Chapter 6
Draco awoke Saturday morning feeling like a walrus was sitting on his chest, as he felt every morning. It was hard to breathe and he didn’t understand why. He had been home for a week, surely he should be used to it by now, but everytime he woke up to blue drapes and not his white ceiling and the sound of traffic and birds he felt like a little bit of him died inside.
He missed his home so much. One week down, three more to go. It gave him little comfort. No tartine at breakfast. He ate plain toast and butter under Mipsy’s disapproving glare.
His mother’s matching disapproving glare told him in no uncertain terms that he was not wriggling out of joining her at Potter’s for her volunteering. His father would be rolling in his grave- Narcissa Malfoy nee Black, volunteering for the half-blood upstart that ruined their way of life. How the times have changed.
it was back to Grimmauld and its pink door that actually made Draco smile just a bit when he saw it for the second time. He still had no idea why it was that whenever his mother said they were going to visit Potter there were two homes involved, or so many children, but he still didn’t feel brave enough to ask. He heard the sound of many voices even before the door opened. Ron stood behind it, looking put-together and actually quite handsome, his ginger hair falling in gently waved curtains over his forehead. His t-shirt read “world’s best uncle”, and there was a little girl holding his hand. She hid behind his leg when Narcissa waved at him, and then Ron bent down and lifted her up, settling her on his hip as he led them into a large, colourful living room off of the foyer.
The walls were pastel pink and plastered with childrens paintings. Yellow rugs coated the floors, and mis-matched sofas hugged the walls. The room was also full of children. Draco imagined Walburga rolling in her grave.
“Sit wherever you want, mate. The kids won't pay you any attention, don’t worry” Ron said, gesturing widely at the sofas with the hand not wrapped around a toddler. Draco gingerly sat on a bright green sofa that was soft and plush. He settled in and found himself sinking. He watched his mother sit on a little stool towards the back of the room, and all the children immediately shuffled closer to her.
The sound of footsteps came, and then Potter, Luna and several more children came in. Luna had the baby cradled against her chest, and she leant against the back wall. Harry sat on a pink sofa adjacent to Draco, and immediately four children clambered up and cuddled into him, one of them sitting in Potter’s lap. Potter’s hands instinctively wrapped around the child's middle, and he rested his chin atop the child's head, grinning.
Draco had no idea what alternate universe he had stumbled into. He had never felt more confused.
And then his mother began to read the story of the snail and the whale, and his confusion increased tenfold.
He would have thought he was dreaming but even his dreams couldn’t have made this up.
-
So, as it turned out, Potter had turned Grimmauld place into an orphanage, and day nursery for children whose parents both worked, or lived in single households. This was all explained to him by Hermione as he and her made tea for the adults when Narcissa was onto her third story book.
He couldn’t remember her ever reading to him like that. It hurt, just a little bit, the way she was soft with these children when she had never been soft with him.
Maybe it hurt more than a little bit.
Maybe it hurt a lot.
Draco made his excuses and went back to the manor.
-
Potter knocked on his door again that evening.
“Draco! I, er- you mum, I mean she-” Potter stammered and Draco knew exactly why he was there.
“My mother has given up on me, and has sent you to figure out why I’m so unsociable?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow like he used to when he was fifteen. It was a little guilty pleasure of his.
“That's about the long and short of it. I mean, none of us thought you would be massively inclined to spend your afternoon with children you don’t know. It can be overwhelming sometimes, but, er, your mum insists something’s wrong, so.”
“So here you are,” Draco snorted, and Potter blushed, looking somewhere between embarrassed and ashamed. “Yeah, so here I am.” Potter replied.
“Look, come for a drink with me? We can talk about whatever you want, or not talk at all, but at least your mum might get off your back a bit. For the next few days, at least.” Potter said, and Draco had to admit it was a practical solution, so he nodded, turning to pick up his jacket before nodding at Potter to lead the way.
They went to a different pub this time, a bit more busy, and a bit less posh, but cosy and warm all the same. The art on the walls was simple but pretty, and it was in a sweet countryside town. “What do you want? First round’s on me.” Potter said, dropping his coat and scarf at a little table by a window.
