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The Words That Pass Between Us
The afternoon sun carries shadows across Draco’s bedroom. Sitting at the foot of his bed, he yawns and stretches, feeling more rested than he has done in years. There is just something so comforting about one’s own bed, particularly after spending a few nights in a Ministry holding cell, curled up on a board trying to pass as a mattress. Draco can still feel the splinters pushing through the sheets, into his skin.My dogs sleep better than this, he remembers shouting at some Auror or another, who hexed his mouth shut and spit at his feet. Bully for that guy, honestly, because he wouldn’t have liked what Draco said next. Potter certainly didn’t, and probably regretted the Finite Incantatem he muttered after testifying on Draco’s behalf.Sometimes, it’s hard to believe that even happened. People make mistakes, Potter had said, stood before the Wizengamot; and some people deserve a second chance. He then proceeded to provide a rather emotional plea in Draco’s favor. Some people cried. Some people even looked in Draco’s direction, without ire. It was touching; or would have been, had a word of it been true. But Draco is not selfless, and he is not good. He is angry and jealous and bitter that a spectacled git raised by Muggles was chosen to be everyone’s savior, while he was chosen to pay for his father’s mistakes.Life has always been a bit cruel to him, regardless what anyone thinks. Frowning, Draco wriggles his toes before setting his feet on the cold, stone floor. He shivers, sliding off the bed and onto his knees. Reaching under the bed, Draco feels around for his slippers; wishing, not for the first time, that Potter had returned his wand along with his freedom.You’ll thank me for holding onto it, later. Then Potter had smirked, knowing full well Draco would not. He’s been stumbling around with a candle ever since, startled by his own shadow every time he turns a corner. There are too many memories and too many nightmares, and Draco finds himself going a bit mad the more time that he spends here. Perhaps it would be different were his parents freed alongside him; but as it stands, he is alone - save for one, dusty house elf provided by the Ministry.  Moopy, it’s called. Draco hates the thing. It’s a bloody nightmare, is what it is, he complained, once, in a letter to his father. Imagine waking in the middle of the night to one of those things stood at the foot of your bed. It’s meant to kill me, whatever they say!Imagine waking to find yourself in Azkaban, was his father’s response. Nothing more, nothing less. Irate, Draco tucked the letter inside his pillowcase and punched the bloody thing til it was void of all its feathers. That was the last time he was naive enough to think his father cared. Since then, his letters have been mostly banal: I hope they’re treating you well, father. Moopy’s tea tastes like piss, father. Things that don’t warrant a response.Things that do warrant a response - They’ve frozen the accounts, father. Aurors ransacked the Manor, father - Draco keeps to himself, writing them down in a little, black book that has Ministry of Magic embossed on the front cover.It arrived by owl on his eighteenth birthday. A gift from his mother, and the only one he received. Draco continues to be touched that she would grovel low enough to be granted such a minuscule favor. Happiest of Birthdays, Draco. When the pain of missing her is too much to bear, he traces along those words with a finger. It happens more often than he’d like.“Moopy has made breakfast, sir.”The sudden crack of Apparition startles him, and Draco hits his head on the bed frame. “Stupid, fucking elf!” He scowls, rubbing the back of his head as he sits back on his knees. This has been happening too often lately. Draco is starting to think the bloody thing does it on purpose to have a good laugh.“Will you be needing Moopy for anything else, sir?”“You know I won’t,” he snaps. “Now leave.”Moopy bows, then Disapparates, leaving behind a tray of toast and tea. Plebeian fare. Draco imagines this is the sort of stuff Potter must eat at the Weasley’s. It infuriates him, that he’s been brought down to their level. What’s next, he wonders, slathering toast with fig jam. Canvass shoes? The thought turns his stomach. It is one thing to eat like Potter, but another entirely to look like him. If there is one thing Draco has held on to, it’s a modicum of self-respect: yes, he’s made terrible choices, but he only dresses in excellent ones. Like the Italian wool sharkskin pant he pairs with a fitted black shirt, after breakfast; embellished with his father’s favorite cuff-links which adorn the family crest. It was only by some miracle Draco spared them from the Aurors, though the same cannot be said for the stuffed dragon he’d been given as a child. A family heirloom, threadbare as it was, going as far back as his great-great grandfather. Draco suspects he was the only one to ever love it, though, and losing it was like losing the last decent part of himself. The part that was guiltless and kind and used to ride his training broom around his mother’s garden. The part that knew how to smile and laugh, and had the whole, entire world within his reach. The part he misses more than anything.But little good it does to think back on it, now. Draco will never be that child, again. That innocent. If he smiles now, it’s because he is half mad from the echo of screams that permeate his every hour. And he knows who they belong to, because he saw them and fed them, late at night when no one was around to catch him. They meant something to him, then, as they mean something to him now.I’m sorry.Words he wanted to say, but never could; and, for some reason, still can’t. So, Draco writes them down, instead; over and over in his notebook, which has become a cacophony of dark poetry and stark confessions.
I hate him. I love him. I wish I were dead.
