Emma Grant's Fiction

Fiction, Fandom, and Naughty Stuff

Summary: Harry hides Draco form Death Eaters during the war. A lot can happen in eight days.  (Written pre-Deathly Hallows.)

Rating: Mature

Length: 8420 words

Originally posted: December 26, 2006

Notes: Written for Janicechess for Merry Smutmas 2006. Thanks to Jedi Rita for the beta, and to gmth for her patience!

.:::.

Eight days ago, if someone had told Draco Malfoy he'd be on his hands and knees in a drafty abandoned shack with Harry Potter's cock up his arse, he'd have hexed them halfway to France. Further, if they'd told him he'd be enjoying it.

But here he was, hands gripping the wooden floor beneath him, jeans pushed down around his thighs, and clenching his jaw in an effort not to make a sound.

A lot could happen in eight days.

.:::.

One.

It was cold.

That was the first thought that flitted across Draco Malfoy's mind. The second was ow, followed closely by, where the fuck am I? He opened his eyes, and for a moment they refused to focus. There was a shadowy blob moving about in his field vision, and then a bright light.

And then he remembered. Panic flooded through him, and the shot of adrenaline dulled the pain in his limbs enough that he could push himself to sitting. He glared at the figure standing over him and braced himself for the next spell, probably cast by his own wand.

But nothing happened.

"I told you I don't--" Draco began, and then stopped as a hand came into view, right before his face. He blinked at it, trying to force his eyes to focus. "Who are you?"

"God, Malfoy, what the hell happened to you?"

Draco froze -- he knew that voice, though he hadn't heard it in a long time. He looked up and squinted, and a familiar face began to coalesce above him. "Potter?"

Potter leaned closer, eyes moving over him. "How long have you been here?"

The last thing Draco remembered was being dumped on the floor in this musty cellar. Before that, everything was hazy. He couldn't remember how long they'd tortured him, though the pain was very clear and present in his mind. How had they managed to capture Potter?

"Don't know. How long have you been here?"

"Not long. We should get out of here. Can you stand?"

Draco laughed, and it hurt his ribs. "Are you offering to rescue me?"

"If it's convenient," Potter retorted. "I could come back later. How's tomorrow afternoon for you?"

Draco rubbed at his sore chest and smirked. "I only need to shout, and they'll come running. You're the one they want, you know."

"Are you daft? There's no one here."

"They're upstairs," Draco said, glancing at the ceiling. "Dozens of them. The Dark Lord himself is coming tonight." He paused. Maybe that part had already happened.

Potter sighed and crouched in front of Draco, the expression on his now-visible face a mix of annoyance and pity. "The house is empty, Malfoy. I came here on a tip that there was a gathering of Death Eaters, but they're long gone. They left you for dead."

Draco opened his mouth to respond, but found he could think of nothing to say. Memories were rising to the surface of his mind now, some hazy and others sharp, and none of them pleasant. It felt like there was something sticky on his cheek, like a cobweb, and he brushed at his face in confusion. He couldn't get it off.

"That's not true," he said at last.

"Isn't it?" Potter replied, standing. "I know what they wanted from you. I want the same thing."

"To suck my dick?"

Potter ignored the comment. "Cooperate, or don't. We can hide you from them. But I really don't care one way or the other. Stay here and die, if you prefer."

"Fuck off," Draco snarled, and tried to stand. Pain surged through his body, and he heard himself scream before he was aware he'd done it. It was several seconds before he realized where the pain was coming from.

"Nasty break there," Potter said, his tone casual. "Without medical attention, that leg might have to come off in another day or two."

Draco was too horrified to reply. He looked down to see that his right leg was broken in several places. Through the haze of pain, he wondered how it had happened, and why it hadn't hurt until that moment. The reality of his situation began to crash down on him then: he'd been left here to die by the only people with whom he had a future, he had no wand, and his best chance at survival at the moment was Potter.

He gritted his teeth. "I don't suppose you can heal this?"

Potter studied Draco's leg, frowning. "I can, though you'd be better off in hospital."

Draco shook his head. "I'll wind up in Azkaban."

"Probably."

"Can you heal it or not?"

"What if I can?" Potter asked. "What will you do for me?"

The pain in Draco's leg was settling into a sharp ache now, and he had to grit his teeth against it. "I don't know where he is. If I did, they would have got it out of me when they did this." He gestured at his broken leg. "I'm not that fucking loyal."

A strange smile flitted over Potter's face. "That's what I'm counting on."

.:::.

Two.

There was a knock on the door of the flat: three quick raps, a full second pause, and then three more.

Draco stood, testing his healing leg before putting his full weight on it. The breaks were still tingling a bit, and though it didn't hurt to walk normally, the image of his twisted leg was far too fresh in his mind. He hobbled to the door, unfastened all three deadbolt locks, and opened it.

