Title: Tangent Lines
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter universe, and I do not seek to make money out of this or claim that I represent JKR in any way.
Pairings: Harry/Draco
Rating: M. So if you are underage, please do not read.
Warnings: Sex, a mention of alcohol, and depressing thoughts.
Full Summary: Draco built himself a cottage by a forest after the war in order to distract himself from his circular thoughts and provide himself some shelter from a world that does not want him. When the cottage is finished, however, he has nothing to distract him anymore, and the circles come back. Not all circles are bad, however. The circle his arms made around Potter's torso as they escaped the Fiendfyre was nice, for example. So is the circle that Potter's arms make around Draco's torso when Draco attempts to Disapparate away from him at the Leaky Cauldron. Bit by bit, day by day, Draco will learn that although Harry Potter is inevitable, it is what he decides to do with Harry Potter that makes the difference.
Author's Note: Hello, everyone. For those of you who know me and are wondering what the status is on "A Series of Misunderstandings," I am still working on it. Right now, though, my life has been feeling a little serious and humourless lately, so I decided to get it out of my system by writing this.
This will be a story told in third-person pronouns, but from Draco's POV. Hence sometimes Harry's motivations are kind of hard to understand, since we can only see him through Draco's eyes, and of course Draco thinks he's a complete nutter.
It is a very subdued story, neither full of heart-pounding excitement nor wretched, tear-jerking sadness. It is just the story of a Draco who tries to fold up and put away his thoughts as neatly as he does his clothes, only to end up having to face those same thoughts again as they cycle back to him, and it will take a certain Harry Potter to break him out of it.
This has not been beta-checked, because it's not my main project, and my beta needs a break, anyway. So please forgive me for any minor typos you may find.
I do hope you'll enjoy this while I work on the next chapter of ASM.
Draco lay in his little bed, staring at the ceiling.
It was incredible, sometimes, to realize that he had made the ceiling, along with the rest of his cottage, with his own magic and his own hands.
The pieces of furniture, of course, were brought in from the manor if they were comfortable and appropriate or bought through a little haggling in the markets from behind a Glamour Charm, but the structure itself was really his doing.
The Ministry, of course, had been suspicious when he had decided to buy a little plot of land by a forest and build his own tiny home. Acquitted or not, he was still tainted. So they had sent an Auror to supervise him and spy on him, making sure that he did not use that plot of land for nefarious reasons.
He remembered that Auror. Old and grizzled, with a continual glaze over his colourless eyes, constantly grumbling to himself about "babysitting" and "waste of time." Oddly, Draco had grown to like the man, in his own distant, non-communicative way. The man didn't seem to hate Draco for his past or even his potential future. He simply hated Draco because he represented an annoying, boring task, and that kind of hatred was refreshing.
Once or twice, Draco had approached the Auror, asking if he wanted to pitch in. But the man had simply shook his head, saying that it would be a liability and against the rules or whatever. He had shrugged upon hearing that. Some people were bored simply because they made themselves bored.
Draco, however, was not one to let himself be bored. Building the cottage was really the best thing he had ever done. It had felt wonderful to take some tools in his hands and make something useful with it. The cabinet back in Hogwarts had required tools and effort and brains, too, but…yeah, he would not think about that right now. He shoved the thought into another compartment in his mind.
Honestly, with the proper research and planning and effort, anything was possible, and it wasn't like he had had anything else to do with his time.
His mother had thought he was crazy, of course. She had literally pulled on his sleeve to hold him back from buying the land, but he had yanked it away. He had followed his parents' wishes for too long, and look where that had gotten him.
He sighed into the night air and turned on his side. Perhaps part of the reason he had built his own home was because he had wanted a way to break out of the dangerous circular thought processes he kept having as an effect of the war. Construction required conscious effort, and it had been nice to be able to devote his consciousness to something non-poisonous for once.
But now he was bereft of that distraction, so it took him another hour of staring at the wall before he finally fell asleep.
He woke up to the feeling of sunlight against his skin, and he smiled. Contrary to the paleness of his skin, he had always liked the sun. He just wasn't allowed to indulge in it too much, for fear of sunburn and the disgust of his parents.
His smile slipped off his face. Ah, well. His parents' disgust did not matter anymore, did it?
Getting up, he made his way to the loo and did his morning ablutions, relishing the feel of water against his skin. He had made sure to include plumbing in his plans. The benefit of having magic was being able to redirect existing water and conjure up more if needed. Heating said water had been more of a difficulty, but he had figured that out, too. It was not a perfect system, of course, as the heat would sometimes falter and he would end up shrieking as cold water attacked him, but he had endured worse pain in the past, and mistakes only encouraged him to try harder to fix them.
Hah. When had he ever turned into such a heroic figure, anyway? Maybe it was easy to be heroic when no one ever saw him.
Wiping himself with a towel, he stepped out and gathered some ingredients from the cupboards. He would make himself some toast today. Today was a toast day.
As he ate, an owl flew in with the Prophet. He reached out for it, because he loved to read, no matter how insipid the content. It was like having a conversation where he was not expected to contribute anything witty, and if he did snark against the words, they couldn't fight back. It was much better than talking to actual people. He unfolded the paper to start the newest conversation.
