Author: Pitry
Story: A Hero For Any Other Day
Summary: Even Draco Malfoy needs a hero to save him sometimes.
Rating: M
Characters/pairings: Draco Malfoy/ Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/ OMC, Hermione Granger/ Ron Weasley
Warnings: Infidelity
A/N - With enormous thanks to my wonderful beta, 13alias31. All mistakes are mine.
Part 1 - Autumn, 1998
Draco Malfoy stood in front of the door to number 12, Grimmauld place and licked his lips nervously. He didn't really know what he was doing in front of this particular door, on this particular September afternoon, but there he was. He had stood there for five minutes, trying to convince himself to knock on the door, ring the doorbell, or announce his presence to the owner of the house in any other way.
Actually, what he really tried to convince himself to do was to not turn around and flee.
He hadn't realised he had been noticed during his long stay on the doorstep. As he sent his hand for the tenth time to the old knocker and before he even touched it - or had the chance to send his hand back - the door opened.
Draco's hand froze in place, inches from where the knocker had been, now inches from the owner of the door. Harry Potter stood there in silence, studied him for a moment from the entrance, then nodded and turned back into the house, leaving the door open. Draco chose to see this as an invitation, and followed him.
The hallway was dark, and once the door had closed, it became even darker, with a hint of dampness. Draco started walking in - he could see Potter's shock of jet black hair walking deeper into the corridor and into a room, which turned out to be the living room.
The curtains were open, lending a bit of light into the otherwise dark room. Of course, Draco thought, Potter could see him from here, he must have known for a while he'd been standing there, must have seen him drawing his hand fowards, then back, over and over again. But his eyes didn't stay long on the window, and instead travelled to Potter, who was still studying him silently.
It was the first time Draco had seen Potter closely since the war, and the first time he had ever seen him wearing anything other than wizard's robes. Potter was wearing a fading, short-sleeved, low-cut Muggle shirt that had once been blue and now was mostly an indistinct shade of grey. It wasn't the shirt that drew Draco's eyes, though, but those bits of Potter that were usually covered by the robes. It seemed the famous scar on his forehead was not the only one he had acquired throughout the years - on his arm there was something that looked like a puncture mark made by a huge snake; on the palm of the other hand, a remnant of Dolores Umbridge's favourite method of punishment; and on his neck and going down under the shirt, a thin line that could have been a burn mark, or perhaps something that was left by a garrotte. Draco couldn't tell whether all these were leftovers from the war, or memories from older adventures that he just never noticed. He thought that now, perhaps, it didn't matter, but for some reason he was sure that it did.
He wondered for a moment what did Potter see when he looked at him. Draco didn't wear his scars on his skin, like Potter did. All of his scarring of the past two years, he thought bitterly, he had done inside. Of course. What befell Blessed Potter was shown to the world, while Draco's pain was invisible to all but his family. The old anger rose in him again. For a moment, he hoped Potter would open his mouth, say something so stupid and arrogant and Potter-esque and he could shout back at him all his fury. He knew that would be counter-productive. He did not bother himself all the way to Potter's doorstep to start a fight. Nonetheless, he wanted it, he knew it.
But Potter didn't start an argument. He just stood there, studying Draco in silence, and just when Draco thought he couldn't take the silence anymore, Potter turned back and fetched something out of a drawer.
"I thought you'd want it back," he said quietly, and threw the thing at Draco. Draco caught it quickly, before his brain even registered what it was that Potter was giving him. And then he saw - ten inches, Hawthorn, and the core, he knew, a single unicorn's hair. His old wand. It felt warm to the touch, friendly and inviting. His old wand had not abandoned him completely. He looked at Potter in surprise.
"I... uh..." he was lost for words for a moment. He never expected to see this wand again.
Potter looked at him in confusion. "If not for the wand, what did you come here for?" he asked.
Draco could feel his face flush. Now that Potter had asked, there was no backing down, no turning back. But he didn't know how to say what he came to say. He didn't really want to say it, he knew. "I, uh, well, what I came here for... I mean, my family... and me, I guess... I mean, what you said to the, uh, to the Wizengamot..." his voice trailed and disappeared. He could feel his face turning even more red than before. Potter just stood there, saying nothing, and Draco hated him just a little bit more for making him say those words. Anger and hatred rising in him, he didn't finish the sentence he had come there to say.
After what seemed like eternity, Potter nodded at the unsaid words. "You're welcome," he said quietly.
They stared at each other for another moment or two.
"Sit down," Potter said eventually. "I'll get us some tea."
Draco had no wish to sit down and drink tea with Harry Potter, but it didn't look like he had a choice. Awkwardness had taken over for a moment, and his chance to say what he had come to say and leave had disappeared at some point between his stupid mumbling and the silence that engulfed them as a result. He should never have come here in the first place.
In no time, Potter returned to the room, balancing a couple of mugs in one hand while carrying milk in the other. The sugar and some chocolate biscuits followed him in the air.
"I really should be going..." Draco started getting up, hoping to be able to escape this unwelcome invitation, but Potter stared him down. After a moment in Potter's gaze, he sat down again, his heart heavier than before, resentment rising in him again.
"Milk? Sugar?" Potter asked.
"No," Draco said stiffly, trying to sound as uninviting as possible. What was Potter thinking? And why, something nagged inside Draco's mind, did he even make the invitation in the first place?
Potter handed him the mug without another word. There was something cold and stiff in the way he handled things, Draco thought, but if Potter was going to be hostile towards him, it was his own fault for extending the invitation to Draco in the first place. So Draco took the mug from him and drank a little.
"This is horrible," he said without thinking.
Potter just nudged the sugar in his direction. Draco opted for a chocolate biscuit instead.
"It really is horrible," Potter wrinkled his nose at his own mug, and poured a generous amount of sugar into it.
"I don't think sugar's going to save it," Draco said. Potter just shrugged and drank his tea. He didn't say another word about it, but Draco could see from his expression that he did not enjoy the taste. Arrogant bastard, he thought angrily.
"So, what are you doing these days?" Potter asked a useless question. Draco should have seen it coming. He shrugged in response, even if it was no response at all.
Potter raised an eyebrow, his eyes examining Draco.
"I don't know," Draco said slowly, anything to make him turn his eyes somewhere else. "I talked to some people, but for some reason, they don't seem interested in hiring a former Death Eater without any N.E.W.T.s." He'd be damned if he told Potter how he had to almost beg to the last person, how he had to find a job, what with the heavy compensation payments the Wizengamot had required his family to pay, and his parents downright refusing to leave the house, how they would soon be in real trouble, sooner than even his parents realised, and the repeated humiliation he had to endure because no one wanted to even hear him out before they turned him down.
