Theft of Assets, Destruction of Property


Gradually, Draco stops worrying about it as much; he doesn't have anything his father needs anymore.




Did I force you?" Neville says tonelessly.

"Force me to clean the shed?"

"Did I rape you?" Neville says, his face tight and grim. Yes, Draco should say, but I know you didn't mean to. Yes, but I forgive you.

"No," Draco whispers. He's prepared for anger, but Neville's shoulders just drop a little.

"I didn't think I had," he says, relief leaking into his voice. "But I thought maybe I wasn't remembering it right."

"But—"

"I could never even believe that you let me—when you—" Neville shrugs.

"I'm sorry," Draco says. "I know what I said, but I—it never occurred to me that you—that I—I know you would never do that."

"I wouldn't?" Neville says, and looks at up at Draco, his eyes dark and hot and frustrated.

"No," Draco says. "I—you couldn't."

"Why's that?" His voice is caustic. "Because Gryffindors never—"

"Because I want you to," Draco says.

Neville makes a choking sound and Draco turns and starts sorting out the nearest box mindlessly









Making up stupid stories and the best way to braise veal has nothing to do with my career," Neville says, voice climbing precipitously, "you are so fucking—" Draco, in spite of himself, takes a step back and feels his shoulders hunch; Neville had a little too much to drink, not his fault, drinks pressed on him by the Ministry liaison and the Dean of Students. Neville breaks off, staring at him.

"I'm not going to hit you," he says. "Is that what you really think of me?"

"No," Draco says. "Of course not," but his voice, his hands, are shaking, and Neville turns around and slams out of the house without another word.









He always stays in Draco's bed if they have sex there and thanks him for meals and kisses him when they fuck and always makes sure he comes first; there may as well be a tattoo on his forehead that reads "Gran Longbottom raised me right."









Right, then," Weasley says, rubbing his hands together once Draco puts the ladyfingers in the oven. "Say, you wouldn't happen to have an extra one of those sack lunches around the place, just going to waste?"

"I have beef stew, rolls, roasted asparagus and a trifle," Draco says. Weasley's eyes widen and he looks so eager that Draco says, "You may stay for lunch."

Weasley drops around a few more times while Neville's away, always suspiciously near mealtimes. He is loud and messy and clatters his knife and fork together, but he's an entertaining conversationalist and gives Draco some very useful critique about his cranberry bread, and then, when Draco asks, the rest of the meal, and, later that week, the some of the pastries Draco's been trying to perfect.

"Neville just says they're fine," Draco says. They're sitting across from each other in the kitchen and Draco is taking notes.

"They are fine," Weasley says. "Very good, even. But I think this one is better—what's different about it?"

"I added some cardamom," Draco says.

"Don't even know what that is," Weasley says. "But it's good."










Weasley says, cutting himself another wedge of blueberry pie. "You know Harry."

"Not really."

"He's always going off and being brilliant and bloody handsome in the right place and time and saving everyone and he doesn't even do it on purpose."

"Ah, so he's still a bit of a prat, then," Draco says. Weasley doesn't deny it.






"That money wasn't an allowance," Neville said. "I would never—you can have whatever you need."


don't, really," Neville said. "It's—loud. Gran and I used to just have a nice dinner and listen to the Wireless."

"That's—I'd rather do that," Draco says.







He wanted to get him a set of spell-treated vambraces, since Neville's been accepted into Broadsword 450 for the spring semester and only pretending not to be proud of it. He wanted to get him a pocket compass that doubled as an apparation coordinate plotter, but he didn't want to embarrass himself by getting Neville something too nice when Neville was probably going to get him a set of monogrammed handkerchiefs or a new mop or a scarf or something, so he got him










No," Draco says. "You give me money and you don't—you know, push me around or make me, um—"

He stops because Neville looks furious. "Not that you would," Draco finally falters. Neville's been turning the book over and over in his hands restlessly, but now he puts it down on the table, squaring the corners against the edge.

