The Rose and the Lily
Two weeks into August, Draco inherits the Lestrange’s fortune, including their Gringotts vault. Seeing as Bellatrix and Rodolphus never produced an heir, and Teddy being a literal child (not to mention that Kreacher, as a representation of pureblood hierarchy, refuses to identity him as even a quarter Black, insists that Draco is the last living blood relative, yadda yadda yadda, Harry has honestly stopped paying attention) – anyway, so Draco is sent the inheritance letter early in the morning, declaring him as the new owner.
“As if you needed to be even more filthy rich,” Ron complains.
The news has put him in a particularly bad mood seeing that his Auror Training will apparently fetch him less galleons than he had previously hoped. Something about the Ministry pulling back wages in times of severe recession.
“If only this had happened sooner,” Harry grumbles.
He’s not in a particularly good mood, either, because Gringotts is still pissed at them. It’s only Harry who is suffering from this tragedy because Hermione and Ron never held a vault, and Draco doesn’t need galleons at the moment. He’s cruising through life by using the existing wealth left at the Manor.
Harry desperately needs to buy new clothes and refuses to borrow from Hermione. As Ron had pointed out, she might need to save it for the Australian trip, whenever that happens. With each passing day, though, he hates wearing Dudley’s old clothes more and more. It hadn’t bothered him as much before but now he truly has no reason to continue wearing them.
“If Aunt Bella had perished earlier,” Draco says flatly, “I wouldn’t be here.”
Which – okay, a fair point.
But Harry says stubbornly, “You’d still have Riddle sulking in your house.”
“Tommy Dick Junior would not have bothered as much if it weren’t for her. He disliked dirtying his hands if he could help it. You were his only special person.”
Ron grudgingly snorts and raises his hand for a high-five but Hermione tsks at the nickname, buried behind The Daily Prophet. She doesn’t say anything, though, and Draco grabs a nearby gift to unwrap as per morning routine. Harry returns to his coffee and Ron guzzles down his breakfast hurriedly, having just noticed the time.
As a matter of fact, Hermione is the most bothered by Draco’s growing fortune. She has already pointed out all the flaws in their hierarchy mechanism, the injustice and unfairness of rich becoming richer, explained in detail how the fortune would have had much better use in the Ministry’s hands, even more so since they’ve had to cut wages from even Trainees.
When she started on how Draco can simply donate it all away, to help the bigger cause, to bridge the gap between rich and the poor (Ron had become an odd shade of red, green, and violet), Draco continued to ignore her as well as Kreacher who, yet again, insisted to please allow me to introduce Draco Malfoy to my Mistress, Mistress would be very happy to know that Miss Bella’s fortune is under the care and protection of Miss Cissy’s son –
Hermione only stopped when Harry reminded her that he’s the apparent heir of Potter and part of Black fortunes, and she never gave him so much of shit over it.
Which turned out to be the wrong thing to say, because Hermione redirected the – er, strong recommendations – towards Harry, instead. She again stopped because Harry bitterly reminded her that if the goblins still weren’t pissed at them, for saving their bloody arses, mind you, he probably wouldn’t have minded helping out a little.
On his way to the Floo, Ron places a quick kiss on Hermione’s head. “See you tomorrow, fruit loop. Good luck! Tell Luna and Blaise I say hi.”
A choked, meaningful silence stretches out after Ron’s clear shout of Ministry of Magic, promptly sucking him into the magic ether or whatever.
And then Draco can’t hold it in any longer, and Harry is grappling at the ends of his own untrained, non-existent restrain on his reaction.
Hermione is still purposefully behind the newspaper, but Harry sees the tip of her forehead flushing heatedly.
“Fruit loop, motherfucking Merlin,” Draco chokes out between gasping laughter, the unwrapped Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans shaking in his hands, the beans clattering merrily inside the paper box.
Harry gulps down the rest of the coffee, scalding his tongue. He’s determined not to break as a sign of his unwavering loyalty to his bestest friends, and to make up for his earlier transgression towards her, but Draco is hardly making it any easier, nearly slipping off the chair.
“If you must know,” Hermione sniffs, hidden, “he found it funny that it’s my favourite cereal.”
Draco cackles even harder, and Harry just holds his fucking breath, thinking he might just hold it forever if it means not laughing in this moment, despite wanting to so, so badly.
Instead, he pulls out a random bean, stuffing it in his mouth because no one laughs when they’re chewing, do they, except for maybe Ron, but then the acrid taste of rusted iron floods his senses and he promptly chokes.
At the Manor library, Luna and Blaise are insisting that Hermione should contact her parents already. There’s no way of knowing the damage if they can’t see it. But Hermione is stubborn, saying she can’t just show up as a random stranger, wanting to talk about their personal lives.
In the afternoon, Hermione returns to Grimmauld to “read in peace”. Draco announces that he’s going to visit Diagon Alley and Harry scrambles up.
“I’m coming, too.”
Draco stares dryly. “I have a meeting with my new solicitor, Harry. And I’d like to keep this one. I have no idea how your presence will be perceived.”
“This is so unfair,” Harry complains dispassionately.
“The bank had to assign me one out of protocol,” Draco informs him, becoming more and more unenthusiastic with this conversation. “Now that I’ll be expected to deal with the Lestrange’s vault contents, I believe things are going to turn tadbitmurky.”
“I have to deal with Sirius’ vault, too,” Harry insists. Honestly, he just wants to see Diagon Alley in all its former splendour. Apparently, a few new shops have opened that Blaise has griped about for hours on end. “I’ve never even been inside it. I was never given a solicitor.”
“Because you weren’t of age!” Draco says exasperatedly. “Not to mention, Sirius Black wrote a will specifically for you. Aunt Bella died as an enemy in a goddamn war.”
“I am, now,” Harry says, ignoring the rest conveniently.
“Take that up with the goblins.”
“They won’t let me in.”
“Not my problem, from where I’m standing.”
“The two of you must be very rich,” Luna quips up suddenly, protuberant eyes boring into them in all their glory. “It’s nice to have lots of galleons under one’s name. I believe it would be quite a luxury, not having to think of jobs.”
Blaise barks out a laugh, and says in a drawling tone, “Draco would never own a job.”
“Hey–!”
“He’s going to become a great writer,” Harry states coldly at the same time, crossing his arms. “Rather hypocritical of you to say, seeing you don’t exactly require a job to sustain, either.”
“Harry, you don’t need to defend my honour, Merlin–”
“Blaise is being a dick–”
“Blaise is being Blaise–”
“Well, he needs to learn a lesson or two–”
“Salazar’s pants,” Draco groans, throwing his head back, “you do have a goddamn hero-complex, fuck–”
“Yeah, so?” Harry demands, incensed and slightly offended. “My hero-complex or whatever saved your pale arse, you should be thankful–”
“Oh yes,” Draco drones sarcastically, sneering, “please accept my sincerest gratitude from the bottom of my heart, you Human Niffler–”
Harry narrows his eyes. “You know what? Fuck you, Draco. Enjoy your bloody meeting.”
“What the–” Draco shouts behind his retreating form. “HARRY!”
Harry exits the library, stubbornly ignoring the clambering footsteps following him. He blindly takes turns of the empty corridors, pissed off at Draco, at this bloody Manor, at the goblins, at Blaise, at everything.
