26. Birds of a feather [Wednesday, January 5th 2005]
Something was tickling his face. Draco scrunched up his nose and, when that didn't help, tried to wipe it away with the back of his hand.
Somebody sneezed next to him and Draco opened his eyes. Feathers were slowly sailing down upon them, covering them like a thin blanket of snow.
Draco turned on his side and came face to face with Potter, whose tan skin and black hair stood out in stark contrast to the white feathers. Damn, how was he supposed to not stare at that?
"Morning," Potter said, smiling slightly. Like it was totally normal to wake up in bed beside your childhood nemesis.
"Looks like your magic is back," Draco said, keeping his eyes firmly on the feathers in his hair and far away from his eyes. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I could eat a hippogriff." Potter yawned lazily. "You?"
Draco stretched his back experimentally, trying for pain, but there was only a little bit of stiffness. He peered down his t-shirt, inspecting the blossoming bruise. "Have been worse. If you'll excuse me."
He stood up to use the bathroom and then rummaged through the medicine cabinet, which was filled with all sorts of cremes and potions, most of which Potter should not be able to purchase without a prescription. He also found multiple bottles of Dreamless Sleep, but that wasn't really a surprise anymore, was it?
Draco treated his chest, put his t-shirt back on and then stomped back into Potter's room, holding up the jar full of essence of arnica. Potter had already put on a pair of jeans.
"I thought you misplaced this?" he said accusingly, waving the jar about.
"Come off it, Malfoy, we both know I was clearly lying," Potter said bluntly, even though he could just have pretended to have bought it after he had brought Emerald to Draco last month.
Without any warning whatsoever, Potter took off his t-shirt, displaying his unfairly toned body. The tiny wings on the thread around his neck fluttered slightly and Draco felt his concentration slip considerably. A distant memory was struggling to get to the forefront of his mind, but Draco couldn't grasp it.
"So what," said Draco to distract himself, "You just like your body black and blue?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Potter said. He ruffled his hair, dislodging some feathers.
Draco narrowed his eyes in suspicion and Potter turned his back on him and disappeared into an adjoining room.
Draco, who refused to be fobbed off with that, followed him. "What else could –?" he began, but then he caught sight of the clothes closet they had walked into.
To say it was large would have been an understatement. Potter's actual bedroom was smaller than this, and Draco suspected that an expanding charm was at work here. They had a perfect view of the houses on the other side of the street, where the Black house had to be as well, as the outer walls were completely made of glass, safe for a small strip in the middle and at the top, along which clothes rails were attached.
Everything was sorted by category and then by colour, and Draco felt like he had just stepped inside the storeroom of Twilfitt and Tattings. He could see instantly that these clothes were high-quality and fashionable – safe for a small section that seemed to consist of leisure wear. Draco recognised almost everything from that category, having seen Potter in practically nothing else ever.
"Why do you always wear those rags if you could be wearing this?" he asked reproachfully, gesturing at an emerald dress shirt made from silk, which would probably accentuate Potter's eyes enough to make Draco swear off all other men forever.
"I do wear that," Potter said, rummaging through a vast collection of hand-knit sweaters.
"When? I've never seen you in anything even remotely tasteful."
"You know ... on occasions. Press conferences, balls, ceremonies. Boring stuff."
"You give interviews?" Somehow Draco found that very hard to believe, given Potter's less than ideal history with reporters.
"I don't, but my team does," Potter clarified, settling on a crimson sweater with a golden lion stitched to the front. "I just sit there and ignore every question that isn't Seeker-related while Sam tries to glare me into being more 'approachable'."
He pulled the sweater over his head while Draco browsed through designer clothes he would never be able to afford on his Healer's salary. Well, maybe if he stopped buying food, which … no. But Merlin, he missed his elaborately pureblood wardrobe. Admittedly, there hadn't been much colour, only blacks and whites and greys, but still, the quality of the fabric and the craftsmanship had been excellent.
It had been no use, of course. He couldn't wear those things in the hospital and selling his clothes had provided him with enough gold to put down a deposit for a reasonably decent house. And he had to admit, these Muggle clothes were rather comfortable, if just to relax at home. But sometimes he longed for a soft cashmere sweater or a pair of dragon-skin gloves.
