Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter!
A note on the title: "At daggers drawn" is a metaphor for "at the point of open conflict."
Chapter Twenty-Three: At Daggers Drawn
The news made Harry want to collapse. But he knew he couldn't. For one thing, if he did, he probably wouldn't be able to get back up again. And even if he managed it, then other people would try to make him lie still and—and rest, or something. He couldn't do that.
He turned the shock into another whip, driving him on. He fastened his eyes on McGonagall's face and said, "And we don't know anything about who betrayed her?"
McGonagall shook her head. "Only that the Aurors came and arrested her early this morning. She was taken to Tullianum under suspicion of being a werewolf. Ownership of the Parkinson estates was stripped from her." Then she pursed her lips, making her look more like the stern Professor he was accustomed to, and held out the paper. "This is what it said."
Harry took the paper and studied it. But McGonagall had already told him all the essentials; the rest was just the usual fluff that the Prophet tucked around the Ministry's declarations to make them seem less blatant than they really were. "Safety of the public" mingled with "best way to handle them" and "done for the rights of werewolves as well as others" in his eyes. Harry blinked, and realized the words were dangerously near to blurring and swimming.
No.
He nodded and handed the Prophet back to McGonagall. "I'll go and speak to Scrimgeour about this," he said.
A new shadow moved across McGonagall's face. "Are you sure that is wise, Harry?" she asked. "The arrest is new, and the Minister may be unable to do anything about this until the emotions in the Ministry calm somewhat. In a day, perhaps two—"
"No." Harry shook his head. "From this point forward, it's only going to get worse." He felt weariness push at him like a tide, but he ignored it. He had hoped to avoid this. He had hoped matters wouldn't come to this head. But they had, and unless he managed to persuade Scrimgeour to move against the edict right away—which he didn't expect to happen—then he was headed for a course of open rebellion against the Ministry. He had tried, and others had tried, but it wasn't enough. "They've passed a law making werewolves unsafe everywhere, Madam. It's not going to die in a day or two. It'll build from this point forward, and if no one does anything to oppose them, because they want to wait and see what happens, or because they're afraid, then the Ministry will pass more laws against werewolves. And who knows who it'll be next? Dark wizards, maybe. There were a few laws like that on the books already."
"They will not pass laws like that, Harry," McGonagall whispered, as if she wanted to reassure him. "Dark wizards are still too much a part of the population, and too in control even now. There are small numbers of werewolves compared to Dark wizards."
"But werewolves can make more of themselves, fast," said Harry flatly. "And there are still two nights of the full moon left, during which werewolves can transform and wreak all sorts of havoc." He stared directly into her eyes. "Madam, do you think rationality is involved here? I don't."
McGonagall looked away from him. Harry could feel her own fear and determination as if she were speaking into his thoughts. She was concerned for her school, worried about what would happen to her students if she tried to shelter werewolves or take a side in this conflict.
Harry gripped and squeezed her arm. "I'm not asking you to take my side," he said. "You have responsibilities that I don't. What I'm doing is easier, actually, because I don't have hundreds of young wizards, and their parents, depending on me. You can step back, Madam, and tell anyone who asks that I'm not doing this with your good grace or your permission."
"You are still one of my students, Harry," McGonagall said, pulling herself upright like an offended cat, and Harry realized he'd mistaken the source of her concern.
It warmed a few of the icy whips he had to worry about now. Harry smiled at her. "Thank you, Madam, but from this point forward, I don't want you to worry about that. I don't think I'll be coming back to Hogwarts for a good while, if ever."
"Harry—"
He gently shook his head at her and held out his hand. "Pack Harry's things," he said clearly. "Accio."
Then he had to wait while the charms packed his trunk and flew it to him. Harry shrank the trunk when it got there and tucked it into his robe pocket. The only thing he had left was the Firebolt, which waited for him in the Quidditch shed.
"I hope the Slytherin team can find another Seeker in time," he told McGonagall. "No offense to your House, but I still want mine to win the Cup."
McGonagall went on staring at him.
"And take good care of Snape," Harry added, starting to turn on his heel.
"Wait. Harry—wait." McGonagall spoke as if the words had been torn out of her. "You aren't asking anyone to go with you?"
