Remembered Fire

REMEMBERED FIRE

Part Two

Draco leaned forward then, secreting the letter back in its hiding place, turning the key just as the door to the outer office opened. He straightened and felt his heart lift in his chest a little as his son strode into his office, closing the door quietly behind him.

He was so handsome, Draco thought not for the first time. Taller than he was, hair the same white blond, his sharp features softened by his mother’s genes. Scorpius’ eyes were brown, like Astoria’s, and he had a square rather than pointed chin. At twenty-two, he was tall and lean and Draco thought much better looking than he had ever been, and by far a better person. He was wearing a navy blue suit and bluish-grey silk shirt and tie, affecting his father’s preference for Muggle clothing. Draco stood as his son crossed to him and attempted a smile, but Scorpius wasn’t fooled; he never had been. He studied his father’s reddened eyes with an expression of both regret and understanding, reaching out with his hand. Draco took it to shake it, but Scorpius wrapped his other hand over the top and held it cushioned between his warm palms.

“Good morning, Father,” he said softly, squeezing the hand that Draco had not realized was cold until it was cocooned in warmth.

“Good morning, son,” Draco responded warmly. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, sir,” his son answered. “Better than you are, I’d wager.”

Draco damped his lips with his tongue. Scorpius was also far more direct than he had ever been. “I’m all right,” he said softly, and Scorpius did not argue with him, but he obviously didn’t believe him, either.

Scorpius had found out about his father’s ‘indiscretion’ when he’d been fifteen. His mother, who had once loved his father with everything in her, had found the very letter that Draco had just secreted in his desk, and he’d been very fortunate in catching her reading it, for he’d been sure she would have burned it otherwise. Draco had kept it from her for over a decade. She’d had her suspicions, for he never went to her bed any longer and he kept his distance emotionally, but word of his affair with Harry Potter had never leaked beyond Harry’s inner circle. Ron knew, and he had hated Draco for so long that his reaction wasn’t unexpected. He’d hated it, hated that Harry was cheating on Ginny, but he never abandoned his friendship with Harry. Hermione had known as well but had seemed almost unsurprised at the time by the developing relationship between the two Auror’s. After Harry’s death, she had been a kind and compassionate island of calm in Draco’s shattered existence, and still remained a good friend. Ginny had never told a soul and remained in the eyes of the wizarding world Harry Potter’s tragic widow.

Upon finding the letter, Astoria had flown into a rage. Draco had rescued it, but his marriage had been irreparably damaged. Astoria had promptly told their son that his father was a faithless, twisted degenerate. Fortunately for Draco, Scorpius had not believed her, but he had asked hard questions.

Draco was certain that the most painful conversation he’d ever had in his adult life had been the one telling his son that he’d been unfaithful to his mother… with another man. He would never understand what kind providence had smiled on him enough in that dark time, because Scorpius had been disappointed, but his love for his father had never wavered. In fact, if anything, it had brought them closer. And he would never know what Narcissa had said to his wife, but somehow, someway, Astoria had not gone to the press, had not told her parents, and had never directly said another word about it to him. Of course, that didn’t prevent her from being an unhappy shrew who made snide remarks and cheerfully spent as much of his money as she could get her hands on, but he thought that a small price to pay for not seeing his name on the front page of the Prophet, and for Harry’s memory to remain untarnished.

Scorpius squeezed his hand before releasing it and taking half a step back.

“I’ve come to speak with you about something,” he said with a determination that Draco recognized, and he gestured towards one of the two chairs before his desk before sitting gracefully in the other. He would never sit behind his desk and force his son to stand before him, as if he were some sort of subject summoned before his throne. He’d been raised that way. Being called before his father’s desk in his austere study had been an occasion for terror; he’d never make his son feel less than he was, never.

“What’s on your mind?” Draco asked, crossing his long legs as gracefully as the stiffness in his right thigh would allow.

“I saw Mrs. Weasley this morning,” Scorpius began, plucking at the knife edge pleat in his dark trousers. Draco waited and watched his son’s face as he seemed to pick his words carefully. “She asked me to intercede with you on her behalf.”

Draco sighed inwardly. He knew what this was about, and he’d already told Hermione that he wasn’t interested.

