Chocolate & Pastry (Drarry)

Chapter Three

"I don't understand, Draco."

"Which part?"

Draco stirred his ice cream around in his bowl with the spoon. It was already almost entirely liquid; warm swirls of what had once been chocolate icecream oozed sluggishly against his silverware. If he stopped stirring, he'd have to look up. If he looked up, he'd have to see Blaise's face. If he saw Blaise's face, he'd see just how soft and gentle Blaise was being with him, and then Draco would have to admit just how badly he'd fucked up.

"Talk to me. I know you're keeping something back." Blaise's voice was warm, convincing.

Draco wanted to believe it. He wanted to fall into the richness of that voice and trust that it held answers. But it was useless; he was too deep in a mess of his own making, and he didn't even know why he'd bothered to come here today, except that if he tried to last one more second on his own he was going to lose it.

He threw his spoon into the bowl where it landed with a strident clatter, sending flecks of chocolate liquid onto the table cloth. When he looked up at Blaise, there wasn't even a hint of chagrin in his expression.

Draco sighed. "It's not just about the bet," he confessed.

He'd just spent the last thirty minutes explaining why he and Potter had decided to pretend they were dating. It had only taken so long because, after their display the other week, hiding in dark corners at Pansy's party, Blaise had been utterly convinced they were dating. And every time Draco had to insist it was fake he felt a twist of misery deep in his gut and had to pause and drink a third of the contents of his wine glass. They'd nearly made it through the bottle and it wasn't even midday.

"It's about Potter."

Draco's head snapped up. "How did you know?"

Blaise snorted. "It's always about Potter."

"Fine, so it's about Potter. And me. And how I feel about Potter. And about how he feels about life, or something, I don't quite know yet."

Blaise's brows had drawn together in confusion, but he didn't interrupt. Draco tried to distract himself by staring at the ornate ceiling of Blaise's second drawing room, but even the gold-flecked paint on the architraves made him think of Potter—Gryffindor gold. More importantly, it made him think of how Potter used to be, and how much that wasn't the man he was now.

"Potter has changed," Draco finally said, eyes a little glazed as switched his focus to his hands, twisting his fingers together in a manner that brought him straight back to first year Hogwarts and Professor Quirrell. "He's not who he once was, and I don't yet know why, but I do know that it's killing him."

It was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. Draco couldn't look up, couldn't see the expression on Blaise's face. So he just kept talking.

"When he came to me with this plan to win that drunk bet, I thought it was just a lark. Something stupid to fill in the time, and I'll admit, it was nice to think of spending a little time with Potter for once. We never really did get to know each other after the war. But now that I've spent time with him, I'm seeing things that..."

He swallowed, the words suddenly catching in his throat before he managed to continue.

"I don't know how his friends haven't noticed, but Potter's messed up, Blaise. He's really messed up. I don't know how it ties into this ridiculous bet—or even if it does at all—but all I know is that Potter is happiest when he's with me. He's happiest when we're making stupid plans and trying to trick our friends. It's like it gives him... purpose, I don't know. Sometimes I wonder if it takes him back to Hogwarts, to the kind of pranks the Weasley twins would play. Like, maybe because it's so light-hearted, he can shove all the rest of it aside. But I don't know, Blaise. I just don't know."