Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

The Masks of Real Heroes	By : Aelys_Althea Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Slash - Male/Male Views: 17641 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: Many thanks to the wonderful J. K. Rowling who offered such a beautiful world for amateurs such as myself to frolick in. This is a not-for-profit fanfiction and all characters and original storylines of Harry Potter belong to her!

Chapter List
- 14
- 15
- 16
A/N: This is a chapter that I hold very near and dear to my heart. I couldn't seem to stop writing, so as a result it ended up quite long. I hope you enjoy it. Please let me know what you think down the bottom, or if you have any comments or questions. I love hearing from everyone, even if it's just a word or two.

Chapter 14: An Act So Muggle
“I still don’t understand why I’m not going. It is not fair.”
Draco swallowed past the lump in his throat as he posed the statement that was almost a whine for the tenth time in as many minutes. Narcissa stood before him, an exasperated expression on her face, and shared a look that Draco couldn’t quite understand with her husband.
Draco closed his eyes, dropping his chin and gritting his teeth in anticipation of denial. His mother had refused his pleas since they had received the fire call from his aunt Bellatrix that morning; his father was to attend a meeting of the Death Eaters and though it wasn’t stated explicitly, the two-person portkey that Lucius had pulled from his pocket upon request to transport them directly – for apparently the visitation was anticipated – indicated that Draco was to accompany him.
Being deliberately obtuse, Narcissa had immediately stepped in and informed her husband that she, not Draco, would accompany him. Though not a Death Eater herself, the ties she had to those on the inner circle and her public face made her a pivotal contributor all the same. The Dark Lord may be disgruntled by Draco’s absence, but his mother’s presence would be sure to diffuse at least some of the anger.
Draco had immediately objected. Naturally. What kind of a person would he be if he allowed not only his father’s departure into the snake pit but his mothers too? And when it should have been him going? He had felt anxiety roil in his gut, felt the sweat of fear dribbling down his back and sticking robes to flushed skin. His family, they were leaving him and walking into the hands of the Devil himself, and he would not do nothing.
Yet Lucius had immediately agreed with Narcissa’s suggestion, and as the man with the portkey, his decision held sway. Hence, Draco had spent the entire morning arguing with his parents in an attempt to get them to see reasons, to allow him to take one of their places if he could not fill both. But to no avail.
“Draco, this is unseemly. You are behaving like a child, protesting of fairness when the decision has already been made.” Narcissa spoke with exasperation, but love and fondness vas evident in the reassuring smile she afforded him as she slipped dark leather gloves onto her elegant fingers. Turning towards her husband, she straightened his cloak, settling it properly upon his shoulders, before grasping his hand and sliding to his side.
Draco grit his teeth to prevent his chin from trembling. A child? Well, if it would keep them from leaving, would make them see reason, he would be blubbering like a toddler in a moment, regardless of how humiliating it would be. But he wouldn’t, because long experience insisted that when his mother and father made a decision, they could not be swayed.
He closed his eyes, squeezing them briefly before stepping forwards. In one swift motion, he engulfed his mother in an embrace, squeezing her briefly before folding his father similarly. Hugging was not a common occurrence between their family nowadays, not since Draco had started school, and he’d always largely objected to such private displays of affection, but in that moment he almost couldn’t let go. The warmth of their patting arms carried something other than simply the heat of their bodies.
“Stay safe. Please, please stay safe.”
He opened his eyes to identical expressions of sympathy. Sympathy for him, when they should be concerned with themselves. Lucius simply nodded, but Narcissa took it upon herself to stroke the side of his head. “It is only for the day, Draco. We will return by portkey before ten o’clock tonight. You shall see, there is nothing to be afraid of. It is only a routine meeting. And besides,” she turned pointedly towards Lucius and Draco got the feeling there was more to the stare than met the eye, “it will allow us to send our request to Albus Dumbledore. International communication is dubious at best. This is an opportunity to organise a meet before school resumes.”
Draco nodded, unable to speak past the swelling of the lump in his throat. Defiance had, somewhere in the last half an hour, slipped into grudging acceptance, and he couldn’t restrain the sadness that enveloped him as a result. Narcissa seemed to see this, for her tone picked up almost comically.
“Right! Now, you two behave in our absence. I do not wish to return to find the manor burnt to the ground.”
A cough of laughter managed to croak past the unwieldy lump. “Burnt to the ground? And how, Mother, would I achieve as much when I cannot even use my wand.”
“Oh, I’m sure you could find a way.” Another warm smile, another stroke on his cheek, and Lucius muttered a password into the silver spoon portkey clenched in his fist, Narcissa’s fingers curled around his. In a swirl of magic, more silent than Apparation, they disappeared.
Draco was silent, staring at the spot on the floor where his parent had stood. Strangely enough, with their disappearance also disappeared the urge to break down in a ball of weeping and thrash like a baby. The sadness and fear was still there, stronger than it had been in some time, and yet… His mother’s words – a simple reassurance though they were, for no one could ever fathom exactly what would occur at the meetings – always managed to comfort him somehow.
When cold fingers slipped into his hand, he nearly flinched. Glancing to his side, he met Harry’s concerned gaze, peering at him intently through the reflective shine of his lenses. They truly did suit him perfectly. Delicate and angular, just like his features, and made of hardened welding-vine that reflected every faint change in colouration of the plant even when baked to a hardness to rival steel. Draco found that he didn’t mind the glasses, even if he did prefer Harry without them. They didn’t really hide anything.
“They will come back. You know they will.”
In that moment, Draco was thankful that his friend didn’t waste time with inane questioning and formulaic attempts at comfort and consolation. He thought he would have become angry if someone, anyone, had asked him if he was alright. Oddly enough, such never seemed to occur to Harry to ask. Perhaps he figured that he could deduce whether someone was ‘alright’ well enough without clarifying.
As it was, Draco felt himself ease just slightly more with just the simple phrase. So simple, it was, that he marvelled it had such power to affect him. As always, Harry provided the perfect Distraction from whatever mess he found himself in. It was only more recently that he realised he actually enjoyed the Distraction. Did that truly make it a diversion? Disregarding the thought as pointless, he gave Harry a smile and allowed himself to be drawn onto the double couch and back to their abandoned chess match.
The Christmas parlour, as it had so been dubbed in the days since, had become something of a base for the pair of them. Harry had mentioned an inclination to stray from the confines of his room on Boxing Day, and since they had barely spent any time in there. To sleep, of course, and just as naturally Draco slept with him, but otherwise they alternated between the library, the parlour, and wandering outdoors when it was not too cold to freeze them in their tracks.
To Draco’s wonderment and secret relief, he found that even after his revelation on Christmas day he had been able to act naturally around Harry. And he could act as such because he simply was; there was nothing to be ashamed of about it, and he didn’t even really feel embarrassed. True, he hadn’t told his friend what he felt, what he thought he felt, but that was as much due to the fact that he wasn’t sure he could really explain it as any hesitancy over his speculation as to the other’s standpoint.
For yes, he realised that he loved Harry. But just what that love was he wasn’t quite sure. Just as the poem had said, just as the final lines in informal embroidery at the bottom indicated, it seemed to be something of a blind, directionless love that he couldn’t quite put a name to. And wouldn’t the author of the little poem be happy about that?
When he considered it, Draco supposed that he could even see Harry as fitting into each of the roles the poem had specified. His friend, of course; he loved him dearly as a friend, even with such a short period that they had known each other for. As a brother, certainly. They got on far too well to not consider their friendship bordering on such. Besides, Harry was becoming increasingly comfortable with his jibing retorts, something that – though he had never experienced before personally – seemed to ring true of brotherhood. He almost resembled Blaise in that matter.
As a child… Draco certainly felt protective enough, there was no point even attempting to deny that. And as a father? It was probably the most confusing of the references, but he could even see how the protectiveness was reversed at times. The memory of the removal of his mark and Harry’s determination, as well as more recently at that first dinner between his father and his friend, when he had actually seemed to become angry at a point… Draco wasn’t entirely sure, but perhaps, yes, even then.
And as a lover? It was that consideration which Draco took the most time over, and not only because of how it would effect those around him. Such relationships were not shunned in Wizarding society – far from it – but neither were they deemed entirely acceptable. Especially in pureblood families, there was a strong emphasis upon preserving the bloodlines and maintaining magical competency for generations to come. Draco wasn’t sure how his mother and father would respond to the claim that he loved Harry, let alone viewed him as a lover. He hoped that they would be accepting, and remembering the amused smiles and knowingly raised eyebrows he suspected that his mother would be accommodating. His father was a different matter, more set in his ways. Draco wasn’t yet certain how Lucius would respond; his father liked Harry, Draco knew, but did he like him that much?
For himself, the consideration set him at a point somewhere between euphoria and horror. As though laying claim to the possibility had awakened something in him, it felt as though every moment in Harrys presence, even when the other boy was not paying attention to him, was a joy. On the flip side, the potential for everything turning pear-shaped, for his feelings to not only be diverted but rejected, was terrifying. He doubted that Harry had it in his character to do so brutally and with anything but absolute compassion, but still…
At least the internal war didn’t set him on edge. It was strange; he was aware of the silent battle raging, yet felt totally calm, as though he was simply an onlooker awaiting the outcome of the contest with mild interest and little investment. It was a blessing, of sorts. He found he was still able to enjoy his everyday life without the cloud of uncertainty hanging over him, a fact that he was aware was unusual in itself. Weren’t people supposed to become lovesick when they were unsure in such situations?
Draco found he didn’t really care. So long as he could still enjoy Harry’s company, still spend time with him, Draco was content. Not completely satisfied, certainly, but content enough to thoroughly beat his small friend time and time again at wizards chess.
