The sun was already shining brightly down on the dark clumps of horse refuse but not yet causing the lovely scent of manure to waft over the meadows of Camp Cedarwood. Draco looked at the long row of stalls in dismay, wrinkling his nose distastefully. He snuck a peek around at his fellow counselors in an attempt to find someone to emphasize with, someone who was feeling just as miserable as he was. Unfortunately, as with all the other cruel and unusual camp activities they had participated in so far, everyone else looked awake and seemed relatively chipper.
"Good morning!" shouted Neville Longbottom (camp name Catastrophe), the assistant horse director. Draco was always astonished how anyone could be that loud or energetic before seven in the morning. "Let's get these stalls mucked! There's rakes in the last stall there, and y'all can roll out a wheelbarrow to shovel the poop into."
Inwardly, Draco groaned. Not only did he have to smell shit at six-fucking-forty-five am, he had to shovel it too. Into wheelbarrows. Which meant that it would eventually have to be dumped somewhere, and he supposed that was their responsibility too. Malfoys did not lower themselves so far as to deal with –by hand– the feces of another species. Especially one as repulsive as horses. Though forever cautious around hippogriffs, Draco had developed great appreciation for thestrals, having seen more than enough death to reveal their existence to him. But horses were skittish and uncultured, not to mention smelly.
Of course Potter was first into the stall where the rakes/scoops were kept. Draco watched as he grabbed one of each before parading himself down the center aisle and gallantly entering the stall furthest from the group. Naturally the Saviour had to show off his heroism at every possible opportunity. It made Draco sick how Potter felt the need to attract attention with every single move he made. Though he was strutting with every scoop of horse shit, Draco wouldn't deny that Potter was quite attractive. His broad shoulders rippled as he heaved the shovel, and Draco was entranced by the curve of his arse as he bent over.
"Malfoy!" Draco was torn out of his reverie by the unit director, Ernie Macmillan, or as he was known at camp, Kidney. "You're not getting paid to stand around and bask in the sun. Get a shovel and make yourself useful." Unlike Potter, who helped out the rest of the counselors on the different tasks even though he was a unit director, Macmillan preferred to order everyone else about to reinforce his sense of superiority.
Still entranced by Potter's unfortunately endearing body, Draco moved forward to grab a shovel, slowly making his way into the nearest stall (but still the farthest one from Potter) and tentatively scooping up the sodding horse dung. It almost looked relatively harmless, all clumped together like clods of fresh dirt, but Draco could see pieces of undigested hay sticking out of some of the piles.
He was bent over, trying to find the best way to slide the rake/scoop underneath the clumps without dislodging the entire pile when a cool wind suddenly blew. It harshly rustled Draco's hair and chilled him through his thick fleece clothes, and because Warming Charms and other creature comforts cast through a wand were not permitted, he simply had to bear the elements. At Camp Cedarwood, magic was eschewed entirely in favor of the so-called "character building" Muggle methods.
Surviving this summer was Draco's top priority. He hadn't been this keen on making it through a certain span of time since the Dark Lord had resided at Malfoy Manor, and that was because Camp Cedarwood was his ticket back to respectability in the Wizarding World. Just nine weeks at camp – one of them consisting of orientation – and he would be free. Training was exhausting enough, but Draco only imagined how much more horrible the situation would become after campers actually arrived. The work assignment had been voluntold to him: never in Merlin's name would he have signed himself up for this torture. Draco would take it, though. The alternative was a year of probation and he'd rather jump off a cliff before permitting those fools at the Ministry to snoop on him any longer. Camp was definitely the better option, and Potter's good looks were only an added bonus…
"Malfoy! Put the rake down and go help them take the waste to the dumping grounds!" Macmillan – no, Kidney – lectured. "And why haven't you decided on a proper name yet?" Counselors used camp names by tradition, so Draco had to participate or risk being disciplined. And under no circumstances was he going to be mucking stalls again.
"I have," he said primly, in an attempt to get MacMillan off his back.
"So what is it?" interrogated Macmillan, refusing to be deterred. Draco scowled. He was no closer to coming up with a name than he was before, but anything had to be better than Kidney for Merlin's sake.
