Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6128332.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/F, F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Draco_Malfoy/Harry_Potter, Neville_Longbottom/Ginny_Weasley, Hermione
      Granger/Ron_Weasley, Narcissa_Black_Malfoy/Severus_Snape, OFC/OFC, Sirius
      Black/OFC
  Character:
      Harry_Potter, Draco_Malfoy, OFC, Blaise_Zabini, Luna_Lovegood, Narcissa
      Black_Malfoy, Severus_Snape, Neville_Longbottom, Ginny_Weasley, Ron
      Weasley, Hermione_Granger
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Post-War, Rape_Recovery, Post-Traumatic_Stress
      Disorder_-_PTSD, post—hogwarts, Bonding, Eventual_Consummation, Ancient
      Runes, Care_of_Magical_Creatures
  Series:
      Part 2 of From_Slips_To_Steps
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-02-28 Completed: 2016-06-25 Chapters: 15/15 Words: 130341
****** Working Out The Kinks ******
by Aelys_Althea
Summary
     The war is over. Voldemort is dead. Everything should be better now,
     shouldn't it?
     Nothing is ever so easy. Fighting with demons from the past as well
     as fear of an uncertain future, Harry and Draco wade blindly through
     the complexities of slipping into casual life. Into becoming simply
     students, children, and discovering what to make of the lives they'd
     once thought would be stolen from them.
     Simple? Not in the slightest. For even the little things take some
     time, some practice, to work out the kinks.
Notes
     Disclaimer: This story and all of its characters belong,
     fundamentally, to J.K. Rowling. I've tossed them around a bit, true,
     but the mastermind herself ultimately holds the power in this
     situation. Eternal thanks to the wonder woman herself. I make no
     profit from this except for the pure self-satisfaction of actually
     writing something :)
***** Time *****
Chapter Notes
     A/N: First and foremost, hi! Welcome back! This is the SEQUEL to The
     Masks of Real Heroes, so if you haven’t read that one then sorry, but
     this probably won’t make much sense. If you have, thank you so much
     for taking a look at this story too!
     This might sound strange, but I feel like I need to install a
     personal disclaimer of sorts before this story. I was almost too
     hesitant to post it at all because I’m worried about sort of, I don’t
     know, trashing peoples expectations? That it won’t be what anyone was
     looking for, or that it wasn’t ‘good enough’ to warrant inclusion? I
     don’t know. But in short, I’d just like to say: this is pretty much
     as much for my own sense of closure as anything else. I really felt
     the need to just write it.
     Secondly, this story will deal a little bit with rape recovery and
     PTSD. I know that everyone’s experiences are different, and I really
     don’t want to offend anyone, so if you’ve experienced either such
     situation… I don’t know, read carefully?
     And thirdly, yeah, the physical side of Harry’s and Draco’s
     relationship is explored a little more thoroughly. If you have a
     problem with descriptions of sexual situations, this might not be for
     you.
     Otherwise, enjoy!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
No matter which country, how small the town, or the magical inclination of its
people, travel depots were always a site of activity. The International Portkey
Terminal of London was no exception. A single building, ten times as big on the
inside as it appeared from the outside, it looked nothing if not a dingy Muggle
post office that received an unnaturally large number of visitors who didn't
come back out again. Draco suspected the Terminal had at least one Muggle
diversion charm placed upon it; located as it was on the ectone between Muggle
and Wizarding communities, there were certainly enough of the former passing by
to warrant as much.
The six students stood outside the building, staring as yet another crowd of
businessmen bustled through the double doors of the building. Their navy robes
embroidered in five-pointed pinpricks of gold suggested they were astronomical
apprentices from the London School of Rising Stars. Though he didn't say it
aloud, Draco through the design made them look absolutely ridiculous. Like
children. Even more so with the three pointed hats they wore. Did they honestly
think that resembling the stars they studied was a necessary fashion statement?
As the door slammed shut, Draco felt the hand grasped in his own tighten
slightly. The fingers were cold, Cold fingers, yet slightly clammy this time.
Glancing towards Harry at his side, he couldn't prevent his face from
tightening into distressed sadness, a mirror that of his partner's.
Until today, it hadn't seemed real. The week since Harry and Neville had
officially decided to transfer to Beauxbatons had passed too fast for the
reality to really sink in. Draco still couldn't believe it, couldn't comprehend
that, while he was leaving the very next day to catch the Hogwarts Express to
school, Harry would be in a different country attending the orientation night
of an entirely different school. It felt so wrong, even when he understood the
need, understood the logic.
The past week had been a series of disjointed events that, when compiled,
served to drag Draco into melancholy as though he had partaken of a large dose
of Glumbumble treacle. Or so Harry said. Draco had no bloody idea what he was
talking about, but it seemed to apply to him. Besides, he was just about ready
to agree with anything Harry said at that point, so long as it ensured he was
still talking to him, still close enough to touch him.
Time had passed too quickly, however, and before Draco realised just how much,
Black had disappeared to Paris to set up the house he would be living in for
the duration of Harry's academic year – of course the man was going; he clung
to Harry like a bad smell – Draco was helping Harry pack the overnight trunk
and they were spending their last night in the same bed for who knew how long.
Harry had assured him, over and over, that within a week, two at most, he would
return to Britain for a visit.
Two weeks was a long time.
A hesitant cough drew Draco's attention, and everyone else's, towards Ron. The
redheaded boy, shifting in the seat of his levitating chair, tugged his ear
awkwardly. Had Draco been in a better mood, and had he not known the reason for
Ron's temporary affliction, he may have teased him for the ridiculousness of
the gently bobbing chair. He didn't, though. Not only would it have been in
poor taste, but at present he couldn't seem to find anything amusing.
Glancing towards his friends, Ron tapped a fingernail to the watch on his
wrist. "It's, um…" He paused, cleared his throat again, and reattempted. Not
quite succeeding, too, for his voice still cracked. "You've got twenty
minutes."
Draco glanced down towards Harry, who met his eyes before taking a deep breath.
From his periphery, Draco saw Neville and Ginny exchange similar glances.
Neville was the first to respond.
Stepping towards Ron and Hermione, the latter wringing her hands uneasily while
Ron looked nearly on the verge of tears, the ex-Gryffindor wrapped them both in
a tight embrace, one then other.
"You take care of yourselves, you two." His voice was muffled by Hermione's
hair, yet the slight waver to it could still be heard.
"And you promise you'll actually write this time. No excuses." Hermione's voice
was similarly muted, though Draco was surprised to see she actually seemed to
be holding herself together better than Ron. The tears of the redhead were
definitely more prominent.
Laughing, Neville gave a choking snort. "You know I'm terrible at remembering
to send letters."
"You will this time. This time…you will." A sniff, and Hermione appeared to
drag herself together long enough to attempt light-heartedness. "I'm ever so
curious to hear about Beauxbatons' educational system. It's supposed to be
quite different from Hogwarts."
Even in their sorry state, her words succeeded in bringing a smile to every
pair of lips. Even Ron's as he reached up to pat Neville affectionately on the
shoulder. He seemed to find that easier than the hug.
Stepping back, Neville made way for Harry to exchange his own hugs. They were
different, as different as the two boys were; Harry softly enfolded each of
them in a gentle embrace that somehow seemed to leave Ron less discomforted
than Neville's had. Patting the side of Hermione's head, he murmured something
in her ear, something that caused her to hiccup a sob but nod furiously in
assertion. Whatever it was seemed to leave her somewhat heartbroken, but for
the life of him Draco couldn't seem to care.
With a wave of goodbyes, several sniffles from Ron and Hermione both, Draco,
Harry, Neville and Ginny headed towards the double doors of the Terminal. The
overnight trunks rattled across pavement in a painful scratch of wheels that
nearly drowned out the muted words of the two left behind. They had agreed
beforehand that it would be best to keep the farewell party to a minimum. Those
that directly saw the two boys off, anyway. Blaise, the one who would once have
been the most likely to kick up a fuss about being left outside, was only
returning from Italy that afternoon so the suggestion was passed with little
disagreement.
Inside, the building was markedly grander than the exterior. A wide entrance
hall of polished white linoleum gleamed almost too brightly beneath the magical
light-sources overhead. Directly across from the doors at long, wide desk sat a
trio of receptionists conversing with travellers as they traipsed towards them
from the staggered queues to present their travel passes. To either side of the
desk were two arched hallways leading into distant corridors, a lazing official
standing to the side of each. From what Draco could see, each was dotted with a
number of doors spaces barely two feet from one another with finicky precision.
Another expansion charm in the works, it would seem.
Switching the simple manual labour of pulling the trunks to a Follow-Me Charm,
Draco tightened his grip on Harry's once more. They trailed up to the end of
the queue and settled to await their turn.
The receptionist that barely glanced at Harry and Neville's passes was a wide
woman with ruddy lipstick and too much mascara behind her ebony glasses. Her
nametag read 'Emmy', a name that appeared far too friendly and juvenile for her
stately frame. Peering momentarily at the four students, she hefted a stamp
that looked like a gavel and smacked impressions in red ink with more force
than was entirely necessary. Neville, standing closest to the desk, looked like
he suffered a heart attack so fierce was his flinch.
"Room 302. To the left, take two flights of stairs. Second door on your right."
She was already beckoning the next traveller in line before they'd taken a set
towards the arch.
"How unprofessional. I'm sure they're at least supposed to pretend to smile,"
Ginny muttered, shooting a glare towards the woman. Draco was surprised at the
aggression of her words; or at least he would have been, had he not personally
witnessed the gradual tightening of her nerves over the past few hours. For all
Ginny's pretences that Neville moving countries didn't bother her, that she
would be "spending most of my time living with him anyway," the set of her jaw
spoke otherwise.
Climbing two flights of stairs made Draco incredibly grateful he had turned
seventeen and could use magic outside of school without reprimand. He couldn't
imagine how a Muggle would possibly go about dragging such unwieldy trunks
around without levitation charms. Harry had spoken to him of moving stairs of
sorts that the Muggles used which ran on electricity. He termed them
'escalators', which was reasonably enough, Draco supposed, given their
function. Personally, Draco was welcoming of the climb. It would take longer
than some mechanical 'escalators', which meant more time before Harry left. He
resolutely ignored the fact that the minutes would count down just as fast
walking slowly as they would moving quickly.
Room 302 was the size of a modest dining hall, bare except for a row of chairs
along one wall and a desk behind which two attendants chatted in muted boredom.
The room was already occupied by at least a dozen other witches and wizards,
some obviously making a similar journey to Harry and Neville while others
likely were only present to see them off. Government portkeys were both cheaper
and much easier to get a booking on but unfortunately carried the often
unwelcome sharing with strangers. Draco sorely regretted the loss of what
minimal privacy they could have attained otherwise.
Glancing at his own watch, Draco felt his throat close over. Five minutes. Only
five minutes more, and Harry would be…
"Hey, don't look like that."
Dropping his eyes towards the bespectacled boy in front of him, Draco's only
succeeded in becoming more choked. The sadness on Harry's face was shadowed, as
though masked. It was odd; recently, he'd become better at maintaining a hold
on the display of his emotions. Not to the degree he once had – and thank
Merlin for that – but a definite restraint had been placed upon the
overwhelming clash of emotions he used to express at every second word.
He's being strong. He's hiding his sadness; even though I can still see some of
it, the rest...
The thought did little to ease the chokehold clasping his throat, but Draco
struggled to swallow around it anyway. If Harry could pull himself together in
this situation, then so could he. At least until Harry left. Then he'd find a
nice, quiet bathroom and lock himself in a stall until he felt he could face
the world without crying or killing someone. He wasn't sure which would be
worse, personally.
Glancing briefly around them, ensuring potential eavesdroppers were suitably
distant – the closest were Neville and Ginny who seemed to have withdrawn into
an inaudible conversation that could only be communicated by standing less than
an inch from one another – Draco stepped forwards and dropped his forehead onto
Harry's. The simple act did little to ease his heartache, but that little
enabled him to speak.
"I'm going to miss you."
It was inadequate, he knew. But then, any words would be inadequate. How could
one describe the feeling of losing half of one's limbs? No, it was worse than
that. At least loss of limbs could be magically remedied. This loss, though, no
matter how temporary, Draco would have to live with.
Harry stared up at him through the half-drawn curtain of his fringe. A small
smile wavered onto his lips, but his eyes were only sad. "I know. And I am so,
so sorry –"
"I didn't mean it like that." Draco sighed, closing his eyes. His arms reached
up to wrap around Harry, pulling him tightly towards him. "I know why you must
go. I just wish you didn't have to."
Sinking into him, Harry wrapped his own arms tightly across Draco's back. By
the slight strain of fabric across his shoulders, Draco knew his fingers locked
into the material of his shirt, twisting in a death grip. He murmured something
into Draco's shoulder.
"What?"
Harry shook his head in Draco's shoulder. When he repeated himself, his words
were still a whisper. "What am I going to do without you?"
Draco's throat seized even more tightly than before. He couldn't have spoken
even had he wanted to. Harry had never voiced his own fears for the distance,
the time apart, that they would have to endure. It was usually he who offered
soothing consolation to Draco, that it 'wasn't truly so long' and that he would
'visit at every possible opportunity'. Draco had suspected Harry felt at least
a modicum of the same heartbreak he did at the prospect of his partner leaving;
the intensity with which he clung to Draco in sleep bespoke as much. He had
simply never stated so, not in as many words and not with such rawness.
Dropping his head onto Harry's shoulder, Draco could only hold him tighter.
What could he possibly say, when any replies Harry had given him to similar
questions had seemed so inadequate?
"I know it's only for a year. And I know I can come back whenever I want if I
desperately need to. I'll Apparation-hop across the English channel if I have
to." A thrum of humourless laugh buzzed into Draco's shoulder. The suggestion
had been jokingly voiced on a number of occasions before. It didn't seem so
funny this time. "It's just that…"
"I know," Draco muttered, turning his head to kiss Harry's temple. And he did
know. He knew only too well. They didn't need words to describe exactly what
both of them felt so profoundly.
In far less than five minutes, it seemed, the two attendants rose from their
seats and stretched. The taller of the two, a middle-aged bug of a man, strode
to the centre of the room while his short, mousy-haired companion called
attendance.
"Alright, seven's the number I've got booked." He glanced around the room as
though taking a headcount, which was pointless, really, given that Draco
suspected over half of those in the room were only present to say farewell. "I
would ask all travellers to Paris to please step forwards and place your right
hands upon the portkey. Right hands on the portkey, ladies and gentlemen.'
Draco didn't want to let go. It took an inhuman amount of effort to unlock his
arms from around Harry. Harry seemed to be having the same struggle with
detaching his fingers from Draco's shirt. Finally apart, they pressed there
lips together in hasty kisses, once, twice. It was too short, too brief and far
too hurried.
Ginny and Neville appeared to be trapped in the same conundrum, but as Harry,
dragging his trunk with eyes still turned towards Draco, passed the pair to the
centre of the room, Neville finally disentangled himself enough to follow.
Draco thought he might have been crying, but he didn't spare him a glance to
check.
Dropping to a crouch in the circle with the other five travellers, Harry and
Neville reached out to press a finger to the… wooden spoon? It looked like a
wooden spoon. The attendants relieved them of their boarding passes long enough
to glance at the details before handing them back.
And then shorter man was speaking again. "Thank you for your cooperation,
ladies and gentlemen. If all non-travellers could please step back… thank you.
The portkey will be departing in ten… nine… eight…"
The countdown morphed into a distant echo. Draco could feel his eyes blurring,
heat rising in his cheeks. He had eyes only for Harry, for the vibrant green
gaze that glanced back at him over a hunched shoulder. He was biting his lip,
blinking rapidly to dispel the rising tears.
Still trying to be strong. Why do we both try so hard? Why hide it when we both
know how much -?
The thought was cut off as, with a swirl of colour and the resounding call of
'one!' the portkey activated. It all happened so fast, so instantly, and then
it was over. The absence of the seven people from the room left it feeling
oddly hollow. The last thing Draco saw of the departed was the opening of
Harry's mouth, as though to say something…
Draco didn't remember leaving the room. Didn't know how he even found the
bathroom. He only just made it to a stall, fumbling with the lock on the door,
before grief overwhelmed him. Not tears; no, he didn't cry. But he did slump to
the likely filthy floor and draw long, shaking breaths that crackled in his
throat. Breathing felt impossible, each inhalation thin and wavering. But he
didn't cry. He didn't.
Curled as though physically wounded on the floor, head in his hands and staring
blankly, Draco struggled to stifle a moan of loss. His gaze was distorted,
blurred – he didn't really know why, didn't care – but it hardly mattered. He
must have looked a right sight, as far removed from Malfoy decorum as possible,
but in the privacy provided by the solid wooden door at his back he couldn't
care less.
===============================================================================
Platform nine and three-quarters was as much a hubbub of activity as it was
every year. That the Wizarding world was barely months out of a war made no
difference to the matter. Reuniting returners and wide-eyed first years
pottered alongside doddering families as they piled their trunks and caged pets
onto the train. The peeping of the whistle, signalling students to board, was
nearly ear-splitting.
Draco turned towards his mother, meeting her subdued smile with a poor attempt
of his own. She was still too thin, still pale, and looked as though the wind
would knock her over if it blew too forcibly. Unsought, the memory of the
previous year bubbled to the surface of Draco's thoughts, the image of his
father's and mother's tight faces as they wished him farewell and with formal
embraces. How much had changed in a year. How much had been lost.
Narcissa was barely two weeks out of intensive care, yet she had insisted upon
accompanying Draco to the platform. He objected only half-heartedly; their
relationship had grown in a remarkable direction over the break between sixth
and seventh year, and rather than the mild embarrassment and exasperation that
most students his age felt at their parental accompaniment, Draco only felt
gratitude. Especially this day.
Since Harry had left, Draco had been by Narcissa's side at almost every waking
moment. His mother was a comfort; she'd always been a comfort, if truth be
told. He could act as childish, as impertinent, as desperate for consolation as
he wished and she would respond with only soothing maternal care. Despite her
continued recovery – which had been progressing remarkably, if the doctors were
to be believed – Narcissa still found the strength to support him.
She seemed to know exactly what he needed and, more importantly, why he needed
it. Or perhaps it was simply Narcissa's own affection for Harry and the sadness
of his departure that enabled her to console him so understandingly. Harry had
accompanied Draco to almost every visit he had undertaken to the hospital over
the holiday period. Narcissa had been welcoming of the additional visitor, and
had even reprimanded Draco for his absence on the one visit Harry had suggested
he remain at home. To give them some 'family time', he had said. Draco had
thought it was a ridiculous notion, a sentiment agreed upon by his mother.
Narcissa had glared coldly at him when he had informed her of Harry's
reasoning. "You tell him, my son, that he is well and truly a part of our
family by now. Where did he develop such a notion that he would be even vaguely
unwelcome?" She had raised an eyebrow pointedly at Draco, to which he had
frantically assured her that he was hardly responsible. Secretly, the mild
reprimand warmed him. If nothing else, the edge that had regrown on her tone
was the surest sign of recovery he had witnessed since her awakening.
Still, the solo visit had been beneficial in one regard: Draco had finally
confessed the nature of his and Harry's relationship. He had been nervous at
first as to how his mother would respond. The idea of a homosexual relationship
was hardly uncommon, even in noble and prestigious families. It had always been
acceptable, dating back to Roman times. To belittle such partnerships that had
been considered valid for centuries was ludicrous.
So no, that was not his concern. What he had feared for was her response when
he revealed the depths of his feelings. How he truly loved Harry and wished
whole-heartedly that they could remain together for the rest of their lives.
Such a union, such a confession, posed a significant problem; by maintaining
faithfulness, the prospect of blood children was an impossibility. The Malfoy
line would effectively end. The thought made Draco cringe when he considered
his mother's response.
Yet once again she had surprised him. Much like his friends, she had simply
smiled, nodding in curt satisfaction. "So you have finally realised your true
feelings? I must say, I was surprised that it took you so long."
Draco had stared at her blankly, his only defence against open-mouthed
astonishment. "You're not… upset? Or angry -?"
"For what possible reason would I possibly be upset?" She frowned fiercely, as
though he had accused her of a heinous crime. "I am most fond of Harry. Why
would I object?"
"I just thought… what with heirs for the family…"
Narcissa sighed her exasperation. "That is your concern?"
"Well, the Malfoy line has remained unbroken for centuries –"
"Is that what your father told you?"
Draco stuttered to a halt at her interruption. Yes, they were his father's very
words. The memory of being told as much, time and time again, left a strong
enough pain in his chest to enforce their genuineness. He could only nod weakly
in reply.
Sighing once more, Narcissa stroked a hand across her forehead. Not rubbing
wearily, but close enough to it that Draco understood the motion. "Your father
always was grounded in formality, duties and familial connections. Perhaps, if
he had been alive and you had told him of your relationship… No, I cannot
believe even then he would object." Turning towards him, Narcissa adopted a
startlingly frank expression. "The Malfoy line is about as pure as any other
'pureblood' line, the Blacks included. That is to say, rather diluted."
This time, Draco couldn't prevent his mouth from falling open. "What?"
"Can you honestly imagine you are the first couple to be unable to conceive
children? Due to the absence of a woman in the equation, infertility or even an
unexpected death? Honestly, Draco, the Malfoy lineage is riddled with as many
adoptions and false heirs as any other family. It is simply better hidden."
"But… why?"
Shrugging, Narcissa idly folded the blankets in her lap. "Propriety? A need to
maintain a sense of superiority? Who knows? The fact of the matter is that a
loving relationship should hardly be discarded on the a basis of producing an
heir." She paused, regarding him thoughtfully. "You seem confused."
Draco shook his head slowly. "I just thought… well, father always emphasised
the importance of blood purity. It's basically engraved into the very nature of
a Slytherin."
"And do you truly believe in it?"
Pausing to think carefully, Draco shrugged. "I used to. Now, since I've started
to think differently, to really think about it, I'm not so sure."
Smiling as though congratulating her son for his understanding, Narcissa
nodded. "And therein lies the truth. You told me, last year, that you had come
to believe family and friendship to be of greater importance than social status
and self-elevation. Do you recall?"
Draco nodded, his mind wandering back to the previous Christmas. He could still
remember the conversation so well; it had been in their Parisian Manor, their
discussion just after they'd found Harry. It was not one he was likely to
forget.
"I was so proud of you for coming to terms with your revelation yourself."
Narcissa smiled indulgently, enough to make Draco shift awkwardly in his seat.
"I had worried when your father insisted on teaching you of the appropriate
attitude a Malfoy should hold. I don't believe your father ever truly believed
it either, however much he tried to live by the rules such teachings
presented."
Sighing regretfully, Narcissa turned back to folding her blankets. "I do not
believe that the very nature of a pureblood – or a Slytherin, for that matter –
is selfish. Egocentric, perhaps, but not cruel. And while arranged marriages
are not uncommon, there is a sea of those that are founded on love." Lifting
her chin once more, Narcissa's gaze fixed upon Draco intensely. "Don't ever
forget that, Draco."
He wouldn't. Not for as long as he lived.
It was possibly that single conversation as much as anything else that swelled
the depths of his relationship with his mother. Somehow, when it came to Harry,
Draco simply felt like she knew. Like she understood. It made the loss of his
father that much more heartbreaking.
The whistle on the platform sounded once more, and Draco turned towards his
mother to bid her a final farewell. She smiled thinly, hiding her sadness
behind a blank façade.
"You will take care of yourself."
Nodding, Draco struggled to swallow. "Of course, Mother. And you." Beholding
her wasted frame once more, he felt a pang of worry. "Write me as often as you
can. Of your appointments, of how you are feeling. I want you to keep me
updated –"
"Honestly, Draco," Narcissa interrupted him with an exasperated sigh. "You
sound just like Dr. Goadman." Yet for all her words, her small smile widened.
"But I will. Ensure you do the same."
It was likely a spur of the moment decision, yet in hindsight Draco would
marvel that they both decided to break from their public guises and wrap one
another in a swift, tight embrace. Swift, yet nonetheless loving, and not
hiding behind formality as they usually would. Narcissa pulled away after
barely a moment and patted him on his cheek. She said no more words. None were
necessary.
Weaving his way through students and families, Draco headed towards the train.
He hadn't seen any of his friends yet. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to
face Hermione or Ron; he was not keen to explain his rather unexpected
disappearance the day before at the Portkey Terminal. Rather, he kept an eye
out for them just so he would be the first to see them, instead of they him.
Just so he could be prepared.
It was only natural, then, that his general scan of the platform brought him
eye to eye with Blaise.
His friend of a height with Draco, so, both being of the tallest on the
platform, they saw each other easily across the sea of bodies. Draco was frozen
for a moment, nearly at the doorway to one of the carriages but barely heeding
the churning figures pushing past his to board. He could only stare at Blaise.
His friend looked tired. Tired and pale, a distinction apparent on his darker
features. He looked about as healthy as he had after taking his O. in fifth
year, suffering under the strain of his mother breathing ominously down the
back of his neck. Only, this was a deeper weariness rather than the acute
nervousness resulting from a taxing examination period. A depth that bespoke
long residency, and his struggle to adapt to potential permanency.
Yet even so, when he spotted Draco, Blaise offered him a small smile. It was
sincere, or appeared to be. Weak, and a little strained, but warm nonetheless.
Draco could only smile hesitantly back in response as his friend approached.
"Hello, Draco."
Swallowing, Draco scrambled for words. How was it suddenly so hard to speak?
"Blaise. How was your break?"
With a shrug, Blaise glanced over his shoulder. Following the line of his
stare, Draco could just make out the sight of his mother's butler levitating a
trunk onto the luggage carriages. Blaise seemed to ease when he noticed the
distance between them. "Yeah, alright. The relatives were very enthusiastic, of
course. I'm glad to get away from them, to be honest." He offered another dry
smile, rolling his eyes in an attempt at light-heartedness.
Except it's not light-hearted, a quiet voice muttered in Draco's head. He was
sure he wasn't the only one to notice the hippogriff in the room and just
because neither of them spoke of it immediately didn't mean it wasn't there.
Pansy…
Blinking away the thought, the memory, Draco forced a like smile onto his own
face. "What are family for, really?"
"Mooching off and Christmas present?"
Draco snorted a laugh. It was only faintly mirthful – the joke was hardly good
enough to warrant amusement – but the motion felt good nonetheless. He couldn't
remember the last time he'd laughed. "Sounds about right."
Blaise grinned at him widely, though Draco was unsurprised to see that it
didn't quite make the expansiveness of his normal smile. Slowly, even that
faded and an uncharacteristic seriousness overcame him. "You right, Draco?"
Frowning, Draco tilted his head questioningly. Shouldn't he be the one asking
that? "What do you mean?"
"Only… what with Harry leaving…"
He didn't want to think about it. For almost half a moment he hadn't been and
now it all came rushing forth again. He struggled to quash down the upwelling
flood of painful emotions. He forced himself to thrust it aside, to not think
about it. It wasn't like there was anything he can do to change the
circumstances. He'd have to learn to live with it eventually. At least for a
year.
Dusting off his rising melancholy, Draco replaced his smile. "I'm okay, Blaise.
Honestly. I'm fine." And at his friend's sceptical frown he sighed
dramatically. "I'm fine." Turning away from Blaise, he started towards the
train. The final whistle was rung through the air and most of the students had
already crammed through the doors. "Are you coming?"
Shaking his head knowingly, Blaise followed him as they sunk into the buzzing
chatter of the carriage.
===============================================================================
The trip to Hogwarts was less unbearable than Draco had anticipated. Certainly
the confrontation with the Gryffindors barely held a teardrop to the expected
rain of questions. Rather, Hermione and Ron had not spoken a word of the fact,
though a shared, pointed glance spoke volumes. Ginny had been silent too from
the moment she entered the cabin, dragging the Ravenclaw girl Luna Lovegood
behind her. Draco didn't mind as much as he'd expected; the airheaded girl was
a friend of Harry's anyway.
All in all, it was a rather uneventful journey. Blaise had been welcomed with
sincere joy, and seemed to sink with relative ease back into their company.
Only his pallor and the frequent, distracted glances out of the carriage window
suggested he was hardly 'perfectly fine'. Draco couldn't help but compare the
difference in situation to that he'd experienced last year. No exclusive
Slytherins, no self-designated compartment. Rather, the Slytherins were
outnumbered, and most surprisingly it didn't seem to matter. No one batted an
eyelid at their mixing of houses.
It was surreal. Draco had always kept to his own house exclusively. At the
present, however, he couldn't think of anything he'd rather less. Besides the
fact that several key players were missing from the equation – Goyle had been a
victim of the war and, well… Pansy… – he didn't think that he could face Crabbe
after his confrontation with his father months before. It was a good thing that
he'd transferred schools. As for Nott, Bulstrode and Greengrass; well, they'd
always been somewhat removed from the central pillar of his year's Slytherin
cohort. It had just never seemed so apparent until now.
When Hogwarts finally faded into view, outlined darkly against the evening sky,
every tongue stilled and all eyes turned towards the window. It was... exactly
the same as it had always been. Even from a distance, it was apparent that the
castle was in perfect shape, not a stone out of place. Truly, it was a marvel
what the reparations officers of the Ministry had been able to accomplish over
the few months break. Less, really, as Draco knew for a fact that the N.E.W.T
students of the previous year had taken time throughout the summer to complete
the studies that had been so rudely interrupted throughout August.
The interior of the castle was as untarnished as before. It was surreal, to
walk through the double doors as though the Battle of Hogwarts – a battle so
many of them had been a part of – hadn't happened. An unnatural hush settled
over the entire student body that only quietened further into absolute silence
upon entering the Great Hall.
It shouldn't have. There was nothing noteworthy to comment on; the four house
tables were placed as they should be, the Head table currently seated its array
of professors in various stages of seating – Snape was there, a scowl upon his
face, Flitwick, Slughorn, the half-giant Hagrid, McGonagall standing to the
side of the Head's seat and gazing across the influx of students. It was all so
normal. Even the magical sky overhead depicted only a clear evening and merrily
bobbing candles that flickered in the phantom dusky breeze.
No prone forms lined the floor. No pained sobs rebounded off walls as the
injured were tended by weary hands. There was no thrum of terror in the air,
the pervasive stench of fear that had hung cloyingly in an unshakable blanket.
Nothing to recall the incident, except…
As Draco and Blaise parted from the Gryffindors, Draco saw it. His eyes were
drawn to the it, the memory of Voldemort's death dragging his gaze to the point
on the floor where the creature had collapsed, shot dead by a Muggle bullet.
And there, like an ink stain on carpet, was a mottled venation of thin black
branches extending across the floor. As though someone had poured black wine
onto the marble which had subsequently seeped into the very foundations of the
castle.
A permanent stain, Draco was sure. He couldn't imagine the reparation officers
would have left it there out of a sense of victory, of sentiment.
As every student dropped into their seats, as the last of the teachers folded
into their own, the newly appointed Headmistress slipped up to the podium at
the front of the professor's raised dais. Draco frowned for a moment;
McGonagall was going to give her speech, before the first years were even
appointed houses?
He didn't have time to dwell on the abnormality, however, as her clipped tone
rung out across the hall.
"I welcome you, returning students, to another year of Hogwarts. It brings me
great joy to see so many of you return, circumstances being as they are." She
paused for a moment, and Draco immediately understood; this was going to be
that speech.
"First and foremost, I believe it is only appropriate that the necessary
consideration be afforded for the events which occurred in this past school
year. The Ministry has cautioned me from speaking of such, but I believe, as
witnesses to a war, each and every one of you has a right to hear these words."
Pausing once more, McGonagall seemed to meet the eyes of every student at once.
For the first time, Draco really recognised her proficiency as a teacher. She
may not be as internationally respected as Dumbledore, but her steadiness, her
compassion for her students, was apparent in every word. Not a quaver trembled
her voice.
"We, as a school, bore witness to the expulsion of a truly heinous criminal. A
criminal who, before being passed from this world, inflicted a wound upon us
all, upon this very school, which cannot be so easily erased with consoling
word and patched plaster.
"As witnesses, we all, as one, have grown. A trial that, while painful and
punctured by loss, will only make us stronger. For there has been loss. Of
loved ones, of security, of fond memories. There is not a one in this hall who
has not been touched by the cruel hand of the being who was Voldemort."
The Hall seemed to suck in a synchronous gasp at the mention of his name. No
one spoke, but the weight of that name loosed a buzz of chattering thoughts
that was nearly audible. McGonagall waited, as though enduring the whispered
thoughts, before continuing with firmness in her tone.
"And yet, even injured as we are, even having suffered the losses that we have,
we will survive. We will endure. And we will grow. For we had surpassed this
trial and shall step through to the other side with the knowledge that we have
triumphed. That, despite the rages of a madman, the Light has prevailed and
will always prevail.
"I ask not that you forget those who have fallen. It is for this very reason
that I speak to you all now. No one can understand the depths of another's
grief, for we have all loved and lost, and the pain – while felt by all – is
endured in different ways. But like this war, like the triumph over the being
who stole so much from so many, we will, each and every one of us, prevail.
"Of greatest importance, however, I ask that you all remember the struggles of
those around you. That, while you have lost, have felt pain, so have your
friends, your peers, your rivals. And that we shall only survive this pain with
unity, with mutual support. We are united in our losses, and united we shall
endure."
Silence rung in the hall after McGonagall's final words resounded. To some, it
may have seemed an attempt at boosting morale. To others, an unnecessary
reminder of the heartbreak that had been felt by so many beneath that very
roof. To Draco, though, his esteem for the new Headmistress sparked, grew, and
flared.
For the witch had been ruthless. Almost brutally honest. She'd dragged to the
surface memories that so many were struggling to bury. But in doing so, she had
reminded them all that they were not alone. That, though they had been hurt,
some seemingly beyond recovery, there were others who had endured if not the
same then similar. It was an oddly comforting realisation.
Draco barely registered when the first years filed into the room. He was lost
in his own thoughts so deeply that even when McGonagall gave the formulaic
welcome speech to the entire hall of students, new and old, he didn't hear a
word of it. When the table before him groaned under the sudden weight of
steaming dishes, wafting a surplus of intoxicating scents into the air, his
arms moved mechanically and he didn't recall eating though his stomach became
full.
Casting a half-seeing glance around him, Draco observed his fellow students
slowly winding back into motion, breaking from the frozen lull McGonagall's
words had induced. At his side, he was surprised to see Daphne Greengrass
filling the seat Pansy had once assumed. It was disjointing to see the pretty
blonde seated there instead of his old friend, and even more so when, as though
feeling his gaze upon her, Daphne glanced towards him. The small small she gave
him was oddly solemn for the otherwise superficial girl. She seemed as shaken
as the rest of them. The oddity was enough to induce him to focus back upon his
own plate.
At his other side, Draco vaguely realised that Blaise moved in a similar
monotony. When the call to return to dormitories sounded, he finally met his
friend's eyes. There were tears there, tears of sadness and the utter grief
that Draco had known he had been hiding since he'd met him on the platform. But
right beside that was determination, strength blossoming. He didn't need to
speak for Draco to understand his resolution.
She's right. We'll survive this. Just like we've survived everything else. All
it will take is a little effort. And time.
Chapter End Notes
     A/N: Thanks for reading, everyone. If you have a moment, I'd really
     appreciate you leaving a word or two, just to tell me what you think
     or if you have any particular questions. Thanks :)
***** First Steps *****
Chapter Notes
     A/N: I am SO sorry for the lateness of my update. It was truly
     unintentional and I'll strive not to leave it for so long again. I've
     no excuse except for 1) good ol' Personal Life and 2) it wouldn't
     write itself quite right. I'm still a little uneasy about how the
     chapter turned out but, well...
     Anyway, much of the content of this chapter is appropriated from the
     information that has been provided by J. K. Rowling on Beauxbatons.
     However, I couldn't help myself and very much added my own flavour to
     the mix. As such, some of the features of the school vary from what
     is canonically assumed. I hope this doesn't offend anyone greatly.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The carriage jostled on some unseen bump in the road, causing Harry to slide
into Neville once more. The other boy didn't comment, simply smiled as Harry
murmured his apology and turned once more to face out of the window. Not that
there was a lot to see; they had recently passed into a tunnel that was so dark
the only image apparent through the window was their own reflections.
The sound of the horse's hooves was a gentle lullaby that, alongside the
swaying of the carriage – only occasionally interrupted by a more forceful jolt
– nearly prodded Harry into sleep. They had certainly been travelling in
silence for long enough, and he was tired after barely a wink of sleep the
night before.
Not that he'd really expected to sleep. There was a jangle of nerves dancing in
his stomach over the prospect of starting school at Beauxbatons the next day; a
not unfamiliar feeling, but unwelcome nonetheless. On top of that, he was heart
sore over leaving Britain. No, not Britain so much as the people, or more
specifically one person in particular.
Harry had barely been spared a moment from landing with the portkey at the
Parisian International Terminal before the tears came. Came, and wouldn't stop.
Not that they were particularly ferocious tears, simply a steady stream of
grief that tumbled down his cheeks, but nonetheless he couldn't stop them. The
expression on Draco's face the moment before he'd disappeared, the crumpling
and inward folding of loss, swum before his eyes unwaveringly. Harry had tried
to call a reassurance, speak soothing words that he didn't feel, but had been
wrenched into a portal of instant transportation before a word had passed his
lips. He regretted his inability to speak one final time before leaving sorely.
Neville had been similarly mournful. Though he struggled to present a resolute
face, his hands were forced to brush almost constantly across his cheeks to
dispel the trickle of tears. Neither had quite managed to clean themselves up
by the time the met Sirius in the Reception Hall.
Sirius hadn't commented. An expression of horror, terror even, had crossed his
face at seeing them, likely driven by the prospect of having to comfort two
seventeen year old boys without the faintest idea of how to go about it. With a
shared glance of unspoken agreement between Harry and Neville, they had both
attempted a smile, relieving the man of his perceived duties. Sirius had nearly
sagged in relief when understanding dawned. He had painted his own smile on
with slow, deliberate motions and attempted joviality.
"Morning Harry, Neville. Wonderful to see you in one piece."
Both boys had murmured identical, barely discernible replies and with a
suggestion of departure from Sirius had followed him into greater Wizarding
Paris.
Sirius had attempted light-hearted conversation, but it had been a bit of a
one-man show. Harry was rarely very keen to talk with a public audience and
Neville, though maintaining an adequate string of replies, seemed lost in
thought. Not that Sirius appeared to mind. He was busy discussing the newfound
delights of the city. He had barely been there for three days but seemed to
have hoarded enough thrilling stories to fill a weighty novel, or at least to
make a good attempt.
"… didn't think it would be a problem to transport larger furniture into the
house, but these Frenchmen, so set on protocol! Worried that a Muggle might see
them entering the house, or chance a glance at something inside that is far too
big to fit in by manual means. Did you know you need a permit to move anything
larger than could fit through a door if you live in Muggle suburbia?"
As it happened, Harry didn't know, but his own scant interest seemed nothing on
the incredulity of Sirius'. The man had nattered on incessantly, like a child
in an amusement park. It was strange, seeing such a side to the man, a side
which had only hitherto been gleaned through their written correspondence.
Seeing it in person left Harry wondering just which exactly was the dominant
persona of the man; the hard-faced, serious and practical wizard who had led
them safely into Hogwarts not five months before or the energetic puppy who
seemed to want nothing more than to lead them enthusiastically though the
streets of Paris like a loyal tour guide.
They'd spent the night at Sirius' new house as planned. Neville stayed with
them; he likely would in future instances too. He'd claimed his grandmother had
at first declared she would accompany him, but he'd managed to talk her out of
it. Thankfully, for the two had never shared a particularly amicable
relationship from what Harry could tell.
It was a large house for a single person residence, situated in a quiet Muggle
street largely free of the noise of traffic. Built of dark brick with a
triangle-roof in flat black tiles, it was a fairly plain, typical suburban
house that mirrored its neighbours by its sheer plainness.
Despite it's substantial size, however, Sirius bemoaned that it held nothing on
some of the Black Manors that were apparently spotted throughout England,
Scotland and Germany. Not that his disconsolate attitude had lasted long. He
gave them a brief tour of the house – two bedrooms, a network of wide living
and dining rooms with equally wide, square windows, and a kitchen properly
outfitted for a Muggle, though Sirius claimed he would hardly be using it for
such – before urging them back out onto the streets in search of lunch. Word
had it that the man's nose had led him on wondrous travels through the nearby
Muggle mall that left him practically salivating over the prospect of a what he
declared was a 'spectacular pizza parlour'. Harry couldn't see what was so
spectacular about it, but humoured his godfather nonetheless.
They'd spent the night with Sirius demonstrating to Neville the wonders of a
'television', of which the boy had only heard of in distant tales. Apparently,
the residence had been purchased completely outfitted and Sirius was delighting
in discovering the many wonders of the Muggle world now available to him. Harry
watched his antics with faint amusement, glad that Neville seemed to have
brightened somewhat at the distraction. They'd spent the evening flicking
channels too fast to acknowledge what was being played for the most part,
before retiring to bed. Where Harry, two caught up in his own thoughts, hadn't
slept.
It was the first time in so long that he hadn't shared a bed with Draco; the
matress of the double bed seemed far too wide for one person, even with Lyssy
curled up beside him. It was strange, really. He hadn't had an ounce of
difficulty transitioning into sharing a bed, so why was it such a big deal
reversing his sleeping arrangement? He didn't understand; it was illogical. Yet
even knowing as much, acknowledging the irrationality, didn't assist him in his
attempts to fall into unconsciousness.
The next morning had seen the two teens and their guardian, accompanied by the
shadow of a little black cat, wandering through the underground Wizarding
pedestrian highway, Le Cachee Labyrinthe. Harry was surprised to learn from
Sirius that it actually extended throughout the entire metropolitan region of
Paris. They had agreed, with approval from the current headmistress of
Beauxbatons, to arrive at the school on the first of September a little earlier
than most to give them time acquaint themselves with their new school before
the rest of the students arrived. As the nerves set alight in Harry's stomach,
he wondered if he would have preferred to wait an extra day.
Magically trailing their school trunks, the highway made short work of the trip
to the Beauxbaton's departure point. The sprawling collection of buildings
secreted in a corner of the labyrinth looked to be nothing if not an elaborate
stage of immaculate stables, lined with pale carriages the size of large cars
that looked more befitting of Cinderella for general shape and gaudiness.
They'd arrived early – even earlier than anticipated – and as such only a
smattering or grooms and young adults that could have been students were to be
seen.
Most surprisingly of the stables was that, unlike every other shop or
government facility encountered in Wizarding Paris, the Beauxbatons stables
were entirely underground. The reason for such quickly became apparent after,
with an urging from Sirius to act as translator, Harry had spoken to a groom
and informed him of their destination.
The groom, a tall man dressed in dark slacks and a grey shirt as immaculately
clean as his surroundings, had only nodded curtly and directed them towards one
of many waiting carriages. He disappeared only a moment before returning,
leading a pair of fellow grooms and…
"Pegasus!" Neville's face lit up excitedly, glancing towards Harry. "I
completely forgot that Beauxbatons used Pegasus. Did I tell you that in fourth
year when they arrived the carriage of the students that came for the Triwizard
Tournament was pulled by Pegasus? Did I?"
Harry only nodded numbly in reply. His wide eyes were fixed incredulously on
the giant horses that danced spiritedly on the end of their tethers, tossing
heads and nearly wrenching their grooms from their feet. They were magnificent
beasts. Of the palest gold, darkening only faintly at the muzzle and feathered
hooves, they towered over the tallest of horses Harry had personally seen in
his admittedly limited experience with equines. He was sure, however, that none
even strained close to the impressive height, the sheer muscle tone, of the
creatures that stood before him.
Most impressively of all, though, were the enormous wings that sprouted from
the shoulders of each, adorned in feathers of varying shades of gold, silver
and white. Enormous, each at least twice as long as the horse's length, the
flight feathers trailed slightly on the ground alongside it, sweeping across
the stone floor. They looked impossibly heavy, and Harry wondered how the
creatures would even be able to lift them for flight.
"A sight bigger than Buckbeak, those ones," Sirius murmured beside them. Harry
had seen Buckbeak, had met him over the summer holidays and had been rather
taken with the enormous, proud creature, but otherwise had to agree with
Sirius' sentiment. Indeed, the hippogriff held nothing to the size of the
Pegasus.
Neville hummed his agreement. "I wonder if we'll be studying them in class?" He
pondered aloud. Harry didn't bother answering him; it wasn't like he was any
the wiser.
A moment later the grooms were leading the dancing Pegasus towards the nearest
carriage and proceeding to hitch them onto it with a series of complex straps.
Harry watched, fascinated, unable to draw his eyes away, as the grooms wove
amongst the creature's legs. They could just about walk beneath their bellies
without ducking, so large were they. Not that their size seemed to intimidate
the handlers in the slightest. As he watched, Harry saw one give a firm jab of
his elbow into the ribs of the Pegasus that had attempted to take a chunk out
of his shoulder. The creatures snorted in displeasure, but subsided with his
attempt to nibble on the man.
"You're off to Beauxbatons, then? Just the two of you? Not waiting for anyone?"
At the words, Harry jerked his head towards the approaching newcomer he hadn't
even noticed. A relatively short, slight man with a fuzz of dark beard on his
chin and equally fuzzy hair was walking towards them, wiping his hands together
as though ridding them of crumbs. The man barely spared them a glance, gazing
behind him towards the carriage being outfitted with its steeds.
Harry paused a moment, glancing towards Neville and Sirius who in turn trained
expectant stares back upon him. There suggestion was apparent enough: all
yours.
True, Harry would most likely have to take the reins in the coming conversation
too. Though he had been trying to teach Neville the rudiments of French in the
past weak, it was a work in progress. A crash-course that was definitely more
crash than course. Sirius hadn't even bothered to seek a linguisticstutor,
claiming he knew how to make himself understood just fine and would pick up the
necessities quickly enough.
"Um… yes, just the two of us. Sorry, we're rather early."
His apology seemed to draw the man's attention. With a sudden smile, he shook
his head. "Not at all. Been here for nearly three hours already myself. It's
better to get on the road early; horses only have one trip in them a day so it
means I get off early, yes?" Smiling crookedly, the man regarded Sirius and
Neville for a moment, then seemed to disregard them once more as being merely a
silent audience to the conversation. "Anyway, the name's Jean Charlet. You?"
"I'm Harry. And this is Neville and Sirius." Choosing to emit their surnames,
Harry hesitantly took the man's proffered hand and shook it. Jean appeared to
grow more enthusiastic with his words. He certainly became more amicable.
Still smiling, Jean nodded briefly to Neville and Sirius, offering a similar
handshake. "Nice to meet you. I haven't seen you lot around before, but I can't
believe that you're first years. You new?"
"Yes, just transferred."
"From…?"
"Hogwarts."
"Ah," Jean nodded, as though the name held some sort of explanation. "Well, I
won't say anything against your past school, but just know that Beauxbatons is
a bit different." And though he didn't say anything further as he'd claimed he
wouldn't, his tone bespoke a sense of pride in his national school, a
confidence in its superiority. Harry had struggle to withhold a frown; he was
glad Neville and Sirius hadn't heard Jean's words. Both were nothing if not
touchy when it came to comparing educational institutions. Harry himself,
though rather less attached to Hogwarts than the both of them, still felt a
twinge of discomfort that he forced himself to quell as Jean's continued. "But
anyway, you ready to head off?"
Glancing around him, Harry scouted for any other fellow students. He didn't
really expect to see any. "Did you want to wait for a bigger load?"
"Hmm?" Jean raised an eyebrow. "No, no, not at all. Lighter loads go faster.
It's about a four hour trip, but with just the two of you it should take about
three and a half. Mean's I get off at the other end even faster." Jean smiled
widely, winked at Harry conspiratorially and Harry couldn't help a small smile
of amusement arising in reply. The man gave the impression of a layabout with
his references to shirking work, but the slightly bounce on his toes throughout
the conversation spoke otherwise. Harry found he quite liked Jean – save for
the derogatory insinuations to Hogwarts, that is.
One of the grooms fastening the Pegasus called out to them in muffled tones.
Jean turned and called a crude, "What?" over his shoulder, eliciting a loud
sigh of exasperation from his colleague.
"Said we're about all done here, Jean. Whenever you're ready."
"Splendid," Jean replied, turning back to Harry. "All set then. You ready to be
off?" At Harry's nod, he held up a finger towards him. "Won't be but a moment,
I've just got to get you're names signed off with Tomas; he's supposed to be
around here but is most likely still chowing down his breakfast." A final brief
grin, and Jean was jogging towards the stables in the direction of a building
with a doorway that was far to low for a Pegasus to pass through.
"What was all that about, then?" Neville asked sidling up to him and tilting
his head questioningly in the direction Jean had departed.
"No idea," Sirius replied, as though the question had been directed towards
him. "Didn't make a lick of sense to me. Something about a step-ladder and his
mother's apple pie was all I got."
Harry bit back a laugh with difficulty, resolutely turning away from Sirius'
sceptical expression. '"He was just introducing himself. He said we can leave
as soon as we get our names signed off."
Sirius stepped up to Harry's side other side. His posture seemed guarded,
almost protective, from the arms crossed over his chest to the intensity of his
gaze.
"Names signed? What for? We never had to do that on the Hogwarts Express." His
tone was resentful, accusatory, and Harry was once again relieved Sirius hadn't
been party to the earlier conversation.
"I don't know. Maybe because they're individual carriages or something?" When
Harry turned his suggestion towards Neville, his friend only shrugged, as
confused as he was.
Moments later, Jean had returned. He profusely guaranteed Harry that all was
set and ready to go, and proceeded to drag their trunks towards the carriage,
waving away both Harry and Neville's attempts to assist him. As he was loading
the bulky trunks into the unfolded back compartment of the carriage, Harry
turned to farewell Sirius.
His godfather engulfed him in a hug. Only briefly, though. Over the summer,
there had been a point at which Sirius' tendency to position himself near to
Harry and shower him with hugs and good-natured pats had stuttered to a halt.
Harry suspected it had something to do with Draco, but hadn't asked. He wasn't
entirely comfortable with hugging anyone except Draco anyway.
"You take care of yourself, yeah, kit?" Sirius muttered. His tone suggested he
honestly expected Harry to throw himself into mischief. The use of his newly
acquired pet name, a play on Lyssy's ever-present companionship, did nothing to
hide the faint wistfulness in his voice. He even spared half a glance for the
little cat waiting patiently at Harry's feet.
"Of course."
"I'll see you sometime before the Christmas break?"
Harry nodded into Sirius' shoulder. "On the weekends. When I'm not visiting
Draco."
Sirius snorted, muttering something Harry couldn't quite catch. Draco and
Sirius had become… neutral with one another over the summer, to put it kindly.
This arrangement did not, however, mean they had to like one another. But
Sirius only offered a pat on the shoulder as he pulled away in reply to Harry's
questioning eyebrow. "Send me letters too, mind. I want to hear from you every
couple of days by mail, since we don't have the mirrors to talk through
anymore, or else."
"Or else what, Sirius," Neville said, smiling teasingly.
Cuffing him gently over the back of the head, Sirius pulled the other boy into
a one-armed hug. "Or else I'm coming in there to drag the both of you out. No
shifty cultist conventions, you hear? And make sure that you scout the place
after dark at least once."
"I think you're supposed to be discouraging us from rule-breaking, Sirius,"
Neville laughed, smile widening.
Shaking his head, Sirius sniffed. "You're not living without some rule-
breaking."
"So you say. Harry generally plays everything as is proper, right Harry?"
Sirius turned a falsely stricken gaze towards Harry, who couldn't help rolling
his eyes. "No… not my godson! Harry, how could you?!"
The three dissolved into chuckles, followed by another round of goodbye hugs
before Sirius nudged them both towards the carriage and Jean waiting at its
side. The man nodded at Sirius over their shoulders briefly before gesturing
towards the carriage with an inviting sweep of his arm.
"Whenever you're ready, boys." He flicked the side door open for them both and
Neville chivvied Harry inside first. Pausing only to heft Lyssy into his arms,
Harry scrambled awkwardly up the steps into the carriage. The interior was
spacious, unnaturally large with blue-cushioned seats and thin white curtains
over the single windows on each of the four walls. There was refinement about
the lines of the structure that put Harry faintly in mind of Draco's manor in
in the city above him. "You need anything, just tap at the little window at the
front and let me know."
"Thank you, Monsieur Charlet," Harry smiled at the man, Neville mimicking him
in a poor accent before the carriage door was shut. The wheels rolled into
motion as they waved to Sirius out of the back window. Within moments the tall
figure of Harry's godfather had disappeared with the thick darkness of the
tunnel they trundled into.
Apparently, Le Cachee Labyrinthe extended even further that Metropolitan Paris.
Or at least the tunnel that they descended into did. Harry wouldn't have been
surprised if it was the only tunnel extending as far; it certainly seemed
isolated enough, from what he could tell. The walls were uncomfortable close,
apparent even through the blackness of their surroundings. It left him faintly
claustrophobic and shifting uneasily in his seat.
The travel through darkness extended for well over an hour. And in that hour,
Harry and Neville did little save comment idly to one another of light-hearted
topics, comments that gradually faded into silence. The shadows nearly
swallowing the carriage seemed to encourage as much, and Harry found himself
falling back into his thoughts once more. Not particularly a place he wanted to
be.
He missed Draco. Missed him as he had expected yet not quite conceived, and it
had only been a day since they had parted. Harry had never been privy to such
emotions before; he'd never really been close enough to anyone to regret their
absence. Even over the Christmas break the previous year he hadn't been party
to such feeling. More profound emotions, or containment of such emotions, were
the priority. But now, left with nothing but pondering thoughts to trek over
the ageing tracks in his mind, Harry missed his tall Slytherin more than he
could say. The thought elicited a chain reaction of thoughts – maybe he
shouldn't have left, maybe he should have gone back to Hogwarts for his second
and final year, maybe he'd been an absolute fool…
But then the lurking shadow that always waited idly just on the fringes of his
consciousness made itself known. Slipping even more easily into his mind in his
bored state, the memory of the previous year, the explosions and crumbling of
stonewalls, the shrieks of terror and pain, the BANG of a shot fired from him
and the subsequent collapse of his target… Harry;s mind always drifted to as
much when otherwise unstimulated. Barely conscious of his motions, he began to
stroke Lyssy's back with perhaps more force than necessary. It didn't help
much, couldn't suppress the chill that slithered down his spine or shake the
trembles of his fingers, but it helped some. A little. Just… not quite as much
as Draco could.
It was difficult to gauge time, but Neville fell into a brief doze and woke up
again with the blanket of darkness still upon them. Harry tried to follow his
example, but the occasional bump in the road, accompanied by the indignant
grumbling from Lyssy in his lap, forbade him from finding such a reprieve from
the pervasive silence. He did manage a listless half-doze, however, but was
almost immediately shaken into alertness by Neville's excited prodding.
"Harry, look! Seems we're out of the tunnel."
The other boy was pressed cheek to glass against the window, straining to peer
in the darkness of the direction they headed. Or the not-so-darkness, as it
appeared the shadows were lifting. Harry scooted to the opposite window just in
time to receive a full-blown assault of radiant light to his eyes. He shaded
them with a raised hand before slowly allowing his gaze to fall through the
clear glass in wonder.
They had well and truly left the city, that much was apparent. Sprawling around
them like a picturesque landscape painting was a depiction of undulating hills
stretching into a distant stand of mountains. The autumn sun overhead bathed
the scenery in a rich, vibrant glow, reflecting off a river that looped,
serpentine, into the distance. Greenery abounded and not a man-made structure
was in sight, Muggle or Wizarding. It was oddly satisfying to behold. Even when
Harry craned his head to see the road before them, he could make out only a
slight impression in the grass to indicate that they followed a road at all.
The tunnel had disappeared into thin air.
"Just where the bloody hell are we?" Neville murmured, his breath fogging the
glass before his eyes. "I know the Wizarding highway is magically imbued to
reduce distance, but… this?"
Harry shook his head wordlessly. His eyes flickered about them, absorbing the
beauty of their surroundings. He'd never been in such a setting before, so
devoid of anthropomorphic influences as to appear wondrously wild, yet pristine
and perfect, everything in its rightful place. He could have gazed out of the
window for hours on end had there not been a particularly jolting turn to the
monotony of the carriage's trundling as they picked up speed.
And kept picking up speed. Neville, after initially smiling broadly at the
prospect of moving faster, gradually lost his grin as such acceleration
increased with nauseating speed. Harry wouldn't have minded so much had the
bumps in the gently rocking carriage not persisted, only jolting more
frequently as they ploughed forwards in something approaching breakneck speed.
Faster and faster they sped; straining to peer at the road out the window Harry
could make out nothing but a greenish blur. It soon became apparent that even
on his uncle's bike he'd never moved so fast.
Neville looked as though he was on the verge of becoming physically sick, all
amusement vanished. His hands gripped the inside of the carriage door,
straining for a modicum of stability. And he promptly loosed a strangled cry
when a particularly loud bump sent the carriage soaring briefly off the road.
Harry found his own hands grasping with similar intensity, one on the handle of
the door and the other on the arching back of the cat in his lap. He wasn't
sure which was grip was tighter.
He's going to kill us. God help us, Jean is going to kill us. We don't even
know the man, he could have been anyone; what sort of an idiot am I to agree to
get into a Pegasus-drawn carriage with an absolute stranger…
The thoughts buzzed around Harry's head as he clamped his eyes closed. He
didn't want to see out of the window anymore, witness the blurring speed at
which they moved. Prayers to a God he hadn't known he believed in raced through
his mind and he thought he heard Neville gasping similar appeals.
For whatever reason, Harry or Neville's pleas, it seemed to work. Or at least,
they worked to cease the horrifying jolting, easing into a motion almost too
smooth. It was disconcerting the abruptness of the cessation, foreboding. With
difficulty, Harry peeled his eyes open. He was scared to look out of window,
terrified at the speed he would find. Perhaps they'd crashed and he simply
hadn't registered it yet.
What he saw made him gasp. And because his friend's eyes were closed, he
joggled him with a frantically patting hand. "Neville... look."
Neville's echoing gasp told Harry he had heeded him, but he didn't care to
glance from the window to check. He stared fixated, wide-eyed and peering
through the mistiness of clouds onto the miniaturised landscape below. The
mountains, shrunken to the size of hills by distance, peered back at them from
below. Their crests were speckled with the whiteness of snow, contrasting the
darkness of intermittent rock that steadily overwhelmed the paleness in a
gradual crawl upward from the ankles of the peaks. Sprawling across the rock,
along the valley floor below, a rich rug of green spread in every shade of
green. The entire impression was nothing if not an incredibly detailed mosaic,
each colour placed with perfect precision to produce a sprawling expanse of
glorious imagery.
Flying…they were flying in a carriage pulled by Pegasus…
Harry didn't, until that moment, fully believe that the Pegasus were capable of
flight. Structurally, given their sheer size and muscle mass, no matter what
the length of their wings the creatures should not have been able to lift from
the ground. But then…
"I love magic…"
Not for the first time Harry found himself eternally grateful to have
discovered the wonders of the gift he had been given. The view itself was
beautiful, breathtaking; an image taken from a helicopter's snapshot without
the encumbering weight of the vehicle hanging behind it. But more than that,
the connotations, that it was the horses that had drawn them into flight…
A sharp knock on the front window jolted Harry from his fixated awe. Turning
behind him, he glanced into the crookedly grinning face of Jean.
"You right in there?"
Harry wasn't entirely sure how to answer that question. Slowly, hesitantly, he
nodded. His face must have spoken for him, for Jean cackled a laugh that
somehow managed to penetrate through the exterior of the carriage, despite its
wind-whipped state.
Neville scowled at the man's beaming face. "He could have told us what was
going to happen." Harry didn't reply but secretly agreed.
Whether Jean understood them or not, Harry wasn't sure, but either way he
answered. "Sorry 'bout that, but it's always fun to scare the living daylights
out of the first years. We all fight for their carriages at the beginning of
the year." He released another joyous cackle.
Sighing, Harry slumped back in his seat. Any annoyance he might have felt at
Jean for conveniently forgetting to tell them of their sudden lift-off slipped
away with a weariness brought about but the rapidly dying rush of adrenaline.
Not dead… not dead… The words whispered through his mind like a mantra. It was
enormously reassuring.
Neville, still scowling at Jean – who had since turned his back to them –
settled back into his own seat. "I swear, when we get out of this bloody
carriage…"
Turning his head towards his friend, Harry gave a weary smile. "Not fond of
flying, Neville?"
Neville snorted. "Yeah, you could say that. I haven't had many good experiences
with brooms, much to Ron's eternal disappointment. Had a rather nasty time of
it in first-year flying lessons." The look of his face forbade any further
questioning. Harry wisely left him to himself.
The rest of the journey was peaceful by comparison. Harry found himself quite
enjoying the wispy patterns of clouds that passed by their window, trailing
cool, opaque fingers over the glass. It was lulling to watch. He spoke little
to Neville, and Neville hardly seemed to mind. Until, after an immeasurable
amount of time, the other boy cocked his head towards Harry.
"How long is the trip?"
Turning absently towards his friend, Harry glanced to the watch Neville tapped
on his wrist. "Monsieur Charlet said it should take about three and a half
hours."
"Oh." Neville similarly glanced down towards his wrist. "We're not to far off,
then. You think we should get changed?"
Shrugging, Harry made good Neville's suggestion. The other boy, with more sense
than Harry had, slipped his wand into his hand and with a tap onto the seat at
the back seat of the carriage momentarily disappeared wall into the trunk. The
compartment holding their luggage was revealed, and they both retrieved their
new robes – sent via owl-post from the school – before Neville replaced the
seat. Harry muttered his thanks.
They looked strange, the new uniforms. Not necessarily bad but… different. Much
more formal than Hogwarts'. Neville didn't seem overly fond of them, but Harry
thought they actually suited the other boy rather well. The pale silk and
delicate lace of the white shirts and periwinkle dress trousers fit him
perfectly, the matching blue of the cravat tied loosely around his neck
bringing out the blue in his eyes. Apparently only the boys wore the neckpiece,
while the girls were outfitted with a beret of sorts. Neville bemoaned the
black dress shoes they wore as part of the uniform, namely the slight heel, and
adamantly refused to wear the pale silken gloves.
"I'll look like a bloody little doll all dressed up so poshly. What happened to
comfortable, practical woollen gloves?"
"The Pyrenees is probably too warm for thick gloves. The jackets we've got are
hardly thick enough for a cold winter." Harry, ignoring Neville's sentiment,
slipped his own gloves on. They felt rather comfortable, actually, cool against
the skin.
Neville regarded him with a raised eyebrow, running his eyes over Harry's
critically for a moment before smirking.
"What?" Harry asked.
"You look like a doll." And he snickered as though it were a fine joke. Harry
stared at him flatly, folding his hands in his lap. No reply was necessary for
such a poor attempt at humour. As it was, Neville's chuckles subsided into a
subdued clearing of his throat. He proceeded to tug his gloves on without
another word.
Harry was hardly paying him a second of attention by that point, however.
Instead he turned his gaze back out the window. Just in time, too, for in that
moment the clouds dispersed and Beauxbaton's Academy of Magic came into view.
And once more Harry was rendered speechless.
It was just as breathtaking as its surroundings, yet in an entirely different
way. Harry suspected that, at a much greater distance, the buildings that
composed the Academy would have been hidden from view, camouflaging seamlessly
into the terrain. A collection of four, twisting spiral towers composed the
bulk of the Academy, embedded as though grown from the rock face of the
mountainside upon which they sat. Triangular windows dotted the side of each
like tiny, inquisitive eyes. The perfectly pointed cones atop each tower's
heads shared a sculptured resemblance to the mountains surrounding them. At the
distance they were from the Academy, Harry could just make out a spider web-
like network of cords connecting each tower. No, not cords; bridges. They were
interlocked in an intricate design, sweeping above and below one another to
create a semblance of overall solidity. The faint glistening of the windows on
the stone looked like jewels. It gave it a regal impression, and Harry
understood immediately why some referred to the school as a palace.
Drawing nearer, the sheer complexity of the structure became increasingly
apparent. The very stone of the towers seemed to mirror that of the topography
in shades and smatterings of vivid green and dark stone like a chameleon buried
into the safety of the natural midst. Not only that, but the towers appeared to
be seated into the very mountainside itself, the walls fading into the rock as
though they truly had grown from it. At the foot of each tower, elevated
slightly from the base of the mountain, were sets of long, perfectly carved,
wide staircases with an innumerable series of steps leading to an arched door
set halfway up each tower.
It was truly magical to behold, and was made even more so with the low hanging
clouds shrouding the dark stonewalls. It gave the entire interconnected
structure an otherworldly aura.
So engrossed was Harry in his observation that he barely realised when the
carriage drew into touchdown. It was jarring, to say the least, and Harry was
sure their ride nearly tipped over, but even so it was barely a shadow on the
jolting that it rightly should have been. Jostling in his seat, Harry said as
much to Neville upon his friend's complaint and the flicker of nausea followed
by a rapid nodding of his head bespoke agreement to the matter.
He didn't get a chance to open the door himself. Jean swung himself from the
front of the carriage like a monkey, tugging the door open for them and
gesturing grandly through the door in a sweep of his arm. Sharing a hesitant
glance with Neville, they filed from the confines of the carriage, thumping
onto the grassy opening beyond. Harry turned in a slow circle, peering around
himself curiously.
They appeared to be in a loading bay of sorts, an open field surrounded by tall
autumnal trees. For the carriages, it would seem, given the sparse scattering
of similar Cinderella vehicles lining the edge of the field. A single, high-
ceiling structure – a stable, Harry hazarded – ran the length of one side of
the field. A small cottage, squat and built of colourful stones, sat alongside;
Harry assumed, though wasn't sure, that it was reserved for the groomsmen and
stablehands. Yet it was not that which drew the eye.
There were two of those seemingly endless stairwells within sight, one more
distant that the other. From the ground, they looked even more imposing, though
less so that the towering buildings stretching above and below each of them.
Harry had to tilt his head back to even glimpse the top of them, shielding his
eyes from the sun as he squinted to scan the underside of the interconnecting
bridges. It was dizzying to behold.
A heavy thump at his side drew Harry's attention from his marvelling. Jean had
unloaded the trunks and was watching Harry and Neville gaze, awestruck, upon
the Academy. A satisfied smile settle upon his lips.
"Welcome to Beauxbatons." His tone was similarly satisfied, nearly smug, yet
Harry found that he could hardly blame the man. He had every reason to be.
===============================================================================
 Jean didn't lead them into the Academy. After unloading the trunks, the man
gave a piercing whistle in the direction of the barn that was met moments later
by the appearance of two grooms. They immediately set to work leading the
Pegasus to the side, practiced fingers unhinging the steeds from their burden.
Jean barely spared them a glance before turning towards Harry and Neville.
"Right, so you know what you've got to do?"
Harry exchanged a nervous glance with Neville – the other boy's face
deceptively blank with incomprehension – before shaking his head at Jean. "Um…
no, we were just told that we were to come to the Academy and that someone
would meet us to take us to the Headmistress."
Nodding, Jean sniffed distractedly. "No drama, there's probably someone waiting
at the Sign-In for you."
"Sign in?"
"Yeah, where you sign your names in to say you've made it to school. Safe and
sound and all." The man smiled indulgently. Harry wondered if he honestly felt
proud of himself for scaring his two passengers half to death. He found he
could hardly hold it against him though; Jean's amusement was entirely free of
malice.
Following Jean's gesture, a general flap towards the cottage to the side of the
stable that Harry had assumed had been left for the grooms. Nodding his
understanding, Harry quickly relayed Jean's words to Neville, before scooping
Lyssy into his arms and hefting his trunk to standing. Sharing a friendly wave
with Jean, he watched as their driver disappeared into the stables before
turning himself towards the simple little cottage.
The interior of the cottage had a reception-like quality to it. Just inside the
single heavy door was a wide desk of treated pine. An arrangement of parchments
sheets and quills standing beside their inkwells were placed intermittently
across its surface. The rest of the room behind the desk appeared to be a
simple sitting arrangement; a fireplace with flickering fire that pulsed warmth
throughout the room, a trio of couches more polished wood than cushion arranged
in a ring around it. Twin bookshelves stood on either side of the fireplace,
but other than that the room appeared empty as the shelves.
Stepping up towards the table, Harry scanned the parchments displayed. It was
fairly self-explanatory; a list of names with a simple box to the right-hand
side of each, titled 'Tick Upon Arrival'. Harry and Neville had barely
impressed a mark each before a door to the right of the desk, overlooked at
first given its mimicry of the surrounding walls, swung inward. The clipping of
heeled boots rung on wooden floorboards.
The young woman who stepped into the room had to be a student, if perhaps a
little older than Harry and Neville. She was dressed in a similar outfit to
that which Harry and Neville wore, though the robes had a distinctly more
feminine cut. A pointed beret sat atop her thick dark curls, resting with
impossible precision upon her shoulders and only enhancing the formality her
expression suggested proper. She stopped before them with a final click of her
shoes; she was rather tall, and Harry spared half a glance towards her feet to
realise they were excessively heeled.
"You are Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom, yes?"
Blinking in surprise, Harry shared a glance with Neville before nodding
stiltedly. The girl hadn't even glanced towards the table to read there names;
he could only assume there had been some sort of magical alarm to inform her of
their arrival, perhaps an indentification charm of sorts. Opening his mouth
nervously with the intention of seeking some form of guidance, he was spared
the use of his stores of courage as the girl continued.
"My name is Bernadette Moreau. Sixth year, and Resident Spokeswoman for this
year." She nodded her as though receiving a round of applause at the
introduction, meeting first Harry's then Nevilles eyes and raising an eyebrow
at the cat peering up from Harry's folded arms. She didn't comment, however,
either at their lack of accolade or Lyssy's presence. "I have been assigned by
Madame Maxine to lead you to her office upon your arrival. I expect you should
find this to your satisfaction?"
It was so formal, so different to Jean's casual accent and easy manner, that it
was almost unnerving. Harry naturally felt himself replying with similar
reserve. "Please, that would be wonderful. I think we would be somewhat at a
loose end without some direction." He paused, catching his lip between his
teeth. "I apologise for the inconvenience. If it's not too much trouble…?"
The girl, Bernadette, gave a small smile. It was faintly less chilling than her
previous expression but still held the distance of decorum. "Not at all, I
assure you. It is simply another duty I am assigned in my position as Resident
Spokeswoman."
"Still, I apologise. You must have had to arrive really early to meet us on
time." For some reason, Harry felt guilty over the unforeseen intrusion on the
speculated leisure time of the girl.
Shaking her head curtly, Bernadette tugged at the sleeves of her robe,
straightening unseen creases. "Not at all. Sixth years are encouraged to return
to school a week before term resumes for self-study with instructional
support." She paused, frowning. "Do they not do that at Hogwarts?"
Harry shook his head slowly. He wasn't entirely sure, but he didn't think that
even students in their final year would be eager to cut into their holidays for
an early start on their studies. It was one difference between Beauxbatons and
Hogwarts at least, on top of the lesser years of attendance – a year shorter in
total – and the later age of initiation of studies. As a sixth year, Harry
assumed the girl before him was eighteen, having started at the age of thirteen
and hence in her final year.
Six years to study the same amount of content as Hogwarts' covers in seven
years? No wonder they started back early.
Bernadette was speaking once more, but Harry was only listened with half an
ear. It sounded as though she were attempting to sound regretful to the "poor
Hogwarts school-leavers" who were afforded less face-to-face time. Instead he
settled for tugging nervously at the tufts fo Lyssy's ears, mind already
settling onto the nagging worries of his studies to come. When Bernadette
finished with a sigh, right before shaking herself out of her slump and
announcing in clipped words "if you'll follow me?", he similarly shook himself
from his thoughts.
Really they had no choice. Bernadette walked past them through the front doors
of the cottage with a purposeful stride and it was all Harry and Neville could
to duck out of her way. Neville cast him a dark glance after the striding
Spokeswoman before turning towards Harry. "What did she say?"
It took Harry a moment to gather his thoughts. Slowly, hesitantly, he relayed
the conversation, albeit a censored version. He didn't mention Bernadette's
condescension towards their British sister school. Was it an unrealised
rivalry, the tension between Beauxbatons and Hogwarts? Members from each
institution certainly seemed to harbour an unnaturally large resentment towards
the other.
Once more trailing their trunks, Harry and Neville hastened across the lawn in
Bernadette's wake. She moved surprisingly quickly for one in such high shoes.
Neville evidently felt the same, murmuring a muted, "I'd like to see her climb
all those stairs in those shoes." Harry bit back a smile.
As it happened, they didn't even use the stairs. Bernadette, speaking over her
shoulder with barely a glance as she led them to the nearest staircase,
explained that they were simply for show. That no one actually climbed the
stairs unless they were seeking an easy means of straining their calf muscles.
The tunnel they found themselves trekking instead, flickering into visibility
as they stepped within ten feet of the base of the approaching tower, led them
underground.
It was "The secret passage to the elevating system," Bernadette explained as
she led them into darkness illuminated by ambient blue light. An elevating
system that was not, Harry came to realise shortly afterwards, an elevator.
Following a five-minute walk into what felt like the heart of the mountain the
tower clung to, along immaculately clean passageways of dark stone and pale
floors, Bernadette drew them to a stop before a gateway. The arch was perhaps
two feet taller than Harry's head and carved into the stone amidst precise
filigree were the words 'A posse ad esse'. From possibility to actuality. The
school motto, Harry recalled.
Bernadette indicated that they should leave their trunks in the little bay to
the side of the door. "The elves will pick them up and take them to your
assigned rooms," she announced in her clipped tone. Harry was beginning to feel
just a little cowed by the impression she gave, but suspected from her
occasional fidgeting and the tension tightening her shoulders that the girl was
mostly acting so to maintain her assumed etiquette. She was probably new to her
'spokeswoman' position, Harry rationalised, and felt like she had to follow the
rules within an inch. The repeated self-referencing as said 'Resident
Spokeswoman' only enhanced Harry's suspicions.
"If you'll follow me, please hold your breath upon stepping into the elevator
or you shall experience a discomforting dizziness upon landing." Without a
backward glance, in a bouncing step that jostled dark curls, Bernadette stepped
through the archway. A sound light a vacuum cleaner sucking at empty air
snapped into existence and, with the force of that vacuum, Bernadette sucked
into the air. Harry flinched, stepping back, while Neville yelped out in
horror, peering through the doorway towards the ceiling given that as Harry
similarly as though hoping to catch a glimpse of the disappeared girl. Or
lackthereof of a ceiling, Harry noticed, as hesitantly peering through the
doorway alongside his friend he found himself staring at a tunnel equally long
and darkly lit that extended overhead into blackness. Exchanging a worried
glance with Neville, Harry belatedly realised he hadn't understood her
explanation. It would take time to get used to his current role as a permanent
translator.
"It's alright, it's just the 'elevating system'. Take us up to the towers, I
assume." He gave a small, sheepish smile of apology as Neville wiped a hand
over his face.
"This bloody language barrier. It'll be the death of me," he sighed. "Did she
say anything else?"
"Only to hold your breath when it sucks you up there." Harry shrugged, peering
through the archway once more. "And to leave our trunks down here for the
elves. Other than that, I've no idea."
Straightening his back, Neville seemed to mentally prepare himself. "Well, live
and learn." And with a resolute nod of his head and more courage than Harry
possessed he stepped through the archway. Harry thought he heard a faint squeal
before Neville disappeared with a soft whoosh.
It was eerily silent down in the tunnel alone. Hitching Lyssy in his arms,
Harry tucked her more firmly into his chest; it was a nervous fiddling as much
as he deemed it necessary for stability. Not for the first time he missed the
presence of the little communication collar Draco had given him last Christmas.
In that moment, that collar was wrapped securely around the neck of a juvenile
hydra who, by most accounts, currently resided alongside the giant squid in the
Black Lake. Harry doubted he'd be seeing it again. The thought was saddening,
as much because it was a loss of the gift Draco had given him as it was a
silencing of his communication with Lyssy.
The cat seemed to understand regardless, however, and frequently butted herself
against him in a non-verbal conveyance. She snuggled, purring, into Harry's
shirt as he stepped into the elevating system –
- and was well and truly thankful for Bernadette's caution. Not a vacuum but a
forceful wind seemed to grab him in its manic grasp and launch him into the air
with the speed of an arrow shot from a bow. Harry felt his chest compress
almost painfully. The air crushed, pulled, then released, and always urging
rising. It was discomforting and jarring, dizzying and…
It abruptly stopped. Just as swiftly as it started. Without quite knowing how
he'd gotten there, Harry found himself wobbling on a platform suspended over
the dark, cavernous tunnel leading to the underground below. Before him stood
an archway similar to that he had just passed. Neville and Bernadette stood
outside, the former looking rather windswept and red-cheeked, while the
Spokeswoman had not a curl out of place. Nodding her head slightly, she paused
only long enough to ask, "Shall we?" before turning on her heel and starting
down the wide corridor to the right. Harry and Neville hastened after her like
ducklings chasing their mother; it seemed to be all they'd done since meeting
the girl.
The interior of the towers gave credence to the 'palace-like' impression Harry
had observed from the carriage. Tall, white ceilings with elaborate cornices
streaked in gold matched white walls broken by a smattering of moving pictures
on the left wall. A lush rug in the Beauxbatons colours of periwinkle and
embroidered gold centred the corridor over dark wooden floors. Waist-high
cabinets and polished tables were spaced evenly along the walls, supporting
vases and array of flowers, elaborate candlesticks or odd little sculpture of
creatures and regal figures carved from stone and polished wood.
Floor-to-ceiling windows wreathed in gossamer curtains lined the right hand
wall, affording a view of the valley below. The sunlight streaming through
illuminated the whiteness of the walls almost blindingly. Peering through the
glass as they passed, Harry realised just how far the elevating system had
launched them into the tower. They were quite significantly off the ground, and
he could only just make out the carriage bay through the slightly fogged glass.
The windows seemed curved, following the contours of the corridor as it curled
lazily inwards. The natural shape of the tower, Harry supposed.
Most of all, however, was the overall impression of pristine cleanliness that
seemed to breathe from the tower's very floors. Far different it from Hogwarts
that carried the homely, familiar impression of aged stone, the corridor they
strode along gave the impression of aloof detachedness that reminded Harry
distinctly of the girl that lead them smartly with barely an infrequent
backwards glance. Everything was polished, flawless, so much so that Harry
almost resisted stepping onto the rug for fear of dirtying it, despite the
newness of his shoes. He doubted he could find a streak of dust in the entire
academy if he searched for it.
Bernadette seemed to take it as her duty to keep up a constant litany as she
led them. She spoke solely of the history of the school, and there was a ring
of pride to her tone, as though the accomplishments of the residents of the
past were her own. She spoke once more over her shoulder to them, glancing only
occasionally throughout her continued speech as though ensuring they remained
attentive.
"…and even though the palace is over seven hundred years old, the structures
still remain on of the most impressive feats of architecture in all of
Wizarding France. The descendants of our founders, Papillonlisse, Bellefeuille,
and Ombreilune, remain directly involved in the promotion and maintenance of
the academy to ensure it maintains both its social and academic status. Just
last year, we received the highest overall grades for Botanique, Metamorphose
and Musique et Drame internationally. This expemplary performance has been
consistently maintained since the early 1800s, when the first comparisons were
made…"
"I can't understand a word she's saying,' Neville muttered beneath his breath.
Glancing towards him, Harry noticed the decidedly uneasy slump to his
shoulders. Once more he bit his lip at his forgetfulness, though this time he
could hardly claim responsibility. He couldn't very well translate Bernadette
word for word; he doubted he'd even be able to keep up. Still, it must be
horrible to be unable to understand the words spoken directly to him. Harry
remembered only too well what that was like from when he had first made the sea
change when he was eleven.
Opening his mouth hesitantly, Harry waited for Bernadette to take a breath
before interrupting. It was no easy feat, and not only because Harry was not
fond doing so; the girl barely seemed to need to breathe at all. "Bernadette?
Um… I'm sorry, but my friend Neville, he can't understand French. I was
wondering…?"
Bernadette paused in her step, half-turning and snapping her eyes on Neville.
Her eyebrows rose in surprise and she blinked rapidly. "He can't understand
me?" Still in French, Harry noted.
Shaking his head, Harry muttered an apology. "He's learning, but has only been
doing so for about a week."
Still blinking, almost spasming, Bernadette cleared her throat. "I… I don't
speak English. Not fluently, at least." She frowned, pursing her lips. A look
that could have been regretful flickered briefly across her face. It was a
pleasant break from the cold rigidity of formality. Opening her mouth, she
stuttered in broken English towards Neville. "I am being very sorry. I did not
know you spoke no French. I am sorry."
