Draco didn't get much sleep that night. He lay awake as the room slowly got lighter. The house made noises in the dark, but he was used to that - it was just how old houses were. It felt familiar, in a way. More familiar than it should have been.
He'd been married to Potter for almost a day, and the only things that had been asked of him were to go to Diagon Alley, which he wasn't sure he could do, calling Potter Harry, which he refused to do, and deciding on NEWTs. He supposed he could probably do that.
He didn't need to take any particular subjects. It wasn't like it mattered - it wouldn't lead anywhere, he wouldn't ever have a career. Even aside from the marriage with Potter, no one would want to hire a Death Eater, and that was what he was. He reached down, running his fingers over the bandage at his left elbow. He didn't deserve to be here. He deserved to be rotting in a cell with Father and the rest who bore the Dark Lord's mark. Potter's kindness should have gone to someone who deserved it.
He curled up into a ball, crying silently. This was his life now, his home, and his mother would expect him to conduct himself with a degree of dignity, with self-respect. She'd always taught him to hold his head high, no matter what came his way.
He thought through his fifth year grades - he'd been so distracted in sixth year, he would need to start over regardless. Potions. That at least was obvious, even if his chest twisted as he thought of Professor Snape, who had been brave enough to carry out the mission he had failed, who had kept him alive and shown him kindness. Charms seemed to be a good choice. Ancient Runes - he found the symbols comforting in a way, the idea of magic stretching back further than bloodlines. He wished his mother was there to help him decide. He couldn't ask Potter, and there was no one else he could speak to. Defence Against the Dark Arts had never been his favourite subject, but he supposed Potter would be taking that one, and there should be at least an overlap in their studies. He watched the sunlight creeping higher up the wall, trying to think about what he had enjoyed. Astronomy, perhaps. His mother had taught him the constellations as a child, and watching the stars had always made him feel closer to her. He grabbed a piece of parchment and a quill, writing out the list so that he could hand it over at breakfast.
When he heard the pipes creaking, he went to wash as well, spelling the door locked, before dressing neatly and heading down to the kitchen. Potter was standing there in his pyjamas, cramming bread into some metal box that stood on his counter.
"Morning, Draco," Potter greeted him with a brilliant smile, looking far better rested than Draco felt. Draco nodded a greeting, putting the piece of parchment down, and Potter glanced over, picking it up and reading it over. "Thanks for this. Potions… We've got a room downstairs I think you could use for brewing, if that'd help. I can get the books and some ingredients this weekend if you are sure you don't want to come."
"Certain, Potter." Draco answered, watching as the box regurgitated the bread as toast. "People are happier pretending I don't exist."
"They shouldn't…" Potter murmured. "I mean. People stare. People always stare, but-"
"They stare at you, Potter, because you are a hero. They stare at me because they know I should be in Azkaban." Draco pointed his wand at the kettle, setting it to make some tea for the two of them, crushing down the childish part of himself that liked how he and Harry fitted together in the kitchen, how easily they moved around each other. He ended up sitting at the table with a cup of tea and some toast, as Potter grabbed a seemingly endless supply of spreads.
"I wasn't sure what you liked so I've got butter, honey, jam - strawberry and raspberry, marmalade, marmite, peanut butter-"
"Thank you." Draco interrupted, wondering if the cupboard had a limit to what it held or if its supplies were endless.
Potter sat down as well, that inane smile still on his face. "Astronomy's a bit tricky in London, but I'm sure we can go and visit the Weasleys if you need to make star charts, I'd never seen as many stars as I saw there-"
Draco didn't argue. He knew the Weasleys hated him for good reason - his aunt had killed one of their sons. Still, if they chose to hex him, that was their choice and he would handle it. He could handle anything Potter threw at him. He was a Malfoy. He was Narcissa's son, and he would act like it.
Draco tried to hold onto those words, to wrap them like a blanket around himself. He was here, he was Narcissa's son. He would survive. He took the toast Potter proffered. "Did you decide which subjects you're taking?" Draco asked, to fill the silence, to stop Potter trying to find ways to help him. He didn't understand. He already owed Potter his life. Potter didn't need to do any more.
