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*
Draco doesn’t follow Harry down to the Greenhouses at night. At least, he wasn’t following him the first time.
*
Draco didn’t want to come back to Hogwarts after the war, and once he’s there, his feelings don’t change. The castle feels wrong, and Draco feels wrong in it. He can’t shake the sensation that he shouldn't be here, and that it’s trying to expel him, spit him back out. He doesn’t blame it, really. Half the castle is still in ruins, its magic and stones ripped apart. Draco knows he did that, in one way or another; he opened up the wound that let the infection into the castle. It makes sense that as the castle mends itself it would try and cast him out with all of the other dark magic and filth the Death Eaters forced inside it. At least, that’s how Draco sees it.
Late at night, when his left arm itches with a phantom ache just under the remnants of the dark ink stain, Draco wishes he could do the same thing to himself. Just purge the dark magic back out, get the Mark truly off of him and get rid of all the horrors imbued into it. Draco can barely look at it, even though it’s faded to just a scar, and he scratches at it constantly, mindlessly. He’s broken the skin more than once, the spike of pain bringing his attention to the fact he’s rubbed a patch raw by dragging his nails over and over the same spot. It’s become an embarrassing habit, one he can’t stop or anticipate. He keeps his nails clipped as short as he can and wears long sleeves, tightly buttoned at the wrists, but it doesn’t make much of a difference. His mind wants the Mark off him, and the scratching is seemingly a new basic motor function it has added to its roster. Draco has a mad fear that one morning he’ll wake up and find he’s cut his arm off in his sleep, or gnawed it right off, but for now, he just has to contend with waking up with the healing, raw areas painfully stuck to his sheets. It’s disgusting, and humiliating, and the Mark scar is still visible as ever undeath the new marks Draco’s put there.
He thought after last year that he couldn’t hate feel any lower about himself, but as always he was wrong.
He spends as much time as he can outside the castle. It’s easy enough to sneak out, and no one really pays him much mind anyway. None of his friends have returned this year; Pansy is in Italy with her family, and Goyle is still mourning Vincent’s death far too vividly to step foot back where it happened. Blaise was never going to return, and the other Slytherins want little to do with Draco, especially the first year’s. It’s a politically smart move ― Draco would have done the same, himself, back in the day. It’s terribly lonely, but it’s better than having to justify himself or try and explain anything he did during the war. Draco will take loaded silence over that, any day.
His grades are better than they’ve ever been, at least, with all the free time Draco has. Turns out being a social pariah is excellent for one’s academic pursuits. Who would have though it? His father would be proud of him for studying so hard, if his father gave a toss about anything these days other than trying to restoring the family’s obliterated reputation. It’s never going to happen, and Draco doesn’t care much for it anymore. His name is dirt, far filthier than any impure blood Draco was raised to loathe. Draco’s world has been tilted on its axis and he doesn’t know if it will ever feel right again, but he is certain at least that being a Malfoy means nothing and blood purity means even less.
It’s refreshing at least, to be certain about something and to have it resonate within him without any inkling of doubt. Maybe this is how it feels to believe in something rather than to simply saying he did because there was a snake hissing at hisheels. Draco doesn’t have much experience with the difference between choosing to do something, and being told to, but he thinks this might be the former. That’s one thing about this year that Draco thinks he feels okay about.
It still doesn’t help him sleep at night.
He still ends up at the greenhouses most nights, with Harry.
*
It’s midnight when Draco wakes up, tangled in his sheets. He thinks he’s had a nightmare; there’s sweat on his temples, and in the dip of his throat, and he’s covered in prickling, shivery goosebumps. If he did dream, he can’t remember it. That’s good. Draco is glad to forget the dreams that wake him up cold and sweaty.
Draco exchales thickly, pushes his hair away from his clammy forehead. He inspects his right hand under the low dorm light, then clenches his jaw. There’s blood under the fingernails, and his arm aches. The scratches along it are long and deep and the new scab has been pulled away. It’s no surprise, but Draco groans with frustration all the same; sleep, he just wants to sleep. He sits up, and contemplates healing the weeping patch on his arm, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t hate his new wand, but he’s still not that familiar with it, and he prefers to only use it for things he can’t get by without. On some level, he also doesn’t trust his subconscious not to blast his entire forearm off as he tries to heal it, given it wants him to scratch it off in his sleep. The new mark on his arm isn’t deep anyway, just raw, and it’ll heal quickly enough on its own. At least, it would, if he could just bloody leave it alone.
