Muggles ✧ Drarry

𝓲𝓲𝓲

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 6k
ᴅᴀᴛᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ: ɴᴏᴠᴇᴍʙᴇʀ 11th, 2020
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Potter was good at making tea, Draco realized after taking a few gentle sips. He made it warm enough to be only sipped, but cold enough to refrain from burning Draco's tongue. He made it with just the perfect amount of sweetness, steeped it for just the perfect amount of time, and his vanilla was dashed impeccably. There was even a soupçon of cinnamon mixed into the milk that made the chai light in hue.

Draco was still sitting on the floor when Potter rejoined him, a teacup of some blue tea in his off hand and Draco's marvelous tea in his right. He steadily handed Draco his respective drink, and crossed his legs over each other as he attempted to find comfort once more.

It was odd to Draco that Potter was allowing him to sit on his floors instead of on a proper seat, or on a soft sofa but Potter was always full of surprises. They sat in silence for a moment, Draco wallowing in his own literality and smart-arse ways. He wasn't very mindful of his repercussions that came with being flippant and taking things verbatim. In fact, he wasn't even close to being comfortable right now, and whether it had to do with the feeling of floor beneath his arse or the fact that he was sitting on the ground of Harry fucking Potter's home, he was unable to tell.

Draco took a moment to compose himself before he spoke up finally. "So..." he began. "This person. Were they tall? Short? Did you see their hair colour?"

Potter took another sip of his tea before setting it down onto the floor. There was no coaster beneath the cup, but Draco supposed that it was on the ground, so normal etiquette didn't apply here. "I mean, they were short. Shorter than you probably, but their back was hunched and their cloak was billowy with the hood pulled up, so I wouldn't know what they looked like or if that was their actual height."

"Were their feet small or large? Were they able to cover a large area in a few instances? What did their footsteps sound like?" Draco watched as Potter seemed to contemplate this information. He took a quick sip of his tea, and Draco followed suit.

"I dunno," Potter shrugged his shoulders while he swallowed the tea. He cleared his throat, since his voice had been hoarse from the sudden temperature change. "I didn't see much, or hear much. I have no idea who they could be." There was a pause. "I wish we could use a Pensieve."

"So do I."

Potter stretched his back a bit. "But this won't be so bad," he decided. Draco disagreed. "I lived as a muggle for ten years, so what's the rest of my lifetime?"

"Oy vey!"

"Hey, don't be like that! It really won't be that bad, Malfoy, trust me."

Draco spoke bitterly, "the last time I trusted you, you got my father thrown into Azkaban."

The silence that hung in the air after those words left Draco's lips was similar to that of a bad aftertaste. It felt sticky almost, like the weight of the entire world had been covered in honey and was dropping onto Draco's head. He hadn't meant to say that to Potter, but the boiling hatred in his gut had forced the words out and into the atmosphere before them.

"I—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."

"No," Potter waved it off, but his green eyes were clouded over with a darker, harder sheen than before. They looked less like precious stones and more like pained reflections of mossy caves. "You're right. The last time you trusted me, I spread false hope."

"I knew he was never going to get away from the charges, Potter. We all knew that. I was just lucky to get off myself."

"You didn't do anything wrong. Your father was unreachable, Malfoy. He wouldn't even try to defend himself in the end."