"I've not decided yet," Potter admitted, shrugging. "I mean, I started a few but…" He stared down at his plate, lapsing into silence. "It doesn't feel right, does it? Going back to being students, after-"
Draco hesitated. A dozen things to say formed in his mouth - that Potter had done what he could, that he had saved people, that he deserved to carry on with his life just as much as Draco deserved to rot. None of them seemed to come out. Instead, he shot Potter the haughtiest look he could. "I knew it, Potter. You're just scared I'll get higher marks than you in Defence Against The Dark Arts, and you'll have to hang up your wand in shame."
Potter grinned at him, and Draco wondered if he had found the right thing to say after all. Potter was smearing something which smelt awful onto his toast, and Draco watched him curiously.
"I thought I might take a look upstairs later, see if I can make one of the rooms a study or something," Potter was saying, fidgeting with his cutlery as he spoke. "Maybe try and get that boggart out of the library. What are your plans?"
"Do you need me for anything?" Draco asked, because he was here and it only felt like he should be useful.
"I'll do the first clean myself," Potter answered, and Draco nodded with a sick feeling in his chest. It was likely that there were all kinds of dark artefacts in the room, and Potter didn't want him anywhere near them, because Draco was a Death Eater and a monster.
"I'll take a look at the books you left in my room, I think some of them were NEWT standard," Draco said simply to kill the silence. Once he had eaten he waved his wand at the plates, setting them to wash and dry themselves. Potter stared and Draco wondered if he should have done the dishes by hand. If Potter wanted him to do it by hand, he'd have to say.
Draco returned to his bedroom, and spent some time spelling the door closed before realising that it was pointless and removing the spells. He thought for a moment, and then set up a few perimeter spells - one to let him know someone was on his landing, another that they were stopped outside the door, and one if anyone touched the handle.
He picked up a potions book from the shelf and took it over to the desk, setting it up beside the photograph of him and his mother. She looked concerned. He watched her for a moment. She'd not been frightened, that day when his father had been sent away. But it had been different when that had been his own fate.
He couldn't face her gaze. With a murmured apology, he turned her away and tried to read. The words blurred. It didn't feel real, trying to study, trying to get on with life when his shame was burned into his arm, a brand that would never ever leave him.
His alarms were triggered at midday, but the door didn't open. When he went to look, he found a plate of sandwiches waiting there, with a glass of apple juice. He floated them inside, sitting back at the desk, surprised to find he was smiling.
At seven, Potter called him for dinner. He was eager to talk about the improvements he had made, and Draco tried to nod and smile at all the right points, the way he had at the trial. His mother had always made it look so easy.
Another night passed without sleep, and without his alarms being triggered. A strange fearful anger bubbled in his chest. If Potter wanted him, then Potter would have to be the one to cross the space between them. He wouldn't refuse, but he wouldn't ask. He couldn't bring himself to do that.
The following morning, Potter had made a larger breakfast, like the one they had had for their first meal as a married couple. He looked at Draco, frowning. "You look shit, Malfoy."
"No I don't." Draco answered. He knew he looked impeccable. He always did - he was careful with his appearance. Vain, some said, which reminded him of sneering comments about the peacocks in the manor grounds. But the comments did not matter, he was always fastidious about how he looked.
"How've you been sleeping? Bed too hard? Too soft?" Asked Potter, as though Potter himself hadn't spent months sleeping in a tent in the middle of fields, as though Draco hadn't got used to snatching moments of rest in the Room of Requirement in sixth year. Draco suspected Potter was mocking him, but he had no easy comeback to give.
"It's fine, Potter." Draco answered, staring at the teacup in front of him. He thought his mother had the same set - these were nicer than the mismatched mugs that Potter had been using before.
"Draco…" Potter tried, and then shook his head. "And you're sure you don't want to come to Diagon Alley this weekend?"
"I'm certain."
"Is there anything I can get you? Anything you want or… or that would help with…" Potter trailed off. "Did you want to get a cat? Hermione always says Crookshanks is good company."
