A/N: Chapter warnings for; blood, violence, language, implied/referenced suicide attempts,
A bunch of thanks to our beta and feel free to tell us your thoughts on the chapter!
Next update on: 13th August, Friday.
Chapter Thirty Eight
...
"You wanted happiness, I can't blame you for that, and maybe a mouth sounds idiotic when it blathers on about joy but tell me you love this, tell me you're not miserable."
-Richard Siken
…
For the first time in his life, Draco's body is starting to become a problem.
It used to be a point of pride for Draco, his body. It was healthy, fit, it was the accumulation of generations of pure, handpicked genes from both his parents' sides. It always accommodated Draco and his needs.
It used to be agile, stealthy, taken care of. It ran when he wanted it to, it walked, sat, and chased. It breathed. It was in tune.
Now it's just becoming a major hindrance.
Through his and Harry's meticulous care, there is minimal infection to the ghastly wound on his shoulder, but then again, Draco isn't bothered by an infection as much as he is by the pain. Like an itch, on the back of his neck, it's always on his mind.
In the mornings, it's a deep-seated ache, just distant, groggy, trapped in a body that has no sleep.
It's only around noon, and after they've walked for a bit that the pain starts bleeding down his arm, and with every step, there's a jolt.
Step. Jolt. Step. Jolt. Trip. Agony. On repeat.
He wouldn't normally trip as much, if their walking trail wasn't the forest floor, and his feet not hurting. In fact, the pain from the blisters on his feet is nearly tantamount to the jolt in his shoulder.
Harry says that there's not much they can do about the blisters but keeping them clean, and it all makes Draco wonder, what sort of hellish life made Harry an expert in feet blisters. Then the pain rides out his musings almost instantly.
That's what pain does, Draco has found. It just tunes out coherency and drives up the urge to scream.
His body is the thing actively trying to stop Draco. The irony used to be funny, but now it's not even a joke. Just an acrimonious thought, wriggling like a worm.
Harry always notices when he is in pain, no matter how hard Draco tries, and no matter how masterfully he has perfected the art of not wincing with every breath, Harry's face tightens when Draco's breath hitches.
That's even a bigger irony.
If Draco had any energy left in him, he would have found it easier to be mad at the world. But it's been five days.
Five days of constant walking, five days of scarce food, and water, of lying awake once they settle down, with his eyelids basically peeled to his forehead, terrified of blinking. Five days since the truck.
It's been five days since he's had a full night's rest. Now, his math might be faulty, but that is… a lot. A hundred something hours and Draco has only had ten, put together.
The headaches resulting from the insomnia are now a permanent resident in his head, along with the thoughts and the routines.
He's kind of figured it out.
There is an average of two attempts on bad nights, whenever Harry's sleep gets too deep. He struggles for about five minutes after each and then drifts off again.
Some nights, the second, and fourth to be exact, nothing happens, there's some thrashing but that's just nightmares, or so Draco assumes.
Other nights, Draco used the arm of his cloak to tie his good arm to Harry's, so on the occasion that he did end up falling asleep, Harry wouldn't wander away and get himself killed.
Those nights were the bad nights. It was as if his boyfriend was a possessed doll, or a sack of flesh and bones under Imperius. Deceptively strong, unaware of his surroundings, and intent on inflicting maximum damage to himself.
He almost choked Draco the other night, when he tried stopping him from biting his own fingers off.
Harry doesn't make a big deal out of it the next morning. Even as he sees the bite marks on his own fingers and wrists.
It's disconcerting to Draco, the fact that he doesn't even question it.
Harry, of course, isn't aware of Draco's little routine, he just sees him fatigued night after night, begs him to rest and Draco readily agrees, but Harry never stays awake long enough to follow through. He's exhausted all the time.
He's forgetful too. There are times when they have the same conversation several times a day; yesterday, Harry told him about muggle magic boxes like three times. Today marks the fourth.
"So… power goes through magical rope-"
"Wire. They're um… wires are-" Harry shakes his head at him with a smile.
Right. Draco scratches the back of his neck. He supposes that he knew that already, having heard the whole thing thrice before. It's just his brain's refusal to contain anything remotely muggle related.
Harry, none the wiser to Draco's inner meltdown, snaps his fingers, as if that task facilitates remembering any easier. He's refreshed, they've just had some berries from the bushes Draco deemed safe.
He can't bear watching this, this subtle, but the constant struggle that Harry seems to be having with himself. A fight that he doesn't even know he's losing.
Draco cuts in, he's done waiting,"-And it goes to the magic box, and then pictures and the orchestra start playing."
Harry makes a face, "It's not always an orchestra. Sometimes, people just-" then he trails off again.
Like the three previous times. Draco waits with bated breath. He feels nausea bubbling in his throat like a second instinct.
Moments like this, they terrify him. They make him question what the fuck he thinks he's doing. They make him want to crumple and just wish it went away.
He can't watch Harry just waste away like this. He can't be witness to the deterioration of something so fucking brilliant, and amazing. He can't let Harry let himself down, now they've finally reached what they wanted for so long.
What Draco wanted for so long. Because now, now he can just reach out and take Harry's hand, feeling every fucking surface, he can pinch Harry's cheek, or breath in his hair, or tell him things he never dared telling anyone.
After five years, of just constantly fantasizing about it. Draco has that. And Harry wants him to have it. He acts like he's been touch starved all his life, and it's probably because he has been. Harry loves Draco touching him, Draco can see that much in his eyes through the haze of everything else.
He springs at every opportunity to take a hold of him. Like Draco is some boat, or a rock in the middle of the waves and Harry's just hanging on.
It makes him feel loved. It does, and it's such a foreign feeling. Nobody has ever loved him like this before. Loved him when he was disfigured, and unkempt and twitchy. Loved him in spite of how ugly he is on the inside.
But Harry, he looks at Draco like he does. Like Draco is the most fascinating presence he's encountered. And he's just wasting away before Draco's eyes, without even knowing it.
He wants to tell him. He does. It's constantly on the tip of his tongue, but then he thinks, what good will it do?
There's no point in making Harry afraid of himself. There's no point in robbing him of whatever little rest he's getting.
But always, like an afterthought, it's on the tip of his tongue.
'That fucker cursed you. He did. He made you self-destruct because he was a fucking sadist, and he wasn't expecting you to survive,' the words sit there, stuck in his mouth.
They're always there. The words. They just never find an exit.
"Where was I?" Harry muses.
