Draco was already in bed when Harry finally got home, and only then did Draco remember that Harry was still mad at him.
He had done nothing all day but plan out the New Years Ball to the last detail; making a list of every little thing Harry would have to improve upon, practicing his small talk, and brainstorming amusing anecdotes or interesting conversation pieces.
Then Harry had stormed into the room at nearly ten at night, and it all came crashing back down to reality. Harry was pissed off with him, and would never agree to come to this ball—especially after his treatment at the last one. It wasn't even that Draco had ill-treated him at the Christmas party—it was just that he couldn't spend every moment walking Harry through every conversation; he had his own things to do and people to impress, and he couldn't be attached to Harry's hip the whole night through just because the boy was awkward and uncomfortable on his own.
Harry didn't glance at him as he entered, but moved immediately to the bathroom, undressing with violent movements.
Draco eased himself out of bed and mustered his politeness. He did know that he was in the wrong for tricking Harry, but this didn't prevent him from begrudging the boy his apology. His mother had as good as said that that Malfoy rule about apologizing was bunk, hadn't she? He used this as a salve for the wound his pride was about to receive. It was still a struggle to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but he thought that it was barely audible when he said, clearly, if demurely, "I'm sorry."
Harry didn't turn to him—glaring at his own reflection in the mirror instead as he undid the buttons of his shirt with tight, angry movements.
He didn't reply. Draco had not expected this.
"Um…Harry? Didn't you…?"
"I heard you." Harry said tersely.
Draco could feel his muscles contracting, straining to keep his anger inside. Only his mouth wasn't strong enough.
"Well—don't you have something you'd like to say?" he asked in a barely-concealed growl.
Harry gave an ugly smirk and turned to Draco as if this is what he had been waiting for.
"Like what?"
"Like maybe something in response to that very loud letter you sent me? Especially in light of my apology?" Draco grit out.
"No."
"What?!"
"No, I don't have anything I'd like to say to you that I didn't already say in that very loud letter I sent you."
"What the fuck?!"
"Oh, don't give me that!" Harry shouted, breaking out of his calm. "You think, what? You fling out a couple of bitter words you don't even mean and everything's going to be okay?"
"What, I didn't say them the way you want? Is that it? I'm sorry! Okay? I'm fucking sorry! Is that what you want?"
"No!" Harry shouted. Draco jerked back at the violence in his voice. This was the sort of Harry that had always secretly terrified him at school when he goaded Harry beyond his limits. "What I want is for you to stop doing things you have to apologize for! I asked you for one thing—don't treat me like shit! And then what do I find out?! You trick me into a fucking blowjob in your father's fucking study! My God—Voldemort himself probably sat in that fucking chair—and you—" Harry couldn't even continue, his face contorted into pure rage, his body wrestling with his anger, one or the other trying prevent Harry from shaking or smacking the blonde.
"Oh, Merlin…Harry…I never…"
Harry looked up, and although he was still clearly furious the voice that came out of him made Draco want nothing more than to wrap him in his arms and never let anyone hurt him like Draco had been hurting him.
"Don't you know what this place means to me? What I expect to see around every corner—what I expect to find in every dark closet?" Harry asked softly.
"Harry," Draco whispered, and moved to touch him, but Harry shook him off.
"Oh, don't. I don't want any of it. You go to bed. I'm not tired." Harry said dully, and left before Draco could say anything further.
Draco lie in bed, but he couldn't close his eyes for more than a few moments at a time.
He knew that the Manor had played some sort of part in the Dark Lord's reign, but that seemed like so long ago to him. Of course it would be so long ago to his boyfriend. The Manor was so much more to him than just a place the Dark Lord had held meetings in. He didn't even know how extensive the Dark Lord's stays at the Manor had been—he was sure though that his mother wouldn't have let it be too long. While she had once respected some of the Dark Lord's ideals, she didn't like the way he carried them out and she didn't like him. Draco couldn't imagine that the Dark Lord had ever spent the night or stayed for dinner or anything like that. When Draco thought of it, it was always as if there were a magical mirror image of the Manor in an alternate universe—that was where the Dark Lord had visited, met, plotted; not here, not in Draco's home.
