Staggered

Mist. It encompasses the graveyard, oppressive and threatening in its bleak melancholy. The air is icy and deathly still; as motionless as the corpses that lay beneath the damp earth and stone.

Beyond the uniformed rows of dirty grey headstones and rotting flowers, light flickers dimly and the soft hum of human activity can be heard. It should be comforting, an affirmation of his recent victory for Wizardkind, but in the depths of the shadowy cemetery it only serves as a cruel reminder of extinguished life.

His knees ache from crouching; he doesn’t know how long he’s been there and it doesn’t matter anyway because the pain is nothing compared to that in his chest. Staring unblinkingly at the freshly ploughed soil, Harry gives up all pretence of leaving in the near future and slides down onto mud and sun-starved grass.

“How could you?”

There is no one to hear him, yet still he manages barely a whisper. “After everything you went through, all the sacrifices you made, how could you just fucking die?”

Silent tears well up in green eyes; eyes that have already experienced far too much misery in the course of such a young life. Glistening drops cling hopelessly to dark lashes until he blinks, fresh tracks coursing down a face already stained by grief. Harry becomes aware of a soft footfall and brushes the errant tears away. He ignores the approaching crunch of leaves and does not turn to see who stops behind him.

“What are you doing here, Potter?”

“Don’t. Just go away,” he warns. He has no patience for bouts of old schoolboy enmity. Not anymore and definitely not here.

Draco stays in the shadows. He stands quietly behind the hunkered form for a while, and when no further objections are forthcoming, sits on the other side of the grave in a mirror image of Harry.

The two boys (for they are still very much boys, despite their developed masculine bodies) sit in silence, occasionally both lifting their heads to observe each other. This seems an unspoken challenge, one that Harry has no intention of forfeiting. He’s never let Draco beat him and he isn’t going to start now.

“I’m not going anywhere, so if you’re waiting for me to leave, you’d better make yourself comfortable,” he says defensively.

Draco merely blinks in reply and returns his gaze to the inscribed headstone.

“Why should it bother you if I’m here anyway?” Harry continues in a rush of breath, annoyed that his presence should be unwelcome.

“It doesn’t bother me, Potter, I just don’t understand it. Shouldn’t you be receiving accolades at the Ministry or celebrating with your girlfriend?”

Harry snorts. “I take it you don’t read the Prophet then?”

“Not if I can help it.” Draco shifts uncomfortably against the hard ground and leans back, supporting his weight on his hands.

“Ginny and I broke up.” Harry says evenly. Imparting Malfoy with this information is of no consequence to him since the entire wizarding world already knows. He’s pretty sure Draco must already know, despite what he says.

“What a shame,” Draco sneers, “I’m sure you’ll find a replacement quick enough, there isn’t a witch alive you couldn’t have.”

Harry’s stomach cramps with frightening intensity. How disturbingly ironic Malfoy’s words are, given that he doesn’t want a living witch, he wants a dead wizard.

Harry gestures at the grave and pulls his cloak tighter to ward off the evening chill. “He saved my life but I couldn’t do the same for him.”

Draco hums in reluctant agreement but studiously avoids eye contact.

“There were so many things I wanted to say to him, that I still need to say and I can’t...I can’t,” Harry chokes on the words as a wave of grief surges through his veins, clawing inside his chest. He cannot cry anymore, for tears simply fail to adequately express the hopelessness of the situation. For that he is partially glad, because he would hate for Draco to see him cry.

“He was a good man,” Draco admits carefully.

Harry glares at him, eyes burning with naked accusation, “Is that all you can say? You heartless, fucking prick. He’s dead and we’re never going to see him again. How can you sit there and be so fucking blasé about it?”

Draco shrugs, apparently unconcerned. “It won’t bother you for long, Potter. You’ll move on with your life and forget about him soon enough. With all the endless parties and awards celebrating the Chosen One, and the pathetic hoards of women that will be throwing themselves at your feet, desperate for a celebrity fuck, sooner or later you’ll fall in love and end up playing the good little husband and father for the rest of your natural life.”

