Chapter 4
Draco woke up early on Saturday morning, intent to get out and hide somewhere in the castle for the rest of the day. He’d spent all of yesterday avoiding Potter after what had been both a very strange, and very eye-opening discussion Thursday night.
He hadn’t meant to take it that far, not really. He’d been annoyed… peeved, mostly, that Potter, who had always been so easy to fluster and rile up, was gaining the upper hand. Maybe he’d been driven to temporary insanity by the fear of having been found out, and more than a little desperate to change tracks.
The accusation he’d thrown out had been intended to be mostly joking, at most a particularly pointed jab if one was especially soft-skinned.
Draco hadn’t anticipated that Potter would react like that, flustered and breathing heavily, looking for all the world like Draco had propositioned something… well, something dirty.
It had been….uncomfortable. Awkward. And only provided further impetus to never allow eye contact to occur again.
With a quiet groan, he threw his covers down and wrenched himself out of bed before giving a startled shout.
“Merlin’s balls, Potter,” he breathed out, hand clutched to his chest. “What the bloody hell are you doing?!”
“G’morning, Malfoy,” Potter started, cheekily, seated at his desk and, as far as Draco could tell in the dim lighting that filtered through the window, fully dressed. “I decided I’d get a head start on this weekend’s homework, as a matter of fact. What about you?”
Homework, my fucking arse, Draco thought venomously. It was barely the ass-crack of dawn, and even Draco, by far the earlier riser of the two, never woke up at this time without good reason. And how long had Potter been sitting in the bloody dark??
“Well…” he began slowly, feeling more than a little suspicious. “I’ll just leave you to it, then.” Draco rose to a stand and started for the bathroom, before being yanked back by a hand at his elbow.
“Wha-!” he flailed, conscious of his lack of Glamour - which he usually put on during his morning routine before Potter was even up.
“I have some questions, Malfoy,” Potter was way, way too close. His magic crackled around them and, despite his recent meeting with McGonagall, his cavernous, greedy magical core stirred with hunger. It made Draco’s mouth water.
“Go ask Granger.”
“I think it’s something only you can help me with,” Potter breathed in his ear.
Draco flinched, and wrenched his arm free, glad for the dark that hid the flush he knew was rapidly consuming his face.
He rubbed his wrist, mostly as a distraction. “I’m sure she would be a far more suitable guide for any of your academic endeavors,” he answered stiffly, aware of how stilted he sounded, but unable to muster anything better.
“That’s the issue, though,” Potter stepped closer. “It isn’t academic.”
Draco realized he must be dreaming. There was no other possibility. His horny, unconscious mind must have drawn up this unrealistically forward version of Potter who put forth lines like some… tart from a wizard’s magazine.
He pinched himself. Ow. Okay… not asleep, then….?
“This isn’t funny,” Draco breathed out, sorely wishing he could Stupefy the other boy without being expelled. Fear began bleeding into his thoughts, berating his premature trust in the inherent moral compass of another, no matter how lauded.
“I’m not trying to be,” Potter responded, before grabbing at Draco, who narrowly dodged to the side.
“Did someone curse you?!” Draco asked in disbelief.
Instead of answering his very reasonable question, Potter pivoted his lower body and tackled Draco to the ground, who immediately disposed of all hope that this was some practical joke and started to thrash and scream for help.
Effectively pinned by his assailant, Potter cast a wordless Lumos straight in his face, a parody of two nights ago, leaving Draco no time to close his eyes before the light hit them, and he froze.
Fuck.
FUCK.
“What’s going on with you, Malfoy?” Potter was somber, a sharp contrast from the near-flirtatious manner he’d used earlier.
Draco froze. Damn it all. He couldn’t even deny it. Not when Potter’s startlingly green eyes were staring into what he knew were his own red-rimmed irises.
“I’m not stupid, y’know,” Potter spoke on, as if he hadn’t expected Draco to provide an answer. “I saw you the other night… and you’ve been acting dodgy since term started.”
