And at the bottom of the aforementioned cliff, I give you Blaise Zabini in all his smug glory...
AMONG THOSE KILLED
Chapter 7—No Time to Hate
I had no time to Hate—
Because
The Grave would hinder Me—
And Life was not so
Ample I
Could finish—Enmity—
Nor had I time to Love—
But since
Some Industry must be—
The little Toil of Love—
I thought
Be large enough for Me—
"No Time to Hate"—Emily Dickinson
oOo
At the elf's words, Malfoy's jaw tightened and Harry wondered for possibly the hundredth time what exactly it was that had caused the rift between the blond and Zabini. Malfoy had said next to nothing on the nature of their relationship, something Harry couldn't help but wonder about, and he wasn't exactly sure why he cared so much.
Professional curiosity? he wondered, deciding it must be that. Although, there was something about Malfoy that made Harry want to know all of his secrets, discover all of the surprising hidden facets of this newfound personality the blond had assumed in the years between the men knowing one another.
"Thank you, Pibby," Malfoy responded stiffly as he rose gracefully from the white bench, his movements a stark contrast to the rigidity of his voice.
Harry wasn't sure if he should follow Malfoy or wait for the blond to speak to Zabini alone first, but Malfoy turned and raised an eyebrow at him in either invitation or inquiry, Harry wasn't sure, but he stepped away from the piano and followed Malfoy from the room. The walk downstairs was silent and felt strained. The pale face striding next to him was a blank mask, but his shoulders seemed tense and Harry wondered how long it had been since the two Slytherins had seen each other. He longed to ask, to break the silence with words, but he knew better than to question Malfoy at that moment.
Finally they stopped outside of a set of large double doors, already thrown wide for them as they strolled into a room that Harry suspected to be a lounge. It was spacious and comfortable looking, decorated in light colors. The ceiling high above their heads was the shade of honeyed cinnamon, set against dark, heavy-looking beams of wood inlaid over the room, peering down on the rose-hued carpet and copper-colored furniture. The windows were tall and enchanted, showing them a view of a soft meadow that Harry was certain could not be found in England, wild grass overgrown and waving freely in a gentle breeze. The furniture was pale and spotless, spread throughout the wide room, and there was a stone fireplace crackling with flame beneath a large wooden mantle.
Blaise Zabini stood before an enchanted window, his back to the doorway as he stared out at the meadow. Harry shifted his weight and at the quiet creak of the floorboards, Zabini turned to face them. His face automatically split into an attractive smile at the sight of Malfoy.
"Draco," he breathed, stepping closer, but something about Malfoy's body language made him halt.
"Shall we sit?" Malfoy asked briskly, gesturing to a collection of chairs. Harry automatically took a seat in an armchair and Malfoy sat on the couch to his left. Still smiling, Zabini took the seat next to Malfoy, who tensed slightly at the proximity.
At the sight of the blond's reaction, Harry wanted to intervene but was not sure what exactly he would be inserting himself into or how much Malfoy would appreciate it.
"So, Potter's protecting Slytherins now, then?" Zabini wondered aloud, eyeing Harry with curious interest.
Sighing, Malfoy frowned. "What have you heard?"
At the question, Harry frowned as well. What had he heard? The case was not supposed to be public knowledge—last Harry knew, the department was still keeping things quiet. How would Zabini have heard about it?
"Theo, Tracey, Millicent," Zabini recited somberly, looking as though the names pained him. Taking a breath, he continued, "And Pansy."
At the final name, Malfoy's hands clenched into tight fists where they rested in his lap. He seemed to be gritting his teeth, and Harry was not exactly sure what emotion he was attempting to hold back. Had Pansy been a friend? Lover? Confidant? Harry had no idea what Malfoy's relations were to anybody in the blond's life. He and Pansy had attended the Yule Ball together in fourth year, but other than that, Harry had never heard of them being anything beyond friends.
Malfoy's voice snapped him from his train of thought. "Don't," he uttered, voice hard as he glared at the dark-skinned man to his left. Not quite sure what it was that Malfoy was telling Zabini not to do, Harry had the suspicion that the man was ignoring the warning as he smiled sadly at the blond.
"I'm so sorry, Draco," he murmured, reaching one hand toward Malfoy in an attempt to caress his cheek. Leaning further back out of the range of the man's arm, Malfoy's glare deepened. "But I am," Zabini continued speaking as Malfoy continued to glare, and Harry wondered what their odd form of communication meant.
"Perhaps," Zabini hesitated, shooting Harry a pointed look as he addressed Malfoy, "we could speak privately?" He dropped the arm that had been stretched toward the blond, resting his palm on the empty couch between them and leaning closer to Malfoy. "Please?" The single word was spoken in a breathy voice that Harry could barely hear. The faces of the two Slytherins were only inches apart; Malfoy shivered but did not move away as he stared at Zabini. Harry fought the urge to either clear his throat or cough, or else maybe try to sneak out unnoticed. The scene before him felt far too intimate and he felt extremely uncomfortable for intruding on it. It gave him a weird twisting, knotted feeling in his stomach.
