"Can I help you?" a voice to Draco's left asks. Draco turns and sees a person that he recognizes but can't place, thanks to the mask he's wearing. The man is tall with ash blond hair swept into a messy side parting. He's wearing the horrid lime green robes of St Mungo's but somehow the color doesn't wash him out the way it does other healers. Draco thinks vaguely that he must have spring coloring and is momentarily jealous.
"And you are?" Draco asks.
"Zacharias Smith." Ah, him.
"Oh, yes. I seem to recall you were a right knobheaad in school," Draco says because he has neither the energy nor the inclination to be polite.
"I seem to recall you were too," Smith fires back.
"Touché. Now please let me past; I live here," Draco says. He makes as if to go up the stairs but Smith moves and prevents him.
"I believe your mother had said you were staying elsewhere," Smith says. He looks down at the clipboard he is holding. "And there aren't any notes on you coming to stay."
"But it's my house," Draco protests. Smith frowns.
"Well actually," he starts to say.
"Don't you fucking 'well actually' me." Draco takes a threatening step towards Smith, made perhaps slightly less threatening by the fact that he's still in his ghost gnome outfit. Smith sighs.
"I'm not sure how to put this, but there's nowhere for you to stay," Smith says. "All the rooms are full." Draco gapes at him.
"Oh," he says. He feels as though he's deflating. His shoulders droop and all the grief he'd felt on the drive home hits him anew. Without meaning to, he sinks to the floor. Smith rushes towards him.
"Malfoy? Are you feeling alright?" Draco gives two small shakes of his head.
"I've fucked everything up," he says and then, to his horror, he starts to cry.
…
Two hours and several blood tests — conducted the muggle way, which Draco still doesn't want to think about — later, Zach, as he is insisting on being called, sits Draco down on the empty twin bed across from his. Draco's not thrilled about sharing a room with a Hufflepuff but he has nowhere else to go, so he doesn't say anything about it. Shreeky had popped in to see him, which had been unremarkable except for the fact that Draco had convinced him to bring them a bottle of firewhisky, even over Zach's objections. Draco will need it, he's sure, in order to get through the evening.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Zach asks. He is looking at Draco with more concern than Draco thinks is strictly necessary but he did just break down in tears in front of the other man, so perhaps his concern is justified. At least now that Draco's tested negative for the Ar-Too virus, they're allowed to remove their masks. This means Draco can drink the firewhisky he'd procured and he intends to do just that.
"No," Draco says. He feels all cried out and empty. Somehow in the two hours it took for Zach to "admit" Draco, the reason for his crying hadn't come up. Perhaps because every time Zach started to ask him about it, Draco would just cry harder. It hasn't been his finest afternoon. In fact, it hasn't been his finest day. With time to think about things while Zach had run diagnostics, Draco's realized that he should never have left Grimmauld Place. But he can't go back now. He's fucked it up and he's not sure how to un-fuck it.
But he can't figure it out alone, and he has no-one else he can talk to — stuck, as he is, in this room — so he tucks his pride away and says,
"Actually, yes, I do want to talk about it. I assume you've seen the Prophet?" Zach nods.
"Of course. You're the talk of the patient common room."
"Bloody brilliant." Draco places his glass on the table between the two beds and then flops backwards onto his.
"So, you and Potter then? How did that happen?" Zach has that Hufflepuff way of getting right to the point, in a way thats not dissimilar to Pansy (though she would kill Draco if he ever said that to her).
"How much has my mother told you about what I do?" Draco asks, sitting up again.
"She's said that you're the Grand Designs of the wizarding world, but minus the television crews." Draco twists his mouth to the side in amusement.
"Quite."
"So Potter's what? Building a new house?"
"Remodeling an old one."
"And you're the—"
"—Interior Designer? Yeah."
"How did this lead to…?" Zach gestures vaguely with his hands.
"The kissing on the front page of the Prophet?"
"That."
"It's a long story." Draco sighs and picks up his firewhisky. He takes a large sip, repressing the urge to shudder at the burn as it goes down his throat.
"You're apparently not going anywhere." Zach gestures towards the glass in Draco's hand.
"Merlin, nosy much?"
"It's only been me and the convalescent patients for almost two months now. Humor me."
