Work Text:
Proust, the fifty foot long, million galleons Basilisk residing under the Malfoy Manor, became ill one Wednesday. Or, rather, stopped moving. Draco assumed he was ill as soon as he ascertained he was not dead. Unfortunately, nobody seemed to be able to tell him what illness in particular had befallen him.
“He’s a highly intelligent creature. Maybe he’s depressed,” one notably useless Healer told him, pointing towards the curved ceiling of the dungeon chamber Proust had chosen as his resting place. “Locked up in this cage.”
“I wouldn’t call five acres of underground tunnels a cage,” Draco replied flatly, showing the man—Montegry—to the staircase leading back to the main floor.
“A prison’s still a prison, sir. With all due respect.”
The respect was due, Draco presumed, because his father had been rotting in Azkaban for the better part of the decade. It did nothing to warm Draco to him or to his opinion.
“Thank you for your expertise,” he said coldly, slamming the front door of the Manor behind him.
Alas, the panoply of Healers that trotted up and down Draco’s curved escalier in the following weeks didn’t prove more useful than Montegry. Due to lack of better ones, Draco was eventually compelled to reassess his initial idea. Maybe there was some merit to it. Maybe, Draco thought bitterly, looking at his biggest investment to date coiled in the corner of the world’s most expensive cage, maybe he really was depressed.
Who wasn't, these days?
“You could ask Harry to speak with him,” Blaise mocked him over tartare de saumon when Draco shared his anxieties with him. “Give him a therapy session.”
Draco pushed away his plate, suddenly lacking an appetite.
“If he dies, I’m ruined.”
“You’ve been ruined before,” Blaise shrugged, unimpressed by Draco’s predicament.
It was true, but that didn’t make the prospect any more appealing. Anyway, as things stood at the moment, Draco would choose ruin over owling Harry. That git would most likely interpret such an odd request on Draco’s part as a desperate attempt to see him, and that Draco could not have. No, ruin was definitely the preferred option in this case.
If, on the other hand, Harry happened to come by again; well, then things would be different, Draco told himself as Blaise disappeared into the green flames of the dining room fireplace. If Harry happened to come by again, it wouldn’t hurt to give speaking with Proust a try.
Only, Draco reminded himself as he made his way to bed, Harry wouldn’t come by again. This time, it was over for sure.
—
Harry was already drunk when he showed up at Pansy’s birthday, which was in character, and didn’t even bother pretending he was there for any other reason than to pick Draco up.
“I can’t leave yet. Pansy’s my best friend,” Draco whispered under his breath, flushed by the precision with which Harry had crossed the room towards him. At his words, Harry looked around, as if realising for the first time he had happened upon a social event. He waved at Granger.
“Oh,” he said, picking up a glass from a floating tray without looking at its contents, “how long, then?”
“At least until cake is served.”
“Fine.” Harry gulped down his drink and joined Granger next to the pool table without as much as another glance in Draco’s direction.
If it wasn’t for Proust, Draco would have told him not to bother waiting. If he didn’t find himself in such a terrible situation, he would most definitely have told Harry he was unavailable and, additionally, unwilling. Since when did Harry believe that he could just show up to any function, after not sending any news for weeks on end, and have Draco follow him out on command, like a dog on a leash? Just because it had happened before didn’t mean it would happen all the time. But he didn’t say all that. For Proust.
“It was cute,” Harry said later, after Draco Apparated them to his bedroom. He was unbuttoning his shirt with so little finesse Draco pushed his hands away to do it himself.
“What was?”
“You, calling Pansy your best friend. Like you’re five or something.”
Draco sighed, too preoccupied with the buttons to engage in a conversation about how Pansy referred to herself as such until it became etched into Draco’s brain.
“It was cute,” Harry repeated uselessly, breathing into Draco’s neck. “You’re cute. It’s always a surprise.”
“And you’re out of it,” Draco laughed, having finally managed to get off Harry’s own shirt. He never meant to, but whenever they did this—whenever Harry was around—laughing just came easy.
“I missed this,” Harry carried on, hands working away at Draco’s belt. “I missed you.”
Draco was over their little chat. He unceremoniously pushed Harry on the bed and shut him up with his mouth. It was only later, as Harry fell asleep in the crook of his neck, that he thought back to what Harry said, an unspoken question burning at the back of his throat.
—
He couldn’t explain why he didn’t ask Harry to see Proust in the morning. Maybe it was the hurry with which Harry got dressed, maybe the way he didn’t look at Draco when he said goodbye.
Good riddance, Draco told himself as he went out into the cool fall morning to feed the hippogriffs. He won’t come back again and that will be that. As for Proust, it wouldn’t have helped anyway. Who ever heard of snakes developing depression? They had no capacity for feelings.
—
Harry arrived at the fundraiser in the middle of the speeches. Draco didn’t look at him as he sat down at their table, having previously refused to look at his empty seat. He could hear Blaise and Weasley whispering things to Harry, and he shot them an aggressive stare.
“Should I make myself scarce again until dessert is served?” Harry asked as soon as the lights turned on and a chatter rose up in the packed banquet hall.
