Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter!

And here's something there hasn't been in a while: a Draco-centric chapter.

Chapter Eight: Theory, Meet Practice

Draco came down the main staircase in Cobley-by-the-Sea feeling as if someone had run a hand through all his hair and made it stand on end. He hadn't slept well. It wasn't the bare stone room or the unfamiliar bed, thick with hastily dusted curtains, that had hampered that. The smells, of all things, had got to him. Draco preferred the heavy rose-smell that hung around Harry, at least to his nose, to the scents of salt and spray. The heavy booming of the waves as they struck the cliff the house was carved into hadn't helped, either.

He paused when he reached the bottom of the staircase. It opened into a wide room, like the one where they had celebrated Christmas though several floors higher, with windows that gazed out on the ocean. There were several stone pillars scattered throughout it, which Draco thought were meant to serve as perches for owls, or plinths for objects now missing. Otherwise, the room was bare and comfortless.

And Harry stood by one of the windows, in the same clothes he'd worn last night, staring out expectantly.

"Harry."

Harry started and looked over his shoulder. "Oh, hullo, Draco."

One of us has to say it. Draco remained silent, waiting. But Harry only turned around again and stared back out the window, as if he didn't notice the tension in the air. A moment later, he exclaimed and held out his arm.

A barn owl, looking as ruffled as Draco felt, clung to his jumper when Harry pulled his arm back inside. He smiled as his Levitation Charm pulled the letter from its leg, even though the owl hooted nervously and shifted from talon to talon at the nearness of the invisible magic. Harry unrolled the letter via a complicated process half-magic and half-hand, and which Draco couldn't see well from this angle. He took a step nearer just as Harry let the letter roll shut and grinned up at him.

"She'll do it," he told Draco.

Draco blinked a bit, then said, in a tone meant to remind Harry that he didn't have a bloody clue what he was talking about, "Who will do what?"

"Skeeter is going to arrange to hold a public interview with me," said Harry, "at the Ministry. She won't tell anyone until a few minutes before, so our audience will be whoever's there at the time. That ought to provide a nicely varied set of ears. And of course I'll be taking Veritaserum in front of everyone, too." He looked around in distraction. "I had parchment and a quill right here, I could swear that I did. I have to write her back and let her know that half past ten will be fine."

"I know you have an amulet you can use to summon her," Draco said, frowning. "Why didn't you just use that?"

"Because then she would have had to fly or Apparate here, and talk to me about the plan, and then go arrange matters," said Harry. He murmured something Draco thought was "Accio parchment!", and a folded scroll came flying over to him. He snatched it, badly unsettling the owl, which fluttered away to wait on the windowsill until he was done. "This way, she could just stay in London and arrange things immediately. And we can have the interview more quickly." He gave Draco another smile that might have melted Draco's defenses if he weren't so concerned. "Skeeter's smart. She'll know who to contact."

Draco wondered how to put this politely, and finally said, "Harry."

"Hmmm?" Harry was holding the parchment flat with the stump of his left wrist, while scribbling the message rapidly with his right hand. Draco narrowed his eyes. That's another thing that he was going to work on, too, getting his hand back. I know that he broke one curse on his wrist, but then he never tried to break anything else. Combined with what he just did, that's not a good sign.

"Did you go to sleep last night?"

Harry looked up with wide eyes, arrested for a moment, and then blinked. "Um. No." He lifted his left shoulder in a shrug. He was already writing again. "I forgot?"

"We've talked about this," said Draco, feeling a stir of disgust in his belly. He really didn't like scolding Harry to do elementary things like eat and sleep. If nothing else, they made him sound like a parent, and he wanted to be Harry's partner, not his parent. Offering comfort when Harry was in trouble was one thing, but by now, he should know better than to run himself into the ground. "You need to sleep, no matter how exciting the day was."

"I literally couldn't," Harry said, with a lightness that made Draco grit his teeth. "I have too many plans." He finished the letter and strode across the room to the barn owl, securing the message to its leg. The owl hooted, and Harry reached into his robe pocket, holding out what looked like a crumbling piece of toast. The owl ate a few bites before it launched itself out the window again, already more dignified than when it'd arrived. "And I was getting to know the werewolves. There are all sorts of things about accepted werewolf packs I never knew." He spun around, resting with his elbows on the stone, and grinned at Draco. The gray light through the window made his face appear to glow with an unhealthy pallor. "Did you know they prefer to sleep all in one big tumble? A literal puppy-pile. And they know exactly where every member of the pack is, physically, in the room at all times. They can't really surprise each other, but they keep trying."