Harry glanced back at her over his shoulder. "There are a few people I'll ask to join me, if what I fully expect happens and the Minister can't help me," he said calmly. "But it has to be a choice, and I want them to have time to think about it, not be swept away in immediate outrage over Hawthorn's arrest and the announcement of the hunt. It's not going to be easy, and I don't think some of my allies, like Snape, can manage it at all. For me, there's not a choice." He lifted his left arm, shaking back the sleeve to show her the scar of the formal family oath he'd made with the Parkinsons. The scar was burning and tingling. "It's not just the promise I made to help the werewolves that drives this forward. It's the promise I made to the Parkinsons. Hawthorn is the last member of her family left alive." Other than Falco Parkinson, Harry supposed, but he didn't think that counted, or the old wizard wouldn't have been able to act against him. Besides, the oath hadn't affected Henrietta when he first knew her, even though she was part of the Bulstrode family. "I'm going."
"Surely, Mr. Malfoy, your brother—" said McGonagall, still sounding as if someone had slammed her over the head with a Beater's bat.
"I'll speak with them later," said Harry quietly. "As I said, I don't want them pulled along by runaway emotions." And I want them to have time to think about this and what it really means. Being my brother and my lover, even being my allies, is one thing. Joining me in a rebellion is quite another.
He nodded one more time to McGonagall, and then turned and began walking back towards the Hogsmeade road, with only a short stopover at the Quidditch shed. Meanwhile, his mind calmly listed the places he could go for sanctuary, and the best choices among them.
His allies' houses were out, of course, until he found out how much they wanted to be involved in this; Hawthorn was the only one he could be sure of on that count, and the Garden would be swarming with Aurors, and probably Unspeakables. The Black houses held the pack, and Harry suspected Shield of the Granian, if they had received information from Falco and were working with the Unspeakables, might already have passed that tidbit along. They would wait a short time before moving, since invading the estates of a prominent pureblood family wouldn't look good even now, but surely no more than a few days.
So he needed a place that would shelter both him and the pack, and he needed it ready in no more than a few days' time.
Harry felt a smile pull at his mouth. There was only one choice, really.
The emotions he felt had changed, he thought. Now they felt less like whips driving him forward, and more like a wind tugging him on, pointing the way towards his ultimate goal.
He reached the outer limit of the wards, and Apparated, the hills of Woodhouse clear in his mind.
Harry arrived at the Ministry's front entrance without fanfare, but also without attempting to hide. He was waiting to see what would happen when he approached. Did he still have any allies in the Ministry? He didn't know, at this point.
His magic lapped around him, thick washing waves of it that made the checkpoint wizard stare at him. Harry raised an eyebrow, pointing out the utter folly of asking for a wand. The checkpoint wizard nodded quickly and let him through.
Harry walked to the lifts that would take him to Scrimgeour's office, all the while reaching out with his magical senses, delving deeper into the stones of the Ministry than he had ever done before. When he sensed the faint traces of buried spells, he murmured the incantation that Millicent had taught him once upon a long time ago. "Aspectus Lyncis."
The world around him turned almost white with radiance. Harry nodded slowly. When he squinted through the radiance, he could make out the buried traces of the Unspeakables' wards. They were not really undetectable, but they were made of spells not usually used for defensive purposes, and so twisted on one another that Harry thought they would hurt the eyes of most wizards looking, and buried so deep that most people wouldn't find them.
Harry gave a tight little smile. The wards ran everywhere, and vibrated with sound, bringing it to some central place below the rest of the Ministry. He supposed the Unspeakables sat there in the middle of their web and listened, and there really was nothing they didn't hear.
Let them listen all they want, he thought, as he rode in a lift to the top of the Ministry, and then stepped out and into the corridor that led to Scrimgeour's office. Let their ears ring. I'm not hiding.
He recognized neither Auror on the door to Scrimgeour's office, and wondered if that meant Wilmot had already been captured. McGonagall hadn't mentioned the Department's plan to send out the werewolf-tracking spell and surround every lycanthrope in Britain with a blue fog. Perhaps they were waiting to do it until the full moon had passed, or perhaps the declaration of the hunting season had replaced Kieran's old information.
Harry knew he would have to be prepared to react when the information came along. He also knew that he could probably know just by going to Amelia Bones's office and using Legilimency on her.
But he didn't want to. He was going to war like a vates, not otherwise.
