Harry was getting more and more agitated by Blaise's pursuit, and that worried Draco in a private part of his mind that he would never share. He didn't want Harry to know he was worried, certainly not that he was worried about Harry himself.
Draco wasn't an insecure man, he told himself. He was confident and self-assured. He knew he was handsome, he knew he had panache, and he knew Harry had eyes for no one else. But he worried.
Because deep down inside he knew it was a lie. He was insecure. Terribly insecure. He knew his past, he hadn't forgotten the terrible things he'd done. He remembered every jibe and cutting remark. He remembered the sharp pain he used to feel in his stomach after a spar with Potter and his friends. For years he blamed them for the discomfort, believing they deserved to be treated poorly for making him feel bad.
He remembered the terror of being marked at the Dark Lord's command. He remembered the impotent rage of being sent to do dangerous, deadly tasks, knowing his parents' lives were on the line. He remembered seeing Saint Potter, who he thought was so blissfully unaware of how terrible things were, and wishing he could crush him under his boot heel.
And at the same time he remembered wishing he could tell Potter. While many of their peers' families had been affected by Lord Voldemort, only Harry shared a closer connection and faced a greater threat than Draco himself. Even as he fought Potter, he wished he could tell him what was happening to him.
Harry had never been intimidated by Draco. He had never cowered, obeyed, or rolled over. And when Harry looked at him, he'd always had the sense that he saw Draco in a way no one else did. Honestly, penetratingly, unswayed by his bravado, by the posturing and smoke and mirrors he'd come to rely on to hide his fears.
He remembered kneeling before Harry at Malfoy Manor, his face a mangled mess of a curse, looking into his eyes and knowing he wouldn't hand him over to the Dark Lord. He remembered taking aim in the Room of Hidden Things, his friends at his elbows, urging him to end Saint Potter's life, knowing he would miss if he even fired at all.
He remembered Harry pulling him to safety from the Fiendfyre, the last person in Hogwarts who should have saved him, but somehow also the only person who would. He remembered looking up and seeing Harry as the flames pursued him, desperate for help but unable to ask. Harry hadn't hesitated and he didn't need to be asked. And that changed everything.
So now, as Draco and Harry Apparated in an alley in Ilsington, he worried. He knew Harry hadn't been fooled by Blaise's polyjuice ruse. But when he'd entered the corridor and spotted another man, albeit himself, with his arms around Potter, his blood had scalded like fire. He liked to tell himself that he wasn't the jealous type, but that wasn't true, either. The idea of Harry getting burned out on Slytherin drama and turning to someone else for companionship made his head feel tight and his breath short. He couldn't let that happen. He needed to figure out how to put a stop to Blaise's ploy, at least until Harry was ready to go public with their relationship.
"You're quiet," Harry remarked. A light snow was fluttering down around them and the ground sparkled like sugar in the slanted morning light.
"Just thinking," Draco tried to relax his expression.
"About what?" Harry was in no hurry to enter the house.
"About the last time we tried to come here," Draco tipped his head back and watched the snow fall from the distant infinity of the sky.
They had postponed their visit after the Polyjuice incident. Today was Draco's fourth tattoo removal session and they had decided to take a quick detour to the former home of Sirius Black on the way.
"That explains your mood," Harry shuffled his feet, pushing piles of slush around with his boots.
"Don't worry about it," Draco gestured for Harry to lead the way. "Let's see this house of yours."
Draco had to admit that the property was quite cleverly hidden, and quite nice from the outside. But as they entered and his nose was assaulted by the odors of dust and dampness, he prepared to revise his opinion downward. A large hole had been cut into the wall that towered over the foyer, directly beyond a dusty, rusting grand chandelier.
"What in bloody blazes happened there?" He pointed, distressed by the irregular edges of the wall and visible raw wood and pipes beyond.
Harry ran his hand through his hair ruefully. "There was a portrait there of Sirius's mother, Walburga Black. She shouted at guests if they weren't purebloods. It was permanently attached to the wall so Ron and George cut it down this summer."
A realization struck Draco. "Walburga? She was my great aunt," he said wonderingly. He and Harry exchanged a surprised look. "My mother shunned Sirius, she never spoke of him. But they were cousins. I don't know why I forgot."
"I didn't make the connection, either," Harry said wonderingly. "You know he was my godfather, don't you? I guess he was your second cousin? Once removed? I'm not sure how it works."
"I suppose so," Draco thought hard. "Mother shunned anyone who she thought was a blood traitor. I just never thought about it."
The two boys looked up at the ragged hole in the wall and pondered privately. Draco wondered what the Weasleys had done with his great aunt's portrait, although not with any family loyalty. He just wondered what one would do with a painting that screeched about blood purity.
He hadn't fully given up his notions of blood purity, of course. He'd come remarkably far, but he knew he still harbored bigoted opinions about muggles entering the wizard world. He knew the ideal mindset would be to accept everyone and anyone, but he wasn't quite there.
Gone were his notions of blood traitors, that had gone the way of Voldemort when the Dark Lord's bizarre sense of loyalty and punishment showed little value in the protection of purity. And he supposed he could get over his distrust of half-bloods. After all, at least they came from some kind of wizard lineage. But mudbloods, that was the hardest one.
