Princes in Exile

Draco shut the door after Potter with more force than necessary. He didn't catch the other man's heels, but the temptation to do so was great. Draco was a gracious host, but even he couldn't restrain himself from slamming it with zeal. Magic lessons with Potter? The idea was beyond ludicrous.

“A moment of your time, if you can spare it?”

Draco turned from where he was still staring at the front door to see his father standing in the foyer, a slight smile on his face. Draco scowled. He recognized a patronizing look when he saw one.

“That is, if you are finished with your social engagements for the afternoon,” Lucius said. He quirked an eyebrow.

“You know very well that I am!” Draco snapped.

“One can't be sure. You are the centre of a veritable flurry of activity these days, it seems.” Lucius held up a handful of owls, fanned out to illustrate his point.

“Reading my mail, Father?” Draco asked. He strode forward and snatched the stack of owl notes. He could tell from a glance that they were all from one person and couldn't suppress a groan.

“Miss Parkinson is a rather ardent admirer of yours, it would appear,” Lucius remarked. “And no, I wouldn't read your correspondences, Draco. They are rather hard to miss when they keep inundating the front hall.” His look held mild reproval.

Draco clenched the missives hard enough to wrinkle them.

“Shall we retire to the South Gallery? There are some matters we need to discuss, and I don't think we need to resort to standing here in the hallway like cretins. Of course, if you prefer to ... ” Lucius held out his hands, as if to indicate that the choice was Draco's.

Draco pursed his lips, recognizing that there was no choice, not really. “The South Gallery is fine,” he replied, working hard to keep his tone civil. He turned first, not wanting to follow behind like a whipped pup. He was a grown man, after all, not some teenaged boy who was being called before council for some slight or infraction. He could have a talk with his father in his own house!

However, the sound of Lucius' footfalls behind him still made him unaccountably nervous, and he was glad when they finally reached the long gallery room. Draco went stiffly to a leather chair closest the door. His father chose an upholstered one with a spectacular view of the gardens. They settled in silence.

Draco fidgeted.

They both spoke at once.

“Father, really—”

“Draco, have you—”

They stopped.

Draco sighed.

Lucius cocked his head. “Son, did you really think it would escape my notice that Harry Potter was just in our home? And not for the first time, I might add. I was waiting for you to tell me what is going on, but I find I must ask directly, as it appears that you are not going to be forthcoming with the details. What exactly were you doing having tea with your archenemy?”

“He's not my archenemy!” Draco protested.

“I beg to differ. Just yesterday at luncheon I believe you said, and I quote, 'Potter is my archenemy, that bastard.' In point of fact, we were discussing another matter entirely, and you broke in with that little bon mot completely unprovoked.” Lucius crossed his legs neatly at the knee. “Do you care to enlighten me as to your change of heart?”

Draco could feel himself blushing. “I—we—” He gritted his teeth. His lack of eloquence was not doing credit to his argument. And the more patient his father was—just sitting there, damn him, waiting for him to trip up on his own tongue—the worse it got! Draco took a deep breath. “I guess Potter isn't as bad as I thought,” he mumbled.

“What was that? I couldn't quite hear what you said,” Lucius said.

Draco stared at the parquet floor. “Erm. Potter isn't that bad. We're going to be hanging around sometimes.” The words wanted to stick in his throat. The lie that Potter wasn't so bad wasn't something he thought he could repeat. If he had to say it again, he wasn't sure he could go through with it.

Luckily, Lucius didn't seem to need another declaration. He was preoccupied with his own amusement. Or so it seemed to Draco, who didn't think that his smug smile was quite so necessary. “Is that so? You and Harry Potter are going to become chums, hmm? Interesting.”

“I wouldn't say that!” Draco felt queasy at the mention of such familiarity in regards to Potter.

Lucius gave him an assessing look. “Well, which is it? Are you to be friends, or not?”

“Yes. Great bloody friends,” Draco muttered. That one almost hurt to say.

There was a twinkle in Lucius' eye. “So, Mr. Potter was here to bury the hatchet, is that the case? And you two are going to be spending time together?”

Draco couldn't bring himself to do anything but nod. He felt his gorge actually rise. Thank Merlin Potter wasn't here to listen to his disgrace! He'd never live this down.

“Splendid! This comes at an ideal time, in fact.”

Draco didn't like the sound of that. His father was no fool, and Draco dreaded the idea that he might know that he was being lied to. If he did, he was sure to make Draco pay.