“If this is about the Americans…”

“Father,” Scorpius said, brown eyes lifting to his own. “Before you say no, please listen to me.”

He looked so earnest, and sounded so serious that Draco subsided with a slight nod, even as he felt a flicker of irritation at Under Deputy Secretary Weasley.

“The situation has become… more serious,” he said softly. “There is definitely something going on, something dark, and the people in power fear they may have a very similar problem to the one that we had, all those years ago.”

Draco didn’t need explanations for his son’s enigmatic words to know what he was referring to.

“They think they have a Dark Lord?” he asked a bit wryly.

“They think that they have the potential for one,” Scorpius clarified. “And frankly, they feel a bit in the weeds. They’ve never dealt with anything like this before, and they are desperate for a consultant.”

Draco pursed his lips. “Why doesn’t she send her husband?” he asked softly. “He spent years fighting the last Dark Lord; he was the right hand of the man who defeated him. I was merely…”

“A Death Eater,” Scorpius said softly; not unkindly, but firmly. “And an Auror.”

Draco leaned back in the chair and studied his son’s solemn face, fighting to keep his own expressionless. Scorpius held his gaze but Draco saw the anxiety in his eyes; his son knew that this was a subject that was all but forbidden.

“You must admit, it gives you a unique perspective, sir,” the younger man went on when his father remained silent. “You were the only one who was part of Tom Riddle’s inner circle, then changed sides.”

“I was not part of the inner circle,” Draco said in a measured tone. “I was an observer.”

“Your father…” Scorpius cut himself off, and Draco knew that he’d narrowed his eyes in warning. He closed them for a moment and sighed, marshalling calm even as his hands fisted on the arms of the chair.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Draco swallowed heavily, and then shook his head before opening his eyes once again. When he saw the rusty stain on Scorpius’ cheeks, his only thought was to reassure his son.

“No, it’s all right,” he said heavily. “My father was very… intimately connected with Riddle. And I was… nearby. Often. Often enough to know that the man was a monster, and that my father was a fool.” He paused, suddenly feeling every one of his forty-eight years as he looked into his son’s young, eager face. “What is it that she wants me to do, Scorpius?” he asked, and his son leaned forward keenly.

“They are looking for a consultant,” he said quickly. “Someone with a background in the dark spells and magic, someone who will recognize the signs, who knows how to dismantle the dark wards…”

Draco held up his hand. “I will only know how to dismantle them if I recognize them, Scorpius,” he said flatly. “I highly doubt that these… dark wizards, whoever they are, are using similar magic to what was being used here.”

“But that’s just it, Father,” Scorpius went on. “That’s why Mrs. Weasley is so keen for it to be you. They sent her reports, scans of the wards, autopsy information on the dead. The spells are the same.” He paused meaningfully. “Exactly… the same.”

Draco felt a chill, like a finger of ice, slip down his spine. “The same?” he whispered. Scorpius nodded.

“And there’s something else. New information that just came through last night,” he went on when Draco remained quiet for a moment. Draco wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what was going to be said next, but he nodded warily for his son to continue. “It… appears that there is some… vigilantism taking place as well, someone who is fighting this dark threat, acting as a mercenary.”

Draco frowned. “Surely their ministry…”

“No, sir,” Scorpius interrupted politely. “It isn’t anyone within the American Ministry. They think he’s being financed by a private source…” He paused and dampened his lips, as if he were suddenly nervous again, brown eyes dropping to his knees.

“Go on, son,” Draco urged gently. Scorpius lifted his eyes to Draco’s face, and looked almost regretful.

“They’ve been able to trace the magical signature left by the mercenary’s wand.” Again that chill slid over Draco’s skin as he studied his son’s furrowed brow.

“It’s Potter’s, sir.”

Blood rushed instantly into Draco’s ears as it leached from his face, and he felt his heart slam into the inside of his ribs.

“Potter’s… what?” he wheezed. He was suddenly cold, so very, very cold. Scorpius leaned forward and placed his hand on Draco’s knee, and that was the first moment that he realized that it was shaking.

“Potter’s wand. Father, someone has found and is using Harry Potter’s wand.”

