Title: A Name For It On Horses
Author:

zionsstarfish
Rating: PG
Canon: Pre-HBP.
Length: 1,400 words.
Scenario: I promise to hold you all night.
Disclaimer: HP & its characters belong to JKR; no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Thanks to Aja for the beta and encouraging words.

A Name For It On Horses

Draco sees it in the morning before he leaves for work, sitting there on the coffee table next to the stack of bills neither of them have gotten around to paying yet, and near the remote control that Draco might happen to reach for later in the evening while he puts up his feet and flips through the programs on souffl�s and Arctic geese and home renovation. It's unobtrusive, as if to say, "No, not yet. Finish your eggs and read the paper first; this can wait."

Harry never draws his attention to it.

It has the feeling of being discarded; so much so that Draco almost asks Harry if he happened to misplace it. Draco had given Harry that silly novelty cheque as part of a gag birthday present several months ago.

"I work as an advisor at a highly respected financial institution. Of course the cheque is good," Draco had said, with his best snotty air�that is to say that it was highly convincing.

"I know where you work," Harry had said with a quick eye-roll, having done a stint at Gringott's earlier that week as an entry-level scale tuner.

"I promise to hold you all night," the cheque had said, along with Draco's own signature scrawled at the bottom.

Blushing furiously, Harry had then stuffed the cheque into his underpants drawer, and nearly severed a finger in his haste to slam the drawer shut and deny its existence. Draco hadn�t minded; after all, of the two of them, he isn�t the one with the reputation of a prude.

The cheque's appearance is, therefore, no accident.

Draco shovels eggs into his mouth and hurries out the door.

***

They never talk much about work or feelings or the political climate of either the Muggle or the Wizarding World. They stick to safer topics, like what looked good at the deli that afternoon, or how they are running low on toilet paper, or when they think the damned pigeons on the roof will stop their incessant cooing and scratching and go back to being eaten by urban birds of prey like the falcons Harry spotted last week.

It's an unusual existence, being intimate and yet distant at the same time. They have separate bedrooms, which would probably be considered dysfunctional in every other relationship, except they both know the other needs space. Having that knowledge in itself is a kind of miracle.

It feels only natural for the cheque to be here, on neutral ground.

Yet living like this isn't exactly uncomfortable, either. They just are, and they do it under the same roof.

***

It's been several months since they moved in together. Draco is still learning things about their life together: how it rains in the afternoon and Harry lets himself get soaked; and how Harry never complains about the way that Draco helps push the wet woolly clothing from his shoulders but never helps clean up the mess. He takes Harry to bed and leaves the sodden pile for Harry to trip over in the morning; this happens often enough during the autumn that Draco concludes that Harry enjoys this unspoken arrangement.

�how Harry can somehow sense sometimes that Draco needs carbohydrates and sugar, right now, without Draco even needing to whine one bit; and how Draco can find himself wordlessly presented with a scone that is laden to the point of near-collapse with raspberry jam. "We should go to the seaside tomorrow," Harry might conclude before vanishing once more, because Draco hasn't seen anything other than the inside of his office and hundreds of knee-height goblins for eight days straight.

�how Draco isn't entirely sure what Harry does from week to week. Harry doesn't talk much about his jobs; that's probably because his C.V. would stretch all the way down the block.

For two weeks last month, Harry reeked of birdshit and seemed to be permanently covered by a layer of fine feather tufts. Draco surmised that Harry had found work at Eelops Owl Emporium and was spending his days cleaning cages and cooing to owls and showing off specimens to bright-eyed eleven year olds. Harry has also had stints as a cauldron-bottom affixer, tapestry-restorer, and apprentice dragon-egg retriever in the months that they've lived together, and that's just in the Wizarding World.