"If you want a cat, Potter, get a cat." Draco answered again. His fingers twitched, and he wanted to tear at his arm, but he carefully focused on breathing. He thought back to times he had been terrified, and he could see his Aunt's face in front of him, see his own frightened gaze reflected in a blade. He knew how to keep emotions tucked in. If he could do it then, he could do it now.
He was just so tired.
After breakfast, he went back to his room. This time he did risk spelling the door locked, and spent an uneasy couple of hours napping in the chair at his desk, his head cushioned on his arms. It didn't solve how exhausted he was, but it meant he could at least think as he looked back at his books. He drew up a list of basic potions ingredients. He knew his mother would pay for them if he asked. But he couldn't write to her, not unless Potter was alright with it. He didn't want to ask, because all the time he hadn't asked, he had hope that he would be allowed. He could avoid the pain of Potter saying no.
He presented Potter with the list at dinner. "I think these are what I will need for Potions for the sixth year course."
"Alright," Potter agreed, not even bothering looking through the list. Draco wondered if he could have added poisons on there without Potter noticing.
That evening, he didn't sense Potter going up to his own bed. The clock chimed one in the morning before he stepped out, wrapping a silken robe over his pyjamas. He made his way down the stairs, pausing at what he found waiting for him. Potter was still in the clothes he'd been wearing earlier that day, sitting in an armchair and staring blankly at the fire, a discarded and half-drunk glass of firewhisky to one side, the bottle near empty. He looked like he'd been there for a while.
Draco could have gone back upstairs to bed, but he didn't want to leave Potter in that kind of state. He walked over and took a sip of the whisky before Potter seemed to spot him.
"Draco?"
"Not the worst whisky I've had," Draco told him conversationally. "Why are you still up?"
"Couldn't sleep." Harry muttered, and he ran his fingers through his hair, making it stick up in that infuriating way it always did, his gaze lingering a moment too long. "Sorry. Did I disturb you?"
"You didn't. Did I?"
"No… it's… it's good to have the company." Harry waved a hand and another glass came to join the one he had. He poured some of the amber liquid into each, looking up at Draco. "You want a drink?"
Draco took one, holding it up, and glanced at Potter. "What are we drinking to?"
Potter hesitated, staring at the glass in his hand. "Fallen friends and second chances?"
Draco knocked his glass against Harry's own, draining it, aware of how Potter was staring at him. He knew that look. He knew Potter wanted him, and he decided there was no point waiting, because for some incomprehensible reason Potter seemed to refuse to make the first move. At first he'd wondered if it was some kind of torture, making him wait, or else that Potter was shy. But it wasn't those things. Potter wasn't going to do this, unless Draco wanted it.
That realisation settled in his chest, a fountain of hope bubbling up inside of him before he could think better of it. He stepped forwards, wrapping his arms around Potter's shoulders, and leaned in for a kiss.
"Draco?"
"There are better things we could do this evening than sit here and drink." Draco told him, biting at Harry's lip and then leaning in to kiss him deeper. He wanted Harry to know he wanted this. Not because of debt, or because of fear. Not even because Harry'd saved him. But because Harry had been what he wanted since he learned how to want.
And after a moment, Harry seemed to realise, pulling Draco closer, strong hands running down Draco's back. Harry moaned against his lips. "Have you… before?" Potter asked, still breathless from Draco kissing him, glasses knocked askew.
Draco looked down at him and arched an eyebrow. "Potter, I look like this, and I lived in a mansion full of Death Eaters for over a year. What do you think?" He'd expected an answering smirk. Instead, Potter's face looked… concerned. He seemed to be drawing back, and Draco didn't want that, didn't want to lose whatever this was and replace it with more awkward formality from the man who was his husband, for Merlin's sake. "Anyway, I'd messed around with the guys in my year and on the Quidditch team." He grinned, leaning in to nip at Potter's ear. "You?"
"I…I was a bit busy." Harry panted, his hands running down Draco's sides. "Caught up in saving the world and everything. But I know the theory."
Draco laughed at that, pulling back to gaze into Harry's eyes, and he was smirking. "Scared, Potter?"
