Chapter Text
“Eat.” Pansy shoved a bowl of chowder towards him and pushed a spoon into his hand.
“I’m fine.”
"No, you’re not. Your mother’s going to kill me when she sees the state of you. You’re nothing but skin and bones these days.”
Draco rolled his eyes and let the spoon fall into the bowl. Daphne and Pansy exchanged a look, but he pretended not to see them. He had never really been queasy before, but nowadays it was as if he was perpetually nauseous. Tonight, the smells of clam chowder and freshly baked bread turned his stomach. He wrinkled his nose at Nott, who was lathering a thick slice of bread with what looked like an entire cup of butter.
“Look at Theo, he’s got an appetite,” Daphne said encouragingly.
“He’s a barbarian.”
Theo pulled a face at him but didn’t bother with a retort. They were all exhausted: Transfiguration had been gruelling that afternoon.
“Greg,” Millicent said suddenly. Unlike the rest of them, who had mostly given up on trying to engage Greg, Millicent was suddenly relentless in her attempts at drawing him out. “How is your internship going?”
There was a tense silence as they all stared at him. Greg looked up at her from his untouched bowl—‘they never bother him about eating,’ Draco thought irritably—and blinked.
When he said nothing, Millicent added, “You’re working at the Ministry, aren’t you?” Greg nodded stiffly.
Greg had been placed in an incredibly dull position in a lower-ranking office. Privately, Draco suspected that the placement was a punishment, while also serving to keep him from causing any trouble. While Harry had also spoken at Greg’s hearing, the fact remained that he had cursed several students in their seventh year at Hogwarts, and that he and his father had not switched allegiances at the end. It was a wonder they had managed to find a placement for him at the Ministry. Perhaps Harry had put in a word for him. Glancing over at the Gryffindor table, Draco studied Harry as he spoke animatedly with the girl Weasley. Before he could stop himself, jealousy reared angrily in his chest. He looked back down at his bowl, urging himself to take a bite, but now he felt sicker than ever.
Draco only realized that Daphne was addressing him when he felt Pansy elbow his side. “What—what’s that?”
Across from him, Daphne gave an apologetic grimace. “I was just wondering how you did in Flitwick’s practical.”
“Oh. Er. Fine.” He picked up his spoon and dragged it through the thick chowder.
“They’re so tough on us this year,” said Pansy. “I’m exhausted and it’s not even the end of first term. Blaise, did you manage to find those ingredients Slughorn was looking for?”
Zabini had started to answer her when there came a roar of laughter from the Gryffindor table. Draco looked up and froze. For some inexplicable reason, Seamus Finnigan was sitting in Harry’s lap. Surely it was a joke—Weasley had thrown his head back in laughter, while Finnigan pretended to make doe eyes at Harry. Harry, for his part, had flushed a pretty shade of crimson. As Finnigan wrapped his arms around his Harry’s neck, something in Draco snapped, and he stood abruptly from the bench. While the others were still watching the commotion at the Gryffindor table, Greg looked up at him and gave an imperceptible shake of his head. Draco forced himself to take a deep breath and unclench his fists. Silently, he grabbed his bag. He cast one last furious glare at Harry before storming out of the Great Hall.
He was so deep in thought that he hadn’t realized where his feet were carrying him until he found himself climbing up the stairs to the Owlery. To his disappointment, he didn’t see Callidus—he was probably out hunting. Winded from the climb, Draco threw his bag onto the floor and took up his usual spot on the window ledge. Very few owls were scattered up in the rafters. Draco wanted to shout, to let out all of his anger, but he thought that if he started to yell he might never stop. His hands were shaking. That familiar panic crept up his throat, expanding so rapidly in his chest that he felt as though he would explode. He dug his fingernails into his sweaty palms, trying to relax, but the sharp sting of pain did little to puncture his anxiety. What was wrong with him? He had never acted like this before. He’d been with plenty of other blokes, and usually he was able to forget about them within a week. He loathed himself for his inability to just push Harry out of his mind.
He wondered what Severus would say. God, it still hurt to think of him. Would it never get easier? Draco had always expected that they would survive the war together. That’s how it was supposed to happen. Sometimes, when he forgot to stop himself, Draco thought of Severus and how he had rebuffed his offers of help in his sixth year. Severus had been forced to kill Dumbledore because of him, because of his weakness. There was no justice in anything. He had played his part, he had done everything Dumbledore had asked, and still he died. A cruel, stupid, pointless death, with no one there to witness it but the Dark Lord.
It was still too painful to think about. Far too painful. And yet the agony cut through his anxiety and at least gave him a focal point on which to centre all of his anger. If Severus could see him now, Draco imagined he would scold him for being childish. For allowing himself to think for one second that it was a good idea to get close to Harry Potter, to let Harry use him however he wanted. To give in to the temptation to believe that something good might finally happen to him without bringing only more heartache. Of course, those kinds of thoughts were rather melodramatic—and Severus would have reprimanded him for that, too. At the realization, he couldn’t help but smile.
