#favouritefic

Lone figure in front of wall-length windows, Draco Malfoy turned when Harry entered his office. Grey eyes searched the air near his head—to the left, to the right, above—yet not directly at his face. 

“Hermione?” Malfoy asked, lowering his gaze, examining the paperwork in his hands. 

“Harry,” he corrected. 

Malfoy looked at him, mouth flat, eyebrow raised. He turned his shoulders and stepped in Harry’s direction, setting the paperwork on his desk, folding an arm behind his back. 

“Over the years, Hermione has grown like a benign tumour in my brain that I’ve come to count on. If removed, the displacement of brain tissue could lead to herniation—in which case, I might die,” Malfoy said calmly, continuing his slow pace forward. “However, if the object to replace the Hermione-sized tumour is an adequate size, I might avoid a midline shift, but only under the circumstance that its substitute is a perfect fit. Based on the colour or your trousers, the horrendous sight of your hair, and the tea stain on your collar that you would have noticed straight away had you managed to look in the mirror before you left the cave that you call a house—I’m inclined to believe that I need to brace myself for death at the very obvious lack of Hermione Granger at your side.” 

Malfoy had come so close that Harry felt the urge to crane his neck back in order to look up at him properly, but instead kept his back straight, his gaze on Malfoy’s shoulder. 

“I’ll ask again,” Malfoy said, placing both hands behind his back. “Hermione?” 

Harry cleared his throat, took a bracing breath. 

“She’s in hospital,” Harry said. “Went into early labour last night—she’ll be on maternity leave for the next few months.” 

“How early? Not pre-term?” Malfoy asked, and Harry glanced up, seeing a crease between his brows. 

“No, just a week,” Harry said, and Malfoy raised his fingers to his chin, turning away, his other hand curled behind his back as he paced toward his window again. 

“It’s unavoidable, then,” Malfoy murmured. “I did wonder why she was dragging around that strange boy last week, but thought it was some kind of work experience…” 

“Er, that was me,” Harry said, and Malfoy waved his hand dismissively. 

“When did you say she’d be back? Next week?” 

“January. She told you all of this when she introduced me last Monday.” 

“How am I to listen to everything she says?” Malfoy muttered. 

“She also wrote it in a memo. It’s there, on your desk,” Harry said, pointing to it with his pen. 

Malfoy waved his hand again, sighing. 

“Well, this is supremely inconvenient,” Malfoy murmured. “Your trousers are awful. What is that, vomit colour?” 

Harry looked down, stuck out a leg. 

“The tag said khaki.” 

“They’re terrible. Go find something from Stefano Ricci—even Tom Ford would do. Just don’t let me see those dreadful things again.” 

“Er…would TK Maxx be alright? I’ll get something black.” 

Malfoy’s shoulders raised, and he turned, his mouth pinched. 

“TK Maxx?” He asked, voice raising. “Don’t you dare try to use your company card at such a revolting place as that. Surely, the plastic would melt on contact with the card reader.” 

“Company card? I haven’t got one.” 

Malfoy groaned loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Must I do everything around here?” he asked, going toward his desk, searching through a drawer and pulling out an envelope. 

He turned it and Harry saw his name on the front as Malfoy slipped a finger underneath the seal flap and pulled out two credit cards and a sheet of paper. 

“Ah, my little brain tumour,” Malfoy sighed, the corner of his mouth lifting, and then flattening when his eyes caught on Harry’s trousers again. “Go. Now. I can’t stand to look at you.” 

He held out the envelope and Harry went forward to take it, tucking it in his pocket. 

“You have three meetings this morning and then lunch—it’s all on your schedule,” Harry said, reading his notes quickly. 

“Yes, yes, I know—get out. Buy at least three trousers, five shirts, two belts, two pairs of shoes, and two suits for functions. Navy and black only, no grey. It will wash you out. Monochrome shirts only. And ties—don’t forget ties. Nothing plaid, plaid makes me nauseous. No houndstooth, either—if I even glimpse houndstooth from the corner of my eye, I get an instant migraine and am miserable for days.” 

