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Chapter Seven—What Harry Potter Felt

Harry slammed the door of his house behind him, flung off the Invisibility Cloak, and went straight to the pacing room. He knew better than to slow down and go to his bedroom when he was like this.

But even a few minutes of dizzy pacing didn't help. Nothing, he thought, could cure the disaster that he had just seen coming.

Seen coming. And caused. Really, it was happening all the time, but I was too much of a coward to face up to that.

Harry halted near the wall which he had stumbled into when he came up with the plan to write letters to Draco, and resisted—barely—the temptation to slam his forehead into a part that wasn't cushioned. He dug his hands into his hair instead, and shook his own head, whilst altering his voice into Hermione's.

"You should have known better than this, Harry."

Yes. I should have.

He had thought that Draco either wouldn't find out about the manipulation or wouldn't care if he did. After all, he himself used manipulation in his ordinary, everyday dealings with all kinds of people. He might appreciate the tactic being used against him, in an odd way. Besides, he could accept being Astoria's victim if not Harry's. Harry had seen that he treated the women who managed to deceive him for a while more kindly than the ones who were too open and honest—one of the reasons that Harry had taught Astoria the glamours that concealed her blushes.

It was why he had considered his plan perfect. No, it wouldn't have worked for someone like Hermione or Ron. But Draco wasn't his friends.

Draco is not your friend at all.

And that meant that Draco wasn't likely to forgive him for a mistake like this, the way that Hermione and Ron would have. Harry groaned again and smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand.

I was so stupid. I did take his choices away from him, and try to impose my own will. And perhaps he admires people for short deceptions, or accepts it as part of the courting game, but the letters weren't an ordinary courting game. Could he have put up with being tricked into falling in love, if I'd managed that? I don't think so. And that puts Astoria in an awkward position, too, one that I should never have asked her to take. I hurt more than one person with this insane idea.

The more he thought about it, the worse he felt. He winced as his words in the letters came back to him—honest and open, yes, far too much so. They were probably embarrassing for Draco to read. Harry had written them in a blaze of energy, but if he could, he would have Summoned every letter back to him then and torn it up.

How could I be so stupid?

But the answer to that was simple, of course, and it was one that Hermione had told him more than once when she realized the real state of his feelings for Draco. Love makes people stupid. You more than most, Harry. Remember the way you broke up with Ginny because you were convinced she would be safer that way?

Harry sighed. Yes, he remembered. And Ginny had been left at school with Snape as Headmaster and Death Eaters as teachers. She had enough Gryffindor spirit and desire to help Harry that she'd also got in danger on her own account. She'd survived, but she would carry scars from that year. At least they could have shared some common experiences and maybe more sympathy if they'd been together.

I lied to Draco. I tried to manipulate him into falling in love with Astoria. I wrote letters that he has to have found insulting, personally challenging in a bad way, and pushy. And then I showed up at the restaurant and ran away from him like the coward I am.

Draco would have found it hard to forgive even one of those things. All together, Harry knew he had caused a wound unlikely to heal.

And how much worse would he feel if he knew it was Harry Potter who'd done this to him? No, the least I can do is leave him some of his pride. I have to stay away. I have to stop writing letters to him, no matter how much it hurts. At least I left a note with some kind of farewell and explanation in it.

Harry sank down to the floor and took several deep breaths. The thought of the pain he'd caused Draco caused him pain. His bones ached and his mouth was dry. He concentrated, turning the thoughts over in his mind until he believed he understood the full ramifications of what he'd done.

Not that that can make up for the way you hurt Draco. But at least you might refrain from doing things that stupid in the future.

The thought of Draco's pain went on and on for long moments. Harry was an Auror. He had saved people during the war. He had done what he thought was the right thing for as long as he could, and changed his mind when he found out it wasn't the right thing (like treating Slytherins as the enemy). He was proud that he hadn't caused casual pain in years.

And now he had done it to the one person in the world he would have given anything to avoid hurting.

He didn't know how to start feeling better about that.

But, maybe because the pain was just too intense to stay at the same pitch it had so far, at last he began to feel a little better. He couldn't erase the past, but he could try to make up for his stupidity. He would apologize to Astoria. He would avoid interfering in Draco's love life at all, ever again. He would have to find someone on his own, like anyone else, and Harry wasn't stupid enough to think he would never find anyone. Draco had cleverness and to spare. If he grew bored enough with waiting for someone to choose him, he'd hunt the perfect mate down.

In fact, it would probably be the best thing if you stayed away from Draco altogether.

Harry winced as he stood up, but more because he wanted to instinctively reject the idea than anything else. He'd spent a long time learning about Draco, and watching him, and admiring his exploits when they appeared in the newspaper. Giving that up would leave a blank in his life.

But if it prevents you from acting like an idiot over him again, then it's the best solution. And you'll find something new to fill the blank eventually.