Draco scowled. Bloody werewolves. He'd managed to forget about them, actually, for one blissful moment. Only half the pack was here; Harry had sent the other twenty, with Lupin, to stay in Grimmauld Place. He'd explained to Draco that he didn't trust Wayhouse's temper, and he didn't trust werewolves to be in Silver-Mirror and around the sun-pool and the wind-pool without falling in—or possibly turning the painting into which they'd tricked the many-legged creature around.

"You should still have slept, Harry." He worked to shear any trace of whining off his tone, and found that he'd succeeded. He sounded quiet, calm, distant, with just a hint of adult condemnation. Like Narcissa, really.

But I still don't want to sound like a parent!

"One night isn't going to kill me," Harry said cheerfully, walking past him. Draco could hear a faint buzz, in addition to smelling the roses. Harry's magic was working to keep him at this level of alertness, it seemed. "Come on, Draco, Camellia's making breakfast."

Draco followed him, eyes narrowed on his partner's back. Harry had promised that he would continue to work on his healing simultaneously with everything else once they were back in the world, and Draco had believed him. But now he wasn't doing it. Draco hated those signs, and before he would see Harry exhaust himself as he had in those days just after the Midsummer battle, he would lock Harry in a room, cast a sleeping spell on him, and then stand outside the room with his wand out so that neither werewolves nor Snape could disturb him.

He's going to miss things, if he wants to think of it purely in terms of the war effort. Tired eyes see less than alert ones do. I suppose I should be grateful that he's making time to eat breakfast, but I'm not. He should be able to take care of himself and still accomplish the majority of what he wants. I know he has the determination to do it. But he's neglecting his sleep just to do a little more. He'd probably whine that that's more useful.

Draco wondered, with a sudden, sharp pang that seemed to center in his stomach, if Harry still derived the majority of his pleasure from being "useful." The way he had talked about the Black fortunes last night, shortly before Draco had gone to bed and assumed that Harry had as well, certainly signaled that.

The value of him is not just in what he can do.

But confronting Harry about that would make him sound still more like a parent, and would probably get him nowhere. Harry knew some really good arguments now, from spending time in the Sanctuary with Seers who could make anything sound reasonable. Besides, Draco suspected that the best way to win him was by rational argument. So he would watch, collect evidence that refusing to attend to himself was impairing Harry's judgment, and present it to him.

I have the right to push. I told Harry I would. But sometimes you don't learn anything by pushing, and have to wait for the right time. Draco smirked as they entered the kitchen, wondering if Harry assumed the lack of pushing meant that Draco had given up. Ha. Not bloody likely.

"Good morning, Camellia."

Draco glanced up in shock at the cheerful tone in Harry's voice. He hadn't thought he was on that friendly a basis with any of the werewolves last night. But the young woman with ragged dark hair—Draco wrinkled his nose; didn't any of them bathe?—who was flipping something dark brown in a pan turned around with a nod.

"Good morning, Harry," she said. "Breakfast will be ready in a moment, if you'd like to sit down." She nodded again, this time at a table miraculously free of dust. Draco sat down gingerly anyway. The chairs were made of stone, and looked solid, but this had been a Black house. Nasty practical jokes could still be lurking in the furniture.

He watched Camellia cook for a moment. There was a tea-kettle singing nearby, and she reached for it with her free hand, pouring tea into several cups waiting on the counter. Then Harry's magic wafted the cups over to them. It was an impressive feat of dexterity on her part, Draco supposed, but—

"Why aren't you just using your magic to cook?" he asked, as he sipped his tea. It didn't have enough milk, and he muttered that to Harry, who raised an eyebrow and opened the door of a cupboard standing in the far wall. Draco was reassured to note the preservation spell on the crock of milk that came floating out. Of course, Pettigrew and Regulus Black had been living here, so the food wouldn't be that old. "Why do things the Muggle way?" he asked the werewolf.

She caught the thing she was flipping in the pan, and glanced back at him with a small smile. "Because I am a Muggle," she said. "Or, well, I was born that way. The only magic I have is my gift."

Gift—she means lycanthropy. Draco felt faintly sick. He sipped his tea and said nothing. It was one thing to listen to Harry's speeches on irrational prejudices and think smugly that he knew better, that he would never do some of the stupid things the Ministry had done. It was another to sit in a house that had belonged to his ancestors and realize there were Muggles rattling around in it. Or werewolves who thought of their curse as a gift. Draco wondered what his mother would say.