It was brief and to the point, and a second later the Spokeswoman had tunred on
her heel once more and started down the corridor, picking up her pre-prepared
speech as she went. In French, naturally. However, it may have been his
imagination, but Harry thought some of the iciness had melted slightly from her
tone, the tension a little from her shoulders. And while Neville still
glowered, the same could be said for him; if not at ease, he appeared less
likely to snap beneath his own tension. He settled for looking out of the
window rather than feigning listening to Bernadette's words. Harry attempted to
pay as much attention to the Spokeswoman as he could, resolving that he would
relay it to Neville later. That much at least he could do.
They'd been walking for nearly ten minutes, through corridors and at times
bearing left into a spiral-like stairwell that seemed to coil up the centre of
the tower to reemerge a floor higher, before Bernadette finally stopped for a
second time at a point that looked largely indiscernible from those around it.
The door she paused before was of a glistening white that was far too pale to
be simply wooden. A golden handle sprouted from the centre of elaborate
carvings of flowers, vines and bowing trees.
"This is the Headmistress's office. She will further inform you of all you need
to know, everything that your House Heads will not." Gesturing towards the door
with a manicured hand, Bernadette took a step back. Knowing that Neville had no
idea what was happening – or if he did, only the very basics gleaned with his
rudimentary knowledge of French – Harry stepped past Bernadette with a word of
thanks for her guidance. Dropping Lyssy to the floor – he didn't quite know
what to expect of the new Headmistress, but thought it best to make the most
formal impression he could - steeled himself, and knocked on the door.
The doors opened of their own accord an instant later.
Stepping hesitantly into the room, Harry was disconcerted when, not a moment
after crossing the threshold, the doors swung shut behind him. The feeling was
lost, however, when he turned his attention to the room he'd stepped into. He
felt his eyes widen in surprise.
The interior of the Headmistress of Beauxbatons' office was not at all like
that of Hogwarts. First of all, it hardly seemed to be an office at all. The
image that came to mind for Harry was the parlour at Draco's house. It carried
the same atmosphere, if not the exact furniture, though even so,Harry felt he
would be more likely to find the reclining couches, wide, glass coffee table
and double doors to a marble balcony in a high-class residence than an office
of any description. A grand piano sat in the corner nearest the balcony and a
chandelier hung from the high ceiling overhead. It suited the palace theme
perfectly. The only elements that even slightly suggested the room to be an
office were a relatively small desk seating a throne-backed chair and a low
bookshelf running the length of one wall more cluttered with oddly shaped glass
instruments than books.
It was only when the woman stood from her seat in the corner of the room that
Harry actually noticed her. And rose she did. At least as tall as Hagrid, the
Headmistress of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic towered elbows, head and shoulders
over both boys. She was a regal woman, dressed in thick, navy robes of high
collar and shoulder pads, her dark hair pulled back tightly from her thin face
to give the darkness of her thin eyes an impression of intensity. The
impression was only heightened, not lessened, when she took a step away from
the couch and spread her arms before her, almost beseechingly.
"Monsieur Longbottom, Monsieur Potter. I welcome you to Beauxbatons Academie de
la Magie." She bowed her head slightly, formally, in welcome.
It took Harry a moment to realise she spoke in English. He felt a tension he
hadn't realised sat on his shoulders ease. By his side, Neville similarly eased
his tautness. Spurred perhaps by his ability to communicate, Neville stepped
forwards. "Thank you, Madame Maxine. And thank you again for so kindly
approving of our request to transfer to you school."
"Not at all," the tall woman, Maxine, nodded her head once more, graciously
accepting the gratitude. 'But please, I am sure you would wish to sit down.
Tea?' Gesturing towards the cushioned lounges around her, the Headmistress
urged the boys to her side. They did so with more than a touch of awkwardness,
and Harry knew he wasn't alone in sitting on the edge of his seat when they all
settled themselves. Despite their similarity in roles, the Headmistress of
Beauxbatons reminded Harry very little of either Dumbledore or McGonagall.
Drawing her wand, Maxine conjured a teapot, teacups and a plate of biscuits
from thin air. She helped herself to a cup before speaking continuing with her
introduction."I trust your travels were satisfactory? You did not 'ave troubles
finding your way."
"Not at all," Neville replied, shaking his head. Harry bobbed his own in
agreement, but for the most part was content to let Neville take the reins in
the conversation. The relief of simply being able to understand was palpable in
his friend's posture. "Your guide – Miss Bernadette Moreau? – was more than
helpful enough."
"I am pleased." Maxine gave a small, polite smile. "We 'ave not 'ad a transfer
student in our 'alls for many years; you set a precedent once more, Monsieur
Longbottom." She tilted her head meaningfully and Neville flushed a faint pink.
It took Harry a moment to discern the meaning of the comment before the memory
of Neville's tale, of the Triwizard Tournament, arose.
"Ah, yes, I do seem to be making a habit of that, don't I?" The smile Neville
gave was forced at best.
"Yet, as I 'ave been assured, zrough no fault of your own." Maxine reached for
a biscuit from the delicate little coffee table and took a bite with surprising
delicacy for a woman so large. The biscuit was barely the size of her
thumbnail. "I trust you are aware of ze appropriate conduct for zis Academie?"
Neville nodded fervently. "Of course, Headmistress. I don't seek to further any
further, um… questionable exploits I might have undertaken at Hogwarts." He
paused, wince flashing across his face briefly as he realised he'd all but
confessed to being a troublemaker. Shaking it off with deliberate force, he
continued. "I only want to finish my education, and to complete it to the best
of my abilities."
Maxine stared at him silently for a moment, raising her teacup to her lips
unconsciously and sipping. She seemed to be studying him, assessing him for
something that he was evidently sufficient in for she eventually nodded her
head. Only to turn to Harry instead. "And you, Monsieur Potter? What are your
intentions for your schooling at Beauxbatons?"
Harry felt himself shrink in his seat. He couldn't help it. He'd never been
fond of being the centre of attention, and Maxine's eyes, nearly black for
their darkness, seemed to pin him under a spotlight. He struggled for a moment
to find his voice. "I have spent little enough time studying magic, Madame;
there is so little I know. I am aware of the gaps in my knowledge and wish to
rectify that error." He paused, considering. "I'm under no illusions that I'll
be a star pupil. Though I've studied as much as I possibly could, I know that
doing so couldn't possibly make up for the experience I am deficit in." He
bowed his head at that last, unwilling to meet the woman's eyes a moment
longer.
Quiet once more, Maxine appeared to think deeply before replying. "Zis is very
astute of you, Monsieur Potter. I appreciate when students realise zeir own
ineptitudes as well as zeir skills. It lends itself to improvement." There was
a faint clink as she set her teacup down on the glass table. Harry raised his
head at the motion. "Now, I believe we should get to ze most important reasons
for your visit to see me."
With a wave of her wand, the Headmistress conjured a pair of scrolls from thin
air. They floated gently towards Harry and Neville respectively and, upon
Maxine's urging, both boys reached forwards and unrolled the parchments.
Each was roughly a foot in length and half as wide. Spread across the creamy
surface in blue ink was what appeared to be a map of sorts. Four large
structures were interconnected by an array of thin lines surrounded by a
smattering of shaded areas labelled with cursive, descriptive terms from
'vegetation' to 'rock formation'. A river could be seen passing nearby the
building marked 'stables', all compiled to form…
"A map of the school?"
Maxine nodded at Neville's question. "Zis is ze standard map issued to all
first year students. As you can see, it illustrates ze entire school." Leaning
forward in her seat, she gestured with her exceptionally long wand onto a pair
of boxes marked 'up' and 'down' at the top of the page. Tapping the upper box,
the ink across the map writhed and morphed briefly like unearthed worms before
reforming in a slightly different arrangement. "Using you wand, zese will allow
you to move zrough the fourteen floors of ze towers accordingly."
With another gesture, Maxine encouraged them both to fiddle with the map's
mechanics. Neville drew his wand from his pocket and quickly flicked through
the series of floors, a satisfied grin spreading across his face. Harry,
curious himself, ran his fingers over the 'buttons' in a similar motion.
"You will 'ave to use your wand to –" Maxine abruptly cut off, frowning
curiously as she peered at Harry's map. Glancing between the Headmistress and
the parchment in his hands, Harry felt himself begin to flush. How
embarrassing…
At his side, Neville uttered a barely audible snort of amusement. "Harry is
rather adept at wandless magic, Headmistress. In fact, I think he rather finds
it easier to not use a wand."
The curiosity in Maxine's eyes sparked more noticeably. Harry found himself
shrinking even more beneath their focus than he had at her previous study. "Ah,
I 'ad 'eard, but I was not certain…" She switched her glance between harry and
Neville, consideration lining her brow. "You are both quite exceptional young
wizards, Monsieur Longbottom, Monsiuer Potter. Even disregarding ze events of
last year, which one does not…"
It was Neville's turn to look embarrassed this time. Fiddling with his map
awkwardly, he seemed to be having difficulty deciding deciding where to look.
"Erm… well, I suppose you could say that. Maybe."
"I am curious; what areas do you both wish to pursue upon completion of your
final exams?" Maxine tilted her head slightly towards Harry before fastening
her gaze once more on Neville. "Monsieur Longbottom, I would suppose you 'ave a
taste for Defensive magic?"
Rubbing the side of his head in continued awkwardness, Neville shrugged one
shoulder. "Yeah, I suppose I've had a bit of, um… experience in that field. But
I think probably… Herbology, Headmistress."
"Botanique?"
"Bot…? Er, yes, botanic. I have an interest in plants." Neville seemed to be
edging himself into greater and greater awkwardness with each passing moment.
He glanced almost pleadingly towards Harry. "Harry, though; I think he's
more…?"
As Maxine swung her gaze towards him, Harry dropped his head once more. "I've
more of a passion for Magical Creatures, Madame. At least, that's my current
pursuit."
Maxine nodded her head, the frown still resting upon her brow but not angrily.
"Oui, I suppose such is apparent from your timetables." As though triggered by
the thought, she raised her wand once more and another pair of scrolls appeared
in the air before Harry and Neville. They unrolled them to reveal a rough
timetable, with the mealtimes and curfews included. "Zese are your personalised
timetables. All should be matched to your specifications accordingly. Should
you 'ave any difficulties, please seek your Resident Fellow or 'Ead of 'Ouse."
"Resident fellow?" Neville lifted his eyes briefly from his parchment, raising
an eyebrow.
"I believe you 'ave such equivalents as, ah, prefects?" At Neville's
comprehending nod, Maxine continued. "Each year of each 'ouse 'as an appointed
Resident Fellow who acts as class representative."
"Is that the same as the Resident Spokeswoman? What Bern- um, Miss Moreau was?"
"Non, Madamoiselle Moreau is the, ah, what do you call… 'Ead Girl?" At
Neville's repeated nod, Maxine subsided.
Harry listened with half an ear as he gazed down at his timetable. It was
slightly more rigid than that of Hogwarts', adhering more cosely to times and
procedure. Harry read through the classes –Soin de Créatures
Magiques,Metamorphose,Défense Contre les Arts Sombre, Botanique, Histoire de
Magie, Sortilèges, Potions – all equivalent to those he had undertaken at
Hogwarts with only minor differences to the curriculum as outlined in the unit
guidelines. That, and the addition of Musique et Drame, which the letter he'd
received accompanying their timetable form months before had indicated was a
compulsory subject until final year. It had been a bit of a relief to realise
that he wouldn't have to learn a number of entirely new subjects from scratch
once more. And with the assistance of the map – rather handy, he thought – the
next day was not looking quite as daunting as he had formely considered it to
be.
We can work through this. This is a good thing, a good thing. Neville and I, we
came to this school for a reason. Harry resolutely thrust the tingling memory
of that reason before it could claw its way forth. I'll get used to it, just
like I got used to Hogwarts. And every chance I get, Draco…
"So we're not separated into Houses?" Neville was saking, drawing Harry's
attention. He glanced up from his parchment towards the Headmistress.
"Of course, zere are 'ouses that you shall be sorted into. In first year, every
student is allocated zeir 'ouse." Leaning forwards, Maxine tapped gently upon
the map in Neville's hands, over the roughly circular shape of one of the
towers. "Zis, ze Western Tower, is ze dormitories for ze students. It is split
into trios, and all 'ouses are separately accordingly. You are familiar with ze
'ouses?"
"Yes," Harry murmured, at the same instant that Neville said, "No". Harry bit
back a sigh; evidently, Neville hadn't read through the introductory
handbooklet. Understandable, Harry supposed, given that it was in French, but
even off the top of his head Harry could think of two charms that could
translate it without too much effort or inconsistencies. The boys shared a
glance, Neville frowning pointedly, but Maxine didn't seem to care.
"The trios 'ouses are named for ze founders of zis school: Rene Bellefeuille,
Brie Papillonlisse, and Lucian Ombrelune. Each 'ouse is characteristic of ze
traits of its pupils. I recall, 'Ogwarts is not unlike zis?"
Harry and Neville nodded their heads in unison. "Yes," Neville replied. "The
four founders of Hogwarts."
"It is similar to Beauxbatons. A drop of blood into Le Piscine de Tri will
assist ze judge in sorting and deciding which 'ouse is best for you."
A drop of blood? Harry felt faintly nauseous at the thought. And a Sorting
Pool? What happened to the Hogwarts good old-fashioned, non-intrusive method of
using a sentient hat? It seemed Beauxbatons simply had to take it that much
further, be just that much more extravagent.
"Sorting? Oh, I guess that's…" Neville glanced towards Harry, a thoughtful cast
to his expression. "Though I think Harry might have a bit of a problem with
that."
"Neville," Harry hissed under his breath, but it was too late.
Maxine arched an questioniong eyebrow. "What do you mean by zat?"
Shrugging, Neville, ignored the glare Harry attempted to stab him with. "Only
that, back at Hogwarts, the Sorting Hat couldn't sort him for some reason.
Something about being too old to suit just one or something, wasn't it? Said he
fit just about every house at least a little bit and it couldn't place him."
Slowly turning her head towards Harry, Maxine regarded him with the same
intensity she had shown them upon arrival. A thin smile curled her mouth; it
wasn't altogether reassuring. "Le Piscine de Tri is infallible. I do not zink…
non, it is not open to 'edging it's decision. Zere is no sentience in ze
chooser. You are one 'ouse, or you are another. It won't have such
difficulties." She seemed confident enough in her claim that Harry almost
believed her off the bat. Rising to her feet to tower seemingly as tall as the
building in which she stood, the Headmistress urged them to follow her lead.
"Come. Per'aps we should see to this matter now."
Rising to their own feet to follow closely in the woman's footsteps, Harry and
Neville passed from the greater 'office' into an small side room through a door
short enough that Madame Maxine had to boy to enter. A significantly smaller
room, as it were, and it seemed to hold only a single stone pedestal balancing
a cauldron-like bowl of clear glass. Inside, an icy blue liquid spun lazily, as
viscious as honey.
"Le Piscine is removed from zis room only once a year, for ze placement of the
students into zeir 'ouses." Maxine slowly circulated the room, as though
patrolling the walls and skirting behind Harry and Neville like a lecturing
professor. It certainly gave her a teacherly impression. "Ozerwise it remains
in zis room. Ze magic is very potent; as such, warding is to be placed on all
four walls to prevent speepage."
Harry shifted uneasily. The description the Headmistress gave sounded nothing
if not radioactive. He took a half-step back from the glittering pool, abruptly
uncertain he wished to participate in the approaching procedure. Though it was
unlikely he had a choice.
"I zink we shall get zis underway, do you agree?" Maxine paused in her pacing
and tilted her head towards the both of them, as though she expected either to
voice their honest opinion. "Ze sooner you are sorted into your 'ouses, ze
sooner you can become settled into your dormitories."
Neville nodded his understanding, stepping forwards slightly towards the bowl.
Harry, still uneasy, had to fight the urge to refute the woman. He settled for
remaining silent instead, eyes fixed upon his friend.
It was a rather horrible process to watch, though not because it was gorey.
More because of the ritualistic atmosphere the image of the Headmistress
presented, with the needle-thin dagger poised overhead for a moment before
leaning in with practiced care to prick the side of Neville's finger. For a
brief moment, Sirius' words – "no cultist conventions" – rung through Harry's
head and he had to bite back the urge to giggle hysterically.
Maxine captured Nevilles hand in one of her own large palms, held it for a
moment until a bead of blood squeezed through the skin of Neville's finger, and
slowly tipped the droplet into the icy mixture. Even from the distance Harry
was standing he could see the vivid redness spread and dilute, shedding thin
tendrils throughout the contrasting blueness. The blueness of the solvent
glowed briefly, momentarily, before in a rapid, vortex-like swirl it undulated
in a wave and abruptly became a rich, healthy green. The green of clovers,
opaque and seamless.
"Bellefeuille," Maxine announced abruptly. She nodded, satisfied.
"Beg pardon?" Neville's tone sounded bemused, as though the Headmistress had
uttered a cuss at him rather than announcing his house.
"Of the noble 'Ouse of Bellefeuille the Brave, the naturalist, the loyal. Zis
is your 'ouse."
"Oh, right," Neville nodded his head slowly, a self-depricating grin spreading
across his face. He stuck his finger in his mouth idly, ridding it of the tiny
spot of blood. "Right. I guess I should probably read up on what exactly that
means." Maxine looked less than pleased at his blasé attitude, but Neville
didn't even seem to notice. And in no time at all, the Headmistress had turned
her attention instead to Harry.
"Monsieur Potter, if you please."
Harry swallowed thickly, eyes fixing upon the needle-dagger in Maxine's
fingers. It looked even smaller than it was for the size of her fingers, but
its connotations could hardly be denied. Neville sowly drew his finger from his
mouth, swtiching his gaze between Harry and the object of his focus.
"Harry, it's not that bad. Didn't even hurt. And you know, apparently this pool
thing is better at making decisions that the Sorting Hat." He grinned once
more, though it slid quickly off his face when he saw it made no impression on
Harry's nerves. "Just get it over with quickly? Just make sure you try and ask
to get in my house, Belle… whatever it's called."
A firm pat on Harry's shoulder and a slight nudge had him stepping slowly
towards the edge of the bowl. He glanced up at Maxine again; she looked to be
in deep thought at his reaction, though Harry couldn't fathom why. Surely he
couldn't be the only student to have balked at such a ritual, and he wasn't
even haemophobic. At least, he hadn't been before…
When Maxine pricked his finger, everything came crashign forth, welling up
alongside the droplet of blood beading on his finger. Harry had known it would
happen. The scant few times he'd bore witness to dripping blood since the
Battle of Hogwarts had always resulted in as much. The image flashed before his
eyes.
A red rose blossomed and dribbled a single, thick stream down the man's nose-
less face…his eyes widened minutely, but only for a moment… only a moment
before, in a fall that seemed wired in slow motion, the figure of Voldemort
crumpled to the floor…
Harry flinched as the vision played out over his mind. It was both a gift and a
curse, his memory; though he naturally remembered that which he heard better,
his visual memory was horribly acute as well. Strong memories, powerful
memories, seemed to play themselves out in his mind as though occurring right
before him with perfect detail. He felt a chill, a prickle of sweat lick his
brow, his breath hitched and –
"Monsieur Potter, are you quite alright?"
Maxine's voice shattered the spell. Blinking rapidly, Harry was drawn like a
fish on a line back into the room, into the present. His eyes fixed not on a
dead body but on the barely-there spot of blood on his finger, cradled in the
Headmistresses hand. Unexpectedly, he felt a soft warmth at his ankle, though
the unexpectedness disappeared almost instantly. Harry didn't even need to look
down to know it was Lyssy coiling around his ankles, offering her strange kind
of support. She's always there when I need her most. He hadn't been aware that
his little Familiar had followed him into the Headmistress's office, but it was
enough of a reassurance for him to compose himself. Nodding slowly, shakily,
then with more confidence, Harry attempted a smile. Perhaps that was asking too
much, however, for he feared he failed dismally.
The tall woman before him seemed to take his weak smile as an indication to
proceed. She paused only for a moment longer, frowning slightly at his face as
though attempting to read the blurred script of a book, before turning his hand
in her own. The droplet of blood rolled across his finger like a tear, falling
into the icy-blue pool with a faint yet audible plop.
The honey-like substance roiled momentarily, breaking the bloody droplet apart
into its ribbon-like tendrils. Spreading like a network of roots, the redness
seeped through the liquid and, just before the stretching fingertips brushed
the base of the pool, there was another undulation. A colour change.
And the ice blue darkened to a deep, royal purple.
Harry stared blankly at the colour, rapidly spreading to an opaque thickness.
Then the realisation hit. Oh…so Neville and I, we're not…
"Papillonlisse," Maxine murmured, though from her it was more like a stage
whisper for the resonance of her tone. She lifted her gaze to meet Harry's and
it could have been his imagination but he thought he saw a brief flicker of
apology rise from the darkness of her pupils before it quickly disappeared into
objective calm. "I apologise, per'aps it would 'ave been better for you to be
sorted into ze same 'ouses, but Le Piscine is infallible. And if it chose
differently for each of you, zen it would 'ave 'ad reason to."
Turning slightly, Harry glanced towards Neville over his shoulder. The same
disappointment, accompanied by a tinge of nervousness, twitched on the other
boy's face.
Biting back a sigh, Harry turned back to the pool. All his self-reassurances,
the silent pep-talks he'd carried out in his head, shattered to pieces under
reality. He didn't realise just how much he'd been relying on the knowledge
that, if nothing else, at least Neville and he were together.
It made the prospect of starting a new school suddenly wearisome once more.
Here we go again.
Chapter End Notes
     A/N: As always, if you get the chance to leave a comment I'd really
     appreciate it. Thanks!
***** Restarting Anew *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Draco stared at the curl of parchment pinched between his fingers for what
could have been the thousandth time that morning. His initial horror had faded
slightly, leaving him with a cool numbness that was far too discomforting for
him to concentrate on Professor Flitwick's words. So he chose to ignore the
little Charms teacher and instead settled to brooding moodily throughout the
morning.
… I'm so sorry, I tried everything I could, but Professeur Gizabelle was
adamant; we're not permitted to leave the school grounds for the first three
weeks of school. They say its too distruptive to the process of 'easing back
into studies'.
Really, I'm so sorry Draco. And I'm sorry the Sirius' mirrors don't seem to be
working. I think it probably has something to do with the distance, but I'm not
sure. I'll see if some of the teachers, or maybe out Resident Spokesperson, can
have a look and see if they can tweak my one. But otherwise…
Draco could almost see Harry bent over his desk, scribbling his message on the
parchment with one of those pens he was so fond of using. The image was almost
too heart-wrenching to consider; he missed Harry terribly, and it had barely
been a week that they'd been apart. He wasn't sure if the letter before him, so
typically Harry down to the tone, to the not-quite neat but still legible words
in black ink, did more harm than good for his current state.
Three weeks. They wouldn't be able to meet for three weeks because some pompous
Beauxbatons professor said it would "disrupt their students' studies". What a
load of dragon dung. In its cyclic way, Draco felt his anger rise briefly, only
to stutter and short, his sudden frustration quelling to a brooding melancholy.
He'd been experiencing the same emotional undulations all morning, since he'd
received the letter from giga raven that Harry had been given by Sirius for
such purposes. He was nearly exhausting himself with his psychological turmoil.
Sighing, Draco turned to face the front of the room once more. Flitwick had
jotted down what appeared to be a short essay of notes on the board and had
since encouraged his students to attempt the rather tedious task of animating
one of many distributed wooden puppets. Draco supposed it was a good thing he
was so distracted by the letter; the sight of the marionettes clacking into
motion, their flat faces turning slowly to peer with blank eyes at their
charmers, was horribly disconcerting.
"You still looking at that letter?"
Glancing to his side, Draco met Blaise's curious expression, eyebrow raised
questioningly. Draco shrugged, slipping said letter into his pocket and picking
up his wand. Not that he had any intention of animating a puppet. Such a
phenomenon was far too creepy.
"What's he got to say, then?"
Draco frowned. "Who?"
"Harry, of course. You only ever look so witsfully depressed when you're
thinking about Harry. Though obviously something's smothered even that
depression and left only murderous intent for the glare you've worn since
reading that letter. I think you've scared at least half a dozen first years
nearly to death."
Draco scowled, but Blaise simply grinned in response. Almost – almost – he
missed the first few days of the term, when Blaise had been too wrapped in his
own thoughts to tease him. He'd been a little like a floating ghost when they'd
first entered the Slytherin common room, the first time they'd passed over the
threshold of the quarters that reminded them both so horribly of the friend
they had lost. But, Blaise being Blaise, even as heartbroken as he was he
couldn't seem to maintain his weary sadness. Though every so often and with
sadening frequency a flicker of grief would resurface, Draco's friend seemed to
have clawed his way back to normalcy remarkably well.
There was something to be said for being amongst friends. McGonagall had been
right; the simple presence of those around them, those that had experienced a
similar loss, was oddly warming. Not, not warming exactly. More… as though a
solid weight had been lifted from his shoulders. A burden that he hadn't been
fully aware he'd been carrying. Seeing others suffering while gradually
learning to come to terms with the memories the halls of Hogwarts elicited gave
Draco a strange sort of peace. It urged him to try not to thrust the memories
from his mind, but instead to face them head on and see them for what they
were: only memories.
On top of the support of likeminded people, the Headmistress had announced the
morning after their arrival that the Ministry had appointed a pair of
counsellors to the school for support to those who needed it. Draco had
initially been sceptical of the kind-faced yet still stoically professional
witch and wizard. It hadn't helped that every student had been scheduled into a
meeting with one or the other of them for at least one session. Just to gauge
their mental states, was the underlying understanding.
Draco had never been one to pour out his feelings to another person. The few
people he had been able to do as much with – Harry and, to a degree, his mother
– were absent from the school. So it came as a surprise to Draco when, after an
initially stilted and awkward exchange with the wizard named Gerald
Fitzherbert, he had begun to speak.
Or to spill, more appropriately. It must have been magically induced, or
something of the sort, for Draco had never been comfortable enough with another
person to share as much of his personal worries and heartaches as he did in
that first meeting. Not only of the war but of his father's death, of his
mother's recovery. Of Harry. It was only brief, barely touching on each
subject, barely mentioning them at all, but it was enough to leave Draco
surprised at his own forthrightness. He didn't really share that much at all;
not only did it feel almost painfully discomforting to do so, but he had a
standard to set, a public façade to maintain. Yet somehow the kind-faced
ministry counsellor had slipped past his inhibitions and urged an honest
response.
Suffice to say, Fitzherbert had suggested he come to see him for regular
visits. At least until things "calmed down", was how he had described it.
Somehow, the words hadn't been nearly as condescending as Draco would have
anticipated them to be. He was currently scheduled for a similar session every
Monday after classes. Indefinitely, Fitzherbert had specified unhelpfully.
Draco wasn't the only one undergoing such sessions he knew, though it was not
public knowledge exactly what proportion of students were doing so as well. Few
admitted as to needing as much, though Draco assumed the percentage of
participants from the student body was large enough that it should hardly have
been something that required covetedness. Draco was sure Blaise was seeing the
witch, Wilkins, and relatively certain Ron was too. Hermione openly admitted
she was receiving as much; she claimed there was nothing to be ashamed of, that
benefitting from every service the school and ministry provided was simply
practical. Draco struggled to agree with her, even as he similarly benefitted.
The first week back as Hogwarts had carried the wobbliness of a newborn colt on
its wavering legs. The professors seemed to have unanimously agreed to take it
easy on their pupils at least for the first few days, and to increase their
leniency when certain situations deemed it necessary. There was the slight
decrease in the number of students, and a general hush always seemed to pervade
the Great Hall when previously it had been a place of deafening noise and
babbles of conversation. But other than these slight changes the school was
remarkably… normal. The reparations were exceptionally good, the walls of the
school impossibly similar to those that had been shattered in the war.
It was satisfying, comforting even, to be surrounded by such familiarity. Such
normalcy.
To top it all off, Draco was receiving nearly daily mail from his mother. If
there was a lack of cause for profound positivity in the school, Narcissa
seemed to be compensating for it. She was reportedly recovering splendidly, a
recovery only boosted by her freedom from the rehabilitation centre she'd been
"locked" in for nearly five months. The tone of her letters was perhaps a
little too jovial to be entirely believable, but there was enough sincerity
interlaced in the false cheer that Draco could believe it at least partially
true.
The only scar upon his otherwise bump-free transition back into school life was
the lack of Harry. It was odd, really. Or at least, it should have been. Harry
had only been at Hogwarts for a year, and of that year he had been noticeably
subdued for the most part, but his absence was like an ugly hole in an
otherwise fragily complete painting. And Draco felt that hole as a yawning
cavity in his chest each day he woke up by himself. He hadn't even realised how
much he enjoyed sleeping beside his boyfriend – his partner, his Harry – until
that gift was abruptly taken from him.
They hadn't even been able to communicate through the two-way mirrors Sirius
had oh-so-graciously allowed them to share. Upon their first try, barely a
handful of words had been spoken between them before the image of Harry's face
had fizzled and faded into nothingness. The mirror had been useless for a good
twenty-four hours after that, at which point a reattempt had only produced
similar results. The lack of contact, of so much as hearing Harry's voice, was
urging Draco closer and closer to a potentially aggressive response.
And now he was told he'd have to wait three weeks…
"Three weeks for what?"
Draco hadn't realised he'd spoken aloud until Blaise answered him. Glancing
around himself, he noted that his fellow seventh years were gradually packing
away, leading their puppets – some still eerily animated enough to clatter on
wooden feet behind their charmers like disjointed puppies – to the front of the
room while others stashed books and quills into bags. Blaise was one such
charmer; he was far too fond of puppets for his own good.
"None of your business," Draco grumbled in reply, stowing his wand up his
sleeve.
Blaise sighed dramatically. "Ah, come, my friend. You've been depressed all
morning –"
"I'm not depressed."
"-and as your friend and loyal supporter, it is my duty to attempt to shift you
out of your stink."
Draco glared at his friend, who tilted his head expectantly towards him as
Draco slowly slipped his own books back into his bag. He felt his
disgruntlement swell for a moment before it abruptly dissapated. What was the
point in hiding it anyway?
Sighing, he heaved himself to his feet. "Harry said he's not allowed off the
school grounds for the first three weeks of term. Something about the
professors wanting them to get into their studious mode or some such bollocks."
They were headed towards the door with brisk steps, and so Draco nearly left
his friend behind when Blaise suddenly stalled. Glancing over his shoulder,
Draco similarly stopped. "What?"
Blaise shook his head. A frown, a serious frown, crinkled his forehead. "That's
absolutely ridiculous. They're not allowed off school grounds for three weeks?
Who the hell came up with that rule?"
Draco shrugged silently, though he entirely and fervently agreed with Blaise.
Bloody Beauxbatons. He'd always thought after fourth year that they had just a
few to much hot air swelling their heads to be potential correspondents. The
school was strict, and not only in their commitment to academia. They guarded
their privacy like a dragon hoarded its gold; no one could even Apparate or
Floo within one hundred kilometers of the place for the wards shrouding the
region.
"How is Harry, anyway?" Continuing their departure from Charms, Blaise tilted
his head curiously towards Draco. His voice was slightly guarded however, as
though he had just poked a sleeping tiger with a stick.
Which would make Draco the tiger. It was acknowledgement of that fact,
mollifying any stung pride, that stopped Draco from hissing and scowling, from
claiming it none of Blaise's business. He struggled to remind himself that
Harry was Blaise's friend too. And Blaise needed his friends, maybe almost as
much as Draco needed Harry.
"He say's he's going alright. Though the first few days were hard because
Neville and he were sorted into different houses."
"They were? Jeez, tough luck."
"Mm. You'd think the Headmistress – whatever her name is – could be a little
lenient."
Nodding regretfully, Blaise sighed. "I suppose. Though, what with this whole
'restriction from leaving the school' and what-not, I guess it's to be
expected." He paused, thinking. "It's Madame Maxine, by the way."
"What?"
"The Headmistress. You know, tall woman – very tall woman – dark hair, beady
eyes. Dresses like a prude."
Draco snorted. "Really, Blaise?"
"Well, she does."
Shaking his head in disregard, Draco continued. "They have just about
equivalent classes at Beauxbatons to Hogwarts, so transferring wasn't really a
problem. Though both Harry and Nevlle do have to take a Music and Drama unit;
it's compulsory until their final year."
"What? Neville's doing a Music class?" A bark of laughter echoed the length of
hall. "Now that I'd love to see."
Turning in unison, Draco and Blaise sighted the distant yet approaching figures
of Ron and Hermione. The red-head was whizzing towards them on his levitating
chair with almost dangerously erratic speed. He was rather adept at controlling
the contraption, and after his initial horror at being trapped in a state of
permanent sitting he seemed to have taken to it like a fish to water. More,
even, Ron apparently delighted in weaving like a broom-racer amongst the
students in the hallways, eliciting shrieks of surprise as he narrowly avoided
ploughing them into the ground. Hermione frequently gave him a formulaic
dressing down but it hardly seemed to affect him.
As he approached, nearly bowling over a third year passing in the other
direction, Draco noted the broad grin stretching across his face. "Yes, music
and drama," he repeated. "I don't know which one Neville's specialising in.
Didn't he tell you?"
Ron shook his head, chuckling in laughter once more. "Nope, not a peep. He
mostly just talks about his housemates or bitches about the professors. This
Tymon bloke who teaches Potions sounds like a right git. Must be part of the
job description." He slowed to a whooshing halt at Blaise's side. "I'm gonna
have so much fun teasing him about this one."
"No, Ron, you will not," Hermione chided, falling into step beside Draco as
they reinitiated their progress towards the Great Hall. "Neville didn't say a
word to you when you found out you'd be in a Motion Chair until you were fully
healed. That's hardly fair."
"Yes, but Hermione, you forget. This is funny."Ron shared grin with Blaise, who
snickered and clapped a hand on his shoulder. Draco recognised it as a measure
of his approval. The pair had grown rather fond of one another, more than they
had been in previous year, since school has reinitiated. A similar sense of
humour, Draco supposed.
It was a testament to how well Ron's recovery was going that he didn't bat an
eyelid when Hermione mentioned his confinement to the Motion Chair. Draco knew
he was seeing a rehab mediwitch three times a week, but he wasn't aware of the
progress his friend was making. It would be far too intrusive to ask, despite
his curiosity.
Hermione had been fantastic throughout the entire process. From Ron's initial
desolation upon discovering he was unable to move his legs, to his gradual
climb back to positivity, she had held his hand every step of the day. Draco
wasn't sure if they had finally overcome their awkwardness enough to take their
relationship to the next level, as both so obviously wished to, but it hardly
mattered. He doubted Hermione would forsake her support of Ron even if he never
admitted his feelings. Though he'd be a fool not to. Hermione was brilliant.
It was almost… odd, how Draco could genuinely and satisfyingly admit such a
reality about a Muggleborn classmate without an itch of discomfort. How times
had changed since a year ago.
"Do you know what Harry's doing?"
Hermione's question caught his attention, though it was admittedly more a
result of the mention of Harry's name than anything. It always triggered a
startle response in him more profoundly than anything else, a fact Blaise was
rather particular about pointing out at every opportunity. He shook his head.
"They've only had a couple of classes, and he said that the Madame whatever-
her-name-is is very picky about allocating their 'specialty'. Apparently, it's
a rather pompous process to find the talent that 'embodies them'."
"What a load of rubbish," Ron muttered, though distractedly as he seemed rather
intently focused upon skating his chair in slow rotations as they passed down a
stairwell into the Entrance Hall. Draco silently agreed with him. He remembered
a brief time in his childhood when his mother had attempted to cultivate any
glimmer of his own muscial talent. Through piano, of course, for what other
instrument would be more suitable to a Malfoy? He hadn't taken to it, and could
barely remember the names of the keys. He did, however, remember quite vividly
just how far said keys had flown from the piano when he'd smashed it with a
chair leg. Not one of his proudest moments, he'd have to admit. But then, he'd
been a terribly objectionable child; what more could he say?
Walking into the Great Hall, the four of them settled at Gryffindor table.
There was a hush over the room, but it was only the usual hush that always hung
suspended in the air at meal times rather than a comment on their chosen
seating arrangement. It was now no longer even a question that they all sat
together. No one, not Slytherin, not Gryffindor, nor the overly-opinionated
Ravenclaws, had a word to say about it anymore. Not that Draco would have moved
had they persisted verbalise their thoughts. It had taken an enormous effort,
but eventually he'd been able to admit that he actually…liked spending time
with the Gryffindors.
Whether it was by their leadership or the feeling of camaraderie instilled by
the Battle of Hogwarts, such an inclination to mingle seemed to have infected
the entire student body. Even as he drew his gaze around the hall Draco could
see a number of students for varying houses sittign together. Justin Finch-
Fletchley and Mandy Brocklehurst were sitting together at Ravenclaw table –
natural, Draco supposed, considering them to be Head Boy and Girl. Finnigan had
dragged Thomas over to the Hufflepuff table, and had been joined by a pair of
Ravenclaws moments after seating. Third years sat with fifth years, Hufflepuffs
at the Gryffindor table, students rising and moving to seats across the room as
though it were perfectly natural and not considered a taboo but a year before.
How times had changed.
There were not even any particularly noticeable outliers, not even in
Slytherin, as one might have expected post-war. No exclusion, not even a faint
wariness around their fellows. Draco suspected – no, he knew – that the primary
reason for this was a sad one; any and every student related to the Death
Eaters even distantly had been withdrawn from Hogwarts, whether by their own
desire or that of their families. Most of them seemed to have disappeared that
remained were few, less than half of their original number, but whether it was
for the words of their Headmaster or a change of heart from their fellow
students, there was less ostracism than might have been anticipated. No, the
Slytherins were accepted almost as readily as any of the other houses.
The absence of those many, of the young wizards and witches of questionable
allegiance, was probably for the best, really. Everything was settling so well,
students merging over the previous boundaries of the houses as though they were
merely chalk drawings on the ground. If such prominent outliers existed… it
would through a cat amongst the calmly clucking pigeons.
Perhaps it was cruel to consider it that way, but Draco couldn't think anything
but. He was grateful, grateful that the strain that would have existed was
absent, grateful that he didn't have to look at Crabbe every day and argue with
himself over the hurt and anger, the guilt, that arose within him simply
because seeing the son reminded him of the father, of what the father had
nearly done and what he'd done in return. Draco was tired; tired of the war, of
the fighting. He just wanted to be a student for as long as he still could be.
At least this year such a possibility actually drifted towards the probable.
It's not my problem, Draco thought, shaking his head. For it wasn't. It
shouldn't be his responsibility to clean up those after the war. It shouldn't
be his duty. He'd had more than enough weight placed upon his own shoulders the
previous year; it was his chance for a break. And if he needed convincing of
such a leniency, his mother said so, Fitzherbert said so, even Snape said so.
Harry did too. And besides, he had N.E. to consider. Taking a leaf out of
Harry's book of practical suggestions, he would subside and allow the teachers
to handle it for once. It was, after all, their job.
Satisfied with his own conclusions, Draco settled into his seat and picked up
his fork.
===============================================================================
 
The sun shed its warm morning rays through the half-drawn curtains, alighting
upon his face. Slowly, with a muffled groan, Harry swum into wakefulness. His
shoulders ached and there was tightness in his back that bespoke an unconscious
tension held throughout the night. He knew the cause.
A nightmare. Another one. Again.
Sighing, Harry pushed himself to seating in his bed. The nightmares were an
almost nightly occurrence, and he generally woke feeling just as tired if not
more than when he had fallen to sleep. He couldn't even pinpoint exactly what
he saw in the nightmares; a brief scattering of disjointed images sprung to
mind each time he attempted: a thick, pumping wound of dark blood, the ring of
screams cut short by a loud shout, the greyness of Draco's wide eyes. And on
top of that, surprisingly, as though the events of earlier that year had opened
the floodgates, the other memories: the sting of a slap across his cheek, the
vicious taunts of his cousin as he was chased through a wooded playground, the
heavy pants of his uncle in his ear as thick fingers fastened around his wrist.
He didn't know where it had come from. Harry had never had nightmares before.
Ever. He knew, had come to realise gradually then with startling abruptness,
that it would have been understandable if he had been effected by his past.
That what his uncle had done, what the Dursley's had inflicted upon him, would
naturally leave a physical and mental scar that would swell to the surface with
the perfect trigger.
Only, they never had before. Not when Harry was locked in his cupboard as a
small boy, when his Aunt Petunia had cursed him for being a hopeless cook and
thrown an entire banquet's worth of food into the garbage for cooking it
'improperly'. After Aunt Marge had set her bulldogs on him, chasing him up a
tree or Uncle Vernon had dragged him home from the meeting with the first
teacher to ever utter a suspicious question and broken his little finger with
the tightness of his grip. Not even when his Uncle Stephen had first
demonstrated the truth of his guardianship.
It hadn't been a conscious effort to contain his memories, Harry knew. He'd
simply done it, thrusting them into the closet of his past alongside his
tendency to physically express his emotions through his face. Only that
particular skill had been fractured nine months ago and he had only barely been
able to get a grasp on the erratic capacity that was facial expressions since.
Now, it seemed, the events of the Battle of Hogwarts had made splinters of his
forbidden closet, spilling the contents with careless intent. Unfortunately,
the memories seemed to manifest in repeated nightmares, even daydreams, that
left him pale and cold, fingers clammy.
Why did it always have to happen so abruptly? There was no gradual ease into
recognising the memories for what they were, allowing them to be slowly
assimilated into who Harry was at a controllable rate. No, the doors of his
hidden closet had been thrown wide open and the contents crashed upon him in a
wave. Just like it had last Christmas.
Over the summer break it hadn't been so bad. Harry had Draco, for one. Most
importantly, to be truthful. He hadn't spoken of his nightmares with Draco, but
he knew he was aware of them. A number of times when he'd woken up during the
night, at least in the beginning, it had been to blink blurrily into a
concerned face and worried eyes. Thankfully, Draco never said anything, simply
waiting for Harry to explain it himself. But Harry couldn't bring himself to.
So it was perhaps to be expected that, without Draco, whose presence wasn't
even able dispel the nightmares, he would feel more unhinged. It was all he
could do to hide it from his new classmates. Harry missed Draco terribly
though, even putting aside his supporting presence, and it had only been one
week. How would he last three until he could see him? He understood,
theoretically, what the professors were trying to achieve by enforcing the 'no
off-campus leave' for the first few weeks of term, but it didn't make it any
easier to live with. He regretted, not for the first nor even the hundreth
time, that the two-way mirrors didn't work. He'd have to work something out
with that.
A sudden weight in his lap caused Harry to glance downwards. Lyssy peered up at
him intently, her tail wrapping around her front paws as she sat herself up
tall, peering at him with bright eyes. As he offered her a weak smile, she
raised a paw and dabbed it gently at his right hand. The hand that was
scratching idly at his collarbones.
He hadn't even noticed he'd started to do that again.
Sighing, Harry murmured a weary thanks to Lyssy, stroking a finger between her
ears. He scooped her up to his shoulder as he swung his legs out of bed, easing
from the warmth of thick, silken doona covers and onto the equally thick rug.
The rooms allocated to Beauxbatons students were not large, about the size of
his room at his uncle's house in Paris, but they were more than enough. The
double bed was swathed in thick blankets and more pillows than entirely
necessary. A desk was wedged in the corner of the room beside a free-standing
cupboard and inbuilt bookshelf cluttered the room. Everything was constructed
of pale pastels and contrasting dark woods, a common theme Harry had noticed
throughout the school, and detailed in a delicate patterning of gilt that gave
the distinct impression of wealth.
But more important than adequate furnishings, to Harry at least, was the
privacy of the rooms. He'd worried at first that he'd be sharing a dormitory
with his classmates. It was not that he felt himself above them – far from it –
but he'd never shared a room with anyone except Draco. And Draco was different.
But at least in the Papillonlisse dormitories of the Western Tower, the living
quarters were divided. An endless hallway dotted with doors into such quarters
spiralled up a long ramp, the younger students at the lower levels while the
elder were stationed higher. Naturally, the boy and girl sections were
separated; Harry had heard in passing that boys couldn't even pass through the
door into the girl's dormitory. That they found themselves reappearing at the
entrance to the common room instead.
Dressing absentmindedly, though leaving his hands ungloved for their lack of
necessity, Harry gathered his school bag and books and headed towards the door.
A glance to the artfully ticking clock above the door indicated it was just
after seven o'clock. It was a little early to head down to breakfast given that
it wasn't even served until a half-past, but Harry didn't care to spend any
longer in his room. Besides, the trek through the Beauxbatons 'palace' was long
enough. It would likely take him nearly until breakfast time to simply make his
way down there.
His first week at Beauxbatons had passed in a hasty blur reminiscent of Harry's
first days of Hogwarts, though that was where the similarities just about
ended. Harry slipped into his classes with relative ease, and though within
only a few days it was apparent that the learning pace was markedly faster than
that of Hogwarts, he found himself keeping up relatively well. Which was a
blessing as he spent as much spare time as he could afford with Neville, both
attempting to teach him French and translating his notes for the other boy,
whose own were as speckled with holes as a fishing net.
Neville had at first been nearly frantic with worry. The language barrier was a
significant contributor to his fears, and Harry had initially despaired that
the other boy would blow a fuse and take flight from the walls of the school
like a fleeing bird at any moment. Neville was struggling with his own internal
battle, and though he never spoke it, Harry knew it was as much due to the
aftershock of the war, to the horrors he'd seen and the loss of his father, as
for the dislocation from transferring schools. If Harry thought he'd been
through a lot, it was nothing on what Neville had experienced. The other boy
had died. How did anyone recover from that?
However, within a few days Neville's panic had mellowed. Harry suspected it had
more than a bit to do with the support of his new housemates. Though initially
the entire fifth year of Beauxbatons students had been wary and reserved in
their admittance of the transfer students, their curiosity soon won the fight
against caution. Neville, being the naturally friendly and amicable person that
he was, had rapidly drawn a group of friends around him and easily slid into
their midst. It helped that a number of them spoke English relatively well,
though even in such a short time Harry noticed Neville's understanding of the
native language grow. That simple act had settled him remarkably, easing some
of the nervousness that had gnawed at them both at realising they were
appointed to different houses.
Harry still felt a kind of sadness at the notion that they were separated,
though Neville's ease did a lot to dampen his worries. His friend rarely failed
to latch onto him in every class, even with the accompaniment of his
classmates, a group of about five other boys and girls. Harry thanked him for
the friendly support, but didn't seek it in the times when Neville forgot to
offer it. He knew he was less of an actively sociable person and, unlike
Neville had good reason to be, didn't feel the same degree of distress when
studying alone.
That didn't mean that he didn't make acquaintences, if not precisely friends.
In contrast to Neville, who seemed to attract the somewhat louder individuals
of their year, Harry frequently found himself beside more studious individuals
who, though quiet, informed him of their approval of his own studiousness with
quite glances and small smiles. In a natural progression of circumstantial
events, he found himself working alongside and amidst such fellows, the
exchange of notes and quiet words flowing naturally. It was a reserved
coexistence that Harry hadn't experienced at Hogwarts. He found he rather liked
it.
As he descended the last of the ramp from the dormitories, exiting the
Papillonlisse boy's living quarters, he nearly ran headlong into a girl
departing the partnering quarters. A slight "eep" of surprise caused him to
flinch, but a moment later he was sharing a small smile with Nataliha Jarvour.
"Oh, 'Arry! Good morning. You're up early."
Straightening himself, Harry blinked into the familiar face. "The same goes to
you. How are you, Tali?"
The girl's smile widened, the usual little crinkles she got on her noses
appearing. "Very well, thank you. Were you heading down to La Grande Pièce?
Shall I show you the way? I recall you seem to be a little at ends with the
layout of the school still. Mayhaps we can avoid wandering into the Southern
Tower, yes?"
Nataliha – or Tali, as she vehemently enforced – was a short girl with wide
lips, a pixie-cut crop of auburn hair that, along with her wide-set golden
eyes, gave her a distinctly autumnal impression. She was a softly spoken girl,
though it was all a disguise. Quiet as she seemed, when given the opportunity
she would – and had on numerous occasions – talk Harry's ear off. Harry was
amazed that she could say so much so rapidly and yet still appear to be such a
quiet, unassuming girl. In anyone else, Harry would have found himself likely
wearied by the constant string of words; the only one he was truly able to
tolerate such verbosity from was Draco, and he admitted a certain bias for the
blonde. But Tali always spoke with meaning, her words driven by consideration
and thoughtfulness. He had to wonder at the speed of her thinking that she
could upkeep such intense verbalisation. Their admittedly one-sided
conversations, however, was one of the reasons he considered her possibly one
of his closest aquaintances. Even a friend.
That, and she'd rescued him from wandering through the Southern Tower as a
shortcut not three days before. Apparently the professeurs Tower was out of
bounds for students who didn't have an appointment.
"Only if you're already going down," Harry replied. He was rather ambivalent
when it came to company at the best of times – loneliness was not something
Harry believed himself truly capable of experiencing – but Tali was an
agreeable companion.
"Of course. Early to bed, early to rise; I find I get more done in the day."
She fell into step beside Harry. "Oh, salut, Madamoiselle Lyssy. How are you
this morning?"
As if in answer, Lyssy uttered a mew from Harry's shoulder, sliding around his
neck to crane towards Tali's potentially stroking fingers. Tali wrinkled her
nose in smile again and scratched the little cat between her ears. Which was
only one more reason Harry liked her; she seemed rather taken with Lyssy. Not
in the brief, frantic adoration of most of his other female classmates but
rather in a slow-growing affection. She reminded him of Luna in that respect,
alongside the one-way conversations she seemed to hold with the cat.
"Will she be accompanying us down to Soin de Créatures Magiques again today?"
Without a word of warning, Tali began picking at the stray cat hairs on Harry's
shoulder. It would have startled him into withdrawng from the contact had she
not done so before. "I think Clyntine was rather taken with her. Not that he
isn't taken with most creatures. I suppose that's why he teaches what he does.
Did you know he grew up on a manticore farm in north-east Spain?"
Harry shook his head yet was unable to get a word in edgeways as Tali continued
to speak quickly. Yet quietly, always quietly. Not as though she feared being
overheard but simply as though her voice was incapable of rising any louder
that a loud murmur. Harry understood that feeling. Still, he wondered that Tali
seemed to spend most of her time by herself, given how ardently she enjoyed to
speak. He would have thought her more likely to take up residence in the midst
of the most vocal of her classmates. Such was not the case.
The Palace of Beauxbatons – for that was what the students called it,
regardless that at least from the outside Harry didn't think it looked all that
much like a palace at all – was a network of wide, interconnected hallways that
ran in a spiderweb pattern from almost every floor to each corresponding floor
of every tower. It was at first a confusing mess of corridors that Harry had
been daunted at beholding when looking at the map, but had rapidly come to
realise was easier to understand without the assistance of the map entirely.
The Palace seemed to readily present itself with opportunities to reach one's
destination at every turn, as though the very walls tuned into the thoughts of
its residents to learn their destination. More than once Harry had rounded one
of the tower's winding corners to find one of the arched passageways to the
tower of he was headed towards where he had been certain one hadn't been
before. Yet when he looked at the map, a matching mark was inked innocently on
the paper. Neville hadn't even been surprised when Harry had mentioned his
observation. He had likened it to the Marauder's Map he'd had a Hogwarts – of
which he'd left in Ron's possession – though had ardently defended the
Hogwart's as being 'better' than those Beauxbatons had supplied. Harry
neglected to state that at least Beauxbatons provided maps to their students.
La Grand Pièce, where all of the meals were held, was located on the bottom
floor of the Northern Tower. That tower similarly comprised the majority of
theoretical studies classrooms. The Eastern Tower to its side was home to more
of the practical subjects, while the studies for Magical Creatures took place
in the Coop down near the Pegasus loading bay, right alongside the rather
impressive arrangement of greenhouses for botanical studies. The school held an
impressive array of magical plants, animals and to Neville's confusion and
subsequent fascination, fungi, many of which were harvested from the
surrounding mountains and valleys. Situated as they were in relative isolation,
with only a clutch of houses overwhelmed by a surplus of boutiques and chain
vendors in the colloquially termed 'Student Town', or Rivierie Villeby the
locals, there was a natural supply to constantly restock the teaching material
with natives. Harry was gratified that he could share his pleasure over such a
surplus with Tali; though Neville showed similar enthusiasm for the plants
gathered, the Beauxbatons girl tended to emulate his passion for magical
creatures, though admittedly her focus was more on marine and aquatic species.
It was another reason Harry considered them almost friends.
Outside of La Grand Pièce, the owl port was already teeming with feathered
deliveries. Unlike Hogwarts, mail was not dropped ceremoniously atop the heads
of unsuspecting diners. A number of Beauxbatons students had adopted horrified
expressions when Neville had commented on the lack of avian disruption, with
the fifth-year Bellefeuille twins, as they were collectively called, professing
at length and in tandem how unhygienic such a system was. Harry and Tali paused
long enough to poke their heads in and check for their own mail. At the sight
of the giga raven perched like the black sheep of the flock amidst the owls,
Harry's breath caught and he hastened to untie the twine. Only to struggle with
a wave of disappointment when he recognised his godfather's handwriting rather
than Draco's.
It was wrong, Harry knew. It wasn't that he didn't want to hear from Sirius,
but… Ideally, Harry would rather they establish a system that used different
species of birds, or at least distinctly different ravens, for Draco and
Sirius. The come-down after the rush of excitement at considering he'd hear
from Draco was a cruelty to Sirius, even if the man wasn't aware of it. Harry
attempted to instil some sense of complacency in himself as he followed Tali
from the owl port.
"Is that not from your boyfriend?"
Starting, Harry glanced towards Tali. Her face was a picture of mild curiosity
and she had neglected the single letter in her own hand to question him.
"What?"
She inclined her head towards the as-yet unopened letter. "You seemed excited
for a second, or as excited as I've seen you let yourself get, until you
noticed who it was from. I've only seen you get that excited when you get a
letter from… Draco, was it? He's the one you mentioned yesterday, the boy from
England?"
Harry blinked at the girl peering questioniongly at him. They'd stalled before
the doors of the dining hall at Tali's words. Not another student was in sight.
The impressive clock, the main feature of the foyer just outside La Grand
Pièce, indicated it was barely seven-thirty. Harry swallowed awkwardly. It was
disconcerting, to have someone notice things about him with such surety. Harry
had barely even mentioned Draco since he'd started at Beauxbatons, and those
instances had been directed towards Neville rather than any of his newer peers.
Tali, with her keen ears and perceptive skills, was more than just a mouth,
though Harry had already known that.
Dropping his gaze to the letter in his hands, Harry shrugged awkwardly under
the familiar weight of Lyssy on his shoulder. "No, it's not from Draco. My
godfather, Sirius." He tilted the letter towards her, unnecesarily proving the
validity of his claim with the return address on the back.
Tali hardly spared it a glance. "Did I get it wrong?"
"What?"
"That boy, in England. So he's not your boyfriend? Hmm, I was so certain, I
thought I'd read that one right. How vexing…" She huffed, as though she'd lost
an internal bet with herself.
Harry struggled silently for another moment. It still surprised him that so
many of the Wizarding world were openly accepting of his relationship with
Draco. He'd never really been able to fathom it himself, yet in his Muggle
schools there had always been a carefully drawn line around homosexuality, a
stigma excluding such from 'proper conduct'. It had always baffled him. Why did
it matter the gender of the one you loved? And as for a physical relationship…
well, Harry himself hadn't had anything so much as a loving sexual relationship
– the word was not even on the same plane of consideration with what had been
between himself and his uncle – but he wasn't oblivious. He knew that it was
possible to have a homosexual, intimate relationship without the pain and
domination. And if so, why did it matter? What other cause for dispute could
there be?
Apparently, most of the Wizarding world felt the same way. He'd only heard a
few snide comments at Hogwarts, and most of them actually from Muggleborns that
had been frowned upon and quickly buried. It left him in a state of awkward
relief and confusion. It was a little incomprehensible, to put it bluntly.
Slowly, Harry shook his head. "It's not that Draco's not my boyfriend. It's
just…" He paused, mulling over the right words.
"What, you haven't admitted your feelings to one another?"
Harry cringed at the blatancy of Tali's words. She took the bull by the horns,
the girl did, and charged right into the matter without sparing a thought for
emotional investment. Yet her eyes bespoke only fond curiosity. "You know,
nothing's ever going to happen between you if one of you doesn't say something.
That's not how relationships start. I remember with my childhood friend Vivi,
we were both sort of not talking to each other for a while until I eventually
just came out and said 'let's be friends'. Thick as thieves ever since, we've
been." She smiled brightly.
"It's not… admission isn't an issue." Harry's tongue seemed to twist in his
mouth, jumbling his translation. Perhaps it was simply struggling to explain
something that seemed to inexplicable. "We've been together for about five,
nearly six months now."
"Oh." Tali said, frowning thoughtfully. "So what's the problem?"
"No problem. It's just that 'boyfriend' doesn't seem to really fit our
relationship."
"Oh," Tali repeated, frown impressing further. "Then how would you describe
it?"
Harry paused, thinking, and chewed on his lip thoughtfully. "Well, boyfriend
just seems so… I don't know, inadequate? As though Draco's place as a
'boyfriend' is all there is to it." He shifted uncomfortably; the attempt at
explaining was more embarrassing than he'd thought it would be. "With Draco, it
just feels like more. He's my best friend too, but at times he almost acts like
how I imagine an older brother would. Other times I'd swear he thought he was
my father. He certainly acts more like a guardian than my godfather Sirius does
sometimes." A small smile curled Harrys lips at the memory of Draco when Harry
had first stepped outside of the safe-house they and Neville had been appointed
by the Ministry for the summer holidays. His face had been a restrained yet
scolding mask that had looked so reminiscent of Lucius' that Harry wasn't sure
whether to laugh or cry. "And then other times, I'd think he swore I was a
little prince to be pampered for the way he treated me." He shrugged. "I
suppose that's why I see us as more, I don't know… partners, I guess. Though
even that doesn't really seem adequate."
Tali's face was thoughtful, distant even. She appeared in deep contemplation of
his words on a level he hadn't anticipated. Only briefly, however, before a
slow, amused smile spread across her face. "A princeling?"
Harry felt his cheeks warm. "I'm just explaining how it feels."
"And I appreciate your honesty," Tali replied, her smile softening. "It sounds
like you've got something pretty special the two of you. Partners… something
more than simply boyfriends. I guess almost like… what, like soul mates? Hm, I
like that." That same flicker of thoughtfulness resurfaced, but again only for
a moment. "You really love him, yes?"
"Yes. I do." That, at least, Harry could state without a flicker of
embarrassment. He'd never spoke truer words in his entire life. The words 'soul
mates' rung through his mind like a resonating chime. He'd heard of such a term
before but always believed it a little idealistic. That two people could be
simply made for each other. But maybe, just perhaps… he couldn't think of it as
anything but accurate. Perhaps soul mates weren't made but rather grown
instead?
Trailing after Tali into the dining hall, Harry followed her to the far corner
of the triangular-shaped room. A collection of tables, one allocated for each
year, was arranged with its own supply of dishes. Similar arrangements were set
up at the other two corners for the Bellefeuille and Ombrelune students of the
other houses, and a single, round table at the very centre of the room reserved
for teachers. As of yet only a handful of seats were filled, and only one
professeur in attendance.
As they seated themselves, Harry ripped open Sirius' letter and scanned the
contents. He had to smile at the opening line. It had become something of a
habit, it seemed, for Sirius to begin his letters with a phrase in French, the
latest he'd picked up in his travels around Paris. They were riddled with
grammatical errors, but the delight and self-satisfaction that radiated from
the simple statements was evident. Sirius seemed to be adamantly enjoying
himself in his explorations, and had acquainted himself with a number of fellow
witches and wizards in the neighbourhood. He'd even signed up to a mock-
quidditch tournament that was held every Friday, though it was more fun and
games than truly competitive to hear tell of it. It was warming to hear that he
ws adapting to his new life so well. Harry had worried that his godfather may
regret following him to Paris, but if the length of the letters, filled mostly
with his various exploits, was any indication, he seemed to be having the time
of his life.
Harry's smile died slightly, however, at the parting words.
"How have the nightmares been going, by the way? I know you don't want to talk
about them – I can hardly blame you; myself, I don't really feel comfortable
talking about them either – but I just wanted you to know that I'm here for you
if you need anything, a listening ear or a word of advice. But even if you
don't want to talk to me, how about seeing a counsellor or something? I hear
Hogwarts has a couple they've got talking over some of the issues the students
have. There's nothing to be ashamed of in talking to someone. I haven't told
you this before, but when I got out of Azkaban, Remus recommended I see a
specialist or something. I wound up in a support group; best decision I've
made. But, it's entirely up to you…"
And just as quickly as Sirius had brought up the topic, he switched to another
– the next-door neighbours cat of all things who was, he swore, a Kneazle
crossbreed – before finishing with a "talk to you later, kitten". Harry folded
the letter slowly and filed it in his pocket. The words ran through his mind
like an accusation.
He didn't know how Sirius had found out about his nightmares. He doubted it was
Draco who had told him; the pair rarely exchanged words, even if they were no
longer openly hostile to one another. But somehow Sirius had found out and,
like a dog with a bone, seemed intent on worrying at the subject until it
snapped.
Harry couldn't really blame him. Sirius honestly felt he was being supportive,
that he was helping. And Harry understood, to a degree. Yes, to many, seeking a
counsellor or simply someone to talk to about their troubles, the weights
dragging down their shoulders, would be beneficial. But for Harry, he couldn't
imagine it. Actually talking to someone, speaking of his past and how still,
after years in many instances, his memories affected him? To a total stranger,
no less?
No, Harry didn't want to see someone. Not some stranger to talk to, to offer a
falsely consoling ear and sort through his problems like an interesting puzzle,
diagnosing and directing as they saw fit. It might work for some, but for
Harry, unless he was absolutely forced to, unless things became serious… A few
nightmares, a little tiredness, wasn't serious. He could deal with that.
Raising his chin, Harry met Tali's curious gaze and offered a weak smile, a
short shake of his head. Nothing. Nothing was wrong. He'd deal with it.
Chapter End Notes
     A/N: Thanks for commenting everyone who took the time for last
     chapter! I really, really appreciate it. If you liked the chapter, or
     didn't like it, or have any questions or comments, please feel free
     to offer then. I love hearing from any reader, yes, even if it is
     with bad news. Thanks :D
***** Too Far *****
Chapter Notes
     A/N: A bit of a bittersweet chapter, I'm afraid. I feel I should
     warn: this deals with the issue of PTSD and rape recovery. If you
     think that these themes might be triggering, or that my portrayal of
     them might be frustrating in inaccuracy... I'm sorry.
     Also, Draco is kind of sweet but also slips up with a bit of a doozy.
     Sorry 'bout that.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
For the first time in nearly a month, Draco woke with a smile on his face. He
couldn't help it; he'd gone to sleep the same way and his face seemed to slip
naturally into the expression without his express intentions. Which was
entirely unacceptable, even if it was geunine. He had a reputation to uphold.
It was barely daybreak, a quick Tempus charm indicated. And on a Saturday to
boot. Draco didn't think he'd deliberately woken up so early on the weekend in
his entire teenage life, but today…
Finally. After three weeks, I finally get to see him.
Rolling out of bed, Draco dressed with swift efficiency, tugging on trousers
and jumper with barely an eye for what he clothed himself in. And if he nearly
bounced on his toes with eagerness, it hardly mattered; Blaise and Nott weren't
awake anyway.
Writing letters wasn't enough. Draco always knew it wasn't going to be, but the
reality hadn't hit him until he was living it. He missed Harry, and it may have
been that he viewed the past through rose-tinted glasses, but he felt like he
missed everything about him. His soft voice, faintly accented and hiding a
sharp, intelligent wit behind mellowness. The constant handholds and the
coolness of his fingers as Draco wrapped them in his own. Waking up to find him
pressed comfortably against him in the same bed, that typical curl he always
slept in that was so reminiscent of his little cat Familiar. Everything, each
detail of who Harry was, and each memory was sharp yet clouded by such loss and
dejection that Draco felt a sore and desperate need to simply be with his
partner. It was like a physical ache.
It didn't help that he was undeniably and almost permanently horny.
The realisation was abrupt, but not unexpected. Draco acknowledged when he
realised he was in love with Harry that he was attracted to him. Impossibly, it
appeared to have flipped the opposite way around to convention; he'd entirely
fallen head over heels without registering such physical attraction in the
slightest.
It was an odd sequence for Draco; in the past, he had typically observed
potential girlfriends from a distance, superficial attraction preceding a
deeper relationship. Which was probably why he had only really been in a
relationship with Pansy and Daphne. Though he had been friends with Pansy
first, it was only when he began to recognise her other attributes, the
features that made her a woman, that there had been a progression into a deeper
level. Hence it hadn't worked out, Draco supposed. The same could be said for
Daphne. Purely physical attraction.
Draco was attracted to women. He knew he was. A faint glimmer of bare skin, the
shadow of breasts at the top of a shirt, the stretch of clothing over shapely
curves that tucked into the contours of the body beneath. Though admittedly not
every woman suited Draco's personal tastes, he could appreciate the beauty in
each; lush and curvy to lean and slender, tall or short, blonde or brunette.
They were beautiful in a way that was simply different to men. Incomparible.
Except that, as women were different to men, Harry was on a different level
entirely. Draco have never considered himself capable of becoming attracted to
another man in the past; the possibility hadn't even crossed his mind. Then it
all changed.
Harry had a different beauty to women. There was none of the curviness, the
softness, that seemed to be an innate part of womanhood. Harry was too thin, if
nothing else; it gave him an aura of delicacy different even to a girl's, as
though were Draco to bump him too hard he would shatter. But even so, little
things sparked Draco's attention: his slender fingers upon small hands that
held a natural and unassuming elegance unlike that which Draco strove to
embody. The way his pale, slender neck would be revealed just briefly in the
mornings when he was braiding his hair with practiced fingers. The feel of his
warm body pressed against Draco when they embraced, lean muscles tightening
slightly not in withdrawal but to press closer. Even little things, like the
hesitant, shy flicker of long lashes behind his glasses as he glanced towards
Draco, a flush just faintly touching his cheeks when he noticed himself being
watched. All small, barely noticeable features that, had they been on any other
boy would have left Draco unresponsive, but because it was Harry…
Draco knew he had to wait. He couldn't push Harry with the looming possibility
of the other boy being emotionally incapable of progressing to further intimacy
in their relationship. They embraced, true, and kissed, held each other and
slept alongside one another, but nothing more than that. Ever. Draco would wait
– he could wait – for as long as it took, and would rely on Harry to let him
know when he was ready. If he was ready. Draco told himself it didn't matter
either way, if it took to long or never happened at all.
It didn't. Really.
Unfortunately, his libido didn't think along parallel lines to his conscious
mind. And there was only so many times he could seek relief alone, pleasuring
himself to his thoughts, to imagining the feel of soft, small hands, of smooth,
pale skin and lips parting in a sigh, before even that failed to alleviate his
frustrations. Until it began to make it only more difficult.
But Draco would wait. He would.
It was only a pity that such mantras, if anything, only exacerbated his
frustrations. He knew it made him irrationally angry at innapropriate times,
but he was generally too disgruntled at the time to care. Blaise knew, Draco
could tell, and often appeared to be fighting back a smirk after being on the
tail end on on of his bouts of anger. It didn't lend itself to easing the
situation.
Worse than Blaise, however, was that Daphne knew. Daphne, the girl who had all
but ignored him but for jibing comments after they'd officially 'parted ways',
had noticed. She'd always been almost supernaturally aware of Draco's
tendencies; he was coming to hate the sly looks she gave him when he was sunken
into another black mood. They were far worse than Blaise's, for she never said
anything so he couldn't retaliate
Draco spent that Saturday morning in the library. Fortunately for him, Madam
Pince got up at a similarly abominably early hour as he even on the weekend,
and he was able to spend the hours before the carriages left for Hogsmeade
studying. Or at least attempting to study. The euphoric high he'd been riding
denied any real fulfillment of his intentions.
They were meeting in Hogsmeade, in the Three Broomsticks. That was what Harry
had said, anyway. Draco had objected at first – why should Harry have to be the
one to travel first from France and then to Hogsmeade? – but in the non-
confrontationally blunt order that was so typical of Harry, Draco had simply
been told that "that was what was going to happen, and if you try to meet me
somewhere else then we'll just end up missing each other in transit". How could
Draco object to that? Besides, he was just too excited with the prospect of
actually seeing Harry to really have any objection.
As the Hogwarts bell chimed nine-o'clock in the morning, Draco was already
waiting at the gates. There was only a handful of students alongside him, yet
none that he was familiar enough to converse with. His friends knew he was
heading into Hogsmeade to meet Harry – Blaise had complained dryly that it was
about the only thing he spoke of in the days leading up to the weekend – and
had respectfully declined accompaniment. Ron attempted casualness in his claim
that it was too cold to venture out before ten o'clock anyway, while Hermione
hadn't even bothered with an excuse. Draco saw the kindness his friends
afforded him for what it was. After all, it was hardly cold enough to wear a
jacket.
The trip into Hogsmeade seemed to take an abnormally long time, though Draco
knew for a fact that the thestrals were moving no faster or slower than they
ever did. The watch he had inherited from his father indicated as much if
nothing else. It was barely a fifteen minute ride from the gates of Hogwarts to
the first buildings of Hogsmeade.
The little town was just waking up when he stepped from the carriage. Largely
composed of one main street of shops branching off into smaller side streets
for residencies, Draco could glean in one sweep of his eyes the flip of signs
in shop windows and the flicker of candles as they burst into light to
illuminate the interior of the cosy vendors. The Three Broomsticks would have
been open for at least an hour already – courtesy of the early morning drinkers
of Smack-Brown that Madame Rosemerta had just recently begun importing. Draco
couldn't get a taste for the stuff, though Ron professed it provided a
wonderful kickstart to the day.
Heading towards the little inn, Draco paused briefly at Honeydukes. It was a
spur of the moment decision; normally he would decline being seen in such a
shop by himself. A Malfoy buying candy was simply too embarrassing to
contemplate without the excuse of his friends' presence. But Draco knew that,
despite his rabbit-like appetite, Harry had a surprisng sweet tooth when it
came to confectionary. Draco couldn't prevent a half-grin from curling his lips
as he purchased a bag of Jingle Fruits; the wide smile and dancing eyes Harry
had given him as he'd witnessed the decorative candies break heartily into song
for the first time was one of Draco's fondest memories. One of many.
There were perhaps six people in the Three Broomsticks when Draco entered. A
trio of men were leaning heavily on a table with their Smack-Brown playing
Black-Knuckle poker to the sound of moans as their cards objected to dismal
play. Across the room, just as Draco stepped up to the bar, a pair of middle
aged women were joined by an elderly man. Their cackles of laughter and barkng
words rung throughout the room by the time he made it to his seat with a cup of
tea and warm pastry.
The time difference favoured France by one hour, but Draco knew it would take
Harry around three hours to travel back to Paris by carriage and at least
another half an hour to pass through the International Portkey terminal and
apparate from London to Hogsmeade. Still, it didn't stop him from glancing up
excitedly every time the door swung open in the next half an hour. The room
rapidly filled, at least two dozen more patrons both students and otherwise
filing through the door before the hour was out.
It was quite a surprise, then, considering his fatalistic outlook to the wait,
when just after the town bell indicated ten o'clock the door swung inwards and
Harry stepped through. Draco, sipping on another cup of tea, nearly gagged in
surprise, just barely managing to settle the cup back into its saucer before he
lunged to his feet. He was started across the room in moments.
Harry was peering around the room curiously, scanning the mixture of townsfolk
and students but with a slight, purposeful frown upon his forehead. Even as
Draco wove his way across the room, he drank in the sight of his partner with
hungry eyes. Harry had only a moment to notice him, his eyes widening and a
smile unfurling upon his lips, before Draco caught him in an embrace tighter
than he'd ever given. The crushing coil of arms that slid around his own waist
followed not a moment later.
Harry was warm. So warm, on a level that had nothing to do with body heat. The
feel of his body against Draco was so natural, so missed, that he had to bite
back a whimper at the very rightness of it as it slid into place like a
perfectly carved puzzle peace. Turning his head slightly, Draco pressed his
lips to the top of Harry's head and simply inhaled the scent of him. Harry's
scent, mixed with a faint, soft citrus. Soap? Draco had of close his eyes,
overwhelmed, simply to revel in the familiarity.
"I missed you… so much."
The words could have come from Draco's mouth without him realising but
surprisingly it was Harry that spoke first. The words were muffled, a mumble
against the wool of Draco's jumper so that he could barely hear it. But the
sentiment resounded, even if Draco struggled to perceive the words. The faint
waver in Harry's voice, so clearly flooded with emotion even when barely
audible, spoke words of its own.
Pulling away barely an inch, Draco raised one hand to cup Harry's cheek.
Tilting the soft, pale, chin, he stroked a thumb over cheekbones, gently
parting the tendrils of fringe that had fallen across Harry's face to hook on
his glasses. He couldn't seem to stop touching, feeling, looking, simply
knowing that Harry was here with him. Has it truly only been three weeks?
On a spur of the moment need, in a bout of unrestrained emotion, Draco dipped
his head and pressed his lips onto Harry's. They were cool – Harry was always
fairly cool – but soft and sweet and altogether familiar in a way that caused
Draco's mind to slow, his thoughts to seize. It was all he could do to lift his
other hand to Harry's nape, locking them together more fiercely. Harry seemed
to melt into him, taking and returning the motions with kiss after kiss, lips
parting and breath whispering warmly. It was like –
"Awwww, how sweet!"
The words, accompanied by fond laughter and a piercing wolf whistle, were about
the only thing that could have dragged Draco back to reality. Flinching
slightly at the reminder of his audience, Draco pulled away from the contact
and cast a glare over his shoulder. Finnigan. Of course it would be a
Gryffindor who interrupted them. And of course it would be Gryffindors and Co.
who peered at them eagerly as though watching a well-performed stage show. The
chuckles and simpering murmurs of "they're so cute together" and "ah, I want a
boyfriend tooooo" nearly brought a twitch to Draco's eye. In that moment, his
newfound leniency for the house of red and gold shattered to pieces. Bloody,
sodding –
"Um, maybe we should…?"
Glancing abruptly back towards Harry, just like that Draco immediately forgot
his irritation for Finnigan. Harry's lips were reddened and parted, face
slightly flushed, a mixture of embarrassment and arousal, and his widened eyes
flickered between Draco and their onlookers in combined amusement and
mortification. But he didn't pull away – thank Merlin, for Draco wouldn't have
been able to stand that – but rather waited for Draco to give him some
indication of appropriate response.
Taking a step backwards, Draco slipped his hand into Harry's, their familiar
and ever-present hand-hold, and tugged him towards the back of the Three
Broomsticks. Another wolf-whistle chased them, causing Harry to duck his head
and his cheeks to flush even further, but Draco ignored them. The back room of
the inn was reserved for evening meets; hard alcohol was only served in the
little ten-by-ten room crammed with more chairs and tables than Draco thought
entirely necessary and a slightly elevated stage for some kind of performer. He
didn't like to think of what kind; Rosemerta's establishment was respectable on
the surface but people did like their hobbies.
As soon as the door swung shut, the noise of the Three Broomsticks muffled to a
mere murmur of background white noise. It was like sinking into water, the
drone of constant chatter immediately obliterated into neglibility. Draco knew
Rosmerta was generally unwilling to allow students – or anyone, for that matter
– into the back room before seven o'clock at night, but the relieved slump to
Harry's shoulders made it worth it facing her wrath.
Easing further into the room, tugging Harry behind him, Draco turned at the
furthest wall and drew the other boy into an embrace once more. Harry wrapped
his arms around him once more willingly, forcefully even, and Draco found
himself slumping back onto a table in a half-seat. The hard edge of timber was
uncomfortable against the back of his legs but he didn't mind. Harry was with
him, right here with him, and he wouldn't move for the world.
There was something to be said for the effects of distance and time. Memories
were left to stew melancholically behind, dwelling upon every opportunity
missed. Upon ceasing such separation, everything seemed intensified tenfold.
Draco missed Harry, missed him so much, and oddly the ache in his chest at his
absence was only crushed more tightly in a merciless iron fist with their
reunion. He couldn't stop touching him, just feeling him, knowing he was there
with him. He stroked his hand through hair, over cheeks, pressing a soft kiss
to lips and trailing fingers over jacketed arms. Anything to get closer.
Harry seemed just as eager to lock himself onto Draco. Each kiss was
reciprocated with another to the lips, the jawline, a soft peck on Draco's
throat that caused him to loose a soft moan. Harry's small hands were forever
locked on the front of Draco's jacket, their apparent delicacy contrasting to
the strength of their grasp.
Between kisses, Draco gasped out barely intelligible words. "You… you're back.
I didn't think you'd… you'd be here so soon –"
"Monsieur Charlet, he took me early. I… I asked him a favour. He's really very
nice, he –"
Draco smothered Harry's words with his lips. A flicker of unnecessary jealousy
crackled in his chest, that same irrational feeling that arose whenever Sirius
was around. He thrust it aside with barely a thought. Blurriness seemed to have
shrouded on his mind, making succinct speech impossible, words unintelligible.
He locked his lips with Harry's, slipping tonue between lips, sucking and
drawing the breath Harry released like an elixir. It left him heady.
Unconsciously, with a will of their own, Draco's hands slid beneath Harry's
jacket, locking behind his back and tugging him tightly against him. Not close
enough, never close enough, but nearly. Beneath the thick garment Harry wasn't
cold, but warm. His back was warmer than Draco's fingers as he slipped them
beneath his shirt, revelling in the softness of skin on skin. His fingertips
trailed down the length of Harry's spine.
One of them moaned around the pressure of an unbroken kiss, through the gentle
tug of teeth on lips. Draco felt his breath come faster, could feel Harry's own
gasp and hitch as he traced circles on his back, up to his shoulder blades and
back down to his hips. Draco was lost in the sensation, revelling in the touch,
the feel; it was so…
Not close enough.
Tugging Harry even more tightly towards him, in an grasp that knocked the
breath out of them both, Draco spun in a tight turn and easily propped Harry up
on the table he had been leaning against. Better. Much better. Closer, easier
to reach, easier to press his lips against Harry's with the slight elevation.
Harry muttered something, gasping for lost breath, but Draco barely heard,
smothering soft lips with a kiss once more.
This. This is how it should be, what I've missed. By the Gods, I missed him.
Leaning closer, Draco slid between Harry's legs, one hand running down the
length of his jeans to tug slender thighs around his waist. Another
unintelligible mutter from Harry, breathy and gasping, and Draco moaned into
his mouth as he felt the locking of legs around him tighten ever so slightly.
The tight grasp of fingers in Draco's jacket had loosened, one hand rising to
cup at Draco's neck in an almost painfully tight hold. The other rose with
almost startling swiftness to grasp at his hair, tugging the blonde locks.
Draco was hardly aware. He was lost in the sensation of his tongue in Harry's
mouth, his hands on his back, kneading into warm skin and holding them
together. The pressure of his growing arousal ached in his trousers, pressing
firmly into Harry's hip. His head was warm, the clouds dampening thoughts like
cotton wool. So good, it felt just so good to be close… His hands trailed lower
beneath Harry's shirt, holding and always pressing them together, closer and
closer. Fingers slipped beneath the edge of jeans, digging into hip bones,
running over the smoothness of buttocks and slightly lower to –
"…co, Draco! P-please, I…could you… please stop! I can't –"
Reality hit him like a dash of cold water to the face. Draco was wrenched from
the clouds of his heady arousal. He froze, a rabbit caught by the hypnosis of a
snake, and slowly, blearily, blinked himself into clarity. He stared into
Harry's face, so close to his own, as he too blinked rapidly. Not in kindred
arousal, however, but with sickly pale skin. His eyes were impossibly wide
behind his glasses, nearly overflowing with tears, heaving pants not from
passion but from fear…
Draco stumbled backwards, nearly crashing into the cluttered table and chairs
behind him. Like a repressed memory suddenly making itself screamingly known,
the reality of the past few frantic moments became apparent. The press of
contact, of skin on skin, the whimper of unease Draco had taken as a sigh of
pleasure. The tightening of thighs as Draco forced his way between then,
struggling to urge him away, hands locked on his neck and tangled in hair not
drawing him closer but attempting to push him away. He hadn't noticed, hadn't
been aware… hadn't heard or felt or seen any of it. What had been so obvious.