Harry felt his shoulders finally relax. He spent a few moments considering whether he should write Astoria a letter of apology, but shook his head in the end. No, that would be as cowardly as running away from her in the restaurant and leaving her to bear the brunt of Draco's temper alone. He would firecall her.

And he would try to keep his distance, and stop regretting.

*

Draco waited until the next morning to visit Astoria. He had to let his temper cool and the embarrassment at being fooled and escaped fade from it. He wanted only clear, glass-like hunger when he went hunting his writer.

And Astoria knew who his writer was. Draco intended to make her give him the name. It would be by far the simplest solution and save him time.

The sooner I know, the sooner I can start taming him and accustoming myself physically to the idea of a male lover.

There were other measures he could try, yes, but he would have been the idiot his writer called him to avoid the simplest one. So he stood in front of Astoria's door and gave her servant his name. He concealed his snort when the girl's eyes widened. This was why he avoided human servants in favor of house-elves; they weren't pitiable for showing their anxiety, since they could hardly help it. Draco couldn't have trusted someone he despised.

What happens if my writer is someone I despise?

Draco shook his head as he walked up spiraling staircases and past walls entirely covered with paintings, landscapes of volcanoes and tropical seas; it seemed Astoria had a fondness for art. There would be points in his writer's character that were deplorable, and he needed answers as to why the man had fled from him last night, but anyone who could write him letters like that had enough admirable points to compensate.

Astoria received him in a large, airy room with, Draco thought at first, enchanted windows on either side. It was only when he looked closely that he recognized them as more magical paintings, landscapes of rippling pampas grass with light subtly moving across them. They looked like simple sunlight on air unless one studied them.

"Draco. A pleasant surprise."

Draco studied her narrowly, but she met his eyes with no signs of embarrassment. Of course, now that he was alert for concealing magic after the encounter with his writer, he could see the glamour that hid her blushes, but he liked her the better for thinking of it.

"I need to know who my writer is," he said. She knew why he was here and he knew that she knew, so there was no dignity to be gained by dancing around the point.

"I'm not going to tell you."

Draco blinked. Then he wondered why. Had he expected her not to meet bluntness with bluntness? Or perhaps he had thought his mere presence would overpower her and make her confess, since he knew she was attracted to him.

He couldn't tell what he'd been thinking, and he wasn't about to waste more thought on it when there was a writer to be claimed. He would have to switch tactics. "Perhaps you might think I want to hurt him," he said. "I don't. I simply want to know who he is."

"Ah," Astoria said, with a sharp ironic edge to her tone that Draco had never heard before. "And then you'll hurt him."

Draco took a deep breath. He would have liked to clench his hands together the way he did when reading an insulting letter, but that was too obvious a gesture and therefore not one he could use in front of other people. "I want him. I might scratch and bite, yes, but I assure you it would be in a mutually desired context."

A faint blush moved behind the glamour and darkened her cheeks then, but she maintained her calmness. "I still won't help you. He's told me himself that he's sorry for involving me in this and that he won't come near you again. I think you should respect his decision. He admits the letters were a mistake. Think of them that way, and you'll be able to move on more easily."

"I won't allow him to determine the extent of the contact we have." Draco narrowed his eyes. "It's my choice as well."

Astoria laughed softly, which was not the reaction Draco was used to receiving to one of his decisions. "I don't think he'll think that way. He's in love with you, Draco, and deeply remorseful about hurting you. The way he sees it, if he talks to you again, or writes you any more letters, or even reveals his identity, he'll hurt you. Your pride, at least."

"Why?" Draco demanded, baffled and pleased both at once. It was a good sign that his writer was in love with him and had meant his words in the last letter, if he was so worried about hurting Draco, but at the same time he ought to have known that being deprived of his presence would hurt the most.

"Telling you that would be the same as telling you who he is." Astoria shook her head. "He's decided to end it. You'll have to, as well."

"I do not have to," Draco said, and this time he let his voice rise in sharpness. Maybe Astoria would talk to his writer again; maybe he was hiding here now. Draco had to fight hard, when he had that idea, to keep from looking around the room. Either way, Astoria should know he was serious. "I want him, and I am accustomed to getting what I want."

"That's the second time you've said you want him," Astoria said. "But you've never dated men. It was the reason he approached me in the first place, because he was sure you would need a woman to be writing the letters."

"His gender is a barrier to me, yes," Draco said. "But now I need him."

Astoria looked at him with her mouth slightly open, then shut it and smiled. "Well," she said. "That would surprise him."

"So you'll tell me who he is?"

"You do come on strongly," Astoria said, and regarded him with a slightly jaded expression. "I think I'm no longer quite as infatuated with you as I was. I should thank him for curing me of that."