Then he shook his head. She was at the meeting last night. She heard Harry announce his intentions to take them to Cobley-by-the-Sea. If she cared about having Muggles and werewolves running around here, she would have said something.

"Muggle," he went back to Camellia, as she turned around with the pan. Draco thought the food in it looked like a cross between toast and pancakes. At least it smelled good, and she was scraping it onto a plate. "How old were you when you were bitten?"

Camellia gave him a funny stare. "Less than a year old," she said. "My parents were to Scotland on holiday with me and encountered a werewolf. It killed my mother, but my father survived and got us back to London."

Draco choked on his tea. "I—you can't survive that," he said, when he had his breath back. "Children that young can't survive a bite." He noticed Harry watching him with amusement from across the table, but he ignored him. Children that young didn't survive, damn it.

Camellia smirked at him. "I did," she said. "My father didn't know what in the world to do with me, especially when I started changing. Luckily, he had a friend who had a friend who had a friend who knew the London pack, and Loki came and adopted me."

Draco didn't know what to say, so he added milk to his tea and waited for Camellia to finish preparing their breakfast. It was pancakes, he saw when their plates were finally piled. Camellia sat down on the other side of the table and began to talk to Harry about the upcoming interview. Apparently, he was going into the Ministry with werewolves as guards.

And then Draco choked on his pancakes as much as he had choked on his tea.

"Harry," he said, breaking in. He noticed the irritated look Camellia gave him, but he ignored it. What did he care what a Muggle werewolf thought? "You're going to take Veritaserum?"

Harry blinked and pushed his glasses up on his nose. "Yes?" he said, making it almost a question. "Skeeter said that she could get me some—or rather, that she has a contact in the Ministry who can procure some. There have been enough lies in the Prophet about me that I thought I should counter them somehow. If I'm under Veritaserum, they'll have to accept certain things as the truth."

Draco shook his head tightly. For all his knowledge of history, I don't think that he imagines how it will look if he takes Veritaserum. "Harry, criminals take Veritaserum. If you drink it, you'll be showing them that you think of yourself as guilty."

Harry sighed. "Draco, criminals take it to prove their innocence. Unless it's forced on them, which the Ministry has rules against, then no one who wants to lie is going to take it."

"That's not the point." Draco could feel agitation roiling in his mind, combining with the political instincts that his father—and his mother, he could acknowledge now—had taken some effort to hammer into him. "You shouldn't have to take it for them to believe you. Your word ought to be enough, Harry."

"It ought to be enough," said Harry with infuriating patience. "But it isn't. I've been gone too long. There's not been a fresh interview with me to counteract the circling lies. They'll need the truth straight from my own mouth before they start to believe me." He took another sip of his tea, as if he believed that should have clinched his point. Camellia sat back with her own tea and looked from one to the other of them as if watching a duel. Draco spared a moment to scowl at her. She offered him a wide, sharp-toothed grin.

Harry turned back to Camellia. His pancakes were still mostly uneaten, Draco saw. "Now, who do you think would be the best second werewolf to come with us? Someone who's a wizard, to balance you? Or someone who looks like a werewolf, to counter the idea that all accepted werewolves will go wild and run through the streets and bite anyone who looks at them sideways?"

"Is going in with werewolves visible wise at all?" Draco interrupted. "I don't think so, not with the Department for the Control and Suppression of Deadly Beasts so important to the Ministry."

"Even they are still operating inside the bounds of law," Harry said. "They had to claim that the werewolves they killed were going to attack them. They're still worried about what the public thinks. That's why this is going to be as public as possible."

Draco made himself sit still for a long moment, while Harry and Camellia spoke and settled on a werewolf named Rose as a good companion. Then he stood. "Harry, can I speak to you?"

Harry turned to him. "Of course—"

"In private."

Harry blinked a bit, but stood. Draco supposed that since he would have granted one of the werewolves the same privilege, he had no qualms about granting it to Draco. "Of course. Excuse us, Camellia," he added over his shoulder. Draco saw the werewolf wave a hand in casual acceptance, but she watched them all the way out of the room.

