HD INSPIRATION FOR SOFTLY_SWEETLY
Author: xanateria
Recipient: softly_sweetly
Title: Learning Curve (Part 1 of 2)
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Rating: R/NC17
Summary: Harry enrols in specialised Animagus training, and runs into the last person he wants to see.
Warnings: EWE, Alternating POV
Total word count: 13,227
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's notes: I don’t normally write in this tense, but the boys insisted. And this is the first time I have written alternating POV quite like this. I hope it works as well as I think it does, and that I managed to capture a story my recipient will like.
Beta(s): My deepest thanks to carrims and silver_ariel. Both of these lovely ladies went above and beyond the call of duty. *sends them a chocolate covered boy of their choice in appreciation*
Learning Curve Part 1 of 2
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” Shoving the hair that had flopped into his face back, Harry resists the urge to back out of the room. But he wants this, dammit, which means he has to get his arse in a chair. The next specialised Animagus training class is a whole year from now, and waiting just isn’t something he is willing to accept. With an effort, he takes the remaining seat in the room, right next to Draco Malfoy. It isn’t until he’s listening to the petite witch at the front of the room begin her explanation that he realises that Malfoy hasn’t said so much as two words to him. No taunts, no jibes, no sarcasm, no acknowledgement of any kind. But he doesn’t have time to puzzle over it, as the details of how the class will work prove more complicated than he expected.
“If you choose to take this class, you will be undertaking a full time job,” the witch, who introduces herself as Matilda, tells them. “Some of those here have had interesting…transitions…into post war life,” she says with only the briefest of looks at Harry, but he can feel his cheeks heat in embarrassment. “But if you are looking for something you can dabble in, you would be far better off to look elsewhere. The accelerated program includes classes in theory, ethics, and applications, as well as the practicals. Guest speakers will be announced later and attendance to all of them will be mandatory.” She pauses, making eye contact with them all. “It is important to note that what you are contemplating involves enormous effort, often for an unexpected or uncomfortable result.” And she continues, detailing stories of various historical figures who undertook rigorous training only to discover that they were incapable of achieving the transformation, or were so profoundly unhappy with their animal forms they might as well have been.
He can’t help but wonder what the hell he would do if that happened to him. But Harry refuses to think about that too closely. He’s given the wizarding world their hero long enough. Now it’s time to do something for himself, rather than fitting into the neat little slots of what was expected of him. If he doesn’t, he isn’t sure how much longer he will recognise himself. Matilda is speaking again though, and he wrenches his attention back to the meeting room.
“Now that you have a better idea of what will be involved,” she says, “I should also tell you that simply being here is not enough to earn a passing grade. And those of you who are here in hopes of bolstering an Auror application should be aware that they do not look at candidates who achieve anything but an O or higher. And I can assure you that will not be an easy thing.”
The standards aren’t a surprise, but they have a sudden ball of nerves fluttering in Harry’s stomach, so he has to fight to listen to the end of the speech.
“If none of that has put you off, then I would ask that you sign your name before leaving.” She gestures with her wand, and a quill and parchment appear on the far end of the table she is leaning against.
Chairs scrape against stone as those in the room stand and shuffle their way to the front. Half a dozen just keep walking past the table, and out the door without stopping. Harry waits, half expecting Malfoy to think it a bit much and follow them, but he only moves to join those queuing up to sign their name. Without really stopping to think about it, he gets in line behind the tall blond, inhaling the scent of expensive cologne. It occurs to him that Malfoy should be objecting to him being so close, but still, the other man says nothing. When all those who stay to sign finish, Matilda smiles for the first time. “Alright then, gentlemen and ladies, I will see you here on Monday morning, eight sharp.” Another wand gesture, and the parchment rolls itself up and drops smartly in her pocket. She’s out the door and gone, footsteps echoing in the hall before it occurs to him to wonder what he got himself into.
***
Draco looks up and notices Potter hesitating in the doorway to the room. For just a second he wants to curse, but he doesn’t. He knows he is the reason for the hesitation, but he is careful not to react to the sudden scrutiny from the other man in any way. He doesn’t have time to rekindle an old rivalry that doesn’t have meaning any more. Nor will he allow himself the luxury of reviving the somewhat strained formality of the relationship he had with Potter during the last months of the war. He is here to obtain a mark high enough to guarantee that he will be among those chosen to begin Auror training during the next round of applications, not to socialise.
Being an Auror is the only possible occupation he can pursue. It is the only position that will allow him the means and the authority to track down those responsible for his mother’s death. There is no one left alive to avenge her properly if he fails, so failure is not an option. Neither is letting himself risk developing relationships with any of his current peers. Relationships can turn into weaknesses to be exploited by others, and he won’t allow that to happen.
It is an adjustment, of course, learning to keep his distance from so many people. He can remember a time when he was quite social, but he doesn’t dwell on that. Instead, he focuses on maintaining his deliberately calm mask. If he is privately amused at Potter’s confusion over his lack of reaction as the lecture draws to a close, it doesn’t matter. No one would look at him and see amusement. And he is careful not to so much as smile over it until he is alone at home.
***
The harsh blare of his alarm startles Harry awake, and for a long moment he can’t remember why he’s awake. Then his brain finishes clearing the last of the sleep fog away and he can feel the grin stretching nearly across his whole face. At last, he could get a start on a life, a real life. He isn’t getting up after another late night at a Ministry function, after putting in his expected appearance. He isn’t dragging himself to another gods-forsaken location far too early in the morning to dedicate a statue or monument or some other useless soon-to-be landmark. Best of all, he doesn’t have to dread attending yet another of the endless memorial ceremonies, with the eyes of strangers accusing him, or worse all but worshipping him. It isn’t that he thinks the war and all those who had fallen defeating Voldemort should ever be forgotten. Far from it, but as each memorial ceremony was held, rather than bringing him closure, they bring only more guilt. And added to the parade of accusing faces that stared at him when he closed his eyes at night.
Squaring his jaw he pushes all thoughts of the preceding months out of his mind. He isn’t a Ministry figurehead anymore. No amount of guilt can keep him doing Arthur’s bidding, however well intentioned he might be as the new Minister. There are other people much more capable of spearheading the efforts to rebuild now. He’s determined to concentrate on doing the best he can in the Animagus training. With luck, he’ll do well enough that his Auror application will noticed. They like specialised skills after all. And Kingsley has promised him that his application will be judged on merit alone, which means he is going to need all the help he can get. He isn’t the only war hero after all, just the most well known.
He goes through his morning routine in the rather cramped bathroom of his flat, then dresses quickly and heads out the door. It won’t do to be late this early into classes, after all. It strikes him as faintly ironic that he is, for all intents and purposes, going back to school, even if it isn’t at Hogwarts. He celebrated just as much as any of his surviving year mates when they were told they wouldn’t be required to complete formal classes. Instead, practical experience in the war efforts had been taken into account, and seventh years were given a choice whether they wanted to sit for their N.E.W.T.s. But he’d missed the social side of school, and surprisingly, he’d missed learning much more than he expected.
***
Not even an hour later, though, Harry shakes his head, wondering if he really had missed learning after all. This time the sixteen of them left convene in a larger room, lined with what had seems like overly large desks-until they are piled high with the not one, not two, but four textbooks they will be reading from. Looking around the room, Harry notes that even Malfoy looks a little shocked. But as soon as he realises where his gaze has fallen, Harry wrenches it away. Just because his old rival didn’t react to him during enrolment, there’s no reason to give him ammunition now. Besides, hasn’t he spent enough time watching Malfoy? And the last time he had got in that habit he’d ended up with a mortifying crush that had taken him far too long to grow out of. Best not to go there again, he tells himself with a little nod. Surely he can ignore one person, after all.
Near the end of the afternoon, however, when Matilda finishes cramming enough theory into their heads for her satisfaction, she makes an announcement that presents one small obstacle in Harry’s plan to ignore Malfoy. “For the remainder of this class I make it a policy to require each of you to choose a study partner. This person will be most useful during practical labs, but you may of course choose to review the theory together as well.” Just like that, Harry watches with a sinking feeling in his stomach as those in the room pair off. By the looks of it, everyone knows each other at least a little. And of course, that leaves him with the very option he’s trying to avoid. It looks as though Murphy’s Law is still firmly in effect in his life.
