182 Halfway Lane
Harry saw the second Draco started to fall. The blond just barely caught himself on the doorframe, but Harry was already there, slipping an arm tight around his middle to keep him from hitting the floor. He didn’t understand what had happened. His eyes frantically scanned Draco, looking for any kind of damage or evidence of a curse, but Draco didn’t look injured. Harry turned to look around him, but no one had their wand drawn.
“Draco, are you okay? Please talk to me, what happened? Are you hurt?”
The blond was practically dead weight against his side and it took a second for his voice to register but, once it did,those beautiful grey eyes turned on him and—
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Harry did not remotely understand what was happening but he saw the absolute, guttural agony in Draco's face and he forgot how to breathe. He wanted to cry. Tears were already building up behind his eyes because everything in him was screaming that Draco was hurting and that Harry needed to make it better.
Just as quickly, Draco shut down. Harry watched every shred of emotion or pain disappear from his expression and that cold, calculating Malfoy mask slip back into place. It was the same expression Draco had worn during the majority of their Sixth Year. But jesus had it been hiding this much pain? Even back then?
“Draco, are you okay?”
“Ariana.”
The name didn’t make any sense and Harry glanced around again, trying to see if anyone recognized it. But then Draco was shrugging out of his grip and standing on his own. His eyes had gone back to the body, but they were empty now. Harry didn’t understand. If Draco was saying that this corpse was named Ariana, how would he have known that unless…?
Oh.
For the second time that morning, Harry felt his heart drop straight through the floor and he wanted to throw up on the carpet right there in front of everyone. His stomach churned. He wanted to pull Draco into the tightest hug he could manage and hold him until he let that emotion slip back into his face. But Draco’s face was blank and all business now. The blond turned to the closest Auror and repeated the name in a stronger voice.
“Ariana. Her name is Ariana.”
Harry wanted to reach out and Apparate them both somewhere quiet and private where Draco would stop pretending like all that pain wasn’t hiding just below the surface. To anyone else, it looked like Draco hadn’t even been affected. But Harry had seen that pain and he’d seen the beginning of a sob curl on those raw, bitten lips. He knew Draco was just bottling it up.
“Last name?”
Mentally, Harry cursed the Auror who dared to ask Draco for information at a time like this when he clearly knew the victim. The blond was composed—or as composed as one can be in that situation—and formal again, though.
“Windsor. Ariana Windsor. Her birthday is February 8th but I don’t know the year.”
He sounded so fucking calm. Harry was losing his mind at the fact that Draco had known their victim well enough to have her birthday memorized. Had they been close? That was a stupid question because, judging by that split second of emotion, the potioneer was absolutely devastated by her death. He wouldn’t show that now, though, and not in front of a bunch of unfamiliar Aurors.
“Job? Address? Any living family that you know of?”
“She was a war orphan,” Draco replied, and Harry tried not to gag on the knowledge that the blond had switched to past tense. “No family that I ever heard about. She would never tell me what she did for work, no matter how many times I asked. I don’t know where she’d been living. She was supposed to be in New York and she said she was leaving months ago, but I can tell you where she was living then.”
The Auror gestured for Draco to continue, and Harry sort of heard the blond recite an address. That was a lot of information for someone who wasn’t a close friend. Harry dug his nails into his palm and tried to calm his expression, despite knowing that, because of him, Draco had just begun his day by seeing his friend’s corpse. Murder or suicide, a dead friend is still a dead friend.
Frankly, Harry was impressed that Draco wasn’t on the floor in a mess of sobs and quick, panicked breaths. He knew he was lead on the case and was supposed to be making decisions currently about whether or not Draco could still be involved—or at least listening . But he couldn’t. He couldn’t take his eyes off the blond who suddenly looked so fucking fragile that Harry was afraid to breathe near him. His face didn’t look any different.
Harry hadn’t realized until that very moment how much Draco’s acting ability had improved. Back in Sixth Year, something had obviously been wrong and Draco had tried to hide it but he’d let a lot of little things show. Little things that Harry had clung to as evidence. He’d skipped meals, he’d lost weight, he’d stopped practicing for Quidditch and then stopped playing all together. At the time, Harry had been suspicious but in the aftermath of the war he’d catalogued those little ticks and habits as indicators that Draco was struggling. When their paths had crossed again, Harry had immediately begun watching for those signs.
But he hadn’t expected Draco to be able to hide things now, and he hadn’t been ready to see how easily the blond could force that mask onto his face. For small things, sure. Draco could hide his annoyance and he was even pretty good at hiding his anxiety around strangers or people like Kingsley. The emotion that Harry had just seen in his face was not petty irritation, though. No one should be able to hide that kind of pain.
Somehow, he became aware that the Auror taking notes had asked Draco to take them to her last known address. They were Apparating then, at Draco’s instruction, and Harry felt a hand on his arm. Right. He was supposed to sidealong Draco. The blond repeated their destination to Harry, who somehow managed to get it right when he finally did Apparate them, but there was a split second before he cast the spell where everything went still.
Draco’s hand was on his arm and it was trembling. That was the closest thing to weakness or emotion that Harry had seen since the mask had gone up, and he latched onto it. He covered that pale hand with his own and squeezed.
Instantly, they were in the street outside a big, rundown house and Draco was pulling his hand away. Back to business. Harry ached to reach out and pull the blond back into a hug, but he knew he had no right and his feelings weren’t what mattered right now. He was here to help Draco keep it together. And, if he was incredibly lucky, he could be there later to help Draco fall apart too.
“This is it.”
Draco gestured towards the house with a little sign in the yard that said: 182 Halfway Lane . There were cracks spiderwebbed through most of the windows and blankets hung up as makeshift curtains. Harry shuddered to think what the inside was like. Mold had latched itself onto the outside of the house and seemed to be eating away at the very foundation, as if nature was fighting to reclaim this place. As if humans didn’t belong here.