Draco waited until they were in the room where Harry had sent the owl off again, and then turned to face him. "A privacy ward, if you please," he said. He listened to his own voice. It was cool and strong, and didn't sound anything like a parent's. If anything, he was a political ally of Harry's, and Harry had to listen to him because he would have listened to Lucius or Narcissa in the same position.

"Draco, I'm sure that—"

"Camellia might overhear something," Draco cut in, keeping his voice polite. "You know what keen ears werewolves have."

Harry studied his face, directly enough that Draco thought he might have used a touch of Legilimency, and then nodded and raised the privacy ward, a sparkling curve of white light that isolated them just as it had when Harry spoke to Wilmot in the Ministry. Then he leaned back on the wall, folding on the arms, and stared at Draco.

"You don't need to do this," Draco said, making sure to keep his voice constrained enough that he didn't seem as if his temper were going to explode at any moment. "You really don't, Harry. I applaud the idea of a public interview, and I applaud the idea of doing it through Skeeter, and so suddenly that no one will have any time to set up an ambush. But you don't need to take Veritaserum, and you don't need to take werewolves along."

Harry nodded slowly, as though considering it. "And what would you suggest that I do instead?"

That was more progress than Draco had hoped for. "Trust in your magic," he urged softly, taking a step closer to his partner. Harry watched him and weighed his words, and that was the best thing he had done today—or since last night, because he had been awake for more than twenty-four hours. Draco stamped down his irritation. "You shocked everyone in the alliance last night, Harry, and a good part of it came from that initial explosion of magic and the clothes you wore." He noticed that Harry had removed the silver band from his forehead, but still wore the dark green robes. Well, we can find him others for this interview. "You're a powerful wizard. That means more than you might think it does, to so many people. Didn't you see the expressions on their faces last night? How they longed to be close to you?" That had been an occasion for more than one moment of smugness from Draco. A few of the younger members of the alliance, in particular Calibrid Opalline, had looked at Harry with more than mere yearning for magic in their eyes.

"Of course I did," said Harry, sounding faintly surprised. "But mere magic isn't going to change those opinions circulating in the Daily Prophet, Draco. If it could have, then they wouldn't have started."

"You weren't here," said Draco. "You said that yourself. And you didn't have all the webs off your magic then."

"If I keep using it as a weapon, the shock value won't last long," said Harry. "I can't depend it on it forever."

Draco bit his tongue, deciding that Harry wouldn't want to hear the old tales of how Lords and Ladies had kept many people panting after their magic for years. He hated being called a Lord, and that was a resistance that had remained, despite everything else he was doing to integrate himself into politics. "That's true," said Draco. "But you can go in, composed and calm and saying that you have just as much right as anyone else to be judged fairly—without Veritaserum. Don't make this into a trial, Harry. It's going to be hard enough without that."

Harry smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. "I promise that I'm only using Veritaserum because I think it's the best choice, Draco."

"You said that you could depend on me to tell you when you were making the wrong decisions." Draco stared into his eyes. "And now you are. Listen to me, Harry, please. This could set a precedent, too. What if others want to question you under Veritaserum?"

"I can make the decision," said Harry, and dropped the privacy ward, and smiled at Draco, and went away to talk to Camellia again.

Draco stood where he was for a moment, pulling his breaths in smoothly through his nose, a relaxation technique his mother had taught him. Then he went to select his own robes. He would look immaculate. He would wield the power of perception that he knew Harry despised.

Someone who will be there should.


Skeeter had chosen to stage the interview in a main corridor of the Ministry—the one that led to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, in fact. There was no way that anyone could miss it. Daily Prophet banners covered the walls, and two photographers hovered ostentatiously in the way. Skeeter herself sat in one of a pair of chairs, her notebook held firmly in her hands and a smile covering her face. Draco thought the smile looked like a shark's.

Harry had at least changed into different clothes, simple dark robes, for his appearance here. Camellia and Rose walked to either side of him, their nostrils flared as they apparently sniffed for threats. Draco was at Harry's right shoulder. He had his hand on his wand, and he intended to keep it there.

Harry let the control on his magic gradually slip as he neared the chair in front of Skeeter. She turned towards him first, and the shark's smile widened. Draco had heard that being near magic this strong sometimes made wizards and witches dream of what they could accomplish with it. She was one of them, then, which didn't surprise Draco at all.

