194A/N: Sorry folks, no Harry/Draco interaction in this chapter—next one though, I promise. I also want to point out that Draco will NOT turn out to be a Good-All-Along, S.P.E.W supporting, muggle-lover, but neither will he be a complete egomaniacal prick (I'm aiming for a happy median, at least between him and Harry).
Also: be aware that I will be introducing a (hopefully) interesting twist in Harry's and Ginny's relationship—but nothing romantic, I swear! Just a heads up.
Silver Shades of Grey—Chapter Two
Harry lay stretched out on a stone bench in the backyard garden of Grimmauld Place, his chest bare to the late morning sun, twirling blades of grass between his fingers. Ginny sat propped up on her elbows beside him in a bikini top and a pair of shorts, her fiery locks pulled back from her neck.
Overheard the sky was a rare cloudless blue, the air heavy with the scent of summer flowers and damp earth. The Weird Sisters were drifting through the wizard wireless, Ginny's foot tapping along to the beat as she chewed the end of a licorice wand.
Harry stretched his back, turned onto his stomach. The garden was vast, thick with suffocating vines and dead and dying plants in terrible need of a good pruning. Bursts of vibrant color shown through here and there, poking through the many years of neglect.
Harry sighed. There was so much still left to do: new wallpaper in the front entrance, fresh paint for the bedroom walls, new carpeting, a decent window cleaning. After Sirius died, leaving Number 12 Grimmauld Place to him, Harry decided it was time to fix the place up—it was the least he could do for Sirius: getting rid of the vile Black family taint and bringing a bit of life to the old house—but he soon realized that he may have bitten off more than he could chew. If not for everyone pitching in a hand he'd still be dusting out the ground floor closet.
"I thought you had lessons with Malfoy today," Ginny said teasingly. "I can't imagine you wanting to miss that."
"Don't remind me," Harry groaned. Turning onto his back he frowned up at the sky, at a lone sparrow flitting lazily across his vision. Dumbledore has got to be completely mental to think this a good idea, Harry thought sulkily. Ten to one we're throwing punches two minutes in.
"I know you probably don't want to hear this." Ginny's sedate voice cut into Harry's inner musings. He looked at her with a softly incredulous frown—when has his not liking what she has to say ever stopped her? "Malfoy could prove to be a real asset to our side. I mean, who knows what sort of veela magic he might have. The two of you working together…"
Harry sighed, tipping his head back to stare at the branches dangling above him. "I know," he said. "Trust me, I know."
"It's the best chance we have."
"Probably. But what makes you think he'll even agree?"
"Why would he not?"
Harry pushed himself up onto his elbows, shook his head softly. "He hates his father," he said definitively. "He defected to our side to spite his father. But that doesn't mean he's willing to throw in his lot against Voldemort."
She stared at him in a way that was both disappointed and patronizing—and it made Harry feel very much like a child about to be scolded for having his hand in the cookie jar. He had the sudden urge to cross his arms, tip his head forward, and pout. "Did you see him at all, Harry?" There was that incredulity he loved to hate. "He was absolutely crushed!"
"I wouldn't—"
"I can't say I blame him, either."
Harry clapped his mouth shut, eyes impossibly wide. Did she just…? "You what?"
A flip of her head and Ginny pierced him with what he endearingly referred to as The Glare of Death; normally reserved for her brothers and the occasional brainless lout. Harry flinched.
"Malfoy was raised to one day take his father's place as Voldemort's right hand man," she said stiffly. "They were, for all intents and purposes, his family for eighteen years. He trusted them. Trusted him not to break faith with him, not to betray him. And that's exactly what he did. By giving the order to kill his mother, at the request of his father, Voldemort betrayed Malfoy." Ginny looked at him expectantly. "What better reason to jump sides?"
Harry knew he was only fooling himself—and doing a poor job at that. Call it an extreme case of forced self-delusion. Irrational denial, if you will. The bottom line was this: Harry knew exactly what had turned Malfoy from his "family" and knew without doubt that his defection was sincere and driven by a fierce sense of betrayal and hatred.
How could he not feel betrayed? For all his diluted naysaying, Harry understood. He too had once felt that same sense of betrayal, that same righteous hatred, when Dumbledore had finally confessed about the prophecy.
But for all his apprehension of Malfoy's reasoning, Harry refused to take it as any more than that. Forget the cha-cha of emotions still twisting in his gut—of which he continued to deny even to himself. Forget the traitorous Dumbledore-esque voice in his mind that kept nudging him to embrace Malfoy as an ally and a friend. Forget his mutinous heart which, even now, was thrumming with empathy for his once trenchant adversary. Forget his hazardous curiosity, his insufferable sense of duty, his superfluous "good-heart".