It was clear that Draco had been here before and Harry let him lead the way up the rickety steps to the old, tattered front door. The gouges in the wood looked manmade. Beside the door, where an address or house number should have been, there was a faded, hand-painted sign that simply said: watch yourself. Was that a warning, a threat, or… Or what?
At the door, Draco didn’t hesitate. He didn’t knock, he didn’t balk before grabbing the rusted handle, he just pushed it open. The door gave a loud, angry creak in protest. Draco didn’t jump, though, or back away so Harry steeled himself and followed their little group through the doorway.
Inside, everything was just as shitty as expected: bare walls, cold air, and dull, faded colors. The floor was made of wooden planks that would have been beautiful under a coat of polish, but that had splintered and begun to rot with neglect. Harry could smell something damp and putrid. More mold, maybe? He glanced around the hall and took in the jagged edges of the stairs, the multiple deadbolts on most of the doors, and the distinct lack of light. One of the Aurors had cast a dull Lumos, but the shadows seemed to swallow it up.
They’d found themselves in a main hall of sorts which had multiple hallways, doors, and sets of stairs leading off of it. There was something unsettling in the air, but Harry tried to ignore it. Instead, he looked to Draco. The blond didn’t seem at all concerned by any of these small details or by the general air of uncleanliness and disuse. Was he used to it?
Before Harry could ask, Draco led them down a hallway to the right and knocked on one of the doors. It was probably the only door that had been painted within the last four decades. But, judging by the greasy black fingerprints that littered the white paint, it could have even been a century since it had last been hit with a cleaning charm. Tacked to the door was a small label: Office .
Of the two Aurors which had come with them—one senior, one junior—Harry knew neither and was guarding Draco’s back like a mother dragon. He knew that it was just because of what had happened at the crime scene, but he felt protective. The other two had been left to collect evidence. Neither Auror had shown any sort of distaste towards the blond and Harry had made it very clear when he’d brief the group this morning that no ‘unbecoming behavior’ would be tolerated, but he still worried. What if they were just waiting to catch Draco alone?
The knock was answered by a man who self-identified as the building manager. He was scruffy and annoying, but he used Draco’s first name without being told to and seemed to recognize him which only raised more questions. Had Draco visited their victim that often? Was he even going to be able to keep the blond on the case now?
After a brief conversation that Harry was only half listening to, the man agreed to show them to the room that had been Ariana’s and led the other two Aurors up the stairs. Harry deliberately hung back and made eye contact with Draco, hoping he would get the message. The blond hovered near one of the locked doors, pretending to examine the wood and miming a few diagnostic spells that Harry knew he hadn’t actually cast. As the others disappeared upstairs, Harry took the opening.
“Are you okay?”
That was the first and only thought on his mind, but he saw the way it made Draco immediately stiffen. He looked strained, like Harry was attacking his defenses. Was he? Regardless, Harry didn’t want to make this any harder on the blond than it had to be so he switched topics and tried again.
“How did you meet her?”
Talking about the dead woman was probably even worse, but at least it didn’t make Draco wince as if Harry had just hexed him. The blond took a long, deep breath. His eyes were skirting around the room and taking in details like he was noting changes, but Harry thought he might just be avoiding eye contact. Was he afraid that his eyes would give him away?
“We were roommates. Or, housemates technically I guess. She was the first person I met after being released.”
Harry wanted to scream. Draco sounded so monotone and so unbothered that it actually hurt Harry’s ears to hear. It was fake. He knew it was fake and yet it didn’t sound fake. God, had Draco always been this good of a liar? Had Harry severely underestimated the amount of pressure and pain Draco had been experiencing back at Hogwarts? Or even now?
“You live here?”
That conclusion didn’t hit him until he heard his own voice saying it, but it made sense. Draco knew the address, knew the building manager, and was obviously familiar with the house in a way that mere visits wouldn’t allow. But the thought of Draco spending any amount of time here—the thought of Draco sleeping here, eating here, coming back here after each of their little interactions—made Harry’s hands clench into fists at his side.
“I used to.”
That, at least, was marginally better. It was easier to stomach the idea that Draco had lived here but now lived somewhere less… on edge. Somewhere that didn’t smell like a Skooma den. Harry immediately noticed the slight flare in those grey eyes, and he realized that Draco was staring directly at his fists. He forced his hands to relax, and Draco visibly did as well. Was Draco afraid that Harry was going to punch him simply because he’d admitted to living here? Taking a slow, deep breath, Harry shoved that thought down to be dealt with later.
But Draco had lived here. Harry hadn’t commented on it at first, but he’d noticed back on the front porch when Draco had skipped over the third step. It hadn’t stood out, until the next Auror had stepped on it and the wood gave a loud, groaning squeak. Draco knew which stairs creaked.
Because Draco had lived here.
Suddenly, the entire building took on a different light and Harry couldn’t help passing judgement. Not on Draco, of course, but on this place. Nothing about it was even a ghost of the Manor or of Hogwarts and he had to wonder how Draco had managed to live here at all. It was filthy, old, and felt unsafe. In the back of his mind, Harry secretly thought that a place like this wasn’t good enough for Draco. The blond deserved better. He couldn’t imagine the Malfoy heir choosing somewhere like this, which meant that he likely hadn’t had any better option.
Harry realized then that he had no idea what Draco’s life was like. He’d assumed that Draco had gone back to living his posh, arrogant—although less offensive and bloodpurist—life, which was stupid because of course he hadn’t. How would he? The Malfoy fortune had been seized and spent on ‘retributions’ and no one was going to hire a former Death Eater. Lucius was dead, Narcissa had gone off to France last he’d heard, and apparently there was a ‘list’ of former associates that Draco wasn’t allowed to contact anymore which meant he wasn’t getting any help from them either. Was Draco… poor?
“Was she connected with the war at all?”
