(no subject)
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Rating: Teen
Warning(s): a bit of angst, EWE
Summary: Somewhere along the way, Harry has obtained a boyfriend...
Obliviously Yours
Sometimes, at his fifth year, late into the night at Gryffindor's common room, surrounded by their unfinished homework and essays, Harry had talked with Ron about the future. They would skip the whole mess with Voldemort and the (non-existence) worry of failing NEWT and conveniently started the daydreams at their new life as free, supposedly responsible adults. Sometimes, they had planned on renting a place together, just the two of them, or maybe the three of them with Hermione.
On their repeated - or new for some students, like Ginny had repeatedly reminded them - seventh year, the survivors had become closer than before. Many weekends' nights were spent sharing memories and grieves with hope splattered here and then. It was at one of those moments that Seamus had once or twice made a half-joking suggestion for the five of them to become roommates after their graduations.
Even George had asked Harry a few times, whether he had any intention to move out of Grimmauld Place and share the room above WWW with him. It was a healthy dose of fear for his well-being and sanity - for George had no visible brake on his jokes - that had kept Harry from saying yes.
The one person Harry had never, even in his wildest dream, imagined of living in the same house willingly was Malfoy. So, it was really no big surprise that Malfoy was whom Harry had ended up living with. Fate, after all, always took pleasure on messing with his life.
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After the war, the Malfoys had quickly lost their fortune. Corruption was an old, well-preserved tradition. Even with the new crews on the board, there were always a lot of hands on the Ministry which would somehow accidentally misplace some vital proofs and brains in the Wizangemot which would conveniently become forgetful. Still, with the evidences against them were so heavy and witnesses to their wrongdoings were so abundant, the bribes to spare Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, not to mention their son, from persecutions were not cheap. What was left had been taken as a 'casualty fund for war victims' by the Ministry, which in all honesty, was the Ministry's way of keeping the people's angers towards them - for releasing so many clearly guilty Death Eaters - at the bay.
While his parents had finally decided to move away for good to France, where they still had some galleons and a summer house, for reason unknown to everybody, Draco Malfoy had decided to stay in England. To the surprise of no one - except maybe Malfoy, despite his perfect NEWTs that rivaled even Hermione's, he couldn't find any occupation. Ordinary wizards and witches scorned on his name and laughed at his misfortune. Suspicions were still abundant and forgiveness was harder to be found than a galleon. The Ministry, while campaigning for tolerance, had stated clearly that for security reason, they did not want any ex-Death Eater, marked or not, on their payroll. At least, not one that was no longer had a huge vault. Most of Malfoy's friends were also struggling to survive on the new era and the rest was either too afraid or did not care to help.
So Harry, ever the Gryffindor, had not had it on him to see a schoolmate became a homeless, starving beggar, even if said schoolmate was Malfoy, bane of his existence and an eyesore for him for seven consecutive years. In a spur of sympathy, or maybe insanity, he had offered Malfoy to share Grimmauld Place with him.
What was surprising was that Malfoy had uncharacteristically not only accepted it with open arms, but had also clutched it with all his might. Or maybe, Harry later thought, he had simply been that desperate.
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In all honesty, Malfoy was an awful housemate. He finally got a job, if an illegal one. He brewed potions for some apothecaries with slightly more questionable reputations. A job that was by right should have made Harry, an Auror, to capture him. But again, the Gryffindor's side came to surface.
Malfoy's earning was only a pittance, since the stores knew that Malfoy was not in any position to protest. Yet, although it would not be enough for a roof of his own and some decent meals, it was something Malfoy earned by his own hands, and Harry did not have the heart to demand rent and reduce it further. After all, it didn't cost him anything to let Malfoy stay and the grocery's price for one or two persons were not that different.
Sometimes though, he hoped that the potions did not smell that bad. He had come into a habit of casting bubble charm around his head whenever he arrived at the house, since there was no telling which potion Malfoy would brew that day.
Malfoy was also useless in the kitchen. Funny, for in Harry's opinion food's recipe and potion's recipe were alike.
Being a pampered heir, he also could not clean, wash his own clothes or tend the garden. Fortunately, Kreacher was never out of his infatuation with the pretty, Malfoy boy and was more than willing to do everything and anything for the blond.
