Lord of Shadows Arc, Book One: Prince of Darkness

Title: Lord of Shadows Arc, Book I: The Prince of Darkness
Chapter 3 : Even Better than the Real Thing.
Author: Christine C, a.k.a. Jazz Coyote.
Ratings: This chapter, PG for TWINCEST!!! Overall NC-17.
Pairings: Eventual DM/HP, RW/HG, GW/FW (Twincest), others. . .
Notes: Twincest, watch out. . . see beginning for other notes. . .
Features Angsty(!)Harry and Desperate(!)Draco.
Disclaimer: Malfoys are sexy, Potters are too, Rowling owns all, please do not sue.
Summary: for the Arc? Impossible. For Book I?basically, Draco gets some bad news, becomes
desperate, things happen, gahh. . .This chapter? Harry is worried, as are George, Fred,
Dumbledore, and Professor Snape, not to mention Draco. Draco lays a trap for a rat, Harry
decides he knows who his visitor is, and the Sorting Hat gets a little snarky.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


From: Dark Running: The Early Correspondences of Draco Malfoy, Vol. 1

Draco,
In light of everything you have said, do you think you'll be spending the rest of the summer
at the Manor? I sincerely doubt that. . I am aware that there are many items in your
possession which you will be loath to part with, so I suggest shrinking them and sending
them to me for safekeeping. Do not shrink the books needed for the ritual--I have included
a duplicating charm on the back of this sheet--use it on all the ritual materials and shrink
the duplicates, leaving the originals. (Yes, I am aware that using a charm goes against my
character, however the shrinking potions which work on inanimate objects are messy to
send and smelly to make. One must sometimes adapt.) Also, and this is important, do not
shrink the Stradivarius. Not even the headmaster could say if shrinking it might have an
adverse effect. I would advise that this be one of the things you leave until the moment of
flight. I know how much that violin means to you, so you may want to put some more
cushioning spells on the case, to prevent damage if there is bad weather.

Professor S. Snape

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry gazed pensively at the early morning stars, vaguely uneasy. Part of him
supposed that it was odd for him to worry over someone whose name he didn't even
know -- though he had his suspicions -- but those few days of hours long conversations had been such a relief, so welcome in their odd, disconcertingly comforting way.

He had, of course, owled Dumbledore, Ron, Hermione, and the Order at large the very
first night, informing them of the strange turn of events. Dumbledore had responded
first, simply saying that he knew who Harry's visitor was, though he didn't deem it wise
to reveal the name. Indeed, he had written, he was very interested to see what would
happen between the two of them with this anonymity, and no, Harry needn't worry that this person might do something harmful. Yes, it was quite all right and perfectly natural
the way he had opened up to an almost complete stranger.

This was the thing that had thrown Harry at first. He hadn't realised how many
emotional hold-ups chained him down when he was speaking with his friends,
or with the professors. He hadn't given away any deadly secrets, such as the
existence of the Order or anything of that nature. But he had, before the first
hour of conversation was over, told this person everything about Sirius. And
during the rest of the day, he had spilled the beans about his parents, Cho,
and his until-then unrealised regrets regarding Draco Malfoy and their years
of rivalry. And never once did his anonymous visitor make any sort of
judgment. Instead he (for Harry was quite sure his visitor was a "he") asked
perceptive, thought provoking questions, appearing to genuinely want to get
to know him. This strange combination of an anonymous, receptive, non-
judgmental audience had had the effect of a reverse-confessional. Harry found
that he didn't care what the other person thought, since he didn't know who
they were. And this other person wanted to get to know him. And on the second
day, they even had what seemed to be Dumbledore's tacit approval. And so
Harry found himself saying things he wouldn't have dreamed of telling Hermione or Ron, or even, though the thought pained him, Sirius.

His visitor had departed the fourth evening with a promise to return the next morning.

Well, I must go now, the Quill had written. Mum's having one of her parties, and I'll be
missed if I don't leave now .

Harry had frowned. "American?"