Harry was shaking on his perch on the table. He was blinking rapidly in an
attempt to hold back tears, shaking his head and sending loose tendrils of
fringe whipping back and forth. One hand, fingers trembling faintly, was raised
to his mouth, covering half his face while the other dug clutched at his
collar. His shoulders shook in repressed sobs and he seemed to curl in upon
himself.
Draco recoiled. Any trace of arousal he had felt was extinguished like a
smothered flame. Horror gripped him and shook him like a wolf wrenching its
unfortunate prey into unconsciousness. He slumped backwards, leaning heavily
upon the table behind him, and slowly brought both hands up to cover his own
face. He couldn't look at Harry, couldn't… he couldn't look, because…
Just this morning, this very morning, he'd sworn that he wouldn't push him.
Just like he have every morning, every day, since they'd first confessed their
feelings to one another. Draco cringed, bile rising in his throat. What did I
do? What have I done to him? Merlin, I'm disgusting, how could I…?
It took a herculanean effort of will to drop his hands enough to peer across
the short distance between them. His gorge rose once more, self-disgust sending
a roaring cry through his ears. Harry had stopped shaking his head, had dropped
his hand from his mouth to clasp around the other held to his collar, but the
tears still glistened in his eyes. His lower lip trembled faintly, and he
seemed to be placing an equal amount of effort that Draco invested into
maintaining steady breathing. Horribly, at the neck of his jacket that slumped
half off his shoulders, Draco saw a deep red impression of fingernail marks
raked across his collarbone.
Me. I did that; it was my fault he did that to himself. Draco struggled with
the urged to drop to the floor and beg for forgiveness. He wanted to apologise,
wanted to babble excuses and renounce himself for his mistake. But his throat
felt painfully tight. Raw, as though he'd been shouting.
"I… I'm so, so sorry."
The worst part was that when the words finally came, it wasn't even Draco who
uttered them.
===============================================================================
 
Draco didn't know how long they remained in Rosmerta's back room, simply
staring at one another. It could have been hours; they could have wasted an
entire day and Draco wouldn't have known. He was simply locked in an unwinnable
battle, struggling with his desire to stare imploringly at Harry and to attempt
to shrink into the floor. Harry slowly regained a semblance of control, yet
kept his head bowed and eyes trained fixedly on the floor. His brow was
impressed in lines of worry, of self-deprecation, that Draco wanted nothing
more than to smooth away. He wouldn't, though. He wouldn't touch Harry again.
Eventually, it was Rosmerta who drew them from their silence. The bustling,
curly-haired woman strode into the room like a descending storm cloud of
flapping blue robes. A sudden influx of chattering and laughter tagged behind
her before the door swung shut behind her.
"Right, you pair, you can't be back here any longer. I've been lenient but you
need to…"
Draco didn't know whether it was his own expression or that of distress and
trauma that shone in Harry's eyes that caused the woman to stutter to a halt.
He bowed his head under her questioning gaze, flinching slightly as, from his
periphery, she turned her head between himself and Harry. He and Harry. Draco
could have died from the shame, the self-loathing, and it wasn't even that the
woman was witnessing it so much as that she saw it, saw what had happened to
Harry and realised. And if she saw, then that meant it was painful enough,
crippling enough, that Harry couldn't even hide the hurt.
Harry always hid his hurt. Always. He hated people to see. It was just another
part of what made him Harry. It was heartbreaking.
"I think you need to head on back to school. The both of you." Rosmerta's voice
was quiet, hushed even, but there was an edge of urgency to it that urged Draco
into action where he had previously been locked in the throughs of immobility.
Nodding his head in a jerking spasm, Draco pushed himself off the table and
reached out to Harry, offered his hand –
And stopped short. Harry didn't flinch away from him, but neither did he reach
forward to take it.
Only faintly aware of Rosmerta as witness, Draco swallowed around the rawness
of his throat and struggled for words. "Harry? We should… can you… do you
think...?"
His words were a garbled mess, but Harry seemed to understand them well enough.
He nodded and with almost cringing slowness eased himself from the table. Draco
had to fight not to offer him a hand once more; it would likely only make the
situation worse. Rosemerta led them from the room. Her pointed stare was
piercingly sharp.
The chatter of conversation felt hollow on Draco's ears, and he was horribly
aware of the lack of Harry's hand in his own. He doubted he was the only one,
if the slight muting of voices as they passed was anything to go by. He didn't
meet anyones eyes; his shame was too strong to lift his gaze from the floor.
Not public shame, no. This was a different kind, one Draco had very rarely
experienced and never with such intensity.
He wasn't quite sure how they made it back to the school. Hell, Draco wasn't
even certain until he climbed into the carriage that Harry was even following
him. They were silent in their progress, silent when they climbed from the
carriage once more at the gates of Hogwarts. They didn't even discuss where
they were going. Somewhere in the back of Draco's consciousness, he recalled
that Harry had told him he'd asked McGonagall's permission to stay in
Featherwood's old rooms if he chanced a visit, rather than the guest rooms that
were provided for the occasional family visits. It was a testament to how fond
the Headmistress was of Harry that she agreed almost instantly. He didn't even
consider that, however. Subconsciously his feet just naturally trekked along
the familiar path to Harry's old rooms, eased the blackwood door open and
slipped into the darkness beyond. The door clicked behind them both with an
ominous snick.
They stood across from one another in the middle of the living room. Neither
raised their eyes from the thick carpet underfoot, staring as though they were
both expert rugmakers fixated by a masterpiece. Draco busied himself with
shrugging off his jacket and folding it with unnecessary precsion before
placing it on the sofa. He tried not to let it pain him that the low-lying
coffee table stood between them, yet if he was honest with himself he could
hardly blame Harry. What he'd done was unforgiveable.
I pushed myself on him, when all this time I've sworn I wouldn't. I'm no better
than Defaux. The thought sent a swirl of nausea flooding into Draco's mouth;
this one was harder to dispel. He managed though, and with a similarly physical
strain he forced himself to speak.
"Harry, I am… I am so sorry. I can't…" Draco bit his lip, struggling with the
upwelling of emotion that seized his chest. "I can't possibly ask for your
forgiveness, not after I what I've done, but I swear on my life that I will
never, ever let it happen again." He blinked rapidly to clear his eyes of their
sudden blurriness, chin rising with a struggle to stare at Harry in search of a
response. Any response.
Harry was shaking his head resolutely. Quick jerks of his head, eyes still
downcast, forehead still wrinkled. Draco felt the seizng in his chest intensify
painfully until Harry spoke. "No, Draco, it's not your fault. I should be the
one apologising." He bit his lip as it began to quiver once more. "I'm so sorry
that I put you through that, it was just so sudden and… I was stupid, it was
stupid. I'm sorry. I couldn't –"
Before Draco realised what he was doing, he scooted around the table and,
tilting his head slightly, placed himself directly in Harry's line of sight.
Slowly, hesitantly, and screaming at himself to not touch!, he placed his hands
on each of Harry's shoulders. It felt like he could breathe again when Harry
didn't flinch from him. He met his eyes through the thin reflection on Harry's
glasses.
"No, Harry, never that. You should never have to apologise for something like
this." Draco drew in a ragged breath, fighting against the urge to descend into
blubbers of apology. "I just missed you so much, and then you were there, and
it was all so… so everything. Overwhelming. I… I couldn't think straight." He
squeezed his eyes closed, and fought against the returning upwelling of
emotion. "Please don't apologise."
"But it's my fault."
"No, it's not –"
"Yes, Draco, it is."
Opening his eyes, Draco peered into Harry's downcast face. Just like that, so
suddenly, in that disconcerting resolution he had, Draco watched as his partner
visibly thrust aside the hurt, the pain, the memories, and shrugged on a coat
of determination. His resilience was awe-inspiring.
"I'm not normal. This isn't normal –"
'Of course, it's not normal. What happened to you –"
"Please, Draco, let me speak." Harry's words were hushed, barely a whisper, but
Draco clamped his jaw shut in an instant. He'd be just about prepared to do
anything in that moment should Harry suggest it. More so than usual, even.
Harry drew a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them,
his face, though pale, had shed the last of the terror that had been so plainly
visible since the Three Broomsticks. Only a glimmer of it remained in his eyes.
"What we have isn't normal. We should be able to… to have a physical
relationship just like anyone else. I'm holding us back, and I'm so sorry. It's
entirely my fault. Everything's my- " His voice broke, faltering on the last
word, but his face remained resolute.
Draco felt his jaw tighten with a squeak. He shook his head. "Of course it's
not normal. And no, we can't have a physical relationship. Of course we can't.
But don't you ever, for a minute, think it's your fault." He held up his hand
as Harry made to talk, and the other boy quelled obediently. "Harry, why do you
feel such responsibility for what Defaux did to you?"
"Why?" Harry lifted his chin for the first time since they'd entered the room.
He frowned. "You know why."
"What, because you supposedly 'chose' to live with him, not knowing him to be
the sick, twisted monster he is?"
"Well, w-when you say it like that…" Harry ducked his chin to avoid the
narrowing of Draco's eyes. "But not just that. It's my memories that's the
problem. They're what's getting in the way."
"So you're to blame for that too?"
"Who else?"
Draco sighed heavily. Harry seemed so adamant, so unrelenting, in his belief
that it was like attempting to strike down a wooden wall with a beaters bat. He
was just… it was just so like him in his steadfast belief in everything. With a
gentle tug, Draco pulled Harry towards the sofa. They sank down into it with a
squeak of springs. "You have a really serious guilt complex, did you know
that?"
Harry stared at him blankly for a moment before giving him a weak smile. It
held absolutely no joy and shrugged feebly. "Doesn't make it any less
warranted."
Running a hand through his hair, Draco struggled with his words momentarily.
"Harry, would you blame my mother for being cooped up in a hosptial bed for
months after what happened to her?
Harry frowned. "What? No, of course not."
"And what about me? When I get really upset, really angry, about what happened
to my f-father?"
"That's an entirely different thing."
"No. No, it's not. If anything, my own reasons are less justified than yours."
With one hand, Draco gently stroked his thumb across Harry's cheek. It was
cold, reflective of their paleness, and slightly damp as though glossed with
the sheen of unfallen tears. "But that's beside the point. The point is that
no, we don't have a normal relationship. Because ours is so much deeper than
anything anyone could possibly imagine."
"And I'm holding us back from being even more than that." Harry spoke lowly,
the shame wavering in his voice. Even in the darkness of the room, Draco could
see his eyes dull in that ever-present guilt.
"Do you think that's all I'm hanging out for? To have sex with you?"
It was the first time they'd actually spoken about it so bluntly, but for
whatever reason – the gravity of what they'd experienced, maybe – neither shied
away from the topic. Harry stared at him sadly for a moment, catching his
bottom lip between his teeth. "I'd understand if you –"
"Because I'm not. I mean," Draco hissed through his teeth in frustration.
"Don't think I don't want to. Because I do. Of course I do. I think your
beautiful, Harry, the most beautiful person I've ever met, and whenever I think
about you I can't help but fantasise about it. What would you expect, what
could anyone expect, but to feel that way about the person they love?
"But you can't. Not yet, and maybe not ever. And I swear, Harry, that doesn't
change how I feel at all." Draco paused, fixing Harry with a stare and trying
to convey all of his feelings through his eyes, through his body, if nothing
else. "I mean it. I'd love you anyway, even if such an eventuality never came
to pass. I'd follow you like a stupid little puppy to the ends of the world
without you dangling the bone of the possibility of sex. I swear to Merlin I
would."
Harry's eyes were wide. They'd widened, incredulous, to the degree that they
seemed to fill his whole face. Draco sighed heavily once more and felt his
shoulders slump. He tried not to feel down-hearted about it, but it hurt to
think that Harry believed him so driven by lust that he would overlook his love
for him. Draco had thought his feelings were obvious. He'd never been more
obvious with his feelings. Ever.
"I never thought… I mean, I just always considered that to be, you know, what
you were supposed to…" Harry stuttered, struggling to wrap his tongue around
his words. "I just… whenever my u-uncle… he was always… It was always just
about sex. When he brought women home, sometimes, when I was younger, it was
always just for the sex."
"So you just thought I was the same?: It was a struggle for Draco to keep his
voice mellow.
Shaking his head, Harry raised a hand and cupped it around Draco's fingers,
pressing them gently into his own cheek. "Of course not. I don't think you're
like that, Draco." He took a deep breath, a sigh that seemed to flush all of
the energy out of him. With a sudden slump, he fell forward and dropped his
forehead into Draco's shoulder. An arm slipped around Draco's waist, holding
tightly like a lost child clinging to the sanctuary that was their mother.
"It's just that… it always seemd the most… it seemed pretty important. I've
never really been in a… a relationship. The only thing I have had was just all
about… the physical.'
Naturally, the shame descended once more at Harry's words. Draco scolded
himself for the pettiness of his disgruntlement. All about the sex. Of course,
that was all Harry had ever had before. Why wouldn't he think that Draco was
driven by similar desires? Even with what they had, that which was so different
from the possessive, abusive relationship Harry had been trapped in with
Defaux, it was natural to think as much.
His thoughts were cut off when Harry continued. "Thank you, Draco. For being so
patient with me."
Draco snorted at the sudden randomness of the statement. "I don't think
patience has much to do with it. Patience insinuates conscious effort. There's
not even a question on the table, Harry. If I had to forego sex to be your
lover – if… I guess if that actually makes sense…" He paused, frowned for a
moment before shaking his head and continuing resolutely. "Then I'd do it in a
heartbeat." He felt a smirk quirk his lips; now there were words he never
thought he'd utter.
Harry sighed heavily into his shoulder. He uttered a faint murmur, muffled
against Draco's coat.
"What was that."
"…said I wouldn't blame you, if you wanted to… with someone else…"
It took a while to comprehend what Harry meant. When he did, an upwelling of
anger painted Draco's vision red. How could he think that? After what Draco had
just said, how could Harry think that he would pursue someone else? He had to
bite his lip until the skin nearly split, suppressing a shudder that would fuel
a bark of reprimand to the boy curled tightly into his chest. With a struggle,
Draco moderated his tone enough to speak. "Please never suggest something like
that again. Harry, I don't want anyone if it's not you."
The answering murmur, followed by the faintly wet warmth as silent tears
dribbled past Draco's jacket and into his cotton shirt, swept aside the anger
like a broom through dust. With barely a shift in position, Draco tugged Harry
into a soft, gentle embrace. The two lost themselves in the silence of the dark
room, rocking gently and simply absorbing one another's presence. The sheer
emotion that roiled around them actually made pinpricks of blurriness spark in
Draco's own eyes. The entire situation, it was… it was so messed up.
Finally, so long after Harry had shed his final tear that Draco's shirt was
nearly dry, he spoke once more. "I think I should see someone."
Draco blinked out of his semi-daze. "Hmm?"
"A counsellor or someone. A therapist. Sirius has been suggesting, though he
suggests it more for what happened at school last year." A faint tremble
quivered through Harry's shoulders, but he otherwise gave no indication that
the mention of the Battle fazed him.
"Are you having a bad time of it with that too?"
Harry shrugged. "Not… really."
"It's not a bad thing, you know. I've been seeing someone for the last couple
of weeks."
Leaning back slightly, Harry looked up into Draco's eyes. Surprise was writ
within them like glowing candles. "You? You're seeing a counsellor?" He paused,
frowning curiously. "You didn't tell me."
Draco shifted uncomfortably. There's nothing wrong with it, stop being such an
idiot. 'Like I said, it's not a big thing. The ministry sent out some
designated officials to help some of the students. They've actually been quite
good."
Harry blinked at him blankly for several moments before a small smile settled
on his lips. "I'm glad."
Draco cleared his throat. "Well, what I mean is, I think it might be able to
help with some of the trouble's you're having. If that's what you want. About
the Battle of Hogwarts and… other things."
Nodding slowly, Harry licked his lips. He seemed to struggle with what he
wanted to say for a moment. "Yes, other things. I said to myself that if my
memories, if dealing with my past, gets in the way of what I really want, then
I would do as Sirius suggested." He glanced upwards at Draco once more. "I'd
say they're getting in the way."
"Oh?"
"Draco, don't think you're the only one who wants to move our relationship in a
different direction. I do. I really do. I just seem to be rather pulling it
backwards rather than leading it forwards."
Raising an eyebrow, Draco couldn't help a half-smile curling his lips. "Is that
right?"
'Make a snide comment, Draco Malfoy, and I'll cuff your ear so hard you'll be
hearing echoes for a week."
"Oh, like you would, little mister pacifist."
"I would. I'm warning you."
Draco chuckled softly, and even Harry allowed himself to allow a wavering smile
to grow upon his lips. The memory of that morning still hung ominously nearby,
but for now, they had moved past it. They'd worked through it, and would
continue to work through it. Whenever the needed to.
Neither were inclined to meet up with the rest of their friends that afternoon.
And whether if was by chance or respectful distancing, none of their friends
attempted to breach their time together either. Draco and Harry spent the rest
of the day curled against one another, talking gently as much as they lazed
silently, and eventually fell into bed beside one another with fingers tangled
as though glued together. It was the best nights sleep Draco had spent since
returning to Hogwarts
The next morning, when they came down to the Great Hall, there was a shriek of
delight the moment they stepped through the door. Draco wasn't the only one
surprised when his eyes drew towards Luna Lovegood as the individual
responsible for emitting such a sound. He hadn't even known the girl capable of
making noises above a dreamy murmur.
Regardless, the blonde Ravenclaw nearly flew across the room towards them and
skidded to a halt inches before Harry. For his part, Harry didn't appear
surprised at all by the display. Draco had to wonder exactly what went on in
the Care of Magical Creatures classes if he didn't bat an eyelid at Luna's
strange response. At least she didn't try to hug him; odd though she was, at
least she seemed aware of some very important boundaries.
"It's so wonderful to see you, Harry," she said. And there was her dreamy
voice, affixed once more as though she had never shed it. It was even more
disconcerting after her recent impersonation of a harpy.
"You too, Luna. How are you enjoying the chimaera?"
"Oh, absolutely lovely. Hagrid managed to get us a specialist incursiin with a
baby last Friday. It was such a sweet little creature. Barely stood five feet
tall."
Draco smothered a snort and had to actively fight to refrain from rolling his
eyes. Small at five feet tall? He didn't want to know what Luna deemed 'large'.
By that point, Blaise, Hermione and Ron had joined them. Hermione beamed
adoringly and wrapped Harry in a slow, gentle hug, while Ron settled for an
attempt at a manly handshake from his levitating chair. Blaise slapped the
redhead's hand away moments later with a snort of exasperation to engulf Harry
in a tight embrace that put Hermione's to shame.
"I missed you, my little friend! So sorry I couldn't see you off when you
left."
"Not at all, Blaise. Did you enjoy Italy? I don't remember you ever saying
where you were going."
Blaise smiled brightly; Draco knew of his love for his native country. Blaise
always spoke of it with such pride. "Roma!Città della mia nascita." He
gesticulated in the air with a flourish. Harry gave a slowly widening smile.
"Really? You're from Rome? Ah, che bello! Mi piacerebbe visitare un giorno..."
Draco had to raise a hand to cover his smirk at that. More, really, at the
expressions of stunned surprise blossoming on Blaise, Hermione and Ron's faces.
Not Luna's, funnily enough, but Draco wouldn't have been surprised if she
simply hadn't heard. She appeared to be staring at something rather fascinating
on the distant wall of the Hall.
"Y-you speak Italian?" Blaise spluttered, jaw falling open.
Harry, his smile faltering slightly, shrugged one shoulder. "A little bit,
yeah."
"You can…"
"Harry has something of a gift for languages," Draco drawled, as though it were
hardly worth commenting on. "What was it, Harry? English, French, Spanish and a
bit of Italian. And I'm missing one…"
"A very little bit of German, too, though I'm not very good at it. I haven't
spent much time learning –"
"That's fascinating!" Hermione burst in interruption. She looked as though she
had just unearthed a treasure trove. Or, probably more appropriately, a hidden
library of wonders. She'd risen onto the balls of her feet and leant towards
Harry with eyes gleaming. "I never knew, though I suppose it's natural for you
to be able to pick up languages fairly easily, what with being bilingual at
such a young age. And the Romantic languages are relatively similar –"
"Hermione, he's not a bloody encyclopedia," Ron sighed, exasperated. "Give him
some credit where credit is due."
Hermione started, surprised, and pulled back slightly. "Oh. Oh, no," She
flapped her hands beseechingly at Harry. "I'm not overlooking your talent or
anything –"
"Don't worry about it, Hermione, really, it's hardly a –"
"I only meant to comment on the theoretical learning experience; really, it's
only natural to suppose –"
"Hermione, my dear, it is far too early for such in-depth consideration of
measures of intelligence." Blaise raised a hand to his head, brow crinkling as
though physically pained by her rambling. "Please, save it for tomorrow when
you're tutoring me in Transfiguration."
Draco and Harry shared a smile as they followed their friends to the Slytherin
table. Hermione was still professing her 'innocence' of monologuing while
Blaise and Ron good-naturedly bemoaned her excuses. They settled down for a
quick breakfast, conversing in jovial tones throughout. It was funny, Draco
considered, how the addition of one more person, the visit of a single friend,
could smother the natural inclination of them all to speak in hushed tones as
was want to be done in the Great Hall.
The rest of the day passed easily in the comfort of one anothers company.
Outside, mostly, soaking in the sun in preparation for the approaching winter.
Luna joined them for most of the day – though Draco would frequently glance up
to find her disappeared, only to turn to his side half an hour later to have
her reappeared again – and at one point Theodore Nott. Even Mandy Brocklehurst
joined them briefly; a friend of sorts of Harry's from Care of Magical
Creatures, she drilled him impersonally on his new school, Hermione's
assistance only fuelling the fire of questions. Harry took it all in stride,
however, indulging their dual thirst for knowledge.
By mid afternoon, their little group had drifted to the Black Lake. Luna
commented idly on whether they may be able to draw Squirt's attention – the
name of the young hydra still caused Blaise and Ron to descend into snickers –
and put on a rather amusing show for them all by conducting what appeared to be
an interpretive dance of sorts in the shallows to 'attract the hydra's
attention'. Hermione covered her face in embarrassment while the other two boys
encouraged her with glowing praise that she didn't seem to hear. Harry watched
her with an indulgent smile on his face, and Draco couldn't find it in himself
to even feel pity for the blonde-haired girl. She was strange, but anything
that could make Harry smile like that held a place of fondness in Draco's
heart.
As the sun began to die down, Draco found himself sprawled lazily on the grass
with Harry curled sleepily into his side. Ron had levered himself from his
chair and was propped up on the ground next to Hermione, looking intensely
bored with something she was attempting to explain to him, while Blaise
appeared thoroughly befuddled by the speckled collection of leaves Luna was
attempting to engross him in. Draco's eyes drew towards the horizon, watching
regretfully as the sun sank lower. Harry would have to leave by five o'clock
that evening to make the portkey in time. It was nearly four already.
"Oi, Harry." Ron's voice broke the mellow buzz of quiet conversation. Draco
felt Harry twist into sitting but didn't raise his own head.
"Hmm?"
"You've gotta tell me, please."
"What?"
"Music. The music. Neville won't spill and tell me what he's playing."
Hermione sighed loudly. Knowing her, Draco suspected it was more that she had
been interrupted than that she truly reprimanded Ron's questioning. Scolding as
she may be at his attempts to tease Neville, she couldn't quite hide her own
curiostiy as to his instrumental specialisation. Hence the silence, Draco
assumed.
"Um… did he not want to tell you?" Harry asked.
"He won't tell me what the instrument is." As Draco propped himself up on his
elbows, he saw familiardisgruntlement settle on Ron's face.
Harry pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Sorry, Ron, I think you're probably going
to have to wait until he wants to tell you about this one."
"What? Come on, Harry, you've got to give me some fodder for the flames. Bloody
git didn't even bother to visit us today when he could have. That deserves some
sort of punishment."
"It wasn't his fault entirely." From his tone, Harry seemed to be suppressing a
smile. "He promised Aime he'd help with the Botanique on Thursday but skipped
the study session to play quidditch instead. Aime said as payback Neville had
to help on the weekend."
"Serves him right," Hermione muttered, but there was only affection in her
tone.
"Aime? Who's Aime?" Ron frowned, his face darkening. "What's she to Neville? I
swear, if he's cheating on Ginny…"
Harry tilted his head, frowning with what Draco perceived as false
consideration. "No, I'm fairly certain Neville's not gay."
"What?" Ron blinked, face blanking to the sound of Blaise's sniggers.
"Aime's a boy."
Even Hermione's shoulders trembled in her amusement as they all descended into
fits of giggles. Ron had the grace to look embarrassed. "Shut it, you lot."
There was no heat to his words, however, and he didn't seem particularly put
off. "Still, you have to tell me. Is Nev really so bad at music that he doesn't
want us to know?"
"Not at all," Harry replied, shaking his head firmly. "Neville's far better at
playing than I am."
"Oh, what do you play, Harry? I never got around to asking you in our letters."
Hermione leant forward curiously in her seat, elbowing Ron as he made to
reattempt his own questioning.
"Harry plays piano," Luna chimed in. "And he's actually quite good at it. He's
just being humble."
"How would you know?" Blaise rolled his eyes at the Ravenclaw girl. "You
haven't even heard him play."
"No, I haven't, but I still know. Us musicians, we have a sense for this sort
of thing." Luna nodded her head solemnly, ignoring Blaise's snort and mumbled
"you, a musician?"
Draco edged forwards behind Harry, wrapping an arm around his waist and
dropping his chin to his shoulder from behind. "I haven't heard him either,
though I wouldn't be surprised if Luna was right on this one. You're pretty
much good at anything you try." He met Harry's sidelong grin and pressed a kiss
to his cheek.
"I think you have far too much confidence in my abilities, Draco." That
indulgent smile made it only too easy for Draco to ignore Blaise's
demonstration of dry heaving. He was simply happy to see Harry in relative ease
after what had happened the day before. Blaise could be as 'disgusted' as he
wished.
Unfortunately, five o'clock came all too soon. Their friends silently agreed to
give Draco and Harry a few more moments of privacy, waving in farewell as they
left them at the gates leading from the Hogwarts grounds. Draco could still
hear the distant shouts of Blaise cursing Ron for ramming the back of his
ankles minutes after they left. He barely spared it half a thought, however.
They stood silently, foreheads resting gently upon one anothers. It was
relaxing, comforting, being so simply and easily close. It cradled the growing
ache in Draco's chest at the prospect of Harry leaving. He knew it was only for
a week this time – he did know this – but it hardly seemed to matter to the
dancing elves making mince meat of his guts, stringing them into painful ropes
of sadness.
"I'll see you next weekend, Draco."
Draco nodded his head slightly. "You will. I'm coming to see you this time."
"I'll meet you at the terminal?"
"Of course. As early as I can get away from school."
"Don't push yourself. I can wait if I have to."
Sighing heavily, Draco wrapped an arm around Harry's shoulders. "You might be
able to but I can't." He swallowed the tickle in his throat. "Make sure you
write this week. Even though I'll be seeing you on Saturday."
"Of course. First thing I'll do when I get back to the dormitories."
"It better be."
They shared a smile. It was a smile loaded with meaning, a little happy, a
little sorrowful, and swimming in love.
"I love you. Always will."
"I love you too. Always." After the events of the weekend, those words so often
exchanged seemed even more truthful.
After a brief kiss, soft and gentle, Harry cracked into disappearance. The road
felt terribly bare to Draco, left by himself. Alone. Yet he waited in the
silence of encroaching nightfall until the sun fully disappeared beneath the
horizon before turning and making his lonely way back to the school.
Chapter End Notes
     A/N: Demanding? Yes, I am. But please review and let me know what you
     think! Please please please! Thanks to everyone who has commented so
     far; I really appreciate it xx
***** Seeking Help *****
Chapter Notes
     A/N: Thank you, thank you, thank you, to the wonderful bafflinghaze,
     Psiidmon and shadow_faye. Thanks so much you guys for commenting;
     you're such awesome support and I really love hearing from you. Enjoy
     some fluff!
"Dammit, Aime, I told you not to press the top of the stem! If you're going to
try and maneuver it at all, you've got to grip it just near the roots!"
Neville's voice spluttered from across the table, causing everyone in their
little group of six to glance towards him. Harry similarly raised his gaze from
his own Egg-Milk sapling, from the small scalpel scraping over the leaves to
collect the faintest layer of slime exuded through microscopic pores. He had to
drop his chin nearly immediately a moment later to hide the smile spreading
across his lips.
Neville was a mess of yellow-white gunk, the stringy fluid dripping from his
face in a slow ooze and onto the table and pot of the pale sapling he hung
above. The smell of rotten eggs wafted from his direction with startling speed
and intensity. Already Melody and Madalane had shuffled their equipment further
up the bench in an attempt to escape the pervasive stench.
Aime at Neville's side was bent nearly double clutching his belly, shaking in
cackles of laughter. The withering glare Neville bestowed upon him only seemed
to make the curly-haired brunette laugh harder.
"Y-you… you're face! Oh, Neville, you're going to stink for a solid week at
best!"
Fumbling around blindly on the bench, Neville snatched up a dirt-rag and mopped
at his cheeks. His glare was broken by violent scrubs that only seemed to smear
the milky yellow substance for which the plant was named even more rather than
cleaning it. Grumbles were muffled by his motions but the sentiment was loud
enough that Aime was sent into a renewed bout of laughter.
Taking pity upon his friend, Harry abandoned his own sapling momentarily and
skirted around the table to his friend's side. "Here, Neville, put it down for
a second."
Neville, dropping the rag, gave Harry a gratuitous glance before quickly
falling back to glaring at Aime. Harry swept his hand over his face, not quite
touching, and in moments the sticky, gelatinous substance was magically pooled
into a waiting collection cup.
"Thanks, Harry." Neville smiled. Harry shrugged, nodding in acceptance. He left
Neville to his scolding of Aime, falling back to Tali's side and his attention
to their sapling.
"Ah, great! Look at that, nearly a whole cup of it." Aime grinned triumphantly
at the collection of slowly roiling egg-milk, undulating as though with a mind
of its own. "No more tedious scraping on the leaves. See, Neville? Why didn't
we just do that at the beginning of class?"
Neville scooped the cup of gunk from Aime's grabbing hands, holding it aloft.
"Because, you idiot, the person that gets sprayed by it smells like rotten egg
for over a week! And someone with alwaysget sprayed by it."
"We all have to make sacrifices, Neville."
"Yeah, well maybe it could be you next time. That's it, this is my cup, I'm not
even going to include your name on it when I hand it in. You'll have to harvest
your own all by yourself now."
Harry chortled quietly at his friend's ranting, following by the pleading whine
of Aime as he begged Neville to reconsider. It was a terribly boring lesson,
but necessary all the same. They each had to collect at least half a cup of the
substance from the saplings they had grown and nurtured from a shiny white
seed. Not only was it an assignment for Botanique but the secretion was to be
used as a supply for their next potions assessment; egg-milk was a primary
component of Repellent Potions because of their pesticide properties. The
professeurs of Potions and Botanique had collaborated for this particular task
for years.
Despite their arguing, Harry found it heartwarming to hear Neville so adamantly
argue with his friend. They'd barely known each other for a month and a half
and already were comfortable enough to whack one another over the head when
irate. Harry was relieved Neville had made such a fast friend; he remembered
the other boy's initial nervousness, his worry over his inability to
communicate and that not only would it leave him behind in classes but would
ostracise him further from his classmates.
He hardly needed to have worried. Neville had picked up French relatively
quickly, submersion and necessity bridging that which had previously held him
back, and now had a fairly solid group of friends around him. Melody and
Madalane tagged along with them just about everywhere, and Christophe and
Eloise were never far behind, though the tall, stern girl insisted she did not
"follow anyone anywhere". Aime was probably the closest of Neville's new
friends, however; Harry thought it likely a result of his similarity to Ron,
though it was mostly his constant good humour and joking attitude that bore
resemblance. In physicality they were about as different as two boys could be.
Aime was short and slight, with at least an inch or two of his already
diminutive height attributed solely to the tall fuzz of hair atop his head,
while Ron towered over even Neville, who was by no means short himself.
Glancing up from his sapling at the sound of Aime's falsely wounded tone –
Neville had smacked his hands away from the cup of egg-milk rather viciously -
Harry met Tali's eyes. She was fighting back a grin of her own, head bowed over
her own collection cup. It was a fairly regular occurrence for Aime to attempt
to skive off work and steal the scraps of notes from anyone who was foolish
enough to offer them. For in contrast to Ron's academic laziness, which was
generally a fasçade to hide his a natural intelligence, Aime simply did not
care for studies. He wasn't stupid by any stretch, but his skills lay in a
different area entirely. Harry doubted there was an instrument he couldn't
play, and his natural flamboyance lended itself to Drama. Giving him his due,
Aime had been more than a helping hand to Neville in his introduction to
Musique et Drame. Neville shamelessly confessed that he wouldn't be half as
proficient with the saxophone as he was without Aime's help.
When the distant bell chimed for the end of class for the day, there was an
all-round sigh of relief from the entire class. Professeur Mueque didn't seem
in the least bit offended at their unanimous eagerness to depart his class,
simply offering a reminder in his aged, wavering voice to ensure all collection
cups were labelled and saplings replaced in their numbered position on the
shelves in the back room. Neville had caved grudgingly and eventually allowed
Aime to mooch off his work once more. The animated voice of the curly-haired
youth rung across the grounds as he led their class towards the nearest
elevating system – the vent tuyaux, as the students called them. Melody and
Madalane were shaking in fits of giggles as they flanked the dramatic boy, and
even Neville was unable to hide his smile.
Harry walked beside Tali as they approached the base of the Eastern Tower. Such
was usually their placement at the tail end of the group; Harry had to wonder
at Tali's hanging back from the chattering centre that was Aime with her own
love for talking, but she seemed perfectly content to spend most of her time
with Harry. They'd grown closer the two of them over the past weeks. Though she
still seemed intent on talking Harry's ear off with her quite voice that flew
at the speed of a buzzing bee, Harry found he very much enjoyed her company.
They shared much in common, surprisingly, aside from the obvious sharing of
school houses. Most prominently was a love of magical creatures; Tali wanted
nothing more than to study native marine and aquatic species in the Iberian
Peninsula one day. She professed an absolute captivation with freshwater naiads
and their jelly-turtle symbionts.
They walked in relative silence for a moment after Tali seemed to have
exhausted her supply of speculations for exactly which properties of egg-milk
they would be extricating from the pus-like solution they'd each collected.
Tali was like that; she questioned absolutely everything yet usually reached
her own conclusions based on a well of admirable deductive powers. She would
have made a fabulous lawyer in the Muggle world, or even a government official
of a Wizarding ministry had such a path interested her. As it happened, it
didn't.
Harry kept his silence, content to simply listen to her unless she expressly
requested contribution. It was an unspoken agreement in there relationship;
Tali talked and was alleviated of the responsibility of being the listener by
Harry assuming that role. It suited them both, running like clockwork. Besides,
Harry wasn't feeling much in the mood for talking that afternoon anyway. Since
class had finished, the faint uneasiness that had ridden with him the entire
day manifested as mounting nervousness. His stomach clenched with the attack of
persistent butterflies that apparently reveled in twisting his intestines into
a muddled knot.
When they reached the fork in the road – one leading down in the direction of
the student town, Riviere Ville, and the other up towards the Eastern Tower –
Harry paused in step. Tali took only a moment to remember.
"Oh, you're going into town this afternoon, aren't you?"
Harry nodded shortly, shifting his gaze towards the academy that towered
overhead. Aime had nearly disappeared up the path, his loud voice echoing over
the sparsely-treed grounds, and Melody and Madalene had raced ahead of him,
vanishing from view entirely. The rest of the small class trailed in a broken
line behind them. Neville cast a final glance over his shoulder and met his
eyes. He paused in step, offering a single, knowing nod that was followed by a
raised hand in farewell. Harry appreciated the lack of hype the other boy
caused. It would only make him more nervous.
"Did you want me to come with you?"
Glancing towards Tali, Harry blinked in surprise. Her voice was abnormally
serious, golden eyes narrowed slightly in faint worry that she made an effort
to hide. Harry had to wonder at that. He hadn't told his friend exactly why he
was visiting the town, but he had the eerie sense that she knew anyway. Tali
picked up on little things, fitting them together like pieces of a puzzle to
build a picture of her surroundings, of those she corresponded, with almost
frustrating skill. She'd frequently drop certain comments that would leave
Harry astounded with her knowledge of that which he had assumed would be keep
hidden. The Battle of Hogwarts was one such incident. The problems arising from
such, the memories of his past that were triggered by such, was another.
At her suggestion, however, Harry couldn't feel even an inkling of irritation
at her perceptiveness. Concern was too plainly writ across her face. He
struggled to offer her a reassuring smile – which obviously failed, given the
deepening of her frown – and shook his head. "It's alright. I'm fine. Thanks
anyway, Tali. I shouldn't be out too late anyway. Back before dark."
Tali pursed her lips. "I didn't mean it like that. I just thought you might
like someone to come with you."
To anyone else except Draco, Harry would likely have laughed off the
suggestion, offered his gratitude again and reassured them that he was
perfectly fine going by himself. He doubted that Tali would appreciate such
platitudes, however. Swallowing, he shook his head. "No, it's alright. I think
I'd probably prefer just to go by myself anyway."
Rather than being affronted or offended by his words, Tali's face cleared. A
thin smile pressed upon her lips. "Well, if you're sure. Just make sure you
come and talk to me before dinner, alright? Try and lock yourself away in the
library or something again and I'll hunt you down, I swear."
Harry smiled more easily at the severity of her tone. He had no doubt it was
sincere. " Of that I'm sure. But of course, I wouldn't dream of it." Turning
towards the path to town, he paused once more. "Oh, Tali?"
"Hmm?"
"Would you mind seeing if Lyssy's alright?"
"Of course? Where would I find her? Is something wrong?"
Harry shook his head, smiling ruefully. "No, there shouldn't be. This time of
the afternoon she's usually in the owlery staring at birds, but she's recently
developed a fascination with the Clyntine's giant koi."
Tali smirked, shaking her head. "Ah, I see the problem. Had some accidents, has
she?"
"Yeah, something like that. I've had to scoop her out of the pond twice
already."
Laughing quietly, Tali turned and begun to head up towards the Academy. "Sure
thing, 'Arry. I'll rescue your little damsel from distress." She waved a hand
over her shoulder, offering a fond smile. "Thanks for telling me."
Harry watched his friend turned, lengthened her stride and disappeared up the
path. It was so typical of Tali, to thank him for asking her for help. She was
odd like that; despite her deductive capabilities, she seemed so grateful
whenever Harry offered her personal information directly. Even more so when he
asked for help, as though she was genuinely warmed that he took her into his
confidence.
Maybe she just is,he pondered.It's nice, having people rely on you, even if
it's for something they're struggling with. It was a selfish thought, Harry
supposed, but no less true for it. His mind drifted naturally to Draco, or more
specifically to the events of last year, to that which had befallen his
partner's parents. It still left him with a satisfied feeling to know that what
little support he had offered Draco was appreciated.
The walk down towards Rivierie Ville was not far, thirty minutes if one idled
and wandered slowly. Harry had been required to seek express permission from
the Headmistress to leave school grounds mid-week, but when she'd been informed
of the reason she had agreed instantly. Besides, there was hardly anything to
be worried about travelling the short distance to the town, even for a student
alone. The almost laughably named 'city' was barely as large as Hogsmeade, and
history told it that it had sprung into existence almost solely on the basis of
the nearby academy's presence. Hence the aptness of the name 'student town'. It
was little more than a collection of boutique-like stores and cottage
residences that compiled made a population of something nearing one hundred.
Small, it was dwarfed even by the modest Beauxbatons population.
Beauxbatons' grounds was significantly smaller than those of Hogwarts. The
surrounding mountains and the natural topography meant that there was little
overall flatness that could be classified as 'grounds', and most of that was
covered by the surrounding forest. Only at the base of every tower was anything
that even approached the resemblance of 'open landscape', and generally barely
more than an acre before it became encroached upon by the treeline. The
greenhouses lay on the edge of one such acre, nestled in the relative shade of
trees and receiving just enough light to fuel the growth of its leafy
inhabitants. The pegasus loading station lay just down the path from Mueque's
houses.
Harry passed through the pegasus grounds to the calls of greeting from familiar
faces. Most Soin de Créatures Magiques students were on speaking terms with the
groomsmen and carriage drivers; in fact, most spent a great deal of time
pitching in a voluntary hand to simply work with the magnificent golden pegasus
native to the Pyrenees. Harry waved a hand at Jean as he passed by, stopping
briefly to stroke the snout of a mare that trotted eagerly to his side in hopes
of a treat. The horse was at least twice his height, but such enormity no
longer intimidated him as it once did. The moment of peaceful stroking put a
momentary pause to the churning in his gut.
A churning that returned with force when he made his way down the hill towards
town. The reds, yellows and browns of coniferous trees nearly overwhelmed the
last traces of greenery, giving the collection of low buildings a warm
impression. It rarely snowed in that part of the mountain ranges, with
temperatures dropping to around five degrees at its coldest. Even at nearly
four o'clock in the afternoon, dregs of sunshine still radiated heat in a humid
cloud and every wandering figure was dressed in a thin jacket at most.
There was little by way of order to the arrangement of buildings in Rivierie
Ville, ironic given the almost obsessive organisation of Beauxbatons Academy.
It would even have been difficult to distinguish shop from residency had it not
been for the artful and often elaborate signs that swung just above doors,
simplistic drawing of the wares of the shop, strewn with names in flowing
letters: Bits and Bobs, Parchment Pages, Paulo's Wine and Spirits, Little Nook
Inn, and perhaps half a dozen more. Wandering through the streets, Harry sought
out one shop in particular. Upon sighting the lazily swinging sign of 'Amelie's
Mediwares and Potions', he couldn't help his shoulders hunching slightly as the
dancing of his nerves intensified. It took an enormous amount of willpower to
push the door open to the tinkle of a bell.
The interior of the shop smelt like Madame Frescott's labs at the academy; the
musty, herby scent that was not entirely unpleasant but induced one with the
urge to sneeze. It was a dimly lit room due to the thin, drawn curtains, and
was remarkably bare as far as shops went. Two walls were stacked with a
multitude of jars and potion-making equipment, from stirring rods to small-
brewing cauldrons and elaborate scales, while the wall in which the front door
was embedded was bare save for a trio of empty wooden seats. The counter across
the room, standing between two closed doors, was unattended.
Harry paused just inside the door, shifting nervously from foot to foot. He
didn't want to be here, he was suddenly sure, but that spontaneous realisation
wouldn't entice him to leave. Forcing himself to walk towards the empty seats –
because his likelihood of fleeing was only heightened by standing – he sunk
onto the hard, flat wood of the chair. A moment later a middle-aged woman
dressed in a shawl over her robes and headscarf over mousy hair strode from the
door to the left of the counter. She paused at the sight of Harry.
"Ah, you must be…"
"I'm Harry Potter."
The woman, who Harry assumed must be the shopkeeper Amelie, offered him a short
smile and nodded her head. "You're here to see Señora Laverde?"
"Y-yes, I am."
Another nod. "Won't be a moment, I'll just let her know you've arrived." In a
sweep of skirts, Amelie vanished through the door on the right this time. There
was a soft click as it swung closed behind her on well-oiled hinges.
Harry took a deep breath, an attempt to calm himself that failed dismally.
Señora Socorro Laverde was a psychologist from the south of the Pyrenees. Not a
ministry appointed counsellor as Draco saw on a weekly basis, but an
independent mind-healer of sorts who specialised in overcoming a range of deep-
seated, long-term psychological troubles and disorders. In short, she was
exactly the sort of person that Harry needed to see.
Harry hadn't found her himself, really. Since the incident when he'd had a
panic attack of sorts with Draco, he'd been searching for an appropriate healer
who was both relatively experienced in the area he required and was not too
distantly located. He'd sought potentials with a passion that left his prior
hesitancy to do so in the dust behind him. It had been a wake-up call, what had
happened with Draco. Even in his brief slips when he recalled what had happened
in his past, with his uncle and otherwise, he would cringe so obviously that
Tali wasn't the only one who noticed.
He felt ashamed. Disgusted with himself, even. Not for the memories themselves,
exactly; though they caused him an persistent and un-ignorable amount of pain,
the primary emotion he felt to their recurring presence was irritation. Simply,
why did they have to be there? It was an annoyance that arose and swelled
irrationally and seemed to hunker itself idly in his path towards whatever task
he was presently attempting to accomplish. Nothing particularly concerning.
Except then had been the incident with Draco. He could still remember the
absolute horror, fear, even, that had played across his partner's face when
Harry pushed him away from himself. Draco wouldn't approach him, wouldn't even
look at him right after it had happened, and for one horrible moment Harry had
been sure he would turn tail and run at the rejection he had been subjected to.
Harry had never felt more guilty for anything in his life, more utterly
mortified with his own behaviour, but if he were to be honest with himself, if
such an experience were to befall him again he knew he would act exactly the
same way.
Everything had been going fine. More than fine. Harry loved embracing Draco,
loved the feel of his warmth, of long, slender fingers stroking over his skin,
the feel of soft, blonde locks trailing through his fingers. The taste of
Draco's breath on his tongue, the feel of his lips. He loved it, in a way he'd
never loved anything before. When Draco had kissed him upon their meeting, he'd
been lost to those sensations.
Until suddenly, it was as though he wasn't even in the back room of the Three
Broomsticks anymore. He wasn't sure what had tripped him into his memories, but
he did know that it was entirely his fault. Not Draco's. Never Draco's. Memory
overwhelmed him, so clear and stark that it had been as though he were at his
uncle's house once more. The darkness of the room, the sound of his uncle's
heavy panting, tight fingers grasping his wrist and a thick, muscular thigh
wedged between his knees, forcing his legs apart. Like a wave crashing over
him, it had been overwhelming, and he had only the faint presence of mind to
ask Draco to stop.
That in itself was huge. Harry had never put up a fight with his uncle before,
not since the very early days when he had lived in France. What was the point?
It wouldn't do anything anyway, wouldn't solve anything. But for some reason,
when his presence of mind swum back into clarity, he saw his arms pushing Draco
away, heard the pathetically thin waver of his voice begging Draco to stop.
Even recalling the sequence of events in retrospect he couldn't comprehend why
he had done as much, why he had suddenly acted that way.
There was only one possible path to follow after such ab experience. Harry
would have to see someone, would have to do something, to try and fix the
problem that arose with his memories. He was under no allusions; it would be no
short, nor easy task, but he had to try. Draco deserved more than what he could
offer him in his state. It was unfair to his him, and Harry would do anything
if he thought it would make Draco happy. Unfortunately his subconscious just
seemed to kick up a fuss when he tried.
Draco had been only supportive. In the weeks since, Harry had received a number
of files on medi-witches and wizards that Draco thought would be suitable for
Harry. Never pushing, of course; no, never that. In fact, if Harry hadn't know
Draco better, he would have thought that the other boy was actively encouraging
him to burn the files upon receiving them. Every wad of folded parchment was
accompanied by a notation: "I found these, but I don't know if it's what you're
looking for. Probably not; none of them really sound good enough," and "Here
are some more suggestions. I doubt these will be any better than the last.
Please don't see anyone that you aren't comfortable with seeing. You don't have
to go anywhere unless you think it would be absolutely perfect." And on the
tail end of each letter, the same question: "Do you want me to come with you?"
Though the letters and suggestions came nearly as frequently as their usual
correspondence, Harry never got the impression that Draco was pushing him into
counselling. He seemed just as, if not more nervous at the prospect than Harry
was. It baffled him at first – wouldn't Draco want him to get over his
problems? Wouldn't that make it easier for him? – until the reality made itself
known and left Harry subdued with the enormity of his realisation. Draco didn't
care a lick about what the memories, the nightmares, did to him personally. He
was simply worried about Harry.
It was the most overwhelming feeling; Harry had never known a person to care so
completely about him before.
Eventually, he had honed down the potential mind-healers into those most
suitable and most accessible. Sending out letters to correspond – an awkward
and uncomfortable process, certainly – he'd narrowed it down further. Señora
Lavere had been the one he had felt most drawn to. She was not overly pushy and
vibranatly enthusiastic, as some replies he had received indicated. Nor was she
particularly verbose in her assurances that yes, she believed she could help
him. But there was a gentle reassurance, a confidence in her written words,
that calmed Harry slightly. That she was prepared to Portkey to Rivierie Ville
once a week, to the local medical centre that doubled as a potions supply shop,
to meet him was even more reassuring.
That in itself was gratifying, that she would go to such lengths. Beauxbatons
and the surrounding countryside was untraceable on a map, a deterrence
mechanism for approaching Muggles much the same way that Hogwarts appeared as a
ruinous castle. It was as though the entire complex, over one hundred
kilometers squared, was simply veiled beneath an impenetrable dome that non-
magical folk could not access. Hence the use of Pegasus and carriage;
Portkeying was one of the few ways to access the area by other means, and such
a method hardly came cheaply.
Señora Lavere had suggested they set up a two-hour meeting on Thursday
afternoon after Harry had finished his classes. Just to get a feel for one
another, she'd said, to see if he thought she was the sort of person he was
looking for. Harry had agreed, a jumble of nerves that had made it nearly
impossible to write a reply to the woman, which had led to his current huddled
perch on a wooden seat in the front room of a potions supplies shop.
He didn't have to wait long. Barely five minutes after Amelie had disappeared,
she returned in a click of heeled boots. A tall, slender woman followed on her
tail. Entering the room, the woman spoke a quiet word to Amelie, who nodded and
departed again moments later. The room seemed eerily quiet with her absence.
Señora Lavere was an physically unassuming woman. Dressed in simple,
conservative robes of a dark green, she had shoulder-length black hair that
framed a thin, olive-skinned face and flat features. There was nothing
particularly noteworthy about her appearance, except perhaps the prominence of
the colour green. The vibrant shade on her fingernails, reflecting the
jewellery dangling from her ears, seemed at odds with her otherwise subdued
presence.
When she turned towards Harry, however, her eyes bore a warmth and kindness
that he'd rarely beheld in strangers. She gave him a small smile. "Bonjour,
Harry. It's such a pleasure to finally meet you."
Standing from his seat, Harry stepped hesitantly across the room. He stopped a
good three paces away. "Enchante, Señora Lavere. I, um.. I just wanted to thank
you, so much, for coming all the way out here to see me."
Lavere's smile widened and there was nothing plain about the kindness it
radiated. "Not at all, Harry. And please, call me Socorro. Shall we perhaps
come into my office for a bit more privacy? Get to know one another a bit
more?"
Harry dipped his head at the suggestion. He hadn't realised until that moment
how eager he was to get out of the open shop front. Though no one else intruded
upon the easy stillness, Harry cringed internally at the thought of someone
coming in and witnessing anything he had to say. Not that he'd truly expected
their meeting to take place in the shopfront, but it was still reassuring to be
validated in his assumption.
Harry followed Socorro through the right-hand door she had entered from into a
short, dimly lit hallway. The tall woman took the first door on the right and
smiled as she directed him into a similarly dimly lit room of two couches, a
half-filled bookshelf, and a bubbling fish tank seated on a cabinet beneath the
curtained window. A simple clock of Roman numerals ticked quietly on the wall,
bronze pendulum swinging merrily. It was a cosey room, not too cluttered but
without the sparseness that could make one feel small for excess space. Harry
folded himself into one of the couches as directed, but couldn't quite urge
himself to sit deeper than the very edge of his seat.
Socorro didn't seem to mind. She eased back into her own chair, and, producing
her wand from her sleeve, conjured a notepad of thick parchment paper and a
quill. A very green quill, Harry noted absently, the continued theme drawing
the hint of a smile onto his lips.
"Now, Harry, I don't now what you're really expecting from these meetings, so
if it's alright with you I think this first session will just be us getting to
know one another a little bit. Letting me understand what sort of support you
are seeking, and together we can decide if you think we can work towards a goal
that's suitable to you. Does that sound satisfactory?"
Harry nodded shortly, affixing his eyes onto the rug between them. Despite
Socorro's kind, soothing and deep voice, he couldn't bring himself to reply
with anything more, let alone meet her gaze.
Socorro, thankfully, didn't seem to require anything more than that.
"Wonderful," she said, and she truly did sound heartened by the prospect. "Now,
I'm just going to give you a bit of an overview of what I do, how I usually go
about these sessions, and you can feel free to ask me any questions, alright?"
Harry nodded once more, still unable to speak for the dryness of his tongue,
the firm press of his lips. Again, a reply appeared unnecessary as a moment
later Socorro was speaking in her low, soothing voice. A slightly formulaic
recitation she spoke in, all things told, but Harry found such impersonal words
to be calming. She informed him of her work, of which he'd already had an
inkling, of how long she'd been a psychologist for, and gave a couple of
examples of clients she had worked with. Never giving names, of course, and
always very loosely described, but the effect was reassuring. Harry found
himself drawn to her explanation of a young girl who had suffered from a
chronic illness that caused her physical debilitation and triggered a descent
towards depression, to the elderly man who was struggling with the loss of his
wife and his growing agoraphobia. The examples were as broad and varied as
could be imagined, yet held a single, common feature: they were all people who
had suffered, and they all needed help.
"What I'm going to do in our meetings, Harry, is I'll ask you some questions,
and you just tell me what you feel most comfortable with. If you don't wish to
talk, you do not have to. The limits of what you share with me relies entirely
upon what you feel comfortable with." She smiled that gentle smile once more,
Harry catching the brief appearance of it from where he peered up at her
through fringe and with lowered chin. "I'm not here to push you into doing
anything you don't want to."
Nodding his head, Harry managed to utter a quiet "Thank you."
"No thanks are necessary at all." Shifting slightly in her seat, Socorro leant
forward slightly. 'Now, Harry, I'll be using a specially tailored Quick-Quotes-
Quill. Do you have any objections to that?" At Harry's dissent, she uttered her
own thanks. "I know some people don't feel comfortable with them due to their
use and abuse in the journalist world, but I can assure you that any and
everything that we talk about in here is absolutely confidential.
"Now, if you don't mind, Harry, I'd just like to ask you a few questions."
Swallowing past the returning dryness in his mouth, Harry nodded. "Okay. Um,
yeah, sure."
"Lovely." She tapped her wand to the green quill briefly and it rose like a
darting hummingbird over the notepad on her lap. Harry tugged his eyes away
from it, drawing his gaze to the floor once more. "Would you mind telling me a
little bit about yourself? Anything is fine, just so I get to know you a little
bit."
So Harry began. He spoke hesitantly, stiltedly, of his childhood. Just little
things; where he lived, who he lived with, what schools he attended. Nothing
noteworthy, save perhaps the mention of his parents' death, but the facts of
such were learned by word of mouth, not a figment of his memory. His early
childhood especially was only a distantly remembered if at all.
"And your family. The Dursleys? What were they like?"
Harry opened his mouth but no words came out. It was to be expected, he
supposed. Socorro had made him feel comfortable, but even so, he had never
shared anything about his past with another, save for Draco, and even then not
in any particularly descriptive depth. "I… um, I don't really know."
"Just start off simple. What were their names?"
"There was… my uncle Vernon. My aunt Petunia, and my cousin Dudley."
"And you lived in England with them?"
"Yes, until I was eleven."
"And did you like it with them? They took you in after you lost your parents,
yes?"
His voice died again, briefly. "I…I don't know…"
"You don't have to tell me if you don't feel comfortable doing so, Harry. We
can talk about it another time, perhaps."
Shaking his head, Harry bit his lip. Absently, he realised that one of his
hands had raised to pick idly at the skin of his collarbones. It took an active
force of will to suppress the urge to scratch. "No, it's… I've just never
talked about it with anyone before, I don't really know…how."
"That's entirely understand. Really, it is. There's nothing to worry about."
Harry offered a wobbly smile of gratitude that Socorro returned in double and
far more firmly. "Thank you." He cleared his throat. "I didn't have a very good
relationship with my mother's side of the family. It was… they didn't like me.
At all."
"What makes you think this? Did they say something to you?"
Harry had to fight the urge to spit out a humourless laugh. Say something? Only
everyday. The only time they'd ever really spoken to him was in spite, to scold
or to order. "I guess you could say that. Th-they thought… I think my aunt
especially very much begrudged having to take me in. But, well, a lot of the
time it wasn't really with words, exactly."
"Not with words? How do you mean?"
This time, Harry couldn't reply. He couldn't even bring himself to open his
mouth, but instead stared fixedly on the rug. The silence lasted for a few
moments only before Socorro broke it. Harry wasn't sure if he was expecting her
to be irritated or frustrated by his silence. She wasn't. Her tone was the
same, as low and steady as it had been since he'd met her.
"You said you moved away from the Dursleys when you were eleven. Who did you
live with?"
The session proceeded as such. Harry answered superficially, mostly, or in
broken, garbled attempts that he feared were barely comprehensible. He winced
at each time his voice failed him; the picture he presented to Socorro was as
punctured with holes as an old dish rag.
Socorro was calm, soothing, and despite the words Harry uttered, the memories
he dredged up, the fluttering of his nerves were withheld for the progression
of the meeting. There was a number of times when a certain question, a simple
statement that he uttered, would bring a flash of red-rimmed memory to the
forefront of his mind and he would pause, squeeze his eyes closed and ride it
out the upwelling of emotion. The memory of his uncle… The sound of a gun fired
too close to his ear… Pansy's face lax in pale stillness…
All the while, the stunted hands on the clock behind him ticked in their merry
chanting.
===============================================================================
The sun was lazing in a slow descent by the time Harry left Rivierie Ville.
Socorro had seen him to the door, asking quietly of when – and if – he wished
to have another session, and when would be easiest for him. Harry had stared at
her blankly for a moment; her entire demeanour was exactly as it had been when
he'd first met her. Even after what he had told her, after everything she could
not have possibly missed with his broken replies, she treated him exactly the
same. No disgust, or distaste, not at all, but more surprisingly there was not
even any sympathy, not a hint of pity. As though the entire exchange had not
even occurred. It was… surreal. And entirely relieving.
In fact, the sole comment Socorro gave that was even markedly suggestive of
concern was to question if he needed some time to sit down before leaving, or
if perhaps he wished her to accompany him back to the castle. Harry had
gratefully declined either offer and given her a small wave and another word of
quiet thanks before leaving.
Oddly enough, Harry felt… exhausted. Almost drained, like the feeling of
weariness experienced after a long study session. The buzz of memories, those
he hadn't shared with Socorro, muttered in his head, but they were not
overwhelming. Not quite, anyway. Their muted voices just seemed… constant.
Persistent. On top of that, the skin around his collarbones was scraped raw
from scratches he hadn't even been aware he was making. It was regretful, the
slight sting, but mostly because Harry knew that Draco would be upset to see
it. His partner would always catch his hands in his own when he saw them
twitching in their anxious response.
It was a lot slower trudge back up to the academy, and not only because it was
mostly uphill. By the time he made it to the Eastern Tower vent tuyaux he was
nearly stumbling from tiredness. Who knew talking would be so exhausting?
Pausing at the archway into the elevating system, Harry noticed for the first
time that his hands were shaking. Not a slight shiver, but a noticeable shake.
The sight of it, apparently, seemed to alert every other part of his body to
his plight, and within seconds he was struggling to hold back tears, squeezing
his eyes shut and pressing a hand to his trembling lips.
And suddenly, he missed Draco terribly. Even more than usual, if such was
possibly. He wanted to hold him, to wrap his arms around him and feel his
warmth, feel the force of Draco's own arms lock around him and cocoon him in a
gentle yet firm embrace in return. He missed him so much that it took a
physical effort not to spin around, race the short distance towards the pegasus
loading bay and beg Jean to take him back to Paris.
I wish I'd asked him to come with me, Harry thought suddenly. It was selfish of
him, he knew. It would have been entirely indulgent to ask Draco to travel all
the way to France and into the Pyrenees Wizarding Complex for such a trivial
reason. Even if Draco had suggested to do as much first. Besides, he'd be
seeing him tomorrow afternoon anyway.
Still, it didn't help the ache of longing. Somehow he knew that if Draco was
there he would make everything okay. All bearable. Draco's presence was a
reassurance in a way that no one elses was. Not Neville's. Not even Sirius',
though Harry knew that his godfather would be in a carriage in a heartbeat had
he asked him to join him.
Selfish. Indulgent. You're fine, just deal with it,he coached himself. It would
have been easier if he knew exactly what it was that had upset him.
Making his way through the network of the Palace, Harry unconsciously found
himself drawn to la Grand Pièce. He glanced up just as he ascended the last of
the internal spiral of stairs. Just as well, for otherwise he would have missed
Tali and Neville's presence entirely.
The pair sat on the usually empty seats that lined the walls on either side of
the dining hall's door. Just the two of them, Neville surprisingly without
Aime's accompaniment, and hence that of Melody and Madalane. Both silent, too,
which in itself was astouding; Neville was hardly a quite person by nature, and
Harry doubted if Tali had gone for more than a handful of minutes without
speaking the entire time he knew him. She generally spoke even trough every
class. He suspected she likely murmured in her sleep, too – intelligently, of
course, and likely in deep thinking debates with herself.
As he stepped into the hall just outside of the dining room, both of them
glanced up. Tali paused in her motion of stroking Lyssy's back, the cat curld
in her lap, and a small smile of welcome tugged at her lips. Said cat pricked
her ears and, in a motion so swift he barely saw it, she leapt from Tali's lap,
darted across the floor and scaled Harry's robes like a monkey. It couldn't be
helped if his arms naturally enclosed around her, pressing the warm body to his
chest in a near-desperate hold. At least if it wasn't Draco, Lyssy would do.
Lyssy had always been there when he needed her.
Tali's smile had died by the time she and Neville made their way across the
room towards him. They stopped a good handful of steps away, both peering at
him warily.
"How did it go, Harry? Are you alright?" Neville spoke quietly, so that not
even a faint echo rung through the wide foyer. He at least knew the reason for
Harry's town visit, but because Harry had told him rather than deducing as much
with the supernatural perception skills of Tali.
Harry attempted a smile. It felt brittle on his face. He nodded jerkily before
dropping his chin onto the soft fur of Lyssy's head. "It was fine. Fine, it
was… She was really nice." The following silence was deafening.
For the first time since arriving, Tali spoke up. Truthfully, Harry was
surprised she'd held her tongue for so long. "Arry? Can I ask you something?"
Blinking up at her through his fringe, Harry raised an eyebrow. "Of course."
She pursed her lips thoughtfully for a moment before speaking. Always quietly,
but with her usual speed that bespoke thoughts racing at a million miles an
hour. "Look, I know you don't really like people touching you. I mean, you let
them if they want to but I doubt you actually like it. From what I can see,
anyway. But I was just wondering," she paused, and Harry frowned in confusion,
unsure of where she was going with her statement. "I was just wondering… can I
give you a hug?"
It was so unexpected, both in sentiment and in the request itself, that the
composure Harry had been rebuilding since stepping back into the Palace
shattered. He dropped his chin further into Lyssy's fur, feeling his chin
tremble. Why am I even upset? What is it that has made me so upset? I hardly
even said anything to Socorro, so why…? He didn't particularly want to be
hugged, didn't like being hugged by anyone but Draco, but even so he nodded. If
it would make Tali happy –
Surprisingly strong arms wrapped around him. Tali was not a large girl, so her
embrace wasn't swaddling. Nor was she tall, on par with Harry almost exactly.
But her hold was firm, and warm, and much to Harry's surprise, it was
comforting.
No, Harry didn't like being hugged. Not if it wasn't by Draco. The immediate
repulsion, the unconscious fear of taint alongside the physical discomfort,
made it impossible. When Hermione forgot herself and threw her arms around him,
he let her because she just seemed to delighted at the fact, but it still felt
wrong. When he'd embraced his friends before leaving for Beauxbatons at the
beginning of term, it was because he knew they wouldn't really understand if he
didn't. He was getting better with the sensation, but it still felt unnatural.
So it was a wonder that this girl, this golden-eyed, fiery haired girl that
spoke as though her tongue had a will of its own, could embrace him so
comfortably. Harry had barely known her for two months and yet…
It was too much. Harry didn't realise how much he'd been holding it all in
until that moment. He felt his shoulders begin to tremble once more, muscles
seizing, and before he could help himself the tears began to fall. Neville
didn't say anything, just watching silently from beside them. Tali didn't say
anything either, simply holding him tightly.
Why am I even crying?
The question hung in his mind, doing nothing to still the fall of tears that
poured in an endless and messy torrent.
===============================================================================
Draco,
I know I wrote you just this morning. And I know you're visiting tomorrow. But
I just felt like I really needed to talk to you.
I met withSeñoraLavere today. Socorro, she asked me to call her. She's very
nice. Very comfortable to talk to. Thank you for recommending her; I wouldn't
have had the slightest clue of how to find someone if you hadn't helped me.
Sirius would have helped, but I still think I'd feel a little uncomfortable
asking him. I think she'll be very nice to work with, to try and sort things
out with.
I don't know why, since we didn't really talk about anything too specific, but
it was really hard. I don't know, maybe I'm just being a bit pathetic. Thank
goodness only Neville and Tali were there when I cried. Tali was great; she
seems to really know the right thing to do, you know?
I'm sorry, I'm rambling. I hope Athena doesn't wake you up – I just felt like I
had to talk to you, just a little bit. Don't reply before tomorrow. Or better
yet, don't worry about replying at all before I can speak to you in person.
Really, don't. I'll be angry if you do.
I love you.
Harry.
===============================================================================
 Harry,
You can hardly tell me not to write back to you immediately when you send me a
letter, no matter the subject or the hour. I could be in the middle of one of
Snape's detentions and I'd still manage to get one off straight away. Don't
think I wouldn't; I resent you underestimating my skill.
I'm sorry you had to go alone. I should have gone with you. Next time you go,
I'm coming to France even if I have to skip school to do it. No, don't
complain. This isn't me asking; I'm just letting you know. You shouldn't have
had to handle that by yourself. I know from experience that it's tiring, it's
hard. It's emotionally draining to share your trouble with someone, though
unexpectedly I've found it's easier talking to a stranger. Do you find the
same?
You know, I think I might like this Tali person. From what you've said of her
only, of course; I'll withhold further judgment until I actually meet her. But
I'll have to thank her when I meet her for being there for you when I couldn't
be. You shouldn't have to cry alone. You know I hate it when you cry.
I'm gladSeñoraLavere seemed to suit you. It was a suggestion from my mother,
actually. She used to work with Legilimancy and psychology. I think I told you?
She's considering doing so again, actually. I'll relay your thanks. Anyone that
can make you feel comfortable is decent in my books. And if you approve, then
she meets just about all the criteria, as far as I'm concerned.
Please write me again tomorrow if you feel even the slightest bit upset. I'll
call in a favour from Severus and leave school early. I'm serious.
I love you too,
Draco
P.S. You'll be pleased to hear that your raven is truly as smart as ever. I'm
unsure of the wisdom of naming her after a Muggle goddess who basically
invented strategy; Athena appears to be attempting to embody her namesake. She
unlocked my window from the outside and woke me up in the middle of the night.
Make sure you give her a treat for doing so, would you?
***** Discord and Pointed Suggestions *****
Chapter Notes
     A/N: I am by no means a misogynist. I'm worried that this chapter may
     come off a little bit that way but I swear I'm not! I just...
     Daphne's just a b*tch! Can't be helped.
The cauldron before him fizzled idly, the smooth, thick liquid of bubblegum
pink breathing little puffs of sickly sweet odour. Draco wasn't paying it any
mind; the instructions on the board indicated that it was supposed to simmer
for fifteen minutes. He was ahead of class and there was only so long one could
watch a bubbling cauldron before it just became too boring. His attention was
instead focused upon Hermione's inkwell across room as he silently urged it to
rise into the air.
It was working, too. He'd managed numerous times throughout the class already,
a silent, wandless command breathed at the inanimate object. Fixing his eyes
intently on the little granite pestle, he twitched his fingers under the table.
Rise. Come on, lift in the air.
A moment later the carved granite utensil rocked slightly on its side before
levitating off the table. Draco released his breath in a sigh of satisfaction.
Three attempts in a row, and he'd succeeded every time. A pleased smile spread
across his face that wasn't fazed even slightly by the exasperated glare
Hermione directed towards him. She rolled her eyes with he raised his hand,
twirling his finger in a motion that sent the pestle spinning in tandem. She
huffed a sigh but didn't comment, turning back to her own cauldron.
Draco had been attempting to learn wandless magic for weeks now. Wordless magic
was largely assumed knowledge by seventh year for all but the more complex of
spells, but wandless magic took a whole new level of concentration and skill.
And practice. Always practice.
Since he had first met Harry, Draco had been captivated with his ability to
conduct wandless magic. More than that, Harry seemed to find it easier than
using a wand itself. Draco understood Harry's explaination to a degree; Harry
professed that it was no exceptional skill on his part, but simply that he
couldn't wrap his head around using the wand as a conduit. That, and he'd been
practicing wandless magic his entire life and to suddenly be told that 'magic
was done first and foremost with a wand' was a little redundant to him. Even
so, Draco found it impressive.
So, upon starting the new term, he had decided he would make it a personal
goal. At present he had mostly focused on first year spells. Simple charms and
transfigurations that he could cast in his sleep with a wand in hand. It had
taken a number of frustrating attempts to manage even rudimentary spells; Draco
believed he'd never be able to look at a matchstick again after the hours he
put in attempting to transfigure it into a needle.
Weeks down the track and he was gradually growing in competency, though still
mostly practiced simple spells. Even they exhausted him, and he had to wonder
at the abilities of older, more experienced witches and wizards for their sheer
capacity to perform such feats with apparent ease. Draco wouldn't give up,
though. There was a certain thrill to casting magic without a wand. It gave him
an upwelling of satisfaction that he'd never experienced before.
When the clock struck two-sixteen, Draco reluctantly stoppered his attempts at
urging Hermione's pestle to dance a jig and turned back to his potion. He was
nearly at the end of the instructions, and the hardest part was complete. All
that was left was to grind the dragonfly wings into a powder, fold thin garter
snakeskin into the mix before stirring the combination into the cauldron and
his Brew of Malevolent Intent would be completed. Quite satisfactorily, if he
considered.
Class finished with tolling of the school bell, sending a communal groan of
relief from over half of the students. Slughorn raised his head, blinking
rapidly with a sleepy smile upon his lips before waving the class out. Draco
could have sworn the man had been dozing since he'd voiced his instructions and
slumped into his seat, but it hardly mattered. They were seventh years; self-
instruction was a significant part of their learning.
Heaving himself to his feet, Slughorn cleared his throat. "Alright, lovely.
Wonderful. If everyone could stopper their testing vials and place them in the
fume cupboard with their labels; name, date and time if you would." He gave an
admonishing smile. "Remember, this Brew can be absorbed cutaneously, so ensure
that all instruments, cauldrons and spillages are cleaned appropriately. We
wouldn't want a horde of angry first years charging through the halls after
their early morning lesson tomorrow, would we?"
At Draco's side, Blaise snorted and had to bow his head at the image the
potions professor presented. Draco fought his own grin with difficulty. It was
hard not to laugh with Blaise these days. The boy seemed to embrace good humour
with a flair that left belief of previous despondency bordering on the
unimaginable. Draco doubted his friend was entirely recovered from the events
of the previous year, maybe laughed in compensation and would remain heart sore
for the loss of Pansy for a long time still, but he was getting better. Slowly
but surely, he wasgetting better. Draco rarely saw him fall into the brooding
sadness that was once so uncharacteristic of him yet so frequently surfacing.
Packing his cauldron away after casting a Vanishing Charm on the remaining
contents of his potion, Draco packed his bag and followed his friend towards
the door. Hermione fell into step beside him, Ron trailing behind her in his
motion chair, grumbling unintelligibly.
"It would have been fine if you'd just listened to me when I told you your cod
eyes weren't mashed up enough," Hermione sighed long-sufferingly without even
sparing Ron a glance. "It's the mashing, Ron, you need to –"
"Yeah, yeah, I know. The pieces were too big to dissolve or whatever." Ron
grumbled something more beneath his breath to inaudible to hear but seemed to
thrust aside his displeasure a moment later. "Thanks, though, for giving me a
hand with patching it back up."
"You know, I'm starting to wonder if you only want me around for the help I can
give you in class," Hermione replied, but the faint smile on her chin indicated
there was little real dissatisfaction to her words. Draco had to bite back the
urge to voice a suggestive comment. It was hardly needed, the pair were so
obvious.
Hermione and Ron had finally – finally – admitted their feelings for one
another barely two weeks passed and had been almost sickeningly sweet ever
since. Draco and Blaise agreed to take turns teasing them incessantly,
eliciting an apparently endless supply of blushes and stammering "shove off"s
from them both. Not that they really needed to persist with such good-natured
teasing; Neville had quite spectacularly done so for them. The morning after
the two Gryffindor's admission, seated at the Slytherin table, the pair had
received a rather explosive Howler of congratulations and reprimand of "took
you long enough" that had left the entire Great Hall wheezing with laughter.
Ron had furiously and unsuccessfully attempted to smother the wailing letter,
his face as red as his hair, while Hermione sunk so low in her seat as to
nearly disappear beneath the table. It had taken Blaise a good hour before he
could quell his laughter for more than a few minutes at a time.
The Congratulatory Howler, as it was called, had a rather profound effect on
the students and teacher of Hogwarts. Though the development from woebegone
mournfulness to relative normalcy had been spreading throughout the entirety of
the school, the Great Hall had remained under a near-constant state of hush.
Neville's letter had been like a hammer taken to a glass window; that wariness
that pervaded the hall, shrouded as it was in memories, seemed to shatter with
one hit. Meal times were almost… normal after that.
Everything was turning back to normal, it seemed. Save for the few outliers,
those that ostracised themselves from the general populous for isolating grief
or simply detached listlessness, Hogwarts' residents were demonstrating more
cohesion than ever before. Draco found, for the first time, that he felt very
little dislike for anyone in the castle. The Gryffindors would always be
idiotically forward, Ravenclaws aloof and consescending and Hufflepuffs
infuriatingly simpering, but Draco could live with that. There was no one who
really –
"Draco, would you mind if I spoke to you for a moment?"
It took a physical effort to suppress his groan. Turning in the doorway to
Slughorn's rooms, Draco met the expectant gaze of Daphne Greengrass. The girl
had effectively dammed the flow of seventh years, causing an upwelling of huffs
and exasperted murmurs. Daphne didn't appear to even notice them.
"What could we possibly have to talk about, Daphne?"
The girl flipped her long hair over one shoulder in a motion of practiced
grace. Her heavy-lidded eyes fixed on his intently. "Now, Draco, don't be
obtuse. Where are your manners?"
Sighing, Draco felt the sudden urge to turn his head into the door frame and
strike it rather firmly against the hard wood. It would be preferable to the
unavoidable conversation he was on the verge of undertaking. A sympathetic hand
patted his back unobtrusively and with a half-turn he caught the pitying
expression on Blaise's face. His friend nodded slightly before stepping
backwards and continuing through the doorway himself.
Turning once more towards Daphne, Draco nodded briefly. "Alright. But do you
mind if we make our way out to the hall? You are somewhat of blocking the
highway here."
Daphne raised an eyebrow at that, glancing behind herself as though she
honestly hadn't perceived herself to be 'in the way', before nodding and
following him out. Blaise muttered a nearly inaudible "we'll just wait for you
round the corner" before Draco led Daphne to an adjacent corridor in the other
direction to the majority of his fellow student's headed.
He knew what was coming and could have laughed at his situation had it not been
so bloody frustrating. It had begun a few weeks ago. Apparently, with the
general companionability of the students of Hogwarts, Daphne had taken it upon
herself to rekindle some of the friendships of her past. Some of them, she
shamelessly acknowledged, were more than a simple rekindling. One such
relationship she seemed intent on rebuilding was that she'd shared with Draco.
Draco couldn't fathom it. Daphne was a siren in regards to the fact that she
could have just about anyone she wanted, exactly when she wanted them. Boy or
girl, her tastes were lenient, and she was not shamefaced about admitting as
much. And Daphne always got what she wanted. When it came to Draco… Perhaps it
was the thrill of the chase, or simply that, with Draco engaged in a
relationship of his own, she felt the need to assert her prior claim once more,
but for whatever reason she appeared to wish to revisit the disastrously
superficial relationship of their past.
It was insufferable. What had started as a coy suggetion here and there had
swollen into pointed and somewhat inappropriate comments that left Draco
fuming. The girl was like a dog with a bone, and regardless of his claims that
he was very much content with his relationship with Harry, Daphne wouldn't hear
it. After one such rather blunt and entirely inappropriate suggestion to him
before the entire seventh year transfiguration class, Hermione had drawn him
aside and admonished him for "eliciting such a response" from the Slytherin
girl. Suffice to say his growl of fury and seething rage for the rest of the
day had mellowed her concerns somewhat. She didn't seem the slightest bit
concerned for his faithfulness after that.
What was the worst part of it, however, was that Daphne knew. With an
infallible sixth sense, she somehow knew that the depths of Draco's
relationship with Harry was somewhat shy in certain areas. Certain, very
distinctive, areas. He'd wondered if the girl was merely shooting in the dark
until she had very deliberately confronted him not two days previously.
"Come on, Draco, it's obvious you're not getting any. What, your little
boyfriend doesn't put out, hmm?" A predatory smile had spread across her face.
"You poor thing. Must be hard. I'm sure he wouldn't blame you if you chose to…
stray briefly." She'd left him staring open-mouthed after her swaying,
coquettish departure, struggling to come to terms with her suggestion. It had
surprised him so completely that he had hardly felt angry about her very
blatant insinuation until later that evening.
Daphne had always been forward, but she was not a cruel girl. Manipulative with
the best of the Slytherins, yes, but never malicious or intentionally cold-
hearted. Hence, Draco was surprised at the hard edge to her suggestion, took
resentment in her tone that took him a while to understand.
Daphne was jealous.
As hard as that was to believe – there were plenty of fish in the sea where she
was concerned – Daphne Greengrass was jealous of his relationship with Harry.
It was mind-boggling. He very much doubted she had any real feelings for him
save perhaps possessiveness, but then… last year, when Harry had been at
Hogwarts, even when they had publicly declared their relationship, he had never
noticed her interest. Now, she was like a dog with a bone; she would not leave
it alone.
Glancing over his shoulder along the empty corridor to ensure no unwelcome
eavesdroppers were about, Draco turned his attention towards Daphne. She smiled
with excessive brightness; it was sickening to behold. Not for the first time
over the past weeks Draco wondered that he had ever been taken with her. She
was a beautiful girl, no doubt, but they had never had anything in common; he
hadn't even particularly liked her. It had simply… happened. She had used Draco
as much as he used her.
Physical attraction, that's all it had been. And now…
"What do you want, Daphne? You've been trying to call me out for days now. Just
get it over with."
Daphne pouted in false dejection but it disappeared in a moment. The smile
returned twofold. "You know what I want, Draco. You're not stupid."
Sighing, keeping a firm hold on his frustration, Draco took a step away from
her. Pointlessly, as she simply made up the distance between them again in a
smooth drift after him. "Neither are you, Daphne. I'm sure I've told you why –"
"I know what you've told me, Draco, but from what I've seen you are at your
wits end a little bit." Her smile widened further. "Honestly, when was the last
time you fucked someone?"
Frowning, Draco folded his arms and leant on the wall to his side. Daphne had
been mildly irritating before, a buzzing fly that he could bat away and ignore
before it regained its inclination to annoy him once more. Now she was truly
beginning to vex him. Didn't she know when to stop?
It didn't help, of course, that though she approached it from the wrong angle
she wasn't entirely inaccurate. But that hardly mattered. He didn't care about
that anymore. Physical intimacy was off the table, and it didn't matter. He
didn't.
"Keep to your own business, Daphne. It hardly concerns you." He attempted a
smirk of his own. "I'm with Harry. Why don't you understand that I can't fathom
–"
"Oh, don't be dense, Draco." Daphne tossed her head, rolling her eyes and
pouting further. "I know that. I'm not saying to start up anything serious."
That annoying, flirtatious smile resurfaced. "You could still be with him. I
don't have a problem with it, truthfully." The way she said it made Draco
clench his jaw. "We could just… relieve some… tensions that I'm sure we both
feel." Daphne dropped her heavy-lidded eyes, batting thick lashes slowly. Draco
felt his own eyes drawn to follow, catching upon her pale fingers as they
stroked with apparent casualness across the waistline of her school robe. He
swallowed.