He glares at the scornful portraits lining the walls, calling loudly, “Yes, I tainted your precious Heir with my hero-complex. So fucking what? You’re all dead! You can’t do shit about it.”
“Harry! Stop running, you stupid git!”
Harry doesn’t stop. He raises his voice even higher. “Will you look at that? The Dragon Rider is perfectly capable of visiting Diagon Alley all on his own because he’s a big boy now–”
“SHUT UP!”
“WHY? ISN’T IT TRUE?”
Harry turns another corner, not caring where he’ll end up at this point. It takes him a few seconds to realise that the footsteps have disappeared and Draco has stopped talking.
A quick crane over his shoulder tells him that Draco has left him alone, only to face forward and crash painfully against the pompous git. He must have taken a bloody shortcut. Stupid Manor crime-partnering with its stupid owner.
Harry rubs at his forehead, glaring through his lashes at Draco.
Draco is glaring right back. “What’s your problem?”
“My problem is that you’re an annoying arse!”
“Yeah, well, so are you!”
“I wasn’t defending your honour or whatever–”
“Really?”
“What the fuck, Draco? Fine. You know what? I was. I was defending your goddamn honour, so what? Blaise’s patronizing tone was completely unnecessary–”
“What do you even care–”
Harry stumbles back, stung. “Excuse me–”
Draco frowns at his reaction, genuinely perplexed. “It was not about you and you know it. And he was right. We both know I don’t need a job to survive.” He gestures grandly at Harry with one hand. “Neither do you.”
“But – but,” Harry grapples at sense. “You wanted to become a food columnist! You can still become one! Hell, you can even start your own magazine!”
Draco sighs, now pinching the bridge of his nose. His shoulders slump wearily. When he looks back at Harry, he says, “Yeah, well. You wanted to open a pet shop. Where’s it now? Or is it that everyone else is capable of living the life they had envisioned for themselves except for you?”
Harry opens his mouth and then closes it.
“Dolohov was in the battle,” Ron is explaining when Harry enters the basement kitchen, cradling a large mug in his hands. “His house is empty, of course – morning, mate – so the house is empty, he hasn’t been seen anywhere in a few weeks. His last known location was on the eastern coast.”
Hermione passes the plate of buttered toast to Harry. “You said his wand was found, though?”
Ron nods. “Yeah, outside the castle. The Auror Department commissioned Ollivander to identify the wands for us – it’s safe to say he was Disarmed before he fled. Last spell used was a Body Distortion Jinx. Nasty spell, that one.”
“Where would he go without a wand?” Hermione muses. “Unless he’s hiding among the Muggles.”
“Bit ironic, isn’t it?” Harry snorts.
“Don’t even get me started on that,” Ron groans miserably. “A lot of them have realised that they’re safest in the Muggle world, since we’d have to take extra efforts into ensuring the Statue of Secrecy isn’t broken – or, even if it is unavoidable, we have to call in reinforcements to take care of it. It’s a mess.”
“What happened to Severus’ list?” Harry asks, yawning.
“We’ve made copies of it,” Ron laughs. “It’s an actual bloody list, like he was writing the books we’d need for our school year or something. Who knew? Snape is a complete nerd.”
“He is a nerd,” Harry confirms, remembering the shy kid from the memories. “Awkward as fuck, too.”
Ron chortles, barely managing not to spill the contents from his mouth.
“Are we talking about it, then?” Hermione asks pointedly. “Snape and your–”
“No,” Harry cuts her off firmly. “We are never talking about that.”
Hermione continues stubbornly, not that Harry is surprised. “You need to talk about it, Harry! I mean, Ron and I – we filled in the blanks as much as possible but all Malfoy said was Snape liked your mum. We assume that’s why Snape was always on our side? He hated your dad, though … is that why he hated him?”
“What does it matter?” Harry says forcefully, munching on the toast furiously. “He left.”
“Of course, it matters!” Hermione cries, shocked at Harry’s words. “Harry, you never want to seem to talk about the memories–”
“Then maybe you should let it go.”
Hermione ignores him. “You can’t avoid it forever–”
“Watch me–”
“Snape didn’t just like your mum, did he? He was in love with her. And for a very long time, by the looks of it. The implications of that alone – a Death Eater – were they friends? I assume they must have been–”
Harry’s fingers are tightening in a fist, jaw clenching. He tries to breathe in, out, in, out, but Hermione is still speaking –
“– I wonder if they were friends even after your mum married your dad, but the way Sirius always behaved around him … did Sirius know, too? How come no one even mentioned in all these years?”
“Hermione, let it go.”
Ron’s tone is serious, concluding. He’s throwing Harry a careful look, eyebrows bunched together, a little bit of sympathetic and apologetic.
“Harry will talk when he wants to, okay?”
“I thought you wanted to know–”
“I do,” Ron says, voice softening at Hermione’s indignant expression. “But Harry will talk when he’s ready, won’t you, mate?”
Harry unclenches his jaw with massive effort. He nods stiffly, still not trusting himself to speak. He needs to get out of here. Ron and Hermione are more than capable of trying to figure out Dolohov’s whereabouts. They don’t need him. The Auror Department doesn’t need him. Harry no longer needs to make himself useful, at least not when it comes to catching stray evil Death Eaters, no, Harry is free from the stress, from the constant strategizing and planning and running for his life.
Still. His hand itches with the need to hex someone. It’s like an ingrained habit, just another routine that he’s violently ripped away from, however willingly.
He wonders if he’s even meant to have a quiet, normal life. If he’s built for it. If, five years down the line, he would become too agitated inside his own skin with the need to fight, fight, fight.
“Where are you going?” Hermione asks anxiously, watching him rise to his feet without finishing breakfast.
“To the Manor. I’ll be back in the evening.”
Draco is kneeling on the freshly wet soil, clad in a pair of thin lilac jumper and matching loose pants, white blonde hair shining under the morning sun. His skin is blindingly pale. Harry kneels down beside him with his own pair of scissors, snipping at the dead bits.
“Bad morning?” Draco asks casually.
“You can say that. You?”
“You can say that,” Draco says in a rough imitation of Harry’s bitchy tone.
Harry snorts without meaning to, playfully nudging Draco. He miscalculates his own strength, though, and perhaps Draco is more relaxed than he looks because he topples right over, smearing his clothes in mud.
Naturally, Draco fists some of it in his palm, aiming at Harry. Harry tries to roll but he might crush the bushes underneath him, so he ducks awkwardly instead, and the mudball splatters on his neck, disintegrating and sliding down the back of his T-shirt, tickling his spine.
Twenty minutes later, both stomp up the front steps, trailing muddy footsteps behind them.
“My nose itches,” Draco is complaining. “It’s disgusting.”
“You started it,” Harry grumbles, peeling his T-shirt away from his chest to look at the mess underneath. “I need a bath.”
Harry has never been to Draco’s “private quarters” before. Now, as Draco pushes the large doors open, leading him inside, Harry is hit with a strong scent of crisp breeze and wood polish. High, narrow windows line up on the right wall, the heavy curtains kept open to let the sunlight in. The bedroom is more empty space than furniture, decorated in a wide array of colours than Harry expected. He’s both surprised and not.
