Chapter 5
"We're playing chess," Draco announced the next week, as though the last Saturday had never happened. Actually, if he'd acted the same as always, Harry would have been far less surprised.
He'd expected a curt, obligatory greeting, or maybe the silent treatment. Not an invitation to play chess.
"Chess?" Harry asked suspiciously. "Why?"
"You're a terrible conversationalist," Draco informed him blithely. "If I have to suffer through one more cup of tea with you for company, I think I'd rather poison myself with it."
"You're a git."
"Black or white?" Draco ignored him easily.
"White," Harry said, exasperated.
"White it is," Draco agreed, dumping the black pieces on Harry's side of the board and taking white for himself. Harry narrowed his eyes. He hadn't held much of a preference, but the principle of the matter irked him.
But Harry didn't say anything, calling his pieces to attention, unsure if he should be surprised that he'd brought out Wizarding Chess. The animated pieces moved into position.
Three games later, Draco was acting like a smug git, but Harry hadn't dared to hope for such a companionable afternoon. They'd never gotten along so well, and a part of him dreaded the moment when he'd inevitably ruin it.
"Do you remember me telling you that you're a terrible conversationalist?" Draco asked, snapping him out of his thoughts, melodramatic and long-suffering. He gestured at the chess set, and Harry's decimated pieces. "You should be concerned, because I've found something you're even worse at."
"I'm not that bad," Harry complained, because he wasn't. Ron always did beat him, but he'd improved, and he could definitely hold his own against the average player.
Admittedly, he wasn't playing up to par, seeing as when he played Draco, the blond tended to distract him. The other man would quietly focus on his own turn, tuning out anything Harry said, but when Harry took his turn, he would speak frequently, usually insults.
Harry grew distracted not only by sending back retorts, but also by the very fact that Draco was talking to him.
"No, you really are," Draco assured him, idly capturing his second rook. Harry's knight whinnied in protest. "I think Cepheus gave me more of a challenge when he was five."
"When he was five, you were younger too," Harry protested absently, catching sight of Narcissa peering in. She had a faint smile on her lips, but when Harry started to greet her, she lifted a finger to her lips to quiet him.
"Fine, it was an inaccurate statement anyway. He could have beaten you when he was three," Draco went on, oblivious. His mother silently slipped out of the room.
Harry realized with a pang that Narcissa and Raiponce had both tried to help Draco, in their own way. Narcissa had been intent on his return for a reason. She wanted Draco to have a friend his own age, and didn't want to interrupt now that they were finally getting on.
Well, Harry didn't mind. Draco had never once mentioned his saviour status, even when they met, which was more than he could say about even Ron and Hermione. Although to be fair, they'd been eleven at the time.
Still, having seemingly won Draco over on his own merit made him feel rather giddy. Maybe the blond had finally recognized Harry's sincerity after he'd come back after their fight last week.
Draco still didn't like him much, his insults frequent and his concern for his sensibilities nonexistent, but Harry found he didn't care. They bantered more zealously than he did with Ron, but if Harry never commented on the magic thing, he found that Draco never really said anything unforgivable, either. He'd improved at recognizing sensitive subjects, after the first few weeks of Draco's volatile demeanor, since the blond would rarely react to anything that wasn't interpreted as an attack on his person. It was freeing, in a way, to finally speak with so little limitation. The irony was not lost on him.
Only last week's crying fit nagged at his curiosity, but he didn't dare ask. A small part of him hoped that the blond had been crying because he'd regretted sending away Harry, but he thought that saying so would probably end with something chucked at his head that wouldn't miss this time.
After another hour or so, Narcissa came up again to eat dinner with Draco. Harry had stayed longer than usual, but decided not to push his luck, opting to go home even when Narcissa invited him to stay. Somehow he thought that his Gryffindor table manners wouldn't hold up to Malfoy standards.
"I'll come back next week," Harry told Draco, before Narcissa could invite him. It might have been impolite, but he thought it worth it when Draco gave him a short nod instead of his customary grimace.
Harry didn't even mind the stairs on the way down.
ooo
Draco was glowering at a copy of the Prophet next time Harry came. Having learned his lesson well, Harry quickly hid his surprise. Sometimes Draco made it easy to forget that he lacked magic when he knew so much about the magical world, played wizarding chess, and read a newspaper with moving pictures.
"Puddlemere lost to the Tornadoes," Draco announced disparagingly, wearing a martyred expression.
"Their Chasers were a mess," Harry agreed glumly, grimacing.
