Morality for Beautiful Slytherins

When Potter returned, Draco tapped his watch. "It's been nearly three quarters of an hour. That pad thai had better still be warm. When it's reheated the noodles stick together and I don't like that."

"You didn't tell me the restaurant was Muggle-owned. I didn't have any Muggle money with me," said Potter. He placed the bag of food on the counter and reached into Draco's cupboards to retrieve plates and water glasses.

Draco snorted. "Do you sometimes forget you're a wizard, Potter? Or you were too busy making out with Weasley the day Flitwick taught the Confundus Charm? 'Didn't have any Muggle money,' honestly," he said, peeking in the bag and breathing in the fragrant steam.

"Chopsticks are in the drawer next to the sink," said Draco, closing the bag and taking his place at the table. "Don't tell me you don't know how to use them."

"Then I won't," Potter replied as he brought over plates, food, one set of chopsticks and one fork. Draco stared pointedly at the food and place settings, his hands in his lap. Not paying attention to Draco, Potter spooned pad thai onto his own plate and poured himself a glass of wine.

"Ahem."

"Something wrong, Malfoy?" Potter asked, not bothering to put his fork down.

"Yes, there is. I'm having a very difficult time deciding if you're stubborn, gullible, or just dim," said Draco, injecting acid into his words. "You traveled all that way and brought back food at my behest, and yet my plate is still empty."

Potter narrowed his eyebrows. "So put food on it," he retorted, holding Draco's gaze. "Prove your chopstick-using superiority."

To his surprise, Draco had to stop himself from smiling. There was something appealing about Potter's minor acts of defiance. They made Draco feel engaged, enlivened. And hadn't he always prided himself on being able to think on his feet?

"You're the one who agreed to the indentured companionship. I'm indenturing you." He pushed his plate across the table. The rim met the edge of Potter's plate, which slid forward, nearly into his lap. "I can eat my dinner, or you can wear yours."

If Draco didn't know better, he'd have sworn Potter stifled a laugh. With his lips pressed together, Potter busied himself serving Draco, even chilling Draco's wineglass with a tap of his wand before pouring.

"That's better. Now, Potter," Draco said as he finished his first bite, "I know you're not used to doing much work, if any, but when you're here, you're responsible for cleaning, cooking, serving, and running errands. Understood?" Whatever method Potter had used to keep the pad thai warm had worked well. The noodles were firm and not too sticky, the egg and chicken were hot, and there was a perfect tang of lime. Since Draco believed in giving credit where credit was due, he gestured to his plate and said, "This is very good. I expect you to keep up this standard of service from now on."

Potter didn't seem to have a comeback for that other than a nod. "Fine." They lapsed into silence. Draco didn't feel much need to keep up a conversation. He briefly considered reading his evening Prophet, but that would be rude. Reading at the dinner table when company was present was not acceptable, even if said company was only Potter. Besides, he would probably steal the sports page and berate himself more for not catching the Snitch. That might be amusing once. Beyond, it would just be annoying.

From time to time Draco caught Potter looking at him as though he wanted to ask a difficult question, but every time Draco tried to make eye contact Potter found somewhere else to look.

When Draco laid his chopsticks over the edge of his plate, Potter stood and cleared the table.

"You learn fast," said Draco, slightly mocking. Their bit of verbal sparring earlier had been the best moments of the night so far. Perhaps he could goad Potter into another round. He'd rather have that than the silence, in any event. "I only had to tell you to pick up dinner and serve it before you figured out the final step. Maybe there's hope for you."

"It's not so much a matter of learning as it is knowing that you would never take care of your own dishes. Not with me here. If you even know how to take care of them yourself."

"Exactly. You learn fast."

"If you say so, Malfoy," he said nonchalantly. There was the sound of running water, and Potter said, "Scourgify."

"What did you just say?" asked Draco, turning in his seat to see Potter standing at the sink.

"I said, 'If you say so, Malfoy.'"

"After that, you twit!"

Potter shrugged. "It was just a cleaning spell." Another flick of his wand and the dishes were dry, stacked neatly in the cabinets. "Oh, that's right," he continued in a sarcastic overtone. "You've never cleaned anything in your life, so you wouldn't know a cleaning spell when you heard one."

