Even
“This won’t make us even, Potter.”
Harry smiled, pressing his palm against the wood of his front door just long enough to disarm the wards.
“It’s not about being even.”
Draco raised an eyebrow and Harry had an answer ready if the blond pushed it, but he didn’t. Instead, he allowed himself to be led inside and into the kitchen. Harry busied his hands by starting the kettle boiling, very aware of Draco just standing in the doorway as if he was afraid to take the liberty of sitting.
“Not moving to the living room or pouring us drinks, Potter?”
Again that last name. It prickled under his skin—no doubt the intention—but Harry forced himself to ignore it. For now, at least.
“The kitchen is better for important conversations, I think, and I’d prefer to remain sober. You’re welcome to help yourself, though.” Draco didn’t move. “Feel free to take a seat, too.”
Finally, Draco sat and Harry fought his brain not to focus on that action. Had Draco been waiting for his permission? Realistically, that was absurd and the blond was probably just uncomfortable being in an Auror’s apartment. But there was a flicker of… something in those grey eyes as he sat.
“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
Harry hummed, digesting the question as he poured their tea and placed it in front of the blond. Five sugars for Draco—a ridiculous amount—like always. Draco watched his hands as he measured out the cream.
“I Crucio’d someone who didn’t deserve it. Archimedes Humboldt, after the trials. He was acquitted, though he shouldn’t have been, and he drew his wand on me when we were alone. I got tired of blocking and I knew the correct restraining spells but I chose to Crucio him instead.”
“Why?”
That was a good question. Taking a sip of tea to stall for time, Harry considered it. He’d blamed the PTSD and called it a panic response, claiming that he’d thought Humboldt was about to AK him. It wasn’t an unreasonable fear. There’d been four failed attempts on his life from escaped Death Eaters in the months right after the war. No one had batted an eye at his explanation. But he wanted Draco to know the truth—the real truth.
“Because he was there, during the final battle, and I watched him target children. He was gleeful—giddy, even. Eager to hurt. And I watched him Crucio a First Year with absolutely no remorse but I had no wand at the time so I couldn’t do anything but watch. It was, in a large part, revenge. I wanted him to hurt. I shouldn’t have, though.”
Draco shrugged, as if there was anything remotely resembling a question in what Harry had just confessed.
“I would argue that he deserved it. And more, probably. So that doesn’t count and, before you even try to say it, killing you-know-who doesn’t count either. Yes, it was technically murder but it was far from a bad thing. So, try again. What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”
Harry didn’t even have to think about it.
“Sixth Year. The bathroom with you. I never even apologized.”
“I deserved that too, Potter. You’re really having a hard time answering what was supposed to be a simple, straight-forward question.”
Harry didn’t argue. He wanted to—god he wanted to—but now wasn’t the time for that discussion. He traced the rim of his mug, watching Draco’s eyes track the movement and trying to decipher the blond’s expression. Did Draco expect him to argue? Want him to, even? Was he disappointed that Harry hadn’t? Or, even worse, did he think that Harry actually agreed with him?
“I am sorry about that curse, Draco. We don’t need to talk about it now—or ever—but I am sorry.”
As expected, the apology had very little effect. Harry hadn’t thought it would. But he’d needed to say it, if only for himself, because that day was one of his biggest sources of regret. This wasn’t about him, though. He needed to establish common ground. Something that would make him more human in Draco’s eyes, or something that the blond could at least theoretically apply to him as well.
“Draco, do you truly believe that there are things about you that, if I knew them, I wouldn’t see you the same way?”
Torturing curses. Empty bottles—no potions, just alcohol. Lying. Lucius’ body in a crumpled heap on the ground. Panic attacks. Pointing his wand at Dumbledore. Sobbing. Falling asleep on the floor, with his back pressed against his bedroom door, as if that would ever keep the Dark Lord out.
“Yes.”
He hoped that Harry didn’t hear how deeply he meant it.
“Okay,” The response was quick and immediate—so sudden that Draco had to take a second to process it. “Do you believe that I have things like that too? Things I’ve never told anyone because a very big part of me still believes that no one would ever actually like the real me?”
“That’s ridiculous, you're the bloody savior.”
The words slipped out before Draco had even realized he was speaking. He waited for Harry to raise his wand or even his fist, harking back to their days of pushing and shoving in the halls of Hogwarts, but Harry did neither. Instead, he merely winced.
