moonflower_rose (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
moonflower_rose) wrote2006-10-19 07:52 am
moonflower_rose) wrote2006-10-19 07:52 am
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Title: Roast Lamb and Red Wine Gravy
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
moonflower_rose
Pairing: HP/DM
Genre/Rating: PG-13
Warnings: The usual...also, don't run with scissors...
Length: 5000(ish) words
Beta:silentauror!!!
Summary: Sequel to the drabble A Splinter
Disclaimer: Please see my disclaimer here.
“…and it is our conclusion that the sentence imposed on Draco Malfoy should be considered served, reduced by four years and six months, with due consideration given to his expressed remorse for his crimes, and subsequent invaluable service to the Ministry during The War. Mister Malfoy – you are free to go.”
The rest of the sound was drowned out by the rushing of blood in his ears. Free to go. Free.
He knew there was something going on around him. Lots of noise, lots of people talking loudly, excitedly. He could hear Potter shouting over the top of the crowd, something about making sure there were no clauses. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t seem to focus his vision properly. Was this how Potter saw the world, when he hadn’t any glasses? Just a murky blur of colours and shapes, no clear outline of who or what he was staring at-
“Draco. Are you alright?”
At the sound of his name, spoken by Potter, his vision clarified. His hearing came back to him and he finally focused on the person speaking to him. Yes, Potter. He took a gasping breath, suddenly feeling as if he hadn’t been breathing deeply enough for all the long hours they’d been here, at the Wizengamot. His mouth worked for a moment without sound, before he managed a dry whisper which cracked in the middle.
“Thank you. Thank you.”
Potter smiled at him; just a tiny smile on his lips, but his eyes seemed to burn with it. Potter’s eyes always seemed to be burning with something, with happiness, or humour, or anger, or pain. Draco imagined it must be tiresome to have such expressive eyes. Never able to hide what you think, or feel. To draw people unto yourself whether you wanted to or not.
“You’re welcome. But it isn’t me you should be thanking. Its Alma Fivepennies you need to say it to.”
Draco looked out across the amphitheatre, crowded with every witch or wizard with any kind of influence in the whole United Kingdom, and some from abroad. An elderly, white-haired witch sat in the middle of the Wizengamot, engulfed by a deep purple robe of crushed velvet, appearing, at first, old and frail. Upon closer examination, her spine stood ramrod straight; her dark eyes almost black, glittering with satisfaction, and the self possession of one who held a great deal of power. It had been she who had pushed for Draco’s initial sentencing, who had insisted that the parents of Hogwarts children deserved to have justice for the danger their children had been put in the night that Draco had let in the Death Eaters, and Greyback. She’d been the one to suggest the specific mode of his punishment – five years as gamekeeper at Hogwarts, no magic allowed unless handling magical creatures or in the event of a life-threatening situation. Alma Fivepennies, his prosecutor. Harry Potter was appointed to supervise, and report to the Ministry weekly on Draco’s performance. And somehow, today, she had been the one to insist that Draco deserved to be released – six months served, exemplary behaviour. The glowing character reference from Harry, and a few words from Granger. He couldn’t lose, with those odds. And he had not. He was free.
Fivepennies caught his eye, and Draco nodded stiffly at her. It was hard to be grateful to the person who had caused this whole fucking mess in the first place. Actually, a little voice inside his head piped up, I do believe you were the one who caused this whole fucking mess in the first place – no one let the Death Eaters in but you. You don’t have anyone else to blame but yourself. Draco tasted copper in his mouth, and realised he had bitten the inside of his cheek hard enough to bleed. Was it really so bad? No term in Azkaban. Your wand wasn’t snapped. And you weren’t alone. Harry was there. Was it really so bad? His shoulders slumped a little, and he nodded at Fivepennies again. This time she nodded back. Message received.
“Come on, Draco. Let’s get out of here.”
Potter’s hand was firm and warm against the small of his back. He led him off the stage, through back passages until they were out in the normal Ministry corridors again, and heading for the big, brown door that would let them leave. A crowd of wizards surged out behind them. So many people, all turned out to see his review. It was amazing what the name Malfoy could still do for ones reputation. It would always be this way. Draco would be first and foremost a Malfoy. Not a war hero, no, never that. Not a philanthropist, should he chose to be, or a friend, should he make one. He’d be a Malfoy. A dangerous criminal from a long line of dangerous criminals. Death Eater family on both sides of his tree, more relatives former residents of Azkaban than not. What was he supposed to do, now? He may have resented his sentence, but at least it had given him purpose, something to rely upon and fight against, something to keep the angry fire burning in his belly to fuel his mind and spirit. What was his purpose now? Where did he belong? What was he meant to do with his life, now?
Draco still felt as if he were underwater, at the bottom of the Hogwarts lake, or somewhere equally as deep and cold and dark. Harry was speaking to him in soothing tones, but the words were muffled, and far away. There were people all around them, flashbulbs bursting brightly in his face every now and again. He thought he could hear them shouting, the press; calling out for a quote please Mister Malfoy, and turn this way if you would Mister Malfoy, and what are your plans now that you’re free?
The great door swung open. A burst of camera activity blinded him, and he stumbled, unable to see where he was going.
Strong arms gripped him about the waist and kept him upright.
“No questions!” Potter shouted. “No questions! Draco Malfoy deserves his privacy, and some goddamn peace and quiet! You might as well give up now as there’ll be no questions!”
Numb. Surely he shouldn’t feel so numb? It was good news – he was free.
His stomach churned, and he let Potter lead the way, protect him, lead him out of the den of wolfish press and away.
*
Draco had been staring into space for an indeterminate length of time, when Potter finally caught his attention.
“Sorry?”
Potter looked at him carefully.
“Is the meal okay? I can send it back, if it’s no good.”
The sounds of the pub came upon him suddenly, as if switched on. A Muggle place, free of wizarding journalists, dark and fairly quiet aside from the low murmur of conversation, and the chink of cutlery on plates. He looked down at his own plate – roast lamb, and red wine gravy. Mashed potatoes on the side, creamy white mounds, and a pile of fat, green peas nestled beside it. He went to pick up his fork, and found it already in his hand.