"I can talk to some people for you," Potter said quietly.
Draco flushed again, worse than before. "I don't need your charity!" he spat at Potter, getting up on his feet, clenching the wand he got back only a few moments ago. Within seconds Potter was on his feet as well, his wand pointing at Draco. They stared at each other like that for a moment. Potter seemed to come to his senses first. He stowed his wand back in his pocket, and sat down again, eyeing Draco coldly.
Even in his unwanted charity, he was being arrogant, Draco thought bitterly. Harry Potter knew that Draco could not afford to curse him. He would be arrested again and hauled into Azkaban before he had even finished uttering the incantation. And the smug bastard knew this. Of course he could afford to lower his guard. Draco wasn't even a threat anymore, was he? Not to Blessed Potter.
"I think I better leave," he said stiffly.
"Yes," Potter said quietly. "Sounds like a good idea."
Draco turned his back on Potter and walked out of the house without another word. Only once he was outside, in the street, did he pause for a moment and look through the window back into the living room of number 12, Grimmauld Place. Potter was still sitting on the same sofa, slowly drinking his disgusting tea, staring at the empty air.
At night, instead of sleeping, Draco kept on replaying that conversation in his head, trying to figure out where it went wrong. By morning, he had decided to try again. Malfoys didn't apologise, and they most certainly didn't beg, but if he were honest with himself, he couldn't afford being a proper Malfoy right now.
This time, he came to Grimmauld Place memorising the words he meant to say.
Potter didn't see him from the window this time - or, if he did, he wasn't in a hurry to let him in. He only came to the door after the third ring.
"What d'you want, Malfoy?" he asked when he saw Draco's face.
Draco could feel himself flushing. How dare he talk to him like - no. There was nothing to be gained from thinking like that. Not anymore. "I think we started on the wrong foot yesterday," he said carefully those words he had repeated to himself over and over again.
"I think we started on the wrong foot seven years ago," Potter said shortly, annoyingly, and not according to the script. When Draco practiced this exchange at night, Potter said nothing at this point. He chose to ignore this comment and go on with his script.
"When I came to thank you yesterday," he completed his sentence.
Potter raised an eyebrow. "I don't remember you thanking me," he said, his voice cold.
Draco bit back an angry retort. But he didn't follow the script this time. "Yeah," he agreed with Potter despite his better judgement. "That was part of what went wrong."
Potter studied him for a moment longer, then shrugged. "Come in," he said curtly. He didn't walk into the house this time, but instead moved just enough to let Draco enter, then closed the door behind him. Draco went back to the same drawing room they had been in the day before. Potter followed, and once inside, threw himself on one of the sofas. There was no mention of either tea or biscuits this time round.
With a sigh, Draco sat down on a chair in front of Potter. Potter still said nothing, and Draco drew a big breath and said it quickly, quietly, willing it to be over with. "My family and I would have probably gone to Azkaban without your intervention. I wanted to thank you, in their name and mine." He knew he sounded overly formal, like he was reading it from a page. In a way, he was - these were the words he had forced himself to repeat over and over again the night before, to make sure that this time they came out. He suspected he didn't sound very sincere. All he had left to hope was that Potter would say 'you're welcome' again, and then Draco could get up and leave, never to come back.
Potter, of course, the stupid bastard that he was, refused to follow the script dictated by Draco's hope and common sense. "I didn't do it for your family, Malfoy," he said.
"Then why?" the question escaped Draco's lips before he could stop it.
Potter's eyes seemed to be fixed on Draco now. Draco wanted to avert his gaze, unwilling to be probed like that by anyone - let alone Potter - but for some reason, not looking into these freakishly green eyes seemed worse than letting him stare. So he shrugged, eased back on the chair, and returned the gaze, challenging Potter without words.
He expected Potter to smile, or to change the subject, or to kick him out. He expected awkward silence, or a failed attempt at a joke, or angry shouts. He got neither.
"He made you torture people," Potter stated in a matter-of-fact tone, with no discernible pity, but no anger or hate, either. "You didn't want to, did you? But he still made you do it."
Draco hadn't realised he stood up. He could only stare at Potter in surprise mingled with fury, and - and this he would never admit to a living soul - something that felt too much like fear. "How do you know?" he whispered.
Potter didn't answer his question. "He thought he could make a better Death Eater out of you, didn't he. You didn't have it in you to kill Dumbledore, and he thought he could make you grow into the part by forcing you to torture others." His voice sounded almost soft.
Draco sat down. He'd die before he allowed Potter to see him shaking, before he admitted the fear that still engulfed him when he remembered those days. "You had such accurate intelligence, no wonder we lost," he said bitterly.
Immediately he knew he had said the wrong thing. Potter's eyes narrowed, and what could have been fascination was now replaced with anger. "I was under the impression your family was on the losing side no matter what," he said coldly.
"Yeah," Draco admitted before he could stop himself. And then it all came out in a huge torrent of doubt and anger and bitterness and pain, all those things he never meant to tell anyone, least of all Harry Potter. "Thirty million Galleons. They want us to pay thirty million Galleons! We don't have that kind of money, Potter! No one has that kind of money! You-Know-Who spent half our money on Merlin-knows-what and some of my mother's money is in Bellatrix's vault and they've already seized that and Mother seems to think that if she just stays inside for a bit everyone will forget and she could go back to going in and out of the Ministry with Father and they don't understand what it's like out there and no one will even listen to me, I can't even get a job as a bloody shop assistant, I've stooped that low because no one will have me but they won't have me either and I don't know what to do!"
Potter gave him a confused look. He looked even more stupid than usual wearing that frown on his face. Idiot kid, that's what he was. What did he know about life? What did he know about problems? Everyone was going out of their way to do anything they could for Harry Potter, what could he possibly know? Draco knew he should keep his mouth shut - and especially near Potter - but it felt good, too good, to be able to say it at last. "At least if the Dark Lord had won, no one would have expected us to pay the expenses of the entire war," he finished bitterly, and didn't care what Potter would say in response to these words.
"I'll talk to Kingsley," was Potter's unexpected answer. "See if we can get you some more time before the payments are due. And we'll see if we can get your mum's money out of Bellatrix's vault."