The perfectly made large bed is pushed against the far wall, the thin white net curtains parted. A small dark green couch-set along with a low table is placed around an empty fireplace. Jet black candles are arranged upon the assortment of shelving and storing options that are filled with Draco’s random paraphernalia. Harry’s curiosity rakes across a Music Box, a gramophone, a pair of Ominoculars, a set of Exploding Snap, half-empty boxes of candies, a golden snitch balanced on a criss-crossed wooden stand, a glass bowl filled with gobstones, and items engraved with ancient runes Harry has no hope of deciphering.
The walls are decorated with low-burning lamps and a few moving posters. The one directly above Draco’s bed displays a white shore along an endless ocean, the tides swishing back and forth mesmerizingly. Another one is of a time-turner in a continuous loop. And then there’s one of a medieval fountain on the backdrop of ancient sculptures of men and women.
Draco is sliding open the wardrobe, which is just another small room filled with clothes.
Harry walks over to the desk cluttered in scrolls, spare parchments, inkbottles, a mass of quills from different birds, open tomes spread out on the surface. All the titles and information seems to be regarding either Charms or Potions. A few glass vials are lined up in the back, neatly labelled, and Harry interestedly picks up a pale gold one that reads Felix Felicis (imperfectly brewed). The deep orange beside it is an Invigoration Draught (2 sips).
The bottle is still corked, though. Maybe Draco brewed it out of sheer boredom.
“Here, take these.”
Harry turns around. Draco is holding out a fresh white towel, a pair of black slacks, and a yellow T-shirt that has a drawing of the Firebolt on it. Harry rolls his eyes at Draco’s pointed smirk.
The bathroom is more or less like the ones in Grimmauld, although more airy. Harry carelessly drops the clothes on the clean stone floor. He realises he’s still wearing his shoes, and steps back out to toe them off.
Draco is in the middle of removing his summer jumper, his torso and chest bare. He pulls it off his head, bits of dried mud shake loose from his hair, and he positively scowls at nothing in particular. When he catches Harry’s carefully blank stare, he huffs prissily.
“I wasn’t going to stay in my dirty clothes until your Majestic Arse took a bath.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Harry states pointedly.
He returns to the shower. It’s not as though Harry has not seen Draco without a shirt before. Camping trips are hardly always private affairs. They’ve all had to resort to changing clothes in front of others at some point, and caring about modesty is less on the list of priorities when you’re running for your life and hunting scattered pieces of evil soul. Harry had never bothered to give it much thought, since it would barely register in their minds.
Including the scarred skin running across Draco’s abdomen and chest. The one Harry gave him.
It’s pale, but not as pale as his skin. The rough pink stands out like a glaring alarm, slightly jagged, as if Harry had not slashed his wand in the air quite in a straight line. It’s hideous in the way it makes Harry feel, the same way he’d felt it then, anxious and frightened of himself, believing he had honestly committed murder of his school nemesis. Underneath was also the pure, unadulterated fear for Draco’s life, a brutal stream of don’t die, don’t die, don’t fucking die racing through his mind.
It’s – humbling and a bit ironic, in a way. It’s a stark reminder of one of Harry’s gravest mistakes, yet at the same time, one of Draco’s most vulnerable, humanising moments.
Standing in front of the large mirror, Harry marvels at his reflection. The clothes might not be the perfect fit, but they’re almost a perfect fit and a definite upgrade from Dudley’s hand-me-downs. The material is rich in quality, the kind that probably wouldn’t disfigure for years on end.
While Draco takes his own shower, Harry drapes himself across the large bed. The mattress is deliciously soft, the quilt even more so, and Harry rolls inside it to form a warm burrito. The scent is familiar but not quite, as if someone has taken the version of Draco – the one that used to sleep beside Harry in his own sleeping bag during Ron or Hermione’s watch – took him and dripped him into expensive shampoo and soap.
When Harry rolls back over to look at the ceiling, he realises it’s not blank as he had previously dismissed it as. In fact, it’s a painting of the night sky littered with stars. Drawing upon his knowledge from Astronomy during school, Harry identifies a few easily. What catches his attention the most are the faint lines interlinking through what is clearly the Draco constellation.
It soothes him, this whole room. If he shuts his eyes, he might as well be in the tent, and the shower might just as well be Nuri’s deep rumbles.
Harry wakes up to the scratching of quill.
Draco is bent over his desk, left hand flicking the pages of a heavy book, the other taking down notes on a parchment. The light streaming inside the room is glaringly bright, and Harry assumes it is mid-afternoon.
His head is throbbing from oversleeping. Or lack of food. Or his chaotic sleep schedule. Groaning, he props up against the ornate headboard, rubbing at his temples.
“Look who’s awake,” Draco remarks dryly without turning from his task. “Granger showed up a bit ago, wanting to talk to you. I think I may have traumatised her by saying you’re sleeping in my bed.”
Harry laughs, voice gruff from sleep, and moans when the headache worsens.
“What did she say?” he croaks out like a bullfrog hitting puberty.
“That you were in a bad mood when you left, didn’t even finish breakfast, and she wanted to apologize for apparently pushing you.”
“Er – right,” Harry blinks away the sleep. “I told her I’ll be back in the evening.”
A small pause, and then Draco says in a neutral tone, “She seemed worried.”
“She wanted me to talk about Severus,” Harry says miserably. “And my mum.”
Slowly, Draco places the quill back on the table and gets to his feet. He sits on the edge of the mattress, fixing Harry a careful look.
“The memories?” he clarifies.
Harry nods, fisting his fingers in the feathery quilt. “It’s just. It’s hard to explain, isn’t it? Was Severus in love with my Mum? Clearly. But so is Uncle Vernon with Aunt Petunia, and I doubt either one of them would go to the extremes that Severus did. I’m not undermining my Dad, either. I know Dad loved Mum enough to give her a few seconds to escape with me, knowing he had no wand on him, and he was about to – to die. How do you explain that? How do you explain what my Mum meant to Severus? Saying he was in love with her sounds – I don’t know – not enough.”
“Insufficient?” Draco offers.
“Yeah. He was–” Harry sighs. “He was devoted, Draco. You saw it. The devotion-for-life devoted. Like it didn’t matter to him that Mum married my Dad. I mean, obviously it did, but – I don’t mean in that way. More like – like it didn’t matter to him what Mum did. In his eyes, she was always just Lily.”
This is why Harry can’t talk about it. He can barely articulate it in words, let alone try to ignore the white ringing noise in his brain.
“How does one do that?” he continues. “You know the first time I saw Gin with Dean … I wanted to bash his head in. It made me so jealous. And then when Ron was yelling at her, I was angry myself even when I had no right to. Just because she was kissing someone else. I was so recklessly selfish and then you see Severus and it’s like … like you question yourself.”
“Why do you need to compare?” Draco asks curiously. “My parents were in love. Don’t get me wrong, I hardly understood it sometimes, but … Mother stuck to Father’s side through all his wrong choices and Father granted her wishes more often than not. That counts for something, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose,” Harry agrees reluctantly. “I’m not comparing … I just … I hate myself for even questioning how I felt for Gin, but I can’t help it. It’s like we’ve grown apart but not really. I would still willingly die for her–”
“You’d willingly die for anybody,” Draco points out lightly. “In fact, you did die.”
“Shut up,” Harry groans. “Not you, too. I get it enough from Ron and Hermione.”
Draco raises his eyebrows. “Can you blame them?”