"You wish." Harry answered, and it was easy - easy to keep kissing him, to pull him up the stairs towards Draco's bed, because that was closer. To put down the photographs so they wouldn't see. It was easy to undo the ties to Potter's robes, unbutton his shirt, while Harry simply cursed at the buttons and reached for his wand. Draco ducked out of the way, risking a smile.
"Uh, I'd rather you didn't use cutting charms around me, Potter. After last time."
Harry did laugh then, and Draco was laughing as well, reaching out for another kiss as he guided impatient hands to the buttons of his shirt. They were both too drunk, but this felt right. It felt like they'd been dancing around this for years, and now, finally, things were falling into place. Draco allowed hope to spark within him as Harry fumbled him out of his clothes, pressing hot kisses to his throat. His hands brushed the bandage at Draco's arm, and Draco gently shook his head. "Not there."
Harry seemed to understand, fingers skimming the bandages almost reverentially. Draco tilted his head and moaned, because Potter seemed to like the noise. Because Harry gasped and pressed closer, muttering under his breath and making Draco laugh as a bottle of lubricant came flying into the room.
"Not elegant, Potter." He muttered, before Potter was kissing him again, lying Draco down. The room was dark, which was a relief. He didn't want Harry to see his scars. He could see the outline of Harry, and he learned his body by touch.
Potter fucked like a boy, not a man. His touches reminded Draco of laughter, of stolen moments and friendship, of heat and bodies warm from quidditch, not marble and the scent of death and the distant sound of a snake slithering over the floor. Harry was strong. He'd made Draco bleed, left him bruised in fights on the quidditch pitch and in corridors. But here he was careful with Draco, treated him with tenderness Draco had learned not to expect. When Draco came, Potter spilling from his lips, Harry pulled him close and kissed him, shaking with his own climax. Harry didn't complain even though calling him 'Harry' was one of the few requests he'd made. Draco tried to press down on the feeling of warmth in his chest, the one that filled him at Potter's smile.
He couldn't afford to feel anything for Potter. That wasn't the point. They were just… married enemies turned maybe-friends who had had sex because it was better than another night of remembering. He clung to that knowledge as he fell asleep.
Draco woke to a pounding headache, and the realisation someone was in bed with him, their arm flung possessively over his chest. He winced a little on the inside, cracking his eyes open, and feeling a sudden irrational flush of hurt that his mother hadn't brought him tea, the way she always did. It helped, waking up to see a cup there on his bedside cabinet, charmed to keep warm, knowing she would have added potions to ensure nothing would come of how he had been used. She never forgot, and he felt fear for her, more than for himself. He was careful, holding still as he glanced down, wondering if he could identify who was with him without waking them.
Harry. It was Harry's warm brown arm across his chest, and everything fell into place. He wasn't at the manor. He was at his 'home,' and they'd both been drunk, and he'd… he'd taken Potter to his bed.
He scrambled out from the sheets, rushing to the bathroom, locking the door and turning on the shower. He let himself throw up in the toilet, peeling off the bandages across his arm so he could wash.
There was a knock on the bathroom door, he'd woken Potter. A moment later he realised that he wasn't actually afraid of waking him like he'd been with the men at the manor. "Draco?"
"I'm hungover, Potter. Leave me be." Draco tried to keep his voice steady.
"I'll make breakfast," Potter called, ever helpful. "I'll leave you some clothes outside…"
Draco went to stand under the shower. He wanted to feel clean. He heard Potter moving around outside the door, but the door stayed closed, and eventually he stepped out, rebandaged his arm, wrapped himself in a towel, and cracked the door open.
There were some of his clothes there, waiting. Not the ones he would have chosen - it looked like Potter had been searching for what might be 'comfortable'. He took them with an amused huff, and then spotted what else Potter had left. A cup of tea, and a scribbled note next to it. Ron swears this is the best potion for hangovers.
He returned to the bathroom to dress, then picked the tea up, taking a sip. It tasted of ginger and cardamom, but it was warming, and it chased away the remaining headache. He wanted to retreat back to his bedroom.
He knew Potter would be waiting for him downstairs. He drained the cup before he headed down to greet him.