“No – it looks good. It’s my favourite, actually.”
Draco cut a piece of lamb and chewed it. Potter watched him, and looked as if he wanted to say something else, but didn’t know how.
“It’s quiet,” Draco observed. Potter nodded.
“It’s Sunday.”
They fell into silence again, not uncomfortable. Draco could feel Potter watching him, and felt warm.
*
Draco was to stay with Potter for awhile. He had no place else to go, no family left, no home for him at Hogwarts anymore. With the exception of the elf he employed, Potter lived alone and had plenty of space for guests. Draco arrived at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place at tea time the following Monday. His luggage, the small amount that he had, was shrunken and kept in his left trouser pocket.
Potter was opening the front door before Draco was even inside the gate.
“You came.”
He sounded sort of surprised, like he thought that perhaps Draco was only joking when he’d accepted the offer of accommodation.
“Of course – I haven’t anywhere else, have I?”
Potter looked embarrassed at that, and didn’t say anything else. Draco felt stupid and embarrassed as well, and knew he should have said something else, a thank you, perhaps. That was the least that Potter deserved. Potter stepped back into the dark mouth of the black house, allowing Draco to pass through. He did, with a shiver, and the door creaked closed behind him.
“Cup of tea?”
Draco’s eyes adjusted to the dim light. Potter was to the left of him, watching him earnestly, an air of nervous energy about him. Why would Potter be nervous? If anyone, it should be Draco, coming to live in a strange house that smelled like the Black’s, with a man whom he –
“Yes, please. A cup of tea would be appreciated.”
Potter led the way to the kitchen. He made the tea quietly while Draco watched, and they drank it mostly in silence together, speaking only to ask for milk, or sugar, or for a teaspoon. Draco contemplated his tea leaves and wondered what fate had in store for him next.
*
It was a quiet house. Draco sat in the bath, a huge, claw-footed thing made of cast iron. Steam rose in wisps from the hot water, the dim blue light of the morning filtering though the funny, knobbly glass pane of the window. His bathroom at Grimmauld Place reminded him in so many ways of the Manor – slipper tubs with brass caddies, filled with bristly back scrubbers, soft shaving brushes, and creamy, oval shaped bars of soap that smelled like honey and oats. He wasn’t sure how that constant reminder of his old life made him feel. One way or another, it was better than bathing in a copper trough in the gamekeepers hut.
It was strange, for them to live so quietly together, after seven years of fury and noise and curses and rivalry. Perhaps it won’t always be that way, he thought to himself, moving his foot under the slow drip of the tap, letting the warm water trickle behind his toes and over the sole and arch.
Draco spent a good deal of his spare time thinking about Potter; and Draco had a good deal of spare time at his disposal. Thinking that he should thank Potter better – thank him at all – that maybe the next time they were sitting quietly in the parlour watching the Muggle telly together, he might say so. Let Potter know how grateful he was, for everything. For never asking it of him. For not being angry, or bitter, at Draco’s seeming ingratitude.
It had been a month, now. Every morning, Draco woke at seven, and lay in bed, or sometimes sat in the bath, for another hour, thinking. At just on eight, he would hear Potter rising, and at half eight he would venture out of his own room and head to the kitchen. Potter would have a pot of tea ready, and porridge on the stove, and would probably be wearing his scruffy robe with bare feet. Draco always wore his slippers. The floors were cold, and there was something strangely intimate about seeing another persons’ naked foot. As a consequence, he found himself looking at Potter’s rather too often.
Most days, Potter would be the first to break the silence. His voice would be hesitant, careful. He would mention, if it was Monday, that Coronation Street was on at half eight. On Tuesday he would remind Draco that he would visit the supermarket for the shopping at ten. If it was a Friday, he’d ask Draco whether he had any washing to be done that was not already in the laundry, because Friday was always washing day. Saturday mornings, he’d remind Draco that he’d be working on the house, and apologised in advance for any noisy spellwork. Potter never once mentioned on Sunday’s that he’d make roast lamb and red wine gravy for lunch. But he always did.
Draco lifted his flannel to his face, rubbing it over his neck and chin, before dropping it back into the water. They hardly spoke, not that there was any anger between them. Draco spent the hours of the day reading, books about potions and old family histories. It was indulgent, and he was contributing nothing to Potter’s household. But Potter never asked anything of him, not even for company, although Draco could see that Potter would have dearly liked his company. And Draco never gave him anything, except a sort of silent companionship, which seemed to please Potter in some small way – almost as if he were just glad Draco hadn’t left entirely. Draco had never said thank you. But he wanted to. He thought about it during most of his spare time. He composed things he might say, in his head, and what Potter might say back, and what his face might look like while they talked. He thought often of Potter’s face. And Potter’s hands. Draco lifted his own hands out of the water, and held the pruny fingers in front of his eyes, frowning. His fingers had always been long, and slender, and slightly pointed and aristocratic, like the rest of him. They were roughened now, a little, from the work at Hogwarts. But Potter’s fingers were stronger. They looked capable of anything. Draco lowered his hands and let them disappear below the surface. He’d found himself looking at Potter’s hands rather too often as well.
There was a muffled sound of footsteps, and Draco knew that Potter was up. He sat up, and grasped the chain for the plug, pulling it out and watching the water gurgle slowly away. Another day.
*
They watched Parkinson, on Saturdays – so many little routines Draco had become accustomed to, took comfort in. Draco remembered the first time he’d worked out how to read the television guide, and had seen the name there and remembered Pansy, and hurt. He must have whispered the name, because Potter took the paper from his hands, and asked in a low voice whether Draco would like to watch it. It wasn’t what he’d expected – he wasn’t sure what he thought he’d see there, her face…no. A bright, white-haired older man, sort of informally interviewing people, like Stephen Fry, and Michael Flatley, and Sir David Attenborough. He liked it, and Potter made sure it was always on at ten thirty on a Saturday evening.
