Rating:
15
House:
Schnoogle
Ships:
Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Characters:
Draco Malfoy Ginny Weasley Harry Potter Hermione Granger
Genres:
Slash
Era:
Harry and Classmates Post-Hogwarts
Spoilers:
Philosopher's Stone Chamber of Secrets Prizoner of Azkaban Goblet of Fire Order of the Phoenix Half-Blood Prince
Stats:
Published: 10/22/2006
Updated: 01/26/2009
Words: 143,258
Chapters: 29
Hits: 81,858

Black Sheep

Jackie Stevens

Story Summary:
"Black sheep is a derogatory colloquialism in the English language meaning an outsider or one who is different in a way which others disapprove of. This can be someone who has been shunned by others, or one who has chosen to be an outsider, due to actions and aims that separate them from the rest of the people or 'flock.'"

Chapter 06 - In Which There Is Learning

Chapter Summary:
"One kept waiting for that shattering day to unhappen, so that the real — the intended — future, the one that had been implied by the past, could unfold. Hour after hour, month after month, waiting for that day to not have happened. But it had happened. And now it was always going to have happened." -D. Eisenberg
Posted:
02/20/2007
Hits:
3,378
Author's Note:
Cheers to the uber betas!

Chapter Six
In Which There Is Learning

H
ARRY PULLED INTO THE SMALL parking lane next to his house in the full of dark. He turned the ignition off and his lights went out, leaving him sitting alone in the shadows. After several long seconds, he got tiredly out of his car and walked around to the back of the house, letting himself through the small gate half-hidden by the garden's wild growth. Opening the kitchen's back door, he smelled the familiar soapy fragrance of laundry powder. He left his shoes at the door and stepped up into the kitchen to throw together a quick dinner for one. He ate sitting on his sofa, half-heartedly watching an old episode of Black Books, and when he'd finished, he left his dirty dishes on the clean counter-top, for the mess to solidify.

Stepping back into his dirty shoes, he pushed open the back door again. He stood for a moment on the doorstep, breathing in the wet night air. He walked to the wall of his garden, leaning on the dew-spotted stone, and looked at the smooth lines of his car in the moonlight. Everything was back to normal now. He was alone again.




The next morning, Harry woke up confused. Something was wrong and it took him several seconds of lying on his bed, eyes wide and ears pricked, to figure out what it was: there was someone or something rustling around in his kitchen. Since Harry lived alone, this was understandably disturbing. He threw the duvet off himself and, shivering in just his boxer shirts, hurried out of his room, clutching his wand in front of him. He stumbled down the hall and threw himself around the corner, into his sitting room.

Standing in his kitchen, half-hidden inside a cupboard, was a familiar and impossible blond. Harry fell weakly onto his couch and asked in exasperation, "What are you doing here, Malfoy?" He narrowed his still-sleepy eyes at the other man. "And what are you doing in my cupboard?"

"Looking for something to eat."

"That's why you're here? Or why you're stuck in my cupboard? And what are you looking for?"

Draco leaned back and grinned at Harry from around the cupboard. "I'm thinking apples."

"Refrigerator."

The blond followed Harry's gaze to the large white box that was humming against the wall. He stepped up to it and pulled on the obvious sort of handle, surprised when it opened with a blast of cool air. He asked curiously, "You keep fruit in here?"

Harry frowned uncomfortably, with that familiar guilty feeling that - probably due to his less-than-conventional upbringing - he had committed yet another societal faux pas. "Well, where do you keep your fruit?" he asked defensively.

"No idea," Draco said with a shrug, "I don't think I've ever even been in the kitchens at Malfoy Manor."

"That's pitiful."

But the blond man was not listening or caring. He had selected a crisp Gladstone apple and bit into it with a juicy crunch. He hummed happily to himself as the sweet dessert apple's flavour burst in his mouth. Mumbling slightly around the fruit, he belatedly explained, "I came to get my clothes."

