I See Earthquakes and Lightning
Ginny Weasley was waiting patiently for Harry to come home. She tried to avoid looking at the clock, however, the stillness of Fred's hand too disturbing to comprehend.
It seemed that she had spent her entire life waiting for Harry. Waiting to be noticed, waiting to be saved, and then waiting for him to come back to her after all his quests and battles were done.
She was the most patient girl she knew.
Anything worth having is worth waiting for, she constantly told herself. And Harry was more worth having than anything else in the entire world.
In the end, Harry had eventually come to her of his own accord, as she knew he would, and her patience had been rewarded; the story was familiar, a childhood favourite- the hero's homecoming, his faithful maiden.
Harry Potter is my boyfriend, she thought, and the phrase suffused her with a sense of delicious warmth. My boyfriend is Harry Potter.
She couldn't wait to tell her grandchildren the story of how they first met – never mind that he had been her brother's best friend, but how they had really met, when he really saw her for the first time, in need of rescue.
He had saved her, then, from everything that had threatened to destroy her. And when the war was finally over, when they found out about Fred, he had saved her again – opened his safe arms to her as she wept into his neck and she discovered that no matter how much she felt that she was going to die from the sadness, everything would be all right.
But Harry was distracted, in these days after it all, when it should have already ended. Not that she could blame him. She wouldn't blame him, couldn't horde him selfishly to herself – he was a hero, and he would do what he had to do. As long as he returned to her at the end of the day, she knew everything would be all right.
"We're going to be having a houseguest for a bit," her mum had told her. "One of Harry's friends." Molly Weasley wrung her hands and wiped them on her apron – a gesture that Ginny had come to associate with bad news. "It'll be good for us. Good, yes," she had murmured, almost absent-mindedly. She wanted to be distracted, was constantly looking for distractions after Fred.
"One of Harry's friends? Who?"
Molly wouldn't say. "I want you to promise to be nice to our guest. It's very important..." she had continued, trailing off over etiquette and then seeming to collapse into a fit of cleaning and cooking.
Ginny knew just about all of Harry's "friends," and she had good reason not to trust a large portion of them.
It had better not be Parvati Patil. Or that floozy Lavender, who was just as bad.
And everybody knew what a slut Cho Chang was.
"Harry's friend is coming to stay with us?" George asked. "If she's a real knockout then she can sleep in our room. Otherwise, she should sleep outside."
He had paused then, as if waiting for someone else to join in agreement. When no one did, he seemed to draw within himself.
"Oh, we'll take good care of her, won't we, George?" Percy said, putting an arm around his brother. George turned his face into his shoulder.
Ginny had shuddered, looking away. It was hard to look at George these days, even worse than when Bill had come home scarred. She felt dried up for words, fragile – as if she tried to talk to George she'd cry, and that couldn't possibly make anything better. If Harry were there, he'd squeeze her hand silently, understanding. But George would never find anyone who understood him so implicitly again.
"Oh, hello, Harry," she heard her mum say. "Welcome back."
Harry stepped into the kitchen, looking as handsome as ever. Ginny leapt from her seat, running to him and flinging her arms around his neck.
"Harry," she breathed. "I've missed you."
Harry smiled at her. "What, in the six hours I've been gone?"
Ginny shook her head and closed her eyes instead, lifting her face up for a kiss. His arms were so strong around her, his mouth so gentle...
"How absolutely touching," a dry voice drawled.
Ginny pulled away from Harry abruptly, staring into his green eyes in shock. He half-smiled and shrugged somewhat apologetically.
"Malfoy?"
"The one and only." He laughed; it was a detestable sound. "Literally."
"Harry," she said urgently, " please don't tell me that this is who you've brought home—"
"Now, Ginny," Molly warned sternly, entering the room. "What did I say before?" Ginny watched, horrified, as her mum turned and gave the blonde boy a lopsided smile. "We're happy to have you, Draco. Would you like to be shown to your room?" She was wringing her apron, somewhat absent-mindedly.
"Thank you, Mrs. Weasley. I appreciate your hospitality. Your house is very..." Malfoy paused.
Go on and say it, Ginny dared him. Go ahead and give me a reason to hurt you.
She looked up at Harry to see if he was thinking the same thing. Harry was looking at the blonde intently, as if he had forgotten all about Ginny. Malfoy caught his eye and winked.
What was that?
"...charming. It's so very kind of you to have me."
Molly seemed taken aback, legitimately surprised. "Of course, dear, wouldn't dream of leaving you out in the cold." She smiled at him again, much more genuinely than the nervous smile she had first worn. "Are you hungry? You must be hungry."
Of course Molly's first instinct would be to feed him; he looked so scrawny.
Harry squeezed her about the shoulders. "Things will be okay, yeah?" he said, softly – half to her, half to himself.
Ginny's eyes narrowed. She would wait this one out.
There wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that Malfoy would last.
"You took me to the WEASLEY DEN?"
They were standing outside the Burrow, alone; Harry had sent Ron and Hermione ahead. The gate was left unlatched, waiting for them, the wind blew it open and then closed again.
Harry looked at Malfoy, who was looking flustered. "Where did you think I was staying?" he asked.
"I don't know! Don't you have money or something? You're a big hero, aren't you? You should be getting yourself some sort of glamorous bachelor's pad with a revolving door for the girls...I didn't know that you'd be so fucked up and emotionally needy that you'd shack up with a whole pathetic bunch of dirty-"
"Malfoy," Harry asked, his voice hard, "Do you want to go back to the hospital?"
"At least they won't try to kill me there!"
"Okay, let's go then," Harry shrugged, turning back to the road.
"Wait...where are you going?"
A-ha.
"What?" asked Harry. "I thought you didn't want to go to the Burrow."
Malfoy looked apoplectic. It was a good look on him, Harry decided.
" Are you bleedin' mad? That sadistic mediwizard can't wait to lay me d own on the operating table and dissect me!"
"So you don't want to go stay at St. Mungo's?" Harry asked, innocently.
"Don't be daft, Potter," Malfoy gritted out. "You know I can't go back there. All those sick people." He shuddered. "Ugh." He huffed out a breath of air, flicking a bit of blonde hair out of his eyes. "You've made your point, all right?"
Harry smiled – he knew victory when he had it."I guess you can teach an old dog new tricks."
Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Ha-ha, you're hilarious. No, honestly. You slay me. Do tell another. How are you ever going to top yourself? Oh, I know, why don't you ask me why the cockatrice crossed the road."
"No, I've got one that you haven't heard before. How many times will I let you be rude to the Weasleys before I hex bats out of your nose?"
Malfoy sighed, shaking his head. "Just as I thought, Potter, you're hopeless. You've got the sense of humour of a dingbat."
