(no subject)
Title: The Infinite Space Between
Author: willysunny
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Disclaimer: It's all about JKR. I just like to make things up.
Dedication: For malfoys_skug! HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY, SWEETIE!
*
The noise crept up on Draco, a soft, low sound that sent a prickling chill up his spine. He spun around, wand at the ready and a portrait hovering a few feet above the floor crashed behind him. But that did not register with Draco, nor did the sharp yelp of the house elf beside him. He only glanced fearfully down the hall and listened, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. Upon hearing the sound again, though, comprehension seeped into his bones and he let out a breath. Then he spun back around and glared at the house elf. “Stay here and keep taking them down,” he commanded. “I want these walls cleared and the portraits stacked in a corner by the time I come back.” He took a step and felt the crunch of glass under his feet. Frowning at the broken portrait, he flicked his wand. The picture flew back together. “Don’t move,” he said, pointing his wand threatening at the house elf. Without another word, he turned and sprinted out of the room and down the hall.
He was already regretting his decision to move back to Malfoy Manor. It was a temporary move, of course. Only a month ago, he’d been happily house hunting, wandering through empty estates deep in the countryside, far from suspicious eyes and itchy fingers, photographers and all the ridiculous gossip. Only in his darkest dreams did he ever imagine he’d set foot inside this haunt again.
It was the Ministry’s fault he was here. After the war, the exhaustive and surprisingly extensive trial and the rather intriguing spin on his reputation, he’d hoped to walk free from it all. But the Ministry, like the former Death Eaters, had become relentless, ruthless even, in their investigations. And they had become something of an expert on how they went about accomplishing their explorations.
The Ministry’s newest initiative, “Post War Postmortem,” a campaign wherein every Auror was handed a pass that gave them access to the homes of “former” or, in Draco’s case, “potential” Death Eaters, even after their trial, even if they were considered “not guilty,” as was Draco’s particular case, was now in full effect. It was this very plan that dissolved all of Draco’s.
It wasn’t that he possessed an overwhelming desire to protect his father’s failed research or foiled war plans or all the expensive leather-bound books that were now permanently sealed merely because Lucius was no longer alive. He’d incinerated that memorabilia the moment he arrived and, in the process, broke almost every law the Ministry had instituted. He’d even considered burning down the study itself, but knew such a dramatic act of defiance would invite a swarm of Aurors to his front door and that wasn’t the effect he was going for.
Draco was only residing in the manor now because, like it or not, it was his home and he was a Malfoy. It was a natural instinct, he told himself, to protect his home from men and women whose only goal it was to dissect it. That would be a gruesome autopsy, cold and clean, innards spilled across a wooden slab as protected fingers itched to pick through a history they would never comprehend. The thought was harrowing to Draco and he would have none of it. This was his home. This was not a laboratory. This was not a morgue.
Malfoy Manor was also the place where the descent began, for Draco, the slippery slope of doubt, the spiraling, sickening, twist of deceit and realization and too many secrets unlocked until Draco was forced to leave the manor and seek refuge in the home of another for a year, the entire length of the war. Those memories were haunts now, like the manor itself, frightening images that glided up and took hold in the dead of night when life became too quiet, too peaceful.
So he returned to Malfoy Manor, partly to protect, mostly to destroy every remnant and relic and, hopefully, memory of his former life. He was breaking it all apart, plank and brick and yellowed parchment, until they weakened and gave way and finally crumbled around him, and within him. It was beautiful chaos and dizzying confusion and Draco was thrilled and overwhelmed by the knowledge that he alone held the key to every Malfoy secret, a key that he would soon destroy forever. He only hoped he possessed the strength to walk away when he was done.
