Chapter 4 of The Bubo
In which a deal is sealed by magic.
Monday, November 23, 1994
Vince was acting oddly. He and Draco stood next to one another in Charms, doing the Accio-Levioso combination drills with cushions magicked to whine and squeal when dropped. Vince’s cushion was moaning non-stop. He seemed to struggle with the wand gesture, the most trivial part of the exercise, holding his arm out at an awkward angle.
“Does it hurt?” Draco asked in a whisper. “The bubo?”
He had been thinking about it every day, torn between morbid fascination and the distasteful intimacy of it all: of asking to look again, of the disrobing, of the sights and smells of Vince’s bare body. He wasn’t about to miss this chance to sate his curiosity.
Vince’s cushion dropped with a plaintive mewl. He gave Draco an angry glance, then put too much force in summoning the cushion, so it slammed into his chest, letting out a groan that turned several heads. “No,” he said, grumpier than Draco has heard him in a long time. “But I feel it and it’s getting on my nerves!”
“Well, the noise is getting on my nerves,” Draco said archly. “If you can’t get a grip, go lie down. You look feverish.”
It was true. Vince’s face was shiny with sweat and the color in his cheeks was too high to be healthy. There was an unsettling sparkle in his eyes as he swept them over the room from corner to corner, as if searching for something. Kindling, Draco thought, and shivered.
“Yeah,” Vince grunted. “Doctor Thorn said there might be a fever.”
Draco meant to ask more questions, but Flitwick strode over and took Vince to the front of the classroom, where more than half the class still practiced the basic Summoning Charm. Potter wasn’t the only one having trouble with it. In fact, just a few students—Draco among them—had mastered it on the first attempt, weeks ago. Professor Snape’s words came back to him. Perhaps the most talented. Levitating his cushion effortlessly throughout the conversation and the rest of the lesson, Draco had no trouble believing it.
Potter looked a bit poorly too. He’d been late to breakfast, with hair rumpled even by his abysmal standards, robes hanging askew from his bony shoulders, and dark patches under his eyes. He ate nothing at lunch and jumped whenever anyone addressed him. By dinner, he’d gone a greenish sort of pale in the face.
Draco didn’t like it. The First Task in the Tournament was tomorrow, and he knew, from listening in on Father’s conversations at the World Cup, that it would be no laughing matter. There had been at least one Tournament in the past (from what Draco could tell, Hogwarts hadn’t been in it) where all three contestants perished in the First Task, themed after recognizing cursed objects. He doubted anyone would be in mortal danger now: Dumbledore and the Ministry could hardly afford another debacle after the World Cup. But grievous injury was certainly not out of the question. And for all his efforts to make Potter suffer, Draco abhorred seeing him suffer by someone else’s hand.
Deep in thought, he only realized with a delay that Vince and Greg were no longer at his sides. He glanced over his shoulder. They had stopped short to stare at something ahead. Draco cast about and stopped short himself.
Leaning on the wall next to the serpent door to the Slytherin dungeons was Potter, his brow low, his lips pressed into a line, and his arms crossed so tight over his chest it was a wonder his ribs hadn’t cracked.
“What are you doing here, Potter?” Draco barked. After their adventure in the greenhouse, perhaps he would’ve tried to be civil, had they been alone. But with Vince and Greg following a step behind him, it was important to project the correct image.
“Relax, Malfoy,” Potter said, trying for something between bored and annoyed, but nerves had made his voice strained. “I’m not here to fight. Can we have a word?”
Draco crossed his own arms, angling his hips and shoulders for maximum mockery. “Just the one?”
Vince and Greg dutifully sniggered. Potter rolled his eyes. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
“I doubt that very much, Potter. But alright. I’ll entertain the whims of our Great Champion on the eve of his demise. What is it?”
“Send your goons away first.”
This was followed by a shuffling of robes behind Draco’s back and he could just picture Vince and Greg widening their stance and crossing their arms as well.
“That’s highly irregular,” Draco drawled. “People far above your station make bookings months ahead for a one-on-one with me. I’m so very busy, you see.”
“Oh, for…” Potter sighed and stared beseechingly at the ceiling. The apple of his throat bobbed up and down under taut skin, making something wriggle in Draco’s stomach. Then there was a mutter that sounded suspiciously like…
“What was that, Potter?” Draco demanded. “Speak up.”