“Don’t call me that. Please.”
Even without the please, Draco immediately regretted it. The Auror seemed sad all of a sudden and the last thing that Draco wanted to do was add to that pain. Harry didn’t deserve that. It didn’t strike him until later how different that was from the way he’d thought of the Gryffindor golden boy in his youth.
“Sorry,” And he was. “I just meant that of course people like you. You’re good.”
“Perhaps that makes it even worse. People expect good things from me, and that makes it that much harder to admit to bad things. Or to the fact that I was never good in the first place…”
“What do you mean?”
Those were horrible words, ones that Draco’s mother had taught him very young. It was a way to seem interested and invested in a conversation—to pretend that you care—in order to manipulate a person. Usually into liking you, if it was something trivial, or into giving you information if it was something more. But Draco didn’t want to manipulate the Auror. This time, he genuinely wanted to know.
“Potter? What do you mean you were never good in the first place?”
Harry flashed him a wry smile, walking his fingers along the arm of the sofa. Draco followed the movement with his eyes without thinking and only realized how instinctive it was when he saw Harry staring at him. The Gryffindor didn’t comment on it, though. Instead he just shook his head and smiled vaguely in the direction of the doorway as if someone in another room had said something funny.
“See, that’s the problem. I can’t tell you. Because if I do, you’ll never see me the same way.”
Draco nodded. That was the crux of the issue, wasn’t it? A stalemate. Neither of them were going to budge or reveal any deep, dark secrets and so they would stay at arm’s length for eternity.
“But,” Harry cut off his train of thought. “I can tell you one or two of the things that I’ve worked really hard to feel comfortable telling people. Things that I’m… less ashamed of now, usually.”
“The floor is yours.”
“I like pain.” The Auror let it hang in the air, let the words curl around Draco’s throat and into his ears. “Not a lot, and I don’t generally like inflicting it—but I like receiving it. Just small things. Scratches, hickeys, things like that, you know? It’s grounding to me and it took me years of therapy to admit to that, to understand that that doesn’t make me fucked up. Do you want to know what I used to think about it?”
Draco nodded. It was all he could do, sitting there completely transfixed and utterly horrified that Harry was just giving him this information. Like he trusted him or something.
“I used to think that if people knew I liked pain, they would know that my brain is fundamentally wired wrong. And if they knew that, then they would know that the reason it’s wired wrong is because for the first eleven years of my life, pain was the only kind of touch that I got. I thought they would know that I did something to deserve that pain—and yes, logically I know I didn’t, but I was certain that they would know and they would never look at me the same.”
Draco stared, but he didn’t feel like he had the right to ask. He wanted to—Merlin he wanted to—but this wasn’t an interrogation and he couldn’t take anything more than what Harry wanted to share. Already, he’d shared so much… Draco felt the urge to offer up something in return. It was stupid, but…
“The panic attacks started back in Sixth Year. When I couldn’t get the Vanishing cabinet to work and when my parents kept sending me letters reminding me how much they were depending on my success. I thought I was dying the first time it happened.”
Harry nodded. He seemed bound by the same constraints that Draco felt—the prohibited nature of trying to pry for information that wasn’t readily given. After a few beats of silence, the Auror took a deep breath.
“Yeah, I get that. I was too young to think I could die the first time it happened to me, but I know the feeling. I appreciate you sharing that with me but I don’t want you to feel obligated. Coming here wasn’t some ploy to earn your secrets.”
Draco believed him.
He was tired of dancing around the elephant in the room. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling—half his childhood has been spent curbing that desire to just say what he was thinking—but he was struggling to think of a reason not to just ask right now. Potter was usually blunt and to the point, right? He’d certainly become more Slytherin-like with age but maybe the more Gryffindor approach would work here. Finally, Draco gave into the urge.
“Potter,” The Auror looked up, his face open and mildly curious rather than angry. “What is this?”
Harry had the utter nerve to smile at him.
“What do you mean?”
Git. He knew exactly what Draco was asking, but was prying for information of his own. Who had taught him to do that? Probably Hermione.
“I mean what are you doing? Why are you trying so hard with this? Did Kingsley tell you to kiss up?”
