Fic: Fidelius, Part 1/2 [Harry/Draco]
This story was originally written for reposoir as part of the 2005 merry_smutmas exchange.
Title: Fidelius
Author: coffeejunkii
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own these boys.
Warnings: Set five years after HBP, hence spoilers.
Author's notes: A million thanks to rurounihime and off_that_bridge for betaing, and to akahannah for britpicking.
Summary: The person sitting in front of Harry looks like someone he hated for years, but the memories don't fit anymore. Perhaps he knew Malfoy at one point, but he has no idea who this man is, aside from a familiar name and a familiar face.
~*~*~
If you live in a house protected by Fidelius, an unexpected knock on the front door is nearly an impossibility, and certainly doesn't bode well, even now, after the war. At the sound, Harry immediately drops the broom he has been working on, twigs scattering all over the floor. He races down the stairs in five steps, wand clutched tightly in his hand.
When he reaches the door, he counts backwards from ten to steady himself, but he is utterly unprepared for what awaits him.
Draco Malfoy is standing on the top step, an unreadable expression on his face.
"Malfoy?" Harry asks in utter disbelief, cursing himself right after the words slip out of his mouth for sounding utterly stupid. There's no doubt in his mind that this is indeed Malfoy, who has been missing for five years, ever since that night on the Astronomy Tower. Harry never expected to see him again.
Instead of the mocking reply Harry is certain he will receive, Malfoy simply says, "Yes."
During that summer after sixth year, Harry imagined this encounter in dozens of ways, always ending violently. He tries to reach for that hatred now, for the fury that fuelled those months, but finds nothing there aside from a desire to know what, and where, and how, and most of all, why. When he looks at Malfoy, he can't discern any hatred in his eyes, either.
Unsure of what else to say, Harry asks, "Why are you here?"
Calm grey eyes look back at Harry. "I believe we have an appointment. It is 4 o'clock now, and it is the fifth of November, isn't it?" There's a hint of apprehension in Malfoy's voice, as if he is indeed wondering whether or not he's got the date right.
"Yeah, it is," Harry replies automatically. "But-" And then he suddenly remembers.
An ad in the Daily Prophet the previous week had caught Harry's eye. It said, Where the ministry's curse-breakers fail, our expertise begins. After short consideration, Harry had sent an owl with a date and time and instructions on how to find Grimmauld Place. "You're…you're here about the protection charm."
Malfoy nods. "May I come in?"
Harry's muscles react before his mind does, and he feels his legs stepping aside to let Malfoy into the entrance hall. He watches Malfoy looking around the room, the polished stone floor, the white walls, and the single portrait hidden behind a thick black curtain.
"It's different from what I expected," Malfoy observes.
Harry's thoughts are still in wild disarray, but he manages to reply. "I've had some help renovating the lower floors."
Malfoy's gaze lingers on the veiled painting for a moment before he turns to Harry. "Maybe we should sit down to see if…if we can come to an arrangement."
"All right," Harry says slowly, his curiosity winning out over his instinct, which tells him to send Malfoy away and ask him to never bother him again.
They walk down to the kitchen, and Harry makes tea. It's polite, he figures, and Malfoy would expect that. The absurdity of that thought hits him just as he sets the kettle to boil. Why should he care what Malfoy expects? Harry stills for a moment, until Malfoy sends him a curious glance. Pushing the question and the sneaking suspicion that he does indeed care out of his mind, Harry sets out two cups on the table.
They prepare their tea in silence, and Harry observes that Malfoy doesn't add any sugar but pours a generous amount of milk.
"So…" Harry begins when it becomes clear that Malfoy is waiting for him to resume their conversation.
"You could begin by telling me more about the Fidelius. You mentioned in your note that you had some trouble taking it off because of some pre-existing protection charm."
Harry tries to hold on to Malfoy's professional tone. "Yes. I figured that there isn't anymore reason to keep the Fidelius now that…" that no one is after me anymore, Harry finishes silently.
"I understand," Malfoy says neutrally.
Just keep talking, Harry tells himself. "Well, we tried a few standard removal spells, but nothing worked and then we, or Hermione, rather, she found out that there was another layer of spell-work on the house, something old, and she said it was related to…to…" Trying to remember how Hermione had explained this to him, the earlier questions about Malfoy's disappearance tumble into his mind again, and he finds himself unable to continue.
Staring at the table top, Harry mumbles, "Sorry, I…I can't do this. It's…I don't understand why you are here."
What he really wants to ask is, Didn't you know I live here?
Malfoy doesn't answer right away. He takes a sip of his tea, and then another one. Finally, he says, "It's a job, and judging by your description, it's a difficult one, which means there's quite a bit of money at stake."
Money. It makes sense-the entire Malfoy fortune had been claimed by the Ministry after Malfoy's mother died, and the Manor had burned to the ground in the final days of the war.
And yet. Harry cannot imagine that there wouldn't be any other curse-breaking task to take on for Malfoy. "So you…you knew that…that I…" He lets the sentence linger in the hope Malfoy would understand what Harry cannot say.
"That this was your house?"
"Yes."
Malfoy pushes his teacup back and forth between his hands. "I wasn't certain, but there are always rumours about, especially in this business. It wasn't too difficult to put together."
"And it didn't matter to you?" Harry blurts out.
Malfoy's reply is just as quick. "Should it?"
Harry doesn't know how to answer the question. "Yes" or "No" don't even begin to map the confusion currently swirling around in Harry's brain.
"Do you want me to leave?" Malfoy asks quietly.
Harry knows the answer to this question right away. "No."
He tries to tell himself that his certainty is due to his awareness that Malfoy might actually know how to break the charm on the house, but there's something else there, another reason that's not so easily defined.
Malfoy stands up to make more tea, and Harry is surprised to see that he isn't using any magic in the process.
While Malfoy pours fresh boiling water into their cups, he says, "I know you're dying to, so just ask."
"Ask what?"
Malfoy sits down and picks up his spoon to push the tea bag around in his cup. "Where I've been all this time."
The preciseness with which Malfoy has guessed his thoughts makes Harry uncomfortable. He wants to deny that there's any truth to Malfoy's assessment, but recognises the futility of that endeavour. And besides, he does want to know.
Fumbling for words, Harry asks, "I…yeah, I did want to know that. So, um, where did you go?"
Cup in his hand, Malfoy leans back in his chair. "I went where no one would find me." After a pause, he adds, "I never stayed in one place for too long. It would have been an invitation to eventually being discovered, and…once an environment becomes too familiar, the past has a tendency to catch up with you."
Despite the hardened expression on his face, Malfoy's voice is almost soft. This utterly unfamiliar tone throws Harry off, and before he has a chance to tell Malfoy that he hasn't answered Harry's question at all, Malfoy speaks again.
"Now that you've asked me this, maybe I'm allowed a question myself."
Even if Malfoy hasn't exactly provided the information Harry was hoping for, Harry reasons it would only be fair to allow him to pose a question in return. Answering it is another matter altogether. "Okay."
"Why do you live here?"
While this is the last thing Harry wants to talk about, he's used to it at least. Ron and Hermione ask it all the time, and he hates that they can't stop asking and that he can't give them an explanation they could understand. Harry isn't sure himself why he still lives here. He only knows he needs to be here.
"I don't know," Harry answers truthfully.
Malfoy holds his gaze for a moment, and then nods. Harry thinks he sees something like understanding in the grey eyes, and feels utterly at a loss.
The person sitting in front of him looks like someone he hated for years, but the memories don't fit anymore. Perhaps he knew Malfoy at one point-although, over the years, Harry has come to realise that that might not have been the case at all-but he has no idea who this man is, aside from a familiar name and a familiar face.
Half-numb, Harry listens to Malfoy's list of conditions that decide whether or not he will take on the assignment. On top of his list is a first assessment of the house and the existing spell-work, to be completed this afternoon. In case of a positive outcome of said assessment, Malfoy would need to take up residence at Grimmauld Place for as long as it takes to dismantle the protection charm. Everything else would be sorted out as they went along.
Harry agrees. The house has four floors, after all; big enough for two people to live side-by-side without much contact. He shows Malfoy around and tries to answer his questions as best as he can, trying not to pay too much attention to the Quick Quotes quill that eagerly scratches his words onto parchment on Malfoy's behalf.
They end the tour in the drawing room, and Harry hands over Hermione's research of the protection charm. When Malfoy takes a minute to study the Black family tree, Harry realises with a start that Malfoy's name is on there, too.
After Malfoy leaves, Harry leans against the door for a minute and wonders what exactly is going on here. Maybe Ron is right, and Harry's finally gone mad, living in this house all by himself. Ron and Hermione would probably want to know that Malfoy showed up on Harry's doorstep this afternoon, so he makes his way to the kitchen, intent on firecalling them.
