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Why Do You Care, Potter?

Chapter Text

Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots!

 

That’s what they kept chanting over and over again, whether it be his head or the crowd. Regardless, that’s what he was doing. Shot after shot. He didn’t even know what he was drinking at this point; all he knew was that is was a liquid knife, making its way down his throat and into his bloodstream.

 

From there it carved its way through his body, laying claim to the pathetic space that was Draco Malfoy. It warmed his bones with the heat only alcohol can possess. He looked down, hoping to see the glow of skin, to see the fire he could feel burning through him. He wanted to see his body alight from the inside out. He wanted to see the things he shouldn’t, the private things. The things everyone seemed to know about him but him. How his body moved, the way his mind ticked, the way his heart stopped when Potter died and never really started again properly after he was revived.

 

Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots!

 

The red hot knives worked their way into his head, shattering against his skull, splintering apart into fragments of glass working away at the bone there. His head ached, it throbbed with a fury that he had hoped would banish his thought. Instead it only made them more prevalent. The pain and the shame sent him spinning.

 

The bar was spinning. The ceiling was on the ground, there where people in the sky. They were spinning or maybe it was just him. Their drinks spilled in all their psychedelic glory, painting the clubbers in a Picasso of beauty. Gravity seemed to have ceased to exist, yet it still poured outside. The rain fell in a steady pattern, downdowndowndown. Lightning illuminated figures walking past, the streetlights filling in the blanks between flashes.

 

Shots! Shots! Shots! Shots!

 

Draco reached for another drink.

 

Lighting cracked again, so loud Draco flinched even in his intoxicated state. He fell to the floor with a crash, or perhaps that was the door flying open, the drinks crashing to the floor, the bodies coming down with them.

 

Figures in hooded cloaks surrounded him, wands alight and waving about in the complication Draco had just caused for them. One of them crouched in front of him, knees cracking as they came closer to the ground. Tanned, rough hands pulled back a rain soaked hood.

 

The impossibly messy, jet black hair beneath the hood had fared no better in the rain. It hung in front of a tan face with rain flecked glasses and the greenest eyes known to man and…

 

Potter?

 

His smirk was the last thing Draco saw before something hooked him right behind his eyes, pulling him through time and space, stopping on hard floors and velvety rugs and couches level with his eyes before his head hit the ground, eyes shut and mind gone before it even touched.

Chapter Text

Harry sat there, clicking away at his keyboard. His fingers made a constant little taptaptaptap on the keys, a sound that was slowly lulling the office cat to sleep in his office. He would have minded, but the cat reminded him of Crookshanks, so he couldn't get too mad.

 

It was a slow day, as Tuesday's often are. Every day is slow now though, what with Voldemort gone and all. Harry hadn't had a proper call in ages. It was all fundraisers and awards for doing, what? Nothing really. Not anymore. He did like seeing the kids though, that always made his day. A little smile, shining up from the crowd, and tiny hand reaching out to touch him, it warmed his heart. 

 

Adults were different. They watched him with wary and condemning eyes. He reminded them of everything that had happened, he was the face of the wizarding war after all. When he showed up, people expected greatness, simultaneously fearing the Dark Lord's return, as if Potter's mere presence would tempt him back from death. 

 

He sighed and rolled his head to the side, neck making a little click when it cracked.

 

Back to work.

 

His mind was starting to drift again, to his new apartment, to what he was going to make for dinner tonight, to Ron and Hermione's split. It wasn't messy per say, but it definitely hadn't been pretty. They were good now, but in the moment, it had gotten pretty heated. Things were said and threats were made on both sides (some even carried out) but eventually, after a few years, they had gotten everything worked out. Ron was chillin single, flirting flirting with every lady that looked his was and loving it. Hermione had distanced herself for a while, growing closer with people that weren't all wrapped up in everything. Muggles mostly, but while they were out for Butterbeer last month, she had admitted to spending some time with Pansy Parkinson. Quite a lot actually. It was a shock, but not unwelcome. Hermione seemed happier, less burdened and serious all the time. It was quite nice actually-

 

SQREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK

 

He jumped when the alarm sounded, sharp and splitting the air.

 

He leapt up, knocking over his coffee, cold by now, to get to the door. He silently thanked God, needing a break from this tedious hell people called a job.

 

When they got a call, the Aurors were required to go to the front office. There, they would get a quick briefing on the who, what, when, and where. As much as they knew anyways. Then they'd all Apperate to the origin of the distress call. It was all rather exciting. 

 

This one happened to be right outside a popular Muggle bar downtown. Harry had been meaning to check it out, but not like this. They ducked inside, weaving around people or trying to at least The second the Aurors stepped foot inside the bar, they began to drift upwards, joining the floating mass of bodies and drinks. 

 

Someone had removed the gravity in the bar. Of the long list of drunken spells that tend to be cast, anti-gravity is not one of them. He let out a low whistle. It's a hard spell to do sober, let alone pissed as fuck. They're were dealing with someone immensely powerful, and dangerous.

 

His friends where restoring gravity and bringing people back down to earth as well as repairing all the various broken bits. Harry though, was looking for the wizard. Who he found though, he was not prepared for.

