Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

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
- 12
- 13
- 14
Chapter Thirteen

'It's better to know some of the questions

than all of the answers.'

- James Thurber

: : :

Draco wasn't sure when he fell asleep. The last thing he remembered were Potter's fingers kneading the skin at the back of his neck, accompanied by the occasional, hard tug at the roots of his hair and how that had simultaneously hurt and felt incredible...Draco smiled unconsciously into the duvet and twisted, trying to get more comfortable.

His knee encountered a hard object and the collision was instantly followed by, 'Ow! Fuck, Malfoy.'

The hard something turned out to be Potter's head. He was lying on his back, now propped up on his elbows and rubbing the side of his head with one hand. Draco twisted around some more to get a better look at him.

The first thing he thought was that Potter looked very odd without his glasses.

The second thing was, thank Merlin we're both fully dressed.

'Where the hell are my glasses?' Potter wondered aloud.

With a groan, Draco rolled over and sat up, and then immediately wished he hadn't; the hangover hit him like a Bludger, cracking his head in two and spilling his brain all over the wall behind. The sickness welled inside the back of his throat, and he took a moment to let his stomach adjust to being vertical and managed to swallow the acid back down. The ensuing burning in his esophagus combined with the pulsing around his temples left him feeling, if possible, more awful; if the Dark Lord had leapt out of the wardrobe and killed him right then, it would have been a welcome relief.

Despite the feeling of just having Splinched himself, Draco forced himself to untangle from the sheets. There was something pointy sticking into his thigh.

'I think,' he said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, 'I've sat on them.'

He pulled out the offending glasses and saw that he had, indeed, sat on them, and they'd been bent a bit funny. He dug in his pocket for his wand, tapped them swiftly, and they reverted back into their original shape. He handed them to Potter, who groped for a moment before cramming them back on his face.

'Thanks,' Potter said absently. Draco managed to swing his legs over the edge of the bed, and suddenly the answer to the throbbing in his forehead, the fingers in his hair, and the bed-sharing became clear. A large cluster of various liquor bottles—mostly lager, from the looks of it—were pooled around his feet.

Potter similarly swung his feet off the bed and looked down. 'Good lord.'

'I'm going to have a shower,' Draco declared, and attempted to stand up. It ended up being a rather silly idea, and his arse reconnected with the mattress as gravity tugged him back down.

Potter snorted and stood with ease, stretching. Draco glowered at him—of course, Harry Potter was too bloody perfect to submit to normal things like hangovers. He yawned and offered Draco a hand; Draco wrinkled his nose.

'Oh, get out of it,' Potter said. 'You'll give me a head massage but you won't take a hand up?'

Draco frowned at him. 'You remember that?'

'I always remember,' Potter said, shrugging. 'I've tried drinking to forget, believe me.'

Annoyed but resigned, Draco took his hand. He stared at it for a moment, studying the spectacle that was their hands gripping one another, and wondered why something so trivial could piss him off so much. Potter pulled him to his feet before he could decide to pull away, however, and Draco staggered into a standing position, shoving Potter away with as much force as one dizzy with a hangover could manage without falling over.

He wavered for a moment, finding his centre of gravity, then before Potter could decide to comment further on the absurdity of the night before, declared again: 'Right. Shower.'

As he walked—slowly, but steadily—over to the door, Potter called out sarcastically behind him, 'You're welcome.'

Draco made a rude hand-gesture without turning around, slamming the door on his way out.

: : :

As far as Draco was concerned, the events of last night were all an evil ploy conceived by Potter, who was apparently a closet homosexual and had used the excuse of an empty house save for two werewolves in an attempt to swindle his innocence. He could probably blame the acquired taste on his sire, as Potter—much like his father, from what Draco had heard—seemed to have a weakness for the extraordinarily attractive, if Chang and her dead boyfriend were anything to go by. His little scarlet woman wasn't harsh on the eyes either, if Draco were going to be fair about it. So it was probably just his natural Malfoy beauty that had Potter so desperately trying to hoodwink him.

Draco studied his reflection in the steam-glazed window, and found himself smirking.

All right, he thought, that may have been a bit of an exaggeration.

Out of his own clean clothes and having no house-elves to do his laundry, Draco had lacked the foresight to plan what was to be done once said shower was finished. He vaguely recalled seeing Tonks' jumper hanging half-out of a wardrobe upstairs in the room she shared with Lupin and, wrapping himself in a bathrobe he found in the closet, crept out into the hall and quickly jogged up the stairs. Sprinting over the last step he nearly impaled himself on the handlebar of the motorbike he'd uncovered on his first trip to this room; it had been moved into the hall, sans the canvas cover, and the chrome winked at him through the feeble sunlight filtering in through the window.

