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Hour of Grace	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 1687 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this fanfiction.

Chapter List
- 1-Hour of Grace
- 1
Title: Hour of Grace
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairing: Harry/Draco preslash
Warnings: Angst
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 3400
Summary: Harry and Draco run into each other in Diagon Alley the year after they leave Hogwarts. They make a truce for one hour.
Author’s Notes: An Advent fic for gracerene, who asked for an H/D fic with the following prompt: first year out of school around the holidays and they run into each other out somewhere (maybe diagon alley) and they are both feeling a bit lonely/out of place. Here you are.
Hour of Grace
            They stared at each other.
            Harry finally cleared his throat and picked up his glass of butterbeer. He had brought Malfoy to the Leaky Cauldron, not knowing where else they could go. It was subdued here; it was so close to Christmas that most people had already bought their gifts and were home wrapping them. Harry might have been, too, if he could think of a single gift he would like himself. He had been charged by both Ginny, away in Egypt, and Hermione, in Australia, to buy something nice for himself, since any gifts they sent would have to come with an owl and take a long time to arrive.
            Harry could think of nothing he desired but quiet. He wondered if that made him pathetic.
            Malfoy, who had accepted a tankard but was doing nothing but staring into it, was as pale as Harry felt himself to be. In Malfoy’s case, though, he wasn’t pale because he had buried himself indoors to get away from crowds, as Harry had. He was pale because of the months spent in prison, and—Harry had a sudden flash of insight—what had to be the first Christmas he had ever spent without his family.
            “You can tell me what you’d like, you know,” Harry said, uncomfortable.
            Malfoy raised his head, so deep in his own brain that he responded like a normal person, the way he had when Harry had asked him what he was doing in Diagon Alley, and whether he wanted to have an hour to talk to Harry like they were normal people. “What do you mean?” he asked, and raised his mug. “I have a drink. Unless you were proposing to get me a Christmas present?” He sounded more balanced at the end of that sentence, and took a deep drink.
            Harry nodded. It was a ridiculous suggestion, but he was able to brace himself on it as he hadn’t been able to on anything before. “Yes. I was here wandering around trying to think of what I want to spend my money on for myself, and there’s nothing. If I bought something for you, that’s at least a good destination for my Galleons.”
            Malfoy stared at him again. He had put down the tankard. Harry frowned, wondering if he should offer to buy him a meal. Malfoy’s robes hung off him.
            “Why a good destination?” Malfoy asked, the words ripped out of him as if they were his guts. “You wouldn’t spit on me if I was on fire.”
            “That’s not true,” Harry told him quietly. “Once, maybe, but not now. The truth, Malfoy, is that my friends are out of the country, and I have no one to spend the holidays with. I haven’t seen anyone else from Hogwarts in months. You’re at least familiar. If buying you a gift is the price I’ll pay for your company, I’ll gladly pay it.”
            Malfoy still looked as though Harry had started speaking in the giants’ language, but Harry had meant what he said. He was already steadier. He sipped at his butterbeer, waiting for Malfoy to make up his mind.
*
            Potter was mental.
            Granted, the Prophet had kept repeating that, and Draco had kept up with the papers so that he didn’t lose all touch with reality, rattling around in his prison-trap of a house. But he hadn’t believed it. The Prophet would say anything about Potter that would sell news, and his staying away from the people who wanted to marry, fuck, or kill him made sense to Draco.
            Now, though…
            “You go around offering to buy Christmas gifts for people you hate?” Draco asked, and checked his watch, a silver one hanging from a chain on his robe, the last birthday gift his father had given him. Draco knew it was because the watch was valuable, and the Ministry was less prone to seize property given as gifts to others. Well, and because Lucius had been trying to denude himself of property by other means than selling it before he and Narcissa fled the country.
            It still hurt to remember that Draco had been left behind.
            “I don’t hate you.”
            Draco opened his mouth, then shut it. There was no doubting the deep sincerity in Potter’s voice. Draco studied Potter for a second.
