Chapter Ten of 'An Alchemical Discontent'- Dinner With Ginny
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Chapter Ten-Dinner With Ginny
Harry, this looks acceptable.
Harry stared at the note for a moment, then crumpled it with a violent motion and flung it into a corner of the flat. Then he paced back and forth, swearing steadily to himself, for a full minute.
He allowed himself that much indulgence before the rising emotions drained away and he flung himself on his couch with a sigh, staring at the ceiling.
Responses the length of that note was the most he’d heard from Draco since their meeting with the potions committee. Short, brisk letters, without even a signature, conveying only essential information. And that note was the response Draco had made to the committee’s new list of proposed regulations for the potion, which Harry had written a long, careful letter to him about. He’d asked questions, determined to know what Draco, who had more information about potions and the laws governing them stored in his head than Harry could hope to learn in a year of study, thought of this list. Was there anything he should ask about? Any “innocent” regulation that might prevent them from getting the ingredients they needed or brewing as they should?
And Draco replied like this.
Harry knew something was wrong. He also knew that trying to force Draco on the issue didn’t work, no matter how gentle his plea, no matter how much he swore that he would try to help and listen uncritically. He had slipped several reminders into his latest letter about how they had to work together or Nott and Diggory, who worked together without a gap between them, would overwhelm them.
Apparently, Draco didn’t care.
Harry gritted his teeth and spent a moment rubbing his eyes. Flopping and sulking and moaning around his flat like this wasn’t helping anyone. He should return to the latest piece of film he’d been developing before he’d had to spend so much of his days with Draco, brewing Desire and then selling it. That, at least, was useful work. Harry longed to feel useful. Withdrawing from the world was all well and good as long as it proved he wasn’t about to take advantage of his celebrity status and kept the reporters away from him, but it also meant he had few connections now, outside of his immediate circle of friends.
Fewer people who needed him.
It’s not that I want to be a hero, Harry thought, and forced himself to rise from the couch. I just want to do things.
Dinner with Ginny and Dean that night, which he been wary of, suddenly began to seem a lot less like a penance. At least it would get him out of the flat, give him a chance to talk to other people, and show him faces and voices that responded to him.
I should get a girlfriend. I never suffered from loneliness this much when Susan was around, or Nicole.
But he didn’t want a girlfriend. He wanted Draco.
Crankily, Harry went to take a dose of his potion. He was a few minutes late, having ignored the chime of his clock in order to brood about Draco. Maybe he would feel calmer when he’d had it.
*
Draco couldn’t breathe.
No, that wasn’t true. He could breathe. It was just that the pain from his broken ribs was so intense it kept making him lose track of the neat rhythm and counting he’d set to accustom himself to the movement of his lungs.
He opened his eyes slowly. They were gummed shut with some sticky substance that he thought probably had blood in it, but as he was a long way from his mirror, he couldn’t be sure. He was lying on the floor of his own rooms, where Daphne had come to him last night. He vaguely remembered writing a note to Harry just before she appeared, walking through his wards as if they didn’t exist. Draco suspected she’d altered them, or made him do so, during one of those periods he couldn’t remember.
She’d let him remember the conversation from last night, though.
She’d stooped down in front of him after a casual spell had knocked him to the floor and bound his legs to his back. She ran a hand through his hair, and chuckled. “You’ve seen the effect of my spell with foods related to milk, Draco?”
He groaned out a yes, though he was winded from the fall. He knew not answering her questions would be even more dangerous. And her hand did linger on his forehead in a sweet touch for a moment, as if he had pleased her. Draco wanted to turn away in revulsion from his own relief and happiness.
“Well.” Daphne stroked his shoulder. “It’s not that I want to give you up, or kill you, when you’re one of the best lovers I’ve ever had. But uncertainty.” Her voice deepened into guttural lust. Again, Draco wanted to shudder, but it was rather difficult in the position he was in. “Draco, there’s nothing more exciting than uncertainty. Knowing that you might die at any moment, from one of the foods that has milk in it which you never knew about? Knowing that you might die or be badly injured from a number of other spells I’ve put on you? It’s enough to take me to my knees in the middle of working.”
Draco grunted, and tried to lie very still as her fingers stole over his face. Of course, she was a Legilimens, so he couldn’t really hide his thoughts from her anyway, but he was trying not to provoke her into reading his mind in the first place.
“And now,” Daphne whispered, “you’re thinking of telling Harry Potter. I’ve had you watched sometimes, you know. You like him. You would go to his bed of your own free will, as you would not to mine.” Her voice was soft and full of wonder and puzzlement as she spoke those words.