Muscles danced in Potter’s jaw. “Please.”
Draco put on his most vulpine grin to hide the genuine elation that raced through him like a shot of Thunderbrew. For a sweet, hot moment, he considered making Potter get down on his knees, but he knew it’d be too much. Instead, he turned his head and gestured at Greg with his chin.
“You sure, boss?” whispered Greg.
“Yes. Go on.”
“We need to use the password,” whispered Vince.
“Right. Come along, then, Potter.”
Draco turned around with a dramatic swipe of his robes (a trick he’d picked up from Professor Snape), and started back the way he had come, not bothering to check if Potter was following. He felt half a foot taller than usual, proportionally stronger and several times more handsome. Potter had begged him. In front of witnesses. For what, it remained to be seen, but it had happened and Draco would cherish the memory forever.
And what, he wondered, crossing the entrance hall at the longest stride he could manage—which guaranteed that Potter, who was shorter, would have to break into a jog to keep up—if the scenario he had so often considered and rejected were to play out in a way he had never dared imagine? What if Potter were the one to offer friendship? To ask for it? To—dare Draco even think it?—beg. What if Potter were to extend a hand and give Draco the chance to despise it, like he had done three years ago?
Would Draco… take it?
“So, Potter,” he spat out, stopping abruptly in the middle of the hall and swirling around so that Potter nearly bumped into him. “Let us hear your plea.”
Potter looked around, eyes wide and perspiration glistening from his upper lip. “You have to teach me the Summoning Charm,” he whispered through his teeth. “I’ll do whatever you want in return.”
“Ohohoh!” Draco couldn’t help the spill of delighted laughter, hand over his fluttering heart. “Whatever I want?”
“Within reason! I’m not going to fall off my broomstick and break my neck on purpose, if that’s what you’re thinking. Will you do it?”
Draco stood back and stroked his chin, thinking. He was reasonably confident he could teach Potter the spell. He’d tutored Vince and Greg, and even Pansy on occasion, and hadn’t been half bad at it. And he had a vague idea of what might help with Potter’s problem. Last year, when Greg had been similarly stuck with the Cushioning Charm, Draco had tied his eyes, spun him in circles till he stumbled like a drunk, and had Vince shove him forwards onto his bed—but only after Draco had told him that they were at the top of the stairs. Had Flitwick been there to witness Greg’s casting, Greg would’ve got an O the size of his mouth when he screamed in horror.
What to ask for in return, however, was a much more difficult question. Obviously, Draco couldn’t ask for what he really wanted. What would be the value of a kiss, or an embrace, if it couldn’t be authentic?
Right?
Right?
Oh, who was he kidding. He’d take it even if Potter wrinkled his nose before and retched after it. And perhaps he wouldn’t. In McGonagall’s office, he’d allowed Draco to nuzzle his neck without so much as a peep of complaint.
But it would be unbearably pathetic. What would Draco say? Kiss me like you mean it, Potter? He cringed at the thought even as warmth surged from his chest to the base of his spine. Just hold me a minute?
Gods. Never. He shook himself. If it had to be something feasible… “Free use of the Firebolt for the remainder of the term,” he said.
“That’s like asking me to lie down and die, literally.” Potter shook his head firmly. “Can’t do.”
Draco squinted at him. “You’ve learned what the First Task will be, haven’t you, Potter? And it’s something to do with flying?”
Potter’s face closed off, but it was way too late. “I didn’t—I don’t—”
“Oh, don’t bother. You think Karakoff and that half-breed, Maxine, haven’t warned their students? I suppose Dumbledore finally decided to take care of his own, for once. Wouldn’t want the Boy Who Lived to die in some stupid game, would he? The papers would have a field day with it.”
Even though Draco had put on his most challenging sneer, Potter didn’t take the bait. He just stood there, scowling.
“What is it, then?” Draco asked after a few moments of stubborn silence. “The First Task?”
But Potter folded his arms over his chest again and stuck his chin out. “Haven’t got a clue.”
“Pfft.” It had been worth a try. “Your Invisibility Cloak, then.”
