Chapter Text
Have the courage to leave,
and have the strength
to not look back
~JH Hard
Sometimes, Draco wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. After everything, after all the terrible things he had seen and done, the guilt that lingered was the worst feeling in the world. It ate away at him like acid, burning through his veins and hurting . If he just ceased to exist then all his problems would be solved.
Other times he wished he was someone else. Someone who could just exist quietly, away from the judgment of everyone. If he were born into a different family, maybe he would have had another choice. Regret was a bastard. He cringed at the thought of his younger self swaggering around demanding attention, throwing his money and his name around as if it mattered.
But most of all he wished that Potter would stop giving him those big sad eyes across the Great Hall. It was hard enough carrying around his own guilt. He didn’t want Potter’s pity too.
It certainly didn’t help that over the summer Potter’s jaw had sharpened and his muscles had toned and he was somehow even more handsome and unattainably gorgeous than he’d already been. He’d always been beautiful. It was unbearable now. Potter’s big sad eyes followed him around wherever he went. It made Draco uncomfortably aware of him, which wasn’t really all that difficult. Draco always had a knack for picking Potter out in a crowd. It had just been amped up to a thousand now.
For some unfathomable reason, Potter had decided to pity him. It was strange to be on the receiving end of it when in past years he’d only ever seen Potter glaring at him behind his stupid round glasses. He didn’t want it though. He wanted Potter’s hatred, wanted him to glower every time they happened to cross paths. Draco had the rug ripped from beneath him. Every aspect of his life had changed. There was no shred of familiarity could cling to. Even the corridors of Hogwarts, a place he had considered a second home felt cold and unwelcoming. He knew every crack and crevice, yet it felt as if the very fabric of the castle was rejecting him, telling him it didn’t want him there.
No one wanted Draco there. The students kept their distance, the professors eyed him suspiciously from across the classrooms. Even the ghosts wouldn’t come within six feet of him.
This suited Draco just fine. He was perfectly content to keep to himself, to keep his head down and focus on finishing his eighth year. He thought for sure that some of the noble, justice-seeking Gryffindors would seek him out and make his life miserable with the end of their wands or their fists, but nothing. Everyone left him very much alone.
It was quite the juxtaposition from his earlier years, when he’d swaggered through the castle with a posse of sneering Slytherins at his heels, picking on anyone who dared to look at him the wrong way. Spending exorbitant amounts of time thinking about how he could grind Potter’s gears.
Now he was doing everything he could to avoid Potter. He wasn’t doing a good job, clearly, because every time he glanced around, somehow their eyes always met. And Potter was completely okay with blatantly staring. It sent a shiver down his spine. For a few reasons.
Whenever Potter stared for too long it set Draco on edge. It was hard to look into his eyes for too long, green and flashing and intense, and full of so much forgiveness and understanding that Draco couldn’t take it. So he looked away.
Potter always looked as if he had something to say. Draco didn’t want him to say anything, because he knew, he knew exactly what he was going to say. His eyes said it all. And Draco didn’t want it. He couldn’t have it, because if Potter forgave him, if he wanted to offer him an olive branch then it meant that everything Draco understood about the world would come crumbling down. If Potter forgave him then…well. Everything would collapse.
So he tried his hardest to avoid him. If he saw him coming down a hallway, he’d turn and go the other way, even if it was inconvenient for him. He avoided the quidditch pitch and the courtyards where Potter liked to hang out. It wasn’t easy though. Not when the eighth years shared a common room. Not when Potter was in his dorm.
So yeah, eighth year was going fairly rubbish so far.
Draco hadn’t expected it to be a walk in the park, that was certain, but it was going even more dismally than he ever could have imagined.
It all began with his trial. It was one of the conditions of his release. His probation. He had to complete his education at Hogwarts. Merlin knows why.
Actually, there were a few conditions. He could remember every word Kingsley Shacklebolt, acting Minister for Magic had said that day.
“By order of the Wizengamot, Draco Lucius Malfoy is to return to Hogwarts in autumn to complete his education and receive his NEWTs.” This was possibly the last thing that he wanted to do. Hogwarts was just a painful reminder that he could never turn back time. That he bore at least partial responsibility for the tragedy that had occurred within its grounds. That he was a terrible, horrible, irredeemable person.
“Draco Lucius Malfoy is also required to be fitted with a magical trace for the next five years to monitor his use of proper magic as per the Ministry Standard for Legitimate Spells, Curses and Hexes.” He had flinched every time his middle name was said. It was also important to note here, that ‘proper magic’ referred to anything that wasn’t an Unforgivable Curse, a Hex with Intent to Maim and Jinxes of a similar manner. Even Glamours were off the table. Polyjuice was too, but they would have a difficult time proving that to be true. No exceptions. He’d be carted off to Azkaban faster than a snap of the fingers.
This wouldn’t be too difficult for two reasons. One, he had no intention to cause any sort of trouble. The moment Potter had whisked him from the fire in the Room of Requirement his entire perspective sort of shifted. If Potter was the enemy, then why would he save his life? Why not just let him die? His own friends, his own allies, his own father would sooner save their own skin. They wouldn’t even think twice about it. But not Potter. Potter had come swooping down, practically golden, like some heroic fucking phoenix and saved Draco’s life. Add that to the list of reasons why Harry Potter was Merlin’s great gift to Earth.
The second reason was that he didn’t have a wand. Not technically. Since he was still underage when he got caught up in it all- indoctrinated, was the word Shacklebolt had used- he got off lightly. His mother on the other hand had a total magic ban placed on her for five years, and then the same trace as Draco for an additional five years after that. Ten years total without complete free will of her magic. It was outrageous. His mother wouldn’t hurt a fly. She hadn’t done anything. She was never going to give them grief, she was less guilty than Draco, never bearing the Mark, begging his Father not to get involved with it all. Her only crime was complacency. Nothing compared to Lucius.
He, on the other hand, had gone straight to Azkaban. Life. Good. Served him right.
His mother had given Draco her wand since she would have no use for it. It wasn’t quite right for him. It didn’t understand him, their magic didn’t mesh well together. But he’d all but given up hope that he’d ever see his old wand again.
The last he’d seen it, Potter had snatched it from his hands, in his own house and disappeared with his motley crew. Fat fucking chance that he still had it. He probably snapped it the first chance he got. Or worse.
Fucking Potter. Draco was all set to spend the next fifteen years of his life rotting away in Azkaban. It’s what he deserved. But no, perfect, selfless, stupid Potter had fucked it all up, jumping in at the last second and saving the day with his testimony.
“ Draco Malfoy saved my life. He saved everyone’s life. Without him, I wouldn’t be alive. That day in the Manor, he refused to identify me. He claimed he didn’t recognise me. If he had, I would have been handed over to Voldemort, and I would be dead. And he stopped his friends from killing me in the Room of Requirement. He has done bad things, but I am certain he had no other choice. He deserves a second chance.
He deserves a second chance. He deserves a second chance. He deserves a second chance.
The words played over in his head frequently. Reminding him that he was indebted to Potter. Saving his life in the Room of Requirement made them even. Testifying at his trial…well, Draco didn’t think he would ever be able to pay that back. He should have kept his fucking mouth shut.
He had testified for Draco’s mother as well.
“Narcissa Malfoy was asked by Voldemort to check if I was alive. But she knew that I was. She asked me if Draco was alive and then told Voldemort that I was dead. She saved my life, she deserves to have that taken into consideration. She didn’t want any of this, no war, no death. She would do anything to protect her son, and her actions in the months leading up to the Battle were the only way she saw fit.”
Anything to protect her son. Anything to protect her son. Anything to protect her son.
Now he walked the corridors of a school that no longer felt familiar, pretending he didn’t hear the whispers, didn’t see the stares, and largely pretending that he didn’t exist.
That suited Draco just fine.
He kept to himself, away from the crowds, flattened against walls, head down, posture hunched. Avoiding eye contact with everyone.
It was hard to vanish into the crowd when everyone knew his name. And everything he’d done. And when you had the most awful magenta-collared robes known to man.
It was one of the many differences that eighth year had from the others.
In the letters they received in July prior to the start of term, McGonagall had detailed that they had a designated carriage on the train, which Draco supposed was similar to the prefect’s one. He wouldn’t know really, because he sat by himself in a compartment down the very end near the bathrooms and stared glumly out the window the entire time. Facing his year…was too much. His plan was to isolate himself entirely from everyone and everything and focus on graduating and getting the hell out of there.
When all of this was over he’d move to France with his mother and they’d start a new life. Away from everyone. Even Blaise, Pansy and Millie. And Theo. They didn’t seek him out on the train. That was just fine with him. He waited until he was sure he was the last person off so he wouldn’t have to sit with anyone in the carriages. Drawn by thestrals. He grimly noted that there wouldn’t be very many students who couldn’t see them anymore.
