Chapter Ninety-Two: Lie In My Arms This Night
"Parvati, we have to get—ah—"
Parvati shut him up by leaning in and snogging him thoroughly. Connor gave in and wrapped his arms around her, more than happy to be a few minutes late to Charms if it meant that he got to kiss her a bit more, and hear the very interesting sound she made when he shifted a bit closer to her, like this—
Of course, Parvati, the tease, backed up and left him that way, with a small smile flirting at the corners of her mouth. Connor growled and reached for her again, but Parvati said innocently, "We'll be late to Charms if we don't hurry, Connor," and dashed down the corridor as if she were as intent on making good marks as Hermione was.
Connor took a moment to rearrange himself, including straightening his tie and murmuring a few useful charms to cover up the marks Parvati had planted all over his neck. It wasn't every day that his girlfriend grabbed him where he was waiting outside Potions for Hermione, hurried him into an alcove down the corridor, and settled in for some serious snogging. Apparently, Parvati had seen something in Divination that made Professor Trelawney praise her and give thirty points to Gryffindor. Connor never had got to ask what it was, because it was a little difficult to ask complicated questions when his tongue was in Parvati's mouth.
To be fair, it would have been a little difficult to ask complicated questions when his tongue was in anyone else's mouth, either. But since his experience with other people's mouths was limited and Parvati wouldn't take it kindly if he were to experiment, Connor decided that he wouldn't mention that thought to her.
Honestly, said the prim Hermione-voice of his conscience. Snogging in the dungeons like a pair of teenagers.
We are a pair of teenagers, Connor answered the voice with satisfaction. It tended to shut up in the face of common sense, which even Hermione could recognize, and it did so now.
Connor checked himself over one more time, knowing by now that he would be late to Charms, but not caring. He'd received a kiss from Parvati and managed to do it in the dungeons without Snape or the Slytherins catching them and shut the annoying voice of his conscience up. Life was good.
At least, life was good until he passed the door to Snape's office, which, unusually, stood half-open. Connor had to pause and investigate that, didn't he? Anyone could have got in if the door was half-open, or anything. Hagrid had been talking about trying to raise manticores again lately. One could have wandered into Snape's office and stung him, and then Connor could rush in and heroically save him.
Then he listened to the voices that were coming through the door, and his grin disappeared.
"Explain to me why you were smiling during Potions today," Snape said, as if it were something he had a right to demand.
Harry's voice was soft and wary. Confused. Connor had heard him like that before, when Harry tried to placate him in the midst of a temper tantrum. It was a tone he had really hoped he would never have to listen to again. "But, sir—"
Snape actually growled. Connor drew his wand. I don't care what he is to Harry, guardian or foster father or whatever part he's playing in this twisted little game. I don't trust him. I don't even trust him the way I trust Draco. If he hurts my brother, he's going to get hurt.
"Severus," Harry corrected, with that little sigh in his tone that meant this was something that happened often. "I thought you would be happy. I was using a rare Occlumency technique to keep myself from feeling most of my emotions, but Professor Belluspersona caught me and made me stop."
I'll just bet she did, Connor thought smugly. The Transfiguration Professor was the sternest teacher in the school. And better her than Snape to catch Harry in the middle of something like this.
"You should have come to me," said Snape, his voice going quiet and strained. Connor would have felt sorry for him if that were possible, but five years of horrible treatment in Potions class because of who his father was had left their mark. He didn't, not really. "I would have been happy to help you with Occlumency, Harry. It is much more my expertise, and she could have easily damaged you, poking about in your mind."
"She didn't poke about in my mind, Severus," Harry hastened to reassure him. That made Connor grind his teeth, how eager Harry seemed to assure Snape that his mind was Snape's private and internal sanctum. Stubborn, greasy git. Can't he just be happy that Harry's smiling again, without worrying about how it happened? "She discovered it from my behavior, from undirected magic in Transfiguration. And she made me promise not to do it again."
There was a silence. Connor recognized it as a waiting silence. He frowned and tapped his wand in the crook of his arm. What can he want now?
"You have made that promise many times before, Harry," Snape said, with a voice like a building thunderstorm.
"I know," Harry snapped, and for the first time Connor could hear annoyance, tension, in his tone. "This is different. This was a vow. If I don't keep it, then she punishes me. And the punishment is one that wouldn't hurt me as much as it would hurt someone else, but it's humiliating, and it would mean I failed. That's the reason I asked for it. I promise you, Severus, I want to avoid the failure that would come with another suppression of my emotions. And I did promise her in such a way as to cover the suppression of all emotions, not just with the technique I was using. I used ice, but—"
"You used ice?"
Connor had heard enough. He recognized the sound that followed Snape's exclamation, which was a long stride forward. He just knew that Snape would grab Harry in the next moment. He'd already crossed the distance that separated them.
He burst in through the door, aimed his wand, and flung the spell that Peter had taught him last summer with all his strength. He'd been quite excited and proud of it, and couldn't wait to show it to Harry, until he found out Harry already knew it. But that didn't mean it couldn't be useful now, especially since it was a Light spell, and Connor was good at those.