"Orchestra," he says absentmindedly.
Harry gives him a weird look, "Right," he drawls, "it's not always an orchestra. Sometimes, people just talk, you see they have this preassigned dialogue-"
"Harry?" He can't do this anymore. He's heard this three times already, another time isn't going to make a difference. It sets him on edge, talking about something so trivial as television. Trying so desperately hard to bury the elephant.
"Hmm?"
"You never…" He doesn't actually want to know. He'd be content to forget it ever happened. But considering the consequences are so glaringly obvious, he can't not. "You never told me what happened that night."
Harry waits for a beat before answering. "What are you talking about? We talked about Pansy's mom like the other day."
It wasn't the other day. It was last week.
"No," his heart twists, "What happened before I got there?" He can make a pretty good guess.
"Well," Harry says, a forced nonchalance in his voice, "It wasn't a walk in the park. He just took me to this crypt, and then…" He shrugs, "Well, he's a sadistic asshole."
"Right. Right." Draco swallows, Harry clearly doesn't want to remember that night, but it's been five days and he can't leave things up to chance anymore. Knowledge is power. "But… was there anything in particular that stood out? From the curses I mean."
"Figuring out the curses wasn't the highlight of my day, unfortunately." Harry turns his head, his steps slowing as he stares at Draco, concerned. Always so concerned. "What is going on with you?"
"Nothing, just… okay, can you try really hard to remember?" He feels remarkably like Severus right now. Cruel and probing.
"I don't need to try hard. It was just Crucio, cutting curses, punching and kicking while he gloated about some corpse."
"That can't be all," he blurts.
Harry stops walking. "How would you know?"
"No," Draco clears his throat, "All I'm saying is… could there be something else?"
"I don't know. He messed around with my wand a lot, talked about watching me torture myself to death…" Draco is proud of the way he manages to conceal his flinch. Harry continues, oblivious that Draco's world is shattering, "Why do you want to know these things? They're just irrelevant."
"No reason," he says airily, his voice pitching higher. He resumes walking, "Just, you haven't talked about it at all."
"There's nothing to talk about. I was an idiot, it was my idiocy that got me kidnapped. But you saved me."
"That I did."
"You're acting strange," Harry lays a cold hand on Draco's arm. No matter how much Draco bundles him up, Harry's always cold. He can't imagine what kind of havoc it might be wrecking on his already nerve-damaged body.
"No, it's fine. I was just curious, that's all."
"That night isn't pleasant to remember, Draco. It doesn't matter anyway, all that matters is that you saved me, and we're alive."
"You're right," Draco's lips quirk in a smile that's only half fake, "Of course.'
"Stop lying," Harry snaps, "You know I can tell." He takes a deep breath, "If you don't want to tell me, just say so."
"I'm not lying." They've stopped walking again. His breaths are coming faster, "You're the one closing up whenever I dare mention anything about that night."
"I'm not closing up. You're just letting me have my way. You agree with everything I say."
"Well, sorry if we're not roughing around in the hallways like schoolboys anymore, Potter," he says shortly. Draco knows it's the exhaustion making him irritable. He shouldn't take it out on Harry, who's suffering worse than him. But he can't help it. It's already taking up half his willpower to not collapse on the ground and weep.
"I just…" Harry's mouth twists, "I don't want you to treat me differently just because we're dating."
"I'm really not."
"You're right. We're just tired and hungry and…" and cursed and hurt and-
"You okay?"
"Of course I'm okay," Harry frowns, "Actually, I have to pee. I won't take long."
"Okay."
"Actually, wait," he says, his hand moving to one of the robe pockets which had been empty. It's not empty now.
Harry freezes. "Is everything alright?"
"Listen, you were right," his fingers twist in the dark fabric, "I was lying, but not… about that. I know what you said, about not stealing and stuff-"
"Oh my god, please tell me you didn't-"
He did. Two nights ago.
Draco winces, "I found it just laying on the pavement! It had coins," he says lamely.
"And you just took it."
"We're starving. And the guy lost his coin sack anyway," he shrugs. They need it more than whoever lost it, he's sure. He's not guilty about stealing it, he's guilty about upsetting Harry.
"Coin sack?"
"It's like a really flat one," he says. Muggle things, he reigns in a sneer.
"You stole his entire wallet?" Harry's voice has gone high, "How long ago was this?"
"Two days ago."
"So we can't return the wallet. I just…" Harry runs a hand through his hair.
"Harry, we need to eat," he says, and doesn't regret the way his voice cracks, taking on a pleading tone. "I didn't steal it. I found it. It's better than nothing," he encircles Harry's wrists, gently tugging them off Harry's hair.
Harry takes a deep breath and looks up at Draco, "You know what? Yeah, okay. We can go get a few things in the next town. But please just, tell me when you do stuff like this from now on."
"Really?"
Harry sighs, "Yeah. Don't do anything insane while I go pee now, please."
Draco wants to laugh at the absurdity of that statement. He's not the one trying to kill himself at every turn.
"Why is that muggle looking at us like that?"
Harry isn't looking at him, his eyes are narrowed and his lips are pursed, he's looking at the weird-looking jars lining the shelves, but not touching them.
"Harry?" Draco tugs at his sleeve, urgently, as he spares a subtle glance over his shoulder. The old woman is still staring at them. She's so obviously a muggle, that looking at her without cringing proves challenging for Draco. He has never been surrounded by this many of them before.
Harry looks completely at ease. He finally looks up at him, his eyes not askance, but his mouth slightly curled.
"That old woman," Draco whispers, his fingers are still holding onto Harry's coat sleeve, "She's staring at us."
Harry doesn't even glance at the nosy woman, turns back to the jars instead, "She thinks we're going to rob her. Because we look like homeless people, and it's nearly midnight."
Draco doesn't particularly like to be reminded that they are homeless now, the word is taboo, even in his mind. They don't have a home anymore. They slept in a barn, in a laundry shop, and in a park. All they have is the clothes on their backs, their useless wands, and the wallet Draco stole.
It just opens another can of worms. He stole. He's a thief. And homeless. And on the run. Draco Malfoy, the sole heir to an entire line of a pureblood family, is now all those things. And amongst muggles. The woman staring at them is absolutely right in her suspicions.
Everything keeps piling upon his shoulders, and Draco knows that sooner or later, or rather, sooner rather than later, it's all going to explode in an ugly mash of emotions. A splatter of grief, fear and disgust. Marring his insides.