“I just don’t think I have a strategic mind,” Harry admitted, nudging a resilient pawn that was attempting to walk on its hands in the absence of its shattered legs. . He sighed, and shared a glance with Draco over the rubble of the ‘broken’ pieces, the second destruction of his troops in an hour. They’d settled into the game as a means of occupying their time, and it had mostly worked. Draco would have preferred something like homework to consume his attention, but a constant study companion actually set their work pace much faster
“Yeah, I’d gathered as much.” Though still aware of the persistent worry nestled in his chest, Draco had settled enough to resume something of his normal attitude. It didn’t stop him thinking every few minutes of exactly what his parents were doing at that moment, but he survived. Harry’s presence was a big contributor to that.
“You’re supposed to say ‘oh, you’ll get there in the end,’ but-“
“I don’t think you ever will. You’re not reckless enough.”
“Is that so?”
Draco nodded, slumping back into the leather back of his seat. “You need to learn the value of sacrifice.”
Harry frowned at that, sliding the persistent pawn back across the board from where it had dragged itself defiantly towards the cavorting enemy. “No, I don’t think I could sacrifice someone intentionally.”
“It’s just a game, Harry.”
“Yes, but the players move and talk on their own. That hits a little too close to home for me.”
“We just need to work on your heartlessness.”
The boys shared a smile, falling into silence. As Harry worked at separating the black from the white rubble, Draco glanced out the window behind him. It was a beautiful day. The sun streamed into the parlour and illuminated the glittering baubles on the still-standing tree, casting the conjured fairies into invisibility and urging the reindeer and harpies to sigh in relief in their beds of snow. It was almost a waste to spend it inside, despite the thick layer of snow that blanketed the grounds.
“Hey, Harry.”
“Hmm?” Harry didn’t even look up from his sorting.
“We should go outside.”
Harry raised his head and glanced out the window, following Draco’s directive nod of the head. He slowly nodded his own in agreement. “It might even be warm.”
Draco snorted. “Well, not warm, but not likely to freeze us to death.” He slouched further into the seat, bellying his enthusiasm for a stroll. “It’s a pity we’ve traipsed just about everywhere in the grounds we possibly could. There really isn’t much else to see.”
Shrugging in half-hearted agreement, Harry dusted his hands of the remaining rubble. “It’s still beautiful. Everywhere in Paris is beautiful.”
Another snort from Draco drew Harry’s gaze. ‘The Muggle city is beautiful?’
“I thought you said you weren’t anti-Muggle.’
“I’m not. Not really.” At Harry’s dubious stare, he continued a vehement “I’m not. I dropped such pretences long ago. But that doesn’t mean they don’t make a mess of their cities.’
Sighing in exasperation, Harry leant forward and poked Draco’s forehead with a finger. “Have you even seen Paris?”
Draco grinned, secretly enjoying the banter. That Harry had touched him on his own in a way aside from a simple handhold, even if simply in jest, only added to his enjoyment. “ I don’t need to. It’s a Muggle city.”
Harry shook his head, rolling his eyes.
“I saw that. Your glasses are transparent, you know.”
“I meant you to see it.” Leaning against the couch face first, arms propped across the back and legs tucked beneath him like a child, Harry laid his head onto the soft leather and turned towards Draco. “I think you’d be surprised if you actually took a look. Just because its different from a wizard’s city doesn’t mean it isn’t impressive.”
Draco pondered for a moment. It was true, he didn’t dislike Muggles. Not really, anyway; he’d been telling the truth when he claimed that the pretences of ‘hatred’ he’d exhibited in the past were in the past. Besides, the very fact that the Dark Lord despised them was enough of an attraction to their race itself. Draco didn’t love them, but he didn’t… hate them either. That didn’t mean that he had any respect for their abilities, in architecture or otherwise. But if Harry said so…
“Alright. Show me the city.”
“What?” Harry’s picked his head up from the back of the lounge, eyebrows rising.
“Show me everything I’m missing.” Draco smirked. “Dazzle me with their wonders.”
Harry paused for a moment, silent, a bemused expression on his face. “Draco, your mother doesn’t want you going outside during the day –“
“Because of the Death Eaters, I know. But if, hypothetically, all of the Death Eaters are at a meeting?”
It was Harry’s turn to snort, a strange sound coming from him and amusing in being so. “I’m pretty sure there are more Death Eaters than would attend a single meeting.”
“Even so, their numbers would be lessened greatly.”
He couldn’t help himself. Now that the possibility had presented itself, Draco was a dog with a bone. Not that the Muggle city itself interested him particularly, but the chance to get out of the house was certainly appealing. Besides, though he worried, his natural disgruntlement over being denied by his parents demanded that he do something irrational and prohibited. It was a shame that Harry was so conservative on the matter –
“Alright.”
Well, maybe not that conservative.

“It’s… tall.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Really… really tall. And big.”
“Yes, it is that too.”
Draco stared directly upward at the Eiffel Tower, mouth open slightly in an expression that was not wonderment and so focused that he barely heard Harry’s replies.
“I mean, it’s nearly as tall as the Shard, and wizards built most of that. I didn’t think Muggles could build something so…”
‘Big and tall?’
Turning an exasperated frown onto his friend, he caught the faint glimpse of a smile before Harry ducked his chin. “Actually, I was going to say structurally complex.” He turned his eyes back up to the tower once more.
He would never admit it, but Draco was impressed. When they had left the house, rugged in more layers than was probably entirely necessary – Harry had eventually disputed the continued addition of garments when Draco had attempted to outfit him with a second pair of gloves – he had supposed them to engage in little more than a short, refreshing walk, avoiding the crowds and looping back to the manor before it began to snow again. For, even if only briefly, the sky appeared to be holding off from it’s sleepy flaking
It was still freezing, even with the sun raining down merrily upon them. Draco had made sure to complain to Harry of the chill at least three times before they left the actual grounds of the Malfoy estate. Harry largely ignored his mindless complaints, merely nodding as though listening to the inane chatter of a two year old. At Draco’s suggestion that they loop back around the manor grounds instead of passing through the gate, however, Harry had become oddly insistent.
“No, you haven’t seen the city. And since you were so keen to ‘get out’, I’m going to show it you.”
Draco had sighed in exasperation. The thought of milling amongst magic-less folk was tiring in itself, not to mention the crowds that naturally encompassed any inner-city streets. Draco was not overly fond of crowds, not even when they were composed solely of wizards and witches. Not that he had a problem with Muggle crowds more, exactly, but… There were boundaries. It was something Draco believed he had adopted from his father; he was more than happy to be the centre of the attention of an enraptured audience, but to be in the thick of things was something different entirely. Lucius always ensured that any pre-term visits to Diagon Alley were conducted well before the rushing influx of last-minute shoppers.
And that was just in the Wizarding world. The density of magical folk held nothing on Muggles; this Draco knew without ever having to experience it. The ratio of their two populace’s just varied so hugely. So it was with a significant amount of regret at his own suggestion that he followed Harry through the iron-wrought gates of the estate and into the Parisian streets.
It was crowded. More than Draco had ever seen it in Diagon Alley. The only benefit of such a crowd was the added warmth of proximity, but even that was deterred by a faint reek and the discomfort of bodies huddled far too closely. Harry, apparently sensing Draco’s unease, or perhaps simply restraining him from a flight back to the manor, had slipped his gloved hand in Draco’s own and led him onward. How he managed it, Draco didn’t quite understand, but that simple gesture allayed any more thoughts of high-tailing it back into the safety of the Wizarding world.
It had been an unremarkable first hour. Weaving between densely packed streets, Draco was more focused upon his increasing warmth and reprimanding himself for the initially considered necessity of wearing so many layers. Though the roads were slick with ice and snow lined the guttering, splashing in a mucky sludge with every passing car, bus and taxi, it was still uncomfortably warm in the shrouds of his thick coat. At that point, his grumbling had probably gotten the best of Harry, for his friend finally sighed and led with more purpose than the apparently aimless wandering . Within moments, he had chivvied Draco onto a bus, of all things, and nudged him into a seat, pausing only to pay the driver with a clink of the change Draco’s parents had offered them for any possible ‘evening strolls’.
It was startling to experience Harry taking the initiative for the second time that morning, so much so that Draco promptly forgot to question exactly where it was that they were going. At least immediately. He had faith in Harry’s sense of direction, anyway, despite the other boy telling him repeatedly that he wasn’t from the inner-city and had only rarely visited. Instead, Draco had turned his attention to more practical matters.
“Why, exactly, are we taking a Muggle bus of all things?”
Harry offered his small smiled from where he leant his head on the back of the seat. “How else would you get halfway across the city?” At Draco’s admittedly nonsensical reply, Harry shrugged. “Besides, I thought you’d appreciate getting off the street. Less crowded, you know?”
Draco did know. And though it was still fairly packed on the bus, it was nothing to the sidewalk. “Fair enough.” He glanced out of the window, basking in the winter sun that filtered through and the feeble attempt at warmth it strove to shed. “So where are we actually going?”
“You said I should show you the city. So we’ll go the tourist route; see the sights and all.” Harry closed his eyes as he leant back against the seat again, apparently perfectly comfortable with the rather jolting experience of the bus-ride. Regardless of Wizarding or Muggle expertise, it was apparently impossible to design a bus that didn’t nearly toss one to the ground with every pebble on the road.
“Yes, but where?”
“Have you ever heard of the Lourve?’
“Lourve?”
“Mmm.” Harry half-opened one eye. “It’s an art gallery.”
“A Muggle art gallery.”
Harry snorted again, the second time that morning. It was no less surprising hearing it repeated. “I would have thought that much was obvious.”
“Hey, don’t take that tone with me!” Draco couldn’t quite keep his amusement from colouring the indignation he attempted.
