Draco makes himself scarce, which given the circumstances, doesn't seem at all odd. He's holed up in his study, platinum head bent over paperwork, every time Harry passes. Maybe he just needs time. Or maybe he'll ignore the situation altogether. It's a waiting game, and Harry's decided on patience.
In the meantime, he's busied himself with rearranging the studio. He's sent Blinky to Grimmauld more than once to retrieve some of his favored supplies and a few personal belongings, and also to reassure Kreacher that he's fine.
He wants to repay Narcissa for her unerring kindness, and after remembering the painting in the library, Harry decides exactly what he's going to do. He needs old photos for reference and mood, and just as he pushes back from his work table, there's an audible pop, and an old photo album appears next to him.
He flips through it and smiles. It is precisely what he needs. Harry rolls his eyes and chuckles.
This cheeky house.
The remainder of the day is spent sketching and researching, until his fingers are nearly black with charcoal. He misses the formal lunch, but Blinky (sweet Blinky) brings him a sandwich and watches him with narrowed eyes to make sure he eats.
Afternoon swells into evening, and Harry marvels at the magic infused in the room as the light wavers and changes without a word from him. His fingers begin to cramp and he casts a quick Tempus. It's almost nine, and he's missed dinner. Just as his stomach rumbles in protest, Blinky pops back in with a silver tray.
"Master Harry is to be eating. Blinky is be telling Miss Cissa and Master Dragon that Master Harry is being drawing. Miss Cissa is being pleased and sends Blinky with dinner."
Harry smiles fondly at the little elf. "Thank you, Blinky."
She prepares the tray and steps back, clasping her hands in front of her. She shifts from foot to foot, as if she has more to say.
"What is it?" Harry asks, swallowing a mouthful of roll.
"Miss Cissa is telling Master Dragon not to be being worried about Master Harry missing meals, but he is keeping looking at the empty chair where Master Harry sits."
"Oh?" Harry says with a raised eyebrow.
Blinky pads over and places her little hand on Harry's arm, looking quite serious. "Master Dragon—he is being trying," she says softly.
Harry reaches out and cradles her to him in a one-armed hug. He presses a small kiss to the top of her head and replies, "I know, Blinky. I know."
He makes quick work of his dinner and tidies up the studio, taking a moment to stretch once it's all done. He's made a bit of progress, and Harry has to admit he feels more accomplished than he has in ages. It's a good feeling.
As he shuts the door behind him, he thinks days spent like this could never be wasted.
OOOOO
When Harry opens the door to his room the oxygen is sucked from his lungs, and he almost braces himself on the door jamb for support.
Draco is naked, bathed in firelight, at the side of his bed. His back is to Harry, and he's kneeling, seated back on his heels in the waiting position, palms on his thighs facing upward, head bowed in silent supplication. He is lovely. The arch of his spine is graceful and serene, and Harry wonders if that beautiful stretch of skin tastes any different than the rest of him. He's held this pose often; there's an easy carriage to it that makes the blood pound in Harry's ears. The sight should be perfect. But it's not. There's something off, and Harry can't put his finger on it.
He knows Draco knows he's in the room; the door creaked when it opened. But when Harry takes a step inside, his trainer squeaks loudly on the wood floor, and Draco twitches. Not in a good way. The hope that blossomed in chest deflates slowly as he moves, desperate to disprove what he's knows he's going to find when he gets close enough to see.
Draco's not relaxed, but he's not tense, either. Harry moves to stand in front of him and looks down. Draco's cock is completely soft. It's not unheard of for subs to remain unaffected until the scene actually begins, but in Harry's experience, most subs are at least half-hard by this point. The anticipation itself is a point of arousal. But Draco's not aroused, not in the slightest, and that gives Harry considerable pause. His skin is pricked with a fine layer of sweat, but even with the fireplace going, it's not that warm in the room. He's not anticipating pleasure, he's—
"Look at me."
Draco's head pulls back, and when those silvery eyes lock with Harry's, the weight of what he sees drops like a rock into his belly.
Fear.
Shame.
A red haze filters over Harry's vision, and he tamps down the anger, careful to keep himself composed. He's got control over his emotions, but somehow the fiery storm in his blood freezes, and his words spill out into the room, cold as ice.
"Get dressed and get out."
"What?" Draco stares up at him, mouth agape. Harry's brows knit together on his forehead, and Draco awkwardly scrambles to his feet. "Wh—why?"
"Out." Harry raises his hand to point at the door, when Draco jerks back, arm flying up to cover his face. It's instinctive, and defensive, and it is the final nail in Blaise Zabini's coffin. When the blow never comes, Draco lowers his arms warily, casting panicked eyes on Harry. "And that right there is why this isn't happening tonight," he tells Draco roughly.
"I don't—"
Harry is seething on the inside, but takes great care to measure his words. They come out slowly, with a gravity that seems to press Draco into the floor. "Let's get one thing straight right now. I am not Blaise. I will never strike you out of anger. Never. Abuse is not in my nature. I will never do anything that is designed to injure you, humiliate you, or degrade you. Submission is a gift. One that I do not take lightly. Now get your things and go back to your room. We can discuss this at another time."