"You washed the dishes with magic? I'm surprised. Less than an hour ago you seemed to forget you have magical powers."

"Get off it, Malfoy. There's no point in washing the dishes by hand when a spell gets it done in a fraction of the time."

"If I wanted the dishes done in a fraction of the time, I'd have done them myself," Draco retorted. "Because contrary to your belief, I am excellent with cleaning spells. I am excellent with most spells."

"Fine. Next time, I won't clean anything without your permission."

Getting a rise out of Potter was one thing. Mind games were another, and they were not something that interested Draco after a long day of rain and Quidditch. "How many times am I going to have to remind you why you're here? From now on, there's a new rule: No cleaning using magic."

Against what should have been his better judgment, Potter showed Draco his indignation. "No magic? Are you kidding? Even house-elves get to use magic. I bet you've never cleaned anything without magic in your entire life!"

"What's it to you, Potter? You were raised by Muggles. Cleaning like one is not exactly beneath your station. You'll clean anything in this flat that needs it, and you'll do it without magic, and you'll do it in a Muggle French maid's outfit and a pair of my mother's high heels if I want." Draco finished his wine and held his glass out. "Another, if you please."

The look Potter gave Draco could have frozen the wine in the bottle. He grabbed it and poured, splashing wine over the side of Draco's glass. Spilling only made him more upset. He grabbed a towel, wiped, and threw the towel into the sink with force.

"So. What other completely ridiculous tasks do you have for me to do?" he asked. "Alphabetizing your books? Evening your carpet fibers with a tweezers?"

Draco hesitated. He didn't really have much planned for the evening, despite his acting otherwise in front of Potter. The Wireless was a wasteland on Saturday nights, nothing but repeats of old shows and songs he'd heard a thousand times before. Usually he caught up on work or reading. He stood from the table, and as he did so a muscle spasm gripped his upper back and froze his right shoulder blade in place. "Fuck," he whispered as he sat back down.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he snapped, or snapped as much as he could through gritted teeth. "I just... need... a second." He would be fine, shortly, when he could move his arm again. This wasn't the first time this had happened, so he knew what to expect. The pain would hold him immobile for a minute, then it would pass. When it did, he rolled his shoulder backwards, then to the front, wincing at the residual stiffness.

"What is that, your neck? Your back?" Potter sounded hesitant, like he was asking more out of good manners than actual worry. "Do you need some help?"

"That's very kind, but I doubt there's anything you can do to help me."

Shrugging, Potter replied, "Fine. Don't say I didn't offer."

There was a note in Potter's voice, one that clearly said he knew something Draco didn't, which intrigued him. "What, exactly, does your offer entail?"

"Just to relieve some of your pain, if you want. But you don't, so there's no point in discussing it." He stood up straight. "What do you want me to clean next?" he asked, knowing that Draco wasn't ready to move on to that topic.

"We'll discuss whatever I want to discuss! I'm curious to know what, exactly, can you do that a team of trained mediwizards can't?"

"Maybe nothing, but I've learned a few things that really help with that kind of pain," Potter replied, this time sounding genuinely concerned.

"The pain that comes from breaking half the bones in your body and wrecking your back in the process?" Draco sneered. He pulled out his wand and Summoned his evening Prophet, intending to read. Potter was insane to even think he could help, and Draco intended to ignore his malarkey. "You've learned a hell of a lot, Potter. When Puddlemere forces you into retirement or trades you to the Cannons so they can draft the next hot thing out of Hogwarts, you should work at St. Mungo's." The headlines weren't very interesting, so he started to flip to the sports section.

"You're not the only one who's broken bones around here, Malfoy." There wasn't a note of sarcasm or annoyance from Draco that Potter couldn't match. "Or torn his rotator cuff, or had a Friday practice so hard he couldn't move on Saturday."

No way in hell was Draco going to let Potter think for a second that their injuries were even remotely equal. "Spoken like someone who truly doesn't understand living with chronic pain." He lowered the paper and glared at Potter. "How long were you out of commission with that rotator cuff? A few days? There's more to this than just some pulled muscles. I fell fifty feet, which, as you know, could have easily killed me. This is some serious damage that even the mediwizards couldn't fix entirely. And when it rains or I don't sleep or there's a rumor going around that I'm manipulating Puddlemere's Seeker's move to a new team I'm not--"

Draco stopped. Damn it. He was doing it again. Running his mouth off at Potter on subjects he didn't really want to talk about. He had no idea what it was about Potter that made him start talking about all the thoughts he had that no one else wanted to hear but that sometimes he needed so badly to voice.

