Pattern Recognition (H/D, PG-13)
Title: Pattern Recognition
Author: mad_maudlin
Rating: PG
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Warning: Not necessarily epilogue compliant, but not non-compliant either, if you get my meaning. So there's Schroedinger's reference to infidelity.
Summary: They have a pattern.
A/N: In February I offered to write fic for anyone who donated to the Victoria Bush Fire fun. suonguyen asked for H/D, established relationship and no graphic sex. I hope this is acceptable.
Pattern Recognition
By Mad Maudlin
It's getting to be rather routine.
Harry Potter, youngest and most accomplished Chief Auror of the era, takes a room at the Crossed Wands because the Leaky Cauldron is too public and the Dragon's Tail is too disreputable. He does it at least once a month but never more than once a fortnight, except for a three-month hiatus in 2004 that was entirely due to extenuating circumstances. He signs his own name on the register, orders two plates of whatever is hot in the kitchen and retires upstairs with his cloak over his arm.
Draco Malfoy, corporate raider and suspected confidence artist, takes a room at the Crossed Wands because he doesn't trust the Leaky Cauldron and the Dragon's Tail is too cheap. He comes whenever Harry Potter does, between thirty and ninety minutes after him, except for a four-month hiatus in 2005 and one particular Christmastime when he stayed a solid week and never did sober up completely. He buys a bottle of whatever is chilled in the wine cellar and signs his own name to the register, he takes his key and then goes to Harry's room instead.
They have a polite dinner. They argue about the Quidditch standings. Harry does not ask Draco about his business dealings. Draco does not ask Harry about ongoing investigations. They'd tried it, once, in 2001, and it had lead to a messy arrest and a mutual hiatus of six and a half months. By now it is a matter of familiar habit.
Privately, Harry thinks this is the height of hypocrisy and swears each time that he'll never come back. He does.
Privately, Draco thinks this is the lowest depths of desperation and prepares some cutting means of asserting himself for every occasion. He never uses them.
They linger over wine and unleash the conversation, taking on the arts (wizarding poetry vs. Muggle action movies), celebrity gossip (Rita Skeeter is by mutual agreement a sort of horrible train wreck they can't look away from) and occasionally the precarious edge of current events. Never politics. Never, ever family. They may get quite red in the face, more flushed than alcohol can justify, and Harry has been known to spit when he talks while Draco's gestures grow increasingly grandiose. A total of twenty-seven wine glasses have been destroyed. Sometimes they even laugh.
Harry never expected laughter, because this all started as a leg up on redemption.
This started as manipulation, and Draco never expected laughter at all.
The wine runs out eventually. The conversation dwindles. Sometimes Harry makes noises about turning in. Sometimes Draco tells a clever but tasteless joke, badly. Sometimes one of them simply leans over to the other and-not grabs, because grabbing implies violence, implies passion, implies emotion at all. One leans over and takes the other's arm or hand or thigh and if they haven't already relocated to the bed, they will soon after.
They don't kiss. They never do.
Harry is clumsy and casual and alternates between a brutish forcefulness and irritating chivalry. Draco is pushy and prissy and noisy, though perhaps only a dozen actual words will pass between them. (There are other vocalizations, but they will not be found in any dictionary and most can reasonably be spelled without consonants.) They know exactly what they like. They know exactly what the other likes. It is easy and comfortable and calming, in a way.
When they see each other outside the Crossed Wands, Harry is grumpy and sarcastic and overly familiar while Draco is condescending and pretentious and sarcastic in a different way. When people see them together, Harry is the youngest and most accomplished Auror of the era, the golden knight who saved Britain and who has never lost a duel. When people see them both in public, Draco is the conniving business king of wizarding Europe, perpetrator of a hundred shady schemes, richer than God and tantalizingly evasive about his Dark past. When they are not in this room, nothing changes.
Since they first started meeting this way, nothing has changed.
They lay, in the end, sweaty and sated and careful that their exhausted sprawls don't overlap. Draco may complain, idly, about something, or Harry may make some blustering joke, but the truth is that they start dressing again long before they put on clothes.
Harry bundles himself in his bloodred uniform. Draco charms out any creases in his tailored robes. Draco simply walks out, half the time taking the key with him but always returning it by owl the next day if he does. Harry tells the barman that he's going for a walk and leaves the key with him but never comes back. They're both at home in their respective beds long before morning.
This is how it works.
Harry thinks it's a weakness.
Draco thinks it's a farce.
Neither of them make any particular effort to stop.
And if one night, on no particular night, not following on the heels of any grand revelation or shattering upheaval; if one night like any other night that preceded it and the many thousands that likely could come after; one random insignificant night; if Harry were to pull up the blankets instead of pulling on robes and settle down-
If Draco were to roll over until his arm crossed Harry's chest, a skull-shaped scar pressed close to Harry's heart-
If, in short, one and thus both of them were to actually stay-
Maybe nothing would change. Maybe everything would. Maybe Harry won't ever have the courage. Maybe Draco already has what he wants.
Maybe not.
It's getting to be rather routine, after all, and they're both intelligent men. The only question is when they'll recognize what's already there.