He knew that Harry wouldn't—couldn't—think of it like that. Draco knew what Harry had left implicit—would this wardrobe be the one with the black robes, the Death Eater's mask? Would this corridor contain a glimpse of that dark past Draco had nearly forgotten, but Harry couldn't?
God, for all Draco knew, the Dark Lord could have plotted the Potters' murders within these same walls. Didn't that always have to be on Harry's mind? Had the Dark Lord used the same plate Harry used, the same sheets, treaded the same floors? How did Harry ever manage to think of anything else? How had he managed to have any sexual ardor at all when these rooms all held a memory of an evil that must extinguish every sense of tenderness?
And then Draco! Taking Harry to the one room the Dark Lord would have been sure to visit!
He cringed violently, throwing the blankets off him and pacing out his guilt like a cramp.
Oh, what did Harry expect him to do? Scrub the Manor free from Dark-Lord juices? Yes, it was an unfortunate episode in the Manor's history, in his family's history, but it was over now and there was no use being squeamish about it!
In response to this, a pained voice cried out inside of him.
This voice sparked him into action, and he moved silently from his room to the billiards room. In the pitch-blackness of the hallway, and after thinking of it so immediately, Draco couldn't help but feel the cold slimy memory of the Dark Lord chilling the back of his neck.
The light was still burning softly, and it illuminated the polished billiards balls, spread randomly on the table.
Harry was sprawled awkwardly on the settee, cue stick at his side on the floor. He looked as if he had fallen asleep while sitting up and had collapsed into gravity without waking. He looked as if his entire body would be very sore in the morning from sleeping like this.
Draco hadn't wanted anything but to see him—to see his solid figure and feel that welling up of adoration within himself that the sight of Harry always instilled in him.
He could weather any argument, any dispute, so long as they were alive and together. He didn't care where they lived or what they called themselves or how many children they had so long as they were alive and having them and happy. Why was it so hard to remember that? Why was it so easy for him lately to forget how much he loved Harry? How little his life meant and would mean without the boy in it?
He wished he could get that thing Harry had told him about—a tattoo, reminding himself that he loved Harry, would do anything for Harry, would give up everything for Harry. He loved his family, but Harry was his family too—and with Harry he could always create his own family, struggle to replace his old one. Did that count as a choice? He would be miserable without his parents in his life, but Harry would see him through it, and eventually he would get over it. When his son was born, when his daughter was born, when they had children—would he really be able to wallow in the misery of his lost Malfoy name when things like that were so there and so willing to replace it? Wouldn't being a Potter make him just as proud and happy as being a Malfoy did?
He didn't come to a conclusion, but sighed instead. Maybe it would come to him eventually. Maybe when he was faced with the decision he would be like Harry and rise to the occasion and make the right choice. Oh, but what could be called the right choice in a decision like that? He would just have to choose the one that made him the least miserable—and in quiet, midnight times like these, watching Harry sleep, the decision seemed doable—makeable.
Draco moved Harry's leg experimentally, and when the boy didn't react, he lifted the limb onto the settee, and then the other one, pushing Harry into a fully lying position. He arranged the boy into what appeared to be at least a more comfortable pose, and summoned a blanket—it was a thick quilt that his grandmother had spent her sparse free time furtively making away from the dogmatic eyes of his grandfather. She had given it to Narcissa to give to Draco when he was older—his grandmother had died when he was two. His mother had always wrapped him up in the quilt when he was sick or miserable and the tiny stitching, the beautiful cloth dragons and knights and unicorns had always trapped his imagination on depressed or sniffling days.
He tucked it around Harry carefully and pet the black hair back, removing Harry's glasses and hesitating slightly before kissing the motionless lips.
