No Light Without Shadows
by Draeconin
See Chapter One for disclaimer and details.
Chapter Five
"Where are your glasses?" Remus asked after they'd covered the former owner's portrait. He had so many questions running through his head, from wanting to know why young Malfoy was with Harry, to why Harry had left the Dursleys early, or why Mrs Black's portrait had acted the way she had. He had no idea why his mind picked that particular question to fixate on and ask.
"I had my eyesight corrected," Harry replied tiredly. Not that he was actually tired: he just wasn't ready to talk to Remus. He was sure the werewolf would blame him for Sirius' death.
"Oh, really? When?"
"Yesterday," Harry said.
"You look better without them," Lupin said uneasily. "James should have had his done as well."
"He was probably smarter than I," Harry replied with a faint grin. "'Uncomfortable' doesn't even begin to cover it."
Remus sounded rather awkward as he tried to fill the silence. "Yes, well... Speaking of being uncomfortable, you'd probably like to refresh yourselves."
"Yes, thank you," Harry said, grateful of the excuse to escape. They'd only left The Leaky Cauldron a few minutes before, so they really didn't need to, but Harry still didn't want to deal with the werewolf right now. Glancing towards where he'd left Draco, Harry was surprised to see him still standing there. He'd have thought the blond would have gone into the sitting room and made himself comfortable.
"Is my old room still available?" he asked the man.
"Nobody here but me at the moment."
"Do you expect visitors any time soon?" Harry asked, referring to members of the Order of the Phoenix. Nobody else would have reason to come here, and those would most likely be looking for him.
Remus glanced furtively at Draco, a move not lost on either of the two young men. Harry was rather incensed at the lack of trust this showed in his judgment for a moment, until he remembered that Remus had good reason. That didn't stop him from feeling slighted, however.
"I know about Dumbledore's little vigilante group; it's been in the 'Prophet. And considering the protections on this place, it's not hard to guess this is where they meet. But it's not as though I could lead anyone here," Draco said defensively. And then he deridingly added, "Although why anyone would willingly enter this run-down rat trap..." Draco's visage clearly showed his opinion of his surroundings.
This is where the Order had met until Sirius' death, and everyone had thought Draco or Bellatrix Lestrange would inherit it. Harry had assumed they'd start coming back here now, since Sirius had left it to him. And he agreed, really, with Draco's assessment of the house, but the place hadn't had any kind of care or maintenance for at least fifteen years – maybe more – and it did belong to him, now. As for his question, a look at Remus convinced him that it might be better to ask it again later, so he decided to reply to Draco's remark instead.
"Abandon any building for over fifteen years and see what kind of shape it's in," he gently rebuked Draco. "A little..." Harry looked around him again. "All right ... a lot of tender loving care, and it could be quite nice once again."
Draco raised a sceptical eyebrow at Harry, but didn't challenge him on his statement. After all, a few house elves and a lot of magic and money could do wonders – as long you didn't go out of doors. There wasn't a lot you could do about the neighbours. He shrugged, dismissing the subject.
"So where am I sleeping?" the blond asked.
"Unless some major cleaning has been done since the last time I was here, I would assume my room – and Remus' – would be the least dirty. A few scouring and cleaning charms will make it liveable until we can get some real cleaning done," Harry replied matter-of-factly.
Since Remus didn't inform him differently, it was a safe bet he was right about the state of the rest of the house, despite the cleaning he, his friends, and the Weasley clan had done a while back.
"So I'm sleeping with you again?" Draco sounded a bit irritated.
Remus had, of course, been watching and listening to all this. The 'again' in the blond's last sentence rather startled him.
"What is your relationship with young Mister Malfoy, Harry?" he asked. He had heard that young Malfoy had refused the Mark, but his presence with Harry was a bit worrying.
Harry cocked his head, regarding the blond as he thought about the question. "I'm not sure," he said softly, before looking at the werewolf, "but it's better than it was."
Upon hearing that, Draco looked at Harry a bit oddly. Privately he agreed, but he wasn't about to say so. He took a deep breath, as though bracing himself for an ordeal and asked, with as much distaste as he could muster, "So where is this room we'll be sharing, then?"
