Chapter 4 - Whispers of the Past

Draco rolled over to find a cold bed next to him. He pulled the sheet up tighter around him in an effort to ward off the cold air coming from the open bedroom door. All he wanted to do was sleep. Burying his face in the pillow, he yawned and closed his eyes.

“Malfoy?”

Maybe if I ignore him, he’ll go away, Draco thought, trying his best to stay still.

“I know you’re awake.”

Go away!

“Malfoy.”

The blond moaned and turned over onto his back. “What do you want? I was trying to sleep before you so rudely interrupted me,” he complained, rubbing his palms over his tired eyes.

“I’ve got to go to work. Are you going to be all right?”

“No, I’m going to die if I don’t spend every waking moment by your side,” he delivered dramatically, one arm thrown over his forehead.

“You are ungrateful. You know that?” Harry glared at him before storming out of the room. “I’ll be back around seven,” he shouted before slamming the front door behind him.

“You are ungrateful. You know that?” Draco mimicked. “Git.” He rolled back over onto his stomach and within minutes was fast asleep.

The next two days passed in the same way. Harry waking Draco to tell him he was leaving, Draco retorting with some sarcastic reply, then Harry storming out and slamming the door. It was on the fourth day that Draco felt well enough to actually climb out of bed and stumble into the kitchen for an early breakfast. It was there he found Harry sitting at the small counter sipping a cup of coffee and reading the Daily Prophet.

“Hullo. Feeling better?” Harry asked through a mouthful of toast. His tone was neutral, as if he couldn’t decide between being nice to the blond or just as sarcastic as Draco had been the past couple days.

“Much better,” Draco answered as he dropped down into the seat across from Harry. He eyed the other man and turned up his nose at the wardrobe. For the days he had been here, Potter had been considerably well dressed, but today he was wearing a worn sweatshirt, running pants and a pair of dirty old trainers. Not that he himself looked any better. He was still wearing the clothes from that first night. Harry finished reading the article, then pushed back his chair and headed over to the sink to wash his dishes. “Are you going to be here when I get back?” he asked when he turned off the water, leaning back against the counter.

“If you want me to leave just say so.”

“I wasn’t implying that. Why are you so defensive? I’ve done nothing but treat you with kindness, when I didn’t have to at all, and you still act like I’ve done something wrong. Grow up, Malfoy. We’re adults now, different people. Stop holding childhood grudges. I have.”

For a moment he stood staring at the boy he had openly hated for the majority of his childhood and realized that Potter was right. He was acting like a child, a spoiled brat. And god, he hated it, hated himself because he hadn’t been that person for years.

“Do you want to go?” Harry asked. His face was passive and Draco knew this was his choice.

“No,” he answered quietly, as he pretended to dust a piece of lint off his sleeve. “Truth is, I don’t have anywhere else to go.” It was a hard thing to say, especially to Potter. He was so used to being the superior one, the one with the money and the wealth, the one who had everything. Now he was depending on his supposed enemy for a warm place to sleep. It was humiliating.

“You can stay, Malfoy. I won’t kick you out. At least not yet.” He disappeared for a minute then returned, black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “There’s some extra clothes in the closet in the guest room. Take whatever you want. I’ve got to go. I’m gonna be late. See you around seven,” he said as he disappeared through the door.

Draco collapsed into the chair Harry had been sitting in and grabbed the Daily Prophet from where it lay on the table. It had been years since he had seen a copy.

A picture of Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions graced the cover. He quickly scanned through the article. It seemed that the old witch was retiring at the end of the week and with no living relatives to pass the shop onto, would be shutting down. There was going to be a farewell ceremony for her in front of her shop in Diagon Alley that coming Saturday. All the public was invited with free butterbeer for all. Draco felt a pang of sadness at the news. The old witch was a staple to the British wizarding world. He could still remember the first time he had set foot in there.

Mother had left him at the door as she went off to get his wand. Father was off buying his books. Neither one wanted to be around the mass of undisciplined children and made that perfectly clear to a then ten-year-old Draco. Disappointed, he watched them part ways and disappear into the crowd. He turned back to the door of the shop and took a deep breath before turning the knob. A little tinkling bell sounded above his head as he entered and a cheery witch appeared from behind a rack of bright pink dress robes.

“Hogwarts, dear?” she asked. He nodded. “Just step up on the footstool and Hade will be with you in a moment.”

Draco did as he was told and a second later another witch began taking his measurements. He heard the tinkle of the bell and looked up to see a scrawny boy with jet black hair and round glasses walk apprehensively into the room.

“Hogwarts, dear?” Madam Malkin asked. He nodded and nervously climbed up on the other footstool as she instructed.