Still trying to force himself to accept the situation, Harry doesn’t move. In the next instant, though, his jaw nearly hits the floor because Malfoy is striding smoothly over to stand in front of him. “It seems I am in need of a partner, Potter,” he begins, voice quiet, but calm. “And it appears you are in the same position.”
There is no part of his brain, no matter how tiny, that has a brief flash of Malfoy in a very interesting position indeed, Harry tells himself while he fumbles for an answer. “Yeah, I guess I am,” he finally replies, and could kick himself for sounding so stunned.
Though Malfoy surely noticed, he doesn’t offer so much as a smirk. “Well, under the circumstances, I suppose I could consent to be your partner,” the blond tells him, looking altogether too perfectly put together for a Monday morning, as far as Harry is concerned. But under the circumstances, there really is no choice but to grit his teeth at the arrogance and agree.
***
Matilda’s announcement to the classroom has his stomach tying up in knots, but Draco is careful to keep his slightly bored façade in place. Inwardly, he can’t help but remember the hideous times at Hogwarts when he was forced to participate in group projects with students from other houses. Invariably, he was the last one picked, and always ended up with a rather dismal grade. That is unacceptable now. The question is: how can he best turn a bad spot into an advantage? It’s clearly evident that most of the class is already acquainted with each other. It’s just as clear that none of them intend to ask Potter to be their partner, though whether that is because they are intimidated or already have a partner is anyone’s guess.
Draco gets up slowly, adjusting his robes so they are hanging properly, all the while watching Potter from the corner of his eye. As much as he doesn’t want a partner, it seems as though it will be easier with one he knows. At least he won’t be obligated to get to know him, or make idle small talk. The dark-haired former Gryffindor won’t expect either from him. With that firmly in mind, he saunters over to Harry’s desk. “It seems I am in need of a partner, Potter,” he begins, just in case Potter isn’t as quick to grasp the realities of the situation. “And it appears you are in the same position.”
He waits to hear agreement, careful not to react to Potter’s obvious befuddlement. The old antagonism won’t quite let him bring himself to ask the favour though, so he does what he’s always done when he doesn’t want to ask for something for fear of not getting it. “Well, under the circumstances, I suppose I could consent to be your partner,” Draco tells him. After all, when it looks as though he’s doing Potter a great favour, he can hardly refuse. Assumed consent is still consent. He was practically still in nappies when he learned that. Sure enough, his former schoolmate grinds his teeth but raises no objection to the partnership. How can he really? Draco gets to depart for home well pleased with his day’s accomplishments.
***
Harry hates working with Malfoy. He knows this because he tells himself that at least once an hour during every study session. Usually he needs the reminder after he catches himself looking at Malfoy’s admittedly superior arse, or listening to the smooth sounds of his voice rather than what he is actually saying. He hates the close contact, because he fights with his libido at least once a day, even as he wonders at how changed Malfoy is. For one thing, there is no sign of the lazy indolence he remembers so well. In fact, Malfoy works so hard it reminds him of Hermione. And though he is unfailingly present, he seems almost detached from those around him. There isn’t even any reaction when Harry needles him gently about Quidditch just to see what would happen. It’s not a bad thing, having such a driven man for a study partner, but Harry wonders what happened to change his enemy so much. Even after he defected to the side of the light near the end of the war, Malfoy lost no chance to let him know he thought Harry fell rather short as a hero. Of course, Harry whole heartedly agrees with that, though of course he never says so. Just like he never once admits how much he valued having one person who doesn’t look at him with awe that is uncomfortably close to worship.
In the third week of class, Matilda announces that their first guest speaker will be the following day. Harry looks at her, smiling slightly from where she is perched on the table that serves as her desk, and wonders idly who it might be. Phenelbert Baum, Matilda tells them, holds the current record for most transformations in one day without any ill effects. Though he is older now, when he was just about their age, Baum transformed eighteen times in one day. Feeling his eyes widen, Harry nods appreciatively. The textbooks set out careful guidelines about how often you should change, and how long you should spend in your animal body. And they recommend no more than seven times a day, because of how draining it can be.
Unfortunately, Baum’s accomplishments make him an expert on being an Animagus, but they do not make him a very good speaker. After listening closely to him stutter and stammer for the first few minutes before settling into a quiet monotone, Harry catches himself daydreaming. The slice of sky he can see through the window makes him think of flying. And that makes him think of Quidditch, of course. Thoughts of the game drop him into memories of playing at Hogwarts. And that was just exactly the wrong place to go, because that leads him to Draco. Slowly, he tips his head slightly to the left so he can observe the other man surreptitiously, then looks down at his desk. No, he isn’t going to start watching him again. But even as his pride shrieks at him from some tiny corner of his mind, his eyes are drawn back to Malfoy, because it is Malfoy dammit, not Draco. What is he thinking about, sitting so straight in the chair, deep green robes arranged perfectly? What would his lips taste like if Harry could nibble on them just once?
At that, his head jerks up, and his eyes widen again. Hopefully anyone who sees just thinks he was catching himself from nodding off. But he’s got bigger problems. Wondering what Malfoy’s lips taste like is definitely not going to keep him from rekindling a crush that still has no hope of going anywhere. Sure, Malfoy no longer gets his kicks being as cruel an arse as possible to him and all his friends. But this new calm and distant Malfoy isn’t affected by him at all. And that is almost worse. It’s like everything in the world is distant and separate, Harry included. Likely, he could go up and plant a kiss right on him, and all he would get is a raised eyebrow and some inane comment about what page they needed to read next. Even after more than two weeks of theory work together, Malfoy still speaks rarely, and then usually it is in that vague, distant, two-steps-from-bored tone that makes Harry long for sarcasm, or even anger.
It takes a minute for him to notice the absence of the droning voice, but Harry claps politely with the rest of the group when Baum finishes his remarks. Matilda recaptures the attention of the room after he leaves, assigning an overly lengthy essay on the potions history of Animagus magic. As soon as he hears the research involved, Harry’s heart slams into his throat, because it’s far too much to do alone. And then Malfoy is walking towards him, carefully neutral expression in place. The last thing he wants to do is go to the nearby library with the man, even with the protection of the rest of the class trouping along with them. But if he chooses not to go, Malfoy is bound to ask why, and how can he answer? Sorry, I can’t, because I am afraid I’ll embarrass myself and jump you in the stacks. Even the thought of it has him flushing.
They’ve divided up the books they need, scouring them both for references, when the snickering starts. Two tables over, the four occupants are looking covertly at Harry, then snickering. He knows they are looking even though they hide it. The itch he gets between his shoulder blades when he’s being watched is so strong that he has to fight to match Malfoy’s calm studiousness.
Then they move from laughter to not quite whispers pitched just loud enough for him to hear. “I can’t figure why he bothers with any of this rubbish,” the taller of the girls wonders. “Everyone knows he curried Ministry favour so he can have whatever he wants. Not like he needs to have any kind of skills,” she continues, watching her friends as they watch for Harry’s reaction.
Harry goes cold, then hot, the heat of temper prickling his skin. He imagines standing up and screaming at them about how wrong they are, how much he hated his Ministry obligations. Of numbering the faces that berate him in his dreams, when the guilt comes out of the dark to choke him. But when he blinks himself out of the fantasy, he doesn’t move. There’s no point. They won’t believe him anyway. That kind never does. As he turns back to top book in his pile, Malfoy is looking at him. It’s so fleeting he almost misses it, but when the familiar grey eyes slide away, they linger on the other table, and for the first time there is anger on his face. For some reason that makes Harry feel better.
