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The shackles are cold against his wrists. And then they are no more. A push, a shove, a feeling of compression.
That the Manor still exists comes as a shock to Draco. The weeks pass like words on pages, and then he goes back to Hogwarts.
He packs a bag full of Mother’s potions and a set of robes. He soon learns that meeting other people’s eyes is dangerous, and so he becomes acquainted with the cracks in the floors instead.
When his supply runs out, he brews in abandoned classrooms.
His favourite moment is when the thoughts stop, like roads before the sea.
He’s in the greenhouse, hands deep in soil. He opens his eyes and he’s in the Great Hall, the sounds piercing, dangerous. He opens his eyes in broom closets, toilet stalls. He gets up, takes another sip, and goes about his day. Wakes up somewhere else.
One day, he opens his eyes and sees Slughorn’s face up close. Behind Slughorn, the Potions classroom is empty, save for Potter.
Another day, he opens his eyes as a fist makes contact with his mouth. He falls. Stays there. More fists. Kicks, too. But even this ends, and when it does, he closes his eyes.
The next time they beat him, Granger intervenes. Draco watches, the stone floor hard against his cheek, as she duels them away.
“Malfoy,” Potter’s unmistakable voice reaches him. With effort, Draco rolls onto his back. Potter’s green eyes are looking, not at him, but at his chest. Draco’s shirt had been torn apart by spells. Or hands. “Draco.”
Draco closes his eyes. When he opens them again, Potter is stubbornly still there. Somewhere in the distance, people are laughing. Potter pulls Draco’s robe over his exposed scars.
“Draco, you need to get a grip,” he says. Then adds, the final strike, “For your mother.”
The next time he opens his eyes, he’s in the hospital wing, his flesh already hungry. He gasps as he understands what will happen next.
That is exactly what happens.
It’s like Azkaban all over again, only instead of Dementors, he has Potter and Pomfrey guarding him. Instead of chains, he has hours.
When the worst of the cold sweats have passed, the fear returns. He’d much prefer the cold sweats.
“Please,” he says when, finally, the last of his pride is leached away. “Give me something to sleep.”
“My dear boy,” the woman says, bringing a damp cloth to his hot temples. “It will pass. Be patient.”
The next morning, Potter strolls in.
“Draco,” he says, curtly, like a chore done promptly. “Would you like to go for a walk?”
“No.”
But, as it turns out, it was never a choice.
They walk in silence through the charred fields. Potter escorts him back to the Hospital Wing.
“Good night,” he says from the doorframe, a telltale sign of madness.
“Fuck off,” Draco replies, perfectly sane.
Potter does something with his face. It’s like a smile, only vicious. It raises Draco’s heartbeat, and leads to a night of gathering reasons to hate Potter. A familiar pastime, a lull in between nightmares.
The walks continue.
“Is this the only treatment you’re capable of?” Draco asks Madame Pomfrey when Potter chaperons him back one evening. “I don’t think it’s working.”
“Don’t be a brat,” Potter says, bored against the threshold. “See you tomorrow.”
Potter has always occupied his hands and time saving people, Draco concludes when sleep doesn’t come. The last one left to save is, apparently, Draco.
He thinks of Father, dead. Of his mother, a prisoner in her own home. He thinks of the black weeks in Azkaban. Reasons that there is nothing left for Potter to save.
“Can we walk to the greenhouses?” he asks the next day.
Potter shrugs. Lets Draco take the lead. What Draco took for boredom the night before looks like something else altogether under the dull November sun. His eyes are red-rimmed. His face is gaunt. Maybe Potter would like to come where Draco’s going.
But Draco’s not running a charity here, and they have reached the greenhouses.
“I’ll go in, if you don’t mind.”
Potter makes a noncommittal gesture, something that seems to signify I don’t care. That’s fitting enough.
