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Published: 2015-08-19 Chapters: 3/3 Words: 14814
Said and Unsaid (or, The Value of Knowing When to Stop
Talking)
Summary
When the Interrogator asked if he had anything to say on his own behalf, Draco shook his
head, his lips pressed tight in a thin line. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t sound
like an excuse.
Notes
My submission for 2010's hd_holidays for the amazing cassie_black12.
Warnings: Flangsty, eight-year fic with no sex – don’t say you weren’t warned. ;)
Betas The amazing team of blamebrampton, marguerite_26, and snarkyscorp - thanks,
lovelies!
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and
Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit was made from
this work. All characters depicted here are above the age of 18.
Chapter 1
Said and Unsaid (or, The Value of Knowing When to Stop Talking)
Draco decided he needed to talk less. In fact, he had a feeling his entire life would go a lot better if
he just shut up entirely.
Talking had never served him well. He’d spent years talking, just talking, talking, talking. Talking
shit about Muggles. Talking shit about half-bloods. Talking shit about people without status,
without power, without money. Talking shit about Harry Potter. Especially talking shit about
Harry Potter. And, good god, how he’d boasted about his father, about the Dark Lord, about how
there was going to be a fucking revolution, how they were going to take back the wizarding
world. How things were going to change.
They’d changed, all right. The kind of change that saw his mother under house arrest, his father
sitting in Azkaban awaiting sentencing, and Draco himself sitting in front of the Wizengamot, the
Dark Mark on his arm – his arm, which, by the way, still had a slight tremor, a parting gift from
the Dark Lord, a token of his fondness for the Cruciatus curse – and a list of charges against him
longer than his scarred, trembling arm being read to the court.
“Draco Abraxus Malfoy, you are charged with one count of being a Death Eater, one count of
conspiring in the death of Albus Dumbledore, two counts of abetting in the attacks on Hogwarts
School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, twenty-seven counts of casting the Unforgivable Cruciatus,
six counts of casting the Unforgivable Imperius, one count of attempted murder of Katherine Bell,
one count of attempted murder of Ronald Weasley...”
His family advisor had discouraged him from claiming to be under the effect of the Imperius curse.
While it had been a good defence after Voldemort’s first reign of terror, this time around it was
eliciting anger that bordered on fury. The few Death Eaters who had tried it had not only been
found guilty, but had also been given harsher sentences than anyone had anticipated. Instead, he’d
been advised to play up his youth, the threat to his family, and the “coercive” nature of the Dark
Lord. Draco, however, had opted to do none of those things. There seemed very little point; he
had no hope that the Wizengamot would be sympathetic. He knew what he’d done. He knew he’d
have to answer for it, no matter what his reasons were at the time.
“Mr Malfoy, do you understand the charges that have been brought against you?”
Draco couldn’t bring himself to look at the Interrogator. Keeping his eyes fixed on the wood-grain
of the floor in front of him, he nodded.
His gaze stayed on the floor and he listened dispassionately as the gathered witnesses came
forward, one by one detailing his crimes. Rosemerta and Katie Bell speaking about his disastrous
plan with the cursed necklace. Fleur Weasley giving an impact statement about the injuries her
husband suffered when Draco let Fenrir Greyback into the school. A whole line-up of witches and
wizards detailing how Draco had held them under Cruciatus, torturing them on Voldemort’s
command during Death Eater raids. There were even two Muggles who had been found in the
Manor dungeons, kept purely for the Dark Lord’s pleasure. Draco had tortured them several times.
They all had.
Draco didn’t feel shame or regret as he listened. He was too far beyond that. The last two years
he’d felt it all – shame, regret, fury, humiliation, terror, panic, guilt, sadness – it had all lived in a
tangled ball that burned cold in his chest every second of every day and night. But now, he felt
nothing. He hadn’t felt anything since he’d seen Voldemort fall at last, seen Potter lower his arm,
two wands clenched in his fist, and known it was all finally over. In that moment, he’d actually
stumbled with relief, and then the fog had found him and it had held him ever since.
When the Interrogator asked if he had anything to say on his own behalf, Draco shook his head,
his lips pressed tight in a thin line. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t sound like an excuse.
The Interrogator asked if anyone would like to speak on his behalf. The room went silent, the
background hum of whispers and shifting bodies that had been present for hours suddenly gone.
Draco looked up and saw hundreds of eyes, all locked on him, all hungry, all hard.
“I’d like to say something.”
The entire courtroom turned as one to stare at Harry Potter.
Draco had known he was there of course. Rumour had it that Potter had been at every Death Eater
trial so far. He’d certainly been at Draco’s father’s trial. He’d provided testimony against him.
Potter had spoken against some of the others, too, giving his statement in calm, clear tones, his
expression fixed and hard. If reports were correct, he never stayed after he’d spoken. The other
witnesses tended to stay to hear the verdict. Potter would just rise from his seat at the front of the
room and walk steadily towards the door, Granger and Weasley closing rank around him if they
were with him, on his own if they weren’t.
They weren’t today, as it happened. Potter made his way along the row of onlookers where he’d
been seated and walked towards the front of the room with the same purposeful stride he had
when he walked onto the Quidditch pitch.
Draco watched, stunned, as Potter sat himself in the wooden chair assigned to witnesses. Potter
waited for permission to begin. When the Interrogator nodded at him, he began to speak. His
voice was quiet, but firm; it carried easily into every corner of the room.
“I want to speak for Draco Malfoy. As most of you probably know by now, during the war I had
a connection to Voldemort that let me see things no one else outside of the Death Eaters could
have seen. Based on what I saw, I believe Malfoy was forced into service as a Death Eater –
Voldemort threatened to kill him and his family. Despite this threat, he did not kill Dumbledore as
he had been ordered to do. As well, there were two separate times when my life was in danger
and I only escaped because of Malfoy.”
Potter expanded on this opening statement in great detail. Draco listened but found it hard to
process Potter’s words. Of all the people Draco had imagined coming to his defence, he had never
once thought it would be Potter. Draco stared, barely even blinking, as Potter talked. He wasn’t an
eloquent speaker, but he was compelling. There wasn’t a sound in the room other than Potter’s
voice. Every now and then, Potter would look over at him, his expression stern, his eyes dark and
flashing, making Draco’s pulse jump. It was a look Draco knew well. He’d seen it on Potter’s face
that day in the Great Hall, right before he cast his final spell. Conviction. Resolution. Unyielding
determination. That look had seared itself into Draco’s memory. He suspected that for the rest of
his life, whenever he thought of Potter, he would picture that look.
There was a sudden silence and Draco realised Potter had stopped talking. The Interrogator was
saying something, Potter was nodding, and then he rose and walked back down the aisle toward
the doors.
But he didn’t leave. Instead, he went back to his original seat. He didn’t talk to anyone, didn’t
look at anyone as he shuffled back along the row. He found his chair, sat, and faced the front of
the room expectantly. His eyes cut to Draco and his expression shifted somehow, but Draco didn’t
know how to interpret it. Then Potter turned his attention back to the front of the room and Draco
did the same. Behind him, he could hear the hissing whispers, hushed voices all asking the same
question he was: Why?
***
Draco stood outside the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron turning a cream-coloured envelope
around and around in his hands.
He could do this. He could. He was going to go in there and knock on Potter’s door and say
“Thank you” and Potter was probably just going to stare at him, but that was what the letter was
for. He could just push it into Potter’s hands and go. It was a simple thing, really. He just had to
do it. He’d left it too long already. It had been sixteen days since his trial and Draco knew full well
the only reason he was standing there on the streets of wizarding London rather than rotting in
Azkaban was Potter’s testimony. So he would go in and say thank you. Right now.
Taking a deep breath, Draco opened the door and stepped in. Compared to the sun and heat of
Diagon Alley, the inside of the Leaky Cauldron was cool and so dark it took a moment for
Draco’s eyes to adjust. He blinked a few times and faces swam into focus, all turned towards him.
Some turned away again, indifferent, but many more kept looking. And frowning. Or scowling. A
few even crinkled in disgust.
Draco’s heart sped. It had been like this the last few months. People’s post-war reactions to Death
Eaters weren’t exactly friendly. He’d noticed that his acquittal – or, more likely, Potter’s testimony
– had reduced the animosity somewhat, but people were still unpredictable, still angry, still
grieving. And there were still many who felt Draco should be in Azkaban until he died.
Draco’s eyes darted around the room, but no one was getting out of his seat, no hands were
clenched into fists. Draco breathed an inward sigh of relief and started across the room, heading
towards the staircase that led away from the pub and up to the rooms for let. Rooms where Harry
Potter was staying, if Draco’s information was correct.
His foot had not quite landed on the first step when he felt a hand on his shoulder, pulling him
around. Draco recognised the man’s face – he was the pub’s owner - but he couldn’t recall his
name.
“Where do you think you’re going?” the man asked, threat unmistakable in his tone.
“I’m calling on one of your guests,” Draco said, grateful when his voice came out smooth and
cool. He hated it when they saw him get flustered.
“Oh no, you’re not. There’s only one guest up there right now, and I know for a fact he is not
expecting you, Mr Malfoy.”
“He may not be expecting me, but I do have business with him and I’d appreciate it if you’d let
me pass.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“I only want to deliver this letter to him.”
“I’ll deliver it.”