But when the floo powder is in his hand, Harry doesn't throw it into the flames. Malfoy hasn't even given him a final word yet, and he might not take the job after all. For some reason, Harry doesn't want to cause any trouble for Malfoy, and telling Ron and Hermione now might result in exactly that. Malfoy's name has been cleared in regards to Dumbledore's death, but there are still too many open questions left over from the war. If news of Malfoy's reappearance made its rounds at the Ministry, he would soon be confronted with exactly those questions-questions that Malfoy had most likely wanted to leave behind.
Harry returns the floo powder to the bowl on the mantle, and makes his way upstairs in the hope of salvaging the broom he had been working on earlier.
~*~*~
Malfoy's acceptance comes around noon the next day, and he moves in the day after that. There are two guest rooms on the second floor, and Malfoy claims both of them, explaining that he can hardly be expected to work in the same room he sleeps in.
It takes Harry a week to learn how not to be startled by the noises Malfoy makes around the house. It's not that Malfoy's a particularly loud person, but Harry is only used to the sounds he makes himself, and hearing footsteps on the stairs or clinking dishes in the kitchen breaks the silence Harry has become accustomed to. It crosses his mind that during the war, he could only sleep when there were people moving about the house. He finds comfort in the fact that the opposite is true now. It reminds him that those days are truly over.
When Harry finds Malfoy drinking tea and reading in the kitchen around the same time three afternoons in a row, he admits to himself that this can't be a coincidence. Annoyed that Malfoy can't come up and talk to him-he knows that Harry spends most of his day working on his brooms, after all-Harry makes himself a sandwich, pretending that this is the only reason he has come down to the kitchen.
He stubbornly sits down at the table across from Malfoy, and starts eating. He refuses to look anywhere but at his plate, but Malfoy's gaze lingers so persistently that Harry finally snaps and asks, "Was there something you wanted?"
With a trace of amusement in his voice, Malfoy replies, "I thought you might like an update on how things are going."
"I figured if there was something to report, you'd tell me," Harry replies curtly.
"I haven't exactly seen you," Malfoy observes.
Harry wants to object to that, but on second thought, he has to concede that Malfoy is right. They haven't exchanged more than a greeting since Malfoy moved in. "Well, I'm here now," Harry points out.
"I can see that," Malfoy retorts dryly and launches into a long-winded explanation of what he's been doing around the house, most of which is so technical that it goes straight over Harry's head. He understands enough to grasp that Malfoy has been able to confirm Hermione's impression that the protection charm isn't so much bound to the house as to the residents of the house, and when Harry became Grimmauld Place's sole occupant as well as its Secret Keeper, the Fidelius merged with the older charm.
"Or in other words," Malfoy finishes, "whatever it will take to undo the Fidelius, you will play a major role in it."
Harry never wanted to play a major role in anything again after the war, and he is tempted to just give up on removing the spell, but it reminds him too much of the darkest days of the war, and he wants it gone. His sandwich no longer looks appealing to him, so he pushes the plate off to the side. "Anything else?"
"That's all I can tell you right now," Malfoy answers, and there's the almost-soft tone again that Harry finds so unsettling.
Even though he has no reason to linger any longer, Harry doesn't leave the kitchen. Neither does Malfoy.
"Do you want tea as well?" Malfoy asks after a few minutes have passed.
Harry shrugs. He is surprised when Malfoy charms the kettle and cup to make tea rather than doing it himself. "You didn't use magic for that last time."
"It depends on my mood," Malfoy says enigmatically. "Besides, it seemed like you needed it rather quickly."
The tea is perfect, and Harry wonders how Malfoy knew about Harry's tea preferences. "How did you learn?"
"Learn what?"
"To make tea the Muggle way."
Malfoy weighs his answer before he replies, "I lived among Muggles for a while."
Harry wants to know where and for how long, but he can tell that if Malfoy had wanted to share that information, he would have done so already. "Can you cook as well?"
What an utterly ridiculous question, Harry chides himself, and why does it matter if Malfoy knows how to cook, anyway?
Malfoy's eyebrows rise slightly. "I get by."
Judging by Malfoy's casual tone, he more than got by where cooking was concerned. "I hate cooking." The words are out of Harry's mouth before he has even thought them.
"Now that is obvious." Malfoy's eyes fall on the one banged-up pot and rusty pan hanging over the stove. "I'm having a few things shipped here that will improve that particular situation. I hope you don't mind."
"As long as you don't plan on instating a roster of house elves, it's fine by me," Harry says in a warning tone.
"I don't-" Malfoy breaks off, pausing. "No house elves."
Silence falls again, and Harry goes to fetch a tin of chocolate biscuits from the pantry. They each take one, and Harry notices that Malfoy reaches for a second one as soon as he finishes the first.
"How did you get into the business of curse-breaking and such?" Harry asks after a while.
"I had a lot of time to read, and…some people taught me."
"Why curse-breaking, though? I thought you were more interested in potions."
Malfoy's eyes darken for a moment. "I thought it might come in handy at some point. It certainly has turned out to be a rather lucrative skill."
Harry can very well imagine that, after all the booby-trapped houses he had fought his way through during the war.
Reaching for another biscuit, Malfoy says, "I never would have guessed that you spend your time making racing brooms. The Ministry wasn't interested in employing their number one hero?"
Harry disregards Malfoy's sarcasm. "I wasn't interested in working for them, if you must know. I've had enough fighting for a lifetime." He is surprised by how bitter he sounds.
Malfoy's eyes lose their focus for a few moments and Harry wonders if this is the end of their conversation, but then he finds grey eyes once more steadily looking back at him.
"Are you selling your brooms?"
Harry has a backorder list that will keep him busy until the new year. "A few here and there, yeah."
"To which teams?"
Harry doesn't really want to answer that, partially because he vaguely remembers signing a contract about that some time ago.
Suddenly, Malfoy's eyes widen. "You didn't sell one to the Puddlemere seeker, did you? He's had a rather impressive season, and he was bloody awful before."
Of course Harry sells brooms to Puddlemere, but he's not about to divulge that. "Um."
"I'll take that as a yes." Malfoy leans forward in his chair, elbows on the table. "So, what's your secret?"
Harry squirms a little under the intense gaze, but his voice remains firm when he answers. "I can't tell you that."
"Ah well, it was worth a try." Malfoy half-smirks, half-smiles at Harry.
Harry's smiling back before he realises what he's doing. It's disorienting, this knowing-and-yet-not-knowing Malfoy, and he feels the need to leave. The chair scrapes across the floor when he stands up too fast. "I…there are few more things I need to finish today, so I'll, um, go do those now." Harry vaguely gestures towards the stairs.
Malfoy nods in acknowledgement. "I'm going to pick up a few books tomorrow. I'll probably have some more information on what exactly happened with the Fidelius by tomorrow afternoon."
Harry isn't quite sure what to make of that-did Malfoy just ask him to meet in the kitchen again tomorrow? Trying for the vaguest possible answer, Harry simply says, "Okay."
On his way up the stairs, Harry makes a mental note to buy more chocolate biscuits in the morning.
~*~*~
Considering that Harry and Malfoy never talk about Hogwarts or the war, there's a surprising number of topics to discuss in their now daily conversations over tea.
Sometime during the third week of Malfoy's stay, Ron and Hermione unexpectedly floo over in the middle of the afternoon, right when Harry and Malfoy are in the midst of a heated debate over the extension of Quidditch season by two weeks. Before either of them can say one word, Malfoy finds himself in a full body bind, courtesy of Ron's wand.
"Are you all right, Harry?" Hermione asks, grasping him by his shoulders.
"I'm fine." He roughly shoves her hands away. "Take the spell off, Ron. Right now."
Ron looks at him curiously.
"I said, right now." Harry uses the low, menacing tone he hasn't used since the war.
The invisible ropes fall away from Malfoy's body, and he slowly gets back to his feet, rubbing his elbow.
"What's going on here?" Hermione looks back and forth between Harry and Malfoy.
"I believe we were having tea, if that wasn't obvious," Harry replies, barely holding back his anger now.
Ron stares at him in utter disbelief, then turns to Malfoy. "What the fuck are you doing here, ferret?"
"I think it might be best if Potter explains that," Malfoy replies. He sounds completely calm, but Harry can see his fingers twitch where they rest against his leg.
All eyes turn to Harry.
"Draco," Harry begins, deliberately using Malfoy's first name, "is here to help me with the Fidelius removal."
Hermione is the first one to find her voice again. "But…I thought we'd agreed you'd move out to Devon? There's this perfect house down the road from ours, it's just become available and-"
Harry narrows his eyes. "We never agreed on anything. I said I might consider it. But you know I'd rather stay here, and I don't know why you and Ron keep bothering me about it."
Ron takes Hermione by the arm. "I think our presence isn't wanted here at the moment. Come on."
The hurt tone in Ron's voice makes Harry swallow down the scathing remark already on his tongue. "That might be best." When Hermione reaches for the floo powder, he adds, "Please don't tell anyone."
