A/N: I suppose this fic is officially AU with the release of Half-Blood Prince. Sorry it took so long. You wouldn't believe how many times I've written and rewritten separate sections of this chapter!
Thank you Annis Pekka, Aurelia Malfoy, Modular Blues, Goldensong, JDCG (You'd have to blame my parents for my sense of humor.), Twisted Maniac, OryssaV, scorpion moon goddess, lusiki, destruction's mistress, Hikari Tenshi Mika Rissa, Eowyns Entity, Mags, Kumak, ScarlettAdmirer, CrimsonTearsofPain,lovi, Lyla Hayden, Purple Raveness, Arigazi, AniD, StolenDreamer, Avain, Lothirielwen, Saavik13, psychmarci, fairPoet, RoschLupin-Black, alliekatgal, vote-larry4prez, and Fiery Pheonix.
The final performance of Azkaban's current tour was two days prior to Sebastian's party. Harry found himself at the after party in a club not too far away from the venue. Harry is not particularly fond of clubs. Aside from bringing up memories he doesn't exactly cherish, he doesn't care for the noise or the crowd. Harry has long had a distinct distaste for crowds.
He hangs by the bar. Sebastian is close by, looking uncharacteristically cold in an austere charcoal suit. No one dares to approach him. He watches the crowd with something between amusement and disgust. "The look on your face would curdle milk," Gabriel says conversationally. Sebastian raises an eyebrow, a gesture that is unmistakably Malfoy.
"You would have this look on your face too if you could feel what I'm feeling."
"Let me guess: animalistic lust and the overpowering need to have one's id satisfied immediately regardless of the cost to anyone else in the room," Gabriel replies. Sebastian looks tempted to smile.
"And that's just from Baby," Shadow teases, sliding by. Sebastian doesn't laugh.
"It's hard to tell what he feels. He spends so much time trying to escape himself," he says quietly.
"I don't understand you," Harry says, once Shadow and Gabriel have left. Sebastian's smile is nearly flirtatious.
"Oh? Was there something to understand about me?" he says.
"I think so. You seem like two completely different people. When you were trying to convince me to attend your party, you were like a spoiled little girl. Then you surprise me by acting, well, like a Malfoy. Which are you, Angel? Are you a sweet, innocent doll or are you an ice prince like your brother, your cousin, and your uncle?" Sebastian chuckles.
"Neither, but I can give a good imitation."
"Why even bother with the imitation?"
"The ice prince is great for intimidating the hell out of people. As for the other, it's not entirely an imitation. My… condition makes it difficult for people to relate to me. Traditionally, empaths are reclusive. Those who aren't usually go insane from the emotional and mental stress. For my own well being, I've been sheltered all my life. I've never had any sort of meaningful relationship with anyone who wasn't a blood relative. I am a virgin. Sex is an emotional event I know I can't handle. That I'm even going on this Tour, that I have some expectation of marrying and having a normal life is unusual and a rather bold statement for my family."
"What about the band?"
"Cousins—boys I grew up with who went away to war and came back with broken wings, if they came back at all."
Harry is silent. The last time he had a conversation like this with someone… actually he can't remember the last time he had a conversation like this with someone. Sebastian laughs a little. Harry smiles a little.
"Am I talking too much? I admit, it's rather odd for me to be telling you my life story like this."
"No, I don't mind."
" Though I will admit that I'm exaggerating a bit. It makes them feel better. The others like to feel that someone escaped the war unscathed, that there is something good and uncorrupted in this world and somehow, feeling that they help to protect my innocence allows them to sleep a little easier."
"And actually?"
"I'm not sure. It's hard to be innocent when you can read people. I didn't fight, but I've looked into their eyes and seen people dying. They can't hide it. The only time they don't think about it is when we're performing or when they're taking care of me."
"You feel like you give them hope," Harry says after a brief silence. For a moment, he feels profoundly sorry for the boy who has taken on the responsibility of saving everyone around him. Harry has tried that route. He has tried letting others dream through him. He has failed.
"I try."
"Even if it means hiding how you feel, who you are?"
"I'm an empath. By nature, I'm more aware of what other's feel than what I feel."
"Don't you think the whole thing is a bit two-faced?"
"You would know all about being two-faced, wouldn't you, Mr. Scryer?" Harry has no response. "Even the best masks allow some of the person beneath to show through. You wear this unblemished skin, this mask of a functional human being, but underneath it, you're scarred. Maybe not as badly scarred as Baby, but there's something—something you're hiding or something you're hiding from…" Sebastian says, peering into Harry's eyes. Harry has the distinct feeling of someone else inside his head. He breaks eye contact.
