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Harry has to hand it to Hermione. His heart hasn’t beat this fast since he last left the house, which is too far back to even recall properly. But it won’t last. Having Draco Malfoy let himself into your house would give anyone’s heart an unnatural jumpstart. It’s not going to do much of anything else, however. He tells as much to Malfoy. He can’t have anyone else waste their time on him, even someone he once hated.
"No offence but you aren't going to cure my depression." Harry tries to say gently, so as not to provoke Malfoy, but it all comes out in a monotone anyway.
Malfoy only looks down at him from where he stands over his bed and laughs. At Harry. Harry wishes he could be bothered enough to care. "No shit, Potter. I'm not completely brainless."
"Then why are you here?" Harry asks, curious. He is genuinely curious. It’s a relief.
Malfoy shrugs and takes a seat in the armchair by Harry’s bed. It’s where Hermione usually sits. She had levitated it from the living room downstairs. Harry has been meaning to take it back down. "I don't have a choice, do I? Everyone's got their eye closely trained on me, waiting for any excuse to lock up the last free death eater. So, they say jump, I say how high? They say go visit Potter, I say how often?"
Harry stares at Malfoy blankly, trying to work up the heart to be offended. He’s the same man as always: self-serving, status-orientated, arrogant Malfoy. And Harry doesn’t even care. Then something finally registers in Harry’s brain. “This is going to be a regular thing?"
"Until you're cured, that is." Malfoy says with a curt nod at Harry.
"You can't cure depression." Harry replies automatically. That much he is sure of.
Malfoy stares right back at Harry. He certainly isn’t laughing any more. "I know."
There was a time when Harry wouldn’t have dared break eye contact with Malfoy, accepting the unspoken challenge with the loser the one to look away first. But that seems very long ago. And Harry is very tired. He looks away.
If Malfoy is surprised or disappointed, he doesn’t voice it. A loud silence follows. Harry would cradle his head in his hands but his arms prefer not to move so instead he does nothing. He lets the silence scream into his ears until it is broken by Malfoy’s quiet drawl.
"Aren't you going to offer me some tea?"
Harry wonders whether he has any tea left. He’s not sure. Hermione always drinks his tea. Perhaps she’s sent Draco over now so she doesn’t have to visit him anymore. They all stop visiting eventually. Ginny. Ron. Now, Hermione. He wonders how long Malfoy will last.
"Depression is no excuse for poor manners. My mother's been depressed my whole life but she's always courteous to guests."
Harry realises he has forgotten to answer Malfoy’s question. He vaguely notices Malfoy leaning over his bed. He’s not interested in another staring contest so he closes his eyes. He wants to sleep.
"Fine then. I'll make it myself, but don't think you're getting any."
Harry is starting to drift into unconsciousness when a jolt near his head causes him to jerk open his eyes. A steaming cup sits at his bedside. Another remains in Malfoy’s hand as he returns to the armchair. Shortly after, Malfoy’s feet rise to rest on the side of Harry’s bed. There’s dirt on the underside of Malfoy’s boots.
Harry looks up to find Malfoy watching him intently over his teacup, a small smirk almost hidden on his face. If he is expecting a rise out of Harry just over a bit of dirt, he will be sorely disappointed. Harry lets his eyes close again.
“Accio,” Malfoy whispers. Harry is tempted to take a peek to see what Malfoy is doing in his bedroom but he stops himself. Whatever he’s doing, it doesn’t matter. He’ll get bored and leave soon. Leave Harry alone with the blaring silence.
“Are you going to sleep all day?” Asks Malfoy.
Clearly not. It’s not like he is able to sleep with Malfoy continuously interrupting him. Not that he gets much sleep on other days either. More so that he lies in bed, awake. Exhausted from doing absolutely nothing. So finally, he opens his eyes and bites back:
"Are you going to sit there all day?"
Malfoy scoffs at that. "Of course not. That would be terribly dull. You're not much of a conversationalist, you know. I'm going to wait a couple of hours which will seem like a commendable amount of time to stay with you and then leave. And tomorrow I'll do the same thing. Although perhaps I might bring my own reading material. This is dreadful."
Harry’s eyes dart down to Malfoy’s hands and February’s issue of Broomsticks and Bludgers. It’s August.
"It's Ginny's."
