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Potter approaches him two days before they're set to graduate.
Steps meandering and no way in a hurry, Potter eventually settles beside Draco, looking out towards the great lake.
He rocks back in his ratty Muggle shoes, running a hand through brunet locks and says -- all casual, "So, Malfoy, what do you think about going out with me?"
And Draco -- once his brain starts rearranging itself into some semblance of order--
Draco thinks--
He thinks-- I can use this.
*
Draco has a long history of failing to think past the outcomes of his decisions. He sees something, is presented with a situation and he figures out ways in which he can manipulate things for his benefit. He achieves his goals, but he fails to think in terms of what comes next.
When Draco was six, there was an apple and a tree. It’s not until he falls from said tree, breaking his left leg does he consider that mother may have had a point in cautioning him against a possible fall.
He’s playing Quidditch and is too busy trying to rile up Potter, that he forgets he has a game to play, blind to the snitch practically smacking him in the face with it’s wings.
He’s fifteen, and accepting the Dark Mark, not even pausing to wonder at the sanity of a man willing to go after a babe in order to remain in power. Didn’t wonder if this was truly a person he wished follow.
In his sixth year, he’s repairing a cabinet in order to save his family, but doesn’t fully understand what it means to bring murderers and vagabonds to a school full of children. Not until it’s too late.
The point is, Draco is too focused in the now, in the details, in the Merlin forsaken minutia, of the sneers and threats and the prospect of worse outside of Hogwarts, that he sees Potter’s proposal as a life line he can grab onto.
Surely if people knew he was dating Potter, if the Golden Boy himself saw the good in him, surely people will give him another chance. Any chance, to redeem himself, his family, to prove that the name ‘Malfoy’ was more than bad in faith.
It’s selfish. It’s disgusting, and if he really thinks about it, Draco hates himself just a little bit more. But it’s this, or face the continued scorn of the Wizarding world.
So he says to Potter, I think it could work, watches as the raven haired man tugs on unruly locks and slants him a burning glance that Draco doesn’t comprehend.
He recognizes the opportunity that he's been offered, its the scope of it that he didn’t quite grasp.
*
Dating Potter is…confusing, to say the least.
He did not know what he expected, but random Owls and just the one tea, in the dubious charm of Grimmauld Place, is not it.
Potter writes to him about the most inane things.
“ I’ve managed to clean up Grimmauld Place. Doxies can be such viscous bastards…” his letters would say, or, “I’m thinking of getting a kneazle or something, figured Kreacher’ll appreciate a more receptive audience to his attentions…”
At a loss, Draco responds just as inanely. Agreeing that it’s good for him to keep up the care of his ancestral home. Never mind that had it been bequeathed to Draco’s family, the place would never have fallen to such disrepair. The last part he is smart enough not to say.
He says that House elves do prefer being given work as opposed to being unemployed, as it gives them a sense of accomplishment, and cites several books on the topic, rambling about the history of the elves and what not.
Draco wonders if other couples -- as much as Potter and he can be called a couple -- have the same problem. If dating for them, also involved an abundance of conversations about housework and House elves.
He’s going out with Potter, but if not even Draco can feel that he is, how else will everyone believe it?
So, he picks up his white peacock-tail quill -- for luck -- and begins initiating the conversation for the first time. He tells Potter that he woke up fine and that he has a craving for candied apples. His flowing script spasms a little when he shares that his mother has taken to staying in bed for longer periods of time…
To drown that last tidbit out, he presses a little harder on the parchment when he asks Potter, Would you care to have dinner with me? I know of a place…
He sends off that letter before it fully dries. For some reason his fingers shake just a little. Nothing that clenching them hard wont fix.
*
Draco debates where to take Potter.
He may have invited the other out, but it was more of a spur of the moment decision, born out of impatience and recklessness.
He thinks about taking Potter somewhere fancy. Somewhere with glittering lights that required fancy dresses, where everyone and anyone will see them. He imagines Potter all dressed up in smart robes and shiny shoes, but his insides give a curious little wiggle, so he gives it up as a bad job.
They’ve been dating -- if you can call it that -- for a month, but they’ve barely seen each other. Draco is busy cleaning up the Malfoy assets and trying -- and failing -- to apply for that healer position he wants.
Potter says he wants to live for himself a little. See if the things he wanted in school, are still the same now.
As such, there has been no occasion to meet and be alone for more than a few oddly tense instances.