Harry sighed. “I’m not taking a tone, Draco.” He glanced towards Draco with an exasperated expression, leaving him shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Mostly because he knew Harry was right. Harry never took a ‘tone’ per se, not even when he spoke sarcastically or in jest. It just wasn’t part of his character. “I just want to show you something a little different to what you’d usually see.”
In that moment, Draco had reached an understanding. Harry truly did simply want to show him, but his underlying motivations, conscious or not, were not driven by something so simple. In the weeks past, and in hindsight the months he had known his little friend, Draco had come to a rather startling realisation. Harry was opinionated. And more than that, he wanted other people to hear and at least appreciate his opinions. Despite his natural quietness, most likely a product of the lifestyle he had been subjected to so far, he couldn’t seem to suppress the desire to state his claim, to simply show others how he saw things. Even his quietness had taken a back seat in recent weeks in favour of simply contributing his opinion. A significant development, in Draco’s opinion
Not for the first time, Draco wondered how Harry had survived under his family’s ruthless and controlling domination. Such an opinionated individual, so firm in his belief system, would naturally struggle under such circumstances. How he even retained such opinions in an environment so restricting of such was even more baffling.
Harry seemed to genuinely believe what he said. When he stated something – such as magic – was impossible, at least as he saw it, it was because he truly believed it to be impossible. At least within the boundaries his personal world was constrained by. It was probably why he was unable to convert a ball of yarn back into a kitten, even though Draco knew he was more than capable of the reverse, magically speaking. But most importantly, Harry seemed to want to share his understanding with others, and to test such understanding against the arguments presented to him. Draco had seen it, though just once, when Harry’s opinion and beliefs had been swayed enough for him to practice magic he had previously been unable to comprehend. Hermione had been particularly influential in that instance. From that point onwards, Harry had accepted the possibility as fact, and seamlessly performed alloy transmutation thenceforth. It was one of the traits Draco found most fascinating about his friend; though he so adamantly pursued his own beliefs – albeit in a passive approach – he was open to having such beliefs disproved if done so adequately.
It was exactly what Draco had witnessed at school, and he believed was at least a partial contributor to Harry’s success in wandless, wordless magic. And likely the large driver of his inability to conduct particular types of magic, too.
“What is it?”
Draco cocked his head, raising an eyebrow. Harry sighed in response. “You were looking at me strangely.”
Sighing himself, though much more dramatically, Draco raised a hand to his forehead and adopted a troubled expression. “Merely wondering how you could think that such would interest me. There is no magic; what else is there to know?”
Harry had slipped on a small smile at that, startling in that it seemed almost excited. Another sight Draco had never witnessed before. “We’ll have to wait and see.”
And see they did. Draco would not deny that he was at first sceptical. He wasn’t sure at which point exactly such scepticism transformed first to confusion and mild interest and finally into fascination. It could have been at the Lourve; the architecture of the building itself rivalled that of the most high-class Wizarding families, and that was to say nothing of the giant glass pyramid out the front, nor the wide rooms with tall roofs and that boasted frame after frame of exquisite artwork.
It could have been the Mussee d’Orsay; the sprawling, riverside building was at least on par with the Lourve for architectural finesse, and contained enough historical artefacts and descriptions of detailed static photographs that for the first time Draco regretted his inability to read French. A regret that only manifested on their visit to Notre Dame when he had to request Harry read the pamphlet provided by an overly cheerful and very non-Parisian informant to listen to the history of the building while gazing upon the cathedral with wide eyes.
Or it could have been the peaceful stroll through the snow-bedecked Tuileries Garden; even in winter, trees skeletal in their bareness, the grounds and fountains frozen in the midst of the cold season holding a subtle beauty that captured his attention in an entirely different way to the architectural feats of the buildings visited prior.
It could even have been the lunch of sharp cheese, thick ham and crunchy baguette that the boys nibbled in their wander along La Seine, breathing in the crisp air and trailing eyes over the haphazard placement of buildings along the riverside. One bus-ride too many had left them deciding to take the pedestrian route around the city, something that Draco was not averse too. Especially as it gave them greater opportunity to talk in relative quiet.
“I just find it unbelievable that they could have built an entire cathedral without magic. Over eight hundred years ago, at that.” Dusting his gloves free of breadcrumbs, Draco thrust his fingers in the pockets of his coat and stared pointedly at Harry. He wasn’t angry, or even terribly affronted. He was simply hypothesising that magic must have been in the works at some point in the building’s construction. It would not have been possible for the Muggles to do so, otherwise.
Harry shrugged, chewing on a corner of his own baguette. “No wizards or witches. Purely constructive competency.”
“But how is that even possible. How do they build that without magic.”
Another shrug. “With cranes and manual labour.” Harry glanced up at Draco through his loosening fringe, eyes sparkling in amusement. “Is it that hard to believe?”
Draco sighed, running a hand over his hat in consideration. “Yes… no, I guess not. I just never thought Muggles could be…’’
“They’re not incapable, you know.”
‘Yeah, I’d gathered as much after you’re little show today.’
Harry breathed a sigh of his usual almost-laughter, muttering ‘little show’ beneath his breath. Handing the half-eaten baguette out to Draco, he raised an eyebrow. Draco accepted without comment; it wasn’t an unusual motion, to share food, and Draco was too caught in the conversation to really consider reprimanding Harry for not finishing lunch. Besides, he was hungry.
“Have you ever heard of the pyramids of Egypt?”
Draco paused with a mouthful of bread. “Hmm?”
“The pyramids. In Egypt. They were build long before anything quite of the same scale in Europe.” Harry fixed him with a stare, oddly intense behind the flat reflectiveness of his glasses. “What about the Parthenon, in Rome? The Taj Mahal? The Great Wall of China?” He paused at Draco’s lack of response. “You’ve heard of them, haven’t you?”
Draco resolutely ignored Harry’s attempt to catch his eye and focused instead on the rapidly and regretfully disappearing baguette. “I’ve… heard of them.”
“Ever looked at any pictures?”
“No. Why would I?”
“Because they’re incredible. And they’re entirely Muggle-made.”
“Are you completely sure of that? I’m not convinced that at least Notre Dame wasn’t made with some input by wizards and witches.”
Harry shook his head, a faint smile on his chin. “No, entirely Muggle. I read a book.”
“Of course you did.”
“No, really. Hermione gave it to me. She said she was interested in third year at the degree of cooperation between the magical and non-magical worlds. There was a whole list of constructions, mostly World Heritage sites and structures, which are entirely Muggle made. Very few structures that don’t solely reside in the Wizarding world to the exclusion of Muggles actually have much input of Wizarding architects at all, actually.”
“I think that’s about the longest I’ve ever heard you speak in one go.”
“Don’t try to change the subject.”
Draco chuckled, crumpling the paper bag now empty of bread and folding it into his pocket. “Alright, say I believe you. What then?”
“Does it change your perspective at all?”
“Oh, so that’s what you were trying to do? I knew there was an ulterior motive.” Harry only frowned at him in affront. Draco smiled broadly in response. “I don’t know if it changes anything exactly. As I said, I don’t hate Muggles. I just doubted their competency.”
“And now?”
“I doubt it slightly less.” He laughed louder at Harry’s huff, of frustration this time, looping an arm through his friend’s and grinning down at him. Harry soon returned the smile, though somewhat less broadly. It would never be a Harry expression, anyway, such teeth-flashing grins. “But I’ll admit, I am somewhat impressed.”
Harry’s smile widened slightly at that. “I’m happy to hear it.” The sincerity in his tone made the admission worthwhile, even if it had been true in the first place.
Pulling his friend closer to his side, Draco jostled him with an elbow. “So, Mr. Tour Guide. Where to now?”
Harry raised his free hand, gloved finger tapping his chin in consideration. “Well, it is only a little after lunch. We could go anywhere…”
“Anywhere in particular?”
‘We still have to see the Eiffel Tower.’
“The what?”
“Please tell me you’ve heard of it before.”
He had. Maybe. Draco wouldn’t tell Harry that, though. He was far more amused with the exasperation that glowed in his friend’s eyes as he shook his head.

“Why would anyone possibly climb it?”
Harry shrugged, barely heeding Draco’s incredulous stare as he tilted his head to observe the heights of the structure himself. Draco followed his gaze and suppressed a swallow. He knew he was more than capable of flying to such heights on a broomstick, but something about relying solely upon a wavering Muggle-built structure seemed so much more daunting.
“Do you want to climb it?”
Suppressing a flinch, Draco shook his head with forced control. “No, no, I… I’m fine, thank you.” He thought he made a fair attempt at a blasé attitude but Harry only smiled a hidden smile that said he saw straight through him.
“Would you like to go somewhere else then? Or we could have a look around. The Champ de Mars is still pretty impressive, even from ground-level.” He gestured to the broad expanse of snow-covered parkland beyond the tower.
Draco shrugged. “Yeah, we could. Or we could go wherever it was that you’ve been considering going all day.”
It was Harry’s turn to start in surprise. The dark-haired boy blinked rapidly, sweeping a hand through his fringe to frown questioningly at Draco. “Hmm?”
“Every time we’ve walked anywhere near a train station, you sort of pause like you’re considering hopping onto the platform.” Shrugging again, Draco thrust his hands into his pockets. He tried not to look self-satisfied, but it was difficult. “Where was it that you wanted to go?”
Harry’s mouth had fallen open, hanging slightly. Draco knew he should have felt affronted – did Harry really see him as so unperceptive? – but his self-satisfaction outweighed any disgruntlement. Finally, Harry clicked his jaw shut. “No, it’s okay.”
“Where did you want to go?”
