Draco POV

Dinner was an uncomfortable affair. Draco joined the Dursleys at the dining-room table to find it already laden with far too much food. He nodded to Petunia and began to eat, curling his lip at the mountains of food Vernon and Dudley were shoveling into their piggish faces. He felt faintly ill, and wondered if perhaps he should have asked for a plate to take to his room. He'd thought Harry would approve of his effort to be polite, but the coward hadn't bothered to show up for dinner. Come to think of it, I've not seen him since he showed me that list. Draco frowned. The house wasn't that large. He shoved down a twinge of unease. Likely Harry just hadn't wanted to deal with his relatives. Draco couldn't blame him. Still. It wasn't like Harry. Oh, fine. I'll ask.

He cleared his throat, shrugging on his best Malfoy manners like a familiar, if slightly stiff, cloak. "Petunia – I may call you Petunia, mayn't I?"

She practically simpered at him. "Why, of course you may, Master Malfoy."

Perhaps that's laying it on a bit thick. "Er, yes. I was wondering: why isn't Harry eating with us?"

She darted an anxious look at her husband, and Draco was startled to see something like fear flash through their eyes. Dudley didn't seem to notice anything other than the food that was rapidly disappearing into his gullet. It was Vernon who spoke, after laying his knife and fork deliberately aside. "Th-er, Harry was feeling a bit peaky this evening; thought he'd turn in early. Didn't want to make us ill, you know." Vernon forced a chuckle. Draco, who had seen much more believable forced laughter, merely nodded and pretended not to see the relieved look Petunia and Vernon shared.

Draco continued eating, outwardly calm, but his mind was racing. He knew Harry wasn't sick – wizards hardly ever sickened, and Harry had been perfectly fine just a few hours ago. Draco also hadn't missed the way Vernon had stumbled over Harry's name, pronouncing it as if he'd never encountered it before. Nor the way he'd started out saying something else entirely. Nor yet the barely audible cough of Petunia's that had preceded the stumble. Wherever Harry was, Draco was certain that the elder Dursleys at least knew more than they were saying, and that it wasn't entirely Harry's choice that kept him there.

When the male Dursleys had finally shoved away their plates, Draco expected them to clear the table. He knew they didn't have a house-elf to do it, like his parents did. But they simply wandered off, plunking themselves down on the overstuffed chairs in what Harry had explained was the 'living room.' I still don't see why it's better for living than any of the other rooms. Harry had merely laughed when he'd asked, saying he'd just have to see for himself.

Draco glanced uneasily back toward the forgotten dishes as he followed the others. He perched on the edge of a chair, wary of sinking so far into the thing that he wouldn't be able to extract himself, and jumped when a large box in the corner blared to life. A man appeared, pointing at a map. An advertisement for some sort of soap. Another for something Draco couldn't guess. Vernon was pointing a small device at the box – a television, Harry had called it – and jabbing the buttons with one meaty finger. He finally stopped when a football match came on, and sank back into his chair.

Draco watched the tiny men kicking the ball around for a bit, but quickly grew bored. He turned to Petunia, thinking now was as good a time as any to ask about Harry staying with him, but her attention was riveted on the screen. Vernon and Dudley, too, were watching with intense focus.

Draco sighed. Merlin, but these muggles are boring. He checked again to make sure no one was watching him, and then slipped out of the room. He wandered back to the dining room, intending to put his dish in the sink, at least, to make less work for whoever washed them later, only to find them gone. The table had been cleared and wiped. Draco stared. But, if they don't have house-elves, then… Oh. Draco, you're an idiot.

He stomped into the kitchen and, yes; there was Harry, elbow deep in suds as he washed the dishes. He probably cooked the meal, too, Draco realized, eyes drawn to the streak of flour on Harry's cheek.

He tapped his foot until Harry looked at him. "Hi, Draco." Harry seemed resigned. Draco would have been pitching a fit, in his place. His opinion of Harry went up another notch.

"Why aren't you using magic for that?" That wasn't the question Draco had meant to ask; he'd meant to ask why Harry was doing it at all. But, now that he'd asked it, he found that he truly did want to know.

Harry looked at him like he was crazy. "Magic isn't permitted in a muggle dwelling, Draco, you know that."

