Chapter nine
developments
The next day, Harry woke up on the couch as he’d done every day since Malfoy came to live with him. Outside, it was raining, the grey clouds of the day before still covering the skies. The morning rituals proceeded as usual – until Harry came to the point where he had to get dressed.
The new clothes that Malfoy had picked out for him the day before were still in their bags by the door, since Harry had just unceremoniously dumped them there the previous afternoon to be unpacked later. Now he took an uncertain step towards them, as though they’d bite. He took the many bags with him back into the living room, where he went through the contents.
Malfoy had certainly been thorough. And Malfoy certainly had a sense of fashion; Harry had to admit to that. For being half-gay, Harry most certainly did not have a fashion sense of any kind.
Myra had once told him he must be the only gay guy in history to have no fashion sense.
Harry grinned to himself as he wondered if he would be able to mismatch even these clothes.
Finally, he decided on the new pair of jeans that Malfoy had, at long last, been satisfied with – Harry didn’t want to know how many pairs he’d tried on – and a black t-shirt that was impossibly tight. Harry looked uncertainly at a silver necklace that Malfoy had bought as well, but then shrugged and put it on. They hadn’t gotten as far as shoes, because by that time Harry had noticed how tired Malfoy seemed, but there were new socks. Harry wondered what was wrong with his old socks, but didn’t think he’d dare to ask.
He finished breakfast and thought that perhaps he could let Malfoy sleep this morning. Since Malfoy was ‘back to normal’ again, it seemed unnecessary to wake him up. Harry would be home by eleven again anyway; Malfoy could get his breakfast then. Or perhaps the blond would have made breakfast by himself, although Harry doubted it since he still was far from free to move around.
He walked to class, enjoying the walk despite the weather. Arriving at the university, Harry saw Myra and Darius talking to each other.
“Hey guys,” he said, coming up to them.
“Hey Har— bloody hell,” Myra swore, staring at him with wide eyes.
“Um, Myra? D?“ Harry asked uncertainly as his two friends openly goggled at him.
“What are you wearing?” Darius asked finally.
“Uh, new clothes, Malfoy picked them out for me,” Harry said. “They’re kind of uncomfortable.”
“You look— you look—” Myra said, her ability to talk seeming to momentarily escape her.
“I think she’s trying to say that you look gorgeous, Harr’,” Darius said, grinning at both Harry and Myra. “And might I say, well done – I’ve never seen our dear Myra speechless before.”
“Gorgeous?” Harry repeated dumbly.
“Of course,” Darius said. “Those clothes— I think that I will have to go out shopping with that Malfoy of yours as well.”
“They’re good, then?” Harry still wasn’t sure that the clothes were all that wonderful – they were too tight and definitely not his style.
“They’re—” Myra began, but then lost her ability to talk again and continued to just stare.
“C’mon,” Darius said, taking Myra by the elbow and slapping Harry on the back. “Let’s get to class so that she can get something else to think about.”
Throughout the day, people kept staring at Harry as though he was a never-before-seen specimen and he couldn’t understand why. Darius and Myra – once she got her tongue back – told him that the new clothes he wore really looked good.
“Better than good,” Myra said, still in slight shock. “That Malfoy of yours should get a medal for dragging you out to shop.”
Harry was glad to come home during lunch, to escape the staring and the sudden bouts of giggling that escaped from young women around him on the university’s grounds. He unlocked the door to the apartment and walked inside. He was surprised by the delicious smell of cookies in the air.
“Mal— Draco?” Taking his shoes off and putting the wet umbrella away, he walked into the apartment. He found the man he was looking for in the kitchen.
Malfoy was sitting in his wheelchair by the table, reading a magazine. On the kitchen counter, there was a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.
“Draco?”
Malfoy looked up from his magazine, startled. He obviously hadn’t heard Harry the first time.
“Hi,” Harry tried, having no idea where their relationship currently was, considering the previous day’s fight.
Malfoy had to turn the wheelchair around to be able to look at him in the eye. Harry wondered how he’d been able to bake with the spell still on his back. Malfoy didn’t say anything; only regarded him with dull grey eyes.
“Can I take one?” Harry gestured towards the cookies.