"That's right, it's not funny. It isn't supposed to be funny. And you're not going to find it so funny when you insult them and I hex you so fast that you're going to be looking for your—"
"Right, right, play nice," Malfoy said impatiently. "I understand you perfectly."
"You will behave yourself. Remember, St. Mungo's is just a hop, skip, and Floo away."
"Keeping me on a rather short leash, aren't you? Why don't you just get me a collar and call me Spot?"
"If I do, will you roll over and play dead?" The idea was oddly appealing. Harry turned and headed towards the gate. "Fetch me the daily post and a pair of slippers?"
"You're an odd one, Potty." Harry kept walking.
"Wait!" Malfoy said.
"And what is it now?" Harry asked, annoyed. He didn't bother to look behind him to see if Malfoy was following.
"Before we go in, just tell me one thing..." Malfoy's voice was serious, so full of genuine concern that Harry stopped, almost felt sympathetic for a moment.
"What is it?" he asked – more seriously this time.
"It's not contagious, is it?"
Harry blinked, looked blank. "Is what contagious?"
"You know...their skin condition. All those little dots all over." The blonde made a big show of shuddering. "I'm in recovery, remember?"
"Malfoy," said Harry slowly, "Sooner or later I'm going to have to hit you."
"I'd really like to see you try," Malfoy replied nonchalantly, smirking, and Harry was irritated enough to take him up on his offer – but it seemed rather...unseemly. So they strode through the front gate together.
Dinner was a quiet affair. Ginny sat to Harry's right. Ron should have taken the place to Harry's left, but Hermione sat next to Ginny, and Ron with Hermione, so Malfoy – who didn't want to sit next to anyone – sat there instead. Malfoy didn't look at him.
Harry listened to the sounds of eating, of forks hitting the ceramic plates.
George wasn't hungry, but they insisted that he eat. Mrs. Weasley insisted, Mr. Weasley looked as if he wanted to yell, but he didn't, Percy insisted. And then George ate, lifting the fork from the plate to his mouth until the food seemed to disappear on its own.
"So," said Mr. Weasley, "how was everyone's day?"
A jumble of mumbled responses, most of them "good" or something of a similar effect.
"I had a very good day, darling," said Mrs. Weasley. "There's just so much to do around here..."
So much to do: funeral arrangements, rebuilding Hogwarts, trials...Harry took a big gulp of milk, sloshed the chalky flavour around in his mouth.
They were trying not to look at Malfoy, probably, Harry figured. Except for Ron. Ron couldn't stop glaring at him as he shovelled food into his mouth.
Mrs. Weasley kept on offering everybody more food, Malfoy in particular.
"Eat up, Draco," she said. "Why, you're nothing but skin and bones."
"Hmm," Malfoy said. And he had the nerve to smile at her – it was a fake smile, Harry could tell. But then the blonde said, "This is delicious."
Mrs. Weasley actually blushed – like a schoolgirl, how ridiculous - and he could see that she blushed quite prettily, the colour glowing across her cheeks. It made her look younger; it made Harry think of happier times. Ginny didn't blush like that, she blushed like Ron – her entire face lighting up, from her neck to her hair. He always wanted to tease her that she looked like a tomato, but he didn't want to get slapped or hexed.
"Thank you, Draco," she said, "Please, have some more. I know it's not what you're used to, but..."
"Mother never cooked," Malfoy said, and then he was quiet after that, and so was everybody else.
Harry watched the elegant way that he cut into his meat – his knife slicing it into perfect, even strips.
Malfoy looked up then, as if seeing everybody for the first time since he had arrived.
"Where's your other half?" he asked George. There was an audible silence, a collective in rush of breath; a drawn-out sound of the moment just before the fork hit the plate.
"Oh, he's six feet under," George replied. "But not really. Not yet. We're burying him in about a week."
They were afraid to look at him, they were afraid to look at each other. Mrs. Weasley stifled a sob. Mr. Weasley coughed gruffly and then immediately looked apologetic.
"It's impossible to bury my parents," Malfoy told him. "They're strewn all over my house in little itty bitty pieces...One would have to collect them, first."
The silence was as thick as solid butter. Harry wanted to run a knife through it.
All of a sudden, there was a moment of horror as someone laughed. And then Harry realised that that someone was George, and no one had heard him laugh since Fred.
"You know what, Malfoy," the remaining one half said, "you're all right." And then he went back to his dinner.
Harry felt welled up, as if a balloon had inflated inside him, but he couldn't say why.
"Be sure to save room for dessert," said Mrs. Weasley quickly. "I've got a pie in the oven."
"That sounds wonderful, Mrs. Weasley," Malfoy said.
"Please," she turned to him, "call me Molly."
They were in the sitting room, three of them, Potter and his sidekicks; they were talking, the three of them, about him.
They thought he was upstairs. He was stealthier than they thought, or perhaps he was just stealthier now...
He could hear them clearly from the hall, although they spoke in hushed tones. He rolled his eyes. If they were going to try and be discreet, they could at least be smarter than to speak in stage whispers.
"They taught us, when we were little, that evil couldn't come into your home unless you invited it. Well, not only did we invite it into my home, it's sleeping upstairs in my brother's bed!"
"Ron, Malfoy's not evil!...Not that we know of, anyway."
"No, he just has that tattoo of a skull and snake 'cause he thinks it makes him look sharp and dashing."
Draco automatically looked down at the mention of it, fingers pushing up his sleeve. It had used to hurt him from time to time, and it had hurt excruciatingly, when the Dark Lord had died; he hadn't felt anything since then. The ink was stark and black against his pale skin, and when he touched it, it felt tender and sore, but other than that it was just the same as any other tattoo now - he would carry it with him for the rest of his life.
"Whatsit called, anyway? Werewolfism? Werewolfery?" Ron's voice again.
"Lycanthropy," Granger corrected.
Potter was remaining strangely quiet through this exchange. Although Draco couldn't see them, he imagined that he was deep in thought. If he concentrated, he could hear his breathing...there were three separate heartbeats in that room.
"He better not bring home any fleas," Ron muttered. "It makes me itch just thinking about it."
Draco resisted the urge to bite him. And the urge to scratch himself.
The Weasel was ranting. He tended to run his mouth quite a bit. "And Harry, you're gonna make sure he doesn't kill us all when the full moon rises, right? If Malfoy slaughters me and my entire family in our beds—"
"Ron, there's Wolfsbane Potion for that –" Granger again.
"But werewolves are unpredictable! There's no telling what could happen! We'd better get magically enhanced chains."
"Remus was fine with the potion, Ron! Honestly!" Granger chided.
"Yeah, but Malfoy isn't like Remus...Remus was good to begin with, not some vile, bloodthirsty, Death Eater spawn—"
"Ron! Do you remember that he's just lost his family-"
"He's not the only one!" Ron reminded her, his voice raised. And then, "Hermione, have you ever heard that kiddie story about the man who takes in the snake?"