Of course, he had a back-up arrangement in the not-so-rare case that things didn’t go as planned. But that arrangement was crumbling, too, as was his determination to see it through…
He rounded a corner and entered his parent’s bedroom, stopping to stare fearfully at another door, set far across the room. Ghostly light permeated from around the frame, ethereal and delicate, as if it might dissolve at any moment. Draco had greeted a surprising number of ghosts since he’d slipped through the wards seventy-two hours ago, glowing forms he recognized from years past, men and women who were at one time whole and noble and very wicked. They used to saunter past, looking down their noses at him as if he was a stupid child. They had been the stupid ones, Draco knew when he acknowledged them on the first day of his return by walking right through them. They left later that morning, shrieking, horrified, after Draco had destroyed all the books in one of the dungeons. It was a final, glorified exodus and Draco had turned his back on it.
Draco stared at the door, and at the soft light framing it. He listened again, frustration burning in his chest. Then he pulled in a breath, strode up to the door, grasped the knob and wrenched it open.
“Hi!” Harry said cheerily over his shoulder. He was on his hands and knees, facing away from Draco.
Draco stared at Harry’s grease-stained t-shirt and torn blue jeans. It was the same outfit Harry’d worn for the past three days. Draco allowed his eyes a moment to trace the length of Harry’s body, down to Harry’s filthy bare feet. It was, admittedly, a nice change.
Harry was scrubbing a particularly grimy corner of the bathroom floor with a rag. A broom was sweeping vigorously beside him and his wand lay on the floor by his knee.
“I don’t…understand,” Draco began. “What are you…doing…”
Harry twisted around and gazed up at Draco, brow furrowed. “What are you on about?”
“What are you doing, Potter?” Draco yelled.
Harry’s eyes slid to the broom, then to the sudsy rag leaking water all over the bathroom floor, and finally back up to Draco. “I’m cleaning,” he said slowly.
“No, you’re not!” Draco snapped. “That’s not what you’re doing at all! You’re…you’ve…” He pointed an accusing finger just beyond Harry, at the offensive sight happening right in front of him. Harry looked at Draco for another moment, and then followed his finger.
“It’s a bathtub,” Harry said, a note of concern in his voice.
Draco’s vision dimmed. “You're drawing a bath!” he practically screamed.
Harry sat down on the bathroom floor and tossed the rag in a bucket. The broom continued to sweep beside them. “Yes, Draco. I'm drawing a bath. Because I’m filthy.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
Draco looked at Harry. How could he be so stupid? Draco wondered momentarily if the war had finally caught up with Harry. He had heard of veteran soldiers suffering from mood-swings and insomnia, night terrors and even amnesia after a highly traumatic war-related event. Killing an evil, snake-faced bastard certainly qualified as such. He almost felt sorry for Harry, except that Harry was still grinning at him and the water was still running and bubbles were rising higher and higher in the large, claw-foot bathtub. It was enough to make anyone homicidal.
“This is my parent’s bathtub,” Draco stated desperately.
“Was,” Harry said, getting to his feet. “It’s ours now.”
Draco was going to scream again. And throw something very hard and very blunt at Harry’s head. He couldn’t comprehend how Harry could state such a fact so simply, like it was perfectly normal to be standing in his dead parent’s bathroom, drawing a bath. Social etiquette was established because of moments exactly like this one. It was improper. It was surreal. It was…really fucking with Draco’s head.
Harry walked up to Draco and Draco froze.
“This is harder than you thought it would be, isn’t it?” Harry said, reaching for Draco’s hand.
Draco yanked his hand away. “I obviously wasn’t even thinking when I decided on this relocation.”
Harry frowned. “I’ve never heard you call it that before.”
“But that’s exactly what this is, isn’t it?” Draco said. “I’m certainly not planning on living here.”
Harry nodded. “I know.”
“I never agreed to that!”
“I know.”
Draco narrowed his eyes. “Just say it.”
Harry stilled.
“Say whatever it is you’re not saying. And for God’s sake, turn off that bloody bath.”
Harry glared at Draco. Then he reached behind him and turned off the faucet.
Draco leaned against the marble countertop of the double sink, exhausted. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Harry shot back.
Draco grinned a little. “You’ve succeeded in getting my attention.”