Harry’s rage builds steadily during Dracos’ haughty forecast. As soon as the last word is uttered, he explodes.

“You fucking idiot, Malfoy! I loved him! I was in love with him!”

Harry shudders violently with an unstable mix of white fury and blessed relief; relieved at having long last vocalised his repressed turmoil, truly past caring that it is Malfoy who has been privy to his confession.

Everyone insists on telling him how brilliant it is that he protected Wizardkind, ridding the World of the plague that was Voldemort and effectively ensuring bright futures for them all; but what of his own hopes and dreams? He had not been capable of protecting the man whose entire life’s work was shielding him from immeasurable dangers.

He had not managed to save that man from a travesty of a death, when all Harry had wanted was for the war to be over with them both alive so that he could admit his feelings; not without fear of rejection certainly, but at least without worry that he was recklessly endangering either of them by doing so.

Too little, too late.

Harry pulls his knees into his chest and rests his forehead against them, arms wrapped tightly around his calves to prevent Malfoy seeing his anguish. Harry knows he is being watched; he can feel flinty eyes crawling all over him.

“That’s a ridiculous thing to say,” Draco comments, though he doesn’t sound especially convinced, “You hated him.”

Harry grinds his knees into his eye sockets until white static bursts across his retinas. “No I didn’t. I hated the things he did, but they were always for a reason, I know that now. I doubted him so many times, convinced myself he was a traitor. I mean, what else was I supposed to think when he killed Dumbledore? That night, in the tower, I wanted to kill him, I tried to kill him. I did hate him for that, yes I did, but it didn’t stop me wishing things were different; it just made everything so much more complicated. And then he died, and I found out they had been different, that he was with us all along. With me. But now he isn’t because he’s dead, and I can’t tell him.”

Nausea scales his throat, threatening an interruption to the damning admission but Harry thickly swallows the acrid taste back down. “Not that he’d care, I’m sure. Probably just sneer at me and call me pathetic or something...”

Harry recalls the dark glare of Snape’s narrowed eyes, eyes that sought to intimidate, but only succeeded in leaving him oddly excited. “Now I know what he felt and I know what he thought, but he was wrong. He needs to know he was wrong about me.”

“A lot of us were wrong, Potter, about many things.” Draco rises unsteadily and brushes at the dirt clinging to his trousers.

“Are you going?” Harry asks quietly. He had been less than thrilled by Draco’s arrival, his presence rudely interrupting yet another private moment of despair. But since he is here, and allowing Harry to talk freely, Harry is rather deflated at the thought of being alone again.

“Yes, and so should you.” Draco tells him, hesitating before adding, “There are things about Severus you might like to know. Come with me if you want.”

Harry is instantly affronted that Malfoy should dare to address the dead man by his given name when he himself has never been given the right to do so, but the offer is sorely tempting and his mouth stays firmly shut. Legs numbed right down to the bone marrow, Harry wobbles to his feet.

“Where are we going?” he asks, taking a step towards the taller boy.

Draco studies him intently and doesn’t answer. Harry holds firm under the scrutiny, having long become accustomed to it. Nothing Draco can say or do is likely to hurt him anymore, not that it ever truly did, he realises with a jolt. Their hostility had been childish playground rivalry, for the most part, but when it had turned serious, when tested, when the stakes were high and the time for house rivalry was long past and of no consequence, Draco had come through.

A pale finger reaches out and touches his lip, the slightest brush of warmth and then it is gone.

“Your lips are blue,” Draco offers by way of explanation when Harry looks at him quizzically. He takes a step back and turns away, moving towards the weather-beaten path without looking back.

Harry watches Draco retreat gracefully until the mist envelops him. It wraps his body in an ethereal blanket, making him look transparent and ghostly. Chills runs down Harry’s spine and he turns back to face the sepulchre.

“I’ll be back soon,” he whispers reassuringly, perhaps more to himself than to the rectangular patch of disturbed earth at his feet. A gentle breeze steals across him, ruffling his hair and causing his eyes to water. Not for the first time, his eyes trace the curve of the script engraved on the headstone; a pointless act when he has long since committed it to memory.