Draco isn't sure how Harry manages it, but every once in a while, Draco gets the feeling that Harry has ventured into the Muggle world for a taste of that life, too. Draco can remember a time when Harry came home with an armload of unfinished kites, said he had a Monday morning deadline, and locked himself in his bedroom for the weekend. He has also walked through that door laden down with a stack of pastel drawings by eight year olds; wearing a paper hat that said, 'Hello, May I Take Your Order?' and a nametag that said, 'Ian'; smelling like he'd rolled around in fertilizer the entire day; and toting three boxes of slightly damaged fortune cookies.

All of this seems to bring Harry happiness. Draco thinks it's maybe an outlet for his unlived childhood in which he gets to play dress up and wear different hats, where 'hero' is not an option.

***

After work, Draco turns on the television, sits down on the couch and stretches his legs out down its length. He can't see Harry but knows he is watching and waiting. Draco smoothes the cheque out on the glass table, acknowledging its presence. Moments later, he hears Harry padding across the carpet to the couch.

"They gave me the keys yesterday," Harry says, slipping quietly between Draco's legs, stretching out long and low against Draco's body.

"What?"

Draco goes from mostly-distracted to knowing that this conversation will be serious; Harry has never talked about any of his jobs before, leaving Draco with only speculation and his imagination. Still, he wishes he could head off the conversation until at least the first commercial break, please; and meanwhile, he hopes that Harry means that he's taken a job as an assistant to the locksmith in Diagon Alley and is now in charge of creating customized locking spells or keeping track of keys made from withered old bones shaped like mushrooms or leeks.

And Harry, perhaps sensing Draco's predicament, goes quiet in Draco's lap�not angry-quiet, just regular-quiet and contemplative�until the commercial comes on, advertising a new dishsoap, and Draco can bring himself to click off the television, though with effort.

"Keys," Draco restates. "I assume you're not speaking of Overton Locksmiths, are you?"

Harry reaches into his pocket and brings out an enormous ring of keys, and Draco is stunned into silence. The crest on the key ring is one that Draco thought Harry would never want to see again. Harry's newest job, he thinks.

"Keeper of the Keys?"

Harry nods. He dangles the key ring from his fingers and the keys jangle together like jewels on a pendant necklace. The lamplight makes some of the metals gleam like newly stamped Galleons; other keys just seem to absorb the light.

"Hogwarts," Harry says, with a shake of his head. "It's been so long that I didn't think it would hurt."

But Harry looks like he has been hurt, and has been surprised by how deeply.

He stretches out his arm and puts the keys down with a heavy clank on the coffee table. After a moment's hesitation, Harry picks up the garishly coloured cheque.

"I'm sorry," he says, his throat tight like he is trying to laugh and not cry at the same time. "After all this time, you'd think I could just ask."

Draco plucks the cheque from Harry's fingers and covers Harry's mouth with his hand. He uses the backs of his fingers to stroke the side of Harry's face. Without a word, he flips the blanket draped over the back of the couch down over them both and turns out the lamp.

When Harry's breathing slows and evens out, Draco picks up his wand. With a flick of his wrist and a soft incantation, he sends the cheque flying back into Harry's bedroom, into the chest of drawers, for next time.

That done, he turns the television back on with one hand while his other hand finds Harry's under the blanket.

The End.

"For What Binds Us"

There are names for what binds us:
strong forces, weak forces.
Look around, you can see them:
the skin that forms in a half-empty cup,
nails rusting into the places they join,
joints dovetailed on their own weight.
The way things stay so solidly
wherever they've been set down�
and gravity, scientists say, is weak.
And see how the flesh grows back
across a wound, with great vehemence,
more strong
than the simple untested surface before.
There's a name for it on horses,
when it comes back darker and raised: proud flesh,

as all flesh
is proud of its wounds, wears them
as honors given out after battle,
small triumphs pinned to the chest�

And when two people love each other
see how it is like a
scar between their bodies,
stronger, darker, and proud:
how the black cord makes of them a single fabric
that nothing can tear or mend

