Children of the Eighth Day

It is cold when Draco wakes. The chill grey light of dawn is filtering through a set of whisper thin white curtains. He groans and rolls onto his side, the stubble on his face scratching against the rough material of the old sofa on which he has been sleeping.

Dim memories begin floating back to him like motes of dust on the sunbeams sifting through the haze in his mind, and the sticky taste of alcohol on his tongue helps him to remember.

A pub. Red heads and laughter. Exploding sweets of some kind.

A hand extended in friendship.

Draco opens his eyes and drinks in his strange surroundings. He is in Harry's flat, he realizes with some small shock. After more drinks than he cares to remember, he recalls stumbling down orange streets slick with rain, a faltering climb up the stairwell, tumbling into walls. With a frown he rubs his elbow, remembering. He remembers the click of Harry's key in the lock, remembers mocking him for not using a spell, remembers...

A quirking smile, a quick green glance, the casual bump of bodies loose with Firewhiskey--

Draco struggles into a sitting position. The couch, while not entirely uncomfortable, is sagging and old and smells faintly of dog and nostalgia. It sufficed for sleeping off a drunken stupor, but now he is wide awake and put off by its nubbly wool and lumpy cushions.

He slides his bare feet across the polished wood floors experimentally relishing the cool sensation. It isn't a bad flat, all things considered; tall ceilings, large windows, very spacious. The furnishings, however, are disgustingly homey. Most are probably cast offs from various Weasleys, the rest undoubtedly the products of untold trips to second hand shops and street fairs. As the heir to two of the largest family fortunes in wizard Britain, he would have thought that Harry could afford to buy some good taste.

Apparently, that is not the case.

Rising from the sofa, Draco begins to wander. The pre-dawn light casts an ethereal glow over the room and, moving through it, he wonders if he is in a dream. He runs his pad of his thumb over the heavy mantel above the fireplace and lingers, fingertips hovering over each silver frame situated here in turn.

In one, seven figures in Gryffindor red zoom through the frame, flying in formation over the Hogwarts pitch. In another, the entire Weasley clan smiles and waves idiotically in front of an enormous Christmas tree. Draco picks out a young Harry -- maybe sixteen years old -- smiling awkwardly at one end, and is surprised to see Remus Lupin looking out from behind Harry, as gaunt and pale as Death himself.

He stops at the third photograph. In it, a handsome woman with long red hair beams happily, clinging to the arm of a dopey looking sot who can only be Harry's father. Draco is captivated by her as she laughs when the elder Potter whispers something in her ear. It's something about her eyes... Suddenly he realizes: they are Harry's eyes.

She smiles too knowingly up at him from the past.

Feeling slightly unnerved, Draco quickly moves to the last picture, but it too gives him pause. It is a photograph of Harry, Granger, and Weasley standing on the front steps of Hogwarts. They are laughing together, arms around one another, but Harry's smile looks false, as though an artist painted it on as a second thought. The expression never reaches his eyes.

This must have been just before... Draco muses, when suddenly, Weasley turns and plants an enormous wet kiss on the side of Granger's head. She laughs as she turns to look at him. Draco watches in fascination as the three become two and one in a matter of moments.

It is entirely too obvious to be at all in good taste. Draco is rather annoyed at himself for not having seen it before.

"That," he says quietly to the photo, "explains quite a lot."

Turning away from the photographs, Draco glances around the flat with new appreciation, wondering what other secrets are obscured by the tacky sofas and chintzy décor, what other memories sit, hidden in plain sight, under a veil of dust and time.

Eyes locking. A smoldering stare lit by the burn of Firewhisky in the blood--

The kitchen, he finds, makes him ever so slightly nauseous, with its too cheery printed wallpaper, whitewashed wooden cabinets, and growling Muggle appliances. Draco doesn't spend much time in his kitchen at home, but he finds himself longing for the polished marble, gleaming steel surfaces, and willing domestic staff.

It is far too early to risk whatever horrors might be hiding behind those cabinet doors, he decides. He shudders at the thought of finding Pot Noodles or tins of beans should he risk a look.

He is at loose ends. He wonders if he should leave. The thought of disappearing without looking back, without admitting what has been said, what has been done, what is owed -- it isn't without its appeal, but he can't seem to settle on a plan of action. Odd thoughts meander through his brain as he wonders where his shoes have gotten to and whether his jacket made it back with him from the pub and whether or nor Harry takes cream in his tea...