Suddenly, Draco remembered why he and Potter had turned to the booze the night before, and pressed the door to the master bedroom open as quietly as he could.

Lupin was no longer in the room—the room, which Draco saw, in an awestruck stupor, was in complete disarray. There were long, gouging claw-marks in every surface his eyes could see, scraps of parchment, clothing, wood, and glass strewn haphazardly around the floor. Feathers decorated disembodied pillows, making the bed look like it had served as a sacrificial altar for an entire coop of hens.

A large clump of ragged blankets and sheets beneath the gutted pillows stirred and emitted a drawn-out groan.

'Oh, god,' came a ragged voice. 'Please tell me you've come to kill me.'

Draco gave the lump a cautious, gentle prod with his wand. It growled back, but weakly and without much conviction. Pulling the blankets back gingerly, Draco uncovered a completely naked, filthy Theodore that was half caked in dust and half caked in dried blood. Similar claw marks to those on the wardrobes and floor adorned his back and shoulders, and the back of his neck boasted a deep bite wound. Draco dropped the bloody sheets in alarm.

'Kill you? You already look dead.'

'I also feel dead,' Theodore noted, either unwilling or unable to move, despite his indecency.

'Did he do—' Draco made a vague gesture at the wounds, unable to finish the question.

Theodore tried to shake his head, then winced. 'No—well, yes—but it's not what you think,' he added quickly, then grabbed his throat and pinched his eyes tightly together. 'I think I'm going to be sick.'

To his credit, he wasn't, but after Theodore recovered from the nausea and rolled into an upright position so that he was facing Draco, Draco stepped back with a start, eyes wide.

'What?' he rasped.

Draco blinked. 'I think you need to see this for yourself, mate.'

Very, very carefully, Draco helped him up, his shoulder becoming a makeshift crutch under Theodore's arm and carefully avoiding all of his many ghastly wounds or areas that would impugn his dignity. They limped over to the wardrobe together, which Draco opened with a quick flick of his wand, exposing the slightly cracked, full-length mirror inside the door.

'Sweet bloody Hippogriffs,' Theodore said, staring.

Where there had once been the body of a stringy, sharp-angled teenager there was now a lean, hardened form that looked like it could have belonged to someone who wrestled dragons for a hobby. It wasn't even that Theodore had gotten any bigger; but the pasty, somewhat squishy flesh of a teenage boy had suddenly been replaced with muscles that made it look like Theodore had been playing Quidditch religiously since he could walk.

Theodore, still staring stupidly at his reflection, gave his stomach a cautious prod with his fingertips. 'Well,' he said eventually, grinning a bit sheepishly. 'He did say there were perks.'

: : :

When Lupin had handed Theodore a plate of meat and eggs for breakfast (accompanied by a tall glass of milk), he didn't wrinkle his nose or ignore it like he had the morning before. It took three solid helpings and an extra glass before Theodore finally shook his head, unable to eat any more without regurgitating the first three rounds. Still put off by the smell of dirt and blood from that morning, Draco stuck to cold cereal and ate quickly. Potter kept shooting him looks and Draco wanted to get out of the kitchen as quickly as possible.

Despite the appetite, Theodore seemed to be still suffering from the previous night. His movements were slow and careful, and even still, he kept sporadically exhibiting loss of motor control—his hands shook, or his wrists refused to bend, or his elbow would give a funny jerk—symptoms which, Lupin assured them, were all a result of the fact that his body just suffered a major change and was still adjusting, and would cease once he'd had a few lunar cycles under his belt. Draco idly wondered if Lupin had the lithe body of a panther beneath the shabby robes, then decided for the benefit of his own health he never wanted to find out.

Draco shoved his dishes in the sink and made a quick break for upstairs—and he nearly made it, but then he heard the door below him opened and closed again.

'Wait, Malfoy.'

Against his better judgment, Draco paused on the stairs but did not look back. He said nothing.

He could hear Potter climb a few stairs, then hesitate and stop. 'Er, about last night—'

'There is nothing about last night worth the breath to discuss it,' Draco interrupted curtly.

Potter didn't reply immediately, and Draco took another step before he tried again. 'I didn't mean—Look. I don't like being stuck here with you any more than you do. But we sort of got along last night and it's nice not to have a headache every time we're both in the same room, so—I dunno. I guess I just want to make sure we're all right.'