"Ah yes,” Malfoy says, smiling cruelly now, “the weasel always did have poor taste."
"Don't call Ginny that," Harry snaps. He almost reaches for his wand until he realises he can’t remember where he left it.
Malfoy raises a single eyebrow, managing to make it look effortless. Harry notices his eyes scanning the barcode of the magazine, where the date is surely written. "Does she visit often?" He asks.
The smug bastard. Harry wants to rip his face off…no, he wants to punch the bastard until his face becomes unrecognisable and…no, he wants to hold a wand to Malfoy’s throat and make the coward beg for his life. Except he doesn’t want to do any of that. It seems like an awful amount of effort. And he still doesn’t know where his wand is. So instead, he does absolutely nothing.
When it’s clear Harry isn’t going to rise to Malfoy’s cruel bait, he sighs, long and obnoxiously. “You really are boring. I don't know how you lie here all day doing nothing.”
Harry doesn’t want to reply to that either but he can’t help himself. “It's not like I enjoy it, Malfoy.”
Harry can feel Malfoy staring at him but he doesn’t give him the satisfaction of eye contact. He waits until he feels Malfoy’s gaze drop and closes his eyes once more. Malfoy doesn’t say anything else. The only noise in the room is the odd turn of a glossy magazine page. Harry counts each turn until he falls asleep.
When he awakes, the sun is still up, but Hermione’s chair is empty.
Malfoy returns the following day. Even though he said he would, Harry is still surprised. He has come not to expect much of anything from anyone. Still, two days is easy. Harry privately bets his last visit will be within the week.
This time, Malfoy has come prepared. After replacing the untouched tea on Harry’s bedside table – Harry has been meaning to take it back down to the kitchen – and also pouring one for himself, Malfoy returns to Hermione’s chair, rests his dirty boots on Harry’s bed, and summons a magazine from his satchel.
This becomes a regular pattern. They don’t speak. What is there to say? Malfoy simply sits there reading magazine after magazine, his feet occasionally jostling Harry’s bed. He also has a habit of humming tunes softly that Harry can never follow. Some days he stays longer than others. But he always comes.
A week passes. Malfoy still returns.
It’s nine days in when they finally speak again. And only because instead of the usual trashy gossip magazines Malfoy usually reads, today, he has brought something a little more unexpected.
“The Quibbler?” Harry reads out the title in disbelief, unable to stop himself.
Malfoy shrugs nonchalantly and begins flipping through the pages. “One of the articles caught my eye.”
Harry scans the front page of the magazine for the headlines, wondering what on earth Xenophilius Lovegood’s magazine could have published to appeal to Draco Malfoy.
The Minister of Magic’s Secret Pet Dragon
How To Tell If Your Boyfriend’s An Inferius
The Real Reason You Can’t Remember Where You Put Your wand
How To Splinch Yourself Back Together
Advanced Elektronicks – What Wizards Can Learn From Muggles
“How To Tell If Your Boyfriend’s An Inferius, obviously.” Malfoy says before Harry can ask. Obviously.
They fall into silence again. Harry is grateful for Malfoy’s quiet humming. He supposes that’s the end of it. That they will continue on with their pattern of not speaking. Harry doesn’t mind. Malfoy’s presence, although strange and a little hostile at first, is somewhat comforting. It breaks up the day, gives him something, not to look forward to per se – we’re still taking about Draco Malfoy here – but to expect, to anticipate. It’s not much, but it’s more than nothing. And that’s all Harry can ask for.
Although, Malfoy clearly has other plans. Harry shouldn’t have spoken at all because Malfoy takes it as an invitation for further conversation. Which it was not at all.
“When was the last time you had a shower?” He asks, dropping the magazine to his lap.
Harry tries to think. It’s a simple question but – “I don’t know.”
Malfoy nods as if expecting this. Perhaps Harry is starting to smell.
“How often do you eat?”
Has this turned into an interrogation? “I don’t know, when I’m hungry.” It isn’t strictly true. Only when he’s starving will he bother to venture out of his bed to the kitchen. And there usually isn’t that much to eat. Hermione had been buying him groceries but she hasn’t visited him for some time now.
Malfoy stands up abruptly and disappears into Harry’s ensuite. The sound of running water reaches Harry’s ears not long after. Does he really smell that bad?