Draco’s eyes flicked up from the only picture that hung in the entire main hall. It was sad and oversaturated, but it depicted a House Elf beside a lavishly set dining table. A pureblood painting? Harry couldn’t help remembering the ominous warning they’d received, and how pointed their now-dead suspect’s threats had been. Broken Crown, whoever he was, didn’t like marked, former Death Eaters. If Ariana had been connected to Voldemort somehow, that could explain—
“No,” Draco cut off his thought, but his voice was almost a whisper now. “Her parents stayed neutral as far as I know and sent her to live with friends in Greece. She stayed there until the war was over. They were killed in the crossfire of one of the attacks, but I don’t remember which side it was who was attacking.”
Damn. Well, there went that theory. Part of Harry was glad that Ariana hadn’t been dark because it meant that Broken Crown was targeting people who weren’t just former Death Eaters. Another part of him, though, was irritated. He wanted to be able to understand this ‘Broken Crown’ guy and predict his movements because he wanted to protect Draco.
“Please let me ward wherever you’re living now.”
Harry knew as soon as he said it that it sounded ridiculous. Draco had no reason to trust him and the wards that he’d placed on the blond’s office didn’t even work . They didn’t even know why they didn’t work. But Harry could feel how on edge the blond was just being here and he had to wonder if anything had ever happened to him within these walls. He hoped not.
“Okay.”
There was no argument. Draco’s face didn’t have a hint of pride or of arrogance—it didn’t have a hint of anything except blank nothingness. Once again, Harry fought the urge to reach out and Apparate them. He didn’t know where he would take them. Somewhere safe, he thought, and somewhere Draco would be comfortable enough to break down. Draco wouldn’t trust him with that regardless of where they went, though, so Harry kept his hands to himself. He needed to be practical and rational.
“We’ll have to do a ton of debriefing and paperwork after all of this. They’ll want a statement from you. I don’t know how long it will take but the Ministry isn’t known for being quick when it comes to filing reports. Does tonight after work sound okay?”
A flash of fear immediately broke through Draco’s cold, empty mask. Harry realized what he was proposing and what it must have sounded like to Draco’s paranoid brain. Quickly, he tried to backpedal.
“I can bring Andrea, if you want,” But that wouldn’t really help because Andrea was still angry at him for some reason. “And Hermione. You trusted her enough the last time we were at a crime scene, right? Between the three of us, we can place some pretty strong wards.”
Harry didn’t blame the blond for not wanting to be alone with him. Yes, that fear in his expression hurt but not because it was a personal attack on Harry. Instead, it hurt because it made Harry want to kill anyone who had ever given Draco a reason to react so instinctively and so intensely with fear. It made him want to smooth the creases in Draco’s expression and make him forget he was ever afraid.
“Yeah, that works. 3995 Elisabeth Drive, Apt. 23.”
Harry committed that address to memory and carved it into the very cells of his brain. The other two Aurors reappeared, chatting easily with the building manager, and once again it was all business. Draco never spoke around other Aurors, Harry realized. He wondered why.
Sure enough, the rest of their day had been filled with piles of paperwork. Kingsley himself had taken down Draco’s statement to avoid any accusations of evidence tampering or leading the witness, which Draco hadn’t seemed to enjoy. But the blond had reacted far more negatively to the idea of a random Auror doing it, so Kingsley it was.
By the time five o’clock rolled around, Harry was exhausted and honestly more than a little concerned about the blond. All day, his mask had stayed firmly in place. Harry had seen it start to slip just once, when they’d brought out a picture of Ariana while she was still alive that they’d obtained from her file at Halfway Lane (that was illegal for the manager to have, of course, but Harry was picking his battles). The corner of Draco’s mouth had twisted and pulled inwards, like he was literally biting back tears. Kingsley had coughed, though, and it’d disappeared.
Harry had asked at some point during their day if it was alright for him to go home and change before they did the wards. Draco had just shrugged. Last time, it had proven to be an all-night affair and Harry decided he would rather not wear his Auror uniform for another twelve hours. He’d taken that shrug as agreement and sent off urgent owls to both Andrea and Hermione. Both had agreed to come, though Andrea’s response had been clipped and angry.
Something was definitely going on with her.
However, now wasn’t the time and Andrea wasn’t the current priority. Draco wasn’t safe and someone he’d been close to had just died for no obvious reason. If it had been intended as a message to Draco, there was no way in hell that Harry was letting the blond sleep anywhere that wasn’t practically drowning in protective charms. Thankfully, both Andrea and Hermione agreed.
Both women arrived through his floo and made pleasant conversation as they waited for him to scarf down a dinner of dry cereal and water. Andrea was still in her Gatherer robes, but Hermione had changed into a sweatshirt and leggings which Harry knew was her go-to comfort outfit. Evidently, she no longer felt she had anything to prove to the blond.
He sidealonged both of them to the address Draco had given him. It was, admittedly, an upgrade. Yes, the paint was peeling and the street looked sketchy, but at least the walls looked like they would hold up under a storm. There was a buzzer at the front door, Harry noticed, which increased security. Good.
Harry pressed the button beside Draco’s name, written in the blond’s perfect cursive. Immediately, the door unlocked. They stepped inside and moved towards the elevator but there was a handwritten sign over the buttons that said: out of order . Draco’s apartment was only on the second floor, so they took the stairs.
Thankfully, the stairwells proved rather well-kept and uneventful to travel by. There were no drug dealers huddled into alcoves beneath the stairs or pieces of broken glass scattered over the cement. That was something, right?
They found Draco’s door easily enough because they were all identical and clearly labeled. Apartment 23.
Draco squared his shoulders once again and faced his own front door. They were here to help him, he reminded himself, and Granger at least was far too much of a goody-two-shoes to let the other two do anything harmful to him. Not that he thought Harry or Andrea would hurt him, of course. They were the ones who would keep Granger from doing any damage, after all. But rationalizing against it still helped.
