Chapter Six of 'Incandescence'- Initiating Contact
Title: Incandescence (6/12 or 13)
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Warnings: Angst, profanity, manipulation. Takes place fairly far in the future after DH, but ignores the epilogue.
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione, Luna/Neville, Lucius/Narcissa.
Summary: Draco has become a successful writer by novelizing the lives of heroes from the war with Voldemort. He’s managed to charm the most difficult and reticent into talking to him. Now he thinks he’s ready for the ultimate challenge: persuading Harry Potter, who’s notoriously close-mouthed, to give him both the material and the permission for a novel based on him.
Author’s Notes: This is intended to be a fairly short novel, probably around 50,000 words (12 or 13 chapters), but I won’t rule out going longer.
Thank you again for all the reviews!
Chapter Six-Initiating Contact
The first thing Draco did when he got home was scribble a crisp letter to Angela explaining that he probably wouldn’t be writing the book about Potter. It was formal; it involved words, which he knew how to analyze and manipulate; and it was easy, unlike most of the other decisions that he needed to make about the Potter novel. Justice took it away with an eager hoot. Angela was one of Draco’s few correspondents who kept owl treats on hand.
Then he settled against the back of the chair and scowled at the ceiling.
I wish I knew what I was supposed to do now.
He’d followed a procedure for his novels for so long that he felt rather lost without one. He contacted the person he was thinking of writing about, received permission for all relevant details, conducted interviews, decided which details to include whole and which to transform or exclude, created an outline that consisted of important scenes floating in a syrup of vague images, and then began to write. Later would come the tearing-up of the outline, the creation of a new one, cramps in his right hand from writing with a quill for hundreds of pages, and much swearing. But at least he knew what destination he was headed for with that process and had some idea of how long it would take.
He could apologize to Potter for years and it might never take.
Then Draco snapped his fingers at himself and sat up. He was acting like the villain in The Hope-Well, whom he’d based on Theodore Nott during a particularly stupid period of his life, whinging about hypotheticals when he had the power to change the hypothetical situation into reality.
All I need to do is offer Potter something solid, instead of nebulous apologies that he has every right not to believe. I think Skeeter has probably ‘apologized’ for prying into his life before, too. Why should he believe me without evidence that I really want to help?
I need to find out something more about the writer of the letters. Depending on how hard that is, it’ll give me not only evidence to show Potter, but some indication of how much shit and deep water I’m willing to wade through for him. And then maybe I can figure out why I’m so interested in him when he won’t be the subject of a novel.
*
Draco paused outside the Writer’s Labyrinth to conjure a mirror in his palm so that he could look at his face. Yes, he looked artfully pale and disheveled-like someone burning with a major secret, who wanted to confess that secret even as he knew that it probably wasn’t the best thing to do. He smiled and dismissed the mirror.
He didn’t need to say anything aloud. He could construct a story out of his gestures and facial expressions, and every writer in the Labyrinth-except perhaps the historians and other authors of nonfiction, whom Draco often found baffling-would know how to read it. Eventually, one of them would ask him what piece of gossip or bad news he had heard, and Draco could fling his rock into the calm pool.
He stepped into the Labyrinth, and paused to read the scraps of writing pinned to the first stone. They were mostly cryptic, only a single word, but sometimes a full sentence or paragraph. All of them were from books popular at the moment. Someone who read widely or had acquaintance with most of wizarding Britain’s literary community and its current projects would be the only one who could understand what the messages meant.
And, thus, thread the maze.
It didn’t take Draco long to notice that all the messages today were about love. Love began with l, and so did left, and thus he should take all left turns until he came to the second stone. Sometimes the code was more complicated, with messages spelling out a pattern of turns in different directions, but Elena Cassidy, who owned the Labyrinth, must be in a simple mood today.
Draco stepped into the maze beyond the stone. It was made of heavy brick and contained several disorientation charms that were meant to blight a navigator’s sense of direction. Draco laid a hand on the wall and let it guide him whenever his head swam and rendered him uncertain of which way to turn.
Left, left, left, left. The maze seemed to rise and fall beneath him, and swirl madly in several directions, but his hand remained in place, touching reality. Draco made the final left turn and came out in front of the second stone, a large piece of marble that looked as if it had been chipped irregularly out of a quarry. The quarry had probably let Cassidy have it for cheap.
There was only a single piece of parchment there today. Draco’s eyebrows rose, and his suspicions about Cassidy’s mood increased. Be careful when you enter the middle, he told himself, and read the message.
When the stars shine down on me, I feel grieved, knowing that they have shone alike on life and happiness, death and despair. I can take no comfort from their light.
