Notes:(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter TextDraco watched the photograph until he heard the bells downstairs announcing that it was half six. He'd been caught up in his memories, of a life before the war, when the return of the Dark Lord and all that it would bring had simply been the stuff of nightmares. They'd just been children at that point. If things had gone differently, if the Dark Lord hadn't risen, perhaps they still would have been.
But Draco carried memories no child could shoulder, and he knew that Potter had the same. The photographer and one of those boys were dead now. He made himself get ready for dinner, because that at least he could control, fastening emerald cufflinks in the sleeves of a silk shirt.
His fingers were trembling a little. He wasn't sure if it was because of how he felt, or the lingering effects of crucio. Idly, he found himself wondering which Potter would prefer. Potter who had chosen to save him - been forced to save him. But Potter was… Potter was the saviour of the wizarding world. If he truly hadn't wanted to marry Draco, he wouldn't have. It was just that Mother had asked, and… and Potter was too good a man to let Draco get sent to Azkaban, even if he should have allowed it, should have encouraged it.
For Draco, the time since the end of the war seemed to be both a rapid blur and long moments, stretching out impossibly. Finding Potter in the drawing room with his mother, the two of them sipping tea as though Potter was simply a distant family friend who happened to be in the neighbourhood, was one of those moments that lingered. He remembered his mother explaining her plan. That she didn't want Draco going to Azkaban, not even after the changes the Ministry had brought in.
Draco understood. They might have been meant to make things at the prison more humane, but it would not end well for him. A lot of the other prisoners wanted him dead, for one reason or another. Blamed him for where he had failed, or where he had succeeded. And Potter… Potter had approached it like just another battle.
Draco had left the family ring with his mother, wore the one that Potter had given him - it was made of silver with an emerald and a smaller ruby to each side. It was beautiful, and Draco wanted to throw it into the fireplace because Potter had tried to pick this for him, and he didn't deserve this. He deserved to be in Azkaban, knowing the others would kill him. He deserved to have died at the battle, in the fire like Crabbe but…
But Potter saved him, because Potter had a saviour complex and made mistakes and was too damned good. Potter had decided to save him, and from that moment on he was at war for Draco's soul– challenging the Ministry, demanding that Draco was given a wand. He made up lies about midnight trysts at school that had never happened, a love that had been consuming the two of them until it had halted in his grief at Sirius's death, and Draco's desperate attempts to keep his family alive. And then… and then after the war, the two of them had stumbled back together.
To hear Potter tell it, it was a beautiful story. It wasn't his story, but it could have been. All he needed to do was nod at the right places, because no one was going to argue with the World's Saviour when he said he had been desperately in love with a Death Eater, that Draco had saved him at the Manor, that they had even… that they had even written to each other. Potter had produced notes - including some in Draco's hand (Draco suspected Granger's role in those forgeries). Potter's friends testified, confirming the lies with a calmness Draco could never have imagined. Potter himself was a star on the stand, the media's darling as he set out how worried he'd been, knowing his love was with those monsters. Draco had watched Potter, and wished that a word he said was true.
And in the end, it worked. They were to marry, and Draco's sentence was suspended. Potter had already lost so much, and none of the Wizengamot could bring themselves to make him suffer further, to lose the boy he had been in love with for years. Draco got away with a marriage instead of a death sentence, and Potter got stuck with him.
That morning, they had stood before Potter's friends and exchanged vows that tasted like ash on Draco's tongue. His mother had cried, and Draco had known that it was relief. Potter kissed him, in front of them all, their hands still bound with ribbon in Gryffindor red. Draco had known this was his chance. A chance he didn't deserve, but one he had to live with.
The bells rang out again. Seven. He was late to dinner.
He walked down the stairs like a marionette. He wondered if he should have offered to cook - not that he knew how. Potter was still a hero, still had a life to live. Draco supposed this house was his life now, living here, keeping it clean and homely– the same path he'd seen his mother tread.
Draco tamped down on the resentment that bubbled within him. Potter had saved him. He had to be grateful. Potter had thrown away much of his own status to save Draco's life, and that deserved… that deserved gratitude. Respect. Obedience.
Draco had served the Dark Lord, had found ways to keep his family alive. And Potter had given up so much for him.
Potter was sitting at the table, but he looked up when Draco entered. He had discarded his suit from earlier and was wearing muggle jeans and a t-shirt. He grinned. "I'd hoped you'd join me."
Draco could see that the kitchen looked cleaner than he would have expected, and there was a smudge of dirt on Potter's nose. He reached out without thinking to brush it away. "You cleaned?"
"It was a mess. I just thought, since you're staying here, I should try-" Potter rambled, then cleared his throat. "I wasn't sure what to make for dinner so uh, I made breakfast."
If there was a logic to Potter's words, it was lost on Draco. But Potter was smiling, and Draco found himself smiling back.