Panic welling, Draco thrashed more intensely, fighting Potter’s painfully tight grip. “Let.. me… go!” he ground out between heaving breaths.
“No, and you should be thankful I haven’t Incarceroused you, but I will if you don’t stop doing that,” Potter was maddeningly calm. Of course he would be even whilst demanding– expecting Draco to divulge his deepest secrets, as if he was entitled to them. “And don’t waste your time screaming, I’ve already warded the room with Silencio.”
Draco went limp, the fight bleeding out of him just as quick as it had risen.
“Can’t you just leave it, Potter?” he asked, miserably and without much hope, shutting his eyes.
“Tell me what’s going on, and I’ll think about it.”
Draco snarled, resentful and all too-aware of his vulnerable position. “Oh that makes me feel bloody better. What do you care, anyway!”
“Is it really that much to ask?” Was Potter fucking serious?
He was pissed– No, he was beyond pissed. What bloody right did this absolute prick have to manhandle and threaten him?
“As always, you have no idea of the situation or consequences. Charging in like a rampaging hippogriff, how terribly predictable of you,” Draco sneered, hoping the bait would work.
Potter seemed determined to remain unfazed. “When I spoke for your mother and you at the trials, I didn’t think I might have judged wrongly.”
Draco’s whole body ran cold, the chill gathering within his bones. Was he-? Why would Potter-?
“I-It’s- Potter- it’s nothing like that, I swear,” he stuttered. Beads of cold sweat began to gather at his temples. Potter was good, disgustingly heroic and all that– he couldn’t be saying–
“Then it shouldn’t be an issue to tell me.”
Through the mortification, tears pricked at his eyes, and when he tried to blink them away, one errantly ran down the side of his face. His mind flashed with images of his Mother, grief-stricken and frail, dragged from their Manor, eyes empty in a derelict Azkaban cell. Because of Draco. Because of his miserly pride and attachment to his worthless life.
“P-please stop– d-don’t,” Draco begged, voice cracking at the end. It was humiliating, but that didn’t matter not when Potter might and– to his mother – and–
“Malfoy?....” Potter sounded very far away, but he couldn’t breathe and Merlin- what if– no– not his mother– it was– how could–
He felt his chest caving in and his vision shrinking to a narrow pinpointed–
“Draco!”
His pulse thudded in his ears, irregular and quick and suffocating.
The taste of bile rose in his mouth. He rolled over, fighting the weight holding him down, only able to partially turn to his side before he vomited, burning yellow liquid sloshed down his front while chunks of half-digested stomach content clung to his bangs he’d grown out.
He was choking, still, struggling to breathe against the fluid that had become trapped in his throat by his position.
“Oh my god, Draco!”
Someone was calling him, but he didn’t know who; he could only struggle to rotate his torso to the side, trying to spit out what had been caught in his throat before the oppressive weight lifted off him. Strands of saliva clung to his chin, tacky and wet, catching pieces of hair.
A sob ripped from his throat, tears spilled and rolled down his face, dripping down to add to the puddle beneath him.
“Oh god.. Oh my god…” that same voice… Ah, yes, Potter– continued. “I-I’m sorry– I didn’t mean to– Of course I would never– I just– Please stop, it’s okay. It’s okay, you’re okay–I’m sorry–”
Draco dragged himself into an upright position and curled away from the other boy, head hanging between his knees, dignity forgotten, trying to stop his breathing, to remember the techniques the Ministry-appointed Mindhealer had taught him. His stomach rolled threateningly at the movement.
Merlin…
At the very least, his body always calmed after throwing up, a small mercy, and he felt his breathing begin to stabilize, the whoosh filling his ears receding.
“God, Draco… Please say something. I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to–”
“Shut up, Potter,” he croaked, throat still raw.
Potter continued blubbering. “I would never , I just didn’t think-”
“You never think,” but the words lacked the venom he felt, reflexive at most. Draco was too exhausted, hunched over on the floor at dawn, covered in his own tears and stomach contents.
