The Muggle Day Out
Harry returns the Elder Wand to Dumbledore, while Ron frantically splutters in the background.
Because the thing is, is Harry no longer gives a flying fuck. He’s defeated the one man he was meant to, set out to do, and now it’s done, and the Elder Wand can rot in Hell for all he cares. Dumbledore compliments his good decision, is proud of it, and Harry doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he’s just done with the whole defeat-evil-wizards trope in his life.
Besides, he knows the Auror Department would fall flat on their stomachs if the word gets out that Harry is the current master of the most powerful wand in history. To be fair, they would still do it because Harry did defeat the immortal villain. But, well, Harry doesn’t want to be an Auror. There’s no Riddle. There’s no point. Contrary to popular belief, Harry prefers to stay alive for as long as he can. Dying sort of cemented this determination.
So he does that, ignores Hermione’s knowing looks, Draco’s stunned disbelieved silence, and Ron’s indignant cries questioning Harry’s mental sanity.
Technically, Harry is still the master. Just because he returns the physical wand does not mean the problem is gone; the principle of the gesture counts, he supposes.
And to everyone’s delight, McGonagall announces that the school will remain shut for the repairs. All students are free to return to their homes, have a nice long summer break. Following year will be a repeat for every single student, whoever chooses to return for education.
Harry secretly thinks it’s a good decision but knows that Severus’ position as Headmaster has brought politics back into the mix. If he knows anything about Minerva McGonagall by now, it is that she would dance naked on the Quidditch pitch before she’d let another Ministry-employed douchebag to step inside the castle gates. Even if Kingsley is the new temporary Minister.
Harry doesn’t stay at the Manor and neither does Hermione for obvious reasons.
No, Harry and Hermione bunk up with the Weasleys, not that Molly gives them any other choice. But since Molly is now acutely aware of Ron and Hermione’s – relationship? – she becomes slightly intimidating whenever the two of them manage to sneak in a few moments of privacy.
Alright, so it’s not like they’re kissing all over the place. Harry thinks it’s worse; they look so disgustingly in love already that Harry wonders why in the world they waited so long to make it official. But then he looks in the mirror, his very alive face, and shame fills him up.
The thing is, is that Harry is struggling with – well, a lot. And he blames Riddle for it. The man went and died and now Harry has to deal with –
Before this, Harry never had to think so much about all his feelings. No, he was perfectly fine riding the waves, fighting the big fight, avoiding the whole either-I-die-or-Riddle-does and then I-have-to-die-right-away feelings. For very good reasons, if he says so himself.
Ginny floats down the stairs and into the kitchen, wearing a yellow dress, looking rather stunning.
Ah, fuck, Harry stares at her. A goddamn potion kick-started my very first relationship. How low can one truly go, romantically speaking?
Draco is right, isn’t he? Harry is a bloody airhead.
Arthur chooses that moment to become all protective. “And where do you think you are going, young lady?”
Ginny rolls her eyes, grabbing a stray muffin. Molly has been churning them regularly like a pastry factory, because apparently Safe Family equals to Sugar High Family. Just two nights ago, Harry and Ron had competed in stuffing the most number of chocolate chip muffins and Ron had won by a slim margin. The two of them had then proceeded to run around the Burrow in the early hours of morning, hollering and laughing, trying out different name variations for Riddle. Harry’s favourite is Tommy The Marvel Dildo.
In the kitchen, Ginny is sighing impatiently. “I told you like a million times, Dad. We’re having a girls’ night in the village. Luna will be here any minute.”
Arthur peers at her sternly. “No alcohol, Gin.”
Ginny solemnly nods until Arthur returns to his paper. Then she winks at Harry, smiling conspiratorially, stumbling around in a drunken stupor. Harry motions locking his lips and throwing away the key.
“Where’s Mum?”
“Helping with Teddy. She’ll be back soon.”
And there they are, Harry’s traitorous feelings. So many of them. He still hasn’t met Teddy. Sometimes, at night, Harry mouths apologies under the blanket, practices different variations of them, and each new one is somehow worse.
Molly had taken him aside one morning, right before breakfast, squeezing him tight against her, patting his cheek roughly. She had said, “Take your time, sweetheart.”
So Harry is doing that. Taking his time until he can’t avoid it forever. Fleur had shown him Teddy’s photograph, a tiny little thing bundled up, head peeking out. She told Harry that Teddy seems to prefer green hair the most, not that he can control it yet. Apparently, the kid throws a huge wailing fit until Andromeda plops a mirror in front of him and then he quite promptly shuts up to stare wide-eyed at his own distortions, making happy noises.
Harry already loves him. If only he could do something about it.
Ginny drops down two chairs away from him and Harry entertains her by waving his wand, levitating Fleur’s assortment of French pasties like a juggling master. Ginny snorts through his whole Patisserie Quidditch League, cheering for the Balding Baguettes, vigorously booing the Majestic Madeleines.
Hermione stumbles down the stairs in a blue dress and pointed high heels, Ron right behind her. Grinning in amusement, he steadies her at the last moment.
“I don’t understand,” he’s shaking his head as they take seats at the table. “Why?”
“I’m just trying it out, Ron!” Hermione argues impatiently, cheeks flushing red. “You can be a little more supportive.”
And then Arthur quips up without leaving the paper. “Listen to the young lady, son.”
Ron turns to him incredulously. “You don’t even know what she’s talking about, Dad.”
“I don’t need to know,” Arthur says dismissively.
Hermione huffs out a laugh. “Thank you, Mr. Weasley. Ronald, it’s going to be fine. Even if I break my ankles, I can fix them. I told you, I’ve read a great deal on heels and their effects on women’s confidence and posture. Now, I’m not saying that women need heels to feel confident, and yes, we can explore the nature of conditioning–”
“Bloody hell, okay, yes, fine,” Ron throws up his hands, exchanging a horrified look with Harry. “Can you believe she actually researched on footwear?”
“Yes,” Harry says.
Ron grabs a muffin, still shaking his head, then looking at Hermione fondly as she fiddles with the thin straps holding her ankle together. On a whim, Harry asks if he can try them out.
Ron drops the muffin, Arthur’s eyebrows shoot up, Ginny chokes, and Hermione beams brightly.
“Of course, Harry,” she says, already removing them and passing the pair to him.
