A Dream For The Dead

A Dream For The Dead

Chapter 14

Leaves Change In Colours

The flashes were so bright and so persistent they gave the effect of strobe lighting. The sudden shifts from darkness to light, however, were somewhat refreshing. There was a jet of steam coming from the wands of two separate wizards, stationed on either side of the focus area. The steam was supposedly brilliant. It would serve to make add a haze to the surroundings as well as make Draco glisten as though he was slick with sweat from a game.

Draco disagreed. The steam was hot and lapped at his body more like flames than water. His skin reddened behind the simple glamour he had cast on himself. It was meant to fade the scars that had reopened on his chest as a result of his attack. He was mildly grateful he had thought of it, given that he would otherwise look like a lobster in a blond wig otherwise.

“Gorgeous!” the photographer called as Draco grasped the steel bar behind him and angled his hips, leaning his head back on the wall that was made to look like the Quidditch showers. He was mildly disgusted with the notion of having pictures of him in showers circling the wizarding world, whether they were staged or not. Still, he knew there was no way to refuse without having it bite him in the arse some way or another.

He worried, every time, about the effect this might have on Scorpius. All of the pictures ever taken of him willingly, Draco kept away from Scorpius. He had ensured that his son was not exposed to needlessly confusing imagery. He had protected Scorpius from the darker aspects of his fame –and actions to maintain that fame –over the course of his youth. Scorpius knew that his father was popular with witches everywhere. He was aware that many strangers fawned over his father for his looks and his skill on a broom. He was praised for how much he looked like Draco and, every time, Draco’s grasp on his son had instinctively tightened.

Draco wanted to believe that his son had never considered that his father was a sex object of any kind. He hoped, though perhaps in vain, that Scorpius did not think in any kind of sexual terms and never would. At least not in relation to Draco.

But now that Scorpius was at Hogwarts, with girls that he knew to be fans of his with signed photos and everything, Draco had to worry more aggressively. What would Scorpius do if he saw one of his classmates with a picture of Draco half-naked in her notebook? What if one of his friends –or worse one of his enemies –came across such a photo? What would Scorpius do?

Draco couldn’t quite bear the thought of his son facing that kind of embarrassment.

He swallowed hard and adjusted his position so that he was straighter and his ‘come hither’ look was replaced by a deep a brooding stare.

He had it written into his contract that there were never to be any pictures published of him, no matter the circumstance, where more than his chest was bare. In the event that someone disregarded this stipulation, not only would the offending party face heavy fines and a civil suit from Draco’s representation, but the person would immediately feel their skin burn so hot that they would need to divest themselves instantaneously. They would not be able to clothe themselves again for several days.

The last time someone had even considered publishing nude photos of him in the Prophet, Draco had been treated to fantastic stories of how Terrence Higgs had been charged with indecent exposure, as well as disturbing the peace, for having been forced to run wildly through Diagon Alley during the Christmas season, completely starkers.

Draco ran his hand absently through his hair and more lights flashed in his face. The photographer was apparently keen on capturing every possible angle of Draco.

“Perfect, perfect,” he was muttering as he clicked away at the camera. “Now tilt your head back just a bit, yes that’s it, and lick your lips like you do so well, perfect.” More flashes and clicking noises and Draco did as he was told, with only mild contempt in his eyes.

Draco grasped the bar behind him more roughly as he ground slipped and he felt a strange, completely foreign, stab of pain shoot through him. He wasn’t sure as to the origins of that pain, but he had an idea. As to the cause, he had no clue.

“Draco?” A concerned voice pierced his thoughts. He ignored it, his breathing somewhat erratic. He exhaled and forced his lungs to stay empty for a few moments, until he thought he could breathe again normally. “Draco, are you alright?”

“Fine, Wood,” Draco answered, straightening himself. He looked up at the man through his blond locks. Wood was giving him a worried look and Draco bitterly wondered if it was only because of their game later in the evening.

He brought his hand up and clapped Wood on the shoulder briefly to reassure him. It was only then that he realized, with an invisible jolt, that Wood was also half-naked. His eyes darted briefly to the dark corners of the room, wondering if Aurora was paying any attention to what was going on or not.

“Now, the famous Captain and his Seeker,” the photographer proclaimed. Draco groaned inwardly. This was, most certainly, a result of his interview with Rita Skeeter. He knew, deep down, that he should have more adamantly opposed her suggestion of an affair between him and Wood.