***

“Where are we?” Harry says, staring up at the unfamiliar terraced house and shifting his feet against the uneven cobbled surface beneath them.

“Spinner’s End,” Draco replies, scowling as if Harry’s question had been spectacularly stupid.

The row of houses appears gloomy and hopeless against the darkening sky. Harry’s teeth chatter rhythmically as he shivers. His discomfort has either been induced by the biting wind or conceived from the acute sense of misery the place radiates. Perhaps both. Either way, he is filled with a creeping despair.

“Is this where he lived?” he asks, turning to face Draco.

A rusting lamppost nearby blinks unsteadily, casting an orange glow across Draco’s fine features before it shorts out again and he is shaded blue in the dusky twilight. Harry can’t help but appreciate the aristocratic beauty of the man in such an ugly setting.

“Yes,” Draco says.

He starts to walk the few steps to the door, but Harry doesn't immediately follow him.

“Are you coming in or not?" he asks Harry. "If it isn’t up to your standards, you can always piss off again.”

“That’s a term for Apparating I haven’t heard before,” Harry shoots back, clenching his jaw and striding purposefully towards the battered front door. Flakes of yellowed paint have peeled off, and a thin layer of the debris coats the concrete doorstep. Draco ignores Harry’s approach and draws his wand, quietly unlocking the door with a softly spoken incantation that Harry can’t quite make out, yet strains to hear nonetheless. The latch snicks quietly and Draco pushes the door open, moving aside to let Harry past.

Stepping into the lounge with a barely concealed gasp, he stops and surveys the room. The street and surrounding area were positively rays of architectural sunshine in comparison to this. Books line every inch of spare wall, from the threadbare carpet to the fractured ceiling. A shabby settee, an unstable looking chair, and an ancient coffee table housing a thick sheet of dust, all convene in the centre of the room.

Harry feels his legs weakening and wonders if Draco has cast a Jelly-Legs Jinx on him, but as much as he would prefer that to be true, he knows it is caused by the proximity of artefacts Snape would have been thoroughly familiar with. Part of him wants to turn and run, pound the grimy cobblestones until he’s far away from this wretched house and all the gut-wrenching insight it surely holds, but his feet and heart refuse to oblige.

On uncertain legs he goes to the chair, reaching out to lightly skim a finger over the tattered fabric of the arm. Disappointment rips through him when there is neither discernable trace of residual enchantment nor a hint of that powerful, intoxicating magical signature.

Draco clears his throat from the doorway, forcing Harry to remember he isn’t alone. He resents Draco’s presence and wants to be left alone with all the objects that might give him a taste of what he is thirsty for; knowledge of Severus Snape.

“When did you last eat?” Draco’s voice reverberates around the tiny room, his harsh tone appearing to disturb the dormant dust, but Harry fancies it is just his imagination.

“Yesterday, maybe the day before, I don’t know.” He doesn’t care, either.

“Don’t be a prat, Potter. What use will you be if you starve yourself to death?” Draco sneers.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, Malfoy, my purpose has already been fulfilled. Voldemort is dead, isn’t he?”

Draco shifts uneasily. “Yes, well, even so. I doubt the Ministry will be too impressed if The Boy Who Lives wastes away to nothing. I’ll be back soon.”

Before Harry can protest or even ask where he’s going, Draco leaves. The soft clicking sound indicative of expensive footwear moves across the pavement and fades into the distant rumbling of traffic.

Harry sighs, and straightens his back, moving toward the broad wall of books, caressing the worn spines respectfully. Which ones had Severus liked best? Found most engaging, most useful? Which ones had he scorned, disagreed with, thrown across the room in temper?

Harry smiles grimly as his palm comes to rest on a battered potions textbook, not unlike the one he had used in sixth year. Scrawled inside the cover are the words ‘Property of the Half Blood Prince.’

Harry’s chest tightens painfully at seeing the familiar handwriting. He licks a fingertip and turns page after page, surprised and yet not surprised at all to see the altered passages of text and additional margined comments. The man had been meticulous, thorough and utterly brilliant. But Harry already knew that, didn’t he?