Ah, right. Harry had noticed the night before that Malfoy's clothes were left in the washing machine, but couldn't be bothered to do anything about it. He looked blankly at the blond, who was looking expectantly at him, and then finally nodded. "Yeah, so...?"

Draco rolled his eyes and visibly swallowed the apple pieces. "Yeah, so," he repeated, "they are now dry but wrinkled and unpleasant smelling."

Harry had half a mind to tell the former Death Eater to just bugger off with his wrinkled and unpleasant smelling clothes, but he didn't. Or at least he didn't have the chance to, before Malfoy said imperatively, "Fix them."

His eyes narrowed dangerously, Harry asked tightly, "Excuse me?"

"Oh, you know..." Draco said airily, taking another bite from his stolen apple, "Scourgify, mundus, tergeo lacarnum, nidor evanesco, episkey... Take your pick. Anything that will put them back in order."

"Why don't you... Oh, right."

Draco waved his hands in front of himself, the apple balanced between his ring finger and thumb in one, and said the words for Harry, "No wand."

Standing up from the couch, Harry pointed his wand at the washing machine beneath his counter. Malfoy's few articles of clothing and the fluffy yellow towel he'd used all flew out and Harry commanded, "Tergeo lacarnum. Fold."

Onto the counter dropped a pile of neatly folded and sweet-smelling laundry. Draco picked up his small pile and saluted Harry mockingly with his apple. Tucking the clothes under one arm, he walked to the front hall. Harry watched him go silently from where he was standing behind the couch, only turning his head to follow the blond as he let himself out the front door. Minutes later Harry heard the distinctive rumble of a motorbike starting up. And as its roar faded into the distance, he noticed the pile of three spell books sitting on his low coffee table.

Tucking his hands into his boxers, he stared at the books in consternation. He remembered their conversation the day before, and Malfoy's offer of spellbooks. But who would have thought that he would follow through on his flippant promise? Harry took a hesitant half-step toward the kitchen, thinking that he ought to clean his dishes from last night. He ought to eat some breakfast. He ought to make sure Malfoy hadn't left a boggart in his cupboard. But instead he shifted slightly and turned back toward the couch, flopping down on the squashy cushions.

Grabbing the three leather-bound books from the table, he dropped them all on his lap, examining the top one first. It was titled, in swirling gold foil letters, Help for the Hopeless: 101 Spells Any Decent Wizard Should Know. Wrinkling his nose in offence, he had no doubt that Malfoy had quite intentionally picked this book out for him and put it on the top of the pile. Why would the Malfoys have even had such a book in their library? Harry wouldn't be surprised if the wanker had actually gone to a bookshop and picked out the most provocative title he could find.

He tilted the small pile of books to read their spines. The other two were Everyday Magic and Clever Clinkers: Chock-a-block Full of Charms for every Challenge. At least these two seemed a bit less offencive - though the last still seemed a bit dodgy. Settling down on the couch, he opened the first book and began reading. He had meant to just glance through the table of contents to find out if any of the spells seemed worth looking up, but found himself almost immediately flipping through the pages interestedly. Almost every spell that was described made him wonder how he had made it this age without knowing it.

He had mostly forgot the thrill of magic. The spells that he knew from his days at Hogwarts were all well and good, but they had long since lost their lustre. They were just part of his everyday life, no more remarkable as skills than being able to wash his dishes or drive his car. It had been years since he had tried a new spell and realised all over again all the wonderful things he could do with his wand.

But now he picked up that wand from the coffee table in front of him and rolled it experimentally between his fingers. With a decisive flick, he summoned a piece of note paper and a ball-point pen from a kitchen drawer. Harry no longer kept parchment or quills. He flattened the paper out on top of the spellbook and held the pen over it, hesitating. His fingers tightened on the pen's shaft and he pressed the point down on to the paper. Words spilt out with surprising ease and within moments his sharp, angular handwriting had covered the small paper.