All Harry wanted to do was accept Malfoy's defection as what it really was: a last-ditch attempt to screw his father. Was that so much to ask for? Oh, sure, cackled the traitorous voice. Why not just ask Voldemort to pretty-please end his misplaced hatred of muggles and join them in a circle of kumbaya.
Harry scowled. It was a stupid voice anyway.
But stupid or no, it had a point. Harry could accept Malfoy's offer of truce as nothing more than what it was. That was the easy part; the part he could accept accepting. It got a bit complicated when Harry's irrational sense of empathy and concern came into play.
Honestly, it had to be something in the water! Harry Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World, simply did not care about Draco Malfoy, Slytherin Priss Extraordinaire. How could he? They had been perfect adversaries for seven glorious years. One does not simply chuck such precious, endearing experiences out the window.
Yes, Harry had since decided that the little ferret wasn't worth the effort it took to hate him, let alone care about him. And yes, he had cut loose all schoolyard grievances after graduating—what was the point, anyway? Harry had been perfectly content to forget the slimy little toad even existed; a decision he had been quite pleased with, thank you very much.
Those dreams were irreversibly and impossibly shattered now. Draco Malfoy was, and would continue to be, the annoyingly pesky mosquito buzzing at his ear. It really wasn't fair at all.
"Yoo-hoo." Something hard and slick smacked Harry on the side of the head. "Earth to space boy."
Harry blinked, looked down. A half eaten licorice wand was lying on his knee. Rubbing his head, he glowered at Ginny. "That hurt."
"No it didn't."
"It did too!"
Ginny gave him wry look. "You're such a child."
As if to prove that insulting, and obviously false, statement, Harry pouted. It was cute, really. Bottom lip jutted forward; eyes full of indignation; arms crossed tightly over the chest; head tipped down ever-so slightly; glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. Definitely cute.
Ginny threw another licorice wand at him. "Adorable, really. Now are you quite through?"
Harry grumbled. "Yes."
"Good boy," Ginny cooed. "Does my good boy want an ickle treat?"
"Oh, shut up." Affronted, Harry began to tear off pieces of licorice and pelt them at Ginny, who shrieked with laughter and quickly retaliated.
"Alright!" Ginny finally called, her side aching with laughter. "Truce! Truce! You're wasting good sweets!"
"I knew you'd see it my way," said Harry triumphantly.
"You're insufferable," she said with a roll of her eyes, brushing strands of grass from her arm.
"You love it."
"Just don't tell anyone, okay?"
She gave a him a sugar-and-spice look: batting her eyelashes, coy smile, hands folded together under her chin. A display of all innocence from a girl of pure terror.
Harry smiled. He was amazed with how close they had grown over the years. He still remembered when she had been just "Ron's little sister." When she became more was anyone's guess. One day they had simply woken up and, boom, they were all but inseparable. It was strange, yes, but only to everyone but he and Ginny—for them, it was as natural a change as anything else. But they had been curious.
Ron and Hermione had thought him off his rocker when he suggested that, perhaps, he and Ginny were soulmates. Naturally, Ron's mind had flashed to images of his best mate and his baby sister married with a brood of red-headed kids running around the Burrow.
"But you're not interested in Ginny," Ron had remarked confoundedly. No, Harry had replied. "Not like that." Hermione, in all predictability, had set about researching the idea—in the end declaring that, yes, it was entirely possible. It was rare, she said, for soulmates to actually find each other, but to do so and then to recognize each other was extremely rare.
"There are just too many people; too many ways to be separated and kept apart. You're lucky one of you isn't a muggle or you'd probably never have found each other."
A spell proved Harry right.
So what was it to be soulmates? If so desired, one could connect to the other's emotions, even block emotion to help the other heal from tragedy or misery or heartbreak. They felt each others' presence without seeing each other and knew always where the other was. They conveyed complex conversation without speech, but couldn't read each others' thoughts. There was no romantic attraction; no irrational, passionate love; no desperate need to be ever close to each other—only pure affection and what Harry dubbed an Emotional Telepathy.
"Soulmates," lectured Hermione one sunny afternoon, "are nothing more than two halves of a single soul. Necessarily they are drawn to one another. In our modern world of six and a half billion people, however, it is rare indeed that they find each other. This does not mean they spend their entire lives in misery, feeling ever without the 'missing part' of their soul. Quite the contrary actually. Most live out their entire lives without ever knowing they have a soulmate. If, and when, they find each other," she said, "they are said to experience a sharing of souls."
"Sharing of souls?" Ginny asked. "But we already share a soul."