Now Draco felt foolish. He didn't want favours from Potter and his pals at the Ministry. "I didn't come here to -"
"I know what you came here for," Potter cut across him. "This isn't charity, it's common sense. There's a lot of good people who have suffered and a lot of orphans who could benefit from your gold and it's only sensible to make sure you can actually pay your fines. And you were released by the Wizengamot, so refusing to hire you is illegal," he added flatly. "I'll have a word with Kingsley about that as well."
Potter was true to his word. A small Ministry wizard showed up in the Manor the very next day, and arranged for a debt settlement that gave them enough time to get organised and sell the house before things got tough again. Draco was surprised to realise he did not much care that he was forced to leave his childhood's home, his parent's Manor. The last two years seemed to be looming over him there. Everywhere he went, he saw those red eyes, that terrible smile, the snake-like face... he felt almost relieved when he found a small place for himself and his parents in London and they left Wiltshire and Malfoy Manor behind.
Potter had also kept his word about finding a job for Draco. Not long after the move to London, he had found himself being interviewed in the Ministry. The position was small, boring, and without a lot of chances for advancement. He would be a nobody, another clerk in an already-full department. It was not, as his father had said in indignation, a position worthy of a Malfoy. But it was all Draco was offered, and at the moment, the only position worthy of a Malfoy was accepting that he was in no position at all to turn it down.
There were some problems at first with his new colleagues, but even those soon stopped. Malfoy suspected Potter had had something to do with that, too, but it had remained a suspicion. He never got confirmation, especially not from Potter. He saw him, every once in a while, walking the corridors of the Ministry of Magic in the company of Shacklebolt or Weasley or some other higher-up Ministry wizard or witch, and whenever their paths had crossed, Potter would nod and go on his way, never stopping to say anything, even not a simple 'hello'.
It was life, it was monotonous and hard and unrewarding, and Draco thought he had gotten used to it, until the night he was attacked.
He had been walking home after an unsuccessful venture into the Leaky Cauldron when he heard someone calling his name. "Malfoy!" he heard and turned around in confusion - who'd want to talk to him?
As it turned out, whoever it was didn't want to talk to him after all. He was hit with the Cruciatus curse before he had had the chance to even look at his attackers, and the pain was so much that he thought he would die. He thought he was screaming, but he couldn't even be sure of that, only the pain was real, a white hot pain that erased everything else, and he hoped to die, he hoped it would end, and there was something else as well, something calling to him, a darkness, telling him to let go, just let go, if he'd just let go it would all be alright and the pain would stop and it'd be so much easier and...
The pain must have stopped, because he wasn't screaming anymore. He lay there with his eyes shut, his face on the muddy pavement, and it was so warm and comfortable and he could stay there forever. Someone was talking above him, and the voice sounded vaguely familiar, but it really didn't matter. All that mattered was staying there, slowly falling into blessed sleep...
"Malfoy!" someone shouted and slapped his face. Draco didn't mind. He was a bit annoyed because the comfortable sleep was now further away, but he thought if he could just stay there a little longer it'd be alright. "Malfoy!" the voice shouted again. Ignoring it was easy.
He didn't quite remember being hauled up. Maybe he fell asleep. He must have been hauled up because he could feel himself now standing upright, leaning over something - someone, perhaps, he mused as he heard a groan from somewhere beneath him. That was alright, too, he supposed, although why wouldn't they let him just fall asleep he couldn't understand.
The voice was talking again. He thought he heard him say, "Malfoy - wake up - listen to me - wake up!" He thought he'd tell them to stop bothering him and go away, but the thought left his mind as soon as it entered it, and he just stayed there, trying to fall back into oblivion. The next thing he knew, the person beneath him had turned on the spot and he felt as if he'd been shoved into a too-small compartment, and then he knew no more
He woke up. There was pain everywhere, but he was lying on something soft and someone pushed something into his hand. "Drink," he heard a voice. He tried to crack open an eye, to sit up, but a firm hand shoved him back down. "Drink," the woman said again. He shrugged and drank, trying to look at her. She wore a Healer's robe. He must be in St Mungo's, he mused. He tried looking around the room for a moment, and just as his eyes closed, he thought he might have seen a mess of black hair.
When he next woke up, he had to blink a couple of times before he could keep his eyes open. The room was flooded by brilliant light, and once he got his bearings, he could see that the sun was coming in through the window. It must have been shortly after noon. Another look around confirmed that he was in St Mungo's, and definitely alone. He sat up and thought of getting out of the bed, but his legs felt like lead, heavy and unmoving.
"Hello?" he called to the room in general. The door opened, an unfamiliar face popped in, and the door closed again. Well, he thought angrily, if that's how things were going to be... he tried to move his legs again, but to no avail. Not to be deterred by that little snag, he tried pulling his legs, forcing them down. That seemed to work and, encouraged, he tried to stand up.
He managed to grab hold of the bed just before his face hit the ground. He knew he would not be able to pull himself up completely, not as long as his legs refused to cooperate. He had to try, though. Any moment now, someone could come through that door - no, not someone, he had to admit to himself. Potter. Potter might come through that door and he just wouldn't be able to take it.
"What are you doing?" a voice asked at that exact moment, and Draco felt himself flushing, although relieved - it was not Potter's voice.
"Trying to pull myself back to the bed," he snapped at the Healer.
"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped back at him, and waved her wand. He was lifted up the air, and sent back into the bed.
"What happened?" he asked her.
She shrugged. "You got hit with a curse. Here, drink this," she shoved a goblet into his hand. The potion inside was revolting puce.
"I got hit with the Cruciatus curse," he pointed out.
She shrugged again. She was quickly getting on his nerves. "You got hit with something else, too," she said. "And you were lucky Harry was around, or you'd be dead now. And not from the Cruciatus curse."
"So it was Potter who brought me here? Where is he now?"
"Working, I imagine," she said, completely indifferent. "Drink your potion."
He thought of telling her off, or refusing to drink the bloody thing, but decided against it. She could probably force it down his throat, and besides, the damage to his pride was not even remotely close to the damage to his legs. He drank the potion and noted that its taste was even more revolting than its colour. She took the goblet and was gone.
The next three days continued with the same routine. He had no visitors - no one, not even his parents, had come to St Mungo's to ease his boredom, give him news, or just provide entertainment. The Healer walked in to give him his meals and his potion and replace the bandage on the nasty wound he had procured, but she never stayed too long, and was always cold and unhappy. His dreams were haunted by faceless men who ambushed him in the dark. He assumed it was a measure of progress from his usual nightmares, that included red, snake-like eyes, but he could hardly call it a huge improvement. The only improvement he had, in fact, was that his legs were getting better. By the third day, he could already stand, and was frustrated to find out he was not being discharged yet. "But I'm fine now," he argued with the Healer when she entered his room to give him the potion and change the dressing of the wound on his chest. "Look!" To make his point, he jumped out of the bed.
