Chapter 2
Harry spent his first few days at the Malfoy estate in relative solitude. The house was vast, with winding corridors and rooms that seemed to shift depending on the time of day. The gardens, sprawling and alive with color, became his sanctuary, a place to escape the weight of expectations and the unspoken tension that seemed to linger in the air.
Draco, for his part, was a ghostly presence in the house. Occasionally, Harry would catch glimpses of him—sitting by a window with a book in his lap, wandering the edges of the gardens with an almost wistful expression, or disappearing into a room just as Harry rounded a corner. Their conversations were minimal, polite exchanges of “good morning” or “did you need something from the kitchen?” that left Harry feeling both frustrated and strangely intrigued.
Sirius, ever observant, seemed content to let Harry find his footing, though his amused smirks every time Harry mentioned Draco were beginning to grate on his nerves.
It was Narcissa who eventually intervened.
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The moment came during breakfast on a particularly warm morning. The sunlight poured through the high windows of the dining room, casting golden patterns on the polished floor. Narcissa sat at the head of the table, her posture perfect as ever, sipping tea from a delicate china cup. Draco sat to her right, his pale blonde hair catching the light like strands of silk, while Harry sat across from him, absently pushing scrambled eggs around his plate.
“I’ve noticed,” Narcissa began, her tone smooth but pointed, “that the two of you haven’t spent much time together.”
Harry glanced up from his plate, his fork hovering midair. Draco’s gaze dropped immediately to his lap, a faint blush dusting his pale cheeks.
“I suppose not,” Harry said cautiously, unsure of where this was going.
“It’s a shame,” Narcissa continued, her eyes darting between them. “You’re both intelligent, capable young men. I’d think you’d have much to talk about.”
Draco cleared his throat, his voice soft. “I’ve been busy, Mother.”
Narcissa arched a delicate brow. “Busy avoiding each other, perhaps.”
Harry’s face warmed. “It’s not that we’re avoiding each other—”
“Good,” Narcissa interrupted with a faint smile. “Then you won’t mind spending the afternoon together.”
Draco’s head snapped up, his silver-gray eyes wide. “Mother, I—”
“No arguments,” she said firmly, her tone leaving no room for debate. “You’re both guests in this house, and it’s high time you started behaving like it. Draco, show Harry the library. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”
Draco pressed his lips together, clearly unhappy, but he nodded.
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The library was just as grand as the rest of the house. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, filled with books bound in leather and gilded in gold. A massive window let in streams of sunlight, and plush chairs were arranged around a central reading table.
Draco led the way, his movements quiet and precise, as if he were afraid of disturbing the books themselves. Harry followed awkwardly, his hands shoved into his pockets.
“So,” Harry began, breaking the silence, “you spend a lot of time in here?”
Draco nodded, his fingers trailing lightly over the spines of the books. “I like to read,” he said softly. “It’s... peaceful.”
Harry tilted his head, watching the way Draco’s lashes swept down as he avoided eye contact. There was something almost fragile about him, a stark contrast to the arrogance Harry had expected.
“What do you read?” Harry asked, genuinely curious.
Draco hesitated, his fingers lingering on a book before he pulled it from the shelf. “Mostly poetry,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “And... stories about places I’ve never been.”
Harry’s eyebrows rose. “Like travel books?”
Draco shook his head, a small, almost shy smile playing at his lips. “Not exactly. More like... stories of adventure. Magic. Things that don’t feel so... small.”
The vulnerability in his tone caught Harry off guard. He’d expected Draco to be haughty, condescending, even cruel. But this Draco—the quiet, almost delicate boy standing before him—was something else entirely.
“I like stories like that too,” Harry said after a moment.
Draco glanced at him, surprise flickering in his silver eyes. “You do?”
Harry nodded. “Yeah. They make things feel... bigger, I guess. Like there’s more out there than just what we see.”
For the first time, Draco smiled, a real smile that softened his features and made him look even more beautiful than Harry had thought possible.
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The afternoon passed quietly but comfortably. Draco showed Harry his favorite books, his initial shyness slowly melting as they talked about their favorite stories. Harry found himself drawn to the way Draco spoke, his voice light and melodic, and the way his fingers brushed the pages of the books as if they were something precious.
At one point, Draco read aloud from a book of French poetry, his voice so soft and lilting that Harry barely noticed the words themselves. Instead, he found himself watching the way Draco’s lips moved, the faint pink blush on his cheeks as he realized Harry was listening intently.