He waited for their knock, counted to three so he wouldn’t seem overly eager, and then unlocked all four deadbolts—two on either side, because people always overestimated the strength of a door’s hinges. The door swung open, revealing the trio.
Andrea was still in her Gatherer robes and deliberately standing as far away from Harry as she could manage. Draco hadn’t felt brave enough to push the issue earlier, but he was incredibly curious if something had happened between them or if it had anything to do with the Ministry incident. Granger stood between them, dressed in casual clothes that actually managed to spark surprise in his chest. She looked confident, though, and quickly met his eye as if daring him to say something. He didn’t.
Harry had also changed, this time into sweats and a T-shirt. It was insane, especially given the situation, but Draco realized that was the most revealing top Harry had worn in front of him since Hogwarts and he couldn’t help skirting his eyes over the dark, muscular arms. He wondered what it would feel like to have those arms around him.
“Home, sweet home,” Draco finally managed to force out, and he gestured for them to step inside.
None of them removed their shoes and Draco hadn’t really expected them to but he suddenly felt self-conscious in his own socks, though he’d made sure they matched this time. All three stepped into the apartment and Andrea closed the door behind them. Their eyes were darting all over the room and Draco was hit with a rush of defensiveness that he hadn’t been expecting. They were judging him.
“Anyone have anything they’d like to get off their chest?”
His voice was sharp and bitter which he regretted as soon as it hit the air because this was the last group of people he should aggravate, but he couldn’t take it back without making it worse. He looked to Granger first, waiting for her to insult him. It was only fair. But her face wasn’t full of pity or disgust, she actually looked rather curious and she’d begun examining Draco’s small home collection of books. Harry was next and his face held more the expected sympathy, but there was a deeper sadness there that felt almost self-aware. Had the Auror just had some kind of personal revelation?
“You have a lot of locks,” Andrea commented.
She’d broken the silence but her observation was light and conversational rather than accusatory. As soon as she’d said it, Draco felt the other two seek out the locks she meant and they found them: four on the front door, two on each window, two on the inside of the bedroom door, and one on the only closet in the place. Their eyes also found the metal baseball bat beside his bed and the bars he’d installed over the windows.
“Are those standard issue?” Granger asked, motioning to the bars.
Even as she asked it, she obviously already knew the answer. No, they were not standard issue and neither were any of the other heavy duty locks that Draco had saved and scrounged for when he’d first moved in. But they weren’t illegal, and they let him sleep most nights.
“Paranoid bastard,” Andrea mumbled, but the sound of breaking glass somewhere above them cut her off.
Draco guessed that someone had just dropped a cup or something, but he let his guests believe that it was a window that had shattered because it made his bars seem that much more reasonable. Maybe he was paranoid, but he had a right to be. He felt unreasonably aware of the location of each visitor—Andrea by the windows and testing one of the locks, Granger examining the worn spots in the carpet as if they might tell her something, and Harry putzing around in his kitchen. Was the Auror looking for evidence? Or taking stock of his pitiful food supply, maybe? Draco hadn’t heard any cupboards open but he’d been keeping his eyes on Andrea for the most part so—
“What’s this?”
Harry had picked up a stack of letters from Draco’s rickety, folding kitchen table. Draco swore internally, but plastered a neutral expression on his face because he didn’t want the group to know he’d forgotten to hide those. Damn. He’d been so focused on trying to clean before they got here that he’d left them right there on the table.
“They’re letters, Potter. Are you sure that those old-man reading glasses aren’t just for the aesthetic?”
Harry didn’t even shoot him a glare. He was too involved in scanning through the writing on one of the opened letters. Draco knew at first glance which one it was—the pinkish paper with red balloons around the edges gave it away. It was a letter to him, of course, but it’d been written on the back of a baby shower invitation.
This baby would still have an older brother if it wasn’t for you, Death Eater.
He still hadn’t been able to make himself respond to that one yet, but he’d kept it because he knew it did deserve a response. What was he supposed to say? Sorry your child died during the war? As if that would make anything better. There was no signature or name so Draco didn’t even know who it was referring to, but he had no doubt he’d somehow played a part in the death anyway. By sheer cowardice, if nothing else.
“You keep hate mail?”
Draco shrugged, but evidently those words were enough to draw the attention of Andrea and Granger too. He didn’t expect them to understand. They all huddled around, skimming through the letters that had already been opened. Andrea’s face was unreadable, but both Granger and Harry looked increasingly annoyed the longer they read so Draco made a split second decision and stepped up beside them. He took the letters, stuffing them into his one and only kitchen drawer. None of them protested.
“So, are we going to cast wards or did you all want to go through my sock drawer as well?”
By 1am, Harry’s concern for Draco had only doubled. They’d finished casting the first round of wards at least and Hermione was making a list of things to research for the next round, but they would have to let the first ones settle before they could do anything else. A minimum of one week, she’d said, which Harry was not thrilled by but he didn’t comment. That meant another week of worrying about Draco.
The blond had remained stone faced and slightly sassy, though Harry got the distinct impression that the attitude was just to help build the facade that nothing was wrong. Neither Hermione nor Andrea had brought up the crime scene or the dead friend, which Draco seemed grateful for. Andrea was still being short with him, but she’d relaxed more with both Hermione and Draco added to the mix so she’d mostly just avoided him for the night. Harry knew from experience that it was best to wait her out.
But they’d finished what they could of the wards and Harry had even shot a couple repairing or cleaning charms at various items when no one was looking. He’d cast a comfort charm on the couch, wishing he could do the same to the bed. Harry had managed to shake off the fog from that morning most of the way, thankfully, and hadn’t had any difficulty with the wards. That didn’t stop his eyes from drifting, though, and trying to take in as much as he could.