Potter grabbed the plates from the oven, where they had been staying warm. He was using a towel to hold the hot plates, and Draco frowned at him. "Potter, you do remember you have magic, don't you?"
"Y… yes?" Potter blinked at him, and he looked kind of adorable in a way, so confused by a simple question. "I just… I got used to cooking. With the Dursleys."
"Your muggles?" Draco asked quietly, and Potter nodded. Draco had never heard much about Potter's life outside of Hogwarts.
"They used to get me to cook them breakfast before school."
"Like… in the holidays?" Draco asked, afraid that wasn't what Potter meant. In confirmation, Potter shook his head.
"Uh. Before… Before Hogwarts."
"Oh…" Draco hesitated. He wasn't at all sure what to say to him about that. "I… Do you want me to cook from now on, or-"
"Do you know how?" Potter asked, looking at him curiously.
"My mother taught me a couple of spells…" Draco answered carefully. "Not much, but you won't starve."
"I don't… I don't mind cooking for you." Potter answered. "But I can teach you, if you'd like. I find it helps to… to do things with my hands, sometimes."
"You don't have to be this nice to me, Potter. You've already done more than enough." Draco stared at him. "You don't have to try and be… decent about it all."
"I don't mind." Potter answered. "It's lonely, on my own. And…" He shrugged, gesturing at the food. "It's getting cold."
Draco nodded, picking up his cutlery. He could tell Potter had no idea what the different things were - this was a fish knife - but he appreciated the effort. He picked up the cutlery, looking over at Potter. He felt like there were things he needed to know, but he didn't know how to ask, didn't want to give his fears voice.
Potter was eating hungrily, but kept breaking off to smile shyly at Draco. "I thought maybe we could decorate your room first, or the library, I think it might still have a boggart in but I can deal with that and then we could think about colours. I don't know if you have any plans for what you want to do…"
"Not really." Draco had never planned to survive the war. Eternity stretching out before him felt a little… empty.
"Well, we can think about it. I've been offered a role as a junior auror, but Hermione says it's probably better to leave that for a year - we can do correspondence courses and get our NEWTs that way, and then we've got those to fall back on…" He kept smiling. Draco carefully reminded himself that he wasn't allowed to hex Potter for smiling.
"I don't think I passed sixth year…" Draco pointed out, mostly to interrupt Potter before he started discussing what colour curtains they should get or which lessons he wanted to take.
"I spoke to Professor McGonagall. She said since it wasn't an exams year, she's willing to pass you as long as you catch up, and you can take the exams after two years if you need the extra time…" Potter was still looking at Draco earnestly.
Draco didn't think he had any idea how to respond to someone being earnest. Manipulative, he could handle. He got the feeling that Potter really was just trying to help, and he wanted to rage at him, to scream and smash the dinner glasses because were they really… were they really pretending any of this was real? That they cared about each other? Potter had saved his life. He didn't need to make Malfoy like him.
Draco ate despite his lack of appetite, because at least then Potter tended towards monologuing rather than expecting responses. So he carefully cut up the sausages with his fish knife, and let Potter talk through the subjects he was studying.
"If you can come up with some suggestions as to which classes you want to take," Potter said, still smiling, "we can go to Diagon Alley this weekend. Get the books."
"I don't think people in Diagon Alley want to see me, Potter." Draco pointed out. "I think most of them are just happy pretending I've disappeared off into nightmares."
Potter stared at him. "Hermione, Ron and I are going. You can come if you'd like, but if not just let me know the subjects and I can fetch the books." He sounded a little hurt, which Draco felt was ridiculous. Potter seemed to want to play happy family. And it stuck in his throat.
"I'll give you a list." Draco muttered. That was something.
He wanted to be at home. He wanted to be able to have tea with his mother, and talk with her, or lay beside her and listen to her reading. He wanted to feel safe. But safety wasn't something he got, not any more. He was vaguely aware he should offer to do the washing up, but he couldn't face Potter a moment longer.
"I'm tired, and I need a shower."
"Just down the hall," Potter reminded him. "Goodnight, Draco."
"Goodnight, Potter."
"I'd like it if you called me Harry," Potter said, and Draco nodded, not planning to do that.
Draco got up from the table, head held high, and went upstairs to his bathroom. Then he changed into his pyjamas and went to lay on his bed. With a flick of his wand, he closed the lock from the bed and lay there staring at the ceiling, wondering if Potter would want any more from him tonight. Nausea bubbled inside of him, and he waited, until he heard Potter walking past, climbing the stairs up to his own bedroom.
Then he curled up, his knees drawn to his chest. The curtains were open, and there was enough light in the room to watch the photograph, watch as a younger version of himself spun Pansy in circles until they were both laughing. Eventually, it was too dark to see, but he kept facing the photograph anyway, straining his ears to listen for Potter's footsteps.