Princes in Exile

This chapter was written by keppiehed.

Draco stared mournfully at his crêpe. It didn't have any answers, it just sat there in an unappetizing lump on his plate. In retribution for its ignorance, Draco dragged his tines through the Béchamel sauce and watched the whole thing bleed cheese and creamed spinach in an obscene slog all over his plate.

“Not hungry, son?” Lucius asked, pulling him from his distraction.

“No,” Draco said. He speared a chuck of sausage with more savagery than was strictly necessary for a breakfast meat.

“A shame. You might have ordered the Piperade. The Serrano ham is exquisite.” As if to demonstrate its succulence, Lucius took a bite. After he had finished chewing, he spared a glance for Draco. “I needn't point out the necessity of your partaking in the morning meal today. Unless you are nervous? Don't forget to have Peachy wrap your lunch for you, especially if you aren't breaking your fast.”

Before Draco could think of a snide remark that he would have to stifle anyway, the doors to the breakfast room flew open. Potter came stumbling in. “'Morning,” he said. “Am I too late? It's still breakfast, right?”

Draco stiffened. Potter had never before joined them for breakfast. He seemed to prefer rising later, and their schedules had adjusted accordingly. It appeared that Potter had made some sort of special effort to stagger out of his bed this morning. He was dressed, but it was a clearly haphazard effort. Even more so than usual, Draco thought to himself. He was wearing those damned denims again and a plain white tee-shirt that looked as though it had been around since Hogwarts had been founded. That made it thin from the repeated washings. It looked really soft, and nearly see-through—

“Yes, it is breakfast. I would be delighted if you would join us,” Lucius said in formal invitation.

Draco swallowed. What was going on here? Why was his father being so gracious? Usually he preferred his routine at breakfast, and it didn't include inviting Harry Bloody Potter to eat with them.

“Er, okay.” Potter came in and took a seat across from Draco. Peachy stood by, ready to take his order. “Can I just have an omelette?”

Peachy nodded. “Florentine?”

Potter stared. “Whatever is easiest.”

Lucius made a choking sound.

“What?” Potter asked, his eyes narrowed, ready for a fight.

Lucius reached for his water glass. “Pardon me. I must have swallowed wrong.” He took a sip.


Draco could tell that the idea of food being “simple” was one that his father disagreed with. Why, then, was he backing down, and from Potter, of all people?

Peachy continued. “Do you prefer Brie or Feta, and do you want Hollandai—”

“Just, whatever, Peachy. I don't really care. A plain omelette, that's all I'd like. If I wasn't rubbish in the kitchen, I'd crack the eggs myself.” Potter bestowed a grin on Peachy that lit up the whole room.

Surely that last remark would be the thing that would bait Lucius into some sort of fight. Although the Malfoys had, of course, maintained their own household in exile, they didn't like to speak of menial labour habits, especially at the table. Lucius, in particular, considered it terribly gauche. Draco waited in anticipation of the inevitable dressing down. Not that he wished Potter ill, of course. It would just be nice to see the arrogant twat put in his place, especially since he was so free with his smiles for the staff, and all … Clearly he needed a lesson in manners. Draco waited.

Silence continued to reign as Lucius ate without causing incident, seemingly oblivious to the irritant seated directly to his right.

Draco frowned. Something was going on here, and he didn't like it one bit.

“What's the problem, son? You haven't touched your espresso. Don't let nerves get the better of you,” Lucius advised.

“I'm not,” Draco ground out. He felt his face flush. He didn't relish Potter hearing his business, especially from his father. Had the world gone mad? Why was Lucius being so chatty?

“Nervous?” Potter ripped a roll in half and began to butter it. “What do you have to be nervous about, Draco? You want me to promise to go easy on you today?” Potter laughed.

Lucius choked on a sip of his coffee. “Too hot,” he managed.

Draco felt his ire rise at the taunt, even though he knew it was meant in sport. “Don't think I couldn't take all you have to dish out and hand it right back to you, Potter. Anytime you're ready.”

“Boys, please!” Lucius said, a bit desperately.

“I think we've already established that you can't,” Potter said from across the table.

“Don't you remember the kitchen? I've been practicing,” Draco shot back. “Bring it on.”

“The kitchen?” Lucius echoed weakly. “Not a lesson there?”

“Yes!” Draco and Potter snapped in unison. “Listen, it just sort of happened, we didn't plan it,” Draco explained. “But I came out on top that time, you must admit.” He couldn't help the pride that crept into his tone when he remembered Summoning Potter's own wand from his grasp.

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy, he did well,” Potter admitted. “Don't worry, we don't normally do it in the kitchen. Or indoors at all, actually. We prefer to go outside. We get a lot of practice out there.”

“You … go … outside? Where people can see you?” Lucius sounded strangled.