"Munito," Potter said, and then stepped through the warding spell and into the flat. He set the sack he was carrying on the ancient folding table in the center of the room, not even glancing at Draco as he passed.

"Good afternoon to you too," Draco muttered, closing the door.

Potter pulled a small container out of the sack and opened it, releasing a curl of yellow-tinged steam. "This is a healing draught. You should drink before it cools."

Draco took the container, and wrinkled his nose at the smell emanating from it. "It's foul."

"Aren't they always? Madame Pomfrey made it herself, if it makes you feel any better."

Draco looked up at him, surprised. "You went all the way to Hogsmeade for this?"

"I trust her. And I knew she wouldn't ask questions."

Draco frowned at the liquid. He had no idea if he should trust Potter. Of course, he'd trusted him enough to allow him to set his broken leg. He'd done a surprisingly good job of it, too. "What does this do?"

"It speeds up the healing process. Normally you'd've been given a dose of it along with the bone stitching charm."

"When did you learn so much about healing?"

Potter shrugged. "It was something I thought would come in handy. Which it has."

Draco didn't know much about what Potter had been doing for the last few years -- three and a half since that night at Hogwarts when all hell had broken loose. He wondered if Potter had any idea what Draco's life had been like since then.

He took a deep breath, then raised the container to his lips and tilted it back. The potion was almost as vile as polyjuice, but thankfully not as chunky. It took several hard gulps to get it down, and he could feel it hit his stomach.

"You should be fine by tomorrow. That stuff works fast."

Draco put the empty container on the table and grimaced. "All healed by the time I get the horrible taste out of my mouth?"

"Something like that. There's some food for you too."

Draco was hungry, but he didn't want to rifle through the sack in front of Potter. He cast a casual glance at it.

"Are you comfortable?"

Draco snorted. He was being hidden in a dingy studio flat, with nothing to do but sit around and wait for Potter to show up. He didn't have a clue where he was, even -- the flat's single window looked out over a narrow alley in a nondescript town. "I can't complain."

"No, you can't. And you know that I can only continue to hide you if you cooperate."

"And if I don't?"

Potter smirked. "Voldemort wants you dead. The Ministry wants you in Azkaban for what you did to Hogwarts."

"And what do you want?"

Potter's eyes narrowed. "You already know what I want."

"If I didn't cooperate with the Dark Lord under torture, why would you think I'd cooperate with the Ministry?"

"Where else can you turn? We can keep you alive, at least."

Draco laughed. "After all these years, you still think it's about choosing the right side. The world isn't so black and white, Potter."

"I know that," Potter replied, his tone cool. He turned toward the door. "I know that better than anyone."

Draco locked the deadbolts after he'd gone, and wondered how long he could hold Potter off. Long enough to get healed and make a plan to survive, he hoped.

He didn't have much left after the last few years -- his name, his family, and his inheritance were all gone, for the most part. There were very few people he could trust any more, and almost no one who compelled his loyalty. Actually, there was one who did, and he wasn't going to let that go. It was the last shred of humanity he'd managed to retain.

Potter was going to have to learn that the hard way, and by the time he did, Draco would be long gone.

.:::.

Three.

He was curled up on the sofa when he was shaken awake by Potter. He sat straight up, heart pounding.

"We have to go, now," Potter said. He moved to the window and looked out into the alley, his wand at the ready.

"How did you get in here? I thought--"

"I put the ward up, didn't I? Took it down, apparated in. Let's go."

Draco stood, adrenaline cutting through the haze of sleep. "Where?"

Potter held out a hand. "Let's go." A streak of shadow from the window frame ran across his face, obscuring his nose and mouth. There was a fire in his eyes, something Draco hadn't seen before.

He wanted to ask more questions: who was coming, how did Potter know, who else knew he was here, and if they found him so quickly this time, why would Potter think he'd be safer in the next place? But he took Potter's arm instead, and held on.

A wrenching moment later, they were standing in the living room of a house. It was dark, but dim light filtered in from a streetlight outside, enough that Draco could make out the shapes of furnishings around them. Potter lit his wand, and shapes came into focus: a sofa, a table, a fireplace. It looked quite lived-in, as if the owners might return at any moment.

"It's a duplex, but there's a silencing spell up, so you shouldn't have to worry. Still, I wouldn't go pounding on the walls or anything."

Draco realized he was still clinging to Potter's arm. He let go and took a step away. "Where are we?"

"Another safehouse," Potter replied. "We had someone else in here yesterday, so there should be food. Do you know how to cook the Muggle way?"

Draco turned to stare at him. "Of course not."

"No better time to learn, then. How's your leg?"

Draco looked down at himself. He'd completely forgotten until Potter mentioned it. "Fine. I think."

