Chapter Text
Admittedly Draco really should have refused Potter's hand. It would have been safer in the long run. But he’s weak. He hasn't eaten anything other than slices of bread and tea for three days, a stupid idea meant to give himself added incentive to get the job finished quicker. And it certainly won't hurt to have a tentative camaraderie with him for the duration of his stay, though he has his doubts over whether he can maintain any sort of equanimity around him. It's just that his feelings towards Potter have always been disastrously, horribly vibrant. They make him act completely irrational. It's just that they're so painful. Complicated, like…his hand skims over the Mark,
I hate you but you're mine.
It's worth a shot. Draco stops for a second to take a deep breath and just…let's go. He stops fighting himself, surrenders to his feelings, lets them flow through him like a river. Admiration, lust, gratitude, anger, jealousy, guilt, shame - Merlin, there's a lot of it and it hurts but he lets it happen and then sits with it. It will take work, just like with the Mark but he immediately feels a calm rippling through him. He puts the moment in its proper place in his mind to refer back to later.
He doesn't speak until they're in the kitchen with two bowls of steaming tomato soup with big chunks of sourdough bread. And it's amazing. Homemade with a strong hint of basil and a tiny kick of chilli. He'd joked about Molly Weasley wanting to poison him but right now he'd happily let her drown him in this stuff. He's just barely restraining himself from licking his spoon after every mouthful. It's a proper soup spoon too, he'd laid the table while Potter was heating it up, firstly as a show of friendship for their new truce but also because he didn’t fully trust that Potter would even know what a soup spoon was, heathen that he is. When he's about halfway done with the bowl and he can tell Potter is fed up with waiting from his pointed staring, Draco begins;
‘So first things first,’ he's thought about how to word this but he's going to have to lay the groundwork and find out what he's working with, ‘what do you think I mean when I talk about bonding with the house?’
‘Uh…I don't know. Redecorating maybe so that the place looks nice but I already tried that, it resists any attempts I've made. And then just spend time in it I suppose.’
Draco feels like crying, ‘Redecorating? You? Here? You just walked in and tried to slap coats of paint on the wall? This is worse than I thought.’
‘Oh come on,’ Potter scoffs and forget crying, Draco might just throw something at him.
‘Potter, how would you feel if you met, I don't know, a new work colleague, and at the end of their first day they dragged you to a barber and insisted you get a haircut. Not that it would be a bad thing,’ he adds sardonically, ‘in fact now that I think about that might count as a public service.’
He's met with a sarcastic huff.
‘My point is you'd think they were completely barmy and presumptuous and downright bloody rude. And your house isn't a work colleague, it's more like a family member. It has to be venerated. Persuaded into doing things by someone it trusts. And this is why it will be much harder for you - because you didn't grow up in an old magical house, am I correct? You were raised by muggles?’
Potter nods, his gaze keeps flicking to Draco’s spoon, it's disconcerting.
‘When I talk about being a Pureblood-’ the green eyes lock onto his, piercing and untrusting, ‘I’m not just talking about blood, you understand. It means a lot of things, how you act, who you know-’
‘Your willingness to follow an insane megalomaniac who stokes your feelings of superiority?’ Potter mutters.
Draco feels his cheeks heat and almost accuses Potter of reneging on their new accord but surprises himself by adding a touch of irony to his tone and saying, ‘He chose his audience well.’
Potter subsides a little, mollified by Draco's admittance and gestures to him to continue. Draco feels buoyed by the success, normally he would have felt compelled to argue the point but this seems to have worked and he doesn't feel the usual surge of helpless rage that Potter causes in him.
‘Part of it is growing up in an old magical house. You learn to accommodate them and vice versa. And houses owned by wizarding families tend to accumulate magic over time. The older the house, the older the family, the stronger the magic. There are stories of houses that become so powerful that the owners basically become invincible inside them.’
Potter shakes his head at that.
‘It always comes down to a power trip with you people doesn't it?’