He took up his position behind Harry's chair as Harry sat down, all poise and confidence. That was good, but Draco could see curious stares from the Ministry workers who had formed an impromptu crowd, their stares growing sharper as they recognized both Skeeter and Harry, and winced. We should have come with a larger entourage. If Harry had just waited and let us inform more people, we could have had my father here at least, and Mrs. Parkinson—no, I don't think Harry would have let her come into the Ministry, when they have spells to track werewolves. Well, Mr. Bulstrode, then. And Owen and Michael should be here.

Harry had had Owen and Michael stay behind at Hogwarts, the excuse being that they were obviously uncomfortable around werewolves and he had to see to the comfort of the pack that night. Draco had thought nothing of it at the time. Now he wondered if it was Harry's training acting against his political instincts again, shoving aside the temptation to show off his sworn companions in public.

This has to stop. I can see that I'll have an even heavier task than I estimated at first.

"Thank you for attending this meeting, vates," said Skeeter, loud enough to be heard over the murmurings of the Ministry workers. "I'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind. Our Prophet readers have been so curious about where you've been this last month!"

Harry smiled. "I'd be happy to tell you," he said. "But first, Mrs. Skeeter, I think there was a condition of this interview we agreed to, and that you're forgetting?"

"Of course, how stupid of me," Skeeter said, with a chuckle, and then fumbled in her purse for what turned out to be a clear vial of Veritaserum. Draco was sourly pleased to see that the smile on her face dimmed a bit. She doesn't think this is a good idea any more than I do.

Harry opened the vial and looked around at the crowd with an open, pleasant face. "I am taking Veritaserum because there have been some questions about my truthfulness, particularly given what I said in the last days before I left," he said. "This will prove that I have nothing to hide." He lifted the vial and touched three drops of the potion to his tongue. The crowd's murmuring increased. Draco listened to the cadences of their words, and decided that they were reluctantly impressed.

He shook his head. This will end badly, I know it. And you do have things to hide, Harry.

Harry swallowed the Veritaserum, and then smiled and looked up at Skeeter. "Whenever you're ready, ma'am," he murmured.

"Thank you, Harry." Skeeter's quill rapped her notebook for a moment, and then she began the questioning. At least Draco could be sure that she'd chosen the questions carefully. "Where did you go this summer? There were so many rumors…"

"To stay with the Seers," said Harry. "They see the present, and souls. They have a Sanctuary I've been invited to visit before, and I finally decided to accept the invitation."

Skeeter tilted her head to the side. "And that's the place that you began your training to defeat You-Know-Who?"

Harry's cover story, to content Whitestag and her group. Draco frowned. I hope the Veritaserum doesn't make him betray that that was a sham.

"I did that, too," said Harry agreeably, and entirely truthfully, Draco realized. Harry could manipulate Veritaserum, at least, as he had done when the Ministry arrested Snape for trying to kill Minister Fudge. It had something to do with being an Occlumens. "I researched various kinds of magic that will be useful in the war. And I worked on myself as hard as I could. When I went to the Sanctuary, I was in no fit state to defend the wizarding world. Now, I hope I can safely say I am."

"Fascinating," said Skeeter, and scribbled rapidly. "Now, can you tell us what that magic is? Or would it be too dangerous to say?"

Good way to work against the Veritaserum, Draco thought, and gave her a slow nod he doubted she noticed. That will let Harry give an answer that's still truthful.

"Too dangerous to say." Harry smiled and waved a hand self-deprecatingly. "And the details would probably be boring to anyone who wasn't studying it," he added. "I've got a bit of the Ravenclaw in me, I'm afraid."

That won a few chuckles. Draco gazed at Harry. If he could only do this as the normal wizard he deserves to be treated as, then what an impression he would make!

"And what would you say to the rumors that started to circulate a few days after your departure?" Skeeter asked, looking up. "About your murdering a dozen children in front of Hogwarts?"

"I mercy-killed them," said Harry, his voice filled with relief, and abruptly, Draco understood why he'd wanted the Veritaserum. This was the only way that might convince the parents of the dead children, and their sympathizers, that he wasn't lying. "Voldemort"—people flinched like dry grass with a wind traveling through it "—had them in a Life-Web. That spell constrains the victims to obey the holder in whatever way he commands. He can make them die, commit suicide, murder others, become wounded. And he can stop the effects of any spell on them, once he notices it."

Draco hoped he was the only one to see Harry's hand clench into a fist on the arm of the chair. His voice stayed steady, though, as if he'd long prepared for the telling of this story. "The Life-Web was to make me give up my own life. I hung there, suspended between the screams of the dying behind me and the screams of the wounded in front of me, and he told me that if I came to him and surrendered, then he would free them."