“But it won’t do any good. Mention this to him by words or in writing, Draco, and-something will happen.” She laughed a little. “To you, to him? I don’t feel like giving you that much of a clue.
“But yes, it will happen. Be assured of that.”
Then she’d taken him to bed. The next part, he still didn’t remember with any accuracy, though she seemed to have modified the Memory Charm again, and some images that could have been from last night played before his inner eye like distorted nightmares.
Now Draco closed his eyes and licked his lips for a moment, easing the dryness of his throat with several swallows of saliva. He never wanted to move too fast after one of Daphne’s sessions, and he needed to make sure of what was hurt and what was not.
Broken ribs, yes; he breathed in deeply and then flinched. He pressed his arm cautiously along the side of his body, but though he found a few bruises and tender spots on his flanks, he thought the ribs were the only injury in his torso.
Then he shifted, and his leg screamed with pain. Through the red haze that followed, Draco thought Daphne had probably arranged him carefully so he wouldn’t feel that pain until he tried to move.
He couldn’t even lift himself from the floor to look and see if it was broken or “merely” fractured. He did know that he couldn’t feel his toes wriggling, and that was a very bad sign. He would have to have help, and that was only one person he could be fairly sure wasn’t included in Daphne’s spell.
“Patty!” he called.
The house-elf appeared silently before him, and stared. Then her eyes filled with tears, and she gave a single, distressed tug at her ears. “Master Draco’s leg is broken,” she whispered.
Well, that confirmed his suspicions. Draco gave a shallow nod. “I have some potions for pain, Patty,” he said. “They’re in the cupboard above my bed. I want you to fetch me the smallest glass bottle of red potion and the biggest crystal bottle of green potion, do you understand me?”
Patty nodded and vanished. And Draco knew he could depend on her. House-elves had a memory and a dedication to duty that no human could surpass.
He closed his eyes, resting, gathering strength for the moment when he would need to lift himself on a knee or elbow in order to take the potions. And he knew that he would have to get rid of Daphne himself, both to save his life and to end the threat she posed to Harry.
He couldn’t make elaborate plans, or she would simply read that out of his mind with Legilimency. Nor could he be certain that he could cast spells she couldn’t counteract. For all he knew, she could have impressed certain commands into his mind that would trigger more pain if he attempted to defy her through magic.
No, it would have to be through the one art that was his completely and which Daphne had given no sign of understanding: potions.
Patty appeared, and Draco made himself sit up. The pain screamed at him from his side and his leg, but luckily it was over quickly.
*
Harry stepped into the Garden of the Hesperides and turned his head briefly, scanning the features of the people around him. Then Ginny called his name and waved. Harry smiled, waved back, and made his way to her table, which was right next to the immense serpent coiled around the tree. The serpent turned its head to examine Harry and hissed a lazy compliment on the green of his shirt and cloak. Harry nodded, not about to risk a hiss back when the restaurant was this full of people. The Garden was evidently doing well.
Ginny stood to welcome him, though she clasped his hand instead of kissing his cheek. Harry understood her reasons for that, and they had little or nothing to do with the possible jealousy of Dean, who stood close at his girlfriend’s side, rubbing her shoulders. Harry nodded to Dean, and his old friend nodded back, caution and welcome both visible in his face.
“Shall we order?” Dean asked, and Harry agreed, glad to have a few extra minutes to gather his thoughts. It didn’t take him long; what he’d had before was good enough. Then he watched Ginny and Dean poring over their menus and murmuring to each other.
They suited one another, he thought, steadfastly ignoring the ache that reminded him how well Ginny had once fitted at his side. Dean gave Ginny protection simply by leaning his head towards her. Ginny accepted it, given the timid smile on her face, but she gave more back. Her trust was absolute. When she dropped a napkin, she didn’t bother reaching for it; Dean would catch it. She leaned extravagantly back in her chair, and he supported her.
And why not? Dean was honorable to her all along, rather than having honorable intentions that came along too late.
Harry swallowed his pain and his guilt. This dinner was about getting past the wounds for both him and Ginny, not tearing them open. He clasped his hands in front of him, trying to look calm and attentive, and was rewarded by a slight widening of Ginny’s smile when she and Dean had ordered at last and were ready to deal with him.
“Now,” Dean said softly, looking back and forth between them. “Tell Harry exactly what you told me, Ginny. He deserves to understand-to know why you’re still so frightened of him six years later.” He caught Harry’s eye, seeming to offer silent support even though he didn’t, couldn’t, approve of what Harry had done to Ginny. Harry returned a stoic nod, then focused on his old girlfriend.