Harry scribbled it all down as quickly as he could, struggling to spell ‘houndstooth’, and wondered what it even was. 

“Right now?” Harry asked.

“And those glasses? Are you certain about those? Get a watch, too—something classic like Rolex or Cartier.”

“I’ve already got a watch,” Harry said, and Malfoy tutted, his eyes full of pity as he considered the watch fastened to Harry’s wrist. 

“A cheap watch cheapens the whole outfit, and if you look cheap, then I will, too.”

“Do I have—er—a price limit? This will cost…hundreds of thousands, I can’t even imagine.” 

Malfoy put his hands on his hips, his eyes narrowing, and Harry took a step back. 

“You’ve already insulted me just with your clothes and your face. Now you want to do it with your words, too?” 

“I—” 

“Go! I can feel the purchase value of my stocks dropping the longer you stand here in those absurd trousers.” 

Harry set down the printed version of Malfoy’s schedule and left, pausing as he shut the door to take out the envelope Hermione had left for him in Malfoy’s desk. He found the two credit cards with his name on them, as well as a document with instructions on how to submit his receipts for approval to the finance department. 

Schrödinger’s box. Pandora’s box. The Ark of the Covenant. None of those were as important as the chest on Draco’s desk. The appearance of it frightened him, but until he opened it, he could maintain the idea that everything was alright and the world hadn’t actually ended. 

“Is he dead?” Draco asked, staring at the chest. 

Nobody answered him, and he refused to do anything else until they did. He waited, his back straight and heart fluttering with panic. A cool layer of sweat was forming on his forehead, the back of his throat tightening the same way it did when he felt like being sick. 

“ Is he dead ?” Draco repeated, forcing the quiver out of his voice as he brought his eyes up to the faces in front of him. 

His office was dark, the chandelier above long dimmed from his charm. He stood and braced his fingertips on his desk, waiting. Two people stared back at him from the darkness—blank, cold. 

“Dead,” one of them said, and Draco’s heart stopped. 

He let out a panted breath and looked down at the box again, his legs feeling numb as he lowered himself into his seat. He shook his head once and raised a hand to his mouth, then his hairline, then his eyes. 

“How?” Draco asked, lacking the strength from before. 

“Fell on assignment early this morning. Hit his head. His partner saw the whole thing and thought Potter was joking, lying limp on the floor…According to him, he couldn’t find a pulse even before the mediwixes arrived. It was all over in a minute.” 

Draco released a shaky breath, gripping the arms of his chair as he swallowed, lifting his chin. 

“Is this what I think it is?” Draco asked, nodding to the chest on his desk. 

“The Philosopher’s Stone,” the same voice answered. 

“It isn’t a resurrection stone. It gives immortality to people while they’re still alive . Harry Potter is dead.” The sentence left him breathless, and he took pause. “I can’t bring him back even with a perfectly drawn Elixir of Life. No one can.” 

The room was thick with silence, and Draco stared at the clasp on the chest for so long his vision blurred. 

“We have to try,” came a quieter voice. “It’s Harry Potter, for fuck’s sake.” 

Draco stood and turned away from them, hand at the base of his throat, pressing against his collar bones. He swallowed back the sick feeling and took a steadying breath, drawing his hand to his mouth.

“There is the theory of Panacea…” he murmured to himself, one hand behind his back as he stepped toward the wall of his potion ingredients, scanning his stores. “Perhaps…if he were put under the stasis charm soon enough— Please tell me he’s under a stasis charm?” 

“Yes, sir, his partner cast it almost immediately.” 

“Hm,” Draco hummed, a new feeling thrumming in his chest. “Finally, Weasley’s good for something.” 

He turned and slid open the clasp to the chest, feeling a chill as the metal clicked. Slowly, with much deliberation, he raised the lid of the box and stared down at the one potion ingredient he thought he’d never have. The blood-red stone shone even in the light from his desk lamp, and he craved to put it under a magnifying glass to get a proper look. Instead, he shut the lid and addressed the people in front of him.