Oliver Wood, the Puddlemere Keeper, had procured tickets for him and Ron for one of his matches. Both Oliver and Ron had been completely insufferable after the game, complaining endlessly about the loss, and half of the reason Harry had cheered for Puddlemere had simply been because he'd dreaded the rants.
"You were at the game?" Draco asked interestedly, and Harry hesitated, yet Draco showed no signs of snapping at him.
"Yes?" Harry said uncertainly, and Draco rolled his eyes, gesturing for him to sit impatiently.
"Well then, hurry up and sit down, will you?" he said brusquely. "You'll have to tell me the play-by-play. Mother took Cepheus, but she hasn't been in yet, and she's absolute pants at Quidditch run-downs, anyway."
He gave Harry a challenging look, as if daring him to refuse. Harry noticed he didn't mention anything about Cepheus describing the match, but wisely decided not to prod. Brothers-who-had-stopped-visiting-only-to-start-again probably constituted as a sensitive subject.
Well, Harry could go for talking about the game to someone who wouldn't start raving about the turncoats who started supporting the Tornadoes just because they'd won the league a few years back. Ron could overreact, at times.
Draco seemed satisfied with his storytelling, and Harry grew enthusiastic at his obvious interest, embellishing just a little, although not so much that he strayed from what actually happened. If the Dionysus Dive done by a Tornado Chaser hadn't had quite that much lead up, well, at least Draco seemed to enjoy that he'd drawn it out.
He wondered if squibs could ride brooms, but didn't want to risk the question.
ooo
"Why are you pouting?" Draco asked two Saturdays later, and Harry blinked in surprise.
"I'm not," he lied.
"Yes, you are," Draco said. "It's annoying."
"Sorry."
"I'll forgive you if you tell me why," the blond said dismissively. Harry uncharitably thought that Draco was more curious than concerned, his mood too poor to think optimistically.
"It's nothing," he sighed. He didn't think Draco would react well to such a magical story, and even more than that, he didn't want to call attention to his celebrity status.
"Does it involve magic?" Draco asked suspiciously, and Harry twitched guiltily. The other boy gave an exasperated huff. "You do realize that I grew up around magic, don't you? I'm hardly going to break down in hysterics because you mention it. It's rather irritating watching you dance around the subject."
"But you-" Harry started, before cutting himself off. He'd definitely mentioned magic before, and received a poor response-
But no, that wasn't exactly true. Draco had gotten angry when Harry had been a stranger barging into his room and started making insensitive remarks that reminded him of his status in his family, or lack thereof. He had gotten angry when he'd thought that Harry was visiting out of obligation or pity. He'd gotten angry over Harry's comments about his squib status specifically, or when he mentioned his inability to participate in the Malfoy family functions.
Come to think of it, he hadn't seemed uncomfortable at all discussing Quidditch, or when Harry had stumbled once and mentioned that he'd finally used a Silencing Charm to shut Ron up about the Tornadoes. Draco played wizarding chess and read wizarding newspapers, spoke to animated portraits, and made vague references to the wizarding world all the time.
Ron had been the one who said it might be 'kinder' to obliviate squibs, that it was like rubbing it in their faces that they couldn't do magic. Draco had never flinched when talking about magic itself.
"Oh," Harry said, annoyed at himself. He had been so careful about what he'd said, that he'd been too careful. "You don't mind?"
All that time he'd been so awkward at making conversation, avoiding the subject of anything magical, and Draco only cared if he specifically mentioned him being a squib. Harry picked at his sleeve morosely.
"I will mind if you don't get on with it already," Draco said waspishly.
"Well," Harry stalled, because while he both bemoaned and celebrated his discovery, he would still have to mention his fame. He tried to come up with a way to tell the story without mentioning it specifically.
"Well?" Draco asked, raising an eyebrow.
"I was walking down Diagon Alley," he said. "And...I was attacked by Death Eaters."
Silence.
"Oh, is that all?" Draco asked with incredulous sarcasm, and Harry grimaced.
"There were a couple of Death Eaters who escaped after the final battle, you know," he said vaguely, trying to tell the truth without mentioning the bit where they shrieked at him for vanquishing the Dark Lord. "And they seemed really determined to kill me...for some reason..."
"Being Harry Potter would do that, I suppose," Draco drawled sardonically, rolling his eyes. "'For some reason'," he mimicked in a high-pitched voice that sounded nothing like Harry. "Honestly."
