These Things

By: Lady DeathAngel

Disclaimer: Not mine, not profiting, 'nuff said.

Warnings: language

A/N: Yes, so, it lives! Thanks to BabeGia103 for leaving me the review that got me off my ass and made me finish this chapter. Please note that this story will be updated sporadically meaning, not very much. I haven't completely lost interest in the story, just lost sight of the plot. So while I'm working it out, please check back for updates and check my livejournal account for details on what may be holding me up. Thanks so much to anyone who's still reading this and as always, please read, enjoy, and review!

By the time Draco got around to admitting to himself that he was gay, he already knew that nothing had really changed. He would still get married to whoever his parents approved of, have an heir or two, keep the Malfoy line going strong, and become a big, fat, fucking success. Just like his father. No amount of sexual attraction to the same sex (and lack thereof of the opposite) would ever change that. He'd known this nearly all his life. He was a pure-blood, he had duties, end of story.

Of course, he also didn't expect to fall in love with anyone before embarking on his life as a gay man married to some prissy, French, fifth cousin. He'd been at Hogwarts long enough to know he liked other boys sexually; he did not, however, fancy any of them. He'd been around them all too long. They were all either really stupid, really pompous, or a horrendous mix of both. Not even quiet Blaise Zabini did more for Draco than get his heart beating a bit faster. He figured that he would make it through the next two years repressed and horny, but gleefully unattached and definitely not in love.

Not to mention the fact that he had bigger things to deal with than getting laid or coming out to anyone. He didn't harbor any worries that he'd fall in love with anyone. And then, of course, the minute he was convinced it wouldn't happen, it did. He didn't even realize it until he was foolishly risking his neck to save the prat, flying in the face of his father and his family's friends and the Dark Lord himself, to make sure that Harry bloody Potter stayed alive to see Christmas.

And it was still a hard pill to swallow because how had he fallen in love with Potter of all people? He was skinny and annoying, stupid and rash, practically blind and abnormally short, not to mention the hero of the world at large and Dumbledore's pet monkey and a dozen other things that made him sick to his stomach with dislike. He was also surprisingly quiet, and he was being rather nice at the moment, giving Draco the grand tour of Remus Lupin's quaint (and surprisingly lavishly furnished) house.

"That's Remus' room," Potter said as they walked through the upper-floor hallway. "Bathroom, closet, and my room."

"You live here?" Draco asked, shocked.

Potter nodded.

"Yeah. I mean, it was my first year here, this summer. Sirius had planned on smuggling me out here, but then he got stuck at Grimmauld Place and after that . . ." He trailed off and was seeing something that was obviously not happening at that moment.

Draco thought back to what he'd heard about Sirius Black. After the events of his fourth year, his father had revealed that Peter Pettigrew was, indeed, alive and that Black was innocent.

"It almost would have been better if he'd gotten acquitted," he'd said. "At least then Potter probably wouldn't be living with his Muggle relatives and he'd be easier prey."

Which, at the time, had made no sense to Draco. Who wouldn't want to take on Muggles over a fully grown, and possibly mad, Wizard? He hadn't heard much more about him. His mother had mentioned, once, that Sirius was a cousin.

"He used to be beautiful," she'd said when he was thirteen, staring down at the face on the cover of the Prophet. "Younger than me, though. About the same age as Bella, I think."

"He was blasted off the tapestry, though, right?"

His mother had nodded and Draco hadn't thought much more about that. He was obviously a blood-traitor and, therefore, not worth his attention. Now he wished that he knew more. Other than those odd facts, and the knowledge that Sirius Black had been Potter's legal guardian and godfather before being accused of blasting Pettigrew and those Muggles to pieces, he didn't know much of anything. Well, there had been that small bit in the Prophet over the summer. Just a tiny thing of an article stating that the manhunt for Sirius Black had been called off. According to some anonymous source, the man had died and was no longer a threat to the Wizarding world.

"Anyway," Potter said, snapping out of his stupor. "Remus decided that he couldn't stand it in the old house anymore and moved in here. Sirius helped decorate, apparently. A lot of the landscape pieces were his."

"Who do they belong to now?" Draco asked, curious against his better judgment.

"All mine," the dark-haired boy said sadly. "He left all of his belongings to me and Remus. Though, he might've left one or two things to Tonks since she's his cousin and all."

He shrugged and opened the door to his room. It was spacious, definitely more so than Draco had first assumed it would be, and freakishly clean. At least, for a teenage boy's living space. Then again, Potter hadn't been in the house since the summer so that made sense. The other boy didn't waste any time in flopping across his bed and telling Draco to make himself at home, something that he didn't think would be possible. But he made a valiant effort, sitting gingerly on a large chair against the wall across from the bed and then curling into it when he realized how comfortable it was.

