Under the Manor

Harry woke in pain. His arse burned and his head throbbed. The one sensation was decidedly more welcome than the other. He groaned and flattened his hands over his eyes, trying to hold them in his skull. This was a hangover, he realized. This was definitely a hangover, and while it wasn’t the worst he had ever experienced, it definitely made the list. How much had he drunk last night? However much it had been, it had clearly been too much.

He turned his aching head and only then realized that he was not alone in the bed. Nor, for that matter, was it his bed.

Oh, technically it was; he was in Number 12, so everything there belonged to him, but this wasn’t the bed in the room that he ordinarily slept in. And that certainly wasn’t the person he ordinarily slept next to.

Memories of the night before started to come trickling back into Harry’s brain in a slow, hazy crawl. He found himself wincing several times, and not because of the pain in his skull—or his arse. That made him grin, although he tried not to let it.

Every single thing he had done last night had been a mistake, but he couldn’t force himself to regret any of it, not really. Not with an outcome so delightful, much as it shamed and horrified him that he felt that way. Harry groaned again and scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to ignore the smile he could feel beneath his fingers.

He looked around for his wand, planning to cast a quick charm so that things would be neat and tidy—or at least somewhat cleaner and less sticky—when Malfoy woke up, and for a moment Harry was quite dismayed not to find the thin sliver of holly-and-phoenix waiting for him on the nightstand. Then a little bit more of last night caught up with him, and he realized that the wand must still be on the floor, where it had fallen after he cast the charm to tie up—

Harry decided that the wand could stay there.

He blushed furiously, even though Malfoy was too asleep to see. Had he really tied Draco to the headboard and fucked him until he whimpered? Had he really fucked himself on Malfoy’s cock, afterward? He shifted uncomfortably, and felt that familiar, blissful burning ache in his arse, and knew that he had. Harry groaned aloud, and scrubbed his hands over his face, and barely noticed the pain from his hangover.

But he still couldn’t keep from grinning. He had done all that, hadn’t he? And oh, Merlin, it had been wonderful...

A faint, unintelligible murmur broke through Harry’s embarrassingly pleasant thoughts, and the limp form of Draco Malfoy stirred, just slightly, next to him. Harry’s breath caught in his throat. It occurred to him, quite suddenly, then he had no idea what to say.

This wasn’t exactly a one-night-stand but, even if it had been something so ordinary, Harry still would have been at a loss. He had never had a one-night-stand before. He had never even had sex with anyone other than Ginny—well, except for Draco, three times now. Or four, depending on how one reckoned these things.

Harry wondered if his face was actually capable of catching fire. It felt like he might soon find out. He screwed his eyes shut and grimaced, then forced a bland, innocent expression onto his face. Belatedly it occurred to him that he could have pretended to be asleep—but no, that would be cowardly, and anyway who knew what Malfoy might do in such a situation. The last thing Harry needed was for the arrogant ex-Death Eater to saunter downstairs half-dressed, and run into Harry’s Elf on the way to the floo.

Fortunately Kreacher knew that, on nights when Harry stayed out late, he tended to sleep for much of the morning, and prefer peace and quiet for the rest of it. With any luck, the Elf wouldn’t even show up to offer breakfast; he was used to Harry seeking him out, after all, when he wanted to be fed, so chances were good that Kreacher wouldn’t appear until he was called for...

Harry crossed his fingers, just in case it helped.

Then, unable to put it off any longer, he turned and looked at the pale figure lying next to him. He forced a smile that he hoped didn’t look too awkward and said, quietly, “morning.”

Draco groaned, long and softly, and trembling hands came up to press at eyes and temples. Clearly whatever pain Harry was in from his imbibition the night before, Malfoy was in quite a lot more. He debated briefly about summoning Kreacher to bring them both Hangover Draughts, but Harry knew that he would never dare invite the Elf into the room—not with company like that lying next to him.

“You all right?” he asked Draco, despite knowing the answer.

Malfoy moaned again. “Not in any way,” he replied, his words muffled by his hands.

Harry blinked speechlessly, surprised by such a bald admission.

“Er...right,” he said.

“What the hell happened?” Draco muttered.

Harry’s face was definitely going to catch fire. “Er,” he said again, his voice very small, “you don’t remember?”

“I don’t...don’t remember much of last night,” Malfoy said thickly. “Bit of a...of a blur.” He cleared his throat and grimaced a few times, as if trying to work the stiff muscles of his face back into functionality.

Harry swallowed very hard. “Oh,” he said. He really, really hoped that Draco wouldn’t ask for a detailed accounting of their activities. He didn’t think he would survive the process.