Daphne was a beautiful girl. Draco doubted that there would be few men in the
school – the world even – who would deny her had she set her sights upon them.
She wasn't short, yet neither was she tall. Not a large girl, but not slender
with a skinniness that bespoke fragility. Her soft, golden curls hung in
perfectly formed ringlets, threaded with a deeper bronze that mimicked the
shade of her eyes. Large eyes, gleaming almost metallic, that could capture a
passer-by and freeze them like the victim of a basilisk. Draco had seen her
conduct her predation, watched her dive for the kill more times than he could
count. And not a one of her prey went unwillingly, nor left with anything but
longing and regret for her disregard.
He hadn't been exempt from her charms; for all he professed otherwise, laid
claim to his proactivity, it was Daphne's inclinations that had initiated their
physical relations. And Draco had been enthralled from the barest hint of
suggestion. It had ended quickly and uneventfully when the Slytherin girl had
set her sights upon a new target – Boot, if Draco recalled correctly – and he
had been as regretful as the rest of her suitors. For a time, at least. So
perhaps it was natural for her to assume he would succumb to any suggestion she
put forth, like a loyal hound, neglected, that would eagerly scramble to its
cruel masters heel at a moments notice.
Draco recognised Daphne's attractiveness. It would be so easy, so relieving, to
simply release the aching need that settled within him with a companion more
than willing. One who didn't flinch at the faintest touch of intimacy. Daphne
was gorgeous, she wasattractive. Only…
It wasn't enough. Draco didn't feel even the faintest itch of arousal. Coldness
washed through him at the blatant display of the girl. Yes, she was beautiful,
but that beauty was so false. Not in reality, but simply in the sense that
there was so much it veiled. When Draco thought of beauty, true beauty, his
mind invariably turned to only one person.
"Daphne, your suggestion is far too forward. Beware, for another attempt and I
ensure that certain secrets you would rather kept hidden become prime topics on
the gossip grapevine."
Daphne batted her eyelids slowly, seductively, once. Twice, as though waiting
for Draco to continue. Then her eyes widened. Her sculptured eyebrows rose and
an expression of shock that Draco had never beheld before spread across her
face. "What?"
"You heard me. Leave me alone." He hooded his own eyelids, straightening from
his slouch against the wall and lifting his jaw slightly. He knew it was an
intimidating stance because… well, because he'd practiced it. Repeatedly. In
private. "I could make your life a living hell."
In any other instance, even Draco would have felt a twinge of remorse at his
own words. Except that this was Daphne, and rather than her face falling into
loss or hurt, even confusion, the shock switched immediately to affront, to
indignation and finally into seething anger.
"You're actually going to say no to me?"
Draco snorted, chuckling dryly. "What, has that never happened before?" Her
silence was answer enough. "In case you hadn't noticed, last year and
throughout this entire year, my interests have lain with only one person." He
smirked sardonically. "I'm not one to so easily change partners with the
frequently of a fickle breeze."
It would have been comical to watch, the ugliness that twisted Daphne's face,
had Draco not been struggling to suppress the anger and disgust that simmered
within him. What, did she think that simply because Harry wasn't at Hogwarts,
that he couldn't witness him straying, that Draco would seek pleasure with any
willing participant? Did Daphne think him so low – no, so like her – that he
would forsake the love of his partner for a brief, lustful stint?
Apparently so, for only anger remained on Daphne's face. Anger and affront. Her
nostrils flared like those of a dragon, her cheeks flushing redly. There was a
sharp glint to her eye that Draco didn't feel altogether comfortable being the
study of, but he could hardly bring himself to care. He maintained his cold
front, the mask he had inherited as a legacy from his father, and watched as
Daphne shrunk from him.
Even intimidated, shunned as she was, the Greengrass heir made good her status
and left with class. Tilting her chin slightly, composure slipping like a veil
across her face, her mouth curled into a smile that was only faintly twisted.
"Alright, then. If that's how you want it to be." Flicking her hair over her
shoulder with a snap of her fingers, she spun on her heel and strode down the
corridor with a swaying of hips. "Just don't come crawling to me when your
precious little prude finally manages to drive you insane." She didn't even
glance over her shoulder to deliver the final remark, disappearing around a
distant corner.
A low whistle broke Draco from where he stared coldly in her wake. Turning, he
noted the arrival of Blaise, Hermione and Ron edging slowly down the hallway
behind him. Blaise had adopted an expression of smirking admiration, Ron of
shock and mild horror while Hermione fixed him with a stare he couldn't quite
discern the meaning of. It made him feel slightly uncomfortable.
"I can't believe you just turned Greengrass down. I mean, I know you've sort of
been doing that already, but fully turned her down. She's not going to be happy
about that. No one turns down Greengrass." Ron's words were a hoarse whisper,
his fingers gripping the arms of his motion chair as though he were clutching a
lifeline.
Draco shrugged, attempting nonchalance as he fell into step beside his friends.
Now that Daphne was gone, he felt as though a weight had lifted off his
shoulders, and not just the weight of her presence. It was as though, with that
small, simple challenge, he had reaffirmed his own feelings once more. His true
feelings for Harry. It was an unexpectedly satisfying reassurance that he
hadn't known he needed.
"I honestly don't care what she thinks. She can pull whatever she likes, play
her games with whoever she likes. It doesn't concern me, and if she happens to
ask again I'll just tell her the same thing."
Blaise shook his head, smirk overwhelming his admiration. Draco wasn't sure if
he should be comforted or disgruntled by the faint traces of surprise in
Blaise's expression.
Hermione broke her silence, though she continued to stare penetratingly at
Draco. "I very much doubt she'll offer again. I don't think it's that which you
should worry about."
"What do you mean?"
Glancing briefly to meet his eyes, Hermione's frown deepened. "Greengrass is a
bit of a force to be reckoned with. It's common knowledge amongst us seventh
year girls. The same goes for the fifth years, so I've heard, with Astoria.
Both may be tarts, and backstabbing rumourmongers, but they're awfully smart.
Not to mention ruthless."
Blinking at the unexpectedness of Hermione's accusation, Draco had to bite back
a grin. "Really, Hermione, I think I'll be fine."
The Gryffindor girl shrugged. "I know," she said, though she sounded dubious.
"Just… keep an eye out, Draco. I wouldn't be surprised if the viper chose to
lash out with unexpected force once more."
Despite his doubts, Draco nodded sincerely. He couldn't overlook the genuine
concern in Hermione's voice, and felt warmed by it. As so often before, he
marvelled that, even a year ago, he would have been repelled by the prospect of
receiving comfort from a 'Mudblood'. "Certainly, Hermione. I'll be careful."
===============================================================================
 
"Draco, see me after class."
Half raising his head, Draco nodded in acknowledgement to his godfather's
nearly inaudible request. Or demand, more correctly. Snape didn't even glance
over his shoulder to ascertain whether Draco had heard him, but continued his
slow, crow-like strut around the room. Despite the supposed autonomy of seventh
years, the Defence professor still watched them with a keen when they were
assigned any written work, more even than with their practical work. As though
they would be damning anyone save themselves by skiving off work in their final
year of studies.
Snorting beneath his breath, Draco shook his head as he heard a drone of
condescension from the man honing in upon an unsuspecting student. MacMillan,
it looked like. Poor sod, he should have known better than to think that just
because Snape wasn't looking directly at him that he couldn't see him peering
at Perks' work beside him. Snape had a sixth sense for that kind of thing. What
was he even copying anyway? Draco wondered, shaking his head again. All of the
notes were on the board.
When the bell for the end of the period sounded, Draco simply nodded to Blaise
at his side and retained his seat as his friends rose to leave. Hermione paused
questioningly before Blaise whispered something in her ear and understanding
dawned. Blaise had always been good with that; Draco didn't even need to tell
him that his godfather had requested his presence anymore. Such requests had
been occurring at least once a week for the entire term and after one digging
jibe from the Italian boy he had dropped any curiosity over the matter
entirely. They'd been friends far too long for Blaise to think he would manage
to suck anything from Draco that he didn't want known.
As students filed past him towards the door, he slouched back easily in his
seat, crossing his ankles beneath the desk. It was almost too easy to ignore
Daphne's cold stare. It was only a stare, after all. Contrary to what Hermione
had feared – and Draco had silently agreed with – the Slytherin girl hadn't
made good her unspoken threat. She hadn't even whispered a bad word about him
to anyone, which was admittedly surprising. In fact, the only suggestion that
anything was afoot was her smouldering glares that neither seemed to have
neither grown colder nor waxed in intensity in the week that had passed since
their confrontation.
It was almost funny, really, how just a short while ago she had been attempting
to woo him in her domineeringly assertive way. Draco supposed it was an
indication of her true character and intentions how rapidly she'd shifted in
her attitude.
When the last of the seventh years finally trickled through the door, Draco
turned his attention to the front of the room. Predictably, his godfather had
folded himself in his seat and was making himself busy with some papers or
other. Strange, how he suddenly seemed to have marking to do precisely when
Draco was awaiting his attention. Attention that Snape had insisted upon
monopolising.
Sighing over the familiarity of the procedure, Draco heaved himself to his
feet. And if he walked more slowly than normal towards the front desk, who
could blame him? Snape certainly wasn't.
"You wanted to talk to me, professor?"
Snape nodded absently, eyes flickering over the parchment before him. Upside
down, Draco could just make out the smudged scrawl of a title: 'Measuring the
Intensity of a Blasting Curse'. Rudimentary Defence work, that, second year at
most. Certainly not something to consume his Snape's attention so completely.
Draco nearly laughed at the farce; it was so like a Slytherin, so like himself,
really, to pretend even when in the presence of those one considered closest.
Not that Drac really minded; he wasn't in a particularly bad mood, and it was
the end of the day anyway. There wasn't anywhere he needed to be.
Finally, finishing the foot long parchment – had Draco ever written anything so
short? – Snape folded his hands upon the desk before him and raised his gaze.
The expected opening fell from his lips.
"How are you, Draco?"
Had anyone else heard the words, despite the monotonous drone they were voiced
in, Draco suspected they would have concluded the use of a Polyjuice Potion, or
a glamour at the very least. Draco had certainly had his own suspicions at
first. They'd moved past that, however.
"Quite well, thank you, professor."
"Draco."
It was a silent reprimand, one tht was a requisite of each and every one of
their meetings. Well, how am I supposed to know if he want to resort to
informality straight off the bat or not?
"My apologies, Severus."
Since the end of the war, Severus had become more and more involved in Draco's
small family. A frequent attendant at Narcissa's bedside, not to mention a
steady hand and voice of experience when it came to the Malfoy finances, Draco
suspected that he would not have survived the months following the death of
Voldemort had it not been for his godfather. The Malfoy name certainly would
not have survived so well. Questionably neutral as it was, Draco doubted that
he would have resurfaced on the other side of the mass upheaval with even a
shadow of the good name that he did had it not been for Severus. Despite his
apparently cold and unfriendly front, the Defence professor was adept at
manoeuvring pureblood circles, even half-blood as he was. His relations with
the Malfoy family, his camaraderie with Lucius in particular, had assured that
he was well practiced in the intricate dance of society.
It was almost as though Severus were attempting to shoulder the burden that had
arisen with the death of Draco's father. Both political and familial, if his
near constant presence at Narcissa's beside was anything to go by.
It was unfortunate, then, that Draco had done nothing but attempt to extricate
himself from embezzlement with pureblood circles. Without his father's
presence, and with the blow to their confidence that had shaken the propriety
of the nobles so completely, it was almost too easy to simply fade into the
unobtrusiveness. Strange, how that which he had been taught to attempt to
strive towards his entire life now seemed pointless, meaningless, to Draco.
He never thought he would ever consider it, but he found he rather preferred
the company of… not purebloods, significantly more to the decorous ancient
blooded. Even Muggleborns. Occasionally.
Though that hardly meant he'd fall into bad habits. There was a certain
etiquette one with Draco's upbringing should follow that, even when not
utilised to its fullest, should never be shirked. Manners, for instance. And a
keen hand in manipulation.
"Your studies are consistent. No difficulties in any subjects."
It was not a question. More a statement of fact, but Draco nodded anyway. "Of
course. Did you expect otherwise?"
Severus narrowed his eyes. "I am merely affording you the opportunity to
confess any struggles you may be facing, Draco, without the embarrassment of
being forced to seek assistance directly yourself."
The words, that constant, monotonous drone, of course made short work of any
requests for assistance that Draco may have possibly had. He was sure the man
before him knew that the humiliation that would be shed upon him had he
required any study aid would be increased tenfold. Not that he blamed Severus
for his approach; he didn't even feel faintly resentful. The man wouldn't have
spoken as such had he not been sure of Draco's confidence in his studies.
And Draco was. He was going as well as could be expected. Top marks in every
class, on par only with Hermione, and even that did not faze him as it once
would have. Hermione was exceptionally bright, and though Draco had nothing but
faith in his own abilities, he could respect that she was at least a worth
rival for rank. Hell, he doubted he would ever have grasped Transparency Charms
had it not been for her.
"I am currently keeping up with all of my class and extension work, Severus. No
teacher has voiced a complaint that I'm aware of." Draco didn't need to fight
to keep smugness from his words. He spoke simple fact; there was no need for
smugness at all when it was the simple truth.
"And your potions marks? I recall you having a block with the exactness of your
weightings, though the result of such was negligible –"
"A block that has been worked through nearly a year past. You know that, I've
already assured you that I've overcome the trifling errors brought about by
youthful eagerness."
Severus' lips quirked just slightly at that. "Youthful eagerness?"
"I'm far matured since then, Severus."
"I'm sure." The slight quirk niggled at the corners of his mouth once more.
"And what of your career prospects. How have you progressed with reaching your
conclusions?"
At those words, Draco paused. He'd been skirting the subject for a while with
Severus; in his earlier years, he was sure his godfather had been on the brink
of actively encouraging him into Potioneering. Theoretical potioneering at
that, urging him to follow in his own footsteps. Draco knew his father would
have approved; he'd been directly told as much on numerous occasions. Told also
that his natural flair for the subject would ensure he had a career in the
future if he sought to follow that route. It was unfortunate then that his
passions drew him elsewhere.
Draco had tried, subtly, to insinuate that his interests lay not in potion-
making but rather in Rune-Mastery. Casual comments here and there, mentioning
that Professor Babbling was exceptionally pleased with his deciphering skills,
just to pave the way for the eventual admission. Perhaps it was time to
confess?
"I have considered, Severus. At great length, mind, so this isn't a thoughtless
decision, but –"
"You wish to pursue the study of Ancient Runes." Severus nodded his head
knowingly, only a faint glint of amusement in his eye indicating he was simply
toying with Draco. "What area do you intend to specialise in?"
Draco paused only for a moment. Maybe two moments, to ensure that his voice
wasn't drawn with sighs of relief. Apparently Draco's attempts to indirectly
alert Severus to his intentions had been received. Thank Merlin, I thought for
sure he'd push me into Potioneering, or Defence Teaching at the least. "I have
considered, but I'm as of yet unsure of what field I wish to pursue. Direct
spell dictation would offer the most by way of career opportunities, though
archaeology and translations are certainly more thrilling. But at the moment…"
He trailed off with a shrug
"No matter. Both apprenticeships and institutional learning require at least
another three years of study. Have you considered which approach you would
prefer?"
Draco shrugged. "Institutional learning would ensure I met the criteria for
just about any career I wanted, but an apprenticeship would give me the
connections. I'd try for the latter if I could."
Severus bowed his head approvingly. "Wise of you to consider. Any particular
Rune Masters?"
Pausing, Draco gathered his thoughts. He had considered at length, even though
applications for apprenticeships didn't open until December at the earliest for
the following season. There was little but pondering that he could do. "I'm
unsure, as of yet. Master Fampwing is reputable, but he had nothing on Master
Gilvorth." He shrugged. "I suppose I'll just try everyone I can."
"Not Lerman Dorrick? He is the leading Rune Master in Europe at present."
Nodding, ceding, Draco attempted to keep the note of longing from his voice.
"Of course, but I've no doubt he will be buried beneath applications."
"That is no reason not to add your own to the list."
"Of course not. I've confidence in my abilities. But I should hardly assume
that, even with my marks, it's a done thing." How much he wanted to be
apprenticed under Dorrick; it was almost too much to hope for. "I'll await
application dates and simply attempt correspondence when possible."
Severus met his eyes intently for a moment. Draco felt as though he was being
studied like a rather unpredictable potions; he'd seen that look in his
godfather's eyes before. Finally, the Severus nodded. "Then, as long as you are
striving for the moon, you may at least reach some height before crashing down
once more."
"That's rather pessimistic of you, Severus."
"Yet no less a possibility."
"True."
"And what of your other occupations?"
Draco suppressed a groan. He'd hoped that, in the light of his confession of
career paths, the inevitable question of his sessions with Fitzherbert would
have been avoided. He should have known better. Well, not that it really
mattered that Severus asked. Everyone knew the mental state of the students; it
was basically common knowledge amongst the staff. It was that damned duty-of-
care. Still, even with his discomfort, Draco couldn't truly find himself
resentful of the question. The upwelling of joy that had sparked in his stomach
at Severus' easy acceptance of his passion for Ancient Runes quelled it
somewhat. He wasn't unaware of the impact such approval had on him. Yes,
Severus was very much stepping up to seat himself in a familial role, and
surprisingly Draco found he didn't much mind.
"Fitzherbert thinks I've made progress. Which I agree with." He pursed his lips
thoughtfully. "I don't know, I've been considering dropping the sessions, or
even reducing their frequency. We struggle to bulk out the hour, now."
"Most likely because you are distracted with studies. Don't attempt to tell me
otherwise, Draco. I know you are deeply embedded in your books at every spare
moment." Severus' words were not quite disapproving, but it was a near thing.
What kind of godfather discourages studies? Not a pureblood, that was for sure.
"I don't think it necessary to limit support when it is offered so willingly.
Make use of that which is given while you have the chance."
It was strange, hearing words so compassionate, caring even, coming from
Severus' mouth. Yes, most witnesses would definitely suspect Polyjuice Potion.
Draco said as much and Severus only rolled his eyes.
They proceeded with a superficial exchange, conversing of a number of topics
from Narcissa's wellbeing – of which Severus likely knew more, considering he
was the one who saw her every weekend. There was something to be said for that
– to his relations with his school friends. The latter in particular would have
left Draco shuddering in horror to even contemplate discussing wuth his
godfather a year prior, and yet his relationship with Severus had changed
significantly enough over that time that it no longer felt strange. Well, not
overtly strange, anyway.
The interrogation – for casual as it was, that was undoubtedly what Severus saw
it as – didn't last particularly long, and within half an hour Draco was
nodding his head in farewell to his godfather and making his way towards the
door. He paused, however, as his name was called once more. Turning, he raised
a questioning eyebrow.
"How is the Potter boy?"
Draco blinked. Well, that was unexpected. He couldn't even fathom what had
brought such a question about. Did Severus have some invested interest in his
love life? He'd never shown any such interest in Harry before, save at the
early weeks of his partners transfer into Hogwarts and that had been only to
sneer and utter snide comments to the likes Draco had rarely witnessed outside
of Severus' most hated Gryffindors. Such sneers had abruptly disappeared
however with… yes, it was that incident, what seemed so long ago, when Pansy
had cursed him with the Visio Timora in sixth year. It had been a turning point
of sorts for Severus; he'd subsided into his carefully constructed neutrality.
This new interest… was it an extension of Severus' recent fulfilment of a
paternal role? Did he feel the need to know everythingabout Draco's day-to-day
life? Or was it just Harry's weird magnetic force thing, the accidental magic
that made him rise to the forefront of the minds of friends and acquaintances
alike. Though such a phenomena hadn't really happened for a while now… Not that
Draco had noticed, anyway.
"He's going swimmingly, to be sure," Draco said, frowning. "Why?"
Severus turned his attention back towards his desk in a motion that Draco
recognised a being either a gesture of frustration or embarrassment. He
couldn't really tell which. "It is of little concern. A trifling curiosity."
"I thought you and every other teacher kept your own tabs on Neville and
Harry." Draco purposefully overlooked the fact that Severus had not mentioned
Neville's transfer once since it had taken place. Old grudges died hard, even
when Draco's friend was no longer a Gryffindor. He and Severus had never gotten
along with even a semblance of cordiality. "I was sure that McGonagall was
keeping her ears wide open for any whisper that they weren't happy there so she
could drag them back to Hogwarts."
Severus busied himself with his parchments. It was fascinating to watch his
discomfort; Draco was almost certain it spoke of embarrassment. "Hardly your
concern, Draco. It was merely a question." The drawl of his tone was far too
pronounced to be casual.
Leaning against the doorframe, Draco couldn't quite keep the smile from
spreading across his face. "Severus?"
Dark eyes flickered towards him. The man was not impressed. "You're excused,
Draco."
"No thank you. I'm rather curious what interest you have in my partner. Harry
is my partner, after all." Draco settled himself into a deliberate slouch, a
clear indication that he was not making a move to leave at any time soon. He
couldn't quite keep his curiosity from showing. Besides, any opportunity to
talk about Harry he welcomed gratefully.
Severus' lips thinned, but he evidently realised Draco wouldn't back down. And
that he had a prior claim to the situation, for he finally nodded his head
shortly. "I was merely concerned. The incidents of last year…"
"The Battle?" Draco frowned quizzically. Of course, everyone was shaken by the
war, but Severus hardly had a reason to consider Harry more than anyone else.
Nodding his head, Severus slumped back slightly in his chair. "The Battle, yes,
and prior incidents." This time Severus didn't need to explain what he was
talking about. The Visio Timora incident was fairly prominent in the memories
of all the witnesses to the event.
Still frowning, Draco pushed himself off the doorframe. "But why do you care?"
Severus shrugged uncharacteristically. It made him seem markedly younger than
his years. "I have my reasons."
"Severus –"
"I am aware of his living situation in the vaguest sense of the term. Or, more
precisely, of his past living situation." Severus' eyes hardened and any
flicker of immaturity abruptly faded. "I am sure you at least have an inkling
of your own, Draco. I am not so cold-hearted as to feel nothing after coming to
terms with such knowledge."
Draco was shocked. Surprised would have been too mild a term. He blinked
rapidly, struggling for a reply to the completely unprecedented show of
concern. Severus knew? More, he actually cared?
For all his words, Draco knew he wasn't heartless, or even particularly cold.
He simply masked it well. Still, for him to be visibly concerned for Harry,
when he'd seemed largely impartial to just about anyone except his Slytherins,
and even then only minimally. Yes, shocked was the more appropriate term.
But Severus wasn't finished. He seemed to have turned in upon himself,
contemplating, and spoke in a near whisper. "It took time, yes, for me to look
past the memory of him but… the boy is still her son."
When Draco left moments later, it was to the distant and brooding bowed head of
his godfather. Severus' final words rung echoing in his ears. Curiosity was a
wondrous thing, and as ever, Draco found himself mulling over more questions
than had been answered.
***** Breaking the Ice *****
Chapter Notes
     A/N: Second chapter in as many days! Woohoo! I felt it almost
     necessary since the previous chapter was sort of shorter and it had
     been a while.
     Also, WARNING: this chapter contains depictions of sexual situations,
     as well as references to past non-consensual acts. More importantly I
     think, if you have a problem with reading rape recovery fics, due to
     experience of just natural skepticism, I'd tread carefully. I
     understand that everyone experiences trauma recovery differently and
     I would hate to offend if my description seemed crass or
     unbelievable, for whatever reason. If I have offended anyone, I'm
     really really sorry. It wasn't my intention at all.
     Otherwise, hope you enjoy.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Amelie gave a flutter of her fingers, waving in farewell as Harry stepped out
of her shop into the cool evening. The bell overhead tinkled merrily with his
passage, a birdsong chime that resounded with the ambiance of the scene. The
sun had nearly disappeared below the horizon, bathing Rivierie Ville in a deep
red glow. Darkness was falling earlier and earlier as winter encroached upon
the Pyrenees; deeply into December as they were, Harry found himself wrapped in
a scarf and thick jumper despite the lack of snow.
"Well, I wish you a very Merry Christmas, Harry."
Turning towards Socorro standing alongside him, Harry offered her a bright
smile and nodded, returning the sentiment. "And thank you, as always."
"Not at all," Socorro replied, shaking her head, her own mellow smile spreading
across her face. "I'm simply glad that you're feeling more confident for the
holiday break. Remember, though we haven't any sessions booked, should you need
the support I am always available for booking an urgent session or a spurr of
the moment Floo exchange. On the other hand, correspondence by letters, should
you feel it would be of benefit, is also an alternative."
Harry bowed his head, accepting the offer of support despite his urge to wave
off the suggestion and assure her he would be fine. If he'd learnt anything
over the past few weeks, the past few months, it was that the simple act of
talking to Socorro provided an immense relief. Draco had even gone so far as to
comment on the fact; apparently the effects were visible. "I'll bear that in
mind. Thank you, again."
Socorro's smile broadened. It felt as delightful as it did embarrassing to see
her so genuinely gladdened by Harry's acceptance. Far be it from the distant
and formal relationship Harry had anticipated, he felt remarkably comfortable
with the psychologist. She was almost like a very learned, very supportive
friend. He hadn't expected that at all. And yet, unlike a friend, she was
always seeking to urge him into furthering his treatment, into challenging
himself with both little things and…
"If you please, consider what I've suggested about your family. I will not
repeat my own stance on the matter – we've been through this – and I respect
your wishes to not immediately push charges." She kept her tone low, despite
there being not a soul in the vicinity who could overhear them. A slight
dampening of her smile bespoke sincere sadness at the matter, yet her ever-
present understanding persisted. "However, I think it would be beneficial to
your recovery to further reconsider how you view them."
Yes. Socorro also seemed to urge confrontation of the big things too.
The big topics had gradually clambered to the surface, presenting themselves at
the forefront of Harry's discussions with the psychologist. From working
through the aversive issue of the death of Voldemort – a memory that still at
times caused him to flinch even after such intense work in the area – to
Harry's relationship with Draco and difficulties that surrounded their
situation, Socorro seemed to consider them all on par in terms of importance.
The topic of the Dursleys, and of Stephen Defaux, had naturally arisen too,
elbowing its way to to forefront of their conversations like a particularly
demanding child. It had been a controversial subject since Harry had first
managed to strangle out a broken recitation of his memories concerning the
matter. For the first time in the sessions he held with Socorro, the witch had
actually shown a flicker of emotion. The room was too dark to completely
discern its nature, but she looked almost angry. It was a strange expression on
her otherwise sedate face.
Far be it from the emotional strain of reliving the trauma, Harry had found
that finally voicing his experience had been almost… liberating. He never would
have expected that. Oh, there had been tears, and at one point he'd fallen
victim to sheer hysteria, something that he would never have anticipated, had
never experienced before. Socorro had to send word to the school in that
instance, such had been his debilitation. Harry was relieved when it was only
Tali with a struggling Lyssy and a floundering Neville who arrived, escorted by
the Resident Spokeswoman Bernadette who had significantly mellowed over the
months since school had begun. And though he had cringed with guilt and
humiliation at the turn of events, he was similarly thankful when Neville had
somehow contacted Draco. With almost superhuman speed Draco had raced to
Harry's side and hadn't left to return back to Scotland until he'd ascertained
Harry could cope at least marginally without his presence. By the end of his
short visit, Harry wasn't exactly sure who was reassuring whom. Draco seemed
more upset by the incident than he was.
The whole ordeal had been horribly embarrassing, though Harry could barely
summon the energy to blush shamefully. His emotional weariness bordered on
exhaustion. After that, Socorro suggested they meet twice a week, at least
until the vividness of Harry's recollections eased.
When they had eased – for painful though they still were, they had – Socorro
had presented her suggestion. Pressing charges had not even crossed Harry's
mind as a possibility. He didn't want to associate with the Durselys again. At
all. As for Stephen Defaux… well, Harry had argued with deliberate civility
with Draco over visiting the man who had been his guardian. It had been a long
and verbose 'discussion' over the summer holidays, but eventually Draco had
agreed that if Harry truly wanted to visit the man then he would come with him.
Harry couldn't really explain the desire to simply see the man; he didn't
really understand it himself. Any accompanying emotions surrounding the figure
that had 'cared' for him for five years were deep and murky and a riot of
jumbled stressors.
Stephen Defaux was a shell of a man. Insane, Draco called him, and though he
didn't particularly like the word itself, Harry had to agree, at least in
sentiment. He was installed in long-term care at a rehabilitation centre,
though a quiet word from an open-faced attendant upon arrival indicated that
'rehabilitation' was a loosely applied label. The patients rarely left. When
Harry saw his old guardian for the first time in six months, he'd had been
rendered mute. Stephen was wasted, sallow skinned and nearly hidden beneath a
patchy beard and loose-fitting patient's gown. He'd barely raised his gaze at
the two boys when they'd entered, and even then there was not a glimmer of
recognition.
Harry hadn't been able to adequately sort through the tangle of emotions that
had coursed through him. There was confusion, an upwelling of nervousness, an
almost terror that was oddly detached. Yet there was also apprehension that
paradoxically contrasted a feeling of relief, and most surprisingly of all
there was… loss.
Loss, but not sadness at the loss. That much Harry could discern. He couldn't
quite understand it, but… yes, it felt like loss. The pillar that had been the
centre of his world for years was gone and though it left only a blessed
freedom, hollowness remained. It was disconcerting, and he and Draco had
hastily left the room.
Draco had asked the questions. Asked what exactly was wrong with the man.
Stephen's attendant, a homely, middle-aged woman with a kind, round face, had
only shaken her head and shrugged.
"Your guess is as good as mine. Symptoms suggest that he may be suffering from
post traumatic stress disorder, though it is unknown what has induced it. At
times, his responses indicate he may have developed mild schizophrenic, but…"
She paused, glancing towards the half-opened door into Stephen's brightly sun-
lit room. A flicker of thoughtfulness brushed across her features. "How did you
say you knew him again?"
They'd left quickly after that with a muttered excuse and a garbled explanation
of "cousin's step-son's aunt" or some such. And Harry had forcibly shoved the
lingering remains of his old guardian from his mind; he didn't want to see the
man again.
And yet, dusted of Stephen as Harry was – at least in terms of direct
confrontation – Socorro maintained her concern. For the mentally debilitated
Defaux as well as the Dursleys. She never pushed when Harry cringed from her
suggestions, but he was always aware that they were there, loitering on the
outskirts of every discussion. Their most recent session, another two hours of
talking that Harry had become unexpectedly comfortable with, had involved a lot
of consideration for the Dursleys. As far as Socorro was concerned, Harry
shouldn't – and likely couldn't – leave the situation as it was.
Harry was ambivalent to the matter and so simply wore her suggestions silently.
As they stood outside of Amelie's Mediwares and Potions, he hoped his
uneasiness on the matter was hidden by the stretching shadows of night. He
managed to nod with a feeble smile at her reminder. "I'll think about it."
"Then that's all I can ask for." Socorro's smile was back two-fold, the
concerned thoughtfulness replaced by her gentle kindliness. "I'll be seeing you
in January, then, if not before."
They departed with a final wave, the magical green polish on Socorro's nails
flashing with every tilt of her fingers. Harry turned along the now familiar
route towards Beauxbatons Academy and made his slow, wandering way up the hill.
===============================================================================
 
"What I just don't understand is why they changed her name to Mary Poppins?
It's not like any of the Muggles would have known she was a real witch or
anything." Tali frowned thoughtfully as she stepped out of the vent tuyaux.
"Anyway, Poppenjack isn't even that different from Poppins."
Harry smiled at his friend as they departed the shade of Beauxbatons Academy.
Tali had been having an animated discussion with herself – and the long-
suffering Professeur Gueguen – all afternoon, ever since the topic in Histoire
de Magie had turned to theatrical interpretations of witchcraft and wizardary.
They'd recently moved onto the history of Wizard-Muggle relations and Harry had
been surprised to discover that the loveable sixties movie character was in
fact based on a real-life witch. He had to wonder at the author Travers and
Walt Disney both after that. "I think it's probably to protect the privacy of
the Madame Poppenjack. They do that with movies."
"But Poppenjack as a surname isn't even that unusual," Tali rebuffed pointedly.
"Maybe not with wizards, but in the Muggle world I think Poppins is probably
more common."
Tali shook her head, muttering under her breath at the extremes of the Muggle
entertainment industry. Harry listened with only half an ear, standing on his
toes briefly to peer down the hill along the winding path dotted with students
and trailing trunks that headed towards the carriages. It was the first day of
the Christmas holidays and they were supposed to meet Neville before departing.
Aime was heading straight south rather then by-passing Paris so had likely left
already.
As they approached the muted chatter of waiting students, Harry saw a dirty-
blonde mop wading towards them through the sea of hatted heads. Despite the
coolness of the weather, Neville still refused to wear the berets that were a
part of their uniform. Harry didn't bother calling out – Neville wouldn't hear
him anyway. Nudging a still mumbling Tali, he directed them towards their
friend.
"About time, you two," Neville called with a grin as he noticed their approach,
weaving more purposefully towards their fellow students.
At an indignant tap on his ankle, Harry stooped to scoop Lyssy from the danger
of being trampled. "Sorry, Lyssy was with the –"
"Giant koi? Again?"
Harry smiled indulgently at the little cat in his arms. Though he couldn't
communicate with her like he used to be able to, her emotions were writ clearly
in her half-lidded eyes. Utter self-satisfaction.
"It's only a natural progression, really," Tali explained to Neville
practically. "She's a cat. It would surely be stranger for her to repress her
hunting instincts. To avoid the deterioration into stereotypic behaviours and
potential depression, it's crucial for animals to be able to express their
normal behaviours."
"Depression?" Neville repeated incredulously, which naturally led Tali into a
long-winded explanation of mammalian mental disorders. She certainly could
talk, despite that the quite buzz of her voice would indicate she was anything
but a chatterbox to an unwary stranger.
Harry listened with his now-practiced half attention, offering a small,
commiserating smile to Neville before leading his friends through the slowly
roiling body of students filing into the carriage bay.
Scanning through the weaving bodies for Jean, Harry turned at the sound of his
name being called. A young dark-haired youth with a prominent brow and a fuzz
of hair sprouting from his chin trotted towards him with a grin spreading wide
across his face. He offered a half-wave of greeting to Tali and Neville, which
was returned with distraction and relief respectively.
"Salut, Giles. I didn't know you were working today."
Giles beamed wider. He was an affable fellow, exceptionally friendly, and
though he only worked every other week at the Pegasus stables of Beauxbatons he
was a familiar and welcome face amongst the students. Especially to those that
volunteered to work with the magical creatures as Harry and Tali chose to.
"Ouais, Jean couldn't work today so he called me in a favour. Had to get up at
the crack of dawn to make it here by eight, I tell you." The breadth of his
smile suggested the early rise didn't leave him any worse for wear.
Tali finally seemed drawn from her muted tirade and sidled up to Harry's side.
"Did he have to leave for the foaling? He mentioned yesterday that Magnolia
looked about ready. Is he keeping her on site at the Bordeaux Paddocks? Will he
bring her and the foal to the school or are they staying off campus? Please
tell him to bring the foal to the academy."
As always, Giles looked faintly bemused and more than a little overwhelmed with
Tali's verbal onslaught. "Erm… I think you might be right. I'm not entirely
sure. He was sort of in a hurry." He gave a rueful laugh. "I'll pass on the
message if I see Jean before you do." He paused as Tali nodded shortly,
satisfied with the explanation, and allowed her questions to be quelled
momentarily. "Anyway, did you folks want me to drive you back? You're all
headed towards Paris, yes?"
"Would you?" Neville chimed in, eagerness making his lean forward and clap
Giles on the shoulder heartily. "That would be great! Harry said Jean'd
promised he'd take us, but I guess that's not going to happen."
Giles looked faintly surprised at Neville's easy-going approach, eyes
flickering to his shoulder before he overlooked the friendly gesture. Harry was
somewhat relieved by the his following assurance and continued enthusiasm as he
shepherded them towards the gradually filling carriages. He'd come to the
realisation that, in an ironic similarity to his own aversion, French wizards
and witches rarely partook in physical contact save for a customary faire la
biseupon occasion. The only exception seemed to be between family and close
friends. Giles had only met Neville once, so it was a show of his easy-going
nature that he didn't immediately turn a cold shoulder at the familiarity. Far
from it, in fact, as with that naturalness that Neville possessed, the pair
fell into friendly chatter. Harry couldn't contain a hint of pride as he noted
detachedly just how adept Neville had become at French, both in culture and
speech, over the course of a few short months.
The carriage Giles lead them to was already seating a pair of third year girls
who accepted their company easily enough as the three fifth years clambered
aboard. Giles, with skill gained from experience, deftly hefted their trunks
into the boot of the carriage and disappeared momentarily in search of Pegasus.
He returned minutes later leading a pair of nearly white geldings that Harry
recognised as being siblings, hitched them to the carriage, and within moments
set their small party into motion.
It was a surreal feeling, leaving the Beauxbatons for the first time. Or for
the first extended time, anyway. As Harry gazed out of the small back window,
catching a final glimpse of the palace he realised that he had truly quite
enjoyed his months at his new school. Despite the lacking presence of Draco, it
was comfortable. He didn't know if it was due simply to the predominant use of
French as the first language or a result of being distanced from Hogwarts and
the memories that it entailed, but could hardly deny the reality. What he did
know was that a big part of it had been the presence of Neville and Tali, even
Aime, Melody, Magdalane, and, on frequent occasions, Christophe and Eloise.
It was odd that the support of people he had once hardly known – and several of
which he only developed a friendly companionability with – could so settle him.
Harry was a realist enough to know that his history had been nothing if not
minimalistic in terms of social interactions. It had been a surprise at
Hogwarts when so many people had attempted to befriend him and when Draco had
explained Narcissa's hypothesis of his apparent accidental magic 'attracting'
attention, he had been disconsolate but not particularly surprised. It would
make sense that some magical phenomenon was afoot to entice their interest. It
wasn't as though he actively elicited it himself.
What he did find surprising, however, was that, when he had overcome the
initial discomfort of simply being around people for so much of his day, it had
become almost… comfortable. There was Draco, of course, who Harry felt as at
ease with as he did Lyssy, which was truly saying something, but even Hermione,
Blaise and Ron had always been a welcoming presence. Pansy… Harry missed her
deeply, even with the knowledge that had she still been alive he would hardly
be seeing her more frequently. Her loss sat like a physical wound in his chest
that made itself known at the slightest thought. Picking delicately at the
feelings to further his understanding of them, Harry came to the realisation of
just how much his life had changed over the course of a year and a half, and
not only because of magic. There were people he cared about, people he wanted
to spend time with, in preference of his self-imposed isolation.
Harry never would have thought he would actively desire the company of others.
Maybe he had been lonely and hadn't realised it?
It still baffled him at times, that he had come to rely upon people so quickly.
Harry had never relied on anyone before, and yet that had all changed just last
Christmas when, barely concious and crumpled to the path-side in Paris'
metropolitan, he had been awakened by the terrified voice of Draco. That image,
of Draco's pale face and wide eyes, his voice muffled by the mugginess of
Harry's mind, would stay with him forever.
Thank God it's Christmas. We might get a week less of break than Hogwarts
students, but still, that's two weeks together. Two whole weeks! Harry knew
Tali watched him with barely suppressed amusement as he fought to control the
excitement he'd hitherto witheld from spreading across his face. He didn't
really care. His enthusiasm only grew with every moment of travel, even when
the nearly-four hour trip seem to take significantly longer than the predicted
four hours.
Disembarking in the underground carriage bay in Le Cachee Labyrinthe, Harry,
Tali and Neville offered Giles their gratitude and a smattering of well-wishes
for the holiday break. Giles replied in kind, calling to them boisterously that
he would be more than happy to cart them back on the return trip should they
desire as much.
Parking their trunks at a distance from the parked carriages and stamping
Pegsus, the sporadic calls from grooms and carriage drivers both as they
directed incoming arrivals every which way, Neville sighed heartily. He grinned
towards his two friends and Harry didn't think he needed a genius to predict
his next words.
"Well, not that this hasn't been fun, but I have places I need to be. You know,
sights to see, people to talk to."
"Oh? I thought Ginny was still in Belgium, meeting that scout. What was his
name…?" Tali picked at her teeth in the way she did when she was adopting false
thoughtfulness. Her façade wasn't entirely fool proof, however; Harry noticed
the small quivering of her lips that told of the beginnings of a smile.
Neville blinked at the French girl in surprise. "How did you know Ginny was in
Belgium?" He paused, then frowned. "And I never even said I was meeting Ginny."
"I know, Neville, because I listen. Eyes peeled, ears open, you know the
drill." She dropped the act, smiling widely.
"But I never said anything…"
"Don't worry, Neville," Harry consoled him. "Tali just sort of knows things.
You probably just haven't been on the receiving end of it that often so haven't
noticed. I wouldn't think on it too much."
Neville continued to frown at Tali, who only replied with an overly bright
smile. "Ri-ght. Well, anyway, no, as a matter of fact, she came back from
Belgium early."
"Oh dear. Did it end badly?"
"No, not really. At least Ginny seemed to think the bloke thought she was
pretty good. But I'm meeting her for lunch, so I'm going to head off."
Stooping, he hefted his trunk to standing. "Harry, I'll probably drop by to see
you some time after Christmas, yeah?"
Harry nodded. "Sure. Sirius says you're always welcome. Are you going to be in
England for most of the break?"
Neville returned the nod, though with an accompanying grimace. "Yeah, Gran
wanted me to come back and stay with her for Christmas. Says she wanted to make
sure I'm not getting 'brainwashed by those stuck-up French pillocks'." He
glanced hastily towards Tali. "Her words, I swear. No offence from me intended,
Tali."
Offering a consoling pat to Neville's shoulder, Tali seemed to struggle around
a smirk before she replied. "None taken, Neville. Still, at least you'll get to
see all your old friends again."
"Yeah, that'll be good." The thought seemed to brighten Neville's outlook once
more. His grin returned. "I think I'll probably be able to convince Gran to let
me stay with Ron for most of the time. He's a respectable pureblood, you know."
Tali snorted at that, rolling her eyes and muttering something about the
stupidity of those that clung to the old ways. There followed a brief exchange
of farewells before Neville, manhandling his trunk with excessive awkwardness,
Apparated from the spot.
"Come on then, my little kittens, we also have places to be." Tali, grinning,
looped her arm through Harry's and scrunched her nose at him in a grin. He
stared at her flatly – ever since she'd overheard Sirius' reference to him as
'kitten', his friend had been taken with the term of endearment – but conceded
and Apparated them both from the sidelines of the Pegasus bay with a crack.
The Parisian International Portkey Terminal was remarkably similar to its
English counterpart. A wide room, grand yet paradoxically unassuming, it held
nothing save a long receptionist's desk and the seemingly random potplants
placed either side of the doors. Polished floors varied only in their
checkerboard pattern in contrast to the gleaming white of those in London. The
primary difference appeared to be the significant discrepancy in individuals
queuing to get their tickets stamped and directed to their departure room.
Harry had grown somewhat familiar with the building, enough that he nodded at
two of the three receptionists in greeting; he knew their faces at least, if
not their names.
"What time is your portkey set to leave?" Harry asked, urging Tali out of the
thoroughfare of the double doorway and dragging their trunks behind them. As
they pulled to a standing station alongside the wall, Lyssy dutifully clambered
atop his trunk tail twitching and eyes narrowing as she dutifully observed each
figure that passed by.
"Ah, not for another twenty minutes, or thereabouts."
"Did you want to check in?"
Tali gave him a cryptic smile. "Not just yet. I think I'll stick around for a
bit longer."
Harry frowned. "I still don't understand why you didn't just take one of the
carriages straight to Spain rather than coming through Paris. You're spending
Christmas with Viviette in Spain, aren't you? You know there was nearly as many
carriages going to Madrid as to Paris."
"Yes, but Kitten," Tali dropped her chin, raising her eyebrows pointedly, "I'm
not going to be seeing you all Christmas. This is the only chance I'll get."
"Chance for what?" Harry replied, frowning confusedly and with just a hint of
foreboding. But Tali only shook her head and turned her attention to scanning
her surroundings, as though searching for something. At the sight of his
friend's hawk-like gaze, Harry felt his own attention shift, questions dying.
And his thoughts fell into familiar territory.
Draco. Draco was coming, would arrive at any moment. Harry's partner had
already been on holidays for a week, but had remained with Narcissa throughout
that time as a compromise for spending the rest of his break with Harry. In
France.
Draco wsa going to spend Harry's whole holidays with him. In France. The
thought sent a jitter of excitement through him that had him nearly starting
excitedly with every witch or wizard that entered the entrance hall from the
doors leading the departure rooms.
So it was with little surprise, despite how uncharacteristic Harry knew it to
be, that when the tall, slender blonde stepped through the swinging doors that
Harry nearly flew as he launched himself across the room. Draco barely had a
moment to raise his arms before Harry crashed into him, arms wrapping tightly
around his waist in a crushing embrace. Barely a moment later he felt arms
envelope him in turn and was pressed even more closely to Draco's chest.
Warm. So warm. And comfortable. Harry pressed his eyes closed and drew in a
deep breath, the smell of the cologne Draco had taken to wearing curling into
his nostrils. He knew for a fact that a the musky scent cost more than Harry
spent on shampoo in an entire year. They'd discussed its necessity at length,
though a myriad of giggles and affronted exclamations. At that moment, Harry
didn't care for the expense. It was familiar.
And it's only been a week since I saw him. I'm acting so desperate. And yet,
even recognising it as a truth, the thought didn't cause Harry to loosen his
arms even a fraction.
They probably would have stayed as such, wrapped in each other's embrace
indefinitely had a traveler not nearly barrelledd into them in his haste to
depart the building. They exchanged a sheepish grin before Draco drew Harry
from the direct line of passage
Out of the way once more, Draco drew him into a one-armed hug. "Happy Holidays.
It's about time you finished up."
Harry snorted, gently prodding him in the ribs. It barely elicited a grunt.
"Don't criticise my educational institution, Draco. Envy is petty."
"It's hardly envy. Tiresome as it is to admit, Hogwarts is more than
satisfactory. If anything, the very fact that you finish studies a full year
later is indication enough. Although, I have to admit," Draco leaned away from
him slightly, peering down at Harry in appreciative assessment, "it does have
it's perks."
Feeling a flush rise in his cheeks, Harry dropped his chin. Draco had never
made any attempt to hide his approval of Beauxbatons' uniform. The first time
the students of Hogwarts had surprised their friends with a visit to Paris –
all thoroughly prepared and approved with the Hogwarts Headmistress by a
meticulous Hermione – Ron had nearly fallen from his chair. He and Blaise had
taken great delight in prodding at a blushingly embarrased Neville as they
exclaimed over what a splendid fop he made. Neville had cursed long and
fluently, swearing that he would never leave the Academy grounds in his uniform
again.
In an attempt to divert the attention from himself – for really, Ron and Blaise
were being exceptionally long-winded in their expressions of gloating amusement
– Neville had jerked his thumb at Harry. With a sardonic smile, he exclaimed,
"Well, I may look like an idiot, but we have our resident French student here
who actually wears it properly. See, you're supposed to look like a little
doll. Ressemble à une poupée, non?" He smirked self-satisfyingly, the attention
diverted from himself. "I'm just far too English to pull it off."
After that, the name had stuck. Ron and Blaise had called Harry nothing but a
'poupée' for the rest of the weekend; his diminutive height did nothing to help
the matter, even when Neville assured him he was a 'nice' doll, unlike those
creepy bisque figurines that lined the windows of the pâtisserie in Rivierie
Ville. He was only mollified when Draco had wrapped him in a hug and tugged
idly on his beret, whispering, "I happen to quite like it, you know. There's no
reason to feel bashful about looking good. Neville's just jealous he can't
quite pull it off." And dubious as Harry was to his claim, he had felt somewhat
mollified.
Hence, Draco had encouraged him to wear his uniform at any given opportunity.
More than that, as though he'd undergone an epiphany of sorts, Draco seemed to
take it upon himself to re-outfit Harry with a new wardrobe. Harry couldn't
really complain, though he did find it excessive and unnecessary. He'd never
had much by way of fashion sense and couldn't profess a sudden interest
particularly. But it seemed to make Draco happy to wear that which he'd bought
– or requested Harry buy, as he would resolutely refuse to be showered in gifts
willy-nilly – so he could hardly refuse.
As it was, Draco was tugging idly at his beret, a fond smile on his face that
Harry was fairly certain he didn't realise he wore – he wouldn't be caught dead
wearing it in public otherwise – when Tali wandered towards them. Harry could
pinpoint the exact moment Draco noticed her presence for the aloof, slightly
derogatory mask that slipped like a glove upon his face.
Harry took a step away from Draco, glancing between his two friends. It was the
first time they had met, all of Draco's previous visits occurring off-campus.
Though he had spoken to both of them about each other at length, he felt an
unexpected nervousness well up within him.
"Um… Tali, this is Draco. Draco, Tali. I'm sure I've told you enough about each
other to…" He trailed off, taking another small step away from Draco. It was
impossible not to; the tension in the air was thick enough to be sliced and
diced. Tali's golden eyes, though on a markedly lower level due to her shorter
height, were locked with Draco's grey in what appeared to be a battle of sorts.
Harry would not have been unsurprised to see sparks fly. Literally, given the
inclusion of magic.
"Um, what's…?"
Neither Draco nor Tali indicated they heard Harry's half-formed query. It was
morbidly fascinating to watch, though a little intimidating. Harry felt as
though he watched two wild animals having a face off of sorts. He couldn't
fathom exactly what it was about, but felt too nervous to attempt another
question.
Draco was the first to break the silence. With deliberate slowness, he held out
his hand and spoke in clipped English. "Draco Malfoy, Eldest Son and Heir of
the Malfoy Family, currently a seventh year student at Hogwarts School of
Witchcraft and Wizardry."
Harry stared blankly at his partner, struggling not to gape. What was all that
about? Why was he acting so formal and -?
"Nataliha Jarvour, Second Eldest of the Jarvour Family, fourth generation Half-
Blood and proud to be. At present a fifth form student of Beauxbatons Academy
of Magic." She spoke in her usual quiet, lilting tone, an innocent, as she
slipped her little fingers into Draco's. There was nothing innocent about the
grin that flashed her faintly crooked teeth however; it looked more predatory
than friendly. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Malfoy."
Naturally, she spoke entirely in French.
Harry had to bite back a sigh. Of course neither Draco nor Tali would back down
to a potential confrontation, Draco for his pride and Tali for the sheer thrill
of the challenge. Conceding to use the other's first language was asking too
much, it would seem. Harry couldn't quite hide a cringe at the exchange, though
it went unnoticed by the pair as they finished their hand shake and settled
back to staring at one another. The tense silence ensued once more. Harry could
have sworn a silent conversation passed between the two who were, effectively,
little more than stangers.
This is awkward. God, this is so awkward, I think I'm going to melt into the
ground. I should have seen this coming… Of course that's why Tali stuck around
instead of booking in at the check-in. She always said she was looking forward
to meeting Draco. So awkward, so awkward…
It was Draco who finally broke the staring battle. Surprising, that. Harry
would have assumed him too proud to offer any leniency. Yet even more
surprising was that when he spoke it all in French. Not quite fluid, but
certainly understandable. "It's a pleasure to meet you finally, Madamoiselle
Jarvour. I've heard so much about you. Harry claims you are an absolute
delight." If there was an edge to the words… well, that was simply Draco.
The battle seemed to reach its conclusion at that point. A slow smile spread
across Tali's face; not that predatory smirk but a genuine smile that crinkled
her nose. More noteworthy was the fact that she replied – mostly – in English.
"S'il te plait, call me Tali. And ze pleasure is all mine, Mr Malfoy. I've
similarly been most eager to meet you. My dear friend 'Arry frequently assaults
me with favourable anecdotes regarding yourself. I feel as zough I know you
already."
Her own words were markedly less stilted than Draco's despite the thickness of
her accent, and the broadening smile said she knew it. Harry had to cover his
face with a hand, hiding his flush. He had a moment to regret his long-lost
ability to appear unaffected by his emotions before embarrassment nearly
overwhelmed him. Of course, everything has to be a competition.
"I assure you, I feel the same, Tali. And similarly, call me Draco. I feel that
such formality would be rather uncouth given the circumstances."
As one, Draco and Tali turned towards Harry. Peering between his fingers, Harry
flickered his gaze between the two of them warily. "What?"
In eerie synchrony, the pair adopted twin smirks. It was disconcerting to
behold an expression so similar on such different faces. He hadn't considered
them to be all that alike until that moment. Maybe that's why I like them both
so much. And find them both so frustrating at the moment!
But the worst appeared to be over. After a short exchange of words – in
English, thankfully, for Draco's sake – Tali made a show of casting a Tempus
Charm and huffed her regret that she was to leave.
"Vivi will be very upset with me if I'm late," she sighed, approaching Harry.
He barely got a chance to glimpse the teasing glint in her eye before she
leaned in and gave him a sequence of cheek kisses. "À bientôt, Kitten. I doubt
I'll be seeing you before school starts back again. Be sure to write me, now."
And after dropping briefly into a crouch to scratch Lyssy's head as Harry's
familiar coiled around his ankles, she spelled her trunk with a Follow Me Charm
and lined up with her fellow travellers at the reception desk.
Draco slipped an arm around Harry as they watched her leave, returning her
bright wave as she passed through the doors to the inner building. As soon as
she disappeared from sight, Harry tipped his head up towards Draco and gave him
a pointed stare. "Exactly what was that all about?" Draco only smirked,
dropping a kiss to his forehead. Harry scowled. "Draco…"
"Nothing to worry about, Harry, nothing at all." He dropped his arm from his
half-hug and spelled Harry's trunk with its own Follow Me Charm. Slipping his
hand into Harry's, he gave him an amused smile as they began to head towards
the exit. "You know, though, I think I may just like this Tali."
"Oh really? So glad you approve." Harry rolled his eyes, ensuring that Draco
didn't miss the sarcasm.
"Thank you." Draco's smile became quizzical for a moment. "And correct me if
I'm wrong, but did she just call you kitten?"
Harry could only managed to half smother his groan. He suddenly realised he
probably should have been more worried about his two friends' meeting than he
had been. It could have gone worse, but it surely could have gone much better.
Draco sighed blissfully as he slumped back onto the duvet, propping his head up
on the pillow. "Well, it might have been different to last Christmas, but I
still quite enjoyed myself. Even with Sirius around."
Harry smiled, noting the use of his godfather's first name in one of countless
instances that night. Draco had conceded – finally – to drop the formality of
calling Sirius 'Black' and with it had dropped some of their mutual wariness
around each other. Some, though admittedly not all. Slipping his shoes off at
the end of the bed, Harry crawled up the length of the mattress. Draco spread
his legs in a cradle and he slipped himself in between them, nestling with his
arms folded across Draco's chest. "I'm glad. Though are you sure you didn't
want to go and see you mother? If you wanted, tomorrow we could…"
Draco waved his hand lazily. "No, it's fine. She assured me that she was
spending most of of the Christmas break between social gatherings anyway." He
smirked, lips curling sardonically. "Besides, Severus assured me he'd be her
escort for just about all of them."
"Escort?" Harry felt his own smile widen. "Am I to assume then?" Draco wriggled
more comfortably into the thick duvet and stack of far too many pillows. Harry
had to wonder at their excess; like everything else in the modest yet open
bedroom Sirius had afforded him, the surplus seemed to be driven by a constant
fear that any want that should tickle Harry's fancy would not be met. Harry had
accepted it gratefully, but had to say something when Sirius had wanted to
install surround sound to accompany an already far too large entertainment
system in the bedroom. Not that he didn't appreciate the sentiment, but it
really was unnecessary. "I think it would be fairly safe to assume as much.
Severus spends more time with her than I do."
"I'm happy for her, then. If that's what Narcissa wants." "From what I've seen,
it seems to be." Draco's faded slightly, becoming thoughtful. "I like this
Anouk that Sirius has set himself up with, too. She seems to have a decent head
on her shoulders."
Harry hummed his agreement into Draco's chest. "I'll let Sirius know your
thoughts. I'm sure he'd be relieved to hear she meets your approval."
"Yes, you do that," his partner replied, grin spreading widely once more.
Anouk was a kindly young woman – Draco said too young for Sirius, but Harry
didn't altogether think so – and seemed to be about as besotted with Sirius as
he was with her. A golden haired daughter of a Ministry official, she seemed to
live life to the fullest in much the same way that Sirius did. Free, enjoying
life, living in the moment with no strings attached. Except that, in this
instance, there appeared to be quite a few strings attaching and knotting
rather firmly. It was an indication of just how well they cleaved together that
their relationship had spanned for a solid two months now, nearly twice as long
as Harry had known Sirius to embroil himself in before. Yes, besotted was quite
an accurate description; every letter Harry received from his godfather was
another proclamation of his adoration for the witch.
Yet even aside from the fact that Anouk so obviously made Sirius happy, Harry
found that he quite liked the woman too. She was friendly, had a bubbly sense
of humour, and seemed able to tame Sirius' wildness without smothering it
completely. Of course, such an approach would be counter productive as she
seemed to stray towards the wild side herself quite distinctly, if Sirius'
words were any indication.
"I like her too," he murmured quietly, head turning to rest his ear on Draco's
chest. The steady thump of a heartbeat, the warmth pervading even through his
jumper, was just so comfortable. Whatever uneasiness had arisen between them
briefly those months ago from Harry's first revisit to Hogsmeade had long since
passed, leaving only something stronger in its wake. As the proverb said, that
which wasn't killed would only be made stronger. He felt his eyes droop closed
as fingers grazed through his hair, stroking lightly through the ever-present
tangles. They tugged idly on his ear lobe and Draco's chest rose briefly in a
sigh of contentment.
"You know, I think I like these ones more than the other ones I got you." He
tugged lightly on the apatite earring hooped through Harry's ear. "They match
your eyes better."
Harry turned his head so his chin propped instead in the centre of Draco's
chest. "Is that so?"
"Yes. And I take full credit for just how perfectly matching they are, too."
Harry felt his smile widen once more, and didn't bother reprimanding the
assumption. Draco had been so content with his gift that Harry could only love
it, even had it not filled him with joy at the prospect of being able to
converse with Lyssy once more. It had made his own gift seem somewhat
inadequate, though Draco had exclaimed nostalgically that the simple chain of
interwoven white gold links was exactly the same as the one he'd pointed out a
year ago in Rue de Mervilles. As if Harry didn't remember exactly.
"You know," Harry murmured, pondering and tilting his head to gaze up at Draco,
"you still need to form that bond with your mother."
"Bond?" Draco peered down his chest towards Harry, running his fingers through
his hair once more. "The Bond of Eternity?"
"Mmm."
A small but delighted smile settled upon Draco's face. "That I do. It takes a
good few months to set everything up, though, so I was considering doing it
after my N.E. . I'd like to get my apprenticeship sorted before everything… I
still don't know what's going to happen in terms of living quarters next year,
if I get an English master."
Harry nodded his understanding. He hid it well, his tone free of worry, but
Harry could tell Draco was positively bursting for want of a response from one
of the Masters he'd sent applications to in hopes to apprentice under them in
the coming year. He knew Draco desperately wanted to work under Dorrick, even
more so than the elusive yet starkly unique French Master, Calvinn Burisque. He
didn't say anything, however. There was no need to point out the obvious. "Have
you asked her yet?"
Draco shook his head. "No. I will, just not yet. I mean…" He paused, thumbing
the side of his nose awkwardly. "We've gotten somewhat fonder of one another
these past few months, but I'm still unsure as to how she'd respond to such a
request."
Harry felt a smirk straining at his lips. "Somewhat fonder?"
"Quiet, you."
They both shook in muted laughter before subsiding into an easy silence. It was
calming to simply revel in one another's presence.
It was quiet and comfortable, warm and lulling, to be wrapped both in one
another and in the warmth of the room. Sirius had suggested to Harry that they
sleep in separate bedrooms at first. Well, it was more of a plea than a
suggestion. He had subsided, however, beneath Harry's hesitant request for
otherwise and Draco's point-blank refusal. Harry was grateful for the speed of
his godfather's acceptance. He hadn't really expected him to cave to fast;
Sirius was so protective, almost aggressively so at times, and his relationship
with Draco was tenuous at best. Draco maintained it was due to the discord that
still stank pungently between their families, but Sirius rebutted with the
belief that it was simply a matter of him disliking the 'snooty little arse'.
But at least in this instance, the sole remaining member of the Black family
alleviated his pride for once and bowed to the request of his godchild. Harry
felt it had been almost painful to watch.
Still, he couldn't regret forcing Sirius to make the decision. He'd grown used
to sleeping without Draco, but that didn't mean he simply liked it. It was
necessary, that was all. Any chance to share a bed was grasped desperately with
both hands.
Draco had asked, at first, if Harry really wanted to continue such a sleeping
arrangement. Harry had been mortified nearly to tears. Draco had to, at great
length and with gushing backtracking, reassured him that it wasn't that he
didn't want to sleep with Harry as such but that he thought that Harry would
prefer some distancing. Draco had been persistently careful, almost to the
point of frustrating. Any contact between them was strictly platonic save for
short chaste kisses. Or it had been until Harry had finally, with great
exasperation, told Draco to stop being a twit.
"But I… I just don't want to hurt you."
Harry could still remember the slight crack in his voice, the sadness, almost
fear, in his eyes. I've caused this. It's my fault. Yet Harry struggled against
spilling forth such an exclamation, fought against apologising profusely.
Socorro had reassured him time and time again that no, it wasn't his 'fault'.
That no one, Draco least of all people, would blame him for any hesitancy he
would have with intimacy. That it was natural after trauma to experience
reluctance to tread near potential triggers.
That was one area of Harry's sessions with his psychologist that, when he had
finally been able to voice it in the open, he'd been adamant about pursuing. He
made it as clear as possible that the primary goal, that which he wished to
work towards in his recovery most ardently, was to be able to reciprocate, to
nurture and grow in his relationship with Draco. It had been frightfully
embarrassing to confess as much – Harry always felt himself flush upon
remembering his ardent confession – but that made it no less true.
Socorro hadn't been sceptical. She hadn't been condescending – of course she
hadn't – but neither had she encouraged him to shy away from contact for fear
of provoking a nervous response. She said that habituating, of a sorts, was one
of the most common approaches to overcoming any kind of trauma or phobia. And
if intimacy was what Harry truly wanted, then she saw it as a great approach to
confronting his past and progressing from it.
It had been a strange reversal of roles after Harry had made his decision. He
was firmly grounded in it after discussing it bashfully with Socorro; if he
wanted to share a physical relationship with Draco, then to hell with tiptoeing
around his traumas. He'd bloody well have it. It was Draco that was the
hesitant one. He seemed to treat Harry as though he was made of glass, and
though Harry was constantly reassured by the love he saw in his partner's eyes,
Draco so rarely acted upon it save for a gentle kiss, a tender embrace or soft
touches that barely grazed the skin. It had been odd, yet somehow… enthralling,
to be the one to initiate further intimacy.
Harry found that in such instances, somehow, he rarely felt the looming panic,
the flooding cascade of memories. The fear. It was the upwelling of love, of
adoration towards Draco, that bubbled to the surface rather than gut-clenching
aversion.
Contemplating the thought as he dozed on Draco's chest, Harry revisited the
thought that had been developing hesitantly in mind for weeks now. And once the
faint niggling of consideration took hold, he couldn't seem to shake it.
Turning his head so that his chin rested on Draco's chest once more, Harry
blinked up into the half-closed eyes of the boy beneath him.
"Draco?"
"Yes, love?"
Harry felt a rush of warmth suffuse him at the term; Draco had just started
using it and he couldn't be happier for the fact. "I was wondering…" He paused.
How exactly did one go about something like this? "If I were to suggest
something, how likely do you think you'd be to agree to it?"
Draco blinked slowly before wedging an elbow behind him to prop himself up
higher on the pillows. He frowed. "What are you talking about?"
Which, of course, made the situation that much more awkward. Harry thrust aside
any misgivings he might have and reaffirmed his stance. Why not just… go for
it?
Pushing himself up onto his knees, Harry slid forwards so that he was face to
face with Draco. He paused for only a second before he leant forward and gently
pressed their lips together. Draco was unresponsive for a moment, still
puzzled, but rapidly fell into the familiarity of the motions. Harry felt hands
slip around his back, gently cradling his hips as they worked to draw
themselves closer together, mouths opening and tongues sliding in languid
caresses. Harry let his own hands slip up into Draco's hair, fingers entwining
in soft, white-blonde locks and holding them firmly together.
When they broke apart for breath, panting slightly, Draco huffed in faint
laughter. "What did you want to ask? I think we may have gotten a little
distracted."
Harry didn't answer. In a mechanical flick of his fingers, he slipped his
glasses from his face, tossed them onto the bedside table, and in a single
sliding motion slipped backwards off of Draco's lap. "I was just wondering…"
His fingers dropped to the top of Draco's trousers, looping behind the band and
stroked the pale skin beneath. He glanced up at Draco through blurred sights
but even his weakened vision couldn't obscure the surprise that was rapidly
spreading across Draco's face.
"W…what?"
Harry uttered no answer once more. The surprise only grew into shock on Draco's
face, but he didn't pull away when Harry began unzipping his trousers, nor when
he tugged them down slightly. Despite the shock on his face – he looked almost
scared, in a stupefied sort of way – he more helped than hindered the attempt
to remove his garments.
And when Harry slipped off the boxers beneath, dropping down onto his elbows
between his legs, Draco let out a choked"'H-harry, what are you…? You don't
have to –"
"Draco, my question?" For some reason, Harry felt relaxed, only a hint of
nervousness, a glimmer of faint embarrassment that was easily smothered. "Would
you let me?"
At any other time, Harry would have been struggling to suppress laughter at
Draco's expression. Not now. The blonde swallowed convulsively, seemed to fight
an internal battle with himself, before he gave a very small tilt to his head
in a nod.
And that was all Harry needed.
He knew what he was doing. Deny the reality as he may have done for so long,
there was no overlooking where Harry did know what he was doing. Stephen had
experimented, of course, and Stephen wanted it exactly how he liked it. Harry
would be overlooking the blatant truth if he said he hadn't learnt just what
felt good, what elicited the most dramatic responses.
So Harry knew where to begin, knew how to position himself and just the right
amount of prssure to apply in just the right places. And surprisingly,
surprising even to himself, he found that the use of such knowledge, even
coloured by the memory of where it came from, didn't distress him. Or more
correctly, it didn't distract him from the present. Nor did it pull him into a
spinning vortex of dark, muddled memories.
No, Harry didn't think anything could distract him at that moment, for when he
first dropped his chin, fingers curling gently around Draco's budding arousal
and lowered his mouth onto the tip, the groan, almost a whimper, that choked
from the blonde boy was far too fascinating to turn away from.
Slowly, with forced care and just the right amount of slowness, Harry lost
himself in the motions of provoking those moans. Kissing and licking gently at
the sensitive tip, running his tongue down the underside of the steadily
hardening member. He closed his eyes to revel in the Draco's groan, stroking
his length with tongue and hands, curling fingers in the wiry curls of the
golden hair between his legs and gently fondling him with his palm.
'H… Harry…'
Glancing up from the cradle of Draco's legs, one hand resting on a pale thigh,
tongue and fingers of the other still working slowly, Harry felt a smile of
delight draw tug at his lips. Draco's face was creased in lines that could have
been pained had his eyes not spoken an entirely different story. Lust blown
pupils were affixed upon Harry as one hand hesitantly stroked and then locked
into Harry's hair. His thighs trembled slightly, as though he was physically
straining himself to remain immobile. Still holding Draco's eyes, Harry paused
for a moment, then with exaggerated care ran his tongue over the tip of his
hard length once more. The groan that sprung forth was even more broken than
those preceding it.
It was intoxicating. Harry had never seen the likes of it before, the face of
his lover twisted in pleasure because of what he was doing for him. And even as
the wayward thought of 'just like Stephen' flickered through his mind, he was
thrusting it aside as irrelevant. No, Stephen hadn't been like this. Harry had
never felt that upwelling of warmth in his own gut, his own response kindled,
at affording such pleasure. And this was something that Harry did because he
wanted to. Because he chose to. And seeing Draco struggle to smother his
pleasured moan only enhanced the desire to do more.
In a single motion, Harry took the hard length in his mouth, wrapping his lips
around soft, warm skin and sunk down in one swift motion. Draco was larger than
he'd expected, and the stiffened arousal made him even more so, but Harry
managed to swallow him nearly whole. The hand in his hair tightened, but he
didn't pause, and, fingers still working, he sucked in his cheeks and drew off
before deep throating once more. The frazzled words, the broken moans his
motions elicited only spurred his further. Down, and up, a stroke of his tongue
and down once more.
Draco didn't last long. His immobility lasted even less time, and not a handful
of minutes had passed before he was bucking and writhing, struggling in a
battle between his desire to thrust into Harry's mouth and that to hold
perfectly still. Harry didn't care, either way, the moans of Draco's pleasure,
choked and breathless, music to his ears. I'm doing this... He wants me to do
this, and I'm choosing to because I really, actually, want to. The knowledge
was empowering, causing him to hum, satisfied, as he drew slowly off Draco's
throbbing length once more, sucking tightly. He should have known it would be
too much, anyway.
Draco came in a strangled groan, both hands locking into Harry's hair tightly
and grasping for dear life. Harry sucked for a moment longer, the salty
bitterness lathering his tongue, momentarily choking before he swallowed it. A
faint reprimand – well, I probably could have timed that a little better – was
lost as his eyes flickered upwards.
Draco was half slumped into the pillows behind him, panting as though from
exertion. His mouth opened and closed, struggling to find words, and Harry felt
a moment of satisfaction that he was able to so completely discard the Malfoy
mask.
"That was… are you…? I mean, that…"
Sitting himself up on his knees, Harry wiped a hand across his chin, his lips,
ridding them of the slight wetness. "Did you like it?"
Draco didn't answer with words. He simply stared, stunned for a moment, before
in a darting motion that nearly started Harry from the bed he reached forwards
and dragged him back into his lap. Harry settled himself comfortably across his
bare hips, legs straddling Draco's thighs. Long, slender fingers cupped his
chin, his jaw, stroked thumbs across his cheeks. It should have been surprising
when Draco crushed their lips together – Harry had never received a kiss after
doing that, had never wanted one – but it wasn't. And it felt utterly perfect
to just sink into his warmth, his embrace.
Was he happy? Yes… yes he should think so.
It felt like a remarkable step in the right direction. Harry thought with a
half-hearted reprimand at his own eroticism that he simply couldn't wait just
to try more.
Chapter End Notes
     A/N: Comments greatly appreciated. As always, a massive, massive
     thank you to everyone who has done so. Thank you, wonderful people!
***** A Woman Shunned *****
Draco was happy.
Blaise thought he was mad – N.E. were just around the corner, after all. Why
wasn't he tearing his hair out in distress? – but Draco hardly cared.
Everything was going right with the world, and he wouldn't change a thing,
looming exams or otherwise.
Just about every subject was cruising along swimmingly. Draco felt he had a
handle on the majority of the course content, and knew he excelled at Ancient
Runes and Potions. Yet even Arithmancy, widely acknowledged to be one of the
most difficult of subjects to grasp, was slotting itself easily into his
learning mind. More importantly, even Charms, the twice-cursed Charms that had
somehow conceptually slipped through his fingers so frequently throughout his
schooling years, was sorting itself out just fine. He couldn't quite keep the
glowing grin of satisfaction from spreading across his face when he actually
managed the practical application of the complex healing charm Mentis Sielo the
fastest in the class. Before even Hermione. Granted, they were on conjured
dummies, but he was nonetheless exceptionally self-satisfied.
Severus had even complimented him. That was what truly an indication that he
was doing well. Draco's godfather had dropped his weekly interrogations to
fornightly, even with his initial concern over the conclusion of his sessions
with Fitzherbert.
Yes, Draco's studies were going simply as well as could be hoped for given the
circumstances. Yet more importantly than that – or at least how it felt at the
moment – it was his relationship with Harry was… exceptional.
To say Draco was surprised by his Christmas gift – well, his second Christmas
gift – would be an understatement. Ever since his utterly unforgiveable actions
at Hogsmeade the previous year, Draco had been as taut as a violin's strings.
He could hardly touch Harry for fear of triggering some horrible resurfacing of
his memories, another bout of regression that would leave his partner shaking
and flinching at the sight of him. He didn't know if he could handle that, both
the pain that he watched Harry go through and the knowledge that he was the one
who had induced it, however unintentionally. Even when it had nothing to do
with his own actions Draco couldn't stand seeing Harry so hurt and miserable.
He couldn't even consider pushing their relationship towards embracing further
intimacy with that knowledge. It was bordering on dangerous to even kiss the
other boy, surely.
The previous November, when Harry had the panic attack in his session with
Señora Laverde, only heightened his concerns. Draco was so proud, and a little
in awe, of the fact that Harry was making such a concerted effort to heal
himself of the wounds of his past. He couldn't fathom just how hard it was to
confront something that Draco knew Harry had spent his entire life desperately
repressing. He could only support him in his endeavour.
But after that incident… It was the first time that Draco actively suggested
they leave off trying to 'fix the problem' as Harry called it. When he'd
received the Floo call from Neville, it had been a struggle not to dive through
the fire and inevitably loose himsely in the magical network that existed
between fireplaces. He'd never hated the lack of international Floo transport
as much as at that point. Really, was a message so different from bodily
transportation?
When he'd finally managed to obtain a portkey and made his way to the academy –
it had seemed to take forever, but Neville had spoken admiringly of how
impossibly fast Draco had made his way into the small Wizarding pocket in the
Pyrenees – he'd been horrified. Harry had looked terrible, as bad as he had at
the Three Broomsticks weeks before. Pale and visibly shaking, the exhausted boy
had attempted to smile reassuringly at Draco, offered a word of comfort to
Draco himself and quietly inform him that yes, he was alright. No, he didn't
want to stop the sessions. That it was just a little hiccup. Harry had been
forced to bodily push Draco into a carriage to depart to Paris to get him to
leave and Draco had sulked miserably for a good three days afterwards.
Draco didn't push the situation, not from any aspect. He didn't want to push
it, despite that his infuriating libido urged him to do otherwise. Draco
wouldn't cross that bridge until Harry was entirely prepared for it.
He knew it frustrated Harry, that he wouldn't initiate contact save for a
handhold, a brief kiss or an entirely too-platonic embrace. Draco had been
worried to even sleep in the same bed with Harry, so terrified was he about
upsetting him once more. It had taken Harry silently fuming before professing
that it would actually make him far more upset if Draco didn't sleep exactly as
they had been for months now to urge him otherwise. And, nervous though it had
made him, Draco had been secretly relieved. He still missed sharing a bed with
Harry when they were both at their respective schools, even after month of
separation. He doubted he would ever be entirely comfortable with it in the
forseeable future.
So, even with Harry's rising to the occasion, with his own encouragement of
contact and initiating anything more than bare minimal contact, Draco had been
surprised at Christmas. No, surprise would be an understatement; besides, it
would completely undermine the sheer euphoria he'd experienced in the
situation. Because, deny the steps that led up to such an endpoint as he may,
there was one thing that he didn't even want to deny.
Harry gave absolutely fantastic.
Draco was hardly a blushing virgin. Nor was he unfamiliar with oral sex by any
stretch of the imagination. But even accounting for the fact that Draco was
well and truly head-over-heels in love – he wasn't even hesitant in admitting
such – Harry was undoubtedly incredible. More than Daphne, he registered, and
that was saying something. Even if Draco had never been further from
contemplating his ex-girlfriend than he was when he was with Harry; Draco had
thought there could literally be nothing better than what he had experienced in
the past, but then…
Harry didn't even bother with foreplay. Draco wasn't even sure if he knew
exactly how to engage in such, but it was hardly necessary. It wasn't needed,
now when something like thatwas so short in following. The memory gave Draco
goosebumps and an flooding warmth in the nether regions just to recall.
Even the sorrow that arose when he considered just how Harry had gained his own
experience couldn't dampen the feeling. True, such was probably a result of the
rather impressive scowl Harry had adopted when Draco had skirted uneasily
around the topic. He couldn't help it; he had to ask. Surely any sexual
interactions would bring up unwanted memories?
Harry had folded his arms across his chest, raised an eyebrow and pursed his
lips severely. "And just what makes you think that you are anything like
Stephen?"
That seemed to have become Harry's favourite phrase of late, but it still gave
Draco an upwelling of childish relief every time he said it. Coupled with the
fact that Harry had finally stopped calling Defaux 'uncle', he'd never been
more happy to hear reference to the hated man.
Their sex life had progressed gloriously in the New Year. Like a dam that had
been shattered explosively, Draco found he couldn't get enough of the onrushing
waves of discovery. Surprisingly – or perhaps unsurprisingly, given how such a
sequence of events had arisen – Harry was much the same. Or at least, he was
hesitantly of a similar mind.
Draco had rapidly come to the realisation that there were pitfalls in their
intimacy. The first time he had attempted to initiate a similar degree of
intimacy that Harry had begun on Christmas night himself, Harry had flinched in
a spasm of visible fear before apologising profusely and scolding himself with
a severity that could have put a house elf to shame. It had taken quite some
time for Draco to calm his frustration.
For it wasn't Harry's fault, he knew that. It was almost subconscious, the
flinching reaction, the retreat. Only… when Harry had initiated their intimacy,
he had been fine. Or seemed fine, at least.
Draco worked with that. Always hesitant, gentle and slow, always asking and
informing Harry of what he was doing to such a degree that even Harry had grown
exasperated. It was worth it, though. Gradually, oh so gradually, that
unconscious fear had dwindled until it was nearly non-existant.
Draco still waited for Harry to initiate any degree of intimacy almost every
time, to which Harry only sighed, frustrated once more when he finally
confessed his tendency to doing such. But that didn't mean that his hands were
less hesitant when they were both embraced in the throughs of passion. If
anything they were more so because of his forced restraint.
The first time they had gotten off together – the first time it had been
anything more than Harry simply pleasuring him – had been one of the most
spectacular moments of Draco's life, and not only for the sheer pleasure of a
mind-blowing orgasm. The expression on Harry's face, flushed cheeks and eyes
closed, lashes leaving dark curls on pink skin and mouth slightly parted in a
faint pant, was an image that would stay with Draco forever. When their
breathing had slowed enough for Draco to speak, he'd smiled blissfully at his
partner and kissed him in a haze of residual passion. "Good?"
Harry had nodded in a similar daze, a shy smile stretching across his face and
bringing an even more vibrant flush to his face that didn't seem shy in the
least. He dropped his head onto Draco's shoulder as he pressed himself to into
his chest. He was half cradled in Draco's lap as it was, and seemed to hardly
spare a thought for the sticky mess between them. "Mmm. That's never happened
to me before."
Draco shifted to look down at Harry's bowed head, a frown grow on his head in
confusion. "What, with a boyfriend…?"
Dark hair tickled Draco's cheek as Harry shook his head. "No. Not with a
boyfriend. Not with anyone at all."
That had left Draco blinking in a profound stupor. "What, you mean you've
never…? No one's ever…?"
Harry gave another shake of his head but didn't speak again. He didn't seem
overly embarrassed by the admission, which was something, Draco supposed.
Rather, he appeared simply and utterly spent, content to snuggle into Draco and
fall into a semi-doze. Draco was left holding him tightly, in a daze for
entirely different reasons.
So I'm the first that he's ever been like this with? The first that he's
actually gotten any pleasure whatsoever from being with someone?
If that wasn't a thought to keep him awake at nights for all the right reasons,
Draco didn't know what was. If anything, it only made him want to offer a
repeat performance at every possible opportunity. And after that initial
hesitancy, Harry was only too happy to oblige. What could Draco say? They were
a pair of lovestruck seventeen year olds.
When Draco had returned from Christmas break, the good-humour had lasted even
through the strict and rather too informative announcement by McGonagall to all
seventh years as to their dedication to their studies. His satisfaction must
have simply radiated from him, because not only Blaise but his Gryffindor
friends seemed to realise something was different. It only took half a day for
Blaise to confront him.
"So." The Italian boy had leaned on the doorframe into the dormitory room with
the ease of long-held presumptuousness. A lazy smile spread across his face.
"You finally got laid."
Draco glanced up from editing his report and raised an eyebrow at his friend.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Oh come on, don't try and deny it. I can practically smell it on you."
His words didn't conjure particularly pleasant images, though they failed to
shake the growing smirk from Draco's face. Blaise wasn't entirely correct; it
wasn't like they'd actually fully consummated anything yet – probably wouldn't
for a while – but still… Blaise was uncannily perceptive with such things. As
always. He had known the morning after Draco had lost his virginity and
confronted him with a congratulatory slap on the back. It was mildly
disconcerting. "It's absolutely none of your business."