"HARRY POTTER AND FIANCÉE CALL OFF WEDDING!" proclaimed the front page. Below the headline was a picture of the Weaselette shouting at the Chosen One's back as he glowered at the edge of the image.
Well, then. Guess there was really nothing to talk about today.
He snorted and turned the page. Although it was mildly surprising and mildly interesting, he could not bring himself to feel any sort of vindictive triumph at the sod's misery, and neither could he feel any sort of sympathy. It was just an event that happened to someone that was not him, that's all. Relationships start and end all the time. Even though it was sensational for the Chosen One to have broken off a sappy courtship, people did that all the time. Perhaps right now, right at this moment, there was currently someone tossing a ring in someone else's face. The only difference was that it would not make the news, since those someones did not kill the Dark Lord or do anything else remotely famous.
He did feel the urge to venture out of the house today, though. Perhaps it would amuse him to feel the excitement of the crowd, the tension not being directed at him for once.
The idea fully formed in his head, he finished his breakfast and threw on a cloak before heading to the fireplace. As tiny as his cottage was, he had made sure to connect it to the Floo Network. After all, the best ways to travel long distances were through Floo, Portkey, and Apparition, and he did live in a rather remote area.
He tossed the green powder into the flames. "Diagon Alley!"
He kept his hood over his distinctive white-blond hair, for he was not in the mood to get hissed at today. Then again, it was doubtful that anyone would have noticed him, busy as they were talking furiously about the Boy Who Lived.
"I just can't believe it! I was so looking forward to the wedding!"
"I wonder what happened. Did she cheat on him? Did he cheat on her?"
"He deserves better, anyway. Look how vicious she is!"
"What a fool, that woman! Letting go of a prize like that!"
And throughout all the comments, he could just feel the high levels of excitement, of arousal. Now that Harry Potter was officially unattached, their urges were going crazy, especially now that they could not use the Weaselette as a limiting factor, a check on their emotions.
He shook his head and stepped into the apothecary. Sex was overrated. As a young man, he had really only fumbled around once or twice, and that was with Pansy. Everyone in Slytherin indulged Pansy when it wasn't too inconvenient. It was much easier to deal with her that way. As he grew older, though, he just never found himself interested in sex or romance or relationships.
Of course, it helped that he was doing all that serving the Dark Lord business. It was a convenient screen, a way to get Pansy and other potential suitors to back off. Or, well, maybe Pansy was really the only one who had ever wanted him that aggressively to need a screen. But the truth was that Draco was not into sex. A Mind Healer would probably say that his aversion to sex was a result of the trauma caused by the war, but that really wasn't it. He knew how to separate pleasure from pain. It was not that hard for him to block out certain things to make room for other things. He just did not find sex worth making room for.
He gathered up some beetle eyes and lizard feet before heading over to the counter. The old woman nodded at him. "Got anything for me today?" she asked, as she measured the items and calculated the price.
Smiling slightly, he reached into his pockets for a small pot filled with midnight orchids. These flowers were getting popular with the potions-making crowd now, ever since someone discovered that their essence helped to make certain thoughts crystal clear in one's head. People had yet to know how to actually control which thoughts were made clear, but that was the point of experimentation.
The old woman and he stood there and bartered for a while, arguing about prices and value and the like. He liked that. It was nice to argue in a harmless fashion, where he would not end up with his nose broken or a scar across his chest.
As he gathered up his purchases, he lightly skimmed his hand over the scar through his robes. It was another reason he was not interested in sex. What was the point in showing someone his scars? They would either mock him and say that he deserved them, or they would show an incredible amount of aimless pity, and he wouldn't know what to do with it.
In the Leaky Cauldron, he watched as Tom poured him a glass. The bartender was another source of comfort to him. At the end of the day, the good old man only wanted his Galleons. He did not care where you were from or what you once did, because as long as you wanted his drinks, he was able to do his job.
And he did his job well. As Draco watched the artful way Tom filled the glass, letting not a single drop spill outside, he had to concede that there were other ways of displaying grace, even in a dark, musty bar.
He sipped at his lager, letting it flow into his body. German beers were always rather severe, but he appreciated a little bit of severity in his life, as long as it was not a matter of life and death. There was a reason why he had put up with Uncle Sev, after all.
A thump next to him made him whip his head around, cutting off his thoughts before he could dwell on yet another dead person. Another man had seated himself at the bar. He, too, wore a hooded cloak, but unlike Draco, his whole body radiated tension and purpose and fury. Draco raised his eyebrow at the new companion. Someone really needed to relax.
"Shot of vodka," snarled the man. "Could really use one."
Tom smiled faintly at the man, a hint of sadness creeping into his eyes, but he seemed to know better than to voice it. That made Draco curious. For whom would Tom ever feel sad? He must have seen drunks every day.
Once the shot was procured, the man downed it before asking for a more substantial drink. "An Irish Car Bomb, please, if you know how to make one."
Tom snorted, as if to say, Of course I do, and Draco grinned at him. Although the bartender never really opened his mouth much after the war, he knew how to speak volumes without a single word.
As if hearing the grin, the man turned around to glare at Draco for the first time, and both men gaped in shock as they took in each other's hooded faces.
"Malfoy."
"Potter," Draco whispered, not wanting an intrusive, drooling crowd to run up and smother him in his place of relaxation. Although his face was blurred with a Glamour, Draco knew how to stare intensely enough at someone's face to see past it.