“I wasn’t looking for your attention. I was cleaning and hoping that when I was through I could take a bath in here instead of in the guestroom.” With that, Harry knelt down, grabbed his wand and pointed it at the broom. It stopped sweeping, hopped to the corner of the bathroom and leaned against the wall. “It was a stupid idea, I’m getting that now.”
Draco knew this was his cue to walk out. It was better for the both of them, he told himself, if they could stick to what was familiar: small talk and taunting and crawling into bed and sliding together. Draco certainly didn’t know how to respond to this, how to be honest and open and full of all the answers he knew Harry needed.
Harry turned his back on Draco and began pointing his wand at cobwebs that lifted away from the wall and floated into a large dustbin.
Draco cleared his throat. “Listen. Har-”
“Get out of here, Malfoy.”
Draco blinked. Harry had never spoken to him like that before and he wasn’t entirely sure how he should react. A moment went by in an uncomfortable silence. He tried clearing his throat again, to start over again.
“Harry-“
“Go.”
Now Draco needed to leave. This was becoming much more than he’d bargained for, but when he tried to turn and go he found he was unable to move, as if there was a sudden, horrifying disconnect between his feet and all the screaming going on in his brain. He half hoped Harry might push him or even punch him, if only to dislodge him from the spot he seemed rooted to.
“I guess I had hoped…” Harry continued quietly, as if to himself, his back still to Draco, “...now that we’re here…”
A single infuriating butterfly beat its wings against Draco’s belly. “You had hoped…what?”
Harry turned to face Draco. “Things might get easier for us.” He hesitated a moment, then, “I know. It’s stupid. You don’t have to say it.”
“Well, it is,” Draco said because it was all he could think of to say.
“I know why I’m here,” Harry continued.
“I thought I had made that clear.”
Harry nodded. “You did. And I agreed. It’s okay. It’s fine. I’m fine.”
This was fast becoming a terrifying moment for Draco because he unexpectedly wanted to cave in. And this was very, very bad. Harry was breaking him apart, slowly and carefully, just as Draco was breaking apart Malfoy Manor. But Harry was also aiding Draco in dismantling his home before the Ministry’s imminent arrival, a fact that surprised Draco greatly. This was the reason Harry was there. Living with him. And Draco hoped this was all Harry knew.
In truth, their relationship had never been a part of Draco’s initial plan. Harry had been the one to suggest it one night while trembling against Draco, during that first year, during the war. Draco had lay quiet, listening to Harry’s words reverberate in his head, turning the idea over even after Harry had stood up and left the room. He never responded to Harry’s suggestion and Harry never brought it up again. Harry had taken him in and Draco had been grateful but, for Draco, it needed to remain a fling, a shuddering release from his former life and nothing more. It made sense the first time Harry slid under Draco’s covers, slid his hands across Draco, opening Draco up with his fingers and lips and the tip of his tongue until Draco was arching and grasping corners of Harry. Extreme circumstances had a way of making everything seem possible if only because nothing truly was. But the war was over now and Harry’s question was still tangled up inside Draco, and pressing down until Draco felt himself trembling, too.
“Listen,” Draco began. “I didn’t mean-I’m sorry-”
“Don’t be,” Harry said. “I know how strange these past few days have been for you.” He tentatively reached out again and this time Draco let Harry take his hand.
“It’s hard,” Draco admitted.
“I know.”
"No." Draco shook his head. "No, you don’t. You have no idea."
“I think I might,” Harry said, his eyes searching Draco’s face.
Draco gritted his teeth. “It’s not what you think-”
“I think it is,” Harry said. “Nothing turned out the way you expected it to. If you were able to start over-hell, if I were able to start over-things would go a lot differently.”
Draco stared at Harry. He opened his mouth, and then shut it again.
“Don’t think I don’t notice these things,” Harry said and he released Draco’s hand. “So go back to whatever you were doing. I’m fine by myself.”
The single infuriating butterfly in Draco’s belly rapidly multiplied, beating an insistent reminder, a warning that everything was on the verge of crumbling apart. He watched Harry flick his wand, first at the broom, then at the bucket; clean water immediately appeared in the bucket and the broom resumed sweeping vigorously.