Potter flinched. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do, Potter,” Draco said, shaking his head. Potter was horrible at this. Two identical lies in a row? Inexcusable. “And don’t tell me you need that to survive the Tournament too. An invisible contestant could hardly provide the bloodthirsty masses with the sport they expect.”
Potter started chewing on his lower lip. “Fine. But only for a day.”
“To the end of term.”
“Two days.”
“If you value my services so little,” said Draco, raising an imperious eyebrow, “you might as well find someone else to help you with your”—he waved a hand—“problem.”
“Three days, then.” Looking harassed, Potter lifted a finger. “And that’s my final offer!”
Draco grinned, barely able to hold back the glee. He was winning. He was winning! “And, you’ll write the Defense essay for me.”
Potter’s arms fell off and swung by his sides. “Oh, come on!”
“Take it or leave it, Potty. I’m being unduly generous as is, seeing how you’re desperate, and I couldn’t possibly care less.”
Alarmingly, Potter seemed to weigh his options, and Draco felt a twinge of panic. Had he gone too far?
But then Potter’s shoulders sagged. “Fine.” He looked up at Draco under furrowed brows. “Let’s seal it.” And he offered a hand.
The left hand, because one of them would need the right to cast the Sealing Charm, but still, it made Draco’s heart thud. He grabbed Potter’s forearm and Potter’s hand wrapped around his in turn. Only a sliver of skin touched skin at their wrists, but it was as if all the nerves in Draco’s body suddenly rearranged themselves to end in it. Potter’s arm was firm, solid and warm. He raised his wand and his magic splashed over them like a bucketful of hot water, where a drop would’ve been enough. Catching a faint trace of the familiar scent, Draco closed his eyes and inhaled. Cedarwood and lemons.
“Right,” said Potter, stepping back. “Let’s do this.”
* * *
Draco took him to the lake. The sun had set, but the sky was still bright in the west. They walked at a brisk pace, in silence, till there were no more people around. Then he said, “Do you really need those glasses, Potter?”
Potter frowned at him. “Why else would I be wearing them?”
Draco shrugged. “Could be a fashion statement.”
“Right.”
“Seriously, though. Just how blind are you without them?”
“I’m not blind.” They stepped off the grass onto the gravel and made a few crunchy steps towards the water. “It’s like… the world is a blur,” Potter said then, a bit less defensively. He seemed to shiver and stuck his hands into the sleeves of his robes.
“Doesn’t sound so bad,” Draco said. To his own surprise, he also meant it. “Can I see?”
“What?”
“Through your glasses. I’m curious. And who knows? Maybe on me, they’ll look good.”
They stopped. Potter pinned Draco with his gaze, something fragile and conflicted to it. Draco realized he’d seen it before—on the train, when Potter had caught him staring—and his chest clenched painfully. He almost hoped there were some deeply buried remains of survival instinct inside Potter that would stir and dig their way up to his brain, but no. He took off his glasses and gave them to Draco, like the trusting, do-gooder idiot he was.
His face looked… naked without them. Young, perplexed, vulnerable. And his eyes… Draco couldn’t hold them. He looked at the glasses instead. They were lighter than he had imagined, and quite flexible. Even in the twilight, he could see how badly the lenses were smudged. He cleaned them with the corner of his sleeve and put the glasses on.
“Huh,” he said, looking around. “I can see just fine?” Things bent out of shape at the edges of his vision, but the world was definitely not a blur. He was disappointed. “My eyes hurt, though.”
“Yeah. From the strain. Better take them off.”
“Tell me how I look, first.” He faced Potter and struck a pose.
Potter seemed to fight laughter—and lost. “Like a… black, blond, blur?”
Draco would’ve laughed too, if not for the knot of dread in his belly. He took off the glasses. “Ready your wand, Potter,” he said, starting towards the water again. “The lesson… begins… now!”
And with that, he hurled Potter’s glasses into the lake.
“What?” Potter said.
There was a distant plop.
“Did you just…?” Then, with more feeling, “What the hell, Malfoy?!” Potter launched himself forward and tried to grab Draco, but he easily dodged the assault. “You fucking pig! What’d you do that for?”