Harry moves toward the chair with the textbook in his hands, and as he glances back at the bookshelves, he notices the outline of a door, barely distinguishable beneath the endless dusty tomes. A small tug on the bookshelf reveals a steep, narrow staircase. Harry glances back over his shoulder as if he were being watched before ascending the dusty steps. He treads with care, wincing as a stair groans under his weight. The cracked walls bear nothing but cobwebs and shadows. At the top on each side there are two closed doors that look completely uninviting, except to all but the most determined or desperate of people. Harry opens the door to the left, first.

The streetlamp blinks randomly through the discoloured, tattered curtains. Harry squints into the gloom, shouting and jumping back in fright when his leg bumps something solid. Lumos reveals a desk as the offending object, and Harry lets out a loud sigh of relief. The air thickens with disturbed dust particles. They swirl around his face, illuminated by his wand, and are not at all pleasant to feel creeping up his nose. Apart from the desk and a chair, nothing else piques his curiosity. Harry decides to check out the other room and revisit this one later, should he get the chance before Draco returns.

Crossing the narrow hallway, he enters the second room. Despite the rotting plaster and peeling wallpaper, despite the thick, dank musty smell that threatens to overwhelm him, his spirits soar at the sight of the scrupulously tidy bedroom. The painstaking orderliness is pure Snape.

The smallest double bed Harry has ever seen is pushed into the far corner, leaving just enough space for a single wardrobe and chest of drawers, all carved out of the same treacle coloured wood as the bed frame. He wonders how long it has been neglected. Neglected and abandoned, like the man who owns it. Owned it. Who would own it now? With a pang, he realises he knows nothing about any family Snape might have had. He makes a mental note to grill Malfoy on the subject and recasts Lumos, setting the wand down on the chest of drawers, tip dangling over the edge.

The wardrobe reveals a rack of pristine black robes and long legged trousers that look like they have been ironed to within an inch of their life. Three stiff white shirts add the only contrast of colour and Harry slips one off of its hanger, drawing it to his face. His eyes close and he inhales deeply, desperate to catch a suggestion of the man, but the shirt only emits an oddly clean scent, not at all like Harry remembers.

And he does remember. He thinks back to painfully endured detentions when he let his eyes shine with undisguised hatred and at the same time allowed his nose to be filled with a peculiar fragrance as Snape hovered over him. The clarity with which he can recall Occlumency lessons is far sharper; it was a double-edged sword to be aroused by the smell of a man he both despised and yearned for. The duplicity had sickened him then, and the sensation has not faded with time; the only difference now being that Harry isn’t torn between desire and disgust, he’s eclipsed between love and loss.

“Dinner’s ready.”

The shirt slips through his fingers and he stumbles backwards against the wardrobe door. The sudden weight invites the hinges to creak before he hears it splintering. Harry finds his feet and leaps away, glaring at the willowy form leaning against the doorframe.

“For fuck’s sakes! Do you have to be such an arse all the time?” Harry spits, angry at having been discovered and angrier still at jumping out of his skin like a bloody first year.

“I called out, twice, from downstairs,” Draco says coldly, body stiffening in defence.

Harry is thrown off balance by the reply. He had expected mockery; hadn’t stopped to consider that Malfoy might not have intentionally been trying to frighten him for his own amusement.

“Malfoy, I...”

“As I said, dinner’s ready. Make sure you pick that shirt up before coming down.”

Harry watches him disappear and bites his tongue to keep from retorting that of course he was going to pick the bloody shirt up, he’s not a slob, nor is he discourteous.

The wardrobe door bears no outward sign of abuse, so Harry replaces the shirt and follows Draco out of the bedroom.

***

Halfway down the stairs, the delicious tang of salt and vinegar assails his nostrils, and he follows it to the kitchen. Not surprisingly it is pokey and sparse like the rest of the house, with only the most practical of out-dated furnishings.

Draco is peeling back endless layers of newspaper and without looking up, pushes the other bundle so forcefully that it slides the length of the table, stopping an inch short of falling onto the floor.