Malfoy’s head pops out from the bathroom door. “Do you trust me?” He asks.
Harry considers this. Malfoy isn’t exactly his enemy anymore. But they’re not friends. Just because he sits with Harry each day doesn’t make him a friend, no matter how much Harry may enjoy said company.
“Let me rephrase,” Malfoy says, Harry obviously having waited too long to reply, “Do you trust that I’m not planning on murdering you?”
“I guess.”
Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Real convincing.” He leans up against the doorway, crossing his arms. “I only ask because I’m enchanting the water. Some simple relaxation charms. Just so that’s it more soothing. Nothing sinister, I promise.”
Harry really doesn’t feel like a bath. He’d much prefer to stay in bed if Malfoy would just let him. Why did Harry have to go and question The Quibbler? If only they remained in their safe silent zone, Malfoy would never have started to get ideas. What will be next?
Malfoy stares at him from the bathroom expectedly and Harry feels himself being very, very scrutinised. If Malfoy wants him to get out of bed, he can come over here and – “
“Do you need help getting undressed?” Malfoy asks innocently.
“No!” Harry says quickly, scrambling out of bed now. He can take off his own damn clothes.
Malfoy is smirking now so he is obviously not as innocent as he pretends. Harry feels very much like he’s fallen in a trap. But he’s up now so he follows Malfoy into the bathroom. Malfoy turns off the taps, whispers a few spells Harry doesn’t recognise and then leaves Harry alone, closing the door softly on his way out.
Harry looks down at the bath. Although still clear, there’s an irregular thickness to the water. It ripples gently of its own accord inviting Harry in. What the hell. Harry undresses and dips a foot in apprehensively. The temperature is perfect. His skin tingles pleasantly. He hops into the bath fully, eager now. He sighs in relief. It’s so warm. The water is heavy, not uncomfortably so, more so that it is holding him in place. It’s an odd sensation but agreeable. Very agreeable.
Harry slowly sinks his head under the water, eyes tightly closed. He suspects Malfoy has also cast an extendable charm as he can stretch out his body completely on the floor of the bathtub. He exhales through his nose and listens as the bubbles burst up to the surface. The warm water embraces him tightly. Why can’t he always feel this warm?
His lungs begin to tighten, warning him to resurface. Yes, yes, he’ll come up eventually. When he absolutely has to. But for now, it’s rather nice down here, his lungs be damned.
Before he is ready, hands grasp tight round his shoulders, pulling him up abruptly. And it’s cold. So cold out here. Harry’s eyes fling open, the bathwater leaking in and reddening them, to find himself face to face with Malfoy.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Malfoy yells at him, which is rather odd since it’s a question Harry should be asking Malfoy, not the other way around. Then Harry takes in Malfoy’s soaking wet sleeves, ending in hands still holding him up, stopping him from falling back under. Oh. Oh no. Did Malfoy think…?
“I’m not going to…you know…” Harry tries to explain, hopefully convincingly.
Malfoy’s arms finally drop and he falls back on his heels where he kneels beside the bath. “Then don’t scare me like that, Potter. Merlin!” He huffs angrily.
“How did you – “ Harry starts to ask.
“I put a detection charm on the bath,” Malfoy explains through gritted teeth, “so I would know if you stayed under for too long.”
“You don’t need to do that.” Harry says slowly. It frightens him that Malfoy was so quick to believe Harry might attempt…Does Harry really look that bad from the outside?
“Clearly I do. You’re fucking – “ Malfoy pauses and sighs with closed eyes. He reopens them and looks at Harry with a much gentler expression. “Never mind. I’m sorry, Potter. You – You should finish your bath.”
Only when the bathwater loses its warmth after some time – Harry suspects Malfoy also cast a lasting heat charm – does Harry finally exit the tub and dry himself off. When he re-enters his bedroom it’s to freshly changed sheets and a bowl of mushroom risotto on his bed side table. Malfoy’s chair is empty.
The risotto is dreadful.
Hermione visits the next day. She sits in the chair beside Harry’s bed and it doesn’t feel right.
She pulls out the last ten editions of the Daily Prophet and reads him highlights from each. She enlists his help for every crossword, despite already clearly knowing all the answers, and she fills him in on her work at the Ministry. She explicitly doesn’t mention Malfoy. So Harry does.