At least the question of what type of relationship they had was now answered, he supposed.
"Erm," Harry began, quiet voice breaking the silence. "I think it's better if we explain the situation to you first, Zabini."
The words seemed to snap Malfoy from his daze, who glared even harder at the other man and pointedly scooted farther away, closer to Harry. The corners of Zabini's lips twitched as if he was amused by Malfoy's actions.
"Don't bother," Zabini interrupted, just as Harry opened his mouth to continue. "I am already well aware of everything." His voice was smooth and confident once more, the solemn tinge to his tone now vanished.
"You couldn't be," Harry shook his head. Was Zabini always this annoyingly self-assured? Like most of the other Slytherins, Harry did not know Zabini at all, hardly ever having spoken to him the entirety of Hogwarts.
"Oh, but I am," the man smiled widely, revealing dazzling teeth.
"Don't question it, Potter," said Malfoy suddenly, staring at Harry and firmly ignoring Zabini. "And don't ask him how he knows. He won't tell you."
Sighing in resignation, Harry nodded. "All right, then," he said, "so I'm just going to assume you know that Ron and I have been assigned to watch over the three of you."
"I won't argue with that," Zabini agreed, gaze traveling over Harry's body from head to toe. "And yes, I did know about it." The final statement was delivered smugly, and Harry noticed Malfoy's hands clench into fists once again.
"And how many people in the Ministry did you have to fuck to get that piece of information?" he asked sardonically, voice dripping ice, and Harry felt chilled. What had happened between the two of them?
Sighing, Zabini responded sadly, "Always assuming the worst of everybody, aren't you, Draco?"
"Always giving me reason for that assumption, aren't you, Blaise?"
Ignoring him completely, Zabini directed his next question to Harry. "And how is poor Daphne doing?"
Deciding not to comment on the fact that the man's voice sounded anything but concerned, Harry answered, "She's doing better. She's upstairs at the moment."
"Lost, possibly," Zabini smiled. "There were times when I was living here that I would get lost. Draco would have to use that handy locating spell he does with the house just to come rescue me." He laughed a low, sensual laugh, peeking at Malfoy out of the corner of his eye.
At the sound of the man's laughter, Malfoy snapped his fingers. Pibby cracked into view with a glass of some amber liquid Harry did not recognize, handing it to Malfoy and bowing before vanishing again.
"Drinking before dinner, Draco?" Zabini asked teasingly. "What would your mother say?"
Harry thought the glass might shatter from how hard Malfoy was clenching it. "Shame that my drinking habits are no longer anything you're allowed to comment on, isn't it?" he spoke in a tight, angry voice.
"It is if I still care about you," Zabini responded softly, all traces of earlier humor gone.
"Also something you're no longer allowed to comment on," Malfoy snapped, eyes flashing dangerously. "Stay here or don't stay here, I don't even fucking care." And with that, he tossed back the whole of his drink in one burning gulp, stood from the couch, and strode from the room.
As the door swung shut, the room was plunged into an uncomfortable silence. Harry felt confused about the situation and angry on Malfoy's behalf and puzzled by his own response to it. Zabini stared after Malfoy with a frustrated, slightly hungry look on his face, but the next second he had turned to Harry and the expression was gone, replaced with casual regard.
"So," he began. "What do you boys have so far? Any suspects? Arrests? Mysterious folders and ambushing schematics?"
"Well," Harry hesitated. He did not like admitting that they knew almost nothing and had very little to go off of. "I can't really go into detail about ongoing investigations," he answered cautiously.
"So you know nothing," the man said bluntly.
Reminding himself that Zabini was directly involved in this and had the right to question him, Harry responded in a detached tone of voice. "I can't discuss the details of an open case."
"Course you can't," Zabini grinned, his smile just toothy enough to make Harry feel an edge of discomfort. "All you can ask is that we place our trust and personal safety in your hands."
Unsure of how to reply, Harry simply stared at him. "I'll just leave you to get settled in, then," he said finally, longing to escape the lounge and maybe find Malfoy, who had wisely taken the opportunity to leave the room.
"Don't worry," Zabini said, eyes glittering. "I know my way around the place."
"Right," Harry said, standing and striding through the same door as Malfoy. There were no further words from behind him and he hurried down the wide hallway, passing beneath chandeliers and being stared at curiously by the occupants of the portraits lining the hall, all of whom Harry assumed to be ancestors judging by the pale features. As he wandered, he took the time to send a Patronus to Ron and one to Wescott, informing both of them that Zabini had arrived and was aware of the situation.
Unsure of where Malfoy had gone but also unsure of what else to do, Harry decided to head upstairs to look for him. The second-floor library was the first place he thought of when wondering where the blond may have disappeared to. The journey felt even farther than it had the last time Harry had been there, but eventually, he found it. One door was already propped open, which was a promising sign and at the sight, Harry wondered if maybe Malfoy wanted the brunet to find him, but dismissed it the next instant. If there was one thing Malfoy had consistently been over the years, it was proud. Maybe that was the old Malfoy, and this is another hidden facet, his mind countered, something Harry would love to believe of the blond.
