Changing of the Guard

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Chapter Seventeen—Theater-in-the-Round

 

“Draco!”

 

Draco turned around, curious. He’d been just about to leave to meet Potter for their little riot when his mother caught him at the top of the stairs. That was unusual. She’d seemed reluctant to speak to him in the past several days, avoiding his company altogether at most times and staring at him oddly when she couldn’t. Draco wondered if she was looking for signs of Imperius.

 

“There is a question I should have asked before and did not,” Narcissa said, as if that would make up for her sudden oddity in accosting him. She had her hands folded into the sleeves of her robe. She wore pale green-gray, the shade of olive leaves, which washed some parts of her complexion out and gave others a startling presence, like white flame. Draco knew she was in a complicated mood whenever she put those robes on; no one name would be able to cover all her emotions. “Are you very much in love with him, Draco?”

 

What a question. Of course, at no time in the past few weeks would Draco have been able to answer that with the complete truth. It was only a few of his reasons for holding back the truth that had changed.

 

He bowed his head and folded his arms across his chest, giving the question the deep, serious consideration Narcissa would have expected from her son on a matter so important to his future. Draco didn’t think it was his imagination that his mother’s eyes grew brighter as the moments passed, but whether it was with happiness or tears or feverish impatience, he did not know. Narcissa had her tells, just as Lucius did, but those tells were the clues to a richer and subtler inner life than Draco’s father possessed, and Draco could not always be sure he was reading her perfectly.

 

“I don’t know,” he said at last. “Our relationship has become more complex than I anticipated since we made ourselves public.” To say the least. “I would say I do not think the same thing of him now that I did four weeks ago.” And isn’t that an understatement. Four weeks ago I had never heard of one of him and considered the other a pathetic weakling. “But what my thoughts and emotions have settled on…” He gave a little shrug and smiled at his mother. “They haven’t told me that yet.”

 

Narcissa loosed a harsh, trembling breath, and one of her hands clenched tight enough that white patches flared along her knuckles. The other reached out, half-crooked into a claw, and caressed Draco’s face. He stepped forwards, caught it, and pressed a fleeting kiss to her palm.

 

“Is there a purpose behind this question, Mother?” he asked softly. “Is there something I can do for you? Is there something else you want to know?”

 

Narcissa looked away from him and shook her head slightly. Her eyes still had that deep shine Draco could not really understand. “No,” she breathed. “I need more information before I make up my mind, but that information cannot come from you.”

 

Draco watched her for a moment. He disliked considering his mother on the opposite side of the game he was playing—he had long since accepted that Lucius belonged there—but she should know that if she tried to interfere with Draco’s independence, he would push back.

 

“Very well, Mother,” he said. “Enjoy yourself today.” He knew she had an appointment with a pure-blood witch of her acquaintance to talk over gardening, one of the hobbies she had steadily been taking over from the house-elves in places where wizard magic could handle the flowers better. Draco approved. No one, pure-blood or not, could make parties the center of her life all the time, and Lucius would never have stood for his wife working in a trade or going to anything so common as a Quidditch game without his accompaniment, to lend her dignity.

 

I still don’t know if I want to get married or not, but I know I don’t want a marriage like my parents’.

 

“And you, Draco,” Narcissa said, and gave him another wan smile, and traveled down the stairs, lifting her robes around her as if she were suddenly afraid she might trip. Another sign of her emotions, Draco thought, but he did not believe nervousness was the most prominent of them.

 

Then he thought of her last words, and grinned. His mother knew he was going to the Theater-in-the-Round with “Brian.” She did not know what he intended to do there.

 

I wonder if the rumors or the papers will tell her first?

 

*

 

“You’ve received the money, then, I take it.” Harry was glad he could sound amused in front of this boy and not have to hide the emotion. It would have been hard, given how much astonishment still shone in the boy’s face.

 

“Oh, yes!” Raymond Nusante nodded several times, then seemed to realize he must look a fool and stopped, putting his hands over his mouth with a discreet cough. His eyes were brilliant with that astonishment still. Nice-looking eyes, Harry thought absently, a darker brown than Hermione’s, though lately Harry had found himself preferring a paler shade. Nusante’s hair curled around his robe collar, and though he had obviously tried to scrub up a bit before the appearance of his first play, a natural grubbiness haunted the corners of his mouth and the backs of his ears. “I couldn’t believe that Draco Malfoy was willing to support me, you know? I mean, our families don’t even know each other that well!”