Harry has no idea what the fuck he’s doing, except that he just wants to – try. He thinks. Who the fuck cares, is the thing. He’s a War Hero, he can try women’s footwear if his Riddle-free soul so wishes.
Ginny crowds closer, peering over his shoulders to peek at his feet. Harry enlarges the footwear first as Hermione explains that the middle part is meant to be that thin and promises that the straps will provide ample grip.
Harry slides them on. They’re black and glossy and looked very pretty on Hermione’s delicate feet. On his? Harry is probably going to have nightmares. Anyway, he rises to his feet and –
Goes crashing down, hitting his right knee painfully against the table. Ron grapples at him just as he’s about to face-plant himself.
“Harry, you–” Ron’s voice is strained as he hefts him back on his feet. He grips Harry’s elbows tightly, sighing and shaking his head for all its worth and then says, “Just – okay, try again. ‘Mione, how the hell do you walk in these?”
The Floo in the kitchen burns a bright green at that moment, announcing someone’s arrival. Everyone turns as one and Luna’s shoulders pop up.
“Oh, there you are!” she greets cheerfully. “Hello! I wanted to ask if it’s okay to come over now. I messed up the time and then lost track of it and Draco said it is polite manners to confirm before showing up at anyone’s house.”
Ginny strolls to the fireplace and kneels down. “Where are you? I know for a fact that your dad doesn’t have a Floo network set up.”
“Oh, yes, Daddy says that the Rotfang movement is still in power. As editors, we must be vigilant in our security. The Ministry is quite skilled at screening all connections.”
“That doesn’t answer the question of where you are,” Ginny points out.
“I’m at Draco’s,” Luna says matter-of-factly. “He offered me his mother’s dresses to wear tonight. They’re all rather beautiful. I couldn’t pick one for hours, Gin.”
Harry – he realises Ron is still holding onto his elbows and it’s probably the only reason why Harry is still standing. Draco is offering his dead mother’s clothes to his friends? Harry doesn’t know how to feel about that, whether to be grateful or concerned, and then reminds himself he’s rather pissed at Riddle for dying and leaving him to deal with himself.
Apparently, the rest of the kitchen’s occupants seem to be thinking along the same lines because they all become shifty-eyed and quiet.
“Right,” Ginny says, coughing awkwardly. “Well, you can come right up. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Luna turns to the wall of the fireplace, calling out, “Draco! I’m leaving!”
Draco’s voice comes through like someone turning up the volume on a radio. “Did you pick – oh, that’s a good choice. Mother used to wear that one for parties. She always said it made her feel mischievous. You’ll be coming tomorrow, I assume? Blaise plans on a lavish Mexican lunch spread. You can even wear one of your wide party hats.”
Luna grins. “That sounds wonderful, Draco! I’ll have Daddy cook us his special Menudo soup. What makes it special is that he replaces rosemary with dried nettles; it’s to cleanse the muddied aura after consuming spicy food.”
“You do that, Luna,” Draco says mildly. “Well, have fun. Don’t let stupid, blind imbeciles bring you down.”
“Of course, Draco,” Luna promises sincerely. “Good ni–”
“Wait, Malfoy!” Ron calls out quickly. Harry throws him a glare but Ron doesn’t even acknowledge it.
“Go through,” Draco tells Luna from out of sight. “I’ll wait.”
“Gin, I believe you should take a few steps back.”
Ginny clambers away. Luna stumbles out of the fireplace in a glittering silver dress that falls down to the floor, a thigh cut splitting the shimmery material on the right. Her heels are pointier and higher than Hermione’s, sharply cut natural crystals. The earrings are tiny silver dream-catchers but the feathers bit reaches down to her waist. To top it off, Luna’s long, dirty blonde hair is falling around her shoulders in bouncing waves.
Harry has to blink a few times in the sudden brilliance.
“I must have underdressed,” Ginny says.
“Weasley?” Draco’s head is in the fireplace, eyebrow quirked, white blonde hair freshly cut. The sides are shorter than the crown, not that Harry cares, but it’s obvious so he notices. “Er – good evening, Mr. Weasley.”
“Evening, Draco,” Arthur greets lightly. “Joining us for dinner tonight?”
“Thank you, but I already have plans,” Draco refuses smoothly, and then catches Harry’s stare. He looks him up and down, slow and deliberate, his other eyebrow joining the hitchhike on his forehead. Harry is uncomfortably aware of his old pair of jeans and black hoodie. “I wasn’t aware girls’ night included you. Black are no good. Go for a lighter colour. You’re tanning, for fuc – Circe’s sake.”
“I can’t even walk in these,” Harry complains. “How did you manage?”
“Meditate.”
Hermione snorts treacherously. Harry glares at her. “What sense does that even make?”
Draco stares back in that way Harry has come to associate with arrogant filthy-rich arseholes who believe they’re the best thing to have ever walked upon the Earth. He says, “Let’s not be delusional, Harry. For one, it requires a level of elegance you can never dredge up from the stumbling, blundering depths of your soul. Secondly, you need to feel the heel, and let it guide you. Since that will never happen, either, I figured I could give you a general life advice; if nothing else, it will shut you up for long periods of time.”
“At least I don’t sound like a puffed-up peacock,” Harry says and Draco twitches like the twitchy man he is.
Just because he’s riled up, Harry takes a few careful, wobbly steps and promptly collapses on one of the low shelves holding Molly’s stitching equipment. Ron jumps forward but it’s too late; there’s a loud snap and Harry’s ankle twists –
“Sweet Circe–”
“Motherfu–”
“Bloody–”
“Language.”
“Sorry, Mr. Weasley.”
“Sorry, Dad.”
Harry continues cursing under his breath, pain shooting up his shin. Hastily pointing his wand at the rapid swelling, he mutters Episkey and then another Reparo at the heels.
Hermione and Ron help him back up. He sheepishly returns Hermione’s footwear then looks anywhere but at Draco’s smug smirk, the bastard.
“Ronald,” Draco drawls, all amused and pleased and Harry wants to choke him. “You were saying?”
“Oh yeah,” Ron turns. “How was the solicitor meeting? Did it go well?”
Draco loses the smirk, eyes tightening and Harry has no choice but to look, not that he’s been looking the whole time, of course. When Draco speaks, he sounds irate. “She stood me up. Her secretary apologized on her behalf, but I believe they no longer wish to handle the Malfoy accounts.”
