Work Text:
The delicate scratch of a quill over cut parchment left behind a flourish of shimmering emerald. The arrangement in which it would nest was simple and tasteful, a marriage of gold and silver, yellow and white, surrounding a single scarlet fireblossom waiting patiently to bloom. The order, placed anonymously by way of a large horned owl, had stated that it would be picked up at half five that evening, which left ten minutes to transfer the contents of the accompanying note into a ledger - an act that would be the work of a moment. “Exemplum,” he spoke firmly as he tapped his wand to the card, then read it over a final time.
For all the times you turned away, For all the times I wish I’d stayed
Draco thought it sounded a touch stalkerish, to be honest. But then, he never did get to know his clients’ stories. The people who walked through his door, sending his chimes ringing as they entered his life for a brief moment, were mysteries to him. Moreso the ones who sent owls in their stead. Was it love that drove them? Jealousy? Were they grieving, repentant, admiring from afar?
He would never admit to it, but he liked to imagine their lives, enjoyed that he played a role, however fleeting, without revealing a shred of himself to them. To anyone. He was a watcher, a raven perched on a wire, avoided by those who knew his tale and ignored by those who didn’t. He was safe, and if loneliness was the price he paid… well, he had earned that, hadn’t he?
He accepted that he had never been good in those days, so recently passed. Even if he had wanted to change, toward the end. Even if he had held it up, that nastiness of his, as a mask. He’d needed one, after all, to protect himself, to protect his heart from -
The horned owl landed on the designated ledge and tapped the chime with its beak. Draco, shaken out of his bittersweet reminiscence, conferred with the clock and raised an eyebrow to the bird.
“Eight minutes late. Need to close up soon, you know.”
The owl hooted an equally annoyed response, then landed on the worksurface as Draco secured the card for his cryptic client and affixed a carry-strap. A leg pouch was held out containing the specified amount due, and, without any further exchange, the owl lifted its parcel and departed through the open hatch.
He strode across the shop, shivering at the February chill seeping through the barrier as he locked it against the already darkened afternoon sky. Collecting the broom leaning against the frosted-edge front window, he began sweeping his way toward the rear of the shop, dismissing his awareness that this manual act was a means of avoiding the solitude that awaited him.
The nights, for Draco Malfoy, were always the same. The roaring flames behind the grate, fireplace too small for transport. Too small for a second wizard to keep warm. The modest supper, poorly prepared by someone too spoiled to have appreciated the skills of a House Elf. Too spoiled to have learned to account for another wizard’s tastes. Then a simple routine leading to an early retirement in a narrow wooden-framed bed. Too narrow to share with another wizard. Yes, Draco knew what was ahead of him, and what dreams would likely come out of his momentary lapse this evening. Perhaps they would be of his childhood, or the war, or some nonsense pieced together at the whimsy of his mind… yet they would be certain to feature the face, the voice, the never-experienced touch of one person. His dreams were too honest to make room for any other wizard.
*************
The morning fire burned low, allowing winter to creep through the one-bedroom flat. Draco woke exhausted, having spent the night watching as realization, shock, and horror flashed through those eyes… those warm, deep eyes into which he had only ever stared with pain in his heart and hatred on his features. The flames just visible through the open doorway jumped and crackled as his wand flicked casually in their direction; however, he did not wait for them to warm the space before he threw back the faded duvet and headed directly for the toilet, hissing as bare feet touched frozen tile.
As was his ritual, Draco scratched at his jawline and contemplated allowing the stubble there to grow, before lathering his face and proceeding to shave. He stripped off yesterday’s pants and tossed them into the overflowing basket in the corner, watching them topple onto the floor and shaking his head. There was time. There was always time. It was finding the will. He turned the hot tap to scalding, stepping into the stall and gritting his teeth against the pounding water, his skin going instantly red while he scrubbed himself quickly with a scentless bar of soap. After finally opening the cool water tap, he poured silky shampoo - his one indulgence - into his palm and began to lather his white-blond hair. It was what he had used at school, when he’d walked the halls in a faint cloud of ginger-citrus and had been able to turn more than just the witches’ heads. Not that he had ever…
“Shit!” He swore toward the drain as shampoo ran into his eyes. Just as well. Now was not the time. He wiped his stinging eyes on a towel, then grabbed his wand from the sink and set to drying himself with a stream of pleasantly warm air. The flat had heated enough that he could forget it was still months away from spring, and he dressed comfortably in a soft cotton button-down shirt and jeans before making his way downstairs into the shop.