"What the bloody hell are you doing here?"
"Having a drink, Potter, like any other person that comes here."
He scoffed. "Right. But I thought you fell off the face of the Earth after school."
"Yes, and then I fell back onto the Earth, and that is why I need a drink," he found himself sneering. Huh. That was weird. He hadn't made a comment in that tone in such a long time. But then again, he hadn't actually talked to anyone in a long time.
Potter rolled his eyes and turned back to his own drink, downing it as if it were pumpkin juice.
Draco sipped in silence. It was strange. The fire he used to feel around Potter was muted, as if all the heat had been sucked out of him by the Fiendfyre. He closed his eyes and let himself remember the moment, indulging in yet another circular thought process as if those thoughts were his favourite drug. The fire's heat had been overwhelming, but so had been the feel of Potter's body in his arms. Surprisingly, the memory was really not that traumatic. It was…almost comforting, in some weird, twisted way. For a moment, it had felt like he had had someone to love, someone to hold onto.
He opened his eyes again and faced the reality. There was none of that for him. And it wasn't even really a sad thing, just a thing he accepted in resignation. His heart could never open up to anyone enough for that. He would simply spend the rest of his life alone in his cottage, collecting ingredients and brewing potions and trying to avoid the circles carved into his mind.
"Another lager, please, Tom."
The bartender nodded.
A couple of hours later, and Potter was pissed. Not angry-pissed, but drunk-pissed. He leaned his head on Draco's shoulder, mumbling to himself.
"I'm so fucking tired. I did all the searches, followed all the clues, did everything everyone ever fucking wanted, and now I just want some rest. I don't want some goddamn wedding, and I don't want some goddamn guilt for not wanting a goddamn wedding. I just want some peace for once in my life."
Draco nodded, even though Potter couldn't see and probably wouldn't care even if he did.
"I wish time could just stop. I wish I could just stop. I wish. I wish…"
He trailed off as he turned his head into Draco's sleeve and mouthed it, unable to say anything more.
Draco sighed and tried not to feel disgusted, even though one tiny part of his mind was screaming about germs and the filth of saliva. Potter really was an appalling drunk. Maybe it was time to go.
Gently, he pushed the prat away, paid Tom, and got up to leave.
Stumbling footsteps behind him told him that Potter was not yet done with the sleeve-mouthing.
"Malfoy. You don't get to leave. Not yet."
He sighed. "Potter, you don't get to tell me what to do."
With that, he stepped towards the Apparition point. Even though he was somewhat buzzed from all the lager, he knew he was sober enough for this.
Just as he started to twist his body, though, he felt two arms wrap around his torso. It was a strange reversal of the Fiendfyre scene, and Draco quietly reflected that it was nice to be held, too, as well as to hold.
Then the Apparition took them away, and he didn't think any further on that path.
"Potter. Trust you to always intrude in my life," he growled as they landed in his cottage.
Potter ignored him, rubbing his face against Draco's sleeve again.
Salazar, Potter really was an oddly clingy drunk. He supposed that that only made sense. Potter lived to annoy him to death. Maybe one day he would succeed. And then Draco would be dumped unceremoniously in the middle of the forest, just as he deserved.
"Well, since you're here, you might as well make yourself comfortable, you utter tosser."
That said, he grabbed Potter's arms and pushed him onto his bed. He fell with a groan, burying his face in Draco's pillow as a replacement for his sleeve.
He shook his head at the prone prat. Honestly, had the man no control? Had he ever had control? It was really embarrassing to watch a hero make a mess of himself.
Leaning down, he yanked off the fallen hero's trainers. No need to stain his bed. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed next to the newly unshod feet, sighing his heart out.
He cast a Tempus. It was about time for dinner. He wondered if Potter would wake up in the middle of the night, hungry.
Oh well. Drunk idiots should just suffer. That was no problem of Draco's.
He made himself a nice casserole while Potter slept away his woes, and he enjoyed every bite, humming softly to himself at the pleasure of not being a stupid heroic git. Then he lay down on the couch, now feeling grateful that his mother had bullied him into bringing it with him if he was going to be so stubborn as to move out into the woods like that.
Strangely enough, he actually had no problem falling asleep. The rational part of him told him that it was due to the lagers and the delicious casserole, but the irrational part of him, which refused to die a dignified death, muttered that maybe it had something to do with having pathetic, prone Potter in his home.
He woke up to the sound of screaming.
His heart beating wildly, he shot out of bed, only to fall as he realised that his "bed" was actually a couch. Why the hell was it a couch? Oh, right. Potter. Occupying his bed.
Grumbling in order to stave off the fear, he rushed over to the bed, hoping that some idiot hadn't somehow broken into his wards just to finish off the Prat That Never Fucking Died No Matter What.
But no. Potter, like always, was making a lot of fuss about nothing.
Well, okay, Draco conceded, as he watched the man cry and shiver under the sheets. Nightmares weren't really nothing.
Sighing, he slipped under the sheets, ending up uncomfortably close to Potter, since the bed really was tiny. He wrapped his arms around him, feeling engulfed in the warmth, just like the escape from the Fiendfyre.
"I've got you, you bastard. It's okay. Everything's over for you, and you can finally be an untitled berk again, if that's what you really want."
Potter murmured something and buried his face into Draco's chest.