But Skeeter would have just taken that as a form of proof, you know that. At least you know that no one really believes her. No one that matters, anyway.

Draco stood taller and smirked momentarily at Wood, eyeing his bare chest and the way the muscles in his neck twisted and tensed as he leaned his head back. Draco licked his lips and another flash went off.

Perfect.

He stood, chest to chest with Wood, but inches apart so they were not touching. He faced Wood with his body but turned his head to start directly into the camera, his expression carefully adjusting in its mask of displeasure. You are interrupting, his expression told the camera. Wood shifted and placed one arm over Draco’s shoulder, as though resting it there. Draco realized that he was carrying a broom.

It was a strangely possessive gesture and the expression on Wood’s face did nothing to dispute that. But it could easily be to mark his ownership of the broom, not Draco.

Draco placed his hand on his hip and leaned his head back against Wood’s arm. He gave the camera another arrogant look and more flashes went off.

“Great, you two are amazing together,” the photographer flattered. He seemed to think it was necessary to stroke their egos continually. Draco didn’t quite know why, but he wasn’t going to argue. It was aggravating after three hours, sure, but it was still flattery nonetheless. “Now some shots looking at each other.”

Draco cocked one eyebrow and the camera flashed again. He turned to face Wood entirely and the arm dropped from his shoulder. Wood was giving him a deeply amused grin and Draco felt his body tense.

Blaise’s words echoed in his mind and he let his stormy grey eyes rove over Wood’s body. He knew what he wanted to do. He knew what he should do if he wanted to burn those old bridges to the ground. It would be so easy, too. It would be child’s play to press himself up against Wood. There would be nothing simpler than planting his lips against Wood’s neck and letting the photographer capture it all. It would be easy. Wood would never push him away. He knew that. It was ridiculously uncomplicated.

Except that it wasn’t.

Thoughts of Scorpius flooded his mind. Thoughts of Aurora and how she would react. Notions of Scorpius’ disappointment in him, of his hurt. He could see his son’s silver eyes filling with pain. He could see the tantrum Aurora would no doubt throw. He could see how everything that he had built would shatter around him.

He was willing to sacrifice some of his old friends for that feeling of vindication. He was not ready to lose his son’s trust, his love.

He would never be willing to lose that.

So, instead of doing what he wanted to, what he thought would be most shocking, Draco settled for placing his hand around the base of Wood’s neck. His thumb slipped into the dip in his collar and his gaze was intense with his own personal demons as he looked into his Captain’s eyes.

Wood’s eyes flashes slightly before he tilted his head back, letting Draco run his thumb upwards to follow the line of the tendons. His lips parted as he watched Wood move beneath him. He felt his throat tighten slightly as the sensation of Wood’s flesh heating beneath his fingers reached him.

“Whew!” the photographer cried suddenly, waving his hand dramatically as though to fan himself. “You two are smoking hot.” Draco bit back the mirthless laugh that threatened to explode from him. He shook his head slightly, wondering at why American photographers were interesting in British Quidditch players, considering Quidditch lacked so much popularity there.

Them and their bloody Quopod, or whatever they call it.

“Take a short break to change the film,” the photographer went on, looking down at his camera. “And to switch the backdrop. Then we’ll do a few more in the mock-locker room.”

Draco nodded unconsciously and pulled his hand back from Wood’s neck, turning to go find himself a towel. He was dripping from the steam.

“Draco,” Wood called, following him. Draco nodded without turning around, to indicate that he was paying attention. He, meanwhile, spied a girl holding a basket of towels and immediately pounced on her. He took one of the newly folded towels from her and smiled as he left. He much preferred towels to Drying charms. They were soothing. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I told you, I’m fine,” he answered turning back to Wood while patting himself down with the soft towel. “It was nothing, just the steam.”

Wood gave him a confused look for a moment before shaking his head and leading Draco aside to where he thought no one could hear them. Why he believed that they were safer from eavesdroppers right next to the wall rather than three feet away from it, Draco would never know.

“No, I mean,” he started and Draco immediately knew what he was going to say. He caught himself before he rolled his eyes. “Are you sure you’re alright to play tonight.” Draco let out a small groan, much to his own dismay and glared at Wood, who ignored the look to continue. “Astoria can play,” Draco snorted and Wood gripped his shoulder roughly. “She can play tonight, if you aren’t fully up to it. No one expects you to play so soon after your injuries.”