“They were made for eating,” Malfoy said.
Harry took a cookie and broke off a piece. “They’re good,” he said. “I didn’t know you could bake.”
Malfoy gave him a look that said, ‘There are a lot of things you don’t know about me.’ Harry felt himself blush; of course there were things, probably a million of them, that he didn’t know about the blond man.
“So,” Harry began once the silence became too much. “How— how are you feeling?”
As happened so often when he was with Malfoy, he was once again subjected to the scrutinizing silver gaze that seemed to look through him.
“Better,” Malfoy said finally, with little emotion to his voice. Swiftly changing the subject, he asked, “Did your friends like your new clothes?”
Harry broke out in a grin. “You should have seen Myra – she was completely speechless when she first saw me. I couldn’t understand it, but D told me it was the clothes.”
“You look good,” Malfoy said. “Courtesy of me, of course.”
Harry shrugged. “I don’t see what was wrong with my old clothes.”
“Everything?”
“Jeez, thanks,” Harry said, rolling his eyes and taking another cookie off the plate. They really were very good.
“How long will you be home?”
Harry was surprised by the question; so far Malfoy hadn’t spoken unless Harry had asked him something first.
“You mean for lunch?” Malfoy nodded. “Till two thirty. My next class starts at three. Hey, do you want to get out for a bit of food?”
A slight crease appeared between Malfoy’s brows as he considered it. A second later, he gave a small nod. “Sure. Be nice to get out.”
“I’m sure,” Harry said. “It can’t be fun to be cooped up in here all day long.”
Malfoy didn’t reply and Harry wondered if he’d taken the subject too far again. He had no idea where the line went for what was too deep a discussion about Malfoy’s ‘problem’ and what was acceptable.
Malfoy went to get himself out of the wheelchair and over to one of the kitchen chairs, so that Harry, just like yesterday, first could take the wheelchair down to the first floor and then come back up for the blond. Malfoy’s getting out of the wheelchair, however, seemed to Harry like a slow and painful process as the spell on his back fought against his moving much at all. Again, Harry marvelled at the fact that he’d made the cookies all by himself in a kitchen that was in no way made for a wheelchair.
“Let me help you.” It was not a question; it was a statement. Harry turned the wheelchair around and lifted Malfoy swiftly over to the chair. As he did every time he carried the blond in any way, he worried about how little Malfoy weighed.
Malfoy didn’t say a word as Harry quickly folded the wheelchair together so that he could carry it down the narrow staircases of the apartment building, nor did he say a word as Harry carried him down those same staircases. The pale face no longer looked humiliated as he had the first time Harry had had to carry him up to the apartment; now Malfoy seemed resigned to his fate, his face blank. Harry wondered if it was just a façade.
It wasn’t raining as much as it had when Harry was walking home from the university, thankfully, but Malfoy got to hold the umbrella. Harry didn’t mind the rain so much; he had good, waterproof boots and a green raincoat that Malfoy had made a disgusted face at when Harry had taken it out of his wardrobe.
“Why,” he’d asked, “is everything you own some off-version of green or yellow?”
Harry had shrugged. “’twas cheap, I guess.”
Malfoy had just stared at him, as though it were impossible to choose clothes on such a thing as price.
“Is there anything in particular that you would like to eat today?”
“Anything that isn’t your cooking,” Malfoy replied.
“Hey! There’s nothing wrong with my cooking,” Harry said, quite offended. His cooking was actually something he took pride in, which was why he had such a well-organized kitchen and a well-filled fridge.
“No,” Malfoy said, his voice quiet, “but I haven’t had anything else for the last three weeks and before that, I had only hospital food – what little of it I ate.”
There was no self-pity in Malfoy’s words; only tired facts.
“Oh,” was all Harry could say. After a few minutes, he asked, “Is pasta okay? I know this great pasta place.”
“Pasta is fine,” Malfoy said, still sounding worn out.
It was a small Italian restaurant that served freshly made pasta and also very good pizzas. For today, though, both young men opted for pasta; Harry with four kinds of cheese on it and Malfoy pasta with shrimp sauce. The only problem they had with the restaurant was to get inside; it had two small steps to get into the building, which took them a few minutes.
