Whatever You Want, Draco Malfoy -48-
Tags: alcohol use, marijuana use, cigarettes, smoking, reckless behaviour, lack of self preservation, anxiety issues, chronic illness, deportation, racism, the fucking Tories, ptsd, super unhealthy coping mechanisms, Down and out Draco who’s friends with muggles, various OC’s, enemies to lovers, angst, mentions of throwing up/vomit, mentions of suicide, mentions of panic attacks, swearing, explicit sexual content
suggested rating: Adult for sexual content
Part 1 (contains links to all parts) <- Part 47 ||
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Chapter Twenty One
They woke late in the afternoon and eventually managed to find a brunch place that was still open. Draco ordered two plates of waffles, one with lemon blueberry meringue and another with strawberry rhubarb compote. Potter went in for a more savoury eggs benedict option. Draco made sure they shared because he liked to try everything, and Potter needed more sweetness in his life.
Draco had made plans for the day, rather ambitious ones, but with the morning gone and most of the afternoon as well, he frankly couldn’t be bothered.
Potter had no better ideas, so they laid about on the couch and watched the television. Draco liked to chat about whatever was happening on screen, and Potter liked to complain about his chatting, which only encouraged him. They ordered takeout when it got late and ate butter chicken and tikka straight from the containers as the late-night chat shows came on. And at some point, curled up against Potter’s shoulder, Draco fell asleep.
When he woke, the sun had just started its rise. His whole body felt heavy, his mind swamp-thick with a night of sleep so deep he felt half-submerged in treacle trying to draw himself out of it. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept so hard without potions or alcohol to drag him under. And this sleep didn’t feel like shit to wake up from, just pleasantly heavy.
There was a warm blanket draped over his shoulders, and he felt the gentle rise and fall of Potter’s chest under him. Draco had tucked his legs up onto the remaining couch cushion, leaning against Potter’s chest to sleep. Potter had remained sitting upright, slumped into the corner of the couch. Draco had to assume Potter hadn’t meant to sleep there; he was still wearing his glasses and had left the television on, the volume so low it was barely audible.
An urgent complaint from his bladder, and quite likely the reason he had woken up so early, finally forced Draco to move. He carefully eased his weight off the sofa and went to the loo as quietly as he could manage. After relieving himself, washing his hands and face, and rinsing the taste of last night’s dinner from his mouth, he tiptoed back to the couch. He was plotting how best to slip back onto the couch without waking Potter when a soft tapping made him turn to the window.
An owl was sitting on the empty planter box outside. Draco guessed it was a Ministry issue from the dull scruffy brown feathers, half of which looked ready to fall out. He went to the window, half-expecting it to be stuck shut from years of paint, but managed to wiggle it halfway open without too much noise.
Draco reached for the message tied onto the owl’s leg. The owl pecked at him, flapping its wings in warning.
So the message wasn’t for him then, not that Draco had suspected it would be. He glanced over his shoulder and, seeing that Potter was still asleep, snatched at the bird again. He managed to catch hold of its leg, grimly holding on as the horrible animal tried to peck him to death. He pulled the small scroll of paper free and snatched his hands back. The owl glared at him, its beak snapping after the message and Draco’s fingers. Draco shoved it off the window box and shut the window before it could fly back up.
Draco’s hands stun, already blooming with red welts and a few small cuts from the mail owl’s beak. He glanced at Potter again, making sure he was still sleeping before opening the message.
It was from Robards, saying that if Potter was feeling ‘up to it’ he should come in early for something ‘urgent’. Draco scowled; he highly doubted it was anything close to ‘urgent’.
Draco shoved the message between the couch cushions as he sat back where he had been before, pulling the blanket over himself and Potter as he laid back against Potter’s chest.
Potter twitched at the movement and took a deep breath in. He yawned and went to rub his eyes but ran into his glasses, leaving smudges on the lenses.
“Sleep well?” Draco asked.
Potter grunted irritably as he pushed his glasses up and rubbed his eyes.
“So articulate.”
Potter grunted again, though this time it sounded a bit more like a laugh. He stretched his arms over his head, his chest rising as he flexed his back and shoulders. He tried to turn his head and winced, muttering a heartfelt “fuck,” as he rubbed his neck.
Draco, most unhelpful, didn’t move.
The couch cushion sank as Potter shifted his weight, pushing himself upright and dumped Draco off of his chest and onto his lap.
“You could have warned me!” Draco gasped, his heart beating a little too fast at the unexpected movement.
“You’re fine; it didn’t kill you,” Potter said with a rueful smile, taking off his glasses and cleaning them with the hem of his t-shirt.
“It might have,” Draco said stubbornly, “You don’t know. I might have a weak heart, and you just callously risked my life,” he pressed his hand over his chest.
Potter slid his glasses back on and put his hand over Draco’s, “Hmm… I think you might make it, really.”
“You can’t feel my heartbeat that way,” Draco said, annoyed. “If you could, you’d know I’m probably dying as we speak.”
“Is that so?” Potter said flatly. He took his hand off Draco’s and placed it lightly against Draco’s neck, “Ah, what a shame.”
“A great loss,” Draco said.
“Do you want to be buried or cremated?” Potter asked.
“Cremated,” Draco said, “I want my ashes thrown into the eyes of my enemies.”
