Warnings: OMC. Slash. Minor non-con.
Two Days in February
Draco ticks off the months on his fingers—October, November, December, not January because Draco fucked Pansy that month, but then there was February, and now it is March.
With March comes spring, and with spring comes new beginnings. Supposedly.
"All I want to know," he says, not looking at him, "is whether you ever planned to tell me that you were ducking away with that bloody Ravenclaw."
Blaise cocks his head to the side. "If I recall correctly, I did nothing of the sort until you decided you were too fucking heterosexual to be bothered with me."
Draco starts, but doesn't falter. "Fine, then."
He turns to walk away and expects Blaise to stop him.
He doesn't, and Draco falls asleep alone.
---
With April comes rain, bountiful, plentiful, insanity-inducing rain.
He fucks Zacharias in a small alcove, just shielded from the heavy downpour. The boy moans like Draco's never heard, and it's so supremely satisfying that he never wants to stop.
But he has to, eventually, because the rain is stopping and Zacharias pushes him away.
"Never again," he spits. It's hard to sound indignant when you're cleaning up another boy's semen from your abdomen, but somehow Zacharias manages it just fine.
---
In May flowers begin to bloom. Draco begins to wander the Forbidden Forest, not caring that he's not supposed to, not caring about much at all.
It's almost June, and Draco knows that when June comes he'll be wearing a special ink brand on his forearm. He wants to enjoy freedom a little longer.
It's a cool night in May when Draco stumbles over a rarity of a flower. He puts a preserving spell on it and tucks it into his robes. Draco falls asleep in the Forest.
When he wakes, Blaise is sitting on the end of his bed, reading. He notices Draco's movements and puts his book down.
"You idiot," he says bluntly, "you could have died."
Draco takes this to mean he would have cared.
He bites his lip as he says it, but he says it nonetheless: "Sorry."
Blaise appraises his sincerity, and nothing is forgiven.
---
June comes and goes without much climax. They cram before they sit their N.E.W.Ts. They start to fuck each other blind at nights.
Draco tells his father that no, he does not really feel like kissing the Dark Lord's feet and worshipping the ground he walks on. When school lets out, he finds himself on his own, but with a considerable amount of money.
He purchases a flat and Blaise Apparates every so often (usually that means nightly). He begins working at a small coffee shop where he sees a lot of characters that look like Blaise, but even more who act like him.
High-strung on coffee, these people do not know how to begin their morning unless they've been drugged with caffeine and had their throats burned by the scalding beverage. They bring their tattered copies of Edgar Allen Poe and J.D. Salinger, pretending that they know something about life.
Perhaps they do, but Draco would like to see them hold their own in a duel.
---
Late in July Draco sends Blaise an owl, requesting that he show up for supper at eight.
He slaves over the food, trying to cook it to perfection, but in the end he throws it all away and orders take-out from a local Italian restaurant.
He loads the food onto fancy dishes and arranges it, then Banishes the offending boxes and sets the dishes on the table.
Surveying the scene with triumph, Draco sits back on the midnight blue loveseat and waits.
Blaise arrives at exactly eight o'clock. Draco's never known him to be late to anything.
He raises a curious eyebrow.
"Cooked it all myself," Draco boasts.
"Really." Blaise doesn't voice it as a question, and it lies flat in the air.
Draco nods. "Wine?"
"Thought you'd never ask."
Draco pours them each a glass of red wine and hands one to Blaise.
"You hold your red wine by the bowl?" he asks, observing as he takes a sip, fingers delicately gripping the stem.
Draco snarls, just a little, and really he's not even sure if it constitutes a snarl.
"So," Blaise says when the silence starts to become deafening, "why all this?" He gestures to the display of pastas and antipastos. "It's not as though you'll give a better blowjob by feeding me first."
Draco flinches, and then shrugs. "I don't know. Felt like it, I guess," he mutters.
"My family owns the restaurant you ordered this from, you know." Draco flushes. "You did, at least, have the good taste to order my favourites. What do you say we eat?"