There seems to be some unspoken agreement between the both of them, that this, their relationship they are trying to build is to remain a secret for a little longer.
The obvious thing to do -- to aid his plan in using Potter to better his social standing -- is to take him to a place where he can flaunt the other.
Therefore, Draco finds himself taking a seat opposite Potter, in a cozy little pub, in the Muggle side of London. The food is an ordinary fair of steak and mash, but it’s tasty and filling.
“How did you know of this place? I expected somewhere…more.” Potter’s skin looks darker underneath the dim light of the pub. Green eyes glinting when they catch the light of the sparsely placed lamps. He looks uncomfortable at expressing his expectation of a place where they would be easily recognized. Draco chooses to ignore this, no matter that Potter had nearly been correct at his assumptions.
“Sometimes I wanted to be alone, but at the same time…not. One night, I stumbled on this place.”
Draco wants to say that he never thought much about Muggles, that they were too flighty, too oblivious, but was grateful for these things about them, for it allowed him freedom to walk among them unnoticed. Especially in the beginning when even his ways of dress and manner of speech was much too foreign to properly blend in.
He wants to say that in the past two years, there were times that he felt so empty, so alone, that only roaming the Muggle world, amongst people he considered inferior, pretending to be one of them for periods of time, that he felt a semblance of comfort and acceptance.
He wants to say more, but refrains. After all, not even the Saviour would put up with him if he knew that some of the lessons indoctrinated in his childhood still clung so stubbornly to his consciousness. Not even Potter will be so gracious as to ignore such short comings, if reminded why he hated Draco so much he nearly slashed him to pieces.
Potter tilts his head slightly, eerily perceptive eyes trained on Draco. Somehow it feels like Potter can hear all of his other thoughts.
If he does, Potter says nothing except, “We usually find the best things when we’re not actively looking.”
*
When Potter kisses him, the world quiets down.
They’ve been dating for a month, and they’ve not so much as held hands.
The dinner, against all odds, contrary to eight years of antagonism, was a success.
Conversation was mild, yet interesting, interspersed by strangely comfortable silences. When they stood up to leave, Draco was shocked to find that over two hours had passed.
“I enjoyed myself.” Potter says when they find a darkened alley they can Apparate from.
“I did as well,” is what Draco replies. Surprisingly Draco means it and he’s still marveling at how good the night was, when all Draco was hoping for was a night that did not end in hexes and Potter declaring that he was wrong for ever wanting to entertain having a relationship with Draco.
Potter raises a hand to cradle Draco’s face. A warm thumb traces the sharp edge of his cheekbone. He knows his eyes must be wide, surprised -- and possibly -- terrified, for Potter softly inquires if it was okay, if Potter may kiss him.
He breathes, yes, bracing himself for the kiss.
But Potter makes no move. He brings his other hand to frame Draco’s face, seeping warmth to chilled skin. They watch each other for a while, cataloging each others features. Potter is his direct contrast. Dark unruly hair to Draco’s flaxen nearly pin straight one. Sturdy bones to Draco’s sharp angles. He looses himself in the dip of Potter’s clavicle, revealed by his smart dress shirt.
Its only when they both feel the stiff muscles of Draco’s neck relax, his jaw soften, does Potter stir. He makes his approach slow, showing his intent, allowing Draco to back off. When Draco shows no signs of displeasure, Potter closes the gap between their lips.
When Draco said yes to Potter asking him out, he imagined public dates and gala appearances. Meeting people from both of their worlds and such ilk.
For some reason he never imagined that dating would entail kisses and possibly more.
But had he thought about it -- thought about kissing Potter -- he would say the kisses they would share would be violent, with clashing teeth and bleeding lips. Or maybe stilted and stiff leaving both parties cold and off balance.
This kiss…this kiss is soft and inquisitive. Potter presses a kiss to Draco’s lips, lingering for a few moments, chapped lips rubbing against his, before Potter pulls back.
“Okay?”
And Draco nods, yes, because it is.
He thinks he wants more.
Potter doesn’t disappoint. He presses in again, lips catching on Draco’s lower ones to gently suck on them. It causes the blond to gasp, lips tingling, Potter taking it as permission to slip in his tongue.
Blunt fingers bury themselves in Draco’s hair, fingers softly scratching at his sensitive scalp.
He melts.
A whimper escapes him, his own hands rise to clutch at Potter’s firm shoulders. When Potter’s tongue strokes his, gently, curiously, Draco presses closer, molding himself to Potter’s burning chest.