“I’d really prefer to give it to him myself.”
“I’m sure you would. But, like I said, that’s not going to happen. My pub, my rules. Now, I
suggest you hand that over to me and be on your way.”
A million insults were bubbling up, begging to be let loose. Draco forced them back down.
Arguing would get him nowhere except tossed out, letter undelivered. Or maybe some of the
patrons who were looking on with undisguised contempt would decide that glaring wasn’t enough
anymore. Draco bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood, and he hated, he hated, the smug look on
the landlord’s face as he watched Draco grapple with his self-control. Draco thrust the letter
towards the other man, who took it with a smirk.
“There’s a good lad,” the man said as he tucked the letter into the pocket of his apron. It would
never reach Potter. Draco would bet every Galleon he had on it.
He turned and left, striding across the sticky floor of the pub with as much dignity as he could
muster. He let the door close too hard behind him, his one concession to the anger churning in his
gut. That was happening more and more since the trial, the fog lifting, the emotions bleeding back
in. Draco couldn’t say it was a change for the better. He knew it probably wasn’t healthy but the
fog had made things... easier...
He walked out into Diagon Alley, but came to a dead halt after only a few metres. He squinted;
the midday sun was too bright after the gloom of the pub and it made his eyes water. He rubbed at
them trying to decide what to do next. He wasn’t sure he could handle another unpleasant
encounter. One more rude clerk or bump from a random stranger and Draco was quite sure his
whole talk less mantra was going to fly straight out the window. But the thought of home was no
better, his mother drifting through the hallways, pale and tense, his father’s absence heavy around
them, memories of the Dark Lord still shadowing every wall and corner.
The longer Draco stood there, stock still as people flowed around him, the more foolish he felt. It
wasn’t that hard. He just had to pick a place and go there. Anywhere would be better than the
middle of the street. He just had to pick a place. Any place.
His eyes pricked and stung and he ground at them with the heels of his hands. When he opened
them again, another pair of eyes was looking at him, green and curious and only a foot or two
away.
“Merlin’s tits!” Draco gasped, stumbling back a step.
He found his footing quickly, but he still felt unsteady, shaken by Potter’s sudden appearance.
Back at the pub he’d been prepared for Potter, had braced himself for the conversation. Even
though only minutes had passed, now, out on the street, he wasn’t expecting it, wasn’t ready,
especially not on the heels of his altercation with the landlord.
“Sorry.” Potter gave him an apologetic smile. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Did you want something?” Draco asked, his discomfort making him blunt when he knew he
should be conciliatory. He had been looking to thank Potter for his freedom, after all.
“I was just coming down the stairs as you were leaving,” Potter said, seemingly unconcerned with
Draco’s lack of manners, which, Draco supposed, wasn’t surprising given their history. “Sorry
about Tom. He takes my privacy pretty seriously.”
Merlin, how many times was Potter going to be witness to his moments of humiliation?
Draco covered his embarrassment with a smirk. “Must be fun for the other lodgers, having all their
guests interrogated before they’re allowed to visit.”
Potter’s lips twisted into something that was edging towards a grin but ended up as a frown and
his eyes dropped to his shoes, ratty trainers with scribbles inked onto them in pen. “Oh, well, there
aren’t any other lodgers. I rented the whole floor. It was just... easier...”
“I can imagine.”
And he could. Once word got out that Harry Potter had taken a room at the Leaky Cauldron,
every reporter and groupie in a hundred mile radius must have been angling to acquire lodging.
Potter looked up and pushed his fringe out of his eyes. “Anyway, Tom said you were looking for
me?”
Now it was Draco’s turn to feel awkward. Only moments ago, he’d been furious not to be able to
thank Potter in person. Now he wished he had any excuse to be elsewhere. “I left a letter for you.”
“I got it, but, well, he made it sound like you wanted to talk to me in person.”
Potter’s eyes flicked up to catch Draco’s. To Draco’s shame, he wasn’t able to hold the look,
instead pretending be distracted by the bright display of a nearby storefront. It was only then he
noticed the small crowd gathering around them, taking in the spectacle of the Saviour of the
Wizarding World talking to the Death Eater he’d saved from Azkaban. It figured that he couldn’t
be allowed any dignity as he did this.
He set his jaw and forced himself to meet Potter’s eye. “I wanted to say thank you. For speaking
on my behalf at the trial. I’m certain they would have convicted me if it weren’t for you. So, thank
you.”
Potter looked at him blankly for a moment and then he smiled, open and warm and with
something like amusement hiding there, too. “You’re welcome. But you don’t have to thank me. I
didn’t do it for you.”
Draco’s breath left him in a horrifying rush and he wondered if everyone could see that it felt like
Potter had just batted a Bludger at his gut.
It must have been obvious because Potter flushed and hurriedly added, “I mean, it wasn’t a special
favour or something. I did it because it was the right thing to do.” Then the smile came back and
yes, there was definitely amusement in it now. “You might be a spoilt git, but you don’t deserve
Azkaban.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“Any time.”
And then there was nothing else to say, really. They just stood there not quite looking at each
other, the pressure of dozens of pairs of eyes bearing down on them. Draco was just drawing a
breath, getting ready to say good-bye and get out of there, when Potter rocked forward on his feet
and shot Draco a strange, almost hopeful look from underneath his fringe.
“So what are you up to now?”
Draco blinked. “Hm?”
Potter’s eyes darted away. He looked embarrassed, but he repeated the question. “Right now,
what are you doing?”
“Not much,” Draco replied as he recovered his composure. “Shockingly, my social obligations
seem to have dropped off somewhat in recent weeks.”
Potter nodded down Diagon Alley. “I was going to wander over to Quality Quidditch and check
out the brooms. Want to come with me?”
Draco gaped. So did several of the onlookers crowded around them.
Potter laughed, though it was thin, almost nervous. “Come on. It’ll be... Well, I don’t know what it
will be. Very weird, most likely. Probably awkward as arse, too.”
A startled laugh escaped Draco before he could stop it. “Really, Potter, don’t oversell it.”
Potter grinned and started walking. Draco fell into step beside him.
Potter was right, it was weird. Draco was all too aware of the eyes on them as they made their
way down the thoroughfare. He was also very aware of Potter beside him, of the movement of his
body and the quiet footfalls of his trainers on the cobblestone street. Every now and then the
crowd would thicken and Potter would tuck in nearer to Draco, their shoulders and hands
brushing. Draco felt a strange swooping sensation in his stomach every time.
Potter was right about the other part, too. It was awkward as arse. Apparently extending an
invitation to Draco had maxed out Potter’s conversational abilities and Draco himself was doing
no better. The silence stretched between them, the weight of it pressing down on Draco as if trying
to push words from his mouth. But he didn’t trust himself to speak because all he could think was,
Why did you save me? Why are you here with me? Why are you living alone in a musty old room
above a pub? Where are your friends? and a hundred other questions that likely had no easy
answers. So Draco held to his mantra and said nothing, however uncomfortable it made him feel.
They rounded a corner and Draco could see Quality Quidditch Supplies at the end of street, could
just make out the outline of a broom in its window. He wondered if they’d get there without a
word passing between them.
Potter must have had a similar thought because he drew a sharp breath and said, “So did you get
your letter?”
Draco shot him a questioning look.
“Your Hogwarts letter,” Potter clarified. “Did you get it?”
Draco nodded, suddenly wishing they could go back to the silence.
But Potter, apparently, had difficult questions on his mind, too. “Are you going?”
Draco stopped and turned to fix Potter with an incredulous look. “Are you joking? There was a
war. I was on the side trying to destroy the world. I hardly think I’ll be welcome at Hogwarts.”
Potter’s brow furrowed. “If you got a letter, then you’re welcome.”
Draco shook his head in disbelief. “You can’t possibly be that naive.”
“I’m not saying it will be easy. But it will be worth it.”
“And you’re basing this on what, exactly?”
Then Potter was staring at him hard and he had that look on his face again, the same one he’d
worn in the courtroom. The same one he’d worn with Voldemort. Draco felt pinned beneath it.
“I believe what I said at your trial, you know,” Potter said. “I believe you were coerced. I believe
you didn’t want to do things you did, that you felt like you had no choice.”
As much as Draco wanted to accept Potter’s justification of his behaviour – and he very much
wanted to – he knew it was a lie. “There’s always a choice,” he countered, and was surprised by
the bitterness in his own voice.
Right. Time to shut up.
He started to walk on but Potter’s hand shot out, closing around his arm – his left arm – stopping
him. Draco’s arm trembled at the touch.
“What?” he snapped, embarrassed that his arm had chosen now to act up.
But if Potter noticed, he didn’t say anything. Instead he just kept looking at Draco with that fierce,
determined look. His hand stayed curled around Draco’s forearm, his fingers separated from
Draco’s Dark Mark only by the material of Draco’s robes.
“A lot of people went through the war without having to make any choices,” Potter said, his voice
low and firm like it had been in the courtroom. Compelling. His eyes burned into Draco. “A lot of
people just sat back and waited to see what was going to happen. And then when things got bad,
they threw up their hands and waited for someone to make it better. You and I didn’t get to do
that. We had to make choices. Hard choices, the kind where people could die. Where we could
die.”
Draco pulled his arm from Harry’s grasp and scowled. “I doubt people will see me trying to
murder Dumbledore to save my family on par with you sacrificing yourself to save the whole
world.”
