Chapter 18
I hated the moment my eyes welled up with tears because for the first time in 9 years I could see the sun. This couldn’t be real life. I was dreaming.
Dozens of squalling red headed fiends crawling and running and brawling in this place Weasley claimed was a house could not be reality. He must have slipped me something like Millicent did in 5th year to celebrate surviving the O.W.L.s. This was all a hallucination. That’s why, for the first time in 9 years, I was dressed beyond DMLE assigned clothing. My sweater was sky blue. The large D on it was crimson.
I stared in fascination out an actual window at what couldn’t possibly have been the actual sky. I was dreaming. How else could I watch a pickup game of quidditch happening? I dreamed there was a broom within reach. My fingers twitched to touch it. My stomach ached to fly.
If this was a dream, I’d be allowed to join them. Perhaps it was real. Or a nightmare. Hard to tell them apart.
Nightmare, I thought, when I was drawn into an over-extended living room by an overly polite Weasley spouse, who told me no less than three times that I was absolutely welcome into their ancestral home. If my mother had ever insisted that strongly I’d expect the suits of armor to come alive and murder our guest before supper.
Nightmare, I thought, when I gambled on making conversation with Percy Weasley rather than spend any time with children, before being droned at for 20 minutes about magical transportation because it had been very much the wrong choice.
Nightmare, I thought, when a dozen quidditch players ambled into the house, windswept and perspiring, which in Potter’s case made his skin shine almost as bright as his joyous smile.
My stomach may have dropped out from under me. Someone would have to dare the Weasley basement to bring it back.
I shouldn’t have stared at him like this. Like I wanted something. I knew he wouldn’t look back. He hasn’t looked at me once since Weasley - the real Ron Weasley - broke me out of the ministry for Christmas Eve. He gave smiles so generously in every direction but my own. It skewered me. I’d known, even when he kissed me, he hadn’t needed me the way I needed him.
I made my excuses and left the room. The kitchen was somehow worse, what with matron Weasley holding court and every stove and countertop covered in ingredients soon to be assembled into a feast. The Burrow was not like a proper wizarding home, with other choices of places to hide. The rooms beyond were private, carved off for children’s bedrooms and now grandchildren’s space. I found a less used exit to the grounds, such as they were. Wild and eclectic. Vivacious even in winter. Fragrant despite the cold. Gorgeous in the setting sun. It was chaos and I wanted to bottle the smell of it for when I was held back underground for the next decade.
Hot Weasley was still outdoors, packing up the last of the quidditch set. I suppose he had a name, and I should learn it, since I’d been forced into such an unnatural space where shouting Weasley would turn two dozen heads.
I didn’t ask his name, but I did heave myself into the action of picking up old quidditch gear, left over from Hogwarts days by the looks of it. They had five times as many pieces as they should need, almost all in disrepair. A Malfoy would have tossed bits like this out as soon as fix them. Hot Weasley treated them with care. He smiled at me as I mimicked his reverence, finding meaning in his treatment of old things.
Time for supper, Potter called from the doorway. I glanced to him just quick enough to see his hard stare, before he was whisked away by the festive crowd.
Hot Weasley and I were last in, which meant we had to sit at the end of the big table where it butted up to the children. “Uncle Charlie” - they called him, and then I had his name. Charlie didn't mind the littles. He catapulted peas at them when his younger brother Percy tried to make conversation. He winked at me when I had to smother a laugh. He noticed my blush, I was sure of it.
There was a shifting to my right and when Percy’s wife got up Potter was suddenly there, right beside me. I felt the brush of his elbow for just a moment. My arm ached for the sensation to come back.
He talked to Charlie, not me. Charlie lives in Romania. Charlie wrangles dragons. Charlie was exactly the sort of person Potter should have the hots for, I just wish he did his flirting away from me. I hadn’t thought Potter cruel in years but I was wrong about all sorts of things. His elbow didn’t brush me again. He didn’t look once in my direction. Not until Charlie turned his questions around, asked me what I thought of them. It was so deliberate a redirection both me and Potter were caught unguarded.
Um. I’d never been to Romania. It sounded nice. Like the sort of place I’d like to visit.
Draco’s not allowed to travel, Potter cut in, harsh words fraying my already sensitive nerves. The overly familiar use of my first name making my heart ache. He’s called me Draco, but he wouldn’t even look at me.
Charlie tilted his head back so he could stare at the heavens. Then, with the briefest regretful smile in my direction, he turned to his brother Percy and asked about port key permits. Percy’s resulting drone drowned any other conversation out.
Shocking no one, the Weasleys were loud. They made noise talking, caroling, playing together, drinking together. The too snug house was the perfect size for their combined cheer. Don’t drink the eggnog, warned real Weasley (he couldn’t make me call him Ron, that was a step too far), right before an earless elder brother forced a mug of the stuff in my hands with an overeager “cheers!”
