Chapter Text
Harry couldn’t remember much about the day his parents died. He had been eight years old. He remembered the rain, and the way it felt like the world was ending. He remembered how the fresh dirt on his parent’s graves felt rough against his palms after he had collapsed in front of their headstones. The rest was a haze of tears, beginning with Uncle Vernon’s smarmy smile and too tight grip as he lead him to the carriage, and ending with the feeling of his magic shriveling up inside of him and dying. Eventually, his magic trickled back, as time made pain fade, but it was a shadow of what it was these days; Harry could barely summon a flash of fire to warm himself as he slept on the cold floor of the Dursley’s kitchen.
Harry awoke to the frantic ringing of bells chiming from where they had been mounted on the stone wall of the chilly kitchen. The bell labeled Dudley’s Room, in flowing script, rung, shaking wildly.
"Alright, alright. I’m awake.” Harry said, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. The bell continued to chime as Harry sat up and dragged himself out of bed. “I’m coming!”
Harry quickly threw on a pair of clean robes and bolted up the stairs to his stepbrother’s room. He knocked on the door a few times, trying and failing to tune out the obnoxious orders being shouted at him from all different directions. Sometimes Harry felt as if these people forgot that he barely possessed the ability to use magic. Well, unless that fact was being used to belittle him. Harry had been called every bad name in the book by his step family: Squib, muggle, and even a mudblood despite the fact that he was none of the above.
“Potter! I’m hungry,” Dudley barked at Harry from where he was surrounded by silk comforters and plush pillows. “Fetch me something to eat.” Dudley paused. “Also, I will to be visiting the emporium with father in an hour. While I’m gone, I want you to clean up this mess,” He gestured with a pudgy hand glittering with rings at the mess of toys, books, and clothes that completely covered every inch of Dudley's tacky, purple carpet.
Harry gave Dudley a grudging grunt of assent before stalking back to his room. He loathed Dudley and Uncle Vernon, absolutely abhorred them with every fiber of his being. Harry longed to be free of his servitude; but if he stepped even one toe out of line Vernon would cast him out to live on the streets. And then where would he be? He was worse than a muggleborn, even worse than a squib or muggle; he was a wizard who had lost his magic. A disgrace. The criminals and highwaymen living on the street would eat him alive. Before returning to the kitchen, Harry stopped by Uncle Vernon’s room.
“Yes, Uncle?” Harry asked, staring into the darkened room. He could see the faint outlines of the lush tapestries hanging on the walls and the lump that was Uncle Vernon’s body lying among the many satin blankets atop the large, mahogany, four-poster bed.
“Breakfast, boy! And be snappy about it,” The lump responded, and Harry quickly backed out of the room and into the bright hallway. His soft footfalls on the carpeted floors of the manor made his creaking steps down the wooden stairs leading to the kitchen sound even louder. He shivered in the frigid air and rushed to light the fire before beginning Vernon’s and Dudley’s breakfast.
As Harry threw some wood into the fire and began cooking what would be a very mediocre breakfast (just because he was a servant didn’t mean he had to be a very good one) he imagined what his life might have become if he hadn’t lost his magic. Would he have been respected by Vernon and Dudley? Probably not. But maybe he wouldn’t be stuck sweeping the floors and cleaning up after his pig of a stepbrother. Perhaps he would have made something of himself--Maybe he’d even be training to become an auror.
Harry shook his head in an attempt to snap himself out of it. Whether he liked it or not this was his life, and there was little he could do other than grin and bear it. The only activity Harry sometimes looked forward to these days was his daily trip to the marketplace. He lived in a large city and most people knew little of his lack of magic, earning him the treatment of an actual human being. On days where there was little shopping to be done, Harry would pace around the city and savor the blissful feeling of freedom. Maybe today, if he was lucky, he could clean the war zone that was Dudley’s room in time for him to make his run to the market. However cleaning it would be a nearly impossible feat in itself; he didn’t know if he could survive it. Some of the stuff strewn on the floor, Harry had observed, were definite health hazards, such as those pretzels that grown several strange, green, furry masses. Harry shivered in disgust while scooping the burnt, misshapen eggs onto the fine china plates that his stepfamily insisted on using. After placing them on a serving platter with two cups of lukewarm tea, Harry began his ascent. First he dropped off Vernon’s plate, leaving it on the nightstand with only a fat hand leaden with jewels waving him away as acknowledgement. He dropped the remaining platter on Dudley’s lap, giving Dudley, who had nodded off, a rude awakening.