“You can do whatever you want,” Draco replied dryly, not sure whether Harry was insinuating that Draco would go back home with him again or something else altogether. Before he could investigate further, Harry got up and melted into the overdressed crowd, fingers wrapped around Draco’s glass of Pinot Noir.
“You should go after him,” Blaise said, unprompted, and Draco had to admit that maybe Blaise was onto something. Maybe it was time.
“Oh,” Harry said when he realised Draco had followed him into the foyer.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
“Yeah?”
“Are you still a Parsemouth?”
“What?” Harry asked, stopping to stare at Draco as if he’d just spoken a foreign language.
“Snakes. Can you still understand what they say?”
“Jesus,” Harry said, running a hand through his black hair. “I guess. I don’t know. I don’t make a habit of conversing with snakes. Is this what you’ve been meaning to ask me?”
“Proust is sick,” Draco said, suddenly overwhelmed with the truth of his worry. Harry’s features softened out of a frown.
“Your Basilisk?”
Draco nodded.
“Sick how?”
“Nobody knows. That’s why I was thinking, maybe you could talk to him.”
“Of course. Of course I can talk to him, Draco,” Harry said, and made as if he was going to do something as outrageous as lean in and grab Draco’s hand. Draco didn’t know which was worse: Harry’s action, or the fact that Draco would have let him had there not been a bunch of Ministry officials by the front doors.
“After dessert, then?” Harry asked, retracting his hand briskly.
“Sure.”
—
They were both too sober. That had happened before, and they had solved the problem then by simply getting drunker. Draco was about to take definitive action in that regard by summoning a bottle of wine when Harry pointed to the bedroom door, “Let’s see Proust first, no?”
Harry followed Draco quietly through the tall-ceilinged hallways of the Manor, their footfalls muffled by the thick carpet, then through the echoey underground tunnels.
“Here,” Draco said, pointing to the place on the ground Proust was coiled in, then used the same hand to prevent Harry from getting any closer. “What are you doing?”
“Don’t you want me to talk to him?”
“From here!”
“I’ll be fine,” Harry said dismissively, which was so show-offy and so arrogant Draco had to suppress an incredulous gasp. He watched as Harry crossed the silver circle around Proust that Proust himself could not cross and crouched down next to him, as if he was approaching somebody’s cat. He could see his lips moving and some semblance of noise reached him. Then Proust raised his head an inch or two and hissed something at Harry. His eye sockets were empty—blinding him had been the one condition under which Draco had been allowed to keep him. He had cried when he performed the spell. He kind of wanted to cry now, too.
“So?” he asked as soon as Harry stood up and exited the protective circle.
“He told me to leave him alone.”
“And what did you say?” Draco asked, exasperated.
“I said I will.”
Draco was silent on the way back upstairs. The hell with wine. He poured them both two full glasses of whiskey.
“Are you alright?” Harry asked.
“A Healer told me he might be depressed,” he said in lieu of an answer, handing Harry his glass.
Harry sighed, which Draco found rich coming from him.
“I’m sorry about Proust, Draco.”
“Yeah, well,” Draco said, avoiding thinking about how he’d been avoiding Harry’s eyes. “Thanks for helping, anyway.”
When he looked up at last, he found Harry contemplating Draco’s collection of copper pans.
“It’s a nice—er, kitchen.”
Draco had never shown him around since—Or Harry had never stayed long enough to be shown around, Draco wasn’t sure.
“I redecorated.” The words came out defensive, for some reason.
Harry gulped down his drink. “I figured.”
There was a silence, then:
“Was it—?”
“Is that really all he said? To leave him alone?”
“Yes, Draco. That was all he said.”
“Did he seem depressed to you?”
Harry scratched his hair, then stood up.
“Listen, Draco, I’m …”
Draco waited, but Harry didn’t seem inclined to finish his sentence. He sat back down. “I’m really sorry about Proust.”
Draco nodded, then Apparated them upstairs.
—
This Proust thing was really starting to get to him. He forgot to feed the hippogriffs. The Thestrals were bored without their weekly exercise and started eating Draco’s roses. His office was covered in letters from potioneers he had contracts with, asking him where their pre-paid Basilisk venom was. At 100 galleons a drop, Draco would have asked the same question had he been in their shoes. But he wasn’t, and he didn’t have the time or the inclination to worry about them.
He tried everything. He played music for him. Read from his childhood books. The snake didn’t move. Didn’t even bother hissing at him, like he had hissed at Harry.
“Please,” Draco said at last, exhausted against the stone wall. “Please, tell me what you want me to do.”
It was so pathetic, he thought it might work.
It did not.
—
“Can I come in?”
It took Draco a beat to process that the person standing on his front steps was Harry himself and not some hallucination turned solid.
“I did some research.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I just told you. I did some research. About how to speak with snakes.”
Draco blinked, forgetting to move out of the way so that Harry had to brush by him to come inside.