Ron's chest puffs out a little bit, the way it does when he's about to launch into a rant, but a stern glance from Hermione silences him before he can even begin.
"We won't," she promises. "But it would be nice to get a more thorough explanation soon."
"I'll owl you tomorrow, okay?"
Hermione nods, and disappears in the green flames, Ron following suit without another word.
Harry slowly turns to look at Malfoy, who still stands in the same spot, but now his fingers are twisting in the cloth of his trousers.
"I think we are done here for today," he says in flat tone, avoiding Harry's gaze.
For a brief moment, Harry considers apologising for Ron's behaviour, but he fears that might not go over too well with Malfoy.
Malfoy makes his way across the kitchen, brushing past Harry without so much as a glance. He halts on the stairs. Very softly, he says, "Thank you, Harry."
~*~*~
One evening, when Malfoy has left on one of the many walks that allegedly help to clear his mind, Harry lounges in the drawing room. He's trying to figure out why the broom he has just finished pulls too hard to the left in downward spirals, but more often than not he finds his thoughts straying to the strange living arrangement he's fallen into with Malfoy.
Malfoy's presence is tangible everywhere in the house now, from the little notes that stick to the walls describing their magical properties or convergence points to the completely rearranged kitchen. Harry's had a few opportunities to confirm his hunch about Malfoy's cooking skills-they are indeed excellent. His stomach rumbles at the thought of the roast they shared last Sunday, and Harry decides today will be one of those times he "accidentally" strolls into the kitchen when Malfoy is cooking.
Sliding lower on the sofa, Harry pushes a few rolls of parchment out of the way so he can rest his feet on the coffee table. As the notes tumble to the side, Harry's eyes fall on a leather-bound book. The word "Fidelius" in the rather long title catches his attention, and he decides that reading up on a few things couldn't hurt. Maybe then Malfoy won't get frustrated every time Harry isn't able to follow his explanations.
When he opens the book, Harry is surprised to see that it isn't a book about charms at all, but rather offers Tales of Faeries and Dragons. Underneath the title, a dedication reads, To my little dragon on his tenth birthday. Love, Mum. Harry has half a mind to put the book aside because this glimpse into Malfoy's childhood is not for him to see, judging by how hesitant Malfoy is to talk about anything even remotely related to his family. On the other hand, Harry finds it hard to believe Malfoy would leave anything out in the open that he wouldn't want Harry to stumble across.
Pulling the book into his lap, Harry starts reading, soon finding himself completely engrossed in his first wizard fairy tale, complete with animated drawings. As he turns the page, a tattered photograph falls into his hands, featuring a tall graceful woman in an evening dress. Harry immediately recognises her as Narcissa Malfoy. She looks younger and less cold than he remembers from the Triwizard tournament. A young boy, clearly Malfoy, suddenly runs into the frame and Narcissa bends down to kiss him on the cheek, then both turn to smile at the camera. Harry guesses Malfoy is about six or seven in this photo. He can't stop looking at the picture, watching it loop over and over again.
When someone politely coughs next to Harry, he jumps a little, nearly dropping the book. Malfoy is standing right next to him, and Harry has no idea how long he has been there. The black cloak that drapes elegantly around Malfoy's slender frame still gives off a little chill from the cold evening air, however, so he couldn't have been inside for too long, Harry reasons. He waits for Malfoy to say something, to possibly even yell at Harry for snooping though his private things, but he only looks at Harry with a steady gaze. As so many times before, Malfoy's eyes don't betray his state of mind, but Harry thinks he can see sadness flickering behind the nearly impermeable surface.
Hastily closing the book, the photo securely tucked between the pages, Harry holds it out to Malfoy and says, "I'm sorry, I didn't know what the book was at first and I was curious, but I didn't mean to-"
"It's all right," Malfoy replies quietly. He takes the book from Harry and cradles it to his chest as if it were a stuffed toy, leading Harry to wonder if this is perhaps the only thing Malfoy has left from his childhood.
"I'm sorry about your mother," Harry says because it seems like the appropriate thing to do in this situation.
"Thank you," Malfoy replies politely, looking at the floor.
Harry is at a complete loss as to what he should do next. Is he supposed to leave? Or wait until Malfoy leaves? Why is Malfoy just standing there? Harry expected him to turn and leave without a word after getting the book back. Wiping his palms across his thighs, Harry waits for a clue from Malfoy.
Just when Harry is about to get up, unable bear the awkwardness filling the room any longer, Malfoy speaks again.
"Did you know that I never saw my mum again after I left Hogwarts the night of the attack? She had asked me to meet her in Hogsmeade the weekend before, but I told her I was too busy. I wish that I hadn't…that I…" Malfoy broke off, fingers curling tightly around the edges of the book.
Harry stands up and reaches towards Malfoy but finds Malfoy backing away from him, shaking his head. Harry lets his hand drop.
"Dinner should be-" Malfoy's voice is trembling, and he halts, takes a deep breath, then continues. "Should be read in forty-five minutes, if you'd like."
"Very much so," Harry affirms.
Malfoy nods once, then leaves the room with quick steps.
When Harry makes his way down to the kitchen a little while later, he brings along the photo album Hagrid gave him in first year.
~*~*~
A week later, on a sunny Tuesday afternoon, Harry returns to Grimmauld Place from his latest test with the formerly problematic broom, which flies brilliantly now. Humming to himself, Harry pushes open the front door, and is immediately assaulted by a familiar screeching voice.
"…nothing but shame on your entire family, blood traitor! Hiding out like a coward and working for Muggles and Half-Bloods…"
The sight in front of him stops Harry in his tracks. Mrs. Black looks about ready to climb out of her frame, throwing insult after insult at Malfoy, who stands in front of the portrait with slumped shoulders and bowed head.
"…not fit to carry on the Malfoy name, allowing yourself to be buggered by all and sundry, you perverted, filthy, little-"
The curtains close at a flick of Harry's wand. He stares at them for a moment before stalking over to Malfoy, who hasn't moved at all.
"What do you think you're doing?" The question comes out in a much more accusatory tone than Harry had aimed for.
"I thought that I could talk to her, get some information about the protection charm," Malfoy replies in a small voice, keeping his eyes averted.
"What? I told you that that would be useless! She's mad!"
"It was worth a try."
The defiance in Malfoy's tone only makes Harry angrier. "Worth a try? Fine, maybe, but why didn't you silence her? Why did you let her go on like that?"
Malfoy lifts his head slowly. His usually pale cheeks are tinged red. "What does it matter to you?" He tries to move past Harry, but Harry stands his ground. "Get out of my way." Malfoy menacingly raises his wand.
Balling his hands into fists, Harry steps aside and watches Malfoy hurry up the stairs. A door bangs shut shortly afterwards.
Sitting down on the lowest step, Harry fixes his gaze on the black curtains hiding the portrait, wishing for the umpteenth time that he could get rid of it. As his anger slowly seeps away, he realises that there's only one explanation for why Malfoy could possibly have wanted to endure the screams and insults, one that Harry understands all too well.
Slowly, he walks up to the second floor, hesitating briefly before Malfoy's door to consider whether he should knock or not. Harry discards politeness and reaches for the handle. If Malfoy doesn't want to see him, he'll have to tell Harry face-to-face. Unless he has already charmed the door shut, that is.
The door isn't locked.
Malfoy stands by the window facing the square below, his back turned to Harry.
"You don't deserve it," Harry says softly, still lingering by the door.
Malfoy shrugs.
Harry crosses the room and looks out the window as well. The pale winter sun already dips below the row of houses across the square, throwing long shadows over the cobbled stones. Turning towards Malfoy, Harry sees that the grey eyes stare into the distance without any focus.
"Draco," Harry whispers.
"You don't know what I deserve."
The quiet conviction driving those words cuts right through Harry. "You don't deserve that, not any of it," he repeats emphatically.
A sad smile crosses Draco's face. "I wish I could believe that."
"You made the right choice in going away," Harry persists.
"Is that so? So I could save myself, but not my mother? Or my father?"
"There are no easy choices in war." Hermione once told Harry that, and it's the only thing he can think of right now, almost as if all his own thoughts have become tangled up in the knot that's pulling tighter and tighter in his chest.
"I think I'd like to be alone right now," Draco requests calmly, his fingers picking at the chipping paint on the window frame.
"Okay." Unwilling to leave without offering some sort of reassurance, Harry rests his hand on Draco's shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. Draco's head dips, but he doesn't make any effort to pull away, so Harry allows his hand to slide across Draco's back until it settles between his shoulder blades.
"Harry, please," Draco whispers in a tight voice.
Unsure of what Draco's asking-for Harry to leave? Or…the opposite?-Harry doesn't move.
The clarification comes in the form of Draco swiftly turning away and disappearing behind the door to the adjacent room.
This time, the door is spelled shut.