Creaking floorboards told Draco he had finally been outsmarted. The cold press of a blade at his back halted the pour of his tea, and he lifted his head, unable to see the stranger even in his periphery. His heart betrayed his fear, hammering against his ribs as he licked his lips and considered that things could be worse. He could be dead, for example, and yet he wasn’t.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” said a voice—quiet. Breathy.

The pressure of the blade increased, and Draco drew another mug from the cabinet. 

“Brilliant. That makes two of us,” Draco said, filling the second cup and returning the kettle to the hob. “There’s no need for that. I couldn’t fight you, even if I had the inclination.” 

He felt the metal withdraw, picked up the mugs and slowly turned sideways, catching the shape of the intruder in his eye-line as he went toward the table. He was slightly taller than Draco, broader, his stance defensive. Draco kept his eyes down as he moved the tea bag from his own mug into the stranger’s, casting a glance toward the stew he had just set to cook over the fire. 

“The tea will be weak, but I found a potato in the garden earlier,” Draco said, hearing the stranger cross to the other side of the table, and wondering to himself if meeting his eye would lessen or strengthen his chances for survival.

“I watched you dig it up,” the intruder said, and Draco’s eyes shifted toward him, finding both his hands empty. 

“Ah,” Draco tried to form a noise, but his throat was too dry. 

His gaze traveled upward against his will, finding the stranger’s face, but a hat and wide scarf hid most of it. Glasses obscured his eyes and Draco looked away, toward the fire.

“There’s rabbit, too—and garlic I harvested and dried in the summer,” he said, carefully settling his fingers on the rim of a mug and lifting it. 

The stranger accepted, revealing wind-chapped fingers beneath the long sleeves of his coat. 

“Have a seat. I’ll add another log to the fire. The stew will be ready in a couple of hours,” Draco said, pausing for a long moment before he turned and went to the hearth.

He kept his body angled so that the stranger could see his hands, his actions slow and deliberate. When he stood, he looked toward the door, noted the deadlock was fastened as he returned to the kitchen table. The stranger was still standing, one hand around his mug, the other near his pocket, shoulders tense.

“I just want to get warm,” the stranger said. “I won’t take your food. Just the tea is fine.” 

Draco frowned at him, wishing he could see the rest of the stranger's face, then quickly looked away. He swallowed, staring down at his mug as he dragged it across the table, stepping toward his chair.

“Take off your coat. You’ll get warm faster without it,” Draco said, crossing his legs as he sat down. 

For a long beat, the stranger stood there, as if deciding whether to do what he said. Draco caught a glint of silver as the man moved the knife from his coat to his trouser pocket, shedding several layers until he was down to a simple jumper. His frame was more slender than the coats suggested, wrists bony as he reached and pulled the scarf from the lower half of his face. He had a sparse, black beard that matched the curly hair sticking out from beneath his hat, his skin darker than Draco had thought before. The man hesitated as he scanned the small room in search of somewhere to put his clothes. 

“Near the door,” Draco said, and the man looked at it, and then quickly back at Draco. 

Never quite turning his back, he went toward the rack and hung his coat, returning to the table and pulling the stool out with his foot. 

“Careful—has a dodgy leg. Never quite sits right,” Draco said as the man sat down. 

The stool wobbled once, but steadied itself, and the stranger pulled a knee up, tugging at his laces. His boots were nice. Fur-lined. He saw a knot where the laces had broken before and had since been tied back together. The man grunted as he tugged the boot off and let it drop to the floor with a surprisingly heavy thud. Draco looked down at his socked foot and saw the water marks that it left behind on the wood floor. The second boot dropped and Draco lifted a finger toward the fire. 

“There’s a hook on the mantle for your socks. Set your boots on the ground nearby. They’ll dry in the heat.” 