Draco picked up a flat box and opened it. Inside was a rich, emerald green scarf. He took it out and turned it over in his hands, the cool silk gliding through his fingers like water.
"Get a room," Potter suggested drily.
"I wish." Draco sighed, turning the scarf over in search of a label or signature. "Where's this from?"
Potter shrugged. "No idea. Sam does all my shopping."
"Well, that certainly explains why everything is so tasteful, excluding what you actually pick out to wear," Draco teased, gesturing at the whole of Potter's outfit.
He didn't catch Potter's protest, as his fingers brushed over a slight rise in the fabric then – a tiny lightning bolt, stitched with a single shimmering thread.
Draco frowned. "I don't recognise this signature."
Up until now he had prided himself in knowing every designer there was to know. There were footsteps and then Potter was right beside him, looking down at the scarf in Draco's hands, their arms touching.
"Oh, I think that one was actually a present," he said, snatching the empty box from its shelf.
Draco had to consciously close his mouth, as it wouldn't do that on its own anymore. "You mean it's self-made? Who gave it to you?"
Potter clicked his tongue, turning the box over to no avail. "No idea," he admitted.
"You don't even know who bestowed this masterpiece upon you?"
"Do you have any idea how many people send me stuff?" Potter said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't maintain a register. It's just a scarf, right?"
"Just – just a scarf?" Draco echoed, holding it up in front of Potter's face. "This is finest silk and the signature is clearly made out of unicorn hair. You don't find this in the bargain bin."
"You're such a posh git, Malfoy." Potter grinned at him almost fondly and took the scarf from him to put it back into its box, which he placed back on its designated shelf. Draco's longing gaze followed.
And then Potter stepped into his field of view, green eyes locking with grey ones. Their feet were almost touching, Draco could feel warm breath fanning against his throat. Potter reached out for his face slowly and, Merlin, was he going to kiss him? Draco had not even brushed his teeth yet!
"You've got something there," Potter whispered and then his cool hand was in Draco hair.
Draco fought hard to resist the urge to close his eyes, to lean into his touch. He would just have to lean forward a bit to be able to taste Potter's lips. He wouldn't, though. No, definitely not. He could stay strong. He was here as his Healer, for fuck's sake.
Draco squared his shoulders, determined now, and just a second later, Potter withdrew his hand, holding up what Draco suspected to be a down feather. He couldn't tell for sure, because he found it impossible to break eye contact with Potter. It was like Potter's eyes were on a whole other plane of existence than his determination.
"What did you mean last night?" he whispered, searching for an answer in Potter's face. Potter looked up at him questioningly, cocking his head. "You said I could 'use' you," Draco elaborated. "Use you for what?"
"Oh. As your guinea pig," Potter said, taking a step back. "The scar thing. I've got a few cursed ones you could practice on."
Draco cleared his throat and then shook his head vehemently (to clear his head but also to make a point). "No way. I'll most definitely not cut you up."
Potter seemed actually surprised. "Why not?"
"Because it will fucking hurt, for one," Draco said, crossing his arms.
"It hurts no matter who you choose." Potter actually had the audacity to frown, as if Draco were being unreasonable. "And I don't mind."
"Which indicates a serious mental health issue. But that's not new, is it?"
"Yeah, I'm a basket case," Potter agreed. "Skeeter informed me ages ago. And if I remember correctly, she got that from you. Which is why you owe me this."
"I spread rumours about you ten years ago, so you want me to make up for it by cutting into your flesh while you're fully conscious?"
Potter actually winked at him. "You got it."
Draco shook his head again. "You really are a loon. Or maybe it's still the potion speaking. Either way, I'm definitely not using you."
And then Draco left the room to find something to wear other than his pyjamas.
~o~
There was a knock on the door around four in the afternoon. Draco, who had expected a horde of Potter's adoring relatives much sooner (though not knocking on his door, but rather using the Floo), opened it to reveal his assistant Samantha Huxley instead.
"Hi," she said, levitating three boxes past Draco and then coming in herself. She put her flat hands on either side of her mouth and shouted up the stairs. "Harry?"
