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: Mild Slash. Language. HavingIssues!Draco.
Feedback: Please! Anyone!
Note: I love Remus... And, of course, my beta Beth is awesome too! (cheers and waves flag)
Carte Blanche
Chapter Three: Confusion and Obsession
Two weeks passed like two years, and Draco hid away in Nice, France, enjoying weekend trips to Paris and the conduction of successful business. And hating Harry Potter.
Not that that was important – not that Potter was important. Potter was the scum on the bottom of Draco's leather dress shoe; a mild irritation, and something a bit difficult to scrape off, but certainly nothing to be obsessive about.
Right?
Right.
In reality, though – beyond Draco's denial binges – Harry Potter was like a rash: the more Draco itched it, the more agonizing it got. He just didn't get him. What in the world had possessed Potter to do that? The Incident, Draco had taken to calling it in his mind. Not that Draco thought about it much, of course. Not at all.
So he may have contracted (like a disease, Draco thought) a bit of a Potter fixation. Nothing new, really – he had always been strangely fascinated by the boy. He was drawn to him, and drawn to putting him down, humiliating him publicly. It usually ended up going the other way, though, as Draco discovered.
But that didn't answer Draco's nagging question: Why?
God, he'd never felt so confused in his life.
"Wait. You what?"
Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, Harry reflected, to tell Remus about his little tête-a-têtewith Malfoy.
"Harry, I think I must be hallucinating. Have you heard of those recently discovered bad effects of wolfsbane –"
Harry sighed. "You're not hallucinating, Rem."
"Well, then, I must be dreaming. You know, Harry, I've never had such a realistic dream, not since that one with – er," Remus paused, as Harry leaned over and pinched his arm. "It's dangerous to aggravate a dark creature, you realize."
Harry glared agitatedly at his mentor. "Remus, please. I'm about to have a nervous breakdown. You are not hallucinating, dreaming, nor high, nor any combination of those three."
"You mean to say –" Remus stopped speaking for a second, in order to process this grievous information, "-- To say that, I'm not dreaming about hallucinating that I'm high?"
"Yes. I do mean to say that."
"Then, Harry, you're quite fucked."
"No, I just kissed–"
"That wasn't meant to be taken literally."
"Ah."
There was a lengthy pause.
"I think I just got another gray hair, Harry."
A snicker.
"My apologies."
Draco swallowed and tried to control his shaking. Honestly, Draco, you're being ridiculous, he told himself, his forehead feeling clammy yet hot. You've met with Deatheaters, with Ministry people who, apparently, are on your tail, you've avoided Dementors for months at a time, you've been fucking imprisoned for two months – and the scariest thing of them all is Harry fucking Potter?
Apparently, he sighed, and resigned himself to his sweaty palms.
Harry Potter, Draco had discovered, was one of the most unpredictable people Draco had ever had the misfortune to know. Draco usually prided himself upon his ability to pick up on people's motives and emotions, but really, Harry Potter was an unknown.
Potter hated him, Draco thought – no, he knew. The kiss, as shocking and bizarre it had been, was a bruising, aggressive attack, not a tender touch. He fingered his bottom lip thoughtfully. After the kiss, his lips had been inflamed, and the tissue around Harry's bite-marks (which Harry had so kindly inflicted upon Draco during his assault) had throbbed. Draco was sure the kiss was Harry's way of showing who was in control; the fact of the matter was, Harry did have the advantage, then. Draco felt like a pawn. He hated it.
Get a grip, he told himself harshly, and looked down at the small note he had found on the coffee table, along with a small key, after Harry had left.
12 Grimmauld Place. Unplottable.
Memorize it. Burn the note. Use the portkey if you so choose.
-HJP
The curt nature of the note seemed foreign. The Harry Potter that Draco remembered had been impassioned and brooding, but never curt. Draco was the one who never gave any more information than was necessary. Potter was a bumbling, idealistic fool.