Draco jumped as he heard someone climbing the stairs. Horrified, he realized that he’d been crying; he hastily wiped his face with his sleeve when he saw Harry coming up the steps.
“Oh,” Draco said dully, “it’s you.”
It was dark in the Owlery; with any luck, Harry wouldn’t be able to tell that he’d been crying.
“Why are you up here alone?” he asked. When Draco said nothing, he tucked his hands into his pockets and leaned against the stone wall. “I never really come up here. Not since Hedwig…” He trailed off.
Hedwig had been Harry’s owl, he knew. But he didn’t want to talk about that. He didn’t want to talk to Harry at all. Heart pounding, he swung his bag over his shoulder and stood. “I was just leaving.”
“Wait. What you saw at dinner—that was nothing.”
“Great.”
“I just thought…you looked angry, and then you left…”
"Thought you’d pissed me off with that little show?” Draco spat. “What, you think that’s how I spend my time, Potter? Mooning after you and crying to myself whenever I see you fucking around with your stupid friends?” Never mind that it was true.
“Don’t,” Harry breathed, so quietly that Draco almost didn’t hear him. In the dark he looked ethereal, almost like a ghost.
“Just leave me alone.”
“I wanted to talk to you about your father,” Harry said. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of Shacklebolt. I think if you—”
“Would you stop?” he snapped. “Aren’t you ever tired of playing the bloody hero? Leave me and my family alone. You’ve done enough.”
Harry looked as though he had been slapped.
“Why won’t you just let it be?” he raged on. “Do you know what my father’s done, Potter? How many people he’s tortured? Killed?” Draco gave a bitter laugh. “If they want to give him the Dementor’s Kiss, let them. He’s earned it.”
“You don’t mean that,” Harry said quietly.
“Don’t I? You don’t know anything about me.”
Harry took a step forward. Panicked, Draco pulled out his wand, training it at Harry’s feet. “Don’t make me hex you. Please. Don’t make me.”
Harry glanced down at his wand and then back up at his face. Draco couldn’t make out his expression. “You wouldn’t. I know you.”
“You don’t!” he shouted. “You don’t fucking—you don’t—stop it.” Seething, Draco shoved his wand back into his pocket and pushed past Harry. The anxiety lurched in his chest as he made his way back to the Slytherin common room. A small part of him hoped that Harry would chase after him, would stop him and hold him and reassure him that everything was fine between them. But he didn’t. And so Draco threw himself into bed, tearing the curtains so violently around himself that he heard a sharp rip. He barely managed to cast an Imperturbable Charm around his bed before cradling his head in his hands and allowing the sobs to wrack his body. He was reminded once again how utterly alone he was.
***
As November dragged to an end, the other eighth-year Slytherins seemed fixated on making his life as miserable as possible. Out of nowhere, they had gotten it into their heads to spend an evening on the Quidditch pitch, never mind that it was well below freezing. They refused to go without Draco, although he didn’t see why. He knew that he was being sullen and moody; it wasn’t as though his presence added anything to the atmosphere. But Daphne insisted that he join them, and so one Friday evening he finally relented, if only to stop their nagging. As they traipsed down to the pitch, their freshly-cast Warming Charms producing a veritable bubble of heat around them, Draco listened quietly while the others debated whether the Firebolt’s successor might be released soon. By the time they arrived at the pitch, the sun had almost completely set.
Draco had never seen Daphne fly before; she wasn’t particularly graceful on her Cleansweep, but she kept up with them well enough. Nott and Zabini, like Draco, had been flying since they were young children. Pansy was outright dirty—she had no qualms with blagging or cobbing other players. Once in fourth year, she had given Draco a particularly nasty blow to the face, and he had been wary of flying with her ever since. Millicent was uneasy on a broom. She stayed low to the ground, hovering around the pitch as the others raced past her. Zabini found a Quaffle in the Slytherin changing room, and they spent an hour lobbing it back and forth. On his Firebolt, Draco was able to soar through the air with ease, turning with barely a touch of his handle. The wind whipped through his hair and cut across his cheeks, but it was bracing, and his fatigue seeped away as the frigid air cleared his mind. He even laughed outright when Daphne sent the Quaffle hurtling past her intended target, Pansy, and instead caught the side of Theo’s head.
Eventually, even their Warming Charms couldn’t break through the cold, and they decided to head back inside. As they landed, Millicent complained loudly that she was sore. Draco hardly heard her—he felt better than he had in days, as though his worries had been swept away by the brisk wind. In the changing room, Nott yammered away about the work he was doing with Flitwick. It had been too cold out to really work up a sweat, but the warm shower was wonderful on Draco’s frozen skin. For a moment, it felt like the old days. Playing Quidditch, teasing each other in the changing room, making plans for the weekend.
“I’ve just realized,” Nott said happily as he toweled his hair. “I’ve still got some firewhisky left from my last trip to Hogsmeade. We should have a drink, celebrate the end of the term.”
“It’s not the end of the term yet,” Draco pointed out.
“Close enough, isn’t it? Come on, one drink. We’ll use that empty classroom on the fifth floor.”
“I’m scared to think how many times that room’s been used since the start of term,” said Zabini.