Except maybe for the fact that Potter, of all people, always listened. Potter, of all people, would know better than anyone how frustrating it was when your office gossip was fodder for the Prophet. And he knew the feeling that Draco could never get across to anyone outside the world of pro Quidditch: every moment of pain was worth it when it led to a winning game, and that being grounded after years in flight could leave you hopeless. He almost laughed. For all their years of enmity, Potter might be the person who best understood him.

With this realization, Draco folded his paper and pushed it to the opposite end of the table. "All right. What's this treatment you've got?"

"I can't do it from where you're sitting."

"Is your aim so bad that you have to have me move somewhere so you can hit me with your spell accurately? Would you prefer I stand in a corner?"

Sighing, Potter said, "No." He studied the layout of the chair, the table and the wall. "You can sit with your back to me. And it'll help if you can take your shirt off that shoulder, but if you don't want to, that's fine."

Draco's first instinct was to ready his wand. Though Potter hadn't done anything untrustworthy yet, Draco didn't like the idea of exposing his back to him. "You want me to take my shirt off and turn away from you because..."

"I promise I won't hex you. Look, if I hex you, you can sell the house to someone else." He held out his wand. "No surprises." Then he took on the flat tone of the guard who worked at the Ministry wand-weighing checkpoint. "Holly. Eleven inches. Phoenix feather core. Been in use fourteen years."

Even Draco couldn't resist smiling. "That impression is a little too good." He thought for a moment, stood, and brought himself into Potter's space as he had on the night he'd proposed their arrangement. As Potter backed away, tightening the grip on his wand, Draco pulled the hem of his shirt from his trousers. Then he opened the buttons, without hurry, from top to bottom. Potter wasn't sure whether to turn away in politeness or stand his ground of nonchalance. Finished with his buttons, Draco let his shirt hang open, smoothed the placket, and reached to twist and remove his cufflinks. It was a task he could accomplish more quickly with magic, but he was going to make Potter wait this out. He reached for the thin leather tie in his hair. Untie, unwind, lean back and run his fingers through his hair, let it brush over the back of his neck.

They had both spent plenty of time in locker rooms. Just about everyone who played for Puddlemere had seen Draco in his underwear, even less. Those years of playing Quidditch coupled with his time being prodded by Healers in St. Mungo's had eroded his modesty. He used the screen while changing in front of Miller more to preserve their roles as employer and employee than anything else. Being mostly naked in those professional situations, though, was something much less intimate than undressing in his small kitchen with Harry Potter within easy reach. It was an intimidating closeness Draco relied on. The discomfort engendered by Draco's deliberate movements was clear in Potter's expression. Good. Anything and everything to put Potter in his place.

"Now what?" Draco said as his cufflinks clinked against the glass table. He removed his shirt as casually as he might light a candle or pick up a quill, hanging it over the back of his chair. "If you can't work your spell in here, perhaps I should lie down in the living room?" he asked, moving close enough to Potter that he could smell aloe soap. Draco had about three inches on Potter and he straightened his spine, making the most of the height advantage.

"Er... ah... no. No, that... no." Potter stepped away, surveying the table and chairs. "You're fine where you are. Sit sideways in your chair with your back to me. No, wait. Turn the chair away from the table and sit backward in it."

"And wrinkle my shirt?"

"You're not... Oh. Wingardium leviosa." Potter flew the shirt in the direction of Draco's bedroom. "There. Sit. Face away from me and try to keep your back straight." As Draco followed Potter's instructions, Potter continued. "And just so you know," he said, pressing his fingertips into the muscles between Draco's neck and his right shoulder, "this might -"

Draco nearly fell out of the chair from the shock of Potter touching him not with a spell, but with his hands. "Ow! Potter, what the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"--hurt a little. Sorry."

"I thought you said this would help!" He jerked away from Potter and twisted to face him, grabbing his wand and aiming for Potter. The point where Potter had touched him burned deep in the muscle.