Draco looked at everything suspiciously as they headed up the grand staircase, taking great care that his clothing didn't brush up against anything. Entering the room they were to share didn't help matters.
"Merlin's beard, Potter!" Draco exclaimed. "Haven't you heard of house elves?"
"Too well," Harry grumbled.
"Then by all that's holy, why live like this?"
"Two words, Draco: 'Kreacher', and 'Dobby'. Sound familiar?"
"Vaguely," Draco admitted with a small frown of concentration.
"Dobby almost killed me in our Second Year – several times – in his misguided attempts to 'save' me, and Sirius sent Kreacher away, which allowed the foul creature to go to Malfoy Manor, and eventually led to Sirius' death."
"Wasn't Dobby one of ours?" Draco asked in a puzzled manner, as he tried to place where he'd heard that name.
"Yes. I must admit that he did save my life after I tricked your father into freeing him," Harry said with a small, sly smile. "From your father. Sent him arse over elbow down the stairs when he tried to kill me."
"The house elf?"
"Your father."
"He didn't."
"He did."
"Why?"
Harry looked closely at Draco. "Are you ready to hear some hard truths about your father?" he asked.
Draco looked carefully at Harry, then slowly shook his head. "I don't think so," he admitted. From what he could see in Harry's expression, the Gryffindor would tell him nothing but the truth, and those truths were likely to be quite unpleasant. He'd like to hold onto his illusions about his father for a while longer. But admitting that they likely were illusions made him wonder, and weakened his perceptions of his father anyway.
"In that case you might want to stand back," Harry said as a pale wand appeared in his hand. "I'm not quite sure what the results are going to be." He raised the wand – his unregistered one – as Draco stepped outside the room, and cast "Scourgify!" at a chair.
The spell was the only cleaning spell Harry knew, and it wasn't a gentle one. Yes, he had learned others during his revising, but he hadn't had a chance to practise them, and he didn't want to give Draco any amunition for his verbal barbs if they didn't work. An invisible 'wind' whipped around the room ripping loose wallpaper from the walls, and dust, grime and cobwebs from the rest of the room. When it was finished the room was clean, but looked as though every surface had been scrubbed with sandpaper.
Harry stared at the results with disbelieving eyes. He had only meant to clean a chair. One chair!
"Fascinating, Potter," came Draco Malfoy's drawling tones as he surveyed the damage. "What may we expect of you next: wholesale demolition?"
"Do you have anything helpful to say?" Harry snarled, irritated out of his amazement.
"Actually, yes," Draco drawled. "You might try 'Reparo'."
Harry looked at him, surprised that Malfoy was being helpful. The suggestion was a good one though, and given the way the Scourgify had worked as it had, a possibility. But... "Don't you have to be specific with that?" Harry asked, remembering Hermione always using 'Occulus Reparo' when his glasses had broken. The spell would certainly work, but he wasn't looking forward to casting it half the night in order to repair all this damage if he had to be specific.
Draco looked at him thoughtfully. As galling as it was, he admitted, "I would, yes. But from what I just saw, you might be able to be a bit more general; such as 'Dormare Reparo'."1
Harry shrugged. "It's worth a go," he admitted.
Draco discreetly withdrew from the room again, his instincts urging caution.
'Dormare Reparo', however, was still a bit too specific. Instead of the room and all of its contents being affected, only the room itself – walls, floor and ceiling – was mostly repaired; at least enough to look quite presentable, if not quite new. Harry then had to go on to casting the spell on the furnishings, and then the bedding and room accessories before he was satisfied. None of it had been brought to a state looking anything like new other than the bedding, bed canopy and curtains, but it was all in better condition than it had likely seen in many years. Considering that the bedding had been brought to like-new condition, Harry thought it likely that the lack of such results on the rest of the room was due to their being much older.
Draco came back in and looked around. "Very good, Potter. You'd never make a room designer, but at least it's liveable – if only barely," he added as he realised he'd just complimented Harry.
"I'm so glad you approve, your majesty," Harry said dryly. "I'll let you unpack us, then," he continued, setting down and enlarging their miniaturised trunks from his pocket, and then flopping back on the bed.
The blond looked scandalised. "You can't honestly expect me to... I won't do it! I won't be your bloody servant!"
