InsaneJournal

A Mitigating Circumstance - part three
A Mitigating Circumstance (part 3/8ish)
Pairing: Harry/Draco and implied Harry/Ginny
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Someone is hunting down and killing former Death Eaters, one by one, and it is only a matter of time before he (or she!) gets to Lucius and Draco.

ONE TWO

Draco’s secret (as Harry discovered later that day) and the seemingly endless source of glittering trinkets that adorned his body beneath the unassuming robes he wore whenever he was around his father, was that, in addition to becoming a formidable fencer, Draco had apparently become an accomplished cat burglar.

“All that, and I play the piano too,” Draco said, sounding unaccountably bored as he threw open the gilded doors to an enormous ballroom. “So, the next time you think to ask me what I’ve done with myself since the Battle of Hogwarts, remember who it was who played The Moonlight Sonata for you on Christmas Eve. And by candlelight nonetheless.”

His footsteps echoing ominously, Harry walked into the middle of the octagonal room. He felt as though, at any moment, a spotlight might suddenly illuminate him where he stood, and he’d be forced to perform an aria. Or perhaps a tap dance or a tragic soliloquy. Fleetingly, he wondered if that’s precisely what had been required of a prepubescent Draco. Perhaps the room had simply absorbed years of his performance anxiety like a giant sponge. He shook his head to clear himself of the idea and focused on Draco’s last words instead. Beethoven. Candlelight. Of course, he had no intention of spending Christmas Eve in this creepy place if he could help it, but for some reason the thought of conveying this to Draco didn’t seem nearly as satisfying as it should’ve.

“I can imagine this place looked very different when you were growing up,” he said cautiously.

Draco flicked back his open robes and sat down before the single piece of furniture in the entire room, a full-sized grand piano with brass pedals, and began to play a Strauss waltz.

“Yeah, my parents used to hold the Wiltshire Solstice Ball here. Quite the society scene.” He laughed ruefully – at least it sounded that way to Harry. “Everything was covered with garlands and fairy lights.”

Harry looked around, trying to picture the room as anything but dark and empty and cavernous. He’d always had a vivid imagination (probably the result of having spent a good portion of his childhood locked in a cupboard with nothing but his own thoughts to entertain him), but try as he might, he couldn’t summon the image of gowns and laughter and fluted champagne glasses. He walked over to one wall and peered at the gilt Baroque mouldings with their fat-arsed cherubs and small-breasted, large-hipped maidens and noticed they were covered with a fine layer of dust.

Behind him, Draco’s playing, already less than perfect, suddenly faltered.

“Fuck! I hate that part. I bollocks it up every time!”

Harry turned and shrugged, disconcerted by Draco’s vehemence. “I dunno,” he lied. “Sounded fine to me.”

“Then you’ve a tin ear as well as no sartorial sense,” said Draco snappishly. He plinked about absently on the keys for a few minutes with one hand, while Harry continued his stroll around the room.

“Want to go get dinner with me?” he asked suddenly.

Harry frowned. “Actually, I really should catch up on my reports . . .”

“Potter!” he wheedled. “When did you grow so stodgy and dull? You can work on your reports anytime . . .”

“I imagine I can also go into the village to buy dinner with you anytime as well,” Harry interrupted.

Draco grinned and walked his fingers slowly down the length of the keyboard until he was stretched out along it like a cat in the sun.

“That’s true. But who says we’re going to buy dinner?”

Harry’s frown deepened. “I have no intention of joining you on one of your little burglary escapades,” he said. “And the less I hear of them, the better. You’ll be lucky if I don’t report your extracurricular activities to your probation officer.”

“Didn’t you listen earlier when I told you I don’t actually keep the things I steal?” Draco asked, pushing himself up off the keyboard with a discordant clang that set Harry’s teeth on edge. “I just borrow people’s jewelry for a few days. It’s not like they’re using it.”

“What about this dinner we’re going to go ‘get,’ then? Going to return that as well?”

