White Horses

PETUNIA DURSLEY HEARD A POLITE knock on her front door and hurried out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on the apron secured around her bony hips. She was a fair bit annoyed, because she hadn't been expecting any company, but her anger quickly melted away when she saw the exquisite young man on her front step. Pulling away from the peephole, she yanked the door open to that shining boy. She smoothed down her skirt and asked breathlessly, "Yes, may I help you with something?"

The boy raised stunning silver eyes to her face, his pupils contracted in the bright afternoon light. Brushing his white-blond hair off his face in a self-conscious gesture, he spoke in a well-cultured voice, "Oh, I'm truly sorry to intrude upon you like this, miss." Petunia preened and thought gleefully, 'Miss,' is it? No 'Madames' around here. The perfect boy had continued, "But I wondered if it mightn't be possible for me to use your telephone."

She blinked in slight confusion and the boy looked even more endearingly flustered as he explained, "My father was supposed to come 'round to pick me up, but it probably slipped his mind. I started walking and now I'm afraid I'm thoroughly lost. I saw your house, so well-kept and respectable-looking, and I thought I might find a gentle soul to help me - like yourself."

Petunia was positively glowing. She welcomed the boy in and insisted that she get him a glass of lemonade before she showed him to the phone. Looking slightly at unease, he picked up the handset gingerly and called the operator to get a taxi service. He looked relieved when he encountered a rational human being on the other end of the line, and then turned back to the housewife apologetically. "I'm sorry, but would it be too much of an imposition if I give the address here? I can just wait out front."

Mrs. Dursley protested immediately, "No such thing! You will stay here and have some more lemonade. The address is Number 4, Privet Drive. That's in Little Whinging, of course."

Thanking her for her undue kindness, he repeated the address back to the operator on the other end of the phone. Petunia listened to his fine accent eagerly, as he spoke into the phone. "Yes, that's right... oh, no, that won't due at all... are you sure? ...Yes, well, thank you. ...Yes, at half-five then."

She was still thinking to herself, Now this is the sort of boy my Duddy-kins should become friends with. He's obviously of the high class - what a connection!, when he hung up the phone with a regretful click and said, "This is just awful. They say that they cannot be here until five-thirty, almost thirty minutes from now. I cannot abuse your generosity like this."

But Petunia was more and more enthralled with the beautiful boy and she insisted, "It's nothing of the sort. I would be delighted to have such a well-mannered young man stay and pass the time with me."

She was practically writhing in delight as she invited him out to the back garden. They would sit out on the brand new lawn chairs, sipping their lemonade, and the neighbours would be dying with curiosity. Oh, this was the highlight of her week, maybe even the month! She asked in a purposefully loud voice as they passed through the back door, "Oh, how rude of me, I don't believe I've even asked your name."

The boy was breathtaking in the sunlight and Petunia thought she could see that old biddy, Doreen Asignacion, peering through the window next door. "No, how poor of me not to introduce myself. My name is Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."

She gestured him to the fresh white chairs and said blithely, "Drake, is it? That's such a lovely name, so strong - though maybe a bit foreign sounding..."

A quietly throbbing voice interrupted them and Petunia looked over to see her nephew looking dirty and sweaty. She could have died on the spot from embarrassment, but then the wild-looking boy had corrected her, "It's not 'Drake,' it's 'Draco.'"

She looked between the two boys, who were frozen staring at each other. She tried to turn Draco away, explaining, "Oh, just ignore him. He's a local urchin. We hire him out to do the yard-work, always trying to help the less fortunate..."

But the blonde was refusing to be moved and he said softly, "Potter." Petunia could feel her brilliant glimpse of gossip and fame slipping away. No, they can't know each other. This perfect young man can't be one of the freaks, one of his kind.

"Is it... is it really you?" The Potter boy was staring at the blonde as if he were a ghost. "This isn't Polyjuice? Some trick?"

A slight smirk traced across the pale boy's face and he said coolly, though his voice was strangely rough, "As if I would tell you, if it were."

Then Harry rushed forward and Petunia screeched as she scrambled backward, realizing too late that she hadn't been his target.

Her nephew threw his arms around the blonde boy and Petunia nearly died of shock. She glanced around, afraid the neighbours were seeing this and hissed at Harry, "What are you doing?! For god's sake, get in the house." Potter had pried himself off the deceitful, beautiful boy, but had grabbed him by the hand to pull him inside. His aunt hadn't yet decided if that were better or worse.

She hustled them inside and pulled the curtains tightly shut, before she wheeled on the dirty parasite that had been hoisted off on her by her dead sister. She grabbed the first thing her hand fell upon (which happened to be a large wooden spoon) and started whapping him with it. She was still spitting angrily, "What are you thinking, you wretched boy! Do you know how your little show could damage our reputation?"

