Chapter Twelve

This chapter was written by keppiehed.

As Draco stood there, sopping wet, and watched Potter storm away from him, he tried to remember the last time he'd ever felt so foolish. School, perhaps. Had he ever been chastened so thoroughly by any of his teachers? Draco couldn't recall. In fact, his outstanding school memories mostly consisted of him getting into scrapes with Potter, or one of his ever-present groupies. That time Granger had slapped him across the face still stung his pride.

It occurred to Draco that this was the first time he didn't feel anger at a scolding, but regret. Why should he feel regret? Draco squared his shoulders and attempted to swipe his hair out of his eyes. The strands stuck to his forehead and dripped all over his shirt. Great. It was ruined now. Trust Potter not to give two Knuts about cashmere when he'd performed that Aguamenti charm.

As Draco made his way back to the Manor, Potter's words kept replaying in his head. "You need someone who doesn't care... can't do this ... I'm out of here ... you need someone ... need someone ..." Draco clenched his fists. Potter thought he was weak. Draco came off as needy! Well, Draco would show him! He'd been trying to be pleasant and polite, but if Potter didn't like civil behaviour, he could just...

It the midst of his internal monologue, Draco had missed the approaching owl. The note that it dropped stuck ignominiously to his wet cheek.

Draco stopped and stared up at the source of his indignity. The Parkinsons' idiotic owl. Again. The thought that he was surrounded by incompetency enraged him. "Fuck off!" he screamed, his temper finally deserting him. The sound of his curse echoed back at him, at odds with the cultivated peace of the Manor's garden scene. A flock of birds took flight from a tree in the back corner, startled by his shout, but otherwise the tranquility of the picture remained. Unaccountably annoyed, Draco ripped the wet note off his cheek, aware of how silly he must look, soaked and walking back to his house with grass stains on his good trousers. It was too much to ask of anyone, really.

The owl gave a dip of its wing that somehow managed to look reproachful. Draco stared down at the note. Pansy, again. Gods, she was persistent. He'd give her that. Although, unfortunately for her, perseverance wasn't a quality he admired in anyone except himself.

Draco crumpled the note, ready to throw it down, but Potter's stupid face wouldn't get out of Draco's mind. "I need some time to myself ... you need someone ... I'm out of here ... can't do this ... you need ... need . .." If Potter thought he would leave first, he had another thing coming to him. Draco would show him that. Draco wasn't needy. And if Potter required time to himself, he could have all the time in the world. "Wait," he called, motioning the owl back. It was the kind of standard messenger owl that always kept a little pencil strapped to its leg. Draco scribbled his reply. "Now quit pestering me, or I will revoke my invitation. And then you'll be making twice the trips to deliver her contrition notices. Just ... get lost and dump the replies in the lake or something, because I don't want to read them. Deal? At least for the next few days."

The owl bobbled its assent. Draco squinted as he watched it fly off in the direction of Palazzo Parkinson, Pansy's ancestral estate, before he remembered that the expression would result in early wrinkles. He smoothed out his features and went to get cleaned up. His trousers were merino, and the wool was starting to itch. Damn Potter for his casual disregard of thread count!

*

Draco checked his appearance in one of the many mirrors that adorned the endless stretches of hallways throughout the Manor. He looked especially striking this evening, if he did say so himself. Not many men could pull off that particular shade of purple that he was wearing and still manage to seem masculine, but Draco had it on good authority that not only could he make it appear manly, but elegant, as well, and that was no mean feat. It offset his colouring and made him look like the heir to the fortune that he was: beyond rich and deadly handsome. Not that he was trying to look better on this evening than any other; he simply liked to dress to his assets.

Draco made his way to the den, a smallish room that was becoming a habit for he and Potter to confer in just before the evening meal. Potter seemed to like the rather rustic décor...rustic being a term of relative comparison, of course...and Draco found that he didn't mind it in the room as much as he had previously supposed he did. The room used to bother him, as it seemed overly intimate before, but now...well, Draco found that he was coming to prefer more manageable spaces. It made conversation easier. Trying to shout across the Grand Salon wasn't exactly practical.

Potter didn't look up when Draco entered the den. He was sitting on a leather sofa, one leg crossed with an ankle up on his knee. He was reading one of those silly Muggle crime novels that he seemed to favour. Draco snorted.

"Hmm?" Potter looked up from his book.

"What?" Draco coughed.

