TITLE: "Of Bitter Chocolate, Salt, And Saliva"
DISCLAIMER: I don't make money on no Harry Potter, yo. That shit be hardcore yo, but I ain't HARDCORE enough to make it (or at least have the sense to make money from it). I still be poor, hopefully not forever more...
RATE: T (NC-17)
AN: I've been working on this since December. I had hoped to get this out and the bug out of my system before the end of the month... but look what date it is. *sigh* This is what I have to work with (I blame lack of a slave driving editor). I have to do all of the editing and rereads myself so please forgive any mistakes. This is AU post-HP, I dearly hope you enjoy this. Please check out my other little fanfiction, "The Case of the Mycroftian Affliction", for your Sherlockian fanfiction needs. I credit the idea for this fanfiction to the most amazing Sara Holmes and her short, but beautifully amazing "Of Autumn and Apples". PLEASE check out her work!
Surprisingly enough Draco Malfoy didn't like chocolate.
Sure, when he was younger he received his odd chocolate frog or bag of fairy drops, but between the two of those he liked the collectible cards and the colorful sprinkles more than the chocolate itself. It was more important to him to be loved enough by someone else to be bought the confections. Narcissa, usually a very strict mother concerning diet and exercise, always sent him sweets tied to his presents for Solstices or All Hallow's Eve. That was her way of soothing the distance between them when he was being tutored in France for months at a time, and then later when he was sent off to Hogwarts for most of the year.
Even if Draco hated chocolate, he'd always eat it when she sent it.
The First time Draco ever associated Harry "The-Boy-Who-Lived" Potter with chocolate had been the day Headmistress McGonagall pulled him out of the Ministry, freeing him from an Azkaban sentence.
He'd been so broken and disheveled. The world around him had come crashing down, turning to dusty rubble. His life was in shambles, and the former teacher knew it by the look on her face.
Despite her anger at him, for she had to be disgusted with Draco for all the hurt he'd caused, the head teacher appointed him a sort of Slytherin prefect. She separated him from the House that had abandoned him, protecting the Malfoy heir from the wretches who would take their misplaced anger out on him. The rest of the eighth years (as everyone was calling their lot), regardless of House, were to be shacked up in an east tower.
He'd be separated due to his semi-criminal status (though the headmistress thought it a highly unnecessary requirement). Mcgonagall continued their discussion over tea from his housing arrangements to the strict provisions of his situation, and how he'd better not toe out of line 'or so help me by Freya herself...'.
This was his only shot. If he fucked this up, it was off to Azkaban with him. It was no longer legal to perform the Dementor's Kiss, but there were plenty of ways in prison for someone with a grudge to get even. Being one of the people who had confessed, attesting to the crimes of those who were left from the war, Draco was not liked by anyone he'd find in prison.
No one would see the sad, pathetic little boy sitting in an overstuffed chair, staring at his callused palms. They'd see a grown wretch with the Dark Mark tattooed on his right arm. They'd see the bastard who tried to kill Dumbledore, and the man who let vicious psychopaths into a school full of children. Draco had the blood of innocents on his hands now. He had to live with his sins, for they were branded forever on his forearm.
There was a heavy sigh across from him and the youth was startled back out of his murky thoughts. Dark hazel eyes, hidden behind square-rimmed glasses, looked suddenly very tired. They rather matched the weight settled perpetually on his shoulders as of late, Draco thought ruefully.
"Malfoy, I am not to be seeing you sulking about like this. I will not have ye waste what's left of your means, both tangible and intangible, to foolishness. Your parents wouldn't have that. Nor would the people who spent a great deal of time getting ye out of this mess have it either. We cannot save you anymore than we have. You must start saving yourself," the strong dame insisted, her lilting voice resounding against the cluttered stone walls of her warm study.
"...Yes, Headmistress..." he muttered back, not feeling anything enough to react to her words much at all. The old Draco would have snapped in indignation with the old bat flippantly using ammo against him she knew nothing about. It wasn't her place to be doing this, and the old Draco would have screeched to the heavens of her audacity. No one spoke about his parents, (as if anyone cared about them or knew them like he did), especially not after all that had happened...
New Draco, however, could barely muster the energy to nod and speak four syllables.
The clink of a tea cup setting down was the boy's only warning before a graceful hand was brushing his thin shoulder. He jolted unconsciously. He'd lost a lot of weight, what with the war and the depression succeeding it. It was August now and the trying months after the ceasefire of the war were not kind to Draco's appetite. McGonagall feared he'd shatter like glass if she grasped him too roughly.
"Come now Malfoy, keep your chin up. Here, eat a bit of chocolate. I don't know if you like fairy drops, but they were my favorite when I was a lass of about your age..." she explained as she took his hands and placed a pretty gauze bag with a satin ribbon within them.