As he entered, he took a second or two to glance around the room. The library was beautiful, and even though Harry had never really had an appreciation for literature, the room made him want to bury his nose between the crisp-scented pages of a novel and inhale the words as eagerly, as thirstily as Malfoy seemed to.
Wandering deeper into the room, Harry continued to look around in awe. The library was wide and round, bookshelves wrapping around every inch of the circular walls. In the center was a dark staircase, winding up to the second-level where Harry had found Malfoy the last time. It was there that he headed, one hand sliding along the oiled wood of the banister as he ascended the coiled staircase.
The second he reached the top he spied Malfoy, curled into a coffee-colored armchair and nose buried in a book, the spine of which was facing away from Harry. But upon catching sight of the blond, Harry hesitated. Should he interrupt Malfoy? Maybe this was one of those times when Malfoy would prefer to be by himself. Most likely he was still angry and Harry's interruption would only lead to a fight. But for some reason Harry wanted to make sure that Malfoy was okay. Maybe it was because of what had happened earlier, in the drawing room, how kind Malfoy had been to him. Harry was simply going to return the favor and Malfoy would have to live with it. If they really were going to be friends—something Harry was beginning to want more and more—then they would have to get used to being comforted by one another.
Mind made up, Harry marched forward to sit in the armchair opposite Malfoy. From that position, he could read the violet letters curling along the spine of the book. "Sylvia Plath?" Malfoy was reading Sylvia Plath? Of course he was. When would Harry stop being surprised by the things he did not know and would never have suspected of the man? "Do you ever read anything that isn't Muggle literature?" the brunet wondered aloud.
For several seconds Malfoy did not respond, but eventually, he glanced up to stare at Harry with an odd expression on his face. "All of these are, you know," he gestured around at the shelves.
"All these are Muggle authors?" Harry asked, surprised yet again. Maybe I should start keeping track of the time in-between astonishment when he does or says something unexpected. "All these are yours?"
Nodding, Malfoy glanced around fondly. "I started collecting Muggle literature in second year." As he spoke, he rose from his seat to drift along the shelves, pulling a thick book from its place and handing it to Harry. "This was the first Muggle novel I ever read."
"The Count of Monte Cristo?" Harry murmured, fingers stroking the silver lettering of the title. The book was intimidatingly large, and Harry could not imagine picking up a book that size at the age of twelve and attempting to read it for personal enjoyment.
Nodding again, Malfoy sank back into the armchair he had risen from. "After I read that, I knew I had to have more. I paid some Ravenclaw girl for some books and a catalog to order them from. And that," he stared around, "turned into all this."
The words made sense, Harry knew they did, and yet for some reason, his brain was having trouble comprehending them. "You obsessively collected Muggle literature in secret all throughout nearly the entirety of our time together at school?" Definitely should've timed that one, he thought wryly.
"It doesn't make much sense, does it?" Malfoy said softly, voice sad for some reason. Whatever the reason was, Harry did not like it and wanted to redirect the blond's thoughts.
"So when did you start reading poetry?"
At the question, Malfoy smiled and relaxed slightly, as if just the thought of poetry was enough to calm him. "Fifth year," he said.
"And who's your favorite?" The question was asked before Harry had even made the conscious decision to wonder it. Malfoy looked surprised, as though not expecting to be asked his personal opinion about anything, but he appeared to ponder the question, mulling it over for long minutes before finally answering, and Harry liked how seriously he took the question and how difficult finding one name seemed to be for him.
"Either Lord Byron or Walt Whitman," he answered slowly, sounding as if there were more names he wanted to add and yet was restraining himself from doing so, something Harry wished he wouldn't do. He longed to hear the blond speak freely, without the stiff self-awareness that he always seemed to possess. Harry wanted to watch him talk about the things he loved, face open and relaxed, silver eyes glowing as he explained the many reasons behind his adulation of his favorite author's works, the latter of whom surprised Harry yet again.
"An American?" If Harry kept forgetting to keep track of the time between feeling surprised by the things Malfoy said, he would at least have to start keeping track of how many times it happened in a day. "I wouldn't have expected that. I mean, I know Emily Dickinson and Sylvia Plath were American, but, I dunno…I just…" he trailed off awkwardly, unsure how to explain the reasons behind his surprise.
Laughing at the look on Harry's face, Malfoy shrugged. "Whitman was brilliant. Discovering him changed my life," he admitted. "His words changed how I saw the world. He helped me accept my sexuality when I was younger and when I came out to my friends, a lot of the credit was due to him."
When I came out to my friends. Malfoy was gay? Well obviously, Harry had suspected, what with the tension between Malfoy and Zabini and the way they had been acting, but still, to hear it said aloud like that, it was…Harry wasn't sure what it was. He wasn't sure what to say. There was a slight pink flush staining Malfoy's cheekbones as though he wasn't actually as comfortable with confessing such a thing to Harry as his steady tone might have led him to believe.
Wanting to break the silence, Harry spoke. "And Lord Byron as well, I suppose? He wasn't exactly straight either, was he?" His tone was casual and teasing, and Harry saw the blush fade from Malfoy's cheeks to be replaced by a curious expression.
