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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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It was two weeks before Harry saw Draco Malfoy again. Ginny was still away, still training; it would be another month before she was his again, in between matches. Harry didn’t mind, knew she loved Quidditch, knew how important the team was to her, and loved that she was getting to live her dream like that—but he certainly did miss her.

He had had the day off work, and had spent it with Teddy, taking the bubbly four-year-old out for ice cream, and to the zoo, and for a wild game of “werewolf tag” in the park—Bill had invented that, one day, when Teddy asked him about his scars, and Bill told him they were from a werewolf, and Teddy said, “like my daddy?” So Bill came up with the game right on the spot, to the horror of everyone else, and to Teddy’s endless amusement. You chased each other like regular tag, but the chaser had to growl and, when he caught his prey, lick him everywhere he could reach (which made Teddy squeal, because it tickled so much, and he was Marauder enough already to not be grossed-out by saliva). Then the tag-ee became the “werewolf,” and had to chase the former tag-er.

Molly had been scandalized, and Andromeda resigned; Harry, personally, thought it was brilliant, and knew that Tonks would have laughed so hard she’d never have been able to stand up again. He felt a pang of sorrow, as always, when he thought about the Lupins, but Teddy was too cheerful to stay sad around for more than a few seconds, and all-in-all, Harry had very much enjoyed the day with his godson.

But Teddy was home with his grandmother now, probably asleep already, worn out from the busy day of playing with his godfather. Harry was back on the streets, restless and itchy, walking fast because he was trying to outrun himself.

He didn’t know what made him duck back into that pub; he told himself he just wanted to see if he could figure out what that drink had been, that had been so good, but he knew he was lying. He was there because he wanted to see if there would be another wizard there, a pale one with an annoying smirk and heavy shadows under his eyes.

Harry walked in and scanned the bar, but no flash of white-blond stood out amidst the crowd. Trying to pretend that it wasn’t disappointment he felt, Harry slouched his way to the bar. It was a busy night, more crowded than usual. Harry understood when he noticed football on the telly overhead, and thought about leaving, but couldn’t muster the energy.

It took the bartender a few minutes to get to him, and when he did, Harry just ordered his usual pint.

“Oh, that will never do,” came an amused drawl from behind him, and long, cool fingers closed over Harry’s wrist before he could pick up his glass. “I thought you’d learned something last time, Potter?” Draco Malfoy sneered. “Take that away and make it two Auchentoshans instead, will you?” he instructed the bartender confidently.

The bearded man looked at Harry, who shrugged permission, relinquishing his hold on the glass so that the fellow could do as Draco had said.

He slipped onto the stool next to Harry (which Harry would have sworn had been occupied a moment ago, but then again, Draco had always been able to find a seat wherever he wanted one at school; why should things have changed now, just because he didn’t have Crabbe and Goyle around to jostle people out of the way for him?) and smirked dreadfully.

Harry was glad when the drinks showed up; it gave him an excuse to look at something other than Draco. He was wearing Muggle clothes again, gray and green this time, as if in some bizarre homage to his old house. Of course, Harry’s shirt today was red-and-yellow striped, but that wasn’t his fault; he had accidentally stolen it from Ron ages ago, when their laundry all used to end up in the same place, and he just hadn’t gotten around to giving it back, yet. It wasn’t like he went out and purchased ensembles in Gryffindor colors...

“To your health,” said Draco, smirking worse than ever, and clinked his glass against Harry’s.

Harry frowned, hating the way the other man affected him, and hating even more the way that Malfoy was so smug about it, like he could sense Harry’s confusion and self-loathing and dismay, and was enjoying the sense of power it gave him.

“What do you want, Draco?” he growled.

“Oh, first names now, is it?” Malfoy said, raising his eyebrows in mock-surprise. “I’m flattered, Potter, to what do I owe this generous occasion? Or, I’m sorry, should it be Harry, now?” he asked, smiling arrogantly.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Maybe I’m just losing respect for you,” he snapped.

Draco just laughed. “Oh, Potter—Harry.” He smirked. “As if you ever had respect for me to begin with...” He shook his head, still laughing.

Harry hunched over his drink, scowling. “Whatever,” he muttered.

He was on his third drink of the night—Malfoy being a bastard and paying for all of them, before Harry could; Draco seemed to have some innate talent for attracting the bartender’s interest just as he neared the bottom of a glass, or maybe it was just because he radiated wealth even out here in the Muggle, and the bartender kept half an eye on him because of it, even on a busy night like this—when Harry suddenly became aware of how very close they were sitting.

And the bar was crowded. There were people all around. They’d had to be careful with their speech, because they were surrounded by Muggles, although no one was paying any attention to them, not with the football match on. Harry was sitting pretty close to the woman on the other side of him, too.

But Draco was sitting close.

The soft weave of his trousers brushed against Harry’s old jeans every time Draco leaned forward or shifted on his stool, and Harry could feel that warm chill that meant Malfoy, could feel it right through their clothes, every time their legs touched...

Draco had grazed Harry’s wrist twice now, too, when reaching out for his glass of whatever-the-hell-it-was-called; maybe it was innocent, accidental; maybe it was just because the bar was crowded, and there were lots of drinks on it tonight, lots of hands...but the contact sent shivers through Harry’s skin every time it happened.