“Oi, Potter, watch it or I’ll have father make sure there’s no wood for the fire in the kitchen for the rest of the week.”
“There’s one problem with that, Dudley, since I wouldn’t have anywhere to cook your meals,” Harry said, crossing his arms in annoyance.
“Then you wouldn’t have food either, Potter. You wouldn’t even be able to eat our leftovers.” Dudley responded, his beady eyes narrowing.
“Fair enough.” Harry responded, “ Hopefully, then I would die of starvation and even that would be better than living with you.” Dudley sputtered. Giving Harry a dark glare, he started shoveling the eggs into his mouth. Good lord, how is he eating that without throwing up? Harry thought as the blackened bits of egg quickly disappeared into Dudley’s mouth. He felt mildly ill.
Moments after Dudley polished off the remainder of his eggs, Harry yanked the plate out of his chubby hands and practically bolted out of the bedroom. He peered into Uncle Vernon’s bed chambers, only to observe that the plate of breakfast had been left untouched; Harry quietly shut the door.
Harry adjusted the bandanna on his forehead, trying to keep as many stray black hairs out of his face as possible. He struggled but to no avail; he could not tame his ever-present bed head. Sighing, he returned back to the gargantuan task of cleaning Dudley’s room. He was about halfway through after spending four endless hours on it yesterday. On the left side of the room, Harry could now see the ornate purple carpet lining the floor, although it had a few stains that Harry had not been able to get out. The other half of the room was still trash hell. Piles of rubbish, dirty clothes, broken toys, and half-read books lined the floor. Trying to breathe through his mouth to avoid the pungent odors coming from the piles of mess, Harry grimly set himself to work.
~
After hours of drudgery, Harry finally finished the odious task. He had done a surprisingly decent job of it--Harry thought for a moment that maybe he should pursue a career in housekeeping. He shuddered at the mere prospect of it.
Although his mood had been dampened by Dudley’s recurring insults and foul attitude, Harry still felt mildly excited for his hour-long escape to the marketplace. After notifying a half-asleep and most likely drunk Uncle Vernon and receiving a grunt as a response, Harry set off on his way.
He breathed a sigh of relief as he walked the streets of his kingdom, appreciating the fresh air and the familiar, bustling sounds of the people. He waved to Neville Longbottom, the clumsy son of a fisherman, but continued walking. The two would usually make pleasant, mildly awkward conversation for a few moments but Harry was in no mood for small talk today.
Harry stopped at the shop of every familiar merchant he knew to be trustworthy (he only possessed a small amount of cash and would not allow himself to be gypped) and purchased what was needed as quickly as possible. This granted him more time to roam freely. His bags were exceedingly heavy today, however, since he was carrying an extra load of laundry (courtesy of Dudley’s floor) so Harry decided that he would head home sooner than usual in fear of losing both of his arms. The thought of returning home so quickly had Harry feeling even more bitter than before, so naturally when he bumped head-on into a scrawny, blonde rich guy he didn’t think twice before shouting angrily at him.
“Watch where you’re going, arsehole!” Harry bellowed while staring angrily into the wide, gray eyes of his assailant.
“Excuse me?” The blonde man asked, looking stunned.
“I said: Watch. Where. You’re. Going. Arsehole.”
“You…,” The man’s eyes shifted from shocked to angry in an instant. “Do you know who I am?!”
Harry snorted and gave Blondie a once-over. He was lanky, dressed in white robes and shiny black shoes. Judging by his golden jewelry and silk cloak, this guy was probably the farthest thing from poor. Harry, if not for being completely disgusted by this pretentious dick, would have called him handsome. His cheekbones sat high on his pale face, accenting his thin nose and sunken, stormy eyes.