Logically he knew that the wizarding world had benefited greatly from talented mudbloods. Privately he had to admit to himself that Hermione Granger was highly skilled and very likely would do something worthy of the history books someday. Not that he'd ever say that to her face. He knew Harry was only a half-blood, and Harry was already an incredibly powerful wizard, one who had certainly earned a place in the history books by merit and skill, not just by his scar.
But in general he still couldn't shake the idea that purebloods were better. Sure, muggles might produce the occasional highly-skilled wizard or witch once in a while, but purebloods were born into greatness far more often. That had to count for something, some endorsement of the value of purity.
It was a cognitive dissonance he was increasingly uncomfortable with. It was difficult to use muggle technology and enjoy the London sights and still maintain the belief that they were inferior stock. It was difficult to lie with Harry Potter and imagine limiting himself to just pureblood partners. It was difficult to accept a Christmas gift from Granger and think of her as a mudblood.
He stared up at the hole in the wall and imagined Harry visiting this house with his Gryffindor friends, with the shrill, venomous voice of his great aunt decrying their lineage. He rather thought the hole was an improvement.
"Ron and George cleared out a lot of stuff over the summer," Harry led Draco to the staircase and pointed up. "This wall used to hold a collection of shrunken elf heads," he noted. "And when Ron and Hermione visit on the weekends they usually try to do a bit of cleaning up. It looks better than it used to."
Draco looked around wonderingly. It used to look worse? Everywhere he directed his eyes, he saw disrepair and decay. Wallpaper was peeling, floor boards were uneven, upholstery was faded and worn. The house could be grand again, but it would take an investment of money and effort. And if Harry didn't want to live here, what would be the point?
Harry gave Draco a tour, starting with the first floor and leading all the way up to the fourth. He became more withdrawn with every room, his eyes clouded with bleak memories. Draco's tension rose as Harry grew distant. Every bit of pain was tied to him by the invisible spider silk threads of his bloodline. The sorrow that enveloped Harry was fed straight from Draco's ancestry. He chewed his lip nervously as a remote fear he'd kept repressed these past months threatened to bubble to the surface.
Harry led Draco down to the first floor and into the drawing room. The furniture here appeared recently used, and the windows that looked out onto the road were clean. Near the ceiling of the left wall was a long rail with rings and drapery hooks. Harry regarded it thoughtfully for a moment, then cleared his throat uncomfortably.
"There used to be a tapestry here," he said hesitantly. "I guess they took it down. It showed the Black family tree."
"My mother?" Draco asked softly.
"I suppose so," Harry nodded.
"Me?" his voice was barely audible.
Harry nodded. "And Bellatrix, and Sirius and Regulus, too, and everyone. Sirius was scorched from the fabric, though. They scorched the ones they shunned." He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "They probably put it in the attic." His eyes were fixed on the blank wall, as though unable to look at Draco directly. "It's yours if you want it," he said, "It's your family."
Draco's heart squeezed painfully. He shook his head and swallowed hard. He looked up at the wall angrily and shook his head more emphatically. "No they're not," he said firmly, his voice rough. "That's not my family."
"They're your relations," Harry corrected himself, still averting his eyes. "You're on the bloody tapestry."
"Harry," Draco tried to will the other boy to look at him. He balled his fists and took a deep breath. "Harry, I'm not one of them. Not anymore. I have no family."
Harry didn't speak.
"'I've left the family. My mother would shun me, if she were here. They would scorch me off of the tapestry," Draco's voice cracked pleadingly, his stomach knotted with fear. "Sirius left the family and you loved him like a father. I'm like him, right?"
His heart was pounding. Harry wouldn't look at him. He felt exposed, like all of the history that went before, that they'd mutually looked past until now, was out in the open and ugly in the light.
"I haven't been here since the war," Harry said in a near-whisper. "This place has seen more hate than any home should." He stared up at the wall as though he could still see the tapestry there. "They killed one of their own. Bellatrix was his cousin and she murdered him. Your father was there."
Draco's scalp felt too tight. "I wasn't there," he said, his voice shaking.
Harry nodded, looking down at his hands. "I thought maybe he would have told you."
"No," Draco's voice was a barely audible croak. "He was barely speaking to me at that point. He only spoke of the Dark Lord. About what I could do for the family, how I could prove their loyalty." He cleared his throat but it didn't help, "By then I was no more than a bartering chip."
Harry nodded again. He took a breath and turned his gaze even further away, towards window and the road beyond. "We had to abandon the house when the Death Eaters came. That's when I decided not to come back."
"They never brought me here," Draco said hurriedly. "I've never been here. They never told me about it."
Harry was silent. His thoughts were distant, and Draco wasn't even sure he was listening.
"Harry," Draco's stomach twisted and churned. "I wasn't here. They kept me at the manor unless they needed me. I was chattel, even to my own parents."
He felt panic coalescing in his chest. It was finally coming out. It was inevitable. How could they not hold it up to the light and scrutinize it eventually? It was foolish to think they would never have to think about it, talk about it, and eventually see the depth and breadth of their incompatibility.