He then set the paper on the table before him and picked up his wand again. Glancing down at the open pages of the spellbook on his lap, he read once again the spell and then then pointed at the paper, his wand tip just grazing it, and whispered, "Animato viator." The paper picked itself up and folded into a small origami bird. It fluttered its wings expectantly and hovered before Harry's hand. The man grinned. He remembered the spell, of course, from one of Malfoy's pranks in third year. The Slytherin boy had sent him a nasty note in class. It was time to return the favour.

He lightly cupped the little paper bird in his hand and it fluttered against his fingers like a fragile snitch. He walked over to the window and, with his free hand, pulled it open. The morning sky was a clear and bright blue. The paper messenger bird wouldn't have any trouble making the short trip across Wiltshire. It wasn't a perfect replacement for an owl - it certainly wouldn't make it through inclement weather, and could be easily intercepted - but it worked for Harry's purpose, that of being an arse.

Leaning his bare torso out the window, he held the fluttering bit of paper up to his face and instructed it, "Go to Malfoy." The puff of air from his words propelled it into the air, as his fingers loosened their cage. It wafted into flight and drifted off to the east, looking very bright white against the blue sky. Harry grinned to watch it go and then pulled himself back inside, closing the window after himself. He knew that a reply, if any were to come, would take quite a while and so he shuffled back to his bedroom, a spellbook and his wand tucked under his arm, and settled back into his now cool sheets to read.




Hours later, Harry emerged from his bed for the second time. This time he actually got dressed and began his day: washing his dishes, having a quick lunch, and - as it was Thursday now - tidying up his yard. It was already August and although many of his shrubs were still blooming wildly, the evidence that fall was nearly upon them was clear, if one knew where to look.

Harry spent several hours puttering around in his garden. As he slowly worked his way around his house, he would stop from time to time and scan the skies, expectantly. But they remained a clear, unknowing blue and nothing interrupted his work other than his own daydreaming. When he had finished his yardwork, he brushed the excess dirt from his clothes and let himself back in the front door. He left his caked shoes at the entrance way and stripped off the rest of his filthy clothes as well, leaving them all in a pile to be cleaned up later. He tiptoed to the bathroom, trying not to leave any dirt on the floors he'd just hoovered the day before. He got to the bathroom, cursed, went to the kitchen, picked up his fluffy towel, which had still been sitting on the countertop, and then finally locked himself in the bathroom for a good long steaming.

He hated to admit it, but the charm that Malfoy had made him cast on the bathtub was really quite nice. He soaked in the steaming bath for nearly thirty minutes, not once having to move or add more hot water. Finally, though, something began to break through his peaceful doze. The faint, tinny sound of cheering coming from his living room, followed by an excited shout. He frowned, half-sitting up in the bath, the hot water dripping off of his body. And then his face twitched into a rueful sort of smile.

He stepped out of the bath, the water falling off him in sheets. He was pleasantly surprised that the charm kept even the water on his body warm, instead of it immediately chilling as it would normally do in the cool air. He wrapped his freshly laundered towel around his waist and, still feeling toasty, padded back to his room to get a fresh set of clothes. He stepped into a well-worn pair of cords and pulled on yet another of his faded t-shirts. Towelling his hair as he walked, he headed back to his living room, unsurprised to find Malfoy sitting there. He was slightly surprised, though, to realise that the other wizard was watching football on his television.

He started to ask, "Malfoy, what are you-"

"Shhh!"

Harry's face scrunched up in semi-amused confusion. "Are you watching foo-"

Without turning away from the screen, Malfoy lobbed a pillow in the direction that Harry's voice was coming from. It missed the other man by several feet. "Do you not understand the meaning of 'Shhhh,' Potter!?"