But even though he does nothing, the laughter continues, coming on the heels of muttered innuendos that get harder and harder to ignore. Harry and Draco do their best to ignore the gossiping girls. Once they cover the bulk of the theory it’s time to begin putting it into practise. It’s easier, in some ways at least, when it’s just him and Malfoy attempting to transform. Yes, he is far too aware of his partner for comfort, but at least then he doesn’t have to listen to the backbiting. When the class gathers as a group for feedback and critique sessions he isn’t as lucky. The girl from the library is at it again still careful not to draw attention from Matilda, but still loud enough that she knows Harry can’t help but hear. This time Harry pictures spelling her voice away, while hexing her with boils to try and calm down. It almost works, as he takes deep breaths, and studies his fairly ratty trainers.
Movement to his left has him scanning the room reflexively. Old habits die hard, apparently. Then he sees Malfoy moving to stand in front of the girl and her friends. His usual calm mask is still in place and that makes his tone that much scarier when he speaks. “If you keep on with this meaningless drivel, I’ll see to it our instructor finds out you’ve been cheating for days.” The girl protests her innocence, but Malfoy continues as if he doesn’t hear her. “Everything you think of me is exactly right, so you know I can do it.” A pause to flick lint off his sleeve, then he continues. “Potter is the only reason you are free to take this class. Remember that, and try your best to keep your mouth shut.” The corner of his lip curls up in that familiar dismissive smirk, and pale grey eyes flash with disdain for a moment. That tiny glimpse of the old Malfoy is almost as shocking as being defended, and by him of all people.
Distantly, Harry feels his jaw gape, gratitude warring with shock. But even as Malfoy moves back to his place, darkly polished boots clicking against the smooth hardwood, he can’t help but wonder. Weeks of silence, broken only by the minimum of good manners, and suddenly the ice prince is defending him? The class has shown him a side of Draco he never would have expected, but standing surrounded in the practise room, Harry knows that he still doesn’t understand him. Just then he doesn’t think he ever will.
***
When the whispers start about Harry after only a few days of class, Draco is more than a bit surprised. He’s known for years that most of upper-class Wizarding society never trusted him, even after his defection from Voldemort. It was annoying, but hardly unexpected. The fact that he stopped receiving society invitations was more of a relief than anything. And he’s never really been one to care much about public opinion at the best of times. Added to that, the fact that the vast majority of people still aren’t sure of his allegiances means they are still too scared to try and harm him directly. The irony is strangely appropriate. But all things considered, he rather thought he would be the favoured target of the class gossips.
Still, even though it is not about him, he can’t help but listen. It isn’t long before his temper begins a slow burn. Clearly, many of their fellow classmates give Potter no credit. The implication that he traded his fame for favours is insulting, but somewhat predictable. But then the girl goes on to inform anyone who will listen that Potter didn’t make any real contribution to the war effort, because after all, he only did what was expected of him. That alone is enough to have his temper straining his control. Then the silly twit goes too far. “I’m quite sure all that talk of what had to be done to kill You-Know-Who was rubbish anyways. Anyone could probably have killed him,” she tells her partner, an equally empty-headed girl standing close beside her.
Slowly, careful to be unobtrusive, Draco turns his head to look at Potter. Once glance is enough to be sure that he hadn’t heard the last remark. Even if he had, it’s unlikely Harry would defend himself. Either his natural chivalry gets in his way, or he’s simply more used to it than most would expect. Draco knows from experience that it can get very tiring fighting other people’s opinions. Worse, it is often futile. But even knowing that, he cannot let the insult stand. If nothing else, he has to work with Harry for the rest of the training program, and would rather not see his partner’s work suffer the impact of an endless round of cheap shots.
He is still trying to convince himself that is his only motivation, as he stalks over to where the girl and her friends are standing. One look at her, and he knows logic would be a lost cause. That leaves him with threats. He smiles a distinctly chilly smile and waits for her to notice him. He can do threats. He had a very good teacher, after all. “If you keep on with this meaningless drivel, I’ll see to it our instructor finds out you’ve been cheating for days,” he begins, careful to keep his face impassive. He pauses while she makes the usual protests of innocence. He holds up a hand to interrupt her, and flicks off the lint on his wrist before he continues. “Everything you think of me is exactly right, so you know I can do it.” Of course, he knows he wouldn’t actually harm the brainless ninny, but she doesn’t. And people like her always believe the most wildly exaggerated rumours first.
When he sees her start to shake he knows that she believes him, and shifts closer to pitch his voice so only she can hear him. He takes a deep breath, and concentrates to find that place inside of him where the perfect little killing machine he spent years being groomed to be still lived. “What you haven’t heard about me is so much worse than what you think you know. I could kill you right now, without even the slightest bit of remorse.” And just then, that is nothing less than the truth. If nothing else, the utter lack of conscience in his eyes convinces her. Coldly satisfied at the fear seeping into her eyes, he raises his voice enough to be heard by the others in the room again. “Potter is the only reason you are free to take this class. Remember that, and try your best to keep your mouth shut,” he tells her, careful to resume his studious mask before looking her up and down disdainfully.
He feels the beginnings of a smirk wanting to form, but controls himself. He’s had his fun. Now he needs to remember the role he plays most often now. The room has gone completely silent, except for Matilda’s footsteps. She is still circulating around the room, and if she notices the quiet, she doesn’t comment. Draco can feel Potter’s gaze on him as he paces back to join his partner on the other side of the room. He knows he would see shock on the other man’s face if he looks up. But he doesn’t. Instead, he keeps his eyes on the roving form of their instructor and listens to the practice sessions slowly start back up. He doesn’t want to answer the questions he knows Potter would ask. Hell, he would ask them too, if their positions were reversed. After a few moments, Potter clears his throat. “Thanks,” he says quietly a moment later.
Draco gathers his things to leave, before looking into the confused green eyes currently looking at him searchingly. “Don’t mention it,” he answers, fervently hoping that the sometimes obtuse Potter would realise he meant it literally. As he strides out the door, he decides he probably isn’t that lucky.
***
Harry has only been home an hour but, all the chores are done. Even the trash is at the curb because it was something to do with his hands. Still restless, he ponders homework, but can’t focus. Calling Ron or Hermione is out, because how can he explain the day’s events to them, when it doesn’t even make any sense to him? Early summer sun floods in through the bay window, spilling on to the normally comfortable clutter. He flops onto his couch, pondering his classmates caustic words from earlier. It’s possible that being a figurehead really is all he’s good for. So many people helped engineer Voldemort’s demise that it’s never seemed quite right that he got all the credit. Sure, he was the one who actually said the spell, but despite Dumbledore’s assurances, anyone could have done that, surely. And really, what else has he accomplished? The persistently negative monologue sounds suspiciously like Aunt Petunia. Good judgement says not to listen. Shame he’s never been good at going with that.
A knock at the door yanks him out of steadily gloomier thoughts. He doesn’t even bother to curse before he opens it. “I know you didn’t miss me, Malfoy. So what the hell do you want?” Annoyed and rude, but what the hell. He still can’t fathom what reason the currently irate blond would have to defend him. And the unknown has always been a problem in his life.
One perfectly shaped eyebrow wings up in a silent question probably perfected years ago in front of the mirror. “It seems you absconded with one of the references for my section of our essay. I want to finish it tonight, so I stopped in to pick it up.” Polite reserve used for asking for the time seems to be Malfoy’s antidote for rudeness.
Harry turns from the door, stalking over to his kitchen table where he has spread out his homework earlier without a word. The signs of temper are easy enough to recognise, but he doesn’t care. Despite himself, the girl in the class got to him. But Malfoy got to him more, acting like he doesn’t even exist and then pulling that stunt today. It makes his teeth grind wondering what the hell game is being played. Sure enough, the book Draco had spent most of his time reading earlier is in the middle of the tallest pile. Sparing a glare for the red leather on principle, Harry grabs it and turns back to the door. But the pile of books topples, spilling half of them to the floor and his left heel catches on the biggest of the lot. Half a breath, and he’s falling, but not to the floor. Into a hard, muscled chest, cushioned by robes far softer than anything he’s ever owned.
