The Flat
Draco supposed he ought to be glad that Tom chose not to catch him in his office this time.
It was strange to see Tom in Draco’s flat. Not just because Tom hadn’t visited often, but also because of the previous night. Draco had bundled Harry out of doors quickly enough when the car had arrived, but Harry left a certain feeling behind him, something scuffed and homey, that showed no sign of dissipating. That atmosphere did not suit Tom. It didn’t make room for the dark seriousness he brought with him everywhere.
“You lied to me,” Tom said by way of greeting.
“It’s possible,” said Draco with his best posh drawl, his best indifferent expression. “Can you be more specific?”
“You and Harry,” Tom said through gritted teeth.
Draco was surprised--if Tom wasn’t taking the time to equivocate, he must be truly upset. Draco didn’t recall ever having the power to upset Tom like this before.
“Lied how?” Draco questioned casually.
“You’re not fucking,” Tom growled.
“Not yet,” said Draco with some relish.
“You’re a fucking piece of work, Malfoy.”
Draco was barely containing a smirk. Tom hadn’t called him by his surname in years. Almost as soon as they’d met, he’d started calling him Draco, with a casual intimacy that spoke of ownership. Draco hadn’t found it grating at the time, but somehow the name “Malfoy” on Tom’s lips sounded right and proper now.
“Hmm,” said Draco, “I’m beginning to see what the rustics mean by all their nattering about pots and kettles.”
Tom blinked away the observation and moved forward. “Why did you lie to me, Draco?”
“Why do you care?” Draco returned.
Tom looked stunned. “Of course I care. Draco, I care about you. You’ve always been so good to me. I just--I can’t believe you would hurt me like this.”
Draco swallowed against the nausea that rose in him at the sight of Tom’s hurt expression. There was a large part of him that wanted to believe Tom. It would feel so good to hear those words, if they were sincere. “
You know,” said Tom, “In some ways, you’re my best friend.”
“I should hope so,” said Draco.
“No!” Tom sat up, making the bed bounce a bit, and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the side table. “No, I mean it, Draco. I really think you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”
“Better than Bella?” Draco smirked, unable to resist the jab.
“This isn’t a time for joking,” Tom declared, looking him in the eye. “Draco, you take such good care of me. No one’s ever taken care of me as well as you do.”
A rare sincere smile bloomed on Draco’s face.
“‘Swhat I’m here for,” he said, choking back all the other words scrambling to get out.
That hadn’t been so long ago--a few years, time in which Draco hadn’t changed much. And he still hadn’t really changed. He still loved Tom. The only difference was, he was beginning to hate him now, too. And that hatred was beginning to chip away at his fear. That was probably Harry’s influence--or maybe Draco had simply had enough. So he let the truth out.
“Turnabout is fair play,” he said. “You hurt me, I hurt you.”
“I don’t understand,” said Tom, though the flicker in his eyes assured Draco that he did. “How have I hurt you?”
“Tom,” said Draco, affecting exasperation when all he really felt was mounting nausea, “don’t play stupid. You’re a clever chap. Don’t expect me to believe you’ve been stringing me along all these years without knowing what you were doing. I knew what you were doing, and I was the one being strung.”
It was at times frightening to see Tom’s great mental capacity at work. His processing speed was intimidating. At one moment he was the picture of innocent bafflement, and the next…
“You’re right,” he said.
“Oh,” said Draco, feeling as though he had been punched.
“I played you. I strung you along for my own selfish purposes. You were my friend--are my friend, probably my best friend--and I hurt you. Used you. I always knew you felt things for me that I didn’t feel for you.”
“Yes.”
“You let me.”
“Sorry?”
“You let me,” Tom repeated slowly and clearly. “We both knew I was using you, and you let me. Are we clear now? Can we move on?”
Draco laughed a little, somewhere on the edge between nervous and sardonic. “We’re clear. As to whether we can move on?” Draco didn’t answer his own question, but rather moved to sofa, where he picked up a lighter and a pack of cigarettes from the coffee table and lit up.
“You’re an incurable drama queen,” Tom observed, moving toward Draco but not sitting down.
“I believe I said something about pots and kettles,” Draco responded.
“Come now, Draco. You’re too good for such cliches.”
“Nonsense. I’m still an Englishman.” Draco tapped his cigarette over the ashtray, and Tom shook his head.