Sometimes, Draco draws pictures of what could have been, had he made all the right choices: Draco in the Slug Club; Draco holding the Quidditch World Cup; Draco holding hands with some nameless, faceless person whose become some sick, secret sort of friend. He’s on every page Draco has touched. He flies with him, sleeps with him, laughs with him. And sometimes, if he pretends hard enough, Draco swears he can feel this person’s breath against his neck; a whispered I love you that has him pressing into the mattress, only to wake up alone wishing it were real.If he could just feel something, anything, other than this…He tears a page out of his notebook, feeling pathetic as the quill-tip touches the page. Potter, he writes. I wish to return to Hogwarts. I expect a visit, so we can discuss. – D. MalfoyAfter a brief moment of hesitation, Draco folds the letter and calls for Moopy. “Go on then,” he hisses, frowning as the elf’s eyes widen significantly at the name scribbled across the envelope. “You’re not getting paid to stand around, doing nothing.”For a few agonizing seconds, he and Moopy scowl at one another, until Draco stomps his foot like a petulant child and the elf Disapparates.It is pathetic how much relief Moopy’s absence brings. He’s never been fond of house elves. Their droopy, wrinkly skin and wide, glassy eyes give him the creeps. There was only one house elf Draco ever tolerated, just, and it’s long since died. He read about it in the Prophet, shortly before his arrest. Dobby, a Free Elf.  One name amongst many; a list of lives lost during the war, written by the Savior, himself.Draco knew then, without question, that Potter was a better man than he could ever hope to be. * Fifteen days after Moopy delivers his letter, Draco is interrupted during a rather luxurious wank. His mind has carried him back to Hogwarts, to the Quidditch pitch. Draco is under the stands, pinned to the ground beneath a strong, sturdy weight. There’s a knee against his back and a hand in his hair, pulling roughly…“Moopy is sorry, but sir has a visitor.”Draco is startled from his reverie. He opens his eyes, blinking himself back to the present. That stupid elf is stood at the foot of his bed, the top of its head just barely visible above Draco’s fist from this angle. He curses; and in his haste to cover up, Draco tumbles out of bed, hitting his head – hard. Moopy tugs sharply on its ears.“Moopy is sorry,” it says, again, finally having the decency to look away. “But Mister Harry Potter is outside, sir. Moopy invited him in, but he would not come in. No matter what Moopy said, he refused.” “Thank bloody fuck.” Draco scrubs a hand over his face, assuming Moopy would have waltzed the git right in. Potter getting an eyeful is the last thing Draco needs. He needs Potter to think he’s got himself put back together; that he’s ready to take that second chance by the bollocks and make something of himself. He doesn’t need Potter thinking he’s some sort of disreputable pervert.“Go,” he says, with a dismissive wave. “Tell him I’ll be right there.”Moopy Disapparates, and Draco takes his time getting ready. This is, he assumes, the last time Potter will be at his mercy, so he wants to enjoy it. Make him sweat, a bit; make him grow impatient. Maybe Potter will yell at him, just like he used to, or hex him into next week. Something, anything, to make Draco feel. Potter was always good for that, if nothing else. Boiling Draco’s blood, scratching at his very last nerve.It thrilled him to feel that much, all the time, over nothing. He longs to do so, again. * Potter stands at the very end of the pathway. Draco can just make him out as he steps outside, into the summer sun. He squints, shielding his eyes with a hand as he saunters down the stairs. His other hand closes around a wand he does not have, nails digging into the flesh of his palm. It grounds him; keeps him level headed as Potter becomes more than a muted blur in the distance.“Malfoy.” Potter looks like he just rolled out of bed. His hair is wild about his face, sticking up at all angles, and his Chudley Cannons t-shirt is wrinkled with a hole at the hem of the neckline. It’s a disgrace, quite honestly. Like he didn’t even try. Draco wants to be insulted. “I got your letter.”“Yes, I figured that.” Draco bites the inside of his cheek to keep from rolling his eyes. “Considering you’re here.”Potter shrugs, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. “Right.” He looks uncomfortable, shifting his weight as he glances over Draco’s shoulder. His eyes are wide; nervous. Draco understands.“I don’t like being here any more than you do, Potter.” And that is true. He doesn’t. “Which is partly why I wanted to speak with you about my proposition.”“No offense, Malfoy, but I don’t exactly feel for you.” Potter shrugs, keeping his hands in his pockets. It causes him to duck his head a bit, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. He pushes them up with the tip of a finger. His nailbed is dirty, and it makes Draco squirm. “You did this to yourself.”“Yes, I get that.” Draco huffs, pressing his mouth into a thin line as he flips through the pages of his notebook. “Look,” he orders, shoving it in Potter’s face. “Right here.”He taps a finger against a very short list:
Muggle Studies
N.E.W.T.s
“This is all I’m asking for.” Potter reaches for the notebook, but Draco pulls it back with haste. “Well?”“It’s not up to me. I’ll have to write McGonagall.” He shrugs again, and Draco feels the last vestiges of his patience wane away. “The world is done handing you things, Malfoy. You’re going to have to work for them, now. But I’ll do this one, last thing for you, if it’s what you really want.”“If? Potter, I clearly stated – “ Draco shakes his head. No; he isn’t going to do this. Not when he wants something so badly. After he gets it, then he can act like a prat; but not before. “Yes, alright,” he concedes. “I appreciate that.”“Do you?” Potter snorts, casting one last glance towards the Manor. “Just…look for my owl,” he says. Then he’s gone. Just like that. * The owl comes two days later, during tea. Harry Potter’s Chocolate Frog card falls out of the envelope. Draco crumples it within a fist.Malfoy, the letter reads. It took a lot of convincing, but lucky for you I’m kind of a big deal right now and really persuasive. See you at school. * Two months later, Draco finds himself on a train back to Hogwarts. He shares a compartment with Theodore Nott and Pansy Parkinson, the only friendly faces among a vast sea of vitriol.“All right, Draco?” Theodore pats the empty space beside him, hardly bothered when Draco sits beside Pansy, instead. She grins, reaching out to cup his cheek. Her nails are painted a putrid shade of green. “You look as though you’d rather be anywhere else.”“Perhaps that’s because I would be.” Draco leans into her touch, unwittingly. “And yet here I am.”“Here you are,” Pansy agrees, dragging her thumb along his bottom lip. “We missed you, darling. You never even wrote us. We had no idea what had happened, until your pretty face was plastered all over the Prophet.”“Yes, well. It’s a little hard to write when your every move is being monitored by the Ministry.”“Been a while since you had a wank, then?” Theodore laughs, as though this is the funniest thing he’s ever said. Draco thinks it might be.“Been ages,” he says, with a shrug. “Since I had a good one, anyway.”“Should have thought of me.” Pansy drops her hand and rests it on his knee. Draco shoves it off.