"Yes," Hermione conceded, "and no. If you tried to match each half of your one soul back together, they wouldn't fit. Not entirely, anyway."
"Why is that?" Harry asked.
"A soul is composed of cosmic energy. Energy which is extremely malleable. As an individual grows and learns, their soul is shaped by the experiences of their life. Like snowflakes, no two souls are completely alike. Yours," she said, looking over at Harry and Ginny, "have many similarities and compliment each other. You share a sense of understanding of each other that can never be duplicated…"
"Harry." Again he was hit with something hard and slick, drawing him back to the present.
Licorice wand. "Now you've asked for it."
Harry lunged at Ginny, who shrieked and leapt away—or tried to at least. Harry caught her by the arm and swung her around, pining her down against a stone bench. She tried to look fierce but the intermittent giggles negated the effort. "Now, now, chipmunk."
"Harry." She tugged, her belly roiling rather nervously. "Harry, let me go."
"No."
"I'm sorry," she said half-heartedly. "Really. I've learned my lesson. Throwing licorice, bad."
"Glad to hear it, chipmunk. But I'm not letting you go."
"What are you—"
Ginny squealed, pulling away from Harry's tickling fingers. She gasped, laughed, begged, cried—anything to make him stop. He knew too well where she was most sensitive.
"Okay!" she cried, squirming under the merciless assault. "You win, Potter! You win!"
Harry sat back with a triumphant grin. "Now who's a good chipmunk?" he teased.
Ginny glared at him with a slight twitch of her lips . "That was foul, Harry."
"Oh? And throwing sweets is such a saintly act?"
"When done by yours truly…"
Harry laughed. "You're impossible."
"So they tell me," she replied with a coquettish flip of her hair.
Celestina Warbeck filtered through the wizard wireless as they settled back to soak up the late morning sun. The sky remained a perfect cloudless blue, a sweet breeze rustling the trees. The muffled voices of neighbors and passersby drifted in through the wards enshrouding Number 12 Grimmauld Place.
"Don't even think about it," Harry said, eyes closed against the hot sun.
Ginny frowned, popping the chocoball she'd been about throw at him into her mouth. "I would love to know how you do that."
He looked at her with a debonair smile. "Magic."
She let out an unladylike snort and threw a chocolate at him anyway.
"Harry? Ginny? There you are." Mrs. Weasley smiled at them from the doorway, wiping her hands on her spotlessly white apron. "Come inside, dears. They'd like a word with you."
The kitchen of Grimmauld Place was stuffy and crowded. An oversized scrubbed table took up nearly half the space, each chair occupied by a stiff, unsmiling Ministry official. Mrs. Weasley was bustling about, stirring this and mixing that, serving cold drinks and plates of food, chatting happily to an unresponsive crowd.
Harry stood in the doorway, surveying the bored assembly.
To one side sat the Ministry representatives: Corrine Dabbers, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Gawain Robards, Head of the Auror Office; the Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour; Adalia Modi, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation. To the other side sat members of the Order: Headmaster Dumbledore; Professor McGonagall; Remus; Snape; Kingsley Shacklebolt; Tonks; Mad-Eye Moody; Bill and Charlie Weasley. Hovering between were half a dozen other Aurors and miscellaneous officials.
The Ministry representatives had been at Number 12 Grimmauld Place every day, all day, for over a week, arguing in circles and getting absolutely nowhere. Each had their own idea of where the War was heading, of how to counteract Voldemort's activities, of what Harry should and would do. Each fancied themselves master of the Savior's illustrious leash. Never mind that Harry outright refused their leash.
Ginny peeked over his shoulder, a roll of her eyes easily conveying her thoughts. With this particular collection of officials it was small wonder that nothing was getting done. Prides were clutched much too tightly, arrogance draped like robes over their unyielding shoulders, contempt wafting in the air like sharp, bitter incense.
Harry was mildly impressed they had managed not to tear each other to shreds.
"What's up?"
"Not much, big brother," Ginny smiled, glancing over her shoulder. "What have you two been up to?"
Ron scowled. "Cleaning," he grumbled. "Mum caught us coming out of the kitchen this morning."
"That's the beauty of house elves, Ronniekins."
"Yeah? Well tell that to her," he said, pointing a thumb in Hermione's direction. "She nearly skinned me alive for even suggesting we ask Kreacher for anything."
Hermione gave him a look to freeze water, and Ron wisely shut up. "Do you really want to get in to this again?"
Ron was saved from having to scramble for a safe response as Dumbledore stood, beckoning the four of them inside. "Won't you join us?"