The two Aurors on the door got more and more nervous as they watched him come closer. Harry stopped in front of them and surveyed them. Both men, both ordinary in appearance, one with slightly nicer robes, perhaps a pureblood. He wouldn't want to kill them.
"I need to see the Minister," he said, and let a snake of golden light curl around his shoulders. It didn't strike, it just watched them, but one of the men began sweating, and Harry suspected he'd stumbled into a phobia. "Now."
"He's with other people at the moment," said the Auror with slightly finer robes. The other one watched the snake and made a faint gargling noise that might indicate his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth.
"What kind of other people?" Harry asked.
He found out in a moment, though, because either the Minister hadn't set up the wards that blocked sound or the shouting had grown too loud for them. And, what was more, he knew the voice doing the shouting.
"—not close! I don't care! I know you have your reasons, Minister, but I have mine, and I can't do this any more! It just—it isn't what being an Auror is about! This is the last straw! And for you to sit here and say that you won't do anything about the hunting season, that you can't do anything—" The shouter stopped and audibly drew in her breath, but then continued in a voice that sounded no softer than before. "Then you will be pleased to accept my resignation."
The Aurors moved out of the way like a pair of well-trained dancers as someone flung the door open. Out stepped Nymphadora Tonks, her hair flaming red with orange streaks, her eyes wide and blue and bright as lightning with emotion.
She caught sight of Harry, and stopped. She blinked a bit, then said, "Oh. Erm. I just joined your rebellion."
Harry smiled in spite of himself and held out his hand. "I know. I heard," he said.
"Well, they were going to sack me anyway for shouting at the Minister, weren't they?" Tonks muttered, and stepped forward to clasp his wrist. She stumbled on the way, but steadied herself against the doorframe, never taking her eyes off Harry. "So, when do we leave?"
"Right after I talk to Scrimgeour," Harry said.
Tonks scowled, transformed in a moment from bumbling girl to someone far more dangerous. "He's insufferable, Harry. It's not going to do any good."
"I've got to try," said Harry, and then remembered the wards that ran everywhere, and the fact that a few minutes of waiting in the hallway for him could put Tonks in danger. He laid his hand on her arm and concentrated, closing his eyes. The Imperturbable Charm leaked into her skin and surrounded her with a glowing cage of purple light.
Harry opened his eyes to see her poking at it, and explained, "So that no enemies can touch you while I'm gone."
Tonks swallowed, and then her face hardened, and Harry suspected he was seeing the battle-trained Auror. "Right," she said, and stepped aside. Harry went into the office, and shut the door behind him with a gentle gust of wind.
Scrimgeour sat at his desk. Percy sat at his, behind the ward that probably protected him from the notice of most people, his hand clutching his wand and a hostile expression on his face. Harry eyed him sideways and shook his head. He would be sorry to alienate Percy, but there was no help for it, not if Scrimgeour was going to present a public face supporting the hunting season and Percy was going to stand by him.
"Minister," Harry said, crossing his arms and inclining his head. "You know why I'm here."
Scrimgeour flicked one eye towards the walls. Harry snorted. So he knows about the wards, and he's afraid to say anything in front of the Unspeakables? Well, I'm not. And the best way is to destroy their advantage of secrecy. He glanced at the walls, found the Unspeakables' listening wards shining in the stones, and opened up the absorbere gift. The magic ran down his gullet, and the wards vanished.
"Your Unspeakables have betrayed you," he told Scrimgeour bluntly. "They want werewolves captured and brought to Tullianum to use for experiments. They have the forty werewolves from the Department for the Control and Suppression of Deadly Beasts there already. And anybody captured in this hunting season will benefit them more. Meanwhile, they can use the cover of fear the hunting season provides to work against me, and anyone else who opposes them. The public's attention will be on werewolves, not wizards in gray cloaks. And why shouldn't it be? You know as well as I do what kind of opposition this hunting season is going to raise among the packs. All the peace that we tried to keep in London, gone. The alphas will have to strike, to insure that their packs are safe, to protect them if someone comes hunting, to find new hiding places. The Unspeakables just lit our world on fucking fire. And it will get worse if you don't help me, if you wait for some imaginary day when opposing them will not cost you."
Scrimgeour's face had gone the color of ashes. Percy was on his feet, glancing back and forth between the Minister and Harry, nearly vibrating.