“Bit weird,” Draco murmured. He shifted on the bed, moving stiffly, then flinched. He blinked slowly, several times, then frowned as if deep in thought. He looked very pale, even taking into account his customary pallor. “Did we fuck?” he asked.

Harry’s cheeks burned. “Yes,” he said thickly.

“Ah,” said Draco. “That does explain a lot.”

Harry frowned. Even for waking up in a strange place with a pounding hangover, Malfoy was being uncharacteristically slow. Harry edged up onto an elbow and turned to look at the thin, angular form of the man lying next to him. “How much did you drink last night?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Draco replied. He sounded distant. “Rather a lot, I suppose...didn’t really seem like too much at the time, but...” He shrugged, his thin shoulders twitching against the sheets, and then winced again as the motion pulled sore muscles out of place. “I suppose I was wrong about that,” he said.

Harry nodded very slowly. “And...how was it?” he asked. He felt numb and heavy and as though he was fighting against silent screams inside his pounding head.

“How was what?” Malfoy asked tiredly.

“Your drinks,” said Harry. “Did they all...taste all right?”

“I don’t know, sure, of course,” Draco replied. He didn’t sound like he was paying attention. “A bit rubbish, actually, some of them—would have asked for my money back, if that Muggle liquor weren’t so cheap.”

“Rubbish...how?” Harry persisted. His throat felt very tight.

“I dunno, salty?” Draco glanced sideways at Harry and frowned at him like he was being deliberately stupid. “What the hell, Potter? My head feels like it’s going to split open, and you want a connoisseur’s assessment of the pub’s quality of alcohol?” He shook his head, very carefully. “Hire a taster or something, I don’t bloody care.”

“Malfoy...” The words seized in Harry’s throat, and he had to clear it loudly before he could try again, speaking very slowly and as though over a great distance: “Draco, I think...I think your drink was spiked.”

“What do you mean, spiked?” Draco asked. He didn’t sound interested in the answer.

“You know, like...like someone put something in it. Something not supposed to be there?”

“Don’t be daft, Potter,” came the immediate reply. “I was in the Muggle pub. The only other wizard in the vicinity was you, and you didn’t even show up until I was already leaving. Nobody dosed me with anything.”

“No, I think—I think one of the Muggles did.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Are you a complete idiot?” he asked. “Muggles can’t brew potions any more than they can handle a wand,” he sneered.

Harry felt very cold. “No, Muggles...” He cleared his throat again. “Muggles have drugs, Draco. Drugs and medicines and.... They work like potions. And...and sometimes at pubs, they’ll...they’ll put them in someone’s drinks, they’re called roofies, to make a person more...well...amenable.”

Draco was silent for a very long time. Then, “I see,” he said quietly.

“Shit,” said Harry. “Oh shit, Draco, I’m sorry, I didn’t know—I was drunk—I didn’t think—shit, I’m so sorry, I just—and you really were fighting, weren’t you, not just pretending—and I thought—I tied you up, and—oh, fuck, I didn’t mean to—”

“Do shut-up,” Draco interrupted him harshly. “Merlin, Potter, would you calm down? It’s not like you poisoned me and, frankly, if I was stupid enough to let some filthy Muggle slip something into my drinks—which I am not convinced I was, thanks—well, then I would quite have deserved whatever happened to me because of such pathetic imbecility.”

Harry shook his head, his eyes very wide and his face very pale. “No, Draco no, of course not, no one deserves—oh shit, I just...I didn’t mean to...I never would have...I didn’t—wouldn’t...”

Draco turned to stare at Harry, his own expression inscrutable. Then he gave a sharp laugh that, to Harry’s ears, sounded rather brittle.

“It’s not funny,” Harry said desperately.

“Of course it is,” Malfoy argued. His thin lips twisted in a smirk. “It’s bloody hilarious. Don’t you think?”

Harry mutely shook his head.

“Think about it,” Draco told him blithely. “I mean, it seems that things finally are somewhat equal now, after all.”

“That...that’s not...” Harry shook his head violently, no longer away of the way it throbbed. “That’s not what I wanted at all,” he said hoarsely.

“Of course it wasn’t,” Draco retorted smoothly. “That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

Harry felt sick, and not because of the hangover.

He must have been mugging pretty pathetically, because Draco snorted at him in tired amusement. “Stop being such a wangsty lion, Potter,” he told him coolly, “or at least go do it in another room. My head aches, and I’m exhausted.”

Draco rolled over and wrapped his fingers around his pillow. Although Harry couldn’t see the other man’s face, he was sure his eyes were closed.

“Are you all right?” Harry asked quietly.