Chuckling, Malfoy eyed Harry strangely. "No offense, Potter," he said in amusement, "but you're, maybe not the last person I would expect to recognize these poets, but pretty far down the list. I mean," he continued, as Harry opened his mouth to agree with him, "I know that you were raised by Muggles, but I guess you just never struck me as anyone particularly pedantic."
Smiling, Harry shrugged in agreement. After leaving school, he had done very little reading, despite how much Hermione was constantly lecturing him about all the numerous life-healing benefits of burying oneself between the pages of a novel for hours—if not days, in her case—at a time. "Hermione reads everything," he explained, smiling again at the expression that crossed Malfoy's face like the world suddenly made sense again.
"Ah, yes, Granger's influence," Draco nodded. "Good for her for introducing some culture into your life, even if you've never taken the time to appreciate it."
"I prefer to surround myself with others who will appreciate it for me," Harry quipped lightly, not commenting on the fact that Malfoy was now included on the list of people he surrounded himself with, even if it was technically on a temporary, work-related basis.
Words were mumbled under Malfoy's breath that Harry barely caught, what sounded like "typical Gryffindor", and Harry smiled.
"So your father let you keep these here, then?" he asked, staring around at the enormous collection. The second-level had low ceilings and small windows, but it was magically enlarged to be even wider than the downstairs, and every shelf was groaning beneath books, solid walls of novels. There were even quite a few stacked atop tables, as if Malfoy had been unable to decide which one he wanted to read at the time and had simply chosen to skim through them all. It was the only book collection Harry had ever seen to rival Hermione's—it was in fact even larger than her own—and he was curious to see what would happen if they were ever put into the same room and the subject of literature was brought up.
Grinning at the mental image of the shocked expression Hermione was sure to wear when she heard the news that Malfoy collected Muggle authors, it took several seconds to notice that Malfoy was quiet and that a dark look had crossed his face. At the sight, Harry's smile dropped and he immediately regretted his question.
"He never knew," the blond replied curtly. "I hid them in various places around my room and at school all throughout my adolescence, then had Pibby move them up here the day after he was sentenced to Azkaban." The ends of his words were bitten off sharply, and Harry felt remorse at having been the one to put the razor edge to his voice.
"I'm sorry," Harry murmured, chagrin coursing through his veins. Why was he always speaking without thinking? Of course Lucius Malfoy would never have allowed his son to read Muggle literature, let alone amass it. "I didn't think…"
"Don't be sorry," Malfoy said, gaze fixed to a shelf above Harry's head. "It's in the past, Potter."
Brittle silence followed his words, hanging heavy and dusty between them like the dry sour-smelling pages of a forgotten textbook. There was a question Harry longed to ask, but he did not want to upset Malfoy further. Deciding to throw caution to the wind and hoping the man would not begin shouting, Harry spoke. "Can I ask you a question?" he began slowly, becoming encouraged as Malfoy nodded warily. "Don't get offended or anything,"—the wariness grew more pronounced—"but is part of the reason you collected Muggle novels so zealously in your youth was that it was some form of teenage rebellion against your father and the strict standards and principles he raised you to uphold?" The question was asked much more formally than Harry had intended, and he waited nervously for Malfoy's response.
Malfoy stared at him for several seconds before he unexpectedly burst out laughing. "I suppose part of it was, yes," he chuckled, and Harry was relieved that he had not gotten angry. "There was always something thrillingly forbidden about reading Muggle novels. Even now," he reached out and ran one finger down a spine lovingly, "when there is no danger of being caught with an Oscar Wilde book, I still get a rush just from the act."
The words gave Harry an odd shivery feeling, but not in an unpleasant way. "I love hearing you talk about them," he said, gesturing with one arm to the ring of novels surrounding the two men. "I feel like I could listen to you speak for hours." He wasn't exactly sure what made him admit to that, but it was true nonetheless.
Smiling gently, Malfoy eyed him with that same curious look he had given the brunet earlier—as if Harry was an impossible puzzle that Malfoy was attempting to solve and yet did not have all the pieces to yet. "I remember a time when you would have given anything to shut me up."
At the reminder of their schooldays, Harry grinned ruefully. "Yeah, things were different when we were younger, weren't they?"
"Indeed," was Malfoy's only response.
"Look," Harry fidgeted uncomfortably, suddenly feeling awkward and not really sure about the reason, "if you have a problem with Zabini staying here, we can make other arrangements for him." They were staying in Malfoy's home, after all. The man shouldn't be made to feel uncomfortable in his own house.
"You would make other governmental arrangements just to appease any discomfort I may feel at being near Blaise?" The question was asked in a bewildered tone of voice like Malfoy could never imagine Harry offering such a courtesy.
"Sure. This is your home, after all," Harry pointed out. "And Neville volunteered himself to help out as well, so he can take Zabini to the safe house if you want."
Malfoy continued to look at him in bemusement but shook it off before answering. "That's quite all right," he said smoothly. "I appreciate the gesture, but I wouldn't want to split the guard or anything. Especially after the way Daphne's solo Auror protection turned out. Blaise may be a bastard," his voice became brittle, pronouncing the b's with a sharp pop, "but even I do not wish to see him dead."
