Promises to Keep

Having given up going through Snape's more personal belongings, Draco started in earnest on his books. He spent three weeks worth of afternoons sorting them, by subject and author, and reshelving as many of them as he could. It wasn't a difficult job physically, because Potter inexplicably took to turning up after work and handling the higher shelves. Potter was a problem, in ways Draco couldn't have foreseen if he'd devoted his life to divination.

Potter wore jeans that hung too low on his narrow hips, and shirts with the sleeves rolled up to show his pale forearms. Draco hadn't been touched by another person since he got out of hospital, and Potter insisted on giving him back massages, in leaning close enough so that their shoulders brushed, in putting a hand on Draco's thigh for balance while he reached for a stack of books. It was brutal, and it got Draco hard every time. He had to admit, though, that he preferred dreaming about Potter's mouth on his cock to nightmares about the war.

He couldn't imagine what it was Potter thought he was going to get out of it. Maybe it was the pity fuck to end all pity fucks, because Draco was not just a convicted traitor with no magic, but a cripple as well. Maybe Potter was just trying to get Draco to make a fool of himself. In any event, Draco pretended not to notice. He made dinner and put out a plate for Potter, and since Snape never ate there was plenty to go around. He read the best bits of Snape's books out loud, in the name of education, since neither he nor Potter had finished school. He did not think about what it would be like to have Potter's hands on him for real.

It wasn't something they talked about, anyway. Every evening started with Potter leaning on the doorbell, even though he must have realized it took Draco a while to get to it. Potter would say, "Hey," as he brushed past, drop his cloak and his bag in a pile, and wrestle off his tie. And then, up went the sleeves. Every last time, even though the house was never really warm inside. Draco usually sat on the floor in the sitting room, his lap full of books. Potter sprawled in one of the chairs that flanked the fireplace, and Lucifer sat on the mantel and glared, and occasionally made noises that were probably rude comments about Potter. He'd hated Potter on sight, and lately he seemed to hate Snape, too. It was cozy, in a horrible sort of way.

Draco still talked more to the cat than he did to either Potter or Snape. At the end of the day, it was Lucifer who stayed--though he sometimes thought Potter would have liked to--and Lucifer who slept next to him on his pillow. Lucifer's grating purr was the last thing he heard at night, and his ragged, indignant voice was the first thing he heard in the morning. And Lucifer knew all of his secrets, including the one about lusting after Potter.

Time passed, even at Spinners' End. It just passed so fucking slowly that sometimes Draco could have sworn the clocks had stopped. September dragged its way into October, and October dragged its way into November. Draco started physical therapy at St. Mungo's, and they gave him a port key for the hospital, and one for home, which almost felt like independence.

The things the therapists asked of him were difficult, and often painful. The mine that had claimed his legs had damaged nerves as well as skin and bone, and because of its magical nature, magic had been useless in healing him. Almost two years later, his stumps ended in raw, ugly lumps of scar tissue. He would have to regenerate a great deal of muscle, and the nerves themselves, before prosthetics were even a possibility. There were times when he thought that the chair might be preferable.

When the doorbell rang, early on a Friday afternoon, Draco assumed it was Potter, out early on a holiday he'd forgotten. "Coming," he yelled grumpily, and left his lunch dishes and his book on the end table while he hauled himself out of the sofa and into the chair. It was only when he flung the door open rather too hard that he realized the man on the other side wasn't Potter. It wasn't anyone Draco'd ever seen before in his life--just an ordinary middle-aged Muggle in a blue coverall.

"Mr. Snape?" he asked doubtfully.

Snape didn't have callers. Ever. Other than Remus Lupin, the once, Draco didn't think the man had had a visitor in five months. Draco wasn't sure if Snape was home: he wasn't sure he'd seen him in the last week. He wondered, briefly and hysterically, if he ought to go upstairs again and check whether Snape was still alive. "I'm Severus Snape," he said as coolly as he could, thinking of identity theft and Muggle prisons. He'd used Snape's bank card more often than Snape, lately.

"Right," the Muggle said. "I'm from British Gas. Do you mind if I come in for a minute?"

As far as Draco knew, the only thing gas did was make the motor run, and it hadn't been out of the garage in a month. He knew, because he'd been tempted to teach himself to drive it, using a stick to push the floor pedals, but he hadn't been able to find Snape's keys. "I don't know anything about that," he said as innocently as he could, "but come in if you like."

He rolled his chair back out of the doorway and motioned the man in. When he was seated, awkwardly, on the sitting room sofa, and Draco had positioned himself on the other side of the little room, there was a brutal silence. Draco opened his mouth to ask what in hell the man wanted, and caught himself just in time. What if the man were a secret policeman? Maybe it was better not to antagonize him. "The weather's been lovely lately," he said, and winced at the inanity.

"Yes," the man agreed. "Er. Mr. Snape--."

"Call me Severus," Draco interjected.

"Yes," the man said again. "Severus. You see--this is awkward--it seems you haven't paid your gas bill in several months. You don't want us to shut off your heat--."

"Of course not!" Draco said, startled. "I'm sorry. The thing is, I had a mate who took care of this sort of thing for me while I was out of commission, but he's been ill and I'm afraid things have been let go a bit." Even to his own ears, the words sounded prissy and unSnapelike. "If it's okay, I can just give you a cheque."

"That would be fine," the man said, watching as Draco wheeled himself to the secretary and dug out Snape's cheque book. "Do you mind if I ask--how it happened?"

Draco thought about pretending he didn't know what the man meant, but it wasn't worth it. He scrawled Snape's name on the cheque in his best approximation. "It was in the war," he answered as vaguely as he could.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see that the Muggle was blushing. Good. Served him right for being so nosy. "Only--you seem so young."

"I'm nineteen," Draco said coolly and untruthfully. "Old enough to fight for what I believe in."

"I'm sorry," the man said, and he sounded as if he meant it. "My boy's over there now, and I just--."

Draco felt like an idiot. "I'm the one who should be sorry," he said. "It's not something that I like to talk about." Especially, he thought, given that I'm not sure exactly where you mean by there.

"I understand," the Muggle said, taking his cheque. "Really. The way this government treats its veterans is a crime."

"Yeah," Draco agreed, interested despite himself. "My--my mate," he cringed a little, thinking of how Snape would react to that description, "he's been having a hard time getting his head straight since we got back--he was a prisoner for a bit, even. But they can't be bothered to turn up and see how he's doing, or anything. Just chucked him some medals and sent him on his way. I mean, it's saying something when the gimp's the one who has to take charge, right?"

He ended up having the Muggle to tea, and barely got him out before Potter turned up. Still, it was interesting to hear the man complain about the Muggle government, which sounded like a primitive version of the wizarding one.

That night, as they ate dinner, Draco quizzed Potter about the state of Muggle Britain. The war wasn't entirely a British one, apparently, and it was in Persia, although the Muggles had a different name for it, Potter thought. For someone who'd been raised Muggle, practically, he was appallingly ignorant. Draco was aware that he, himself, had few holes in knowledge of current events.

When they'd finished the dishes, Potter suggested they go out and have a drink. Draco thought for a frozen moment that he might be suggesting some kind of date. He didn't know what to say, and before he could stop himself he'd said yes.