When the eighth years had been called to gather in the Great Hall after the feast was over, he truly understood the weight of the war. His year group had fallen from forty students down to thirteen. He hadn’t even liked very many of the people in his year, but to hear how severely the numbers of his returning year had reduced was like a sucker punch to the gut. The guilt he had been carrying for the past two years worsened. He could barely stand to look most of them in the eye.
His day was ruined further upon finding out from the newly appointed Headmistress McGonagall that there was simply not enough space for them in their old Houses and they had pulled together a combined eighth-year common room as a result. He could barely stand to be around them, and now he didn’t even have the buffer of Slytherin house to protect him anymore. She had led them up to the third-floor corridor, which funnily enough had been out of bounds to them in first year. Weasley had made an offhand comment about a three-headed dog which earned a round of snickering from the Gryffindors. He supposed he could thank Potter for solving that issue. The once-empty series of rooms had been transformed into what he assumed was supposed to be a homely little space.
Unfortunately, the colour they had chosen to represent eighth year was magenta. A bright, garish cheap looking magenta. They had even been given a new set of uniform robes to wear with the ghastly colour sewn into the lining. If he wasn’t trying so damn hard to keep his head down and remain as invisible as possible he would have complained. He didn’t need to though, because his old Slytherin pals kicked up quite a fuss. McGonagall had been strict, however, insisting that this is what they needed to bring them all together.
Their room assignments were even worse. His first day back just seemed to be one shitty thing after the next. In the spirit of keeping groups of friends together, she had assigned the Gryffindor and Slytherin boys in one, and the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw boys in the other. There were only four girls in their year so they were all together in one. At this, Draco actually took to pleading with McGonagall to be reassigned, once everyone had shuffled off to their new dorms. There was no way in hell that he could share a dorm with Potter. He begged to be moved to the Hufflepuff/Ravenclaw dorm, which only had three boys and far more space than the Slytherin/Gryffindor one, but the Headmistress had simply shaken her head and told him to go settle in.
Potter’s eyes had followed Draco as he had entered the room and stalked moodily over to the furthest bed away from him that he could manage, not leaving him until he had drawn the blasted pink floral curtains and laid down on the bed. Bloody Potter. He lay awake for hours, willing for sleep, but apparently, Gryffindors like to have lengthy murmuring discussions before bed, which he caught bits and pieces of, not that he was trying to.
“Hermione…study…Potions…”
“Dean…Seamus…”
“Quidditch…bloody McGonagall…”
“...broke up…”
He had no intentions of being privy to the nasty details of what Potter and his stupid friends had been up to over the summer between when he’d last seen them, at opposite ends of the battlefield. It made his stomach feel weird and his chest go all tight. Eventually, the murmurs became fewer and further between and the candlelight died down and Draco was left alone with his thoughts.
For those first few days, it was hell on earth. On the fifth day, however, things started to change.
|~|
He woke with a start, that same bloody dream, of ash and smoke and fire, of Vince screaming as he fell and Potter reaching out to him, pulling him from the flames. His entire body was trembling and sweaty, and he ached to be held by his mother, something he had not done for a great many years.
It was early, he could tell by the faint pinkish light that had settled over the room, not quite morning yet. The dorm was silent, thankfully, because his bladder was aching from holding it in for so long. He cautiously moved the curtain aside just a fraction with his thumb and peeped out into the room. Everyone’s curtains were drawn still, so he got up quietly and padded out of the room, down the hallway to the shared bathroom.
He was washing his hands when the door cracked open. Draco halted and stared at his childhood rival, who stood equally as shell-shocked in the doorway.
“Sorry,” Potter spoke quietly, looking unfairly handsome and dishevelled in his red plaid pyjama pants and oversized grey shirt. “I didn’t realise you were in here.”
Draco was suddenly self-conscious of his own pyjamas, a feeling he had become most accustomed to as of late.
“Is that…” Potter was staring at his shirt now, and Draco had never wanted to enter a Vanishing Cabinet more. He was, most unfortunately, wearing Muggle clothing.
The Malfoy accounts had been frozen, the contents of the Manor repossessed. Draco and his mother had been left with just enough money to purchase a tiny little two-bedroom apartment outside London. That was it. Over the summer Draco had taken up a part-time job in a shop, and his mother who had never worked a day in her life had begun to take a few shifts a week at the florist’s down the road from their new home.
“Sorry, I just…I didn’t realise you liked Muggle music.”
Draco did not. The insignia on his shirt was entirely meaningless to him, as they were on most of his clothes, reluctantly sourced from Muggle charity shops and thrifts. He felt mildly repulsed at the idea of wearing clothes that had been worn by someone else before. Complete strangers, dead people even. It wasn’t as if he had a whole lot of choice.
His mother was faring worse than him, however. Eighteen years of being accustomed to a certain lifestyle were nothing on her forty-three.
Potter’s eyes were trailing all over him now, almost hungrily. His gaze landed upon Draco’s pale, exposed forearm. The left one. Draco quickly snatched his arm over his chest, concealing the ugly, black mark from Potter’s line of vision, but it was too late. He had seen it already.
“I…you…”
Once upon a time Draco always had something to say when it came to Potter. But now he was drawing blanks. He couldn’t look into his flashing green eyes without seeing his arm reaching out, grasping at his own, yanking him from the pile of furniture. Saving him.
“Sorry, I’ll just erm…” And then he turned around and left, leaving Draco alone in the bathroom once again. It had occurred to Draco that he hadn’t said one word the entire time, he had just been gaping at him with wide eyes in his bloody Muggle pyjamas of all things.
He wanted to scream, but instead, he turned the faucet on the hottest it would go until the water ran scalding and his skin went bright red.
Who are you kidding? That ugly voice in his head sneered cruelly. You can turn the water on, hot as you like but you will never wash the blood from your hands.
He was going insane, probably.
But it wasn’t as if he didn’t deserve it.
When he’d returned to the dorm, Potter’s curtains were closed and no noise came from within. He wondered briefly if Potter had heard him wake up, panting and afraid. If he’d only come into the bathroom to check on him. He hadn’t even used the bathroom, just stood there all wide-eyed and gorgeous. He banished the thought quickly. It would do him no good to feed into these delusions.
Draco pulled out his copy of Advanced Spellwork Volume III to read before breakfast. There was certainly no hope of him falling back asleep, so he figured he might as well spend the time doing something useful.
He was engrossed in the chapter about the intricacies of Obliviation when he heard the sounds of stirring in the dorm. His stomach rumbled uncomfortably, begging for food. He hadn’t really been eating much these days. Not by choice, he just didn’t have the money for it half the time and he would sooner starve than ever let his mother skip a meal. Regret from barely touching his food the previous night crept in. He hadn’t expected to lose his appetite at the mere sight of Potter staring at him with huge sad eyes, but things never seemed to go as planned for Draco anymore.
His stomach rumbled again and he groaned at the ache of hunger that gnawed at his insides. However awful the feeling was, it was nothing compared to the discomfort he would feel having to get ready in front of the Gryffindors pretending that everything was fine and normal and that they hadn’t been on opposing sides of the war.
So he waited for everyone to clear out before he spelled his clothes on, grimacing at the garish magenta collar on the robe. He was fumbling around with the knot on his tie when he heard someone clear their throat expectantly.
It seemed that despite the silence in the room he had misjudged its emptiness. Blaise sat quietly on the edge of his bed, waiting. His face was blank, unreadable as it always was; Zabinis were masters of composure. Draco froze, his hand clutching at the tie around his neck which suddenly felt far too tight.
“Morning,” Blaise said cautiously, watching Draco as if he were a bomb about to go off. Draco swallowed. “I thought I’d have a little chat with you.”
He didn’t know what to say. So he didn’t.
“I thought maybe when I didn’t hear from you all summer that something had happened to you. Something big enough to keep you from contacting your friends. You didn’t write to Millie or Pans or me all summer. Even Theo said he only heard from you once. Only to let him know you weren’t going to Azkaban before the papers could.”
Draco didn’t respond. He was caught completely off guard. No, he had not written to his friends over the summer. How could he? Every time he had tried to function as a normal person that voice inside his head had sneered and taunted.
You don’t really think you deserve friends after this do you?
“So you can understand why I might be more than a little peeved?”
“I’m sorry.” He finally spoke, the first words he’d uttered to anyone other than McGonagall that year. The words came out choked and ragged, not what he’d been going for at all. Blaise looked a bit surprised which was equally surprising to Draco.
“We were worried about you Draco.” His words came as a relief. “We were worried and we thought you’d…well, I thought you might…y’know.”
Of course his friends would worry. He would worry too if it was any of them in a similar position. He just couldn’t bring himself to, the guilt so great that he’d stopped believing he deserved anything nice or normal long ago. Blaise watched him carefully, his mouth pinched and tight. Reading him.
