Hard Time

Chapter Twelve: Home, Bittersweet


Harry had thought this entire thing through very carefully, Draco found, as they prepared to Apparate to the Manor. He'd bought some of Draco's own clothes from his wardrobe, and Draco had to admit, there was something very encouraging about being properly dressed again and out of those horrid hospital gowns. Besides his school robes and several other formal robes (mostly black or a combination of black and green), he happened to enjoy wearing high-end Muggle suits. This one was more lightweight for the summer months, steel grey with a light green linen shirt. He rubbed his hand over the stiff starched collar, as Harry and he walked out of the hospital onto the busy streets of London, flanked by two nurses, supposedly to ensure that Draco cooperated in the transfer. Whatever.

A wave of disorientation, and they were standing in front of the Manor. The first thing Draco noticed was that no longer did the gate proudly display the Malfoy family crest; now instead it displayed what had to be Potter's crest. He looked at the dark windows and the overgrown garden, feeling a sudden piercing fear, imagining that Voldemort was still inside, watching his every move . . . but Voldemort was dead. The house was empty now. He swallowed and followed Harry through the gate.

Was it Draco's imagination, or did they both breathe a sigh of relief once they were inside and the door was closed?

There was a moment of silence, as Draco looked around noting missing pieces here and there--his mother's things, surely. "Are they in storage?" The silence seemed almost deafening. What was he doing here? This was crazy.

Harry nodded, looking uncomfortable. "I reckon they took all your mother's things before they sold the place. Just let me know if you see anything they might have missed." Ironically, but perhaps not surprisingly, Draco couldn't see a single thing that might belong to Potter anywhere.

As the silence between them grew unbearable, Draco finally headed for the stairs. "I presume my room is still my room?" He wasn't sure how to address Harry, of what their roles were going to be in this situation. Surely Harry couldn't possibly think himself the Healer, or teacher, and him the student? Or patient, for that matter. But he was an inmate still, even if the prison was far more to his liking. That, at any rate, had not changed. That still made Potter his jailer.

"Of course." Harry followed as they made their way upstairs. "I'll be honest--the first few nights here, I did sleep there. I mean my other choices were your parent's room--no thanks--or Bellatrix's. Or Voldemort's."

Draco felt his gaze pulled to the second door on the left, the guest bedroom that Voldemort had occupied while he had been living here. He could still feel a taint in the air, a hovering darkness there, though that could be his imagination. He shuddered. Voldemort's room had been too close to his for comfort. Some nights he had dreamed that Voldemort had been watching him sleep, smiling that awful smile which graced his face before one of Father's 'punishments' . . .

He hurried to duck into his room before he could think of more unpleasant memories. Slowly he looked around, trying to find something that would comfort him, that would remind him of happier times. Harry stood in the doorway looking uncomfortable. "I removed your old potions set--sorry, but I didn't exactly want you using it."

"That was almost Slytherin of you, Potter," Draco said, and he wasn't sure, but he thought he might actually be complimenting him. He glanced over at Harry. "And where are you sleeping tonight?" A sudden image came to him, of Harry striding forward and taking hold of him, shoving him to the bed . . . he shook his head to dispel it, heart pounding. Harry wasn't Pucey. He hadn't brought him here for that. Had he?

"I've been cleaning out Bellatrix's room and making it my own. Better than the other ones." If Harry had seen the fear in Draco, he made no sign of it. "You're probably tired--they said it would take you a few days to get your full strength back. You can sleep until dinner time--Kreacher can prepare whatever you like. He's going to be helping me watch over you."

And suddenly Draco was aware of just how bone-tired he was. Harry was right; he wasn't feeling at his best. He crossed over to lean against the bed, needing its support. "Kreacher?"

"My House Elf. He came with the house that Sirius left me when he died," Harry said, and there was still fresh grief in his voice. Draco flushed. Bellatrix had crowed for months about that little deed, offing her relative. But another House Elf? "What about Dobby?"

If anything Harry only turned more pale. "He died when I escaped here--you must not have seen. Bellatrix threw a dagger into his chest."

Draco felt the news like a blow. "I'm sorry. He--he was a good House Elf. He was kind to me when I was young." No, he wouldn't have seen--he'd been picking bits of glass out of his face at the time. Damned chandelier. And how did Harry have the luck to acquire not one, but two House Elves? They'd been unable to find a replacement ever since Dobby had left, and more often than not, Mum had had to actually work her own spells for the house cleaning and the meals. It was rather annoying, actually.

Harry nodded, and fell silent once more. "So anyways, Kreacher's around to see to our needs. I'll--leave you alone for a bit now." He looked about as lost as Draco felt. What had he planned to do when he brought Draco here?

"Fine," Draco said in a low voice, as Harry closed the door. He slipped off his shoes, and removed his coat to hang in the wardrobe alongside his other suits, unfastening the top few buttons of his shirt. He supposed if he were going to take a nap, he would need to get into his nightclothes to avoid wrinkling things. He felt hollow, unreal, going through the motions of such normal activities in a life that was anything but normal now.

Both his parents were in Azkaban. His mother would get out eventually. His father mostly likely would not. He wondered if he would ever see him again. A weight was crushing his chest, making it difficult to breathe. He was alone. So unbelievably alone. Draco scanned the contents of his room, and his gaze fell upon a few photographs on his desk. There he was at age eleven, laughing and smiling, standing beside two classmates nearly twice his size. Crabbe and Goyle.

Grief hit him like a crateful of Bludgers. Vincent was dead. He was dead, and Gregory blamed him for it. It hadn't mattered so much in the cell when Gregory was beating on Draco, or the few times he partook of the rape, because Draco had known, it was for revenge, not for lust as it was for Pucey or Warrington. Goyle had loved Crabbe, and it had been under Draco's decision that they'd gone to the Room of Requirement. It was his fault. Gregory would hate him forever now, and Draco had really liked him, considered him truly a friend, even more than Vincent. Gregory had always been loyal.