‘Potter I hate to break your rosy worldview but most ancient magic comes down to the primal stuff. Power, fear, love, all that.’
Potter looks thoughtful and like he’d like to say more about this but Draco has already been interrupted once so he forges ahead.
‘Now the house and its master should have something like a symbiotic relationship. And this house has clearly had centuries of deep interconnectedness with its inhabitants. That's why being a Pureblood matters in this instance, we've literally been trained since birth to listen to our houses. But this poor thing was left to you and you obviously had no idea and the house…well I'm getting a lot of loneliness and anger from it.’
‘Why do you think the magic hasn't faded like Ron said it would?’
‘I take it you never met Orion or Walburga in person? All of the Blacks were pretty notorious, I've heard some stories. Highly accomplished in the dark arts. There’s a book Orion wrote in the Manor which I fear would be too explicit for your delicate Saviour eyes.’
Potter snorts at this and Draco makes a note to show it to him sometime, preferably with a camera so he can record Potter’s reaction to some of the more graphic illustrations.
‘Anyway my guess is that they infused the house with some intense dark magic to strengthen its power.’
Potter looks uneasy and Draco is reminded once again how little a Hogwarts education does for anyone's understanding of dark magic. He's preparing for questions on how to destroy or reverse what was done, questions he will refuse to answer. The house has a right to be what it is. But instead Potter surprises him when his expressions shifts to earnestness and a smidgen of hope.
‘Can I try? The bonding thing? I know you said it would take too long but…?’
‘I don't know. You're not Pu-you didn't grow up in an old magical house, you wouldn't even know where to start.’
‘But couldn't you teach me?’
Draco hesitates and considers this while finishing the last few spoonfuls of soup. The old Draco would have dismissed it out of hand - that this was something that could even be taught.
But…well Potter has always had an irritating natural aptitude for magic. It's bloody annoying. He'd never flown before Hogwarts and was playing for the house team within his first week. Produced a full Patronus by the time he was twelve or something ridiculous like that. Apparently he can throw off an Imperius curse like it's nothing. As much as Draco hates to admit it, if anyone can do it, it would be him. He's also aware with some irritation at himself that Potter's wide-eyed keenness is absolutely working to tear down his objections.
‘It might be more difficult for you, maybe not possible at all but if it's something you want then I can try.’
Potter is nodding. It occurs to Draco that his suspicious Auror brain is probably worried that he's going to use the house for some dark purpose. He's likely imagining Draco standing in the hallway cackling madly while Potter fires spells at him that bounce off due to the houses' protection. But Draco doesn't want any of that, he wants to go to France and walk in a golden-lit vineyard with a handsome man who will whisper sweet nothings in his ear and preferably will never have even heard of sodding Harry Potter.
Potter wants to start there and then but Draco asks if they can defer until tomorrow as he's feeling drained from the morning and he'll need all his faculties if this has a shot at working. He must look awful enough that Potter agrees and Draco hoists himself up to his room and crashes onto the bed, asleep within moments.
…..
Harry starts the washing up with a flick of his wand and then flings himself onto the sofa in the living room with a book he’s been trying and failing to read for weeks. He settles in but he’s restless and fidgety. The page keeps blurring in front of him as he reflects on what Malfoy has said and more accurately his pleasant shock that Malfoy was actually being helpful. It reminded him a bit of Hermione, he had a proper lecturer’s energy when he got going. He isn't sure how much this will translate into Malfoy being a good teacher of anything practical but he's willing to try if it means making amends towards Grimmauld Place, which he has apparently been treating badly without even realising. He'd taken his cue from Sirius of course but now the house was his last link to him. He spent more hours than he'd care to admit in his old bedroom, imagining Sirius in his place as a long haired, leather jacket-wearing rebel, so much cooler than Harry could ever be.
If he and Malfoy can manage to get on for just a few days then he just might be able to earn his freedom, maybe even come to an understanding with Grimmauld Place that would mean he could hold on to this part of Sirius. He hates that it has to be this part but still.
