Samsara's Curse (Drarry Slowburn)

CRAFTY GRYFFINDORS

Kreacher returned once again to 12 Grimmauld Place, hauling shopping bags. He had gone during the day, so there were far more local options. However, he appeared to have done all his shopping at the up-and-coming boutique, Muggle for Wizards.

As the name implied, it was the place wizards could go to purchase all the Muggle clothing their hearts desired. The clothes Kreacher picked out were nice enough, but Harry knew what the elf was trying to do—what he was trying to start.

With an exasperated sigh, Harry put the ripped jeans and graphic tees in his room, dreading how Draco would react to yet another sign of disrespect from a House Elf. Harry knew Draco wasn't his father, but he also had no way of knowing if Draco believed in the same brutal disciplinary measures for disobedient House Elves. Harry decided that he didn't want to find out—not now, anyway.

Maybe it would be better to break the news after lunch—that way, Draco might be grateful enough for Kreacher's cooking skills to let all other transgressions slide. Harry tried to take his lunch upstairs after hearing dull footsteps approaching the kitchen.

Draco's voice sounded from the kitchen archway, ripping through him, "You don't have to hide from me, you know." With the sun up in the sky, he had no fangs or vampiric attributes to speak of. He could understand wanting to hide from a monster, but now it was just personal.

Harry halted in his tracks, "I figured you'd want some space." To eat, he thought but did not dare say out loud. He remembered the towel he saw hanging over the bathroom mirror. The last thing Draco probably wanted to hear was a comment about how sickly he looked.

"It's your house," Draco said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "Besides, if I wanted to avoid you, I could've just stayed in my room."

Harry returned to the dining table as Draco took a seat, himself. He didn't know what to do while Draco ate in silence. His instinct was to fill the space with words.

A look of concern knitted between Harry's brows, "Can I ask you a question?"

"You just did," Draco grimaced. Harry deflated momentarily, as if he had spent his last speaking token for the day. "Out with it then," said Draco, rolling his eyes and gesturing for him to just get on with it.

"Um. . ." Harry said in utter eloquence, "Do you know who bit you?"

Draco appeared upset with himself, as if he took most of the blame for something Harry couldn't put his finger on. "I wasn't bitten," Draco said in a low voice. "I was cursed." The idea was foreign to Harry. He had never heard of such a thing—vampirism via curse. Even while working as a Cursebreaker for a time, Harry never came across anything like that.

"I'm technically a halfling," Draco expounded. No amount of consuming blood would turn him into a full vampire. "That's why I can still use my magic."

"Who cursed you?"

Draco clenched his hand into a fist on the table, "I did."

It seemed that the more questions he asked, the more confused he became by the answers that followed. Harry's eyes widened, "Why?"

"Well, I didn't bloody do it on purpose!" Draco sputtered. His frown quivered with every word he spoke. "I . . . wanted to restore my family's reputation."

"What did you do?" Harry asked gently.

"It's a long story."

Harry propped his chin up on his palm, shrugging, "I've got time." 

Draco closed his eyes with force, as if trying to shut out the memory, but it was no use, "I looked into a sort of centuries-old secret, hidden in Myrddin's cave."