snape's love language
The moment Harry stepped inside Malfoy Manor, he knew he was in for a very different kind of summer.
Draco led him through towering halls of black marble and silver accents, the dim light from enchanted chandeliers casting a soft glow over their surroundings. Everything about the place screamed elegance, wealth, and history—yet despite its intimidating grandeur, it felt safe. Or maybe that was just because Draco was with him.
"You look like you've never seen a manor before," Draco teased, nudging Harry as they passed an enormous painting of a regal-looking Malfoy ancestor who eyed Harry with distaste.
"I haven't seen a manor before," Harry shot back, still taking in the high ceilings and enchanted tapestries. "At least, not one that wasn't trying to kill me."
Draco scoffed. "Well, this one might try if you insult the décor, so keep your opinions to yourself, Potter."
Harry rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help but smile as Draco continued leading him through the house. He showed him the drawing room, the study (which was bigger than the entire Dursley house), the dueling chamber ("because every respectable family should have one, obviously") and, finally, Harry’s room.
His own room.
Harry blinked as he stepped inside. The walls were lined with dark green wallpaper accented with silver, but the bedding was a deep navy—Draco’s doing, no doubt. The fireplace crackled warmly, and a vast bookshelf lined one wall, already stocked with books that Harry suspected had been chosen specifically for him.
"You like it?" Draco asked, watching him carefully.
Harry swallowed. "I love it."
Draco's smirk softened. "Good. Because I’m not letting you stay in that ridiculous little room you had at the Leaky Cauldron all summer."
Before Harry could respond, a knock at the door interrupted them.
"Draco, Harry," Narcissa’s cool voice called. "Come downstairs, please. We have something to discuss."
Harry exchanged a glance with Draco, who merely sighed before grabbing Harry’s hand and pulling him along.
When they arrived in the drawing room, Narcissa and Lucius were seated gracefully on one of the velvet couches, while Snape stood nearby, his arms crossed.
"Sit," Lucius said, gesturing to the chairs across from them.
Harry sat cautiously, his fingers still lightly brushing Draco’s. Something about the way the adults were looking at them set him on edge. They were planning something.
"We’re taking you both to Paris," Narcissa said smoothly, her hands folded neatly in her lap.
Harry blinked. "Paris?" He had expected many things, but a summer holiday was not one of them.
"Yes," Snape said, voice carefully neutral. "You’ll both be accompanying us. There are… things to see, places to visit."
Draco leaned forward. "Why?"
Narcissa and Lucius exchanged a glance, something silent passing between them. Harry didn’t miss the way Narcissa’s fingers twitched slightly toward Lucius's hand, or the way Snape seemed particularly stiff, his expression unreadable.
"There are matters to attend to," Lucius said finally. "And it will be… beneficial for you both to come along."
Harry narrowed his eyes. There was something they weren’t telling him. But before he could ask, Draco spoke up.
"Fine," he said, crossing his arms. "But I’m picking the restaurants. No offense, Father, but your taste in food is atrocious."
Lucius sighed, while Narcissa smirked behind her cup of tea.
Harry, still suspicious, glanced at Snape—who, oddly enough, looked more tired than usual. Something was definitely going on.
And Harry was going to figure out what.
---
Harry knew the Malfoys were rich, but standing in front of the Hôtel de Sorcellerie, he felt like he’d severely underestimated just how rich.
The hotel was massive—an elegant structure of gleaming white stone with golden accents, perched along the Seine. Wrought iron balconies wrapped around each floor, draped in flowering vines, and floating lanterns hovered in the entrance, lighting the path for arriving guests. A sign near the entrance shimmered with enchanted lettering:
Hôtel de Sorcellerie – Est. 1745
For the most refined witches and wizards
Harry felt underdressed just standing there.
Draco, on the other hand, looked entirely unimpressed. "Honestly, I told Mother we should’ve gone to the Grand Sorcier Hotel instead," he muttered, adjusting his cufflinks as if he were about to attend a royal gala.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Is this place not fancy enough for you?"
Draco gave him a look. "It’s acceptable, but the service here is dreadfully slow."
Harry barely had time to snort before Narcissa, with her usual graceful authority, led them through the grand entrance.
Inside, the hotel was even more ridiculous. A giant enchanted chandelier floated above the lobby, its crystal-like lights shifting colors softly. The floor was polished marble, enchanted so it reflected an image of the sky outside. Uniformed staff bustled about, whispering incantations to carry guests’ luggage.
Lucius was already speaking to the concierge in perfect French, arranging for their suite. Meanwhile, Snape stood behind him, arms crossed, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere but here.
"This is so excessive," Harry mumbled as Draco pulled him toward one of the velvet chairs near the lobby.
Draco smirked. "That’s the point, Potter. If you're going to be with a Malfoy, you'd better get used to the finer things."
Harry rolled his eyes, but his stomach still did a little flip at being with a Malfoy. Draco had said it so easily, so naturally.
They were still bickering when Narcissa returned with their room keys. "Come along, boys. We have much to see today."