This time, for once, he wasn’t thinking either of Pansy, or who was on the program tonight. Draco was thinking about how to make those planned conversations happen, or, one of them at least – how to talk to Potter and say things to him about what he was feeling. He’d thought about it enough. Time to stop thinking and start doing.
Potter was already in his usual spot, ranging across the settee in a sprawl, one hand propped behind his head, and a pillow smushed below a bare foot. Bare feet, again – Draco shook his head as if to clear it. If only Potter would wear socks… Draco normally took the armchair nearer Potter’s head, the one with soft, beige waffled upholstery, but tonight he was lingering at the parlour door, the flicker of light from the television on the walls matching the flutter of nerves in his stomach.
Just do it.
“Is it alright if I sit there?”
Potter looked up at him quizzically, and Draco gestured to the end of the settee which had Potter’s feet on it. Potter’s eyes widened. Draco was worried for a moment that Potter would say no, as Potter stared at him, but then he sort of scrambled around, dislodging cushions, and made space for him where his legs had been before.
“Alright?”
Fuck. Draco nodded, and sat.
He could feel Potter’s eyes on him – probably wondering why on earth Draco felt the need to sit on the exact same seat as he was, considering there were two armchairs, one of which was Draco’s regular, and a whole other settee available. It’s a gesture, Draco wanted to say, so you can see I’m trying here. But he didn’t say it. Instead Draco sat stiffly, itchy and hot, and glad that the room was dark except for the telly, and that Potter probably wouldn’t be able to see how pink his face was.
They sat there, quiet, the tense feel of questions which were barely restrained blanketing them. Draco’s mouth was dry. The program started. Potter’s eyes reluctantly slid from Draco’s form to the set. Time passed.
Draco spoke abruptly, ten minutes in.
“I didn’t have anywhere else to go, you know.”
Potter’s posture stiffened immediately. “Do – do you not want to live here anymore?”
Fuck, that wasn’t what he meant at all.
“No – yes – I mean, I don’t not want to live here anymore…” Draco frowned and wiped a sweaty palm on his thigh. This was already deviating from the imagined scenario. “What I meant was, you took me in when I didn’t have anyone else, or any thing, and you didn’t have to do that. I’m not family, and I’m not one of your friends-”
“We’re friends,” Potter interrupted fiercely, looking at Draco again. His eyes were shiny with the reflection of the telly. Draco felt hot inside and out. Potter considered him a friend? He didn’t know that. It felt…good.
“We’re not enemies…” he conceded, with a lift of one shoulder. “But still. You did something for me, really important, and I’ve never said – I’ve never said -”
For whatever reason, the words stuck in his throat and refused to come out. It was humiliating – he couldn’t even manage a simple word of thanks, not even one.
“It’s okay.”
Potter said it softly, matter-of-factly. Sympathetically. He never asked anything of Draco, never expected anything of him. Draco couldn’t look at him, and so focused his eyes on the faded teal and salmon patterns of the ancient parlour rug, and felt his stomach knot and twist. Why can’t I just say it?
“It’s not okay!” he blurted angrily, getting to his feet and walking a few paces away to glare at a tapestry. “It’s not okay that you did this for me, and I can’t do what I need to do in return. Because you saved my life – you forgave me, and you let me help you, and you saved us all. And then you didn’t just – you didn’t just abandon me, you kept helping me! And now here we are, and I can’t even give you that! It’s not fucking okay!”
There was a hand on his shoulder, turning him around – Potter had gotten up and was standing before him, his eyes glittering again, not with tiny images of celebrities and white-haired smiling men; with all kinds of feelings, what of, Draco didn’t know, but he wanted desperately to ask Potter to close them and just back away, just a little. But Potter came closer, looking earnest, and Draco had a wild thought, that maybe there was only one way of showing what it had meant, to have someone like Potter forgive someone like him, and give a shit. Him, Draco Malfoy, the one who betrayed Dumbledore and nearly cost them all their lives – the traitor, as they called him in public, and as Draco called himself in private. Potter hadn’t had to do it, but he had done it, and called him friend…Draco stepped forward too, clumsily, and pressed his mouth against Potter’s. He closed his eyes and kissed, very softly, his heart pounding and his mind whirling, trying to make sense of what he was doing here.
Understand me.
Potter didn’t move. He didn’t kiss back. Draco opened his eyes and saw stunned green looking back at him, eyes shiny and blinking in what must have been shock. Draco pulled away in horror. What had he done? Why had he done it? This was not part of the plan at all.
“I’m sorry,” he choked, his throat still bone dry, and trapping the words half-spoken, “I didn’t mean-”
Draco didn’t even realise he’d bolted, until the bedroom door slammed shut behind him.
*
Draco was curled up in a ball under his bedclothes when he heard the first hesitant knock at the door.
Go away, Potter. Jesus, just go away.
He’d betrayed himself. Why had he kissed Potter, why had he done it? He’d hardly dared to imagine it, doing that, he’d hardly ever let himself go there with his thoughts. But sometimes, he couldn’t help it – he found himself poking at that part of his mind like a tongue pokes a damaged tooth. Those feelings had been in there, growing quietly like a cavity, for a long time now. A weakness. Ever since the war, perhaps. Undoubtedly it flourished during his time at Hogwarts as the gamekeeper. He hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it, oh no, he hadn’t wanted to name it. He’d just tried to pretend it wasn’t there, until he couldn’t, and when he couldn’t he’d tried to pretend it was something else. Admiration, appreciation, loneliness – maybe some sort of life-debt, or something. Just not the kind of it that meant kisses, or being in knots inside and feeling utterly sick, or barricading himself in his borrowed bedroom.
A second knock, and a soft call of his name.
“Go away, Potter,” Draco whispered miserably. “Just go away.”
*
It was Sunday.
Sleep hadn’t been easy the night before – Draco had managed perhaps an hour or so, at best. His stomach was too cramped with misery and humiliation to let him rest, his mind speeding again with better ways he could have said things, other times he could have approached Potter, other ways Potter might have reacted. He was restless, and sick with embarrassment.
I wonder if he’ll ask me to leave.