 

Harry felt his smile turn melancholy for a moment. Nusante was only nineteen, an idealistic playwright still convinced his words could change the world. He reminded Harry strongly of himself, before Harry had realized how much pain and tradition went hand-in-hand in the wizarding world, and how much simpler it was to adapt himself to the people around him rather than demand that those people change to suit him.

 

Your supposed revolution won’t change anyone’s life, but it might give a few more people courage and strength to make the change for themselves, Harry reminded himself. Just because you chose to hide and divide your life doesn’t make it the best solution for everyone.

 

“In this case, it has everything to do with orientation and very little with blood,” Draco’s smooth voice said behind them, and then an arm curved around Harry’s waist and a kiss was pressed to the back of his neck. Harry leaned towards Draco before he could stop himself, then remembered it was all right. Nusante would be expecting some sort of display like this, both because the papers had prepared him and because of what Draco had paid him to do.

 

Harry tilted his head back and let his hair brush against Draco’s cheek, the best way to return the kiss from his current position. Draco’s eyes deepened slightly in color, burning like a thundercloud ready to release a storm. Harry blinked, startled. Draco hadn’t had a reaction to such a simple touch before. Perhaps he was falling in love, becoming more emotionally and sexually involved with Brian.

 

Six days, now, Harry reminded himself. Six days, and he’ll be free—furious and betrayed, but free. He’ll go on to make a happier life than he could have with me, since he’ll also have his freedom from Lucius. And everything will move much faster after this. Besides the money they had planned for Draco to send to Nusante, Harry had made a few preparations of his own that Draco didn’t know about.

 

“Well,” said Nusante, sounding somewhere between impressed and aroused, “I’ll be sure to do my best.”

 

He bustled off, from the alley in which they stood, behind the theater, through a door that Harry assumed led backstage. Harry shook his head. Nusante was the proper choice for this—gay himself, burning with the urge for revolution and in contact with friends who were the same, and desperate enough to stage his play as he’d written it that he’d both accepted Draco’s money and rushed the production to make sure it would still take place in two days. Harry just hoped that the tide of events wouldn’t crush him.

 

“Stop worrying,” Draco whispered into Harry’s neck. “I can’t stand it when you look worried.”

 

Harry felt laughter bubbling up his throat in spite of himself. “Because you know it means a nasty surprise for you?” he asked, and turned around to grin at the other man. “I am better in a crisis than you are.”

 

Draco’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You claimed the opposite when we met in the Dragon’s Head.”

 

“I was playing a role,” Harry said in loud, aggrieved tones. “Besides, I’d been drunk. You can’t expect me to make sense all the time in a situation like that.”

 

Draco’s eyes narrowed further. Harry was glad to see it. Let him notice all the small inconsistencies in Brian’s behavior and wonder what caused them. Then, when Harry brought down the axe, Draco could look back and convince himself he’d seen it coming all along.

 

For the moment, however, Draco seemed less inclined to call him on it—perhaps because the play was due to start in a few minutes. He looped his arm through Harry’s and drew them along as if they were entering his parents’ house. Given that this was currently the most prestigious theater for most of the pure-blood social circles, Harry supposed the comparison wasn’t so far off. “Shall we?”

 

*

 

Draco had been to the Theater-in-the-Round several times, and he had to admire its elegance and sense of style. The stage stood alone in the middle of masses of seats, a polished block that resembled marble but was made of some material far less slippery. The seats themselves had thick cushions rather like sitting on three of Draco’s own pillows, and spells cast on them that subtly guided the sitter’s line of sight past the heads of taller people or around awkward corners. House-elves using magic that muted the sound of Apparition appeared at regular intervals to offer a choice of champagne, fresh fruit, and several fine wines. The ceiling of the theater was a great gathered knot of soft colors, which ran in veins throughout the pale wooden walls and seemed scarcely noticeable until they blossomed out above the seats. Draco had sometimes spent more time admiring the decorations than the play itself.

 

Now, however, his attention was all for the stage. He had made sure he and Potter were seated close to the stage, despite the sight spells, but at an angle from it. Draco didn’t want to miss a moment of the audience’s reaction, along with the actors’ gestures.

 

Nusante had originally written a play that explored the nature of homosexuality boldly, breaking the myths about it down one by one. Then the manager of the Theater-in-the-Round had forced him to remove most of the plot and insert dirty jokes instead; the male characters had switched from lovers to friends desperately in search of the women who would make them complete, and fighting against the impression that they were lovers. Draco had heard of the changing of the play through Pansy’s gossip a month before, and at the time, other than a slight roll of his eyes at the general incapacity of his peers to deal with anything complex, he hadn’t thought much about it.