"Did you know," he says, his tone mild, "that those Muggles Harry grew up with put him in the cupboard below the stairs?"

"What for?"

"It was his room," Neville says. "I don't think he's ever really gotten used to being touched."

"That's awful," Draco says. "Is that what Muggles usually do?"

"No, of course not, come on," Neville says.

"Well, how would I know, I don't know any Muggles," Draco says. "I mean, it's not as though I assumed they went around putting babies in closets until you brought it up."

"All I meant was, perhaps you shouldn't expect so little of people," Neville says.

"Perhaps," Draco says. Neville rubs a hand across his face.










You were the first person who ever really treated me like I wasn't a bit of a joke," Neville says. "So I wasn't exactly in a rush to tell you what a coward I was, to be so afraid of some stupid dreams."

"I expect I would have found it tragic and romantic, if that helps."








You used to like things."

"Yeah, sure," Draco says lightly. "That was me."

"Don't," Neville says.`

"Don't what?"

"Don't act like I think you're a—you're after money."

"Everyone else does."

"Name one person who thinks that," Neville says, "no one thinks that, they think you're in—" his voice shakes








Draco allows himself to be cautiously happy—at the honest enjoyment people seem to get from his cooking, at the steadily growing little stack of galleons he keeps in one of the biscuit tins in a lower cupboard, at the way Neville smiles at him when they're having sex, until, cleaning, he sees Neville's appointment calendar. It's a serious little black book, scribbled over with Neville's blocky sсript—classes and training, appointments with the mediwizard he sees about his headaches, long meetings blocked off for his solicitors and money managers, and nearly once a fortnight for the next year, reminders to buy flowers for Draco, lined up neatly with his other chores and responsibilities. There isn't a single dinner or social engagement that isn't about work or duty; Neville apparently doesn't write those down











Hey," Weasley says. "Hey, Draco are you—um, are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Draco says.

"Yeah, I can tell," Weasley says, and then makes Draco come back to the flat he shares with Potter.

"It's a little messy," Weasley says cheerfully, scooping some laundry off the couch and throwing it onto a chair. "Sit down." There's a pyramid made of Old Mag's Ale cans stacked up on the mantelpiece, a mishmash of brooms and dueling swords propped up in the corner, and what Draco can only assume is a stolen traffic sign—'Caution: Portkey Point"—hung up on the wall. The coffee table is strewn with Quidditch magazines and textbooks, potions ingredients in clear plastic packets, a tin of broom-bristle conditioner and several greasy rags, a half empty box of owl snacks, and a mismatched pair of gauntlets.

"Can I get you something?" Weasley says.

"No, thank you," Draco says, sitting down a little gingerly on the couch, but Weasley ignores him and makes him a cup of tea, which Draco is dutifully drinking when Potter slams in the door. He throws down his rucksack, tosses his robe over the armchair, summons a bottle of ale from the refrigerator, pops the cap with an inaudible 'pertivo, and takes a swig before turning around and seeing Draco.

"Hey," he says.

"Well, this was nice," Draco says, putting down the teacup with a clatter. "I should probably—" he trails off, because Potter's just staring at him while he takes a few long pulls on his ale.

"Would you like a drink?" he says, finally.

"Yes, please."


Draco has two ales; Potter has another two and Weasley has four, and then they floo up some take away and have another round apiece. Potter and Weasley tell him funny stories about training exercises gone wrong and describe a series of increasingly improbably Quidditch plays they've invented. Draco has another ale and then falls asleep on the couch, head pillowed on unfolded laundry. He wakes up with a Quidditch cloak on top of him and Neville sitting in the armchair opp









Yes, thanks, I'm aware of that," Neville snaps. "And, by the way, Ron dates girls."

"Yes," Draco says, starting to wonder if Neville's running a fever. "I know."




Didn't I give you the recipe?" Draco says. "I can copy it out again for you."