"Really? You're trying to pull that one? Don't try to deny it –"
"I'm not denying anything," Draco replied, turning back to his report. "I'm
simply saying it's none of your business." And with a well-aimed sweep of his
wand, Draco sent his friend stumbling from the room and the door slamming shut
in his face. He'd heard the chuckles even through the thick wood of the door.
No, Draco and Harry hadn't taken that step yet, despite the growth in their
intimacy. Draco didn't want to push things by suggesting it, and what they had
at present was more than enough. Each weekend they met throughout the new term
was filled with further explorations; Draco struggled sometimes to recall
exactly how they'd spent their idle time prior to such a development.
Uneventfully, it would appear, in comparison. Nothing could be more exciting
than enticing the expression Harry got on his face when Draco had returned the
gift he'd received at Christmas in kind.
Yes, life was going swimmingly, and to make matters even more exciting, March
the first was the day that replies from potential Masters reportedly began
filing in.
Draco swept through the hallways of Hogwarts eagerly that morning, Blaise at
his side chattering innanely. His friend was in a remarkably good mood,
considering that he had absolutely no reason to be; Blaise was headed towards a
career in his uncle's business which, as far as Draco could make out, amounted
to lazing about and ordering other people around while he sat back and
complained about their inefficiency. That was to say nothing of the short, four
hour working days a week and impressive income that naturally accumulated from
the famous Zabini winery. The role would suit Blaise perfectly.
When they entered the Great Hall, it was to be nearlyloughed over by Hermione
as she charged through them into the Entrance Hall. Draco and Blaise neatly
caught an arm each to prevent her from slipping in her haste, slowing her
flight. The Gryffindor girl thanked them with a beaming smile and gush of
garbled words nearly as messy as her hair, uttered something about sending a
letter to her parents, and took off once more. Draco watched bemusedly as she
panted up the stairs. The girl was hardly an athlete; he didn't think he'd seem
her move at faster than a determined power walk in his entire schooling
experience.
"What was that all about?"
Turning to Blaise, Draco shrugged. "I'm assuming she got a letter from her
potential master. And from the looks of things it was good news."
"She wanted to go into Muggle-Wizarding relations, didn't she?"
Draco sighed, exasperated, as he led them through the doors to breakfast. A
brief glance around the room quickly located the orange head of the youngest
Weasley son. He looked entirely too at home at the Slytherin table amidst the
other seventh year students. Evidently some of the Slytherins thought so too,
as Daphne, Tracey Davis and Millicent Bulstrode exchanged whispers between
pointed glares while Theodore Nott just seemed faintly bemused. Ron, naturally,
was oblivious to it all.
Turning his attention back to Blaise, Draco adopted his condescending persona.
"Honestly, how can you even ask that? She only tells us at every possible
opportunity."
Blaise grinned his lazy grin. "I pretty much tune out to her monologues these
days. Can you blame me?"
Draco couldn't. He really couldn't.
Ron shuffled down in his seat to make room for their arrival, shunting his
overladen plate with him. The boy had finally discarded the necessary use of
the Motion Chair over the Christmas holidays and, though he wouldn't exactly be
up to running for at least another six months, his mobility had improved by
miles. Not to say that he still sometimes didn't abuse the levitating chair
when it took his fancy; he and Blaise had set up a Friday nights racing
competition of sorts between a number of enthusiastic seventh years. If word
had it correctly, Blaise was making a pretty penny from the wagers placed with
mindless enthusiasm.
"Morning, Draco, Blaise." Ron barely even glanced up from his plate in
greeting.
"Ron." Draco ladeled porridge into his bowl, deftly avoiding Blaise's arm as it
reached across him for the stack of toast. "Hermione left in a bit of a
flutter."
"Yeah, she got a letter from Einheardht." Ron took a swig of his juice.
Draco gave him a long-suffering, expectant glance. "And? Don't keep me waiting
breathless."
"And she got the position. Of course she did, you know. She's smart; anyone
would be insane to turn her away. She'll be studying and working in the city
come July." The fond smile Ron produced was mangled by another bite of sausage.
"I'm proud of her."
"I'll bet. What about you?"
"What about me?"
"What are you going to do? Have you had any more thoughts?" Draco knew Ron
hadn't applied anywhere, despite Hermione's constant berations and
encouragement to do so. He could hardly blame the Weasley boy. Ron wasn't a
studier, despite his intelliegence. He was more of a practicals man.
Ron shrugged, propping an elbow on the table. "Dunno. I don't want to go to
that Mason House College –"
"Manning House College," Blaise corrected.
"Yeah, whatever. I mean, I'm just keen to get out of school, you know?"
Draco spared a glance for his friend. "What about the Auror training? You
seemed at least mildly interested."
"Yeah, that's what I've been thinking." Ron shrugged again. "But I've got to
lay low for a bit, get my legs sorted and all. 'Sides, main thing I want at the
moment is just to stay with Hermione."
"Ah, cupid has strung his bow once more, has he, mi amico?" Blaise crooned
mockingly, ducking to avoid a crust that Ron launched at him.
"Yeah, yeah, shut up."
As Blaise descended into snorting jibes, Ron turned his attention back to
Draco. "How about you? Heard back from anyone yet?"
Draco shook his head. "Not yet, but it's only, what, eight o'clock. I'm not
worried." He wasn't. Much.
"And so you shouldn't be." Blaise nudged him with a sharp elbow. "I think this
one's yours."
The graceful barn owl did appear to be heading straight for Draco, or at least
for their trio. The elegant yet still audible landing right before him,
followed by a pompous extension of its taloned leg, alleviated any doubt.
Draco paused briefly at the motion. He could see his own name inscribed in
coffee-coloured ink on the thick, expensive parchment scroll. Even from those
two words he could recognise the script. He was sure he could have from a
single letter. Dorrick. His first reply was from Dorrick.
Draco wasn't nervous. Not really, if he coached himself into believing as much
enough. It wouldn't be the end of the world if he didn't get the
apprenticeship, and though Dorrick was exceptional as a Master of Ancient
Runes, he wasn't the only one. Okay, well, he was the reputedly the best in
Europe, but Burisque had his own unique flair that was unmatched by other
masters of the industry, and Gilvorth had printed more books on the art of
translation and interpretation than any other specialist in the world. It
wouldn't matter if –
"So, are you, I don't know, going to open it sometime today?" Despite Blaise's
teasing words, his tone was serious. Try as he might, Draco couldn't exactly
keep it a secret from his best friend just how much he wanted to apprentice
under Dorrick.
The words urged him into action. Reaching forward with hands that certainly
didn't tremble, not in the slightest, Draco unwound the twine. The barn owl
launched itself back into flight before Draco had even broken the wax seal.
Unrolling the scroll, his eyes immediately flickered down to the bottom to
confirm that which he already knew. Dorrick. The reply truly was from Dorrick,
the sharp curves of his letters familiar from the last and only other
correspondence they had shared when Draco had first put in his request. He'd
pored over that reply in the privacy of his room more times than he could
count. It filled him with a quiver of delight when he read of the Master's
recognition of his academic prowess. Not that he would tell anyone, of course.
Flickering his eyes to the top of the page, Draco didn't even bother to attempt
to hide the words from Blaise's curious eyes as his friend peered over his
shoulder.
Dear Mister Draco Malfoy,
I write you regarding the status of your recent application under my tutelage.
Once more, I thank you for your expression of interest; it is such a joy to see
such bright, eager young wizards and witches seeking to pursue a career in the
noble and respected study of Ancient Rune.
However, I regret to inform you that I am unable to provide you with a
position. It is with the deepest commiseration that I write as such, but given
the contention of applicants…
Draco read the rest of the letter in a blur of uncomprehending eyes. When he
reached the bottom, his reread it with growing melancholy. It only grew the
longer he stared.
Dammit. Merlin be damned… I wanted it so badly…
"Dray…"
Blaise's voice was filled with sympathy, the pat on his shoulder consoling. Ron
murmured his own consolation at his other side, but Draco barely heard. It was
only when a figure stepped up to the table across from him, posing in an
obvious bid for attention, that he was shaken from his blank staring. His eyes
slowly focused with a few rapid blinks to lock upon the slender figure of
Daphne Greengrass, Bulstrode and Davis at her shoulders. There was nothing
sympathetic about her expression.
"What's that Draco, a returned application?" She smirked snidely in a way that
was far too self-satisfied for Draco's comfort, even in his detached state.
"Dorrick was not overly fond of your glowing report, was he?"
The words rung sourly in Draco's ears, shaking him fully from his stupor. The
longer he stared at Daphne, the more her expression didn't look quite right.
"Greengrass, what did you do?" Blaise's voice was low, with a hint of danger to
it.
Daphne barely spared him a glance. She had eyes only for Draco, yet it was the
broadening smile that spoke for her. Draco felt his gut clench. She was never
going to leave that slight untouched, was she? And the Greengrass family were
excessively wealthy and incredibly well-connected. It's to be expected that she
would do something of the kind.
"So sorry for such a sadly missed opportunity, Draco. Perhaps you should
consider your options a little more closely before barrelling into your
decisions." With a final smirk she spun on her heel, drawing Bulstrode and
Davis behind her as they sashayed from the Great Hall. She didn't glance once
more over her shoulder, though every step indicated she knew she was being
watched.
"What a bitch," Ron growled in a rumbling mutter beside him, his eyes flashing
venomously. Blaise was similarly simmering, but Draco hardly spared him a
glance.
He could feel the depression settling on his shoulders. Talk as he might about
there being other Masters, it was known that Dorrick was the best. And
Greengrass had effectively cut short his chances with the man, however she'd
gone about it. He wasn't sure he exactly wanted to know; the Greengrass family
were known for their foot in the medical industry, but if whispers spoke
truths, they – like most old pureblood families – didn't stop at the one
investment. And if Daphne – or more likely her parents – had somehow convinced
Dorrick not to take him on as an apprentice, he doubted he'd have any better
luck next year.
A soft pat on the shoulder caught his attention. "I'm sorry, Draco. What an
unfortunate turn of events."
Ron scowled at Blaise's mellow tone. "Unfortunate? The bitch bloody well –"
"I'm just saying,,' Blaise only raised his voice slightly to override Ron's
indignant spluttering, "that perhaps it's a blessing in disguise."
Both Draco and Ron turned uncomprehendingly towards him. Blaise shrugged. "You
said you wanted to go to France, right? To be with Harry"' He didn't wait for
the nod of confirmation, though Draco gave it anyway. "Well, maybe this is
fate's way of making up your mind for you." He smiled. "Just hold out for a bit
longer. See what other replies come in before you get yourself too down-
hearted, my friend."
Draco stared in surprise at the Italian boy. Blaise was hardly one for poignant
speeches, but his words resonated strongly, enough to put a halt to Draco's
descent into regret and premature grief. A blessing in disguise…
Maybe he's right. I mean, Dorrick is the best, but it would mean I would have
to juggle travel to France. Draco pondered thoughtfully. At present, he could
honestly say that what he wanted most was to be with Harry. More than anything
else, truly. And though he knew it was short-sighted – one had to consider
one's future prospects – at present, it seemed the more important of the two.
Even as he considered it, the gravity of his distress seemed to dwindle.
It truly wasn't the worst thing that could have happened. There would be other
replies. Gilvorth, Fampwing, McFaland. The two French Master's, Burisque and La
Fonde. Yes, maybe it was a blessing in disguise.
He felt a smile settle on his face. "You know, you might actually be right
about this one, Blaise."
Blaise returned his grin heartily, evidently satisfied with the effectiveness
of his intervention. "Of course I am. In fact, I usually am. You just don't
appreciate my brilliance."
As Ron proceeded to snort derisively and query just where exactly Blaise got
his confidence in his apparent brilliance, Draco settled down to finish his
breakfast. He supposed it was probably a good thing that Daphne wasn't there to
see. Had she witnessed his distinct rise from melancholy – more than that, the
satisfaction that Draco could feel smoothing the creases of worry from his face
– he doubted she would have been quite so pleased with herself.
===============================================================================
Harry was furious.
At least, Draco thought he was. He'd never seen Harry angry before, truly
angry. Upset, yes, and there had been the distressed anger of the only time
Harry had ever raised his voice in Draco's memory. But this was different.
He should have known something was wrong when he didn't receive a reply to his
letter pertaining to the incident on Friday morning of his returned
application. Draco had sent a missive to Harry with his speculations about
Daphne's hand in the works, though he'd assured Harry that he was fine with how
it had all turned out. That he was coming to terms with it and, to quote Blaise
as he had become so prone to in the past twenty-four hours, that perhaps it was
"meant to be".
Harry didn't reply.
That should have been his first clue. True, his partner was coming to Hogsmeade
the very next day so a reply may have seemed redundant and excessively
unnecessary. But they had never once put their written correspondence on hold
for such inconsequential reasons. Draco often pondered at that; Harry had once
been so hesitant to write in letters, saying he'd never had the need to before
and so didn't exactly know how. Draco wouldn't have been able to pick it from
some of the exchanges they made nowadays. For how little Harry had once been
partial to speaking, he could certainly write enough to make up for it at
times.
When Draco, accompanied by Blaise, Ron, Hermione and the now frequent addition
of Luna Lovegood, had wandered down to Hogsmeade early the next morning, it had
been to the sight of a very discomforted Neville, a distinctly bemused Ginny
and Harry with a face so blank that it could only be hiding something. That
should have been the second clue. Since Harry had abruptly lost his ability to
hide his emotions two Christmases ago, he'd been fairly atrocious at most
successive attempts. So his face, a blank mask that could have rivalled that of
a Malfoy's in its emotionlessness, was an indication of the severity of the
situation if ever Draco had seen one.
Neville confirmed his growing suspicions. When he saw them, he immediately
ploughing into Ron and Hermione, stated with such garbled reasoning that Draco
couldn't make out the why that they "had to leave right now", and dragging them
off. Ginny had smirked at her boyfriend's behaviour but Draco noticed that she
had hastened after them without a backwards glance.
Blaise seemed to take the unspoken warning to heart and, latching onto Luna as
the only remaining 'spare' accompaniment, similarly disappeared down the
central road of Hogsmeade. The Ravenclaw girl flashed Harry her vague smile
over her shoulder as she passed but he didn't even seem to see her. Draco was
left struggling not to fidget under Harry's flat gaze. He felt like nothing so
much as a scolded child awaiting reprimand from his mother, though Narcissa had
hardly done as such in any instance throughout his childhood.
Clearing his throat, he attempted a casual smile. "Good morning. You're here
early." And if the brief kiss was rather cold, Draco chose to overlook the
fact.
He would have continued, blurting out anything that chose to arise onto his
tongue, had Harry not pinned him with a stare that could have frozen a fleeing
rabbit. All with a blank face that seemed carved from marble for its apparent
hardness. For the first time in his life, Draco gleaned an insight of just how
intimidating Harry was, diminutive size and all, when his embarrassment, his
inhibitions, were abruptly dropped. It was a little impressive.
"Draco." His voice was as flat as his eyes. "Why didn't you tell me that Daphne
had become a problem?"
Draco shrugged, still striving for casualness. He feared he was failing
dismally. "It's hardly a problem, Harry."
"Oh?"
"Yes, 'oh'." With deliberate disregard, Draco stepped forwards and linked his
arm through Harry's. It only took a brief moment of insistent tugging before he
was leading him down the street. The spring weather was warming, enough that
residents and students alike already milled about before storefronts. In the
distance Draco could just make out the figure of Blaise dragging a stumbling
Luna into Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop. That bastard, abandoning me. He could only
attempt to dissipate Harry's apparent funk through sheer and persistent
nonchalance. "Honestly, Daphne has been nothing more than mildly irritating. If
I couldn't overlook her pathetic attempts at humiliation or taunting, I could
hardly call myself a Malfoy. It's juvenile and absolutely harmless."
Despite the confidence of his words – and Draco truly did believe them, too –
he couldn't look at Harry. When Harry finally spoke, his uncharacteristically
cold voice nearly caused him to flinch. "And I suppose that jeopardising your
future studies and career opportunities is harmless? Don't try and tell me that
you don't care about Dorrick."
Halting in the middle of the street, Draco turned to his partner. Harry's flat
stare had become almost a glare now, and despite the topic at hand, that he
knew he wasn't even the direct focus of his anger, Draco couldn't quite help
shrinking a little. The folding of his slender arms, even still linked through
Draco's, didn't help the effect. Merlin, I never thought he could bescarybut…
"Look, Harry. It's true, I was a little disappointed –"
"I think that's something of an understatement," Harry said quietly.
"But," Draco overrode him. "It's not the end of the world. Far from it. It's
hardly the end of my future in studying Ancient Runes. Because there are other
Masters."
"Whom you haven't heard from yet."
Draco paused, raising an eyebrow. "How do you know that? I haven't written you
since yesterday morning."
"Yes, but you would have if you'd been sent anything more." Harry had shifted
his gaze from its penetratingly intense stare of Draco to the distant road. His
apparent anger didn't appear to have cooled, but at least Draco could breath
without cringing, could think and reply eloquently.
Considering, Draco had to cede that yes, had he received more positive news he
doubted he would have been able to refrain from writing to Harry immediately.
He had never been one to covet favourable news. Rather, boasting gaily to the
word was his usual approach. "True. But that doesn't mean anything. Sure,
frequently replies come within the first day of approvals, but it's not unusual
for them to be later. Besides, I'm awaiting missives from a few international
Masters too; who knows, maybe they take more time to consider?"
He spoke with forced positivity, laced with his persistent attempt at
casualness, but despite the farce Draco refused to cave under melancholic
thoughts once more. His brief stint yesterday had already set him on a
determined path of denial, regardless of how idealistic such a perception was.
He found it remarkably easy to offer Harry a smile.
Harry, for the first time since he'd arrived, allowed his rigid mask to slip
slightly. He frowned, though blessedly more in confusion than anger. "You
really aren't that upset?"
Draco shrugged. "Not now, no. Wait until I receive all my replies for me to say
with any sort of confidence that I won't be." He grinned as Harry's frown
deepened. "But with Daphne? No, I'm not upset. I guess I was initially – very
briefly – but it all just seems rather petty now, doesn't it?"
Harry shook his head, but in disbelief rather than dissent. "Look at that, I
think you might have grown up, Draco."
"Are you mocking me? I resent that, Harry."
Harry gave a small smile that quickly died. "Why you not be angry with her?"
Unsure whether he should be insulted with the slight emphasis Harry placed on
'you', Draco carded his fingers through his hair, sighing. "Firstly, Daphne
doesn't even deserve my anger. It's unfounded."
"Though you know why she's angry."
Nodding his head, Draco replied, "Yes, and though you and Hermione have adeptly
informed me of exactly how I've angered her, I still maintain that she is
overreacting."
"A proposition shunned will almost definitely result in –"
"Yes, yes, so you've told me." Draco waved a hand to disregard the reprimand.
Nonchalance. Forced nonchalance. "And I agree, I probably could have handled it
better."
Harry's eyebrows rose in surprise, a smile – approving? – twitching his lips.
Draco was just so relieved to see the uncharacteristic anger dying from his
face that he hardly cared for the condescending connotations. "Still, her
grudge is a little excessive."
Tilting his head thoughtfully, Harry settled his hand loosely into Draco's once
more and they continued their aimless stroll. "Excessive or not, she evidently
feels she's entitled to act upon it."
"Evidently."
"But," and that flicker of anger arose once more with a tightening of Harry's
finger's. "She's not the only one. I think she should be aware of that."
Draco didn't entirely understand what Harry meant by that. Or more, he didn't
really want to think about what it meant. It was almost frightening to see his
partner's face set so determinedly, to hear him speaking so intensely that
Draco wasn't sure he wanted to understand what he meant. Still, it appeared to
be of little consequence as they settled into their familiar rhythm and talk
turned to other, less controversial subjects.
Neville, Ginny and the rest of the Hogwarts students met up with them shortly
after. Cowards that they were, Draco suspected they had refrained from
accompanying he and Harry in their wanderings until certain that Harry had
quelled his surprising bout of anger. Neville had even approached Draco in a
brief interval where Harry had been distracted by Luna and praised him for
surviving what he said he feared would result in severe debilitation of at
least one unwary friend. Apparently Harry had been in something of a mood since
the previous morning, to put it kindly.
But then… Draco should have known better than to think Harry was past his brief
brush with fury. Just before midday, as Ron and Neville were arguing over where
to take lunch while Blaise rather admirably manipulated the both of them
towards his own preference with neither the wiser, Daphne appeared. Only in the
distance, to be sure, but like a marksmen with his target in his sights, Harry
seemed to hone in upon her presence from the moment she appeared.
Draco didn't notice at first. It was only when Harry stopped in midstep that he
even realised his anger had been sparked once more. Glancing towards him, Draco
didn't even get a chance to utter a word before Harry, eyes affixed on the
blonde girl leaving Honeydukes, said, "Draco, would you mind waiting here for a
moment?"
Their entire small party froze at his words. Not because they were loud, or
even because they carried any particular force, but simply because of the sense
of foreboding that seemed to spring to life in the air.
Hermione was the first to respond, sidling warily up to Draco's other side.
"Um, Harry, I don't think you should –"
"I'm not going to do anything drastic. I just want to talk to her."
"I'll come with –"
"Draco, if you don't stay put, I swear I'll hex you." The glance Harry sent him
must have been laced with magic, because Draco was filled with the certainty
that he wouldn't be able to move an inch to follow him. Harry was not a violent
person; Draco didn't think he'd ever met anyone less aggressive in his life,
nor such a pacifist. Even when considering the death of Voldemort the previous
year, Draco would refute anyone who claimed him capable of conducting any act
in aggression. Draco knew that Voldemort's death had left Harry in a state of
horror; it was likely a significant contributor to his nightmares, though Harry
never confirmed as much. For months afterwards the Battle, Harry had started
frantically with any noise that even vaguely resembled a gunshot.
And yet, in that moment, Draco entirely believed that Harry could and would hex
him had he made a move to follow him. How different to the previous year when
he couldn't even perform a Jelly-Legged Charm.
Pausing only a moment longer to be certain that Draco would heed his request,
Harry started down the road, leaving his stunned friends in his wake. Blaise's
whispered "Who is that, and what have they done with our poupée?" resonated
with startling clarity. It was true; despite being almost certain he wasn't,
Draco almost felt as though Harry had succumbed to the Imperius Curse. Draco
could only watch in mild awe and a little fear as he stepped up to Daphne and
drew her attention with an apparently polite word and a tilt of his head.
He wasn't the only one; Draco's surrounding friends peered around him – from
behind him, naturally, bloody cowards! – with a mixture of awe, anticipation
and excitement. Only Hermione seemed to express a modicum of concern, and that
was nearly overwhelmed by her own blatant curiosity.
They made quite a pair, Harry and Daphne. Beautiful in their own ways, the both
of them they quite overshadowed Bulstrode and Davis who stood slightly removed
from the confrontation to the side. Daphne would turn heads in a street of just
about anyone with a pair of eyes, her long legs, swaying walk and patrician
profile simply demanding notice.
Harry was different. Quiet, and generally attempting unobtrusiveness, his own
small, delicate countenance were generally overlooked. At first, anyway. Yet
the longer Draco knew him, the more stunning he seemed to grow. Maybe it was
that he no longer seemed to strive to keep himself in the shadows. Or, as Draco
liked to think – any way for him to take credit he woud grab with both hands –
that perhaps the simple change in dress accounted for it. Though he still
attempted to keep to plain, simple garments, and generally Muggle at that,
Draco was quite proud that his own input amounted to a wardrobe that fit him so
perfectly and so flatteringly.
Watching the pair of them from a wary distance, it was perhaps expected that
they had more than their friends as an audience. Though neither were tall, with
Harry shorter even than Daphne despite a slight growth spurt in the past year,
they nonetheless drew the eye. Daphne wore a figure-hugging violet set of robes
that clung to every inch of her body in a way that showed everything yet
revealed nothing. Harry, on the other hand, was simply outfitted in fitted
jeans, shirt and jacket that, while covering his hands to his knuckles, hardly
swam on him like the jumpers he had previously bedecked himself in. His hair,
shorter after a cut earlier in the year, was just long enough to tie in a
deceptively elaborate braid – Narcissa persisted in teaching him at least one
new style every time he visited.
But even with the superficial changes, it was more than that, Draco realised.
Simple as his fashion sense appeared, it was the unexpected show confidence
that drew the eyes, that emphasised that which had always been there but
persisted to hide.
Draco didn't know where that confidence had come from. He'd never seen it
before himself, and could only put it down to the anger that seemed to make him
oblivious to curious eyes that had him naturally withdrawing into shadows.
While it wouldn't be apparent to those that didn't know him, such anger was
evident to the group of Hogwarts and ex-Hogwarts students.
When Harry approached Daphne, she paused and turned to him with a look of
amusement tinged with thinly veiled disgust. That itself wasn't particularly
unusual; Daphne usually viewed those around her like nothing more than dragon
dung on the soles of her shoes. Surprisingly, however, she didn't immediately
dismiss the shorter boy but appeared to be drawn into conversation.
It was fascinating to watch, the deteriorating play of expressions across
Daphne's face. For that was all Draco could see. Harry had his back to him,
standing at such a distance that he couldn't hear a word. Daphne's sneer
gradually faded to affront, then confusion, then something deeper and oddly
baffling. And all to abruptly, she seemed to loose all colour. Face paling
rapidly to a sickly grey, her eyes widened and her mouth slipped open in a
wordless splutter.
"What the…"
Draco thought it was Ron who spoke, or maybe Neville, but it could have been
any of them. The surprise was paramount, pervasive. Draco had never seen Daphne
so shaken in his life. Ever. The girl had composed herself enough to move past
splutters, though somehow, impossibly, she seemed to be paling further and
further under what Draco could only assume was a threat of sorts delivered by
one whom Draco considered to be the least threatening person in the world. Her
lips had become an almost dangerous shade of purple and her eyes looked set to
spring from her skull by the time Harry – even more surprisingly – patted her
twice, swiftly, on the shoulder, turned on his heel and walked away.
The expression on Harry's face as he turned towards them was devoid of any
tinge of anger or resentment. Even the expected satisfaction of an intimidation
act gone well was absent. He seemed completely unmoved by the girl left
stupefied in his wake, a girl who seemed altogether unresponsive to the frantic
questioning her friends were hissing in her ears. Draco was not sure whether to
be nervous or welcoming when Harry fell in beside him, offering a small smile
that was entirely too disconcerting given the circumstances.
Draco's voice was slightly strangled when he spoke. "What, um… what did you say
to her, Harry?"
He wasn't the only one staring with a sort of wariness at the boy next to him,
wondering just what exactly could have so disconcerted theDaphne Greengrass.
The girl was the one that disconcerted others, not the other way around. Harry
only spared a brief glance around his circle of friends before turning back to
Draco with a barely perceivable smile. He shrugged, but otherwise offered no
explanation.
"Erm, Harry, you feeling alright, mate?" Contrary to his seemingly worried
words, Ron edged a step away from his friend.
Harry glanced towards him and blinked in a show of confusion. "What do you
mean?"
"Only that you kind of seem a little off."
That small smile returned and, abruptly, Harry himself seemed to slip back into
his usual state of benevolent calm. Any trace of anger, as far as Draco could
see, had evaporated as he left Daphne – still pale and unhinged – in the middle
of the street. "Um… no, I'm fine. I'm feeling a lot better now, actually." His
smile widened slightly, but it didn't seem to reassure Ron, who was looking at
him with an odd mixture of awe and discomfort. "But anyway, weren't we going to
lunch? Blaise, did you manage to convince them to go to back to school? Fish
pilaf, wasn't it?"
"No, wait, that was me who said to go back to school," Ron frowned, turning
towards Blaise. The Italian boy, shaken out of the stupor that had gripped them
all somewhat, grinned in self-satisfaction. "You git!"
The talk abruptly became more animated. The unexpected confrontation with
Daphne gradually sliding from the forefront of their minds as they began to
make their way back towards Hogwarts. Draco couldn't help but shake his head as
his shock grew into baffled amusement; no matter how long he knew Harry, or how
well he believed he knew him, his partner still managed to surprise him.
It was only on Sunday night after Harry's departure that the topic arose once
more, primarily with Blaise and Ron admiring the still-lasting effects of
Harry's 'conversation' with Daphne. The girl had been markedly subdued whenever
she was seen and seemed to flinch slightly when she met Draco's eyes. It was
far from the sharp-tongued comments that had spewed from her mouth before. He
could only wonder at what Harry had actually said to the girl.
He wasn't the only one. Blaise and Ron were becoming more and more creative
with their speculations, bordering on the simply inconceivable. Draco highly
doubted that Harry had descended to death threats, certainly not those that
involved horrific maiming of family members.
Hermione appeared to be in agreement. Listening with half an ear to Blaise and
Ron's speculations, she had turned an indulgent smile upon Draco. "I think it's
kind of sweet.'
She spoke quietly enough that only Draco, seated at her side at the Gryffindor
table, heard her. He blinked in surprise. "What?"
Hermione's smile became slightly longing as she turned to Ron with a shake of
her head. "I've never seen him get angry over anything before. That he would do
so on your behalf… I just think it's kind of sweet."
Which, of course, led Draco to think of it as nothing but. Suffice to say that
he couldn't quite keep the smug smile off his face for the rest of the evening.
===============================================================================
Harry,
I just wanted to let you know that I received another reply for my application
today. Only one, so I don't know know about the rest of them yet. It was from
Master Calvinn Burisque, that French fellow, you remember? I think he's
actually based not too far from Beauxbatons Academy at the moment, if I recall,
though word has it that he's headed to South-East Asia shortly.
Anyway, as you've most likely guessed from the moment you opened this letter,
he's accepted my request for apprenticeship. With quite glowing remarks, if I
do say so myself. Apparently my name precedes me; I knew Babbling spoke highly
of my marks in Ancient Runes, but I didn't know it had travelled quite so far
as to be internationally acclaimed. I believe his exact words were 'it would
take quite a drastic disaster on your part to change my mind at this point; I
look forward to working with you in the coming summer'.
Does this warrant congratulations? How about a reward? Will you actually tell
me what you said to Daphne?
My Love,
Draco
===============================================================================
Draco,
How absolutely fantastic! I am so pleased for you. This is wonderful news! I
think I nearly gave Tali a heart attack I was so excited when I saw Tsar in the
owlery (I still despair that you maintain on calling him that, by the way). I
just knew you'd get accepted, but by Master Burisque? You know he hasn't taken
an apprentice in five years? You must be even more impressive than I realised!
Have you sent a missive to your mother yet? She wrote me yesterday asking if
I'd heard from you. Apparently she thinks you are avoiding her and withholding
your results from her as punishment. You know it was just a joke, yes? She
wasn't really going to tell Severus you called him Father, even if I still
maintain that he wouldn't have a problem with it. How long have you known him
now? Only your entire life, and he's practically family to you anyway now,
isn't he?
As for a reward, yes I do believe that such an accomplishment deserves some
sort of reward. I don't really know why you seem so adamant about learning what
I said to Daphne. It was nothing particularly exciting; I just asked her not to
bother you anymore. You seem to think me far more adept at manipulating people
than I truly am. Please tell Ron and Blaise the same; I hardly think myself
capable of blackmailing such a prestigious family as the Greengrass, though the
confidence is reassuring I suppose.
Lots of Love,
Harry
***** A New Kind of Wonderful *****
Chapter Notes
     A/N: I am so terribly sorry for the delay! I got caught up with
     writing this other story that has very much demanded to be written,
     so I do apologise for the lateness of this chapter. But, if anyone is
     interested, I have two knew stories, The Twelve Trials of Christmas
     and Merlin, Give Me Strength. If you feel so inclined, please take a
     look! Thank you!
     As a WARNING: this chapter contains depictions of sexual situations.
     If you don't like it... I mean, it's not that graphic or anything,
     but you still might not like to read it. Just a precaution.
Knocking on the bedroom door, Harry didn't wait for a reply before entering.
"Draco? Are you nearly ready? If we don't leave soon, we'll be late."
The heir to the Malfoy family didn't have a bedroom. Not as Harry knew them,
anyway. He'd never really even glimpsed into the rooms that Draco called his
own when he'd spent Christmas at the Parisian Malfoy Manor a year and a half
ago. Not that he'd really peeked into any rooms that weren't largely communal.
Draco had spent all of his time – sleeping included – in Harry's room anyway,
only darting back to his own to change clothes or grab a book.
They weren't a room because, in all reality, the suite was the size of a small
flat itself. When Draco had nonchalantly shown them to Harry for the first
time, he'd stared at him blankly for a moment, eyebrows quietly raised.
"What?"
Turning a deliberate, assessing gaze over the interior of the first – first –
room, Harry had only raised his eyebrows further. "Draco, I do believe this is
not a room but the living quarters of a rather large family."
Draco had snorted, though if anything looked had pleased by Harry's response.
"Why not live in luxury when one can afford it?"
Harry had rolled his eyes, exasperated, and shaken his head. Draco was nothing
if not indulgent. "Why indeed?"
His partner had then proceeded to give him a brief tour of the suite, and Harry
would be lying if he'd claimed he wasn't at least a little impressed. Daunted
too, but certainly impressed. The same paleness of the rest of the manor,
coupled with wide windows that overlooked the sprawling back gardens resembling
a golf course more than a family backyard, gave the rooms an even more
widespread impression. Tawny leather couches and a half-sized bookshelf ringed
a grated fireplace that crackled with no heat – it was summer, after all – and
filled the room with a sparse fineness that would have been intimidating if it
didn't have that faint 'lived in' feel to it.
The next room – a parlour with an elaborate set of white tables and chairs that
overlooked another wide window – branched off into a study with more books then
Harry had seen in his life, a bathroom that could have bathed an Olympic swim
team, and Draco's sleeping quarters. The bed itself took up the majority of the
room, and that itself wasn't particularly humble. There appeared to be far too
many blankets, pillows and curtains around the king-sized four-poster bed,
towering it even higher on impressively high mattresses. The addition of creamy
white sheets gave nothing if not the semblance of a cloud.
"Living in luxury... how accurate," Harry had murmured, shaking his head and
not quite able to hide his smile.
Leaning an arm about Harry's shoudlers lazily, Draco had hummed his agreement.
"Well, if I'm going to be living here half of the time when I finish at
Hogwarts, I may as well live in comfort."
And that was the crux of the matter. Though in early June he had not yet
finished his school year, and hence not yet moved to Paris, his weekend stays
were tending more
and more towards their residing in the Malfoy Manor than Sirius' own modest
dwelling. Draco called it "growing accustomed to what would soon be his new
home" but Harry knew it was just as likely to be an escape from Sirius. Not
that the volatility of their relationship persisted particularly, but they
would never be what one would deem friends. And despite Draco's apparent
ability to be perfectly comfortable in his own skin absolutely anywhere, he'd
professed that he'd rather they spent their time alone at the manor.
The operative feature of such a declaration was, naturally, alone. For despite
Sirius visiting Anouk nearly every night, even on the weekends that Harry
visited these days, there was only so much privacy two young men could acquire
living with a middle-aged wizard possessing the acute hearing of a dog. They'd
found that out the hard way. Sirius had been glaring daggers at Draco for a
good three weeks after they'd been overheard. Harry had been mortified, much to
Draco's amusement.
So, every time Draco visited from then onwards, they'd spent at least one of
their two days together at the manor. It felt very large with just the two of
them in residency, but the nostalgia of the setting overrode any uneasiness. It
felt like the starting point, the real beginning of when their relationship had
begun to change. So much had happened in only eighteen months.
Draco's birthday was midweek the year he turned eighteen. Though wizards and
witches didn't place quite as much emphasis upon their eighteenth year as
Muggles, Harry still wanted to make something of the occasion. The previous
year, confined as they were due to the aftermath of the war – Harry still
cringed at the memory of the reporters calling from the gates of the Ministry-
appointed safe house – Draco, Harry and Neville's seventeeth birthdays had been
subdued affairs.
Harry knew how much his partner loved to revel in the marvel that was himself,
Draco Malfoy. Similarly, his indulgence bordered upon extravagence, though
Harry's amused exasperation over the matter usually encouraged him to keep his
inclination under wraps. So Harry wanted to make it a point to ensure his
birthday that year was special.
The actual night was ground in celebration at Hogwarts. Harry had visited from
France, requesting leave for family reasons that his Head of House, who had
expressed scepticism but had ceded given her confidence in his dedication
towards studenthood.
It had been well-worth the trip, just to see the look on Draco's face when he
bowled into him outside of Arithmancy. The party that followed that evening had
been a night to remember; Blaise was a good friend to correspond with for
planning as, in the absence of Pansy, he seemed to assume her role as host.
Even the empty classroom he'd set up for his friend's birthday was impressive;
Harry didn't think he'd ever seen so many balloons in one enclosed space
before.
It was a riotous gathering of just about every seventh year, even those that
usually kept to themselves. Food and alcohol seemed to pour from the walls and
Harry became acquainted with far more Wizarding songs than he had even known
existed. It was loud, and filled with laughter, dizzying and a little
overwhelming.
But Draco had liked it, so much so that even his upset when Harry had
regretfully left in the early hours of the morning was dampened slightly. What
sadness remained was dispelled further with the promise of a surprise on the
weekend that, despite his pretenses at affront, he seemed excited about not
being informed of.
A month before, when Harry had asked him what he wanted for his birthday, Draco
had simply smiled easily, wrapped his arms around him and said "To be with
you". Romantic though it was, Harry was not unfamiliar with Draco's fondness of
gifts and extravagance, and had pushed him away to inform him that he needed to
suggest something a little more than that.
Draco had only shrugged and smiled once more. "Then make it a surprise. I'll
come over to Paris that weekend – it's my weekend anyway – and you can surprise
me."
Whether Draco was truly surprised at the nature of Harry's plans was
inconsequential. Despite the suggestions to instead hold the weekend in London,
Draco had been adamant with "It wasn't fair that you'd have to make the trip
two weeks in a row". His genuine concern over the matter was sweet enough that
Harry had withheld comment on the benefits of Wizarding transport over Muggle;
the travel time was markedly reduced with the use of magic, so notably that
Harry couldn't find it in himself to begrudge the trip. Not once.
So Harry had set to organising a surprise. Something different, something that
Draco wouldn't choose for himself but would still enjoy. That was what he
wanted to plan.
Striding through the Parisian suites, Harry paused and knocked once more on the
half- open door to Draco's bedroom. Poking his head through the doorway, he
noted that his partner was still in front of the mirror, combing his hair
fastidiously much as he had been nearly ten minutes before.
"Draco, your hair is fine," Harry sighed. "Please just leave it alone."
Turning, Draco glanced over his shoulder and fixed Harry with a pointed stare.
"Love, if I go out in anything less than my best, then I would hardly be able
to look the public in the eye. Besides," and he turned back to his reflection
with a slight frown, "I need to make up for wearing the Muggle attire."
Walking up behind Draco, Harry rose on his toes slightly so he could drop his
chin on the his shoulder, wrapping his arms around his waist. They met each
other's eyes in the reflection of the mirror. "Well, I happen to think it suits
you rather well."
"Urgh, please, spare me the insult." Yet cry mercy as he may, Draco's smirk was
far too smug to be anything but satisfied.
For he did look good. Very good, in fact, despite the heinousness of wearing
'Muggle clothes'. Black dress pants and white shirt opened casually at the top
two buttons, polished black dress shoes and a matching suit jacket of a
material Harry didn't recognise himself but felt positively delightful to run
his fingers over. He looked nothing if not dashing. Coupled with his natural
confidence and regally handsome good looks, he cut a figure that would
certainly draw eyes. Harry tried not to feel too plain beside him, though it
was difficult to ignore the obvious.
"You look incredible and you know it." Harry dropped a kiss on his shoulder,
nearly missing the brief widening of Draco's smile.
"I know." His long-suffering sigh suggested it was a weighty burden to be so
attractive. "Still, dress robes are far more agreeable to my sense of decorum.
It feels remarkably casual to be wearing such."
Rolling his eyes, Harry pushed off his back and started towards the door once
more. "Then I'm sorry. If I'd known it would bother you that much I would have
organised something exclusively Wizarding."
He didn't even have to look over his shoulder to know that Draco followed him,
finally detaching himself from his mirror. Honestly, he spends more time
gussying up than should be legal. "I don't have a problem with it, exactly.
It's just not in my particular zone of comfort."
Harry cast a smile over his shoulder as he led his partner from the room. "You
know, some of the best experiences you can imagine happen outside of ones
comfort zone." He hadn't meant it to be provocative, but the crooked smile
Draco gave him suggested he took it as much. "Oh, shut up, Draco. Come on, our
ride's already here." And he led the way to the entrance of the manor with a
gloating Draco.
The limousine that pulled up at the front of the manor was impressive enough
that Draco didn't even raise an argument about the use of Muggle transport. Or
at least no further argument. There had been a controversial afternoon
preceding their departure when he had sighed and moaned about not using
Apparation. Harry had largely ignored him. The champagne offered from the
moment the chauffeur bowed them into the back seat, alongside the soft leather
and distant, barely perceivable music, was likely another contributing factor
to the quelling of Draco's affronted Wizarding pride. He even went so far as to
comment on the vintage of the drink as they smoothly pulled away from the
manor.
The region of Paris they swept through was beautiful at night. The sun had long
since set and a pervasive blanket of darkness settled over the uneven planes of
the buildings. And yet as they eased soundlessly from the suburbs of the
wealthy and luxurious, it seemed to come alive with artificial lights,
wandering night crawlers and yelling drivers muted by the thick windows of
their vehicle. Being the warm season that it was, Muggles – and likely a fair
few witches and wizards too – were out in the hundreds, enjoying the liberties
that came with the setting sun.
Draco maintained a steady flow of conversation throughout the entire trip into
the heart of the city. Within minutes of leaving the manor, Harry had requested
the chauffeur – a blank faced man with a thin face who introduced himself as
Thomas – slide up the partition. A blessed notion, Harry reflected, as Draco
was neither hesitant nor wary enough to filter his words for the ears of their
Muggle driver, whether it regarded school or the impracticality of Muggle
transportation.
As they swum gradually into the depths of the city, Draco's attention became
drawn instead to the buildings and passer-bys around them. He looked faintly
awed, with a health mixture of horror, at the sheer number of people.
"I don't think there's this many wizards and witches in the entirety of
Britain."
Harry turned towards him from his own window. The expression on Draco's face
drew a grin of his own, one of many that he'd already been afflicted with that
day. "Is that a problem?"
"Not really. It's just a little unexpected."
"But you've been to the city before, haven't you? Last year, when we were in
Paris?"
Draco shook his head, eyes still glued to the window. "I generally kept out of
the inner city, especially on weekends. And when I did wander about a bit, it
was usually in the absolute dead of night. Just as a precaution, you know."
"Don't look so stupefied, Draco," Harry laughed lightly. "I thought we'd broken
you of your Muggle aversion already."
"Never," Draco replied, a hint of a smile in his words.
Harry had initially been terribly nervous of how Draco would respond to his
surprise. Somewhere throughout the afternoon, however, that nervousness had
faded. For truly, Draco was not the sort of person to be offended if he didn't
particularly enjoy something. Rather, he would rearrange the night, or what he
was given of the night, so that he did enjoy himself. Asking Draco to spend his
time sulking over another person's decisions was about as likely to come to
term as convincing Neville to play a game of quidditch. Which was, to say,
unfathomable.
There was nothing to worry about, nothing at all to be anxious for. Besides,
the simple act of being together was usually adequate enough for Draco. For
Harry, too.
When they reached their destination, Draco turned to Harry with his eyebrows
raised. "A theatre?"
"Don't look so sceptical. You said you've been to the theatre before and
enjoyed it." "Yes. A Wizarding theatre."
'Prejudice, Draco. Watch your prejudice, please. Birthday or not, we are still
breaking your habit." Draco only grinned roguishly in reply.
When Thomas opened the door for them once more, Draco climbed out with a grace
that would have suggested he traveled in limousines every day. As his gaze
swept across face of the theatre, though his sceptism remained Harry was
pleased to see it was accompanied by marked curiosity.
It was a modest but gorgeous little building, the Théâtre de la Rose Rouge.
True to its name, the entire interior seemed to be reminiscent of a rose, a
lush, rich scarlet trimmed in gold so pale it was almost white. Grand
staircases with elaborate ballistrades, a central carpet so thick that the red-
veined marble beneath was barely perceivable. A crowd of formally outfitted men
and women could be seen standing or milling at the base of the primary
staircase when they entered through double glass doors, bathing in a faint
warmth and the golden light of an elaborately bedecked chandelier overhead.
Draco scanned around himself with properly concealed admiration. A faint smile
and nod of approval were the only suggestions that he even recognised the
grandieur of his surroudings. Harry, despite being the one to make the booking,
was more in awe of the Entrance Hall of Hogwarts. He'd hardly been one for
extravagence in his childhood, nor had he been particularly exposed to it;
bedazzling didn't entice him. Malfoy Manor itself was impressive, and that
didn't have a hint of the excessiveness of the theatre.
Leaning into Harry's ear to be heard over the buzzing crowd, Draco whispered,
"Well, they meet the standards, these Muggles. Who knew they were so adept at
interior design?"
"You did, I had assumed," Harry replied, stretching up on his toes again to be
heard. "Haven't I shown you around Paris before?"
Draco shrugged. "Size and attention to detail are to very different things.
That Eiffel Tower didn't have any particular eye for appearance's sake. But
this is..." His smile resurfaced. "Nice."
Which was a bit of an understatement, even Draco admitted with a wink, but who
would know? Maybe Draco truly did see such grandeiur on a more frequent basis
and it wasn't quite as excessively astounding for him as it was for Harry. He
certainly seemed comfortable enough following the directions of the ushers up
the stairs and into their assigned seating. Draco's spouting of admiration, his
gesticulations as he pointed to some elaborate design across the theatre stage,
certainly seemed to indicate as much. Any comments faded into muteness,
however, as the lights finally dimmed.
The play was something of a classic in France; Draco had initially questioned
whetherLes Miserables was a historical piece, and Harry had assured him that it
was based on a fictional work. That didn't seem to detract from the appeal,
however. Their prime seating – Harry had, for once, spared no expense on the
experience; it was for Draco, so he wouldn't – gave an ideal view of the stage.
Perhaps the only drawback was that it was, naturally, entirely in French,
though Draco didn't even comment on the fact. Uncharacteristically so, mind.
Still, he'd grown remarkably fluent in the Parisian tongue of late, so maybe it
simply didn't bother him.
Harry was unprepared for just how much Draco enjoyed the show. It had been a
shot in the dark, the decision when he'd made it, but Harry had had a suspicion
Draco would appreciate it. The conclusion, the grand finale and raucous
applause, had been accompanied with heartfelt clapping from the Draco in turn.
At first Harry had thought him to simply be jesting him, of pretending for the
sake of sparing Harry's feelings, but the animated discussion he begun at when
Thomas once more directed them into the limousine was remarkably sincere.
"I think Cosette was a bit of a nothing character but Jean val Jean... I can
admire someone like that."
Hiding a smirk, Harry attempted to look thoughtful and considering. "Is that
so? Well, I suppose Cosette was something more of a symbol than anything."
Familiar with the storyline from his years at Muggle high school, Harry was
less captivated by the story, though he could admit he still thoroughly enjoyed
the performance. It allowed him to consider the story in a different light. "I
suppose she was like the innocence that was stolen from the rest of the
characters. And despite her hardships, her protection under her guardian
maintained that innocence."
Frowning as he leant back into the leather seating, Draco nodded thoughtfully.
"I guess so. I just didn't ever expect Muggles to be so elaborate and in depth
with their storyline and presentation. To say nothing of their storylines. Are
you certain it's fiction?" Draco stared at Harry suspiciously.
Harry could only shake his head, smiling. "About as certain as I can be.
Grounded in a historical context it may be, the story is fictional."
"Hmm, well... even so. I'm pleasantly surprised by the fact. And they build
that entire backdrop without magic, and changed it and everything throughout
the show?" At
Harry's nod, he slumped back further in his seat. "Well, I'll be. Maybe they do
know something or other about theatre."
Harry elbowed him gently. "Perhaps you'll remember that when you go about
insulting Muggle culture in future?"
"Never," Draco replied with a grin, turning to press a kiss onto his cheek.
"Though for now, at least, I can appreciate a job well done."
"I think that's an understatement."
Draco conceded as much with a shrug. "What made you choose the theatre,
anyway?"
It was Harry's turn to grin. "Well, you do have a flair for drama –"
"Excuse me?"
"- and I thought you'd likely be more appreciative of singers than of dancers."
"And why is that?" Draco smirked indulgently.
Harry replied with a return of a kiss to his cheek. "Because you love to talk
so much, obviously."
Draco was in too good a mood to even pretend to be offended. Or maybe that was
just because it was so true and Draco was nothing if not proud of the fact.
When they pulled up outside of the hotel, Draco glanced towards Harry in
surprise.
"What? You didn't think that was it, did you?" Harry admonished him teasingly,
climbing out of the limousine past Thomas. "That's hardly the way to celebrate
an eighteenth."
"I still don't understand your emphasis upon 'eighteen'," Draco sighed,
following him as they made their way into the lobby.
The hotel itself was as grand as the theatre, though in more subdued tones.
Rather like a matured and less youthfully glowing, though still regally
impressive, older sibling. Yet even matured, it was fine enough that Draco's
satisfactinon made itself known upon his face. He frowned speculatively as he
pondered loudly and appreciatively of Harry's unexpected skills in allocating
suitable dining.
Shrugging, Harry slipped his hand into his partners before replying in a
deliberately quiet voice. "I'm not oblivious to refinement, though of course
I'm not as knowledgeable as learned as you are. You deserved something special.
Seventeen may be the age of maturity in the Wizarding world, but in Muggle
France at least it's eighteen."
"Ah, but you forget that I don't really give much of a toss for cultural norms
of different countries."
Another elbow in the side made Draco grunt. He was receiving his supply of them
that evening. "When in Rome, Draco."
"Harry, love, you know how I despise assimilation," Draco sniffed indignantly
as they approached the maître d'.
"Only when it is of yourself, I'm sure," Harry replied. "Come on, are you
hungry? Word is that the duck-egg souffle is really, really good here."
The dining hall was a dim, candlelit room of dark carpets and round tables
bedecked in rippling wine-red cloth. At the far end of the room a slightly
raised dais held a grand piano, currently being graced by the talented fingers
of a serious-faced young man who seemed to be lost in his own music. The rest
of the room as a whole was muted, despite being nearly full. A modest and
respectable hush, the hush that entailed privacy in the midst of company. Even
the constant flow of graceful waiters wielding covered dishes barely made a
sound as they passed through the cleverly concealed kitchen doors in the
distant corner.
After being relieved of their coats, they followed the tuxedo-clad maitre d' to
a two-seater table. It said something of the setting that neither dubious
glances nor quizzical stares were sent their way. Two young men – two men
together – and barely older than teens themselves was hardly to be expected in
such expensive holdings. Harry knew that Muggles shared a slightly different
view on the sort of relationship that he and Draco shared to that of wizards,
but not a second glance was given. It was comforting, even with the knowledge
that it was likely the exorbitant cost of their dining that entitled them to as
much.
All in all, it was a calming sit-down meal, relaxing and comfortable in a way
that left Harry hesitant to suggest they depart from the dark embrace of the
wide room. True to his word, the souffle was splendid, accompanied by a white
riesling and topped by a decadent fondue of all things that left them both
quite happy to remain in the quiet ambiance, talking quietly and idly as their
dinner settled. It was different to their usual weekends – obviously – but
Harry found the unusual setting and intimacy of the refined dining room a
compelling stage. It seemed to entice conversation like a warm companion, and
Harry was largely unsurprised when a glance towards an elaborate clock of
coiled filigree above the exit indicated it to be nearly eleven o'clock.
They were nearly the last in the room, save for a young man and woman at the
opposite wall who seemed more inclined to fall into each others eyes than
notice their surroundings. Draco picked idly at the remaining strawberries of
their dessert, a gentle smile on his lips. Their conversation had drawn to a
natural close, but it left neither one of their fidgeting awkwardly. The simple
comfort of being in one another's presence was conversation enough.
I'm glad, Harry thought idly, the recurring smile that had been afflicting him
all evening arising once more as he beheld Draco's relaxed expression, smiling
himself as his eyes drifted lazily around the room. I hope he enjoyed himself.
I think he did. Never having to plan a birthday before in his life, the self-
consciousness, the worry of providing something pleasing, had been hounding him
for weeks. I needn't have worried, truly... He is happy.
Draoc brought him out of his musings with a purposeful shift in his chair.
"Harry?"
"Hmm?"
Nodding towards the other end of the room, Draco turned his glance upon him.
"Will you play something?"
Turning towards the object of Draco's focus, Harry uttered a huff of laughter
and shook his head. "I hardly think I'm good enough."
"What, you?" Draco clicked his tongue in exaggerated disbelief. "You, who
managed to keep pace with sixth year students after barely three months of
schooling, you don't think that after nearly a year of practicing piano that
you're not good enough?"
Harry shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "I'm not saying it to be humble or
anything. I mean, I can play, but I'm nothing special. I've a fair ear for
music, but I'm appalling at composing. Lacking in creativity or some such," he
finished with a rueful smile.
"I didn't ask for anything special," Draco replied. Wiping his hands on the
linen napkin, he rose to his feet and held out a hand to Harry. "You've never
let me hear you play before. And it's not as though anyone is really around to
hear you. Curb your bashfulness for once."
Harry could only cede to that sentiment. He doubted that the remaining two
diners were aware enough of their surroundings to have realised that the
performing pianist had finished for the night. Admitting defeat, Harry took
Draco's proffered hand and allowed himself to be tugged towards the dais.
It was a beautiful instrument. Even with his limited experience with playing,
and similarly limited knowledge of pianos, Harry could tell it was an expensive
and and exquisite piece. Inky black, the half-raised lid allowed a glimpse of
strings that appeared to be spun from gold. The dim lighting of the room
reflected off the smooth, shining surface in a pool of glowing orbs. The
pristine keys were so polished they glistening with a mirroring gleam. Every
smooth line, down to the bronze pedals, bespoke refinement and elegance. Harry
was almost nervous to ease himself onto the low, flat and comparatively plain
stool.
"What should I play?"
Draco shrugged, leaning with his back to the piano and half-turning over his
shoulder towards him. "I leave it up to your expert opinion." He folded his
arms, a smile curling his lips. "As I seem to recall, I've spoken of my own
rather disastrous experience in music."
Harry laughed faintly at the memory. The image of a child-Draco, smacking the
living daylights out of a his piano with a chair leg was as horrifying as it
was amusing. Apparently, he hadn't been quite as taken with music in his early
years as he he had with oration.
With a smile still playing upon his slips, Harry dropped his fingers to the
piano keys and begun to play. The first song that came to mind was a personal
favourite, Muggle, and one he'd only very recently become acquainted with.
Within moments, the jovial rhythm of Bach's Solfeggietto in C Minor was ringing
merrily throughout the dining hall, bringing life to the otherwise still
setting of the dining hall.
It was only a short piece, and as his fingers stilled on the keys once more
Harry glanced towards Draco. His partner was fixing him with a faintly amused
stare, one eyebrow raised.
"What?"
"How in Merlin's name do you even move your fingers that fast?"
Harry ducked his head bashfully. Well, maybe it had been a bit of a start for a
first performance. "It's easier than it looks, when you pick it up the finger
pattern."
"I'm sure," Draco drawled, slouching once more onto the piano. "It's very good,
though. I thought you would have been terrible from the way you always talk
about Neville being 'so much more musically adept' than you."
Harry chewed his slip in an attempt to quell the flush of embarrassment that
arose under Draco's back-handed praise. Dropping his fingers to the keys once
more, he opted for falling into the familiar melody of Fur Elise. Draco's
amused slump eased slightly as he tilted his head back, listening to the music.
"I think I've heard of this one before..."
Barely glancing up from the keys, Harry gave a small smile. "I should think so.
Just about everyone in the Western world has heard of this tune. Many of
Beethoven's works are well known even by those with no musical interest."
"Known the Muggle world, maybe," Draco murmured, but there was no resentment or
even condescension to his tone.
"What sort of musicians do you like, then?"
Harry could just make out Draco's eyes sliding closed from his periphery. "I
don't know... Jarmonte, maybe? He was fairly renowned from his work about six
hundred years ago, I think. Or Yellan? Elubenos' still around I think, though
she must be nearly a skeleton for how old she is; must use some sort of
deageing potion, I'd wager." Turning lazily towards Harry, he opened one eye.
"She's the one that did all of those shows with that singer, Kaffstoff."
Nodding slowly, Harry drew to the end of Beethoven's piece and slipped easily
into his favourite of Elubenos'. Calming, lilting, it gave nothing if not the
impression of a warm, moonlit evening illuminated only by the natural lights
and the glimmer of stars across the black blanket of night. Breve Parpadeo,
Madame Almeera called it. It was one of the Musique et Drame teacher's
favourite as well. Relatively easy to master, it was one of the first of the
grade five pieces he'd learnt. It could have been his imagination, but to Harry
it felt just faintly magical. Maybe all Wizarding songs carried that same hint
of the surreal.
Approaching the chorus, the thrumming tendrils of resonance vibrated through
his fingers more ardently. It was a shame, really, that he was rather
incompetent at singing, for the vocals were truly...
"I still hold on tight to each flickering moment,
For to loosen my grasp would be to set her free.
"But though for freedom she yearns,
She will crumble beneath the weight of the world,
"So I still hold her tight to shelter from the storm.
Revel, for each flickering moment."
Harry faltered briefly in his playing as Draco's voice murmured nearly
inaudibly through the vibrations of music. Picking it up once more, his eyes
drifted towards where he stood, head tilted back slightly once more with eyes
resting peacefully closed. The rise of the chorus sounding brought a gentle
repeat of the lulling words, the hushed voice. It was deep, resonating, with a
raw, untrained beauty that seemed somehow unexpected yet peculiarly suited to
Draco.
When he finally finished the piece, Harry let his hands drop into his lap.
Tilting his head towards Draco, he marveled that his partner, for all that he
had known him for nearly two years, had possessed this skill that he knew
nothing about. And yet, far from feeling resentment towards the kept secret,
Harry instead felt wonder that, even as he knew him so well, there were still
hidden treasures yet to be unearthed. Small things, seemingly inconsequential
things, that could only lead to him loving Draco all the more.
As Draco turned slowly towards him, eyelids sliding open to reveal a sparkling
warmth in their deep greyness, Harry felt a wave of love well within him for
the the young man who was his partner. The decision he'd been mulling over all
night seemed already made for him. It wasn't daunting anymore in the least.
I truly do love him. And really, if I were to pick a moment, I would choose
tonight.
===============================================================================
It was nearly midnight when Draco followed Harry through the door into the
hotel suite. Stepping onto thick, pale carpets, he felt a smile curl his lips.
Like so often tonight, he's done it again. How well Harry knows me.
Their night had been perfect; intimate, yet not bereft of amusements that were
exciting not only for their refinement and unexpectedness. Draco couldn't deny
that he had enjoyed the play – heartily enjoyed – and their subsequent dining
rivalled the best he'd had in the Wizarding world. Though his condescension
towards Muggles was generally little more than a farce these days, he could
admit that there was an inclination towards of belief in Wizarding superiority.
It was only to be expected, he knew; he'd been raised with such beliefs. Yet
every time Harry showed him more of the Muggle world, the world he had grown up
in, the foundations of such beliefs wavered ever more noticeably.
The hotel added it's own sway, and the suite just as much. A double room of
lounging and sleeping quarters, the paleness of the walls and floors contrasted
simply yet impressively with rich satin bed sheets of a dark navy, matching
couches that simply begged to be used, and smoothly polished cabinets of ebony.
Even Draco's disdain for one of those Muggle televisions – a ridiculously big
one – couldn't put a dampener on the high-class impression of the ensemble.
Slipping his jacket off, he hung it neatly on one of the dutifully placed hooks
beside the door and turned to Harry. His partner was gazing about the room, his
own jacket folded in his arms, as though assessing it for its serviceability.
Draco took the moment to simply look upon him, as he had so often that night.
Fitted outfits truly did suit him so well, clinging to the lines of his slim
form and leaving little to the imagination. He'd dressed to match Draco, though
Draco could hardly compare them both. He knew he looked smart in Muggle dress –
of course he did; why wouldn't he? – but there was something different and
entirely appealing about Harry. Draco could hardly keep his eyes from him, his
delicate features that suited the equally
delicate glasses so well, the intricate coil of braid falling over his
shoulder, small hands and slender fingers that Draco had just witnessed breathe
life into the stagnant coldness of the piano downstairs. Had Les Miserables
been any less enjoyable and he was certain he wouldn't have been able to draw
his eyes away from him.
It was only when Harry shifted uncomfortably that Draco realised he was aware
of his silent observation. Yet the slight flush was hardly as deep as that
which usually afflicted him when under intense scrutiny. Stepping towards
Draco, he fiddled idly with his jacket, swapping it between arms unnecessarily.
Before he could speak, Draco broke the silence. It seemed important that he
just say it, just so that Harry knew. "Harry, you've likely already realised,
but I had a truly wonderful evening." He smiled, taking the final step between
them and cupping his hand around Harry's cheek. "I couldn't imagine a better
birthday. Or with better company. Thank you." And with that said, he leant
forwards and pressed a kiss upon Harry's lips.
It was soft, and gentle, and faintly sweet from their fondue. And yet it ended
to quickly when Harry pulled his head away minutely. Draco frowned
questioningly, only to lean away himself at the look of intense honesty in
Harry's eyes.
"Harry, what...?"
"Draco." The voice was quiet, barely a whisper, yet filled with the same
intensity as Harry's gaze. It was enough to still Draco's tongue instantly.
"Draco, will you sleep with me?"
Of all the things to anticipate spilling from Harry's mouth, that had not been
one of them. Draco felt his breath catch, his mind short incredulously, and the
only word that could stutter from his mouth was "What?"
A small smile lifted the corners of Harry's mouth. "I'm asking, because I know
you wouldn't. Will you sleep with me?"
No, it definitely hadn't been a trick of his ears, of wishful thinking. Curling
the fingers still holding Harry's cheek, Draco struggled with a swallow. "I
didn't think you'd want..."
Harry's smile widened slightly, faintly coy. "Draco, I have wanted to. With
you. I just haven't... been able to." He took a deep breath, closing his eyes
and raising a hand to press against the fingers that held his cheek. "Thank you
for waiting. I'm sorry it took so long."
It was a marvel, truly, this quietly confident young man before him. Draco had
never seen this side of Harry before, and it swept his feet out from underneath
him. Or, it would have, had they not been rooted so firmly, weighted so
heavily, to the ground. Bloody hell, I'm like a blushing virgin... How horribly
embarrassing. And yet... Draco couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. It
was almost too miraculous to comprehend.
But Harry was staring at him, that steady intensity unwavering in his green
eyes. Draco was captivated; the words slipped out of his mouth unawares. "You
have no idea how much I want to say yes."
"But?"
"But, " and Draco took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he brought his free
hand to cup Harry's other cheek and dropped his forehead to the fringed brow,
"I'm scared. I don't want to hurt you." It was unexpectedly easy to say those
words.
Gentle fingers stroked through his hair with such tenderness that heDraco
opened his eyes once more. Harry was smiling gently, and perhaps it was simply
how closely they now stood but Draco considered he saw a faint flicker of
uneasiness in those deep, wide eyes. "Thank you, Draco, but... I'm scared too.
And that doesn't mean I don't want to." Soft lips pressed against Draco's.
"Will you say yes? Can we try?"
What could Draco do but agree? There was only so much a man could take. Drawing
a ragged breath, Draco nodded. "Yes. God, yes." He didn't have to look to know
that Harry's smile deepened. He could feel the radiance like a shining beacon
of warmth.
Leaning back slightly, hands still cradling Harry's face, he drew another
steadying breath. "I think, though, that I, um... what do you... how did you
want to...?" He trailed off awkwardly, feeling a faint flush rise in his own
cheeks. It was only made deeper by the breathy laugh Harry uttered.
Mortification rising, Draco would have scowled at Harry at any other time had
he been anyone else, except that he wasn't. It was Harry, and under the radiant
warmth of that smile and the sudden realisation that relief was what spread it
so widely, Draco felt his own grin resurface. "Tease me and I'll hex you."
Harry shook his head and struggled to get a hold of his silent laughter. "I'm
sorry, I think I'm just nervous. I didn't mean to." He bit his bottom lip to
stem his amusement. "That was mean."
"Not mean, just, well." Draco shrugged, glancing to the side to escape the
mixture of nervousness and merriment in Harry's stare. "Just very appropriate.
Maybe a little too appropriate. I honestly don't really know what I'm doing. I
mean, I've read books, but there's only so much that they can tell. And, " he
took another deep breath. "The main thing I've realised is that it's really not
at all like sex between a man and a woman. It's so much more..."
"Complicated?"
"Yes. Yes, you could say that." The constant warmth in Draco's cheeks didn't
help with his enunciation. The topic was strangely awkward, given how serious
and genuine the subject. And though he had so desperately desired to consumate
their love, Draco was nothing if not daunted by what he'd read. It was more
complicated, and he'd felt something akin to terror upon reading the various
anecdotes on 'preparation' and 'stimulation'. Not that it wasn't helpful, he
just hadn't quite expected that there was so much to it. Still, he'd learnt a
lot of the theory, enough to warrant asking some important questions. "Which do
you...? I mean, would you prefer...?" Why is it so bloody difficult to say?!
Harry stared at him blankly, blinking slightly before comprehension dawned.
"Oh, you mean -?"
"Yes, I mean..." And dammit, Harry was struggling not to laugh again. Draco
would have turned away in frustration as well as embarrassment had he not known
it for what it was; despite his apparent confidence, nervousness was evident in
Harry's eyes. It just seemed to be expressing itself with very uncharacteristic
bubbliness. He could only wait for Harry to quell the near-hysterical merriment
to reply.
When it did, Harry met his eyes with a loving fondness that eradicating any
lingering feelings of affront. "You're freaking out, aren't you?"
Draco shook his head in denial, though he doubted it fooled either of them.
"Not freaking out, no, but I think we can both acknowledge our mutual
anxieties."
"Then let's acknowledge them," Harry said simply. He shrugged. "Don't think
about the bad things that could happen, Draco. Focus on the good." Patting the
hands that held his cheeks, Harry gently extricated himself from Draco's grasp.
"You don't even have think at all, Draco. Just let me do it."
"But..."
"Just give me a few minutes, okay?" And with a brief kiss, Harry turned and
slipped into the bedroom. Or at least through the bedroom and into the bathroom
that Draco hadn't noticed before, so perfectly camouflaged was the door to its
surrounding walls. There was a flicking noise preceding yellow-white light
spilling across the carpet before Harry closed the door with a gentle click.
Moments later, the muted sound of a shower thrummed through the thick door.
Just like that. Just like that and Harry was taking care of it. Draco was
ashamed to feel an upwelling of relief, but he couldn't deny it. He knew he was
out of his depth, in this context at least, and though he struggled to think
about the how, Harry did not. Sighing heavily, he slipped his shoes off,
placing them beside the front door to the suite, and padded into the bedroom.
The mattress was soft and thick, sinking beneath his weight as he settled onto
the edge. Silence, save for the distant hiss of water hitting tiled floors,
spread throughout the room.
Initially, it was numbness that gripped him. Then nervousness, a nervousness
Draco hadn't felt since he'd been with Pansy all those years ago, and even then
it felt different somehow. Deeper, and exponentially vaster. Then came the
guilt – how could he actually be doing this? What kind of a monster was he to
do this after everything Harry had been through? – then the wonder. Harry had
actually asked him, asked him, because he wanted him. And despite the lingering
guilt, Draco knew that he had never wanted anything more profoundly in his
life. Wanted anyone more.
By the time the shower silenced, Draco had fallen into a floating cloud of
thought. A cloud that immediately dissipated when the door creaked open and
Harry half peered out.
All of the nervous bubbliness was gone, leaving only the intensity, the
seriousness, that seemed far too mature for a seventeen year old. But it wasn't
only that which caught Draco's eye, stilled his breath in his throat. Barely
perceiving the door as it swung open, Draco was rendered speechless. And for
once, he didn't even care.
They'd never shared moments of absolute intimacy before, and so Draco had never
seen Harry naked before. The memory would stay with him forever; slender, pale
limbs, the soft curves that were so different to a woman's yet impossibly even
more beautiful. The faint sheen of residual water glistened upon his skin,
setting it alight in a glow under the whiteness of the bathroom light behind
him. His hair was loose, dripping slightly from dampness and curling across his
bare shoulders.
There were scars. Draco knew this, even though he hadn't seen them all. Pale
scars, faded with time, that criss-crossed his skin in broken patterns. Yet
even they were
somehow beautiful, despite knowing from where they'd came. Draco hardly saw
them for the breathtaking canvas they streaked across. But more than the beauty
of his skin, the glory of each line and every shadow, was the gentle hesitancy
in his eyes, freed from their glasses. A desperate desire for confidence
warring against his natural uncertainty.
The thought of 'nothing can possibly be more perfect' was immediately disproved
as the words "You're beautiful" slipped from his lips and a flush flooded
Harry's pale cheeks. Draco knew that that was perfection.
Later, Draco would remember the rest of the night in broken pieces of continued
perfection. The silent movements of Harry stepping across the bedroom, wrapping
his shower-warmed arms around Draco's neck and sinking into a kiss. Somehow his
clothes were shed and they fell, clinging to one another, upon the impossibly
soft mattress.
Hands had never been more necessary, and Draco suddenly found he didn't have
enough of them. Aching to touch every inch of Harry's body, fingers caressing
soft, smooth skin just as he felt the returning inquisitive touches dancing
across his own arms, his legs, shoulders and chest. Holding that dear face to
pepper it with kisses and entwining tongues ferociously until they both
struggled for breath. It was warm, hot even, and the taste of lust, the scent
of passion, hung in their air.
But above all... When Harry pushed him onto his back, had straddled his hips
and settled himself above Draco's arousal. When his small fingers slid along
his length, coated in cool, conjured wetness and he couldn't help but groan.
When he had –oh gods – when he'd raised himself slightly onto his knees,
concentration at odds with the breathlessness and flushing of cheeks, and sunk
down upon Draco's hardness and there had been just so much heat, the tightness,
the warmth. The perfection.
Draco had never experienced the like before. For there was nothing to compare
to making love with one's soul mate, with his most loved person in the entirety
of the world. He was sure that potent adoration had surely been pouring from
his skin as he gazed upon his partner, his lover, his heart, as he rode him in
steady undulations, each twist of hips drawing an invigorating lance of
pleasure to his brain, sending sparks dancing across his eyes. Bucking beneath
Harry's slender form, his hands grasped desperately on clenching thighs as he
pounded and thrust and writhed in those bewitching moments. The only sounds in
the room were their harsh pants, the wanton moans, yet even they were drowned
out by the rushing of blood in his ears when Draco came in a sharp cry and
torrent of cascading pleasure.
Nothing could ever compare.
It was inconsequential, how long it lasted. Time didn't matter, not in that
grand hotel room with its contrasting colours, its Muggle television and the
impressive views that would undoubtedly be seen from the beyond the curtained
windows. Draco lost himself in Harry, in the sheer ardour of lovemaking as they
clung to one another time and time again. Every ounce of pent up passion, the
waiting that had hardly seemed of consequence before, was released in a
glorious climax of coupling.
What could have been days or only hours later, Draco curled in exhaustion
around his partner, fingers stroking though his hair. He didn't have to look to
know that Harry had fallen to sleep; the soft, shallow breaths brushing against
the skin of his throat was indication enough. Closing his eyes, he was
unsurprised to feel the smile blossom across his cheeks. Happinness was a word
not nearly large enough to encompass that which he felt.
Drawing Harry even closer into his arms, Draco felt himself slip into the
darkness of slumber. For what greater lullaby could there be than the steady
breathing of one's soul mate as they inched unconsciously closer into one
another's arms? Exhaustion drew him into a world of dreams, yet even the
wonders of the imagination paled in comparison to reality.
***** And Change *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Summer was unpleasant in every European city, whether it was sweltering hot,
thickly humid or paradoxically cold. That was what Severus thought. Even in the
relative coolness of the shaded outdoors at the Malfoy's Parisian Manor, he
felt the heat simmering across his skin as though he sat before an open
fireplace. True, the long sleeves and high neck of his black robe likely didn't
help the matter much, but he could hardly deign to dress in a less than seemly
fashion simply because of the weather.
Still, there was only so much Cooling Charms could do in the face of the
glaring force of the sun, and Severus would be damned if he was going to go
inside to skulk behind closed curtains while Narcissa and the boys lazed
outdoors.
For in spite of the heat, Severus was actually quite enjoying the scenery of
the Manor's grounds. Even after visiting for nearly two weeks he found that the
view from the hut-like pergola was peacefully splendid. Set on an acreage, one
of the largest that was still considered a part of Paris, the view from the
back of the manor was of a tamed garden of multi-hued flowers that dribbled
gradually into the a broad expanse of rich, vibrant greenery. Bereft of trees
until the very outskirts of the residence, the line of forest faded into
shadows before hitting the outer wall.
It was a peaceful scene. The Muggles were kept at a distance by both the walls
and the intimidation factor of the expensive property. It was like a little
world of its own, and so far removed from Hogwarts and the tiresome strain of
teaching. Peaceful, save for…
Draco's echoing laughter could be heard over the marked distance he stood with
Potter across the grounds. But even that was nearly drowned out by the gunning
of a powered engine, resounding over the flat plains of grass like a Muggle jet
engine. Had it not been so entirely unexpected the first time he had heard it,
devoid of the Muffling Charms of a Wizarding model, Severus was sure he would
have blasted the motorbike into smithereens the moment he stepped out of the
door.
It was the thirty-first of July, and Draco and Narcissa had been living in
Paris for a full two weeks now. Naturally, wherever Draco went the Potter boy
followed, and vice versa. Severus had to question sometimes whether there was a
Sticking Charm affixed to their almost permanently joined hands for they seemed
largely incapable of detaching their fingers from one another.
Draco had completed his N.E. with flying colours, topping the school with only
Granger as his primary competitor and impressively making the records for the
highest mark in Ancient Runes in three decades. Severus had been secretly proud
of his godson's efforts; more than that, the boy – young man, really – had
seemed hardly fazed at all by the exams. Almost relaxed, even. So much that
Severus had been worried before he'd drilled each of the boy's teachers to
determine that he hadn't simply given up hope in his studies entirely.
Far be it from 'giving up', Draco had cruised through each subject. Albeit
Charms, really, and even then his unexpected yet bountiful relations with
Granger had picked up the slack in that area. Thank Merlin that was the only
thing he seemed to have assimilated from the girl. The tiresome Gryffindor
seemed to work herself only further and further into a frazzled mess as the
exams loomed with increasing foreboding.
Not Draco. The boy had rarely been one to stress over exams, but even so he
took the N.E. with a surprisingly blasé attitude. He didn't even appear overly
self-satisfied with his performance. Satisfied, yes, but not to the degree
Severus had expected from the marks he achieved. It was as though he had
developed a healthy balance of priorities, that his education was on par or
even less important than other aspects of his current life. It didn't take a
genius to figure out what such other aspects were.
Severus could have been concerned as to the influence of Potter on his godson.
He knew that to do so was probably intruding too much into Draco's life, that
Draco didn't need nor want him to fill the static hole that Lucius had left
behind with his passing. And he wasn't, not really. But some things became
concerning to him nevertheless. He couldn't help it; Severus had been spending
more and more time with Draco, both through his schooling and externally
through his relations with Narcissa. It just seemed to happen that he began to
feel more protective of him.
And yet despite his potential concerns, Potter seemed to genuinely have nothing
but a positive influence on Draco. In one of his 'interrogations' as Draco had
called them, the young Malfoy had been discussing his desire to visit Harry
that weekend despite N.E. being the very next week. Severus hadn't even had to
say anything before his fears were alleviated.
"Harry forbade me from leave school. He said, and I quote, 'that he doesn't
want to be responsible for destroying my future to travel eight hours between
campuses'." Draco had worn a forlorn expression that Severus had never seen
before, though brightened up moments later. "But he said that if I write up a
study timetable for the weekend then he'll come and visit me."
Severus had to fight to hold back his surprise. He hadn't expected anyone could
truly force Draco to do something he didn't want to. Any attempts he'd made had
left the boy making half-hearted attempts and dragging his feet the entire way.
"And you intend to stick to this schedule, even with Potter's visit?"
Draco shrugged. "You don't know Harry very well. If I tried to skive off
studying… well, Harry would be more likely to ignore me for the day and shut
himself in a book than comply with any suggestions on my part." And the distant
smile that Draco gave was purely sickening to behold.
How very un-Malfoy.
Yet, at least one thing he'd claimed was true. Severus didn't know Harry Potter
at all, really. His initial dislike for the boy two years prior had been based
purely upon his very distinct connection to the Potter Severus had known from
his youth. Even Severus could consider reflectively that such ferocious
loathing of the boy had been irrational. Harry Potter was not his father. Not
that Severus woudl admit it aloud. Potter Junior was far removed from the hated
memory of James. If anything, he was more reminiscent of his mother.
And therein lay the crux of the matter. Even after all these years, even after
her death and even before then, Severus loved Lily Evans. She'd been his first
childhood friend, his first school friend, and the first girl he had ever
loved. He had to admit that a big part of his persisting hatred for James
Potter was resentment over her favouring the cursed Gryffindor bastard. It was
an undying grudge that he couldn't shrug off, no matter how long overdue their
resolution was. And it would likely remain stagnant, given that neither Lily
nor James were around to make amends with.
Severus was initially repelled from the younger Potter by the superficial
glimpse of James he'd had upon first beholding him. That had faded with
familiarity, for truly the boy resembled Lily as much as he did his father. And
when that mask, fabricated only by Severus himself, had been shed, it was far
more difficult to hate the boy. There was not even the argument of the boy's
Gryffindor status to despise; Dumbledore had professed that he "couldn't be
sorted".
No, Severus knew next to nothing about Harry Potter. He had his suspicions
about the boy's past – suspicions that tight lips and broken admissions from
Narcissa enforced – that it had been less than coddling. Less than neutral,
even. But the boy's past was not the least of it. His magic, for one, was a
mystery, one which even hearing tails through Draco, Narcissa and half of the
Hogwarts populace continued to make little sense of. There was his quietness
that was broken only rarely by horrifyingly explosive expressions of pain,
anger or sadness, only rarely gleaned but about as unnoticeable as an
earthquake. Then there had been the death of Voldemort…
Still a mystery, that boy, even after two years of superficially knowing him.
And now, such a small thing but equally unexpected, said boy was powering
across the open grasses of the Manor backyard on the back of a sleek, black
motorbike. Riding it with skill, too, as though he'd done so many times before.
And enjoying it, from the smile upon his face. Severus remembered when the boy
hadn't smiled. How much had changed.
"Really, a motorbike?"
Narcissa, reclining idly at his side on her deck chair and turning slowly
through the pages of her book, glanced up. A smile spread across her face as
she observed her young son and his lover. Draco was calling something out to
Potter, yelling in an indiscernible cry that was broken by laughter and the
gunning of the bike's motor. "Apparently Draco has wanted to get it for him for
a while now."
"Why in Merlin's name would he want to do that?"
Shrugging, Narcissa turned towards him. The smile that graced her face was
beautiful in its sincerity. Those first months of her recovery the previous
year had seen so little of her blossoming radiance. She looked… well. Healthy.
Though that was an understatement. The Malfoy widow radiated good health in a
way that seemed to laugh in the face of her illness and recovery not eighteen
months before. The sickly thinness had faded with time, a rich glow returning
to her skin. Severus suspected that it had much to do with her return back to
her psychological studies. Being idle didn't suit Narcissa, not in the
aftermath of her husband's death. Severus did what he could to dampen the pain
that still lingered, that would likely continue to linger unshakeably, but he
knew he was not entirely successful. He cared for Narcissa, cared for her
deeply and more than simply as a friend, or the friend of her late husband as
he had been. It was with regret that he knew there was absolutely nothing he
could do to eradicate the dregs of insatiable longing she felt for the man
passed.
Though the move to France seemed to be doing a wonderful job of it lessening
it. Severus had to wonder at that, too. At first he had feared it as only
selfishness on Potter's part that he refused so adamantly to return to Britain
and so forced the two remaining Malfoys to trail after him like loyal hounds.
