Title:Carte Blanche

Author: Ryyne

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine (obviously). If you happen to think so, you are clearly delusional. Also, this was inspired by/ (quite) loosely based upon A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens. Any plot elements in common with that brilliant piece of work are, then, not mine.

Warnings: Nothing really in this chapter – Just language. Possible slashy hints. For future reference: this story will have violence, language, definite slash, and some mature themes. Oh, and did I mention violence? (Rating will likely change.)

Feedback: Absolutely! Please! (Note: I am also currently searching for a beta. Please, if you have experience with H/D, grammar, and story flow – and are willing to deal with my ubiquitous semi-colons – apply!)

Carte Blanche

Prologue: In Retrospect

In retrospect, he considered himself blind and foolish to be so sentimental as to believe that things were over. In retrospect, any sentimentality he had harbored at that time was a mistake; he now knew that once upon the peak of the mountain, there is only one path that can be taken: downwards, into an abyss of lost hope, lost aspirations, lost sentiments.

The waves of blood, and death, and guilt, were sated. It seemed as if nature itself had calmed on the occasion, with a complete absence of breeze, a dull and flat sunshine, the air filled with relieved laughter. It was the end of his seventh year at Hogwarts, and the graduation was all he had expected – disgustingly maudlin, not to mention unbearably dull. What bothered him the most about the occasion, looking back, was the complete lack of concern for what the future might hold. All present – even the teachers – were caught in the moment, the War over, Riddle dead. Harry Potter was once again the Boy-Who-Wouldn't-Die, but despite the celebration, he was unenthused.

Well, Draco had thought, What will you do now, Golden Boy? Bask in fame and glory, like the snake that you deny you are? And Potter raised his head slowly across the aisle, and Draco saw the weariness in Potter's eyes. That moment, that singular but profound glance into Potter's depths, came as a slight shock to the Slytherin. What, no happy moments? Where's the soppiness and tears, Potter?

Draco knew, well enough, where the tears were. On hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of cold bodies that lay in the earth. The same earth which was now sprouting new flowers, warmed by the sun, and nurtured by the spring showers: or by the relentless rains of tears which had fallen for months.

Draco also knew – or thought he did – that Potter was a hopeless, angst-ridden hero. His eyes would rake over Potter's thin figure, and dark eyes, and unbidden, sarcastic thoughts would rise into his mind: Lighten up, Potter – Trying out a new look now? Dark and troubled hero? – The tabloids certainly do take notice. Too bad no one else does –

Except, Draco did, himself, take notice. Was he the only one who noticed his enemy's – what an empty word, now – state? He, with the luxury of never having to be involved in the War? He, who came into contact with Potter over the last year merely once, at his father's trial?

Draco was lingering in the hallway, back pressed against the dark stone walls of the outer chamber. He could hear the applause, faintly, as the verdict was read aloud. Draco felt sure that his presence in the courtroom was not missed, nor would anyone even take note of it. The cheers and happy sobs rang in his ears.

'The Jury hereby sentences Lucius Augustus Malfoy to death, by means of the Veil.' The last phrase was nearly lost in the storm of cries and triumphant shouts that began to ricochet off the walls of the chamber. They echoed long afterwards, like a horrible recurring dream. Draco would soon discover how those shouts would permeate his nightmares, haunting him; how those shouts would be soon revived in a ghastly, surreal version of reality.

As he slumped against the cold stone, Draco wondered whether anyone had any compunction, whatsoever, on sending his father to that Veil, that Abomination. Worse than a Kiss, people had said of it. Inhumane. Cruel and unusual.

Had his father surrendered so much of his humanity that he was fit for inhumane punishment? Was it fitting, to send a cruel and unusual man to a cruel and unusual death? Did two rights make a wrong – or was it, did two wrongs make a right? Did that omnipotent Jury know about his father's affection for chess, for expensive dark chocolate, for the elegantly lethal nightshade? (Well—maybe the last wasn't the perfect example of his father's humanity.)

Lost in his thoughts, Draco didn't notice light footsteps approaching him. Even when the figure's shadow fell upon him, Draco's head stayed down, and eyes half-lidded. His breaths came erratically as his mind tossed and turned and stormed:

The Jury hereby sentences Lucius Augustus Malfoy ---- The light of bad faith! ---- to death ---- to Hell! ---- bymeansoftheVeil. ---- The Jury hereby sentences Lucius Augustus—

'Malfoy.'

'What,' Draco snapped, and after a moment's hesitation, raised his head in order to identify his interruption. Shadowed green eyes stared back at him. 'Wh—Shit!'

Potter just looked at him with an unfathomable expression. His entire demeanor nearly made Draco shiver in – what? – anticipation, fear, anger?