Harry chuckled, thickly, as if the prat was holding back tears of his own.
“You’re more right than you know.”
Draco didn’t respond, wanting nothing more than to curl up where he was and lay there until his own sour smell forced him into the shower.
“Scourgify,” Potter muttered at the carpet, before kneeling carefully beside Draco with slow and exaggerated movements, as if he was approaching a wounded animal.
“I’m going to carry you, okay? Just to go to the bath, a-and let’s get you cleaned up, yeah? I’m not going to hurt you, I swear it,” Potter reached out tentatively, picking Draco up and holding him close; if he was bothered by the stains on Draco’s shirt his face didn’t show it.
Potter continued talking as they reached the washtub.
“Tell me if you want me to stop, okay? Or push me away or anything… I’m just going to take off your pajama top because it’s dirty. The water is warm, okay? I’m putting you down now,” he went on. “Your bottoms are going to get wet, I’m sorry I don’t want to make you uncomfortable though.”
Draco should have pushed him away, wanted to scream at him to stop– that how dare he try to pull this… this caring crap after what he did.
But… he was so, so tired. So drained.
His eyes began to slant closed, his recent sleepless nights weighing down his eyelids.
“Oh, god– um… I don’t think you should sleep here, Malfoy– I mean, Draco, er– I only have my soap here, I don’t know where you put yours. I hope that’s alright–” Harry rambled, jostling Draco’s shoulder softly.
The water felt warm, lapping against his skin, even through the uncomfortable cling of his pajama bottoms where they met the air.
A stream of water fell over the crown of his head, carefully placed so as to miss his eyes and nose, before gentle hands began rubbing circles into his scalp.
He wrinkled his nose, everything suddenly smelled like Potter.
Draco wondered if he was dreaming again. Sometimes he’d had these kinds of dreams, especially during the war, the worst times of it.
“Um–Malf– Draco, is this– or– are you okay?”
Holy shit.
His awareness rushed back with dizzying strength. This was not a dream.
It was nothing short of a bloody fucking disaster.
He drew his arms up, prepared to wrench away from Potter, soapy hair be damned.
“Hey- hey-” Potter’s hands softly moved to Draco’s elbows, buffering their movement but not with any real force. “You’re okay, it’s okay– we’re just getting you cleaned up– it’s okay, it’ll just be a moment.”
“Saint Potter,” Draco managed, wryly.
Potter hummed. “No…” he said after a while, “nothing like that.”
After Draco had been thoroughly scrubbed clean from the waist up, he decided he’d let this go on long enough.
“Potter, leave. I want to finish washing up. You can bring me a pair of pajamas – matching ones.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Harry grinned, some sparkle brightening his eyes briefly before bleeding out when he realized Draco was not smiling. “...Right…I’ll just hang them on the doorknob, then?”
Draco stared at Potter until he closed the bathroom door behind him, and then made quick work of the rest of his bath. Cringing at the sensation of soaking pajamas being peeled off his legs, he completed his routine whilst avoiding the mirror.
At least Potter had been decent enough to actually leave the clothes he’d asked for. He pulled them into the foggy room, and feeling much better in a clean set of loungewear, emerged fully, only to be faced with a very sheepish Potter sitting where he did not belong.
“That’s my bed, Potter.”
Potter nearly propelled himself two feet into the air with all the force he put into standing up.
He immediately started his blathering. “Gods, I’m so, so sorry, Malfoy. I swear, if I’d have thought- even taken one second to think– I never meant to– I– God– I should have–,”
Draco didn’t care anymore. Didn’t care that his ears were pointed, and his eyes were spun with red, and Potter had seen it all. He was emotionally wrung the fuck out.
“Shove over,” Draco planned to crawl into bed and, if he could help it, stay there until he was forced out.
“Yes- of course!”
Draco would have laughed at the utter deference being shown to him, if he’d had the energy. Instead, he collapsed into bed, pulled his comforters back over his head, where they had been before this entire fiasco, and allowed the exhaustion to pull him down.