“Draco, I said it’s okay –“
“And I’m saying that if you’d like to go somewhere then we’ll go.” Glancing up at the sky, eyes squinting at the sun’s glare, Draco frowned. “I’d say we have at least another five hours or so until nightfall. How about it?”
Harry seemed to be nearly chewing a tear in his lower lip. One hand rose to his chest – no, to his collarbone – but the thickness of gloves, scarf and jacket made any attempts at the compulsive action moot. Sighing, chin dropping, he flickered his eyes to Draco.
“Look, you don’t have to –“
“Harry.”
Another sigh. When he finally spoke again, it was so quiet, even more than usual, that Draco had to lean forward to hear him. “I just thought I should… drop by my uncles house.”
Blankness whited out Draco’s mind, but only briefly. The mixture of anger and horror that rushed forth to colour the clean numbness was nearly warm in its intensity. As a result, when he spoke it was with more heat than he anticipated. “Why would you want to go back to him?”
Harry hunched his shoulders, chin tucking to his chest and closed his eyes. It was that very motion reigned in Draco’s anger; that Harry might feel intimidated by him, nervous even, was possibly the most horrifying thing he could think of. At the moment anyway.
Before he could speak, however, Harry continued in a hushed tone. “I didn’t say I wanted to go back to him. I don’t even want to see him. Ever.” He drew in a breath and released it in a small cloud of white. “But I have… things that I need to pick up. Everything I left behind.” He opened his eyes, sending Draco a gaze faintly imploring. “I didn’t have much time to grab anything before I left before.”
Instantly, Draco felt an upwelling of guilt flood through him. It was an unfamiliar feeling; he was unaccustomed to feeling abashed or ashamed of anything, much less when the one causing him to feel as much did not enforce the sentiment. He could not deny, however, as Harry tucked his chin once more as though awaiting reprimand, that the guilt was sincere. Swallowing the bitter taste, he reached out a hand and gently wrapped his fingers around the gloved fingers that plucked persistently at Harry’s scarf. He almost forgot, especially when his small friend acted so confident and animated, that Harry was prone to such nervousness. And who wouldn’t be, after struggling through the childhood that he had?
“Oh, I see.” Smiling with forced brightness, Draco nodded as though reaching a decision. “Well, in that case, we’ll go.”
Harry raised his chin, blinking incredulously. A frown gradually settled on his forehead. “You… what?”
“Let’s go.”
“You’re actually agreeing to come with me?”
“Well, it’s not like I’d let you go alone.” The wobbly smile that spread across Harry’s face eradicated of any further hesitancy. Even the prospect of confronting the bastard himself.
They made short work of the subways. Not for the first time, Draco was glad of Harry’s accompaniment, not only as a guide but as a translator. He could hazard a guess at some of the signage, but most was lost on him, and the densely packed state of the sidewalks still left him feeling a little frazzled. Following in Harry’s wake, his friend slightly subdued with the prospect of their destination, he waited in silence as Harry quietly requested tickets at the service counter and urged Draco through the turnstiles of the station. Really, so much fuss and bother for such a small expedition. And the tickets? Were Muggles all so untrustworthy?
They eventually settled themselves in a relatively packed carriage – though, to Draco’s relief, secured a pair of seats beside a solo middle-aged traveller – and eased themselves into the gentle swaying of the carriage. Draco had to admit that, though he was not entirely comfortable with the prospect of moving underground, the rhythmic swaying was rather calming. And besides, it was nice to get off his feet; they’d walked a respectable distance that day already.
“So how far out is the place you’re from?”
Harry turned at the question, blinking rapidly as though he hadn’t expected the interruption. It wouldn’t be surprising to find as much; he’d barely spoken a word in English since they had left the shadow of the Eiffel Tower.
“Sorry?”
“The place you live. Where about is it?”
‘Oh.’ He paused, as though he honestly had to think about it. ‘A little over an hour and a half, south-east from Paris Metro.” He tapped a finger thoughtfully to his chin. “I think it’s… it should take about hour to reach the station, maybe a little longer at this time of day. Then a bus, and it’s a bit of a walk, but not too far.” He turned a nervous glance towards Draco. “Is that alright?”
Draco sighed in exaggerated despair. “Ask me if it’s alright one more time and I swear, I’ll charm your lips shut first thing when terms starts again.” He smiled to make sure Harry knew he was joking and received a muted reply. “Calm down, would you? If I objected to accompanying you, I would have said something. Surely my approach to this morning’s endeavour was evidence enough of that?”
Harry’s smile widened slightly and he seemed to relax with the statement. For Draco’s part, however, the companionable silence that followed left him to mulling in a decidedly uncomfortable way.
He didn’t think it was necessarily a bad idea to visit Harry’s home. Rather, the very fact that Harry had requested their visit made it a very good idea; Harry never asked for anything. Still, Draco couldn’t fully overlook the complete lack of consideration for circumstance, given the hastiness of their decision. He knew he was prone to rash decision-making, but that was usually just when it concerned himself. When it also included Harry…
In all honesty, Draco would have far preferred to be accompanied by his parents. Particularly his mother, but either would have been preferable to neither. It was not so much for the sake of ‘back-up’, but Draco wasn’t entirely sure what they would find at the house. He wasn’t scared; no, far from it. More… concerned for the welfare of Harry’s uncle, and the repercussions of what would be an almost certainly volatile confrontation. He held no qualms about conducting magic out of school when he really needed to, and particularly not in this instance. He brought his wand with him everywhere as proof of his stance on the matter.
The question was, how much would the Ministry of Magic be able to overlook, even in a foreign country? Draco was fairly certain that flaying and subsequent inversion of musculature – a rather artful picture in his mind – would be unacceptable. If his father had accompanied him – or better yet his mother, given he knew her own stance on the situation more thoroughly – such considerations would have been fruitless. Narcissa would most likely have beaten him to it.
Perhaps it was the dark cast to his thoughts, or merely the passing mental image of his parents, but for whatever reason Draco felt himself cringe with the reminder of his parent’s absence. The possibilities, the unknown… It sent a hollow ache through his chest just to consider.
In an attempt to divert his own attention, Draco cast a glance at Harry and studied his friend. Head bowed slightly, drifting easily with the rhythm of the swaying carriage, he looked as at home on the Muggle train as any of the other informally dressed individuals that surrounded them. Even the new glasses, beautiful in their glass-like fragility, didn’t stand out in the artificial light of the carriage. Draco found the fluorescence to be rather discomforting; it was almost painful to behold, far from the soft flicker of familiar candlelight. How backwards Muggles were.
Turning his glare back from the stuttering light overhead, a glimmer of blue caught his eye. “You’re still wearing the apatites.”
Harry raised his chin, blinking in that oddly distracted way he seemed prone to doing that afternoon, and raised an eyebrow. “Hmm?”
“The earrings.”
Gloved fingers rose to touch lightly on the polished stone characters, just visible beneath the rim of Harry’s hat. A faintly fond smile curled on his lips. “Oh, yeah. I don’t think I’ll ever take them off again.”
“They’re working well, then?”
The smile widened slightly. “You could say that.”
“Well, how would you say it, then?”
“C’est magique.”
Draco grinned, an extended mimic of his friend’s. Comfortable self-satisfaction settled on his shoulders. “Then, you’re welcome.” He ignored the small roll of Harry’s eyes. “How does it work?”
Harry’s eyebrow rose in question once more. “What do you mean? Weren’t you the one who bought it?”
“Yes, but I’ve never actually experienced it myself. And the description I got was riddled with more verbosity than spots on a Sparking Munchkin quail.”
“Sparking Munchkin quail?”
“They’re from Mexico.”
“Of course. No wonder I’ve never heard of them.” Draco didn’t miss the sarcasm.
“Well?”
Tapping his chin once more, Harry cocked his head in consideration. “I don’t know if it would be the same with anyone other than Lyssy, since I know her so well, but it just seemed to click so well.” His small smile took on a distant quality. “It’s not exactly words that I hear, or words that I give her. More like feelings, or impressions. Like painting a picture with a mixture of colours, and each has its own meaning.”
“You paint a picture with your words.”
“Yeah, that’s sort of what it’s like.”
“No, I meant that what you just said…’ Draco stopped and brushed the miscommunication aside. “So you actually talk to Lyssy? Anything particularly interesting?”
Harry’s slight smile became amused. He probably heard the cynicism in Draco’s tone but didn’t comment on it. “You’d be surprised actually. But really, she’s surprisingly predictable with her comments.” He cast a sidelong glance at the young Malfoy. “Especially in reference to you.”
“To me?” Draco sniffed. “Predictable, naturally. How could she have anything to say but glowing compliments?”
Harry’s lips quivered. “How indeed.”
The conversation kept up a broken flow, light-hearted words interspersed with periods of comfortable silence. It wasn’t particularly loud on the train, and in other circumstances Draco may have been faintly concerned at some of the topics of discussion given the density of Muggles, but Harry had shrugged off the suggestion.
“No one near enough speaks anything approaching fluent English. You don’t need to worry about it.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“Pretty much. I spent my first few months in Paris without knowing a word of French; you pick up quickly who can actually understand what you’re saying and who’s just being polite. Or nosy.” A quick cast around the carriage and he shrugged again. “I think the man with the black beanie knows a bit – he looked up when you were talking about the Mismatch Potion – but no one else, I think.”
Draco had followed Harry’s sweep of the fellow travellers with a frown impressing his brow. “I wonder if there are any other wizards or witches on board.”
“Unlikely.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“If they’re anywhere near as tense as you are on a Muggle train, I think they would avoid it if at all possible.” After that, Draco had made a conscious effort to appear at ease.