Their eyes lock, and for a moment the years fall away. He’s not Harry Potter, war hero. He’s just Harry, back at school and longing for the boy who is all pointy angles and cutting remarks. He’s not the man who got there too late to save countless people; he’s just a guy in the arms of an overly attractive blond who smells too good. Malfoy is too close, apparently frozen with surprise at suddenly having his arms full of messy-haired, stocking-footed study partner. Harry’s lips close the distance between them before he even knows he’s doing it. When he realises, though, he doesn’t stop. Why bother? They’ve hated each other before. And maybe this will finally get some kind of reaction. Then their lips touch, and there’s no room for thought.
Instant heat everywhere their bodies touch has him swallowing a moan. He has his answer. Malfoy tastes like almonds, and chocolate, and a hint of coffee. But the answer just leaves him wanting more. Any minute, shock will turn to dismay, so he takes advantage of it, running his tongue along full, firm lips. When the kiss goes deeper, the room does one long spin. Need simmers in his stomach, and lower. Expecting a shove, Harry tenses, but none comes. Instead, incredibly, Malfoy kisses him back, tangling their tongues together, nibbling at his lower lip and throat. Wet and needy, and somehow desperate, the kisses go on, and they press even closer together. Harry can’t help the slight gasp, and it takes him a second to realise the embarrassingly needy moan came from his throat. As if the noise flicks a switch, Malfoy stumbles back. He grabs the book, his expression still open, almost haunted. It isn’t until after he is gone that Harry touches a hand to his lips, almost wondering if he’s dreamt the whole thing.
The following week doesn’t help his certainty that it happened, whatever the hell it was. But he thinks about it, the slick slide of Malfoy’s-Draco’s-tongue against his, how it feels to want him that badly, how it had almost seemed that he wanted it, too. Of course Malfoy is as inscrutable as ever. And they don’t talk about it. Harry tries, but is met with a blank look. And when he pushes, Draco’s face goes haunted again, so he drops it. As a distraction, he buries himself in class work. Thankfully, they are on their own for the next section, covering potions that can aid in the transformation and some of its more common side effects. Even better, the following week’s guest speaker is announced, and Harry can look forward to being able to have tea with Snape. Laughter bubbles up when he realises he’s happier the day of Snape’s lecture, but he shrugs it off. Snape isn’t a bad sort. Almost all of his horrid behaviour toward Harry was part of his cover as a spy. Lifetimes ago, they were stranded together during the East London attacks. Two rather spectacular rows later, they came to an understanding. Surprisingly, except to those who know them both best, that understanding grew into first a cordial working relationship and then to actual friendship. Snape is still a sour old goat more often than not. But that’s just the way he is.
Snape is another of the rather small group of people Harry can count on to treat him as a person. And more importantly, to see the real Harry, who gets angry, depressed, and in one memorable incident hurled a china teacup at a wall in frustration. And through it all, Snape listens, and eventually advises, albeit with a healthy dose of ever-present sarcasm. Pulling on his tie as he slides into his seat in the classroom, Harry cannot help but hope Snape will be able to advise him in this case as well as he has in the past. This time he pays careful attention to the speech. It would be just like Snape to quiz him on it later, after all. But when it is over, he tucks his notes into his bag, and waits for the crowd around the older wizard to dissipate.
“Planning on inflicting your company on me, are you?” Snape stands near the board, dark hair longer than usual, but clean. He hasn’t been brewing that day, then. That might explain the slight impatience around his eyes.
“I thought about it,” Harry admits, far too used his former teacher’s habits to be put off. Snape looks at him then, really looks, in that way he’s got that still makes Harry think he can look right into his mind. The thought of that has him squirming a bit. And of course, Snape notices. He notices everything, the bastard.
But he’s kind enough not to comment on it, at least not until they are settled at a table in the building’s nearly deserted dining hall.
“Are you not getting enough sun, Potter?” Snape’s eyes track up and down in a frank assessment that has Harry clenching his teacup.
“I’m tired. This class is more difficult than I expected.” It has the bonus of being completely true.
“Indeed. I am sure it is. But perhaps you would like to tell me what is actually troubling you.”
A pause, while Harry wrestled the sudden lump in his throat. “I’ve been working with Malfoy. More than working with him, really. But he’s not even remotely interested that way. It was just a fluke.” He stresses that, trying to convince himself. “He’s not interested in anything but class work.”
Snape’s wand moves to cast a silencing spell before he answers. “If that is true, then you have nothing to worry about. Unless of course, you want him to be interested.”
The question nearly has Harry choking on his tea. It takes a minute to stop sputtering. “It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have anything more to do with me than he has to. And he’s changed.” A further explanation sticks in his throat. It would be too much to admit he misses the snarky arse he went to school with, even to one of his few confidants.
“Your lack of an answer is an answer in and of itself.” Snape sips his tea thoughtfully, surprisingly composed considering the subject matter. “And as for Mr. Malfoy, I wonder if you know how he came to be on our side during the war?” His tone is strangely intent, watching as Harry shakes his head no. Almost a year before the final battle of the war, Draco turned his back on his father, and Voldemort. No one was more shocked than Harry when Draco presented himself to Dumbledore, willing to trade information for asylum. Even today, safely removed from it all Harry shivers, remembering the tumultuous time after that.
“Just before Draco was to take the mark, his father did something to displease the Dark Lord. As punishment, Lucius was ordered to torture Narcissa and he followed even that order. Draco had to watch, you see. All of it, and what the others who were allowed to help did to her. I think that was harder on him than what they did to him when they finished with his mother.”
Harry is one of the few people left alive who witnessed the aftermath of that Death Eater meeting. Snape managed to send Narcissa to Dumbledore’s office, where he and Harry had been going over another late night vision. The full extent of Narcissa’s injuries was horrifying enough. It is that much worse knowing Draco had watched. No wonder he is so distant now. Perhaps the worst of it, though, was that by the time Draco presented himself to Dumbledore, his mother had passed away, despite the best efforts of Madam Pomfrey. For the first time in a long time, Harry contemplates someone else’s guilt besides his own, but it doesn’t make him feel any better. How horrible must it have been to watch one parent hurt another? Even thinking about what Malfoy has been through has him feeling sick and shaky.
The talk turns to Snape’s current potion research then, and Harry breathes a sigh of relief. The revelations explain a lot, but the tangle of desire and confusion he is mired isn’t lessened. If anything, his feelings are more hopeless than before. Because now he knows that Malfoy has very good reasons not to let anyone close to him. After what he’s lost, it’s no wonder he won’t take the risk of needing anyone but himself. Though the topic of conversation shifts, he finds himself unable to shake the mental image of Draco watching helplessly while Voldemort engineered the slaughter of the one person he knew loved him completely. Sitting there, he finds himself grateful that Lucius is already in Azkaban. If the man wasn’t already behind bars he would be tempted to hunt him down and hurt him. Or perhaps hunt him down and restrain him while Draco hurts him.
There are even fewer people at tables now. The sun is setting, turning the light spilling in the windows a deep gold, streaked with pinks, red and oranges that draw his eye, even as he listens to Snape’s melodious tones. “Harry.” His head snaps up. Snape only calls him by his first name when it is something vitally important. “I know something of loving someone who can’t love you back.” Black eyes flash with remembered pain as they lock with his. “As bad as it can be, it is worse if you never know whether they could love you or not.”
Harry can’t face those eyes then. “I never said anything about love.” As answers go, it’s weak, but it’s all he has. Because it’s ridiculous. Just because he wants to get into Malfoy’s pants doesn’t mean he’s fallen for him like some bloody girl.
“No.” Snape pauses then, obviously choosing his words with great care. “You did not say it. But you’ve had strong feelings for him for so long. Love and hate are closer than most of us think.” He stops, and Harry can look up, can breathe again as they say their goodbyes and move toward the exit together. Just before Snape Apparates, he speaks again. “Whatever the reason, I think if anyone could teach Draco how to live again, it would be you.” He nods decisively, then vanishes with the tell tale crack, leaving Harry to wonder why he feels better, when so much they talked about was so vastly unsettling.
