The Silence
The thing with Teddy is, is that Harry can’t think straight.
He knows what The Right Thing to do is. Knows what Remus and Tonks had wanted him to do. Knows that, if he were Teddy, what Teddy would want him to do. It’s the same damn thing he had longed for, growing up at the Dursleys. An actual family who gives a flying fuck about you, not because you were basically a glorified house-elf but because you were you.
Even after he entered the magical world, a complete one-eighty had been just as bad, if not worse. People tripping over themselves just to shake his hand, just for Harry to see them. It had been devastatingly overwhelming – still is.
Just as Harry had a purpose to serve at the Dursleys, he had a purpose to serve for the magical community. It had taken him a long time and a serious talk with Dumbledore to realise that Harry wouldn’t have had it any other way. Keeping aside the miserable and embarrassing fame part of it, he still would have hunted down Riddle. It’s just – not because he had a moral duty (which he believed he did) but also because he had wanted to. He wanted to defeat the Big Bad Wizard, wanted revenge, wanted to do The Right Thing.
With Teddy, though … the crippling guilt always makes his head spin.
After years of intimately understanding what The Wrong Thing to do is, it’s only natural that he would want nothing to do with it. He never wanted to make more of himself – orphans of war, neglected and abandoned, every move tracked by those who worshipped you for something you didn’t even do. It was all Lily, all of it, her love for Harry so infinitely powerful that it destroyed all logic wizards held onto possessively from the dawn of time. Harry had not defeated Voldemort, Lily had. It was her love that gave him strength to walk to the Forest. It had been her in the end that Harry had wanted to resemble the most.
In this moment, secure in Andromeda’s arms, baby Teddy is cooing happily, blowing raspberries, green-hair wild as though he had refused to let Andromeda run a comb through it. He can already see Tonks’ personality shining through.
Teddy stares at Harry through huge, saucer-sized black globes. Even as Harry stares back, startled, shaken to his bones, utterly moved as his whole world rearranges itself, the black bleeds green, and Harry is looking at his own mother’s eyes. He blinks.
And the guilt just … poofs out.
Because – because – people made choices. Ron and Hermione made choices, and so did Andromeda and the Weasleys. So did Draco and Luna and Blaise. And so did Remus and Tonks, just the way Severus had, Dumbledore had. Lucius and Narcissa had.
He needed Ron and Hermione to understand that it was important for Harry to walk to the Forest alone. He understood something that he could not put into words, other than insisting that it was the right thing to do, the only way to defeat Riddle. It was all true, but also underneath all the fights, the sheer, raw, powerful thought was it was my choice.
“Say Happy Birthday to your godfather, Teddy,” Andromeda croons lovingly.
Teddy gurgles, blowing even more raspberries.
“Thank you,” Harry says.
The Grimmauld Place is bursting at the seams. Teddy has become the Bagpiper for all involved. As Andromeda rushes to the other Weasleys to greet them, a large portion of Dumbledore’s Army follows, playing wand tricks to entertain the child.
Kreacher finally abandons his mission to reunite Draco with his long-lost family and disappears to actually prepare food, Molly chasing him down, calling loudly leave the birthday cake to me!
And then people are spilling out in the hallways, in the adjoining rooms, heavy rock music blasting from a gramophone (where did that come from?), someone conjures up baubles and fairies and shimmering lights, draping it over surfaces, the dining table quickly fills up with piles and piles of gifts, students are reuniting, some of them have been regularly visiting Hogwarts, the seniors had abandoned their jobs in a show of solidarity, and Harry catches snippets of relationship drama, Anthony Goldstein is being pushed by Cormac McLaggen towards Hannah Abbott –
In short, it has become a party.
After twenty minutes of greeting and thanking every guest, Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Draco are the only ones standing in the emptying dining room.
“What the hell am I supposed to do?” Harry asks the other three, trying not to panic.
“You host,” Draco says simply.
“How?”
Toss him on a Quidditch pitch or in the middle of a duel, and he’ll have better chances of surviving than hosting his very first party in a house he currently and fully owns. The last bit should make it easier, yet it only adds further stress.
Draco stares. Then rolls his eyes melodramatically, throwing a silent prayer to the Heavens. The air cracks as Minnie, Soopey Not Sobby, Kirky Slash Peppy, Tolky Slash Zaddy and a few other house-elves from the Manor materialise in their midst.
Draco proceeds to bark out a long list of food items with Ron quipping up regularly, and Harry drifts closer to Hermione, who is correcting the fucking Colour Charms on some nearby balloons at her feet. They turn from bright, neon yellow to cool shimmering icy blue. Harry finds it easier to look at them.
Once the house-elves disappear after a round of instructions with another resounding crack, Draco unceremoniously shoves Harry towards the stairs.
“Hosting means mingling, you dolt.”
Harry flails wildly. “No, no, no, no!” He draws out his wand as the door looms closer. “Colloportus!”
Draco groans, still shoving him ahead. With one hand pressing him forward, he flicks his wand with the other.
The door clicks open. Harry stops so abruptly that Draco knocks into him. They both stare down as the hinges creak, a sliver of gap appearing on the edge. Bass and guitars and drums pound the air, the gruff voice of a man bellowing I was was was, on a stick stick stick, flying through the haze of my heartbreak –
“When I saw, saw, saw,” Ron joins in automatically, standing a few stairs below. “Marie-Ann, Ann, Ann, she smiled so lovingly I crashed.”
“Ronald Weasley,” Draco whips around, horrified beyond words. “Tell me you are not a fan of the Limping Leprachauns.”
Ron shrugs, wholly unaffected. “How are you not?”
“Because I don’t have atrocious taste,” Draco hisses. He pinches the bridge of his nose, irritated and annoyed, and mutters lowly, “First the Chudley Cannons and now this.”
Expectedly, at the mention of Chudley Cannons being anything less than spectacular, Ron and Draco begin a passionate bicker over Quidditch teams. Harry finally steps out in the hallway just to get away from them, and Hermione sidles beside him, rolling her eyes.
To Harry’s immense relief and shock, he notices trays of drinks and snacks being circulated by the Manor house-elves. One immediately darts towards them, offering Butterbeers. Harry gratefully takes a huge swig, thanking. Hermione scoots down to catch the house-elf’s gaze and kindly asks his name.
And then she proceeds to needle Moppy regarding his employment contract, wouldn’t you like to earn a few galleons? Wouldn’t you want a nice, relaxing holiday? Some decent clothes?