Two dozen pairs of eyes tracked them as they crossed to sit in the four unoccupied chairs set before the gathered assembly. Harry felt distinctly uncomfortable, as though he were on trial for some unidentified offense. An alien shiver down his spine told him Ginny felt the same.
Dumbledore smiled affably, blue eyes sparkling. "Excellent," he said. "Now that we're all here, shall we begin?"
"Sir," Harry asked, a nervous flutter in his belly. "What's going on?"
Gawain Robards leaned forward, hands clasped in what Harry assumed was supposed to be a down-to-earth gesture, but which actually made him look more pretentious than anything else. "There has been a development," he said gravely.
No kidding, Harry thought wryly. "What sort of development?"
"Lucius Malfoy has escaped Azkaban."
Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes and mouth off. Did they honestly think he was an idiot? That he was utterly incapable of piecing together the obvious? Why in the world would Draco come groveling to the Order, bartering for protection against his father if Lucius was still locked away in Azkaban? Never mind that Lucius was Voldemort's right hand and was likely the first to be released once the Dementors had properly defected.
Ginny touched his knee, soothing his kindling ire with an effortless stroke of their soul-bond. Snarling at the Head of the Auror Office would serve only to stoke the fire of an already precarious situation.
"I'm sorry," Harry said snidely, unable to hide completely his growing irritation. You want me to play the idiot, he thought. I'll play the pissed off idiot. "I thought your job was to keep prisoners in Azkaban, not hand them a 'get-out-of-jail-free' card."
Robards frowned unpleasantly at the muggle reference and at Harry's contemptuous tone. "We hardly held the door for him," he sneered.
"Of course not," Harry replied with a brittle smile. "I'm sure you walked him all the way out."
Robards and his Aurors bristled at the comment, and Ginny sent him a wordless scolding. Dumbledore had asked that they at least feign civility with the Ministry's representatives, if for no reason other than to encourage cooperation. But Harry found it hard to feign capitulation to a group of people that refused to take responsibility for anything, choosing instead to point fingers and place blame on everyone else.
It was beyond stupid, beyond childish. It was suicidal. If the defenders of the Light couldn't bring themselves to work together, than the War was lost.
Dumbledore looked at him reprovingly, and Harry felt a bizarre need to apologize. "I understand your frustration, dear boy," he said. "But now is not the time."
Harry bit hard on his tongue to silence his bitter retort. Ginny squeezed his knee reassuringly. This is getting us nowhere, he fumed inwardly. While Voldemort plans his next attack they sit here bickering like children! Hermione touched his hand, offering a sympathetic smile, and Ron glared stoutly at the simmering Aurors.
"Our concern is not Lucius Malfoy," Rufus Scrimgeour said. "Not entirely."
"You don't say?" Harry replied mockingly. "By all means, do enlighten us."
Scrimgeour pinched his mouth in a sour expression. He and Harry had never been on good terms. "His son—"
"Let me guess," Harry interrupted, snapping his fingers. "He's veela."
"Damnit, boy!" Robards slammed his fist down, glaring dangerously. "This is no joke!"
"And I'm not laughing," Harry spat. "You people. You act like brainless louts. Lying to us. Lying to each other. I can't do my job if you keep me in the dark. Unless, of course, you prefer I bow out now and leave Voldemort to you." That many of the Aurors gathered looked distinctly ill at the mere thought of facing the Dark Lord seemed somehow amusing to Harry. "I didn't think so," he said.
Ginny laughed mirthlessly, glaring hard at Robards and Scrimgeour. "And what does that say about you?" she asked harshly. "That you allow a child to do your dirty work for you."
"Enough." Dumbledore spoke calmly, evenly, but his tone left no room for argument. Robards sat and Ginny retracted her claws. "Tensions are understandably high, but there is no reason why we cannot be civil."
Harry felt himself smile despite the situation. Who but Albus Dumbledore could make someone feel so thoroughly chastised without so much as raising their voice? Well. Hermione, but…
"They have been told of Mr. Malfoy's situation," Dumbledore was saying.
"Then I assume you have questions." Adalia Modi, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, was a slight woman with a remarkably imposing personality (Harry had once seen her stare down Professor Snape, and win). Her pale blue eyes revealed none of the cold hostility shared by her fellow Ministry officials, but rather an honest displeasure for Harry's remarks and a spark of amusement borne out of Robards annoyance. Harry had liked her instantly.
"What would Voldemort want with Malfoy?" Hermione asked, a wicked grin curling her mouth as the Big-Bad Ministry folk flinched at the mention of The Name.
Oh, yes, Harry thought with a roll of his eyes. I feel so very safe with these people at my back.