"Aurora ades dum!"
A sunburst of light opened inside Snape's mouth, spreading to encompass his eyes and blind him. With a yell, he fell back. Connor used the chance to put himself between the greasy git and his brother, half-choking on a battle cry. He couldn't decide whether the name of Lux Aeterna would be appropriate to shout here or not.
"Connor!" Harry said in a horrified voice, and shoved at his shoulder blades.
Connor paid him no mind. If Harry had really wanted to hurt him, he would have used magic. And he had heard a soft clink as Snape fell. That was more important than his brother's whinging on about what he'd done to the professor.
With a sense of absolute, confident righteousness, Connor aimed his wand at Snape's right hand, which was caught halfway up to his face, as if he knew that wiping at it wouldn't take away the blindness. "Accio potions vial!"
Snape's hand opened, and a vial soared out of it and into Connor's palm. Connor grabbed it the way he would a Snitch, and turned it around, staring. The potion pressed inside it wasn't one he recognized—of course, he didn't recognize most potions—but he was certain he would have remembered if he'd seen it before. It was thick, and silvery, and clung to the glass like Parvati tended to cling to him when they were absolutely certain they were alone.
"See?" he said, turning it around and holding it up to Harry. "He was going to force this down your throat."
Harry gave him a withering glance. Connor had predicted that he would. "He was not."
"Why don't you ask him?" Reluctantly, Connor turned around and performed the counterspell on Snape, so that the light of the Dawn Summons stopped blinding him. "He was holding it in his hand. I heard it clink when he hit the floor. Did you know he had it? Do you know what it does?" He again tilted the vial, this time so that Harry could watch the light sparkle off the potion.
"That—" Harry stopped. Connor saw a trace of disturbance in his eyes. He probably still didn't believe that Snape had planned to poison him, however true it was, but he didn't recognize the potion, and that was enough to confirm Connor's suspicions that Snape had been up to no good.
A building hiss made him twist around again, stepping in front of Harry as he tried to get to Snape. Their professor looked half-crazed with anger, blinking and shaking his head like a bear stung by bees, but Connor didn't care. He was going to protect his brother. Harry had done enough of that for him during their childhood. Now it was his turn.
"You realize that you could be expelled for attacking a professor, Mr. Potter?" Snape's voice was not loud, but obviously meant to be cutting. Connor had seen him reduce third-years to tears with less.
Connor was no third-year. "Not if I attacked in self-defense, Professor," he said, and his voice was as cool as mountain snow. Always stay calm in the aftermath of battle, the part of his mind that sounded like Peter whispered to him. Nothing disconcerts your opponents so much. "Or defense of another. I might have been mistaken, of course. I'm sure that you have a perfectly good reason to be approaching Harry with an unfamiliar potion in hand, holding it so that he can't see it." He paused and gave Snape an expectant glance.
"Insolent brat," Snape said, giving both words the full weight of his temper. "You will have detention for a month. I will arrange it with Minerva so that Gryffindor House loses the rest of its points—"
"We've won the Quidditch Cup anyway, even if we don't get the House Cup," said Connor comfortably, and ignored Snape's furious glare. "I want to know what the potion is. I want to know why Harry didn't know you had it." Harry chose to make things more complicated just then by trying to take a step forward. Connor briefly wrestled with him, and managed to make him stay in place. He and Harry were the same height, but he was stronger, probably because Harry still wasn't completely used to having two hands.
Snape was silent. Connor aimed his wand at him. "We're waaai-ting," he said in a singsong.
"The potion is an experimental one of mine," said Snape, reluctantly. Connor thought he was glancing elsewhere to avoid Harry's eyes, not his, but so long as the professor looked properly ashamed of himself, Connor did not care. "It heals Occlumency wounds, like the ones that Harry sustained in his battle with Tom Riddle in second year. I was going to give it to Harry so that any wounds left over from his use of ice might heal."
"Going to give it to Harry?" Connor echoed. "Force it down his throat, more like."
"That's enough, Connor."
Harry was using That Voice. Connor reluctantly stepped out of the way, and Harry glared at him for a moment, little puffs of cold air rising from his mouth, before he sighed and glanced at Snape.
"I appreciate your help, Professor," he said firmly. "But I've made the vow, and failing now, suppressing my emotions, would be so humiliating that it won't happen again. I've looked at my mind and had Draco look at it. I have no wounds. I melted the ice in time. I appreciate your intention to help me. But force-feeding me a potion is not the way to do it."
I knew that was what he was going to do! Connor folded his arms, letting his wand hang over his left elbow. He fought the urge to crow at the look on Snape's face. It was tormented, confused, as if he himself didn't know what he'd planned. In a normal mood, Connor might have felt sorry for him, given the noticing that wouldn't stop. But that very confusion spoke against Snape. It said that he might have forced the potion down Harry's throat, if it had suited him to do so. He should have just given a denial that he would ever do such a thing.
