The Bedroom Door
Entering Draco’s flat again was like being yanked back into a sad reality, after his evening with Teddy- calm, quiet, joyful…
Draco’s flat was grey (though Harry mostly blamed that on the cold, cloudy day, and his white walls) and silent. John was sat at the dining table. Harry zeroed in on the bedroom door, where Draco undoubtedly was hiding. At least the Christmas tree was still up
John gave him a clap on the shoulder. “How’s the kid? Bloke and I went out into town after you left. I reckon he did pretty well at the shops. Bought a few presents for the Hols. Barely spoke to me, but what’s new. Eh, does he talk to you any, when you’re here?”
Harry glanced at Draco’s closed bedroom door. “Yeah, sometimes,” he responded.“I reckon we have some sort of understanding of each other.”
“Good luck,” John called out, leaving out the front door. Harry sighed.
He stared hard at the bedroom door, as though he could silently will Draco out from his fucking hollow-
Harry took a long, tired breath. He needed to put the kettle on, lest he actually drink all of Draco’s rum.
Harry did better back when there wasn’t any alcohol in the flat. Helps him ignore the fact that he likes it.
He filled the kettle with the tap, setting it down on the stovetop afterwards, and turning it on.
What was he even thinking, that he could just keep things quiet and pursue Draco, that ethics didn’t matter, that nothing was wrong with it all…
Hermione would likely scold him into next year, if she knew.
The tips of Harry’s fingers prickled with the sensation of feeling the large scar across Draco’s stomach. He wondered how much that scar bothers Draco. He thought back to him pressing down tightly against his stomach on occasion. Was that what it was? Harry should have known.
But it was quite odd, Harry thought. Did Draco’s scars really hold sensation for him? Afterall, Harry simply had no sensation around his scars- aside from the occasional memory of burning on his forehead, but…
The kettle whistled, and Harry moved to pour himself a strong brew. As he took the cup in his hands, he turned to face Draco’s bedroom door, resting his weight against the stove. Surely Draco won’t stay inside his bedroom forever.
Maybe not forever, but Draco was surely in there for a long time. After two cups of tea and an hour of pouring over case notes, Harry wondered if Draco was hungry, and if Draco would even come out of his room to eat. Eating is important. I should at least ask- He took tentative steps towards the bedroom, raising his knuckles to the white wood. With a bated breath, he knocked.
“Draco, would you like to eat something?”
There was rustling coming from the other side of the bedroom door. Harry felt his breath catch at the anticipation of a response.
None came.
Harry contemplated pushing things. Then, the image of Draco’s paled face and the sensation of a raised and bumpy scar on his fingertips made Harry decide to leave things for the moment.
He sat back down at the dining table, the same notes that have plagued him for the last month sprawled about. Glimpses of injuries, research, and theories stared back at him.
He wondered if anything would come from George, when they got cleared for the warrant to search him and his house.
The fingerprints coming back without a match meant this killer didn’t have a previous criminal record. George certainly didn’t have a previous criminal record.
Harry then thought back to Lucius Malfoy. The news that he had let the killer into the manor was huge.
Now, the question was who was ‘visiting’ him, and why?
It certainly hadn’t been Narcissa Malfoy, nor Draco. And Harry was at least half certain that everyone else Lucius Malfoy kept contact with was a criminal.
Except, the voice in Harry’s head chimed. Except the mandated medical attention he was meant to receive.
Harry sighed. Between this, and the Muggle drugs that had been found in the killer's rollup, it was certain they were searching for a medical professional. Someone with ins at St. Mungos, perhaps, or, more likely, a Muggle hospital.
Maybe it wasn’t George, afterall.
Harry’s expression fell as he thought of the redhead. To see him the way he was at the hospital was painful. He couldn’t imagine what kind of toll it had taken on George to lose his twin brother.
Regardless, the team needed to shift their focus entirely, immediately. They needed to start scanning the medical scene for anything suspicious.