I am nothing, Draco thought, as a fresh wave of grief tore through him. His room. Ha. None of this was even his any more, not the suits, not the bed, not down to his bloody potions set. It all probably belonged to Harry now. He'd been stripped of everything. Draco touched inside his shirt, and felt the scar of the 'P'. Everything.

The sense of loss overcame him; he fell to his knees on the floor with a hard thud, sending shocks up his spine, but he didn't care, because he had nothing and nobody cared and he couldn't even die properly without messing it up. A sob escaped him, only it sounded almost like a shout, loud and tortured. He clapped a hand over his mouth, but he could no more stop the sobs than he could the tears, curling in on himself, unable to fight the sadness any longer.

He wasn't breaking the Vow because he wasn't actually doing anything besides pitifully crying, but he could think the thought, and feel the emotion as much as he wanted. I want to die. I just want to die, he thought over and over, hiccupping because he was sobbing so hard, and then the door was opening, and Draco knew it was Potter, but he just couldn't bring himself to care. Last time Potter had found him crying he'd slashed his chest open--he still bore the faint scar. Let him see. Let him finish the job.

What he wasn't prepared for, however, was for Potter to kneel down on the floor with him, wrapping his arms around Draco. Harry held him tightly from behind while he cried, offering him something other than his own sleeve to wipe his face. Draco struggled, but Harry didn't let go, pulling Draco in against his chest, his lips brushing at Draco's hair. It felt good. Draco couldn't remember anyone ever trying to hold him when he cried. Not even when he was little.

"Wh-what are you doing?" Draco asked, his voice sounding subdued and wavering, as he tried to dab at his eyes. His nose was all stuffed up and he was sure his eyes must be puffy and red; not attractive at all.

"Helping," Harry said quietly. He had pulled Draco nearly into his lap, offering a shoulder to lean on. The act made fresh hot tears spill down Draco's cheeks; why was Harry being nice to him? It didn't make any sense.

"Why?"

Harry took a deep breath. "I was there, that night on the tower, when you were supposed to kill Dumbledore. I was under my Cloak, invisible--and immobilized, by Dumbledore's wand. I heard everything, about how you were supposed to kill Dumbledore ,or they'd kill you and your family. And I saw you. You weren't going to do it. I think if the Death Eaters hadn't made it through, you would have taken Dumbledore's offer. It was just bad luck on your part that they did, and Snape had to go through with it. But I guess I realized at that moment that you weren't like your father. You haven't had much choice about what side you were on. You're a spoiled brat, frankly. But I think there's something good inside you. I think you're worth saving."

"I'm a coward. I was only too scared to kill him." Didn't Azkaban prove that? He'd been too scared to stand up to Pucey, too scared to try and get revenge when he'd stolen the knife.

Harry shook his head. "Doesn't matter." His arms were still holding Draco tightly, and it was as if they were squeezing some of the hurt out of him, even though he fought to maintain his dignity and not let out any more sobs. Dignity--there was a joke. He'd lost that well before this.

"You didn't want anything to do with me when we first met," Draco said softly, and he was surprised at how hurt he still felt about it, that Harry had rejected his offer for friendship, had gone off with Ron and the Mudblood instead. "What's changed?"

"Draco, we were eleven," Harry said, and by the wry tone of his voice, Draco could tell he was smiling. "I'd like to think I've matured a little bit since then."

Harry turned his head, and Draco felt the brush lips against the back of his neck, sending sudden heat rushing through him. He couldn't believe how much he craved this, the touch, the hold, even the press of Harry's lips . . . . The tears were drying, and his body was very quickly becoming aware of just how close together they were. Harry had filled out a bit in the last year. While Draco was still the taller by about a head or so, he was more slender than Harry, thanks no doubt to Harry's life on the run during Voldemort's hunt for him. He found himself pressing back against Harry, enjoying the way Harry's chest felt against his back, feeling the stirrings of desire as he felt solid evidence that Harry was enjoying this proximity as well. He heard Harry's breath catch, and an answering thrust of his hips which made Draco's mouth go dry and his cock fill. He shouldn’t--oh, but Merlin, he wanted to.

"Don't . . . touch me," Draco said, and even to his ears he sounded half begging for it.

Apparently Harry heard the hidden message, for he loosened his hold on Draco, only to let his hands brush over Draco's shirt, lightly touching, exploring the small space of skin exposed by his open buttons. Draco pushed the hands down, not wanting Harry to find the scars, but that only meant that Harry was exploring his waist instead, and then even lower, finding his hips, sliding towards his groin. Draco's hips bucked, but even as he began to give in to the sensations, there was Pucey in his head, that nasty smile on his face. You are one sick bastard, Draco.

Suddenly Draco was cold and covered in sweat, sick to his stomach. He leaped up away from Harry, desperate to get away from the touch, or perhaps more accurately, from the memories. "Don't touch me! Leave me alone!" He glared at Harry, hating him for being too late to save him from Pucey, for trying to save him and making him confused. The truly sick thing was, he still desired him, desperately.

The words worked on Harry just as much as Draco could want--or fear. Harry leapt up as well, flushing to the roots of his hair, not meeting Draco's gaze. "Sorry," he muttered, backing away. He stood for a moment, head down, almost shaking, though Draco could not think why. "I'll leave you alone." With that, Harry fled out the door.

The hurting was back in Draco's chest. It was debatable which was worse--that or the nausea. In misery, Draco crawled into bed, fully clothed. Wrinkles be damned. He just couldn't be arsed to care about it.

This was going to be a very long month.

***

TBC