Potter opened his mouth and some of the shadows receded from his eyes. Draco wondered if maybe, there never was any obscurity in them; maybe, it was a trick of the light; maybe, it was just Draco's wishful thinking that caused a flicker of secrecy, of darkness, of sorrow, to pass across Potter's visage. 'I'm – sorry for your loss.'

Draco was dumbfounded, but hastily composed himself into the proper poise of disdain. 'Pardon me, Potter?' He was sorry? What the hell was Potter playing at, anyways?

'Your father. I imagine that – that he meant a lot to you.'

Not entirely correct, Draco thought, but let him believe that. 'Get to the point, Potter. I don't have all day to listen to your sophomoric pity.'

Potter shrugged. 'The point is, I don't like it any less than you do.' He noticed that Draco's sneer intensified, and explained briefly, 'Don't get me wrong – your father was a bastard, no doubt about it. He deserves to be punished.' Draco neither acknowledged this nor refuted it. 'But no one deserves that punishment. The Veil; it's an abomination.'

Draco's eyes shifted uncomfortably; it was the subtlest of movements, but Potter took note. He pressed on. 'Trust me, Malfoy, I know. I – someone dear to me lost his life because of the Veil. You have my sympathy, Malfoy, however wrong it seems.' Potter laughed nervously, and ran a hand through his hair, not meeting the Slytherin's eyes. After a moment, he abruptly turned to leave, but Draco's penetrating voice stopped him involuntarily, as if the mere sound rooted him to the ground.

'Your sympathy? I don't need your sympathy, Potter. I don't need anyone's sympathy.' Draco was shaking with rage, or fear, or sadness; he wasn't sure which, looking back. And when Potter turned to face him, the look of pure empathy, and pity, and compassion, on his face, nearly sent Draco over the edge.

'Maybe you don't, Draco. Maybe.' And Potter left quickly, without another word, or even a look backwards at Draco, who had slumped back onto the wall, breathing heavily and angrily, his poise utterly ruined. -----

And Draco found, in the months after, that it was quite impossible for him to ignore Potter as he did before. Potter was a paradox wrapped in an enigma: a hero of the light, a sympathizer with the dark, the epitome of unprincipled principles, of responsible irresponsibility, of hateful love and loving hate.

Draco could simply not understand Harry Potter.

Which was why, on Graduation, he resolved to confront Potter. He didn't know why, exactly; but Draco was just itching to get under Potter's skin, just as Potter had done to him several months ago in that dark and dismal hall. Draco needed a sense of finality to the incident; he needed the last word, a blow to the unshakeable Potter.

After the ceremony, he waited near the entrance to the Great Hall, in hopes to snatch Potter away from the crowd without notice. Indeed, as Potter swept by him, head down, hair obscuring his eyes, Draco swiftly and aggressively grabbed his arm and pulled him to the side. Ignoring Potter's exclamation of outrage, Draco cornered him in the unlit section of the intermediate passageway. The Slytherin – previous Slytherin; he wasn't a part of Hogwarts, anymore – made certain to block anyone's view of Potter as he pushed him to the wall, Draco's hands on Potter's shoulders.

'Malfoy, what the bloody hell!—' Draco roughly covered Potter's mouth with his right hand, the left still gripping Potter's shoulder forcefully. Incendiary green eyes narrowed into intense slits.

'Shut it, Potter. Just listen.' Draco paused, and the tension in Potter's eyes seemed to dissipate, delicately, like the wispy gray smoke of a smothered fire. Draco took this as a sign for him to continue. 'Why'd you say it?' After a second, a muffled sound came from beneath Draco's hand. 'What? Oh,' Draco removed the offending appendage from Potter's mouth.

Potter's lips were pulled in a tight, red line, Draco observed. Then, in horror, Draco snapped his gaze to Potter's forehead. Much better. Oh, wait – Potter's talking.

'Say what, arsehole?'

Draco quivered in frustration. 'About – about the Veil, Scarhead. About my father.'

Suddenly, as if by transfiguration, Potter's demeanor morphed. The green eyes softened, the lips relaxed, and opened. His cheeks lost a bit of the flaming red hue. 'Why? I don't know, Malfoy. I didn't really have a reason. Should I have had one?'

'Yes!' Draco cried in frustration, and his grip on Potter's shoulders strengthened. How could Potter be so – so infuriatingly fickle, so unbelievably illogical, so insanely quixotic? Don't need a reason, my arse. What was he, King of the Known World? Could he do anything he pleased, just for the hell of it? Draco clenched his jaw in thinly-veiled aggravation, and forced himself to not inflict bodily harm on Potter until he had gotten what he wanted.

