Chapter 3
It was still wrong when he woke up. There was no balcony to sit on. No bakery with his breakfast waiting in a bag. He didn’t know what to do when there wasn’t a bakery waiting with his breakfast in a bag.
Breathing became difficult.
He lay there in the middle of the bed with no way to start his morning. He lay there for what felt like hours. Mipsy appeared by the bedside. “Mistress Narcissa is requesting master Draco’s presence for breakfast. She promises there are no guests” Draco nodded. He made no move to get up. Mipsy left.
Breakfast was taken in the conservatory, apparently. They hadn’t done that before he left. Walking there and not the dining hall just compounded on the feeling of wrong that surrounded Draco like an unwanted hug from a distant relative. There was coffee, and tea, and toast, and eggs, and sausages. There was no baguette, no croissant, no tartine on his balcony as the town woke up all around him.
Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
“Is there a plan for today, mother?” he asked as he stared into his mug of coffee, which sat beside his empty plate. There was no hot chocolate.
“I have my volunteering at three usually on Saturdays, but lovely Harry has given me the day off to spend with you, isn’t that nice dear?” Narcissa was smiling at him like she didn’t volunteer for Harry Potter. Like she hadn’t called him ‘lovely Harry’, like everything was normal, and okay.
He wanted his tartine.
“And what would you like to do, Mother?”
“I think I should like to shop,” she said, staring out the glass wall of the conservatory just behind his head. As he washed and dressed he mentally braced himself for Diagon. He slid his wand into the sleeve of his jacket, and closed his eyes, picturing the little bonpreu in town where he shopped, before descending the stairs once again.
Shopping turned out to be Liberty, and Harrods. It made his skin itch that his mother had changed so much as to shop amongst muggles, but Draco was overall glad. He had not been ready for Diagon Alley. Liberty felt safer. Harrods felt safer. His mother bought a lot. He bought nothing. He lived by modest means, now. He could probably access the manor vaults if he asked, but the idea of using blood-stained money- the idea of asking to- made him shudder.
“It's not all for me, darling, and I must make my delivery before we return home” she said, apropos of nothing. He had not asked.
They apparated to north london, and he found himself staring up at the old Black House. The front door had been painted pink. Walburga would be horrified.
When Narcissa knocked, Harry Potter opened the door. Draco was overcome with the urge to run away again. Potter was in overalls. Yellow ones, that should have looked hideous but complimented his brown skin oh so nicely. He had a baby in his arms, and a toddler wrapped around his leg.
“Narcissa! Draco! Do come in.” Harry smiled at them, all sunshiney. Draco felt blinded in his presence. He followed his mother into the hall. The walls were covered in art clearly done by people under ten. Who was Potter’s wife, if these were his children?
“Let me put the baby down, and I’ll make tea,” Potter said, disappearing into a room off of the hallway, before reappearing. One leg was dragging behind him, the child still clinging to it. Draco followed his mother into the kitchen. It was… strange. The table was massive, and painted various bright colours. There were highchairs pushed against one wall. Potter walked in, the toddler now sat on his hip, sucking his thumb. The child was neither brown nor ginger, and so was unlikely to be a child of Potter, which was even more confusing. He didn’t care enough to ask. he didn't feel brave enough to ask. he didn't know where he stood with this new Potter.
He sat down and looked out the window. He closed his eyes and pictured the view from his balcony. He opened his eyes and saw the toddler staring at him curiously. Potter placed a mug of tea in front of both him and his mother. The toddler sneezed, and Draco saw snot splatter Potter’s chest.
“Oh dear, Harvey.” Potter said, calm as you like, reaching for a paper towel to wipe it away. Draco wanted to run. His leg started to shake. He closed his eyes and thought of his bed.
“We’ll be going now. I just came to drop some things off. I’ll see you tomorrow, my dear. Draco, come along.” Draco felt like he was five again. He rose and followed silently. Maybe he had never grown up. It often felt like it.
When they got back to the Manor Draco went straight up to his room. He locked the door, he sat on his bed and he closed his eyes. He didn’t go down for dinner.
-
He was awoken the next morning by a tapping sound at the window. Through bleary, half open eyes he saw a large tawny owl, a thin roll of parchment attached to its leg.
Dear Draco,
It read.
Your mum is coming for tea at mine today, and I wanted to officially extend that invitation to you too. 3pm. Address is the daisy cottage (Luna named her). Hope to see you there.
Best, Harry.
Draco dropped the letter and rolled to face the wall. At 2:57 he found himself standing behind his mother on Potter’s doorstep. He had assumed Potter lived at Grimmauld, but this cottage was in Somerset, near the Avon. It was, he was loath to admit, pretty. The walls were a pastel blue with little daisies painted over them. The yellow windowsills had window boxes of flowers Draco didn’t know the name of but found entrancing. It looked like something straight out of a fairy tale, not the place the great Harry Potter had made his home.