Draco shook his head and fiddled with the hem of his robes.
“You look like shit.” Blaise finally said. “Did you even sleep last night?” The way that he addressed Draco was so familiar and light, so quick to forgive that it made Draco angry. He wanted to lash out and yell and hurt . He didn’t deserve forgiveness, not this easily.
“It’s all good and well for you. France treated you nicely then?” He sniffed, his eyebrows pulling together in a frown.
“Don’t be like that Draco. That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair is that some of us had to stay here and suffer. Make choices we didn’t want to. Die, while others” his expression became pinched “got to run away and pretend like everything was fine.” The words tumbled out of him, hot and accusing.
“Draco.”
“No, I’m- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” He choked out, furious at himself for saying such a thing. In truth he was jealous. He wished it had been that simple for him.
He had been bottling it up for so long that Blaise’s mere presence, sitting there so accepting and understanding had unstoppered it all. He could not stop the cry that escaped his lips, nor the tears that stung his eyes.
“Hey…hey! Draco! I’m here for you. I’m always here for you. I’m sorry about everything, Draco, I really am.” Blaise was on him suddenly, his strong arms wrapped around Draco’s heaving body. “It’s you and me, always. I promise. Millie and Pans are here too. They understand. We all do. And Theo is just an owl away.”
Draco desperately tried to level his shaking, rasping breaths but it was as if a floodgate had opened,
“Besides. You can try to shut me out, telling yourself that you don’t deserve anything but you need me here. Otherwise, it’s the bloody Gryffindors you’ll have to get chummy with and we can’t have that!” He snorted.
Despite everything, Draco smiled, feeling the blotchy redness on his face.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t really want you to see me like this.” He rubbed his eyes defeatedly.
“Oh, please. You don’t think I’ve seen you like this before? Worse, even. Need I remind you of first year after a certain someone rejected your offer of friendship?”
Draco stiffened.
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
“Potter’s still a touchy subject then. Noted.”
Draco gave him a withering look.
“Anyways. You, me, Great Hall for breakfast?”
“Sure, yeah. It’s a date.”
Blaise grinned.
“Nah,” he said, eyes glinting wickedly. “I know I’m your second choice.”
The sound of Draco’s hand slapping Blaise’s thigh echoed around the room, a nice crisp echo.
“Ow!” He whined, releasing the most high-pitched sound Draco had ever heard from a man’s lips.
|~|
After that morning, it got a bit better. He still hated himself. Potter still stared at him mopily. But at least he could look his friends in the eye again. They obviously weren’t thrilled he’d dropped off the face of the earth for months, but they were mostly just happy he was talking to them again.
“Gods, Hermione got hot over summer,” Pansy sighed into her eggs one morning, late September.
“I’ll say.” Blaise nodded. Both of them were peeping around Draco at the Gryffindor table. He rolled his eyes and tried to tune them out. These days, when Pansy and Blaise weren’t fussing over clothes or jewellery or makeup, they were objectifying the rest of the school. Usually Gryffindor.
“It’s a shame she’s, you know…” Pansy sighed again. She’d gotten over her pretending to like men phase in fifth year. Right around the same time that Draco started to figure that out for himself. It was probably his thing with Theo that got the message across.
“Muggleborn?” Blaise suggested. Pansy rolled her eyes.
“No, you idiot. Straight.” She swatted his hand.
“Ugh, I know. She and Weasley are so…ugh.” Millie chimed in.
“I dunno, he’s kind of sweet? If you’re into gingers.” Blaise grinned. Both Millie and Pansy groaned now.
“Oh yes, we all know how much you want to fuck George.” Millie sneered. “Another devastating loss for the gay community.”
“It’s a shame Ron is such an oaf.” He grinned through a mouthful of bacon. Draco grimaced. He would rather be talking about anything else.
“What about Harry though?” Millie feigned a swoon. “He looks like he’s been working out over the summer.”
Draco choked on his toast.
All eyes were on him.
“Oh yes, Millie do go on about Harry.” Blaise gave Draco a sly look. “He’s ever so fit now, don’t you think Draco?”
Draco felt his cheeks pinken. He was absolutely not having this conversation.
Pansy and Millie, who wouldn’t have known before, had definitely picked up on what Blaise was putting down now.
“Oh, my gods.” Millie gaped.
“You’re kidding.” Pansy’s hand flew to her mouth.
“Please fuck off.” Draco moaned, burying his face in his hands.
Blaise was wearing a shit-eating grin on his face. The shittiest of eating grins, in fact.
“Potter?” Pansy exclaimed. Draco immediately shushed her. The Gryffindors were less than three metres away. They would absolutely hear her if she didn’t shut up.
“Oh. My. Fuck. It makes so much sense.” Millie was grinning like the cat that got the cream.
“What?” Draco hissed, his face burning.
“It so does,” Pansy smirked, and Blaise was not getting any less smug with all this support.
“Oh come off it Draco, you’ve been obsessed with him since day one.”
“I have not.” He gasped indignantly.
“Saint Potter this, fucking Potter that…” Blaise attempted a poor mockery of Draco.
“You’ll never guess what Potter did today!” Pansy offered her own attempt. It was absolutely unwarranted.
“Stupid Potter and his stupid pretty face!” Millie was never one to be left out.
“I’ll murder you all.”
“You can’t.” Blaise singsonged. “You’ll be off to Azkaban faster than you can say Chosen One.”
This sent the three of them into a fit of giggles and Draco had to stop himself from drowning himself in the pitcher of milk before him.
“Oh look, he’s looking over now,” Pansy whispered, eyes glinting.
Draco couldn’t help it. He didn’t mean to. It would only prove them right. But he turned over his shoulder and stole a glance at Potter.
Granger and Weasley were giving the Slytherin table puzzled looks, whispering amongst themselves. Potter was silent, training his trademark wide-eyed gaze on Draco. He immediately turned back around. He didn’t know what was worse. Engaging in a stare-off with Potter, or facing his own smirking, horrible friends.
“Go on,” Blaise urged.
“Go fuck yourself.” Draco huffed.
“Can and will.” He smirked.
“Draco?”
Fuck. Fucking fuck.
It was Potter.
Blaise, Millie and Pansy gave him manic smiles. He squeezed his eyes shut. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be.
“Draco?” Potter spoke again. His first name. It sent a shiver down his spine. Draco didn’t think he’d ever heard Potter call him that before. It was awful. It was miserable. It was disgusting.
He wanted him to say it again.
“Malfoy?”
Fuck. Back to last name basis.
“What?”
“Can I speak to you? After breakfast?”
Granger and Weasley had begun furiously whispering to each other, glancing between each other and the Slytherins.
“Why?” Draco hoped he didn’t sound as shaky as he felt.
“Erm, I have something I want to…I just need to talk to you. Please?”
Potter had never been polite to him, not once ever. It was awful.
Draco felt weak at the knees.
“Fine.”
“Ok. Great. Excellent. Okay.” Potter nodded awkwardly. “Common room?”
“Fine.” He said acerbically.
Potter nodded a final time and turned back around. Granger and Weasley immediately pounced on him, drawing him into their whisper-fest.
“Oooooooh.” Pansy teased, louder than she should have.
“Harry wants to speak with you.” Millie mimicked her tone.
“Goodbye.” Draco shot them a poisonous look each and stood up in a hurry.
“Noooo don’t go. We’re sorry. We’ll can it.” Blaise pouted, grabbing Draco by the wrist. “Please?”
|~|
After he’d finally managed to convince his dickhead friends that no, they absolutely could not be present for his meeting with Potter, he found himself trudging up the stairs to the third-floor corridor. It was perhaps, the last place he wanted to be at that moment.
Potter was waiting for him by the fireplace, all antsy and jittery, hopping from one foot to another. He jumped to attention when he saw Draco walk in and his face went through about a hundred different expressions before it settled on something unsure and new. A face he’d never worn around Draco before.
“Hullo,” he stuck up a hand and then grimaced as if he wasn’t sure why he’d done that. Draco had no answers.
“Yes?” Draco wanted this over quickly, so he could disappear. It was difficult to accomplish anything when he had Potter’s attention. He spent years fighting for it, only to finally get it in sixth year and be completely thrown off his game. It made focusing impossible. There was something about those emerald green eyes that looked deep into Draco’s soul and saw absolutely everything that was going on in there.
He needed to get away from him before he fell in too deep.
“Can we speed this up, please?” Draco crossed his arms, putting on his best irritated, snobby voice.
“Right. Um.” Potter looked like he’d been stunned for about ten seconds before he reached into his back pocket and withdrew his wand.
Except, no. It wasn’t Potter’s wand, was it?
It was made of hawthorn wood, ten inches.
Oh.