He swallowed hard, and fought thoughts that he knew he ought to hate.

“Something wrong, Potter?” Draco asked with a chuckle, signaling for another round that Harry knew he should not drink, but would anyway, because if he didn’t, he’d have to leave or else admit why he was really staying, and he couldn’t even say that to himself, let alone to Malfoy.

“I’m fine,” said Harry, and drained his glass.

“I don’t think so,” Draco said quietly.

Harry gasped and nearly jerked back; he had not noticed the other man lean in so close, but his cold grey eyes were suddenly only inches from Harry’s own.

“I think you’re tormented,” Draco continued, “you have the look—I’m familiar enough with that myself that I’d only be insulted and you’d make yourself sound even dimmer than usual if you tried to deny it, so don’t bother,” he sneered.

“I...I don’t...” said Harry.

“Liar,” Malfoy drawled.

Harry swallowed. “Well, there was a...we’ve all been through a lot,” he said, his voice sounding strangely high to his ears. “We’re all a bit...tormented.”

Draco nodded, and for an instant the smug confidence shattered beneath dark, haunted shadows, and his eyes glazed over with an impenetrable darkness that Harry didn’t even want to try and fathom. Then the smirk was back, the shadows shoved aside again beneath his impossibly annoying Malfoy Mask, and he was sneering at Harry again. “Yes, but it’s not the past that’s tormenting you, Potter—or at least not entirely. It’s you doing it, to yourself.”

“I...I thought you were calling me Harry, now,” he said quietly, because he didn’t know what else to say.

Draco quirked an eyebrow. “If you like,” he said smoothly, “but don’t change the subject...Harry. You’re torturing yourself over something, and I don’t think it’s just the expected guilt of the great fucking hero who couldn’t save every last little toy soldier from the cold realities of war.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry growled, his hands curling into fists.

“Don’t I?” said Draco. “Then why are you here? Why did you come back?”

“I...I was in the area...”

“Stop lying,” Draco interrupted savagely, “you’re no bloody good at it, and it’s embarrassing to listen to. You came back because you hoped you’d find me here.”

“I...that’s...that’s insane,” Harry stammered.

“Yes,” said Draco, shrugging, “it is. But I’m not the one who did it.”

“I...I didn’t...”

The tilt of an eyebrow silenced him.

“What do you want, Harry?” Draco asked quietly.

“I...I don’t know,” Harry whispered.

“I do,” said Draco. Then he was silent, studying Harry, waiting for him to ask; letting Harry decide whether he wanted to hear the truth, or not.

Harry looked away and stared at the copper ripples in his glass. He knew what the truth was, but he couldn’t admit it; if he heard Draco say the words aloud, though, he would have to. He would have to admit that he couldn’t get the pale blond Death Eater out of his head, out of his skin. That no matter how much he hated himself for not hating it, he couldn’t forget about Draco’s fingers on his body, his cock up his arse. That there was a part of him that wanted to feel that again, to feel Malfoy; a part of him that wanted to be hurt, wanted to be taken and used and...

Harry swallowed very hard. “What do I want?” he asked.

“Equality,” said Draco.

Harry blinked. “What?” he said, loudly, because that hadn’t been anything at all like what he had expected to hear.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Merlin, Potter, but you’re thick...I don’t know how Granger put up with you...I said, you want equality. Turn-about. A chance to balance the scales.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry said, honestly. Part of him was relieved that Draco had so misinterpreted his desires but part of him—the part he hated, the part that craved what it should have despised—felt only disappointment.

“I hurt you. You want recompense. Call it justice, call it retribution, whatever makes you feel better,” he said dismissively. “The point is, I hurt you, and you’re roiling for the chance to pay me back in kind, but your delicate Gryffindor sensibilities are tearing you up because of it—because you’re the Great Harry Potter,” Draco sneered, “and you’re supposed to be above petty little human foibles like that...but I know you better,” he continued in a hiss, leaning in close. “I know you’re not a saint, Potter, even if you did save us all. You’re better than most of us, but you’re still not perfect, and you’re torturing yourself because you think you should be. You’ve begun to believe their lies about Perfect Sainted Potter, and it’s killing you because you can’t live up to that. Well don’t,” Draco snapped, “you’re only human. Be human, then.”

Harry stared at him. “That...that isn’t what...”

“Isn’t it?” said Draco calmly. He shrugged and knocked back the rest of his drink with a graceful, practiced motion before spilling several bills onto the bar and sweeping his coat off the back of his chair as he stood up. “Well, maybe I’ve read you wrong,” he said, “but I don’t think I have. If you want a chance for some equality, you’re welcome to come with me now—Merlin knows you deserve it,” he said, his haughty expression slipping for a moment. “If not, then you should probably know that I don’t ordinarily frequent this pub, so I doubt you’ll find me here again.”

Malfoy shrugged into his expensive jacket and turned to go. He paused with a slight, smug smile. “Of course, you do know where I live,” he said quietly, and almost managed to keep the shadows out of his cloudy eyes.

Harry watched him leave, his nerves jangling. That wasn’t at all what he wanted—could it be? No, no Harry knew what he wanted, and it wasn’t that; was, somehow, even worse than that, because the cold, awful desire for revenge might be wrong and twisted, but it at least made sense. This was just...sick.

But Harry jumped up and ran out after Draco, anyway.
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Under the Manor