Shrugging his mystification, Harry walked back out into the hallway, carefully picking up the dirty clothes that he'd left piled in the entrance way. He tossed them into the washing machine in the kitchen before dropping down onto the couch as well. He noticed that the clothes that Malfoy had borrowed the day before, the clothes that he'd asked for back in his letter, were sitting on the floor at Malfoy's feet, folded neatly. He looked up at the tv screen. It was still quite in early in the game but Harry didn't immediately catch up to what was going on. He didn't particularly follow football. If it happened to be on, he would watch it, but beyond that he never took any interest in the teams or their players.

Still watching the game intently, Malfoy began talking in a tone that invited little response - he seemed to be speaking only for the purpose of insulting Harry, "Did you really expect a reply to your letter, you tosser? How am I suppose to spell a note with no wand? Honestly."

Harry thought for a moment about whether a response would only invite another attack by pillow, but finally said, "You could owl, like a normal person."

Draco threw his words back at him in a snotty mimic, "You could owl, like a normal person."

Harry frowned and tried again, "So what are we watching?"

This finally did get Malfoy to drag his eyes away from the telly for half a moment, if only to stare at Harry in complete disbelief. "The Royals."

Silence continued from Harry's side of the couch and Draco was forced to look away from the game again. Harry was looking forward blankly, not meeting his eyes. "Honestly, Potter! The Royals! The only Premier League club within the West Country! The-" He cut off as something dramatic apparently happened on the screen and Harry focussed back on the game to see a player being shown a yellow card. Malfoy cursed, fluently and creatively.

Harry started yet another unsuccessful line of questioning, "Why do you even know about-"

"Quiet."

Harry blinked. "Sorry, what?"

"Quiet," Malfoy repeated.

After a few minutes of tense silence on both men's parts, though for very different reasons, there was a brief tune signifying the move to a commercial break. Draco straightened up and said expansively, "Now. You have until play resumes to ask questions. After that, you will be killed for interrupting or otherwise interfering with my watching the game."

Harry started again with his last question, "Why do you even know about football?"

"I'm English. Would you also like to know about tea, bad customer service and appalling dentistry?"

"But football is Muggle! Why would you watch it?"

"Because I like it."

"Why are you watching it here, then?"

"Because I happened to be here when the game started. Plus I get crap reception at the Manor."

"You have a television at Malfoy Manor?"

"Yes."

"What is wrong with you?"

And then the opening music chimed again and the commercial break was over. Draco grinned. "Time's up."

They sat through another ten minutes of play, without Harry trying to interject even once. He didn't mind watching the game, of course, but he was a bit distracted by the man next to him. Draco Malfoy, who - he had discovered over the last three days - rode a motorcycle, knew what seemed to be a shocking number of spells, lived alone with a house elf, lent out books freely, and had an odd obsession with Muggle football. Oh, and kept a television in his Manor. And cursed and cheered with almost embarrassing abandon while watching the Reading Royals.

The Royals were holding their own in the match, their first of the season, but it was still a close game and Malfoy remained tensed as a bow string until the next break. As soon as the broadcast was interrupted, he slumped back against the squashy couch again and sighed. Harry immediately resumed his questions.

"Since when have you watched football?"

"Hmm, probably three or four years now."

"Why ever did you start?"

"Missed watching Quidditch, I suppose."

"Why didn't you just watch Quidditch?"

The word rolled off Harry's tongue like the taste of a favourite childhood sweet. Malfoy was grinning at him again and said mockingly, "You know, I think I'm just going to stop being shocked at the things that come out of your mouth. I have now officially accepted that you live in an isolated and ignorant bubble and have no understanding of the world outside it." Harry frowned, but the blond continued, "To answer your question then, genius, I can't very well go to watch quidditch games since I am still, technically speaking, a wanted man. Death Eater, remember? We don't tend to faff about much at large, public sporting events."

"Right," said Harry, first hollowly and then with a bit more strength as he got his head around the idea. "Right. Why doesn't the Ministry just come arrest you then? Not like they don't know where you live."