Draco makes a grab for his clothes and Harry's hands flex at his sides, mind reeling with the implications all this has brought to light.
Draco's face is red, embarrassed, and Harry can tell he's on the edge of either bursting into tears or lunging at Harry to have a go. His head whips back to Harry and he challenges, "You tell me to come to you, and I do, and then you tell me to leave. You run hot and cold, and I swear, you're just like—"
"Do not finish that sentence. You're not here because you want to be. You're here because you've been thinking about him, about me, about yourself, and you don't want to try to figure out what you want. It's messy and confusing, and you wish it would all go away. So you're here. Because you think a rough fuck will clear your head. You think a hard ride will either get Blaise out of your system, or you out of mine. But it won't make things easier. It will only complicate them more. I've never taken a lover against their will, and I'm not going to start tonight. Because I won't have you in my bed and then watch you walk out of here ashamed of what we've done." Harry exhales, long and slow, running a hand over his face. "Letting me fuck you isn't going to fix your issues with Blaise. If that's what you need, then you need to see a Mind Healer. And if you do, I will support you, but we cannot have a physical relationship with his shadow lurking over us. I would rather have you whole as a friend than broken as a lover."
Draco steps forward, chin thrust into the air. "Maybe I know what I need more than you. Maybe I don't really care what it is you want. You don't want to be compared to him, fine. But you're still like every other Dom I've known. Give a man a little control, and he'll take it all. I won't be powerless anymore. If that means I'm alone for the rest of my life, I'll deal with it."
"Power and control are two different things."
"No," Draco hisses, "they're exactly the same. And it's the only thing a man ever ends up wanting from me."
Harry shakes his head. "They're not the same, not at all. You need to understand that I may have control, Draco, but only you have the power to let me wield it. It will always be yours, because it is your choice. You choose to bestow your gift. Or take it away. Because a Dom without a sub is nothing."
Draco stands motionless, blank-faced, as if Harry's just introduced a concept that is completely alien to his scope of thought.
"I told you to go," Harry says with warning.
Draco doesn't move.
Harry steps closer and peers into Draco's face, forcing him to make eye contact. "If I have to put you out, you will not come back. Ever."
That gets his attention, and Draco shakes off the fog, backing away. "I'm going, but please, can I say one more thing?"
Harry drinks him in, standing naked with his clothes huddled in a ball in front of him like a shield, his eyes so stormy and yearning.
He can't say no. His brain won't let him. Harry's voice is rough when he says, "Say your piece."
Draco looks him in the eye and though he trembles, his gaze never wavers. "I want this. I want—you. I'm just afraid I don't know how to do it. I know in my heart that Blaise treated me terribly, but there's a tiny part of me that doesn't still wonder if the fault lies with me. If I was better, or more suited to—" his mouth works around the word like it's a marble in his mouth, "submission."
Draco shifts on his feet as Harry comes closer. It's the first time he's been able to articulate the word without a sneer or derision. Harry looks him over with a critical eye, silent and observant. Draco's telling the truth. Harry feels Draco's breath on his cheek, coming in short, soft pants. His eyes are wide and entreating, practically begging. For what, Harry's not sure. It's hard to tell over the clamoring in his own heart.
"Say something—anything, shout at me, curse at me, I don't care! Just don't stare at me like that, I can't abide it. Please." Draco's eyes squint shut. "Please, Harry. Please."
The pleading is almost enough to break Harry's control, and his hands itch at his sides because he wants to reach for Draco.
Draco's eyes open and they're liquid and shining, his full lips quivering. "Touch me," he whispers. "Just do something."
"I'm not going to touch you," Harry says, and the words sound like gravel in his throat.
"Why?"
Harry's stare holds the weight of his conviction. "Because you haven't earned it."
Draco deflates on a soft exhalation of breath, and he turns to go.
But the want in Harry is too great, and the hope that he and Draco can have something extraordinary burns too hot in his blood. The words flow out smoothly. "For this to work, you have to trust me. I will not have a lover who is afraid of me, or ashamed of who he is, or what we do. If you think you can come to terms with that and openly accept it, then come back to me. Because if you can do that, I can promise you that I will give you everything you need. I will take control, and I will make you feel more powerful that you could ever imagine."
Draco's out of the room like a shot, and Harry hears the door across the hall slam shut. A ripple of irritated magic pulses through the room and pushes at Harry, urging him toward the open door.
Harry digs in his heels. "No," he growls, "you're not orchestrating this time. I'm not chasing him. If you want to interfere so badly, then you go work your magic on Draco. It's his eyes that need to be opened, not mine."
The resulting shudder of magic comes off huffy and annoyed, and Harry thinks if a house had eyes to roll—
His own door slams shut with a bang.
Bloody Draco. Bloody meddling Manor.