And Draco knew it that moment that there was no longer any need for discussion. He was going to America.
*******


Draco had discovered years previous that international Portkeys were not something he could suffer in comfort. The time ‘in flight’ was considerably longer than domestic Portkeys, and by the time he landed his leg was always numb and collapsed under his weight leaving him in an ungainly sprawl, his dignity in tatters. At some point in his thirties he’d allowed his mother to talk him into trying the Muggle method of intercontinental flight, and had found first class travel surprisingly relaxing.

But as he settled into his first class berth in the British Airways sumptuous jet, after checking his black wool overcoat with the handsome flight attendant and he’d been delivered the requested snifter of Cognac, he knew that this flight would be neither relaxing, nor pleasant. He was too wound up, too edgy and tense. The information his son had given him had been extremely disturbing; the information he’d gotten from Hermione Granger had been even more so.

He’d left the Malfoy Building and walked the four blocks to the Ministry almost as soon as Scorpius had left, and Hermione Weasley had had him admitted to her office almost immediately. Her brown eyes had been shadowed with the bruises of many sleepless nights, and red-rimmed with fatigue. She’d offered him coffee and a chair, and then showed him what she had.

He’d gone through the reports from the American Ministry while she had sipped a cup of coffee, each new page increasing his anxiety. When he was on the last report, he’d looked up to find her watching him carefully.

“It’s impossible,” he’d wheezed.

She’d shaken her head emphatically.

“It isn’t,” she’d said. “Someone has his wand, Draco. There’s no doubt about it. Now the only question is, where did they get it?”

One of the details that the wizarding public at large did not know about the death of Harry Potter was that by the time that Weasley had deposited Draco at St. Mungo’s and had gotten back to the scene, Harry’s body, and his wand, were gone. They had disappeared without a trace. Fearing that dark wizards had somehow taken the body in order to either desecrate it, or to somehow re-animate it as an Inferi, there had been a secret yet frantic search for the remains that had gone on for months. An empty coffin had been buried at the funeral, a replica of his eleven inch holly wand presented to his widow. Draco knew he would never forget standing at the back of the crowd at the somber memorial, held up by his mother on one side and his unsuspecting wife on the other, his heart as empty as the ivory coffin that he watched lowered into the ground. The throbbing pain in his leg had been a solace, that day. The pain had kept him centered, and his mother’s hand firm in his had allowed him to hang onto his composure. He’d known that she knew about him and Harry: she’d never said a word, but he’d seen it in her sad, wintry gray eyes, and she’d been the pillar he needed when his own resolve was in tatters.

The fact that both the body of Harry Potter and his wand had never been found was one of the Ministry of Magic’s best kept secrets. When months, then years, had gone by without a trace of it being discovered, the search had finally dwindled away. There had never been even so much as a breath of a rumor to lead them to believe that anyone was holding the body or the wand, or knew of their whereabouts. It was one of the great mysteries of the age, known only to Draco, Hermione, Ron, Harry’s widow, and the upper members of the Wizengamot.

He listened to the soft roar of the jet’s large engines as the plane taxied on the runway, eyes staring out at the bleak, windswept emptiness of the tarmac, but he was seeing in his mind’s eye that long past day; the crowd dressed in black, the dark, ominous clouds over head. Ginny Potter with her three small children standing bravely near the casket; red-headed James, the strawberry blonde baby in her arms, and little Albus, the same age as Scorpius, green eyes wide with confusion. He’d felt drawn to the small replica of Harry and yet he’d kept his distance from him, from them all. He couldn’t look into those eyes, couldn’t speak to the widow, couldn’t bring himself to pay his respects to the family. Ginny might be burying her husband, but he’d lost his reason for living.

The only thing that had kept him sane was Scorpius.

Scorpius had needed him. He’d told himself that every day, multiple times a day. Scorpius needed him, his mother needed him. And so he lived his life, such as it was. Never, in the nineteen years since that night, had there been a trace of evidence that Harry and his wand weren’t gone forever. Until the day before. And Hermione knew that it was the only thing that would get him on a plane to Charleston, South Carolina, of all places.