Draco looked at his father. His face was a shade of green he had never seen before. “Don't be alarmed, Father. No one has witnessed us in action.”

“Except Pansy,” Potter put in. He sounded put out.

“Yes, well. I can't very well help that. She didn't even want to watch, she just wanted to stop us altogether, so you needn't be concerned, like I said,” Draco finished, pleased with his logic.

“It isn't as if it's ever that exciting,” Potter chimed in. “There were a few incidents involving water, and a flock of birds, but that's about as carried away as it has ever—”

“It is his first day!” Lucius all but shouted.

“Huh?” Potter asked, confused.

Draco scowled.

“Draco's first day. Of work. That's why he is nervous,” Lucius said, flustered. He took a bigger bite of his Piperade than he might normally have and made a show of being consumed with chewing.

“Draco?” Potter turned to him from across the table. “When do you think you might have mentioned this little detail to me?”

Draco could feel Potter's accusatory gaze boring into the top of his head as he studied the wreck of a crêpe on his plate. “It's none of your business, Potter, that's why.” He couldn't meet the other man's eyes.

“Not … my … business?” Draco could almost feel the incredulity radiating off of him. “You keep me here as a virtual prisoner, at your beck and call, and then you go and get a job and you don't bother to mention it? What am I supposed to do with myself all day while you are playing Mr. Work-a-day?” Potter was shouting.

Draco took a breath. The thing of it was that he didn't want this job in the first place, so it was hard to justify. But he couldn't let Potter see that. It was his obligation to fall in line with his father's wishes, even if they weren't what he wanted. It wasn't his place to disobey or question them, and certainly not in front of company. Draco had a duty to be loyal to his father's command, even if he would rather stay here and have lessons with Potter. His personal feelings on the matter didn't signify. He didn't want to look weak or confused, especially in front of his father. Draco quashed anything resembling his own desires and held his head up to stare directly into green eyes. Draco saw an ill-disguised feeling of betrayal looking back, but he pushed back his guilt and in his frostiest voice said, “I don't give a fig what you do, Potter, but when I get back, I expect you to be waiting for me. That's what you are here for, after all. You are here for me.”

Draco could see the disgust harden on Potter's face, and they both sat there, unmoving, for a moment more before Potter pushed away from the table. It took all of Draco's will not to wince at the slamming of the door.

“You call him Potter?”

Draco blinked. He couldn't get the look on Potter's face out of his mind. “Hm? Yes, of course.”

“But why? Isn't that a bit … formal, to call him by his surname?”

“No, it isn't. Why, what does it matter, anyway?”

“Nothing, never mind. I really don't want to get involved.” His father fell silent, then spoke up a moment later. “It just seems odd. He calls you by your given name, after all.”

“Father!” Draco said, exasperated. “If he chooses to annoy me, that is his business. I prefer to keep things professional.”

“Professional? What are you saying?” His father seemed shocked.

“Yes, I am looking at this whole thing like a business transaction. I would think that you would prefer it that way. You are the one who suggested we pay him for services rendered,” Draco pointed out.

“Surely you realize that that was before I was apprised of the … current situation!” His father was aghast. “Draco! I am not so heartless as that.”

“What does heart have to do with a goddamned thing?” Draco asked.

“Draco Malfoy, I admit myself appalled. I know that you had a certain reputation at school, but I had no idea that you were so jaded. Your mother and I did not raise you to be so callous in regards to matters of sentiment. I find myself at a loss, and I must excuse myself from your company before I say something permanently detrimental to our relationship. Have a good day at work, and we shall discuss this further when I have calmed down.” Lucius got up from his chair and walked stiffly across the breakfast room. Just before he reached the door, he turned. “And Draco, don't you ever speak to me with that filthy mouth again. You may choose to indulge in profanity, but I will not tolerate it. If you choose to converse with me, you will have some respect. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father.” Draco felt as chastened as a schoolboy.

“Good day.” With that, the elder Malfoy made his exit.

A churning rose in Draco's gut. This had to be the worst morning he had ever had.

“Master Draco? Where be Master Potter?”

Draco looked up from his plate. Peachy was standing there with an omelette.

“Gone,” he answered.

“Oh.” She looked confused. “Is you staying home, then? You was supposed to be at work an hour ago.”

Draco cast a charm to tell him the time, and he groaned when he saw the lateness of the hour. It seemed his terrible morning was about to get a whole lot worse.


*


The gates of Malfoy Manor had never looked so good. Draco stepped away from the Apparition point, eager to be within in the confines of his own land. He wanted to forget that this horrendous day had ever happened. It was hard to believe that he would have to get up and do the same thing again tomorrow, and the next and on until … whenever his father relented and took mercy upon him. He thanked Merlin that he came from money and wouldn't have to do this indefinitely. How did regular people do this every day? How could they stand it? The thought was both frightening and a little awe-inspiring.