"Poor baby," Draco says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Also how am I supposed to help you if I don't know what's gone on?" Fuck. The Hufflepuff has a point.
"Oh, Merlin. Where to start?"
"How about you start with why you were staying with Potter? I don't imagine you stay the night at all of your renovation projects?"
"Right," Draco says. "Yes." And so Draco relates the story of how he'd gone to Grimmauld, all the way back in March, for the preliminary meeting, and how he'd gotten the call about his mother.
"She's doing really well, by the way," Zach interjects.
"She's a tough old bird," Draco says fondly before continuing on with his tale. Zach listens, sitting crossed legged across from Draco, with his elbows propped on his knees and his head resting on his hands. He's a surprisingly good listener, interjecting only when he has questions for clarification. When Draco gets to the point where he'd kissed Harry and fled, Zach practically squeals in delight, the bloody Hufflepuff.
"And then, long story short, we've been together since then."
"That's it?" Zach presses. "When was that?"
"A month ago."
"So nothing interesting has gone on since then?"
"Of course there have been interesting things, but I'm not giving you all the details. A man should be afforded some privacy in these matters."
"I only meant—"
"—How did I fuck it all up? I was getting to that." Draco knocks back the rest of his firewhisky and pours himself another few fingers. He takes a large sip of his new pour and then replaces what he's just swallowed with more. The alcohol is starting to work. It's dulling the edges of his pain. It still hurts, but it's more nebulous. Like he could reach out and grab it, but it's slightly out of his grasp.
"Are you sure you want all that?" Zach asks, eying Draco's glass.
"Yes, you arse." He takes another sip just to prove his point. "Right then. What happened next? The absolute rubbish tip of a newspaper that calls itself the Daily Prophet invaded our privacy and then fucking splashed our picture all over its cover. Then they called my boyfriend deluded and insulted me — which, par for the course on tarring-and-feathering me, but leave Harry the fuck alone." Draco waves his tumbler about while he talks, getting more and more worked up as he goes along. "He should sue them for libel. Or something."
"So how did you end up here?" Zach asks. Draco lowers his glass. Stares down into it.
"Er, I panicked and left," he mumbles.
"Well that sounds a bit daft. From the pictures and from what you've told me, it seemed like you liked him." Zach lowers his head and tries to catch Draco's eye, but he can't get his head low enough.
"I did. I… do," Draco says, still not looking up.
"So what are you doing here?" Zach uncrosses his legs and lets them fall to the floor with a dull thud.
"I told you," Draco says. "I panicked."
"Yes, but why are you still here?" Draco sucks in a breath. He pulls his lower lip into his mouth and worries it between his teeth while he thinks about the best way to phrase this.
"He deserves better than me," he says eventually. "He's Harry fucking Potter and I'm—I'm a Death Eater." The last bit comes out very quietly and he's surprised at how much it hurts to say. Because he'd never wanted to be — not really. It had just been coercion and circumstance. But he'd done it nevertheless. After a long moment, he looks up. Zach's face clearly says he thinks that what Draco's just said is nonsense.
"Yeah?" Zach asks, challenge in his voice. "And how does he feel about it? Does he think he deserves better? Or does he see past that?"
"I dunno."
"You didn't ask him how he feels about you?" Draco lifts his eyes to Zach's face and glares balefully at him. "Relationship one-oh-one, mate. Communication." Now is most definitely not the time to bring up that Harry had told Draco he loved him. Because that would mean admitting that Zacharias Smith is right and Draco would rather die. Instead he asks,
"Why are you being so nice to me?"
"I'm hoping you'll put in a good word for me with Pansy Parkinson." The smile on Zach's face can only be described as lascivious. Draco represses a shudder.
"How Slytherin of you." Zach smirks. "But she'd eat you alive."
"I'm counting on it," Zach says, still with that grin that's going to give Draco nightmares. He puts his head in his hands.
"Only one small problem," he says. "She's currently dating Viktor Krum. Oh, and I suppose Ron Weasley as well."
"I beg your pardon?"
"They all came to stay. It's been horrific, watching it all go down." He quickly explains Viktor and the subsequent threesome. He mentions the other members of the house in passing.