The idea that someone oathed to save lives was doing this made Harry feel sick.
Harry settled into his seat, searching for something more that might help guide this change in direction.
After another hour of nothing new to report, Harry felt himself falling asleep over his notes. The sky was still cloudy and grey, but thankfully, it hadn’t rained again. Harry wasn’t sure he could take much more rain, anyway. The streets sure looked like they couldn’t.
Draco’s bedroom door remained dutifully shut, and Harry wondered if Draco prepared for the occasions in which he hides from Harry by stashing away snacks or water. Harry sighed, giving up on the case files for now. He lifted himself from his seat, dragging himself over to the sofa, transfiguring it into his bed with a flick of his wand. As soon as it was ready for him, he simply flopped down onto it, feeling the tension in his body melt into the mattress.
—-----
"Potter, leave me be... Just let me know when Dawlish gets here... I'm sorry."
Draco shut the door with a shudder, leaning bodily against it. A prickle crept across his stomach beginning low on his left side where Harry’s fingertips had just been. Very quickly, he felt the sensation of his skin splitting open. He knew it can’t be, but that didn’t stop him from looking to make sure, lifting his shirt to take a glance down at the uneven, raised skin that traced itself across his stomach. He pressed down on it with both hands, cold fingers pushing at the scar until he could feel some semblance of normal on his skin, whatever that meant anymore.
He took a deep, shaky breath, closing his eyes as he pressed down harder. The feeling of his-skin-but-not-really-his-skin was maddening. The few fingertips of his that were regrown also felt foreign at the moment- like pressing an object against another object, instead of his fingers against his skin. He shifted to allow more of his palm to apply pressure on the scar.
If he sees my scars, he’ll remember who I really am. He’ll realise that everyone else is right about me. He’ll come to his senses and leave, and I won’t be safe anymore.
Draco gritted his teeth in frustration, moving to grip his hair, as though he could throw the thoughts out of his brain. He couldn’t do this. Not right now.
Needles deep within him, prickling at parts of his skin he knows no longer exist. He pressed down harder, feeling himself become frantic. Harry can’t ever see my scars. Not again. He can’t know.
It was too risky for Draco to allow Harry to remember that he is not good. He can try, all he wants, but he will never be good.
The scars on his arm began to tingle, next. His arm twitched.
He kept his left hand pressing against his stomach, using his free hand to grip his forearm. It wasn’t covering enough. This only exacerbated the sensations across the small bits that were not being pressed down on. He felt like his arm was being split open again, now- the parallel lines hissing with irritation. His stomach took on a foreign, numb, harried mix of sensations. He trembled, his breathing becoming short.
I will never be good.
He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, folding over himself as his muscles tensed with frustration. His foot was hurting, now. The tips of his fingers felt like they didn’t exist anymore. Draco wondered briefly, wildly, if harshly dragging himself across the floor would distract him from everything. It was getting too much. Too much. He could feel the distorted voice of God’s Wrath prickling at the back of his mind.
This is for the hurt you caused the world.
Draco hit his forehead with the meat of his palm, trying to shake the thoughts out, to get rid of them and never have to hear them again. He let out the smallest of whimpers, gritting his teeth.
You are responsible for the lives lost during the war. God wants you to die for your sins.
Tell me! Was it worth it?! Was it worth the pain and suffering you caused?!
You got your friends killed. Your mother died because of you. Your girlfriend died because of you.
It was you. You, you, you.
Me-
The door closed, the sound reverberating across his flat.
Faintly, he heard the sound of Auror Dawlish saying goodbye to Harry, clearing his throat.
Draco let out a shuddering breath. Pull yourself together, he hissed to himself.
He became aware of the feeling of the polished wood floor beneath him, or Dawlish’s heavy, booted footsteps. He licked at chapped lips, tasting the salt of tears. Then, the tracks down his face came to his awareness. He forced in another trembling breath.
He needed a distraction, now.
