FIC: Something Sweet [Harry]
Dec. 21st, 2012 07:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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mini_festTitle: Something Sweet
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
phoenixnoor
Pairing(s): Harry (Gen), Harry/Draco implied.
Prompt: Here: Hot chocolate in the Common Rooms.
Word Count ~3400
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Thank you to Holly and M for the beta work.
Summary: It’s Christmas at Hogwarts and Harry hates it.
Lemon -y. Lemon rind. Lemons. Sour. Too sour.
Harry spits the liquid back in the mug.
“It’s what I’d imagine a Hufflepuff would taste like,” he says eyeing the mug cautiously, “too yellow and really...vile.”
“Merlin, Potter. A little less snark, please. And it’d help not to mention dismembering Hufflepuffs when there are first years around.”
“Shouldn’t the little buggers be in the Great Hall anyway? It’s lunch time.”
Draco takes his cup of...of whatever it is away from him and looks him, eyebrows raised.
“What’s crawled into your hat?”
In all truth, Harry’s just a little frustrated at everything and nothing. He just wants a day or two to himself and it’s proving to be impossible with the bloody Christmas Fair looming and Harry’s workload increasing tenfold as it does every time around this year. He’s not Scrooge, no matter how many times Hermione refers to him as such, he just wants a little peace and quiet. Draco’s eyes are still focused on Harry so he sighs loudly and thinks of the most pathetically exaggerated response, hoping to get a little sympathy.
“I can’t find my wand.”
Okay, so it’s a really pathetic response, but that’s only indicative of how much he needs a rest. Draco rolls his eyes at him.
“If that’s all it is Potter, stop being so dramatic about it. Peeves’ll have hidden it. Try the dungeons. And you forget that I know you don’t really need a wand. So get up and get on with it. McGonagall will have your guts for garters if the decorations aren’t done by Monday.”
Harry rest his head on the table in defeat. “I should have never told you that,” he mumbles. He knows Draco is being typically sensible, and it’s true - Peeves does have his wand. Harry just needed an excuse to avoid work. When he lifts his head from the table, Draco’s gone and the cup of vile lemon is replaced with Harry’s favourite - hot chocolate.
-
“Potter!”
It’s a familiar voice and Harry runs before Draco can catch up with him. If he has the right idea about what’s coming next he thinks running away is probably the right course of action.
If only he had his damn Invisibility Cloak.
“Potter!” The yell is infinitely louder this time and so Harry runs faster.
When he turns the corner, Draco stands before him, hair raised, eyes raging.
"How-"
"Never mind me, what I want to know is why on earth I have been roped into doing your job?"
"What-"
"And how is any of this" he shoves a parchment towards Harry "at all relevant to me?"
"I trie-"
"Why in Merlin's name has The Bloody Baron been following me around for the past thirty-six hours with a goddamn bauble hanging from his neck constantly singing 'Three Wise Mermen?"
There's an almost hidden weary look of resignation amongst the anger, and it makes Harry feel slightly ashamed of himself. Only slightly.
"Smile! It'll be fun!" At his fake cheeriness Draco glares.
"Okay, I'm sorry. I could do with a little bit of help, and I know you're not going home for Christmas. I thought we could spend it together despising each other. Just like old times."
"We don't despise other."
"Yeah. But we could. For nostalgic reasons."
"As you wish." And with that Draco walks away with an air of coldness that reminds Harry of Snape. The whole thing leaves him feeling a little sad, and not at all happy at jibing Draco like he thought it would.
-
"Ugh. No. Horrid. Completely horrid."
"It's elderflower tea. Refine your taste buds, you may get somewhere in life."
"In case you hadn't noticed, we're both 27 years old working at Hogwarts, sitting on a fucking ottoman in the middle of a field full of snow."
"I had noticed. It's why I feel like throttling you. My robes are wet and I don't know whether my nose exists and you're sat on my hand, although I can't be too sure about that either."
"Why an ottoman? Of all the furniture that exists, of all the things mankind and wizardkind has created as suitable sitting material, why a fucking ottoman?"
"Excuse me for failing to create a throne of gold for Golden Boy to sit on when it's minus 17 degrees and I have no access to any heating and I haven't seen any form of humanity for about three days. Surely I have permission to have an off day?"