~*~*~
Three days before Christmas, Harry buys a Christmas tree. He's never bothered to get one before as he spends the holidays at the Burrow anyway. But when he walked by one of the improvised stands earlier in the afternoon, he suddenly felt like having a tree this year. Ever since the encounter with Mrs. Black, Draco has been in a rather morose mood, and maybe bringing a little seasonal cheer to the house will lift Draco's spirits.
Draco is just coming up the stairs from the kitchen when Harry drags the tree through the front door, cursing when a few branches get stuck in the hinges.
"I think someone forgot his very first Charms lesson at Hogwarts," Draco drawls from somewhere behind Harry.
"What?" Harry asks curtly while fiddling with the tree.
Draco's steps echo on the stone floor as he comes closer. "The first spell we learned in school. Seriously, Potter!"
Harry straightens up in time to see Draco pointing his wand at the tree.
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
The tree slowly lifts from the ground and floats to the middle of the entrance hall under Draco's guidance.
Harry is tempted to roll his eyes at the smug smile on Draco's face. "I could hardly levitate the tree down the street with all the Muggles about now, could I?" Harry asks.
"Perhaps not, but surely you could have at least cast a lightening spell to make this whole affair easier, no?"
Draco guides the tree up the stairs, towards the drawing room, and Harry follows.
"I suppose so, but I wasn't thinking about it," Harry counters.
"You're such a Muggle sometimes."
"Oh, am I now, Mr. heating-charms-will-ruin-my-delicate-cooking?"
"Well, they do, and you know it. I wasn't the one who complained that the potatoes tasted funny last week," Draco retorts.
This time, Harry does roll his eyes. "Fine, you're right and I'm wrong, as per usual. Where should we put the tree?"
After a quick look around the room, Draco nods towards the wall that has the tapestry featuring the Black family tree on it. "How about there?"
"Good choice." Harry loathes the tapestry almost as much as the portrait downstairs.
They quietly work to secure the tree. Harry transfigures a tea cup into a tree stand while Draco attaches some of the lower branches to the wall with a light sticking charm for better balance.
"Where are your decorations?" Draco asks, flicking his wand to straighten out a few wayward branches.
"Um, I actually don't have any," Harry admits sheepishly. "I've never had a Christmas tree before."
"Oh?"
"I never really wanted one before, but I thought that maybe it would be nice this year because…erm…" Harry gives Draco a significant look.
Understanding flits across Draco's face, and he looks away. "I haven't had a Christmas tree in a very long time."
"I'm glad I bought one, then."
Draco mutters his reply, but Harry thinks it might have been "Thank you." Draco's chest rises and falls with a few deep breaths, then he continues in the steady, collected tone Harry has become accustomed to. "Do you have any small metal pins? And a few pieces of string?"
"Sure, I use those for my brooms, but why-"
"Just go and get them, will you?"
Harry nods and fetches the items from his workroom. Draco takes them from him and silently transfigures the pins into fairy lights and the strings into red bows.
Harry picks up one of the bows and traces the satiny material with his fingers. "How did you know how to do that?"
"My mum taught me when I was younger," Draco explains, levitating the lights and bows to the tree.
Harry nods, unsure of what else to say in response.
Once all decorations have been equally distributed across the branches, Harry and Draco take a step back to admire the tree. It's dusk outside now, and the fairy lights glow warmly in the darkening room.
"It's beautiful," Harry observes quietly.
Draco briefly glances at Harry before looking back at the tree. "Yeah, it is."
~*~*~
Just like every year, Harry spends Christmas Day at the Burrow. He laughs about the Twins' antics, enjoys Molly's cooking-which he silently compares to Draco's-and takes a long walk with Ron and Hermione, during which they come to a tense agreement about the necessity of Draco's presence at Grimmauld Place.
When Harry steps out of the floo in his kitchen late in the evening, homemade trifle and apple cider in his arms, his mind immediately turns to Draco, who spent the day alone. Harry had briefly considered bringing Draco along to the Weasleys', but quickly discarded that thought, deciding it would do more harm than good, and besides, Draco had explicitly stated that he didn't want any company today.
Considering that the day is nearly over however, Harry feels justified in seeking out Draco now, unwilling to allow him to spend all of Christmas day by himself, most likely absorbed in memories.
Harry finds Draco fast asleep on the sofa in the drawing room. Both of Draco's legs are drawn up close to his body, feet curling over one another, while his arms dangle over the cushions' edge. A sense of peace emanates from Draco, making Harry hesitant to wake him, but Draco probably doesn't want to spend his entire night on the sofa.
Crouching down next to him, Harry gently shakes his shoulder. "Draco, wake up."
"Wha--?" Draco blinks at Harry.
Nodding at the books sprawled out on the coffee table, Harry says, "I'd say you fell asleep reading?"
Draco slowly sits up, rubbing his eyes. "Oh, yeah, I suppose I did. What time is it?"
"Just after ten." Harry sits down on the sofa. "Happy Christmas, Draco."
Draco sends him a tiny smile. "Happy Christmas."
"How was your day?"
Draco stretches his arms over his head and yawns. "Busy."
Harry most certainly does not stare at the pale skin that is revealed when Draco's shirt rides up. "That's good, I guess."
"Yeah, it is." Draco's arms drop back to his sides. "Very good, actually. I think I've finally found a way to take the Fidelius off."
"You have? That's brilliant! How does it…I mean, what spell are you going to use?"
Draco's eyes darken. "I'd rather not talk about it tonight if you don't mind. It's complicated and…I'm tired."
Harry suspects that there are other reasons why Draco doesn't want to share his findings, but that's not important now. "Sure, we can talk about it tomorrow. Who wants to think about their work on Christmas, right?"
"And yet I can recall hearing you in your workroom very early this morning," Draco observes, his tone not nearly as grave as before.
"Oh, I was just finishing up the broom I gave to Ron. That hardly counts as work."
"Did the weasel like his gift?"
Ignoring the stab at Ron, Harry replies, "Yeah, he did. He was speechless."
"Now that has to be a first," Draco remarks dryly.
"Maybe we shouldn't talk about Ron anymore."
Draco nods. "A very wise proposition indeed."
"How do you feel about dessert? Molly insisted I take trifle and cider home."
With a smile, Draco answers, "You know my attitude towards that subject. There's-"
"Always room for dessert," Harry finishes. "I'll be right back."
On his way back from the kitchen, Harry stops in his room to pick up the small package wrapped in green paper with a silver bow that has been hidden in his wardrobe for the past week.
As they eat, Harry tells Draco about his day at the Burrow. Despite the fact that Draco professes to have an extreme dislike for everyone making an appearance in Harry's stories, his initially hesitant smiles turn into increasingly exuberant laughter by the time they have finished the bowl of trifle. Perhaps Arthur's home-brewed cider is responsible for Draco's cheerful mood, Harry muses when he leans back against the sofa cushions, feeling rather pleasantly tingly himself.
Draco settles in next to Harry with a contented sigh. Harry doesn't mind at all that Draco is sitting so close that their arms brush against one another. In fact, he can't remember the last time he was so happy just to sit next to someone else. It would be easy to allow his eyes to close and to drift off, but he wants to give Draco his gift before the evening ends.
"Draco?"
Pale lashes flutter a few times before grey eyes focus on Harry. "Hmm?"
Reaching under the sofa, Harry pulls out the green package he kicked under there earlier. Smoothing down the bow, he holds it out to Draco. "Happy Christmas," Harry says one more time.
Draco sits up, gingerly accepting the gift. "I…I don't have anything for you." He sounds rather miserable.
"That's all right. Everyone else already gave me more than enough."
"Still. It's not very polite to receive a gift and have nothing to offer in return," Draco remarks as he plucks the bow off the green paper.
Harry is nearly tempted to say something exceedingly sappy, such as how Draco's presence in his life is a gift in and of itself, but he bites his lip just in time. That cider must be stronger than Harry initially thought.
Draco folds back the paper to reveal a simple silver frame. Holding it in his hands, he gazes at Harry with a questioning look.
"I thought you might like to put the picture of your mum in there," Harry explains, a tight feeling in his throat all of a sudden.
"Harry…" Draco whispers, eyes returning to the frame. His hand shakes when he traces its outline with one finger.
If this were Hermione, or even Ron, Harry wouldn't hesitate to pull them into a hug now, but he's uncertain whether Draco would welcome that. Instead, he rests his hand on Draco's arm. "Do you like it?" He asks, just to say something.
"Yes. Thank you." Draco's voice cracks.
Harry can't see Draco's face from this angle, but the rapid breaths he draws tell Harry more than enough. Deciding to throw caution to the wind, he wraps one arm around Draco's shoulder, surprised when Draco doesn't hesitate to lean into the embrace.
"I didn't mean to upset you," Harry whispers.
Draco carefully places the frame next to him on the sofa. "You didn't. It's just that…that…"
"I know. You don't have to explain."
Turning more fully towards Harry, Draco tucks his head under Harry's chin and flattens one hand against Harry's chest.