Sniggering, Nott shot back, “Mostly by you, no doubt.”
“Fine then. One drink,” said Zabini. “It’s Friday, isn’t it? You’ll join us, won’t you, Draco?”
“Mmm.” Draco was rinsing his hair and hardly paying attention to them.
“Go check that the room is free. We’ll tell the girls and catch up,” said Blaise.
Draco heard Nott leave. He turned off the water and Summoned a towel from the bench. Now that he and Zabini were alone, he felt self-conscious. He wrapped the towel around his waist, trying not to listen to what the other man was doing. Looking pointedly away, he turned to his clothes, which he had laid out on the bench with his wand placed neatly on top. He started to clean his trousers with a Scouring Charm. Why had Nott left? Usually Draco didn’t want him around, but he was useful as a buffer.
He was not surprised when Zabini gripped his shoulders from behind. Draco froze as he felt warm, firm hands rub down his back before grasping his hips. He wanted to tell Zabini to stop, to leave him alone, but part of him was still soaring high on the ecstasy he had experienced flying. He placed his wand on top of his trousers, which were still sorely in need of an Ironing Charm, and turned to face Zabini. His expression was difficult to place—his eyes were as shrewd as ever, but there was none of his usual conceit.
“We shouldn’t,” Draco muttered, holding Blaise’s arms as though meaning to push him away. Ignoring him, Zabini pressed their lips together. There was something not quite right—a voice in the back of Draco’s head told him that it wasn’t Harry, and it wasn’t right if it wasn’t Harry—but he shoved that voice away and, in defiance, drew Zabini closer. That raw, unbridled anxiety was creeping up in his chest again, but he forced himself to focus on Blaise. He inhaled sharply as he felt Zabini’s hands trailing down his stomach, sweeping past his navel, and reaching lower…
Draco jumped violently when the door to the changing room banged open. He pushed Blaise away, already dreading the taunts he was about to face from Nott, when he realized that it was Ron Weasley standing at the door. He should have made to cover himself, or at least barked at Weasley to piss off, but for some reason he could do nothing more than gape at him.
“Can we help you?” Blaise asked coldly.
Weasley blinked at him and then turned back to Draco. His face hardened, and Draco had no time to react as he pulled out his wand.
“What are you playing at?” Blaise shouted angrily, grabbing Draco’s arm to pull him out of the way. But Weasley didn’t cast—he simply trained his wand on Draco’s chest, glaring at him.
“You fucking prick,” Weasley hissed. He wavered, shot another hateful look at Zabini, and then stormed out of the room, letting the door slam behind him.
“What was that?” Blaise asked wildly. “Why would he come in here?”
All of the warmth had left the room. Naked and cold, Draco pulled away from Blaise’s grasp and started to dress himself. Though he tried not to let it show, he was shaken.
“He was about to hex you!” Blaise cried, indignant. “Hex someone who doesn’t even have their wand on them, who’s naked! What a fucking coward. And Gryffindors are always going on about honour and bravery and all that shit.”
“Yeah.”
To Draco’s relief, Blaise pulled on his shirt as he continued his angry tirade. “I can’t believe he pulled his wand out on you. If I’d had my wand, I’d have cursed him, no questions asked. You don’t do that.”
In a cynical sort of way, Draco thought it rather amusing that Blaise had dropped his usual pretense of haughty indifference. It usually took much more than this to rile him up.
“Why’s he such a prude? I never thought Weasley of all people would be some sort of…some sort of bigot. What’s it matter to him?”
“Dunno.”
“Have you two slept together or something? Is that why he’s so upset?”
That hit a little too close to home. “He hates me, Blaise,” Draco snapped. “He always has. You know Weasley’s an absolute idiot. He probably walked into the wrong changing room and didn’t know how else to react.”
“Do you think he’ll tell people?” Zabini asked darkly.
“Who knows?” Draco buckled his belt and then sat down to pull on his socks. “What does it matter? I really doubt anyone cares about that sort of thing anymore.”
Draco tensed as Blaise came to sit next to him. They tied their shoes in silence, until Zabini said, “If your father finds out his son’s gay…They still don’t know, do they?”
He shrugged. “In a few months, my father won’t even remember he has a son.”
There was an awkward silence as Draco stood and donned his cloak. He was suddenly exhausted. All he wanted was to head back to the castle, crawl into bed, and forget any of this had happened.
“I am sorry about that, you know,” Blaise said stiffly.
“Forget it.” Sentimentality had always been uncomfortable between them; it just didn’t feel right. “Let’s go, come on. They’ll be looking for us.”
They walked back to the castle in silence, Draco holding his Firebolt tightly in one hand as though it was a talisman. Not for the first time, he wondered why he didn’t just mount his broom and fly somewhere far away. There was nothing left for him here. He looked over at Blaise, whose expression was as indecipherable as ever. In a sense, he was glad that Weasley had interrupted them. He wasn’t sure how far he would have gone, but he felt so disoriented, so adrift, that he might just have used Zabini to try to chase away his unhappiness. And that would only land him in an even bigger mess.