Looking for Knives | Drarry One-Shot

Looking for Knives

"Again."

He looked up at Potter with blood in his mouth from where his teeth had cut the inside of his lip. Potter towered over him, angrier than Draco had ever seen him. His hands were shaking with how hard he was trying to contain it, but Draco could see every fissure in his composure, like a piece of shattered pottery inexpertly repaired.

Draco spat red onto the floor, tasting iron. He repeated the same single word, a quiet command, a plea.

"Again."

~

The confrontation had been inevitable, the hate in Potter's eyes growing with every passing day. From the first moment that Draco had met his gaze across the expanse of the training room, when Potter was forced to accept that it was really happening, that Draco was becoming an Auror—from that moment, there was no doubt.

Potter must have known long before then, must have been one of the first to hear the news when Draco applied to the Auror training program. Potter was only a year and a half into his own training, but Draco had no doubt that the higher-ups in the department would have informed him right away; everyone in the Ministry showed deference to Potter these days.

He had probably fought against Draco being accepted. Knowing him, Draco wouldn't expect anything less. But if he had, either he held less sway than Draco imagined, or it simply hadn't been enough to convince the Ministry to ignore Draco's undeniable qualifications: impeccable N.E.W.T. scores, impeccable references, and even more impeccable behavior. Draco was not the same person he once was, anyone could see that.

Anyone, it seemed, except Potter. The loathing was obvious in his every gesture, his every glance in Draco's direction. But he had held on longer than Draco had expected, his fury well repressed. It went like that for weeks—weeks of quiet aversion, weeks of watching Potter hold everything inside him, that pressure building, closer and closer to implosion.

It would be easier if Potter were less self-denying. It was ironic, perhaps, that Draco knew so well what Potter needed, when Potter himself seemed intent on pretending everything was fine.

All he needed was the right push.

~

"Is that really the best you can do?"

Harry's chest was heaving, partly with exertion, partly with sheer, unadulterated rage. He had asked Robards not to pair them together during training, to the point of begging. But the Head Auror had denied him, telling Harry—as he was wont to—that he needed to put his prejudices behind him. That the department needed talented recruits like Malfoy, that there was no reason to hold onto this old enmity. That things had changed since the war.

It didn't feel like anything had changed. Harry hated him. Hated that colorless blond hair, hated that insouciant smirk, hated the drawl of his voice and those cutting eyes. Hated that he was sharp and beautiful, in the way that only the deadliest creatures were, like a siren or an incubus. Hated him in a way that he felt in every single nerve of his body. Hated him to the point of pain.

Things hadn't changed. Draco Malfoy was the same obnoxious, self-centered, unprincipled prick he had always been. No matter the donations he made, the volunteer work he did, the apologies he gave. He didn't deserve to be here, training alongside Harry and his friends to fight against dark wizards, as if he hadn't once been one of them. As if he didn't have a Dark Mark on his arm. As if he hadn't stood by while the people that Harry loved were tortured and killed.

How could Robards tell him to let it go? How was he supposed to just forget everything that had happened?

"Was that really enough to save you from the Dark Lord?" Malfoy's eyes glinted. They stood on either side of the dueling ring, wands raised. The other Auror trainees were spread around the edges of training room, watching them in silence. "If this truly is your best effort, then he must have been weaker than we all thought."