Draco had very little food in the apartment—mostly unlabelled cans, for some reason—and very little furniture aside from his couch, bed, folding table, and a single chair. It all seemed to have come with the apartment and it was obviously low quality. The blond would never let him, but Harry wanted to buy him all new furniture and a bed that he could actually fit in as if that might fix his obvious insomnia. Actually, Harry wanted to buy Draco an entirely new place to live. One where he didn’t feel the need to have iron bars on every window and four—yes, four —different deadbolts on his front door. And yet, Draco’s pride would never allow it.
Harry was secretly just waiting and trying to stall with the hopes of catching Draco alone. He didn’t want to corner the blond in his own apartment or make him feel trapped, but he was hoping that he could get Andrea to leave first and then actually ask for permission to stay. However, Andrea was not going to allow that. She’d plunked herself down resolutely in the only chair and glared at Harry every time he hinted that it was getting late.
Hermione left first. She didn’t have any particular connection to Draco and had a new list of things to research in the morning, so Harry wasn’t really surprised. It still left him in a rather uncomfortable position with both Draco and Andrea, though. The former seemed unfocused and exhausted in a way that was deeper than just physical exertion, but the latter was evidently determined not to leave Harry alone with him. Why?
“It’s getting pretty late, we should let Draco sleep.”
Andrea’s voice did not leave room for any question or argument, but Harry still found himself looking to Draco. The blond had slid to the floor and was leaning back against the refrigerator door. He looked like he was wasting away. Harry remembered the state of his kitchen and realized he might genuinely be malnourished. When was the last time he’d eaten?
Even though he was pretty sure it would just piss the blond off later, he opened one of the cans and began heating up what looked like some sort of soup. Chicken, maybe? It was hard to tell and it smelled… different. But it was sustenance that Draco clearly needed so Harry just stood behind the stove and began to stir it. He was stalling.
“I think Draco is capable of making his own food, Potter. We should go.”
Again, Harry’s eyes went to the blond. Draco did not look even remotely capable of making his own food at that moment, but Harry still expected the comment to spark something. He thought Draco might pull himself to his feet and try to take the spoon from Harry, but he didn’t. The blond stayed on the floor and didn’t appear to have heard her.
“Draco,” Harry tried cautiously, trying not to startle or spook the man. “Is it okay if I stay for a few minutes just to talk? It’s important, but if you’d rather sleep we can schedule a meeting tomorrow and that’d be fine too.”
Harry deliberately tried to suggest two equally plausible options. Andrea shot him a glare, but it had been a genuine question and he hadn’t put any kind of force or authority into his voice so there was nothing she could actually be mad about.
“You should sleep, darling.”
The blond was still staring at the floor and Harry couldn’t be sure he was even listening. For a minute, he thought he might have to repeat the question or try to snap Draco back to the present, but the potioneer just sighed. He had his arms wrapped tight around his knees, pulling them to his chest. Harry forced himself to look at the soup instead of staring.
“Yeah, I should,” Draco mumbled, and Andrea breathed a sigh of relief. “But you can stay, Potter. If you wanted to kill me, you would have already.”
As much as Harry hated that that was the reasoning Draco had gone with, he was relieved that he’d agreed. Now he knew for sure that he wasn’t forcing the blond to let him stay, and he knew that Andrea had no reason to hold it against him even if she was annoyed at being excluded again. With whatever mood she was in, having her present would not help the situation.
“Thank you, Draco,” he replied, keeping his voice low and reassuring as he turned to the Gatherer. “I hope you have a good rest of your night, Andy.”
He used the nickname on purpose, watching to see if it made her eyes narrow or flare. Her gaze was sharp and unyielding, but it also didn’t change which only raised more questions in his brain because it hadn’t made things worse. She wasn’t mad at him, then—at least not really. But she was mad about something and she was taking it out on him for some reason. It wasn’t fair, but fairness was the last of Harry’s present concerns.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Gatherer stand and place a hand on Draco’s shoulder before leaning down to whisper to him. Whatever she said had little effect, but Draco nodded when she pulled away. She shot one last warning glance at Harry, trying to engrave her earlier message of ‘don’t step out of line’ into his skin it seemed, then Apparated away with a crack!
Finally, they were alone.
Draco didn’t stiffen or become any more anxious now that it was just them, which Harry counted as a plus. He wasn’t calm, of course, but he wasn’t worse either. Harry hadn’t thought the blond would even agree to this, so anything more was just a bonus at this point.
“What did you want to talk about?”
That was a very good question and, if Draco’s voice hadn’t sounded so far away when he’d asked it, Harry might have tried to make up an answer. As it was, he didn’t think Draco really cared either way. Harry ignored the question, but kept glancing back at Draco to make sure the blond knew he wasn’t ignoring him , and poured the soup into a bowl. Draco only owned one bowl, apparently.
He’d eaten his dry cereal so Harry wasn’t starving, but he was bothered by Draco’s sheer lack of things and he transfigured another set of dishes out of some pocket toothpicks. He put them away in the cupboard where he’d gotten the bowl and cast a cleaning charm over all of it. Maybe it would save Draco from having to do the dishes as often?
Draco hadn’t asked the question again or tried to push for information, so Harry set the bowl on the table and held out a hand. The blond took it, letting Harry pull him to his feet. As he sat down, Harry flexed his hand behind his back and tried to shake off the tingles that Draco had left all over his fingers and his palm.
Slowly, bite by bite, Draco ate the soup. Harry leaned against the counter only a few feet away and watched, occasionally looking around the apartment so Draco wouldn’t think he was staring—but he was staring. That Malfoy mask was still firmly in place. It was tired now and wearing thin around the edges but there was no sign that Draco planned on dropping it anytime soon.
“Done?”
Draco nodded, hands still wrapped around the bowl as if he was chasing the plastic’s warmth. Harry wanted to take those pale hands in his own and warm them with his body heat, but he bit his tongue and merely levitated the bowl over to the sink. If he’d managed to remember any of the spells Molly used, he would have charmed it to clean itself. He didn’t know them, though, because he always used the dishwasher at his own apartment so he just left it for now. Later, he would wash it for Draco.