Harry wants to leave so, so badly. A fresh kind of guilt is crawling up his spine. He had rather enjoyed the luxury Manor came with, told himself he deserves to be taken care of. Of course, he always made sure to treat the house-elves with respect, being vocal with his gratitude, but he had never once thought whether they would like to be freed the way Dobby had.
But – well, Draco isn’t exactly mean to them, either. He calls them when required, doesn’t go out of his way to make their lives a living hell, doesn’t bother punishing them – not that they’ve made mistakes; at least, not that he knows of. Draco has been perfectly civil on typical days, only being his bratty and moody self on particularly bad days. Even then, all he whines about is why isn’t his lemon yellow shirt pressed yet, and where is the tan peacoat, and the shoes aren’t polished enough –
Merlin, until this very moment, Harry had not thought of what being Draco Malfoy’s friend might entail. He’s not under any kind of delusion, either. Harry is perfectly aware that Draco did not fight in the war because he is a Muggle or Muggle-born advocate; he only wanted to be freed from his Dark Lord more than anything else. If, in the course of doing so, he aided the Muggles and Muggle-borns, intentionally or unintentionally, he clearly did not give a flying fuck whatsoever.
During his moment of Existential Crisis, Moppy has fled from Hermione, squeaking he has duties to attend urgently.
“Why don’t they want to be freed?” Hermione exclaims impatiently, blowing a strand of bushy hair out of her face. “What’s stopping them now?”
“Maybe they’re not unhappy anymore,” Harry offers lightly. He finishes half of his Butterbeer to avoid looking at her.
“It wouldn’t hurt Malfoy to put them on proper employment,” she insists. Which is true.
“You do realise Kreacher will cut off his own head before ever accepting those terms,” he says. “Most I can do is not be a dick. Which Draco is doing as well.”
“How can you defend him?” she demands, whirling on him. Her mug sloshes, spilling drink on the dark red carpet.
“Hermione.”
Instinctively, he pulls out his wand to clear it up. However, Minnie pops up, balancing a tray of delicate Firewhisky glasses, removing the stain with a snap of her fingers.
“Thanks, Minnie,” Harry beams.
Minnie hesitates. She doesn’t leave immediately, instead, darts her eyes between the two in visible struggle. Then, she squeaks out. “Miss is not wrong. Minnie would like to be able to buy clothes. Minnie has heard of Dobby. Dobby wears pretty tea cosies, colourful and bright. Minnie would like that.”
“Really?” Hermione positively shines. She looks so happy Harry can almost imagine bright sunlight dawning on her face in a brand new world.
Minnie nods, fearful but determined. “Minnie would still be honoured to work for Master Draco. If Master Draco is unhappy to pay Minnie, Minnie would still be honoured to work for Master Draco.”
And then Hermione assures her that everything would be fine before promptly leaving the scene to harass Draco. Minnie disappears suddenly, too, and then Harry watches an irate Draco stepping out in the hallway being chased by a relentless Hermione. Ron follows at a slower pace, laughing hysterically.
He notices Harry still near the door, swipes the remaining Butterbeer. Snorting in amusement, he says, “I bet you anything Malfoy is going to have to clear terribly knit hats from around the Manor. Cheers, mate.”
Draco’s white blonde hair bobs in the distance, near the entrance to the Drawing Room. He’s still batting away Hermione by shoving random people in front of her as distraction. Harry laughs, feeling a flare of unwarranted fondness for the git.
Ron clears his throat. When Harry glances over, Ron has his eyebrows raised. His smile slips off uncomfortably.
“What?”
“If you’re giving that look to ‘Mione, I’m sorry to say, but back off.”
Harry splutters. “What? What look? I’m not giving Hermione any look, Ron!” His heart is hammering away to the loud music, and now the lead singer is belting out Oh, my lips, lips, lips, touched yours, yours, yours, and dragons soared in my heart –
“You know what?” Harry says to an extremely unmoved Ron. “This song really sucks. We need some Muggle music around here.”
Harry is in the middle of stuffing his face with delicious chilli when Luna drops beside him on the couch, sweaty, wand tucked behind one ear. She’s wearing her Spectrespecs in honour of the occasion. He silently passes the bowl and the fork. In front of him, there is a half-drunken group dancing wildly. Harry bobs his head in tune absently. Thankfully, the Limping Leprachauns have been replaced with what Seamus assured him is called The Gold Cauldron.
The Gold Cauldron’s music is a hundred times better than the Limping Leprachauns. For starters, the music is peppy but not heavy metal grating on his eardrums against the backdrop of terrible lyrics. Secondly, he enjoys the story of Kat The Kite more than Marie-Ann. See, one day, Kat The Kite’s string is cut by a rather confused and violent vulture, thus floating it away. The vulture follows it, follows it, follows it, until Kat The Kite soon gets tangled in a high rosewood tree. The vulture, now wanting to follow it out of sheer habit, clutches it in its beak and flies away in the horizon.
All too soon, Fred and George are pulling him up, lifting him onto their shoulders to raucous hooting and cheers. The crowd parts for them all the way to the adjoining Sitting Room.
“HAGRID!” Harry shouts in delight. He scrambles down precariously, running to the man for a hug.
Hagrid beams sunnily, crushing Harry to the point of gasping. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HARRY! Blimey, you look so grown up already! You were only a little baby a few months ago.”
Harry laughs. He notices Kingsley Shacklebolt, Dedalus Diggle, Minerva McGonagall, and Hestia Jones waiting behind Hagrid. He quickly rushes over to greet.
Minerva cannot stay for long, it appears, and neither can Kingsley. It doesn’t take long for Harry to sense the restrained tension between the two, and it spills out when Harry enquires after the school repairs.
“We would appreciate some assistance from the Ministry, obviously,” she says in a withering tone. “It appears to me that it is impossible to request for the same without overindulging them.”
Kingsley glances at her warily. “The Ministry is in shambles, Minerva. We are still rooting out the Death Eaters in the country, including their supporters in corruption, which eventually led to its downfall in the first place. There are daily trials to be taken and I, myself, am facing some resistance.”
Minerva frowns. “School reopens in a month, Kingsley. We cannot delay students’ education anymore. The curriculum needs to be reset, letters need to be sent, parents are still hesitating given the reputation of the school currently.”
“Speaking of,” Kingsley grates, “the Board of Governors of Hogwarts is either half-dead or tortured or were under Imperius. On top of that, your Headmaster is absent. Those positions need to be filled immediately. The Ministry does not wish to overindulge, Minerva. It is the need of the hour.”
“Wait, what?” Harry interrupts quickly. “Severus is gone?”
