A/N:
Chapter Warning(s) for; Explicit language, child abuse (mentioned/referenced), child neglect, physical abuse (mentioned/referenced), character death (mentioned), implied sex work (mentioned), underage drinking
This chapter has one of our ABSOLUTE favorite scenes in this story. We adored writing it, and we hope you like reading it too! Thanks a bunch to our Beta~
*Next Update on 16th of April, Friday
Stay safe and tell us your favorite scene!
Chapter Thirty
"Well, that depends, I suppose. I heard someone once say that men dance the same way they have sex. So, if you want everyone here to think you're the kind of guy who just sits around and—"
He stood up. "Let's dance."
― Richelle Mead
…
"What are you doing?"
Harry doesn't look up from the cabinet, he's sitting cross-legged in the cool tiles, his hands busy with two long rods that have weird ridges. He seems to be messing with the cabinet's lock.
"Oh you know, we've been here for a while," Harry says, "And since neither are on the verge of dying anymore, I thought cleaning would be nice."
"You're not cleaning."
Harry hums, vaguely waving at a rag lying beside him, "Well I was before I saw this," His hands are subtly twitching midair but for once, Harry doesn't seem to mind it terribly. Or rather, he's too engrossed in his work to notice them at all.
"You do know that you could just-" Draco waves his hand at Potter's wand, also near the aforementioned rag.
Harry interrupts him. "Already tried that. It's been warded pretty well. Besides, it's been a while since I've done this. It's fun."
"Right," Draco says, raising an eyebrow at Harry's shaking hands fumbling with the sticks at the lock. He has no idea how in the world Harry perceives such an act as fun, but he's not going to question it.
"You need to learn how to chill down a bit, Malfoy. Pick up a new hobby," Harry doesn't look up from his work, "It'll really be healthy in the long run," He moves the rods around, "Like Hermione, she's crazy about knitting, she's awful at it, but she likes it so it works, and when she's knitting she's not so high strung all the time. It's a win-win for everyone."
"Uh-huh." Draco walks closer, bending down to get a closer look.
Harry sends him a side-eyed glance, "Just pick something that doesn't occupy the bathroom for too long."
Draco winces, "I apologized for this morning."
"I had to pee." Harry is biting his lip, and his face is tilted to one side, eyes narrowed in concentration even as his voice betrays irritation and amusement in equal parts, "And you were there for three hours. What do you even do in there?"
Draco flushes, but not probably for the reason Harry thinks, "Well, Harry," he says hotly, "some of us care about our appearances. Unlike…" he gives Harry's hair and beetroot stained shirt a pointed glance, which Harry doesn't see, "others."
He doesn't mean it in the least. He likes Harry like this, with ruffled hair, and stained shirt and a lack of respect for privacy.
God, what is happening to Draco?
"I had to pee," Harry repeats, "It wasn't my fault. Besides, the shower tap was on, you couldn't even hear it."
"You are gross, Potter."
"Then don't hog the bathroom," Harry says simply.
"Any other requests, your majesty?"
"Yeah actually," Harry finally turns back to him, a bright smile on his face, "I want orange juice. And while you're at it, I forgot to do the dishes, so… maybe you should try your hand at that," he deadpans.
"Washing dishes?"
He's been dodging those for like four days.
"Yeah," Harry shrugs, "if you're too worried about your nails or delicate skin, go ahead and use the gloves. I repaired the holes. By the sink. Don't forget the juice."
"Potter," Draco huffs, "I'm not washing the dishes."
"You won't?"
"No." He crosses his arms, "It's your turn. Don't think I'm not keeping count." In fact, he's been keeping count very, very carefully. Dreading each turn. Harry hums while washing dishes too, looking absolutely unbothered by the cold water, wet hands, and the wet food still stuck on the dishes. Draco could have cried tears of joy when the gloves got damaged. He has no idea how Harry does that.
"Git," Harry says before turning back to the lock.
"Prat," Draco retorts without any thought.
Then Harry's face morphs into an almost scowl as he almost pushes his head into the lock, doing… something at it. There's a very subtle click and Harry goes still. His eyes widen and the cabinet door pops open. Draco feels his own eyes go wide.
"Ah! Yes!" Harry yells, "Jackpot." He pulls open the door wider and shifts aside to let Draco have a better look. Draco comes forward and crouches down next to Harry.
"Is that a wireless?"
Harry hums and pulls it out, hands it to Draco over his shoulder. Draco grips the cold wireless with wary hands. He's never… this is the first time he's holding one.
His parents didn't allow one in the manor, and Severus' was always out of his reach, droning on about boring potion stuff.
It's heavier than he thought it would be.
"And firewhiskey," Harry says excitedly, with the spirit of a weathered drinker. Which he logically shouldn't be.
He turns his middle to glance up at Draco.
"Good news, Draco," he smirks at him, "We just found the grown-up cabinet," then he stops and narrows his eyes at Draco with a frown.
"Have you ever had any?"
"Alcohol?" Draco says, like a moron, "Occasionally. Mother…" Draco swallows, "Uh, Mother let me have warm wine on Christmas Eve."