The kiss goes on and on and even longer until they’re both forced to separate, breathing hard.
Draco blinks his eyes open, not knowing when he’d closed them.
Potter strokes his hair down, calms Draco with dragging touches on his arms.
When Draco is finally breathing normally, Potter gives him one last kiss, this time to the sharp edge of his cheek. Tender and soft, an action that nearly wrecks more havoc on Draco’s fragile mind than the smoldering kiss they just shared.
“I had a great time…Draco. I hope to see you soon.” Potter lowly murmurs, before stepping out of Draco’s arms and disappearing with a crack.
It takes a long time for Draco to sleep that night.
And when he does, it’s with fingers pressed to his cheek.
*
Granger corners him in his favourite bookshop, her hand clamping down on one of his arm. Draco hopes she refrains from making a scene, as this is one of the only places that don’t mind taking his coin. Mostly they sneer, pointedly insisting that they don’t have what his looking for, only to turnaround and sell the very item he wanted, to the person right beside him. It burns, but it is what it is.
The woman presses close, teeth bared. “Harry may think dating--” she spits the word like it’s poison in her mouth, “--you is a good call, but I know better. I won’t let you take advantage of him.”
Draco pointedly pries off Granger’s hand when her grip threatens to cause him permanent harm.
He reins in the myriad of responses he wishes to say, each more scathing than the last, but this is Granger, and Potter loves her, so he says, “He’s a grown man, Granger. Also, you’re not his keeper, let him make his own choice for once. Good day.”
He turns to leave -- better to do his browsing another day -- but Granger just follows him and blocks his way, swiping at unruly curls that have escaped her bun.
“You are right, Malfoy, I’m not his keeper. But so help me, if you dare break Harry’s heart, or do anything to hurt him, I’ll make sure you regret every minute of your miserable life.”
Anger, bitterness, resentment and -- quite possibly -- hurt, sets Draco’s heart pounding. He struggles not to let Granger see how her words have affected him. Instead, he presents the mask he’s perfected when confronted with disappointed fathers, Dark Lords and now apparently, Grangers. Blank and placid.
He makes his words silky and his best drawl is put to use, anything to make her just as angry as he is.
“How quaint. Out to save poor, innocent Potter from the filthy Death Eater. Because of course only Potter has a heart between the two of us. Only he has the market in being taken advantage of.” He makes his voice softer when he continues, “Now the question is, who makes him pay if I’m the one he hurts?”
He watches as Granger’s face runs from angry to shamefaced, no doubt thinking that there was no way Potter will ever hurt anyone, even unintentionally, or possibly, that Draco probably didn’t even bleed red, that his getting hurt was out of the question. Draco thinks that the phantom aches of his chest, beg to differ.
“Or am I not worthy of such consideration?”
Granger chews her lip for a split second before she visibly gathers herself to steamroll past his points.
Draco leaves before a sound gets past her lips.
She was right, as per usual -- Draco is indeed using Potter to better his social standing-- so in all honesty, his feathers shouldn’t be so ruffled.
He knows this, but it does nothing to stop the queasy feeling in his gut, the lodged words in his throat that if released would insist that he wasn’t out to get Potter.
*
Now that Granger knows, and possibly other people in Potter’s life as well -- Ronald Weasley has taken to glaring at Draco from afar, and Luna Lovegood has recently wished him luck-- it seems that the unspoken agreement to keep things quiet is broken.
There are sporadic trips to various Wizarding Places, accompanied by tentative touches exchanged when handing over an object or simply to get each other’s attention-- and in one memorable instance -- Potter sneaking a kiss to the corner of his lips, in the guise of cleaning up icing Draco missed.
If this keeps up, it’s only a matter a time before everyone knows about them, hopefully making his plan come to fruition.
He doesn’t pause to wonder if everyone knowing was something to be desired.
*
Draco becomes a much more frequent figure in Grimmauld Place. What was once visits that featured awkward tea sipping, is now replaced by steadily heating encounters, involving hungry lips and wandering hands.
His heart pounds as he Floos over, wondering if Potter is waiting for him, ready to pounce the moment he steps put of the fire, just like the last time.
Instead he finds Potter pacing a hole into the threadbare carpet of Grimmauld Place.
Draco wonders if Potter is aware that his anger is causing a number of household objects to hover and in the case of a small clock -- to orbit him.