"You took down their wards," Scrimgeour whispered.
Harry nodded, his attention on the walls. The Unspeakables would be weaving wards again soon, but Scrimgeour's office was nearly as far from the Department of Mysteries as one could get and still be in the Ministry. It would take at least a few moments before the wards arrived, and when they got near again, he would destroy them once more. "Yes, I did. That's the reason that you were afraid to speak with me openly, wasn't it? Fear of them?"
"Minister," said Percy, stepping out from behind his desk.
Scrimgeour had recovered something like sense and courage, though. He folded his hands in front of him. "It was." He stared at Harry with a calculating eye. "And what do you intend to do? Burn out the Department of Mysteries?"
Harry half-closed his eyes and reached, out and downwards. He could feel magic pulsing through the Ministry in a thousand directions; he knew and dismissed most of the spells that powered it. Wards slid over his consciousness and faded into the background. The magic protecting Tullianum became meaningless noise. As he dived further and further towards the Department of Mysteries, though, the magic thickened, and the number of unfamiliar spells increased.
And in the center and the heart of it all waited something that slammed like a stone wall against Harry's awareness. He felt it as a hunter's cold, bright, sharp mind. It turned to face him, and he knew it saw him.
He had known something like it once before: the Maze in Lux Aeterna. A mind vastly stronger than any wizard, an alien uncompromised magic. But this was wilder, and stranger, and Harry knew in an instant that he could not fight this thing, not yet. It had had centuries to lie in its place and grow strong. Invading the Department of Mysteries and trying to tangle with it was a suicide mission.
For now.
He opened his eyes, trying to shake the sensation of watching eyes in the back of his own mind, and said, "Not yet. What's in the center of the Department of Mysteries, Minister? Can you tell me that? Something from another world?" He thought he knew, from his last conversation with Scrimgeour, but he wanted to be sure.
"The Stone," said Scrimgeour. "It's what chooses them, and what they swear their oaths to."
Harry nodded. He couldn't guess the true nature of the Stone from that brief glimpse, but he knew it was probably the reason the Unspeakables were acting against him. An oath sworn to something like that would be obeyed, and if it decided to send its servants after Harry, they would go.
"So you have a choice now, Minister," he said. "To oppose the hunting season, or not. You told Tonks you wouldn't. Why?"
Scrimgeour's face contorted into a helpless snarl. Harry, as he ate an Unspeakable ward trying to reach up to him, was impressed.
"Because I am this close," Scrimgeour said, holding up two fingers, "to becoming a figurehead in my own Ministry. I move a step out of line, and Amelia Bones can strip me of power. Granted, I don't think she'd last long. None of the other Department Heads would do what she told 'em. But they don't want me commanding 'em, either, at least not without bargains that will take months to work out. And while she was in charge, the Ministry would burn. If you think the wizarding world is on fire now, Harry, it's nothing compared to what would happen if she took it over."
"They've made you into a figurehead already, if you're too frightened to move on provocation like this," Harry said softly. "Don't you see that, Minister? You have nothing to lose now. You can't play your games in the shadows and hope that none of them will notice you any longer. If you stand up and declare martial law, you stand a chance—"
"Of getting nothing done," said Scrimgeour harshly. "The Wizengamot chose to pass that hunting season, Harry, in a secret meeting last night to which I was not invited. They also left out a few other key people who might have objected, Griselda Marchbanks, for example. But there's nothing I can gain by opposing them at the moment. They'll cast a vote of no confidence, and put Amelia in as temporary Minister. I've already told you what a disaster that will be."
Harry eyed him for a moment. "But if all that's true, sir, then what do you think you can accomplish by staying in office?"
Scrimgeour's face altered, showing an unholy joy Harry had never seen from him before. "Because this hunting season is the beginning of the end," he said. "They're overstepping their bounds, now. A few potential friends I had will fall into my hands like ripe fruit. They didn't think the Wizengamot would go this far. They see now that they will. I can pressure the Department Heads once that happens. A few more pushes, and then a few more, and they'll fall down." He met and held Harry's gaze. "We can keep this conflagration from spreading. We can remove Amelia and other Wizengamot members rotted by fear and replace 'em with new ones. They can still turn me into a figurehead if I object immediately. But a short wait, and I'll have 'em." He narrowed his eyes at Harry. "And of course I said I was supporting the hunting season in front of Tonks. Not stupid, am I?"