But not anymore, part of Draco's mind argued. This Harry was more cynical, even more so than the After-War Harry Draco had encountered at the graduation years ago. This Harry was also more experienced, more cautious, more clever and wise. He was the type to plot, to plan. Draco could easily imagine him slipping Veritaserum into someone's drink, or discreetly spying on the Ministry. Potter was... Slytherin-esque.
Draco snorted. Harry Potter, a Slytherin. What was the world coming to?
He dropped the piece of paper on the ground, aimed his wand at it, and muttered a spell. The paper immediately combusted and was consumed by small flames; within seconds, it was a small pile of ash on the street. Draco scuffed the ash with his shoe, dispersing it.
Taking off his leather gloves, he reached into his trouser pocket, and pulled out the key. Immediately he felt the tell-tale tug at his navel, and the ground fell from beneath him. When his feet were on solid ground again, he pulled his jacket down and brushed the wrinkles out (Draco's vanity hadn't faded at all through the years), then looked around.
It was a pleasant area. The air was clear and the sky was blue. Draco smirked. What a place to have the secret headquarters of the now-extinct Order of the Phoenix and the current – well, whatever it was. Draco wondered if Potter and the werewolf had even come up with a name for their little operation.
Closing his eyes, Draco visualized the words 12 Grimmauld Place in his mind. As he opened his eyes, the house came into view. It was a cold, imposing place, and rather reminded him of a smaller, less elegant Malfoy Manor. As he walked up to the door, he noticed an orange-sized dent in the side of the house. Tch. Werewolves.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Draco knocked firmly on the door. It opened within seconds, revealing a careworn and gently smiling Remus Lupin.
"Hello, Mr. Malfoy," he said. "We've been expecting you."
Draco just raised an eyebrow. It seemed as if the werewolf was suppressing a toothy grin, the way his lips and cheeks were tight and his eyes, amused.
"I'm sure you have been. Where's Potter?"
Lupin pressed his lips together, and the wrinkles around his eyes deepened. Draco half-expected him to burst into giggles. Just like a regular Dumbledore: mad.
"Harry's outside," he said, and he added as Draco lifted his brow again, "We've neglected the weeds lately."
"What, Potter too busy rallying up troops with his little schemes?"
Lupin choked. Draco had to refrain himself from rolling his eyes. Dear Lord, didn't Potter keep anything private? "Er..." the werewolf trailed off. Draco now very pointedly rolled his eyes upward. Hastily, Lupin added: "I can assure you, Draco, that Harry doesn't usually... take the liberty... to – ah –"
"Practically blackmail his enlistees?"
"Now, Draco," Lupin leveled a warm and oh-so-condescending smile towards Draco, "It certainly wasn't blackmail."
"Then why the hell did he kiss me?" Draco demanded. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a mop of unruly black hair in the doorway. Immediately his turned towards Harry, who was entering the room; Lupin shut his mouth just as quickly.
Harry stopped short as he saw the two men looking expectantly at him. He gulped. "Um, hello." A pause. "Malfoy."
Draco narrowed his eyes at Harry, and Harry blinked and seemed to shrink away from the imposing blond. Remus silently chuckled: the scene resembled a cat cornering a very sheepish mouse. He folded his arms and waited, still smiling his oddly Dumbledore-esque smile.
"Hello, Potter." Draco was glaring quite comically at Harry. He looked positively petulant, like a wounded and indignant cat.
"Um. How are you?" Harry grinned nervously.
"Oh, you know, the usual. Get mauled by a former enemy, end up with a severely bruised ego, not to mention lips," Draco said casually.
Harry's eye twitched. "That's... nice."
"No, not really."
"Oh."
Lupin diplomatically stepped in before things got too humiliating for his godson. "So, Draco, why the sudden change in attitude?"
"Pardon me?" Although Draco's words were polite; the manner in which they were said was anything but.