"Draco, you don't need to be here. I don't mind if go you know."
"You signed me up for this, remember? If I went back now Wright'll no doubt make some comment about him doing this for the past three years running and coming out alive."
"Wright's a fucker."
"I know."
"Can I change this into a thermal cushion or something?"
"Go ahead and use up the rest of your allowed magic quota if you want, I'm not using any more of mine."
...
"Why the fuck did we choose to spend our lives with snotty nosed teenagers? Camping for a Muggle Week with limited use of magic?? I must have been crazy."
"You are."
...
"A week till Christmas. Still not going home?"
"No, Potter. And the less said about that the better."
"Christ, sorry. I won't ask. Feel free to spend it at my quarters, if you want. I'll probably be drinking Odgens until I pass out."
"Mhm."
"Talking of which, elderflower tea?"
"Merlin. Here. Hot chocolate, you plebeian. Try not to spill it."
"Ah, and it appears just like magic."
-
Harry's adding last minute touches to The Great Hall. He knows Draco's around somewhere too, maybe delegating tasks to the eager to please first years. He doesn't know quite why he knows Draco's around. Regardless, he's focused on the task at hand. An unruly sixth year has jinxed one of the Hufflepuff decorated Christmas tree so its leaves spurt out a bright yellow slime. It’d be an easy task if the slime didn’t keep multiplying and is well on its way to cover the Hufflepuff table. It’s an arduous task that vexes Harry for more than that reason alone - it seems to beyond his expertise. Yes, he can vanquish Old Voldy, but he can’t get rid of a slimy blob. Reflecting back on it, that sentence terrifies him slightly. It almost sums up his entire life.
Trying (and failing miserably) at forgetting his frustration at being useless at magic, he focuses his internal energy on magic and closes his eyes. His wand shakes a little in his hand, but he manages to reign his power over it eventually. Harry opens his eyes and points his wand at the ceiling, in different directions and different angles when the entire Great Hall falls silent. He looks up and the ceiling seems to be on fire. It’s a giant flaming back hole of blazing heat right in the centre of the ceiling.
“Fuck,” he whispers under his breath because he’s pretty sure that somehow, though not exactly knowledgeable of the specifics of how, this is all his fault; maybe a manifestation of his frustration at the slime, at the entire day, maybe at the entire bad-luck he seems to be living in.
The grand portraits of the Hall start yelling, Peeves starts wailing to scare the first years, the children start screaming and he thinks he spots the Gryffindor Christmas tree trying to run away. It’s slightly bewildering, that as Caretaker of Hogwarts he’s pretty much the most useless person there.
“Mouth closed, Potter”. Draco says, appearing next to him all of a sudden, wand at the ready exactly at the same time as McGonagall makes her entrance with a thunderous ‘Silence.’ The children stop screaming and Peeves leaves the Hall cackling with glee. Draco holds Harry by the elbow and guides him away a couple of steps so that he’s not directly underneath the pit of fire. It’s spitting out little stray strands of wooden ceiling and Draco flicks his wand and manages to create some sort of invisible barrier above their heads so it seems as if there’s a small firework display going on.
Harry still has his mouth slightly open because he’s never gotten used to the competent-but-silent thing Draco has going on. The fire now sort of looks like a happy thing, rather than a manifestation of Harry’s Constant Failure and to be perfectly honest, he’s just in awe of the man that’s standing besides him.
“Harry,” Draco starts, but catches McGonagall’s eye. They share a look that Harry should be curious about, but all he can do is look at Draco’s sleeves that are rolled up to his elbows. His eyes follow the veins along the muscles straight to Draco’s fingers, that are gripping his wand and all this - this feeling - is the opposite of anything fire, though it does make his heart hum with a sort of dangerous electricity.
Unexplainable body experiences are really not what Harry needs right now, so he forces himself to look away, to look up at Draco’s face, who is looking back at him with something edged with concern.
“Fuck.” Harry repeated, louder this time and with less shock and more resignation.
“Indeed, “Draco says, “Might be an idea to take a break. I’ll deal with this - the slime and the fire. Go to bed. Or to the kitchen. Leave now and you might be able to avoid McGonagall’s wrath. She’ll probably make you climb the ceiling yourself to fix it.”