Harry either doesn't notice or chooses to ignore the stutter, "That's nice. Alright then," he reaches in and starts pulling out one bottle, and two shot glasses very slowly and carefully, setting them on the floor between them. "Let's have some fun, shall we?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Draco Malfoy?" Harry says, grinning and his eyes bright in a way Draco has never seen before, not this close, "Will you get drunk with me?"
The whiskey sloshes from the sides of the glass as it wobbles in his unsteady grip and Draco giggles. The sight is unbearably funny.
Harry leans forward in his seat, clinking his newly filled glass with Draco's; perhaps with more force than necessary, as he says, "You just," he gasps, giggling himself, "Giggled."
"Don't be ridiculous," he mumbles, smirking, taking another swig of the amber liquid. The ache in his shoulder is barely noticeable now, and the soft music from the radio in the background is starting to lull him into sleep. Their knees are touching.
This is so pleasant.
They've fiddled with the radio for over ten minutes, as Draco tried his best to uncork the bottle. It's cold outside, but they feel so warm.
The song changes and Draco goes rigid, his hands stilling. Harry peers at him, his giggle dying on his lips as his slightly unfocused expression dims, "Draco?"
"Increase the volume?" He asks, fingers wiping away at the condensation gathering around the glass.
"Hm?" Harry hums, noisily sipping on his glass. Draco takes a moment to gather his bearing.
"The radio," He mutters and Harry hums again, this time in recognition.
"Sure, Draco," Harry pulls out his wand, pointing it at the radio. Nothing happens. Harry frowns, waving it once again. Draco squints and then figures it out. "Wrong hand, Harry."
"Oh," Harry says, taking the wand in his right hand, and the song starts blaring out of the speakers at full volume. Instead of wincing at the loudness, Harry just tilts his head to the side and whispers, as if afraid to disrupt the rhythm, "That's a nice song."
"My mother taught me to dance to it," Draco says, his glass is tipping to the side, almost pouring his Firewhiskey on the carpet. It doesn't seem as funny anymore.
"You know how to dance?" Harry comes even closer, his knees almost wedged in between Draco's.
Draco nods, "For balls and all."
It sounds like eons ago, the times he was forced to wear fancy, uncomfortable robes, with shoes that clicked against the dance floor, with foods that had aromas so rich that one felt stuffed before even eating any. With him, holding his chin up, pretending that he mattered.
Pretending so well that he believed it.
Harry nods back, looking very serious for a moment. And then he looks back up at Draco, snatching his glass from him and setting it down on the table with a clank, spilling nearly half of their drinks, he then takes Draco's wrists, "Teach me."
"What?" Draco blinks at him. There is a very intense gleam in Harry's eyes. Earnest.
"Teach me, Draco. The song-" he waves wildly towards the radio, and the wand in his sleeve slips out, clattering against the wall. He frowns but then continues, "The song is still going."
Draco just looks at him, and then he abruptly nods, "Okay."
Harry grins, "Okay." He lets go of Draco's wrists and stands up, spreading his arms wide, "Okay, what do I do?"
Draco regards him for a moment but then huffs, "Right," he says, pushing himself off the armchair with some effort. "You're standing wrong."
Harry shrugs and then drops his arms and Draco comes to stand in front of him, their bodies only one step apart. "This is a waltz," Draco slurs and seizes Harry's hands, dragging him to the middle of their cluttered living room. "You have to, um-just follow my lead."
Harry does, placing his feet between Draco's and curling his fingers around the blonde's hands, they sway on the spot for a moment. "You have to," he frowns "To put your hand somewhere...My shoulder. Yeah, my shoulder."
Harry's hand grips his shoulder, his good one, with a firm grip and the boy nods. "I'm ready."
"I love this song," Draco says, slowly starting his steps, he remembers them quite vividly. The way he barely reached his mother's waist, and the sleek floor squicked under his dress shoes and his mother smiled down at him, gently gliding them across the ballroom, exuberant, graceful.
"One, two, three," he counts as his mother used to when he was a child and Harry clumsily follows his suit, awkwardly hanging onto Draco as the other boy guides them through the song. "Stop stepping on me!" Draco's drunk exclamation has no heat behind it and Harry giggles, "Sorry….there are a lot of feet."
Draco frowns in confusion. He's been doing that a lot. "There's only four."
"Yeah!" Harry fervently nods his head. "Too many feet!"
Draco huffs a chuckle and uses the hand holding Harry's to twirl the other boy on the spot and Harry stumbles, not quite sure what to do next.
"You have to twirl with my hand," he cannot believe how Harry had managed during the yule ball last year, they're both drunk now, to be quite fair, but Draco can tell the dancing had not improved in the slightest.
Harry does it nowhere as gracefully as Draco's mother had done the last time they had danced to this song, but somehow instead of being offended or upset, Draco finds it endearing. At least Harry's trying.
"Just follow my hand," Draco twirls Harry again, clumsily catching him against his chest. "I won't let you fall."
"I'm dizzy, but it's too fun to stop. Don't stop!" Harry grabs his hand depositing his other hand on Draco's waist. He grins and raises their hands. "Your turn to twirl now."