"Good. I'll check on you tomorrow. We can't put a ward up because of Muggle proximity restrictions, so don't answer the door if anyone knocks. I'll apparate in. Don't go outside, and stay away from the windows. And don't answer the telephone. Though I doubt you even know what a telephone is. Got it?"

Before Draco could respond, Potter disapparated.

"Whatever," Draco muttered, annoyed that he'd been moved without so much as an explanation. It was probably better if he didn't know what he was running from anyway.

The sun would rise soon, and he was far too awake from all the excitement even to think about trying to sleep again. At least this house was bigger than the last one. He wandered into the kitchen to look for the food Potter had mentioned.

There was some fruit juice in the refrigerator along with a few bottles of beer. He found cereal, some tins of soup, and an unopened bag of crisps in a cupboard.

He eyed the Muggle hob for a moment, then took the bag of crisps. He had all day to figure it out.

.:::.

Four.

It had taken him a while to figure out what the strange box on the table was. Curiosity got the better of him after a while, and he decided to push some of the buttons on it to see what they did.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when it started making noise, but when he saw the images on the front of it, he realized what it was. He'd heard talk at Hogwarts about such Muggle inventions, and though he'd always feigned disinterest, he had to admit he'd been intrigued by the idea of a wireless that showed pictures.

He'd spent the entire day in front of it, watching all sorts of programmes -- dramas, comedies, advertisements, news programmes. There was even a programme that showed people using magic, though it didn't seem to be real magic as far as Draco could tell. And there was no mention of the war, which surprised him. No talk of the Dark Lord, or of Death Eaters, or anything familiar. Were Muggles really so blind that they had no idea what was happening all around them?

He'd left the box on all night, afraid that if he turned it off he wouldn't be able to get it back on again. He slept fitfully on the sofa, his dreams full of the strange images he'd seen, his mind twisting the storylines of the different dramas together. He wasn't sure he'd ever had such strange dreams before.

And when he woke up the next morning, it was still going, still making noise and showing him images of Muggles talking about strange things happening in places he'd never heard of.

He watched it all day, finishing off the crisps and the beer.

Potter returned that evening, while Draco was in the kitchen trying to figure out how to heat soup on the hob. The television's volume was turned up high enough that he could listen from the kitchen, and so when Potter's voice cut through the sound of the evening news, Draco was thoroughly startled.

"You're supposed to open the tin before you cook it, you know."

Draco whirled around, instinctively reaching out to find something he could use as a weapon. His fingers closed around a wooden spoon, and he held it out before him, round end pointed at Potter's chest.

Potter eyed the spoon with mock wariness. "What are you going to do -- stir me to death?"

"It'd serve you right for sneaking up on me. You're lucky I don't have a wand."

"Hagrid could sneak up on you with all this noise." He set a plastic sack on the table. "I've brought take-away. Hope you like Chinese."

To Draco's surprise, Potter had brought food for both of them, and sat at the table in the kitchen to eat with him. They ate in relative silence, except for the noise of some comedy playing on the television in the other room. Draco could think of nothing to say that didn't involve all of the television he'd watched. It was probably best not to let Potter know he was cracking up a bit.

"They don't talk about the war on the Muggle news programmes," he said at last, poking at the remains of his fried rice with a fork. "And I've been… busy these last few months, so I'm not sure what's happening out there."

Potter took a bite of something, and didn't reply.

Draco tried again. "I haven't seen a copy of the Prophet for ages. I don't know much about the war."

"Consider yourself lucky."

"I do. But a bit of information wouldn't hurt, you know. Unless you're trying to keep me in the dark."

Potter looked up at that. "I could say the same to you."

"Telling me how the war is going is hardly the same as me turning Snape over to the Ministry."

"I know you know where he is," Potter said, eyes narrowing. "That's the only reason I'm helping you now."

"Even if I did, what good would it do me to tell you? Out there, I'm as good as dead. And as soon as you've got what you want from me, no more telly and take-away. I'll be shipped off to Azkaban."

"I would've thought you'd like to spend a little time with your family again."

"Fuck you."

Potter leaned back in his chair, an expression of frustration on his face. "If you aren't going to help, I won't bother sticking my neck out for you any more."

"Sticking your neck out? I thought this was your job."

Potter's lips pressed into a thin line, and he looked away. "Do you know where Snape is, or don't you?"

Draco hesitated. It was the only card he had to play, and he wasn't sure now was the time. He couldn't hold Potter off much longer, though. "Yes, I do. But you're going to have to do a lot better than a family suite in Azkaban for it."

"Keeping you alive isn't enough? The word on the street is that the Death Eaters are looking for you. Voldemort wants your head on a stake."

Draco laughed. "Are you making this up as you go along?"

Potter stood, shoving his chair backwards as he did. "You know where the door is. You're free to walk through it whenever you like." He gathered up the empty containers on the table and shoved them into the plastic sack with a bit more effort than seemed necessary.