—
After dropping off their luggage in the insanely luxurious suite—where Harry almost passed out at the sight of his own enormous bed—they set off to explore Paris.
But, of course, they weren’t just visiting regular Paris.
"First stop—Boutique de la Vie," Narcissa announced.
Harry quickly realized that Boutique de la Vie was Paris’ version of Diagon Alley—except grander. The street was lined with elegant shops, filled with fashionable wizards and witches, and the smell of fresh pastries and butterbeer drifted through the air. Everything looked pristine and magical, from the floating street signs to the shimmering cobblestones beneath their feet.
"Try not to look so overwhelmed, Potter," Draco teased.
"I am not overwhelmed," Harry muttered. "You try growing up in a cupboard and then suddenly walking into this."
Draco faltered for a moment but quickly masked it with a smirk. "Well, I did offer to take you shopping last summer, but someone was too busy being kidnapped by his Muggle relatives."
"Yeah, yeah," Harry said, nudging him.
As they wandered through the street, they passed by potion shops, high-end robe boutiques, and bookstores. At one point, Snape peeled off, mumbling something about "ingredients," while Narcissa and Lucius discussed French wine selections.
Harry was just admiring a display of enchanted quills when a voice behind him spoke.
"Ah, you must be Harry Potter."
Harry turned and found himself face to face with a man who looked… tired.
The stranger had light brown hair with streaks of gray, a warm but slightly worn-out expression, and eyes that held an odd mixture of kindness and exhaustion. His robes were slightly shabby compared to the elegant French crowd, but something about him felt safe.
"Er—yeah," Harry said cautiously.
The man smiled. "Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I just—well, I knew your parents."
Harry stiffened. He always hated when people said that—like they expected him to remember them when he hadn’t even known his parents at all.
The man seemed to notice his discomfort because he quickly added, "I’m Remus Lupin. I was a friend of James and Lily’s."
Something about the name tickled at Harry’s memory. Hadn’t someone mentioned a Remus Lupin before?
Before he could figure it out, Lupin glanced over his shoulder and spotted something—or rather, someone.
"Ah," Lupin said, his voice shifting slightly. "Severus."
Harry turned and saw Snape approaching, looking extremely displeased.
"Lupin," Snape greeted, voice dripping with disdain.
Harry glanced between them. The tension in the air was practically crackling.
"You look well," Lupin said lightly, though Harry could tell he was definitely holding something back.
Snape sneered. "And you still look like you sleep in a ditch."
Harry's eyes widened. Draco, who had just returned from a nearby store, immediately leaned over and whispered, "This is fascinating. I knew there was something going on between them."
Harry gave him a look. "They hate each other."
Draco smirked. "Or maybe they hate how much they don’t hate each other."
Before Harry could process whatever that meant, Narcissa called them over.
"Come, boys," she said smoothly. "We still have dinner reservations, and I’d rather not be late."
Harry glanced back at Lupin, who gave him a small smile. "It was nice meeting you, Harry. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing more of each other soon."
Harry nodded slowly, still feeling like there was something unsaid in that conversation.
As they walked away, Draco suddenly said, "I knew there was something suspicious about Professor Snape. I told you, Potter, he's obviously got a thing for that Lupin bloke."
Harry blinked. "Professor Snape?"
Draco raised an eyebrow. "Oh, come on. You have to see it."
"I mean—no, not that," Harry said. "Lupin’s going to be our professor?"
Snape groaned. "Unfortunately."
Harry filed that information away.
Professor Lupin.
A man who had known his parents.
And a man who—apparently—was tied up in whatever weird unresolved thing was happening between him and Snape.
Yeah.
This was going to be an interesting year.
---
It started with a simple conversation.
They were sitting in a quaint little café along the Seine, enjoying their ridiculously fancy French pastries, when a waiter approached their table.
"Messieurs, voulez-vous autre chose ?"
Harry blinked. He had no idea what the waiter had just said. It was probably something like, Would you like anything else? But Harry, whose experience with foreign languages extended to struggling through his English essays, wasn’t about to guess.
He turned to Draco for help, but Draco was already answering—smoothly, fluently, without even thinking about it.
"Non, merci. Tout était parfait. Mais pourriez-vous apporter une autre tasse de thé pour mon petit ami ?"
Harry stared.
The waiter nodded, smiled, and walked away.
Harry kept staring.
Draco finally turned back to him, raising an eyebrow. "What?"
"What—what?" Harry sputtered. "*You—you speak French?"
Draco blinked, looking genuinely confused. "Of course I speak French."
"Of course?" Harry repeated, incredulous. "Draco, I—you never told me that!"
Draco smirked, leaning back in his chair. "I didn’t think it needed mentioning, Potter. It’s just one of the languages I know."
Harry’s brain short-circuited. "One of—Draco, how many languages do you speak?"
Draco tilted his head, thinking. "Fluently? About sixteen."
Harry choked on his tea. "Sixteen?!"
