Black Sheep

Chapter Four
In Which A Bath Is Drawn And Company Comes

"I ARRIVED BACK AT THE house where we were staying," Harry explained, staring down at the grass beneath his legs. He couldn't bring himself to look over at the grown Malfoy sitting slightly downhill. He still remembered how he'd felt: apparating back into the Unplottable house, he'd landed awkwardly sprawled across the floor and lost his grip on the golden model. It had clattered away from him and landed next to a pair of sensible brown shoes. He had looked up to see Hermione watching him with that curious blank look he had learned to hate and she'd asked him kindly as she bent to pick up the model, "Oh - Harry, right? What's this?"

The adult Harry, sitting in the sun, closed his eyes. Blackness filled his vision and for a moment he was afraid to open his eyes again, but when he did, he saw the reassuring green hills and the sunlit sky. He continued his story, "We already knew a way to suck all the magic from an object." Malfoy's brow twitched, but Harry wasn't looking at him. "Hermione had researched it before, back when we got our first horcrux. We got some help from Mr Weasley - he used to work in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office, you know. With what he taught us, Hermione was able to come up with a ritual to remove any magic from the horcruxes, including the bits that bound Voldemort's soul to them. Without it, the soul would just waft off to... well, wherever souls ought to go."

He felt as though Malfoy was waiting for something more and so he added awkwardly, "We performed the ritual, Hermione and I. On the last horcrux."

The blond nodded and stared out at the hills opposite them. From this angle, they could see the wide lines carved into the hilltop, revealing the white chalk below the grass, but not what pattern they made. After a couple of moments, Draco said quietly, "So you removed all the magic and the model was no longer a horcrux. Just a piece of metal."

"Yeah."

Draco thought about that for a moment, then asked curiously, "What'd you do with it afterwards?"

Harry started. He hadn't thought about it in years. He explained lamely, "Uh, it's in a trunk somewhere."

"'It's in a trunk somewhere?'" Draco repeated disbelievingly, turning around to stare up at Harry. The dark-haired man stared back at him blankly and nodded. "You..." Draco breathed wondrously, "You put one of the most valuable artefacts of our society 'in a trunk somewhere?'"

"Oh." Harry realised with embarrassed shock that his face was flushing, and felt as awkward as he ever had as a teenager. "Well, it doesn't even move anymore. It's just a broken model."

"Just a broken model that was owned, and possibly even created, by Rowena Ravenclaw!"

Harry scowled, wishing his face weren't as red as he knew it was, and said shortly, "Fine. What do you say I should do with it then?"

Draco shrugged, his shock slowly receding. "Sell it. That's what I'd probably do. But since you were a Gryffindor and all, you might want to donate it to some worthy institute, like the Museum of Magic or even Hogwarts."

Harry held the question in as long as he could, but he had to ask: "There's a Museum of Magic? Where?"

This made Draco smile again, which was at least less embarrassing to Harry than the blond's earlier incredulity. "You really must get out more, Potter," he said, and then told him in a very proper voice, "The Museum of Magic is located, of course, in the city of London. There is an entrance to it in Diagon Alley, for the most inconspicuous arrival, but otherwise it may be found through the Floo network, through purpose-built portkeys - almost solely used for tour groups - or by simply visiting the physical building, which appears as a storage facility near the Muggle British Museum."

Unable to completely mask his curiosity, Harry asked the other man, "Just what do they have at a Museum of Magic?"

"Oh, you know. Wands of famous witches and wizards. Models. Dioramas. Artefacts of historical value or theoretical significance. And a gift shop."

They lapsed back into silence. Draco didn't seem to want to offer much more detail about the museum and Harry let his imagination run wild for several minutes. But inevitably, his thoughts returned to their earlier conversation. He had told Draco what had happened to him after they'd parted ways. Now he felt as if he had to ask the other man about his own story. He shifted uncomfortably and thought resentfully about how he had got stuck with the only man could make him feel like an fumbling teenager again. His voice awkward, he asked unsurely, "So what happened to you after I left?"

There was no immediate answer and Harry watched the narrow back in front of him. Draco shifted slightly and said lightly, without turning around, "You don't really want to know, do you?"

Harry thought about it. He really didn't want to know what else he was responsible for, how much more he could be blamed for. He didn't want to owe Malfoy any more than he already did. He agreed, "No, I don't."