"Touchy," Draco said, though he felt a bit of panic at the thought that Potter might actually abandon him. "Why do you want to find Snape, anyway? I thought he was on your side."

Potter turned to stare at him, and looked for a moment as if he were going to say something. He looked away again, and then binned the plastic sack.

"I'll be back tomorrow afternoon. Try not to burn the house down cooking, will you?"

"If I had a wand--" Draco began, but Potter disapparated. Draco gritted his teeth. He couldn't just pop into Diagon Alley and pick up a new one. He needed an owl to post the order, at the very least. Of course, he hadn't been able to access his Gringott's account for several months now, so an owl might not be enough.

He was as useless as a Muggle at this point, and his only value to Potter was what he knew. He had to hang onto that as long as he could.

.:::.

Five.

This time, it was broad daylight when Potter apparated in and said it was time to go.

"Now?" Draco asked, gesturing at the television. "I was just about to find out what happens with Ross and Rachel."

Potter gaped at him for a full second before sputtering, "Yes, now. If you live long enough, you can watch the rest of it on DVD sometime. Let's go!"

Draco didn't have any belongings to gather; he only had to put his shoes on. The moment he was ready, Potter tugged him to his feet and held out his arm. The anxiety on his face was startling, and Draco wondered if he'd been that concerned the last time. He took Potter's arm and nodded.

A moment later, they were in what seemed to be a run-down cottage. There was a layer of dust all around, some of which they'd disturbed with their arrival; it swirled up to float in the afternoon sunlight that streamed in through smudged windows. The furnishings were ragged and mismatched, and the sofa appeared to have been gnawed at by rodents. And worst of all, there was no television.

"You've got to be joking," Draco sputtered, releasing Potter's arm and turning to glare at him. "I can't stay here!"

"You don't have a choice," Potter said. He walked the perimeter of the small room, looking out windows and opening the front door when he got to it. "This should be safe for a while. We're out in the middle of nowhere. They won't look here."

"Who are they? And why do I have to keep moving? I thought the whole point of the Ministry having these safehouses was that…" Draco paused as a terrible thought occurred to him. "Unless it's the Ministry that we're running from."

It made sense. Potter was the only person he'd had contact with at all. If the Ministry were hiding him, it shouldn't be so easy for Death Eaters to find him. But if both the Ministry and the Death Eaters were looking for him, he wasn't safe anywhere.

"Don't be ridiculous," Potter replied, still looking out the door. "And we aren't running. We're just… staying two steps ahead."

Draco felt panic rise in his throat. If the Ministry didn't know Potter was hiding him, it meant that Potter couldn't promise him anything. There was nothing he could do to help Draco, even if Draco helped him find Snape. He was probably just waiting until Draco talked, and then--

"If you're going to kill me, get it over with."

Potter turned to stare at him. "What are you talking about?"

"I deserve it. I deserve worse, actually. So if you're planning on getting rid of me once you've got what you want, tell me so now. At least be honest with me about that."

"You've been cooped up for days with only the telly for company, and you've gone mad, haven't you?"

"You tried to kill me once," Draco continued, stalking toward him. "Maybe the whole point of this was to finish the job. As soon as I tell you where Snape is, that's it."

Potter backed away, shaking his head. "I'm not going to kill you, Malfoy. I have no reason to do."

"Yes, you have," Draco said. He shoved Potter against the wall, and held him there with hands on his shoulders. "You should have left me where you found me five days ago. I'd be better off dead."

"Will you back off?" Potter spat, struggling to get a handful of shirt on Draco's chest. "You're hardly a career criminal, Malfoy. You weren't even a real Death Eater."

Draco took a step backwards and pulled up his sleeve, holding the Mark up for Potter to see. "I have this, don't I?"

"You orchestrated the attack on Hogwarts a few years back, and the Ministry wants to lock you up for your involvement in that -- but there's no evidence you've done anything of substance for three years now."

"I'm dangerous!" Draco shouted. "I'm a Death Eater! I tried to kill Dumbledore!"

"But you didn't," Potter replied, his voice low and soothing. "You tried, but you couldn't do it. And he offered you asylum, Malfoy. Just as I'm doing now."

Draco backed away, stunned. "How do you know about that? I've never told anyone. Not even…" He shook his head.

"Malfoy, listen to me. I need to find Snape, and you can help me. I can end this war once and for all. I'm the only one who can."

"Never told anyone that," Draco repeated, turning away from Potter. If Potter knew, it could only mean that someone had seen what happened on the tower that night. One of the others must have heard, and that meant they all knew. The Dark Lord knew, and his own father probably knew how he'd stood there with a wand in his hand and failed to do the one thing he'd been asked to do by the Dark Lord. That was why they'd toyed with him that night. He was probably a laughing stock.

"I'm offering to save your life, Malfoy. Are you listening to me?"