At the opening he was given to ask the question he had been wondering for days, Harry hesitated. "Can I…" Would Malfoy be offended? Based on their past communications, Harry didn't think so, but it was a very personal question he was about to ask, one Malfoy had already refused to answer the last time he had voiced it. Deciding to take the risk again, he continued. "Can I ask what happened? Between the two of you?" There. He said it, the words were out, now all he had to do was wait for Malfoy to reply and wonder why he had been so nervous asking the question in the first place. It was possible it wasn't the question itself but the answer that made him anxious. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Harry did not have an answer for himself.
"I…" Malfoy began but paused, searching for either the words to explain himself or else a way out of the situation. "It's rather personal," he said cagily.
"You don't have to tell me," Harry said quickly, not wanting to pressure the blond into revealing more of himself than he may have been ready for, despite the burning curiosity Harry felt urging him to ask endless questions in order to better know the man.
"Well, let's just say," Malfoy said haltingly, apparently still deciding what to say or how much to tell him, "that we were together for a time, but it ended badly and we haven't seen each other in several months."
Longing to ask him for details, Harry swallowed the inquiries and nodded. "If you change your mind at any point about Neville moving him to the safe house, let me know."
The corners of Malfoy's lips turned up into a sincere smile and he nodded appreciatively, whether at Harry's words or his unwillingness to push the subject of Malfoy and Zabini's past relationship, Harry wasn't sure. But he liked the sight of that smile and liked being the cause of it even more.
Silence draped over them softly like the gentle drifting of snow, but it did not feel strained or uncomfortable the way Harry thought it would feel. It felt relaxed, undemanding, and far easier than he would have ever suspected it would be to sit in a quiet room only inches from Draco Malfoy, his sworn schoolyard rival. The words made Harry want to laugh. He wasn't sure what he and Malfoy were at that moment—all he knew was that it was miles from resembling what they had become that first day on the train when Harry had refused to take Malfoy's hand.
He found himself excited to find out.
oOo
Tipping his head back slightly, Draco studied Potter, wondering if the new angle might shed new light upon the abundance of mysteries spilling from the man sitting before him, gazing around at the bookshelves with an admiring eye as though recognizing how impressive Draco's book collection really was—which, by the way, it fucking was. The man had surprised Draco yet again, appearing suddenly at the top of the staircase in the library like he had known exactly where to go to find the blond. And then he had taken the seat nearest Draco and began to ask him questions about his collection as if he was serious, as if he cared about the answers and wanted to know Draco's thoughts and opinions. As if he was interested in learning more about Draco.
And it was that quiet sincerity that had made Draco open his mouth and tell him things he had not told anyone else, even Pansy. He had shared The Count of Monte Cristo with Potter, an act that felt far more intimate than he would have believed it could.
And then, when Draco had been asked about Walt Whitman and decided to inform Potter on why exactly it was that the poet meant so much to the blond, he surprised Draco again by accepting the words and appearing unfazed by them, as if Draco's sexuality was not something to be disgusted over, the way his father had always spoken of such things. The man had then followed that up with questions about the nature of his and Blaise's relationship. Was that something Potter possibly wondered about? Perhaps even worried about? He had stared between the two Slytherins rather strangely in the lounge when Blaise and Draco had been sitting side-by-side on the sofa. Was he just asking in regards to how this would affect his ability to perform his job? Or were there more personal reasons behind it?
Frustrated with his numerous questions and zero answers, Draco opened his mouth without thinking and blurted out the first thing that popped into his mind. "Does your girlfriend not mind you staying here for the indeterminable future?" It was something he had been wondering for quite a while, but the inquiry made him cringe internally. He was not normally so thoughtless in choosing words.
"Girlfriend?" Potter repeated, sounding both amused and perplexed. "You mean Ginny?"
At Draco's nod, Potter grinned. "She hasn't been my girlfriend for a while," he informed the blond, in a casual tone that left no doubt for how the man felt about the break-up, which was clearly not that bothered if the insouciant tone of his voice was to be believed.
"Really?" Draco couldn't help asking, comforting himself with the fact that Potter had asked him about an ex-lover first and it was completely within Draco's rights to return the favor. "How long have the two of you been separated?" He willed his voice to sound less interested and more bored, but he did not have too much faith in his ability to do so.
"She moved out a little over a year and a half ago," Potter informed him, smile still playing around his lips. "She plays professional Quidditch in Wales now."
"So, no ginger children with poor eyesight anywhere on the horizon, hmm?"
"No, god, no," Potter laughed. "I was never quite ready for the life the Prophet seemed intent on me leading."
At his words, Draco couldn't help but wonder exactly what sort of life the Auror did lead in his spare time, the one that the Daily Prophet had so clearly gotten wrong.
"And you haven't found a good enough witch to fill the vacancy yet?" He wasn't sure why he was still asking questions about the man's love life, but Potter seemed comfortable enough with answering and Draco had always been inquisitive.