“Draco, please,” she’d implored. “Someone has his wand. Can we really let them just… continue to use it, without knowing who it is, and how they got it?” She’d stared at him, brown eyes wide and face pale. “Draco, please,” she’d whispered again. “They might know where he is…” She’d teared up then, and he’d been lost.

She’d been right, of course. He couldn’t just ignore it. He couldn’t rest, not until he knew for certain. Not until he’d seen the evidence himself. Hence, his place in the first class compartment of the airplane. And as the plane lifted into the cloudy sky, he drained expensive cognac from the snifter in his hand and wished the heat he felt spreading through his stomach would take the edge off of his anxiety. He’d not slept more than two hours the night before, and he was so tired…

The purr of the large jet engines and the expensive alcohol finally combined their forces, and Draco’s sleep deprived body gave up the fight with scarcely a whimper. His eyes drifted closed and his head listed to the side, and he was blissfully unaware of the young steward, who gently removed the empty glass from his lax fingers and covered him with a soft cashmere throw.

There was mist. Thick, heavy mist, and it smelled of the damp and felt cool and wet against his face and it was very dark, only shadows to mark his path, but he moved forward anyway, surging ahead, moving towards…

What? He didn’t know. He only knew that he had to keep moving, that it was imperative that he get to his destination. That nothing had ever been as important as arriving where he was going.

And then he was cloaked in warmth, sweet, seductive, soft against his face like a lover’s hair, moving through his veins like heady wine.

“Draco,” a dark voice whispered gently against his ear. The sound of it ignited fires he’d thought banked forever even as his heart surged almost painfully with joy.

“Oh,” he heard himself sob even as his hands closed over strong shoulders and he felt himself engulfed in a fierce embrace. “Oh, it’s you. My God…” Tears stung his eyes even as he was lowered to a soft surface, as his body was skimmed by steady, sure hands, as lips and tongue mapped the arch of his throat. He arched his neck and wrapped his long legs around narrow hips.

“Please,” he begged, hands finding and fisting in a wealth of soft, thick hair. “Please. It’s been so long…”

“Be sure,” the dusky voice cautioned even as he felt first one, then a second finger slide slickly into the clinging heat of his body. He gasped and arched as the internal burn faded, replaced by the wonder of being skillfully prepared once again. It had been years… “Be very sure. There is no going back…”

“I’m sure,” he gasped, his body reacting forcefully to the pleasure. “Please, God. I’m sure!”

The hand that fisted in his hair was something less than gentle, and his head was yanked back and to the side. “Touch yourself,” the voice instructed silkily, even as a tongue wetly mapped the throbbing pulse point under his chin. Sweet languor filled him, his nipples contracted so swiftly and completely that it was slightly painful, his breath struggled in his throat even as his erection throbbed, dripping drops of pearly pre-come onto his flat belly. Gently, a hand closed around his and curled his fingers around his cock, and it jerked desperately in Draco’s palm.

“I love you,” the voice whispered against his throat. “I’ve loved you for so long, I will always love you. Remember that. Always…”

The words sent a rush of relief through him, relief accompanied by the most profound joy. Tears slipped from his eyes, and when he felt a blunt hardness press against the tight furl of his opening, he bore down, trying to ease the way, to force the muscles to accept what had so long been denied him…

He felt the burn of entry just as another sharp pain shot through his throat, and he arched and gasped as he realized what it was, what was happening… But then the jolt in his pulse and the pain of possession were swept away on a surge of the most profound ecstasy…

“Harry!” he sobbed, just as cogent thought was lost…

“Sir? Sir? Wake up, sir.”

Draco started and blinked, staring up into the concerned face above his. For a panicked moment he had no idea where he was, or who the face belonged to, and his pulse, which was still racing, jerked uncomfortably. But then he felt the subtle vibration of the plane, heard the dull roar of the engines, and recognized the young face looking into his with worry. The flight attendant, the one who’d been so solicitous earlier, was leaning over him, his hand warm on his shoulder, blue eyes searching his face. That was when Draco realized that he was crying; that there were tears in his eyes and on his cheeks, and that he was almost painfully aroused. He glanced down in alarm, feeling relief when he saw that someone, probably the young man leaning over him, had covered him with a soft blanket and that it affectively hid the evidence of his bodies reaction to his dream.