Potter had come back, in the early morning, knocking again on Draco’s door and calling out to him quietly. It filled Draco stomach with ice. He couldn’t open the door and face him. It was better not to know, what Potter had to say about it. If he didn’t open the door, he wouldn’t have to see the pity in Potter’s eyes. Or the disgust, if that was how Potter felt. Rejection. Either way, he didn’t want to see it.
Seven o’clock had come that morning – after all the other hours had passed on the face of the clock, one by one, while Draco watched. He didn’t move from his place on the bed, knees drawn up to his chest. At just after eight, like always, Potter rose, and this time paused outside Draco’s door for a long moment before moving past. Draco’s throat constricted almost until he couldn’t breathe. He pulled the duvet over his head and squeezed his eyes closed.
*
Draco realised he’d been asleep only when he woke. His eyes were gritty, and felt sore. Crying eyes. He sighed to himself. At one time, he could say he hadn’t had those eyes since he was a child, but then the war came along and changed all of that. The rumbling in his stomach prompted him to look at the clock – one in the afternoon. Lunchtime. The smell of cooking was suddenly all around him, prickling at his nostrils and tastebuds, only just penetrating the fog of his brain – he knew the smell. Roast lamb and red wine gravy. Draco’s favourite, and the lunch they ate together every Sunday since the first, at the Muggle pub after Draco was freed. He got out of bed, and pulled on some clothes. Now was as good a time as any to face the music.
The choking feeling gripped him again as he went down the stairs. Draco rubbed his throat, willing it to pass, standing paused outside the kitchen door. He tried to will the panic away. What’s done is done. Face the music. There’s no point in crying like an anxious little girl. Draco pushed open the kitchen door and slid inside, stupidly close to the wall as if he could somehow hide himself in the pale, shabby wallpaper.
Potter looked up, saw him. “Hi.”
Draco swallowed, and nodded in acknowledgement. Nothing else was said on either of their parts, although Draco could feel that infernal prickling sensation which indicated Potter was watching him again, and probably wanted to say something. He sat down at his normal place at the table, then got up again remembering it was his job to set it. He moved about the kitchen, silently removing forks and side plates, and a pair of napkins, with his eyes carefully slipping over Potter to focus on just about anything else. Their silence was uncomfortable, for the first time. His fault.
Lunch was ready. Potter served, making sure Draco had extra roast potatoes as always, because he knew Draco liked them. Draco couldn’t fathom why Potter made such an effort. Why he bothered. They ate in silence, too. What on earth would they say, anyway? It was always like this, quiet. Only now it was tense and awkward, rather than comfortable. Potter was wrong, they weren’t friends – Potter was just a stupid Gryffindor with a compulsion to save people, and Draco was just a idiot Slytherin who had made the grave mistake of falling in love with him.
As soon as his food was gone, and Potter’s, Draco was moving again. The sooner this was over with, the better, and if Potter wasn’t going to say anything, not yell or tell him to leave, or anything else that might resolve this, then Draco was going to go back upstairs to his room and wallow in his misery again. He moved quickly, collecting glasses and knives, scraping the plates, filling the sink with dirty dishes until all the table was cleared, and he could set the dishwashing charm Potter had taught him in motion to fill the sink with water and suds, and start the scrubbers and scourers rising to take on the mess.
He paused at the sink – last chance for Potter to do it. Potter remained quiet. Eyes downcast, Draco made for the door, already grinding his teeth and clenching his fists until the nails bit into his palm. He should have thanked Potter for cooking lunch, but he already knew he wasn’t much chop with thank-yous.
“Wait!”
Potter’s chair scraped back, and he was suddenly right there beside Draco, his hand closing around Draco’s wrist. Draco froze.
“Why are you running away from me?”
It was almost funny, so Draco barked a short laugh, and turned to look briefly into Potter’s earnest eyes.
“Why am I running? Why are you asking? Surely you know the answer to that, Potter. There’s no point asking questions we already know the answers to.”
Potters fingers tightened. “You’re angry with me.”
Draco just stared at him.
“With you – I’m angry with myself! I shouldn’t have…I just shouldn’t have.”
Potter stared at him unblinkingly.
“So why did you?”
His face was burning and he tried to tug his hand away from Potter.
“Look, I’ve never asked you why you always cook roast lamb on a Sunday for lunch, have I? Or why you always make sure the shows I like are on the telly, or any of those things you do for me. Sometimes people just do things, alright? It doesn’t always have to make sense!”
“Because you like it.”
“What?”
“Parkinson, and roast lamb. I do it because you like it.”
Potter just stood there, calm and unreadable, his hand clamped like iron around Draco’s wrist and keeping him there when he’d rather have been running the hell away.
“Who cares if I like it,” Draco bit out angrily. “Who the fuck cares? You say we’re friends, but we aren’t – we hardly say a word to each other. We just live here together, and I don’t get why you let me stay-”
“I care.”
For God’s sake…
And then Potter was closer, looming, his face just a puff of breath away from Draco, then not even that far, and there were lips, a kiss – Potter’s lips pressed so very gently against his own, warm and soft, spicy with the taste of lamb and gravy. Draco’s heart was pounding, and he was frozen, staring into Potter’s eyes, which were staring back at him. Perhaps this was how Potter had felt, last night, when Draco kissed him so abruptly.
Potter stepped away.
“You kissed me,” Draco murmured, slightly accusingly.
“Yeah,” Potter’s lips twisted into a sort of smile. “I didn’t get a chance last night…I think by the time I got over the shock, you were already up in your room.”
Draco raised a hand to his lips, pressing his fingers to them in near confusion – had Potter really just kissed him?
“Aren’t you going to tell me to leave?”
Potter shook his head. “No. I imagine kicking you out and leaving you homeless would be somewhat of a dampener on the possibility of getting another kiss out of you. And, I’d miss you a lot.”
There was still silence, as they stared at each other for several moments – there was always so much silence between them, too much, but Draco had a feeling it wouldn’t always be that way.
