The room was truly distasteful, in Draco's opinion, but for seventy galleons per month he couldn't have asked for much more. Not only was the decor awful and overdone, but the room smelled like stagnant water. As far as Draco could tell there was no water in the room, but that didn't make it smell any better. As he unpacked his things he thought about asking Potter if he could redecorate his room, make it a bit less atrocious. The thought of Potter reminded Draco of how he'd touched his shoulder earlier. The small gesture had sent an uncomfortable shiver up his spine. He struggled to wrap his mind around it. Potter's hand on his shoulder shouldn't have made him feel anything at all, except perhaps the urge to flinch, but that hadn't been his reaction. Draco repeated the advice his father had given him years ago in his mind and ignored any thoughts aside from that.
Cosmos began pecking at his cage, and Draco realised that he'd been in there for far too long. Crossing his room, he opened Cosmos' cage and watched as he flew happily around the room, finally landing on Draco's shoulder.
"I'm sorry I kept you cooped up like that," Draco said sweetly to the bird. Cosmos bumped Draco's nose, a gesture he was coming to love more and more every time the owl did it. Draco took the bag of owl food and poured a handful on top of the old and worn looking dresser. Only after he'd poured the food did Cosmos hop down from Draco's shoulder and begin eating ravenously. It made Draco giggle, watching the owl eat; it looked as though he was banging his head against the dresser every time he pecked up a piece of food.
After opening the window to let Cosmos out for fresh air, Draco collapsed on the large bed against the wall. The pillow reeked of mildew. He made a mental note to purchase a new one, as this one seemed to be past the point of redemption, anyway. He was tempted to request a different one from Potter, but his pride prohibited it. It was embarrassing enough that he was forced to live with the man. He wasn't about to request anything extra. Instead, he grabbed a satin button up from his trunk and transfigured it into a small, silky throw pillow. He made some attempts to remove the remaining mildew smell from the mattress and blanket and curled up on the bed.
Draco hadn't realised how exhausted he was until he woke to the sound of rapping on his door. Feeling soreness in his back and neck, he got up from the uncomfortable bed and opened the door.
"I'm tossing out that useless excuse for furniture," he grumbled to a puzzled Potter, who just stood there looking awkward until Draco exclaimed, "what?"
"Oh, er," Potter looked thrown off, but quickly regained the little composure he usually carried. "Kreacher is probably going to have dinner ready in a moment, so I thought I should probably let you know."
"Oh." Draco probably should have felt bad for his rudeness, but his brain was still too fogged with sleep and the irritability of being woken up to really care.
"If you'd prefer, you can eat in here," Potter said, crossing his arms in blatant unease. Draco's nose had become used to the aged, moist smell of the room, but he did think it would be nice to step out for a while. It was cramped, and there was nothing to do in there. As a plus, he could use this as an excuse to tease Potter. There was something intensely satisfying about seeing the vexed expression Potter wore whenever Draco would have a go at him.
"I'll eat in the dining room, if my presence won't be too hard for you to stomach," he said sarcastically.
"Actually, I thought we could eat in the drawing room," Harry said, seemingly unbothered by Draco's unnecessary remark. "I haven't worked on the dining room yet. Besides the dining room is so huge, and it's just the two of us anyway."
"Worked on?" Malfoy questioned, bothered by Potter's lack of response to his prodding.
"Yeah. The house used to belong to Sirius's family, but it hasn't been used since…" Potter paused and looked hesitant, but finally settled on, "since last year." Malfoy took this to mean the time Potter spent in hiding. He had briefly heard about the place when his father and his friends were searching for Potter. It dawned on Draco that this was probably where he'd stayed during that time.
"So you were staying here, then?" Draco asked under his breath. He hadn't really meant to say it aloud.
"Yes," Potter replied tersely, squinting at him with something akin to suspicion. "So anyway, it hasn't been fixed up since basically before Sirius's parents last lived here."
"I thought the Order of the Phoenix used this place as base?" Draco asked, both curious and confused. "How come they didn't fix it up?"
"Didn't really have the time. We were too busy sorting through all the nuts rubbish the Blacks kept. Not to mention, Kreacher was rather unhelpful at the time."
"...Right," Draco said. Apparently they hadn't done a good job of the whole sorting thing, seeing how much 'nuts rubbish' was still left over. "Dinner?" he asked blandly.
"Oh, yeah." Harry led the way to the drawing room, which was one door down. That would be good to know, as it had a rather large book shelf and he'd been missing his books at the Manor. A tapestry on the far wall caught Draco's eye and he found himself approaching it with slow steps. The writing along the top announced 'The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.' Draco looked at all of the faces of his relatives. He thought that it was odd that some of the faces had been burnt from the fabric, but before he could ask Potter why this was, the name Malfoy caught his eye. Tracing the line down from his mother and father, he caught sight of his own face staring back at him in a fabric reflection.
