Chapter Fifteen
Beauty
On Sunday morning Harry called around to find a hairdresser whose salon was open on Sundays with a slot open. The sixth one he called turned out to have both.
Myra came into the room when he’d just hung up. “How did the house hunting go last night?” she asked. “You didn’t really go into detail last night.”
“We were pretty tired,” Harry said, smiling, and continued to tell Myra about the house he was pretty sure that he was going to buy.
“Are you sure you don’t want to look at more houses before you decide?” Myra asked.
Harry shrugged. “I like the location, the surroundings and the house itself. It has everything I want, almost, and the things it doesn’t have are easy to add.”
”Like what?”
“An inside pool,” Harry said with a grin. Myra reacted much like Draco had done; she stared at him as though he was crazy. Then she frowned, before she brightened with the realization of why Harry was going to build a pool.
“He’s going to feel even guiltier now,” Myra said, her frown returning.
“He’s going to pay me for staying at the house,” Harry said. “Oh, don’t look at me like that – I didn’t want him to do it. I don’t need it. But he wanted to. Or, well, he wouldn’t have stayed at all if he hadn’t been allowed to pay.”
She shook her head. “You guys are strange,” she said. “Anyway, do you need an inspector to check the house out?”
“Yes, I was going to look into that,” Harry said. “Do you know anyone?”
“Yeah,” she said, “that’s why I brought it up. My uncle works as one, so he could do the check if you want to.”
“That sounds great,” Harry said.
Myra gave him her uncle’s number and then she left, saying she had to go home to study. “If you need help catching up, I can help you,” she said with a smile. “It’s been a while since I took the class but I’m sure I remember it. You’ve missed quite a bit.”
“I guess I have,” Harry said. “Oh, Myra?”
“Yes?”
“Do you have those papers I gave you? The beginning of the story I asked you to look at?”
Myra smiled at him. “You mean the one about a man called ‘Dragon’?”
Harry blushed. “That would be the one,” he said.
“I do. It’s at home, safely tucked away among a billion other papers,” she said.
“I’m glad that I gave you those papers,” Harry said. “There is absolutely nothing left of the laptop, after all. It would have sucked to have had to start over.”
They continued talking about insurance and how much of Harry’s things had been lost in the fire. The items he would have liked the most to have with him were photos and his writing books, where he kept notes and ideas about life, new stories and everything in between. Clothes, shoes, tables, the couch – those were the things he didn’t care about. Sure, it was annoying to have to go out and buy new things, but those things still didn’t have any emotional value.
He was glad that his wand was locked away in a safety box at the bank and he was even happier that he’d made a habit of wearing the key for that vault around his neck. He didn’t know exactly why he did it – it was a bit of a reminder of his past, and even though he wanted to forget, he knew he would never be able to forget completely. Although he didn’t practice magic anymore, he didn’t want his wand destroyed. It was a part of him.
Myra left. After calling her uncle, Harry walked out to the living room to find Darius and Draco watching TV.
“Re-runs of ’Survivor’?” he asked. “I think the cartoons were better.”
Darius stuck his tongue out at Harry. “This is highly stimulating and interesting, watching people interact with each other. If I were a psychology teacher, I would show this to the classes to make them understand.”
“There’s a reason why you’re not a psychology teacher,” Harry said, sitting down between the other two.
“You’re rude,” Darius whined.
“And you’re like a three-year-old. Draco, I have made an appointment at a hairdresser for today. It’s at eleven thirty.”
Draco turned and looked at him. “Thanks.” He sounded oddly grateful, as though he hadn’t expected Harry to actually get him an appointment, despite asking the previous day.
“So we’ll leave in half an hour. It’s not that far away, so we don’t need to take a taxi,” he said. “Or is there anything else you’d like to do before?”
Draco shrugged. “Not really. Although anything would be better than watching this. I swear I can feel my brain cells dying.”
“Hey!” Darius said.
“Don’t worry,” Harry said, turning to Darius and patting him on the shoulder. “Your brain cells aren’t dying. They’re already long, long gone.”
Darius pouted at them and Harry laughed. To his surprise, he heard Draco chuckle lightly behind him.