"Dragon," Draco decided, arranging his pale face into a sneer that conveyed his full intention of giving Macmillan hell should he comment on Draco's choice.
Rather regretfully – he'd been looking forward to a little excitement amongst all the horrible shit he was forced to deal with this morning – Macmillan simply nodded. "Wonderful. Now get back to work, Malfoy."
Really, what was the point of having a camp nickname if it wasn't even going to be used? Draco looked at him exasperatedly, pointedly conveying his growing impatience for anything camp related.
Picking up on the vibe, Macmillan sneered back. "Yes, Dragon, you'll always just be a rotten Malfoy to me."
Draco didn't dignify him with a reply or a parting look. He simply swept off down the dirt path as gracefully as one could with hiking shoes and bulky warm clothes, stopping to place the rake back into the proper stall on his way back.
Pansy was waiting in line at the dumping grounds, also accompanied by a wheelbarrow which was full to the brim with poo.
"Draco," she hissed at him impatiently. "Where have you been? Thanks for deserting me with a sodding cart full of shit, you wanker."
He loved Pansy, but he tolerated attitude from no one, her included. The only thing to be done was to give her a superior glare. "Pans, love, you know my strategy for avoiding extra work. We've been over it at least a hundred times."
"Of course," she retorted, "It's called sticking me with it." She fixed him with a look saturated with self-pity, but Draco refused to give in. Finally, she sighed and snuck her arm around his. "Draco, love, you do know that we have to earn 'Acceptable's on our performance reviews this summer, right?"
"I'm perfectly aware," he responded smoothly. Pansy opened her mouth to say more, but it was her turn to dump her refuse, and so she reluctantly pulled away and heaved her cart up to the staggering pile of shit.
Saved from any further nagging reminders about the state of his future, Draco allowed the menacing glare to slide from his face, adopting the now-familiar expression of misery as he contemplated what the rest of the summer would entail. As he trod up to the pile after Pansy's clumsy retreat, Draco caught sight of Potter walking his wheelbarrow back down the hill with the other members of the Golden Trio tag-teaming him on either side. Only the sight of Potter could make horses, manure, and early mornings bearable, and Draco fully comprehended just how much of a sop he was for admitting such a notion.
He thought sometimes about becoming friends with Potter. But even if he made a move to, say, talk to Potter, there would be no possible chance of success because the Gryffindorks were always around. Instead of acting, Draco watched Potter return his cart, laughing loudly at something the Weasel said. He found himself unconsciously smiling, even though the sight of the Weasel was more than enough to make him retch.
A smart slap on the head startled him back to the real world for the second time that morning. He whirled around to find Pansy standing behind him, smirking and holding her hands on her hips. "Now we're even," she gloated, satisfaction evident in her tone.
"Sod off, Pugslea," Draco snapped. Pansy had been dubbed "Pug" the first day of training, and Draco liked to take the mickey out of her even more by turning it into a mild insult (which she hated).
Pansy glowered, miffed again. "Like it's any better than that creature I've heard you're calling yourself now," she retorted.
They exchanged glares before linking arms and walking over to the rest of their unit, which consisted of two separate groups. Of course Potter was directing the second one while Draco was stuck with the ever-so-prejudiced Macmillan. For all Potter's faults, Draco had witnessed him treating Zabini, Nott, and even Pansy with respect. It was a lot more than he could say for Macmillan, who seemed to have made his life's purpose into personally distribution retribution onto Draco, who was the only official former Death Eater at camp.
At least both groups were sharing the same living unit, The Ridge. In fact, Draco had caught sight of a topless Potter earlier that week at the very beginning of staff training, and that had caused him to reacquire the obsession he'd had with Potter all throughout Hogwarts. Draco had expected Potter to be as bony and knobby as he'd been back then, but was pleasantly surprised to find that Potter had filled out in the four years since the War.
"Finally," groused Macmillan once Draco and Pansy had arrived. He cast a quick look out of the corner of his eye only to find Pansy staring daggers back at him. Her message was clear: do not rise to schoolboy taunts and instigation. It completely made sense; their only option was to stick together for safety and stay together for sanity. Though Macmillan was more supervised because he was in a position of power over and therefore more highly regarded with suspicions of unfair treatment, the other counselors were in no such predicaments.