***
Part 2
Recipient: softly_sweetly
Title: Learning Curve (Part 1 of 2)
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Rating: R/NC17
Summary: Harry enrols in specialised Animagus training, and runs into the last person he wants to see.
Warnings: EWE, Alternating POV
Total word count: 13,227
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's notes: I don’t normally write in this tense, but the boys insisted. And this is the first time I have written alternating POV quite like this. I hope it works as well as I think it does, and that I managed to capture a story my recipient will like.
Beta(s): My deepest thanks to carrims and silver_ariel. Both of these lovely ladies went above and beyond the call of duty. *sends them a chocolate covered boy of their choice in appreciation*
Learning Curve Part 1 of 2
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” Shoving the hair that had flopped into his face back, Harry resists the urge to back out of the room. But he wants this, dammit, which means he has to get his arse in a chair. The next specialised Animagus training class is a whole year from now, and waiting just isn’t something he is willing to accept. With an effort, he takes the remaining seat in the room, right next to Draco Malfoy. It isn’t until he’s listening to the petite witch at the front of the room begin her explanation that he realises that Malfoy hasn’t said so much as two words to him. No taunts, no jibes, no sarcasm, no acknowledgement of any kind. But he doesn’t have time to puzzle over it, as the details of how the class will work prove more complicated than he expected.
“If you choose to take this class, you will be undertaking a full time job,” the witch, who introduces herself as Matilda, tells them. “Some of those here have had interesting…transitions…into post war life,” she says with only the briefest of looks at Harry, but he can feel his cheeks heat in embarrassment. “But if you are looking for something you can dabble in, you would be far better off to look elsewhere. The accelerated program includes classes in theory, ethics, and applications, as well as the practicals. Guest speakers will be announced later and attendance to all of them will be mandatory.” She pauses, making eye contact with them all. “It is important to note that what you are contemplating involves enormous effort, often for an unexpected or uncomfortable result.” And she continues, detailing stories of various historical figures who undertook rigorous training only to discover that they were incapable of achieving the transformation, or were so profoundly unhappy with their animal forms they might as well have been.
He can’t help but wonder what the hell he would do if that happened to him. But Harry refuses to think about that too closely. He’s given the wizarding world their hero long enough. Now it’s time to do something for himself, rather than fitting into the neat little slots of what was expected of him. If he doesn’t, he isn’t sure how much longer he will recognise himself. Matilda is speaking again though, and he wrenches his attention back to the meeting room.
“Now that you have a better idea of what will be involved,” she says, “I should also tell you that simply being here is not enough to earn a passing grade. And those of you who are here in hopes of bolstering an Auror application should be aware that they do not look at candidates who achieve anything but an O or higher. And I can assure you that will not be an easy thing.”
The standards aren’t a surprise, but they have a sudden ball of nerves fluttering in Harry’s stomach, so he has to fight to listen to the end of the speech.
“If none of that has put you off, then I would ask that you sign your name before leaving.” She gestures with her wand, and a quill and parchment appear on the far end of the table she is leaning against.
Chairs scrape against stone as those in the room stand and shuffle their way to the front. Half a dozen just keep walking past the table, and out the door without stopping. Harry waits, half expecting Malfoy to think it a bit much and follow them, but he only moves to join those queuing up to sign their name. Without really stopping to think about it, he gets in line behind the tall blond, inhaling the scent of expensive cologne. It occurs to him that Malfoy should be objecting to him being so close, but still, the other man says nothing. When all those who stay to sign finish, Matilda smiles for the first time. “Alright then, gentlemen and ladies, I will see you here on Monday morning, eight sharp.” Another wand gesture, and the parchment rolls itself up and drops smartly in her pocket. She’s out the door and gone, footsteps echoing in the hall before it occurs to him to wonder what he got himself into.
***
Draco looks up and notices Potter hesitating in the doorway to the room. For just a second he wants to curse, but he doesn’t. He knows he is the reason for the hesitation, but he is careful not to react to the sudden scrutiny from the other man in any way. He doesn’t have time to rekindle an old rivalry that doesn’t have meaning any more. Nor will he allow himself the luxury of reviving the somewhat strained formality of the relationship he had with Potter during the last months of the war. He is here to obtain a mark high enough to guarantee that he will be among those chosen to begin Auror training during the next round of applications, not to socialise.
Being an Auror is the only possible occupation he can pursue. It is the only position that will allow him the means and the authority to track down those responsible for his mother’s death. There is no one left alive to avenge her properly if he fails, so failure is not an option. Neither is letting himself risk developing relationships with any of his current peers. Relationships can turn into weaknesses to be exploited by others, and he won’t allow that to happen.
It is an adjustment, of course, learning to keep his distance from so many people. He can remember a time when he was quite social, but he doesn’t dwell on that. Instead, he focuses on maintaining his deliberately calm mask. If he is privately amused at Potter’s confusion over his lack of reaction as the lecture draws to a close, it doesn’t matter. No one would look at him and see amusement. And he is careful not to so much as smile over it until he is alone at home.
***
The harsh blare of his alarm startles Harry awake, and for a long moment he can’t remember why he’s awake. Then his brain finishes clearing the last of the sleep fog away and he can feel the grin stretching nearly across his whole face. At last, he could get a start on a life, a real life. He isn’t getting up after another late night at a Ministry function, after putting in his expected appearance. He isn’t dragging himself to another gods-forsaken location far too early in the morning to dedicate a statue or monument or some other useless soon-to-be landmark. Best of all, he doesn’t have to dread attending yet another of the endless memorial ceremonies, with the eyes of strangers accusing him, or worse all but worshipping him. It isn’t that he thinks the war and all those who had fallen defeating Voldemort should ever be forgotten. Far from it, but as each memorial ceremony was held, rather than bringing him closure, they bring only more guilt. And added to the parade of accusing faces that stared at him when he closed his eyes at night.
Squaring his jaw he pushes all thoughts of the preceding months out of his mind. He isn’t a Ministry figurehead anymore. No amount of guilt can keep him doing Arthur’s bidding, however well intentioned he might be as the new Minister. There are other people much more capable of spearheading the efforts to rebuild now. He’s determined to concentrate on doing the best he can in the Animagus training. With luck, he’ll do well enough that his Auror application will noticed. They like specialised skills after all. And Kingsley has promised him that his application will be judged on merit alone, which means he is going to need all the help he can get. He isn’t the only war hero after all, just the most well known.
He goes through his morning routine in the rather cramped bathroom of his flat, then dresses quickly and heads out the door. It won’t do to be late this early into classes, after all. It strikes him as faintly ironic that he is, for all intents and purposes, going back to school, even if it isn’t at Hogwarts. He celebrated just as much as any of his surviving year mates when they were told they wouldn’t be required to complete formal classes. Instead, practical experience in the war efforts had been taken into account, and seventh years were given a choice whether they wanted to sit for their N.E.W.T.s. But he’d missed the social side of school, and surprisingly, he’d missed learning much more than he expected.
***
Not even an hour later, though, Harry shakes his head, wondering if he really had missed learning after all. This time the sixteen of them left convene in a larger room, lined with what had seems like overly large desks-until they are piled high with the not one, not two, but four textbooks they will be reading from. Looking around the room, Harry notes that even Malfoy looks a little shocked. But as soon as he realises where his gaze has fallen, Harry wrenches it away. Just because his old rival didn’t react to him during enrolment, there’s no reason to give him ammunition now. Besides, hasn’t he spent enough time watching Malfoy? And the last time he had got in that habit he’d ended up with a mortifying crush that had taken him far too long to grow out of. Best not to go there again, he tells himself with a little nod. Surely he can ignore one person, after all.
Near the end of the afternoon, however, when Matilda finishes cramming enough theory into their heads for her satisfaction, she makes an announcement that presents one small obstacle in Harry’s plan to ignore Malfoy. “For the remainder of this class I make it a policy to require each of you to choose a study partner. This person will be most useful during practical labs, but you may of course choose to review the theory together as well.” Just like that, Harry watches with a sinking feeling in his stomach as those in the room pair off. By the looks of it, everyone knows each other at least a little. And of course, that leaves him with the very option he’s trying to avoid. It looks as though Murphy’s Law is still firmly in effect in his life.