Harry let out his breath and ate another ward. He wondered if the Unspeakables were on their way up from the Department of Mysteries, yet. "And what about the Unspeakables, sir?" he asked. "Do you really think they'll let you do this? They can still use their artifacts to change your mind, as long as you remain in the Ministry. And they can corrupt new members of the Wizengamot with fear, the same as they corrupted the others. This hunting season is what they wanted, for whatever obscure reason. They won't let you destroy it."
"The second edict we make is going to be against gathering so many magical artifacts in one place," said Scrimgeour. "The first will be against the hunting season."
"I'm sorry, sir," said Harry softly. "I don't believe this can work. You want to remain within the bounds of law, or at least propriety—" he suspected some of the allies Scrimgeour was talking about were those who would have the power to bribe new friends into joining their side "—and the Unspeakables are already defeating you there."
Scrimgeour narrowed his eyes. "And you want what? Toppling? Revolution?"
"I don't want it in the sense of panting after it," Harry said. "But I think it's necessary, yes."
Scrimgeour shook his head slowly. "And I am not doing this for power," he said. "If I thought there was a chance that Amelia wouldn't damage the Ministry too badly, or that someone other than her would take my place if I abandoned my post now, I would join you. But there isn't."
Harry felt a rush of compassion overtake him. Scrimgeour still thought things wouldn't change too much, that he could reform instead of revolt. And perhaps he was right, at least on his own scale. Perhaps he would be able to pursue the path he preferred and still got things done.
But that ability would come from Harry distracting the Unspeakables and shaking things up.
Harry didn't mind. At least Scrimgeour hadn't dived so far into fear that he was supporting the hunting season blindly. And, he told himself, he had known this would fail. He let the possibility of cooperation with the Minister fall to ashes in his mind, and bowed his head.
"I'm not doing this for power, either," he said. "I'm doing this because I think it's the right thing to do. Good day, Minister." He turned to face the door, eating another ward on the way. Let Scrimgeour have a few more minutes of peace and privacy in which to compose himself.
"You're not going into Tullianum, are you?" Scrimgeour's voice was unmistakably apprehensive.
Harry turned back. "No." Not yet. When that happened, he would have a plan that would let him succeed the first time. Perhaps he could win right now if he went to Tullianum and tried to free forty-one, or more, werewolves, but some of them would certainly die on the way, and innocent Ministry people caught in the way might be hurt. And there was the very simple truth that Woodhouse wasn't prepared to receive them yet. Harry would do what would give his people the best chance of living, not merely of escape.
He needed information, first. He needed to plan. And for that, he would need Tonks and Moody, and anyone else who might be able to tell him more about the Ministry.
He had already tried to communicate with Hawthorn, and received no answer. That didn't surprise him. The wards in Tullianum blocked post owls from reaching the prisoners. Surely they wouldn't allow anyone to simply speak with one, either.
"I wish you would not do this," said Scrimgeour, but his face was relaxing. Given that Harry had said he wasn't going into Tullianum right now, Harry thought, he must reckon there would be no jailbreak at all. He probably still has trouble imagining me in a full-blown rebellion against the Ministry.
"I wish I didn't have to," said Harry, and then turned and left. He knew Scrimgeour could feel it when the wards came back up. Let the man do what he could to reform the Ministry. That wasn't Harry's task.
He found Tonks waiting, unbothered, in the hallway. She smiled when she saw him, and Harry nodded and took her arm.
"I'll take you to a place you'll be safe," he said. "And then I have to go see a man about some words."
Lucius had expected it: the wards twanging as a sign that Harry had Apparated to the Manor. The only suspense was the specific aid that Harry would ask of him. In any case, his price would be the same. Lucius leaned back a bit further and read more of his Daily Prophet, humming. Terrible news about the hunting season, simply terrible.
He heard footsteps, and looked up to find Harry standing in the entrance to his library. Harry inclined his head. "Lucius."
"Harry." Lucius watched him. Harry's eyes shone with more raw power than he had let loose in a long time. The air around him rippled, as if he stood in the center of a heat haze. Lucius found it difficult to see the walls and furnishings through the sheer magic. "Did you want something?"