"Your uncle didn't mention invading other's thoughts as one of your talents." Sebastian chuckles.
"Once upon a time, I studied Legilimency. Uncle thought it would give my abilities direction. "
"So you thought you'd practice your latent talents on me?" Harry asks.
"No, I was only curious and I momentarily forgot myself. I'm sorry."
Harry decides to believe him. His eyes stray over to Harry's eyes wander over to a booth in the corner. Baby is there, supporting himself on the table as a stranger fondles him through his pants. Apparently, he grows tired of that, pulling Baby's pants down and pushing him down on the table. From where Harry is standing, Baby's moans are soundless, involving a lowering of eyelids, a gasp and an arching of the spine that Harry is fascinated by. Baby opens his eyes, sees Harry watching. There is something about his expression that sends chills down Harry's spine. His eyes are surprisingly dull, but they flicker to life again as a grin flits across his face. Harry looks away.
"He looks delicate, but he'll eat you alive." Harry starts at the sound of Shadow's voice in his ear.
"I think I'd break him," Harry says, pretending that he had no interest in Baby. The chuckling of his companions tells him that he has failed miserably. Shadow leans against the bar. The motion is fluid, graceful. If Harry were less distracted, he'd be impressed.
"You can't break James. He's already broken himself." Sebastian says, sipping the drink that Shadow offers him.
"You want him," Shadow says, the corners of his mouth quirking. Harry opens his mouth to protest, but Shadow smiles at him knowingly. Harry attempts to glare at the young man instead, which is difficult when that particular young man is looking unearthly in gold eye shadow and brown leather. Shadow shrugs. "I'm not trying to tell you that you shouldn't, just make sure you leave with everything you came with."
"Like what? " Harry asks, raising an eyebrow. Shadow doesn't answer, toying with strand of Sebastian's hair instead. Sebastian swats at him lazily.
"Like your young and idealistic heart," Sebastian replies. Harry snorts.
"I haven't had one of those in years," Harry says. Shadow chuckles. Harry looks back at Baby.
Baby is gorgeously and indecently sprawled across the tabletop, his hair spilling over the edge. It is Vlad who comes to collect him, scooping him off the table and setting his clothing to rights. The look Baby gives him is almost adoring. Vlad kisses him gently. Baby collapses in his arms. Sebastian gestures to Vlad with a nod. "That boy is the only one who can get through to him. He is the only one Baby'll let in. You really don't want to be banging your head against a wall with Baby. I love the boy, but he's a dead end. "
"Shut up and have another drink, you faux cynic," Shadow says, sliding another drink toward Sebastian, who smirks at him.
"Notice how you didn't call me a liar," he says triumphantly, downing his drink.
" Well, Baby definitely has a few skeletons in his closet. Maybe even a few we don't know about, eh?" Shadow says. Sebastian pretends to be shocked.
"Something you don't know? Surely, you're joking!"
"Well, I can't know everything, can I?" Shadow says, winking at Harry. Harry chokes on his drink.
"Merlin, Shadow, you've killed him!"
Sebastian's party is a smash. At least, for Sebastan it is. As Lucius had predicted, the young man is quite definitely the belle of the ball. Luckily, he has a talent for naturally assuming the center of attention and is charming and endearing in the spotlight. Harry, however, is rather uncomfortable and feeling slightly awkward in his best manners and a set of black velvet dress robes that James had shoveled him into upon discovering that the set he had sent to Harry as a gift had suffered a mysterious "accident" involving the giant squid. Harry has smiled and nodded and made polite small talk for nearly three hours now, and though he admittedly is not a drinker, the idea of downing a few cocktails is starting to seem quite appealing. He settles for conversation with two of the Hornby siblings: Diana, married to Lord Such and Such of Some Place Harry Isn't Even Sure Exists Anymore, and Alistair, who is Someone Very Important at Someplace that Harry had Never Heard Of.
All has been going smoothly. Diana and Alistair are as beautifully mannered as the rest of their kin and Harry has no trouble getting along with them. "I feel as if we've met before," Diana says, pursing her lips as she tries to remember where their paths may have crossed. Harry chuckles.
"I assure you, we haven't met. Unless it was in a dream and I doubt that I'd have such luck even then," he replies. Diana's laugh is like Sebastian's—the tinkling of a silver bell.
"Bravo. Did Uncle Lucius teach you that or was that natural?" Alistair says, grinning.
"That's it! You remind me of Draco!" Diana says, clapping her hands in delight at finally solving the mystery. Harry goes wooden.
