Tapping

Draco walked home through darkened streets, head down. He liked the darkness; it hid him. He had always been more comfortable in the dark, he realized, even before his injury.

It had been a long time since he’d thought of Hermione and their son. They had agreed it might be better if he stayed away, to avoid confusing the boy. Maybe when he was a little older he could understand. It was hard to bring himself to care for a child whose conception had caused so much pain. For now it was easier to forget about Kevin entirely.

Still, sometimes he wished it could have been different. Their shared trauma had brought Hermione and Draco together. She had been a witness at his pardoning hearing, fighting for his freedom. As they led him past her, she handed Kevin over for Draco to hold. He couldn’t see the infant in his arms, but he could feel the tears on his cheeks. Since then, he had visited only a dozen times, respecting Hermione’s wishes. Maybe she had told him Draco was a friend, or another of the many uncles Ron’s family afforded the boy. Or maybe she hadn’t told him anything at all, and the child had just accepted the ugly blond man who brought presents.

Someone was following him, he realized. He could hear the footsteps over the tapping of his cane along the cobblestones. Had he brought his wand with him? He patted his jacket pockets; nothing. Draco had grown accustomed to life without it, between his months in confinement and then four years of living in the middle of a Muggle neighborhood. He quickened his pace a bit, trying to reach the end of the isolated street before whoever was behind him caught up. The footsteps following him sped up as well.

Like his father, Draco was a tall man. But he was slender and only lightly muscled, where Lucius had been broad of shoulder and powerful of build. Lucius would have gladly taught this delinquent a lesson, even without his wand. Draco did not want to have to defend himself. Still, the footsteps were getting closer, and he was still a good distance from what he knew to be a brightly-lit thoroughfare at the end of the alley.

“Hey, buddy,” a gruff voice called.

Draco felt sick dread well up in his stomach. He stopped and turned toward the voice.

“I don’t have any money,” he said, raising his hands. It was true. “I don’t want any trouble.”

Greed glinted in the Muggle’s eyes. “Gimme your watch,” he said. Draco obediently unclasped his Seiko and tossed it. From the sound, the man caught it. “Is that all you got?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Draco tensed as the man moved closer. The Muggle saw him as an easy mark; blind, alone, and unarmed. But Draco had trained hard in close combat, and although he had since lost his sight his body still knew how to take care of itself. He spread his arms and let the mugger pull his wallet from his back pocket. As the other man stepped away, Draco turned. He struck like lightning, driving the heel of his hand into the man’s face. Not hard enough to kill him, which the move could certainly do, but more than enough to break his nose. The other man stumbled back, cradling his bleeding face, and Draco picked up his wallet from the ground. His watch and sunglasses were nowhere to be found, and he decided to leave them.

“Your nose is probably broken,” Draco said. “You might want to go to a hospital.”

As he walked out onto the main street, Draco realized he felt wonderful, practically high. That scared him terribly. He had spent a long time trying to convince himself he was not some kind of monster. Draco bowed his head, letting his hair cover his disfigurement--that was how he viewed it, a mutilation of his once-handsome features. Ron tried to tell him he was still gorgeous, but Ron looked at him through a lover’s eyes.

He deserved to be scarred, he felt. He had taken a kind of glee from his double life, playing the other Death Eaters for fools and assuaging his love of destruction at the same time. Draco realized that he had hurt or betrayed so many people in his lifetime that he could no longer count. He shuddered. Draco pulled the key to their apartment from his pocket and went downstairs, hand skimming the rail. He stroked the lock once, finding it on the knob, and put the key in smoothly. He flicked the outdoor light on once he’d closed the door, so Ron could find his way, and went to the bedroom to undress.

Draco was half asleep when Ron came home smelling of coffee and cinnamon. They must have had dessert, then. His lover turned on the lights and started to undress, and Draco closed his eyes and curled up once more.

“Draco, what happened?”

“What do you mean?” he asked sleepily.

“There’s blood on your shirt.” Draco hesitated, and Ron sat down beside him, gently rolling him onto his back to inspect him. “Are you hurt?”

Draco shook his head mutely.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” Ron asked softly, thumb brushing his lover’s cheekbone.

“Someone tried to mug me in an alley on my way home,” Draco said.

“You didn’t kill him, did you?”

Ron felt like a jerk for asking; Draco winced and rolled out of his lover’s grasp.