Draco knew this story all too well. Mother was a great storyteller, reading to him before bedtime – imitating the deep, stupid voice of the man, and then the high-pitched hissing voice of the snake, imitating so well that it had sounded like Parseltongue...
A hissing voice and those burning red eyes they burned straight into you there was the pain, the pain, the pain
"Well, basically, there's this bloke who finds an injured snake on the side of the road, right? And so he feels bad for it –I'm guessing this bloke's name was Harry – but he takes it home and then treats it. He bandages it up and shite and nurses it back to health and raises it until it's really big and they live together, happy as can be, and then one day it up and bites him. So the poor sod is bleeding to death and when he asks the snake why, it goes, 'You bloody idiot, I'm still a snake.'"
"Oh, Ron, while the moral in that story is obvious, it's just that – just a children's story. People can change—"
"No, Hermione." Potter's voice now – the first time he'd spoken the entire time. Draco listened even more intently, interested in what the Boy Wonder would have to say in his defence. "Ron's absolutely right."
That traitor. He'd rip him from limb to limb, he would.
"We have to be careful. He's completely unpredictable, even the mediwizard said so. They know next to nothing about werewolves – we need to take every precaution we can, every consequence into account."
"Exactly! For once you're talking sense. He's a wild animal, basically!"
Granger sighed. "Well, I didn't want to admit it so much but now that you did, I'll say that I am a bit wary..."
"Ah-ha! So I was right!"
"But it doesn't mean that he's not having a difficult time as it is, and that even someone as horrible as Malfoy has the capacity to change...just because he hasn't shown that he's been very grateful to Harry doesn't mean that he isn't..."
Oh, so that was how it is. Accept the evil Slytherin into their wonderful home provided that he was grovelling and snivelling at their feet. Whining and obedient, that was how they wanted him, of course, and if he didn't comply...
There is always one more option.
"We'll get the chains. I just need you to trust me right now...Both of you. Please."
For once Draco agreed with Granger and Weasley. Potter was bloody out of his mind. What Potter wanted from them – all three of them – was a little too much to ask.
Harry lay in bed that night, pondering. Some might have even called it brooding, but pondering made him seem more intelligent and less full of angst.
Draco Malfoy, whose father had been a Death Eater and had given Ginny the diary that almost killed her. Draco Malfoy, who had let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, enabling Fenrir to mutilate Bill. Draco Malfoy, who saved him by not identifying him to Voldemort and whose life he had saved from conflagration and whose mother had saved Harry to save her son. Draco Malfoy, who was now an orphan and a werewolf.
Life was so fucked up. Harry sat up a bit and punched his pillow.
Malfoy had done better than Harry would ever have given him credit for. His manners were perfect (of course) and already Mrs. Weasley was quite charmed by him, even if the rest of the family wasn't.
But apparently George liked him well enough, and nowadays, that would be enough to make his other brothers like Malfoy—with the exception of Ron, of course.
And of course Malfoy and George would bond over the family cruelly torn away from them in the war, the people Harry had failed to save. It wasn't Harry's fault that he had already lost his parents when he was just an infant, that he couldn't relate now because he had never known his parents, had never had them...He had lost Sirius, he had lost Dumbledore, wasn't that enough? Did they realise what it was like to have to try and save everybody, always, to keep everybody safe and still fail, he tried, hell, he had died for them, and would do it again to bring any of them back...
George didn't even know the real Malfoy, the one who had at first refused his borrowed bedclothes because, as he had snottily informed Harry, "I have very sensitive skin. I'm allergic to poor."
Harry punched his pillow again and rolled over in bed. He wouldn't be getting much sleep tonight, at this rate.
Just down the hall, Malfoy had taken the twins' old room at George's insistence. It wasn't like George could stay in there anymore anyhow; he had moved in with Percy.
And so it goes.
The Weasley home was exactly how Draco had always feared: A Museum of Bad Taste. Clashing colours. Curtains that didn't match the carpet. Oranges that looked horrible with red hair (not to mention blonde).
And the kitchen was the heart of the household, it seemed. It hummed with life, and was always bright, even when the inhabitants of the house wore their grief around them. Nothing like in the Manor...
Draco swallowed the wave of grief that rose up in his gorge and crashed in his chest. Malfoys don't cry, he sternly reminded himself, the same way he had all those times in sixth year, faced with the prospect of failure, the possible death of his parents.
And in the end, they had both died anyway, trying to protect him. He had failed them.
'That's what's called getting some of his own back.' This voice sounded like the Weasel's, even though he was sure that the Weasel hadn't said anything like that.
But didn't he deserve it? How many people had he hurt, by letting the Death Eaters loose in Hogwarts, how many people had he watched tortured, how many parents had they killed, and then there was Fenrir—
His entire body shuddered; his brain tripped over the name, and he filled his mind with nothing. He was very skilled in Occlumency, Snape had praised him on those rare occasions, but Snape...
Draco rolled over and thought of water, thought of empty night sky. But there were night skies filled with stars, and on that night the moon had been so beautiful and bright...
We have to prepare now, his mother's voice echoed in his head. The hard times are all ahead of us. It was what she had said when the Death Eaters had started their regular housecalls.
They told him he had slept for three days straight. He was preparing, he thought to himself.
He turned his wet face into unfamiliar, horribly-patterned sheets and tried to think blank thoughts until he fell asleep.
Children are the sweetest he always said and you're not a child anymore you're not even Father said so but you don't know anything stupid boy now as for the boy
Running running as hard as you can as fast as you can but you can't not enough not good enough never good enough and then
His breath smells like rotting meat, meat gone bad, heavy and thick and dripping and his tongue is vile and black and in your ear all that comes to you now is the word die, you wish you'd just die already, it burns so bad, it hurts so bad, "I'll be so good to you, I'll make you feel real good little boy" he had always said, "I'll make it hurt" and
Mum's hair is tangled and wet there are dark things in it dark things that go squish you never thought it sounded like that but it goes squish and Dad screamed you never heard him scream before you never thought it sounded like that
There's a claw on your spine digging into your spine slicing you up oh god he'll slice bits of your skin off peel them off in ribbons
Die why can't you die you should die
Harry woke up to moaning.
At first he thought that he was dreaming, after finally having drifted off to sleep, but the sounds continued.
Malfoy, Harry thought.
In a moment he was out of bed, bare feet on the cold floorboards, making his way to what used to be the twins' room. The door was open slightly and from here he could hear the hitch of breath, the sounds of pain.
Malfoy was shaking on the bed, pale in the moonlight, quivering like something left raw. Left to die. His shoulders shook together, the breath and moans sounded as if torn from his chest.
He was crying.
Suddenly it was sixth year again and there they were in the girls' bathroom, and Harry had wanted to do something then, but he had hesitated. In a flash it was all blood on white tile and that had been that.