Harry observed Malfoy as they both ate. Malfoy’s eating was a bit sloppy, as he was unable to bend over the table as he ate, but Harry still found himself admiring the other man. There was a quiet strength and a strong will surrounding him. Harry wondered if his thoughts on Malfoy not wanting to get better were unfounded after all.
“Any good?” Harry asked after a few minutes of silence.
Malfoy looked up to find Harry watching him intently. “The pasta is delicious,” he said after a few moments.
Harry gave him a small smile. “Thought you’d like it.”
“Why are you doing this?”
The question caught Harry unprepared. Not that he would have known what to answer even if he had been prepared, but still.
“What do you mean?” he asked, frowning at Malfoy.
“This,” Malfoy said, motioning at the restaurant. “Letting me stay with you, taking me out to lunch, buying me new clothes – being nice to me.”
Harry’s frown deepened. “Would you rather I didn’t?” When Malfoy didn’t reply, Harry continued, “I – I don’t know why I’m doing it. I don’t know why I’ve done any of the things I’ve done in the last six weeks. I have no clue why I went back to the hospital after the first time, or the second or the third. Or why I helped you, why you got sick or why I let you come stay with me.” Harry was talking faster and faster, but suddenly stopped. “I guess that somewhere along the way I started to care.”
The grey eyes never left Harry as he spoke; Harry could feel them watching even as he refused to meet them.
“You care?” Malfoy said finally and there was a hint of some emotion in his voice that Harry couldn’t place.
Harry looked up, forcing himself to meet the other man’s gaze. “I guess I do.”
“Why?” A simple question and no answer.
“I just told you; I don’t know.”
Silence fell again, since neither man knew what to say. There was too much history between them to just forget, but at the same time, that history was years ago.
“Do you think we could ever be friends?” Malfoy asked. He suddenly seemed timid.
“If we want to,” Harry said, “I think we can.”
“Do we want to?”
Harry looked down at his plate, studying it intently. Then he looked up again and said simply, “Yes, we do.”
He smiled slightly and saw Malfoy do the same, the small smile making the tired lines on his face less pronounced. Suddenly, the tension that had been between them lessened and their minds were no longer as serious and troubled.
“Does this mean we should start calling each other by our first names?” Harry asked.
“I thought you’d already started doing that,” Malfoy said. “Without my permission, might I add.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mister Malfoy, I didn’t know I needed your permission,” Harry said, voice sarcastic but happy.
Another small grin passed over Malfoy’s lips. “You have my permission now.”
“And you may call me ‘Harry’,” Harry said, rolling his eyes.
“Yes, because ‘Potter’ doesn’t really do any good, does it? Seeing how your last name is ‘Evans’ now and all,” Malf— Draco said.
Harry sobered at the mention of his taken last name. “That’s none of your business.”
Draco regarded him for a few moments before shrugging. “No, I guess not.”
The waitress arrived just then and asked them if they were finished. Harry nodded, casting a slightly worried look at Mal— Draco’s plate. The blond had eaten less than half of what was on the plate. When the waitress had left, he said, “You need to eat more.”
“Is this part of the friend-package?” Draco asked, frowning at him. “’Cause I don’t care much for it.”
“And I don’t care if you don’t care,” said Harry. “You need to eat; you’re losing too much weight.”
“Look, Potter,” Draco said, pointedly using his last name, “if I eat any more I’ll be sick – is that better?”
“Of course not but—”
“Then leave it alone,” Draco said.
“Fine,” Harry said sullenly, “are you ready to go, then?”
“Might help if you paid the bill before we leave,” Draco said, raising an eyebrow at Harry.
Harry felt his cheeks go slightly red. He called upon the waitress and then, once he’d paid for the food, he stood and snapped, “Ready to go now?”
Draco just smiled angelically at him, although his eyes were teasing. Harry found his bad mood fading; he didn’t know why he’d gotten so irritated to begin with. Seeing Draco happier again was more pleasing to him than he would have thought.
Finally, Harry rolled his eyes at the blond and they left the restaurant.
When they arrived back home again after a quiet-but-not-uncomfortably-so walk, they went through the process of going up to the apartment again.