Potter just kept looking at him, with an unreadable expression – more like a façade; Draco was sure it wasn't an expression in and of itself, but a blank mask, hiding something deeper, more profound. His nose a firm, straight line; his lips, relaxed, not thin nor full; his cheeks, an healthy pink; his eyes, sea-green, calm, but with unmistakable depth: Draco didn't want this tranquility. He wanted Potter furious, enraged, with flames licking at the corners of his Avada Kedavra eyes, provocative and passionate. Something about this vast sea of nothingness bothered him; it was too reminiscent of himself.

Draco thought his eyes were dull. No, no; not dull – unfeeling, blank, cold. Dull was unexciting; Draco's eyes had a definite element of je ne sais quoi. Certainly not lackluster: they were the color of lustrous steel, too dark to be silver, but too light to be paled ash. Yet it must be admitted that Draco's eyes rarely held emotion. They were a purposeless blank slate, never to be written upon.

As Draco's empty eyes bored into Potter's, a flush began to creep up Draco's neck, and he unwillingly turned his head away, just a fraction of a centimeter, but noticeable all the same. Potter sighed, and said with a small, unhappy smile, 'I don't know, Malfoy. Why does anything happen the way it does? Why did Voldemort die, and not me?' He bowed his head, and black hair covered his features like a thick woolen blanket. 'I don't know why I do anything, anymore, Malfoy. It's useless to ask.' Draco could feel a small storm brewing within the calm eyes, and a wave of anger splashing over Potter. Anger at himself, though; not at Draco – this isn't helping, Draco thought. Potter's as screwed up and confusing as ever.

But somehow fascinating, a part of his mind said.

Yes, like how morbid, animalistic murders are fascinating. Exactly like that.

Beyond unnerved, both because of himself and because of Potter, Draco released his hold of the other boy. Man, actually, now that they had graduated.

'Potter, don't be an idiot. Riddle died because you killed him; he was weak.'

'And I was strong?' Potter asked, with a small smile (or was it a smirk?), glancing up through his eyelashes.

Draco was flustered – what the hell kind of game was Potter playing? Again? Dear Merlin, would Potter never cease? The angular edges of his cheekbones took on a vaguely ruddy tint as he answered, 'I'm sorry; did I say that?' Without waiting for a response, Draco continued, his demeanor becoming playfully condescending. 'No, I don't believe I did, Potter. You do tend to assume, don't you?'

'I know, I know; it makes an ass out of you and me. Shut it, Malfoy. Why'd you call him 'Riddle''?

Draco could hardly believe this. He and Potter – Potter, of all people! – were forming friendly rapport. Draco turned his back to Harry, and looked outside the great glass windows. It didn't seem as if Hell was freezing over.

This certainly wasn't going as planned.

'Why not call him Riddle? It was his name, wasn't it?'

'Well – I suppose – but that was before –'

Draco raised an eyebrow. 'People never lose their names, Potter. One's identity is vital. You, of all people, should know that.'

'Yes, but – Well – even people who weren't afraid of him called him 'Voldemort.' Why Riddle, and not that?'

'It's not his name, Potter. I don't fucking care what other people call him, alright? He was Tom Marvolo Riddle, the deranged, hooded, broken man that came to dinner. He's not some ethereal being, Potter. He was, at some time, a human.' Draco sneered. 'The most pathetic example of a man I've ever met, but a man nonetheless.

'I don't say Riddle because I'm not – I wasn't – afraid of him, Potter. Quite the contrary, in fact. I say Riddle because that's who he was, and what he was. His followers certainly considered him some Marvelous Riddle.'

Potter was staring at him openly, now, with waves of confusion in his eyes. Draco suppressed the urge to shake him to his senses. Honestly – Potter, intelligent? Was this some cruel joke of the cosmos? Why was Draco telling him this?

'His name is essential, Potter. Anyone's name is. It's a key, so to speak. Don't you ever wonder why Unspeakables are called that? One's identity is a powerful thing,' Draco repeated. Potter simply kept gaping – out of surprise, or confusion, or shock, Draco didn't know. He rolled his eyes upwards, thanked the gods for never having to see the imbecile again after today, and then brought his gaze down, directly into Potter's.

'If you don't understand now, you never will – Harry.' And he walked away, never to lay eyes upon the Gryffindor again.

Yet, in retrospect, things rarely go as planned; or even as hoped. In retrospect, the outwardly calm sea was shaking in its bowels; and the sun stifled its jaded shine; and the sea grew cold; and rolling swells were to form, pregnant with perilous potential.

In retrospect, he would see Harry again, and, in retrospect, it would the best – and worst – thing that ever happened to Draco Malfoy.

The light of bad faith…

TBC…

Reminder: Please note that I am looking for a beta! Contact me (e-mail in profile) and/or leave a review (preferably both – and even if you're not interested in beta-ing, please review! Quite an easy task, you know…).