Wrapping his other arm around Draco as well, Harry starts to run one hand slowly up and down Draco's back.
On to Part 2.
.
Title: Fidelius
Author: coffeejunkii
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own these boys.
Warnings: Set five years after HBP, hence spoilers.
Author's notes: A million thanks to rurounihime and off_that_bridge for betaing, and to akahannah for britpicking.
Summary: The person sitting in front of Harry looks like someone he hated for years, but the memories don't fit anymore. Perhaps he knew Malfoy at one point, but he has no idea who this man is, aside from a familiar name and a familiar face.
~*~*~
If you live in a house protected by Fidelius, an unexpected knock on the front door is nearly an impossibility, and certainly doesn't bode well, even now, after the war. At the sound, Harry immediately drops the broom he has been working on, twigs scattering all over the floor. He races down the stairs in five steps, wand clutched tightly in his hand.
When he reaches the door, he counts backwards from ten to steady himself, but he is utterly unprepared for what awaits him.
Draco Malfoy is standing on the top step, an unreadable expression on his face.
"Malfoy?" Harry asks in utter disbelief, cursing himself right after the words slip out of his mouth for sounding utterly stupid. There's no doubt in his mind that this is indeed Malfoy, who has been missing for five years, ever since that night on the Astronomy Tower. Harry never expected to see him again.
Instead of the mocking reply Harry is certain he will receive, Malfoy simply says, "Yes."
During that summer after sixth year, Harry imagined this encounter in dozens of ways, always ending violently. He tries to reach for that hatred now, for the fury that fuelled those months, but finds nothing there aside from a desire to know what, and where, and how, and most of all, why. When he looks at Malfoy, he can't discern any hatred in his eyes, either.
Unsure of what else to say, Harry asks, "Why are you here?"
Calm grey eyes look back at Harry. "I believe we have an appointment. It is 4 o'clock now, and it is the fifth of November, isn't it?" There's a hint of apprehension in Malfoy's voice, as if he is indeed wondering whether or not he's got the date right.
"Yeah, it is," Harry replies automatically. "But-" And then he suddenly remembers.
An ad in the Daily Prophet the previous week had caught Harry's eye. It said, Where the ministry's curse-breakers fail, our expertise begins. After short consideration, Harry had sent an owl with a date and time and instructions on how to find Grimmauld Place. "You're…you're here about the protection charm."
Malfoy nods. "May I come in?"
Harry's muscles react before his mind does, and he feels his legs stepping aside to let Malfoy into the entrance hall. He watches Malfoy looking around the room, the polished stone floor, the white walls, and the single portrait hidden behind a thick black curtain.
"It's different from what I expected," Malfoy observes.
Harry's thoughts are still in wild disarray, but he manages to reply. "I've had some help renovating the lower floors."
Malfoy's gaze lingers on the veiled painting for a moment before he turns to Harry. "Maybe we should sit down to see if…if we can come to an arrangement."
"All right," Harry says slowly, his curiosity winning out over his instinct, which tells him to send Malfoy away and ask him to never bother him again.
They walk down to the kitchen, and Harry makes tea. It's polite, he figures, and Malfoy would expect that. The absurdity of that thought hits him just as he sets the kettle to boil. Why should he care what Malfoy expects? Harry stills for a moment, until Malfoy sends him a curious glance. Pushing the question and the sneaking suspicion that he does indeed care out of his mind, Harry sets out two cups on the table.
They prepare their tea in silence, and Harry observes that Malfoy doesn't add any sugar but pours a generous amount of milk.
"So…" Harry begins when it becomes clear that Malfoy is waiting for him to resume their conversation.
"You could begin by telling me more about the Fidelius. You mentioned in your note that you had some trouble taking it off because of some pre-existing protection charm."
Harry tries to hold on to Malfoy's professional tone. "Yes. I figured that there isn't anymore reason to keep the Fidelius now that…" that no one is after me anymore, Harry finishes silently.
"I understand," Malfoy says neutrally.
Just keep talking, Harry tells himself. "Well, we tried a few standard removal spells, but nothing worked and then we, or Hermione, rather, she found out that there was another layer of spell-work on the house, something old, and she said it was related to…to…" Trying to remember how Hermione had explained this to him, the earlier questions about Malfoy's disappearance tumble into his mind again, and he finds himself unable to continue.
Staring at the table top, Harry mumbles, "Sorry, I…I can't do this. It's…I don't understand why you are here."
What he really wants to ask is, Didn't you know I live here?
Malfoy doesn't answer right away. He takes a sip of his tea, and then another one. Finally, he says, "It's a job, and judging by your description, it's a difficult one, which means there's quite a bit of money at stake."
Money. It makes sense-the entire Malfoy fortune had been claimed by the Ministry after Malfoy's mother died, and the Manor had burned to the ground in the final days of the war.
And yet. Harry cannot imagine that there wouldn't be any other curse-breaking task to take on for Malfoy. "So you…you knew that…that I…" He lets the sentence linger in the hope Malfoy would understand what Harry cannot say.
"That this was your house?"
"Yes."
Malfoy pushes his teacup back and forth between his hands. "I wasn't certain, but there are always rumours about, especially in this business. It wasn't too difficult to put together."
"And it didn't matter to you?" Harry blurts out.
Malfoy's reply is just as quick. "Should it?"
Harry doesn't know how to answer the question. "Yes" or "No" don't even begin to map the confusion currently swirling around in Harry's brain.
"Do you want me to leave?" Malfoy asks quietly.
Harry knows the answer to this question right away. "No."
He tries to tell himself that his certainty is due to his awareness that Malfoy might actually know how to break the charm on the house, but there's something else there, another reason that's not so easily defined.
Malfoy stands up to make more tea, and Harry is surprised to see that he isn't using any magic in the process.
While Malfoy pours fresh boiling water into their cups, he says, "I know you're dying to, so just ask."
"Ask what?"
Malfoy sits down and picks up his spoon to push the tea bag around in his cup. "Where I've been all this time."
The preciseness with which Malfoy has guessed his thoughts makes Harry uncomfortable. He wants to deny that there's any truth to Malfoy's assessment, but recognises the futility of that endeavour. And besides, he does want to know.
Fumbling for words, Harry asks, "I…yeah, I did want to know that. So, um, where did you go?"
Cup in his hand, Malfoy leans back in his chair. "I went where no one would find me." After a pause, he adds, "I never stayed in one place for too long. It would have been an invitation to eventually being discovered, and…once an environment becomes too familiar, the past has a tendency to catch up with you."
Despite the hardened expression on his face, Malfoy's voice is almost soft. This utterly unfamiliar tone throws Harry off, and before he has a chance to tell Malfoy that he hasn't answered Harry's question at all, Malfoy speaks again.
"Now that you've asked me this, maybe I'm allowed a question myself."
Even if Malfoy hasn't exactly provided the information Harry was hoping for, Harry reasons it would only be fair to allow him to pose a question in return. Answering it is another matter altogether. "Okay."
"Why do you live here?"
While this is the last thing Harry wants to talk about, he's used to it at least. Ron and Hermione ask it all the time, and he hates that they can't stop asking and that he can't give them an explanation they could understand. Harry isn't sure himself why he still lives here. He only knows he needs to be here.
"I don't know," Harry answers truthfully.
Malfoy holds his gaze for a moment, and then nods. Harry thinks he sees something like understanding in the grey eyes, and feels utterly at a loss.
The person sitting in front of him looks like someone he hated for years, but the memories don't fit anymore. Perhaps he knew Malfoy at one point-although, over the years, Harry has come to realise that that might not have been the case at all-but he has no idea who this man is, aside from a familiar name and a familiar face.
Half-numb, Harry listens to Malfoy's list of conditions that decide whether or not he will take on the assignment. On top of his list is a first assessment of the house and the existing spell-work, to be completed this afternoon. In case of a positive outcome of said assessment, Malfoy would need to take up residence at Grimmauld Place for as long as it takes to dismantle the protection charm. Everything else would be sorted out as they went along.
Harry agrees. The house has four floors, after all; big enough for two people to live side-by-side without much contact. He shows Malfoy around and tries to answer his questions as best as he can, trying not to pay too much attention to the Quick Quotes quill that eagerly scratches his words onto parchment on Malfoy's behalf.
They end the tour in the drawing room, and Harry hands over Hermione's research of the protection charm. When Malfoy takes a minute to study the Black family tree, Harry realises with a start that Malfoy's name is on there, too.
After Malfoy leaves, Harry leans against the door for a minute and wonders what exactly is going on here. Maybe Ron is right, and Harry's finally gone mad, living in this house all by himself. Ron and Hermione would probably want to know that Malfoy showed up on Harry's doorstep this afternoon, so he makes his way to the kitchen, intent on firecalling them.