Harry reaches for Draco’s shoulder to squeeze it in thanks, or apology, or both, and makes his way out of the Great Hall quickly as to not take notice of the children’s hushed murmurs. It would be a shame if he accidentally set fire to them too, he tells himself.
...
By the time Harry’s managed to stop thinking about the day’s events without feeling like he’s going to vomit it’s dark outside. He can hear the Prefects make their round around the hallways to usher the rest into their common rooms. He’d get into bed, but he has a feeling that sleep would be a long time coming, so he opens a book Hermione gave him last Christmas when Perseus taps at his window.
The old barn owl hoots loudly as soon as Harry opens the window, leaves a letter on Harry’s desk and flies back out in the blink of an eye. When Harry opens it up, a subtle waft of dark chocolate fills the air; it smells sweet and comforting and his body relaxes into itself - he hadn’t realised that he was quite so tense.
Harry,
I made some hot chocolate. Don’t let the house elfs see you on the way here, I stole theirs and they’ll clock on to you because you’ll have that expression on - guilty as fuck.
DM.
-
Hagrid’s hut is an empty place, and has been since Hagrid retired to live with Madame Maxime after the war. Harry knows Draco sometimes uses it, when he’s trying to avoid going back to the Manor over holiday breaks, and Hannah sometimes stores her plants here, but right now it’s empty as ever. It’s comforting to come and sit here on Sunday afternoons after a traditional Sunday Roast. If he’s feeling adventurous he sometimes tries and recreates Hagrid's rock biscuits (an edible version) and makes himself a pot of coffee and tries to forget that he’s only 27 years old.
Today however, he’s contemplating scones and tea so he opens the cupboard to get the flour out when the door opens with with a whoosh, and the wind blows a pot plant down. Harry turns around and Draco’s robe flies around him like it has a mind of it’s own. There’s a struggle when it covers Draco’s eyes and he can’t untangle his limbs to close the door shut. Harry’s snorts but has to stop being too amused as the wind is causing havoc in the hut. He uses his eyes to close the door shut and bites his lip as to not laugh out aloud.
“Oh, fuck you,” he hears Draco mutter as he turns to the cupboard again.
“Right here? Don’t you prefer a bed?” Harry says as he reaches for a bowl.
“I prefer-”
Draco stops abruptly and takes a deep intake of breath.
When Harry looks at him he’s paler than the snow outside. He can see him breathing in and out steadily, the air arounds him curls upwards until it disappears. Their eyes meet and that’s when Harry notices Draco’s cheeks turning into a subtle red colour.
“Why are you wearing an apron?” he asks.
“I’m baking. Scones. Want some?”
“Yeah.”
He’s glad when Draco takes off his robes and puts his wand away. They spend the next hour in almost silence, standing side by side until the scones are in the oven and the heat in the hut reaches just the other side of comfortable.
Draco motions for Harry to sit down whilst he makes tea - the old fashioned way - pot on the stove and tea leaves in a warm teapot.
“You should use your wand more often.”
When Harry looks at him questioningly, Draco raises his eyebrow.
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed Potter. It’s been years since you’ve used it for anything more than picking up your ladder. Before you came here, possibly,”
“I do wandless, Draco. It’s the same thing. And what does it matter if I don’t use my wand?”
His heart beats faster and it’s only when Draco doesn’t answer that he realises he may have spoken louder than intended.
“Sorry,” he apologises, but the truth of the matter is that he feel angry at Draco for bringing this up on such a relaxing evening. And at himself, for letting it get this far that Draco has to step in, to save Harry from himself.
“You know it’s not the same thing. It’s affecting your wandless and it’s getting dangerous.”
“It’s always dangerous being around me, what’s new there? You should know that.”
“Oh, stop it with the dramatics. You’d think you’d have had enough of it by now. Self pity’s not going to get you anywhere.”
“It’s not self pity - it’s the truth!”
“You’re infuriating,” It comes out as a simple statement, nothing more, but Harry knows Draco is truly annoyed, and it makes something deep inside Harry crawl with dread.
“I can’t help it, Draco. it makes me nauseous every time I pick up the damn thing.”
Draco snorts, “Harry Potter can’t pick up a wand. How inspiring.”