"Still sounds more fun than what I've been doing," Zach grumbles. "Got any other fit friends then?" Draco shakes his head. "Well, I can't compete with an international quidditch star, but maybe they'll all agree to a foursome." Draco sets his glass down hard on the bedside table and then presses his palms to his ears.
There's a knock at the door and Draco could kiss the person interrupting them. And he does, when he opens the door and finds his mother standing there. He launches himself at her and hugs her hard, the way he used to when he was a child. She lets out a startled,
"Oh," but she wraps her arms around him nonetheless.
"I'm so happy to see you," he says into her shoulder. She strokes his hair and then turns her head to kiss his cheek.
"I'm glad to see you too," she says. "To what do we owe this visit? Does it by chance have anything to do with this morning's papers?" Draco freezes, his arms tensing up involuntarily. Then he deflates, letting his arms drop from his mother's neck back down to his side.
"Mummy, I'm so sorry." He can't look at her.
"Sweetheart," she says, bringing a hand up to gently cup his cheek. "What's there to be sorry for?"
"I'm sorry you had to find out this way. I— I should have told you."
"Water under the bridge," she says. He looks up at her and she gives him a warm smile. "But come. It's dinnertime. I thought you might want to eat with me. Healer Smith may join us too, if he is so inclined." Draco's about to decline — he's not ready for any of the other convalescent residents to see him — but at that moment, his stomach lets out a loud growl. So instead, he says,
"I'd be delighted to, Mother."
…
Draco needn't have worried. Instead of the large dining room, she takes him to the kitchen, where they settle down in the breakfast nook that's nestled in the corner. It's out of the way of the house elves who are bustling around, preparing food for the twenty odd residents his mother informs him are staying at the Manor.
"But enough about me," she says once the three of them are settled in — napkins on laps and wine in glasses. "Catch me up on how you've been. How's Potter? How's the old family house? Thank you, by the way, for the additional china sets. They've been most useful."
While Draco appreciates that his mother is easing him into the conversation this way, he's on edge the entire time he tells her about his time at Grimauld, wondering when she's going to ask him about the pictures. He gives her the abbreviated, parent approved version of events, not mentioning much beyond the renovation of the house. She's utterly unsurprised to hear about the hidden rooms, and instead interrupts briefly to share a story from her childhood in which all of the cousins had tried to teach Regulus how to swim, only for him to run crying to Walburga when he couldn't do it.
"I'm sure Sirius taught him later," she says. "But Bella teased him for years for running off to hide in mummy's skirts."
"I didn't learn how to swim until I was at Hogwarts," Zach says. "And even then, not until fourth year. Sprout taught all the Hufflepuffs after the second task."
"That sounds like chaos," Draco says. He picks up his wine glass and takes a sip. The house elves have yet to serve dinner, but Shreeky had been quick to serve the wine. Draco is grateful.
"It was," Zach says. "Ernie almost drowned." They're saved from further stories about the Hufflepuff swimming lessons by the arrival of what Shreeky proudly announces as braised lamb chops, roasted potatoes with garlic and rosemary, and buttered peas. Draco tucks in with gusto.
"So how long have you and Harry been together?" his mother asks once he's gotten a few mouthfuls in. Draco doesn't drop his fork in surprise, but it's a near thing.
"Um," he says, ineloquently.
"Just over a month," Zach supplies. Draco glares at him. Whose side is he on?
"I can't say I'm surprised," his mother says. At this, Draco does drop his fork.
"What do you mean?" he manages to stammer.
"Only that you've been infatuated with him for years." His mother picks up her wine glass and takes a sip, looking for all the world like this revelation does not worry her in the slightest. "And of course, I've known you preferred men since you were perhaps two. I've just been waiting for you to feel comfortable enough to tell me. I never shared it with your father, mind. You had enough to worry about with him." Draco is suddenly very uncomfortable with Zach being at the table with them, what with his mother airing their dirty laundry like this. Zach, to his credit, is looking pointedly down at his plate.
"I'm sorry I never told you," Draco says, but his mother waves off his apology.
"I presume that is why you are here now? To tell me in person?" And there it is: an out, should he want to take it. But somehow he can't. He's been enough of a coward today. He needs to own up to his actions. He takes a deep breath.
And that's when the howler arrives.