If not before, then he is definitely disowned for life from the Malfoy dynasty. It's ridiculous, considering that he is the sole heir and descendant of said family. But it doesn't make it any less true. He would disown himself, if he had any power in it.
"We have money," he insists to Harry, and then has the most ridiculous urge to march to the woman and show her the wallet. Tell her that he's richer than her and this whole town combined. Tell her that if he wished to, she would be dead on the ground and Draco could have every single item in the store then.
"Just ignore her," Harry grabs his hand, but he's not really paying attention to Draco, not really.
Draco knows why, of course. Harry is used to it, being stared at, being the centre of attention when it's not necessarily a good thing. Draco knows it because he's seen it directed at Harry, and for years, he was somewhat the reason for that attention.
Harry is good at tuning things out. The people, the pain, things in his head that he never speaks about. Things that Draco is dying to know. Thoughts that must run rampant in his mind as he finds every pair of eyes stitched to his forehead.
Last year springs to Draco's mind, the ghostly silence of the Great Hall as Harry's name bursts out of the cup. The skipping beat in his heart, and Harry's absolutely crestfallen face.
He can imagine the thoughts. He thought he could, but now that he knows Harry, he also knows that he has no idea what must have gone through his head at the time.
Utter despair could have been prevalent.
It's all too close.
Harry hums into their meagre shopping basket, "We need to buy a pot too."
It takes Draco a moment to detach himself from the memories, and back to the store, with its buzzing fluorescent lights and Harry, "What?"
Harry points down at the glass jars in the basket. There's about four of them in there, and Draco only recognizes the beans.
"We cannot warm these jars up. They're glass. We also need to boil water at some point," Harry taps his chin, contemplating the row of different pots in front of them. They're polished metal, reflective, not worn like the ones Draco's used to, back at the cottage.
He can see his own reflection, and he can understand why the woman is still staring at them now. Draco looks like a monster. Some boogie man out of a storybook.
He looks like a werewolf. Ragged, torn, dressed in rags, with that badly healed gash running down his face.
Draco wants to rip his own face-off, at times like this. At times like this, he doesn't even know how Harry chose him. How he even keeps a straight face while talking to him.
"...and that's what I'm worried about, but...if we get a small pot, then we need to forget about bread."
Draco jolts himself out of his thoughts once again, squeezes Harry's hand and looks down at their items. It's basically nothing. It should cost...well, Draco has never gone grocery shopping before, but they don't look like they cost this much.
Only four jars. Two of them are beans.
"Why is everything so expensive here?" He mutters with a curse and then looks around. Trust Muggles to have a rotten economy, he sneers in the privacy of his own mind. No wonder they live in destitution.
Maybe he should have stolen more than one wallet. Then again, his confidence in the face of muggles needs severe improvement. It's like two sides of the same coin when it comes to him and muggles; he either can't contain the deluge of hate and disgust that pours out of every pore, or he's like a timid little mouse once encountering them. As if they are some exotic magical creature that might bite if he approaches them without care.
Hagrid's beast of a bird is not a far-fetched comparison to make.
Harry gives him a look, it's a sad look, but he's not sad for Draco. Just in general, "It's not expensive, Draco."
'We're just broke,' remains unsaid after he tapers off.
"We have plenty of coins."
Harry rubs at his temple, "They're worth less than the papers. And we only have nine Pounds on us. That's not much. I wanted to save some as well."
Draco looks away, "I can get us more."
Harry glares at him. "We're not getting more."
Draco swallows down his annoyance. Harry is absolutely illogical. They need the money, the resources, the items in order to survive, in order for Harry to survive. They need it way more than the muggles. They need it, so Draco doesn't feel like absolute shit every single night Harry goes to sleep. So that he can think, over the sound of his own stomach.
"They're muggles, Harry, it's not like they're gonna care that we borrowed-" he drifts off as Harry's stare deepens.
"We're not stealing," he says, resolute, "Can you just go grab some bread? They're by the candy isle."
This time, as Draco walks away from Harry and the isles, he glares back at the muggle hag until she warily looks away.
They have bread. Four jars of canned goods; two beans, one lentil, and one green bean. The money being taut, Harry also managed to get them a small jar of peanut butter, and a water bottle.
Harry can make that last for a week. Maybe even more if they're scarce with the bread. He's used to rationing less. Even though he has never done so whilst walking several miles on foot every day. But it'll be fine.
It'll be fine.
He carefully stashes their grocery in their satchel, cushioning them with their folded, albeit ruined clothes that also protect the potion vials.
Three pain relievers, two nerve soothers, a blood replenisher, a roll of gauze, and just a spoonful of dittany. Harry could have sworn the Dittany was more, but his memory has been funny lately, so he doesn't deem it important enough to mention to Draco.
Draco, who looks ready to drop dead half the time.
Draco, who currently is washing up in a nearby Tesco's loo, while Harry waits outside. They're on the outskirts of town, and it only seems logical to utilize the bathroom available before setting off on the road.
Of course, it really doesn't make a difference to Harry, but Draco is a bit touchy when it comes to stuff like that.
Harry straightens his jacket, throws the satchel sideways on his shoulder, and then reaches for the wallet.
Their budget is... well. None. The wallet is empty other than a few cents in the leather folds. Harry shakes out the remnants of the wallet into his palm, and then quickly walks up to the bin to dispose of the wallet itself.
He hates this. Stealing from others, vagabonding town from town with no other purpose than to head north. They haven't even reached London yet.
Harry would never admit this aloud or let his face show, but deep down, he feels the despair and disbelief that comes with the thought of their journey.
They have to walk all the way to Lincolnshire on foot, whilst also being chased by Death Eaters. With no money and resources.
Harry's heart clenches once and he lets his mask slip.
'How long?' Sirius asks from his right as Harry turns to head back to the Tesco.
"How long, what?" Harry asks back blithely.
'How long can you go on without being on your rooftop?'
"That's the least of my problems right now," Harry says snappishly. His heart clenches at the thought of his rooftop.
'That is ridiculous,' Sirius snaps right back, sounding as annoyed as Harry feels scared. 'It's the most important problem right now.'
"It's an elaborate daydream that I built all by myself. I can mold it, I can change it." Harry narrows his eyes at Sirius, "I can change you."
Sirius doesn't look even remotely threatened, 'Why are you pretending so hard? A part of your mind is rebelling against you.' Harry snorts at the irony, but Sirius continues, 'You need to find out what's fucking wrong.'