Lupin didn't even seem to notice. "Why've you come here? Any particular reason, other than Harry's mesmerizing show?"
Draco colored elegantly. Even when he blushed, he had a sense of aristocracy and blind propriety about him. "Of course H – Potter's little demonstration had nothing to do with it," he snapped. "I just realized that I'm not being careful enough, considering certain details that have recently come to light."
"Such as you being pursued by the Ministry?"
Draco looked intently at Remus. "Such as that, yes."
"So," Harry broke in, "Does this mean you're on our side now?"
"I'm not on anyone's side, Potter. Not yet, at least," Draco added as an afterthought. Harry's interest was piqued, but he didn't let it show. "It's just survival."
"Yeah, right, survival," Harry muttered. Draco ignored him; and focused once again on Lupin. Or, in Draco's mind, the werewolf.
"I've come to propose a deal. Make arrangements."
"And?" Lupin prodded gently.
Draco shifted uneasily. The werewolf reminded him too much of Dumbledore, at times. Dumbledore had always made him uneasy. "And – I have certain, ah, connections. I can exchange information for information. Actually, it's more like information for protection." Draco tilted his head.
That's kind of cu– never mind. Harry shook his head. Maybe Remus was right: maybe we're both going nuts.
Lupin smiled. "Done."
He and Draco shook hands.
"Just one more thing, Draco," Lupin said, as they sealed the deal. "We'll have to know where you are, at all times. Where you live, the works."
Draco sighed; he'd been expecting this. "Fine. Just don't get involved in my personal business." I can work around you anyways. I'm the Slytherin King; sneaking around is my specialty.
Harry revealed a barely-hidden smirk. "What personal business is this, exactly?"
Draco shot him another glare. My, this was getting repetitive. "Potter, don't tell me you're interested in my love life. I think I may be ill."
"The restroom's to the right," Harry shot back, grinning.
Remus was openly chuckling now: these two are priceless. Harry seems to be enjoying it, though. Hm.
Just as the harmless teasing was getting ready to escalate to a fight (judging by Draco's hostile expression, at least), there was a knock on the door, and it opened. The knock was rhetorical, it seemed; fitting of George Weasley, who had just walked into the living room. His deep baritone voice called out, "Hey, Harry? Remus? You there?"
"In here," Remus answered. Harry gulped, and prepared for an entirely amusing scene; Draco fittingly construed his face into a patronizingly superior expression.
"Hey, having fun, Har –" The red-haired man abruptly stopped, then blinked, then rubbed his eyes. "I'm sorry, Remus – did I accidentally bloody my head on your doorway? I think I'm hallucinating. Probably comatose, too."
Remus burst out laughing; Harry bit his cheek, looking at George with merriment. "No, George," Remus managed between very masculine giggles. "This is Draco Malfoy; I'm sure you remember him."
"Oh, perfectly," George said, frowning. "How's the little ferret doing?"
Draco noticed he and Harry exchanging intimately mirthful glances. Draco inwardly scowled. What was with this Weasley, anyways?
"I'm fine, thanks, and actually leaving," Draco said without emotion. "See you later, Lupin, Potter."
"Bye, Draco," the werewolf said, waving; Harry absentmindedly echoed the sentiment, then returned to quietly conversing with the red-head. Draco saw the Weasley nodding his head and sadly smiling; Harry rested his hand gently on the Weasel's shoulder and whispered something to him.
"Fickle bastard," Draco muttered, then apparrated outside, and then back to his Nice flat.
"What am I doing, getting mixed up with him – them," he asked himself rhetorically, flopping down on the couch, burying his aching head in his well-manicured hands. Then, bitterly: "I wasn't aware I was a fool of a Gryffindor," he smirked.
No, you're a fool of a Slytherin, his mind added.
Right. Even better...
Note: Please review; it inspires me so much! Constructive criticism is also appreciated! (Rip the chapter apart, for all I care.)