyes narrowing in anger, then he did something unprecedented: he turned away. He rested his forehead against the cool stone wall and said nothing. Finally, as the silence stretched to uncomfortable levels, Harry spoke again.
"Are you all right?," he asked awkwardly.
"Just a head ache," Draco replied tiredly. With a great sigh, he turned himself around and continued, "Anyway. We should stop meeting up so frequently, it's too suspicious, and even if Crabbe and Goyle are too stupid to BE suspicious, that doesn't mean everyone is."
Harry frowned, curiously unenthusiastic about the prospect of spending even less time with Draco. "When will I see you then?"
"If you don't mind missing the sleep, it might be best if we kept meeting on the nights I see Voldemort - at least then I have an excuse for being out of the dorms and its so late that none of your roommates are likely to notice anway." Harry nodded his agreement, for, in truth, it is something he would have done with or without Draco's consent. Last Thursday, waiting for Draco to reapparate from whatever hell he had apparated to, had been one of the more decidedly unpleasant experiences he had had in a long while. The wait had seemed to stretch forever and at several points in time he had thought the stress was giving him chest pains. There was no way he was going to be anywhere but in the secret passage during the time Draco was doing whatever it was he did with the Dark Lord.
XXXXX
To be continued. . .
As the author, I am completely biased. However, as the readers, maybe you can answer a question for me: Can you tell what's going to happen? Is it obvious? Please, if you are so inclined, tell me what you think is going to happen, so I can assess my story telling abilities. I'm trying to improve for YOU!