“Any reason as to why you seem to be intent on bringing down the house on our heads?”
Potter glances around, finally noticing the shaking candelabras and the falling books. With a casual slash of his hand -- Draco can’t help but be impressed -- the items cease their movements. Draco refrains from pointing out the still orbiting clock.
“Have you seen the papers?”, Potter practically spits.
He doesn’t read the paper, and he thought neither did Potter. If this was what happened when one indulged in questionable reading materials, then Draco is justified in refraining from even picking up the things.
At Draco’s lifted eyebrow, Potter begins his rant.
How the papers paint Draco a villain.
That they insinuated that Draco was up to no good.
That Draco is a dirty bastard, and quite possibly the devil incarnate, second only to You-Know-Who.
That there were hundreds of broken hearts -- male and female -- just waiting for Potter to see sense and come mend them, if you know what I mean.
Has Potter finally gone off the deep end?
Potter rants and grips the news paper so hard it crumples in his hand.
Draco isn’t quite equipped to say anything against the accusations -- as they are quite true -- and neither is he competent at getting someone to calm down -- much less Potter-- quite the opposite in fact, so instead he tracks down the kitchen of Grimmauld place and gets to work.
It is but a flick of his wand that has the sausages, eggs and rashers of bacon flying through the air. He sets them to frying and turns his attention to toasting a couple slices of bread. He knows Potter hasn’t eaten, a combination of Potter’s strange aversion to cooking breakfast -- despite it being his favourite meal-- and Kreacher being unreliable at times.
It takes a while for Potter to come find him, but by then, it was just the sausages left to fry.
“You’re cooking. Why?”
“My mother--”, Draco clears his throat and pushes on, “--she always said the best way to get over emotional turmoil, is to eat. The greasier the better. Or in a pinch all the sweets you can find.”
He plates the sausages and brings them to the large, sturdy kitchen table, urging Potter to sit and eat.
“Why aren’t you angry?”
Draco contemplates his answer even as he absently serves Potter some eggs.
“If I spent all my time getting angry and upset at what people say, about my family and I, I wouldn’t be doing anything else.”, Draco nudges the filled plate to Potter, “The question is, why are so worked up? I would think, by now, you’d be used to being disparaged by the news.”
Potter’s eyes bore into him when he says, “ I don’t care about what they say about me. It’s you I was worried about. The reason I wanted us to keep our relationship quiet, was to protect you, to keep you from being dragged into the rubbish I have to put up with.”
Draco has nothing to say. He never imagined that Potter would feel that way about him. No one ever got angry in his behalf. It’s a heady feeling, one that has Draco’s toes curling.
He distracts Potter by nudging a cup of tea towards him -- Earl Grey, drowned in milk like Potter prefers, the heathen -- and watches as he takes a sip.
When Potter has calmed, Draco tells him that is fine, they had to face this eventually, and now that it’s here, they’ll deal with it together. He says, “I’m a big boy Potter, I can take care of myself”.
What he means is, thank you for thinking about me.
Potter calms enough that his magic looses the grip it has on the orbiting clock, and it comes crashing down.
Draco smirks when Potter ask if he knew about the clock.
Potter gets a gleam in his eye when he coolly retaliates with insinuations about Draco needing all the sweets his mother sent, back in Hogwarts, to soothe the sting of loosing so frequently in Quidditch.
Kissing Potter into dazed silence is a much more satisfying solution than any witty repartee.
*
The have sex.
And it’s awkward, alternatively hesitant and eager, resulting in bruises both planned and not.
Draco is a little drunk, courtesy of a Gryffindor -- with the occasional Slytherin in the mix -- get together, and as such had over indulged a smidgen , if only to curb his tongue anytime he wanted to say something overly sarcastic.
Potter is giddy, as his plan to reintroduce Draco to his friends was a success. Even Granger -- tough nut, that one -- only seemed to plot his demise once through out the night.
They’re scarcely through the front door when Potter has him pressed against the wall, near lifted off the floor when he’s taller than the brunet.
Potter is sucking his Adam’s apple and biting at his clavicle, hands restless and hot, and Draco can’t say if its the firewhisky he had, or Potter’s burning mouth that has the room spinning.
One moment they’re at the foyer, the next they’re in Potter’s bed, clumsy hands ripping of each other’s clothes.