"I cleaned the room," Harry pointed out.
"It's your bloody house!"
"You have a point," Harry admitted. The fact that Draco seemed to be honestly reacting instead of hiding behind his practised, urbane masks didn't escape him, although it did puzzle him. But he was enjoying the game. He liked getting a little of his own back, after Malfoy had been pecking at him.
When Harry said nothing else, but continued to just lie there, Draco glared disbelievingly at him. "You still expect me to unpack for you?"
Harry lifted his head and looked curiously at the blond. "Of course not," he said mildly. "Whatever gave you that idea?"
Draco stared at the dark-haired young man. He had just been played amazingly well – by a Gryffindor! That wasn't how Gryffindors were supposed to act! Totally outraged for a different reason now, he started ranting at Harry. It didn't help that Potter just laid there grinning at him.
When Harry started getting tired of it he got off the bed and strolled up to the blond. He took Draco's head in his hands – and was amazed when the Slytherin didn't try to hex him right then and there, but just continued haranguing him – said, "Draco . . . shut up," and kissed him.
Draco had been so in his stride that he hadn't taken any notice of Harry walking up to him, and he didn't feel the least bit threatened when the Gryffindor had threaded his hands into his perfect hair. He was perfectly happy venting his spleen at the other teen. But suddenly he was being kissed, and that threw him completely off balance. For one thing, he was no longer able to talk. And Harry definitely needed a seeing to. Er . . . talking to. Lecture. When he could start thinking again, he threw himself back from the other boy.
"What do you think you're doing, Potter?" he said furiously. "I'm angry, here!"
Harry didn't know when it had happened – well, he had an idea – but where Draco Malfoy was concerned, he no longer feared. Draco was a free person, but he also belonged to him. His magic said so. He smirked. "You're cute when you're angry."
Draco stared. He'd been doing a lot of that since he entered this room. Maybe that was it. Maybe it was the room. Draco spun on his heels, and left the room. He was not 'cute'. He was handsome, debonair, smooth, masculinely beautiful, and above all, dangerous. He was not cute! And he wasn't running away, either. It was just a . . . tactical retreat . . . to lure the infuriating Boy Who Lived into a false sense of security. Of course. That was it. After all, Malfoys didn't run away.
Draco stalked into the drawing room and threw himself onto the settee in a snit. How dare Potter be so . . . so . . . Slytherin! Except few Slytherins would have had the courage to ignore a Malfoy's mood when he was on a rampage. Draco found himself melting at the thought of how masterful and dominating and gentle Potter could be, before he bethought himself and stiffened his resolve. Damned Gryffindor, anyway.
Upstairs, Harry smiled to himself about the departed Malfoy, then dug out one of the books he'd taken from the Potter book archive. Since it was only for a few days, he wouldn't mind living out of his trunk. It didn't need to be unpacked yet. He sat, opened the book, and started sampling random pages, looking for anything that might pertain to his heritage.
"Mister Malfoy," Remus said resolutely to the blond teen when he ran across him a short time later. But was the boy pouting? No matter. He had questions, and the young man had answers he meant to have.
Remus didn't get much in the way of answers, however. Draco had aloofly assured him that no, he had no immediate plans to harm or kill Potter, although the great prat seemed to keep begging for it.
But when the werewolf asked if it were true that he'd refused the Dark Mark, Draco had said that he had no intention of answering that question for every Tom, Dick and Harry who walked up and asked. If someone with the proper authority and a need to know required it of him, he would answer it then.
When his mother had presented Draco with a note stating that he would be receiving the Dark Mark, he had categorically refused. His father was in prison for following that madman, for Merlin's sake; how could he be expected to repeat the mistake? He was just happy that it was his mother who had told him. Anyone else would have hexed him upon his refusal and taken him before 'He Who Must Not Be Named' immediately, likely leading to hours of torture and, if he was lucky, death. As it was, he had time to pack and get out. He hoped his mother was alright, though.
Remus' questions about Draco's relationship with Potter and why he was accompanying him were met with cold silence after the werewolf was told, "I see no earthly reason why you would need to know that." Draco had then steadfastly ignored the werewolf's so-called 'reasons' he needed to know.