"Yes, I did," said Harry, coming forward a few steps. He didn't sit. He didn't need to. Voldemort would have, Lucius thought, during the First War, but the Dark Lord had possessed the power of making every chair a throne. Harry didn't, not least because he projected the conviction that he didn't think of himself as anything very special. Lucius knew, now, that Harry wouldn't torture him. It removed a certain edge. "You'll have heard the news, of course."
Lucius nodded.
"I'd like to ask you to work for me within the Ministry." Harry's eyes were fastened on him. "Discourage people from participating in the hunting season, and go against the Unspeakables, and trade favors for as much information as you can. I need a finger on the Ministry's pulse, since there's no way I can be there myself for a while."
Lucius smiled at him. "I would be delighted to do that for you, Harry."
"Good," said Harry in relief, and turned towards the doorway.
"If," said Lucius.
He saw Harry's back tense. The heat haze of power rose into pain. Lucius grimaced and rubbed his forehead. The more time he spent around Harry, the more he could go without those twinges, but it never lasted long.
"You are my ally," said Harry, without turning.
"I know that," said Lucius, and it came out sharper than he intended, because of the pain. He rushed to correct his mistake. "I am, of course, Harry. I will obey the Alliance oaths. But using the Malfoy contacts to benefit you is a different thing altogether. Especially over something in which I have as little—interest as I do in the werewolf problem."
Harry spun on one heel. "It can't benefit your family, you mean."
Lucius smiled slightly. "Someone must think of these things, Harry. Narcissa is unlikely to. Draco is too young."
"Name your price," said Harry.
"You withdraw your support from the Grand Unified Theory," said Lucius. "I am not asking you to exile Muggleborns—" a struggle, but he managed to use the right word "—from the Alliance of Sun and Shadow, or stop fighting for their rights. But claiming that there is no difference between us and them, and trying to grant them rights based on that alone, is doomed to failure. Quietly, make it known that you don't believe in the theory. Whisper the right words into the right ears. Remind them that you have a pureblood partner, that you were born of a pureblood line though you renounced your last name, that you are now the legal heir of a very old family. I suspect taking the surname of Black might be necessary, in the end. A simple gesture, but it will accomplish much."
"There is a problem, Mr. Malfoy," said Harry, clenching his jaw while his magic rippled around him. Lucius remained unafraid. Harry was not about to cast Crucio. He knew the signs of that. "I do believe in the theory."
Lucius chuckled softly. "And do you also believe that a new theory is enough to erase a thousand years of culture and ritual?"
"Of course not," said Harry. "The dances, the rituals, the naming traditions, the political loopholes—all of those are valuable and should be protected. Respected. But what it means is that no pureblood family can cling to a supposed genetic difference any more. If someone who wasn't born into the culture learns it, they should be accepted as fully a wizard or witch, just as much as someone like Draco."
Lucius had to restrain a flash of anger. Not only was Harry being unreasonably stubborn, he was daring to compare a trained monkey of a Mudblood to Lucius's own family. A comparison to a family like the Rosiers would have been acceptable.
Keeping his voice calm, Lucius murmured, "And that is what we do not want to see happen. There is a difference. Make it clear that you are aligning yourself with us, that you accept this culture as your own, and that you are reaching out to Muggleborns only for political reasons, and you will have more than you can imagine—not only my help in the Ministry, but the help of pureblood families in other wizarding communities who have hesitated, unsure of your direction."
Harry breathed in and out, eyes fastened on his. Lucius waited. He was sure he would win. He was not asking a sacrifice of Harry that would hurt anyone else, and the boy didn't really care about the power of his name and reputation. He would choose the surname of Black for a good cause, unaware of all the repercussions.
"No," said Harry.
Lucius paused. He could not have heard what he thought he heard. "Excuse me?"
"No," said Harry. "I will not. I support the Grand Unified Theory, Lucius, and the conclusions it reaches, and the changes it will make in our world. If I cannot have your help, then I do not have it. Good day." He nodded once, then turned and began walking in the other direction.
"So changing your name is too great a sacrifice to make?" Lucius mused aloud, not letting his posture alter. His father's lessons had not been learned in vain.
Even if he was a halfblood. But Lucius had had a lot of practice strangling that particular thought, and he did it now without pause.
