Chapter Text
"You know, Potter," Draco began, hoping to project his usual calmness even as his heart hammered in his chest. "If you were decorating the house for my sake, I think you overdid it."
The house that he was following Potter into was a simply miserable space - dark, dusty, and unloved. It was far smaller than the manor, but it had the same taste of dark magic in the air. Draco couldn’t say he was thrilled with being here, but he knew his other options. Living with Potter had to be better than Azkaban, and if it wasn’t he could always go there instead. He still braced himself for Potter’s anger. Potter’s hatred. He had one small case with him. It wasn’t much. His mother had said she would send more when she could, but it all felt rather pointless when he wasn’t sure he would be welcomed.
“I don’t know,” Potter answered. “I’m sure I’m missing some of the charm of the Manor’s dungeons.” Draco felt himself tense, but when Potter looked back, he was smiling. “I’m sorry to bring you here, Draco. I know it’s a mess.”
“It’s fine.” Draco answered. He knew there had been a time when he would have given everything he had, gladly abandoned the Malfoy name to be called ‘Draco’ by Potter. The irony wasn’t lost on him.
“It’s not. I’ve just… I’ve been busy.” Potter explained. As though he needed to make excuses for what had happened barely a year before. As though it was Potter’s fault that the world had gone wrong. Potter cleared his throat. “Maybe we can decorate it or something, if you’d like. I thought, since you’re going to be staying here…”
That was a kind way to phrase it. Staying here. Like a guest, like someone with a real choice. Draco was here because his mother had realised Potter was his best chance of staying out of Azkaban and knew Potter was in her debt. Draco appreciated his mother’s sacrifice. She’d already lost her husband to that place, and she’d done what she could to keep Draco from it. Even if it meant he wouldn’t be able to contact her, even if it required him to hand himself over like a piece of meat. Potter was still staring at him, so bloody hopeful that Draco wanted to punch his face in.
“That sounds good.”
“Brilliant,” Potter looked younger then. Like Draco, he wasn’t even twenty yet. Still boys, playing at being men, a hero and a villain in roles that were set out by people far more knowing than they had ever been. Roles they had played, and now the performance was over and they had to step up for the new parts they had been cast for.
“Your room’s just up here. I’m sorry it’s not perfect but-” He shrugged, and pushed open the door.
It was a small room, around the size of one of the guest rooms at the Manor that the family used for people they didn’t like that much. But there was a double bed, a desk, and bookshelves. Draco could see that there were a lot of books about potions-making, and ones about runes, about magizoology even. Potter had clearly used what knowledge he had of Draco to pick these.
“Uh, the sheets are new,” Potter mumbled, gesturing to the green sheets that were there. Draco wasn’t sure if the colour was mockery or kindness. “And the bathroom’s just down the hall. I’m up another set of stairs, and I can use the bathroom there, so that’s yours. I added a lock for the inside, if you want privacy-” he tapped his fingers on the doorframe, and Draco glanced at it to see that there was a lock which appeared to have been manually screwed into place. It seemed like Potter really did want to give him space.
But Potter kept standing in the doorway awkwardly, as Draco lifted his case onto his bed.
“I need to see,” Potter murmured after a few moments. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, I just… Well, I promised Hermione and Ron I’d make sure you didn’t have poisons or anything.” He sounded like a f*cking child.
Draco knew he was flushing with anger, but he nodded sharply. Better to agree than have Potter force him. He was the heir to the Malfoys, he would not allow himself to be bruised and beaten like a common muggle. He’d learned the spells to hide bruises, Mother insisted he left prepared for marriage, but that wasn’t the point. And Potter had argued for him to be allowed to keep his wand, which was a mark that Draco reluctantly had to award in Potter’s favour.
Potter stared into his open clothes, gazing at the neatly folded fabrics within. “Did your mum-” he started.
“I can use packing charms, Potter,” Draco hissed, waving his wand and sending the contents of the case across the bed. The clothes neatly arranged themselves in folded piles for Potter’s inspection, before they could be banished into the wardrobe and drawers. Potter reached in for what remained - there were a few books, a pair of photographs, some tie pins and cufflinks, and the box his mother had given him that morning.
Potter started by flicking through the books. They were inoffensive, star charts and astronomy mostly. Draco wasn’t stupid enough to bring tomes of dark magic to Potter’s house, although it looked like Potter might well have his own. He cast a couple of diagnostic charms on the jewellery - they only had protective spells on, not even a method of communicating. Then he picked up the photographs. The first was Draco and his mother on the day of Father’s trial, the summer of Fifth Year. It had been a good day, even if the brand on Draco’s skin had burned. They’d stood side by side under the glare of the world and known that even with the Dark Lord circling they had been free. In the photograph, his mother’s hand rested on his shoulder, a silent reassurance, as he gazed out at the viewer, trying to project confidence he didn’t feel. After staring for a few moments too long, Potter put it down, and picked up the other photograph.