“That’s bullshit,” Harry says heatedly. “Why the fuck not?”
“Language.”
“Fuck if I know,” Draco replies, sounding both stressed and indignant.
“KIDS!”
“Sorry, Mr. Weasley. I even played the Harry Potter card, but it only drove her further away. What the fu – what have you done now?”
“What?” Harry splutters. “You mean apart from saving her stupid ars – I mean, saving the world? I don’t know! Ask her why she’s holding a grudge, not me. I don’t even know the lady.”
“It’s because you’re a Malfoy,” Hermione says, shrugging on a black cardigan, pulling her hair out from under it. “Now that all of Voldemort’s supporters are being thoroughly investigated, I believe no one wants to be associated with them, either.”
“But – but – he’s a War Hero,” Harry defends, feeling like they’re all missing the point, finding it all so unfair. “Doesn’t that mean anything? Why was she okay with Lucius and not him?”
“Harry, I’m not saying she’s right,” Hermione says patiently. “I’m just explaining it. Earlier, she could take under-the-table clients because they must have offered protection in return. Draco is not only a former Death Eater in an economy that is resisting him, he’s also a liability because he is a War Hero; he could expose her other clients. It’s all rather commercial, nothing personal. I suggest you find another solicitor.”
“Like I said,” Arthur chuckles. “Listen to the young lady.”
The girls take off after that, Ginny explaining the options they have in the village. Harry asks if Draco wants to come this side for a game of Exploding Snap.
“It could be our Guy Thing,” Ron adds, nodding.
“I’m already having a Guy Thing,” Draco remind him.
“What?” Harry rubs his sore ankle. “What Guy Thing?” I’m here, he thinks, Ron and I are here.Who’s with you?
“Muggle ball-foot with Dean and some guys.”
“Football,” Harry corrects automatically and then frowns. Draco sounds as if it is a completely regular, normal occurrence. He should be glad, but he’s only irritated. “What some guys?”
Ron raises his eyebrows at Harry’s tone. Harry ignores it.
Draco huffs. “I know other people, you know.” Then he smirks and Harry knows what to expect. Draco channels all the arrogance he has inherited from his combined Malfoy and Black ancestry, and says, “I’m a War Hero, Harry. The only Dragon Rider in nearly ten centuries. What can I say? People want to spend time with me. They want to know all the details of my dragon-taming skills.”
Harry’s chest is – burning, he thinks. No, not burning. He knows burning as intimately as he knows his own breaths now. This is –
When Ron asks why they’re not invited over for Blaise’s Mexican luncheon – he could wear his old Yule Ball robes to follow the theme – Draco rolls his eyes.
“I’m sick of seeing your faces around here. We’re on a break and I would prefer to follow through.”
Which is true. Ever since the war ended, the four of them, as per Ron’s suggestion, had holed themselves up at the Manor. The routine was a simple one: Harry, Hermione, and Ron would spend breakfast with the Weasleys, bid goodbye, Floo to the Manor, and pour over textbooks upon textbooks in the dark, dank library while house-elves made meal rounds and tea rounds and coffee rounds. The three of them would return to the Burrow for dinner, exhausted past midnight, and drag themselves to bed.
Until one day, Hermione had a severe nervous breakdown in the middle of the afternoon, terrified that they’ll never be able to reverse it.
It was an unanimous decision to take some space, a break because all the words were blurring together, day and night merging in one another until Harry woke up one morning and realised it’s been three weeks already.
Draco pulls out of the fireplace, saying he’ll see them in three days’ time as per planned, until then please do not show your mugs anywhere near here. Thank you, have a good night.
Harry is both relieved and slightly disappointed. He would have been delighted to try Mexican food and hear Draco’s elaborate explanations on the ingredients, their traditional history, his opinions. Draco does that, Harry has realised. For tea flavours, for breakfast muffins, for strange soups, and everything under the sun. Apparently, the man likes anything that is not English.
Harry would have also liked to play football. Perhaps, he can convince the Weasleys for a game in the morning.
On the other hand, Harry hates the Manor with a vengeance. He has no idea how Draco stays in those large rooms, sleeps in his bed, sits for meals at the dining table. There was a time he had thought of burning it to the ground, for fuck’s sake.
Draco’s things-to-sort-out turned out to be rather demanding. He would disappear for hours on end from the library. Harry followed him a few times, anything to get out of mind-numbing reading on Memory Charms.
Once, Draco took him to the gardens. A beautiful, blooming field of roses of all colours. A house-elf was tending to it, watering it the traditional way with a pure silver can. Harry trailed his fingers on the petals as he walked around, sunlight beating down on his neck, and thought, I would have missed this. He turned around to grin at Draco, finding him with a pair of scissors cutting at the dead bits. Draco said his mother preferred to do it herself, said it felt satisfying. Harry conjured his own pair of scissors, showing Draco how to do it properly. I tended my Aunt’s plants, Harry told him, and then told him a little bit about Aunt Petunia, the way he used to lie flat on his back in summers under the window to hear the news.
The next time, Harry followed him to the dungeons. This one was a bit tricky. Draco opened a series of stone doors; sometimes with simple spells, other times with his blood. Harry had slapped his hand away the first time Draco cut it, shouting an Episkey that reverberated through the emptiness. His heart was hammering, stumbling, tripping over itself behind his ribs. After that fiasco, Draco led him to dark rooms filled with artefacts, the magic buzzing in the walls itself. Draco told him he wasn’t allowed in this part of the Manor as a child. When he turned fifteen, he understood why. Half an hour later, Harry was magically sealing away a human heart, somehow still beating pathetically with nothing to keep alive. Harry thought, I would have missed this.
And then one time, Harry found himself in the Drawing Room. If he strained his ears enough, Hermione’s screams must have tucked themselves in the nooks and crevices, waiting for Harry to arrive, waiting to reign the last of Bellatrix’s terror onto him even after her death. Draco bellowed out an echoing BOMBARDA, spinning around in the middle of the room, continued to destroy through his tears and tremors and Harry had to grip his upper-arms tightly, keeping himself together and keeping Draco together at the same time. They didn’t return to the library immediately. They cut thorns in the field of roses.