She volleyed a hard stare when he did nothing at first. Finally, painstakingly, Draco gave in via a cardinal red drop covered in rosy sprinkles taken from the childish wrapping. He popped it in his mouth and cast his gaze away from her scrutinizing face.
"Thank you, Professor," he whispered around the sweet. Malfoy couldn't bring himself to chew the coated candy, for the thing was somehow bland on his tongue.
"You know what I'm asking of you Draco. You also know what is demanded. The terms of your probation are set in stone. Keep your chin up, head down, and comments to yourself. If you get through this year with no disciplinary action against you, then you're free to go on to the career path or higher education of your choice. You will have your duties as prefect to see to and the power of authorities at your heels should you choose to ignore my warnings. I, as your probation official, will expect exemplary marks in your school work and on your NEWT exams. You shall be judged solely by merit and mark now. Do you understand this?"
"Yes, Headmistress. Can I go now?" he asked, trying very hard not to sound as desperate to get away as he felt.
"Yes, yes. Off with you then, lad. And mind what I said. I shall see you for tea in two weeks time. We will go over your progress and submit the first report to the Ministry then," she sighed, stepping back a few paces for the lanky youth to stand.
Draco made it to the door and handle before the nagging question festering at the back of his skull became too much to ignore. He was scared to utter it, but it would keep him up all night otherwise. The boy held the little bag of chocolates close to his clavicle as he turned a dulled blonde head over his shoulder to speak,
"When you said 'we', Professor, to whom were you referring to? You are obviously included in that sum...but...well...who else? T-They must have spoken up for my trial...?" he stuttered around the candy melting in his mouth. The witch paused in her perusal of the Quidditch section of the paper when he'd spoken up. Her raised brow made Malfoy lose all the courage he'd mustered in one fell swoop. He'd not be able to utter a sound for some time after this meeting, Draco knew.
Her expression was not unkind, which was heartening. McGonagall's face was always in a varying degree of severity, however, which proved hard to interpret. It had scared anyone by the name of student for many a year. Even grown witches and wizards, thinking themselves past that age, would quiver in terror if the woman set her full power upon them. In this tense moment (at least for Malfoy), the facade had been molded to a much more contemplative expression at his abrupt request. It hearkened a response, thankfully, and not an outright dismissal.
She stared openly unabashed back at Draco, but said nothing for some time.
Her hesitancy to answer set Draco's teeth on edge.
"I thought I'd never keep you from that wretched prison..." she began calmly, and a tightness in the boy's chest loosened only a little enough to breathe with the utterance,
"These past summer months I fought tooth and nail to keep my students, even the most errant ones,"-her eyes glinted straight at him-"from ever experiencing that horror. But with the steep allegations being set against you, I was honestly losing hope in getting a verdict like the one you finally received..."
Something in the woman's eyes shifted, and it made the hair on the Malfoy heir's neck stand rigid as his lanky limbs bowed taught in anticipation.
"Harry Potter stepped in at the last second to bid for your release from Ministry custody. His testament of you proved to be the deciding factor in your trial. Without his statements towards your character and worth, I assure you, you would be rotting in a prison cell right now."
The taste of melting chocolate was so bitter sliding down his throat, mixing with the hint of salty saliva, he choked on the cocoa. Draco couldn't bear to be around the familiar room any longer. Even if McGonagall had shifted everything about to suit her tastes, this study had once been Dumbledore's.
He fled, not knowing what else to do, the gauzy satchel still held tightly against his chest.
The Second time Draco ever associated Harry "The Chosen One" Potter with chocolate had been the first Halloween since the end of the second wizarding war against Voldemort.
For months he'd been on edge, waiting for the Golden Trio to let him have it. After his very public ostracization from the Slytherin House (well, at least everyone left in his year) at the beginning of the term and the continued isolation from even muttering to anyone (the upper years treated him like a leper, and the younger ones followed suit), Draco was just waiting for Golden Boy to rub it in.
It was the perfect opportunity, the most exceptional piece of ammunition to throw at him. He'd have taken the shot if his rival had been brought so low before him. Yet, here Malfoy was, sipping on pumpkin juice and staring at the masses from his segregated spot at the end of the dinner table.
He was beyond "on edge" by this point.
Draco had worked himself into an absolute tizzy over the past few weeks. All Hallow's Eve, a night of pure mischief, would be just what Malfoy himself would wait for. One could really get away with an insidious plan to humiliate someone on this night more than most. Call him paranoid, but though no words had been crossed, Draco could swear Potter was staring at him more often than was comfortable lately.
For a while Malfoy had been contemplating what game the bastard was playing at. He'd never caught Potter in the act, per say, but the hairs rose up on his neck any time the Black heir stood at his back in the hallways or in their classrooms. That sensation alone made him think things were otherwise to their basic appearance. And every time Draco looked over his shoulder to catch the boy-wonder, Potter would be looking everywhere but at him (or even just his general direction). Suspicious, and entirely infuriating.