“I’ve been thinking about doing that for a while…I just never thought we really would…”
Draco cut Potter’s confession off at the lips, kissing him again with something nearing desperation. And this time, Potter kissed back.
Author:
moonflower_rosePairing: HP/DM
Genre/Rating: PG-13
Warnings: The usual...also, don't run with scissors...
Length: 5000(ish) words
Beta:
silentauror!!!Summary: Sequel to the drabble A Splinter
Disclaimer: Please see my disclaimer here.
“…and it is our conclusion that the sentence imposed on Draco Malfoy should be considered served, reduced by four years and six months, with due consideration given to his expressed remorse for his crimes, and subsequent invaluable service to the Ministry during The War. Mister Malfoy – you are free to go.”
The rest of the sound was drowned out by the rushing of blood in his ears. Free to go. Free.
He knew there was something going on around him. Lots of noise, lots of people talking loudly, excitedly. He could hear Potter shouting over the top of the crowd, something about making sure there were no clauses. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t seem to focus his vision properly. Was this how Potter saw the world, when he hadn’t any glasses? Just a murky blur of colours and shapes, no clear outline of who or what he was staring at-
“Draco. Are you alright?”
At the sound of his name, spoken by Potter, his vision clarified. His hearing came back to him and he finally focused on the person speaking to him. Yes, Potter. He took a gasping breath, suddenly feeling as if he hadn’t been breathing deeply enough for all the long hours they’d been here, at the Wizengamot. His mouth worked for a moment without sound, before he managed a dry whisper which cracked in the middle.
“Thank you. Thank you.”
Potter smiled at him; just a tiny smile on his lips, but his eyes seemed to burn with it. Potter’s eyes always seemed to be burning with something, with happiness, or humour, or anger, or pain. Draco imagined it must be tiresome to have such expressive eyes. Never able to hide what you think, or feel. To draw people unto yourself whether you wanted to or not.
“You’re welcome. But it isn’t me you should be thanking. Its Alma Fivepennies you need to say it to.”
Draco looked out across the amphitheatre, crowded with every witch or wizard with any kind of influence in the whole United Kingdom, and some from abroad. An elderly, white-haired witch sat in the middle of the Wizengamot, engulfed by a deep purple robe of crushed velvet, appearing, at first, old and frail. Upon closer examination, her spine stood ramrod straight; her dark eyes almost black, glittering with satisfaction, and the self possession of one who held a great deal of power. It had been she who had pushed for Draco’s initial sentencing, who had insisted that the parents of Hogwarts children deserved to have justice for the danger their children had been put in the night that Draco had let in the Death Eaters, and Greyback. She’d been the one to suggest the specific mode of his punishment – five years as gamekeeper at Hogwarts, no magic allowed unless handling magical creatures or in the event of a life-threatening situation. Alma Fivepennies, his prosecutor. Harry Potter was appointed to supervise, and report to the Ministry weekly on Draco’s performance. And somehow, today, she had been the one to insist that Draco deserved to be released – six months served, exemplary behaviour. The glowing character reference from Harry, and a few words from Granger. He couldn’t lose, with those odds. And he had not. He was free.
Fivepennies caught his eye, and Draco nodded stiffly at her. It was hard to be grateful to the person who had caused this whole fucking mess in the first place. Actually, a little voice inside his head piped up, I do believe you were the one who caused this whole fucking mess in the first place – no one let the Death Eaters in but you. You don’t have anyone else to blame but yourself. Draco tasted copper in his mouth, and realised he had bitten the inside of his cheek hard enough to bleed. Was it really so bad? No term in Azkaban. Your wand wasn’t snapped. And you weren’t alone. Harry was there. Was it really so bad? His shoulders slumped a little, and he nodded at Fivepennies again. This time she nodded back. Message received.
“Come on, Draco. Let’s get out of here.”
Potter’s hand was firm and warm against the small of his back. He led him off the stage, through back passages until they were out in the normal Ministry corridors again, and heading for the big, brown door that would let them leave. A crowd of wizards surged out behind them. So many people, all turned out to see his review. It was amazing what the name Malfoy could still do for ones reputation. It would always be this way. Draco would be first and foremost a Malfoy. Not a war hero, no, never that. Not a philanthropist, should he chose to be, or a friend, should he make one. He’d be a Malfoy. A dangerous criminal from a long line of dangerous criminals. Death Eater family on both sides of his tree, more relatives former residents of Azkaban than not. What was he supposed to do, now? He may have resented his sentence, but at least it had given him purpose, something to rely upon and fight against, something to keep the angry fire burning in his belly to fuel his mind and spirit. What was his purpose now? Where did he belong? What was he meant to do with his life, now?
Draco still felt as if he were underwater, at the bottom of the Hogwarts lake, or somewhere equally as deep and cold and dark. Harry was speaking to him in soothing tones, but the words were muffled, and far away. There were people all around them, flashbulbs bursting brightly in his face every now and again. He thought he could hear them shouting, the press; calling out for a quote please Mister Malfoy, and turn this way if you would Mister Malfoy, and what are your plans now that you’re free?
The great door swung open. A burst of camera activity blinded him, and he stumbled, unable to see where he was going.
Strong arms gripped him about the waist and kept him upright.
“No questions!” Potter shouted. “No questions! Draco Malfoy deserves his privacy, and some goddamn peace and quiet! You might as well give up now as there’ll be no questions!”
Numb. Surely he shouldn’t feel so numb? It was good news – he was free.
His stomach churned, and he let Potter lead the way, protect him, lead him out of the den of wolfish press and away.
Draco had been staring into space for an indeterminate length of time, when Potter finally caught his attention.
“Sorry?”
Potter looked at him carefully.
“Is the meal okay? I can send it back, if it’s no good.”
The sounds of the pub came upon him suddenly, as if switched on. A Muggle place, free of wizarding journalists, dark and fairly quiet aside from the low murmur of conversation, and the chink of cutlery on plates. He looked down at his own plate – roast lamb, and red wine gravy. Mashed potatoes on the side, creamy white mounds, and a pile of fat, green peas nestled beside it. He went to pick up his fork, and found it already in his hand.