Harry takes the furthest seat away from him, nearest the door he’s just come through, and silently acknowledges just how famished he really is. The unwrapped fish and chips rouse his appetite even more and he tucks in hungrily.

“You could demonstrate some manners and use cutlery,” Draco says, pointedly spearing a flake of fish with his fork.

“Everyone eats fish and chips with their fingers,” Harry argues around a mouthful.

Draco’s lip curls in disgust but he does not look away, merely continues to watch as Harry traps chips and hunks of fish alike between his thumb and forefinger before shovelling them into his enthusiastic mouth. Harry is just as amused to watch Draco coaxing the food from the fork with a precise flick of his tongue before closing his lips around it.

They eat quickly and silently, intent only on the basic instinct of replenishing.

“God, that was delicious,” Harry groans appreciatively. Catching Draco’s indignant look, he adds, “Thank you.”

Draco makes a small noise that Harry interprets as ‘You’re welcome,’ or ‘It was a pleasure,’ but in truth is likely something far less civil.

“I think I’ll just go back upstairs, if that’s okay with you,” Harry says, more as a courtesy than because he expects Draco to have a problem with it.

“Actually, it isn’t. I need to leave soon, so perhaps we can arrange for you to visit properly another day,” Draco says casually, staring Harry down even though he’s sitting and Harry is already on his feet, poised to go.

“Draco, I just want half an hour,” Harry argues gently, fighting down the urge to hex the superior little bastard.

Draco draws his wand and Harry’s hand moves like lightning to cover his pocket.

“For fuck’s sake Potter, paranoid or what?”

Harry watches the other boy warily, and only relaxes when he sees the wand is aimed at the table, apparently for nothing more harmful than clearing away the dinner mess.

“Incendio,”

A fireball erupts and engulfs the table, flames curling and licking as high as the ceiling. Draco flies backwards and hits the far wall, sliding down awkwardly to land in a crumpled heap. Harry pulls his own wand and shouts ‘Aguamenti’, repeatedly dousing the flames until only the stench of charred wood remains.

Harry’s eyes widen as a disgruntled Draco picks himself up off the floor. He can’t help it; he begins to laugh.

“Find that funny, do you, Potter?” Draco barks aggressively, striding across the room and grabbing Harry roughly by his collar.

Short angry breaths ghost Harry’s lips as Draco’s eyes blaze ferociously, less than an inch from his own.

He comes to his senses and pushes Draco away.

“Fuck off, Malfoy. I didn’t deliberately laugh, it was just funny.”

Draco steps back but continues to point his wand at Harry, so Harry puts his away. As usual, he supposes he will have to be the bigger man.

“You think it’s funny I can’t control my magic?” Draco accuses.

“What? Of course not. What do you mean you can’t control it? I just thought you’d botched the spell,” Harry pulls out the blackened kitchen chair and thinks better of it since it’s still smoking.

“Look, can we sit down? It’s been a pretty weird fucking day.”

Without waiting for an answer, he makes his way to the lounge and sinks into the sofa. He knows Draco won’t follow immediately because that would be tantamount to conceding to Harry’s demand. His instinct is quite correct; it is a full five minutes, if not closer to six, before Draco reappears and takes up the armchair. Harry is quietly thankful for the distinct lack of visible wand in the vicinity.

“What did you mean when you said you can’t control your magic? Since when?”

Draco huffs, “Since you finished him off. Everything I cast is practically uncontrollable. Too powerful to manage. It’s getting better but as you so gleefully witnessed, some spells, particularly ones I haven’t tried since then, end up grossly exaggerated.”

“Why didn’t you just Banish the mess? Why use Incendio?”

“I haven’t used that spell since before...I wanted to test it and since Banishing had some pretty dire consequences last time, I wasn’t too keen on trying it again.”

Harry holds a smirk in check and refrains from asking what the dire consequences were. Bizarrely enough, he finds himself hoping it had something to do with clothes.

“Well it’s a good thing though, isn’t it? To gain more power? You just need someone who can help you manage it.”