It had sparked the previously banished resentment once more, though that had
quickly died in the last two weeks. Draco seemed positively delighted to be in
Paris, and not only because it meant he was closer to Harry. Almost too close,
Severus considered; he was spending only weekends at the Manor and would fill
the rest of his residency at Beauxbatons' sister town of Rivierie Ville.
Apparently his new master, Calvinn Burisque, reportedly felt it a wonderful
idea to be so close to such a delicious source of knowledge that was the
academy. The Headmistress had been surprisingly receptive to Draco's intrusion.
Severus suspected it to be at least in part due to the request of their own
Runes teacher. Though he didn't know the woman personally, scholars of Ancient
Runes seemed to have an odd connection with one another. They were like a race
unto themselves.
Narcissa similarly flourished in their new residency. She had put in for a
transfer to the Université d'Esprit Magiqueand been accepted with open arms.
Really, France seemed to clutch at any proffered magical professionals that
drifted their way. Students, too, if their eagerness to get their hands upon
Potter and Longbottom was any indication. Severus could only be thankful that
Draco hadn't decided to up and leave to follow his lover. Narcissa hadn't been
in a state for moving herself at the time, and it would have torn her apart to
be so distant from her son.
"Harry is a surprising young man. I never saw him as one to favour such a
hobby, but evidently he seeks to astound me. Draco claims he's rather adept at
flying, too."
"Is that so?" Severus raised an eyebrow. He'd never seen the boy fly. "I'm
surprised that Draco hasn't coaxed him into spending half of his time in the
air these holidays."
Narcissa laughed quietly, a sweet, serene laugh that did nothing to shake the
impression of her stateliness. "I don't think Draco could get Harry to do
anything he didn't want to." Her smile suggested she was nothing but amused at
the prospect.
"Yes, Draco alluded to as much." Severus turned back to the pair, now even more
distant from the pergola Narcissa and he shaded under. Potter appeared to be
encouraging Draco into riding the bike and from Draco's body language it
appeared he was eager yet appropriately wary of doing so. It didn't last long,
however, as within moments the taller boy had swung a leg over the back of the
seat, affixed a tight hold around Potter's waist, and the bike was racing with
incredible speed once more. "An odd couple they make, the two of them. I could
not have foreseen Draco to pursue such a relationship two years ago."
Cocking her head, Narcissa trained her own eyes upon the two boys. A thoughtful
expression tightened her brow. "I couldn't agree more, though I must say it
cheers me greatly to see him so happy. Although," she paused, closing the book
in her lap, "it does worry me, at times."
Frowning himself, Severus shifted to gaze at her profile once more. "What could
possibly worry you? I've hardly heard a negative word or brief argument
exchanged between them since they announced their relationship."
It was true. Save for the witty banter and scolding attitude that Potter seemed
to adopt at times around Draco when they considered themselves in relative
privacy, he could not pinpoint a single bump in their relationship. It was
almost eerily perfect.
"And that's what I'm worried about." Narcissa sighed, dropping her gaze to her
hands folded in her lap. "I worry that this easiness will subside eventually,
and will leave them both heartbroken. Surely such intensity cannot be
maintained for so long without snapping. They spend as much time together as
humanly possible, and yet even after so long with such heat they do not tire of
one another's company. Not even for a moment."
Severus shifted uncomfortably. Narcissa frequently came to him to discuss her
son – for who else could she talk to? – and though it secretly gladdened him,
he couldn't help feeling that he was intruding upon foreign territory. "Perhaps
not, but we can only wait and see. I do believe that there is more to their
relationship than solely passion." And he did, if only because Draco had told
him so. According to him, Potter was as much his best friend as his lover, even
something of a brotherly figure of sorts, though Severus didn't want to pursue
the implications of that particular suggestion too far.
"I can only agree with that," Narcissa nodded, a slight smile returning to her
face. "It delights me to see my son find his soul mate so young, for that is
surely what they are. And yet… it almost seems to perfect."
"Is there possibly such a thing as too perfect?"
A brief sadness flickered across Narcissa's eyes. "I am not sure that a
relationship can survive purely upon positivity. There needs to be lows as well
as highs, to reaffirm the strength of their bond. In every relationship." She
dropped her gaze once more, and Severus could almost see her mind fade towards
memories of Lucius.
Striving to dispel the shadowing scene, Severus cleared his throat. "I have to
admit, I was surprised that Draco hasn't infuriated Potter into disgruntlement.
If I recall, he was rather adept at eliciting such a response in his younger
years." As Narcissa smiled into her lap, he felt his wariness ease. "But you
believe it would be better that they fought?"
"I… don't believe that constant argument would be better. But it may be well
for their relationship if they did, at least every so often. I know Draco cares
dearly for Harry, but I fear he may overlook arising issues for fear of
initiating an argument and risking it falling into disrepair." She raised one
shoulder in a slight shrug. "So yes, perhaps just one fight every now and
again."
Severus was not so sure. Personally, he thrived upon debate. It was one of the
reasons he felt incapable of maintaining a cordial attitude towards his
students, even those in younger years. N.E.W.T students took it with a grain of
salt, and even replied in kind if they possessed the courage to face his wrath.
Not that he was every truly wrathful, unless said students resorted to
rudeness. Who didn't love a good argument?
But with Draco and Potter… He was sure he wasn't the only one who remembered
their short-lived but explosive fight in the second half of Draco's sixth year.
Another instance where Potter's carefully contained emotions had erupted in a
torrential wave. Students' arguing, even brawling, was not an uncommon affair
at Hogwarts. It was only natural that a horde of hormone-driven teens would
have little control over their emotions. Draco and Potter had not even raised
fists against one another, and had barely raised their voices in their brief
argument. What had made the incident so memorable, however, was the shockwave
that sprung from it.
A magical shockwave, of course, and though Severus was certain that most of the
students had felt it, it was likely simply a sense of foreboding and wariness
that arose from hearing the 'joined at the hip' pair of boys yelling at one
another. For the teachers, and the more sensitive of the students, the moment
Potter had raised his voice a static jolt of magical energy had zapped them all
almost painfully. The ferocious whiplash of accidental magic was untethered and
yet purposeless; instead of wreaking destruction, it simply manifested in a
release of potent energy that left little lasting effect save that of being
buffeted by a rather forceful wind.
It had raised more than a few eyebrows and with unspoken agreement the teachers
present at the meal, those that had witnessed the cause of such an explosion,
had thenceforth watched Potter carefully for signs of distress. It wouldn't do
to have such magic flung about with purpose. He was surprisingly strong, the
boy.
"I… am not entirely certain that such would be a good thing," Severus murmured.
He felt Narcissa glance towards him questioningly but kept his eyes upon the
motorbike that was drawing nearer at that same ridiculously dangerous speed.
"Perhaps they've simply established a happy medium, tested their boundaries and
know each other's limits. Constructive argument is beneficial, but to descend
into mindless aggression is fruitless."
Narcissa was silent for a moment before answering. "Why do I get the impression
you know something you are not telling me?"
"It is hardly consequential, Narcissa. Merely my personal opinion."
"Driven by fact, I've no doubt."
Severus felt a rare smile twitch his lips. The woman beside him was one of a
very few that could elicit such a response. "Undoubtedly, of course."
Perhaps Narcissa would have replied, except that in that moment the motorbike
skidded to a halt barely a dozen feet from the pergola. Severus was only mildly
surprised to see Draco effectively clinging to Potter as the smaller boy
directed the bike with smooth motions – although, 'clinging' may be too harsh a
word. He hardly looked nervous for the speed they'd been travelling, even with
the Pillowing Charms padded invisibly around them. Both boys were grinning
widely, a flush to their cheeks and windswept hair that Severus was sure Draco
would never have deemed appropriate to succumb to in the past. Pre-Potter
period, he was coming to think of it as. Their enthusiasm was infectious,
unfortunately, and despite himself Severus felt that contented twitch turn up
the corners of his mouth once more.
Flinging themselves off the seat, Potter pausing only briefly to adjust the
stand, Draco led them both from the glaring sun. They were both panting faintly
from exertion and beaming with sheer youthful excitement. The expressions,
Severus reflected idly, would have looked strange on both of their faces two
years ago.
"That was truly fantastic," Draco breathed, sharing a smile with Potter. "And
it's not even modified in the slightest from the Muggle bike."
Severus raised his eyebrows at that. So he has finally learned to appreciate
the vast majority of the world's inhabitants and their non-Magical
capabilities? There may be hope for him yet.
"Where did you develop such an interest in motorbikes, Harry?" Narcissa asked
with genuine curiosity.
Potter shrugged, casting a strangely loving glance at the vehicle propped
immobile behind him. "When I lived with Stephen, it sort of just happened. He
worked with cars, so had a bit of a thing for them."
Narcissa's face darkened nearly imperceptibly. She hid it well, maintaining her
apparent curiosity. "I never would have expected. I'm sure Draco would love to
learn from you. You seemed to be enjoying yourself." She smiled at them both,
though it was faintly strained.
Potter seemed to notice, even if Draco didn't. His face flashed briefly in
concern before clearing. "It's wonderful; a perfect gift, though far too
excessive for a birthday present." He turned an admonishing glance towards
Draco that Severus didn't believe was truly genuine.
Draco apparently didn't either, or perhaps he was simply too used to being the
focus of such a stare. He grinned widely and dropped a kiss onto Potter's
cheek. "Says you, Mister I-Will-Organise-An-Extravagent-Birthday-Because-Of-
Muggle-Tradition. You said yourself that eighteenth birthdays were the big ones
to non-magic folk."
"Yes, and I very distinctly remember your condescension towards my thinking
such."
"Condescension or not, love, I can hardly provide something of lesser grandeur
than thou. Speaking of, I hope you've nowhere you wish to be tonight."
"What? Are we going somewhere?"
"We might just be."
"Draco, you really don't need to."
Severus shook his head as the two fell into familiar reprimanding banter,
exchanging words like professional ping-pong players for their speed and focus
solely upon one another. He caught a glimpse of Narcissa out of the corner of
his eye and had to suppress a snort. The witch, for all she preached the
benefits of an argument, was looking at the very insincere argument between her
son and his lover with adoring fondness. To be expected, of course, Severus had
come to realise over the past weeks. She doted on Potter nearly as much as
Draco did. Well, maybe not quite as much.
With the faint disagreeability falling from the boy's exchange, it was perhaps
expected that they fall into chaste kisses and handholding. Expected, but
nonetheless aversive. Severus personally was not particularly fond of public
displays of affection, and though Draco and Potter hardly made such 'public',
they evidently felt that the presence of mother and godfather to one of them
was private enough. It was faintly sickening to be an onlooker to their open
adoration for one another – though Narcissa's smile seemed to grow only more
indulging – and Severus hastily called a house elf for tea. In moments, a table
was set with chairs, iced tea and shortbread.
Lazing around the wide, shaded area with chilled cups, the four chatted idly
into the afternoon. Severus couldn't say that he was particularly fond of nor
familiar with Potter, but such seemed to matter little. The boy was amicably
talkative enough, rather more than he had been in his Hogwarts days, and even
had he not been Draco and Narcissa made wonderful company. The sort of easy
company that arose from a lifetime of familiarity. Draco had a sharp wit and
blessedly never shied from a good debate, while Narcissa was simply intriguing
for the perceptiveness and intelligence of her own mind. In short, such company
could never be said to be boring.
"Has Burisque corresponded with you upon your timetable as of yet, Draco?"
Severus queried after a brief lull in conversation.
Draco shrugged in reply. "Not as of yet, but I'm not particularly worried."
"You begin your studies in a week. Surely –"
"Severus, Burisque is infamous for his detached aloofness from society. Most
apprenticeships begin in the second week of August, but I would hardly be
surprised if his took longer to initiate. Of the three time's I've met him,
I've had to remind him who I was twice."
Narcissa gasped in mock shock. "He forgot who you were? Oh, my dear, but the
horror!"
"I know!" Draco replied indignantly, though the smile he bore suggested him
less than taken with his mother's act. "Who could forget me?"
"You do leave a rather distinct impression," Potter murmured, sipping his tea.
"I do at that, don't I?" Draco raised his chin with that pompousness he'd been
assuming since youth. It looked ridiculous at his age, and Severus was thankful
that the boy had grown out of genuinely utilising the façade. "Still, he
remembered the third time, and was rather enthusiastic as soon as I walked
through the door."
"Enthusiastic?" Potter tilted his head, peering at Draco questioningly. "I was
certain you were complaining just the other day about his complete lack of
enthusiasm for anything save Ancient Runes."
"Yes, but you see, Harry, I'm a prodigy. Of course he's interested in me."
"Ah, I see. Of course. My mistake." Potter buried his smile in his tea once
more. He wasn't the only one. Severus struggled to suppress the twitching of
his own lips.
"He may be as dazed as a Lovegood, but even so he's remarkably talented." Draco
dusted his fingers together, shedding the clinging crumbs onto his plate. "I
have to agree. His book The Intricacies of Runic Reading was simply
fascinating. He has an entirely different take upon interpreting ancient
scripts and translating material. Apparently at present he's developing a
method of translating the multiple extinct languages into symbolic depictions
for magical translation."
"I thought you said that was impossible?" Potter said, leaning forward in his
seat and propping his chin on one hand to blink at Draco curiously. And Draco
beamed, evidently thriving in the chance to share his knowledge. Or perhaps it
was simply at being the subject of his lover's undivided attention.
"It is, theoretically. Burisque is somewhat adept at circumventing the
'theoretical' and jumping straight into the 'practical'." Draco tapped Potter's
hand pointedly. "Sort of like you, I suppose."
Potter shook his head insistently at that. "No, not like me at all. Everything
I do is firmly grounded in the logical and realistic. Or, well," he paused,
pondering thoughtfully. "At least as logical as magic is."
Severus shook his head, delicately placing another biscuit onto his plate as
the two erupted into another round of good-natured argument. Narcissa may claim
they never fought, but they were certainly ready to question one another's
opinions readily enough. It was a wonder that they didn't argue with sincerity.
As the afternoon drifted towards evening, talk gradually died into comfortable
silence. Somewhere along the way – Severus didn't really know when and was
faintly horrified when he realised it had happened – Draco had tugged Potter
into his chair, folding into one another so that they were entwined like a pair
of climbing vines. Well, he tugged Potter more into his lap than 'shared the
chair', really. If they hadn't looked simply so comfortable with one another,
more than the comfort Severus found in having his own chair, and if Narcissa
had not been positively on the verge of crooning at the sight of them, he would
have made his disgust known. As it was, he subsided. Just this once.
It was not long after this that a fifth companion joined their tea party.
Potter's little black cat appeared from nowhere as though Apparated, sauntering
up the steps of the pergola and leapt with easy grace onto the table. Potter
started forward from his seat on Draco's lap, murmuring profuse apologies to
Narcissa as he tugged the creature into his own lap.
The cat was Potter's Familiar, unsurprisingly enough. Unsurprising, as Potter
seemed to resemble something of a cat himself, and Severus had always found
that witches and wizards tended towards resembling their animal companions. Or
at least, he appeared somewhat cat-like when Severus had first beheld the boy,
distant and selective of his interests and those he socialised with as he had
been. Looking at the beast kneading blissfully into the leg of Potter's jeans,
green eyes squinting in satisfaction, Severus could still see the resemblance
but more for physicality that behaviour.
"Here, Harry," Narcissa, predictably, produced a treat from mid air and held it
out to the boy. Narcissa, Severus had noticed, appeared as taken with the
familiar as she was with the boy himself, and Severus was always astounded by
her readiness to produce morsels to shower lovingly upon the fur ball.
"Thank you, Narcissa," Potter smiled, taking the treat and offering it her. The
cat gobbled it down with evident relish. "She says she's very grateful, and –
pardon me for her presumptuousness – but she said she'll spend at least ten
minutes in your lap this evening after supper."
Narcissa simply laughed lightly under Harry's apologetic cringe. "Why thank
you, young lady." She spoke towards the cat as though it were a person and the
cat, spoilt beast that it was, licked its chops lazily in return. "I would be
most honoured."
"What does she call Mother, anyway?" Draco murmured for Potter's ears only,
though Narcissa perked up her head in interest.
"What?" Severus drawled, hiding his confusion under a bored drone. He knew that
Potter had a Communication Collar that allowed him to converse with his
Familiar on a more intelligible level than most were capable, but little else.
Names? The creature designated names?
Potter cringed again slightly, though he retained his smile this time. "Lyssy
tends to appoint her own names to those she's familiar with."
Severus raised an eyebrow dubiously. "Is that so? Such as?"
"Well," Potter glanced over his shoulder towards Draco, "she calls Draco my
Swan –"
"It's because I'm so beautifully graceful and elegant, and am a master of
flight," Draco smirked, dropping his chin onto Potter's shoulder.
"Actually, it's because you're big, have a long neck and hissed at her at every
given opportunity for the first year that we were friends," Potter corrected.
Narcissa laughed once more at that and even Severus permitted himself a small
smile. "And what honourable name has she afforded me?" She asked.
Potter tilted his head as he peered at the cat, fingers stroking idly at the
bejewelled plait of collar around its neck. Severus studied the exchange
closely; he'd heard of Communication Collars before – of course he had – but
he'd never actually seen them in use before. They were frightfully expensive
given that cyanogriffins were a protected species, but he shouldn't have been
surprised that Draco would get one for his lover. He was fairly certain the
Malfoy heir would have brought him the entirety of France had Potter asked for
it.
Not that there was much really to watch in the exchange. Potter simply stared
at the cat for a moment, eyes slightly glazed, and the little creature twitched
its tail and tilted its head towards him as though answering without words.
After a moment, both pairs of green eyes – eerily similar, the both of them –
fastened on Narcissa. Potter smiled slightly, nodding as though in
satisfaction, before those double eyes turned surprisingly towards Snape.
Suddenly made aware of Severus' scrutiny, Potter flushed faintly and slumped
back into Draco.
"Well?" Draco, never one much for patience, prompted the silent boy.
Potter fidgeted on his lap, flush fading if only slightly. "Narcissa?" He
turned to the woman waiting expectantly. "She calls you the Queen."
Narcissa eyes widened, blinking rapidly in confusion. A moment later a smile
curled her lips. "Is that so? And why is that?"
Severus thought it fairly self explanatory – one only had to look at the
graceful, regal woman to know – but held his tongue. Well enough, for the
answer was unexpected.
"It's because she sees you sort of as a mother figure, I suppose. I'm
improvising the name 'queen' as it's the name for a mother cat; that's the
image she gave me. I don't know if it was her mother or…"
Narcissa was blinking rapidly once more, but the smile shifted into a more
tender expression. Severus wasn't sure he saw it as a compliment himself, but
evidently Narcissa felt it to be as much. "Is that... oh. I wonder, why would
she call me that?"
Potter stroked fondly on the fuzzy black head. "Because you care for her. And
you pet her, and scratch her where she likes, but also scold her out of your
aviary." He gave Narcissa an impish smile. "Though mostly I think it's because
you feed her."
Narcissa's laugh was a tinkling flutter of amusement touched with genuine
delight. "Truly? Then I shall take it as a compliment." She looked ecstatic
with the prospect.
"What about Severus, then?" Draco asked, nodding his head towards him. Severus
scowled at his godson coldly, and was not encouraged by the flush returning
fully to Potter's cheeks.
"I'd rather not say."
"Oh, now you have to tell," Draco grinned manically, a predatory gleam to his
eyes. Severus felt his lip curl but didn't object.
"Potter?"
Potter glanced up towards him. He fidgeted once more, resisting for a moment
longer before slumping in defeat. "She, um… she calls you Batman."
There was silence for a moment. Then it shattered as Draco broke into peals of
laughter.
His threw his head back and cackled uproariously, eyes closing and shoulder
shaking in bodily merriment that nearly dislodged Potter from his lap. In
moments he was gasping for breath, struggling to wheeze around his laughter.
Severus raised an eyebrow slowly, intentionally, in what he knew to be the
widely-acknowledged signal of 'Snape-Danger-Zone', but Draco hardly spared him
a glance.
Potter, though flushing in mortification, couldn't supress the small smile from
breaking out on his own face. He ducked his chin in an attempt to hide from
Severus' sweeping gaze, but Severus resignedly accepted his amusement anyway.
For even Narcissa was chortling quietly, a hand raised to her cover her mouth
in an inadequate attempt to hide her good-humour.
Well, it's not all that bad, Severus considered. There were worse comparisons
to be made than to Muggle superheroes. If anything Severus was more surprised
that Draco, and even Narcissa, seemed familiar with the reference. He felt his
offence dying slightly in the face of their collective amusement. It wasn't
cruel or derogatory, and held just the hint of teasing to its richness.
Still, it was mollifying when Potter cast him an apologetic, almost subservient
glance. "I apologise on Lyssy's behalf, Professor. She doesn't quite have those
sort of inhibitions."
"Only to be expected," Severus replied, which drew an incredulous stare from
Draco. Ignoring the boy, he fixed Potter with a thoughtful stare. "I am
curious, though, Potter, as to your cat's namesake."
The boy cocked his head in surprised. "Lyssy?" He glanced down at the creature
falling into a drowsy sleep, sprawled presumably across his lap. "It's not
really a secret."
"Bollocks," Draco said, drawing an admonishing glance from Narcissa that he
pointedly ignored. "I asked you years ago why you called her that and you never
told me."
"No you didn't." Potter frowned over his shoulder at his boyfriend. "I would
have just told you if you'd asked. It's a bit embarrassing, true, but not so
much it's a secret."
"I did. I'm sure I did, because I always wondered."
"No, you didn't."
"I did!"
"Regardless," Narcissa broke in, sighing in exasperation. "I myself am curious.
Harry?"
Shifting under the weight of all of their curious stares, Potter dropped his
gaze to his hands stroking over the cat's back. He looked uncomfortable, but no
longer bore the glowing cheeks of embarrassment he'd worn earlier. "It's a bit
juvenile, but… well, actually her name is Lys. Lyssy is just a childish habit I
got into, I suppose. Lys in French, it means…"
Severus felt his breath catch in his throat. An unexpected and completely
uncharacteristic upwelling of emotion flooded him. But that means…
"Lily? You called your cat Lily?" Draco paused, frowning until his brow cleared
in comprehension. "Wait, wasn't that your mother's name?"
Potter nodded. "I told you it was childish. When she first found me – I always
felt like it was her that found me, not the other way around – I don't know, I
always got the impression that she was looking out for me. It was always Lyssy
that gave me comfort when I was upset…"
As he trailed off silence fell beneath the shade of the pergola. With an
expression of sad tenderness, Draco slipped his arms around Potter's waist and
hugged him even closer to himself, dropping his chin to press a kiss onto his
shoulder. Potter gave him a gentle pat, a smile of reassurance. Narcissa's face
was frozen in a mask that barely concealed her own sadness.
Severus barely saw any of it. He couldn't compute the information, and his mind
had numbed to all thought. Lily. He named the cat, that little furry creature,
after Lily because sheremindedhim… For the first time in years – years –
Severus felt the pinpricks of tears in his eyes. He felt the urge to clear his
throat itch in the back of his throat. The boy, Lily's boy, he felt the need
to…
It was heartbreaking. And not only for the tide of memories, of Lily's smiles
and her ferocious scolding, the high laughter of a child and the joy of
companionship, that pooled forth.
He swam back from his melancholic musings slowly to the sound of Draco and
Narcissa patching up the sudden sorrowful spell. Draco looked to be nearly set
on crushing his lover in an embrace. "No wonder she loves you, really. I mean,
you're fantastic with animals. Hagrid still pines for your absence from his
classes, I'd bet."
"Hardly, Draco," Harry replied, but gave a gentle smile as recognition of his
attempts to lighten the mood.
"It's true! You said Clytine likes you, too."
"Clytine likes the manual labour of over-eager student volunteers."
"I have no doubt you're rather proficient at Magical Creatures studies, Harry,"
Narcissa said with forced lightness. She smiled as the grateful glance Potter
turned upon her too. "Have you considered undertaking the Animagus short-
course?"
"What's this?" Severus broke in, struggling to shove his upwelling bout of
melancholic nostalgia.
It was Potter, unexpectedly enough, that explained. "Beauxbatons offers a
short-course for determining one's capacity for Animagus transformation and
subsequent progression towards assumption for those competent."
"Really? They encourage Animagi?" Severus couldn't quite keep the surprise from
his voice.
"Beauxbatons encourages just about every form of magic it can get its hands
on," Draco replied. He shifted his hold on Potter once more, glancing up at him
with chin still on shoulder. "I think you should do it. You know they say that
sort of thing helps with studying magical – or even non-magical – creatures."
"Yes, but fundamentally it's impossible. I wouldn't be able to do it." Potter
sighed, and Severus was given the impression that they'd trekked the
conversation before.
"People do it all the time, Harry. It's not even hugely uncommon."
"That's not the point. How would someone realistically shapeshift into an
animal? What about the conservation of mass, or alteration of one's internal
anatomy, or –"
"Magic takes care of all of that."
The pair descended into another one of their arguments of sorts, Narcissa
inputting her own opinion every now and again while Severus silently watched.
Potter was a curiosity, and Severus felt himself even more curious about the
boy after learning of his Familiar's namesake. That flicker of pain flashed
through him again with the thought, accompanied by that which he hadn't
foreseen. He felt… something towards the boy. Sympathy?
How unexpected.
When the shadows had lengthened towards night, their collective party finally
rose to their feet to make their way back into the Manor inside. Lost in
thought, Severus found himself unexpectedly falling into step beside Draco.
Narcissa and Potter spoke quietly ahead, the Familiar perched on Potter's
shoulder. Severus was able to ignore the pointed stare the younger man was
giving him for the most of the short trip, but Draco evidently wasn't.
"You know, Severus," he said quietly, obviously for his ears alone. "You don't
have to keep calling him Potter."
"What?" Severus turned towards him sceptically.
"Harry. He's Harry, not some meddlesome student. And besides," he paused and a
slow smile spread across his face, "if you like him you shouldn't be so
derogatory."
"Like him?"
Draco didn't reply, only widening his smile. He lengthened his stride and
stepped up to Potter's side, looping his arm through his lover's as he inserted
himself easily into the conversation Potter and Narcissa exchanged. Severus was
left to ponder the boy's words as his affront gradually quelled.
Later that evening he caught Potter in the hallway as he was making his way up
to the bedroom the two boys shared. Severus didn't know what made him do it; a
spur of the moment decision, perhaps.
"Harry."
The boy – the young man - paused, one foot on the bottom step and turned to
Severus. Wide eyes blinked at him from surprise behind his spectacles. "Sir?"
For a moment, Severus didn't know what to say. He struggled for a moment,
ensuring his face was a blank, cool mask, before speaking the first words that
came into his head. "I believe you would do well as a Magical Creatures carer.
Draco is correct in saying that an Animagus form assists in such work."
Harry blinked again blankly, clearly surprised at Severus' approach. "I do
believe him. I just have difficulties with the theoretical side of a
transformation like that."
"Then manipulate the transformation to your ability," Severus suggested. "The
true form of an Animagus is what suits the witch or wizard personally. If you
are sceptical of the particular form, your inner animal will likely accommodate
this. It has no impact on your innate ability."
Severus didn't know where the words were coming from. They were almost
amicable. Almost, almost kindly. Harry seemed about as shocked as him. His
mouth opened, closed, then opened again before replying. "I… I'm not sure if it
would work but…" He paused, and a shy smile graced his lips. "Thank you, sir.
For your suggestion. I appreciate it."
There was no time for a reply. Draco stepped into the hallway a moment later,
falling to Harry's side. "You ready? We'll have to hurry to make the booking."
He glanced towards Harry and received a nod in reply.
As they headed up the stairs to ready themselves for whatever Draco had
planned, Draco cast a small smile over his shoulder that Severus returned with
a scowl. Yet even so, as they disappeared into the upper stories of the manor,
Severus felt an unexpected contentment settle within him.
How odd. Maybe Lily's son truly was something different after all.
Chapter End Notes
     A/N: Please, please, PLEASE leave a comment! I'd really love to hear
     from you. Thank you xx
***** A Study In Runes *****
Chapter Notes
     A/N: I feel like I have to apologise for this chapter. It is very
     Draco-centric, a bit wordy and a little verbose, and might even seem
     sort of like a filler, but I felt like it was necessary. Hope you
     enjoy!
Draco hated apprenticing under Burisque. Hated it almost as much as he loved
it.
Well, hated was perhaps a strong word. But very, very frustrated on frequent
occasions was an understatement.
At nearly two months into his post-Hogwarts studies, Draco had come to realise
something that he should have perhaps been aware of about Calvinn Burisque from
the first newspaper article he read about him. Though, in hindsight, he hadbeen
aware of it and had simply overlooked the terms "eccentric" and "exceedingly
idiosyncratic" as exaggerations.
They weren't.
Burisque was an odd little fellow to put it bluntly. Shorter than Draco by at
least a head, he was a remarkably skinny man that gave the impression of a
scarecrow save for his distinct absence of hair. Not even a whisker on his
face, and his eyebrows were so sparse as to be easily overlooked. Yet for all
his oddity of appearance, it held nothing upon the character of the aberrant
himself.
The man was a passionate scholar of Ancient Runes, in just about every form of
the academic and archaeological pursuit. He translated academic works as a
hobby, wrote reports on archaeological artefacts in his spare time, and formed
a career out of refining spells new and old by assessing their runic
interpretations and ironing out the creases that the ancient masters would have
been horrified to have seen in modern magics. And that wasn't the least of it.
Draco spent much of his time with the man, and very little of that time was
engaged in conversation. In fact, the man seemed to visibly start whenever
Draco spoke to him, driving him from the depths of his musing. Draco had
learned not to do that, as though Burisque rarely became angry, he seemed to
lose any motivation for his current task and generally fell into translating
odd bits and pieces into Ancient Runes instead. It was not a very productive
approach to funded research.
Alongside such a quirk, Draco had come to realise a number of others the man
possessed. Such as that when he was working on a particularly difficult
artefact he would always wrap it in protective charms and sleep with it like a
stuffed animal. He said it was to "let his magic do its work", whatever that
meant. Or his frequent shifts into nocturnal habits as he said the absence of
the sun helped his brain to function better, or his frequent ambidextrous
behaviour despite lacking in proficient ambidexterity himself. Or that he had a
fascination with the Beauxbatons students learning experience in Ancient Runes
and had to often be bodily dragged from the classroom for the disruptive
questions he asked not the professeursbut the students. Had Draco not been so
adamant about staying near Beauxbatons – both for the academic resources it
provided and for other obvious reasons – he would have suggested they move from
the little rented flat in Rivierie Ville simply to put some distance between
them.
One of the most frustrating things, however, was that Burisque seemed to forget
with alarming frequency that he had an apprentice at all. So frequently at the
beginning, in fact, that more often than not when Draco addressed him he would
have to start off with the phrase "I'm Draco, your apprentice" to clear the
blankness from the man's eyes. Which wouldn't have been such a problem, except
that Draco was basically teaching himself most of the time. Far from the
direction of the Hogwarts teachers, Burisque – when he remembered he had an
apprentice – seemed content to let them pursue their own interests in whatever
area suited him. It was almost pointless having the apprenticeship at all, and
in those first few weeks Draco had thoroughly despaired about making the wrong
decision.
That was until he came to the understanding, however, that Burisque honestly
deemed him capable of learning himself. Not so much because he simply forgot he
was an apprentice – which was a primary contributor – but because he felt Draco
competent enough to participate in Burisque's own endeavours as not a
burdensome student but as a colleague in scholarly pursuit.
It started off with small things, little hints that dawned the realisation.
Such as that Burisque never simply gave him a report to test his knowledge.
Every paper, every translation that Draco made had a purpose to it, a purpose
outside of the function of simply learning – Draco had been startled into mute
surprise when he realised that his first paper was actually commissioned. The
next was when he grew aware of Burisque's assumption of his accompaniment on
short trips to archaeological sites, or to meet fellow masters in their field
of study. It occurred to him just after the man had returned from his first
that Draco had witnessed from his role as an apprentice. Walking through the
doors of the Beauxbatons Bibliothèque, he'd huffed and puffed as he lowered
himself down into a chair at Draco's side and stared at him silently until
Draco gave him his full attention.
"Master Burisque?"
"Where were you today, Derrick?"
"It's Draco," He corrected. But then he frowned, confused. "Did you require my
assistance with something, Master?"
Burisque blinked his wide blue eyes, jutting his jaw forward in that way he had
when he was confused himself. "I told you yesterday, didn't I, Draven?
Kellerwey Kellington wanted to discuss the descriptive reports she'd sketched
out of the artefacts from Turkey. I could have used your sharp eyes."
Draco blinked slowly. "It's Draco," he muttered without even realising he said
anything. "Master, I didn't think it my place as an apprentice to directly
partake in the support of such a study. Turkey reputedly covets any
archaeological reports before approval has been administered. I figured as I am
only an apprentice I shouldn't –"
"Nonsense, Drakon," Burisque flapped a hand idly. Draco barely registered the
repeated error of his name. "You've a brain for this sort of thing. The term
'apprentice' is used only by those who think themselves superior than their
newest work partners."
"Superior? Well, you do have more experience –"
"Which is all well and good, of course, but I'm sure that there's a might
you've still got sitting in that big brain of yours that I've long since
forgotten from my school days. You know I can't read most of anything in the
third-class Merlecue alphabet anymore without a dictionary beside me? Iustitius
dialect I could recite in my sleep, but Merlecue? Can't wrap my head around it
anymore."
Draco had been rendered speechless as Burisque gave him a crooked smile and
muttered something about seeing how the latest up-and-coming students were
doing before departing. From that point, the man's odd little quirks became
marginally easier to live with. More tolerable, if not overlooked entirely.
It was a breakthrough of sorts, and not only for their relationship. Draco
hadn't even realised it, but in the absence of his constant striving for
perfection, to appear infallible to his Master, he came to understand just how
unrealistic such an expectation was. Yes, he had less experience than the
master – of course he did, he was younger and had been specialising for all of
a few weeks. But more than that, he realised that it didn't really matter. He
would patch up the holes in his knowledge when he encountered them, and
Burisque was there to supply answers to those he couldn't untangle himself. Or
at least help him work through them if the Master himself couldn't even manage
it off the bat. Which, to Draco's surprise, happened more frequently than
expected. It was oddly comforting to know that, even as prestigious and
successfully as Burisque was, there was an impossibly deep well of skills and
knowledge that he hadn't even scratched the surface of.
Draco loved Ancient Runes only more for that fact.
By two months, Draco and his Master – or colleague, as Burisque seemed adamant
in labelling him when he remembered him at all – had fallen into a steady
routine. Burisque had an endless supply of work that was sent to him from every
possible source that thought they could capture a portion of his time. Draco
helped him work through the never-ending pile in the comfort of their two-LDK
flat, or in the walls of Beauxbatons academy. He found that quite unlike his
anticipated slide into boredom – predicted in the event of slogging through
years of additional necessary tutelage – he rather liked revisiting the process
of each new material presented to him.
When not filing through reports or penning translations, sketching in charcoal
or studying the faint impressions of runes on ancient specimens, Draco
accompanied Burisque on his frequent trips to see like-minded scholars. It had
been awe-inspiring at first to meet so many names Draco had read the works of
and admired from afar. It was only his thoroughly ingrained Malfoy etiquette
that kept him from being overwhelmed like an overexcited fan. And though such
admiration would never truly die, Draco came to live with the confrontation of
so many of his academic heroes and even partake in intellectual debates without
immediately ceding their greater expertise and hence opinion. It helped when he
became aware of a number of rather odd habits that each of them possessed; it
made them seem somehow more human. He dreaded, at times, just what sort of
foibles he would develop. The seemed to be a part and parcel of working of
studying Ancient Runes.
It was an ideal set up for him, though, Draco couldn't deny. He spent the week
in the Pyrenees – he was eternally grateful to Burisques adoration of
Beauxbatons that meant he was only too happy to accommodate Draco's suggestion
– and the weekends at Malfoy Manor with his mother. But most ideal of all was
that, even though it was a weekday, he could meet up with Harry. Every. Single.
Day.
The sixth year Beauxbatons students engaged in independent studies about as
much as they did classroom work. As such, though Harry was often engrossed in
his own books and reports, it was not uncommon for him to spend the day with
Draco in the Bibliothèque, or even the little apartment in the nearby town.
And, far be it from the distraction that Narcissa had idly speculated it may
become, Draco found he thrived in his current circumstances. What could be
better than working at what he loved alongside the one he loved? He wasn't sure
where he wanted to specialise specificallyyet – Burisque was the leading mind
in perfecting rune to spell translations for practical application, and though
Draco found such work fascinating he wasn't sure he wanted to follow in his
master's footsteps – but he had time. At present, he was content.
The sounding of the Beauxbatons bell could be heard in every hidden corner of
the Palace, resounding over the valley below the academy. Draco paused, his
quill poised above his parchment, and counted the chimes. He had to, to discern
what time it was; he had lost himself so deeply in his readings and notations
that the he couldn't be sure of the hour exactly.
Three… four… five.Five o'clock. Time to go.
Neatly stacking his parchments, covered in cursive dictation and nearly thirty
pages thick, he rolled the bundle into a scroll and secreted it in his
bottomless bag. Considering the books strewn across his desk, he momentarily
contemplated bringing several with him to study over the weekend. Though he was
more fluent in the Merlecue alphabet than Burisque, and Dawnton's take on the
interpreting the South-East Asian Mutiny Inscriptions was fascinating, he
eventually decided to forego the thought and sent the books whizzing into their
shelves with a flick of his wand after their fellows. With a nod to the young
librarian's assistant, he strode from the room.
Beauxbatons and its sprawling grounds was illuminated in a deep orange glow
that caused Draco to squint as he stepped from the elevating system –
remarkable contraptions that they wind pipes. He paused for a moment to blink
the tears from his eyes before heading down towards the pegasus arena near the
loading bay. It was where Harry had said he'd be, and if Draco was guilty at
losing track of time when in his writings then Harry was worse when he was with
the pegasus. Or any sort of magical creature, really.
Heading down the hill, the arena gradually climbed into view between the trees
as a wide open stretch of vibrant white. As large as a quidditch pitch, the
structure seemed impossibly out of place secreted deep within the Pyrenees. It
looked so out of place and so distinctive; surely a Muggle would notice, even
with Repelling Charms in place. Roughly oblong in shape, the length of the
arena was lined in a thick coating of fine, white sand that maintained its
smoothness by rapidly remedying any footprints that marred it. Regularly placed
posts lined the eight-foot iron fencing, a magical shade cover rising upon
extensions and doming between opposite sides at an incredible height that would
have likely enable an actual quidditch game to take place beneath. The shade
filtered the warm autumnal light to a bearable brightness, its shimmering
surface casting the orange glow to a muted red.
All in all, it was perhaps the largest single structure in Beauxbatons beside
the palace itself. For certain, the residents were proud of their pegasus.
Swinging himself with relative ease atop the fence, Draco swung his legs upon
the inside of the arena and settled onto his perch. He draped his robe around
himself comfortably and shifted his gaze to watch the display performing before
him. There was only one pegasus in the entire space, and only one handler at
that which would have been startling had Draco not seen it so many times
before. Still, the filly, larger than any horse he'd ever seen despite its
youth, dwarfed Harry as though he were a child beside a draught horse. Had he
not looked so comfortable in the vicinity of the creature, and the creature so
comfortable with him in turn, then yes, Draco would have been worried.
As it was, Harry was likely the safest person at the Academy with the young
pegasus. For whatever reason, the beast seemed to have taken a shine to him.
Well, more than a shine really. Harry had expressed his worries over the
attachment she seemed to have developed to him, saying that she was getting
more and more unruly with other handlers despite behaving nearly perfectly for
him.
Draco couldn't see any particular problem with that, especially as he admired
the picture they presented. He couldn't help the smile that spread across his
face, nor did he want to. Harry was lunging the filly with practiced ease,
turning in a slow circle as she looped around him. They made a sight, the white
gold of the pegasus' gleaming coat drinking in the red rays of the dying
sunlight, the oddly graceful stance of her handler as he urged the filly
onwards with gentle clicks of his tongue and murmured encouragement. Not even
the dirt-stained trousers and jacket, the sand-encrusted boots and gloves
sticking out from his back pocket, could detract from the captivating show.
What was surprising, however, was that the filly was in the air. Of course, it
was natural to assume that pegasus flew – they'd hardly be as remarkable if
they didn't. However, in this case, the age of the pegasus was what made it
astounding. It was common knowledge that young pegasus rarely – if ever – flew
upon request under one year of age. Oh, they flew, but were naturally stubborn
creatures and hence stubbornly refused to do so for their handlers. Abraxans,
the Beauxbatons breed, were especially so.
Apparently, Harry was an exception. There truly was no fighting the fates that
led him towards the care of magical creatures. It seemed to come naturally to
him and he had as much of a love for all creatures great and small – and
magical – as Draco did for Ancient Runes. It was no wonder his professeur was
attempting to get train the eyes of any specialists that visited the academy to
their sixth years. Between Harry, Tali and… what was his name? Luka or
something… the French institution seemed to be churning out prodigies in the
field this year.
A warm nudge at his thigh drew Draco's eyes from his entertainment. Lyssy
perched atop the wide fence beside him, pinning him accusingly with both her
stare and her paw as though he were entirely at fault for not noticing her
arrival and immediately offering to scratch her head.
"I'm sorry, my lady, I was distracted. My deepest apologies." Scooping the
little cat into his hands he nestled her in his lap – thank goodness he was
wearing dark robes – and set to stroking her idly. She shivered into a
comfortable curl and within moments a purr was thrumming through Draco's
thighs. He gave a small smiled before turning back to Harry.
Draco and Lyssy had reached something of a truce in recent months. He wasn't
sure exactly when it had started but suspected his leniency had begun to fade
into mild affection when Harry told him she had named him. It was silly,
really, that he should feel as though the 'naming' ceremony of a dumb beast
meant anything, yet it did. And besides, Lyssy wasn't a dumb beast. That, at
least, Draco had come to realise. Even without the knowledge that his partner
and the furry Familiar shared conversations of a sort, there was far too much
intelligence in the little cat's eyes to label her with stupidity.
In the past, Draco had never been fond of animals, magical or otherwise. What
with the hippogriff incident in third year and the hydra in sixth year, he felt
justified in his stance. It was hence rather astounding to realise that he
quite liked Lyssy. Not only for the support she always offered to Harry either
– which had been the initial cause of his favour – but because he felt actual
affection for the little cat. What was more astounding was that he found
himself drawn just slightly to the various creatures Harry persistently
introduced him to in his studies. It had taken a while for him to develop the
suspicion that perhaps Harry was habituating him on purpose, but whenever he
asked him about it Harry would only offer him a confused expression that even
Draco, master of deception, had difficult discerning for falseness.
Maybe it was just Harry's influence, but he was actually finding the animated
discussions he had with his partner on the ecology and physiology of his
subjects interesting. Surely it must just be the chance to seen Harry so
enthusiastic; he seemed to shed that constant shyness he possessed in lieu of
such discussions. That in itself seemed a good enough reason to favour the
creatures themselves, even without his hesitant, wary interest in them.
The pegasus, for example, were certainly not the dumb beasts he would have once
suspected them of being. There was nothing mindless about the filly's pricked
ears, her nicker in reply to Harry's direction or the pause in her flight to
sail to the ground and trot to his side for a well-earned pat. Draco watched
the pair as the filly bowed her head into Harry's shoulder, nearly pushing him
into a stumble that was so obviously unintended that Draco could only laugh.
A call from the other end of the arena drew the attention of both himself and
the pair in the centre of the open plain. Professeur Clytine of Magical
Creatures was waving a beckoning hand towards Harry from the distant half-
opened gate. A tall, broad-shouldered woman stood at his side, leaning casually
against the fence and watching with interest. Harry, pausing only to loop lunge
rope and grasp a hold of the filly's halter, led the way towards them both at a
slow jog. The pegasus followed eagerly, lifting her hoofs in the dainty,
exaggerated gait of the Abraxans. Clytine fell rapidly into an animated
explanation and wild gesticulation as soon as Harry was in hearing distance,
though Draco himself couldn't hear a word of it.
"I wonder who she is?" He muttered idly to Lyssy who, in response to his words,
raised her head and glanced across the arena. The unknown woman had similarly
slipped into the discussion and seemed quite enthusiastic to be doing so. She
kept gesturing towards the filly who, from the backwards pinning of her ears,
wasn't all too pleased at being the subject of the woman's attention.
Draco didn't have long to wait to find out. Not five minutes later Harry was
striding back across the arena towards him, the filly trailing behind him and
shooting aggressive glances over her shoulder. He smiled up at Draco as he
approached. "Sorry, I didn't realise you were here."
"It is five o'clock. That was the agreed time, wasn't it?"
"Is it really"' Harry looked genuinely surprised by the fact. He stopped at
Draco's side, head barely reaching the bottom of his shoes for the height of
Draco's seat atop the fence, and scratched idly at the filly's pointed snout.
"I must have missed the bell."
Draco shrugged, disregarding the oversight. "What was all that about, then?" He
nodded towards the professor departing with the unfamiliar woman, still in deep
discussion. Draco liked Clytine from what he'd seen of him, but he certainly
did like the sound of his own voice.
Harry followed the direction of his gesture. "What was what? The woman?"
"Your pegasus didn't seem to like her very much."
"Her name's Edelweiss, Draco, not 'pegasus'. I'm sure I've told you at least a
dozen times." Harry gave him a pointed stare. "And Eddie doesn't seem to like
anyone really, do you, dear?" He crooned into the beast's snout and received a
gentle nicker in reply. Draco could swear she was agreeing with him
wholeheartedly.
"Honestly, what is it with you French and naming your pets after flowers? Is it
a requisite or something?" Draco pointed meaningfully at Lyssy in his lap, but
Harry only smiled at him in response, shrugging. "And don't ignore my
question."
"She was another scout for graduates. From Andorra la Vella."
"Another one?"
Harry shrugged again. "Are you surprised? Apparently Clytine is often like this
with his sixth years, trying to sell us off as it were."
Draco resumed his stroking of the cat in his lap. "Not that I'm agreeing with
his mercenary approach exactly, but what do you think? Any good?"
Blowing at the loose strands of his fringe, Harry frowned. "I'm not sure. I
mean… She works with flying species, so that's where her interest in the
pegasus comes from, but mostly her holdings are aviaries. I don't know if
that's…" He sighed in a brief arousal of frustration. "I don't know if flying
creatures are even my main interest. I honestly have no idea what I want to do
when I finish school."
"I'd recommend Care of Magical Creatures, but that's just my opinion."
"You know what I mean," Harry replied, rolling his eyes.
Draco paused in his immediate inclination to continue taunting his partner.
He'd been in the same position last year and, though he was still unsure of
what he desired to pursue exactly, it didn't faze him. He was happy with what
he was doing, and any further considerations would sort themselves out with
time. He was sure of it. "Maybe you should just pick something and go with it?"
Harry raised an eyebrow at him. "Just like that?"
It was Draco's turn to shrug. "It's not the end of the world if you end up
doing something you dislike. Just move onto something else if it doesn't take
your fancy." He paused his stroking, frowning as a thought occurred to him.
"Except if it takes you off halfway around the world. Please don't do that
again."
Pushing away from Edelweiss, Harry took to stroking Draco's leg instead. Draco
was sure he didn't imagine the scowl the filly sent his way, disconcerting as
it was that they were at head height with one another from his perch. As Harry
smiled up at him, however, any distraction he may have had with the disgruntled
pegasus immediately dissipated. "Of course. Whatever you say."
"That's not what you said a year ago."
"I really am sorry, you know. But you're never going to let me forget that, are
you?"
Draco shook his head solemnly. "Never."
Sighing, Harry batted at his leg in a rather more forceful stroke. "Enough of
that. Come on, then, we should get going or we'll be late for dinner."
"You, love, are the one who would make us late."
Harry met his eyes shrewdly. "I may have miscalculated the time, but I'm not
the one who spends hours in front of a mirror to attend a simple dinner amongst
friends."
"There's a certain standard –"
"Among friends?"
"Even then."
Harry chuckled. "Well, then, I suppose we'd better get you home so you can
gussy up." And he was off again, trotting Edelweiss towards the gate once more
and leaving Draco in his wake.
Harry was right, of course. Even with brushing down the pegasus, stabling her,
and cleaning himself up, Harry took less time than Draco did to ready himself
when they tripped down to Rivierie Ville and stopped by Burisque and Draco's
apartment. Draco deliberately ignored the pointed Tempus Charm Harry imprinted
briefly into the wall before leaving, but even he was aware of the time it had
taken him.
Not to say that it was entirely his fault, of course. Even Harry couldn't blame
him for one of the main sources of his lateness, especially given that he was a
primary participant himself. Not that Draco complained about that himself. It
was practically impossible for either of them to dress themselves around one
another without descending into some much appreciated skinship.
Since Draco's birthday months before, it was as though an invisible but
impregnable wall had dropped between them. At least Draco hadn't seen it there,
certainly. Since had been a journey of discovery of sorts. A wonderfully
addictive journey that Draco was keen to continue and explore at every
opportunity. And Harry was only more than happy to oblige.
Any lingering guilt Draco may have felt, the fear of sparking unwanted memories
into resurfacing, gradually faded. There had only been once instance where
Harry had been inflicted by such an assault of memories – at least as far as
Draco knew. But even then Harry had been adamant about forcing the offending
retrospection aside. Draco had suggested they maybe take a break, that they
allow Harry to come to terms with the memories as they arose. Which had led to
Harry taking a far more demanding and assertive role in their lovemaking that
Draco could hardly complain about. It was rare for Harry to express any sort of
the like outside of the bedroom and it was a wonderful discovery that such an
aspect of his character arose between the sheets.
Their relationship had only grown closer since their consummation. And Draco
couldn't be happier of the fact. He would readily claim to just about anyone
that he was more than a little wrapped around Harry's finger, though his
partner rarely, if ever, abused the fact. Much to Blaise's disgust, naturally.
It was, in fact, such willingness to do just about anything Harry suggested
that led to their weekly dining event.
In recent weeks, every Friday Draco and Harry had taken to joining Tali for
dinner in Student Town. It became such a regular not only as it gave the two
students in question a chance to eat out of the academy for a change but
because Tali's childhood friend, Viviette, was holidaying briefly in France and
was spending every weekend in the hidden town to visit Tali. Eager to spur her
two closest friends into a friendship of their own, Tali had proposed their
weekly appointments. And, naturally, Draco accompanied them. At times Neville
and Ginny – or Neville and Aime, depending upon Ginny's inclination to travel
to the academy's sister town – would tag along.
Not today, however. Draco and Harry headed towards the pre-booked restaurant –
a little Italian joint that had only recently opened – without accompaniment
just as the distant academy belltower alerted them that the time had reached a
half past six. The interior, a deceptively plain room of wooden floors,
matching tables and green walls strewn with murals of what appeared to be a
vineyard, was already half full and warm with the coupled buzz of conversation
and heat radiating from the kitchen with every striding admittance of a laden
waiter. Scanning the room quickly, it wasn't difficult to spot Tali and
Viviette; Harry's friend in particular would have stood out anywhere with her
fiery hair, despite her short stature.
Crossing the room, Draco drew out both spare seats – ever the gentlemen – and
nodded in greeting to the two girls as he and Harry sat themselves down. "Good
evening, ladies. How are you both?"
"Perfectly amicable today, Monsieur Malfoy, I assure you." Tali grinned up at
him with the now-familiar taunting grin. She seemed to love going head to head
with him, and quite frankly Draco quite enjoyed it himself. She spoke awfully
quickly, that young woman did, and seemed to have an enormous amount to say,
unexpected given her quiet tone of voice. All of it was quite intellectual,
though, so Draco found he could even forgive her when she overrode him at
times.
"Wonderful. I'm always happy for a change." He glanced to Viviette as Tali
smirked at him. "And you, Viviette. Lovely to see you again."
"Merci, Draco. Ze same to you," the young woman replied, affording him a smile.
Viviette was an interesting character, as much as Tali was yet in an entirely
different way. She seemed to perfectly balance Tali's chatter with a
thoughtfully attentive silence that reminded Draco of how Harry was at times. A
tall, slender girl with a long, thin face, he was always curious to behold what
strange and wonderful changes she'd made to her hair each time he saw her. A
Muggleborn, she went by the non-magical means of dying her hair in a multitude
of often changing colours. It could have been his personal opinion but he
thought the colour sat better when it was applied by physical means, the dyeing
method that witches and wizards shunned for the more temporary glamors and
transfigurations. They suited her well, the bright colours, surprising given
her otherwise unobtrusive impression. Or perhaps that was the very reason why
she had elected to do so.
Tali had already descended back into her nattering, speaking to everyone and no
one in general. Draco thought she was talking about her studies – Herbology, to
be precise – but then the next moment she appeared to be speculating about the
cause behind the derailing in Muggle Paris three days ago. He couldn't quite
understand the segue, but Viviette seemed unfazed by such a transition and
simply nodded in time with her friend's words. Draco rolled his eyes at Harry,
who smiled back at him in response before handing him a menu.
Despite the difficulty with keeping up with Tali's chatter at times, Draco
found he quite enjoyed their dinners. Even if he did at times bemoan them for
having to share his time with Harry with the two young women. They were both
remarkably intelligent and hence made good conversationalists. Even better yet,
Viviette had taken Ancient Runes briefly before she left school and appeared to
have retained a remarkable amount of knowledge on the subject. Draco found he
was more than happy to discuss ancient alphabets and translation methods with
her, which she absorbed with that same attentiveness she did Tali's animated
words.
By the time dinner arrived, Tali had captured Harry's attention – something to
do with school again – leaving Draco to converse at a more sedate pace with
Vivette. Which, honestly, he quite enjoyed. She asked some stimulating
questions and had frequently left him in deep consideration with some of her
statements.
"No, I don't think so," he pondered, spinning his fork into his fettuccine and
pausing to ladle it into his mouth. "I don't think that's possible. We lock
down any lingering effects the physical inscription of the Runes have on
historical objects before relocating them."
Viviette tilted her head, frowning at her own bowl of pasta as she thought.
"But zat's what I find confusing. I zought zat most artefacts were magically
installed in place and zat was how zey got their power. Most of ze Runes are
inscribed after zeir placement, aren't zey? Surely where it is found would have
some significant effect on ze magical signature of ze object.'
Draco nodded, ceding the validity of her statement. "That may be, but that's
why we have specialists trained in the assessment of a site and removal of the
objects."
"And what does zat entail, exactly."
"More or less, it's sort of scooping up the surrounding residue of magic and
linking it to the artefact so it's brought along when the relocation takes
place." Pausing, he forked an olive from his plate and placed it onto Harry's.
He couldn't abide the things, and Harry – for whatever ungodly reason –
actually seemed to like them. All for the best, of course; it was rude to send
food back to the kitchens. Harry didn't even seem to notice. "It's quite
fascinating, actually. I've only seen it once twice, but it takes an incredibly
fine touch to ensure that all of the magic is detached fully from the
surroundings. Leave even a little bit behind and it will completely drain the
magical potency left behind in the runes."
Smiling, Viviette glanced at him thoughtfully. "You really like zis sort of
thing, don't you?"
Draco shrugged. Of course. It's why I'm apprenticed in it.
Could you see yourself becoming a Removalist?
He shook his head at that. "No, I'm more of a translator. Picking apart fiddly
magical webbing is more Harry's area." He took a sip of his wine. "But what
about you? Any thoughts about what you're going to do when your contract
concludes?"
Viviette sighed heavily, prodding at her meal once more. "I'm not sure, yet. I
love where I work, yes, but it is not really feasible."
"Financially?"
"Yeah, somezing like that." But whether it was her words, her tone, or the half
glance towards Tali laughing animatedly at her side, Draco suspected that
wasn't it entirely. "I mean, ze study of magical creatures does not pay very
well unless you become an expert in ze field, really, and even zen it is
competitive."
Draco nodded in commiseration. "I couldn't agree more. Any intellectual career
path is competitive, but I hear the Iberian Peninsula is something of a
favourite amongst those in your field."
Laughing quietly, Viviette nodded vigorously. "Yes, you could say zat. I cannot
turn sideways without tripping over someone with –"
"Hey, hey, Draco, 'Arry's being particularly close mouthed. Can you fill me
in?"
Tali leant halfway across the table, elbows nearly crunching into the
breadbasket as she burst into the conversation with her demand. Draco raised an
eyebrow, pursing his lips, and spared a glance for Viviette. The tall young
woman didn't even seem to notice him; she was smiling fondly at her friend as
though she actually appreciated being interrupted.
Glancing towards Harry who only shook his head in exasperation, Draco placed
his fork onto his plate. "About what, exactly?"
"I heard zrough ze grapevine zat apparently Clytine was zinking of giving
Edelweiss into 'is care after 'e finished up with school." She blinked at him
questioningly. "Thoughts?"
Turning once more towards Harry, Draco raised an eyebrow. "I haven't heard
about that. What's this?"
Harry sighed with that same weary exasperation. Draco got the impression Tali
had been drilling him for some time already. "It's not going to happen. It's
just a rumour. Clytine mentioned – jokingly, mind, just off-hand – that it
would be easier if I just took Eddie with me seeing as she seems to dislike
just about everyone else."
"I zink dislike is a mild way of putting it," Tali said. Draco could only agree
with the sentiment.
"Are you certain it is a joke?" Viviette asked. She looked genuinely
interested. Enough to have her attention drawn from Tali, anyway. "I can't
remember Clytine being one to joke about 'is creatures."
"Exactly what I said," Tali exclaimed, smiling triumphantly at Harry. "I zink
zere's more to zis zan you make out to be. How does it feel, nearly-to-be
independent owner of a pegasus?"
Harry flicked his eyes between the two girls, bemused. "I think you're getting
a bit ahead of yourselves –"
"Hypothetically, pretend we are not."
"It's not going to happen. I'm hardly in the position to take a pegasus and I
very much doubt Clytine would just give her to me. He loves his animals."
"I don't zink zere would be much regret on 'is part, actually." Tali finally
sat back into her seat, picking up her glass and raising it to her lips. "'E
seems razer put out zat Edelweiss doesn't like 'im, actually. 'E'll probably be
begging you to take her before you leave."
"Regardless, it's not going to happen. I can't keep a giant pegasus in my
house."
"Why not?" Draco asked. He was genuinely curious at the prospect. He thought
Harry liked the creature, and so long as he could care for it didn't see much
of a problem with taking it in.
Harry turned incredulous eyes towards him. "You can't be serious."
"Oh, I'm entirely serious. You like her, why not just take her in? It's not
like the manor doesn't have plenty of space out the back for you to have your
own menagerie, even. One pegasus is hardly going to take up much room."
Draco thought he had been subtle, bringing up the topic of their future
residency and slipping it neatly into the conversation. It had been a point of…
well, not discord but certainly uncertainty between them in recent weeks. Harry
felt guilty over 'mooching' off his mother's good graces, he said, by living
under her roof while Draco maintained that Narcissa was desperate for them to
live with her. More than that, it would basically be their own house as she
only frequented the walls every other night all for the time she spent at the
university. Evidently, from Harry's raised eyebrows, he hadn't missed the
'subtle' suggestion. He didn't comment on it, however.
Tali, on the other hand, was not so restrained. "Oh, are you moving into your
family manor when 'Arry graduates? Ze both of you?"
"We haven't decided yet," Harry murmured, dropping his eyes to his hands,
fingers entwining in his lap.
"But why not? I mean, zere's nothing wrong with sharing a 'ouse. Really, I'd
live with my parents for the rest of my life if I didn't zink I'd be working
overseas. It is basically a whole collection of 'ouses all jammed together
anyway. I wouldn't even 'ave to see zem if I didn't want to. I'm assuming that
Malfoy Manor is ze same? Speaking of," and she pinned Draco with an affronted
frown so suddenly that Draco almost started, "you still 'ave to invite me to
you manor. I could take it as an insult zat you haven't already."
Draco was saved from answering by Viviette. "It is certainly an option, 'Arry."
Her voice was far less presuming than Tali's and Draco suspected it was that
more than anything that urged Harry to raise his gaze from his hands.
"Accommodation is a necessary annoyance zat you don't realise how complicated
it really is until you 'ave to try and find it for yourself." She smiled kindly
– everything Viviette did was kind. "Besides, it would certainly solve any
potential issues you'd 'ave with adopting Edelweiss. Unless, do you not want to
adopt her?"
Harry hastened to assure Viviette that he adored the filly, then abruptly
changed the topic to questioning her about what she was doing for the following
week. Draco settled back into his chair to listen to the girl describe what
initially appeared to be a weekly event of travelling across greater
metropolitan Paris but she soon explained was merely a series of visits to her
many widely spaced relatives.
They eventually left the little restaurant when the waiter informed them they
would be closing within ten minutes. Following the unavoidable disagreement
over who paid the bill – Draco and Tali were always the ones to do the fighting
for precedence of sorts, though more often than not it was actually Harry or
Viviette who handled the bill in the end – they parted ways.
"Same time next week?" Tali called down the road, hands cupped around her mouth
as she walked backwards. "You alright with going to Nibbles again?"
"Again? That will be the third time, Tali," Draco replied with a long-suffering
sigh. Not that he really minded, but it was protocol to put up an argument with
the girl.
Tali replied with a laugh, accepting Draco's words as agreement, before turning
and disappearing into the darkness alongside Viviette. The pair would stay at
the little inn that Viviette rented a room from every weekend and Draco doubted
he'd see either of them for the next two days.
"I'll walk you back to the castle," Draco said, slipping his hand into Harry's
as they wandered slowly down the road. It wasn't snowing or anything – it
rarely, if ever, snowed at Rivierie Ville – but the night air was cool
nonetheless.
Harry shook his head, rolling his eyes at the familiarity of Draco's words.
"Don't be ridiculous. You'd have to walk twice as far for a pointless trip."
"Not pointless if I'm making sure you get back to school alright."
Frustratingly enough, Burisque wasn't overly fond of anyone other than Draco
and himself sleeping in their shared apartment. Draco thought it likely had
something to do with his inability to recognise people even after meeting them
several times, which likely led him to believe he was waking up to a random
assortment of strangers.
"I'm more than capable of taking care of myself. And besides, it would be
counter-productive if you joined me. You'd have to walk back by yourself if you
came with me."
"Hardly a problem," Draco waved off. Slinging an arm around Harry's shoulders,
he dropped a kiss to the side of his head. "I'm hardly as tempting as an
innocent creature such as yourself."
Harry snorted at that, but there was amusement in the sound. "If we're speaking
of innocence – or ignorant more correctly – I think I'm the lesser of the two
of us that has to worry."
Their banter continued as they walked, all the way to Draco's front door. He
was a little surprised when Harry turned him to face it; without him knowing,
somehow his partner had manoeuvred him to his street of residency even as Draco
objected to the eventuality of such. Had he not distinctly felt his feet
walking every step of the way Draco would have suspected some Apparation
involved.
"Draco, shut up and go to bed," Harry said in a deceptively soothing tone
before he could speak. He rose onto his toes slightly to give Draco a kiss,
smothering any further objections Draco could make. "With a population of less
than five hundred, the academy included, for nearly one hundred kilometres in
any direction, I think I'm fairly safe to walk myself back."
Draco grumbled, still maintaining his objection even as he knew it to be a lost
cause. Harry ignored him, smiling and shaking his head as he opened the door.
"Next time you can come with me, alright? But for now, I'll see you tomo –"
"Drake! Drake, is that you?!"
Harry's words were cut off by a wavering cry from Burisque indoors. Both Harry
and Draco started before hastening inside. They stumbled to a halt in the
small, fire-lit living room to see Burisque madly scooping books and parchments
into a trunk. He had a robe slung over his shoulder, only half shrugged on, and
appeared to be wearing only one boot. Not injured, though, as Draco had worried
from his cry.
"Master Burisque, are you alright?" Harry asked, his voice was uncertain. He
appeared similarly confused as his gaze followed the man's hobbling passage
across the room.
Burisque barely spared Harry a passing glance. "Ah, lovely to meet you, young
man. Are you another friend of Drake's? I apologise, but I really haven't the
time to talk." He disappeared into his bedroom and returned moments later with
another three robes cradled in his arms. "Drake, quickly now, get packing!"
Draco blinked in confusion. Not over the incorrect use of his name – no,
despite the time they spent together, 'Drake' was apparently as close as
Burisque could get to his actual name. Rather, the enthusiasm and crazed
excitement of the man was surprising. "Packing, Master?"
"Yes, packing! We're going for a week, or there abouts. Quickly now, we haven't
much time or it will all be dissipated by the time we get there!"
Moving mechanically, Draco quickly retrieved a trunk from his room and began to
pack. It wasn't the first time Burisque had been so caught up with his
excitement over an unexpected meeting or an historical find that he'd been
unable to fully explain the cause of his excitement. Harry helped him pack with
similar efficiency, exchanging muttered questions with Draco the entire time.
When they dragged the trunk back into the cluttered living room it was to find
Burisque struggling to force his own trunk closed over stacks of books and
unfolded robes. It was a testament to his hysteria that he didn't even think to
use a Shrinking Charm Draco quickly moved to assist him. "Master, what is going
on? Where are we going?"
Burisque grunted as he struggled to snap the trunk shut. "To Turkey, of course!
To the Appalyn site. They've finally managed to open the doors!"
With those brief words, Draco felt his breath catch. The Doors of Appalyn were
something of a mystery to Wizarding archaeologists and Rune Masters alike.
Stapled shut by almost unintelligible runic binding, specialists had been
attempting to pry open the unwieldy stones for years.
Yet it was not the bindings that were of interest. There had only been one
previous finding of a site even vaguely similar to that at Appalyn – found in
Greece nearly a century before – and inside had been a wondrous treasure trove
of artefacts, books and scrolls that had left Ancient Rune translators nearly
salivating to unearth the secrets they held. The only trouble was that such an
excavation was sloppily conducted and many of the magical artefacts, their
magic contained for thousands of years by the runes across the stone doors
hiding the room, had drastically lost their potency, even going so far as to
blur the stone-carved runes themselves with the out-rush of magic. Draco felt
an abrupt invigoration, a strength put to forcing Burisque's trunk shut. Of
course they had to leave, and quickly! The bloody archaeologist fools were more
likely to sit about drawing sketches of the artefacts than glean what magical
knowledge they could from the findings before it disappeared!
"Alright, alright, grab your trunk, Drake, quickly. We're leaving!" Burisque
fumbled in his pocket and extricated a long and rather ugly gold link chain.
"I've got myself an emergency portkey to Ankara for just such an eventuality.
Hurry, hurry!"
And Draco did. He only skidded to a stop as he hefted his trunk and, swinging
his gaze towards over his shoulder, met the amused twinkle in Harry's eyes.
"Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry, but this is –"
"Draco, there is absolutely no need to apologise." Stepping forwards over the
trunk dropped momentarily at Draco's feet, Harry pressed a soft kiss on his
lips. "Go and have fun. Make sure you send me a postcard."
"It's only for a week, I swear." Draco felt horribly guilty for leaving so
abruptly. Not that it hadn't happened before, but he had agreed to spend the
weekend with Harry. They were going to go and visit Anouk – Anouk, not Sirius,
of course.
"No excuse," Harry replied, his smile widening. "I still want a postcard." At
an impatient call from behind him, Harry nudged him on the shoulder. "Hurry up,
I think Burisque is likely to pop a vein if you take much longer."
Pausing, conflicted, Draco bit his lower lip for a brief moment before leaning
in to press a quick kiss on Harry's lips in return. "I love you. I'll be back
soon." Harry only nodded as he nudged him towards his master once more.
Burisque spared Harry a second more of his attention as he looped the gold
chain around both his and Draco's wrists. In spite of his guilt, Draco felt an
upwelling of excitement settle in his gut. "Young man, would you be so kind as
to seal up this apartment for me? Just a standard Locking Charm should do, and
maybe a Burglary Charm if you have the chance." And if that didn't say
something of the man's eagerness to be gone – he was pedantic enough as it was
about the research he kept strewn in a disorderly scatter across his room –
Draco didn't know what did.
"Of course," Harry replied. When the portkey activated and Draco felt a jerk
behind his navel, the last thing he saw was Harry smiling widely, fondly, and
waving his hand before he was thrown into the vortex of international travel.
***** A Past Long Avoided *****
Chapter Notes
     A/N: Hi everyone. Before I start this chapter, I feel like I should
     just give a WARNING. Not for anything particularly explicit but
     because I have the suspicion that I might provoke annoyance,
     frustration, possibly a little bit of disappointment over how
     everything plays out. I would just like to say that I have written as
     such as I believe the following response is how the characters would
     most realistically act. This does not mean that I entirely approve of
     it, nor that I think it is exactly the right response. Personally, I
     don't think there is any specifically right way to act in such a
     situation - it depends entirely upon the individual and what they
     choose, or how they can respond. I am in no way downplaying the
     severity of childhood abuse or PTSD, so please don't think as much.
     Sorry, though, if this annoys anyone. Hope you enjoy the chapter
     regardless :)
"Harry, I notice you never mention your parents. Why is that?"
Harry glanced upwards from his lap, peering across the dark room towards the
woman in green. Socorro's face was a mask of mild curiosity; not intrusive, not
judgmental. Simply… curious.
"What's there to say? I don't even remember them."
"But you said you've spoken to some of their friends from the past. And your
godfather, Sirius; he always seems eager to share stories of them. Do you like
hearing stories about your parents?"
Dropping his eyes back into his lap, Harry tugged awkwardly on his fingers.
"It's not that I don't like hearing stories of them, it's just…"
"Do you find it painful to hear about them?"
Harry considered, then slowly shook his head. "No so much hearing about them. I
want to know about my parents, I really do."
Socorro waited silently, allowing him to finish. When Harry didn't continue,
she prompted him, "But?"
"But…" Harry sighed. He rubbed a hand over his collarbones. Not scratching; he
wasn't supposed to do that anymore. It was a personal challenge that he felt he
was going rather well at accomplishing, except for in moments such as these. "I
don't know. Whenever anyone does talk about them, it just brings up memories."
"Memories? What kind of memories? You said you didn't remember your parents."
It wasn't an accusation – Socorro was never accusing – but there was genuine,
urging curiosity behind her words.
"I don't. I mean, it's not memories of them, just…" He took a deep breath that
faintly wavered. "The image that comes to mind when anyone talks of my parents
is my family. The one that I do remember. And when I think of my family I think
of…"
"Ah." Socorro nodded her head slowly, her quill scribbling in nearly inaudible
scratches on the arm of her chair. "I see. Would you be able to tell me what
sort of memories are triggered by discussing your parents?"
A year ago, Harry knew he wouldn't have been able to. He would have blanked
out, or shied away from the suggestion. He would have confronted the intrusive
question with indifference or blatantly ignored it.
Not now. He was, truly, quite comfortable with Socorro. Comfortable enough to
discuss things with her that he had previously considered untouchable. He did
not feel closer to her than to his friends, exactly. There was not a deeper
bond between them than he held with someone like Draco, or Tali, or Sirius. But
he could talk to her, talk like he could with no one else. It had taken a
while, and months of meeting twice a week that had only recently eased to
weekly sessions, but yes, he was comfortable with her.
Besides, even if only gradually, Socorro knew things about him, knew the facts
as he saw them and no one else did. There was very little of the dirty sides of
him that she wasn't aware of, if any. It was that which made it easier for him
to confess the truth of his feelings.
"When Sirius talks about James, or when my old teacher Professor Slughorn or
Professor McGonagall would talk about Lily, I don't think of my mum and dad. My
mind just immediately goes to my mum's side of the family, the people that I do
know. To Stephen and the Dursleys."
Socorro nodded, that slow, kind nod that she was so partial to using. "Any
memories in particular?"
Harry twisted his lips, thinking and tamping down on the discomfort that welled
within him at her prodding. "I think of my aunt, of the few times she told me
anything about Lily. She would usually get angry at me after discussing it,
even if I wasn't the one who brought it up. Or I would remember when my uncle
Vernon used to lock me in the cupboard and tell me how no one wanted me, not my
parents, and that they were probably happy that they escaped looking after me.'
Again, Socorro gave that slow nod of understanding. She never attempted to
intrude upon his explanations with sympathy or reassurances that what Harry's
relatives had told him had been cruel, had been false and wrong. They'd worked
through that long ago, had objectively discussed the very wrongness of what
he'd been told, what he'd experienced. Socorro appreciated that Harry was
intelligent enough – or at least applicably logical enough – to recall their
discussion when revisiting his past. It had been only very few times where she
had been forced to remind him herself.
"Dudley used to be the same, though I think he just copied what my uncle was
saying. Almost word for word, actually, now that I think about it, though he'd
usually punctuate himself by throwing things at me from across the room, or
chasing after me with his friends." Harry shrugged with forced nonchalance, his
eyes still on his lap. Yes, he knew, logically, that the words of his relatives
weren't true, but the memory of the pain they'd elicited still stung. "That's
mostly what comes to mind. I don't like it, I don't like remembering that, even
if I know it's not true and my aunt and uncle were mostly just resentful of my
parents."
"It's perfectly understandable to want to avoid such discussions," Socorro
said, her tone lacking in overt sympathy as usual. But there was still a
distinct note of compassion, of kindness, in her words. "Harry, I have to ask,
though. When you say you remember your relatives? You don't seem to associate
your parents with Stephen."
Harry opened his mouth to reply but faltered. He frowned. That was true. He
hadn't even noticed. "I guess… I don't know. I feel like a lot of the
difficulties I have with the – with my past are associated with Stephen. And I
feel like… I don't know, maybe I'm getting better at learning to live with
them." Socorro didn't say anything when he paused, only tilting her head when
he glanced towards her. "No, I don't think I do. Associate him with my parents,
I mean."
"Why do you think that is?"
Attempting to speak once more, Harry failed again. Why was that? "I… I don't
know."
"Take a guess. Just tell me what you think."
Socorro wasn't condescending with her suggestion. It was a simple question, no
strings attached, and none of the careful slowness and superiority of a teacher
that already knew the answer to the question perfectly well. She was, quite
honestly, asking his opinion. It was her way, her approach, and Harry found it
agreed with him.
"I suppose… Maybe I've come to terms with some of the things that happened with
Stephen? Maybe?" He frowned again. It was true, for he had. Not all of them,
certainly, he was sure of that. There were still moments when he would receive
a gut-clenching flashback, unexpectedly and often even when conducting a task
that he'd done dozens of times before. Even with Draco still, sometimes, the
memories would resurface. Only briefly, and usually it was easy enough to
thrust them aside and get lost in the moment with his partner.
There had been that one time in particular where his memories had nearly frozen
him – it had been the first time Draco had taken the lead in their intimacy.
Harry knew that Draco had noticed, had seen his arousal of uncertainty and
known that Draco would pull away in a tide of his own irrational guilt and
fear. So Harry had made sure that he couldn't, and the memory had died from the
moment he demanded it have no place in his relationship with Draco. It had
worked. For the most part, he was fairly certain that any succeeding, brief
revisits of memory were kept well hidden from Draco. And they seemed to be
recurring less frequently, too. So yes, maybe he was getting better with
dealing with that part of his past.
"But you don't think so with the Dursleys?"
Socorro's voice brought him from his musings. Slowly, he shook his head. "I
don't know. Maybe. I guess I just don't know… how…"
Crossing her legs in a fluid motion of flicking robes, Socorro leant back into
her seat. "I could offer my suggestion, Harry, but you already know what I'm
going to say."
"I don't want to press charges," Harry murmured hastily, sinking back into the
cushions of his own chair.
Socorro nodded, ceding. "I know. And that is your prerogative. As a legal
adult, it is your decision whether you pursue the judicial process to hold your
relatives accountable for their actions. Personally, from a professional
perspective, I would of course prefer to see such accountability held. But,"
she raised her voice slightly, one of the few times she had ever overridden
him, as Harry made to protest, "it is not my place. And due to doctor-patient
confidentiality, it would be immoral and unethical for me to do so." She gave a
small, slightly rueful smile. "Not to mention it would likely cost me my job.
"Yet even though I do have my preferences, I can understand where you come from
with your resistance in pursuing legal proceeds. Looking into past cases of
domestic abuse is messy, and not only because of the temporal aspects of it.
There is always difficulty juggling between the Wizarding and the Muggle
judicial systems. And as part of both worlds, I'm afraid that it would be very
difficult for you to report to one without the other becoming aware and
naturally embroiled." Her smile became bemused, as though she considered a pair
of rather foolish children rather than two prestigious judicial bodies. "No one
ever said the judiciary were the most practical of systems."
Harry smiled himself. It was relieving to know that Socorro wouldn't go behind
his back with the good intentions of 'seeking justice where justice was due'.
He didn't want to dredge up the past more than it had been. More than that, it
honestly felt like he didn't need to. Yes, he understood what they – what all
of them – had done was wrong. That it was unfair, cruel, even. "Disgusting and
despicable" as Draco called it, with a curl of his lip as though he would
readily spit upon any of Harry's relatives should they present themselves
before him. He knew this, and yet he didn't want to push it further. It was his
past, what had happened to him. He knew the arguments, that people should pay
for their crimes, that if they weren't held accountable then there was always
the possibility that they would conduct just such acts of crime upon other
victims.
Perhaps he was being optimistic. Perhaps it was naïve of him, but Harry
couldn't let himself think so. He didn't want to think that the Dursleys would
be so unkind, so cruel, to anyone else. As far as he knew, none of them had
ever lifted a hand to anyone but himself. As for Stephen… Harry wondered –
though with less frequency nowadays than he used to – whether the man was still
even quite there. Harry didn't know what had happened to Stephen Defaux, his
guardian of five years, but there seemed to be little of him left. The patient
in the rehabilitation centre had been a shell, empty and lifeless. There had
been not a flicker of recognition behind those dull eyes.
Some people would likely call him selfish, to not consider the 'potential'
victims that he could be protecting by alerting the authorities. And maybe he
was. But then, Draco frequently encouraged him to make his own choices, to even
be a little more selfish. So, just this once, maybe he would be.
Socorro was speaking again, and Harry was shaken from his thoughts once more.
It happened quite often in their sessions, falling into his mind. Socorro
didn't seem to mind. The knowing smile she adopted when she knew he had fallen
into another such trance-like state sat upon her lips. "Do you know what I
think, Harry?"
Harry blinked, raising an eyebrow, then slowly shook his head.
"I think that perhaps it might be an idea to see your aunt and uncle."
Harry felt his breath die in his chest. "W-what?"
Socorro raised a calming hand. "Not now. I am not saying that you should charge
straight into a confrontation when you haven't prepared yourself." She folded
her hands in her lap once more. "But I think I would be correct in assuming
that confronting the Dursleys would be a big step in your recovery."
Still struggling to breath, Harry had to clench his fingers together in his lap
to keep from scratching himself. Distress. Anxiety. Yes, he was familiar with
the signs by now. "Why?"
With that ever-soothing voice that even now worked its magic on Harry's jumping
nerves, Socorro continued. "Because I believe that the Dursleys are still a
very real and very unshakeable block for you. I think you have in the past
handled your memories of them, however distant, by simply pushing them to the
back of your mind. Would you agree?"
Slowly, hesitantly, Harry nodded.
Socorro's smile seemed almost grateful for the agreement. "You will recall, I
am sure, of your difficulty with firearms when first I met you, yes?"
Frowning slightly, Harry nodded once more. It wasn't something he liked to
recall, but he could credit that Socorro's recommended method of treatment had
been effective. For months after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry had flinched at
any sound resembling that of a gunshot, had been afflicted by a powerful bout
of nausea whenever he even saw the image of a gun. Thankfully, such images were
scarce in the Wizarding world, for even as the weapon that destroyed Voldemort,
wizards and witches maintained their uneasiness around firearms on general
principle.
Harry was an avoider. That's what he did, was what he'd always done to protect
himself from being overwhelmed by painful memories, from memories that hurt and
scared him. Socorro had put a stop to that. The immersion therapy, a rapid-fire
sequence of painfully uncomfortable bouts to habituate himself to the reality
of guns once more, had worked like a charm. It was as though, hit in the face
with no way of avoiding it, Harry had simply clawed to build his own immunity
to the damage such exposure could cause, an immunity that was experienced by
just about every other average citizen in the world.
It had worked. Surprisingly well, too. A visit with Socorro to a reputed arms
shop – God knew she had connections and was even on speaking terms with the
manager – had shown that he was even able to hold one in his hands without
shrinking from it in fear.
That in mind, the way Socorro had seemed to simply know the best approach to
dealing with his trauma left Harry open-minded to further suggestions from the
woman. Wary as he was, he opened himself to the possibilities she would
suggest, lips clamped and awaiting her continuation.