But Potter shook his head. “I’m not talking about ‘people’. I’m talking about you and me. I know
what it’s like when the hard choices come. And I know that, yeah, other people might look at your
situation and say, ‘Well, that was his choice.’ But when you’re there, living it, and it’s the people
you love on the line, it doesn’t feel like a choice. It feels really clear what you have to do.”
For a long moment, they just stared at each other. Draco’s heart thudded against his ribs and his
arm continued to tremble, minute twitches that Draco knew no one could see but that he could feel
and could not control.
Draco was on the verge of making a break for it, because, gratitude or no, this was just too much,
when Potter turned away and started walking towards the Quidditch shop again. Draco stared
after him, and then strode forward to once more fall in step beside him.
They reached the shop quickly, but Potter didn’t go inside, instead drifting over to the window
where the new Firebolt A-700 was displayed.
Potter’s eyes gleamed as he looked at it. “Bloody hell, would you look at that thing. That is a
beautiful broom.”
Draco nodded, because, really, it was.
“Do you think they’ll let us play on the house teams?”
Draco didn’t answer. He hadn’t given it any thought. School teams and the Quidditch Cup
seemed as though they belonged to another time. Another life. And he supposed, in a way, they
did.
Potter had a hand against the glass now, fingers pressing on it as though they could push through
the window to grip the broom. “God, I miss it. Being up there, the wind whipping around you,
broom surging beneath you, and for that moment, there’s nothing in the world except you and the
Snitch. Everything else just disappears.”
Draco knew what he meant. He missed it, too, the easy joy of it. He wanted to return to that
simplicity, that innocence, so badly it put a lump in his throat. He pushed away the thought
because he couldn’t, he wouldn’t, lose his shit here in front of Potter. Instead, he aimed for a drawl
and said, “Why, Potter, that was almost poetic.”
Potter turned to look at him, the expression on his face telling Draco he hadn’t fooled him for a
second. “You’re going to tell me you don’t feel the same way? I’ve seen you fly. I’ve seen the
look you get when you’re diving for the Snitch.” He turned back to the window, his eyes moving
hungrily over the broom. “You miss it.”
“I suppose,” Draco conceded. There was no harm in admitting that much.
“It feels like it’s been forever. I can’t wait to get back out there, see if I can still hold my own
against the other Seekers.”
Draco nodded toward the Firebolt. “It’s not exactly going to be fair with you on that broom.”
“Point. Maybe I should get four. One for each Seeker. What size do you take?” Potter slanted him
a cheeky grin.
Draco sniffed. “I can buy my own broom, thanks.”
“Fine, three then. And you’d better hope you pick something that can keep up.” Potter’s
expression grew sober again as he turned to face Draco. “I’m serious, Malfoy. Come back to
Hogwarts.”
Draco kept his eyes on the display. “Why do you care whether or not I go back?”
“Because if you don’t come back, it’s like he won. Voldemort. If we let fear or hatred or whatever
else keep us from doing things, then he’s won. Because that’s what he wanted, for Muggle-borns
and purebloods to hate each other. He wanted us to see each other as enemies. He wanted to
fracture our community, turn us on each other. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that happen.
I didn’t – I didn’t go through everything I did just to see the same shit still happening.”
Draco did look at Potter then. He looked at him for a long time, taking in the resolute set of his
jaw and the fiery look in his eyes. Then he nodded. “I’ll think about it.”
Potter nodded in return, some of the ferocity leaving his face. He gestured towards the shop
entrance. “So, let’s go inside. I need to get my hands on this broom.”
***
Chapter 2
Draco concentrated on Vanishing all the scraps of dandelion stem from his desktop. He hated
working with dandelion for the very reason that it was so hard to clean up. A sticky, white
substance seeped from its stems and always seemed to end up all over the place. To add to the
frustration, the dandelion’s secretions weren’t particularly amendable to Vanishing spells.
Inevitably, Draco had to resort to actually scrubbing at the tabletop like a house-elf.
He kept his head down as he worked, not making eye contact, not drawing any attention to
himself, hoping maybe this time he could get out of class without incident.
He was just giving up on Vanishing spells and transfiguring his quill into a scrub brush when
there was a swirl of dark blue robes in front of him, fabric swinging forward to sweep against the
edge of the desk.
No such luck then.
“Mr Malfoy.”
Draco looked up at Professor Montgomery, the new Potions professor, and fought to keep his
expression neutral. “Yes, Professor?”
“Perhaps you would be so kind as to stay behind for a few moments and help me straighten the
classroom?”
“Of course.”
He heard a snicker from behind him. He turned to see Zacharias Smith and some Hufflepuff girl
whispering to each other and smirking at him. Smith saw him looking and raised an eyebrow in
challenge.
Bloody Hufflepuffs.
Draco scowled and started towards the front of the room to clean up the bubbling cauldron and the
mess of hissing, crackling substances – and dandelion – spilt across the front table. They’d been
making a complicated potion with many volatile ingredients; cleaning up was going to take a
while. The rest of the class filed out, Smith’s girlfriend making a point of knocking a few more
things over on her way by, thus ensuring that Draco would not be making it to his next lesson on
time.
The rest of the day progressed with dismal predictability. Tidying up for Professor Montgomery
had made him late for Arithmancy. Professor Vector, who taught Arithmancy, had a strict and
well-known policy about tardiness and, accordingly, docked Slytherin two points and gave Draco
detention. It was Draco’s fourth such detention since term started three weeks prior. It was a
routine Draco was becoming quite familiar with - wake up, go to lessons, get treated like shit,
serve detention.
There was one unforeseen deviation this time, however. Unlike his previous detentions, Draco
would not be passing the time sorting old textbooks or copying out formulas. Professor Vector
apparently had some sort of meeting and could not supervise him. Draco, therefore, would be
serving detention with Hagrid. And so, even though it was different, it was typical, really.
Perfectly typical of his life since coming back to Hogwarts, everything going to crap.
Worse still, his pleasant numbing fog was letting him down. More and more, the anger and the
Worse still, his pleasant numbing fog was letting him down. More and more, the anger and the
grief and the sheer fucking misery seemed to be seeping through. It was all too much, sometimes,
and days like today it was hard to remember why he bothered trying at all.
Eight o’ clock found him striking out across the lawn towards the newly rebuilt groundskeeper’s
hut, reminding himself of his policy about speaking as little as possible. Not that it would be
particularly hard in this instance. He’d rather have a conversation with a flobberworm than with
Hagrid. But his stomach was churning and Draco could feel the words gathering on the back of
his tongue, bitter and biting, waiting to be spat out, to be hurled like knives towards the closest
target. He clamped his jaw shut tight as the small, squat building came into sight.
Hagrid was waiting for him, his huge form a dark blot against the lights of his hut. It wasn’t until
Draco drew closer that he saw Hagrid wasn’t alone. Potter and Smith were with him.
Draco was surprised to see them but then recalled hearing something about a fight out in the
courtyard just after lunch. Indeed, Smith seemed to have a poorly healed black eye. Potter – who
was steadily looking away from Smith – looked fine, but then, not only was it likely that he gave
better than he got, but also that Granger had cast the healing spells for him.
Smith caught sight of Draco as he approached and his lips curved into a nasty grin. There was no
grin on Potter’s face. He was still staring off into the distance, looking annoyed. Greatly annoyed.
His expression softened a bit when he turned and saw Draco. He opened his mouth as if to say
something but his words were lost as Hagrid, too, spotted Draco and started talking in that coarse,
booming voice.
“Malfoy, yer here. Good, let’s get started, then. Follow me.”
Smith said something Draco didn’t hear but Potter gave him a sharp look before following Hagrid.
Smith rolled his eyes at Potter’s back and then followed suit. Draco brought up the rear, hanging
back a few steps. Hagrid led them across a wide expanse of lawn, towards a fenced plot of land
that edged onto the Forbidden Forest. The warm, heavy smell of manure wafted toward them on
the night breeze, growing disturbingly stronger with every step they took.
They came to a stop just outside the fence. Hagrid waved one gigantic hand towards its far corner.
There sat a giant pile of something that looked like dirt but smelled more like the inside of a barn.
“You lot are going to be turnin’ o’er this field for me. Professor Sprout wants to grow some
algidasters and they need seedin’ before the frost starts. ‘Fore we can do that, though, we got to
lay in some new soil.”
“Er, Hagrid,” Potter said, his voice muffled where he had his shirt sleeve held over his mouth and
nose. Beside him, Smith was doing the same and was making faint gagging sounds. “I hate to tell
you this, but that doesn’t exactly smell like soil.”
“O’ course it’s soil. Jus’ been mixed with manure, tha’s all. Got to get some good nutrients into
the earth.”
Draco rubbed at his nose, trying to block the smell. “So we’re shovelling shit for detention.
Lovely.”
“What?” snapped Smith, scowling at Draco over the edge of his sleeve. “Too good for it?”
Draco glared at Smith, refusing to rise to the bait. He knew how it would go. Smith would be an
antagonistic shit, but it was Draco who would serve the extra detentions. He was surprised,
though, to see Potter’s eyes flick to Smith, a warning clear on his face.