Draco couldn't wait to take a nice, hot bath and go to bed. He didn't even care about supper, he just wanted to lie down somewhere and relax. The effort it had required for him to be civil all day had worn him out. He had also been keenly aware of the contempt of his co-workers, and though Draco was inclined to write off their remarks as a result of jealousy—because to be honest, they had a lot to envy, poor sods, he had to give them that—by the end of the day his tolerance for even that was wearing thin. He just wanted things to go back to the way they had been, and he was beginning to suspect that might never happen. The panic that thought inspired was something he didn't want to examine, now or possibly ever.

The front hall was dark, as were all of the rooms Draco wandered through. Irrationally, though he had just a moment ago craved solitude, it irked him now that there was no one home to see how his first day went. Didn't anyone care how he was doing? Evidently not. The urge to kick something overwhelmed him, and he delivered a punt to the nearest object, a cherry wood fauteuil à la reine.

“Nice. What did that poor chair do to deserve your tantrum?”

Draco jumped. He hadn't seen Potter there in the darkened room with him. The idea that the other man had witnessed him kicking a chair was embarrassing, but he shrugged to hide it. This was his home, after all. He was free to kick any damn thing he wanted. “It's just a Louis XIV. Things from the Rococo are notoriously sturdy.”

“Oh, excuse me. Next time I get pissed I'll remember that and come kick an ottoman.”

“What are you doing lurking here in the dark, anyway?” Draco reached over and turned on the lamp. Light flooded the room, and he could see Potter now, sprawled out on one of the small couches.

“I dunno. Waiting for you, I guess.” Potter sounded pensive.

“Funny way to show it. I might have walked right past you. Anyway, I don't want a lesson. I've had a long day; you have no idea how exhausting it has been!” Draco could feel a headache starting.

“What? That's rich coming from you! Can you hear yourself?” Potter sat up from his recumbent position.

“What?” Draco rubbed the back of his neck. What was Potter so fired up about? It wasn't like he had spent all day at a job he never wanted, being completely humiliated. He had always had everything handed to him on a silver platter. The Boy Who Lived, that had been his epithet since he had been old enough to talk. And it had opened every door for him. What did he have to be so upset about? Why was he looking so resentful? Suddenly the injustice of it burned Draco like a brand. “What the hell is your problem, actually, Potter? You have it pretty good, if you ask me!”

“That's the thing; I didn't ask you. I was fine in my life until you mucked it up.” Potter jumped up and ran a hand through his hair. “I had a job I liked, and you've led me around enough. What the fuck, Draco?”

“Oh, your life was so bloody perfect, right?” Bitterness welled up, and he could taste it on his tongue. “Well, don't let me keep you from the trough. I don't need you, anymore.”

“Like hell. But I've had enough of this shit. You want your wand back, take it.” Potter paused in his pacing.

Draco stilled. “So, you are ready to duel?” He couldn't believe it.

“I've been ready, Draco. It's you who isn't, but you won't see it. I've had enough, though. Take out your wand, if you think you deserve to try for it.” Potter looked tired.

Draco paused. He had always pushed people. It was just how he was. It was in his nature to see how far he could go, but invariably he went too far. He had that feeling now. Standing there with Potter, he didn't feel victorious, he felt … empty. That he had badgered him into getting his way didn't feel as good as it should have.

There was no choice now, though. Potter was just standing there with his wild hair and his stupid denims, looking for all the world like some lost kid. Draco swallowed and withdrew his wand. “Why do I have to have my wand? I thought we were doing this wandlessly?”

Potter sighed. “The wand won't work for you. But in the actual duel, it must be present. You have to be ready for anything from your opponent, remember, whether it be magic cast with a wand or otherwise. You can't always distinguish the source of the magic coming at you. That's my final word of advice.” Potter withdrew his wand, and performed the formal salute signalling the beginning of a Wizard's duel.

Draco's blood raced like it used to so long ago. He had always enjoyed duelling; the quick wits it required had always appealed to him. He had been a frequent winner in the past, but never had he played for such high stakes. He returned the salute.

They both stood there a moment, unmoving. Then Potter cast a Lumos.

Draco wasn't distracted by the simple light. He wanted to save his strength for what was sure to be a long fight. He concentrated on throwing a trip jinx.

Potter started dancing. His feet and legs moved in parody of joyful abandon. Draco realized he must have cast Tarantallegra by mistake.