When the sun began to set, Narcissa appeared in the doorway, her expression unreadable. “I trust you two have managed to get along?”
Draco glanced at Harry, his cheeks flushing faintly, but he nodded. “Yes, Mother.”
Harry nodded as well, offering a small smile. “Thanks for showing me the library, Draco.”
Draco looked down, a flicker of a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re welcome.”
As Narcissa ushered them back toward the dining room for dinner, Harry couldn’t help but feel that something had shifted between them. Draco was no longer the aloof, untouchable figure he had imagined. Instead, he was soft-spoken, gentle, and entirely unlike anyone Harry had ever met.
For the first time since arriving in France, Harry found himself looking forward to tomorrow.
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The gardens were bathed in moonlight, the soft glow lending an almost otherworldly quality to the roses and ivy-covered trellises. Sirius lit his wand, the faint light casting shadows along the gravel path as they strolled.
“So,” Sirius began, his voice light but probing, “how’s my godson holding up in the land of croissants and aristocrats?”
Harry shrugged, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “It’s... different. Quiet. I guess I’m not used to having so much time to think.”
Sirius chuckled. “I can imagine. The Dursleys’ version of quiet probably involved locking you in a cupboard.”
Harry smiled faintly but didn’t respond.
“And the company?” Sirius pressed, glancing at Harry out of the corner of his eye.
Harry hesitated, thinking back to the afternoon he’d spent with Draco in the library. “Draco’s... not what I expected,” he admitted.
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Oh? What did you expect?”
“Someone like his father,” Harry said, kicking a loose pebble on the path. “But he’s... different. He’s quiet, sort of shy. I don’t think he likes being here any more than I do.”
Sirius was silent for a moment, then said, “Narcissa’s always been the odd one out in that family. I suppose it makes sense that her son would be different too.”
Harry nodded, though he wasn’t entirely sure what Sirius meant.
“And you?” Sirius asked, his tone softer now. “How are you feeling, really? It’s a big change, being here.”
Harry thought about it for a moment before answering. “It’s... strange. I don’t really know what I’m supposed to be doing here. I mean, it’s beautiful, and Narcissa’s been kind, but I don’t feel like I belong.”
Sirius stopped walking and turned to face Harry, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “Listen, kid. You’ve spent most of your life being told you don’t belong—by the Dursleys, by people who don’t know you, by your own doubts. But you do. You belong wherever you decide to stand, and don’t let anyone make you feel otherwise.”
Harry looked away, his throat tightening. “I just... I don’t know who I am outside of all this. Outside of being ‘The Boy Who Lived.’”
Sirius’s expression softened, and he pulled Harry into a quick, one-armed hug. “You’re James and Lily’s son, for one. And that’s worth more than you know.”
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They found a bench near a small pond, the water reflecting the stars like a sheet of glass. Sirius leaned back, his arms stretched along the top of the bench, and looked up at the sky.
“You know, you remind me of James sometimes,” Sirius said after a while, his voice thick with nostalgia.
Harry tilted his head, curious. “How?”
Sirius smiled faintly. “You’ve got his stubbornness, for one. And his knack for finding trouble, though I suppose that runs in the family.”
Harry laughed quietly. “And my mum?”
Sirius’s smile grew warmer. “You’ve got her heart, no question about it. Lily was fierce when it came to protecting the people she cared about, and she never backed down when something mattered to her. You’re the same way.”
Harry stared out at the water, his chest tightening with an ache he couldn’t quite put into words. “I wish I knew them,” he admitted quietly.
Sirius nodded, his gaze fixed on the stars. “I wish you did too. They would’ve been so proud of you, Harry. Everything you’ve been through, everything you’ve become—it’s more than they ever could’ve hoped for.”
Harry swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “Do you think they’d be happy with me?”
Sirius turned to him, his expression serious. “They’d be over the moon. Your mum would fuss over you constantly, and your dad... well, he’d probably be trying to teach you every prank in the book.” He chuckled, the sound tinged with bittersweet emotion. “They loved you more than anything, Harry. Never doubt that.”
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For a while, they sat in silence, the only sounds the gentle rustle of leaves and the faint chirping of crickets.
“Thanks, Sirius,” Harry said finally, his voice steady but quiet.
Sirius looked at him, his grin returning. “Anytime, kiddo. That’s what I’m here for.”
As they made their way back to the house, Harry felt a little lighter. The ache of missing his parents would never fully go away, but knowing they lived on in him—in his stubbornness, his heart, his very existence—was enough to make the weight bearable.