This is a shorter chapter because it felt better to split these two parts up. The next chapter will be the last so, if you're enjoying, please review.
Chapter Four
Realisations
True to his word Malfoy had stopped by Harry's shop the next day. Harry had returned his cloak, took him to look in on the seed, and nodded or gave non-committal grunts as Malfoy made attempts to make small talk about the weather and how busy the business was. He all but rushed the blonde out, feeling uneasy with every minute he spent in his presence as the dreams lingered in the back of his mind. Why was he dreaming of Malfoy, anyway?
"I can come back soon?" Malfoy had asked as Harry ushered him towards the door. "To check in on the seed of course." He added quickly and, because Malfoy quickly masked the look of hurt that flickered in his eyes so briefly at Harry's dismissal, Harry was perfectly capable of pretending it had never existed.
"Yeah, sure, whatever." Harry agreed dismissively as he opened the door for Malfoy. He would deal with the next visit when it came, for now, he simply wanted Malfoy gone. As he closed the door behind Malfoy's retreating frame he slumped back against the wall behind him and let out a long, rattling sigh as he let his head fall back against the cool stone. He closed his eyes for a moment, exhaled slowly, and then pushed himself away from the wall, snapping his eyes open in determination. He wouldn't let Malfoy affect him – in his dreams or otherwise – in this way. The thought took him back to his greenhouses where, once his hands were at one with the earth again, his tension was lost to the air.
-ooii-
It had been four days since Harry had heard from Malfoy. Usually Malfoy would have dropped by his shop, asking to see the growing plant, or – if Narcissa was particularly unwell - at the least dropped him an owl to see how it was coming along. But as Harry returned home, weary after a long day repotting mandrakes, after a fourth day without any sign of Malfoy and a table empty of owl post save from his copy of the Daily Prophet, guilt gnawed deep within his stomach. He thought back to the last time he had seen Malfoy, when he had practically pushed him out onto the street. He remembered – no matter how much he had tried to deny its existence – the flicker of hurt in Malfoy's eyes.
Why did he care? He asked himself, skipping the notion of an evening meal for a rather substantial pouring of Firewhiskey. Malfoy did have to be around Harry all the time. Harry certainly didn't want him to be. And, well, if Harry had wanted him to be, and he had offended Malfoy with his dismissal, he didn't want someone with that less of backbone anyway…
Did he?
He sighed, tossed back the glass of Firewhiskey in several long gulps and allowed himself to admit the truth.
He did.
He thought of the time they had spent together while Malfoy watched over the seed. The way Malfoy had listened eagerly to Harry's words, rather than becoming bored at his extensive ramblings on Herbology that none – except Neville, was willing to listen to for long. The way that not just his eyes, but his whole face, had softened in awe and wonder as Harry showed him how to bring a seed to life. The way their fingers had brushed together as they worked beside each other in the soil. The way Malfoy's body, firm and lean, pressed against his whenever he apparated them to and from his shop and the warehouse…
The realisation of his attraction to Malfoy, a hard and heavy tug that pulled his heart from his chest to his stomach, made it clear to Harry there were two important things he needed to do.
With that thought, he spelled the empty glass of Firewhiskey away, moved into his study and gathered himself a quill, ink and two clean pieces of parchment.
-oooii-
After the first letter Harry sent – a letter to Malfoy, apologising for his snappy behaviour (although he neglected to provide an excuse as each sounded more ridiculous than the next) and inviting him to his shop the following day to see a new charm added to the plant – Malfoy and Harry had slipped easily into their routine of regular visits, easy conversation and accidental touches that – now Harry was aware of them – lit his skin like fire.
That continuing problem was one Harry hoped would be solved by the second letter he had sent, the results of which would be clearer tonight. He stepped into the shower, letting the warm spray of water wash away the dirt and sweat of another long day in the greenhouses (and, along with it, any remaining thoughts of the way Malfoy's fingertips had brushed his, leaving sparks in their wake). Once he was clean he stepped out, wrapping a large fluffy towel around his waist as he grabbed his glasses and wand, attacking his hair with several drying and styling charms. He knew the latter were useless – he had tried many with little results – yet went through the motions all the same. Once he was dry he took to his room, dressing in the robes he had earlier laid out for himself. They were a deep, bottle-green and were made from a material which, although it looked as plush and thick as velvet, was in reality as light as a feather. Hermione had insisted upon Harry purchasing several pairs of dress robes after the war and his countless expected appearances at memorials and functions.