They were alone. Without the distraction of feeding Draco or of watching him eat, Harry was left standing in a vacuum of reason-less-ness. What had he thought that talking would accomplish? He wanted Draco to feel safe and to let even a fraction of that mask slip, just so it wouldn’t completely crush him when it failed later on. Words wouldn’t do much right now though, judging by the slow, glassy movement of those grey eyes.
“Can I do anything to help you, Draco?”
The blond shrugged, but Harry could see how close he was to falling apart at the seams. There was a pinch at the corner of his eyes now. His hands were shaking and the quiet of the apartment seemed to be getting to him because he’d pulled his knees back to his chest, even while still sitting in the chair. It was a self-soothing gesture.
Harry desperately wanted to make it better. He wanted to hold the blond and hug him so hard that all his broken pieces would just fit back together, but he knew he couldn’t. Draco didn’t trust him enough for that. The blond sure as hell hadn’t given him permission for anything other than conversation and Harry couldn’t just take that contact, even if he was pretty sure it would help.
“Can I try something with you, Draco?”
Again, he used that name in an attempt to ground Draco’s attention in the present. Grey eyes looked up at him. They seemed attentive if not curious, but Draco’s mouth didn’t move to say yes or no so Harry decided to try just a little harder. He wouldn’t push—he couldn’t pressure Draco—but he could make his request more explicit. Harry took the six steps necessary to move into the ‘living room’ corner of the blond’s apartment and sat on one end of the couch, leaving room on the side closer to the kitchen.
“Will you come sit here?”
He waited, wanting to be sure that Draco knew he was actually asking. It was not a command or a suggestion—it was a request. Motioning to the couch again, he turned his body a bit to seem less threatening, hoping he wasn’t about to completely cross an unforgivable line. But he didn’t think he was, so he gave another gentle push.
“Draco?”
The blond jolted as if he’d forgotten Harry was even in the room, blinking at him with wide, lost eyes. Harry ached to be able to do something. He had to give Draco the choice, though, and he had to be okay with it if Draco refused. Slowly, however, as those pale eyes took in his position, Draco began to pull himself out of his tight, self-protective pose and he stood. Tentatively, he moved towards Harry and lowered himself on the couch. Harry bit his tongue, forcing himself to stay as still as humanly possible to avoid scaring the blond away.
Merlin, he looked so strung out and exhausted… A thousand different ideas were clashing at the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t know which one would be best received or which one might push too far. Well… No time like the present, right?
“Will you put your head in my lap if I grab a pillow?”
Harry was very careful with that request: ‘will you’, not ‘can you’, and only if he used a pillow as a barrier to avoid any potential discomfort there. Draco blinked at him. But, before Harry could even reach for any kind of cushion or barrier, the blond was easing himself to lay flat on his back. His head settled gently in Harry’s lap.
God the weight and the warmth was enough to completely overwhelm Harry’s system. The Auror looked down at that pale, pointy, bloody gorgeous face that was tearing his insides apart and bit back a sigh. Gently—so fucking gently, because he felt like he might shatter the delicate creature in his lap if he so much as breathed wrong—Harry let his hand press against Draco’s forehead. Instantly, Draco closed his eyes and Harry tried not to read the movement as trusting. This was about easing Draco’s pain—not salvaging their friendship/relationship.
“Thank you, Draco. Is it okay if I touch your hair?” He waited for a response, and felt Draco nod. “Can you answer me verbally?”
“Yes,” Draco breathed. “It’s okay.”
After a moment, Harry had satisfied himself that Draco wasn’t going to panic and that he was doing this of his own free will so he began to card his fingers through the blond’s hair. And sweet Jesus it was soft. He lost himself in the sensation of thousands of impossibly silky strands sliding against his skin. His fingers curled, scratching ever so slightly against the blond’s scalp, and Draco keened into the touch.
Harry let himself repeat the motion, trailing a bit behind the blond’s ear this time. Again, Draco reacted. Rather than move into his hand, though, Draco turned his head to press his face into Harry’s stomach. Oh Merlin . Harry now had access to the back of Draco’s head and he ran his fingers through the hair there as he tried to remember how to breathe. He could feel Draco’s breath through his shirt.
Gradually, without his knowledge, he moved his fingers down to gently ghost over the back of Draco’s neck. Goosebumps erupted all over the skin. God, Draco’s skin was so, so smooth and delicate that Harry almost cried. He’d touched Draco a few times before—especially during fights at Hogwarts—but something about the back of his neck was so intimate and trusting…
Fuck it, Draco was trusting him.
He was overwhelmed with the need to cup his hand over that skin and grip Draco by the back of the neck. It didn’t even need to be a traditional sub hold. Deep in the pit of his stomach, he knew that Draco would relax if he did it—even if he didn’t know what it meant. But, while Harry had been arguing with himself, his hand had drifted to rest over that skin of its own accord. He squeezed, barely even realizing he’d made the decision to do it before Draco reacted.
Rather than melt into his lap, though, Draco turned on his side and surrendered to the pressure—burying his face in Harry’s stomach and curling into Harry as much as the couch would allow. Harry wanted to cry. He kept his hand there, letting his fingers continue to play with the hair at the nape of the blond’s neck. With his other hand, he gave into the urge to comfort Draco and settled it gently on his upper arm. It was tense, fisting Harry’s shirt, so he began to rub soothing patterns into the skin. At least he hoped they were soothing…
Draco was trembling, wound tight and clearly trying to keep it together. He had no reason to trust Harry—Harry knew that—and yet Harry also knew how badly Draco needed to let himself feel .
“It’s okay, Draco.”