Harry reached out to him now, a hesitant hand on a trembling shoulder and he realised that he was asleep. His face was scrunched up and in pain, wet with gleaming trails, and then suddenly, it stopped.
The sharp features smoothed themselves out, the furrows in the brow melting away. He looked heart-achingly young. His shoulder was sharp and bony underneath Harry's hand. His breathing calmed, evened out, deepened. Harry watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, the same way it had been, back in the hospital. They had given him so many potions.
He stayed, for several long moments. Just to make sure whatever night terrors the blonde had didn't start up again. When he went back to his own room, he fell asleep as soon as he laid down his head.
"Good morning, Draco," Mrs. Weasley greeted. "Did you sleep well last night?"
"Yes, wonderfully," Draco lied. He hadn't wanted to see his reflection in the mirror – his hair ruffled, the dark circles around his eyes.
She was making breakfast; eggs sizzling in one pan, bacon in another. For a moment he was content just to watch her, the efficiency with which she worked, the apron strings tied expertly behind her back, the way the tasteless, flowered dress she wore swished about her strong calves. She was short and stout and welcoming, with wide, child-birthing hips and arms meant to hold and hug – the very stereotype of maternal love.
But she was not his mother. His mother was beautiful and willowy and slender, who bought all the sweets you oughtn't have, and hugged you so tight that it hurt sometimes. His mother never cooked, for sure, she considered it beneath her – a fact that he didn't mention at dinner.
His mother was no longer here, would never talk about how she hated cooking ever again.
After a moment he felt awkward and useless. "Is there...anything I can do to help?"
She looked at him, shocked, "Oh, you don't need to, dear, breakfast is just about done anyway."
"Oh." Draco said and looked around the kitchen restlessly.
"Well, if you really want, you could help me chop up some ingredients for a soup for tonight," she turned around to him, motioning to a pile of vegetables next to a cutting board. "You know, I'm just so used to doing everything by myself. It's what happens when you have all boys, I expect. Of course there's dear Ginny too, but after she set the pudding afire I'm afraid I haven't been able to get her anywhere near a stove. I told her, Ginevra, Mum used to explode countless puddings, but she wouldn't have any of it."
She laughed and it was easy and open; Draco found himself smiling. As far as he could tell, nobody else was up yet.
"I don't mind," Draco said honestly, chopping the vegetables with deft precision – the same way his mandrake root slices were always perfect and even.
"Draco, you're so fast and skilful," Mrs. Weasley exclaimed. "Why, we'll make a master chef of you yet."
"I picked it up from Potions class," Draco told her, trying not to bloom from the praise.
"Oh, did you like Potions?"
"Someone I greatly admire once told me that they could bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses..." Draco repeated, echoing from a life lived so long ago. I can teach you to brew fame and bottle glory...even put a stopper in death. But that was no use now, was it, not when the teacher was dead himself. What could he teach, anymore?
"Cooking's kind of like that, too, you know," Molly remarked, working deftly and steadily. "The way that nothing conquers illness like mother's chicken soup. Or how even thinking of a warm mince meat pie might warm you up on a cold day. A taste and smell bring back a fond memory; food brings people together, it dulls sorrow, fills a room with happiness."
They looked at each other and then Molly opened a cupboard, extracting a large bag of flour. Together, they set to the task of feeding an army.
Harry had woken up at half past noon, to a kitchen filled with cakes and pies. The air seemed to rise up and roll forward to greet him, warm and heavy with the smell of sugar and cinnamon and spice.
Ron was asking his mum which ones she made and which ones Malfoy had made, discerning which were edible and which were poison.
"Ron, Draco helped with all of these."
"Okay, but what about this one?"
"I don't even remember! We made everything together."
"Yeah, but what about the blueberry?"
Hermione was sitting at the table, a thick volume open in front of her. She was sandwiched in between a tower of heavy books and a tower of heavy pies. A cake sat at the top of her book pile.
"The Monster Book of Monsters is no help," she was saying to Malfoy, who looked a right mess. He had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hands white with flour. His hair was messy, and the shirt loaned to him was too big. A strand of blonde hair was stuck to the side of his cheek with what appeared to be strawberry jam. A smudge of white was streaked across his nose.
"Keep looking, Granger," Malfoy ordered imperiously, even as he stuck his hands into a mound of dough. "No points at all for effort."
It was all frighteningly domestic; Harry felt dizzy with it for a second.
"Mum said to let you sleep in," Ginny said, greeting him with a kiss on his cheek. Her hair was neatly done and she left a light trace of lipstick on his skin.
"Finally up, Potter?" Malfoy drawled. "Guess we'd better cancel that call to the undertaker who's supposed to haul your fat corpse away."
He wouldn't have slept in so late if Malfoy's moaning hadn't kept him up half the night, Harry felt like snapping, but somehow, it didn't seem right.
"Do you boys have any plans for today?" Mrs. Weasley was asking.
"We're going shopping, I think," Harry said. "Isn't that right?"
"Well, I couldn't possibly expect to take advantage of your generosity any longer," Malfoy said. Harry could hear the unsaid "borrowed rags."
"Oh, it's quite all right, Draco, you're a guest here," Mrs. Weasley said. "It's no trouble at all." Poor Mrs. Weasley – she was a foolish, gullible woman.
"I'll come too!" Ginny volunteered, squeezing Harry's hand.
Harry glanced at Malfoy. Malfoy glared back at him.
"Ah, it's okay, Ginny...you'd be bored anyway. We're just looking at boys' things—"
Malfoy snickered.
"And we won't be long," Harry finished, stroking her hair.
Ginny sighed loudly, then rolled her eyes. "Well, hurry up and come home soon, then, Harry," she said. "I miss you when you're gone." She kissed him. Harry made a vague noise of surprise and then he relaxed, kissing her back, his hand settling gently on her hair.
Malfoy was ruining the mood by making very rude gagging noises.
"Oh, put a sock in it, Doughboy," Harry said, and let himself enjoy the strange, unfamiliar feeling for once.
It was rainy day, the cobblestones wet and slick, puddles dotting the streets. Inside the shops of Diagon Alley it was busy and crowded like always; hard to believe that a little over a week ago the same people who chatted and shopped so happily had been in danger of falling under Voldemort's power.
Malfoy had taken to entering stores, browsing around, and then leaving them very quickly. Harry couldn't allow anything to catch his eye for even a minute, not even the millions of magazines with himself on the cover – because he knew that as soon as he turned around, Malfoy would have done his Houdini impression.
Harry would have suspected him of actually trying to run away, if it weren't for the fact that they both knew he had nowhere to run to.
Still, it was exhausting.
It was strange, Harry thought. The last time he had been in Diagon Alley with Malfoy, Draco had been with Narcissa, and Harry had suspected him (quite rightly) of being a Death Eater. And now they were back, clothes shopping together.