Draco let his eyes roam over the smaller boy for a moment before addressing him. He didn’t seem very interested in anything he had to say and Draco was getting annoyed. Bored, he watched the raven-haired boy step down off the footstool and practically run out of the shop when Madam Malkin told him he was free to go.

“Well, I’ll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose,” he drawled.

Draco shook his head to clear away the memory. He had been so naive back then, they all had. Stupid rivalries, name-calling, duels and over what? Distorted ideas their parents fed to them. It was a shame they had all been too blind to see the truth.

“That was the past,” Draco admonished himself. “We’re both here now. We can start over.”

He put the paper down, making a mental note to mention the event to Harry. Right now, he wanted to explore. Mostly unconscious for the past couple days, he hadn’t really had a chance to take in his surroundings.

The rest of Potter’s apartment was, to Draco’s surprise, as stylishly decorated as his bedroom. White dominated here as it did in his private chambers, but mahogany tables and the crocheted blanket that Harry had placed over him the day Granger was there, broke the monotony. There were also a couple of wooden figurines: giraffes, elephants and tigers. In fact, African artifacts were placed all around the room, on the walls, on the mantle, even the side tables. He picked up a small mask on one of the tables and ran a hand over the face. A warm tingling sensation spread through his fingers and he smiled at the long-lost feeling of magic. African wizards must have made it. It was like a high. He could feel it pumping through his veins, mingling with the blood. The magic was re-energizing his very being. He needed that back, that feeling of being alive. Going to Diagon Alley on Saturday would be the first step. Reluctantly, he set the mask down, feeling the magic slowly drain from him. The thought of the high he’d receive on Saturday was thrilling. He needed to be back in that world. That small touch of magic had made that much clear.

Draco spent awhile lounging on the couch, flipping channels on Harry’s huge flat screen tv. After watching three cooking shows, an hour of music videos and a show about two gay guys, he figured he had enough. It was time to explore the private world of Harry Potter. The blond jumped up off the couch and purposefully strode out of the room. What better way was there to find out about The-Boy-Who-Lived than to snoop through his room?

He stopped in the doorway of Harry’s room and marveled at how unnaturally neat it was. He knew he’d have to work carefully, making sure to put everything back exactly the way he found it.

Draco made his way over to the night stand knowing that most people kept their important stuff in there. He rifled through the contents: notepad, a couple of broken pens, a picture of a young man and woman. A muggle picture. The messy black hair and glasses left no doubt as to the identity of the two people and Draco carefully laid the picture aside. He shuffled through he rest of the contents and burst out laughing when he pulled out a box of condoms. Well, Potter’s definitely getting some, he thought shrewdly. Finding nothing of importance, he replaced all the contents and made his way over to the closet.

It was a walk-in, almost the size of a small bathroom. It vaguely reminded him of his own walk-in closet at the manor, but his was roughly twice the size of Harry’s. There were various dress pants and shirts, a gorgeous and no doubt expensive brown leather jacket and about a dozen pairs of trainers. Draco bent down to take a closer look at a navy pair at the end, when he bumped into something. He looked for the object in question but spotted nothing but air. Instinctively, he reached into the corner and his hand connected with something silky. He grasped it and pulled, revealing the object underneath. An invisibility cloak came off in his hands and beneath it was Potter’s old Hogwarts trunk. So that’s how he got around all those years, he thought. Setting aside the cloak, he pulled the trunk out of the corner and sat down on the carpeted floor in front of it. The Hogwarts crest was emblazoned on the front and he ran his fingers delicately over the “H.” The fact that this day seemed to be taking a nostalgic turn crossed his mind and he promptly removed his fingers from their ministrations.

Draco reached for the lock and was surprised to find none there. The hinges were bent and broken. He figured Harry must have busted it open long ago and not bothered fixing it. Cautiously, he threw the lid back and peered inside.

Harry’s quidditch uniform lay on top, the red and gold of Gryffindor still as garish as he remembered it. Scattered beneath that were wizard cards, dozens of them. Potter must have been an avid collector. He picked one up and was surprised to find it was of Harry. It read:

Harry Potter, also known as The-Boy-Who-Lived, is the only person to ever survive the Avada Kedavra curse. He defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort (He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named) twice, once as an infant, which earned him the infamous lightning bolt scar on his forehead and again in the Muggle Magic War of 1998.

Draco turned the card back over and looked at the picture of Harry. It must have been taken soon after the war. He looked just as he had during their schooldays. Same unruly black hair, same round glasses. But the eyes had that haunted look they held now. The body of a boy, the eyes of a man. It was a sad look, one that held many secrets and told tales of death. Draco shuddered and set the card aside, not wanting that image ingrained in his mind.

