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Under the Manor	By : WillGirl Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 13318 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: I make no claims to Harry Potter, either books or movies, and all rights belong to JKR. No money or other recompense is being made from this story.

Chapter List
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But there are some things that cannot simply be walked away from. Wars leave wounds, lingering ones, both on the surface and far beneath it. The scars on his body—the lightning bolt on his forehead, and circle on his chest, the words on his hand, the incidental marks and gashes that dotted arms and legs and everything—those he could live with, ignore; Harry had never been particularly vain, and he did not much care, now, about the blemishes.

Ginny didn’t either, so why should he? She had scars of her own—they were both battered, broken people, still healing from the fight—and they were both the stronger for it, although sometimes in the middle of the night, when the dreams came, that was hard to see.

But they held each other through the nightmares, and moved on with their lives, and managed to smile more often than not.

Time passed, life went on: Harry was working as an Auror now; Ginny was flying Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies, and Harry had season tickets so he could watch, because she was good, and because he loved to see her fly.

Hermione had done just what she had sworn once to Scrimgeour that she would never do, and she was busy day and night, rewriting laws, righting wrongs; her fourth year crusade for House Elves had spiraled out into a revamped policy for all magical creatures, and Harry couldn’t be prouder (although he was glad that she had given up on knitted hats and badges, at least).

And Ron—Ron was amazing. He had stepped up when George fell apart, when Fred died; he had pulled his brother out of a depression that Harry had been frightened even to contemplate, let alone approach. He kept promising Harry that he would come and join him soon, be an Auror too—Kingsley had extended the offer to everyone who had fought in the Battle of Hogwarts, whatever their N.E.W.T. status might be—but Harry knew that he was needed where he was, with George. He could wait to have his friend join him; he was not that selfish, even if Neville was packing up to leave.

“I never meant to do this full-time, Harry,” he explained. “It’s just not me, you know?”

“I know, Neville.”

“But it was important, right, to do it—to catch them all, to help. Important for the world, and for me to help do it.”

“I know it was.”

“Dumbledore’s Army, right?”

“Dumbledore’s Army, Neville. Forever.”

“But it’s just not me, Harry. I don’t want to do this for the rest of my life. I’m going back to Hogwarts—”

“I know, Neville. I think it’s great, honest. You don’t have to explain yourself to me, mate, I’m happy for you. You’ll have fun with Sprout, you leafy freak.”

Neville had dangled him in the air by his ankle for that one, and they had both laughed, and hugged, and then Neville had gone, and then their office had just been his office, and he had been standing there alone.

It wouldn’t have been so bad, except that without Neville there, there was nothing to distract Harry from his thoughts, and those frightened him. There were things he couldn’t get out of his mind, nightmares he couldn’t chase away, and there were things that weren’t nightmares, and should have been, and those scared him even more.

Harry found himself spending a lot of time just walking around aimlessly by himself.

Sometimes when he left work, later than he should have—because he was Harry Potter, and he couldn’t leave things unfinished—he just couldn’t face going home. Ginny was away at training hell camp, or whatever Gwenog called it, and it was just Harry and Kreacher, most nights.

He missed Ron and Hermione. Harry still didn’t see why they had had to move out. They had been happy together, the four of them, and there was plenty of room at Number 12, so why had they had to leave?

“It’s part of growing up, Harry,” Hermione had explained patiently. “I love it here, I really do, and I love all of us being together, but—but we can’t stay like this forever. We’re going to grow up, get married, start families, all of that. We’re not all going to fit here and, honestly, if we keep standing on each other’s toes like this, we’ll only end up fighting someday, I know it.”

Harry had grumbled, admitted grudgingly that she was right, and helped her and Ron move their things into their new little flat without too much moping. Hermione had kissed his cheek, and Ron pretended to be jealous—that was funny, now that they all knew it was impossible—and there had been hugs all around, and Harry had waved a cheerful goodbye and walked home with Ginny, and tried hard not to sulk, or at least not to let anyone see him sulking.