Everything was back to the way it was.
Except it wasn’t.
And Draco knew now that it never would be.
They were standing in the remains, the ashes of Draco’s former life. They were cleaning it up and piecing it back together and Draco found himself wondering when Harry had become such an integral part of rebuilding his life.
Harry turned his back to Draco and raised his wand again, pointing it this time at the bathtub. Draco knew that in a second the water would vanish and then he would be able to leave and this would all be over.
All be over.
It felt like a small pop, one that happened right inside Draco’s head. It seemed innocuous at first, just a moment in time that tilted and then righted itself again. But it was the space between that moment, stretched out over a year and a war, stretched comfortably over Draco’s bones and right under his skin so that Draco could feel it, prickly and hot and filled with anticipation. It was a split second and days spent destroying and discovering, exorcising haunts and throwing open doors against a darkness Draco had believed was his alone to bear.
But he wasn’t alone. Harry was teaching him that every day with the patience and grace of the true hero he was.
And he was. To Draco.
It only took a moment and a lifetime to push Draco forward, toward Harry, to grasp the wand from between Harry’s fingers and place it on the marble counter behind them. And it took Draco’s breath away when Harry did not make a move to retrieve it.
“Get undressed,” Draco said, his heart pounding in his chest. He hooked his thumbs under the hem of his own t-shirt and tugged it over his head.
Harry’s eyes grew wide. “What are you-“
“Doing?” Draco said, not caring that his voice cracked or that his hands were trembling. He kicked off his shoes and socks and unbuttoned his trousers, pushing them off his hips. They dropped to the floor and he stepped out of them. “I think that’s obvious.”
“Well, I mean it is and it isn’t,” Harry said, his eyes following all of Draco’s sudden and rather sloppy declarations.
Draco’s body buzzed with anticipation as he slid his arms around Harry’s waist. “I think it is.”
“Draco,” Harry whispered. “I don’t understand. Explain it to me.”
“It’s really quite simple,” Draco answered, grinning. “We’re taking a bath. That’s all.”
Harry stared at him.
Draco sighed dramatically. Then he slid his hands inside the waistband of Harry’s jeans and began tugging his t-shirt free. Harry did not make a move to help. Nor did he step backward and out of Draco’s reach. He simply stood, arms at his sides, his expression unreadable.
“Do you need my help undressing, Potter?” Draco said, apprehension tightening his voice because maybe, just maybe, he was doing something terribly wrong, maybe he’d been wrong all along. Maybe it was back to the way it had been, just before…
Harry blinked. Then a ghost of a grin flitted across his lips. “I think I might.” To Draco’s amazement, Harry slowly raised his arms up above his head.
“I hate you,” Draco breathed. He slipped his fingers under the hem of Harry’s t-shirt, lifted it up and over his head and tossed it on the ground beside them.
“I don’t think you do,” Harry said, his expression becoming one of curiosity and amusement. “I don’t think you do at all.”
Draco let his hands fall to Harry’s shoulders, warm and so familiar under his fingers. He drew a small circle across Harry’s skin with one fingertip. “No," he said quietly. "I don’t hate you at all."
Harry’s jaw tightened and he looked down at the floor. “I don’t hate you either.” He looked back up at Draco and their eyes locked. They gazed at each other for a long time.
“We don’t have to stay in the guestroom,” Draco offered, snaking his arms around Harry’s neck.
Harry continued to look at him.
“We can stay in my room…if you want.”
Harry nodded slowly. “If you’re ready for that. Only if you’re ready.”
Draco leaned forward and kissed Harry softly on the mouth. “I think I am,” he admitted.
Harry smiled against Draco’s lips. “I am, too.”
To Draco’s surprise nothing weakened and gave way and crumbled in that moment. In fact, the world seemed very much at peace for the tiniest fraction of a second. And that fraction, and the many that followed, wound their way inside Draco and stretched out.
It was strange and terrifying and so very comfortable.