Harry took a deep, dragging breath, then shook his head. His voice was like river ice in early spring, Connor thought, squeaking and cracking with warmth beneath the surface. "I know you want to help. I'll always appreciate it. And the vow with Henrietta might well be a mistake. But it's my kind of mistake—the kind of vow I couldn't make to you or Draco. But, as you pointed out, I've made those kinds of vows before, and broken them each time. This one—this one, maybe I won't. It's at least different. It's at least worth a try."
More silence. Connor stopped tapping his wand as he watched the two of them. He had the oddest feeling that he shouldn't be here, that he was witnessing something so private it was hurtful.
Snape nodded, once, his eyes on Harry now. "I would not have forced the potion down your throat," he said, his voice soft. "I would have told you what it was and given you the choice before the end."
Liar, liar, Connor thought.
A smile crossed Harry's face, though, making it clear that he accepted that. "Thank you, sir," he said, and Snape didn't scold him for the title he was obviously more comfortable using. Connor thought Snape should never have made him use his first name at all. "Now, I really do have to make my way to Charms, but I promise that I'll come back this afternoon, and we can talk about this. All right?"
Snape nodded. The expression on his face made Connor glance away uncomfortably.
Harry turned to look at him then, and shook his head. "Please don't expel him, sir," he said, as if Connor were the one who had done something wrong. "He did attack in what he thought was defense of me."
"It was defense of you," Connor pointed out.
Harry looked at him patiently.
"I want to know why he had the potion concealed in his hand," Connor said stubbornly.
"Because he wished to help me, and sometimes he doesn't go about it the right way," Harry said, giving Snape a fond, exasperated glance. "And for other reasons that he and I will talk about later." His hand clenched on Connor's shoulder, and he steered him towards the door, then bowed his head and whispered in his ear, though Connor thought Snape could probably hear them anyway. He had such sharp ears that he could hear a bubble popping wrong in a potion. It was only sadism that let him ignore that so that the potions exploded all over the hated Gryffindors instead, Connor was certain. "But thank you for trying to protect me. I appreciate it."
Connor got steered out the door, and Harry shut it behind them, then raced him to Charms.
That couldn't erase the incident from Connor's mind, though. Or the fact that Snape, questioned on his behavior, had looked lost, as though he remembered nothing of the last several moments.
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
Draco could feel a restless, itchy twitching climbing his shoulders, as though everything had suddenly become that place in the middle of his back where he could never scratch. Twisting didn't relieve it. Eating didn't relieve it. Rubbing his back against the stone wall, or asking Harry to scratch it for him, didn't relieve it.
He knew what it was, of course. It was the evening of the fourth of June, which made it less than twenty-four hours until the seventeenth anniversary of his birth. He would come of wizarding age, then, and his magic would mature with him. The magic was racing around under his skin, building, needing to be used.
He snapped at Harry a few times too many. Harry finally just stared at him, and Draco left their bedroom to wander the corridors and try to find someone to distract him. A duel would be pleasant, especially since he was likely to be excused any wrongdoing on the grounds of its having exercised his magic.
A shadow showed up in the corridor ahead of him. Draco became alert and pulled out his wand.
Connor came around the corner. Disappointed, Draco lowered his wand. Harry wouldn't talk to him tomorrow if he hexed his brother, and Harry talking to him tomorrow rather needed to happen, if the birthday gift Draco had asked him for was going to come off.
Connor jerked to a stop at the sight of him, and gave an equally jerky nod. Draco raised his eyebrows. Something was off. Connor usually gave him a bit of a glare, if only because Gryffindor and Slytherin were still rivals even if they weren't. But now he only peered past Draco towards the door of the Slytherin common room, as if expecting to see Harry come out.
"How is he?" he demanded.
How is he? Bewildered, Draco ran a hand through his hair, then hissed and wriggled when it felt as if all the hair on his scalp were standing up at once. It probably was, from the way Connor's mouth twitched when he looked at him.
"Just you wait until your seventeenth birthday," Draco said sulkily, trying to smooth his hair flat.
"Mine's over the summer, thank you," Connor said cheerfully. "Fewer people to watch and comment on my every move." His smile dropped away. "I want to know how Harry is after that incident with Snape this morning."
Draco frowned. "Incident with Snape?"
Connor's eyebrows would run out of forehead to climb across soon. "He didn't tell you?"
"No, he didn't." Draco shoved away the memory of Harry trying to tell him something during lunch, but shutting up when Draco complained and carried on about his gathering magic and insisted that Harry scratch his back again. "What happened?"
"I heard him and Snape arguing," said Connor. "About him suppressing his emotions and a vow he made to Professor—Belluspersona." Draco was a bit impressed that Connor had the presence of mind to use Professor Bulstrode's fake name even here, even now. "Then Snape took a step forward, and I intervened and cast a spell at him to stop him. Turned out he was holding a silver potion to cure Occlumency wounds. He claimed that he would have given Harry a choice about taking it, but, here's the thing, he held it in his hand, out of sight, and he couldn't answer when I first asked him about what it was and what he intended with it. Harry didn't recognize the potion, either." Connor's hazel eyes were almost amber with fury, as if reliving the incident had caused him to get angry all over again. "I think Harry was going to talk to him later and straighten matters out, but I didn't get a chance to catch him after dinner and ask how that went. So. How is he?"