The blond let out a choked little sound into his shirt, but Harry hadn’t been expecting a verbal response so he didn’t push it. He hoped Draco understood what he’d meant. This situation was far from okay and the pain that Draco was obviously in wasn’t okay at all. But letting himself feel and be vulnerable? That was okay.
He squeezed Draco’s arm again, letting him curl a bit more on the couch until the tops of his knees brushed Harry’s side. The contact sent a shiver through them both. Harry wanted to move his hand lower and settle it on the blond’s hip, but he knew better. His fingers continued smoothing gentle patterns against Draco’s upper arm.
Then Draco was crying. Silent, shaking cries that left him looking completely wrecked. Harry’s chest ached. He wanted to hug and kiss it better, but he knew he had no right so he settled for running his hand up and down Draco’s arm, giving the back of his neck a subtle squeeze whenever the blond seemed to forget to breathe.
For almost ten minutes, they sat there like that and Draco cried. Harry pet his hair, his arm, his back—everything he could justify letting himself touch, honestly. It didn’t feel like enough. His shirt was wet with tears but Draco’s body had at least lost some of the tension it’d been holding onto before, even if it was just exhaustion rather than relaxation.
“I’m sorry, Draco.”
Harry wasn’t sure what exactly he was apologizing for, but it felt necessary. Sorry your friend is now a potential murder victim. Sorry I lied about who I was. Sorry I let you trust me under false pretenses, and sorry I betrayed that trust. Sorry that I didn’t see how bad your situation was. Sorry that I almost killed you in Sixth Year. Sorry I—
“ Please .”
Goddammit, the sound of Draco’s voice choked with tears and rough from smothering any noise, was like an arrow in his chest. He had a good idea of what Draco was asking for. But he couldn’t be sure that it wasn’t just him projecting his own desires onto the blond, so he forced himself to ask—even if it felt cruel to ask the blond to speak at all.
“Please what, Draco?”
A pained, muffled whine was pressed into his stomach. Draco didn’t seem capable of speech, or maybe he was just too embarrassed to actually voice what he wanted, but that didn’t stop him. One pale hand released his shirt and caught Harry’s own, pulling it away from his arm. Slowly, Harry relaxed his wrist and let the blond guide his hand to wherever he wanted it and, for a second, Harry thought Draco might throw it off him entirely.
But Draco didn’t push him away. With a painful amount of desperation, that pale hand guided Harry’s to rest over the wrist still fisting his shirt. When Harry didn’t move, Draco cinched his own fingers and forced Harry’s grip to tighten.
Oh Merlin .
Harry decided that that was as close to a request as he was going to get, so he gave in. He squeezed his hand around Draco’s wrist and marveled once again at how small it was—he could get his fingers all the way around it with room to spare. His nails dug into the delicate skin there, but Harry stopped before it could cause real pain. The movement hadn’t elicited any response, so Harry went back to applying pressure. He squeezed the wrist, and held this time.
Draco winced, but then he was burying his face back into Harry’s stomach before Harry could study his expression very carefully. Had that been discomfort? Some kind of negative emotion or desire for Harry to let go? Draco had asked for it, though, and honestly Harry was too afraid to let go. It felt like releasing that wrist right now would mean throwing the blond into flooded river rapids with no life preserver.
He couldn’t do that to Draco.
Draco shuddered as Harry’s hand tangled in his hair and pulled just a little too hard. It distracted him from the crushing waves of grief that were pounding against his insides, though, so he jerked his head a bit to get him to do it again. Harry responded immediately and began petting, scratching, and tugging in random intervals.
Everything started to blur.
Normally, that would have scared the ever-loving shit out of Draco but right now it felt like the only thing that had a chance of dulling the pain in his chest. It was good. He needed that distraction and that touch more than he would ever admit and he hoped that Harry understood that—at least enough not to take it away.
The rise and fall of Harry’s stomach against his face with each breath forced his own lungs to take in air and let it out again. Harry’s hand in his hair was distracting. Each scratch, each pull, and each gentle touch forced him to focus on the sensation and kept his mind off the darker, harsher thoughts that his brain kept suggesting. He still couldn’t believe he’d practically asked Harry to pin his wrist. But he didn’t regret it. The warm, heavy pressure of Harry’s hand holding him there was the only thing keeping him in his body.
It wasn’t just a squeeze, though. Harry wasn’t just blindly doing exactly what he’d requested—he wasn’t punishing him for being unable to voice his wants. He kept the pressure and didn’t once start to let go, but he’d begun rubbing over his pulse point and the bluish veins there in small, weighty circles. Draco wanted to cry. He was crying, of course, but the sheer intimacy and comfort of that touch was too much.
“Draco…”
“Don’t say my name like that.”
He didn’t realize he’d responded until he heard his own voice. Harry kept squeezing, kept holding, and kept playing with his hair even though Draco had just snapped at him. Why hadn’t he recoiled or pulled back? Draco’s voice had sounded angry and spiteful, but Harry hadn’t spit back an insult or moved to hit him.
“Like what?”
“Like you care.”
Draco purposefully didn’t look up or try to read Harry’s expression. He didn’t want to see a reaction and he didn’t want to know how that sentence impacted the Auror’s mental state but, even more than that, he didn’t want to give Harry the opportunity to slap him. Harry probably wouldn’t, of course, but that didn’t make it any more appealing to give up the security of the Gryffindor’s shirt.
He knew he’d fucked up. The silence hung heavy and thick in the air like a stasis charm had been placed on this entire situation. Harry hadn’t moved, aside from his thumb and the hand in Draco’s hair, and he was still breathing as far as Draco could tell but that was it. Was he angry? Surprised? Had Draco just completely destroyed whatever this was and lost the only source of comfort he’d managed to get in the last four years?
“Draco, what do you mean?”