Closer to three hours later, the hairdresser was obviously relieved to see Draco go and Harry was glad to leave. Draco had to be one of the most annoying people on the planet when it came to his hair. He wanted this but not that, a little shorter there – not that short! – and a little longer there – and cut carefully, my hair is very fine—
“You’re gay, right?” he asked as he pushed the chair out of the salon.
“I happen to take pride in my hair, that does not mean I’m gay,” Draco said, beginning to wheel the chair by himself. Harry walked up beside him instead.
“No, but then we add the fashion sense and the fact that you bake cookies by your own free will—”
”I didn’t hear you complain,” Draco said, one fine eyebrow raised.
“You want lunch?”
“Did you run out of snappy comebacks?”
“No, but I did get bored with our so-called discussion and there are two very nice restaurants just over there,” Harry said, pointing.
Draco agreed and they made their way over to the restaurants. Harry watched Draco out of the corner of his eye; the way Draco made his way between the people on the pavement and over the uneven ground. Harry was, again, impressed with how quickly Draco had learned to manoeuver the wheelchair. He seemed oddly graceful, even confined to it. There was a beauty in the way he moved that made his breath hitch. It made him want to reach out and touch that pale skin, to be part of the beauty.
He nearly snorted at himself. He would never be called a ‘beauty’. It would be rather like Beauty and the Beast if Harry and Draco ever became anything more. He hurried to catch up with Draco.
Lunch passed smoothly. Draco seemed quiet, a bit tired, but still had his wit with him, making Harry chuckle happily several times. The comments weren’t negative and hurtful as they once had been – they were sarcastic but never ill meaning. Harry found himself enjoying the company immensely and could only hope that Draco felt the same.
After finishing their lunch – which Harry paid for, never even consulting Draco about it – Harry walked Draco back to the apartment. Draco wheeled himself and by the time they arrived to Darius’ apartment, he was heaving and sweating with the effort. Still, Harry knew it had to do with his Malfoy pride and he didn’t help. Harry, who had had a key to the apartment for years, let Draco in. The blond disappeared into Darius’ room and Harry was quite sure he was going to take a nap. Harry on the other hand, left to meet Myra’s uncle, to go through the inspection of the house.
Later that afternoon, Harry signed a few papers and suddenly, he was a house owner.
Harry was back at the university the next morning. A lot of students watched him curiously, having read the papers about the explosion and fire. Harry wanted to go somewhere and hide. He hated being a public person.
“Shouldn’t have published two books if you didn’t want to become a bit famous, Harr’,” Myra said.
“Yes, yes, thank you for telling me,” Harry said. “Can we just go inside? Hopefully the professors won’t be staring as much.”
They didn’t but class was far from enjoyable for Harry anyway, because he had gotten far behind in the two weeks he’d been gone. He sat and tried to understand what they were talking about, but failed quite miserably most of the time. When the day’s classes were over, Harry followed Myra home to her apartment, to have her help him. Still, it didn’t make him understand completely, as it had been a while since Myra had taken the class. Darius wouldn’t be much help either way; he hadn’t taken the class at all.
Myra’s apartment was much smaller than Darius’. It was smaller than Harry’s apartment had been, too, actually. It was only two rooms – a small bedroom and a combined kitchen and living room – and the bathroom. Still, Myra had managed to make it cosy – and she had filled almost every wall with bookcases, filled to the brim with books of all sizes. Harry was sure that Hermione would like Myra’s apartment.
The two sat down at the wooden kitchen table and Myra began explaining the class work to Harry.
When the clock hit one thirty in the morning, Myra yawned and said, “I need to sleep or I won’t live through classes tomorrow.”
Harry shot a bleary eye at the clock. He doubted that any of the things they had gone through in the last hour actually had stuck in his head. “Yeah. Bed,” he said.
“You’re sleeping on the couch,” Myra told him. “No whining.”
“Don’t worry, I slept on the couch for three weeks before the apartment blew up,” Harry said with a small smile. At her look, he added, “Only one bed. I couldn’t very well put Draco on the couch.”
She smiled back at him. “You’re a softie inside.”
He yawned. “Just don’t tell anyone.”
“Not even Draco?”
“Especially not Draco. I’d never hear the end of it.” Harry winced as he imagined the billions of ways Draco would tease him.