“Perfectly,” Draco sneered. He didn’t say anything else after that, and gradually his breathing slowed into the rhythm of sleep. Harry sat for quite a while, starring at his back, and roiling with silent nausea. Eventually Harry reached over and, very softly, squeezed Draco’s shoulder. The other man didn’t react, so Harry dared a little bit more, and gently smoothed a few impossibly pale strands of hair off of Malfoy’s forehead. His skin felt tight and clammy, and Harry didn’t dare look at his face.

He feared that he might see the glimmer of drying tears.

Then Harry slipped out of bed, and dressed, and walked downstairs. He gave Kreacher the day off, much to the Elf’s disgruntlement, and then he made himself a pot of bitter coffee. He sat at the table in the sickly early-morning light, his hands clasped around a chipped blue mug.

Harry didn’t move for a long time. When he finally raised the cup to his lips, the coffee was dead cold.

Nearly three hours passed before Malfoy came downstairs. He limped gingerly as he walked, and winced several times on the staircase, but appeared otherwise perfectly composed. Certainly he looked impeccably neat, despite wearing the same clothing he had been in last night; the elegant pure-blood man obviously knew some sort of spell that removed wrinkles and rumples from fabric, and could make a shirt look as freshly-pressed as if it had just emerged from its drawer, rather than having spent the night in a pile on someone else’s floor.

His hair was smoothly combed and his face scrubbed and neither eyes nor cheeks bore any sign at all of tears. He looked tired, with dark smudges under his eyes, but appeared in no way distressed by any of the events of last night, or this morning. Harry thought Malfoy actually looked a little overly calm, but maybe that was just because he was himself a jangling bundle of queasy nerves.

“Morning,” Draco said, one eyebrow raising in the faintest of arches, like a greeting. He looked around Harry’s kitchen like he had never seen one before, but before he had to resort to the unpardonably gauche activity of pouring himself a cup, Harry jumped up and offered the coffee.

Draco took the cup perfectly politely, as if he and Harry had just met by appointment for a morning drink. They sat in silence—Harry tense, and Draco stiff—and drank their coffee. The forced normalcy had Harry’s nerves on end, like he was waiting for combat to begin.

“Your coffee is rubbish,” Draco eventually announced.

His voice, when he spoke, was curt, but no more so than usual. It still made Harry start violently, and slosh a hearty splash of the now-lukewarm liquid across his hands. “Sorry,” he said automatically. “I let it brew too long.”

“Clearly,” drawled Malfoy, one aristocratic eyebrow arched in amused derision.

Harry flushed and mopped up the mess while Draco watched coolly. He found that he couldn’t bring himself to meet Draco’s eyes, and poured himself another cup of coffee to avoid looking at the man sitting across from him. He didn’t add any milk or sugar, because doing so would have meant moving around Malfoy to the other counter, and Harry couldn’t bear the idea of being so close to the man he had just raped.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and fought against the tears that pricked at his eyes.

Draco just shrugged, supremely unconcerned. “Well, I don’t know what I expected, after seeing your performance in Potions Class for all those years,” he smirked.

Harry stared at him. “I...I meant...”

Draco waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t fret yourself,” he calmly reassured Harry. “I’ll have a proper breakfast when I get home. Speaking of, actually, I had best be off.” He stood up, wincing—Harry winced with him, far more violently than Draco had—and settled his cup primly upon its saucer. “Thanks for the hospitality, Potter,” he said.

Harry nodded because he could not speak.

Draco’s eyebrow twitched upwards. “You going to show me to the floo?” he prompted. “Not that I don’t know where it is, mind,” he added, as Harry scrambled awkwardly to his feet. “But it would hardly be polite for me to just go sauntering off through your house, now would it?”

Harry shook his head in agreement. He was reduced to mute head-gestures for conversation, because his tongue felt like it had swollen up to the size of a small boulder, and was threatening to choke him.

He led the way out to the living room, and the large fireplace that was a prerequisite in wizarding homes, and silently offered Draco the jar of floo powder. Harry swallowed hard and his hands shook, nearly spilling the silvery powder across the thick carpet. “Thanks,” said Malfoy, and took a pinch easily, as if he was not in any way upset by proximity to Harry.

“Draco...” Harry’s voice caught and his eyes burned. He bit his lip hard enough that he could taste the salty tang of blood in his mouth. Draco turned around on the hearth, looking back at Harry with an arched brow. “Yes?” he asked.

“Are you...are you sure you’re all right?” Harry whispered.

“Oh yes,” Draco said evenly, “everything should be fine now, thanks.” And then with a nod, and a burst of green flame, he was gone.

Harry dropped to the couch. He landed heavily, the jar of floo powder falling from his suddenly limp hands. It spilled out across the floor, glittering, like a silver pool of blood; like a wide, shining scar.