And he had had to admit, again grudgingly, that it had been nice, when it was just the two of them—just he and Ginny, in that big old house, with all those rooms. Harry had never really experienced privacy before; Hogwarts, of course, had always been full of people everywhere, and the Burrow certainly was, and Number Twelve had been the headquarters for the Order at first, and Harry liked having people around, liked thinking of his friends as family—but privacy, Harry decided, was nice, too.

The problem was when Ginny was gone. Harry knew he could have gone over to Ron and Hermione’s, knew he was always welcome there—or to Dean and Seamus’s flat, or Katie and Alicia’s (although they were both of them at Quidditch training right now, too), or Neville’s, or the Burrow; or to Andromeda’s, to visit with brilliant little Teddy; or to whatever hole Luna had picked for her nest this week, if she was even in the country which he could never remember...

But he didn’t. Instead he walked, restless, alone in the night. He ended up frequenting a great many pubs, mostly Muggle ones where he would not be recognized, although he didn’t drink much; mostly just sat and stared at his reflection in murky glass, or shining liquor. He always left a big tip, though, to make up for moping around for hours while buying little.

He didn’t go to them for the alcohol, though, or for the atmosphere; it was just that pubs were the few things that he could count on to be open late, when he was wandering the streets, trying to outrun his thoughts. When he failed, when they caught up, he needed to go somewhere and sit, and let them wash over him in awful, inescapable waves; so he picked the nearest open door, which was usually a pub.

But one night, he picked the wrong pub.

He didn’t realize it until he was through the door; until he had ordered a drink that he would nurse for the next hour, or maybe two; until he had moved to the back of the room to find a seat where no one would bother him.

Harry was, as was becoming increasingly more frequent these days, trying to get away from thoughts that should have been nightmarish, but weren’t; trying to get away from images of pale figures with white-blond hair and tears in their grey eyes. He was trying to get away from horrors that weren’t as horrible as they should have been; trying to get away from a darkness that he loathed within himself, that had not left when Voldemort had.

The Parseltongue had gone, but this had not, and that made Harry think that, maybe, that meant it had been him all along, making him feel that way. He didn’t like that thought, and usually walked fast enough to avoid it, even if the accompanying images of scarred, ash-blond beauty were harder to shake off.

At first he thought it was his imagination, and then he thought it was a coincidence, and then he realized that the person he was looking at was actually Draco Malfoy.

Harry froze, a stag in headlights.

What was Malfoy doing at a Muggle pub? And it was Malfoy, of that he had no doubt, despite the other’s unfamiliar Muggle garb. The clothes were ordinary, unobtrusive—black trousers, black jacket, stone-blue turtleneck, shiny dress shoes—but clearly expensive, just like everything that Malfoy always wore. They would probably be inhumanly soft and had cost more than Harry made in a month, although Harry didn’t work for money, of course, but rather for the mission. Harry saw the flash of silver at Malfoy’s hands, and recognized the heavy rings, and knew that there was no chance he had made a mistake.

He didn’t know how long he stood staring before he managed to suck in another breath of air; how long it was before his heart started up again, much louder than before, and right in his throat. He tried to think, to get away before it was too late; he would put his drink down on the counter and go, and never mind, he could find another pub, order another drink...

But then pale grey eyes shifted and caught sight of Harry in the mirror, and a thin eyebrow arched up in surprise, and thinner lips curled in the vaguest hint of a smile, or maybe just a sneer.

Harry knew, then, that he couldn’t run. If he let Malfoy see him turn tail and skitter off like some startled first year, he would wonder why, and Malfoy had always been too clever for his own good, and for Harry’s. He might figure it out, and Harry couldn’t have that.