Now, Harry sits with Ron and Arthur, doing their Guy Thing in the kitchen of the Burrow, and feels, for the first time, as if he is meant to be someplace else. He shoves it down because he might find out he’s supposed to be dead, in the train at King’s Cross, joining Dumbledore towards on.
Draco has disappeared once more. Almost an hour and a half after that, Ron gasps.
“Gilderoy!”
“Shit,” Harry says.
“Ron,” Hermione breathes. “Ron.”
Ron returns their wide stares. “I know.”
“I’ll call Draco,” Harry scrambles up, knocking down a few heavy books, not bothering to pick them back up.
He runs through the endless corridors, opening every door to peer inside, because Draco never tells them where he goes, and Harry had not asked him this time. Harry has developed some sort of navigation inside the haunted hallways, but not much, it turns out, because he still finds himself in rooms he had never seen before. Some of them are elaborate bedrooms, complete with bedding, some are just filled with furniture, some are empty with walls of mirrors.
Harry studies his own reflection, multiplied infinitely; round glasses, lightning scar, knobbly knees, messy dark hair. He has a bit of stubble he likes to keep, skin flushed from running, dark blue hoodie sagging on the shoulders, old pair of jeans, heavy boots he had bought especially for Horcrux-Hunting. He thinks he might go shopping one of these days, once the goblins calm down enough to tolerate their faces back at Gringotts. He had liked Draco’s black shirt from yesterday, a rich velvet collar, dark buttons, smooth, with an imperceptible shine to it. It suits Draco quite a bit, the contrast between his pallor skin and the shirt tugging at Harry’s gut. And Harry doesn’t care that Draco says he should go for lighter colours now that he’s acquired a healthy amount of tan; he wants that black shirt, at least something similar to it, and then he wants a maroon one, a green one, a pure white one, all fitting him well at the shoulders, around his chest and biceps, and he would also love to own a new Quidditch gear, now that he won’t be returning to school and borrow theirs.
Harry finds him in what Draco had informed is the West Sun Room. There are four Sun Rooms in total, he had explained once, each with an enchanted transparent barrier to control the ambience. Warm in winters, cool in summers; there could be a hurricane outside, Draco said, and you wouldn’t feel a damn thing. When Draco was born, the enchanted barrier kept him from toppling off the edge.
The East and North Sun Rooms are excellent for sunrises and star-gazing, Harry has learned. The South Sun Room is on the ground floor, filled with potted plants, from cactus to creepers to shrubs to herbs.
The West is for sunsets. Harry likes it the best; it has cushioned armchairs comfortable enough that you won’t fall asleep in but keep you relaxed and alert enough to watch the myriad of colours spilling over the horizon.
When Harry arrives at the door, Draco is staring in the distance, dressed in a red sweater and fancy grey joggers, white blonde hair and pale skin bathed in soft orange. His bare feet is raised to rest on the small coffee table, one ankle hooked over another. Harry enters the room, settles into another armchair, stares at the purple chasing the pink.
“Hey.”
Draco is quiet for a very, very long time. He seems lost in thought. Either that or he’s meditating. Harry doesn’t know if that is something he does. Ever since his useful “advise”, Hermione has become insistent that everyone should be meditating.
The sun has almost set, a thin strip of blazing orange the only sign of its existence. Harry fiddles with the pillow, eventually pulling out feathers one by one, making a neat pile of it on the coffee table. Nuri must be somewhere out there. Harry hopes she’s found her kin.
They only move when Hermione’s otter leaps through Harry’s legs, sounding exasperated and impatient. Where are you?
“Shit,” Harry jumps to his feet, running a hand through his hair. Draco looks up, silver eyes questioning. “Remember Lockhart?”
Draco winces so heavily, Harry barks out a surprised, pleased laugh. He outlines the story from Second Year, how Lockhart used Ron’s broken wand to Obliviate them and the spell rebounded –
Draco snorts and Harry remembers Ron vomiting slugs when he had tried to hex Draco.
“He’s held in St. Mungo’s currently,” Harry finishes explaining.
Draco leads Harry back to the library, taking shortcuts and walking through solid walls. He’s still bare-feet. Harry doesn’t comment. He’s realised that Draco prefers it, only wears shoes when he has to step outside the entrance doors.
When the four of them appear in a nearby alley, Harry trips straight into a wooden crate, stubbing his toe painfully on the edge.
“FUCK!”
“Harry, you’ve been cursing too much lately–”
“Good thing we’re going to a hospital, mate–”
“Why am I not surprised–”
The Muggle street is busy in the afternoon lunch rush. Harry thinks it’s wild to have Draco blending in with Muggles, dressed in a crisp sky blue shirt and dark grey slacks, a long black coat trimmed with silver.
“Is that actual silver?”
Draco throws him a deeply offended look. “Of course, it’s silver. What the fuck do you take me for?”
“A pompous git?” Harry supplies helpfully.
Draco walks faster, joining Hermione instead. Ron falls back beside Harry.
“Weird, isn’t it?” Ron says, hands stuffed in jeans, chin nodding up ahead at the other two.
“Tell me about it.”
Hermione and Draco have already begun a conversation. Harry is pretty certain they are discussing Mind Fabric or Science Behind Memory or Healing From Modified Spells or something equally nerdy. And it’s just another strange occurrence that exists in his post-war life. He thinks it might be a part of growing up, though, realising that school Houses were just that and nothing more.
“Feels good to be out and about,” Ron remarks mildly, dodging pedestrians easily. “Now that we have a lead, it shouldn’t be too long before we’re in Australia.”
They continue discussing the trip until the Muggle department store swims into view. Hermione steps up to the mannequin, reciting each of their names and purpose.
The Welcome Witch is in shock, mouth gaping open as she sees Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Draco Malfoy, and Harry Potter approach the desk. The waiting area explodes with questions and delighted cheers and thunderous clapping. A man in crutches is hobbling towards them in a hospital gown, asking for an autograph, while a haggard Healer tries to get him back inside the elevator.
“Later, later,” Ron, the tallest of them, calls out over the racket. “We’re here to visit a friend.”
And then everyone is asking who this friend is, are they okay, are they going to die –
“Merlin,” Draco hisses under his breath.
“Ignore them,” Harry says, struggling to retract his hand from another’s viscerally strong grip.
“No, no,” Ron assures loudly. “Lavender is very much alive and in recovery.”