“Anything but a pint is fine.” Draco said, draping his jacket over his chair and desperately trying to slow down his heartbeat through will power and slow breathing. It didn’t work. He didn’t know why he was so nervous. This was the second time he had been to the pub with Potter, and this time there were no old schoolmates to make him scared, so he didn’t understand where the sense of dread came from, but it was there all the same, sat like lead in his stomach, making his brow sweat and his leg shake.
Potter placed a tall glass of a delicately pink fizzing liquid in front of him. “It’s a pink gin and lemonade. Let me know if you don’t like it.” But Draco did like it. Maybe it was just a popular drink, but Draco was slightly unnerved that every interaction he had with Potter, Potter seemed to understand him on a level Draco barely understood himself.
He wasn’t sure if it was terrifying or comforting.
-
He don’t know what possessed him to say it but he was four drinks in and- “Mother never read me stories.”
He regretted it the minute the words left his mouth, the way Potter’s face fell, just a bit, as his warm green eyes shone with pity.
“It's not- I mean, I shouldn’t care, but-”
“You’re allowed to care, Draco.” Potter interrupted him, voice soft. “That must have been hard and I’m sorry. You don’t have to come again, no one will be offended.”
Embarrassingly, Draco felt his eyes flood with tears. He stood suddenly, his chair scraping back with an unpleasant noise, and fled to the bathroom. He stared at himself for a long time in the bathroom mirror, increasingly hating his reflection with each minute that passed.
He was ugly when he cried.
His cheeks went splotchy and the tip of his nose went bright red like Rudolph, and his eyelashes bunched together and, and his eyes went red and squinty. After what felt like long enough, Draco glamoured his face back to its normal pastyness and went back to Potter, who was probably aware he had gone to the bathroom for a breakdown and not the usual reason.
If he did know, he was polite enough not to say anything, and instead launched into a detailed description of whatever it was he was doing at Grimmauld with a bit of prompting.
“It was just this big, draughty house, right? And I was helping Andy with Teddy, and it made me think of the other war orphans, right? So I thought like I have all this space that I don’t really want but I can’t sell the Black house, Sirius gave it to me for a reason, and you know- what better way to honour his memory then open up the house to children who need help and support? Like my grandparents did for him, so yeah I mean it took a while to fix the house up and purge it of black magic, and re-model the rooms so we had more bedrooms and extra bathrooms and a bigger kitchen, but it's been running for a few years now, and everyone helps me with it! And the kids seem really happy there, you know? And-”
Potter’s words faded into the background for a bit. Draco was mesmerized. Potter was blushing and gesturing with his hands and he had a smile on his face that gave him dimples, and the lamplight made him glow golden and he looked so passionate, so happy and it was mesmerizing.
“-and oh god, I’ve probably bored you half to death, I’m sorry, Draco it's really not much-”
“No! Potter no, that's amazing. It's better than anything I could ever hope to do, better than anything I've ever done with my miserable life. Please, I, uh, it’s great.”
And oh god Draco was babbling because he realised he was maybe, just maybe, attracted to this new, happy version of Potter and Draco hadn’t felt attraction to anyone since, well, since Hogwarts.
Romance, and sex, and-god forbid, love- weren’t part of his life in France. He had his friends and his job and his hot chocolate and his tartine and it had always been enough but now, faced with a golden grinning golden boy, Draco was forcefully confronted with the fact that there might be more.
How scary.
“Oh, Draco no your life isnt miserable, France sounds lovely. And don’t you think it's time you called me Harry? It is my name, after all.”
Harry.
Harry
After his realisation it felt like too much, too intimate, like by saying Harry’s name he would reveal that he suddenly wanted to stare at Harry’s smile forever but… But Harry had asked him and right now the idea of saying no to him made Draco want to cry again so he shrugged helplessly.
“Okay, Harry.”
The answering smile could have outshone the sun.
How had Draco not realised that Harry Potter was just so pretty?