Minerva’s face scrunches up in disbelief. “In all my life, I never imagined this. Potter and Severus ever being on civil terms.”
“We’re not on civil terms,” Harry defends himself automatically. “I will never be on civil terms with him! I’m just – wondering. I didn’t think he’d up and leave.”
To be honest, Harry is more affected by this news than he wants to let on. Where did Severus go? Doesn’t he want to stay around Draco? Doesn’t he want to protect Dumbledore’s legacy? Doesn’t he want the world to know what losses he’d endured, what risks he’d taken for years? Doesn’t he want to clear his name? What Sirius wouldn’t have given for such an opportunity.
Minerva answers, sounding tired. “Severus handed in his resignation last week, but he left before I could confront him about it. For all intents and purposes, yes, Potter, he did just up and leave.”
“For what it’s worth,” Kingsley adds gravely, “he has already reported the names and whereabouts of the remaining Death Eaters. It has proven to be tremendously helpful.”
Minerva sighs. “I presume it is also to ensure the Ministry does not harass young Mr. Malfoy for the same.”
This is – not what Harry wants. He owes the man, for fuck’s sake. He can’t just – Harry feels wrong-footed and betrayed. He shouldn’t, but he does. He should be rejoicing in the fact that he doesn’t have to face Severus at all now. Instead, a sick, hollow feeling churns in his gut.
He supposes now that Riddle is dead, Severus has no reason to protect Lily’s son. And Harry was just that, wasn’t he? He was Lily’s son, nothing more, nothing less. What was that Severus had referenced him as? Oh yes, pig for slaughter.
Harry excuses himself. Blindly, he shoves through the crowd towards the stairs. On the mercifully empty first floor, he grapples at the nearest doorknob, enters the room, sealing it behind him. It’s one of the spare bedrooms.
He doesn’t bother with lighting up the torches. He folds his legs and sits on the rectangular slab of moonlight falling across the wooden floor.
Harry takes in a deep, shuddering breath, exhaling it slowly. In, out, in, out.
Why the fuck is he crying? It’s not as if Severus had been nice to him. In fact, the man had been nothing more than a downright bully to Harry, abusing his position of authority like nobody’s business. He had made Harry’s life just as miserable as Draco had, if not more.
Severus’ abandonment should not feel like abandonment. Harry spent his life blissfully unaware of said man’s protection, happy to hate him, happy to take sharp U-turns whenever he caught sight of the billowing black robes.
It is his choice, Harry tells himself. If he wants to disappear, he has every right to. Maybe he needs a vacation badly. Maybe he doesn’t want to look at Harry anymore. Maybe he doesn’t need a constant reminder of his greatest loss anymore, if he can help it.
And then it’s not just about Severus anymore. It’s everything, all of it. The crushing guilt constantly ebbing in the back of his mind, the sheer pain of losing Sirius all over again, Remus and James and Lily, and Albus … the acute absence of Alicia Spinet, Zacharias Smith, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Parvati Patil, Terry Boot, and Lavender is still in St. Mungo’s, and everyone who had chosen to fight and died … Harry feels stuck in his grief, unable to see anything beyond it.
The truth of the matter is also that Harry’s own choices are crushing him. He had not wanted to hurt Ron and Hermione by choosing to die. He had not wanted Draco to lose his parents. He feels guilty for being relieved that all the Weasleys are safe when so many others lost their families … it’s unreasonable, he knows and yet it doesn’t make him feel any better.
He has no idea why people should be thanking him. They should want nothing to do with him, because all he has managed to do is bring death and destruction everywhere he went.
The music is pulsating through the floors, the walls, and Harry stays right there, staring outside the parted curtains. The sky is pitch black, the stars invisible due to the blinding streetlights. If he concentrates enough, he can catch snippets of conversation and laughter from the Muggle front yards.
Before he realises what he’s doing, Harry roughly wipes his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. He picks himself up, unlocks the door, and goes down in search of Dedalus Diggle.
Blaise stops him on the way, pressing a glass of Black’s finest Glodder’s Gin in his numb fingers. Harry dredges up a smile in thanks.
Dedalus is in the middle of a loud conversation with a bunch of Hufflepuff students. Harry asks to speak with him in private and they climb down to the dining room. The pile of gifts has increased. Maybe he can let Draco loose on them. The git always did enjoy ripping open surprise packages at the Slytherin table with an unnecessarily exuberant flourish.
Dedalus does not appear to be the least bit surprised by Harry’s stiff inquiry of the Dursleys. He explains that the family has been moved back to Number Four, Privet Drive soon after the war ended. Apparently, Vernon Dursley had been in a fit of rage the entire time.
“What about Dudley?” Harry asks straight to the point. “Is he still living with them?”
Turns out, Dudley is. He had to be pulled out of school during the war, which means he has a year to cover up before he can consider a college degree. Harry doesn’t think he might go through with it, either. Dudley would probably just join Uncle Vernon at the drilling company.
Dedalus waves away Harry’s thank you, insisting that it had been an honour to do his part in the war, to keep Harry’s family safe while he took on such a dangerous mission. Harry doesn’t have the heart to explain, once more, that the Dursleys are very much not his family, so he smiles rigidly, and Dedalus takes his leave after another thrilled Happy Birthday!
Once he Floos away, Harry goes in search of Draco for no plausible reason he can possibly come up with other than wanting his sarcastic company at the moment. He finds him in the middle of a giggling crowd, haphazardly trying to copy Luna’s otherworldly dancing movements. Neville looks even more ridiculous, clumsily tripping over his own feet.
Feeling a sense of moral duty and solidarity, Harry pushes through the masses and joins the group. He moves his hands and feet as dreamily and vacantly as possible, tilting his neck. The giggling turns to outright laughter, and Draco throws a quick grin and a wink in his direction.
The rest of the evening goes rather pleasantly. Molly has outdone herself by baking a giant two-tiered chocolate cake that has an edible Gryffindor scarf draped artistically onto it.
As soon as he cuts the first slice to thunderous clapping, a pair of warm hands are wrapping around his chest from the back, and Draco shouts RONALD, NOW! and Ron slaps a large chunk of chocolate right in his face.
Fifteen minutes later, Draco leans sideways on the wall beside the sink in the corner as Harry sticks his head under the cool water, working his fingers through his hair.
“We didn’t use so much of it for you,” Harry mutters, irritated.
“Technically, this cake was bigger. It’s basic Arithmancy of proportion,” Draco points out loftily.
“Technically, I don’t care about bloody Arithmancy.”
“Technically, the others insisted on it.”
“For some reason, I highly doubt that.”