"Well, I haven't really had time to look," Potter replied with another easy grin, one that made Draco's breath catch. "Work keeps me pretty busy."
At the mention of his work, Draco longed to ask him about the mysterious Caelix, find out just what exactly his relationship was with the man, but he managed to restrain himself with no small amount of difficulty. No need to make himself look completely like an overeager fool. Or worse, demandingly forward. No, it would clearly be for the best if Draco was to stop talking.
But after only two heartbeats, Draco felt impatient and unable to stop himself from conversing with the intriguing man sitting so near him. "So, no dates for the Chosen One, then?" Why did his mouth insist on focusing on Potter's dating life? Surely there were other things he could ask, less telling and potentially embarrassing topics.
"I don't like dating," Potter confessed, staring down at his hands. "I've been on one or two dates since Gin, but I'm never sure if people are interested in dating me, or the Boy-Who-Lived, you know?"
The words made Draco pause in his consideration of them. He had never truly pondered what dating must be like for Harry Potter. Always having known—and been annoyed by—the fact that Harry Potter could have anybody in the world he wanted, Draco had never given consideration to how frustrating that might actually be. Of course everybody wanted to get close to the Saviour of the Wizarding World, but Draco had never really thought about what it must be like to be that man the whole of the world was so desperate to touch. Everybody thought that they knew Potter, that him offering his life up to the Dark Lord to save everybody was somehow personal, and that because of that they somehow had a claim on him, as though he owed them even more. It left Draco with the odd urge to protect the raven-haired man, a burning desire to somehow shield him from the expectations and demands of the entire world.
But the next second, he scoffed at himself. As if Potter actually needed protecting—especially from ex-Death Eaters whom he had hated fiercely since the age of eleven. But Draco knew that Potter no longer hated him based on his behavior toward the blond. Beyond that, though, he had no idea how the man felt toward Draco. Did he see Draco in the same light he saw the rest of the world in? As only another person attempting to get close to him for his fame?
But Potter had said things, told him things that Draco did not think he had told very many people. He had told Draco that he trusted him, words rare enough in the blond's life to be of significance. He trusted him enough to stay in Draco's house, under his roof, where who knew what sort of Dark magic everyone in the country believed to be lurking inside?
But despite that, Potter had arrived on his doorstep, determined to protect him and willing to be the bearer of bad news, something Draco would wager had not been a sought-after responsibility. And Draco did feel safer in his presence, something he had not expected when the tousle-haired man had first arrived on Draco's doorstep, looking so serious and somber and asking Draco if he could come in, enter the house where last he visited he had nearly been offered up to the Dark Lord and one of his best friends had been tortured while the other best friend was being held in the cellar—the very same room that Potter had watched that grotesque man Pettigrew strangle himself to death in.
Yet here he was, sitting across from Draco, asking the blond about his book collection and his favorite poets, offering to make arrangements to move Blaise and create more work for people just on the possibility that Draco may feel uncomfortable in his ex's presence. Why would Potter do those things? Did he only feel sorry for the blond? Sorry that all his friends had been killed? Sorry that his ex was a horrible, conceited bastard? Sorry that his mother had fled and his father had been who he was? Sorry that nobody had ever loved him?
The thought made Draco frown. No, he had been loved. His mother had loved him, he knew that with certainty, even if his father had only ever seen the boy as a disappointment, one to be resented and forcibly molded.
And Pansy, of course, his dearest Pansy had always loved him. She had been there for him in so many ways that nobody else had been, including Greg and Vince, and especially Blaise. And now she was gone and Potter was here—the same Potter who was looking at him questioningly, causing Draco to come back to himself. How long had he been gazing at the other man?
A heavy silence had blanketed the room, settling over them both as they silently stared into one another's eyes. A sort of buzzing charge was beginning to build, and Draco wasn't sure what the right thing to say in that situation would be and was not even sure how they had gotten to that point, but it had been building all day—actually, ever since Potter had first arrived with the news. Maybe even before that, Draco was not sure and did not want to take the time to contemplate it.
The silence stretched as neither man took their gaze from the other. It felt to Draco to be a sort of challenge, but he was not sure what the stakes were or even any of the rules. The eyes that stared into his own were impossibly green; deep pools of intensity that Draco could feel pulling him in, submerging him—he was drowning in emerald. Then Potter shifted forward, lessening the distance between them by a fraction, and Draco knew he needed to break the quiet and say something before he launched himself at the Auror through the short span of empty air separating the two. And knowing his luck, Potter would probably then use those lightning-fast Auror reflexes to kill him on instinct before he was even aware of what he had done. And Draco had no intention of dying without having first known what Potter's mouth tasted like, even if he had to be patient first.
Having never been a patient person—the result of growing up an extremely spoiled only child—all he could do would be to try his hardest. The temptation to touch the other man was becoming harder to ignore, however.
Fortunately—for Potter, at least—they were interrupted by Pibby's familiar crack and high-pitched voice, splitting the intensity that had been growing between the two men. "Master Draco, sir!" he squeaked. "Dinner is being ready, sir, and Mister Blaise and Miss Daphne is already seated in the dining room, sir."