Draco has never done so, and trying it for the first time is much more exhilarating than he thought it would be, so exciting in fact that he steps on Harry's toes on accident.
"Too many feet," he grumbles and Harry laughs, neither realize that the song has passed and another has come in its place, they keep swaying, giggling at themselves as Draco twirls Harry, again and again, leaving them both flushed and out of breath.
They're holding each other's hands in a tight grip, and Draco looks at Harry's flushed face. A grin creeps upon his face and he tightens his fingers around Harry's, before he starts spinning. Harry lets out a shriek but doesn't let go.
For a while, it feels like the room is spinning while Draco stays in place, and he's afraid they're both going to fly off when he stops. But he doesn't really care. Harry's laughing, and he's laughing, and after what feels like a million turns, Harry digs his heels into the floor.
He doubles over, panting a little, still giggling, "That was- I am," he looks up, eyes bright, "That was so much fun, and I am so dizzy right now." They're still holding one of each other's hands.
The world is still turning. Only the two of them are steady.
Draco grins, "I wasn't sure it'd really work." And then he bends down, raising the hand he's gripping in his own up, and presses a kiss on the back of Harry's hand, impossibly warm, softer than it should be, knobbly fingered hand.
It's completely on impulse and Draco is already doing it by the time he's starting to question this decision, when he pulls away, his lips are tingling and he doesn't regret a thing.
He distantly hears Harry gasp and giggle before Draco says, "I hereby declare you the best dancing partner I've ever had." He straightens up, cheeks tinged pink, and still doesn't let go of Harry's hand.
"I declare you the best dancing coach I've ever had," Harry finally says, his head flopping down on Draco's shoulder where they stand, and Draco half-heartedly sways them both, his alcohol addled mind muddled with a dizzying mix of his past memories and Harry dancing with him now.
"I like dancing."
"So do I," Draco mumbles, and they turn another circle, swaying.
"Can we have Whiskey while we dance?" Harry asks but he's already drawing away to grab for his half-empty glass and snatches Draco's too. Draco downs his, in one long swig, dropping the glass on the rug underneath him as Harry slurps on his.
"My Aunt hates dancing," Harry mutters into his glass, sees Draco without his and so drops his own half-full glass to the rug as well.
"Your Aunt's stupid," Draco says and Harry laughs, stumbling on the glasses as he makes his way to Draco once more.
"She hates everything, she hates my mom, and dogs, and Maggie-."
"Who the hell is Maggie," Draco asks, staring at Harry's rapidly moving lips.
"Maggie…" Harry frowns, "Margaret? Magpie? I don't fucking know. Some girl that lived in our street, and my Aunt always saw her in the stores, and when she got home she'd always say to my uncle 'I saw that tart again in the stores, dressed like a stripper' or something."
Draco hums a little before plopping down cross-legged on the rug. Harry follows, sitting down right in front of him, so close their knees are touching.
"Your Aunt hates strippers?" he asks although he has no idea why that fact seems to be the most important to him.
"How do you know what a stripper is? Do wizards and witches even have strippers?" Harry starts making small circles on Draco's knee, and it tickles. Draco is trying way too hard to concentrate on what Harry is saying. "I didn't know until last year, which is really embarrassing, but I can't stop talking. You won't laugh, will you?"
"No," Draco chortles. He cannot help it. It's just something about Harry. Something so warm and safe and amusing. Like an inner joke between two close friends. Intimate.
"You're laughing now!" Harry smacks his knee and the tingling blooms into warmth.
"I'm drunk," he defends, and very distracted, Harry is so so close to him now, "Shut up!"
Harry shrugs, and resumes making tiny circles, or maybe spirals, on Draco's knee. His finger is impossibly light, barely there at all, but Draco can feel it as if it were charged with magic. "So yeah, she hates a bunch of stuff. And me too, she really hates me."
"She's lame. And stupid. I'm glad she's gone," Draco's mouth is just spilling every word that comes to his mind with no restraint. He had no idea alcohol could be so precarious.
Harry pauses for a second and Draco feels a sinking feeling in his gut. Had he gone too far? But then a smile lights up Harry's face again as he says, "Me too." It's spoken softly, as if letting Draco in on a secret, "I wish she sang me to sleep, just once before she died."
"I'll sing you to sleep," his mother used to. He could sing to Harry. It won't be like his mother, but he knows Harry wouldn't mind. And Harry deserves to be sung to sleep.
"Can you do the voices?" Harry asks eagerly, leaning forward and pressing his palm on Draco's knee. Draco wants it there forever. That touch.
"What voices?"
"Nevermind," Harry says, and then takes his hand off to finger at his own collar. "I'm getting hot. Isn't it too hot in here?"
"It is too hot," Draco agrees, watching, transfixed as Harry starts taking off his shirt, any other time he would have been too prideful to sneak, but holy shit, he couldn't care less now. He's drunk, he knows he's drunk, so he watches Harry's skin revealed inch by inch with no regret.
Milky white and lined with faded silver scars, scattered here and there. There was one on his shoulder, a jagged line on his left forearm, faint muscles outline his torso, a telltale sign of years of labour and quidditch.