            The green eyes that met his were not those of the boy Draco remembered, or even of the conquering hero who had testified at his trial. They were simple and quiet, the eyes of a man who had gone through trials of his own, if nothing like the ordeal of fire that had consumed Draco, nearly put him in Azkaban permanently, and would have consumed his parents if they hadn’t run.
            He could remind himself of that, but it still hurt.
            “I don’t,” Potter repeated, drawing Draco out of the downward spiral of his memories. “I think that you’re an arrogant arse sometimes, but you were caught up in the war like I was. You’re the only one other than—other than me who knows exactly what it was like to live with Voldemort.” Draco held his neck stiff and managed to keep from flinching at the name. He wondered if he was imagining it that Potter had smiled with approval. He leaned forwards and murmured, “And I know what you felt. I had visions of Voldemort, you know. Visions where he made you torture people. I know you didn’t want to do it.”
            Draco had to shut his eyes on the swift tears that sprang to them. Potter had said as much during his trial, and everyone had been so awed by him and his aura that they had accepted the idea without asking how he knew. Draco himself would never have reckoned it was something like this.
            His hand tingled. Draco opened his eyes and found that Potter had clasped his own hand over it.
            “I can’t do much about my own loneliness,” Potter murmured. “And I understand why my friends needed to be abroad right now. Hermione has—family business in Australia, and the Weasleys needed to be together after losing Fred, so they went back to a place where they’d been happy.” Draco wanted to ask why Potter thought Draco cared about his bloody friends, but he couldn’t make himself say it. Then Potter’s eyes fixed on his, and Draco lost his breath again. “But I can help someone else. And I think a gift would mean a lot to you.”
            The simple words made Draco clench his fists, but he didn’t take his hand from beneath Potter’s. It was true that even his friends had distanced themselves from him, because the Malfoy name was worth less than dirt. Dirt could at least grow new things.
            “It would,” he said. He hated to admit that, but he knew, with a certainty as deep as his heritage, that Potter wouldn’t betray him or mock him for it.
            Potter pushed his chair back. “Let’s go, then, and you tell me what you’d like.”
            In a dream, which was much better than being in a daze, Draco rose and followed.
*
            Harry would have expected, if someone had ever asked him what he would be buying if he was going to buy Draco Malfoy a gift, to head for an expensive robe shop. Why not? Malfoy could choose whatever he wanted, and he obviously liked fine clothes.
            But instead, Malfoy wandered. His eyes skimmed the fronts of shops and then darted away again as though he didn’t know what to look for.
            Harry thought he was avoiding looking at the faces of the people around them, too, and so he looked for both of them, watching for hostile eyes. But there was no one concentrated on them. They were watching the tottering stacks of presents in their arms instead, or their children, or the lists of things they hadn’t bought, clutched in their cold hands. The slight dusting of snow on the cobbles, and the glittering flakes drifting down from above, meant that they had one more thing to occupy them.
            And suddenly, Harry had an intuition of how being ignored by the public, his fondest dream for the last half a year, could be devastating, too. Everyone had more important things to worry about than Malfoy.
            So who worries for him?
            Malfoy was plodding along with his hands in his pockets and his face turned to the ground, by now. Harry caught his arm and turned him around. Malfoy looked at him, his eyes aiming past Harry. Harry waved his hand in front of them, and at least Malfoy blinked and looked annoyed.
            “Hey,” Harry said as gently as he could. “I know that it’s hard for you. But I meant what I said. I want to help you because I need to help someone, and you’re here.” Malfoy’s mouth twitched a little, but Harry knew that he wouldn’t believe any other kind of honesty. “So choose what you want.”
            Malfoy licked cold lips. Harry found himself wondering how long it was since Malfoy had had a warm drink to unchap them. He had ordered water in the Leaky Cauldron, which might be cheap but wasn’t warm.
            “Anything I want?” Malfoy whispered. “And the price doesn’t matter?”
            Harry smiled, partly out of encouragement and partly because this was more like the Malfoy he knew. Why not spend Galleons, while he had someone who wanted to spend them, however madly, on him? “The price doesn’t matter,” he agreed easily, and waited to see what Malfoy would choose.
