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Salt in Our Wounds	By : thewickednix Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 7362 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters portrayed herein. This is made for fun, not profit.

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
- 8
Part VII

Life on Mars

I cannot sleep in this house. It�s not that I am disturbed by water running through the pipes o the sound of rats from within the walls. On the contrary, the house is completely silent. Like the calm before the storm, except that no matter how long I hold my breath, the storm never arises.
Potter doesn�t seek me out after our fight. I hear him ascending the stairs upstairs and a door slam shut. Then nothing. Nothing to focus on, nothing to distract me from my own thoughts. After laying restlessly in the bed for a long time, I get up and quietly exit the room.
The house is quite old, but the interior is modern. I don�t like it one bit. All around me there seems to be nothing but white walls, white doors, white closets and cabinets. A tad of beige, eggshell, or black here and there, but that is it. The living room is simple; two armchairs in front of the fireplace and a couch facing another wall where a big black box is standing, placed on a low table. I sneer disdainfully.
Everything screams Muggle.
I can�t imagine why Potter would choose to live in a place like this. I look out of the window to see a wide street with high raised pavements, old stone houses in straight lines down the hill as far as I can see. Where the hell am I?
Looking around, I spot a pile of newspapers on the coffee table by the couch. Sitting down on the tan sofa, I reach out for the paper on top of the pile.

The Bristol Evening Post. Ah, I had a feeling I wasn�t in London anymore. I guess I am just lucky to still be within the UK.
I sigh deeply, exhaustion suddenly taking over me. I lean back against the couch.
What am I supposed to do? Why am I here?
It feels so strange, so surreal, sleeping under the same roof with Potter like this. I keep thinking that if I listen intently enough, I can hear the house breathing with him.
This is the last place I thought I�d ever find myself in. Why he has taken me in, I can�t imagine. Could it be just his famous hero-complex? Or an excessive guilt trip?
Or could he still love me?
A small spark of hope rises within me as the though passes through my brain. I smother it immediately. I refuse to be dragged into some foolish romantic fantasy set alight by a few stolen moments between two teenage boys.
Four years ago it was different. We were two lost boys, grateful for what little human contact we found through each other in that dungeon. Desperate times, desperate needs. I always knew it could not last. I knew what my mission was, what I had to sacrifice for it. Potter was part of that sacrifice. Letting him go was not easy, but it was what I had to do. He had his destiny, I had mine.
Now he has fulfilled his destiny, done his duty. And what about me?
My destiny, if I ever had one, has disappeared somewhere in all the curses, the blood, the terrible screams that seem to be forever present in the dept of my mind. Sometime during those years I lost track of what it was I was doing it all for. My own beliefs? My family? The Malfoy name? Those things that I have never doubted. Things I still believe in.
Things that I lost because of the fickleness of this world and the people in it.
So what do I live for now? What does Potter expect me to fight for?

******
I hear him moving around downstairs. I feel the shadow of a smile on my lips. It seems that neither of us are able to sleep.
After a while the house grows quiet again, but I still haven�t heard the door to the guest room click shut. In spite of not really wanting to face him right now, I decide to check it out. After all, who knows what Draco could be up to. I just hope he didn�t put his finger in an electric socket or something.
I sneak down the stairs into the dark first floor. The kitchen is empty, and so does the living room seem at first sight. But I look twice, and see the pale moonlight falling on a blond head, barely visible over the back of the couch. Almost fearfully I creep closer and peer over the back of the furniture, to find Malfoy completely asleep. He has glided down a bit, his whole body slouching limply like a doll on the sofa. His head has fallen back against the back of the couch, dark eyelashes gracing his pale cheeks and his mouth open just so-
He is so fucking beautiful.
I am barely able to stop myself from reaching forth and touching him. I probably couldn�t if in that moment my eyes didn�t fall on the cut down his lip and the other scratches on his face. He has taken the gauze off his head, leaving a bloody gash visible on his temple. Still in his dirty black robes, Draco looks like he has been shipped here directly from Azkaban. Technically, he has. Only making a stop at the Ministry.
Christ, he must be exhausted. My chest contracts almost painfully as I think about everything he has gone through. Seeing his face now, so peaceful, so angelic, I can�t but help to believe that I made the right decision. I don�t care if he is angry at me and screams at me, I don�t care even if he constantly makes me so furious that I want to kill him.
If I am able to give him a place when he can sleep this peacefully after all he has been through, it�s worth it.
If I am able to see him when he looks like this, it�s all worth it.