In a sudden move, Harry grapples his sticky fingers in Draco’s direction but Draco jumps back just in time. And then he’s carefully and quickly rounding Harry’s hands’ radius to come up behind him. Harry yelps when Draco twists both his arms behind him, still avoiding the wet clumps of cake, and Harry instinctively straightens up, craning his neck around to glare over his shoulder.
“I’m the Master of the Elder Wand,” Harry warns him through narrowed slits.
“I’m the Dragon Rider,” Draco retaliates.
“Nuri is not here at the moment,” Harry points out.
“Your hands are neither on the actual Wand nor on your own,” Draco quirks up an eyebrow in challenge. “And I know for a fact that you suck at Wandless magic.”
“You don’t know that,” Harry says stubbornly. “I’ve done it before.”
“Sure,” Draco drawls sarcastically. “Accidental magic as kids does not count, Potter.”
Harry’s blood thrums. “As if you’re any good at it, Malfoy. You’re going to have to let go of my hands sooner or later, and then I will have my wand and you will still not have Nuri around to save your arse.”
Draco’s smug smirk triggers alarm bells. Before Harry can rake his mind to remember whether he’s seen Draco perform Wandless magic, the sink dissolves into thin air.
“Hey! I wasn’t done yet!” he blurts out stupidly because that’s the focal point currently.
He feels a warm blast of air on his head, feels the stickiness disappear bit by bit, and then his hair is completely dry. His hands have cleaned themselves up, too, so now Draco presses forward, his chest lightly bumping on Harry’s back.
“When did you learn that?” Harry asks in stunned disbelief.
“Sixth Year,” Draco says, twisting his arms tighter. “When we began non-verbal spells, I tried my hand at this.”
Harry’s curiosity is peaked. “What else can you do?”
“Not much,” Draco admits reluctantly. “Mostly spells that cannot be used in duels, and very limited times.”
“That’s cheating.” A moment later, “Where’s my sink?”
“No clue.”
“Draco –”
“Just buy another –”
“Kreacher is going to kill me –”
Draco huffs exasperatedly in Harry’s ear. “House-elves cannot kill their own Masters –”
Harry’s expression darkens. “You’d think.”
Thankfully, Draco doesn’t respond. Harry takes in a few calming breaths in, reminding himself that it’s all in the past, everything is in the past, Kreacher is better towards Harry because Harry is better towards him –
Harry’s eyes flutter shut. He sucks in another sharp breath, the words your Mother helped orchestrate my godfather’s death stuck in his throat. And then Severus is gone. Gringotts hates me. I have no purpose left in my life. It should be a good thing and yet I’m scared. He swallows them all down.
“We should – dessert is–”
Draco detangles his fingers from Harry’s grip, stepping back, taking the heat with him. When Harry turns to face him, Draco’s eyes resemble a calm thunderstorm, if that’s even a natural possibility. Flames are being reflected from the nearest torch, and for an absurd moment, Harry thinks he notices Nuri’s blinding blue-white fire in them.
“Do you think Nuri is okay?” he asks in a placating voice, the way he does when Draco is gasping for breath. But he’s fine now, and yet, Harry has a distinct feeing that Draco is not.
Abruptly, Draco tears away to the side, studying the door leading to the hallway. “We should–” he says in a strained voice. “Dessert. Mille-feuille. It’s French. You’ll like it.”
With that, he spins on his heels and leaves the room.
Unsurprisingly, baby Teddy is a ball of unreserved fluff.
Andromeda dumps the child in Harry’s arms, sliding them around to properly protect the kid’s back and neck. She’s clearly exhausted, accepting the plate of food by an over-worked Molly gratefully. The women strike up a conversation about diapers and managing accidental bursts of magic, completely ignoring Harry’s startled expression.
Harry holds the baby carefully, the way one would handle a single strand of thin unicorn hair during Potions. Severus loved reminding them how expensive those were should they mess it up.
But Teddy seems blissfully content and rather fascinated with the variety of options around him in terms of hairstyles and nose types and eye colours and Harry blinks when Teddy suddenly resembles Hermione. A very cute, very chubby Hermione.
And then Hermione is leaning down to playfully pinch his cheeks, delighted, and starts crooning in the soft voice she typically saves for when Harry is being particularly daft.
Teddy The Bagpiper is, of course, preening under the attention. Harry tightens his embrace more securely; he has unequivocally lost all hold on his speech. Hermione continues to dote on the kid, tickling him a little bit, uncharacteristically taking on a baby voice mid-speech.
Harry is trying not to panic. He has never held a baby in his life. Frankly, he had never thought he’d live long enough to do it. He’s only eighteen, for Merlin’s sake.
“Harry!” Hermione straightens up sternly. “You should talk to him. I’ve read that it helps if babies are kept engaged in conversations, despite their lack of reciprocation. They still enjoy listening to different sounds, you know. Not to mention, it will help Teddy if he could differentiate between all his family members. He has not had a consistent male presence in his life, and as godfather, you should undeniably rectify it. Of course, I’m not implying that male presence is absolutely essential for growth, however, you might find that an all-round development is beneficial to –”
Harry returns Teddy’s nonsensical babbling, making noises from his throat he had never prior known he was capable of.
Teddy burbles a bit more, drooling all over his chin. Harry gives him a serious nod, burbling back.
Hermione’s lips twitch.
Harry carries baby Teddy through all the rooms, pointing and showing him various relics he has no clue about, making up facts on-the-go.
“This is called the Monster Bottle,” Harry points at the black cylindrical object that resembles the Lovegood Residence. He desperately wishes Luna were here. Teddy might enjoy her soothing, dreamy voice more than his borderline deranged puberty-induced gruff. But she’s gone out the back door with Neville and Padma, wanting a breath of fresh air. However, Teddy eyes the item with green-eyed, green-haired fascination. “It’s a combination of a space shuttle and a bottle-brush. It helps you keep away stubborn rats.”
“That there,” Harry says now showing him the kind of delicate silver instruments that were present in Dumbledore’s office, except that these are solid gold. “It’s an antenna. It signals an alarm when you have lice in your hair. Although, you probably don’t need to worry about lice. Granny is very fond of cleanliness, from what I’ve seen. She’ll keep you clean at all times.”
“Whatcha doing?” Ginny appears at his shoulder, face already melting at the sight of Teddy. She grins at the baby beatifically. “Hey, there. You look just like your mother except for all the green.”
“He does, doesn’t he?” Harry chuckles. “Although, I’m not entirely sure if it’s biology or magic. Andromeda mentioned she shows him old albums and wedding photos.”