They don’t pause to get properly naked, too impatient, too hungry, Potter’s fingers gripping tight enough to leave bruises and Draco’s teeth anchoring on Potter’s flesh.
They rut against each other, frenzied, desperate for something, trying to get there, and Potter’s coming and so is he and--
--and everything’s quiet.
That is, until Potter cleans them up, whispering into Draco’s hair that he planned for their first time to be little more thought out, a little more special, they didn’t even get their clothes off completely for Merlin’s sake, and was it good for Draco too?
Draco hums, saying, “I don’t know. It could be better.”
At Potter’s stricken face he lets a mischievous smile grace his face before continuing with, “I think it needs more practice.”
A beat.
And another.
And then Potter is getting it, face transforming into wicked determination, fingers descending into Draco’s sides.
Once Draco’s laughter dies out into the night, the have sex again.
The second time is even better than the first.
*
Why me, he asks.
And Potter looks up from his quiet contemplation of his chocolate frog cards and says Ginny and I wanted different things.The firelight makes the tip of Potter’s hair burn red.
But why me?
You were my enemy for six years, my tentative ally for a year, and then someone I couldn’t forget for another. I did not hate you, yet I could not dismiss you. You were the only one who knew what it was like having everything hinge on their shoulders. You were my something different.
Draco has known Potter for nearly a decade, been his lover for nearly a year, and still, the other man manages to bewilder and surprise him.
In lieu of and answer, Draco floats the card depicting Merwyn the Malicious -- he’s been using it as a bookmark-- towards Potter, knowing that its one of the cards what the other wizard has been missing.
The firelight is not nearly as bright as Potter’s smile.
*
They have sex a frankly absurd amount of time.
But its not nearly enough.
He finds himself thinking of Potter at the most inopportune of moments, quill steadily dripping as he is lost in thought, imagining the texture of Potter’s hair between his fingers. Seeing the ruined Healer application form doesn’t give him pause, not as much as the ache in his lips, missing the press of Potter’s kiss.
He wants to burrow himself into Potter’s arms, to feel the weight of them around him.
To sink his teeth on skin above Potter’s heart, to know the exact taste of his wrist, Potter’s bounding pulse beating against his lips.
He wants to press his fingers deep, until his nails know the taste of Potter’s blood.
He always wants Potter’s weight between his thighs, and scent of his sweat on his tongue.
He wants--
He wants.
*
Lunch at another hole-in-wall pub was delicious, the company even better.
The food sits heavy and satisfying in their bellies, warming them up from the inside. A walk would do them good, and as Potter has expressed a desire to see more of the Manor’s extensive grounds, Draco chooses to hit two birds with a stone.
It’s entertaining taking the role of a tour guide with their hands laced together as they walk. Draco always had the flair for the dramatic and as such, exaggerates his gestures and speech until he has Potter laughing, sides in stitches.
See the peacock with the lazy eye? Must be a peacock-seer as it never, ever got caught, despite Draco’s best efforts as a child.
Over there we have the dastardly copse of trees, infested with blood thirsty Bowtruckles out to get unsuspecting four year olds.
Oh, that’s my absolute favourite spot, and I--
But Potter is tugging at his arm, drawing him away towards a bush sprouting golden-pink flowers. He doesn’t recognize them, but they seem harmless witch is just as well as Potter proceeds to duplicate them with a twirl of his wand.
He presents a long stem of it to Draco , saying they looked pretty, and I thought of you.
It’s trite. The line is trite. It’s sappy and if Draco had any sense, he’d push Potter away and call him idiot, making light of the moment.
But he can’t, not with the way the gesture has filled him with warmth, like he swallowed a Lumos charm, and now he’s glowing from inside out. He has no choice but cradle the flower and carefully breathe, Harry, when the sweet scent of the flower hits his nose.
Draco’s skin is tight, a squirming in his gut that he can’t ignore, so he drags Harry close and kisses him, hoping to return this lumos back to its source.
It’s the beginning of the end.
*
He sees a pair of gloves, dark brown and butter soft, and he buys it without a second thought.
Harry, for all his fondness for jumpers and scarves, has a dearth of things for his hands, content to stuff them in the pockets of his Muggle jeans, or rub them together, forgetting that he can cast a Warming charm.
Draco wraps them up and sends them off with Euripides his owl.
He buys them just because.
He hopes Harry likes them.
*
They talk about the war and their roles in it.
Its starts up small, and it builds and builds and then things are breaking and they’re screaming at each other about, I had no choice and neither did I.