"I thought you said something." Potter went back to his book.

Draco frowned. How dare Potter ignore him! "It's just...I was noticing your attire. Isn't that what you were wearing this morning?"

"Yeah, well, I didn't get wet." He didn't look up.

Draco felt that flare of annoyance that Potter always seemed to ignite in him faster than anyone else. "Some of us still have the manners to dress for dinner. I wasn't raised in a pigsty."

That seemed to do it. Potter snapped his book shut, his eyes fairly crackling with green fire. "Not all of us had your money, Draco, but that obviously didn't stop you from being a boor." Potter stood up.

Draco felt a vein in his temple start to throb. "The only pig here, Potter, is..."

"Pansy!" Peachy popped her head into the den. Oblivious to the tension in the room, but aware of the mistake of being overly familiar with her mistress' name, Peachy blushed and curtseyed her apology. "Peachy be sorry. Miss Parkinson is here. Peachy showed her to the Ladies' Parlour until Master is ready to receive her."

"Thank you, Peachy. Please take her a platter of hors d'oeuvres and see that she is offered a glass of...oh, why not make it one of the Beaujolais Nouveau, from the Bas region of the Nizerand River, please. The Haut-Crus is just bitter this year. Bitter." Draco waved the house-elf off. "Where were we? Oh, yes. You were calling me out for my manners, I believe." Draco examined his nails. "We'll see who feels like the swine at dinner when you are sipping the best wine of the season in your ... denims."

"Actually, Draco, I have plans. So you can just go bugger yourself." Potter pushed past him and made for the door.

Draco felt an edge of panic. This wasn't how this was supposed to go! How had he lost control of the situation? "Wait!" Draco heard the...that wasn't desperation. Anger. Yes, anger!...in his voice, and forced himself to calm down. "Where you do think you're going, Potter?"

The other man paused in the doorway, without turning around. Merlin, those denims were a good fit! Draco forced his eyes up. He might have to investigate getting himself a pair if they fit that nicely on someone like Potter, whom, now that Draco recalled from that brief glimpse in the shower, certainly didn't have a terrible physique...

Draco shook his head to clear it. Why was he thinking about the cut of his clothing just now? What was Potter saying? He forced himself to listen. Something about not being kept prisoner here. Draco scoffed to cover his lapse.

Potter whirled. "What, you really think you can hold me hostage? Just try it, Draco. Now, understand this: I'm going out...with my friends. I don't need your approval, and I don't give a good goddamn if you like it or not. So, enjoy your swanky dinner date and I'll see you around. If I feel like it."

Draco was aware of little more than the fact that he was left standing there, open-mouthed like a fish out of water, while he tried to wrap his head around the fact that Potter had left him alone with Pansy. That wanker!

Wait, when had he gotten to the point where he'd rather spend an evening with Potter than Pansy?

"Master Draco? Miss Pansy is ready for you." Draco felt a tugging on his hand. He groaned. It was going to be a long evening.

*

Pansy yawned. "Really? Another round?" She rubbed her eyes. " I didn't know you liked Wands and Winks so much."

Draco had to stifle the urge to yawn himself. This evening had been torturous. He hadn't remembered Pansy being so dull. Not in wits so much as just ... something about her general company was irritating. She was so eager to please him. He was tired of being surrounded by people who always said 'yes' to him, who constantly stroked his ego and told him what he wanted to hear. Being fawned over was ... well, it was boring, honestly. Draco sat up as the revelation dawned. Suddenly, he realized he might like a girl who was a bit different. Someone who challenged him. Someone who pushed him back, who stood up to him and could, possibly, give him a run for his money. Someone who was his intellectual equal! The idea was unexpectedly appealing. Maybe he'd been barking up the wrong tree all along? The idea bore consideration. Maybe he'd start dating stronger types from now on.

"Draco!" Pansy waved her hand in front of his eyes. "Even you're nodding off, I think!" she laughed.

"Sorry, Pans, just ... thinking." He tried to smile.

"Well, I had a fine time tonight, but I don't know that I can manage another game. Maybe next time?" She put her cards down on the table.

Draco felt his gut tighten at the thought of this evening, repeated. He reached out to grab her wrist. "No! Why the rush? Stay a little longer," he coaxed. "More fleur de sel caramels?"

"I couldn't possibly. I'm stuffed. It's three in the morning, and I'm tired. Unless you're offering to allow me to stay the night ... ?" Pansy batted her lashes in a sickeningly coquettish fashion.