*
Author: willysunny
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Disclaimer: It's all about JKR. I just like to make things up.
Dedication: For malfoys_skug! HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY, SWEETIE!
*
The noise crept up on Draco, a soft, low sound that sent a prickling chill up his spine. He spun around, wand at the ready and a portrait hovering a few feet above the floor crashed behind him. But that did not register with Draco, nor did the sharp yelp of the house elf beside him. He only glanced fearfully down the hall and listened, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. Upon hearing the sound again, though, comprehension seeped into his bones and he let out a breath. Then he spun back around and glared at the house elf. “Stay here and keep taking them down,” he commanded. “I want these walls cleared and the portraits stacked in a corner by the time I come back.” He took a step and felt the crunch of glass under his feet. Frowning at the broken portrait, he flicked his wand. The picture flew back together. “Don’t move,” he said, pointing his wand threatening at the house elf. Without another word, he turned and sprinted out of the room and down the hall.
He was already regretting his decision to move back to Malfoy Manor. It was a temporary move, of course. Only a month ago, he’d been happily house hunting, wandering through empty estates deep in the countryside, far from suspicious eyes and itchy fingers, photographers and all the ridiculous gossip. Only in his darkest dreams did he ever imagine he’d set foot inside this haunt again.
It was the Ministry’s fault he was here. After the war, the exhaustive and surprisingly extensive trial and the rather intriguing spin on his reputation, he’d hoped to walk free from it all. But the Ministry, like the former Death Eaters, had become relentless, ruthless even, in their investigations. And they had become something of an expert on how they went about accomplishing their explorations.
The Ministry’s newest initiative, “Post War Postmortem,” a campaign wherein every Auror was handed a pass that gave them access to the homes of “former” or, in Draco’s case, “potential” Death Eaters, even after their trial, even if they were considered “not guilty,” as was Draco’s particular case, was now in full effect. It was this very plan that dissolved all of Draco’s.
It wasn’t that he possessed an overwhelming desire to protect his father’s failed research or foiled war plans or all the expensive leather-bound books that were now permanently sealed merely because Lucius was no longer alive. He’d incinerated that memorabilia the moment he arrived and, in the process, broke almost every law the Ministry had instituted. He’d even considered burning down the study itself, but knew such a dramatic act of defiance would invite a swarm of Aurors to his front door and that wasn’t the effect he was going for.
Draco was only residing in the manor now because, like it or not, it was his home and he was a Malfoy. It was a natural instinct, he told himself, to protect his home from men and women whose only goal it was to dissect it. That would be a gruesome autopsy, cold and clean, innards spilled across a wooden slab as protected fingers itched to pick through a history they would never comprehend. The thought was harrowing to Draco and he would have none of it. This was his home. This was not a laboratory. This was not a morgue.
Malfoy Manor was also the place where the descent began, for Draco, the slippery slope of doubt, the spiraling, sickening, twist of deceit and realization and too many secrets unlocked until Draco was forced to leave the manor and seek refuge in the home of another for a year, the entire length of the war. Those memories were haunts now, like the manor itself, frightening images that glided up and took hold in the dead of night when life became too quiet, too peaceful.
So he returned to Malfoy Manor, partly to protect, mostly to destroy every remnant and relic and, hopefully, memory of his former life. He was breaking it all apart, plank and brick and yellowed parchment, until they weakened and gave way and finally crumbled around him, and within him. It was beautiful chaos and dizzying confusion and Draco was thrilled and overwhelmed by the knowledge that he alone held the key to every Malfoy secret, a key that he would soon destroy forever. He only hoped he possessed the strength to walk away when he was done.