His mother knocked on the door, breezing through when it opened with no one behind it. Draco hesitated on the stoop, feeling his chest tighten and nausea roil in his gut before finally taking the step over the threshold. The cottage smelled of sandalwood, deep and musky. Paintings clearly done by children lined the walls he followed his mother through before they entered a large, cozy stone kitchen-cum-dining room. Potter stood at the stove, stirring a pot that smelt spicy and divine. He was in baggy jeans that were covered in painted handprints and a plain bright-yellow t-shirt. This potter didn’t feel real. He didn’t feel right. It was the sort of whimsical thing Draco would have dreamed up as a toddler, not the genuine way in which an adult man lived his life.
“Draco! You came!” Potter cried out when he turned around, looking genuinely pleased, as if he and Draco had actually ever been on good terms. It put Draco on the back foot and he faltered, standing behind his mother as he used to as a child.
He hated that even now, even all these years later, Potter still made him feel like that.
“Please, sit! The chai is almost ready, let me just get the cake out of the fridge” Potter continued, turning the flame on the hob down and crossing to a sleek silver fridge tucked into a corner, retrieving a large lemon drizzle cake. Draco didn’t know what chai was. He didn’t want to drink chai. Chai was new. Draco didn’t like new. He felt his chest tighten further as Potter brought mugs to the table.
He started to sweat, hating himself for the inescapable feeling of impending doom that had descended on him at the prospect of a cup of tea. “You don’t look too well, dear. Anything the matter?” his mother said, reaching out to him.
“Do you have any hot chocolate, Potter?” Draco asked, not looking Potter in the eye. “Please?” he added, as an afterthought. Potter frowned a bit, and Draco’s heart rate sped up impossibly further, until Potter nodded and said “yes, of course. Is there any particular way you’d like me to make it?”
“Any way is fine” Draco said, feeling his chest loosen and his lungs fill with air. God, what grown man had that reaction to a cup of tea? What was wrong with him? His mother was still looking at him curiously and he just wanted to crawl away and hide, for like the seventh time in the two days since he had arrived. He missed his little town. He missed Claire and the hot chocolate she would bring him at his little table by the window.
To his pleasant surprise though, Potter made his hot chocolate properly, with a pan on the aga that was fitted into the sweet kitchen, and the mug he placed in front of Draco was filled with a steaming viscous liquid that smelt like heaven. Smiling despite himself, Draco took a sip and his eyes fluttered closed in bliss.
The rest of the tea time passed with Draco sipping his hot chocolate and staring out of the window, taking in the breathtaking view of the countryside, as his mother and Potter talked about things he had no interest in listening in on. He knew his mother would likely scold him after for not joining in with the conversation but in the moment he couldn’t care less. For the first time since his arrival, he felt a tiny bit less like he was about to combust, and he revelled in the feeling, knowing it likely wouldn't last.
“Draco dear, I appreciate that you may have little understanding of how British wizarding society works now, and I can recognise that you and Harry had a somewhat tense past, but it really doesn’t do to act so childish when one is a guest. Harry invited us into our home and the only words you spoke to him were to ask him to make you something entirely new to drink, with no reason, I might add.” she never raised her voice. She didn’t need to. Even after all these years he was just as intimidated by her even cadence as he had been as a child.
Draco was right. He was being scolded. They were in the main living room, with an inviting fire lit in the hearth. Tea with Potter hadn’t lasted long, and Draco knew that that was his fault also. He couldn't seem to do right since arriving, not when everything inside him felt so wrong all the time. Draco repeated the expected and appropriate apologies before excusing himself to his rooms.
On his desk sat a letter.
Dear Draco,
I appreciate that returning here after so long must be hard, especially the (likely massively unexpected) friendship I have with your mother. I hope you didn’t feel obligated to come today, and whilst I will continue to extend invitations for the duration of your stay, please do not feel any form of obligation to attend.
That being said, I was wondering if you would like to join me on a walk? Hermione has the kids tomorrow, and I like to spend my rare days off in the countryside. If yes, meet at the daisy cottage again for eleven? I can provide lunch.
Best, Harry
Kids? Wondered Draco. Did Potter mean the baby? And if so, whose baby was it? It couldn’t have been Potter’s, its skin was far too light. If Granger married Weasley as expected it can’t have been hers either, as again, its skin was too light and it wasn’t ginger.
But… maybe a walk would do him good…
he just wondered if any of Potter’s gryffindors would also be present. He didn’t think he could handle them without wanting to cry. He wrote back;
Dear Potter,
Would anyone else be joining us?
Malfoy.
The reply came within half an hour.
Dear Draco,
No one from my end, but please feel free to invite who-ever you would like.
Hope to see you tomorrow,
Best, Harry
Draco spent the rest of the afternoon agonising over whether ‘hope to see you’ and ‘I hope to see you’ had different meanings. The lack of pronoun made Draco feel distinctly like Potter didn’t want to see him. His stomach was so in knots from it that he didn’t eat dinner.
Wrong.
wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.