“Not the point,” Harry insists, now wanting to talk about Severus more than anything if it means not talking about his death. “I don’t – I feel like something is missing now. I don’t know if it has anything to do with Severus’ memories, or if I’m just making excuses, or if I’m overthinking it–”
Unexpectedly, Draco barks out a laugh, grey eyes dancing with mirth.
“What now?” Harry whines.
“Overthinking and you?” Draco says between his laughter, “For some reason, I highly doubt that.”
Harry wriggles from underneath the quilt to free one hand and swipe it in Draco’s direction. Distracted by his own amusement, Draco doesn’t see it coming and only laughs harder when Harry pokes him on the side.
They go flying. Draco makes the wildflowers do ballet and Harry watches the drifting clouds.
Later in the evening, Harry steps onto the berth. Hermione is slouched over the table, absently twirling her wand to create small yellow birds, the fluttering of wings and incessant chirping filling the otherwise quiet room.
She immediately straightens upon Harry’s arrival, rushing out a quick I’m sorry at the same time that Harry does. They both stare at each other and fall into fits of giggles like toddlers. The tension from the morning is forgotten, and as Harry settles into the chair, Kreacher pops up to ask if Harry will be having dinner.
“No, I already ate. Thanks, Kreacher.”
“I came to the Manor earlier,” Hermione says, now carefully vanishing the flock of yellow birds one by one.
“Yeah, Draco mentioned. Listen, about this morning. I – I know you want me to talk. And it’s nothing personal, okay? It’s just – Draco saw the memories with me. It’s difficult to explain this stuff to someone who wasn’t present.”
“Harry,” Hermione immediately protests, “we would have been there – but – I mean, we had to destroy the cup, too–”
“I know,” Harry hastily stops her. “I’m not blaming, ‘Mione! Of course, not. The situation was just different. What I mean to say is … you don’t have to worry.”
Hermione doesn’t seem convinced. “Are you sure? I understand that it might be hard to explain, but Harry, both Ron and I – we are more than willing to listen. I’m worried – we are worried that you’ll end up bottling all of it inside you like always, and it never ends well.”
“I talked about it with Draco,” Harry says. For some reason, he feels small by his own admission. “And it went – well, I guess, if it was meant to go anywhere. But we talked a little. He just – he gets it, ‘Mione. I don’t know how to explain that, either, but he does.”
Hermione studies him carefully, like he’s an interesting piece of trivia scratched in the corner of a textbook. “You and Malfoy really are friends now, aren’t you?”
He realises he’s still wearing Draco’s clothes. “Is it that shocking?”
“Yes,” she says bluntly. “And no.”
“No?” he repeats incredulously.
She sighs and says matter-of-factly. “You two are more similar than you think.”
Harry can’t believe his ears. “How can you say that? Draco and I are nothing like each other. We argue all the time and he gets on my nerves like nobody ever has, including Riddle, and that’s saying something.”
To his increasing shock, Hermione laughs. It makes him feel better that he’d made her laugh but it didn’t have to be at his expense. She doesn’t bother explaining herself, though when Harry is lying in his own bed, he does accept that both of them lost their parents to the same person, if nothing else.
Harry finds a couple of stray galleons and sickles during a cleaning spree of Grimmauld’s dead conservatory, wondering if he is about to find stray Nifflers as well.
Due to an increasing cabin fever, he resorts to visiting the Diagon Alley under his Cloak at times, just to stroll past the familiar shops, duck inside the Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes for a laugh, and secretly buys from Florean Fortescue’s delicious ice creams.
Or, at least, buys from Florean’s daughter who has taken over the business after Florean’s death at the hands of Death Eaters.
The first time Harry mutters one raspberry with chopped nuts, please to the woman, still invisible, Violet jumps so violently, she ruins the two large scoops she was passing onto the customers. He pays for all the ice creams despite Violet insisting Harry can have them for free, but Harry stubbornly holds his ground.
When Harry tells Draco of the incident, Draco thumps him on the head, and then tells him to pick up a free tub next time, I rather enjoy their pistachio and cherry sundae.
Harry, of course, does not do anything of the sort. Although, he does buy the ice cream with the last of his sickles and dumps it in front of Draco later that evening, pointedly bringing two spoons so they can share. Harry still likes raspberry better.
Draco steals the remaining ice cream, holding it possessively near his chest. Harry concentrates in a way he had never before, and his wandless Accio only manages to jerk the container feebly. Draco realises his intentions immediately and disappears to Regulus’ bedroom to finish the rest.
The thing is, is that they hit a dead end. Hermione still refuses to contact her parents out of sheer panic and anxiety, and Harry reckons the whole ordeal must be vastly devastating. To speak with your parents and not having them recognize you at all … Harry doesn’t blame her. He does wish that they could find a safe alternative, one that will not cause irreparable damage and that is not torture.
Hermione has started to practice Legilimency but it is difficult to practise without a guinea pig. Draco shares that he had only learned the spell because Severus taught him, and that Severus’ primary intention was to fine-tune his Occlumency after Aunt Bella jumped onto Cruciatus, instead.
With the first of September looming closer and closer, Hermione conveniently drowns herself in preparing for the school term after receiving the Hogwarts letter. She researches on Muggle-Wizard Exchange Bureaus in England so that she does not have to visit Gringotts. She writes to Minerva for permission to leave Hogwarts premises over weekends, wanting to fix up her parents’ house and take care of documentations. She stops visiting the Manor library entirely.
Harry ends up pouring over the textbooks in search of a viable solution. He befriends some of the house-elves, especially Minnie, who is over the moon after Draco set up the rudimentary Elf Welfare Fund. Minnie learns his tastes in food and beverages, his cravings of sweets after nightmares, how much sugar and milk he takes in his coffee, all the while explaining that she might pay a visit to the market one of these days to buy pretty clothes. When Harry asks her where do elves shop, she says she has no idea but plans on asking Dobby soon.
Meanwhile, when Ron is not at the training, he divides his time between The Burrow and Grimmauld, and reading up books on Defence Arts, Strategies For Future Leaders, How To Survive Your Auror Training, and so on. He tries to encourage Hermione as much as possible, but she’s fallen into a hard place and so gives up to dote on her eating habits instead.
Draco takes care of the Lestrange’s fortune. His bank-appointed solicitor turns out to be an old lady with vicious, righteous anger at the Death Eaters. After every meeting, Draco returns to the Manor pissed off, venting loudly and dramatically to Harry sitting in the library, and Harry listens with half an ear, as he reads –
…memories are a complex network of experiences and senses. A single memory can often be associated with emotions or one of the five basic sensory perceptions. For instance, the smell of a nice cuppa is capable of transporting you to a fond summer evening you spent with a loved one, particularly detailing the feeling of the soft breeze or the smile of the other person…
“…the fuck am I supposed to do with it?” Draco is sniffing prissily. “I can sell the whole lot in Knockturn Alley, of course, but I don’t think Borgin would be happy to see me any more than I him. Harry? Hey? Potter!”
Draco snaps his fingers in front of Harry’s face to grab his attention. When Harry looks up, Draco is glaring viciously.
“What?”
“I said there are a shit tonne of dark items in Aunt Bella’s vault obviously and my solicitor is being all Granger about it. Since I don’t need them, I was thinking of selling them off.”
Harry stares. “You mean become a Dark Relics Dealer?”
Draco frowns. “Not become a dealer, Merlin, don’t make me sound like fucking Riddle. What else should I do with them? Store them so that I can pass them down to the next Lestrange generation? Oh wait, there isn’t one.”