"Gods, no!" Draco dropped her wrist as if he'd been branded.

Pansy narrowed her eyes and stood up. The cards scattered as she pushed back from the table with more force than necessary. "I'll just be going, then."

"Wait," Draco didn't know why it was so important for Potter to see him having dinner with Pansy, but it was. He was determined to see this through and shove Potter's face in the fact that he could get along just fine without him, thank you very much. With every hour that ticked by, though, it became less likely that Potter would be returning home. Er, to the Manor. Draco scowled. He'd spent an evening with Pansy for nothing.

A Malfoy knew better than to burn his bridges, however, and Pansy, while cloying, had always been an asset to him. He couldn't afford to give her the cut direct.

"What?" Pansy crossed her arms over her chest.

Draco cleared his throat. "This is rather...indelicate, Pans. But we're friends, right?"

Pansy shifted her weight. "Yes. What is it?"

"Well, of course I would ask you to spend the night." Draco leaned in conspiratorially. "I want you to know that I have been worried about your reputation. I don't want anyone to ... to ... impugn your honour!"

Pansy had been leaning in closer and closer, drawn to Draco's voice. At this confusing turn of the conversation, she seemed taken aback. "My ... honour?"

"Impugned. I'm glad you agree. I shall, of course, walk you to the Apparition point." Draco held out his elbow. He breathed a sigh of relief that he'd got out of having Pansy overnight. He didn't know why the idea made his skin crawl, but seeing her over croissants wasn't his idea of a smashing great breakfast.

Pansy was just about to take his proffered arm when a crash resounded in the area of the front door. Both Draco and Pansy jumped.

"What the bloody hell ... ?" Draco frowned. That had been quite a crash. It was clear that someone had entered the Manor. The wards were all in place, though; he could feel them. Anger bubbled along his veins. What a night for Potter to pick to disappear! Right when he was being vandalized and was helpless in his own home...the very point of Potter's supposed presence, he might add...and where was the man? Off only Merlin knew where. Draco seethed. He turned on his heel to go investigate.

"Draco!" Pansy squeaked. "What are you..."

Draco was already halfway to the front hall, where there was a mighty commotion. There appeared to be some sort of singing going on. These burglars were not very subtle. Draco frowned. Did they not know where they had broken into?

When Draco finally got to the entrance of the Manor, he could sense a presence in the darkness. It wasn't hard; a person...or persons...was crashing around, making enough noise to wake the dead. Draco flipped on the light.

The sight that greeted him couldn't have astounded him more. It was Potter, lying on the inlaid marble, obviously blind drunk. He was missing a shoe, and there were more than a few questionable stains on that precious green jumper he was wearing. Weasley, that miserable coward, was attempting to simultaneously shush him and help him up. They had both been singing some off-key song, but the lyrics had devolved into some sort of slurring about 'Quidditch' and 'bitches', the strains of which were now reverberating and fading off into the empty corridors around them.

"What is the meaning of this?" Draco demanded.

Weasley stood up...or tried to. Though obviously the lesser drunk of the two, he was still pretty sloshed. "The meaning of thish..." He cleared his throat and tried again. After a few false starts, he managed: "Oh, blimey. Harry's drunk. Again."

Pansy snickered. "That's very astute, Weasel. Maybe in an hour you can tell us what you're doing here."

"He'sh drunk, too," Potter answered, then hiccoughed.

"This is too, too good," Pansy laughed. "Where is Rita Skeeter when you need her? Don't worry, I'll see that this gets around. And I won't even have to make up any details. Just look at him!"

"Huh?" Weasley tried to focus. "He said to bring him home, an' I did. So, g'nnight." Weasley turned and stumbled over Potter, who hadn't moved much.

"Don't splinch yourself!" Pansy smirked.

"Yeah, you either," Weasley called back, in what he must have thought was a clever comeback.

"Holy Harpies, I can smell him from here," Pansy said with more glee than Draco thought was entirely appropriate, given the situation. "What a wreck!"

"I hope he doesn't sick all over the floor. That marble was quarried from Italy," Draco said distractedly. Potter looked a little green.

"Oh, who cares? I sent Peachy, so it's not your problem. I can't believe what a mess he is. How embarrassing!" Pansy's eyes lit up. "I'm so glad you convinced me to stay for this!"