"Stop being childish and get back in bed," she snapped at him, gave him another gobletful of the revolting potion, and was gone. He went back to bed. There was no point not going back.
The door opened again. Draco assumed that it was the Healer, who must have forgotten something and opened his mouth to start another argument, but then closed it again in surprise. It wasn't the Healer - it was Potter.
Potter studied him for a moment from the door, then closed it behind him and stepped into the room. "How are you doing?" he asked.
"Fine," Draco snapped. Just what he needed. Potter, deciding to come and pay him a visit. Probably to remind him he had played the hero once again. There may have been a part of him, hidden deep inside, that was pleased to see Potter, but he refused to admit that part had existed, even to himself.
"Take off your shirt," Potter said.
Draco stared at him for a moment. "Beg your pardon?" he managed eventually.
"I need to check something. With your wound. Please, take off your shirt," Potter repeated.
He stared at Potter for a moment longer and then, reluctantly, started removing the upper part of the hospital gown. He saw Potter's eyes flicker for a moment, and it took him a second to understand what had attracted his eyes. He had removed just enough of the gown to expose the old scars, the scars Potter had given him a couple of years ago in a bathroom at Hogwarts. And all of a sudden, he wasn't so reluctant to remove the hospital gown. That's right, Potter, he thought angrily as he exposed more of the long, thin lines that were etched into his flesh, take a good look at your handiwork, at that time you almost killed me.
If Potter had considered bringing it up, though, he must have thought better of it. When next Draco looked again at Potter, he was looking back at him impassively. Then he walked straight to Draco's bed and seated himself on the covers. He took out his wand and aimed it at the bandage on his chest, muttering all the while some unknown spell. It went on like that for a minute or two, and then, with surprising speed, Potter grabbed Draco's left arm, and directed his wand at it. Draco started pulling back his hand, but Potter's grip on it was like iron. His wand was an inch from where the Dark Mark could once be seen on the skin, when he stopped and started muttering the spell again. It couldn't be a coincidence that he was examining his Dark Mark, and yet, Draco didn't ask what he was doing with it, or why. He didn't really want to know.
Finally, Potter was satisfied. He let go of his arm and got up. "You can get dressed now," he told Draco.
"What was it you just did?" Draco demanded, but Potter ignored him.
"I was told by the Healer you're being released today," he said instead. "You're probably going to get a couple more sick days... but drop into my office when you're back, I'll need to take a statement."
Draco was so angry that Potter had known his own release date before he did, that he didn't even manage to think of a proper retort. By the time he opened his mouth to speak, Potter had already left.
Draco was indeed released from the hospital that very day, as the Healer decided he didn't need any more disgusting puce potion, and that he could do the rest of his recovery at home. She even added a couple of restrained comments about how much he must have been looking forward to going back there. He couldn't tell her how wrong she was. Oh, he knew why his parents did not come to visit him at the hospital, of course, and didn't begrudge them their decision - his parents didn't leave the small flat unless they had to these days. They seemed almost afraid to go back to the wizarding society. But even without that argument, living with them was almost as depressing as living at the same house with the Dark Lord the year before. They were quiet, and withdrawn, and most of their words were about how terrible their living conditions were these days, and how they did not deserve that treatment. The only thing Draco was sure of was that as soon as he had enough money, he would find a place of his own, even if it meant paying rent on two different flats. He loved his parents, but living with them had become a slow torture.
It wasn't much of a surprise, then, that come Monday, he showed up at work as usual. He had been given three more sick days, but between going to work and staying at home with his parents, he decided the Ministry was the lesser evil. He didn't go to Potter's office, though. In fact, he did his best to avoid Potter completely - he hardly left his office, even for lunch, and at the end of each day he left immediately to the small flat. None of his colleagues seemed to notice. He was surprised to see how easily he fell back to routine.
But routine eluded him. After about a week of hiding in his office, a small memo zoomed into his office and landed on his desk. He opened it completely before he recognised the disorganised, slightly childish handwriting - Potter's.
Malfoy, still need to take that statement. Drop by my desk before you leave work today please. - Harry.
Well, so much for avoiding Potter. Draco knew that memos had a way of registering whether they'd been read or not. Potter would know he got the memo, and if he didn't show up, it would probably be brought up with his supervisor, and really, it would be less painful to just enter the damn office and be done with it. He would have felt annoyed, if it weren't for the feeling like lead in his stomach. More than anything else, he was dreading this encounter. He wasn't quite sure why he was dreading it, but he sure had plenty of reasons to pick from - being stuck alone in an office with Potter, Potter bringing up that he had saved Draco's life yet again, or worse - that he would act again as if it was no big deal...
But come six o'clock, he sighed, tidied up his desk, and went up to where the Aurors sat, all the way to Potter's desk.
It was the first time he'd been up there, the first time he saw Potter where he worked. There were various photographs on the cubicle's walls - Potter with Weasley and Granger; the entire Weasley family; a picture of a man and a woman, the man looking so much like Potter that he supposed it must be his father; a picture of someone Draco recognised vaguely as Sirius Black together with their old werewolf teacher, Lupin... Other than the pictures, there was nothing on the walls. No wanted posters, nothing on his current projects.
Potter himself was sitting next to his desk, scribbling on a piece of parchment, and didn't seem aware that Draco had arrived.
"Potter," Draco said to alert him. Potter jumped, and then turned around quickly.
"Damn it, Malfoy, you scared the hell out of me," he said.
"Well, you're the one who told me to get here now, I could go and come back - "
"No, no, sit down," he gestured in front of him. There was no chair there. "Erm," he said and went to find a chair from a near-by cubicle. Draco sat without a word. Potter took out a second piece of parchment and looked at it thoughtfully.
"So, did you see who attacked you?" he asked.
"What? No. You think I wouldn't have said who it was?" Draco was already angry, and it had only been the first question.
"Right. So you were walking down the street - "
" - And someone called my name, I turned around, and got hit with the Cruciatus curse. Next thing I remember I was in St Mungo's."
"What were you doing there?"
"At St. Mungo's? Getting better, I hope."
"No, you prat - " Potter stopped mid-sentence. "Sorry," he said. "I meant to ask, what were you doing on that street."
"Going home."
"Where from?"
"The Leaky Cauldron. I'm still allowed there, aren't I?" he asked sarcastically, and Potter promptly ignored him.