Draco sighs, and grabs a top off the floor, long-sleeved and grey, and leaves his pyjama bottoms on. He slips on socks, his shoes, and his thickest cloak, then drags a brush through his overly long hair. It needs to be cut; he can tuck it behind his ears, an almost bob. He looks mildly ridiculous ― tall and thin and with blue veins showing through his pale skin, and a Little Lord Fauntleroy hairdo. He’s an awkward scarecrow of a boy. Pansy would laugh, if she was here, and if she did much of that these days. He hopes she’s drowning her sorrows, at least, in Grappa and Tiramisu in the sweet Florentine sunshine.
At least she’s miserable somewhere warm, Draco thinks, mildly resentful. He shakes his head to cast the thought away, watching the stupid swing of his flop of hair. He forces a smile. He’ll laugh at himself these days, if there’s no one else here to.
Feet shoved in his shoes, and self pity shoved forcefully aside, Draco heads outside of his dorm room, fingers of his right hand curled into a fist and shoved into his pocket too, for good measure.
*
There’s an abandoned greenhouse, right at the back of the lot. There are unruly trees, and snagged brambles, and the grass is long and lush. It feels like the Forest, but tamer somehow, and Draco likes it. It feels like the spot where the castle meets the wild, or where the wild is trying to creep back in. There’s something mildly thrilling about it at night, the potential for danger, for something to look back at Draco as he stares into the dark, lush woods. Draco’s always loved that feeling.
This is where they meet.
The first time Draco came out here at night, he didn’t expect anyone to be around. It was his little hidey hole, his safe spot. He didn’t think anyone else bothered to come back behind the greenhouses, not where the vegetation was so overgrown and full of the threat of gnomes, and spiders, and brambles in cloaks.
If he’d been a betting man, Draco would have put his Galleons on Longbottom being the one to be found seeking refuge amongst plants and leaves and shimmering blooms, but it’s not him. Draco would recognise the back of Potter’s head anywhere; he’s stared at it long enough, wishing ill will upon it when he was younger, and then futilely and shamefully wishing Harry would save him somehow last year. Draco would normally have a hard time admitting that to himself, but he doesn’t think he has a filter on his feelings anymore. He’s too tired (numb, empty) to really stop the things that come into his head, or stop himself from acknowledging what they are. First year, he wanted Potter to be his friend the first time he saw him, then hated him vehemently from the moment Harry turned him down; last year, Draco desperately wanted Potter to somehow save him from himself as he opened the castle up and let the people he hated right inside.
This year, all Draco wants is a good night’s sleep, a reprieve from the low ache of self loathing that’s settled deep in the pit of his gut ― and for Harry not to turn around, see him, and start a fight. It would have been warranted, but Draco had no fight left in him. He didn't want Harry to find that out, for some reason.
Harry didn’t start a fight, though. He didn’t acknowledge Draco at all, as Draco walked closer, his feet trudging blindly forwards even though his brain was saying it might be smarter to stop and go back to the castle. It’s only when he’d walked right up to him, that Draco realised Potter was crying. His feet finally did stop working then, the surprise belatedly making them behave.
Long minutes passed as Draco tried to figure out whether Harry knew he was there, if he ought to say something, or if he should just turn around and leave. He didn’t want to do the latter; he couldn't sleep, and this was his spot. But now, it was Potter’s spot too, and Draco, overtired and surprised, didn’t know what to do with this new information.
So he just stood there, until Harry spoke.
“You can stay.” Harry sniffed, wiped the back of his hand across his face. It left a smear of dirt on his cheek. “I know you come out here sometimes. I don’t mind if you stay, but if you take the piss out of me for this,” he gestured at his face, at the tear streaks on it, then dropped his hand back into his lap, “I’ll hex you unconscious.” The dull Lumos light from his wand cast strange shadows on his face, eerie shadows forming under his cheekbones. He still hadn’t looked at Draco.
