#erised 2017

Am I really having this conversation?” Draco asked the newly arrived painting above his hearth. Severus rolled his eyes from his position in a pasture full of Kerry Hill sheep. “You seek out melodrama.” Draco rolled his eyes. “I just got hired three months ago and found out I have to share a staffroom with Potter, after five years in house arrest. With my mother. And my father, when he wasn’t out doing embarrassing community service. And then seven more years when I couldn’t even step into my own country without seeing my reputation slashed in every single newspaper. I think I’ve earned some melodrama!” “Spare me,” Severus said. “You were building up reserves well before the War.”

“I didn’t want the hype to begin with, you know. You probably don’t believe that.” “No, I do,” Draco says, and realises it’s true. “I used to believe you loved all the attention, but that was jealousy, I think. I can tell you don’t, these days.” Potter’s head is bent down toward his drawn-up knees, the back of his neck illuminated by the light above the door behind them. He’s rubbing his thumb against the side of his index finger, as if the tobacco has left traces he is trying to erase.  “I think that’s all I’ll ever be, sometimes,” he says. “That I peaked at seventeen, on one very long night.” Draco watches the small, slender bone in Potter’s wrist jump, over and over, with the movement of his hand. He can observe all the minute details of Potter, the tiniest, everyday, extraordinary things, and never feel satisfied. Potter sounds so tired. “Work. Ginny— you know we broke up last year? Yeah, it was all over the damned papers. This house.” He throws a look over his shoulder, then turns back to the rather gloomy garden. “Sometimes it feels like the only thing I’ve done right is dying.” Draco sucks in an involuntary, unsteady breath. It’s hard to imagine, that Potter could see himself like that— in such a small sliver, so achingly distorted— but then maybe that’s the problem with being too close. It's hard to make out the whole of yourself. “I very much doubt that, Potter. I feel sure your friends and family would disagree, too,” he says after a moment. He stares down at the toes of his own boots. “Anyway, you didn’t exactly do the whole death thing right, did you? Here you sit, very much alive.”

“You did forget a fucking pen!” “Well maybe if you’d asked nicely instead of accusing me of possessing exactly zero brain cells, we would have realised that a whole lot sooner,” Draco retorted after he’d caught his breath. “I swear, Malfoy, you’d take offence at a brick wall.” “Now, now, Potter, don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re as smart as at least two brick walls.

Do you want to hear a story?’ Draco asks. Harry doesn’t say yes, but he’s not leaving either, so Draco plunges in. ‘There was once a man, who was in love with a guy he knew from school. I mean, madly, head over heels, desperately in love. He never thought they’d date, not in a million years, but somehow they got together. The man was the happiest man on earth. But, one cold morning, he decided to surprise the bloke he loved in the showers after a game—’ Harry snaps his head back at him, starting to say something, but Draco presses on. ‘The man he loved wasn’t alone. He was talking to someone from his past, who was telling him they belonged together.’ Draco can feel Harry’s gaze burning on him, but he keeps his eyes across the river on the eternally spinning wheel. ‘Our man, the hero of this story, fell into pieces. He left — Splinched himself, the idiot — and missed the second half of the conversation and then behaved like a total wanker to the man he loved. Silence descends, soft as the snow dusting the boats bobbing gently on Thames. Draco dares to glance at Harry, who’s staring at him. His expression is softening as he considers Draco’s speech. Finally, Harry speaks. ‘Where did you Splinch yourself?’ Draco pouts. ‘Here.’ He shows the wound in the flesh of his palm. ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to wank for a fortnight.’

“Potter,” Millicent said, flatly. “We need to talk to the Headmistress, tell her we’re going on the run so she can take care of our students and classes, and then get the fuck out of here. Stop asking stupid questions and move it! We’ll figure it out!” “She’ll turn us in, you complete, stupid wanker!” Draco hissed. “She won’t,” Millicent said with certainty. “You know how she loves a good rebellion.”

“Grimmauld Place did this?” Harry asked. There were dishes of crispy bacon, eggs every way you could imagine, crisp toast oozing with butter, pastries, fresh berries, a cafetiere of hot coffee... Malfoy nodded. “It can cook?” Harry asked indignantly. “The times I’ve slogged away in this kitchen after work, and the whole time, the house can make bleeding waffles, and–” He waved his hand at a jug full of a frothy green concoction. “What is that? Some kind of milkshake?” Malfoy sniffed it cautiously. “Seems to be juice.” He poured a glass and handed it to Harry, who took a swig and then spluttered furiously. “Jesus, Malfoy, you fucking liar. That’s not juice!” Malfoy looked offended. “I never said it was fruit juice. I think it might be kale.” “My house still hates me,” Harry said.

“I’m trying to raise visibility of same-sex relationships.” Malfoy looks suspicious. “By boring Cho Chang to death with a load of terrible jokes?” Harry glares at Malfoy. “They weren’t that bad. And no, that’s not what I had in mind.” Malfoy looks at his nails, thoroughly disinterested. “You’re not even gay, Potter. Go and find another cause to fight.” Harry resists the urge to punch Malfoy. It’s not easy. “It’s possible to like both, you know.” Something Harry can’t quite decipher flares in Malfoy’s eyes. “Witches and wizards?” His eyes narrow. “Is this just so you can make even more people fall in love with you?” Harry rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Malfoy. That’s exactly what it is. I’m bisexual, you idiot. I’ll lend you some of my copies of Wizards and Their Broomsticks if you don’t believe me.” “I’ve got plenty of my own.” Malfoy’s lips twitch as if he wants to smile. He appraises Harry, looking him up and down. “Thank you for offering to share your wanking material though, Potter. I’m charmed. Whoever said romance is dead?”

“Which hell am I in right now? Do you know? Did you study it in Greece?” Draco considered. “Does it feel as if you have been repeating the same arduous task every day and the torment will never end, or is it more like you did a terrible deed to a woman and now a vulture is feeding on your liver every day while every night it grows back?” Potter smiled. “Both.” Draco nodded, still bored. “Then you’re in what I like to call daily life.”