It was the first wand he’d ever received, the one he’d gotten at Ollivander’s all those years ago. It was the wand he cast his first spell with, the wand he’d used in his first duel. It was the wand he’d used so many times over the years to raise hell.
It was also the wand he’d disarmed Dumbledore with. The wand he’d used to Crucio so many Muggles. Forty-seven, to be precise. He remembered every single one, and all of their names. All of their faces.
It was the wand he’d failed to cast Avada Kedavra with. Over and over. The wand that Voldemort threatened to have snapped if he couldn’t get it together.
The wand that Harry stole from him, that night at the Manor. The wand he went on to defeat Voldemort with.
He still had it.
He still had it.
And he was returning it to Draco.
“Take it. Please. I’ve been meaning to give this back to you since your trial. Did you know, you’re exceedingly hard to get a hold of?”
Draco swallowed.
Oh.
He hadn’t expected this. He expected Potter to make some silly little speech about starting a new leaf and putting old rivalries aside. He maybe even expected Potter to punch him in the face. All of that, Draco could handle. This, though.
Fuck.
“Please?” He thrust his hand forward, the wand dangling precariously between his index and middle finger.
Oh, he was in so much trouble.
Finally, he reached forward, closing his fingers around the shaft of his wand. His wand.
The familiar tingle that he’d missed so much danced on his fingertips, buzzing eagerly in his hand. It felt so lovely. So right. It felt so…
Golden.
Yes, that was it. His magic, the magic he’d always thought to himself to be silver, felt warm and golden and bright, exactly how he expected Potter’s magic to feel.
He frowned. Yes, it was definitely Potter’s magic. His wand was positively riddled with the Chosen One’s magical signature. Draco shivered. Magic was intimate; personal. It was definitely not very proper to use another wizard’s wand, not long-term. Magical signatures could get all tangled up, all interwoven.
So he opened his mouth and engaged in the first conversation he’d had with Potter since the Battle. And possibly the first time they’d had a conversation without glaring at the other since Diagon Alley before Draco even knew who he was.
“Have you been using my wand?”
“What?” Potter stared dopily, his eyes wide and green and stupid.
“Since…everything. Did you keep using it?”
“Oh, right. Um. Yes?” He at least had the decency to look sheepish.
“Wonderful.” Draco rolled his eyes sarcastically. “Your bloody magical trace is written all over it.”
“You can feel that?”
Only then did it occur to Draco that while yes, magical signatures did get all tangled up in long-term wand-sharing, it was highly unusual to actually be able to feel it. Draco frowned.
He could definitely feel Potter’s magic. It was golden and crackling, sizzling in the palm of his hand. It was warm like a fire, comfortable, like a down pillow, sweet, like a summer breeze. Draco felt heat spreading across his cheeks.
It felt really rather nice.
“Yes. I can.” He snipped, trying to remain composed.
“Oh.” Harry thought for a moment. “What does it feel like?”
Draco gave him an incredulous look. Was he serious? With everything that had happened between them, the war and his trial, this was what Potter wanted to talk about?
“What?” Harry shrugged. “I’m curious.”
“It feels hot and sharp and awfully Gryffindorish and horrid. You’ve ruined my wand.” He fussed, wrinkling his nose. “I shall have to get a new one.”
Then, Potter did something unexpected. He laughed. His lips curled upwards, exposing white teeth, and he threw his head back and fucking laughed like they were pals who were just joking around. Draco was positively miffed. He wasn’t supposed to do that. He was supposed to get angry and threaten Draco. He was supposed to yell. He was supposed to do something , anything other than laugh.
He was gorgeous normally. When he laughed he was possibly the most beautiful thing Draco had ever seen.
“...right. Well, if that’s all…ah…thank you.”
The smile faded from Potter’s face.
“That’s alright. I really should have done it sooner, but I don’t really know where you live anymore.”
Draco stared. It sounded quite like a roundabout way of asking, but he didn’t want to assume. So he shrugged instead, as casually as he could manage, turned around and walked off.
|~|
“Merlin. And he really gave it back?” Pansy was draped over one of the ugly purple couches in their new common room. Millie was nestled in by her side, combing through Pansy’s dark hair with a manicured hand.
“Yes.” Draco withdrew it. “Obviously.”
“Maybe he’s trying to make amends?” Blaise suggested. He was pretending to read the Prophet seriously, but Draco knew he was just looking in the gossip column.
“Sure. Potter and I are about as likely to get on as a werewolf and silver.”
“Well, you don’t have to be best pals to fuck him, you know.” Pansy quipped unhelpfully. Draco glared at her.
“Ooh, yes, enemies to lovers. It’s a classic trope. Positively steamy.” Millie fanned her free hand over her face, pretending to swoon.
“Um, thanks but actually I’d sooner choke.”
“I know something you’d like to choke-” Blaise did not get to finish his sentence because Draco had smacked him over the head with a pillow. Thank Merlin his magical trace did not pick up physical violence. He could always resort to his fists.
Millie and Pansy dissolved into giggles. They were actually quite close now, much closer than Draco had ever realised. He raised an eyebrow.
Surely not.
Pansy leaned over and whispered something in Millie’s ear. Draco watched on as she practically went scarlet.
Merlin.
A hush fell over the Slytherin gang as Potter and his gang entered the common room. Potter’s eyes searched the room before landing on Draco’s intently. His lips quirked slightly and he nodded his head, the way he might greet a friend. They settled on the furthest couch from where the Slytherins were sitting and tilted their heads toward one another in quiet discussion.
“We all saw that right?” Blaise murmured, one of his signature smug grins stretching across his face.
“Shove off.” Draco snapped, hoping that none of his friends saw the blush on his cheeks.
Draco remained in the common room after his friends headed off to bed. He had a lot on his mind and he liked to mull things over in front of a fireplace. Also, as far away from Potter as he could get away with at that time of night. Seriously, sharing a dorm with him was criminal.
His Slytherin instincts told him that Potter must have ulterior motives behind returning his wand. That it had to be part of some greater plan, some tactical manoeuvre to get something out of Draco.
But Potter wasn’t a Slytherin. No, Potter was about as Gryffindor as they come, the tosser.
A thought struck Draco.
He was being nice.
“Still down here?”
Of course. Of course, Potter would be there, exactly as he was thinking of him. Draco couldn’t catch a fucking break.
He turned his head to see a dishevelled-looking Potter, impossibly handsome in his pyjamas- a pair of soft-looking black muggle pants and a t-shirt in a gorgeous shade of forest green that perfectly complemented his eyes.
Draco felt his lips part, without his consent. Oh, he was fucking gone.
“Yep.”
“Whatcha doing then?”
To Draco’s horror, Potter came and sat beside him on the sodding sofa. He clenched his teeth. What part of “yep” did this brazen idiot think was an invitation? He shuffled over, attempting to place as much distance between them as possible. Gods knew what would happen to him if Potter actually touched him.
“Earth to Malfoy? I said, what are you doing?”
Draco had been staring again. Like a tool.
“Plotting your demise.” He huffed, tearing his eyes away from Potter’s prying emerald ones. Potter chuckled softly.
“Yeah? How’s that going then?” Draco wasn’t looking at him, but he could tell that Potter was wearing that stupid dopey expression on his face. He wanted to kick him in the shins.
“No offence Potter…but do you mind? ” Draco’s voice rose incredulously. He couldn't believe the audacity of him, sitting here chatting as if nothing was amiss.
“What? Am I interrupting something?”
He wasn’t really.
“Yes.”
“My bad. I didn’t think I was since you were kind of just staring off into space.”
“Yes. Staring off into space. Busily.” Draco folded his arms and shot Potter an irritated look. Potter was still smiling arrogantly, looking as if he were king of the world. Draco rolled his eyes. Then stuck his nose up for good measure.
“Listen, Malfoy, I was wondering, well…” He drew his wand and began twirling it between two fingers. Draco watched the careless motion with a guarded expression, unsure of what to expect.
“You know how earlier today you said you could feel my magic?”
Draco already didn’t like where this was going.
“I do recall.”
“Do you think maybe there’s a way that I could feel yours?” He looked almost shy at this. It was positively adorable. And horrid. Draco wanted to hex him. And then himself.
“Are you insane?”
“Er, maybe? Ron reckons when Voldemort killed me that he wrecked a bunch of my brain cells too.” He snorted to himself like what he said wasn’t the most awful thing that Draco could possibly imagine.
“When Voldemort what? ”
“You know when he…when I died. In the forest that night?”
Draco stared at him, utterly gobsmacked.
“Oh.” Potter looked sheepish. “You didn’t know about that?”
Draco continued staring at him with an expression that was blatantly horrified. His mouth was definitely open. His eyebrows were probably jumping off his face.
“I’ll take that as a no then.” He grimaced. “So yeah, I sort of died. When I went to the forest and…yeah.”