“Is he coming back?”
Hermione squirms in her seat a little, her cheeks betraying her with the faintest blush. “He better be after…” She trails off, avoiding Harry’s eye.
“After what?” Harry prompts eagerly.
Hermione sighs and turns back to Harry. “He came and saw me last night actually.”
“Why?”
“To yell at me.” Hermione explains, frowning now, “For not visiting you lately.” Hermione throws her hands up in the air. “It hasn’t even been two weeks! I was the one who told him to visit you! And now he’s throwing it back in my face.”
Harry is surprised. He never expected Draco Malfoy, an ex-death eater, would become his defender. It’s absurd. And a little touching. But that does remind him:
“Thanks for giving a death eater a key to my house by the way.”
Hermione ignores his sarcasm and responds genuinely. “You’re welcome. I think he’s doing you some good, you know.”
Harry shrugs. He’s had a bath. Is that good? ‘’I’m still depressed, Hermione.”
“He’s not a miracle worker,” Hermione says gently. “Give it more time.”
Harry stares up at his bedroom ceiling. “Hermione knows best.” He says, more so to himself. He hopes it’s true.
Harry is relieved to see Malfoy the next day. There is no mention of the bathtub incident, no mention of Hermione’s visit, no mention that anything has changed. Although it clearly has. The stacked tupperware containers in Harry’s fridge with barely edible mushroom risotto can tell you that.
Malfoy, like always, brews a fresh cup of tea for Harry and leaves it at his bed side, and for the first time Harry is tempted to drink it. Malfoy summons today’s magazine, a clearly vintage edition of Witch Weekly: “Pansy has every copy. And wizard gossip in the 50s is far more scandalous.”
The only reminder of anything changed, is that just before he leaves, Malfoy prepares a bath for Harry.
And so, their new pattern is set. Tea. Boots. Magazine. Humming. A warm bath prepared by Draco Malfoy.
There’s something about the way Malfoy prepares it. It’s as if the water reaches out to him when he approaches, tangling itself around him in warmth, reminiscent of an embrace. And it doesn’t just warm his skin, it seeps into his body, spreading and filling him completely.
He comes to rely on that feeling each day. But it’s dangerous. Because consequently he is relying on Malfoy.
Some days later, Malfoy breaks pattern. He makes tea. He rests his boots on Harry’s bed. He flicks through a magazine – a new Quibbler this time. And he hums an everchanging melody. But he is clearly distracted. And despite trying to be discrete, Harry notices him cast a tempus charm several times. Harry is keeping him from something. He had almost forgotten Malfoy had a life outside of visiting him.
So, it’s not all too surprising when Malfoy ups to leave and the bathtub is empty. Harry wants to let it go. He doesn’t want to bother Malfoy, especially when he is clearly busy. But the thought of not having that bath, of having to wait another day to feel something is terrifying.
It’s not until Malfoy is already on the landing when Harry calls out his name. Malfoy reappears in Harry’s room instantly.
“Before you go, er...will you...er…”
“Fuck!” Malfoy eyes widen and he seems to understand immediately. "Of course, Potter. I'm so sorry. I forgot."
Harry’s bath that night is hotter than usual, but it’s comforting, and exactly what he needs. What is he going to do when Malfoy stops coming over?
Another couple of days and the mushroom risotto is finally finished. Harry’s fridge is restocked with a dish Malfoy calls Penne Napolitana but is really just overcooked pasta in a watery tomato sauce. Still, it’s an improvement.
Malfoy doesn’t forget to run the bath for Harry again.
A month passes since Malfoy’s first visit. He continues to visit every day. Hermione visits once more to check in but upon running into Malfoy, she doesn’t say much and leaves very soon after arriving.
Everything seems to be going perfectly. At least as much as it can. Harry still feels like shit most days. But usually significantly less so when he sees Malfoy, and certainly less so during his daily bath. The routine feels good. It’s safe. Reliable. Constant. So of course it doesn’t last.
Malfoy barrels in one day – it’s a Tuesday – looking wild. “We’re going out.” He says simply.
Harry remains in bed. He hasn’t been outside in months. He certainly isn’t going to start now just before Malfoy says so.