Draco’s eyes were glued to the dirt on his face, at the red of cheeks and around his eyes. There was a reflex in him to do just what Potter’s warned him not to; to ridicule, to tear him down for crying while sat in a pile of wilting weeds, alone at night. How pathetic, poor little Potty, etc. It faded as quickly as it came, like all knee-jerk reactions do. Harry didn’t seem pathetic, or like he wanted Draco to leave, or to combust on the spot, like Draco expected. Above all, Draco did want to stay. This was his spot, and he could share it. So he did.
He sat right next to Harry on the dirt, his back against the clear glass greenhouse walls, sat next to him as if they hadn’t spent years hating each other, bickering and yanking on metaphorical pigtails and spitting hexes. As if Harry hadn’t pulled Draco out of the Fiendfyre and as if Draco hadn’t known exactly who Harry was at the Manor. He sat next to him as if that was something he was allowed to do, and something Harry might want, even though he looked wretched and bleary-eyed and Draco hadn’t slept the night through in weeks. He sat next to Harry, shoulder to shoulder and pulled his cloak around himself, until Harry eventually shuffled closer to steal Draco’s warmth and Draco dropped the edge of his cloak over Potter, too.
And then, Draco did it again the next night.
And then the next.
And the next.
*
Harry’s there tonight, when Draco arrives.
His arm is itching, and Draco rubs a palm over it, gritting his teeth. He taps his fingers on it, refuses to scratch at the healing bite. He just needs to let it heal, to not let his fingers wander and pick. He catches Harry eyes straying down to it and Draco stiffens, alarmed that Harry will notice. The light is dull though, coming only from Harry’s wand, and Harry doesn’t say anything. Draco relaxes. He reminds himself that no one else is obsessing over his arm. Just Draco.
One day, Draco thinks as he sits next to Harry with a short smile, he’ll get around to asking him what’s become of his old wand. It’s funny that Draco has ended up seeing Harry most nights and yet he’s never brought this up. Maybe he never will; it’s miraculous enough that they spend any time around each other, and they don’t talk much. Draco isn’t sure what Harry’s doing out here, why he keeps creeping out of the castle too. It’s not spitting him out like he’s poison, Draco is sure of that, but when he sees him between classes, Harry looks about as uncomfortable in there as Draco feels. Maybe it’s not the castle at all, but just their own skin they’re not so good at fitting into these days.
Maybe Potter just really likes greenhouses at night.
Either way, Draco likes seeing him here too much to risk upsetting their unexpected gentle truce, and their late night garden meetings, by bringing up difficult subjects. He can feel his cheeks heating even as he thinks it. Late night meetings.
It sounds like so much more than it is, romantic almost, or organised, but at the same time ― they do meet most nights. It is a little bit organised, enough so that Harry would notice if Draco didn’t turn up at some point tonight.
And deep down, Draco knows there is something that borders on romantic in it too, at least for Draco. It’s the lack of filter; he can’t lie to himself about it anymore. He likes coming here because it’s his spot, and he likes coming here at night because he wants to see Harry, and be near him. Draco arranges his cloak around his lap, and then half over Harry’s knee as well. It’s all part of the routine now, the sharing of space and warmth. They’ve talked so little and yet fallen completely in sync here. Draco thinks there’s definitely a romance to that, whether Harry feels it too or not, even if they never acknowledge it. Draco will have this.
Harry seems fidgety tonight, Draco slowly notices, as he settles into his usual spot next to him: back against the cool glass, Harry’s wand casting low light before them, shoulder and knee pressed against Harry’s and the overgrown plants hiding them from view. Harry’s not restless enough to disrupt the rhythm of their usual routine, but it is noticeable. Draco sits as still as he can, waiting to see what it is. His arm itches and his fingers twitch, and he rubs the soft heel of his palm over it, fights not to jiggle his knee at the sensation. He needs to leave it alone. He can’t leave it alone.
“Um.” Harry clears his throat, coughs into his fist. The sound is startlingly loud in the quiet night, even though Harry’s voice is a low murmur. “I noticed, like. I thought.” He twists something he’s holding in his hands, a glass bottle. The light from Harry’s wand catches on its carefully crafted angles, refracting slightly. “I noticed you sometimes, on your arm.” Harry gestures at Draco’s forearm, then makes a scrubbing motion with his hand.