But when the floo powder is in his hand, Harry doesn't throw it into the flames. Malfoy hasn't even given him a final word yet, and he might not take the job after all. For some reason, Harry doesn't want to cause any trouble for Malfoy, and telling Ron and Hermione now might result in exactly that. Malfoy's name has been cleared in regards to Dumbledore's death, but there are still too many open questions left over from the war. If news of Malfoy's reappearance made its rounds at the Ministry, he would soon be confronted with exactly those questions-questions that Malfoy had most likely wanted to leave behind.
Harry returns the floo powder to the bowl on the mantle, and makes his way upstairs in the hope of salvaging the broom he had been working on earlier.
~*~*~
Malfoy's acceptance comes around noon the next day, and he moves in the day after that. There are two guest rooms on the second floor, and Malfoy claims both of them, explaining that he can hardly be expected to work in the same room he sleeps in.
It takes Harry a week to learn how not to be startled by the noises Malfoy makes around the house. It's not that Malfoy's a particularly loud person, but Harry is only used to the sounds he makes himself, and hearing footsteps on the stairs or clinking dishes in the kitchen breaks the silence Harry has become accustomed to. It crosses his mind that during the war, he could only sleep when there were people moving about the house. He finds comfort in the fact that the opposite is true now. It reminds him that those days are truly over.
When Harry finds Malfoy drinking tea and reading in the kitchen around the same time three afternoons in a row, he admits to himself that this can't be a coincidence. Annoyed that Malfoy can't come up and talk to him-he knows that Harry spends most of his day working on his brooms, after all-Harry makes himself a sandwich, pretending that this is the only reason he has come down to the kitchen.
He stubbornly sits down at the table across from Malfoy, and starts eating. He refuses to look anywhere but at his plate, but Malfoy's gaze lingers so persistently that Harry finally snaps and asks, "Was there something you wanted?"
With a trace of amusement in his voice, Malfoy replies, "I thought you might like an update on how things are going."
"I figured if there was something to report, you'd tell me," Harry replies curtly.
"I haven't exactly seen you," Malfoy observes.
Harry wants to object to that, but on second thought, he has to concede that Malfoy is right. They haven't exchanged more than a greeting since Malfoy moved in. "Well, I'm here now," Harry points out.
"I can see that," Malfoy retorts dryly and launches into a long-winded explanation of what he's been doing around the house, most of which is so technical that it goes straight over Harry's head. He understands enough to grasp that Malfoy has been able to confirm Hermione's impression that the protection charm isn't so much bound to the house as to the residents of the house, and when Harry became Grimmauld Place's sole occupant as well as its Secret Keeper, the Fidelius merged with the older charm.
"Or in other words," Malfoy finishes, "whatever it will take to undo the Fidelius, you will play a major role in it."
Harry never wanted to play a major role in anything again after the war, and he is tempted to just give up on removing the spell, but it reminds him too much of the darkest days of the war, and he wants it gone. His sandwich no longer looks appealing to him, so he pushes the plate off to the side. "Anything else?"
"That's all I can tell you right now," Malfoy answers, and there's the almost-soft tone again that Harry finds so unsettling.
Even though he has no reason to linger any longer, Harry doesn't leave the kitchen. Neither does Malfoy.
"Do you want tea as well?" Malfoy asks after a few minutes have passed.
Harry shrugs. He is surprised when Malfoy charms the kettle and cup to make tea rather than doing it himself. "You didn't use magic for that last time."
"It depends on my mood," Malfoy says enigmatically. "Besides, it seemed like you needed it rather quickly."
The tea is perfect, and Harry wonders how Malfoy knew about Harry's tea preferences. "How did you learn?"
"Learn what?"
"To make tea the Muggle way."
Malfoy weighs his answer before he replies, "I lived among Muggles for a while."
Harry wants to know where and for how long, but he can tell that if Malfoy had wanted to share that information, he would have done so already. "Can you cook as well?"
What an utterly ridiculous question, Harry chides himself, and why does it matter if Malfoy knows how to cook, anyway?
Malfoy's eyebrows rise slightly. "I get by."
Judging by Malfoy's casual tone, he more than got by where cooking was concerned. "I hate cooking." The words are out of Harry's mouth before he has even thought them.
"Now that is obvious." Malfoy's eyes fall on the one banged-up pot and rusty pan hanging over the stove. "I'm having a few things shipped here that will improve that particular situation. I hope you don't mind."
"As long as you don't plan on instating a roster of house elves, it's fine by me," Harry says in a warning tone.
"I don't-" Malfoy breaks off, pausing. "No house elves."
Silence falls again, and Harry goes to fetch a tin of chocolate biscuits from the pantry. They each take one, and Harry notices that Malfoy reaches for a second one as soon as he finishes the first.
"How did you get into the business of curse-breaking and such?" Harry asks after a while.
"I had a lot of time to read, and…some people taught me."
"Why curse-breaking, though? I thought you were more interested in potions."
Malfoy's eyes darken for a moment. "I thought it might come in handy at some point. It certainly has turned out to be a rather lucrative skill."
Harry can very well imagine that, after all the booby-trapped houses he had fought his way through during the war.
Reaching for another biscuit, Malfoy says, "I never would have guessed that you spend your time making racing brooms. The Ministry wasn't interested in employing their number one hero?"
Harry disregards Malfoy's sarcasm. "I wasn't interested in working for them, if you must know. I've had enough fighting for a lifetime." He is surprised by how bitter he sounds.
Malfoy's eyes lose their focus for a few moments and Harry wonders if this is the end of their conversation, but then he finds grey eyes once more steadily looking back at him.
"Are you selling your brooms?"
Harry has a backorder list that will keep him busy until the new year. "A few here and there, yeah."
"To which teams?"
Harry doesn't really want to answer that, partially because he vaguely remembers signing a contract about that some time ago.
Suddenly, Malfoy's eyes widen. "You didn't sell one to the Puddlemere seeker, did you? He's had a rather impressive season, and he was bloody awful before."
Of course Harry sells brooms to Puddlemere, but he's not about to divulge that. "Um."
"I'll take that as a yes." Malfoy leans forward in his chair, elbows on the table. "So, what's your secret?"
Harry squirms a little under the intense gaze, but his voice remains firm when he answers. "I can't tell you that."
"Ah well, it was worth a try." Malfoy half-smirks, half-smiles at Harry.
Harry's smiling back before he realises what he's doing. It's disorienting, this knowing-and-yet-not-knowing Malfoy, and he feels the need to leave. The chair scrapes across the floor when he stands up too fast. "I…there are few more things I need to finish today, so I'll, um, go do those now." Harry vaguely gestures towards the stairs.
Malfoy nods in acknowledgement. "I'm going to pick up a few books tomorrow. I'll probably have some more information on what exactly happened with the Fidelius by tomorrow afternoon."
Harry isn't quite sure what to make of that-did Malfoy just ask him to meet in the kitchen again tomorrow? Trying for the vaguest possible answer, Harry simply says, "Okay."
On his way up the stairs, Harry makes a mental note to buy more chocolate biscuits in the morning.
~*~*~
Considering that Harry and Malfoy never talk about Hogwarts or the war, there's a surprising number of topics to discuss in their now daily conversations over tea.
Sometime during the third week of Malfoy's stay, Ron and Hermione unexpectedly floo over in the middle of the afternoon, right when Harry and Malfoy are in the midst of a heated debate over the extension of Quidditch season by two weeks. Before either of them can say one word, Malfoy finds himself in a full body bind, courtesy of Ron's wand.
"Are you all right, Harry?" Hermione asks, grasping him by his shoulders.
"I'm fine." He roughly shoves her hands away. "Take the spell off, Ron. Right now."
Ron looks at him curiously.
"I said, right now." Harry uses the low, menacing tone he hasn't used since the war.
The invisible ropes fall away from Malfoy's body, and he slowly gets back to his feet, rubbing his elbow.
"What's going on here?" Hermione looks back and forth between Harry and Malfoy.
"I believe we were having tea, if that wasn't obvious," Harry replies, barely holding back his anger now.
Ron stares at him in utter disbelief, then turns to Malfoy. "What the fuck are you doing here, ferret?"
"I think it might be best if Potter explains that," Malfoy replies. He sounds completely calm, but Harry can see his fingers twitch where they rest against his leg.
All eyes turn to Harry.
"Draco," Harry begins, deliberately using Malfoy's first name, "is here to help me with the Fidelius removal."
Hermione is the first one to find her voice again. "But…I thought we'd agreed you'd move out to Devon? There's this perfect house down the road from ours, it's just become available and-"
Harry narrows his eyes. "We never agreed on anything. I said I might consider it. But you know I'd rather stay here, and I don't know why you and Ron keep bothering me about it."
Ron takes Hermione by the arm. "I think our presence isn't wanted here at the moment. Come on."
The hurt tone in Ron's voice makes Harry swallow down the scathing remark already on his tongue. "That might be best." When Hermione reaches for the floo powder, he adds, "Please don't tell anyone."
Ron's chest puffs out a little bit, the way it does when he's about to launch into a rant, but a stern glance from Hermione silences him before he can even begin.