Contemplating him and apparently concluding him open to suggestion, Socorro
spoke. "I reiterate that I do not mean that it would be best so expose yourself
to them now. Merely that I think it would be a good point for you to work
towards, you and I. I think this can be the next direction we head in. Because
I think without truly confronting what happened with your relatives – all of
your relatives, not just Stephen – you will be unable to move forwards and
unable to view the past with anything but fear."
Swallowing the dryness in his mouth – why was he so nervous? He didn't think
the Dursleys still held such power over him – Harry struggled to speak. "So
y…you think that seeing them would help.'
Socorro nodded. 'I think that, eventually, seeing the Dursleys will help.
Seeing them, and understanding that they no longer hold a part in your life,
that they can no longer hurt you. I truly believe it would help you."
"I don't think they can hurt me." Harry's voice was hushed, but he whole-
heartedly believed as such. How could they? They lived in another country, for
Christ's sake!
"Consciously, yes, I think you know this. But on a subconscious level?" Socorro
tilted her head. "What do you think?"
Harry wasn't a psychologist. He knew this, so he could hardly lay claim to
superior knowledge. Still, it was hard to reconcile that the Dursleys still
held sway over him after all these years. "I… maybe, I suppose."
"Then that's that." Socorro's smile widened. "Don't look so down, Harry. It is
entirely up to you whether you pursue this path, and even if you choose to do
so then I would not recommend such quite so abruptly. We'll work up to it."
"Oh…kay."
"And you don't have to do this by yourself. In fact, I think it would be better
if someone went with you. Do you think Draco would mind?"
Harry let out a small laugh that just bordered on the hysterical. "I think if I
went to see the Dursleys without Draco I'd be hearing about it for the rest of
my life. Though he's likely to scare the living daylights out of them."
Socorro chuckled herself. "Well, then, I think that it might in fact be a
rather good idea to bring him along."
===============================================================================
 
The Christmas holidays.
Two weeks off from his apprenticeship. Two weeks to do absolutely nothing
except enjoy himself. Draco never thought he'd be glad to see the back of his
Ancient Runes translations, but it was certainly nice to gain a little
reprieve, even if it was only temporary. A release, and a much needed one at
that. He didn't know what it was, but for whatever reason, when the celebratory
spirit hung in the air, Draco felt a distinct lack of maturity sink onto his
shoulders. Not that he minded, of course – rather, he revelled in the freedom
of some heartfelt juvenile behaviour.
Except today, the child within him was silent. Subdued, even. He didn't have to
tell it to pipe down; it make that executive decision all by itself.
Because today was the day he would visit the Dursleys.
Harry had spoken to him nearly a month ago about the possibility of going to
see them. From the quiet, calculated way his partner had sat him down, had very
seriously requested his assistance, Draco got the impression that it was
something Harry had been considering for some time now.
The prospect raised conflicting emotions within him. On the one hand, Draco was
relieved, even happy, that Harry had asked him to accompany him. He knew Harry
was generally reserved on the topic of his relatives – hell, he didn't even
breathe a word of them to Draco except by accident and such accidents were few
and far between – so Draco wouldn't have been surprised if Harry's sudden
inclination to go and meet those bastards by himself suddenly arisen in
conversation up one day, only for him to find that it had taken place over a
year ago. So yes, he was relieved, happy, that his partner had asked him.
Yet at the same time, a deep-set growling anger rumbled within him. These were
the people who had mistreated the love of his life, had beaten into submission
with violence and neglect, before palming him off to some paedophile in a
foreign country. Draco had long been plotting every kind of revenge against the
creatures who could not even be deemed human for their cruelty. He'd plotted,
for that was often the only way he could sleep at night with knowing the
reality of the situation.
Draco would, if he could, pin the bastards in gaol. No, that didn't seem like
punishment enough. He'd pin them in gaol, make them suffer in isolation, then
give them the Dementor's Kiss before throwing them back in again. Even that
didn't seem like quite enough, but it was his current fantasy, anyway. It was
only Harry's adamant refusal to punish them as such that withheld him from
pursuing such actions without restraint. And though Draco couldn't understand
the reasoning behind exactly why Harry didn't want to hold them accountable, he
would abide by it. Temporarily, at least.
It didn't mean he felt any less loathing for the Dursleys. In actuality, it
probably made him hate them even more. At times, Draco even loathed them more
than he did Stephen Defaux, and Draco was at times a little startled to realise
just how deeply he detested that particular son of the devil himself. Was it
possible to hate four people each more than the last in a never-ending loop?
It was this loathing that occupied his thoughts as he walked alongside Harry
through the quiet, suburban streets of Little Whinging. It was startlingly
contrasting, the absolute deadness of the winter surrounds that sharply
juxtaposed the barely contained whirlwind writhing in Draco's chest. He was
surprised Harry hadn't commented on the sound of the anger bubbling in his
chest and roaring from his ears.
But then, Harry was quite justifiably distracted. It was only in those moments
when Draco glanced towards his partner – bundled in thick winter jackets and
scarf, shoulders hunched from the cold and tension and breathing puffs of fog
onto his glasses – that his anger subsided slightly. For he was here for Harry,
to support his partner, in one of what was probably the most difficult things
he would ever do.
Draco would never understand the feeling of confronting the demons from his
past. His demons had been taken by the war and he would never have to confront
them again, never even be given the chance. Harry, though… Harry decided to
face his past in an attempt to move on from it. If it were possible to love him
more than Draco already did, that display of strength would have done it.
Their boots crunched in time on the ice-crusted pavement, the only sounds in
the empty street. As such, the clip of their footsteps echoed ominously loudly.
Not a single figure could be seen, though as Draco scanned his surrounds, over
the sickeningly identical, stoutly plain houses, he briefly glimpsed pale faces
in windows before curtains dropped hastily to hide the dim interior.
Creepy. They certainly know how to make people feel unwelcome. For though Draco
had always had an overdeveloped sense of entitlement, he couldn't deny that he
felt uneasy in Little Whinging. Even his constant anger was not enough to
dispel the discomfort. He would be more than happy to leave the little town.
"Down here," Harry murmured at his side, lifting their clasped hands to gesture
to the left of a crossroads. Glancing at the street sign, Draco read the words
'Privet Drive' in immaculate print. The sign looked almost too knew for its
placement, too well cared-for. It was unnatural, for a Muggle sign to be so
well-preserved from the elements.
He allowed himself to be tugged by Harry's hand down the street. It wasn't a
particularly long street, but the monotony of those disgustingly similar houses
made it appear longer. With growing agitation, even further discontent than he
already felt, he walked in Harry's footsteps – for Harry walked ahead of him
now, arm stretched behind him to maintain their handhold – and almost relief
when they stopped. A letterbox stood before them, wedged in a picket fence and
exactly the same to the rest lining the pathway save for the number '4' in
place of the '2' and '6' of its neighbours.
"This is it?"
Harry nodded slowly in reply but didn't glance towards him. Following his line
of sight, Draco observed the little house before him. It was decidedly
unremarkable. A two-storey bright building was a dull visage of slanted brown
roof and box-like windows, each covered by thick, pale curtains from the
inside. A sturdy yet unremarkable car squatted in the driveway, covered with a
sheet of pale snow unmelted even at midday. The front lawn, as plain as the
house itself, was covered in a similar blanket of snow.
Draco didn't know how long they stood there in silence. Obviously Harry saw
something in the little house, the house from his past, that was definitely
more interesting than what Draco perceived. He had begun to count the minutes
when Harry finally spoke.
"My aunt's garden…"
Draco glanced towards him, raising an eyebrow as Harry's words faltered. "What
about it?"
Harry shook his head slightly, a very small motion. "No, it's… it's just not
there anymore."
Glancing back towards the blanketed lawn, Draco frowned. True, there was not
much garden of which to speak. There might have been grass buried beneath all
that snow, but not a rose bush or shrubbery in sight.
Draco didn't have much time to ponder the meaning of it, however, for evidently
Harry had shaken himself out of his stupor with his own words. A slight tug on
his hand and he was following Harry up the icy footpath towards the front door.
The sound of the doorbell rung with a hollow chime. Even through the thickness
of the front door Draco thought it sounded slightly off-key, as though the
mechanics moaned in wear and tear. It was likely made louder by the distinct
lack of any other noise coming from the house. Nothing. Silence.
Draco glanced sideways at Harry as his partner tapped the doorbell once more.
His face have blank, but the still blankness of controlled emotions rather than
emotionlessness. Draco didn't need to be holding his hand to know that tension
thrummed through his entire body.
A third chime and there was still no answer. Draco frowned, his agitation
tinging with the constant presence of anger once more. Even without house elves
to answer the door, surely such was considered rude, wasn't it? "Maybe they're
not home?"
"Maybe," Harry agreed quietly. "Maybe they don't even live here anymore."
Draco hadn't considered that. He didn't get much time to think further on the
subject either, for on the fourth chime the sound of softly thudding footsteps
down a hall interrupted him. The lock clicked, unlatching, jiggled on the other
side of the door swung inwards.
Standing before them was one of the largest men Draco had ever seen. Not taller
than him, but simply… big. It wasn't even so much that he carried an enormous
amount of fat upon his frame; there was as much muscle and simple bigness as
anything else. Draco doubted he would have passed through the doorways straight
on without getting his shoulders wedged.
It took a moment of staring to discern that he was a young man. Another to
hazard a guess that he was likely not much older than Draco and Harry. He had a
mop of sandy blonde hair and ruddy cheeks tinged faintly purple. A wide mouth
that was downturned in a natural scowl and watery blue eyes that looked
slightly bloodshot over bags of weariness. The man did not look particularly
happy to see them, but that could have simply been driven by lack of sleep as
actual disgruntlement.
Leaning onto the doorframe, both arms propped either side of and above his
head, the man switched his eyes between the both of them. He squinted, as
though attempting to discern any trace of familiarity. Neither Draco nor Harry
spoke. A brief glance to his side showed Harry in a state of immobility,
blinking slowly with… curiosity? Draco was relieved to see there was no fear in
the tightness of his partner's shoulders. Or, if there was, it was barely
perceivable. In spite of everything Harry was somehow and quite suddenly… calm.
The man in the doorway was the one who broke the silence. His voice was deep
and gravely, as though he had a cold. "Do I know you?"
Harry's hand twitched slightly in Draco's, and for a moment he wasn't entirely
sure why. When he glanced down towards him, however, there was a warning in
Harry's stare that alerted him to his own rekindled anger. Apparently Harry had
noticed it welling within him even before he had himself.
Harry stared at him pointedly, unblinkingly for a moment longer, until Draco
grudgingly dipped his chin. He turned back to the man. "Um… Dudley?"
The man in the doorway – Dudley – blinked in surprise. At least Draco assumed
it was surprise. He wasn't entirely sure the man was awake enough to be
surprised. "How do you -?"
"You mean you don't recognise him?" Draco couldn't help himself. His voice was
cold and biting, he knew, but Harry could hardly blame him for that. He could
have made it so much colder.
Dudley blinked up at him, puzzled, and there was a moment where Draco beheld a
rising wariness in the man's eyes. Then he turned back to Harry and squinted
again. Only for a moment, though, before his eyes widened, becoming tiny blue
marbles in his chubby face. "Bloody hell! Potter? Harry Potter?"
Harry stared at him silently for a moment before slowly nodding his head.
"Dudley. It's been a while."
Dudley huffed in a laugh of disbelief, without a trace of amusement, and
slumped further into the doorframe. "Yeah, I'll say." He dropped his eyes to
the floor for a moment, scrubbing one meaty hand over the back of his head
before glancing up once more. Incredulity was thick in his gaze. "Christ, you
look different."
"Older, probably, after six years," Harry rationalised. His voice was devoid of
emotion. "You do too."
Dudley muttered something beneath his breath, glancing up hesitantly at Harry
once more before his eyes drifted towards Draco. He seemed to size him up, and
Draco was quite pleased to find that he appeared quite intimidated by what he
saw. "Who's he?"
A squeeze of Harry's hand silenced Draco before he could even open his mouth.
"This is Draco Malfoy. He's my partner."
"Partner?" Dudley's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline. "What, like
your boyfriend?" He snorted, dropping his arms from the doorframe and leaning
heavily back into the door instead. "You're a poof?"
Draco might have hissed. Or he might have said something, he wasn't sure. His
vision blanked briefly, so fierce and sudden was the rush of his anger, and
when it returned seconds later he took it as a point of pride in his own
restraint that Dudley was still standing. Or maybe it was simply that Harry's
hand had become more like a death grip, a physical restraint, than a clasp that
sought support. Still, standing though Dudley may be, his heavy face had
slipped into one of stark terror.
Letting his face fall into a sneer, lip curling, Draco glared down his nose at
the increasingly cowering man. "I'm sorry. Were you being derogatory towards my
partner?" It wasn't really a question, for who would reply with anything to
such a baited query except to shake one's head? Which Dudley did. Vigorously.
"Draco." At Harry's murmur, Draco glanced towards him. There was no reprimand
in his face, just a faint request, and as quickly as it had arisen Draco's
anger fell under wraps once more.
This is for Harry. You're here to support Harry, not to pick a fight.Draco was
supposed to let Harry talk, to ask his questions, to rationalise himself with
reality and come to terms with what he already knew: that the past was well and
truly firmly set where it belonged. In the past.
Taking a deep breath, Draco released his fury through his nostrils. "Sorry," he
muttered. And though he looked at Dudley, his words were entirely for Harry.
The brief tightening of thin fingers in his own indicated that Harry knew as
much.
Dudley seemed to have steadied himself at only a slightly slower pace than
Draco did himself. Straightening from his pathetic cower, the man cleared his
throat. At least he wasn't slumping lazily on the doorframe anymore. His eyes
turned guardedly towards Harry. "What do you want?"
Harry was in control, now. Draco had to wonder just how much mental preparation
had gone into his decision to make such a trip, how little he had slept the
previous night, to have built such a fortified resistance. "I came to see you."
"Why?"
Harry shrugged. "Tying up loose ends, I guess you could say."
Wariness still swum in Dudley's eyes, eyes that flickered constantly towards
Draco, but he seemed to have composed himself marginally. "What does that mean,
exactly? What do you want?"
Pausing, Harry glanced over his shoulder. To the car, Draco supposed, though he
didn't know why. When he turned back to Dudley, it was to glance briefly over
his shoulder before meeting his eyes once more. "Are Vernon and Petunia here?"
Dudley's face blanked. From confusion or something else, Draco didn't know. He
blinked slowly, a frown settling on his brow. "You mean you don't know?"
"Know what?"
Closing his eyes, Dudley ran a hand over his face, dragging across his eyes and
tugging at his jaw. There was a faint sheen of blond stumble there that Draco
hadn't initially noticed. It made a coarse grating sound as his nails raked
through it. "'Bout Dad. 'Bout what happened to him."
Harry was frowning now in evident confusion. "What happened?"
A surprising emotion settled on the big man's face, one that Draco wasn't
particularly pleased to behold. It looked like sadness. Not fear or guilt, but
grief. "Dad died of a heart attack. Four years ago now."
Any lingering anger within Draco seemed to have been shunted abruptly to the
side. He didn't feel sympathy, not for the man before him, the man who was
Dudley Dursley, but for whatever reason the anger just seemed to… fade.
His father died… Oh. So that's what it is.
It was irrational, that Draco should feel even the faintest twinge of sympathy.
Just because the man's father died didn't make him any less of a monster
himself, didn't erase the cruelty he'd enacted in the past. If anything, Draco
should feel happy for the man's pain, satisfied that the brute who'd hurt his
Harry was dead.
And he did. He truly was satisfied that they had been made to pay, even in such
a roundabout fashion. Such an unrelated way. Karma, as it may be.
But still… his father died…
He didn't know why he kept thinking that, but the thought wouldn't leave him
alone.
"Oh," Harry sighed, barely a whisper. "I… I'm sorry, Dudley."
Dudley glanced towards him once more. The sadness was still evident, but it was
an old grief, with none of the rawness of acute pain. Incredulity swum forth to
take its place as his eyebrows rose once more. "You're sorry? Really?'
Nodding slowly, Harry glanced towards Draco. And suddenly, even in such a
situation, even given just whom Harry was talking to, Draco knew that he was
speaking with nothing but sympathy for the man who had been his terroriser in
their childhood. "No one should have to lose a parent in such a way." He
offered Draco a small smile. And somehow, in the numbness and recurring 'his
father died' swirling around and around in Draco's head, he was able to smile
in return.
"Oh," Dudley muttered, interrupting Draco's thoughts and drawing both his and
Harry's attention once more. "Oh, well that's…" He cleared his throat. "Thanks,
I guess."
"No problem." This time Harry turned his smile, small yet still heartfelt,
towards his cousin instead. "Would you perhaps mind telling me what happened?"
And so Dudley did. It was an entirely irrational situation – Harry, speaking to
one of the perpetrators of his childhood abuse, standing on an icy doorstep and
murmuring words of sympathy as though he genuinely felt for the man before him.
And, knowing Harry as Draco did, he likely did feel for him. Somehow.
Impossibly, stupidly, but somehow.
Dudley spoke of Vernon's failing health, something that had come about shortly
after Harry had left. He spoke of the first heart attack and his subsequent
hospitalisation, of the night that it finally happened, in his sleep, and
Dudley's father never woke up. And though Dudley was sniffling by the end of
it, he didn't cry.
"What about Petunia?" Harry murmured, speaking into the ensuing silence. "Is
she…?"
"Mum? Nah, she's alright." Somehow, over the course of his telling, Dudley
seemed to have become more comfortable. And though Draco still felt the faint
tightness in his chest at the topic at hand, he couldn't suppress the
resentment, the swelling anger, that arose at his casualness. The stupid lump
should feel scared out of his wits. I shouldmakehim scared. His sneer
threatened to resurface, but once more, as though predicting it, as though
feeling it arouse, Harry's hand tightened warningly on his own. "She moved down
to London a little while ago. Just after I got out of school. She never liked
the suburbs so much anyway, and likes them even less now that Dad's not here.
Says they're too quiet."
Harry looked slightly surprised at that. "She prefers inner city?"
Dudley frowned, as though Harry had just accused him of something. "Yeah. Got a
problem with that?'
But Harry only shook his head thoughtfully. "No, just – she always seemed to
take great pride in her garden and her quiet life. I would have thought…"
"Yeah, well, things change." Dudley spared an almost guilty glance towards the
distinct lack of garden over Draco's shoulder. Draco didn't bother to withhold
his smirk; it was that or openly scowl at him again.
As their conversation died, Dudley's face fell into seriousness. Into
thoughtfulness that Draco hadn't expected to see on such an otherwise obviously
unintelligent individual. His small blue eyes, staring uncomfortably at the
floor, rose slowly towards Harry. Harry remained motionless beneath his cousins
gaze, an admirable, considering the splay if emotions – some quiet aversive –
that welled within Dudley's eyes.
"You've changed, Potter."
Harry stared at him for a long moment. So long that Dudley began to shift,
fidgeting uneasily from foot to foot. Draco knew that look and could attest to
the quiet discomfort that Harry could invoke with a simple, extended stare.
Finally, he broke his silence. "Yes. I have." And surprisingly, a full smile
unfurled across his lips. It wasn't an exceptionally wide smile, but it was
full and genuine nonetheless. A smile that bespoke true happiness, calm and…
release.
Draco didn't understand it. He didn't understand how Harry could so easily
smile at the man who had tormented him in his childhood, the son of the aunt
and uncle who had made his life a living hell. He didn't understand how Harry
could feel anything but hatred for his cousin, for any of his relatives. Draco
himself was still struggling with the urge to beat Dudley's face into a pulp, a
fact that seemed no less satisfying for its Muggle approach. More satisfying,
perhaps, for the desire to feel the crunch of a nose under his fist rather than
to simply see the effects of a hex cave the bastard's face in.
He didn't understand it, but then he didn't really have to. Harry was content.
Somehow, impossibly, irrationally and inexplicably, he was content.
Draco didn't know at what point, from which moment, the change had occurred.
When Dudley told him Vernon was dead? When Draco had scared him into something
vaguely resembling a human in his fear? Knowing Harry, it was more likely to be
from before then, even. Most likely from the moment he saw Dudley, the man who
looked so tired, so worn. So pathetic.
They exchanged a few pleasantries, the two cousins, which Dudley seemed to
answer in a state of shock. And then that was it. Only a brief nod of farewell,
a murmured "goodbye", and once more Harry was tugging Draco down the path from
Number 4 Privet Drive. A brief glance over his shoulder showed Dudley watching
their departure. Watching silently, immobile, as though the icy chill of the
outdoors had frozen him to the ground. And though he didn't glance over his
shoulder to check and be sure, Draco was certain that the man watched them
until they disappeared from the street.
Draco and Harry walked in silence through the streets of Little Whinging. It
was as empty, as bare and silent, as it had been a mere half an hour before.
Except that this time, the hand that settled in Draco's wasn't rigid with
tension. Harry didn't hunch his shoulders nervously or keep his chin to his
chest, eyes glued firmly to the ground. Quite the opposite, in fact; his face
was turned skyward, that same smile that had been on his lips since leaving his
cousin still settled comfortably.
As they reached the main road coming out of Little Whinging – not quite a block
from the park that would serve as their Apparation point – Harry stopped. His
face was still turned skyward, and Draco had to glance overhead to determine if
there actually was some sort of magical creature hovering above them to draw
his attention. He wouldn't put it past Harry not to tell him.
"Is it terrible of me that I'm relieved he's dead?"
Draco didn't even have to consider his reply. "No. It's not at all. Of course
it's not."
Harry didn't seem to hear him, and Draco realised that the question was likely
more self-directed. Rhetorical. He closed his eyes and shook his head. "I'm not
so sure, but I just feel lighter, knowing that he's not…" He shook his head
again slowly, and a sorrowfully guilty expression settled on his face.
Frowning, Draco had to bite back the desire to take Harry by the shoulders and
demand he listen to reason. That the death of his uncle, who had made his
childhood a living hell, should not make him feel sad. Or guilty. Or repentant
in any way, as his expression suggested he was. Taking a deep breath, Draco
fought to unlock his clenched teeth. "I think it would be natural to feel
relieved, Harry. I know you're still working on it, but the reality of it is
that your uncle abused you." He didn't hide the true meaning of his thoughts by
using a euphemism. He didn't need to, for Harry didn't even flinch at the stark
reality of the words nowadays. "To be honest, I'm impressed that you even made
it here without changing your mind. Even speaking to your cousin." Draco
paused. "You're alright? With speaking to him? And with your Aunt and
everything?"
The faint amusement that had crept onto Harry's face when Draco had declared
himself impressed died. "Seeing Dudley…"
"Because I'm more than happy to turn around, walk straight up to his door, and
punch his nose out the back of his head."
"Punch him? Really?" That flicker of amusement returned with a quirk of Harry's
lips. "I'd have thought you'd take the hexing route."
"I'd considered it, but striking him skin to skin just seems to much more
satisfying."
Harry shook his head in familiar exasperation. Though when he continued his
tone turned serious once more, that little smile remained. "I don't really
know. I don't know if I should have talked to him more. If I should have blamed
him for what happened so long ago. Maybe I should have pressed charges, or at
least demanded that Dudley give me Aunt Petunia's address so I could go and
confront her too, to say something, but…" He trailed off, dropping his gaze to
his feet thoughtfully. "I just don't want to. I thought that I was stuck in the
past, that I wouldn't be able to move on without them at least, I don't know,
apologising or something maybe. But…"
The quiet of Little Whinging seeming overly loud in the aftermath of Harry's
words. Draco watched him closely, attempting to discern if he was going to
continue, but further words didn't seem forthcoming. Finally, Draco nudged him
into explanation. "But?"
"But… he's different. He's moved on. Aunt Petunia has moved on. And
I'mdifferent." Harry took a steadying breath, held it, before releasing it in a
rush. "I don't need their apologies, because I doubt they'd ever mean it,
truly. I still don't even know if they fully realise that what they did was –
was wrong. I don't want to be waiting for something that's never going to
happen, and let it rule me and any possible chance of moving on."
"You could press charges."
"I could," Harry nodded in acknowledged. It wasn't in agreement with the notion
but simply to recognise Draco's suggestion. "But I don't want to. Because I
don't need that hanging over me any longer. I don't need it, and I don't want
it. Because it's… it's in the past. And it can't hurt me anymore."
Draco stared at Harry. He felt an entirely foreign feeling well within him and
it took a moment of consideration to realise it was awe. It seemed incredible,
impossible even, that Harry would just be alright. He could never consider that
if something like that had happened to him that he could just move on. Could
just live and progress, could turn aside from something that had so hurt him
and look forwards instead. It seemed unfair, unjust, impossible, and yet to
Harry…
Harry just didn't need it. He didn't want to seek justice. To Harry, who had
been living with those memories, with those experiences his whole life, he
wanted nothing more than to let them go.
There was something so courageous about that. Draco didn't think he could put
his feelings on the subject into words if he'd tried. So he kept silent, simply
watching as with each moment Harry seemed to settle further and further into
his own skin. Tension that Draco had never noticed constantly gripped him
silently seemed to ease, previously unnoticed but leaving a profound lightness
in its absence.
When Harry finally continued it was in a near whisper. "Thank you for coming
with me today."
Draco felt a smile pull at his lips. A real smile, and he realised in that
moment that somewhere in the last few moments of silent contemplation, of
staring at Harry's serene expression – content in a way he'd never seen before
– his anger had nearly entirely disappeared. "Of course. I'd never forgive you
if you didn't bring me along."
Harry huffed a breath of fog in laughter. "Yeah, I figured as much." He paused
and slowly turned his face towards Draco's. His dark eyes, just visible behind
the slight clouding of his lenses, were deep in thought. "You know Draco, I've
been thinking."
"Yes? About what?"
"About getting my eyes fixed."
Draco blinked, surprised at the sudden change of topic. Until comprehension
dawned. "You mean you -?"
"Yeah. I don't think I really want to wear my glasses anymore."
Draco wanted to ask why. He wanted to know the exact reason. More importantly,
he wanted to know just howhis partner had managed such a giant leap when he
knew how much pain had been settled within him. Harry used his glasses as much
as a wall to hide behind as for his sight. It seemed impossible that he would
be able to even consider discarding them.
But he didn't ask. Because really, it didn't matter. Harry was happy, and
nothing in the world could make him happier himself. Draco felt his lips tug,
tentatively stretching wider. "You think so?"
Harry nodded, his own smile broadening. "I think it's about time."
They stared at each other for a moment, the weight of their day trip gradually
falling from their shoulders. Finally, Draco leaned in and pressed his lips to
Harry's forehead. "I think that's a wonderful idea." Linking his hand through
Harry's more tightly, he drew him with a gentle pull to begin their departure
once more.
They wandered the short distance to the park without another word. When they
Apparated, it was without a moment of regret, nor a single pause to glance over
their shoulder. It wasn't like either of them were ever coming back again.
***** Changing Forms *****
Chapter Notes
     A/N: Urgh, I feel like I'm always apologising for this but can't help
     myself. Sorry for the verbosity at the beginning of this chapter if
     it doesn't suit you. I can't seem to help myself with that either.
     Hope you enjoy the chapter anyway! Light-hearted and fluffy - always
     good, right?
Dotted across the about the glade, trotting amongst trees and stretching
unfamiliar limbs into mobility, was the oddest selection of animals Harry had
ever seen in one place. He doubted that many had ever been seen in the Pyrenees
before, and certainly not in such company.
Well, that's wizards and witches for you,he thought.Of course, their Animagus
forms would hardly take such realism into account.
Of the class of thirty who had taken the Animagus Assumption short course, six
had been successful in transforming. That in itself was quite remarkable, or so
Madame Elmoré claimed. According to her, it had been nearly a decade since so
many of one cohort had assumed animal forms, in any school across the
international board. And she would know. As a ministry official it was her
prerogative to know as much. There could have been one more, even, except that
only one of the Petre twins had shown a disposition for such abilities and had
refused to even attempt to assume it when her sister couldn't. That made seven
all up in the entire year who showed such capacity. "Extraordinary", Elmoré had
exclaimed more times than Harry could remember.
He perched to the southern corner of the little woodland clearing, right next
to the five-by-five foot pond with his legs crossed and smiling at the antics
of his fellow students. Such a motley crew. There was a Bogong moth, brightly
coloured wings standing out starkly from the dark dullness of the tree trunk
upon which he perched before launching into wayward flight once more. That was
Odis. Quinn was peering from the gently waving heights of a pine tree, gazing
down her curved owl's beak dismissively at her fellows, ear tufts ruffled and
pointed like little horns. Beneath her, Lin and Hilary taunted one another in a
game of tag, a leggy gazelle and an Australian kangaroo of all things bounding
in dizzying circles like children, while Noel paddled idly in the pond at
Harry's side, his long-neck and the crown of his tortoise shell the only
features breaching the surface. Then there was Tali, but Harry couldn't even
see her. She'd disappeared into the treetops from the moment she'd transformed,
eager to practice her coordination in her Animagus form's natural element once
more.
Quite an assortment, Harry considered. And they all suited their totem animal
so accurately that Harry, even knowing he had been previously as unaware of
their forms as any, found it hard to consider them as any other species. If
only his own presented itself as obviously.
Also according to Elmoré, he should have been able to transform. She claimed
his magical strength, his familiarity with and unique disposition towards magic
itself, would have paved an easy route to his desired destination. The only
additional factor was his ability to 'see' what is Animagus form would be, and
then let the magic do its work. And therein lay the problem.
Harry couldn't see it.
There had been a test. It involved both magical and psychological analysis to
determine one's proficiency for transformative magic, and Harry had passed them
as successfully as the rest of the students. ProfesseurClytine, an
accompaniment to the classes as he had been for the entire two months of their
duration, had quite proudly professed that it "should be a breeze for him,
especially considering his magical strength".
It hadn't been.
In fact, other than Ursula Petre, Harry was the only one who hadn't assumed his
Animagus form, though Odis and Hilary had only just managed that very day. It
should have frustrated him, he knew, just as it certainly frustrated Elmoré.
She was nearly tearing her hair out with the knowledge that he hadn't yet
confirmed what his form could be.
But Harry wasn't particularly frustrated. Quite honestly, he wasn't even sure
if it would happen, even with Clytine's supposed certainty. To him, bodily
metamorphosis just wasn't… logical. It was the old block he had with magic, one
that arose every now and again and made it next to impossible to complete the
task required of him by his teachers. Some of them he overcame – it had been a
year since he'd successfully mastered fire conjugation at every attempt, though
it still seemed to take more out of him than it did his fellows. Harry
suspected it had something to do with how he perceived it; to him, fire didn't
simply come from nowhere. He had to invest his own energy into sparking it
alight, and that as exhausting. Obviously. Fire needed fuel, so of course it
would be.
Logic. It was both his crutch and his block. And even such logic that seemed so
right in his own mind Harry knew to be flawed. He tried very hard not to think
about that, though. If he thought too hard about the sheer impossibility of
magic, it generally resulted in him becoming temporarily handicapped in the
practical department. It had happened before and suspected it would likely
happened again. So Harry tried not to think about it.
When it came to Animagus Assumption, however… there seemed to be no way to
overcome the difficulties he was having. Harry had tried asking Elmoré and
Clytine, even his classmates, for advice or answers – what about the law of
conservation of mass? How was it possible to rearrange the basic foundations of
one's body without utterly destroying it or causing serious pain? How were the
discrepancies between humans and the animal species overcome? Most animals
weren't all that similar to humans and a lot were vastly complex in entirely
different ways. Yet the familiar and tedious "magic compensates for that" was
the frequent reply.
Harry could see Elmoré's frustration, Clytine's confusion and, damn her, Tali's
amusement at his inability to comprehend the possibility of transforming into
an animal. As if hewere the strange one for being unable to do it. He could see
it, and yet Harry could do nothing about it. If he were to consider the species
he would transform into, it would most likely be a cat of some sort. There was
Lyssy, of course, who was indication of that enough, and his Patronus that was
a ghostly copy of his own Familiar. It all pointed in one direction: cat.
Such knowledge didn't help much. Elmoré had been excited when Harry had
explained his conclusion, but had quickly slumped from her enthusiasm when he
had further explained that he didn't think he could manage it.
"And exactly why not, Monsieur Potter? You have an idea of your form, all it
requires is an urging of the magic to impress that form upon your body. You are
familiar with the written theory, are you not?"
Harry had nodded. Of course he was. No one was allowed to step within sight of
Elmoré without having read the three hundred-page manual Animagus Assumption:
Embracing Your Wild Side. Suffice it to say, even after reading it he felt no
more confident in his capabilities. "I just don't understand how it would work,
Madame."
"And just what aspect do you struggle with?"
Harry chewed his lip thoughtfully. Just where did he begin? "I guess… mostly, I
can't see how I can shrink myself into something that small."
Elmoré blinked in thinly veiled confusion. "I'm afraid I do not understand you,
MonsieurPotter."
Pausing to struggle for words, Harry drew a breath. "What if my Animagus form
is smaller than I am as a human? How do I… become something so small?"
"Well, it's similar to any other transfiguration on an external basis.
Transfiguring a mug into a thimble, for instance, or a fork into a teaspoon.
They are naturally going to be different sizes, and magic accounts for that. So
where is your problem?"
Ducking his head sheepishly, Harry had mumbled his reply. "That's the thing,
Madame. I have a bit of difficulty with transfiguration."
"Such as?"
"Non-living to living, for instance. Or between subjects of different sizes."
He glanced up at her through his fringe. Her confusion had slipped into
troubled thoughtfulness. "I've always had a bit of trouble with that. When I'm
shrinking something, I generally just shed the excess mass as minuscule atoms
to enable it assuming the smaller shape. Which makes it a little hard to
reverse the transfiguration too, actually." He shifted awkwardly. "I've gotten
a bit better at avoiding that, but my transfigured objects tend to be a lot
denser than they should be."
Elmoré's eyebrows had risen incredulously but before she could reply Clytine
had sidled up alongside her from where he had been congratulating Quinn – their
first transformer – on her success. "Harry was raised amongst Muggles until he
was sixteen, Madame Elmoré." Clytine, ever the compassionate teacher, turned a
fond smile to Harry. "I believe the correct description is 'influenced by
Muggle magic', is it not, Harry?"
Harry smiled back at his teacher. He really was fond of the man. "Muggle
science more accurately, sir."
Comprehension dawned on Elmoré's face as if that explained everything. "Ah, I
see." Yet her thoughtful frown didn't waver. If anything it deepened. "I've
never heard of such a situation. It happens, of course, but even Muggleborns
and late bloomers tend to take to magic and magical theory fairly quickly."
"Yes, well, Harry is rather learned in Muggle magic – Muggle science, it would
seem," Clytine rationalised, his smile widening. He seemed to take it as a
point of pride that he understood Harry's standpoint so well, even if 'so well'
was simply better than most of his colleagues and not really all that wholly at
all. "Perhaps a little too well, wouldn't you agree, Harry?"
Harry nodded hesitantly in agreement, though he felt his cheeks flush at the
sort-of compliment. He wouldn't say he was learnedexactly. Just slightly more
so than most wizards and witches. "I guess you could say that, Professeur."
"Not to worry, though, not to worry." Clytine waved his hand as though brushing
aside a troublesome fly. "I'm sure you'll manage this one eventually, too.
You'll get there, Harry." His smile was full of confidence.
That confidence had wavered slightly over the weeks following, as everyone else
progressed further and further and yet Harry unconsciously refused to follow
the lead of his peers. Elmoré strove to be supportive, but her own frustration
grew in tandem. She professed mutedly that she rarely felt such vexation with
any of her students, the difference in this instance being that in all but
Harry's conscious reconciliation of the process, he should have been able to
transfigure himself. Harry could see the frustration, and strove to push
himself towards Elmoré's goal, or, in failing that, at least realise his
definitive Animagus form so that he could demonstrate some progress for his
teacher's sake.
But that was rather counter-intuitive. How could he know what animal he would
become if he were dubious about the very possibility of turning himself into an
animal? Sure, he suspected he might be something like a cat, but he couldn't
very well shed mass from himself to assume that form. Not only would it be
incredibly painful, he was sure, but how would he ever turn back again?
They were questions that Harry simply couldn't answer and, if he was to be
completely honest with himself, didn't worry him as much as Elmoré and
Clyntine's frequent assurances that he would "get there eventually" seemed to
suggest it should. For Harry was happy. This one, slight hiccup in his
learning, in his studies that were largely proceeding swimmingly, couldn't faze
him. Not now. Especially not when everything else in his life was just going so
right.
Since visiting the Dursleys, Harry felt as though a weight had been lifted off
of his shoulders, a weight he hadn't even realised was there until it was gone.
The constant suppression of memories, the space tagged 'Dursleys' in bold
letters in his mind, had been unknowingly wearying to the degree that, when the
wound had been torn open, cleaned and patched up to heal properly he almost
didn't know himself.
There had been the decline after the visit, the dip into silent brooding just
short of depression. Harry had almost expected that. But it hadn't been for as
long as Socorro had cautioned him it may last, and Harry hadn't been alone.
He'd had Draco. And Draco had barely left his side throughout the entire
experience; never mind that Harry was supposed to be in classes, or Draco
attending to his own scholarly studies. Like a shadow, yet comforting and warm,
Draco supported Harry for the weeks it had taken for the static lull to shatter
and for him to begin an upward climb into recovery.
Harry knew Draco was wonderful. He loved him, like he'd never loved anyone in
his entire life. As he'd never even considered loving someone. Harry knew that
Draco would do anything for him, would always be there for him, just as he
would be in return. Even so, it was a whole knew world of understanding to
actually have the evidence to prove such confidence in his partner. Tali had
actually professed her jealously of Draco's commitment – in grudging respect
and grumbles, of course.
When Harry had finally heaved himself free, had reached the edge of the
precipice and heaved himself onto solid ground once more, it was like flinging
wide thick curtains to reveal the brightness of daylight beyond. Everything was
illuminated Beautiful. Healing. The memories, they were still there and they
still hurt. But they weren't debilitating. They weren't a hidden filth,
something he had to struggle to thrust into the corner of his mind for fear of
their dirtiness creeping into the light. He could look upon them reflectively
and see. He could consider. He could recover.
It had been shortly after his awakening of sorts that Harry had finally gotten
his eyes fixed. He hadn't worn his glasses since. Not once.
So yes, the difficulty with assuming his Animagus form was vexing, though
evidently more so to Elmoré than to Harry himself. Draco and, to Harry's
surprise, Severus – as he had insisted Harry call him for he "was not his
teacher anymore" – had been working with him on that. Well, Severus had mostly
been working towards a solution, whereas Draco spent the majority of their
discussions counter-arguing with Severus about exactly why his suggestions
wouldn't work. Severus had a keen mind and a very broad approach to problem
solving that Harry found very refreshing, but he was, in the end, a wizard.
Even with his half-blooded heritage, it could not be denied. There were some
things that Severus simply couldn't fathom of Harry's block, things that he
couldn't provide a solution for. He understood Harry striving to overcome the
discrepancy of masses, but couldn't perceive how Harry couldn't just
rationalise it away with 'magic'.
"Because it's magic" was certainly something of a mantra in the Wizarding
world.
Draco, on the other hand, was surprisingly adept at seeing Harry's perspective.
Perhaps it was simply because he had a younger mind and was more open to new
ideas than his godfather. Had Harry not experienced and come to expect as much
from his partner, he was sure he would have been surprised that someone so
completely pureblooded, raised so grounded in tradition, could so readily adopt
wider views.
When Harry voiced his thoughts, Draco had only stared at him curiously for a
moment before smiling slowly. "I guess you're just rubbing off on me. You and
your Muggle science and progressiveness." He'd seemed rather pleased at the
prospect, actually.
It was funny then, that he was so thoroughly absorbed in magical artefacts and
ancient magical languages. If anything could be further from modernism is would
have to be delving into the past. And Draco loved it, what he termed "the
excitement and fascination" of uncovering something new, some minute detail
that had been overlooked, of translating the works of those that existed
thousands of years ago. He was becoming quite the scholar, and had only grown
more captivated by his studies since he'd visited Turkey and the Doors of
Appalyn. He was truly passionate about his career, a passion that made itself
apparent when he regailed Harry with his latest work.
Draco was born to be an orator, a natural born actor. He could draw any
audience into his world with a simple phrase, and even Harry, who had rarely
had much of an interest in history past that which was required of him for
school, had found himself drawn into his web of words. It was quite remarkable
to notice how, in the past months when Draco spoke and interjected ancient
vocabulary and references to the Imergyia People – his latest favourite topic
because "their culture is so absolutely fascinating, to say nothing of their
revolutionary magical technique" – that Harry understood every word of it. He'd
picked it up quite without knowing, and even found his own interest sparked by
the Imergyians. Especially their societal mechanisms and dependence upon their
Runic alphabet; it was so interwoven and complex, and yet so reminiscent of the
language used for modern day magic that Harry couldn't help but be intrigued.
Though Draco still professed doubts about where he would like to specialise,
this latest fixation far surpassed any that had proceeded it. For Harry he
found there was little question on the matter. Draco's mind seemed made up,
even if he hadn't quite realised it himself.
A rustle overhead, directly above Harry in the higher reaches of a towering
oak, drew him from his musing gaze of Lin and Hilary. Twisting his head, Harry
narrowed his eyes to squint into the shadows. Only to lurch into a roll a
moment later when a four-limbed ball of fur dropped like a falcon from the
upper branches.
Settling himself with crossed legs once more, Harry regarded the new arrival
with bemusement. A squirrel monkey, with golden limbs, distinctive black muzzle
and impressively tufted ears, righted itself from its fall and squatted back on
its haunches. Its tail flicked in disgruntlement as it bared its teeth and
muttered a string of quiet chitters that sounded more like a bird twittering
than any mimic of words.
"You know I can't understand you," Harry sighed, leaning backwards as he
propped his arms up behind him. "If you have something to say you're just going
to have to transfigure back into a human."
The monkey seemed to glare at him and even threw up one arm in a very human
gesture of exasperation before, a moment of dizzying swirling and morphing
later, Tali was crouching where Harry had been sitting not a minute before. Her
glare was still present, but it was more of a fond glare than pure reprimand.
"I thought you were supposed to be trying to find your animal form."
Harry, his gaze having drifted back towards toward Lin and Hilary – the
kangaroo had locked her arms around the gazelle's neck in an embrace of sorts
that was impossible not to find adorable – glanced towards Tali and raised an
eyebrow. "I was. Am."
"No, you weren't. Don't try that one on me." Again, though scolding, Tali
sounded more affectionate than anything else. "You get that look on your face
whenever you're thinking about Draco."
Harry's other eyebrow rose to join his first. "What? What look?"
Tali's lips quirked. "The 'I'm so lucky I have such a gorgeous boyfriend, he's
the most incredible person in the world, I feel happy just thinking about him'
look." The girl made an exaggerated expression of wistful pining, a small smile
pursing her lips. A smile which broadened a moment later as she bit back a
laugh. "That look."
"I'm not that bad."
"Yes, you are."
"I'm not."
"Yes, actually," Tali shuffled to his side and dropped her chin on his
shoulder. "You are."
Harry didn't even know why he was denying it. It was completely true, and the
only reason that Harry didn't declare it to anyone who paused half a second to
listen was simply because, well… Harry just didn't really talk to other people
all that much, even now. And those that would listen – namely Tali and Neville
– had both adamantly agreed that they would not hear a word of it. Neville even
went so far as to claim that he had Ginny and hardly needed a relationship to
compare theirs to, while Tali approached from the perspective that she found it
"just too damn sickly sweet".
Draco didn't mind so much. He was always ready to inform anyone of how much he
loved Harry, even if they didn't want to hear it. And if Harry felt a little
guilty that he didn't do the same, such guilt was alleviated at least in part
by Draco's assertion that he hardly needed Harry to preach to everyone else of
the depth of their relationship. That the only one who needed to know was Harry
and Draco.
Loveable hypocrite.
"See, that there, that's what I'm talking about."
Harry glanced towards Tali where she had raised her head from his shoulder to
peer at him in exasperation. "What?"
"That little smile, the look on your face that says 'I'm completely content
with my lot in life'."
"Well, I can't really deny that."
Tali opened her mouth to reply, then paused, her expression becoming
considering. "You really believe that, don't you?"
Shrugging, Harry nodded. At the moment? Certainly. He couldn't imagine anything
would be quite so drastic as to rock his perfect world on its hinges at the
moment.
Staring at him with thoughtfulness that gradually faded into scepticism, Tali
finally shook her head and grunted. They subsided into silence momentarily;
only for a moment, of course, because this was Tali and Tali didn't understand
the concept of thoughtful muteness. "Who's that?"
Sparing his friend a questioning glance, Harry turned towards where she raised
a hand to gesture. To the side of the little glade, clustered in a close-knit
group that excluded those around them in an insistent yet not unfriendly
manner, was a quartet of people Harry hadn't seen before. That wasn't entirely
unexpected, really, as Clytine – embedded in the midst of the cluster –
frequently associated with specialists on school grounds. Beauxbatons Academy
was something of a meeting point for a number of his associates. Harry could
only assume these were similar associates given their dress code – those that
worked directly with magical creatures had a uniform of sorts, from heavy,
comfortable boots, work pants and a long sleeve shirt, all patterned in a
matching coating of dirt and dust as though to disrobe even long enough to wash
themselves was too much of a distraction from their focus. That and the wand
holster strapped to each of their thighs, a precautionary measure taken by
those who in general required the use of their hands at work yet needed ready
access to magic all the same.
These people fit the bill to a T. Definitely associates from the field, then.
That or they were more scouts for graduate employees, which was basically the
same thing.
They appeared in animated discussion despite the quietness of their exchange,
the sort of animation that left onlookers gazing curiously and with faint
regret that they weren't a part of the conversation. Tali certainly looked as
much. Personally, Harry didn't feel he shared that curiosity quite to the same
degree.
"I don't know. I didn't even notice them arrive. Does it matter?"
"It matters if they're my future employers," Tali pointed out practically and
Harry had to cede the truth of her words. She continued to mutter to herself,
to speculate and largely project possibilities that there would likely be no
way of verifying.
They finished their Animagus Assumption lesson with Elmoré in a remarkably good
mood – two of her three remaining students had succeeded in transforming; it
was a day to celebrate! – and headed towards the stables to put in a couple of
hours of work at the pegasus stalls before dinner. It was laborious work, from
mucking out those stalls to dragging unwieldy beasts from paddock to arena, a
feat that often took more than three hands at once. Harry found he enjoyed it
nonetheless. He'd never had much of a cause to engage in such work in the past,
nothing but chores really, and though he couldn't deny that theoretical
learning was fascinating and captivating, there was something grounding and
thoroughly satisfying about getting one's hands dirty. Usually quite literally.
As the sun slipped below the peaked horizon, Harry propped his rake in the tool
shed and wandered back through the grounds towards the stables. Even raking the
pungent stalls was satisfying in its own way, and Harry wasn't the only one who
tended to do so manually rather than magically. Maybe it was just that Jean had
drilled it into him that magic just didn't do the trick quite as well for some
reason, but he'd not taken to spelling the stalls clean once since he'd begun
volunteering to assist with the pegasus.
Wandering into the darkened building, Harry was met with a jack-in-the-box
appearance of nearly a dozen heads poking over steel doors. Steel because
nothing else would keep the pegasus at bay, and even then the thick metal at
times met its demise beneath a well-aimed strike of a granite-like hoof. Harry
smiled at the image they made and, wandering along the stalls stroking snouts
and tugging forelocks, he made his way to Edelweiss' stall. It was something of
a habit now, to visit the filly at least once a day. Today, he'd confirmed with
Tali to meet him here when they were both finished up so they could wander up
to school together. Harry thought Neville might have been poking around the
greenhouse nearby too and, as the other boy knew their schedule well enough by
now, would likely make his way over to the stables too.
It was the end of the week and they'd undoubtedly make their way to the Academy
together before parting to head for their out-of-school-grounds accommodation.
For Tali, that meant taking a trip down to Madrid; Vivette was in the city for
the weekend and Tali would never pass up the opportunity to see her best
friend. Harry would travel instead to Paris, to the Malfoy estate. Draco had
taken the trip back to the city earlier in the week for a succession of
meetings with some distant correspondents from Siberia, and Harry would meet
him there. Only this time Neville was coming with him. For not only would the
three of them – well, four, really, as Ginny usually accompanied Neville
everywhere he went when extricated from school – be spending the weekend at the
estate, but their friends from Hogwarts were coming for a hastily planned
visit.
Excitement had run rampant through Neville all week at the prospect of seeing
Ron and Hermione in particular again. Harry had been only marginally less
enthusiastic. It would be wonderful, the eight of them – Luna included,
naturally – congregating once more. It had been so long since they'd all met up
at once. Harry doubted he'd even have the chance to visit Edelweiss, which he
strove to do even when he was off the grounds. The filly got twitchy when he
was away. It was becoming a problem, really, but he hoped that some heartfelt
attention before he left would ease the mulishness that arose with separation.
Edelweiss had grown remarkably in the past months and was now not much smaller
than those of her fully-grown stable-mates. She was a gorgeous creature, long,
slim limbs and broad chested in the way of a pegasus. The flight muscles
bunching about her withers and collar had developed almost completely, tough
and rippling even in stillness and simply reeking of the strength that would
lift her from the ground and into flight. She was pale in colouration, taking
after her mother yet even more extreme, and shone more of a brilliant white
than gold in the sun, the pale feathers of her wings reflecting in equal
luminescence and shimmering in a soft rainbow of colours at their tips.
Indeed a gorgeous creature, and Harry had no bashfulness when it came to
claiming that she loved him. There was something about being adored by a
magnificent creature that eradicated the social constraints of modesty. The
feeling sort of reminded him of how he felt for Draco.
Snorting into his fringe as she towered over him, Edelweiss nickered a fond
greeting as she nibbled his hair. Her ears pricked forwards, eager and
attentive, dark eyes sparkling brightly with intelligence than Harry had rarely
seen in animals save Lyssy. There was no denying she was wondrously smart. She
seemed almost to understand him when he spoke, and he'd never even had to strap
a collar around her neck to communicate. She was just that smart.
The only difficulty was that she was only that smart for him. It had actually
truly becoming a problem. Hesitant though Harry was to accept Clytine's – and
Jean's – suggestion of taking the pegasus with him when he finished school – it
seemed so presumptuous to do so, even when they'd nearly been begging him to do
so – he felt terribly guilty enough corrupting the filly that he considered it.
Clytine had assured him repeatedly that such things happened occasionally with
pegasus and that it was bound to occur in one of Beauxbaton's own stock
eventually, but it didn't ease his guilt any. Harry could only wince and bow
his head in concession, only praying that wherever Harry and Draco ended up
when he graduated would have a big enough backyard for a pegasus. And was
hopefully tucked away from Muggle eyes.
Malfoy Manor was certainly looking more and more appealing, reluctant as Harry
was to impose upon Narcissa's gracious allowance of their residency.
"She's head-over-heels for you, isn't she? You must be 'Arry, then?"
An unfamiliar voice drew Harry's attention from the embrace that Edelweiss had
drawn him into, enormous head tucking over his shoulder and nuzzling him
fondly. Ducking under her snout, he blinked confusion at the young woman
leaning against an empty stall. At least she had that much sense; pegasus
weren't known for their friendliness towards strangers, and often appeared to
develop a taste for flesh when an unfamiliar face drifted within reach.
"Sorry? Um… who are you?"
The woman pushed herself off the stall and stepped towards him. She was
relatively tall, lean in a way that bespoke a healthy taste for exercise, and
unremarkable in terms of overall features except for a shock of bright blue
hair sticking out in a haphazard pixie-cut from atop her head. It was the hair
that was the trigger; Harry abruptly recalled her as being a member of the
quartet that had been visiting Clytine at the Animagus lession that afternoon.
His regard immediately became thoughtful, slightly wary. The woman's smile was
friendly enough, though, and when she held out her hand – thankfully halting
her approach a safe distance from Edelweiss – Harry hesitantly reached out to
take it. She had a strong, no-nonsense grip, firm but not tight, that Harry
immediately liked.
"I'm Ilias. I work with Ronnie Callwell at the Eastmonte Sanctuary up north."
She waved a hand overhead in a pointless gesture that Harry took to be
directional. He immediately brightened at the mention of her workplace,
however.
"Oh? Eastmonte? You must work under Galliver, then?" Abruptly, any wariness
Harry may have felt over the sudden confrontation with a stranger evaporated in
the face of his excitement. He couldn't quite suppress his enthusiasm; Galliver
was revolutionary when it came to magical creatures. He specialised in small to
medium sized mammals and had something of a zoo upon his private estate just
south of Paris. Harry had read just about all of his papers, and found them
fascinating. Galliver was a storyteller as much as he was a magical creatures
handler. His words embodied his passion.
Ilias' grin broadened at his abrupt turnabout. "That's the one. You've
obviously heard of him?"
"Who hasn't?"
Laughing a in a loud burst of merriment, Ilias nodded. "That's true." She
widened her eyes meaningfully at Harry. "And just so you know, he's even better
in person than he is in his books. Absolutely fantastic."
Harry barely contained a sigh of wistfulness, reaching up to stroke Edelweiss'
snout once more. "I must say I'm quite envious of you. It would be wonderful to
meet him."
Ilias shrugged one shoulder. "He's not averse to it, you know. Not like a high-
and-mighty celebrity or anything. He's very down to earth."
"I'm sure he's got more than enough on his plate to have time to welcome the
gushing adoration of his fans."
"Not too much, though I'd recommend keeping a lid on the 'gushing'." Ilias
winked conspiratorially. "When I say down to earth, I mean to the extreme.
Can't abide dithering and flapping about."
Harry uttered a half-laugh as he scratched at Edelweiss' chin. "I think that's
a bit of a trademark of working in the industry, don't you think?"
"Yeah, you could say that," Ilias agreed. "Ronnie's about as grounded as they
come, though I think Clytine pushes the boundaries of the stereotypes a
little."
"He does at that, doesn't he?" Harry smiled fondly. For all of his oddness,
Clytine was wonderful. Glancing towards Ilias, who watched his fingers stroking
Edelweiss curiously, he asked "Was there something that you needed? If you're
looking for Jean…"
Shaking her head, Ilias settled herself onto the side of the stall with a
glance behind her to ensure adequate distance from the nearest pegasus. "Not
particularly. I just remembered seeing you at the Animagus lesson and noticed
you heading in here. Thought I'd drop to say hi."
"What were you visiting Clytine about? Was it about the lesson?"
"Nah, couldn't give a toss about newbie Animagus," Ilias proclaimed, grinning a
crooked smile. "No offence."
"None taken." For there wasn't. Harry was a bit impartial to the process
himself. "So…?"
"Not much. Clytine's just trying to palm off his pygmy skimples to us again. He
does the same every year with some animal or other after they've been used for
his classes. Promises he'll ask someone else next year but then he crops up
just before end of term same as always and tries to guilt-trip Galliver into
taking them again." Ilias' grin became affectionate, scratching the side of her
head and spiking her hair even more. "And Galliver, being the heart of gold he
is, always takes them. Can't get enough of little creatures."
"Clytine's getting rid of them?" Harry frowned at her questioningly. The pygmy
skimples had been at Beauxbatons since Harry had started and he'd assumed they
were something of a permanent fixture in the ranks of magical creatures at the
academy. Barely larger than a rabbit, and resembling them too save for an
enormous third eye and long, cat-like tail, they were a favourite amongst the
students, especially the younger ones with a taste for all things cute and
fluffy. A taste that quickly diminished when the skimples grew a set of sabre-
like teeth when they'd breached the twelve-month age bracket.
"Yeah, that tends to happen. Not that Clytine's cold-hearted or anything – he
pretty much always sheds a tear or two when he has to give them up – but the
guy's a preacher of having a fast turnover to keep the students interested."
Harry nodded his understanding. Clytine was all about promoting his subject,
and the fast-paced curriculum and myriad of different creatures was a big
selling point. "So you're taking them?"
"For now, yeah. At least until we can rehome them with someone else. Galliver's
a preacher himself for spreading the magical creature love."
"Don't you need a permit for that sort of thing?"
"Absolutely," Ilias nodded fervently. "Or to be working in the industry, though
that's basically the same thing. Which is why Galliver always tries to fob off
his poor, misbegotten acquisitions to his workers."
Harry turned a smile to Ilias as Edelweiss butted his head with her broad snout
once more. Her words were exasperated, yet affection still beamed strongly
through. "Got your own menagerie, have you?"
"You could say that. Though I tend to have to have carnivores if I adopt any of
them, and most magical carnivores are a little hard to handle."
Frowning, Harry peered at the blue-haired woman questioningly. "Why only
carnivores?"
"'Cause of my Animagus form. I have a tendency to sleep in it." She grinned
wolfishly. "It's a omnivore tending towards carnivory, and any creature that
isn't what you'd call a 'higher-order thinker' like your pegasus would panic at
the sight of my changed form."
Off-handed. Just like that, Ilias dropped the little knowledge bomb into the
conversation. "You're an Animagus?" Ilias nodded, as though it were nothing
incredible. Which maybe it wasn't. After all, Harry had literally just been in
a class with learning Animagus'. "I thought you said you didn't like them."
"I don't like newbie Animagus," Ilias enunciated slowly. "There's a very
distinct difference."
"Ah, I see," Harry nodded with teasing solemnity.
"Which apparently you are," Ilias continued, her face becoming thoughtful,
"though from what I've seen you're not too bad."
"Um… I appreciate the compliment?" Harry replied, a question as he wasn't
entirely sure it was a compliment.
Ilias only nodded recognition of his reply. "I didn't get to see you transform,
though. What are you?"
Harry shook his head. "I don't know. I haven't been able to shift yet."
Raising an eyebrow, Ilias tilted her head. "What, struggling a bit?"
"I guess you could say that." Harry paused, raking his hands down Edelweiss'
cheeks – the highest point he could reach – as he considered continuing. Ilias
was surprisingly easy to talk to. Harry had once been terrible at conversing
with others and though a lot of that had faded with experience he was still far
from as adept as someone like Draco. Still, Ilias was the sort of approachable
that enabled easily flowing conversation without goading. Easy talk. Which was
probably why he didn't feel much compunction at all in admitting his
difficulty. "I was raised by Muggles till I was sixteen, didn't start learning
magic till then, and have sort of a transfiguration block."
Surprisingly, understanding dawned on Ilias' face. More understanding than
Clytine expressed and certainly more than Elmoré. "Ah, I see." She pursed her
lips thoughtfully. "You have trouble with all transfiguration?"
Harry considered, then shrugged. "Bits and pieces here and there."
"Like?"
"Like living to non-living. Or smaller to larger."
Ilias was nodding again, thoughtful consideration painting her plain features
and wrinkling her brow. "I can see where you might have a bit of trouble with
transforming into your Animagus form, then."
"You do?"
"Yeah. I'm Muggleborn. Had my own difficulties in the past, though I'm proud to
say I've overcome most of them."
Curious, Harry turned to face Ilias more fully. Edelweiss didn't seem to mind
his distraction; she was contentedly chewing on his collar. "Difficulties
like?"
"In terms of my Animagus form?" At Harry's nod, Ilias' smile became rueful once
more. "Well, there was this for one." She gestured with an index finger towards
her hair.
Harry frowned, confused. "Your hair?"
"It's dyed."
"Yeah, I figured as much."
Ilias snorted good-naturedly. "Well, most of the time when a witch or wizard
transfigures, they assume the pelage that their animal form naturally exhibits.
Mine… didn't."
Biting back a smile – he didn't think Ilias would mind his amusement, given her
own rather obvious display at the hilarity of the situation, but it was still
rude – he attempted to appear merely curious. "What is your Animagus form, if
you don't mind me asking?"
"A dhole."
"A what?"
"A dhole," Ilias repeated. "A type of dog. Or wolf, more accurately."
"A blue dog. Unusual."
"Well, actually, it was pink at the time."
"Even better, then."
Ilias chuckled. "My Animagus instructor was horrified. I'll carry the image of
his expression in my head for the rest of my life. Had me in stitches. But,"
and she paused, raising a finger in a teacher-like fashion before her, "my
point is that keeping my natural colouring, even dyed as it was, was the only
way that I could rationalise the transfiguration."
Harry regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. "So… you're saying that magic
just fixed the conflict that was blocking your transfiguration."
"You could think of it like that," Ilias replied, tilting her head slightly
from side to side and sucking a tooth. "Or you could think of it as magic just
letting my conscious rationality have its way for once."
Blinking slowly as he considered the suggestion, Harry turned his thoughtful
frown into Edelweiss' snout. Her warm breath felt warm to his cool cheek.
"Would that… do you think that could work with my problem?"
"Depends," Ilias hedged. "What is your problem, exactly?"
"I'm not sure if there is an exact problem. There's quite a few."
"Then just pick the primary one. You'll probably find that, when that one sorts
itself out, everything else falls into place."
"Alright," Harry paused, considering. "Well, I think one of my main problems
with transfiguration is the conservation of mass –"
"Not a problem," Ilias declared immediately, interrupting him.
"What?" Harry blinked at her, startled. "No, I… I don't think I explained it
right, what I'm saying is –"
"No, sorry, my fault. I think that came out wrong." Ilias hesitated considering
her words. "I mean, you're worried about the law of conservation of mass,
right? About either transfiguring into an animal larger or smaller than you.
Right?"
Harry nodded. "Right."
"Then that's easy." Ilias raised a hand in a blasé gesture of carelessness.
"Your Animagus form will just be the same mass as you are, even if the
distribution is alternative."
A frown steadily worked its way onto Harry's forehead. "But what if my animal
form is a different size? Wouldn't that make a difference?"
"Ah, I see your real problem," Ilias said, nodding her head in sudden
comprehension. "You've got it backwards. You're thinking that you won't be able
to fit into your Animagus form. It's actually the other way around."
"Meaning?"
"That your Animagus form will fit you." Shifting slightly in her slump against
the stall door, Ilias crossed one foot over the other. "That's the thing; if
this mass conservation is such a huge thing for you, then it will naturally
feature in your subconscious selection of your Animagus form. It's that
simple." And she shrugged, as though it really was.
Harry's felt his frown become thoughtful. Ilias really did make it sound
simple. "So if my Animagus form carried the same mass as me…"
"Makes your search a little easier, anyway." Ilias grinned in an abrupt
dissolution of the serious atmosphere. "Can't be that many that resound with
you and have vaguely the same size, right?"
"The size thing wasn't a problem for you, then?"
"Me? Nah, not really. Although," her grin became crooked, "you'll have to stop
talking to me about this or I might wake up one morning to find I can't
transfigure anymore."
"You're an Animagus, then?"
At the sound of the voice coming from the door, both Harry and Ilias glanced
towards the entrance to the stable. Neville strolled casually along the wide
path between the stalls, fingers wiping along his soil-stained robes in a
gesture that Harry recognised as meaning he'd had his hands unearthing plants
from pots all afternoon.
"You just about missed the entire conversation that explained as much but yes,
I am," Ilias replied good-naturedly. As Neville approached, she held out a
hand. "I'm Ilias."
"Neville," Neville replied, gingerly taking her hand in what was an obvious
attempt to keep her hands clean. An attempt that Ilias effectively thwarted in
her own fast grab for a handshake. She either didn't notice or didn't care that
her hand pulled away streaked in grime. "Wait, did you say Ilias?"
"That's my name," she replied cheerily.
"I think there's someone looking for you over by the arena. Tall bloke with a
broken nose."
Pushing herself off from the stall door, Ilias nodded gratefully to Neville's
words. "Ah, that'd be Michel. I'd say we're probably heading off." Turning
towards Harry, she fluttered her fingers towards him in a wave. "Nice meeting
you, 'Arry. Good to chat. All the best in your transfiguration."
Raising his own hand distractedly, Harry uttered a "Yeah, you too. And thanks,"
as Ilias turned on her heel and left. His mind was elsewhere however. Or, more
specifically, on Ilias' words. Could the situation really be that simple?
"She seemed nice. Helping you with your Animgus assumption, was she?" Neville
had his back to Harry as he watched her pass through the double doors of the
stables. "Who'd have thought? Animagus are cropping up everywhere. When you
meet one, the rest of them are more common than bees in a beehive, huh?"
Harry was barely listening, however, and as a slow smile crept across his face
he didn't really care if Neville was affronted by the fact. Maybe it is that
simple… and if it is, I think I might know…
"I don't get it, myself. The whole process just goes over my head a little I
think. Though I guess you're the same…"
Neville trailed off when he glanced over his shoulder. His eyes widened in
surprise, then excitement, and a broad grin spread across his face. Harry
couldn't blame him for cutting off mid-sentence; he hardly even noticed. For he
felt the ripple of magic surge through him, tingling all over his limbs in a
way not unlike the feeling of slipping silken robes from one's arms – cool,
smooth, sending a whole-body shiver over his skin.
And shrinking. Or at least falling of the ground onto four limbs instead of
two.
The shivers and magical embrace gradually faded from his frame and left a
jittery tremble in its wake. Harry's vision swam slightly, morphing and fuzzing
before pinging back into startling clarity like a rubber band snapped loose
from tautness. In that instant a disjointed emphasis of colours and shades
assaulted his eyes at the same time that the overpowering scent of the stables
bombarded him and the muffled sounds of pegasus in stalls and stable hands
outdoors echoed into startling volume.
Shaking his head to ease the strange assault, Harry wavered into stability and
grounded himself, gathering his bearings. Craning his head up towards Neville,
he was immediately met with the curiously prodding snout of Edelweiss reaching
down from her stall, ears pricked forwards inquisitively and snuffling his
cheek. Just behind him, disconcertingly tall, Neville was grinning with an
expression of sheer wonder. When he spoke his voice was distorted and loud.
"You did it! You actually did it, I can't believe – no wait, I can. Of course
you did it." He clapped his hands in a slow applause and threw his head back,
barking in laughter.
Harry grinned up at him to the best of his ability with a mouth that could no
longer smile.
===============================================================================
"You Malfoys. You never do anything by halves, do you?"
Turning his head from the conversation he'd been having with Hermione, Draco
raised a questioning eyebrow at Ron. "I beg your pardon?"
From the moment they had stepped on the grounds of the Parisian estate, Ron had
been off like a homing spell from a wand. Or perhaps a puppy feasting its
senses upon a novel environment. Though not quite running, Ron had certainly
departed from their small party in quick strides as they wandered up the
winding path towards to manor proper.
Such had been the way with Ron for quite some time. He seemed incapable of
standing still, as though to do so would be a waste of energy. Or of his own
two feet. The exact cause of this newfound foible of sorts could be drawn
precisely to the month's he'd spent in his levitating chair. Hermione often
mentioned fondly how Ron claimed it a waste of his now-mobile legs to not
invest significant effort in powering them to the extreme. Reportedly, he'd
even taking up running. As a hobby. The effects were quite noticeable,
actually. Ron appeared trim and fit in his trainee-auror garb, more apparent
without the thick red outer robe.
Draco couldn't fathom it. But then, he'd never been bereft of his legs.
"I mean," Ron reattempted, "that even though this is a secondary estate, you
still have to have one of the largest properties in France."
"It's hardly one of the largest properties in France."
"Your missing my point," Ron sighed, exasperated.
Draco and Hermione shared a smirk. The young woman was similarly dressed for
work – his friends had needed to depart directly after their hours finished to
catch the last portkey for the day. In contrast to Ron's comfortable, fitted
outfit, Hermione was clad purely Muggle in dress-trousers, white blouse and
trim black jacket buttoned at the waist. She looked quite the part of a
ministry representative, down to her polished black shoes. Even her hair had
been tamed into civility, drawn into a tight bun that Draco fancied rather
resembled McGonagall's. Hermione was far less severe, however, and her formal
attire instead gave of the impression of subdued intelligence and
approachability.
"That's just the majority of traditionalist purebloods, my friend," Blaise
spoke up from behind Draco, fallen back as he was to chatter inanely at Luna's
side. "You should see my uncle's property. Orchards as far as the eye can see
and puts this," he made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the sprawling
grounds and approaching manor, "to shame. A little cottage, this is."
"Cottage? Really?" Draco hooded his eyelids scathingly as he glanced over his
shoulder, but Blaise only nodded sincerely.
"We Zabini's, we're more prone to emulating castles in our architecture. Or
maybe palaces?"
"You 'Zabini's' are extravagant is what you are," Draco replied with an
admonishing tone. Blaise hardly seemed offended. On the contrary, he appeared
to take Draco's words as a compliment.
In contrast to Hermione and Ron's immersion into the rigid and procedure-driven
lives of ministry worker and auror respectively, Blaise was… not. Taking over
his uncle's business – in the far future, of course – did not appear to be
taxing in the slightest. Draco still couldn't work out what it was that Blaise
was training in – training in the loosest sense of the term it seemed, for when
asked even Blaise didn't seem to really know what he was doing. He just mumbled
something about international partners and goods exchange, though what goods
Draco hadn't been able to draw out of him.
Whatever he was doing, however, Draco could only be happy for his friend. In
the last year, Blaise had mellowed markedly, up to and perhaps beyond the
affable character that Draco had been friends with for most of his life.
Pansy's death – a death that still ached wistfully in Draco's chest but at a
significantly more manageable level than it had been – may have appeared to
have little to no effect on Blaise when he resumed his schooling in seventh
year. But Draco knew better, knew it in the moments when Blaise's brow crinkled
and he tightened his jaw, closing his eyes against some unseen horror. In the
following joviality that was just a little too loud, a little too animated, to
be entirely sincere. And in those occasional instances where Blaise had
appeared lost, looking around him for something that was no longer there before
shaking himself with the realisation of reality.
Now, Blaise was calmer. Happier, in a way that Draco hadn't seen before. He was
almost content, something that Draco had never quite considered to be possible
for Blaise. He had always seemed to be wholly in the exciting, too eager to
embrace the 'next big thing', to settle in any way. But content he appeared.
Casual. Laid-back.
Almost too laid-back in Draco's opinion. There was absolutely no reason for him
to be sporting dirt smeared and ripped jeans, a long-sleeved plaid shirt over a
white t-shirt that breathed informality. And yes, it may be warm, but were
flip-flops really appropriate? How much more Muggle could he be?
When first confronted with his friend at the International Portkey terminal,
Draco had raised a pointed eyebrow and pursed his lips. He hadn't needed to say
a word. From his spreading grin Blaise knew exactly what the issue was and
Draco's disapproval seemed to bother him not in the slightest. He had merely
shrugged one shoulder and exclaimed "What? I had a lazy day; had to go and pick
up Luna from school before we portkeyed over, so I told my uncle I needed the
day off."
To which Draco could only state with a sigh "Isn't every day a lazy day for
you?" The distinct lack of reply was answer enough on Blaise's part.
For herself, Luna looked nothing if not a befuddled seventh year student
unexpectedly abducted from school, a possibility not entirely unlikely when
Draco considered this was Blaise who had visited to pick her up. Or maybe that
was just her expression – she always did appear a little dazed, and her
confused, constant scanning of her surroundings could be construed as
inquisitive detachment. Still an oddball, as always, she was also still dressed
in her school uniform, despite the fact that Draco knew she'd had time to
change before Blaise picked her up. Draco wouldn't put it past her to have
forgotten the weekend trip entirely. Luna had been the one to plead with Draco
– yes, plead – to let her come for a visit, but that didn't mean she recalled
the begging incident itself.
"I quite like your house," Luna chimed in, offering an oddly supportive smile
to Blaise as her side.
Blaise rolled his eyes. "For the last time, you're not coming back."
"Blaise, I really think –"
"No. Not an option. You'll freak Mother out again."
Falling back beside the blonde girl, Draco's lips curled in amusement. "What's
this? What did you do?"
Luna turned towards him, waving her hand airily in a "nothing consequential"
gesture, while Blaise groaned loudly as though the very memory of the situation
pained him. "She started digging up Mother's flowerbeds. Looking for Smudge-
dungles or whatever –"
"Smudgeons," Luna corrected.
"- which would have been bad enough except that it was Mother's tulips that she
was poking around in."
"Oh no," Draco bit his lip, half in commiseration – no one touched Marquesa
Zabini's tulips – and half in an attempt to withhold his chortling. Not
entirely successfully, either. "Luna, how could you?"
"Smudgeons are a health hazard in spring," Luna explained, waving away Blaise's
fingers distractedly as he tried to poke her cheek. "They give you hayfever."
"For the last time, Luna, smudgeons don't exist," Hermione said wearily. Draco
got the impression that the discussion was one of many on the topic. "Hayfever
is a perfectly natural occurrence in spring –"
"That's why some people call it pollinosis," Blaise interrupted.
Ron, falling into step on Blaise's other side, nudged him with an elbow. "Big
words for someone with a monosyllabic vocabulary."
"Speak for yourself," Blaise replied, tilting his nose in the air.
"I'll be sure to check your garden for you, Draco," Luna offered, completely
oblivious to Hermione's resumed rant on the phenomena of allergic rhinitis.
"Just to be sure."
"That's very kind of you, Luna, but I'm sure the house elves have any Smudgeon
situation we may be experiencing well handled."
"House elvesplural," Ron butted in, leaning around Blaise and Luna to stare
pointedly at Draco. "You see what I mean? Completely over-the-top. Unnecessary.
In excess and, um…"
"Superfluous?" Hermione supplied. She was frowning at the mention of house
elves, but to Draco's relief didn't initiate a round of S.P.E.W. propaganda.
Her investment in that particular cause at least seemed to have declined
slightly since leaving school. Or maybe it was just that the issues of Muggle-
Wizard relations was just too consuming of brain-space.
"Exactly!" Ron agreed. "The Burrow's got nothing on this, and we get by just
fine. And there's only, what, two of you? Plus Harry?"
"Four altogether, if you count Severus," Draco revised. The comment elicited a
few smirks of its own; Blaise and Ron revelled in any chance to jibe at the
potential for Severus being Draco's 'future dad'. "But it's not like it's mine
or anything."
"What? What do you mean?" Ron's enthusiasm slipped into confusion.
"Well, it's not like I own it. The property is my mothers. And for the
foreseeable future, Harry and I will live with her."
There was a moment's silence as they continued walking, broken only by their
soft footsteps on smooth pavers. Sparing a glance for his friends as he took
the first step up onto the front patio, Draco frowned. Varying degrees of
incredulity fitted upon each face, even Luna's if only slightly. "What?"
Ron and Hermione exchanged meaningful glances, but it was Blaise that replied.
"Who are you and what have you done with Draco Malfoy?"
Scowling, Draco turned on the step, slightly elevated enough to gaze down even
upon Blaise's greater height. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, come on, Draco, you know you've always been a spoilt, arrogant little
sod," Ron said, his tone paradoxically affectionate. "And you just claimed that
this house was not yours but belongs to your mother?" A brief pause, before Ron
demanded, "Where's your sense of entitlement?!"
Scowl slipping in exchange for a roll of his eyes, Draco turned and continued
up the steps. "I guess you could say Harry's had a rather profound influence on
me."
"You can say that again," Ron muttered, but that was the last of it as they
followed Draco into the house.
Truth be told, Harry had been a remarkable influence on Draco. An influence
that he was only aware of when someone such as Ron pointed out the marked
changes from his past "spoilt, arrogant little sod" self as he so articulately
described him. Like his newfound interest in magical creatures, or his tendency
to wear Muggle clothing as often as, if not more than, wizards clothing. Like
his attitude towards Muggles in general, or respect for non-magical science. Or
the fact that he'd learned bloody French and could actually claim to be quite
taken with living in Paris.
That he presented a perhaps slightly less entitled front than that he used to
wear was just one of the many changes that Draco was aware he'd undergone, to
say nothing of those he was oblivious to, of which he was certain there must be
at least some. For really, it was hard not to quell such privileged beliefs in
the face of Harry's polar opposite attitude. It was almost a problem that Harry
never saw anything as being his own, with the exception of that which he'd
physically built with his own two hands. And even that was pushing it at times;
if Draco had to listen one more time to the fact that Harry "could hardly take
credit for the dinner when he'd simply gone and purchased the exact ingredients
from a store" and that "following a recipe didn't afford him onus", then Draco
feared he may start knocking his head against the nearest wall.
Hell, Harry's persistent reluctance to live at Malfoy Manor because it might be
"intruding upon Narcissa's space" had even begun to elicit an uneasy
consideration in Draco. Maybe they should find their own place? At least, he
felt uneasy until he'd suggested it to his mother and she had nearly dissolved
into tears at the prospect. And Narcissa was hardly one to cry. After that, and
prevailing the situation upon Harry, Draco's partner had eventually agreed to
their future residency.
For which Draco was quite satisfied with, actually. Wandering through the
atrium and down the primary hallway from the front door, he could even take a
detached moment to appreciate the whitewashed walls, the finesse put into the
welding of the artistic sconces and the intricate patterning of the cornices.
Even the floorboards in their mottled grain were an exemplary demonstration of
prestigious woodwork. And he didn't snort and look down his nose at his
friend's comments of appreciation, of Hermione's open-mouthed wonder at the
open rooms and modest but refined upholstery or Luna's dreamy recognition of
the skill of the artists whose works hung from the walls. Even Ron, for all of
his degrading attitude towards Draco's "rich-boy estate" appeared wistfully
appreciative as he followed Draco's lead towards the back patio.
Stepping onto the outdoor area, the small party immediately fell into a flurry
of action. Cries of welcome and exclamations of "Finally!" sprung from Neville
and Ginny as the pair descended upon the new arrivals. Ginny flung herself onto
Hermione and Luna both in a three person embrace while Neville, only slightly
less jubilant, exchanged slaps on the back and one-armed hugs with the rest of
the young men before being dragged into the arms of Hermione, who somehow
managed to extricate herself from Ginny's enthusiastic clutches.
"It feels like I haven't seen you in forever!"
"Talk about taking your time, Ginny and I have practically eaten all of the
gingerbread."
"Sorry, I didn't get off work till five –"
"By which he means he was got distracted talking to Jigson about the Cannons
again."
"Hey!"
"No harm, no foul. Hold on, I'll call for some more tea. Dippy!"
Glancing around as his party of friends moved back towards the single yet
admittedly expansive round glass table at one end of the patio, Draco cocked an
eyebrow at Neville questioningly. Before he could breathe a word, however, Luna
beat him to it.
"Where's Harry?"
Pausing in his tussle with Blaise for prime seating positioning before the
cookie bowl, Neville glanced towards her. "Hmm?" He growled a moment later when
Blaise managed to assume said seat, and promptly threw himself heavily down
upon his friend, much to the distress of Blaise apparently, who uttered a
muffled cry from beneath him.
"Harry," Draco reiterated, taking a step backwards towards the hallways indoors
to peer inside, as if to simply check behind him might conjure his partner.
"Oh, yeah," Neville grunted heavily as Blaise finally heaved him into the next
chair. Around him, Ron and the girls found their own seating. "He's… around."
Which, naturally, made Draco immediately suspicious. "Around?"
"That's very cryptic of you, Nev," Blaise commented through the crumbs of a
biscuit he'd shoved into his mouth.
"Is something wrong?" Hermione blinked in rising alarm, abruptly sitting up
straight in her seat.
"Oh, it's not anything wrong," Neville drawled, and Draco suspicion immediately
intensified. Neville was not the subtlest of individuals. "He's just about. Was
with Lyssy, last I saw. Chasing each other round…"
"Chasing?" Ron grinned crookedly. "What is he, a two-year-old?"
"I wouldn't say two," Neville continued, tilting his head to the side in
obviously feigned thoughtfulness. A smile quivered on his lips. No, Draco
considered, he was not subtle at all. "But he's certainly got the energy of a
toddler. Hasn't sat still all afternoon. Racing around like a loon."
"Harry?" Blaise slouched back in his chair, sceptical. "Our Harry?" Draco
couldn't blame him. Harry was quite possibly the calmest, most sedate people
he'd ever met.
Neville nodded, the smile cracking through. "I suppose you could even say it's…
inhuman."
It took barely a moment for Draco to realise the connotations of Neville's
words. As exclamations of bafflement and frowns of confusion burst from the
rippled of his friends, Draco felt a wide smile split his face.
Through the rising volume of questions, he uttered a questioning, "You mean he
finally…?"
Neville's broad grin in reply and vigorous nod was all Draco needed for
confirmation. An instant later he spun on his heel and raced back indoors. The
cries of "What? What is it?" followed him, as well as Luna's practical "Oh… I
wonder what he is?"
Trust Luna to have realised it straight away too.