"Malfoy, there's reports of more dung on the trail by the Lodge. Take one of the rakes down there, break up the clumps, and then shovel it off into the wilderness."
Draco wanted to tell Macmillan exactly where he could shove it, but used his newfound skill of restraint to keep his mouth shut. Besides, he reasoned, he could drag the errand out and spend some time away from the drudgeries of camp that seemed to never end. Without question, he nodded a goodbye to Pansy and watched almost regretfully as she ditched Macmillan to rejoin her own group with Potter at the head.
He tore his gaze away from Potter for what seemed like the eightieth time that morning before retrieving the dung-covered rake from the furthest stall. Amongst the disgust and mild horror at having to pick up the utensil yet again, Draco noticed Potter observing him. For effect, he allowed his hips to sashay from side to side, hopefully drawing Potter's attention by accentuating his arse.
It was a reasonably short walk down to the Lodge. Draco made the most of it, striding along through the sleepy meadows as through as though he didn't have another care in the world. The morning air was fresh and he found himself breathing deeply for the first time in months: Ministry-sanctioned cultural rehabilitation came with the side effect of stress and little sleep.
He cut through a more wooded path after reaching the camp's helipad, indulging in a brief fantasy that involved him standing on that platform and Apparating back to the Wizarding World. Draco didn't miss the Manor, but being without his wand was the equivalent of losing a limb. Finally, after climbing up a tiny hill and stopping to remove the offending woodchips from his shoes, Draco noticed the unwelcome pile of refuse scattered along the entire width of the trail.
There was nothing to do but get it over with. Grimacing, he purposefully ignored Macmillan's instructions to break the clumps up, instead scooping up large bunches and hurling them off behind a nearby woodpile. Squirrels came flying out of the brush after the first shovelful landed, which made Draco smile. At least he wasn't the only one miserable this morning.
Since the Lodge was nearby, Draco decided to stop by for a proper cup of coffee and maybe even a little snack. They surely had biscuits or crumpets around; he knew enough about camp to realize that the other employees weren't completely uncivilized. And the best part was that Macmillan's group was going for a quick tour of the Tall Timbers living unit and they most likely wouldn't even realize he was gone. Draco had actually already lived in that unit for the two day training he'd been forced to attend over a holiday weekend earlier that spring.
Other counselors were milling around the Lodge, but Draco ignored them. As long as Potter's and Macmillan's boss wasn't creeping about, no one else could do anything to him that would be of consequence. Skirting the office, he went straight for the coffee maker and poured himself a cuppa. It was just that kind of day, so he indulged in soymilk and chocolate flavoring.
There was a park bench not too far away, and though Draco hated grimy wooden benches, he sat down. The mountains in the distance were illuminated by the mostly-risen sun, and Draco stopped to reflect on just how beautiful it really was up in the wilderness. The Manor was set aside in the country of Wiltshire, but even then he had never really been that far from civilization.
Once he was reinstated as a proper citizen, Draco could see himself purchasing several hundred acres of land far away from any neighboring communities. The outdoors was peaceful, and Merlin knew Draco needed more peace in his life. Everything would feel even more perfect, he grudgingly admitted to himself, if he had someone like Potter to come home to each night. Actually, it would be ideal to come home to Potter. The stubborn Gryffindor would keep his house from ever feeling too quiet, instead lightening it with relentless laughter, infuriating arguments, and passionate lovemaking.
He could almost feel Potter's touch now against his skin. There had been a moment the other night when their fingers brushed as Potter handed Draco a ballpoint pen, and all he could think about for the ten minutes afterward (when he was supposed to be reflecting about the highly intensive day of training) was how Potter's hand felt soft and rough at the same time. Those hands would surely give wonderful massages to help work all the tension out of Draco's neck and back.