Still trying to force himself to accept the situation, Harry doesn’t move. In the next instant, though, his jaw nearly hits the floor because Malfoy is striding smoothly over to stand in front of him. “It seems I am in need of a partner, Potter,” he begins, voice quiet, but calm. “And it appears you are in the same position.”
There is no part of his brain, no matter how tiny, that has a brief flash of Malfoy in a very interesting position indeed, Harry tells himself while he fumbles for an answer. “Yeah, I guess I am,” he finally replies, and could kick himself for sounding so stunned.
Though Malfoy surely noticed, he doesn’t offer so much as a smirk. “Well, under the circumstances, I suppose I could consent to be your partner,” the blond tells him, looking altogether too perfectly put together for a Monday morning, as far as Harry is concerned. But under the circumstances, there really is no choice but to grit his teeth at the arrogance and agree.
***
Matilda’s announcement to the classroom has his stomach tying up in knots, but Draco is careful to keep his slightly bored façade in place. Inwardly, he can’t help but remember the hideous times at Hogwarts when he was forced to participate in group projects with students from other houses. Invariably, he was the last one picked, and always ended up with a rather dismal grade. That is unacceptable now. The question is: how can he best turn a bad spot into an advantage? It’s clearly evident that most of the class is already acquainted with each other. It’s just as clear that none of them intend to ask Potter to be their partner, though whether that is because they are intimidated or already have a partner is anyone’s guess.
Draco gets up slowly, adjusting his robes so they are hanging properly, all the while watching Potter from the corner of his eye. As much as he doesn’t want a partner, it seems as though it will be easier with one he knows. At least he won’t be obligated to get to know him, or make idle small talk. The dark-haired former Gryffindor won’t expect either from him. With that firmly in mind, he saunters over to Harry’s desk. “It seems I am in need of a partner, Potter,” he begins, just in case Potter isn’t as quick to grasp the realities of the situation. “And it appears you are in the same position.”
He waits to hear agreement, careful not to react to Potter’s obvious befuddlement. The old antagonism won’t quite let him bring himself to ask the favour though, so he does what he’s always done when he doesn’t want to ask for something for fear of not getting it. “Well, under the circumstances, I suppose I could consent to be your partner,” Draco tells him. After all, when it looks as though he’s doing Potter a great favour, he can hardly refuse. Assumed consent is still consent. He was practically still in nappies when he learned that. Sure enough, his former schoolmate grinds his teeth but raises no objection to the partnership. How can he really? Draco gets to depart for home well pleased with his day’s accomplishments.
***
Harry hates working with Malfoy. He knows this because he tells himself that at least once an hour during every study session. Usually he needs the reminder after he catches himself looking at Malfoy’s admittedly superior arse, or listening to the smooth sounds of his voice rather than what he is actually saying. He hates the close contact, because he fights with his libido at least once a day, even as he wonders at how changed Malfoy is. For one thing, there is no sign of the lazy indolence he remembers so well. In fact, Malfoy works so hard it reminds him of Hermione. And though he is unfailingly present, he seems almost detached from those around him. There isn’t even any reaction when Harry needles him gently about Quidditch just to see what would happen. It’s not a bad thing, having such a driven man for a study partner, but Harry wonders what happened to change his enemy so much. Even after he defected to the side of the light near the end of the war, Malfoy lost no chance to let him know he thought Harry fell rather short as a hero. Of course, Harry whole heartedly agrees with that, though of course he never says so. Just like he never once admits how much he valued having one person who doesn’t look at him with awe that is uncomfortably close to worship.
In the third week of class, Matilda announces that their first guest speaker will be the following day. Harry looks at her, smiling slightly from where she is perched on the table that serves as her desk, and wonders idly who it might be. Phenelbert Baum, Matilda tells them, holds the current record for most transformations in one day without any ill effects. Though he is older now, when he was just about their age, Baum transformed eighteen times in one day. Feeling his eyes widen, Harry nods appreciatively. The textbooks set out careful guidelines about how often you should change, and how long you should spend in your animal body. And they recommend no more than seven times a day, because of how draining it can be.
Unfortunately, Baum’s accomplishments make him an expert on being an Animagus, but they do not make him a very good speaker. After listening closely to him stutter and stammer for the first few minutes before settling into a quiet monotone, Harry catches himself daydreaming. The slice of sky he can see through the window makes him think of flying. And that makes him think of Quidditch, of course. Thoughts of the game drop him into memories of playing at Hogwarts. And that was just exactly the wrong place to go, because that leads him to Draco. Slowly, he tips his head slightly to the left so he can observe the other man surreptitiously, then looks down at his desk. No, he isn’t going to start watching him again. But even as his pride shrieks at him from some tiny corner of his mind, his eyes are drawn back to Malfoy, because it is Malfoy dammit, not Draco. What is he thinking about, sitting so straight in the chair, deep green robes arranged perfectly? What would his lips taste like if Harry could nibble on them just once?
At that, his head jerks up, and his eyes widen again. Hopefully anyone who sees just thinks he was catching himself from nodding off. But he’s got bigger problems. Wondering what Malfoy’s lips taste like is definitely not going to keep him from rekindling a crush that still has no hope of going anywhere. Sure, Malfoy no longer gets his kicks being as cruel an arse as possible to him and all his friends. But this new calm and distant Malfoy isn’t affected by him at all. And that is almost worse. It’s like everything in the world is distant and separate, Harry included. Likely, he could go up and plant a kiss right on him, and all he would get is a raised eyebrow and some inane comment about what page they needed to read next. Even after more than two weeks of theory work together, Malfoy still speaks rarely, and then usually it is in that vague, distant, two-steps-from-bored tone that makes Harry long for sarcasm, or even anger.
It takes a minute for him to notice the absence of the droning voice, but Harry claps politely with the rest of the group when Baum finishes his remarks. Matilda recaptures the attention of the room after he leaves, assigning an overly lengthy essay on the potions history of Animagus magic. As soon as he hears the research involved, Harry’s heart slams into his throat, because it’s far too much to do alone. And then Malfoy is walking towards him, carefully neutral expression in place. The last thing he wants to do is go to the nearby library with the man, even with the protection of the rest of the class trouping along with them. But if he chooses not to go, Malfoy is bound to ask why, and how can he answer? Sorry, I can’t, because I am afraid I’ll embarrass myself and jump you in the stacks. Even the thought of it has him flushing.
They’ve divided up the books they need, scouring them both for references, when the snickering starts. Two tables over, the four occupants are looking covertly at Harry, then snickering. He knows they are looking even though they hide it. The itch he gets between his shoulder blades when he’s being watched is so strong that he has to fight to match Malfoy’s calm studiousness.
Then they move from laughter to not quite whispers pitched just loud enough for him to hear. “I can’t figure why he bothers with any of this rubbish,” the taller of the girls wonders. “Everyone knows he curried Ministry favour so he can have whatever he wants. Not like he needs to have any kind of skills,” she continues, watching her friends as they watch for Harry’s reaction.
Harry goes cold, then hot, the heat of temper prickling his skin. He imagines standing up and screaming at them about how wrong they are, how much he hated his Ministry obligations. Of numbering the faces that berate him in his dreams, when the guilt comes out of the dark to choke him. But when he blinks himself out of the fantasy, he doesn’t move. There’s no point. They won’t believe him anyway. That kind never does. As he turns back to top book in his pile, Malfoy is looking at him. It’s so fleeting he almost misses it, but when the familiar grey eyes slide away, they linger on the other table, and for the first time there is anger on his face. For some reason that makes Harry feel better.
