Old Beginnings and New Endings
There was blood under Draco's nails.
That's one of the first things Blaise noticed. There's blood under his nails and a faint pink stain on his hair, like he'd not had time to scrub it thoroughly before coming to Grimmauld. But then Blaise's arms are around Draco, real and alive, and it stopped mattering.
Blaise leaned back to study his fiancé, already taken back by the differences he could find.
Taller, longer hair, cane, eyes, his entire face really.
But it's what should be the same that unnerved him. Blaise couldn't see the small things that made Draco's face Draco's.
The pale, barely there freckles under his eyes, for one, had been completely erased. And the small scar on his chin, from when he'd fallen down the stairs at The Manor playing with Blaise as children.
Blaise knew Pansy, and thus knew what it looked like when something had been covered with makeup, and this wasn't it.
He almost thought it was an imposter, but then Draco spoke, a single, heartbroken, hopelessly lost, "Blaise?" and he knew it was real.
No one Blaise had ever met, in his entire life, had ever managed to say his name quite like Draco did. Like Blaise hung the stars in the sky, like he had the keys to the universe.
Like he was someone.
Blaise would recognize the way Draco said his name in any language, even unspoken ones. He knew the exact way Draco's face moved when he spoke about Blaise, the way his eyebrows rose, and his mouth twitched. No one but Draco could ever replicate it.
It was cemented further, when Draco clutched his hand so hard, it almost drew blood, like he was scared of Blaise disappearing into the ether, like at any moment the curtain would be pulled away, and an audience would laugh at him.
So he wasn't surprised, when he put his hand on Draco's face, and felt something off. Draco had always been vain, and in a way, it was comforting, that Draco still cared so much about shallow things. Proof he planned for an after, where how he looked still mattered.
He was surprised to see the scars, of course, who wouldn't be? But Draco's face, as he peeled back the glamour was the single most horrific thing Blaise had ever seen.
Blaise could see every emotion, Draco had always been an open book to him, so he knew exactly how Draco thought he'd react, even if Draco himself didn't.
Fear, resignation, self loathing.
He expected condemnation. For Blaise to fling himself back and shriek.
Luckily for the both of them, Blaise was not some delicate maiden, or half so shallow as Draco was.
And Blaise vowed, that from now until they were both cold in their graves, and then even after, that he would find a way to make sure Draco knew Blaise returned every ounce of devotion tenfold. He would invent a new language, made entirely of Draco's name, so that Draco could feel what Blaise felt, when Draco said his. He would learn to paint, so he could make portrait after portrait of Draco, and show the world what he saw.
So when it came time to go to bed, to finally sleep with the reassuring rise and fall of Draco's chest next to him, Blaise held Draco tight, resting his head on Draco's shoulder, which was now the perfect height for a pillow, and wrapping a hand around his waist.
"You haven't sung for me in ages." Draco said, looking up at the ceiling.
Blaise turned to look up at him, "Well you haven't played for me in ages." It was true, he hadn't heard Draco play piano since fourth year.
"I will." Draco replied, entirely serious, "I'll play for you the next chance I get. There must be a grand somewhere in this house."
"Well then, I guess I owe you a song now." Blaise hummed, making a great show of being put upon.
"Yes, I think you do." Draco shifted down so his eyes were level with Blaise's, "Not something sad."
"No, no I think not." Blaise thought about what to sing, something soft and slow, that could be repeated.
He remembered a few years ago, when they were about 12, and going through Draco's mother's things, being the obnoxious snoops they were.
They'd found a record, shiny and black, shoved behind an antique dresser, in the corner of the attic. Being 12, and infinitely curious, they played it, and quickly realised it was muggle music. There wasn't any tangible difference, just something subtly off, that made them realise they would be punished if they were caught.
But they listened anyway, all the way through, and then again, and again, until a house elf popped in to summon them for dinner. They'd rushed to put it back, to hide it before their parents found out, in the same place, so no one would know it had been moved at all.
Shoving back the dresser they had found it behind revealed a box, old and dusty, with nothing but the record, and a single leather jacket.
Draco had loved that song, even if he would never say it, Blaise saw the way his face lit up, enraptured and light with wonder.
Blaise never forgot that song, and when he opened his mouth to sing, it was what he chose.
"Blackbird" The record had been labelled, by some band named after a bug.
Blaise went through the whole song twice, before he could feel Draco fall asleep, and then he sang it again, just because, until he was tired too.
Blaise had never slept so well.
—-------
When Blaise woke up, Draco still laying half on top of him, he nearly cried with relief. Some small part of his brain managing to convince him it had all been a dream, that he would wake up alone in the Slytherin dorm.
But he was not. He was at Grimmauld Place, a house Draco owned, with Draco himself by his side, and platinum hair in his mouth.
How disgustingly domestic.
It was easy to tell the exact moment Draco woke up, it was done just as dramatically as he did everything else, with huge stretches and heads shoved under pillows to shut out the light.
"You can't hide from the sun, Draco." Blaise sighed, shutting his own eyes against the windows.
"I can try." Came the muffled response, Draco's head still shoved under several layers of blankets.
"If you get up, I'll braid your hair."