The silence seeped in between them once again. Harry looked at the forgotten cheese in his hand. He wasn't hungry any longer. He asked dimly, "Want some cheese?" But there was no response from the blond. Harry wished for a moment that he could see the other man's face, but then remembered himself. Instead he flopped back on to the grass, stretching his lean body upon the warm ground.

Malfoy stayed perfectly still from what Harry could see of him. The former Gryffindor sighed in silent annoyance. He closed his green eyes and settled in for a good summer afternoon's dozing, as long as Malfoy was just going to sit there.

He must have slipped into sleep because Malfoy's voice startled him when it suddenly chimed in, "I still need a bath."

Harry's eyes unstuck reluctantly and he looked up at the sky. The sun had moved. It was still afternoon, but some indeterminate time later. Harry squinted at the blond head still facing away from him and mumbled, "What?"

"A bath, Potter. Even you must be familiar with them."

Harry noticed that more of that old bite had returned to Malfoy's voice and thought once again that discussing the past probably hadn't been a good idea. He sat up, pain throbbing through his head again with the motion. As soon as the flash of pain subsided, he ground out, "Fine. We'll head back to my place then." He took a quick glance about them and asked, "You're giving up on looking for your wand?"

"We're not going to find it here," Draco said surely.

Not caring enough to argue the point, Harry pushed himself up and started stumbling down the hill back toward the road. Once again, he left it up to Draco to follow behind him. And once again, the blond accepted this without complaint, strolling easily in Harry's wake. At least he didn't sing this time.

They made it back to the village and took a slightly more out-of-the-way path back to the little house, since Harry didn't want to create any more opportunities for his neighbours to gossip. As far they were concerned, he was happy to let them all assume that Malfoy was gone and let him get back to his usual isolated lifestyle. They managed to avoid running into anyone else on the unmade lanes and arrived at Harry's home from the opposite way as they had left it.

Harry opened the front door and stepped inside, toeing his dusty shoes off as he walked. He left his shoes on the floor and went down the hall to the bathroom and propped the door open for Malfoy. Then he went into his own room and left the other man to his own devices.

Draco stood outside the front door and shook his head in silent bemusement. He stepped over the threshhold and bent down to take off his own shoes, leaving them neatly lined up, in contrast to Harry's trainers strewn across the hallway. Stepping over the offending shoes, he walked down the hall to the door that Harry had opened. It was opposite the small room he had stayed in the night before and turned out to be an incredibly small and plain Muggle bathroom. Draco frowned as he looked at the toilet right next to the bath - who would want to bathe, all in an effort to clean themselves, right next to a sodding toilet? But seeing the toilet reminded him that he hadn't used the facilities for an indecent period of time and so, with a heart-felt sigh, he resigned himself to the situation.

After he relieved himself, he turned to the bath, which was - at the least - thankfully clean. The white porcelain was sparkling and looked as if it had been scrubbed that very morning. Perhaps Potter had some sort of charm to keep it clean, Draco thought, as he turned one of the taps on and let water spill into the tub. He turned around the narrow space and sighed again, then stripped his dirty clothes off and folded them in a neat but dusty pile on the farthest part of the counter.

Glancing back at the tub showed that a couple inches of clear water had collected and he reached into the water experimentally, then yelped. Jerking his hand out of the icy cold bath water, he quickly spun around in search of a bath-towel. As soon as he found one, he slung it around his bony hips and marched out of the bathroom and into Potter's room. The other man was in the process of changing his shirt and turned around furiously when he heard Draco push open the door.

"What?" he asked as he pulled his shirt over his head.

Draco shrugged and said, "There's something wrong with your bath."

Frowning darkly, Harry shoved past the blond and into the bathroom. He looked at the bath but everything seemed perfectly in order to him. It was still sparkling clean, the water was clear and flowing; what was Malfoy's problem? He looked to the nearly naked man for explanation and Draco said in exaggerated patient voice, "The water's like ice, Potter." He waved a hand toward the tub, inviting Harry to try it for himself. "Who's going to want to bathe in that? I only put my hand in and I think my bollocks fell off."

"I'm not sure that I'd feel bad about that. I might be doing the world a favour." Harry saw the blond glaring at him and said, "Look, it's a Muggle house. The water won't just come out perfect and hot of its own accord. You've got to turn on the hot water tap." And then he walked back out the door and into his room to finish changing.