Beneath those were some old school books: a potions notebook, a copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them and an old transfiguration notebook. Blank pages of parchment and a few broken quills were buried at the bottom along with a small, brown, leather bound book that instantly drew Draco’s attention.

He pulled it out and began to flip through the pages. It was Potter’s journal from his Hogwarts days. There were his muggle musings on the wizarding world, various passages about that git Weasley, Granger, and to his surprise, one about him. He wasn’t at all shocked to note that the entry was filled with various four-letter words.

He flipped ahead toward the end of the book and was startled when a piece of paper fluttered onto his lap. Upon closer inspection, he found that it wasn’t a piece of paper at all.

A photo of Potter and Granger grinned up at him, Harry casually slinging an arm around Hermione’s shoulder and then winking salaciously at the camera. It was a side he had never seen before, a side of the boy he was sure few had ever seen and it felt strangely intimate.

Next to him, Hermione kept turning her head to look off to her left where the picture had been torn. That was then Draco noticed another arm around her shoulders and the quick flash of red hair as the unseen occupant shifted. Weasley. Potter wasn’t kidding when he said they hadn’t been on the best terms before he died. After one last wink from Harry, he slipped the photo back into the journal and turned to the last page. It was blank. Doubling back, he finally found the last entry and froze.

There, taped to the top of the page, was a picture of himself sitting under a tree. It must have been taken in the beginning of their seventh year before he left. His hair was already chin length. He had refused to cut it all the previous year and during that last summer despite father’s wishes. It made him feel alive. His last bit of freedom before he took the mark. But when could Potter have taken the picture? And why? He read the words beneath it and his heart stopped.

He’s gone. Draco’s dead.

The script was wobbly and curved off at the end in a jagged line, as if Potter couldn’t hold the quill straight. There was nothing else besides those four words, so he flipped to the page before it.

There’s something different about Malfoy this year. He’s quieter, more withdrawn. I don’t know what to make of it honestly. He’s still beautiful of course. How could he not be? But sometimes I find myself hating him. Hating the fact that he’s too blind to see that following in his father’s footsteps is the biggest mistake he’ll ever make. I swear I’ll kill Lucius one day for everything he’s done to me, to all of us.

Draco read the entry before and the one before that, each time finding some sort of mention of his name. Sometimes whole entries dedicated to him. So that’s what Granger meant, he thought. Potter had a thing for me and when he thought I was dead . . .

Draco slammed the book shut and closed his eyes. It was all too weird. Potter had been harboring this secret crush on him during their Hogwarts years. What did that mean now? Is that why he was being so kind? Did he still have those feelings? All of it was overwhelming. And how did he, himself, feel about all this? He honestly didn’t know anymore.

He carefully placed everything back in the trunk, dragged it into the corner where the dent marks in the rug showed it had been sitting and carefully draped Harry’s invisibility cloak over it. When he was satisfied that everything was in its rightful place, Draco made his way back to his room. He sifted through the extra clothes Potter had left for him and headed to the bathroom, stripping off his clothes as he went.

The steaming hot water felt wonderful against his skin, scalding away the stress and confusion of the last couple hours. He let the water rain down on him, the pounding in his ears almost therapeutic to his jumbled mind. Why did he have to go snooping through Potter’s stuff? All he managed to do, all he ever managed to do, was muck everything up. He would have been better off not knowing at all. This was too much. Draco turned off the shower and stepped out, the cool air refreshing on his heated skin.

Part of him wanted to run, to forget he had ever seen Potter or Granger, forget there was such a thing as Hogwarts and a magical world. But that was foolish. I can’t deny who I am, he thought, as he slipped into a pair of jeans. Nor can I deny who I was. He sighed, then slipped his shirt on. He walked barefoot out of the bathroom, paused in the doorway of his room to throw his clothes onto the bed, then headed off toward the kitchen.

As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t just walk out and disappear again. They knew he was alive. Potter had let him into his home, taken care of him, fed him, treated him with respect and gave him a nice warm place to sleep. He couldn’t just walk away without an explanation, without a reason. The only one was that he was afraid. Afraid of how this revelation would change everything, afraid of how it would change him. Sure, he had felt an odd sort of warmth whenever Potter brushed past him or smiled at him, but it didn’t have to mean anything, right?

Draco grabbed a beer from the fridge and stepped out on the balcony. The sun had already disappeared behind the horizon, but pink and purple still streaked the sky. Any other day, he probably would have thought the view was wonderful, but there was too much on his mind tonight.

He stood there on the balcony for over an hour, taking small sips from his beer before he finally heard the key turning in the lock. He didn’t turn around even though he could feel Harry’s eyes boring into him. Potter’s foot steps came closer and then he was leaning on the railing, eyes trained on the skyline, cigarette in hand. He didn’t say anything, as if he knew that there was something on Draco’s mind. The two men stared out at the city below, both lost in their own thoughts. It was Draco who broke the silence first.