The words are out of his mouth even as his brain mercilessly attacks him with images of Snape as a suitable candidate. If Draco notices the fleeting grimace across Harry’s face, he doesn’t draw attention to it.

“I’m not saying it’s necessarily a bad thing, Potter, but I would prefer to know how it happened. Magical capacity does not just increase exponentially overnight.”

“Yours did,” Harry says flippantly, crossing his legs at the ankle and folding his arms across his chest.

Draco has no recourse so he says nothing. They sit in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts.

“Did he have family? I mean, who will the house go to?” Harry’s eyes are closed and he hears a distant, fragmented voice that sounds like his own, asking the question.

“No, he didn’t and the house is under my protection,” Draco says plaintively.

Harry’s eyes fly open and he sits up straight. “You? Why would he leave it to you?”

“Why wouldn’t he? Besides, I didn’t say he’d left it to me, I said it was under my protection,” Draco retorts irritably, punctuating the last three words as though he is talking a particularly dim three year old.

Harry says nothing, but emotions are swarming through his head like angry bees after stolen honey. He knows he has no right to challenge Draco’s ownership of Spinner’s End; hell, Harry himself hadn’t even known it existed until this evening, until Draco had found him in the graveyard and offered to bring him here, to see Snape’s things. Why would he do that?

The question goes unanswered and gets lost among the myriad of conflicted issues. He didn’t expect the house to be left to him, of course he didn’t! Snape hated his guts and everyone knew it. Except he didn’t, really did he? He wouldn’t have risked his life for someone he truly loathed, surely? Yeah, so Snape harboured guilt for causing his mother’s death when he was supposed to have been her friend but what would it matter to her if Snape hadn’t looked out for him? She was dead and he hadn’t pledged an Unbreakable Vow to protect her only son, had he? Perhaps it really was just all about ensuring he got rid of Voldemort...

Regardless though, the house...Harry doesn’t need this house, he has inheritances from Sirius and his parents, but by God he wants it. It has to be the ugliest, most run-down, ramshackle place ever to have had the misfortune to be built, but he wants it so badly he can practically taste his desperation.

“How much?”

“Pardon?” Draco inclines his head and stares at him in confusion.

“How much do you want? For this house and everything in it. I want to buy it off you, Draco.”

The confusion turns into a scowl. “It isn’t for sale.”

“Seriously, name your price. Whatever you want for it.” Harry leans forward in anticipation, blood rushing through his ears. If he can just have this one thing for himself, this one place...

“Let’s get some things straight, Potter. I don’t need your money and even if I did, even if this house was for sale, even if it was legally mine, I still wouldn’t sell it to you. I wouldn’t let you have this house if I were under Imperio and you were the Minister of Magic.”

Harry is not the slightest bit perturbed as he rallies on. “Why not? Come on, Draco. What could you possibly want with it? I can’t see you living here, raising a perfect little Purebrood in an obviously Muggle town!”

“I wouldn’t sell it to you because you need to move on with your life and forget this bloody obsession you have.”

“It’s not an obsession!” Harry explodes, feet itching to get up and pace out his anger, “I loved him, I loathed him, I hated his fucking guts and yet I wanted to fuck his brains out; do you have any idea how closely linked those emotions are? Do you even know what a fucking emotion is, Draco?”

Draco juts his chin defiantly in Harry’s direction, “Yes, however unlike some, I don’t feel the need to broadcast them at every opportunity.”

“You’re impossible,” Harry pronounces, throwing his hands skywards. “Well, your house or not, I’m going upstairs and I’ll leave when I’m good and ready. If you don’t like it, you know what you can do.”

Harry climbs the stairs two at a time, anticipating a hex that never comes. He closes the bedroom door firmly behind him, leaning against it just long enough to be certain Draco isn’t going to storm up after him and throw him out of the house.

Deciding that the wardrobe has probably had enough of a hammering for one day, Harry pulls open the top drawer of the chest, deflated by the distinct lack of anything. The same is true of the next three drawers and Harry hardly shows any enthusiasm for the fifth, until it reveals a yellowed piece of parchment. He reaches gingerly for it, excited and frightened at the same time.

