Chapter 7
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Draco was terrified, sore as hell, and hungry. Unfortunately, only one of those had a simple fix. He entertained the idea of a meal in the Great Hall and promptly discarded the thought. Apparently none of them had a simple fix.
The Hall, or really anywhere in the castle, aside from this one isolated nook that Potter had stormed away from only moments ago, held the risk of running into the aforementioned Savior. The promise of Shepherd’s pie, no matter how fresh, was not even close to worth it.
It wasn’t that he was concerned about what Potter might do per say, although The Golden Idiot Who Lived had been displaying some bizarre and frankly unhinged behavior of recent. If anything, it was the opposite.
Because Draco knew he should be seething. Apoplectic. Disgusted down to and through his core. Some fear would also be appropriate, he mused.
He didn’t feel any of those, but the fact that he also didn’t want to was much, much worse. The realization of how dangerously enticing Potter’s lure was, and how precipitously close he was to succumbing, had been only just enough to trigger the middling rage at Potter’s question.
In a way, he was angry, even if the anger was directed inwards at his own hormone-addled weakness. Potter’s arrival in the woods, ferocity darkening his face, defending Draco as if nothing else mattered, had pulled at desires he thought long abandoned– to be wanted and to be allowed to want. It was shameful that, against his will, his body had responded to Potter’s presence. He had felt safe, irrespective of the still-present threat that could have been lurking nearby.
Draco was a fool, an asinine, empty-headed fool.
Potter had, within the span of a morning plus some odd afternoon hours, exhibited behavior that ranged from incredibly ruthless to devastatingly tender. Draco wasn’t sure what to think, except that Potter was clearly emotionally unbalanced.
For Merlin’s sake, he thought, his shoulder still throbbed from Potter’s graceless manhandling. The tosser even had the audacity to drive Draco into a literal corner, guiding him from behind like a jail warden.
It was so incredibly unfair that, when Potter had recognized Draco’s alarm, he had shifted wordlessly to the side, allowing Draco just enough clearance to escape.
Those little gestures of care were suffocating him. Potter was just like that, unerringly noble and charitable. In spite of the knowledge that Potter’s dispassionate, omnipresent kindness had no deeper meaning, Draco couldn’t help that he… he wanted.
He’d visited that accursed lakeside area solely for the purpose of eradicating any remaining feelings towards or expectations of Potter. For what purpose had he meticulously and repeatedly driven the image of Potter’s disgust into his mind, if he was going to make the same mistake again?
Even now, he could feel it. The temptation to secede was insistently sweeping through him, strengthened by the uncomfortable, brittle sensation caused by the loss of Potter’s magic. He already knows, a small part of his mind wheedled, that you’re a Changed. What could be the harm in having such a powerful wizard as an ally? He might be the solution you’ve been looking for.
Draco resisted the impulse to run after Potter, to purge all the secrets and fears that he’d been holding within himself, like he could hand all these knotted, dark feelings to Potter and they would be cleansed.
Draco had always been cowardly. It didn’t matter how many years passed, he was still the same disgraceful child stubbornly coveting what he could neither hope nor deserve to have.
What was the purpose of these thoughts? What would they change? Certain facts were immutable. The fact that Potter had left a burning trail across Draco’s jawline where his gentle touch fell did not matter. It was overturned by the fact that Potter despised him. If nothing else, Draco was not the child he had been who’d believed in the certainty of winning Potter’s favor.
This self-pity would get him nowhere, though. He needed to figure out his next steps. Most immediately, the question of rooming. He couldn’t ask Pansy because, even if the Eighth Year dorms weren’t spelled to bar entry to the opposite gender, she was still a Pureblood. Draco had only been able to keep his secret for a whopping two fucking weeks thanks to Potter’s general incompetence.
Without a regular energy source, he wouldn’t have the ability to keep his Glamour up with the precision required to fool Pansy. In all likelihood, she probably already suspected that something was off.
Blaise and Goyle were also out of the question. That left, Draco sighed internally, no one. It wasn’t a surprise, but the reminder was unpleasant.
Most of his belongings were still in the shared room, except for his schoolbag which had been abandoned by the lake. Sitting cross-legged on the stone floor, he reclined his head back against the rough walls and closed his eyes. Is there even a way out of this, he wondered.
He was all but entirely on his own, now without even the comfort of a bed to sleep in. Most of his class notes had been in the bag, and Draco would rather rot away in this corner until he was a ghost than go back there again.