In fact, the only improvement Malfoy had brought to the house was the decoration. Gone was the dreary, depressing décor. Grimmauld Place had become a classy, elegant place. Now, if only Harry could like it better than the homey, simple atmosphere he always wanted….
The other unfortunate thing was that while Harry knew perfectly well how Malfoy had ended up as his roommate, he was absolutely could not understand why it was so easy for Malfoy to make him pay for everything the blond had bought.
It was not like Malfoy had Imperius-ed him or forced feed him love potion - believe him, he had even checked it. All Malfoy had to do was asked and Harry would readily hand the Blond his credit card or his vault's key, depending on where Malfoy had shopped.
He had tried to refuse, he really did. Then Malfoy would give him that hurt look and he would cave in. Even if he could somehow stand it, he could never win against the sulking session that would follow. It made the house seemed so quite when Malfoy did not make any noise and Harry bet Malfoy had taken lessons on sulking, because the way he pouted his mouth just so and quivered his lower lips now and then made Harry felt like the biggest jerk in the universe. Once in a blue moon, Malfoy would accept his refusal and promise to send the sofa or table or books or whatever he had procured back to its store the next day. Still, then he would steal a look to it every few minutes with longing bleeding from his eyes, and suddenly Harry would find himself saying that it was okay, that they would keep it, that he would pay for it.
Sometimes, Harry wondered whether he should have been sorted into Hufflepuff instead.
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This routine of course was not escaping his friends' observation. In fact, it had abetted them on reaching a ridiculous conclusion.
Seamus was the first among them to confront him about it. In retrospect, Harry had to admit that Seamus had left hints everywhere before, hoping for Harry to admit - or deny - it without him directly asking Harry about it. Unfortunately, while Harry could capture the elusive golden snitch easily, he couldn't capture a hint even if said hint was hitting his face, repeatedly.
Harry was sitting on the bar at Leaky, drinking his third glass of Butterbeer. He was so wanting to come home since about half an hour ago, but that morning, in a rare occurrence of generosity, Draco had told him which potion the Blond would make that day, and Harry could still smell the foul, stale-egg-like odor from the last time Draco made it even then. So, there he was, drinking all alone on the pub, when Seamus came and sat beside him.
"So, Harry, you have kept it a secret for long enough. Are you and Malfoy dating?"
The out of the blue, blunt question caused Harry to choke on his Butterbeer.
"What?" asked Harry, coughing and spluttering.
"You and Malfoy, are you a couple?" Seamus repeated his question, still with the matter-of-the-fact tone of his.
"Where did you get that ridiculous notion from? Of course not!" said Harry, indignant. For one, he was not gay. For another, even if he were gay, he would not go for Malfoy. Malfoy was far too sharp for his liking, both in tongue and bones. Besides, Malfoy was also too mercurial and high maintenance.
Although, admittedly, it was his tongue that had made Malfoy interesting and when he was smiling, Malfoy didn't look half bad…Also, wasn't he taking care of Malfoy even then?
Harry shook his head. It was Seamus' ridiculous suggestion that had given life to those crazy thoughts. He wasn't gay and definitely wasn't attracted to Malfoy at all.
'Really?' asked a small voice in his head, which sounded too much like Malfoy.
He ruthlessly squashed it.
"Well, let's see… first, you let him freeloading on your house. Second, you turn a blind eye towards his less than savory activities. Third, you tolerate him around every day - congratulation, by the way, for once again achieving the impossible. Fourth, you fund his every whim. Harry, he was basically your kept man," listed Seamus, while making a show of ticking his fingers one by one for each point.
Nearly choking on his drink again, Harry put down his glass. Seamus had successfully made drinking a life threatening situation.
"WHAT?MY WHAT?"
"It is okay, Harry, I won't judge you," Seamus winked.
"But, but he really is not…"
Yet, Seamus apparently decided that the conversation was over. He simply gave Harry an understanding smile and signaled for the bartender to give them more Butterbeer.
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Unfortunately, it was not that easy for Harry to forget. The conversation had lingered and made a nest on his mind.