 

Now, of course, he did—since he had been the one to think of contacting Nusante by owl-post and offering him a vast sum of money if he would stage the play exactly as he had written it, but still on the original date. And Nusante had managed. It helped that the actors he was working with were all friends of his, part of the same idealistic circle of artists who, ten or eleven years younger than Draco and Potter, hadn’t yet accepted that prejudice against homosexuality was the way of their world.

 

It’s the way of the world for the moment, anyway, Draco thought, a smile tugging at his lips. I refuse to believe I can change everyone’s mind even with Potter’s help, but we might—as soppy as this sounds—be able to make a difference.

 

Potter shifted next to him. Draco glanced casually at him and saw that Brian’s brilliant blue eyes were narrowed, surveying the theater with the same neat, precise motions one would expect of a professional bodyguard. Draco snorted silently to himself. Had Potter gone in for Auror training before he’d become an actor? And why hadn’t he stayed an Auror? It would have suited him better.

 

Of course, he did fool me for a time, Draco thought, and preened a little. I’m sure the reason he suddenly lost control of himself is his increasing emotional involvement with me. Not so easy to play a role when part of you wishes you were playing reality, is it?

 

The other side of that thought was that Potter would have continued to fool him if not for his emotions. He could have remained unaffected by Draco, and Draco never would have known the truth. He frowned and shifted in his seat to rid himself of the thoughts, and Potter’s eyes immediately snapped sideways to look at him.

 

“Uncomfortable?” he asked in that deep voice Draco thought he had adopted specifically for his Brian disguise. Draco had spent the past few days trying to recall Potter’s voice from Hogwarts, and he was sure it didn’t resemble the one he heard now. Or it was like Brian’s but subtly different, the way Brian’s scar and eyes were like Potter’s. “I’m sorry to say we can’t take care of that in public.” His gaze lingered on Draco’s groin.

 

Draco willed himself not to become aroused. It did seem as if it had been forever, instead of a few days, since the party at Clothilde Castle and the intense pleasure he’d felt then, but he would not surrender to his body’s demands.

 

Potter is dangerous, oh yes. I will fall for him even as I try to make him fall for me—and it could be one-sided if I am not very careful. He cannot think clearly around me, no, but I suffer the same problem.

 

Paradoxically, the revelation of that danger came closer to making Draco hard than Potter’s glance had. He had wanted someone who was his equal for some time; he had simply not believed he would ever find one.

 

He held Potter’s gaze, and let his eyes reflect his own lust and longing and affection as he said quietly, “Not in public, no. But I may ask, later, for something we have not shared yet.”

 

A tiny but perceptible shiver coursed through Potter, though his face did not change. Draco was certain he was picturing the things they had shared so far and wondering what might lie beyond them—and the images in his mind were getting more intense, if the way he suddenly looked away from Draco and stretched his arms above his head was any indication.

 

“Ask away,” Potter said, in Brian’s casual, teasing way. “That doesn’t mean you’ll get it.”

 

Draco chuckled and let his arm drop on Potter’s shoulders. “Irresistible asking is somewhat a forte of mine. You would not believe how many doors open when you smile in the right way.”

 

Potter shot him a wary look, half-defensive, but just then the coruscating colors in the knot above and the veins along the walls began to dim, and a single intense beam of light concentrated attention on the stage. Draco leaned back and surveyed the room, looking for the faces of the people Nusante had promised would be there, to swing the inevitable volatile reaction to the play in the direction they wanted it to go. Were those the wizards and witches leaning forwards, fists on their knees, breath coming fast and shallow?

 

Draco certainly recognized some of them. He pictured the reaction they would cause today combined with their reaction of their parents when they found out.

 

He imagined Lucius’s reaction.

 

He smiled.

 

*

 

The play was apparently titled In Search of Love. Harry thought the title bland, but from the moment the two actors appeared on stage—two men about the same height, both dark-haired, giving each other furtive, hot-eyed glances that made him think they could be partners in real life—the plot wasn’t.

 

The two actors exchanged low words at first, enough to reveal they’d been thrown out of a pub for “lewd” behavior. The part of the audience that didn’t know what was about to happen next laughed; the part that did know stirred in anticipation.