So instead he swallowed hard, and plastered a mildly pleasant expression onto his face; he didn’t have to pretend to be happy to see Malfoy, at least, but he could fake civility. He would have done that anyway, if he had run into the former Death Eater under ordinary circumstances; if he had come across him when he wasn’t running from his thoughts, and the images of Malfoy in his thoughts that would not let him rest.

Harry walked over to say hello, trying to ignore the way everything twisted around in his gut when he got close to the other man.

Draco looked better than he had the last time that Harry had seen him, at the trials, but he was still a little too pale, a little too thin, and the hollows under his eyes were shadowed and a little puffy, as if he still wasn’t sleeping all that well. But he had his old smirk back, or an excellent facsimile thereof, and he used it to indicate that Harry should sit down at the bar beside him.

“Potter,” he said, seemingly amused.

“Malfoy,” said Harry, nodding politely. “Wouldn’t have expected to find you here,” he said, in order to have something to say.

“Oh no?” said Draco, arching an eyebrow with increasing humor, like Harry had just cracked an accidental joke. “You mean in a pub well off the beaten path, the sort of place where people don’t pry into stranger’s affairs, far from our kind’s ordinary haunts, where there are low chances of running into another wizard...no, I can’t imagine what either of us are doing here,” he said with a sharp laugh.

Harry shrugged. “Okay,” he said, “but still...Draco Malfoy, in a Muggle pub? Come on, that’s weird.”

“Is it?” said Draco, the eyebrow refusing to slide back down where it belonged. “You wouldn’t think that maybe Draco Malfoy finds the company of ignorant Muggles preferable, sometimes, to that of wizards who know too much about him?”

“Well, okay,” said Harry, shifting uncomfortably on his seat, “I guess I can see that...”

“And isn’t that the same reason you’re here,” Draco pressed on, “albeit from the opposite side of the Galleon? Finding somewhere in the wizarding world where the Great Harry Potter won’t be recognized and lauded...I imagine that’s somewhat difficult for you,” he said, almost gently.

“Well...yeah...” Harry admitted, feeling like a student who has just been forced to admit to being caught out of bounds with Wheezes in his pockets.

“Peace and quiet can be hard to come by,” Draco observed, “and anonymity, even harder.”

“Huh,” said Harry. “I mean, you’re right, of course. I just...I don’t know, I guess I’m just surprised to find that you want anything to do with...anonymity.”

The smirk and its accompanying eyebrow turned less amused; more sour. “Really?” Draco asked, and his left arm shifted almost imperceptibly.

“No,” Harry said softly, “no, I guess not.”

They sat in silence for a while with their drinks. Harry was vaguely surprised to find that his glass seemed to have refilled itself without his noticing; there was cash on the counter, although Harry didn’t remember reaching into his pockets. Had he just let Malfoy buy him a round? Not that the other man didn’t have money to spare, of course...

Harry made a note to pay more attention, and get the next one.

Then he blinked. What was he doing, thinking about ‘the next one’? He usually didn’t have more than one, sometimes two—on very, very rare occasions and exceptionally long nights, he might go for three, but in the presence of Draco Malfoy? And it had been....Harry checked the clock over the bar; twenty minutes. It had been less than twenty minutes since he’d come inside, and he was already on his second glass of the evening. Because he was sitting here drinking with Draco Malfoy.

Harry took another sip because he didn’t know what else to do, and blinked. It seemed to have several more layers of flavor than Harry was used to in a drink, and the burn on the way down was subtle and tingling, rather than biting. It was almost fruity, under the oaken heaviness, with honey and...was that chocolate he was tasting, or...?

“That’s good,” he said, surprised.

Malfoy smirked at him. “Of course it is,” he said. “I have no idea what the swill was you were drinking, but the smell of it was making me ill from over here. I had to take the liberty of ordering something palatable for you, for both our sakes.”

Harry snorted. “Well gee,” he said, “thanks so much for looking out for my liver.”

They both laughed, then stopped abruptly, and looked awkwardly aside. They weren’t people who laughed together, never had been.