Draco walks into greenhouse five. He makes sure Potter isn’t watching and takes out the wand he slipped out of Potter’s jeans. He uses it to unlock the passageway to greenhouse three, then drops it in between some watering cans. He only has seconds, so there’s no time for final words. For final thoughts. He reaches into the pot, his hands full of dirt, and pulls the Mandrake out.
He wakes up in the hospital bed, Potter’s face staring at him. Why is it always Potter’s face?
“He’s awake,” he says. Tears gather at the corners of Draco’s eyes. He tries to turn away, to spare himself further humiliation, but Potter’s hand pulls him back. “Look at me.”
He waits, but Potter doesn’t add anything else. After some time, he stands up and leaves.
The next day, Potter comes in with two brooms. He throws one to Draco who, out of habit, catches it.
They fly in circles above the empty Quidditch pitch while all around them, life goes on. And on. And on.
The sky has darkened by the time they land.
“What do you want to do tomorrow?” Potter asks as their steps echo down the corridor.
“Get out of here.”
Potter slows to a stop. Considers Draco.
“Where would you like to go?”
“Wherever,” he says, convinced they’re not going anywhere. “Somewhere I’ve never been before.”
Early next morning, they Apparate in the middle of a deserted playground.
“Where are we?”
“The place where I grew up.”
Draco raises an eyebrow. Looks over the rusted swings and monkey bars.
“Have you ever been here before?”
“No.”
“Then it’s perfect.”
They walk around the empty streets. Have lunch in a bistro by the highway. When Potter asks him, “What would you like to do tomorrow?” Draco has the answer ready.
They’re drunk before noon in a public garden, alongside the unemployed and the retired. They eat cold sandwiches from a petrol station and take the Knight Bus back to Hogsmeade before sundown.
They watch the people go up and down the Thames, and feed the pigeons.
They walk around Cambridge and try to guess people’s degrees. Draco, having only learnt about the concept that day, isn’t very successful.
They go to a Muggle art museum and buy postcards Draco later sticks above his bed.
They go to Dover and watch the sea.
They stay in and Potter falls asleep on the hospital bed next to Draco’s.
They go flying over the Forest of Dean.
They ride the tube from one side of London to the other.
They bet at a horse race.
“If I’d known befriending you was the key to all this freedom, I would have befriended you a long time ago,” Draco says after too many drinks, trying and failing to count the Muggle money they won betting on a horse named Robert.
“Would you, now?” Potter teases, as he does, watching the racetrack through the foggy window. “What should we do tomorrow?”
“Now that we’re rich, you mean?”
“Now that we’re rich, I mean.”
“Something rich people do, obviously.”
“You’ll have to educate me on rich people activities.”
“I’m sure you’re rich as hell and only pretending to be poor for the publicity.”
“The publicity.”
“The war orphan publicity.”
“Oh, yes. That publicity.”
“What do rich Muggles do?”
“I don’t know. Buy cars?”
“We could buy a car.”
“We could, if you wanted,” Harry says.
“What do you want to do?”
Potter unglues his eyes from the windows and considers Draco for a moment.
“Fly.”
“So let’s fly.”
They do. They fly over the countryside. It’s cold. They race, and they stroll, and they race again. When the sun is low in the sky they stop at a roadside inn. Draco is sleepy with fire and wine.
“Do we have to go back to Hogwarts?” he asks, looking at the stairs, imagining himself falling asleep in a bed that isn’t a hospital bed. Potter follows his gaze.
“We don’t.”
The room is warm and wood panelled, and Draco sinks into the bed closest to the door. He can hear Potter somewhere in the room, taking off his shoes. When he turns and looks, Potter’s already lying down in his bed. A second ago, Draco wanted nothing more than to fall asleep. Now, his whole body is awake with—something.
He wants to say something meaningful, but nothing meaningful comes to mind.
He settles on, “Do you know how to drive?”
Potter removes his glasses. The expanse of the floor stretches between the two beds.
“No.”
“So our car-owning dreams are dead, then.”
“I suppose they are.”