Harry feels his nostrils flare at that, at the fact that Draco could be still be so childish and it’s as if he’s fifteen years old again.
The pot of water hoots loudly and then blows up as soon as Harry looks at it. Draco jumps away just in time, lips pursed with silent anger.
Harry walks out of the hut without his coat or his wand or his tea and regrets it as soon as the door closes behind him. If Draco can act like a teenager, he can too.
-
It’s been a week of wallowing for Harry and he’s still not ready to stop. He doesn’t know if Draco’s been avoiding him, or if he’s been avoiding Draco but they haven’t seen each other since the day in the cabin, not even in the Hall at breakfast. He’s guessing they won’t be able to avoid each other tonight - it’s Christmas Dinner and attendance is obligatory if you’re still at Hogwarts during the Holidays. The year before (and the year before that, come to think of it) Harry had gone to Ron and Hermione’s, but with Rose’s first Christmas he thought it would be best to refuse their invite.
When he walks into the Great Hall two hours too late, he’s glad for it. The party, it seems, is already well on it’s way to being a night that no one will remember. He looks around the Hall, hoping to catch Hannah or George because he really could use their humour today. What he sees instead is a bottle of Red Wine in Peeves’ stomach, sausage rolls flying over Freddo the house elf, and Draco Malfoy slow dancing by himself right in the centre of the Hall, eyes closed and tux barely hanging on. On second glance, it’s more a sort of lazy swaying, than it is dancing. Nevertheless, it’s an unusual sight. One or two NEWT level children are taking pictures of him and whilst it’s not anything Harry is going to forbid, he does know he’ll get the blame for it eventually. So he walks up to Draco, grabs his arm and yanks him away from the forming crowd.
“Ohhh, Potty?” Draco slurs, “Potty, Potty, Potty. They said you weren’t coming. I was cel-er-vr...velebr--”
“You’re drunk.”
“DRUNK!” Draco guffaws and it’s horrendous.
His body is leaning quite heavily on Harry and Harry’s hands are on Draco’s waist trying to keep him upright. It’s hard work because Draco is not as light as he looks, nor as soft. Hard elbows dig into his stomach and he has to keep Draco walking onwards so he doesn’t trip over his feet.
“God, you’re heavy. Get up. We’re going to walk to that chair and then you’re going to let me sober you up.”
He’s giggling now and thats when Harry knows enough is enough. He’s very sure that Draco’s never been drunk before, and certainly never in public. He’d be appalled at himself and so when Harry reaches his chair the first thing he does is knocks Draco out unconscious with a flick of his wand.
The ends justify the means, surely.
…
The night ends when Harry leaves Draco in his quarters and realises he has a curious sense to go back and stay with him all night just to make sure he’s okay. That doesn’t sound completely healthy for something that is just a friendship.
And as it’s becoming clearer and clearer that his and Draco’s thing is not something that fits entirely into the category of friendship, he knows he has to work harder to be better. And being a better person may not come anytime soon, but taking baby steps will help. The thing is, he wants Draco around him, and he wants to be less scared of magic, and he wants to like his job --he just really wants to be happy and healthy. And, everyone is right - his magic is definitely not healthy right now. It’s frighteningly out of hand. Avoiding it will not change that.
Baby steps, he reminds himself.
The first one is to find his wand and make a cup of tea with it.
-
“A hangover potion would have been more effective.” Harry hears the voice before he sees the man.
“Less painful, too” he replies.
Draco’s smile radiates and Harry can feel it’s warmth. He has to remind himself to carry on eating his cereal as he motions for Draco to sit next to him.
Breakfast has always been the favourite part of Harry’s day but today there’s something a little better about it. When Draco sits (close, too close) down and nudges his legs with Harry’s, it feel like he’s being forgiven and thanked all at once.
It’s only when Draco asks for the jam that Harry dares to look directly at him, and then internally chides himself for not getting here faster - why had he avoided looking at this for so long?
It’s nice that they can have a silent conversation - all the important things are said and they can get back to sharing their teapot.
“Told Freddo to make that brand of hot chocolate you like this morning. He should bring it out for you in a while.”
“Bribe him, did you?”
“Something like that,” Draco replies softly.
“Should I be jealous?”