Draco snorted and chewed his tongue for a moment.

“Except everyone does,” Draco scoffed. He glanced over to the strangers in the room. “They all expect me to sit it out. They think I’m afraid of being attacked again. They think I’ll crack under the pressure of another brilliant win, after the last one.” Draco shoved off Wood’s hand. “They’re wrong.”

“Of course they’re wrong, Draco,” Wood agreed desperately. “But that doesn’t mean that it isn’t a good idea for you to sit this one out until…” Draco gave him a sharp look, daring him to go on. “Until you’re back on your game.” Wood’s last words were sheepish and Draco clicked his tongue.

“I am on my game,” he replied dangerously. “So either I sit it out and look like a bloody coward, or I play the game and prove to them that I am not.”

Wood’s eyes softened and he seemed to look very much unlike himself for a moment. He reminded Draco remarkably, and rather unsettlingly, of someone else entirely. A different Gryffindor.

“No one thinks you’re a coward, Draco,” Wood told him soothingly. “No one that matters.”

Draco swallowed and his mind throbbed with words in a multitude of different inks and scrawls. He felt his throat tighten as the letters returned to his consciousness. Threats against Scorpius, against his life and soul, assaulted Draco’s mind like raging waters against a breaking dam. He stared resolutely at Wood, focusing on his eyes and ignoring the celestial pull he felt in his gut. He stood his ground.

“I’m going to play this game.”

+++++

Harry walked aimlessly through Diagon Alley. He had no real intention of going back to the Ministry. There was no reason to do so. He had the letter with him –he refused to leave it at work, given the sensitive nature of the contents –and this was his only case… obviously.

He found himself wishing the last wasn’t true, but it was. Whether he liked it or not, Malfoy was his top priority. The serious problem was, of course, convincing Malfoy to accept that too.

Harry thought over everything he had learned throughout his investigation so far. His mind lingered on the notion that the Malfoys had been stripped of everything they had by the Ministry, on the fact that while Lucius was in prison, the other two were subjected to an abuse of power that made Harry want to vomit. He was disgusted with his own offices, with the whole Ministry.

He shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. The Ministry had been corrupt during many of his years at Hogwarts. The Ministers of the past had often abused power when they believed in something deeply. Bartemius Crouch Sr., though not Minister, had sent Sirius to prison without the benefit of a trial, nor the benefit of the doubt. There was no ‘due course’ or ‘innocent until proven guilty’ when it came to the Ministry and the Wizengamot, particularly not during the war.

They had arrested Stan Shunpike, among many others, for Death Eater activity when it was clear that they were under the influence of the Imperius curse. They were infiltrated and never took a moment to care or notice because the Ministry was run was power-hungry bigots at the time.

Those in the highest ranks of the Ministry of Magic had been abusing power for years, as though it was some ancient tradition that should not be abolished. Like a rite of passage, or something equally as ludicrous.

Harry had only believed that after the war, after the capture of the remaining Death Eaters, the corruption in the Ministry would have dissipated. He believed that they were all so determined to be rid of the darkness that they would seek first to purge it from their own ranks.

He had been wrong.

And given the fact that the Ministry seemed intent on refusing the Malfoys the return of their ancient property, it was clear that Harry was still wrong.

He would need to speak to Shacklebolt about that.

Harry was beginning to understand precisely why Malfoy detested the Ministry so thoroughly. He even understood, in some small degree, why he mistrusted Aurors. But he would still need to find a way to convince Malfoy that he, Harry, was not like all the others.

He suspected that Malfoy knew that and that it was a mark against him. If they hadn’t been rivals in school, if they hadn’t hated each other for so long, then maybe Harry stood a chance. But the fact was that they had hated each other and Malfoy probably still hated him. He couldn’t quite bring himself to say the same, however.

Harry didn’t think, no matter how much he might want to, that he hated anyone, anymore.

Well, except sometimes.

Harry decided, as he walked, that his best option was to be frank with Malfoy. He couldn’t present the blonde with his knowledge of his failed applications to Ministry positions. That would only serve to enrage Malfoy against him. He would think Harry was gloating, or rubbing salt in the wounds. But Harry knew, nevertheless, and the knowledge might help him be more understanding, more sympathetic.

Never thought I would want to be either of those things in regards to Malfoy.