Lucius, who had been quietly reading a newspaper, made a slightly smug noise. "I would expect nothing less from my son."
Harry, meanwhile, was struggling to comprehend this new reality. "Sixteen languages," he repeated, staring at Draco like he’d grown a second head. "You—how?"
Draco shrugged, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. "Private tutors. Mother insisted I learn the important ones—French, Latin, Greek, Italian, German. Then there were the useful ones—Parseltongue, Old Norse, Runic dialects—"
"Parseltongue?" Harry interrupted.
Draco gave him a look. "I had a tutor, Potter. I learned it. You were born with it. There’s a difference."
Harry just kept staring. "You can understand snakes?!"
"Obviously," Draco said, like it wasn’t mind-blowing information.
Harry gaped at him. "Why do you even know this many languages?"
Draco rolled his eyes. "Because I’m a Malfoy, and Malfoys are expected to be well-educated. Unlike you, who probably thinks 'bonjour' is a type of pastry."
Harry ignored that. "You never told me this!"
Draco smirked, sipping his tea. "You never asked."
Harry groaned, dropping his head onto the table. "You’re ridiculous."
Draco, looking far too pleased with himself, reached over and ran a hand through Harry’s hair. "Mon amour, tu es adorable quand tu es frustré."
Harry lifted his head, eyes narrowing. "What did you just say?"
Draco leaned in, his breath warm against Harry’s ear. "Wouldn’t you like to know?"
And just like that, Harry knew this was going to haunt him forever.
---
The small bookshop was tucked away in a corner of Boutique de la Vie, barely noticeable if you didn’t know what you were looking for. The sign above the door read Les Secrets de la Magie, and the moment they stepped inside, Harry could tell this was no ordinary store. The air was thick with the scent of parchment and something old, something powerful.
Draco wrinkled his nose at the dusty shelves but said nothing, following Harry as he wandered through the aisles. Snape, of course, looked completely at home in a place like this, his fingers idly tracing the spines of books with Latin titles Harry couldn’t begin to translate.
“This place is—”
“Fascinating,” Draco finished, his voice oddly quiet. “Some of these books aren’t even available in Knockturn Alley.”
Harry was about to ask what exactly Draco meant by that when a voice interrupted them.
“I never thought I’d see you in a place like this, Severus.”
Harry turned so fast he nearly knocked over a stack of books. There, standing near the counter, was the same man he had met earlier that day—the one with the kind, tired eyes and the threadbare robes.
Remus Lupin.
Harry frowned, watching the way Lupin’s gaze flickered from Snape to Narcissa, then to Lucius. There was something tense about the moment, something unspoken.
“I hardly think it’s your concern where I choose to shop, Lupin,” Snape sneered, though it lacked his usual venom.
Lupin’s lips quirked into a half-smile. “Of course not. Just surprised, that’s all.”
Harry wasn’t sure what to make of it, but Draco was definitely enjoying this. He leaned closer to Harry and whispered, “I told you there was something going on between them.”
Harry ignored him, but his curiosity only grew.
Later that night, after a long day of exploring, Harry was exhausted. He had just flopped onto the ridiculously soft bed in his hotel room when he heard voices drifting through the door.
He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. Really.
But then he heard his name.
Harry crept closer, pressing his ear against the door.
“—still hasn’t realized?” That was Narcissa’s voice, quiet but firm.
Lucius sighed. “He’s a child, Cissy. It’s not surprising.”
Snape’s voice was sharper. “We cannot afford to keep him in the dark much longer. If he finds out before we tell him—”
“We will tell him,” Narcissa interrupted. “But only when the time is right.”
Harry’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. What were they hiding from him?
He didn’t get a chance to hear more—footsteps approached, and he scrambled back to his bed just in time for Draco to knock and stroll in like he owned the place.
“You look guilty,” Draco remarked, flopping down beside him.
Harry forced a grin. “Just tired.”
Draco eyed him suspiciously but let it go.
For now.
The next day, they found themselves in an elegant magical art shop, filled with enchanted paintings that shimmered and moved.
Harry wasn’t sure why Draco was so interested in this place, until he caught sight of something shocking.
A portrait. Of himself.
He stared at the painting—a perfect likeness of him, mid-laugh, his green eyes bright and his hair even messier than usual.
“You—” Harry turned to Draco, eyes wide. “You painted this?”
Draco, for once, looked flustered. “So what if I did?”
Harry could barely speak. “Draco, this is—amazing.”
Draco scoffed, but his ears were turning pink. “It’s just a hobby.”
Harry wasn’t convinced. He had never seen anything so beautifully done in his life.
And more than that—Draco had painted him from memory.
Harry swallowed hard, his heart doing something strange in his chest.
“You should paint more,” he said quietly.
Draco rolled his eyes. “Maybe I will.”
But Harry caught the tiny, pleased smile on his lips. And suddenly, all the secrets, all the mysteries, all the tension of the past few days faded into the background.
Because in this moment, all Harry could think about was how much he loved Draco Malfoy.