They had to change trains only once. It was an experience that Draco was dreading repeating on the return journey. The Muggles scurried like ants across his path and he found himself scowling more than once as he had to dance to avoid tripping over an oblivious by-passer. Harry was amused enough to be drawn from his contemplation and latched his fingers onto Draco’s arm, acting as both a physical and supportive guide. Navigation was significantly easier after that, but Draco still detested the crowds with a growing intensity.
At their final stop, the sheer number of people travelling was markedly reduced. The carriage almost seemed sparse and far less manic, though maybe that was just in comparison to its earlier resemblance to a troupe of house elves at a banquet. To his despair, Harry insisted that they take a bus, but even that was more tolerable than those in the city. The swaying of the vehicle was less nauseating without the reek of closely packed bodies and muted buzz of unintelligible verbalisations. Besides, the final stretch was comparatively short.
Draco rubbed his arms to ward off the chill of the early afternoon as he waited for Harry to join him on the sidewalk after alighting from the bus. For whatever reason, the air felt colder than it had in the city streets. He didn’t like the look of the grey clouds that tiptoed overhead; they seemed to promise an icy evening. As soon as his friend clambered off the final step, the bus groaned like a weary beast-of-burden, clamped its doors shut and heaved into motion. The clattering and thrumming of a heavy engine dwindled rapidly as it disappeared around the distant corner.
Turning his attention towards Harry, Draco tilted his head questioningly. He didn’t speak; the ambiance of their surroundings seemed to deter such. Harry nodded in silent recognition of his question and tilted his head directionally to the left before leading the way.
It was a quiet street that they descended, or maybe that was just a result of the weather. No cars trundled over slick roads, though several lined the sidewalk, and Draco spied only one other walker, head down and seemingly intent on his destination. It was a welcome relief from the constant presence of pedestrians and sightseers in the city, and Draco was left instead with the opportunity to appreciate his surroundings.
The houses were not cluttered, though were closely situated enough to suggest the populace was fairly dense. There was a predominance of white walls, of red roofs and small gardens, but the effect was not particularly aversive. Simply ordinary, and not worthy of comment. There was not even anything decidedly Muggle about the area. Despite the lack of magical references, the houses could have been those of any middle-class Wizarding family. The thought was oddly discomforting, but not quite as much as Draco would have found it the day before.
Heading up a slight incline, Harry seemed to slow in his footsteps and Draco knew they were approaching Defaux’s house. Following the line of his friend’s gaze, his own fixed upon a similarly unremarkable building; it was perhaps on the smaller end of the residences they had passed, but otherwise held no discernible features. Single-storey, red-roof, a stunted driveway seating a sleek, black automobile that squatted idly like a watching hawk. The curtains of the front window were shuttered, blocking any potential escaping light. It looked, for all intents and purposes, as though no one was home.
“He’s not home.”
Turning as the whisper of his friend, Draco raised an eyebrow at the verbalisation of his thoughts. “Is he at work perhaps?”
Harry shook his head slowly, eyes still fixed as though in a daze. Seemingly without realising, his fingers rose and pressed against the collar of his jacket. “Not at this time of year, no.”
“How do you know, then?”
Harry shrugged. “He doesn’t feel like he’s home. That extra sense, you know. The magical feeling.”
Both of Draco’s eyebrows rose this time. “You just used magic.”
“I don’t know if that really counts as using magic, but…”
“You just used a Detection Charm, and you didn’t even realise?” His incredulity drew a strangled laugh from his throat. And all this holidays, I’ve regretted that I couldn’t do magic. Merlin, I even regretted it coming over here. And he just does a spell like that out of the blue. “Well, if we get caught for underage magic then I’m blaming you.”
“Don’t worry, I don’t think we’ll get caught or anything.” Leaving the cryptic words in his wake, Harry drew a shaky breath and stepped from the sidewalk onto the pavement leading to the house. His boots made faint scuffing noises with every step.
Striding after him, Draco fell into place beside him as they ascended the steps to the front veranda and stopped at the door. “You’re entirely sure of that?”
Harry nodded distractedly. “It never has before.” His fingers twitched for a moment before he grasped the door handle and turned. It was locked and only clicked in stubborn dispute.
“And when you say before… You have been doing magic before you came to Hogwarts, haven’t you?” A piece of the puzzle of his friend fell comfortably into place, a piece that he hadn’t even noticed was missing. Everyone had exclaimed incredulously over Harry’s first display of magic being in his fifteenth year; Draco should have known better.
Leaning forward, he pressed gloved hands uselessly against the wood of the front door. “It’s locked. Have you got a key or…?”
He would have eaten his words if he could, but they hung in the word like an expression of his own stupidity. Harry had already said that he left the house with next to nothing, only the clothes on his back and little enough of that. He hadn’t even taken shoes; Draco remembered with a mixture of horror and anger the sickly colour of his friends toes when he had stumbled upon him.
Harry didn’t seem to even hear him, however. Instead, he placed his own hand next to Draco’s and pressed his own hand to the wood. As if in answer to Draco’s previous question, the door swung inwards with a click and an almost audible sigh.
Draco fought to contain the little thrill he got every time he watched wandless magic. Even more, the thrill of watching Harry’s wandless magic. “I suppose you’re special brand of magic isn’t detectable by the Ministry?”
He gave his friend a sardonic smile, attempting to lighten the nervous mood, but Harry didn’t even glance at him. He only shrugged. “I’ve never been told off for it before, if that’s what you mean.”
“How is that even possible?”
Another shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine. Though it’s not like I really wanted anyone to see me do anything ‘magical’. If someone saw, they’d freak out…” He trailed off, swallowing in an almost gagging gulp that bespoke the alternative nature of his focus. Draco quietened any further questions; he didn’t think Harry was really in the right frame of mind to answer them anyway.
The shorter boy edged slowly into the house. Even though he had affirmed the absence of occupants, Draco thought he half expected to be bombarded with his first step over the threshold. Draco, thankful for the offer of a relief from the crisp iciness, followed on his tail.
It was remarkably sparse indoors. Not intentionally, perhaps, but there was a complete lack of personalisation that bespoke disregard for artistry or detail, or sentimentality for the past. The contrast to the colourful paintings, the woven tapestries and strategically placed artefacts around Draco’s own home made the bareness stark. He suppressed a shiver that had nothing to do with the abrupt relief from the outdoor crispness that the two boys stepped into.
Harry led the way down an unlit hallway, hands trailing without touching on the cream walls before flicking a button of sorts and illuminating the passage with the vibrant lights Muggles were so fond of. It didn’t do much for the approachability of the room.
Peering at the wall-button, Draco almost missed as Harry disappeared into the first room in the hallway. Following in his footsteps, he nearly ploughed into his friends, frozen just inside the doorway. The tension positively radiated from him.
Neither spoke. Striving for silence, Draco edged to his friends side, taking in the room as he did so. The same plainness engulfed the dim room uncomfortably; a single bed, desk, half-opened cupboard and window covered by gossamer curtains, entirely impractical for the winter weather. The room did not look unlived in; the bed sheets were bundled halfway down the mattress as though a sleeper had just arisen from the comfortable folds, and a pair of boots lay discarded several feet from the cupboard. They looked like Harry’s boots – too small for anyone with any sort of height.
Glancing towards Harry’s frozen form, speculations began to rise unbidden in Draco’s mind. The absolute stillness of his friend, the paleness and deceptive blankness so reminiscent of the constant expression he’d worn in the past, spoke of trauma as if the memories were painted across the walls. Draco fought to press down upon the simmering rage that threatened to rear its head. He didn’t want to think of what could have happened, what that bastard could have done to his Harry. The beast wasn’t even here to pay for his sins, so the anger would go unloosed, or misdirected. It wouldn’t help any, and Harry was unlikely to respond supportively in his current state.
Instead, he took a deep breath and took a silent step closer to his friend’s side. Slowly, with as little presumption as he could muster, he nudged his shoulder into Harry’s own. It was gratifying that Harry didn’t flinch away.
Drawing in an almost panting breath, Harry closed his eyes. Fingers rose to press against his eyelids, sliding behind the thin glass of his spectacles with practiced motions. His forehead creased as though he scowled at an unseen foe. Draco released his own sigh of relief; the emotion, any emotion, was so much better than that blankness Harry had once been so fond of.
“I…” Harry drew another breath, his voice so quiet it was barely audible, even in the silence of the house. He dropped his fingers from his eyes and spared an embarrassed glance for Draco. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“Completely zoning out.”
Draco snorted. “Whatever.” He forced nonchalance into his tone, but didn’t think Harry was fooled. “I don’t really mind. It’s not like we’re in a hurry. But,” he paused and cast a glance around the room. “Maybe it would be a good idea to grab anything you wanted to get, before anyone notices we’re here.” He had to bite his tongue to refrain from cursing the owner of the house.
“Hmm.” Harry agreed instantly with a nod that looked almost relieved. “That’s probably a good idea. Be gone before… someone comes back.” He mimicked Draco’s glance around the room then, with forced enthusiasm, propped open the cupboard doors and began filtering through the contents. Draco didn’t comment upon the suggestion that they ‘be gone’ before anyone interrupted them. He personally would have been more than happy to confront the twisted man who claimed the false title of ‘uncle’.
It didn’t take Harry long to make a small pile on the desk. Mostly clothes and a few books; at least Defaux had managed to adequately clothe his charge. The issue came about when he had finished piling.
“A suitcase…”
“Don’t you have your school trunk?”
Harry shook his head. “My uncle…” He paused, closed his eyes briefly before collecting himself and starting again. “My uncle took it into his room. He didn’t want me ‘accessing’ anything, he said.”
Draco bit back a growl. Never, not even in the breaks between term when he couldn’t even use magic, did his own parents separate him from his wand, and they actively demanded he spend some quality time with his school books. As well ask him to go for the entire time without a foot. Or unable to speak. The latter in particular made him cringe even to contemplate.