******
A few pale rays of sunlight shine through the thin cotton curtains and wake me up. As I first open my eyes I feel very disoriented, before I realise where I am. I sit up, realising that while my back is sore from sleeping in a sitting position, I probably haven�t slept that well in months.
A scent of toast reaches me from somewhere, and I turn to look at the door leading to the kitchen. Potter is sitting by a small table, peacefully munching his bread.
�Mornin�,� he murmurs, briefly looking up from behind the morning paper as I stalk into the kitchen. I raise an eyebrow at him, but he does not react. Instead he keeps chewing his toast, looking completely neutral, as if nothing happened last night. I sigh irritated, planning to ignore him at least until I get a cup of coffee.
But when looking around in the kitchen, I realise that might not be as easy as I�d thought. Potter�s house is indeed a Muggle one. As is his kitchen. Properly quipped with several different-looking oddly shaped boxes that supposedly have some important practical use. Everything smells of plastic. I suppress the urge to retch, but cannot help the sneer that slithers onto my face as I observe a particularly nasty-looking box.
�Don�t like the espresso machine, do you?� Potter�s humorous voice is heard. As I turn around to retort, I find him immediately behind me and my face mere inches from his, his emerald eyes watching me intently. He has grown past me, is the only thought I manage before I am overwhelmed by the closeness of his body. It takes me only two seconds to react and step away, but it�s two seconds too long. My heart is already fluttering irregularly.
�Coffee?� Potter asks when I do not answer.
I nod stiffly. �Yes.�
He walks over to another machine the kitchen counter. �This is a coffee maker,� he says over his shoulder, grinning at me. �it brews your coffee automatically. You just have to load it with water and ground coffee beans.�
I watch him load the machine, and suppress my slight horrification when it starts having growling, threatening noises. In a minute however, I see the black liquid starting to drop into the pot below.
I sneer at Potter, who has returned to his seat at the table. �You know, a house elf would make that much faster.�
Potter only snorts at me. Then he takes a closer look, observing my clothes. �What are you wearing?�
I look down at myself. �My robes, obviously. Jeez, Potter, you saw them yesterday. They�re not the cleanest, obviously-�
He frowns, interrupting me. �I didn�t think of that�� he mutters, trailing off in the middle of his sentence. �Follow me.�
Potter stalks out through the door, and I, albeit reluctant to obey anyone�s orders, follow. We walk silently upstairs to the master bedroom. My legs ache and I walk slowly, and oddly enough Potter accommodates to my pace. It feels strange, but I feel as if a fragile truce has evolved between us sometime between yesterday and today. I have to concentrate to not get too comfortable around Potter. That always leads to trouble.
The bedroom looks like the rest of the house; large, plain white walls, one larger window at one wall and a large bed at the other. The bedspread is in a deep Gryffindor red colour. I sneer disdainfully, though secretly pleased to find something familiar in this cold house.
�Wait a second,� Potter says, walking over to a smaller door which must lead to the wardrobe. As he leans into the small closet, I look around. Potter does not have much stuff. One small bedside table at each side of the bed, a chest of drawers in front of the window. I step over to the chest of dresser as I notice a set of framed photographs displayed upon it. Looking at the moving pictures I am glad to finally see some wizarding things in this house. One is a picture of Potter with Weasley and Granger, probably from their fourth or fifth year in Hogwarts, waiving enthusiastically at the camera. The second one is of a very embarrassed Potter, shaking the Minister�s hand as he accepts his Order of Merlin, First Class.
Then I look over to the third photograph. A small picture, taken of a red-headed woman somewhere that looks like a beach. She is looking at something in the distance, squinting in the sunlight. Her freckles show clearly on her tanned skin and her hair moves like fire as looks over he shoulder and notices the photographer. She flashes a pretty smile at the camera, a slight blush creeping over her cheeks. I know that smile. It�s such a smile you only smile for someone you�re in love with.
It�s the smile Ginny Weasley only smiles for Harry Potter.
I knew that they were dating sometime in school. I had heard rumours that they still went out occasionally. But I had no idea�
I look around in the room, and slowly but certainly my fear is confirmed. A red handbag lays placed on a small stool next to the dresser, a pair of stiletto pumps beside the stool. And when I turn towards Potter, I see a black dress on a hanger on the inside of the wardrobe door.