Pulling his wand from his pocket, Draco muttered a quick "Point-Me-Harry"and an
instant later bolting towards the atrium and up the main stairwell at the
direction of the Finder Charm. Harry would have raised an eyebrow at the use of
the spell, murmuring a quiet "was that really necessary?" when Draco could just
have easily searched with his eyes and own two feet. But this was exciting. And
though Draco had learned to appreciate doing the little things, the manual
tasks – there was something so much more satisfying about brushing ones teeth
with a toothbrush rather than using a dental Mundum Charm – it hardly seemed
the time to abide by one of Harry's unspoken suggestions that were basically
rules.
His Finder lead him up another flight of stairs to his own suites, and Draco
had to admit in the logical corner of his mind that he probably could have
anticipated the location quite easily without the use of magic. Poking his head
through the door, he cast a quick scan of the room.
No Harry. Or any other weird and wonderful creature whose shape he may be
assuming.
There was Lyssy, however, sitting placidly before the open doors of the
veranda. As he entered the room, she drew her gaze from the veranda and blinked
up at him. Those strangely intelligent eyes seemed somehow smug; Draco didn't
need to be wearing the counterpart to the communication collar to realise that.
She was far too smart for a simple cat – even for a Familiar, he considered –
and proved it once more by turning back towards the open doors and nodding her
head.
What had the world been like when cat's had been simply cats and not figures of
guidance and magical influence? Draco couldn't remember.
He saw him as soon as he stepped outside, though really it would have taken a
blind man to overlook him. Stretched along the wide sandstone balustrade, head
and front paws hanging over the end, the unbroken blackness of his fur
contrasted brilliantly with the reflective whiteness of the stone beneath him.
Small ears twitching at what Draco realised were a trio of birds on the
overhang beneath the veranda – evidently what was consuming his attention –
flicking in tandem with the sweeping of an strangely long, thick tail. He would
have been intimidating, simply because of his size, except for the fact that…
well, surely something so fluffy couldn't really be dangerous. Surely not.
It was almost funny, how well the figure of the giant cat suited Harry. Long,
lean and flexible limbs, the elegant rise of his jutting shoulder blades, the
rich thickness of dark pelt. Even the not-quite-stillness of his carriage. He
seemed to embody gracefulness without trying.
He was beautiful. But then Draco always thought Harry was beautiful. Why would
his Animagus form be any different?
"I should have guessed you would be a cat." Draco paused, considering. "Well,
truth be told, I kind of expected it."
At his words, the giant cat raised his head and glanced over his shoulder with
whip-fast speed. Harry's startling green eyes met his own over a broad, flat
nose and bearded cheeks, familiar yet different for their placement in the face
of a cat.
In an instant, Harry rose onto his feet, perched on his haunches and, in a
disconcerting ripple effect, shed the skin of the cat. With a brevity that
defied the complexity of the act, Harry, Draco's Harry, sat in place of the
incredible beast, familiar, petite features replacing the feline countenance,
pale skin where fur had covered. He swung his legs slightly as they hung from
the balustrade, a smile blossoming on his lips.
"Truth be told, I kind of expected it too."
Stepping onto the veranda, Draco sauntered towards his partner, pausing just
before him to lean forward and place both hands on the balustrade either side
of him. He smirked up into Harry's face, the balustrade elevating him taller
than Draco for once. Barely half a foot stood between them. "And yet you seemed
so disinclined to assume it. I would have conceded the delay if you had been an
ugly cat, perhaps, but…" Running his eyes down Harry's naked figure, pale skin
aglow in the afternoon light. He raised a pointed eyebrow. "I expect this will
be a recurring issue?"
"What, the absence of clothes?"
Draco nodded. "Not that I'm complaining particularly, but if you ever wanted to
shift in anywhere remotely public it might draw a few eyes."
"Well, what do you expect?" Harry cocked his head as though genuinely curious.
"Where exactly would a leopard stow my clothes when I wore its shape?"
Choosing to ignore the question as rhetorical, Draco leant forward until not
two inches separated their faces. "Is that what you were then? A leopard?"
Harry nodded, though shrugged one shoulder a moment later. "Snow leopard. Or at
least that's what Clytine suggests. From the shape and all. Though obviously my
pelage is a different morph to what is natural."
"Obviously," Draco replied with a grin. "Though personally, I quite like it.
Besides, you match Lyssy. I suppose that's because of your, what do you call
it…?"
"Problem?"
"Hardly a problem." Draco waved away the term with a waft of one hand.
Harry laughed again. The sound was pure delight. It seemed that not even the
trials he had faced attempting to fulfil the form dissuaded him from
appreciating the outcome. "Yeah, I guess you could say that. Managed to work my
way around it, though."
"And that," Draco leant in closer, pressing a brief kiss upon Harry's lips, "is
a story you'll have to save for later."
"Hmm?" Harry blinked down at him, puzzled and pausing in the act of settling an
arm around Draco's neck.
"We have guests."
"Oh. Oh! I completely forgot! I just got distracted –"
"Understandably. You were a cat watching birds."
"- and I must have lost track of the time." Peering down around him as though
gauging the distance to the veranda floor from his perch – it was high enough
that it would take a slight jump on his part – Harry spared Draco a glance.
"Are they all here? Already?"
Which was, of course, the precise moment that Blaise decided to interrupt them.
"Hello! Finally found – oh, hey, a little warning next time," taking only one
step out onto the veranda, Blaise immediately stumbled back inside. "You might
want to tell a bloke when you're going starkers, Harry."
"To be fair, you were the one that invaded our suite," Draco drawled, biting
back a chuckle at both Blaise's reaction and the flush that quickly flooded
Harry's cheeks. He shrugged out of his outer robe and handed it to Harry as his
partner slipped down from the balustrade.
"Oh, so it's 'our' suite now, is it?" Blaise poked his head around the doorway
and wriggled his eyebrows. He waved a hand at Harry in greeting, nodding his
chin. "Ciao, Harry. Long time no see. And I can't say that I didn't appreciate
what I have seen to make up for such time apart." Another wiggle of his
eyebrows sent Harry's blush spiralling into an even deeper red and huddling
himself further into Draco's robe. For all of his misgivings about the
situation, Draco found it incredibly adorable.
Rising to his speechless partner's defence, Draco sighed in exasperation.
"Would you mind not ogling Harry, Blaise? If you're so desperate for a
boyfriend – or girlfriend, as I know you're more partial to the feminine sex –
then go and find one for yourself."
Blaise pouted. "Aw, but no one suits me. Can't find the right bird. I'd always
prefer to snog someone I knew and was close to anyway. None of that casual
affair shit."
"Then date Luna. You know her –"
"Luna? Blurgh!" Blaise looked horrified at the prospect, which Draco thought
rather cruel until he continued. "I could hardly corrupt such a sweet, gentle
soul as Luna. It would be… it would be…"
Glancing over his shoulder at Harry, who appeared to be using him as a shield
of sorts, Draco tilted his head in a pointed nod towards Blaise. "What do you
think? Going to happen?"
The flush finally died slightly from Harry's cheeks as his smile returned.
"Definitely."
"No, not definitely! I could hardly contemplate it. She's like a – a good
friend. A little sister!"
"Now, now, you shouldn't refer to future girlfriends as your sister Blaise,"
Draco reprimanded soothingly. "That would make your relationship seem
incestuous."
"She's not my – she's not going to be my –"
"I never thought of Blaise to be one so stubbornly in denial," Harry murmured
just loud enough to be heard.
Draco had to bite back a chuckle of laughter as Blaise flicked his glance
between the two of them, mouth opening and closing as he fought to produce
words. From the slight trembles he felt from Harry pressed to his back, he
thought he wasn't the only one.
Finally Blaise released a strangled groan. "You two are ridiculous. How could
you even -?"
"Denial is an sorry sight to behold," Draco sighed with dramatic sorrow. "What
do you think, Harry? I give it at least fifty-fifty that they'll be an item
before Christmas."
"Hmm… I'd bump that up to sixty-forty, actually," Harry replied, doing a good
job of false seriousness.
Blaise uttered another crackling groan, his eyes blown wide in continued
horror, before throwing both hands into the air and spinning on his heel to
disappear back inside. A distant "Unbelievable!" rung through the room before
the door to their suite was, graciously, slammed shut.
Finally releasing his bottled laughter, Draco reached behind him to wrap and
arm around Harry's shoulders, drawing him into his side. "You really think it's
going to happen?"
Harry shrugged, dropping his head to Draco's shoulder. "I think it's got about
as much chance of happening as it does of being the last possible relationship
on earth. They're so different, the two of them."
"That could work in their favour." It did for us, Draco added silently. And
though he kept the thought to himself, he was sure Harry heard it too.
"Stranger things have happened." Harry smiled fondly, and there was such
affection on his face that, even though it wasn't directed towards him, Draco
felt his heart swell in his chest. He dropped a kiss onto Harry's temple,
slipping into a two-armed embrace and tightening his hold.
"You're incredible, you know that?"
Draco didn't know what he was talking about exactly. It could be the boundless
love, the tolerance for the whims of his friends. It could be the skill of
becoming an Animagus, a skill that to Draco bordered on the impossible. Or it
could simply be that Harry was.
Turning his face up to Draco's, Harry smiled questioningly. It had taken a
while for him to receive such compliments without immediately countering them,
but even though the dubiousness remained in his eyes Draco was contented that
he no longer shrunk from his words. He even smiled as he leaned upwards for
another kiss.
"You know what? So are you."
Draco didn't deny it, though whether that was for any truth of the words or
because his lips were otherwise occupied remained to be seen.
***** A Time For Joy *****
"You are jealous."
Draco turned his glare upon Tali. A lesser person would have quailed beneath
such intense ferocity, but Tali simply found it amusing. Because it was. He was
like an indignant oversized parrot, his feathers all ruffled. Tali found few
things in life more satisfying that prodding Draco into disgruntlement.
"I am not jealous."
"Yes. Yes, you are. And denying it only makes you seem more guilty."
Scowling with a curl of his lip, Draco shifted his regard back to Harry and
Ophelia. His scowl only deepened the longer he stared. He seemed positively
writhing at the image that they made.
And they did make quite a sight, the two slight figures conversing quietly not
twenty feet away before the little café. Harry was the type of person to
attract attention when he didn't realise it, with his distraction stripping the
layers of guardedness from his exterior to reveal an unusual but nonetheless
eye-catching presence beneath. He was like a rough gem, unpolished and
unassuming when he veiled himself, only to shine with brightness and purity
when his bashful veils fell away. It was so rarely seen that even Tali found
herself a little enchanted.
Ophelia was another hidden gem, though one more likely overlooked for her
diminutive size. Somehow, she managed to look more petite than Harry. Even
shorter than he, the porcelain doll-like girl drew attention instead because of
her shyness. Large, downcast eyes, a cascade of straight, copper hair that hung
to her elbows and skin so pale it seemed to glow in the midday sun. No one
would ever guess that Ophelia loved nothing more than to play-wrestle with her
pet sheep dog and had grown up on a farm mucking stalls and feeding livestock.
At least she did according to Harry.
The two of them together looked like a scene from one of those tourist
postcards. It was no wonder that Draco was disgruntled.
Not that Draco didn't make quite a sight himself, Tali contemplated. Tall and
lean, his dark robes hugged his figure to the best advantage, offering hints of
a naturally well-defined frame beneath, only enhanced by the prestige that came
from being a scholar of Ancient Runes. And that was to say nothing of his
classical features; Tali had heard of likening certain individuals to Roman
gods in the past, and when she was able to overlook the sheer pompousness he
adopted in public she could believe the accuracy of such analogies. No one
should rightly have such perfectly symmetrical features and it was simply a
crime that he managed to achieve immaculate golden locks of pure silk while
Tali had been blessed with a rather depressing array of wiry curls.
Not that Draco looked to be particularly favoured at the moment. With each
passing second, his expression darkened until Tali became convinced that
passing wizards and witches were giving them a wide birth for the malevolent
aura that emitted from him in waves.
Sighing at the disruption of her fun, Tali raised a hand to nonchalantly study
her fingernails. "Calm down, Draco, honestly. Ophelia is just someone from
Eastmonde. Zey are talking about work."
Draco's frown didn't lift, but at least it halted in any further descent.
"She's from Eastmonde?"
"Oui. Zey will be working togezer come next month. And trust me, you 'ad better
get used to ze idea of zem talking, as it will be 'appening quite a lot wizout
your constant supervision." She couldn't keep the mirth from her voice and
Draco likely heard it for his scowl flickered to her briefly once more.
Before he could even open his mouth, however, Tali continued. "Besides, you
should not be jealous of Ophelia. She is not interested in 'Arry, not zat way,
and even is she was 'Arry's about as straight as a pretzel. I zought you'd know
zat, at least."
The analogy to Vivi's favourite Muggle snack seemed to stump Draco momentarily.
"A pretzel?"
"If you were going to get possessive and jealous," Tali continued, ignoring his
question as another predatory taunt rose in her mind, "I suggest you be more
concerned for Andre from school."
"Andre?" Draco was starting to sound a bit like a parrot instead of just
looking like one.
"Oui. 'E 'ad something of an schoolboy crush on 'Arry all zrough sixth year. I
believe 'e even wished to pursue a career with magical creatures because 'Arry
was doing so. You 'ad best be careful."
Which, of course, was the final crushing blow to Draco. Tali couldn't quite
keep her merriment from showing at the widening of Draco's eyes, the expression
of absolute horror that slackened his jaw and drew his eyebrows downward. It
was really just too easy to push his buttons.
It wasn't true, of course. Oh, Andre had once had – and likely still did – a
debilitating crush on Harry, one that Tali firmly believed, though Harry
denied, was a large part of his interest in magical creatures. But Draco hardly
needed to 'be careful'. Anyone with half a brain – which even Andre possessed –
could tell that Harry was well and truly head-over-heels in love with Draco. He
had rarely spoken of him at school; he didn't have to. Whether it was a magical
phenomenon or simply the atmosphere that shrouded him, Harry had always
breathed a very 'taken' impression.
But even if Andre had been cause to worry once, he was hardly of concern now.
Harry had never been close to the tall, thin boy from Papillonlisse, despite
how hard Andre tried to remedy the fact, and since finishing school nearly a
month ago Tali knew they hadn't contacted one another once. Not that Tali could
really blame either of them for not doing so. The post-school engagement in
determining 'what to do with one's life' had everyone firmly within their
grasp.
Harry had a traineeship under Galliver at Eastmonde Sanctuary. Of course he
did; why wouldn't he manage to fall into the doting embrace of one of France's
leading magical creatures experts? Not that Tali wasn't happy for him. Far from
it, she had been nearly as excited as him when Harry had received his letter
reply of acceptance. Even if she was perhaps a little envious, the
disgruntlement couldn't hold a candle to the enthusiasm that radiated from the
usually quiet young man. That evening had been the most talkative Tali had ever
heard her friend.
For herself, Tali was on the brink of accepting a position in the Iberian
Leviathan Protection Project – or the ILPP – that sought to protect the
threatened creature that had taken up residence off the coast of Barcelona. It
was a long-winded project with little to no experience necessary except for a
N.E.W.T. in magical creatures studies and an enthusiasm for aquatic beasts.
Tali could hardly maintain her envy of Harry when she felt such enthusiasm for
her own potential position. For potential it was; she only had to post a reply
and it would be hers. Tali had always harboured a fondness for marine
creatures, and the bigger the better. What could be more exciting then
potentially endangering herself for the protection and conservation of an
aggressive sea monster? Nothing, that's what. She would have already sent her
owl had it not been for one small detail, one aspect of the position that she
wasn't yet so certain of. Something that seemed even more daunting than facing
potential consumption by a leviathan.
Shaking off the brooding concern that threatened to descend, Tali adopted an
expression of bright cheer as Harry, waving to Ophelia as she turned down the
street, wandered back towards them. His thoughtful expression immediately
became concerned when his gaze flickered to Draco.
Wandering slowly within earshot, Harry glanced up from his thoughtfulness to
immediately ducked his head slightly, peering worriedly at his boyfriend. A
frown settled upon his brow. "Draco? Are you alright?"
Draco, to his credit, made an admirable attempt at composing himself. Even if
it wasn't quite successful. "Everything alright? Something about work?"
Harry regarded Draco with his deepening frown before replying slowly. "Yes.
Fine. We were just talking about setting up a meeting with Ilias sometime
before starting, to have a visit of the Sanctuary." He didn't look like he was
fooled by Draco's attempts at diversion at all.
As the altruistic person that she was, Tali stepped in to patch up the
situation. It had nothing at all to do with the faintly humour-ridden guilt
that nudged at her like a persistent elbow for so provoking Draco. "Ophelia is
just as nervous as you, zen?"
Sighing as he shifted his attention to Tali instead, Harry rolled his eyes.
"For the last time, I'm not nervous –"
"Sure you are not. Zat's why you've sent nearly a 'undred letters to Ilias and
Galliver in the past week, studied every possible paper zat's been churned out
of ze place, and know every animal zey currently 'ave on site by name, age, and
exact physique description."
"So? That's normal for a new employee. I'm just acquainting myself with –"
"Zere's two-'undred and zirteen creatures zere, 'Arry. I 'ardly zink zat
Galliver will expect you two know all of zem before you even begin."
"I'm just getting prepared –"
"You got ze position five days ago, 'Arry. Calm down or I shall 'ave to sit on
you again."
Harry snorte, but didn't object further and instead fell into step beside Tali
and Draco as they resumed their walk out of Wizarding Paris. He spared a glance
for Draco, but from what Tali could determine the taller young man had regained
most of his composure. Even the deadly aura of doom that had previously swamped
him seemed to have dissipated slightly with Harry's return.
Enough for him to slip his hand easily into Harry's when Harry reached for it.
Such a love-struck pair, even after being together for over two years. God
forbid that they might not be holding hands for all of two minutes. And Harry
had been talking to Ophelia for nearly five!
Rolling her eyes, Tali led the way down the increasingly crowded street towards
the nearest Apparation point. They were spending the evening at Harry's
godfather's house. Sirius always bemoaned that Harry didn't visit enough,
though whenever Tali read such complaints over Harry's shoulder as he scanned
Sirius' letters he waved them off. According to Harry, Sirius was very much
occupied in his new job as an Auror de Paris, at least when he wasn't cuddling
up to Anouk. Tali had seen the evidence of the latter with her own eyes. It
came as no surprise nearly two months ago when they'd announced their
engagement. The biggest surprise was that it had taken them so long. In terms
of single-minded adoration for one another, Tali had only seen their rivals in
Harry and Draco.
Cracking into existence before the modest single-story flat now currently owned
by one Sirius Black, Tali led the way up the paved path between rows of
overgrown shrubs. Sirius wasn't a gardener – he didn't even know the most
rudimentary of gardening spells, though Harry and Anouk had both reportedly
attempted to teach them to him – and it was probably a blessing that the front
yard was barely large enough for a table and chairs. Otherwise Tali thought
that they would likely be wading through a jungle to reach the front door.
Draco appeared to be of a like mind as Tali for he snorted and quipped a
scathing, "Sirius still can't manage a simple Tondendas Charm then?"
Glancing over her shoulder, Tali saw Harry frown at him over his own shoulder
as he followed Tali. They'd had to release their handhold to step up the path
or risk becoming sucked into the long grasses on either side of them. "Is that
such a problem? He says he likes the grass long."
"He 'likes the grass long' because he can't work out how to magically mow it,"
Draco replied smugly.
"And I suppose you're an expert in the field of magical gardening?" The pitch
of Harry's voice told Tali exactly what he thought on that subject. "Had a lot
of reason to perform Shearing Charms have you?"
Tali bit her lip to hold back a giggle at the sound of Draco's self-righteous
sniff. "At least I'm capable of doing as much."
"Then by all means." Glancing over her shoulder once more as she ascended the
steps up the little front veranda, Tali caught sight of Harry's inviting
gesture to the overgrown greenery.
Draco just managed to remedy his expression of distaste – he looked a little
overwhelmed at the prospect suggested to him – before sniffing once more. "If
Sirius can't be arsed to tame his front garden himself, then he should get a
house elf. I hardly think it reasonable to assume that I'd do it for him."
Tali shook her head and walked up to the front door. It opened easily for her;
Sirius never used the lock, favouring Detection Charms that cast out unwelcome
intruders instead. Tali had been keyed into the charms for as long as she'd
know Sirius. Or at least until Sirius had overcome his initial wariness of her.
He was like that.
Harry and Draco followed her indoors, still bantering with one another. It
spoke fallacy of the strain in Draco and Sirius' relationship that he too was
keyed into the wards. Harry had told her that, once upon a time when Draco and
Sirius had been even more at each other's throats than they were now, Harry's
godfather had gone so far as to bar him from entry to his house. Briefly, of
course, as Harry refused to come in doors if Sirius kept "acting like a child".
Sirius had eventually let Draco in, though that hadn't stopped him from
repeating his attempts each time Draco visited. At least for the first few
months, anyway.
Now, Tali was fairly certain they were on moderately good terms. Or at least
not trying to rip each other apart at any given opportunity. On the few
instances Tali had been party to their exchanges, they still exchanged clipped
words that bordered on nastiness but to her at least it seemed like they
actually quite enjoyed themselves. As though they revelled in the chance to
exchange verbal blows with someone who could withstand their force. Harry
apparently felt the same, for he didn't bat an eyelid at such exchanges
anymore.
"Hé, MonsieurBlack! Are you 'ome yet?" Tali's voice rung through the stillness
of the house, bouncing off walls before returning to her without a reply.
"He said he was picking up dinner on the way back," Harry informed her as they
filed into the living room past the closed bedroom doors. As one they settled
into plump couches arranged in a half-circle and consuming most of the room.
Draco immediately reached for the television remote and switched on the light-
box with a deliberate press of the red button. Muffled sounds of jovial voices
filled the room. Tali rolled her eyes as she slumped back into her single
armchair. For someone who had grown up without the wonders of Muggle
technology, Draco was certainly making the most of the adaptations French
techno-magicians were conducting on the objects. Tali was not completely
unfamiliar with the devices herself – she hadn't been living under a rock – but
that didn't mean she leapt at every chance to press a button of click an
appliance into life.
They chattered lightly in the living room as the afternoon sun faded, watching
but not really seeing the show playing – some soap about a doctor and his long-
lost fiancée, apparently – and simply relaxing in one another's company. There
was a time where such would have been largely impossible, if not unfathomable.
Tali and Draco hadn't gotten off to a swimming start, mostly because they were
two very similar personalities in terms of stubbornness and willingness to bend
to accommodate those around them. Time had healed that. Or maybe it was just
simply that that same stubbornness insisted they become friends or risk Harry's
displeasure. Which wouldn't have seemed like such a big thing to someone who
knew Harry only slightly well. His friends knew better.
"I still can't believe that Luna was the first one to do it," Draco muttered.
His feet, free of their shoes, were propped across Harry's lap in a casual
slouch that would have left most people blinking in astonishment at the sheer
contrast to his public stateliness. Tali had witnessed the transition too many
times for it to surprise her anymore, however. Not that she ever admitted to
being surprised in the first place.
"It doesn't surprise me."
Draco snorted, nudging Harry's belly with a heel of one foot until Harry batted
it away. "I don't believe you. This is Luna."
"Exactly. You might think she's a little odd –"
"A little odd?"
" –but she's a very strong and decisive person. When she makes a decision, she
goes for it."
"I can believe zat," Tali chimed in. She'd only met Luna twice but she quite
liked the girl and her quirkiness. And even after such limited exposure she
could realise the truth of Harry's words. Maybe Draco was just being pointedly
obtuse?
"Quite, sheep, you'd just agree to what Harry says."
"I would not, and if you are going to liken me to an animal, at least restrict
it to my Animagus form." Tali pouted indignantly.
Lifting himself up slightly in his seat, Draco shot her a raised eyebrow. "That
would hardly be an insult. It's your soul's animal form. It's not like you're
going to hate it."
"Exactly my point."
"You're not making any sense." Draco fell back into his slouch with a huff.
"I'm starting to think you just natter meaningless replies when you know you're
beaten."
"Just like changing ze topic is your way of avoiding admitting defeat?"
"I'm not defeated –"
"Really? Must we?" Harry broke in with an exasperated sigh. "I'd hoped we'd
moved past the bickering of ten year olds."
"Ten year olds zis time?" Tali cocked her head in false surprise.
In unspoken collaboration, Draco similarly regarded Harry questioningly.
"What's this, have we grown past your usual likening of us to six year olds?"
He turned an incredulous gaze towards Tali. "You hear that, Tali? We've just
aged four years!"
Tali couldn't hold back the snicker as Harry sighed again, closed his eyes and
touched a hand to his forehead. "You two are as bad as each other."
"Do not insult me."
"Hardly, Harry. She's got nothing on my charm."
"Shut up, the pair of you."
Both Tali and Draco descended into further snickering. Harry regarded them both
with narrow eyes, but couldn't quite withhold his own smile.
It was Draco who recovered first, and he abruptly switched back to their
forgotten conversation. "Seriously, though, I would never have picked Blaise to
fall to Luna's charms."
Harry shifted the feet on his lap. "Wasn't it you who claimed fifty-fifty?"
"I would 'ave guessed seventy-zirty," Tali murmured.
"Yes, it was, but I thought that if it was going to happen then Blaise would
have been the one to initiate it. He's got to be one of the most assertive
people I've ever met."
"Ah, but assertiveness does not always correlate with quick-zinking," Tali
informed, holding up a finger. "Blaise is friendly enough, but 'e does seem a
little slow in some areas."
"Tell me about it," Draco agreed, smirking. "You should have seen him with
Pansy. Pansy…" He paused, and an expression of sorrow flickered over his
features for a moment. Tali felt her smile die in sympathy; she might go head-
to-head with Draco, abusing every weakness he dared to reveal, but even she was
not so heartless as to provoke him in this instance. Harry had told her of
Pansy and she knew their old friend had been close to Draco. Even if more than
two years had passed, her absence was obviously still deeply felt.
Draco shook off his slump after a moment and plastered a half-smile on his face
that gradually settled from artificiality into naturalness. "They were
hopeless, the pair of them. Pansy had been eyeing him for years but Blaise was
too oblivious to realise it. I never did ask which one of them made the first
move."
"It was Pansy," Harry affirmed, a fond smile on his own face though wistful
sadness similarly touched his lips. "Apparently Millicent was sniffing around
him and she saw her as a… threat."
Draco's eyebrows rose before he let out at burst of laughter. "Should have
known. Of course Pansy would have been the one to do it." He clicked his
tongue. "Well, if I'd known that, I might not have been so surprised with the
Luna Situation. I wonder what pushed her into making a move?" He paused and
shook his head minutely, incredulity apparent. "Luna. Making a move. Can't
imagine it."
Harry shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe Blaise was being his usual flirt and Luna
saw the need to act."
"Yes, jealousy does urge people into some rather forward acts at times," Tali
pondered aloud, her gaze drifting with discrete purposefulness towards Draco.
The glare that he sent her was enough to inform her that he wasn't ignorant of
the reference to their discussion during Harry's occupation with Ophelia early
that afternoon.
"I don't think there would have really been a need to act so forwardly if she
wasn't comfortable with it," Harry rationalised. "I don't know, I might be
looking upon the past with skewed vision, but I get the feeling Blaise wouldn't
have really started anything with anyone besides Luna."
"Oh, I do not know, 'Arry. Sometimes, when ze option is zere and ze one you
care about isn't, it may lead to a natural beginning." Her gaze was still
fastened upon Draco, who was savagely spearing her with the daggers shooting
from his eyes.
Harry finally appeared to pick up on the silent communication between them that
he'd been overlooking. His cast his own baffled frown to Tali. "What are you
talking about?"
Smiling in self-satisfaction, Tali nodded her head towards Draco. "Oh, I'm sure
Draco would love to tell you."
"Shove off, Nataliha," Draco grumbled, resorting to her full name in
irritation. But Tali was having too much fun to even care at that point.
"What?" Harry shifted his attention to Draco, his voice curious but with an
underlying demand that left Tali delightfully squirming to see focused upon
someone other than herself for a change. "Draco, what's she talking about?"
Draco wouldn't budge. He even went so far as to sink further into his slouch on
the couch, folding his arms across his chest. So, naturally, Tali couldn't help
herself. "Nothing particular, 'Arry. Draco and I were just talking earlier of
Andre. You remember Andre, from school?"
The groan of exasperation that Harry uttered, closing his eyes and letting his
head fall onto the back of the sofa, made Tali laugh out loud. So she was a bit
of a sadist when it came to tormenting her friends. So what?
"Tali, really? Did you have to?" Tali shrugged, grinning as he opened one eye
and glared at her. He turned to Draco. "What did she tell you?"
"Not much, only ze bare minimum, I assure you," Tali replied before Draco could
with a sing-song lilt to her tone.
Both boys turned their glares back upon her. "Must you, Nataliha?"
"I simply must, Draco," Tali beamed. "You know it is ze only way I can achieve
my daily quota of amusement."
"Amusement? Is that how you see it?" Harry muttered, folding his arms. Tali
might even have felt guilty at annoying her friend if his expression wasn't
more frustrated resignation than truly angry.
"Of course. What else would it be for?"
"I don't know, maybe you're compensating for something?" Draco's lip curled in
more of a snarl than a smile. Unlike Harry, his own anger was evidently not
losing a competition against the inevitable acceptance.
"Draco," Harry warned.
"No, I'm serious. Are your own attempts at confessing your feelings to the one
you care about failing so dismally that you have to take it out on everyone
else's relationships?"
It was a low blow. Tali even felt herself physically flinch from the words, as
though struck. Draco didn't look the slightest bit ashamed of his dig, even
with Harry's reprimanding glare turned upon him. And to be honest, Tali
couldn't really blame him.
Maybe I was pushing them a little too far.
Still, acknowledgement of her own wrongdoing did nothing to lessen the sting of
Draco's words. That they weretruthful. And that maybe she was compensating for
something.
Thankfully, at that moment, the click of the front door opening and the stomp
of feet signalled the arrival of Sirius and Anouk. And if that wasn't
indication of their presence enough, the bellow of "I… have… PIZZA!" certainly
was.
Tali latched onto the distraction as though it were a rescue buoy thrown to a
drowning sailor. Pushing herself up from her seat and hastening past Harry and
Draco – who had fallen into a hushed and rapid exchange that she chose not to
hear – she headed towards the door.
At her appearance in the hallway, Anouk, slipping her shoes off at the side of
the door, exclaimed in joy. Her rapid-fire French was a welcome comfort to the
sickly feeling that had settled into Tali's gut. "Tali! How wonderful to see
you! I didn't know you were visiting for dinner."
Approaching her, Tali pasted a smile on her face and leant in to air-kiss her
cheeks. "Hi, Anouk. It's been a while. Did you get a hair cut?"
"Yes, yes, I did! Do you like it?" Running her hand through her bronze curls,
Anouk tossed her head in an exaggerated impression of a hair model. Tali
laughed. It was easier to do so than she'd anticipated it would be.
"It looks wonderful, sweetie," Sirius assured her, slipping one arm around her
waist as he thrust the stack of pizza boxes towards Tali. Anouk grinned widely,
indulgently, and pressed a kiss on Sirius' clean-shaven cheek. They shared a
nuzzling exchange that was heartily sickening to behold, sickly sweet in a
similar yet strikingly different way to what Draco and Harry had.
"Please, Sirius, would you mind? We are just about to eat," Tali sighed long-
sufferingly. Falling into the familiar taunting of Harry's godfather helped to
alleviate some of the ache induced by Draco's words.
"Yes, I feel I really must," Sirius replied, pressing another kiss onto Anouk's
neck. "My house, my rules. You don't like them, get out."
"And I suppose zat if 'Arry and Draco were doing exactly ze same zing you'd be
completely fine wiz it?" Tali dangled the bait like a well-practiced fisherman.
Sirius snapped it up without a second thought, turning a scowl upon Tali that
eradicated any remaining scraps of the lovey-dovey atmosphere. Anouk shared a
smile with Tali, but retained her own one-armed embrace of her fiancé's waist.
"I said it was my rules, and one of those rules is –"
"Yes, yes, we all know your rules, Sirius," Tali overrode him, jutting out a
hip in a casual slouch and sighing with exaggerated resignation. "I was zere
when you made us all learn zem by rote, remember?"
"Damn right you were."
Tali turned back towards the inner house to the sound of Anouk's laughter and
affectionate scolding of "I cannot believe you actually made zem do zat".
Taking a step into the living area, she opened her mouth to repeat the
announcement of dinner's arrival when –
She stopped, frozen.
And immediately backpedalled into the hallway.
Throwing her back against the hallway wall around the corner, it was only luck
and a distracted grasp that kept her from dropping the stack of pizzas. Her
mouth hung open in what must have been a comical rendition of shock and her
breath was caught in her throat.
What… was that?
"Tali, what is wrong?"
Turning slowly at the sound of Anouk's voice, Tali struggled to push words from
her mouth. Only a faint strangle was emitted. Sirius, walking behind Anouk,
frowned and sidled around where his fiancée had paused in her step alongside
Tali. An expression of worry hardened his features and he strode towards the
living room.
"What is it? Is something –?"
Somehow still managing to balance the pizzas, Tali hastened towards Sirius,
waving her hands at him to pause his forward progress and silencing him with
frantic hisses. He skidded to a stop at her behest, and she took the
opportunity to return the burden of the pizzas to his hands. A moment later she
was back at the end of the hallway, her head poking just slightly around the
corner into the living room to peer at her friends. Muffled footsteps and
hushed breaths announced that Sirius and Anouk had crept up behind her.
It was like the scene from a movie. Harry, still seated on the couch, gazed
down at Draco with an expression of incredulity as his boyfriend knelt before
him on one knee. Draco clasped both of Harry's hands in his own, gently but
firmly, and the returning gaze he cast upward was beatific. All traces of
affront at his argument with Tali had disappeared, his attention solely
captured by Harry.
They were quiet for a moment, and Tali was certain that Sirius would break that
silence himself, except that a moment later Harry spoke.
"But… I thought, with your mother…"
Draco shook his head, his smile widening. "Maybe once, but I haven't wanted to
do it with her for a long time. Ever since you gave me the tapestry, I think
I've felt that it would just fit you better."
"But… no, does Narcissa know?"
Chuckling under his breath, Draco nodded. His expression became sheepish. "I
talked about it with her, actually, and let it slip that I originally intended
it to be with her and father." He smirked self-deprecatingly, an unusual
expression for his face. "It's the first time in a long time she's cuffed me
over the back of the head, and this time it actually hurt. She said if I didn't
ask you instead then she'd disown me."
Harry let out a feeble huff of laughter, but it was still more incredulous than
amused. "I can't believe you're…" He trailed off with a shake of his head.
"Harry." Draco's voice lost all light-heartedness and deepened to a solemnity
that caused a shiver to run down Tali's spine. She was so absorbed that when
Sirius leant on he back, an elbow propping on her head to better peer around
the corner, she barely even noticed.
"Since I met you, I've been admittedly captivated. It took me a while to
actually realise it, and a while for it to grow into the single-minded
adoration I have now." The self-deprecating smile appeared again only briefly
before dying. "But I can say with absolute certainty that I've never been more
sure of anything in my life."
"Oh my God," Anouk whisper-shouted beside Tali. Her manicured fingers abruptly
grabbed Tali's arm in a death grip. "He's going to…"
Tali didn't pay her an ounce of notice. She felt as though her heart were
swelling in her chest and an unexpected flood of emotion brought tears to her
eyes. From the looks of it Harry was drifting along the same lines; shiny eyed,
biting his lip and grasping Draco's hands as firmly as his own were held.
"I know we haven't discussed this, and as such I think you have complete right
to turn me down –"
Like that's ever going to happen,Tali thought with a mental roll of her eyes.
"- but I've been meaning to ask you for a while now. I just couldn't find the
perfect moment." A loving smile spread across Draco's face that was returned
with wavering tremor of Harry's lips. "Harry. Will you bond me for eternity?"
Oh. Oh.
Tali felt a choked sob pass her lips before she could clamp a hand over them.
She'd thought – as likely Anouk had – that Draco was proposing, but… no, she'd
heard the story of the Bond of Eternity. From Draco, as he recited the tail of
the first genuine ancient artefact he'd gotten that wasn't either a good copy
or of negligible significance. She'd heard how Harry had described Draco's
desire to bond with his family in "the ultimate form of love:. It had sounded a
little strange to Tali at the time – why would Draco forge a bond of love with
anyone but Harry, even if it were with his family? – but hadn't questioned it.
But now –
"What's this about you bonding my kitten?!"
Sirius shattered the heart-felt lull with his affronted exclamation, striding
into the living room with pizza boxes held aloft. A flurry of activity ensued,
and Tali could only follow in Sirius' wake, Anouk still clinging to her arm.
Draco rose to his feet, rolled his eyes and began a long explanation of exactly
what he had asked.
Disentangling herself from Anouk, Tali moved towards Harry. An incredibly wide
smile had settled upon his face but tears still glistened, sparkling in his
eyes. Without a word, only a short, incredulous shaking of her head, Tali
stepped towards her friend and wrapped him in a hug.
The rest of the night proceeded in a raucous exchange of protestations from
Sirius and disregards from Draco, steaming pizza and flowing wine that Anouk
cracked open as celebration for… well, not an engagement, but to what Tali felt
was at least just as momentous. More, even, for she knew the gravity of the
bond itself. A gravity that impressed itself upon Sirius as Draco gradually
explained what he had asked of Harry.
Sirius blustered, of course. He declared that they were too young, that it was
not going to happen, not to his godson. When Draco only hooded his eyelids and
raised his chin, uttering a chilling "that's not your decision to make" Sirius
had become desperate.
He turned to Harry. "Ah, but you haven't even said yes, have you, Harry? You
haven't agreed?" Sirius looked faintly pleading, desperate even.
Harry blinked at his godfather, silenced for a moment, before turning to share
a glance with Draco. Tali was sure it wasn't her imagination that a brief
flicker of uncertainty skittered across Draco's face, but he hid it well. Any
trace of anxiety faded completely when a moment later Harry shifted his
attention back to Sirius. "Of course I'm saying yes."
The howl of mourning that Sirius had emitted had everyone else in the room
breaking into fits of laughter.
It was late by the time Tali decided to take her leave. Nearly midnight, but
despite the late hour and the alcohol swimming through her veins, giving her a
light buzz in her head just behind her eyes, she shrugged off Harry's
suggestions to stay the night as he and Draco were. An exchange of kisses, of
pointed looks at Draco before finally offering a reluctant hug, and Tali
stumbled through the Floo into her own home.
The house was silent, expected given that her parents rarely stayed up past
eleven o'clock these days. The darkness of the living room was broken only by
the even darker shadows of furniture, of couches and a low coffee table propped
at just the right height to offer a painful knock to her shins when Tali
stumbled into it. She cursed under her breath and, fumbling for a handhold,
made her way to her room. It was made markedly easier by the assistance of the
banister when she reached the stairs.
Falling into her room with a stumble through the doorway, Tali tripped over
scattered shoes, her backpack and discarded clothes to face-plant onto her bed.
The thick duvet was soft and cool beneath her flushed cheek and she closed her
eyes with a sigh. A sigh that naturally slipped into a smile as she considered
the evening.
Harry was getting bonded. And not just any bond but an Eternity Bond. It was
huge – huge – possibly even more extravagant than a wedding at their age. High
school sweethearts indeed.
They were perfect for each other, Harry and Draco, in a way that two people who
were so different fit together so naturally. For they were different, two
contrasting colours of yellow and blue that somehow, over time, had morphed
into a spectacular shade of green as the two had slowly become one. It was a
relationship that anyone would be envious of, and few enough people in the
world had a chance to witness, let alone experience for themselves.
The swell of excitement for her friend gradually dimmed as Tali felt her mood
mellow. Envy ran strongly in those that surrounded them, rarely maliciously but
always longingly. Tali had seen it, in the few friends at Beauxbatons who had
witnessed Harry and Draco together as an audience to a love story. She'd seen
it in Hermione and Ron, in Neville and Ginny, for even with their own
relationships, there had been envy for what their two friends shared. They
never said anything, but there was that faint wistfulness in their gazes as
they beheld Harry turn one of his brilliant smiles, the smiles reserved only
for Draco, onto his partner and watched Draco glow beneath them. Yet though
they may remain silent, though envy was exhibited by each, they all appeared to
have contented themselves with what they had.
Blaise expressed his own degree of envy, though in an entirely different way.
There was none of the silent longing, the thoughtful wistfulness. Blaise
spouted loud and clear that it was sickeningly sweet to bare witness to, enough
to give him a tooth-ache, and he wanted nothing more than to have something
that they had.
Just like Tali did.
Draco's words from earlier that evening resurfaced as she'd known they would.
In her wine-addled brain, they sounded accusing. Not that Draco had been
accusing, exactly – he had struck her a low blow in retaliation for her own –
but Tali felt the force of his words strongly enough anyway. And not in Draco's
voice, either, but in the whisper in her mind of "he's right".
Draco was right. Tali had been dancing around her own love life like a curious
wolf cub skirting a porcupine, inquisitive and enraptured, daring to reach
forward but knowing that the second she did she would be assaulted with sharp
barbs that would drive deep and take long to heal. She knew Harry – and Draco,
of course – were aware of her feelings. Harry was a well of sympathy and
support, an listening ear but not quite understanding, while Draco was more
favourable of encouraging a proactive response. He was the one who had realised
Tali was in love with Vivi in the first place.
She didn't know when it had first started, when she had realised it. It seemed
like a slowly approaching storm cloud, thick and pervasive and distractedly
acknowledged just on the horizon until suddenly it was there, it was
everywhere, and it was splattering her with insistent raindrops and drowning
her in overwhelming confusion. Tali might have been able to brush it off as a
passing fancy, triggered by her desire to have something even a shadow of what
Harry and Draco shared, except that it wasn't. And her feelings had lasted for
far too long to be anything but real. Maybe seeing Harry and Draco, two people
that fit together so perfectly, that were made for each other, had simply
enticed her to realise the full depth of her own feelings for her childhood
friend?
Tali and Vivi had been friends for as long as she could remember. There hadn't
been a time where they hadn't been friends – even when at odds, even when
fighting over something later recognised as stupid and trivial, they were
always there for one another. Vivi had lived down the street for most of their
shared lives, barely a block away and less then two minutes run when one of
them was in desperate need of companionship.
Until she wasn't there anymore.
Vivi left Beauxbatons just before Harry came. In leaving, she had erected a
gaping hole in Tali's life that would have torn her down, she was sure, except
that at least to some degree Harry had filled it. Not perfectly, for nothing
could truly replace Vivi, but enough to hold her together like a Band-Aid while
Tali recovered from her abrupt loss by herself.
Choosing instead to dive straight into the workforce, Vivi moved to Spain. She
was not an academic person, but that didn't mean she wasn't smart. Vivi was
good with her hands, a vision with magical creatures, which surpassed the
theoretical of academic studies. She hadn't quite fit at Beauxbatons, and Tali
had known it from the year they'd started. It was no wonder that when a distant
cousin offered her the opportunity to launch herself straight into the passion
she loved rather than wading arduously through the swamp of studies and
rudimentary practicals that she would leap at the chance.
Tali had missed her. Missed her sorely, to a degree that, even though she knew
Harry was aware that something was not quite right, she could never talk about.
She knew Harry didn't miss her exchanges with her best friend either; Tali sent
and received letters with Vivi at a frequency on par with those exchanged
between Harry and Draco in their fifth year. Each word, each playful comment
and heartfelt "I miss you, wish you were here" threatened to make Tali drop her
own plans for finishing school and race a country away to join her friend.
She hadn't. She'd stayed, and survived on the infrequent catch-ups and
inadequate letters.
It was a word from Draco that had knocked her world off its axis. An offhand
phrase of "It's obvious that you love her" and Tali had been dumbfounded.
Because he was right. And how had Tali not realised it before?
She loved Vivi, in a deeper, more profound way than the sisterly companionship
of childhood friends. She loved everything about her, from her flaws to her
perfections, her quiet presence and her multitude of loud, colourful braids.
Her quiet reassurances and the way she always knew exactly what to say when
Tali was feeling down. Her annoying tendency to blatantly ignore Tali when she
was being openly petulant, or how when she cradled her golden snidget she
looked like a mother crooning over her baby.
Tali had heard Harry describe it before, how he could even love the things he
hated about Draco because it was Draco who held such flaws. She didn't fully
understand it until she realised that she felt exactly same way about Vivi.
It had been eating away at her, the looming cloud like an ominous force that
gradually blocked all other thoughts from her mind. And it was driving her
crazy, and not only because she couldn't think of anything else. Tali had
barely written but in brief words to Vivi since her revelation. She couldn't
help it – she was scared that somehow Vivi would know, would see what she was
hiding and…
Shun her? Turn away from her? Express horror that Tali had shifted her
perception of their relationship in such a way that she could no longer see it
as the light-hearted and enduring compassion of best friends?
Or just as bad, what if she brushed it off as a passing fancy? What if Vivi
completely overlooked her feelings, failed to realise the depth they held? It
wasn't like Vivi, and logically Tali knew that her friend would never toss her
feelings around so carelessly. But she couldn't help it. The fear was still
there, and it wouldn't lift.
It was the only reason that Tali still hesitated upon taking the position with
the ILPP. Because Vivi, beautiful, blessed, incredibly wonderful Vivi, would be
working for them too. And Tali wasn't sure if she could handle that, could run
the risk of exposing herself and it all falling to the pits.
Are your own attempts at confessing your feelings failing so dismally…?
Draco's words rang through her mind. Confessing her feelings… if faced with
Vivi head on, Tali didn't think she would have the courage to admit she loved
her. It was too terrifying, there were too many possibilities of everything
going wrong, becoming irreparably damaged.
But then… she couldn't leave things as they were. She knew it suddenly, lying
on her bed and considering, and understanding impressed itself. Perhaps it was
the assumed clarity that came with drunkenness, of perhaps such drunkenness had
finally given her the push she needed, but for whatever reason, with a groan
Tali pushed herself up from her near comatose state and staggered to her desk
across the room. Fumbling in her pocket, she cast a mumbled "Lumos" and fell
heavily into the wooden seat.
The desk was strewn with discarded papers, books, a hairbrush, and lumps of
charcoal used for sketching when Tali felt herself in a particularly artistic
mood. She swept it all aside, reached into the top draw of the desk and
withdrawing a fresh sheet of parchment. Picking up a pen from the table – Harry
had long since converted her to their use and she had to admit it was a lot
easier that juggling a quill and ink – she bent over her desk, poised her hand,
and paused.
How did one even start a love letter? Or a confessionary letter, more
appropriately. Hello, how are you, just wanted to let you know that I've
realised I'm in love with you? Or did she start with something more casual,
asking how Vivi has been, apologising for not writing more frequently and
gradually revealing the true purpose of her letter?
Tali honestly didn't know. Each approach seemed inadequate somehow. As though
it wouldn't do the situation justice. So instead, she took a deep breath,
squeezed her eyes shut briefly, and let her hand write for itself.
Dear Vivi,
I'm sorry I haven't really written properly to you in a while. There's been
something on my mind, and I think it's about time that I tell you…
===============================================================================
With a stumble, Harry fell through the fireplace from the Malfoy's parlour and
into the Jarvour household. A puff of soot tickled his nose, but he didn't even
spare a moment to pause and sneeze, instead hastening through the quaint living
room and into the hallway in a blind flurry.
Tali's holwer had been almost hysterical and entirely uninformative, to the
point that Harry wasn't sure if the end of the world had finally come or if her
long-held dream for adopting a Kelpie as a pet had been fulfilled. It was
sometimes hard to tell with Tali and her usually quiet voice shattered into
frantic babbling hadn't made it any easier to discern. Overall, he was left
only with an incredible sense of urgency and the understanding that "You must
get your arse here right now!"
Which led to him tumbling unceremoniously into the living room of number one-
eight-one Rue Dumaresq.
Racing down the hallway and to the stairs, Harry skidded to a stop as he passed
the dining room and a rather sleepy-eyed Mrs Jarvour. She was still dressed in
a nightrobe and slippers, stirring her morning porridge with one hand while her
other raised a mug of coffee to her lips. At the sight of him, she lowered the
mug and gave him an amused smile.
Which did wonders to still his jumping nerves, his rising concern. If Tali's
mother wasn't worried, nothing too bad could have happened. Right?
Gesturing with her coffee overhead in the general direction of 'upstairs', Mrs
Jarvour's smile spread into a grin. She looked very reminiscent of her daughter
when she smiled like that, down to the tweaking scrunch of her nose. "She's all
yours, 'Arry."
Opening his mouth to reply, and finding he had nothing to say, Harry raised a
dubious eyebrow. Mrs Jarvour only shook her head fondly. "Off you go."
With only a brief pause further, Harry started towards Tali's room once more,
albeit at a more subdued pace this time. He'd been in the Jarvour house at
least half a dozen times throughout his friendship with Tali and knew the way
well enough. It was hardly a large house, despite the modestly wealthy status
of the family. A simply two-storey abode, just large enough for Tali, her
parents, and the sporadic residency of her brother when he chose to drop by.
Padding quietly down the carpeted hallway towards Tali's room, he stopped just
outside and pressed a hand to the closed door. Knocking quietly – the household
appeared to be largely asleep still and he didn't want to wake anyone – he
murmured a hushed, "Tali?"
There was a faint scramble, the sound of thumping feet and the door swung
inwards. Tali stood before him, framed by the doorway in a frazzled mess. Her
auburn curls were tangled like they always were when she just woke up, her
pyjamas were askew and her eyes were red and puffy as though she had been
crying. Harry's suspicion was enhanced by her rapid succession of sniffs.
Except that Tali was smiling. Smiling in sheer joy, wonder, disbelief.
Before Harry could say anything, she let out a choked burst of laughter. "'Arry
she –" Tali swiped the heel of her palm across her reddened cheek, "she loves
me too, 'Arry."
It took barely a moment for the words to register. Harry's eyes widened and he
gasped through his own spreading smile. "You mean -?"
Tali nodded vigorously. It seemed impossible for her own smile to broaden
further, yet somehow it did. "Vivi loves me, 'Arry. She loves me too."
When Tali threw herself into Harry's arms, he only just managed to catch her in
time for them to tumble to the floor in a heap in the middle of the hallway.
Sobs of laughter and tears of happiness were muffled by his shoulder, shaking
him with their intensity, but Harry didn't complain. He just held his friend as
she squeezed him in sheer and untethered joy.
***** Bound For Eternity *****
Chapter Notes
     A/N: So... this is the LAST CHAPTER! Sorry if that disappoints
     anyone. I probably could have explored the story more, but I felt
     there's no point in whipping a flagging horse, right? For anyone
     who's interested, however, I have a SEQUEL/epilogue/oneshot thingo
     title "Through Onlooking Eyes" if anyone is interested. Just a sort
     of fluffy piece to give yours truly some closure :p
     As a WARNING this chapter contains depictions of a sexual nature, as
     well as profuse fluff, symbolism and potioneering. Tread with
     caution.
     But otherwise, enjoy! Thank you so much everyone for reading! I hope
     you liked my story as much as I did writing it. Please leave a
     comment if you have the chance. I love to hear from you. Thanks!
The night of June the twenty-eighth was settled and warm. Not a faint breeze
stirred the stillness, nor a cloud streaked the sky to mask the brilliant
luminescence of the full moon.
Stepping down the stairs of the back patio, Draco cast a glance over his
shoulder at Harry. His partner followed at barely a pace behind him and,
noticing Draco's glance, offered him a subdued smile. He was nervous – maybe
even as nervous as Draco. Holding out his wandless hand, Harry readily latched
onto Draco's proffered fingers and allowed himself to be tugged across the
open, shorn grass of the back gardens. Or the acreage, more correctly, but who
was splitting hairs? The crystal cauldron, caked in ice at the base and
emitting a thin, veil-like smoke of dissipating dry ice smoke into the night
air, hovered behind and above them at Draco's direction.
Behind them, Draco could feel the gaze of his mother and Severus as they
watched them depart, could almost feel their apprehension. They wouldn't
follow, however. They'd promised.
It was the perfect conditions for the ritual, so perfect that Draco would even
venture to suggest too perfect. He was a sceptic when it came to deities and
divine forces, but it seemed almost like fate that, on the night they had
chosen, possibly the most important night of Draco and Harry's lives,
everything simply fit.
It had been a long and complex build to the final product of the potion used to
build the Eternity bond. Long not so much in duration – it had taken only a
week to prepare – but in sheer requisite for attention. Draco had hardly slept
a wink in the last seven days. Harry was a little better only because Draco had
been so paranoid about something going wrong with the potion that he had hardly
been able to blink away from the potion, even when Harry took over monitoring
its progress. It was a finicky brew, requiring short, sharp bursts of heat to
rapidly bring to the boil and dissolve the ground ingredients – moonstone was
unreactive under less than thirty-degree heats – and to fumigate the viscous
semi-liquids – as Moke paste congealed to a hard crystal if allowed to cool
before completely mixing. But more infuriatingly, the presence of Ashwinder
eggs added as one of the first steps became denatured and rendered useless if
exposed to temperatures above zero for more than twenty minute bouts.
That was to say nothing of the near constant stirring, and in an intricate
pattern at that. Not for the first time Draco speculated as to the sheer
complexity – a complexity that seemed to refute any eagerness to forge what was
historically the 'strongest bond of love' in existence – of the potion. Surely
if the original brewers were altruistic and favoured their future descendants
enough, wanted them to be happy and successful, they wouldn't have configured a
procedure quite so tailored towards failure? Draco could only be incredibly
thankful that Severus – though not involved in the actual brewing – had
embedded the finer points of potion-making into him from such a young age.
Shaking his head at the thought, Draco peered ahead through the monochromatic
light of the grounds in search of their site of ritual. It had to be at a pure
water source, the instructions explicitly stated, and that source had to be
bathed in magic to enhance that purity. The spring that was little more than an
oversized puddle at the far end of the Malfoy estate would serve perfectly. It
was just another element that lessened Draco scepticism in godly input; what
were the odds of the perfect context, the perfect site, existing right in his
backyard?
As they neared the spring, Draco cast another glance towards Harry. They had
been silent the whole trip, a silence brought on by a combination of
nervousness, weariness, and an innate urge to maintain a respectful hush. Harry
offered him another smile – he must have already been looking at Draco to
respond so quickly – and without a word released his grasp on Draco's hand and
carefully reached for the pale cauldron to lift it from the air. Draco had to
bite back the urge to step forward and assist the manoeuvre. Not that he didn't
trust Harry to be able to lift one of the smallest cauldrons he owned, but he
was just so worried that something would happen.
Harry didn't drop the cauldron. He appeared just as tense as Draco for fear of
dropping their brew, and moved with the measured, slow steps of one desperate
'not to break anything'. Silently stepping towards the spring, he lowered the
cauldron into the shallow water. Draco didn't hear a word, but from the near
complete stillness and stability of its float he assumed that Harry must have
cast a Motionless Charm upon it. It didn't drift even an inch from the spot
he'd placed it.
With a faintly ragged sigh, Harry sunk down onto his knees beside the spring,
his shoulders lowering in a deliberate release of tension. Pausing in his step
to his partner's side, Draco took a moment to appreciate the sight Harry made.
Clad all in white, in a loose, long-sleeved silk robe, the twin of the one
Draco wore, he seemed to glow in the luminescence of the moon. With his hair
untied and falling across his shoulders, his head tilted slightly forward and
eyes downcast, he looked like a mage of old, sinking into the meditation the
preceded a ritual. Which, Draco considered distractedly, he sort of was.
It was a beautiful sight.
Drawing a deep breath, Draco strode the last few steps to the edge of the
spring and similarly lowered himself to his knees. Glancing at Harry sideways,
he opened his mouth to finally break the lulling silence. "Do you have the…?"
Without a word of reply, Harry shifted slightly and unhooked the small leather
pouch from the back of his belt-loop. He reached inside and withdrew first a
long, thin feather, then a plain hemp pouch that Draco knew contained their
requisite herbs, the mouth knotted by twine. He passed the feather to Draco.
The contour feather of a living dove, unbroken and whole. Draco brought the
feather up to his eyes and cast a quick scan over its length, checking for what
could have been the thousandth time for the slightest imperfection.
"It's fine, Draco," Harry murmured, his voice faintly chiding yet still
soothing. Draco spared him a half smile but couldn't push through his nerves to
make a snarky remark, to divert his apparently obvious jitteriness. With a deep
breath, he leant forward and dropped the feather into the cauldron. For a
moment nothing happened, then the swirling, mercurial substance seemed to rise,
swell, and embrace the feather like a siren wrapping thick arms around a
drowning sailor. Not a trace was left on the surface that stilled almost
instantly.
Holding out his hand mutely, Draco accepted the little herb pouch. A glance at
his partner showed that, as always, Harry was moving in tandem with him if not
a step ahead. Glowing on the back of his wrist like a Muggle digital watch, he
peered at the figures of the Tempus Charm, idly flicking his fringe out of his
eyes.
"Tell me when," Draco murmured unnecessarily. Harry didn't mock him for the
statement – of course he didn't, Harry never would – and simply nodded in
acknowledgement.
The seconds seemed to tick past with incremental slowness. It was a struggle
for Draco to refrain from fidgeting in his folded seiza position, but he
managed. Instead he focused on tugging at the knot of twine. It fell away
loosely to his fingers.
"Eleven thirty-seven," Harry whispered, his voice barely audible. "Thirty
seconds."
Nodding, Draco counted down in his head, his hand already rising to poise over
the cauldron. From hereon in, time was of the essence. Spare a moment in
tripping over a phrase, or too long in pouring the final ground ingredients
into the mix, and the potion was just as likely to fizzle and spurt, rendered
impotent, as fulfil their desires. He took a deep breath.
"Three… two… one…"
With a tilt of his hand, Draco began to pour the fragrant mix into the swirling
cauldron with the precise consistency of a trickling hourglass. The granulated
herbs felt smooth against his fingers, like powdered sugar as they fell. Almost
without his direction, his mouth opened and he began to speak the words of the
Merlecue language, twisted and unfamiliar on his tongue, which he'd drilled
into his memory. In his mind, the translation chanted along with him, even as
his magic rose to curl from his tongue alongside the resonant syllables.
" Breath of my Arbovitae, my friend through trial and hardship, to stand strong
beside me through rain, through hail, through shine."
As if in response, a wafting scent of woodiness, an evergreen tang, puffed from
the cauldron in a brief thickening of gossamer mist. Draco poured.
" Drink deep of my Honeysuckle, witness my devotion and faith, the depth of my
affection."
In a shimmer of iridescent pink that faded to white, the potion spun in a
single, rapid swirl before slowing once more. The scatter of pouring herbs
dotted the stilled surface.
" Behold my Lily of the Valley, my tenderness, my faith, my trust; to revel in
the tender bells of happiness."
It could have been his imagination, but Draco felt certain that he hear the
faintest, pale chiming of minute bells, chirping like newborn chicks.
" Taste of my Ambrosia, the sweetmeat of the Gods, and share in a feast of
reciprocation."
His own words were lulling, deceptive; Draco felt sure that a honey-like
flavour glossed his tongue in a thin coating of sweetness, the magic springing
to life in response to his summons. His fingers speckled the last of the herbs
over the cauldron.
" Feel my Amaranth, the immortality of my love, an everlasting devotion, an
eternity."
Blessedly, the moment the last word fell from his lips the final grains of
powdered flora tumbled into the cauldron. As it should have been, synching
perfectly, but he hadn't been certain it would. Draco breathed a sigh and
shared a glance with Harry. Harry who, in a recognisably admirable feat of
procedural finesses, barely spared him a moment to meet his glance before
seeming to conjure from nowhere a needle-thin knife balanced delicately between
index finger and thumb.
Turning over his left hand, Draco remained immobile as Harry leant forwards and
pricked his ring finger, a faint and barely perceivable stab that brought an
upwelling of blood to pool on his skin. A mythological fallacy, to be sure, but
the belief in the sole, direct connection of the finger to the heart held
weight, even in modern times when anatomical studies disproved it.
Reaching across the cauldron, Draco suspended his hand until three slow,
deliberate drops tumbled into the glittering potion. Almost too swift to see,
the colour darkened to a deep, rich crimson.
Holding out his right hand, Draco took the knife from Harry and repeated the
process with Harry's own left hand. His slender, pale fingers contrasted
starkly to the almost-black blood, and when Harry reached forwards to drop his
own blood into the cauldron it seemed to roil and glisten and glow more
vibrantly before darkening to a red so deep it too appeared almost black. For a
split second Draco was captivated.
"Draco."
A hand on his wrist drew his attention. From the little leather pouch at his
waist, Harry had dutifully drawn a long strip of satin ribbon and held it aloft
between them. Shaking himself into action – maybe he was more tired than he'd
thought – Draco held out his right hand. Harry raised his left beside it and,
with another unspoken command of Harry's magic, the shimmering strip of
material wove itself intricately around their wrists, tugging in a demanding
pull that encouraged an overlap and the linking of fingers. It tied itself into
a neat knot above their aligned thumbs.
Sparing a glance for Harry once more, meeting his wide eyes of darkly dilated
pupils, Draco nodded. "You ready?"
In reply, Harry reached into the leather pouch and extracted the final item
with a snick of stone on fingernails. The chalcedony chalice, as white as the
crystal of the cauldron cradling its deep red brew, was simple and unadorned, a
shallow cup and unremarkable stem. Draco didn't cared; it had been hard enough
to find one of adequate purity for him to complain of a lack in elaborate
decoration.
Without comment, Harry leant forwards and scooped a full cup of the liquid into
the concave stone. It swirled an ominous shade about the rim of the cup.
As soon as Harry drew the chalice to his chin, Draco began to speak, his tongue
weaving through the Merlecue vowels as practiced more times than he could
count. As he spoke, Harry tilted his head back and slowly downed the potion.
" Friendship and companionship, kindness and tenderness. Faithfulness and
loyalty, support and trust. Eternal devotion and undying love. I pledge myself
bound."
Harry slowly lowered the chalice at his final word and swallowed the last
mouthful. His lips were stained darkly red, yet barely perceivable in the black
and white hues that bathed their scene. Offering the chalice to Draco, Harry
nodded and afforded him his small smile. A slight, nonchalant shrug accompanied
the deliberate placement of the chalcedony stem into Draco's unbound hand.
Not so bad.
Draco almost laughed at the words that nearly verbalised themselves from the
gesture. It was a nervous response, his body thrumming with weary tension, but
the thought eased him nonetheless. Apparently the potion wasn't as unpalatable
as he'd feared.
Scooping up his own cupful of the potion, Draco paused to synchronise his first
swallow with Harry's words.
"Friendship and companionship…"
It tasted… like the best potion Draco had ever tasted. The medicinal and
magical brews of the Wizarding world were notoriously sickening; more often
than not it was a hefty decision to consider taking a prescribed potion because
it simply tasted so bad.
Not this one. Perhaps there was something to be said for the complexity of the
procedure, the incremental steps and absolute precision of the ingredient's
additions. Maybe the original brewers were more concerned with the welfare of
their taste buds than future brewers were capable of and deliberately
configured the potion to make it taste good. Or perhaps it was simply because
of what it was; who truly expected unconditional love to taste unpleasant?
There was a hint of the cinnamon enhanced by a clear, sweet coolness as the
liquid passed over Draco's tongue. A citrusy overlay followed quickly,
accompanied by a flooding warmth that seemed to rush beneath Draco's skin like
a burst of adrenaline. More than that, it was actually easy to swallow, which
made it a better even than Severus' Calming Draughts.
Lowering the chalice at Harry's final words, Draco immediately placed it to the
side and tightened his hold on their joined hands. It was nearly done. Nearly
there, only one more…
In perfect synchrony, just as they had practiced, Draco and Harry began to
speak. "With you I forge this bond, through sickness and health, through pain
and fear, through joys and delights. For all my life and eternity beyond. So we
are bound."
Then everything went white.
The silence erupted in a chorus of joyful cries.
Draco wasn't sure if it was a product of magic only. The gloriously pure and
captivating whiteness, the melody of voices, could have been real or ethereal,
he wasn't sure. All he knew was that the faint warmth that had rippled through
him upon swallowing the potion magnified tenfold, thrumming through his limbs
and rippling over his skin, raising hairs to stand to attention at the caress
of a magical embrace. Warm, a warmth that should have been too warm but simply
wasn't, shrouded him and engulfed him in a blanket of comfort and softness, in
kindness, in the very embodiment of love. It hardly mattered that the piercing
brightness blinded his eyes. He didn't need so see, because he felt.
And in that moment, Draco knew. He felt. He felt Him.
It was the shadow of fingers laid atop his own, perfectly aligned so that their
hands appeared as one. It was the memory of the warmth of his body pressed
against Draco's chest, crushed against him to eradicate every breath, every
whisper of space, between them. It was the steady thud of a heartbeat, a
constant and hollow thu-thump that Draco had never realised was the most
wondrous sound in the world.
It was what he felt.
An echo, an echo of Draco's own thoughts, of his feelings, of the indescribable
emotions that flooded him whenever he turned upon Him. That wonder, that sheer
joy, had never faltered, not once, and far be it from mellowing, from settling
with time, Draco's adoration only seemed to grow stronger with each passing
second.
It was an echo, and yet it resounded in a tune of its own. That same, familiar,
overwhelming tide of affection, amusement, delight, exasperation, adoration…
Love… All a mirror of Draco's and yet flavoured with a shine that was entirely
foreign.
Entirely different, yet addictive to behold. And Draco… Draco would always have
that.
The blinding light faded from his eyes, but the warmth remained. The absence of
night-blindness as Draco blinked rapidly around himself told him that their
surroundings had not been illuminated, that the glorious light had been
magical, had been impressed into his very eyes rather than the world at large.
His eyes, that turned towards Him, and suddenly he could breathe. He saw Him.
Harry gazed upon him with an expression that embodied exactly what he was
feeling. Exactly what Draco was feeling as well. Their emotions coiled in
tandem, kindred spirits in shape and origin. He knew this, he knew because…
"I can feel you."
Draco's voice was awed, a whisper, and without thought he reached his unbound
hand – though somewhere his other too had become unbound, the tie fizzling with
the spell – towards Harry and interlocked their empty fingers. He felt like he
would never, ever let go.
Harry's eyes met his own, and within them roared a torrent of emotion, a
cascade of feelings. Emotions that Draco could feel,even if they weren't his
own. Harry's reply was as breathless as Draco's had been. "I… you love me…"
Awe. It was awe-inspiring. There was awe in Harry's voice, just as there was
coursing through Draco's veins. For what could be more exhilarating than to
know, to feel with absolute certainty, that the only person in the world that
truly existed for him could see nothing but him in return?
===============================================================================
It was a race. A race with no loser, because regardless of who came first they
both won.
Harry wasn't sure which of them moved first, which set of arms locked around
the other faster, but it hardly mattered. He could barely spare the
consideration thought. All that was truly of import was being with Draco, of
feeling him physically as he did the dancing song of emotions that wove through
his mind, which resonated with him so strong that he could nearly mistake them
for his own.
Their lips crashed together with little elegance and all passion. Harry curled
his arms around Draco's neck, drawing him as close as two bodies could be, just
as Draco wrapped his own arms around Harry's waist and tugged him tightly
against him with an identical urgency. It still wasn't close enough, but…
Gasping between smattering kisses, between the nip of teeth into lips, through
the coil of tongues and the frantic press of their mouths together, Harry drank
in the very essence of what was Draco. His warmth, his softness, the tensing
ripple of muscles as he shifted to hold Harry tighter, the tightness of his
neck as he strained to push further into him. It was heady, intoxicating; there
wasn't enough contact, while at the same time every inch of their bodies that
touched flared with an intense heat that should have burned but rather sizzled
them in a delightful burn of sensitive skin.
But most of all… best of all… was the desire, the need, the want that rushed
through Harry that he could have mistaken as his own except that it came from
Draco. And coursing through it all, overwhelming even the ferocity of passion
and lust, was a deep, pervasive and unerring love.
Love. A reciprocated union of unconditional dedication.
Harry hadn't truly understood just what it meant to love, to be loved, until he
greeted the other half. And with that knowledge came absolute certainty: I will
never let this go.
Breaking from the throughs of a passionate kiss, gasping in ragged pants, Harry
fluttered open eyes he hadn't realised had fallen closed. Chest heaving, rising
and falling in parallel inhalations with Draco's pressed against him, he rested
his forehead against his bond-partner's. "Draco, I…"
Draco's forehead was prickled with dampness, or maybe that was just Harry's. He
didn't care, and neither did Draco. He knew this. With a rapid nod of flushed
skin and slick brow swiping his own, Draco croaked a reply. "Please… yes, I
need, we need –"
He didn't have to finish his words. They could both feel the urgency, both
revelled in the sore and desperate need, suppressed only by the knowledge that
it would come, that the thrumming ache of notcloseenough would be broken.
In a frenzy of silken robes, flung with careless haste in cloud-like pools of
material around them, Harry and Draco relieved themselves of the thin barriers
that were the only elements that hung in the way of merging into one. As the
last garment fell, Harry flinging the clinging material from him with blind
urgency, Draco locked his arms around him once more and dragged him onto his
lap. As his strong, slender arms locked around Harry's back, Harry curled
himself tightly around Draco in return, wrapping fingers, arms, legs and toes
around him in an embrace that would have put a strangler vine to shame. The
radiation of body heat, pressed directly skin-to-skin, was intoxicating.
"Harry," Draco murmured, directly into his ear in a rush of heated breath. "Can
I…?"
Harry didn't even need to think. There wasn't a question in the matter. His
cheek pressed against Draco's, he replied in a breathless "God, yes".
The charms were not entirely unpleasant, exactly, but they would hardly be used
preferentially. Charms to ease the initial discomfort of penetration, to hasten
the preparation of a needy couple as they strove for rapid release. Harry and
Draco rarely used such methods, and not only because of they often left the
receiver with the uneasy feeling of disjointedness. There was just something so
much more intimate about approaching their lovemaking slowly, with
consideration for one's partner and revelling in the unravelling of tightness,
the easing of tension to welcome one's lover into their embrace.
Harry couldn't object, however, when he heard Draco whisper the charms and felt
his body respond. He didn't complain, for Hell, he would have cuffed Draco over
the head had he not taken the effective shortcut. As it was, he could only
utter a moan, locking his arms more tightly around Draco's neck and pressing
his lips in successive kisses along his shoulder, his cheek, his jaw.
An instant later, Draco shifted them with fluid grace until Harry felt himself
pressed against the ground, the solid flatness cushioned by dry grass. It could
have been – should have been – an awkward motion, as even only for an instant
Harry couldn't bring himself to let Draco go. Neither could Draco to him, Harry
could feel. The need to be pressed together at every inch was nearly painful.
It would have been like chopping off a limb to separate at this point.
Easily raising his leg at Draco's urging, Harry hitched his knee to his
shoulder with a hand held around his thigh. Coiling his other leg around
Draco's waist, he drew him closer until the crushing heat of impassioned skin
was triumphed only by the throbbing warmth of their shared arousals. The soft,
sensitive skin, hardened and quivering in desperate need, was pressed between
them. Draco uttered a choked groan, his forehead pressed once more against
Harry's. In a disoriented flutter of lashes, Harry locked eyes with him. His
voice panted, gasped, as he urged him, "Draco…"
It was all Draco needed to relinquish any remaining vestiges of restraint.
Positioning himself, balancing himself just enough to gain sufficient leverage
but never – never – lose contact, and he thrust forward. Harry loosed in his
own broken groan, warmth settling in his belly as he felt himself filled with
Draco.
Nothing in the world could feel so perfect, and not only for his own swelling
sense of fulfilment at their joining. The mirroring relief, the bliss that
rippled through him that came purely from Draco… there was nothing that could
compare to that. It cast even their previous lovemaking in a shadow in
comparison.
Draco had asked him once, months ago, how he managed. It was a hesitant
question, wary, as though he prodded cautiously at a healing bone fearing
descent into broken relapse should he nudge too hard. But he had asked, because
he'd said he couldn't fathom how, after experiencing such overwhelming trauma
with Defaux, Harry could possibly readily and eagerly desire to pursue further
intimacy.
Harry had replied easily: because it was with Draco.
They had experimented, the two of them, had reversed their positions and
attempted to discern that which suited them most. Harry could still recall
every moment of each time he'd taken Draco; there was nothing equal in the
world, the pleasure that sprung from such a union.
And yet, pleasurable though it may be, it couldn't quite compare to that which
he felt when Draco took him. Some may consider his masochistic, others
unhinged, that he could enjoy, could find ultimate pleasure, from an act so
fundamentally similar to that which had been forcibly impressed upon him by
Defaux. They would be wrong. Because being with Draco, being taken why him and
embraced by him… it was so completely opposite, so far removed from the
shadowed memories of the past, that it washed away any lingering traces. There
was nothing – nothing – that could possibly tarnish the act of being so utterly
cherished, so tenderly cared for and completely needed, like air to a drowning
man, that came from being loved by Draco.
Shifting his hips slightly, Harry tightened his thighs around Draco, one
lifting to hook of his shoulder and the other around his waist, in an attempt
to draw them ever closer. It would never be close enough, but feeling Draco
within him, feeling the throb of desire that mirrored his own and being cradled
in unyielding arms in much the same way that Harry wrapped his own, was so
close that it sufficed.
"Love you… I love you, so much, I can't even…"
"I know, I can feel it…"
Their words, on an endless repeat, were indiscernible from origin. Not that it
mattered. Each utterance could have come from either of them anyway.
With slow, haphazard thrusts, Draco set up a pace that lasted only briefly for
the pleasure it elicited. Harry moaned at the sparking of sensations,
unconsciously tightening the grip of his legs at the glide of Draco's length
withdrawing and entering him again and again. At the shudder of mind-numbing
pleasure as Draco angled himself with remarkable precision and drew his
hardness over the bundle of nerves that triggered a lightning strike signal to
race towards Harry's brain. But most overwhelmingly, it was the duality of
experiences that enticed a flare of overpowering and unrestrainable lust to
rush through him. For it wasn't only his own pleasure that Harry felt; the
deafening, indescribable pleasure that emanated from Draco, that thrummed
through their new bond… it heightened the experience tenfold.
Gentle and tender may have been the intention, but intentions fell to the wind
at such a discovery. Harry gasped as Draco's arm wrapped around his raised leg,
fingers digging with pain-pleasure into his skin, while the other grasped his
waist in a steadying hold. He set a rigorous pace, of ragged pants and rapid
thrusts that rocked Harry's body already writhing in the pleasure of the
moment. The sight of Draco, his blonde hair falling across his forehead, thin
brows wrinkled and eyes closing briefly only to flare open to meet his own
intensely, of his mouth open and panting in faint moans, was captivating.
Quite without realising it, Harry lost his embracing grasp on Draco's neck. His
hands scrambled at the ground above his head, seeking purchase, a handhold,
anything to ground him in the assault of wave after wave of euphoric pleasure
that rumbled through him with each snap of Draco's hips. His vision blurred –
or maybe he just closed his eyes – and a weight of heat and dizzying ecstasy
built within him. Hand dropping frantically to grasp himself, his own throbbing
length almost painful to touch under such arousal, and within moment, swift,
short jerks of his hand in synchrony with Draco's thrusts, and he reached his
climax in pulses of blessed release, muscles seizing in an attempt to draw
every second of pleasure to its utmost. He released a strangled cry, more like
a whimper, head falling back and mouth gasping as every nerve ending seemed to
light afire.
Draco wasn't long in following. The frantic thrusting, the muffled groans and
slap of skin on skin, abruptly stuttered to a halt with a flooding of wet
warmth inside of Harry. His own strangled moan tumbled from his lips, his eyes
squeezing shut tightly to revel in the sheer feeling of it. Harry, still
tumbling down from the crest of his own climax, felt his body shudder in the
echoing rise and crash of pleasure, a second cresting that, even muffled as it
was being of only secondary nature, triggered the pleasure centres in his brain
into overload. He groaned in an almost pained utterance of release.
Draco slumped atop him at the dwindling of their high. The flurry of emotions,
of passion, paused in its onward flight and demand if only momentarily, and in
that moment Harry and Draco seemed to sink into each other. Arms and legs
clasped around shoulders, behind necks, around waists, and the stuttering rise
and fall of chests was no deterrent to crushing them together as close as
physically possible.
Dropping his head to Harry's Draco slowly blinked his eyes open. Even in the
darkness Harry could make out his blown pupils, grey eyes turned silver in the
unshakable grasp of realised love. He met Harry's own and slowly a smile, a
smile of pure Draco, spread across his face. It was only when their lips locked
in a kiss that Harry realised he had been mirroring his smile.
Words weren't necessary, but that had never stopped Draco before. In between an
exchange of smattering kisses, feather-light and impeccably sweet, between the
tilt of heads to stroke nose upon nose, press cheek to cheek, Draco murmured
the perfect words. The perfect word, over and over. "Love you… I love you so
much… I'm never, ever going to let you go… I love you."
And if Harry couldn't dredge from within himself the ability reply with words,
it hardly mattered. For they were bonded, and the feelings he couldn't quite
express spoke for themselves. The expression of sheer delight on Draco's face
told him his 'words' were heard loud and clear.
===============================================================================
Dawn found them nestled together in a tangle of limbs and the blanketing cover
of their discarded white robes. Robes markedly less white, stained with streaks
of green, after a night used as cushions and blankets on tufted grass. Harry
didn't care a wit, and he knew Draco didn't because, well… he knew it.
Exhaustion had settled upon them, and it was not solely because of their recent
string of sleepless nights preparing the potion that had catalysed their
bonding. There had been even less sleep that night in particular than any in
the week before it.
Not that Harry was complaining, of course. Far from it. He couldn't have
thought of a better way to spend their bond-night, a night that, to him, held
ever greater significance than that of any potential wedding in their future.
The dual passion between them had enticed them into the wild dance of lust with
more fervour than a pair of maenads at a Bacchanalia. One bout ended, sinking
into heady grogginess, only to reinitiate with the slightest spark of rekindled
ardour, with every renewed understanding of the depth of the bond they now
shared. And the best part of it was that they completely and utterly shared
every moment of it, every sensation and every instant of release and
gratification.
Harry rested atop of Draco, more a blanket himself than that their clothes
made. He turned his head from where it rested on Draco's chest, listening to
the solid, constant thump of a heartbeat that already resonated on an inaudible
level in his mind. He propped his chin on one hand, peering at Draco's face as
his bond-partner gazed up at the pale pink skies of dawn.
As thought feeling the weight of Harry's stare – which, really, he probably did
– Draco turned his eyes towards him. A small smile, filled with every element
of love and adoration he held, spread across his face. It was an expression
that Harry could never get tired of, could stare at for hours to simply fall
into its depths.
"What?"
Shrugging at Draco's query, Harry turned his head to rest his cheek over the
resounding thud of heartbeat once more. "Nothing. Just thinking."
"About?"
You. He didn't say it aloud, but the huff of laughter that jostled the smooth
rise and fall of Draco's chest said he heard it anyway. "Just that, if we spend
too long out here then I worry your mother might send the house elves out."
Another chuckle, more amused that concerned, rumbled through Draco's chest.
"Yes, she might at that. It seems a very likely possibility."
"Or she might come out herself."
"Oh Merlin, no, that would be even worse."
It was Harry's turn to laugh, but Draco caught his breath and continued
thoughtfully before he could reply. "You know…"
There was a pause, a lull. Harry turned his face towards Draco once more,
peering up at his face that had turned to the dawn sky once more. There was a
faintly chiding cast to his smile and Harry could feel the… relief? that
coursed through him through the bond.
"What?"
Draco shook his head, the sound of grass crinkling beneath him as he shifted.
"Nothing. Just that, I'm really, really glad I didn't bond with my mother."
Harry was speechless for a moment before he felt a bubble of amusement rise
within him. A moment later was chortle into Draco's chest, not even bothering
to hide his merriment.
"It's not funny," Draco grumbled, though the amusement that thrummed through
their bond spoke otherwise of his consideration.
"Oh, of course it's not funny. I positively cringe to think of you bonded to
your mother after what sort of response it elicited between us."
A playful cuff, barely more than a pat, caught the back of Harry's head, which
only made him struggle to suppress his laughter further. "Shut up, you. I do
not want to think about that."
With a roll and tug of Harry's arms, Draco dragged him further up his chest
until they faced one another at head height. A grin spread across his face, a
grin that was entirely too Draco for Harry to not lean forward and kiss him.
Curling around one another, they settled into a cocoon of slow, drifting,
shared emotions. Seemingly unconsciously, Draco's hand slipped into Harry's,
fingers interweaving as they had so often that previous night. Harry gripped
his hand tightly, with the promise that he would never let go.
Somehow, Draco always managed to make his cold fingers warm.
                      ~The End of Working Out The Kinks~
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