The Witching Hour
Draco did not, as it turned out, come to Harry when he was in need. In fact, Harry would go as far as to say that he had done the exact opposite: walking as lightly as possible down the hall and doing his best to muffle his sobs as he passed Harry’s door.
Unfortunately for Draco, Harry was a light sleeper, and woke from hearing the blonde shuffle past his room at three in the morning to get to the stairs. After heaving a great sigh, Harry decided that he might as well get up for the day before joining Draco—five hours of sleep was a hell of a lot more than he was used to, anyway.
After getting dressed, brushing his teeth, and finding his glasses, Harry went downstairs, only to find Draco—also already dressed for the day—standing at his kitchen stove, making tea.
“Did you boil enough water for me?” Harry asked, hoping to keep the mood light.
Draco still startled, then turned to face Harry with a scowl. “Yes,” he said, clearly closed off. “I had a hunch that a busybody or two might come downstairs after me.”
Harry huffed. “I won’t ask if you don’t want me to,” he said candidly.
“Did you tell your friends yet?” Draco asked instead of replying.
“Yes,” Harry said carefully. “Ron’s a little annoyed that I won’t say why you’re staying with us, and I’m fairly certain that Hermione has suspicions that aren’t too far off the mark, but other than that, I think we’re golden.”
Draco frowned at Harry as he turned off the stove. “Why in the world wouldn’t you tell them?” he demanded.
“Not my place,” Harry replied easily. “Would you mind mixing some honey in with mine?”
Draco simply brought Harry his tea and the honey to do it himself in reply.
“I wouldn’t be angry, if you told them,” Draco said primly as he readied his own tea and then sat down with it. He sighed when Harry fixed him with his most penetrating gaze. “Alright, fine, I would be—but I wouldn’t be surprised. Honestly, Harry, this whole chivalry act is getting terribly exhausting.”
“Who says it’s an act?” Harry retorted.
For a split second, Draco looked confused. Then, the strangest look melted into his features. It was… warm, almost. Like he was considering something he hadn’t before, something he very much liked…
But it was gone before Harry could comment on it.
“You can ask,” Draco said, coldly again.
Harry frowned. “Only if you’re alright with answering.”
“I wouldn’t have offered to answer if I wasn’t, Harry, so just ask,” Draco snapped.
“Why are you upset?” Harry asked—well, demanded, really, but Draco seemed to bring out that side of him.
“I have nightmares, on occasion,” Draco told him stiffly. “Often about certain family members.”
“Your dad?” Harry guessed.
“Sometimes,” Draco replied.
“Who else?” Harry asked, forgetting how rude that doing so must have sounded.
Draco shrugged. “Auntie Bella, on occasion.”
Harry frowned. “Bellatrix Lestrange?”
“Are there any other Auntie Bellas of which I would be speaking?” Draco hissed.
Harry pursed his lips. “Why would you have nightmares about her?”
“Anyone who really knew that foul woman would have nightmares about her,” Draco countered firmly, and Harry sensed that this part of the conversation had come to a close.
“I’m sorry,” Harry said, and he meant it. “I get nightmares too, sometimes. About Cedric, mostly.” Cedric Diggory was the boy who had—heroically and sadly—jumped in front of Harry when an old friend of Tom Riddle’s had cornered him with a gun the year before, looking to get revenge for the stroke Riddle had suffered apparently at the hands of the infant Harry. Just after Cedric had been shot, a professor that Harry did not at all like but had to respect, Severus Snape, had found them and disarmed the attacker—who, awkwardly enough, had been Harry’s classmate Vincent Crabbe’s father.
“I figured you would understand,” Draco said simply. He eyed Harry thoughtfully. “And I’m not actually friends with Crabbe or Goyle, you know.”
“I figured,” Harry said, mirroring Draco. “I get panic attacks whenever I’m in too enclosed of a space, too.”
“Because of your aunt and uncle?” Draco guessed.
“And that nasty cupboard they had me sleep in while I lived with them, yes,” Harry said. “And I have flashbacks sometimes when I see a cane—Uncle Vernon used to hit me with his.”
Draco paled. “My father has a similar habit.” He squirmed a little in his seat, then stilled before talking again. “I get flashbacks too, but usually only when I’m overwhelmed and I see something that reminds me of it. If I’m in a good mood and someone just so happens to pull out a fireplace poker, I won’t spiral.”
It took a second to realize what Draco meant.
“He hits you with an iron rod?” Harry murmured after a moment, too shocked to speak above a whisper.
Draco flushed. “Not often. But yes, he’s been known to pull out the poker on occasion.”
Harry didn’t know what to say to that. He reached outward, hoping to maybe pat the top of Draco’s hand, but immediately lurched backwards at the sound of a voice coming from the doorway behind him.
“Well, you boys are certainly up early.”
Draco immediately straightened in his seat. “Good morning, Mother.”
Narcissa smiled in a mutedly pleased sort of way at her son, and the whole room seemed to brighten with the expression. Harry wondered to himself why he felt nervous when Draco smiled but not when his mother did—they were equally beautiful gestures, after all. Maybe because Draco’s was more youthful…?
“It’s the witching hour, darling, hardly morning,” Narcissa was saying as she made her way over to the tea kettle. “Is there any left for me?”
“Always,” Draco said proudly.
Narcissa chuckled quietly as she made herself a cup. “Are you two finding each other to be enjoyable company?”
Draco flushed and looked down, and though Harry felt a little warm himself, he still said, “Well, I certainly think so.”
“Good,” Narcissa said, turning around to smile warmly at him. “Would you like something to eat, dear? I usually make Draco and I an omelet or two when we’re up this early.”
Harry couldn’t help but beam at that—it was so sweet, and so unlike what would have happened had he been woken up early at the Dursleys that it made him feel warm inside. “Sure. Would you like some help?”
Narcissa scoffed. “Oh, of course not. You and Draco ought to just continue talking. I won’t butt in.”
For a split second, Harry felt incredibly uncertain as to whether or not he and Draco would still have the same easy back and forth now that another person was present, but then Draco mentioned something about Professor Snape having gotten on his nerves earlier that week, and they were talking like nothing had interrupted them in the first place.
It was in that moment—with Narcissa Malfoy cooking and humming quietly and melodiously to herself, and Draco Malfoy sitting across from Harry and talking about nothing and everything at once—that Harry decided that he very much liked having Draco and his mother live with him.
He hoped they’d stay even after Narcissa’s divorce went through.