Draco cannot look away, and Harry's obviously too drunk to care about him ogling his body in clear admiration, his breath catching and his alcohol addled mind numb to the crackers going off in his stomach.
Harry balls up his shirt, throws it to a corner, grabs Draco's hand, "I'm not sure if it's possible to get any cooler without opening windows. Aren't you hot?"
"Um…" he is in fact, very hot. Harry's touch feels even warmer, scalding even. Coals pool in his chest, crackling but numb.
Harry's eyes follow Draco's gaze to where the jagged scar stands out on his forearm. "Sorry if it's bothering you. I cannot do anything about the scars."
Draco thought his scars were bad. Harry's are much more in quantity. But the odd thing is...Harry is pulling it off. Holy fucking shit. Harry is pulling them off so well.
He looks hot.
Draco violently shoves the thought away.
"Why do you have so many?" He breathes the words instead, for a second, he's not even sure Harry heard him.
"Scars?" Harry nibbles on his lips, then shrugs, "I don't know, they just sort of happened."
Draco straightened up, "What?"
"My relatives… were like... super strict." Harry's hand tightens around Draco's, and he doubts Harry even knows he's doing it. "Uncle Vernon once used the buckle after he found me messing with… I don't know... something to do with flowers." His eyes are glazed, like they were the day he told Draco about his parents, and the nights he wakes up with his hand covering his mouth. So much restrained emotion.
Draco has rarely seen Harry cry. A handful of instances come to mind when he thinks. But that glaze… The glaze over his eyes is always there.
Buckle. A muggle used a buckle on Harry?
Draco's eyes snap up to Harry's, horrified. "His belt buckle?"
Harry doesn't seem to notice Draco's stare, and just mumbles, "Hmm."
"Harry-" he doesn't know where to start. His parents were strict too, they had a rigid set of rules, and even firmer standards. But they never hit him. Even a light slap on the wrist. What does he, a pampered boy from one of the richest pureblood families, say to Harry, whose guardians treated him the way the Malfoys treated their house elves?
"It was such a long time ago. But…" he pauses, "I'm glad he's dead too. Even if that makes me a horrible person. I never felt bad that they died for me," Harry has broken eye contact, and his shaking hands grip Draco's like he could anchor himself on them.
"They deserved to die," Draco says firmly.
"They died because they gave me a home. And the first thing I thought of when I found out they're dead was 'Finally, they're finally gone,' that's such a horrible thing, Draco," Harry's lip is wobbling and Draco wonders if he's going to start crying. Because if he did, Draco doesn't think he wouldn't either.
"They never gave you a home, they were hurting you. You have every right to feel… the way you do," he says fiercely, "I didn't know them, and I'm glad they're gone too."
"Heroes aren't supposed to feel comforted by innocent deaths," Harry says, almost mechanically. As if he's said this to himself a thousand times before. A repeated mantra over the years.
"But they weren't innocent, and you're not a hero," Draco says, and this time it's him that leans forward, their noses less than an inch apart, forcing Harry to look at him with bright eyes, "You're just Harry. And I'm so fucking glad that they can't hurt you anymore."
Harry swallows. Draco watches and it all feels far too intimate. He wants to make the frown on his face go away. Somehow.
"All I ever wanted was-" Harry stumbles, "Was…" he trails off, shaking his head.
Draco waits for a beat before pressing, "Tell me." They're so close that they share the same breath.
Harry hesitates before blurting, "I don't know how to ask for it," his voice cracks, "It doesn't have a name, but I want it so badly. That something to fill this void. I know it doesn't make sense."
Draco knows exactly what Harry's talking about. He's felt it ever since the day his mother was murdered. He doesn't know what he wants but it's something, and he'd been so empty, and alone, and meaningless during the first few weeks. And that had started just this summer. Harry's been living with his relatives for years.
Harry helps. Draco doesn't know if he fills up that hole, or just distracts him from it, but Harry helps. Draco wonders if he does, too.
"Do I help?" he asks tentatively. And he knows that the answer would mean the world to him.
Harry's hands get impossibly tighter around his own, "I think you're the only one."
Severus won't show it, and he certainly wouldn't admit it, but he's nervous. Not by much, but enough to infuriate him. Nervousness isn't just a single emotion, that's the frustrating bit, like a piece of domino, it propels a sea of other feelings into action that Severus abhors.
He stands at the door of the Shell Cottage. He hadn't exactly left on the best terms the last time he'd been here. And he knows all too well that Draco can hold a grudge. And regarding Potter… well, it won't be a complete overstatement to say that Severus had… overreacted a bit.
The Connell method isn't supposed to be used on victims who show enough cognition to communicate. But Severus did it on Potter anyway. He's seen it done a dozen times, he's seen it fail, and with Potter… He doesn't know.
He might have overreacted.
Not that it means his concerns are invalid. Whatever Dumbledore may think, he knows that there is something fundamentally very wrong with Potter.
Then there was also the matter of Draco. His growing attachment to Potter, the way his eyes had widened when Potter's distress had increased. It was... infatuation at worst and a fascination at its best. Albus seemed all too eager to let this… bond develop. Probably for another manipulative scheme of his.