Draco might have been more forthcoming had he known how much Harry would have approved of this attitude. But likely not. It was a matter of principle.
Harry couldn't concentrate. He was in his godfather's house, and his godfather would never be setting foot in it again. He almost wanted to raze it to the ground, so he needn't be reminded of the fact all the time – or of the conditions Sirius had lived in, in his last couple of years. But he couldn't spurn the man's last gift like that. The least he could do was try to make the old house a place his godfather could be proud of again, wherever he was. He couldn't do it himself, though. He didn't know enough to be able to do everything that was likely needed.
Kreacher should have kept the place up, but hadn't. The house elf, along with Dobby, was the perfect example of how all living beings are individuals, though. Dobby was . . . unique. Kreacher was a traitorous . . . thing that had betrayed his master, and the hospitality his master had extended to others. Both were aberrations insofar as most house elves were concerned, though.
The point was that Harry needed a house elf or two to start bringing the house back to life, and Kreacher was unsuitable on many levels, not the least of which was that he was old and more than half insane. But Kreacher was the only house elf he owned, even though he was at Hogwarts right now. But the bond would make him respond to his new master no matter where he happened to be. As Harry thought of all this, and of everything that Kreacher was and had done, a cold, calm anger overtook him. A plan quickly formed in Harry's mind.
"Kreacher!" he called out.
Only moments later the decrepit old house elf 'popped' into Harry's presence, mumbling and cursing under his breath about his inconsiderate, half-blood, worthless new master who wouldn't let him retire.
"Kreacher, I want you to find Dobby immediately and tell him that I have asked to speak to him. Wait for him. When he comes, come back with him," Harry ordered.
Still mumbling and cursing quietly, but not quite quietly enough, the house elf gave a quick, jerky bow, and popped out. Five minutes later Dobby popped in, with Kreacher in tow. Dobby was furious with the other house elf.
"You is not to be talking about Harry Potter that way!" Dobby scolded him – not that it stopped the old elf.
"Hello, Dobby," Harry cut in before the quarrel could go on, "I'm happy you could spare some time for me."
"Harry Potter freed Dobby from bad Master! Of course I is coming!" Dobby said proudly, with a scornful glance at the other elf.
"I need a favour and some information, Dobby," Harry told him. "Firstly, Kreacher would like to retire and join his family on the wall. Their heads have been removed from the Great Hall, but I would like to grant Kreacher's request to retire, anyway. How would I go about that?"
"The great Harry Potter be giving Kreacher too much honour!" Dobby replied, but the anger and disdain in his voice was directed at the old house elf who, for once, was keenly watching the proceedings silently. Harry couldn't quite tell what emotion he was seeing on Kreacher's face. It seemed to be a mixture of fear and . . . something else. Hope?
"That might be, Dobby, but I can't free him; he knows too many secrets."
The expression on Dobby's face cleared up as he caught on. "Only a master, a member of the master's family, or the master's house elves, if ordered, can 'retire' a useless house elf, Harry Potter, sir," he said.
Which meant, Harry thought, that if he intended to carry this out, that he would become a murderer far sooner than he'd expected. Not that the Wizarding world would see it that way. House elves weren't that important. But Harry had no family and no other house elves. There were people who would gladly do it for him, but he'd feel the coward if he farmed out this task.
He didn't want to be responsible for even this creature's death, but the house elf's loyalties lay only with his old masters, Orion and Walburga Black: Sirius' deceased parents. If the opportunity arose, he would betray them again. He was also insane, disobedient, lazy... All in all, only a liability. Add to that, Kreacher wanted to die.
Having talked himself into the idea that it was both a necessity and a kindness, Harry spoke. "Kreacher, you have my permission to join your ancestors in the fastest, most painless, least messy way possible. Now," Harry ordered.
The treacherous old house elf glared at Harry, angry to be obeying the order of someone he considered so inferior to his 'real' masters even if it led to his dearest wish, then popped out. A few seconds later he was back with a large butcher's knife from the kitchen. He set it whirling rapidly in mid-air with his magic, and then proudly, head high, walked into it, beheading himself. There was, surprisingly, very little blood. The knife dropped to the floor.
