Title: Portrait, you say? (part 1 of ?)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy, pre-slash
Word Count: ±1,625
Warnings: Unbetaed, post-DH, possibly AU also
Disclaimer: Not mine. They're definitely Ms. Rowling's, I'm just borrowing them for my twisted means.
Summary: Harry invites Draco to go on a portrait-procuring adventure.
Notes: Since this is my first Harry/Draco fic, comments and criticisms are definitely welcome, especially since I'm really worried I'm going to OOC the characters badly.
There wasn't a portrait of Severus Snape on the wall in the Headmaster's office, and many were glad about it.
Many thought it was just as well, and many seemed to think that it justified their opinion of the dead man all along. Bad, bad man, they had said on the streets, even Hogwarts rejected him. Twenty years of teaching, a year of being headmaster, and still Hogwarts the School rejected the man, they had said.
Speak no ill of the dead, their wise forefathers had said, but wise words fell on deaf ears. Voldemort! Tom Riddle Diddle Widdle! They revelled in their ability to finally say his name without fear of retribution. Death Eaters! Look who's eating now! Severus Snape! Pah! All fair game in terms of vilification.
And the few voices of support drowned in the tide of dissent.
"You have to help me," Harry Potter said, one bright morning in a park somewhere in Muggle Edinburgh.
"Been a while, Potter," Draco Malfoy greeted off-handedly. "In what way?" he asked, accepting his vanilla ice cream with its requisite Cadbury flake from the ice cream vendor. "Are you sure you don't want some?" Draco asked, lifting his cone slightly. Harry shook his head. Draco paid the man.
They walked a short distance to a bench recently vacated by a put-upon father and his child in a pram.
"This is about Professor Snape, isn't it?" Draco hazarded a guess, and knew that he hit the right spot when Harry averted his eyes, pretending to be fascinated at the pigeons feasting on leftovers on the cobblestone floor beneath his feet. "You can't even say his name without flinching," Draco said, amused. "And you want to do what, exactly?"
"I just… I don't know, after all he's done for me. For you. Malf… Draco! Oh Merlin!" Harry exclaimed, he waved his hands frantically, trying to find the words he wanted to say. "Doesn't mean we're finally best friends and all, doesn't mean I like him or anything! Far from it," Harry said. "Just… oh I don't know." Harry leaned back, tilted his head all the way back, stretched his legs far in front of him, made a small boy in a tricycle swerve to avoid his legs.
Harry turned his head slightly sideways, to look at Draco who was both looking at him and licking his ice cream with equal amusement. "Don't look at me like that," Harry said, feeling a slight flush creeping up his cheeks. He shook his head a little and cleared his throat awkwardly. "Don't tell me you don't feel that you owe that git something, Malfoy," he said finally.
And it was only Malfoy-bred decorum that stopped Draco from flinging his ice cream into Harry's face. He must looked a state, Draco thought, he felt the side of his head throbbing a furious rhythm, felt heat blooming across his forehead and cheeks. Then the cone broke in his tightly clenched fist, sending mangled ice cream and chocolate flake straight to the ground with a large splat.
"You…" Draco started, voice suddenly hoarse. Who was Harry to traipse around into his life and accuse him of being an ingrate? Draco's a Malfoy, or had Harry forgotten that in his bout of post-war stupidity? A Malfoy would never forget their debts, and Salazar help him, he knew what kind of debt he owed his late Head of House. "You…" and he couldn't find the words, didn't even realise that Harry had placed a placating hand on his shoulder.
Draco looked down, at his hand now bare, nothing to hold on to, nothing to hide his nervousness. He clenched and unclenched his fist, half-sticky from icecream, and decided to cradle it in his lap, palm facing upwards. He sighed and looked at Harry, searching something in those glasses-shielded eyes.
"This… Let's take this conversation elsewhere," Draco decided, standing up, brushing cone dust from his tailored pants. "This isn't a place for it." Not this unusually bright morning, with blue cloudless skies and happy unsuspecting muggles.
Harry stood and gestured for Draco to lead them away.
"And how do you propose we go about clearing his name?" Draco asked, as they chose a seat at the far corner of the pub. Dark, with only a small lamp in a green scone on the wall above them. The pub was rather empty and the few patrons already there didn't pay them any mind.
Draco chose coffee and Harry chose the same. The coffee came, and Harry cast a Muffliato. Draco felt a tug of wistfulness as the air shimmered subtly and settled around them.
"You do realise that the Malfoy name currently mean nothing in the public eye, don't you?" Draco said, sipping on his coffee and thought it wasn't half bad. "If you, Harry Potter the Great and Mighty, and Glorious Besides, couldn't do anything for the Professor…" He sighed heavily. "Don't you think I've thought hard about it? Do you think me so callous? And I happen to like the Professor!"
