silyara | Songlines; Chapter 2

Title: Songlines
To:

joanwilder
Author/Artist:

silyara
Pairing/Threesome: Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione (side), Neville/Luna (implied)
Rating: R (overall)
Warnings: EWE, dom/sub
Word count: 19500+ (overall)
Summary: Draco is assigned to help Harry and Hermione find the Grangers in Australia. But along the way, the two are bonded, which changes everything.
Chapter: 2 of 7
Disclaimer: I am simply playing. JKR has the rights.
Request: Slash, post-war fic, romance, sex toys, consensual BDSM, Dom/Sub roles, sex in odd locations, desperate!sex, forced magical bonding, claiming and marking, EWE, united begrudgingly by a purpose
Author’s Notes: First off, thank you to my beta, C. I tried to fit in as much of the request as I could, but the boys didn’t want to do everything. They had their own ideas, and I followed along for the ride. I enjoyed it, and I hope you will too.

The Grangers preferred to talk with only their daughter, which gave Harry and Malfoy time to try to figure out what in Merlin’s left pants’ leg had happened to them. The Ministry of Magic located itself in Sydney; it was attached to the National Floo Registry, to make it more accessible, but neither wizard wanted to risk even a couple seconds of being separated more than twenty feet. So they talked with the hotel manager for apparation instructions. The apparation point was a single room connected to the floo entrances, so that entry was still restricted for safety but not convenience.

They stood in the lobby corner, arguing – not even capable of an hour outside of Hermione’s presence without some bickering. “I have apparated much more than you,” Malfoy argued, “Therefore I can bring you along.”

“I do not need to be helped like a baby,” Harry argued.

“And I do not trust you to get me there in one piece,” Malfoy smirked.

“I can apparate just fine,” Harry growled.

But Malfoy did not retort, simply grabbed Harry and went.

“Merlin’s arse, you bastard,” Harry growled and pulled away, “do not do that again.”

Malfoy said nothing.

“You aren’t going to argue?” Harry asked.

“I…can’t,” Malfoy answered, looking as perplexed as Harry. They looked at each other, both thinking the same thing – the magic in the Outback.

Shuffling through took little time, as most people had come to work already. Approaching the help desk just inside, Harry coughed, not sure how to begin the conversation. The middle-aged witch’s eyes stared at his face, making him feel self-conscious, and slowly spoke, “Harry…Potter. You just saved Britain right? What are you doing down here?”

“We need to speak to someone about a magical incident that happened when we were hiking,” Harry said firmly.

“Oh, we can’t help you with that,” she said kindly.

“Why not?” Harry demanded.

“That’s aborigine magic,” she explained, “it’s all very secretive. Their wizards and witches are dying out, but they refuse to let us record anything about their magic for the library or anything. In return, they only use it among themselves. But we do not go in the Outback near their areas. Never know what might happen.” She gave him such an apologetic look – the one that doctors gave dying patients.

“Could we talk to one of these aborigine wizards?” Harry asked.

“Well, they're very hard to find,” she said, whispering as if telling a children’s story, “but they’re pure black – completely black, not the shiny-black of Africans. I heard that there’s one who sells artwork over in Kiwi Plaza, dodgy place. But that’s all I know.”

Malfoy sighed, as if she was a waste of his time, “And how can we get to this Kiwi Plaza?”

“Go out the street exit, go to the end and take a right. Then it should be off of that street connected by a small alley, which is hard to see, but it’s on the left. I avoid that place. Most decent folk do,” her eyes flitted back and forth between them, “there are dangerous wizards and witches there.”

“Thanks, and you’re staring at the wizard who defeated You-Know-Who twice, once in diapers,” Malfoy sniped back, rolling his eyes. “Let's go, Potter.”

Harry glanced over with an odd look as they exited, “Okay, first you don’t argue, and now the hero worship?”

“That was not hero worship. Your credentials are just a tad more snazzy than mine,” Malfoy quipped back.

“Right,” Harry laughed, “just a tad.”

Outside, a burst of cold wind made them button up and pop the collars of their winter coats, so their necks were protected. Few people were on the streets – both due to weather and the time of day. But Harry watched everything in his peripheral vision and noted Malfoy doing the same.

The further they traveled, the less pristine everything looked. Fewer people traveled about, and the shopkeepers watched those on the street behind old windows. His hand instinctively went for his wand, which he gripped under his hand mostly and up his sleeve, easy to slide down and perform a spell. But nothing happened until they reached the small alley connecting the plaza to the more-welcome street.

Shadowy characters flitted against the walls, barely moving and barely visible. An old witch with a single eye came up, trying to rub her hands on Malfoy’s cloak, begging for alms. “Please sir,” she coughed, “just a few small coins.”

Harry held his wand in front of her face, “Muttering words under your breath, and your wand is up your sleeve. Leave before I force you not to complete casting.” His face held no qualms – his best imitation of Moody he could give. And the witch sank back into the shadows.

“How could you tell?” Malfoy asked in a whisper as they entered the square.

“I’m not sure,” Harry answered, just as quietly, “I just… knew.”

“Well, thanks,” Malfoy muttered, almost inaudibly.

“You’ve been useful,” Harry replied, “and I don’t know what would happen to me if something happened to you.”

“And you have a big hero complex,” Malfoy added.

Harry grinned, “I suppose I do. Comes with the job description.”