He blushed a little but then decided that it wasn't really worth blushing over. Potter didn't know it was his old school enemy he was cuddling with. He probably just saw him as another human body, no more special than any other human body.
He actually liked that, he mused. Then he fell asleep again and thought no more.
When he opened his eyes, it was to find a pair green eyes staring at his face, wide and petrified.
He stared back. He wasn't going to say anything if Potter wasn't going to say anything. After all, Potter was the one who was freaked out and out of his element. Draco was doing just fine.
"Why…the hell…are you holding me?"
He sighed into the git's face, hoping his breath stank. He would deserve it. Of course Potter would ask the most uninteresting question out of all the possible questions to ask. "You had a nightmare. It was the only way to get you to stop screaming."
"Oh." A blush tinted his cheeks, and Draco noted that, oddly enough, Potter was just as pale as he was.
Well, okay, maybe not as pale, but still pretty pale.
In fact, Potter looked like crap. His hair was a horror like always, and his facial structure was way too young and soft for all the stress lines carved into his skin.
No wonder the Weaselette had dumped him. Who would want to wake up to that sight every morning?
"Well…can you let go of me now?" Potter asked after a while. Ugh, the prat's conversational skills really were subpar.
"I'm not holding you that tightly. You can pull away if you want."
But Potter didn't pull away. He just lay there and stared at Draco some more.
"Why did you bring me to your home, Malfoy?"
He snorted. "You were the one who wrapped your arms around me as I tried to Disapparate. You tell me!"
"Oh." He sighed and closed his eyes. "I have a headache."
Draco pulled away and untangled himself from Potter's clingy body. "I have hangover potion. Hold on. And I might as well make you some breakfast, too, since I don't want you to starve on the streets when I inevitably kick your arse out of here."
"Alright." He smiled beatifically, then winced as the smile seemed to pull on some muscle that reinforced the headache.
Potter really was a hopeless prat.
As they sat there, breakfasting on eggs and bacon and sausages, Potter kept up an aimless ramble about the weather, Auror training, and how he would never drink so much ever again.
Draco nodded. It was kind of nice to have a human conversational partner for once. In fact, it was nice enough that he didn't dare ask about the Weaselette or talk about the war, since he knew that Potter could just vanish if he wanted to.
"So um. Nice place you got here, Malfoy," mumbled Potter finally.
"Thank you. I built it myself."
"What?" His eyes goggled at him before scanning over the whole structure again. "You made this?"
"Yes. I thought the Ministry would have already mentioned that to you, since they sent someone to spy on me and all."
"Please, Malfoy, the world doesn't revolve around you," snapped Potter, possibly to hide his embarrassment at not actually knowing something for once.
After all, he seemed to always think he knew Draco perfectly, didn't he? He had even made some self-righteous speech about how he was giving him back his wand and defending him at the trial because he knew that Draco had it in him to be "good" or some bollocks like that, back in the days right after the war.
"Whatever, Potter. Do you have plans for today? I know you can't stay in my humble abode forever."
Potter looked down at the ground, and Draco knew that he was about to say something that he feared Draco would find disagreeable. How he knew that, he didn't exactly know, but Potter always had been pretty easy to read.
"Well, actually…life has been pretty stressful lately. And, er, you were a good host, and last night I slept so well…I…"
Did he really mean to say…? He couldn't really!
"You want to move in, don't you?" Draco blurted out incredulously.
Potter turned beet red. "Gods, it sounds really stupid, doesn't it? Here I am, imposing on you after I already forced you to take me here. I'm sorry. Forget I said anything."
Draco sighed, his exasperation at the idiot's overall clumsy way of speaking forcing him to burst out into some more unfiltered speech. "Just do it, you prat. It's the least I can do, since I owe you that life debt, after all."
"L-Life debt? O-Oh, yeah, that."
He sneered, masking his own panic at the ridiculous offer he had just made. "You may have the memory of a goldfish, but I remember everything, Potter."
"Shut up."
"If we're going to share a roof, I shall not shut up, and neither shall you. Now, if you…if you…" Damn it, why was he struggling to go through with this stupid decision? He swallowed and tried again. "If you have any clothes and other personal effects to bring in here, I suggest you go home, grab them, and come back. I'll leave the Floo connection open to you."
"Thanks, Malfoy! I'll be back."
With that, he Disapparated, and Draco let out a sigh. Maybe he really was that lonely.
Potter came back with his clothes and toothbrush. He smiled sheepishly and explained in more detail his reasons for doing this all of a sudden.
"The reporters keep hounding me after the breakup, and I had shared the flat with Ginny, and it's just really awkward. Even getting back there to get my stuff was risky, but thankfully no one was home or camping outside. I just need a place to stay hidden right now, until everything blows over. I'll still go to work, though. Can't avoid that."
Draco rolled his eyes. "Potter, there is no such thing as 'everything blowing over.' As famous as you are, your disappearance will only make them more curious and more desperate to find you. And then what happens when they find you here? Am I to be stuck dealing with the consequences while you run off to another place?"
"I could, um, take you with me. You're part of the package deal."
He stared at Potter, trying hard not to let his jaw drop.
"What?"
Potter made a strangled noise in his throat before explaining, "IjustsleepbetterwhenI'mwithyou."
"In English, Potter."