"What is this monstrosity?" he asked in outrage.
"It's the Black Family Tree," Potter said from right behind him, startling Draco a bit by how close he was.
"Obviously," Draco retorted with a scoff. "I meant this." He pointed to his face on the tapestry. "Tell me that's not what I look like. If it is, then every mirror I've ever looked into has clearly been enchanted to protect me from my own hideousness." Potter laughed, a thick sound that somehow set Draco's nerves on edge. "It's not funny!" he insisted, trying to ignore the sudden swooping feeling in his abdomen. "I demand to know who created this abomination." Potter continued to laugh, harder even. In spite of himself, Draco felt the sneer on his face begin to transform into a small smile.
"If you haven't noticed," Potter said through his laughter. "Everyone on the tapestry looks ridiculous. At least your ugly face is on there at all, though I'm not sure that counts as a positive thing." Draco released a sound of displeasure, but was soon laughing right along with Potter.
"Oh please, you know I'm absolutely gorgeous," Draco retorted, fluttering his eyelashes dramatically, hands on his hips. "Nobody can deny that the Malfoys are good-looking."
Potter merely shrugged and replied, "If you say so. I only meant that some of the people have been burned off."
"I was wondering about that." Draco ran a thin finger over the mark where Andromeda's face should have been, frowning. "Andromeda's been taken off and so has your godfather."
"Oh yeah, those are apparently the people that really ticked Sirius's mum off." Draco couldn't help but notice the slight tone of disapproval that coated Potter's voice, despite his attempt to seem nonchalant. "Speaking of her, be careful not to make too much noise on the ground floor. She's got a portrait that screams. Although, I'm not sure she'd be bothered by you, to be honest. At least, not as long as Phineas Nigellus hasn't told her anything about you, which he might've by now."
"Why not just take the portrait down if it bothers you so much?" Draco asked honestly. Potter rolled his eyes.
"You're welcome to try." Draco didn't understand, but Potter seemed as though he'd rather drop the topic.
"Masters," a harsh voice said from behind them. The two of them turned and Draco spotted a small, old, creepy looking house elf standing near the piano. "Dinner is served."
"Thanks, Kreacher," Potter said kindly as the elf set two plates of food and two bottles of butterbeer on the table between the couches. "Ah. he's already starting to know my tastes."
"Why do you bother talking to that repugnant thing?" Draco asked, thinking back on all the times his parents had told him not to speak to the elves as a child. They always referred to them as 'the help,' and said that no Malfoy should ever stoop so low as to converse with them. "He looks like he's old enough to have been acquainted with Salazar Slytherin's house elves. Put the horrid thing out of his misery already." Potter shot a mean look at Draco, but didn't respond.
They sat down across from each other on the matching black couches. Draco tried to avoid any of the rips exposing the innards of the couch, but it was difficult to do with how many there were. Potter seemed to notice his struggle, however, and hastily performed a repairing spell.
"There. Sorry, I haven't gotten to fixing up a lot of the furniture yet," he explained. "I've only just started in here, honestly." He looked up and Draco followed his gaze, his eyes landing on the cracked ceiling. Sighing, Potter returned to his food and Draco followed suit.
"While we're on the subject of repairs," Draco started, looking around at the faded floral wallpaper and weathered book spines, "I'm going to be redecorating a bit in my room. It stinks and it's disgusting, falling apart at the seams, practically."
"Be my guest," Potter replied, and Draco was surprised at his lack of resistance. This was, after all, Potter's house and very likely his permanent home, at that.
"Really?" Draco raised his eyebrows, half expecting Potter to change his mind.
"Yeah, have at it. I haven't really done much with the place. Honestly, I'm just happy if I can get it to look like someone actually lives here and I don't know the first thing about decorating." That much was obvious to Draco. Half of the house looked like some baroque-era, posh old hoarder had owned it. The other half looked as if an old squib woman had attempted to redecorate it with a blindfold over her eyes. Potter gave him an encouraging smile and once again, Draco felt an uncomfortable twinge in his stomach. "Besides, if I really don't like it, I suppose I can just change it back after you leave."
"As if, my decorating skills are superb. You'll soon be asking me to take my wand to the rest of the house, I'm sure." Potter rolled his eyes and the two began eating in silence.
All of this was very strange to Draco. Not half a year ago, he and Potter were on opposing ends of a war, and now they were sitting eating dinner as if none of that had ever occurred, as if they hadn't spent seven years loathing each other and making frivolous plans to get the other in some sort of trouble. It was disconcerting to Draco. Almost all his adolescence, it was something he could rely on, one thing that remained steady while the rest of the world shifted from under his feet: he and Potter were enemies. That was a fact. Potter, however, seemed to think otherwise, and it was unnerving. The whole situation━living with Potter, dining with Potter, laughing with Potter, not hating every single moment with Potter━was unnerving. Part of Draco was glad for the change, but it was also somewhat terrifying. He had no idea what would happen in the period of time that the Ministry had claim of his childhood home, and he had no idea what was happening between him and his supposed nemesis. All he knew was that, as he found out more about Potter, he didn't seem to resent his situation as much.