Added all together, these thoughts made Draco firmly believe Golden Boy was out for him. The man was just biding his time to make it really sting when it happened.
Unfortunately, Malfoy was forbidden from instigating anything with anyone (especially those in Gryffindor). He couldn't even confront scar-head about any of his weird behavior because it would more than likely end up involving fists.
Then Potter would get a slap on the wrist, and Malfoy would be sent to prison.
So instead Draco's chronic depression continued, he didn't speak to anyone, and kept his head down like Mcgonagall told him to. He also tried very, very hard not smash Harry-freaking-Potter in the face for not really looking. He managed to get quite a bit of work done, actually, and studied more extensively than ever before. Acing tests and assessments was beginning to be the norm for the fair-haired youth.
As the days grew shorter and the nights grew longer, Malfoy stood more and more confused about it all. His existence was exceedingly lonely. There was no one else to discuss his issues and studies with. The blonde swore there were even times he'd had actual arguments with himself because of the absence of partners to debate with on a key issue in a textbook or journal. Whenever it got to that harrying point, Draco had to throw himself out of doors. He would force himself to get the fresh air needed to clear his head.
It'd sleeted for two straight days before tonight.
Stretching his legs had been out of Draco's means. After all he couldn't just wander around the bowels of the castle given his social standing. So all that had been left after school work was psyching himself out about Halloween and pacing the length of his rooms. The closer the day came, the more scared he was. He'd thought up all manner of things the Hero could do to him.
Malfoy had never said that his imagination was not a powerful tool. He'd been celebrated for his ingenuity when he was little by his handful of tutors. Currently, however, Draco wished he wasn't so clever now that he was thinking of the many ways one could torture a blonde lordling.
Even if he thought he might really deserve it for all he'd done, Draco couldn't accept desiring whatever horror Potter was surely wishing to inflict upon him. And it would be bad, Draco knew it. There was a great big history betwixt them. He'd always felt the karma needed to be balanced at some point, and definitely not in Draco's favor.
It was an honest mistake at this point in the evening when Malfoy ignored the person standing not two feet in front of him. He'd developed the habit of getting lost in his head over the summer, after all. For a good three minutes the figure hovered, seeming to debate the most suitable course of action.
"Draco..." a deeper voice than his own intoned. The noble heir must have jumped a meter in the air. Malfoy spilled pumpkin juice all over the floor and his shoes, much to his quick irritation. He paid no mind to it except a sharp scowl lasting but a second, however, when Blaise Zabini stood right before him.
Smooth, Draco grimaced internally, though outwardly his face was as blank as a mask.
Zabini must have caught on that he'd not get a verbal reply, merely a simple act of eye contact, and promptly whipped his wand out. Malfoy wasn't going to lie to himself: he flinched with the movement. Instead of the part-Italian inflicting pain on his former friend, the liquid dampening the ends of Draco's trousers vanished as did the sticky sensation at the bottom of his shoes.
Before Draco could utter a foreign-tasting 'thank you', Zabini thrust a plate of something under his nose. By reflex alone Draco's hands shot out to grasp it and lowered the dish to eye level. It was a tart. A berry tart, the warm chocolate oozing out of it seeming quite nice.
There hadn't been anymore on the table by the time Draco managed to make it to the dining hall this evening. It was a shame, because, despite his disinclination towards chocolate, he didn't mind this tart with the berries. It was dark chocolate too, so it was healthier than milk or white, which his mother would approve of.
"Something out of habit must have made me grab an extra one. I did every year, remember? You always had to go finish some project or another before showing up. You never asked for much from me but to save you one of these. Seeing how I was going to throw it away anyways...'cause I'm full...I thought I'd just give it to you instead."
Draco stared hard and long at Blaise. True, this had been something of a tradition between them. It'd also been a tradition to ride the train together to school, and to make a list of who got hotter or uglier within the first two weeks of term, but then none of that had happened this year. In fact, it'd been Blaise, the new King of Slytherin, whose coldness towards him had dictated the rest of the house's reaction. But Blaise had never outright done anything to Draco. It'd been quiet, but clever, Theo who convinced everyone to play jokes or pull nasty pranks.
Blaise didn't flinch, didn't give off the signs of lying, and didn't have a history of trying to hex him. Out of all the people he'd lost as a friend, Draco felt the sting of Zabini's betrayal the most. It'd do wonders for his outlook on life if just one of them came back. Some could never, what with them being dead or in prison, but maybe if Blaise came 'round Pansy, or even Theo, might forgive him...
Draco made his decision the moment he took a bite of the tart. It was heavenly, as usual, and it even had a mildly sweeter flavor this year. He'd favored it for its bitter bite before, but they must have added honey to sweeten it more this time around. A soft smile bloomed on Malfoy's face, the first he hoped of many in so long.