Draco’s stomach clenches, his hand stilling. His insides twist. He can’t think of a single thing to say. This is far from the longest conversation they’ve had since they started meeting here, but it’s the first time Draco’s been terrified by it.
“It looks sore,” Harry mumbles, finally looking up from the bottle and meeting Draco’s eyes. Draco wishes he’d looked away. Harry’s expression is earnest, and not unkind, but far too knowing. Draco feels flushed and humiliated, and sick. He wants to pull his sleeve down and run into the Forest, keep going until something catches him. He doesn’t move a muscle.
“I.” Draco licks his lips, his heartbeat thumping in his ears. “I just keep picking at it.” It’s an astoundingly edited version of the truth, and he doesn’t want to say why. He’ll probably throw up if Harry asks. He expects Harry has figured it out anyway, if he’s astute enough to notice Draco’s habit. Harry’s nowhere near as oblivious to what’s going on around him as he seems. Draco knows this, but it always catches him unawares anyway.
Harry nods, rubbing the small bottle between both palms and then offering it to Draco. “This might help.” He presses it against Draco’s thigh when Draco doesn’t move to take it. “It’s Murtlap Essence,” Harry goes on. “It’ll make it feel a bit better, and help, like. If it’s sore. It’ll help you leave it alone.”
Their fingers brush as Draco takes the bottle from him. Draco hopes Harry doesn't notice the shake in his hand. If he does, Harry doesn't mention it. He tucks his hair behind his ear, shuffles closer still. Their thighs are pressed together, and Harry’s side is warm against Draco’s. Harry clears his throat again, a nervous habit it seems.
“You need to dilute it, then let your arm rest in it. Might be awkward, sticking your whole forearm in it,” Harry breaths a little half laugh, “but the solution really does help it feel better.” Harry’s throat works as he swallows, before he slowly moves his hand forwards then curls his fingers around Draco’s left wrist ― right above where Draco’s fingers have started absently scratching at the Mark, through the material of his top. “It might help with this, too.”
Draco’s entire body tenses; he hadn’t even noticed he was doing it. He forces himself to relax, then slowly pulls his hand away. His heartbeat is still too loud in his ears, but the anxious need to run is ebbing back down into something calmer. Draco flexes his fingers, then feels something warm settle in his chest when Harry loosens his fingers but doesn’t let go of Draco’s wrist.
“Thanks,” Draco croaks. He’s not sure if he means the hand around his wrist, or the bottle of Murtlap Essence.
“It’s okay,” Harry says, shooting Draco a small half-smile. They lapse back into silence before Harry slowly lowers his head to rest on Draco’s shoulder. It’s a careful and measured move, and very deliberate. Draco lets his breath out in a rush, before he tilts his head, lets his cheek rest against the top of Harry’s head. His hair is soft against Draco’s cheek and his fingers are warm against Draco’s skin, and it’s the most comforting thing. Draco shuts his eyes and enjoys it, warm and safe in a place that should be exactly the opposite.
“Thanks,” Draco says, again, just because he can. He tests the unfamiliar first name on his tongue, finds he likes it, and then creeps his fingers across his thigh and over to his left arm. He settles them on Harry’s loosely gripping hands instead, skips over the healing patch on his own arm without touching it. It feels like a minor victory. It might be one.
“It’s okay, Draco,” Harry repeats, right as Draco feels himself drifting off, cheek pressed to Harry’s messy hair.
*
He dreams that there are vines growing out of his Mark and the raw patches over it, long and twisted and beautiful. Their flowers unfurl their papery petals, blue blood pumping through them, and receding back into the deep green vines. They curl around Draco’s wrists, tendrils creeping under Harry’s loose fingers and across his skin too, twining and growing until they’re a tangled mess with no beginning or end. There’s dirt on Draco’s skin, and in his blood, and the longer he dreams the longer the vines twist and grow until his fingers feel still and the itch under his skin goes quiet.
And when Draco wakes from this dream, he’s glad to remember it.
*
Draco wasn’t following Harry out to the greenhouses at night, but Harry might have been following him.
*