Author: jetsam_porridge

Rating: R

Challenge: #5 Draco is told to find information about the Order through Harry using any means necessary.

Summary: Draco must earn Harry’s trust, but he didn’t realise what the consequences would be.

Warnings: Slash, obviously.

Notes: Lyrics and title from Ani DiFranco. Thanks to a_fish and klave for the fabulous beta job. <33

_____________

-*-
We are made to bleed
And scab and heal and bleed again
And turn every scar into a joke
We are made to fight
And fuck and talk and fight again
And sit around and laugh until we choke
All that steel and stone
Are no match for the air my friend
What doesn’t bend breaks…
-*-

The room is silent, flickering candlelight reflected in the glossy surface of the antique dining table. At one end, a blond man in black robes lounges in his tall, straight-backed chair. Between his fingers he twirls a ring bearing his family crest, identifiable to even the most common of wizardkind. A slight smirk graces his sharp face, his clear blue eyes staring straight ahead towards the small man at the other end of the table.

This small man’s name is Peter Pettigrew, but he is known by the somewhat unflattering nickname of Wormtail – a nickname gleaned as much from the animagus form he took as from his rat-like appearance in human form. He fidgets anxiously under the gaze of the man facing him, his hands twisting around the dark fabric of his robes. As Lucius Malfoy watches, Wormtail’s eyes flick from the floor to the double doors set in one wall of the room; then from the windows opposite them to the covered easel next to him.

Seemingly satisfied by his companion’s discomfort, Lucius’ gaze moves to the boy at his side. Even by the most casual glance one can tell that the boy is the man’s son. They are identical in looks, from pale golden hair to deathly white skin, from blue eyes even to the shape of their faces. The son is dressed like his father to heighten this resemblance. It is a subtle reminder to those who will soon join them in the room of Draco Malfoy’s unique position.

The only difference between the man and the boy is in their manner – the man aloof, but with an unmistakable aura of power; the boy just as distant, but with the air of one bored by the rituals of his elders.

In the last few seconds of quiet before the others arrive, Wormtail frets over the finer details of what he will be presenting tonight. As ever, his behaviour exposes his nervousness, but he is too caught up in his frantic thoughts to notice.

The boy, as boys of his age often are, is both consumed by curiosity and wishing he could be somewhere else. He wonders when the meeting will be over, what it is about and why he is there. He thinks about the new potion he is making and what nasty things he will be able to do with it. But unlike most boys of his age, there are also nagging concerns over what will be expected of him and whether his behaviour tonight will be acceptable. His stomach churns with an unshakeable feeling that everything about the night has been carefully planned and he worries that he will somehow ruin it.

Draco’s mind jumps from thought to thought, but never lingers long on anything.

The man, replacing the ring on his finger, thinks of nothing but what he hopes his son will achieve this night.

With a twist of the brass handles, the double doors are flung open and Wormtail trembles visibly. Men dressed in immaculate black robes file into the room in silence, their resonating footsteps the only sound, and line the sides of the table. When Lucius nods, they pull out their chairs and sit.

There is a long, silent pause, then the silken tones of Lucius’ voice cut through the air like a knife.

“You have been summoned here tonight to be presented with an idea. I myself have not yet been enlightened as to what the idea is. Neither, I am told, has our Lord been told anything of it.

“He has placed his trust in his assistant, Wormtail, and asks that we do the same.”

The meaning behind his words is not lost on anyone, least of all Wormtail.

Again there is silence, until the quiet, nervous Wormtail speaks.

“Thank you, Lord Malfoy.”

The title shocks the others but none of them question it. They know their place and they know that Lucius Malfoy will make sure that they always remember it. The moment passes and Wormtail continues.

“We know that Dumbledore’s so-called “army” will do anything in their power to uncover our plans. In the past, he has used one of our own as a spy against us. I propose we do the same thing.”

Wormtail crosses to the easel, pulling off the black sheet covering it and launches into a complicated description of his brilliant plan. The boy stares out the window, disinterested.

“…And of course, we will use someone that Dumbledore will never suspect of foul play. Draco.”

