This is written for round three of the International Wizarding Schools Championship. It's been edited since the judging process to expand the parameters of the competition, but I've kept the following judging info in the AN. Happy Reading! :)
School & Theme: Beauxbatons — Write about a character changing their ways.
Mandatory Prompt: [Genre] Romance
Additional Prompt: [Quote] "I have nothing to tell you, save that it is to you that I tell this nothing." - Roland Barthes
Year: 2
Word Count: 3,403
Additional Info: This is an EWE, eighth year fanfiction where Harry and Draco both returned to Hogwarts to complete their NEWTs.
.: The Room :.
Draco sprinted down the castle corridor, school robes askew and sweaty blond hair in his face. Footsteps thundered after him, echoing off the high ceilings, but Draco had gained enough distance from his pursuers to have the time to pace back and forth in front of the bare stretch of wall in the seventh floor corridor—across from the faded tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy.
I need a safe, quiet place to hide….I need a safe, quiet place to hide….Please give me a safe, quiet place to hide.
A door bubbled out of the wall, materializing in bits and pieces of nondescript gray paneling. Barely indistinguishable from the wall itself. Draco's hand slipped over the knob as he fumbled to open the door.
He burst into the Room of Requirement in a flurry of panting breath and swirling robes, and he slammed the door behind him. Draco backed away from the closed door slowly, hands outstretched and silently praying that the door on the opposite side of the wall had completely disappeared.
When the door stayed closed, Draco breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed his shoulders. But then his heart began thudding for a different reason, because a familiar voice sounded from behind him. "What the hell are you doing in here, Malfoy?"
Draco whirled, eyes wide and hand going for his pocketed wand. But he didn't draw. Harry Potter sat in an ugly, floral armchair, legs thrown over the arm and a Quidditch Today magazine in his hands. His tone had been angry and harsh, but he looked pretty relaxed. His hands didn't crinkle the pages of his magazine, his eyes didn't flash with antagonism, and his expression remained smooth.
Too smooth, Draco noted. Almost fake.
Potter raised his brows and Draco remembered he'd been asked a question. Very maturely, and horribly reminiscent of the person he'd been before the war, Draco crossed his arms over his chest and sneered out, "I could ask the same of you."
Potter rolled his eyes and went back to his magazine. "Well, either sit down and keep your mouth shut or get out. I'm here because I need some peace and quiet, and I'll be damned if you ruin the one place in this school where people leave me alone."
Draco's snort was drowned out by a sudden crackle and pop from the fireplace, and he looked around the Room for the first time. It was small and cozy and painted a soothing sage-green. Everything in the Room was bathed in a golden firelight. He rocked back and forth on his heels and braced a hand on the back of an ugly, faded armchair opposite to Potter's.
The ambiance of the room was…calming, so despite the less than stellar company, Draco wisely sat down and shut up. The armchair was saggier than he'd expected, and his feet almost came completely off the carpeted floor as he lost his balance. Draco gripped the poofy armrests and settled himself quickly, but he flushed anyway and resisted the urge to cross his arms. He tapped his fingers instead, each one four times.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
Potter didn't look up, but something flickered across his face. Draco forced his eyes away and looked at the room again instead. It was so…cluttered, he realized, and the seaside painting on the wall was crooked. Frankly, he'd never been in a place so crowded with things, and it made him feel a little itchy, a little tight in the chest.
The clock on the mantle was slightly off-center, too. And the potted plant in the corner should be rotated to the right so the giant fern leaf didn't brush the wall-hanging tapestry. The coffee table was strewn with half drunk cups of tea, biscuit crumbs, and various stacks of textbooks.
Draco's fingers twitched. Tap-tap-tap-tap.
How did Potter sit in here? How did the Room conjure up this when Draco had asked for a quiet place? Because he'd been wrong about it feeling calming. Everything in here was loud and boisterous and a little overwhelming once he looked too close.
Draco was acutely aware of Potter when he turned a page in his magazine, and Draco kept his eyes averted. His gaze snagged on the woven hearth rug—on the folded up corner that should be flat and smooth.
"What is this place?" Draco hissed a few seconds later, unable to hold it in.
"Quiet, remember?"
Draco huffed, then realized what he was doing. He didn't have to stay here. He could just go back to his dormitory. He lunged to his feet but smacked his shin on the coffee table, sending teacups clattering and one pile of books to the floor.