“What, you think you’re better than me because you’re rich?” Harry scoffed. “Get out of my way, I have places to be.”
“How dare you!” Blondie sneered, refusing to budge from his place in front of Harry.
“How dare I? Who do you think you are? The Prince?” Harry crossed his arms.
“Why, I-I am the Prince, thank you very much!” Blondie said, huffing indignantly.
"Yes, and I’m Head Auror,” Harry responded. “Did our earlier impact damage your brain?”
“Why- the nerve-”
“Yeah, yeah, Okay, Blondie, if you’re going stand here and make a scene will you at least help me carry these bags of laundry to the river?” Harry hefted a large laundry bag into the other boy’s arms. The blonde looked aghast and mildly horrified; he shifted and gingerly held the bag as far away from him as possible.
“Fine,” He grumbled. “I’ll help. And for the record my name is Draco, not ‘Blondie.’”
"I’m Harry. Harry Potter. Well, come on then.” The raven-haired boy responded without looking back. They walked in silence down the well-trodden path leading through the forest and to the river.
"What exactly is in this bag?” Draco said, wrinkling his nose in disgust, “It smells absolutely revolting.”
Harry laughed. “ My step-brother’s laundry.”
“What the hell are you doing with your step-brother’s laundry?”
“I’m washing it? That’s what you do with laundry? I know you’re a noble and all but do you not know what laundry is-”
“I know what laundry is,” Draco snapped. “I was just wondering what you were doing with it. It’s servant work.” Harry turned around to give Draco a deadpan look.
"In case you haven’t noticed, Mr. I’m-the-Prince,” Harry chuckled at the sheer hilarity of the idea, “I am a servant.”
Draco’s mouth opened and closed a few times, wordlessly. Perhaps, Harry thought, Draco had no idea how to respond to this ingrate, this lowborn degenerate that was himself. With his mouth hanging open stupidly like that, Harry thought Draco looked sort of like a fish. A rather dashing fish. But regardless of how dashing, this Draco boy was still a pointy, foul-tempered fish.
~
Upon reaching the river bank, Harry sighed with relief as he set his many bags down. He watched in amusement as Draco struggled with his small load, almost tipping the entire thing over in an attempt to set it down.
“You need some help there?” Harry asked, snickering. Draco glared at him and Harry couldn’t help but laugh. “Very intimidating. Thanks for this, by the way.”
Draco huffed and stood up, brushing off his now-soiled white pants. “Shut your mouth, Peter, or whatever your name is. If you keep disrespecting me like this my father will hear about it.”
Harry’s eyes widened in mock-fear. “Your father? Oh, Merlin, anything but that. And it’s Potter.”
Draco’s pale cheeks reddened in fury and Harry noticed him clenching his fists. “I’ll have you know that my father is a very influential man. He’ll have you arrested in a heartbeat.”
“Arrested? For what? Talking back to his snob of a son who can’t even handle an insult?”
“You--Shut up!” Draco spat, face continuing to redden. Harry huffed out a laugh.
"Not used to being put in your place, are you?” Harry asked, beginning to speak once again before allowing Draco to respond. “Are you going to help me or not? Because if you aren’t I don’t see the point of your hanging around.”
“I shouldn’t be wasting my time with a lowlife like you,” Draco said. “But I suppose I’ll do it for the experience.”
“Wonderful,” Harry said, chucking a dirty and particularly smelly shirt at Draco. “Now wash.”
Draco wrinkled his nose and tentatively dipped the shirt in the river, sloshing it around awkwardly for a few moments before pulling it back out and placing it on the ground. Harry raised his eyebrows, feeling somewhere between amused and bewildered as to how anyone could be so incredibly useless. Well, Harry shrugged to himself as he observed Draco's clumsy movements. I suppose some help is better than none.
“That’s not--You can’t put it back in the dirt after you wash it. You’ve never done this before, have you?” Harry asked, deciding that maybe he should try to be a little more patient. He was making a rich nobleman wash clothes, after all.
“No. I haven’t. This type of...chore isn’t for someone of my status,” Draco said, picking up the muddy shirt and dipping it in the river once again.