Draco’s head snaps around. “What?”

“You will find out their plans. You will use Harry Potter in order to do so. You will use any means necessary.”

Silence.

Then Draco starts to laugh.

“Care to share the joke, Draco?” his father says, his voice soft but the threat clear. The others gasp collectively; a small, fearful sound. The boy’s laughter dies but his smirk won’t be chased away.

“Someone that Dumbledore will never suspect of foul play?” he says, voice shaded with mocking disbelief. “Of course, that makes me the obvious choice.”

“Actually,” Wormtail pipes up, voice trembling slightly. “It does. Dumbledore suspects you but he hopes that you won’t do anything. His hope will blind him. He won’t notice anything you do.”

Draco snorts and shakes his head. His father frowns slightly.

“Whatever,” Draco says and stands. “I’ve got things to do.”

But his way is suddenly barred by a long, black cane, its silver snake head clutched in Lucius’ hand.

“Where do you think you’re going?” The voice is cool, calm. Draco knows it’s deceptive.

“To prepare.”

Lucius pauses; then smirks a little, dropping the cane. “Go.”

And Draco is gone.

-*-

The Hogwarts Express clanks along the tracks, its wheels groaning under the weight of hundreds of students. But Draco is oblivious to the noise; he is lost in his own thoughts. His father’s voice floats around his mind.

“Our Lord is counting on you…he has high hopes for you…don’t disappoint me, Draco…”

The knock on the compartment door barely registers for Draco, and it is a silent Crabbe who stands to answer it. He slides it open and scowls when he sees Hermione Granger in the doorway. Her voice is curt and businesslike when she speaks.

“McGonagall wants to see all the Prefects.”

Draco blinks, grimaces and stands up. Without a word, he follows Granger down the hall.

He knows Potter doesn’t trust him; knows it as well as he knows that he doesn’t trust Potter either. How can he gain information through Potter, who would sooner die than tell him anything?

There is Imperius, of course, but Draco knows that Potter is unusually resistant to it . It’s not an option. He could use Veritaserum, the truth potion, and the obliviate charm to ensure that Potter remembered nothing. But Draco is not skilled enough to perform the charm without risking damaging Potter’s mind.

This does not leave him with many more options.

As Granger pulls open the door into the Prefects’ Carriage, Draco realises that he is going to have to earn Potter’s trust.

-*-

It takes Draco sixteen days, nine hours and thirty-four minutes to fully appreciate the magnitude of his task.

He is in Potions class; only the third class of the year. He, as usual, is there before Potter and his little fan club, and as he enters the dungeon, Potter, as usual, directs a venomous glare at Draco as he passes him.

It is only now that Draco truly appreciates the significance of that look.

For once, Draco doesn’t respond with a glare of his own. He simply meets the other boy’s eyes momentarily then lowers his gaze back down to his desk. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Potter pause a moment, confusion knitting his brows. Then he shakes his head and moves on.

“Bastard,” Weasley mutters as he passes Draco.

Draco doesn’t reply.

This ritual continues for weeks and not just in Potions class. Draco is quietly polite to Potter. At first, Potter is angry and suspicious, but as the days roll by, he leans more towards pleasant surprise and gratitude. Granger seems torn between believing that Draco is planning something and the hope that maybe he’s just decided that for this year, their last at Hogwarts, he can abandon the bitter rivalry between him and Potter. Weasley, of course, remains darkly sceptical that it is all part of some evil plan.

Which of course it is, but they don’t need to know that.

Draco knows that it won’t be long before he can make the first approach.

-*-

“Potter.”

“Malfoy.”

The words are curt but not malicious. This is new territory for both of them: polite conversation. They stand in awkward silence in aisle 48 of the library, near the section on Hinkypunks. Potter adjusts his glasses, habitually pushing them up on the bridge of his nose while Draco racks his brains for something to say.

“Potions today was pretty good, wasn’t it?” Potter says eventually.

“Yeah,” Draco replies. “Better than usual, you think?”