He’d been trying not to think about it, about who or what had been back there. It’s safe in the castle, he tried to reassure himself. It’s safe, it’s safe, it’s safe. With each internal chant, he gently thudded his head against the stones of the wall willing the fear to leave him. The irregular ridges of rock were somewhat soothing against his scalp.
Draco must have fallen asleep at some point, because when he opened his eyes the sun had already set. Or, rather, he assumed the sun had set because everything was pitch black and that was a far better explanation than him being kidnapped and locked up somewhere. Draco sat, frozen in place, listening to his own breathing. He hadn’t known this was one of the locations in the castle without torches.
Quietly, he rubbed the pads of his fingers against the cold, gritty texture of the ground. It wasn’t specific enough to guarantee that this was the same alcove, that he hadn’t been moved, but it was as close as he would get for now. He was careful not to move too much. Any noises might give away what seemed to be his relatively safe position. It’s safe, he chanted. But still…
Stupid, he’d been so stupid to just fall asleep like this. Completely unguarded and at the mercy of whatever passerby happened to come upon him. How unfortunate that today was still not his personal track record for number of terrifying/unfortunate/dangerous occurrences in twenty-four hours, but it definitely ranked in the top twenty.
Judging by the lack of pain, it seemed no one had come upon him. He considered whether he should thank Potter for choosing such a secluded area. Goddamnit Draco, you keep ending up in these situations because you can’t keep your head on for two fucking seconds.
He didn’t really fancy traipsing about in the dark. Even a Lumos would– FUCK, Draco sat up. MY WAND. FUCK it was in the BAG, fuck fuck fuck-And by now his Glamour would need recasting.
Attempts at silence abandoned, he brought his hands up and pressed the palms against his closed eyes with enough force that if it had been light, his vision would have been filled with dancing purple spots. As it was, he wasn’t even able to see his hands as they had moved in front of his face.
He was so beyond fucked it was kind of hilarious. Draco supposed that it could only be worse if he was afraid of the dark, which thank Merlin, he was not.
A rustle sounded from the general direction of the hallway, a quiet, shuffling sound that disappeared as soon as it started. Draco stiffened, hoping he had imagined it. Surely, he had imagined it. Anyway, Hogwarts was bound to be full of cats or mice or whatever other harmless things skulked in the night.
And then he felt it, the familiar crack of magic.
“Malfoy?” A hesitant whisper extended from the darkness. “You there?”
“Potter,” Draco responded, deadpan.
“Wait-hold on, it’s too dark.” White light flared from Potter’s raised wand. Draco tried to glare at Potter, without much success given that his eyes were already squinting in protest of the sudden brightness.
“What?” Draco demanded. “What do you want?” He felt off-balance, but he would be damned if he would show it.
Potter was staring at him blankly and Draco combated the instinct to shift awkwardly and fiddle with his hair, no doubt unattractively disheveled. Potter had already seen him Glamour-less so it wouldn't be a reaction to his red eyes...
Draco was still adjusting to longer hair, a change born from necessity rather than aesthetic preference. Without the aid of cosmetic spells, occasional public scruffiness came with the territory.
Potter blinked, as if only now grasping where he was. Draco’s face tightened with impatience and irritation.
“Oh-” Harry whispered, as if disappointed.
Here they were, swathed in this oppressively pitch-black silence, one elementary Lumos their sole light source and for what? So Potter could remind Draco of his comprehensive existential failure? This couldn’t have waited until morning ?
“Enlightening,” Draco bit out, grateful for his stalwart ability to mask most any feeling with anger. “Anything else?”
“Draco- can we talk?”
Draco heard his given name and saw red.
“What did you just call me?!” He didn’t need to feign this rage. “What the fuck are you playing at, Potter?!” he spat, advancing forward a few steps.
“I just want to talk. Gryffindor’s honor,” Harry wryly held up his hand, like an inside joke, completely unbothered. It was infuriating.
At once, his fists were bunching the collar of Potter’s shirt, pushing Potter until his shoulders thudded dully against the wall. Their harsh exhalations synchronized from the force of the impact.
“I’ll take a lot of shit, Potter. Because I have no other fucking choice. But don’t you fucking dare call me by my name. You don’t get to call me that …” When Potter didn’t react, Draco tried again, shaking him slightly. “You’re nothing to me.”
Faintly, a small corner of his mind discerned his rapidly deteriorating control. He didn’t care right now. The unreasonable feeling of betrayal simmering since this morning had just been brought to a flash boil and was surging out of him in a storm.
Draco was going to force Potter’s hand. He could accept revulsion and hostility. Even indifference would be preferable to this strange, unpredictable behavior. Potter had to make a fucking decision.