“Alright, I’ll go and get it. Which room?” He resolutely denied the opportunity to call the man’s room his. It was childish, but felt satisfying nonetheless.
“I’ll get it myself. It’s alright.” And it seemed to be. Perhaps it was Draco’s offer, or simply that he had become slightly acclimatised to the situation, but Harry seemed a little more at ease. Offering a faint attempt at a smile, he passed Draco into the hallway.
Defaux’s room was the furthest into the house, an odd placement so removed from the first bedroom. Draco followed Harry through a gloomily lit lounge area, past a simple dining table and kitchen filled with a compilation of objects Draco didn’t even want to contemplate, and through the open doorway of the second bedroom. It was bigger than the first room, nearly twice the size, with a cupboard nearly three times the width of the other. The same ‘lived in’ feel permeated the air, though in a much less orderly fashion than the first room – Harry’s room, Draco registered belatedly. Sheets were rumpled amidst a pile of thicker blankets upon the bed and clothes slumped discarded across every inch of carpet. One door of the cupboard was open and clothing trailed from the shelves like vines looped over a balcony. Oddly, the window was drawn open, the chilling winds blowing the curtains lazily and filling the room with a crisp and uncomfortable edge that thankfully dissipated before permeating the house proper.
Harry’s fingers tugged against the collar of his coat, but Draco was satisfied to see he didn’t waste a moment with heading towards the cupboard and tugging at the closed door. The catch jammed for a moment before swinging open, a small wave of clothing nearly drowning the dark-haired boy before he quickly jumped backwards.
“Up the top.” Draco nodded to the sizeable trunk wedged on the top shelf, stepping forward to offer a hand. Harry would have had to stretch on his toes to reach it anyway, and likely would have been crushed in a second wave had he attempted to tug it down himself. Draco himself grunted under the effort. Handing the handle towards his friend, Draco cast a quick glance around the room. It was in a truly unappealing state, if he was to be honest, only lowering his opinion of the owner further if such was possible. He hardly deserved even the bed he slept on.
The thought drove another. “Is there anything else you want?”
Harry glanced up at him through his fringe from the contents of the trunk he was checking, kneeling at its side on the floor. “Hmm?”
“I’d say you have about as much right to anything in this house as you uncle.” He couldn’t suppress the hiss in his voice at the term, and regretted it only as Harry flinched. Easing his tone, he forced a smile. “Anything that you might need?”
Harry shook his head slowly, a confused expression wrinkling his brow. “I don’t think so…”
But Draco was abruptly taken with the idea. Why shouldn’t Harry take anything he wanted? The bastard had taken more than could be repaid from his friend, more by miles. Anything Harry wanted should be his, but right. Turning towards the contents of the cupboard, ignoring the remaining piles of clothing, he ran his eyes over the shelves.
:Books, you could always use books if you wanted. If there’s anything interesting. Jewellery, though it’s rather tasteless. I wouldn’t recommend it. Any of this paperwork? I don’t really know what Peugeot is, but…”
“It’s my uncle’s company. The one he works for. Designs cars and such…”
“Oh. Well, that might be useful if you wanted to wring him dry.” Draco flickered idly through the papers before disgarding them and turning back to the contents of the cupboard. There was no order to them anyway. “Papers, more papers – does he not know how to file? – papers. Some sort of Muggle applicance of sorts –“
“That’s an electric shaver.”
“-more papers. Merlin, how many belts does one person need? And watches. Is that a helmet?” Draco paused, frowned at the misshapen object but quickly shook his head, disregarding it. His eyes fell on a box pressed to the back of the cupboard. “This looks promising.” Sliding his fingers beneath the stout feet, he drew the box from the shelf. It was surprisingly heavy.
Harry didn’t comment, and though Draco got the distinct impression he didn’t quite approve he still peered at the box curiously. He watched Draco with a faintly worried frown on his face, arms half-buried in the body of his trunk. He didn’t object, however, when Draco dropped to the floor beside him, flicked the latches of the lid and swung it open.
Neither of them spoke at first. A foreboding stillness gripped them both. “What is that?”
It was an object that Draco was sure he’d seen before, but couldn’t quite place. Small, a little bigger than his own hand, and L-shaped with a finger-sized ring in the elbow of the two arms, it lay cradled in a fitted casing of something that looked like black foam. A small impression of letters and numbers, of which he could make out 9mm, Beretta and U.S.A, was barely visible along the longer arm of the object. A smaller metallic rectangle, the same matte black colour as the item itself, lay in its own impression in the foam. Draco wasn’t sure what either of them were, but as his fingers touched on the cold smoothness, the chill that lingered on his skin seemed to be from more than the coldness of metal.
“D-don’t touch it!”
Fingers instinctively flinching away at the whispered shout, Draco glanced quickly towards Harry. The other boy stared with wide eyes at the object in the box, arms reaching towards Draco as though frozen in the act of wrenching him away from it. The fear that seemed to ripple off of him was infectious and made the hairs on the back of Draco’s neck stand on end.
“What…?”
“It’s a g-gun.”
The word held no significance to Draco, except perhaps to increase his foreboding. That was likely due more to Harry’s tone than any triggering of memory. “Gun? What is it?”
Harry drew in a shaking breath. He seemed absolutely terrified, though in a more acute sense than the chronic fear he had emanated upon entering the house. Reaching forwards, hesitantly, as though he didn’t wish to touch it, he flipped the lid of the box down again. Another shaking breath and the tension in his shoulders lessened slightly. “It’s a weapon. It’s used to ki… to hurt people.” The silence that followed was so profound that Draco heard his swallow nervously. “I don’t know why… People shouldn’t have things like that.”
“Do you think he’d use it? To hurt someone?”
Harry paused, then slowly shook his head. “If he was… if he had a gun, I think it would mostly just be because my uncle’s a bit paranoid. Fear of the unknown, you know?”
Draco nodded slowly, frowning. “But… Is it dangerous?”
Harry lifted his eyes at Draco’s question, eyes squinting slightly in bafflement. “It’s used to hurt people. Of course it’s dangerous.”
“It couldn’t be as dangerous that casting some of the more extreme hexes, though, or a curse.” Draco fixed his eyes on the box, eyes tracing over the afterimage of the gun in it’s padded casing. A weapon… Muggles made weapons, he knew that. But how dangerous could it be, really, when compared to the spells of a wizard?
In a motion of unexpected aggression, Harry leant forwards once more and thrust the box towards the cupboard. It slid easily across the carpet. Beneath his breath, Draco could have sworn he heard him mutter something that sounded like ‘yeah, but wands are dangerous…’. He spoke up a moment later, however. “No, maybe not, but that still doesn’t make it right to have one in your possession.” A completely foreign scowl curled his lip. Draco blinked in astonishment at the expression. “It still seems strange that he would have it, even if just for protection…”
Draco couldn’t suppress a snort at that. Really? He doesn’t think that bastard would possess something that could hurt someone? Harry glanced up at him, the scowl fallen from his face as though it had never been. Draco must have been glaring unintentionally, for his friend shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny.
Turning his attention back to the closed box, he fingered to top idly. A thought niggled at the back of his mind. “It’s probably because you don’t cast offensive spells – or defensive spells for that matter – that the thought of anyone owning something that could hurt someone else seems outrageous.” He frowned, and before he really considered it he blurted out the passing thought. “Do you want to take it?”
He immediately knew he’d said the wrong thing as Harry’s face contorted into an expression of horror. He had to suppress a wince. “W-what?! Why would I take it? I don’t want a weapon!”
Draco shrugged, abashed but unwilling to apologise for the slip of the tongue. “I just thought, seeing as you couldn’t really handle offensive spells…”
“When would I ever need hurt someone?!” Harry voice was a whispered squeak. He sounded so upset that Draco had to close his eyes briefly to keep from cringing.
“Look, I wasn’t suggesting that. I just thought… you know, in a worst case scenario.” He did cringed as he met Harry’s wide eyes, peering frightfully at him through the strands of his loose fringe. Desperately, he attempted another track. “I mean, a weapon isn’t just for hurting others, right? It’s also used to protect others. Sometimes the best defence is offense, and seeing as you can’t make a shield and won’t attack anyone…” He trailed off, fearing that his flapping tongue would only bury him further into a rather uncomfortable hole. He turned back towards the box and, with more difficulty than he thought it would be, muttered “sorry”.
Harry didn’t reply immediately. They sat in a tension so thick it seemed to immobilise them both, but finally Draco heard his friend release a faint sigh and slump slightly in his crouch. “No, I’m… I’m sorry. I completely overreacted. I was just startled and… a little scared I guess.” He leant forwards, tilting his head to slide into Draco’s field of vision. Though his eyes were still wide, a hint of colour had returned to his cheeks and he even attempted a wavering smile. “Sorry.”
Draco felt a flush of awkwardness flare in his cheeks. He was thoroughly mortified, and not only because of his continued regret over his words. Just that slight apology was enough to send a blossom of unexpected warmth through his chest, and it was a struggle to suppress a beaming smile from breaking out across his face. That would just be too embarrassing. Why does Harry always make me want to smile at the most inappropriate times?
Clearing his throat, he shrugged, pushing the box slightly further towards the cupboard. “No harm done. It was just a suggestion.”
“An admittedly valid one, too.” Draco nearly lost his eyeballs as they bulged in disbelief, threatening to pop from his head. He kept his gaze trained fixedly on the pale carpet. “You’re right. I can’t defend myself, and I could hardly cast an offensive charm. And, well, the Wizarding world is obviously a lot more dangerous than the one I’ve been exposed to.’ He sounded more thoughtful than scared, now.