"Brooding," Draco said softly, now thoroughly distracted from the fact that he would be seventeen tomorrow. "Not as patient as he usually is."
"Damn it." Connor tapped his fingers against his wand. "Even when he isn't suppressing his emotions, it takes a lot to get him that angry."
"Yes."
Draco was going to blame the magic. The magic not only opened new pathways in his body so that it could rush along them more easily—a wizard's seventeenth birthday was the occasion of a wizard's attaining full magical strength—but opened new pathways in his mind, too. That was why he was having these thoughts. He couldn't escape, and it wasn't his fault he had them.
But he was now thinking what an incident like that with Snape would have done to Harry, particularly if they hadn't been able to make the argument up later—and he didn't think they had, from Harry's reaction. And on top of that had been his complaining and his demand for an elaborate spoiling tomorrow.
Damn it.
He had been acting like a spoiled child again. It was at least as easy, Draco thought, for him to slide back into that as it was for Harry to slide back into controlling his emotions and being addicted to hiding from them.
Stupid thoughts. Stupid magic!
But the fact remained that he would be a legal adult tomorrow, and a magical one, and he did not want to act like a spoiled child on that day. Some other people did. He had been doing it. Now, he didn't want to.
He had changed his mind on his birthday present, again. He would have to go and tell Harry that.
He was about to turn and head back into the Slytherin common room when he realized that he probably owed Connor thanks, or something of the kind. Stupid magic, making me think stupid adult thoughts.
He sighed and turned around. "I'll—do what I can to take care of him," he said. "Thanks for letting me know I had to."
Connor's eyes grew round, and Draco smugly congratulated himself. That had been the exact right thing to say, it appeared, in everything from the words to the tone he'd phrased it in.
"You're welcome," Connor said, a moment later, after some more staring. "And do tell me how he feels later. Just don't tell me any details of shagging that you get up to." He gave an exaggerated shiver, then turned and walked back in the direction of Gryffindor Tower.
Not shagging, Draco thought, as he spoke the password and the wall slid open for him. I don't think that will work this time. I want a way to make us both happy tomorrow, without the confines of a ritual, and without making Harry feel that he has to do something for me or even for himself. Just a normal day.
That sounds right.
SSSSSSSSSSSSS
He didn't remember.
That was the most disturbing thing about his conversation with Snape, Harry thought, lying back on his pillow and staring at the canopy of his bed with his hands clasped behind his head. Snape didn't remember picking up the potion, didn't remember deciding that Harry had Occlumency wounds that had to be healed willy-nilly, didn't remember what he would have done with the potion if Connor hadn't chosen that moment to intervene. Harry had talked to him for an hour that afternoon, and they'd used a Pensieve, and still they hadn't succeeded in coaxing any memories to the surface.
And then Harry had called him sir again, and there had been a row about names, and Harry had left just in time to receive a letter from Scrimgeour asking him to be the Ministry's liaison with the werewolf packs, and then Draco had demonstrated world-class whinging skills at dinner, but Harry couldn't snap at him because tomorrow was his birthday and Harry knew that meant he wasn't completely in control of his magic at the moment, and everything had left Harry tired and with a headache and the prospect of doing more of this tomorrow.
He'd penned a response to Scrimgeour after Draco left, accepting the new position—what else could he do?—and then lain back and closed his eyes and reveled in a few moments of peace alone.
It couldn't last, of course. The door had to open in a few moments, and Draco had to come back and sit on the bed. Harry braced himself for another outburst of whinging, reminding himself over and over again not to get angry, and not to suppress his emotions. Sometimes, having a sarcastic running commentary in his head could help.
"Harry?"
Well. That wasn't the tone he'd been expecting. This was soft, and probing, as if Draco really cared about what he thought. Harry looked up.
Draco was chewing his lip, looking at him with a more serious and thoughtful expression than he'd worn in—well. Ages. Then he took a deep breath and said, "I changed my mind on my birthday gift."
"Oh." Harry ignored the dull flare of disappointment in his gut. He didn't have to express his emotions, even if he had to feel them. And really, attaining legal age in the wizarding world happened only once. He should be willing to do whatever Draco wanted. He would have been happier if he could do it cheerfully, but he just couldn't. He would at least pretend to cheeriness. He forced a smile. "What would you like?"
"A normal day."
Harry blinked. "What?"
"A day when neither of us makes a special effort not to anger the other, or to live in each other's pockets," said Draco, staring at him intently. "Sometimes I think everything is too intense for us, Harry. We have the rituals, and we have days like today where I'm in intense pain and you're worrying intensely about Snape, but feel you can't show that to me in case I take it wrong." Harry started to ask how Draco had found out about his argument with Snape, but Draco was plunging on. "So I'd like just a normal day. Feel whatever you like. Say whatever you like to me, or don't say it; if you want to keep silent about some things, that's fine, too. And I'll try to be normal, too, and respond to you with the maturity I've been lacking lately."
