Chapter eight
Shopping
Tuesday morning, Harry awoke on the couch as usual. Yet again, he wondered why he hadn’t bought another mattress to use on the floor at least – sleeping on the couch was all right for one night, not fourteen. He stretched and winced, slowly working out sore muscles before dressing himself. Jeans, a t-shirt and a sweatshirt on top of that; it would have to be enough. The weather looked cold and the skies were grey.
Harry fixed breakfast with familiar ease and loaded a tray with the same familiarity. He knocked on the door to his own bedroom – he had long since gotten over the sense of silliness that had hit him when he did it the first time – and walked inside a few moments later, despite the lack of an invite. He placed the tray on the bedside table and went to wake Malfoy up.
He found his hand in a death grip.
Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “So we’re back to this, are we?”
Malfoy’s eyes slowly focused on Harry and the grip on his hand lessened as the blond recognised where he was.
“Potter.”
Malfoy’s voice sounded unused, unfamiliar.
“That’d be me,” Harry said. “Glad to see that we’re on speaking terms again.”
“What—” Malfoy broke off, frowning.
“What do you remember of the last two weeks?” Harry asked gently, sitting down on the floor next to the bed.
The frown deepened in concentration. “You took me here— and I got sick,” he said, voice still raspy after its long rest.
“You’ve been— out of it,” Harry said carefully. “You’ve been sick, sort of.”
Grey eyes searched green for truth. When Malfoy turned his gaze away, he seemed satisfied with the answer. The frown was still on his face; he was deep in thought.
Shifting his position to one where he was on his knees instead, Harry asked, “Hungry?”
Malfoy turned his head back to Harry. It looked like he’d forgotten that Harry was there at all. “I guess,” he said.
Harry looked over at the tray and then back at Malfoy, an idea forming in his head. “I know you’re used to breakfast in bed by now,” he said, “but would you like to come sit at the kitchen table instead to eat?”
Again, Malfoy’s eyes searched Harry’s for any untruth in the words, any trap, and again, the blond seemed satisfied with Harry’s honesty.
“All right.”
“I’ll have to carry you. Well, I could get the wheelchair, but I’ll still have to carry you over to the wheelchair and then wheel you to the kitchen and that is a trip over the doorframes and that might not be so comfortable.”
Harry shut up suddenly, realising that he was rambling and Malfoy was watching him as though he’d grown a second head.
“I guess I’ll just carry you.”
Malfoy still didn’t say a word, but Harry thought he could detect a slight blush as he picked him up. It was by no means a comfortable trip out to the kitchen and Harry tried to make it as quick as possible. He sat Malfoy down in one of the four chairs by the kitchen table and hurried back to the bedroom to get the tray containing Malfoy’s breakfast. He was running late for class.
“There, your breakfast,” Harry said as he set plate and glass before Malfoy.
He made toast and a glass of milk for himself, finishing it quickly. Malfoy ate slower, his body unused to moving at all. Harry watched him impatiently, tapping his fingers against the table as he waited for the blond to finish. The morning rituals took much, much longer when Malfoy ate by himself rather than just chew and swallow as Harry placed food into his mouth.
Finally, he sighed deeply.
Malfoy looked up from the plate, gazing at him questioningly but not saying a word.
“I’ll just call in sick today instead,” Harry said to him.
“Potter playing hooky?” Malfoy asked him, an eyebrow rising.
“Yeah, and it’s not the first time either,” Harry said. Abruptly changing the subject, he said, “You should drink some, it might help your voice. If it doesn’t, I’ll heat up some water for you with honey in. Mo—someone I knew used to do that.”
“Molly Weasley?”
It was just a name. Just a name, but it held so much; memories, feelings, experiences. When Harry and Ron became best friends, Molly Weasley became the mother Harry never had. She hugged him in a way that made him understand what a mother’s love was; she cared for him in a way that could sometimes get annoying, but mostly was just welcome.
Harry swallowed the lump in his throat, nodding to Malfoy but refusing to look at him. “Yeah.”
“She was a nice woman,” Malfoy said. “Hopefully, she still is.”
Molly had not died in the war, but she’d suffered more than most; she lost three children.
Harry’s head snapped up. “What happened to ‘with more children than they can afford’?” he asked and his voice came out haughtier than he’d intended.
“I grew up.”
Malfoy didn’t offer any further explanation, acting as though those three words were all that was needed. He continued to eat, slowly.