“This is getting quite annoying,” Harry huffed as he took the wheelchair into the apartment and placed it next to the couch where Draco was currently sitting.
Draco looked at him, face blank but eyes still filled with emotions. “Sorry to be such a bother,” he said quietly.
Harry frowned at him. “You’re not.”
“You just said ‘this is getting quite annoying’ – wouldn’t that mean it is a bother? That I am a bother?” Harry couldn’t place the look in Draco’s eyes.
“I didn’t mean that you are a bother,” Harry said. “I meant that the wheelchair and the stairs are a bother.”
Again, Draco was silent for several long moments, looking down at his hands so that Harry couldn’t read his eyes, but then again, Harry didn’t need to read the blond man’s eyes; he had only to look at his posture to know that he’d said something wrong again.
“The wheelchair is me,” Draco said, looking up again, sadness in his eyes and at once, Harry understood.
With a small, gentle smile, he sat down on the couch by Draco’s feet. “No, it’s not,” he said. “It is—“
“It is me,” Draco insisted, looking down at his hands.
“No, listen to me, Draco,” Harry said. “It’s not. The wheelchair is part of what you are now, but it will never be everything you are – it will never even come close to all that you are.”
“How do you know what I am?” Draco asked haughtily.
“Well, you have lived here for three weeks—”
“And I was basically unconscious most of that time.”
“—and in the last two days you have showed that you are moody and—”
“Not really making me feel better,” Draco muttered.
“—and sarcastic and with ‘an excellent taste in clothes’ as Myra put it, you can bake the yummiest cookies, you are witty and you’re strong,” Harry finished as though Draco hadn’t spoken at all.
Draco stared at him. After a moment, he seemed to realise what he’d been doing and he asked, “Are you sure you’re the Harry Potter I knew in school?”
Harry gave him a small smile. “Unfortunately, yes.”
Draco hesitated again. “And you just gave me not one but several compliments?”
Harry blushed, although he didn’t know why, and then shrugged. “Guess so.”
“Hm,” Draco said, cocking his head to the side as much as the spell would allow him – which admittedly wasn’t much. “That’s interesting.”
“Why is it interesting? And what exactly is it that is interesting?” Harry asked confusedly.
“You. You’re interesting.” He didn’t continue; it seemed a habit for the blond not to actually explain things, which made it hard for Harry, since he was, according to Myra, ‘a bit thick at times’.
“Oh,” he said, mostly just to say something. Then he wanted to bang his head on the wall, wondering if that was really the only thing he could come up with to say. He glanced down at his clock and was shocked to see that it was already two thirty-five. “Oh, I’ve got to go,” he said, standing up.
Draco looked up at him, but didn’t say anything.
“Do you want anything before I leave?” Harry asked. “Something to drink, eat, read?”
“Nah, I’ll get it myself if I need anything.” He paused. “Well, actually, do you have anything good to read? I’ve read your magazines several times by now and reading about Britney Spears and Cameron Diaz’ boyfriends can only hold my interest for so long.”
“Well, actually—” Harry hesitated, remembering the books he had underneath his bed – books on paralysis. Of course he had novels of different kinds as well, but it might be a good idea for Draco to read about his condition.
“’Well actually’? What does that mean?” Draco frowned at him.
“I have a few books on paralysis in my room,” Harry said. “If you’d like to read them. I mean, I have other books as well, I just…” He trailed off, looking uncertainly at Draco.
“You think it might be a good idea for me to read those books,” Draco said. Looking down and then back up at Harry, he said with a small shrug, “I guess it couldn’t hurt. Might be something interesting.”
Harry offered a small smile and went to get the books. When he returned, Draco stared at him and the handful of books he carried. “You really researched this, didn’t you?”
“I thought it— I don’t know. I bought them when you were still in the hospital.”
Draco nodded, fingering one of the books uncertainly. The he looked at Harry. “You should go. Your class starts in a minute.”
Harry looked at his watch and swore. “Shit! Okay, I’ll see you later. Bye.”
He flashed a smile at Draco and was gone in a flurry. Draco closed his eyes, listening to the sound of the door closing and being locked. Uncertainly, he picked up the first book and began reading.
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