Potter blinked and sat back, staring at Pibby in bewilderment as though he had forgotten that there were three other people and a house-elf staying in the Manor with them.
Clearing his throat, Draco attempted to respond. "Very well, Pibby, we are on our way."
Not looking to Potter, Draco rose from the armchair and led the way down the twisting staircase and through the familiar beloved room. They walked down the wide hallway in silence, occasionally peeking at each other out of the corners of their eyes as their footsteps echoed lightly along the marble of the grand staircase. Finally, they arrived at the large set of doors, already open to admit them. As they entered, Draco immediately spotted Blaise and Daphne, sitting across from one another and gazing in opposite directions. It did not escape Draco's notice that the two had—same as Weasley and Daphne that very morning—chosen seats in the very middle of the long table.
Draco had only taken two steps into the room before he paused. He was unsure of what to do—he did not want to sit next to Blaise, but he did not want the good-looking man to sit next to Potter, either. Daphne had turned in her seat to smile at Potter and Blaise was eyeing Draco in a way that made the blond flush and glare.
Before he could make a decision between the unappealing options, Potter took it from his hands by striding around the table to sit next to Blaise. Sinking into the seat next to Daphne, Draco wanted to smile at Potter and show his gratitude for the man's consideration but felt unable to in the presence of two Slytherins, one of whom was Draco's ex-lover.
Determinedly not staring at anybody, he directed his gaze toward the table, where a plate of salad had suddenly appeared before him. Knowing that everybody had received the same without having to glance around, he picked up the correct fork and began eating, noting with amusement that Potter picked up the first fork his fingers could find and began to spear the lettuce, in complete ignorance of the fact that he was using the dessert fork. It made Draco want to laugh and tease the man, but once again he reminded himself of the presence of Slytherins—Daphne was a stranger, and Blaise had proven beyond a doubt that he could not be trusted.
The salad dishes were cleared away to be replaced by a creamy pumpkin soup, hot and delicious and soothing the ache in Draco's throat caused by keeping all the words trapped inside that he longed to spout to Potter and all the hateful accusations he wanted to fling at Blaise. The dinner was mostly silent, nothing beyond the clink of silverware against glass dishes or the sounds of chairs being adjusted.
Just as dessert popped up before them, a toffee pudding of Pibby's that made Draco's mouth water just seeing it, Weasley strolled through the doors and hurried to the table, pulling out the chair next to Draco, to the blond's surprise. Was he too hungry to walk to the other side to sit next to Potter? Too lazy, perhaps? Or was he simply not bothered sitting next to a man who had once actively tried to make his life a living hell?
And more importantly, was Draco ever going to stop being surprised by either of the Gryffindors?
Several dishes popped up in front of Ron, who happily began wolfing down the food. "Seriously, Malfoy," he said as he swallowed a large mouthful, "your house-elf is brilliant. If Hermione wouldn't object so much, I'd probably try to take him."
"Good luck getting him to take orders from a Gryffindor," Draco smirked. For some strange reason, he did not find it difficult or aggravating to converse with the redhead. He was not nearly as infuriating as he once had been, and Draco smiled at the thought that the other man probably thought the same thing about him.
"You love Gryffindors," Weasley smirked back, an expression Draco had not known the man able to make. "We're half your dinner guests."
"What would my ancestors say if they knew?" Draco responded sarcastically.
"Oh, don't worry about that," said Weasley, smirk widening. "I've been making it a point to introduce myself to the portraits."
At the thought of a Weasley introducing himself to the portraits of Draco's uptight ancestors, he burst out laughing. More of a quiet chuckle, really, but it slipped from his mouth before he could stop it.
Glancing over at Potter, he found the man staring at him and Weasley in astonishment, as though unable to comprehend the sight of the two of them trading barbs in a somewhat friendly manner, making Draco cringe internally. It wasn't possible that he was becoming friends with a Weasley, was it? But they had spent several hours of the day together, talking and playing chess, exchanging conversation and insults not actually meant. Was he really friends with the man, though? What would his father say?
At the thought of what his father would say, Draco grinned and decided that he had no problems with being friends with a Weasley, especially a Weasley that came so closely attached to Potter. The same Potter who was still staring between the two of them in bewilderment, making Draco want to laugh once more.
The desire to chuckle, however, died upon glancing over to find Blaise watching him curiously. The second their eyes connected, Blaise smiled a slow, breathtaking smile. God, Draco had nearly forgotten how good-looking the man was. With a wrench, he tore his eyes from Blaise, swinging it to the right to land on Potter, who was still watching him. Draco wondered if he had ever shifted his gaze.
At that moment, a crack split the room as Pibby appeared by his elbow. "Master Draco is getting an owl, sir," the elf informed him, handing him a blank white envelope.
The others stared at him with varying degrees of interest as he rose from the table to cross to the fireplace, slitting the seal with unsteady fingers. Was it Greg? Had he written Draco back? Was he safe?
He pulled the letter from the envelope and unfolded it to find thin slanted writing belonging to Wisp. The letter was short.
Malfoy,
I've found something that may interest you. Write back with a time and I will send you the name of a location.
