Malfoy throws open the heavy double doors with more force than is strictly necessary, stomping into the room without a word, leaving Harry to follow. It's either that or stand out in the hallway, and he has to bite back a chuckle at the blond's petulance.
Harry can only imagine what Malfoy's tweaked about now, but given the past few hours of his company, and knowing him like he does, Harry thinks there's really no telling.
"Behold, Potter," Malfoy says, the dry spite echoing out into the vastness of the cavernous room. "The studio."
Studio is an understatement, as are most things when it comes to Malfoy. The ballroom-sized space is open and airy, with bright white walls that extend upwards to what has to be a twenty or twenty-five foot ceiling. The wall directly opposite the door has to be some thirty feet across, and floor to ceiling windows are reflecting the outside winter landscape. It's gone half-nine in the evening, but those windows are letting in early morning sunshine.
"Charmed." Malfoy speaks again in the same irritated tone. "The windows. You change the lighting to suit your needs." He points to a side door in the far corner. "Closet's through there. Easels, supplies, whatnot. You'll have to go through it, as I have no idea what's in there. So don't ask."
Malfoy's hand drops roughly to his side, and those lips purse harder than he's ever seen. Malfoy's tightly wound, like a spring that's ready to pop.
Harry ignores him and starts a mental countdown in his head as he strolls lazily around the room, because it's only a matter of time before Malfoy's temper gets the best of him. Despite Malfoy's earlier urgings of his quelled fire, Harry knows it's bound to make an appearance sooner or later. They will never fail to push each other's buttons.
But Harry recognizes that his presence in the Manor alone is enough make him the pusher, not the pushee. Frankly, Harry doesn't have buttons anymore, not since he's swapped out the boy he used to be for the man he's rewired himself to become.
Malfoy's gaze is piercing on his back as Harry makes his lap around the room, and he picks up on the silent seething that's being directed his way. He knows Malfoy has changed, can see that in so many other ways, but right now the clock is ticking.
And…three…two…one.
"What in the bleeding hell were you thinking inviting Longbottom here?"
It's a veritable screech, highly undignified, and terribly amusing.
Harry opens his mouth but shuts it a second later because Malfoy has suddenly lost the plot, shouting and gesturing like a herd of rabid Thestrals.
"This is not a halfway house for Gryffindors! You can't just show up here and throw open our doors to the unwashed masses!"
Malfoy's voice hits a strangled high.
"For fucking roses!"
He's pacing back and forth now, heavy stomps on expensive inlaid flooring.
"Who's next? The rest of your idiotic cohorts? And my mother! Do you expect her to serve tea to your cronies? Will they even break bread with Death Eaters?"
Harry stares at him as he goes on. Malfoy's worked himself into a proper strop, and he can't string together coherent sentences any longer. The words 'fucking Longbottom', 'Golden Trio', and 'infestation' spout from his lips with all the force of expletives.
Malfoy's eyes are wild and frantic and his body is strung taut, even as his limbs flail about in protest. His shouting is reaching a pinnacle, and Harry hears incandescent rage and indignant affront in the bellows. But he also hears something else, something buried deep among the shrillness. Beneath the high-pitched bluster, Harry hears the undercurrent of an emotion that he knows intimately.
Fear.
The tantrum is clearly a coping mechanism; one Harry indulges for a few seconds more, until Malfoy tips over the edge from childish to desperate.
He's violently barreling around the room, never getting close enough to Harry to be a threat, but the expression on his face is downright murderous. Malfoy's brow is furrowed into deep creases, his skin is blotchy and red, and beads of sweat have dotted across his hairline. He's sucking in air as quickly as he's letting it out in his tirade. There's a vein that's popped out at his temple and Harry swears to Merlin he can take Malfoy's blood pressure just by looking at it. He's shaky and flustered, and so, so angry.
Harry slowly puts his hands in his pockets and takes a deep breath. It's amazing how quickly Malfoy has escalated into behavior that Harry's fairly certain wouldn't be happening if he wasn't here.
This isn't good. It's not even in the same post code as good. Malfoy's a man who's always maintained control in the face of others, or at least tried to. The perfect pureblood prince. Stoic, masked, and always in control. But he's losing his grasp on it here, and he's doing it in a way that isn't remotely productive.