It’s dark outside, and it’s dark inside as well. Draco can barely make out the contour of Potter’s face. He’s suddenly aware of something unspoken between them. Something that has been growing for days, and that has reached, somehow, its zenith.
“We could learn,” Draco says, an unfamiliar edge in his voice.
“We could,” Potter says, flatly.
“We can sign up for classes tomorrow.”
“If you want.”
Something has shifted between them, and Draco is desperate to pinpoint when. Potter turns, and now they are facing each other. “Is that what you want?”
“I,” Draco starts, then stops. His heart is galloping in his chest. Can Potter hear it?
“Yes?” Potter pressed.
“I don’t know.”
“We’ll see tomorrow.”
“Of course.”
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
Potter’s breathing becomes shallow.
The next day, driving school dreams discarded, Potter leads the way through the Forbidden Forest. They reach a clearing. One lone Thestral sits up. Draco laughs, even though there’s nothing humorous going on.
“I’m not riding that.”
“We can ride together. We’ll get farther, quicker.”
Draco’s throat closes up. Potter mounts the Thestral, extends a hand to Draco.
The Thestral's skeletal body is shocking and the take-off abrupt, but they keep his mind off Potter's body, pressed against his own. It’s only later, as he grows accustomed to the lack of control, that he realises he’s been clutching Potter’s robes. He lets go suddenly and almost falls off. Potter grabs Draco’s thigh.
“Hold tight, stupid.”
Draco’s lungs empty as he wraps his hands around Potter’s waist again, the sting of the insult forgotten as soon as it was issued. He doesn’t move again until they land back in the Forest.
“That was … traumatic.”
Potter laughs, full of life.
“We could go to Ireland tomorrow. Unless you’d like to go take driving lessons instead.”
“Ireland sounds good,” Draco finds himself saying, despite his better judgement.
After a couple of trips, he can relax enough to enjoy the view. After a couple more, Potter lets him take over the reins, and Draco has to get used to feeling Potter’s body pressed against his back instead of his front. He’s sure they’ll crash, and is almost glad that would mean the end of this terrible torture.
“Maybe you should ride back,” Draco says, dazed, when they finally land in the middle of nowhere.
Potter laughs, but he does ride back. It’s late. Draco had gotten them lost, so by now it’s dark and cold. Exhausted, Draco lets his head rest on Potter’s shoulder. Potter doesn’t protest.
Thoughts melt together while they fly.
“Almost there,” Potter says, and puts his hand on Draco’s leg.
“OK,” Draco says, and his heart skips a beat when he realises Potter isn’t moving his hand. It stays there all the way back home.
They walk back to the castle in silence. They stop in front of the Hospital Wing.
“That was … fun,” Draco says, pressed against the doors, the handle painfully squished against his spine.
Potter stares at him. Takes a step closer. Draco is pinned on the spot.
“I’m coming in, I need to talk to Madam Pomfrey.”
“Oh,” Draco says, moving out of the way before Potter can see the flush going up his neck.
“How much longer do I need to be supervised all the time?” Draco asks Madam Pomfrey some days later.
She smiles and fluffs up his pillows, but doesn’t answer the question. So he asks Potter. They’re in London again.
“I don’t know. As long as necessary.”
They pass by a café brimming with tourists.
“And who decides when it’s no longer necessary?”
“I do, I suppose.”
“Right.”
They walk by a bookstore.
“You seem to be the decisive voice in a lot of issues lately.”
Potter shrugs.
“I’m fine,” Draco says as he follows Potter into a bakery.
“You do seem fine,” Potter concurs, inspecting the display case.
“So?”
“So what?”
“When can I go back to my dormitory?”
“Is that what you want?”
Draco stalls. Remembers it was the Slytherins that attacked him, months before.
“When can I get out of the Hospital Wing?”
“Whenever you want.”
“I want to, tonight.”
“Alright,” Potter says, gesturing to a carrot cake. “Then tonight you’ll get out of the Hospital Wing.”