From behind him he heard the screech of a tap being turned sharply and Malfoy called out, "Which one is the - AUUGGHHH! BUGGER!" Harry couldn't help smiling. But before he got far, Malfoy had come haranguing after him again, still wearing nothing more than Harry's towel. "Wait up, Potter," the blond said suspiciously, "doesn't that mean, then, that the water will go cold after a time?"

"Well, yes," Harry said simply, as if he were speaking to someone sub-normal, "that's what water does in its natural state."

Draco raised an eyebrow and shot back in a similar tone, "And you haven't ever bothered to charm the tub?"

Harry always hated to admit that he knew fewer spells than Malfoy and so instead of admitting that he didn't know how, he flatly said, "No, I haven't."

His scornful expression easing, Draco pushed Harry towards the bathroom again, saying, "Well, no time like the present. The incantation is a simple 'fervefacio' and the motion is a nice counterclockwise swirl." Harry had little choice, since the blond had pushed him right in front of the filling bathtub and so, with a sigh, he pulled out his wand and cast the spell on the water, which immediately began steaming invitingly. Draco applauded him. "That's lovely. Now I'll just need those clothes cleaned and we'll be grand."

Harry was about to exclaim again but he was beginning to suspect that that was precisely what the blond wanted and so instead he picked up the pile of neatly folded clothes without a word and walked out of the bathroom. He walked into the kitchen and threw the clothes into the washing machine there, but didn't bother to start the load. If Malfoy wanted his clothes cleaned, he would have to do it himself.

Leaning against the counter, Harry let his head fall back, stretching his tense neck muscles. Impossible though it seemed, today was shaping up to be even more bizarre than the previous day. He didn't understand Malfoy - within just the span of a couple of hours, he'd gone from hating the man to laughing at him to fearing him to pitying him. And all the way back again. Was it his fault, since he never interacted with people? Or was it Malfoy's fault, for being certifiably insane?

Either way, Harry wouldn't let the other man intrude on his life any further than he already had. Harry would keep to his regular schedule. Today was Wednesday and that meant hoovering and dusting. Harry moved to the closet and pulled out his old Muggle hoover, feeling normalcy settle back around him as he did so. Setting the hoover on the carpet in the sitting room, he extended the cord to its full length and plugged it into the outlet in the wall. He flicked the power switch and the ornery old machine roared into life.

Letting his mind go blank and fill with the deafening white noise of the hoover, Harry pushed the machine mechanically about the room, watching lines appear and disappear in the carpet's pile. He didn't notice when Malfoy came tripping into the room, dripping wet this time but once again, thankfully, with a towel about him. The ex-death eater looked around wildly and waved his hands at the offending machine, screeching, "Silencio!" Of course it did nothing to the hoover, but it did catch Harry's attention and he switched off the power as he looked questioningly at the blond. "What is it now?"

Draco was looking at him disbelievingly - that same old 'you're an idiot' look. "I thought," he said distinctly, "that we were under attack of some sort. Just what do you think you are doing out here?"

Harry's brows lowered over his stormy green eyes and he said defensively, "I think that I am cleaning my house, thank you. Are you done with your precious bath then? Because I'd just as soon have you out of my way till I finish hoovering all the rooms."

Without a word but raising his hands helplessly, as if to say, "I'm going, I'm going," the blond retreated back to the bathroom and his toasty, charmed bath. Harry flipped his hoover back on and continued in his path across the sitting room. When he had finished there, he lugged the old machine to his bedroom to clean the rug there, and then on to Malfoy's room - no, on to his extra room, he reminded himself - to do the same. When he was finished, he carefully carried the hoover back into the kitchen and, after checking its bag, replaced it in the closet.

He ducked under the kitchen sink to pull out a bottle of furniture polish and dusting rag, but as he set them on the counter, he noticed the dishes left in the sink. They must have been from his breakfast the previous day - he'd meant to do them after returning from his drive, but of course that plan had gone out the window when he'd got into a car accident with Draco Malfoy. Sighing as he looked at the now crusty remains on the plates, he flipped up the tap and let water start pouring over them. He thought for one happy, resentful moment that using the water might make Malfoy's bathwater run cold, but then remembered that he'd already charmed the tub for the git, even if it wasn't already full. Which it probably was. Damn it.

