Sorry this has taken me a while to update - getting back into work after Christmas has kept me so busy I haven't had time to write! All is back on track now and this story will be update every Sunday. :)
Thanks to Hancock23 for the lovely review on the first chapter - enjoy this next one!
Chapter Two
"You've checked the parchment?" Ron asked as he sunk into the chair next to Hermione, opposite Harry.
"Of course." Harry snapped; his voice sounded short, harsh, even to his own ears. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. It wasn't Ron's fault, but his anger needed an outlet. "We both have," he added, consciously attempting to calm his tone. "Nothing, warded against tracking charms, they used a charm to cover their handwriting…"
"And…" Ron screwed up his face, pure concentration over taking his features to the point it looked almost painful as he re-read the signature on the letter. "Tu- Toos - Tuus hostis occulti." He read aloud after struggling over the intial Latin, his features returning to their usual slack appearance. Draco had often made that a target of his teasing but Harry knew to look deeper; Ron may appear blank faced but a single look into the depths of his pale blue eyes told anyone its owner was as sharp as anyone. "Well, I know hostis is enemy." He deciphered, frowning slightly in thought as he read the signature once again "tuus… That's your, it's in quite a lot of the old pure family mottos…" He murmured, clearly pulling on all the remements of his wizarding education. Harry looked over to see the way Hermione's eyes sparkled in appreciation; she had, of course, already deciphered the answer but Harry knew it pleased her to see Ron using his mind.
Today, Harry didn't have time to allow her the luxury.
"Hermione looked it up, 'tuss hostis occulti'" Harry repeated as Ron looked toward him, almost spitting out the Latin in disgust. "Your hidden enemy."
Ron gave a shudder at the translation before giving one, long nod. "So I think we can assume we're working with an old wizarding family here, pure blood, if they're so confident in Latin, it's only really taught in uptight pure families these days.."
"Not necessarily." Hermione interjected, clearly no longer willing to wait for Ron to use his own mind as she had been before. "Anyone can teach themselves Latin. I managed to translate it quite easily; with the help of books, of course." Harry didn't miss the way Ron rolled his eyes mockingly at his wife's mention of books, yet with a warm and loving smile on his face. It was an easy, constant form of communication between his best friends that always warmed his heart in the worst of times. "So, the writer of these letters could just as easily be a half blood or even muggle born, just someone with enough knowledge of the wizarding world to know that by using Latin to sign their letters that they would be sending us looking in the wrong direction." Hermione's words drew Harry back from the warmth, however brief, that Ron and Hermione's interaction had given him. The strand of hope in narrowing down potential captors had been so violently cut short by Hermione's speech it caused a jolt through his stomach. He knew, however, that she was right and he was glad to have her logic in their approach.
"Yet… your 'hidden' enemy… That could suggest that their hiding themselves through the use of Latin to hide themselves under the pretence of being pure blooded… Or, quite equally, it could be a pure blood who knows we would make such an assumption and is using Latin to hide in plain sight." As Hermione finished, she shrank down slightly in her chair, looking lost in a way that Harry had only seen when she had been unable to master a particular spell in a beloved Hogwarts textbook. "So, really, we have no idea." She admitted quietly, leaving the room in an almost deathly silence. No closer, a voice in Harry's mind taunted him, making him scowl at nothing in particular.
"Right, I know you already will have, but tell me everything." Ron urged, breaking the silence as he put the letter on the table and splayed his hands out on the oak surface. It was often how he braced himself at work when they were receiving the first details of a case, he had told Harry that the feel of something solid beneath his hands helped him anchor his thoughts, keep him trained on every word being said.
Harry forced himself to quell his frustrations; yes, he had already explained everything. He had told Hermione the entire tale as soon as he had stepped from her Floo that morning and now he would have to tell it again. Yet the words were pointless, achieving nothing but stretching out the time between now and the time when he would have Draco in his arms again.
Because he would, there was no question about it.
He swallowed his irritation, reminding himself that these were his friends and, in any case, he had come to them for help. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to find a calm voice in which to retell the story. For that's what it had become to Harry now; nothing more than a story, as if he were speaking about another person, narrating someone else's life, not reciting the horror of his own.