"Hell knows why I’m even here.”
“For the experience. Isn’t that what you said?”
“You’re lucky I’m even taking the time to speak to you, Potter.”
Harry snorted. “Hey, you got my name right this time! Excellent. But yeah, alright. Because conversing with you is such a pleasure.”
Draco ignored Harry’s remark and avoided his eyes, placing the shirt in an empty basket and grabbing a pair of Vernon’s trousers. The two sat in silence for a few minutes, washing clothes and virtually ignoring the other’s presence.
“Can I ask you a question?” Harry asked before he could stop himself. Draco looked up from his laundry and met Harry’s eyes, raising an eyebrow.
“I suppose.”
“What’s it like?” Harry asked. “You know, living a life like yours.”
Draco stared at Harry for a moment. “It’s...alright.”
“That’s it?” Harry asked. “Just ‘alright’?”
Draco shrugged. Harry was about to question further when Draco lost his footing and fell onto the basket of dirty clothes dumping the basket’s contents and Draco into the river.
“Oh shit,” Harry yelled, “Oh shit oh shit oh shit.” He yanked off his shirt, and dove into the river. He quickly retrieved most of the clothes. Although a few garments got away, he doubted Dudley would even notice what with his copious amount of ornamental rags. Harry sat down on the riverside, closing his eyes and basking in the sun in an attempt to warm his shivering muscles.
“Next time try not to be so damn clumsy, Draco.” Harry admonished. When there was no response Harry opened his eyes. “Draco?” “Draco!!!” He called, realizing that his new, pissy acquaintance was no longer present. He spotted Draco floundering in the middle of the river desperately, trying in vain to keep his head above water. Harry watched as Draco’s head dropped like a rock beneath the surface. Frantic with worry, Harry once again dove back into the river to save Draco. He grabbed hold of the blonde's heavy, now-still limbs and dragged his body slowly to the shore. Bending over, Harry tried to pump as much water out of the other boy’s lungs as possible, but when he still refused to wake, Harry resignedly mumbled, “I guess I’m gonna have to do it.”
Harry pulled open Draco’s mouth intent on giving him CPR, but then the blonde spluttered.
“What the- What the bloody hell?! Are you trying to kiss me Potter? This is sexual harassment, my father will be hearing about this!” Draco shrieked, his voice going up a couple octaves.
“NO-no-no, I definitely was not trying to kiss you, why would I even want to?!” Harry said, turning beet red, “I was trying to give you CPR since you neglected to mention that your noble arse can’t swim.”
“You ponce. I can most definitely swim.” Draco said.
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Is that what they’re calling swimming nowadays. Sorry, but that looked more like drowning to me.”
“Fuck off, servant.”
“I saved your life, dumbass.”
“I would have been fine on my own,” Draco said, cheeks tinged with pink as his eyes flitted over Harry’s shirtless form. “Didn’t you say you had places to be?”
“Oh, shit,” Harry said, realizing that it was probably high noon by now. “I do. And I’m going to be late because of you.”
“Because of me?! You’re the one who invited me along in the first place!” Draco howled, shooting Harry a cold stare.
“Well I wouldn’t have if I’d’ve known you’d dump the goddamn laundry into the river and then have a near-death experience!” Harry said, quickly gathering up all the bags and shoving one of the lighter ones at Draco. “Make yourself useful and carry this back with me. It’s the least you can do.”
Draco grumbled in protest but did not object, following Harry down the path once again. The two walked in silence for a moment. Harry kicked a rock and watched it tumble down the road.
“You know, you really should learn how to swim,” Harry said, looking at a sopping wet Draco. His blonde hair was matted to his face from the dampness and his white undershirt was clinging to his thin (but toned, Harry couldn’t help but notice) body.
“I can swim.”
“Sure you can. One day you’ll be drowning and I won’t be there to save you and you’ll get yourself killed.”
“For the fiftieth time today, lowly servant: Shut. Up.”
Harry laughed, tipping his head back and appreciating the warmth of the sunlight on his wet skin. Yes, Draco was a pretentious, snobby arsehole but there was something about him that Harry couldn’t help but find slightly charming.