As he unlocked the door and propped the owl hatch with one hand, he wand-tied his dragonhide apron behind him with the other. Yet, before he had made it back to his worktop to collect his pruning shears and gloves, the shadow of a horned owl fell over him. The bird landed noiselessly upon the counter and pulled a rolled slip of parchment from the tube on its left leg. The order was for a bouquet of gold and silver, yellow and white, surrounding a single fireblossom. New lines had been provided for the card:
For all the thinly veiled lies, For all the transparent alibis
Draco wondered what this person was trying to accomplish, and whether it was even possible. Would his creations be used to mend a broken trust, or tossed aside as pitiful offerings to a heart that was never owned to begin with? Would they be cherished or trashed, loved or loathed? And what, he questioned internally as he began to drag his quill carefully across parchment, what was he helping to atone for?
The owl sat and watched him from the perch by the door, as if waiting to be asked the questions that perhaps it could, in fact, answer, had Draco known the tongue in which to speak. As the carry-strap was affixed, it landed, offered its leg pouch containing exact payment, then collected its burden and disappeared into the building throngs of shoppers just outside in Diagon Alley. Though the cold and threat of rain had kept most of the Wizarding community at bay for weeks, the impending holiday was now drawing them out. Valentine’s Day was an utter sham; however, it was a sham that would make Draco’s quarter, keeping him afloat until the thaw brought a stream of regulars.
His day was filled with dewy-eyed young couples streaming through the door, witches fingering soft petals and cooing while eager-to-please wizards reached into their pockets for sickles. At midday, a few owls arrived with orders for more intricate and expensive arrangements from the married wizards and the would-be lovers. The early sunset drove all but a few stragglers back indoors an hour before closing, affording Draco the opportunity to tend to his plants.
It had surprised him, how calming he’d found the work when he was alone. He had always had high marks in Herbology, but it’d never felt like this back in the greenhouses. It was the necessity created by the aim of becoming a Potions master that fuelled his interest then, and since he was lucky enough for the skills to come naturally - and to have an almost unrivaled memory - he’d spent a great deal of his time joking with classmates and plotting Quidditch plays. But here, in the stillness and familiar humidity of his own cramped shop, he felt his pulse slow, his breath deepen. His hands moved among the leaves and branches of their own accord, and his mind… his mind turned the lines of that first morning order over slowly. Thinly veiled lies and transparent alibis. Of those, he’d had more than his share, though as the memories sprang to life, an amused smile forced its way onto his features. Draco set it firmly in his mind that these, the scenes of petty disagreements and ridiculous childhood feuds, should form the substance of his dreams that night.
*************
As the spicy-sweet scent trickled down his spine with the lather, Draco became aware that the sunlight had brought back his smile. His night had been filled with twisting passages, changing stairways, and excuses for being caught out of bed. Closing his eyes, he could almost feel the cool stone walls beneath his fingertips as he stole around corners in the torchlit corridors. Life had been simpler; he had been simpler.
He pulled on a jumper - it didn’t matter which, they were all shades of green - and some worn grey trousers, and ran a hand through his hair as he jogged down the stairs and into the dawnlit jungle that was his tiny shop. Inhaling deeply, his lungs filling with the heavy exhalations of blended magical flora, he reflected on his decision to enter this unexpected line of work. The flashes of memory were silent, save the faint thrumming of his own heart. Sitting at an over-large dining table with his mother, appetite lacking, yet again. Walking the grounds of the manor after being told it would sell, trying desperately to feel a sense of loss. Watching the photos of mourners at grave sides, weeping onto barren mounds of dirt.