The cacophony pushed in on me. There was nowhere to hide but I did my best to tuck into a corner where the more modest had taken up games of cards. I slipped in well to the French-favorite belote before Fleur began teaching her two oldest, Victoire and Dominique, the popular English card games their aunts and uncles would know. It conjured up memories of my own mother showing me to navigate tricks and accumulate points. Tracking the game came easy to me. Too easy, my mother said. She had to teach me how not to win. How to best position others at the table to score for my own political purposes. It came in well here, with two children in need of boosted confidence in this raucous space that couldn’t possibly feel normal.
The late hour only bolstered the noise. Fleur left to take Dominique to bed, leaving a slightly older Victoire the thrill of a late night with adults. I wanted to be infected by her childhood glee at the privilege, but a round of exploding snaps left me shakier with every boom and pop. I would have left, had Charlie not wandered over, carting earless Weasley. One of the twins, I realized. I recalled there was only one left. I didn’t know which one it was, but he was drunk enough to tilt sideways while sitting in a chair. Charlie suggested cards, and earless Weasley begrudgingly agreed, although he was ill tempered even when winning. It hardly phased me to be sneered at, but something twisted in me to see that sneer turned on the Weasley niece.
I looked down at my hands, cupping cards I’d spent the evening downplaying. Then up at Victoire until she met my gaze. I couldn’t have quirked more than half a lip up, but she saw it. Camaraderie. And, unbeknownst to her, a perfect understanding of this game. I stayed small and took up as little space as possible, but every move spoke for me. I cleared my throat only when Victoire was on the verge of making the wrong play. I’d tilt my head left or right to redirect her to another card as needed, having easily tracked the cards she held. It wasn’t the elegance of playing with a master like my mother, but there was the oddest feeling in my chest as we collectively tore her uncles apart.
I laid the final card down and displayed a final winning hand, leaving the table gobsmacked by our teams’ complete domination. Getting to my feet, I deposited a still full mug of eggnog to the earless brother, my voice deadpan when I returned his cheers. Charlie guffawed at his brother’s shocked face. I’ll admit, there might have been smug amusement showing when my lips twitched.
Coming back from the lavatory, Potter stopped me. He looked agitated and more than once glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching. He still took half a step closer, close enough to change the feel of air against my body even if I couldn’t feel his touch. For a moment, I had forgotten I wanted to feel him. I had forgotten to be out of place and alone.
Potter brought all my insecurities back as only he ever could with a hissed question about whether I really thought Ron would want me flirting with his brother.
It was rational that my first instinct was to give into the conceit of the question. I knew I wasn’t good enough to be here in the heart of Weasley’s family, with hardly anyone acting like I’d once tried to kill them. It was knowing the truth of it that made me shrink. It robbed me of the comfort I’d slipped up and settled into at that card table with Fleur’s motherly presence so familiar and warm.
But I had been allowed to be comfortable. Weasley hadn’t just invited me out with his staff, he’d welcomed me into his home. He’d let me dine with his brothers. He let me play with his nieces and nephews. He let me hold his children. Why the fuck would Potter suggest Weasley didn’t think I was good enough?
I whispered yelled all of this right up in Potter’s face, which meant I had a startling view of his lips parting in shock and his cheeks reddening in embarrassment. Like he had never connected his accusation to its implications. Like he hadn’t been thinking about the Weasley family at all, just my interactions with one particular Weasley, which would make no sense unless…
Oh.
OH.
Potter was just a hair's breath away and neither of us were moving back.
Then there was a noise, and we both leapt apart.
Real Weasley (I would never call him Ron) wanted to know if Potter could let me use his guest room. Charlie had come a day earlier than expected and they were all out of space. I saw the same twitch on Potter’s face as Weasley did right before Weasley was quick to say it was fine either way. I had Weasley’s guest room, and Charlie could stay with them on the couch, or maybe we could even share.
No, Potter had the space. Plenty of space. His sudden, forceful declaration of spare bedrooms had my eyes narrowing. Weasley, too keen for my liking, picked up on how fucking odd we were being because he wasn’t stupid. Instead of accepting Potter’s offer, he straight up asked me what I’d prefer, I’m sure not missing Potter’s affronted glare in response.
I sucked in air. It was too loud. Too much ruckus. Too many stares watching what I would decide. Too many opportunities to read things into my answer.
I glanced at Potter, wide-eyes full of the realization he’d botched this. I was so fucked up inside that seeing him like that gave me hope.
Maybe…
Hope was stupid. Hope got you hurt. Hope was asking for pain when you could settle for the edges of comfort.
But maybe…
What was the worst that could happen? It wasn’t like I couldn’t handle the pain.