Of course, he had a back-up arrangement in the not-so-rare case that things didn’t go as planned. But that arrangement was crumbling, too, as was his determination to see it through…
He rounded a corner and entered his parent’s bedroom, stopping to stare fearfully at another door, set far across the room. Ghostly light permeated from around the frame, ethereal and delicate, as if it might dissolve at any moment. Draco had greeted a surprising number of ghosts since he’d slipped through the wards seventy-two hours ago, glowing forms he recognized from years past, men and women who were at one time whole and noble and very wicked. They used to saunter past, looking down their noses at him as if he was a stupid child. They had been the stupid ones, Draco knew when he acknowledged them on the first day of his return by walking right through them. They left later that morning, shrieking, horrified, after Draco had destroyed all the books in one of the dungeons. It was a final, glorified exodus and Draco had turned his back on it.
Draco stared at the door, and at the soft light framing it. He listened again, frustration burning in his chest. Then he pulled in a breath, strode up to the door, grasped the knob and wrenched it open.
“Hi!” Harry said cheerily over his shoulder. He was on his hands and knees, facing away from Draco.
Draco stared at Harry’s grease-stained t-shirt and torn blue jeans. It was the same outfit Harry’d worn for the past three days. Draco allowed his eyes a moment to trace the length of Harry’s body, down to Harry’s filthy bare feet. It was, admittedly, a nice change.
Harry was scrubbing a particularly grimy corner of the bathroom floor with a rag. A broom was sweeping vigorously beside him and his wand lay on the floor by his knee.
“I don’t…understand,” Draco began. “What are you…doing…”
Harry twisted around and gazed up at Draco, brow furrowed. “What are you on about?”
“What are you doing, Potter?” Draco yelled.
Harry’s eyes slid to the broom, then to the sudsy rag leaking water all over the bathroom floor, and finally back up to Draco. “I’m cleaning,” he said slowly.
“No, you’re not!” Draco snapped. “That’s not what you’re doing at all! You’re…you’ve…” He pointed an accusing finger just beyond Harry, at the offensive sight happening right in front of him. Harry looked at Draco for another moment, and then followed his finger.
“It’s a bathtub,” Harry said, a note of concern in his voice.
Draco’s vision dimmed. “You're drawing a bath!” he practically screamed.
Harry sat down on the bathroom floor and tossed the rag in a bucket. The broom continued to sweep beside them. “Yes, Draco. I'm drawing a bath. Because I’m filthy.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
Draco looked at Harry. How could he be so stupid? Draco wondered momentarily if the war had finally caught up with Harry. He had heard of veteran soldiers suffering from mood-swings and insomnia, night terrors and even amnesia after a highly traumatic war-related event. Killing an evil, snake-faced bastard certainly qualified as such. He almost felt sorry for Harry, except that Harry was still grinning at him and the water was still running and bubbles were rising higher and higher in the large, claw-foot bathtub. It was enough to make anyone homicidal.
“This is my parent’s bathtub,” Draco stated desperately.
“Was,” Harry said, getting to his feet. “It’s ours now.”
Draco was going to scream again. And throw something very hard and very blunt at Harry’s head. He couldn’t comprehend how Harry could state such a fact so simply, like it was perfectly normal to be standing in his dead parent’s bathroom, drawing a bath. Social etiquette was established because of moments exactly like this one. It was improper. It was surreal. It was…really fucking with Draco’s head.
Harry walked up to Draco and Draco froze.
“This is harder than you thought it would be, isn’t it?” Harry said, reaching for Draco’s hand.
Draco yanked his hand away. “I obviously wasn’t even thinking when I decided on this relocation.”
Harry frowned. “I’ve never heard you call it that before.”
“But that’s exactly what this is, isn’t it?” Draco said. “I’m certainly not planning on living here.”
Harry nodded. “I know.”
“I never agreed to that!”
“I know.”
Draco narrowed his eyes. “Just say it.”
Harry stilled.
“Say whatever it is you’re not saying. And for God’s sake, turn off that bloody bath.”
Harry glared at Draco. Then he reached behind him and turned off the faucet.
Draco leaned against the marble countertop of the double sink, exhausted. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Harry shot back.
Draco grinned a little. “You’ve succeeded in getting my attention.”