“No – it looks good. It’s my favourite, actually.”
Draco cut a piece of lamb and chewed it. Potter watched him, and looked as if he wanted to say something else, but didn’t know how.
“It’s quiet,” Draco observed. Potter nodded.
“It’s Sunday.”
They fell into silence again, not uncomfortable. Draco could feel Potter watching him, and felt warm.
Draco was to stay with Potter for awhile. He had no place else to go, no family left, no home for him at Hogwarts anymore. With the exception of the elf he employed, Potter lived alone and had plenty of space for guests. Draco arrived at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place at tea time the following Monday. His luggage, the small amount that he had, was shrunken and kept in his left trouser pocket.
Potter was opening the front door before Draco was even inside the gate.
“You came.”
He sounded sort of surprised, like he thought that perhaps Draco was only joking when he’d accepted the offer of accommodation.
“Of course – I haven’t anywhere else, have I?”
Potter looked embarrassed at that, and didn’t say anything else. Draco felt stupid and embarrassed as well, and knew he should have said something else, a thank you, perhaps. That was the least that Potter deserved. Potter stepped back into the dark mouth of the black house, allowing Draco to pass through. He did, with a shiver, and the door creaked closed behind him.
“Cup of tea?”
Draco’s eyes adjusted to the dim light. Potter was to the left of him, watching him earnestly, an air of nervous energy about him. Why would Potter be nervous? If anyone, it should be Draco, coming to live in a strange house that smelled like the Black’s, with a man whom he –
“Yes, please. A cup of tea would be appreciated.”
Potter led the way to the kitchen. He made the tea quietly while Draco watched, and they drank it mostly in silence together, speaking only to ask for milk, or sugar, or for a teaspoon. Draco contemplated his tea leaves and wondered what fate had in store for him next.
It was a quiet house. Draco sat in the bath, a huge, claw-footed thing made of cast iron. Steam rose in wisps from the hot water, the dim blue light of the morning filtering though the funny, knobbly glass pane of the window. His bathroom at Grimmauld Place reminded him in so many ways of the Manor – slipper tubs with brass caddies, filled with bristly back scrubbers, soft shaving brushes, and creamy, oval shaped bars of soap that smelled like honey and oats. He wasn’t sure how that constant reminder of his old life made him feel. One way or another, it was better than bathing in a copper trough in the gamekeepers hut.
It was strange, for them to live so quietly together, after seven years of fury and noise and curses and rivalry. Perhaps it won’t always be that way, he thought to himself, moving his foot under the slow drip of the tap, letting the warm water trickle behind his toes and over the sole and arch.
Draco spent a good deal of his spare time thinking about Potter; and Draco had a good deal of spare time at his disposal. Thinking that he should thank Potter better – thank him at all – that maybe the next time they were sitting quietly in the parlour watching the Muggle telly together, he might say so. Let Potter know how grateful he was, for everything. For never asking it of him. For not being angry, or bitter, at Draco’s seeming ingratitude.
It had been a month, now. Every morning, Draco woke at seven, and lay in bed, or sometimes sat in the bath, for another hour, thinking. At just on eight, he would hear Potter rising, and at half eight he would venture out of his own room and head to the kitchen. Potter would have a pot of tea ready, and porridge on the stove, and would probably be wearing his scruffy robe with bare feet. Draco always wore his slippers. The floors were cold, and there was something strangely intimate about seeing another persons’ naked foot. As a consequence, he found himself looking at Potter’s rather too often.
Most days, Potter would be the first to break the silence. His voice would be hesitant, careful. He would mention, if it was Monday, that Coronation Street was on at half eight. On Tuesday he would remind Draco that he would visit the supermarket for the shopping at ten. If it was a Friday, he’d ask Draco whether he had any washing to be done that was not already in the laundry, because Friday was always washing day. Saturday mornings, he’d remind Draco that he’d be working on the house, and apologised in advance for any noisy spellwork. Potter never once mentioned on Sunday’s that he’d make roast lamb and red wine gravy for lunch. But he always did.
Draco lifted his flannel to his face, rubbing it over his neck and chin, before dropping it back into the water. They hardly spoke, not that there was any anger between them. Draco spent the hours of the day reading, books about potions and old family histories. It was indulgent, and he was contributing nothing to Potter’s household. But Potter never asked anything of him, not even for company, although Draco could see that Potter would have dearly liked his company. And Draco never gave him anything, except a sort of silent companionship, which seemed to please Potter in some small way – almost as if he were just glad Draco hadn’t left entirely. Draco had never said thank you. But he wanted to. He thought about it during most of his spare time. He composed things he might say, in his head, and what Potter might say back, and what his face might look like while they talked. He thought often of Potter’s face. And Potter’s hands. Draco lifted his own hands out of the water, and held the pruny fingers in front of his eyes, frowning. His fingers had always been long, and slender, and slightly pointed and aristocratic, like the rest of him. They were roughened now, a little, from the work at Hogwarts. But Potter’s fingers were stronger. They looked capable of anything. Draco lowered his hands and let them disappear below the surface. He’d found himself looking at Potter’s hands rather too often as well.
There was a muffled sound of footsteps, and Draco knew that Potter was up. He sat up, and grasped the chain for the plug, pulling it out and watching the water gurgle slowly away. Another day.
They watched Parkinson, on Saturdays – so many little routines Draco had become accustomed to, took comfort in. Draco remembered the first time he’d worked out how to read the television guide, and had seen the name there and remembered Pansy, and hurt. He must have whispered the name, because Potter took the paper from his hands, and asked in a low voice whether Draco would like to watch it. It wasn’t what he’d expected – he wasn’t sure what he thought he’d see there, her face…no. A bright, white-haired older man, sort of informally interviewing people, like Stephen Fry, and Michael Flatley, and Sir David Attenborough. He liked it, and Potter made sure it was always on at ten thirty on a Saturday evening.
This time, for once, he wasn’t thinking either of Pansy, or who was on the program tonight. Draco was thinking about how to make those planned conversations happen, or, one of them at least – how to talk to Potter and say things to him about what he was feeling. He’d thought about it enough. Time to stop thinking and start doing.