It�s not as if this was wholly unexpected. And it�s not as if I expected for something to happen between Potter and me. To tell the truth, this is for the best. He has the Weaslette now. He has no reason to want to fall back into old mistakes with me.
This is precisely how it should be. The fact that it makes me feel like someone is sawing through my chest is completely irrelevant.
�Here!� Potter exclaims, pulling his head out of the closet and holding forth a pile of clothes. �Sorry it took a while. You�re somewhat smaller than I and-�
I want to retort that I am certainly not small, but a lump has gathered in my throat and I only manage to nod weakly as I take the clothes I am offered. I swallow a couple of times, efficiently suppressing the undermining feeling of despair that has risen within me. Rebuilding my façade, I look down at the clothes.
�Potter, what the hell are these?� I sneer, looking down on a pair of well-worn blue jeans.
Potter�s shrug is not the proper apologetic gesture I expected to receive. �Sorry,� he just mutters casually. �I think those are closest to your fit. We have to get you some clothes of your own, but you need something to wear to the store.� He grins, looking at my torn and dirty robes. �You couldn�t very well go anywhere in those, could you?�
In spite of the fact that I don�t enjoy being made fun of, I feel the trace of a smile snake over my lips. For a second this scene feels so natural, so like home that I forget myself. Then that picture of the smiling Weaslette re-appears in my head, and I force myself back into reality.
�Where can I take a shower?� I ask curtly. The grin fades slowly from Potter�s face, and it takes a moment for him to collect himself.
�Uhm� You can use the downstairs bathroom,� he murmurs, turning around and heading out through the door. I follow quietly. The easy silence from before is completely gone, replaced with a heavy tension that seems to be gnawing at my insides. I felt a whole lot better when we were just enemies, instead of caught in this awkward formality. I wish to go back to the nemesis-stage so that I could stop thinking and just act out my anger. The problem is that I no longer know how to go back. And truthfully, I�m not completely certain I want to.
Potter returns to the kitchen after showing me the bathroom. I try not to take too long, but as I have to remove the gauzes around my chest it takes quite a while. I hiss as I step under the shower, the hot water scaling my skin and creeping into my wounds. The painful satisfaction gives me the piece of mind to calm down and think clearly, something that seems downright impossible when I am around Potter. Somehow, even after all these years, he makes me lose my cool and control, even as he does nothing to provoke me.
What am I supposed to do here? Live in his house, borrow his clothes, learn how to use Muggle kitchen supplies until the 60 days are over? Then what? And what am I supposed to do when his little lady comes home? She can�t be too happy about this arrangement. Where is she anyway?
Finally I am forced to step out from under the shower into the cold air. After taking a look at my wounds I decide I no longer need the gauzes, and instead turn to the pile of clothes I have left on the toilet seat. The black blazer is a little big, and makes me look even skinnier than before. The jeans are also a little on the larger side and hang loosely on my hips. Gazing into the mirror, I sigh. I look ghastly. With ill-fitting clothes that hang oddly on my undernourished frame, my face still marred with cuts and wounds, and my hair cropped short in a haircut bad enough to match Weasley�s. I can only comfort myself with the fact that I�ll hardly be seeing any old acquaintances today.
�Ready?� Potter asks as I step into the kitchen. He raises an eyebrow my appearance, and I find it incredibly demeaning knowing that someone with such poor sense of style as Potter can rightfully judge my exterior. I feel a faint flush creeping over my face as Potter keeps observing the marks on my face. �If someone asks, you were in a bar fight,� he grins eventually, before handing me a long black winter coat.
I take the coat, snorting. �Me? In a bar fight? Like anyone would believe that!� I exclaim proudly, discreetly informing Potter that no one could ever mistake a Malfoy for someone who would partake in such a vulgar thing as a bar fight.
Potter only rolls his eyes, pulling on his own coat and stepping out through the front door. I follow him, greedily breathing in the cold, dry, fresh air. I had forgotten how wonderful it feels to be able to just stand outside and look up at the clear blue sky.
Without any bars or shackles, I can almost taste something resembling freedom in the air. And somehow hearing Potter�s clear laugh from somewhere beside me does nothing to impair the perfection of this moment.

Quite the contrary.

End of part VII
- 6
- 7
- 8
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Salt in Our Wounds