Harry sighs loudly, feeling his patience become paper thin. He snaps the book shut and turns to Draco and His Pureblood Problem Number 12923.
“Just hand them in to the Ministry.”
Draco reels back, as if Harry has physically slapped him. “You – are you mental?”
Harry throws up his hands in frustration. “What now?”
“No one, in the history of Malfoys or Blacks or Lestranges have ever willingly handed over Dark items. We sell them in exchange for better items or information; every five year old child knows that.”
“Don’t you think that by now you can’t exactly be considered a traditional pureblood wizard?” Harry says pointedly, a little impatiently. “Who cares if you go off-book?”
Draco still does not appear to be entirely convinced. Perhaps seventeen years of hard-wired programming is difficult to shake off. Harry wants to blame him, tell him about Sirius and Regulus, but sometimes even he finds himself unable to remain in claustrophobic rooms for longer than five minutes. Thankfully, Kreacher attends to those spaces and Harry retreats to fixing up more spacious bedrooms.
To put them both out of their respective misery, Harry says, “We can seal them up the way we did with the items in the dungeons until you figure out what to do.”
Draco agrees to the idea, Summoning up a blank parchment, inkbottle, and a peacock quill to write to the solicitor, detailing the compromise.
Draco bursts through the Floo, hair disheveled, wand at the ready, a Stunning Spell half-way on his lips.
“DRACO – NO!” Harry shouts out.
Draco stumbles. He straightens himself up with the support of the nearest chair, properly taking stock of his surroundings.
“Wha–?” Draco pants. “What the fuck, Harry?”
Harry grimaces, bouncing Teddy in his arms, pacing around the dining table while Kreacher has left to respectfully shut the hallway portraits down. Between trying to shush Teddy, he hisses out a dangerous, “Language!”
Draco shuts his eyes tightly, taking deep breaths. When he speaks, his voice is dripped in barely retrained fury. “You ars–”
“Draco.”
“You effing a-hole. You send a Patronus screaming for help for this? I thought someone was attacking you! What the–!”
Teddy wails louder, banging his fists on Harry’s head. Today, he is in a Red Hair, Black Eyes, Small Nose Mood. Whatever that means.
Harry glares at him. Draco is just standing there, unmoving. “I’m having a crisis. ‘Mione has gone with others to buy school supplies. Ron is at work. I offered to babysit Teddy, give Andromeda some space to breathe. And – the moment she left, he started crying. I’ve tried everything, Draco!”
Draco pinches the bridge of his nose. “Are you – why, for Merlin’s sake, did you think I know how to take care of a baby?”
“It doesn’t matter!” Harry says desperately, now rounding the table towards Draco. Draco immediately shoots up from the chair in fear and retreats. Harry stubbornly follows. “Because two is better than one!”
Draco is still running around the table as if Harry is carrying a deadly contagious disease. “Molly is perfectly capable of helping you.”
“No, I sent them both for a nice afternoon lunch. They never do that.”
“Well, that’s your problem.”
Harry wants to stomp his feet in frustration. “Please. He won’t stop crying.”
As though determined to prove his words nothing less than the absolute truth, Teddy lets out another bawling fit. His face almost matches his hair. Jesus fucking Merlin.
Draco looks like he’s contemplating his life choices, including why he’s ever become friends with Harry. “Just – have you fed him?”
“I tried to. Teddy wouldn’t have it, though. I figured he’s not hungry.”
“Probably. Temperature?”
“He’s a little warm but not fever-warm.”
“Show him some wand tricks.”
“Can’t exactly do that when my hands are full. Will you stop running?”
Draco doesn’t. He does slow down, though. Harry drops in a chair, exhausted, contemplating over his own life’s choices. Why did he think he’d be capable of taking care of a literal child with no prior experience in the area? Why did he convince himself he knows what babies want? Why did he think that just because Teddy was such a sweetheart during his birthday party, he would be the exact same at all times? He really needs to cut back on his impulsive, brain-damaged grand schemes. At least, there’s no probability of certain death this time around? Although, the death of his eardrums is a whole different matter.
As Teddy engages in the performance of his lifetime, Harry tries to adopt the gentle, placating voice he uses whenever Draco is stuck in one of his panic attacks. He tells Teddy the story of his first month as a wizard, how terrified the Dursleys were of him – or, at least, tries to, the way he’s been trying for the last whole hour – and if he’s counting small miracles, he’ll take Walburga’s silence in gratuitous stride right now. Anyway, it doesn’t work mostly because Harry can’t make himself hear above the all the crying and he’s not about to use a Sonorous at the kid, dammit.
Harry is way over in his head with this, he can safely admit it.
“Merlin, how do you stop that?” Draco gingerly approaches, eyeing Teddy as though Teddy will spontaneously combust at any given moment of time. Which, to be fair, he just might.
“If I knew, I would have done it by now,” Harry grumbles. He can’t even bring himself to sound snappy. Half of his brain is worried Teddy might tear his vocal chords at this rate.
Draco drags the chair behind Harry so that he’s facing Teddy properly. Harry hears him murmur a few incantations, feels the sizzle the magic on his neck, and whatever Teddy sees, it brings down his shrieks from sonic to human levels.
“What are you doing?” Harry asks curiously. He wants to turn around and watch, too, but he’s afraid if he moves a single muscle, it might distract Teddy. So he stills entirely.
“Just basic wand tricks,” Draco replies. “Don’t you have any of his toys?”
“There are some in the bag Andromeda left behind.”
Harry carries The Bagpiper and Draco naturally follows. The packed bag is in the Sitting Room on the ground floor. Harry tries to hurry as carefully as possible; his efforts do not come to fruition when the curtains lining the hallway suddenly reopen and Walburga’s screams of child of a blood traitor, in my scared and noble house, how DARE you, you filthy little schemer kicks off a fresh bout of bawling from Teddy.
“Kreacher!” Harry pleads in desperation and Kreacher pops up. “Do something!”
Kreacher’s eyes bulge excitedly the way they always do when Draco is around, and he immediately collapses into a deep bow. “Draco Malfoy, what an honour, as always–”
“Not now,” Harry bemoans. “Do something about your Mistress!”
Even though it’s not an order, it is phrased like one and Kreacher has little choice but to listen. Still, the elf has not been serving the Blacks for decades without picking up a thing or two.
“Kreacher must insist that Draco Malfoy accompany Kreacher. Kreacher believes it will benefit Master Harry and his charge if Draco Malfoy has tea with my Mistress–”
“Sweet Circe,” Harry hisses, petting Teddy’s shaking back soothingly. “Just go, Draco. Get it over with!”
Draco rounds on him. “Excuse me, Master of Elder D-I-C-K–”
Harry is up to his ears with the noise and stubborn, petulant, immature children. He loves Teddy and he loves Draco, but if Draco does not get his shit together –
And then seemingly out of nowhere, one of Teddy’s plush unicorn – complete with a shimmering rainbow overhead – flies straight into Draco’s face.
Teddy’s screeching stops abruptly. He stares at Draco with a newfound, wide-eyed fascination for a few concentrated moments, and then Harry’s vision is filled with white blonde hair.
Draco’s expression is priceless. “Did you just – what is with you and hitting me in my face? Have you no semblance of control? It’s like being friends with a toddler!”
