Title:Carte Blanche

Author: Ryyne

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the wonderful work of J.K. Rowling. Also, this was inspired by/ (quite) loosely based upon A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens. Any plot elements in common with that brilliant piece of work are, then, not mine.

Warnings: Language.

Feedback: Yes! (Note: I am also currently looking for a beta. Please, if you have experience with H/D, grammar, and story flow – and are willing to deal with my ubiquitous semi-colons – apply! E-mail me at rineko chan yahoo . com . (remove the spaces))

Note: Title and summary were changed!

Carte Blanche

Chapter One: La Luz

The twenty-two year old Draco Malfoy apparated into the Spanish pub on a warm, August night. Running a hand through his hair, and letting it settle naturally over his matured features, he approached the bar casually, and signaled the bartender with a quick flick of the finger. Instead of requesting a drink, however, the young man briefly talked in low tones, and the bartender subtly gestured to a darkened corner of the pub.

With a nod of appreciation, Draco nimbly waded his way through the crowd, and approached the three figures sitting at a small, circular table. Reaching into his trouser pocket with his left hand– keeping his wand hand free – he withdrew a miniscule silver cigarette lighter. Bringing it to his lips, he lit a cigarette, which had suddenly appeared dangling elegantly from his mouth. He was dressed plainly, with few distinguishing pieces of clothing, especially considering the fact that he was in a pub at midnight: Worn black tweed trousers, a wine-red button-up shirt, and leather jacket.

One of the shadowed heads rose, and a face looked at him, inspecting. The man had combed dark hair, glinting eyes, and a slightly crooked nose. He had likely broken it some time ago.

'Perdón – Señor Luz?' Draco's head quickly turned to the man, and he casually removed the cigarette from his lips.

'Sí? Y usted es…?'

The man's mouth curved upwards. 'Señor Negocio – sólo Negocio. Entiende, no?'

Draco cocked his head, and matched the smirk of Negocio. 'Pues – muy bien, entonces.'

Satisfied, the man looked around – more than a little furtively – and motioned Draco to come closer. 'Podremos hablar inglés, aquí. Es mejor; entiende?'

Draco curtly bowed his head in a gesture of acknowledgement, while the twisted smirk remained. 'Of course, Señor.' The cigarette was still nestled between his fingers, burning softly. Although the older man seemed, to any bystander, the alpha male of the two, in reality it was Draco who carefully played the puppet strings. Draco's manner was always flawlessly polite and modest; he rarely created discomfort in his so-called 'business meetings.' The Señor knew this – he knew that Draco was the true dominant factor. Beneath the meek exterior, there was a constant smirk, a constant threat.

As the two conversed quietly in English, as to not be overheard, the other two men at the table seemed to guard the secrecy, with roving eyes and intent expressions. Within fifteen minutes, Draco rose abruptly from the wooden chair, brusquely put out the cigarette on the table, and thanked the other men with a satisfied, 'Gracias.' He began to walk away, yet unexpectedly, the crooked-nosed man called after him.

'Por qué Luz, Señor?'

Draco turned around, and his eyes seemed two dark whirlpools, stormily swirling with emotion. Outwardly, however, there was no indication of Draco's distress. 'Por qué ? Porque no es la verdad, Señor. No soy la verdad; por eso, soy la Luz.'

As the man rose in confusion and motioned to Draco to stay, Draco apparated away, his fingers tightly clutching dull gold galleons.

Back in his London apartment, Draco threw his jacket on the bed, hesitated for a moment, and then furiously began opening his kitchen cupboards after dropping the gold in a small jar. After ransacking half his kitchen, Draco laid his head on the cold tile counter, hands clenched, chest heaving.

"God…Fucking…Business!' He slammed a fist on the tile, and ignored the blunt pain that blossomed up his arm and into his fingers.

Draco lived alone, which was unsurprising; what was surprising was that he lived alone in an apartment in muggle London. He hadn't always: until he was twenty-one, he had lived in Hogsmeade, close to Diagon Alley and the Potions shop at which he had apprenticed. A year ago, however, he had quit his job – much to the dismay of his boss, who had offered him a large increase in wage in order to keep Draco working there – and moved to his current flat.