Harry felt a little nauseous, but he fought it down, reminding himself of all the trouble and damage Kreacher had caused, took his 'spare' wand (which he was rapidly beginning to prefer, despite needing to practise power levels), and cast 'Evanesco' on the old house elf's head, body, and the knife, then cast a carefully powered 'Scourgify' on the few blood stains.
Harry then began to shake in delayed shock. He had engineered it, but seeing another being take its own life like that . . . even if it was only justice. But Kreacher had supplied the information to the Malfoys that had forged another link in the chain leading to his master's – Sirius' – death, and almost led to others' deaths as well.
After taking a couple of minutes to recover, Harry thought he could again trust his voice. "Thank you, Dobby," he said, not looking at the house elf. He wasn't sure how the minute being had taken the sight of one of his kind being ordered to commit suicide.
"You was being too kind to that one, Harry Potter, sir," came Dobby's quiet voice. "That one deserved a less honourable retirement. Fed to dogs, maybe."
"Dobby," Harry exclaimed weakly, "what do you have against dogs?"
Dobby stared at Harry in confusion for a minute, then understanding dawned, and he giggled.
Harry was relieved that Dobby had taken it so well, although he couldn't understand why. But then he didn't think he'd ever understand how their species thought. There was still the second matter he'd wanted Dobby there for, however.
"I need a couple of house elves to help me get this house in order, Dobby," Harry said. "I understand that you probably want to keep your freedom, but do you know of some that are in need of a position?" Harry knew that house elves bonded to a family, but there was only him, and he didn't think referring to himself as a family was quite right.
Dobby's ears drooped, and he looked the picture of misery. "Harry Potter doesn't want Dobby?" the house elf asked pitifully.
Harry's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "I thought you liked being free?" he asked.
"Dobby is liking being free," Dobby confirmed, but there was a hesitant note in his voice that said there was more.
Harry thought he understood. "Would you like to work for me instead of for Hogwarts?" he asked.
The change in Dobby's attitude was remarkable. His ears perked up, his eyes brightened, and his demeanour gave the impression of bouncing off the walls whilst he yet stood in one spot. "Dobby would even work for Mister Harry without pay or day off!" he enthused.
"No, no, Dobby," Harry said mock-sternly. "That won't do at all! I insist you take the same rate of pay, plus two sickles. After all, at Hogwarts you were only one of hundreds of house elves. Here you will have less help, and possibly more work. There may even be times that I will need you on your day off. It's only right to pay for more work."
Dobby was reluctant to accept more pay – he liked to work, and what would he spend it on, after all? But eventually he did accept an extra nine knuts alongside the galleon per week Dumbledore had been paying him, but only because Harry said he wouldn't hire him if he didn't accept a pay raise.
But Harry didn't want Dobby working alone. He had a feeling that so many years on his own had been at least part of what had gone wrong with Kreacher.
"Do you know—" Harry started to ask, when Draco barged in.
"Harry, you really must call off that . . . werewolf downstairs," Draco complained. "He won't stop badgering me!" He would have hexed the creature, but one just did not abuse one's host's other guests in that manner. It was up to the host to deal with his or her guests, if need be.
Dobby cringed at the sight of one of his old masters, and then stood up defiantly, ready to defend his new employer if necessary.
Catching sight of the house elf, Draco paused momentarily, then dismissed it from his mind. Yes, it looked slightly familiar, but house elves were fairly well interchangeable – far too unimportant to worry over.
"He's probably just worried about why you're with me," Harry said reassuringly.
Draco cocked his head. "Why am I with you?" he demanded perplexedly.
Harry widened his eyes a bit as he shrugged. "Buggered if I know. Because you haven't anywhere else to go, and I'm someone safe you can be with?" There was also the triple vow, but Harry didn't want to bring up the bond; it would only cause the blond to become sullen. Besides which, he wasn't sure how much of an effect it had.
Draco raised a doubtful eyebrow. "Safe?" he said sarcastically, briefly rubbing his bum to drive home his point.
"The last time was mutually agreed upon, as I recall," Harry said dangerously. "Besides which, you know perfectly well what I meant."