He would present Malfoy with the information he collected from Ron and George. He would even offer up the bit of information regarding Sirius. Sirius had been Draco’s uncle, though the Malfoys banished Sirius like the rest of the Blacks did. The fact that he was important to Harry and that Harry was sharing information about him might seem like a peace offering.

He nibbled his lip as he paused to let a group of excited witches pass by. They eyed him and giggled when he offered them a small smile.

Hopefully, Malfoy wouldn’t enrage him enough to make Harry snap. Hopefully, he could maintain his patience long enough to convince the git that Harry helping him was a good thing.

He hadn’t yet moved from his spot in front of what he now recognized as the Apothecary when Harry’s eyes travelled across the street to a small teashop. It was called Queen of Tarts and was widely known to serve the best pies in all of London. He soon felt as though a body-bind was placed upon him and the feeling had nothing to do with the quality of the tarts.

His eyes, impossibly wide for the look of anger that marred his features, were trained on two people sitting in the window seats of the shop.

All thoughts of Malfoy hissed away like steam from a kettle as he marched across the street and pushed his way into the shop. He tried to rearrange his expression and collect himself before approaching the two people, but he wasn’t sure if it was effective. He had never been particularly good at hiding his feelings.

“Harry,” Ginny sputtered, blinking away her surprise at his sudden appearance. Her cheeks were stained a very pale pink that Harry had learned to notice in their first year of marriage. Ginny was better at hiding her emotions than Harry was, but she was no Malfoy. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at work?”

Harry’s eyes flashed dangerously but he felt the muscles in his face working hard to make his expression one of pleasant surprise. He glanced from Ginny to her companion and then back to Ginny. He blinked once and swallowed. She shifted, apparently having learned to identify his tells as much as he had learn to identify hers.

“I should ask you the same,” he answered in what he expected to be a conversational tone. It wasn’t. It sounded strained, even to his ears. “I thought you had practice today.”

Her face grew somewhat darker and she seemed to collect herself. Her eyes warned him of something, probably not to start anything in public, but Harry ignored it.

“I did,” she responded shortly. “It was cancelled. So I decided to take advantage of my unexpected free time to –”

“See some old friends?” Harry finished for her, his eyes narrowing slightly, the last word delivered slowly and deliberately, his tone full of disdain and venom. It occurred distantly to him that he sounded remarkably like Snape, in that one moment.

Ginny frowned at him and squared her shoulders, but the pink tint to her cheeks was still there.

“Yes,” she answered. She tilted her chin up in defiance and daring. “Is that a problem?”

Harry tensed and then forced himself to relax. He made his face as pleasant as possible and turned to her companion.

“Not at all,” Harry said rather more sharply than he had intended. He smiled but it did not reach his eyes. “Dean.” He nodded to Dean Thomas, sitting across from Ginny. “Pity we don’t see each other more often. I do hope you’ve been well.”

Dean shifted uncomfortably, as though his body was going through the motions of an awkward situation, but something in his eyes did not match his behaviour.

“I have, yes,” he answered quietly. “It’s nice to see you, Harry.”

“Always,” Harry answered, his eyes narrowing slightly. He hadn’t intended it, but suddenly he realized he had adopted Malfoy’s sarcastic politeness. Imitating two Slytherins in the span of five minutes could not be good.

Must be a sign of the Apocalypse, Harry thought bitterly.

“I’ll be going then,” he informed them. “Sorry to interrupt your lunch.”

Harry walked off, ignoring the glare Ginny had shot him and vaguely making a note to himself to stop revisiting Snape’s memories.

He was breathing hard when he left the shop and walked back out into the alley. He hooked a finger into the collar of his robes and tugged them away from his neck to try and find some air. The cobbled ground of the alley started to move beneath him like some grand conveyor belt. Harry braced himself against a wall and tried to shake it off. As he did there was a sharp pain that tore through him and his hand flew instinctively to his scar.

He rubbed it, struck with a momentary, irrational fear. Voldemort was gone. He had killed him years ago. He didn’t have to worry about Death Eaters being after him, or Horcruxes or prophetic dreams anymore.

Nothing is hunting me now.

-----

A/N: The American game Draco refers to is actually called Quadpot, I believe. Equally as random, if you ask me, but whatever. XD Sorry for missing a couple days. Things went mad at my house, lol. Hope you enjoyed this. I personally wish I had been at that photoshoot.

I love you all! Review = love. UNDYING LOVE. Ley, were you the one who proposed to me? I say let's do it! Lol I think that was for another fic though, lol. XD