Harry was at a loss for words. All he could really think of to say was, "Draco, it's your birthday."
"And this is what I want."
I don't trust him to want only that, Harry thought, and was mortified to know that he'd thought it. But it was true. He didn't trust Draco enough not to think he wouldn't change his mind and want some more expensive or better birthday present a second later.
He could think that Draco was lying to make him feel better. He couldn't trust that Draco wanted this.
Draco either saw it in his face, or jumped into his mind and read it that way. He shook his head firmly. "This is the truth, Harry," he said. "I want—I want to see if it's possible." He sounded as if he were groping for words. "If it isn't, then we'll at least know that. And if it is, then, well, it's new, and I'm supposed to have several new experiences tomorrow."
Harry kept studying him, and Draco's expression never faltered. He didn't lean forward and kiss Harry, either, the way that he did when he was trying to persuade him down some new path. He just—wanted, and it seemed like that was going to have to be enough. Maybe it was enough.
Harry nodded, and, cautiously, dropped the burden he'd assigned himself of making Draco's birthday tomorrow perfect and splendid because he knew Draco would want him to make it that way. "All right."
"Thanks." Draco nodded back, then turned to reach into his trunk. "Did you happen to have that book that Peter said could help us with that Defense essay? I've gone to the library, and someone else has it."
"I think Hermione does, but I know the answers anyway," Harry offered. "I'll share them with you."
"Thanks," Draco repeated.
They started on their homework. Harry fought the temptation to poke at the tentative silence between them, which was relaxing him more than anything else could have done.
I could wake up tomorrow and find that Draco's changed his mind again. I have to be ready for that.
SSSSSSSSSSSSS
In fact, the only thing on Draco's mind when he woke in the morning was the intense pressure in the center of his chest.
He had expected it, though. He lay still for a few moments, eyes tightly shut, gasping in controlled breaths, and waiting until the magic could pool in the center of his chest and start spreading out again. It formed iron molds around his heart and lungs, but it was not nearly as frightening as the Lung Domination Curse had been. He simply had trouble breathing for that length of time, and as each moment passed, he actually grew more hopeful. The longer one had to wait, the more powerful one was likely to become—or, more accurately, the more one's magic would unfold.
The magic darted away from his lungs in a few minutes, though, and wound through the rest of his body like vines. Draco shrugged as best as he could where he lay in bed. This was a normal day, and he was determined to face what would be normality for the rest of his life with equanimity. I always knew I wasn't the strongest wizard in the school. That title was taken long before I had a chance at it. And besides, it's not how much power you have, it's how you use it.
"All right?"
Draco glanced sideways. Harry was propped up on one elbow, watching him. Draco nodded.
"Good." Harry touched his hair in a good-morning gesture, then slid out of bed and wandered over to use the loo. A ripple of glassy motion followed him. Draco smiled. Argutus. The Omen snake had shown up last night and been insistent on spending some time with Harry, who'd argued with him for a while in Parseltongue, or perhaps played; the hisses all sounded the same to Draco. And now he was going in to share the warm water of the shower, which he loved, and perhaps another argument.
It was all perfectly fine, Draco reminded himself sternly. Harry had other people in his life besides him. Even if some of the people were snakes, Draco could give him time alone with them.
Besides, his first gift had arrived.
Two owls escorted it in, one of them real—his mother's owl Regina, all stern eyes and flashing talons; she had no time for anyone but her mistress, really—and one of them a magical construct created to support the package. Draco relaxed as he saw that the box was the size he had expected it to be. He didn't need spoiling from Harry. He was going to get quite enough spoiling from everyone else.
He opened the box, once Regina had circled around his head to show her disdain and the magical construct had faded away, and stared. He knew his mother would entrust him with a treasure when he came of age that she thought him too young for at other birthdays, but he hadn't expected something quite this rich.
He drew it out slowly. It shimmered and flashed, even in the relatively dim light of their bedroom. Draco was not sure if it was gold or platinum or bronze, but whatever metal it was, it was like the sun in water. It was a narrow band of the right size to be worn around the head—a crown, in fact, though perhaps more a coronet, because it lacked spikes and knobs. On the front, where the tip would rest over his forehead, a curved serpent and dog twined together, the serpent made of silver and the dog made of obsidian.
There was a legend that the Black family descended from a royal line, though the historians all disagreed on who the family had been, and most of the time even what country they had ruled. Narcissa had once told Draco there were a few artifacts remaining in the Black vaults that suggested the tales were true. He had never expected to see one, though.
The note in the box took longer to draw his attention, but once he saw it, he understood exactly why his mother had sent the crown to him.
June 5th, 1981
My darling:
I write this note on the day when you are one year old, and I can watch you squirming in your cot, sometimes turning over to watch me. I do not know if you will ever see it. That depends entirely on whether the potential I see in you is real, and not the product of a fond mother's doting love. If you achieve that potential by the time you are seventeen, you shall receive this letter, and the crown that goes with it.