No, not exactly. It's the annual "Good Riddance to Bad Rubbish!" Party. Our family's been
throwing it for quite some time. But I'll be back in the morning, to hound you once more.

"I've been promised worse things," Harry had chuckled, and then a sudden breeze had
marked his visitor's departure.

The next day he hadn't come. Nor the day after that, or even on the third day. Harry
had finally gotten so concerned that he had written to Dumbledore again, informing him of the visitor's absence and his concerns that maybe there was something
disturbing afoot.

So now Harry sat at his window, awaiting response. He sat up straighter as the
silhouette of an owl passed swiftly across the stars.


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Peter Pettigrew was wary, not for any special reason, but simply because it was the
natural disposition of rats of any kind. And Peter, being so many kinds of rat in so
many ways, wore wariness like his own skin. His Lord had received an owl a short while ago and had handed him the parchment when he was done with it. Surprised at this,
Pettigrew had read the sheet, surprised and slightly flattered at what it contained.

My Lord,
I have finished my perusal of the ritual to be used this coming Samhain. I believe I
understand most of it--well, what was written in English, Parseltongue being something
beyond my abilities. Most questions I have I believe my mother or Professor Snape
will be able to enlighten me on.

However, one detail, while quite clear, needs work. For various reasons you are already
familiar with, there must be present, within the circle, representations of both of our
animagi forms. While this presents no problem for you, I am not (yet) an animagus.
To this end, I respectfully request the time of your assistant, Peter Pettigrew. I have
heard that he lived for several years in his animal form, among humans, with no one
the wiser. For this reason, I believe him to be one of the most skilled animagi in the
world by now.

As I would like to continue my daytime surveillance of Potter, I also request that your
assistant come in the evenings, if at all possible. Of course, the demands of your
schedule must come first, as I well understand.

Your servant,
Draco S. Malfoy

Peter looked back at his Lord. Sensing an unasked question, he spoke with the
tremulous simper of the totally enslaved. "I would, of course, be most honoured to
help in any way with my Lord's coming bonding."

"Very well," was the raspy reply, as a skeletal hand lifted a quill and set it to parchment.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
(15 days later, evening)

George Weasley was pleased with the previous day's gains. According to the reports,
their Initial Offering to the London Occulted Stock Exchange (LOSE) had been far
more fruitful than expected, turning an impressive profit and promising better things
to come. These results were surprising in a pleasant way. What was surprising in a
completely different way was the fact that about one quarter of their stock was now
owned by one Draco Malfoy, who himself had made quite a profit in a number of
hours. George wasn't sure if this was a good thing or not--Malfoy's investment had
sparked the buying spree responsible for the previous day's spectacular performance.
However, it also gave Malfoy a disturbing amount of power over the company.

George's musings were interrupted when Fred opened the door and entered the back
room of their shop in Diagon Alley .

"Well," said Fred, "the store's all locked up. The trainees did really well tonight, and
Johnny Wood's doing a knockout job as manager."

George nodded in understanding as Fred came around the desk to sit in his brother's
lap. "How's the formula for the Chattering Chocolates coming?" he asked.

Fred sighed happily as he idly picked up the paper his brother had just put down.
"Great. I think I finally figured out a way to keep people from biting their tongues. All
we have to do is add one drop of shrinking potion to every batch and then -- Dear
God! Is this correct? Malfoy is our single largest stockholder?!"

George chuckled, wrapping his arms around his brother's waist. "Yes, indeed. I told
Professor Snape when I stopped by at Grimmauld Place for lunch. Thought it was right
funny, he did. So did Dumbledore, for that matter."

"Dumbledore?" Fred shifted so they were face to face. "He wasn't disturbed?"

George shook his head as he pulled his brother closer. "No. Seemed a little . . .
bemused, I should say. Oh! And that reminds me. . ." He removed a hand from his
brother's posterior to grab an expensive looking cigar box from the desk.
"Dumbledore gave me this before I left." He lifted the lid to reveal several sheets of
parchment weighed down by six shards of quartz and a glass flask of what, to Fred's
unbelieving eyes, appeared to be blood.