            The color came and went in Malfoy’s face, and then he nodded and aimed his hand coolly at the shop in front of them. “This place, then.”
            Harry glanced up. The Magical Menagerie. He hadn’t even noticed they were nearing it, which seemed odd given the volume of barks and bleats and cries coming from inside it. “Good choice,” he said instead of talking about his own perceptions, and guided Malfoy into the place with a hand on the small of his back.
            Malfoy started and hissed. Harry took his hand back, wondering if he had unwittingly pressed on an old war injury.
            But Malfoy lowered his eyes and murmured, “No one’s done that for me since the Yule Ball.” And he walked ahead of Harry, who closed his eyes for a second, for a reason that he hadn’t considered before, until he felt as though he had regained some sense of balance, and could follow honestly.
*
            Draco had chosen the Magical Menagerie partially to test Potter. If he meant what he said, he would allow Draco the choice. Some of the animals the shop sold could come quite expensive.
            But he had also chosen out of recollection that the corridors of the Manor were cold and empty, and the Owlery had too many birds that Draco had seen come back bearing messages from the Ministry, and the letter that his parents had sent him when they…left. He wanted something new, something that wasn’t an owl and couldn’t be used on business, something that was his alone.
            Potter trailed behind him as Draco wandered through cages of sleeping rats and tanks of Kneazle kittens and playhouses of Crup puppies, who wagged their tails excitedly at Potter, although they seemed to ignore Draco. Draco didn’t know what he was looking for. He glanced at a silver snake banded with black, the most beautiful creature he’d seen in there yet, but he wasn’t a Parselmouth and wouldn’t pretend he was.
            Then he paused as he rounded a corner, and saw a large cage that hadn’t been visible before. A second later, he moved forwards as if drawn.
            The cat inside raised its head and turned to look at him. Draco couldn’t catch his breath. It sounded ridiculous, but all he could do was pant over the thing, and the golden eyes, no Kneazle’s, that looked coolly back at him.
            It had a strange, blunt face for a cat, and although Draco was sure it was young—or, said its body proportions, it would grow to be much bigger—its legs were long already, curled beneath it in a pose that looked deliberate. Its coat was a soft, glowing white, one that Draco couldn’t believe wouldn’t make it visible as it hunted.
            Of course, if it was a wizard-bred species, it wouldn’t have to hunt for a living, and so there was no need to worry about the coloring. Someone who liked it had probably even bred it that way. But Draco, seeing the way the golden eyes studied him, and the way the cat made no motion towards the edge of the cage, didn’t doubt it had come from the wild.
            “What is this one?” Potter’s voice, speaking with calm authority. Draco half-turned towards him. Did Potter think Draco would be able to answer him? The only time Draco had heard him speak like that was at the trials.
            “That’s descended from a small colony of American cheetahs that became magical,” said the shopkeeper, his voice obsequious. He knew who he was facing, even if most of the other people in the shop seemed oblivious, Draco thought. He kept his back turned and his gaze fixed on the white cheetah’s face. The golden eyes never looked away from his. “They turned white and glowed in the dark to frighten their prey. When their kin went extinct, they retreated into isolation with other magical animals in the Americas. A few of our breeders found them a century or so ago.”
            “There are no American cheetahs,” Potter murmured, an instant before Draco would have opened his mouth to say the same thing. He shut it and frowned. The cheetah continued to gaze intently at him.
            “There were, once.” The shopkeeper sounded almost apologetic about contradicting the great Harry Potter. “Or cats like them. We don’t know what the people who lived at the time they did used to call them. I’m afraid that we picked this name up from Muggle scientists.”
            Draco swallowed. “The glow is magical?”
            The shopkeeper grimaced a little, and continued to speak to Potter. “Yes. They can’t do it as cubs, which is how we have this one here, but when they’re adult, they can melt like ghosts through any barrier, and Apparate over short distances. You have to have special wards to keep them. And extensive property,” he added, as though he believed that would defeat any pretensions Draco had to the beast.
            The cheetah yawned, its paws flexing, and Draco smiled.
*
            “You know that you can’t keep it caged forever.”