"Hideous, hideous, hideous," Malfoy was declaring, as the shopkeeper looked more and more irate by the second. "Undoable, Unthinkable, Unforgivable, ugh! Un-be-lievable!"
Harry rolled his eyes, said, "You're unbelievable." He was pretty certain that if it weren't for the fact that he was who he was, they would have been banished from at least twenty stores by now. Malfoy tossed a pair of trousers at him that landed on his head. "Hey!" Since Harry's arms were full of clothes already, he was forced to try and shake them off.
"This is the worst store that you've taken me to yet. Honestly, Potter. Are you colour-blind in addition to nearsighted? Just how blind are you?"
Harry didn't bother to mention that Malfoy had chosen every single one of the stores that they had been inside. At this rate, they would never make it back before dinner.
"Like, do you even know what I look like? Or am I just a blur with eyes or something to you?"
Finally they found a store with fashions that Malfoy didn't declare to be vomit-inducing:
Robespierre's Robe Shop, owned by a designer by the name of Pierre Robespierre. Harry stood by the dressing room as Malfoy tossed clothes over the partition and onto the floor, shouting orders.
"Put that one back, I won't stand for it!" or "Get that atrocity out of my sight, it disgusts me!" or "Hang that one up! I want it!" and "Are you listening, Potter, or are you deaf as well as blind?"
The shopkeeper in this particular store was an attractive young wizard with perfectly styled spiky hair; dressed in a tight, fitted mauve blazer and even tighter, perfectly-tailored mauve trousers. He seemed to fret over the idea of THE Harry Potter using his heroic hands to do something as menial as pick up clothes up off a shop floor.
"No, no, no, Mr. Potter, I'll get that..." and "Mr. Potter, don't you worry about this one, it's no problem," or "Here, Mr. Potter, let me do that..." and "So, Mr. Potter, are you single?"
The ensuing dialogue usually consisted of lines like, "No, no, you don't have to," or "I'm really sorry he's such a twat," or "No, I'll do it, he's my responsibility," and "Um...er...what? Oh, well, I'm seeing someone..."
Now and then a tug-of-war would ensue, with the shopkeeper (whose name was Guy) insisting that Mr. Potter let him take care of the apparently offensive article of clothing, as it was his job, and Harry grabbing the other end of the clothing, insisting that the offensive blonde was his responsibility, and he was really sorry to have caused all this trouble.
Of course, when Harry won, he always ended up handing the clothes over to Guy anyway, as he seemed to do a horribly botched-up job of trying to fold the clothes properly, just so. Guy's expert clothes always looked wrinkle-free and ready for display, Harry's folded clothes tended to be bunched up boiled cabbage.
These tugs-of-war were punctuated with periods of Malfoy emerging dramatically from the dressing room, expecting to be admired and lavished with praise. He would strut out as if doing his best catwalk model walk, turning to be examined from all angles. Harry personally thought it was a poor imitation, but he had to admit that Malfoy – who was so thin and bony now – did an excellent job in choosing clothes that covered up all his flaws.
The first time, Harry made the grievous mistake of telling him that his outfit looked, "Okay."
Malfoy had looked more upset at that simple word than he ever did when Harry was actually trying to insult him.
"Um...I mean, it looks pretty good, I guess."
Malfoy stormed back into his dressing room, declaring the outfit a crime against humanity. Harry called after him that he thought it was "quite nice." Scant seconds later, a belt buckle hit Harry in the head.
Guy looked at him sympathetically. "Ooh, what a diva," he remarked.
Harry rolled his eyes. "You have no idea."
Two hours and half a store full of clothes later, Malfoy declared that he was done.
It was a good thing, too, because Harry was about five minutes away from announcing that he was done and Malfoy was just going to have to deal with wearing potato sacks for the rest of his days, or whatever, he didn't care, he just wanted to go home.
"How would you like to pay for these?" Guy asked, smiling his even, white smile at both of them.
"I'll take care of it," Harry offered.
"I'm not going to be a kept man, Potter," Malfoy grimaced.
"Good, because I wouldn't want to keep you anyway," Harry said as he looked at the bill. Christ, Malfoy had expensive taste. "You're going to have to put some of this back, Malfoy – do you honestly need that many outfits..."
"Yes, some of us are clean people who like to change their clothes every day!"
"You could always wash them and re-wear them, you know, instead of burning them afterwards, or whatever it is that you do."
Malfoy looked deeply offended. "What, and run the risk of repeating outfits?"
Guy laughed. "If you don't mind me asking," he said, "How long have you two been together?"
"W-what?" they choked, simultaneously.
Guy looked from one face to the other; twin expressions of shock on their very different features. "You know, together. Dating."
"You think we're—"
"We're not—"
"He's not—"
"I'm not—"
"Oh vile! Disgusting!"
"No way in hell—"
"I think I'm going to vomit all over your lovely polished marble countertop."
"Oh, I'm sorry...I didn't mean to assume..." Guy quickly backtracked, "It's just that you two seemed to have that sort of passion..."
"I'm paying for the clothes," said Malfoy, "as this ugly git and I have absolutely nothing to do with each other and have no obligation to each other whatsoever."
"No, Malfoy, you can't..." Harry began.
"I can and I will. They're my clothes, I don't see any reason why I should owe you that—"
"With what money?"
"My money, of course. Why, we'll just stop by Gringotts and access my vault..."
Harry sighed and grabbed his arm now; Malfoy tried to shake him off but Harry held on tight and dragged him aside while Guy looked on interestedly.
"I'm telling you, you can't," Harry said, keeping his voice low and private. "The Malfoy funds are frozen right now. There's no access to your account."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean the Ministry has frozen all access to your money until they've determined that you're not a threat to yourself or others. They're letting me access a monthly allowance to take care—"
Malfoy didn't wait for him to finish – he simply promptly left the store.
Harry looked at Guy, called, "Holdontothose" and was running after Malfoy immediately after.
Mother had usually been the one to take Draco to Diagon Alley before school started. Father rarely had the patience for shopping. But Draco remembered the times when he was very young, and they had all gone as a family, and no wish went unfulfilled.
It was easy enough, to pretend that he was here again because he wanted to be, that everything was normal. It was easy to pretend that he was shopping because he felt like it, and not because he couldn't return to what he used to call home.
His mother's ghost was here. He could feel her slender white hand on his shoulder when they passed Ollivander's, where she had paid for his wand, her gentle breath on his cheek when they passed the Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour – his favourite as a child. She haunted every store that they had gone in together; the toy store where she bought him his first hobbyhorse, his first miniature racing broom, the cauldron shop for all those Potions experiments gone awry, the Owl Emporium, Madame Malkin's.
If Draco concentrated enough, he could almost feel the way she used to hold onto his hand too tightly, afraid that her little boy would get lost in the crowd.