"I. Sleep better. When I'm. With. You."
"That's what I thought you said, but it was so preposterous that I decided to give you the benefit of the doubt. Now I realise that you don't deserve that."
Potter smiled wryly. "Malfoy, I'm sorry I don't make sense. But nothing in my life makes sense anymore, so I can't help it."
"And you expect me to just bend over and let your nonsense clutter up my sense?"
"Well…yeah. Although, you don't have to do all the bending if you don't want. I can bend, too."
He raised an eyebrow at Potter, wondering if he intended an innuendo, but no, his wide green eyes were guileless.
"Whatever. Put your stuff in the wardrobe over there. I set aside a drawer for you, since I figured you didn't have many clothes, anyway, you lazy, unfashionable git."
As Potter let out a little whoop of triumph, Draco turned away to hide his little smile. So Potter slept better when he was with Draco, eh? Maybe they could work out an arrangement, then, since Draco apparently slept better when he was with Potter.
After that, Potter living with him became a matter of course. Draco still didn't know what to think of it, really, but he passively accepted it, since it seemed to be a law of the universe that Potter would always irreparably change his life.
Potter was an acceptable roommate, though. He had a more stable income than Draco and would always bring home the groceries and other necessities. He also cooked from time to time, although he was never really as good as Draco. (He suspected that the Weaselette must have done the cooking in their former relationship.) And he never pried too much into Draco's thoughts and feelings, preferring to ramble on about himself and his own worries.
He had a lot of worries, really. His biggest fear was to sleep alone, because he made the worst post-nightmare decisions when he was alone. Sometimes the nightmares drove him to fly recklessly on his broomstick, or they made him write angry letters to whomever it was that plagued his thoughts at the moment. It was a nightmare that had actually pushed him to dump his fiancée.
"That's ridiculous, Potter," he had scoffed when he heard that. "You don't end a long-term relationship because of a nightmare."
"No, it wasn't directly because of the nightmare." Potter brushed his hair out of his eyes, scowling at the memory. "It's just…she didn't comfort me. When I was screaming and flailing, you know what she did? She grabbed a blanket and slept on the couch. That was when I decided that I wanted someone that would comfort me."
And that person was Draco, apparently. He glanced warily at Potter, wondering if he had already made that connection in his mind. He did not fancy becoming Potter's wife one day. To have to put on an apron and slave over his meals during the day and then take it off and spread his legs during the night really held no appeal for him.
But Potter did not give him any sort of significant look, so he put the thought away. Maybe he was just being paranoid and ridiculous, like always.
Draco winced at the sound of thunder outside. He adored the sound of the rain pattering on his roof, but the thunder always ruined it. He hated loud, sudden noises, had always hated them when his usually-quiet parents would suddenly start one of their rare shouting matches. If something was consistently loud, that was one thing. For example, when Weasley had finally been allowed to visit Potter and yelled about everything under the sun, Draco could handle it, because the prat was supposed to be loud, expected to be loud. But if things that were usually quiet suddenly became loud, it terrified him. He hated unpredictability.
Potter seemed to hate it, too, whimpering in Draco's arms. He held him closely, making vague shushing sounds of comfort. Honestly, it was much easier to be brave when there was someone to be brave for. Perhaps that was how Gryffindors flourished, by getting themselves into trouble all the time in order to offer their housemates chances to be heroes.
"It's okay, Potter," he whispered into messy black hair. "It's just the thunder. No one will hurt you, ever again."
"Come home, Harry," pleaded Granger, as she sat on Draco's couch and sipped his tea. "You can't hide from the world forever. And you can't keep forcing everyone that visits you to make an Unbreakable Vow not to reveal this location. Isn't that magically exhausting?"
"I don't care, Hermione. I still go to the outside world like usual, okay? I'm not hiding. I only come back here to sleep and recharge. And as for visitors, it's only been you and Ron, anyway."
"Not Ginny?"
"Never Ginny. Never Ginny, ever again. And I think it's about time you accepted that."
She let out a quiet sob at the finality in his tone, and Harry wrapped his arms around her, rubbing circles in her back and murmuring soothing, unintelligible words.
In the corner, Draco rolled his eyes. Potter always had to comfort everyone. No wonder he craved Draco's pathetic comfort so much. A drop of water would taste like ambrosia to a man stranded in a desert.
Eventually, Potter disentangled himself and went to the loo.
Granger immediately turned to him as soon as Potter was out of earshot. "How do you not care that he's sharing your space and your resources, Malfoy? Don't you want him to go out there and become his own person? Even you must see how wrong this is."
"He already is his own person, Granger. Just not the kind of person you were probably hoping for."
She sniffled. "You can't hold him here forever."
"I can't hold him here for one second. I have no hold over him. The only reason he's here is because he wants to be."
She stared at the wooden floor. There was nothing else to say.
"I can't take this anymore, Draco. What the hell does everyone want from me? I have a job. I donate to charity. I don't hurt anyone. Why do they keep hounding me and expecting me to do something amazing? I just want to be boring old me."
It had been a particularly rough day, with the press cornering Potter outside of his workplace, disrupting Ministry activities. They had asked such intrusive, demeaning questions that Potter was now crying into Draco's chest as they lay tangled in bed again, and Draco was stroking his hair, knowing that he was the only one in the world who ever got to see the Saviour cry.