And it hurts, their insides feel soft and tender, but their wands remain where they left them, far away from either of their hands.
They curl up in bed, close, seeking to chase off the chill of the war clinging to their bones.
In the dark they whisper I’m sorry and so am I.
They talk about the war and it’s ugly and unpleasant but it had to be done.
*
He falls in love with Harry on an unremarkable day. He hears his a tinkling laugh that could only be his mother -- but it’s been so long, he can’t be sure -- and he’s taking the corner a little too fast when he sees them.
He’s mother is still laughing, resplendent in soft orchid robes -- she hasn’t worn any colours in what feels like forever -- and it’s a shock but not as much as Harry. Harry who’s leaning forward in his chair, waving his hands about as he regales his mother with a story.
His mother notices him and beckons him forward with a , “Draco, darling, come sit! Join us for tea.”
And his mother’s hands are warm and gentle as they squeeze his, tugging him down until sits and accepts biscuits and warm drink.
Everything is a blur and passes in a daze as he sits back and watches his lover and mother interact, as Harry rubs on his neck, ears darkening as his mother sly teases him on their relationship and other things.
When it’s over and Mother has excused herself, heels clicking on the polished marble floors, Draco stands as Harry hesitantly explains.
“I hope I didn’t cross a line by speaking with your mother,” Harry’s nails are bitten to the quick, catching on a stray thread of his navy jumper and tugging, “But she gave me a lot, and I wanted to give something back.”
Again he’s at a loss for words. How does he say you made Mother smile again, when she hardly ever left her room before. How does one express gratitude for breathing life and colour into someone he thought was lost to him just like Father was? How does Draco say thank you for giving me my mother back, in way he can convey just how much it means to him?
There’s none -- or at least he can’t think of any -- so he steps into Harry’ arms, pressing in tight, breathing into him.
His eyes are gritty and his throat burns, but Harry’s gently rubbing hands make it bearable.
Thank you.
He was already in love way before that unremarkable day.
*
This started out as a way to help his family get back on their feet. His plan was to go along with what Harry wanted. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt the other, on the contrary, he was going to be the best significant other Draco could be.
He was going to give Potter what he needed, and hopefully when the other got tired of him,their relationship would have lasted long enough that Draco’s reputation would have been turned around for the better.
But every relationship involves taking and giving, and when it comes to Potter, Draco always had problems taking what he dishes out.
*
He’s in love with Harry.
He’s in love with Harry, and its the best thing that could ever happen to him.
He’s in love with Harry and Draco’s ecstatic, elated and it’s--
It’s the worst thing -- oh dear Merlin, the worst-- that could ever happen to him.
Any self respecting Slytherin, in fact, even a wart-infested troll, would tell him to go along with it, and trolls were not know for their intelligence.
Draco and Harry are in a relationship, and finding out that he’s in it for the long run, for real, should have been a boon. A blessing. He can sit back, and relax, allow himself to enjoy being in love and being loved in return.
But can you really say you love someone, if you’re lying to them?
Can true love grow on rotten foundations?
*
Harry has opened up the formal dinning of Grimmauld Place, cleaning it up and illuminating it with softly shinning candles. There’s soup and roasted salmon in truffle oil, and apple based pie for after. Harry is smiling shyly at him because he likes monthly romantic dinners, and he thinks Draco will laugh at him.
Harry has dessert with apples as the main ingredient and Draco’s here to throw this all into his face. He really is the scum off the surface of the earth. Granger was right and all his pretty, self-righteous words about having a heart meaning nothing now. It was always him who was going to hurt Harry, not he other way around.
He really doesn’t want to do this. To choke down the no doubt delicious food and pretend like he isn’t a two faced lying cheat. To watch as Harry looks at him like he always does, like Draco is something precious, like he’s in lo--
No.
He won’t; he needs this to be over with before his already shaky -- cowardly-- heart backs out.
Harry follows him willingly, if bemusedly to the living room, where he sits and watches in growing apprehension as Draco paces back and forth, practically ripping his hair out in anxiety.
He doesn’t have to do this. He can just keep this to himself. No one else needs to know. Nothing has to change. They can keep living their life as it is and if Draco feels guilty, if he feels horrible from time to time, well he only has to work extra hard at being the lover that Harry deserves, doesn’t he?
