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The Heart of the Matter	By : Jad Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 7323 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 11
- 12
- 13
Notes:

Don't get too excited yet. Seriously. I'm just teasing you.

Chapter Twelve

Never go to bed mad. Stay up and fight.

-Phyllis Diller

: : :

'So,' Draco said, sitting on the edge of the bench. Potter was across the other side of the table, leaning both hands on the top and glaring at him. 'With the Weasley Mother gone—'

'Don't call her that.'

'—what are we supposed to eat?'

Potter blinked at him. 'Er. I dunno.' He thought for a moment, then asked, 'Can you cook?'

Draco stared at him. 'Potter, recent meals aside, house-elves have cooked every single meal I've ever eaten.'

'Oh. Um.' Potter glanced at the small, metal trunk that served as the icebox in the corner. 'Leftovers?'

'With that army eating, there's no such thing,' Draco said, rolling his eyes. 'Can you cook?'

'Er...' Potter frowned. 'Not really. My aunt always made me watch the food, she never let me cook it—look, there's got to be something here, just cereal or something—'

'Cereal is breakfast food, Potter.'

'Well then bloody go hungry,' Potter snapped, losing his patience. 'The moon's rising soon anyway, we don't have time to cook. Just grab something and take it upstairs.'

Draco sighed and kicked open the icebox, lazily rifling through the stash of foods kept preserved inside. Lupin had already locked himself and Theodore in the master bedroom, which had apparently already been fortified from his previous stay in the house to accommodate his monthly transformation.

'It'll be safer,' Lupin had assured them, 'for him as well as you both, if I'm there with him. We can't risk giving him the potion yet, but at least one of us will have our heads.'

To which Draco asked, 'But won't he attack you if you're the only other thing in the room?' Lupin had shrugged. 'Then what?'

Lupin had just raised his eyebrows. 'Then I'll put him in his place.'

Draco had decided he really did not want to know any more about werewolves or their disturbing habits, and then had been terrified to learn that they'd be staying in Potter's room, just below the master bedroom with the two blood-bent monsters.

'It's got all sorts of protection on it, aside from just the ones on Headquarters,' Potter had vaguely explained with a shrug. 'And anyway, it has the portrait that can talk to Dumbledore, which is important.'

Draco was pulled back to the present with his rather pleasant discovery in the icebox. 'Ah-hah,' he declared, smirking. 'Dinner!'

Potter glanced over from the cupboard he'd been rifling through, and gave him a look. 'That's ice cream, Malfoy.'

'So?' Draco demanded, hugging the tub of Butterbeer Swirl to his chest.

'You can't have just ice cream for dinner.'

'Says who? The werewolf? He'll be too busy howling at the moon to give a damn what we're having for dinner. Hell, they'll want us for dinner, if anything. If this is possibly my last meal, I'll eat what I like, dammit.'

'Fine, shut up, I don't care, eat the stupid ice cream. I hope it gives you a stomach ache,' Potter said, exasperated and turning away. 'And nobody is going to get eaten,' he added after a moment.

'Famous last words, Potter.'

The trip upstairs was a quiet one. Draco had his ice cream and a large spoon, and Potter had seen the error of his ways and decided a few pumpkin pasties and a pack of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans would do him good. Draco flopped happily on his bed and flipped open the lid, disgruntled to find someone had already raided half the tub, but it probably saved him the stomach ache, so he didn't bother to complain.

Halfway through the remains of the ice cream, Draco felt like he'd swallowed a bucket of ice and decided to take a break before the cramping began to get unbearable. Instead, he'd taken to coating his spoon in the melting edges of the dessert and doing obscene things to the appliance with his tongue, waggling his eyebrows suggestively at Potter—who was rolling his eyes in a resigned sort of despair.

'That is really, truly disgusting, Malfoy,' Potter said, making a face.

Draco smirked and licked the cream off his upper lip. 'I doubt you'd say that if your little girlfriend learned how to do it.'