“Oh, but he’s a softie too,” Myra said.
“I think he’s mostly sarcastic,” Harry said, but he smiled fondly as he remembered some of the insults.
“He sat by your bed for two weeks, barely eating or sleeping,” Myra said, raising an eyebrow at him in challenge. “If that isn’t softness, then I don’t know what is.”
Harry smiled tenderly and felt his heart beat faster at the memory of waking up with Draco sitting there, holding his hand. “I’m glad he was there when I woke up,” he said.
“Did you know he stayed in there when you had your cardiac arrest too?” Myra asked.
“He stayed? In the room?” Harry had no idea.
“Yeah,” Myra said. “Refused to leave. I don’t know why. One of the nurses said that there seemed to be some sort of power around him that made the doctors afraid to go near him. So they left him there. He sat there, mumbling something.”
“…Haleth mio san…”
…A whisper, riding on the wind…
“No one could tell what it was he was whispering,” Myra continued, but trailed off, looking at her friend. “Harry?”
…A tunnel lay before him…
“..aneth colle galnh…”
“Harry?”
“What else did the nurse say he did?” Harry asked distractedly, hoping to keep the fleeting memories coming.
“She didn’t say much more. They couldn’t understand what he was muttering about. But when your heart wouldn’t start again, she said his mumbling got stronger, more desperate.”
He took a few steps towards the light; it was easy, it felt so right…
“…rane salay venetas…”
The whisper grew more anxious… worried… intense…
“Then your heart was beating again and she couldn’t say if he continued at all; there was too much commotion,” Myra said. “Harry?”
Harry took a step backwards, away from the light. It was harder…
But he could do it.
“…menea haleth mio san…”
Harry smiled softly. “I remember it,” he said voice barely more than a whisper. “He was the one who brought me back.”
Myra looked at him, her face set in a thoughtful frown. “He did a blood exchange with you just afterwards,” she said.
Harry’s head snapped up. “He did a what?”
“He slashed his hand with a knife and then he slashed yours and he let your blood mix with his,” she said. “He doesn’t know that I know. I had knocked, but I guess he was too into what he was doing, so he didn’t hear it. I opened the door and saw him holding your hand. I understood what he’d done when I saw blood dripping.”
“You didn’t do anything?” Harry asked.
“No, he began cleaning you up almost immediately and I recognized the ritual as one shared between friends. It used to be what you did to become so called ‘blood brothers’ – it is something you only share with a person you care very much for. Since the two of you have been friends for years, I didn’t see anything wrong with it.”
“I—” Harry began, but then he closed his mouth. His heart was beating madly against his chest. “Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know,” Myra said. “But it sounded like he was working some kind of magic.”
Harry’s head snapped up. “Magic?”
“I know, it sounds crazy,” Myra said with an easy laugh. “But come on, him muttering something when you were dying, having an aura of strength around him, and then sharing blood? Sounds like magic to me. Or, perhaps, desperate hope.”
“Yeah,” Harry said, frowning. “Probably just desperate hope.”
Myra yawned again. “Let’s go to bed,” she said. “I’m beat.”
Harry nodded, still distracted by what Myra had told him. At first he wanted to go over and talk to Draco about it, ask him why he’d done it. Why share blood, why the spell? Harry didn’t even know if it was a spell; Draco didn’t have a wand, as far as Harry knew. Then Harry realised one important part:
Draco hadn’t told him.
He had saved Harry’s life but hadn’t told him.
That meant that Draco didn’t want it to be brought up. When Harry thought about it, he realised that talking about it would bring up way too many uncomfortable questions. Questions about caring, worrying, liking, loving – questions neither of them wanted to face.
Finally, Harry fell into an uneasy slumber.
The next few days passed in a blurry mess for Harry. He was up from early morning to late night, trying to keep up with his class work and at the same time buying new things for his house. He had sent Draco out on Tuesday to find a new couch and table for the living room, as well as a bed for himself. Harry wanted to try out his own bed, although he let Draco buy covers and pillows.
When Harry saw the couch and table Draco had chosen, he promptly decided that Draco could decorate the whole house. Harry would only add a few personal items here and there.
Harry, of course, couldn’t resist teasing. “When you add up the hair, the clothes, the cookie-baking, the ability to make anything and everyone look nice – you really are gay, aren’t you?”