Jane Hirshfield

{About the Eros Affair • Fics by Scenario • Fics by Author • Project Notes}



	Title: A Name For It On Horses Author: zionsstarfish Rating: PG Canon: Pre-HBP. Length: 1,400 words. Scenario: I promise to hold you all night. Disclaimer: HP & its characters belong to JKR; no copyright infringement is intended. Notes: Thanks to Aja for the beta and encouraging words. A Name For It On Horses Draco sees it in the morning before he leaves for work, sitting there on the coffee table next to the stack of bills neither of them have gotten around to paying yet, and near the remote control that Draco might happen to reach for later in the evening while he puts up his feet and flips through the programs on souffl�s and Arctic geese and home renovation. It's unobtrusive, as if to say, "No, not yet. Finish your eggs and read the paper first; this can wait." Harry never draws his attention to it. It has the feeling of being discarded; so much so that Draco almost asks Harry if he happened to misplace it. Draco had given Harry that silly novelty cheque as part of a gag birthday present several months ago. "I work as an advisor at a highly respected financial institution. Of course the cheque is good," Draco had said, with his best snotty air�that is to say that it was highly convincing. "I know where you work," Harry had said with a quick eye-roll, having done a stint at Gringott's earlier that week as an entry-level scale tuner. "I promise to hold you all night," the cheque had said, along with Draco's own signature scrawled at the bottom. Blushing furiously, Harry had then stuffed the cheque into his underpants drawer, and nearly severed a finger in his haste to slam the drawer shut and deny its existence. Draco hadn�t minded; after all, of the two of them, he isn�t the one with the reputation of a prude. The cheque's appearance is, therefore, no accident. Draco shovels eggs into his mouth and hurries out the door. *** They never talk much about work or feelings or the political climate of either the Muggle or the Wizarding World. They stick to safer topics, like what looked good at the deli that afternoon, or how they are running low on toilet paper, or when they think the damned pigeons on the roof will stop their incessant cooing and scratching and go back to being eaten by urban birds of prey like the falcons Harry spotted last week. It's an unusual existence, being intimate and yet distant at the same time. They have separate bedrooms, which would probably be considered dysfunctional in every other relationship, except they both know the other needs space. Having that knowledge in itself is a kind of miracle. It feels only natural for the cheque to be here, on neutral ground. Yet living like this isn't exactly uncomfortable, either. They just are, and they do it under the same roof. * It's been several months since they moved in together. Draco is still learning things about their life together: how it rains in the afternoon and Harry lets himself get soaked; and how Harry never complains about the way that Draco helps push the wet woolly clothing from his shoulders but never helps clean up the mess. He takes Harry to bed and leaves the sodden pile for Harry to trip over in the morning; this happens often enough during the autumn that Draco concludes that Harry enjoys this unspoken arrangement. �how Harry can somehow sense sometimes that Draco needs carbohydrates and sugar, right now, without Draco even needing to whine one bit; and how Draco can find himself wordlessly presented with a scone that is laden to the point of near-collapse with raspberry jam. "We should go to the seaside tomorrow," Harry might conclude before vanishing once more, because Draco hasn't seen anything other than the inside of his office and hundreds of knee-height goblins for eight days straight. �how Draco isn't entirely sure what Harry does from week to week. Harry doesn't talk much about his jobs; that's probably because his C.V. would stretch all the way down the block. For two weeks last month, Harry reeked of birdshit and seemed to be permanently covered by a layer of fine feather tufts. Draco surmised that Harry had found work at Eelops Owl Emporium and was spending his days cleaning cages and cooing to owls and showing off specimens to bright-eyed eleven year olds. Harry has also had stints as a cauldron-bottom affixer, tapestry-restorer, and apprentice dragon-egg retriever in the months that they've lived together, and that's just in the Wizarding World. Draco isn't sure how Harry manages it, but every once in a while, Draco gets the feeling that Harry has