Draco's mind was wandering, and as it did he thought about all the times Potter had been able to find him, no matter where he was, back when they were in school. He took a bite of the cheesy mash before him and wondered why that was. Potter had been borderline stalker back in school, and it made no sense to him. After several long moments stewing on that question, he couldn't hold it back any longer.
"You were stalking me," he said accusingly at Potter, who froze half way between putting his fork in his mouth.
"Excuse me?" Potter said with wide eyes.
"At Hogwarts. You were stalking me. How?" Potter raised a single eyebrow.
"Don't flatter yourself, Malfoy," he said, lacking the usual sass he normally would've used. "I'm not sure I'd call it stalking. More like… making sure you weren't up to anything shifty. Seeing as you constantly were, I consider myself justified." Draco didn't agree one hundred per-cent, or even fifty per-cent, with Potter's use of the word 'constantly,' but he had to admit that he had been up to some rather nasty things in his time at school. Instead of commenting on that fact, however, he steered the conversation back to his original question, determined to know the answer.
"You still haven't explained how you knew what I was doing all the time. I know you were trying to get into the Room of Requirement when I was in there during our sixth year. How did you even know I was in there?"
"Oh, erm . . ." Potter suddenly looked embarrassed. Pink heat began to trail up from the collar of his t-shirt, spreading up to his lightly bronzed cheeks, but he continued in the same composed manner. "I spent a lot of time in the Room of Requirement with Dumbledore's Army, if you don't recall. I noticed that you didn't show up on . . . I mean, you didn't show up to Quidditch matches and such, and I knew you were up to something, so I— well, I had a couple of elves tail you. I wasn't wrong about you doing sketchy stuff, was I?" He blurted out defensively as Draco suddenly burst out laughing.
"You sent a couple of elves to follow me because I didn't show up to Quidditch matches?" He couldn't help himself. It was absurd. "I think I'm justified in calling that stalking."
"Again, I wasn't wrong." Potter continued to defend himself. "All those years of getting into dangerous situations taught me to trust my gut." He scowled as Draco continued to guffaw, wiping his eyes.
"Oh, shut up, Malfoy. It's not like you didn't act the same way. I must say, you dedicated a lot of time to coming up with lame taunts, trying to get under my skin." It was Draco's turn to be embarrassed, but he was quicker to come up with a scathing retort.
"Oh sure, a few good pranks are comparable to hiring private investigators against me," he shot back, ignoring the warmth in his face and abdomen. "I find it odd, though, how your gut feelings inevitably led you to me, every time without fail. Perhaps in the future you might think to ignore your gut. Some might call you a little obsessed." And with that, Draco gave a small smirk and a lift of his pale eyebrows, stepped away from his finished plate, and swept out of the room.
The next several days had Harry wondering whether the other man was right. Was I really obsessed with him? Shaking his head he decided that no, he was not obsessed with Malfoy, not now, and not in school. Well, alright… in school, maybe, but not now. And his obsession in school had been founded on logic; Malfoy really had been up to no good, and Harry was determined to ensure that nobody was affected by Malfoy's bad decisions. Now, however, there was really no reason for him to be concerned about what happened to Malfoy. At least, he thought so. But when he delved further into the reasoning behind his actions of late━something that was unavoidable, now that he was alone━he realised that he cared for Malfoy, and he cared about what happened to him. Why he did, he blamed on the fact that he felt pity for the once-upon-a-time malicious man and that they'd grown friendlier towards each other in the short time since Malfoy had come to stay. Well, maybe not friendlier, but Malfoy's rude quips weren't nearly as irritating as they used to be.
Living with Malfoy had been easier than Harry had originally expected. Malfoy usually kept to himself, sometimes in his room, but often Harry would catch him back in the drawing room, curled up on one of the chairs with a heavy volume from one of the bookcases in his lap. Harry didn't know exactly what he had expected from Malfoy. He supposed that his snide humour should have grated on his nerves, as it so often had when they were in school, but either because Harry had gotten used to it or because Malfoy had been less antagonistic, Harry found himself less nettled by the small jabs that Malfoy more than occasionally directed at him. The only thing that really bothered him was that Malfoy still clung to his old prejudices, and Harry had to remind him on several occasions not to use the term 'mudblood' around him.
Sighing, Harry looked around the drawing room, which he'd been unconsciously spending more time in since their first dinner together. The rips in the sofas that Malfoy had accidentally made Harry feel embarrassed about three days prior stuck out to him. The quality of the furniture was hard not to notice with how bad of condition they were in.