“Ah, so you are coming with me,” Draco said slyly. “Brilliant! Let’s get dressed then. Make sure you wear black. And layers because it’s fucking cold out there . . .”

“Answer my question, Malfoy.”

Draco shot him a sulking petulant look. “Oh for Merlin’s sake, I just take a few tins of food and maybe a box of biscuits,” he said. “And it’s not like I’m robbing single mothers and pensioners or anything like that. Have you seen the houses around here? A lot of these places are summer residences.”

Harry crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at his feet. The thought of breaking into someone’s home with Draco Malfoy should be repellent to every value he possessed, but he had to admit, he was bored out of his head. Also, it probably wasn’t a bad idea for him to keep an eye on Draco and insure he didn’t do anything worse than take some food no one was eating anyway.

“All right,” he said grudgingly. “But just because I’m agreeing to come with you doesn’t mean I approve.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “The thought never even occurred to me,” he said. “Saint Potter and all that rubbish.”

“You don’t need to be a saint, or even an ordinary law-abiding citizen, to know breaking into someone’s house is a bit dodgy,” Harry replied.

“Whatever,” Draco said, standing up and stretching until his t-shirt pulled free of his trousers, bearing a swath of pale skin. “I’ll meet you in the front hall in ten minutes. Chop, chop, Potter.”






“Hold on, hero boy!”

Swallowing his retort along with a mouthful of Draco’s hair, Harry slid his arms around Draco’s waist and scrabbled for a place to rest his feet.

“There are pedals just behind mine!” Draco shouted and stomped on the ignition. “Come on, you old fucker, you!”

Harry laughed, swiping Draco’s fine static-filled hair out of his face. “Old fucker? Malfoy, this is a 1938 Brough Superior SS 100! Where the hell did you get it?”

“Ask me no questions, and I will tell you no lies,” Draco answered, his breath smoking in the darkness. “Come on!” he yelled, throwing all his weight into the kick start. Suddenly, the bike roared to life, and he sat down hard between Harry’s legs.

“Watch it! You nearly crushed the family jewels!” Harry shouted into the sudden wind and Draco’s campy white silk scarf, which had now joined his hair in trying to stopper Harry’s mouth as they tore down the Malfoys’ long driveway, spraying gravel as they went.

“Hold on, you idiot!” Draco shouted.

“I am!” Harry shouted back, squeezing Draco even tighter in what was practically a Heimlich Manoeuvre, though he doubted Draco would notice through his layers of jumpers and jackets.

“If you fall off, I’m not turning back to look for you! Just roll under a hedge and hope a car comes by before you freeze to death!”

“Lovely. Real nice, Malfoy!”

Draco laughed and then let out his Seeker’s “whoop!” as they peeled out through the gates and on to the narrow icy lane. Harry buried his face between Draco’s shoulder blades as they ricocheted off the hedge on the far side, and Draco had to drag one of his steel-toed boots on the ground to right them again. Looking down, Harry noticed a trail of sparks on the pavement not unlike the one he’d made when testing his wand for the first time in Ollivander’s.

“Ever wish you’d known?” Harry yelled once they were steady again.

“Known what?”

“Known you were the master of the Elder Wand?”

Draco snorted ruefully. “Only every other minute of every day. Used to be every minute, but I’m getting over it.”

Harry swallowed, feeling like a wanker. What a daft question!

“It probably wouldn’t have been enough, you know,” he said, trying to sound placating despite having to shout in Draco’s ear to be heard. “Against Voldemort, I mean. You needed the other Hallows and, well, it wouldn’t have hurt to have had a piece of his soul lodged in your skull. He could’ve still disarmed you . . . ”

“It mightn’t have been enough to finish him, but I sure could’ve taken care of Greyback if I’d known . . .”

Even through the layers of clothing, Harry felt Draco shudder.

“Don’t tell me,” he said, feeling sick. “I don’t want to know.”

“Don’t worry, I wasn’t planning to,” Draco replied, and Harry wished he could see Draco’s face. Without even meaning to, he found himself mouthing the word “sorry” against the back of Draco’s neck.