Draco sighed. He recognized the passage, all right; it was from the novel he’d based on Dean Thomas, Self-Portrait With Roses. Immediately after the character thought that, he fell to the ground and lay there, paralyzed by his doubt, shaking with fear and unable to move. The direction Draco had to move in was obvious. But he didn’t like it.
Fuck you, anyway, Cassidy, he thought crossly, and then stepped around behind the stone and jabbed one foot strongly at the floor.
The brick slid away beneath him with a grating sound, and suddenly he was hurtling through a tunnel that twisted and coiled as it burrowed deeper into the earth, a tunnel that was barely wide enough to contain his body. Draco found himself unconsciously holding his breath, even though he knew very well that the tunnel was equipped with Cushioning Charms and minor Repelling Hexes that would keep him out of contact with the walls.
Around he went until his head spun and he thought he might vomit, and then he landed in the middle of a large pile of feathers. At least it isn’t pine branches this time, Draco thought, as he climbed to his feet and coughed and sneezed feathers out of his face. Sometimes Cassidy took her moods out on her customers before they even reached the center of the Labyrinth.
He stood in front of the third boulder now, a white stone with a faint, eerie green glow like foxfire around it. It was at least bright enough for Draco to read the message pinned to the stone without a Lumos. Much do I wonder at those who cannot love.
That was a little more unclear, but there was no reference to going up or down there, and no words that began with r. Draco turned left again, and, when he found only spiraling walls instead of another stone with another message, he once more began turning left every time he encountered a corner, hand on the brick to guide him as before.
Soon he heard a burst of laughter from up ahead and felt the warmth of a crackling fire. He sped up, fixing the expression of nervous gossip-hoarding he’d practiced on his face.
The center of the Labyrinth was a large room, most of the time, though it varied in size as Cassidy shifted the walls of the maze to her liking, the way that the routes to reach the room did. Sharp corners and blunt, rounded projections broke up the line of sight so that people could have private or public conversations as they chose. There were seven fireplaces, or maybe five; Draco had never managed to come up with a consistent count, and suspected that Cassidy changed that, too, as she chose. Each bore a large and crackling fire with plenty of fodder. Raised above the rest of the floor was the bar where Cassidy, a tall woman with red hair and enough venom in her gaze for fifty Grangers, reigned in solitary splendor.
The tables were crowded tonight; at a glance, Draco made out most of the usual suspects, like Denise, Yolanda, and Boot, and a few of the ones who never seemed to venture out of their homes unless it was a special occasion. Rosemary Ashling simpered about finishing her latest murder mystery to an awe-stricken crowd of admirers, twining one orange curl around her fingers. Gabriel Wrexby, the only man whose poetry Draco found more poisonous than Boot’s, was holding court in the corner next to Ashling, declaiming part of his latest poem and then breaking off to stare moodily into his drink. Draco shuddered in distaste as he passed Wrexby and made his way up to Cassidy. At least Boot wrote in what was recognizably English, instead of smashing words together to create nonsense phrases such as “shinglebrooding.”
“Draco.” Cassidy nodded at him in a way that suggested she had read the advance proofs of Golden Stories and approved. Draco relaxed marginally. His deception would be much easier if Cassidy was cooperating with him. “What will you have to drink tonight?”
“Water. Just water.” Draco shuddered and cast a glance around the room, turning in a complete circle as he did so. When he turned back, Cassidy was regarding him with that level glance that meant he had interested her. Draco pretended to catch it with surprise, as if it hadn’t been his intention to provoke it in the first place, and gave a little shamefaced laugh. “I must look a right mess,” he added, and touched his hair self-consciously.
“Not as much as you usually do,” Cassidy said, and pushed a glass of water across the bar to him. “What’s troubling you?”
“The notion of a criminal hiding in our community.” Draco seized the glass and drank the water off at one gulp, though as always Cassidy kept it cold enough to kill a shark. “I understand there’s such a thing as artistic integrity, but threatening murder because you want to write about a murder is a bit much, even for me.”
Cassidy went still, and there were sidelong glances from either side. Draco kept on staring into his glass, even though he wanted to burst out laughing with triumph. He had judged his audience well. Writers, even more than most people, had a sensitivity to certain words. “Murder” was certainly one of them.
“How much evidence do you have for this?” Cassidy asked.
Draco knew this was the moment when he had to tread most carefully. Cassidy had-uneasy relations with the Ministry. What she had once done or been arrested for, Draco didn’t know, but he did know that she didn’t tolerate the slightest hint of lawbreaking in the Labyrinth. If someone committed a crime, she would make sure they were no longer welcome among her customers.
Luckily for himself as well as his ploy to plant gossip that would circulate around to the writer threatening Potter, Draco was a good liar. More than a decade of twisting and transforming the truth to suit his purposes had taken care of that.