"Sounds good to me," Draco says, and he thinks, Anything besides this sounds good.
They sit down and they eat and they drink perhaps more red wine than either of them believes they can handle.
Later, food cleared, dishes put away, and tiramisu eaten, they occupy the midnight blue loveseat and Blaise not-so-subtly runs his hand up Draco's thigh. He tenses.
"What?" Blaise purrs. "Isn't this why you wanted me here? To get you off?"
Draco says fuck it all, and closes the short distance to plant his lips across Blaise's. They're soft, like always, and he tastes sweet from the wine.
"You're so goddamn crude," he says, but then Blaise is kissing him again and he forgets to say anything else.
Somehow Blaise winds up pressing Draco into the cushions, his legs insinuated between Draco's. He grinds his hips down and already Draco can feel himself hardening.
He hates the control Blaise has over him.
---
With August comes heat and humidity.
Draco cooks dinner, the whole thing, and Blaise comments that how someone screws up spaghetti is beyond his knowledge, but says the roasted red pepper sauce was excellent.
They sip at sherry, and then Draco puts his glass down.
"It's too fucking hot," Draco mutters, pulling his shirt up over his head.
"And about to get a hell of a lot hotter," Blaise remarks knowingly, running his tongue from Draco's abdomen up to the centre of his chest.
It's already too hot, but the feel of Blaise's tongue licking so heatedly on his burning skin drives Draco mad, and he all but tears Blaise's trousers off. He fumbles with his own for a moment, and then gives up, deciding that it doesn't matter because he's already too far gone for it to matter.
Later he's never entirely sure who came first, or who was the one that whispered an almost declaration of love, but he desperately hopes it wasn't him.
"How can you stand wearing that thing?" Draco asks, his breathing regulating. He refers, of course, to the loose long-sleeved shirt Blaise still has on. He tugs upward at the hem, and obligingly Blaise lets him take it off.
He places open-mouthed kisses all over his chest, nipping at the skin and loving the way Blaise's breath hitches in his throat.
He stops.
"What the fuck is that?" he says quietly, his voice deadly calm. He sits up, distancing himself from Blaise, and chews his bottom lip.
"I should think you would know," Blaise replies, turning his arm over to inspect it for himself.
Anger runs rampant through Draco's veins.
"Get the fuck out," he whispers.
"And if I'm more comfortable here?" Blaise returns, stretching his legs out to rest on the coffee table.
Draco picks up his glass, still half-full with sherry, and throws it violently at Blaise's head. It narrowly misses as it shatters into ragged pieces.
Blaise turns his head, and then yells, "Fucking hell, Malfoy! What the fuck is your problem?"
Draco gets up and turns around, crossing his arms over his chest. "You," he says. "You are my fucking problem."
"I can see that," Blaise says, somewhat calmer than Draco would like. "Now, if you'd turn around I might have something to say."
Draco counts to three, and then slowly turns around.
He is greeted by a fist in his face.
He swings blindly with his right arm, left going up to inspect his face. He's bleeding. Worse, he misses.
Blaise grabs his clothes from the floor. "I have my reasons," he says, pulling his trousers back on.
"Reasons? What fucking reasons? Your logic consists of: Want, need, have." Draco considers. "Just get the fuck out. I don't want an explanation, I just want you gone."
Blaise stares for a brief moment, shirt in hand. Even now, Draco can't help but notice how nicely tanned his body is.
"Is that the way you want it?" Draco doesn't answer. "Fine."
Blaise Disapparates, and Draco truly believes he'll never see him again.
---
September used to mean school, but now it holds little meaning except the weather is starting to let up again. He can fall asleep with more than just his underwear on.
Students flock into the coffee shop where Draco still works, grabbing a cup before dragging themselves to class. They come again after class, this time sitting down and opening their textbooks, taking in the material.
Draco serves the same bloke lattes every day for three weeks before he realises that he lingers on longer than most.