"George," he said unsteadily, picking up the flask and grimacing as he felt its warmth.
"Please tell me this isn't what I think it is."

George settled the box in their laps, then gently plucked the flask from Fred's hands,
placing it back in the box. "Lamb's blood and the juices of certain herbs," he said, "in
a Sta-Fresh Flask. Snape said we add it to paint and repaint the lintels and window
sills." He brought Fred's trembling hands to his face and kissed them.

"Lamb's blood?" Fred was relieved, but still disturbed.

George nodded. "Yes. Some of the oldest magic in the West. Some of the most
potent too, since it's been in continual use, unlike a lot of other ancient magic."

Fred smiled wanly. "Did they explain why we need all these protective measures? I
mean, this is the fifth set of security instructions we've been given . . . "

"I asked, again," George said, pulling his brother close, "and all the headmaster
would say is that we may have to house a 'precious investment' for the Order."

"Harry?" asked Fred, nuzzling his brother's neck

George grunted, idly tracing circles on his brother's back. "I think they'd tell us if it was
him. No, I think it's someone or something else." He frowned as he spoke, his mind
searching for a solution to the puzzle.

"Hm. So what do we do?"

"Well," George sighed, "in general terms, we run Three W Ltd. and do what
Dumbledore says. He's proved again and again he's trustworthy. Specifically, we set
the new layers of warding at dawn--as specified in our instructions. And right now?
Well, I've always had my best ideas when my beloved brother and I are shagging
each other silly."

Fred perked up at this. "Shag each other silly? Sounds good!"

George grinned as two identical sets of lips met. A good shag was a guaranteed way to cheer Fred up. As a matter of fact, it worked pretty well on George himself.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Albus Dumbledore gazed into the hearth fire. Had he been a smoking man, he would
have lit a pipe to aid his rumination. Sadly, he had never acquired a taste for any kind
of tobacco, so instead he sat nursing a mug of mulled cider. Others would see him as
calm and confident, but inside he was deeply troubled. The source of this unease could
be ultimately traced back to Voldemort. More immediately, he was concerned about
Draco Malfoy, who had set himself on a dangerous course. Certainly, his alternatives
were even worse, but there was no guarantee that this course wouldn't lead to his death
as well.

The headmaster sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily and let memory
overtake him. . .

*/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////*

Severus Snape had come to him in the early hours of the twenty-second of June, paler
than usual and lacking his customary grace and sangfroid. Dumbledore had seen him
after many Death Eater meetings, but he'd never seen the Potions master like this.

"I trust," Dumbledore began, "that your current state of living indicates that you are yet undiscovered."

"Oh, quite the contrary," Snape snarled as he paced from one wall to the opposite. "It
seems I've earned some confidence."

"Oh?"

"It's . . . " Snape rubbed his eyes with a trembling hand. ". . . Draco . . ."

"He was there?"

Snape shook his head, taking a slow, deep breath to steady himself. Then, stumbling
at first, but then in an increasing tide, the words poured forth. Dumbledore listed with
increasing dismay as the story was told.

After a time the younger man wound down, finishing with, " . . . and they plan to tell
Draco at the beginning of July."

Snape had finally taken a seat and now slouched in a posture of defeat. Silence reigned
as each contemplated the unpleasant choice Draco would soon face--life as Voldemort's
slave, or a lingering, painful death.

"Do you think he will choose the third option?" Dumbledore asked at length.

Snape pondered this for a moment. "It's possible. As much as he loves his parents, he
has never been very impressed with the Dark Lord, though he's very cleverly kept that
quiet. He may well swallow his pride and ask for Potter's help. Conversely, if Draco
asked, would Potter agree?"

The headmaster took his time in formulating his answer. "I do not know." He paused
before continuing. "He does have many traits in common with his father, who had quite
a vengeful streak, if you recall. If that were the only thing to consider, I would say Draco
didn't have a chance."

Snape started. It was quite unusual for the headmaster to use such strong language.

"However," the elder man continued, "he is also very much his mother's son, something
we tend to forget about. The events of the past month prove that he has inherited her
gifts in full. If that aspect is at the forefront of his heart, he will not be able to refuse. I
am afraid it will all depend on his mood."