But Malfoy is not rejected so easily. He goes through Harry’s drawers and starts throwing clothes at Harry’s bed. A pair of his own underwear hit Harry square in the face, followed by mismatched socks.
“Get yourself dressed, Potter. It’s foggy out.”
Harry wouldn’t want to go out even if the sun was shining. How is he supposed to be convinced by foggy?
“The perfect weather for flying,” Malfoy elaborates. “Muggles won’t be able to see us.”
Ah. Flying. He used to love flying. He’s not sure if he still does.
“Come on, Potter.” Malfoy says. “Don’t you want to feel it again? The exhilaration. The control. The freedom. Get up!”
Harry sighs. He’s really going to do this. And almost certainly going to regret it. But there’s something about Malfoy today that entrances Harry, that makes him trust him. He begins to get up slowly.
Malfoy leaves Harry to get changed. Harry takes longer than strictly necessary, delaying what he supposes is now inevitable, if Malfoy has anything to do with it. He’s going flying. Outside.
Harry meets Malfoy at the foot of the stairs, right next to his back door. Malfoy waggles his eyebrows excitedly at Harry and hands him a broomstick. It’s a sleek mahogany colour with smooth bristles. Harry doesn’t recognise the brand. It must be new. Malfoy holds the same broom.
Harry’s back door stands before them. Harry stares at it. He can do this. It’s just his backyard. He fiddles with the muggle locks and opens the door slowly. It’s colder than he expected. A gust of wind carries through the house and almost knocks Harry over. A light hand is placed on his back. He looks over to Malfoy.
“Ready?” Malfoy asks.
Harry somehow manages to nod and they walk out together.
The fog is so thick Harry can barely see a metre in front of him. It’s almost better this way. Like not being outside at all. Except it’s still all kinds of terrifying. Harry mounts his broom, but he makes no move to kick off.
“Imagine catching the snitch in this.” Malfoy says hovering beside Harry and then not a second later he zooms upwards out of vision, leaving Harry alone. Alone.
Harry kicks off quickly and follows Malfoy’s path. But he can’t see him. He travels further up. Nothing. He turns left. He turns right. Everywhere he turns is only more fog, dark and all encompassing, and suffocating. Harry can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He’s gasping for air but there’s nothing there. “Malfoy” he tries to call out but no sounds comes out. “Malfoy,” he tries again. “Malfoy.” Still nothing. And then he is falling, his broom lost. His voice finds purchase for a single moment and lets him yell a single syllable, “Mal-“
He hits the ground. But it’s soft. And it has its arms wrapped around him. His body finally allows himself to breathe. He rolls himself onto the real ground and opens his eyes. He’s lying beside Draco Malfoy. He realises Malfoy is whispering something and he strains his ear to listen:
“Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry,” Malfoy is repeating over and over again.
“It’s fine,” Harry says, his voice weaker than he realises. “Just don’t leave me.”
Malfoy quiets and pulls himself up. Once standing he holds out a hand for Harry who takes it automatically, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet, face to face with Malfoy.
“I have an idea,” Malfoy says with a small smile. He holds out his broom to Harry. “Mount it,” He instructs.
Harry looks at the broom, unsure. He can’t handle it again. He’s not strong enough. This is why he is better off staying in bed all day. At least in bed there isn’t anything to overwhelm him with panic. Although sometimes he thinks he might not be feeling anything at all. He’s not sure what is worse.
“I won’t leave you.” Malfoy says. And Harry trusts him. He mounts the broom, his feet clinging firmly to the ground.
He feels Malfoy swing a leg over the broom behind him. Oh. Malfoy’s hands reach around Harry and rest clasped together at his waist. Oh. Harry’s stomach shudders involuntarily.
“You’re in control,” Malfoy whispers into his ear. Oh. “But I’ll be here with you the whole time.”
Harry kicks off the ground. At first, he’s unbalanced with Malfoy sitting behind him. The weight distribution is all wrong. He has to overcompensate for it by leaning more into his turns, and far less into his dips. And he’s sure he won’t be able to reach the broom’s highest speeds. It’s not until a few minutes in that he realises what he’s doing. He’s flying. And he’s fine. He’s better than fine. Like Malfoy said, he’s in control. It feels amazing. And now that he thinks about it, Malfoys arms around him don’t feel so bad either.