Harry watched him with curious fascination. He took in the blond hair, falling into the grey eyes every now and then as Malfoy bent his head forward to take a bite of the toast. The features were still like they had been in school, although older; Malfoy’s face had always been pointy, the angles always sharp. He’d lost weight in the last six weeks. It showed on his face and on the way his clothes fit. Well, they were Harry’s clothes, but when Malfoy had first arrived, they had fit better. Now they hung from his body.
“What happened to you, Malfoy?” Harry asked after what felt like an eternity of silence.
Malfoy looked up, grey eyes dull. “I seem to recall a motorbike accident,” he said, attempting sarcasm but without any real feeling behind it.
Harry gave him a brief, annoyed glare. “You know I don’t mean that.”
“I do. But what makes you think I will tell you?”
Harry opened his mouth, but realised that he had no answer. He closed it again, then muttered, “Never mind.”
The silence stretched over the kitchen again.
“Do you want some hot water and honey for your throat?” Harry asked.
Malfoy looked up and for the third time that morning, he seemed to be judging whether Harry was being honest or not. The gaze bore into Harry and he felt as though Malfoy was looking through him rather than at him. As he fought not to fidget under Malfoy’s hard gaze, he wondered if there was anyone Malfoy trusted.
“Yes, please,” Malfoy said finally.
Five minutes later, Harry set a cup with warm water and honey before Malfoy and the blond drank slowly. Harry leaned against the counter, wondering what he should be doing. Should he leave or stay or— In the end, he just stood there.
“Do you want to go out shopping today?” he asked finally, getting bored with the silence and tension between them. “You need some new clothes – mine don’t fit you too well.”
Malfoy looked down at himself and raised an eyebrow at the clothes. “Still no taste, I see, Potter.”
Harry wondered if he should roll his eyes or glare at Malfoy. He ended up doing neither, only snatched the now-empty cup from Malfoy’s hands.
“Do you want to or not?”
Malfoy smirked at him, which made Harry want to smile in turn. That smirk was purely Malfoy and a sure sign that he was getting better by the second. “Sure, Potter, I’d love to go out shopping with you. Perhaps we can get some new clothes for you as well, hm?”
“There is nothing wrong with my wardrobe, thank you very much,” Harry said.
“But you dress without your glasses on?”
“Hey!”
“And you are colour blind as well?” Malfoy continued on as though Harry hadn’t said a word.
“Fine!” Harry exclaimed. “We’ll buy me some new clothes as well. Satisfied?”
Again, Malfoy smirked. “Very.”
As Harry grumbled beneath his breath about what sort of satisfaction Malfoy would get out of shopping clothes for him, Malfoy’s smirk grew. Inside, Harry couldn’t help but feel good about himself. He was, after all, the one who was making Malfoy feel better.
“No, no, no, all wrong,” Malfoy said, waving his hands about as much as Hermione’s spell would allow.
”What’s wrong with this?” Harry looked down at the clothes he was trying on – he couldn’t see what was so bad about the clothes. The shirt was actually one he’d picked out.
“Ugh, that colour,” Malfoy said, looking as though he was close to being sick “You cannot wear that colour.”
“What’s wrong with this colour?” Harry decided it best not to tell Malfoy that he had several shirts at home in the same brownish colour that the shirt he was currently wearing was.
“Potter, that colour is called puce. There’s a reason why the name is so close to puke,” Malfoy said in his usual, superior tone.
Harry just rolled his eyes and went back inside to try on the next set of clothes that Malfoy had made him bring into the changing rooms.
So far, the shopping trip hadn’t been successful. Malfoy had tried on a few shirts, but quickly became tired as he had to squirm his way in and out of different sets. When Malfoy got tired, he got annoyed to the point of whiny, Harry soon noticed. So they had decided on a few t-shirts in various colours and soft materials to avoid rashes, as well as two pairs of trousers that Malfoy hadn’t tried on at all but figured would fit and two sweatshirts that he’d pulled a face at as Harry paid for them.
Now, they had moved on to Harry.
Walking back out again, Malfoy frowned at him.
“The trousers fit okay,” he said, his eyes raking over Harry’s body. Harry fidgeted under the steely gaze, not used to another person studying him so closely. The trousers Malfoy was studying were also tight – very tight. Too tight, if you asked Harry, but obviously ‘okay’ in Malfoy’s eyes.
“Yeah, the trousers are all right, but not the shirt,” Malfoy said, nodding as though he was agreeing with himself.
“Why not the shirt?” Harry said, getting frustrated with the amount of clothes he’d already tried on. His wardrobe was fine as it was!