Snape buried his face in his hands, despairing for his favourite student.

"Ahem," a third voice intruded. "There is something yet to be added to the equation."

The two men looked up at the Sorting Hat where it sat on its shelf.

"Yes, I wondered if you would have anything to add." Dumbledore said with a smile.

The Hat harrumphed. "I know the students even better than you do, old man. And you
have not taken his reaction to recent events into account."

The headmaster raised an eyebrow. "Well, then, enlighten us, good sir. . ."

The Hat shifted, pulling itself up into its "lecturing Hat" position. "What you have failed
to account for," it began, "is the fact that, despite what you said to him after the incident,
Harry still blames himself for the death of Sirius Black. Despite what our Potions master
may think, Harry has never had a very high opinion of himself--certainly no higher than
any other boy of his age. This lack of esteem coupled with his current self-loathing over
the whole Black affair, added to his mother's abilities means that he is in a more than
precarious situation. Usually, a gift such as Lily Evans' would be a blessing, but
unfortunately, Harry is not seeing the benefits of it."

"Well, that explains everything . . ." Snape snapped.

Dumbledore tsked. "What the Hat is trying to say, Severus, is that Harry is being killed
by the very gift which has kept him alive these many years. So you mean," he turned
his attention back to the Hat, "that Harry may need Draco just as much as Draco needs him?"

The Hat bent in an approximation of a nod. "Indeed. If we are fortunate, Harry's
subconscious may recognise in Draco his only chance for survival."

*/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////*

Dumbledore looked up as his musing was interrupted by the very Potions master he
had been thinking of. The permanent scowl was carved in even deeper relief than
usual, the burning black eyes turbulent.

"Headmaster, I don't like this," he said. "Too much can go wrong."

Dumbledore nodded. "I quite agree, Severus. But I ask again, if you have any better ideas?"

The darker man shook his head in resignation, too tired with worry to voice anything
more. Together, they gazed into the firelight.


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

(July 30th)

Harry wasn't sure what exactly to think. Of course, his mysterious visitor had returned,
their strange conversations had resumed, and Dumbledore had reassured him that no,
this person did not be intend him any harm, something which had surprised Harry a bit
since he was by now fairly certain who his visitor was. He thought himself lucky that this
summer, the Dursleys were dealing with him by being absent most of the time. This left
him and his visitor quite a bit of conversing time, not to mention time to watch John
Ford and Akira Kurasawa marathons on BBC Two as they conversed.

But whoever this person was, he now seemed troubled. Harry wasn't sure how he had
deduced this--whether it was the faint tremble in the writing, the long pauses between
one answer and the next question, or the sometimes seeming rush to find some
elusive piece of information before some intangible deadline passed. This puzzled
Harry, and where once a puzzle would have been something to pass the time, they
were now something he would prefer to avoid.

Thus the question he had just asked: "What's troubling you?"

The quill had jumped, of all things, and was just now settling down to answer.

Who says there's something troubling me?

"Oh, come off it!" He said incredulously. "The quill has been trembling ever since you
came back from your temporary abandonment of me. Your questioning has less
confidence than it did when you started, and the quill just jumped when I asked the
question, for Merlin's sake! I think I've shared quite enough with you, now it's time to
reciprocate. Tell me, invisible friend, what's wrong?"

. . .Can we be friends if you don't even know my name?

Harry thought a bit, his eyes distant, lips in a pensive frown. "Maybe not friends in the
traditional sense, but in a way, I consider you something even better."

. . . ah . . .
well. . .
. . .
I'm not sure how to tell you . . .

"I'll wait."

. . .
Well, all right. . .
Say you were, I don't know, Draco Malfoy. . .

"A hypothetical situation, then?" Harry's eyebrows quirked up in faint amusement.
Some people were so transparent when they thought they were being clever. . .

Yes. . .

"Okay, I'll try to put myself in his shoes."