Potter backed off, raising his hands. "Malfoy, stop. I'm not going to do anything bad to you. Listen. The more you fight me, the worse it's going to hurt. This isn't going to leave marks or anything, it's just... Sometimes healing can hurt, but there's a reason for it. You of all people should know that. Sit back down."

Replacing his wand slowly, Draco obeyed. Potter was right. He knew all too well that healing could hurt. He felt Potter step closer and take hold of his shoulders. The warmth from his palms took the edge off Draco's temper. "Let me try this. I promise, it will get better."

"Fine." Draco lowered his head, letting its weight stretch his neck muscles. The mediwizard who supervised his recovery of movement had stressed the importance of relaxation as an antidote to pain. She meant yoga and meditation, and Draco didn't mind the occasional session, but he generally preferred his relaxation in the form of a glass of wine and a murder mystery. Deep breaths would have to do for now.

"I'm going to touch you again. Same place. Just so you know. Okay?"

In that instant Draco almost refused him. He still wasn't over the unwelcome surprise of Potter touching him without explicit permission. Sure, it was a little on the hypocritical side, but this was his flat and he would do the touching. Or allow it. If he felt like it. But he acceded.

For a few minutes, Draco thought that whatever Potter was doing wasn't any better than the pain that brought him down in the first place. The peaks of tension in his shoulders were hard, and Potter's efforts to dissolve them were unforgiving. It took some effort, but he fought his instincts and let Potter work.

"You wouldn't hurt as much here if you sat up straight, you know." Potter tapped the area between Draco's shoulder blades to define "here."

"Oh, thanks. I was really hoping you'd lecture me about my posture."

"It's true." Potter dug into a knot a little harder than Draco thought necessary, and Draco suppressed a whimper. "You probably carried a lot less tension here when you were playing Quidditch, because you were moving around all the time. Now you're sitting bent over a desk most of the day, so you put a lot more pressure on your back and shoulders. Sitting up straight helps. Keeps your spine in alignment."

"I appreciate your concern, but I am really not in the mood for any sort of anatomy lesson."

"Sorry. Just...trying to help."

Potter's touch hurt, but Draco had to admit it did help. Each working of a pressure point felt like Potter was releasing Draco's stress from the inside out. His shoulders felt pleasantly warm and were definitely looser. His neck felt longer, and he could breathe a little easier. Despite the pain, this was actually working.

"Where did you learn to do this?" He turned his head to view Potter, who was working on a spot at the edge of Draco's left shoulder blade, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

"In Sweden, on an exhibition tour. Face forward or you're going to undo everything I just did to your neck. One of their team mediwitches taught us all how to do basic healing without wands. Sometimes we didn't even use magic. Some of it doesn't seem too efficient, but other things, like what I'm doing here, are pretty useful."

"Are they?" Draco couldn't help but be intrigued. For all his pain and the damage he'd sustained in the fall, he'd never had anyone touch him to heal him unless they had a wand as well. By now he trusted Potter not to hurt him, but beyond that he was having trouble sorting his emotions. It was humiliating to have had a pain spasm right in front of Potter. He would have been prepared for Potter to taunt him over it, but the response of help and kindness unsettled him. He wasn't sure what to make of it, but he knew this: He wanted more of Potter's strange wandless healing magic.

"This... It works for them?" Draco asked.

"Yeah. They take saunas, too. Those are great."

"Never had one."

"Mmm, they're amazing. Best on a cold day. You sit in a little wooden room that's really hot and mostly dark and then you go take a cold shower. Very cleansing." He pressed into a point at the edge of Draco's left shoulder blade a little harder than Draco thought was really necessary.

Grunting, Draco replied, "Why would I want to do any of that? Sweating when you're not working out, cold shower, too dark to read, what's there to like?"

Potter said with a gentle laugh, "All I'm saying is that you shouldn't write it off until you try it. Sometimes there's a lot to be said for being exhausted and alone in a hot room with nothing but a towel and your thoughts." To punctuate his statement, he made one final push into Draco's back at a point just left of center.

"Ouch!" Draco felt a burst that radiated and contracted the other muscles in his back. "What, do you think I'm going to change my mind about that horrible sauna thing if you torture me enough? I've survived enough torture without the promise of a steam bath and I'm not going to cave that easily."