◇◇◇◇◇◇◇
Harry was sat, at the foot of Malfoy’s bed, in the same self-flagellating position he’d been for the past four or so hours, only having left to fetch some food for the other boy and to use the loo twice. Needs must, and all that.
Merlin… God… whoever….
He desperately wished he had a Time-Turner, so he could go back to this morning and throttle theliving daylights out of his earlier self. He’d… been annoyed, yes… bothered, of course… at Draco’s clear avoidance of him after Thursday. Not truly suspicious, just irritated and upset and–
Harry had thought, though clearly not thoroughly enough, that he might stage this little scene , or whatever he had conceived it to be, and try to get some answers from Malfoy.
It was meant to be… well, not quite a joke, but nothing as serious as it had become.
Harry brought his head down to thump against the footboard.
And his stupidity had caused Draco to– God, he wanted to hit himself– have a fucking panic attack and throw up all over himself because of what Harry had said. He’d known that Narcissa was a… touchy subject for Draco. He’d thought he could poke at it– see if that was the key to opening whatever strangely distant wall had been erected between them, but Draco had just fallen to pieces .
Harry wasn’t sure he would ever be rid of the image of Malfoy in tears and covered in bile, hyperventilating as he begged for Harry to spare his mother.
It made him feel sick… Like the twisted, soulless person he’d been scared was his destiny when Voldemort was still alive.
He wanted Draco to wake up, so he could properly apologize this time. Beg for forgiveness. Reassure him… whatever he had to do.
The answers he’d wanted didn’t matter anymore. Weren’t even close to worth the price being asked.
And, as always, he was much too late to realize it. He would deserve whatever–no, twice– the punishment Draco insisted on. Would give it with no complaints, no matter what it was.
He hated that Malfoy always brought out this side of him, more impulsive and selfish and mean than all the other parts of him put together.
If it had been anyone else, he realized, anyone at all, who had wanted to keep a secret, he knew– was certain that he would have respected that. Would have been supportive, likely generously so.
But, not Malfoy, never Malfoy. He ran his hands over his face.
He didn’t even know what to tell Draco when he woke up, what explanation to give.
How could he say that he hadn’t actually been suspicious of Draco, hadn’t actually ever intended any harm– would never have brought the Ministry or his mother into any of it.
Harry had played it like another game of chicken. Who could cave the quickest– who would push the farthest…
And he’d gotten his answer–
The rustling sound of sheets caused his head to swivel upwards.
Draco was staring down, as if seeing a ghost, his concentrically red and grey irises still tinged with the tell-tale signs of earlier crying and face puffy from sleep.
“What the fuck are you doing down there?” he rasped out.
“Draco- er, Malfoy! Here, I brought you water and um– here’s some tea, black, and a few pieces of toast– they might be a bit cold, sorry– I can always call down to the– and, I thought you might want some–” Malfoy cut him off.
“What do you want, Potter? Because if this is your way of apologizing for… earlier, it’s not cutting it, not by a long shot,” Draco didn’t sound angry, in fact his voice had no inflection whatsoever.
“No!!- No,” Harry tried again. “I just– Can I come sit by you, please?”
“No.”
“Oh-okay- yeah, that’s fair– I wanted to tell you that– I’m sorry, so so sorry– I wish I had a-a Time Turner to go back– I swear I never meant to do anything like that and I would never, ever do anything to your mum I just– I know it’s awful– I just brought her up because I knew she mattered to you– and Merlin, I swear I’ll do whatever you want, I don’t expect you to forgive me because I know I-”
“I’m a vampire.”
“.....What?” Harry hadn’t expected to be cut off, especially not with that.
“You wanted to know what I was hiding. I’m a vampire,” Draco stood up, thin hands adjusting the creases of his top. “You know my secret and now you have nothing to threaten my mother with.”
“N-That’s not what I meant! I wasn’t going to-”
Draco narrowed his eyes and curled his mouth bitterly. “You weren’t going to what, Potter? You weren’t going to threaten my mother? Weren’t going to physically assault and threaten me? What exactly weren’t you going to do?”