“Would it bother you?”
The question took Harry aback, but then he shook his head. “Of course not. Coming from someone who ‘plays for both teams’ if you will, I’m really not in a position to judge.”
Harry enjoyed the rare moment of speechlessness from Draco.
“So are you?” Harry asked, never one to be able to hold back his curiosity.
Draco sneered at him. “That is really none of your business,” he said and went back to look through catalogues to find a glass table to have in the living room, ignoring Harry. Harry looked over his shoulder, looking at the various styles as well, although only partly paying attention to it. His eyes strayed to the blond; he watched Draco chew on his lips as he found several different choices that he found good enough. The sunlight fell in through the window, making Draco’s hair shine like gold, the soft strands falling into his eyes so that he had to push them away at regular intervals. His skin, such creamy perfection... His mind wandered back to the day at Darius’ apartment and he remembered the feeling of Draco’s warm skin, separated from his own only by two pieces of clothing.
“Harry?”
Draco was looking at him curiously; the previous annoyance seemed to be gone.
“Sorry,” Harry said. “Got caught in a memory.”
Draco looked as though he wanted to ask which one, but after a long look, he just shrugged.
“What do you think about this one?” he asked and pointed at a low glass table in an uneven shape.
“It looks very nice,” Harry said. Hardly anything Draco showed him looked anything but nice.
The work with digging out the garage to make it an inside pool area began immediately. The walls were covered with isolation materials, huge windows were put in and a shower next to the laundry room – which was between the kitchen and the garage – was built. Draco and Harry chose the tiles together. They decided on a grey and white theme, with the occasional black detail. The pool was to have one deep end and one shallow, with stairs down in one end.
On Friday, almost a week after they had first seen the house, Harry and Draco were sitting on the newly bought, dark grey couch in the living room. A low table with wooden legs and a glass top stood before them, already messy with magazines. Harry wanted the house to feel at home right away.
“To make it all instantly messy is not the way to do it,” Draco had snapped as Harry had placed the magazines on the table.
“My house, Draco, my rules,” Harry had said.
He had realised his mistake in saying it as soon as the words had left his mouth, but by then it had been too late. Now the two sat quietly watching TV. It was a large TV, placed in a wooden bookcase. The bookcase looked a bit stupid, as it didn’t have a single book, only a vase with flowers standing on one of the shelves. Books would have to come later.
It was safe to say that neither man was actually watching the program, since the TV was currently showing Jerry Springer and four or five guests were screaming and making rude gestures.
“I think we should have a house-warming party,” Harry said thoughtfully.
Draco didn’t answer.
“Draco, what do you think?”
“Do what you want, Potter, it’s your house,” Draco said coolly.
“Draco, I didn’t mean it like that,” Harry said, fighting the urge to roll his eyes at the blond. He was hormonal like a girl at that time of the month.
“But it’s true,” Draco said, turning to him. “It is your house. I’m only a guest. A temporary guest.”
“Haven’t we gone over this already?” Harry asked, getting annoyed.
“Yes, you gave me an offer I just couldn’t refuse,” Draco said sarcastically.
“That was exactly what it was – an offer,” Harry said. “You didn’t have to accept it. I want you here – you’re the one who keeps saying you have to give me something for it.”
“And I have yet to figure out why the hell you would want a paralysed, wheelchair-tied, ex-enemy from school in your home,” Draco said. “Is it some sort of sick sadistic streak in you? To watch another person suffer?”
“I am not a sadist,” Harry growled at him. “I like your company. Well, I usually do, but at the moment, you’re acting like an idiot. I want you here because when you’re not whiny and stupid, you are an intelligent, witty person whose company I enjoy.”
“But—” Draco said but Harry interrupted him.
“You keep putting yourself down, Draco,” Harry said, frowning at him. “Why? I asked you a week ago – why do you think that you deserve what has happened to you? What happened after you left Hogwarts in seventh year? What made you leave?”
Draco stared at him, a storm in the grey eyes. Harry met his eyes calmly, although his desperation showed through. He wanted to know, wanted to understand so that he could help. He was never one to sit on the sidelines and watch; he had to help if he could.
Finally came the whispered words. “I can’t tell you.”