'Speaking of my girlfriend,' Potter said, probably in attempt to hide the rising colour of his cheeks, 'you need to watch your mouth about her.'

'Funny, I could tell her the same thing.'

Potter frowned. 'All right,' he said after a moment, surprising Draco. 'Fair enough. And for the record, I never thought that about Parkinson.'

Draco considered for a moment, then smirked. 'I wasn't lying, you know,' he said finally. 'About Pucey.' He paused as Potter tensed, eyes narrowing. 'Are you sure you don't want to know?'

'It's none of my business,' Potter said flatly. 'Or yours, for that matter. I don't care.'

Draco was extremely pleased to see Potter fuming, but the victory was short-lived; above them, something gave a laboured, tortured cry and there was a thump as if something large had collapsed above them. Draco's eyes moved to the uncovered window and discovered that the sky had started turning indigo already, and he wondered if the moon was visible on the other side of the house yet.

The noise from upstairs drifted off, and it was quiet for almost a minute, and then there was the same sound, only deeper, more ragged, and Draco felt himself shiver and didn't think it had anything to do with too much ice cream.

'Lupin said this'll be the worst part,' Potter said suddenly, when the noise had faded again. He had a distant look in his eyes, focused somewhere outside the window. 'The change, I mean.'

Draco nodded, absently; Lupin had taken them both aside separately, and likely to tell them the same thing:

'Whatever you do, whatever you hear, or think you hear, you must not leave that room,' he'd told Draco in the most serious voice Draco had heard since the last time he'd seen his father. 'For your own safety, as well as Theodore's.'

Draco really didn't have any plans of leaving the room at all until the sun came back up. He'd already used the loo and had plenty to drink stashed under his bed, and the ice cream would hold until breakfast. Pulling off his outer clothes aside from a thin t-shirt and Tonks' jeans, he reclined in his bed, hoping to fall asleep before the worst of it.

He almost managed to get to sleep, and then realised it would have been a moot point anyway, because then Theodore started screaming.

'Jesus Christ,' Draco whispered, wincing.

Potter had his eyes closed, but Draco could see the line of his shoulders were pulled taut—Draco, similarly, found himself wedged into the corner of the walls his bed was against, pressing himself against the wallpapered plaster so hard his shoulders were growing sore, and the sound seemed to almost reverberate through him. Theodore wasn't screaming like a kid upset screaming, or his mother had died and he was angry screaming, or even a scared-shitless screaming—it was screaming of a pure, unadulterated agony, the sort of sound that made you imagine, even feel, every ounce of torture.

In what was probably only a few minutes but felt like several hours, the screams changed. It was a subtle change that Draco didn't notice at first, even with the sound coursing through him, but the vocalisations had steadily began to lose their familiarity. Slowly, surely changing, becoming more animal and less human, the low, agonised moans trailing off into deep, guttural snarls that made Draco think of deadly, golden eyes and sharp white teeth hiding in dark places.

'Oi, Malfoy.'

Draco looked up and, somehow, managed to catch the bottle Potter had tossed at him from across the room. Draco stared at him, watching Potter dig out another bottle from a box he'd dragged out from under his bed. Draco turned the bottle over, looking at the label. He looked at Potter and raised an eyebrow.

'Takes the edge off,' Potter said, shrugging. 'It was Lupin's idea, believe it or not.'

Draco abandoned his ice cream and, twisting the top off the lager in his hand, gave him a half-hearted toast. 'Cheers.'

: : :

Draco finished off the lager, and it joined the other five empty bottles on the floor by his feet. There was a single candle lighting the room now, just by Potter's bed, and he could see a similar pile of empty bottles at the foot of it. He looked mournfully to the side and discovered he'd gone through the stash Potter had given him, but the crashing and murderous snarls in the room above were still making him wince.

'Toss another,' he said.

Potter squinted up at him. 'You had six, Malfoy.'