"No," Harry looks away from Sirius' frail form. Imaginary Sirius had always been healthy, with colour in his cheeks and no circles under his eyes. Because he was part of the world where everything had gone right. He doesn't look healthy anymore. He looks like he had when Harry had first seen him in the Shrieking Shack. Harry tries not to think too hard about it. "I need to get Draco safely to…"
'It's like your hair being on fire, and you just walking away, stop burying your head in the fucking sand.'
"I'm fatigued."
'There's something wrong. We both know it. Ask Draco.'
Harry blinks. The temptation is strong but the need to protect Draco, to worry him as little as possible is stronger. He always looks halfway to a panic attack. "What has he got to do with any of it?"
'Are you sure he's telling the truth?'
"About what?"
Harry can see Sirius getting more and more agitated. 'About you.'
Harry can feel the first stirrings of anger now. "You don't get to do this, you are a scheme, a facade that I built. You are the least genuine thing about me, you don't get to tell me what is real, and what is not." He hates this. Sirius isn't saying anything on his own, this is all Harry.
He doesn't want to hear these things. Does he? He doesn't know, it's terrifying, but he really doesn't.
'I know you better than he does. Better than anyone else alive. He's lying. You see it, so clearly, everyday… but you're so busy shoving your tongue down his throat-'
"If I wanted to, I can make you stop. I can make all of it stop. You, and Remus and every little part of that stupid game."
'Like you did the rooftop? Or was that not you?'
"Go. Away."
He has a point. He has a point and Harry hates him for it.
Was that him, or not him?
Such a good question.
But the answer is also clear. It wasn't him. He knows it wasn't. He's had his fair share of nightmares, of morbid, disturbing thoughts. Sirius is used to it. Harry is used to it. But that… that thing. It hadn't been his. It hadn't been Harry.
"Go away," he mutters again and sees Draco discreetly making his way to him, his shoulders hunched, and a frown set upon his face.
'This is a mistake,' Sirius shakes his head, but Harry is sick and tired of him. Of Sirius, of himself, of his body and mind alike. He is done with his shit.
He grabs Draco's cold hands in his greeting, and reaches for his face.
"Hey," Draco mutters as Harry's thumb runs over his frown, and smooths the creases.
"Don't frown like that, your skin will crease," he kisses Draco's cheek, right on the scar and feels his throat tighten. He wants to cry so badly. Just sink down on the cold pavement, and wait for someone to come rescue them.
Just someone who would grab his shoulders, and tell him that he doesn't have to do anything anymore.
Instead, Draco hugs him, "All ready to go?" He asks.
"All ready."
They stop in the woods around sunset, they could have camped by the road, but being in the woods has too many advantages; the trees actually lessening the winter's bite, is one of them.
Draco sets up the fire while Harry figures out the food. He figures that he can warm the jars up in the coffee cup they stole a while back, then pour them back in the glass jars for them to eat.
While he's put Draco's portion on the heat to warm up, he notices Draco's gaze on him. Just sort of watching.
Harry smiles at him, but Draco doesn't smile back.
He frowns, "Harry?" He asks, rather timidly, as if Harry is some intimidating beast just waiting for an excuse to snap, "Are you happy?"
Harry's hands pause. Is he happy? What would in the ever-loving world prompt that question from Draco?
Harry doesn't do Happy. Happy is for the Dudleys of this world. For people who get a lollipop for being good, people who are not being chased by an insane murderer, people who can afford peace of mind without crumpling and swallowing down one scream after the other.
People who don't jump off of imaginary rooftops. Would Harry really have done that if he were happy? Maybe. But would it even exist if Harry wasn't… Himself?
Well no. Harry and Happy don't usually mix. Just sometimes. During rare windows of opportunity.
Still, he doesn't feel particularly ready to have that conversation with Draco regarding his state of mind yet. So he feigns a tiny smile, he's good at those and tilts his head.
"What do you mean?" He asks, his voice, much to his relief, is steady, "Happy with what?"
Happiness can be subjective. Harry knows that. He is happy with Ron and Hermione. And he is happy with Draco, more than happy, he is elated. Even though the circumstances could have been better.
But happy? Happy in general?
Draco shrugs, he looks so uncomfortable that Harry is somewhat amused and compelled to change the subject for his sake. But before he can, Draco beats him to it.
"I don't know, just… life," he says, "Are you happy with your life? Do you want to live it?"
Something lodges itself in Harry's throat again. This is hitting too close home. Does Draco know something?
He speaks up before Sirius can butt in, "I… no one's asked that from me before. I suppose I like my life, yeah," to his utter surprise, he's somewhat telling the truth. Because he does like his life, doesn't love it, he's not necessarily living it, but he likes it enough to keep it going.
That has more to do with his survival instincts than affection, but it has got to count. Especially now that he has Draco. His back tingles with phantom pains. He doesn't even twitch.
"You're in it now," he continues, "which is an unexpected bonus, and yes we're being chased by killers, and we don't have anywhere to sleep...but…"
But that's life. Harry's always been abnormal, but that's just a… constant of life, something he's lived with forever. And as he said, Draco's in it now, too.
The song starts playing in Harry's head from the Chorus, right in the middle. He remembers with vivid clarity, the lyrics to Frank Sinatra's 'That's Life', heard on the radio in the car as he was sat on by Dudley, or simply behind the locked door of his cupboard when Petunia was cooking.
It was a relatively popular song, popular enough for an American singer to be on the radio here, from the sixties.
Harry hears it, with a buzz in the back of his head, and it's taking him quite a while to notice Draco's wary expression.
"Shit, I upset you, didn't I?" He looks possessed with his anxiety, but Harry just smiles at him.
"No, I just remembered this song on the radio," and it's still playing in his head in a loop. Harry shakes his head once, twice, to get rid of the tune but can still feel the remnants of it in the back of his head, "But to answer your question, yes, I very much like living my life right now… and once we…"
The lyrics muddle his thoughts, and for one horrifying moment, Harry can't find any words to finish his sentence because there is simply no end to that thought.
Once they do what? For what reason are they walking from one end of England to the other?
Harry opens his mouth, clenches his hand and looks at Draco for assistance and Draco doesn't catch on immediately. There is this tense silence, as That's Life dies in Harry's head and Draco gently lowers his gaze.
"Go to Slughorn," he supplies and Harry slowly nods.
Of course. That's why.