Magic could go haywire, at times, in the middle of muggle London, but Draco had learned to live without the constant use of a wand. Potions were more his specialty: he depended on potions for everything from headache relief, to detergent, to glamour brews. Draco didn't understand how the art of magical chemistry was so overlooked in many wizards' daily lives – most used charms and other wandwork; yet one could achieve just as much, maybe more, without a wand. In Professor Snape's words, Draco could, with a few choice ingredients, 'bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death.'

But glory and fame weren't what Draco desired. How could he, when he lived secluded in a muggle flat? Draco wanted riches, perhaps, and power to gain those riches; but it was a far cry from wanting coarse publicity and bland fame. In fact, the last thing he craved was publicity: he was, in effect, 'off the map' in muggle London. The Ministry laws had little to no effect on him, and he lived more by muggle government laws – with good reason, Draco thought, what with the Ministry's recent crack-down…

Draco raised his cool forehead off the counter, and sighed. Reaching up into the last cupboard opened, he withdrew several small jars of clear liquids, and holding them under his arm, padded morosely to his couch. After setting the jars on the table in front of the sofa, Draco carefully unscrewed them, and poured a bit of each liquid into the tops of the jars that lay on the table.

Once he had mixed particular amounts of each liquid into a separate beaker, Draco gently stirred it with a small metal rod. He inspected it with a quick glimpse, and then purposefully strolled to his kitchen, lit his kitchen stove, and swiped a quill through it, and after turning the stove off, grabbed a piece of parchment and sat back down on the couch.

Dipping the sterile quill into the clear, placid liquid, Draco began to scratch invisible words, or symbols, onto the parchment. He stopped after two lines, bent the paper slightly towards the light so that the wet, glistening ink became vaguely detectable. Nodding at the paper with approval, he then scratched a couple more lines of writing, and set it aside to dry. He topped the jars again, set them in the back of the cupboard again, and was about to stopper the leftover 'ink' in a thin vial when there was a sharp knock on his door.

Draco very rarely had visitors, so he nearly dropped the vial in his surprise. 'Who the hell…?' He murmured, and, stoppering the vial and putting it in a drawer, went to open the door.

'Harry, you realize that this is an essential connection that we can't ignore.'

'I know that, Remus, but it doesn't change the fact that – you should get another person on this one.'

Remus Lupin took off his glasses, and leaned closer to Harry Potter, with a small smile on his wise, kindly face. 'On the contrary, Harry, you are the perfect person for this. You are precisely who I need – who we need.' The dim light in Grimmauld Place played off Remus' pupils, and they seemed to shine with intelligent anticipation.

Harry rested his fingers on the bridge of his nose wearily. 'Rem… Please don't pull the 'duty trip' on me. You know I hate that.'

'I know, Harry, but that doesn't mean it doesn't work,' Remus said with a knowing grin.

Harry narrowed his eyes at his current mentor and friend. After Sirius' death in Harry's fifth year, Professor Lupin had inherited Grimmauld Place, and Harry had moved in with him after the War's end. However, in the past six months, Grimmauld Place once again regained an activist use, Remus being the ad hoc leader. As the place revived its inherent secrecy, it was unpractical for Harry to continue living there – he felt something like a prisoner in a hidden location. Hence, his move to a flat in Hogsmeade, near Hogwarts and its available resources – especially the ubiquitous floo lines, which gave him easy access to Remus for 'business meetings.' There was a downside, though, Harry thought, to his close friendship with his former professor and pseudo second godfather: Remus knew him much too well.

'Sometimes, Rem, I despise you.'

Remus just shrugged, a demurely bemused expression still gracing his features, and leaned back in his chair.

Late at night – or, rather, extremely early in the morning – Harry apparated to the apartment complex in London. It was a large, gray building, and rather dull; however, it was relatively well-kept, and not dilapidated whatsoever. He surveyed it with reluctant interest, then sighed in resignation, and entered the complex. After climbing several flights of stairs, he located flat number 44.

It was so anticlimactic, Harry thought, looking at the door. Somehow, he had foreseen something a bit more – well, intriguing. The blank white door was a bit of a let-down, really. This was the Draco Malfoy's home? Harry wasn't sure what he had anticipated, but it was surely something involving green, silver, and torture chains. Possibly an abstract art deco blood splatter decoration.

Well. White. This was... unexpected.

Bracing himself, Harry took a deep breath – calm calm calm – and knocked firmly. He could barely hear soft footsteps coming to the door – what, no furious stomping, no arrogant swagger? -- and the doorknob turned, and the door opened. It didn't just open a crack, but all the way (Malfoy has no sense of caution); and Harry found himself standing uncomfortably in front of Draco Malfoy.