“Not tight enough.” He smirked as Harry spluttered at him. “Go back and change. I think there are two more shirts for you to try. And take off that bloody key-chain around your neck. Why do you wear a key anyway?”
Harry didn’t answer, his mind barely registering the last question, as it was still in shock after Malfoy’s first comment.
It wasn’t tight enough.
Right.
An hour later, Malfoy was finally satisfied with Harry’s new wardrobe and Harry was pushing him none-to-gently down the street. At least a dozen bags were hanging off the wheelchair in various places, some even situated on Malfoy’s lap.
“I don’t know why I ever let you talk me into this,” Harry grumbled.
“Because you secretly enjoy modelling for me?” Malfoy suggested sweetly.
Harry rolled his eyes. Just then, they passed an ice cream parlour and Harry felt his sweet tooth. “Want to get some ice cream?” Harry asked, forgetting that he was supposed to still be angry with Malfoy.
Malfoy raised an eyebrow at him. “You want to have ice cream with your former archenemy?”
“Archenemy? You were never my archenemy,” Harry said. “Annoying thorn in the side, perhaps. Vold— You-Know-Who was my archenemy.”
It hurt, just to think the name. It reminded him of all the people that had died during his sixth and seventh year. Cedric and Sirius had only been the beginning, the first of many close to Harry that had died, and it hadn’t ended until Harry committed murder and killed Voldemort.
Malfoy watched Harry with almost curious eyes, but when he opened his mouth and spoke, he only said, “I was only a thorn in your side? Hah. I made your life exciting.”
Harry was glad that Malfoy let the subject of Voldemort and the war drop; on this admittedly grey and cold spring day, he didn’t want to think about it. Not that there was any other day that he’d rather think about it, but still.
“So, ice cream?” he asked.
“Lead the way.”
“Actually, I’ll push the way.”
Malfoy rolled his eyes at him, a not-quite smile on his lips. Harry didn’t know why, but it felt good to banter back and forth with Malfoy again. It was easy-going; he didn’t have to think. Perhaps that was what had been good with Malfoy from the moment he’d crashed back into Harry’s life six weeks ago – Harry didn’t think as much when he was with Malfoy. Only when they weren’t together did Harry’s mind run rampant, remembering voices and events of the past that he’d rather forget altogether.
Getting a wheelchair into the ice cream parlour wasn’t as easy as Harry had thought. The doorframe was an inch high and just like in Harry’s apartment, it was annoying to try to get over it. Then the space between the tables and chairs inside up to the disk was quite small and Harry bumped into two chairs on the way.
Finally reaching the desk, they ordered their ice cream, surprising each other by choosing almost the same – both wanted Rocky Road and vanilla/fudge. Harry chose a blueberry sorbet with it, Malfoy a citrus sorbet. Harry paid and they chose a window table where Harry could move the original chair out of the way and place Malfoy, before setting himself on the other side.
They ate in silence, but unlike during breakfast, the silence was quite comfortable.
When Harry had finished, Malfoy still had half his left. Although his wit was almost back to what Harry remembered it to be, his body was far from it. He was weak after the four hours they’d spent shopping and Harry wondered if it had been such a smart thing to do, to take Malfoy out of the house as soon as he got well again.
“Don’t look at me like that, Potter,” Malfoy said to him.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to figure me out.” Malfoy looked at him, grey eyes unreadable.
“I’m not trying to figure you out,” Harry said, shrugging slightly. “I was wondering if you were tired.”
Malfoy seemed to debate with himself whether he would admit his weakness to Harry or not. Finally he nodded, eyes downcast.
“You should be, if it’s any consolation,” Harry said. “Heck, I’m tired and I’m used to walking. You haven’t been—”
He broke off, realising just why Malfoy was having such a hard time admitting that he was tired.
“—walking,” he finished finally.
“Thank you, Potter,” Malfoy said coolly, “for that observation.”
Harry didn’t know what to say. Malfoy’s posture, eyes and words seemed cold, shut off. He refused to meet Harry’s eyes; instead he stared at a point just beyond Harry. It reminded Harry a bit too much of the way Malfoy had been for two weeks, the coma-like state he’d been in, and an urge to slap the blond back to his senses came over him. It was pure will that he didn’t do it. Instead he simply said, “Let’s go home.”
Malfoy didn’t reply, only sat stone-faced as Harry pushed the wheelchair with Malfoy in it out of the crowded little ice cream parlour, bumping into only one chair in the process.