But even though he does nothing, the laughter continues, coming on the heels of muttered innuendos that get harder and harder to ignore. Harry and Draco do their best to ignore the gossiping girls. Once they cover the bulk of the theory it’s time to begin putting it into practise. It’s easier, in some ways at least, when it’s just him and Malfoy attempting to transform. Yes, he is far too aware of his partner for comfort, but at least then he doesn’t have to listen to the backbiting. When the class gathers as a group for feedback and critique sessions he isn’t as lucky. The girl from the library is at it again still careful not to draw attention from Matilda, but still loud enough that she knows Harry can’t help but hear. This time Harry pictures spelling her voice away, while hexing her with boils to try and calm down. It almost works, as he takes deep breaths, and studies his fairly ratty trainers.
Movement to his left has him scanning the room reflexively. Old habits die hard, apparently. Then he sees Malfoy moving to stand in front of the girl and her friends. His usual calm mask is still in place and that makes his tone that much scarier when he speaks. “If you keep on with this meaningless drivel, I’ll see to it our instructor finds out you’ve been cheating for days.” The girl protests her innocence, but Malfoy continues as if he doesn’t hear her. “Everything you think of me is exactly right, so you know I can do it.” A pause to flick lint off his sleeve, then he continues. “Potter is the only reason you are free to take this class. Remember that, and try your best to keep your mouth shut.” The corner of his lip curls up in that familiar dismissive smirk, and pale grey eyes flash with disdain for a moment. That tiny glimpse of the old Malfoy is almost as shocking as being defended, and by him of all people.
Distantly, Harry feels his jaw gape, gratitude warring with shock. But even as Malfoy moves back to his place, darkly polished boots clicking against the smooth hardwood, he can’t help but wonder. Weeks of silence, broken only by the minimum of good manners, and suddenly the ice prince is defending him? The class has shown him a side of Draco he never would have expected, but standing surrounded in the practise room, Harry knows that he still doesn’t understand him. Just then he doesn’t think he ever will.
***
When the whispers start about Harry after only a few days of class, Draco is more than a bit surprised. He’s known for years that most of upper-class Wizarding society never trusted him, even after his defection from Voldemort. It was annoying, but hardly unexpected. The fact that he stopped receiving society invitations was more of a relief than anything. And he’s never really been one to care much about public opinion at the best of times. Added to that, the fact that the vast majority of people still aren’t sure of his allegiances means they are still too scared to try and harm him directly. The irony is strangely appropriate. But all things considered, he rather thought he would be the favoured target of the class gossips.
Still, even though it is not about him, he can’t help but listen. It isn’t long before his temper begins a slow burn. Clearly, many of their fellow classmates give Potter no credit. The implication that he traded his fame for favours is insulting, but somewhat predictable. But then the girl goes on to inform anyone who will listen that Potter didn’t make any real contribution to the war effort, because after all, he only did what was expected of him. That alone is enough to have his temper straining his control. Then the silly twit goes too far. “I’m quite sure all that talk of what had to be done to kill You-Know-Who was rubbish anyways. Anyone could probably have killed him,” she tells her partner, an equally empty-headed girl standing close beside her.
Slowly, careful to be unobtrusive, Draco turns his head to look at Potter. Once glance is enough to be sure that he hadn’t heard the last remark. Even if he had, it’s unlikely Harry would defend himself. Either his natural chivalry gets in his way, or he’s simply more used to it than most would expect. Draco knows from experience that it can get very tiring fighting other people’s opinions. Worse, it is often futile. But even knowing that, he cannot let the insult stand. If nothing else, he has to work with Harry for the rest of the training program, and would rather not see his partner’s work suffer the impact of an endless round of cheap shots.
He is still trying to convince himself that is his only motivation, as he stalks over to where the girl and her friends are standing. One look at her, and he knows logic would be a lost cause. That leaves him with threats. He smiles a distinctly chilly smile and waits for her to notice him. He can do threats. He had a very good teacher, after all. “If you keep on with this meaningless drivel, I’ll see to it our instructor finds out you’ve been cheating for days,” he begins, careful to keep his face impassive. He pauses while she makes the usual protests of innocence. He holds up a hand to interrupt her, and flicks off the lint on his wrist before he continues. “Everything you think of me is exactly right, so you know I can do it.” Of course, he knows he wouldn’t actually harm the brainless ninny, but she doesn’t. And people like her always believe the most wildly exaggerated rumours first.
When he sees her start to shake he knows that she believes him, and shifts closer to pitch his voice so only she can hear him. He takes a deep breath, and concentrates to find that place inside of him where the perfect little killing machine he spent years being groomed to be still lived. “What you haven’t heard about me is so much worse than what you think you know. I could kill you right now, without even the slightest bit of remorse.” And just then, that is nothing less than the truth. If nothing else, the utter lack of conscience in his eyes convinces her. Coldly satisfied at the fear seeping into her eyes, he raises his voice enough to be heard by the others in the room again. “Potter is the only reason you are free to take this class. Remember that, and try your best to keep your mouth shut,” he tells her, careful to resume his studious mask before looking her up and down disdainfully.
He feels the beginnings of a smirk wanting to form, but controls himself. He’s had his fun. Now he needs to remember the role he plays most often now. The room has gone completely silent, except for Matilda’s footsteps. She is still circulating around the room, and if she notices the quiet, she doesn’t comment. Draco can feel Potter’s gaze on him as he paces back to join his partner on the other side of the room. He knows he would see shock on the other man’s face if he looks up. But he doesn’t. Instead, he keeps his eyes on the roving form of their instructor and listens to the practice sessions slowly start back up. He doesn’t want to answer the questions he knows Potter would ask. Hell, he would ask them too, if their positions were reversed. After a few moments, Potter clears his throat. “Thanks,” he says quietly a moment later.
Draco gathers his things to leave, before looking into the confused green eyes currently looking at him searchingly. “Don’t mention it,” he answers, fervently hoping that the sometimes obtuse Potter would realise he meant it literally. As he strides out the door, he decides he probably isn’t that lucky.
***
Harry has only been home an hour but, all the chores are done. Even the trash is at the curb because it was something to do with his hands. Still restless, he ponders homework, but can’t focus. Calling Ron or Hermione is out, because how can he explain the day’s events to them, when it doesn’t even make any sense to him? Early summer sun floods in through the bay window, spilling on to the normally comfortable clutter. He flops onto his couch, pondering his classmates caustic words from earlier. It’s possible that being a figurehead really is all he’s good for. So many people helped engineer Voldemort’s demise that it’s never seemed quite right that he got all the credit. Sure, he was the one who actually said the spell, but despite Dumbledore’s assurances, anyone could have done that, surely. And really, what else has he accomplished? The persistently negative monologue sounds suspiciously like Aunt Petunia. Good judgement says not to listen. Shame he’s never been good at going with that.
A knock at the door yanks him out of steadily gloomier thoughts. He doesn’t even bother to curse before he opens it. “I know you didn’t miss me, Malfoy. So what the hell do you want?” Annoyed and rude, but what the hell. He still can’t fathom what reason the currently irate blond would have to defend him. And the unknown has always been a problem in his life.
One perfectly shaped eyebrow wings up in a silent question probably perfected years ago in front of the mirror. “It seems you absconded with one of the references for my section of our essay. I want to finish it tonight, so I stopped in to pick it up.” Polite reserve used for asking for the time seems to be Malfoy’s antidote for rudeness.
Harry turns from the door, stalking over to his kitchen table where he has spread out his homework earlier without a word. The signs of temper are easy enough to recognise, but he doesn’t care. Despite himself, the girl in the class got to him. But Malfoy got to him more, acting like he doesn’t even exist and then pulling that stunt today. It makes his teeth grind wondering what the hell game is being played. Sure enough, the book Draco had spent most of his time reading earlier is in the middle of the tallest pile. Sparing a glare for the red leather on principle, Harry grabs it and turns back to the door. But the pile of books topples, spilling half of them to the floor and his left heel catches on the biggest of the lot. Half a breath, and he’s falling, but not to the floor. Into a hard, muscled chest, cushioned by robes far softer than anything he’s ever owned.