"So, you were in the Leaky Cauldron, decided to go home, started walking, heard someone call your name, got hit with the Cruciatus curse and you don't remember anything else?" Potter summed it up, writing on the parchment.
Draco didn't bother answering. What a tedious, ridiculous waste of his time.
"Alright, I'm going to need your signature here," Potter pushed the parchment towards Draco, who scribbled his signature on it and pushed it back.
"Is that all?" he started getting up, and was startled to hear Potter saying, "Not quite." Draco sat down again, feeling even more resentful than before.
Potter seemed to be studying him again. "D'you have any Muggle clothes?" he asked abruptly.
"Any - what's going on, Potter?"
"Do you have any Muggle clothes?"
"No, I very well don't have any Muggle clothes. I'm a wizard working in the Ministry, I wasn't aware we needed Muggle clothing here," he said scathingly.
Potter, once again, ignored his tone of voice. "Well, you're going to need them where we're going," he said lightly, "because showing up in Ministry robes would constitute a violation of the Statute of Secrecy and that sort of thing is frowned upon here at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Erm, can you Transfigure your robes or something?"
Draco gave Potter what he hoped was his most contemptuous look and aimed his wand at his robes. They turned into one of those nice, fashionable suits he had seen Muggles wear in London's financial district. With a final flick of his wand, the suit turned grey. "Satisfied?" he asked Potter, who shrugged and took off his robes to reveal jeans and a t-shirt underneath. Typical.
"C'mon," Potter said, and led the way out. Draco was in half a mind not to follow him, but it was, once again, more trouble than it was worth. And he had to admit to himself that he was getting curious. What was Potter trying to do? He definitely wasn't taking Draco back to the scene of the crime, or whatever it was they called these things. That had been inside Diagon Alley, and they would not need Muggle clothing there.
No; Potter led him deep into Muggle London. They walked up Piccadilly in silence for a few minutes, until Potter led him to one alley, then another, and the number of people around them dwindled and Draco was starting to get worried - where was he being led by Potter?
Just a pub, it turned out, a Muggle pub somewhere in a side alley next to Soho Square. Not too loud, not too full, but still just dark and cosy enough so they could talk without being heard.
"What are you having?" Potter asked as soon as they found a table somewhere inside the pub.
"What?"
"I don't s'pose you have any Muggle money, so this one's on me. What are you having?"
"Erm, beer?"
"Alright," Potter said, and disappeared towards the bar. He returned a moment later with two big glasses full of amber liquid and some nuts. Draco started drinking his beer, waiting for Potter to say whatever it was that was on his mind.
"We know who attacked you," Potter said all of a sudden. Draco spluttered into his beer.
"You know - so what was that - have you arrested - what did I need to give that bloody statement for?" he demanded.
"Well," Potter said carefully, "for one thing, I wanted to know whether you realised who it was or not."
"Who was it?" Draco repeated.
"Yaxley," Potter said shortly.
"Yaxley? But why would he - " Draco understood before he ended the sentence, but Potter explained anyway - perhaps he was so proud of himself for having figured it out, Draco thought darkly.
"You didn't end up in prison, neither did your family. And it's common knowledge that I spoke in your favour, even if most people don't know what I said. We're thinking that after the reveal about Snape..." Potter hesitated for a moment, then started again, "We're thinking they're thinking you were also a spy. Yaxley has been pretty busy lately. Trying to gather up followers. He's thinking he can replace Voldemort. Apparently. Been giving us a bit of a headache lately."
"There was nothing about this in the Prophet," Draco pointed out.
"Yeah, we're trying to keep a lid on things. Best not tell the world there's still some Death Eaters out there trying to continue Voldemort's work. People might start to panic. And they're really a bit incompetent, so other than the random attack here and there, not a lot of damage has been done. Yaxley doesn't know half as much as he thinks he knows," Potter ended in a dark tone. "We're still doing our best to catch him - " he added quickly, probably at the sight of Draco's expression - "we're not taking this lightly. But the general public doesn't seem to be in too much of a danger yet, so there's no point warning everyone and causing more panic."
"No, it's just people like me who are in danger," Draco said, putting into that sentence as much of his bitterness as he could muster. Typical. He lived the last two years of his life in mortal fear of the Dark Lord, doing anything that was asked of him until the very end - and in the end his Dad's old friends were after him because they thought he betrayed them. Just typical.
"Yeah," said Potter, looking for the first time uncomfortable. "That's our bad. We didn't think they'd go after you, we thought they'd concentrate on other people first... we're still not sure whether they were planning it or maybe they just randomly saw you and decided to attack you on the spot."
"Wait, wait, wait." Something unpleasant was just dawning on Draco. "They could still be after me. I need protection!" he added, starting to panic.
"You've had protection ever since you arrived at St Mungo's," Potter said. "There's always someone from the Auror office nearby."
"I haven't seen anyone!"
Potter raised an eyebrow. "We're not completely incompetent, you know," he said dryly. "You haven't seen anyone because we're trying not to be seen. The truth is that you're... sort of bait."
Draco stared at Potter, speechless. Bait?
"Kingsley didn't want me to tell you. I thought differently."
"And you get to do whatever you want," Draco couldn't quite stop himself from saying this.
"The one perk of being me, I guess, is that people actually listen to what I say," Potter agreed. "I thought we should warn you. For one thing, I'm not convinced they're not targeting your family."
Draco jumped up, shocked. His mother, his father, they could all be in danger, right now, "We need to get going then! We need some protection! We need - "
"Sit down," Potter hissed. "We're going to go there from here."
But Draco refused to sit down. "Why not now?" he demanded. "It's my family, Potter!"
Potter looked as if he wanted to say something as well, but then a moment passed and he seemed to change his mind. "Fine," he said, and got up as well. "Let's go, then."
Draco couldn't get there fast enough. The flat, all of a sudden, seemed so far, and he cursed Potter for taking them into a Muggle pub, and one so far from Diagon Alley. The ten minutes that it had taken him to walk the street, climb the stairs and enter the small, shabby flat seemed more like a hundred. Only at the door he hesitated. Potter was there - right behind him. Should he let him in without warning his parents first?
Potter, it seemed, didn't think about that at all. Without waiting for Draco to go in himself, without another word, he opened the door and strolled into the flat as if he owned the place. Draco soon followed.
"Draco!" he could hear his mother. "You're late, where have you - " she stopped mid-sentence, frozen, staring at the unexpected intruder. Draco closed the door behind him, saying nothing. He knew he would have to explain later. He didn't want to explain while Potter was in the room.