The replying smile on Blaise's face was a lot wider than he'd expected, but Draco paid little mind to it as he searched out for another pumpkin juice glass to get the chocolat mouse to slide easier down his throat. Malfoy was going to take profound moment to speak to the boy opposite him when an itchy sensation erupted in his throat.
The reaction was instantaneous.
Hives burst all over Draco's skin, the unbearable irritation in his throat causing him to cough and hack loudly around his goblet. He tried to get more air into his lungs, but the airways were swiftly closing. Malfoy panicked, standing, and stumbled blindly as his eyes teared up and became spotty.
"What...?!" Draco managed to gasp out, ignorant to the loudness of his plea and the audience he was surrounding himself with.
"Elderberry. It was a new fruit I suggested to the house elves to add to this year's tart. It must have slipped my mind you're deathly allergic until now. Terribly sorry, that..." a cold, amused voice stated soft enough only the most immediately placed of the gathered students would hear.
Blindly, Draco swung out, just clipping the other boy's shoulder with his fist as Zabini side-stepped easily away from him. Draco's momentum was too great for him to stop and he stumbled, smashing onto one of the great tables. The sounds of metallic dishware crashing to the floor echoed in his ears with the sensation of falling. The ground met him swiftly and he swore as he felt a damp heat trickle down his temple. Draco's head was bleeding. A stray knife? Maybe he nicked the bench?
Malfoy cared little about the blood when he couldn't breath in deep enough. The boy's trachea was swelling, as well as his tonsils. No manner of coughing would save him now. He couldn't get his wand out to perform the counter-spell. He couldn't see around him, and his motor skills were disintegrating quickly in his panic. He'd go into shock any second now, he knew. He could do little to fight the unconscious response just as much as the burning in his lungs.
Funnily enough, as the oxygen was being constricted from his lungs, Draco could have sworn he heard the blundering shout of a Weasley in anger. It was distinctive, of course, and he'd heard it for years now to know what it was when sounded.
There were hands on Draco's neck and shoulder. They were warm, and slightly calloused. He felt his torso tilted upward at an incline above firm thighs. His body was shifted and he laid out finally on his back with no assistance of his own.
It must not be a woman, Draco mused with dry humor, as he thought of the solid quadriceps beneath him.
Maybe Zabini was going to strangle him instead of letting the elderberry do the job first? It'd be quicker than suffocation from a swollen airway. Maybe it would be better than what was going to be a slow death?
"Don't you dare die on me you bloody idiot..." a smooth, dark tenor growled in his ear, commanding Draco to consciousness as it was steadily slipping away.
His grey eyes shuttered open. The wheezing of his lungs drowned out all sound around him but this single voice echoing in his head. All was blurry as hot tears coursed down Malfoy's face. All except for veridian eyes, the jarring color of the killing curse, glaring unwaveringly down at him behind squared bispecals. This expression was one he'd never thought he'd see on Potter's face.
How Draco could tell in this crazy situation the minor differentiation between Harry-bloody-Potter's facial expressions was news to him. This was his final thought before the world went dark around him and the noises abruptly stopped. The last sensation he remembered was those soft, calloused hands cradling his head in Potter's lap, the fingertips trembling ever so slightly against his sharp cheekbones.
The Third time Draco associated Harry "Golden Boy" Potter with chocolate had been a total accident, actually.
The Malfoy Heir, in all his lonesome time of reflection, had had an epiphany. An absolutely revoltingly annoying one, but an epiphany no less while sitting in Professor Sprout's exotics hothouse. No soul but the professor herself regularly occupied the space, so it was quite the hangout for the recluse. It was warm, quiet, and the plants smelled heavenly in the stark bareness of the castle's winter. The herbal mistress, though in the beginning hesitant, finally gave in to Draco hiding away in here if he paid for it in plant maintenance. He'd do anything to avoid everyone right now. He couldn't stand them any longer.
It was him sitting under a subspecies of the South-american cocoa tree that the realization had hit Malfoy: He'd been rotten since he was little. He was spoilt, twisted up inside with the desire to please a father who'd never see him as good enough and a mother who was prone to brisk, overbearing affection. The rest of his family was barmy, dead, or disappointed in the wretch he'd turned into. All he'd wanted to do at eleven was impress everyone around him, gain favor, and maybe, just maybe, make an honest friend.
It'd hurt more than he cared to admit when Potter rejected their possible friendship. He'd never been denied anything significant like that. It'd been the first friend he'd wanted that his parents hadn't already expected him to keep (at least initially). And, to be honest, it had rocked Draco to the core. It had made him question who he was, and his own shaky self-worth. For an eleven-year-old, that was a lot to take in at once.