“I did,” he replies, with a scowl. “Why do you think it wasn’t good? No offense, but you aren’t exactly my type.”“Don’t like tits, hey, Draco?” Theodore closes his hands around air. “More for me, then. Thanks, mate.”Draco rolls his eyes, sliding further down the bench so he can rest his head against the window. “It’s why I turned off them, really. Wanted you to have more options than just your mum’s.”Pansy laughs, reaching across the aisle to pinch Theodore’s cheeks. “There, there, darling. You can always have mine. They’re more than I know what to do with, in any case.”Theodore’s grin turns a bit lecherous; “Is that right?”“Can we please talk about anything else?” Draco sighs, crossing his legs. Pansy is half in Theodore’s lap, her chest pressed up against his face. It is cliché and adolescent - first year behavior - and Draco is embarrassed to be within three feet of it. “It’s only been twenty minutes, and I’m already bored.”“Spoil sport,” Pansy complains. “What could be better?”“Potter,” Theodore suggests, voice muffled between Pansy’s breasts. “My dad was fucking stunned he saved Draco’s arse.”“He didn’t save my arse,” Draco sneers. “You’re right,” Pansy agrees. “He didn’t. He’s just toying with you, letting you come back here. He’s up to something, Draco, you do know that?”Draco has considered that, of course, but Potter is too altruistic to take pleasure in watching him suffer. The Room of Requirement showed Draco that much. It would have been too easy for Potter to leave him behind, yet he hadn’t. Blaise assumes Potter has a weak stomach, but Draco thinks he has a strong heart. Better than Draco’s in any case. Reverse the situation, and he cannot say with any certainty he would have done the same, and therein lies the problem.Draco is a shit person.“You give Potter too much credit. Likely, it’s that he’s heard Father’s assets have been frozen and assumes I’ll have to make a proper living, now.” Draco frowns; “Though, I’m not entirely sure anyone would hire me even if that were the case; outstanding N.E.W.T.s or otherwise.”“Likely not.” Pansy agrees, running a hand through her hair. “No one wants a Death Eater in the apothecary, darling.”While her words are true, the insinuation infuriates him. He was never a Death Eater. Not really, and never by choice. It was his father’s missteps that bled the Mark into his veins until Draco’s blood ran thick with poison. If anyone should understand that, it’s Pansy. She knows him.“I’m not – ““Oh, but you are, Draco.” She reaches over, pushing up his sleeve and trailing a sharply filed nail along the Mark. “You are, where it counts.”“Pansy,” Theodore warns, tugging Draco’s sleeve down with a flick of his wand. “Stop.”“No, I won’t. I’m not going to sit here and pretend everything’s going to be alright for any of us. What does that really help, Theo? Draco, love, don’t misunderstand - I want you to succeed in whatever it is you think you’re doing by coming back here, but for as prejudiced as they think we are, they’re no longer better. That,” she waves towards his arm. “Is all they’re going to see, now.”“Oh, fuck off.” Draco stands, shoving a finger in her face before stomping out of their compartment. Honestly, he should have just Apparated to Hogsmeade and walked back to Hogwarts. It would have saved him a great deal of trouble.“Anything from the trolley, dear?”Draco stops, blinks, then grabs a handful of licorice wands. They were always his favorites, until Pansy took that as him lusting after cock. The way you work that thing, Draco. It’s obscene. Thinking back on it, he supposes it was; considering she figured it out well before he did.“Thanks,” he mutters, sticking one between his teeth while the rest get stuffed into a pocket.“Of course, dear.” The witch saunters on, making it the kindest interaction Draco has had in quite some time. * For some reason, he ends up slipping into the compartment Potter shares with Granger and Weasley.Granger pretends not to notice, stuffing her nose further into a copy of The Hairy Heart: A Guide to Wizards Who Won’t Commit. Draco snorts; he always knew Weasley was a stupid git.Speaking of, he and Potter appear to be trying to stuff as many jelly slugs into their mouth as they can. Some sort of pathetic, juvenile pissing contest. So far, they seem to be tied, though Potter seems convinced he has room for some more. He holds up ten fingers, points to their shared bag of candy, then reaches into his pocket for a Sickle. Weasley grins, colorful drool slipping down his chin as he tosses a Sickle of his own across the aisle. He says something along the lines of: you’re going down, Harry; but Weasley’s mouth is so full, it’s hard to tell for sure. Not that he’s any more eloquent when his mouth is empty. Just to be a prat, Draco slams the compartment door shut. Potter makes the mistake of looking up just as he’s stuffing another into his left cheek. His finger slips, and he very nearly gags. Slugs and colorful spit go everywhere. Weasley fist-pumps the air and summons the Sickles with a flick of his wand. Hermione shakes her head, disapprovingly.“Charming, Potter,” Draco drawls, dropping down between him and Hermione. To his credit, Potter looks almost embarrassed. “Don’t stop on my account. Please, continue.”“Don’t encourage them,” Hermione says under her breath, turning the page. “They’ve been at it for hours, it seems. I’m just waiting for one of them to choke to death.”“Funny,” he says. “So am I.” Draco opens his own book and produces a quill. Potter is an idiot, he writes. Weasley even more so.“Didn’t know you were literate, Malfoy.” Weasley has a handful of partially chewed candy; purple spit slipping between his fingers. It is absolutely vile, and Draco finds himself wondering why on earth Granger would want that thing to commit.“Is he always this clever?” Draco turns to Hermione, who turns away from him. Ron frowns, stuffing the candy back in his mouth, presumably to keep himself from saying anything further. “Smart,” Potter agrees, reaching for a handful of his own.  Draco rolls his eyes, crosses his legs, and writes until the train stops. Once it does, Potter holds him back with a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “You have a lot to apologize for,” he says. “With Hermione and Ron, in particular.”“Do I?” Draco feigns surprise, bringing a hand up to his chest. “I had no idea, Potter. Thank you for telling me I have to apologize for helping Death Eaters sneak into Hogwarts so they could kill quite a few of your friends.”Potter frowns. “Draco,” he says. “I’m serious.”“And so am I. Seriously annoyed that you think I don’t know that!” Draco pulls his arm away, giving Potter a shove. “Mind your own business, Potter, and stay out of mine.” * Potter is incapable of doing what he’s told. Draco thinks he should have known this already, but the fact that Potter is everywhere, all the time, catches him off guard. Particularly, when he saunters into Draco’s Muggle Studies class one afternoon for no reason.Draco ducks his head and continues writing furiously in his little, black book, hoping Potter can read between the lines and leaves him alone. He doesn’t, of course, instead dropping himself unceremoniously in the seat beside Draco, the force of which knocks Draco’s bottle of ink over. It pools on the surface of his desk.“Messy,” Potter scolds, cleaning it with a lazy flick of his wand. The tip of Draco’s quill breaks against his parchment. “You’re welcome,” Potter says, putting his wand away. “For what, exactly?” Malfoy closes the book around his quill and holds out a hand, admiring his perfectly trimmed nails.