It wasn’t a calling, nothing that extreme; but he’d noticed. He’d always been aware, it was just that he’d usually chosen to do something unfortunate with what he saw. Something had shifted, however, after that night. It was as though shackles had been lifted from his wrists, and once the numbness had passed, he had begun searching for a way to help, to alleviate the misery he had, in part, unleashed. This shop, these bits of life blooming in a world desperate to rebuild... this, that had started as his penance, was now his gift. It wasn’t a position at the Ministry or Gringotts, it wasn’t power and prestige, but it was honest, and he was grateful for that.
The cool winter sun had drawn more customers out into the open, making the day feel more mild than its two degrees, and it was gone 11:00 before he’d noticed the hours passing. It was the ring of the chime drawing him out of the back room, and two yellow eyes staring familiarly up at him from next to the register, that brought Draco’s mind sharply into focus. As he reached for a small parchment card and his shimmering green quill, he wondered what lines he would send to some nameless witch today…
For all the mistakes I have made, For all the times you weren’t afraid
So it was an apology and a token of love, or, at least, admiration. Yet given the proximity to the holiday, which Draco had seen come and go for three years now from this peculiar vantage point, he knew; it was love. He was curious whether the woman receiving these would know who sent them, whether she would understand the specific references intended by each vague phrase.
It was a particularly interesting question for him because, he admitted to himself later that evening, sitting alone before the fire, faded school mug in hand, every phrase, every line he had been asked to write, was striking some hidden chord within him. Every curve of his quill brought memories closer to the surface. Snide remarks he’d made in the halls, laughter with friends by the lake, puddings and floating candles and hours spent watching the merfolk hold secret council while he warmed himself by the fire. Something was stirring within him, and despite the discomfort at, once again, facing the Draco he had been, there was also sense of fondness, a sense that something was drawing him out, some version of himself that he had never been. How strange, he thought as he drifted off in his chair, to look forward to a note from another’s secret admirer.
*************
He was ready and waiting next morning when the horned owl came. He couldn’t guess how much longer this would continue, but he knew it wasn’t over yet, and the thrill of a new line to the love letter had found him preparing for his day so quickly he’d almost forgotten to shave. As he unrolled the day’s anonymous parchment, his smile faded.
For all the projection of emotion, For all the torture of devotion
His hand shook slightly as he pulled a blank card from the stack beneath the counter. It cut closer to the quick, this time, and as his fingertips trailed along the parchment ahead of his quill, he disappeared into his own mind.
Draco Malfoy had been a bully, and he had known it. What he hadn’t realized at the time was that his target had become more of an obsession. He’d memorized every mannerism, every habit. He knew class schedules and hallway routes and which breakfast sausage was preferred. He hadn’t meant to, hadn’t done it consciously, yet there was a voice inside of him whispering, urging, pleading with him to watch and learn and hold on to every bit. Draco hadn’t realized that he was falling until it was far too late. His own personal war had been lost though he had been saved, though he had survived and perhaps even thrived in his own small way. It had been over a year out before he knew what had truly transpired in his mind, in his heart, over those years of taunting, of waiting for something that would never come.
It would not come now either, he knew, if he could not find his way out of this… this torture of devotion, as the sender had so briefly and eloquently described it. His fire, his bed, were not large enough for two, and perhaps he had maintained that lack of space as an excuse. It had been three years since they’d seen each other, nearly two since he had understood why he longed every day to see that one face appear in his doorway. As long as he allowed himself to continue this way, his fire would remain a degree too cold, and his bed an inch too small to share with another. As long as he allowed himself to continue this way, he would continue alone.
Draco released a tense breath and finished writing. It would be a long day, he knew, and an even longer night.
*************
He hissed as the scalding water found the nick under his jaw. He’d been careless, and was relieved the cut wouldn’t be visible to anyone else. It wasn’t as though it mattered; all anyone in Diagon Alley cared about were fair prices and unusual offerings. But he needed it, needed the mask. After all these years, he wasn’t sure it wasn’t the real him, and either way, it was safe. Draco dressed meticulously to counterbalance his mistake, and poured an extra cup of tea to carry with him into the shop. There were ledgers to be updated during the quiet periods, and he’d need the caffeine to slog through.