Harry gave a dry, bitter chuckle. "Not true, of course. He has lied every time he's faced me. He had no reason to let them go. And so, because I was pressed for time and I couldn't think of any better course, I used a heart attack spell on the children. Voldemort was so sure that I'd ultimately have to sacrifice my life—after some pleasurable moments for him, of course—that he didn't think I'd kill them, and he didn't notice the spell in time to stop it. They died, and then I was free to go and help the others."

Skeeter bowed her head in the wake of that statement, and for a moment, silence spread. Draco could see most of the people around them staring with wide eyes. That has to content them, doesn't it? he thought. They're thinking about how horrible a choice that is and how they couldn't make it, that's plain.

It immediately became obvious that one person there wasn't, though.

"Do you regret it at all?" someone demanded, and then the same person elbowed several people aside rapidly and moved forward. "Or has it just become a pretty story for you to tell, to try to keep yourself out of justified trouble?"

Draco snarled a bit when he saw the big man, and realized who he must be. Philip Willoughby. And he's a Muggle, so he's not feeling Harry's magic at all, and thus he's not impressed. Fuck.

"I regret it every day." Harry's voice was deep and steady, and, of course, absolutely truthful. "I nearly gave myself up during the siege because I couldn't live with the guilt. But doing so would have meant condemning others who relied on me. Ultimately, I chose the living over the dead."

Draco winced. And this is why he should not have taken Veritaserum. Damn it all, Harry.

"My daughter is not gone," said Philip. "She is alive in me, still, and she would have wanted me to fight for her. She might have lived if you had gone down to Voldemort and let her live."

"He would not have kept his promise," Harry said.

"You only believe that," said Willoughby, and though his voice was stern Draco saw tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. He wondered what living in the midst of grief for an only child, reminding oneself of it each and every day, would do to a Muggle. He knew they were more mentally fragile than wizards. "You don't know. That Veritaserum can only extract what you believe to be the truth of the matter, not what actually is."

Harry leaned forward, concentrating solely on Willoughby. "Mr. Willoughby, I am sorry for your loss," he said. "But I cannot bring your daughter back. I don't know what to do to make the loss of Alexandra up to you."

"Stand trial," Willoughby snarled back. "You committed a war crime, the torture and murder of a dozen children."

"I did not torture them—" Harry began.

"Allowed them to be tortured, because you did not act sooner!" Willoughby came another step forward, until he was almost level with Skeeter's chair, and Draco heard low growls begin in Camellia's and Rose's throats. "I believe, Mr. Potter, as you don't, obviously, that the person who sees the problem should solve it, if he has the ability to do so. You had the ability. You lacked only the will."

Draco saw Harry flinch, a movement that seemed to start in his bones. Harry, of course, did believe that, and to hear one of his own principles flung in his face had to hurt.

He didn't hear Harry's reply, though, because, unlike his partner, he did not consider Willoughby to be the center of existence and the only one worth paying attention to. He turned his head as a flicker of movement off to the side caught his eye, and saw someone edging forward through the crowd, his hand on something in his pocket.

A wand? Draco gripped his own wand. Draw it, then. He readied himself to throw up a Shield Charm, though he was cautious enough to wait until he saw the spell. As Moody had taught them, some spells could make shields explode, doing more damage to the defenders than the attackers.

He studied the attacker, meanwhile. He was nothing remarkable, just a fairly thin man in the robes of a Ministry flunky. He didn't appear nervous, but rather resigned. His intent gaze on Harry could have been hero-worship, or attempting to memorize his expression to report it back to an employer. Perhaps he was a spy, and not someone who meant to attack after all.

Then his hand whipped out of his pocket, and it wasn't a spell he threw, but something small and round, coin-like, arcing through the air and straight for Harry, over the shoulder of the oblivious werewolf on the left.

Draco made a quick decision. The coin might make a shield explode, for all he knew, but it was likely to do more damage to Harry's skin. "Protego!" he shouted, the spell almost instinctive after practicing it for so long in the dueling club, and the air around him and Harry turned silver and tightened.

Harry twisted around, shouting his own Shield Charm, which linked with Draco's. Draco watched the coin slam into the barrier and then bounce off, rolling back to land halfway between the attacker and the chairs.

The man's eyes widened, and he swallowed, then stumbled backwards.