“For attempting to save that ridiculous shirt.” Potter digs through his bag, pulling out a roll of parchment and a tattered quill. The feather-end is bent in half. “You spilled ink everywhere, in case you didn’t notice.”“Ridiculous?” Draco scoffs. “This shirt cost more than your entire wardrobe, Potter.” He eyes over Harry’s threadbare jumper; “Clearly.”“That doesn’t make it any less ridiculous.” Potter shrugs, daring to poke a silver button. Draco notices there is dirt beneath his nails, again, and the ones Potter hasn’t bitten into a jagged edge could do with a good clip. “Snakes?” Potter says, clearly hoping to draw Malfoy’s attention away from his hands. “Really?” “It’s something called pride, Potter. I assumed you knew what that was, considering that ridiculous mane you refuse to do anything about.” His judgement shifts from Potter’s clothes to his hair. It’s a disgrace, honestly, how little Potter cares about his appearance; particularly when his stupid face is plastered everywhere. Draco has even seen it on pants. Why anyone would want Potter’s face stretched across their arse is beyond him.“You’re staring,” Potter muses, resting his chin in the palm of a hand. He looks amused. “I’ve got a stack of autographed pictures in my bag, if you’d like one.”“Maybe to wipe my arse with,” Draco mutters, crossing his legs and turning his back to Potter.For some reason, that makes Potter laugh. Draco bites his lower lip, trying not to smile. He hates that Potter’s laugh is doing things to him; making him feel like he’s done something right, for once.“My face, on Malfoy’s arse.” Potter is laughing even harder now. If Draco had the nerve to turn back around, he would not be surprised if there were tears in Potter’s eyes. “A very high honor, I’m sure.”“The highest.”“Yeah?” Potter snorts, reaching beneath his glasses to wipe at his eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind.”Draco frowns, finally turning around; “Will you?”“Of course not,” Potter laughs, again. “Git.” * Draco is alone.He knows this, even though Theodore snores loudly from the bed beside him, and Pansy kisses his forehead every night before bed.They don’t understand him. Pansy, especially. She thinks he’s wasting his time, studying Muggles, but she doesn’t understand what it’s like watching one get murdered on the same table your family gathered around each night for dinner; to look into unseeing eyes, and watch their trail of tears dry upon pale, hollowed cheeks.She doesn’t realize that understanding Muggles is Draco’s way of apologizing to Charity Burbage.I’m sorry, he writes into his notebook, over and over until the sun creeps over the horizon. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. * Sometimes, Draco has no idea what he ever saw in Pansy. Even when he thought he could learn to love her, she was incorrigible; never taking no for an answer and always thinking she had some sway over him because of the size of her breasts. She still thinks that, even though Pansy knows full well he isn’t keen on breasts or women at all, for that matter.“Why won’t you show me, darling?” She pouts, undoing the top few buttons of her shirt and exposing a bra that is at least two sizes too small. “Just a peek. I won’t tell anyone what’s in there.”The notebook is opened and turned over, one of his hands resting against the spine to keep it pressed against the table and away from prying eyes. It only serves to annoy Pansy further, and she hooks a painted nail beneath Draco’s chin and draws him close until their mouths are a hair's breadth apart. Her breath smells like pumpkin juice.He scowls; “I said no; you annoying, little slag.”She slaps him. Draco can feel the handprint bloom across his cheek. Humiliated to the point of anger, he grips his quill so tightly it snaps in half.  It is only a second until they are both standing, bench turned over on the floor.They are nose-to-nose, both holding onto the notebook and trying to pull it from the other’s grasp. “You’re an imbecile,” he seethes. “Always crying when you can’t get your way.”“I’m not the one with tears in my eyes, darling.” Pansy wets her lips, lifting her chin as she gives the notebook a sharp tug. “That would be you.”“Can you blame me?” Draco asks, narrowing his eyes. “I’ve never been this close to something so revolting.”“Oh, I beg to differ.” Pansy smirks. “The way Blaise tells it, you were awfully close to Potter during the war. Hugged him and everything. Rubbed one off on his back.” She makes like she’s going to be sick, cheeks puffed out as she slaps a hand over her mouth. Her eyes are wide, glistening with something Draco knows aren’t tears.He purses his lips, squares his shoulders, and for a very brief second thinks he might stand up for Potter –he did, after all, save Draco’s life – but at the very last second, gives in to his laughter, instead. They both double over, Pansy making gagging sounds as she points a finger towards her open mouth. In doing so, he manages to fully steal back the notebook, tucking it into his robes as she wheezes. Pansy does not seem to notice.Potter, however, does. Draco catches his gaze from across the aisle. He’s frowning, arms crossed over his chest with one hand wrapped tightly around his wand. Draco sticks out his tongue, in what is probably the most juvenile thing he’s ever done to date. It seems to catch Potter off guard, as much as it does Draco.There is a moment wherein neither of them reacts; and then, unexpectedly, Potter smiles. It is, Draco thinks, quite lovely.  * The first time Potter says anything about to Draco about the little, black book, Potter is on his knees in the courtyard, digging into ruined earth with his fingers.There are small piles all around him: of stones, mostly, but Draco can make out a few broken wands as well. It’s sobering; and reminds him why he is here, back at Hogwarts, instead of at the Manor drinking tea and doing nothing.War changes people, and it certainly changed Draco. He no longer wants to make his father proud. He wants peace of mind and to know what it feels like to be normal. He wants to wake up with nothing to fear and no one to be but himself. Just Draco. Whoever that is.People call him a Death Eater. An arrogant, spoiled piece of shit. But they don’t see him in the morning before he has his tea, when he walks into the bedpost and nearly breaks his nose. They don’t see him with drool dried to one cheek, or his robes on inside-out. They don’t see him tugging at his hair, angry he will bear this Mark forever, wondering if his father will ever come home, and wondering how anyone – let alone himself – could find forgiveness in their heart for everything he’s done. They see what they want to see. They see a Malfoy. But they don’t see him.Potter, though…Draco thinks Potter might. Otherwise, he has no explanation for why Potter follows him around all the time; hiding behind columns, like Draco is an idiot and can’t see, or hear, his red canvass shoes from a mile away; or how Potter seems to think his invisibility cloak somehow makes him impervious to sound. The number of times Potter has sneezed, or coughed, or swore when he stubbed his toe beneath that thing is astronomical. At any time, Draco could have walked over there, tore the thing off, and clocked Potter in the jaw for being a creep; but it’s more fun to let Potter think he’s clever; to strip off his shirt, for no reason at all, and hear Potter’s sharp intake of breath.Potter wants, it seems; almost as much as Draco.Today in the courtyard, however, Potter does not try to hide. He makes a spectacle of himself, instead, tossing dirt everywhere and swearing loudly whenever rocks scrape against his fingers.