It’s only as Harry grabs his hand, and soothes him, telling him that everything is alright, does Draco finally man up, and the truth starts spilling out. Harry at the very least, deserves the truth.
He talks about before. About how the Ministry sanctions were so bad, he was afraid to even breathe wrong. About how Mother couldn’t go out without being spat on, and how Father in a true show of loyalty, had fled the country into parts unknown, leaving Draco to deal with the fall out…
He speaks about the transparent reasons for being rejected from the Healer program…
About his fear that he’ll never have a life here in England. That he’ll have to leave everything he’d ever known behind, just so he can have something resembling a life…
Finally, he confesses about his true intentions. About why he chose to say yes to what Harry was proposing…
And he’s sorry, Harry, please. His feelings changed, now he thinks its real and --
“You should go.”
Soft and nearly whispered, but it cuts through everything Draco wants to say. His throat is gritty and his eyes burn, but they’re for different -- far more awful -- reasons this time.
He wants to protest, and plead his case -- he knows if he leaves, nothing will be the same -- but Harry’s eyes are dull, teeth sunk into his chapped lips and Draco should stop. Just stop hurting someone he claims to love.
So he goes. He has to tug his wrist out of Harry’s grip -- nails scrape his skin as he pulls -- and then he’s free.
It’s the last thing he wants.
*
The Manor grounds are blanketed in white. It’s freezing and Draco let’s the curtains fall.
The grounds are nothing, compared to the state of his heart.
*
Loving is rubbish, utter bull.
There’s a reason why sensible people avoid it, and no matter the firewhisky, nor how deep he buries himself in bed, none of them work. None of it helps.
*
The letter signifying his acceptance to the healer program of St Mungo’s is a bitter slap to the face. The letter was the very embodiment of what he wanted. Or thought he wanted. Acceptance, prestige and a good name.
Now those all pale in comparison to what he had with Harry.
There’s a quiet snick -- a door opening and closing -- and a rustle of skirts against carpet floors. Suddenly, bright sunlight floods his room, his numerous sheets dragged off his shocked form.
Mother stands at the windows, wand raised, clearly responsible for the sudden assault on his vision and the loss of his blankets.
“I’ve let this go on long enough. I believed you needed space, after which you would pull yourself together, making my possible interference unnecessary, but Draco, enough is enough. Get up, make yourself presentable, and do something.”
Draco snarls at his mother. Telling her that she had no right to judge when she was the same a few months ago. She was not the only one to who had the market in wallowing and shunning the world when it suits her.
A low growl of his name and a sharply raised brow has him turning his head, contrite, but unapologetic. He was right. She left him to pick up the pieces of their life, and now she’s berating him for doing the same thing.
“Oh, Draco, darling,” he feels the bed dip,as she settles her weight beside him. A hand cards through his hair -- it’s greasy and unwashed, making him cringe in deference for his mother -- and he can’t help but lean into the touch.
“I was wrong for abandoning you like that. I’m trying to fix it now. Will you let me?”
Draco nods. She’s his mother after all. When all things are said and done, they always put each other first.
“When you were…tasked to fix that cabinet,” her voice wavers, but she pushes on, “you did it. You we’re terrified, and completely against it, but you had no choice and the outcome scarred not just everyone else, but including you.”
He doesn’t know where she’s going with this. He was wrong and stupid, and cowardly. Why is she bringing this up again.
“But Draco, if you could do something so against your will, why can’t you exert the same effort in fixing things with Harry, when the results would be much better for you? Why wont’ you go after your happiness?”
Why? Its because Harry is perfect and good, and kind, and everything Draco is not. What right does someone like him have, to go after someone like Harry?
“He could say no,” is his dejected answer.
“Yes indeed. And that’s his right. However, remember the saying? Nothing ventured…”
“...nothing gained.”
She’s right of course. He may not be worthy of Harry, but he’ll never be, if he doesn’t do something to be.
*
The four-leafed clover he picked seemingly shivers in anxiety within his pocket.
But that could be due to his heart, pounding away like it’s seconds from ripping out from his chest, away from the blank faces of Granger and Weasley.
He could have written letters. Sent flowers. Wooed Harry back, slowly. Not burst in and demand audience with Harry. But...if he didn't show courage now, didn't face what he did, and take responsibility for what he has done, then he doesn't deserve Harry's time, much less love.