None of which seemed to make any difference to Smith, who lowered his hand long enough to
sneer at Draco and say, “Why don’t you go cry to your father if you don’t like it? Isn’t that what
you usually do when things don’t go your way? Oh, but wait, that won’t work this time, will it?
Because he’s in Azkaban.”
Draco’s hands curled into fists but he held them tight his sides. His teeth ground together with the
effort of keeping quiet and his blood was rushing so loud in his ears he almost missed Potter’s soft
but dangerous, “Shut it, Zach.”
Smith looked like he was going to say something more – and then Draco was going to have to
knock him to the ground and shove fistfuls of Hagrid’s “soil” down his throat – but then Hagrid
was frowning down at them as though just realising the volatility of the situation, and giving
Smith’s shoulder a pat that nearly sent him tumbling the ground.
“Come on, lads,” he said. “You’ve got a long night ahead o’ ye. Best be tryin’ to get along.”
None of them said anything further as Hagrid led them around the perimeter of the field, showing
them exactly what he wanted them to do. Not that it was especially difficult. They shovelled shit
into their barrows, wheeled it out into the field, and then shovelled it back out onto the ground.
And then repeat. Ad nauseum. It was possibly the worst detention in the history of detentions.
Well, aside from Draco’s last detention with Hagrid, in which, as a first year, he’d been placed in
a life-threatening situation...
Hagrid gave them each a wheelbarrow and a shovel and then declared he had to “go tend to the
animals” and took off. For one long minute, they all watched him go. Then Potter sighed, picked
up his shovel and started towards the manure pile. Draco and Smith did the same.
No one spoke at first, they just pushed their barrows along the furrowed earth. Draco’s had a
squeaky wheel which he knew would be driving him spare before the night was out. Potter’s
seemed to have a wobble – every now and then it would suddenly pitch to the side. Smith’s, of
course, seemed perfect.
As they started loading in shovelfuls of shit-enriched dirt, Potter glanced over at Draco and gave
him a friendly sort of nod. “So how come you’re here, Malfoy?”
“Late for Arithmancy,” Draco said. He grimaced against the weight of the shovel, the strain of it
setting his bad arm to trembling. He tucked it in closer to his side, trying to brace it against his
body. He probably looked odd, but it was better than the humiliation that would surely follow
dropping the shovel.
Smith snorted. “You were late for Vector? Maybe you need to rethink your strategy a bit, eh?
Spend a bit less time sucking up to Professor Montgomery and a bit more time practising
punctuality.”
Draco froze, mid-dig. “Excuse me?”
Smith leant on his shovel and smirked at Draco. “Oh don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m
talking about. We all saw you today.” He put on a simpering falsetto. “‘Of course I’ll help you
tidy up the room, Professor Montgomery.’” He fluttered his eyelashes and then laughed. “You’ve
done it practically every day since term started. You just can’t help it, can you? All those years of
toadying up to Snape, you can’t keep from trying to kiss arse with the Potions professor.”
Out of the corner of his eyes, Draco saw Potter toss down his shovel and take a step forward.
Draco ignored him, focusing on Smith. “I’m sorry, were you dropped on your head repeatedly as
a child or are you really this stupid? I don’t volunteer to stay behind. She asks me to help her
because she knows I have Arithmancy after Potions and she knows Professor Vector gives
detention for being late. She does it on purpose.”
Smith barked out a derisive laugh. “She’s a professor, Malfoy. If she wanted you have a detention,
she could assign you one herself.”
“Yes, well, then she’d miss out on all the fun of fucking with my head, now wouldn’t she?”
“Do you even hear yourself?”
“Do you know how many detentions I’ve had since school started. Four! Four in three weeks!
And guess how many house points I’ve lost. Go on. No? Let me tell you, then. Thirty-two.”
“You probably deserved them,” Smith said.
Draco rolled his eyes. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”
Smith moved closer to Draco, radiating hostility. “What, you expect me to feel sorry for you?
You’re a fucking Death Eater, Malfoy. You tortured people. People’s lives were ruined because
of the things you did.”
Draco’s throat went tight and he swallowed once, twice, around the anger that seemed lodged
there, but he couldn’t seem to force it down, couldn’t keep it from spewing out. “God, I knew it
would be like this! I fucking knew it! All that talk about rebuilding and moving forward and not
letting old divisions continue. I knew all I’d ever be is a scum of the earth, sack of shit Death Eater
to you people.”
“Yeah, well if you knew all that, why’d you come back?”
Draco’s eyes flicked to Potter before he could stop himself. He glanced away immediately, but
Potter had been watching him, had seen, and his eyes widened in surprise. Embarrassment flooded
Draco. He could feel heat in his cheeks, knew he was blushing, and hoped the growing dark of
evening would be enough to hide it.
“Well?” Smith demanded, apparently having missed Draco’s glance. “What are you doing here,
Malfoy, really?”
Draco retreated into the safety of silence, not trusting himself to speak without giving himself
away even further. Agitation prickled beneath his skin, hot and itchy, making him want to lash out
with his words and his fists. But it wouldn’t help. It would only make things worse and, fuck if
Potter wasn’t still looking at him.
When it became clear Draco wasn’t going to respond, something mean and hungry came into
Smith’s face. He leant towards Draco. Draco saw his lips part, heard the intake of breath as Smith
prepared to deliver what was no doubt an offensive, pointed barb.
He never got the chance, though. Instead Potter was suddenly there, between them, his eyes fixed
on Smith.
“Leave it, Zach,” he said, quiet command in his voice.
Smith sneered at Potter. “Of course you would defend this arsehole. You probably-”
Smith broke off at Potter’s darkening expression, and he actually backed away a step. From the
safer distance, he smirked at Potter, shot one last glare at Draco, and then picked up his shovel and
stalked off to the far corner of the field. Potter watched him go, scowling, and Draco took
advantage of his distraction to slip off to his own corner. He’d had all he could handle for one
night. Hell, he’d had all he could handle for a lifetime.
***
Draco hadn’t thought Potions could get much worse, but apparently he’d been wrong about that.
Two days had passed since the detention from hell and he was still in a foul mood. His arms,
shoulders, and back still ached from shovelling manure all night and his hands felt raw; he hadn’t
thought to wear gloves to detention – why would he? – and the Shielding Charm hadn’t been
enough to keep the rough wood of the shovel handle from blistering his palms. He’d put a healing
balm on them but the skin still felt tight and sensitive. Worst of all, though, the tremor in his left
arm had grown more pronounced; when he held out his left hand, it shook visibly. Someone
would have to be looking closely to notice, but it was visible nonetheless.
Trying to do delicate potions work with shaking, stinging hands was next to impossible. He’d
already botched his Confusing Concoction twice and looked to be well on his way to scrapping
his third attempt – he just didn’t have the dexterity to mince the scurvy-grass finely enough
without grinding it into a pulp. Professor Montgomery had already stopped at his cauldron several
times to comment on his poor technique. And of course it didn’t help anything that he could
practically feel Potter’s eyes burning a hole in the back of his skull.
Draco had been avoiding him. He knew it. Potter probably knew it, too. Hell, anyone with eyes
probably knew it. The “eighth year” class was small and had most of their lessons together.
Anyone who was watching them would easily be able to see the way Potter kept trying to catch
Draco’s eye, the way Draco kept determinedly not letting him. He wasn’t even being subtle about
it. Potter had him on the run. Draco just wasn’t ready to face him. When he closed his eyes, he
could still see Potter’s shocked expression, eyes wide, lips parting as his mouth fell open...
“We’ve only a few minutes left.” Professor Montgomery’s voice jolted Draco out of his thoughts.
“Please decant your potions into your phials and bring them to me on your way out.”
Draco looked at his own failed potion and then Vanished it. There was no point handing it over in
that state, especially not to Professor Montgomery.
Apparently, she’d been watching him. The last traces of potion had barely left his cauldron before
she appeared at his desk, her eyebrows arched in disapproval. “You’re not handing in your potion,
Mr Malfoy?”
“It wasn’t up to calibre, Professor.”
“I see. Well, since you don’t have to worry about preparing your phial, perhaps you wouldn’t
mind cleaning up at the front for me when you’re done tidying your own desk?”
Draco gritted his teeth. “Of course, Professor.”
Professor Montgomery sauntered back to the front of the room and perched on the edge of her
desk, accepting students’ phials as they walked past. Draco took several slow, deep breaths as he
cleared away his mangled scurvy-grass, willing himself to calm. He didn’t want to give her the
satisfaction of seeing that she’d got to him.
Once his desk was clean and he felt he could trust himself not to hex her, Draco started on
Professor Montgomery’s table. Before he’d even stoppered the first bottle (and really, what kind
of Potions professor left unstoppered bottles of ingredients out in a classroom?), Potter materialised
at his side, Vanishing the plant scraps littering the table surface with his wand.
Every muscle in Draco’s body tensed. “What are you doing?”
Potter slanted him a sideways look and grinned sardonically. “What does it look like? I’m helping
you clean up.”
“Yes, fine. And why are you doing this?”
Potter rolled his eyes but before he could answer, Professor Montgomery came sweeping up, a
tight smile on her face.
“Mr Potter,” she said with brittle brightness. “Did you need to speak with me?”
“No, Professor. I just thought I’d stay behind and give Malfoy a hand tidying up.” He gave her an
affable smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
Professor Montgomery’s own smile grew wider. “There’s no need, I’m sure. Mr Malfoy can more
than manage this job.”