He'd not been cognizant of his bigotry or arrogance at the time. This hindered more than helped him in more ways than one. Culturally his facade was expected in many parts of society, though his mother never approved of him parroting his father's extreme views. Narcissa had tried to teach Draco a more mild flavor of pure-blood ideology, but he was a boy who thought the sun set and rose at the command of his father. There was little his mother could do to counter this fact except continue head on in her lectures. She'd had a constant vigil on any lack of propriety on his part and was swift to correct it when she saw it.
Now that he was all alone, entirely independent of the pure-blood influence, Malfoy realized how warped he'd been. Things could have been better; far, far better. If he'd tried maybe he and Potter could have been friends. They could have been best friends, even, if Draco thought about it long enough (and maybe cocked his head to the right a bit).
They both liked dragons, quidditch, learning about strange creatures, and not dying at the hands of psychotic madmen. They had similar cultural expectations, with far too many people caring about what they did on a daily basis. They both were lord heirs now and were to be expected in the Wizengamot at some point in their lives. If pride and warped influence hadn't come upon them both, they could have been comrades against these trying times against the ever watchful gazes of busybodies and enemies alike.
And the most shocking part of this whole realization: Draco, deep down, really bloody wanted that.
He'd wanted to be Harry Potter's friend since the very day they'd first met one another. Even if his father told him beforehand to try to make friends with Harry Potter, Draco would have tried anyway. He had not connected the youth he'd met in Madame Malkin's shop with Potter until much later on the train, but to him it had been all the more reason to speak to the boy when he saw him again. All his motivation over the years since Hogwarts' sorting had been in anger and hurt. He'd been wounded by that first very real rejection outside of his immediate family's influence. So Malfoy retaliated in the only way he could express himself. He'd ended up becoming "the rival", instead of "the best-friend".
The image of a red-headed boy and a girl with books in her arms made Draco's chest roar with a repressed jealousy. He'd been jealous of Granger, and fucking-Ron-Weasley since first year.
With a meticulous cruelty, Draco tore a fallen dead branch into a shredded mound beside himself. He'd finished all of his watering and pruning for the afternoon. Thus, all that was left to do was to brave the cold weather to the library or brood. Brooding suited him much better.
Jealousy was an ugly thing, Draco thought. It had torn him up inside and ripped his life apart. He wanted to be the most important growing up. He craved attention, any kind he could get. Malfoy had told himself if he couldn't be Harry Potter's best friend, then he would defeat the boy and take his place. It was a ridiculous notion, and a selfish one in retrospect. As if this all had been nothing more than a popularity contest, when in reality it was mere children fighting in the wars of their fathers.
"Look how that turned out..." Draco muttered into the cocoa tree he leaned heavily on. It's leaves brushed the top of his head in a wind that didn't flow through the greenhouse. The exotic plants, when not trying to kill him, actually seemed rather fond of him. He was strange like they were, in this wintry December.
Draco looked funny: bony and tall, with pale skin, and features that stuck out even when he wanted to blend in. He was once very fond of how much he contrasted to the rest of the student body. Now it just gave everyone a reason to gawk (if they were first years) or make a target of him (everyone else). After all, it was easy to aim a snowball at such a very blonde head versus a dark brunette among many brunettes. The only one more gawked at than himself was Potter. Of course that was for entirely different reasons.
It was impossible to throw snowballs at Potter, though, no matter how tempting it was.
Potter made everything confusing. Made him crazy, and far more cognizant of his own existence than Draco had ever cared to wonder before. He couldn't truly hate the bloke either because Potter had saved his life more times than he was want to count.
After the incident at Halloween the blatant "not looking"-stares had gone away. He no longer sought out to catch Potter's gaze himself. Something had changed between the two of them, but Draco was damned if he could figure out what it was.
Two days after his near death experience waking up in hospital, Draco had found out Weasley had punched Blaise square in the face. Broke the wanker's nose too, the fool. Landed himself in detention for his temper. Blaise had gotten detention as well, but in another part of the castle. Draco wasn't being blamed for any of it, thank mighty Zeus, but no authorities were going to do anything about the fact Zabini had attempted to kill him through anaphylactic shock. It wasn't poisoning, so it could be dithered away as just an accident. After all, not many people knew that Malfoy was allergic to elderberries.
A loud clank startled Draco out of his revere. It was one of the metal vents outside the greenhouse. The chatter of happy voices succeeded the noise. They were headed towards the east entrance and the garden shed. It would be just his luck that in one of the major moments of his solitude a group of assholes show up to ruin it all.
Malfoy shot up, jumping to a standing position as he frantically looked around himself for a way out, or at least some cover. The moon-flowers were too far to dash behind, and the cocoa tree couldn't provide any concealment at all. He was standing on one of the major grid-like pathways between the stubby edibles and the poison mushrooms. Not much help there. If they opened the door it was a good chance they'd see his blonde head first.