Harry halted, looking over his shoulder. "I don't think you know what I'm proposing, Lucius," he said. "Open rebellion against the Ministry. Open defiance of the hunting season. Open protection of werewolves, and those who wish to join me. The Alliance of Sun and Shadow remains what it was—an organization to encourage thinking. But this is the beginning of a revolution."
Lucius felt as if he were tipping, falling down the slope of an abyss. It was not a pleasant sensation. The last time he had felt anything like it was when Draco came to him to be confirmed magical heir.
Harry must have seen the twitch of an expression on his face, because he smiled, and the smile was feral. "Yes. This is the beginning of the end. They've finally pushed me too far. I won't be going back to Hogwarts for a while. I'll be in a sanctuary with those who can fully commit to joining me." He breathed in and out, his eyes never leaving Lucius's. "I knew you wouldn't be one of them, so I didn't see the point of asking you for anything but what I did. That you refused me makes the task a little harder, but not impossible. I'll still do this."
Lucius imagined everything he had worked for upended, and he could not restrain a snarl. This was not supposed to happen. Harry was supposed to panic just enough to become amenable to guidance, and remain within the limits, as he always had.
His voice was snowfall, however. "And you are not worried about overstepping the bounds of your vates task?"
Harry laughed. The sound was like wind in the treetops. "Hardly. This hunting season, if allowed to go unchallenged, is the beginning of a whole new oppression of free will, the kind that we haven't seen in four hundred years. I am allowed to push back when someone tramples on free will. That is when they give up their ability to do as they like."
Lucius watched him. Harry gave him one more fierce smile, and then Apparated out. The gift that Lucius had given him at the end of their truce-dance linked Harry to the wards of the Manor, and he could pass in and out of them at will, like a member of the family.
At the moment, Lucius had never regretted any gift more.
He only sat still for a few moments, however, breathing. Then he spoke to his left wrist, reciting the communication spell that Charles Rosier-Henlin had invented.
Draco's voice answered him a moment later. "Harry? Harry. Thank Merlin. I wanted—"
"Draco, this is your father."
His son shut up.
Lucius continued, half-wishing this was a firecall. He wanted to see Draco's face. On the other hand, by the time he could arrange for his son to reach a hearth, either through the Headmistress's office or through Severus, Harry might have spoken to Draco, and then the decision made would be irrevocable, Lucius knew.
"Harry is becoming a rebel against the Ministry, against pureblood tradition, against everything that is right and true," he told his son. "He supports the Grand Unified Theory to an extent that will destroy our culture and make us no different from Mudbloods. He will not agree to the completely reasonable compromise I tried to offer him. Listen to me, Draco. I forbid you to join him in this mad rebellion."
"Father," Draco said faintly, "if you're trying to say that I shouldn't court him, then—"
"Not at all," said Lucius. He didn't want to lose the hold his family had on Harry, and whether Draco agreed to break the joining ritual or not, that was what would occur if he pressed this issue. If he pursued Harry against his father's express permission, then he would be breaking his ties as a Malfoy. Lucius would not let that happen. Draco was his heir, as well as his son, and he would stay that way. "I wish for you to join with Harry when he comes to his senses. But until he comes to his senses, I wish you to stay away from him. Do not join him in his flight. Do not join him in raising wands against the Ministry. Do not protest publicly against the hunting season, or the arrest of Mrs. Parkinson."
"Father," Draco whispered.
"This is my command, Draco, in the name of Lucius and Abraxas," said Lucius, invoking the old, formal terms. "On pain of disownment."
Draco's breath rushed noisily in and out of his lungs. Lucius waited. He knew he would win. If he had allowed Harry to reach Draco, or Draco to argue and build up a head of steam and exercise his impulsive temper, then it would be far more in doubt. But by giving the threat first, he had controlled the interaction.
"I—I understand," Draco said at last.
"Very good," said Lucius, and ended the communication spell, because there was no more to say. He reached out to take up the book he had been studying on mind control spells again, his heartbeat already restored to normal. Things with Harry had not gone exactly as he had hoped, but if he had won no advantage for his family, at least he had contained the damage.
Such a shame about Hawthorn, he thought. Such a shame, indeed.
Narcissa stood outside the door of the study until she could be sure that Lucius had finished the communication spell, until the turn of a page signaled that he had resumed his book. Then she turned and began to climb the stairs to her room.