"Woah, what're y—"
"This place is a mess," Draco seethed, rubbing his smarting shin. He rushed back to the door but paused with his hand on the ornate silver doorknob. What if his would-be attackers were still out there? Despite it feeling like he'd been in this space for eons, it'd only been three minutes, at most.
So he turned to the room in defeat, closing his eyes and breathing deep. His exhale was long and labored. Tap-tap-tap-tap. Pause. Tap-tap-tap-tap.
"What is wrong with you?"
Draco snorted and his eyes burned a bit behind his closed lids. That was a loaded question. "You got a quill?"
"No, I mean, what's wrong right now? You're kind of…sweaty," Potter said. "How'd you get in here anyway? I thought I was pretty specific about the Room I asked for."
"And you specifically asked for this?" He flung his hands wide.
"What's wrong with it?" Potter sounded angry now—defensive. It made Draco's hackles rise.
"Everything!" Draco marched to the fireplace and smoothed out the hearth rug with his shoe. He reached for the clock and centered it, stepped to the fern plant and rotated it to the right. He turned back to the coffee table. "Why do you have so many cups? How often are you here?"
Potter discarded his magazine to the coffee table and swung his feet down, sitting normally in the armchair. He braced his hands on his knees, fingers curling, but Draco was more focused on the spilled tea seeping into the magazine's pages. Draco hurriedly snatched it up and shook it, tea droplets flying.
"Were you raised in a barn?"
Potter's green eyes became harder than emeralds. "If you're gonna make a prejudiced quip about Muggles, you can leave."
Draco blanched. "I wasn't—" He swallowed hard. Tap-tap-tap-tap. "I just meant…" He didn't really know what he meant, how to put what he meant into words. "Don't you like order?"
Potter didn't answer, just looked around the small space and asked again, "How'd you get in here?"
Draco pulled out his wand in lieu of answering. Potter tensed and rested a hand on his pocket, but he relaxed again when Draco simply vanished the spilled tea. "I asked for someplace safe and quiet." He shook his head and took in Potter's granite eyes and too-smooth expression. "I'm thinking this is neither."
Draco headed back towards the door. He'd rather face those righteous sixth years than stay here any longer.
"That's what I ask for, too," Potter said, reaching for a half-eaten biscuit and popping it in his mouth. Draco wrinkled his nose, but Potter ignored his surprised expression. "You can stay and…clean up, if you want. Move the plants or the clocks or the teacups, whatever. I just want quiet, and I don't mind sharing that quiet with someone else—even if that someone else is you."
"That's a glowing welcome, Potter, thanks."
"Take it or leave it, Malfoy." Potter shrugged. "Good luck finding somewhere as quiet or safe as this anywhere else in the castle."
Potter grabbed Quidditch Today from the table and leaned back in his armchair again, throwing his legs back over the armrest. He stared down at the magazine, seemingly intent to ignore Draco completely. Draco tapped his fingers four times against his leg and then began gathering up the teacups.
A week and a half later, Draco sat in that same ugly armchair. Neat stacks of potions textbooks rested on the coffee table next to his half-drunk cup of tea, the saucer hiding a bothersome knot in the otherwise smooth wood. He'd been the first to arrive in the Room this time, and when that happened, things usually started out a little cleaner, as if even Draco's brain was more organized than Potter's. It was still the same room he'd found Potter in—crackling fireplace, faded tapestry, soothing sage-green walls, and abundance of potted plants—but everything save the perpetually off-center clock was a little straighter.
Draco was flipping through a textbook, looking for a specific passage on asphodel he only half-remembered, when the door opened and Potter stumbled over the threshold. He dropped his bag just inside the door and began pulling off his school robes. He even kicked off his shoes.
Draco watched him through narrowed eyes, but Potter seemed oblivious. Not oblivious to his presence, no. They'd both been there every night for longer than a week now, and it'd be more strange for one of them not to be here. Potter was just oblivious to what Draco was trying to convey with his gaze. It was a very pointed pick up your things.
Potter discarded his robes on the carpet despite there being empty hooks tacked to the wall right in front of him, and he left his shoes askew right next to them. He dragged his bag along the carpet by the shoulder strap and settled into the armchair with a quiet sigh.
Tap-tap-tap-tap went Draco's fingers against the textbook, tap-tap-tap-tap. He said nothing—they didn't speak when they were here. Not since that first night. He tried to refocus on his homework, but Potter started pulling his own homework and books from his bag, scattering a few crumpled up papers and a (broken?) quill to the carpet. Potter left that mess, too, and just leaned back in his armchair with a textbook in hand.