Miraculously, Weasley, eventually steps aside-- dragging Granger with him -- to allow Draco entry. He’s steps into Grimmauld Place when Weasley’s good luck, he’s in the basement floats towards him. Clearly the redhead is a god amongst men -- Draco is sorry for all the mean things he said or did to him and his family -- as he nods in acceptance to the stammered thank you he gets in response.
He finds Harry hard at work, doing something to a chunk of wood that has the muscles of his arms bunching, skin aglow with sweat.
For a moment Draco is at loss for words. He nearly forgot how attractive he found Harry. And watching him now, engaging in such physical labour, brings the hunger surging back in force. He wants to keep watching, to preserve this moment forever, but far too soon, Harry is turning, catching sight of him, his face giving nothing away.
“Draco.”
“Uh, Harry. W-what are you making?” He’s too nervous to even care that he’s stuttering. Anything to delay the inevitable.
“A chair. I figured the dinning room needs redecorating. ” Draco winces. The last time the dinning room was involved, it didn’t go well for him. “You were right. I do enjoy creating things.”
Draco is glad. If nothing else, at least he did something right by encouraging Harry, once the brunet confessed to being interested in making things.
“Why you here?”
This is it. He’s convinced himself that he has to do this. That he owes Harry this, if he truly does care for the man. Draco’s not hoping for forgiveness, not even even imagining that they get back together, but at the very least, he owes the both of them this.
“I’m sorry,” Draco fidgets with the edge of his button down, “The last time I was here…I never really expressed how sorry I was. For deceiving you like that. For...hurting you like that.”
Harry licks his lips. And like always, Draco’s eyes follow. “You want to get back together. To what we had before.”
“No! Yes. But,” Calm down Draco and make sense, “What I mean is no; I’m not asking you to get back together. I don’t have the right, not after how I lied to you. Only you can decide that, and I won’t force you. But, yes. I..I want to try again, Harry. You were the best thing I had in such a long time, and I can’t let you go, not without a fight. Not without at least trying. It’s selfish, I know. But please, please let me try again.”
But Merlin, pleading like this was hard. Draco is -- was -- prideful. And any other circumstances-- before Harry-- he would have cut his loss, gathered his pride like a shroud and walked away. But this is Harry. Even at Draco’s lowest moment’s, he knew a good thing when he saw one, and Harry was the best there is.
Harry spins the chisel he has in hand. Over and over, each revolution wrecking havoc in Draco’s gut and composure, waiting for Harry to speak. For each second that feels like an eternity, Draco realizes what kind of fool he was, coming here, after months, thinking that he has a chance in Hades that Harry would say yes again. For Morgana’s sake, the could have sworn off relationship altogether. He could be with someone else already -- oh, please no, he’s going to puke -- or get back with the Weaslette, and he just can’t --
“If it was someone else who asked you out, say Hermione, or Neville. Even Ron. Anyone of them could have raised your social standing, without the accompany messiness being with me did. If anyone else had asked…would you have said yes?”
Harry is looking at him. Eyes burning, pinning Draco in place, as he spin, spin, spins the chisel.
Draco’s lips are dry and now it’s his turn to lick his lips -- something he never did, until the months with Harry.
“No. I would have said no. It was only going to be you.”
He doesn’t say that he would have laughed at the suggestion. Would ha braved the Wizarding world and their scorn. Possibly take a page from Father’s book and fled the country. He doesn’t say that them approaching him wouldn’t have scrambled his brain, tripped his heart until he said yes so fast, for fear the the offer would be retracted. He wouldn’t have said yes to them, because they are not Harry.
He doesn’t say this things, but the slight curve of Harry’s lips says that he understands everything he said, and even those Draco did not.
Harry steps forward, making Draco’s breath catch. More so when warm, rough hands press the chisel into his pale ones.
“It’s a start.”
And it really is, Draco thinks, as Harry latter spells splinters out of Draco’s hands, the result of helping shape the block of wood into a chair.
*
It’s while before Harry stops being skittish with Draco, stops holding back. Sometime before the heavy looks he used to press onto Draco make an appearance again. Looks that burn and scald, but never hurt. Just fierce enough that Draco knows he’s wanted. Desired. Loved.
It takes time before Draco stops being tentative with Harry, before he stops being differential and unsure of his welcome. Eventually Draco feels certain enough of his standing, stable in their relationship that he can bask on what it means to care for someone, and to be cared for in return.
Draco never thought much about the future and what it may bring. But with Harry, he’s beginning to care.
To try.
To learn.
*
End