“No. I’m all yours.” and this time when Draco smiles, it feel like home.
END
Author/Artist:
phoenixnoor Pairing(s): Harry (Gen), Harry/Draco implied.
Prompt: Here: Hot chocolate in the Common Rooms.
Word Count ~3400
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Thank you to Holly and M for the beta work.
Summary: It’s Christmas at Hogwarts and Harry hates it.
Lemon -y. Lemon rind. Lemons. Sour. Too sour.
Harry spits the liquid back in the mug.
“It’s what I’d imagine a Hufflepuff would taste like,” he says eyeing the mug cautiously, “too yellow and really...vile.”
“Merlin, Potter. A little less snark, please. And it’d help not to mention dismembering Hufflepuffs when there are first years around.”
“Shouldn’t the little buggers be in the Great Hall anyway? It’s lunch time.”
Draco takes his cup of...of whatever it is away from him and looks him, eyebrows raised.
“What’s crawled into your hat?”
In all truth, Harry’s just a little frustrated at everything and nothing. He just wants a day or two to himself and it’s proving to be impossible with the bloody Christmas Fair looming and Harry’s workload increasing tenfold as it does every time around this year. He’s not Scrooge, no matter how many times Hermione refers to him as such, he just wants a little peace and quiet. Draco’s eyes are still focused on Harry so he sighs loudly and thinks of the most pathetically exaggerated response, hoping to get a little sympathy.
“I can’t find my wand.”
Okay, so it’s a really pathetic response, but that’s only indicative of how much he needs a rest. Draco rolls his eyes at him.
“If that’s all it is Potter, stop being so dramatic about it. Peeves’ll have hidden it. Try the dungeons. And you forget that I know you don’t really need a wand. So get up and get on with it. McGonagall will have your guts for garters if the decorations aren’t done by Monday.”
Harry rest his head on the table in defeat. “I should have never told you that,” he mumbles. He knows Draco is being typically sensible, and it’s true - Peeves does have his wand. Harry just needed an excuse to avoid work. When he lifts his head from the table, Draco’s gone and the cup of vile lemon is replaced with Harry’s favourite - hot chocolate.
-
“Potter!”
It’s a familiar voice and Harry runs before Draco can catch up with him. If he has the right idea about what’s coming next he thinks running away is probably the right course of action.
If only he had his damn Invisibility Cloak.
“Potter!” The yell is infinitely louder this time and so Harry runs faster.
When he turns the corner, Draco stands before him, hair raised, eyes raging.
"How-"
"Never mind me, what I want to know is why on earth I have been roped into doing your job?"
"What-"
"And how is any of this" he shoves a parchment towards Harry "at all relevant to me?"
"I trie-"
"Why in Merlin's name has The Bloody Baron been following me around for the past thirty-six hours with a goddamn bauble hanging from his neck constantly singing 'Three Wise Mermen?"
There's an almost hidden weary look of resignation amongst the anger, and it makes Harry feel slightly ashamed of himself. Only slightly.
"Smile! It'll be fun!" At his fake cheeriness Draco glares.
"Okay, I'm sorry. I could do with a little bit of help, and I know you're not going home for Christmas. I thought we could spend it together despising each other. Just like old times."
"We don't despise other."
"Yeah. But we could. For nostalgic reasons."
"As you wish." And with that Draco walks away with an air of coldness that reminds Harry of Snape. The whole thing leaves him feeling a little sad, and not at all happy at jibing Draco like he thought it would.
-
"Ugh. No. Horrid. Completely horrid."
"It's elderflower tea. Refine your taste buds, you may get somewhere in life."
"In case you hadn't noticed, we're both 27 years old working at Hogwarts, sitting on a fucking ottoman in the middle of a field full of snow."
"I had noticed. It's why I feel like throttling you. My robes are wet and I don't know whether my nose exists and you're sat on my hand, although I can't be too sure about that either."
"Why an ottoman? Of all the furniture that exists, of all the things mankind and wizardkind has created as suitable sitting material, why a fucking ottoman?"
"Excuse me for failing to create a throne of gold for Golden Boy to sit on when it's minus 17 degrees and I have no access to any heating and I haven't seen any form of humanity for about three days. Surely I have permission to have an off day?"