'And now I've got zero,' Draco informed him irritably. 'And I am still coherent. So toss another.'

Potter frowned. 'This is the last of it,' he said, holding up a bottle that was half-full of some amber-coloured liquor. 'At least without going back downstairs.'

'Give it here,' Draco insisted.

'Piss off,' Potter said. 'Just because you've gone through your lot like a sot doesn't mean you can nick mine.'

With a considerable effort, Draco focused on the fuzzy, dark blot that was Potter. 'Don't make me come over there and get it, Potter.'

'As if you can even stand after six.'

Not about to be undermined, Draco hauled himself to his feet. Albeit not very gracefully, but he made it to a standing position nonetheless. 'You were saying?'

'That you are a git,' Potter finished. 'One who intends to steal my brandy, and—oi,' Potter made a face as Draco collapsed beside him, nearly knocking him sideways, and snatched the bottle out of his hand. 'Prat. Piss off.'

'Cheers,' Draco said, and took a generous swallow. 'Eugh, this stuff tastes worse than the lager.'

'It was this or Firewhisky.'

'Firewhisky!' Draco exclaimed, keeping a forceful grip on the brandy that Potter attempted to reclaim. 'We have more Firewhisky? Why the hell am I drinking lagers when we have Firewhisky?'

'Because there was only one bottle, and I think it's Snape's,' Potter said irritably, finally wrenching the brandy bottle back. 'Ow. God, you're pointy. Budge over.'

'Sod off,' Draco snapped, taking the bottle back with a well-aimed snatch.

'You are such a fucking pushy bastard.'

'You forgot "good-looking".'

'I forgot "ferret-faced".'

'You also forgot to take that mop off your head.'

Potter, momentarily giving up the fight for the bottle, glared sideways at him. 'Is it like, an inherited impossibility for you to be civil?'

'To you?' Draco askedthrough another sip. 'I just enjoy being a pillock.'

Potter rolled his eyes, but didn't comment. Instead, he snatched the brandy back. Draco whined, disgruntled, and made a sorry attempt at recapturing it. Potter slapped his hand away, so Draco hit him, and next thing Draco knew, they were having an all-out brawl over the bottle.

Draco shortly lost said brawl when his head smacked into the wall with a loud thud and Potter wrenched away from him, and they both froze as the noise upset the fresh werewolf upstairs, and it gave a particularly nasty roar.

'Bugger,' Draco said, as Potter cursed. He sat up and touched his temple and winced; oh, there'll be a bump there in the morning...

'You all right?'

Draco blinked down at Potter, whose head was somehow now in his lap. So that was what that weight was. 'Er,' Draco said. 'I don't know.' He rubbed his head lightly until the throbbing died down to a steady pulse, then said, 'That can't be good, can it?'

Potter frowned and, after a long, mournful look at the bottle, handed Draco the brandy. 'That'll dull it either way.'

Draco snatched it away without hesitation. 'Ah-hah, victory!' he declared, then afterwards considered that it was a bit of a dorky thing for him to do, but decided he didn't care because he was the Winner and that was all that mattered.

Potter snorted. 'You can't say that until you've beaten me to the Snitch.'

Leave it to Potter to spoil the moment. 'I hate you,' Draco informed him.

'Sure you do,' Potter said, grinning.

'I do! I hate you like… erm… oil hates water. I hate you like Hippogriffs hate me. I hate you like Snape hates hygiene. I hate you like... like...' He paused, thinking—something that certainly required more effort than normal and slowed the process of communicating considerably.

'Like spiders hate Basilisks?' Potter suggested.

'Yes,' Draco agreed. 'And even more than that. I hate you like you hate me.'

'Hm.' Potter shrugged against his lap. 'I don't really hate you that much.'

Draco rolled his eyes again.

'What? I don't,' Potter said, narrowing his eyes. 'I think you're a git. A spoilt little brat that treats people like scum when they don't deserve it. And I hate being around you—'

'Says the sod with his head in my lap.'