"Yeah, that," he forces himself to chuckle, "Wow, my memory is so funny sometimes."
But he didn't forget. It seems as if he wasn't even aware of it in the first place. Like a glitch, Harry's mind processes what should be a well known fact as new information.
Why are they going to Slughorn? Who put that notion in their heads in the first place. He wants to ask Draco, but the boy looks resolute and that makes Harry reluctant.
What if it is Harry's memory just being funny? That happens sometimes. Maybe he just needs to rest.
"I'm happy," he repeats.
But Draco doesn't look convinced. He actually looks pained. Harry regards him as he slowly reaches for the bubbling beans and grabs it by the lid. It's scorching hot, of course, but Harry is used to dealing with extreme temperatures since he was a kid.
Apparently freaks didn't get oven mittens when cooking. Harry doesn't hold a grudge against it. It's working out in his favor so far.
He delicately reaches for Draco's empty glass jar, and tips the coffee cup down, emptying the contents back into its rightful place.
"Careful," he says as he hands it back to Draco, "It's hot."
Draco reluctantly lowers the beans next to him instead of diving in like Harry thought he would. They hadn't eaten in two days.
He's just staring at Harry, as if searching for answers. But answers to what, Harry doesn't know. When it comes to Draco, Harry's found that there is a plethora of things he doesn't know, and only a platter of the things he does.
He's fascinating to stare at, in fact, Harry has done it numerous times before, but the same action being done to him feels highly unusual.
"Draco?" He asks, hesitantly. Because when people look at him, when they bother really looking, they're usually not pleased with his conduct. Draco doesn't look displeased, he doesn't look like anything actually. Just worn and ragged and exhausted.
"I'm glad that you think so," Draco replies, with a grimace, "That you want to...stay with me. I promise I'll never let anything happen to you."
Harry's trembling fingers are incredibly loose around his own jar of baked beans.
"Why are you acting so strange?" He asks, because he's cold, and exhausted and the air feels tight and Draco's eyes are haunting him.
He can't figure out for the life of him, the expression swirling inside the iris. It's saddening to look at.
Harry must have done something. Something bad, maybe something pitiful again. He's been so tired lately that he didn't bother second guessing his actions around Draco before actually carrying them out.
He can run the routine and be done with it so Draco can go back to eating. The routine is fairly simple; inquire about the trouble he's caused, apologize as profoundly as he can fake it - which isn't necessary with Draco - and stash that action in the naughty box.
"Did I do something?" He inquires. This step is the cringiest one. But it just feels numb this time around. Not because it's not genuine. If anything, Harry found himself being the most sincere when he's around Draco. It's just that his brain feels like lead. And he's hungry.
Draco tries to smile, and finally reaches for his food. "It's just nothing," he takes a small sip of his jar and then looks up at Harry again who is patiently waiting for Draco to uncork the problem. Draco, of course, yields, "I had a nightmare last night."
So it's not something Harry did. That's good. But is it really?
"You never talk about your nightmares," Harry states the obvious, and finally tips his freezing cold meal into the cup to warm up, "and I never wanted to like… intrude on you or anything by asking, but now that we're… do you want to tell me?"
He can do that. He's not good at comforting, because most times, he's the subject of comfort instead of the other way around, which makes him a terrible friend, but the truth is...his friends simply never asked for comfort. They all went through the same thing Harry did and that was that.
His last comforting attempt ended with Draco sobbing in his arms for a full hour.
Not entirely successful, but it's something because Harry is trying, he always tries with Draco.
"Maybe I can help," he says, meekly placing the brimming cup near the flames.
Draco wipes his mouth with his thumb, "I dreamed that I was all alone, and you were um... gone. It wasn't pleasant."
Well, this was a mistake, Harry thinks, because he's not at all equipped to deal with the fear of someone losing him.
He's usually the one afraid to lose other people. Which is fine. Losing Harry will never amount to him losing Draco.
Draco is being foolish, now that Harry has him, now that he is being selfish, he won't be the one letting go. Not willingly anyway. In this respect, Harry is quite similar to a leech.
He's sucking the blood, the life force out of poor victims who either end up dead, or traumatized.
"Well," Harry swallows, "we both know I wouldn't just up and randomly leave, so don't worry about it," he says, and then frowns when Draco's face twists in a strange expression.
He could never leave, even if he wanted to. It doesn't make sense, because logic compels him to stop endangering people. Logic compels him to run when someone kisses him, or hugs him, or tells him that they care. But logic also got him kidnapped and tortured. Twice.
Logic, in Harry's mind, is a shackled, pained being, locked up in the furthest corner of his mind. It only breaks out from time to time, manic, driven insane by Harry's selfish desires. Driven up the wall by Harry's chaos. It blinks for the briefest moment, before being dragged back to hell.
He'll never leave Draco. That will be his downfall. But only logic cares about downfalls and grief.
"I'm here to stay," he continues, then realizes his awful choice of words, "Well not here, specifically, we'll freeze to death, and you know how I've always hated pine trees, well you actually didn't know that, but I do. So I meant it more as a turn of phrase than…"
Draco expression eases into a fond one, and Harry's heart skips a beat. Draco smiles, "Breathe."
But Harry needs him to understand, "I'm not gonna leave."
He went through so much shit to stay. He can't leave. He has to pay for his mistakes, granted, but he won't leave Draco to deal with this mess alone. And while the mess is an ongoing process, then Harry, like the aforementioned leech, is taking the most out of it. Every kiss and touch is being saved in his memory, because he knows that once they make it to safety, Draco will realize his horrendous mistake in risking it all for Harry.
Draco is a moron, honestly. Harry feels guilty when he thinks about it like that, but it's somewhat true. Who would risk anything at all for Harry?
"You're right," Draco scoots to his side, and Harry's chest does the little flutter as always, "it was just a dumb nightmare."
If anyone's an expert on nightmares, it's Harry.
"Nightmares are projections of hidden beliefs," he says. Those are not his own words, they're actually Hermione's, and as usual with Hermione, it came from her reading aloud from the book nestled on her lap whilst Harry miserably lost another chess match to Ron.
Harry vaguely remembers that day. It was a bit before Cedric's demise, or maybe it was right after. Maybe it wasn't that year at all.
That doesn't matter, he convinces his muddled mind. What matters are the words.
Draco had that nightmare, because somehow Harry gave him the impression that he was going to leave.
"You need to hear this, Draco; I will never leave you, if I can help it. What we have now is what I've always been missing in my life."