"God, this place is a disaster," he said. Taking his wand from his trousers pocket, he began fixing up the couches, stopping to manually stuff the foam back behind the rips now and then. Once that was finished he charmed them from their dreary black to a medium grey colour. Satisfied with his handiwork, he patched up the cracked ceiling paint and did his best to restore the faded oriental rug to a nicer state.
Harry turned in alarm as a loud thud sounded, followed by the sound of screaming. Apparently Malfoy had finally upset Walburga Black's portrait. To Harry's surprise, however, her echoing cries died out, making way for the soft sounds of conversation. She was evidently never informed of Malfoy's treachery, then. Harry left the drawing room and quietly made his way to the landing of the stairs, peeking down to the ground floor below. Malfoy was standing by the painting, picking up the troll's leg umbrella stand he had knocked over and conversing casually, despite the look of shock still fading from his features. Harry continued to observe curiously, not daring to get any closer for fear that Sirius's mother would spot him and begin her howling again. Harry made a mental note to get rid of that grotesque umbrella stand, since it seemed to be the main cause of the portrait's upset.
"My apologies, Mrs. Black," Malfoy said politely. "I didn't mean to startle you." Harry was sure he'd never heard Malfoy speak so kindly to another person in his life, and he found himself not disliking the sound of his voice when he wasn't being snide.
"Not to worry. I only thought that you might be some of the scum that's been hanging around my house as of late. Disgusting, treasonous beings. I must ask, though, what would bring a young Malfoy like you here?" Mrs. Black's tone changed from disdain to delighted curiosity. "Did Bella send you? Goodness, I hope she has the place now. I could hardly stand it, knowing that my good-for-nothing blood traitorous son had returned. I wanted Regulus to inherit the house, but, well…"
"Oh, erm…" Harry understood Draco's hesitation. How do you explain to a raving painting that one of her favourite family members had passed away at the hands of the enemy? "She— that is to say, er… I'm surprised that nobody has informed you, Mrs. Black, but Bellatr━"
"Pst!" Harry interrupted. Malfoy's eyes met his and Harry motioned for him to come up the stairs.
"I've got to go, I'll talk to you later," Malfoy said hurriedly to the portrait, and shut the curtain in her face before she could respond.
When he and Malfoy were far enough away that there was no risk of being overheard, Harry explained why he'd called him from the portrait. "If you tell her what happened, we'll never hear the end of her."
"I didn't mean to set her off," Malfoy explained.
"Nevermind that, how the hell did you get her to shut up?" Harry asked, incredulous.
"Oh, well, she started screaming about filth living into her house and I just yelled back that I was a pureblood. That got her to quiet down enough to ask who I was."
"Pph. Typical of you, using your blood status to weasel out of things." Despite his scorn, Harry was smirking. Draco didn't seem to catch it, however. He bit back a retort, apparently thought better of it, and shoved past Harry to return to his room.
"Hey wait," Harry called back, careful to not to raise his voice too high in case Mrs. Black heard him. "What were you doing down there, anyway?" Malfoy gave him a calculating look.
"What's it to you, Potter? I thought I was paying you rent for a reason. Or are there certain areas I'm not allowed, now?"
"I was only curious," Harry replied coolly. He felt an odd mixture of relief and sadness at Draco's sudden return to his usual, contemptuous self.
"Oh." Draco seemed to struggle with himself for a moment, but continued. "I was looking for a bathroom, to be honest."
"There should be one right on the first floor there. It's the only other door after your room and the drawing room." Draco nodded, looking tense. "And for future reference, there aren't a whole lot of off-limits areas. Except for my bedroom, of course. It's the one on the second floor, to the left. There are still quite a few rooms I haven't worked on yet, though, so I wouldn't really suggest hanging around in those. Also, don't mess with any of the stuff in the unfinished rooms. Merlin knows what sort of dark stuff this family kept around." Harry briefly wondered whether he should have told Draco this bit of information, but he ignored the small sense of doubt in the back of his mind. He turned to leave, but turned back almost as quickly. "Oh, and don't go in the right-hand bedroom on the fourth floor." With that Harry returned to the drawing room, leaving a puzzled looking Malfoy to stand in the hallway, staring after him with his arms hanging by his sides.
He wasn't really sure why he had prohibited Malfoy from going into Sirius's room. It wasn't like there was anything particularly special in there, but the idea of Malfoy snooping around in Sirius's things made Harry uneasy. His thoughts wandered briefly to how his godfather would have reacted if he had known that Harry was giving Malfoy sanctuary in his house. Harry liked to think that Sirius might have been proud of Harry, knowing that he was trying to help, but another part of him imagined Sirius's face at the idea that an ex-Death Eater was living in what used to be the base of the very organization that had tried to put an end to Death Eaters altogether.