Potter was already in his usual spot, ranging across the settee in a sprawl, one hand propped behind his head, and a pillow smushed below a bare foot. Bare feet, again – Draco shook his head as if to clear it. If only Potter would wear socks… Draco normally took the armchair nearer Potter’s head, the one with soft, beige waffled upholstery, but tonight he was lingering at the parlour door, the flicker of light from the television on the walls matching the flutter of nerves in his stomach.
Just do it.
“Is it alright if I sit there?”
Potter looked up at him quizzically, and Draco gestured to the end of the settee which had Potter’s feet on it. Potter’s eyes widened. Draco was worried for a moment that Potter would say no, as Potter stared at him, but then he sort of scrambled around, dislodging cushions, and made space for him where his legs had been before.
“Alright?”
Fuck. Draco nodded, and sat.
He could feel Potter’s eyes on him – probably wondering why on earth Draco felt the need to sit on the exact same seat as he was, considering there were two armchairs, one of which was Draco’s regular, and a whole other settee available. It’s a gesture, Draco wanted to say, so you can see I’m trying here. But he didn’t say it. Instead Draco sat stiffly, itchy and hot, and glad that the room was dark except for the telly, and that Potter probably wouldn’t be able to see how pink his face was.
They sat there, quiet, the tense feel of questions which were barely restrained blanketing them. Draco’s mouth was dry. The program started. Potter’s eyes reluctantly slid from Draco’s form to the set. Time passed.
Draco spoke abruptly, ten minutes in.
“I didn’t have anywhere else to go, you know.”
Potter’s posture stiffened immediately. “Do – do you not want to live here anymore?”
Fuck, that wasn’t what he meant at all.
“No – yes – I mean, I don’t not want to live here anymore…” Draco frowned and wiped a sweaty palm on his thigh. This was already deviating from the imagined scenario. “What I meant was, you took me in when I didn’t have anyone else, or any thing, and you didn’t have to do that. I’m not family, and I’m not one of your friends-”
“We’re friends,” Potter interrupted fiercely, looking at Draco again. His eyes were shiny with the reflection of the telly. Draco felt hot inside and out. Potter considered him a friend? He didn’t know that. It felt…good.
“We’re not enemies…” he conceded, with a lift of one shoulder. “But still. You did something for me, really important, and I’ve never said – I’ve never said -”
For whatever reason, the words stuck in his throat and refused to come out. It was humiliating – he couldn’t even manage a simple word of thanks, not even one.
“It’s okay.”
Potter said it softly, matter-of-factly. Sympathetically. He never asked anything of Draco, never expected anything of him. Draco couldn’t look at him, and so focused his eyes on the faded teal and salmon patterns of the ancient parlour rug, and felt his stomach knot and twist. Why can’t I just say it?
“It’s not okay!” he blurted angrily, getting to his feet and walking a few paces away to glare at a tapestry. “It’s not okay that you did this for me, and I can’t do what I need to do in return. Because you saved my life – you forgave me, and you let me help you, and you saved us all. And then you didn’t just – you didn’t just abandon me, you kept helping me! And now here we are, and I can’t even give you that! It’s not fucking okay!”
There was a hand on his shoulder, turning him around – Potter had gotten up and was standing before him, his eyes glittering again, not with tiny images of celebrities and white-haired smiling men; with all kinds of feelings, what of, Draco didn’t know, but he wanted desperately to ask Potter to close them and just back away, just a little. But Potter came closer, looking earnest, and Draco had a wild thought, that maybe there was only one way of showing what it had meant, to have someone like Potter forgive someone like him, and give a shit. Him, Draco Malfoy, the one who betrayed Dumbledore and nearly cost them all their lives – the traitor, as they called him in public, and as Draco called himself in private. Potter hadn’t had to do it, but he had done it, and called him friend…Draco stepped forward too, clumsily, and pressed his mouth against Potter’s. He closed his eyes and kissed, very softly, his heart pounding and his mind whirling, trying to make sense of what he was doing here.
Understand me.
Potter didn’t move. He didn’t kiss back. Draco opened his eyes and saw stunned green looking back at him, eyes shiny and blinking in what must have been shock. Draco pulled away in horror. What had he done? Why had he done it? This was not part of the plan at all.
“I’m sorry,” he choked, his throat still bone dry, and trapping the words half-spoken, “I didn’t mean-”
Draco didn’t even realise he’d bolted, until the bedroom door slammed shut behind him.
Draco was curled up in a ball under his bedclothes when he heard the first hesitant knock at the door.
Go away, Potter. Jesus, just go away.
He’d betrayed himself. Why had he kissed Potter, why had he done it? He’d hardly dared to imagine it, doing that, he’d hardly ever let himself go there with his thoughts. But sometimes, he couldn’t help it – he found himself poking at that part of his mind like a tongue pokes a damaged tooth. Those feelings had been in there, growing quietly like a cavity, for a long time now. A weakness. Ever since the war, perhaps. Undoubtedly it flourished during his time at Hogwarts as the gamekeeper. He hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it, oh no, he hadn’t wanted to name it. He’d just tried to pretend it wasn’t there, until he couldn’t, and when he couldn’t he’d tried to pretend it was something else. Admiration, appreciation, loneliness – maybe some sort of life-debt, or something. Just not the kind of it that meant kisses, or being in knots inside and feeling utterly sick, or barricading himself in his borrowed bedroom.
A second knock, and a soft call of his name.
“Go away, Potter,” Draco whispered miserably. “Just go away.”
It was Sunday.
Sleep hadn’t been easy the night before – Draco had managed perhaps an hour or so, at best. His stomach was too cramped with misery and humiliation to let him rest, his mind speeding again with better ways he could have said things, other times he could have approached Potter, other ways Potter might have reacted. He was restless, and sick with embarrassment.
I wonder if he’ll ask me to leave.