The morning had passed just slowly enough, saccharin smiles on happy couples whiling away the hours as he cataloged his sales from the pre-holiday deliveries versus his existing stock, and determined what his personal budget would need to be to stay flush through the return of spring. As the lunch rush subsided and he withdrew a sandwich and crisps from the tiny cupboard in the back room, he heard it - the rustle of wings, followed by chimes. Though he knew yesterday couldn’t have been the end, he had deeply hoped, after the spiral it’d sent him into last night, that it would be.
“D’you mind?” he asked gruffly, raising one eyebrow and his sandwich toward the bird. An even-keeled hoot was the only response, at which Draco sighed. “Fine. Give me an hour?” The owl tugged a bit of parchment loose from its leg, tossed it rather petulantly upon the workbench, then disappeared through the hatch.
That night, he laid awake in bed staring at the torchlight from the streetlamps dancing across his ceiling, gold and silver, yellow and white. The words pounded through his brain as if someone were playing a record that he was powerless to stop.
For all the hidden sideways glances, For all the intermediate romances
And one person, one person only, was brought to mind. Eventually Draco fell into a fitful sleep, fists clenched around a swath of sheets and brow furrowed against a single name: Cho Chang.
*************
Luna Lovegood stood before him, chattering away about flora that, no doubt, did not actually exist. She’d been in the shop no fewer than thirty minutes, and quite possibly longer. It wasn’t a surprise. Once she’d learned that this was his shop, and since she’d never born ill-will toward anyone, she insisted on stopping in every time she visited Diagon Alley, despite his assurances that it was not necessary. He didn’t dislike her - far from it - but that hadn’t stopped him from mentally detaching from the one-sided conversation about ten minutes ago.
Terrible dreams had plagued him through the night. He couldn’t properly call them nightmares, because they had happened. Memories from a time when he’d been given more power than any student should’ve held, not least of all a self-righteous bully. It had been a time when, had daily life been stable and boundaries remained static, he might’ve recognized what it was that drove him, that bubbled so near the surface of his words. He might even have taken a chance, had it not been for one moderately pretty girl, whose dismissal was followed so closely by -
“...Ginny. It’s not as though they had a choice, exactly, though, is it?” Luna pondered dreamily. “I mean, with Ron and he being best mates, they’d’ve had to make a friendship work afterward.”
“After what?” He shook his head as if resetting a sneakoscope.
“After their breakup, silly. I’m surprised they made it as long as they did, but then, we were all looking for someone to cling to back then, weren’t we. Anyway, I should be going. I have an order that’s just come in for me at Flourish and Blott’s. Oh! Speaking of Harry,” she turned, raising a crooked finger toward the large horned owl that’d entered the shop while she was speaking, “hello there, Godric.” The owl nipped gently at her proffered hand, then hooted self-importantly in Draco’s direction as Luna departed up the road.
He struggled to swallow as the realization set in. His flowers, his flowers… Was it some cruel joke? Had Harry known all along? Or was this a hideous, cruel coincidence?
The owl landed heavily before him and he unrolled the latest request.
For all the wrongs we both have done, For all the settings of the sun
He instructed Godric - of course he would name his owl that - to return for the package at closing.
As the mid-February sun set over London, the bird returned to find Draco Malfoy, bouquet in hand, standing outside of his shop. The owl hovered, casting a knowing gaze over the well-dressed man.
“Take me with you.”
*************
The shining silver buttons at the shoulder of his woolen cloak caught the cold light of the Muggle street lamps and bounced it off the pressed pewter-toned collar of his shirt. He waited anxiously, flowers in hand, for the person who was receiving his Harry’s notes to reveal herself. He was grateful that the flight behind Godric had been quick; a storm had been building for hours, appearing every moment as though it might break.
The witch who’d been taking these deliveries apparently lived right here in London, on a nothing street lined with nothing houses. Why someone like Harry would spend his days chasing a witch who lived here, he couldn’t guess. There must be something to her after all. He would see.