Draco scratched his eyebrow and pulled one leg up underneath him, jaw tense. He wasn't a house-elf, but around Potter he sure felt like one. Draco's gaze swung back to the crumpled pile of robes and he tempered the urge to go fold them or hang them next to Draco's own robes.
Before he could give in to the impulse, a coat rack sprung from the ground, somehow scooping up Potter's robes in the process. The robes swung on the coat rack, and Potter's one askew shoe righted itself when the claw foot of the rack bumped it into place.
A quick look at Potter's raised brows and slightly opened mouth reassured Draco he hadn't hallucinated the whole thing. Potter turned to look at him, too, and his green eyes were confused. Draco laughed. He laughed so hard he had to pull his knees to his chest to ease a stomach cramp.
"Even the room knows you're a slob," he managed to say.
"Shut up," Potter grumbled, going back to his textbook.
Draco could have sworn he heard mirth in the man's voice, and he was even more sure Potter's eyes had twinkled, just slightly.
Draco gently probed at his knee, his foot propped on the coffee table and pant leg pulled up to his thigh. Someone had caught him with a tripping jinx at lunch earlier. He usually preferred the tripping jinxes and various leg-locker curses to the stinging hexes and boil curses, but he'd fallen awkwardly this time and banged his knee pretty hard on the stone floor.
Eighth year had been hard—complete hell, actually—and his deeply bruised knee was just another bump in the road. It had already darkened to an ugly deep purple, and his limping walk towards the Room had been the most embarrassing thing that had happened in at least a week. And that was saying something.
Draco sighed and dropped his head back against the armchair, knee throbbing.
Potter entered the Room about five minutes later in his usual whirlwind of noise and mess. Draco kept his eyes closed, but he could picture the other man clearly—they'd been meeting here for two months now, after all. He pictured Potter dropping his robes to the floor and kicking off his shoes; messing up his horribly soft-looking black hair and maybe conjuring up his usual cups of nasty raspberry tea.
The quiet stretched on. Usually, the sounds of Potter just existing were louder than this, and Draco had to force his eyes to remain closed—force himself not to give in to his stirring curiosity.
Tap-tap-tap-tap against his leg.
His skin prickled with awareness just before Potter poked him in the shoulder. Draco opened one eye and squinted up at him. Potter gestured wordlessly at Draco and his leg, his expression perplexed and, maybe if Draco squinted a little more, slightly concerned.
Draco shook his head and reclosed his eyes. He didn't want to talk about it—didn't want to talk about how everyone in this school seemed to think Draco was still that haughty, prejudiced asshole who'd led Death Eaters into the school. Had been forced to lead, he reminded himself. Apparently that part was important, if his Mind Healer was to be believed.
Draco jolted as if he'd been struck by lightning. Potter was kneeling on the floor now, and his cold fingers pressed into the bare flesh of Draco's lower thigh, just above the bruise. Draco was too shocked to pull away—to even say "stop," or "wait," or "what are you doing?"
Potter pulled his lower lip between his teeth and raised his wand. He didn't have a malicious bone in his body, so Draco wasn't worried about getting hurt any worse, but he was nervous anyway. His throat grew tight and his palms clammy, and he'd never held so still in his life.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
Almost still.
Potter trailed his wand over the bruise and a cooling sensation spread over Draco's skin. He exhaled heavily and Potter looked up, his gaze intense. Draco wouldn't have called them friends, but the complete lack of hostility in Potter's eyes startled him. There was something else there, too. Something Draco couldn't name but that made him feel prickly.
For some reason, Draco felt like apologizing. For what, he didn't know—maybe for everything he'd ever done or for simply invading Potter's space in the first place. Harry deserved an apology more than anyone else in this school, but instead, Draco nodded a curt thank you. Potter's lips quirked, and he squeezed Draco's thigh once before dropping his hand.
Potter's cheeks were flushed.
Draco, equally embarrassed, averted his eyes, and his gaze landed on Potter's things by the door. Parchment overflowed from his school bag and his shoes weren't side-by-side, but his school robes…they hung on the hook next to Draco's.
"Did you bring your Transfiguration textbook with you?" Harry asked.
Draco, who had spent the last ten minutes pointedly ignoring his homework and gazing out of the Room's new window at the snowfall, jerked so hard he nearly spilled tea all down his sweater. The spring term had just started a week ago and with it, Harry seemed to have abandoned all the rules they'd wordlessly established. No talking seemed to be the one he was most opposed to.