“You told me you smoked inside your own flat, but I didn’t believe it until now.”
“It’s my good fortune,” said Draco, “that I’m rich enough to be a slob.”
A slight tightening of Tom’s expression told Draco that his slight had hit the mark. For a quick moment, Draco felt a bit guilty. Tom had it coming to him, but to mock his financial circumstances was low.
“Well,” said Tom lightly, “regardless, I can’t stand by and watch you destroy the place like this.” He walked to the coatrack, took down his coat, slung it over his shoulder. Then, in a deliberately dramatic gesture, he glanced back over his shoulder and said, “Are you sure you don’t want a quick fuck before I go?”
Draco looked up and said flatly, “No, Tom.”
“Suit yourself,” Tom said, and walked out the door.
And Draco had to admit to himself that, drama queen though he may be, Tom always knew how to cut him to the quick. Sighing, he stubbed out his cigarette and called Pansy.
~
“I’m sorry, darling, but I simply couldn’t get to you till this morning.”
“Tied up, were you?” Draco snipped, stumbling into his kitchen after Pansy.
“Of course not,” said Pansy, going to the kitchen counter where she had set down their takeout breakfast, “But she was.”
Draco snorted, temporarily forgetting that he was angry with Pansy for waking him up at such an ungodly hour. “You’re a scourge upon the men and women of London,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said, executing a little curtsy as she handed him his coffee. He took a quick gulp, grimacing. He didn’t particularly enjoy the stuff, no matter how it was sweetened, but he did find it more bracing than tea of a morning.
“I’ve got us each a chocolate croissant,” Pansy announced, thrusting a paper bag at him. “I thought, if the situation is really as dire as you claimed, we might as well both get fat.”
“Charming,” said Draco. “Just when I thought my girlish figure was all I had going for me.” He reached in and took out his croissant, immediately stuffing it into his mouth.
“Disgusting,” said Pansy, “Were you raised in a barn?”
Draco shrugged. “Manor’s got two barns,” he said through a mouthful of pastry. Pansy snorted.
“All right, all right, we’re both clever. Now, are you going to tell me what’s so terribly wrong with the world?”
So Draco sat down and told her. When he was done, Pansy just sipped her tea and shook her head.
“I suppose this would be a terrible time for a ‘told you so.’”
“It would,” Draco agreed, “but at this point I’m not even certain what it is you think you told me.”
“That you should have drowned Potter in the lake when you had the chance. I said that when we were thirteen, didn’t I?”
“Fourteen,” Draco corrected, “During the inter-school triathlon.”
“Well,” said Pansy pointedly.
“Sadly,” said Draco, “the scientists at the Malfoy Company labs have yet to invent a reliable method of time travel.”
“Have they got an unreliable method?” asked Pansy curiously. Draco shrugged. Both of them sipped their drinks.
“Have you really got scientists?” Pansy wondered.
“I would assume so,” said Draco. “I’m not certain what it is we actually do, but Father seems the type to have scientists.”
“Think he has poisoners?” Pansy asked.
“Almost certainly. Why?”
“To engineer your painless death, of course,” said Pansy. “Your situation is quite hopeless.”
“Glad I called you,” said Draco.
“Of course you are, dear.” Pansy drank the last of her tea and leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Now, darling, you’re going to call Dobby and have him drive me into the office while you put your face on.”
“Right,” said Draco resignedly. “Don’t suppose I can fall back asleep now, anyway. Say hi to Uncle Sev for me.”
“Oh yes,” said Pansy tartly, “I’ll just pass on loving greetings to my boss from his godson. Very professional.”
Draco made the call to Mr. Dobbs, his driver, while Pansy reapplied her lipstick in the mirror over his bar cart. Before leaving, she stopped and cocked her head.
“You know,” she said, “if you can’t go back in time and drown Potter, you can always take option B and fuck him.”
“Get out of my flat, you monstrous tart,” said Draco.
“You’re blushing,” Pansy observed.
“Nonsense--I don’t know what gave you the idea--”
“Of course you know. In fact, that was probably the conversation I was thinking of.”
“What are you nattering on about, wench?” Draco asked, still trying to recover his breath.
“The conversation we had when we were thirteen,” said Pansy, and walked out the door.