“Oh no, that’s going to be in the papers now,” Hermione says anxiously. “We shouldn’t have said that, Lavender might not like it.”
Harry pushes through the throng towards the elevators, pulling Draco behind him. Ron and Hermione enter soon after and Harry shuts the gates, waving his hand in a semblance of goodbye at the still-cheering crowd.
“Let’s do visit Lavender,” Harry says.
Turns out, they are not the only ones. Seamus, Neville, Padma, and Hannah are huddled around her cot, passing candies between themselves. Lavender is propped up in her bed, amused at Seamus’ wild hand gestures as he regales some or the anecdote.
Lavender immediately lights up when Ron calls out her name cheerfully. She turns and Harry stares at the long scars slashing across her cheeks, her nose, and the crown of her head. She is completely bald, chunks of skull visible in some places.
Harry sucks in a sharp breath, pastes on a wide grin, and hugs her. He sits on the edge of the bed beside Hannah while Draco awkwardly drifts off to Neville.
It’s an afternoon well-spent, if Harry says so himself. Lavender is struggling but clearly trying her best to adapt, and everyone fills her in regarding the happenings of the outside world. Sometimes, the conversation leans towards the war and Lavender positively withers at that, and then Hannah will clasp her hand, saying how brave Parvati was, while Neville wound his arms around Padma quietly.
Harry doesn’t know how, but somehow everyone is aware that Draco killed Greyback. Lavender thanks him in a steely voice, catching his startled gaze, chin trembling.
Draco leaves.
“Don’t mind him,” Harry says in the perplexed silence. “He’s not used to being sincerely thanked.”
Gilderoy Lockhart is extremely pleased to have four visitors. He’s positively bouncing off the walls of the Janus Thickey Ward while Harry and Ron try to tame him to the best of their abilities.
Lockhart passes them a bundle of autographed photographs, saying they can have them for free. Harry takes it feeling awkward and embarrassed and highly, highly uncomfortable. Ron shoves his in his pockets, freeing his hands to physically stop Lockhart from escaping through the doors of the Ward. Harry looks to the Mediwitch for help but she’s deep in conversation with Hermione and Draco on the other side.
“I have candies,” Harry announces wildly, waving the ones Seamus had thrusted into his hands earlier. “You like candies, don’t you, Professor?”
“Blimey,” Lockhart stops struggling abruptly, staring wide-eyed at the swaying chocolates. “I’m not – they say I shouldn’t – is that for me?”
“Yes,” Harry says, relieved. “They’re all for you, Professor. Let’s sit down, alright? Then you can have them all.”
Lockhart dutifully plants himself on the nearest bed, tucking his legs underneath him, vibrating with excitement. He’s giving his most charming smile to Harry and Harry blinks at the sheer whiteness of his teeth. Ron nudges him and Harry moves.
“Here.” Harry dumps the whole lot on the bed.
For the next half an hour, the two of them keep Lockhart occupied by playing the candies version of Exploding Snap except that nothing explodes and the candies are devoured. Harry likes this version better and absently decides that Teddy might like it, too. He’ll have to check.
At one point, Draco joins them. He’s sombre like a doctor carrying bad news. The feeling intensifies when he tells Ron that Hermione needs him.
Harry turns. The Mediwitch has a consoling arm on Hermione’s shoulder as Hermione buries her face in her own palms.
“What’s wrong?” Harry asks as soon as Ron scrambles up, abandoning the items from his hands.
Draco takes his place, eyeing Lockhart’s gummy smile with the same caution he had shown towards Nuri at Gringotts. “Irreparable.”
Harry’s insides sink. “What? I mean, we knew that but this is different, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Draco concedes. Then he hesitates. “I’ve heard,” he says slowly, carefully, “of torturing people into remembrance.”
“Did you say torture?” Lockhart sounds astonished, unable to believe that torture exists in this world. “You seem to be a very bad man. Do I know you? Who is this? Who am I?”
“Professor,” Harry cuts in hastily, grabbing a few Bertie Beans and curls Lockhart’s fingers around them forcefully. “Why don’t you try these and tell me what they taste like?”
Lockhart happily pops one into his mouth. He chews for a few seconds under Harry’s prickly gaze and Draco’s disgusted expression, and then declares loftily, “Like wood polish.”
Harry prompts Draco to continue, and Draco winces throughout Lockhart’s unnecessarily loud exclamations of leather shoes, aluminium, bird feather, wall paint–
“There were cases during Riddle’s rise where they could reverse the Obliviate by torturing them–“
Wet soil, silk, pecan pie, deAD CAT–
“I assume the technique had to be precise. You couldn’t just expect every tortured person to remember all of their forgotten memories–”
PLASTIC, CHOCOLATE CAKE, DOG FUR, LIKE THE COLOUR YELLOW–
“There’s Obliviate and there’s Memory Modification Charm and Granger, bless her radical soul, combined both–”
DOES YELLOW HAVE A TASTE? I FEEL LIKE IT DOES. HAVE YOU EVER TASTED YELLOW?
“Sweet Circe – which means we need to counter it with not one but two separate–”
SERIOUSLY, THIS TASTES LIKE THE SUN. IT’S SO STRANGE. ALMOST LIKE MAGIC–
“TWO SEPARATE REVERSALS, WHICH IS NEARLY IMPOSSIBLE WITHOUT PERMANENT–”
BOYS, YOU HAVE TO TASTE THIS. I NEVER KNEW SUN COULD HAVE A TASTE, ISN’T IT SIMPLY FASCINA–
“MOTHERFUC–”
Draco draws out his wand and Harry lurches forward to grab his wrist, but Draco is already slashing it through the air and Harry freezes, not knowing what to expect, thinking that Draco is going to put their former Defence Professor on fucking fire – shit, shit, shit – there’s a loud BANG, someone yells in the distance, and Harry’s mouth first dries up and then fills with sunflower petals.
“It’s not yellow, you self-obsessed moron,” Draco snarls, crossing his arms across his chest.
Harry is being showered in flower petals, what the bloody hell. He opens his mouth to – to say something, anything – and then stops. Blinks rapidly.
Draco sort of … looks rather nice.
Bright, sunflower petals are littering his white blonde hair, his coat-clad shoulders, the top of his crossed arms, his thighs. He’s all soft around the edges and Harry wants to shower him with rose petals from the Manor gardens to study the effect.