W
Draco tossed the parchment into the fireplace and watched as the flames quickly devoured the dry paper, curling in on itself as the edges blackened and were eaten away. Silently, he watched the paper burn until it was nothing but ash and Draco could no longer see any hint of it.
A hand touched his shoulder blade hesitantly and Draco turned his head to find Potter standing just behind him, the heat of his body radiating out to touch Draco with its warmth. It gave him the urge to step closer, fit his body along Potter's and bask in the intoxicating glow, somehow feeling even warmer than the flames licking heat along the front of him. Deciding against moving closer, Draco lifted one eyebrow inquiringly instead.
"Is everything okay?" Potter asked softly, glancing at the fireplace before flicking his gaze back to the blond.
"No, but nothing's worse." The words were spoken just as quietly, despite the fact that the others surely must be able to hear their conversation.
"Is it…can I help with anything?" The question was asked uncertainly, and Draco wasn't sure if that hesitation was due more to Draco's response or the audience listening in.
The earnest expression on Potter's face made Draco smile. "No, not with this. But thank you."
The hand had not left his shoulder and Draco was loath to break the contact, but there was a small crowd watching nearby, one of whom was Draco's ex. He did not need Blaise to read into the situation and use it to mess with Draco's head.
Stepping away from Potter and pointedly not glancing in Blaise's direction, he began to make his way from the room. "I think I'll turn in now," he called over his shoulder, not looking back at the other three. "If any of you need anything, Pibby is around." Striding quickly through the large doors and down the hallway, he nearly made it to the staircase before Potter caught up with him.
"Wait," the man said as he reached out a hand to pull Draco to a stop. He turned to face the Auror, who was once again standing far too close and yet nowhere near close enough, watching Draco with what he suspected was concern. "Are you sure everything is all right?" Potter glanced back down the hall toward the dining room.
"Are you referring to the letter or Blaise's presence?" Draco asked dryly, heart hammering in his chest. Why had Potter chased after him like that? Was it just to offer his help again? Or was it for a different reason?
"Both, I suppose," Potter smiled a tiny smile, but there was a sadness lurking around the edges.
"I'm fine, Potter," Draco lied, knowing it was a lie and knowing that Potter knew it was a lie as well, but it was Draco's house and if he wanted to lie about how he was doing inside his own bloody house, then he fucking well could.
"Well, if I can help," Potter shifted his weight forward, "in any way, then please let me know. I want to, Draco. Help you, I mean."
Potter wanted to help him? It would hardly be monumental, the man wanted to help everybody. He had sacrificed his life for strangers, after all.
But Draco couldn't help but ask, "Why?"
Whatever he had been expecting Potter's response to be, it was not the one that he got. The man flushed nearly the color of his crimson robes as he raked a hand through his hair. "I dunno," he began falteringly. "I just…I dunno, we're sort of…friends, now, aren't we?" Keeping his gaze locked firmly on the floor, he scuffed his shoe nervously as though expecting Draco to laugh cruelly in his face or scoff in disgust at the thought. But Draco was in shock and could do neither.
Potter considered them to be friends? Draco had a friend? He had never had a single friend outside of the small circle of Slytherins in their year; in fact, he had never had a friend who was not a Slytherin. But Potter wanted to be friends?
Well, if Harry Potter wanted to befriend Draco Malfoy, who was Draco to try and argue with the man?
"Sure, Potter," he said softly. "We're friends."
The Auror glanced up to smile at Draco shyly in a way that made Draco's breath catch and the temptation to kiss the man returned full-force, but he managed to smother it with difficulty. They had just barely become friends, he was not about to push his luck by making a move on the man—no matter how beautiful his smile or how green his eyes. For now, they would have to be appreciated from a distance.
"Good," said Potter, smile widening as he studied Draco's face. "But if we're going to be friends, you should probably call me Harry. I don't have any friends that call me by my surname. All right, Draco?"
The sound of his given name rolling off Potter's tongue did curious things to Draco's body. It made his face heat and his fingers tingle. He had heard Potter call him by his given name before, of course, when he had first dropped back into Draco's life, but the context had been miserable and horrifying, painful and grief-filled. This was different. This was Potter calling him by his first name not because he had difficult news to deliver and wanted to comfort the blond, but because he simply wanted to call him by his given name because they were friends.
It was certainly something Draco could get used to.
"All right, Harry," he agreed, returning the man's smile.
"Well," Potter—Harry—cleared his throat. "I suppose I'll let you go to up to your room, then." He gestured toward the staircase. "And I need to talk to Ron about a few things." They both glanced down the hallway, where the sound of voices was steadily growing louder. "I'll see you in the morning, yeah?"
The look he gave Draco made the blond want to drag him upstairs to the bedroom with him, but he managed to refrain. Barely.
"Sure," he said instead, throat dry. "I'll see you in the morning. Harry."
With a final smile, Potter turned and made his way back down the hallway he had come from, leaving Draco staring after him in amazement.
I have a friend.
oOo
Interhouse friendships abound at the Hogwarts reunion slumber party! Or is the drama only just beginning?
Still so many miles to go!