Draco didn't like it, so he responded under protest.
"Yes." He pulled his blanket closer, tap-tap-tap-tapped his fingers against his teacup. "But I'm not getting up to get it. It's in my bag."
Harry grumbled as he lumbered to his feet—like Draco wasn't doing him a favor—and began digging through Draco's bag for the book.
"Your bag is so organized," Harry remarked.
Draco hummed. Tap-tap-tap-tap.
"And it smells like eucalyptus."
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
Harry returned to his chair, Draco's book in his hand. He started flipping through the pages, humming a jaunty tune under his breath.
Draco did not know this man who sat across from him.
He also didn't know how their hours of nothing had shifted into this. Into conversation and a trash bin in the corner and Harry instead of Potter.
"What's up with you?" Harry asked, startling Draco from his staring.
"What's up with me?" Draco replied, incredulous.
"Yeah, you're…" Harry gestured, blushing. "Staring."
Draco harrumphed, and went back to looking out the window, a little hot around the ears. "I thought we weren't supposed to talk in here?"
Draco watched a snowflake settle against the glass and then melt.
"I don't know…" Harry trailed off. He stayed silent so long, Draco looked back at him. "I like the…nothing we—er—had before. But I think we could be more."
Draco raised his eyebrows and did his best not to rattle his teacup against its saucer.
"Friends! I mean friends." Harry coughed.
Draco couldn't help but smirk at him.
"I just think we should formally put the past behind us—make amends, or whatever," Harry babbled. "Then we could be friends. Like, real friends."
Draco leaned forward and placed his teacup on the coffee table. He surveyed the room to buy himself time to find the words to reply. This room would never be orderly—it was too cramped and cluttered with things for that—but everything had a place now. Harry's robes hung next to Draco's by the door, their shoes neatly side-by-side on the mat. The clock was centered, and the empty teacups went back onto the tea tray. Even Harry's stack of textbooks were aligned perfectly.
Draco turned his focus to Harry. They already were friends, as far as Draco was concerned—they had been since Harry had healed Draco's bruise. Since Harry had started to organize his things, accommodating Draco's need for order like few others ever had. Harry chewed on his lip and his hands were tapping away against his thighs. Draco smiled at that, then looked into Harry's green eyes.
"Just friends?" Draco asked quietly.
Harry blushed deeply, and Draco felt like there wasn't an entire coffee table separating their armchairs.
Harry shook his head.
Draco stepped into the Room slowly, and when he shut the door, he pressed his forehead into the stone. He hadn't slept well the past few days, had tossed and turned and dreamed of silver masks and green flashes of light. He'd also dreamed of Harry, and dream-Harry wasn't nearly as kind to him as the real one. Dream-Harry condemned him and gave him bruises instead of healing them.
Draco took a deep breath and shoved away from the wall.
Harry sat in his usual armchair, legs thrown over the arm and magazine in his lap. It was so reminiscent of their first afternoon in the Room. His green eyes watched Draco with an intensity that made Draco feel a little too seen, and before he could stop it, he sank to the floor and apologies began spilling from his lips.
Apologies for insults in first year. Apologies for cheap shots on the Quidditch field. Apologies for that night, when he'd slipped out of his hospital bed and came to this very Room. Apologies for his involvement in the war, for not doing enough when Harry had been on his knees in Draco's drawing room.
Apologies for all of it.
He was lost in his apologies when Harry kneeled in front of him and grabbed his shaking, twitching hands.
"Draco, stop," Harry whispered.
"Harry, I need to—"
"No," Harry said. "You don't have to apologize to me." He swiped his thumb over Draco's knuckles. "What prompted this?"
Draco tapped his fingers against Harry's. Tap-tap-tap-tap.
He wasn't sure what to say—wasn't sure how to put his swirling thoughts into words. Harry was good. Harry was kind. Harry deserved an apology. But Draco just gaped like a fish.
Harry smiled softly. "We're not supposed to talk here, remember? The Room was meant to be our safe and quiet space. I…like sharing the quiet with you."
Draco settled back into himself enough to say, "You talk way too much for that."
Harry snorted, and Draco ducked his head, suddenly shy. He then looked around the room, hyper aware of the warmth of Harry's legs pressed against his. He'd come to love the little quirks the Room presented when Harry had been the one to summon it. The mussed hearth rug, the off-center clock, the—
Draco started. The clock was centered perfectly. In fact, everything in the room was in order—well, its own form of order.
Thank you for reading!