Turn DRARRY

Chapter Three

Harry lets himself back into the house and flops back against the door, utterly drained. Although there's no denying that Maura is easily the most useful and straightforward person he has met in this bizarre place, she's also seven years old and therefore exhausting.

Now that she's back with her very grateful mother, Harry has, he hopes, a little bit of time and space to process what feels like a deluge of information. And, perhaps, when he's done with that, figure out how to become a skilled carpenter in time to fulfil all of the 'millions of orders' Maura informs him he has waiting for him.

"Because, you know, that'll be no problem," Harry mutters darkly, rubbing at his cold face.

As he inhales, the scent of something warm and savoury and delicious catches his nostrils, and the grumble of his stomach reminds him that all he's had to eat today is the leftover half of Maura's ham and peanut butter sandwich at lunchtime. Which had been... interesting, to say the least. Perhaps Draco has made dinner, he muses, peeling himself off the door and taking a hopeful step into the hallway.

"Harry? Is that you?" comes a jagged voice from somewhere upstairs.

Sensing danger, he stops dead. "Yes?"

"What did you do up here?" The voice is louder now with an edge of something that is either fury or hysteria, and whichever it is sends Harry's heart into an erratic, fearful rhythm.

"Nothing," Harry calls back, mind racing. He already knows he's in some sort of trouble and it is with trepidation that he crosses the creaking floor and starts to—very slowly—climb the staircase.

"The drawers," Draco insists in an anguished whimper. "What in the name of buggery fuck did you do, Potter?" he demands, and every fibre of Harry's being tells him that there is no promise of scary fun in his tone this time.

The drawers? "No, no, no," Harry mutters to himself, grabbing the balustrade, ducking the spider's web and dashing up the stairs to the bedroom. "I put everything back!"

Even though he knows it's unlikely to help, Harry holds his breath as he pushes open the door.

"There you are," Draco mutters, but he doesn't look up from his task, which seems to involve kneeling in front of his chest of drawers, searching through the contents at an alarming rate and mumbling distractedly. There's a strange agitation about him, some tension that pulls his body tight, and even though he cannot profess to know this man, not really, Harry knows that something is very wrong.

"Yeah, I'm here," he offers, hand closing tightly around the cold doorknob. Biting his lip. "What's the matter?"

"What's the matter?" Draco repeats, and his voice shakes with a sharp almost-laughter. "What's the matter? I just wanted an envelope... that's all... and this." He breaks off, fingers wrapping around the edge of the large middle drawer, gripping hard. "Why would you? Just... why?"

"I... er..." Harry stares, unable to look away. Draco's tension is contagious, and it ripples through him, wrapping around his chest and constricting his breathing. He can't say he understands what has happened here, but he suspects he's in the wrong. "I was looking for something."

Draco's fingers grip impossibly tighter and he turns to look at Harry, and his stomach clenches horribly as he is confronted with an expression he has seen only once before on this face—complete and utter anguish. The grey eyes are wide and bright with torment, eyebrows drawn down, hair sticking to his pale forehead, and he's breathing hard. "You know... you know how wrong this is," he rasps, releasing the drawer at last and dropping back to sit on his heels. He stares at the floor.

Harry hesitates, knowing he has to say something. Anything. "Yes... I know it's wrong," he attempts, "and whatever I broke, I'm really sorry—can I see?"