He sees fervent bubbles merrily frothing on his meal, and reaches to take it off the heat. He avoids Draco's gaze, because he feels somewhat foolish, being this forward with his feelings.
He wonders at what point would Draco burst out laughing at Harry being a cheesy bastard.
Draco doesn't laugh, he actually looks pensive, "But what if you have no choice? What if you're taken, instead of…"
Harry tips back the cup into his jar, and watches with controlled glee as the steaming beans tumble back into their place, "I'll find my way back to you. I promise," he turns his head to Draco, "We'll always find each other. I have the Potter luck."
He slurps on the jar, and immediately feels the relief flooding in his body, the relief that comes in the absence of hunger. The relief that he used to associate with September first. When he got to eat after the entirety of summer.
They eat in silence for approximately fifteen seconds, before Draco looks up again, "He wants you dead."
Harry's first response, had he no tact, would have been 'Welcome to the fucking club, dearest,' but he refrains from downplaying Draco's seemingly legit fear.
The thing is, they view Voldemort as two different entities, Harry, against his best judgment, isn't scared of that bastard, he's just agitated and taken aback by attempts made on his life. Draco's association with Voldemort is a vastly different one. He witnessed his own mother's death while the man watched and laughed. Well, technically, so did Harry, but their situations couldn't have been more different.
Draco is scared. Harry is fed up.
"Everyone does, at some point," he means it as a reassurance, "I've been holding out so far, have some faith in me."
Draco's hand grabs onto his arm, and Harry privately cherishes the touch. Like a touch starved cat, he finds it absolutely thrilling to receive these casual touches from Draco.
"I…"
"Come on," Harry cuts in, "let's finish up and get some rest. You look like a raccoon."
Draco startles back, looking offended before slumping. Harry laughs and resumes eating his beans. He remembers this rush. Of eating warm food after going so long without. It never fades.
After a few moments, Draco speaks up again, "I wish we had enough money for forks at least," he picks at his beans forlornly, wrinkling his nose at his stained fingers.
"Come on," Harry grins, wriggling his own fingers at Draco, "Eating like savages is fun."
"My parents would faint if they saw me like this." Draco's lips are twitching. But at the mention of Draco's parents, Harry's grin drops. He forgets, sometimes, how different all this is for Draco. Harry has never been on the run before, but he's certainly eaten with his hands. And starved and ran himself down to exhaustion and dealt with violent muggles and been without his magic. Unlike Draco.
"I'll find you cutlery if I can," he says, trying to cheer Draco up.
"You can do it with the next wallet I- don't make that face. You know we need the money."
Harry places his makeshift plate on his lap. "But it's stealing."
"You staying alive is enough compensation for them. You defeated You-Know-Who, saved their asses for ten years…"
"That's selfish, Draco," Harry cuts him off.
"Then be selfish!" Draco bursts out, "Harry, if there's anyone in this world who has the right to be selfish, it's you."
Harry purses his lips. He doesn't want to be selfish, but Draco is suffering with him. And money would help. A lot. It'd make things infinitely easier. "We don't take wallets," he concedes, feeling horrible, "Just the money."
"Okay," Draco agrees quickly, a brilliant smile taking over his face, one which makes Harry feel just a little less awful.
Harry smiles back, but continues, he has to draw the line somewhere, right? "And not every wallet we find, just-" his eyes widen.
Fuck.
"What?" Draco asks, leaning forward in his worry. "What is it?"
"Fuck." He has a giddy feeling rising in his chest, a hopeful little flame. Fuck fuck, this would make things so much better. He's such a moron. Of course Draco couldn't have come up with this idea. Why hadn't he thought of it earlier? If they're going to steal, they should at least make it worthwhile.
"What, Harry?!" Draco is getting increasingly agitated and Harry flashes him the brightest smile he's given in the last two days.
"We can buy train tickets. We can... we don't have to walk if we have money."
Harry had only been gone for two minutes. Two minutes. Draco is terrified of letting him out of his sight, he knows. It's somewhat odd, being subjected to it, but Harry understands. The fear is logical.
So he'd assumed Draco would be waiting right outside the restroom when he emerged.
He isn't there.
'Calm down,' Sirius tells him, and of course he can't. Every time something like this happens, it means things are going wrong. Draco won't leave him alone like this.
Still, panicking won't help, so he tries to look around a bit before going bat shit crazy. Just because Draco isn't right in front of the restroom doesn't mean he's been kidnapped by Death Eaters.
Things seem normal. Harry hadn't even heard the crack of apparition, not a car passing, no struggle, no magic, and also, they wouldn't leave without Harry.
The entire point of Harry was being screwed over by Voldemort one way or another.
He slowly walks around, straining his ears and narrowing his eyes under the dim, flickering street lights.
He freezes when he hears Draco's voice from the next turn in the alley. Why the fuck would he go there? Dark, isolated alleys are like red flashing warning signs. Especially for people like them.
Nothing good ever happens in dark allies. People get mugged in a dark alley, or they fuck in a dark alley. Sometimes both happen. Never anything good.
"What are you looking at, Mongrel?"
Harry clutches the strap of their bag tighter, wishing he could use his wand and creeps closer.
"You're one ta' yap, ain't you, rich boy?" His blood turns to ice at the sound of the other voice. Rasping, slurring, loud. Threatening. Exactly the kind of guy Harry would definitely steer clear of. What in the world is Draco thinking?! Provoking someone like him?
"Get lost, Muggle," Draco drawls, sounding for all the world extremely bored with the interaction. But Harry knows him better now, and can hear the strain of fear in his voice.
"Lost eh? Why do tha' when I find good meat?"
Almost not daring to breathe, Harry peaks around the wall to take in the scene. The muggle's back is to Harry, with Draco standing opposite him, arms crossed and eyes pinched slightly, nose wrinkled. He doesn't notice Harry.
"Fuck off, mudblood. This is your last warning."
Harry turns his attention back to the muggle. A thin, lanky guy swamped in some ratty clothes which don't seem like they help against the cold much. His hair is long enough to reach his shoulders and hacked off haphazardly at places.
But what really catches Harry's attention is the silver glint at the man's right. A silver glint Draco hasn't noticed.
The muggle is laughing and Harry shifts. A knife that big would be useful, he thinks absently as he reaches into the bag, his fingers closing around the cool glass jar. One he's just rinsed in the restroom. It's still slightly damp on the outside and filled with water.