Draco's imagination took him to the fantasyland where he'd been spending entirely too much time lately. He dreamed of him and Potter in bed together, Potter's warm hands opening him up before lovingly entering his passage. They'd lie together afterwards, of course, curled up against each other with the promise of a full day ahead of them. Not just a full day, thought Draco regretfully, but a full life. Because with Potter, he strayed out of thought and time as both stretched into unfathomable lengths of nothingness and everything all at the same time. Their life together would be interesting, to say the least.
The coffee was getting cold. Wishing again for a Warming Charm, Draco took another delicate sip and stared back out at the mountains, wishing for the thousandth time that he had simply tried harder in school to be Potter's friend instead of antagonizing him endlessly. In a way, though, he'd gotten exactly what he was after: Potter's attention. There were some years where Draco found himself always on the Saviour's radar. But it was never in the exact way he'd hoped for.
Caught up in despair, Draco set his coffee down on the bench next to him and leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head. He closed his eyes in defeat. If camp didn't manage to break him, surely the Wizarding World would. Before leaving home, he'd been forced to have their Owl Post redirected to a third party solely because of the sheer volume of Howlers received daily. Draco let the helplessness and anger wash over him in droves, breathing deeply and vowing not to break down at camp. The rustic, beautiful house could still be a reality. It was a shame to have all of that land for one person, but he'd make do. There was no reason to abandon his dreams just because he was doomed to spend his life alone…
"Er, is this seat taken?" Draco wearily opened his eyes to find Harry Potter awkwardly staring at him, gesturing towards the other half of the bench. What was there even to say?
"It is not." Draco opted for cool detachment as he stared straight ahead, because even with his feelings as they were, he and Potter were not friends.
"Mind if I sit?"
"Do I really have a choice?"
Out of his peripheral vision, Draco could see that Potter looked taken aback. "Um, yeah? You could just say no if you don't want company, Malfoy." He shook his head and turned to walk away, but Draco called after him.
"Wait, Potter! You can sit."
Potter carefully settled himself on the bench a good six inches away from Draco before raising his own mug and taking a slurp. His drink smelled fruity and delicious; Draco would have to try that one next time he was in the Lodge.
For a long while, they went without speaking. Draco was content to sit in Potter's presence all day as he projected an air of confidence and utter goodness that completely enveloped Draco and washed away his uncertainties.
At last, Potter broke the silence. "Later today all the counselors are picking their programs," he said unnecessarily. Draco already knew this, having been stressing over the choices for days now. He wondered why Potter was restating the obvious. "You should green light everything I'm directing," he continued, surprising Draco as green eyes met gray for the first time. "Macmillan's a complete prat, and I know how the others are treating you badly too."
The amount of compassion in his voice took Draco aback. Why would Potter care what living conditions were like for him at camp?
"I just want you to know that I'll be fair to you," Potter said, still completely genuine. "I mean it, Malfoy – all that stuff from before the War, it doesn't matter now."
He didn't quite know how to respond. Draco had never envisioned himself having an actual conversation with Potter, let alone one where they got along amicably. If he wanted to ever have one again, he reasoned, it was best to be honest with the former great git.
"Thanks, Potter," he said, astonished that his voice came out sincere as well. "It means a lot."
They sat in silence for another ten minutes, watching energetic chipmunks gather nuts after burrowing into some nearby stumps. Potter rose to leave long before Draco was ready to relinquish his company. He turned his eyes down to the ground, unwilling to let Potter see the longing evident on his face.
He didn't expect to feel a hand clamp down on his shoulder or for Potter to bend down and whisper in his ear, "Draco, things are going to get better for you here on, I promise," before giving him one last squeeze and departing purposefully for the Lodge.
After watching Potter walk away, Draco unconsciously felt his insides expanding with hope. It wasn't logical or rational, nor was it entirely welcome. But all the same, he felt the same familiar expression of possibility. Maybe his life could be salvaged and his summer at camp not a complete waste of time after all. Though this day had started out unpleasantly for Draco, perhaps with Potter's help, there could be new beginnings instead of burned bridges and a purposeless existence.
The shrill sound of Macmillan calling for him couldn't wipe the smile off of Draco's face. Instead, he stood up straight, recalled the famous Malfoy sneer, and went back to training not only with his dignity intact, but with fresh motivation propelling him forward.