"Ah, the Ministry," Draco mused. "Our diligent hard-working government." He rolled his eyes at Harry's blank look and explained, "They still keep tabs on me, of course. Watch what I'm up to, set up Dark detectors around the Manor, all that sort. But right after the war, all of us Death Eaters who were caught were sent off to Azkaban and interrogated under Veritaserum. I might've been able to avoid Azkaban, if you hadn't buggered off after getting rid of Voldemort and had instead testified about my great assistance in helping you with the last horcrux. But thanks to the interrogation, they've mostly let me walk free." He smiled bitterly. "Great thing, how you can't lie under Veritaserum."

Harry was surprised to find himself thinking about issues that he hadn't for years and he asked seriously, "But you were a Death Eater. Doesn't that mean that you must've... harmed people? And they still let you walk free?"

Draco turned back to the television as the music signalled the return of the game. "Game's on," was his only response.

And so play resumed again. The Royals were now up a point and were fiercely trying to protect their advantage. Harry absently watched the game, replaying Malfoy's responses in his head. He realised just how personal his questions had become and looked sideways at the blond next to him, trying to scrutinise the other man. Assuming that Malfoy was telling the truth about any of it, why was he so damned open? Harry was determined to make that his next question and planned for next break, but as he did so, he found himself getting caught up in the game playing out before him. Malfoy's enthusiasm was contagious and it was hard not to smile at his ridiculous outbursts and curses.

The final moments on the clock wound down and, despite a wild last effort from their challengers, the Royals held out till the end. The crowd at their home stadium was going mad and in the small cottage in Wiltshire, Draco Malfoy had jumped up from the couch and shouted his joy. He slapped Harry on the shoulder - utterly confounding the man - and exclaimed, "Oh, it's going to be a good year!"

Harry reached up to rub his shoulder and thought about his next question. But then he noticed that Malfoy was gathering his jacket and making moves to leave. Without meaning to, he burst out, "You're going?"

Those pale grey eyes looked at him with detached curiosity. Harry was suddenly and oddly reminded of a wolf. He stammered, "I mean, I had other questions..."

Draco's thin lips twitched into a smirk. "Oh, are we playing twenty questions now? You've already used up ten of yours. And that means that I get a turn as well."

Harry tried to recall what he had asked and the number didn't seem quite right. For some reason, he wasn't surprised that Malfoy would have kept count. "I don't think I've used up ten. Or at least you didn't answer all of them. You certainly didn't answer my last question."

Shrugging agreeably, Malfoy conceded, "Fine. We'll set you at eight then. You have twelve questions left. Are you sure you want to use them all up now?"

"What are the rules of the game?"

Why was he talking about games with Malfoy? Why was he trying to bring the other man into his life, instead of pushing him out of it? Could it be that this was the most interesting interaction he'd had with another person in five years?

"The rules..." Draco thought for a moment, then laid them out. "We each get twenty questions to ask one another. If we choose to use one of our questions, the other has to respond, honestly and in full. Once the twenty questions have been used, there is no more obligation to answer, honestly or otherwise. There is no time limit on the game."

Harry objected, "Ah, but we hadn't established the rules yet, when I asked my earlier questions. I don't think they should count against the total."

Malfoy seemed to think quite seriously about Harry's complaint. "However, several of your question were quite invasive. I'll knock the count down to five. That still leaves you with fifteen questions. And to be fair, I'll take off one of my own questions, since I did ask you about what happened with the horcrux."

This seemed relatively fair to Harry, who wasn't offering to count any of his questions from the previous days. He nodded and Malfoy smiled wickedly. He walked past Harry into the kitchen, opened a couple of drawers until he apparently found what he'd been looking for. He tore off another sheet of note paper, just like the one that Harry had earlier used to send him the letter, and wrote across the top in scrawling, bold print, "Scarhead" and "Draco." Underneath his own name, he made one tick and underneath what he had designated as Harry's name, he made another five. Then he tore off a length of cellotape and stuck the list to the refrigerator.

"The game is in play."