'—I just don't hate hate you,' Potter finished, ignoring his comment. 'I mean, I thought I did. Before the whole thing,' he made a vague motion with his hands, 'in school, you know.'

'With Dumbledore?'

'No,' Potter admitted. 'Before that. In the bathroom.'

There was a noteworthy pause. The phantom pain in his chest was back and Draco shifted slightly, while Potter's expression contracted, probably realising that that was perhaps not the best thing to talk about.

'Anyway,' Potter said quickly. 'What I mean is, I don't—'

'Hate me, yes, I heard you,' Draco snapped irritably.

'I don't,' Potter said again, then sighed and closed his eyes.

'What would you call it then?'

'Very extreme dislike?' Potter offered, eyes still closed. His temple was resting against the crook of Draco's hip, and random wisps of black hair were tickling the inside of his elbow. Draco didn't answer him, and after a moment Potter said, 'Pass that brandy, would you?'

'You'll spill it on yourself like that.'

'Will not. Give it here.'

Draco, a bit grudgingly, handed it over. 'You've got a big head,' Draco felt it necessary to inform him, and was mildly impressed that Potter managed to take a long swig without spilling it on himself, or his lap.

'You've got a very pointy noise.'

'And a big ugly scar on your block.'

'Too much what-not in your hair.'

'I can't believe you just had a go at my hair,' Draco said, wrinkling his nose as he lightly ruffled the mop in his lap. 'Do you even own a brush, Potter?'

'Wouldn't matter if I did,' Potter said, smirking. He looked odd, smirking with his eyes closed. 'Brushes don't make a difference. Nothing does.'

Draco, whose hand was still tangled in said hair, squinted at him. 'Lies,' he declared, using his fingers as a makeshift comb. He frowned as the task turned out to be a lot trickier than he first considered, as Potter's hair absolutely refused to lie flat under his fingers.

Potter's smirk continued to grow the harder Draco tried, and snickered as Draco cursed and lightly thumped him in exasperation. 'Told you so.'

'Bugger that,' Draco said, going back at it. 'This won't be the end of me.'

'S'lost cause,' Potter warned him.

'Quiet, mortal.'

Potter snorted softly, but obliged. He leaned his head to the side, so his nose was all but pressing in Draco's hip, to give him better access. Potter's hair was longer than it looked—the strands were as long as Draco's fingers, at least—but it stuck up so much and was so thick that he didn't notice until he got his fingers tangled in it. And tangled was accurate, because his fingers were constantly caught in little knots as he brushed through it with his fingers. By the time most of the knots were gone, Draco noticed that Potter's hair was, despite the mess, rather soft, but still refusing to cooperate. Untangled and soft or not, it was still defying gravity in a very unsightly manner. Draco figured that he must have been too drunk to use his heavenly powers to correct it.

Potter grunted at the sudden lack of attention. Draco raised an eyebrow. 'What's that?'

'Why'd you stop?'

'I gave up. You are impossible, and so is your stupid hair.'

Potter made another noise, one that sounded like a cross between a gurgle and grunt. 'Don't.'

'Why?'

Potter shifted, burrowing his nose deeper into his hip, and mumbled what sounded like, 'Felt good.'

Draco blinked, and considered that information very carefully before saying, 'What do I get out of it?'

Potter thought for a moment, then said, 'The rest of the brandy?'

'Deal.'

Potter handed him the bottle and, after a generous drink, Draco set his fingers back to work. He'd got the easy end of the deal, he reasoned; combing Potter's hair with his fingers was easy, mostly due to the fact that he played with his own hair enough for the movements to come naturally.

Potter sighed under the touch and sagged against his waist, occasionally twisting his head this way and that when Draco's fingers came to an area he was lying on. Draco started at the top, running his fingers through the fringe against his forehead and temples, and Potter jumped a bit when his thumb accidentally brushed against his scar.

'Sorry,' Draco said automatically.