The other man's gray eyes narrowed instantly to slits, and he stepped back as if by reflex, although maintaining impeccable composure. 'I'm afraid you have the wrong number,' Draco said. He then waved a hand, as if to swat a fly, or shoo a dog. 'Most definitely the wrong number.'

'Unfortunately, no,' Harry said with a humorless chuckle. 'Let me in.'

The gentle moonlight softly kissed Draco's features, and created a delicate glow about the mouth and forehead. However gentle the moonshine was, though, Draco's demeanor was as harsh and acrid as he remembered it to be.

Harry's mouth suddenly felt dry and fuzzy. What have I gotten myself into...?

Draco stepped forward, and within an instant, his poise went from detachedly arrogant to threateningly intense. 'Potter – yes, I know it's you, idiot – damn green eyes – if you think I'm going to let you in to my home, you're sorely, irrevocably mistaken.'

'Sorry, Malfoy,' Harry replied with a dry, lopsided smile, 'Higher orders. Let me in.'

Harry noticed suspicion taint the moonlit gleam in the other man's eyes. 'Orders from who, Potter,' he spat. 'No matter how much you think I'm a foot-kissing Deatheater, I don't take orders. From anyone,' he added.

The former Gryffindor sighed. This wasn't going to be easy. 'Malfoy, look – I'd rather not discuss this out in a open hallway, where anyone could hear,' Malfoy glanced around, nearly imperceptibly, 'So can you just let me in, for a few minutes – then I promise I'll get the hell out of here. Trust me,' he added, 'I won't want me here any more than you do.'

Draco looked at him for what seemed a decade, then grudgingly turned around, and allowed Harry to enter. With his back turned to Harry, Draco told him quietly, 'I only trust what you're saying is true because you're a Gryffindor.'

'Thanks, I think,' Harry replied.

Once they came to Draco's living room, Draco asked Harry if he wanted a drink. Harry declined, politely, saying that he wouldn't drink anything Draco offered him to save his life. In fact, Harry said dryly, but without malice, anything Draco served to him would likely kill him.

'If you think so,' Draco responded, with a small smirk. 'Now, what in bloody hell brought you here? I don't do small talk, Potter.'

'I noticed.' Draco raised a fine, blonde brow. Harry continued. 'Malfoy, you know of the Ministry's new orders, correct?...'

'Yes.'

'And I know that you're not, in fact, a Deatheater, despite popular opinion.'

Malfoy's back straightened, then tensely arched. He rather resembled a frightened cat. 'How the fuck do you know that?' He hissed.

'Doesn't matter. The fact is, I know. But I also know that you're not exactly working for the Ministry, am I right?' Harry didn't wait for an answer: 'I am. So – to make it brief, I came here to both inform you and make a proposition.'

'Really, Potter, didn't know you swung that way.'

Harry's eyes widened, and a red blush spread over his cheeks broadly. 'Don't be immature, Malfoy, you know what I mean,' he muttered.

Draco smirked. 'Of course, Potter. It's just that, humiliating you is still as amusing as always.'

'Great,' Harry muttered. 'Remus, you're so dead.'

TBC...

Translations:

'Perdón – Señor Luz?' : 'Pardon me – Mr. Luz?'

'Sí? Y usted es…?' : 'Yes? And you are...?'

'Señor Negocio – sólo Negocio. Entiende, no?': 'Mr. Negocio – only Negocio. You understand, no?'

'Pues – muy bien, entonces.' : 'Well – very well, then.'

'Podremos hablar inglés, aquí. Es mejor; entiende?' : 'We will be able to speak in English, here. It's better; understand?'

'Gracias.' : 'Thank you.'

'Por qué Luz, Señor?' : 'Why Light, Señor?'

'Por qué? Porque no es la verdad, Señor. No soy la verdad; por eso, soy la Luz.' : 'Why? Because it's not the truth. I'm not the truth; so, I'm the Light.'

Important note: 'Luz' is 'light'; 'Negocio' is 'business.'

Sorry if I completely mauled the translation work and whatnot: I'm not quite fluent in Spanish, yet, and it may sound awkward.

Still in need of a beta! Also, this story will be done in small increments, but they will come out relatively quickly (I hope). It's better that way, so I don't become disappointed with my progress, somehow.