He began to analyze his every interaction with Draco. So much so, that Draco had nagged him to go to St. Mungo to be examined, because he was quite certain that Harry was sick. Why else would Harry became distance and withdrawn?
Harry had also tried to curb his habit of paying for Draco's lifestyle. He figured out that money was the root of all evil, or in his case, the rumor. Yet, after receiving one pout from Draco, he realized that it was an effort doomed to fail.
Then Ron, ever oblivious Ron who was even worse at catching hints than him, confronted him.
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It was Friday's night and Harry started to hate the huge pile of paperwork that had prevented Ron and him from going home. They had gotten a big capture earlier that day, which was good, and it had generated said paperwork, which made him almost regret capturing the smugglers at the first place. He was busy imagining the mouthwatering dinner Kreacher somehow always prepared every Friday's night - foods which names Harry could not pronounce but tasted as good as Draco had promised they would, when Ron opened his mouth and jerked him out of his daydreams.
"It is suck, isn't it? Bet you can't wait to meet Malfoy. I know I prefer being at home with Hermione to being stuck here," he said lightly.
"What? Oh, yes, I can't wait to eat whatever food Kreacher made today. You should come to Grimmauld sometimes at Friday. Kreacher always outdoes himself."
Ron gave him a long, patient look.
"What? Is there ink on my face?" Harry asked, scrubbing his cheeks with his sleeve.
"It is okay mate, I know I used to hate him, but I have had time to accept it. Hermione has also said that if I give you a hard time about it, she will relegate me to the couch for a week," He smiled sheepishly.
"Well, thanks, I guess. But about what?" Harry was genuinely confused. Granted, Ron had given him a month long silent treatment and a big tirade when he had found out that Draco would live at Grimmauld, but Harry had thought it was long over. In fact, Ron and Draco had behaved quite civilly since then.
"You and Malfoy. We know you are a couple."
"What?" Was that the rumor people spread behind him at the office? Harry knew that some had resented his quick promotion, but he never expected that they would resort to invent that kind of gossip about him.
"Come on, mate, no need to pretend anymore. I am all right with it, really. Well, not really actually, but if he makes you happy than I guess I can accept it."
"We are NOT a couple!"
It was crazy. Ron was his best friend. Ron should know that Draco and he were just friends.
"Fine, fine, whatever you say, mate. Just as long you know, we don't mind if you are," Ron said, before went back to his work, leaving a gaping Harry.
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Yet, the worst one in Harry's opinion was when Kingsley, who was his boss and Minister of Magic and actually did not know anything about Draco's job, had practically announced to everybody in St. Mungo that Draco was Harry's lover.
It had been a raid went wrong. Harry had been on the street, running after the smuggler and had never seen the hex being fired to him, nor had known what it was. There had been pain and it had felt like he was consumed by fire. He could not breathe. When the dark mottles in his sight had become way too many, he gave up. He had only hoped that no one would try to evict Draco from Grimmauld since he had left no will. Draco's so-called-salary would not be enough for lodging and food.
When he awoke, he was lying on a crisp hospital bed at St. Mungo. Judging by the silent and the nice décor, he was on one of the private rooms. The first thing he registered then was the sunlight that was way too bright. The second one was that something heavy had made him its pillow and he could not move his right hand.
He opened his eyes and saw Draco who had fallen asleep while waiting on the chair next to his bed. Draco's upper body was slumping forward and his tousled blond head was using Harry's chest as a substitute pillow. He was also holding Harry's hand so tightly, which was why Harry could not move it.
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It took him a few days before he heard the story.
When he was unconscious, Ron had contacted Draco at Grimmauld, who, according to the eyewitnesses - also known as Ron and Hermione, had floo-ed to St. Mungo without shoes and with hair a mess. Unfortunately, apparently, only family or very close friends with war heroes' status like Ron and Hermione would be permitted to enter Harry's room. An ex-Death Eater like Draco was outside the visitor's list.
Draco had threaten and cajoled to no avail. That was, until Kingsley came and scolded the mediwizard for not letting "Harry Potter's special friend" to visit him. Apparently, according to Kingsley, Draco was included on the 'family' category and Harry would be very pissed off if the mediwizard prevented Draco from entering Harry's room.