“It was just a suggestion. You don’t have to take me up on it.” Draco murmured the words weakly, more to say something, anything, than to enforce the sentiment.
“I know.” The smile Harry gave him was steadier this time.
Suddenly unable to withstand the nervous agitation any longer, Draco heaved himself to his feet. “Well, if there’s nothing you want to take from the cupboard… Is everything in your trunk?” At Harry’s nod, he flipped the lid closed, tilted it on it’s end and gasped the handle, dragging it across the carpet as he made his way to the door. He didn’t glance over his shoulder to see if Harry followed; he was afraid he would flush furiously if he dared.
Manoeuvring the trunk awkwardly past the kitchen and dining areas, he was soon distracted from his thoughts. More so when he glanced up briefly and noticed a door he hadn’t considered before, down the hallway a little and nearly adjacent to Harry’s room. It was a colour so perfectly matching to the surrounding walls that he wasn’t surprised he’d overlooked it. Still, another room; it could hold something useful, and Draco felt determined to find something for Harry to take from the man’s house that wasn’t his school things.
Dragging the trunk after him, he twisted the handle and eased the door inwards. There was a slight squeak, as though the hinges had been slightly neglected. Squinting into the darkness of the room, he shivered at the stale chill. The coldness bespoke concrete rather than carpet, and a step into the room proved as much to be true by the ring of his boots of hard floor. Glancing down, he noticed a handful of steps disappearing into the gradually clearing darkness.
Dropping the handle of the trunk, he stepped inside. A glance at the wall behind him found one of those light-buttons, and he pressed it with fumbling fingers, nearly flinching with the faint click of artificial light overhead. What the light showed was nothing so remarkable, but unfamiliar nonetheless.
It was barely as big as Harry’s bedroom, yet crammed with misshapen objects that Draco had not the slightest inkling of their function. Some were polished silver, others of that translucent, flexible plastic that Muggles seemed so fond of crafting everything from. There were cardboard boxes holding an assortment of items from books to the electronic things to what he could only assume were tools, and a rather precarious looking shelf at the far end of the room that looked as though it struggled under the weight of crates piled atop it.
It was the item in the middle of the room that drew the eye, however. Draco recognised it only from the few times he had seen them that day; wizards used motorbikes, for sure, but nothing quite to the degree that Muggles did. There was something about the build of bike – so much sleeker, such smoother lines – that wizards didn’t seem quite possible of attaining in their vehicles yet. Not that he would ever admit as much.
Stepping up to the bike, he reached out tentatively and ran a hand over the smooth seat. It felt like leather, but harder than the jackets and gloves he wore, as though treated for firmness. It was plain black, reflecting the unassuming black and white plating of the rest of the bike, a subtly that contrasted to the sparkling gold surface of the inside of each wheel. Draco wouldn’t admit that he found it quite appealing; it was Muggle, after all, and though he could respect it in his head he would never do so aloud.
“Have you ever ridden one?”
Harry’s voice echoed slightly from the concrete walls. Draco raised his eyes from where they ran over the bike and shook his head. Harry stepped down the stairs in his usual quietness, stopping at his side. “Fair enough. I couldn’t really see you riding one. It’s a Fireblade. Such a good ride.”
It took a moment for Harry’s words to sink in, and when they did Draco was so surprised that he didn’t even feel embarrassed when his jaw dropped open. “What? You’ve actually ridden it?”
Harry nodded, staring almost adoringly at the bike. ‘Yeah, a few of times.’
Draco’s teeth clicked as he forced his jaw shut. The image of Harry – his Harry – riding a motorbike of all things did not register within the bounds of the believable in his mind. ‘Wha… you… you’ve actually ridden it?’
Harry turned towards him, amusement tugging at his lips. Draco noted with detachment that the fear that had overwhelmed him but moment before had all but disappeared. “Yes, Draco, several times.” He frowned thoughtfully up at Draco. “I told you about it, remember? When we were flying. I said I’d ridden a bike before and it wasn’t all that different in dangerousness.”
“I thought you meant a bicycle. A bicycle.”
“Ah. Well, no. I didn’t.”
“When?” The question was probably a bit too demanding, and Draco attempted to modify his tone. “I mean I wouldn’t have expected him to have let you.” The distastefulness of his own reminder served to modulate Draco’s incredulity.
Harry shook his head, his attention turning once more to the bike. His thin fingers played delicately over the leather seat; their delicacy, that of Harry himself, seemed so in contrast to the stoic solidity of the bike that Draco couldn’t even form the mental image. “My uncle didn’t let me ride it. It was only when he was away for business that I could.”
“What, you snuck it out? You did?”
“Mmhm,” Harry murmured distractedly, as though the thought of any rule-breaking were not an entirely foreign concept to him. He acknowledged the fact, however, a moment later. “I always did what I was told. Always. But for some reason, with the bike…” He shrugged, idly stroking one of the mirrors. “The first time I rode it was one of the few times that I used magic. Intentionally, anyway.”
Draco stared at his friend. Harry never spoke of home, never even mentioned his uncle. That he had requested they visit today was one thing, but now he was opening up? It almost seemed too good to be true. It wasn’t lost on Draco that today he had learned more of Harry’s past, of who he had been before Hogwarts, than in the entire time he’d known him.
“I wouldn’t have thought you were the type. At all.”
Harry huffed a faint laugh, barely audible. “Yes, well… don’t you ever get the urge to just do something completely different for once? Completely uncharacteristic and… and just… different?”
Draco blinked. His head began shaking before he even gave it permission to. “I don’t think so.”
Harry smiled fondly, and there was a touch of secrecy to that expression. Like he knew something, or recalled something, that was entirely his.
I want to know. I want to know anything he can tell me. Aloud, he kept his voice free of hungry eagerness. “What happened?”
Fingers still fiddling, Harry pondered for a moment before speaking. “It was when I was fourteen. Not the first time that my uncle left for a business trip overseas, but the first time he left for so long at once. Nearly two weeks.
“I’m used to doing what I’m told. I guess… I never really question…” He paused, took a deep breath and glanced at Draco. Only briefly, though, before dropping his eyes. “It’s a strange feeling, always being told what to do and where to be, exactly when, and then to no longer have someone there to direct you. It’s a little bit overwhelming. Empowering, even. I’ve gotten myself into trouble more than a few times when my uncle came back and I was less… willing to do as he told me to straight away.”
Draco grit his teeth, jaw nearly audible in its squeak with the tension of locking teeth. In that moment, he was sure that he would have killed the man had he presented himself, regardless of a potential life sentence in Azkaban. He didn’t think he’d ever hated anyone so much as Stephen Defaux; maybe more than the Dark Lord, if that was even possible.
He didn’t speak, though. He didn’t want to break into Harry’s words. Harry so rarely spoke of anything of his past; angry though he was, the knowledge left him with a faint warmth in his belly. It felt like he was getting closer to his friend, even if just a little bit. “My uncle has always had an obsession with car and bikes. Not that he drives or rides them all that much. More that he just likes looking at them. Possessing them. He’ll buy a new one, keep it for as long as the sight of it still amuses him, then sell it and buy a different one. He doesn’t even use them for transport; he takes the train to work every day.
“But this bike, his Fireblade. He got it about two years after I came to live with him. I’ve never seen him ride it, but he’s never traded it in, not even when he’s had other bikes. It held a sort of sanctity to me, I guess. I couldn’t really help myself.”
He seemed almost embarrassed at his confession. He dropped his chin and Draco could just see his lips twist in self-reprimand. “I’d never ridden a motorbike before. That should have been the first indicator that I probably shouldn’t be riding it, especially alone. But it wasn’t really all that hard to get the hang of it. Especially when I really had nothing but time to myself. I guess it was my uncle’s oversight too, leaving the keys at home.” He paused, and the self-reprimand became more pronounced. “The first time I took it out for a ride on the actual rode, it was really dark. It’s illegal, you know, for someone without a licence to drive a bike. Just like a car.”
Draco nodded, though he didn’t think Harry even noticed. The concept wasn’t foreign to him, though wizards did not hold to such rules in their own circles. Harry chewed his lip for a moment, as though contemplating the stupidity of his actions.
“I had an accident.” He flashed a small smile at Draco’s sharp breath. “It wasn’t anything too serious. I didn’t really hurt myself or anything. The bike though…” Draco feared he would chew through his lip. “It was pretty much totalled. I’m not sure how I managed to get out of that one with barely a scratch when the bike was such a mess.
“I was pretty sure my uncle would kill me for that. I even considered beating him to the punch because just the thought of how he would react was terrifying. But you know, that accidental magic is kind of handy.” He tapped the handlebars once more, stroking fingers over the glossy surface as though marvelling at their intactness. “It felt sort of stupid at the time, that I would even try to fix it with my own hands, but I felt sort of compelled. Have you ever had that happen before?”
Draco shrugged, then nodded. “Magic has been proven to act that way at times, especially accidental magic. It acts as much as a director as a wizard does when casting with a wand.” He paused, then chuckled wryly. “Or wandlessly, as your case may be.”
Harry nodded, accepting the explanation without glancing at his friend. “Well, I was sort of in a bit of a trance, I guess. Just fitting pieces back together, and then sort of… pressing on the joins. I’ve no idea how I knew where they went, but my hands seemed to work on their own. I don’t really know how long it took either, but it was in the middle of nowhere on the highway and no one passed to see me doing it so it couldn’t have been too long. And I…fixed it.”
Nodding his head gravely, Draco attempted to assume a guise of maturity. He had seen Harry slip into that trance-like state, most recently with the Dark Mark. It was a little disconcerting to behold, even fascinating as it was to hear him simply talk so much without pause. Clearing his throat, he fell back to facts in his discomfort. “A modified Reparo, I would hazard as guess. On an object so large, and wandlessly… that’s quite impressive.”