Potter stuck his head out of the kitchen. "Sam, what are shouting for? Come on in."
Samantha rolled her eyes and directed her boxes to land on the kitchen island. "One can never be too careful around you," she said accusingly, looking completely out of place in the sterile kitchen with her pink hair and bright blue robes.
"Preach," Draco said and she shot him a sympathetic glance. Somehow, he didn't think she could grasp the extent of the anguish he had to endure in Potter's home.
Two of her boxes emptied themselves into the pantry. Potter's eyes were fixed on the third one and he was tugging at a wavy strand of his hair nervously. A feather, which must've gotten lost somewhere in the mess, sailed to the floor.
"Have you heard anything from the Aurors?" Potter said suddenly, as if unable to keep it in any longer.
"Yeah …," Samantha said hesitantly, giving Draco a sidelong glance. "Do you want to …?" She gestured at the door, evidently trying to have this conversation out of his earshot.
Draco pushed himself off the kitchen island he had been leaning on. "I'll be upstairs; I still have some cleaning to do."
"It's alright," Potter held him back with a hand on Draco's arm, eyes fixed on Samantha, "Malfoy won't sell me out. We're friends."
Draco's heart skipped a beat in time with both of Samantha's eyebrows rising up. He knew they hadn't been enemies for years, but it still felt weird to hear Potter call them friends. Potter actually trusted him. This wasn't news for Draco, since Potter had practically invited him to live in his house for a whole week, but still. It seemed awfully official, all of a sudden.
"There isn't really much to say," Samantha said dejectedly. "They haven't found the person responsible, but Ron mentioned that they might have a lead. He wouldn't tell me more, since it's an ongoing investigation. Sorry, Harry, I'm not very optimistic about it."
"Do you suspect anybody?" Draco asked, but Potter just shook his head.
"I wouldn't put it past McCarthy – she's been after my spot ever since Matt made her Reserve Seeker. But she wasn't invited. Everybody who was there, I or my friends trust."
"What about the waiters?" Draco said thoughtfully. "Did you know them beforehand?"
Potter scoffed. "Why would a Squib want to poison me?"
"The same reason anyone would want to poison you? Which would be your abnormally annoying personality and that mob you call hair."
Samantha's eyebrows vanished underneath her pink bangs as Potter snorted in an attempt not to laugh. "Didn't you say you two were friends?" she said doubtfully, her hand flexing around her wand.
"Yeah." Potter grinned. "He takes some getting used to; I'm not denying that. But don't worry, he definitely didn't poison me."
"I'm still in the room, you know," Draco complained. "I can hear you."
"You just insulted me to my face. Don't dish out what you can't take."
"Because you asked. It would have been rude not to tell you."
"Well, it would also have been rude to let Sam believe you're after my life," Potter replied, raising an eyebrow.
"Oh boy." Samantha sighed heavily. "There was nothing about this in my contract."
And before either of them could say anything else, she grabbed the third box, opened it and took out grey and white Quidditch robes, the Falcon emblazoned on the front and Potter's name and the number seven embroidered on the cape. The robes looked much cleaner than the ones Draco had seen him play in, the white of it almost blinding.
"New attire?" he asked curiously, trying to see if they had changed anything about it. Not that he knew the old ones in detail, but still.
Potter shook his head jerkily. "Photoshoot," he said quite unhappily. "What charity is this for?"
"None," said Samantha, holding his gaze. "This is for your actual job. The one that pays you, you know?"
Potter crossed his arms immediately. "You know I only agreed to do one a year. It's in my contract and everything!"
"And they're cashing that one in now," Samantha said resolutely.
"I just did the calendar shoot two months ago. They can't possibly be shooting next year's calendar already."
"They are not." Now Samantha grinned broadly, like she had been looking forward to saying what came next. "These are for your Chocolate Snitch card."
"My what now?" Potter frowned. "I've already got a Chocolate Frog card." He glanced at Draco and added, "Horrible, by the way." As if Draco had never seen that one.
"They're doing Chocolate Snitches now. They'll have collectible cards for Quidditch Players." Samantha took out the rest of Potter's Quidditch gear and placed it on the counter neatly. "I already fire-called the company and made them limit the number of cards they'll print of you."