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That was proven to be the last straw. So, ever the Gryffindor, Harry finally decided to tackle that rumor for once and all and confronted Draco about it.
"Draco, are we dating?" They were drinking the afternoon tea - a habit that Draco had forced Harry to adopt, at least on Saturday's afternoon - when he blurted out the question apropos to nothing.
Instead of choking on his tea - but then again, maybe Malfoy didn't do choking, Draco was simply putting his tea on the table calmly.
"It took you two years, five months, and," Draco looked down at his watch, "seven hours for you to realize that. Congratulation."
"We are?"
Harry was not expecting a confirmation of any kind. In fact, he had been quite sure that Draco would deny it and then Harry could ask him to set Hermione and Ron and Seamus and practically all of Harry's friends straight.
He ruthlessly, mentally stomped on the small voice inside his head that pointed out that he liked the affirmation better than a denial.
"Harry, minus the physical aspect, you treat me the way my dad treats my mom," there was an exasperated tone in Draco's voice.
"I am?" asked Harry, dumbfounded. Beside, Draco was totally wrong. He didn't treat Draco the way Lucius treated Narcissa.
"You let me decorate your house and chose your robes, you pay for my shopping. So, yes, I would say you are," said Draco calmly, ticking his fingers as he made his points.
Harry refrained from pointing out that Draco had basically forcefully dressed him up and taken over his house. Besides, since he didn't protested - at least not much, he guessed Draco did have a point there.
Then, Harry suddenly realized something rather important.
"Hey, why didn't you tell me?"
Draco raised one eyebrow and asked, "Will you believe me?"
"Maybe no," Harry was forced to admit.
Then another thing popped up into his mind.
"Hey, is this mean that you will move into my bedroom, now that I know we are dating?"
"We'll see," Draco said calmly and back to sipping his tea, as if he hadn't just drop a bomb that shattered Harry's nice, comfortable corner of denial.
Yet, Harry knew that that night, when he entered his bedroom, he would find Draco in his bed. Also, because this was Draco, Harry knew that he would choose the best side of the bed and curl around the fluffiest pillow and hog the blanket all night long.
Harry smiled. He knew he would not mind.
FIN
Rating: Teen
Warning(s): a bit of angst, EWE
Summary: Somewhere along the way, Harry has obtained a boyfriend...
Obliviously Yours
Sometimes, at his fifth year, late into the night at Gryffindor's common room, surrounded by their unfinished homework and essays, Harry had talked with Ron about the future. They would skip the whole mess with Voldemort and the (non-existence) worry of failing NEWT and conveniently started the daydreams at their new life as free, supposedly responsible adults. Sometimes, they had planned on renting a place together, just the two of them, or maybe the three of them with Hermione.
On their repeated - or new for some students, like Ginny had repeatedly reminded them - seventh year, the survivors had become closer than before. Many weekends' nights were spent sharing memories and grieves with hope splattered here and then. It was at one of those moments that Seamus had once or twice made a half-joking suggestion for the five of them to become roommates after their graduations.
Even George had asked Harry a few times, whether he had any intention to move out of Grimmauld Place and share the room above WWW with him. It was a healthy dose of fear for his well-being and sanity - for George had no visible brake on his jokes - that had kept Harry from saying yes.
The one person Harry had never, even in his wildest dream, imagined of living in the same house willingly was Malfoy. So, it was really no big surprise that Malfoy was whom Harry had ended up living with. Fate, after all, always took pleasure on messing with his life.
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After the war, the Malfoys had quickly lost their fortune. Corruption was an old, well-preserved tradition. Even with the new crews on the board, there were always a lot of hands on the Ministry which would somehow accidentally misplace some vital proofs and brains in the Wizangemot which would conveniently become forgetful. Still, with the evidences against them were so heavy and witnesses to their wrongdoings were so abundant, the bribes to spare Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, not to mention their son, from persecutions were not cheap. What was left had been taken as a 'casualty fund for war victims' by the Ministry, which in all honesty, was the Ministry's way of keeping the people's angers towards them - for releasing so many clearly guilty Death Eaters - at the bay.
