Promises to Keep

Potter was busy over the weekend doing what he called Auror things, so Draco spent the time skulking, trying to avoid Snape--who was probably trying to avoid him right back. Unfortunately, this gave him entirely too much time to think about what a mess he'd made of things. It might have been better, and it couldn't have been worse, if he'd waited, recruited help, before he'd talked to Snape. He could have consulted his mother, maybe: she hated Snape, and she wasn't allowed back in England, but she was good at people.

He could have kept himself from kissing Potter back, and saved himself all of this stress. Because he'd clearly given Potter the impression that they were in some kind of relationship, and just the thought of that made Draco hyperventilate. Aside--aside--from the fact that this was Harry Potter, who had been his first enemy, fought on the opposite side in the war--aside from all of that, Draco could not quite imagine what sex was going to be like.

He hadn't looked at himself, really looked, since he'd got out of hospital. He hadn't forgotten how his legs looked: the ugly, raw scars that were still healing, the unevenness of the stumps, cut and cut away again by surgeons working to save his life. It is worse than he remembered, because he'd never before imagined how it would look to another person.

Even if he were not a cripple, even if they were only scars, he would be ashamed. He wanted to be beautiful, all muscle and tanned skin as Potter was, but more than that he wanted to be normal. His father had taken him to a Muggle carnival: he'd seen bearded women, men so fat they could not stand unassisted, tattoos covering a body like a road map. He did not want this to be what defined him. Even in the dark, it would be hard to hide, harder than the faded mark on his arm that he did his best to cover when Potter was there.

And if Potter was doing this for any reason besides the obvious one--Draco thought of what it would be like, to see pictures of himself in Witch Weekly, on the cover of the Quibbler. They would say that he was as ugly on the outside as he was on the inside, that he'd gotten exactly what he deserved. Remembering the things he'd done and said at Hogwarts, remembering what a failure he'd been as a Death Eater, the things he'd screamed at the nurses of St. Mungo's when they been too slow, or too rough, or too familiar, Draco cringed.

Although it was only eight o'clock, he was already in bed. The little house was bitterly cold, and Draco wondered if Snape had somehow shut off the heat in an attempt to freeze him out. He was trying to read one of Snape's books, a moldy paperback edition of a Russian novel, but all of the characters seemed to have the last name Ivanovitch and it had taken him half an hour to get through the preface. When his fingers went numb, he gave up and got out of bed. He could live without frostbite.

He ran water for a bath, as hot as he could make it, and climbed in. Sliding down so that the water came to his chin, he wondered what it would be like to do it with Potter, wondered whether he'd ever be comfortable enough to try. He wanted something different from the edgy, awkward relationship his parents had had, the arguments that stopped whenever he entered a room, the Snape-shaped space between them.

Thinking of Potter, he slid his hand under the water. He was usually careful, when he did this, not to make it about anyone he knew. But he was tired of it, tired of never taking anything for himself, tired of trying to be sensible and responsible and good. He curled his fingers around himself and pictured Potter's square strong hands. He knew as he did it that he'd made his decision, and damn the consequences. He'd take whatever Potter--whatever Harry--would give him.

In the morning he felt decidedly less optimistic, but that was partially having to go to physical therapy, and partially wondering what Potter--Harry--had accomplished on the Snape front. And partially, of course, pure terror at the decision he'd made. He wished sometimes for Gryffindor impulsiveness, even if the thought of living that way made him shudder.

By the time Harry came by that evening, he was ready to forget the whole thing, but the kiss he got when he opened the door changed his mind. Somehow they went from the hall to his bedroom without a word being spoken. Draco did not even have time to be nervous. They didn't do anything he wasn't comfortable with, anyway, it was too rough, too frantic for second thoughts or lingering looks, or even pulling his jeans all the way off.

After, he lay with his forehead pressed against Harry's shoulder, feeling the tension drain out of his body for the first time since he'd come to Spinner's End. He wasn't an idiot; he knew that fucking Harry didn't mean he could trust him. But it had been so long since he'd been this close to anyone, so long since anyone had touched him, simply for the sake of touching him, and not because he was a job to be done.

"You're only the second person I've been with," he said, when the silence seemed in danger of going on too long. "Did I tell you that? Blaise Zabini was the first, but it didn't mean anything. It was just one of those things you did at school."

"Mm," Harry said, his breath warm against Draco's hair. "So this means something?"

"Only if you want it to," Draco answered. "Do you want it to?" He promised himself he would not panic, no matter what Harry said.