“That first night on the streets was the worst . . . I didn’t know what to do or where to go. I had never been around muggles before. I didn’t know anything about them expect the trash father had fed me.” After looking into Potter’s private life, he felt it was only fair to share something with him, even if the other man never knew the reason behind it.

“I ended up in this horrible area, one I had never been to before. I must have been walking for about a half an hour when these two blokes approached me. They said I didn’t look like I was from around there, like maybe I needed help. I can’t believe I was so stupid.” He let out a small self-depreciating laugh. “I thought they really wanted to help me. Instead, they . . . ” He paused, the thought of that night alone just too much to swallow. “They beat me, hard. Punched me, kicked me, slammed me into the concrete . . . raped me . . . I thought I was going to die, Harry. It hurt so much . . . I-I blacked out.

“When I woke up, my shoes were gone. The ring father had gotten for me on my sixteenth birthday, too. My sweater was torn. They left me exposed and I remembered seeing blood. God, it was gross. I just wanted to die.” A warm comforting hand found its way onto his shoulder and he resisted the urge to throw it off. He didn’t want Potter to pity him, not at all.

“There was an alley a couple feet from me and I crawled over to it. I couldn’t even walk.” He buried his face in his hands for a moment and moaned. “Christ! It was so fucking cold that night and I had nothing but a jumper, a pair of slacks and some socks on. My toes felt like ice.” He shivered.

“There was this trash bag just swirling in the alleyway, round and round. Some instinct told me to grab it, just snatch it up and I did. I wrapped it around me as tight as I could. Didn’t cover much but it was better than nothing. It smelled like garbage. It was so foul. I wanted to just throw up . . . I retched all over myself, Potter.” He turned to Harry waiting for the look of disgust he was sure the other man would give him, but it never came. Instead, there was one of sorrow and complete understanding. Draco turned back to the glittering skyline.

“I thought that maybe I had made a mistake. Maybe being a death eater and following Voldemort wasn’t so bad, if this was the alternative. I almost stood up and went back and then I thought . . . ” His voice trailed off. There was no way he could tell Potter that now.

“A couple days later I met a kid who was fourteen. He told me he had been on the streets for the past three years and that it would get better. He took me back to this old warehouse where he stayed with a bunch of other people. It wasn’t so bad, definitely better than an alley. They told me I could stay, that there wasn’t much, it was every man for himself so I took them up on the offer. I’ve been there ever since.” He stopped then, not knowing what else to say and apparently, neither did Harry. It wasn’t until his stomach rumbled loudly that he felt compelled to say something.

“I’m fucking starving,” he blurted out, slipping back into what he called his “street accent.” He saw Potter glance at him a little strangely and then cover it up with:

“I could make us some dinner.”

“Sure,” Draco answered. He followed Harry to the kitchen and stopped in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed in front of his chest. He watched as Harry went back and forth from the refrigerator to the counter, taking out ingredients for whatever dinner he was cooking up.

“Need help?” Draco asked from his spot on the threshold.

“Sure. Why don’t you chop these?” He handed Draco the green peppers and the knife and pointed him to the cutting board. They worked in companionable silence for a while, when Draco remembered the Daily Prophet article.

“Potter, I was wondering if maybe . . . well, if you’re not working on Saturday or have other plans or anything . . . could you take me to Diagon Alley? I’d like to take one last look at Madam Malkin’s before they close it.”

He kept his eyes trained on his hands as he chopped the peppers, but knew there was a blush rising in his cheeks. He sounded like an idiot. He began to berate himself for it when Potter spoke.

“Are you sure?” At Draco’s confused look, he elaborated. “I mean, everyone thinks you’re dead. You’d be swamped the second you were recognized, especially with something so big happening. There’s bound to be someone who knew you.” Draco carefully laid down the knife and wiped his hands on a towel laying on the counter before addressing him.

“I know but I still want to go, even if it means I have to change my appearance. I’m a wizard. I can’t deny that.”

Harry nodded. “I understand . . . So long as you know what you might be getting yourself into.”

“I know exactly what I’m getting myself into.” But even as the words left his lips, he wasn’t sure if it was the truth anymore. Harry was staring at him and he found himself not able to look away. He didn’t know what he was getting himself into, not in the least.

“I haven’t been to Diagon Alley in over a year so it’ll be nice. Then we can catch dinner at this great little restaurant a couple of blocks from there.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.” Draco couldn’t help the smile that crossed his lips. It was the first genuine one he had given in a long time and the fact that Potter had gotten it out of him . . . well, he didn’t know what to think.