“Both?” Ginny offers distractedly. She waves her wand in the air, murmuring Orchideous. A small string of colourful flowers bursts from the tip, and she drapes it on Teddy’s head like a tiara.
Teddy reaches up with his chubby fists, seems to hesitate, and drops his arms around Harry’s neck. Ginny makes a noise from the back of her throat that is suspiciously a combination of choked laughter and warm cooing affection.
Harry informs Teddy he’s going to have everyone falling at his feet. Teddy lets out a toothless, gummy giggle.
They continue on their tour with Ginny piping up from time to time, but Harry thinks she’s probably more knowledgeable about half the stuff than he is. When they reach the hallway of curtained portraits, Harry hastily turns back.
Long after everyone bids goodbye, Harry tries not to show his disappointment at Draco’s gaping absence. Ron stays back even after all the Weasleys take their leave, Kingsley having assured them that no one will bother them henceforth.
Harry checks from room to room, thinking that maybe Draco just needed some space. Both Luna and Blaise have not seen him for over an hour apparently, but they insist that Draco had seemed perfectly fine the last time they spoke.
Eventually, he tries to call Minnie but Kreacher pops up, saying that the Manor elves have already left.
“Have you seen Draco?”
Kreacher looks annoyed at the question. “Draco Malfoy is in Master Regulus’ bedroom. Kreacher does not understand why Draco Malfoy would do that, since Draco Malfoy did not want to be introduced to my Mistress.”
Harry lets out a relieved sigh. Almost immediately, the relief is replaced with confusion and worry. He thanks Kreacher, throws a quick I’ll be right back at Ron and Hermione in the ground floor Drawing Room but they’re snogging so deeply, Harry doubts they are aware of his existence.
Draco is indeed sitting on Regulus’ bed against the ornate headboard, fingers linked on the back of his head, ankles crossed. He looks up when Harry enters, an unreadable expression on his face.
It puts Harry on his guard, although he doesn’t understand why. Tentatively, he sits on the edge of the mattress as if he’s trying not to spook Draco. Draco watches him warily the whole time. He doesn’t protest or move away, so that’s a good sign.
“What are you doing here?”
Draco shrugs, trying to be cool and failing. His movement is stiff and jerky. “Hiding from my Aunt and, for all intents and purposes, my nephew.”
“Oh,” Harry says blankly. He doesn’t know how to begin detangling that shitfuck of a mess. “Er – they’ve left now. Actually, it’s just Ron and Hermione, although I reckon they’re as gone as the rest of them.”
Draco dredges up a snigger, small and fleeting and over way too quickly. “Mother told me about this house. They used to visit for all the big family functions. I’ve heard a great deal of Regulus and others, and yet very little of Sirius Black before he escaped from Azkaban.”
“Sirius was blasted off the tapestry when he was sixteen,” Harry says. “Ran away to my Dad’s house.”
Draco snorts again, humourless and cold. “I’ve heard about the bloody tapestry, too.”
“You’re on it.” Harry raises his eyebrows. “I can show you. Come on.”
On their way down to the first floor, to where the infamous family tree is, Draco suddenly starts to laugh.
“What?”
He shakes his head. “I’m finding it difficult to believe that you, of all people, know more about my family than I do.”
“I don’t know a lot,” Harry tells him honestly. “I just know the tapestry. It was quite disturbing to learn that Sirius was related to you.”
“What’s disturbing to me is that no one ever bothered explaining the Sacred Twenty-Eight to you. For fuck’s sake, you’re friends with a Weasley.”
“I highly doubt Molly had deemed it educational, seeing as you lot call them blood traitors.”
Draco laughs, a soft, hushed one. “True.”
After a few moments, Draco suddenly grabs his shoulder on the staircase, spinning him around. “Please tell me you’re going to at least explain it to your godson. He’s literally a quarter Black!”
“You tell him,” Harry rolls his eyes, shrugging off Draco’s hand and resuming climbing down the stairs. Draco follows closely after a brief, strangled pause. “You’re half Black or whatever. I mean, Andromeda might, but I wouldn’t bet on it. She really hates your family.”
They’re on the first floor landing now. Harry pushes open the door to the Drawing Room, inviting Draco inside with a flourish.
Draco immediately strides closer to the far wall, tilting his head up to study the names higher up on the tree.
Harry bites down a grin, there’s no reason to fucking smile, dammit. He calls Kreacher, requesting a pot of tea, Oolong, if we have it. Then he joins Draco at the sprawling wall.
“You’re not blasted off,” Harry exclaims in surprise and not-so-much-as-a-surprise.
Draco slowly turns to him with murderous intent. “Why would I be blasted off?”
“Er – no reason,” Harry flaps his hand in a shooing motion. He channels his inner Luna as he points at a random name. “Oh, look. That’s Charlus Potter.”
Draco holds him in a long narrow-eyed glare before returning to the tapestry, huffing prissily.
Yikes.
It’s hilarious.
True to the words of one Ronald Weasley, now that Molly has sunk her claws into Draco, he cannot escape. Despite Draco hiding from Andromeda and Teddy, it doesn’t change the fact that Draco is now officially part of the Weasley Family Meals.
The beginning of it is mostly innocuous. Ron sends off his application for Auror Training a few days after Harry’s birthday – during which, Hermione and Harry watch Ron psyche himself up to tie the scrolls to an eternally excited, hooting Pig – and then he receives his acceptance literally that very evening.
Draco doesn’t want to be at the celebratory dinner, and he refuses until he’s blue in the face … but Harry is getting ahead of himself. Draco would have refused until he was blue in the face if someone had given him the chance. The struggling man is carted through the Grimmauld Place’s Floo by both Fred and George, the bearers of good news, and Draco might be the Dragon Rider or whatever, he is still a Seeker-built human next to two of the best Beaters Gryffindor Quidditch team had in about ten years.
Really, it’s hilarious.
Naturally, Draco is not very happy with the turn of events. From the sprawling gardens of the towering Manor to – what is it that Draco had sneered once upon a time? Ah, yes, Weasley would like a signed photo, Potter; it’d be worth more than his family’s whole house – well, Draco is very much inside The Burrow’s kitchen now and not under the darkness of the night like a thief.
Harry cannot stop grinning like a maniac. He spends the entire dinner squeezed between a grumbling, permanently red-faced Draco and an enthusiastic Percy who is unable to shut up about Proper Ministry Etiquette that Ron will have to follow, now that he’s a respected employee of the country. Ginny is a few seats down from across Harry, and every time Percy clears his throat importantly, she takes another deep gulp of the warm Butterbeer. Harry is positively cackling by now.