Father should have been more difficult to conjure, but he was here as well; a stern, staid presence by Draco's side. Sometimes he was a hand on the shoulder, or maybe, in the middle of his back, gently guiding – and when Draco felt particularly small, he was a hand on a small blonde head, an indulging pat from time to time.
The air smelled like rain and hundred other scents; the shops were crowded. The newspaper stands had images of Potter on every publication; from the Daily Prophet to Teen Witches' Magazine.
There were too many people. Draco felt claustrophobic, overwhelmed. He could smell the perfume that a witch was wearing from ten feet away; he could tell who had just been to the Leaky Cauldron – that scent of cigarettes and ale that clung to them; he knew what people had eaten for lunch. When surrounded by people he could smell their individual scents, their various odours, the tinge of fresh sweat, and sometimes, old sweat.
And then, worse than the smell, there was the sound. Their whispers followed him, crawled into his ears and along the back of his neck.
"Isn't that the Malfoy boy with Harry Potter...?"
"Yes, have you read about it in the Daily Prophet..."
"He's a monster now, did you hear that...?"
"...Death Eater...he was a monster before..."
"I don't understand why they don't just lock him up in Azkaban...he's a menace to society..."
When he couldn't take it anymore he would run outside. If Potter heard any of it, he gave no indication.
Draco concentrated on the trivialities: the cut of this robe, the thin stripe pattern of this shirt, that certain shade of black that would complement his complexion instead of making him look washed-out, like a black-and-white photograph.
Then it came time to pay and he was told he couldn't. Just a year ago he had been here, doing the same task as he was that day, but now instead of his beautiful mother he had Harry Potter. He was a prisoner, for sure, and his warden was the one person that he never could stand.
Life was too funny.
The alleyway was dark and damp; the brick wall he leaned against rough and gritty. Potter would find him eventually, no doubt, (especially with that Tracing Charm, came the bitter thought) but for now he needed the illusion that he was still in control of his own life.
"If it isn't Draco Malfoy..."
Draco looked up; it was a boy with dirty blonde hair who looked vaguely familiar. He couldn't be sure. The boy looked to be about fifteen or sixteen, he was tall and lanky. When he spoke, his voice was more of an attempt at smooth than actually being smooth; there was a tremor that belied him.
"Do I know you?" Draco sneered, looking at him with disdain. He could smell the freshness of his sweat, his nervousness.
The words came out in a rush. "We went to school together. Not that it matters. I didn't believe all those rumours about you being a Death Eater, but now I see it's true, I read all about it-"
Draco rolled his eyes. He was in no mood to be annoyed by some stupid fifth-year. Probably a Hufflepuff, from the looks of it, with straw for brains as well. "Yes, you and all of Britain. Do you have anything productive to tell the class, or are you just here to waste my time?"
"Some reporters described it as a tragedy. The only tragic thing about it is that die along with your dirty Death Eater parents!"
Draco snarled; his hand automatically went to his wand – he cursed when he realised his foolishness. He was completely unarmed.
You could take him you could snap his neck he's slow he's just a boy you'll take him down
"You're really prepared to take me on by yourself? Did you hear what they also say? I'm dangerous, you know. Even my saliva is toxic. I could tear you open just with my teeth."
He stalked towards the boy as he spoke, feeling the air tense with the waves of fear. There was a sour tang to the sweat now; Draco licked his lips. It would be so easy to jump him, rip his throat, feel the grind of his bones...
The boy was backing up now, his hand on his wand, looking nervously from side to side. "I-I know. I'm not stupid."
And all of a sudden he smiled, and Draco saw a frightening confidence in the expression as a group of boys walked into the alleyway.
"I'm not alone."
Harry had showed up just in time, it seemed.
A group of maybe six or seven boys surrounded Malfoy, their wands drawn. The blonde had a wild, frenzied look about him – a cornered animal, Harry thought, unbidden.
He arrived just as Malfoy lunged at a boy, teeth bared, tackling him to the ground. He rolled with him, hands in a chokehold around the boy's neck. The boy's hands flailed, and then one hand scrabbled for his dropped wand and found it. His companions, shocked for a moment, did not remain shocked-
"Stupefy!" Harry cried. His aim was sure and true - the tallest and biggest of the boys collapsed. Then another Stunning Spell, just as quickly. Another body hit the floor. Followed by, "Petrificus Totalus!" That hit the boy on the floor, who went rigid and still underneath Malfoy.
"Shit," one of the boys said as their companions hit the floor, "RUN!"
For a moment he wanted to chase after them, to demand that they explain the meaning of this. But making sure that Malfoy didn't kill the boy underneath him was a more immediate priority.
He pulled Malfoy off of the boy; the blonde struggled against him and broke free, surprisingly strong. He whirled around on Harry, his stance aggressive, as if he was prepared to rip him from limb to limb next.
"Don't touch me!" he snarled. His eyes flashed, full of heat and bloodlust; Harry noted that one of his eyes was swelling, bruised. He had a split lip and another bruise on his cheek. Apparently they had decided to rough him up before hexing him.
"What the hell is wrong with you, Malfoy?" Harry shouted at him. "Are you trying to get yourself killed, you stupid fuck?"
Malfoy let out a howl and lunged at Harry, knocking the breath out of him. They landed on the dirty, wet pavement together; his wand fell out of his hand, splashing in a puddle. Harry threw a punch and missed; Malfoy seemed unusually fast. He fisted his hands in the front of Harry's clothes, lifted him up and slammed his head into the pavement. Harry's head rung, but he flailed wildly, causing Malfoy to lose his grip. He landed a blow to the side of Malfoy's head; the blonde rolled off of him, then seemed to gather himself up for another attack. Harry scrambled up off the pavement, prepared to strike, when he saw that Malfoy's eyes locked onto his discarded wand and in an instant the blonde had pointed Harry's own wand at him.
"What, you want to kill me now?" Harry panted. "Jesus Christ, Malfoy, I just saved your fucking life!"
At that, Malfoy stared down at the wand in his hand, as if unsure what he was planning to do with it himself.
"Fuck," he cursed softly, dropping it on the floor. "Merlin."
Harry shook his head; it was still ringing from the introduction to the pavement. "Have you lost your bloody mind? What's gotten into you?"
Malfoy shook his head as well, as if attempting to clear it. "I...I just lost it."
"That much is obvious!" Harry exclaimed. It was only now that he could see how bad Malfoy's injuries actually were; his nose was bleeding, his sleeve ripped – the exposed arm covered with bruises. "Are you...all right?"
Malfoy shrugged. "Nothing's broken..." He touched his nose softly and cursed. "Except maybe that." He looked at the red that dripped from his pale hand, rubbed the blood between his fingers. Finally, he said, quietly, "They were talking about my parents."