"Sorry. You must have a trigger point there. That's a really tight knot, like a bundle of nerves that all meet in one place. Sometimes they... They make you jump, I guess, is the best way to put it. I'll be careful now that I know it's there."

"Oh." This technique of Potter's, or maybe it was the wine, had loosened Draco's lips as well as his shoulder. He was going to have to be more careful about what he said if Potter's contract was going to run more than one or two nights.

"Is that any better?" Potter asked after another few minutes, resting his hands just on top of Draco's shoulder blades.

"It..." Though it couldn't actually be true, Draco felt like his blood was flowing better to his neck and shoulders. Something else felt released in him, too. His mind was clearer and the anxieties of his workweek were hard to recall, though Draco knew they had been plentiful. "Yes. Why... I mean, how did you do that?" And when could Potter come back and do it again?

"I told you. Swedish mediwitches. If you get the chance you should go, maybe on holiday. Sweden, especially the southern half, is beautiful. But go in the summer. It's really, really cold in February. And dark." Potter resumed his ministrations, sliding his hands up Draco's neck and into his hair, making little circles on Draco's scalp with his fingertips.

It amazed Draco that so small a move could have such a profound effect on his well-being. He let the thoughts of the wreck of tangles Potter was surely leaving in his hair slip away on a wave of sheer happiness. "Yes, well, first... I have to talk them out of... sending me to the States. Or maybe I could tell them... they owe me a trip to Sweden after visiting the States."

"I thought you dealt exclusively with Britain and Ireland." He smoothed the flyaways from Draco's hair over his temples, then did something with his thumbs at the base of Draco's skull that made him shiver.

"Proving once again how very little you know about what I do all day. Why don't you ask your teammate from Athens how he came to play for Puddlemere? They can't all come out of Hogwarts."

"All right. So tell me about your job."

"You actually care?"

"Yeah. Your job sounds interesting. I mean, every time I see you you're so focused on it, and even though we've...had our differences," he said, kneading along Draco's shoulder a little more gently, "I do respect you, Malfoy. So do a lot of other people. You work hard and you do what a good manager should do: you look out for the players' interests ahead of what the scouts and coaches want." He palpated down the length of Draco's arms, looking for places where hours of writing left him with knotted muscles. "Don't think your letter to Coach Guilford, the one where you told him he should have pulled Valerian out at his first sign of relapse, went unnoticed."

Draco weakened in the presence of such flattery, but he couldn't let Potter see how much those words meant to him. "Plan to replace me when Puddlemere dumps you for Harris, do you?"

If the dig at Potter's career trajectory fazed him, he didn't let it show. "Maybe. I mean, I know no one goes on forever playing pro Quidditch; I'm always open to possibilities."

"Potter, I don't feel like talking about work right now. I've spent all week working, and today working, and I'll spend the next month working nonstop." He drained a third of his wine. "Talk to me about something else."

The sound of rain on Draco's windows settled around the table. In the quiet, Draco planned tomorrow: a late rising after a night of sleep assisted by potions, finish the novel he'd been reading, send his laundry out. Although maybe he wouldn't need a strong potion tonight, thanks to whatever this Swedish magic was.

Finished with Draco's arms, Potter sat down, pulling a chair close enough so he could take Draco's right hand. Draco opened his mouth for a smart remark about Potter's need to hold hands, but an eyeroll from Potter stopped him. He held Draco's wrist steady and gently bent each of his fingers back. Draco hadn't realized how tight the muscles in his palms were until Potter stretched them.

As Potter took Draco's hand in his own, interlacing their fingers, he caught Draco's gaze and said, "You survived torture." It was so matter of fact, his voice would have been no different had he said, "You have blond hair," or, "It's raining outside."

Suspicion made Draco contract his fingers around Potter's. "Is that a threat?"

"What?" Potter looked surprised. "No, it's... You said something earlier about having been tortured. And at Palta you seemed to have some pretty strong opinions about the war."

"Oh. I suppose I did say that." Draco felt stupid, and not just because he'd forgotten he'd said all that to Potter. He loosened his grip. "Why did you bring it up?"