The crown has been a weapon in some legends, but it is not a weapon of power. It is a weapon of knowledge, always the stronger of the two, and of wisdom. It grants lucid dreams, dreams where the dreamer may play a troublesome situation over inside his head, and see what alternatives lie either way. Since the events happen only in the dreams, you may safely experiment with decisions that you would never make awake.
Do be careful, my dear. The crown offers a sense of safety not often found in this, our tumultuous life. There have been those who used it and simply became absorbed into their dreams, because there, nothing could hurt them. Do not let that happen to you. Use the crown circumspectly and at great need. Take risks when you must. If your ancestors had not sometimes taken risks, I would not exist, and the proud line of Black would not exist, and thus neither would you.
I hope that you may someday see this, that you do not fall short of my expectations.
Your proud mother,
Narcissa Black Malfoy.
Draco whistled quietly under his breath, and stared at the coronet. The Dreamer's Crown. Yes, he had heard of it, and it hadn't originally belonged to the Black line. It must have been stolen or won or traded long ago; in those days, the pureblood families had been too proud to buy such treasures.
Well, it was his now, and he would treat it with the reverence it deserved. Carefully, he settled it back in its box and started to cast warding spells around it. No one would steal it from him, or wear it without his permission.
SSSSSSSSSSS
Harry kept waiting for—something to happen. For someone to yell at him. For another letter to arrive saying the Ministry wanted him to take up another position that he didn't feel ready or qualified for. For Draco to change his mind and demand attention. Something.
But nothing like that appeared to be happening. No post had come for him that morning at all, and everyone else at the Slytherin table seemed interested in their own affairs. Currently, Draco was taunting Millicent; she had made several guesses about his birthday gift from his mother, and still hadn't approached the correct one. Millicent, who insisted that she must have guessed correctly a few minutes ago, was beginning to flush, while Draco looked more and more smug.
"Sausage," Argutus said, hanging around Harry's shoulder and sliding his head down the side of his neck. "Remember the important things in life. One of the most important things in life is feeding your Omen snake sausage."
"You realize that you don't even think they look like crickets anymore," Harry reminded him as he stabbed a piece of one with his fork and held it up for Argutus. The snake bolted it with a delicate combination of grace and haste.
"They don't," Argutus agreed. "Now I enjoy them for the taste alone, for I am a more refined Omen snake than I was." He turned his head and ran his tongue along the outer shell of Harry's ear. "Did I tell you that I met another of my kind in the Forest the other day?"
Harry blinked. "No."
"I did." Argutus wound his neck twice around Harry's, apparently just so that he could feel the warmth in the hollow of Harry's throat on his soft throat scales. "I told her about you, and the castle, and how well-fed and cared for I am here. She has no human of her own, either wizard or Muggle. She was jealous."
"You could have brought her into the castle and shared some of your food and luxuries with her," Harry ventured.
"No. They're mine." Argutus's neck seemed to swell a bit, and Harry realized he was bunching himself as if to coil around prey and crush it to death. That would have been impressive, except that he was rather coiled around Harry at the moment. Harry prodded at his scales to tell him so, and Argutus reluctantly loosened his hold a bit. "I have a territory. All animals have territories; I have heard wizards say so in the wizard language. The castle is mine. Humans can be in it, and owls, and elves, and your Many cobra, and tasty rats. But not other Omen snakes."
"Just because someone else says you have a territory doesn't mean you have to have one," Harry pointed out, struggling to hide a smile. It continually amused him that Argutus had managed to learn Latin but not English. "It might not actually be an instinct for your kind. In fact, I don't think it is. You choose your own companions, and you choose your own places to live. You could share the castle with someone else if you really wanted to."
"Don't want to." Argutus had never sounded so sulky in his life, Harry thought. "Mine." He tapped Harry's temple with his tail. "Now make your poor, put-upon Omen snake feel better."
Harry rolled his eyes, and followed the suggestion. And he realized, halfway through the series of comforting hisses that were mostly to appease Argutus's vanity, that he had relaxed, and nothing bad had happened, and they were sitting at the table and having a normal day like any other snake and his Parselmouth.
SSSSSSSSSS
Lucius's gift came at noon.
Draco had expected that. He'd been born at sunset on the fifth of June in 1980. It would be like his parents to take the other positions of the sun during the day as their cue for sending presents. His mother's had come close to dawn, if not exactly at it. Though Draco had received a small host of cards and simple gifts, such as a roll of parchment from Millicent, throughout the day, his father would choose noon.
Three owls escorted it in through the Great Hall's window. Draco had just recovered from the magic holding his head in a vise, and blood still pounded in his temples, but since he'd guessed correctly about the delivery time of the gift, he'd had time to prepare. He stood to receive it, and ignored the murmurs from the tables. Other wizards and witches had turned seventeen this year and in years before, and they had received gifts like this. Other than for the few pureblood families who declared their coming of age at fifteen, this birthday was always a cause for lavish celebration.