“Well, yeah. But I don’t like Potions. You do, don’t you? So it would always be good for you.”

“Mostly. Snape’s a good teacher.”

“Bastard, though.”

“Only because he hates you.”

“For no reason.”

“I’m sure he has his reasons.”

There is a pause, then Potter speaks again.

“What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Researching my History of Magic assignment. Goblin wars again.”

“Oh, the one about Odgy the Small?”

“Yeah, are you doing it too?”

“Yeah. Found anything good?”

“There’s a whole stack of books in aisle 53. Second shelf, next to the ones about the Gringotts goblins.”

Potter gives Draco an unreadable look.

“Thanks,” he mutters awkwardly, and heads for aisle 53.

“You’re welcome,” Draco says quietly, just loud enough for Potter to hear.

Potter pauses momentarily, surprised. Draco wonders if he will say something.

But he doesn’t and continues walking. Draco’s stomach clenches. For a minute, he doesn’t move, lost in his thoughts. Then he whirls on his heel and walks away; books precariously balanced under one arm.

-*-

For the next few weeks, these odd little meetings continue. When they see each other in the hallways, their eyes meet and they nod politely. If they meet between Quidditch practices, or in the library, or during class are assigned to the same group, they engage in inane small talk. They do not fight, they do not argue and they don’t even exchange glares.

Of course, it is all highly inconspicuous; the other students mustn’t find out the extent to which their truce has gone. To them, it simply appears that the two boys have given up fighting, choosing instead to focus on more worthwhile pursuits.

Draco is pleased with this new arrangement but there is something missing. Some element that was there before is now gone. He can’t make sense of the feeling, an odd tightening of the stomach, a hollow feeling in his chest as if he has forgotten something important.

He chooses to ignore it, and decides that now is the time to take the next step.

“Potter,” he greets the other boy.

“Malfoy,” is the polite reply.

It is early; the sun has only just risen. Neither of them is surprised to see the other taking advantage of the still morning to fit in some Quidditch practice before breakfast. They let themselves into the broom shed.

“Good weather for flying,” Potter comments. Draco murmurs his agreement. He steps outside, broom in hand, and Potter follows.

“One-on-one?” Draco offers, glancing sidelong at the Gryffindor. Potter smiles.

“Sure.”

Within minutes they are competing as fiercely as they always do, dodging, blocking, and completing complex manoeuvres learnt in Quidditch Monthly. Draco flies his broom above the goalposts, Potter hot on his heels, and they dive in unison, so close that their knees and elbows touch.

But when Draco tries to pull out of the dive, he finds himself unable to do so. He seems to be firmly attached to the other boy, and they hurtle towards the ground, landing in a tumble of limbs and brooms. Potter groans and hurriedly untangles himself from Draco.

“What happened?” he says breathlessly.

“I don’t know,” Draco replies, absently rubbing his shoulder. “My glove caught on something.”

Potter shrugs, running a hand through his windswept hair. “Oh well. You OK?”

Draco blinks before replying. “Sure. You?”

“Fine.”

There is an awkward silence before Draco stands.

“We’d better get to breakfast,” he mutters and heads for the broom shed.

“Oi! Malfoy!” Potter calls after him, and Draco turns. “Same time tomorrow?”

Draco only hesitates for a second before nodding in acquiescence.

And so their strange truce continues. They meet before breakfast in the early hours of the morning, rain, hail or shine, and practice. Draco finds himself looking forward to the sessions, and the odd, empty feeling has diminished somewhat.

One morning, he sits at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, buttering his toast. He glances across at Gryffindor and frowns to see both members of Potter’s little fan club speaking animatedly to him. He can see the reprimand on Granger’s face from where he sits, and he can see Potter shrink in his seat. He can almost make out Granger and Weasley’s voices combining into one distant jumble of words.

“...every morning...that bastard...tired lately, Harry... forgotten what he’s done to us...last six years... got to stop...”

He knows they are talking about him, but somehow, he also knows that Potter won’t listen.

That’s when his father’s eagle arrives, and Draco takes the letter to his room.