"Yes, you're right. His mannerisms are incredibly similar. He even holds his glass the same way," Alistair observes.
"Draco?" Harry echoes, his mouth suddenly dry. His companions look mildly shocked.
"Draco Malfoy?" Diana says. " He was something of a war hero. He worked with Harry Potter. He died saving him actually." Harry blinks.
"Draco Malfoy's death was an accident," Harry says. Alistair laughs.
"Do you believe everything you read in the Daily Prophet? James!"
James makes his way across the room. For a moment Harry is stunned. It takes a moment for him to reconcile the serious young man in front of him with the one sprawled across the table at the club last night. James gives a slight bow.
"You called?" he says.
"Tell Professor Scryer how Draco died," Diana says. The ghost of a smile that the red-haired boy has worn all evening vanishes.
"I really don't think now is a good time for such a story."
"I think now is the perfect time. Professor Scryer is under the impression that Draco's death was an accident. We need you, with your encyclopedic knowledge of the war, to set him straight," Alistair insists. James' lips compress into a thin line. His eyes are dark and unreadable as he glances at Harry.
"I really must insist that now is not a ---"
"Why not? Now is as good a time as any!" Harry says. His voice is tense with emotions he can't even begin to categorize. Those within earshot turn to watch the unfolding scene.
"Please. Later perhaps, but not—"
"How did Draco die, James?"
The sound of shattering glass is the only sound in the otherwise deathly silent room.
Shadow is suddenly at James' elbow along with Michael, who appears by Harry's side. Shadow glowers at the two of them. "Have you gone completely mad? Or did you happen to forget that you're talking about Lucius' only son while the man is still in the same room?" he hisses, dragging James out of the room by the elbow and leaving Michael to damage control. Harry steals a glance at Lucius who has gone deathly pale, but otherwise appears perfectly composed. His eyes meet Harry's. Harry hurries out.
He makes it to Lucius' study before Grief slaps him hard across the face and brings him to his knees. He cries silently, each tear wrung from him like blood from a stone. It isn't long before James steals in after him. His hair is down and he looks defeated in a way that Harry cannot understand. The small smile James gives him is devoid of warmth. It is devoid of anything. It is merely a social reflex. Harry sees a descending swirl of black as James drops to his knees next to him. " Yet another glorious war hero. You know, they'll never make a monument of the victor crying over the causalities of war." There is a hint of mocking in his voice, but Harry is beyond being angered by something as simple as the tone of James' voice. Harry doesn't respond, doesn't move, the bitter tears stinging his eyes.
"Do you see them when you cry?" James asks quietly.
"Sometimes. Usually I see them when I dream," Harry replies flatly.
"I see them waking or sleeping. I see them in the mirror. All I see are scores of dead people. Michael—"
"He was a death eater. He should be in Azkaban," Harry snaps, a vestigial hatred stirring weakly in him. James smiles that dead smile again.
"He is in Azkaban. He's the bassist. He sees the dead as well. Perhaps more than you or I. He sees the people killed during the war—the ones he went to school with, the ones he was raised with, the ones he let the death eaters massacre. A Dementor couldn't make him feel any worse than he makes himself feel."
Harry is silent. The old hatred quiets, and he feels so very tired instead. He looks at the young man next to him. He knows that Baby did not come simply to tell him how Draco died. There is something else. Harry is afraid to know what. The days since Nicholas' funeral have taught Harry to fear new things. He is still not entirely sure he is capable of dealing with the old things. He remains quiet, almost dreading the moment the silent breaks. James speaks.
"Sebastian and Lucius think that I don't like money because I'm a pretentious prick who wasn't loved enough as a child. They're wrong. I don't like my money because I'm a moral pretentious prick and my family's fortune was built on blood." Curiosity stirs somewhere within Harry. He has not heard this story before.
"Your family was rich before Voldemort. It's ancient; Draco tried to show me the tree once." Baby smiles wryly. Another reflex. His eyes are distant.
"Not quite. My family is very old, but we hit a rough patch and all we had was our name, our good looks and several pieces of land with… interesting properties. So we started to sell the products of our lands to those whose motives were questionable, at best. Still, we were at barest levels for survival. Then an ambitious Hogwarts graduate approached us…" He trails off, as if the rest of his story is quite obvious.
"But your family didn't have any Death Eaters." Baby raises an eyebrow. His amazement at Harry's apparent density shows in the barely perceptible widening of his eyes. Harry wonders if he should be pleased that his statement is able to penetrate the apathy that seemed to envelop James from the moment he arrived at the party.