“No, I did not kill him,” he said testily, curling into a tight ball. He was silent while Ron finished changing clothes, and silent while Ron brushed his teeth, and silent when Ron slid up beside him under the covers. He didn’t even respond when Ron kissed his shoulder.

The next morning the tapping was gone; the bird had given up, Ron decided. Draco suggested nastily that something had probably eaten her. Ron ignored him and went into the bathroom. Draco listened as his lover sang off-key in the shower. Normally it would bring a smile to his face.

“I’m going to pick up some groceries after work,” Ron said, as he came back into the room. Draco sat up and looked at him. Ron shivered despite himself.

“I’m sorry.”

“What?” Ron asked, buttoning his shirt.

“I’m sorry about last night.”

Ron sat down beside him and kissed his chin.

“Why are you sorry, Fireball?”

“I was being a prick.”

“We can’t help being ourselves,” Ron joked, pushing the hair out of Draco’s face. “Don’t pay it any mind, love.” He stood and picked up his trousers. “Tell me what you’re going to do today instead, hmm?”

“Some laundry, and the dishes. That’s all really.”

“Sounds exciting,” Ron said, tightening his tie. “I’ve just got boring meetings all afternoon.”

Ron knelt beside Draco and ran his hand over the other man’s thigh.

“When I get home,” he said suggestively.

“Go to work,” Draco laughed, wriggling away from him. Ron arched his eyebrows and stood to go. “And when you get home…”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Ron said. He picked up his briefcase and slipped out through the front door.

Draco found a strange kind of comfort in the menial tasks of the household. As a child, he had looked down on those who couldn’t have someone do their laundry for them. He had never considered what it took to put clean dishes on the table at each meal, or to cook anything more complicated than a sandwich. When Ron brought him home from the psych ward at St. Mungo’s, he sat around the apartment helplessly, letting the other man take care of him like an infant. Anger burned in him as he listened to Ron putter around the kitchen. Finally, he could bear it no longer. He commanded Ron to teach him how to do these simple tasks. Ron knew that Draco didn’t like to ask for anything; he took no offense at his lover’s arrogance.

When the phone rang, it startled him. No one ever called them at home. Draco had to run to pick it up.

“Hello?”

“Malfoy. How are you?”

“Granger.”

Hermione must have noticed the mixed feelings in his voice.

“Ginny called me last night,” she said softly.

“Yes, we had dinner. It was pleasant,” he said lightly.

“She said you got upset and left after she mentioned Kevin and me,” Hermione chided. “Are you alright?”

“Of course I am.” He rubbed his forehead. “What did you tell her?”

“Nothing. She already knew.” Draco held his breath. “Ron told her.”

“Oh.” The sigh was louder than he meant it to be.

“Draco, I’m worried about you. Ginny told me about yesterday morning.”

“Yesterday was nothing. I’ve had much worse.” He sat down on the end table by the phone. “I was mugged last night.”

“Are you hurt?”

“I broke his nose and took back my valuables.”

Hermione was silent on the other end of the line, and Draco swallowed.

“It felt really good. That crunching sound when the bone snapped, the blood splashing across my hand...”

“Draco.”

“And I can’t help but wonder what kind of man I am.”

“A good one.”

“No. You, of all people, should know that.”

“I want you to come to the party,” she said softly.

“So everyone can feel uncomfortable around me,” he said.

“They don’t know you like Ron and I do,” she insisted. A nasty little voice in the back of his head said no, they couldn’t, I haven’t bent them over and fucked them. He pushed the thought away.

“I can’t,” he said. “I can barely keep myself together long enough to go out for coffee. I’d probably spend half the party hiding in your bathroom.”

“Then come visit us, at least. Kevin would love to see you.”

Draco closed his eyes. The muscles in his stomach tensed and he took a breath, forcing himself to relax. Sometimes it didn’t work. This time the tension subsided.

“You really know where to grab a guy,” he said finally.

“I’ve got tomorrow off. You should come over.”

“Does,” Draco started. Then he swallowed. “Does Kevin even remember me?”

“I haven’t told him you’re his father, but he remembers you. He doesn’t have very many blind uncles.”

“That’s what I’m to be? An uncle?”

“I don’t know, Draco.”

He sighed softly.

“I’ll come over after Ron leaves for work.”

“See you.” Hermione’s breath hitched just before she hung up, like she was going to say something, and Draco strained to hear it. Instead the line clicked. He set down the phone.

“See you,” he said into the empty apartment.