“What, and you just casually came back to life ?” Draco shook his head. He didn’t think he’d blinked for at least a minute.
“Er…yeah? I sort of had a weird conversation with Dumbledore in my head and he said it was my choice to come back or not.”
“Potter.” Draco resisted the urge to throttle him. Or break something. “What the fuck?”
His mother had said that she’d just thought that the curse had failed to kill Potter for a second time. Maybe he was just invincible. But hearing that he’d actually died-
“Yeah, it was a bit hairy.” He scratched the back of his neck.
“Only you. Only fucking you could actually literally die and somehow not actually die! ” Now he was resting his palm against his forehead. This boy was fucking unbelievable. Impossible.
Potter smiled this time, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that made Draco’s stomach twist.
“That’s completely beside the point though. I want to feel your magic. It’s been bothering me all day.”
Draco wondered if Potter even realised the effect that his words had on him. How fucking suggestive could he possibly fucking be without even fucking trying? I want to feel your magic? He might as well have asked for a sodding shag.
His face was most definitely crimson. Curse being pale. Draco flexed his fingers. Then again.
“I suppose.”
“Cool.” Potter’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. He was so eager. It was doing a number on Draco’s insides.
“Not now, though. If it worked this way with yours…well, I assumed that this wand responds to both of us now. But I’ll have to use this for a while. Get the wand reacquainted with my magical signature. Two weeks should do it. Three, tops.”
“Drat.” Potter sighed. “Oh well. I’ll be holding you to that, though.”
He got up, finally, and began to head up to the dorm. Draco watched him go.
At the last moment, Potter turned around and stared at him intently.
“Yes?” Draco raised an eyebrow.
“Enjoy being busy. Or whatever it is you were doing.” He smirked smugly at Draco and disappeared behind the door. Draco scowled at the empty space where he’d previously been. Tosser.
Still, he did not forget the way that Potter’s face had broken out in a wide smile when he had agreed.
Gods, he couldn’t believe he’d actually agreed to let Potter feel his magic. Why did Potter even want that anyway?
This was all backwards. He almost preferred Potter’s pitiful gaze following him around the hallways. At least then he could sort of figure out why. Now that Potter had actually spoken to him, been friendly it only left him with more questions. And it certainly wasn’t helping with the growing warmth that was rapidly spreading from his chest, the one he’d worked so hard to squash because there was no chance in hell that Potter would ever think of him that way. No chance.
Potter was the epitome of light. He was brave, he was selfless, he was far too good to spare someone like Draco a second thought. And definitely, undoubtedly straight. Last Draco could remember he was dating the Weasel’s younger sister.
There was also the manner of his eventual betrothal. Draco avoided thinking about that when he could.
When he was sixteen, when Voldemort first took up residence in his home, he had signed nuptial papers, betrothing him to Astoria Greengrass once he turned twenty. He hadn’t really thought about it since the war, because it was something his father had organised. Something out of his control. Most purebloods were to marry this way.
He hadn’t even spoken to Astoria at all that year. He’d seen her around the hallways, with her friends. They’d made eye contact a few times, but he hadn’t approached her. He didn’t know how. Neither of them really wanted it, that much was certain. There was the matter of Draco’s queerness. As for Astoria, well, she just didn’t like him enough to want to marry him.
He wondered if that was even supposed to happen now, after everything that had happened. The Malfoys had no money anymore. The Greengrasses were desperately trying to repair their public image. The last thing they wanted, probably, was ties to the Malfoy family.
Everything was a mess.
|~|
Even though Draco promised himself that he’d avoid the quidditch pitch that year, it was growing harder to do so. He’d deprived himself of things that he enjoyed for so long, convinced that he wasn’t deserving of them anymore. But being back at Hogwarts had a sort of soothing effect on the soul, and Draco itched to fly again.
That morning he walked past the pitch once. Then a second time. Then a third. He was preparing to walk by the pitch for a fourth time when he saw an irritatingly familiar face ambling toward him at a leisurely pace.
Who else would it be, other than Potter?
“Morning, Malfoy.” He smiled easily. Draco swallowed.
“What do you want this time, Potter?”
“Gee, can’t a bloke say hello?” He rolled his eyes exasperatedly.
“I must have missed the memo. Since when are we friends?” Draco scowled, folding his arms.
Potter shrugged.
“We don’t have to be friends if you don’t want to. But I’m not going to stop being nice to you.”
Draco gave him an incredulous look.
Nice?
“And why would you want to do that?”
“Feel like it.” Potter shrugged again. Draco felt annoyance beginning to build in his chest. Potter was so bloody infuriating. Every little thing he did set Draco off.
“Whatever. Out of my way.” Draco stepped forward, expecting to pass through. Potter didn’t move though. He stood his ground, watching Draco with a vaguely amused expression on his stupidly handsome features.
Draco scowled.
“Potter. Move.”
“Nah. I’m good here.”
Draco huffed and attempted to push past. But for what he lacked in height, Potter made up for in strength. He might as well have been attached to the ground with a sticking charm.
Draco let out a small growl of irritation and much to his annoyance Potter chuckled. He even went as far as to widen his stance to make it harder for him to get through.
“What is wrong with you?”
“Oh, plenty, I’d imagine.”
“Let me through, Potter.” He gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to kick Potter in the bollocks.
“Why?”
“I’m busy.”
“Oh yes, you seem very busy. Pacing up and down next to the quidditch pitch.” Potter nodded, trying very hard not to burst out laughing. Draco gave Potter his most poisonous glare.
“Well, if you’re not going to move then I’ll move you.”
“Go for it. Your skinny arse is no match for these muscles.” Potter flexed his arms to prove a point and Draco might have literally died if he wasn’t so annoyed.
“My arse is perfectly fine, thanks very much.”
He immediately threw his weight against Potter, shoving with all his might. Potter clearly hadn’t been expecting it, because he let out a startled ‘oof’ and stumbled slightly. His arms reflexively wrapped around Draco’s waist to regain his balance, but that just sent Draco toppling backward. His back slammed against the side of the Ravenclaw grandstand, sending shooting pain down his spine.
“Fuck. Ouch . What the fuck?” He groaned.
Potter shifted slightly but did not loosen his grip around Draco’s waist. He looked up at Draco with those fucking eyes of his.
Draco inhaled sharply.
He had not been this close to Potter in a long time. Not since…well. Not since Potter had pulled him from the clutches of the fiendfyre.
It was different being up close and personal when the context wasn’t trying to hex each other blind. When they didn’t hate each other.
Draco then realised that he’d just admitted to himself that he didn’t hate Potter anymore. He’d really been avoiding doing that, for the sake of his own sanity. It was really the only thing keeping him from-
Potter stood up to his full height, finally releasing Draco’s waist. He was still about half a head shorter, but his face was close enough to Draco’s that if he leaned forward a little…
No. He would not think about that.
“You’re stronger than you look, I’ll give you that.” Potter grinned as if they hadn’t literally been shoving at each other a moment ago.
Draco lifted a hand to straighten his collar. Potter’s eyes followed his hands, watching as he tugged at the fabric of his shirt.
“So, what are you doing down here?” Potter took a step back, finally and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He was wearing his quidditch training uniform, still in Gryffindor colours despite McGonagall’s efforts to unify them with potentially the most hideous shade in existence.
“None of your business.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what it looks like you’re doing.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Draco scowled, but this only seemed to amuse Potter further.
“Cause it looks like you want to play quidditch. But you seem to be lacking the company to do it.”
Draco glared.
How the fuck would he possibly know that?
“You’ve been pacing for the past ten minutes and you keep looking longingly at the pitch.” Potter leaned against the wall and gave Draco one of his infuriatingly smug little looks.
“I am doing no such thing.” He turned away from Potter, but for some reason, his feet wouldn’t take him away.
“You are most definitely. And I know you’re far too proud to ever ask, so I’ll go ahead and offer. I’ll play with you.”
“What?” Draco turned back around. He could feel a flush beginning to spread across his cheeks. He blamed it on the cool air.
“I’ll play a game with you. Seeker’s match?” He pulled a snitch out of his pocket.
Draco could argue. He could say no. He could simply turn and leave and not look back. But oh, how he longed to fly again. For the thrill of chasing after a snitch.
And Potter really was the only worthy opponent in the school. Pansy and Millie would sooner be caught dead than on a broom. Blaise was only interested in flying when he was trying to impress someone.
It was actually sad for Draco to come to the realisation that Potter was his next closest friend. And he was his bloody rival for fuck’s sake.
However shameful it might be to actually accept, the desire to fly and to crush Potter in a Seeker’s game was exponentially higher.
So he sighed. Threw his head back and groaned in irritation. And accepted.
“Yeah. Alright.”
Potter grinned lopsidedly and stuck his hand out. Draco stared at it dubiously.