 

The bar's lights played off of his pale blonde hair and accentuated the shadows beneath his eyes.

 

His voice, usually so calm, came out ragged and hoarse. He blinked and uttered a pained, "Potter?"

 

Harry grabbed his shoulder, steadying the drunk man before catching his coworker's attention and signaling that he was leaving. He wrapped an arm around the man and Disapperated, landing in the upstairs gathering room of Grinwald Place. He set him down, and the blonde promptly fell over.

 

His face was smushed against the couch, slowly sliding down to join the rest of his body on the floor. 

 

Harry sighed.

 

"God Malfoy, what am I gonna do with you,"  he whispered. There's only a few reasons people get that drunk, and none of them good. 

 

He picked the broken man up and heaved him over his shoulder. While he was as lean and gangly as he had been at Hogwarts, he had definitely grown quite some bit in the few years since Harry had seen him. In person that is. He had seen him in the tabloids, making a drunken fool of himself after Lucius killed himself, everyone had. It would have been funny if Harry hadn't understood the pain of not having a parent there.

He ducked in the door and put him in the guest room, laying him gently on the bed. He placed a glass of water next to him for when he wakes up and conjured a bowl for when he was going to puke. He didn't want to have to clean the carpets, or force Malfoy to run to the bathroom in an unfamiliar place in the middle of the night. He slipped off his shoes and jumper, and seeing that he wore sweats and a t-shirt underneath, he decided to leave him in that. Harry quietly tucked him in and turned off the light. 

 

Tomorrow, Malfoy was going to have a nasty hangover.

 

Chapter Text

When Harry woke up, he was enveloped in warmth. It was the dead of winter, so he had been actually turning the heater on, the constant rumble a nostalgic reminder of his childhood, living with the Dursleys. It had been terrible, yes, but the white noise of the heater had drowned out their voices enough for him to sleep. Something he had missed at Hogwarts.

He slept under a mountain of blankets too, liking the solidity of it. It was a reassuring kind of pressure.

This morning though, he was warmer than usual.

Harry made to roll over to grab his glasses, but was stopped by a body.
A long, lithe body filled with sharp edges and hard muscle. A body gentle and pliable and practically molded against his own. A body that belonged to none other than Draco Malfoy.
His normally slicked blonde hair was a mess, tangled and unkempt, on the pillow and under Harry's nose. He inhaled deeply, trying to catch a whiff of Malfoy, only to gag and shoot upright in disgust.

He reeked of alcohol and sweat and cigarettes, and if it was even possible, misery and lies and defeat.

He sighed. He may not be as big of a best freak as Hermione, but that didn't mean he let his house, and the things in it, be dirty.

Draco let out a soft growl of protest at having the blankets ripped off of him, but he didn't wake.

What on Earth had he been chugging last night? Most liquor would've made its way out of his system already, but he was still drunk as a bat by the looks of it.

He fit his hands under the blond's shoulders and tossed him over his own, fireman style. He would have been heavy, but after months of the demanding physical Auror training, Malfoy barely seemed to weighed a thing.

That wasn’t the only thing though. His skin was noticeably looser, as if it were merely hanging off his bones. His eyes had always been dark, but now the shadows were carved into his face, a permanent fixture there, even in the presence of a rare smile. Grife had not been kind to this man.

The floor was colder though, and pressed harder against his feet, as if the house itself was protesting the outsider. Harry hadn't been aware of how much his floors creaked until he was carrying the sleeping man to the bathroom to properly clean him up.

Well, man was a bit of a stretch. Draco's face was younger when he slept, the angry lines of his forehead softened, his haughty glare was absent. The pain of his past was less evident, instead he was just a teen again, just the boy Harry used to glare at in Potions.

In sleep he wasn't the angry, reckless mess the tabloids made him out to be. He wasn't the son of a Death Eater, wasn't a pawn of the Dark Lord. He was Draco.

Just Draco.

Just Draco and his head that Harry accidentally ran into the bathroom door, too lost in nostalgia to remember what he was supposed to be doing.

A pale hand came up to rub his injured head as the man across Harry's shoulder stirred.

"Jus' cuz you hate me, doesn' mean ya' get to slam my head into a fucking door," he reprimanded, his speech still slurred from sleep.

"Bloody git you are, how'd I ever manage to forget that?" He shook his head and lowered Draco onto the toilet seat and gently began to strip him of his clothes.

"Goin' a bit fast darlin' don't ya think?"

Despite his words he made no move to stop Harry, even lifted his thin, long arms above his head when he started to pull his shirt off.

"Well considering you climbed into bed with me, I can't say I'm the one going fast here, darling," the pet name rolled off his tongue without his permission, but he wasn't completely opposed to it. The way Malfoy's eyes lit up ever so slightly didn't hurt either.

Harry ignored it however, simply finished undressing the beautiful man in front of him.

Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.

His eyes drifted downwards.

Damnit you perv. You looked.

Harry quickly spun to face the shower and drew a bath, cursing himself and his lack of self control. When the warm water had reached an appropriate height, he gestured for Malfoy to get in.