He doesn't blame Draco, of course. He knows how most human minds work. He's been in enough of them to know. Draco had lost his family, had been kidnapped and maimed in his own house, and then dumped in isolation with another boy who went through a similar experience.
He'd honestly have been more worried if Draco had not grown closer to Potter. Survivor bonding.
That doesn't make it any less inconvenient. There's only pain down that road. He knows it from experience and observation. Potter is a dangerous person for anyone who got too close. Even Granger and Weasley have gotten caught in the crossfire more than once.
He's the closest thing to family Draco has got left now, and he wouldn't let anything happen to Draco, not if he could help it.
Even if it meant detaching him from Potter.
Severus doesn't know how long they're going to stay there. And Albus had been adamant in leaving them together. But Severus can start somewhere. Make it easier for everyone involved.
So he takes a deep breath, and opens the door.
He is immediately hit in the face by the sound of blaring morning radio, something about an upcoming Quidditch match. And the sharp, assaulting odour of alcohol.
His face sets in a scowl. How did the boys come to acquire firewhiskey of all things? His personal stash? He had warded it extensively. No way these boys could have opened it.
He makes his way to the living room, from where the loud radio show host voice is coming. The man's jolly tone and much too forced puns and laugh are already starting to give Severus a headache.
He waves his wand and the radio abruptly goes silent, making Severus breathe out a sigh in relief. Before his gaze lands on the two figures sprawled on the whiskey stained rug.
He stills, staring for a moment. Potter isn't wearing a shirt. But Draco appears to be fully clothed. Potter's leg is thrown over one of Draco's and they're holding hands, of all things.
Draco's face is slack and at ease, the scar on his face now a deep pink instead of the angry red of before.
Potter's body, he notices with apathy at first, is littered with scars. Small scars, scattered, silver and innocent looking. Too old to count. Severus' eyes examine the pale skin with narrowed eyes.
Potter as a small child, kneeling in the soil, eyes wide in fear as flowers bloomed around him.
Abuse. Of course.
It hits him too slowly and then all at once.
These scars aren't self-inflicted.
It would explain things, a lot of things, actually, about Potter as a person and the scars on his body.
Severus wants to dive in more in his own head, wants to draw forth every interaction with the boy and re-examine the signs. They're there, he knows they are.
He wants to hit himself for never noticing them. He should have. He could have but he didn't.
Draco's starting to stir.
Severus doesn't have time to crouch or step back before they snap open and land on him, widening almost comically as Draco jerks to a sitting position. Startling Harry awake too, who flinches with a loud gasp and starts scrambling away, except for the hand which, Severus notes with vague distaste, is still tangled around Draco's.
"Severus!" Draco snaps, his eyes finally narrowing in a fierce glare. His voice seems to snap Potter out of his panic, who starts heaving for air.
Draco quickly moves to a kneeling position, turning towards Harry. Or he tries to, but almost falls face-first into Potter's lap as he sways and clutches at his head. "Would you turn off the fucking lights?"
Severus crosses his arms, staring at the clearly disoriented and hungover boys. Potter's eyes are squeezed shut and Draco is clutching at his shoulders now, murmuring to the boy with his eyes squinting. He throws Severus a dirty look at his non-compliance.
It takes less than a minute for Potter to calm down. He throws Severus another, more controlled yet still panicked look, his cheeks flushing. Before he shakily gets to his feet, eyes darting around the room, presumably, for his shirt.
Severus takes pity on the staggering boy and summons the crumpled shirt from the corner of the room, handing it to the boy. Draco, meanwhile, is fumbling with his wand to try and turn off the lights. So far unsuccessfully.
"Wild night, I take it?"
"Shut up," Draco says, finally managing to dim the lights. A little. Potter winces at their voices, struggling to get the shirt on. Once done he looks from Draco to Severus before mumbling a quiet, but hurried, "I need to- I need to use the bathroom."
Potter bolts.
"You're here," Draco says, his eyes etched to the staircase where Potter has long disappeared.
Severus lowers his messenger bag down to the floor, the one with the books Albus had ordered him to bring along. "Did you not expect me, Draco?"
Draco's eyes dart to him, grey and blazing, "After your last stunt?" He hisses, "No. I don't think your presence is appreciated."
Severus holds his gaze, he tries to remain unwavering, tries not noticing the familiar blaze in Draco's eyes, the way Lucius' did at times.
It was uncanny in its similarity.
"You know why I had to check."
His godson pulls a face, "No you fucking didn't. What you did is for people who can't take care of their own drool."
"Potter had a liability-"
"What you did was wrong and twisted and you should apologize." He sighs, "I wish you hadn't come."
Severus has interrupted something, it seems. Many things perhaps.
"I'm sorry you have to endure it anyway," he says and Draco huffs.
"How did your meeting with Dumbledore go, Severus?" he sneers.
Severus' gaze trails down to the messenger bag and then to Draco again, he can faintly hear the sound of running water in the bathroom upstairs, "That will be Potter's business, mostly." He says. He's surprised by Draco's lack of guilt. This is the first time he's gotten drunk. The Draco he knew would have weaselled his way out of a possible punishment by now.