 

The character named Frank turned to the other, gesturing with a wildly swinging hand. The other character, Peter, stepped out of the way, frowning at him, and shook his head, though because Frank hadn’t asked a question, the reason for his negation wasn’t immediately apparent. Harry nodded thoughtfully. The two men were skillfully building the undercurrents of a long and complicated relationship; they used their bodies and their faces as much as their words, the way acting should go. Harry had seen many Muggle actors who relied only on the dialogue when he was building Brian’s background in theater, and always had to hold his tongue on the impulse to correct them. Acting came from the body outwards, or it wouldn’t seem real.

 

Then Frank stepped forwards, cupped his hand around Peter’s cheek, and said something deliberately too soft for the audience to make out. Peter stared at him, eyes narrowed slightly, and muttered, “You won’t really do it. Coward.”

 

The audience’s laughter had a sharper edge to it this time.

 

Frank leaned forwards and pressed his lips against Peter’s. Peter gasped once, then pressed into Frank and worked his arms around him, sliding a hand down to squeeze his arse.

 

Shouting immediately filled the Theater-in-the-Round. Most of it consisted of variations on cries of disgust at first; then Harry saw Nusante’s plants surging to their feet, chanting and yelling in support of freedom of expression and an artist’s right to create plays as he pleased. The advocates for moral uprightness turned and gaped at them. And then, of course, one of the supporters on one of the sides—Harry thought it was probably theirs, but he couldn’t be sure—flung a hex.

 

The darkness of the theater exploded with colored light, with beams of brilliant curses and flying pieces of hair and skin. Harry took a step away from his seat and Draco’s reaching arms, lifted his wand, and pointed it at the ceiling. Closing his eyes, he drew on the memory of some of the spells he’d used when playing a bodyguard and then flung all his magic behind the incantation that left his lips.

 

“Comprimo dira!”

 

A thick mist, green as the Killing Curse, briefly spread through the Theater-in-the-Round, and Harry heard several confused and alarmed cries. He couldn’t pay heed to them, couldn’t even look to see if someone had done something stupid in the moment between his choosing of the spell and his casting of it. His eyes were tight shut, his body braced against the rush of power through his limbs and blood. This was the most forceful spell he had cast in years, and it had to cover a wider area. Small and targeted Transfigurations and glamours were much less draining, and required a different kind of finesse.

 

At last the spell ended and Harry reached out to brace himself with one elbow on the back of his seat, opening his eyes. Hexes still flashed and exploded in his line of sight, competing with the floating afterimages of the magic, but this time no skin or hair or blood joined them. Harry smiled wearily. His spell suppressed any hex that caused serious bodily or mental harm, and any spell classified as a curse. Out on the streets, people would be able to hurt each other, but not whilst in the theater, and that included the Aurors who might show up any moment to arrest someone.

 

Draco’s arm curled around his waist, and he snarled into Harry’s hair, “You didn’t tell me you were going to do that.”

 

Harry yawned before he could respond. He was shivering now, and drowsiness crept across his mind like a wave. He always needed to rest after he used that much magic. “Because you would have said that we should cast the spell together,” he murmured. “And there would have been too much arguing about how much power you should contribute and how much power I should. And the Aurors would have found traces of the spell on your wand when they examined it. This way, I’ll be the only one with any evidence against me.”

 

Draco was silent for a long time, standing there as if he didn’t care about the hexes flying around them. Given that he’d already constructed a sturdy Shield Charm and he probably knew exactly what Harry’s spell had done, maybe he didn’t. Then he said, “But I’m the one who gave Nusante money for the play. They’ll have something against me anyway, if they decide to investigate.”

 

“You couldn’t—“ Harry had to pause in his speaking as a jaw-breaking yawn took over his mouth. He shook his head in irritation and went on. “You couldn’t know that a riot would be the consequence of your brave decision to support freedom of expression. Casting a spell like this suggests that I did. Now. Go home. I’ll go back to my house and await the Aurors. They won’t hurt me.” They wouldn’t be long in coming, Harry knew. That much magic would make tracing his magical signature easy. He already had a bolthole prepared in which Brian could wait and give himself up meekly for a short term in a holding cell. Since they would discover his spell had contained the harm done and that his presence in the theater was linked only to Draco’s funding of the play—and Harry was confident he could lie his way out of any trick question they put to him—they would have to release him shortly.

 

Draco was silent again. Harry rolled his eyes. He has to choose now to be chivalrous. He locked his hands on the back of his seat and braced his legs. “See? I can stand on my own. Go now, Draco, please, or neither of us might be in any condition in a few days to share those things you mentioned.” He looked over his shoulder, smiling, into Draco’s eyes, or thought he did. It was somewhat hard to tell with dizziness spinning in his mind like a maelstrom and his eyesight opening and closing like a Muggle automatic door. “I know they hate you for your name, but I’ll be fine.”