“I have some business to attend to in Italy. There are investments that require my direct attention for a few weeks, and I have been concerned that you will have to be left alone here in the Manor for the duration of my absence. Now that you have made allies with a powerful Auror such as Mr. Potter, you can invite him to come and stay here. I need not worry.” Lucius seemed a little too delighted. A devilish glint lit his grey eyes.

Draco couldn't conceal the horror that flitted across his face at this news. “But … Father! Why can't I come with you? I love Italy this time of year! You know I adore the country home! And I need to practice. My accent is tending a little too rustic, I noticed just the other day!” He didn't care about the edge of desperation he heard in his own voice; he just couldn't stand the thought of any other alternative.

Lucius smirked.

Draco noted that if it looked anything near like that on his own face, it was no wonder he had gotten into a lot of fights in school, because that was a really annoying look when he was on the other end of it.

“Son, I thought we discussed this already. It is unlike you to be so ... forgetful. Need I already remind you of your employment responsibilities? You have your own matters to attend to here, and I wouldn't dream of taking you away from them at this crucial juncture,” Lucius said with a thin veneer of politeness to his tone.

“Father!” wailed Draco. “You know I can't find work. I've tried already. No one will have me!”

“Then I suggest you try harder. Malfoys don't give up so easily. And I absolutely insist that you have Mr. Potter come and stay with you in my absence.” Lucius said. His firm tone brooked no argument.

Draco folded his arms across his chest. He was in the mood for a fight. This was not a decree he was going to take lying down. “That's ridiculous. I'm a man now, if you haven't noticed. I'm not a little boy anymore. I won't have a babysitter. I can stay by myself, you know. You always treat me like such a child!”

“Draco, I know that you are fully capable of handling most affairs. I would not leave the running of the estate to you if I doubted your abilities. This manor is going to require your attention and all of your aptitude. When have I ever given you the notion that I doubt your competence? I have full confidence in you in that regard. Unfortunately, you are still without your magic, and it is a fact that there are those out there who would do us harm. Anti-Malfoy sentiment is running high at the moment. I, myself, have been made aware of threats against former … practitioners of a less desirable nature.” This time Lucius dropped his gaze.

Draco sat up in alarm. “What? There have been threats? When?”

His father waved a hand. “Don't worry, there is nothing to be concerned about. If I am here. If you are alone and unguarded, I would fear for your safety and for the security of the manor.”

Draco frowned and slumped back in his chair. “You make me sound so helpless.”

Lucius paused. “Without your wand, son … you just need some aid. And I fail to see what the problem is, if you are telling me the truth. Your association with Mr. Potter is coming at a most opportune time. I can take care of what I need to, and this manor is big enough to house the both of you for the duration of my absence. Am I correct?” Lucius' gaze probed.

Draco searched his father's eyes. He sensed that Lucius knew he wasn't being entirely honest. This was his chance to come clean, to tell him exactly what was going on, that no, he couldn't stand that insufferable Potter, that this was all about his wand. Somehow the thought of confessing that he had lost control of his wand, that he wasn't wizard enough to keep his own magic—well, he knew that his father would be understanding, but Draco couldn't bring himself to say it. He didn't want to say the words to his father, that his own wand wasn't working and he had to ask the very man whom he hated with all his heart for help. The despair, the worry that he wouldn't be able to do it rose up in his breast. What if he was a failure at everything he tried to do? What if Potter tried to teach him, and he just couldn't learn it? Draco felt sick for a wild moment before he tamped it down and responded. “Yes, you are correct.”

Lucius didn't say anything, just kept his steady gaze on Draco's face.

Draco began to get nervous. This was a tactic his father had employed when he was a child, and it was more effective than it seemed. A guilty Draco had often cracked under that imperious, silent stare and confessed not only whatever wrongdoing was being weighed, but every other thing that could have otherwise possibly gone undetected. Draco couldn't stand up to the scrutiny. Even now, he felt himself break out in a cold sweat, and the need to tell everything to his father, to make it all right and let someone else bear the burden for him was nearly overwhelming.

Just when Draco didn't think he could take it anymore, Lucius nodded. “Then make ready, Son. I take my leave before week's end, and I expect your arrangements to be in place before that time.” Lucius stood with feline grace and made his way to the doors of the gallery.

