Chapter 7 – New Beginnings
Harry's week had been utterly awful.
He was seated at the bar of his favourite pub, shot glasses lined up in front of him. The bartender had shown brief surprise as Harry bypassed his usual seat in favour of being out in the open, but wisely hadn't said anything.
He glared balefully at one of the shot glasses, deciding that the hangover was worth the blissful nothingness that alcohol would bring him for a few hours. Teddy wasn't due back until Sunday, meaning he had two days to recover. Picking the glass up, he tossed it back in one gulp, enjoying the burning feeling as it made its way down his throat.
By the time he felt Draco's aura, he was pleasantly drunk. He wasn't even bothered when the blonde wizard sat down next to him, gesturing at the bartender to get him the same as Harry.
"I thought I told you to leave me alone," Harry said to Malfoy after a minute of silence. Turning his head slightly, Malfoy arched one perfect eyebrow. Harry knew that the other wizard would only see the right side of his face from the angle he was sitting at, which for some unknown reason made Harry feel self-conscious.
"Since when have I ever done anything you asked, Potter." It was a statement. Harry shrugged his shoulders unhappily, tossing back another shot. He ignored the frown that Malfoy gave him, not caring about his opinion. What did it matter what Malfoy thought about him – he would go back to his perfect life when he'd tired of Harry, leaving him all alone again.
Speaking of, a question popped into Harry's alcohol-dulled brain. "What do you want anyway?" The words were slightly slurred, but still held an intensity that made Malfoy put his glass down and turn to fully face Harry.
"Potter, your magic is completely uncontrolled," he said blandly. "The hero of the wizarding world is sitting in a muggle pub, drinking himself into oblivion, and I want to know why."
Harry considered this carefully, tilting his head at the other wizard. "Come to gloat then?" There was no malice to his tone, history had genuinely taught him that the only reason Malfoy would be here was if he wanted something or came to rub his own happiness into Harry's face.
Draco's lips turned down, as if he was displeased by Harry's comment. "No, Potter." Malfoy's voice was scornful. "I did not come to gloat. I am horrified to see another wizard left in this state, and with your power rolling off you uncontrollably you are a prime target for people wanting to take advantage of that."
Harry sighed. So that was the crux of it – Malfoy was drawn to his magic. He hadn't fully been able to control his magic since Ginny's death and he knew that it was almost irresistible to resist for strong wizards, dark wizards particularly
"Let them," he groaned, dropping his head into the crook of his arm. The man next to him was silent for a moment, before Harry felt an odd sensation on his right forearm.
Draco Malfoy was willingly touching his forearm, his fingers gentle against Harry's skin.
Not having the willpower to jerk his arm away, Harry sighed. It had been so long since somebody except Teddy had willingly shown him comfort, and he was too downtrodden this week to deny the basic pleasure. Not looking up, Harry said the words which he knew Malfoy would understand.
"It's been four years today since, you know."
The hand on his arm stilled, and Harry heard an indrawn breath. The entire wizarding world knew about the violent death of Ginny Weasley and the subsequent torture Harry Potter had been through, and it appeared Draco Malfoy still read the Daily Prophet.
Expecting a sharp remark or some sly dig intended to bury the knife deeper, Malfoy surprised the hell out of Harry when a gentle "I'm sorry" passed from his lips. Harry groaned. Malfoy's pity was the last thing he needed.
"Don't feel sorry for me," Harry muttered, lifting his head suddenly. Malfoy quickly withdrew his arm, appearing to study his own drink. "I don't want your pity." He downed a third glass that sat in front of him.
"Potter, should you be drinking in your state?" Malfoy's voice sounded oddly displeased.
"No," Harry admitted freely. "But it makes me feel better."
"Hmm. "
Silence passed between the men as Harry proceeded to down straight vodka. He stayed well past his usual departure time, and Malfoy sat quietly next to him the entire time. Occasionally he felt the other wizard shudder silently and knew that his magic, usually unpredictable at the best of times, was affecting him. By that point Harry had ceased to care.
It wasn't until Harry made to stand up and staggered over the stool that Malfoy moved. Reaching out to Harry's shoulder, he steadied him with his arm.
"Potter, you are in no state to get home," he said sharply. The controlling edge to his voice made Harry laugh.
"Don't ever change, Malfoy" he told the other wizard, clapping him on the shoulder. "You're the only one who hasn't changed."
Harry made to move forward but realised his legs felt somewhat weightless. He staggered forward and again, Malfoy moved to catch him. For a second Harry revelled in the feeling of a warm body embracing him – he hadn't felt cared for in years – before he came to his addled senses and tried to pull away.
"Potter, stop!" The controlling voice was back, accompanied this time by a strong hand on the back of his clothes. "Where do you live, I'll make sure you get home safely."
"As if I'd tell you" Harry growled at him, again trying to pull away. "I'd end up with reporters on my doorstep the next day."
Malfoy heaved a long-suffering sigh and rolled his eyes at Harry. "Potter, you couldn't possibly hate those idiots at the Ministry more than myself. I'll swear a bloody unbreakable vow not to tell anyone where you live, if that would make you feel better."