'All right?' Draco did turn around then, expression and voice dripping with contempt. 'All right? That's implying that we were all right before last night, Potter, which—'

And then the doorbell rang from the hall upstairs, interrupting him, and the portrait began wailing. Draco turned and trotted up the stairs with Potter on his heals, and wrenched the front door open while Potter slammed the curtains shut on Mrs Black.

The sun from earlier had vanished; it was overcast once more, and drizzling. Draco found his gaze even with hooded, brown eyes that looked distinctly annoyed.

'Oh, it's you,' Zacharias Smith said, at length, but not sounding particularly surprised or concerned at all. Draco was unwillingly, deeply impressed with the tone of his drawl.

Potter appeared at his shoulder and Draco could practically feel him vibrating with indignation. 'What the hell are you doing here?' he demanded. 'How did you get—'

'Hullo to you, too,' Zacharias interrupted, shoving between them both. 'Mind if I come in? It is raining, you know.'

Draco and Potter exchanged looks, and Draco experienced a brief epiphany; he suddenly had competition for his prized Potter's Most Annoying Person In My Perfect Life position.

'This is an ugly house,' Zacharias went on behind them, dropping his trunk on the floor as Draco closed the door. 'It smells old. And these people are ugly, too,' he added, scanning the uncovered portraits. 'Are you related to these people, Potter? Certainly would explain a lot...'

'Excuse me,' Potter said shortly. 'But d'you mind telling me what in the hell—'

Sighing dramatically, Zacharias shoved an envelope under his nose to interrupt once more. 'I can't be bothered to explain, it's all in there anyway.' Potter snatched the envelope and tore it open, while Zacharias took one more look around before stopping to face them once more, arms folded over his chest. 'So, Malfoy. Fancy seeing you here.'

Draco raised an eyebrow. 'Why's that?'

Zacharias shrugged. 'Everyone at Hogwarts thinks you're dead.'

'What?'

'S'what the Prophet is saying, anyway.'

'Why do they think I'm dead?'

'Dunno, didn't bother reading much about it,' Zacharias said distractedly.

Before Draco could make the indignant protest bubbling up inside of him, Potter looked up from the letter in his hands. 'Wait, it's just you? But the letter says—'

The doorbell sounded again, and Mrs Black's portrait resumed its wailing. Zacharias seemed thoroughly amused by the spectacle of Potter attempting to stranglehold the curtains and force them closed; Draco, rolling his eyes, opened the door again.

This time, the meeting eyes were grey and protuberant. 'Well, hello. I'm happy to see you aren't dead.'

Luna Lovegood, Susan Bones, Terry Boot, and a young boy of about ten or eleven whom Draco did not know all peered curiously at him, as if expecting him to keel over and die at any moment. Draco scowled and stepped away from the door and they hurried inside, dragging their various bags and trunks in with them.

'Hi, Harry,' said Luna, wiping the rain off her forehead. 'Did Zacharias give you Dumbledore's letter?'

Potter nodded curtly and looked them over. 'Is this everyone?'

'So far,' Terry Boot said. He gave Draco and then the inside of the entry hall a brief once-over. 'So this is it, huh?'

Potter didn't answer; he was looking curiously at the small boy, who was hiding behind Terry. Terry stepped aside and put a hand on his shoulder. 'Adam, my cousin,' he explained. 'He was staying with us for the summer, luckily.' Adam edged back behind his cousin, shooting Potter a terrified look.

'I'm cold,' Susan Bones said, rubbing her shoulders and shivering; rainwater dribbled down her thick plait into a small puddle on the floor that they had formed. 'Do you have somewhere we can like, change?'

Potter looked a bit lost for a moment, but nodded quickly. 'Yeah, um. Upstairs. You lot can just pick a room, it doesn't matter.'

Susan, Terry and his cousin went up the stairs, followed by Luna, who drifted slowly along behind. Zacharias, however, stayed behind, much to the annoyance of Potter.

'I'm hungry,' he declared. 'Where's the kitchen?'

'Why are you here?' Potter demanded rudely, ignoring the question. 'I understand the others—but you're pure-blood, and your family hasn't been targeted. And anyway, didn't your mum pull you out school because she didn't want her little boy getting involved with the "wrong people"?'

Zacharias' pompous demeanour vanished. He glared coldly at Potter. 'You know, just because they call you for what you are, Potter, doesn't excuse you from keeping up with current events in theProphet.'

'What are you talking about? What's happened?'

'People have died,' he said scathingly, pulling out a worn-looking article and throwing it down on the floor at Potter's feet. 'That's what happens in war, didn't you know?'