“Oh come on, humour me Malfoy. Shake my hand.”
“Are you aware of the irony in this, Potter?”
“Seriously? You’re not still feeling slighted over that, surely?” He laughed, shaking his head in disbelief.
“ Still?”
“Oh my god. You are. Christ, Malfoy I thought for sure you’d have let that go by now. We were eleven.”
Yes, they were eleven. Never mind that had Potter just shaken his sodding hand everything would have been different. Never mind that it was all he bloody well thought about when he wasn’t trying to avoid being killed by a murderous snake bastard.
“You sure know how to hold a grudge. Fine. Don’t shake my hand. But just so you know, if the eleven-year-old inside your brain is listening, I want to be your friend.”
He…
Draco was red now. He was sure of it. He might as well have been a sodding Gryffindor, given the scarlet shade of his face.
“Oh dear, look at your face! Oh, you’re embarrassed. Am I embarrassing you?” Potter teased gleefully.
“Fuck off.” Draco huffed, turning away from the tosser.
It was no use. Potter reached out and caught his chin with his warm hand.
“No, don't look away! I’m sorry! I’m just teasing!”
Draco’s brain was short-circuiting. Having Potter's hand touching his face like that, so casually was too much. He stood there like an arse and blinked. It was all he could do. Potter’s touch felt like a thousand lightning bolts were striking his chin all at once.
His eyes widened slightly and he snatched his hand away. Finally, Draco felt like he could breathe again.
“Right. Um, okay. Let’s- let’s go get brooms.” Potter stumbled over his words, and Draco felt as if something weird had settled between them.
“Yes. Brooms.” Draco nodded and took off in the direction of the broom shed before Potter could do another stupid thing that would send Draco’s brain into overdrive.
Draco didn’t want to get ahead of himself, but he was fairly certain that his Nimbus 2001 was still stored safely away in the broom shed. Nearly all of his belongings had been repossessed by the Ministry when they froze all of the Malfoy assets. His broom hadn’t been touched since the end of fifth year. If Hooch hadn’t cleared it out…it should still be there.
Potter jogged to catch up to him, and the two of them walked shoulder to shoulder until they reached their destination. Potter unlocked it and the two of them stepped inside.
“I haven’t gotten a new broom yet,” Potter said, though it seemed more like he was talking to himself than Draco.
Draco closed his eyes. Usually, if your broom was stored in the shed it would fly into your hand when you entered.
When he opened his eyes, he was greeted by the familiar sight of his Nimbus 2001 hovering patiently before him.
Potter watched him silently, nodding appreciatively.
“Oh…” he whispered, reaching out to touch it. It had been so long. The broom was eager to fly. He could tell by the way it quivered beneath his touch.
Suddenly he was nervous. He hadn’t flown since fifth year, much less played quidditch. How the fuck was he supposed to beat Potter?
“I’ll just borrow one of the school ones I guess.” Potter shrugged. “So you’ll have a slight advantage.”
“I don’t need an advantage, Potter. I could easily beat you. Blindfolded.”
“Hey, don’t start something you can’t finish.” Potter snickered. “I’m happy to blindfold you.”
Draco flushed. Potter had to stop saying these things.
“I’ll be fine.” He sniffed primly.
“Is now a bad time to point out that you’ve never won a game against me?”
“Oh, you’re so getting it!” Draco growled, mounting his broom and pushing off the ground as fast as he could. He shot out of the shed, up and up and up, the wind rushing past him, immediately tousling his perfectly combed hair. Potter was not far behind, letting out a joyous whoop. Draco did a few laps of the pitch to get himself readjusted to flying again. It didn’t take long though. He’d been flying since he was five years old on toy broomsticks. He’d really worried over nothing.
Potter followed him around the pitch, half a broom-length behind him. Draco didn’t dare look back. He’d always found Potter most irresistible in his quidditch gear. Plus, he had so much natural talent it quite honestly wasn’t fair. He’d get ahead if Draco so much as threw him a glance.
Eventually, Draco decided he’d done enough laps and came to a stop in the middle of the pitch. Potter flew over to join him and pulled out the practice snitch again.
“Ready?” He grinned devilishly.
“How many are we going for?” Draco asked, eyeing the snitch.
“Best of three?”
“Yeah, alright. You’re on.” Draco smirked.
He probably shouldn’t have. Potter was ridiculously good. He proceeded to smash him. All three times.
When he caught it after only ten minutes the third time- a courtesy by that point, he’d already won- Draco conceded defeat. He landed roughly on the pitch and let his broom fall to the ground.
“Fuck.” He groaned, raking a hand through his windswept hair.
“Looks like I win.” Potter was desperately trying to appear modest, but his face was carrying one of his signature wide grins, the one he seemed to be giving Draco a lot lately.
“Fuck off.” Draco rolled his eyes.
“When was the last time you played anyway?”
“Fifth year.” Draco shrugged. “Haven’t flown since then either.”
“Doesn’t show.” Potter kept smiling that wide, easy smile. It would be so easy to fall in love with him.
Draco banished the thought as quickly as it came.
“You’re good. Quite good.”
“Don’t need to rub it in, Potter. You’re better. You’ve always been better.”
“I’m not rubbing it in, you git. I’m trying to compliment you. Christ.” He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, setting his glasses askew on his face.
“Well. Don’t.”
“Bloody fucking hell Malfoy, I’m trying here. I’m trying so fucking hard and you’re giving me shit all in return!”
“I didn’t ask you to try, Potter. I didn’t ask for any of this shit!”
They were yelling now like they were so good at doing in each other’s presence.
“That’s the whole point of being friends, Malfoy. You don’t have to ask. I’m doing this because I want to. Because it makes me feel good. Because believe it or not, when you’re not being a complete fucking arse, you’re actually good company!”
“Well…well-” Draco glared angrily, but his insides felt all warm and gooey. Potter thought he was good company?
“Well nothing.” Potter snapped. “Stop trying to fight this. Give me one genuine reason that we can’t make this work. A genuine one, not some piss-poor excuse like me not shaking your hand in first year.”
“Because I’ve got this.” Draco shoved up his sleeve angrily, momentarily forgetting his desire to keep his horrid tattoo hidden.
Potter shut up immediately. His eyes widened a little and he stared openly at the ugly, twisting Mark on Draco’s pale forearm. It hadn’t moved in months, hadn’t hurt, hadn’t done anything except sit there and look ugly. But sometimes, when Draco was alone and had nothing to distract him from his thoughts, it felt like the snake was constricting around his arm, cutting off his blood flow. Killing him slowly.
He’d raised his wand at it once, ready to Incendio the wretched thing off. But he’d chickened out, frightened of the pain. The Mark was indestructible anyways. Some Death Eaters that had tried to defect during the wars tried to cut them off, to hex themselves, but the Mark ran deep. To the bone. It was a tattoo on your very soul, not just ink on skin.
“I don’t care about the Mark,” Potter said quietly. “I meant every word I said at your trial. You didn’t have another choice.”
“There’s always another choice,” Draco muttered. “I could have gone to Dumbledore for help earlier. I could have gone to Snape. I could have gone to you-”
“You did the best you could with the options you were presented with and I stand by that.” Potter insisted firmly. He lowered his voice to a murmur and took a step toward Draco. “And I forgave you long ago. For everything.”
“Why?” Draco could feel his eyes starting to burn. He would not cry in front of Potter.
“I didn’t have much of a choice either. Sure, I might have been on the ‘morally right’ side or whatever, but only because of the people I was raised around. The Weasleys and Hermione and the Order. Even my bloody aunt and uncle and cousin. But I still didn’t have a choice. At no point could I have given up. It had to be me. I had to-” He broke off, looking quite emotional. “I had to walk to my own death, willingly, in order to ensure the safety of the entire wizarding world as a seventeen-year-old boy. It’s taken me months to realise how fucked up that was.”
“What, so you’re saying we’re the same?” Draco sniffed.
“Well, no. Not exactly. But we were both thrown into situations out of our control and expected to make life-altering decisions at a frighteningly young age.” Potter sighed. He looked really small then, far younger than he was. He looked like someone who’d been let down, over and over again.
The world had done nothing but take from him. Oh, he longed to reach out and touch Potter. He longed to wrap his arms around Potter’s strong shoulders and bury his face in Potter’s soft-looking hair. He longed to squeeze him tightly and murmur gentle things in his ear.
Salazar, help him.
“You want to be my friend. Even though I was a Death Eater. Even though I hated people like Granger.”
“Do you hate her now?”
“No.”
It was true. He didn’t hate Granger. He was impressed by her, frightened sometimes, but most of the time he felt neutrally toward her. She wasn’t the one he was concerned about. It was the Weasel, really.
“Then yes. I do.”
“Forgive me, Potter. For being a little suspicious,” Draco drawled. “The Slytherin in me is telling me this is too good to be true.”