"We won't," she promises. "But it would be nice to get a more thorough explanation soon."
"I'll owl you tomorrow, okay?"
Hermione nods, and disappears in the green flames, Ron following suit without another word.
Harry slowly turns to look at Malfoy, who still stands in the same spot, but now his fingers are twisting in the cloth of his trousers.
"I think we are done here for today," he says in flat tone, avoiding Harry's gaze.
For a brief moment, Harry considers apologising for Ron's behaviour, but he fears that might not go over too well with Malfoy.
Malfoy makes his way across the kitchen, brushing past Harry without so much as a glance. He halts on the stairs. Very softly, he says, "Thank you, Harry."
~*~*~
One evening, when Malfoy has left on one of the many walks that allegedly help to clear his mind, Harry lounges in the drawing room. He's trying to figure out why the broom he has just finished pulls too hard to the left in downward spirals, but more often than not he finds his thoughts straying to the strange living arrangement he's fallen into with Malfoy.
Malfoy's presence is tangible everywhere in the house now, from the little notes that stick to the walls describing their magical properties or convergence points to the completely rearranged kitchen. Harry's had a few opportunities to confirm his hunch about Malfoy's cooking skills-they are indeed excellent. His stomach rumbles at the thought of the roast they shared last Sunday, and Harry decides today will be one of those times he "accidentally" strolls into the kitchen when Malfoy is cooking.
Sliding lower on the sofa, Harry pushes a few rolls of parchment out of the way so he can rest his feet on the coffee table. As the notes tumble to the side, Harry's eyes fall on a leather-bound book. The word "Fidelius" in the rather long title catches his attention, and he decides that reading up on a few things couldn't hurt. Maybe then Malfoy won't get frustrated every time Harry isn't able to follow his explanations.
When he opens the book, Harry is surprised to see that it isn't a book about charms at all, but rather offers Tales of Faeries and Dragons. Underneath the title, a dedication reads, To my little dragon on his tenth birthday. Love, Mum. Harry has half a mind to put the book aside because this glimpse into Malfoy's childhood is not for him to see, judging by how hesitant Malfoy is to talk about anything even remotely related to his family. On the other hand, Harry finds it hard to believe Malfoy would leave anything out in the open that he wouldn't want Harry to stumble across.
Pulling the book into his lap, Harry starts reading, soon finding himself completely engrossed in his first wizard fairy tale, complete with animated drawings. As he turns the page, a tattered photograph falls into his hands, featuring a tall graceful woman in an evening dress. Harry immediately recognises her as Narcissa Malfoy. She looks younger and less cold than he remembers from the Triwizard tournament. A young boy, clearly Malfoy, suddenly runs into the frame and Narcissa bends down to kiss him on the cheek, then both turn to smile at the camera. Harry guesses Malfoy is about six or seven in this photo. He can't stop looking at the picture, watching it loop over and over again.
When someone politely coughs next to Harry, he jumps a little, nearly dropping the book. Malfoy is standing right next to him, and Harry has no idea how long he has been there. The black cloak that drapes elegantly around Malfoy's slender frame still gives off a little chill from the cold evening air, however, so he couldn't have been inside for too long, Harry reasons. He waits for Malfoy to say something, to possibly even yell at Harry for snooping though his private things, but he only looks at Harry with a steady gaze. As so many times before, Malfoy's eyes don't betray his state of mind, but Harry thinks he can see sadness flickering behind the nearly impermeable surface.
Hastily closing the book, the photo securely tucked between the pages, Harry holds it out to Malfoy and says, "I'm sorry, I didn't know what the book was at first and I was curious, but I didn't mean to-"
"It's all right," Malfoy replies quietly. He takes the book from Harry and cradles it to his chest as if it were a stuffed toy, leading Harry to wonder if this is perhaps the only thing Malfoy has left from his childhood.
"I'm sorry about your mother," Harry says because it seems like the appropriate thing to do in this situation.
"Thank you," Malfoy replies politely, looking at the floor.
Harry is at a complete loss as to what he should do next. Is he supposed to leave? Or wait until Malfoy leaves? Why is Malfoy just standing there? Harry expected him to turn and leave without a word after getting the book back. Wiping his palms across his thighs, Harry waits for a clue from Malfoy.
Just when Harry is about to get up, unable bear the awkwardness filling the room any longer, Malfoy speaks again.
"Did you know that I never saw my mum again after I left Hogwarts the night of the attack? She had asked me to meet her in Hogsmeade the weekend before, but I told her I was too busy. I wish that I hadn't…that I…" Malfoy broke off, fingers curling tightly around the edges of the book.
Harry stands up and reaches towards Malfoy but finds Malfoy backing away from him, shaking his head. Harry lets his hand drop.
"Dinner should be-" Malfoy's voice is trembling, and he halts, takes a deep breath, then continues. "Should be read in forty-five minutes, if you'd like."
"Very much so," Harry affirms.
Malfoy nods once, then leaves the room with quick steps.
When Harry makes his way down to the kitchen a little while later, he brings along the photo album Hagrid gave him in first year.
~*~*~
A week later, on a sunny Tuesday afternoon, Harry returns to Grimmauld Place from his latest test with the formerly problematic broom, which flies brilliantly now. Humming to himself, Harry pushes open the front door, and is immediately assaulted by a familiar screeching voice.
"…nothing but shame on your entire family, blood traitor! Hiding out like a coward and working for Muggles and Half-Bloods…"
The sight in front of him stops Harry in his tracks. Mrs. Black looks about ready to climb out of her frame, throwing insult after insult at Malfoy, who stands in front of the portrait with slumped shoulders and bowed head.
"…not fit to carry on the Malfoy name, allowing yourself to be buggered by all and sundry, you perverted, filthy, little-"
The curtains close at a flick of Harry's wand. He stares at them for a moment before stalking over to Malfoy, who hasn't moved at all.
"What do you think you're doing?" The question comes out in a much more accusatory tone than Harry had aimed for.
"I thought that I could talk to her, get some information about the protection charm," Malfoy replies in a small voice, keeping his eyes averted.
"What? I told you that that would be useless! She's mad!"
"It was worth a try."
The defiance in Malfoy's tone only makes Harry angrier. "Worth a try? Fine, maybe, but why didn't you silence her? Why did you let her go on like that?"
Malfoy lifts his head slowly. His usually pale cheeks are tinged red. "What does it matter to you?" He tries to move past Harry, but Harry stands his ground. "Get out of my way." Malfoy menacingly raises his wand.
Balling his hands into fists, Harry steps aside and watches Malfoy hurry up the stairs. A door bangs shut shortly afterwards.
Sitting down on the lowest step, Harry fixes his gaze on the black curtains hiding the portrait, wishing for the umpteenth time that he could get rid of it. As his anger slowly seeps away, he realises that there's only one explanation for why Malfoy could possibly have wanted to endure the screams and insults, one that Harry understands all too well.
Slowly, he walks up to the second floor, hesitating briefly before Malfoy's door to consider whether he should knock or not. Harry discards politeness and reaches for the handle. If Malfoy doesn't want to see him, he'll have to tell Harry face-to-face. Unless he has already charmed the door shut, that is.
The door isn't locked.
Malfoy stands by the window facing the square below, his back turned to Harry.
"You don't deserve it," Harry says softly, still lingering by the door.
Malfoy shrugs.
Harry crosses the room and looks out the window as well. The pale winter sun already dips below the row of houses across the square, throwing long shadows over the cobbled stones. Turning towards Malfoy, Harry sees that the grey eyes stare into the distance without any focus.
"Draco," Harry whispers.
"You don't know what I deserve."
The quiet conviction driving those words cuts right through Harry. "You don't deserve that, not any of it," he repeats emphatically.
A sad smile crosses Draco's face. "I wish I could believe that."
"You made the right choice in going away," Harry persists.
"Is that so? So I could save myself, but not my mother? Or my father?"
"There are no easy choices in war." Hermione once told Harry that, and it's the only thing he can think of right now, almost as if all his own thoughts have become tangled up in the knot that's pulling tighter and tighter in his chest.
"I think I'd like to be alone right now," Draco requests calmly, his fingers picking at the chipping paint on the window frame.
"Okay." Unwilling to leave without offering some sort of reassurance, Harry rests his hand on Draco's shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. Draco's head dips, but he doesn't make any effort to pull away, so Harry allows his hand to slide across Draco's back until it settles between his shoulder blades.
"Harry, please," Draco whispers in a tight voice.
Unsure of what Draco's asking-for Harry to leave? Or…the opposite?-Harry doesn't move.
The clarification comes in the form of Draco swiftly turning away and disappearing behind the door to the adjacent room.
This time, the door is spelled shut.
~*~*~
Three days before Christmas, Harry buys a Christmas tree. He's never bothered to get one before as he spends the holidays at the Burrow anyway. But when he walked by one of the improvised stands earlier in the afternoon, he suddenly felt like having a tree this year. Ever since the encounter with Mrs. Black, Draco has been in a rather morose mood, and maybe bringing a little seasonal cheer to the house will lift Draco's spirits.