Potter nullified it and Draco felt his tongue curl back. He recognized the relatively harmless Tongue-Tying Curse and almost laughed. But as he was busy thinking the counter-agent to it, Potter dazzled him with three such simple hexes in quick succession: the Jelly-Legs Jinx, Jelly-Fingers Curse and Densaugeo. When Draco felt his teeth start to grow, he remembered how silly Granger had looked back in their fourth year and he panicked. All of his concentration scattered like a handful of marbles on a parquet floor as his horror grew.

Potter stood over him as his teeth extended at a steady rate. Draco was aware of several things: if this were a real duel for his life, he would be dead. His vanity was killing him. He had to concentrate and get it together, or he was going to lose everything, and he'd never be able to look Potter in the face again. He had to stop thinking of how stupid Granger had looked, and how ludicrous he must appear right now, and do something! Time was running out.

The weight of the teeth was making Draco's neck hurt, but he had a flash of insight. It would take him too long to nullify all three curses, and while Potter stood over him he could just cast more. As distracted as Draco was, he had to attempt an offensive spell. A non-harmful one. He had to concentrate. As his head weighed down and fell to his chest, he couldn't even see his opponent. He had one shot. He had to get it right. He thought as hard as he could. “Incarcerous!”

Thick vines sprouted from the floor and bound Potter. Draco didn't have time to be surprised that it was foliage and not ropes that he had conjured. In his excitement, his magic was a little off target. He worked feverishly to finite the spells that had been placed upon him, and it wasn't a moment too soon that his knuckle joints realigned.

“Defloresco,” Potter said, and looked at Draco with special purpose. Draco felt his whole world turn upside-down. He was dangling from his heels, the blood rushing to his head.

“Liberacorpus!” he shouted. He could feel his magic unlatching the lock that bound him, but wasn't ready for the fall in his excitement to trap Potter. At least the Blue Room was carpeted.

The curses flew fast and heavy, mostly in silence. Potter used both his wand and his mind and Draco could feel a sheen of sweat breaking out on his brow. This was hard work. Potter didn't give an inch, didn't cede a spell. For every small victory, he was there, ready. He didn't seem tired or stressed. He was a relentless opponent. Draco's frustration began to mount as he saw the impassive face in front of him, an unchanging wall. Potter had become a foe he had never met before: he countered each charm and then threw a hex, he met each challenge and tossed a jinx, as if he didn't have to even look for the riposte. A tendril of fear uncurled in Draco's breast. Potter had been right. He wasn't going to win. Potter was too strong.

Just as he had that thought, Potter looked at him. As if someone had cast an Aresto Momentum, Draco had a feeling of surreality. Time seemed to slow to a stop as they stared at each other. Draco could see Potter standing above him, so nonchalant, as if he had just stepped into the room. Draco was in the middle of rising to his knees from where he had fallen from their last confrontation. Draco didn't like the feeling of failure, of loss, of powerlessness. He knew he was beaten, and he couldn't accept it. No, that wasn't true; he didn't want to. He didn't want to submit to this man. But neither did he want Potter to see any of his own struggle.

Draco stayed, frozen, as Potter approached. With what he knew to be his very last effort before he was bested, tried to bring forth a curse, any curse … but his mind was a blank, and he could only think of one thing, to his shame. As he watched Potter looming, he closed his eyes as his mind was filled with the most ridiculous thing. He needed to think of a spell, but he could only think of their first lesson together, when Potter had told him to try to move that damned feather quill, to imagine tickling his lover's body with it. The blush bloomed on Draco's cheeks when he thought of that memory, of exactly what had been in his mind, and with Potter nearly there to finish him off, it was all he could do not to throw the thought right at Potter. He was overexcited, and he couldn't reign in his magic.

The sound of Potter's helpless laughter made him open his eyes. Potter fell to the ground, clutching his sides and writhing in helpless torture. He was laughing, but it looked more like a punishment than anything enjoyable. What was going on?

“Stop, stop!” Potter gasped, tears leaking from his eyes. “You … win ...”

Draco heard the words, but he didn't believe them. “What?”

“Draco!” Potter was gasping. “Stop!”

Draco realized that Potter's laughter really was serious. He couldn't get his breath. “What? Tell me what to do!” He felt a panic rise like he never had before. His veins were coursing with worry. What should he do? What if something happened to Potter because of this stupid duel? Then he calmed a moment and thought of Finite Incantatum, the save-all for everything.

Potter fell limp and took a deep breath.

“What? What did I do?” Draco asked. He couldn't believe his good fortune, but he was still too bewildered to even try and cover it up. He had to know.

“Rictusempra,” Potter said from the floor. “You won the duel.” His head hit the floor with a thunk.

Pride mixed with the fear that had been flooding Draco's system to create a heady mix akin to drunkenness. “I won the duel,” he said in disbelief, gazing at the wand still clutched in his hand, as if it were an afterthought. “I won the duel!”

“So it would seem,” said Potter from the floor. “Congratulations.”