“So,” Harry asked, “how have things been?”

Draco looked sideways at him. “Is that honestly a question?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Harry, somewhat defensively. “What?”

“How have things been?” Draco rolled his eyes. “They’ve been what you would expect, I’m sure,” he said. “They haven’t been Azkaban, though, or worse, so thanks for that.”

“That isn’t what I meant—”

“Why don’t you ask me what you really want to, Potter?” Malfoy drawled.

Harry blinked, his heartbeat speeding up for no conceivable reason. “What do you mean?” he breathed.

“I’m a Slytherin, Potter,” Draco sneered. “On top of that, I’ve been friends with Blaise Zabini for years. You think I don’t know what it looks like when someone stares at me with desire?” He laughed, a haughty, arrogant sound that echoed back to their childhoods, before there were wounds and wars.

“I—I haven’t—”

“If you say so,” said Draco, clearly amused. He turned casually back to his drink and Harry did the same, somewhat desperately.

Harry ordered their third round—or whatever number it was for Draco; the other man had already been here, after all, when Harry had come in—and allowed Draco to get the fourth. Whatever it was Malfoy had ordered for them (and Harry had been smart enough just to say, “another one of the same,” rather than ask; he was afraid to know the price, if it suited Malfoy’s spoiled palate, and was merely glad that he had his credit card in his wallet, because he didn’t generally carry heaps of Muggle cash around) it was very good, and went down with dangerous ease.

They chatted together off-hand, surprisingly easily, through the third glass. It started with Malfoy grumbling about a lost wager on Quidditch, when the Canons had surprised everyone to defeat the Wasps. Harry laughed, and told the story of Ron’s hilarious exuberance when his team snatched such an unlikely victory, and Draco’s snide comment about “the Weasel” hardly ruffled Harry’s temper at all; he responded with something glib about ferrets that he couldn’t quite remember now, and Malfoy had surprised the both of them by laughing so hard he nearly snorted his drink out his aristocratic nose.

The Quidditch discussion over they had fallen silent again, Harry chuckling weakly, but it hadn’t been the strained, difficult silence it had been. If he had been sitting with anyone other than Draco Malfoy, he would have called it companionable, but of course he was, so that was rubbish.

Halfway through his fourth glass, Harry decided that he would have to ask the name, after all; it was very good, and he was pretty sure that both his dad and Sirius would approve if Harry wanted to waste some of their money spoiling his taste buds with high-quality alcohol.

When the copper-colored liquid was getting low enough that it would soon be time to start thinking about a fifth round, Harry spoke again:

“What was that about?” he asked.

“Hmm?” said Draco. “I’m sorry, Potter, am I supposed to Legilimens you now, or something? Because I think I may be just a little bit too inebriated right now to be trying to read minds, so perhaps you could use proper words instead, and form a real sentence...”

“Prat,” said Harry, automatically. “I meant the...before. What you said. About...about Zabini.”

“Did you?” said Draco, and that eyebrow was back, carrying beneath it a smile that was far too smug for Harry’s liking. “Did you really?”

“I...yes,” said Harry.

“I don’t really think you did,” said Draco. “I don’t think you care a whit about Blaise Zabini. I think you want to talk about something else.” His grey eyes flickered and Harry felt his face grow warm; Draco Malfoy had just given him a very pointed glance, but it hadn’t been directed at Harry’s face, but rather at his crotch.

“I...shut-up,” said Harry, pink-cheeked.

“Your eloquence astounds, as always, Potter,” Malfoy drawled.

Harry signaled for more drinks so that he wouldn’t have to look at Draco. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

“Oh, I think you do,” Draco said quietly. “I think that’s the reason you’re over here, talking to me at all.”

“You’re crazy,” said Harry, standing up. He tossed money on the counter and walked out very quickly, his last drink abandoned before it arrived.

He could hear the quiet sound of Draco Malfoy chuckling behind him as he fled.
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Under the Manor