"Draco, you don't need to be here. I don't mind if go you know."
"You signed me up for this, remember? If I went back now Wright'll no doubt make some comment about him doing this for the past three years running and coming out alive."
"Wright's a fucker."
"I know."
"Can I change this into a thermal cushion or something?"
"Go ahead and use up the rest of your allowed magic quota if you want, I'm not using any more of mine."
...
"Why the fuck did we choose to spend our lives with snotty nosed teenagers? Camping for a Muggle Week with limited use of magic?? I must have been crazy."
"You are."
...
"A week till Christmas. Still not going home?"
"No, Potter. And the less said about that the better."
"Christ, sorry. I won't ask. Feel free to spend it at my quarters, if you want. I'll probably be drinking Odgens until I pass out."
"Mhm."
"Talking of which, elderflower tea?"
"Merlin. Here. Hot chocolate, you plebeian. Try not to spill it."
"Ah, and it appears just like magic."
-
Harry's adding last minute touches to The Great Hall. He knows Draco's around somewhere too, maybe delegating tasks to the eager to please first years. He doesn't know quite why he knows Draco's around. Regardless, he's focused on the task at hand. An unruly sixth year has jinxed one of the Hufflepuff decorated Christmas tree so its leaves spurt out a bright yellow slime. It’d be an easy task if the slime didn’t keep multiplying and is well on its way to cover the Hufflepuff table. It’s an arduous task that vexes Harry for more than that reason alone - it seems to beyond his expertise. Yes, he can vanquish Old Voldy, but he can’t get rid of a slimy blob. Reflecting back on it, that sentence terrifies him slightly. It almost sums up his entire life.
Trying (and failing miserably) at forgetting his frustration at being useless at magic, he focuses his internal energy on magic and closes his eyes. His wand shakes a little in his hand, but he manages to reign his power over it eventually. Harry opens his eyes and points his wand at the ceiling, in different directions and different angles when the entire Great Hall falls silent. He looks up and the ceiling seems to be on fire. It’s a giant flaming back hole of blazing heat right in the centre of the ceiling.
“Fuck,” he whispers under his breath because he’s pretty sure that somehow, though not exactly knowledgeable of the specifics of how, this is all his fault; maybe a manifestation of his frustration at the slime, at the entire day, maybe at the entire bad-luck he seems to be living in.
The grand portraits of the Hall start yelling, Peeves starts wailing to scare the first years, the children start screaming and he thinks he spots the Gryffindor Christmas tree trying to run away. It’s slightly bewildering, that as Caretaker of Hogwarts he’s pretty much the most useless person there.
“Mouth closed, Potter”. Draco says, appearing next to him all of a sudden, wand at the ready exactly at the same time as McGonagall makes her entrance with a thunderous ‘Silence.’ The children stop screaming and Peeves leaves the Hall cackling with glee. Draco holds Harry by the elbow and guides him away a couple of steps so that he’s not directly underneath the pit of fire. It’s spitting out little stray strands of wooden ceiling and Draco flicks his wand and manages to create some sort of invisible barrier above their heads so it seems as if there’s a small firework display going on.
Harry still has his mouth slightly open because he’s never gotten used to the competent-but-silent thing Draco has going on. The fire now sort of looks like a happy thing, rather than a manifestation of Harry’s Constant Failure and to be perfectly honest, he’s just in awe of the man that’s standing besides him.
“Harry,” Draco starts, but catches McGonagall’s eye. They share a look that Harry should be curious about, but all he can do is look at Draco’s sleeves that are rolled up to his elbows. His eyes follow the veins along the muscles straight to Draco’s fingers, that are gripping his wand and all this - this feeling - is the opposite of anything fire, though it does make his heart hum with a sort of dangerous electricity.
Unexplainable body experiences are really not what Harry needs right now, so he forces himself to look away, to look up at Draco’s face, who is looking back at him with something edged with concern.
“Fuck.” Harry repeated, louder this time and with less shock and more resignation.
“Indeed, “Draco says, “Might be an idea to take a break. I’ll deal with this - the slime and the fire. Go to bed. Or to the kitchen. Leave now and you might be able to avoid McGonagall’s wrath. She’ll probably make you climb the ceiling yourself to fix it.”