Apparently changing his mind about food, Zacharias turned and followed the path the others had taken upstairs. Potter picked up the article and scanned it quickly. 'Oh, hell,' he said. Draco raised an eyebrow. 'The Creeveys are missing.'

'Both of them?'

'Their whole family,' Potter said, eyes still on the article. 'We're both listed as "whereabouts unknown", too. So's Blaise Zabini.'

Draco knew Blaise, of course, but Blaise had never been particularly bothered with any of them, preferring to mingle with the older students. He shrugged half-heartedly. 'His mother probably smuggled him out of the country.'

Potter frowned after a moment. 'I don't get it,' he said, looking up as Draco moved closer to peer over his shoulder at the list. 'I mean, I knew a lot of those people, too. But I don't see any Smiths on the list.'

The list was divided into two columns: those missing, and those confirmed dead; the latter of which usually included most or all members of the family. There weren't any Smiths, though, but Draco noticed that there were other students' names that he recognised under the column of confirmed deaths—Anthony Goldstein, Cormac McLaggen, Su Li, and...

'Potter,' Draco said, snatching and then staring at the list. 'Finch-Fletchley is dead.'

Potter nodded. 'Yeah, I saw. I didn't know him very well.' He paused, and suddenly looked up when he realised Draco was staring at him dubiously. 'Did you?'

Draco stared at him, disbelieving that he and Potter had attended the same school as he did for six years running.

'Smith is in our year, idiot,' Draco told him, shoving the article back at a bewildered looking Potter. 'He and Finch were best mates.'

Potter continued to stare at him, but Draco saw the comprehension dawn. There wasn't time for him to acknowledge it, however, because the doorbell rang again.

'I thought that was it,' Potter hissed, annoyed, slamming the curtains around Mrs Black closed again. Draco rolled his eyes and opened the door, wondering what colour eyes awaited him this time.

The eyes, as it turned out, were narrowed and dark, bottomless pits of contempt that looked even more annoyed than Smith's. Draco had to contain the toddler-ish urge to hug him.

'Mr Malfoy,' Snape said, looking past him. 'Potter.' He practically spat the word, and looked back to Draco. 'I see you haven't managed to poison him yet,' he said. 'Pity.'

Draco immediately moved aside to give Snape room to enter, and stepping back he bit his tongue. Snape was leaning heavily on a cane, and when he stepped over the threshold, it was with a well-pronounced limp. Draco saw Potter open his mouth as if to make a rude retort, then close it. He looked at Draco, who gave him the deadliest glare he could manage, daring him to say a word.

'Have the children arrived?' Snape demanded as Draco closed the door again—hopefully, for the last time. He half-expected the doorbell to ring again while Potter opened his mouth once more to answer, seemed unable to find the words, and settled for nodding. Snape appeared to enjoy this version of Potter, the simple absence of his insolent voice seemed to ease the harsh lines in Snape's face.

'They're upstairs,' Draco added. 'Well, except Theodore, he's down in the kitchen with Lupin.'

'Nott?' Snape asked, bemused. Draco suddenly realised he'd been hospitalised for the entire incident—and if Dumbledore hadn't mentioned it to him by now, he wouldn't know about—

'Professor,' answered a voice at the end of the hall.

The three of them looked up to see Theodore standing outside the door to downstairs, Lupin closing it quietly behind both of them. Snape took one look at the bruise on his left cheek, the long, scabbing mark over his right eye and wound on the side of his neck, and he knew. Draco could see the revelation in his eyes, cold fury boiling in the black pits, his lips forming a scowl and the harsh lines re-embedding themselves in his face.

'Lupin,' Snape said curtly, his eyes never leaving Theodore, who was now looking less like a stringy wolf and more like a cornered rabbit. 'A word.'

Draco and Theodore both winced slightly at the tone of his voice, Draco unable to comprehend how Potter and Lupin stood there and took the full force of it. That tone reminded Draco severely of his father's commanding tone, the one he used when he was in public and indifferent with Draco or, worse, alone and furious. Lucius had never needed to raise his voice to terrify Draco, only to change his tone—it cracked the air like a whip and made him want to cower and cover his head with his hands until the storm blew over.

Lupin strode over to Snape, right through the hurricane his voice had formed in the air, albeit cautiously, into the calm centre in which Snape stood—leaned—and waited, fuming. 'Of course,' he said, turning his gaze briefly to look at Potter and Draco in turn. 'Could you two go help the others settle in?'

'Sure,' Potter said, sounding as eager as Draco was to get away.

Theodore, unfortunately, had not been given permission to leave; he watched their footsteps longingly as they retreated upstairs.

: : :
- 12
- 13
- 14
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

The Heart of the Matter