Harry cowered away from her, his arms over his head, and she turned on the Malfoy boy. Waving her spoon in his face in warning, she scolded him, "And you! Pretending you're some nice, normal boy when you are really just another freak!"

He grabbed her wrist so she would stop brandishing her ridiculous wooden spoon and she squeaked in outrage. He said coolly, "Being homosexual does not make me a 'freak,' miss."

This didn't quite have the desired effect and she struggled desperately to be free of his hold as she wailed, "Oh, sweet Jesus, you're worse than just a freak!"

He let go of her with alacrity and ground out, "What are you talking about, you daft bint?"

Harry said helpfully from the corner, "By 'freak,' she means 'wizard.' I don't think she knows an insult bad enough for being gay."

Petunia had run into the sitting room and slammed the door after her, as if that would stop two almost fully-trained wizards. She threatened Harry, "I'm going to call your uncle, Potter! Just wait till he hears about this!" But Harry just shrugged at her and gestured for Draco to follow him upstairs. He made sure to track dirt on his aunt's pristine carpet as he went, and was rewarded by her scream of rage.

"Salazar's knees, Potter. Is your life always this exciting?"

The sweaty boy laughed dryly and said over his shoulder, "Only when you're around, Malfoy." Harry walked into a little room just to the right of the top of the staircase. Flicking a little switch on the wall caused bright light to bloom into life and as he blinked, Draco realized it was a bathroom - though smaller and less ornate than any bathroom he'd ever seen at the Manor. Harry turned on the sink and Draco leaned against the wall, propping himself up against the doorframe. This wasn't quite what he'd had planned - if he'd even had a plan when he'd come here.

Harry bent down to splash water on his face and so Draco couldn't see his expression when the boy said conversationally, "Everyone thinks you're dead, you know."

Draco watched the way the thin shirt stretched over the Gryffindor's back and asked softly, "But you didn't?"

The face that Harry raised was dripping water like too many tears and he pushed his wet hair back as he met Draco's eyes in the mirror. He said honestly, his voice holding a forced lightness, "No, I did, too. I'm still not sure that you aren't. I had pretty well convinced myself that there was no hope, when you apparently decided to come waltzing back from the dead and into Surrey."

He stared at Draco in the mirror, not daring to turn around and face the real thing. Even this reflection was too much for him. He asked quietly, "Why are you here, Draco?"

The Slytherin was complete detachment as he told him, "I just stopped by to apologize."

Now Harry turned around to ask, "What?" He stared unrestrainedly at Draco, who was thinner than he remembered and had tired bruises under his eyes when he let his mask slip even the slightest.

It was really Draco, whom Harry hadn't seen for over six months. Half a year of thinking the boy was dead, and here he was again - looking tired and haunted, but alive. So very alive.

Draco gave a gallic shrug, as if Harry wasn't staring at him like a starving man might filet mignon. He explained, "To apologize for the way I used you."

Harry switched off the tap which he had left running and spoke into the echoing tiled room, "Look, I understand why you did it. Or, I understand enough of it, I think. Let's just get over it."

Draco smiled grimly, "If you're over it, then great. I'm over it." Harry noticed that there had been no plurals in Draco's answer.

"Malfoy, about us..."

The blonde shook his head, still with that tight smile on his face and his eyes burning. He corrected Harry in that strange voice, "No, Potter. Not 'us.' Don't you understand yet? It was all an act - to get you to trust me enough to accept a gift, to get you to care enough to keep it on you... There was me using you. There was no 'us.'"

Petunia was eavesdropping from an air-vent downstairs, shocked at what the boys were saying. So she hadn't been imagining it: her freak of a nephew, on top of everything else, was about as straight as a roundabout. She sank into a stiff chintz armchair, wondering dimly what she had ever done wrong to deserve such a burden.

After staring wordlessly at the Slytherin for several moments, Harry had walked past Draco and headed down the hall. The blonde remained as he was in the doorjamb for a couple more moments, before he followed. He saw Harry's muddy trainers outside an open door and smiled to himself. Apparently Harry enjoyed mucking up his aunt's house, but his own space was a different matter. He walked unsurely into the bare little bedroom.

The Boy Who Lived was pulling clothes out of a plain, press-board wardrobe and Draco sat gingerly on the narrow bed that was covered with a worn and patched old blanket. He asked Harry, "So, is that it then?"

It surprised him when the Gryffindor whirled around angrily to exclaim, "Yes, that's it. I'd say you've said enough for both of us." He stalked to the door and then paused. He turned back to the boy sitting on his bed to say coldly, "I might not have as much pride as you, Malfoy - I don't know that anyone else could - but I will not beg you for anything.