Potter, for his part, did not greet Draco's mother in any way. In fact, he acted as if she did not exist. "How many windows are there in here?" he asked Draco.
"What?"
"Windows, Malfoy, windows. I'd rather start with the obvious ways people could get in."
"Oh - right. Well, there's the bedroom, and my parents' bedroom, the living room, the kitchen, so four - no, five. The bathroom also has a window."
"Lead the way," Potter said, and Draco started showing him the various rooms in the house. Next to each window, Potter drew his wand, performed some complicated charm, and continued on to the next one.
It all seemed to be in order until they entered the living room, where Draco's father sat. He was in his favourite armchair, reading the Daily Prophet, and did not seem aware that they had a guest in the house, not until they entered. Lucius Malfoy folded his newspaper, undoubtedly ready to greet his son, and then his face turned white.
At that moment, Draco stole a glance at Potter, and was startled. He had known Potter for seven years, seven bitter years, in which they had shared nothing but hatred for each other. He had seen hatred on Potter's face more often than not when he was looking at him, hatred and anger and resentment. But, as it turned out, it was nothing, nothing at all, compared to the loathing Potter had apparently reserved for his father. His face was almost frightening as he stared at Draco's father. Draco could see Potter's knuckles whiten as he grasped his wand tightly.
"What's he doing here?" Father asked, in a hoarse whisper that was so unlike him.
"I'm helping protect your house," Potter spat. "And don't worry; I'm not doing it out of concern for your worthless life. As far as I'm concerned, your old pals can come and do you in any time, they'd do us a favour. But the Ministry kinda disapproves, so here I am."
Draco's father got up and joined his mother in the kitchen, eyeing Potter wearily. Potter ignored them both - he continued casting his charms and protective spells without another word, without even acknowledging that Lucius and Narcissa were still there. After five minutes of awkward silence and muttered spells, he turned to Draco.
"That's it, then," he said. "You should be alright here now. I'll see you at work," and left. Draco remained inside the house, burdened with having to explain it all to his parents, and for some odd reason, all he wanted to do was go out after Potter and shout at him some more.
To everyone's surprise, and to Draco's most of all, he ended up seeing a lot more of Potter in the next few weeks. He suspected that Potter felt guilty over the role the Ministry had designated Draco in their little operation - that of bait. Or perhaps, despite his words, he was worried that their defences might not be enough. Whatever it was, Draco found himself surprisingly often in the Leaky Cauldron or at some Muggle pub around London, drinking beer in the company of Harry Potter.
It wasn't always pleasant. Potter was quick to point out that if he didn't drink with him, Draco often drank alone, or else went home to sit in the small shabby flat with his parents. "What happened to your friends?" he asked one night. "You know, Parkinson, Zabini, that lot..."
Draco noted how he didn't mention Goyle - probably in order not to mention Crabbe. But Draco wasn't going to mention Crabbe himself, so for once, he didn't mind. What he did mind was Potter's question. And the prospect of answering it.
"They have other things on their minds," he answered shortly, wishing Potter would get the hint and change the subject.
Of course he didn't. For a moment there, Draco had forgotten - this was Potter, after all, with his eternal need to stick his nose in other people's business, especially where neither he nor his nose were welcome. "C'mon," he insisted, "you guys were always together at school. What happened?"
"What happened," Draco said pointedly, already feeling himself flushing, "is that once the Dark Lord was defeated they realised that it just might hurt their future prospects to be hanging around with former Death Eaters."
"Oh," Potter had the decency to look abashed.
And then Draco found himself spilling all of his frustrations in front of Potter - again. Partially, he knew, it really was because of his friends. These days, he had no one to talk to. No one who would even listen, as Pansy and Blaise and the rest of them refused to have anything to do with him. His parents were too deep into their own troubles, with Narcissa having finally decided to come back out into the world and had the cold reception of reality hit her in the face. Since then, their family dinners became much more the arena of his mother's indignation than a place where Draco could explain his own. That, too, he found himself telling Potter. One drunken night, he told Potter of his nightmares, of the way the Dark Lord still haunted his dreams, and of some things he suspected Potter knew, things he wished were nightmares, because that would have meant he never had to see them or do them.
The biggest surprise was that Potter actually listened. He didn't mock Draco, or criticise him. He didn't judge him when he heard of the things Draco had been forced to do. Not once did he say what Draco dreaded him saying, that there were people out there with much bigger troubles than Draco and his family, that there were people who suffered worse, that it was all their own fault.
It felt almost like friendship, in a way.
It wasn't, of course. They were bitter rivals and Draco was never going to forget that. And he was quite certain he didn't want Potter's friendship. He wasn't nearly as certain what it was he did want of Potter, for there was definitely something he was getting from these meetings and a reason he kept coming back, but friendship wasn't one of them.
He was thinking of friendship when he pointed out, one Thursday, that it had been the third day in a row they'd gone out together, and that Potter was seeing more of him than he did Weasley and Granger. "Careful, now, Potter," he teased Potter with a smile, "I might start thinking you like me better."
"That's right, Malfoy," Potter responded in kind, "all your petty insults and self-centred complaints, that's what I look forwards to every day."
Draco laughed. A few years ago he would have probably taken that sentence as an insult - hell, a few weeks ago, too. But that was just Potter, wasn't it? They couldn't stop themselves from insulting each other. It was all a part of the game.
"So how come you're spending more time with me than with your friends?" he asked.
"Look, I volunteered to keep an eye on you 'cause no one else would," Potter answered, and the hint of laughter was gone from his voice. "I see plenty of my friends, thanks. I don't need you to worry about me."
"What about you and the Weasley girl?" Draco pushed on, intentionally oblivious to Potter's changed attitude. For one reckless moment, he wanted to see how far he could push Potter.
To his surprise, Potter's face darkened and he stared into his beer wordlessly. "What?" Draco laughed, happy at the opportunity to finally get one back at Potter. "Trouble in paradise?"
Potter flushed. "We split up," he said.
"Why?" He wasn't mocking Potter anymore. Now, Draco was genuinely curious.
It still was the wrong question to ask. Draco had finally gone too far. Potter got on his feet and threw him a contemptuous look. "My private life's none of your business, Malfoy," he said coldly and left the pub. Draco was left to stare into his beer, feeling resentful.