Harry’s face darkened immediately. In less than a second, the easy, joking mannierms melted and gave way to a look that Draco recognized far too well. It was the look that faceless Doms had given him when his brattiness went a step too far. When it was no longer a game. When he was about to regret ever opening his mouth, let alone daring to push. Those emerald eyes were fire itself, burning into him with some kind of danger that Draco didn’t totally understand.
“Draco,” His name sounded like a warning. “This has nothing to do with work or with the Ministry. No one told me to do this—though, I will admit that Pansy gave me the idea. I’m here because I want to fix what I did and because I like being your friend.”
Friend. Draco tried not to let that hit him like a slap to the face but it sure as hell felt like one. He was very aware of Harry watching his expression. Harry thought of him as a friend. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? It was a dream come true for his eleven year old self but he’d never imagined back then that he would be flirting with a glamoured Harry Potter. Now, ‘friend’ felt like a… Well, not a bad thing. A less good thing maybe?
“Draco,” He jumped, stupidly meeting the Auror’s eyes. “I meant what I said, even with the glamour. I want to be able to protect you and I care about you—of course I care, you stupid, stubborn prat! Do you really think I would use the anonymity of a glamour to lie? What’s that quote? Give a man a mask…”
“And he’ll tell you the truth. Oscar Wilde.”
That was a good point. Of course, Harry had probably had that quote memorized ahead of time, just waiting to fire it against the walls of distance that Draco was building between them. But it was still a solid argument. It sounded like the kind of thing Granger would say, but he doubted that Harry had gone to her for help with this.
Oscar Wilde was a Muggle writer. Harry hadn’t so much as blinked when Draco had offered up the name—hadn’t questioned how he knew it or why someone like him would read Muggle literature. Maybe he knew that Draco had been banned from all Wizarding libraries and bookstores following the war. Or maybe Harry hadn’t even considered it.
Draco felt prickly. He wanted to lash out or put distance between them again somehow, even if his entire being was leaning into that sudden intimacy. The anxiety that always simmered low in his gut flared, splattering up into his chest and squeezing around his lungs.
As if on cue, the bracelet on Draco’s wrist gave a low pulse of magic. It was warm and soothing against his skin and he wanted to ask where it had come from but then he saw Harry's hand. Palm up, open, extended into the air between them. Wandless, wordless magic. Draco shivered, trying not to focus on that raw display of power. It didn’t feel threatening for some reason—instead, it felt more like a tentative, offering promise. A promise of what? Draco had no idea. But it was a pleasant feeling nevertheless. It made him bold.
“Alright, Potter, let’s say you meant those things you said. What do you want now? Forgiveness? Do you want me to trust you?”
Draco didn’t add ‘again’ at the end of that last question, though it would have been more accurate. Harry’s face relaxed and a bit of the defensive tension in his shoulders dissipated. Was he more comfortable being the one who was under scrutiny? Or was he only calmer because Draco had somehow managed to ask one of the many questions that he seemed to have a ready, premade answer for?
“I would love to earn your trust again, Draco. But I’m not asking for—or expecting—that. I would also love to be your friend again and to heal what I can of the damage I’ve done. But, honestly, I just don’t want you to hate me anymore. And I want to be able to see you again. Preferably without Andrea going for my throat whenever you and I are in the same room. That’s what I want. I completely understand, though, if those aren’t things that you want or if this isn’t what you feel is best for you.”
Draco was genuinely speechless. He was used to people monologuing and pitching their causes to him in order to get what they wanted. Lots of words—very little said. But he’d never heard something so packed full of sincere meaning. No superfluous words, no subtle power plays or name drops, no allusions to past events, just… blunt honesty. He didn’t know what to do with that.
“Okay.”
Something in Harry's face brightened. He reminded Draco of a child who had just been promised sweets from Honeydukes.
“Okay?”
“Yeah, okay. I don’t hate you and my coworkers leave me alone more when you drop by. Free hot chocolate is also nice. As for the other things… we’ll see. Okay?”
Harry smiled. A very small, very stupid part of Draco’s brain focused on that and told him that he’d earned that smile—he’d made Harry happy. That was a dangerous thought.
“Okay,” Harry echoed. “Thank you, Draco. I’m sorry about everything, for the record.”
“It’s not like I have a clean slate either. Call it even?”
This was important. Draco had put everything into that question—the years of bullying, the almost-homicides, the blood purity and bigotry, the failures and pain and suffering… All of it. Harry seemed to understand that. Even still, he didn’t hesitate.
“Yeah, call it even.”