'No, s'fine,' Potter murmured. 'Just—not used to it.'

Draco brushed it with his thumb again, deliberately now. Potter shivered, but not unpleasantly, and Draco decided that it was a rather alarming development and got back to work with his hair. He kneaded his fingertips against the temple before brushing the hair there back, tucking it behind his ear.

He nudged the hook of Potter's glasses he encountered there with his finger. 'Take these off.'

Potter wordlessly obeyed, blindly folding them and tossing them aside. Then he turned his forehead so it laid flat against Draco's abdomen, leaving the entire back and sides of his head exposed. Draco smirked, amused at how enthusiastic Potter was about it; it was like having a sleepy (if slightly drunk) puppy in his lap, begging to be pet. Well, who was he to deny? He had the brandy, anyway.

He smoothed the collar of Potter's shirt down so he could get his fingers under the hair at the base of his neck, and ran his fingers up the back of his scalp, letting his nails dig in a little; Potter groaned lightly, encouragingly, and Draco did it again, only now with both hands and letting his fingers branch out to get the backs of his ears. He felt Potter expel a hot breath out his nose into his shirt, sighing as he repeated the movement in varying degrees, earning more variously pleased noises as he works.

'Hell,' Potter said after a few minutes.

Draco smirked lazily and ran his thumb behind his ear, smoothing the skin there, while his other fingers rustled through the unkempt hair. 'Good?'

'Grungkh,' Potter said into his hip. Then, a bit breathless but more coherently, 'God. Yes.'

Draco decided that, alarming or not, he was a bit tempted by the power he suddenly had; to make Potter feel that way was like exerting a control over him Draco had never possessed before. He started at the base of Potter's neck again, really digging his nails in, and then Potter let out a sound that sounded far too close to a muffled moan into his stomach.

Oh, bother, Draco thought. We are not going there.

Potter swallowed against his hip, but didn't protest when Draco's ministrations lost most of their fervour, lightly rifling through the strands, smoothing the random bits that kept popping up defiantly. A few moments of sleepy silence passed by that way, until Potter suddenly rolled onto his back so that his head was now resting on Draco's thigh. He looked up at Draco, took him by the collar and gently but firmly pulled his head down. The angle was painful, and Potter's grip was so tight it choked him a bit.

'Potter,' he managed to say, 'if backs were meant to be bent this way, blokes would be giving themselves blowjobs.'

Draco then had the realisation that perhaps now was not the appropriate time to mention blowjobs, or anything that had to do with that sort of idea, really.

Potter ignored his comment and held him there. Then he used his other hand to touch the back of Draco's neck and ran his fingers under the curtain of silky hair there, kneading and scraping similarly with his fingernails. Draco let out an involuntary gasp and his forehead dropped forward, hitting Potter's cheek.

'Told you,' he heard Potter murmur by his ear.

Bleakly, Draco nodded against his cheek, before shifting his legs out from under Potter's head—soon they were lying side-by-side instead, with Draco's head by Potter's hip and Potter's similarly vice-versa. He was lying on his stomach, and Potter continued to play with his hair, and Draco dimly wondered if that was a bad idea. It felt good, and he had no issue admitting that he did not want the massage to stop; however, Draco also was aware that bad ideas frequently felt very good ideas at the time of conception, and end up feeling a lot less good and much more awkward and terrifying later.

The wolves upstairs were fighting again; there was a difference between the two, one Draco could hear in both their snarls and their footsteps, one heavier and more controlled, another wild and blinded by rage. He could hear them slam against the walls, scramble to their feet, bound and leap from one end of the room to the other, so forcefully he was surprised it didn't rip the house apart. And then, a loud slam of something hitting—or being pinned—to the floor, and a puppy-like squeal, and then silence.

Potter's fingers sorted out the tangles in his hair, smoothed down the knots in the back of his neck, and Draco watched the moon slowly set through the window as he finally drifted off to sleep.

: : :
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The Heart of the Matter