Her back was straight all the while, her neck so stiff it almost hurt. But when she reached her room, she could close the door and lean against it, letting it take some of the weight from her shoulders, and shut her eyes.
She wondered if Lucius had thought she would not find out about his threat to Draco, or whether he had planned to come and tell her later, with just enough honey in the words to sweeten it.
She wondered why he did not see that he had overreached himself, that Draco had said only that he understood, not that he would obey, and that forcing his son to choose between his family and his lover was a test not even Lucius had gone through.
She wondered if Lucius really thought she would simply stand silent throughout this, playing the part of good little wife, as Muggles were said to do.
Narcissa opened her eyes and moved across the room. It was the one place in the house that Lucius never intruded without her express permission, but since he had been in here so often, he assumed he knew the contents. He did not know, or he had forgotten, about the trunk at the back of the closet.
Narcissa gazed at the trunk. It bore her maiden initials, not the married ones, and it bore memories. Her mother had given it to her when she left for Hogwarts, nervous, but not too nervous, for surely she would go into Slytherin, the House where she had two older sisters already. It was made of polished ebony, the initials worked near the lock in silver, and no one but Narcissa could open it.
She opened it now. Unpacked, save for a single folded robe of gold and green. Narcissa had left many of her belongings there when she still considered that perhaps one of the fierce fights she and Lucius had had in the first days of their marriage would send her fleeing home. She had assumed she would not have time to pack completely, but she had wanted something to wear.
As she had learned to trust Lucius, she had removed more and more of the old clothes from the trunk.
Save this one.
Narcissa shut the lid and turned away. She was waiting. She had to wait. She had already made her own decision, but what action came out of that decision would be determined by someone else.
She wondered, while she drew her wand and began to practice dueling spells, why Lucius had never noticed that all their fiercest battles had been about Draco, and that she had won all of them—giving him his name, sending him to Hogwarts instead of Durmstrang, delaying his training in the pureblood rituals until he was of an age not to be broken. She wondered why Lucius had never thought that, if it came to a dispute between her husband and her son, she would side with her son.
She loved Lucius, of that there was no doubt. But she loved Draco more.
Draco felt as though the world had changed into a carousel while he wasn't looking. He lay in the center of his bed, the bed that he had shared with Harry just yesterday. He had given up asking Harry to let him go with him to Wayhouse and guard Morologus. Harry had refused and explained the reasons, and they were good enough reasons. Or they had seemed good enough reasons yesterday, when Draco was sulking from the latest fight they'd had over Harry's brother and his girlfriend. He'd fallen asleep assuming he would see Harry in the morning, and wondering if Harry knew how infuriating it was for him to hold back on his anger, always, and be the calm and sane voice of reason. Draco wanted to see his eyes flash, if only for the possibility that anger might turn into arousal.
And now.
And now.
Draco wondered if the fates had thought him too blind. Obsessed with the argument with Potter, with flirting with Michael just enough to lure him along without breaking his heart, with the utter bitchiness of Potter's girlfriend, and with pushing Harry until he lost his temper and admitted he was human. Had it too been too small a scale of suffering? Had it tempted them too much?
So they had taken it all away—not by killing Harry or wounding Draco, but by giving him a choice between lover and family.
It was not a decision Harry would want him to make, Draco knew. He would say unhesitatingly that Draco should choose his family, because Harry's own rebellion could survive without Draco, but Lucius Malfoy's anger would refuse to blow over, perhaps for the rest of their lives. Harry would hate it, Harry would want Draco at his side, but he would still let him make the choice. Not only would his vates principles demand it, but Harry would consider his personal reasons for wanting Draco at his side not as important as Draco's for wanting to remain where he was.
His father did not even think there was a decision to be made, or he would have pressed Draco for his word.
That meant it was truly Draco's choice.
He had never been so sure that so much depended on his will, and never so unsure that he could make the right decision. He wasn't a Malfoy just then. He wasn't Harry's friend or lover, the role that had most defined the last five years of his life. He was himself. He felt as if he stood on a mountain in the sunlight, but the sunlight was unforgiving, and rather than the view, Draco was more aware that he could be seen for miles and miles.
Whatever he picked, he was going to be different from now on. This choice was going to prune more of his childhood away from him. It was already doing so.
Draco put his hands over his face and lay there, breathing.