“Enough.” Draco shut his eyes, because they would reveal less that way, and shuddered, gripping the bar as if he was about to fall over. “I’ve seen the threatening letters written to someone who certainly hasn’t committed a crime one should threaten murder over. I know that the ink and parchment that went to make up the letters were such as only a writer would use. I’ve seen the way that the victim has to look over their shoulder and watch out for everyone because they don’t have a clue where the threats are coming from.” After a moment, he had decided not to reveal Potter’s gender. It could be too much, especially since the rumors must have spread that he was trying to write a novel about Potter by now.
Cassidy swiped with unusual force at the bar. “If I catch the person doing this,” she said, with calm that Draco knew could hide a Dark curse, “then yes, I would make sure the Aurors knew exactly who it was.”
Draco hid his delight with a shrug that he made as casual as possible. Cassidy would make sure word of his made-up story spread, and in the reactions to it, then Draco thought he would catch a glimpse of the culprit. “Thanks, Cassidy. It disturbs me.” He took on an earnest expression and deployed one of Granger’s arguments. “Maybe we should think more about the real people around us instead of just the stories we write about.”
Cassidy nodded fierce agreement and refused the Sickles that he tried to offer for the water. Draco lingered for a while, telling his story over to those people who hadn’t been able to hear it the first time and elaborating it with the details he felt it was safe to use. Scrooge’s Self-Strengthening Sheets seemed an innocuous detail, as well as the confirmation that the victim’s behavior was becoming increasingly erratic as a result of the threat. That last, at least, was something the criminal already had to know about.
Draco felt quite pleased with himself when he returned the way he had come, retracing his steps through the maze. (He did check each stone first to make sure the messages that told the way through the Labyrinth hadn’t changed). He had offered bait that might make someone bite, but not enough details to lead anyone who snatched at it from curiosity straight to Potter. And he had signaled himself as an interested party, which meant that gossip in the matter would come to him.
He chuckled as he rose back up the tunnel and landed near the stone that bore the inscription from his own novel. Perhaps this would be enough solid evidence for Potter, who could be told to keep his eye on the literary community and give it a good shake now and then to see what happened.
Someone seized him around the throat and spun him, slamming his face into the brick wall. Draco felt the pressure of something cold and hard against the middle of his back, and breath against his ear. His attacker didn’t speak, though, and didn’t stand close enough that Draco could feel anything about the body, so he didn’t know who it was, how tall, or even whether male or female.
He went limp and slid to the ground as if he had fainted. That gave his attacker a momentary puzzle as they attempted to juggle Draco’s body with the weapon or wand that they’d been holding on him.
A moment was all Draco needed.
He rolled out, from under the attacker, screaming and kicking and biting and flailing. Several of his punches landed, and the analytic side of him thought that was a good thing, because he could watch for glamours to disguise bruises now among writers of his acquaintance. But the other person reacted quickly, too, and snatched up a bottle of something lying nearby that they sprayed in Draco’s eyes just as he tried to haul himself upright and see who this was.
Draco screamed and had to claw at his suddenly burning eyes. Whatever this was, it stung, as though someone had just jammed needles on fire into his head. He wanted to stand up and pursue the footsteps running frantically into the distance, but he had to curl up on his side instead and fight to keep from vomiting from the pain.
It was Cassidy who found him; she had always been good at charming the Labyrinth to respond to certain sounds and movements, and then following up on those sounds and movements. She splayed her hands over his ribs and murmured into his ear, “I reckon you didn’t see who attacked you.”
“No,” Draco gasped. “I don’t-what went into my eyes?” He’d been too involved in his pain to think about it before, but now he had to start wondering if he was going to be blind because of what the attacker had done to him.
“A mixture of inks, from the marks on your face.” Cassidy held a wand over his eyes and murmured something, a healing spell which contained no Latin words Draco recognized. He only knew it was a healing spell because a blessed coolness flooded across his eyes, and he slumped back in relief against the floor of the Labyrinth as the air in front of him brightened and sparked back into cloudy colors. “I didn’t think there were inks that could be mixed that way,” Cassidy continued, her voice light. “I shall have to reconsider.”
Draco was glad to climb to his feet and lean on her. Cassidy would take care of him. More than that, she would make every effort to find the deranged person who had done this and take them apart. This was an illegal attack on the grounds of the Labyrinth. She would consider it an attack against her.
“I-I did think of one thing,” he said, gasping a little, as Cassidy moved the walls of the Labyrinth around them with grumbling sounds so that they could reach the entrance faster. “This was so quick that it had to be someone who was there in the center when I made my announcement. I don’t think someone could have sent an owl, and I know that the fireplaces there don’t permit Floo calls.”