The two magical construct owls vanished the moment Draco's hands touched the box. The real owl folded his wings and sat on top with a hoot. Draco blinked. Lucius had sent Julius, the great horned owl he used for things like Harry's truce-dance gifts. It was an honor Draco hadn't expected, especially since his recent quarrel with his father. Lucius had done the bare minimum necessary to make sure the Malfoy estate passed on to the rightful heir. A gesture like this was above and beyond the bare minimum.
It also seemed Julius wouldn't let him have the gift until he was satisfied that Draco was worthy of it. He leaned forward, placing one of his talons on Draco's hand hard enough to draw blood, and staring at him with wise, fierce, yellow eyes.
Draco stared back, and kept himself from flinching or reacting in any way at all. He didn't know what Julius was looking for, so he would just have to let him see what was there.
It appeared to work. With a clap of wings and an almost silent leap, Julius wheeled and was gone through the window he'd come in by. Draco looked down and opened the carved wooden box.
Inside lay a knife. The blade had a curious edge, Draco thought at first, twisting and seeming to rise far too high above the blade, but then he picked it up, and realized the supposed edge was actually a shimmer of dark magic. Violent, corrupted magic, whether the original spell cast on the blade was Light or not. Draco hid his shiver. This was a knife made to kill things. It wasn't intelligent, but it didn't have to be. Everything from the rippled patterns in the steel to the uncompromising hilt—made of bone, and Draco knew it would be human bone—said so. It was a sculpted murder waiting to happen.
His father's note rested in the bottom of the box, explaining the gift, though Draco did not really need the note to know what it was. Only one kind of knife would look like this.
June 5th, 1997
My son:
Happy birthday, and congratulations on having achieved legal wizarding age with all the odds against you. I wish you health and happiness in the life you pursue, and if you are ever captured and have no hope of escape, I wish you an honorable death. This knife's edge will never dull. It will open your throat or your wrists without hesitation; if need be, if your hand shakes, it will guide itself to the cutting. Expect to feel a slight pain in your arm if you use it.
Your father,
Lucius.
Draco sighed and leaned back, eyes fastened on the knife. The knife could commit many murders, but only one Malfoy suicide. If Draco's own blood hit it, it would dissolve. But it would replenish itself, yanking on his arm bones to make itself a new hilt, drawing out the iron in his body to forge itself a new blade. Then a bit of Draco's own mind would lodge in it, the darkest and most violent part of himself, awakened when the new owner used it to commit murder.
Such a dark gift, father. But that you thought me worthy of it is—praiseworthy. Honorable. Not something I would have expected from you.
And that was probably the whole reason Lucius had sent it, Draco thought, as he placed the knife back in the box and closed it. To cause him to think about what Lucius had done. Most things his father did came back to himself, in the end.
"Are you all right?"
Harry's hand on his shoulder and Harry's voice in his ear were just what he needed, then, though he wouldn't have asked. He briefly leaned back against him and nodded. "Just fine."
He was aware, though Harry wouldn't be, of the judging eyes of some pureblood children in the Hall. He sat down afterwards and ate his lunch, and knew they were watching him do it.
He ate every bite, calmly and without once stopping or glancing at the wooden box beside him that contained the knife.
SSSSSSSSSSSSS
Harry glanced sideways, started a bit, and blinked.
Well. There's something I didn't think I'd ever see. Draco falling asleep in Arithmancy.
Harry knew it was most likely the fault of the magic humming through Draco's body, but it was still funny. Draco was sprawled across his desk, his head bowed at an angle that would make his neck hurt like fury when he woke up, and one arm half-folded around his face, as if to cover up the equations he was working on from prying eyes. His other arm hung off the desk, trembling a little. That could have been from the force of his snores, Harry thought, laughter bubbling up, or from the magic working up and down beneath his skin, preparing his body for the burst that would occur at sunset.
He tried to force down his amusement, and then remembered what Draco had said to him. A normal day. I can feel amused if I want. It's funny.
Even funnier was the expression on Professor Vector's face when she came up behind Draco. "Mr. Malfoy," she said, a little louder than strictly necessary. Or maybe a little softer than strictly necessary, Harry thought, given that Draco didn't stir. Harry had to muffle a snicker.
The professor gave him a narrow-eyed glance. Harry bent innocently over his equations, and worked innocently on them, like a good little student who didn't fall asleep in class.
"Mr. Malfoy," Vector said, and that did it. Draco sat up abruptly, blinking, and several people in the back of the room laughed aloud, though of course they'd stopped and were working on their equations as innocently as Harry by the time the professor turned around. Draco felt at his mussed hair, and his flushed cheeks, and blushed, further making him look ruffled.
"I expect you for detention tomorrow at seven-o'clock, Mr. Malfoy," said Vector sternly. "Ten points from Slytherin." She turned and stalked away with massive dignity, to try to find people who were not so innocent as all that.