"That's really smart." Draco nodded approvingly while Potter just furrowed his brows, staring at the black clothes in front of him. "Nobody gets excited for something they already have twenty of."
"Thank you!" Samantha exclaimed, pointing at Draco. "At least somebody understands what I'm trying to do for you, Harry."
"Fine," Potter groaned, and he picked up the clothes and unfolded them. "Hey, this is not my size."
"Come on, Harry. You don't have to play in them. So what if they're a little tighter than what is practical?"
"What for?" Potter demanded, clenching his jaw and crossing his arms again.
"You're very fit Harry, obviously. And I'm desperately trying to market your assets, but you're giving me a really hard time."
"I don't want you to market me," Potter grumbled. "I need the exact opposite. I want people to think about me as rarely as possible."
"Well, that's dumb," Draco commented drily. "You should have thought of that before you got into professional Quidditch. But if you really want to be forgettable, you could always give your position to McCarthy, right?"
"Over my dead body," Potter snarled, crumbling his clothes in both hands.
"Then think of it this way," Draco said smoothly. "People will be so busy gawking at what's going on here," he gestured at Potter's body, "they'll completely forget to stare at what's going on there." He pointed at Potter's scar. "Which is a lot."
Potter stared at him in disbelief, a muscle in his jaw twitching. Samantha took an unconscious step back, as if fearing the two of them could attack each other at any given moment. Which, frankly, Draco would not be all that much surprised by.
His mouth had just run itself, like old times. Potter's fault, really. That never happened with other people. Maybe he should apologise.
But then Potter said, "Really think that'll work?" and the twitch in his jaw transformed into a lopsided grin.
Draco grinned back, trying not to seem too relieved. "Well, Samantha is a woman and she seems to think your body is an asset. And we both know she has far better taste than you, so you should probably trust her on that one. That's what you hired her for, is it not?"
"Yeah," Potter admitted sheepishly, ruffling his hair.
"Don't tell me that actually worked," Samantha said perplexedly. "I'm definitely in favour of this very bizarre friendship. Even though I'm not entirely sure what the hell is happening, like, at all."
"I don't think anyone does," Potter said, putting his pristine Quidditch uniform back into the box. "When and where?"
"I'll pick you up on the fifteenth around noon. And please, I beg you, don't do anything to your hair."
"Like what?" Potter said, shooting Draco, who had snickered quite involuntarily, a scathing look.
"Like trying to charm it to stay down. You'll only offend it and make it so much worse."
"Worse than that?" Draco said, raising both eyebrows at once. "Impossible."
"You would think," Samantha agreed. "But I've got the photographs to prove you wrong. Never published them, obviously."
"Yeah alright, my hair is an abomination, yada yada yada," Potter said, grabbing Samantha by the shoulders and steering her towards the door. "I'm sure you'll meet again and I wouldn't want you to use up your insults all at once. See you next week."
Draco followed them into the hallway. "Until next time, Samantha. Please excuse Potter's terrible rudeness. I'm trying to pin that on the Confounding Concoction."
"Oh, not at all," Samantha said cheerfully, not even resisting being pushed out of the door. "Usually I'm the one apologising for Harry's improper behaviour. Being on the receiving end is actually way less hassle."
Draco assumed she would have bid him goodbye too, but Potter had already slammed the door in her face. They were looking at each other in the sudden tranquillity.
"So," Draco said. "When are we expecting your friends to descend upon us? It's been three days already."
"We're not." Potter went back into the kitchen to fold his uniform more neatly. "I'll see them on Sunday for lunch at the Burrow."
"So, you're not seeing them for a whole week?" Draco clarified.
"That's right," Potter said, shutting the box more forcefully than was necessary. "I'll take this upstairs."
Draco decided against going after him. It sure felt wrong to think that Potter didn't want his friends visiting him when he had spent the majority of his time at St. Mungo's sulking when left alone for too long.
Maybe this had something to do with the potion? But surely somebody would have come around by now, since they couldn't know about it? Fact was: Potter didn't seem to want to talk about it.