Draco just happened to be smack between the east entrance and the midway point. His choices were dwindling the more time he spent debating what to do. (There!) The small side entrance straight across from the irises. He'd almost forgotten about it after not using it since the end of October. It was far easier to navigate the expansive nurseries using the main entrances.
Shadows of silhouettes through murky panes of glass made the final decision for him as Draco's long legs leaped over the low pruned shrubbery. The giant venus fly traps and the snapper canes paid little mind to him as he'd thankfully fed them not an hour before. Malfoy felt like singing to the angels as the exit's handle came within his grasp.
The brisk air hit his bare forearms and neck as the bright sunlight blinded Draco momentarily. He looked over his shoulder one last time to the inner depths of the exotics hot house, regretting his lack of robes (they were hanging on a hook inside the garden shed at the east entrance) to brace against the brisk frost. It'd be a bitch to walk all the way back to the castle in just the winter uniform's trousers and shirt.
At least I'll blend in with the snow better, Draco thought bleakly in the second his other foot made it past the threshold.
"...Malfoy?"
Oh the horror that came over Draco's face when his momentum wouldn't let him stop from colliding with the shorter form before him. There was a resounding crack of chin to skull. The tumble that resulted from the collision made both the lordling and his unwitting victim skid a scathing three feet on hard packed earth. The prefect would swear at a later date he had felt his back creak from the impact and his lungs compress painfully as the frozen ground came up to knock the wind right out of him.
They ended up sprawled atop one another half on the recently troughed path and half in the frigid snow piled high on each side of the way. Draco was the unfortunate bottom of the pair. The frozen bedding was slowly trickling down the loose collar of his shirt, melting swiftly against his body heat, making him involuntarily shiver. Flurries brushed the ruffled tips of Malfoy's white-blonde locks, and he saw his breath condensate in the unseasonably cold weather when breath finally came back to him. A throbbing pounded from his jaw and Draco was almost happy his face was half-smashed into the snow. It kept the swelling he knew that was going to occur from causing too much of a distraction at the moment.
Malfoy's front was quite the opposite of his back in that it was scorchingly warm in comparison, and firmly covered in quite a bit of fabric. The position he was in would have been almost romantic if it didn't hurt so fucking much. Draco felt like he was suffocating from the sharp temperature difference. The bloody git's hair, whomever it was, was just as ruffled as his own, irritating his cheeks and eyes. The heavy scent of burnt wood and musk stood out starkly against the muted breath of winter.
"Oi! Harry! Where'd you go off to!?" a rolling bass enunciated further down the path that followed the length of the hothouses. Draco froze in his muted shifting. Stiff as a board he, ever so marginally, tilted his head to find his arms full of former Gryffindor seeker.
Hauntingly green eyes stared back at him behind skewed spectacles, frozen in place just as much as he was. Draco's throat clogged with the explicit nouns and verbs assaulting his immediate thoughts. He was too scared to utter the rolling curses screeching in his mind. Malfoy had the terrifying suspicion that that was Dean Thomas calling Potter. And if Potter didn't say something soon...
"I'm fine Dean! You and Seamus go on ahead and catch up with the rest of us. Something's caught my attention over here is all... I'll be there in just a minute!" Harry shouted over his shoulder, breaking their eye contact, seemingly startled from his own thoughts. Draco felt every word reverberate through their joined chests, his long arms still holding the two of them flush together.
"Suit yourself, then!" the distant voice called and the chatter of the group ahead echoed off the glass hothouses throughout the sparse trees.
Draco, still stiff like a statue, felt Potter's broader shoulders bunch and the muscles in his back tense and release in quick succession. Potter hadn't turned back to face him yet, and a big part of Draco wondered why. He also wondered just what the hell they were going to do now that they were in this position. Would scar-head finally say something to him? What position was this, exactly? And why the bloody hell had the guy not hit him yet!?
Draco let out a breath he'd been holding only to suck in another deep one when Golden Boy finally turned his tanner face back towards him. Those eyes bore into him in a way they'd never before. He couldn't remember ever being this physically close to Potter. He was so close their noses were practically touching. Potter was so close Draco could distinguish individual lashes, even see the faintest slivers of blue and gold mixed in with that kaleidoscope of green.
"Malfoy..." the breathless voice reverberated against their mostly hollowed diaphragms. His name being spoken from those chapped lips in a tone not of malice, or of anything ever exchanged betwixt them, startled him. Draco felt like he'd burst into flame from that gaze if this tension didn't break soon.
"...If you want to continue to lay on the ground, I don't mind, but you might want to wear a bit more than you are. If all else, I'd like for you to release me from the death grip you're choke-holding me in. I can't really breathe..." Potter said softly, as if speaking with their usual volumes would shatter the calmness of their conversation instantly.