Draco curled his fingers into his palm. Every fresh reminder that Astoria could communicate with his writer and he couldn't stung him like a whip tipped with salt water. "Then at least tell him I want him," he said. "And that I'm searching for him, if you want to give him some advance warning."

"At the moment, he's staying away from me as well as you." Astoria cocked her head to the side with an expression of mock concentration. "And I rather think you won't find him, because you have no idea where to look."

"I know that he owns an—" Draco began furiously, and then stopped. He took a few deep breaths and chided himself for stupidity. He had nearly told Astoria all the evidence he had, which in turn could have told his writer what steps he needed to take to cover up his identity. Astoria was cleverer than she looked.

"It doesn't matter where he runs, where he hides," he said at last. "I intend to have him, and so I will."

Astoria gave him a faint smile that could have hidden any number of emotions. The only one Draco could be sure she felt was amusement. "You are going to a great deal of effort to avenge your injured pride."

"If I say something three times, will you take it as true?" Draco raised his eyebrows. "I want him."

"Not enough," Astoria replied, and Draco knew that any chance she might have told him his writer's identity was gone. Not that he cared, he told himself. At least he knew this route was closed, and he knew some of his writer's objections to contacting him again.

Though they are stupid objections.

He would bear them down as he had borne his writer to the ground last night. And he moved his mind carefully and instantly away from that image, because the last thing he wanted was to get hard in front of Astoria. His writer was the only one who deserved to see that.

"Farewell," he said.

"Farewell," said Astoria. "And I think that you would be better-advised to give up this chase. You don't know how powerful his conscience is."

Draco didn't bother replying. There was another route he could take, and he had hesitated less because of the chance of getting information out of Astoria than because he knew he still didn't understand sympathetic magic very well.

But his patience and his intelligence had served him before where simple knowledge had failed—as with the Vanishing Cabinet in Hogwarts.

As for giving up…

There are forces in the world more powerful than conscience, and I am one of them.

*

Harry shook his head and pushed yet another report away from him. He'd read the same sentence five times now. He linked his hands together behind his head and leaned back in his chair, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling.

It was harder than he had realized it would be not to think about Draco.

Today, Harry had forced himself to shove away every newspaper that came, all with stories about Draco probably somewhere inside. He hadn't lingered to listen to gossip in the shops or the small pub where he went to lunch the way he usually did. He'd concentrated on Auror work, joked with Ron, and requested copies of old files from the Archives; sometimes he still tried to solve crimes that the previous generation of Aurors had given up on. Anything he could do to help people, he wanted to do.

And thinking about Draco hardly helps anyone.

Harry sat there for a few minutes casting about in his mind for something that would, and suddenly blinked and sat up.

Kingsley had been bothering him for years about doing more to help the reputation of British wizardry abroad; there were some magical communities in other countries who weren't impressed that the Ministry had done so little about Voldemort. He'd wanted Harry to take "holidays"—really publicity tours—in those communities and explain the situation. They were more likely to listen to the person who had finally got rid of Voldemort than a random Auror, though he had sent random Aurors when Harry refused, which he always did.

What if he was to take one of those "holidays?" It would get him out of the country for a while, removing him from the temptation to contact Draco again, and it would give him other things to think about.

Smiling, because for the first time in three days he felt like doing something rather than just sitting around, Harry picked up his quill and looked around absently for parchment.

A piece of it hit him on the head.

Startled, Harry reared back and stared upwards. A spectral figure hovered there, glowing blue. It looked like the ghost of an owl, but so faded that Harry could barely make out the talons. The only really clear thing was the beak, which had clutched the parchment it had dropped on him.

Is this a new form of sending memos? Harry raised an eyebrow and picked up the parchment. I don't think I approve.

No, he discovered when he opened the parchment. It was a letter.

Harry felt his blood freeze as he recognized Draco's handwriting. For a moment, he couldn't breathe and struggled against a strangling sensation. How in the world did he find me?

But he made himself calm down, especially because the letter began My writer instead of his name, and the first few lines also seemed to indicate that Draco didn't know who he was quite yet. He looked back up at the spectral owl, and this time, when he concentrated, he could see something dark washing through its body like a dead leaf in a river. It resembled a piece of Grimoire's feathers.

Harry grunted in understanding. Yes, he had heard about this kind of sympathetic magic, and even seen it practiced in a murder case. Using a bit of an owl bonded to one owner, rather than a common postal bird, could send a letter to that owner. The spectral owl containing the feather would act like a homing pigeon. But Draco still didn't know who he was, and Harry knew from experience that the ghostly birds flew so fast he couldn't have followed it.

And he couldn't summon the bird back, either. Sure enough, as Harry watched, its blue body collapsed in on itself in a shower of sparks.

Harry slowed his breathing down and flexed his fingers several times before he relaxed fully. So, Draco had been clever, but all he could do was contact Harry once, not know who he was or follow the letter up. His pride had probably pushed him to have the last word, Harry thought, rolling his eyes, and began reading the letter.