“Do you ever wonder whose it is, Potter?” Draco looks up from his book. He’s sitting, knees drawn up, on the grass beside him. Potter does not look up.“Which,” he asks. “The blood or the wands?”“Any of it, I suppose.”Draco has, of course. It’s hard to hold something so personal as a wand in your hands and not wonder who it belonged to; what its story was or could have been, especially when you can feel the last vestiges if its magic beneath each, exploring touch. But that is the tragedy of war. People are lost and eventually forgotten; their stories untold unless there is someone there to tell them. Sometimes, Draco wants to be that person, but knows no one would ever listen. He is not Potter. He is at fault.   “Earth to Potter.” His voice breaks through Potter’s apparent reverie, pulling him back to the present. Draco stares at him with a dour expression, book now closed on his lap. His quill is pressed between its pages, ink dripping from the tip. “It’s been months, are we really back to this, again?”Potter blinks. “Back to what?”“Not talking.” Draco sits up a little taller, hugging the book to his chest. The feather-end of the quill brushes against his chin as he frowns. “Well?”“Oh.” Harry shakes his head, wiping the dirt from his hands onto his jeans. “Yes. Er, not to not talking, but to wondering about it. I do. All the time.”“Me too,” Draco admits. “Sometimes, I wonder who’s I have on my hands.” Draco leans forward, closer to the other boy. Potter’s eyes narrow. They are a haunting shade of green. “I assume you know, so I’d like you to tell me.”Silence. Potter swallows, and Draco’s eyes lower to the movement in his throat. Potter could do with a shave. “Please, Potter.” Reaching out, he trails one finger along the line of Potter’s jaw, entranced by the texture. “Mine,” Potter says; then, unexpectedly, closes the distance between them in a kiss as innocent as any. Still, Draco feels he could perish from it. “I died, you know.”Draco didn’t; and he isn’t sure he wants to, now that he does. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, chasing Potter’s mouth as Potter slowly pulls away. It is the first time he’s said those words out loud to someone who has deserved them. “Imagine if you hadn’t come back to life. We’d all be fucked.”“Not you.” Potter stands, grinning broadly regardless the nature of their conversation. He holds out a hand, offering to help Draco up. “Not now, anyway.”It takes him a minute to pick up on the insinuation; but once he gets there, Draco barks out an incredulous laugh. “You’re serious?”“No.” Potter rolls his eyes. “Of course, not. You’re not my type.”“Too attractive?”“Too skinny.” Potter laughs as Draco smacks him with the notebook. Potter tries to snatch it but misses. “Too secretive.”“You could always ask what's in it, you know.” He shoves the book into his pocket, tipping his chin at Potter. “In fact, I might suggest that. You’re the worst stalker I’ve ever encountered.”Potter looks like he wants to dispute that but can’t. “Okay, then: Malfoy, may I please read your diary?” He makes a move for Draco’s pocket, but Draco is quick to move away.“Fuck off, Potter. It’s not a diary. Girls have diaries.” Offended, Draco throws two fingers up in Potter’s face. “I have a ledger of thoughts.”Potter throws his head back and laughs, arms wrapped around his tiny waist. He needs to eat, Draco decides. To think, Potter called him too skinny. Odds are, he’d be able to count every single one of Potter’s ribs if his shirt was off; and what a vile, tempestuous thought that is. Potter with his shirt off. Draco tries to feel disgusted by it. Staring down at the grass stains on Potter’s ill-fitting jeans helps, somewhat. Not entirely, though.Merlin, he’s fucked. * The nameless, faceless person in Draco’s notebook suddenly has glasses and a lightning-bolt scar. He flies with him, sleeps with him, laughs with him. When Draco closes his eyes and tries hard enough, he can feel his breath on the back of his neck. He whispers: You’re not my type. You’re too skinny, too secretive; and somehow that is better than I love you.* A few weeks later, Draco decides to have breakfast with the Gryffindors.“Research,” he explains, around a mouthful of food. “Granger’s parents are Muggles, Potter was raised by Muggles, and Weasley. Well.” Draco waves a flippant hand.“Brilliant.” Potter looks tired; a consequence of having been snogged within an inch of his life the night before, Draco suspects, and the corner of his mouth twitches at the memory.He’d had a moment of unmitigated bravery, pulling Potter into the Prefect’s bathroom to capture his mouth in a biting, possessive kiss. Potter had smelled of Butterbeer and Muggle cigarettes and tasted the same. Draco does not think he has ever been so turned on. Potter either, for that matter, considering he came in his pants like a bloody fourth year.“I was brilliant, wasn’t I?” Draco whispers, nudging Potter’s foot beneath the table. "The best, I'd wager."Potter groans, dropping his head onto the table, narrowly missing his breakfast. Weasley’s plate rattles and a few piled-high sausages end up on Potter’s head. Granger plucks them out with a sigh.“Sorry, mate,” Weasley says, around a mouthful of food. Draco would not be surprised if it was some of the sausages removed from Potter’s hair. Granger’s following cluck of disapproval suggests that it is. “Woke up starving.”“And is that any surprise?” She lowers a hand to Potter’s back. Draco wants to slap it away and replace it with his own. “Honestly, Ronald, I don’t know where you heard an empty stomach would help you pass your N.E.W.T.s, but it’s really quite ridiculous! Everyone knows…”Potter lifts his head and he and Weasley exchange a look. Sorry, Potter mouths across the table. Weasley shrugs, tucking into his breakfast. Grease trails down his chin, bits of casing catching at the corners of his mouth. Granger licks her thumb and reaches across the table to wipe them off with a disapproving look.“Slow down, Ron,” she says. “You’ll choke.”“Blimey, which is it, Hermione? Should I eat or not?” Weasley drops his fork and sits back, arms crossed over his chest; Granger tosses an orange peel at his forehead.   “I never said not to eat, just to eat carefully.”“Yes, mum,” Weasley gripes, before tossing it back. It lands on a nearby stack of parchment, the saturated peel diluting some of the ink. Granger shrieks - “That’s two inches lost!” – and Draco’s temples start to throb.“Fucking nutters,” he murmurs, leaning close to Potter. “You weren’t joking.”“I never said they were nutters,” Potter hisses. “I said they’ve gotten real bloody annoying, ever since they started to fuck.” * It was a moment of brutal honesty Draco had not been expecting. He and Potter had been sitting in the library, Potter failing to help Draco understand something called The Internets. Can we talk about something else, Draco had complained, slamming his book shut. If I have to hear one more thing about Apples and Goggle I’m going to scream.And just like that, Potter word-vomited for over an hour about Weasley and Granger, and how they were creating a life of their own, filled with hopes and dreams and plans that only sometimes included him. How, overnight, he became a third wheel; and while they vehemently deny it, are not particularly good liars and Potter is not blind.