Millicent, sitting behind Draco, groaned under her breath. Harry knew why. They were in a close race for the House Cup with Hufflepuff, and the loss of ten points might be enough to let it slip through their fingers.
Draco slid a furious glare at her, then glanced sideways at Harry, face turning thoughtful. Harry blinked, wondering if he was going to cast a jinx because Harry hadn't awakened him.
Instead, Draco just smiled, slightly, and then turned back to his equations, and Harry finally realized that Draco had meant it when he said that he wanted Harry to feel normal, and that he wouldn't scold him for those emotions.
It took a long time, and the presence of Professor Vector sweeping past, before Harry could look innocent again. He was tasting joy too strongly and sweetly.
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
Sunset came.
Draco knew when it happened, even if no one else in the castle did. He had been born at the exact moment of sunset, as his mother had told him over and over again. So his magic coalesced and came together, carving the final pathways, when the exact seventeenth anniversary of his birthday rolled along.
And that was as dinner was served, with the red and orange light streaming over the chattering students.
Draco felt it beginning to build. Strands of magic coiled and drifted in through his ears and his mind, as though they had been floating about loose in the Great Hall and were attracted to him. In reality, he knew, this was all his own power, tugged away from the usual parts of his body where it resided. It slid into his chest, and then lower, pooling in his solar plexus. It was pleasant and unpleasant at the same time, as though he had eaten too large and too good a meal and was now struggling to contain the fullness.
He bent over the table, and felt Harry rubbing comforting circles on his back. As if jolted into life by that, other magic reached to him from outside and hummed in his ears. He could feel his connections to the wards of Malfoy Manor and other Malfoy properties, which were usually dormant unless he specifically called on them.
"Step back now, Harry," he did manage to gasp, when it felt as if he were about to grow wings.
Harry did, just as a soundless burst of light and heat flared around Draco.
For the first time in his life, all his magic was available to him at once. Draco gasped and shook his head, and reveled in the feeling of it, power piled on power. No, it was not as much as someone like Harry or Snape or Henrietta Bulstrode possessed, but he was no slouch, and enough above average to content him. If someone challenged him to a duel, he could put up a stiff battle. He could defend his properties; the wards would obey him, even against his father, thanks to the passing-on Lucius had done. His possession gift shone in his head like a star, and for the first time, Draco was absolutely certain it was a combination of Malfoy empathy and Black compulsion; he could feel the separate components of the magic like two hemispheres of a brain.
The glorious moment passed soon enough. Draco sighed in the wake of it. He could definitely see why most wizards chose to celebrate the seventeenth birthday as the legal coming of age.
"Congratulations, Draco," Harry said loudly, and held out his hand. Draco managed to stand and clasp it with a firm shake.
The other Slytherins came over to welcome him then, and some of those students from other Houses who had already attained their proper age. Even Connor caught his eye and winked at him from the Gryffindor table, though it wouldn't have been appropriate for him to talk to Draco unless he was an adult himself. Which he manifestly wasn't, Draco thought smugly.
Snape raised his goblet in toast from the high table, though he looked pale and tired. The Headmistress and Professor Vector, as well as Professor Sinistra, whose Astronomy classes Draco continued to excel in, nodded to him.
He stretched once, and then settled himself back into place, smiling at Harry. "Imagine what your seventeenth birthday will be like," he murmured.
Harry looked startled, and let Draco see it. That alone was precious. "I don't think anything like this will happen," he said doubtfully. "Jing-Xi has told me that Lord-level wizards are different most of the time anyway, and I've already come to my full magical power thanks to—everything. I think, if anything, that birthday will just confirm what I already know. Perhaps unfold my magic a bit more. I don't think so." He shook his head, and then looked across the room. "But I am interested in seeing what will happen to Connor."
Draco shoved him. "I think I'll be more powerful than he will."
Harry rolled his eyes and turned to dig back into his meal. "I hope for my sake that you're equal. Then I might have some peace."
Draco ate some more of his own meal before he responded. The magic had swept through him, and changed him, but he no longer thought it had altered his mind. This normal day had just been something he wanted to have, and he had come up with the idea all on his own. That pleased him.
"Harry?"
"Hmmm?" Harry glanced over at him. Argutus cocked his head, too, though Draco knew he couldn't really understand the conversation; he did seem to recognize Harry's name when spoken.
"Sleep with me tonight?"
"Of course."
Draco shook his head. "I didn't mean it that way. I mean—just sleep. Lie in my arms, and relax together." He made an apologetic gesture meant to take in his back, his chest, the whole hollowed-out mess of him. "I don't think I'm in the mood for anything more vigorous."
Harry studied him in silence for a long moment. And then his face softened, and he gave Draco a smile that was so normal it made Draco want to crow in sheer delight.
"I'd like that," he said quietly. "Yes."
He turned back to his meal, and Draco turned back to his. Sometimes, he thought, the Light might have a good idea or two. They had certainly hit on one when they chose to adopt honesty as a standard.
His hand reached out, to find Harry's waiting for it. Their fingers intertwined, and that was, for now, quite enough.