It was of Draco and the rest of the Slytherin gang in third year, taken by the lake on a sunny day. They’d got that Creevey boy to take it in exchange for a few coins - loose change for them, enough to ensure he could get his school supplies the following summer. Pansy was by Draco’s side at the centre of the photograph, one arm around him. Gregory and Vincent were behind, and Blaise and Theodore were at each end. They were all posing and laughing, and would move around, trying to get the viewer’s attention. Another diagnostic charm was cast, causing the figures in the frame to gesture rudely and pull faces, as his younger self smirked up at Potter. It was just an innocent photograph, but Potter looked over at him.
“Did you love her?” Potter’s voice was so gentle, so kind.
Draco nearly laughed. “I do. Like a sister. She’s interested in women, and I’m not, but… we were close. Always were. It was…” he hesitated. “We knew each other since childhood. I think today was harder on her than me.”
“What do you mean?” Potter asked. Draco stared at him coldly.
“You don’t have an owl, Potter. Anyway, I’m assuming you don’t want me writing to any of the Slytherins-”
“They’re your friends, Draco. I mean, we’d need to be careful about any of them visiting, but… I’m not…” Potter was frowning, opening and closing his mouth like some kind of aquatic creature. “I’m not trying to hurt you, Draco. We did this to keep you safe, remember?”
“I remember.” Draco answered, aware he was being uncharitable. “May I keep my photograph?”
Potter shoved it towards him as though it was burning, and Draco grabbed it, placing it carefully on his desk.
By the time he turned back, Potter had the box in his hand. It was a beautiful box - enamelled black, with constellations picked out in silver and diamond. Potter turned it over. “What’s this?”
“An heirloom,” Draco answered, his shoulders stiff and tense.
He reached out, showed Potter how to work the hidden catches that revealed the eight slots inside - seven filled with vials, each topped with a rune. The last space should have held a portkey, but Mother had decided it was better not to have that. Draco had known this set since his childhood, had sat on the floor of Mother’s bedroom tracing his fingers over the runes and memorising their meanings.
“What… what is it though?” Potter asked, looking at him. He grabbed one of the bottles, the one marked with Nauthiz, and unscrewed it, sniffing and then frowning. “Treacle tart… broom polish…” There was a pause, as he thought things through, then he stared at Draco. “That’s Amortentia, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Draco answered. Potter stared at him in vague horror, putting that to one side, and picking up the next - the poison under Algiz. “Don’t sniff that one, Potter.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a poison, and you dying on the first night we spend together won’t reflect well on me.”
“You have a poison?” Potter stared at him. “An heirloom with poisons? What…” There was a pause, as though Potter had just remembered he was dealing with the heir to a dark wizarding family. “What are the rest?”
Draco’s fingers danced across the vials, listing them from memory. “Love potion, aphrodisiac, poison, sleeping draught, fertility potion…” he paused on the next vial, skipping over it. “And this is a healing potion.”
“What was that one? Is it poisonous?”
“I wouldn’t recommend drinking the whole bottle.” Draco answered carefully. He didn’t want to explain to Potter that it was for getting rid of unwanted children. He knew Granger would have recognised this set and didn’t know why Potter was so oblivious. He flinched as Potter gathered everything other than the healing potion from the case and shoved them into his pockets.
“I’m sorry Draco, you can’t just… have a bunch of poisons and love potions.” Potter said, awkward. “I can empty them for you if you want the bottles, or just… I’ve got a safe, so…”
“The ingredients are expensive,” Draco snapped at him, closing his own fingers around the healing potion. “I’d like to keep the sleeping draught.” A statement, not a request. That way when Potter denied him it wouldn’t sting so badly.
Potter nodded, trustingly holding out the vials. He picked out the correct one, slipping it back into the case, and tried to ignore the way Potter ran some spells over his suitcase, checking for hidden compartments. Potter smiled at him awkwardly, and Draco tried to decide if the shape on the wallpaper his eyes had settled on was a stain, mould, or a particularly hideous pattern.
“Dinner’ll be at seven,” Potter mumbled. “So you’ve got some time, if you want to finish unpacking.” And then he practically fled the room.
Draco waved a hand to lock the door, then carefully put his possessions into their new places. Mother had assured him this wouldn’t be forever, that in a few years people would have forgiven Draco and he could go back to his life. But for now, this was where he was and what he had to survive. He knew he’d have to show his face at dinner. But for now, he laid down on the bed, and twisted to watch his friends playing in the photograph. They’d been happy then.