Potter shrugged. “I don’t mind. Besides, more hands make lighter work, or something like that.”
As much as he was annoyed with Potter’s interference, Draco couldn’t help watching the
exchange with avid interest. In many ways, Potter was the most powerful person in the wizarding
world at the moment and Professor Montgomery was all about power. So, then, when faced with
their Saviour, would she try to dominate or ingratiate?
Most of the other students had left, but the few remaining had their eyes glued to the events
unfolding at the front of the classroom. Professor Montgomery gave them each a pointed look that
had them hurriedly packing their bags and exiting the room. She waited until they were gone
before turning back to face Potter, her expression all false amiability pasted over poorly concealed
anger.
“Won’t you be late for your next lesson?” she asked.
“No, I have a free period after this.” Potter nodded toward Draco. “It’s Malfoy who needs to be
worried about being late. I’m sure you weren’t aware, but he has Arithmancy after Potions; he
needs to get clear across the castle for that.”
Professor Montgomery coloured, a flush creeping up her neck and into her cheeks. Her smile
disappeared. Draco could practically see the wheels turning in her head.
Potter, though, wasn’t done. Never one for subtlety, he stopped what he was doing and turned to
face the professor head-on. Though he was still smiling, there was no denying the contempt in his
expression. “I mean, there’s no reason Malfoy has to do this alone, right? It’s not a punishment,
after all, and I’m more than happy to help out. Unless there’s some reason you don’t want me to.”
His eyes locked on hers in blatant challenge.
There was a brief, loaded pause before Professor Montgomery gave a small, tinkling laugh, the
sound thin in the quiet of the room. “No, of course not. I appreciate your help, Potter.”
“And I’m glad to help, Professor,” Potter said.
Professor Montgomery nodded, and for a second they all just stood looking at each other. Then
Professor Montgomery made some excuse about needing to check on the stores and disappeared
into the supply cupboard. Though the idea of her stewing in there, furious but unable to act on it,
was highly satisfying, now that the exchange was over, Draco’s annoyance returned.
He rounded on Potter. “What the hell was that?”
Potter gave him a look of disbelief. “You’re angry about this?”
“I don’t need your bloody help!”
“That’s good, because it wasn’t about you.”
Draco scoffed. “Right. It wasn’t about me when you spoke at my trial. It wasn’t about me when
you asked me to come back to Hogwarts. It’s not about me when you confront the Potions
professor two days after you find out she’s been making my life hell. You seem to do a lot of
things that involve me without being about me.”
Potter whirled on him, staring him down as he had Professor Montgomery just moments before.
Unlike their professor, however, Draco had no intention of backing down. He might owe Potter
his freedom – hell, he owed Potter his life – but he’d be damned if he was going to play the
damsel in distress to Potter’s hero complex.
Potter slowly and deliberately lifted his right hand and laid it on the table. In the dim light of the
dungeon, the scar on the back of Potter’s hand was little more than a silvery glint, but Draco didn’t
need to see it to know what was there.
I must not tell lies.
Draco felt a blush rising to his own cheeks - so much for doing better than Professor Montgomery
- and dropped his gaze to the floor.
Potter bent his head towards Draco’s and said, “Believe it or not, Malfoy, I do have reasons for
not wanting to see teachers play tyrant that have nothing to do with you.”
Draco scowled but said nothing. Beside him, Potter sighed and straightened. They continued to
clean up in silence. But then Potter pushed a hand through his hair, making it stand up in an
alarming manner, and when he turned to look at Draco, his expression was softer; something like
sadness seemed to linger in his eyes.
“Look,” he said. “You’re tangled up in these things because you were tangled up in the war. It’s
not about you. But that doesn’t mean I’m not glad to help you out. I mean, is accepting help from
me really so horrible?”
“I just –” Draco broke off, paused, and took a breath before starting again. “I can take care of
myself. I don’t need a champion.”
“What about a friend?” Potter asked, and he was looking at Draco again, as though he could see
right through to every secret Draco had ever had. “Could you use one of those?”
For once, Draco didn’t have to fight the urge to speak. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
He just looked back at Potter, feeling helpless and stupid.
Disappointment flickered over Potter’s features. He Vanished the last of the potions ingredients
with a wave of his wand and then called out, “All done, Professor!”
Professor Montgomery’s voice floated out to them from the supply cupboard. “Thank you, Mr
Potter, Mr Malfoy.”
Potter gave Draco a rueful smile, and then he was gone.
Draco didn’t linger. He hurried to Arithmancy, eager for something to distract his thoughts away
from Potter and the mess of confusion he was creating in Draco’s mind.
When he arrived at Professor Vector’s classroom, he found her waiting for him. She glowered at
him and even with all he’d been through in the last few years, it was still somewhat intimidating.
“Mr Malfoy,” she said, her voice loud enough to carry through the entire classroom. His
classmates all turned in their seats to watch. “I am tired of your continued tardiness. If you cannot
commit to getting here on time, I will have to dismiss you from this class. I will not tolerate this
kind of disrespectful behaviour. This cannot happen again.”
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Draco couldn’t help the small smile that came to his face
as he recalled Potter’s expression as he’d stared down Professor Montgomery. “Don’t worry,
Professor. It won’t.”
Chapter 3
***
Draco stood on the pitch, the golden October sunlight streaming down on him, breathing in the
scent of autumn leaves and freshly cut grass. It was a day made for flying. The sky was clear and
bright, there was a light breeze, and, best of all, Draco had a brand new Firebolt A-700 in his
hand. It had arrived by owl that morning, dropping down onto his lap in the middle of breakfast.
Every eye had been on him as he’d opened it and with good reason. It was a thing of beauty.
Long, sleek chestnut handle, symmetrical, perfectly balanced twig tail, gleaming brass fittings, and
the whole thing polished and spelled until it was so streamlined as to be almost frictionless.
In fact, the only flaw he could find with the broom was that it had come with a receipt reading,
“Paid in full by Harry James Potter.”
He couldn’t say it surprised him, exactly; Potter had joked about it, after all. But to actually receive
the broom was still something of a shock. He’d even felt a bit nervous opening it, his stomach
fluttering and his face flushed. At least Potter hadn’t been in the Hall when it arrived. Draco was
sure he wouldn’t have been able to open it at all if Potter had been there watching him.
And then, of course, there was the fact that Draco didn’t even know if he could still fly...
He sighed and scanned the sky. Time to find out.
He gave his left arm a shake. The tremors had pulled back considerably over the last few weeks.
His arm seemed to be back to its pre-excessive-manual-labour-disguised-as-detention state. It still
twitched and trembled now and then but not constantly or visibly, as it had before. He had no idea
how it would respond to the lightening quick changes in position and pressure that came with
flying, though. If he was honest with himself, he’d been avoiding finding out. It was bad enough
to think he might never fly again. He didn’t know if he could bear actually confirming it.
But with a day like this and a broom like this, he couldn’t not fly. So, then, there was nothing for it
but to do it.
Draco swung a leg over the broom. He could feel it humming beneath him, all tightly bound
energy waiting to burst forth, and a smile crossed his face as he kicked off. The broom rocketed
into the sky, so smooth and responsive Draco almost felt as though he was flying all on his own. It
turned at the slightest shift of Draco’s body, accelerated instantly at his forward lean, decelerated
in increments attuned to every millimetre he lifted his torso back towards upright. It was a thing of
sheer beauty. Looping around above the pitch, Draco felt something loosen within him, felt the
last wisps of numbing fog lifting, dissipating, and a joyful whoop burst out of him, ringing through
the clear, blue sky.
He couldn’t say how long he spent up there, lost in the sun and the sky and the feeling of absolute
freedom, but his cheeks were rosy and his fingers starting to stiffen when he heard his name being
called.
“Malfoy!”
He looked down and saw a figure waving at him from the lawn of the pitch. Even at a distance,
there was no mistaking the shock of black hair.
Potter had been around more and more, lately. Everywhere Draco went, sooner or later, Potter
seemed to pop up. Saying hello as he walked by the Slytherin table at breakfast. Stopping to chat
in the library. He’d even sat beside Draco during lessons a few times. Potter didn’t seem to have
any agenda. It seemed like he was around because he wanted to be. Like maybe he had meant it
when he’d asked Draco if he needed a friend. Like maybe it was something he wanted, too. And
Draco couldn’t even begin to fathom how to respond to that. Whenever he thought about Potter, it
was a confused jumble. Untangling his thoughts and feelings seemed next to impossible, so
instead he did his best not to think about it.
Other people seemed confused about it, too. Draco knew the school was buzzing about the
situation. All kinds of theories seemed to be bouncing around the halls of Hogwarts. That it was
all part of a plot on Draco’s part to avenge the Dark Lord, getting close to Potter so he could try to
kill him. That Draco “had something” on Potter and had used it to blackmail Potter into testifying
for him this summer, that he was blackmailing him into friendship now in an attempt to repair the
Malfoy name. That Potter had been damaged by the psychological stress of the war, and was
putting himself in the path of those who hurt him as he subconsciously recreated the trauma he
experienced in some kind of dysfunctional attempt at coping with his pain.