"You are a boring old git, Potter. Don't let the press make you think otherwise."
"Har har. I hate you."
Draco pushed him gently away from his chest a bit and kissed his forehead. "You were doing so well with the honesty thing, Potter. Don't stop now."
"Alright. You want me to be really honest?"
"Mhm."
"Then…I want more than this."
"You are welcome to want more than this, Potter. Hero or not, you don't deserve to hole yourself up in a former Death Eater's home for the rest of your life."
"No, not that. I don't mind living here; in fact, I love living here. I don't know if you've noticed, Draco, but you bring me calm."
"Preposterous. We argue all the time."
"Yeah, but it's the kind of arguments we have, you know? We never argue about anything heavy. Just what food to eat or why I'm such an idiot, etc. I can handle that. It's better than arguing about why I don't give more of myself to the press or why I don't 'settle down and start a family' or why I haven't visited anyone's graves lately. You never pry into those things."
Of course Draco didn't. He didn't even want to ask those things of himself, much less Potter.
"So what, do you want more arguing or something? Is that what you mean?"
"Haha! No."
"More holding? Should I tighten my arms until you can't breathe anymore? I can do that, you know. I'm not as weak as I seem."
Potter let out a choked laugh. "I don't want just holding. I want…"
"Yes? Spit it out Potter, I'm not going to be awake all night."
Potter gave up on articulating it and pressed his lips against Draco's instead.
Draco froze, even as Potter soft lips moved against his in the tenderest of caresses, the motion feeling almost reverent. Then Potter moved away, blushing, probably discouraged by Draco's lack of response.
"I'm sorry. I really shouldn't have done that. That was stupid. You're probably not even gay."
"Well, last time I checked, you weren't gay," drawled Draco, while inwardly screaming his head off. He really did not do sex or anything that could potentially lead to it. Sure, he'd had the occasional hard-on, but that was from being human, and hard-ons were not really always connected to sexual arousal. Having a hard-on and accepting another hard-on into his body was a different story. And he knew Potter would want something like that if he let the kisses continue.
"I'm not necessarily gay or straight," Potter explained. "I just know that I want you. But I don't want to impose this on you if you don't feel the same. I'm sorry. I'll just turn away for tonight."
Draco tightened his arms around the frustrating jerk before he could hide from him, his thoughts swirling around his head and making him confused enough without having to deal with changing variables on the outside. "Salazar, you didn't even let me say whether or not I would agree or disagree to anything. Stop being so self-centred and let me say something."
"You're already saying some things."
"Well, yes. But I've got more things. Um. Fine, Potter, I don't know if this is just some passing fancy or if you want me to suddenly be your Prince Charming and ride you off into the sunset, but if it gets you to shut up, you can have a kiss. Okay? Just a kiss."
Potter furrowed his eyebrows and opened his mouth as if to protest, but Draco closed the distance between them and kissed him.
The other man moaned into his mouth, wrapping his arms around him and sliding his tongue inside. Draco's heart pounded in his chest, because it had been a long time since he'd let anyone into his mouth. It felt so strange, so foreign yet so familiar, and he was burning up again, the heat he once felt around Potter back at school finally coming back as he lapped at Potter's tongue, tasting the mint of his toothpaste.
They lay there, exploring each other's mouths for a long time, before they finally fell asleep.
The next morning, Draco tried to extricate himself from Potter, wanting to make breakfast and then get a head start on the Calming Draught he wanted to brew, but the sod wouldn't let go. He pushed at his arms, but Potter's fingers clutched his arms in a death grip.
He sighed and accepted it. Whatever the tosser wanted, the tosser got.
Just before he closed his eyes to force himself back to sleep, he could have sworn he saw the man grin the tiniest of grins.
The next several months flew by. Potter had remained as reclusive as ever, only allowing Weasley and Granger to visit. The press still had no idea where he lived, and they had eventually given up on figuring it out. As fascinating as the mystery of Potter was, they were journalists, after all, and they were responsible for reporting other happenings in the Wizarding world, too. Thus the front page started talking about newly formed feuds between broken families and post-war economic issues. The subject of Potter fell by the wayside; even his new Auror coworkers found him dull, for he never did anything extraordinary in front of them in terms of combat.
As for Draco, he found himself more and more attracted to Potter. In fact, at some point, he started to think of the man as Harry. It was strange how the same man with the same ugly glasses and the same hopeless hair became so different in his eyes after months of living with him. If Draco tried to think back to his first impression of Harry, he really couldn't muster up the memory. Any attempt to remember a past Potter would always be corrupted by the reality of the present Harry. There was just no helping it.
Now the nightly routine was more than just holding each other in a platonic fashion in order to bring about a good night's sleep. They snogged every night now, and the previous night, they had even escalated to a hand job.
Draco felt hot under the collar at the memory. That night, Harry had been particularly stressed from a case he was tackling, so when he had felt Draco's arousal against his, he couldn't help but touch it. It had been bliss, especially when Draco decided to return the favour out of fairness, and they had both fucked each other's hands until they came.
He still didn't know what this was, though. Were they lovers now? Boyfriends? Fuck buddies? Or were they simply comfort companions with an occasional orgasm thrown in?
This thought created a new circular track in his mind, and he groaned at the pain of feeling it etch itself into his brain. He really did hate thinking in circles.
