Chapter 1
The enchanted carriage rocked gently as it wound its way through the sun-drenched French countryside. Harry Potter gazed out of the window, taking in the rolling hills and vineyards that stretched endlessly under the golden afternoon sky. The peaceful view did little to calm his nerves.
“Why France?” he asked Sirius, his godfather, who lounged across from him with a relaxed air.
“Why not?” Sirius replied with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “The Dursleys are dreadful company, and I thought you might enjoy a summer free of their… charm.”
Harry snorted. “Sure, but staying with Malfoys? You’ve got to be joking.”
“I’m not thrilled about it either,” Sirius admitted, his tone sharpening slightly. “But Narcissa isn’t like the rest of them. She’s... complicated. Besides, she offered, and I figured a quiet summer in the countryside might do us both some good.”
Harry frowned. Complicated or not, she was still a Malfoy. “What about her son?”
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Draco? I don’t know him well, but from what I’ve heard, he’s a far cry from Lucius. Let’s hope he’s nothing like his father.”
Harry leaned back in his seat, unconvinced. He couldn’t help but imagine a younger version of Lucius Malfoy—cold, sneering, and dripping with disdain for anyone who didn’t measure up to his impossibly high standards. The thought of spending a summer under the same roof as someone like that made Harry’s stomach churn.
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The Malfoy estate was nothing like Harry had imagined. Instead of the dark, oppressive grandeur he associated with their family, the house was an elegant chateau nestled amidst sprawling gardens. The stone walls were pale and warm in the sunlight, softened by ivy and climbing roses. It was beautiful, almost inviting.
Narcissa Malfoy stood waiting at the top of the steps as the carriage rolled to a stop. She was a vision of composed elegance, her blonde hair swept into an intricate chignon and her robes shimmering faintly in the late afternoon light.
“Sirius,” she greeted, her voice cool but not unkind. Her gaze shifted to Harry, lingering for a moment. “And you must be Harry Potter.”
Harry nodded stiffly.
“You’ll find this house more welcoming than you expect,” Narcissa said, her tone almost teasing. “Draco is in the gardens. He’ll join us for tea shortly.”
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Harry’s room was small but comfortable, with soft linens and a window that overlooked the gardens. After unpacking, he hesitated, unsure whether to stay hidden or explore. Sirius, who had been unpacking his own things, gave him a nudge toward the door.
“Go on, Harry,” he said. “You’re not a prisoner. Besides, I’m sure you’ll have plenty to talk about with Draco. Just... don’t let him get to you if he acts like a prat.”
Harry wasn’t sure if that was meant to be reassuring, but he made his way downstairs anyway.
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The gardens were breathtaking. Flowers of every color spilled over neatly trimmed hedges, and the air was filled with the hum of bees and the faint scent of lavender. Harry followed a winding path until he reached a clearing near a marble fountain.
A boy was sitting on the edge of the fountain, dipping his fingers into the water absentmindedly. Harry stopped short, momentarily startled.
The boy was beautiful in a way that made Harry’s chest feel oddly tight. His pale blonde hair, fine and silken, fell in soft waves just past his chin, catching the sunlight in a way that made it shimmer like spun gold. His skin was alabaster smooth, unblemished and glowing faintly in the afternoon light. He had delicate, almost feminine features: high cheekbones, a slender nose, and full, soft lips that looked like they had never formed a harsh word.
He looked up, and Harry was struck by the clarity of his silver-gray eyes, framed by lashes so long and dark they could have been painted on. There was a quiet intensity in his gaze, as though he were seeing straight through Harry and deciding, in that instant, whether or not he was worth speaking to.
“You must be Harry Potter,” the boy said, his voice light and lilting, with a faint French accent that Harry hadn’t expected.
“I—yeah,” Harry stammered, feeling oddly self-conscious. “And you’re Draco?”
The boy inclined his head, the corner of his mouth quirking in a faint smile. “Draco Malfoy. My mother said you’d be arriving today.”
There was no hostility in his tone, but there was something guarded about the way he studied Harry, as though he were assessing him. Harry felt an urge to straighten his posture, to prove that he could stand his ground even under scrutiny from someone so... perfect-looking.
“I thought you’d be... different,” Harry admitted before he could stop himself.
Draco raised an eyebrow, his smile widening slightly. “Oh? And what exactly were you expecting?”
Harry flushed. “I don’t know. Maybe someone more like your father.”
Draco’s expression faltered for a fraction of a second, and he glanced away. “I’m not my father,” he said softly, almost to himself. Then, shaking off the moment, he added, “Come on. My mother’s waiting for us. She won’t be pleased if I’m late again.”
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Tea was a strange affair. Narcissa maintained a graceful, polite conversation, asking Harry about his time at Hogwarts and carefully avoiding any mention of the war. Sirius, on the other hand, seemed determined to provoke his cousin, making pointed remarks that Narcissa deflected with icy ease.
Draco sat quietly for the most part, watching Harry with a curiosity that was difficult to read. Every so often, his lips would twitch as though he were suppressing a comment, but he said nothing, letting the adults dominate the conversation.
When the tea ended, Narcissa rose gracefully. “Draco, why don’t you show Harry around the grounds? It might help him feel more at home.”
Draco inclined his head. “Of course, Mother.”
Harry followed him out into the gardens, feeling more out of place with every step. Draco walked ahead of him, his movements fluid and precise, like a dancer gliding across a stage.
“So,” Draco said after a moment, glancing back at Harry. “What do you think of my mother?”
“She’s... nice,” Harry said awkwardly.
Draco snorted softly. “Nice? That’s a new one. Most people think she’s terrifying.”
“Well, I’ve met worse,” Harry said. “The Dursleys, for one.”
Draco frowned, pausing to look at him more closely. “The Muggles you live with? What are they like?”
Harry hesitated, caught off guard by the genuine curiosity in Draco’s voice. “They’re awful,” he admitted finally. “They hate magic. They hate me.”
Draco’s frown deepened, but he said nothing, leading Harry toward a small, secluded grove at the edge of the garden.
“Why did your mother invite us here?” Harry asked suddenly.
Draco stopped, turning to face him fully. For the first time, Harry saw something vulnerable flicker in his silver eyes.
“Maybe she thought we could learn something from each other,” Draco said quietly. “Or maybe she just wanted to prove that not all Malfoys are the same.”
Harry didn’t know how to respond to that. But as they stood there, surrounded by flowers and dappled sunlight, he realized that Draco Malfoy was nothing like he’d expected—and maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.