While his parents had finally decided to move away for good to France, where they still had some galleons and a summer house, for reason unknown to everybody, Draco Malfoy had decided to stay in England. To the surprise of no one - except maybe Malfoy, despite his perfect NEWTs that rivaled even Hermione's, he couldn't find any occupation. Ordinary wizards and witches scorned on his name and laughed at his misfortune. Suspicions were still abundant and forgiveness was harder to be found than a galleon. The Ministry, while campaigning for tolerance, had stated clearly that for security reason, they did not want any ex-Death Eater, marked or not, on their payroll. At least, not one that was no longer had a huge vault. Most of Malfoy's friends were also struggling to survive on the new era and the rest was either too afraid or did not care to help.
So Harry, ever the Gryffindor, had not had it on him to see a schoolmate became a homeless, starving beggar, even if said schoolmate was Malfoy, bane of his existence and an eyesore for him for seven consecutive years. In a spur of sympathy, or maybe insanity, he had offered Malfoy to share Grimmauld Place with him.
What was surprising was that Malfoy had uncharacteristically not only accepted it with open arms, but had also clutched it with all his might. Or maybe, Harry later thought, he had simply been that desperate.
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In all honesty, Malfoy was an awful housemate. He finally got a job, if an illegal one. He brewed potions for some apothecaries with slightly more questionable reputations. A job that was by right should have made Harry, an Auror, to capture him. But again, the Gryffindor's side came to surface.
Malfoy's earning was only a pittance, since the stores knew that Malfoy was not in any position to protest. Yet, although it would not be enough for a roof of his own and some decent meals, it was something Malfoy earned by his own hands, and Harry did not have the heart to demand rent and reduce it further. After all, it didn't cost him anything to let Malfoy stay and the grocery's price for one or two persons were not that different.
Sometimes though, he hoped that the potions did not smell that bad. He had come into a habit of casting bubble charm around his head whenever he arrived at the house, since there was no telling which potion Malfoy would brew that day.
Malfoy was also useless in the kitchen. Funny, for in Harry's opinion food's recipe and potion's recipe were alike.
Being a pampered heir, he also could not clean, wash his own clothes or tend the garden. Fortunately, Kreacher was never out of his infatuation with the pretty, Malfoy boy and was more than willing to do everything and anything for the blond.
In fact, the only improvement Malfoy had brought to the house was the decoration. Gone was the dreary, depressing décor. Grimmauld Place had become a classy, elegant place. Now, if only Harry could like it better than the homey, simple atmosphere he always wanted….
The other unfortunate thing was that while Harry knew perfectly well how Malfoy had ended up as his roommate, he was absolutely could not understand why it was so easy for Malfoy to make him pay for everything the blond had bought.
It was not like Malfoy had Imperius-ed him or forced feed him love potion - believe him, he had even checked it. All Malfoy had to do was asked and Harry would readily hand the Blond his credit card or his vault's key, depending on where Malfoy had shopped.
He had tried to refuse, he really did. Then Malfoy would give him that hurt look and he would cave in. Even if he could somehow stand it, he could never win against the sulking session that would follow. It made the house seemed so quite when Malfoy did not make any noise and Harry bet Malfoy had taken lessons on sulking, because the way he pouted his mouth just so and quivered his lower lips now and then made Harry felt like the biggest jerk in the universe. Once in a blue moon, Malfoy would accept his refusal and promise to send the sofa or table or books or whatever he had procured back to its store the next day. Still, then he would steal a look to it every few minutes with longing bleeding from his eyes, and suddenly Harry would find himself saying that it was okay, that they would keep it, that he would pay for it.
Sometimes, Harry wondered whether he should have been sorted into Hufflepuff instead.
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This routine of course was not escaping his friends' observation. In fact, it had abetted them on reaching a ridiculous conclusion.
Seamus was the first among them to confront him about it. In retrospect, Harry had to admit that Seamus had left hints everywhere before, hoping for Harry to admit - or deny - it without him directly asking Harry about it. Unfortunately, while Harry could capture the elusive golden snitch easily, he couldn't capture a hint even if said hint was hitting his face, repeatedly.
Harry was sitting on the bar at Leaky, drinking his third glass of Butterbeer. He was so wanting to come home since about half an hour ago, but that morning, in a rare occurrence of generosity, Draco had told him which potion the Blond would make that day, and Harry could still smell the foul, stale-egg-like odor from the last time Draco made it even then. So, there he was, drinking all alone on the pub, when Seamus came and sat beside him.