Tonight was their first night out in public together. For some reason, Harry had decided that he was ready to come out to the world about his—friendship?—with Draco. He had reserved a spot at a nice, trendy fusion cuisine place, and Draco was reluctantly swallowing yet another sushi roll.
Harry had paid handsomely to the restaurant owners to keep the press out. He even hired security workers off-duty from the Ministry to guard their private room.
"I don't mind if they snap photos of us when we step outside, but I don't want them interrupting our dinner," he had explained to everyone.
Throughout the meal, Harry kept up a steady stream of chatter, like always, but Draco was not listening to any of it. He watched the way his hair fell over his forehead, framing his face. He had thought that his hair was unruly and utterly chaotic this whole time, but if one stared at it long enough, it began to make sense, in some odd way. Perhaps everything made sense if it was examined long enough.
Harry smiled and reached out for his hand. "You're not really listening to me, are you?"
"Nope."
"That's okay. At least you're here with me."
"Mm."
"Shall we order some desert?"
"Yes, please." Draco's stomach clenched, even as he watched the graceful and charming way Harry waved over the waiter. (Everyone had their graceful moments, apparently, even clumsy wankers like him.) He did not want this dinner to end. He did not want to have to go outside and face the scrutiny of the press, face the hatred of the world again.
Yet at the same time, Harry had to brave this at some point. He had to admit to them that he had something with Draco and show them that he found it normal and acceptable for him. Otherwise, if Harry fought to hide it, Draco would simply feel like he was keeping him in a cage for his own consumption, and that was just not on.
They lingered over the mango pudding, both because it tasted divine and because they knew that stepping out of the restaurant meant stepping into discord. But finally, they held each other's hands and went to face the music.
"Oh, Draco, that was just amazing! Did you see the looks on their faces?"
"Yeah," he mumbled. He had seen their outraged faces, alright.
Harry abruptly stopped laughing, turning to him in the bed. "Draco, I thought you said you'd be fine with this."
"I would be. And I am. It's just not very pleasant, that's all. I'll get over it." He closed his eyes and tried to think happier thoughts.
Arms wrapped around him, and he was enveloped in warmth. "Draco. I'm sorry."
"Don't be, you idiot. There's nothing to be sorry for."
"I just wanted to be open about us. I don't want to hide you away anymore, especially not since I've come to…love you."
Draco ignored the hesitant statement for his own sanity. "I'm the one that's been hiding you away, you wanker. I'm always in plain sight. People just don't want to see me."
"Well, I want to see you. All of you. Open your eyes?"
He opened them and met those big stupid green eyes.
"Potter. Don't you want a life? You could have so much more company than me, Weasley, Granger, and those idiots at your workplace. You could go to so many more places than this cottage, the Weasley homes, and your workplace. Why are you depriving yourself of all that?"
Harry sighed into his face. "Those things are not closed off to me forever. If I wanted to venture further and meet more people tomorrow, I could. And maybe a few years from now, I will. But for now, I just want some peace. After a long day of doing my job, I just want to be able to come home and unwind with a blond prat that always calls me names. I want to be held as I vent, and I want to listen to you vent, too. In fact, you don't vent enough, and in fact, you are the one who hasn't gone out to meet more people or go more places, so don't you dare, okay? Don't you dare."
Draco sighed back into his face, and for a few moments, they had a face-sighing competition. Finally, he said, "I'm a Death Eater, Potter. Nobody wants me out there, and I don't want anyone that's out there, either. I live my quiet life and I'm better off that way."
"Then can't you see that I feel the same way? Nobody wants the real me out there. Tonight I gave them all a glimpse of the real me, and you saw how they reacted. They hated it. So they don't deserve to see it."
Involuntarily, Draco's arms tightened around him. "They definitely don't deserve you," he snarled harshly.
"But you do, so you will have me."
And Harry kissed him again, and this time, Draco knew that this would lead to more than a heated snogging session and a hand job.
A few months ago, he would have shied away from that thought, but today, he gave in, because he was tired of his circular arguments about why this would be a bad idea, he was tired of denying himself the heat of Harry's body, and he was tired of dancing around the feeling bubbling in his chest.
He hadn't felt this happy since he had built the cottage.
Harry reached down and yanked off Draco's pants, his knuckles lingering over his hips and legs before he pulled him closer to grind against him.
"Idiot, you need to get naked, too," grumbled Draco, backing away from the luxurious grinding and pulling Harry's pants off, too. Harry giggled, and the sound went straight to his groin for some reason. It was strangely arousing, seeing this new side of him, to realise that there were probably infinitely many sides to him.
Harry pulled him in for an aggressive kiss, and they spent a few moments clawing at each other and rocking against each other and fighting for dominance.
Finally, Draco won, flipping them over so that he lay on top of Harry, smirking and giving a particularly strong thrust against him to commemorate his triumph. Judging from the way Harry's eyes darkened and his lips flushed red, he didn't seem to mind losing.
Pulling out his wand from under his pillow, he summoned the lube that he knew Harry had bought during one of his "grocery-shopping trips." Harry blushed, his mouth probably open to ask how Draco had known, when he had surely hidden the thing so well among all the food items, but he ended up gasping as he felt a slick fingertip rubbing against his entrance.