It was really quiet, Potter barely breathing, and Draco took the chance to look around the room. The walls were practically bare, colored a deep blue-gray that blended into the dark, plush carpeting. The bed took up a fair amount of space and faced the window off to the blonde's left. There was a closet directly across from the door, and a nightstand and small desk and chair were the only other pieces of furniture in the room. The room itself was saved from being utterly boring by the insane number of pictures that were on the nightstand and desk, and mounted on the otherwise plain walls.

He didn't recognize anyone, but he could guess who they all were by small resemblances. Well, the resemblance between Potter and his father wasn't small at all. James Potter looked almost exactly like his son, only with deliberate mistakes, little things that told them apart. His mother was quite pretty and nearly always smiling, save a few pictures in which she was scowling at another pair of young men. One had dark hair that behaved perfectly (the sort of thing Draco's only ever seemed to do when aided by a lot of special made potions), and one with shaggy sandy-brown hair. The latter looked a lot like Professor Lupin, actually, so Draco reasoned that he was and that the other boy was probably Sirius Black. There were a few other people in pictures with them, but most of the photos were of those four.

"So . . ." Draco murmured when the silence had become cloying and the pictures hard to look at.

"Did you know?" Potter demanded before Draco could finish his thought (not that he actually had a thought to finish. Even he didn't know what he was going to say).

"What?"

Potter turned toward him and rolled his eyes.

"Did. You. Know? You've got to admit, it's a bit convenient that you just happened to be in the dungeons when the Death Eaters and Voldemort were trying to kill me."

Draco didn't know how to answer that question. Because he had known, sort of. He'd gotten that cryptic letter and so he'd had an inklin, but no concrete information and he certainly hadn't expected an attack at Hogwarts. Really, his being in the dungeons was all by chance anyway. He'd heard a rumor that two fifth years were forgoing dinner and fucking each other instead, and as a Prefect he couldn't just let it happen. Not to mention he'd been bored and the rest of the Slytherins were looking rather sullen and dampening his holiday cheer so much that it was drenched and dripping all over the place.

Draco had gone to the dungeons, found the offending couple in an empty room, and ushered them outside and into the middle of what was the most dangerous situation he'd ever found himself in. He'd barely had time to register that You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters were so close before an errant spell hit the ceiling and caved the whole hallway in. Draco chose a side and leapt, and when the dust settled, found himself staring at Harry Potter's pale, unmoving body.

It was a defining moment. Draco heard, vaguely, shouts and curses being thrown on the other side of the rubble, but mostly he felt sick and wondered at it as he crawled toward Potter and shook him frantically. At that time he was still toying with the idea of doing nothing, of helping his father (because he'd heard his father's voice shouting something minutes before) and You-Know-Who and making them proud. And then Potter had inhaled sharply and moaned and coughed and the intense sensation of relief that pooled in Draco's stomach was all it took to have him throw everything he'd ever known away.

"My father wrote me," he finally said, leaning back in the chair. "He didn't say much. Just to stay away from you and keep my guard up."

"So why were you in the dungeons, then?"

Draco lifted an eyebrow.

"Official Prefect's business."

Potter snorted and rubbed his eyes wearily.

"God, this is so weird. I never would've expected this."

"That makes two of us," Draco assured him.

"Right. Well, we both look like shit and there are two bathrooms in perfectly wonderful working condition. I'm taking a shower and I suggest you do too."

Draco thought that was a fabulous idea because he did his best thinking in the shower, and he had a lot to think about. Potter stood up and rummaged through his closet.

"You're about Sirius' size I think. I kept all his Muggle clothes. Never thought anyone would need them, though."

He straightened and Draco stood to accept the pile of folded clothing.

"I'll use Remus' bathroom," Potter told him, grabbing his own change of clothes and walking out of the room.

"You can use mine. You remember where it is?"

Draco nodded and followed Potter into the hallway. The bathroom was right next to the dark-haired boy's bedroom and the blonde entered, not quite sure what he'd see. It was clean, he noticed, and roomy. The shower was large, as was the mirror, the sink, and the sink's counter. The color scheme was the same blue as Potter's bedroom, and the floor was decorated with plush mats. Draco stripped his dirty clothing off and curled his lip at it before turning the taps. Once the water was suitably hot, he stepped in and started scrubbing.

It had been a long day, the culmination of a few long months, and he didn't know what to think or feel. Scared, probably. After all, he was as good as dead now. But that wouldn't do anyone any good. He was a bit angry because of all places, Voldemort and personally infiltrated Hogwarts and now Pansy was injured and who knew what else was going on. Just more proof hat despite making stupid decisions, his father was right about one thing: Dumbledore was not fit to be running the school. He was still reeling about the revelation of Snape (a tale he'd be dragging out of Potter in no time) and there was the entire situation about his feelings. This being in love (if that's what it even was. He was being hasty in describing the acute terror at the thought of Potter dead and the colossal relief at knowing he wasn't as 'love'. Perhaps it was just empathy, pure and simple) business was odd and would take a lot of consideration.

And Draco did consider it. It felt like one of the longest showers of his life, and when he emerged he was not only clean, but he'd come to a conclusion: he had never been more confused in his life.