"So, Harry, you have kept it a secret for long enough. Are you and Malfoy dating?"
The out of the blue, blunt question caused Harry to choke on his Butterbeer.
"What?" asked Harry, coughing and spluttering.
"You and Malfoy, are you a couple?" Seamus repeated his question, still with the matter-of-the-fact tone of his.
"Where did you get that ridiculous notion from? Of course not!" said Harry, indignant. For one, he was not gay. For another, even if he were gay, he would not go for Malfoy. Malfoy was far too sharp for his liking, both in tongue and bones. Besides, Malfoy was also too mercurial and high maintenance.
Although, admittedly, it was his tongue that had made Malfoy interesting and when he was smiling, Malfoy didn't look half bad…Also, wasn't he taking care of Malfoy even then?
Harry shook his head. It was Seamus' ridiculous suggestion that had given life to those crazy thoughts. He wasn't gay and definitely wasn't attracted to Malfoy at all.
'Really?' asked a small voice in his head, which sounded too much like Malfoy.
He ruthlessly squashed it.
"Well, let's see… first, you let him freeloading on your house. Second, you turn a blind eye towards his less than savory activities. Third, you tolerate him around every day - congratulation, by the way, for once again achieving the impossible. Fourth, you fund his every whim. Harry, he was basically your kept man," listed Seamus, while making a show of ticking his fingers one by one for each point.
Nearly choking on his drink again, Harry put down his glass. Seamus had successfully made drinking a life threatening situation.
"WHAT?MY WHAT?"
"It is okay, Harry, I won't judge you," Seamus winked.
"But, but he really is not…"
Yet, Seamus apparently decided that the conversation was over. He simply gave Harry an understanding smile and signaled for the bartender to give them more Butterbeer.
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Unfortunately, it was not that easy for Harry to forget. The conversation had lingered and made a nest on his mind.
He began to analyze his every interaction with Draco. So much so, that Draco had nagged him to go to St. Mungo to be examined, because he was quite certain that Harry was sick. Why else would Harry became distance and withdrawn?
Harry had also tried to curb his habit of paying for Draco's lifestyle. He figured out that money was the root of all evil, or in his case, the rumor. Yet, after receiving one pout from Draco, he realized that it was an effort doomed to fail.
Then Ron, ever oblivious Ron who was even worse at catching hints than him, confronted him.
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It was Friday's night and Harry started to hate the huge pile of paperwork that had prevented Ron and him from going home. They had gotten a big capture earlier that day, which was good, and it had generated said paperwork, which made him almost regret capturing the smugglers at the first place. He was busy imagining the mouthwatering dinner Kreacher somehow always prepared every Friday's night - foods which names Harry could not pronounce but tasted as good as Draco had promised they would, when Ron opened his mouth and jerked him out of his daydreams.
"It is suck, isn't it? Bet you can't wait to meet Malfoy. I know I prefer being at home with Hermione to being stuck here," he said lightly.
"What? Oh, yes, I can't wait to eat whatever food Kreacher made today. You should come to Grimmauld sometimes at Friday. Kreacher always outdoes himself."
Ron gave him a long, patient look.
"What? Is there ink on my face?" Harry asked, scrubbing his cheeks with his sleeve.
"It is okay mate, I know I used to hate him, but I have had time to accept it. Hermione has also said that if I give you a hard time about it, she will relegate me to the couch for a week," He smiled sheepishly.
"Well, thanks, I guess. But about what?" Harry was genuinely confused. Granted, Ron had given him a month long silent treatment and a big tirade when he had found out that Draco would live at Grimmauld, but Harry had thought it was long over. In fact, Ron and Draco had behaved quite civilly since then.
"You and Malfoy. We know you are a couple."
"What?" Was that the rumor people spread behind him at the office? Harry knew that some had resented his quick promotion, but he never expected that they would resort to invent that kind of gossip about him.
"Come on, mate, no need to pretend anymore. I am all right with it, really. Well, not really actually, but if he makes you happy than I guess I can accept it."
"We are NOT a couple!"