“And where will I sleep?” Draco asks, unable to shake off the feeling that he’s just falling deeper and deeper into a trap.
“Wherever you want.”
“Wherever I want.”
“Yes.”
Potter takes out his wallet.
“I want to sleep in your room,” Draco hears himself saying, like in a dream.
“Alright,” comes Potter’s answer, equally surreal, as he hands him his cake.
“Alright,” Draco echoes, accepting it.
It takes Draco five minutes to gather all his belongings, scattered around the otherwise deserted Hospital Wing. He follows Potter down the corridors into a part of the castle he’s never been in before.
“Well,” Draco says when Harry opens the doors to a teacher’s suite. “Talk about special treatment.”
“I haven’t exactly—been attending classes.”
“Right.”
“So I moved here.”
“Sure.”
That there is only one bed becomes apparent as soon as Draco takes a look around. He flushes at the ignorant impertinence of his request and at Potter’s careless approval. He unpacks in silence while Potter takes a shower, then lingers around Potter’s messy desk until he’s finished.
“There are towels under the sink.”
Draco nods, not trusting himself to speak. When he gets out of the shower, Potter’s sprawled on the couch.
“No,” Draco says decisively. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“I’m fine.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Draco said, when what he wants to say is, this is ridiculous.
“I said, I’m fine.”
Draco’s acutely aware that he doesn’t understand the nature of the game they’re playing, yet somehow he feels cheated. He crosses his arms, like Mother.
“Come to bed.”
Potter lets out a sound—something between a chuckle and a sigh—but he gets up. “If you insist.”
Draco watches him drag the pillow and the blanket back to the bed. Draco picks up his glasses from the coffee table and approaches the bed, not yet convinced he’ll dare get in after Potter.
He places the glasses on Potter’s nightstand slowly, like a man meticulously chewing his last meal.
“Your turn,” Potter says, and lifts the covers.
Draco gets in, looks at the ceiling. The bed is big, big enough for both of them to comfortably lie on their backs without touching, without looking at each other. Yet Draco is painfully aware of Potter’s body next to him, the weight of it, the heat of it.
They speak at the same time.
“I—”
“Draco—”
Neither dares to speak again for a long time. Suddenly, overwhelmingly, Draco feels unprepared for what’s coming.
He closes his eyes and gathers all the courage he can muster, then faces Potter.
“We don’t have to do anything,” Potter says as soon as Draco moves.
“I know,” Draco says, too quickly.
“We can just sleep.”
“I know,” Draco says again, and edges closer to Potter, so that there are mere inches between them. He meant to lean in and kiss him, but, all his courage having left him, he only manages to put his hand on Potter’s waist, and lets it rest there, awkwardly.
Potter drags Draco into an embrace. Draco can feel Potter’s heart through their flimsy t-shirts, and then Potter’s lips brush over his forehead. Before he can exercise any sort of control of himself, Draco bursts into tears.
Potter holds him, his arms tightening around him.
He comes back to himself after a while, and wipes his tears.
“I’m sorry,” he says in between hiccups. “This is not how I usually go about this.”
“I should hope not,” Potter says, and somehow, against all odds, they’re laughing.
“This is so weird.”
“It is,” Potter agrees. “I could have a good cry about it, too.”
“Bastard,” Draco laughs, but very quickly he’s crying fat, ugly tears again.
“Let it all out,” is all Potter says, his voice barely a whisper against his hair.
“I tried to kill myself,” Draco sobs into Potter’s chest, the words as unreal as the memory of what happened.
“Barely,” Potter says, and kisses—really kisses—Draco’s forehead. “You picked the most pathetic Mandrake I’ve ever seen. I almost didn’t bother barging in.”
Draco looks up, brings his hand to Potter’s face, and moves a strand of hair out of his eyes.
“You couldn’t keep yourself from saving someone if your life depended on it.”
“Probably,” Potter concedes and kisses Draco’s hand. At that, somehow, all of Draco’s courage returns, and he leans in and presses his lips against Harry’s.