“There are a lot of people that owe me apologies, Potter,” Draco yelled over the roar of the bike. “But believe it or not, you’re not one of them. Here we are. Hang on and stop being such a girl.”

“Says the bloke who wears lipstick and pearls,” Harry laughed, unsure whether to feel relieved at getting off the hook so easily for his stupid question or disappointed that his desire to comfort Draco had been dismissed so flippantly. “Where’s ‘here’?”

“‘Here’ is ‘here’,” Draco replied unhelpfully, letting the bike stall and then coasting over the crunching gravel. “Get off and help me push this thing into those bushes over there.”

“I thought you said no one was home,” Harry whispered, suddenly suspicious again.

“They’re not. I just don’t want anyone from the lane looking down the drive and seeing a strange motorbike on the lawn.”

Harry disentangled himself from Draco’s scarf and Draco’s hair and climbed off the bike.

“Looking a wee bit bow-legged there, Potter,” Draco said smirkingly as he watched Harry walk gingerly around to take the other handlebar in hand. “Reckon you haven’t ridden anything wider than a broom before. Poor Weaselette . . .”

Draco’s mouth closed with a snap when he felt the tip of Harry’s wand beneath his jaw.

“Another ground rule I must’ve forgot to mention,” Harry said evenly. “One word about Ginny and I will hex you. You’ve been warned, Malfoy.”

“Fuck, you’ve developed a quick draw there, Potter,” Draco said, rubbing his throat. “I’ll have to show you how to fence. Those reflexes could come in handy . . .”

“Malfoy,” Harry said sharply. “Did you hear what I said?”

Draco glared at him and turned back to the bike.

“I heard you,” he said sullenly. “No slagging off the Weasley bint . . .”

A bright stream of light whistled from the tip of Harry’s wand and struck the ground beneath Draco’s feet, causing Draco to let go of the bike’s handlebars and leap aside. Harry cast a quick Wingardium Leviosa before it could hit the ground.

“That’s my fiancee you’re talking about,” he hissed. “Watch your tongue.”

Draco looked up from the blackened snow beneath his boots, his face so white that Harry worried for a moment that he’d actually hit him. He hadn’t meant to – he’d only meant to startle him because clearly his earlier warning hadn’t sunk in – but then he saw the most remarkable thing: Draco’s chin wobbled. Harry shook his head.

“No way, Malfoy,” he said slowly. “No fucking way. You are not in love with my girlfriend . . .”

Draco tore off his glove with his teeth and drew the back of his hand viciously across his face. In the moonlight, Harry saw the tears the same instant they were dashed away.

“You are the world’s biggest idiot, Potter,” Draco snarled. “And I do mean the world’s biggest. I’m gay, you arsehole. I thought you’d managed to figure that out already. And being gay means I don’t fancy girls – Weasels or otherwise. I’m not . . . fuck it all. I’m not crying over the Weaselette. I’m crying because that’s the first bit of magic I’ve seen in two years. Two fucking years!” His voice broke, and he turned away to kick angrily at a concrete garden gnome. “You haven’t a fucking clue! I dream of magic. I dream of casting spells like I used to dream of having my dick sucked. I don’t even care anymore if it’s me doing it or not. I miss the feel of it in the air. Even if it’s just the possibility of magic . . . Fuck you! Why are you staring at me like that?”

Harry blinked. “I’m not staring,” he replied lamely. “I’m just looking.”

“Well, stop looking!” Draco tugged his glove back on and turned away. “Help me with the bike, will you?”

“With . . . with magic or not?”

“I don’t care.”

Harry used his wand to float the bike back on to its wheels and held it steady until he and Draco could take a handlebar on each side.

“Finite Incantatem,” he said softly, and then slowly, their footsteps and the sound of the tyres overly loud in the biting air, they pushed the bike behind a rhododendron.

“I’d say I’m sorry,” Harry finally said after the silence had stretched way beyond uncomfortable. “But what’s worse? Being banned from using magic or being locked away in Azkaban as a prisoner?”

