Handshake
Draco wasn’t only there for a few moments.
He just couldn’t bring himself to leave. Which in turn made him feel weak, and soft, and idiodic, but still, leaving Grimmauld seemed an impossible feat.
So, Draco stayed away from The Manor, on the excuse of some ministry errand or another, while he really reviewed the family accounts. The familiar rows of numbers gave him focus, a numbing goal he could let run his mind with completely. It wasn’t true accounting, but instead drawing his money out of the London branch of Gringotts and into the Swiss one, among other various trusts and accounts that couldn’t be seized should he be arrested.
He gave the same treatments to Blaise’s accounts, though given they were mostly in Italian banks it wasn’t nearly so necessary. Still, he did his Fiancé the favour, as Blaise was scared of both goblins and accounting.
The fragile peace Draco had crafted for himself broke, however, as it so often did, when Harry Potter crashed into the room.
The saviour didn’t seem to have anything to say, as he simply stared at Draco for a few moments, still in the doorway. Draco made the executive decision to ignore him.
Potter didn’t seem to enjoy that, and dropped himself into the chair across from Draco, “What are you doing.”
It wasn’t a question, more a flat statement.
“What does it look like, Potter?” Draco sneered, “Reviewing the accounts.”
Potter blinked, “What?”
Draco blinked, “Do you-” He squinted, “Do you not have an accountant?”
“Why would I have an accountant?” Potter questioned, more taken of guard than hostile now.
Draco closed his eyes. Harry Potter, last of the Potter family, Boy Who Lived, Saviour of the Wizarding World, didn’t have an accountant.
“Potter, is your money in Gringotts?”
“Yeah, why?”
“And you don’t check it?”
“No,” Potter replied, now much more hesitant.
“Right.” Draco sighed, if Potter didn’t know, Draco wasn’t going to tell him.
Potter squinted, “Do you have an accountant?”
Draco pulled a face of disgust, “Absolutely not.”
Merlin only knew what would happen if he left the family money in the hands of a stranger. Potter didn’t seem the type to have a head for numbers, so he obviously needed the help, but Draco had been raised reviewing account summaries and bank statements.
“Well why not?” Potter asked, back to suspicious, apparently.
“Why not?” Draco said incredulously, “It’s my job.”
“Shouldn’t you be licensed or something?” Potter tilted his head.
Draco raised an eyebrow, “Yes, my greatest concern is whether or not I have a piece of paper from The Ministry saying I can do what I’ve been doing since I was old enough to count.”
Potter seemed to take that at face value, and they sat in silence for a while. Draco tried not to fidget under the frankly unnerving amount of attention, but he honestly couldn't remember being this close to Potter for this long without starting a fistfight.
It prickled over his skin, almost painful after how long he’d spent numb.
Just as he couldn’t stand it, just as he was ready to throw things and scream, Potter spoke.
“How do you deal with it?” He asked, like that made any sense.
“With what?” Draco replied, mostly just to be difficult.
“Him. Voldemort. Him knowing you.” Potter refused to look at him, like the question was something that should be avoided.
Draco thought about it. It was, after all, quite a large question.
“I don’t. Not really.”
He watched as Potter deflated, and rushed to clarify, “Voldemort doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know anyone. He couldn’t, because that would require empathy. He only knows what he perceives me as.”
Now it was Draco’s turn to look away, because it felt like peeling back his skin, being this vulnerable with Potter.
“To him, I’m just the first son of a powerful family, with fair blood. A pretty tool to be picked up and twisted to his liking. It's hard to feel known, living like that.” he licked his lips, a wry smile on his face, “I’d imagine being a monster already is no small help, either.”
Draco looked up, seeing Potter’s defiant expression.
“You were never a monster. A bully, a bigot, sure, but not a monster.” Potter’s jaw shifted as he clenched his teeth, “How do you know what you are? What if you are what he perceives you as?”
“That’s the awful part.” Draco picked up his pen, just for something to do with his hands, “You are. I am the first son, I do have fair blood, and I am his tool.” He sighed, “But I’m also more than that, I suppose. That’s what Blaise would say, anyways.”
Potter actually looked hopeful, “So you use the people around you?”
Draco winced, “Suboptimal phrasing, but I suppose. You could always lean into the strangeness, I find being off-putting helps ground your sense of self quite nicely.”
Potter blinked, “You know, that explains quite a bit about you.”
Draco gave him a flat look, “I find that quite insulting.”
Potter smiled, before the expression seemed to catch, falling instead to a guilty frown.
“Oh come on,” Draco groaned, “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” Potter asked, taken off guard.
“That,” Draco cried, waving his hand in the general direction of Potter’s face. “Don’t do the whole self-pity thing!”
“Well why not!” Potter replied, just as incensed.
Draco snarled, “Because it’s me who has to deal with it!” He stood, gesturing to his chest, “I’m the one who has to live like this! You’re just feeling sorry for yourself!”
“I am sorry!” Potter yelled, toeing the line between anger and sincerity in a very strange way.
“And I’ve forgiven you, haven’t I?” Draco yelled back.
Potter leaned back slightly, “You have?”
“Of course I have.” Draco scoffed, “That was the terms of the deal, wasn’t it?” He looked at Potter, “I forgave you, and you are forever indebted to me. That’s our relationship now.”
“Well I don’t want it to be.” Potter said flatly.
“What?” Draco asked, utterly baffled at how pig-headed Gryffindors could be.
Potter turned up his nose, the picture of pureblood confidence, “I don’t want you to forgive me because you have to. I want you to forgive me because we’re friends.”
Draco simply stared, uncomprehending. Had he slept in? Was this some strange, lucid dream?
“I think it’s high time, don’t you? How long have we known each other?” Potter continued, barrelling through Draco’s non-response, “Call me Harry.”
Draco rubbed his eyes, still unsure of himself, “Have you gone mad? Have I gone mad?”
“Not anymore than usual.” Potter- Harry? replied, “Anyways, I’d say we're both mad, Draco.”
Draco sighed, he would be more likely to win a fight against a hurricane, “Alright, Harry.”
Harry smiled at Draco, and for a moment, Draco let himself enjoy the disconnect from reality.