Right. So you're Draco, and one day, while you're plotting to do horrible things to your rival,
Potter, you learn that you're fated to be You-Know-Who's love slave to the end of your
days, or else die a lingering, painful death, and the only person who can save you from
this horrible fate is Potter himself, whose love slave you'd have to become instead of His.

Harry sat up straighter. "How the hell would that happen?" A deep furrow had
appeared between his eyes which now seemed to glow with a strange, dark
luminescence. Harry was definitely not happy with what Draco was describing.

Umm, maybe something to do with a ritual in Parseltongue . . .

"Makes sort of sense, I suppose. . . . ." Harry's jaw tightened, his stomach turning with a
slow loathing for Voldemort.

So, if you were in this situation, what would you do?

" Ehm. . well, first off I'd probably contemplate suicide."

Thanks.. .

"But then, being a Malfoy, I'd decide that suicide was too melodramatic and plebian.
The question is, would Malfoy really consider me better than Voldemort?" Harry already
knew the answer to this, but he had to ask for form's sake.

Let's assume, for the purpose of argument, that he does.

"Shit. Well, I suppose I would have to swallow my pride, even if I choked on it, and
go beg Potter for his help." Harry grimaced, knowing how unpleasant that would feel
to the other boy.

All right. Now, what if you were yourself, and Malfoy came to you in that situation? What
would you do?

Harry blinked. He wasn't a complete fool, and not only was he by now completely
certain of the identity of his visitor, he was also beginning to worry in completely
new ways, though he made sure to keep it from showing. "Good question. Well,
first I would want to know if I could trust him. . ."

Say he provides some sort of proof of his sincerity. . .

"All right, so he's in in trouble and I have reason to believe him. . .That's sticky. . ."
Harry thought about his current relationship with Draco, and the conversations held
that summer. "Hmm, I suppose I'd lay down some conditions. . ."

Such as?

"Well, no more insulting my friends or their families, for one, or messing up people's
work in Potions, or trying to get us expelled. . . "


Alright. And if he agreed?

"I don't know. I'd like to think that I'm the sort of person who would help him . . . but I
really wouldn't know until it happened, would I?"

I suppose not. But you would consider it?

"I'd consider it, yeah . . ."

That evening, as his visitor flew away, Harry whispered into the remains of the
slipstream, "Dear God, Draco, what have you gotten into?"

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
(The same evening)

Peter Pettigrew made his way up the grand staircase at Malfoy Manor as he had done
every evening for the past several weeks. It was time for the young master's lesson in
becoming an animagus. The young man was having some difficulty--as did anyone
when starting this process--but Peter was confident that his student would be more
than ready by the time the bonding came about. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so
confident. Or, considering the circumstances, perhaps he should have been paying
more attention to his surroundings.

But, luckily for the student concerned, Pettigrew didn't notice the warning tingle of the
trap spells set into the floor, distracted by the shine of the elegant silver fox pendant
Draco was admiring as he walked in the door.

"Ah," said the student. "Right on time. Now, Mr. Pettigrew, I've been practicing, and I
think I'm on the verge of a breakthrough. If you could just show me one more time. . ."

Pleased with his student's confidence, Pettigrew demonstrated his skills. And lack thereof.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

From: General Chaos; the Life and Times of General Ronald Weasley, OoM, OotP, OotG

If you had told me, after our third year, that one day Harry and Malfoy would be an item, I
would have said you were daft. If you'd said the same a year later, I would have told you
Harry was bisexual, not desperate.

And yet, when the revelation came, I was somehow not as surprised as I maybe should
have been. Perhaps because I had just lost a Galleon in the Order's betting pool to
Hermione, who'd not only made the right guess , but had raked in a total of twenty
Galleons. Or maybe because somewhere inside ourselves we had already realised that they
would go well together, if only Malfoy would simply stop insulting Harry and his friends. Of
course , I was surprised to learn that it was Malfoy who had become Harry's summertime
saviour, but once that was accepted. . . and once you took his actions at the end of July into
consideration. . . well, it wasn't all that mind blowing . . .and besides, who else could I ever look to for a challenging game of wizard's chess?


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