Harry reaches for Draco’s shoulder to squeeze it in thanks, or apology, or both, and makes his way out of the Great Hall quickly as to not take notice of the children’s hushed murmurs. It would be a shame if he accidentally set fire to them too, he tells himself.
...
By the time Harry’s managed to stop thinking about the day’s events without feeling like he’s going to vomit it’s dark outside. He can hear the Prefects make their round around the hallways to usher the rest into their common rooms. He’d get into bed, but he has a feeling that sleep would be a long time coming, so he opens a book Hermione gave him last Christmas when Perseus taps at his window.
The old barn owl hoots loudly as soon as Harry opens the window, leaves a letter on Harry’s desk and flies back out in the blink of an eye. When Harry opens it up, a subtle waft of dark chocolate fills the air; it smells sweet and comforting and his body relaxes into itself - he hadn’t realised that he was quite so tense.
Harry,
I made some hot chocolate. Don’t let the house elfs see you on the way here, I stole theirs and they’ll clock on to you because you’ll have that expression on - guilty as fuck.
DM.
-
Hagrid’s hut is an empty place, and has been since Hagrid retired to live with Madame Maxime after the war. Harry knows Draco sometimes uses it, when he’s trying to avoid going back to the Manor over holiday breaks, and Hannah sometimes stores her plants here, but right now it’s empty as ever. It’s comforting to come and sit here on Sunday afternoons after a traditional Sunday Roast. If he’s feeling adventurous he sometimes tries and recreates Hagrid's rock biscuits (an edible version) and makes himself a pot of coffee and tries to forget that he’s only 27 years old.
Today however, he’s contemplating scones and tea so he opens the cupboard to get the flour out when the door opens with with a whoosh, and the wind blows a pot plant down. Harry turns around and Draco’s robe flies around him like it has a mind of it’s own. There’s a struggle when it covers Draco’s eyes and he can’t untangle his limbs to close the door shut. Harry’s snorts but has to stop being too amused as the wind is causing havoc in the hut. He uses his eyes to close the door shut and bites his lip as to not laugh out aloud.
“Oh, fuck you,” he hears Draco mutter as he turns to the cupboard again.
“Right here? Don’t you prefer a bed?” Harry says as he reaches for a bowl.
“I prefer-”
Draco stops abruptly and takes a deep intake of breath.
When Harry looks at him he’s paler than the snow outside. He can see him breathing in and out steadily, the air arounds him curls upwards until it disappears. Their eyes meet and that’s when Harry notices Draco’s cheeks turning into a subtle red colour.
“Why are you wearing an apron?” he asks.
“I’m baking. Scones. Want some?”
“Yeah.”
He’s glad when Draco takes off his robes and puts his wand away. They spend the next hour in almost silence, standing side by side until the scones are in the oven and the heat in the hut reaches just the other side of comfortable.
Draco motions for Harry to sit down whilst he makes tea - the old fashioned way - pot on the stove and tea leaves in a warm teapot.
“You should use your wand more often.”
When Harry looks at him questioningly, Draco raises his eyebrow.
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed Potter. It’s been years since you’ve used it for anything more than picking up your ladder. Before you came here, possibly,”
“I do wandless, Draco. It’s the same thing. And what does it matter if I don’t use my wand?”
His heart beats faster and it’s only when Draco doesn’t answer that he realises he may have spoken louder than intended.
“Sorry,” he apologises, but the truth of the matter is that he feel angry at Draco for bringing this up on such a relaxing evening. And at himself, for letting it get this far that Draco has to step in, to save Harry from himself.
“You know it’s not the same thing. It’s affecting your wandless and it’s getting dangerous.”
“It’s always dangerous being around me, what’s new there? You should know that.”
“Oh, stop it with the dramatics. You’d think you’d have had enough of it by now. Self pity’s not going to get you anywhere.”
“It’s not self pity - it’s the truth!”
“You’re infuriating,” It comes out as a simple statement, nothing more, but Harry knows Draco is truly annoyed, and it makes something deep inside Harry crawl with dread.
“I can’t help it, Draco. it makes me nauseous every time I pick up the damn thing.”
Draco snorts, “Harry Potter can’t pick up a wand. How inspiring.”