Harry swallows thickly and slips the bag off his shoulder, gripping the jar with both hands so it doesn't fall from his shaking hands.
Harry is ready when the man lunges at Draco. Harry is closer to the man than the man is to Draco and that makes all the difference.
His legs cramp with pain at his sudden lunge, but he ignores it and swings his arms as hard as he can. The man never sees him coming. Someone yells, and then there's a loud, sickening crack and glass shatters all over the man's head and the cracked pavement.
He doesn't wait, just runs over to Draco and grabs his arm, "Are you okay?!"
Draco splutters, not moving, staring at the unmoving man near them, crumpled on the ground. "I...I.."
Harry grits his teeth and yanks Draco forward, bending down once to pick up the knife from the man's limp fingers. The ground around the man's head is damp in a puddle of water and blood. He scoops up their bag and then breaks into a run. Draco lagging behind for the first few seconds before coming to his senses and picking up speed.
All through their mad dash, Harry's fingers stay curled around Draco. Even as they start cramping and seizing, Harry doesn't relent in his grip. If he can take multiple cruciatus curses a day, he can definitely handle one uncooperative hand.
They run for a good five minutes before Harry sees another restroom up ahead. He flings the door open and shoves Draco inside, following him in before he braces himself against the door.
"What the FUCK were you thinking, Draco?" he pants.
Draco is still looking a little shell shocked, staring at Harry's hands. "He was just a muggle..."
"He had a bloody knife!" Harry yells, or tries to. He doesn't have enough breath in his lungs to really raise his voice. "If I weren't there, that same muggle would have jabbed you in the guts." For emphasis, he waves the knife around. Draco winces.
"For the love of the heavens, Draco…" Harry whispers, his voice falling further as pain and exhaustion hit him all at once, the adrenaline leaving. "You need to stop underestimating muggles. He could have killed you." He rubs a hand against his eyes. His arms are soaked through upto the elbows and even the front of his shirt is wet. He probably shouldn't have used a jar filled with water. He's cold.
"Why did he attack me?" Draco demands, crossing his arms in an effort to look stern. He just looks scared.
"Why? Because he's homeless like us! And because we have supplies. We have a bag, coat, and canned food. He's in the same shit pit as us, except in his eyes, we're better off."
Draco uncrosses his arms, his shoulders slumping wearily. "I didn't know that."
"You need to be careful, okay?" Harry steps closer, "Draco, I can't lose you. I can't lose you like this."
"Don't you think I feel the same way?"
"Well," Harry says, his heart finally slowing down a little. He looks away, "You don't see me goading muggles into stabbing me, do you?" He sucks in a breath, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, let's just... let's just go."
He quickly takes off the damp sweater he's wearing, and puts the coat back on. They'll need to get it dry soon. His hands are trembling from more than just the nerve damage or cold. He keeps thinking the wetness is from blood.
"I'm sorry," Draco says, watching Harry shake out his arms to relieve some of the pain. It doesn't help.
"So am I." Harry sighs, he stows away the knife in one of the several pockets of his coat. "I'm keeping the knife. Come on."
They're tense right up until the moment they find the train station. It's comparatively small, but bigger for a town this size. Big and busy, which is perfect for those who want to blend in.
Since the directions are pretty clear, and Draco would die in the next two minutes if he doesn't piss, Harry departs to buy their tickets.
Draco doesn't want to watch him go, but after the whole debacle with the homeless muggle man, he's somewhat sure that Harry can handle himself just fine. It's Draco, who's the liability here.
His eyes follow Harry's body amongst the swarm of people until he sees the bathrooms from the corner of his eyes.
Draco shifts the bag on his shoulder, and nudges the bathroom door open with his foot. The stalls are empty, it's a relief. Having a fucking moment to himself.
He nearly got stabbed by a muggle man. That is hysterical. His father is surely rolling in his grave, and his mother's probably too disappointed to react.
He nearly got stabbed. He's a fucking idiot.
Draco deposits their satchel on a clean looking faucet, takes care of the business, and laughs at the absurdity of his life in short intervals.
Fucking idiot, what would have they done if he'd gotten stabbed?
Draco hurriedly digs out the knife Harry stole from the man, wraps it in generous wads of toilet paper and dumps it in one of the stalls.
He doesn't need Harry to get hold of that knife for long, and it's not as if he'll remember there was even a knife involved later on.
Draco's lungs clench. He breathes.
His hands grip either side of the faucet in such a tense manner, that for a second, Draco is worried that it'll give away under his hold.
He can't really bring himself to care.
He just doesn't. He doesn't care about the dimmed, flickering light in the public bathroom even though it's probably exacerbating his headache, and he doesn't care about the godawful smell.
He grips the sink, and stares at his own unkempt reflection in the dirty mirror. His grimy face, the jagged scar that can't be hidden with a glamour no matter how hard he wants it too, his hair disheveled and unwashed and terrible.
He disgusts himself. Every time he looks at his own reflection through window shops and passing cars. When he's gazing at a face he can't escape right now.
It's eye-opening. Draco isn't the handsome, elegant heir of a pureblood family anymore. He's a homeless twat, running for his life, without access to his magic.
In essence, he's a muggle.
He's no different than a man who wanted to kill him.
Just a muggle.
He's not even a good one, having almost been stabbed by another homeless twat just that evening if Harry hadn't come to his rescue.
He shakily exhales at himself and then closes his eyes. Timeless words are swirling inside his head; the soft croon of his mother's singing as she combed his hair, him completely looking over a bubbling cauldron with his tiny body as Severus gently read the instructions.
'Crushed brown beans, do you have them? Good, then stir it twice, counterclockwise. That's the opposite of how a clock moves.'
And his father, in the library, the night before he went to Hogwarts for the first time. His hair was braided over his left shoulder, his cane leaned against his armchair. Draco stood before him with a raised chin and straightened shoulders.
'You are not just another boy, son. You are the face of a dynasty.' His eyes were like Draco's, blue and grey, but with an intimidating gleam that at his age, Draco yearned so hard to achieve. 'You will look your best at all times, you will behave your best at all times. You will make me proud.'
There's a bile in his throat, and Draco feels tears of shame slipping out of his clenched eyes.
He didn't make them proud. He didn't do anything with his life, he didn't look his best, he didn't do his best. And now it's too late.
They're both gone.
Draco is glad they can't see him like this. Stealing, eating out of bins, mingling with muggles who are better off than him.