His pulse quickens in recognition of his own handwriting, overlapped by great red scrawls of Snape’s. It’s a DADA essay he wrote in sixth year, nothing remotely special about it at all, but it’s here, in Snape’s house, and Harry is elated. He traces a finger over the dried red ink, where the quill scratched harsh condemning words, the usual biting comments. Harry holds it to his chest and closes his eyes.

A soft knock brings him out of his daydream and he reluctantly puts the parchment away and closes the drawer before telling Draco to come in.

“Potter, it’s ridiculously late...”

“Yes, I know, you want me to leave. I just...thank you, for letting me come here...” Harry twists his body away so that Draco cannot tell by his expression how much he doesn’t want to go, how much leaving this house will reinforce the misery of the past month.

“Actually, I was going to suggest you stay the night. It’s obvious you haven’t had enough time yet and the appointment I had scheduled for this evening has long been missed.” Draco says, punctuating it with a haughty sigh.

Harry wheels around to face him, “Oh God, really? That would be great, I mean, I promise I’ll look after everything, you won’t have to worry...”

“You think I’d leave you here on your own? Merlin, how stupid do you think I am? We both stay, or we both go, Potter. Your choice.” Draco folds his arms and remains surly.

“Fine, then we both stay. I’ve got nothing...” Harry almost says ‘nothing better to do’, but manages to salvage a little pride, “...planned for tomorrow.”

“Right, well in that case, I suppose I should freshen the sheets.” Draco draws his wand and aims it at the musty bed.

“No!” Harry shouts, throwing his hands out, “Just, don’t okay? It’s fine as it is and besides, there’s no telling what might happen if you point that thing at it!”

Draco looks affronted. “I’m perfectly capable of performing a simple Scourgify and Freshen, Potter,”

“I don’t doubt it for a second, but I really don’t want to be picking fragrant flowers out of my arse for the next week if you accidentally overdo it.”

Draco throws him a challenging look. “Who said you were getting the bed? There’s a very comfortable settee downstairs.”

“So sleep on it then.” Harry sits on the edge of the bed and removes his shoes and socks, standing briefly to unbutton his jeans and tug them down.

Draco is watching uneasily from the doorway, wand still trained on the bed.

Harry pulls his jumper off in a fluid but overzealous movement that takes his t-shirt with it. He hadn’t planned on being quite so exposed, but the idea of being practically naked in Snape’s bed is rather a compelling one.

He climbs onto the mattress and pulls back the stiff sheets until he can slip underneath. He lays his head on the pillow and lets out a long, contented sigh when he catches just the faintest odour of sandalwood and unidentifiable herbs. This was the sensory memory he had been longing for. The faint stench of potions, grease and dungeons, haunting yet soothing at the same time. Snaking his hands under the pillow, he hugs it closer and inhales deeply again.

Draco’s breath catches in his throat and Harry turns to glare at him but Draco has moved from the doorway and is standing by the bed, staring down. His mouth is slightly ajar and he blushes under Harry’s questioning gaze, holding it briefly before hastening to retreat.

“You don’t have to go,” Harry offers, stopping him in his tracks. “If that sofa is as murderous to sleep on as it is to sit on, you’ll be better off in here.” Harry props himself lazily on an elbow and watches the unmoving blond head. He can almost hear the furious workings of the brain encased within.

“Sleep with you, Potter?” Draco snorts over his shoulder, “I don’t think so.”

“It’s just sleep, Draco, but suit yourself.” Harry plumps the pillow and sneezes when a cloud of dust escapes. He removes his glasses and places them on the windowsill before sinking his face into the cool-feathered comfort, rolling away from Draco onto his side to face the wall.

Harry hears a long, drawn out sigh and then the rustling of clothes being removed. He smiles a little as the bed dips beside him, Draco slipping between the sheets with quiet stealth.

“Glad you don’t always cut your nose off to spite your face,” Harry murmurs. “seeing as how it’s such a pretty nose.”

***

Part Two to be posted shortly.