Harry feels his nostrils flare at that, at the fact that Draco could be still be so childish and it’s as if he’s fifteen years old again.
The pot of water hoots loudly and then blows up as soon as Harry looks at it. Draco jumps away just in time, lips pursed with silent anger.
Harry walks out of the hut without his coat or his wand or his tea and regrets it as soon as the door closes behind him. If Draco can act like a teenager, he can too.
-
It’s been a week of wallowing for Harry and he’s still not ready to stop. He doesn’t know if Draco’s been avoiding him, or if he’s been avoiding Draco but they haven’t seen each other since the day in the cabin, not even in the Hall at breakfast. He’s guessing they won’t be able to avoid each other tonight - it’s Christmas Dinner and attendance is obligatory if you’re still at Hogwarts during the Holidays. The year before (and the year before that, come to think of it) Harry had gone to Ron and Hermione’s, but with Rose’s first Christmas he thought it would be best to refuse their invite.
When he walks into the Great Hall two hours too late, he’s glad for it. The party, it seems, is already well on it’s way to being a night that no one will remember. He looks around the Hall, hoping to catch Hannah or George because he really could use their humour today. What he sees instead is a bottle of Red Wine in Peeves’ stomach, sausage rolls flying over Freddo the house elf, and Draco Malfoy slow dancing by himself right in the centre of the Hall, eyes closed and tux barely hanging on. On second glance, it’s more a sort of lazy swaying, than it is dancing. Nevertheless, it’s an unusual sight. One or two NEWT level children are taking pictures of him and whilst it’s not anything Harry is going to forbid, he does know he’ll get the blame for it eventually. So he walks up to Draco, grabs his arm and yanks him away from the forming crowd.
“Ohhh, Potty?” Draco slurs, “Potty, Potty, Potty. They said you weren’t coming. I was cel-er-vr...velebr--”
“You’re drunk.”
“DRUNK!” Draco guffaws and it’s horrendous.
His body is leaning quite heavily on Harry and Harry’s hands are on Draco’s waist trying to keep him upright. It’s hard work because Draco is not as light as he looks, nor as soft. Hard elbows dig into his stomach and he has to keep Draco walking onwards so he doesn’t trip over his feet.
“God, you’re heavy. Get up. We’re going to walk to that chair and then you’re going to let me sober you up.”
He’s giggling now and thats when Harry knows enough is enough. He’s very sure that Draco’s never been drunk before, and certainly never in public. He’d be appalled at himself and so when Harry reaches his chair the first thing he does is knocks Draco out unconscious with a flick of his wand.
The ends justify the means, surely.
…
The night ends when Harry leaves Draco in his quarters and realises he has a curious sense to go back and stay with him all night just to make sure he’s okay. That doesn’t sound completely healthy for something that is just a friendship.
And as it’s becoming clearer and clearer that his and Draco’s thing is not something that fits entirely into the category of friendship, he knows he has to work harder to be better. And being a better person may not come anytime soon, but taking baby steps will help. The thing is, he wants Draco around him, and he wants to be less scared of magic, and he wants to like his job --he just really wants to be happy and healthy. And, everyone is right - his magic is definitely not healthy right now. It’s frighteningly out of hand. Avoiding it will not change that.
Baby steps, he reminds himself.
The first one is to find his wand and make a cup of tea with it.
-
“A hangover potion would have been more effective.” Harry hears the voice before he sees the man.
“Less painful, too” he replies.
Draco’s smile radiates and Harry can feel it’s warmth. He has to remind himself to carry on eating his cereal as he motions for Draco to sit next to him.
Breakfast has always been the favourite part of Harry’s day but today there’s something a little better about it. When Draco sits (close, too close) down and nudges his legs with Harry’s, it feel like he’s being forgiven and thanked all at once.
It’s only when Draco asks for the jam that Harry dares to look directly at him, and then internally chides himself for not getting here faster - why had he avoided looking at this for so long?
It’s nice that they can have a silent conversation - all the important things are said and they can get back to sharing their teapot.
“Told Freddo to make that brand of hot chocolate you like this morning. He should bring it out for you in a while.”
“Bribe him, did you?”
“Something like that,” Draco replies softly.
“Should I be jealous?”
“No. I’m all yours.” and this time when Draco smiles, it feel like home.
END