Draco is just coming up the stairs from the kitchen when Harry drags the tree through the front door, cursing when a few branches get stuck in the hinges.
"I think someone forgot his very first Charms lesson at Hogwarts," Draco drawls from somewhere behind Harry.
"What?" Harry asks curtly while fiddling with the tree.
Draco's steps echo on the stone floor as he comes closer. "The first spell we learned in school. Seriously, Potter!"
Harry straightens up in time to see Draco pointing his wand at the tree.
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
The tree slowly lifts from the ground and floats to the middle of the entrance hall under Draco's guidance.
Harry is tempted to roll his eyes at the smug smile on Draco's face. "I could hardly levitate the tree down the street with all the Muggles about now, could I?" Harry asks.
"Perhaps not, but surely you could have at least cast a lightening spell to make this whole affair easier, no?"
Draco guides the tree up the stairs, towards the drawing room, and Harry follows.
"I suppose so, but I wasn't thinking about it," Harry counters.
"You're such a Muggle sometimes."
"Oh, am I now, Mr. heating-charms-will-ruin-my-delicate-cooking?"
"Well, they do, and you know it. I wasn't the one who complained that the potatoes tasted funny last week," Draco retorts.
This time, Harry does roll his eyes. "Fine, you're right and I'm wrong, as per usual. Where should we put the tree?"
After a quick look around the room, Draco nods towards the wall that has the tapestry featuring the Black family tree on it. "How about there?"
"Good choice." Harry loathes the tapestry almost as much as the portrait downstairs.
They quietly work to secure the tree. Harry transfigures a tea cup into a tree stand while Draco attaches some of the lower branches to the wall with a light sticking charm for better balance.
"Where are your decorations?" Draco asks, flicking his wand to straighten out a few wayward branches.
"Um, I actually don't have any," Harry admits sheepishly. "I've never had a Christmas tree before."
"Oh?"
"I never really wanted one before, but I thought that maybe it would be nice this year because…erm…" Harry gives Draco a significant look.
Understanding flits across Draco's face, and he looks away. "I haven't had a Christmas tree in a very long time."
"I'm glad I bought one, then."
Draco mutters his reply, but Harry thinks it might have been "Thank you." Draco's chest rises and falls with a few deep breaths, then he continues in the steady, collected tone Harry has become accustomed to. "Do you have any small metal pins? And a few pieces of string?"
"Sure, I use those for my brooms, but why-"
"Just go and get them, will you?"
Harry nods and fetches the items from his workroom. Draco takes them from him and silently transfigures the pins into fairy lights and the strings into red bows.
Harry picks up one of the bows and traces the satiny material with his fingers. "How did you know how to do that?"
"My mum taught me when I was younger," Draco explains, levitating the lights and bows to the tree.
Harry nods, unsure of what else to say in response.
Once all decorations have been equally distributed across the branches, Harry and Draco take a step back to admire the tree. It's dusk outside now, and the fairy lights glow warmly in the darkening room.
"It's beautiful," Harry observes quietly.
Draco briefly glances at Harry before looking back at the tree. "Yeah, it is."
~*~*~
Just like every year, Harry spends Christmas Day at the Burrow. He laughs about the Twins' antics, enjoys Molly's cooking-which he silently compares to Draco's-and takes a long walk with Ron and Hermione, during which they come to a tense agreement about the necessity of Draco's presence at Grimmauld Place.
When Harry steps out of the floo in his kitchen late in the evening, homemade trifle and apple cider in his arms, his mind immediately turns to Draco, who spent the day alone. Harry had briefly considered bringing Draco along to the Weasleys', but quickly discarded that thought, deciding it would do more harm than good, and besides, Draco had explicitly stated that he didn't want any company today.
Considering that the day is nearly over however, Harry feels justified in seeking out Draco now, unwilling to allow him to spend all of Christmas day by himself, most likely absorbed in memories.
Harry finds Draco fast asleep on the sofa in the drawing room. Both of Draco's legs are drawn up close to his body, feet curling over one another, while his arms dangle over the cushions' edge. A sense of peace emanates from Draco, making Harry hesitant to wake him, but Draco probably doesn't want to spend his entire night on the sofa.
Crouching down next to him, Harry gently shakes his shoulder. "Draco, wake up."
"Wha--?" Draco blinks at Harry.
Nodding at the books sprawled out on the coffee table, Harry says, "I'd say you fell asleep reading?"
Draco slowly sits up, rubbing his eyes. "Oh, yeah, I suppose I did. What time is it?"
"Just after ten." Harry sits down on the sofa. "Happy Christmas, Draco."
Draco sends him a tiny smile. "Happy Christmas."
"How was your day?"
Draco stretches his arms over his head and yawns. "Busy."
Harry most certainly does not stare at the pale skin that is revealed when Draco's shirt rides up. "That's good, I guess."
"Yeah, it is." Draco's arms drop back to his sides. "Very good, actually. I think I've finally found a way to take the Fidelius off."
"You have? That's brilliant! How does it…I mean, what spell are you going to use?"
Draco's eyes darken. "I'd rather not talk about it tonight if you don't mind. It's complicated and…I'm tired."
Harry suspects that there are other reasons why Draco doesn't want to share his findings, but that's not important now. "Sure, we can talk about it tomorrow. Who wants to think about their work on Christmas, right?"
"And yet I can recall hearing you in your workroom very early this morning," Draco observes, his tone not nearly as grave as before.
"Oh, I was just finishing up the broom I gave to Ron. That hardly counts as work."
"Did the weasel like his gift?"
Ignoring the stab at Ron, Harry replies, "Yeah, he did. He was speechless."
"Now that has to be a first," Draco remarks dryly.
"Maybe we shouldn't talk about Ron anymore."
Draco nods. "A very wise proposition indeed."
"How do you feel about dessert? Molly insisted I take trifle and cider home."
With a smile, Draco answers, "You know my attitude towards that subject. There's-"
"Always room for dessert," Harry finishes. "I'll be right back."
On his way back from the kitchen, Harry stops in his room to pick up the small package wrapped in green paper with a silver bow that has been hidden in his wardrobe for the past week.
As they eat, Harry tells Draco about his day at the Burrow. Despite the fact that Draco professes to have an extreme dislike for everyone making an appearance in Harry's stories, his initially hesitant smiles turn into increasingly exuberant laughter by the time they have finished the bowl of trifle. Perhaps Arthur's home-brewed cider is responsible for Draco's cheerful mood, Harry muses when he leans back against the sofa cushions, feeling rather pleasantly tingly himself.
Draco settles in next to Harry with a contented sigh. Harry doesn't mind at all that Draco is sitting so close that their arms brush against one another. In fact, he can't remember the last time he was so happy just to sit next to someone else. It would be easy to allow his eyes to close and to drift off, but he wants to give Draco his gift before the evening ends.
"Draco?"
Pale lashes flutter a few times before grey eyes focus on Harry. "Hmm?"
Reaching under the sofa, Harry pulls out the green package he kicked under there earlier. Smoothing down the bow, he holds it out to Draco. "Happy Christmas," Harry says one more time.
Draco sits up, gingerly accepting the gift. "I…I don't have anything for you." He sounds rather miserable.
"That's all right. Everyone else already gave me more than enough."
"Still. It's not very polite to receive a gift and have nothing to offer in return," Draco remarks as he plucks the bow off the green paper.
Harry is nearly tempted to say something exceedingly sappy, such as how Draco's presence in his life is a gift in and of itself, but he bites his lip just in time. That cider must be stronger than Harry initially thought.
Draco folds back the paper to reveal a simple silver frame. Holding it in his hands, he gazes at Harry with a questioning look.
"I thought you might like to put the picture of your mum in there," Harry explains, a tight feeling in his throat all of a sudden.
"Harry…" Draco whispers, eyes returning to the frame. His hand shakes when he traces its outline with one finger.
If this were Hermione, or even Ron, Harry wouldn't hesitate to pull them into a hug now, but he's uncertain whether Draco would welcome that. Instead, he rests his hand on Draco's arm. "Do you like it?" He asks, just to say something.
"Yes. Thank you." Draco's voice cracks.
Harry can't see Draco's face from this angle, but the rapid breaths he draws tell Harry more than enough. Deciding to throw caution to the wind, he wraps one arm around Draco's shoulder, surprised when Draco doesn't hesitate to lean into the embrace.
"I didn't mean to upset you," Harry whispers.
Draco carefully places the frame next to him on the sofa. "You didn't. It's just that…that…"
"I know. You don't have to explain."
Turning more fully towards Harry, Draco tucks his head under Harry's chin and flattens one hand against Harry's chest.
Wrapping his other arm around Draco as well, Harry starts to run one hand slowly up and down Draco's back.
On to Part 2.
.