"I'd thought we might have something, despite all that happened. I'm sorry if I was wrong about that. Now I'm going to go change and I suggest you stay in here till I get back, lest my relatives try to hassle you. Then you can get the hell out of my house." He pulled the door shut after him and hurried back to the bathroom.

Draco was rather stunned as he sat in the sad, little room in a strange Muggle house. This wasn't at all what he had imagined. He certainly hadn't expected Harry to want to pick up the pieces of their 'relationship,' he hadn't even expected the boy to forgive him. He hadn't actually been expecting anything, hadn't planned anything further than his showing up on Harry Potter's doorstep - but Harry hadn't even seemed angry about what Draco had done to him.

He could hear the water running, down the hall. Standing up, he paced around the room and looked at Harry's things. There certainly wasn't much to be seen, but it helped him to keep from thinking about the green-eyed boy's words.

On the plain little desk was an empty cage that Draco assumed was probably belonging to Harry's owl, though who knew where the creature was in the middle of the day. There was one of those Muggle writing instruments - a 'pen,' such a plebeian name - sitting on the desk, along with a piece of smooth white paper. The paper was covered with light-blue lines and had little holes on the left side, though Draco hadn't the least idea as to why. On it was the beginning of a letter to Granger, but there was nothing interesting there - just standard summer greetings.

Harry had left the little wardrobe open and Draco saw it was nearly empty. There were only a few articles of clothes hung in it, all of them shabbier even than Harry's normal fare and unfamiliar to Draco. He decided most of Harry's regular clothes must be considered the better part of his wardrobe (as pitiful as they were), and were probably still in the trunk which lay at the foot of the bed. Other than a small bookcase with several tomes that looked like they had never been opened, there was nothing more personal in the room.

He glanced through the titles before picking up a leather-bound, cheaply pretentious edition of the Iliads of Homer. He read the first couple lines and frowned in displeasure at the translation. Draco had still never found a version he liked as much as his worn Muggle paperback of Fagles' translation. Before he could criticize more of the stingy library, he heard a booming voice from the lower floor, quickly followed by a heavy tread of footsteps coming up the stairs.

Harry had locked himself in the bathroom to get away from Draco. If he had ever imagined being reunited with his dead boyfriend, he certainly hadn't thought he'd end up running away from the boy. Or staring in shock at his own miserable face in the mirror of his aunt's cramped bathroom. Draco is alive. He's alive and here... and he doesn't want anything to do with me.

Scrubbing his face furiously, he changed his clothes quickly. He was determined to not show anything while Draco was still here, he didn't need to embarrass himself further than he already had, by practically throwing himself at the unresponsive boy.

When he'd first seen Draco in his aunt's garden, his immediate reaction had been that it must be some sort of trick. But as soon as he'd heard the boy speak and watched the way he moved, it had been confirmed: this was Draco Malfoy - the boy that Harry had improbably fallen for the winter before and spent the spring mourning.

He was still trying to steel himself to face the once-again living Slytherin when he heard his uncle downstairs. He pulled the door to the bathroom open and darted down the hall as he heard Dursley pounding up the staircase. He called through the door to his room, "Malfoy, don't open the door-" and then Uncle Vernon had caught him. He couldn't help a sharp cry when the beefy man backhanded him, sending him crumpling to the floor.

Harry shook his head dazedly, still seeing stars when he was picked up roughly by his collar. Uncle Vernon shook him like a dog, all the time yelling at him furiously, "So this is how you repay us? You filthy little faggot! Being a freak wasn't enough, you had to be a perverted pillow-biting freak who's getting buggered at that freak school of yours! Now you bring your queer boyfriend over to make us look bad in front of the neighbours!"

Draco, ignoring Harry's warning, pulled the door open. He saw a huge man, red in the face, wringing Harry's neck with fat, meaty hands. It wasn't actually an attempt to kill Harry, just choke him a bit. Still, Draco held out a warning hand - wishing he had his wand to better intimidate the simple Muggles - and spoke in a frigid voice, "You will desist, sir."

Vernon looked up to see the pale blonde boy who was just his own height and pointing a thin hand at him. The Muggle man spoke scornfully, but he had relaxed his hold on Harry, "You can't use any of your tricks here, freak. Your ministry will catch you."

Draco looked at him with his most heartless Slytherin eyes, and told him, "I am a Dark wizard, you idiot Muggle, and I don't give a damn about the ministry." He could see the first flicker of fear in those bellicose eyes and he told the man softly, "And I have killed far more people without magic than I have with it."