Thankfully, it was time to go shopping.
—-----
Draco quite firmly believed, after his shopping expedition with Dawlish in his corner, that the Auror likely sees Draco as more closed off than anyone, really. Draco didn’t quite care, though.
Shopping had only served as a distraction for as long as Draco forced any unsavoury thoughts away with more distractions. It was easy to distract himself when he was in an unfamiliar Muggle shopping district, anyway. He found it quite easy to absorb himself with thoughts of ‘how does this work?’ or ‘my father would roll in his grave seeing me wear this’ or even ‘if I were a little boy who loved penguins, which penguin would I prefer?’
But then, he was back in his cold, dingy flat- save for the Christmas tree. And that only made him think of Harry, and his gentle kisses and his soft hair and his striking green eyes and-
Draco didn’t even want to think of what could happen between them once Harry realised how truly terrible Draco is.
He spent the remainder of the afternoon rotating between distracting himself with what he could and easing the occasional nagging thoughts of danger- whether it be through checking his door, passing his fingers along the wood of his wand, or through touching the window until he felt safe enough to take his hand off of it (That one was new. Draco didn’t try to understand the new ones, anymore. Whatever helped him feel safe, he did. The rest no longer mattered).
Through the night, he struggled to sleep. He thought of Astoria, and he thought of God’s wrath. He thought of rum cake and of cleaning and of the fact that Auror Dawlish is right outside, and he’ll protect me if someone gets in. He will. He must.
He thought quite a bit about Harry (and thoughts about Harry do things to him that he has a difficult time processing, like how he imagines crashing him against a wall and snogging him senseless). But tonight, his thoughts were not quite like that. No, tonight he thought mostly of scars and horror and not being good and Harry being gone because of it.
He didn’t miss the unmistakable sound of Harry’s footsteps as he returned to the flat the next morning. He fought the immediate urge to go be with him. Part of him longed to simply hold him for a bit, or perhaps even lay down next to him, feel his warmth, his comfort… Harry was always warm. Draco wanted his warmth, now.
He did not leave his room, however. He couldn’t. Facing Harry, likely having to show him his scars and watch as he realises he’s on the wrong side of the fight, and leaves, and lets God’s Wrath finally have him… these are things Draco cared to prevent much more than he cared to take comfort in Harry’s presence.
When Harry knocked on Draco’s bedroom door, some indiscernible amount of time later, he was laying in his bed, hugging a pillow with ferocity, holding it close to himself, imagining that it was the warm, living, breathing comfort he wanted. He turned to face the door, not making a move to get up, yet wanting nothing more than for Harry to enter and see him and hold him-
Merlin, what was he, a baby?
He hugged the pillow tighter.
He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have, because the next time he woke up, it was dark out his window. Slowly, Draco sat up in bed. Gauging himself, he realised he was severely dehydrated, and also, he needed the loo.
Just then, his stomach growled.
He figured he probably should venture from his room, if for even a moment. He glanced back out his bedroom window. The world was dark and silent. Perhaps Harry is asleep, and he need not worry about a potential encounter with him.
Draco found Harry slumped over the dinner table, head and arms on top of parchments strewn across its surface. His face was completely slacked, expression open. Draco didn’t know whether he was relieved or disappointed. The sofa-transfigured bed was open and unmade, indicating that Harry had been there at some point as well. Draco quietly passed over to the kitchen, where he found a plate of food sitting on the counter. Upon closer inspection, the serving had a stasis charm placed over it- the food was as fresh and warm as when it’d been served. He glanced back at Harry’s sleeping form, his heart squeezing a fraction.
Kind Harry. Kind, noble, and soft and sweet and good. So, so good.
Better than Draco.
Draco wondered if perhaps the good thing to do might be to admit that he isn’t good, to show Harry his scars, to let Harry understand that Draco is not good, that Harry should save himself from him.
Yes, that would be the good thing to do, wouldn’t it?