Harry keeps flying until the coldness of the air finally gets to his fingers and makes it difficult to continue grasping his broomstick. Malfoy hasn’t said a word since they kicked off, but his presence has given Harry more strength than he thought possible.
Harry touches down gently. There’s disappointment when Malfoy’s arms leave him, but also a shiver at the gentle glide across the side of his torso as they’re removed. He dismounts and turns to Malfoy who is flushed from flying: rosy cheeks, bright pink lips and the most ridiculous windswept hair. Harry wants to kiss him. What a relief to want something again.
Malfoy stares back at him. Harry is sure his hair must look ridiculous as well. But it always does. Malfoy must be used to that by now. The broomstick slips from Harry’s fingertips to hover just above the ground. Malfoy’s eyes follow it. Harry takes the opportunity to stare openly at Malfoy’s lips. So close. Within reach. He feels a pull towards Malfoy, to Malfoy’s lips. Merlin, doesn’t Malfoy feel it too?
His eyes return to Malfoy’s and he has certainly been caught. But Malfoy is smiling, and oh Merlin, he must feel it too. Please say he feels it too. Harry leans further in. Malfoy leans further in. Finally, oh finally, their lips touch.
And Harry can feel it. That warmth filling his body and leaving his skin tingling on the outside. Malfoy’s magic embracing him, holding him completely. He falls entirely into Malfoy and in that moment, he is so consumed, he can think of nothing else. Of no one else.
Malfoy’s arms snake back around Harry’s waist where they belong. Harry’s remain limp at his side, but not for lack of enthusiasm. Certainly not. He tries to make this clear by pushing everything he can into the kiss. All of the passion left within him, which might not be much, but it’s enough. Enough for this.
This is something worth getting out of bed for.
Harry can’t rely on the pattern of Malfoy’s visits anymore. Not when they both ruined it by kissing yesterday. Harry wants to take it back. It was brilliant. Perfect. But Harry can’t hold onto perfect. It always falls through his fingers. Everyone always leaves. Why will this time be different?
It’s not Malfoy’s fault. It’s just the way it is. How could anyone love someone so broken, so barely alive? How can anyone stay forever? It’s too much to ask of someone. And Harry would never ask it of someone he loves. Merlin, he’s fallen in love with Draco Malfoy.
Today when Malfoy arrives, Harry wants to tell him to leave, but he can’t. When Malfoy leaves another tea by his bed side, Harry wants to tell him not to bother, but he can’t. When Malfoy’s boots hits Harry’s bed, he wants to tell him to stay away, but he can’t. And when Malfoy starts humming something positively upbeat and adorable as he flicks through a year-old edition of Witch Weekly, Harry wants to scream, but he can’t.
There’s a point when he starts to relax – almost – thinking that perhaps they can go back to the pattern. That if they both ignore the kiss, it didn’t happen, and perhaps he isn’t in love. Not at all. If he ignores it, it isn’t true. If Malfoy doesn’t say –
“Come outside with me.” Malfoy says, interrupting Harry’s state of semi (or really hardly at all) relaxation. And Harry wants to refuse, but he can’t.
They sit on the steps at Harry’s back door. Harry is thankful Malfoy doesn’t push him to go further. Not today. And they sit in silence. Malfoy isn’t saying anything. Why isn’t he saying anything? So, Harry finally lets himself speak.
“Malfoy, I need you to know that this is who I am now. I might never fully recover. It’s unfair for you to have –“
"Potter, don't be stupid.” Interrupts Malfoy, but his voice is soft. “I love you irrevocably. Even in your darkest moment, you glow brighter than I ever could."
Harry stares at Malfoy. The sun is out today, the fog lifted, and it’s shining on them both, the light playing off Malfoy’s hair, so that he is the one glowing. Like an angel. Harry’s angel. He has to laugh at the absurdity of it all. He’s in love with an angel. And that angel is also in love with him. He wonders if Malfoy even realises what he’s said. He can’t stop laughing. It doesn’t make sense. But in this moment, he’s happy. Of course, it won’t last, a moment never does. But he trusts Malfoy will last. Through every moment, good or bad. Every day, he’ll be there. It’s an overwhelming realisation. And so, Harry keeps laughing.
When he’s finally able to take a breath, he uses it immediately: "I love you too, Draco."