“It wasn’t me,” Harry growls. “And we’re only making it worse! This is not about you and me anymore, this is about world peace.”
Draco fixes him in a long, venomous glare. “No. I’m not going to become a part of your house-elf’s fantasy. Kreacher, you are a perfectly capable elf of handling such a minor task. I believe in you.”
Kreacher visibly gulps. He seems particularly touched by his beloved Draco’s faith in him. Nodding quickly, he snaps out of existence. A few seconds later, the portrait stops screeching in the middle of my true son would have never let this happen, he would have never dared dirty his blood, this house, by the likes of –
A few minutes later, even Teddy falls asleep.
Blissfully quiet, at last.
After tucking Teddy securely in Covette’s Collapsing Crib, Harry sprawls on the sofa, one hand thrown over his forehead. Draco keeps checking the crib obsessively every few minutes between drinking his sugared coffee.
“Sorry about …” Harry mumbles. “…springing it up on you.”
Draco huffs, dropping into the armchair. “I don’t – just warn a bloke next time. I thought you were in danger.”
“I was,” Harry laments, wondering if Draco’s dramatics are rubbing off on him finally. “I was in danger of losing my mind.”
Draco snorts and Harry’s lip twitch.
“You know what you said about your dating life?” Draco asks randomly.
Harry is too tired to care where this is going, so he only dredges up a nonsensical hum.
“I wonder how it would be when you tell them you come with a child.”
Harry laughs but Draco shushes him immediately in warning.
“They’ll think I’m sensitive,” Harry jokes in a hushed tone.
Draco snickers. “Sensitive bloke who saved the world … Harry, you’re such a moron. I don’t understand why you’d believe no one would want to date you. If anything, my dating life would s-u-c-k more than yours.”
Harry’s grin falters. He frowns, turning his head to stare at Draco in reprimand. Draco is purposefully watching Teddy’s sleeping form, bottom half of his face hidden behind the large coffee mug.
“I wanted to … I’m sorry about Pansy. I didn’t realise you truly like her.”
Draco stiffly shrugs, still avoiding his gaze. “I did. At least, at the time. Besides, Daph and Milli would have castrated me before ever kissing me.”
The thought of Draco kissing Pansy suddenly takes precedence over all his fleeting thoughts. He – this is – of course, they kissed, at the very least. They’d always even behaved like a team, like a proper couple, supporting each other even if it were in throwing insults at others. Pansy was even the Prefect, Harry remembers. There must be a reason for it. Maybe Pansy was good at academics, too. Maybe she never got detention.
Maybe she genuinely likes Draco.
“You can still … try,” Harry offers carefully. “If it’s what you truly want.”
“She sent me a letter,” Draco sighs. “After the war. I just … Blaise keeps mentioning her to me to get me to respond ... I don’t know what to say. Her parents were never officially Death Eaters; their support was more economical. Last I heard, they have to pay the Ministry a heavy penalty and are under house arrest.”
“What did she say in the letter?”
“Wanted to know if we could talk.”
Harry reads between the lines perfectly. “Do you miss her, too?”
Teddy fidgets slightly and Draco walks over once more to check up on him. As he adjusts the soft lemon yellow blankets, Harry studies the curve of his spine.
“Sometimes,” Draco admits to the sleeping baby. He straightens up, snapping Harry’s gaze to meet his. “She balanced out–” he abruptly stops, voice shaking.
“Crabbe and Goyle,” Harry says quietly. “She balanced them out.”
Draco returns to the armchair, picking up the mug from the coffee table. His elbows rest on his knees, and he seems to be studying Harry as intently as Harry is currently in the middle of doing.
“Yes.”
Harry nods in acceptance, turning his head to the ceiling, effectively breaking the challenge in Draco’s gaze. The silence that stretches out is both tense and miserable. It’s a terrible combination.
When there’s a knock on the front door, Kreacher is seen tip-toeing down the hallway like a cartoon. The creak of the hinges is tolerable due to Kreacher’s consistent cleaning sprees, but Hermione is passionately loud in the middle of her explanation of why Professor Flitwick is the best choice for Deputy Headmaster now that Minerva is the new Headmistress –
Hermione, Ginny, Neville, Luna, Blaise, and Dean spill into the Sitting Room, making an utter raucous. They are banging shopping bags filled with books on the walls, footsteps approaching like elephant stampede, and Blaise begins to let out a bark of laughter at Ginny’s impersonation of Professor Flitwick –
Harry and Draco shoot out of their respective seats in unison.
“Draco, you have to see this–”
“Hey, Harry! What’s goin’–”
“SSHHH!”
Teddy wakes up.
Harry was right about thinking that Teddy would love Luna’s soothing, dreamy voice. He also seems to enjoy Blaise’s deep baritone. Dean manufactures a shallow pit that Hermione fills up with inflatable golden balloons. Ginny etches them with various child-like drawings.
Teddy can apparently hold up his own neck properly now. When Harry gently lays him down on a pile of blankets in the middle of the balloon pit, he pokes his head up as far as it would go like a Flobberworm taking its first birth – according to Luna, at least.
Neville is apparently just as clueless as Draco and Harry are, so Harry recruits them for that meal he’s been planning to cook for Luna.
Expectedly, Draco only climbs down to the basement to escape babysitting and promptly collapses in a chair, with zero intentions of helping. Kreacher is just as in a whiny mood as Harry is, although his reason is that Harry is orchestrating to free him soon by his insidious conquering of the house via cooking.
Neville, at least, is extremely helpful. He fills them in on the Hogwarts front as he chops vegetables deftly with his wand.
“Oh yes, the shared dormitory,” Neville chuckles. “Since the count is less for so-called Eighth Years, Professor McGonagall decided it would be better if we stick close rather than keeping only a handful in each House. Although, I reckon it’s meant to be supportive, too.”
“Supportive?”
“Yeah,” Neville nods, frowning down at the green chillies. He’s slow with these and ends up grabbing a knife to chop them quickly. “Most of them fought in the war. It – I don’t know – formed a camaraderie. It’s always helpful to talk to someone who went through the same stuff as you, don’t you think?”
Harry doesn’t answer, and neither does Draco. If Neville senses the sudden charged atmosphere, he neatly side-steps it and launches into explaining how no one has been able to open the Room again.
Draco speaks up at that. “It probably won’t, ever.”
“Why not?”
“Fiendfyre.”
Neville spins around to stare at Draco, horrified. “Really?”
“Afraid so,” Draco says in a neutral tone. “The caster perished in it.”
Neville shakes his head, returns to the cutting board. Realising that it’s all done, he hands it over to Harry.
Dinner is an amicable affair. Between Hermione and Draco, they fashion a cushioned high-seat for the still-white-blonde-haired Teddy at the table. Harry performs all the cliché games he can possibly think of to feed Teddy his formula.
Draco hides in Regulus’ bedroom once more when Andromeda is due to pick up Teddy.
Molly heaps up sizzling sausages on Harry, Hermione, and Draco’s plates.
“I knew you weren’t eating well,” she scolds, bustling around to pour Harry and Draco’s sugared coffee and Hermione’s tea. “Look at you three! You’ve become so skinny and pale already!”
“That’s Draco’s natural complexion, Molly,” Harry assures her and Draco aims an elbow jab at him.
“I’m skinny,” Ron says, holding out his plate for his own share of food pile. “Catching Dark wizards every day is an exhausting job.”