Their eyes lock, and for a moment the years fall away. He’s not Harry Potter, war hero. He’s just Harry, back at school and longing for the boy who is all pointy angles and cutting remarks. He’s not the man who got there too late to save countless people; he’s just a guy in the arms of an overly attractive blond who smells too good. Malfoy is too close, apparently frozen with surprise at suddenly having his arms full of messy-haired, stocking-footed study partner. Harry’s lips close the distance between them before he even knows he’s doing it. When he realises, though, he doesn’t stop. Why bother? They’ve hated each other before. And maybe this will finally get some kind of reaction. Then their lips touch, and there’s no room for thought.
Instant heat everywhere their bodies touch has him swallowing a moan. He has his answer. Malfoy tastes like almonds, and chocolate, and a hint of coffee. But the answer just leaves him wanting more. Any minute, shock will turn to dismay, so he takes advantage of it, running his tongue along full, firm lips. When the kiss goes deeper, the room does one long spin. Need simmers in his stomach, and lower. Expecting a shove, Harry tenses, but none comes. Instead, incredibly, Malfoy kisses him back, tangling their tongues together, nibbling at his lower lip and throat. Wet and needy, and somehow desperate, the kisses go on, and they press even closer together. Harry can’t help the slight gasp, and it takes him a second to realise the embarrassingly needy moan came from his throat. As if the noise flicks a switch, Malfoy stumbles back. He grabs the book, his expression still open, almost haunted. It isn’t until after he is gone that Harry touches a hand to his lips, almost wondering if he’s dreamt the whole thing.
The following week doesn’t help his certainty that it happened, whatever the hell it was. But he thinks about it, the slick slide of Malfoy’s-Draco’s-tongue against his, how it feels to want him that badly, how it had almost seemed that he wanted it, too. Of course Malfoy is as inscrutable as ever. And they don’t talk about it. Harry tries, but is met with a blank look. And when he pushes, Draco’s face goes haunted again, so he drops it. As a distraction, he buries himself in class work. Thankfully, they are on their own for the next section, covering potions that can aid in the transformation and some of its more common side effects. Even better, the following week’s guest speaker is announced, and Harry can look forward to being able to have tea with Snape. Laughter bubbles up when he realises he’s happier the day of Snape’s lecture, but he shrugs it off. Snape isn’t a bad sort. Almost all of his horrid behaviour toward Harry was part of his cover as a spy. Lifetimes ago, they were stranded together during the East London attacks. Two rather spectacular rows later, they came to an understanding. Surprisingly, except to those who know them both best, that understanding grew into first a cordial working relationship and then to actual friendship. Snape is still a sour old goat more often than not. But that’s just the way he is.
Snape is another of the rather small group of people Harry can count on to treat him as a person. And more importantly, to see the real Harry, who gets angry, depressed, and in one memorable incident hurled a china teacup at a wall in frustration. And through it all, Snape listens, and eventually advises, albeit with a healthy dose of ever-present sarcasm. Pulling on his tie as he slides into his seat in the classroom, Harry cannot help but hope Snape will be able to advise him in this case as well as he has in the past. This time he pays careful attention to the speech. It would be just like Snape to quiz him on it later, after all. But when it is over, he tucks his notes into his bag, and waits for the crowd around the older wizard to dissipate.
“Planning on inflicting your company on me, are you?” Snape stands near the board, dark hair longer than usual, but clean. He hasn’t been brewing that day, then. That might explain the slight impatience around his eyes.
“I thought about it,” Harry admits, far too used his former teacher’s habits to be put off. Snape looks at him then, really looks, in that way he’s got that still makes Harry think he can look right into his mind. The thought of that has him squirming a bit. And of course, Snape notices. He notices everything, the bastard.
But he’s kind enough not to comment on it, at least not until they are settled at a table in the building’s nearly deserted dining hall.
“Are you not getting enough sun, Potter?” Snape’s eyes track up and down in a frank assessment that has Harry clenching his teacup.
“I’m tired. This class is more difficult than I expected.” It has the bonus of being completely true.
“Indeed. I am sure it is. But perhaps you would like to tell me what is actually troubling you.”
A pause, while Harry wrestled the sudden lump in his throat. “I’ve been working with Malfoy. More than working with him, really. But he’s not even remotely interested that way. It was just a fluke.” He stresses that, trying to convince himself. “He’s not interested in anything but class work.”
Snape’s wand moves to cast a silencing spell before he answers. “If that is true, then you have nothing to worry about. Unless of course, you want him to be interested.”
The question nearly has Harry choking on his tea. It takes a minute to stop sputtering. “It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have anything more to do with me than he has to. And he’s changed.” A further explanation sticks in his throat. It would be too much to admit he misses the snarky arse he went to school with, even to one of his few confidants.
“Your lack of an answer is an answer in and of itself.” Snape sips his tea thoughtfully, surprisingly composed considering the subject matter. “And as for Mr. Malfoy, I wonder if you know how he came to be on our side during the war?” His tone is strangely intent, watching as Harry shakes his head no. Almost a year before the final battle of the war, Draco turned his back on his father, and Voldemort. No one was more shocked than Harry when Draco presented himself to Dumbledore, willing to trade information for asylum. Even today, safely removed from it all Harry shivers, remembering the tumultuous time after that.
“Just before Draco was to take the mark, his father did something to displease the Dark Lord. As punishment, Lucius was ordered to torture Narcissa and he followed even that order. Draco had to watch, you see. All of it, and what the others who were allowed to help did to her. I think that was harder on him than what they did to him when they finished with his mother.”
Harry is one of the few people left alive who witnessed the aftermath of that Death Eater meeting. Snape managed to send Narcissa to Dumbledore’s office, where he and Harry had been going over another late night vision. The full extent of Narcissa’s injuries was horrifying enough. It is that much worse knowing Draco had watched. No wonder he is so distant now. Perhaps the worst of it, though, was that by the time Draco presented himself to Dumbledore, his mother had passed away, despite the best efforts of Madam Pomfrey. For the first time in a long time, Harry contemplates someone else’s guilt besides his own, but it doesn’t make him feel any better. How horrible must it have been to watch one parent hurt another? Even thinking about what Malfoy has been through has him feeling sick and shaky.
The talk turns to Snape’s current potion research then, and Harry breathes a sigh of relief. The revelations explain a lot, but the tangle of desire and confusion he is mired isn’t lessened. If anything, his feelings are more hopeless than before. Because now he knows that Malfoy has very good reasons not to let anyone close to him. After what he’s lost, it’s no wonder he won’t take the risk of needing anyone but himself. Though the topic of conversation shifts, he finds himself unable to shake the mental image of Draco watching helplessly while Voldemort engineered the slaughter of the one person he knew loved him completely. Sitting there, he finds himself grateful that Lucius is already in Azkaban. If the man wasn’t already behind bars he would be tempted to hunt him down and hurt him. Or perhaps hunt him down and restrain him while Draco hurts him.
There are even fewer people at tables now. The sun is setting, turning the light spilling in the windows a deep gold, streaked with pinks, red and oranges that draw his eye, even as he listens to Snape’s melodious tones. “Harry.” His head snaps up. Snape only calls him by his first name when it is something vitally important. “I know something of loving someone who can’t love you back.” Black eyes flash with remembered pain as they lock with his. “As bad as it can be, it is worse if you never know whether they could love you or not.”
Harry can’t face those eyes then. “I never said anything about love.” As answers go, it’s weak, but it’s all he has. Because it’s ridiculous. Just because he wants to get into Malfoy’s pants doesn’t mean he’s fallen for him like some bloody girl.
“No.” Snape pauses then, obviously choosing his words with great care. “You did not say it. But you’ve had strong feelings for him for so long. Love and hate are closer than most of us think.” He stops, and Harry can look up, can breathe again as they say their goodbyes and move toward the exit together. Just before Snape Apparates, he speaks again. “Whatever the reason, I think if anyone could teach Draco how to live again, it would be you.” He nods decisively, then vanishes with the tell tale crack, leaving Harry to wonder why he feels better, when so much they talked about was so vastly unsettling.
***
Part 2