He opens his eyes eventually. He knows Harry is bound to return any second now. He doesn't want his boyfriend to see him crying in the bathroom again. Draco doesn't have a nice track record of that.
He stares at himself again, and wipes his face with both hands.
It's good that they're gone. Draco could have never been what they wanted from him. He tried, merlin knew that he did but it just never got him anywhere.
He pushes the images away just as the bathroom door clicks open. Harry's head peaks in, messy haired and glasses crooked as always.
He smiles as he pads closer to Draco as if nothing has happened, as if everything is okay, and Draco softly smiles back.
"Look what I got us," there's a crinkling sound as Harry withdraws a packet of unopened crisps from his coat, "it was on some bench near the maps."
Draco nods and they both look away. Harry gently grabs his arm and leans up for a kiss, over his scar. "I also have a tiny surprise for you," he whispers and a tiny spark goes through Draco's chest amongst the clumps of agony.
"Surprise? The tickets?"
"I got those. This is a special surprise."
Harry nods his head for reassurance, and slips his hand in his pocket again, and Draco's eyes narrow in confusion as Harry shows him the tiny tubes.
"Mini shampoo!" Harry declares, "Saw them in the utility booth near the gift shop. Fifty cents, two tubes, great deal."
Draco surveys the shampoo with contemplating eyes. They're too meager for them both. When he points this out to a jubilant Harry, he just shrugs. "My hair is low maintenance," he chuckles.
"Are you sure?"
He waves him off, and starts taking off his coat, "Do you…" Harry shyly drapes the coat over his arm, "Do you want me to wash your hair? You don't want it touching that faucet and I just thought that maybe-"
Harry's hands in his hair, and actual shampoo? Draco must have died and found heaven. "I would love to," he interjects before Harry can work himself into a state.
Harry rolls up his sleeves, and drops the coat on top of their bag set in the adjacent sink. Draco's eyes linger on the bandaged wrist.
The water tap turns with a load crank, and Draco has to patiently crane his head under the tapering stream without touching any surfaces.
He can't stop thinking about his parents, and his brilliant bathtub, and even the shower in Shell Cottage as Harry meticulously opens up the shampoo tubes.
Draco's shoulders tense as the thoughts become even more intrusive, pushing and prodding every pore in his brain that is resisting the deluge of memories.
It all stops when Harry's hands are in his hair.
Draco's eyes briefly open, and his breath catches as Harry very carefully starts raking his hand through Draco's hair, making sure the water gets everywhere.
"You know I hadn't noticed," Harry says, "but your hair has been getting longer," his fingers, unsteady but firm, scrape against his scalp and Drape shudders. His shoulders drop on their own violation.
"I like it long like this," Harry smiles, his face is a bit lowered next to Draco's, "I know I'm not one to talk when it comes to hair, but I like yours like this. More natural without all that gell."
Harry didn't like the gell? Well, that was somewhat news to Draco. He's actually never thought about it before, not in depth, bent over a public restroom's sink like this.
Did Draco even like putting products in his hair in the first place? It was just something that he did. Part of the routine. He never thought about whether he actually liked it that way. It was just efficient, because his hair was delicate, too much work to maintain.
Harry's fingers work magic with his hair, they rinse Draco's hair with just water, and then he hears the shampoo tube squeezing cool gell on top of his hair.
He longs for a proper shower so badly. Even so, he wishes for a shower with Harry, like this.
The shampoo has a woodsy smell Draco can't quite place, and foams easily. His legs feel weak in the knee as Harry massages his scalp with the tips of his fingers.
This feels amazing. This feels so unbelievably good to Draco, that for a second, he almost forgets to breathe.
"Tell me if the water is too cold," Harry's voice is world's away, as Draco rejoices and drinks up every instance of this moment in his mind.
Washing up in a public restroom shouldn't feel this good, it's almost sinful. And it's not because of the hair wash, or the shampoo- though Draco very much appreciates it- No. It's because of Harry.
He just makes things better like this.
His parents most definitely wouldn't be proud of him right now, but Harry is. He's just so accommodating, and so kind and so understanding.
And he has amazing hair washing techniques. Draco wonders what Harry's hair would look like if he put this amount of dedication into his own moppy nest of hair.
Harry turns the tap back on again, and cold water rushes out the shampoo suds, out of Draco's hair, chased by the water, and Harry's fingers. Every bundle of tension is gone from his body, his neck doesn't even mind the awkward angle, and he doesn't smell like shit anymore.
Harry is thorough with the rinsing, he washes Draco's hair twice, which uses up all of their shampoo supplies, but he says he doesn't mind and he really sounds like he means it.
Draco, though he wants to feel that euphoric again, he wonders if washing Harry's hair, instead of being on the receiving end of it, will produce the same emotions. He doesn't even have to think about it long.
It would be absolutely amazing and he vows to do it immediately upon their safety. He'll give Harry's hair-and body, no need to restrain himself- the treatment he thinks Harry should be getting.
Harry combs his hair with his fingers.
"Okay now you gotta waddle to the hand dryer," He helps Draco's tilted head out of the sink and to the strange device mounted on the wall.
"It blows hot air, don't freak out," Harry says.
The device does make a strange wheezing noise, but the hot air is appreciated, it wouldn't do good for either of them to get a cold in this weather.
Draco faintly mourns Harry's fingers as he shakes his own hair dry, whilst Harry is washing his face and hands in the sink, with wads of damp paper towel in his hands.
"Aren't you going to wash your hair?" Draco asks when he really should have been asking 'Can I also wash your hair for you even though I'm sure it would not nearly feel the same?'
Harry looks at him from the corner of his eyes once he's finished wiping his forehead with the damp toilet paper and pulls at his hair.
"Maybe they do need a wash."
"Can I help?"
Harry runs the shampoo tubes under the tap, lets them fill up before closing the lid. He gives one a good shake, then hands it to Draco, who is once again looking at their reflection in the mirror.
He looks a bit better now, but more importantly, Draco is feeling a lot better. Because of Harry.
His parents would never approve of him dating Harry Potter. Just as they wouldn't approve of a bunch of other things he's done for Harry, but Draco realizes an interesting fact.
He loves his parents dearly, even though a part of him still blames them for all this misfortune, but they're dead. They don't need to approve of him washing up in a little bathroom with Harry Potter washing his hair.
Not when Harry smiles at him in the mirror, and turns for a kiss.
And not when his own hands are in Harry's messy hair.