Draco sank to the dusty floor and wrapped his arms around his knees. "It's not worth saving, Potter. Now leave me alone."

Potter seemed to stand still for several seconds, and didn't respond. Draco didn't look up at him, and he didn't say anything more. He just stared into the cottage's empty fireplace.

These last three years had been a waste. He might as well have died that night at the hands of his torturers. And now even Potter pitied him too much to kill him.

He heard the sound of Potter's footsteps recede -- out the door, into the front garden, and then silence.

.:::.

Six.

Draco had no idea what time it was when he heard the sound of the window shattering. He was on his feet and crouching in the kitchen by the back door before he'd had time to think. He could hear footsteps in the house, and voices, and sounds of things being overturned.

If he had a wand, it would be different. He could defend himself against whoever was out there, could hex them into tiny bits. He wouldn't have to cower in the dark like this.

He crept to the back door and peeked through the grimy glass. He didn't see anyone, but that didn't mean they weren't there, waiting for him. He took a deep breath to steady himself, and then eased the door open. Now or never.

He slipped through it, closed it behind him, and crept across the garden and over the wall. He ran through the forest, not sure where he was going or even where he was, convinced that whoever had broken into the cottage was hot on his trail. He ran until his sides ached, until he stopped and retched, and then ran more. He didn't stop until he came upon a farmhouse with a low stone wall around the garden. There was a small storage shed with its door unlocked, and he hid inside, curled up in the darkness, the reality of his situation finally sinking in. He had no idea where he was, nowhere to go, and no way to contact anyone. Potter was the only person remotely concerned with his welfare, and now Potter wouldn't be able to find him.

"Shit," he whispered, rubbing at his face with his hands. "Bloody bugger fucking shit." The numbness was wearing off now, and his feet were throbbing, probably cut to shreds from running through the woods with only socks on for protection. He didn't want to think about it at the moment.

He was exhausted, sick to his stomach, being pursued by people who wanted him dead -- and now he was lost. He took a deep breath and released it, swallowing down his panic. He would make a plan in the morning. As soon as the sun came up, it would be all right. He would figure something out.

He must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing he knew, the door of the shed was being opened, and sunlight was streaming into his eyes.

"What the…?" There was a shape filling the doorway, and it seemed to be coming closer. "Who the hell are you, boy?"

Draco was on his feet in a second, stammering out an apology and trying to find an escape route. The man came into view then -- he was old, perhaps in his 70s, and he seemed to be as frightened of Draco as Draco had been of him.

They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Draco made a run for it, dashing around him and out into the garden. He heard the man shouting threats and obscenities after him, but he didn't stop. He leapt over the wall and ran back into the forest, running until he was panting so hard he had to stop.

He sat on a fallen log, face in his hands, and tried to catch his breath again. He wasn't sure where he was or what to do. For all he knew, the Muggle authorities were looking for him too. The only person he thought he could trust was Potter -- and he wasn't even sure about that. He pressed the heels of his hands hard against his forehead and struggled not to lose control of his emotions. He had to keep his head clear. It was his only chance.

He wandered in the woods for what seemed like hours, his feet numb from cold, until the sun started to lower again. But he never crossed a road, or a stream, or came upon anything familiar. He was going in circles. It was the only explanation.

The sun set, and it grew even colder, and he was still lost. He kept walking, though, stumbling through thick brush and tripping over fallen branches, the full moon little comfort above his head. It just meant he had a better chance of meeting a werewolf -- with no way to defend himself.

And then he walked right into a stone wall in the darkness, stubbing his toe. He swore loudly before he could stop himself, and then gaped at the scene before him. It was the cottage where Potter had hid him, from which he'd run last night. He could have cried.

He crept over the wall and approached the house cautiously, but there was no sign anyone was there. He went back in through the back door, wincing at the creaking sound it made as he opened it.

The house was empty. Whoever had come in the night before had overturned the furniture and shredded the place, but they were gone now.

He was starving, so he ate first -- there were stale biscuits in a cupboard, and he managed to heat water on the Muggle hob to make tea. He didn't have another set of clothes to change into, and his own were filthy and shredded. He stripped out of them and washed up as best he could, sponging at himself with hot tap water and a rag. It felt good to be somewhat clean again, better than he could have imagined a day ago.

He wrapped himself up in a blanket and settled on the floor next to the sofa, shivering in the darkness. If they came back tonight, they'd just have to take him. He couldn't run any more.

.:::.

Seven.

The first thing Draco was aware of when the sun rose was that his feet were throbbing. He'd tried to clean them up the night before, but it had been difficult in the dark. It was funny that his leg had been broken just a few days ago, but this pain seemed worse somehow.

"You're awake."

"Shit!" Draco said, sitting up. Potter was sitting in one of the previously overturned chairs, watching him. Draco hadn't heard him come in. "What the hell?"