Trying to take his mind off of his godfather's opinions of his decisions, he resumed his efforts in fixing up the drawing room. He charmed the wallpaper orange, then shook his head and tried a pale yellow.
"That looks horrendous," Malfoy said from behind him. Harry jumped. He hadn't heard Malfoy come in. He frowned, then looked at the badly coloured wallpaper and mentally agreed.
"What would you suggest?" Harry asked, slightly irked but genuinely curious as to how Malfoy would prefer the room to look, since he'd claimed his interior decorating skills were so remarkable. He would never admit it to Malfoy, of course, but he secretly hoped they were, because he thought himself no good at it.
"Well," Malfoy began, now standing beside Harry. "Since you turned the couches grey, and the rug has burgundy as its most prominent colour, I would recommend a nice shade of dark cherry, and the paisley designs could be cream." Malfoy's wand swished once and the walls became a lovely deep red, and Harry had to admit he was impressed.
"Wow," he breathed. Malfoy looked as though he wasn't satisfied yet.
"Now that we've changed the paper, the floor needs to be darker. This pale wood contrasts too much. A little contrast is nice, but you don't want the floor to be what attracts people's attentions."
"And where should their attentions be attracted?" Harry asked, momentarily distracted by the frustrated curve of Malfoy's jaw. Malfoy's face turned, and he felt himself blushing a bit at having been caught staring. The faintest hint of a smirk twisted Malfoy's lips.
"I'm thinking perhaps the curtains." With another flick of his wand, the curtains switched from their faded moss green to a deep black. He changed the picture frames and bookcases to match, and switched the floors to a deep, chocolate brown. Satisfied with his handiwork, he turned back to face Harry, a glint in his eyes, which Harry had just noticed matched the furniture exactly. He told himself that it hadn't been done on purpose, and then glanced around the room to take his mind off of the thought.
"Where did you learn all of this?" Harry asked, his voice full of awe as he looked around at the splendid room.
"Come on, Potter, you can't possibly think I didn't develop any eye for aesthetics growing up in a Malfoy household. Why do you think I'm always dressed so nicely?" He had to agree that Malfoy usually dressed very well, but refused to comment on that.
"So, out of curiosity, why red?"
"It's dark, so it makes the room look a little smaller. Plus, I've actually always liked red."
"It… reminds me a bit of the Gryffindor common room." Seeing the look of distaste on Malfoy's face, he quickly added, "I like it. It's cozy. Makes me think of home."
"I've never seen the Gryffindor common room, but if it's anything like I imagine then you've just severely insulted my magnificent interior design transformation."
"Not nearly as bad as the Slytherin common room," Harry retorted without thinking. Malfoy gave him an odd look.
"When would you have seen the Slytherin common room?" he asked suspiciously. Harry knew he had made a huge mistake. For a moment he debated whether or not he should tell Malfoy why he knew what the common room looked like, but he figured that since they were still 'starting over' that he may as well be honest.
"D'you remember that time when Goyle suddenly knew how to read?" Malfoy's eyebrows squished together in his struggle to remember. "That time, you know, when Goyle and Crabbe weren't acting right, during Christmas break in our second year?"
"I do recall, but I'm wondering why the hell you do," he said accusingly. Harry laughed nervously.
"Well, see, we thought…" He wasn't completely sure how to explain and was beginning to think his plan for being honest was not such a good one after all. "We thought that you were— well…"
"Spit it out already, Potter. Eloquent as ever, I see," he added with a dramatic eye-roll that his heart didn't seem to be in. Harry took a deep breath, not looking at Malfoy as he plowed on.
"We thought you were the heir of Slytherin," he finally said. Malfoy shook his head slightly.
"That still doesn't explain anything."
"Right. Well, we wanted to be sure, so Hermione brewed a Polyjuice Potion in order to turn me and Ron into Goyle and Crabbe to find out." Malfoy was silent for a long time, and Harry thought from the look on his face that he might strangle him, but to Harry's surprise, Malfoy threw his head back, laughing so loud that his voice echoed around the large room.
"You really are a fucking stalker, Potter! I knew Goyle couldn't read, the git." He choked the words out between his guffaws, doubling over. "If I didn't know any better I'd think you were secretly in love with me all these years."
"I— what? Fuck off, Malfoy!" This only made Malfoy laugh harder, so that he had to sit down on the newly repaired settee.
"Potter's━in━love!" He squealed, banging on the arm of the sofa. "Potter and Malfoy, sitting in a tree…" At this point, he had begun laughing so hard that he couldn't finish speaking. He was getting rather red in the face and Harry wondered if he ought to help him so that he didn't suffocate. Harry didn't understand why Malfoy found the idea so amusing. It wasn't just a slight to Harry: Malfoy was laughing at his own self. As he stared at Malfoy's shaking, crouched figure, Harry began to feel the corners of his mouth pulling and he gave in, chuckling along with him. The idea was, of course, absolutely ludicrous. But seeing Malfoy laughing like this, so full of joy and not the least bit guarded… he had to admit that Malfoy was really attractive. It struck him, then. Malfoy could even be considered beautiful. Harry abruptly stopped laughing and took a seat opposite Malfoy, trying to wrap his mind around his own feelings and wondering what was wrong with him for thinking such an absurd thing. Across from him, Malfoy had begun to calm down as well, but was taking much longer than Harry had. Once Malfoy realised how silent Harry was being, he seemed to sober up.