Potter stopped his stretching efforts but didn't release Draco's hand. "Because you've mentioned it twice. Usually when someone keeps bringing up a topic it means he wants to talk about it. Did you want to talk about it?"

The only people who had ever asked Draco about what he'd gone through during the war were Aurors and members of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and they'd been more concerned with how many names he would spill than his mental health. Years ago, right around the time he'd decided to try out for professional Quidditch, Draco told himself that no good would ever come of talking about the war to anyone, for any reason. He'd buried his experiences until that dinner at Palta, when Potter's naiveté and earnestness dug them up.

Had it been anyone except Potter, Draco would have been able to brush off the question. The same shrewd, calculating part of him he brought to work each day wanted to respond with a resounding "Absolutely not." To accept Potter's invitation would be to open the door to a weak, wounded part of him that he swore no one would ever see. Exposing that part could never lead to anything good. But his conscience, his gut, and to Draco's disappointment, the part of himself he knew he'd never be able to escape if he said anything different, said inside, quietly and certainly, "Yes. Yes, I do."

Draco knew he couldn't tell the whole story right now, but he also didn't think he could let Potter go in that moment any more than he could spontaneously remove his own arm.

"I was..." He pulled the word from the depths of wine and serotonin. "Thirsty," he whispered to their hands. His focus softened as he drew his concentration inward, so he could no longer tell where his hand ended and Potter's began. "One of many ironies. The cell was so damp, but my throat was always so dry. It was...effective."

"Effective how?"

"Because... When you're in a cell all day with nothing to think about except what a bunch of Death Eaters are going to do to you next, every physical shortcoming you have seems like it takes up your entire world. They knew how weak I was because of the dehydration. All I could think about was how much I hurt, and how thirsty I was and Potter..." Draco looked up and tightened his grip on Potter's hand. "You have no idea what it means to be thirsty. I'm not talking about needing your standard post-workout replenishment potion. I'm talking your lips crack and your tongue is fuzzy and your joints ache and you feel like your blood is turning to sludge. They knew exactly how much water to give me to keep me alive, but I got nothing more."

I dare you to look away, thought Draco. Go ahead, show me that you can't deal with this. Drop my hand and get up and leave.

But Potter gave Draco's hand the tiniest of squeezes and said, "I'm sorry."

That was it? Didn't Potter know the kind of strength it took for Draco just to speak those few sentences? "Sure you are. Because your side was right, of course. Everything you did was calculated to save as many lives as possible, especially the lives of Death Eaters."

Potter gave an exasperated sigh. Then he regrouped and asked calmly, "Are we really going to have this argument again?"

No, they weren't. Draco had learned his lesson at Palta, that Potter had been completely brainwashed by the Order into believing that everything he'd done, everything he'd fought for, was all that was good and true and right. What an idiot. And Draco was an idiot for believing that Potter could even come close to understanding the hell he'd been through. He'd let himself get too carried away in this moment, by Potter's gesture of kindness. There were reasons he'd kept almost everything about his imprisonment by the Death Eaters a secret, and they were good ones. He was not going to crack in front of Harry Potter.

He pulled his hand away. "No. Talk to me about something else."

Potter seemed taken aback for a moment. "I'm... sorry, I didn't mean to..."

"Well, you did," said Draco sharply, downing what was left of his wine.

Looking cowed, Potter glanced beyond Draco, into the living room. "All right...erm... Who's James Patterson? You seem to have a lot of his books."

Draco took his own turn to sigh in exasperation. "You know what?" he said as he reached across the table for his Prophet. "Never mind. Just go home. Go home and cry over losing the Snitch to Harris, like you've wanted to do since you got here."

There was a moment's hesitation. Then, Potter got up from the table. He refilled Draco's wineglass, but stood holding the bottle in one hand.

"I really am sorry that you went through that," he said just before sealing the bottle. "And if there's ever more that you want to say, I mean, I know I can't change anything but--"

"How nice of you to reassure me of your ineffectiveness."

Something in Potter deflated. He sighed and set the wine on the table. "Good night, Malfoy. I'll... I'll see you soon." Potter retrieved his cloak from the front closet and Disapparated.

"Coward," Draco admonished as he drank his wine in two gulps.

Then he went to his medicine cabinet for a sleeping potion. He had changed his mind. He was going to need a strong one after all.