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Non-fluffy Advent fic, part 10
I had a bit of rubbish day today, somewhat saved by a gentle feeling of peace this evening. My moods might be a little reflected in today's offering...
Summary: Harry has almost forgotten what it is to be happy in love and life, until Draco gives him twenty-four chances to remember.
Word count (this part): ~1,450
Rating: NC-17 overall.
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
<<part 9
10.
Harry’s day didn’t go well. At first, he thought that it would – the sky was the softest grey when he left for work, with blue peeking through and everything edged in gold. Harry had been whistling when he arrived at the Ministry, but then everyone was in a bad mood and it soon became apparent that this was due to Robards having not got approval for his pet project.
“I don’t care how long it takes,” Robards shouted, “I want you to have a review of every case this year, and how the use of Muggle methods could have helped, on my desk by next Friday!”
“But Christmas—”
“Isn’t until the week after.” Robards started rifling through the papers on his desk with such force, several of them fluttered to the floor. Harry knew better than to attempt to pick any of them up or acknowledge that they’d fallen.
“Very well, sir.” Harry got up and left. He started swearing as soon as the door shut behind him, and didn’t stop until he’d got back to his cubicle.
“What I don’t understand,” said Ron, “is how Muggle methods can help that much when you’re investigating Dark Magic. They don’t exactly have a test for it.”
“I know.” Harry sighed. “But there are some good practices… It’s just the timing, really. There are so many files to go through, and just over a week at any time of the year would be hard, but knowing Christmas is coming…”
“It’s a bit of a final deadline, isn’t it?”
“And then what’s he going to do with it, when no one’s at work, anyway?” Harry scowled, and went back to listing all the methods he knew Robards had been hoping to get written into the Auror code of practice. He rubbed the back of his neck in frustration: so many of these were good ideas, but he hated to be forced into rushing a report like this. At least he’d already helped write the initial proposal so plenty of this was familiar. Although on the other hand, that made this feel even more irritating as he’d already argued everything there was to argue on this front.
The archive room made Harry sneeze – he hated to say it, but he missed the days when house-elves kept it dust free. Although he’d never mention that to Hermione, of course. By the time he got home he was tired, dusty and hungry as he’d missed lunch because Robards had waylaid him in the lift and insisted on a ‘full update’ on his morning’s work.
Harry walked home, hoping that it might be enough to clear his head. He could feel that things were slowly changing with Draco, but it was all so precarious and he was still so scared that it could all go wrong. Deep down, Harry knew that it was Draco he wanted, but it all felt so difficult.
When Harry opened the door, he paused; the quiet strains of an orchestra playing could clearly be heard coming from the end of the hallway. He smiled: Draco had wound up the gramophone. He shook his head at how Draco seemed happy to make concessions to Muggle technology provided it was antiquated enough.
The kitchen was lit by candlelight, and a meal was laid out on the table. Draco handed Harry a glass of wind as soon as he walked in.
“Why, I might think that you’re trying to seduce me, Mr Malfoy.”
Draco shuddered. “You’re doing the opposite, calling me that.”
“Still makes you think of your father?”
“And now I’m thinking of my mother flirting with him.”
Harry put his wine down and wound his arm around Draco. “Sorry, I forget how sensitive you are about them.”
“Considering that you can’t stand to be in a room with him, I’d say that I’m not the only one.”
“Merlin, how did we end up talking about Lucius? That man will never ruin anything for me, ever again.”
Draco gave Harry a peck on the cheek, then moved away. “I thought I’d treat you tonight. I cooked your favourite, we’ve got plenty of wine, and I’ll even let you tell me about your day.”
Harry raised his eyebrows. Draco often yawned through Harry’s work talk, and sometimes would start a new conversation halfway through one of Harry’s sentences.
“I didn’t say I’d listen.”
Harry laughed and sat down, content to watch Draco move around the kitchen, draining pasta and making a quick vinaigrette for a salad. The wine was warming and rich, and Harry breathed deeply into his glass. As they ate, Draco did a fairly good job of pretending to listen, nodding at the right moments and tutting at Robards and his shouting. He then told Harry some tale of the incomprehensible politics at St Mungo’s. He’d worked there for years, but Harry was still at a loss to explain how it all worked.
Harry smiled over the table at Draco, who was twirling spaghetti around his fork. The candlelight, soft music , and the wine were all working their magic on Harry. Gradually, his shoulders began to relax, and the buzzing that had filled his head all day eased a bit. He noticed the way that Draco’s eyelashes caught the light, and the way he talked quickly when on a subject of interest. He watched Draco’s fingers tear bread with efficiency and precision: a surgeon’s hands.
The wine made Harry feel slower than normal, as though the world were running at a gentler pace around him. Draco’s words stopped carrying meaning, as instead Harry focused on the shape his mouth made. His wicked, beautiful mouth. The flicker of arousal, not quite quenched the night before, rose within him. Draco stopped talking.
“When you look at me like that…”
Harry pushed his plate to one side. “You’re the one who gave me food and wine and lit candles.