"Why so stiff, Potter?" Malfoy chuckled once more. "It was only a joke, mate." Malfoy had called him mate. Harry ran his hands through his hair, trying to understand. "Are you okay?" Malfoy sounded genuinely concerned at this point, and Harry had to come up with something, fast.
"I— yeah, erm . . . I suddenly feel really ill. I'm not sure those eggs at breakfast were any good."
"I doubt that," Malfoy said, obviously not buying his excuse. "I would be feeling sick, too, if that were the case. What's really going on? We were just laughing, and joking around, and now..."
"I dunno, then," Harry stated simply. He wasn't about to admit defeat. "I've got to go, though. I think I might throw up." And with that, he hurried out of the room and into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.
Fuck. He clutched the edges of the sink and looked up. His own blank expression stared back at him, bright green eyes sparkling from their ghostly background. It wasn't a bad excuse, he thought, being sick. He honestly looked a little ill. Why the hell was he so bothered by the fact that he found Malfoy to be pleasing to the eye? Lots of things were beautiful and it didn't mean anything about the person who thought so. Like a perfectly iced cake, or a harvest moon. Those were gorgeous things, and it didn't make someone… gay… to think so. Harry sat down on the edge of the bathtub, rubbing his face. Why was he making such a big deal out of it? A soft tap at the door pulled him away from his thoughts.
"Potter?" Malfoy's muffled voice came from the other side.
"I— I'll be out in a minute," he called back through his hands. He sat for a short while, trying to mentally steady himself. He needn't panic. It wasn't a big deal. When he finally opened the door, Malfoy was still standing outside it, looking concerned.
"Are you alright, Potter? You do look worse than usual, which is saying something."
"I'm— I'm fine. I think I just need to have a lie down," he replied, averting his gaze. The longer he seemed to look into Malfoy's eyes, the more his stomach wreaked havoc on him, to the point where he was genuinely concerned that he might throw up. He felt slightly dizzy, and he could feel his heart pounding against his ribcage.
"You really don't look well." Harry was surprised at the softness of Malfoy's tone. "Do you need assistance getting to your room?"
"I'm fine, I can walk by myself," he said firmly. Malfoy nodded stiffly in return.
"Alright, well you should go and rest, then, before you spread whatever disease you've got to a healthy person," Malfoy said with sass. Harry was sure that there was a film of concern wrapping around his words, but he was too distracted to pay much attention.
"I, er… thanks." Harry stumbled slightly as he edged his way around Malfoy, who wouldn't move out of the way and stared at him with worry and suspicion. When he made it to his room he collapsed on his bed and stared at the ceiling, wishing for the life of him that his mutinous stomach would settle. What the hell was wrong with him? Why was he having these thoughts and feelings about Malfoy, of all people? Malfoy, the teasing, antagonistic, blood supremacist knob that he was? Was Harry gay? No, he couldn't be. But then, why else would he be attracted to Malfoy? Was it possible to like both genders? Even if it was, there was no way he did. He rolled over, stuffing his face into the lumpy pillow and trying to clear his head. He didn't recall being interested in any other boys before now. Maybe it was just Malfoy. Or maybe he just liked the way Malfoy looked. He thought about Ginny, and how his feelings for her had begun to wane over time, and then more quickly. Was this why? Was he really—? But I've always liked girls, he thought. It was true. He had been head over heels for Cho, and she had given him the same sensation in his gut that he had now, the feeling like his insides had suddenly turned into a cage of cornish pixies. But it's Malfoy. He's such a prat. Why Malfoy? For a long time, Harry lay in bed contemplating all that he'd felt in the last several minutes, wondering exactly what it meant for him, and for Malfoy.
Sitting curled up on one of the couches in the drawing room, Draco held a novel in his hands. He couldn't seem to concentrate on the words, however, because his thoughts kept straying to Potter's incredibly strange behaviour. It seemed like he'd gotten the joke, but then as soon as he'd started laughing he'd gotten eerily quiet, and had this look on his face, like… like he was scared, almost. Draco began to question if that joke had been appropriate, given Potter's reaction to it. Why should I even care what Potter finds appropriate? he asked himself. It's not like I ever have before. But he realised that this wasn't entirely true. He cared enough to warn Potter before redecorating his room, and enough to stop using certain profanities, though he caught himself slipping a couple of times. There was definitely a piece of Draco that did care what Potter thought, because he was acting in ways that showed as much.