Harry was cowed. “I wasn’t ever going to actually do anything,” he finished quietly, ashamed. “I’m sorry. It was a terrible, stupid thing to do.”
Malfoy scoffed, a broken, ugly sound. “No, of course you weren’t. You’re all about forgiveness, especially for big bad Death Eaters.” It was so wrong how flat the obviously sarcastic words were.
“It wasn’t that!” Harry burst out before he could stop. “I just-I treated it like before when– and I didn’t know that–”
“Know? What do you know about me? D’you think we’re mates now or something because we’ve been forced to cohabitate? That everyone must want a piece of the Great Harry Potter?” Malfoy’s eyes glinted angrily.
I know a lot of things about you, Harry wanted to say. I know your favorite foods, how you take your tea, and what kind of soap you like to use…
But he didn’t say that, knew that he didn’t have a right to– he knew that Draco was right.
“I-I’m sorry,” he finished, lamely.
He cast a glance up through his bangs. Drac-Malfoy was glaring, eyes glued to the wall behind Harry.
Harry cringed. “I… brought you breakfast… or lunch… if you want it.” He thrust the aforementioned foodstuffs before him, head still down in an almost-bow.
“I don’t.”
“Y-you should eat! Um- if it’s cold then I can-” Gods, this was pathetic, but Harry so desperately needed Malfoy to understand.
“I don’t want anything from you.”
Harry felt crushed, much as he knew he had earned every ounce of it and more.
He missed how it had been before he’d gone and fucked everything up. Already wanted back the tentative nods, and occasional friendly looks Drac-Malfoy had given him. Missed not being back at the center of the other’s hatred and pain.
“Is there anything else I need to report, or can I expect to be left unassailed for now?” the other sneered.
“There’s nothing…” Harry kept his head hung. After Malfoy entered the bathroom, Harry left the food on his bed, neatly wrapped to ensure no wayward crumbs.
He was still there, sitting back at his desk when Drac-Malfoy walked out clad in a white button down layered under a dark-blue sweater vest and casual trousers.
Harry much preferred the soft air of the light blue pajamas from moments before.
“Can I-”
“You can piss off.”
“...Right,” Harry returned, awkwardly shuffling his feet back and forth.
It wasn’t that he had expected Draco to forgive him, per say, but… he hadn’t expected to be iced out. He and Malfoy had been a lot of things over the years, but they’d always run more hot than cold.
Without a spare glance, Draco grabbed his satchel– the egregiously pretentious leather, monogrammed one– and strode out, likely to find some hidden alcove from which to gain reprieve from Harry’s stupid ass.
Harry allowed himself to sink back down to the ground, a groan of frustration escaping him as he thumped his head back against one of the bed’s posters.
Draco had clearly communicated he wanted to be left alone, so naturally, Harry’s instincts were screaming for his map and cloak.
He wasn’t sure where to go from here. Malfoy had ignored his apologies. Food hadn’t worked, not that he’d really expected it to. And time? Well… patience had never been Harry’s strong suit. It was taking every bit of restraint and discipline to not sprint after Malfoy, grab his bony shoulders, and shake him until he forgave Harry. Fuck… this was definitely not healthy. Harry didn’t need Hermione’s disapproving looks to know that.
He refused to let it go. He didn’t care if it was unhealthy or whatever labels unrelated people would try to apply. What did they know about him? About Malfoy? Harry was struck with the sudden realization, he wanted to know Malfoy. To be… friends? He wasn’t sure exactly, but there was an undeniable urge roiling through him. Listening to his instincts was second nature, the only reason he was still alive.
And after saving the entire goddamn Wizarding world, he figured he was owed. He would only ask this one thing.
Reinvigorated, he lunged for his trunk and fished under piles of junk and papers for the familiar feel of silky cloth. The map audibly crinkled with the movement, still safely wrapped within the material.
Malfoy wouldn’t be able to ignore him for long.