“You have two breakfasts,” Ginny says incredulously.
“So?” Ron challenges. “What about you? I’ve never seen anyone stuff their mouth with muffins the way you do.”
“Hush, Ron,” Molly admonishes but then scoops out large portions for him anyway with a fond smile. “Fleur, dear? Have some more. You’ve barely eaten anything.”
Fleur’s eyes widen in fear. “No, no, sank you. I ‘ave ‘ad enuf.”
“Are you sure, dear?” Molly insists. “You need to eat more if you and Bill plan on having a child–”
Bill spits out his juice. “MUM!”
Fleur shoots up from the chair, backing away. “I weel see you een a bit, Molly. I jus’ remembered somethin’. Sainte merde, je prefere me tuer!”
Draco chokes on his sausage as Fleur flees from the back door. And then everyone collectively hound Draco to translate it and then he’s fleeing from the back door, as well. Hermione and Ginny immediately dip into a heated, whispered conversation.
“Molly,” Arthur says uncertainly. “Sweetheart, maybe we shouldn’t pressure them.”
“How am I pressuring?” Molly snaps, hands on hips. “Bill, darling, don’t you wish to have a child? This is the perfect time, with your jobs going so well, and it’s just the right age for Fleur–”
“Mum, no offense, maybe we let her decide that,” Bill cuts in quickly. “But – thank you. I – I will pass on the message. She’s just – slightly freaked out, probably. Don’t worry about it.”
When Harry strolls outside, he sees Draco and Fleur standing apart with at least ten feet between them, not speaking a word.
Draco studies the tapestry sometimes. Just stands there and reads the names over and over. Harry watches him from the armchair and neither of them utter a word.
Draco Malfoy
(1980 – )
With Walburga no longer around to blast people off of the tapestry, Draco’s name remains. To Harry, it feels like a huge middle finger to the entire family, dead and alive. He loves it.
Sometimes, they talk.
“I always believed brown shoes are better than blank, don’t you think?” Draco says, twisting his ankles this way and that.
Harry studies the shoes, too. They’re nice, faint hexagonal patterned dots spreading across the rich leather. “I think black suits me better.”
“Yeah?” Draco says. “I don’t know. I think you can experiment with white, as well. Not too bright, though. You know those pale white lines on marble floors?”
“Oh, yeah – they look both grey and white.”
“That’s it,” Draco snaps his fingers. “Could suit you.”
“How about those fancy blue loafers you were wearing yesterday? I really loved those,” Harry says.
A few minutes later, Tolky slash Zaddy appears in Grimmauld holding Draco’s loafers. Harry checks the size and tries them on and then all three of them peer at his feet critically.
“Maybe if you changed your pants,” Draco eventually decides.
Other times, they argue.
“Patronus.”
“Used against a Dementor, not a human. Stay within species, Harry!”
“Any version of Protego.”
“Can be used to rebound spells. You’ve seen that happen many times already.”
“How about the Healing Charms?” Harry insists passionately. “Surely, those can’t be considered Dark spells. They literally help you get better.”
“Sure,” Draco drawls sarcastically. “Why don’t I send your Saviour Arse careening to the moon and then feel free to heal yourself. How is that going to help in a duel?”
They’ve been going around in circles for better part of an hour now. The sun has set past the window and the casual snippets of laughter from Muggle front yards have begun. Harry squints into the streetlights, thinking.
“Levitation,” Harry says, excitement bubbling up for a few seconds before he deflates like a popped balloon in the next instant. “No, I’m thinking of feathers.”
“Wingardium Leviosa a heavy chest and your opponent won’t wake up for a couple of hours,” Draco agrees.
“There has to be something,” Harry says impatiently.
“I mean, you lot fucked yourselves over, didn’t you?” Draco smirks smugly. “Your definition of Dark magic is utter garbage. Any duelling spell can inflict harm if used properly, which means all duelling spells are Dark.”
“Or none of them are,” Harry points out.
“Or none of them are,” Draco nods.
“I feel like you’re cheating but I can’t figure out how,” Harry mumbles miserably.
Draco aims a kick at Harry’s shin in retaliation.
The tea is long finished. The snacks Draco had brought over to munch on – some Japanese name Harry already forgot – had been ravished within fifteen minutes.
Just then, Hermione pokes her head in. “Hey, boys. Ron will arrive any minute now. You want to join us for dinner? We’re walking down to the Muggle place at the corner.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Harry glares at Draco, repeating Yes just as Draco repeats No.
“Oookaayy?” Hermione raises her eyebrows.
Harry leans forward to whisper heatedly, ensuring his house-elf doesn’t pop up by chance. “I’m giving Kreacher an off day without telling him I’m doing it.”
Draco leans forward, too, hissing, “I can just return to the Manor. No one has to know.”
“Are you trying to give my elf a heart attack?” Harry says, indignant on Kreacher’s behalf. “If he learns, even by mistake, that you went home to eat–”
“I’ll pretend I’m joining you and Apparate–”
“I’m not going to be the third wheel, Draco–”
“Then you can come to the Manor, too–”
“But I want to go out!” Harry complains. “I’ve hardly been anywhere, and a Muggle restaurant sounds really good. I’ve always wanted to visit one, a proper one, and now I can and you’re letting your stupid pride get in the way–”
“Merlin, alright, fine,” Draco snaps. “No need to play the Pity Potter Party Card.”
Harry winks, grinning. “Learned from a slimy Slytherin, actually.”
Harry breathes in the brittle summer evening air. There’s something about strolling down a pavement carelessly, hands stuffed in pockets, watching the other houses lining the streets. He sees a group of gangly teenagers messing around, laughing and crapping on each other. A tiny girl is sitting on the swing and another is pushing her from the back. A group of young women dressed to the nines pass by, elbows hooked, heels clacking. Shadows of families inside houses, a loud television blaring the evening news as though the viewer has a hearing problem and doesn’t realise how high the sound is. A young man is at the metal fence of his house, talking on a mobile phone. He grins good-naturedly when he notices Harry’s attention. Harry waves back. Occasionally, a car would rumble past or a bicycle rider would ask for way.
As much as he enjoys flying, this, right here, is liberating in a whole new way. He feels hopelessly optimistic.
Hermione is up ahead, explaining the typical menu that Draco can expect from a Muggle restaurant. She’s really driving her point home because it seems Draco is reluctantly coming around to some of the food items, especially when she says having multi-cuisine options is a basic norm by now.
Ron fills him in the progress of his Auror Training.
“There’s a lot more politics than you’d expect,” Ron is saying. “Everyone is given a partner, right? Once they finish training, you’re assigned to this one team forever. And this other bloke – Damien, he’s a Trainee, too – except that he’s older by five years. Had some tailoring shop before he realised he’d rather strangle the whole lot of them. Anyway, so he comes to me during lunch and offers to become my future partner. I tell him I’m still new and I’d like to scout out my options, you know, I’ve got my eye on this former Ravenclaw, he’s a bit of a stuck-up but awesome investigator, and this Damien bloke storms away as if I broke his heart on Valentine’s. Next thing I know, someone gave me a cold case. Cold cases suck big time. There’s nothing to do except go over all the old notes and ask questions. Since I’m a Trainee, I can’t even do that. I’m meant to hang around in the background for educational purposes. Got to say, the extent of boredom I can apparently endure has been highly educational.”