Draco summoned a quill and a piece of parchment and sat beside Harry, writing slowly.
When he was finally finished, he folded the note carefully into a tiny crane and pressed it flat before pulling back the quilt and slipping it into Harry's jean pocket.
It was just as he was setting the quilt back into place that he heard Harry cry out softly—half gasp, half shout. He jerked his eyes to the boy; his heart paused, unsure if it should go on. Harry's face was drawn and pale, tossing only slightly, body jerking.
Just as Draco was jolted out of inaction and moved to shake Harry awake the boy's body shuddered into an upright position, and at once Harry slapped his hand over his scar, screaming, "NO!"
Draco didn't think Harry was fully awake even then—the boy made a ragged, scrabbling move to fight his way from the covers, off the settee, away. Draco held the arms still, held Harry tight to his chest and murmured whatever comforting things came immediately to mind, struggling to still the brunette's frantic movements of escape.
"Oh, God, OhGod, Ohgod." Harry was moaning, both clutching at Draco and trying to push away.
"It's okay, it's okay, it's going to be okay." Draco murmured, and wondered why his voice sounded so strange. He realized he was crying, but he didn't have enough attention for that.
Instead, he lay Harry's wracked and panting form back on the settee and lie beside him, holding on as tightly as he could.
"Oh God, oh god, Draco." Harry groaned, and his voice sounded so melancholy, that Draco could guess as to his nightmare.
"I'm right here, Harry. I'm okay. I'm right here."
Harry gripped him back tightly, but suddenly his hands flew to Draco's throat. Draco was momentarily terrified, but Harry grabbed the ring at the end of the chain and yanked it off Draco's neck (rather painfully).
"No." Harry growled, squeezing the ring in his fist as if trying to crush it. "I'll have to do it first—I can't…then Draco will…our kids. I'll have to do it first. Do it first, then be with Draco. Not the other way around." Harry was murmuring trubidly.
Draco clenched his jaw and snatched the ring and its necklace back from Harry—seeming to wake the brunette slightly, bringing him more into consciousness with the violence of his action.
"Give that back!" Draco growled, and mended the fine chain, putting it back around his throat. "This is mine, now. You can't take it back whenever you feel like it. It's mine and we're getting married—and you're just going to have to deal with that, Dark Lord or no Dark Lord!"
Harry blinked at him tiredly and lie back without replying, stroking Draco's hair as he fell fully back into sleep.
XXXXX
A/N: Hum, hum. Well, there it is. I don't know how I feel about it. It's rather short. I'm going to try to spit another one out, but it might not be today… I do have other things to do, you know. Well…in any case, I'll try my darndest. It might be really late tonight—daylight saving time stole an hour from me today, so…
Oh, and here's Harry's dream in case you were curious. If you can't tell, his dream is set in the future.
xXx
Harry awoke in the night, his scar twingeing. He rubbed in blearily—it was the middle of the night. The sun hadn't even begun to rise—he could always see its first rays through their bedroom.
He turned to see if Draco was awake, too, but the man wasn't there.
Harry immediately knew that something was wrong, and he scrabbled to his feet, grabbing his wand off the nightstand.
His heart was automatically bursting with fear in his throat. He immediately thought of his scar aching.
Please, no!
He thought of the boys in their room—the older one 7, the younger one 5.
His hand shook violently on the doorknob to his and Draco's bedroom, feet shuffling on the old floorboards.
He looked to his sons' room.
The light was on—he could see its eerie pale rays from under the door—plain white except for the crayon markings where the boys had written their names.
He saw the flash of green.
He was already crying out as he shoved the door open, just in time to see the flash of green, and the younger one crumple on the bedroom floor. The older one was already there, and Draco was clutching both of their motionless bodies. The blonde had just enough time to look up at Harry before—another flash of green. The blonde slumped forward over their children.
All Harry could hear, through the buzz of his mind shut down, was Voldemort cackling.
XXX
Man! Harry has crazy!Morbid dreams! Poor little orphan!