"I'm glad you came back. I got here just as those kids were about to set the place on fire. I scared the shit out of them too."

"Kids?"

"Muggle teenagers, looking for a place to get drunk. We haven't used this place as a safehouse for a while, so the standard wards weren't up."

"I thought…" Draco blinked at him for a moment, and then found he could only laugh in response. He'd run for his life and nearly lost himself in the woods for an entire day, torn up his clothes and his feet -- and they had just been kids?

"I probably would've thought the same, in your situation." Potter stared at him for a moment, and then looked away. "What happened to your clothes?"

Draco tugged the blanket around him more tightly. "Shredded. Filthy, actually. You should see my feet."

Potter looked back at him, an odd expression on his face. "Show me."

Potter was surprisingly good with healing spells, and Draco imagined that he'd had plenty of practice on himself. It took him nearly fifteen minutes to heal the cuts and scrapes on Draco's feet, but at the end his feet were fine. Tingly, even, as Potter's fingers stroked over newly healed skin along the arch of his foot, lingering a bit more than was probably necessary.

Draco pulled his foot away, blushing. "Ticklish."

"Sorry." Potter stood and they were both silent for a moment. "I'll be back later this afternoon. I'll bring food and a change of clothes. I think the shower works in the bathroom, if you want to clean up a bit."

Draco looked up at him at the word shower. He nodded, not sure what to say. He was embarrassed and relieved and oddly content and even a bit turned on. The last was rather disturbing, but he probably shouldn't be surprised, considering what he'd been through. It was natural to cling to any human contact under such conditions. He was sure he'd read that once. "Thanks."

Potter nodded and disapparated.

He spent a long time in the shower, as long as the hot water lasted. He was surprised when it started to grow cold around him, but he supposed Muggles had difficulty keeping water hot for long periods of time without magic. It was enough to scrub off the grime and despair of the last day, though, and that made him feel better than he had in a while.

He felt as if he'd been given another chance, somehow. After his despair of the day before and thinking he might die in the woods, being back in this safehouse with Potter watching over him was nearly pleasant. He didn't know what was coming tomorrow, and at the moment, he didn't care. If he made it through today, he'd be happy.

Well, perhaps not happy.

He was curled up on the sofa when Potter returned that evening, wrapped in the blanket and halfway through a mystery novel he'd found in the bedroom. Potter had brought him jeans and a jumper to change into -- his own from the looks of them. He'd forgotten pants, but Draco was too embarrassed to mention it.

He emerged from the bedroom dressed and feeling much better. Potter had lit a fire in the hearth in the living room, and the warmth of it was already making a difference in the house. Draco stopped to warm his hands over it for a moment before heading to the kitchen to look for Potter.

He found him standing over the hob and stirring something in a pot. The scene was bizarrely domestic, and Draco almost laughed at the sight. Potter smiled at him and went back to cooking, and Draco felt an odd twinge -- something he hadn't expected. He swallowed it down with practiced ease, and asked Potter what he could do to help.

He was fairly useless in the kitchen, it turned out. He'd had people cook for him for most of his life, and though he could do a few basic things with a wand, he hadn't a clue how Muggles managed. Potter had grown up with Muggles, Draco remembered. It was a skill that came in handy at times like this.

Dinner was quiet, and Draco was immensely glad for it. He was grateful for Potter's company, but he couldn't think of anything to say to him.

He watched Potter clean up with a few flicks of his wand afterwards, and didn't let himself wonder if he'd ever do magic again. It was pointless to think that far ahead, anyway.

"So what now?" he asked when the cleaning was done and Potter looked as if he might be about to leave.

Potter shrugged and looked vaguely uncomfortable. "That depends on whether or not you're going to cooperate."

Draco felt a strange chill wash over him. In his elation at surviving the last twenty-four hours, he'd forgotten. "Right," he said, turning toward the fireplace. "Snape."

"Well?"

"So what happens to me?" Draco asked, staring into the flames. "I sell out the one person who ever gave a shit about me, and then what?"

Potter's sigh was long-suffering. "Why do you have to be so fucking dramatic?"

"Why do you have to be such a prick? You know you have me by the balls."

"Whatever happens to you is up to you, Malfoy. I told you I would protect you, and I will. But if you're so determined to amount to nothing, I imagine you'll be successful."

"I'm not nothing," Draco said, whirling around to glare at him. "My life was going to be amazing, you know. I had everything laid out before me, my whole future -- and then you had to come along."

"Oh, that's right," Potter retorted, arms folded across his chest now. "You would have been a fantastic Death Eater if it weren't for me getting in the way."

"It was never about that. You don't understand."

Potter stalked toward Draco. "What was it about, then? What would your life have been like if I hadn't come along to ruin it for you?"