It took a second for Draco's brain to process the words, but not a beat later Malfoy (of course) overreacted. Just as soon as the tenseness was released from his biceps he practically flung Potter off of him, bucking the boy into one of the helpfully concealing high mounds of snow beside them. Draco scrambled away as if burned, desperately trying to keep calm as panic began to set in.
He only managed a few feet before a quick hand shot out, grabbing his ankle in a grip far stronger than Draco thought the smaller boy possessed. This was it. This was where the fight started. And in the end of it all he was going to prison.
"Let go of me you fucking twat!"-Draco flailed his legs, grasping at straws in his mind to delay the inevitable- "Let me at least get the damn door to the hothouse shut so the babies won't freeze to death! Then we can duke it out fucking standing instead of frostbiting our asses off by sitting in melting snow!" Draco nearly screamed. He was about to kick the Chosen One's forearm if the jerk didn't let go right now.
The stunned expression was priceless on Potter's face. The lordling returned Draco his foot, releasing it promptly. Jumping up, and totally ignoring the slush thawing inside his shirt, Malfoy rushed the six feet into the hothouse again to check on the most vulnerable infants in the nursery.
Exposing them to the sudden cold could cripple their growth and longevity over time. Not to mention, many of them would wail or lash out at him the next time he deigned to enter the space. He couldn't deal with girls crying at him, let alone humanoid plant babies.
"That's the first bit of sentences I have heard from you all year..." that notable voice uttered behind him. The side door to the hothouse closed after the two of them with a click, ceasing the chilly draft. Draco closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath.
So Potter followed him into the hot house, then? He feared the fool was going to make him fight in the greenhouse. Madame Sprout would have Draco's head if they came to blows in this place.
"...I said, scar-head, that I needed to fight you outside. You can't possibly want to get weeks of detention and points deducted because you fucked around in Sprout's prized greenhouses..." Draco spat back.
"Since when are you into herbology, exotic herbology at that?" Potter asked offhandedly in the silence that followed, completely ignoring Draco's mild threats by changing the subject suddenly.
The Slytherin had to backpedal quickly. His irritation was mounting due to a foreign agitation that he couldn't pin down the source of.
"Since when do you give a fuck about what I do in my spare time? Now if you'd be so kind to remove your skinny ass from the damn hothouse we can get back to the beating the shit out of each other part..."
"Is that what you really want, Malfoy? To beat the crap out of me?" Potter cut in abruptly, jarring Draco's focus enough that he actually turned back around so they could face one other. The pale-faced irises trilled and gurgled trying to coax Draco's attentions back on their wrinkled, surprisingly human-like faces. Absently, he returned his fingers to run over the growing stems, soothing the irritated buds as they cooed their contentment. Draco only wished his own agitation could be calmed in such a simple manner.
"Isn't that what you want, scar-head? Or better yet, maybe your piss-poor physical prowess hasn't improved still. Why not just get it over with and curse me in some mortifyingly embarrassing way," Draco growled, voicing, finally, his deep seeded worries. Not that Potter would catch on that he was frightened to what the man might do to him in the end. Malfoy's noveau mask of indifference was quite impenetrable since its development.
"Why the hell would I want to punch you?" Potter asked in a startled voice. To Harry's own detriment, he sounding as they used to when they fought back before the war. This quickly helped escalate the already stressed individual across from him.
"Of course, why would you? You're the fucking Golden Hero of the War! Why sully your hands hitting me in the face when you could just hex me or have someone else curse me into oblivion! I'm sure your stupid sidekick the Weasel would like a crack at it!" Draco shouted, his mouth definitely running away without him. It'd really been so long since he'd spoken to anyone his age (not that he really chatted it up with anyone else besides McGonagall or shrubbery). And with the way his train of thoughts had been going lately, the last person Draco wanted to see right now was this object of his most frequent musings glaring straight at him.
Panic was making his hands shake and Draco forced the traitorous appendages in his pockets in a foolish attempt to keep it together. What was Potter going to say to him? Were they finally going to talk? They'd had to, needed to, after all that happened, and Draco was no fool to that at least. He was absolutely terrified he was going to break down and cry any minute if he didn't continue shouting. He'd not shed tears since he'd nearly choked to death, and not really cried even then since before the start of term.
Potter's face was slowly turning into a deadly expression. A brightness kindled within those emerald depths. Draco knew he was stamping on tender ground, but damn it all if his mouth didn't run away with him!
"I'm sure if not the Weasel, maybe the Weaselette could. She hates me as much as everyone else, probably more! After all, she's your little girlfriend, right? Punches harder than you do anywa-!"