It also doesn’t help matters that Draco has this constipated look on his face when he encounters Molly Weasley’s home-cooked celebratory spread. He nibbles on the freshly baked soya bread half-heartedly and miserably, as if expecting Lucius to suddenly return from the dead and slam his cane on Draco’s fingers, reprimanding him for all its worth. After a few bites, though, Harry can almost see the exact moment Draco discovers Revelation, capital R.
But there’s also Bill and Fleur at the table and no Dean or Blaise or Luna to cover him this time around. Draco burns under Fleur’s wholesome effect, her unique tendency to attract foolish preys and smite them down in the same breath. So Draco burns, even as he eats less hesitantly, and Harry finds himself playing as the medium between the two. Bill, on the other hand, is slightly more forthcoming and even asks Draco if he wants a refill of the Butterbeer. Draco rigidly refuses.
It’s not that the dinner is bad. In fact, it is far better than Harry had expected it to go. Despite Draco’s visible discomfort, he exchanges a few barbs with the twins, mutters whatever basic knowledge he has regarding Ministry employees, and watches with horrified fascination as Hermione patiently answers Arthur’s myriad of Muggle-related queries.
Molly Weasley, bless her soul, ensures Draco is eating a healthy amount, asks after his upkeep, suggests that he might be more comfortable without his thick, stuffy long blue jacket, sympathises over the loss of his Death Eater family – and suddenly, the whole table comes to a painful, screeching, grinding halt because Molly Weasley murdered one of Draco’s Aunt when said Aunt went after the free-spirited, apparently alcohol-consuming, youngest child, the baby of the family sitting at the same table.
The quiet is deafening.
There is some symmetry here, Harry thinks wildly, that Draco is the second known person to bring upon this impossible fate after Harry’s announcement of moving out of The Burrow.
At least, Fleur looks less deadly.
“I’m sorry, dear,” Molly says kindly, “it must be difficult to talk about.”
You have no idea, Harry thinks.
For all the grandeur and sarcasm that Draco has been inflicting upon Harry since the war ended, the silences have been the loudest. Draco still tucks himself inside portraits, still roams the Manor halls in socked feet, still watches sunsets without uttering a single word. Still sits alongside Harry over peaks, making the wildflowers perform ballet. Still swallows food, chew, swallow, chew, swallow on days he wakes up in bad moods.
Harry is patient, uncharacteristically so, because Draco is patient. Draco is patient enough to wait for the right time, the right time to escape his worst nightmare, patient enough to spend a year conflicting with himself over the Best Way To Murder Your Headmaster. Like a Potions project, playing with ingredients, mixing them up, noting down the results.
So Harry doesn’t ask questions. He has realised that people only ever ask questions that they themselves are seeking the answers for. Harry doesn’t want answers, not yet, not when he believes he’s not ready for them.
The dinner resumes when Ron picks up the conversation, declaring that he’ll probably be assigned to track down remaining Death Eaters, and no one asks Draco the names of them, not when Harry jumps into the conversation, saying Severus left a list.
Slowly, the incident is buried under more good-natured jabs, passing around the triple chocolate cheesecake especially baked for Ron, and one by one, everyone stretches up from the crammed table, full and sated, and Draco takes the first opportunity he gets to dart through the back door.
Harry makes to follow but Hermione stops him.
“Don’t,” she warns softly, fingers digging deeper. “Give him a moment.”
“What if he gets another panic attack?”
She shakes her head confidently. “He won’t.”
Harry hesitates, but nods. It would be natural for Draco to feel overwhelmed. To be faced by a close-knitted family like the Weasleys after growing apart from his own.
He nods. Hermione pulls him in a conversation with Ginny, who fills them in on the Hogwarts subjects’ matter in greater detail. Now that Hermione and she will essentially be in the same year, they discuss what the new curriculum might entail, and then Percy steps in importantly to take up the mantle.
Harry drifts loosely in the The Burrow’s living room, unsettled and restless. He really wants to check up on Draco, mostly also because he fears Draco might have walked ten miles just to Apparate quietly.
Ron is ecstatic. He jabbers Harry’s ear off with the new spells he’s learned from Bill, and even expresses his joy at earning a small keep during his training period. He drools over the expensive candies he had never had enough courage to buy at Honeydukes, take Hermione on proper dates, even exchanging his galleons into Muggle money so that Hermione can save up for the Australian trip.
It all sounds wonderful, when Harry thinks about it. Ron and Hermione have had their ups and downs, terrible fights that lasted far longer than Harry had desired, the silent treatments, the apologies – Merlin, the apologies came in all shapes and forms even if the other sometimes missed them.
Harry, for his part, tries to educate Ron on Muggle dating as much as possible. Granted, he doesn’t have lick of an idea seeing both his ex-girlfriends had been pureblood, Quidditch players, but he dredges up whatever summer memories he has, the movies he had watched on Dudley’s computer or the television set in the Dursleys absence.
“Watch films,” Harry says to him wisely. “I told you about them, remember? Moving pictures that tell you a story. It’s a very popular Muggle date night.”
Ron looks ready to take notes.
“Arcades are fun, too,” Harry continues. “Although, you might want to be careful with that one.”
“Why?”
Harry winces. “Hermione in competitive games?”
Ron’s eyes widen.
Harry tells him spending time at malls is quite a norm. You don’t need to shop, he assures Ron. Just roam around, eat at the food court, that sort of stuff.
And when Harry, out of genuine curiosity, asks Ron what do magical folks consider as dates, Ron calls for Bill, who is speaking with Molly, and Harry finds himself at the end of a whispered conversation of Bill’s past flings. Fleur is busy complaining to Arthur over the state of her latest batch of pasties.
Apparently, the magical community’s typical dates involve Broomstick Picnics, exploring magical restaurants, surprising the other with “Portkey Nights”, consuming Polyjuice Potion in frat parties and successfully hunt down your partner.
“There was this couple in my year,” Bill says. “Two women. One of them would transform into a man sometimes, specifically for doing the deed.”
“What’s the point if the person is different?” Ron asks even as he guffaws.
Bill shrugs. “The two of them know it’s the same person. Besides, it’s not about the appearance, baby brother. It has more to do with the anatomy.”
Realisation dawns on Ron and he splutters. “Bloody hell, Bill! That’s – wow.”
“That’s a sure-shot way of pissing Hermione off,” Harry adds, nodding. “She would hate to see the Potion being used like that.”