Maybe Potter really was in love with him, and that's why he was so distraught by the joke. It would explain the reasons behind his age-old obsession and why he felt the need to save Draco at every opportunity. Not that Draco hadn't been obsessed with Potter in return, but that was different. He wasn't sure why, but it was. It's just wishful thinking, a small voice in the back of his mind piped up, and he could remember all the times he yearned for Potter's attention back in their school days.
Draco had had suspicions about his own feelings regarding Potter for a while now, but never as much as in the past few days. He remembered his father once asking him if he was attracted to men. He'd been about thirteen years old, and his father had asked him multiple times to keep all topics of Harry Potter from the dinner table, or from the sitting room, or during chess matches… or at all, and Draco couldn't seem to follow that request. When his father had asked him, he'd become very defensive, going as far as to tell him he and Pansy Parkinson were dating just to ensure that his father never asked him something like that in the future. Despite Draco's assurances, his father continued to warn him not to mention Harry Potter, or any other boy he might be particularly attentive of, around his mother. Then, in his sixth year, as he was going through the trials of being forced to kill an innocent old man, his own sexuality came crumbling down around his ears. It hadn't been a long moment, not really, but the stolen kiss he had shared in the empty Slytherin dormitory with Theodore Nott had changed things. He remembered going back and forth for weeks after, denying any sort of attraction to men, trying to fight his own feelings in an effort to attach them in any way to women, almost accepting the fact that he just wasn't interested in girls before jumping again to denial.
He had dated Parkinson then, but quickly found her too obnoxious to be around for such long periods of time. She was demanding and rude, not allowing him to so much as glance at other girls and constantly expecting him to dote on her. He still hadn't said anything to his mother after breaking it off with Parkinson, and wouldn't have been surprised if she'd thought the two of them a couple for the remainder of his education. He had, however, inadvertently let it slip to his Aunt Bellatrix while learning Occlumency that he had kissed another boy. Draco couldn't have helped the matter, seeing as she was constantly prying into his mind. She was quick to tell his father, but he, being as tactful as he was, never told his mother, and had demanded that Draco do the same.
Feeling his stomach clench at the thought of his aunt, he cleared his mind and attempted once again to read the page that he'd been stuck on for the last half hour. Try as he might, his brain couldn't register the words he was reading. Snapping the book shut, Draco stood up from the sofa, returned the book to its shelf, and decided it was time to check on Potter.
He had just reached the top of the staircase when he almost thought better of it. Potter was obviously in a state and might not appreciate the intrusion. His worry wouldn't cease until he knew that Potter was at least feeling a bit better, but he needed some excuse to check in on him, lest he wanted to come off as an overbearing motherly type, or inform Potter that he might care about him.
"Kreacher," he said softly, hoping Potter's room was soundproofed enough that he wouldn't hear him calling for the house elf. Keacher cracked loudly into the hallway, bringing a grimace to Draco's face with the noise.
"Master Malfoy?" Kreacher croaked.
"It's Draco, and could you possibly fetch me some ginger root tea? Pott━I mean… I'm feeling a bit nauseated. I think it might be just the thing to settle my stomach." Kreacher nodded once and disappeared loudly. Thankfully Potter didn't seem to notice the piercing sounds that came with the elf's Apparitions. Draco stood awkwardly in the hall, debating whether or not tea was a reasonable excuse for his visit to Potter's room, but then Kreacher had returned with the steaming mug and he knew there was no going back now.
After knocking on Potter's door three different times Draco began to wonder if Potter had gone deaf. He stood with his head leaning on the bedroom door, now, knocking loudly in a slow tempo, growing weary of his seemingly failed attempt to check on his housemate. The door opened, and Draco stumbled forward, spilling the tea all over Potter.
"Shit!" Potter shouted, backing away quickly. "Jesus Christ, Malfoy, what are you trying to do? Scald me?" Potter quickly ripped off his shirt, trying to keep as much of the hot liquid off of his body as possible. Glaring at Draco, he turned and marched across his room towards his dresser to find a new one. Draco couldn't help but notice the way the muscles of his back smoothly tapered into his waistline. He stared, unable to look away. It hadn't occurred to him that Potter might be hiding such a toned body under his grubby clothes. He finally caught himself and instead focused on a dent in the floorboard beneath him, blushing furiously.
"I was actually trying to see if you were okay… Kreacher suggested I give you this ginger tea to help with your stomach," he lied, rubbing the back of his neck with guilt. "You know, you could've just charmed the shirt dry." Potter paused in the middle of putting his shirt on and shot another glare at Draco.
"Ever had hot tea splashed all over you?" Potter said with angry disbelief. "Sorry I did things the muggle way, I know how much that bothers you, but I was a bit distracted."