Potter had come back, in the early morning, knocking again on Draco’s door and calling out to him quietly. It filled Draco stomach with ice. He couldn’t open the door and face him. It was better not to know, what Potter had to say about it. If he didn’t open the door, he wouldn’t have to see the pity in Potter’s eyes. Or the disgust, if that was how Potter felt. Rejection. Either way, he didn’t want to see it.
Seven o’clock had come that morning – after all the other hours had passed on the face of the clock, one by one, while Draco watched. He didn’t move from his place on the bed, knees drawn up to his chest. At just after eight, like always, Potter rose, and this time paused outside Draco’s door for a long moment before moving past. Draco’s throat constricted almost until he couldn’t breathe. He pulled the duvet over his head and squeezed his eyes closed.
Draco realised he’d been asleep only when he woke. His eyes were gritty, and felt sore. Crying eyes. He sighed to himself. At one time, he could say he hadn’t had those eyes since he was a child, but then the war came along and changed all of that. The rumbling in his stomach prompted him to look at the clock – one in the afternoon. Lunchtime. The smell of cooking was suddenly all around him, prickling at his nostrils and tastebuds, only just penetrating the fog of his brain – he knew the smell. Roast lamb and red wine gravy. Draco’s favourite, and the lunch they ate together every Sunday since the first, at the Muggle pub after Draco was freed. He got out of bed, and pulled on some clothes. Now was as good a time as any to face the music.
The choking feeling gripped him again as he went down the stairs. Draco rubbed his throat, willing it to pass, standing paused outside the kitchen door. He tried to will the panic away. What’s done is done. Face the music. There’s no point in crying like an anxious little girl. Draco pushed open the kitchen door and slid inside, stupidly close to the wall as if he could somehow hide himself in the pale, shabby wallpaper.
Potter looked up, saw him. “Hi.”
Draco swallowed, and nodded in acknowledgement. Nothing else was said on either of their parts, although Draco could feel that infernal prickling sensation which indicated Potter was watching him again, and probably wanted to say something. He sat down at his normal place at the table, then got up again remembering it was his job to set it. He moved about the kitchen, silently removing forks and side plates, and a pair of napkins, with his eyes carefully slipping over Potter to focus on just about anything else. Their silence was uncomfortable, for the first time. His fault.
Lunch was ready. Potter served, making sure Draco had extra roast potatoes as always, because he knew Draco liked them. Draco couldn’t fathom why Potter made such an effort. Why he bothered. They ate in silence, too. What on earth would they say, anyway? It was always like this, quiet. Only now it was tense and awkward, rather than comfortable. Potter was wrong, they weren’t friends – Potter was just a stupid Gryffindor with a compulsion to save people, and Draco was just a idiot Slytherin who had made the grave mistake of falling in love with him.
As soon as his food was gone, and Potter’s, Draco was moving again. The sooner this was over with, the better, and if Potter wasn’t going to say anything, not yell or tell him to leave, or anything else that might resolve this, then Draco was going to go back upstairs to his room and wallow in his misery again. He moved quickly, collecting glasses and knives, scraping the plates, filling the sink with dirty dishes until all the table was cleared, and he could set the dishwashing charm Potter had taught him in motion to fill the sink with water and suds, and start the scrubbers and scourers rising to take on the mess.
He paused at the sink – last chance for Potter to do it. Potter remained quiet. Eyes downcast, Draco made for the door, already grinding his teeth and clenching his fists until the nails bit into his palm. He should have thanked Potter for cooking lunch, but he already knew he wasn’t much chop with thank-yous.
“Wait!”
Potter’s chair scraped back, and he was suddenly right there beside Draco, his hand closing around Draco’s wrist. Draco froze.
“Why are you running away from me?”
It was almost funny, so Draco barked a short laugh, and turned to look briefly into Potter’s earnest eyes.
“Why am I running? Why are you asking? Surely you know the answer to that, Potter. There’s no point asking questions we already know the answers to.”
Potters fingers tightened. “You’re angry with me.”
Draco just stared at him.
“With you – I’m angry with myself! I shouldn’t have…I just shouldn’t have.”
Potter stared at him unblinkingly.
“So why did you?”
His face was burning and he tried to tug his hand away from Potter.
“Look, I’ve never asked you why you always cook roast lamb on a Sunday for lunch, have I? Or why you always make sure the shows I like are on the telly, or any of those things you do for me. Sometimes people just do things, alright? It doesn’t always have to make sense!”
“Because you like it.”
“What?”
“Parkinson, and roast lamb. I do it because you like it.”
Potter just stood there, calm and unreadable, his hand clamped like iron around Draco’s wrist and keeping him there when he’d rather have been running the hell away.
“Who cares if I like it,” Draco bit out angrily. “Who the fuck cares? You say we’re friends, but we aren’t – we hardly say a word to each other. We just live here together, and I don’t get why you let me stay-”
“I care.”
For God’s sake…
And then Potter was closer, looming, his face just a puff of breath away from Draco, then not even that far, and there were lips, a kiss – Potter’s lips pressed so very gently against his own, warm and soft, spicy with the taste of lamb and gravy. Draco’s heart was pounding, and he was frozen, staring into Potter’s eyes, which were staring back at him. Perhaps this was how Potter had felt, last night, when Draco kissed him so abruptly.
Potter stepped away.
“You kissed me,” Draco murmured, slightly accusingly.
“Yeah,” Potter’s lips twisted into a sort of smile. “I didn’t get a chance last night…I think by the time I got over the shock, you were already up in your room.”
Draco raised a hand to his lips, pressing his fingers to them in near confusion – had Potter really just kissed him?
“Aren’t you going to tell me to leave?”
Potter shook his head. “No. I imagine kicking you out and leaving you homeless would be somewhat of a dampener on the possibility of getting another kiss out of you. And, I’d miss you a lot.”
There was still silence, as they stared at each other for several moments – there was always so much silence between them, too much, but Draco had a feeling it wouldn’t always be that way.
“I’ve been thinking about doing that for a while…I just never thought we really would…”
Draco cut Potter’s confession off at the lips, kissing him again with something nearing desperation. And this time, Potter kissed back.