Draco flipped a hand dismissively, but shrugged in agreement before reverting to the previous subject. "As I was saying, though; you simply must call off that mutt!"
"A werewolf I may be, Mister Malfoy, but a mutt I am not!" came Remus' voice from the doorway behind Draco.
"Remus!" Harry hastily greeted the man, before Draco could say something pithy. "How can I help you?"
Glaring at Draco, Remus answered the question. "You may answer the questions your . . . friend refused to answer."
Harry glanced at Draco, his eyebrows tightening briefly in a small frown. "And what questions might those be?" he asked, his voice tight.
Remus was surprised by the defensiveness in Harry's tone, but forged ahead. "How do you know young Mister Malfoy is telling you the truth about refusing the Dark Mark, to begin with?" he said accusingly.
"He doesn't have it," Harry stated flatly, refraining from saying that he'd seen all of Draco's delectable body in its immodest entirety.
Remus waved that off. "He could have been set a task to prove himself worthy," he accused.
Harry smiled grimly. "If that's the case, then dear old Tom will have been sorely disappointed." He ignored the sound of protest from Draco. "But why is this of interest to you?"
The werewolf looked at Harry in surprise. "You're James' son! Of course—"
"Why take an interest now," Harry interrupted, "when you didn't in all the years I was with the Dursleys – when I couldn't take care of myself? Which, may I remind you, I am perfectly capable of doing now."
"Dumbledore said we shouldn't; that you'd be better off if we didn't try to see you."
"Ah, yes. Dumbledore. And you never thought to question why, did you?"
"He said it was for your safety!"
"From what, Remus?" Harry asked peevishly. "Voldemort was dead, or as good as, his followers would have broken up and gone back to their everyday lives when he was no longer around to lead and protect them... So what was I being protected from? I think I was being protected from a normal childhood!"
Draco's eyes widened at the possible implications of that remark.
"Why would he do that?" Remus asked weakly as he thought of the argument Harry was putting forth, not looking at the young man. If he had, he would have seen what Draco and Dobby saw; Harry's eyes had gone golden again.
"I have a guess, but let me ask you a few questions to verify them, shall I?" Harry didn't wait for a reply, but launched his first question. "Your friendship with him aside, I've heard that my father was something of an arrogant hooligan, at least while he was in school. True?"
Remus reluctantly nodded. "But—"
Harry interrupted. "My mother: hot temper and very stubborn. Again; true?"
Remus nodded again. "But they were good—"
"I'm not saying they weren't basically good people," Harry said, interrupting again, although he had some doubts about how 'good' his father had been, loving father and good friend aside. "But given those basic traits, in what sort of environment would you put their offspring to minimise or control those traits?"
"Dumbledore isn't like that!" Remus protested.
"Then I'd appreciate a better explanation," Harry challenged.
Remus couldn't think of one, and the question would haunt him for months to come. He turned and left without a word.
Stamp down inherited traits? Prevent a normal childhood? Draco put those together, and didn't like the picture it presented.
He would have been appalled with himself had he realised he was feeling defensive about Potter.
Harry told Dobby that he'd need to inform whoever needed to know at Hogwarts that he was leaving that job for another. He could stay overnight if he wished, in order to say farewells to those he wished to inform. "But if you wouldn't mind, Draco and I will need supper first. You might ask Mister Lupin if he'd care for anything, as well. And then breakfast tomorrow morning, if you would. And please think of who else you think might need a position here – preferably someone you can get along with. We can discuss it tomorrow."
"Yes, master," Dobby said, trembling, and popped out.
Harry stared, perplexed, at where the house elf had been standing. "What was that all about? He sounded scared! Of me!"
Draco was torn; maintain his image, or do what he wanted to do? Potter was a half-blood, by all accounts, but given what he was, he had to have had the genes reinforced on both sides for them to come out so strongly. And if Potter wasn't a half-blood, but more, then he needn't worry so much about a pureblood being with someone beneath him. And their rivalry just didn't seem so important anymore. Draco walked over to his green-eyed companion, and hugged him.
o~~~~~~~~~~~~~o
1. 'Dormare' is a fictional word derived from 'dormatori', which means 'sleeping room'.
Many thanks to my betas, and my Brit-picker, Andrew.