“Washing up first. Then your advent… we’ll see how you feel after that.”
Harry opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it. There was no point trying to avoid the washing up – Draco wouldn’t be able to relax until it was done. For someone who hadn’t washed a dish until he was an adult, he was frustratingly fussy about cleanliness.
For the first time, Draco sat nearby while Harry poured the memory into the Pensieve. The edges of the room seemed blurred and Harry felt happy. The wine, he was sure; and yet he was in a good enough mood not to want to ask Draco to leave. And how ridiculous to feel he needed privacy to see something as personal as Draco’s own memories.
Harry dipped his head down into the Pensieve. He blinked into the darkness: slowly he made out the outlines of figures. Night time, and two people in bed. The rattling and rustling of a breeze in the trees outside. Another sound began to fill the room. At first, Harry thought that there was cat trapped somewhere, but then recognised it for what it was: crying. And whimpering, and fear and loss. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as he realised that the rough voice crying out that he could hear was his own.
His eyes had adjusted enough to the darkness to be able to make out his silhouette, his face screwed up as he thrashed in bed. And sitting up beside him, Draco; the diffused light from outside glancing off the pale lines of his body. Draco ran his hands through Harry’s hair, and murmured soft words and shushes. Slowly, Harry grew quieter until his face had untwisted and his chest was rising and falling in a gentle rhythm. Draco remained sitting up, and drew his knees up, hugging himself. He turned his head to look out of the window into the night, although Harry didn’t know what he saw; his eyes looked blank. Draco looked back down, and ran his hair through Harry’s hair again, pausing to trace the lightning scar.
“My Harry,” he whispered.
The memory faded, and Harry closed his eyes to the brightness of the room. Draco was sitting opposite him, a worried look on his face.
“I didn’t know if it was—” Draco looked down. “I don’t know if I could watch myself have one of my nightmares.”
“Come here.” Harry held out his arms.
They sat by the fire, watching the flames and finishing the bottle of wine, without the need for words. Harry closed his eyes as Draco’s fingers ran over his scalp. When he turned to kiss Draco, the taste of wine sour on both their lips, the kiss was gentle and full of comfort, not passion.
Harry fell asleep that night holding tight to Draco. Just as tightly as Draco held onto him.
>>part 11
Summary: Harry has almost forgotten what it is to be happy in love and life, until Draco gives him twenty-four chances to remember.
Word count (this part): ~1,450
Rating: NC-17 overall.
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
<<part 9
10.
Harry’s day didn’t go well. At first, he thought that it would – the sky was the softest grey when he left for work, with blue peeking through and everything edged in gold. Harry had been whistling when he arrived at the Ministry, but then everyone was in a bad mood and it soon became apparent that this was due to Robards having not got approval for his pet project.
“I don’t care how long it takes,” Robards shouted, “I want you to have a review of every case this year, and how the use of Muggle methods could have helped, on my desk by next Friday!”
“But Christmas—”
“Isn’t until the week after.” Robards started rifling through the papers on his desk with such force, several of them fluttered to the floor. Harry knew better than to attempt to pick any of them up or acknowledge that they’d fallen.
“Very well, sir.” Harry got up and left. He started swearing as soon as the door shut behind him, and didn’t stop until he’d got back to his cubicle.
“What I don’t understand,” said Ron, “is how Muggle methods can help that much when you’re investigating Dark Magic. They don’t exactly have a test for it.”
“I know.” Harry sighed. “But there are some good practices… It’s just the timing, really. There are so many files to go through, and just over a week at any time of the year would be hard, but knowing Christmas is coming…”
“It’s a bit of a final deadline, isn’t it?”
“And then what’s he going to do with it, when no one’s at work, anyway?” Harry scowled, and went back to listing all the methods he knew Robards had been hoping to get written into the Auror code of practice. He rubbed the back of his neck in frustration: so many of these were good ideas, but he hated to be forced into rushing a report like this. At least he’d already helped write the initial proposal so plenty of this was familiar. Although on the other hand, that made this feel even more irritating as he’d already argued everything there was to argue on this front.
The archive room made Harry sneeze – he hated to say it, but he missed the days when house-elves kept it dust free. Although he’d never mention that to Hermione, of course. By the time he got home he was tired, dusty and hungry as he’d missed lunch because Robards had waylaid him in the lift and insisted on a ‘full update’ on his morning’s work.
Harry walked home, hoping that it might be enough to clear his head. He could feel that things were slowly changing with Draco, but it was all so precarious and he was still so scared that it could all go wrong. Deep down, Harry knew that it was Draco he wanted, but it all felt so difficult.
When Harry opened the door, he paused; the quiet strains of an orchestra playing could clearly be heard coming from the end of the hallway. He smiled: Draco had wound up the gramophone. He shook his head at how Draco seemed happy to make concessions to Muggle technology provided it was antiquated enough.
The kitchen was lit by candlelight, and a meal was laid out on the table. Draco handed Harry a glass of wind as soon as he walked in.
“Why, I might think that you’re trying to seduce me, Mr Malfoy.”