The thought pained him. They couldn't be incompatible. All of the ugliness from before, it had to be forgivable, somehow. The problem was, Harry didn't need to be forgiven. All of the wrongs were Draco's, and they both knew it. And now he feared Harry was coming to his senses and remembering that.
He couldn't catch his breath. "I wasn't part of that, I swear," he said weakly. "I didn't want the Mark. I never killed anyone. I was scared all of the time. I never thought I would survive the war. I thought I would die there, surrounded by those people. My parents would have let me die." He was rambling uncontrollably, his mouth dry and his palms sweating. "I never wanted to kill you. I never wanted you dead. I was never like them. I'm not like them. Harry," he reached out and touched the other boy's shoulder, and his hand trembled despite his effort to steady it. Harry saw the tremble and turned, bewilderment in his eyes.
"Draco," he caught Draco's arm and drew him in. "It's okay. What's wrong?"
Draco allowed himself to be pulled into his embrace and buried his face in Harry's neck. His insecurities were boiling over like a tea kettle left on the fire too long. "Don't leave me," his voice came out as a whimper. "I'm not like them, not anymore. Please don't leave me." He felt his knees weaken
"Draco," Harry struggled to hold the other boy upright.
Draco was sliding and helpless to stop his descent. His legs buckled and he fell to his knees, clutching Harry's legs and burying his face in his stomach.
"Don't leave me, I'm not like them," he whispered desperately.
Harry grappled with Draco's grip and knelt before him. He seized Draco's face in his hands to stop his rambling.
"Why would I leave you?" he asked wonderingly.
"All of this," Draco cast his eyes anxiously around the room. "I'm part of this. You've suffered so much and I'm part of it. I don't deserve your forgiveness but if I could go back and do it over I swear-"
"I've already forgiven you," Harry said seriously. "I didn't forget everything and just get my memory back now."
"But I'm a Death Eater," the words caught in Draco's throat. He could feel the tattoo on his arm, faded but still visible. Even when it was completely gone the past would remain unchanged.
"You never were," Harry insisted. "Not in your heart. I've always known that, even before we became friends."
Draco's eyes welled up and he blinked rapidly to keep them from spilling over.
"I know you," Harry said firmly. "I've known you for eight years. I know all about you. I've seen the best and worst in you."
"That's what scares me," Draco whispered, his throat dry.
"It shouldn't," Harry smiled warmly. "Because I know you and I'm still here."
Draco went still. His heart stopped pounding and his chest stopped heaving for breath. He shook his head wonderingly, "Why?"
"Because what I've seen that's good outweighs what I've seen that's bad," Harry said as though it should be obvious.
Draco's shoulders dropped and he collapsed into Harry's arms. Harry held him gently and rocked on his knees as Draco regained his composure.
"I've been a spoiled twat," Draco mumbled into Harry's shoulder. "I've been a prat. I've been a bully. I've been a thug. I've been a cheat. I've been a liar."
"And now you're my boyfriend," Harry said into his platinum hair. "Funny how it worked out that way."
"I'm sorry," Draco shook his head, his face still buried in Harry's collar.
"For what?"
"For everything. Every second of it," Draco said vehemently.
"I'm sorry, too," Harry held him close. "Let's promise to be good to each other from now on."
"I promise," Draco squeezed Harry with all of his might.
"Ack!" Harry struggled to free himself.
"You know," Draco released him and sat back on his heels, his eyes still damp with gratitude. "We could really show Walburga and her old fashioned rules."
"How's that?" Harry seemed to know where Draco was going.
"We could shag in every room of this house," Draco meant for his suggestion to sound confident and seductive, but his voice was still weak with anxiety. "Her great nephew and a blood traitor, it would be scandalous."
Harry laughed and his eyes crinkled up at the corners. His pensive sorrow was stowed away for the moment. He looked up at the mantle clock,"What time is your appointment?"
"Not for another hour," Draco checked, too. "If you think you could get in the mood, we have time for at least the master bedroom."
"I'll show you the way," Harry jumped up and ran from the room. Draco's heart flooded with relief as he pursued the other boy up the stairs.
An hour later the two boys entered the tattoo removal office, relaxed and satisfied. There were two other clients in the waiting room as they signed in, each with a friend. It was surprising to see anyone else there, and they felt self conscious as they sat and waited to be called.
Draco studied the other clients. One was a young girl with her mother. She had stars tattooed around her wrists and down the back of both hands. The other one was a young man and what appeared to be his girlfriend. He had a wedding band tattooed on his finger and she did not. Her face was grim, as though she smelled something unpleasant.
He stretched his arm up and over Harry's shoulder, a casually affectionate gesture. Harry sat up straight in surprise, then glanced across the waiting area to see if the other clients had noticed. They were too absorbed in their own business to bother with Draco's maneuver. Harry slowly reached across and took Draco's other hand in his. Draco was privately proud of Harry for responding with so little hesitation. He knew they were rapidly approaching a time when they would have to go public in order to prevent Blaise Zabini from doing it for them. But he'd made a promise not to breathe a word of it until Harry was ready. And he would honor that promise until the end.