That’s – okay, that’s weird. Harry can admit that.
Lockhart is effectively stunned into silence.
They get thrown out of the Ward immediately. The Mediwitch is reprimanding them all the way to the elevators, down to the waiting area, where her stern scolds of you cannot simply give patients any items and how dare you use a wand in my ward, I don’t care if you saved the whole universe are worsened by the now-packed crowd of reporters and Harry catches snippets of –
… hidden from public, all of you …
… Miss Granger, why do you look upset …
… Harry Potter, a word, please!
… planning to return to school?
By the time Harry stumbles out onto the Muggle street behind Hermione, his ears are ringing. He urges them to let’s go, let’s go, let’s go and they spill inside the first café they come across, hoping that the reporters would not take that risk.
The café is lit with yellow lamps hanging from the ceilings. There is an assortment of seating arrangements, from sofa chairs to ditzy beanbags to formal glass table-tops and polished wooden stools.
Ron finds them a booth in the back. Draco drops down beside him, still brushing off the petals from his black coat, looking deeply irritated at the whole world. Harry plucks a few from the back of his neck without thinking.
As soon as Hermione takes a seat, she pillows her arms on the table and hides her welled-up eyes. Ron wraps an arm around her, and Harry extends his fingers across to pet her hair gingerly.
“We just need more research,” Draco eventually sighs in the miserable silence. “We know the theory. If we take some help from Luna and Blaise – they’re smart – we could do something.”
“Yes,” Ron agrees, shooting Draco a grateful look, trying to smile naturally. “He’s right. Don’t lose hope, yet. If anyone can pull this off, it’s you.”
Harry says he’ll go place the order at the counter. Draco jerks in surprise at that, only now realising that he’s in a Muggle café. He blinks at his surrounding, studying the patrons occupying other tables, the unmoving posters decorating the wall, the music coming from the tinny speakers –
The complete and utter lack of magic is jarring even to Harry’s senses, after months and months of being surrounded by it, however dark and destructive it had been. It’s – bizarre and absurd and so, so normal.
Draco gets to his feet stiffly. For a moment, Harry thinks he’s going to leave, just walk right out of the door without a word. He’s visibly uncomfortable in this new environment and Harry is strongly reminded of a baby deer finding its feet.
“Not a word,” Draco threatens him lowly, grey eyes narrowing to slits. “I’ll come with you. I have no fucking idea what disgusting beverages Muggles prefer.”
Harry rolls his eyes but his insides are ballooning. Biting down on a giddy grin, he leads Draco to the counter where he had noticed the “Self-Service” sign earlier. He pulls the plastic card towards him, turning it slightly so that Draco can read as well.
The barista behind the counter is a young, pimply man in his early twenties. He welcomes them cheerfully, recites the recommendations like Hermione spits out facts during classes, and then asks for their order.
Scanning his eyes down the variety of coffees and teas, Harry has a sinking realisation that they don’t have any Muggle money on them. He hisses as such in Draco’s ear.
“You’re a fucking wizard,” Draco hisses back. “I don’t know, use magic.”
Harry swells with indignant anger. “I’m not going to rob him–”
“You robbed a bank–”
“That’s different–”
“Excuse me, your Almighty Arse, I’m thirsty–”
“Draco–”
“Confundo.”
The barista grins. “Ah, that’s the correct change. What can I get you?”
Harry shuts his eyes, resisting the urge to throttle the obnoxious git. He’s still pissed when they return to the table with four different beverages. Harry passes the Cappuccino to Hermione and Draco slides the Mocha Latte to Ron. He, himself, has decided on something called Poco Loco, saying it’s Indonesian or whatever, while Harry sips at his Chai Tea.
Hermione gives him a watery smile. She seems better now. “I don’t feel like returning to the Manor just yet.”
“Me, neither,” Harry admits.
“Let’s – let’s do something,” Ron suggests bracingly. “We can stay in the Muggle world. No one will bother us.”
Harry says he was thinking of doing a bit of clothes shopping but that they still don’t have any Muggle money. Hermione instantly picks up on it, asking how they bought the beverages.
“Never mind that,” Harry flaps his free hand hastily. “Shall we nip into Gringotts to try our luck?”
Everyone winces.
Hermione tentatively offers that they could drop by her old home, the one she was sharing with her parents. She had never actually sold it, and neither had her parents before taking off for Australia.
“Are you – are you sure?” Ron stammers uncertainly.
Hermione sucks in a sharp breath. “Yeah. There’s some money I had kept as back-up, in case we ran out and had to hide in Muggle London. I mean, it was just a contingency, not that I thought we needed it.”
Harry has stayed in Ron’s house over many summers and had never felt so acutely uncomfortable about borrowing money directly. He had never needed to, never ran out of it, mostly because he also never had to use it. Year after year, he had only spent on school items, continued to wear Dudley’s hand-me-downs, never wanted the Dursleys to find out that he was, in fact, rich.
Wealthy, as Draco would say.
Whatever. Not that it matters.
Doesn’t it? He could do anything now, buy a whole restaurant if he so wishes, own a three-storied pet shop and survive without working a day in his life.
That’s – holy fuck.
Harry wars with himself the entire time it takes for them to finish their drinks, find a secluded alley, and Disapparate right into Hermione’s backyard.
Hermione’s house is a blue and white, two-storied, simple suburban house. Harry can’t believe he’s never actually visited it before. He takes in the neatly placed furniture, the small television set in front of the patterned three-seater sofa, the small dining-set enough for five. The kitchen has all the necessary appliances that Harry can think of. A small library branches off to the right. Harry peeks inside and has to grin. Hermione must love it.
It’s similar to the Gryffindor Common Room with large windows for the natural light to break in through the curtains. The shelves are not towering, but high enough that Ron will probably have to lean up on his toes to reach the topmost books. There are solid, circular mahogany side tables with potted plants placed on them.
But everything is stale and dead, a thick layer of dust marring the available surfaces. The scent of disuse and absence is strong in the air; Harry opens a few windows, the metal frames creaking in the hushed quiet.
Hermione has disappeared up the stairs.
Ron is waving his wand around, cleaning up the place. Harry does the same. Draco is studying the photographs on the mantle, as still and unmoving as the rest of the Muggle house.
“She’s not in here,” he murmurs. “Not in a single one.”
