Chapter 2
“Okay,” said Potter the next morning, slamming a series of photographs on the kitchen table where Draco lay. “I have pictures of every missing person notice from London from the last five years. I’ve also got pictures of the three animagi currently registered as snakes.”
As stiff and uncomfortable as Draco had felt in Potter’s house and bandages, he had reluctantly fallen asleep in his glass on Potter’s dresser. (Potter had insisted that he sleep in his room because, well, you never know what could happen). He had winced when he saw the jagged lines all over Potter’s toned, brown torso, knowing that he contributed to at least a few of them.
Potter was still looking expectantly at Draco. “Right then.” He began laying out three photos. The first was a pretty, curly haired woman with stern, green eyes. The second was a blond youth with a full, smiling mouth and, lastly, a quiet looking man with bushy brown eyebrows. Potter pointed at the last photo. “Do you know who this is?” Draco didn’t, though he wasn’t going to make any movement to acknowledge that. “This is Davud Hadzic, Bosnian quidditch player convicted of killing Malfoy’s father.”
Draco couldn’t see why Potter was telling him any of this, he had been informed five years ago when his father died.
“Trouble is,” said Potter slowly, with a wicked grin on his face, “Hadzic never made it to Azkaban. He escaped on the journey there. But witnesses said they saw a pinkish white snake escaping around that time. Do you see where I am going with this?”
Draco wanted to scoff. Potter thought he was some Bosnian criminal? He supposed he could be trying a little harder to let Potter know who he was, but it was nice being able to see this side of Potter that he wouldn’t be showing Draco if he wasn’t a snake.
“Not to worry,” said Potter. “I won’t force you to tell me who you are if you aren’t ready. But I, for one, think Mr. Hadzic did the world a favour.”
Draco bristled a little at his words. It wasn’t that he disagreed, no, more because they were coming from Potter, and, well, anything that came out of Potter was stupid.
“I knew Malfoy when I was younger, did you know?” asked Potter as he stretched out over breakfast. He had a steaming cup of black tea and eggs. Draco had leftover lamb.
“I think I probably hated him because he was prettier than me,” said Potter with a laugh that shook his entire chest. Draco felt himself grow delightfully amused, despite his attempts.
“Not sure why he hated me, though. Either way, I think we could have been good friends if he hadn’t been such a little shit.” Draco thought that was a fair thing to say. “I did love his passion, though. I always waited for him to challenge me to a duel–those were my favorite things to do at school.” He laughed again. “I suppose I should think of a name for you,” he mused. “How about Salazar? I already have a snake, I might as well be cliche about it.” He glanced at his watch and suddenly sprang from the table.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” he chanted as he dashed into the bathroom. Draco wasn’t sure if snakes could smile, but he found himself happily eating Potter’s warmed-up lamb on his faded green table.
Potter sprinted out of the house ten minutes later, waving a lazy hand goodbye at Draco before grabbing his leather jacket hanging on a hook and locking the door.
Draco heard the sound of a motorcycle before he knew he was alone for the rest of the day.
He took this opportunity to do something he had always wanted to do: snoop in Harry Potter’s house. He had a neat and orderly way in which he decided he was going to snoop; he was to start from the front door and work his way through the sitting room, kitchen, bedroom, and office. Then he would see if he could try to go outside and judge Potter’s garden which he could see peeking out the back window.
The front door had a simple mat that said “Welcome.”There was the small sofa and one armchair facing the empty fireplace, with books crammed into shelves on every corner. Draco hadn’t noticed the photos in the sitting room last night, but there were many of them. Almost all were moving. There was an old photo of presumably Potter’s parents, in black coats dancing around in the snow. Next to it was a similarly old photo. Draco wasn’t sure who these two were, though they looked slightly familiar. The taller one, a heavily scarred boy with mousy brown hair, had his arm around a boy not much shorter than him with long, inky black hair. They were grinning at each other and it made Draco’s heart ache in a way he wasn’t sure why. He stood there for a while and watched as one ruffled the other’s hair while the other one laughed. Next to these were newer portraits, two being of a woman with pink hair whose nose would turn from a pig and back, and of Hagrid, his laugh loud and booming and the wrinkles at his eyes soft. Next to these was a Muggle photo (Draco could tell because it wasn’t moving) of Potter and a man who looked around his age. He was larger than Potter, if that was possible, and had wispy blond hair and a smart leather jacket. What looked like his daughter had a round, happy face and both of them were wearing Ravenclaw scarves.
The last wall had the newest photos. Potter with a boy of around ten on his shoulders, a shock of teal hair on his head and a wide, toothy grin. The team of Holyhead Harpies, with Ginevra standing proudly in the back row, set apart with her flaming red hair. Draco wondered if Potter and her were still an item, although he guessed they no longer were after the next photo, which was her and Lovegood’s beaming at the camera, holding up identical, shiny rings. Draco felt a leap of joy about this news; though he’d always liked Ginevra’s spirit, he thought Potter deserved someone less…reckless. Draco shook off that thought and continued, past the photos of Finnegan and Thomas in shiny white tuxedos and of Longbottom happily surrounded by plants to stop at Potter cradling a dark, round-faced boy with Granger and Weasley beaming in the background. Potter’s hands, though large, cupped the baby’s face as if he was holding something precious, like a jewel. Draco was reminded of the night before when Potter gingerly wrapped up Draco’s bandages.
There was a small compartment on one of his shelves. Draco curiously opened it and many letters came streaming out. He picked up one, which was in a scrawling crayon.
Dear Mister Potter,
Mummy says I should thank you for saving me from that ogre. He was very scary and I didn’t like the shape of his teeth so it is very good you got there in time. I…
And they went on and on and on, each letter thanking Potter for some service or another. Draco found himself touched that Potter had kept every single letter. He was silent for a while as he read each one. Some weren’t from people he’d saved, some were from acquaintances or friends or colleagues. One was from Narcissa Malfoy.
Dear Harry, (Draco scoffed at the use of his first name.)
Good to hear you are doing well. Please send Ginevra my best wishes at her wedding.
I had lunch with my sister yesterday. I think it was because of you. Ever since Bella died, I’ve felt a pull to her that I haven’t felt in many years. I think there’s still a lot of pain there, but we managed to have a laugh about our horrible sister and mourn our husbands together.
Draco’s doing well, he has a Potions shop for Muggles and I think he’s taken up knitting. You really should see him some time. You’re more alike than I think either of you would like to admit.
Let’s have tea again soon.
Much love,
Narcissa
It felt strange to see the fondness with which Narcissa wrote to Potter. She clearly cared about Potter in a way Draco didn’t know was possible coming from a Malfoy.
Draco folded the letter back up with difficulty (one thing he hadn’t foreseen when becoming an animagus was the lack of mobility he had now) and he moved on, through the doorway into the lemon-yellow kitchen. Dried garlic and other herbs were hung from the ceiling. There were drawings and more photos on the small fridge. Bowls of oranges on the kitchen counter explained why Potter’s hands always smelled faintly of citrus. Draco checked every drawer, cataloguing every object inside.
By the time he reached the windowsill, Draco was exhausted. He noticed the potted plants lining the green ledge over the sink, covered with full, colourful flowers. Draco crawled into a sweet-smelling pot of Jasmine and fell asleep, the soft dirt a welcome bed.