Draco looked up in shock. He didn't know how to respond. None of this was going how he had planned. Now, instead of making Potter feel better, he had soaked the poor bloke in scorching liquid and then proceeded to point out how Potter could have done things differently, adding insult to injury.
"I'm sorry," he said, rubbing at the small hole in the floorboard that he was so intent on staring at with the toe of his shoe.
"Did you really just apologise to me?" Potter asked quietly. He cocked his head to one side, as if somehow astonished that Draco would do such a thing. Draco felt even more warmth crawling up his face. He must surely be a bright shade of scarlet by now.
"Don't look so pleased, Potter," he spluttered, sounding more defiant than he intended. Standing there in Potter's doorway was beginning to make him very uncomfortable. "I didn't mean to, is all."
"It's alright, Malfoy." Draco looked up, his storm cloud eyes meeting with a jade pair. "Really, it's alright." There was a painfully long silence where the two of them just stared at each other. Then Potter cleared his throat awkwardly. "Well, er, thanks for the tea, I guess." Draco laughed rather inappropriately, just understanding how comical the whole situation was.
"Any time, mate."
"Why do you keep calling me that?" Draco blinked for a moment, not having expected that question.
"What do you mean?" Draco rubbed his arm. Did Potter not see them as friends? "Do you not like it? I can stop."
"I— No, it's not that." Potter fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, not meeting Draco's eyes. "It's just odd, is all. It's not a bad thing. I guess I just thought that you still didn't like me." Potter's eyes widened, and he quickly amended his statement. "As a friend, that is."
"I knew what you meant," Draco said with a short laugh. The fact that Potter felt the need to specify spoke in volumes, though, and Draco began to wonder if his joke earlier had been closer to fact than fiction. "Anyway, I wanted to see how you were feeling. You certainly look a lot better than you did before."
"Yeah, I'm doing a bit better. Still kind of queasy, though." Something in Potter's tone still made Draco suspicious, but he decided not to press it. The old mattress springs squealed in protest as Potter sat down on the edge of his bed. "I actually could go for some ginger tea."
"Don't expect me to get it for you this time. Though I wouldn't mind seeing you ruin another of your terribly unfashionable shirts." The sentence escaped Draco's mouth before he had thought it through. Potter gave him a quizzical glance, opened his mouth, and closed it again. "You really need a wardrobe update, as yours seems to be terribly out of date and frumpy," Draco continued, trying to cover for his mistake. Potter seemed to be distracted by Draco's insult, thankfully. He called for Kreacher and a second later the elf appeared before him. Draco thought of the lie he had told the elf and Potter and hoped against hope that neither party would catch on, but luckily, Potter didn't mention the fact that Draco had brought him the tea.
"Kreacher, would you mind bringing me a cup of ginger tea? I'm not feeling too well at the moment." Kreacher passed a confused glance between Draco and Potter, but said nothing before Disapparating. A moment later, a cup of steaming tea appeared on the dresser, and Potter snatched it up with gratitude, almost sending it onto his shirt again.
"Careful, Potter," Draco said in spite of himself. Surprisingly, Potter smirked.
"Yeah, I suppose you've seen me shirtless enough for one day, haven't you?" He seemed to realise what his comment was suggesting and quickly added, "Is there anything else you wanted, Malfoy?"
"Er… no, not really. I guess I'll check on you later." Why had he said that?
"That's really kind of you, Malfoy," Potter said with a genuine smile, but it sounded somewhat teasing, which didn't bode well with him. Draco gently closed the door and walked down the stairs, feeling a little bit lighter. At least Potter had taken it well, his stupid blurtings.
Draco returned to check on Potter two hours later, carrying a hot plate of steak-and-kidney pie. He was careful not to lean against the door this time, and even hovered the plate so as not to spill it. Potter took it thankfully, but hastily closed the door. He stayed in his room all day, and when it came to be about dinnertime, Draco wondered if Potter was purposefully avoiding him. He brought Potter dinner, too, this time a heaping pile of chicken drumsticks and treacle tart on the side, which Kreacher had informed Draco was Potter's favorite. Once again, Potter took the plate but quickly retreated back into the depths of his room. Draco felt a sudden wave of loneliness. He'd spent all day on his own, without Potter to tease, and the book he was reading, Charmed, I'm Sure: Spells for the Socialite, was beginning to get a bit dull. He wondered whether Potter was going to be like this all day, and then instantly felt bad. What if Potter really was sick? Even worse, he wondered if he had done something to drive Potter away. Had he been too rash when he made that joke earlier? He shook off the notion, tossing Charmed, I'm Sure aside and scanning the shelves for something else that would engage him. If Potter took offense, then that was Potter's fault.
Even with that decided, Draco took one last opportunity to check on Potter before heading back to his room for the night, but based on the soft snores emanating from the other side of the wooden door, Potter had already fallen asleep.