They didn't get much use in recent years, and as much as Harry preferred his safe, muddy, comfortable overalls, he had always loved these robes. They brought out his eyes, many of the party-goers he had been expected to court in the earlier days had told him, eyes just like his mothers. He took this thought to his mirror as he smoothed out the material of the robes – they still fit well, despite the years that had passed since he had worn them. His body, muscular yet lean, filled out the tailored lines well and the material looked rich and expensive against his skin. Most of all, the colour did indeed make his eyes sparkle behind the frames of his glasses. He gave his reflection a soft smile, he could definitely do with the advantage of the connection between his eyes and his robes tonight. His eyes, Ginny had often told him before they parted ways, were his best feature.
He picked up several items from his dresser; his wand, which he tucked into the sleeve of his robe as always, a small round sack which jangled with galleons and sickles as he slipped into one of the hidden pockets on his robe and finally, the apparition co-ordinates for the restaurant he'd chosen at Hermione's advice. She'd been curious, but didn't pry too much, and Harry knew he could trust her recommendations.
He check his watch – five minutes to seven, just enough time to arrive without looking too eager – when he heard the flames of his fire flare into life, blaring with a Floo call.
"Potter?" Called a voice he knew he couldn't mistake. He rushed through into his living room, carefully treading in a way which meant he wouldn't trip over the hem of his dress robes and land flat on his face, and saw Malfoy's head dancing in his flames.
"Yes?" He asked, sinking to his knees before the fire. As Malfoy saw him he blinked, once quickly, then slowly the second time. Harry shifted uncomfortably under the assessment of Malfoy's gaze. His eyes, once they had stopped blinking, raked over Harry's face, chest and what else was visible of his robes. "Yes?" He repeated, hoping to wake Malfoy from his stare.
"Going somewhere?" He asked, his tone exceptionally devoid of any inflection of tone or emotion. He did, however, raise a questioning eyebrow toward Harry's dress robes, as if giving explanation for his question.
Harry swallowed, shifted again, and said; "Yes. I'm going out for dinner."
"With?" Malfoy asked, his tone bland again, this time making Harry raise his eyebrows before he asked, in genuine confusion; "Why does that matter?"
"You're going on a date." Malfoy stated. That was simply what it was; it wasn't a question, or an exclamation. It wasn't angry, or upset, or jealous – no matter how much a small part of Harry, a part he pushed down with gritted teeth wanted it to be.
"Yes." Harry admitted, choosing his tone carefully. "Is there a problem?"
At Harry's question, the cool mask of disaffection on Malfoy's face was replaced with burning rage. It started as a flicker in his eyes, a brief whisper of fire, which could have easily been pulled back under Malfoy's nonchalant façade or allowed, as it was, to burst into a glorious display of emotion across his face. "Problem?" He repeated, his tone reflecting the emotion on his face. "Shouldn't you be watching the seed? This is a vital stage of its development. There's a matter of a life debt here, in case you had forgotten, and I certainly –"
Harry raised his hand, stopping Malfoy's tirade more effectively than he ever thought he would be able to. "It's a plant, not a baby." He snapped in exasperation. Then he reminded himself of the importance of the plant to Malfoy, to his mother's life, and all the hope he had built into it. He felt a uncomfortable, twisting sensation of guilt and closed his eyes for a moment before speaking again. "I'm sorry, that was rude. What I mean to say is the plant will be fine. All the charms are in place to keep it watered as it needs to be. I'm only leaving it for the same time I do each night, I'll be there again at the usual time tomorrow. You can come in the morning if you'd like, to see its all ok."
The rage that had filled Malfoy's features had subsided and, in its wake, had left a soft, dusky tinge of pink across his cheeks. His eyes were blank from what Harry could see – although they refused to connect with his, darting around the corners of the fireplace, avoiding his gaze entirely. "That won't be necessary." He muttered quietly, still keeping his eyes steadfastly away from Harry's. "I'll stop by and see the plant again on Monday, after the weekend, as we agreed."
Before Harry could even respond Malfoy closed down his Floo and ended the call. Harry's hearth lay cold and empty and he sat, staring into the dark stone for a moment, before he realised he had somewhere to be. His watch told him it was now five past seven. Harry cursed and jumped to his feet, digging out the apparition co-ordinates he had written down. Taking a deep breath to compose himself – splinching himself wouldn't do him any favours – he spun on his heel and disapparated for the restaurant, full of apology's for his date, James, whom he had met a few months ago through a connection Neville had with Mediterranean plants.
Unfortunately, as Harry arrived home alone a few hours later, he had to accept that his second letter – the invitation on a date he had sent to James - hadn't been as successful in solving his problem as the first had been. As enjoyable as the date was, with pleasant food and even more satisfying alcohol, and as easy company the other wizard had been, with an intelligent interest in herbology and an attractive smile, Harry found himself with one, suborn thought that refused to go away, no matter how Harry refused to accept it.
The thought he still refused to accept even when, twenty minutes later, an elegant owl bearing a simple note from James arrived at his window.
He's a lucky man. If he doesn't realise it, call me again sometime.