This one stares at him head-on, not a single shred of regret or shame evident in his expression.
He's grown. Severus realizes. "Do you remember your apian fixation as a child?"
Draco raises an eyebrow. "Where is this going?"
Severus glances around the messy living room, the fallen glasses and the empty bottles. "You were obsessed with them, they were the only thing you drew, and spoke of, and you used to badger and threaten and goad Lucius into buying you a hive, which we all thought was hilarious at the time." They did. They used to laugh about it all the time, Severus remembers.
The boy barely reached Severus' knees when he toddled in the living room, covered in pollen with a bright grin on his face, threatening his own father in exchange for a hive.
"Remember that charmed bumblebee toy I got you for your eighth birthday?" Draco rolls his eyes at him and Severus lets it pass, "You carried it everywhere with you."
The boy rubs his temple. "If this is about Harry and I breaking into your booz cabinet—"
Severus cuts in. "And once you actually caught one in a jar," he walks to the armchair and settles down, Draco stands still, "Except, of course, it was a wasp, much to your mother's horror. You were up in the clouds, but you'd forgotten to cut holes into the jar. You were devastated when it died. You suffocated the poor thing to death."
Draco exhales. "Yes, I do recall."
Severus isn't going to beat around the bush anymore. "Potter isn't your wasp in a jar, Draco."
Draco startles. He wasn't expecting Potter to be inserted in the conversation. Severus knows his godson, he knows that the boy had thought of this little talk as a precautionary tale to avoid alcohol.
"What are you implying?" he snaps.
"You already know," Severus waves a hand. Draco, unlike his late father, wasn't one to play coy. "I'm aware that Potter's recent disposition has affected your feelings toward him, but you need to realize what you didn't as a child, if you don't cut holes in the jar it will perish, if you let it go, it will sting,"
Draco fully turns to him, his arms drop by his sides. "I'm not obsessed with Potter," he sneers, he thinks Severus a fool, or rather, he thinks Severus believes that Draco has such a notion. "I don't have the smallest inclination to store him in a jar, and this conversation is the least necessary thing at the moment." He glares at Severus, "You need to re-sort your priorities."
Denial. Severus didn't think Draco would go for it.
"Don't kid yourself," Severus leans forward in his chair, "You were obsessed with him the moment you laid eyes on him in that robe shop. Not a single week went by without you moaning and complaining about Potter's blindness," Draco's cheeks flush crimson, "I'm not questioning your fixation, I'm saying why it's a bad idea."
"Have you seen Potter?" Draco asks, "He cannot hurt a fucking fly. You should be worried about me corrupting him, not the other way around."
Deflection. Severus has had enough of this. Draco wasn't like this as a child. He was easier to control, easier to handle. Severus wishes it were the same even though he knows it's useless dreaming.
"I'm worried about you," he says, frankly, "Setting up a certain train of expectations that he cannot fulfil. He's not just any other boy, Draco. He has responsibilities. You don't need emotional entanglement with a boy whose entire fate has been written prior to his birth."
Draco twitches at those words, he's obviously nursing a headache already, "I don't have an emotional fixation," he grits out, "And even if I did, that would be my own business."
Severus waits for the inevitable blow that is supposed to come next. He knows Draco.
"Just because my parents are dead doesn't mean you get to fill that role, Severus," his godson says, viciously, with the intent to hurt and rub the salt deeper in the wound that's already blazing, "I don't have any interest in Potter, only in the ways that matter. You are being awfully presumptive for someone your age and preoccupation, Severus."
Severus leans back in his armchair, his face betrays nothing. "All hearts break, everybody dies." Draco frowns, Severus forges on.
"I think you need to evaluate your willingness to be subjected to a certain degree of heartbreak and constant distress before getting too involved in Potter," his tone is slow and deliberate. He needs Draco to understand this early on, "You don't want your… attachment to morph into something much more dangerous and damning."
Draco isn't moved by his words in the slightest, "So I can be held back like you? I haven't seen anyone more afraid of love than you, Severus. I'm not going to take advice from someone who thinks too much of an abstract."
Severus pinches the bridge of his nose. "You're already calling it love."
Adolescents and their melodramatics. Severus surely hasn't missed this.
"I'm labelling your assumption, not my own feelings," Draco snaps, "Harry and I have an agreement," his face marginally softens, "A friendship."
"Friends don't strip for each other," Severus drawls, "This isn't a rebuke, Draco. I'm concerned for you, once the boy dies-"
Because he will. Severus knows it better than he knows the back of his own hand. Horcruxes are not to be trifled with, not even by men like Dumbledore with a literal century of experiences. Potter has no chance. What a short, scrawny tortured boy can do in the face of the dark lord?
Potter was lucky that he escaped. He will not be lucky enough to survive the Horcruxes. He will not survive enough to remain Draco's object of affection.
"He will die, Draco," he says again, "Use your mind. Your logic."