"Better than this!" Draco shouted, shoving Potter in the chest. Potter staggered backward, surprised. Draco stepped forward again, backing him against the wall. "I wouldn't be here now, with nothing left, no one to turn to but you. And you want me to sell my fucking soul, and in the end I'll have to do it if I want to survive. I hate you."

Potter was pressed against the paneled wall, an odd expression on his face. "You don't hate me, Malfoy."

Draco's hands were fisted in Potter's shirt, and he pulled his torso away from the wall enough that he could slam him back against it. "You can tell me what to do, where to go, even when to eat and sleep, but you can't tell me what I feel."

"You never hated me," Potter said, his tone infuriatingly calm. "You envied me. You even liked me at times, didn't you?"

"I hated you!" Draco repeated, shaking Potter. He was so angry at him that he could barely see, and he wanted nothing more than to throw him to the floor and hit him, over and over until…

Potter was staring at him, his eyes wide and dark, and there was something in his expression that was familiar. Draco had seen it before, somewhere, but he couldn't place it. Something was happening here. Potter's lips parted, but he didn't speak.

And then Draco kissed him. He wasn't sure where the impulse had come from, or why he'd done it then, but he couldn't stop himself. He felt Potter's head hit the wall, felt his hands clench the jumper at his waist, and then Potter was kissing him back, with tongue and teeth and lips and hands and oh god.

If they stopped, Draco would have to come to his senses. If they just kept kissing, they wouldn't have to think about what they were doing, and somehow Draco needed this more than anything. He didn't know if Potter needed it, and he didn't care -- he didn't care about anything but the fire that was coursing through his veins and the hand on his bare skin under the jumper, and the swelling erection pressing against his thigh.

He heard himself moan, and felt Potter's other hand grasp his arse and pull their groins together. Draco's hands found their way up inside Potter's shirt, stroking skin he hadn't even known he'd wanted to touch, eliciting groans from Potter that he never thought he'd hear. Draco wasn't sure if this was real, and was afraid to stop long enough even to breathe.

Potter broke the kiss and stared at him, eyes glazed. For a moment, Draco thought the moment was over, that the spell had been broken between them. He was rock hard now, and as far as he could tell, Potter was too. He doubted Potter wanted to stop. He hoped not, at least.

He rocked his hips against Potter's, brushing their erections together, and watched Potter's face as he gasped and closed his eyes. Draco unfastened Potter's jeans and then his own, and was surprised when Potter's fingers found his cock and started stroking. It had been a long time since someone had touched him like that, and he'd forgotten how good it felt. Potter's strokes were short and quick, and Draco realized this could all be over quickly. He wasn't sure if that would be a good thing or not.

"Suck me," he whispered, willing Potter to open his eyes, "And I'll let you fuck me."

Potter's eyes flew open. "What?"

Draco kissed him. "You heard me." He put his hands on Potter's shoulders and pushed.

Potter sank to his knees without any resistance, and Draco braced himself against the wall on his arms, aching from the anticipation. It had been far too long since he'd done this. He had no idea if Potter had ever done it, but he wasn't bad. He knew how to use his tongue, and he kept his teeth out of the way, and he sucked harder when Draco asked him to. It was glorious to feel his cock in all that wet heat, and knowing that it was Potter's mouth he was fucking made it all the better.

Potter seemed to sense when he was getting close, because he clenched Draco's hips and buried his nose in his groin, taking his cock further down his throat than Draco would have thought possible. His tongue worked the shaft and then he swallowed, and Draco saw stars. He pressed his forehead against the wall and tried to pump his hips, but Potter held them in place, and Draco came with a howl.

Potter continued to suck him until Draco had to grab a handful of his hair and pull it, and then Potter released him, pressing a kiss to his thigh.

"Oh, god," Draco panted.

Potter's hands were still on his hips, and he slid them under the jeans, working them down. Draco pushed off the wall and turned around, sinking to his knees. It had been a long time since he'd done this too.

Potter wasn't terribly gentle when he pushed in, and Draco had to grit his teeth until his body adjusted. Potter waited, as if he had to adjust to the pressure too, and for a moment Draco wondered if he'd already come. Potter started moving then, with slow, shallow thrusts and more friction than Draco was used to, and it was rough and a bit painful -- and he loved it.

Potter lasted another few minutes, his thrusts growing erratic by the end. He seemed to hold his breath when he came, and he didn't make any noise. Draco pushed back against him, trying to take his cock in even deeper, and Potter's fingers dug into his hips, so hard Draco thought he might wind up with bruises. Somehow, the idea was incredibly erotic.

And then it was over. Potter pulled out and sat back on his heels, panting. Draco pushed himself to his feet and tugged the jeans back up. They didn't look at each other.

"I'm… I'll be right back," Draco said, gesturing to the bathroom.