"I think it's far too late to worry about that," Harry said sadly. "I'm expecting you to make an honest man of me, no matter what your personal feeling on the matter are. Bad enough that you debauched Zabini--."

Draco rolled over and got his elbows under himself, so that he could kiss Harry properly. "You know as well as I do that Zabini was born debauched," he said, and kissed Potter to keep him from responding.

When they'd finally got out of bed, cleaned up, and made dinner, Draco asked, a little reluctantly, whether Harry'd had any luck getting help for Snape. "The whole thing is driving me insane," he confessed. "I mean, I owe him, I know that, but I'm afraid he's losing it. He said he wasn't suicidal--but I don't know if I believe him or not."

Harry didn't roll his eyes, which was a wise choice on his part, since the bread knife Draco was holding was fairly sharp. "Someone's coming around in the morning to talk to him," he said. "Apparently they have a whole department for that kind of thing. Just try to keep him from going out, if you can."

Draco sighed. "I've been avoiding him all weekend," he confessed. "But he almost never goes out before dark anyway."

"Ron thought he was a vampire," Harry said, grinning. "When we were kids, I mean, in first year. I owe him, too, Draco. He saved my life on a pretty regular basis, even if neither of us were very gracious about it. He deserves any help we can give him--I know that. Not that I don't like doing you favours."

Draco couldn't keep himself from smiling. He leaned forward to reach the salt, and made sure his shoulder brushed Potter's when he did it. "Thank you anyway," he said. "I'm sure Snape thanks you, too. Deep down."

Harry snorted. "Very deep down, maybe."

Even in the morning, when there was nothing left of Harry but the fading scent on Draco's sheets and the bite marks on his collarbone, he felt the same restless disbelief--it was like being back at school, having won a big Quidditch match, with his father looking on, and being afraid he'd wake up and find out it had been a dream. The kitchen was still the only warm room in the house. He fed the cat and made himself breakfast, and he was halfway through the paper when someone banged on the door. "Coming," he yelled, and did the quickest clean-up of all time before he went to answer.

It was Remus Lupin waiting, and beside him on the step was Alastor Moody. Draco very nearly shut the door in their faces. He was furious, at Potter and at Lupin; they were insane if they thought this would work. There was no one Snape hated more than Moody, the man who had hounded so many of his friends and students to their deaths, Moody who had allowed no compromises, and no surrender.

"Let us in, boy," Moody said now, as if Draco were still fourteen and terrified. As if physical imperfection could scare Draco now.

Draco let the door go, and rolled back, out of the way. "Of course," he said. "Do come in. It is lovely to have you." He was a Malfoy, his mother had been a Black: apparently he had some pride left after all, because he could not bring himself to give Moody the rejection the man was clearly after. "The kitchen is to the left. Have a seat, and I'll make us some tea."

He had just set the cups out and was looking in the refrigerator for the milk when Lucifer came in. Seeing Moody and Lupin, he hissed and leaped onto the counter, as close to Draco as he could get. Draco had seen him angry, but never afraid, and he rubbed the cat's rigid back, wondering why he was so upset. Perhaps it was the smell of werewolf. Lucifer had fluffed himself to twice his normal size, but he was still no match for Lupin. "Steady there," he said. "Want to go back outside?"

"So that's Snape's cat?" Lupin asked curiously. "He doesn't seem like the exotic breeds type."

"No," Moody said slowly. "That's no cat. That's--" He drew his wand more quickly than Draco would have thought possible, and Lucifer sprang at him in the same second.

Moody's "Finite Incantem!" hit him in mid air, and Lucifer turned all at once into Draco's father, and crashed into Moody. The table, and Moody, and Lucius Malfoy, and Lupin and Snape's mother's tea service all went flying.

Draco closed the refrigerator door and stayed where he was, grateful that he was already sitting down. He thought that he might be having a heart attack, or a stroke, or a hallucination. His father was dead. Snape had told him his father was dead. He had watched Snape wash Lucius's blood from his hands: he had cried, and Snape had watched him cry, and said nothing to comfort him: Snape had apologized to him for his father's death.

Lucius had his hands around Moody's neck. Lupin tried valiantly to separate them, slipped in the spilled tea, and brought them down with him. Draco wished he'd let them kill each other. There was nothing stopping him from going out the kitchen door into the garden, and from the garden to the street, and from there, anywhere he wanted. He didn't owe anyone anything--not his father, and not Snape, and not even Potter, who should have seen this coming and prevented it. But he wanted to know why, and he could hear Snape's footsteps on the stairs. He would have an answer, before he went.