"My tempus woke me up at half past seven this morning. Draco was already gone, but I wasn't worried. He's been going in early recently; he thinks he's having a breakthrough with a new potion in his lab…" Harry trailed off, fighting back the lump of sadness building in the back of his throat. The potion Draco had been so eagerly working on and had – from what he had told Harry each night when he arrived home – come tantalisingly close to completing, was a potion to allow the encourage the process of pregnancy in male wizards. When Hermione had announced her pregnancy almost a year ago Harry had been unable to hide his disappointment. Of course he had been thrilled for his friends and was honoured to become a godfather again but it wasn't what he truly wanted, what he had always wanted; a family of his own. Draco, being the man Draco was, had instantly began to consult textbooks and theory on wizard pregnancies, determined to give Harry everything he wanted. Harry knew Draco would surely murder him in the blink of an eye if he told anyone just how much he was determined to spoil Harry and he smiled at the thought, just for a moment, before he came back to reality with a bump.
He would happily face death again if it meant Draco would be safe again.
Aware he must have been silent for some time; he took a breath and pressed on. He remembered the moments so clearly it was if he were standing in a pensive of his own memory. "So I went in the shower, the usual. I'd just got dressed for work when I went into the kitchen and the letter was waiting on the table. No owl, no nothing. Just the parchment." Harry thought back to the moment he had taken the letter in hand, the way his hands had trembled as he read the words he would never forget. "Then I read it. Then I read it again, and again… Then I came here."
Ron nodded silently as Harry came to the end of his tale, knowing himself it offered nothing concrete for them to plan from. If it did he would already be out there, chasing any and every lead he had.
"I suppose there's not much we can do but wait." Hermione began in a timid voice. She must have been expecting for the furious gaze Harry shot her when she spoke as her face was set defiantly. "Of course we won't just wait, Harry. But the letter said they would be in touch. You know these people always want something from you… When they write again, we'll be ready for the meeting. We can spend some time looking up tracking spells and such, maybe some spells that are… Outside your usual professional toolkit. I'm sure there's something in those books of Draco's." Harry noticed the way Hermione's cheeks pinked as she referred to dark magic so casually and, if it had been any other situation, any other time, he would have found her comment amusing. Instead, he nodded numbly in agreement. "Ron will return to work, of course. The quicker the better so as to not make anyone suspicious. Go back and tell them all it was some simple magical ailment Rose was showing symptoms of and that I was overacting. Keep an ear out for anything that might give us a lead."
Ron nodded, clearly relieved to have a mission in hand. He stood from the table, using the position his hands still occupied on the table to push him to his feet. He swooped to give Hermione a chaste kiss on the cheek; Harry had to look away as he did so, feeling his heart burn for Draco at the simple, loving gesture.
"We'll find him, mate. If we can find bloody horcruxes, we can find Malfoy." Ron clapped his hand on Harry's shoulder and squeezed as he spoke, his words soft yet firm and – to anyone else – reassuring. Harry nodded but didn't look up, unwilling to show the way his eyes had dampened as he had seen his best friend's tender moment. He kept his gaze trained on the table as Ron lifted his hand and walked away, the room silent until the whoosh of flames in the Floo flared to life and carried Ron away.
Draco was aware that he was beginning to lose track of the minutes, hours that dragged by – not days, not yet, Merlin thank him he'd retained that much. Unless – a wild flash of panic hit him, just for a moment – he'd become convinced he'd awoken earlier from a magically induced slumber. Just how long had he been asleep before he had awoken? Had it been days? How long had Harry been without him? Or had it been, as Draco first suspected, still mere hours since his kidnap? Did Harry even know, or was he at work, risking his life with the Aurors, blissfully unaware of Draco's situation?
No, Draco thought, shaking his head if only to himself. He'd listened to Harry press him about the threats he faced if he stayed with him – Merlin, he'd received and read a fair share of threats himself – to know that his captors, whoever they were, must have contacted Harry by now.
He allowed himself a smile; Harry would be on his way.
After a quick Floo home to retrieve Draco's dark arts books Harry and Hermione had spent their day with their heads in the dusty volumes. Harry had made several marks against a few particularly blood curdling spells, promising himself that he would attempt to master them when he was at home away from Hermione's judging eyes. She may not be beyond sampling the dark arts to find Draco but she would be against any form of torture.
Harry had once thought that he would be, too. Perhaps Hermione would think differently if it were her husband missing.
As Harry thinks of this, he absently twirls the silver band, adorned with glittering emeralds, on his ring finger. He remembers when he had first seen the ring Draco had chosen for him – the very moment they exchanged rings at their bonding ceremony, only a few months ago.
Harry and Draco stand at the edge of the lake just on the edge of Andromeda Tonks's land. The warm June sun reflects on the water, basking them in its golden light. Their guests sit on lines of silver chairs which face them. Harry only has eyes for his fiancée – very soon to be husband – and their existence is nothing more than a glimmer on the edge of his reality. He stares into Draco's eyes, warmed to see a joy and love radiating in them that, until this moment, he believed Draco would only display in private. Merlin, a few years ago, he never would have dared to dream of such a look at all.
