Captivate (Drarry)

Chapter 4

Harry slept very soundly that night, not waking until Draco was shoving his breakfast tray below the door. He had taken the last of the headache potion, knowing he needed his rest. He needed to be stronger, be able to escape if he saw an opportunity. Draco had a fairly secure system going, but he couldn't be on guard every second. And the more Harry could do to assist that the better.

"Oh," Harry said, his voice scratchy. He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, and ran his hands over his bed mussed hair. Feeling a bit embarrassed of Draco seeing him like this. Usually he woke up early enough to wash a little, and run his wet hands over his face, straightening his hair as much as he could. Draco froze, his eyes scanning over Harry, and he braced himself for a derisive comment.

'Stand up," Draco said, pulling out his wand.

Surprised at the order, Harry slowly rose. It was best to go along with Draco as much as possible, saving his resistance for the things that really mattered. He was the prisoner here, and didn't have many choices under his control.

Draco mumbled a spell, and Harry felt a slight tingling over his skin, and his clothing rustled like it was caught in a breeze. By the time he lowered his wand, Harry's clothes were clean and unwrinkled, and he felt cleaner than he had been able to manage with the soap and water.

"Thanks," Harry mumbled, and picked up the breakfast tray. Had Draco done that before? Scorgified Harry clean when he had been unconscious when they first arrived? In the days after when he was sleeping heavily? The thought was strangely disturbing.

Things felt a little awkward then between them. Draco standing there, not saying anything, Harry waiting....

Abruptly, Draco lurched out of his stillness, and spun on his heel without a word, and left.

Sighing, Harry ate his breakfast. Draco was at least being attentive, seeing that he needed his clothes cleaned. He was never late with the meals either, and the food was tasty. Harry was a prisoner. It could have just been bread and water.

Was there kindness deep inside Draco? Despite being raised by Deatheaters?

Harry thought back on their years together at Hogwarts, and the times he had seen Draco with his parents. They both saw him off on the Hogwarts Express, with hugs and fond looks. Draco often received generous care packages at breakfast by owl, sharing the treats with his friends. His father was always at the Quidditch games, his head at a proud tilt as he watched his son and the whole Slytherin team whiz around the field on the brooms he had bought. Draco worked hard on the Quidditch pitch, and in his classes, top of the class. Except for Hermione, of course. A fact they all loved.

Without the attack from Voldemort when he was a baby, would his parents have been like that? Would he have been the only child, pampered by his loving parents? Would they have proudly seen him off on the train, and come to his matches?

Harry felt a pang of pain, feeling sad for the childhood he never had. It wasn't his parents' fault they had been murdered. His childhood hadn't been ideal, but maybe it had been for the best, in a strange way. He hadn't known anything about Voldemort, or his notoriety in the Wizarding World. He probably would have been just as full of himself as Draco was, if he had grown up with everyone praising him for doing something he couldn't even remember.

...

"What was your childhood like?"

"What?" Draco asked, jarred out of reading his book. It was a sunny day, and they were sitting on the bench, enjoying the gentle sunshine.

It was warm enough that his pale skin was getting a bit rosy, either from the warmth or a light sunburn. It was a nice contrast against his light grey eyes and the silver white tone of his hair. The sunlight caught the faint stubble along his jawline, the fair colour of it making it invisible most of the time.