Draco stared, flabbergasted. This was so much worse than he'd imagined. "Yeah, but… Harry. You live here. Surely the Ministry could make an exception for you?"

He snorted. "Yeah, because I'm so popular at the Ministry." He sighed. "Even if they did – I did tell you that the Dursleys lock my things up every summer, didn't I? They wouldn't have allowed me to use magic, even if the Ministry had. Just – don't worry about it, Draco. It's not a big deal. Really."

Draco stared. All he could see was that list – the one Petunia had left for Harry, the one Harry didn't bat an eye at. All those chores that Draco had thought too much work for anyone, much less for Harry – and that had been when he'd thought Harry would do them with magic. To do them the muggle way – that was more than anyone could be expected to do. It was beyond cruel. And Harry said it was no big deal. Forget exaggerating to make things seem worse than they were. Harry exaggerated in the other direction. He underplayed everything. Why would Snape… for that matter, why would Dumbledore?

Draco found himself suddenly and irrationally angry at his former headmaster. The most worrying thing was, if he had been asked to kill Dumbledore now, knowing what he did about Harry's past, and how much Dumbledore must have ignored or overlooked… Draco didn't think he'd hesitate.

Harry looked worried. "Hey, Draco. It's OK. I didn't even know magic existed until I was 11 and got my letter. Well, letters. Vernon kept destroying them, so they kept coming. More and more, until one finally got through. Anyway, it's not so bad, the work. Really. I'm used to it, and it's only for the summer, now. There's always Hogwarts to look forward to."

Draco nodded stiffly, head reeling. Harry offered him a watery smile and turned back to the dishes. Draco bit his lip, debating. It was clearly a dismissal, and he could take it. Offer both of them time to shove all this behind walls. Which is how both of them dealt with these sorts of things, it seemed. Of course, it never seemed to work all that well. He nodded, decided, and moved to Harry's side. He picked up the towel, plucked the dish Harry had just washed from his unresisting fingers, and set about drying it.

Harry stared at him, but Draco concentrated very hard on drying his dish. Then he set it aside and picked up the next one. "Draco," Harry said, finally, "What are you doing?"

Draco raised one eybrow. "What does it look like I'm doing…Potter?" he drawled. "I'm helping you."

"Yeah, but – "

"But, nothing. Now, hurry up – I've finished drying these and you've not washed any more. Surely you're not going to let me win?"

Harry snorted. "Sure, Draco. Whatever you say." But he plunged his hands back into the soapy water, and washed another dish, handing it wordlessly to Draco when he'd finished. Then he washed another. And another.

They worked companionably in silence for a time, until Draco's fingers, reaching blindly for the next dish, closed on empty air. Frowning, he looked up. The massive pile of dirty dishes had vanished, replaced by a neatly stacked pile of clean dishes next to him on the counter. Surely I didn't dry all those? He looked at Harry to ask how he'd cheated, but the question died on his lips. Harry, with nothing left to wash, had leaned one hip against the counter and was watching Draco hungrily. Draco's throat was suddenly dry, and he gulped.

He felt himself lean toward Harry, drawn inexorably toward him, the lodestone to his magnet, when a gleam of mischief surfaced in those wonderfully expressive eyes. Draco started to rear back, but wasn't fast enough. Harry's hand darted behind him, to the sink full of soapy water, and he flicked bubbles into Draco's face.

Draco stared at him in shock, soapy water dripping down his cheeks and dampening his collar. Harry's eyes widened, and Draco saw a flash of fear dart through those eyes. Those damnably attractive eyes. Draco reached up, very deliberately, face carefully expressionless, and wiped bubbles off his cheek. Then he smirked as he lunged at Harry and flicked those bubbles back at him.

And then it was all-out war. They splashed water at one another, flung bubbles, and shrieked with laughter. Draco stalked Harry around the kitchen, while Harry ducked and dove, eluding his grasp. Draco slowly closed the distance between them, backing Harry up against the counter. When Harry's back hit the counter, he sagged back against it. Draco pressed closer, and suddenly they were standing far too close. The adrenaline abruptly drained out of him, and he melted against Harry. A different sort of adrenaline shot through him, and he gasped with the force of it. Harry looked similarly affected, and they leaned closer and closer, until their lips met in a kiss that was inevitable and earth-shaking. Harry's arms snaked around Draco's waist, and he pulled him closer, melding their lower halves together as tightly as their upper halves already were. Draco twined one arm around Harry's neck, curling it into his hair, and the other around his waist. He pressed closer still, smashing his mouth into Harry's as if he meant to devour him.