She looked at the table, and he saw traces of the terrified eleven-year-old who had been Tom Riddle’s prey in the Chamber of Secrets. Then she looked up again, and he saw the grown woman who had come to the Battle of Hogwarts with the rest of her family. She nodded decisively, and that could have been a response to Dean’s statement or simply to her own inner turmoil.
“Your magic came out and wound about me,” she said.
Harry nodded and closed his eyes. He could see the shadows, the chain of shadows that his magic had created. It was like no other magical effect he’d read about-not that he’d done much reading. This wasn’t an ability to cultivate, like the Quidditch talent he’d found himself blessed with, but something he would have preferred to forget, a misbegotten talent, a birth defect.
“But it did more than that,” Ginny said, her voice outside the cocoon of self-loathing slowly enveloping Harry, but present, so close, like the touch of a hand to a blind person. “It started to eat me. I could feel my magic slipping away. I could feel memories going. It was-it was like being eaten by Tom Riddle. Exactly like. I would wake up after he was done possessing me and feel as weak and helpless as I was just then. I-Harry, since that day, my magic isn’t as strong as anymore. You ate it.”
Harry braced his palms flat on the table and repeated to himself, several times, that they were in public and he couldn’t vomit or he would attract attention. This was one time when he wished his potion could work on emotions other than jealousy, lust, and rage. The remorse ate at his stomach like acid.
But he didn’t open his eyes and look at Ginny again. He knew that would make him sick up, too.
“I’ve had six years to come to terms with that,” said Ginny. “I should have done it by now. And-you never tried to come near me again, never tried to finish what you started. That proves to me that you’re a good man. And-the potion you’re taking. It’s to keep you from ever doing something like that again?”
Harry could open his eyes now. He could nod without feeling like his skull would crack and his brain would fall out.
“Good,” Ginny said. She smiled, and it was a smile without a tinge of fear or horror, the first one Harry had seen her give the Incident, at least when she was aware of his presence within a room. “Then as long as you’re taking it, I’m safe. And-“ She exhaled deeply and pressed her palms together. “There’s no need for more than that. I should have told this to you a long time ago, Harry. I suppose I thought you might react violently.” She laughed and shook her head. “And I should have known to trust you more than that.”
She reached across the table. “Friends?”
Harry clasped her hand and held it tightly. She didn’t flinch or draw away, though from the tension of the muscles in her arm, he knew she’d been tempted. She just watched him instead, with a kind, patient eye.
“Of course we’re friends,” Harry whispered. “You’re trusting me again, after what I nearly did to you. I can’t refuse that trust.”
Ginny frowned a little and glanced at Dean. Dean shrugged, then nodded. Ginny gave a little flicker of her eyelids in response. Harry felt a momentary ache of desire-not for Ginny, not even for the idea that he might someday have someone he could be close to, but for that, that level of silent communication and no more.
I don’t think I’ll ever share that with Draco, no matter what. We’re too different, and those differences are tearing us apart.
“Harry,” Ginny said, turning to look at him, “we don’t want you to treat this like you’re a-a criminal. You’re not. You’ve proven that. We want you to be able to accept my friendship. And Dean’s. Come talk to us sometimes without being specially invited. Share a meal with us without that hangdog expression on your face. I’ve forgiven you.” Her hand tightened, and Harry again felt her arm ripple as if she were fighting the desire to be away from him. But she was sitting there, holding on to him, displaying strength he knew it must have taken her years to grow back. “Can’t you forgive yourself?”
Harry choked back a sob, and then picked up the glass of water that had already popped out of the crystal in the center of the table. “I don’t know, Gin,” he said, after a drink. He gulped the water again, finding he needed the chill burn in his throat to loosen the words. “Maybe there are some things that have no forgiveness.”
“Not this,” Ginny said fiercely. “Just listen to me, just work with me, just keep talking to me. I want to treat you like a normal friend and a member of the family again, Harry. My brother. Or my brother-in-law, if that’s too close a relationship for you.” She smiled to let him know she was joking. Her arm had stopped quivering at last. “And I want to be able to watch out for you and protect you when you’re vulnerable,” she said, lowering her voice a little. “You’ve got political enemies now, don’t you? And your association with Malfoy isn’t doing you any favors.”
Harry took a moment to get his bearings. “I do have political enemies,” he said. “But Draco and Hermione are helping me fight them. And-well, I looked over the information that you sent me, Gin, and it’s just not very convincing.” He neglected to mention that he’d done it in Draco’s company, one of the afternoons they’d got together to brew Desire, and that they had laughed over most of the documents. “Most of them can’t even identify him as other than a blond brewer. No distinctive features. Where did you get the information?”
Ginny frowned. “I told you. People I know who’ve dealt with him.”