Draco was relieved that he had passed whatever test or scrutiny his father was looking for, at least for now. Then the meaning of his words sank in and Draco shot to his feet in alarm. “A week! What if Potter isn't ready to stay here by the end of the week? That isn't much time!” Holy Harpies! How was he going to even broach the subject in less than a week?

Lucius didn't bother turning around. “Then I'm sure Miss Parkinson will be able to make the accommodations possible.” His words echoed behind him. “The choice is yours, Draco.”

If Draco hadn't felt sick before, those words were like a punch to the gut now. He fell back into the chair.

His fool pride reminded him that this was the same time of day that he had goaded Potter for being drunk, but damn, he could really use a drink.

*


Feeling sorry for himself was really quite boring and besides, the leather chair in the gallery was more for aesthetics than for comfort. After a considerable time spent hefting sighs and sticking out his lip and still being no closer to an acceptable solution to his dilemma, Draco decided that he needed sustenance. He would feel less out of sorts after a sandwich, surely. Watercress and cucumber finger-food always did wonders for his self-esteem and complexion at the same time, he had found. Nothing cheered him up like working on his beauty regimen.

Draco made his way to the kitchens. He decided to put the whole disturbing idea of who he would have to ask to come and stay with him completely out of his mind until after his snack. No use ruining a good chance to enjoy a meal. He was caught up in trying to decide whether Brie went better with flaked salmon or if he would try and find the last of the Havarti when he stumbled over something. It hit him at knee-height, and he went sprawling in a tangle of limbs all over the chequered floor of the kitchens.

There was much wailing and shrieking. None of which was coming from him.

“What the ...?” Draco drew his brows together in confusion.

A house-elf jumped up and bowed. “I'm so sorry for my clumsiness, Master Malfoy! I have shamed myself on my first day here! I am such an idiot! Idiot! I would never forgive myself if something happened to you because of my great stupidity!” The elf started trembling and weeping.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” Draco was still sitting on the floor. “How do you know my name?” He started getting suspicious. His father had said there was Anti-Malfoy sentiment. What if this was a plot? Draco jumped to his feet. “Who sent you?” He grabbed the snivelling house-elf by its grubby sack-shirt. “Who are you working for?”

“Miss Pansy sent me! I work for her!” The elf was crying and snotting all over his hand. Draco let go in disgust and wiped his hand on the thing's shirt. No use dirtying his own, after all. It was imported.

“Pansy?” What the creature said percolated through. “What? Why would Pansy send a house-elf? What the fuck is going on here?” Draco ran his hand through his hair, before he realized, too late, that it was covered in snot. Great. He scowled. Someone was going to pay. “What did you say your name was?”

The thing's knees were knocking so hard that it fell to the ground in supplication. “I am called Peachy, sir.”

Draco sighed. He might have a reputation for being a tyrant, but he hadn't been raised to be rude to the help. “I'm not going to hurt you. Er ... Peachy. Can you explain how you came to be standing in my kitchen? I was understandably shocked to find you here with no expectation of your arrival.”

“Of course, sir! I am so sorry to have surprised and scared you! It is my fault that you were injured! Poor Master Malfoy … ” Peachy broke out into fresh sobs.

Draco restrained another sigh. He had no patience with these theatrics. That always had been the problem with house-elves, in his opinion. They were so damned susceptible to dramatics. “It's fine. Can we just stay on topic here, Peachy? What's the story? And I'd like some petit fours, if it wouldn't be too much trouble. The savoury kind. I had a hankering for something cheesy just before our ... meeting.” Draco found from past experience that house-elves tended to talk better if you gave them a servile task to complete during the conversation.

Peachy jumped up. “Of course, sir!” She appeared familiar with the kitchen already, a fact that didn't escape Draco's notice, and she began assembling ingredients while she talked. “Miss Pansy sent me over to help you recuperate. She has been most worried about you, sir. Most worried. She sends you owls day and night, but since you have not responded, she thought that maybe you were still Stunned. She knew that you wouldn't go to St. Mungo's, and she was desperate to be of help. Do you prefer rosemary or thyme?”

Draco frowned, thinking of all of Pansy's owls accumulating unanswered in the front hall. “Thyme,” he answered absently.

“Yes, she knows that you are in need of staff, so she sent me to help. She wants you to know how much she cares. You can keep me for as long as you need me. Butter or cream?”

“Cream. So, Pansy talks to you? She tells you things?” Draco asked.

“Oh, yes. She is a kind mistress.” Peachy whipped up the dough and cut little circles.