The owl tapped hard on a front door, a front door which gave Draco the oddest sense that it did not exist, and rapid footfall approached.
“Godric, I’ve told you, you mustn’t… oh shit.”
Draco’s mouth fell open, as there before him, backed by the warm glow of the entry, was the man himself. He was already there with her, then. He had answered her door. How many nights - no. Draco didn’t want to know. It was enough to find him here, here with whoevershewas who owned this place.
“Where is she?” Draco demanded, pushing past him as though he had a right to know. As if he were someone more than the florist, the conduit for this exchange of repentance and poetry and… and love.
“Where is who?” Harry inquired, terror flashing through his eyes. “I’m the only one here.”
Draco spun on a polished heel, a perfect black crescent scuffing the floor. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew,” he accused. “Were you mocking me all the time, or was it just a bit of fun, a way to amuse yourself? Does she know?”
“Malfoy… there is no she. ”
He laughed humorlessly, a grating, dry sound in the back of his throat. “Find someone else to do your bidding, Potter. I’ve had enough.”
And with that he strode out into the night, walking for miles without noticing the stares he drew - a lonely man clutching a broomstick in his hand.
*************
The promised rain beat against the window overlooking the street, all but invisible for the darkness. Draco drew back the curtain, stood, steaming mug in hand, and listened. The downpour was white noise against the pavement, hollow disjointed rhythm against the overhead slate. He had never appreciated the rain; it was either glumly accepted as a backdrop to life in Britain, or else it was heralded as the source of new growth and life. But here, in the stillness, gazing blankly into a cup of weak tea, he found his own purpose for it at last. This rain, this smattering of the world against itself, gave him cover. From where he’d been, whom he’d seen, how he’d run. From the jealousy pooling deep in the pit of his stomach that his work, those words in his very own hand, were being given by the man he’d dreamt about, agonized over, nearly lost everything to… to someone else. Someone else was being given the words he had avoided speaking himself all these years. Someone else had found the courage to approach the one person he himself had felt, these past two years, to be unapproachable. Someone else had won him, claimed him, this person who he had been too blind to realize was even capable of romantic affection for another man. Someone else would take him, brand him, hold him through the vicious blackness of night. Someone else would love him, and be loved in return.
Draco released the curtain, placed his tea on the floor, and climbed, fully clothed, into bed. He did not notice the light still burning in the next room, the buckle on his belt digging into his waist. He did not notice the stale smell of Irish Breakfast or tears soaking through the pillow case. All he knew was that the rain - this rain - would protect him until the dawn.
*************
The spell-o-tape barely clung to the slick window, and though the rain had stopped sometime in the night, the moisture had caused the paper to pucker and wrinkle. Yet it remained there, standing guard, as Draco entered the shop and crossed to unlatch the door an hour early. Today would bring the last minute panic shoppers, eager to pick up a prepared bouquet to avoid facing a dejected witch on Valentine’s Day. Shaking off and swallowing down his own pain, he flung open the door and reached to tear the unauthorized notice down.
Until he recognized his own script, shining back at him in emerald ink…
For all the times you turned away
For all the times I wish I’d stayed
For all the thinly veiled lies
For all the transparent alibis
For all the mistakes I have made
For all the times you weren’t afraid
For all the projection of emotion
For all the torture of devotion
For all the hidden sideways glances
For all the intermediate romances
For all the wrongs we both have done
For all the settings of the sun
If only for one night, I’d hold you
And then, my love, I would unfold you
From your desperate lonely hours
In my arms would you bloom, like flowers
Waiting for the light that dawns
When finally that night has gone
One dance with you would be my joy
For all I want is you...
“Malfoy.”
Draco glanced down at his hands, dry, calloused, and scratched. The hands that had transcribed so many of these words. The hands that had been wrung in the scalding heat of this morning’s shower over the decision not to shave, not to keep up appearances, not to hide any longer. What was there left to hide for? Whom was there left to hide from?