Potter’s chest rose against his own and Draco’s body tingled with Potter’s magic. Pulses of it ran over him, somehow gentler than the usual crackle, despite their proximity.
Potter still hadn’t responded. The dim light from Potter’s lowered wand cast shadows on them, and Draco startled at Potter’s expression, pulling his own face slightly away.
He looked… devastated? That couldn’t be right. Yet… Potter’s brows were drawn together, eyes glassy and appearing improbably close to tears. Draco jumped back, dropping his hands from Potter’s lapels like they burned.
Potter watched his retreat with the same dejected expression. Of course, just when Draco had thought he’d gotten the leg-up and understood the new rules, Potter had to tear it all down again.
“Okay…Malfoy,” Potter’s voice trembled slightly. “...If that’s what you want…”
This- How often had Draco imagined this very scene? Potter lowered before him, crushed and admitting defeat. Now, he was experiencing it, and… it was awful.
Draco’s chest ached with some kind of alien feeling.
“I’m sorry. And I just wanted to know if we could please talk? Just this once? I swear I’ll never bother you afterwards, if... if you want.”
Draco did not want that, but it didn’t matter what Draco wanted. Only fools dwelled on impossibilities.
“Alright…?” His voice came out thin and hushed.
Potter curled his mouth up into an almost wistful half-smile, as if preparing for tragedy. Draco shivered. Be prepared for anything, he told himself.
Draco was familiar with many faces of Potter– determined, indignant, tired, furious, disappointed. He even had the misfortune of bearing witness to Potter as a lovestruck, cow-eyed buffoon fawning over his girlfriend.
Draco had never known this wounded, vulnerable version. Hadn’t thought it even existed.
Tentatively, moving like a child expecting to be reprimanded, Potter held his hand out, palm facing up. Now, Draco was staring. Was this–?
“This part of the castle is dark and I saw that Filch is still awake so we can’t keep the Lumos up. It’s the best way. I know it’ll be uncomfortable for you, I’m sorry, it’ll-uh-,” Potter cleared his throat and looked away. “If you could bear with it for a little bit…”
Oh. Right. Of course. Draco was probably the only one who remembered that one failed handshake all those years ago. Hordes of people flocked to Potter, each jockeying for their turn. His own unsightly attempt would hardly have been memorable.
“Right,” Draco numbly agreed. He allowed only a moment of pause before bringing his hand to grasp Potter’s.
He inhaled sharply, caught off-guard by the warm flow of Potter’s magic, surging up his arm and percolating throughout his body. Draco had grown to sort of enjoy the sharp, light sting of Potter’s magic, but this was the opposite. Different even compared to just minutes earlier. He was reminded of warm blankets, the ones his governess, Minny, used to bring for him in the Manor.
He wanted to bury his face and nuzzle into the sensation. It was a stroke of luck that Potter didn’t say anything, completely focused on feeling the way to a lit area, as he pulled Draco along. The dark, which had suffocated him, now provided a shroud that masked whatever exposed thoughts were showing on his face.
Draco almost forgot that this entire experience was, for Potter, entirely out of necessity. Or rather, it would be more apt to say that he had forgotten. At least until they reached a corner where the flickering torches could reach, and Potter immediately withdrew his hold.
He studied Potter’s face, trying to read the other’s thoughts, but he was uncharacteristically expressionless. Potter appeared to be doing the same thing, intently scanning Draco’s face.
Draco felt some trepidation.
The tension seemed too thick for a simple apology. Truth be told, Draco didn’t even really want one. It had been shitty of Potter, sure, but Draco’s hurt was complicated in ways he didn’t want to think about or address directly.
“Let’s go back to the room.”
Draco jerked at Potter’s words, hesitant. Potter attempted another half-smile, and fished his wand from his pocket.
“Here,” he offered, thrusting his wand forward. “A security measure.”
Potter, The Twice -Saviour of the Wizarding World, Boy Who Lived, Vanquisher of Dark Lords, is… handing me... his wand?
He ran his fingers over the wood, awe-struck, committing the worn spots and irregular textures to memory. Although Potter’s magic was crackling against him now that they were apart, Draco thought he felt faint warmth flowing into him from the wand.
Anywhere from five to fifty minutes later, by Draco’s approximation, they were in the dorms again standing in front of the door to their shared room. The tension, which had been steadily rising, was coming to a head.
Draco wasn’t a baseline anxious person, probably, but he swallowed hard before gesturing forwards.
“After you.”