Potter grinned and laughed, “Of course, you’d want that!”
“The list is quite long, I’ll have you know,” Draco said.
“With me included?” Potter guessed.
Draco pondered for a moment, “Maybe not anymore.”
Potter smiled, “I’m honoured.”
“Perhaps you ought to have one of my knuckle bones, though,” Draco said, “You can carry it around as a worry stone.”
Potter raised an eyebrow.
“Because you’re not allowed to forget me,” Draco said.
Potter blinked, “...I wouldn’t.” He smiled a little uncertainly, “I’m pretty sure that’s impossible.”
“Flatterer,” Draco said.
Potter hesitated and then pointed over his shoulder, “I’ve gotta piss.”
Draco sighed dramatically and sat up, “Excellent way to ruin the moment, Potter.”
“What can I say?” Potter said as he got up and headed to the loo, “I have a talent.”
Draco stared after Potter for a second, then reached between the couch cushions and pulled the message out. He read it over again with a scowl. Despite desperately wanting to set it on fire and pretend it had never existed, he knew Potter would never forgive him if he found out, and that was… unacceptable.
So Draco went back to the window, wiggling it open and resting his forearm on the sill. The air outside still had its evening chill, and he shivered faintly. He pulled his arms tighter to himself and took a deep breath, the air smelling sweet with morning dew.
It was an age before Potter finally came back, his cheeks smoothly shaved and his teeth brushed. He headed straight from the bathroom to his bedroom.
“Owl came,” Draco said quickly, holding up the message.
“For me?” Potter asked.
Draco nodded.
“It shouldn’t have delivered to you,” Potter said, with a frown, walking over to take the message.
“It didn’t particularly want to,” Draco said, holding up his hand to show off the scratches the owl had left him with.
“Did you read it?” Potter asked as he took the small scroll of paper and unrolled it.
Draco gave him a look.
“Of course, you read it,” Potter said, resigned.
“Of course.” Draco shrugged, “It’s not as if it was interesting.”
Potter let the scroll roll back up and dropped it onto the coffee table, vanishing it with a flick of his wrist.
“Flirt,” Draco said.
Potter shook his head as he fished his wand out of his back pocket and took Draco’s hand in his, “Episky.” The red welts faded, and the scratches healed.
“Thank you,” Draco said far more softly, unable to maintain his normal cheekiness.
“Maybe not get into any more fights with owls?” Potter suggested.
“I won,” Draco said.
Potter rolled his eyes and headed toward the bedroom. Draco followed him, clinging to some slim hope he might be going back to bed, but Potter went to his dresser, pulling out fresh clothes.
“You’re not actually going, are you?” Draco asked.
“They said it was urgent,” Potter said, stripping out of the things he had been wearing yesterday and replacing them one by one with clean but remarkably similar pieces.
“If it was actually urgent, they wouldn’t have sent an owl,” Draco pointed out, “You can sleep through an owl.”
Potter shook his head, “Never have.”
Draco frowned, “It’s the crack of dawn, hours before your stupid alarm would have gone off.”
“Must be urgent then,” Potter said.
Draco’s frown deepened, and he decided to shift tactics, “I suppose they just can’t manage without you. Just you.”
“It’s work,” Potter said stiffly.
“And you’re the only one in the department then?” Draco asked, “Weasley is a cop, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, so-”
“How often is he brought in at the crack of dawn, then?” Draco asked.
“Often.”
“And I’m sure Weasley never takes holidays. Or personal days-”
“Malfoy-”
“-But if he did, they’d be sure to call him in regardless. Just like they do to you?” Draco prodded, wanting to be right, sure that he was right.
Potter froze for just a second, then quickly jerked open the closet and grabbed one of his Auror robes, “There’s no special treatment; every auror does the same work.”
Draco crossed his arms over his chest, “I think other people have to be envious for it to be considered ‘special treatment’. This seems more like a punishment to me.”
“You would say that,” Potter said, probably not even realising what he said had stung like a slap to the face.
Draco’s hands fell down loosely to his sides.
“I was called into work by my boss. It’s my job. What am I supposed to do?” Potter said, charming the buttons of his uniform closed.
“Say no?” Draco said.
“I can’t-”
“You can,” Draco said pointedly, “You’re Harry Potter; they can’t-”
“I don’t want that!” Potter snapped, grabbing a pair of well-worn dragon-hide boots, “I’m not going to use my name to- to just get what I want!”
“Well, they’re using your name to take advantage of you, so you-”
“No! Just stop- can you just stop, already!?” Potter shouted.
And Draco did, already edging away from Potter, far too aware of the wand he still held in his hand. He knew Potter wasn’t like the death eaters that had stayed in his house, like Voldemort, but his feet wouldn’t listen to him.
Potter didn’t notice, shoving his feet into his boots and impatiently charming the laces tied. “I’m going to work,” he said as he straightened up. A moment later he apparated away with a sharp snap, the photos taped to the wall fluttering at the sudden pull of air.
It took several moments for Draco to be able to move again, anxiety roiling in his stomach. He wished he had kept his mouth shut. He wished he hadn’t said any of it. He wrapped his arms around himself and squeezed.
“Coward,” he muttered, hearing his father’s voice more than his own.
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