"No, we only supplied them with the raw materials to do their work. Can you imagine? You and I were working our fingers to the bone and trying everything we could to stop that megalomaniacal fuck and my family was stocking his pantry of really nasty things." The disdain in James' voice is so thick that Harry can feel it on his tongue. It tastes like rancid milk. He shudders.
"When did you find out?"
"My last year at Hogwarts."
"But your father made a huge donation to St. Mungo's, to the memorials." Baby chuckles. Harry finds Baby's laughter incredibly creepy, like the dry rustle of leaves—a sound you would expect to hear from the specter of Death, not a young man.
"He damn well better have, since he helped fill the hospitals and the graveyards of the great and glorious dead. I was livid when I found out. I think the argument we had over the family business gave the old man his last heart attack. Good. I never had much respect for him anyway."
The bitterness in his tone startles even Harry, who was beginning to think he had the monopoly on England's natural supply of bitter. "How old are you?" Baby looks up, his face framed by a blood red halo.
"I am 19, going on dust." Harry looks him. In the glow of the fire his skin is radiant. His eyes are large and clear. His lips compress in a solemn pout. Between his somber black clothing, his halo, and his clean features, he looks like a young cleric—a saint in mourning.
"Oddly enough, it was my family's connection to Voldemort that saved my life during the war. You've heard my voice. That is what happens when Voldemort captures you and decides that for the sake of old ties that he won't kill you, he'll just play with you for hours."
"I remember" Harry says, falling silent at the memory finding James' body near the remains of a muggle dwelling.
"He's not dead," Draco said. The way he held James made him look like a dark Madonna cradling the broken Christ.
"Is that good news?" Harry asked, quietly alarmed at the decided lack of relief in Draco's voice.
"That would depend on what they did to him," Draco replied grimly.
"He's unconscious, at least. How—" but the rest of the question was forgotten when Harry looked at his partner's face.
It was the first time Harry had ever seen Draco look clearly disturbed about something. The furrowed brows of the blonde boy worried Harry more than anything else would have. Draco beckoned for Harry to come closer. When he did, Draco gingerly pulled back the sheet draped shroud-like around the younger boy.
Harry was violently ill into some nearby bushes.
"That's despicable," he said, drawing his sleeve across his mouth. He didn't look at Draco, didn't want to see the uncharacteristic concern on the blonde's face. Draco sighed.
"That's Voldemort. I checked his throat."
"And?" Harry dared to glance at Draco, who had collected himself. His face was calm, nearly stony, but he looked tired—the surfeit of death and destruction slowly wearing him down. Harry knew the same tiredness. He was not anxious for Draco's answer.
"It looks like he screamed himself raw." The wave of cold anger that greeted this statement surprised Harry – anger at his own inability to protect those who served under him. He clenched his fist, making bloodless crescents in the not-so tender flesh of his palm. But there was no one for him to hit—not Draco and certainly not the brilliant and battered boy between them.
"Fucking hell. Malfoy, he's only 15. " Much to Harry's surprise, Draco smiled ruefully.
"I know, but you forget, we're only 17 ourselves."
The memory of Draco makes it hard for Harry to breathe.
"Is it true?" he asks. "Was Draco's death—"
"It wasn't an accident, Harry." A choked sob escapes Harry's throat. "It was an attempt on your life. He died saving you."
"Why didn't anyone tell me?"
"We couldn't afford to have you lose faith in the aurors. Everyone had to make absolutely sure that you thought it was an accident. The man who killed Draco was executed as soon as you left the scene. We told you that he had been sent on a scouting mission. Later we told you that he had been killed by Voldemort. In truth, he was dead before Draco had gone cold."
Harry doesn't know who to be angry with first. He just knows that he is very, very angry. Anger burns in the back of his throat and obscures his vision. "You lied to me," he says quietly. His voice shakes from suppressed emotion.
"We thought it was best at the time."
"You all lied to me."
"Yes we did. Every day for the past 3 years, we've lied to you." At least James is unapologetic. Harry doesn't know if he could handle meaningless apologies. Harry closes his eyes. He wants to punch something. He wants to hit something very hard or something to hit him very hard. He wants something, anything to eclipse the pain inside him that just seems to keep growing.
"Please leave," Harry says, his eyes shut against the growing din inside his head. A moment later the door clicks shut. Harry rises to his feet and reaches for Lucius' brandy glass.
Whew! I'm glad that's done at least. Comments, criticism, and suggestions welcome. Review!
Love,
J. Silver