And then, of course, there were the rumours that they were fucking. Though really, those were
only a small part of a much larger rumour. One might say it was the rumour, even, the one thing
that everyone seemed to be talking about – Harry Potter’s sexuality. Draco wasn’t sure how he
missed it but apparently there had been an article in the Prophet at the end of the summer asking if
everybody’s favourite Saviour might be a bit of a poof. Citing “a source close to the young hero,”
the article claimed to have received information that Potter was spending quite a bit of time in the
presence of a young man (“identity unfortunately unknown”) and hinted that this was the reason
for his split from “long-time girlfriend and fellow war-hero, Ginevra Weasley.”
According to the rumour mill, Potter had tracked down this mysterious “source”; turned out it was
Zacharias Smith. When Potter confronted him about it, things got heated. Smith spouted off some
ugly homophobic slurs and Potter hadn’t been best pleased. Of course, no one had actually
witnessed the conversation leading up to the fight between Potter and Smith. By the time anyone
noticed what was going on, it had already reached the point of fists and wands, so no one really
knew for sure what had happened.
Potter hadn’t said a word to anyone in answer to the article or the rumours, not about the fight
with Smith and definitely not about his sexuality. For most of the school, his silence was as good
as an admission. Draco wasn’t convinced, though; breaking up with your girlfriend and wanting
to punch Smith in the face didn’t necessarily equal homosexuality to him. And as for the Prophet,
well, they’d run anything if they thought it would sell papers and he should know.
Draco steered towards Potter, who smiled as Draco landed in front of him. Potter had his own
brand new Firebolt with him. He leant on it, looking relaxed and almost happy. The shadows
under his eyes told a different story, but Draco supposed it would be a while before those went
away. Still, Potter seemed to be in good spirits and Draco found it was nice to see it.
“You were looking good up there,” Potter said with a nod. “You like the broom, then?”
“How could I not?” Draco replied, and then felt compelled to add, “You know I’m not playing on
the Slytherin team, though. I’m not their Seeker.”
Potter nodded. “Yeah, I heard. Shame, that.”
Something inside Draco warmed at his words, at knowing Potter hadn’t given him the Firebolt in
error, that he’d wanted Draco to have it for reasons other than being the Slytherin Seeker.
Disquieted at the reaction, he did his best to ignore the feeling, and focused instead on the topic at
hand.
“I heard you’re not playing, either. I was surprised – you seemed very keen that day at Quality
Quidditch.”
“I was but once I got here…” Potter shrugged. “I suppose it’s that old, ‘You can’t go home again’
thing. It just wasn’t the same. The old team, my team, well, a lot of them aren’t here anymore and
the young kids just see me as-” Potter broke off and he squinted up into the bright autumn sky. “It
just wasn’t the same.”
Draco nodded. His situation was much the same in Slytherin. Few of his year mates had returned
and even if they had, Draco probably still wouldn’t have played. Too much had happened; too
much had changed. Quidditch teams and the House Cup belonged to the next generation of
Hogwarts students now.
Which begged the question...
“So if neither of us is playing Quidditch, why’d you buy me the broom?”
“Just because we’re not on the house teams doesn’t mean we’re not playing Quidditch. And it’s
much more fun to kick your arse when I know I’ve done it fair and square,” Potter added, his grin
returning.
“Ah, I see. You bought me a broom to serve your own interests. So once again, this really isn’t
about me.”
“I wouldn’t say that. It’s about you being the one I most want to crush into the ground.” Potter
reached into his pocket and pulled out a gleaming, golden Snitch. “What do you say? Up for a
little Seeker-to-Seeker?”
Draco hesitated, his left hand surreptitiously gripping the handle of his broom as he assessed the
state of his arm. He’d felt okay before but that had just been fooling around; Quidditch with Potter
was a different thing altogether.
Potter’s grin slipped as the pause dragged on and Draco felt a funny squeeze in his chest at the
sight. Forcing a smirk onto his own face, he snatched this Snitch from Potter’s hand and flung it
into the air. “You’re on.”
As good as he’d felt flying around the pitch before, it was nothing, nothing, compared to this.
With competition driving the blood to rush in his veins, his heart pounding, his vision sharpening
as he sought the gleam of the Snitch, and Potter’s form dancing in his periphery, Draco felt alive,
really alive and whole for the first time since the Dark Lord had branded the Mark on his arm.
He bolted up high into the clouds before diving back down to make lazy figure eights over the
pitch, his eyes scanning, searching. Below him he could see Potter doing the same, though every
now and then he’d break form to do a few rolls or loops on his broom. It was hard to resist
following his lead; the Firebolt really was incredible.
A glint of gold off to the left caught Draco’s eye. He whipped his head around and, there. The
Snitch. He leant forward on his broom, angling his body into a sweeping turn. He saw Potter
streaking up from underneath, the same goal in sight.
They knocked into each other mid-air and Draco pulled hard on his broom to stay on course.
Beside him, Potter had an iron grip on his own broom, his knuckles white on the handle. They
flew in the close proximity, Potter’s knees and elbows banging against Draco’s as they stayed
tight on the Snitch’s trail. Draco glanced over and saw Potter smiling widely. He turned at Draco’s
look and laughed, and even with the shadows under his eyes, there was no mistaking the
happiness. Draco laughed, too, the wind whipping away the sound as they plunged on.
The Snitch leapt and turned and they leapt and turned with it, never more than a few inches apart,
jostling each other as they vied for position. Draco was leaning hard on Potter when he felt it, a
rippling spasm that ran from his shoulder to his fingertips. There was no time to respond; his hand
lost its grip on the broom, which shot sideways, nearly toppling Draco in the process. He clung to
the handle with his legs and good hand as the broom began to spiral. He was dimly aware of
Potter beside him, shouting something and trying to get a hold of him but unable to match Draco’s
dizzying tumble.
The pitch was rushing up beneath him. Draco pulled up hard on his broom, and managed to
straighten it out but it was too late. The ground was too close and he was going too fast. Deciding
he’d take a broken bone over a broken Firebolt A-700, Draco shifted his weight just in time to
take the brunt of the crash on his left shoulder. He hit the ground with a sickening thud that shook
every bone in his body. Pain like fire raced up his arm. A wave of nausea swept over him.
He heard the sound of feet hitting the ground, running towards him. The taste of blood was in his
mouth. When he probed with his tongue, he found he’d bitten through his lip.
“Malfoy. Malfoy, are you okay?” Potter was crouched down in front of him, peering into his face,
all wide green eyes and tense expression. “Shit, you’re bleeding.”
“Calm down, Potter. I’m fine.” To prove his point, Draco tried to push himself to sitting but was
stopped by the sharp, bright pain that tore through his arm at the attempt. His vision went black,
then returned, but it sparkled disconcertingly at the edges.
“Yeah, sure, you’re fine,” Potter muttered, his hand gently pressing Draco back towards the
ground. He mumbled something else and there was a flash of silver.
Something about that flash of silver didn’t sit right with Draco. “What are you doing?”
“Getting Pomfrey.”
“Potter, I don’t need Pomfrey.” He struggled again to sit, this time being careful of his injured arm.
Potter’s hands stopped him again. “Just stay still. She’ll be here in a minute.”
Giving up, Draco let his head fall back against the ground, groaning as a fresh wave of nausea
rolled through him.
Potter looked down at him, a worried frown on his face. “What the hell happened up there?”
What had happened was that Draco had let himself forget for a few minutes. He’d let himself
forget about his arm and the Dark Mark and the spell damage. He’d let himself forget about the
fact that everything was different now, that he was never going to be that person again, the one
that could just go out and fly without his arm shaking and failing, every twitch a reminder of all
the mistakes he’d made, all the people he’d hurt, all the ways he was stupid and weak and cruel
and so unforgivably wrong. All the ways that he deserved his bad arm and Smith’s derision and
Montgomery’s mind games. All the ways he deserved much worse.
“I fell.”
Potter snorted. “Yeah, I got that part.”
Potter looked like he wanted to say something more, to ask something, and Draco just knew it was
going to be something he had no desire to talk about. Luckily, he was saved by Madam Pomfrey’s
timely arrival. She came bustling up, her nurse’s kit bobbing along behind her.
She pulled up short as she reached them and gave them each a pointed look. “Honestly, you
children and your Quidditch. Sometimes I think I should have an office out here on the pitch.” She
glowered at them each a second more and then her expression softened and she knelt next to
Draco. “Now then, Mr Malfoy, let’s have a look shall we?”
Pomfrey ran her wand up and down the length of Draco’s body. She lingered over his left arm, a
frown on her face. Draco’s stomach sank. Broken bones were nothing to Pomfrey. Draco knew
she could fix them in a minute. Which meant her interest in his left arm had nothing to do with his
fall.
She rose to her feet, tugging at her robes as she straightened. “Well, your arm is broken, but that’s
easy enough to fix.” She gave him a phial. Draco recognised the pale yellow liquid as a pain
potion. “Take this. It should help until we can get you back to the Hospital Wing and get you
patched up.” She watched him down it, nodding in satisfaction as he swallowed. “There’s a good
lad.”
Then Pomfrey started to walk back toward the castle.
“I’ll grab your broom,” Potter said, nodding back to where Draco’s Firebolt lay on the grass.
“You go with Pomfrey.”
Draco was too exhausted to argue the point. He gave Potter a nod and hurried to catch up with
Pomfrey, wincing. It was an unpleasant walk to the Hospital wing, even with the numbing effects
of the potion.