“Potter,” he answered before turning slowly to face the street. He forced himself to catch Harry’s eye, at which his former nemesis - the only man he’d ever loved - quirked his lips into a hopeful smile and nodded toward the ground at his feet, where, surrounding him right there on the pavement, were a series of identical bouquets. Gold and silver, yellow and white, paling before the enormous glory of six fully bloomed fireblossoms.
“I’ve never been one to notice the obvious,” Harry began as nervously as a true Gryffindor could manage, “and I needed to hear it from you, just once. I settled for seeing them, those words, as long as they carried some trace of you. Nice touch with the green ink, by the way.”
“Emerald,” Draco replied, still wary. “Don’t be common.”
“I’ve heard that fireblossoms only open their flowers in the presence of love.”
“A myth. They bloom when they’re ready.”
Harry raised a shoulder, where clinging raindrops glistened on his coat. “Don’t we all?”
He’d been stepping cautiously closer, as though Draco were a caged animal who might lash out, and as he repeated his final words in a whisper, he stretched out one cold hand to brush a wool-encased arm. Eyes searched eyes until the sound of a nearby shop being opened broke the moment.
“Not here,” Draco’s voice cracked, and he directed the collection of flowers into the back room and closed the door behind them as they re-entered the warmth of the shop. Harry remained close behind him until they rounded the work counter, then he dropped his voice conspiratorially although they were clearly alone.
“Look, Malfoy, I was up all night. I didn’t understand why you insisted on asking after a woman who wasn’t there… who didn’t exist. I thought… you always saw things I didn’t. I thought you knew.”
“I know now. And I don’t care. But I’m still done, Potter. Whoever he is -”
“Whoever who is?!”
“THE MAN WHO -” he released a faltering breath and lowered his voice. “The man whose house you were at. The one you’ve been sending the flowers to. The one you…” he winced internally, “wrote the poem for.”
“Malfoy, the man I wrote the poem for doesn’t own that house. I do.”
“Then where was he,” he demanded, growing fed up with these semantics.
“He wasn’t… well, I suppose he was there, actually. I’m starting to think you don’t understand…” Harry gestured to the paper that still hung on the front glass.
“Then explain it! Explain it if it’s so damned important, and then we can be done with all of this, once and for all.”
Harry blinked dumbly for a moment before stating quietly, “I wrote it for you.”
Draco stood stock still, afraid that any movement would break the walls of whatever dream he was weaving.
“Malfoy,” Harry continued cautiously, “I told you. Just now. I needed… to hear it. From you. And I knew it was probably wrong, but I… just once. Just once, I wanted to be on this end of… and when I heard from Luna that you owned this place, the idea kind of… happened. I’m sorry, I thought last night when you turned up holding the flowers, and looking so… I got it wrong. I shouldn’t have come this morning and I’m sorry.” His head hung, a guilty expression aimed toward the floor, as he walked out into the soggy February morning.
*************
Draco paced the thin blue carpet of the one-bedroom flat, stopping to prod a fire that he still suspected would not be enough to warm two wizards, and freezing in place when, behind him, he heard a distinct crack .
“Malfoy.” The voice was tender, timid, yet somehow unwavering. When he refused to turn, two arms slid beneath his own, snaking around his narrow chest. “Draco?”
He raised his head at the familiarity, unable to remember the last time he’d heard this particular voice call him that. Except in his dreams.
“Potter, I…”
“I know. For once, I know.”
Harry’s hand slipped into his, and he followed silently. Fingertips brushed the stubble on Draco’s jaw, thin lips clung to his own for a fleeting moment before trailing, soft and wet, across skin so recently covered by his shirt. As clothes piled silently upon the floor, the rain began again. The bed sighed under the added weight of another wizard, one whose shadow had resided there so many nights. This time it was no dream. This time limbs intertwined without hesitation, mouths broke apart only for desperate, gasping breaths. Bodies slotted together, together, together, as Draco gazed up into the eyes of the only wizard who had ever defied him, challenged him, loved him.
On the floor, loosed from Harry’s pocket, was a small slip of parchment bearing a careful script in emerald ink.
For all I want is you. - Malfoy