Instead it was Harry's hands that were plunged into the cold water and he grabbed an abrasive scrubber to start working away at the dried remains of kedgeree on the top plate. He had branched away from his Aunt Petunia's utilitarian cooking once he'd started living on his own, but at times like this he could appreciate the simplicity of the toast she'd always given him. Not much clean-up to do with toast, after all.

As Harry scrubbed away at the plates mindlessly, he couldn't help his thoughts turning back to Malfoy. If they were really giving up on finding the other man's wand, could he just send the blond back to the Manor? Or should he just get a taxi cab to send him to Diagon Alley or some place where he could get a new wand? He hadn't suggested it first, since he knew how much a wizard's wand meant. He couldn't imagine replacing his own. But there was no other choice for Malfoy now.

He absently wondered which would be cheaper. If only I had my car..., he thought dreamily. Then he could just get rid of Malfoy himself. That made him realise that he needed to find out what had happened to his car. After all, several tonnes of metal didn't just disappear - at least, not in the Muggle world they didn't. He remembered the doctor telling him that the wreck had been found by the old widow at the grocery. Perhaps he ought to stop by and see who she had called...

His wandering thoughts were interrupted by the pressure of a small hand at his back. Rolling his eyes in annoyance, Harry flipped off the water and turned around, exclaiming, "What now, Malfoy? I swear-"

But whatever he might have sworn was forgotten when he saw not the half-naked blond man behind him but rather a shocked looking Ginny Weasley. Oh, bugger. The redhead was staring at him with wide, confused eyes and explained, "The front door was open and you didn't answer when I called you. You were someplace else entirely." She couldn't seem to help glancing around the room. Harry understood why when she next asked, "Why would you think I was a Malfoy?"

Harry had to close his eyes against her. He still couldn't look at her without remembering. He asked tiredly, "Why are you here, Ginny?"

She held up a parcel and said, "Mum wanted me to give you these. She still worries about you. We all do." It was the same thing, every time she came. Harry knew that next she would try to convince him to come visit and, sure enough, moments later it came: "She'd really love to see you. So would Dad, of course, and even the twins still ask about you and tell your stories in their store. Business has been really good." She bit her lip and hazarded, "I'm sure Ron would appreciate it, too, if..."

"If he still could," Harry filled in for her bitterly. "Ron's gone, Ginny."

Ginny was shaking her head, though, as she always did. They'd had this argument so many times over the years that Harry could practically repeat his part of it in his sleep. When she'd first started coming, she had been so fierce about it all, as if needing to hear Harry tell her that Ron wasn't coming back, just so that she could deny it. These days, she only quietly persisted that there was some small piece of Ron still in the empty body that looked like him.

Harry didn't want to play the game today and he skipped ahead brutally, hurting himself as much as her. "He is. No one has ever come back from being Kissed, Gin. You know better than I; you're the one who's read every book on the subject. He's gone and it's my fault and I'll never visit your mum and dad." He looked at her square on and said finally, "And we'll never be together. Please, stop coming here."

Even now, something in his chest burned when he said the words, though he'd said them dozens of times before. Ginny had grown into a beautiful, though tragic-looking, young woman. Her ginger hair was a dark auburn now and made her pale skin look even whiter. He knew that she spent most her time indoors, taking care of Ron and helping with her mother. Her eyes were dark holes in her thin face and she always looked as if she had just been crying or was just about to. And when he looked at her, he missed the happy, alive girl that he'd fallen in love with when he was sixteen. This wasn't her.

He felt a moment of tenderness towards her and almost reached out to touch her, before remembering that his hands were wet. He told her softly, "Please, Gin. Just go on. Forget about me."

She had to look away, the tears that were always threatening now overflowing her eyes, and laughed wretchedly, "But that's exactly why no one can. When you say it like that..." She looked back up at him pleadingly and said, "You saved us all, Harry. You shouldn't have to be in exile for that."

"What if I want to be?" he asked, the words rolling easily off his tongue. He felt tired. How many times would he have to repeat this conversation? He knew his next line. "I didn't save everyone, Ginny-"

"Well, that's for damn sure," interrupted a new, wry voice and they spun around to see Malfoy lounging against the wall, in nothing but Harry's bath towel. He continued easily, directing his words toward Harry, "You left me to a nearly-certain death without a moment's hesitation. Oh, and," he added, as an afterthought, "I'm really going to need some clothes sometime today."

The two former Gryffindors were staring at him wordlessly and he exclaimed, "What? Was this a private conversation?"