Once there, Pomfrey had Draco lie down on one of the beds. Again, she ran her wand up and
down the length of his arm. There was no reason for it. Draco had seen broken bones mended
many times in his life; he knew the examination she’d done on the pitch should have been enough.
He didn’t say anything, though, hoping if he kept his silence about it, then she would, too. After
what felt like an hour but was probably closer to five minutes, Pomfrey began incanting. Draco
felt his bone knit back together, the pain retreating until it was nothing more than a dull ache.
“That’s the break taken care of,” she said.
He clenched and unclenched his fist and rolled his shoulder, testing it while Pomfrey watched
with a clinical eye. Then she glanced up at Draco and her expression, while not unkind, filled him
with foreboding.
“Mr Malfoy, the other damage to your arm...”
Draco gave her a hard look, hoping it would shut her up. He wasn’t that lucky.
“Have you had it looked at?” she pressed.
He gave an inward sigh. “Yes.”
“And?”
He shrugged. “And there’s nothing to be done. Spell damage.”
“Have you sought a second opinion?”
“And a third.”
“From Healers who were competent and... amenable to working with your family?”
Draco gave a bitter laugh, though he had to admire her for asking. “Yes. They all said the same
thing.”
“If a magical cure isn’t possible, have you considered physical rehabilitation? Has anyone advised
you about that?”
Draco squeezed his eyes shut. He knew she meant well, but he also knew what the reality was.
He had accepted it. Talking about it just made him feel worse.
“Mr Malfoy?”
Draco opened his eyes to look at her. “I don’t mean to be rude, but if we’re done here, I’d like to
go.”
“Of course. But if you would ever like to speak about your options, please do come and see me.”
The look on Pomfrey’s face was far too understanding and Draco had to look away.
“I will, thank you.”
Draco rose from the bed and walked out of the Hospital Wing. It took everything in him not to run
out of there, away from Pomfrey’s false hope and the pity in her eyes.
***
It was time for dinner when he left the Hospital Wing but food was the last thing on Draco’s mind.
Though his arm felt better with every passing second, he was utterly exhausted. He stumbled back
to his dorm room, stripped off his torn, dirty clothes, pulled on a pair of soft cotton pyjama
bottoms and burrowed into his bed. He was grateful for the silence of the room – he still felt shaky
and not entirely in control of himself.
He was just drifting nicely towards sleep when there was a knock on the door.
“What?” he snapped without even lifting his head from the pillow.
There was a pause and then the knock came again.
Draco pushed himself to sitting with a huff. “Either tell me what you want or go away!”
Another pause and then the door opened and Potter stepped inside. He’d changed out of his
Quidditch gear but was still carrying a broom. He gave Draco a crooked, uncertain smile and
Draco suddenly wished he was wearing more than just a pair of pyjama bottoms.
“How did you get in here?” Draco asked. He swung out of bed, trying not to feel self-conscious
as Potter’s eyes fell to his naked chest.
“I saw some Slytherins in the corridor and asked them to let me in.”
Draco gaped. “And they did?”
Potter shrugged.
Draco snorted in disgust. So much for Slytherin cunning and loyalty. “And to what do I owe the
honour?”
Potter lowered the broom from his shoulder and held it out toward Draco. “I brought you your
broom. Thought you might want it back.”
Draco didn’t want to cross the room to take it from him – he felt oddly exposed standing there in
his pyjamas, and he had a feeling increased proximity to Potter would only make it worse – but he
couldn’t see any way around it. He walked over, extending his hand. Their fingers brushed as
Potter passed the Firebolt to him and Draco’s pulse jumped.
“Thanks,” he said, embarrassed to hear a catch in his voice.
He moved quickly to the cupboard that stood beside his bed and stashed the broom inside. He
lingered over the task, happy to have a few seconds away from Potter. He took a deep breath, than
another, but his heart wouldn’t stop racing. He debated pulling on a jumper but decided against it
– he refused to give into whatever it was that was making him feel nervous and out-of-sorts. This
was his bedroom and he’d been trying to sleep and they’d both shared dorms since they were
eleven – seeing another person in his pyjamas was hardly new to either of them.
When he closed the door and turned around, he found Potter was looking at him with a
determined expression.
Draco crossed his arms over his chest. “Was there something else?”
Potter’s eyes pinned him. “What’s wrong with your arm?”
Draco’s stomach seemed to drop clear to the floor. He felt the blood drain from his face.
“I know it’s giving you trouble. I noticed you were favouring it during detention that night with
Hagrid. And you seemed to be having some trouble in Potions after that. Then today I felt it give
out right before you lost control.”
For a moment, Draco just blinked, reeling to think that Potter – unobservant, oblivious Potter –
had noticed his bad arm when no one else had. Then he tossed his head, reaching for some
aplomb. “You’ve been watching me closely, haven’t you?”
Potter rolled his eyes. “I haven’t been watching you, Malfoy, but I’m not blind either. You’re
obviously having problems with it.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Have you had someone look at it, at least?”
Draco said nothing.
“I’ll take that as a no,” Potter said. He crossed the room to stand in front of Draco. Draco glared at
him but Potter continued on, unperturbed. “So you’re not going to try to get it treated. You’re just
going to leave it and hope it gets better on its own.”
Draco continued his silent glaring. Potter continued to ignore it, instead taking another step closer.
In fact, he was now closer than Draco was entirely comfortable with. He felt as though energy
was coming off Potter in waves, radiating out like sunbeams, heating Draco’s bare skin, and he
wished he’d put on a jumper when he’d had the chance.
Potter stepped closer still. “Come on, Malfoy. Let me help you.”
Draco shook his head. “I’ve had it looked at, Potter. There’s nothing to be done.”
“There must be someone who can help, someone at St. Mungo’s or something.”
Draco sighed. “Just leave it.”
“But we could-
“I said leave it!”
Potter’s eyes widened but Draco could see he was undeterred. With true Gryffindor stubbornness,
or maybe it was just Potter’s inability not to jump headfirst into every situation that came along,
Draco could see him getting ready to push harder to get to the truth. And somehow Potter always
seemed to get to the truth. Somehow, he always found out every one of Draco’s secrets, all his
weaknesses, faults, and failures. Taking in the set of Potter’s jaw, the determined look in his eye,
Draco found he just didn’t have the energy for a fight. There was no fight left in him. Not for this.
He sighed. “I appreciate your wanting to help but there’s nothing can be done. It’s spell damage.”
“Spell damage?”
“Repeated exposure to Cruciatus, among other things.”
Emotions flickered across Potter’s face – shock, anger, sadness – easy to read, but hard to watch.
Draco’s throat felt tight and he looked away.
“I’m sorry,” Potter said softly.
Draco waved off the words. “Don’t be. It’s no more than I deserve.”
“What are you talking about?”
Potter sounded incredulous, as if it was Draco who was being ridiculous when his own question
was so absurd that Draco was actually dumbfounded for a moment.
“What am I...?” He looked back at Potter and thrust out his left arm. “This! I’m talking about this.”
The Dark Mark was still there, paler now, but clearly visible, the skull and snake still as ominous
and unmistakable as they’d been the day he’d been branded.
Potter shook his head. “That’s not-”
Draco cut him off, not willing to let him make excuses, to let him twist the truth and offer
absolution that wasn’t possible.“For fuck’s sake, open your eyes, Potter. Look. Look.”
He turned the Mark toward Potter. Potter glanced away with a grimace but then his eyes went
back to the Dark Mark, locked on it, as though he couldn’t look away.
“I took this,” Draco continued. “Willingly. Maybe I didn’t understand everything I was agreeing
to, but I understood enough, and I took it because I wanted it. Whatever else came after, nothing
can change that. This is me, Potter. This is who I am.”
“Malfoy...”
Potter’s eyes dragged up and away from the Mark to meet Draco’s. Draco forced himself not to
look away, not to back down in the face of Potter’s compassion.
“You know it’s true,” he said, lowering his arm. “You, more than anyone. You know the things I
did.”
“Yes, I do. And that’s why you can believe me when I tell you, this is not who you are. At least
it’s not all you are. It’s just a part.”
Potter’s hand reached out toward Draco, stopped, hung hesitantly in the space between them.
They both dropped their gaze to watch as Potter’s fingers curled closed before stretching open
again, reaching, landing with a touch as light as breath on Draco’s chest, on the thin silvery scar
that ran alongside his heart and down to his hip.
“Just like this is a part of me,” Potter whispered.
Draco’s breath caught in his throat, and for a moment he couldn’t speak. He struggled, gave a
small cough. When he managed to get words out, his voice sounded faint and winded. “Potter, we
both know you didn’t know what that spell did.”
Potter’s fingers ghosted over the scar, the barely-there touch sending sparks of sensation racing
across Draco’s skin. “Maybe not, but I did mean to hurt you. I wanted to hurt you, enough that I
didn’t care what it did. None of us is all good, Malfoy. All of us have darkness. All of us crave
things we shouldn’t. All of us have weak moments, act selfishly, make the easy choice, do the
wrong thing.”
“You don’t. Not really.”
Potter’s hand fell back to his side. He looked up and caught Draco’s eye again. “Did you know I
cast a Cruciatus on Amycus Carrow? I didn’t even have a good reason for it; there were a hundred
other spells I could have used instead. I did it because I wanted to, because he spat on Professor
McGonagall.”