Draco shuddered. “You’re doing the opposite, calling me that.”
“Still makes you think of your father?”
“And now I’m thinking of my mother flirting with him.”
Harry put his wine down and wound his arm around Draco. “Sorry, I forget how sensitive you are about them.”
“Considering that you can’t stand to be in a room with him, I’d say that I’m not the only one.”
“Merlin, how did we end up talking about Lucius? That man will never ruin anything for me, ever again.”
Draco gave Harry a peck on the cheek, then moved away. “I thought I’d treat you tonight. I cooked your favourite, we’ve got plenty of wine, and I’ll even let you tell me about your day.”
Harry raised his eyebrows. Draco often yawned through Harry’s work talk, and sometimes would start a new conversation halfway through one of Harry’s sentences.
“I didn’t say I’d listen.”
Harry laughed and sat down, content to watch Draco move around the kitchen, draining pasta and making a quick vinaigrette for a salad. The wine was warming and rich, and Harry breathed deeply into his glass. As they ate, Draco did a fairly good job of pretending to listen, nodding at the right moments and tutting at Robards and his shouting. He then told Harry some tale of the incomprehensible politics at St Mungo’s. He’d worked there for years, but Harry was still at a loss to explain how it all worked.
Harry smiled over the table at Draco, who was twirling spaghetti around his fork. The candlelight, soft music , and the wine were all working their magic on Harry. Gradually, his shoulders began to relax, and the buzzing that had filled his head all day eased a bit. He noticed the way that Draco’s eyelashes caught the light, and the way he talked quickly when on a subject of interest. He watched Draco’s fingers tear bread with efficiency and precision: a surgeon’s hands.
The wine made Harry feel slower than normal, as though the world were running at a gentler pace around him. Draco’s words stopped carrying meaning, as instead Harry focused on the shape his mouth made. His wicked, beautiful mouth. The flicker of arousal, not quite quenched the night before, rose within him. Draco stopped talking.
“When you look at me like that…”
Harry pushed his plate to one side. “You’re the one who gave me food and wine and lit candles.
“Washing up first. Then your advent… we’ll see how you feel after that.”
Harry opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it. There was no point trying to avoid the washing up – Draco wouldn’t be able to relax until it was done. For someone who hadn’t washed a dish until he was an adult, he was frustratingly fussy about cleanliness.
For the first time, Draco sat nearby while Harry poured the memory into the Pensieve. The edges of the room seemed blurred and Harry felt happy. The wine, he was sure; and yet he was in a good enough mood not to want to ask Draco to leave. And how ridiculous to feel he needed privacy to see something as personal as Draco’s own memories.
Harry dipped his head down into the Pensieve. He blinked into the darkness: slowly he made out the outlines of figures. Night time, and two people in bed. The rattling and rustling of a breeze in the trees outside. Another sound began to fill the room. At first, Harry thought that there was cat trapped somewhere, but then recognised it for what it was: crying. And whimpering, and fear and loss. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as he realised that the rough voice crying out that he could hear was his own.
His eyes had adjusted enough to the darkness to be able to make out his silhouette, his face screwed up as he thrashed in bed. And sitting up beside him, Draco; the diffused light from outside glancing off the pale lines of his body. Draco ran his hands through Harry’s hair, and murmured soft words and shushes. Slowly, Harry grew quieter until his face had untwisted and his chest was rising and falling in a gentle rhythm. Draco remained sitting up, and drew his knees up, hugging himself. He turned his head to look out of the window into the night, although Harry didn’t know what he saw; his eyes looked blank. Draco looked back down, and ran his hair through Harry’s hair again, pausing to trace the lightning scar.
“My Harry,” he whispered.
The memory faded, and Harry closed his eyes to the brightness of the room. Draco was sitting opposite him, a worried look on his face.
“I didn’t know if it was—” Draco looked down. “I don’t know if I could watch myself have one of my nightmares.”
“Come here.” Harry held out his arms.
They sat by the fire, watching the flames and finishing the bottle of wine, without the need for words. Harry closed his eyes as Draco’s fingers ran over his scalp. When he turned to kiss Draco, the taste of wine sour on both their lips, the kiss was gentle and full of comfort, not passion.
Harry fell asleep that night holding tight to Draco. Just as tightly as Draco held onto him.
>>part 11
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I am curious Draco's process for picking what and sorting to where. But it is the gentle kind that says "hm curious" but doesn't push for anything.
Edit: no idea what autocorrect was doing there
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“I didn’t say I’d listen.”
LOLOLOL, I *am* Draco Malfoy.
I was sad that the memory was an h/c one instead of a smexy one... candles, and the gramophone, and Harry was all revved up, and so was I :DD But obviously their relationship is about more than hot boy loving ;-) *grudging* This was very heart-warming in lots of different ways.
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I feel for Harry, so often I've been at the mercy of higher-ups being petty or spiteful or vindictive, or just passing down their own frustrations. Grrrr! Lovely evening and lovely cuddling, though, I can feel how Harry and Draco are knitting back together again :-)
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This part was so bittersweet.