The world tilted quite suddenly and a roaring pain blossomed just to the right of the bruising mark on his chin. Potter really couldn't punch for shit, but it was enough to smack the already beat up Draco to the ground. The plants started shifting, some waking for the smell of blood, others for fear of the emotions roiling off the two boys. Wide-eyed, Draco held his face with a hand as he stared startled up at the imposing figure looming over him in the semi-artificial light of heat lamps.
"You utter prick! And here I thought you might have had a change of heart with what all happened!" Potter snapped back, his shoulders shaking with effort to control himself.
There was more than one meaning within that statement, as there had been with the things Draco had said. Nothing was ever simple for the two of them. Even when they were speaking bluntly, the underlying emotion behind their words didn't always coincide with what was stated.
"It was stupid of me to hope-" -a deep breath- "You fucking asshole. I can't believe I thought you'd change!" Potter roared, looking about ready to punch Malfoy all over again.
Something inside of Draco was performing a coup in his mind. The hazy, overwhelming sense of fear and bitter taste of jealousy was being abated and replaced with something else entirely. He almost shuddered with the effort to reign his wayward emotions in. He'd fucked up, and now Potter hated him all over again.
"I-I... I..."
"You what, Malfoy? You don't think the rest of us are trying to move on? Trying to get over this hellish nightmare? What the fuck are you thinking in that head of your's! Why the fuck would I want to punch your stupid face in the first place? I've done absolutely nothing to you all bloody year up 'til just now!" Potter was on a roll, practically pacing like a caged lion as Draco laid out on the gritty ground; he was too stunned to say anything intelligent.
"And then you pull this-" -Harry flourished his hand in a sharp general direction- "like you actually want to fight me! Egg me on so I'll have no choice but to smack some sense into you. Do you have any idea what this could do if anyone caught us? What would happen to your probation? What would your mother think about-"
"Don't you dare talk about my mother you son of a bitch! You don't know what the fuck you're talking about!" Draco cried out, seeing red. Before whatever it was that was trying to calm the animal inside him could complete its task, Potter had gone and crossed a line he really shouldn't have.
There was a crack of fist against jaw. Draco felt all the knuckles in his hand pop painfully. The reality of his actions didn't hit him until Potter was nursing a split lip, floored on the ground. There was blood.
He'd just made Harry-fucking-Potter bleed.
And the bastard was right. If anyone had seen them just now he'd be dead meat. Draco was dead. So dead, that prison was going to be nothing compared to what the school was going to do to him after the students found out he punched the Savior of the Light.
Potter knew about his probation. The thought struck like lighting into Draco's consciousness. No one else was supposed to know so much about his probation besides Mcgonagall. No one else besides the school staff was to know he was even on probation. Yet, Potter had gotten the information somehow. Harry Potter knew that if he went to any teacher with that split lip and the black eye that was bound to form by tomorrow, that Draco would be shipped off to Azkaban without a seconds breath.
With that look on his face, Potter fucking knew everything.
Malfoy didn't even feel the tears start trickling down his cheeks. He was too far gone into shock to realize he was staring down helplessly at Harry with wide grey eyes. His bottom lip trembled as if he'd utter a broken sob any second now. Draco didn't register Harry's own flabbergasted expression at seeing Malfoy so emotionally raw.
"Oh fuck-!" Draco choked out, his voice cracked brokenly. His breath hitched and a sob really did wrack his lithe frame. This was too much, too soon. Everything was going to fall apart all over again.
Potter had the upper hand; too much of the upper hand. Draco had nothing to fight him with. Attitude aside, there was nothing of him that was worth shit to anyone here. The scales were far too pitched in Potter's favor.
"Oh shit, fucking shit! Shit! Shit! Fuck! Fuck! Fucking bullocks!" Draco kept repeating simple curses trying to find his center before he became entirely unhinged. The youth pulled at his lengthened locks on the sides of his head, smearing dirt and grime across his cheeks and scalp without a thought.
The boy was torn between wanting to have his mental breakdown right in this warm heaven that smelled like heady flowers and cocoa trees or run the freezing, long trek to his rooms. He was safer in here than anywhere in the castle, even if Potter was still here staring at him. Little else could go wrong now considering the cirumstances.
Draco's legs decided for him.
They weakened, forcing him to slump down to sit on his heels and curl his forehead into his knees. He was so done with this bullshit. Tired, that's what Draco was. He was tired of being scared of dying and people wanting him dead. The war was over.
Five more months, he'd graduate, and then he'd get the hell out of Britain.
AN: So that's Part 1. There are two parts to this little story in my head. I'm in the middle of updating my other story right now, but the second half WILL be coming just as soon as I can get it down and edited to the best of my ability. I ADORE reviews. I want to see what you all are thinking. I like the way I portrayed Draco, but I wouldn't be surprised if people thought it wasn't cannon-esque.
Please, REVIEW! It only takes a few sentences below to touch millions of lives *plays the smallest violin in the world*