“Too good you say?” Potter flashed his white teeth, and Draco knew he’d lost.
“Shove off.”
He bumped his shoulder against Draco roughly, and this time the scuffle that started between them was entirely friendly. Aside from the fireworks that went off in Draco’s belly every time their bare skin came into contact.
Friends. He could be friends with Potter, perhaps.
He just had to ignore the very complicated and messy tangle of feelings in his stupid fucked up head.
|~|
On the first day of October, Draco woke to the sound of talking in the dorm. He listened quietly, hoping to catch who.
Apparently, it was everyone. Even Blaise, who for whatever reason was talking to Dean Thomas.
Draco poked his head out from behind the ridiculous floral curtains.
“Oh, good Draco, you’re up!” Blaise exclaimed, interrupting his conversation with Dean.
“Morning.” He spoke cautiously. It had to be past eight, which didn’t make much sense. It was highly unusual for all of the boys to be hanging around in the dorm in the mornings. Weasley was rarely seen anywhere but the Great Hall before class, stuffing his face with a frankly appalling amount of food.
“McGonagall sent a letter to all of us this morning asking us to stay here until she’d come by. Apparently, it’s important.” He shrugged, tossing Draco the letter.
Draco accepted it wordlessly and began to read.
Good morning eighth years. I kindly request that each of you remain in your common room this morning until I stop by. I have a matter of the utmost importance I need to discuss with the cohort and should you miss this it would be most disappointing. You will all be excused from the first fifteen minutes of your first class today to allow you enough time to have breakfast afterwards.
Headmistress McGonagall
He passed the letter back to Blaise.
“Wonder what it’s all about?” Finnegan came up beside Dean and leaned on him heavily.
“Up to no good again, Harry?” Dean grinned, which sent a round of smirks around the Gryffindor boys. Blaise looked politely amused. Draco only stared at him.
Potter hadn’t put his glasses on yet and it was frankly rather distracting. His eyes were somehow even more intense and emerald without the wire-framed spectacles he refused to let go of, and Draco had a difficult time looking for too long.
There was a soft knock outside their door.
The Weasel lumbered over to open it, and unsurprisingly, Granger’s nosy form appeared in the doorway.
“Did you get the letter?”
“Yeah. We’re all in here, waiting.” The Weasel nodded.
“Mind if I come in?” She directed this question at the room. No one seemed to mind, least of all Blaise, who let that be known. Granger shot him an odd look but came in anyway. The so-called Golden Trio gathered on the Weasel’s bed and began conversing quietly amongst themselves.
Draco actually, rather minded. He slipped back into bed and made sure the curtains were firmly closed before he spelled his pyjamas off and his fresh set of robes on. Bloody magenta robes. He sniffed disdainfully. It was nearly October and he was still no fonder of the garish new uniform.
There was another knock at the door. This time it was Millie.
“Get out losers, McGonagall’s here.” She disappeared again.
They all gathered around the common room in various states of undress. The Hufflepuff/Ravenclaw boys' dorm looked as if they’d only just woken up.
“Good morning eighth years. How are you adjusting to life in your new common room?”
“S’fine.” Finnegan shrugged. “Miss the Gryffindor common room though.”
Draco tried not to roll his eyes. If the Gryffindors missed their common room, how on Merlin’s green earth did they think the Slytherins were supposed to manage?
Privately, of course, he couldn’t help admitting to himself that he didn’t mind the cosiness of their common room. Aside from the magenta. Which was bloody everywhere.
But still. The gall of Finnegan!
McGonagall nodded apologetically.
“You all look rather unified in the new robes.” She smiled approvingly. Draco scowled. She had to be taking a dig at him. The audacity!
“Professor,” Ron began, moaning like an oaf. Draco rolled his eyes.
“Headmistress . ” She corrected. But she smiled at him anyway. Favouritism.
“ Headmistress,” Ron grumbled. “With all due respect, I’m starving!”
How Potter could stand to be around him, Draco did not understand.
“Very well. I suppose you’re all wondering why I asked you to wait here this morning.” She began, looking around at their tiny year group. It was times like these that the reality of the war hit Draco like the Hogwarts Express. How tiny they had become.
“I could be eating a lovely breakfast right now.” Draco heard the Weasel grumble to Potter, who snickered. McGonagall narrowed her eyes.
“This might be a lot to take in, so I implore you to take a seat.” She nodded at the small group who shrugged and whispered amongst themselves but settled on the various armchairs and sofas around the common room anyway.
“Seated? Good. I asked you all to remain here this morning because I wanted to let you know that here at Hogwarts we have a sort of tradition for the graduating class, running sixteen years this year. Back in 1981, Dumbledore devised a spell that, when cast correctly, allowed the user a glimpse into their own future or past. The spell temporarily brought the user forward or backward on their own timeline, allowing them to speak to this other version of themself. Dumbledore required guidance from his future self. Since then we have adapted the spell to better suit the students of the graduating class, and as a gift from the school, we allow each student a glimpse into their future. Whether it is direction, reassurance or leisure that you are seeking, we hope that this opportunity provides to be useful.”
What?
Murmurs among the students began. Draco was struggling to process it all. A spell that allowed the user to communicate with their future self?
What?
“This is something that I must ask you to refrain from speaking to younger years about. It is our best-kept secret, something which I insist upon preserving for younger years. I will be placing a Tabboo on it, and mark my words, there will be consequences if you do as such.”
Draco’s mind was reeling. He was entirely unable to think. Beside him, Blaise, Dean and Finnegan were whispering to one another with wide eyes. When the three of them had become such good friends was a mystery to Draco.
“We will be performing these spells a week from now, giving you all the opportunity to come up with a list of questions or conversation topics that you might like to discuss with your future selves. I imagine you have a lot of questions, so feel free to approach me now, before I send you all off to breakfast, or you can find me in my office at any point over the week.”
Granger’s hand shot straight up. Draco wasn’t even surprised.
“Headmistress, isn’t it extremely delicate, messing with Time magic?” Draco would be lying if he hadn’t been thinking the same thing. There was a reason why all the Time-Turners were destroyed.
“It can be. Which is why we have strict rules about what information is allowed to be revealed. Your future selves know not to reveal anything that will interfere too greatly with your timelines because I have told your future selves that already when they were in their own eighth year at this point in their lives. Generally speaking, for them, this has already happened. Any questions you decide to ask, have already been asked. It’s a bit complicated, but again, I’m happy to go over it in more detail at a later date.”
“Why?” Macmillan spoke up. Draco had barely interacted with him in their younger years. It was easier to notice him now that their cohort had reduced to thirteen.
“Why? Why offer this?” McGonagall looked down at Macmillan over her spectacles. “At first Dumbledore wished to test the spell on a larger group of subjects, but we have found that the sessions have been incredibly insightful to our students, so over the years it stuck. We have had students return to us many years afterwards to thank us for the spell.”
“Headmistress.” Potter was speaking now. He looked rather pale, actually.
“Yes, Potter?”
“What if our future self is…” He trailed off, swallowing. Draco’s eyes followed the bobbing of his Adam’s apple. “Dead?”
“The spell locks onto the point in your timeline that your present self needs to hear from most.” McGonagall shot him a sympathetic look, one that was reserved only for Potter. “It could be yourself a year from now, it could be ten years. You do not have to worry about that, I promise Mr Potter.”
He nodded stiffly.
Draco was suddenly quite afraid.
During the war, he didn’t think he’d make it to eighteen. He was convinced he’d die either at the hand of one of the Death Eaters, the Order or even Voldemort himself.
His eighteenth birthday came and went uneventfully. His mother brought him back a cupcake from a cafe nearby and they’d had the saddest and yet the most freeing birthday celebration of his life. No Lucius around.
Good.
But now that he was eighteen he realised he had no plan. He had no idea what he wanted out of life. He’d mostly just been focused on keeping his head down and keeping out of trouble. But not he was going to have to speak to his future self.
What if it showed him something he really didn’t want to see? What if he was horrendously ugly? What if his future self had dyed his hair black, or had no friends? What if he had absolutely no prospects, no job or money?
What if it never got better?
His chest felt tight suddenly, and he knew he had about thirty seconds to sit down, or he’d pass out.
That was another nifty little trick he’d picked up, ever since the horrible, awful Mark had been branded onto his skin. Panic attacks. They came on without whisper or warning. Sometimes they were situational. Other times they were purely random. But they were always debilitating, always awful.
At least everyone was clearing out of the common room. At least he wouldn’t have to go through the embarrassment of dealing with it in front of his whole year. And McGonagall.
None of them would be very sympathetic. They would probably think he deserved them.
Except…
He locked eyes with Potter as his vision started to go white, and his breathing became laboured. Desperately he tried to convey his panic, pleading that Potter had a single shred of common sense.