There fear was now pouring off the fat man in waves and he jumped violently when a horn went off outside. Draco smiled and it was a predatory expression. He told Vernon, "I would suggest that you let go of Potter, now. That is our taxi, I expect, and Potter and I will be out of your way in just minutes." Harry jerked around to look at him and the blonde nodded imperceptibly. His eyes flicked back to the Muggle, "Harry will be leaving with me. Or no one will be leaving here."

After that, the Dursleys didn't give them much trouble. Vernon fled back downstairs and barricaded himself in the sitting room with his wife. They didn't come out, even when Draco and Harry banged the boy's large trunk down the stairs, deliberately denting the walls with it as they went. Draco went out to talk to the cabbie and, still not saying anything to each other, the boys hoisted Harry's trunk down the front drive and into the boot. Harry didn't say anything to his relatives and that was how they left Number 4 Privet Drive.

At least some things are better this summer. No Voldemort and no Dursleys. Just a Death Eater ex-boyfriend who saved the world and came back from the dead. That's an improvement.

Harry sat quietly as he listened to Draco talk to the taxi driver and realized, by the directions, that the Slytherin was taking him to Diagon Alley in London. It was going to be a long ride.

Draco sat back on the seat with a sigh and said tiredly, "I just keep on having to drag your arse out of trouble, Potter."

Harry was perplexed by Draco's attitude, which seemed far too normal. If they were broken up now, shouldn't things change somehow? Shouldn't they not talk companionably and sit so close together on the spacious bench seat? Burning with shame and confusion, Harry retorted shortly, "Sorry, Malfoy; I didn't mean to drag you into anything. Next time you needn't bother saving me, and then I won't have to bother with you, okay?"

For some reason, the blonde stiffened at Harry's sarcastic remark and Harry wondered, not for the first time since Draco had showed up that afternoon, just where he had been the last six months. But you didn't ask your ex such a personal question, did you? Then again, this was going to a very long ride if they didn't even talk. So he went ahead and asked bluntly, "Malfoy, what happened to you? Where have you been all this time?"

Draco continued to look forward, though he knew Harry's eyes were on him. He wondered what to tell the boy. Could they be something like friends, even if there was no goal and even if Harry wasn't any use to him?

"You don't have to plot about what to say anymore; there's no more act to protect."

That dry, bitter voice cut through his thoughts and Draco turned to the boy, "No, but I still might want to protect myself."

The Gryffindor raised a black eyebrow, but waited for him to continue.

"I've been at Malfoy Manor the whole time. After I sent you back, I... I got rid of all the other Death Eaters."

Harry had suspected that he might have had a hand in the Death Eater's self-destruction, but not that all the grisly deaths were Draco's doing. He wanted to be able to comfort the boy, but he wasn't allowed to any longer - even if he had known what to do. He said, "Go on."

And so Draco told him. "I was outside, watching the house burn, when my mother found me. She was angry. She'd been having some sort of affair with 'Tom' - though Salazar only knows why - and she loved him. Or some damn thing. So, basically, she left me in the dungeons, in the oubliette. For.. well, months, I guess it's been." His voice was almost light, but in a desperate way.

Harry asked, "What's an 'oubliette'?" and Draco couldn't help a slight shudder.

"It's a hole, Potter. A hole where you leave people and forget about them. Metres deep with unscalable walls, and nothing but old bones and older dark to keep them company." He turned those strange silver eyes on the black-haired boy, but they looked blind - as if he wasn't really seeing Harry at all. Draco said softly, "It isn't that bad, for only a day or two. That's bad but nothing compared to..."

He trailed off and Harry couldn't let any emotion show on his face as he filled in for himself. ...compared to months without end, with nothing but the dark and the memories of the people you betrayed. "You've been in their before?" A single nod. "Your mother?"

Draco nodded and said, "So, I'll not be staying in Diagon Alley with you. They'll be looking for me, as soon as they realize I've escaped, I imagine."

He smiled reassuringly at the Gryffindor, "But you can stay there, or with the Weasel or Granger. At least you'll be away from the Muggles."

Harry continued to stare into that falsely bright face and said hollowly, "Hermione's in France, Ron and Ginny are visiting their brother Charlie in Romania - he works with the dragons there." Draco still had that forced smile plastered on his face, till Harry said, "Could I come with you?"

The blonde looked away and Harry heard him say, "I don't know where I'm going."

The Gryffindor quickly retorted, "Yes, you do."

Draco went still and then admitted, "Yes, I do." Before Harry could insist again, he continued, "But I don't have anything that I can offer you, Harry."

And they both knew that they weren't talking about just summer accommodations when the Gryffindor told Draco, "You do. You just won't."