And then the door opened, banging into the wall as Petunia gasped. Harry and Draco jumped apart, but the damage was already done. Vernon appeared behind her in the doorway, face purpling with rage. He opened his mouth, and a stream of vitriolic hatred washed over them. The words were spoken far too quickly and loudly for Draco to catch all of them, but he heard enough to get the gist. "Boy" and "Fairy" and "Queer" and "Filth" and "Vile" were repeated often, dripping with venom and spittle. Draco had heard worse, living with Voldemort, so he didn't particularly care, but Harry – Merlin. Harry had gone paler than Draco had ever seen him, and his face had shut down. His eyes were blank and empty. Draco had seen corpses wear more expression, and it scared him. He felt Harry shrinking back, and stepped protectively in front of him.

He could feel Harry retreating further inside himself, and he couldn't stand it. No one should be able to put out Harry's fire like that. No one. Draco felt all the courage he'd never had flare to life in him at once, and he marched forward, pointing his finger at Harry's uncle. "Don't. You. EVER. Talk to Harry like that again," he growled, walking forward until he was right in front of the man, and jabbing his finger into his chest with every word. "Never. Again. He's put up with enough shit from you over the years." Draco lowered his voice dangerously. "You starved him, humiliated him, locked him in a fucking cupboard. You don't deserve to lick the dirt off his shoes. You've done enough to smother him, to put out his fire. It's a miracle he still has any spirit left. You will not punish him for finding someone to care about. You will not crush the last of his spirit. I won't let you. Do you hear me? I. Won't. Let. You. Touch. Him." Draco spat the words into Vernon's face, discarding his mask and letting the man see how much Draco despised him.

He spun on his heel, studying Harry with concern, worried he would have shut everyone out again. I can't take it if he shuts me out again. He shoved the thought away. Harry needed him. But Harry was looking at him with something akin to awe, and Draco felt his heart skip a beat. "Harry," he said gently, "I need to get in touch with McGonagall and Severus. Do you have access to an owl I can use?"

Harry nodded mutely, his eyes overflowing with gratitude and love. Draco felt his breath catch at the warmth and emotion he read there, and he had to force himself to turn away. He had a letter to write. He marched up the stairs, stopping at the landing and turning back. "If you so much as touch him," he said dangerously, "any of you, I will make sure that you wish you had never been born." He meant the threat more than any he had made in his life, and they must have felt it, for they both nodded quickly. He glared at them until they stepped away from the kitchen, closing the door and shutting off Draco's view of Harry. He sternly quashed the panic that welled up. Harry could take care of himself while Draco wrote a letter. And he didn't believe they would actually hurt him. They were too afraid of wizards in general, and Draco in particular, for that.

He threw himself into his desk chair, summoned quill and parchment from his trunk, and began to write furiously, ignoring the inkblots that formed when he pushed too hard and the quill skipped. Severus was going to answer for leaving Harry with those vile muggles. McGonagall, too. And Dumbledore, if only Draco could find a way to punish the dead man. Draco's forehead furrowed in thought, then he dismissed the matter from his mind. Vengeance could wait. Harry could not.

He breathed a small sigh of relief as he watched the tiny owl winging away from the window. Then he turned to Harry, standing silently beside him, and gathered him into his arms.

"The door…" Harry muttered against his lips.

"Hmm?" he asked, toying with the waistband of Harry's shirt. He ran his hands underneath a moment later, stroking the hard planes of Harry's back.

"Lock's on...Oh… the outside. Merlin, Draco!" He shoved at Draco until he stepped back, scowling his displeasure.

"Draco…"

Draco threw up his hands in defeat. "Fine." He turned to survey the room. There has to be – ah. He solved the door problem by the simple expedient of shoving his trunk in front of it.

"Clever," Harry managed, before Draco's mouth was on his once more, silencing him.