Author: mad_maudlin
Rating: PG
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Warning: Not necessarily epilogue compliant, but not non-compliant either, if you get my meaning. So there's Schroedinger's reference to infidelity.
Summary: They have a pattern.
A/N: In February I offered to write fic for anyone who donated to the Victoria Bush Fire fun. suonguyen asked for H/D, established relationship and no graphic sex. I hope this is acceptable.
Pattern Recognition
By Mad Maudlin
It's getting to be rather routine.
Harry Potter, youngest and most accomplished Chief Auror of the era, takes a room at the Crossed Wands because the Leaky Cauldron is too public and the Dragon's Tail is too disreputable. He does it at least once a month but never more than once a fortnight, except for a three-month hiatus in 2004 that was entirely due to extenuating circumstances. He signs his own name on the register, orders two plates of whatever is hot in the kitchen and retires upstairs with his cloak over his arm.
Draco Malfoy, corporate raider and suspected confidence artist, takes a room at the Crossed Wands because he doesn't trust the Leaky Cauldron and the Dragon's Tail is too cheap. He comes whenever Harry Potter does, between thirty and ninety minutes after him, except for a four-month hiatus in 2005 and one particular Christmastime when he stayed a solid week and never did sober up completely. He buys a bottle of whatever is chilled in the wine cellar and signs his own name to the register, he takes his key and then goes to Harry's room instead.
They have a polite dinner. They argue about the Quidditch standings. Harry does not ask Draco about his business dealings. Draco does not ask Harry about ongoing investigations. They'd tried it, once, in 2001, and it had lead to a messy arrest and a mutual hiatus of six and a half months. By now it is a matter of familiar habit.
Privately, Harry thinks this is the height of hypocrisy and swears each time that he'll never come back. He does.
Privately, Draco thinks this is the lowest depths of desperation and prepares some cutting means of asserting himself for every occasion. He never uses them.
They linger over wine and unleash the conversation, taking on the arts (wizarding poetry vs. Muggle action movies), celebrity gossip (Rita Skeeter is by mutual agreement a sort of horrible train wreck they can't look away from) and occasionally the precarious edge of current events. Never politics. Never, ever family. They may get quite red in the face, more flushed than alcohol can justify, and Harry has been known to spit when he talks while Draco's gestures grow increasingly grandiose. A total of twenty-seven wine glasses have been destroyed. Sometimes they even laugh.
Harry never expected laughter, because this all started as a leg up on redemption.
This started as manipulation, and Draco never expected laughter at all.
The wine runs out eventually. The conversation dwindles. Sometimes Harry makes noises about turning in. Sometimes Draco tells a clever but tasteless joke, badly. Sometimes one of them simply leans over to the other and-not grabs, because grabbing implies violence, implies passion, implies emotion at all. One leans over and takes the other's arm or hand or thigh and if they haven't already relocated to the bed, they will soon after.
They don't kiss. They never do.
Harry is clumsy and casual and alternates between a brutish forcefulness and irritating chivalry. Draco is pushy and prissy and noisy, though perhaps only a dozen actual words will pass between them. (There are other vocalizations, but they will not be found in any dictionary and most can reasonably be spelled without consonants.) They know exactly what they like. They know exactly what the other likes. It is easy and comfortable and calming, in a way.
When they see each other outside the Crossed Wands, Harry is grumpy and sarcastic and overly familiar while Draco is condescending and pretentious and sarcastic in a different way. When people see them together, Harry is the youngest and most accomplished Auror of the era, the golden knight who saved Britain and who has never lost a duel. When people see them both in public, Draco is the conniving business king of wizarding Europe, perpetrator of a hundred shady schemes, richer than God and tantalizingly evasive about his Dark past. When they are not in this room, nothing changes.
Since they first started meeting this way, nothing has changed.
They lay, in the end, sweaty and sated and careful that their exhausted sprawls don't overlap. Draco may complain, idly, about something, or Harry may make some blustering joke, but the truth is that they start dressing again long before they put on clothes.
Harry bundles himself in his bloodred uniform. Draco charms out any creases in his tailored robes. Draco simply walks out, half the time taking the key with him but always returning it by owl the next day if he does. Harry tells the barman that he's going for a walk and leaves the key with him but never comes back. They're both at home in their respective beds long before morning.
This is how it works.
Harry thinks it's a weakness.
Draco thinks it's a farce.
Neither of them make any particular effort to stop.
And if one night, on no particular night, not following on the heels of any grand revelation or shattering upheaval; if one night like any other night that preceded it and the many thousands that likely could come after; one random insignificant night; if Harry were to pull up the blankets instead of pulling on robes and settle down-
If Draco were to roll over until his arm crossed Harry's chest, a skull-shaped scar pressed close to Harry's heart-
If, in short, one and thus both of them were to actually stay-
Maybe nothing would change. Maybe everything would. Maybe Harry won't ever have the courage. Maybe Draco already has what he wants.
Maybe not.
It's getting to be rather routine, after all, and they're both intelligent men. The only question is when they'll recognize what's already there.