"You know about me?" Harry asked in shock, sitting up straight, abandoning his dejected sleeve-fidgeting.
Draco had never mentioned his status, even in passing. He found himself suddenly disappointed; he thought he'd found someone who finally had no idea that he was the Boy-Who-Lived. Even someone sequestered away in a tower had heard of him. Still, Harry supposed at least if he had already known, he didn't have to worry about Draco suddenly treating him differently after finding out. He had never made a big deal out of it before.
"Of course I have," Draco scoffed, offended. "I might not have magic but I have ears. Besides, even if I hadn't heard all of the Saviour shite, Severus used to mention you."
"Snape?" Harry said incredulously, abruptly remembering that Raiponce had listed the Potion Master as one of Draco's few visitors. He suddenly felt inexplicably nervous. "What...what did he tell you?"
"Hmmm," he said thoughtfully, tapping his chin in an exaggerated gesture of sincerity, and continuing with a relish. "What was it? Oh, yes. I do believe he called you an exceedingly arrogant, incompetent fool who was served with a silver platter. I also seem to recall something along the lines of your celebrity status inflating your head so much that a Bloating Charm wouldn't have made a difference. Oh, and that you strutted around in a manner so like your father, he half wondered if the Necromantic Arts hadn't been involved to arrange his rebirth."
His stomach experienced an unpleasant sinking sensation, heavier with each word. His rage at his former professor, which he'd smothered with guilt and gratitude after seeing Snape's memories, came surging back. If the git had hated him, that was fine with Harry, he'd come to terms with it long ago. But he'd told Draco all those things... Harry felt his cheeks redden with shame, and found himself unable to look the other teenager in the eye.
"What is it?" Draco asked, noticing his discomfort. "Surely you noticed that he hated you? He taught you for six years, and Severus was never subtle about his dislikes."
"It's not that," Harry said hastily. "It's..." he hesitated, before blurting out rapidly, "Did you believe all those things? I mean, do you believe them now?"
Draco fell silent, and Harry felt shockingly anxious, dread building in his chest the longer that the other man went without speaking.
"I believe we were talking about Death Eaters," Draco changed the subject, much to Harry's frustration. "Did you fight them?"
Harry supposed he didn't need an answer. It was obvious enough that the blond only tolerated him because he had no other choice. Harry kept coming back regardless of how many times Draco told him to go away.
Of course he'd believe Snape; he had no reason to believe some random person who had spontaneously burst through his door one day over someone he'd probably known since childhood. Hell, he'd practically proved Snape's words.
"Yeah," Harry said bitterly, knowing he had no reason to complain. He'd stubbornly made the decision to keep visiting Draco regardless of how much he was hated in return.
"And?" Draco asked impatiently. "Surely there's more to the story?"
"Not really, no," he muttered, finding it hard to act nicely when he knew that Draco couldn't care less even if he didn't. "Big bad Death Eaters attack the Savior. The-Boy-Who-Lived lives again. Everyone loves Harry bloody Potter. The end."
"I know more than that happened," Draco said crossly.
"Well, maybe I don't want to talk about it," Harry snapped, even though he'd wanted Draco's company so much that he'd come here early; Ron's outrage at the attack and Hermione's concern had become too much for him to handle.
He should be ecstatic. Draco already knew about him being The Chosen One, and obviously didn't worship or even hate him just for the title. He'd found out he could talk about magic with him, and Draco was funny. Before he'd heard what Snape had said...
He probably would have told Draco everything, even the bits he hadn't told Hermione and Ron.
He'd been a moron. How could he think that Draco would start to like him, if he just forced him to spend enough time together? He was exceedingly arrogant, just like Snape said, and Draco knew it.
"I've got to go," he said abruptly, standing without warning. The chess board sat untouched; last time, they'd barely played in favor of talking, and the time they'd spoken about Quidditch they'd not used it at all.
Draco's expression shuttered. "You just got here."
"I know, I'll...I'll see you next week. I just...can't right now," Harry muttered, running a hand through his hair. More than anything he wanted Draco to say that he'd decided that Snape was wrong.
But he was acting entitled. Draco didn't owe him anything. He forced his company on the blond, he hardly did him a favor.
To keep from taking out his frustration on Draco, he thought it'd be better if he left, before he said something irreparable.
It still stung when Draco unfroze, shrugged indifferently, and put away the chess pieces with no protest. He gave only a quiet, "Fine."
ooo
More writing from a bajillion years ago. Hello, anyone who's still around. Say hi if you feel like it.