“I wasn’t looking for your attention. I was cleaning and hoping that when I was through I could take a bath in here instead of in the guestroom.” With that, Harry knelt down, grabbed his wand and pointed it at the broom. It stopped sweeping, hopped to the corner of the bathroom and leaned against the wall. “It was a stupid idea, I’m getting that now.”
Draco knew this was his cue to walk out. It was better for the both of them, he told himself, if they could stick to what was familiar: small talk and taunting and crawling into bed and sliding together. Draco certainly didn’t know how to respond to this, how to be honest and open and full of all the answers he knew Harry needed.
Harry turned his back on Draco and began pointing his wand at cobwebs that lifted away from the wall and floated into a large dustbin.
Draco cleared his throat. “Listen. Har-”
“Get out of here, Malfoy.”
Draco blinked. Harry had never spoken to him like that before and he wasn’t entirely sure how he should react. A moment went by in an uncomfortable silence. He tried clearing his throat again, to start over again.
“Harry-“
“Go.”
Now Draco needed to leave. This was becoming much more than he’d bargained for, but when he tried to turn and go he found he was unable to move, as if there was a sudden, horrifying disconnect between his feet and all the screaming going on in his brain. He half hoped Harry might push him or even punch him, if only to dislodge him from the spot he seemed rooted to.
“I guess I had hoped…” Harry continued quietly, as if to himself, his back still to Draco, “...now that we’re here…”
A single infuriating butterfly beat its wings against Draco’s belly. “You had hoped…what?”
Harry turned to face Draco. “Things might get easier for us.” He hesitated a moment, then, “I know. It’s stupid. You don’t have to say it.”
“Well, it is,” Draco said because it was all he could think of to say.
“I know why I’m here,” Harry continued.
“I thought I had made that clear.”
Harry nodded. “You did. And I agreed. It’s okay. It’s fine. I’m fine.”
This was fast becoming a terrifying moment for Draco because he unexpectedly wanted to cave in. And this was very, very bad. Harry was breaking him apart, slowly and carefully, just as Draco was breaking apart Malfoy Manor. But Harry was also aiding Draco in dismantling his home before the Ministry’s imminent arrival, a fact that surprised Draco greatly. This was the reason Harry was there. Living with him. And Draco hoped this was all Harry knew.
In truth, their relationship had never been a part of Draco’s initial plan. Harry had been the one to suggest it one night while trembling against Draco, during that first year, during the war. Draco had lay quiet, listening to Harry’s words reverberate in his head, turning the idea over even after Harry had stood up and left the room. He never responded to Harry’s suggestion and Harry never brought it up again. Harry had taken him in and Draco had been grateful but, for Draco, it needed to remain a fling, a shuddering release from his former life and nothing more. It made sense the first time Harry slid under Draco’s covers, slid his hands across Draco, opening Draco up with his fingers and lips and the tip of his tongue until Draco was arching and grasping corners of Harry. Extreme circumstances had a way of making everything seem possible if only because nothing truly was. But the war was over now and Harry’s question was still tangled up inside Draco, and pressing down until Draco felt himself trembling, too.
“Listen,” Draco began. “I didn’t mean-I’m sorry-”
“Don’t be,” Harry said. “I know how strange these past few days have been for you.” He tentatively reached out again and this time Draco let Harry take his hand.
“It’s hard,” Draco admitted.
“I know.”
"No." Draco shook his head. "No, you don’t. You have no idea."
“I think I might,” Harry said, his eyes searching Draco’s face.
Draco gritted his teeth. “It’s not what you think-”
“I think it is,” Harry said. “Nothing turned out the way you expected it to. If you were able to start over-hell, if I were able to start over-things would go a lot differently.”
Draco stared at Harry. He opened his mouth, and then shut it again.
“Don’t think I don’t notice these things,” Harry said and he released Draco’s hand. “So go back to whatever you were doing. I’m fine by myself.”
The single infuriating butterfly in Draco’s belly rapidly multiplied, beating an insistent reminder, a warning that everything was on the verge of crumbling apart. He watched Harry flick his wand, first at the broom, then at the bucket; clean water immediately appeared in the bucket and the broom resumed sweeping vigorously.