Then he wasn’t himself. He wasn’t real and he wasn’t anything. He was outside of his body and his body was nowhere and he was in a void. He had no lungs. Everything was burning. Everything was nothing.
|~|
When he finally felt like a person again, he realised he was sitting on the sofa in front of the fireplace in the common room. It was mostly empty. Save Potter, who was sat beside him. One arm was resting on the back of the sofa behind Draco’s neck. The other was ever so gently tracing circles over his chest, murmuring something soothingly under his breath. The hairs on the nape of Draco’s neck began to stand as he became aware of his surroundings.
Eventually, his ears started working again, and he realised that Potter wasn’t just speaking in tongues, he was actually murmuring “It’s okay. It’s alright. You’re sitting down, you’re in the common room. I am here. It’s okay. Breathe.” Over and over. Like a mantra. Grounding him.
His heart did a little leap in his chest.
“Hey.” Potter slowly stood from his position on the sofa and knelt in front of Draco. He lamented the loss of Potter’s warm fingers, tracing circles over his chest, sending tingles down his spine. Potter rested a hand on his knee instead. Oh.
That was fine, too.
“Hey,” Draco murmured, feeling his cheeks redden. Blast. Of all the people in the world to have a sodding attack in front of.
“You okay now? Do you feel…?”
“Fine, Potter.” Draco snapped. It was a dick move, especially after Potter had handled the situation so graciously, but he was feeling particularly touchy now. He needed to lash out. Potter just happened to be there.
“Good.” Potter nodded. “I get it, you know. This. Them.”
Draco glared at him, his eyebrows knitted tightly over his eyes.
“Panic attacks. George gets them.” He shrugged. “Do you need anything? Draught of Peace? Headache Potion?”
“No. I’m fine.”
Potter shrugged. He turned around to leave, and Draco finally began to relax on the sofa. In truth, he really could use a Draught of Peace. Or a solid nine hours of sleep.
As it turned out, Potter hadn’t actually left. He returned to Draco’s side with a steaming hot mug of tea. There was a kettle and coffee pot in the new common room, much to the delight of their year. Draco accepted the mug crankily, shooting Potter a murderous glare. Potter either did not notice or did not care about Draco’s touchiness.
He mentioned George. Assumably George Weasley. One of the twins. He had lost his brother in the Battle, something Draco had thought about nearly every day since the war ended. Another name on the long list of people Draco blamed himself for the death of.
It was a terrible, terrible shame. Fred and George were possibly the only two Gryffindors that Draco could actually stand, at least before all this. George would be absolutely shattered now. Draco shuddered, drawing his knees up to his chest, holding the hot mug underneath his chin. He wanted to fucking disappear.
“Hey.” Potter was using that soothing voice again. He was back on the sofa, sprawled out with his legs very far apart in a most inappropriate manner. Draco’s jaw clenched. He couldn’t be around Potter, not if he was going to treat him with such kindness, and especially not if he was going to sit so provocatively . He would feel Things, and he couldn’t be allowed to feel Things. Not for Potter. Anyone but Potter.
“Hey,” Draco said back, because he didn’t really know what else to say.
“Was it the talk about the spell that brought this on? The future stuff?”
Draco stared down into the mug. He really didn’t want to talk to Potter about this.
“I get it, you know. It’s…it’s a lot.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay. That’s fine.” Potter nodded. “I do, though. I could really do with a proper vent about it.”
“Why with me? Why not Granger or Weasley?”
Potter shrugged.
“I feel like you…understand. What it’s like. To worry about the future. Hermione and Ron are hopeful for it. They talk about their plans for life like it’s something they can’t wait to grab by the teeth. But me? Well…” he sighed and looked down at his hands.
Draco eyed him. He hadn’t realised that Potter would be so cut up about this. He had such a bright future waiting for him. Draco knew he would. Anything he did, he’d succeed at. It was something Draco was always jealous and resentful of in the past. It was more of an admirable trait now.
“I worry that my usefulness has expired sometimes. I’ve done my part in the war and everyone thinks I’m some hero and…well. Hermione thinks it’s left me with some sort of complex. A desire to please everyone all the time.”
Draco watched him curiously. After their quidditch conversation, he was becoming more and more aware that Potter felt lost. Maybe even as lost as Draco. Maybe even more.
“I’ve never had to do my own thing before. I’ve always had some bigger plan to follow. And I’m worried…Christ, I’m scared that I won't cope.”
“You’ll cope. I know you will.”
Potter smiled.
“Means a lot from you, arch-nemesis. Never thought I’d see the day.”
“Yeah, whatever, don’t get used to it.” Draco rolled his eyes, but he felt the corner of his lips tugging upward.
“You’ll be fine too.” Potter smiled encouragingly.
Draco took a sip of tea to avoid saying anything back, and surprisingly, found it was exactly as he liked it. One sugar, just a dash of milk.
He gave Potter a quizzical look.
“Oh. Yeah. You tend to notice a few things about a person when you’re convinced they’re a Death Eater.” Potter shrugged as if this was a completely ordinary confession that wasn’t making Draco’s stomach do flips.
“Like what?” Draco finally managed.
Potter shrugged again.
“A few things. You know. Normal things for a person to know about another person. I know your middle name is actually Draco Lucius Abraxus Black Malfoy, but to keep things simple you just go by Draco Lucius Malfoy.”
Draco’s mouth fell open.
“And how the bloody hell would you know that?”
Potter grinned sheepishly.
“May or may not have asked the house elves to stalk you in sixth year and tell me everything they found out.”
What. The. Fuck.
“Are you fucked? Like, genuinely? No wonder Dobby wouldn’t leave me the fuck alone in sixth year! He claimed he just wanted to catch up with his old Master but I should have known it was you!” Draco hissed.
“I’ve been known to make a stupid decision or two.” He actually had the decency to look a little embarrassed at this, resting his head on one of his shoulders in a really rather endearing manner.
“Or two? Try, I dunno, maybe all of them?”
“Nah.” Potter smiled dopily at Draco. Fucker. “Just the ones to do with you.”
That certainly did it. That certainly fucking did it. Despite the tea, Draco’s mouth felt dry.
“W-well. That’s hardly anything, Potter. What else could you possibly know about me?”
“Well, I know you love lamb roast and hate seafood, specifically fish, I know you love jelly but pretend you don’t because you think it's for children, and I know that you prefer green apples over red, and I know that you can’t stand pumpkin juice. I know that you like your tea with one sugar and just a splash of milk. I know your favourite colour is red, even though you pretend it’s green. I know you haven’t worn your family ring since the Battle. And I know-”
“That’s enough, Potter.” Draco’s cheeks were bright red, he was sure of it, and he was positive that if he checked down his shirt his entire chest would be red too. This was entirely too much. How on Earth could Potter possibly know all that just from watching him?”
“I know you’ve turned down Pansy Parkinson more times than you can count, even though she’s gorgeous, and that one I can’t figure out why.” Potter was still going.
“Two reasons. The first is that Pansy is a raging lesbian who is definitely trying it on with Millicent Bulstrode as we speak.”
“Oh.”
“You noticed all those things about me, and you couldn’t figure out possibly the most obvious thing of all about Pansy?”
Potter shrugged.
“Guess not. Then again, I wasn’t stalking her, was I?” He grinned. Stupid Potter. Stupid idiotic gorgeous Potter. How could he just be so okay with saying things like that?
Draco huffed and looked away. He kept sipping at his tea. It was wonderful, spreading a delicious, sweet warmth through his body. Or perhaps it was the proximity to Potter. He couldn’t be sure.
“What was the other reason?” Potter leaned toward Draco ever so slightly. If Draco’s very being wasn’t centred around being hyperaware of every minuscule mannerism of Potter, he’d have brushed it off as shifting in his seat. But Draco knew better than that. Potter had leaned into him and he wasn’t moving away. Momentarily, Draco’s eyes darted from his impossibly green eyes to his lips, then back to his eyes.
“Put the pieces together, Potter.”
He couldn’t take this anymore. He took one last swig of his tea, handed the empty mug to a very close Potter and jumped off the sofa. He did have classes to attend after all.
He tried very very hard not to think about the fact that he’d essentially just come out to Potter, Potter who had rubbed his chest and touched his knee and talked him through a panic attack. Potter who had been ready to drop everything to go fetch him a Draught, who’d made him tea exactly as he liked it. Potter who seemed to know every single little mundane detail about him and not a thing about anyone else. Potter who had been leaning in.
Fuck.
Fucking shitting fuck.
Draco could have screamed. He could have literally screamed at the top of his lungs and shattered every pane of glass within a ten-kilometre radius.
Stupid fucking Potter. Stupid perfect Saint Potter. It wasn’t enough that he had the entire Wizarding World at his feet. He just had to take Draco too.
|~|