Draco bit his lip in thought. “Are you supposed to report back what I am doing to your mistress? Are you a spy?”

Peachy dropped the rolling pin. “Oh, no, Master Malfoy! Miss Pansy loves you, and she just wants—” Peachy clapped flour-covered hands over her mouth, her eyes wide. “I wasn't supposed to say that part. You aren't going to tell her, are you?”

Draco felt the room spin. That was the second sucker-punch to the gut of the day. Pansy? In love with him? He mentally reviewed all of their interactions since his return, and his mouth went slack. It was true! Had he been blind? He hadn't seen that coming. How could he have missed it? He had thought that this was like back at Hogwarts: a simple schoolgirl infatuation. He could see how anyone would be attracted to him—it was hard not to be. He was quite a catch, after all. He had it all: the looks, the money, the charisma, the brains and raw sex appeal. He was almost jealous of other people: he couldn't have sex with himself, after all, and even he wished he could after he saw his own bum in a tight-fitting pair of denims, it was that spectacular. Just about anyone who knew of him had carried a torch for him at one point or another; it was just part of being a Malfoy. He had to beat off all the women—and quite a few blokes, to be honest—with a stick.

But love? That was a different thing entirely.

“Master Malfoy? Please! Please don't tell Miss Pansy that I told you!” Peachy was crying again.

Draco gave her an annoyed look. “I won't tell,” he promised. “Just—don't get my pastry all teary. I won't have it.”

Peachy gave a watery smile. “Thank you, sir. I can stay?”

Draco was already lost in thought. “Hm? Oh, yeah. Fine, that's fine. Dinner's at eight. And I feel like steak.” He turned to go. He had to wash his hair again. It had recently become—sullied.

“Yes, sir. Whatever you want.”

Draco smiled as he left the kitchen. Those words had never sounded so good.

On his way through the Grand Salon, Draco caught sight of a quill and pot of ink sitting ready for use on the massive walnut desk in the corner. An idea came to him. What if he didn't ask Potter in person to come? It would be a lot easier to dash off a quick invite than to face him, like he was asking some sort of favour. This way, he didn't have to let Potter have all the power. Decided, Draco was momentarily distracted from his hair disaster as he sat down to compose his summons.


Potter,
I've decided to allow you to teach me wandless magic. I think that I would have enormous aptitude for the skill. For my accommodation, I insist that you repair to the Manor for the duration of my tutelage. It will require all of my concentration, and I don't want to be inconvenienced by running all over town. I will make a suite ready for your arrival and expect you in three days time.
Respectfully,
D. Malfoy



Just as Draco finished toweling off his hair from the cleansing of the filth of the house elf, an owl tapped at his window. He frowned. Potter sure was prompt. Well, then again, why wouldn't he be eager to reserve his spot at the Manor? People used to stand in line for an invitation! Draco slit open the missive and began to read.


Draco,
You are off your nut if you think I am going to come and live with you like your little lap dog. Not everyone in the whole world does exactly what you want, when you want. I'll teach you, but on my schedule. Got that? Is next Saturday okay? I only have weekends free. I'll meet you outside the shop at the corner of Wellington Street at eleven. See you then.
Harry


Potter,
It most certainly is not okay. I insist upon your compliance in this issue. Your rooms are being made ready, and I can compensate you for salary that may be missed, if that is your grievance. Money is no object in this matter. The restoration of my magic is of paramount importance and must be treated as such. I will expect you at the aforementioned time.
Respectfully,
D. Malfoy

Draco,
You don't seem to fucking get it, you annoying idiot! You can't buy me off! I have a job, Draco, not that you have any notion of responsibility whatsoever. Why are you so keen on having someone that you can't stand come and live with you, anyway? Can't get enough of me?
H

Potter,
Fuck you! How dare you imply that I don't work! You have no idea what I do with my time. It's your job to watch over me, since you seem to think I am so obviously inept that I can't be by myself for one minute without magic. In fact, after I send this ruddy owl, I am placing a call to your supervisor to ask for your leave of absence in this matter, which is more important. Witness protection and all that. So there.
Malfoy
P.S. Don't call me by my given name.

Draco,
You are such an arse. Fine, I'll be there. You'd better start practising whatever magic you have now, because you are going to need a head start on me.
H


Draco stared at the ominous last note that the owl had dropped into his hand. It fairly bristled with the force of Potter's wrath. Draco closed his eyes. He might have won the battle to keep his dignity, but he had a feeling that the war of wills had just begun.