He gives the boy a rare smile and is rewarded by an address and name being pressed into his hand.
He doesn't owl until the following week, but the response comes promptly and before Draco can wrap his head around what's happening he's out to dinner with William.
With no mind to protest, Draco finds himself curling up into William's embrace late that night, and falling asleep.
October gets cold and Draco wonders what happened to Blaise only once.
Then Potter owls him and things seem like they're about to get a lot more complicated.
---
William asks where he's going in November, and Draco can't tell him anything except he'll be back soon.
He meets Potter back at Hogwarts so that they're on neutral ground.
"This had better be important, or I'll kill you."
"If you killed me, do you have any idea how quickly you'd be caught?"
"I'll bury your body. No one will ever know it was me."
Potter rolls his eyes and lets out an exasperated sigh. "I always knew you didn't think ahead."
"Potter."
"Do you know where Zabini is?"
Draco accidentally bites the inside of his cheek. "And why the fuck would I have that information?"
Potter's eyes burn him, freezing him to the point where Draco wonders if he's part basilisk. But of course he's not and when Potter looks away, Draco finds he can move again.
"It's common knowledge that you two were involved somehow," he says, addressing the ground.
This is news to Draco.
"It's also common knowledge that you're the only person Zabini's had contact with who is not part of the movement to kill me."
"Well," Draco says, "I'm afraid I can't help you. Haven't seen the prick in a month and a half now."
Potter narrows his eyes. "You seem contemptuous."
Draco's eyes flicker away. "I have no information. Can I go and leave you to your demise now?"
Potter takes a small piece of parchment out from his robes. "My address," he says. "In case you hear anything."
Draco snorts. "You'd trust me so easily? I could decide tomorrow that I'm sick of this life and tell my father that I want to become a Death Eater and give you up."
Potter shrugs. "Sometimes you've just got to take that risk."
Draco tries not to notice how dull his eyes have become, but it's impossible.
Turning to head back to the gates where he can Apparate, Draco pauses and looks back over his shoulder. "Did you ever—" He doesn't want to finish the question, but he fears that Potter is too thick to see where it's going.
And indeed, Potter gives him a blank stare.
"Did you ever screw Zabini?"
Potter's cheeks turn red. "Er. Just once, when he was cutting a swath through the school because you—"
"Because I was 'too fucking heterosexual to bother with him.' Yeah, gotcha."
Draco burns on the walk back to the gates, and even more as he goes to the hotel in Hogsmeade he's staying at for the rest of the week.
He owls William and tells him that, if he likes, he can move his stuff into Draco's flat.
---
December comes and brings with it snow.
It's everywhere, covering the streets and trees and buildings with innocence, wiping away the dirt and grime until everything positively gleams.
It gets colder and colder, but Draco just curls up with William and together they manage to make it through until Christmas.
On Christmas, Draco is surprised to find a snowy owl drop an oddly-shaped package off at his doorstep.
There is no writing anywhere on the package and Draco isn't sure whether he ought to open it.
William comes to look, leaning over Draco's shoulder as he traces the shape of the bulky brown-paper package.
"Who's it from?" he asks.
"I have no idea," Draco answers, even though he does have an idea, and a good idea at that.
But finally he opens it, unwrapping it carefully and only periodically glancing at it. It's a tea pot.
Draco peers at it curiously.
It's a rather nice tea pot, with a design of Chinese characters just below the rim and oriental flowers stretching up from the base.
Draco can't read Chinese, but apparently William can, because he says: "Whoever sent this must really like you. 'I want to fuck you,'" he translates, and Draco senses jealousy in his voice.
He kisses him, and then picks up the tea pot.
His stomach lurches.
---
It's January now and Draco is still being held prisoner.
"I told your father that it was pointless trying to contact you, but he insisted," Blaise says the first time he comes to see Draco.
Draco jerks against the chains, but they hold fast and tight.