I see the way they look at one another, when I walk into a room. It’s like I’m interrupting something that hasn’t even started yet but could have if I’d just stayed away. I guess I can’t blame them, though. After everything I put them through, and everything they did for me, they deserve to be happy, with or without me. But that doesn’t mean I can’t miss how it used to be. Sometimes, I wish I could go back eight years and do it all over, again. Even the bad parts, because the good parts were more than worth it, you know? 
But Draco didn’t know. Because nothing he ever did, nothing he ever had, made any of the bad parts worth it. * “At it again, are they?” Girl Weasley, Ginny, wraps her arms around Potter from behind, resting her chin on his shoulder. Her hair is damp and she smells like lavender, pulling Draco from his thoughts. His nose starts to run, apparently sensitive to her cheap brand of perfume.  “They’re like an old married couple, always fighting.”“Like you and Harry are any better.” Weasley scowls at his sister, who scowls in return. It is almost frightening how similar they look in that moment. Draco wonders if Potter has ever noticed.“We are actually.” Ginny turns her head, pressing a kiss to Potter’s cheek. “We never fight.”“Perhaps that’s because you don’t even talk?” Draco arches a brow, licking butter off his knife. Potter’s eyes trail his movements. “Of course, if I was Potter, I wouldn’t talk to you either. Not if the alternative was talking to me.” Snogging him, more like; but that’s a bandage he’d rather Potter rip off, when he’s ready, since Draco is rather fond of his bullocks and doesn’t want Ginny hexing them off. “Draco,” Granger hisses. “Please.”“You?” Ginny drops her arms, balling her hands into fists at her sides. “Why would Harry choose you?”“Do you really want to know?”“Draco –“ Potter starts.“Since when is he Draco?!” Ginny shouts.“That’s weird, though, isn’t it?” Weasley interrupts, shoveling some eggs into his mouth. His eyes from his sister to Potter. “Takes real passion to fight.”“And to make up,” Potter adds, quickly, apparently not wanting the conversation to turn towards his relationship with Ginny - or lack thereof. He gives Weasley a pointed look; “Which is half the reason I’m so tired.”“Ron!” Granger shrieks, again, covering her face with her hands. “You promised you cast the right spells!”Ginny wraps her arms around Granger. “You’ll have to forgive my brother,” she says. “He’s always been a bit daft around you.”Granger, for some reason, finds this flattering. Weasley winks at her, and all is forgiven. Just like that.“Pathetic,” Draco mutters.“You’re pathetic,” Ginny snaps, giving Hermione one last squeeze before joining the rest of her class at the end of their table. Potter watches her go, in what Draco hopes is contempt.“That’s bloody disgusting, staring after my sister like that.” Weasley kicks Potter from beneath the table, doing his best to look menacing. The attempt falls a bit short, and he ends up looking constipated.“It’s not my fault she has a nice arse,” Potter says, resting his chin in the palm of a hand. Now it’s Draco’s turn to kick him. Potter kicks him back, then turns his attention towards the Slytherin table, where Theodore Nott and Pansy Parkinson appear to be half having sex against the table. Potter pulls a face, prompting Weasley to glance over his shoulder.  “Don’t mind her, she’s always been a slag,” Draco says fondly, blowing Pansy a kiss. She blows one back. Theodore scowls.“What’s got his knickers in a twist?” Weasley snorts, turning back around; “I’d be right delighted, having those things shoved in my face.”It’s a stupid thing to say and Draco finds himself wishing he could magic a filter on Weasley’s idiot mouth, sometimes. “Some women have class,” Granger hisses. “Unfortunately for you, Ron, I happen to be one of them!”“I love class!” Weasley shouts. “Yours, in particular!”“It’s true, Hermione,” Potter says, only half-paying attention. His attention has shifted to Draco’s notebook, which Draco notices is now precariously close to Potter’s fingers. “He’s always going on about how brilliant it is.”“That’s right!” says Weasley.Granger snorts. “Well, if Harry says so.” “Oi!” Weasley sounds offended, again, and Draco wishes he’d learn when to shut up. “Why’s Harry’s word better than mine?”“Oh, I don’t know, Ron. Maybe because Harry has nothing to gain by lying to me. It’s not like I’m going to withhold sex from him, if he gets on my nerves.”Weasley looks scandalized. “I’d hope you would, regardless!” “Well, obviously, Ron. I – ““As fascinating as your sex life is,” Harry interrupts, frowning when Draco tugs his notebook out of reach. “Can we please talk about something else?”“I think that’s a great idea.” Granger’s hand returns to Potter’s back, gliding up until the tips of her fingers push into the ends of his hair. Draco narrows his eyes. “I’ve been meaning to ask you what your plans are, Harry. Only, the castle is nearly restored, and you still haven’t said.”Weasley sighs; “Here we go.”Harry opens his eyes. “Is doing nothing a plan, because I think I’d like to do that for a while.”“You can’t do nothing forever.”“Oh, lay off him, Hermione.” Weasley frowns; “Harry’s done enough for a lifetime, I’d say. If he wants to do nothing, just let him. Besides, he’s taking classes, isn’t he? That’s got to count for something.”“For once, I agree with that idiot.” Draco shrugs, picking apart a piece of bacon.“He’s taking Muggle Studies, Ron,” Granger says, ignoring Draco. “Considering who he grew up with, it doesn’t count for very much.” She turns towards Harry, resting both hands on his shoulders and forcing him to look at her. “I know they weren’t good people, Harry, but they were Muggles and I know you’re familiar with how the internet works.”“I didn’t get internet in my cupboard, Hermione.”“Harry – ““No, Hermione. I know you mean well, but you’ve got to stop nagging me. Have you ever considered that maybe I just want to live in Muggle London, slinging drinks in some pub or another? You don’t need Arithmancy for that.”To her credit, Granger almost looks rueful. “I just worry about you, Harry. You’re very impulsive, and I would hate for this decision to affect you down the road. My Uncle works in a pub, and he has to room with five other guys just to make rent. He’s miserable.”“Grimmauld Place is already paid for,” Potter points out, leaning in to press his nose to hers. Draco scowls, vowing to make Potter pay for this nauseating display of affection.“You’re impossible,” she sighs, brushing her nose over Potter’s before pulling away. “Why are we friends, again?”“We saved your life,” Weasley interjects, stuffing a piece of toast into his mouth. “Think you felt guilted into it, honestly.”