The trip home was silent and Malfoy accepted his fate wordlessly, his face completely blank, as Harry carried him up the stairs to the apartment and placed him on the couch to go down and get the wheelchair.
Starting on some afternoon scones to go with a cup of tea, Harry sighed deeply. He’d thought that they’d been making some progress. Their bantering during the day as Harry tried on numerous clothing items had been almost back to the level they’d been at in school, only friendlier. Now, Malfoy sat on the couch with a magazine in his lap, ignoring Harry and the world in favour of the latest gossip. Harry was quite certain that Malfoy wasn’t even reading.
He placed the un-baked scones in the small oven to finish and put some water on. Tea tended to calm his nerves.
Perhaps he should start calling the other man by his first name? It might be a step in the right direction. Not that Harry was at all sure of what was the ‘right direction’, but since they were living under the same roof – Harry’s mind had barely suggested telling Malfoy to move out before the idea was discarded – becoming friends, or at least civil to each other seemed like a good thing.
He poured the hot water into two mugs and placed a tea bag in his own, placing both mugs and an assortment of tea-sorts on a tray and carried it out. He placed it on the low glass table in the living room and said to Malfoy,
“I don’t know what sort of tea you like, so I brought several.”
Malfoy looked up from the magazines, turning his head as much as Hermione’s spell would allow him, to face Harry. His eyes were cool, distant, his face emotionless. After several long moments, he stretched over and picked up one of the tea bags and put it in the mug.
“Thank you,” he said. Harry wished he’d been better at catching the emotions in Malfoy’s voice, because he was sure that there was emotion.
“I’m making scones as well,” Harry said, needing to fill the silence. “They’ll be done in a few minutes.”
Malfoy frowned as though remembering something, but then his face cleared and he went back to his magazine. Harry sighed softly and sat down on the other end of the couch, teacup in his hands.
“You know, you could talk to me,” he said finally, quietly.
Malfoy’s gaze didn’t waver from the magazine, but Harry was sure that he had the blond man’s attention.
“About what you’re feeling, I mean,” Harry continued, watching Malfoy closely. “Yeah, I know, we’re guys; we’re not supposed to talk about feelings. But you have to feel something about—“
“About what, Potter?” Malfoy asked, head snapping up to look at him but the spell refusing to let him do so. Angry frustration was clearly written on Malfoy’s face as he fought to be able to turn around to look at Harry. When he’d finally managed to move himself around enough, his eyes were blazing, something close to hatred directed towards Harry. Harry hadn’t seen such fire in those eyes since the accident.
“About that,” Harry said, motioning towards Malfoy’s legs. He wondered if it were a mistake to aggravate Malfoy so; angering a dragon was never a good thing to do. ‘Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus’ and all that. Then again, Malfoy wasn’t sleeping.
“What do you want me to do, Potter?” Malfoy spat at him. “Break down and cry so that you can pat me on the back and tell me that it’s ‘going to get better’? It’s not going to get any fucking better!”
“You don’t know that,” Harry said, letting his own anger flare within. To get a response out of Malfoy was what he’d wanted and it meant that Harry himself had to react. “There is training and workouts that you can do and you’ll get—“
“Don’t you dare say those words,” Malfoy warned. “I do not want to hear them.”
“But you’re not even trying to get better!” Both their voices were raised now.
“What the hell can I do? With this fucking spell on me, I can’t even turn to look at you! I can’t practice, train, do workouts, all those pretty little ideas you have in your head! I’m not one of your damsels in distress and you won’t be able to save me.”
Malfoy’s chest was heaving by the end of it and angry red spots had appeared on his cheeks.
Harry looked down at the floor before meeting stormy grey eyes again. “I never thought of you as a ‘damsel in distress’, Draco,” he said, voice steady and the use of Malfoy’s first name deliberate. He allowed a smile to ghost over his lips as he continued. “But you needed to get that out of your system.”
Malfoy stared at him, grey eyes still stormy, angry – lost. They looked at each other for several long moments, before, surprisingly, Malfoy turned away. He put the cup of tea on the table, his breathing still slightly faster than normal. Then he sat back on the couch, the magazine still on his lap but long since forgotten.
The beeper on the oven sounded and Harry took the tray with him as he left the living room to collect the newly baked scones. He loaded the tray with scones and butter, wondering if he should make another cup of tea for himself. He did.
When he returned to the living room nearly ten minutes later, he found Malfoy with his face turned towards the back of the couch, fast asleep.
Harry smiled softly, almost tenderly, at the blond and returned to the kitchen to read and eat.
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