So he's pleased that he extended the hand of friendship to Malfoy, strange as it may feel. He's still not used to seeing him here, evident by the fact that just now during lunch he’d found himself staring. At first he’d rolled his eyes when he'd seen that Malfoy had laid out proper soup spoons, which Harry never bothered with. And then when they started eating he'd been unable to stop watching him. Harry wasn't a messy eater, he didn't slurp or talk with his mouth full, he had manners dammit. But with Malfoy it was like watching an art form, a deft turn of the wrist to push the spoon through the soup, then raising it to his lips while maintaining his straight-backed posture, not spilling a single drop. Harry had become mesmerised watching it, obsessed with catching the moment a fleck of soup would stain the pristine white napkin on Malfoy's lap, proving him fallible. But it hadn’t happened and he'd almost felt like applauding afterwards. Which was absurd. He must be cracking up, that was the only conclusion if he'd started entertaining himself with Malfoy's eating habits.
And if that wasn't embarrassing enough, their scuffle on the third floor was acutely demoralising for him, it proved how sloppy he'd gotten after less than six weeks off the job. He shouldn't have gone for the wand, should have rolled Malfoy and pinned him and then summoned it. And to Harry's extreme mortification he'd felt his body…well, it had started to react to the feeling of Malfoy straddling him, it had been a huge relief that he'd stood up when he did. That was obviously just a result of his self-imposed seven month drought, he couldn't be blamed for a natural physical response. If he'd been thinking more clearly he would have taken control of the situation easily. He imagines now exactly how he should have done it, how he would have caught Malfoy's wrist, used his weight and momentum, how it would have felt to have Malfoy under him instead. Scowling up at him with that intense, heated, absolute focus like Harry's the centre of his universe. His cock jerks treacherously, alarming him. Oh god, no. He's not doing this. He takes a breath and collects himself. There's nothing but disdain in those grey eyes, he tells himself sternly. Nothing but taunts and jeers from that hateful mouth with lips that definitely aren’t soft and kissable. His cock swells at the thought, how well their lips would fit together, how their bodies would slide against one another. Godammit. His libido has been almost non-existent for months, why now, why this of all things?
‘Stop it.’ Harry hisses to himself, feeling the sharp twitch of arousal start to grow. He subconsciously widens his legs a fraction. And his mind is now fully committed to aggravating the situation with images of Malfoy in bed looking soft and sleepy, ideas as to how Malfoy would moan, how he would smile wickedly at him. Or perhaps be sweet and pliant, the silver-grey eyes filled with shy eagerness, the mouth trailing cool, delicious kisses over his abdomen, trailing down until Harry feels the ghost of a tongue licking a stripe up his cock. Harry is achingly hard now and so gives into it, it's not as if it means anything. Pulls himself out and settles into a rhythm, feels the pressure build and bites back a tiny groan. And now he's started he can't stop, he tries to distract himself with other people, other fantasies but it always comes back to that blond head bobbing greedily, the long elegant fingers braced around Harrys’ hips, hard enough to bruise. It’s so wrong but he can’t help but speculate whether Malfoy’s neat eating habits would extend to this particular activity - would he be so fastidious as to not spill a drop or would he pull away messily with evidence of Harry's release all over his mouth and chin?
Harry seizes at the thought, toes curling as he bucks into his hand. A quick cleaning charm even as he's shaking with the aftershocks and he sits there shamefaced trying to work out what the hell just happened.
Right, ok. So he was attracted to Malfoy. That much was clear, if slightly unexpected. He’d never thought about Malfoy in that way at all. Admittedly he was a bit of a late bloomer to the idea of dating men at all and now that he came to think about it, that sixth year when he’d been spying on him and following him around the castle…had it all been suspicion? Hadn’t he felt a tiny little thrill every time he’d spotted that sleek blond hair that in hindsight could well have been a warped crush finding its way to the surface?