Harry felt moved to sympathy, but he didn't move. "Oh."
"You've read the papers, you've heard what they say! Monstrous Draco Malfoy in the custody of Bleedin' Noble Heart Harry Potter! You basically own me, I can't go anywhere on my own, I can't do anything, I can't even buy my own clothes, I have no wand, no home, I'm your dog on a choke chain, and if you don't be a good boy and behave then it's back to the hospital for you!"
His words slapped Harry in the face. It was true, every bit of it, Malfoy was as trapped as any person could be. He was Harry Potter's creature; they were stuck together, and Harry knew he was good and right and he was doing his best, his very best, but it still wasn't good enough. Not for Malfoy.
Fucking Draco Malfoy.
"Well, maybe you should stop feeling sorry for yourself!" Harry shouted at him, not sure what else to say. "Ooh, I'm Draco Malfoy, I lost my parents, I'm a werewolf, I'm not a charity case, I hate being with bloody Harry Potter! Yeah, so what! It's horrible, yes, it's bloody awful, but you're not the only one! George lost the most important person to him in all the world. Your aunt lost her daughter and her son-in-law, two of her sisters, and what about everybody else who's lost their parents in this war, what about the people your Father killed! Or even the children on your side! You're alive, aren't you? And it's no picnic for me to be with you, either! It's a bollocks situation anyway you look at it, so you might as well deal with it!"
Harry was breathing heavily.
Malfoy was staring at him, grey eyes wide, speechless. For a second Harry thought he was going to attack him again, and he braced himself, ready to fight back with all he had.
"Wow, Potter, nice delivery. That's probably the most words I've ever heard your feeble brain string together. Have you been practising that little speech for long?"
Harry gawked. Malfoy really was impossible. He shrugged and laughed a little. "Well, you know. Now and again, in the shower."
"Dinner's probably ready by now," Malfoy said. He looked down at himself with great distaste. "Ugh."
"Yeah," said Harry, now realising how his robes stuck to him, wet with mud and gutterwater. "I could use a shower. And maybe a pie."
"You shouldn't eat them," Malfoy told him seriously.
"Why not? You baked roughly a hundred of them this morning."
"Yes, but, how can you be so sure that they aren't poisoned?"
"Practically everyone had some this morning, including you. You're still here talking to me, aren't you?" Harry countered.
Malfoy smiled now, sly and secretive. "Ah, yes, but don't you see, Potter – I, in my devious cunning and brilliance, have developed a special poison, made specifically for the purpose of killing you and only you."
"Just for me? Oh, how special."
The dark sky rumbled ominously overhead. They looked up together.
"Come on," said Harry, "let's head home."
"Sure," Malfoy replied. "Home, prison, tomb, same difference to me."
Harry looked at him sharply and met a white-toothed smile. "Just kidding," Malfoy shrugged.
As they turned to go it began to rain in earnest. They left the bodies behind in the alleyway, letting them get soaked.
That night Harry was lying awake again, unable to sleep. He listened to the house as it creaked and settled. Malfoy hadn't spoken to him much when they returned to the Burrow, but then again, he didn't speak to anybody much.
Of course, he cooked with Mrs. Weasley and he also spent a good hour or two after dinner in George and Percy's room, doing God knows what...probably playing Exploding Snap, Ginny had said. Ginny had tried to engage him in a game of it herself, but Harry hadn't been in the mood.
He wondered what Hermione had discovered about werewolves, if anything, since she had spent the day researching. He wondered if Malfoy would have the nightmares again tonight; in the back of his mind he could almost hear the moaning and crying again.
The door creaked open.
Harry grabbed his wand, whispered Lumos. The light burned in the bedroom.
"Malfoy?"
He slipped into his room, a pale shadow, dressed a tight white tank and black silk pyjama pants. They must have been part of the new clothes they bought that day, but Harry didn't remember Malfoy modelling these. He noticed the curve of his shoulders, the slice of a collarbone. The bruises from earlier that day were almost completely healed now; a combination of Episkey and his newfound healing powers. A smudge of yellow-green on a sharp cheekbone remained.
His eyes were somehow bright in the dim light. It wasn't until he came closer that Harry could see that the grey eyes were bloodshot, Malfoy's face blotchy with patches of red.
"Have you been—"
"No. Shut up."
Harry's eyes slid to the inside of his forearm, where a cruel black tattoo seemed to float on a white surface.
"Look," said Malfoy, clearly unhappy, "I need to sleep with you."
Harry actually choked. "What?"
"Not that way, you stupid wanker—"
"You're not helping your case."
Malfoy fixed him with an intense silver stare; his eyes looked liquid in the dark. It was unsettling; Harry's skin prickled with the sensation.
"You were in my room last night, weren't you?" the blonde asked. Harry wasn't sure if his tone was accusatory or not.
"What—no—How do you know that? You were just pretending to be asleep, weren't you! You're trying to manipulate me into feeling bad for you."
"That's the most preposterous hypothesis I've ever heard. I'd have to be pretty pathetic to want your pity, Potter."
Harry allowed himself to be vaguely impressed by the fact that Malfoy had managed that entire line without a single stutter.
"Then how do you know?"
Malfoy looked slightly perplexed, as if he couldn't come up with an explanation for himself. "I could...sense it."
"You heard me come in? So you weren't asleep!"
"No, nothing like that. It was as if...I just knew. Like I can hear your heartbeat from here. Like I can smell you from here—"
"I took a shower," Harry protested, insulted.
"Yeah. With the Weaslette's strawberry-scented shampoo, too. Like the way I can tell you that Granger's tossing and turning in her room and Percy and George are sharing a bed—"
"Malfoy...what's going on?"
"I...don't know. It must be a wolf thing." He laughed, bitterly, "This explains how that thing found me..."
"Malfoy..." Harry paused, not knowing what to say. "That's...what you were dreaming about."
Malfoy looked at him sharply. Harry immediately thought that he had said the wrong thing, but what was wrong and what was right after this afternoon's outburst? Malfoy looked contemplative, now.
"Actually, earlier that day I had been imagining what Granger and the Weasel's offspring would look like. That's enough to give anyone nightmares." He smiled smugly. "Then it turned into a sex dream involving your girlfriend and that's why all the screaming."
"Malfoy!" Harry reprimanded, dutifully scandalised.
"Aggressive little wench, isn't she? Must be all that fiery red hair that does it. Why, she was all over me like sauce on Salisbury and she turned a deaf ear to all my virtuous protestations—"
"Malfoy...stop it," Harry said, making a noble attempt at being stern. And he certainly wasn't laughing at his girlfriend's expense. No, not the least bit.
"Don't you want to know how the dream ends?" he asked innocently.
"Not particularly." And he didn't, not a bit. "You still haven't explained why you're here."