“Even if I didn’t know what I was doing?”
“Even more so, if that were the case.”
Harry smiled his widest smile since stepping into Defaux’s house. Draco suspected – or hoped, maybe – that it was meant to be for him, but his friend did not take his eyes off their gentle stroking. There was something akin to adoration in his eyes, not unlike that he regarded Lyssy with. Draco found himself talking before he realised. “Should we take it with us?”
That got Harry’s attention; he whipped his head around to Draco. Not in fear this time, at least, but surprise. “What?”
“The bike. I don’t know how we’d get it back to the manor unless you want to ride it, but… Or you could use a Shrinking Charm.”
“Shrinking Charms are entirely impossible, Draco. We’ve talked about this.”
“No, they’re not.”
“Actually, they are. Or they should be. You can’t literally compress matter; break it down and discard pieces, maybe, but actually shrinking? And then growing it to it’s proper size again?”
“You’ve seen people do it before, how can you…?” Draco raised a hand to his head in dramatic exasperation. “You know what? That’s irrelevant. You won’t hear otherwise, anyway.”
Harry smiled, and Draco got the odd impression that he felt he’d won something. “No, I don’t think I will.”
“Regardless. Do you want to take it with us?”
Harry turned back towards the bike, face slowly ridding itself of the smile. He looked… sad. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Why? You should take something, it’s your right –“
“I wouldn’t feel comfortable just taking this from him. Not something he adored so much. And besides, it wouldn’t feel… morally correct.”
“Not even if it was him?”
“Especially not if it was him.”
Draco pondered silently. He didn’t really understand it, and the thought of leaving something to Defaux because the man liked it filled him with bitterness. But he would respect Harry’s wishes. Still, looking at the faintly regretful expression on his friend’s face, he vowed that he would get him a bike of his own if it was the last thing he did. “Alright, if that’s how you feel.” He turned back to the door, trotting up the steps and replacing his hand on the handle of the trunk. “Is there anything else you wanted to get?”
Harry stroked the handlebars one more time before turning to follow Draco. The regretful cast to his face was still there, but he was doing a good job of hiding it. For him, anyway. “No, that’s it.”
“Then shall we leave?” The speed of Harry’s nod was all the urging Draco needed.
Stepping outside the door, Draco gasped sharply at the renewed chill of the ageing afternoon. They hadn’t been inside for all that long, but already it seemed colder. Huddling his shoulders, he glanced over his shoulder at Harry as he heard the door close with a quiet click. His friend paused with his hand on the hard wood, a slight frown creasing his brow. “Are you okay?”
Harry glanced up, eyebrow raised. “Hmm? What?”
“You seemed distracted.” Not for the first time but, well. “I was just thinking that if you –“
“’Arry Defaux! Est-ce vous?”
The voice echoed in the otherwise silent street. Draco turned at the sound, eyes scanning across the empty driveways and still gardens to fasten upon a figure descending the steps of the house directly across the street. An older woman, short and wide, flapped a gloved hand at the boys frantically. Wrapped in so many shawls that she seemed a cocoon of blankets, with only the small, pale circle of her face bared between hat and scarf, she wasted no time in waddling down the steps from her front door and ambling across the road.
“Madame Georges.” Harry’s voice was quiet, but still carried audibly across the street. It held a flatness to it that caused Draco to glance quickly back towards him. The flatness reflected the blankness of his face, that blankness that, having seen otherwise, Draco was coming to hate the sight of. He didn’t seem upset, though, or even mildly uneasy at the sight of what was evidently a known neighbour. That was more the problem.
The woman was halfway across the road by now, the puffing of her breath wafting a cloud around her than nearly hid her face. She hadn’t even stepped onto the footpath before she began babbling in words so swift that Draco doubted he would have been able to understand them, even had he spoken French.
Harry listened with blank attentiveness. A slight uplift in the woman’s words – a question? – and he replied briefly, but otherwise remained silent. The woman seemed to become more animated with each passing moment, and Draco recognised her for what she was; a gossip-monger. Somehow, even with the swathes of clothing that shrouded her, she managed to gesticulate grandly.
Draco was staring with growing resentment at the woman, Georges, and barely hearing the melodious lilting of her words when he heard a gasp behind him. Glancing swiftly at Harry, he watched his friend visibly pale to a shade mirroring the snow that blanketed the front lawn. His eyes widened slightly, and he dropped his chin, staring in something akin to panic at the ground.
“Tu ne savais pas?”
Georges adopted a sympathetic expression, more deeply defining the wrinkles in her face. She tutted slightly, waving another hand as though she were attempting to pat Harry on the shoulder, even from the distant edge of the front garden at which she stood. Another moment and she was rambling again, with equal speed yet an undertone of that false sympathy that set Draco’s teeth on edge.
“What did she say?”
Harry started at Draco’s interruption, a less affronted version of that Georges gave as she stumbled to a halt in her spiel. “Um…”
“Are you alright? What happened? What did she say?” He turned a glare upon the woman, and took private delight in watching her visibly shrink. He knew the effect his scowl could have, especially when it was genuine. “If she says a bad word against you, I’ll –“
“No, no it’s not that”’ Harry took a deep, shaking breath, rubbing his forehead briefly before attempting and dismally failing at a reassuring smile. “She was just telling me… My uncle.”
“What about him?” Draco didn’t care that his words sounded more like a growl. “If he’s said something…”
“No, nothing like that.” Another breath, less shaky this time. “He’s… apparently he’s in hospital.”
That was unexpected. “What? What happened?”
Harry shrugged. “She doesn’t really know. Has her speculations, of course, but nothing solid.” He glanced towards Georges, offered her a more successfully reassuring smile that seemed to mollify her slightly, and turned back to Draco. “She did say that apparently there was some screaming coming from the… his house, a few nights ago. No one knows what really happened, though. Whether it was a break in, or… they don’t know.”
Draco stared at his friend. For whatever reason, Harry actually looked regretful. How can he be sorry that anything happened to that son of a Blast-Ended Skrewt? If anything, the prospect seemed to make the day seem a little warmer to Draco. I hope that whatever befell him was even a fraction of what he deserved.
“I don’t know… if I should go and see him or –“
“What? No!” The fury burst from him in an instant, a tidal wave of anger that seemed to pour out of him like steam. Harry flinched, shoulders rising with an apologetic expression washing over his face. At the sight of his quivering tension, Draco drew a deep breath through his nose and strove to get a hold of his fury. “He doesn’t deserve it.”
“I just thought, seeing as I’m the only one who is even remotely family –”
“That man, Harry. He isn’t family. Family doesn’t treat family like he treated you.”
It was a tense moment, for Draco as much as it evidently was for Harry. It was the first time that Draco had hinted, in so many words, that he was aware of what his friend had experienced. Harry didn’t look at him, staring fixedly at his feet. Draco struggled to find exactly where to affix his own gaze, shifting it from his hands to his own feet and back to Harry again. The tension gripped both of them in a firm grasp, tightening like the twisting of a corkscrew. Even Georges, still waiting with barely contained impatience, shifted awkwardly from foot to foot with the very thickness of the unease.
All of a sudden, Harry sighed heavily. “I know. You’re right. Of course you’re right.” Glancing towards Georges, he offered a muted string of words, something that sounded like thanks and possibly a reassurance of some kind. The woman blinked rapidly, nodded slowly then with increased vigour. She replied once more in a rather more expansive turn of phrase before waving her hand again in that sympathetic air-pat and turning on her heel, waddling back across the road. Draco was quite happy to see the back of the little busy-body.
“Should we go?” Harry’s voice drew him from his glare. “If we walk fast enough, we should be able to make it in time to catch the bus back to the station.
Draco nodded absently, and, ignoring Harry’s dispute that he was ‘perfectly capable of carrying it himself’, picked up the trunk once more. The wheels didn’t help much on the icy pavement, but they were better than nothing. His friend’s disgruntlement settled quickly anyway as he fell into his thoughts.
As a result, it was a quiet trip back into Paris Metropolitan. Draco didn’t mind particularly. He was deep in thoughts of his own; about Harry, about the house, about what they had spoken of. And just as much, about the city, and the sights they’d seen, and a personal review of Muggles and their culture that seemed very much a necessity at the present. And then, the closer they drew back to the manor and the more his mind wandered, of his parents, and the gradual feeling of dread that revisited him.
The day had been a surplus of distractions, but now that it was coming to a close… He wanted to be home. No, he wanted his parents to be home, to know they were alright. It suddenly seemed imperative that he know they were safe. For the first time since he’d left the manor, Draco felt a twinge of guilt rise in him, of regret; while his mother and father had been facing the devil incarnate himself, he’d been enjoying himself as a wayward tourist. He didn’t regret visiting Harry’s house; that was a necessity, and had proven beneficial beside. But the rest, no matter how enjoyable…
As though sensing the direction of his thoughts, Harry wordlessly slipped his hand into Draco’s own, their hands locking and resting upon the seat between them. Just that simple action, the contact of fingers wrapping his own, spoke more than any words possibly could. It made the rest of the trip back to the inner city and the walk back through the streets just that much more bearable.

EH: Firstly, you're more than welcome to express your own opinion. I'm not going to be upset at anyone doing the same; you're perfectly entitled. As to your words, to be honest it was a bit of a tricky chapter to write, a tricky situation. I could have had Stephen killed, or dragged him through the court system, but it just didn't seem to fit with my story or the themes I'm trying to adhere to, like that 'not everything always works out perfectly so just take what you can get'. If that makes sense?

Thanks for reviewing, though :)
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The Masks of Real Heroes