 

“Like hell,” Draco said softly, and tightened his arms around Harry, and Apparated them out of the Theater-in-the-Round.

 

Harry yelped as he was pulled along, and again when they popped out of the Apparition onto the winding path that led up to the front door of Malfoy Manor. He tried to pull away from Draco’s hold, but Draco held up his wand and pressed it against the side of Harry’s neck.

 

“You need to rest after a spell like that,” he said. “And I don’t fancy the notion of either of us getting into legal trouble when Counterstrike is moving. Sleep.”

 

One pulse of magic from Draco’s wand, and Harry dropped into oblivion, still slightly astonished that his plan had not worked the way he imagined it would.

 

*

 

Draco waited until he was sure Potter was quite asleep, hanging in his arms like a bundle of rags. He stared at his face for a moment. He had not even thought about what might happen to their potential allies, caught in the middle of a riot like that, but Potter had, and had taken steps to ensure that no harm came to them.

 

Pure-blood young witches and wizards, mostly, whom he had no reason to like.

 

Draco touched Potter’s forehead, the thin line that should have been a lightning bolt scar. What he had said was true. He wanted neither of them to get into trouble, and he thought it best if they stayed together for now.

 

But even more than that, he wanted to keep Potter with him for a little while right now and study him. Protect him, perhaps, if someone tried to attack him whilst he still suffered from magical exhaustion. He might think he could take care of himself, but he was weakened, and Draco would hate to see an enemy win an advantage over him because of that.

 

He tightened his arms around Potter, his own emotions stirring and churning like a nest of young dragons, and began to walk towards the Manor. As he caught sight of his father looking out from a window of his study, Draco began to smirk.

 

Besides, he rather liked the thought of Lucius Malfoy, the founder of Counterstrike, sheltering the people who had just caused such splendid trouble for that organization.

 

*

 

Avihenda, banner, shinythiefxblast, thrnbrooke, Mangacat, Hi-chan, rafiq, Dani: Thanks for reviewing!

 

SoftObsidian74: I wouldn’t say that Harry is getting totally played. He does have plans of his own, after all, and Draco has still not discovered them.

 

Currently, Harry doesn’t think the revolution will get big enough for it to really matter if he abandons Draco or not. He thinks its effects will be more felt in the future, rather than the next week.

 

Qwerty: Harry’s “preparations” largely concern convincing Lucius to disown Draco. And, well, he’s prepared for some harm to come to Draco; at the moment, his major concern is to pull out before Draco “discovers” that he’s really Harry Potter or gets involved too much in the revolution.

 

Calrissian18: Wow. Thank you so much! I’m very glad you find the story enjoyable and intelligible, and the characters sympathetic. There’s always the danger of losing control of the complexity in a story like this, which is what I’m most afraid of. I hope you continue to read and enjoy.

 

SP777: I knew beforehand that Draco’s rage wouldn’t last all that long, so I just chose a few images for his rage on purpose. The major part of the chapter was his decision about what to do with Harry, after all.

 

I can’t tell you anything about the future course of the plot without giving away spoilers, really. I can say that I don’t have my chapters written beforehand; they’re written as I go along.

 

Caldonya: Believe me, even if Harry comes to realize soon that Draco knows who he is, he will fight to protect the secret of Metamorphosis with everything in him.

 

Lunatic with a hero complex: Interesting comparison! Harry, of course, has no chance of seeing their encounter as a first date because he is so focused on seeing the end of the relationship instead.

 

Dragons_fly_free: Harry would not take the news of Draco’s finding out his identity at all well, no.

 

Yume111: Harry was trying to build up unattractive qualities in Brian, so it didn’t really matter if Draco thought he was acting out of character. Either Draco would start thinking Brian was really that uncouth, or he would disbelieve him and become suspicious of him; Harry didn’t care what happened so long as it made Draco reject him. Of course, that backfired.

 

Draco calls Harry Potter because, at the moment, he’s not ever sure he’s seen the real Harry, while he does know something about the real Potter.

 

Mostly, Draco thought revenge had to be Harry’s motive because he couldn’t imagine another one. He isn’t so conceited that he thinks Harry would want to date him for his body or because he just couldn’t help himself in the face of Draco’s immense attractiveness (snort); he doesn’t seem to need the money; so what’s left?