If Albus deemed it safe enough for Severus to discuss the Horcruxes, such a delicate matter, that only three live people remain the bearer of its secret, to be discussed with Lucius Malfoy's son present…
Albus doesn't expect any of them to make it out alive.
"If he dies then I will mourn," Draco replies, stubbornly, and Severus wants to hit him over the head.
That daft boy has his mind completely befuddled by Potter. He doesn't understand that this is bigger than him and the boy. Just as it was bigger than James and Lily Potter, and Morris Prewett.
"Draco-"
"Because that's what's supposed to happen to all of us. You're going to die, and so am I. I'm not going to deprive myself of the only source of happiness I've had in years in case the subject of my affection dies."
Severus detests those words with such ferocity that for half a second he considers taking Draco and fleeing this god-damned continent right then. He has the keys to the wards in the Cuban villa.
He should just snatch Draco now, take him to Cuba, lock him up until this whole Harry potter obsession blows over, and then wait for Albus to punish him for messing up his schemes.
He crosses his arms, as if to fortify his resilience against such an urge.
"Does he even want you?" He asks, and it's futile because it's so obvious that Draco does not regard Potter with his brilliant mind, but rather crudely, with his heart.
It's a passing fling and it could cost him his life.
"I know what he wants," Draco says, mirroring him by crossing his own arms, "This discussion is over, Severus."
"Don't think for one second that you need him any more than he does you."
And then, Draco speaks words that Severus will not forget for decades to come.
"It's never less," he says simply, "It's more than you could even imagine."
"Draco,"
"I'm going upstairs now, to call him. Don't follow me."
Severus dreads the upcoming conversation more than anything.
Draco emerges with a clothed Potter in tow, and Severus has made himself comfortable on the chair already. He observes the two of them, narrows his eyes at the way Potter's hand brushes against the back of Draco's forearm.
Intimate.
"Sir," Potter ducks his head.
Severus tilts his own head. Draco settles in front of him on the couch and Potter lingers behind the seat. Draco's stance, while relaxed, has a protective edge to it. Angled towards Potter. Ready to jump to his defence at any second.
"Had fun last night?" Severus he quips.
"Yes," Potter is looking past his shoulder, and Severus can't tell whether it's in shame or avoidance.
"We need to talk."
Potter's hands grip the edge of the couch, Draco refuses to gaze away from Severus' face.
"Okay," Potter's voice is monotone. The previous embarrassment is gone.
Severus gazes at the boy for a moment, long enough that he's starting to fidget, "Professor Dumbledore asked me to make a peculiar delivery, Mr Potter," he points at the bag by his feet,
"Is it related to the Occlumency session?"
"No," Severus feels his lips curl in distaste, "Professor Dumbledore doesn't wish you to pursue occlumency any further."
"What? What happened to Vold-" Potter cuts himself off at Severus' sharp look, "Riddle looking back in the connection? And like… being tortured and ripped to shreds?"
"He felt it... necessary to point out that your mind is already fortified." And it is, from external forces at least. What Severus is worried about is Potter's mind itself. Protecting it from itself. He still doesn't understand how Potter is functional.
"By what?"
"He's not sure." Insanity? Potter is protected by insanity? That's his opinion, at least. Although looking at Draco sitting and glaring daggers in his direction, he doesn't think that answer will go over very well.
"So I'm to just stop protecting my mind from Riddle?" Harry looks over at Draco before his gaze flicks back to Severus. He frowns, sounding uncertain. "That doesn't…"
"He knows best," Severus says firmly, "And I suppose you better than anyone, know the limits of your own mind. The thing that I came here for, rather, needs your attention."
"How could it possibly matter more than my mind?" Trust Potter to only think about himself. Another trait he's gotten from his father, no doubt. The self-centred brat, Severus thinks half-heartedly.
Then the white vestiges of scars come to the forefront of his mind. The scars. The angry muggle on the porch. The utter terror on Potter's face.
Guilt, or some mutated form of it, churns in his stomach.
"Something of utter importance," he says instead of any scathing remarks, "Vital to the war effort so I need you to take it seriously."
The boy twitches. "I take every word out of your mouth seriously," Potter deadpans. Severus twitches, not breaking eye contact but not speaking further.
The boy's eyes always make him uncomfortable.
They're too deep. Too edgy. Too old. Older than Lily's.
Potter sighs, then waves a shaking hand, "Fine. I'm serious. What is it?"
Draco is listening with rapt attention, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Severus hesitates, "Draco… you should leave the room," he expects the resistance when it comes.
"Like hell I am!" Draco bursts. "Who do you think-"
"Draco," Harry glances down at him and the boy immediately deflates. Severus wants to dig deeper into the dynamics of these boys. He knows a lot has changed in the last several weeks between them. Torture, isolation and grief can have a lot of psychological impacts, especially on relationships. But Potter and Draco's is still something peculiar to him.
"He's going to tell me anyway," Draco sneers and then stands with a huff. Harry watches him leave with blank eyes.
"Speak away, sir."
There are two books in total, with no titles, with yellowed pages, and barely intelligible words. Then there's a diary.
It's Dumbledore's personal diary, it's thick, and like a proper journal, there are cutouts and bits and pieces of random articles and pictures stuffed through the pages.
