Way Down We Go

Chapter 6

Draco is doling out portions of pain relief draught into a dozen small quilted mason jars when Potter slips inside the door.

He's wearing the clothes Draco picked out for him—a black t-shirt with faded jeans— and actually looks somewhat presentable for once.

You're welcome, he thinks disingenuously.

"Hi," Potter says like an idiot.

Draco ignores him.

"Is there anything I can help you with?" Potter asks, and it's disconcerting, how earnest he is: arms crossed, leaned against the partition wall separating the potions lab from the grow space. His hair is a mess, the upper half pulled up into a sloppy little topknot, and there's a splash of something food-related on his forearm that's started to go flaky. It's a good-looking forearm, otherwise. Smooth skin. Dark hair. A subtle map of veins.

"No," Draco says. "No, I'm nearly done here."

His face feels suddenly hot.

He checks the flame under his cauldron to see if it's the culprit.

"Well, we've got thirty minutes, at least," Potter says, "if you'd like to start on something else."

He uses his shoulder to push off the wall and wanders over to the back side of the barn. It's mostly full of tools and leftover lumber and several multipurpose 20 litre buckets.

He stops in front of a large tarp-covered object Draco had noted, absently, as being new.

He pulls off the tarp.

"What is that?" Draco says.

"A motorbike," Harry says.

"Yes, but why?"

"Why is it a motorbike? I'm not sure I'm prepared for that sort of existential conversation. Can I think about it and get back to you?"

"Potter."

"Malfoy," Potter says pleasantly, crouching to open a tool box.

"Potter."

Potter sighs. "Sirius had one. My godfather. His is still back in London but I'd been working on it before I left. I didn't want to go through the hassle of shipping here, so. What's the point of having money if you don't spend it occasionally?"

Draco remembers thinking that exact thing many times before: Looking in shop windows and ordering gifts for his mother. Sliding his fingers down the newest, fastest, broom handles. Knowing that anything, anything, could be his at a whim.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

"If you have so much money, why didn't you purchase a new one?" Draco asks, moving around the partition so he can get a better view of the machine. "That one looks rather...ill."

Potter shrugs. "I'm good at it, I guess. Fixing things. I, er. Started using Youtube? Watching tutorials and stuff, you know, to try and get Sirius's bike working again. And it just sort of came naturally?"

"Of course it did," Draco mutters.

"I enjoyed it. And it was nice to find something I was good at that had nothing to do with being the... the Chosen One. Or whatever."

Draco doesn't know how to respond to that.

"It was a good hobby. Something to look forward to at work when things got—" Potter shrugs. "It was nice to come home to a project."

"I thought—"

Draco stops, but Potter is already looking up at him, expectant.

"I thought you were an Auror," he finishes.