This time, it was Draco who followed Harry through the labyrinth of tunnels underneath the Manor. He watched as Harry crossed the protective circle, crouched down in front of Proust’s body and started speaking. Draco wondered if it had sounded as beautiful last time too. Then Proust bit Harry’s hand.
It happened so fast, Draco only processed it when he saw the blood dripping down Harry’s arm, pooling at his feet.
“I’m fine,” Harry said, as if Draco was overreacting by walking over, wand out.
Draco didn’t speak out of fear his words would come out shaky. He grabbed Harry. He kept emergency anti-venom with him at all times and he made Harry sit down next to the record player and his childhood books while he poured the potion over his hand. It was only when he saw the wound closing up on itself that he trusted himself to speak.
“I’ve never met anybody stupider than you.” The delicacy with which he was bandaging his hand clashed with the aggression in his tone, weakened it.
When Harry didn’t reply immediately, he searched for his eyes. They were alive.
“What did you tell him?”
“Look, he’s leaving,” Harry said, pointing behind Draco with his other hand.
Draco followed Harry’s finger. Proust’s tail end, surrounded by the silver layer of magic, was slowly disappearing behind a corner. He turned back to Harry.
“What did you tell him?”
“A bad joke.”
Draco took out a clip out of his emergency kit and fastened the bandage together. His heart was pounding. If only he’d understand why.
“Draco …” Harry started, and Draco felt his eyes watering for some reason.
“Did you tell him to bite you?”
Harry didn’t deny it, which was confession enough for Draco. He suddenly felt tired. He said as much.
“Me too, Draco. I’m tired of trying to guess what you want.”
“It doesn’t matter what I want,” Draco said, angry once more. “I want you not to go around getting yourself bitten by my animals, yet here we are.”
“We’ve been doing this for too long.”
Draco didn’t dignify this with a response. He knew very well how long they’d been doing this. In fact, he knew it so well it was rare a day went by in which he didn’t think of that Friday night in eight year when he and Harry had too much to drink and ended up in the prefects' bathroom.
“We’re both divorced now—”
“What’s gotten into you?” Draco snapped. “Is it the venom?”
“Jesus. There’s no speaking with you, is there?”
Harry snatched his hand free of Draco’s grip. His footsteps echoed against the endless tunnels like church bells on a Saturday morning.
“Wait, Harry. Please,” Draco said, picking up the pace. Harry turned around and Draco handed him the vial of Phoenix tears. Harry gave him a long look before walking away.
—
Proust came back to his old self. He still napped too long for Draco’s taste, but at least Draco could collect enough venom to put his clients at ease.
He didn’t see Harry until Teddy’s party. Harry pretended not to see him when he sat down next to him on the worn out leather sofa in the drawing room.
Despite all evidence to the contrary, Draco was not stupid. After Teddy opened up all his presents and ran off to his bedroom with his friends, Draco dragged Harry to Andromeda’s empty office.
“Don’t be like this. There’s no reason to act like a child.”
Harry puffed. “How should I act, then? How do you want me to act, Draco? Spell it out for me, because I obviously can’t figure it out by myself.”
“Stop acting like I’m the unreasonable one.”
Harry crossed his arms. “Because you think you’re being reasonable?”
“I think I’m being realistic.”
Harry laughed. “Is it so unreasonable for me to show up at a party you invited me to, thinking I’m coming as your date?”
It was Draco’s turn to huff. “It didn’t look to me like you were trying to be my date.”
“Well, I was.”
Because he didn’t know what else to say to that, he said, “You didn’t write for two weeks. I didn’t even know if you were coming. Did you think I’d greet you with open arms?”
“I was waiting for you to write. Because if I don’t write, you don’t write either, Draco.”
“That’s a very lame excuse.”
“Oh, yeah? Let’s hear yours, then.”
Draco looked out the window at the red sky.
“Thought so,” Harry mocked. Draco turned to him.
“What do you want, Harry?”
Harry crossed his arms, his bandaged hand positioned against his heart.
“I think I was pretty clear about what I want when I got a divorce.”
“Fine,” Draco said, eyes glued to Harry’s hand.
“Fine what?”
“I’ll write. I’ll write, too.”
Harry laughed.
“Ten years of this back and forth and this is the best you can do? You’ll write to me too? Why can’t you just admit that this is more than sleeping around?”
“Of course it is. I also got divorced, in case you forgot,” Draco snapped.
“Then why can’t you say it?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“I don’t care if it is, Draco! I want you to say it. In English.”
Draco shook his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Yes, I’m well aware.”
Draco mirrored Harry and crossed his arms too, like a shield.
“Of course I want you, Harry.”
“In what way?”
“In any way.” Then, after a pause. “In all the ways.”
He felt spent like he’d just run a marathon when Harry wrapped his arms around him.
“Just don’t do things like that to me again,” he said quietly, letting his head settle on Harry’s shoulder. So quiet, in fact, he was surprised when Harry replied.
“What things?”
Draco pulled away from Harry’s embrace.
“Stupid things, like telling a bored Basilisk to bite you.”
Harry let out a laugh.
“You idiot,” Draco said, shutting that stupid grin with a kiss.