And then he snorts as another thought flits across his mind. Bill and Ron stare at him blankly as Harry doubles over in laughter, hackling like a dying man.
“It’s just –” Harry chokes out, gasping. “Blaise was telling me how – how a lot of purebloods are – homophobic or whatever. I reckon a good dose of Polyjuice Potion will clear that problem right up.”
“They still wouldn’t produce heirs,” Bill points out.
“Who cares?” Harry sniggers. “They’d get married. Once that’s done, they can just fly off into the sunset.”
“Ah, the drama,” Ron snickers. “Some Slytherins might have to resort to that. I heard quite a bit during your birthday party.”
Ron shares that some of the Ravenclaws had crushes on Slytherins but never acted upon them due to the whole stigma surrounding their house. Now that Draco and Blaise have been more or less accepted into their fold, they’re more expressive about discussing the topic.
“Daphne Greengrass?” Ron prompts. “She has a younger sister in Ginny’s year. Been crushing after Malfoy for a while now. She tried to talk to Blaise at school but Blaise was as clueless as the next person, so when story got out that Malfoy had escaped with us, she tracked down Nev. Or, tried to, since Nev was mostly hiding in the Room and only got out after curfew.”
Harry struggles to wrap his head around this information. It shouldn’t be surprising that a few students might have developed a crush on Draco over the years. Hell, ever since the Yule Ball, hormones had been rampant and Draco had been a good dancer. Not to mention, Draco’s relationship to the now-alluded Pansy Parkinson had been steady through two years straight.
Sure, for a moment there, Harry had wondered if Draco liked men. Or both men and women. Had dated Blaise. While that turned out to be false, neither of the men had refuted the idea based on the grounds of Draco’s heterosexuality. No, what they had laughed about, instead, was Pansy murdering whoever dares to date Draco.
Speaking of the devil, Draco returns from the back door cautiously. He searches the room until he catches Harry’s attention and makes a beeline straight for him.
“You have an admirer,” Harry informs him promptly. “Do you know Astoria–”
“Greengrass?” Draco interrupts, frowning. “Yes. She’s Daph’s sister.” After a pause, he adds, puzzled. “Admirer? Of me?”
“Yes,” Harry replies, now perplexed at Draco’s confusion. “Why wouldn’t she be?”
In Harry’s peripheral vision, both Bill and Ron raise their eyebrows. It takes a few seconds for him to realise why.
Then he flushes. “I mean – why are you surprised?”
Draco is still visibly wrapping his head around this conversation. “We have never spoken a word to each other, that’s why. Daph and I were always on good terms, but Astoria barely spent any time around me.”
“Maybe she was working herself up to talk to you,” Ron suggests lightly. “If you haven’t noticed, Malfoy, you were quite a bit of a giant dick back then.”
Expectedly, Draco glares. He narrows his eyes to grey slits, sneering. “At least I never sucked face to grab my crush’s attention. I swear, Ronald, if I wasn’t in class or in the Room, I was seeing you and Brown make complete arse of yourselves around every corner. Granger spent the year crying her eyes out, even I could see that.”
“Draco –"
“No, you only tolerated the pug-faced Pansy because you had no chance of getting a proper girlfriend,” Ron retorts, flushing as deep as his hair. Bill exchanges an uncertain look with Harry. “At least, I had one.”
Draco lifts his chin up defiantly. “I didn’t have to tolerate Pans. I happened to like her. Excuse me, if I had bigger problems to focus on rather than my dating life.”
Harry scoffs. “How could you like her?”
Draco whirls on him furiously. “Who wouldn’t like her? She’s loyal, devoted, cunning, knows how to throw insults–”
“–and who isn’t here,” Harry cuts in pointedly.
Draco lets out a sharp exhale. “Is this more crap about how Death Eater children aren’t capable of forming genuine relationships?”
“Are you?” Ron asks curiously.
“Excuse me,” Draco drawls, becoming more and more enraged. “I’m standing here, aren’t I? Or has the whole lot of you gone fucking blind like Harry here.”
“Hey!”
“What my brother means,” Bill cuts in smoothly and diplomatically, “is that it is surprising to see someone admire those qualities in another. Us, Weasleys? We have a different list of traits that we happen to like better.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Draco says dismissively, deflating slightly. “Brave, honourable, reckless … I see the pattern. I’m in a house full of bloody Gryffindors.”
Most of the August is spent shuttling between The Burrow, Grimmauld Place, the Malfoy Manor, and – as they now dub it, courtesy of Draco – the Granger Gallery. He says it’s meant to be ironic, since the photograph gallery on the mantle in Hermione’s house is anything but.
“That’s … dark,” Ron remarks, deeply unsettled.
“Were you expecting anything different from me?” Draco says defensively. He seems pleased about the name, though.
Hermione doesn’t comment. But she doesn’t deny it, either. So they keep it.
They’re at the Granger Gallery, helping Hermione with documents when a standard barn owl flies through the backdoor and drops four thick parchments on the breakfast bar.
Hogwarts letters.
“Quite late, aren’t they?” Ron remarks, ripping open the one addressed to him.
Harry reads his out of habit. Frowns immediately because there is a clear difference between the previous ones and this one.
“Shared dormitory for Eighth Years?” Hermione gasps.
Draco is scanning his rapidly. “Wonder if the others will return. Daph and Milli might. I’m not so certain about Theo and Pans. Blaise is going to be bored to death.”
“He won’t be,” Hermione frowns. “He’ll have Luna and Dean. Nev plans to return, too.”
Draco snorts. “Granger, as much as I love Luna, Blaise tends to prefer more – ah, traditional people. Or, at least, not as vibrant as Luna. Dean and Longbottom will be busy catering to Gryffindor stupidity. Again, it’s not something Slytherins generally admire. Blaise’s only hope is Daph.”
“That’s not true,” Harry says. “Gin and Blaise were getting along well. I reckon Gin wouldn’t mind it if Blaise hangs out with her.”
“Wait, what?” Ron asks sharply.
“You can hardly judge, Ron,” Harry reminds him, “seeing as we are friends with a former Death Eater. Blaise is not even that. Gin will be fine. She can handle herself far better than you give her credit for.”
“Harry will know,” Draco scoffs.
Harry throws a glare his way, gritting out. “Yes, I do know. I made the mistake of underestimating her and paid for it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Draco demands, as if Harry has personally offended him.
Harry sucks in a sharp breath to steady himself, Ginny’s words reverberating in his skull still. Thank you. For leaving.