He thought of going back to Potter, shouting at him for his attitude, but when he tried to come up with something to say, he was left with nothing. This was not a friendship between them. He knew that. He opened up to Potter because he had no one else to talk to, and because, for some reason, talking to Potter actually made sense. But it was never a two-way street. Potter never gave the smallest inclination that he wanted to share things with Draco, that he wanted to make this some sort of a friendship, something on more even footing. It was Draco's own fault for assuming that. And still, he felt resentment. The next few days, he stayed in his cubicle, went home early, and tried to avoid Potter as best as he could. Somewhere deep inside, he thought it was better to go before Potter had the chance to come and suggest they go out for a drink. That way, if Potter never came, Draco had no way of knowing.
But Potter did come back a couple of days later, showed up near Draco's desk just before he finished his day and dragged him to some Muggle pub near Hide Park as if nothing happened. Draco knew better than to bring up the topic of his friends or ex-girlfriends again, but silently, he kept an eye on Potter. It turned out he was spending a lot less time with the jumped-up Mudblood and the Weasley oaf. For a while, Draco conducted a small experiment of his own: whenever Potter did not come to drag him into one of his pub crawls, he left work directly to visit Grimmauld Place. Potter was always alone at those times, always quick to let Draco in. One week they had even gone out every single night together, drinking at different pubs and throwing insulting comments at each other, and not once did Potter say he couldn't come, that he had to meet his friends, or do something with his horde of admirers.
The only hint Draco had ever got was a throwaway comment by Potter, one night after they discussed the war - or rather, Draco had discussed the war while Potter listened quietly. Draco had mentioned then how everyone saw a saviour in Potter. "I'd rather they just looked at me and saw me," Potter said quietly, and immediately changed the subject.
Draco thought he was the only one who kept track of Potter's schedule, but other people were noticing the results of his little experiment as well. It was over dinner the week after that that his father said, all of a sudden, "You're spending an awful lot of time with Potter, Draco."
"Well, he's all the rage these days, isn't he?" Draco pointed out. "Besides, it's not like I have anyone else to hang out with." Which was, of course, completely true.
What he didn't tell his parents was that it wasn't just his days that had an excess of Potter in them now. The green eyes had taken the place of the red ones in haunting his dreams. Personally, he was not complaining. He didn't much care for the alternative. For the first time since the war - since even before the war, really - he was sleeping well. He didn't feel as tired all the time, didn't feel as cranky. He was feeling more comfortable at work, too - none of the people at the office became his friends, but most of the glaring and whispering had stopped, at least in his presence, and people didn't bother putting on their most hostile voice when they interacted with him.
-X-
It was late, but Draco stayed at his desk, waiting for Potter to show up and drag him out as usual. He had done so every single day in the past couple of weeks. Draco didn't even consider the possibility he wouldn't show up, but when he took a peek at his watch and discovered that it was already 7:15 and no Potter in the horizon, he packed up his things and went to Potter's desk.
The Aurors' desks were all abandoned. Potter's as well - the only movement was that of the people in the photographs, laughing and jumping and doing whatever it was they did. Draco gave a fleeting glance to the one of Potter's school friends - they must have been 14 there, he reckoned, just the three of them, laughing around in what looked like Weasley's family home.
He shrugged and went home. After all, Potter never said he'd come every evening. It's not like they had an arrangement or something. Really, he didn't have a right to expect that Potter would come all the time, of course he had better things to do, they didn't even like each other, they weren't friends or anything... he kicked around angrily all the way back home, feeling dejected and angry and disappointed.
Draco was relieved when his parents retired to bed early, and stayed in the living room, staring at his book. He knew he was in too bad a mood to fall asleep if he went to bed himself. He wasn't in a state to read the book, either - no, instead of progressing, he kept on staring at the same paragraph over and over again.
It was almost as if he waited for that knock on the door around midnight, although it had surprised him when he did hear it. Confused, he stared at the door for a moment. There it was again - not as much of a knock as a bang, really. He jumped to open it.
It was Potter. He was his usual mess, from the shock of black hair to the robes, torn and muddy - honestly, he knew the man had no sense of style, but he must have heard of washing machines! - this time accompanied by red eyes and the unmistakeable smell of alcohol. Potter was drunk.
"Did you know," he demanded, "that they close down pubs in this bloody city at eleven?"
"Yes, Potter. It's so that idiots like you don't get too drunk."
Potter seemed to have taken this as an invitation to walk in. He staggered inside and threw himself on Draco's former armchair. "Well, it's too early. D'you have anything to drink here?"
"No. Shouldn't you go home or - "
Potter wasn't even listening. He got up from the armchair, walked straight into the kitchen, and started rummaging the various cupboards.
"Nothing? Not even some expensive elf wine, or firewhiskey? Anything? Don't tell me you sold the wine cellar together with the Manor."
Draco could feel his temper rising. Just what he needed, to be reminded of their fall from grace by a drunk Potter. "As a matter of fact, we did." He closed the cupboard shut, not trying to avoid Potter's fingers. Potter, as it turned out, wasn't as drunk as he appeared to be at first glance. He withdrew his fingers just in time, shot Draco a filthy look, and went on to another cupboard.
"Not even Butterbeer?" He sounded disappointed.
"Look, Potter, you're going to wake up my parents, and - "
"Muffliato," Potter aimed his wand at the bedroom, and went back to rummaging through the kitchen like a rampaging hippogriff.
"Would - you - stop - that?" Draco grabbed him. "I've got pumpkin juice. That's all I have."
"Ah, well," Potter sighed. "Pumpkin juice it is, then."
More to stop him from completely destroying the kitchen than anything else, Draco pulled out the bottle of pumpkin juice and poured a glass. He had hoped that perhaps the pumpkin juice would calm Potter down - and return him to sobriety - but Potter didn't seem to have any such plans. The second he laid his hands on the glass, he tapped his wand to it, muttering something. The orange drink turned electric blue.
"Er... what did you do?"
"Turned it into alcoholic pumpkin juice!" Potter sounded much too pleased with himself. This, Draco surmised, could only end badly, and indeed - the pleased smile was erased from Potter's face a moment later, when he spat his mouthful of blue pumpkin juice all over the counter.
"Not the taste you were looking for?" Draco raised an eyebrow.
"Tastes like floor wax," Potter lamented.
"That'll teach you." Draco leaned on the counter - far away from the poorly Transfigured juice - and stared at Potter with crossed arms. Potter stared back at him, a curious look on his face, something that Draco wasn't quite able to place. He waited and waited, but Potter said nothing, just looked at him. Draco, then, was the first to give up. "Why are you here?" he asked.
Potter stood up as well and walked the distance between them in three steps. "Why not?" he asked back, his face uncomfortably close to Draco's.