My writer,

You are a coward and you have caused me pain, but that only makes me more determined to hunt you down. Astoria said something about your conscience being powerful, perhaps the most powerful part of you.

I am sorry for you if that is true, but of course Astoria is a common girl, even though pure-blooded, and one cannot trust what she says.

Harry narrowed his eyes. No matter how much Draco wanted to scold him, that was no reason for him to insult Astoria.

My will is the strongest piece of my own constitution. And at the moment, that will is bent to taming you.

You think that because you caused me pain I would let you go? I thought you knew my character better. I need vengeance when someone has wronged me. And in your case, I have decided that the vengeance that would please me best is having you in my control and teaching you to obey me.

Harry hissed under his breath. Draco hadn't listened to or learned a thing from his letters, had he? Harry had demanded an equal, and Draco was blithely disregarding that, assuming that Harry would become his slave because he loved him.

I felt you beneath me the other night, and that is enough to make me interested in exploring further. You were too hasty in assuming that only women excite me. A man may do the same thing, provided he knows his proper place—under me. Here I must congratulate you. You have made an excellent beginning.

Harry slammed his hand down on the desk.

And lest you think I presume too much, let me remind you of the extra evidence projecting into my erection. You find submission to me exciting, and that compensates for the lack of a general submissive streak. Perhaps you do not surrender in ordinary life—in fact, I would think it unlikely—but then, I would not want someone who falls to his knees for just anyone. For me is quite enough.

Harry snarled, and felt his magic boiling up and down at the edges of his control.

My writer, it is not your place to make decisions for me. And so I will not accept your choice—or is it a plea, because the firestorm of passion you felt for me stunned you?—to cut off contact. I have many pieces of your owl's feathers left. I will send each one to you, and continue my study of sympathetic magic, until I can grasp your wrists with my hands and press my lips to yours.

Yours, but never in the same way that you are mine,

Draco.

Harry flung the letter away from him, spun around, drew his wand, conjured a glass of water, and hurled it against the wall so that the glass shattered and water sprayed everywhere. There came a startled shout from down the corridor, probably Ron, but at the moment, Harry couldn't care less. He was breathless with rage.

How dare he? How fucking dare he?

Harry wanted an equal, a partner. He'd said that over and over again. And Draco smugly disregarded that and nattered on about how he wanted someone who fell to his knees at the mere sight of him.

He'd interpreted Harry's erection, the sign of Harry's excitement at being close to the man he loved, as a sign of submission.

He was an arrogant, unmitigated bastard, who had taken the metaphor of his being Harry's conqueror all too literally.

Harry spun back to his desk and snatched up a clean piece of parchment. He dashed out the letter at white heat, the fire inside him burning away all his careful, cautious resolutions to have nothing further to do with Draco.

Master of nothing but your own stupidity,

I'll never yield to you. I'll never be submissive to you. I've killed my share of Dark wizards, and I could destroy you as easily.

It's a good thing we're not together, because quite obviously you could never satisfy me. I require something other than simple domination, and I've had enough experience to notice that sadists are the worst lovers—which, no doubt, is why they're so often paired with masochists who care more about pain than sexual performance.

You couldn't hold me down. You couldn't hold me. I don't really know why I've spent so much time mooning over you, if this is your real character.

I can, in fact, make decisions for the both of us, the way that it's always been done when one person is mentally incompetent to do it for himself. And I'll never reveal myself to you, never give myself away to you.

Yours in disgust,

A writer (who rejects any sort of possessive pronoun).

Harry was panting when he was done, and he stormed from the room to find a postal owl. At least he wouldn't be giving Draco access to any of Grimoire's feathers.

If any more letters come after this, I won't open them, he promised himself as he watched the tawny owl flying away with his response. He can't send that many. If he breaks up the feathers into too many pieces, they can't support the body of a ghost owl.

But I had to do it this once. I had to. It's part of the process of winning myself free from the son of a bitch.

*

Draco laughed quietly when the tawny owl soared through his bedroom window and landed on his arm. A happiness as pure as sunlight poured through him as he took the letter away, offered the owl a treat, and then waved his wand. A second copy of the letter popped into existence, and Draco laid it carefully aside. He would save it and savor it as he had his writer's other letters.

The original must be torn up, because its parchment—parchment his writer had touched not an hour before—would form the ingredients for much more powerful sympathetic magic.

Sympathetic magic that, in the end, would lead Draco directly to his writer.

Draco had chosen the course that would most enrage his writer and force him to respond. There was nothing he liked better than when his prey contributed to its own entrapment.

He read the letter through, smiling slightly at each insult, and in the end brought the parchment to his lips and kissed it. He could afford to be gentle when he was winning.

"You won't give yourself away," he whispered, "but you will give yourself to me."