Harry laughs. “Why don’t you take it up with Kingsley?”
“Mate,” Ron shakes his head as if Harry just reminded him of a terribly painful memory. “Mate. Kingsley is so busy he’s practically a myth at this point. He wasn’t kidding when he said there’s some resistance against him. Since he didn’t exactly go through ‘TheProcess’, people like Umbridge are doing everything in their power to shame him.”
Harry kicks at a random stone, groaning. “I keep forgetting Umbridge still works there.”
“I try my best to,” Ron agrees amicably.
They walk in companionable silence for a while, Hermione’s voice floating over when she becomes too animated or when Draco puts his whole life’s work into doling out a sarcastic comment.
“I think we should write to Severus,” Harry confides quietly. “If anyone understands Legilimency, it’s him. He stuck with Riddle for years and never got caught.”
“True,” Ron frowns, watching Hermione up ahead. “Think she’ll go for it?”
“Worth a shot, at least,” Harry shrugs.
Ron nods. “Yeah, I mean, what’s the worst he can do?”
Harry laughs, a proper, belly-deep one, shoulders shaking. Draco flicks a glance over his shoulder in question and Harry waves his hand dismissively.
To a grinning Ron, he says, “Remember when that was actually a terrifying thought? The points we lost alone during his classes – Merlin, feels like a million years ago.”
“Feels weird, though, innit?” Ron says, head tilting up to the yellow streetlights. “Sometimes, when I’m at work, I turn around to search for ‘Mione and you. Especially during meetings.”
“It’s been … different, yeah,” Harry concedes. “There was a time when I had thought I’d never escape the Dursleys.”
“Good riddance,” Ron grumbles. “If it weren’t for Dumbledore’s protection charm, Mum and Dad would have adopted you years ago. It’s just – it’s not decent, mate. The way they are. It’s just wrong. So yeah, good riddance.”
“I’m sure they share the sentiment,” Harry sighs. “Although, Dud didn’t turn out to be too bad. I think the Dementor attack really freaked him out. He’d been nicer to me since then.”
“Didn’t you say he was the Muggle version of Malfoy?” Ron says, perplexed.
Without meaning to, Harry grins, automatically looking over at Draco’s back. Draco and Hermione have fallen silent for the time being, and he seems to be studying the cars parked by the curb.
“Draco didn’t turn out to be too bad, either,” Harry points out, heart fluttering inside his ribcage. He wants to sort of squeeze Draco tightly and pinch his cheeks to watch the colour flood his skin.
Ron hums noncommittally. “Well, you certainly seem to have a thing or two for redeemed people.”
The tip of Harry’s ears flush pink. He doesn’t bother responding.
The Muggle restaurant is nice.
Family friendly, warm lights, low jazz playing on the speakers, uniformed waiting staff gliding between tables smoothly balancing their trays, the hostess leading them to a table-for-four with a smile, and Harry suddenly feels like a mature adult who has his life together.
And then – he wants to have his life together. Once Hermione and the others leave for school, and with Ron busy at work, Draco engaged in whatever self-imposed tasks, Harry will have more free time on his hands than he knows what to do with them. Even if he volunteers to babysit Teddy or help around The Burrow, he wouldn’t have – a job.
A reason to wake up in the mornings. A challenge. A purpose.
The menu is vast. The discussion alone takes twenty minutes with Draco asking if anyone can see pumpkin juice in the beverages or Ron wanting to know the recommendations from the hostess or Hermione’s indecisiveness between healthy salads and flavoured curries or Harry’s insistence that they should order at least one of the pizzas.
“What’s a peezzaa?” Draco asks, frowning down at the menu.
Harry explains what a pizza is, flat bread topped with vegetables, sauces and cheese, baked in an oven –
“That monstrosity at Granger’s house?” Draco scrunches up his nose.
“More or less,” Harry says. “It’s very popular in you-know-whos. And that Mexican one looks good.”
“Good choice,” the hostess beams. She doesn’t seem bothered by their strange conversation in the least. “It’s one of our bestsellers.”
“I don’t know,” Draco huffs. “How about this one? Mar-ga-ri-tah?”
“Too simple,” Harry refuses. “Go a little wild, Draco. See, that last one has a lot of toppings. I’m telling you, you’re going to love it.”
“Alright,” Draco concedes reluctantly. “I choose the dessert, though.”
“Deal.”
Hermione goes for the salad. Ron goes for the flavoured curry and rice so that they can share. They don’t order alcohol, not that anyone is in the mood for it anyway. Instead, Hermione orders a bunch of mocktails to experiment with and once that’s done, the hostess leaves, and Harry gulps down a tonne of water to get rid of his dry mouth because this suddenly feels like a double date.
Forty minutes later, Harry is acutely aware of Draco beside him, has been since they settled into casual conversation after orders. There’s only a few inches of space between them and their elbows keep knocking together.
Once the doubt had settled into him, Harry has also been glancing at Draco. His appearance, his mannerisms, the way his hands move, the way he leans forward, the curve of his neck, the way the yellow ambient lights catch in his white blonde hair, or even the way he grins at Harry, completely at ease despite the unfamiliar environment. Maybe being surrounded by food overrides his discomfort. Not that Harry wasn’t looking before but now he’s paying attention actively knowing that he’s paying attention.
Draco’s cherry red shirt is rolled up to his elbows, the top two buttons popped open. The longer bit of his hair keeps flopping over his forehead now that he’s completely given up on slicking it back, and he has to card his fingers through it to push it back every now and then.
He just – he looks good. Harry sort of wants to take a picture. He also thinks the roses from the Manor gardens would be perfect right about now.
Shit, shit, shit.
The thing is, is that Harry’s chest is stirring with a feeling he now identifies as –
And the thing is, is that Harry has no time for a sexuality crisis. That ship has sailed around the planet multiple times, because when Harry sits down to think about it – he doesn’t, a lot, to be fair – he has accepted a few truths –
Okay, just the one. Harry might be harbouring a crush on the git.
Not just a crush, the way he had on Cho Chang, but neither like the comfortable love he had – still has, in some form – towards Ginny. It’s different; maybe because Harry cannot stand him just as much as he wants to plaster himself to Draco’s side like a wet, happy squid.
Draco orders another pizza half-way through finishing the first one. Harry can’t help the smug smirk crawling up his mouth.
“Whatever,” Draco huffs when he notices it. “Just because you’re right about one thing does not mean much. I’m still right about a lot of things.”
“Sure,” Harry says, quirking up one eyebrow.
When Harry tells Hermione and Ron their earlier discussion of all duelling spells being either Dark or not, Hermione is quick to jump to the textbook definition, and Ron frowns, firing names of spells one after another as Harry had done.
The rest of the dinner passes in a heated discussion, which still feels weirdly comfortable. Hermione emphasizes upon the morality of the spells, Ron giving it the benefit of doubt, and Harry – already having reached a middle ground with Draco – continues to study Draco out of the corner of his eyes as the latter plays arbitrator.
The next morning, Harry makes a list.
Get Your Life Together
Harry James Potter
- Offer the goblins to pay for repairs in exchange for continued access.
- Take stock of wealth (Potter & Black).
- Shop for new clothes.
- Buy a new sink for Kreacher.
- Write a letter to Severus.
- Nursery for Teddy (?)
- Make another list for career options (pet shop is still on the table).
- Go for it.