"Welcome. Friends, family and loved ones. We are gathered here today, to celebrate the union of Harry James Potter and Draco Malfoy…"
As Draco's middle name is omitted, Harry pauses to think of those gathered for them. Draco had requested the priest leave 'Lucius' from his name. He had, ever since Narcissa's death, publicly denounced his father. He had fled to Europe as soon as the trials were over, leaving Narcissa and Draco to deal with the reparations, the consequences – financial and social – of their actions. Harry knew Draco blamed his father – not by wand, of course, but as good as – for his mother's death. The hatred he had harboured in his heart since that day had burnt any bridges between them.
Harry's gaze first found Andromeda, sitting on the front row, beaming at the pair of them. Teddy looked somewhat disinterested – he was seven and, sitting in formal robes for any period of time was naturally considered deathly boring – but happy. When he saw Harry looking, he threw him a bright, eager a smile and, for a fleeting moment, his hair shot as jet black as Harry's. Harry's heart warmed at their presence; more for Draco than for himself. He knew his aunts forgiveness, her acceptance into her life and Teddy's, the one link Draco had to remaining blood relatives – or, at least, the one link he still allowed himself to acknowledge – meant the world to Draco. His gaze then moved on to the other figures crowding the front row. The Weasley's, of course, dominated. Molly and Arthur – Molly already dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief – beside Ron and Hermione, Bill, Fleur and Victorie, Percy and even Charlie, all the way from Romania. Beside Charlie were – Harry's breath caught and his throat seemed to close in a strangled sort of way – Ginny and Dean. Ginny no longer harboured any feelings for Ginny – he hadn't for years, since he fell completely and hopelessly for Draco – but seeing her was always… Their eyes caught and, with a hand on her rounding belly, she offered him a warm, friendly smile. Harry returned it wholeheartedly, glad for the way his family – even though his relationship with Ginny was long over, he still thought of them that way – had accepted Draco. Of course it hadn't been easy – years of hostility don't crumble with the flick of a wand, however muggles may fantasise that magic works – but it had been worth it. Finally, on the end, sat George. His face was pale and strained; he looked distant from the events, and an almost painful frown tugged at his lips. Harry didn't take his expression personally. George had, since Fred's death in the battle, never returned completely to himself. Harry knew that family occasions were always difficult for him – especially any which celebrated love. He and Angelina, the love of Fred's life, had attempted to find solace in each other after his loss. The entire thing had been painful and ugly and ended disastrously. Harry's heart ached as he looked at him, knowing there was nothing anyone could do to reach him; not, of course, that they would ever stop trying.
"Mr Potter, Mr Malfoy, if you will join your hands for the vows." The priest's requests jolted Harry back to life – how long had he been lost in thoughts of the crowd, not paying attention to his own bonding ceremony? – and he turned back to Draco, grasping his hands with a smile. As the priest spoke the vows they had chosen, a stream of gold erupted from the tip of his wand, looping Harry and Draco's joined hands. With each promise they agreed to a further loop formed and another knot was tied. Soon their hands were encased in a glittering wreath of their promises, glowing and pulsing with magic and love.
"Mr Potter and Mr Malfoy have chosen rings for each other to display their bond to the world. The magic of their bond will be channelled into these rings and forever stored there." As the priest spoke the wreath of magic expanded to allow their hands to move, hovering until the rings were in place. Draco smoothly slid a box from the pocket of his robes – Harry watched the motion, momentarily caught off guard by just how damn hot Draco looked in the white silk he'd chosen – before fumbling for his own box. Naturally - because, when did things ever go smoothly for Harry? – it took him a while to locate the ring box and, when his fingers closed around the velvet, he sighed audibly in relief. Draco smirked as he caught the sound and Harry shot him a look of pure fire; not of anger, but of warning – a look which told Draco he would pay for that smirk later. Perhaps, Harry thought, in the form of Harry's newly ringed hand on his backside. Draco quirked his eyebrow in response, passion dancing in his eyes as he read Harry's unspoken message.
Harry slipped the ring he had chosen for Draco from the box, taking his lovers slender, pale hands and sliding the band onto his finger. The band was pure platinum and was laced with grey moonstones which reflected the depths of colour in Draco's eyes; Harry had selected each stone by hand and the making of the ring had cost a sizable amount of the Potter vault, but when he heard the way Draco's breath caught in his throat as Harry slid the ring to the base of his finger, he knew every penny spend had been worth it. Harry watched as Draco slipped out the ring he had for Harry and reached out to take his hand. As the ring was lowered onto his finger Harry saw the emeralds twinkling against the silver band and lifted his eyes to Draco's. His lover was smirking in an infuriatingly gorgeous way.