"I told him that you'd be useless as a whore because no one wants one who'll give it up so easily."
Fuck you, Draco mouths, but he doesn't voice it because then maybe Blaise will spare him tonight.
But he doesn't.
And when Blaise asks if Draco missed him, Draco grits his teeth and answers sweetly, "Yes."
It hurts less after that.
---
February blows in gusts of bitter cold wind, chilling Draco down to the bone. He's either painfully cold or numb all of the time now, but no one cares and he doesn't expect anything else.
"Won't you join us?" Blaise asks one night, buttoning his trousers up. "We would make it worth your while."
Draco has unshed tears in his eyes and he knows that if he says yes, things will be easier, but before he can form the word he shakes his head.
Another week passes and Draco is sure he's going to die soon. They don't feed him enough and he never had much fat on him to begin with.
He falls asleep with his arms chained above his head and decides that he is going to die tomorrow.
He's not given the chance.
Potter comes charging in, Weasley and Granger right behind him, and they free him.
Draco gapes at them and Weasley just tosses him a wand and says, "Fuck off out of it. We can manage it from here."
Not bothering to thank them, Draco fucks off out of it.
When he thinks he's run far enough, his feet frozen and his mouth dry, Draco examines the wand. Eleven inches, willow, dragon heartstring. It should be a bit resistant to a new owner, but shouldn't present much of a problem.
Draco Apparates back to his London flat.
William is pacing, chewing his thumb nail, a habit Draco strongly disapproves of.
When he hears the crack, his head shoots up and he sees Draco. Disbelief, and then relief, flood his face and he throws himself at Draco, hugging him tightly.
"I thought—If I had just…"
Draco shushes him. "How?"
"Address in one of your pockets. I went crazy for the first two weeks, and then I found that and thought I might as well try seeing who it was." He brushes a finger over Draco's lips. "They analysed everything I could give them and eventually figured out where you were. Draco, you must be freezing."
Draco nods his assent, but kisses him after so that he doesn't worry too much.
"I'll draw a bath for you. Drink a glass of water, eat a bit of bread."
Draco does just that and when he sinks into the hot water, it feels like heaven to his broken body.
He lets William wash him, because somehow he knows that if he does it himself he will never get clean.
He wraps himself in a fluffy white towel before plodding to his room and finding that William has set out some clothes for him.
"You don't have to do all this," he says.
"Yes, I do," William answers and quirks a tentative smile at him. "Now, come on, I've ordered some Italian food and it should be here any moment."
True enough, minutes later an owl pecks at the door with a brown paper bag in its claws. Draco notices faintly that it's from the restaurant Blaise's family owns, but doesn't care.
He eats slowly, allowing his stomach to adjust to filling again.
He falls asleep curled up against William that night.
In the paper the next morning, Draco reads of the battle that happened yesterday and he checks the list of deaths.
Blaise is on there.
---
It's February 28th, the last day of February.
Draco asked Potter where Blaise had died the night before and now he's standing at the very spot.
It's strange, because he would think that such a gruesome battle would leave some sort of mark, but everything is clean and the air feels crisp and fresh. Draco supposes that if he were to get technical, this may not even be the spot where Blaise died because there are so many other spots like it.
It doesn't matter, though, because it's enough for him.
He thinks, I loved you, but doesn't voice it. He says, instead, I hate you.
He hears the mocking echo of Blaise's voice.
You don't know how to hate me.
The storm clouds overhead begin to let loose a torrent of rain that threatens to melt away the snow. Draco reaches inside his robes and pulls out a black rose, found that night in the Forbidden Forest so many months ago.
He sets it down, and again, he says, I hate you.
Black is the colour of your hair, black is your heart. Black is the colour of discord and chaos.
When he turns to leave, the rain has already begun melting down the snow and carving sweeping paths across the field.
The black rose is being carried on a stream of water, its petals sodden with water, and Draco figures that it's a suitable end.
Tomorrow brings March, and with March comes spring.
-fin-