He cleaned himself up and spent a moment staring at himself in the mirror, uncertain what he'd just done. He'd had sex with men before, so it wasn't that he felt awkward about the gay thing. But it was Potter, and the situation was dangerous and complicated. He had no idea what that meant -- for either of them.

Potter was on his feet and dressed when Draco emerged from the bathroom, staring into the fireplace as if waiting to see someone's head pop up. Draco wasn't sure what to say, so he stopped beside him and waited.

"I think you'll be safe here tonight," Potter said after a moment. "If you're worried, I could--"

"I'm not worried," Draco said, and then realized too late that Potter had been offering to stay the night. "Unless… I mean, should I be?"

"No," Potter replied, glancing sideways at him. "But I think we should move you again soon. I'll be back in the morning and we can talk about it."

"All right."

"Right then. I suppose I should go."

Draco shrugged, and tried to smile. "If you want."

Potter turned to look at him then. "I don't want. In fact, I'd like to stay. But I don't think I should."

Draco nodded, and they stared at each other for a moment. Potter swayed toward him ever so slightly, and then took a step back.

"Right. I'll see you tomorrow, then." He took a few more steps away from Draco and then disapparated.

Draco stared at the spot where he'd been standing for nearly a minute, arms wrapped around himself. That had either been the biggest mistake he'd ever made or the best sex he'd ever had. Maybe even both.

He settled on the sofa and reached for the book he'd started earlier. He could still feel Potter's cock inside him, and thought he would do for a while. He wondered if he'd ever feel it again.

.:::.

Eight.

"I'm sorry."

Draco looked up from his attempt to cook oatmeal -- the directions had seemed easy enough, but the result was a sticky mess so far. He'd hoped to have something reasonably ready to eat before Potter showed up. "Sorry for what?"

Potter leaned back against the counter and sighed. "You said last night that I wanted you to sell your soul for your freedom. I'm sorry that I let you think it was like that."

Draco switched off the burner and turned to face him. "Then what is it like?"

Potter stared at the floor. "The other day, you asked who we were running from. And you were right -- I'm not hiding you under the auspices of the Ministry. I've been hiding you in Ministry safehouses without their knowledge. So when they move someone in, I have to move you out. Usually on very short notice."

"I noticed. But why aren't you working with the Ministry?"

"I do work with them, but… I have a mission of my own, something they don't know about. Something no one knows about."

Draco could only stare at him in disbelief. He had no idea why Potter would trust him with this. He wasn't even sure it was a good idea for Potter to share it.

"And I need Snape's help. I think he's the only one who can help me… finish it."

"I thought Snape was on your side." Draco had never asked, but everyone he knew had their suspicions about him.

Potter shook his head. "He's on his own side."

"Not so different from you."

"Perhaps. But I want you to know I'm not looking for him so that I can turn him over to the Ministry. That was never my intention. They don't even know I'm looking for him." He glanced up again.

Draco nodded, understanding now. Potter wasn't sure he could trust Draco, but he had just told Draco enough to give him leverage. Along with what had happened between them last night, they each had enough dirt on the other to be fairly assured they could trust each other.

And maybe it was the sex, or maybe it was the desperation he'd felt over the last eight days, but Draco found himself wanting to trust Potter. He wanted to be able to trust someone again, and hell -- why not Potter? After all this time, after everything that had happened between them over the years, and especially after last night, he needed to trust him.

"I'll help you find him," Draco said at last, "under two conditions. I want to approach him first and make sure he agrees to this. I won't take you to him without that."

"All right," Potter said. "I'd expected as much. And the other condition?"

"You help me clear my name and get my life back. I can't live like this, and I don't want to."

Potter smiled. "I was going to do that all along, you know."

Draco rolled his eyes. "You could have said something sooner."

"I did. But there's not much I can do until the war is over. Until then, I can offer you protection under the Order of the Phoenix. We can establish a false identity for you, and you can live as a Muggle until it's safe."

Draco pursed his lips. "Can I have a television?"

"Yes. With cable. And high-speed internet, if you like."

"Internet?"

Potter laughed. "I think you're going to like being a Muggle, Draco."

"I don't know about that. I need to get a new wand, too."

Potter made a face in the direction of the pot of oatmeal. "You'll starve otherwise."

Draco took a deep breath. "Should we talk about…?" He waved a hand between them.

Potter's cheeks turned a shade pinker, which Draco found oddly charming. "Yeah. But… can it wait?"

"For what?"

Potter paused, as if forming his words carefully. "For me to figure out what I want to say."

Draco smiled. "Thank god. I thought it was just me."

Potter smiled back, and they stood there for several seconds, just looking at each other. It was awkward, but not unpleasant. That was a start, certainly.

"Want to go get some real breakfast?" Potter asked at last.

Draco cast one last glance at the sticky pot of oatmeal, and then turned back to him. He smiled. "Absolutely."

.:::.

FIN