The staccato of his bare feet slapping against the polished floor is the only sound as he rounds the corner into the little hallway with the idea of possibly locating the loo. There are two doorways, and he chooses the one on the left.

He chooses wrong.

The bedroom beyond somehow has a more familiar feel than the rest of the house, and at first, Draco can't quite identify what it is. A large four-post bed dominates the room barely leaving space for an ancient wardrobe in one corner and a mismatched dresser in the other. At the foot of the bed, a second fireplace promises warmth to the cold room. Clothes and shoes litter the floor, and both the bedside table and the squashy red armchair next to it are piled high with an array of different books.

It strikes him then, that this is the only room in the house that looks at all lived in. The others seem to be there just for show. Look at me. I'm adjusting. I have a dinning set and framed photographs and horrible taste in sofas. See how normal I am.

Draco never had the dubious pleasure of visiting Gryffindor Tower, but he imagines it looked very like this.

He stands in the doorway for far too long. It's disgraceful, really, but somehow he can't look away.

Harry is sprawled out across the middle of his king sized bed in an impossible tangle of limbs and bedclothes and idiotic black hair. He sleeps right in the middle, as though claiming the entire bed as his own.

Growing up in a cupboard must do odd things to a person, Draco muses.

He looks younger without his glasses. His face is calm, and Draco envies him that serenity; it is evident that Harry sleeps the undisturbed sleep of the righteous, a luxury that Draco has never enjoyed.

~

Draco makes a point of not looking at Harry when he enters the kitchen, yawning and rubbing his face. There is dark stubble shadowing his chin.

Rough. Scratchy against his hand. He stumbles on the staircase and Harry is there to catch him. Harry is always there when he falls.

"I made tea," he says, his voice too quick and too loud in the silence.

"Fnrgh," Harry replies groggily. "Need coffee."

"Coffee is for Americans and Muggles." Draco points at a mug on the table across from him. "Drink your tea."

Harry scowls at him but drops down into the chair obediently anyway. He reaches for the sugar bowl and Draco raises an eyebrow. "Don't tell me that sugar is for Muggles too," Harry says irritably.

Draco shrugs. "It won't help your hangover."

"Speaking of which," Harry says as he helps himself liberally to the sugar, "how come you look like bloody fucking sunshine this morning? You had as much to drink as I had."

"I don't get hung over," Draco replies with an elegant shrug. "Never have." Harry looks skeptical. "That," Draco continues reluctantly, "and I've been up for a good deal longer than you. I took a shower, by the way, if you want to have the bathroom firebombed."

Harry snorts. "I imagine most of your bad influence washed off down the drain."

An awkward silence descends. They stare at one another across the suddenly unfathomable distance across the breakfast table.

"I have some cereal," Harry says suddenly. "Or bread for toast. That's about it." He manages to look appropriately embarrassed even through the haze of sleep still tenatiously clinging to him.

"That's all right," Draco says quickly. "I should be getting home." He grabs his tea and finishes the dregs. "I'll have that money transferred to the Weasleys' account today, but remind them that if I'm going to be a stockholder in this venture I want the papers to go along with it. None of this grin and a handshake malarkey." He pushes his mug away and makes to stand. "You were right about them. Buying Zonko's is a good business move. We should all do... What?"

Harry is staring at him intently.

"Don't go," he says suddenly. "We can go to Diagon Alley, wake up the lads, and get some breakfast. Remus is a genius at hangover potions."

"I would have thought I'd have worn out my welcome by now," Draco says, hoping his tone can be construed as nonchalant. "Even I can only stand my good looks and charm for so long..." He studies Harry carefully. "Haven't you anything better to do?"

"Well, I was supposed to be planning a trip," Harry says wryly, "but I suddenly find I have a lot of free time on my hands."

Draco summons the kettle and pours himself another cup of tea. Harry seems to relax a bit. "I suppose that's true. What are you going to do with yourself?" he asks, stirring cream into his tea carefully.

Harry shrugs and stares down into his mug. "Get a job, I suppose."

Draco snorts. "The prodigal son returns to the wizard world as a janitor."

Harry laughs. "Sanitation engineer, surely." He reaches up and runs his hand through his hair, and his face suddenly falls into an expression of disgust. "Eurgh!" His hand is covered in blue toothpaste. "What the hell?"

"Points off for lack of originality," Draco admits, with a shrug, "but I think I should get some creative merit." He smirks at Harry's horrified face.

"It said 'Potter Sucks' before you went and ruined it."