“But what were their names?”
“Sorry, Harry.” Ginny’s voice was low and apologetic. “I think Malfoy could still hurt them if he knew who they were.”
Harry hesitated, then spoke the words he’d hoped he could get through the conversation without uttering. “I just wonder if they were people that Nott and Diggory primed with information, in order to try and put a rift between me and Draco.”
Ginny’s eyes opened very wide. Then she said, “But how would they have known that I was going to send you information about this? I was just owling friends I knew had bought many potions in the past.”
“If one of those friends told them…”
Ginny slapped her free hand flat on the table. “I won’t hear any words against my friends, Harry.” Her voice was dangerously quiet. “Just like I’d fight to protect you and welcome you back into my home and life, I’d do the same thing for any of them.”
“I didn’t say that they’d do it knowingly,” said Harry. “They may have done it for the best of reasons, thinking Draco is really dangerous-like you do-or they may think Diggory would be a fine Minister and telling the truth as they see it to help his campaign along is a noble act. But I can’t and won’t take the accusations seriously until I know who made them.”
Ginny shook her head. “What you’re talking about didn’t happen.”
“You’re certain?”
“Positive.”
And with that, Harry had to be content. He still thought finding a fund of information against Draco was just too good to be true, but Diggory and Nott’s plan had still failed; he was allied with Draco and would continue to be.
Although, if you really want that to be true, you should visit Draco as soon as possible and make sure you’re still on the same page about what lies between you.
Harry vowed to do that after dinner before he could change his mind, and then settled back to enjoy Ginny’s company. She spoke lightly, freely, of her Quidditch playing, the articles she had started writing for the Daily Prophet about Quidditch, the times she volunteered in the joke shop with George. Dean told Harry she had a horrible secret: she wanted to give all their children the trendiest American Muggle names. Ginny shrieked and pretended to throw her bread at him as he described having daughters named Madison and Taylor someday, and a son named Phoenix.
Then Harry argued that naming a baby Phoenix was not the worst thing that could happen to him, and Dean and Ginny joined in throwing bread at him.
Yes, Ginny was happy, Harry thought, leaning back in his chair. And if he wanted to be happy in the same way, then he would have to take steps on his own, like trying to free himself of guilt that might be excessive and figuring out what the hell was going on with Draco and what he wanted to go on with Draco.
The second before the first. It’s more important.
*
Harry Apparated carefully into the alley next to Draco’s shop. He hadn’t drunk anything at the Garden of the Hesperides, but he had spent every spare moment during the conversation, and during his journey here, trying to decide how he wanted to speak to Draco, and still not finding the right words.
Of course, the journey over here was pretty short.
Harry sighed, and raked a hand across his scalp, digging deep and tugging until he knew his hair stood on end like a porcupine’s quills. Well, that was not his fault. And when he went up to Draco, he thought it wouldn’t really matter what he looked like. So far, Draco had shown signs of being attracted to his magic, when they brewed the potion together, and maybe the way he gave his trust. Messy hair wouldn’t help or hinder his chances.
And it was honesty that was best, in the long run, Harry thought, as he moved slowly towards the shop, glancing up in hopes of spotting a light in the window. He would just tell Draco that he’d like a romantic relationship with him, and explain why. And if Draco refused, at least Harry would know it was a refusal, instead of the uneasy silence that seemed to hang between them these days, and he could regretfully tuck away thoughts of a romance.
He couldn’t pretend not to be disappointed, but he could move on. That was what you did when someone didn’t want a romantic relationship with you any longer. Draco’s friendship would be enough.
Finally, he remembered that Draco’s upstairs rooms had only enchanted windows; the one real window that opened to owls wasn’t visible from the outside to any ordinary wizard. He made a noise of disgust at himself and jogged to the door.
A moment later, he paused, but for a different reason. Draco’s wards were much weaker than Harry had seen them the last time he came to the shop, the day before they met with the potions committee. Now they were a barely pulsating shimmer on the air, and Harry could have broken them easily; even a child’s accidental magic might have done so.
It didn’t fit with Draco, who was paranoid about his shop in general, not just his stock of the Desire potion.
And then a figure moved in the shadows near the shop’s entrance. Harry fell back a step, narrowing his eyes. He would have just charged ahead when he was younger; now he wanted to wait and catch a glimpse of the face if he could.
The figure didn’t come into the light, though. After some studying of the wards, as if to confirm something he’d heard of, he nodded and held out his wand. Three words of Latin followed, too quick and hurried for Harry to make out.
And Draco’s shop tilted, twisted, rumbled, and began to fall, stone by stone.
Chapter 11.