"Slytherin colours," Harry whispered, lowering his voice so no one but Draco would hear him.
"Naturally, how would I ever allow the second greatest admission you ever made to me go unrecognised?" Draco challenged, his voice an even lower whisper than Harrys as he referred to the night Harry had confessed to Draco that he could have easily been sorted into Slytherin and wondered how different their lives could have been.
"Second to?" Harry asked in his whisper.
"When you told me you loved me, of course."
Harry smiled so brightly in that moment that, if there were any doubters left amongst their family and friends – Merlin, any doubters left in the wizarding world – about the depths of their relationship, they would be so blinded by the emotions erupting onto Harry's face that they would have no choice but to accept them.
"If the Weasels ask –" even in his most attentive, loving moods Draco could still (naturally) find a way to piss Harry off. It was, Harry had to admit despite his glare, one of the reasons that drew them together like moths to burning flames. "- you can tell them it's in honour of your eyes. Your second greatest body part."
Harry had only lifted an eyebrow before his unspoken question 'second to' was answered.
"Second to your fine arse, of course." Draco's voice was so low, so gravely with seduction, that Harry was finding it very difficult to hold himself back.
It was pure damn luck that the priest announced that Harry may kiss his husband at the very moment he let go of his self-restraint and launched himself hungrily at Draco's lips.
The memory brought damp to the corners of Harry's eyes, a film of water blurring his vision before a sudden thought struck him and he blinked the wetness away, looking up at Hermione with a solid stare of determination.
"Hermione. Is there anything we can do with this?"
As Hermione looked up to meet his words, she was faced with the determined, unwavering stare of Harry with a plan, holding his bonding ring up for her to see.
The door to Draco's cell creaked open slowly yet with a screech which sounded like the wood would drop from the worn hinges at any moment. Draco told himself, whilst his rational mind was still active, not to hear any hope in the weak sound. He knew the door would be magically fortified, no doubt warded with magic of the darkest kind, and that the sound was for nothing but effect. Despite his desire to whip his head to the entrance he fought against the impulse determined not to allow his captors the success of his curiosity. Even in the cold of the cell the temperature dropped dramatically and this time Draco was unable to repress the shudder which ran down his spine. He couldn't help his bodily reaction to the cold, but he would not allow any further weakness; atmospheric charms were a standard part of Hogwarts education. He wasn't going to allow his captors defeat him with a charm a seventh year studying for N.E.W.T's could pull off in their sleep.
No light entered the room as the door opened, suggesting to Draco that the corridor outside was just as dark as his cell. He restrained the shudder at the thought of just how deep within a dungeon he was. He tried, instead, to focus on narrowing the possibilities. A place with a cell, a dungeon so deep that the lightness was literally non-existent; it had to be one of the old, historic pure blood homes. He didn't have time to mull over his suspicions, however, as a voice echoed into the room.
"Malfoy." The tone of the voice was cold, hard and laced with malice. Well, that wasn't a surprise; it was hardly likely the person holding him here liked him. He said nothing – for what was there to say? – but determinedly kept his gaze at the darkness of the wall ahead, not turning to the voice as it carried from the doors opening. "Look at me when I speak to you." The voice demanded; yet again cold, hard and unwavering. Draco refused.
His neck cracked aloud with the force of the spell which hit him, snapping his head from the wall to the door and holding it there in a magical bind. Naturally, due to the darkness of the cell, Draco could make out nothing more than a cloaked, hooded figure which loomed in the doorway. Any assumptions Draco could make were limited to height (the person was rather tall, taller than Draco, perhaps, but from his place outside the cell door it was hard to tell) and size (skinny, but broad at the shoulders). Although that, of course, told him nothing. The figure could easily be polyjuiced or under glamours to alter its appearance. The one thing that Draco could determine, at least as far as he could see down the corridor behind, was that the figure was alone.
The magical force around Draco's neck and, the dark wooden length pointing from the tip of the figures sleeve, however, wisely reminded Draco that even if they were completely alone, facing the captor alone and unarmed would be foolish.
He glared ahead, fixated on giving his captor the most defiant expression he could muster – as a Malfoy, brought up by Lucius (however much he hated to think of him) he could conjure a blizzard cold sneer in the hardest of situations – determined to show he would not be worn down easily.
The figure did not speak again, merely laughed, a dark, low laugh devoid of any warmth or humour and, with a retreating step back, locked the door behind him.