Harry can understand the need to let go, to cede control of his emotions, even if he doesn't experience it himself. But Malfoy's a live wire now, sparking and burning across the room. His emotions are running away with him and there's nothing he can do but hang on. He's lost control and he's scared, but he can't stop. He's got no ground, no anchor, and he's spiraling higher and higher toward an inevitable crash. Malfoy's anxiety is pulsing out of him in waves so thick Harry thinks he can reach out and pluck it from the air like a Snitch.
Harry's breath stutters when he realizes he hasn't said a single word to Malfoy since entering the room. Malfoy has worked himself into this state all on his own. And that is unacceptable.
"Enough." He doesn't need to shout over Malfoy, because the moment his mouth opened, Malfoy's eyes latched onto his face.
Malfoy stalks over and stands an arm's length from him. "Just what the bloody fuck, Potter?"
The question is a pleading whine, and Malfoy's face winces at his own words. He's floundering still; Harry can see it in swirling in his eyes. He's got nothing to cling to. So Harry makes the decision for him. He'll be the anchor. It's up to Malfoy to reach for it. Manipulation has never been Harry's style, because manipulation is fraught with deceit. Harry will steer him back, but Malfoy's got to choose the path.
"Harry. Call me Harry."
"What?" Malfoy snorts and shakes his head in confusion.
"Say it."
Malfoy steps back and rolls his eyes. "You're off your nut."
Malfoy's a few good inches taller, but it only takes a fraction of distance for Harry to lean forward and radiate command with his presence. Malfoy's head immediately dips to his gaze.
"Say it."
Malfoy's body stiffens and his mouth works open and shut before he croaks out. "Ha—Harry."
And there it is.
"Good." Harry lets the praise rumble out of his mouth like a purr. "Thank you." He breathes deeply and rocks back on his heels. "That wasn't so difficult, was it, Malfoy?"
The daggers are back in Malfoy's gray stare. "You're infuriating. You demand familiarity and in the next breath you're sneering 'Malfoy' like we're first years."
Harry cocks his head. "I didn't sneer. And I don't take liberties where none have been offered. It's rude." He waits while Malfoy stares at him, bewildered.
It takes a second for Malfoy to get the hint, but he does, huffing, "Fine. Draco."
Harry raises an eyebrow and waits again.
The stare is discomforting after a second or two, Harry knows, because he's perfected it, and finally Malfoy concedes.
"Draco. Call me Draco." Malfoy swallows audibly and adds, "Please."
Harry smiles full of genuine pleasure. "Of course. Thank you."
"That's it? Years of animosity to get to first names and all I had to do was ask?" He sounds sanctimoniously perplexed.
Harry closes the distance between them until the scent of citrus and sweat bleeds into his nostrils. He leans over, putting his mouth precariously close to Draco's ear. "All you ever have to do is ask. Remember that, Draco."
Draco looks suitably fuddled when Harry pulls back. The sight is pleasantly arousing. He turns and heads for the doors.
"Wh—where are you going?"
"To bed," Harry answers, not looking back. "Blinky?" he calls, and the house-elf pops in.
"How is Blinky to be helping Master Harry Potter?"
Harry smiles down at her. "It's been a lovely evening, Blinky, and I fancy a stroll back to my room. Care to join me?" He stretches out a hand and offers it.
"Anything for Master Harry Potter, sir."
"Just Harry."
Blinky giggles and slips her hand into his. "Anything for Master Harry."
They walk out of the room and Harry turns back to shut the doors, his eyes finding the incredulous Slytherin. "Goodnight, Draco. Sleep well."
00000
The doors shut behind Potter and Blinky, and Draco lets out a strangled gasp. The hole that's been gnawing away in his gut since Potter dropped in has finally eaten through to his spine, leaving him empty with a roiling ache. He's calmer now than he was, and the knowledge that Po—no, Harry is the reason tempers that calm with an unsettling clarity.
There's something rattling around the cavern of his belly, and when it seeps out into his bones to take root, recognition dawns. It's the hollow echo of the house-elf's words.
Anything for Master Harry.
Sweet Salazar Slytherin, he's fucked.