Timeless

2

Narcissa

“Mister Potter, an individual is asking for you on the front desk,” Leila, Harry’s trusted assistant, announced as she peeked her head on the door. 

Harry, who was engrossed in studying a case with his reading glasses on, looked up at the blonde young woman and raised his brow. 

“Who?” he asked.

“Draco Malfoy,” Leila answered.

She watched as her boss’s ever-neutral expression turned into something unreadable between shock and confusion. His brows raised up, amused and curious before he schooled it back to its calm one.

“Alright. Send him in,” Harry said as he closed the folder he was reading. 

Leila—bless her soul, just nodded and smiled before fetching Draco outside. Harry sighed to himself. His life was never boring and Draco just can’t let himself be forgotten, can he? He has Ron to worry and this confusing feeling that threatens to bubble up again now to worry as well? He wishes he could just obliviate himself.

A few minutes later, Leila came back with the tall blonde behind her. Harry’s breath got caught again. It always does that whenever a certain individual was in his line of sight. He shook it off before anyone noticed. 

“Thank you, Leila. You may leave us now,” Harry said, his voice coming out deeper than intended. Leila nodded, shooting a curious glance up at Draco before vacating the office and closing the door behind her with a soft click.

“What can I help you with?” Harry asked, now taking the chance to fully take in Draco’s appearance. His long hair was in a loose braid dangling behind him, his face as pristine as ever, and he was wearing a black tuxedo under a thick overcoat.

Draco looked at him sitting on the desk. His silver eyes were watchful and calculating, something that never died even when Lucius who made him like that died long ago. He noticed the youth on his arch-nemesis’s face was long gone. His unkempt hair was now longer (still curly, he notes) and was tied half-up. His tanned skin is still the same, rich and covered with old and new scars. The mark on his forehead was now proudly shown, his first scar among the hundreds he got and he will get through his life.

He was wearing a suit, something Draco didn’t imagine the tacky Gryffindor would wear. It was the standard, he noticed, among aurors of high-positions to wear suits under their robes. Draco discovered something about himself that moment. He just wouldn’t admit what.

“I have to talk to you about something,” he finally said after a long pause, walking towards a chair in front of Harry’s desk and taking a seat on it. 

He crossed his legs on top of one another and placed his hand on top of his knee. Harry removed his reading glasses and nodded. He placed the golden rimmed glasses on top of the folder and placed both his hands next to it, clasped together. 

“Of course. What is it?” he replied, looking back at Draco.

Draco cleared his throat and pulled out a black invitation from inside his black suit jacket. He looked at it for a while, as if he— the very same man who had written the letter— still couldn't grasp the contents inside it. He sighed before handing the letter to Harry.

Harry took it with his large, calloused hands and examined it. It was a plain black envelope with the Malfoy crest embedded on it. He curiously looked at Draco who was looking right at him. 

“You could’ve sent an owl for this. But I guess this is too important that you had to deliver it yourself,” Harry said, still watching the blonde (or platinum blonde, like Harry would say) whose expression was neutral. 

Now, the Golden Boy had been an auror for the past five years, working tirelessly case after case. He had solved a lot of it, left a lot of it cold to no avail, and he interrogated a horde of different people in the process. He watched their demeanor, the way they carry themselves, and the way they talk. He embedded it into his mind, analyzing and reasoning until he found a fitting cause for it. 

“Has Narcissa died?” Harry asked.

Draco’s eyes slightly widened. The envelope was still unopened in Harry’s hands. 

“How… how did you…” Draco stuttered, slightly leaning forward.

Harry sighed, confirming his theory. He picked up his reading glasses and wore them again, before opening the letter which further confirmed his suspicions. He took his time in reading, admiring the elegant curves of each letter obviously written by a high-end quill and the proper punctuations of each sentence. 

By the end of the letter, the auror frowned a little. He removed his reading glasses and slowly closed the letter again. He looked up to see Draco still watching him. His neutral expression turned curious and interested, as if wondering how much the raven-haired man had changed since their time at Hogwarts.

“Narcissa…” Harry started, clearing his throat a little. His voice was gentle, deep, soothing, yet it exudes authority that Draco guessed Harry didn’t know was there.

Draco was all ears. If he could make all people give their ears to Harry, he would. But that’s crazy. He basically clung onto every word the man uttered, not that he was showing it.

“Narcissa was a great friend. I used to visit her once every month for tea to check how she was doing. I didn’t see you then. She never told me what you were up to,” the Golden Boy continued.

“You asked for me?” Draco asked.

Harry nodded, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He leaned back in his leather high-back swivel seat and kept his eyes fixed on Draco’s. 

“I stopped visiting a few months back when your house elf refused to let me go in. I tried multiple times. Until I heard from her doctor, Miss Parkinson herself, that she was sick,” Harry said. 

Draco nodded. He was the one who insisted for Pansy to handle his mother’s case which she obliged. She was old and the prolonged exposure to dark magic as a light magic user took a toll on her health. 

“I’m sorry for your loss, Draco,” Harry softly uttered. 

Draco. 

They never addressed each other by their first names. Not ever. The blonde almost choked on his saliva. Or cried like a whole ton of weight just alleviated from his shoulders. Was it this freeing to be called by his own name? He didn’t know it would be this. He looked away, fearing that Harry might see the tears threatening to fall from his eyes.

Maybe it was the stress of arranging his own mother’s funeral on top of processing and grieving, or perhaps his name being uttered by his nemesis’s deep and gentle voice, but he wanted to be cradled to sleep like how his mother used to do when Voldemort still resided in their manor.

“I’m sorry as well,” Draco managed to choke out. 

“Are you managing well?” Harry asked, noticing the change in Draco’s demeanor. 

The Slytherin wanted to say no. He wanted to be honest. 

But what right does he have?

“Of course. The wake will commence to the public tomorrow afternoon. You may visit tonight,” Draco said and stood up.

Harry eyed him curiously, following his movements. 

“Am I not part of the public? Why do I get to attend the wake in such early hours?” he asked.

Narcissa was a high-society woman. She had friends internationally and a wide-array of connections nationally. Draco had to schedule a public viewing for her peers to visit and a separate private viewing for the family to mourn and grieve in silence.

“She treated you like his son, did she not?” Draco softly replied. 

Harry could have sworn there was a tinge of jealousy in his tone. Nonetheless, he just nodded and decided not to speak on it. 

“I will be there,” he replied and Draco nodded as he walked to the door.

It was when he was already halfway out that he heard a soft mutter from Harry.

“Thank you, Draco.”

Then he left.