"Well, I figured that I might as well bag myself a matched set," Malfoy purred. "Maybe that poncey shopkeep was onto something, after all..."
Harry's eyes widened.
"Oh, you're genuinely disgusting, Potter." Malfoy laughed. "I mean that."
Harry cleared his throat, regaining his composure. "And you're disturbing my sleep. So spit it out or leave already. Go back to bed, Malfoy."
"No."
"No what?"
"I can't go back to that room."
"Why?"
"Because I'll dream again. About your girlfriend."
"Of my girlfriend."
"Yes. It was horrible and traumatic. I can't repeat that experience again, ever. It might make me impotent or something. Really now, Potter. What do you want me to say?"
" I want you to tell me why you're here. Seriously, this time. The truth."
Malfoy sighed now, a hand smoothing back his blonde hair. "After you left, last night...I slept. And it's the first time I remember sleeping well since...it happened."
"So?"
Malfoy gave Harry a look that suggested Harry didn't have a logical bone in his body, and that he had possibly been dropped on the head by Voldemort as a child. "So I have to sleep with you."
Harry forced himself not to startle again because of the turn of phrase. "That doesn't make any sense. What makes you think it was me...?"
"I just know, okay?" Malfoy sighed now. "And even if it doesn't work, at least I tried."
There was a tinge of desperation in his voice, and suddenly Harry felt a surge of pity for him again. He knew all too well about closing your eyes and seeing nothing but death and horror. Wake up screaming in the middle of the night, covered with cold sweat, shaking and alone.
"And isn't it your duty?" Malfoy continued. "You're assigned to attend to my well-being, aren't you? I'm potentially dangerous, if I understand correctly." He looked at Harry seriously now, leaning in, his expression intent. "Weren't you the one who told me to make the best of a fucked-up situation, any way I could?"
Harry shook his head; at whom, he couldn't be sure: Malfoy or himself. Maybe the both of them. The situation was ridiculous. "How are we going to fit?"
"What, you want me curl up at the foot of your bed? Is that what you want? I'll do it, you know I'll do it, you're a bloody bastard-"
"God, you're impossible. No, here, look..."
He moved himself as far to the other side of the bed as possible, his back hitting the wall, peeling back the covers.
It was a rather small bed, to say the least.
"Erm," said Harry, realising the implications of the invitation, "Maybe one of us could sleep on top of the sheets, and the other could sleep under them..."
"You can sleep on top of the sheets if you want, but I'm not going to," Malfoy sniffed. "It's as cold as a witch's tit tonight. No reference to anyone we know, red-headed girlfriend in particular, of course."
"Malfoy," said Harry half-heartedly, knowing it was a lost cause. He sighed. "How are we going to do this?"
"Stick a pillow between us if you're so worried about us touching," Malfoy suggested. It made enough sense.
"But then I won't have a pillow."
"Oh, boo hoo. Then don't stick a pillow between us. Do whatever you want, I don't care."
Harry pulled the pillows from under his head and made a small fort; his first line of defence. Malfoy waited until he was satisfied, shrugged, and then graciously lay down next to him. The bed dipped with his weight, and it gave Harry a second to wonder at the fact that this was the first time that he was sharing a bed with someone.
And that someone was Malfoy. Ick.
The thought that occurred to him was that he couldn't imagine Ginny being too happy with this turn of events, if she were to know.
The second thought that occurred to him was that it really was an awfully small bed.
It was squishy and too hot. They jostled a bit, trying to get comfortable; Harry felt as if he were being suffocated between goosedown and the colourful wallpaper. He pushed towards Malfoy, trying to make space; Malfoy pushed back, squishing him against the wall.
"Oi, I don't have any room!"
"Well, I'm falling off the edge!"
"Okay, okay, just stop moving, okay?"
But Malfoy was sneaky, as always. Inch by inch the pillows moved against Harry until he was practically flat against the wall ; Harry would push back gently but ten minutes later, he would find himself in the exact same position.
Getting irritated, Harry elbowed the pillow border towards him a bit and then suddenly found himself with a face full of pillow – he couldn't breathe. So he gave a big shove and there was a thud and when Harry dared to peer over the edge of the bed, Malfoy was on the floor, looking distinctly ruffled and glaring fit to set things on fire. Things being Harry Potter, for example.
"Oh, sod it!" the blonde spat.
He grabbed the pillows and put two under his head, shoving the other back at Harry. "I won't touch you, okay?"
It was a placating lie, not a promise. In that bed, there was no way to avoid it. Malfoy turned his back to him; Harry tried to ignore the unfamiliar feeling of another person's body heat so close in bed.
The tip of his knee was touching the back of Malfoy's calf. It was dreadfully distracting. If Malfoy shifted back just slightly, his arse might even be touching some part of Harry.
Vile.
Harry tried to be quiet but then noticed that Malfoy's heel was touching the instep of his bare foot. The more he tried to ignore it, the more touching spots he noticed. He felt extremely ticklish. He felt like pushing Malfoy out of bed, again.
"Malfoy?"
"What?"
"This is weird..."
"Shut up, Potter."
They were quiet again, for several moments. Harry closed his eyes. Then he opened them.
"Do you think we could change position, maybe...?"
"I'm not facing you, Potter, that's too queer," Malfoy stated.
"I didn't mean that! I mean, maybe we could sleep head-to-toe?"
"Oh, and sleep all night with your stinky, rotting feet next to my glorious visage? How absolutely charming. No, thank you."
So that was out of the question, then. Harry sighed and wished that he were more tired so he could just fall asleep already. Except he was extremely tired, sometimes exhausted all the time, these days.
He closed his eyes and tried not to think about how ticklish he was, and telling his body that all those parts that touched didn't matter. But then he felt the phantom sensation of parts that weren't touching - the golden hair almost against his cheek, or the curve of the spine almost against his chest, and then his skin felt brushed with insect wings all over.
He willed himself to relax, to think about the softness of the mattress and the pillows, the tiredness of his heavy limbs...
"Potter?"
"Yeah?"
"If you kick me, I'm hexing that body part off."
"Shut up, Malfoy."
"I'm just doing you the courtesy of a fair warning!"
"Go to sleep!"
"You go to sleep!"
"I'm trying, but some stupid pale-faced git keeps talking to me!"
Malfoy harrumphed, gave his pillow a few vicious blows, and then settled in again, his back to Harry.
The blonde was so close that Harry could see everything in focus, even without his glasses. He could see the scars, slicing up Malfoy's neck, the disfigured tissue on one shoulder. It was rough and ragged, where sharp claws had ripped into soft flesh – just another battle wound now. The blonde's body was warm against his. He listened to Malfoy's breathing until it slowed and then until it deepened, trying to match their breaths – inhale for inhale, exhale for exhale - never realising the moment when he fell asleep, as well.
They stayed curled together, unmoving, through the night.