Draco hadn't taken his eyes off Potter since he'd snapped the light on. It must have been the shock. Draco felt something completely foreign stirring in his gut, something dark and unpleasant. It uncoiled and he felt it clenching on, something he'd never experienced. He didn't like it one bit. He wanted to panic. He felt a cold sweat breaking out just watching Potter lying there, pale and sick. Draco felt ... sad? Sad for him?

In another situation he could hear himself making a remark, sneering to Potter, asking where the vaunted image of saviour was now. It was suddenly so clear to Draco that there was only a man lying there, a man like any other. What if it had always been so? A swirl of confusion rushed through Draco's head, and everything he'd ever thought he'd known or felt about Potter was getting caught up in a tide that was turning. His thoughts were whirling. He could see Potter in his memories from when they were children and had got off on the wrong foot; he could picture them as teens and growing up, always locked in battle. All along, they'd both been caught up in expectations and images and the machinations of others. Draco could feel it all cracking, and the man on the floor before him made the smallest sliver of uncertainty lodge in his heart. Draco wasn't used to being unsure of anything. He looked up. All he knew was that he wanted Pansy gone. Now.

He grabbed her arm and steered her to the door. "Well, thanks ever so much for coming. I'll have to see you next time. Hugs to your mother and I'll owl you soon!"

"What? Draco, um, you're hurting me ..." Pansy looked up at him. "You're acting weird. There is no way I'm leaving now. Come on! This is too good! Think of all the things we could do to him. Oh, I know! I have an idea..."

"No!" Draco stopped and faced her. The night breeze blew in from the open door, bringing with it cooler air. Potter moaned when the touch of it kissed him, reviving him a little. Draco and Pansy both looked at the pathetic figure groaning on the floor.

"Just ... let it go. For me." Draco spoke quietly. He knew that now was the time to sparkle and enchant, to throw out a witty bon mot and redirect, but he couldn't do it. He looked at Pansy. "Please."

Pansy looked back at him. She seemed shocked, but she nodded, her eyes never leaving his. She had the look of someone working out a particularly difficult Arithmancy problem, and she had just now come up with the answer. "Okay," she said slowly. She backed out. "Draco. I'm not going to owl you again. You'd better send the next one. And don't wait too long, do you understand?" She straightened her spine and turned to leave.

"Draco," Potter called softly from the floor.

Draco spared a glance to make sure Pansy was gone, and then he picked his way over to Potter, who really did reek. Had he attempted to imbibe the entire bar? It was one thing to get soused in your school days, but this kind of drunk was a disgrace. What kind of friends allowed him to get this inebriated? And more importantly, why did Draco care?

Potter had managed to prop himself into a sitting position. "Draco. Come here. I have a secret to tell you." He had a goofy grin on his face. His words were thick and slurry.

Against his better judgement, Draco crouched next to Potter. He balanced on the balls of his feet, so that he didn't touch anything on the floor. No need to dirty himself, after all. Enough of that for one day! "What is it?"

"It's a secret. You have to come closer." Harry managed to stop smiling so stupidly. His stare was rather intense.

"Yes, that's what you said. Just ... tell me. There's no one here." Draco frowned. Something about this whole situation made him nervous. Potter wasn't...right. Well, of course he wasn't right, but he was acting very strangely. He seemed awfully sober just now, for having been lolling around so sloppy drunk just a moment ago. Draco swallowed. Why was he the nervous one?

"No! I have to whisper it in your ear." Harry gazed at him, unblinking.

"Hm." Although Draco had done a lot of drinking himself at school, he had never had to personally deal with drunks. Perhaps it was better to humour them? Potter seemed harmless. "And then you'll go to bed?"

Potter made an indistinct sound. "Bed. Yes."

"Okay. Tell me." Draco leaned in.

Just as he leaned forward, Potter grabbed onto him. The unexpected tug made him lose his balance...he had only been on the balls of his feet, after all. Draco crashed into Potter. He didn't engage his hands in time, and he knocked Potter right back over. The two of them slumped together. Draco was horrified to feel himself press right up against Potter, chest to chest. He hadn't been this intimate with another man ... well, ever.

He could barely register how close those bright green eyes really were before it happened. Potter leaned up and kissed him.

Draco froze. Harry Potter, his worst enemy, his nemesis, was kissing him! He was kissing a man! The idea didn't seem to stick; it slid off his consciousness like oil. His lips responded before his brain did. When he recognized what was going on, when he came back to what was actually happening, he realized that he was on the floor of his ancestral home, snogging Harry Potter.

