Chapter 2
Draco stood outside the Manor, halfway down the long, winding drive, bags in hand. He could feel the magic of the land coursing through his bloodstream. It was unpleasant and uncomfortable, and would take a lot of getting used to.
Taking a deep breath, feeling the cool English air fill his lungs all the way up, Draco walked to the front door. As a Malfoy, it sensed his approach and the double-fronted doors swung inwards, revealing… light.
Draco had expected the foyer to be as dark as it had been when he left it, but instead he was met with white walls and glittering chandeliers. The tiles on the floor were still charcoal grey, but were so clean they gleamed, and they did little to darken the cavernous space. The heels of his Chelsea boots clicked on the tiles as he walked further into the house that had once been both his dream and his nightmare.
“Mother?” he called, setting his bags down by the wall. A pop startled him, and an elf he didn’t recognise stood there.
“Mipsy is welcoming master Draco back to the Manor. Mipsy is taking master Draco to the first floor parlour for tea” the elf said, bowing before turning and setting off up the stairs. Draco followed, shocked into silence at the confidence of the elf. There was no quivering, cowering subservience, just an air of having better things to be doing with her time.
Mipsy opened the door to the parlour, and Draco felt as if he was in the wrong house. Gone was the blood red and forest green furniture. Instead, the chaises were patterned like a wedgewood plate, as were the armchairs. The walls were a gentle blue and white broderie anglaise curtains fluttered in front of the open windows.
“Draco, my darling, darling boy” Narcissa said, raising from where she sat on one of the chaises, taking Draco into her arms and dropping light, perfumed kisses to both his cheeks.
“Hello, Mother” Draco said, kissing her back, before allowing himself to be led to a chaise.
“It is wonderful to have you back, my dear. I can hear a trace of French in your English now. I’m afraid my remembrance of the language of love is rusty at best. Tea?”
“Tea would be lovely mother, and worry not. I still remember my first language” Draco said, on unsure footing. This was not the manor he remembered. His mother, too, had changed. Her robes were a gentle lilac, rather than the regal greens and aubergines of his childhood, and the severe black of wartime.
It was jarring, and he was reminded forcefully that life hadn’t stopped for the seven-odd years he had been in France. In his mind, the England he had left had been preserved in amber. It didn’t sit right that life here- his mothers life, his home life- had carried on without him. He hadn’t expected it to. God, what naiveté.
Narcissa seemed happy, but aged. The years had definitely passed for her, as much as he had believed they hadn’t. There were lines around her eyes and mouth. Grey hairs peppered her temple and streaked the hair that was half up-half down and hung down her back in a silken sheet. Her hands were less smooth, too. He watched them pour tea and remembered.
He remembered those hands, adorned with cool rings gripping his, stroking his forehead when he had a fever. He remembered those hands showing him how to grip his wand, teaching him defence spells when- during the war.
Those hands hugging him goodbye as he left them behind and never looked back. There was nothing like the presence of your mother to remind you what a bastard you are, thought Draco, the guilt of his escape sitting like a rock in his stomach.
“I imagine you will want a break, and to freshen up after your journey” Narcissa said, setting her empty tea cup down. The way her lips tightened over the word ‘journey’ belied her thoughts on his chosen method of travel.
“We will be having guests with dinner, which will be taken at seven. I have taken the liberty of preparing the blue suite for you, I trust you can find it?”
“Yes mother, thank you mother” Draco replied stiffly, rising and making his way out of the room. He felt a bit like he was floating, and he longed for his tiny box flat and its balcony and its routine and its safety. Everything felt unsafe here, everything felt wrong. Coming home was like stepping off a cliff with nothing there to land on. You just fell.
The blue suite had been one of the most illustrious sets of guest rooms at the Manor since Draco could remember. It had been shut up during the war, preserving its value, and its innocence. Draco felt as if he was tainting it as he lay down on the bed, marvelling that no death eater had slept on those sheets-until him, of course.
He unpacked methodically, unthinkingly. There were too many thoughts to be had, being back at the Manor, so instead he fell back on what was safe. He unfolded and re-folded every item of clothing he had brought with him. He packed them all away in the empty armoire, trying his hardest to replicate the system he had at home.
He lined the shoes he had brought at the bottom of the bed. He took his glasses, book and wand out of his carry-on bag and arranged and rearranged them on the bedside table to the large four poster that would be ‘home’ for… he didn’t know how long. He didn’t want to think about it.
When he couldn’t feasibly tidy or unpack or organise anymore, Draco heaved a sigh and sat on the bed, picking up his book.
He read until Mipsy came to get him for dinner. The feeling of magic all over him made his skin crawl. Everything felt wrong. He walked slowly down the stairs and yearned for his little cafe. Nothing felt wrong when he was sitting there watching the world passing by.
As he approached the dining room he heard voices. A deep, intrinsically masculine one, and his mother’s more dainty timbre. When Narcissa had said guests Draco had assumed it would be one of her female friends- Mrs Parkinson, or Nott perhaps. Maybe Mrs Goyle. He hadn’t expected a man.
He took a breath and pushed the door- maybe it would be Gregory, or Blaise, or Theo. It wasn’t.
The first thing Draco saw was the baby. It was asleep, soft eyelashes fanning fat, ruddy cheeks. It’s tiny hand gripped the larger, dark skinned one of the man whose chest the baby was strapped to.
The man sitting at his dining table, the man who-
“Potter?”
“Draco dear, do keep it down. The little one is asleep. Come and sit down my darling”
It was a dream. It had to be. Draco closed his eyes and thought of the river in summer time, the young couples laid out on its banks, the small children splashing in the shallows.
He opened his eyes and walked unsteadily forward, sitting down next to his mother.
“Draco dear, you remember Harry” Narcissa said as if this was normal. As if he wasn’t sitting in the Manor dining hall with Harry Potter, when Burbage had been killed at this very table.
Oh god, he was going to be sick. Everything felt wrong. His skin was crawling, his clothes too hot, his shoes too tight. He stood up, scraping back his chair. The baby started to cry. Draco fled.
He shouldn’t have come here. He knew he shouldn’t have come here. He didn’t make it very far- he careened into the toilet in the corridor outside and slammed the door shut.
His hands scrabbled at the seam of the door and the jamb for the lock before he remembered he was in a wizarding household and his wand was in another wing. He was going to cry. Oh god, he was going to cry. The cries of the baby grew louder.
“Hey, hey! What does Luna always sing, hmm? Would that feel better? If I could remember it?”
Potter must have been just outside with the squalling infant.
“Oh simple things, where have you gone? I’m getting tired and I need someone to rely on, so if you have a minute why don’t we go, talk about it somewhere only we know. This could be the end of everything, so why don’t we go, somewhere only we know.”
Harry’s voice was deep and smooth if not completely tuneful, and it had the desired effect. The baby stopped crying. Draco’s chest loosened a fraction.
“Thank you for the invite Narcissa, as always, but I probably shouldn’t have come today, and forgive my saying so but you should have warned him. Maybe we could meet at mine for tea on Sunday, I think that would be better” Harry’s voice came. Draco resented being talked about like a child. He resented being defended by Potter. He resented Potter. He should never have come back.
“I’m afraid you might be right, Harry." his mother said, sounding regretful, which was not something he was used to with a woman as stoic as his mother.
Bye bye, little one” she cooed, before blissful silence descended.
Draco left the toilet and ran upstairs on shaking legs. He locked his bedroom door.