“Sir, are you all right?”

Draco blinked again, reaching up to dash at the tears on his face with hands that weren’t steady. “I’m fine,” he assured the attendant quickly. “I… bad dream…”

“Of course.” A hand appeared in his line of vision, holding what appeared to be a rolled up face cloth. He reached for it, and found it warm and damp when it settled into his hand. Draco quickly wiped his face with the cloth. An alarming thought occurred to him, and he looked up quickly.

“I wasn’t… loud, was I?” he asked, feeling his face filled with color. The sturdy body of the flight attendant was hiding his view of the other first class passengers, but he realized with a surge of gratitude that it was also hiding their view of him.

“No,” the man, whose name badge read ‘Drew’, assured him kindly. “I just noticed that you seemed… distressed. You weren’t in any way disruptive.”

Again, he felt relieved as he sighed and completed wiping the tears from his face.

“Would you care for something to drink?” Drew asked, straightening into the aisle, face now a careful mask of professionalism. “Wine, perhaps? Or tea?”

“Just water, thank you,” Draco answered quietly. When the young man moved away, he turned his eyes to the dark window of the plane, primarily so that he wouldn’t have to meet any curious gazes that might be turned in his direction. His head hurt even more than before and his eyes felt gritty, but the most disturbing thing was that the details of his dream, which had seemed so very vivid and important, were swiftly slipping away.


********


Draco sighed heavily, letting himself into the elaborate room at the bed and breakfast where he was staying, situated in the heart of Historic Charleston’s Battery Park District. Right on the corner of two of the city’s oldest streets, facing a beautiful park and then the ocean beyond, it had once been the city residence of a wealthy rice planter who had also owned a plantation along the Ashley River, outside of town.

He’d been dimly aware of the politely delivered History lesson he’d received from his driver on the way in from the airport, but his head had been throbbing and he’d been exhausted. His flight from London had landed at La Guardia in New York, and there had been a two hour lay over before his next flight, in a much smaller plane, had departed for Charleston. He’d been gone from London 14 hours by the time he’d arrived in South Carolina, his leg had stiffened up until he was limping painfully with each step, and the last thing he’d wanted was to ‘see the sights’. He thought that the rolling countryside that they had passed through, driving along the scenic Ashley River, had been lovely, and he’d found himself fascinated by the tendrils of gray Spanish moss that hung from the trees, swaying in the breeze like delicate lace. But mostly, he’d wanted a stiff drink and a bed upon arriving in the Inn.

He had cause to be grateful once again for the efficiency of Harper when he’d arrived. The young woman who had greeted him in what had once been a sumptuous front parlor was gentility itself, wearing a simple yet elegant burgundy suit, waving a young bellman to relieve him of his luggage, escorting him to a room on the ground floor.

“Welcome, Mr. Malfoy. Your assistant, Mister Harper,” the lovely concierge told him as she led the way, her softly accented voice musical, “told us that stairs were a difficulty. We’ve given you a suite here on the ground floor, off of the East Portico, as there is no elevator. It used to be the Master of the House’s own bedchamber. He returned from the Civil War with a serious leg injury, and never climbed beyond the first floor in his later years.”

She’d opened a heavy, dark wood door and led the way into a magnificent suite. A sitting room was immediately inside the door with elaborate parquet floors and a stunning mahogany mantle piece over a large fireplace, surrounded by elegant period furniture upholstered in dark green velvet. She continued through the room, pointing things out as she went. “The bar is in this armoire, and in here--” she pushed opened another door, “--is the bedroom.”

The bed held place of prominence on the far wall, a stunningly crafted four poster with gauzy drapes tied to each post and a burgundy silk counterpane. The walls were covered in a patterned shade of deep gold and the floors were as intricately laid as the ones in the other room. She went to the wall and pulled on a velvet cord, and the dark red drapes slid back, revealing a bank of French doors that led directly to a covered verandah. “These doors face the bay, and the park,” she said as she turned, a polite smile on her face. “If you open them in the evenings, there is a lovely breeze off of the harbor. If I can get you anything else, please let me know.”