It should have been shocking – and in a way, Draco supposed it was – but it still seemed like a
drop in a bucket compared to Draco’s crimes. “He probably had it coming anyway,” he said. He
tried for a wry smile, though he wasn’t sure he quite succeeded.
Potter’s expression was grim. “That’s not the point.”
“I know.”
Potter’s eyes dropped back to Draco’s chest. His hand came up as though he would touch it again,
but he didn’t. “I am sorry for this.”
Draco swallowed. “I know that, too.”
Potter reached for Draco’s left wrist, fingers encircling it. He turned Draco’s arm, exposing the
Dark Mark again. His hand was warm against Draco’s skin, and Draco felt a shiver go through
him that he was sure had nothing to do with spell damage.
Potter glanced up at him, concerned. “Does it hurt? Your arm?”
Draco shook his head. “No, not really. It just has a tremor sometimes. It gets worse when it’s
strained.”
Harry’s other hand came up, fingers skimming gently over the Dark Mark.
“Don’t!” Draco gasped. “God, don’t touch it!” He tried to snatch his arm back but Potter tightened
his grip.
“Why not?”
“You know why not.”
Potter gave him a long, considering look. Then he pulled on Draco’s wrist, bringing Draco’s arm
up. Closer. He pressed a kiss to the inside of Draco’s wrist. Potter’s lips were soft and warm and
the shock of it stole the air from Draco’s lungs. He dragged in a great, shuddering breath.
Potter pressed another kiss to Draco’s skin, this time a little further up his forearm, right under the
curling tail of the Dark Mark’s snake. Potter’s lips parted slightly, the wet heat of his breath
scorching Draco’s skin. His mouth moved up further still, pink lips sliding over the black burn of
the Mark with aching tenderness. Again and again, Potter pressed his mouth to Draco’s scarred
skin. He took his time, covering every inch of the Dark Mark with soft kisses and then continuing
on to the pale, clear skin above it, all the way to the crook of Draco’s elbow. Draco watched his
progress, frozen, still labouring for breath, his eyes stinging.
Potter lowered Draco’s arm but didn’t release it. He gave Draco a searching look.
“Let me guess,” Draco said, and his voice sounded as unsteady as he felt. “This isn’t about me,
right?”
Something flared in Potter’s eyes and his hand tightened around Draco’s wrist. “Oh no,” he said,
and Draco was pleased to hear a catch in Potter’s voice, too. “This is definitely about you.”
Potter pulled on his arm, hauled him closer until they were touching everywhere – chests,
stomachs, hips, thighs. Potter’s hand gripped the back of Draco’s neck, dragging him closer still,
and even though Draco knew what was about to happen, he still couldn’t believe it when Potter’s
lips touched his. The sensation jolted through him, singing along every nerve, every synapse, until
his entire body was humming with it.
Potter’s mouth was hot and wet and sure as it moved against Draco’s. Potter kissed him like he
meant it, like it wasn’t just a spur of the moment impulse. Like he’d been thinking about it for a
while. Draco’s lips parted under Potter’s, inviting more. His hands came up to grip Potter’s body,
and even through the thick wool of his jumper, Draco could feel Potter’s too-thin frame, all bony
ribs and whipcord muscle. Thoughts of the war and its aftermath threatened but then Potter’s
tongue pushed into his mouth and Draco’s brain shut up except for yes and want and more.
Things were just starting to get interesting, Potter’s fingers just starting to skim along the
waistband of Draco’s pyjamas, when the door swung open and Theodore Nott strolled through.
All three of them froze.
Nott’s eyes went wide. Draco didn’t dare glance at Potter, but he could imagine how they must
look: him half-naked, arms around Potter, pulling him close. Potter’s body pressed tight against
his, fingers dipping below the edge of Draco’s pyjamas. The two of them sharing a kiss that was
all tongues and teeth and clearly headed somewhere.
Nott paled and stumbled backwards. “Sorry,” he stammered. “I’ll just...”
He disappeared back out through the door, closing it behind him. The whole thing took less than
five seconds.
Draco didn’t move, couldn’t move. He just stared mutely at the back of the door, his body stock-
still, his mind almost the same, until he felt Potter’s hands fall from his waist. He blinked slowly,
lowered his hands, and turned to face him.
Potter was looking at him with concern. “You okay?”
Draco fought the urge to laugh. He wasn’t okay. He was so far from okay that he didn’t even
know what okay looked like. Potter had kissed him. Had kissed his mouth and his bloody Dark
Mark and everything that had been confusing him for months had suddenly become clear, and
then Nott – fucking Nott, the biggest gossip Slytherin had, and that included all the girls – had
come in and, oh god...
“Malfoy?” Potter waved a hand in front of Draco’s face.
Draco willed himself to calm. There was no reason to panic. So they had kissed, so what? It
wasn’t like he hadn’t kissed a boy before. And so Nott was going to tell people. It wasn’t like
anyone was going to be particularly surprised. There was nothing to be nervous about.
Except that he hadn’t just kissed anyone. He’d kissed Potter.
God, he’d kissed Potter.
His eyes drifted to Potter’s mouth, those pink lips that just seconds ago had been on his, hot and
wet and moving...
“Malfoy,” Potter said again, more firmly this time.
Draco shook himself. He schooled his features into a less dazed expression and met Potter’s gaze.
“Yes?”
Potter nodded towards the door where Nott had been. “Is this going to cause problems for you?”
Though Draco had only ever discussed his sexuality with a handful of people, most of Slytherin
had assumed he preferred boys since fourth year – apparently, spending all of his time ogling
Viktor Krum had been a bit of a giveaway. Even his parents had managed to draw the correct
conclusion, though they’d never spoken about it directly. No, he’d be fine. Potter, on the other
hand...
“For me, no,” Draco said. “You might be in some trouble, though. Nott’s got a big mouth.”
Potter shrugged. “Makes no difference to me.”
Draco paused, caught off guard by Potter’s response. “I thought you didn’t want people knowing
you were...” He trailed off awkwardly, unsure what words Potter used to describe himself. Hell,
even with his frequent fantasies about Krum, it had taken Draco over a year to even let himself
think the word gay.
Potter, however, seemed unfazed. “It’s not a secret, Malfoy. I don’t care if people know I’m gay.”
“But-” Draco started and then faltered, unsure if he should be asking, what he had the right to ask
after only a kiss.
“But what?” Potter prompted.
Draco shook his head. “Nothing, I’m just surprised, I suppose. With all the talk the last couple of
months, you’ve never really said anything. I assumed you were trying to keep it quiet.”
A dark look flickered over Potter’s face, there and then gone again. “I haven’t said anything
because I don’t respond to rumours. It’s not worth my time.”
“But people know?”
Potter nodded. “The people who matter.”
“Weasley?”
Potter raised his eyebrows in amusement. “There are a lot of Weasleys, Malfoy.”
Draco rolled his eyes. “The girl one.”
Potter’s amusement faded. “Yes.”
“Smith?”
“Oh,” Potter said, seeming surprised at the question. “I never told him, but, yeah, I suppose he
knows. From what Tom told me, Zach was at the Leaky with some mates, saw me go upstairs
with a bloke and started spouting off about it. Thought he was being funny. Unfortunately, there
happened to be a Prophet reporter a few seats over. Bought Zach a pint or two and encouraged
him to keep talking. I doubt Zach even knew what was going on.”
“But your fight...?”
“I tried to talk to him about it. He got defensive, said some things I didn’t like. Things kind of
escalated from there.” Potter shrugged again.
“And the bloke?” Draco asked, trying to keep his tone casual, as if the question was no different
from the ones that preceded it.
Potter’s sly smile told him he hadn’t succeeded. “David Creevey. Colin’s older brother. Muggle.
We spent some time together over the summer. He wanted to know more about Colin’s life here,
what he was fighting for. Nothing serious ever happened between us, but, well, it was enough that
I couldn’t pretend anymore.”
“Hmm,” Draco hummed noncommittally, trying not to have a reaction to the thought of Potter
alone in a rented room with some Muggle boy.
Apparently, though, it wasn’t as noncommittal as he thought because Potter’s smile widened and
when he spoke, there was laughter in his voice. “So are we good?” He stepped closer and his
hands came to rest on Draco’s hips. “Any other burning questions?”
There were – about a million of them, actually – but Draco shook his head. If there’s one thing the
last few months had taught him, it was the value of knowing when to stop talking. Besides which,
his mouth had gone strangely dry the second Potter’s hands had landed on his bare skin.
He reached for Potter, pulled him close, pressing their bodies together as they’d been before. The
wool of Potter’s jumper scratched against Draco’s chest and stomach, a raspy itch that contrasted
with the smoothness of Potter’s hands. Potter’s mouth found his, the kiss insistent and needy. He
licked at Draco’s lips, nipped at the corners of his mouth, and his hand slipped beneath the
waistband of Draco’s pyjamas to find the curve of his arse, skin to heated skin. Potter groaned and
whispered Draco’s name into the hot, wet space between kisses. Draco couldn’t catch his breath
long enough to answer, but it didn’t matter. Talking was overrated, anyway. Indeed, sometimes
life really did go better when he shut up entirely.
~The End~
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