“It means that I broke up with Gin thinking the Horcrux Hunting would be far more dangerous than staying at the school. Gin came out of the war with only minor injuries. She’s more resilient than I had thought, and probably would have been as fine as the rest of us if she’d come along.”
“Oh, yeah?” Draco snarls. “Then why don’t you two patch up? I’m sure Ginevra would find it as an upgrade that the Chosen One is now officially the Saviour.”
Harry shoves at him, feeling rage on Ginny’s behalf, even as Ron is rounding the corner with heavy, menacing steps. Hermione cries out for them to stop, Ron falters a little, but Harry is already taking a swing at Draco’s elegant nose.
Draco doesn’t defend himself on time because he doesn’t truly expect it, it seems. A loud, crunching, snapping noise alerts them to a broken nose as Harry’s fist slams into it. Draco reels back, blood splattering on his crisp pistachio shirt, hand flying up to staunch the flow.
“HARRY!”
Harry ignores them, grabbing Draco’s collar and pulling him forward. Their noses are inches apart as Harry hisses dangerously.
“Don’t you dare talk crap about Gin, Draco. Ever. I mean it.”
Draco’s eyes are wide. Shockingly, he appears to be betrayed and hurt by Harry’s outburst. He shrugs him off jerkily, storming out of the kitchen. A few moments later, there’s the familiar crack of Apparition.
Harry breathes in, out, in out. The shame has started to colour his skin a deep red, heartrate calming down in spurts, and the repaired clock on the wall goes tick tock tick tock.
“Harry?”
Hermione’s voice is tentative.
Tick tock tick tock tick tock.
When Harry turns to face the two, Ron is studying him curiously. Hermione looks like someone kicked her puppy. Which – doesn’t make sense at all.
He swallows the dryness in his mouth. “What? He had it coming.”
“Mate, I’m all up for defending Ginny,” Ron grimaces, “but punching him is a bit too far?”
“You heard him!” Harry insists, shoving down the stab of guilt. “Gin and I didn’t date because I was the Chosen One or whatever.”
“We know that, Harry,” Hermione nods eagerly. “He probably doesn’t. And it’s not about Ginny. Don’t you get it?”
“Get what?” Harry asks, now thinking he’s missing some obvious point.
“No matter whom you would have dated, everyone would just scrap it up to them being your fan. Romilda Vane tried to drug you, mate. It doesn’t get clearer than that.”
When Ron puts it so simply, Harry feels like the biggest idiot.
Harry finds him in the Sunset Room.
“Hey.”
Draco doesn’t acknowledge him. Harry probably deserves it. He’s exchanged his blood-splattered shirt for a black, turtleneck sweater. His nose is fixed.
Harry takes a seat in the armchair a few feet away. As soon as he sits down, Soopey Not Sobby appears with a tray of the baklava Harry had asked for, places it on the low table before popping out.
“I – uh – told them to bake – ‘Mione said it’s very good. Turkish.”
Harry might be invisible for the all shit Draco gives him currently.
“Listen,” he tries again awkwardly, “I – uh … I thought … it’s just that I get mad when someone targets Ginny – or anyone really – because of me. When you implied that she was dating me just because I was the Chosen One … I don’t want people to date me because of that. I never wanted that. And then I left, and …”
Draco twitches slightly. It encourages Harry.
“I don’t think I’m getting back together with her. Ginny basically thanked me for breaking up. So … she doesn’t need my crap, Draco. She doesn’t need any crap because she dated me. And let’s be honest. My dating life is going to be shit. No one would want to put up with the crap that I carry.”
Draco huffs, still pointedly ignoring him.
And then it rushes out of Harry like a waterfall. “I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have hit you. I didn’t mean it. I felt like crap as soon as I did it. There’s no excuse. I was an idiot. You shouldn’t have said that crap about Ginny, though. Still, I could have – clarified it. Or explained it. I’m really sorry. Seriously, try this baklava. You’ll feel better. I can go bring a nice bottle of wine to go with it, although I have no clue what goes with what. I could call Blaise –"
Draco finally unfolds himself from the armchair, smoothly rising to his feet as if he hadn’t thrown the silent tantrum seconds ago.
“I do hold a special love for Turkish delights.”
Harry only realises it when Draco stomps to the outside gardens, clad in a short-sleeved red T-shirt and one of his fancy black joggers. He bends down at the waist, a look of deep and utter revulsion twisting up his face, only to pull out a struggling, screaming gnome and tossing it over the fence.
When he notices the other three have gone still, slack-jawed statues, he doesn’t offer any explanation.
With an unspoken agreement, Harry steps up to become the sacrificial lamb.
“Draco … er – why are you …”
Draco huffs, now fixing Harry with the same disgusted expression. He speaks in the same tone Hermione assumes when she’s explaining two plus two equals four.
“Molly Weasley killed my Aunt Bella in cold blood. My Aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange. If she tells you to degnome her bloody backyard, you don’t ask questions. You degnome the bloody backyard.”
The realisation hits with the force of a brick wall. The kind that Hagrid had shot out of Sirius’ motorbike; coming out of nowhere, suddenly, to plaster you into fine pulp.
Draco Malfoy is scared shitless of Molly Weasley.
Draco shudders violently despite the glare of the bright sun. “You think I can Summon Hushy to help out? He rather enjoys gardening. Keeps my roses alive.”
Ron makes a strangled noise in the back of the throat. Harry can almost hear him, wanting to take Draco up on the offer. He’s probably calculating the risk analysis after Hermione hears about it.
On the other hand, Ginny has no such qualms. She readily agrees, suggesting that she can keep an eye for Molly as Draco instructs the house-elf. Harry is in charge of muffling the Apparition sound.
Turns out, it’s not Molly who finds out but Hermione. Ginny can’t keep her away for long once she becomes suspicious and Ron practically darts around the corner just as Hermione storms around the other one and it’s Harry and Draco who get caught, while Ginny grimaces, gives them a thumbs-up and rushes away.
Naturally, Hermione is pissed. She promises not to tell Molly but at a hefty price. The two of them endure a passionate speech on S.P.E.W. and Hermione pointblank threatens that if Draco does not free slash pay the house-elves, Molly will hear about it.
Maybe it’s the ingrained dread of those words, of someone hearing about Draco’s fuck-ups, someone he’s apparently terrified of, that Draco ends up promising to set up an Elf Welfare Fund for the Manor elves.
It’s a compromise. No elf will be paid as such, but access will be given, and Hermione only backs off when Harry has to remind her yet again that some elves are still struggling with free will and forcing it on them might be traumatising rather than progressive.
Later that evening, Harry swings by the tapestry.
Draco Malfoy