Harry has the absurd impulse to laugh hysterically. He knows Draco has kept his family portraits still lining the walls, clean without a speck of dust on them. Harry has spent a few minutes over the weeks staring at Lucius and Narcissa and younger Draco, their smiles more and more fixated the older Draco turned.
Harry silently continues cleaning. He reaches into tiny nooks and crevices to get the dust out; in some places, there’s literal soil stuck in the deepest corners behind furniture.
And then someone is ringing the doorbell. Harry and Ron freeze, then quickly stuff their wands in their pockets. Draco whirls around to stare in the direction of the door. No one breathes.
It rings again. “Hermione? Are you in there?”
“What the fuck?” Draco whispers harshly, exchanging a stricken expression with Harry.
There’s a loud stomping on the stairs and Hermione comes running down, panting, wearing the same troubled countenance as the rest of them. She opens her mouth to say something but the man outside the door is now positively banging, declaring in a carrying voice,
“Whoever is in there, open the door right now! Or else I’ll call the police. On three – one, two, thr–”
Hermione crosses the living room and lurches open the door.
“There you are,” the man’s voice turns pleasant after a brief pause. “I saw the lights come on – I haven’t seen you and your parents for nearly a year. Where have you been?”
Harry mouths her neighbours to the other two. Ron nods and Draco frowns. They still haven’t moved a muscle.
“Oh, we actually moved,” Hermione replies in a breathless voice. “I returned just this afternoon, but I’m afraid I don’t plan on staying. Thank you for checking in, Mr. Bowie. It’s really kind of you.”
The man insists on stepping inside then, said he saw some strange movements. Hermione resists as much as possible until she can’t anymore without sounding highly suspicious, so Harry quickly mouths to act normal, and then Mr. Bowie and Hermione are rounding the small foyer, stepping inside the living room.
Mr. Bowie stops in his tracks; he’s a greying man in a matching sweatsuit, large and broad. Harry has a good guess that he’s ex-military.
A prickly silence stretches out before Hermione takes charge and makes quick introductions.
“Friends from school?” Mr. Bowie repeats doubtfully. “What are they doing here? Hermione, you’re not in trouble, are you?”
Hermione nervously laughs loudly. “No, no, of course, not. They insisted on accompanying me while I picked up a few remaining items.”
And then a silver, radiant, shimmering hare materialises in front of Draco and speaks in Luna’s dreamy voice.
“Happy birthday, Draco! Are you available tomorrow evening? Blaise, Dean, and I were thinking of having a party. We could invite everyone! It’ll be fun!”
The hare dissolves into oblivion just as suddenly.
Harry risks a glance at Mr. Bowie. He’s frozen in shock, staring at the spot, and then before anyone knows what’s happening, Hermione launches into a convoluted rant of advanced hologram technology that their school recently discovered, it’s all experimental, really, no need to worry, you’ll see it in the market soon enough. She proceeds to physically push the man out of her home, slamming the door shut.
Harry rounds on Draco. “It’s your birthday? Why the hell didn’t you say so?”
Harry meticulously checks the equipment multiple times. He doesn’t need an electrical shock on top of everything else that has happened today.
Draco is sighing at the table messily, and Harry continues to ignore him. He’s rather pissed that Draco didn’t bother sharing his birthday; they’ve been together literally for the entire day – today and for the past three or so weeks.
“Do you even know how to cook?” Draco breaks the tense silence. He sounds incensed and rude and impatient.
“For the last time, yes,” Harry snaps, turning the knob of the gas stove a few times. “Now shut up until they return.”
He’s sent Ron and Hermione for a grocery run with the money Hermione had stashed in her bedroom. She said there’s a mart at a ten minute walking distance. Ron shrugged, calling it their Muggle Day Out.
In the kitchen, Harry locates a few plates they can use. He washes them in the sink with the small bar of soap, then dries it with a soft cloth he’d Scourgify-d. Draco keeps up a constant stream of how Harry can make use of this spell and that spell and Harry keeps ignoring him, because he grew up cooking food the Muggle way; he has no idea about any cooking spells. Neither does Draco, for that matter, Harry wants to remind the snobbish piece of shit.
And then Draco points out that they can simply visit a restaurant for a meal; he graciously says that even a Muggle one would do fine, but Harry shoots down that idea quicker than he’d catch a Snitch against Slytherin, which deeply offends Draco to the point where he’s quick to remind Harry that I’m the birthday boy.
With nothing else to do but wait for groceries, Harry conjures some water to boil in a deep pan. He rummages in the cupboards until he finds three tea flavours that are yet to be expired.
Draco eyes it disdainfully. “Black tea? Really?”
Harry stares. Draco’s long black coat – with actual silver – is draped on the back of a dining chair. He’s perched on another precariously as if scared of catching Muggle-cooties or something. His sky blue shirt is rolled up to his elbows, the way he had done during their Horcrux-Camp, hunched over the table, his freshly cut white blonde hair glistening under the soft yellow.
He huffs under Harry’s carefully blank gaze, rolling his eyes, and taking a sip out of the steaming white cup, the edges of which are horribly chipped. Harry sits across from him.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Harry asks again. He’s not exactly pissed anymore, but curious and a little offended.
Draco shrugs, avoiding him entirely now. “What was the point?”
“What was the point,” Harry repeats flatly, and then feels the frustration rising inside him once more. Fucking goddamn Riddle. “What was the point, Draco? Except the fact that we could have done something rather fun, gone for a nice meal somewhere, had a proper party, cut a fucking cake?”
“Luna is planning that for tomorrow,” Draco points out petulantly. “Feel free to join.”
Harry exhales a long, heavy breath. “I know you have spent your birthdays with Lucius and Narcissa, and it’s probably a terrible feeling not to have them here, but we are here, you giant imbecile. Did you honestly believe that we won’t be interested in celebrating it? That I won’t be? You saved my life – multiple times, Jesus fucking Merlin – you think I’m not even slightly grateful for that?”
Sometime during Harry’s rant, Draco has latched onto his face, lips pursed in a thin line, fury and confusion rolled into one.
Harry holds his gaze stubbornly, wanting to communicate every single word he’s just uttered in the slight narrowing of his eyes.
Eventually, Draco speaks. “Jesus fucking Merlin?”