Harry tightened and raised the barriers a moment before a wave of concussive force sprang out of the coin, heading straight for them. A time-delayed spell, Draco thought, even as he went to his knees and felt his Protego crack. A second shock wave came at him, and he was faced with the choice between maintaining the shield and having the effort hurt him, or letting it go and trying to protect Harry from the new attack he feared was coming.

He dropped it as the third blow struck, trusting in Harry to protect him, and then raised his head. Sure enough, a second wizard had dashed up behind the first one, and was chanting something Draco couldn't hear in the startled shouts and screams. The coin he held shot up into the air, obviously trying to float over the top of the linked Shield Charms.

Draco aimed his wand at the coin. "Conversio!" he shouted.

The coin turned and snapped in the other direction—briefly. Then it slowed again, and Draco could feel the force of the other wizard's magic, pushing against his, trying to direct the coin at him. He gritted his teeth and fought his way to one knee, his mind racing as he tried to think of what spell he could use to strike back, without requiring Harry to drop the Shield Charms.

Harry's magic was crowding the room like a new-grown field of roses, but Draco knew he would think of defense first. He wasn't even sure if Harry had noticed the second coin, and he didn't dare turn his head to check. This stranger was nearly as strong as he was, and the fight took all his concentration. The coin dipped as the stranger's spells varied, and Draco kept re-casting his Conversio. The coin wavered nearer and nearer to them, though.

Draco growled under his breath. The werewolves were shifting around him, but he didn't know if they could get out of the Shield Charms—and if they could, they would probably trigger a panic as soon as they tried to bite someone. No, he had to handle this himself.

He dropped the Conversio, as though he'd grown too exhausted to maintain it any longer. The wizard shouted in triumph, and the coin flew at Draco, like a stone from a slingshot.

Draco lifted his wand so that it was pointing straight at the coin through the gap, and snapped, "Aboleo!" putting all his conviction into the word. This was a spell that was supposed to stop not only an object but also the magic on it—if the wizard casting it was strong enough.

The coin self-destructed, spinning apart in shards of wood and flame, which made Draco suspect that it had had a time-delayed fire spell on it. Draco saw his opponent's eyes widen, and then narrow. He grabbed the first attacker by the arm and shook his head, and they turned, dodging away down the corridor.

Draco turned and checked that Harry was all right. He was fine, and the last shock wave that came from the coin on the floor was considerably weaker. Harry dropped the Shield Charms and gestured at the coin. Since the spell he used was wandless and non-verbal, Draco didn't know what it was, but the coin shivered, and then lost any sense of magic whatsoever.

Draco grabbed Harry's shoulder. "We can still catch them, if we hurry!" he shouted, gesturing with his head in the direction the wizards had gone.

Then he saw there was no need for them to hurry. Camellia had already jumped over the coin and the heads of several of the people in the crowd, landing smoothly on the floor beyond. She took off down the corridor in a hunching run. Draco grinned. He supposed there were some good things about having a werewolf on one's side.

But Camellia hadn't turned the corner before someone shouted, "Comperio lupum!" and a blinding blue glow formed around her body. She whimpered and slid to a stop, putting a hand up to shield her face. Two witches in what looked vaguely like Auror robes shoved forward through the crowd, heading for her.

"She's a werewolf," said the taller one. Draco saw that she had a badge on her robes that depicted a severed wolf's head. "It's illegal for her to be in the Ministry, and without either a collar or a keeper with her. We're going to—"

"You're not going to harm her."

Draco started as ice slid along the walls next to him. He turned, and Harry was stepping towards the witches, who must be from the Department for the Control and Suppression of Deadly Beasts, his eyes wide and his hand out. His magic had sharpened into a low, concentrated glow around him, more full of darkness and flames than actual light. Draco gave a faint, sharp smile. If he had gone in like this in the first place, then I don't think anyone would have tried to attack him. Maybe next time he'll listen to me. It's better to intimidate your enemies than make them think you're conciliatory.

"Even you can't disobey the law," the shorter witch said, in a soothing tone. "We know who you are, vates, but she was running wild, and obviously going to hurt two innocent wizards—"

"Who just tried to kill me," said Harry.

There was a sudden and awkward silence. Draco looked around the crowd. Most of them were watching cautiously; events had happened too fast for them to catch up. The witches from the Department had paled a bit. Harry had his head up and tilted slightly, and Draco didn't think it was a coincidence that his hair had shifted enough to let everyone see his lightning bolt scar.