Harry considered Malfoy for a moment, finding he was oddly pleased that the other man seemed to be serious. "Nah, that's okay," he slurred. "I'll just kill you if you tell anyone." He slurred his address into Malfoy's ear.
Malfoy scoffed but wisely didn't try to argue with the intoxicated Harry Potter. Gryffindors always had to have the last word in, and Draco suspected that when drunk Harry Potter might be more argumentative than usual. He supported Harry's weight to the nearest bathroom and with a quick glance to make sure they were alone, apparated with a crack with Potter still leaning heavily on him.
The second Draco's feet touched the ground, he felt Potter sprint away from him. He made to follow until he realised that Potter was running for the bathroom, and the retching sounds that soon came caused Draco's face to recoil in disgust. How uncouth.
Whilst Potter threw up, Draco took his time looking with interest around Potter's home. His first impression was that the space was incredibly small and must be cramped to live in compared to the manor. If he hadn't have known that Potter was wealthy, he would have thought he was standing in the living room of a middle-class muggle.
The more Draco looked around however, the more he understood that despite the size of the abode there was something inherently Harry about the place. The room was small yes, but it was furnished comfortably with plush rugs and comfortable sofas. The area was tidy yet lived in, with a coffee cup and muggle book left haphazardly on the coffee table. Draco was pleased to see the bookshelves that lined one side of Potter's living area – learning and reading showed that Potter still retained some interest in life.
Shaking his head at the muggle contraptions that littered the space, Draco almost stepped on some kind of muggle toy that looked like a human male in a military uniform. Frowning, Draco reached down to pick up the toy. What would Potter be doing with children's toys in his apartment?
The sound of retching having died down led Draco to slowly make his way to the area that Potter had disappeared into. His frown deepened as he peered into another door on his way, to see that it was a child's room. Nothing he had read or heard about Potter led him to believe that Potter had a child.
If he thought his frown would lessen when he saw Potter, he was wrong. The man was bent over his bathroom sink, his face as white as the tiles behind him. Potter was scrubbing hard at his forehead, eyes closed tightly to avoid looking into the mirror at his own reflection. Draco's heart hurt for the wizard – to not be able to look at yourself would be the worst kind of punishment.
"Potter, hold still," Draco said gently as he took his hands in his own. He flinched slightly when he saw what Potter had been rubbing at – the lightning bolt scar was vivid and red, standing out clearly against Potter's pale skin. "Does it hurt," he asked softly.
Potter grunted, wrenching his hands out of Draco's grasp and glaring at him with unfocused eyes. Draco tried to ignore the feeling of disappointment that welled in him – he had no reason to think that Potter would trust him.
"It always hurts," he finally admitted, staring at his feet. "But worse when I have to remember." Draco said nothing – he understood without needing words. "I'm never drinking again," Potter added as he swayed against the sink, placing a hand out behind him to catch himself.
Draco chuckled under his breath. He himself had been through a period of time after the war where he had turned to muggle drugs and alcohol to stop the nightmares and dull the memories. Unfortunately for Potter, he had quickly realised that dulling the feelings didn't take them away.
"Come on Potter, time to get you to bed," he offered as the other man's eyes started to droop. Draco followed Potter as he stumbled his way through the living area, through an unopened door into a bedchamber – or what Draco supposed in the muggle world was called a bedroom.
The room had none of the luxury finishings Draco was used to in his own standard of living, but he supposed it was comfortable in an inferior muggle way. The bed was large and could easily accommodate two people, set on a dark wooden frame. A blue coverlet matched the blue curtains that blocked the city lights from shining into Potter's room and Draco smiled – he would have expected any home of Harry Potter to be adorned in Gryffindor colours. Matching wooden bed tables sat alongside the bed and Draco reached over to turn on the muggle lamp that sat atop the unit.
Bathed in a gentle light, Potter had collapsed onto the bed. Without his face scrunched up or glaring at someone, Draco thought the man was rather handsome. The warmth from the lamp softened the harsh scars on his face and made him look younger; more like the age he was instead of what the world had aged him into. Scruffy dark hair fell in disarray around Potter's head and the hint of dark stubble grew on his chin.
Without the wild magic surrounding him, Potter was just another wizard damaged by a war which he had not asked for. Asleep, his face was peaceful and less dangerous than he was when awake. For a very small moment, Draco wondered what it would be like to have Potter willingly surround him with that magic and fall asleep with it around him.
Potter wasn't perfect though, Draco thought as he stared at him. Not by a long shot. He was scarred for one, those vicious lines carving down the right side of his face and if Draco guessed correctly, impacting his vision. He was much too skinny for his height and dark shadows lined his face, evidence of long-term fatigue.
Draco had never taken a lover that wasn't perfect by his own pureblood standards, and it was with regret he watched Potter sleep fitfully. He might even be convinced to relax his own high standards for the right person but getting entangled with Harry Potter was too dangerous for both himself and his son. No, it would do no good to think about any form of a relationship with Harry Potter, no matter how attractive he had grown or how his magic appealed to Draco like no other.
Nevertheless, it was with a tender expression and gentle hands that Draco removed Harry's glasses before he left the room, a small smile playing on his perfectly balanced lips.