The man eyed him and then picked up the closest boot, unlacing it completely and then finding the next one. When he was done, he stood, hopping slightly as he removed his wet sock and hung it, followed by the other. He set the boots down on the hearth, too close to the cinders, and Draco’s chair creaked as he made to stand up, and then froze as the stranger turned, hand reaching for the knife in his pocket. Draco showed his open palm, the other occupied by his mug as he re-crossed his legs and settled into his seat again. 

“Move your boots to the floor. The heat will singe the fur if you keep them so close,” he said, and the man watched him for a moment, his breathing harder than it had been before. 

Draco looked away, taking a sip of tea, seeing in his peripheral as the man stooped and quickly placed the boots on the ground, just outside the stretch of the hearth. He stood again, and Draco simply stared at the stool which the stranger had vacated, sipping his tea which was weak, but nonetheless better than plain water. The man returned, taking his seat again, now bare-footed, and Draco wondered if this vulnerability would make him more dangerous. The man held his mug between both hands, but didn’t drink, and Draco wished he had kept the tea bag in his own mug. 

He looked toward the man’s face, at his neck and his chapped lips, at his jaw as the muscles worked beneath his beard. His nose was slightly bowed, mouth set, thick eyebrows nearly hidden from messy fringe.

“You should dry your hat, too. It’s probably wet from the snow,” Draco said, but the man shook his head. 

“Maybe…I could skip practice one night and come ‘round,” Draco said, and Harry’s cheeks went hot.

He exhaled a laugh, turning his face away to check for cars as he turned on the indicator.

“Why do I feel like we’re in school or something? Skiving practice…” Harry murmured as he pulled onto the road, glancing at Draco. “I don’t want to disrupt your skate routine—I can just wake at an ungodly hour to see you.”

“Ungodly? Nine in the morning? I feel like that’s a very average time to wake up.”

“I wake at eight to meet you at nine. Ungodly .”

Draco huffed out a breath through his nose.

“Alright, we’ll do ten next time. How’s that?”

“Slightly better,” Harry said, smirking at him. “You really don’t have any evenings off?”

Draco shrugged, his mouth pulling down.

“I never had reason to. If I’m home, I’d rather be skating.”

Harry shifted gears, clearing his throat as he glanced at Draco again.

“And now?” Harry asked.

“Hm?” Draco hummed.

“Would you rather be skating?”

Draco opened his mouth to answer and then paused, his brow tensing as he looked away contemplatively. Harry glanced at the road, shifted gears again, waited for several long seconds.

“Actually…no,” Draco said eventually.

“You seem surprised.”

“Well, I am. I think this is the first time... ever , maybe, that I’ve liked something else more than skating.”

“Something? My shit car? The free food? My tip of a house that we can’t even go into?”

Draco laughed and tucked his hair behind his ear, his gaze dropping to his lap.

“Yeah, all that. Everything else is dreadful, though.”

Harry’s heart was racing, his breath holding as Draco glanced at him and laughed again, resting his elbow on his armrest, chin propped in his hand.

“What evenings are you free?” Draco asked as Harry reluctantly fixed his eyes on the road again.

“Any evening,” Harry answered quickly, and then cringed. “Well, actually, I do go ‘round Luna’s sometimes in the evenings. Sundays or Fridays it’s been so far.”

“Well, there are ice hockey games on Tuesdays a lot of the time…sometimes they go so late I only get an hour of practice, anyway. You don’t think we could—?”

“Yes. Tuesday nights. Sounds good,” Harry answered, nodding quickly and trying to keep the grin off his face as he turned into the car park.

“That’s at least one day that you won’t have to wake before noon,” Draco murmured, and Harry exhaled a laugh. “I mean, unless you only wanted to do Tuesdays—”

“No,” Harry said at once, unfastening his seatbelt. “Not to sound…pathetic, but I really haven’t got much else aside from my lessons at the minute. I should keep busy, it’s a hazard when I’m not. You’d be doing a public service, spending time with me.”