Stumbling around just like poor old Greg with his eyes tied and his head spinning, Potter yelled and flailed, swinging his fists wide of the mark. It was kind of funny; Draco would’ve laughed out loud and pointed his finger if his friends were around. But they weren’t, and he felt… uneasy. For one, he’d had no notion of the extent of Potter’s disability. He was almost blind. And this was the second time in as many weeks that Draco’s provocations pushed Potter to physical violence, after he had endured three whole years of constant teasing—much to Draco’s chagrin—without so much as raising his voice. Was this too a part of… growing up? Like zits and chest hair and wet dreams? Or was it all the stress of the Tournament?
“Watch your step,” Draco cried, but Potter wasn’t listening. He tripped over a large fallen branch, caught his other foot on it too, and sprawled as long as he was tall.
“And they call me a drama queen,” Draco muttered. He approached carefully as Potter got on his hands and knees. It had grown quite dark, but the moon was out, and the roadside lanterns added just enough to its feeble light for Draco to see the blood on Potter’s chin. “You alright?”
“Piss off!”
Well, at least he still had his tongue.
“Hear me out, Potter, before you injure yourself for real,” Draco said, watching Potter sit up on his haunches and dab at his chin with a wince. “Yes, I threw your glasses in the lake. But we’re not leaving till you get them back. It’s for your own good.”
“For my own good?” Potter exclaimed. It didn’t look like he was about to go on another murderous rampage, though. He shook his head and started feeling the ground in front of him. “I dropped my fucking wand.”
It had gone down the bank almost to the water’s edge. Draco picked it up and rolled it in his hand, absorbing the not exactly unpleasant tingle of its not entirely hostile magic. He had expected it to zap him, like Pansy’s, or give him pins and needles, like Greg’s. Potter’s wand was warm, like Vince’s, and vibrated with a strange excitement. Draco was tempted to shoot a few sparks from it, just to see if it would cause a mayhem like all the mismatched wands he had tried in Ollivander’s shop, but thought better of it.
“Here.”
Potter snatched it out of Draco’s hand. He started to stand up, stepped on his robes, and would’ve fallen again if Draco didn’t grab him by the arm. Potter shook him off, getting in a sneaky elbow into Draco’s ribs for good measure. Then he stomped to the water, reached a hand out, and screamed, “Accio!”
Standing behind Potter’s back, Draco gasped. He knew the casting succeeded before anything happened. The pull of Potter’s magic was clean, focused and brimming with intent. Wandless! And—Merlin—forceful enough to move the entire lake. Nervous euphoria fizzled out of Draco as shuddery laughter, the triumph of his intuition mixing uneasily with genuine awe, which was very new, and aching envy, which was very old. Somewhere far ahead of them, something small broke through the silvery ripples with a wet splash and zoomed towards Potter’s outstretched hand at shattering speed.
Draco pointed his wand at it in the nick of time. “Aresto Momentum!”
A surprised noise issued from Potter. He stared at his glasses, suspended in the air, as if he’d never seen them before. Draco carefully levitated them into Potter’s palm, which still stretched in front of him—caught by Draco’s stopping charm, perhaps, or just frozen in shock.
“There,” he said. “You did it.”
Potter was silent. He wiped his glasses with the hem of his robes, frowned at them for a few seconds, then put them on and turned to Draco. His eyes sparkled dangerously.
“You’re welcome,” Draco said when it became apparent no thanks were forthcoming. “You need to practice, though, or you’ll kill yourself. Which, you know,” he added in a hurry, suddenly aware that he had dropped his guard somewhere along the way and completely forgotten about it, “wouldn’t be a bad thing. But I won’t have it reflect poorly on my tutoring.”
Potter looked away and shook his head. When he spoke at last, his tone was unbearably earnest. “That was foul, Malfoy.”
“But effective!” Draco said, putting on an air of nonchalance to hide the ugly, sad and lonely thing that twisted inside him. “How long have you been stuck on it, Potter? Has it been a month yet? You should’ve come to me right away.” By which he meant, if Potter had taken him for a friend, instead of a mudblood and a weasel, he’d have never been in this situation to begin with. But saying it out loud would lead to another fight and Draco had had enough of that for the moment.
And so had Potter, judging by the lack of a comeback.
“Come on.” Draco picked up a large pebble and sent it flying. “Get it!”
Potter did the wandless thing again, and barely dodged out of the way of the rock as it flew back at him like a projectile.
