Chapter 8
His second week passed in a haze of drudgery and thinking about Harry and taking his book down to the woods to read it there and thinking about Harry and raiding his father’s secret cabinet for good scotch and thinking about Harry and accompanying his mother around muggle London and thinking about Harry and fretting about returning to France and thinking about Harry and fretting about how much he was thinking of Harry.
It was possibly the worst week he’d had since the war ended, really. He felt a bit like a ghost, wandering the manor hallways and corridors. When he was a boy, they had been an endless opportunity for play, but now he would pass a room and remember who had been killed there, or which death eater had slept there.
The step that creaked when Nagini slithered down it.
The attic room with a bloodstain his mother had missed when she redecorated.
His childhood bedroom, where all his dreams had gone to die.
God, he was maudlin. It made him wonder where Harry got all his enthusiasm from; all his optimism. Surely, of everyone, Harry had suffered the most, lost the most, and he still managed to be so… happy, all the time. Draco just didn’t understand it. He wanted to be that carefree, that easy with his smiles.
How he loved Harry’s smile.
And there he was, thinking about Harry again.
-
Friday rolled around and Draco felt equal parts fluttery at seeing Harry and pure dread at it being in the presence of his mother, around whom he still did not feel fully comfortable.
It made him feel like a terrible son, but she also seemed to think he was that anyway, and he felt less guilty about not wanting her around after the events of the past few weeks.
He tried to distract himself from Harry’s imminent arrival by taking his book out to the meadow, and by the time he resurfaced in reality the sky was already beginning to darken, and a tempus charm told him dinner was due to start any minute. Draco walked as quickly as he could back to the house, but he was a good acre away, at least.
His mother gave him her deadliest glare as he burst into the dining hall, panting with sweat beading along his hairline. He had no eyes for her and her palpable disappointment, though. He saw only Harry, sat at the table, a shining smile on his face, an overly large forest green knit-sweater draped over his torso.
He looked so beautiful Draco could barely breathe.
Draco sat slowly and ate quietly as was his wont. As much as he liked Harry and felt a yearning to spend all his time around him, it didn’t make Draco anymore forthright or talkative; he was content just to follow the conversation in silence and watch Harry as he used his hands to make points, gesticulating with enthusiasm.
It was very endearing.
Dinner ended, and Draco wanted to escape to his room again, but he knew that Friday was pub night, but Harry hadn’t mentioned it, and Draco was suddenly seized by a fear that Harry didn’t want him there, and that he wasn’t invited again, and he would have to spend his night alone in his room knowing that Harry was out there somewhere, smiling and someone that wasn’t him.
The thought made him feel a bit sick.
“Hey, Draco. Are you up for a pub night again? Pansy was asking after you.”
Relief covered Draco like a warm blanket. Harry was staring at him earnestly over the table. Draco nodded, and saw his mother’s eyes widen with surprise.
-
“Draco! You deigned to grace us with your presence again! Are you still going to be mute this time?” Pansy shouted the minute they walked through the door. Draco sighed. He should have known this wasn’t going to be easy.
“She’s trying to be nice, she just doesn’t know how” Harry murmured in Draco’s ear, his hand going to the small of Draco’s back again, and it's suddenly all he can focus on. He wished he had Harry alone.
But he doesn’t, and these people used to be his friends, and he can hear his mother’s voice in his mind telling him to make an effort. So he gathers strength from the warmth of Harry’s hand on his back, and tries to smile at Pansy.
“I’m afraid my life in France is actually somewhat boring…” and he launches into the five sentences that sum up his last seven years.
“I think we all needed a bit of boring, after.” Blaise says when he’s finished, and Draco feels understood. It's a good feeling. Pansy smiles at him. That’s also a nice feeling. He can feel Harry’s thigh against his, under the table. That’s the best feeling.
Then Theo asks Blaise something about his job, and Draco sits back and observes again, content with where he is.
The night goes much as the same as the previous friday. They drink two-odd litres of posh lemonade as they talk and laugh and tease each other. Harry transforms, somewhat. He looses a bit of his softness, trades barbs with the other’s as if he had been raised in the dungeons with the rest of them. It's refreshing to know that Harry kept some of his cynicism, that he isn’t all soft edges. It makes him… more, somehow.
As with the previous Friday, the others all decide to leave at some point, and make their exit together. Then, Draco is finally, blissfully alone with Harry.
He sends a soft smile Harry’s way, and gets a blinding one in return.
He feels happy for the first time in a long time.