“It’s lovely, thank you,” he’d said sincerely, looking around the room. She’d spared him a slight nod as she’d departed, leaving him standing in the center of the bedroom, studying what could only be described as a tribute to all things Gryffindor. Sighing, he’d pulled off his overcoat, laying it over a nearby chair, removed his suit jacket and tie, and after kicking off his shoes and loosening his collar, he’d lain down on the bed, discovering the down filled mattress with a sigh of pure hedonistic pleasure. The next thing he’d known, it had been full dark, and he’d risen groggily from the bed. When he’d shuffled, disheveled and achy, into the sitting room he’d found a covered tray on the small table before the fireplace.

“Mr. Malfoy,” the attached note had read. “Mr. Harper said that you are fond of cheese and fruit. If you require anything more substantial, please let me know. Samantha.”

“Samantha?” He’d thought with a slight frown, and then had the vague recollection of the young woman who’d greeted him. He’d lifted the large silver lid, and had found an elegant assortment of cheeses, biscuits and crackers, and grapes, strawberries and melon. That, in combination with a fine bottle of Chablis he’d found in the bar, had been his supper, and he’d decided before retiring that it was perhaps time for Harper to have a raise in pay.

That morning, he’d breakfasted in the dining room. It was off season, and he’d been one of only three guests. He’d kept to himself and taken tea and toast, and was just finishing his meal when a young man in chauffeur’s attire appeared in the doorway.

“Mr. Malfoy,” he’d inquired politely. Draco had lifted his eyes from the morning paper to find himself being studied politely.

“Yes?”

“I’m here to take you to your meeting with Minister Henry.”

Draco had nodded, and followed him out to yet another limousine.

From there, his journey had diverged from its previous Muggle course. The young man drove him to what he told him had once been a railroad station, but was now a shopping center.

“Enter the fourth store on the left,” his driver said politely as he held open the door. “Go to the rear of the store and enter the second changing room on the right. Pull down on the hook on the right.”

Draco had nodded and entered the small shopping mall, found the store in question, something called “Tasty Togs”, and did as instructed. He walked past a young woman with an alarming array of facial piercings who nodded with a smirk, entering the dressing room area, finding the room as he’d been instructed. When he’d pulled down on the hook, the floor had shuddered for a moment, and then the whole of the dressing room had begun to descend, like a lift headed into a basement.

When it stopped moving, he’d pulled the curtain aside, and found himself facing an atrium not unlike the one in the Ministry of Magic in London.

He’d been surprised when he’d first learned, years before, that the American Magical Congress, as it was known in that country, was not in New York, or even Washington DC, with the seat of their Muggle government, but in Charleston, South Carolina. When he’d questioned Hermione about it, as she seemed to know everything about everything, he hadn’t been disappointed.

“Well,” she said with that air of a school teacher beginning a lesson, “Charleston is one of the oldest cities in the United States, and the original Wizard’s to settle in America tended to gravitate toward the Southern States. South Carolina, Georgia, Louisiana. There was a smaller settlement in New England, but we all know how that worked out for the magical population, don’t we?” One eyebrow arched ironically. Draco supposed it made a sort of sense; had he been a wizard in the late seventeenth century, he’d have stayed as far away from Salem, Massachusetts as he could, too.

The space outside of the elevator was bustling with activity. Along one wall were dozens of fireplaces that periodically surged to life with the familiar green fire of witches and wizards arriving by floo. He could dimly hear the percussive sound of Apparition, and on the wall to his left were dozens of lifts, queues before each of them as people went about their business.

“Mr. Malfoy, I presume?”

The slightly squeaky voice had startled him, and he’d looked down to find a wizened house-elf smiling benignly up at him, great bat like ears alert, large green eyes wide. This elf, unlike the ones in England, was not wearing a tea towel or a toga, but a full suit of clothes, including waistcoat and tie, in a truly startling array of bright colors.

Draco had nodded, and the elf had gestured to the side with his hand. “This way.”

Draco followed the small creature to a lift on the end, where there was no queue waiting. “This is the Minister’s private elevator,” the elf had said by way of explanation. “It will take us directly to his office.”

Draco had merely blinked in bemusement as he’d followed him inside.