"Two reasons," Adalia replied. "One: it seems Mr. Malfoy refused the Dark Mark—"
"What!"
"—And two: he wants Mr. Malfoy's blood."
The shock of hearing those four little words—refused the Dark Mark—coiled like barbed wire along Harry's spine, cold and sharp. He felt a mirroring sting from Ginny, felt Hermione's hand tighten over his, knew for a certainty that Ron sat motionless and gaping like a fish. For a moment it seemed as though the world had fallen out from beneath him, like everything had just stopped, waiting for his mind to wrap around the shock.
Draco Malfoy, Slytherin Prince extraordinaire, the snarkiest bastard Harry had ever had the misfortune of meeting, had refused his father's legacy, his legacy?
Harry glanced around. Where were the dancing unicorns? The singing hippogriffs? Dumbledore in a tutu? Something to tell him that this was dream and he was going to wake up at any minute and find the world exactly how he had left it. He wasn't sure he could take many more surprises.
"Why would he refuse the Dark Mark?"
"Your guess is as good as ours," Adalia smiled. "It's likely he found the thought of kneeling before You-Know-Who rather unsavory."
Ron snorted. "Right. And maybe he's all rainbows and puppies, too."
Mrs. Weasley clucked her tongue reprovingly at her son, pitting him with a look that clearly said to keep such comments to himself.
"Maybe he didn't like the idea of old Voldie poking at him with a needle," Ginny remarked.
"Also likely," Adalia nodded. "I doubt very much any child of Lucius Malfoy would willingly submit to being anyone's guinea pig."
"What's so important about Malfoy's blood?" Harry asked, although he was fairly certain he already knew the answer.
"He is a male crossbreed with active tendencies," Hermione replied. "Veela blood is a potent substance in and of itself, used to enhance countless potions and to buffer a person's magic when ingested, but Malfoy…"
"If he does possess true veelic tendencies," Adalia said, "a male crossbreed, then his blood could very well make You-Know-Who indestructible."
Right then, Harry thought. Voldemort turning vampire: Bad. Very bad.
But there was something else. Something smug in the way Robards and Scrimgeour were looking at him. It made Harry distinctly uncomfortable. The Ministry wanted Draco for the information he was privy too, but why the cold smugness? Why the look of…triumph?
Harry stiffened, eyes narrowing on the two men sitting across from him. They wouldn't. "What exactly do you want from Malfoy?" he asked, suspicion lacing his words.
Robards revealed a cruel smile. "Why, his knowledge of You-Know-Who's inner circle, of course."
"Which he has offered to Order," Harry said. "Not the Ministry."
"We believe he may yet change his mind," Scrimgeour shrugged, a spiteful glint in his yellowish eyes. "With your help."
The hairs at the back of Harry's neck prickled. "And if I refuse? Or if Malfoy decides not to play nice?" He stared at Scrimgeour, the illustrious Minister of Magic, and felt an icy chill down his back. "You would, wouldn't you? You'd ship him off to Azkaban until he changed his mind."
"These are hard times," Robards remarked offhandedly. "And they call for hard measures."
"Hard measures!" Harry snapped. "There is no god damned excuse for sending an innocent man to Azkaban!"
"You people," Ron seethed. "Do you owl Voldemort about these meeting or do you prefer face to face?" he spat.
Scrimgeour was on his feet in an instant, face flushed with outrage. "How dare—"
"Shut up!" The very room shook as the last of Harry's patience snapped, magic rippling from his body in thick, palpable waves. The Minister was shoved by the sheer force of Harry's fury, stumbling over his feet and slamming back against the wall. "Make a threat like that again," Harry warned, "and I promise you: I will show you exactly why Voldemort fears me."
And with that, he strode from the kitchen, friends close to heel, two dozen pairs of eyes staring after him in shock and awe.
TBC
A/N: Did Voldemort technically "fear" Harry? I always liked to think so but…either way, it makes a hell of a threat, no? What did you think of the whole Harry/Ginny soulmates thing? I promise it will remain entirely platonic—and serves to open a door to future tensions between Ginny and Draco (joy!). Oh, and if you haven't noticed, this story will contain quite a bit of Ministry bashing—hope no one minds :-)
Okay, well. Please review…they keep me going.
A/N Cont'd: Okay lovies, here's the scoop. I would love to hear any suggestions you might have regarding this story (things you'd like to see happen or said, plot twists, character interactions, etc). I have a fairly good idea how I want this story to progress, but am always open to new ideas. If I like your suggestion/idea enough, I might just incorporate it into the story.
So, submit a review (or email me) and let me know your thoughts.
Thanks!