He hid his face more determinately, not realizing the position he was in until he felt the metal of Harry’s fly against his chin. His body froze, suddenly terrified that that was where this was going. Harry didn’t seem to have even noticed, though. The Auror was still smoothing his hair and rubbing circles against his wrist, although he’d lessened the pressure somewhat. Git. He was probably worried about circulation or something.
“Draco, are you secretly stupid?”
“Excuse me?”
That was not what Draco had been expecting. Was now when they were supposed to fall back into their usual dynamic of insults and jabs? Draco didn’t think he could stand being the target of Harry’s anger or irritation right now, but he ignored that thought because he would handle it if he needed to. He just really hoped he didn’t need to.
“I asked if you’re secretly stupid. You were second in our class and you always seemed so intelligent and witty back in school, but you’d have to be either blind or ignorant to think that I don’t care about you. I know for a fact that you can see just fine, so I’ll ask again: are you stupid?”
Draco knew he was smart. Part of him bubbled up with an immediate retort and wanted to protest that he’d always gotten better marks than Potter had, but he couldn’t. That wasn’t the important part of what Harry had said.
“You what?”
The hand in his hair moved lower, trailing along the edge of his hairline and then down along his jaw. His skin prickled and tingled under the touch. Draco tried to focus on the conversation, but all this physical contact was about a thousand times more than he was used to and it was overwhelming his nervous system. Harry continued tracing his jaw, gently brushing beneath his ear and then to the back of his neck. His hand settled there, blanketing the base of his skull. It squeezed.
The tears flowed faster.
“I care, Draco. Of course I bloody care, you idiot. You think I try this hard to protect people I don’t care about?”
“You try to protect everyone, Potter.”
Harry laughed, the motion shaking out into Draco’s own body and somehow hitting the exact resonant frequency of Draco’s nerves. The tension in his muscles evaporated and he melted. It wasn’t a conscious choice, but something about the knowledge that Harry wasn’t angry—that Harry had just genuinely admitted outloud to caring about him and trying to protect him—let Draco relax. Harry felt the change and squeezed again in reward.
“True, I did tell you from the very beginning that I have a bit of a ‘thing’ when it comes to people getting hurt because of me. I don’t think there’s anyone that I’ve hurt more than you, Draco. At least not anyone left alive…”
When had Harry hurt him? Wait, did he mean that time in Sixth Year? If that was the worst thing he’d ever done, then maybe he really did deserve the title of ‘Golden Boy’. Draco wanted to argue and say that his current mental state had nothing to do with Harry or with Sixth Year... or at least none of the negative parts did. Harry was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. But he knew that discussion wouldn’t help right now. He wasn’t present and alert enough to make a valid argument, and Harry probably wasn’t willing to swallow his own guilt complex long enough to consider it.
Besides, Draco was tired. Every cell in his body wanted to keep Harry there on that couch with him for as long as physically possible. When had the couch become so comfortable? He felt like he could fall asleep right then and there without so much as a pillow, but maybe that said more about the lap his head was in than the couch. Part of him knew he should be embarrassed by his current position, but he couldn’t be. Not when everything felt far away and manageable for the first time in years, and not when Harry’s grip was keeping the world from twisting beneath him.
That pride that knew he would regret letting this happen at all didn’t disappear entirely, though. It whispered to him that this was wrong, that Harry would hold this over his head later, and that he should have been strong enough not to need this. But things were balanced enough in that split second that he didn’t give into it.
“Potter, it’s late.”
Okay, he at least didn’t give into it entirely . He’d kept his tone soft and his voice low as he’d mumbled it into the man’s stomach and it hadn’t earned him any kind of pain so he thought he’d done okay. Not good, necessarily, but okay.
“Yeah, you’re right. You want me to leave you alone so you can sleep?”
No. That is the last thing that I want. I want to fall asleep like this with your hands on my skin and the knowledge that you’ll still be there when the nightmares inevitably come tonight.
Draco ignored his own brain. He couldn’t ask Harry to stay there with him—it would be weird, for one, and completely unprofessional not to mention humiliating—and he could deal with the nightmares on his own like he always did. It wasn’t right or safe to lean on Harry that much. That didn’t stop him from trying to draw out the last few moments of this comfort, though, and it didn’t stop him from trying to memorize the drag of Harry’s thumb over the side of his throat.
“Probably should.”
Harry nodded, but Draco felt his sigh all the way down to his toes. Of course Harry didn’t want this to stop. The Auror was likely basking in the vulnerability and weakness that Draco was letting him see, saving it up to rub in his face later. Draco bit the inside of his cheek and forced himself to sit up. He moved away from the hand on his neck, but he couldn’t make himself push away the hand on his wrist so he waited and let Harry withdraw.
For three brief, blissful seconds soak up the touch.
But then it was gone, and Harry was standing. The Gryffindor pulled out his wand, shot a spell at something in the kitchen that Draco didn’t catch, and gave him a small, subdued smile.
“Will you owl me if things get bad?”
No .
“Of course.”
Harry didn’t seem to believe him, but Draco hadn’t really put much effort into making his voice sound convincing so he wasn’t surprised. It didn’t matter either way. The darker man couldn’t force him to reach out, and they both knew that Draco’s pride wouldn’t let him. He wouldn’t ask for a repeat of tonight no matter how bad it got. No matter how badly he wanted it.
“Goodnight, Draco. Try to get some rest?”
Draco nodded, but hadn’t been able to pull himself up off the couch yet. Had it actually gotten more comfortable somehow? Harry raised his wand. He was halfway through casting the spell when Draco finally got control of his voice.
“Goodnight ...Harry.”
Draco couldn’t tell if the Auror had heard him or had even registered the use of his given name, but he could have sworn he saw a smile spread over the man’s face. Then he was gone and Draco was left with the prospect of forcing himself to get up. He felt like a newborn deer. Surely, it would be better for his overall safety if he stayed here where everything smelled like Harry and was still warm from the man’s body, right?
Draco slept on the couch that night.