Draco pulled away in shock.

"What ... ?" Potter asked. "What's wrong? Did I do something wrong? You didn't ... you didn't like it?"

"What's wrong?" Draco screeched. "What are you, crazy? You are a crazy drunk, that's it. 'Did I like it?'" Did he like it?

"Er, I don't..." Without warning, Potter closed his eyes, pulled Draco down and slumped against Draco's shoulder.

Draco froze. What was going on? Potter didn't move. His hands were curled in the raw silk of Draco's fine lawn shirt. His breathing was still and even as if he'd fallen asleep. Just like that. In the middle of a conversation...if it could be called that.

Draco extricated himself and took a good look at the man on the floor of his front hall. Potter looked a little pale. There were dark circles that Draco could see even through those clunky glasses he insisted on wearing. Otherwise, he looked to be peacefully sleeping. He felt that curious stirring again in his chest. Compassion. He felt bad for Potter, watching him sleep like that. If he could see himself ...

Suddenly, Draco was horrified. What if someone came in here and saw him sprawled like that? The Malfoy reputation would never recover. This couldn't stand. Draco would have to move him. "Er, Potter?" He didn't want to get near him. It was one thing not to let Pansy tell the world about this, it was quite another thing to physically approach him and actually touch him for himself. He nudged Potter with his hand-tooled Italian leather shoes. He barely moved, but Draco could see that he was an absolute disaster and not likely to come to on his own anytime soon. Draco winced. He had never wanted his wand so much as he did at this moment. "Peachy!" he called. He was no martyr, after all. He was going to need help. A lot of help.

"Master Draco?"

Draco startled. That was fast. "Er, I'm going to need your help."

Peachy looked at the atrocity before them. "Yes, Master Draco, you is."

*

It wasn't so much that Draco was avoiding Potter...the idea that he would avoid anyone in his own home was ludicrous...as he was taking a break. At least, that's what he liked to think. Surely Potter needed time to recover from all of that deplorable excess. He would be of no use to Draco in any capacity hung over. Draco didn't want shoddy lessons, that was all. It was much harder to unlearn the wrong thing than to just learn it the right way the first time, Draco rationalized.

So, it was not avoidance. It was self-preservation.

It was with this mindset that Draco holed himself away in the study to return some correspondence to his father. That man was worse than a mother hen, the way he insisted on checking in with owls or Floo calls every ten seconds! Draco was just getting ready to draft his response. He dusted the quill over his cheek, remembering the lesson with Potter when he had first moved it. He had been picturing a lover's touch ... Draco frowned. It was unlike him to be so distracted. What was wrong with him these days?

"There you are!"

Draco jumped, hitting his knee on the underside of the desk. He tried not to wince. "Potter. What are you doing?"

Potter came in like he owned the room. There were no extra chairs, owing to the fact that it was a private study...trust Potter to completely disregard convention...so he perched casually on the edge of the desk. Granted, it was a huge desk, so they weren't actually in close proximity, but Draco felt his heart rate shoot up. What did he mean by that, sitting there in that fashion? "Looking for you. We wasted a whole day today. Where were you?"

"Er ... I thought you'd want some rest?" Draco scowled. Potter seemed awfully chipper for a man who had passed out on his Tuscan marble a scant fifteen hours ago.

Potter had the grace to blush, at least. "Oh, that. I'm fine. I'm here to do a job. That's all."

"That's all?" Draco had spent all day worried about what Potter was going to say, or do, and now he knew. A stone settled into his stomach, though he couldn't say why. He should be delighted that they were going to be professional about this. "Yes. Business as usual."

Potter cocked his head. "Draco, are you all right? Maybe we've been training too hard. You seem drained. Is something wrong?"

Draco heard the same words...words that seemed burned into his brain...from last night coming out of a sober mouth. He knew with a certainty...he just knew...that Potter had no memory of last night. A curious relief settled over him. There was no one to hold anything over his head, no one to have witnessed his shame. Not that it was his fault, anyway. Potter had kissed him. Still, Malfoys didn't like to have loose ends.

So why didn't he feel better?

"Draco? Everything okay?" Potter asked.

Draco rubbed his knee under the desk where it was still throbbing. He kept his face impassive. "I'm just fine." he said. "Let's get started."