"But mine don't taste like yours."

"Don't tell me you can't follow a simple recipe. How do they taste?"

"Gritty," Granger says. "Sour."

"You must not have emulsified the milk thistle properly—"

"I can expense it," Granger says plaintively. "What's the going rate?"




He wakes up on the converto-couch. Ron is sitting in the easy chair, one ankle tossed up on the bed, reading the scandalous novel Neville got him for Christmas and Harry is lying on the floor flipping through the flashcard file Draco made for Neville. Granger is sitting cross-legged, leaning against the chair, reading. They're sharing a pot of tea, and all of them are eating cupcakes.

"Oh, hey," Ron says.

"Hi," Draco says.

"You've been out for a while," Ron says, summoning a glass of water and handing it to him. There's a smear of frosting on his chin.

"So—" Harry says, sitting up.

"I just fell," Draco says hurriedly. "I guess I just hit my head—idiotic—I'm always doing. you know. idiotic things."

"Yeah," Harry says, his brows pulling together. He looks a little concerned. "Do you remember what happened?"

"I fell."

"We got here in time to pull Neville off your dad," Ron says reassuringly. "So—no need to lie."

"Your dad stole your magic," Harry says, finishing his cupcake in one huge bite and picking up another from the plate on the floor. "Then Neville says you cursed him and I guess that destabilized the spell he was using to hold onto it and it all went back to you. And soap bubbles came out of his ears, for some reason."

Granger huffs a little and starts to say something and Harry tucks the cupcake in her mouth before she can. "That's the short, non-boring magical theory version, anyhow," Harry says.

"Oh," Draco says.









I know," Granger says, at the same time that Harry says, in a studiously careless tone, "How do you know what Greg Goyle thinks?"

"He's in some of my classes and we've—had coffee a few times."

"Oh, coffee," Ron says, in a similarly strange tone.

"Yes, coffee," Granger says. "Since you two were too busy with each other










I have a question," Draco says. They all turn towards him, faces flushed, and Granger raises her pen in a way that means she's prepared to take notes. "Are you eating the cupcakes I made for Robbie Cattermole's tenth birthday celebration?"

"We were hungry," Ron says, after a conspicuous silence.

"You were unconscious for a long time," Harry says. He's still holding half a cupcake, but he's twisting his hand to hide it. "And they weren't marked."

"And then there are all your 'roughhousing' injuries," Granger says loudly, waving her arms around. "I'm sorry, Draco, but they were delicious. You two can't honestly expect me to believe these beyond ridiculous stories about how you have marks all over your neck from mock dueling or tripping over takeaway boxes—"

"Actually, if you've seen their flat," Draco murmurs, but Granger is talking loudly over him, her face red.




I don't want to separate," Draco says promptly.

"Divorce," Neville says, nodding, not quite meeting Draco's eyes.

"I don't understand.

"You have your magic back," Neville says. The expression on his face is familiar from the last months, a peculiar mix of resignation and sadness.

"You knew," Draco says.

"Yes," Neville says. "Or no, not about Lucius, obviously. But you almost never used magic and you always had some flimsy excuse. I thought you were just a bit of a squib or had L—late onset magic loss—"

"I know what LOML is," Draco says.

"I figured—you needed me," Neville says. "And that's why you married me. I didn't mind."

"You didn't?"

"I'm in love with you," Neville says. He's very matter of fact. "You don't have to say anything."












"I mean, I suppose you're not completely unfortunate in the sack," Draco says, and Neville's anxious smile eases into something more genuine and he lets Draco pull him down onto the converto-couch right as there's a loud thump against the house from outside, the distant sound of raised voices. "And, apparently," Draco continues, "we don't even have the most complicated relationship of the people currently in this house."

"You may change your mind when you get stronger," Neville says, leaning down to brush a kiss against Draco's throat.

"I may not," Draco says. He doesn't.






...