“Clean yourself up while I’m out.”

He turned and walked out, eyes trained firmly on the floor, determined not to look again.

Chapter Text

“Bloody git,” he grumbled, rubbing cold hands over his even colder body. “Always tryin’ to fix everythin’.”

A spasm wracked his body as it protested the sheer quantity of posion Draco had subjected it to last night at the bar.

The bar.

The gay bar.

The gay muggle bar that the Aurors (including Potter, his brain no so helpfully added) picked him up from. Literally. It was like they were back at Hogwarts, Potter dragging his sorry ass out of trouble every chance he got to soothe his hero complex.

He snorted, a low, painful sound steeped in self hatred.

Hard wood connected with the back of his skull as Draco knocked his head against the wall behind him.

He weighed his options: either take the damn bath Potter oh so graciously drew for him, or walk out of here and never ever show his face anywhere ever again.

The faint scent of musky pine drifted over from the bath, tilting the balance in favor of getting in.

Draco could still see the steam curling up from the water, heat enough to make his head spin. Then again, that might have been the alcohol still raging in his bloodstream and his liver.

He dipped a cautious toe in, and when nothing horrendous happened, Draco stepped his whole foot in, then the other foot, until he was standing completely naked in Harry fuckin’ Potter’s tub. Exhaustion hit him quick and hard, knees giving out beneath him as the water sloshed angrily out over the sides of the tub.

Nose just above the surface of the water, Draco drew a long breath, trying to smell more of that musky pine that he could only describe as Potter-scented.

Ok yes, maybe, just maybe he might be mildly Potter obsessed. Who wasn’t though? Except Draco had the class to like him before his Voldemort-defeating glory day’s, long before any of his asinine fangirls. He was allowed to have a crush, wasn’t he? Except now he had gone and gotten himself stuck in his crushed home, his bathtub even, which would be absolutely ideal, except for the small fact that Draco is absolutely smashed right now and Potter thought him to be a complete and total sloppy drunk arse.

Intending to take another sniff of the intoxicating scent, Draco sucked in a large lungful of air, but somewhere along the line of his idiotic pining over Potter, he had slipped down further into the bath, so a rush of water filled his nose and mouth, making its way into his lungs as well.

His body rejected the water violently, arms coming to thrust him up out of the water as his chest heaved in efforts to dislodge the water. His flailing legs sent shampoo bottles and body washes and face washes clattering to the floor.

Some repressed, idiotic part of his brain noted pleasantly that Potter has upgraded from 3-in-1 shampoo.

Draco twisted his body just enough so that when he started hurling, body protesting violently against the intrusion of the water, he hurled over the side of the tub.

His chest heaved, expelling water until there was nothing left in his lungs or his stomach to reject. Snot sluggishly dripped down the side of his face, coming to join the bile pooling on his chin.

The patheticness of the situation washed over him. He couldn’t hold his liquor, he couldn’t keep it together, he couldn’t handle the grief and shame and disgust at his father’s suicide. He couldn’t even fuckin’ throw up properly.

Hot tears cut tracks down his sallow face, leaking without permission from the corners of his eyes. They began to flow freely as sobs wracked his body.

He was so tired.

Tired of the pain, tired of the darkness that walked a half step behind him at every turn. Tired of the blank stares, the carefully neutral faces as people realized they were breathing the same air as a Death Eater. Well, former Death Eater. Tired of the pity, the sad looks strangers and “friends” alike directed his way, the way their eyes begged for him to be ok, so that they would be ok again.

The tears kept flowing as Draco leaned his head against the wall and lost himself to the misery.

Time skittered by, seconds dragging on as the minuets disappeared with each ragged breath.

The door creaked open, but Draco didn’t bother to lift his head.

“Draco?” Potter croaked out. “Drac- oh God, oh God, oh God, are you- oh Merlin’s pants, are you ok? What the hell- of course not, holy hell are you even breathing, Draco!”

Potter’s hurried footsteps brought him closer to Draco, who was still in a post drowning stupor.

Warm, calloused hands lifted his head, so that Draco’s wrecked grey eyes could meet Potter’s eternally green ones, eyes filled with sorrow and pain deep enough to match his own. Another tear leaked down his face, burning hot with shame at being so debauched, no where close to the fun kind, in front of the man his heart beat for.

Concern drew Potter’s face tight, as he reached out to drain what left of the bath hadn’t ended up on the floor or in Draco’s lungs.

A soft towel came to wrap around his head, his shoulders, and eventually his whole body.

Potter hugged him through the towel, holding a wet mess of sobbing Draco Malfoy in his arms. Rocking back and forth, Harry whispered to Draco, things too quiet for Draco to hear until his sons settled into silent shakes that wracked his body.

“I’m sorry, I should have never- I don’t even know what I was thinking, I just- privacy? I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he pleaded in Draco’s ear. “I just thought, but- it’s just, Draco, please, I am so sorry.”

IDraco sucked in a breath, which only trigged another coughing attack, and with it, a few more tears just for shits and giggles.

He tired again, bone weary as he asked, “why do you care, Potter? Why do you even fucking care?”