I mean obviously, nothing is going to happen between him and Malfoy. They've only just stopped going for each other's throats. And he's still Malfoy, so the idea is prosperous. Even if he is gay and they’re technically married and they keep waking up in bed together…Harry gets a grip on himself sternly. This is a heap of confused feelings finding catharsis, nothing more. Hopefully they could be done this bonding thing with the house in a few days and then they’d both be able to leave and he could look back at this as a weird example of what stress and isolation does to a man.
Harry goes back into the kitchen for a glass of water and he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. It’s one of the paintings, a cottage landscape. He’s always quite liked it, it reminds him a little of Godric’s Hollow as it could have been. Roses curling charmingly over the door arch, a cute little bird's nest nuzzled in the thatch. As he examines it, he sees a figure in one of the lattice windows and jumps slightly.
Walburga?
He leans in to look more closely but whoever it was has moved out of sight.
He’d been extremely unsettled when he’d found her missing, she’d never strayed from her frame in the two years he’d been living there. But he’d quickly forgotten about her, her absence being more of a relief than anything else. If that was her, what on earth was she doing hiding out in the cottage painting?
…..
Draco had only slept for two hours but it had been a wonderful sleep, the kind he didn’t have anymore since the war. He’d awoken feeling peaceful and rested, spending a few minutes lazily watching the late afternoon sun coming through the window gently dappled by the waving branches by the yew tree outside.
Feeling more optimistic than he has in months, he heads downstairs to offer to Potter to begin today after all but Potter is a little awkward with him for some reason and defers until tomorrow. Which is fine, Draco can use the time to write to his mother. Potter apparently doesn’t have an owl of his own which perplexes Draco greatly but Weasley sends one over daily because Harry needs to write reports for Robards.
They have dinner together in the kitchen in the evening. Meals together aren't strictly included as part of their new truce but Draco wants to show willing. And it pays off almost immediately when Potter dishes him up a plate with a piece of an enormous lasagne, another of Molly Weasley’s culinary creations. Mercifully Potter doesn't make any comments about this which Draco is thankful for - he's pretty sure any fragile trust they might have will shatter the second the Weasley family is brought up.
Attempting conversation with a taciturn Potter is difficult and Draco fears he’s bottled it completely when he asks him if he can cook anything and Potter’s expression turns stormy and he answers shortly,
‘I don’t like to - the Muggles I lived with made me cook for them so I’ve never enjoyed it.’
The thought of anyone forcing Potter to do anything is unfathomable which Draco says aloud and that finally coaxes a tiny grin from him.
Potter mentions that he’s possibly seen Walburga and Draco turns to look at the cottage painting. He agrees it’s strange but privately thinks that Potter is so unobservant that he’s likely just not noticed until now. She probably goes to the cottage painting for a break sometimes.
Draco looks around the rest of the kitchen. His eyes take in the gleaming copper pans hung on hooks above the range, the huge farmhouse style sink, the door to the pantry. The human-sized door. He realises something he's noticed all along, now within the grasp of articulation.
‘I thought a few days ago that this room seemed friendlier than other rooms in the house but this isn’t a house-elf kitchen, it’s made for humans. But it doesn’t strike me that the Blacks did a lot of their own cooking?’
Potter nods in agreement.
‘Molly Weasley changed a lot of it to suit when she was here with the Order.’
Blast. The Weasley's again. Another name of which his French lover will hopefully be blissfully unaware. Hopefully Potter's idea will pan out and then he'll have even fewer ties to his old life. He sneaks a glance at him out of the corner of his eye, coolly assessing him. It could work, he thinks. It might work. He’s a bit depressed that Potter apparently missed the enormous hint that the House had changed for Molly Weasley when she had cajoled it out of love. Or maybe he just assumed it had changed because it had come up against the formidable, bulldog personality of Molly Weasley.
Potter is no bulldog. From what he’s seen in the past, he’s a soft touch. And he’s not an Occlumens which will mean he’ll likely end up absorbing quite a bit of the house’s emotional baggage. But he’ll surely be fine. He’s surprisingly resilient. Persevering. And a few other adjectives that he’ll keep to himself. Tomorrow will be intriguing to say the least.