"Because you have friends, Potter, you know, the kind of people who actually give a damn when you're having a breakdown and need to show up drunk on other people's doorstep in the middle of the night." He knew he was letting some of his anger and resentment from earlier show, but he didn't much care.
"You have a point," Potter said and his voice sounded surprisingly hoarse. "But there's one thing I can't do with my friends."
Draco was in the middle of saying "Oh?" when Potter kissed him. He tasted of whiskey and floor wax and something that might have been blood and Draco discovered he was returning the kiss before he even had the chance to think about it. He was even more surprised to discover he enjoyed it. Then Potter let go, stumbled a step back, with an almost comical expression of confusion on his face.
"Oh, to hell with it," said Draco and grabbed Potter for another kiss.
-X-
He didn't open his eyes when he woke up. The room was flooded with soft light, and he could feel a cool breeze on his face. If he kept his eyes shut for another moment, he thought he could stay in the state of near-sleep for just a little longer, and with it, keep the feeling of utter content that engulfed him. He wasn't quite sure why, all he knew was that he felt happier than he had in a long time, definitely happier than he did when waking up. He must have had a wonderful dream last night - last night - when...
Potter's lips on his, Potter's fingers exploring him, the two of them stumbling into the bedroom, it all came back to him in a rush. Maybe that was what he wanted from Potter all that time, he thought, a satisfied smirk coming to his lips. Well, whether it was or not, it seemed like he was about to get it.
He stretched a hand to the other side of the bed, ready to wake up the lazy git, and his hands met nothing but the mattress. Draco's eyes flew open, and he looked to his side. The bed was cold and empty. Someone did sleep there, it hadn't been a dream - the blankets were tousled, the sheets all mangled. But Potter, it was obvious, had left a long time ago. Perhaps an hour or two ago, perhaps immediately after Draco had fallen asleep.
Never mind that, Draco thought and jumped out of his bed. Potter must have left early because he didn't want to run into Draco's parents - and really, Draco couldn't fault him. The idea of Harry Potter coming out of his room at morning to see his parents was... well, it was something so horrible that it didn't even stand thinking about. No, Potter did the right thing. Draco would see him at work and, with any luck, they would go to Grimmauld Place tonight and repeat last night's performance. With much gusto.
He was impatient and distracted all through the morning, and by the time his lunch hour arrived, he did what he had never done before, and went to seek out Potter in the Auror office. Heads turned when Draco showed up there, looking for the messy black hair, but to his great disappointment, Potter wasn't there. Maybe he went to grab an early lunch with someone, Draco thought darkly, and returned to his own desk, disappointed.
He was determined to sit at his desk that evening and wait for Potter to come to him. Around 7, he finally gave up, and went once again to look for Potter. He wasn't at his desk, either. His disappointment now growing into annoyance, he decided to go and visit Grimmauld Place. Potter wasn't going to avoid him, not after last night, he didn't care what was at stake.
There was light in the corridor of 12 Grimmauld Place. Draco could see it through the window. Gotcha, he thought, and didn't as much knock as hammered on the door. No answer. He hammered the door again, this time even louder. Finally, he could hear footsteps from inside the house, and someone fumbling with the lock.
"I know last night wasn't expected or anything, but I'd - " he finished half his sentence before his eyes managed to communicate to his brain what they were seeing and he realised he should shut the hell up. It wasn't Potter who opened the door - it was Granger. He could feel the blood leaving his face.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded.
"He isn't here," she didn't quite answer his question.
"What d'you mean, 'he isn't here'?"
"He's gone." She bit her lip. "I think you'd better come in, actually."
Draco followed her inside. Granger was sitting next to the long oak table in the kitchen with Weasley, looking worried. Weasley, of course, jumped to his feet as soon as he saw Draco.
"What's he doing here?"
"He came looking for Harry. Maybe he knows something," she said.
"What I want to know is what do you mean when you say 'he's gone'? Where did he go?"
Granger and Weasley exchanged dark looks. "We don't know. He quit the Auror office last night. No one's seen him since."
Draco sat down in shock. Quit... last night? But that must have happened before he showed up at his place.
"What happened?" he asked now, more quietly.
"Yaxley and a couple of his goons cornered Harry near Diagon Alley," Granger said. "We knew they were targeting some people but we never thought they'd go after... I mean... it's Harry!"
"He had no choice," Weasley continued the story. "He had to kill them. Self defence," he said defiantly, as if expecting Draco to challenge that assertion.
Granger was now looking at her shoes. "You know what Harry's like, though. Right after that he wrote down his letter of resignation and put it on Kingsley's desk."
"So where is he now?"
"We don't know. He's disappeared. He left the Ministry around nine and then - but hold on," to Draco's horror, she finally seemed to register the words he said when she opened the door. "You say you saw him last night?"
"Yeah," Draco said reluctantly, hoping against hope she would not pursue this line of questioning. "He showed up drunk at my house."
"Your house?" Weasley's brow furrowed in confusion. "Why your house?"
Draco just shrugged.
"When was that?"
"Around midnight."
"What time did he leave?" Granger asked the question he dreaded most. He could feel himself going red.
"I don't know," he admitted.
She narrowed her eyes at him. "How can you not know?" she asked. "He comes by your house at midnight and you don't know when - oh." To Draco's horror, Granger's quick wit didn't leave her even now. The perfect round O her mouth had made would have been comical if it weren't for the implications.
"He left before I woke up," Draco mumbled.
Weasley had by now caught on as well, and was gaping at Malfoy in pure shock.
"You... him... you... how?"
"You'll forgive me if I don't answer that particular question, Weasley," he said coldly.
He got out of there as soon as possible. He had never enjoyed the company of those two, and in the current circumstances, it was even more unbearable. Granger seemed torn between shouting at Malfoy and asking for details, and Weasley just kept on making those stupid little incredulous noises.
He wasn't quite sure how he managed to get to his house. His mind was too full of questions, of thoughts, so much that it threatened to explode. His mother and father started commenting about the hour, but he ignored them and went straight to his room and closed the door.
Potter was gone. It hit him as he sat down on the bed, the same place he had woken up so happy that very morning, because of Potter. He should have known it was stupid just then, he thought angrily. Blessed Potter! He had nothing but grief from him for seven years. They were enemies. They were on opposite sides, always on opposite sides. He was a fool to forget that, even for a moment.
He hated himself for forgetting that, hated himself for ever allowing Potter to sneak in into his life and pretend to be a part of it. Even if it felt good, just for a bit, to be on the same side. To believe that the great saviour of the wizarding world did not think him unworthy of his time. To think, perhaps, he might be worth saving, too.