"Unless, of course, that make them innocent by definition," Harry continued, his voice deep and poisonously polite. "Unless the vates is exempt from protection, and anyone who tries to kill him is a hero."

"No one means that." The shorter witch put out a hand, then winced and snatched it back. Draco didn't blame her. The air in Harry's immediate vicinity had chilled so much that it hurt to stand near him. "But—well, she might have bitten them."

"And that would have done nothing, this far from the full moon," said Harry. "She was trying to protect me. She is sworn to me." He pivoted back to face Skeeter. "I would have been able to tell you about the Alliance of Sun and Shadow, if we had not been interrupted," he said. "This is an alliance that anyone can join, if they will come to me and promise to swear its oath and obey its principles. We welcome anyone who wishes to join—Muggleborn, Squib, centaur, merfolk, pureblood, Dark wizard, Light wizard, werewolf." He nodded at Camellia, who had crept back towards him, and Rose, who was showing her teeth as if she couldn't stop herself. "And we require our members to think past their fear, rather than stop someone going in pursuit of would-be assassins." He gave the Department witches a heated glance. "You will, of course, help me hunt for those men, since you stopped Camellia from finding them."

The witches dipped their heads, but Draco could see the fear and growing dislike in their eyes. They didn't like being ordered around, even though they didn't dare oppose Harry.

"You may also tell your readers," Harry went on, turning back to Skeeter, "that Loki, the werewolf leader who was sending threatening letters to Wizengamot Elders and attacking them, has now given his pack into my protection. These are two members of it, Camellia and Rose." He gestured to the two werewolves. He seemed oblivious to how many people promptly inched away, but Draco guessed he had, in truth, noticed. "They will not be attacking anyone any more. Loki has gone rogue, and may, but his pack has sworn peace with anyone who swears peace with them. They will defend me, however, as I will defend them."

Skeeter wrote quickly, then stood. Draco could almost see her bouncing up and down, no doubt in a frenzy to get back and report this to the Daily Prophet before some other newspaper could bring the story out. "Thank you, vates, you've been most informative," she babbled, and then dashed out.

Harry snorted and turned back to face the Department witches. "Aren't you going to help me hunt?" he demanded.

They stirred and led the way reluctantly down the hall. Draco shook his head. "I don't think we're going to find them," he muttered to Harry.

"I know," said Harry, with a long-suffering sigh. "They'll be gone by now. But we have one possible clue." He held out his hand, and Draco saw the first wooden coin there. It was stamped with the image of a winged horse, body arched as though in flight. "If we can figure out what this means, we'll have a good start on figuring out who they are."

Draco nodded, reassured. The flying horse could mean a number of things, but not anything.

"What bothers me more," Harry continued, "is how they knew."

Draco had to think about that, but then he felt something ugly twist in his chest. "Skeeter set this up so quickly," he said. "So how did they, whoever they are, manage to coordinate an assassination attempt, or a warning—" he wasn't sure the assassins had seriously thought they could take a wizard of Harry's power "—so quickly?"

"Exactly," said Harry. "Someone told them. But who?"

Draco paused. He didn't want to say what he was thinking, but he had to. "The werewolves knew," he observed at last.

"I know." It was obvious what an effort it cost Harry to say those words, Veritaserum or not. He sighed. "Believe me, Draco, I'm aware of that. And some of the things you said made me think that you were right and I was wrong about how to handle this interview. It didn't go the way I hoped. I'll have to listen to you more closely next time."

A warm glow grew in Draco's chest to replace the ugly thing. He touched Harry's hand. "I'm glad that you're still here to listen to me next time," he whispered.

Harry smiled at him, and then of course the Muggle had to cut in and ruin everything.

"Mr. Potter. I have not finished talking to you." Willoughby was folding his arms across his chest and scowling at Harry.

Harry gave him the same kind of disinterested glance he'd given Snape. "Mr. Willoughby, you can always write me if you'd like to continue this conversation. Right now, I've just had my life threatened, and the freedom of one of my people equally threatened. I hope you understand why I'm not in the mood for debate. I mercy-killed your daughter. That's the end of it."

He turned away, and Draco bit his lip to keep from cheering at the expression on the Muggle's face before he hurried after Harry.

I think he must have learned after all. It takes a while to get him to think about himself, but not as long as it once would have. This is wonderful. For one thing, I can push and get better results than if he were utterly resistant to it, or just ignoring me.