A suspicious eye peered out from under the pile of cotton, "Since when can you braid hair?"
Blaise raised an eyebrow, "I help my mother with her hair all the time."
"Yes, but I'm sure you've noticed a very obvious difference between your mother and I."
"Oh come off it, it's the same method." Blaise lifted the pillow, forcing Draco to face the light.
He wrinkled his nose, rolling out of the bed, nearly falling to the floor, "Fucking fine."
"My first day not living with a homicidal maniac and I've got to wake up early to talk to Gryffindors." He muttered under his breath, which Blaise graciously decided to ignore.
Two cups of coffee popped into existence at Blaise's elbow, so he handed one to Draco, swinging his own legs off the side of the bed, "C'mere."
Draco obediently sat down between Blaise's legs, resting his head against Blaise's knee, "If it's horrible, I'm holding you accountable."
"Yes, dear, I'm sure you will." Blaise placated, running his hands through Draco's hair. It was long, much longer than it could have feasibly grown in the month and a half since Blaise had seen him last. At the beginning of the year, it had been to his shoulders, but now, it was almost to the small of his back, somewhere at waist level.
It fit Draco well, he'd always had a bit of a mean face, exactly like his father, made for sneers and cool detachment, the long hair softened it.
"I like it this length." Blaise said, because he could.
"I never meant for it to get this long, it's quite annoying if I don't tie it back." Draco responded softly, probably already half asleep. He'd always liked to be pet, Pansy often compared him to a cat, but only if Draco couldn't hear her.
"I like it, it makes you look more like your mother." He hadn't realised until he said it, but it was true. Without the harsh edges of his father, Draco looked exactly like his mother.
Both of Draco's parents were beautiful, that fact was undeniable, but Draco had them both beat. Between his father's pale colouring and otherworldly grace, and his mother's full lips and grey eyes, Draco would never escape it.
Blaise knew for the rest of his life, even with the scars, even if he decided to shave his head and only wear bright orange, Draco would always be beautiful.
And Blaise hated that. Hated the way it made Draco think. But it wasn't the kind of mentality you unbuild in a day.
"I always thought it made me look more like my father." Draco interrupted Blaise's train of thought, turning slightly to look up at him.
Blaise jerked his head back down, "Stay still. And you'd only look like your father if you wore it in that awful slicked back ponytail."
Draco snorted, "Will you ever let go of this petty grudge against my father?"
Blaise didn't think it was petty, not after this past year, but he wouldn't say that, not now, "No." He replied, smiling brightly.
It worked, and Draco laughed, loud and uncaring, exactly the way Blaise liked, "You are utterly ridiculous."
"And you're engaged to me, so what does that say about you?" Blaise smiled, finishing the braid with a few light tugs, tying it off with a small bit of ribbon that appeared next to him on the bed, even though he was sure it wasn't there before.
"A great many things, I'd imagine." Draco said, finally turning to look at Blaise from the floor. He took Blaise's hand, kissing it softly, "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet, you haven't seen it. I could have made you look absolutely awful." Blaise snorted, ignoring the frankly embarrassing soft look on Draco's face.
He grinned, the exact way he did before saying something outrageous, "Oh, my love, I'm quite sure anything made by your hands could never be anything short of perfect."
"Go get dressed, Draco." Blaise said, as always, hopelessly and quite unwillingly charmed.
Draco sprung up, snickering at Blaise, but left to get dressed, walking into the huge closet that apparently came with being Lord.
"You know, now that you're Lord Malfoy-Black, do you think people will accuse me of being a gold digger?" Blaise asked idly, taking the opportunity to survey the room. He found he didn't like it much, Draco had always preferred gothic architecture, but Blaise had been raised in Italy, with columns and open-air villas.
Draco stuck his head out of the closet, "You're not?" He cried, looking quite worried, "You should have told me sooner!"
"Oh, come off it." Blaise laughed, throwing the closest pillow at Draco's head.
Draco laughed, ducking back into the closet just as the pillow sailed by. Stupid seeker reflexes.
Eventually, they did manage to get dressed, a door appearing in the wall when Draco knocked, cane in hand, even though Blaise was entirely certain Draco had left it in the kitchen.
"I don't think I'll ever get used to that." Blaise sighed, following after Draco into the hallway.
"Get used to what?" Draco asked, looking back over his shoulder.
"Nevermind." Blaise shook his head, as smart as Draco was, he was so narrowly focused it was almost impressive.
Draco led them to a seemingly random sitting room, where Potter, Granger, and Weasley were already arguing.
"-them! It's Malfoy!" Wesley hissed, arms crossed.
"But Ronald! He's a first-hand source! He could help! I've been trying-" Granger huffed, clearly exasperated.
"So sorry to bother," Draco cut in, making the Gryffindors jump and spin, "But I have a few questions."
He walked into the room, chin held high, settling in a high-backed chair, hooking his cane over the arm, and Blaise sighed.
For all Draco had changed, his flair for the dramatic stayed exactly the same.
This was a new Draco, different from the one Blaise had known, but it didn't matter. Blaise was sure he could find a way to fall in love with him again all the same.
Draco grinned again, and Blaise felt a chill spread through the room, "Namely, what are you lot doing about the Horcruxes?"