-*-

“Looking a bit pale today, dear,” the mirror tells him.

“I always look pale,” Draco snaps. He runs a hand over his gelled hair and the other hand scrunches a piece of parchment. He bites his lip then unfolds the letter, reading over its brief message for the thousandth time.

Draco,

We eagerly await your arrival for the Christmas holidays. We hope to see that you have performed to our expectations.

LM

He scrunches it up with an explosive sigh. He stalks out of the bathroom, down the corridor and into his private room – courtesy of his father, of course. He throws the parchment into the fire and watches it turn to ash.

-*-

Lucius stares unblinking at his son and Draco fidgets under his scrutiny.

“I had hoped...” the man began softly.

“It’s early in the year,” Draco says. “These things take time, Father.”

“You’ve had time, Draco. You’ve had months.”

“This is the only way.”

Lucius raises an eyebrow eloquently. Draco meets his gaze stubbornly.

“Very well. You may go.”

Draco lets out the breath he was unconsciously holding and leaves before Lucius can change his mind.

-*-

The morning after his return, Draco finds himself on the Quidditch pitch. The sky is grey, and he can tell there is a storm coming.

He is not surprised to see Potter waiting for him.

“Welcome back,” Potter says.

“Thanks,” Draco says. This greeting surprises him; he only expected to be acknowledged, not welcomed. But he doesn’t question it and they take off, shivering in the wind.

Soon it is raining and Draco’s hair plasters itself to the side of his face.

“Let’s go in!” he shouts. “It’s freezing!”

Potter nods and they land, dashing across to the safety of the broom shed. They slam the door shut after them, panting and laughing after their mad sprint for shelter. Draco shakes his head in an attempt to loosen the raindrops from his hair. Potter stares at him for a moment.

“You shouldn’t gel your hair,” he says suddenly. “It looks better down.”

Draco looks at him in confusion and Potter shrugs. He crosses to the shed’s one tiny, grubby window and peers out of it.

“This storm’s not going to let up any time soon,” he says gloomily.

“How will we get back to the castle?” Draco asks.

“I think we’re going to have to wait it out,” Potter replies, turning and sliding down the wall until he’s sitting. “We’ll catch hypothermia if we go out in that.”

Draco snorts. “We’re going to catch hypothermia anyway if we don’t warm up.”

“Do you have your wand?” Potter asks. “We could cast a warming charm.”

Draco shakes his head. “I left it in my room.”

“Your private room?” Potter says, grinning. Draco shoots him a dirty look and opens a cupboard, pulling out some blankets. He hands one to Potter and wraps the other around himself, leaning against the wall.

“Sit here,” the other boy says, gesturing to the ground beside him. Draco frowns.

“Body heat, idiot,” Potter explains, rolling his eyes.

“Oh.” Draco slides down the wall and for a few minutes they sit in silence. Potter’s teeth begin to chatter and he scoots closer to Draco, who tenses slightly.

“Malfoy,” Potter begins.

“What?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

Draco looks over at the other boy, raising one eyebrow. “Depends what it is.”

“Are you going to be Marked at Easter?”

Draco’s stomach lurches and he looks at the wall opposite him. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” he says curtly.

“It’s just...” Potter replies hesitantly. “There’ve been rumours. I want to know if they’re true, because if they are, that makes you my enemy.”

“Wasn’t I already your enemy?”

“No,” Potter says, eyes on Draco’s face. “You were just someone I didn’t like.”

Draco stiffens angrily, stands up and stalks to the other side of the shed. He opens his mouth to speak but the words that spring to his tongue sound ridiculous even in his mind and he closes it again.

“If you get Marked,” Potter continues. “You become a threat.”

“I was already a threat,” Draco sneers. “I’ve always been a threat and I’ll always be a threat. I’m the one people aren’t sure about. I’m the one people are guarded around; they’re scared I’ll report anything they do to my father and the Dark Lord. They think I’m nothing more than a minion.”

“Are you?”

“What?” Draco frowns.

“Are you more than a minion?”

Draco is silent for a moment. “Yes.”