Harry wants to choke the bastard. “Mine is in the next month,” he tells Draco, chin lifting. “Feel free to join.”
Hermione and Ron return with a cake, along with the list of items Harry had scribbled on the back of their afternoon’s receipt.
It’s a small cake, white chocolate with kiwi. The green icing on top of it reads Happy Birthday Draco. Ron sticks a few pink candles in it and Hermione ignites them with her special Blue-Bell flames.
“Scoop them,” she advises Draco as they crowd around him at the dining table. “They won’t go out.”
Draco swallows, staring down at it for a long, long minute. “I like kiwi,” he manages to croak out.
Harry grins, begins to sing the birthday song, clapping his hands for all its worth. Draco gingerly cuts a neat slice and Harry picks it up quickly to stuff it in his stupid mouth. Ron wants to go a step ahead and smash the whole thing right in Draco’s face but Hermione holds his wrist at the last minute; although, Draco was already ducking down even as Harry twists both his arms behind his back to keep him in place.
Ron settles for smearing a large chunk in his hair.
Harry is cleaning the chicken, smothering a laugh. Draco has stuck his head under the sink tap, cursing such profanities that Mr. Weasley would have gotten a heart attack.
Ron, the least useful in cooking, is sprawled on the sofa in the living room with a bottle of Muggle beer. Hermione is drinking hers by the counter, having just tossed a basic salad in a large bowl. When Draco had asked how they managed to acquire alcohol, they’d both turned red and scattered off. At one point, Hermione runs upstairs and returns with an old music player.
“My Dad used to work this,” she mutters, poking and jabbing randomly at the buttons. “Ron, see if you can find any cassette tapes.”
“Any what?”
“Small plastic rectangles with two holes in them.”
“On it.”
Draco finally gets the cake out of his hair. Harry tosses him the cloth. Draco ignores it and primly – and rather pointedly – uses a Drying Charm.
Harry does not know how to cook food that is not English. The Dursleys were always fond of traditional meals, so Harry sautés cut vegetables, marinates the chicken, steams rice, and uses the broth for plain chicken soup. He’s – well, he’s slightly nervous, but determined, and the motions are easy even after months of boiled eggs above a bonfire.
The chicken is going to take time. Harry checks on the flames, stirs –
“How long does it take?” Draco asks, leaning sideways against the counter. His pointing his wand in the air.
“About forty-five minutes.”
Draco nods, murmurs, “Tempus.”
Harry busies himself with cleaning up the counter, running a wet cloth on the surface, finding the mundane act soothing, like hard-wired routine.
“You were shit in Potions.”
Harry’s hand stills. Draco doesn’t continue. Harry goes back to work, teeth gritted and jaw clenched.
Draco moves around him when Harry reaches that part of the granite surface, sweeping the cloth across it, now extremely aware of the fact that he can simply flick his wrists and get it done. He doesn’t.
Ron locates a few dusty cassette tapes in the drawer under the television set. Hermione slides one in the music player, jabs a few buttons, and soft, piano notes fill the room –
Love of my life, you’ve hurt me
You’ve broken my heart, and now you leave me
Love of my life, can’t you see?
Harry decides he likes the singer’s voice. It’s deep but he’s got a wide range, belting out tunes that would put Celestina Warbeck to shame. He realises after a few moments that silence has descended upon the house, the words washing over them, wrapped around the quiet evening, warm and lulling.
“Dad used to play this for Mum,” Hermione says shakily. “I suppose he – he forgot–”
Ron rises to his feet, holding out a hand meaningfully. Hermione chokes on a wet laugh, taking it, letting Ron pull her up.
“You wanted me to ask you first,” Ron grins down at her cheekily, shuffling his feet the way they’d been taught back in Fourth Year.
“And not as a last resort,” Hermione agrees.
“Well,” Ron says, amused and lightly, “no offense, but I don’t really want to slow dance with Harry or Malfoy right now. You’ll have to do.”
Hermione throws back her head, laughing, swatting his arm without any real heat. Harry turns to exchange a look with Draco, finds him sitting on top of the dining table, under the soft yellow light, holding a beer bottle between his lean fingers.
Harry stands up, moves around his friends, tickling Hermione’s waist as he passes, and then quickly ducks under her swiping arm, almost tripping right into Draco’s lap.
Draco raises his eyebrows. “You’re not going to dance?”
Harry shrugs, taking a gulp, wincing instantly, and then sits on the chair near Draco’s dangling knee. “Ron is right. I really wouldn’t dance with him.”
Draco jumps down. He keeps his bottle on the glass surface and then holds out his hand. Harry stares at it; face hot and chest weird.
“Parvati hated me as her dance partner,” Harry says, swallowing.
Draco quirks up one pale eyebrow. “I, myself, was raised as a proper gentleman–”
Harry snorts out his beer.
“–and my Beauxbatons dancing partner would be happy to give a flying recommendation. Offer expires in ten seconds.”
Well. Harry did defeat the Evil Wizard of All Time. How hard can this be? Besides, Draco is the birthday boy. If the git wants to slow dance, he deserves a slow dance.
Despite the pep talk, Harry feels highly inadequate as he grips Draco’s palm, rises to his feet. By the time Draco leads him to the empty space beside Ron and Hermione, the song has already changed. The same singer is now singing –
I want to break free
I want to break free from your lies
You’re so self satisfied I don’t need you
I’ve got to break free
It’s not exactly suitable for a slow-dance, but Harry doesn’t point it out. The beats are lively and playful and Harry instinctively bobs his head along, grinning at Draco.
Draco smirks back but it doesn’t hold its usual arrogance; it’s mischievous and light and Harry wants to – wants to –
Draco takes Harry’s right arm and places it on his side. Harry slides it up to the dent between his shoulder blades and Draco does the same. Then he grips Harry’s left palm with his right. Loyal to the peppy beats, Draco doesn’t lead Harry into the routine they had followed during Yule Ball but into something more jazzy.
Harry follows the steps, swaying his hips like Draco’s, snappy and smooth, and then he’s pirouetting under Draco’s extended arm, and then laughing as Draco whirls under his, both falling back into place, then immediately swaying away, head still bobbing, hips still snapping, and Draco taps his feet, shows Harry how to do it, and then they’re both repeating the whole thing even as the song changes –
She keeps her Moet et Chandon
In her pretty cabinet
“Let them eat cake,” she says