Even though Draco had never seriously considered sex before, he did read a lot when he could, and one of the books Blaise had had lying around in the dorm was a how-to manual on male homosexual intercourse. He blessed his tenacious memory for once, because it was being put to good use now.
He watched as his finger slid into Harry's tight heat, waiting for him to relax before pursuing the matter further. Once he was able to comfortably slide the whole finger in, he thrust in and out with it a few times before finally venturing to fit in another. All the while, Harry tensed and gasped, voicing a mix of pleasure and pain. Draco caressed his hip with his other hand, making soothing sounds and trying to comfort him as he moved his fingers in and out.
Finally, Harry nodded. "More, Draco. One more."
Slicking a third finger, he slid it in, too, and he watched as Harry gasped and tried to accept the intrusion. He decided to help him by leaning down and licking the head of his cock as he rubbed his fingers against a spot that he seemed to particularly like.
"Oh!" He cried out and thrust against Draco's tongue. "Please, Draco, fuck me."
He wanted to ask if he was sure, but Harry's face left no room for argument, so he pulled his fingers out and lined himself up against Harry's entrance.
Slowly, he slid in, caressing his hips and watching his face while willing himself not to come just yet. Harry groaned and clenched his eyes shut, but he nodded once Draco was fully in. "Just move. I think it'll be okay after a while."
So he moved, slowly at first, making short, shallow thrusts into Harry's willing body. When Harry threw his head back and screamed his name after the tenth thrust, however, Draco couldn't hold back. He sped up, setting a brutal pace as Harry reached down and gripped his own cock, looking down and watching Draco thrust into him for a while before finally giving up and just tilting his head back. He watched him with fascination, suddenly wishing he could be in that position, too. He took note to ask for a reversal of positions the next time they did this. Oh, hopefully there would be a next time.
Harry's moans filled the air, and Draco probably made some embarrassing sounds, too, but there really was nothing like the feeling of watching this new side of Harry, this side that was actually unashamed of being loud and expressive. Now this was an unexpectedly loud sound Draco could get behind.
All too soon, Harry tensed and came over his hands and stomach, clenching around Draco. He gave a couple more thrusts before he came, too, riding out his orgasm before collapsing on top of Harry.
They panted into the air, and Harry wrapped his arms around Draco.
"I want to fall asleep like this," Draco whispered into his ear.
Harry chuckled. "Not a chance. I don't want to suffocate under your weight."
Draco nipped his ear. "Bastard. I'm not fat."
"You don't have to be fat to be bloody heavy."
"Fine." Slowly, while holding Harry's hips close against his, he shifted so they lay side by side. His soft cock slipped out, though, despite his best effort, and he groaned.
"Don't worry. You'll have more chances to do that in the future."
"You sure you can handle that, Potter?"
"I can handle anything, as long as it's with you."
They stared at each other in silence for exactly two seconds before bursting into laughter.
"That was utterly ridiculous, Potter. Are you sure you're not a closet Hufflepuff?"
"Shut up, prat."
"Never."
As time passed, the two of them grew more comfortable around each other, especially since they had finally broken the dam by uniting as one. There were still petty arguments, and there were still moments when Draco felt like biting the prat's ear off, but they always made up, for they had made it a rule to never sleep anywhere else but the tiny bed, and it was hard to stay mad at someone when they were nestled in your arms.
Harry still did not trust the press, but he had begun to trust his old school friends again, and he even befriended his coworkers over time, albeit slowly and reluctantly—it had taken a few trips to the pub to convince them that he really wasn't an antisocial jerk. He even allowed them to visit the cottage he shared with Draco, and Draco ended up having to expand the living room to accommodate all these people. He didn't mind, though. He loved being able to contribute to Harry's happiness.
Contributing to his own happiness, however, had been more challenging, especially since he had refused to invite his mother over, and talking to any of his former Slytherin friends had been out of the question. He and Harry had had several screaming matches over his stubborn refusal to alleviate his self-imposed loneliness.
"These are not just thought circles, Draco! They are spirals! Every time you revisit a thought, you're actually slipping down a level, and how many times can that happen before you hit rock bottom?"
Draco scowled, really regretting ever telling Harry about his circles. But maybe he had a point.
That night, Harry had almost headed for the couch, but Draco had wrapped his arms around him tightly, holding him back.
"I'm sorry, Harry. It's just tough, okay? I can't promise that I'll fix everything in one day, but…I'll do what you suggested, okay? One day at a time."
"You promise? You promise you'll at least give my advice some consideration?"
"I promise."
"That's all I need, Draco. That's all."
After a night of furious lovemaking, he had woken up feeling convinced enough to send letters to his mother, Pansy, Blaise, Greg, and even Theo.
When they had shown up, one at a time, they didn't even yell at him or accuse him of being a fool for locking himself away with Potter. They just sipped his tea and stared at him with bright eyes, and he knew that that was their way of saying, "Welcome back. We missed your company." He knew that he would be seeing that look for a long while.
And through it all, Harry stood by him, smiling and holding his hand in encouragement.
There were days when Draco still could not believe that Harry had become an inextricable part of his life. There were days when he half-expected to wake up and find him gone, with a note saying, "Sorry, I decided I want my old life back." There were days when he didn't know how they could put up with each other when they were both being stubborn.
But then he would look into Harry's large, all-encompassing eyes, and he knew that they would be okay in the long run.