Potter crosses his arms. “Prove it,” he challenges. Draco raises his eyebrows.

“Prove it? Prove it how?”

Potter shrugs. “I don’t know.”

Draco’s face scrunches as he thinks. When he finally speaks again, he is cautious, unsure of what he’s doing. But he keeps going and doesn’t know why.

“My father,” he says quietly. “And the rest of them, too...they want me to spy for them. Learn about the Order.”

Potter steps back. “They want you to infiltrate the Order? Is that why you’ve been being friendly?”

Draco sighs distractedly and runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this,” he admits. “I was supposed to use you to get information. Making friends with you was the best way.”

Potter frowns in confusion. “So this...this friendliness. It was all an act?” he asks, indignant.

“I said was, Potter,” Draco replies exasperatedly. “Things have changed. I sort of...like this arrangement.”

“What, you made friends with me because you had to, but then you changed your mind and now you want to? And you expect me to believe that?”

“Why else would I be telling you?” Draco’s voice begins to rise in anger. Potter clenches his teeth but doesn’t reply.

“Yes, Potter, I want to be friends with you,” Draco snaps. “Who knows why? And, quite frankly, who cares?”

Potter bites his lip. “I care.”

Draco frowns again. “What?”

“I care what your motives are!” Potter shouts. “If you’re doing this out of obligation, in order to help someone who’s trying to kill me, then get out!”

“I’m not doing it out of obligation!” Draco shouts back.

“But you were! And who’s to say that that hasn’t changed?”

“It has changed,” Draco seethes.

“Prove it, then!”

They are within inches of each other now, glaring angrily at each other. Draco, for the first time, sees those famous eyes up close, and tells himself that he is not frightened by their angry flashing. The two boys breathe heavily and Draco pointedly ignores the odd tight feeling in his chest.

“Prove it,” Draco hisses. “It’s all about proof with you, isn’t it? Why can’t you ever just trust someone?”

“You haven’t exactly given me much reason to trust you!” Potter shouts.

Draco racks his brains for something to say but comes up blank. So he does the only thing that seems logical.

He grabs Potter by the shoulders, leans forward and kisses him.

For a moment, neither of them move. Then suddenly, Potter reaches for Draco’s waist and Draco pulls back with a frightened cry. They stare at each other in absolute confusion, until Draco runs to the door, yanks it open and disappears out into the storm.

-*-

Draco avoids Potter for the next few days. He knows the other boy wants to talk to him but hopes that if he stalls long enough Potter will forget about it and leave him alone.

Because that’s what he wants, of course. To be left alone.

In the end, it’s Potter who approaches him with blazing eyes and seething anger.

“Stop avoiding me,” he hisses, shoving Draco up against the cold stone walls of the Charms corridor. Draco’s muscles tense and begin to tremble but he glares right back.

“I’m not avoiding you,” he spits.

“Then what are you doing?” Potter asks, and Draco can’t think of anything to say to that. Potter smirks at him and Draco struggles violently against his grip.

“Let go of me!” Draco hisses furiously.

Potter just looks at him for a moment.

“Don’t,” Draco whispers. “I know what you’re going to do. Don’t.”

Potter’s eyes flash and he loosens his grip. Draco stands up straighter, adjusting his robes. The silence drags on, and they stare at each other.

“Malfoy-” Potter begins, but is cut off when Draco whirls them around and very suddenly pins him to the wall with his body and attempts to devour his mouth. Potter responds just as violently, counterattacking with tongue and teeth, running his hands over every inch of Draco’s torso.

Draco doesn’t even stop to think, he just feels, and it feels better than anything he’s ever felt before. He hears a moan but can’t tell if it’s him or Potter. He doesn’t care anyway, because Potter is the one pinning him to the wall now. His hands are tugging at Draco’s shirt and his lips are biting and sucking and tracing an invisible line down his neck. Draco throws his head back, gasping for air.

Potter draws back and Draco whimpers at the loss of contact.

“We can’t do this here,” he breathes.