ventured into the Muggle world for a taste of that life, too. Draco can remember a time when Harry came home with an armload of unfinished kites, said he had a Monday morning deadline, and locked himself in his bedroom for the weekend. He has also walked through that door laden down with a stack of pastel drawings by eight year olds; wearing a paper hat that said, 'Hello, May I Take Your Order?' and a nametag that said, 'Ian'; smelling like he'd rolled around in fertilizer the entire day; and toting three boxes of slightly damaged fortune cookies. All of this seems to bring Harry happiness. Draco thinks it's maybe an outlet for his unlived childhood in which he gets to play dress up and wear different hats, where 'hero' is not an option. * After work, Draco turns on the television, sits down on the couch and stretches his legs out down its length. He can't see Harry but knows he is watching and waiting. Draco smoothes the cheque out on the glass table, acknowledging its presence. Moments later, he hears Harry padding across the carpet to the couch. "They gave me the keys yesterday," Harry says, slipping quietly between Draco's legs, stretching out long and low against Draco's body. "What?" Draco goes from mostly-distracted to knowing that this conversation will be serious; Harry has never talked about any of his jobs before, leaving Draco with only speculation and his imagination. Still, he wishes he could head off the conversation until at least the first commercial break, please; and meanwhile, he hopes that Harry means that he's taken a job as an assistant to the locksmith in Diagon Alley and is now in charge of creating customized locking spells or keeping track of keys made from withered old bones shaped like mushrooms or leeks. And Harry, perhaps sensing Draco's predicament, goes quiet in Draco's lap�not angry-quiet, just regular-quiet and contemplative�until the commercial comes on, advertising a new dishsoap, and Draco can bring himself to click off the television, though with effort. "Keys," Draco restates. "I assume you're not speaking of Overton Locksmiths, are you?" Harry reaches into his pocket and brings out an enormous ring of keys, and Draco is stunned into silence. The crest on the key ring is one that Draco thought Harry would never want to see again. Harry's newest job, he thinks. "Keeper of the Keys?" Harry nods. He dangles the key ring from his fingers and the keys jangle together like jewels on a pendant necklace. The lamplight makes some of the metals gleam like newly stamped Galleons; other keys just seem to absorb the light. "Hogwarts," Harry says, with a shake of his head. "It's been so long that I didn't think it would hurt." But Harry looks like he has been hurt, and has been surprised by how deeply. He stretches out his arm and puts the keys down with a heavy clank on the coffee table. After a moment's hesitation, Harry picks up the garishly coloured cheque. "I'm sorry," he says, his throat tight like he is trying to laugh and not cry at the same time. "After all this time, you'd think I could just ask." Draco plucks the cheque from Harry's fingers and covers Harry's mouth with his hand. He uses the backs of his fingers to stroke the side of Harry's face. Without a word, he flips the blanket draped over the back of the couch down over them both and turns out the lamp. When Harry's breathing slows and evens out, Draco picks up his wand. With a flick of his wrist and a soft incantation, he sends the cheque flying back into Harry's bedroom, into the chest of drawers, for next time. That done, he turns the television back on with one hand while his other hand finds Harry's under the blanket. The End. "For What Binds Us" There are names for what binds us: strong forces, weak forces. Look around, you can see them: the skin that forms in a half-empty cup, nails rusting into the places they join, joints dovetailed on their own weight. The way things stay so solidly wherever they've been set down� and gravity, scientists say, is weak. And see how the flesh grows back across a wound, with great vehemence, more strong than the simple untested surface before. There's a name for it on horses, when it comes back darker and raised: proud flesh, as all flesh is proud of its wounds, wears them as honors given out after battle, small triumphs pinned to the chest� And when two people love each other see how it is like a scar between their bodies, stronger, darker, and proud: how the black cord makes of them a single fabric that nothing can tear or mend Jane Hirshfield {About the Eros Affair • Fics by Scenario • Fics by Author • Project Notes}