Draco sighed again, wrapped his fingers around the warm coffee cup, inhaling the scent of coffee. "Unlike you," Draco added softly.
"Excuse me? He's been horrible to me, you know!"
"He's horrible to everybody," Draco nodded slowly. "But we're not here to speak ill of the not-so-long-ago departed." Draco lifted his head. "Are we?"
"No," Harry answered, drinking his coffee. It was strong, as he was more used to tea.
"So, do you have a grand idea, Pot… Harry?" Draco asked, lifting his cup up to his lips, but didn't take a sip, merely helf it there, upon his lower lip, hands cradled around white porcelain. "You do have an idea, don't you?" he asked, lifting one pale eyebrow.
Harry nodded hastily, trying not to choke on his coffee as he witnessed a little bit of Snape on those pale brows. He wondered if Draco realised what he'd done. The late professor must have left some impression on the students of his House. "I thought a portrait to go on the Headmasters' wall would give us a good start."
"Yes," Draco agreed. "His absence on the wall seemed to fuel people's sordid imaginations."
"I don't understand it, either," Harry said. He would've been amongst Snape's detractors and doubters, possibly the loudest of them, if he hadn't seen enough of Snape's memories. "'Mione's been thinking about it, too, thinking about likely scenarios, and possible solutions."
"That girl," Draco said. "Unbelievable. Does she ever get tired of thinking and conjuring up conspiracy theories?"
"Drives Ron up the wall, I tell you."
"Literally too, I wager," Draco said, much amused.
How odd, how suddenly the whole world changed overnight. Now he's sitting in a booth with Harry Potter of all people, not at each other throats as much, and actually plotting. Harry Potter, and Draco Malfoy, plotting. No Weasley or Granger in sight.
"So, a portrait," Draco said, tapping the edge of the saucer with a spoon.
"I wonder if you could point me to a good portrait painter. Is that how you call the person? A portrait painter?"
"Possibly, I never gave it much thought. A painter, I would think."
"Not some poncy word like 'portraiteur' or some such?"
"I don't know," Draco answered, stopping himself from smiling.
"So, I thought, I mean, we should get some fine painter to paint his portrait. I suppose he'd done enough to merit more than just a third-rate painter."
"A fine painter? Finally prescribing to the finer things in life, eh, Potter? Oh but I forgot your father was some pureblood burgeoisie."
"Malfoy!"
Draco raised his hands slightly and smiled apologetically, charmingly too he hoped. "I apologise, Pot… Harry. I hope you don't mind me too much, I take such great delight in baiting you, it's one of my favourite pasttimes, too. I hope you don't deprive me of it."
"Said like a true ponce," Harry muttered.
"Yes, well, about this painter. I do agree, you know," Draco sobered a little, scooping a small amount of sugar from the pot, stirring it into his coffee ponderously. "But I don't imagine there's anybody who wants to do it." Look at the uproar at the professor's internment.
"I know. Sometimes, I think even the neediest painter would turn down the money," Harry said, subdued.
"And you think I could help? How? You know I'm never any good at painting," Draco asked.
"Don't you Malfoys have personal painters? Or fine painters who owe you any blood debt or some such? I thought you Malfoys are good at that kind of thing?"
"What kind of thing?" Draco's eyes narrowed.
"Well, you know," Harry said, awkwardly, brandishing his little spoon.
"Well, I told you before. Our name isn't exactly at its best currency at the moment," Draco shrugged. "But I'll see what I can do."
"I know," Harry said. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me just yet," Draco said. "Though I do wonder why you sought me out for this. You usually want to have nothing to do with me."
"Blame it on post-war stress trauma disorderly something. 'Mione told me all about it. Makes people do strange things, I'm told," Harry said sheepishly.
Draco looked at him pointedly, eyes narrowing in suspicion. They stared at each other for a while. Draco broke his gaze first. Looking back down into his coffee cup, he sighed.
"One day, we'll look back at the horrible stuff he'd done to us, what we've done to each other, and laugh about it as if those were nothing more than a series of bad pranks. I suppose," Draco said, wondering, "once we say goodbye to what little juvenility we have left, beget children and whatnot, we'll tell them our schoolday horrors and laugh at their terrorised faces."
"Maybe," Harry said, and he thought how long into the future that would be. The wounds was still rather raw.
They didn't talk much afterwards, Draco already setting up a list of possible painters in his head, crossing out names and adding new possible ones.
Harry ordered Shepherd's Pie and Draco ordered the same. They asked for a pot of tea to share, and they left separately by late afternoon.
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