Draco turned to him, his face as white and expressionless in the moonlight as the snow-covered lawn around them.

“Who says I have to be in Azkaban to be a prisoner?” he asked dully and without waiting for Harry to follow, he crouched down and crept toward the house, as silent and fleeting as a shadow.





“So,” said Lucius, folding his copy of The Prophet neatly before turning, with undisguised skepticism, to his bowl of instant porridge, “another former Death Eater is dead.”

“We can neither confirm nor deny that statement,” said Dawlish, scrubbing at a blotch of egg yolk on his robes with a napkin he paused now and then to dampened in his water glass. “Auror policy.”

“It’s published in the newspaper,” said Draco blandly. “How secret can it be?”

“The newspaper could be inaccurate. Who knows what the reporter’s agenda might be?” Dawlish replied.

Lucius held up the folded paper, displaying a photograph of a hand drawing back a sheet from the face of a dead man, over and over again, like a Muggle magician making something disappear for his audience. Except in the photograph, nothing ever disappeared. The bloodless face always returned. “That’s Gibbons,” he said.

“Gibbons, Gibbons, sliced to ribbons,” said Draco in a singsong voice. Lucius frowned at him and turned to Harry.

“Was he under Auror protection as well?”

Harry glanced at Dawlish, who shook his head until his jowls quivered. Harry sighed. Apparently, the man didn’t have a subtle bone in his body.

“Yes,” he said to Lucius. “Yes, he was.”

“Mmmmm. Hardly inspires confidence. I am assuming you people have some kind of lead?”

“Now that really is confidential information,” said Harry. “As I’m sure you’d already guessed.”

Lucius smiled and toasted Harry with his juice glass.

“Potter’s agreed to spar with me today,” Draco said suddenly.

Frowning, Harry turned his attention from Lucius to Draco. “Have I?” he asked. “I don’t remember that. I have reports to write.”

“Don’t worry. It won’t take me all day to wipe the floor with you,” Draco replied.

Harry stared at him. Since their conversation about Ginny and magic and prison the night before, Draco hadn’t said a single word to him. Not knowing whether to follow him into the house or not, Harry had stood shivering on the lawn until Draco had emerged through the front door, his arms full of boxes and tins. One by one, Harry had shrunk each item and tucked them in his pockets, all the while aware of Draco’s gaze following his wand like someone who’s been hypnotised follows the arc of a pocket watch. He’d wanted to say something, but he hadn’t known what. So neither of them had said anything, and Draco had excused himself from dinner, telling his father he’d “eaten in town” and wasn’t hungry. Unwinding his scarf from around his neck, Harry had watched Draco climb the stairs in the front hall and disappear into the gloom of the unlit hallway. It had occurred to him later, just before he turned in for the night, to check on Draco, but then the awkwardness of it all had stopped him. What would he say, after all? Er, hi Draco. Just wanted to say goodnight? So he hadn’t, although he’d lain awake for a long time imagining what might have happened if he had. Imagining the almost constant half-erection Draco seemed to have in his presence and how touching it might feel. It wasn’t that he wanted Draco, Harry had told himself. It was only that Draco so clearly wanted him. After all, how could a person just simply ignore the kind of attention Draco had shown him from the moment he and Dawlish had first arrived? It was like having a giant vat of warm molasses poured over the top of your head. It was like having someone slide a hand up your thigh in the middle of class. It was like . . . Well, it was simply too all-consuming to ignore.

But, Merlin, it was also dangerous.

“Want’s wrong, Potter? You’re not scared, are you?”

Harry raised his eyes from his porridge and watched as Draco slid two fingers inside the high collar of his conservative grey robes and spread them apart just wide enough that Harry – and only Harry – could catch a bright glimpse of a sapphire pendant between one button and the next. There was something so secretive about the gesture, so suggestive, so vaguely obscene, that Harry felt his face redden. Draco grinned.

“Two o’clock,” he said. “The gallery in the west wing. Don’t be late.”


. . . to be continued . . .