Everything was back to the way it was.
Except it wasn’t.
And Draco knew now that it never would be.
They were standing in the remains, the ashes of Draco’s former life. They were cleaning it up and piecing it back together and Draco found himself wondering when Harry had become such an integral part of rebuilding his life.
Harry turned his back to Draco and raised his wand again, pointing it this time at the bathtub. Draco knew that in a second the water would vanish and then he would be able to leave and this would all be over.
All be over.
It felt like a small pop, one that happened right inside Draco’s head. It seemed innocuous at first, just a moment in time that tilted and then righted itself again. But it was the space between that moment, stretched out over a year and a war, stretched comfortably over Draco’s bones and right under his skin so that Draco could feel it, prickly and hot and filled with anticipation. It was a split second and days spent destroying and discovering, exorcising haunts and throwing open doors against a darkness Draco had believed was his alone to bear.
But he wasn’t alone. Harry was teaching him that every day with the patience and grace of the true hero he was.
And he was. To Draco.
It only took a moment and a lifetime to push Draco forward, toward Harry, to grasp the wand from between Harry’s fingers and place it on the marble counter behind them. And it took Draco’s breath away when Harry did not make a move to retrieve it.
“Get undressed,” Draco said, his heart pounding in his chest. He hooked his thumbs under the hem of his own t-shirt and tugged it over his head.
Harry’s eyes grew wide. “What are you-“
“Doing?” Draco said, not caring that his voice cracked or that his hands were trembling. He kicked off his shoes and socks and unbuttoned his trousers, pushing them off his hips. They dropped to the floor and he stepped out of them. “I think that’s obvious.”
“Well, I mean it is and it isn’t,” Harry said, his eyes following all of Draco’s sudden and rather sloppy declarations.
Draco’s body buzzed with anticipation as he slid his arms around Harry’s waist. “I think it is.”
“Draco,” Harry whispered. “I don’t understand. Explain it to me.”
“It’s really quite simple,” Draco answered, grinning. “We’re taking a bath. That’s all.”
Harry stared at him.
Draco sighed dramatically. Then he slid his hands inside the waistband of Harry’s jeans and began tugging his t-shirt free. Harry did not make a move to help. Nor did he step backward and out of Draco’s reach. He simply stood, arms at his sides, his expression unreadable.
“Do you need my help undressing, Potter?” Draco said, apprehension tightening his voice because maybe, just maybe, he was doing something terribly wrong, maybe he’d been wrong all along. Maybe it was back to the way it had been, just before…
Harry blinked. Then a ghost of a grin flitted across his lips. “I think I might.” To Draco’s amazement, Harry slowly raised his arms up above his head.
“I hate you,” Draco breathed. He slipped his fingers under the hem of Harry’s t-shirt, lifted it up and over his head and tossed it on the ground beside them.
“I don’t think you do,” Harry said, his expression becoming one of curiosity and amusement. “I don’t think you do at all.”
Draco let his hands fall to Harry’s shoulders, warm and so familiar under his fingers. He drew a small circle across Harry’s skin with one fingertip. “No," he said quietly. "I don’t hate you at all."
Harry’s jaw tightened and he looked down at the floor. “I don’t hate you either.” He looked back up at Draco and their eyes locked. They gazed at each other for a long time.
“We don’t have to stay in the guestroom,” Draco offered, snaking his arms around Harry’s neck.
Harry continued to look at him.
“We can stay in my room…if you want.”
Harry nodded slowly. “If you’re ready for that. Only if you’re ready.”
Draco leaned forward and kissed Harry softly on the mouth. “I think I am,” he admitted.
Harry smiled against Draco’s lips. “I am, too.”
To Draco’s surprise nothing weakened and gave way and crumbled in that moment. In fact, the world seemed very much at peace for the tiniest fraction of a second. And that fraction, and the many that followed, wound their way inside Draco and stretched out.
It was strange and terrifying and so very comfortable.
*