            Harry knew he had said the wrong thing when Malfoy darted a haughty glance at him. But it seemed Malfoy was recovering his confidence, because he sniffed and shook his head, and glanced down at the magically lightened cage in his hand. At the moment, the white cheetah was asleep, its legs curled under it like ropes. Of all the animals in the shop, Harry would never have thought that Malfoy would want that one as a gift.
            But then Malfoy began to speak, and Harry thought he might be beginning to understand.
            “I don’t want to keep it caged. I’ll put wards around the grounds to make sure that it doesn’t get out and harm someone, but I’ll remove those bloody white peacocks and buy different sorts of game instead. And more land as it grows. It’ll have all the space it needs, all the freedom it needs. A sort of caged freedom, but someday I’ll be able to give it more. And then more than that. Perhaps I’ll set it free, once I find the right place.”
            Harry looked at Malfoy in wonder. His face was on fire when he spoke, and he glanced around Diagon Alley as though daring someone to pop up and disagree with him. His hands clutched the cage protectively close.
            Why is he so insistent about a cheetah?
            But Harry knew, now. Malfoy hadn’t had a goal. He was drifting through the holidays like he had drifted through the last six months since his parents had fled, and it was killing him slowly. He didn’t care about anything. He had nothing to do.
            Now he had a goal. It was a small one, but it might lead him down a longer path.
            And Harry was the one who had given him back that goal, by so simple a means as buying him a gift.
            His heart glowing like an ember, Harry opened his mouth to say something.
            And then Malfoy’s watch gave a soft chime. The hour of truce they had agreed on was up.
*
            Draco started back when the chime sounded. He had honestly forgotten they had agreed to an hour only, and that Potter had let Draco time it with his watch, so Draco wouldn’t think Potter was trying to cheat him of time.
            For a moment, they stared at each other. Then Potter cleared his throat awkwardly. “I hope—I hope that you’re happy with the cheetah,” he muttered, and started to turn away.
            He thought Draco was going to turn on him? After that?
            Yes, he did, Draco decided abruptly. He thought that once the hour was up, everything they hated was back in force.
            Well, Draco wanted more than an hour. And so he reached out and grabbed Potter’s arm and spun him back around. Potter still had his mouth open, maybe to offer some kind of an objection, and then fell silent with a gasp as Draco wound his arm around his neck and made him come closer still.
            They breathed on each other’s lips. Potter’s eyes were wide. Draco suspected the case was the same with his own.
            He cleared his throat, and tried to ignore the way Potter’s eyes dropped to his mouth—not so much because he wanted to ignore it, as because he knew that he would get too distracted and not be able to continue if he was paying that much attention to Potter. “Thank you for the gift,” he said.
            Potter nodded, neck stiff against Draco’s hold, but expectant. He knew that Draco wouldn’t be holding him here just to state his gratitude.
            Draco wanted to say something long and complicated, and then decided there was no need. Simple would do.
            “An hour again next week?” he asked. “Same time, same day?”
            Potter’s smile was lovelier than the snow. He reached up and clasped Draco’s hand for a moment, then bowed his head and made a gesture as though he would kiss the back of it. But breathing on it was much the same, enough to make Draco dizzy.
            “I look forward to it,” Potter whispered, and stood there until Draco released him. Then he walked away without a look back.
            Draco closed his eyes, wrapped his arms around the cheetah’s cage, and Apparated.
            An hour or so later, he had strengthened the wards enough that he thought his new companion would be safe, and decided against removing the peacocks. The cheetah could slaughter them for all he cared. They were the symbol of his father’s old life, not Draco’s.
            Draco lowered the cage to the ground and banished the bars with a flick of his wand.
            The cheetah moved out, still watching him. Draco nodded and smiled. The cheetah turned and vanished into the tall grass the house-elves had left untended—because Lucius and Narcissa had taken them with them to their new house—with a flick of its tail.
            Draco watched it go. He would have to learn more wards, he thought. Grass-cutting charms. Charms that made the halls of the Manor warmer.
            For the moment, he was content to walk back towards his house, and dream of ways of making it a home again.
            And of the next hour he would see Potter.
            The End.
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Hour of Grace