Draco grabs him by the hips and pulls him flush against his body. “I don’t care,” he growls and licks his way along Potter’s jaw. Potter moans a feeble protest, but it dies away when Draco’s fingers dance along his thighs. His eyes widen and he draws in a sharp breath as Draco grinds their hips together, his hand deliberately placed in between.

The frantic movements cease, and the two of them look at each other for a moment. Pupils dilated with desire, they breathe heavily and their muscles tremble.

Then, as if someone has pressed a button, they are kissing again, almost consuming each other in their need to be closer. While the other grabs at Potter through his trousers, one of Draco’s hands grabs at Potter’s shirt.

“Off, off,” he moans desperately, and pulls it violently. The material tears and Draco tries to ignore his sudden dizziness.

“What if someone sees?” Potter gasps, but the thought flies from his mind when Draco’s hand slips down the front of his trousers and wraps around him.

“Draco,” Potter moans.

“Harry,” is the frantically whispered reply.

Draco’s hand begins to move and the other boy whimpers nonsensically, muttering a disconnected string of words. Harry’s eyes widen, his muscles tense and his head spins in an explosion of pleasure.

Draco watches the other boy with wide eyes as his expressive face twists with pleasure. His heart beats faster than it ever has before, he can’t seem to get enough breath, and as Harry shouts his name, he throws his head back and comes. His head hits the stones behind him, and suddenly everything is black.

When he wakes up, Harry is gone.

-*-

When the Owl arrives a week later, Draco can barely breathe.

Dear Mr. Malfoy,

We regret to inform you that this morning at 11:36am Lucius Malfoy was found dead in his office at the Ministry of Magic...

He knows Harry is looking at him from across the hall, but can’t bring himself to care.

He picks up the note that had come with the Owl and reads it, hands shaking.

Dear Draco,

Your father was murdered by the Order. I will take no precautions; I know it’s true. You are not safe at Hogwarts. Return home at once.

His fingers brush over his mother’s signature and he scrunches up the parchment violently.

He refuses to look at Harry as he leaves the Great Hall.

-*-

Harry finds him, eventually, on the balcony of the North Tower.

“Odd,” he observes. “I would’ve thought you’d go to the dungeons.”

“Fuck off,” Draco says, voice dark and dangerous, his whole body shaking with tension.

“Draco-” Harry pleads.

“Don’t call me that!” Draco screams.

Harry’s eyebrows crease with worry. “What happened?”

Draco whirls around. “Your little army killed him.”

Harry steps back, eyes wide. “What?”

Draco advances forward, step by step, as he speaks.

“They found him in his office this morning. Dead. Murdered. And do you know who killed him, Potter?”

Harry’s back is against the wall and Draco slams his hands on either side of Harry’s head.

“The Order.”

Harry closes his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Draco laughs, but the laughter is eerie and empty of emotion. “Sorry? You’re not sorry. You hated him.”

Harry opens his eyes to glare at Draco. “He tried to kill me,” he protests.

“And you killed him. Is that justice?”

Harry frowns in desperate confusion. “I didn’t kill him! I didn’t even know until you told me he was dead!”

Draco stares at him.

“You might as well have,” he whispers, takes his hands away and stalks back inside.

“Draco!” Harry calls, running after him. He places a hand on Draco’s arm and feels it go rigid.

Draco closes his eyes, squares his shoulders and pulls away.

“Stay out of my way, Potter,” he says, and the venom in the words stings.

-*-

When he passes Potter in the halls, Draco won’t meet his gaze anymore. He is far too terrified of the burning anger and betrayal Potter’s oh-so-expressive eyes would show. He walks past him, staring at the ground and readjusting his path so as to not pass by too close.

On the odd occasion when he does look the other boy in the eye, Draco’s stomach contracts with guilt and he thinks he might throw up. He quickly looks away and continues walking, cursing his pride.

Because deep down, Draco knows that it wasn’t Harry’s fault, and if it wasn’t for the pride he so desperately clings to, he could tell him that and maybe receive the forgiveness he so desperately craves.

-*-
What doesn’t bend breaks.
-*-

Fin.