“Use your wand, Potter. You’ll have more control that way.”
Again and again, Draco threw out pebbles and Potter fetched them, till he relaxed enough not to pour his entire being into each spell, and the stones hurtled at him at less than lethal velocities.
“Would it work even if it’s something I can’t see?” he asked. It was the first thing he said in about an hour, tolerating Draco’s instruction with unusual stoicism.
“Worked with your glasses, didn’t it? All that matters is intent. If you put your mind to it, you can summon things from the other side of the globe.” And Draco believed it. He wasn’t sure if he could, but Potter, bloody Potter, would have no trouble pulling down the Moon from its orbit. And the strangest thing was, it didn’t appear like he knew it.
“Let’s see if I can get something from my dorm first,” said Potter. He screwed his eyes shut and swung his wand. “Accio!”
Draco hugged his robes around him. It was late and he suddenly realized just how hungry, cold and tired he’d grown. And a whole pile of homework waited for him in the dungeons. He thought of his talk with Professor Snape. How was he to improve his grades next to Potter, asking for his help, for crying out loud, and then proceeding to supply him with so much fresh daydream material? Draco should’ve forgone the stupid Invisibility Cloak, and made Potter write all his Defense essays till the end of the year. And History too!
Some winged, silvery creature sprang at them from the treetops and Draco yelped, scrambling for cover.
Potter burst out laughing. “It’s just my cloak.”
“Could’ve… warned me,” Draco grumbled, dusting off his hands and knees. It would appear that, in his fright, he had attempted to crawl behind Potter’s back on all fours. His cheeks were as hot as his fingers were cold.
Potter was disgustingly amused. “Well. Here.” He offered the bundle. It looked like water, but felt like plain velvet when Draco took it. “Whatever you do with it,” Potter was saying, “don’t—get—caught. And don’t bother trying to spy on me. It’s no fun when people are aware you might be there, and you can bet I’ll be aware.”
Draco let the cloak unfurl and experimentally draped it over his shoulders. His body disappeared. He recalled the shock of seeing Potter’s disembodied head in Hogsmeade last year and thought of all the pranks he could pull on the other students with this. But the expected jubilance was notably absent. What was the point, if he couldn’t spy on Potter?
“Will you tell your friends?” Draco asked as they walked back towards the castle.
“That I gave you the cloak?”
“That you asked for my help. Instead of theirs.” He glanced at Potter, who was looking down at their path. “Why did you, anyway? I assume they would’ve done it for free.”
Potter shrugged. “Ron won’t even talk to me. Hermione’s always busy. And… well, it looked like you knew what you were doing the other day, in the greenhouse.”
“Oh, absolutely. I’m recognized internationally as an accomplished wanker.” Glancing at Potter again, Draco saw him grin, bite his lip, and finally let out a little snort of laughter. It warmed Draco through. For all his raging, it didn’t look like Potter held a grudge about the glasses after all.
They paused at the door. A few small groups of stragglers still loitered in the front yard, intermittent laughter ringing under the colonnades and cigarette tips glowing in dark corners. Draco wanted to wish Potter luck with the First Task. He wanted to take Potter in his arms and tell him it was going to be alright. Wipe away that haunted look from his handsome face.
The closest to it he could bring himself to do was say, “Don’t embarrass me tomorrow, Potter.”
Potter snorted. “My worst fear, right there.” But his eyes were mild, almost as if he had heard Draco’s thoughts. “See you around, Malfoy.”
* * *
Late that night, Potter came to Draco’s bed, wearing only his pajama bottoms, and lay on his back between Draco’s legs, nestling his head in the crook of Draco’s shoulder. His hair was all over Draco’s face, getting in his eyes, in his nose, in his mouth, soft and tickling. Draco was so turned on he could barely breathe. The vague pressure of Potter’s back on him was just enough to tease him mad. His hands unaccounted for, he felt up Potter’s thighs and hips with his bare feet, then wormed them under Potter’s waistband. A ragged moan tore out of Potter, and he reached up and behind till his fingers were tangled in Draco’s hair, pulling him closer, closer.
Waking in the darkness to a cool wet patch under his stomach, Draco wasn’t sure the moan hadn’t been his own.