Frustrated, Harry stood up, raking a hand through his hair. “Why not, Malfoy? What horrible deed did you do? Did Dumbledore send you away? Were you on a mission for the Death Eaters? Did you kill Ron after all, like the other students thought? Where were you in the final fight against Voldemort? Were you on our side or theirs? I don’t even know that much.”
Harry trailed off, watching Draco. A slight wince at the Dark Lord’s name, but other than that, Draco’s feelings hadn’t shown throughout Harry’s tirade. A blank mask had been placed over him, keeping Harry from the truth.
Defeated, Harry sat down again.
Minutes passed in silence. Then Harry looked up and asked tiredly, “Do you still want me to contact a specialist to put a training program together for you? I forgot about that before the explosion and, well, things have been a bit crazy since.”
Draco looked at him, through him as he had done several times in the beginning, before nodding. “I—I read a bit about it in those books you gave me,” he said quietly. “Although that was before—”
“Yeah,” Harry said. “You won’t have much use of those books now. Unless you can read ashes.”
Draco gave him a weak smile at the attempted joke. Harry stood and left the room, returning a minute later with his new laptop that he’d bought a few days earlier. “Here,” he said, turning it on and clicking to go online. “You can go through this site and see if there are any books you’d like me to order.”
He showed Draco one of the shopping sites and how to put the books, movies and CDs into the basket, as well as how to search.
“Order anything you want,” Harry said. “We need to fill these bookcases up. Don’t worry about the money. If you feel like you’re living off me again, then just remember that if you leave, I’m keeping the books, so you’re really just ordering for me. Or something.”
“It’s not the first time I use a computer, Potter, I’m sure I can handle it.”
“Uh, okay. I— I’ll make dinner. Is pasta okay?”
Draco nodded. Harry walked over to the kitchen, which also lacked in equipment since kitchen gear wasn’t high on the priorities-list. As he stood there, starting on the dinner, Draco turned to him.
“I think a house-warming party would be great,” he said quietly.
Harry smiled at him.
They were getting somewhere.
Harry called Myra and Darius that night and asked them if they wanted to come over for the party the next night. Neither of his friends had been to the house yet, as Harry didn’t want them to come until they had at least the basic furniture, so they were both excited to come out.
“You should invite Hermione,” Draco said after Harry had finished talking to his friends.
“Do you want her here? And don’t tell me it’s my house, or I’ll scream,” Harry said warningly.
“Wouldn’t want you to do that,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. “It’s okay if you invite her. She’s— she’s been pretty nice.”
Harry smiled then and called Hermione. She was bubbling with excitement about seeing his new home, asking a billion questions. Harry only told her that she would have to come see for herself the next day. They continued to talk about other things – Hermione inquired how Harry’s wounds were now and Harry promised her that they were fine.
“I was so scared when I read that you’d been hurt,” she told him. “And taken to a Muggle hospital instead of St Mungo’s – no one was sure if you’d survive at all.”
By the time Harry had finished talking to Hermione, it was bedtime. He heard the TV in the living room and left his own room to see if Draco was still up.
He smiled softly when he found Draco fast asleep on the couch.
Harry picked up the remote and turned the TV off. The sudden cease of sound, or possibly the creaking of the wooden floor beneath Harry’s feet, woke Draco up. He opened grey, tired eyes slowly.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Twelve,” Harry said.
Draco moved to get up but Harry placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Relax,” he said.
Grey eyes met green uncertainly, but Draco accepted without words when Harry lifted him to take him to his room. One arm around Harry’s neck, he leaned his head against Harry’s shoulder, closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep again. Harry entered Draco’s dark room and stepped inside carefully, not wanting to turn the light on, instead waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Draco’s room was still bare; only his bed and a bookcase were in place. The walls were painted green and the room still smelled of paint.
Harry placed Draco on the bed gently and Draco didn’t even open his eyes as Harry tucked him in, pulling the covers up to his chin.
Hesitating, with his heart beating wildly in his chest, he bent down and placed a gentle kiss on Draco’s forehead, unable to stop himself. His breath hitched as Draco moved and smiled slightly, his heart feeling like it was going to beat a hole through his chest.
With a last, small smile, he left the room, closing the door behind him.
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