“There are a few other possibilities,” Cassidy said, “such as a telepathy spell. But, yes, at the very least, that would imply that someone who was there tonight knows the identity of the person sending the death threats, because that’s the only reason they would have to spread the news abroad so quickly.”
Draco nodded, and then winced as he stubbed a toe against the wall. He blinked. He was seeing more and more every minute, but “better blurriness” wasn’t really that much better.
“I suppose that the Labyrinth didn’t tell you who it was?” he asked wistfully. He wasn’t sure about how much the magic of the place allowed Cassidy to be in communion with it, but it was reasonable that it might have told her the identity of the attacker as it had told her it was hurt.
“No,” Cassidy said. “I have tried to respect my clients’ privacy, and as every writer is welcome here and many are new, I have not wanted to set up wards that admit only certain people.” She was silent for some moments as they paced around a large corner, and then she added, “I may sharpen the wards.”
For a moment, Draco felt a bit of pity for the mysterious writer.
*
St. Mungo’s released Draco soon enough, saying that Cassidy had done a good job of healing his eyes and that they’d never seen anything like the weapon used on him. It was a mixture of inks, but apparently it had been increased in potency with a chemical from an animal called the Hideous Hopfrog. Draco left them chattering excitedly over it and came home to his tower with a sense of relief.
Justice greeted him with several nips and hoots that suggested he hadn’t been fed enough lately. Draco tossed him a dead mouse and collapsed into his chair, shutting his eyes. The room was swirling around him, and he wanted to go to bed.
But he had a letter to send first. If he kept this knowledge to himself for much longer, then Potter would probably accuse him of being in league with the threatening writer.
Draco snorted and went searching for parchment and ink. I could wish that I had that much creativity, to make a weapon out of ink.
He thought about it for a long time, but all the words that came to mind seemed wrong. Then he thought about the way that Potter kept trying to duck out of photographs, and scowling at people who came to look at him, and putting himself out in public anyway, because he believed that his principles should triumph over his discomfort.
Someone like that would best appreciate a simple letter that told him exactly what he needed to know, and had no hint of fawning.
Draco smiled.
Dear Potter:
I think that I may have discovered a clue to the identity of the person writing you those letters. I told you that I think it’s an author, and this evening I released several vague accusations-suitably vague enough to protect your identity, I assure you-that I knew someone in our community was causing trouble. I did this at the Writer’s Labyrinth, a well-known gathering place, and in the presence of twenty or thirty people I’m acquainted with at least vaguely. I know the bait was taken, because someone attacked me as I was leaving. I unfortunately didn’t get to see who it was; they hit me in the eyes with an ink-based weapon that blinded me and ran away.
This is the list of the people who were gathered in the Labyrinth last night:
He put down all the names that Cassidy had mentioned; she had a keen eye and a quick memory, and she’d given him that list before she left St. Mungo’s. Draco didn’t add any notes about who he personally thought was a more likely suspect. At this point, he really didn’t know, in part because he didn’t know who among those people had bought Hell’s Fields Ink or would have access to Hideous Hopfrogs.
When he finished the list, he finished the letter with a simple sentence: This should give you the beginnings of an investigation.
Yours,
Draco Malfoy.
He felt tremendously purged when he finished, as though he had just accomplished a much more daunting task than a letter. He gave it to Justice, who was gracious enough after the mouse to do no more than hunch when he heard Potter’s name. Draco gave him another mouse to sweeten him up and sent him on his way.
He did examine his eyes in his mirror before he went to bed, since the Healers had said he should, but saw none of the redness or popping veins they had warned him about. Pleased, he fell asleep easily.
*
Someone pounded on the door of his tower.
Draco made sure to have his wand ready to hand when he opened the door. That attacker was not about to take him off-guard twice.
Potter pushed past him, spun around, and stood there glaring at him. Draco blinked. Obviously Potter had received his owl and read it this time, but he had no idea why Potter had come to hunt him down instead of writing him back or ignoring him. He decided that, as the intruder, Potter could speak first.
For long moments, it didn’t seem as though he would. He was breathing harshly instead, his green eyes so bright it almost hurt to look into them. Draco maintained his stare and his silence nonetheless, and finally Potter shook his head.
“You’re stupid. Brave, but stupid.” His voice grated as if it physically pained him to admit what he was going to stay next. “And I could use a contact in the literary community who can investigate this. But only on the condition that you promise me that you’re not going to write a novel about me.”
“Done,” Draco said simply.
And, in the end, it was painless, because even an unborn story couldn’t compare with the physical reality of Potter here, looking at him with eyes that displayed perplexity and worry and a cautious trust.
Chapter Seven.