Their eyes darted about. Most the shop signs were peeling, and they did not even have a name, so Harry looked at the wares for sale in the windows. Mostly the items were hidden, but one shop had canvases with pictures Harry had no clue what of, but they were painted. The shop fit the description the best. Hopefully the shopkeeper would as well.

Inside, similarly hard-to-describe paintings lined the walls, and a small howl sounded out as they entered. From the shadows, a dark man, who simply blended in before, wearing black robes emerged. “I do not describe what the paintings are of,” he began in a deep voice, “prices are attached. See me when you have made your selection.”

Harry looked him straight in the eye, his eyes adjusting in the dark to make out his entire form, “We are not here about artwork.”

“Then why do you come, Brit?” the dark man asked.

“We were in the Outback, when… something happened. My companion felt the magic in the ground beforehand, but we were both thrown to the ground. We were told it is aborigine magic,” Harry explained, never one who had particularly withheld information.

“I cannot tell you about that,” he replied, “I am a mere artist. That is not my place.”

“To whom can we talk to?” Harry asked, while Malfoy continued to check out the place from where he stood next to him.

“Wait here,” the man said without explanation, “I will return.”

“Right,” Harry muttered as the wizard disappeared.

“These are very interesting paintings,” Malfoy commented as they stood in the dim lighting.

“Great, buy one and take it back to your manor,” Harry commented grimly.

“I don’t mean that. There is magic in them, but they are not like our magical portraits. There are no people. It’s… places. Different magic to what was in the ground where we were, but it’s the same kind – aboriginal,” Malfoy continued, moving closer to a painting.

“Get away from there!” Harry ordered through clenched teeth, and the blond popped back, “you do not know what it could do. Whatever happened to being careful? It’s in a dodgy place. You can’t trust it.”

Malfoy sighed, “It doesn’t feel dark, and if it hurt people, he wouldn’t be allowed to sell it. The reason he has such a bad location is because the British came in and took over. The aborigines are looked down upon.”

“Like Voldemort and muggle-borns?” Harry asked.

“No,” Malfoy replied instantly, “they were here before we were. Muggle-borns enter our world. I am not going to argue politics with you, but it’s very different.”

“You’re still making people second-class citizens for something they were born as and can't help being,” Harry argued back.

“I’m not going to argue this with you,” Malfoy stated.

“You actually think Voldemort was right?” Harry asked, “How can you think that?”

“I think both ways are dangerous,” Malfoy stated, “allowing them and trying to take control over them.”

“Explain yourself.”

“The more we interact with muggles, and the more muggles find out about us, it’s dangerous. And muggle-borns are more likely to be weaker magically,” Malfoy shrugged.

“Weaker? Would you call Hermione weak – ”

“No,” Malfoy interrupted, “but she’s not the rule. More of them are poorer with magic. They haven’t grown up around it. It isn’t in their history. It isn’t as much a part of them.”

“I was raised by muggles,” Harry interjected.

“Yes, and you’re a special case when it comes to about everything,” Malfoy snapped, “The point is they weaken us. But it’s dangerous the other way too. I just heard about nuclear weapons. They could blow up the entire world in one minute if they get too scared. And what does magic have compared to that? Magic isn’t about destroying the world, but they could.”

“I suppose that could be their last defense,” Harry conceded, “So that’s why you think taking them over is dangerous?”

“That’s just one thing,” Malfoy responded, “and if they have that, what else do they have? I would rather not end up blown to pieces.”

“So what do you want to do?” Harry asked.

“Live. Survive. Help my parents not die in shame,” Malfoy threw out, “that’s how fate threw me out here. I had to do community service, but I told Shacklebolt I wanted to do something that would help my family, name and such, even if it was harder.”

“Wouldn’t you rather hide up in your manor and live off your riches?” Harry asked.

“Eventually a Malfoy will need to get a job. It’s not endless money. And until the name is better, that’s impossible,” Malfoy explained.

“Why so candid?”

“Well, seeing how secretive everyone is and how far away we can get from each other,” Malfoy pointed out sarcastically, “we seem to be likely to spend lots of time together. Might as well see if you are actually capable of a decent conversation.”

Harry laughed, “Okay, well, if you’re willing to work at not constantly being at my throat, so will I with you.”

“Sounds like a deal,” Malfoy agreed.

Two men returned from the shadows only moments after Malfoy made the statement, which made Harry’s skin crawl. He had not noticed anyone returning. The new man was similarly dressed, rather plain and dark.

“Our magic is our own. You are strangers to us and do not understand anything. I cannot explain anything to you when you know nothing,” the man spoke, not leaving the edge of the shadows, “When you understand a part, you will understand the whole.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry asked.

“You will understand in time, I hope,” he spoke slowly, “Good luck to you both.” He slipped away again, and only the artist remained.

“That was helpful,” Harry remarked.

“I am a lowly artist,” the painter replied, “it is not for me to decide. If you wish to buy a painting, you may. I cannot help you with anything else.”

“Great, thanks,” Harry muttered, “Malfoy – you buying anything or can we go?”

“We can go,” Malfoy replied, and they turned to exit the shop. The walk out of the shady district went peacefully enough with the residents giving them a decent girth. Once in the side street, Malfoy apparated them back to their hotel.

Fingers cold and frustrated, they sat for tea and waited, as Hermione was still with her parents. Neither said anything, though both understood that any hopes of parting company were clearly demolished until they figured out what happened. And they still had lives to live. But no conversation came up about what it would mean when they returned. Their minds were still wrapping themselves around the idea of being stuck with each other.