Harry finds a picture of two young men, one is obviously the headmaster and the other someone he doesn't know.
There's a word, a keyword that links all of these words and books and pages together. It's a word he doesn't even know how to pronounce. Horcrux.
It's mentioned nearly on every page, it's accompanied by horrid pictures that Harry can't make sense of, weird words in Latin that he can't quite decipher.
Its mere presence feels malicious.
He takes the word, letter by letter, and writes it down on his own parchment. It's too warm and cosy where he is. The lion adorned cushions nestled around him, the tapestries absorb the chilling air.
He inks his quill and writes the word in a stream, again. He hears snoring by his feet, but doesn't look up, he knows it's Ron. Hermione is somewhere behind him, doing her own reading.
"Harry."
He traces the picture of a woman crouched over a body, her faded face smudged with red ink and her eyes bottomless, black pits.
She looks inhuman.
He flips through the pages, as casually as he used to do while writing assignments for his professors. The pictures grow progressively more grotesque. The words, even more horrid.
"Harry," the voice is distinct, but far. Harry can easily tune it out if he wants. And he does, for a while. He doesn't want to be distracted.
Seven letters, five consonants, two vowels and they carry so much more weight than they should have. It makes sense. Of course, it does.
That's why he's infallible, that's why beating him is not remotely possible, and that's why him defeating Voldemort as a child is such a big deal.
How can you kill something that doesn't die?
The voice emerges again, this time with irritation.
"You bastard!" And Harry looks up from his parchment, his eyes graze past Ron's sombre face and his ears perk. He allows Draco's voice to filter in. He doesn't have to, he doesn't even particularly want to, and his mind shows the displeasure by increasing the sound of Hermione's shoes, clicking against the floor behind him. But he does it.
"Yes?" He whispers. He doesn't want to wake Ron.
"Talk to me." The voice demands.
"I am talking to you. Go on."
"Aren't we going to talk about it? At all?"
"I don't know what to say. I don't know anything about it, I just know a word."
"Horcrux."
"Is that how you say it?" Harry traces his own handwriting.
"Dark magic."
"Obviously," as obviously evident as the shake in Draco's voice, "What other kind of magic permits this."
"It is dark magic. But it's not just any kind of dark magic. He refused to speak its name. It's foul, Harry. Even I don't know much about it."
"He is a coward," Harry says, he doesn't want to recall his conversation with Snape.
"Riddle made one. He must have, and Dumbledore knows about it. He expects you to do something about it for some reason. This is… Insane."
Why does Draco sound surprised?
If there is one person, in the entire wizarding world, expected to do something about a dark lord, making a Horcrux, it's him. The person who survived in the first place.
"I'm the boy who lived."
Draco pauses. Harry hopes that he can't tell that Harry really isn't there with him, but rather in the burrows of his own mind. "What do those words really mean? Truly?" He asks.
Harry doesn't know.
He snaps the diary shut. He doesn't want to read it anymore. He doesn't want to think about it. This has the potential to be too much.
Things that are too much...tend to mess up his mind. Harry really doesn't want that.
Draco is right. Dumbledore sent him these books for a reason. He expects Harry to know, because he wants him to do something about it.
"Maybe they're easy to destroy," he mumbles.
Draco touches his arm, in the real world, where he thinks Harry is with him, "You don't really believe that," He says, "He's indestructible, you do know that."
"Fuck this," Harry spares one glance towards his friends. One around the common room.
"Fuck this," he repeats.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
His hands clench on the bathroom basin. Harry looks outside the tiny window above the shower. He can see the waves, serene.
Sirius is sitting on the closed toilet lid behind him. He doesn't speak. He just waits for Harry to process today's events bit by bit.
"I saw the scars. I know what they mean, Potter."
Harry had not let himself freak out. He didn't pale, he didn't gasp, he looked Snape in the eyes.
"What do you think they mean?" He whispers his reply now, just as he did then.
'He knows. You both do.'
Harry ignores Sirius.
"Did Dumbledore know about the abuse?"
"There was no abuse, sir."
"But did Albus know?"
Harry hadn't said anything, just looked down at his bundle of books. His special delivery from the headmaster. His brain is still ringing with Snape's earlier words.
Every scar on his body shrivels, and Harry takes a deep breath, gazes down at the white basin. His hands are shaking, like fucking always.
'This doesn't change anything, Harry. The Dursleys are dead. Snape knowing changes nothing.'
"But he knows," Harry swallows.
Sirius groans, 'Fuck that guy. All of them. Harry, it's going to be okay. They're dead.'
"But why does it feel like they're breathing down my neck? They're everywhere."
They always will be there. On his body, on his mind. In every early memory.
Harry looks up at the mirror again, a malicious grin spread on Vernon Dursley's face.
But Harry knows he's not truly here. Even his own mind can't convince him of that. That makes it worse somehow, knowing that his uncle isn't really here, but Harry is forcing that presence.
Sirius stands, and walks behind him. His eyes look gentle but pitying.
'I think it's time you went to sleep.'
Harry thinks so too.