“It’s true,” Potter agrees, finally taking a bite of his own breakfast. “But you’ve more than repaid the favor.”“You three are absolutely mental.” Draco rolls his eyes, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. It’s true, of course, but he’s always a bit envious of their easy comradery, regardless. He’s never exactly had that with anyone, before. “I don’t even know why I’m sitting here.”“Neither do I, honestly,” Weasley says, finally addressing him. “It’s not like we want him here, do we Hermione?”“Ron, if he’s Harry’s –““He isn’t Harry’s anything, Hermione! Harry just feels bad for him. For fuck’s sake, he’s a bloody Death Eater - “Draco is certain that was only the start of what was sure to be an enlightening tirade; but before Weasley can continue, a jet of bright light hits him in the shoulder, from behind. Pansy clambers over the Slytherin table, wand in hand and with Theodore behind her. It doesn’t take long for all hell to break loose, after that, and it feels a bit nostalgic if Draco is honest. His friends versus Potter’s friends; only this time, his are outnumbered and he and Potter are mostly staying out of it.  “And you said my friends were nutters,” Potter snaps, firing off a defensive spell.“To be fair, I never said mine weren't,” Draco points out. “You haven’t said much of anything, in fact.” Harry brings a hand to Draco’s shoulder, pushing him off the bench as a spell flies towards them. The end up on the floor, then under the table, sitting very close. Everything else fades away, until is just him and Potter. No one else.“What is it you want me to say, exactly?” Draco leans forward. Potter meets him halfway.“Anything.” Potter’s words are warm against his lips. “I don’t even know you. Not really. Not the important stuff.”“Okay,” Draco murmurs, grabbing a handful of Potter’s shirt. He grins, nipping at Potter’s bottom lip; “I hate Every Flavor Beans.”Harry rolls his eyes, biting Draco back. “That isn’t what I meant, Malfoy. I meant – “But Draco never finds out what Harry means; because in the next second, he is being pulled out from under the table and then everything fades to black.  * When Draco wakes up, he is alone.His Muggle Studies text is on the table beside him; as is, for some reason, his wand. He reaches for it, cursing as his blanket slips to the floor. It’s cold, in the hospital wing. Sterile, and lonely; and he finds himself thinking back to third year, when Hagrid’s oversized chicken practically took his arm off. Crabbe and Goyle spent the entire night at his bedside, playing snap and eating sweets until their stomachs ached from excess. It was one of the best nights Draco ever spent at Hogwarts, because it felt good to let his guard down and be with his friends, acting like children.He tightens the grip around his wand, casting a weak Lumos. Gods, he's missed doing magic. Especially trivial spells like this, because they remind him of when he was younger, and he and Crabbe and Goyle would camp out in his mother's garden; their fathers recounting stories of war, lighting up the tent with their wands when Crabbe and Goyle would get scared. Toughen up, lads, Mr Crabbe would say; but then he'd half-hug his son, and Draco would long for a touch like that from his own father. It was, perhaps, the first time he ever felt jealous of anyone. Draco misses him. In his notebook, Draco has done his best to remember all the good things about Crabbe. He wasn’t all terrible, really; and if he was, it wasn’t any more his fault, than it was Draco’s for being a Death Eater. They were influenced by their parents and the pure-blood culture they were brought up in. A shame, really. He was never the most intelligent, but Crabbe was loyal with a good sense of humor. Draco could laugh with him as much as he could laugh at him, and he misses that. Theodore and Pansy are well enough, but they’re both too preoccupied with fucking one another for a game of snap; and apparently too preoccupied to see how Draco is doing.In fact, it doesn’t look like he’s had many visitors at all, friends or otherwise. He wonders if his father even knows what’s happened. Likely not, or he’d have found a way to be here, even if it meant breaking out of Azkaban; because for as shit a person as Lucius is, he’s been a decent father, for the most part. Draco has never questioned his father’s love for him; only his motivations. And for as much as he might like to, Draco cannot hold that against him. His father was, after all, raised beneath the same influence as Draco. A vicious cycle of hatred and supremacy; and it’s a heady thing, knowing he will be the first to break it.   Draco sighs, twirling his wand around his fingers. His thoughts drift to Potter, who is just as great as everyone says he is. Draco can see that, now. Potter might be selfish, arrogant, and pig-headed, but he is also kind and intelligent. Honest.  “The world is done handing you things, Malfoy. You’re going to have to reach out and take them, now.” The words sound less impressive on his own tongue, but Draco likes them, nonetheless. He can still hear Potter say them; can feel the power of those words, and the intent. No one has ever wanted to help him, before. Not when they had every, single reason to want him to fail. It makes Draco feel like he is worth more than his name. It makes him feel like he is worth the second chance Potter gave him; and every other chance Potter will probably need to give him moving forward, since Draco is exemplary at fucking things up. The best, really, but he is also exemplary at potions. He's a decent flyer; and, when he wants to be, a skillful conversationalist. He is a lot of things, really, and yet: I don’t even know you. Draco brings a finger to his lips; he can still feel the words there. Not really. It surprises him how much he wants Potter to know him; and how much he wants to know Potter in return. He’s always been envious of him. From his scar to his friendships. They always seemed so strong; so easy. He wants that. Desperately. And he wants it with Harry.Draco scowls as his cheeks flush. Harry makes it sound like he’s got a bloody crush. Which he doesn’t. At all. Not on Potter, anyway. He isn’t Draco’s type. He’s too short; too bedraggled; too good, for Draco. With a groan, he slides down the bed until his head hits the pillow. Fucking hell, he’s got a bloody crush on Potter. How pathetic. He hits his forehead with a fist, trying to knock some sense into himself. It would never work. Not well, anyway. For one thing, Potter’s friends hate him. For another, Potter has a girlfriend – that good for nothing Weasley, who can’t give him even half of what Draco can. If Potter stays with her, he has a lifetime of pasties and knitted sweaters to look forward to; with Draco, he’d have a lifetime of luxurious excursions and jeans that actually fit.Gods, Potter probably looks good in clothes that actually fit.And it’s actually not that hard to envision himself in such a scenario. They’d fight, of course, but who doesn’t? They’d have tons of mind-blowing sex, which Draco doubts Potter has with her. And they’d be happy. Draco would finally be happy; and he knows exactly what that looks like, because he’s drawn it all over his notebook - in the corners, in the margins. Draco and that nameless, faceless person who actually has a face after all. A bloody gorgeous one. Draco summons a quill, meaning to draw Potter's ridiculous hair onto one of the pictures just to see what it looks like between his fingers. Only…his notebook is not in his pocket. It’s not on the table beside him, either.  “Oh, fuck,” he panics. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”I don’t even know you. Draco grabs his text, ripping out the pages in annoyance. They fall onto the bed, some fluttering down to the floor. Not really.“Now you do!" He throws what’s left of the book across the room. “Now you know everything, you fucking prig!”For the first time in ages, Draco cries. As he does, he folds the pages into cranes. It brings him back five years, to when he flew a crane towards Potter as a not-so-thinly veiled threat. He wishes he’d followed through. Wishes he’d knocked Potter off his broom, and never looked back. Or forward. Or towards the door, when he hears Potter slip in.He sends the cranes high above him. They circle the ceiling. It’s beautiful magic. The sort people don’t think he’s capable of. He thinks they’d be surprised to know Bellatrix taught him how to do this, because she didn’t know what else to do with him when he was young. She wasn’t always a complete lunatic. Just like Potter, apparently, is not always good.“I know you’re there, Potter,” he snaps, throwing an arm out towards him. One of the cranes dives down, targeting Potter’s forehead. It hits him, above the bridge of his glasses.Potter ducks his head, watching the cranes through the fringe that hangs over his forehead. He looks young; guilty; like he’s been caught dipping into his Auntie’s purse for Galleons, or something. “Right,” he says. “Well, I wasn’t trying to be clever.”“No,” Draco agrees. “I don’t suppose you were.”“Look, Malfoy – ““No, Potter, you look! You had no right – ““You’re right.” Draco bristles as Potter interrupts. “I didn’t.”“So, why did you?” Annoyed, he sends a few more cranes in Potter’s direction, pleased when they hit their intended target. “And don’t say it’s because you wanted to get to know me, because that’s utter rubbish. If you wanted to do that, you only had to ask. I told you that; and it isn’t exactly hard, you know. Hey, Malfoy, what do you dream about? And I would have told you that I dream about every single person that died because of me and because of my father. And Crabbe. I dream about him, sometimes, too.”He turns his back to Potter and hates how his voice breaks then, because he knows Potter could not care less about Crabbe or the guilt he carries into bed with him each night.“Right,” Potter says, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “I’m sorry, you know. About him. I didn’t care for him at all, but you did; and whatever you think, I understand that.”“You understand?” Draco rolls his eyes, turning back over to face him, completely. Potter is a lot closer than he thought. From here, Draco can see the bruises beneath both of his eyes. Potter looks tired; stressed. “What exactly do you understand, Potter? That you weren’t the only one who lost during the war, or that I actually have real, human feelings like you and your stupid fucking friends?”Potter presses his lips together.“This might surprise you, Potter, but I thought – for a moment – that I could consider you one, or an acquaintance at the very least; but friends don’t steal diaries from other friends; they don’t -"“Thought it wasn’t a diary,” Potter interrupts, arching a brow. “Thought only girls had diaries.”Draco fumes, reaching for his wand and sending a hex in Potter’s direction. “You incorrigible shit!” Potter laughs as he blocks, sending a tickle jinx at Draco. Draco sends one back. “I hate you!”Potter throws his head back, laughing. “Doesn’t look like it,” he wheezes, reaching beneath his glasses to wipe at his eyes. “Didn’t sound like it, either, from what you were writing.”“Oh, I see. Potter had a crush and wanted to know if it was reciprocated, is that it?”“Not had,” Potter corrects. “Has.”One hasty Finite Incantatem later, and neither of them are laughing.“You have a funny way of showing it.” Draco pulls the blanket up to his chin. The cranes fall from the ceiling. Potter catches one in his hands and opens it.“A telephone, or phone, is a telecommunications device that permits two or more users to conduct a conversation when they are too far apart to be heard directly.”Draco scowls. “A fucking extendable ear, more or less.”“Sure,” Potter replies, dropping the paper to the floor. “I have something for you.” From inside his robes, he produces a bag. Draco has to resist the urge to look pleased, once it’s set on the bed.He peeks inside, scowl deepening as he picks up the bag and tips it over. “Every Flavor Beans,” he drawls. “My absolute least favorites. How thoughtful.”“I thought so, too.” Potter shrugs, looking rather cheeky. “I thought: what can I get Malfoy, that would convince him to forgive me.”“And this is what you came up with?”Potter shakes his head. “Nah,” he admits. “I came up with your wand; and this-” Potter drops two books onto the bed: Draco’s notebook, and a book Draco has never seen before. “That’s mine,” he explains. “My, er, thoughts ledger, was it? It’s pretty boring. Half of it’s just about this real annoying git I like. But I thought maybe you’d want to read it. We have a lot more in common than I thought, Malfoy. I hear them, too, you know. Every day. All the time.”“Yeah, well, I still don’t trust you.” Draco pulls both books to his chest, holding them close. He knows he’s just been given a very precious gift and does not want anyone to take it from him.“I still don’t trust me, either.” Potter sits on the edge of Draco’s bed, smoothing back his hair. “I’ve never been all that good at minding my own business. Something to work on, I guess.”“You guess?”“I promise.” Potter offers Draco a hand. I must not tell lies. “Okay?”Draco sighs, then takes Potter’s hand. “Okay.” * The person in Draco’s notebook has glasses and a lightning-bolt scar. He flies with him, sleeps with him, laughs with him. When Draco closes his eyes, he can feel his breath on the back of his neck without even having to try. He no longer whispers: You’re not my type. You’re too skinny, too secretive. He whispers I love you - and finally has a name. *