It was crazy. Ron was his best friend. Ron should know that Draco and he were just friends.
"Fine, fine, whatever you say, mate. Just as long you know, we don't mind if you are," Ron said, before went back to his work, leaving a gaping Harry.
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Yet, the worst one in Harry's opinion was when Kingsley, who was his boss and Minister of Magic and actually did not know anything about Draco's job, had practically announced to everybody in St. Mungo that Draco was Harry's lover.
It had been a raid went wrong. Harry had been on the street, running after the smuggler and had never seen the hex being fired to him, nor had known what it was. There had been pain and it had felt like he was consumed by fire. He could not breathe. When the dark mottles in his sight had become way too many, he gave up. He had only hoped that no one would try to evict Draco from Grimmauld since he had left no will. Draco's so-called-salary would not be enough for lodging and food.
When he awoke, he was lying on a crisp hospital bed at St. Mungo. Judging by the silent and the nice décor, he was on one of the private rooms. The first thing he registered then was the sunlight that was way too bright. The second one was that something heavy had made him its pillow and he could not move his right hand.
He opened his eyes and saw Draco who had fallen asleep while waiting on the chair next to his bed. Draco's upper body was slumping forward and his tousled blond head was using Harry's chest as a substitute pillow. He was also holding Harry's hand so tightly, which was why Harry could not move it.
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It took him a few days before he heard the story.
When he was unconscious, Ron had contacted Draco at Grimmauld, who, according to the eyewitnesses - also known as Ron and Hermione, had floo-ed to St. Mungo without shoes and with hair a mess. Unfortunately, apparently, only family or very close friends with war heroes' status like Ron and Hermione would be permitted to enter Harry's room. An ex-Death Eater like Draco was outside the visitor's list.
Draco had threaten and cajoled to no avail. That was, until Kingsley came and scolded the mediwizard for not letting "Harry Potter's special friend" to visit him. Apparently, according to Kingsley, Draco was included on the 'family' category and Harry would be very pissed off if the mediwizard prevented Draco from entering Harry's room.
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That was proven to be the last straw. So, ever the Gryffindor, Harry finally decided to tackle that rumor for once and all and confronted Draco about it.
"Draco, are we dating?" They were drinking the afternoon tea - a habit that Draco had forced Harry to adopt, at least on Saturday's afternoon - when he blurted out the question apropos to nothing.
Instead of choking on his tea - but then again, maybe Malfoy didn't do choking, Draco was simply putting his tea on the table calmly.
"It took you two years, five months, and," Draco looked down at his watch, "seven hours for you to realize that. Congratulation."
"We are?"
Harry was not expecting a confirmation of any kind. In fact, he had been quite sure that Draco would deny it and then Harry could ask him to set Hermione and Ron and Seamus and practically all of Harry's friends straight.
He ruthlessly, mentally stomped on the small voice inside his head that pointed out that he liked the affirmation better than a denial.
"Harry, minus the physical aspect, you treat me the way my dad treats my mom," there was an exasperated tone in Draco's voice.
"I am?" asked Harry, dumbfounded. Beside, Draco was totally wrong. He didn't treat Draco the way Lucius treated Narcissa.
"You let me decorate your house and chose your robes, you pay for my shopping. So, yes, I would say you are," said Draco calmly, ticking his fingers as he made his points.
Harry refrained from pointing out that Draco had basically forcefully dressed him up and taken over his house. Besides, since he didn't protested - at least not much, he guessed Draco did have a point there.
Then, Harry suddenly realized something rather important.
"Hey, why didn't you tell me?"
Draco raised one eyebrow and asked, "Will you believe me?"
"Maybe no," Harry was forced to admit.
Then another thing popped up into his mind.
"Hey, is this mean that you will move into my bedroom, now that I know we are dating?"
"We'll see," Draco said calmly and back to sipping his tea, as if he hadn't just drop a bomb that shattered Harry's nice, comfortable corner of denial.
Yet, Harry knew that that night, when he entered his bedroom, he would find Draco in his bed. Also, because this was Draco, Harry knew that he would choose the best side of the bed and curl around the fluffiest pillow and hog the blanket all night long.
Harry smiled. He knew he would not mind.
FIN