Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Returning to Sanity	By : AchillesTheGeek Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 31212 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter books or films, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 78
- 79
- 80
79 The Return of Petunia Dursley
"EVANS! ROOM 14! ON THE DOUBLE!"
The chambermaid sighed. Three months she had been there. Three months of unremitting drudgery. Three months of cleaning up after people who didn't spare her a thought; or, if they did, seemed to go out of their way to make an enormous mess.
She reached Room Fourteen to find that the toilet had overflowed. Again. Almost gagging, she got the plunger and mop and bucket from the mop closet. Really, of course, this was the handy-man's job; but she knew perfectly well there was no point in mentioning that. He would be 'far too busy doing important work to tend to such minor matters'. Far too busy, she knew, sitting on his arse reading the paper. But again, she knew better than to raise that point, either.
It hadn't always been like this. Back when she first came here, when her name was Petunia Dursley, she had been told that, if she behaved well, and treated the customers with respect at all times, she would find working there pleasant enough. And, for three days, it had been. Three days when she had buttoned her lip and done what she was told…
[Start of Flashback]
Four days. Four soul-destroying days she had been here. Playing nice to spoilt, fat bitches. Petunia had never had time for fat women. Fat men were different, of course; like her Vernon and her Dudley, fat men were successful men. Men who could, and did, enjoy the fruits of their labours. Though lately she had been rethinking this a bit: her Dudley had taken up exercise, and, she had to admit, looked much better and healthier for it. And, if she was honest with herself, 'her Vernon' was a bit of a myth, really, that she perpetuated because, despite his faults, she was still married to him and that demanded her respect. But she wasn't particularly honest with herself; and anyway, fat women, she would insist, were always sponging off other people.
Of course, it never entered Petunia's head that her view of life was sexist; nor that she was actually insanely jealous of ladies who lounged and lunched. Or, as now, came in to the – admittedly very nice and beautifully presented – hotel for no other reason than to have morning coffee with one another and discuss the latest doings of their dogs and children (generally in that order of importance).
Petunia hated the hideous old cats with a passion; but so far she had managed to hide that beneath a smiling façade. As she entered the dining room, carrying plates of thinly cut cucumber sandwiches with, yes, the crusts cut off, her eyes narrowed for just a moment before she put her bounty down and turned to return to the kitchen.
And then she saw her. Her least favorite of all these ghastly women: a fat, loud, rude, self-opinionated bossy old busy-body, was sitting with a group of her acid-tongued friends around the very nice French table that Petunia had spent two hours polishing the day before. Quite a pleasant chore, actually; the table had come up beautifully. And now this horrible woman had placed her scalding hot cup on the beautiful polished table. Petunia knew that this one thoughtless act would leave a hideous white mark, and there would be nothing for it but to strip the polish off and start again.
Petunia didn't even think.
"NO!" she yelled, rushing at the woman, holding a coaster out for her.
"I beg your pardon?" the woman asked snootily, looking down her nose at Petunia as though she were a rather wilted side-salad she hadn't ordered. Petunia instantly stopped dead as the cold realisation that this was not 'respect at all times' went through her, and she had hoped against hope that the manageress had not heard.
Fat chance.
"My office! Now!" a voice hissed behind her, and Petunia placed the coaster on the table and almost ran out of the dining room.
It was at least fifteen minutes before the manageress returned to her office. Fifteen minutes, Petunia discovered, was more than ample time to work oneself up into a lather of worry; indeed, she found she had time to decide that she was doomed anyway, and replace it with a lather of anger.
Coralie Carstairs had known this moment was coming from the instant that Petunia Dursley walked in to the hotel. She could see straight away that the woman would not keep her anger in check; she had, in fact, been rather surprised that Petunia had lasted so long as three days. But now the moment had come. It was going to be interesting, she thought, as she re-entered her office, to see which way she went – all apologetic and groveling (which would have been no fun at all) or feisty and fighting (lots of fun).
As she took her seat, she could see that Petunia was just spoiling for a fight. The manageress smirked inwardly.
"Well," she began briskly, and just a touch forcefully – not too much, she wanted to enjoy this – "and what do you have to say for yourself?"
"What?" Petunia responded petulantly, her face set in a mulish cast. "I stopped the fat bitch from staining the table. You should be thanking me."
Coralie schooled her features into an impassive mask.
"That 'fat bitch', as you so charmingly call her," she began, her tone so cold it was a wonder it did not freeze the very air they breathed, "just happens quietly to be a Marchioness, a Muggle-born witch married to a Muggle aristocrat who is, very quietly, one of the most influential people in the country. I'm sure that Mr Malfoy, our employer, would not be at all pleased if she were to take her custom elsewhere. And I assure you, if Mr Malfoy is not pleased, he will let me know in no uncertain terms; and you can be most certain that I will let you know in equally blunt words."
At this point, Petunia's resolve was starting to crumble. She had told herself that she would brazen it out; but it seemed that her infraction might be rather more important than she thought. For, as she was learning, while her instincts and manners were quite appropriate for the coffee mornings she was used to, occasions with her neighbours where marking a table would be considered unspeakably rude, they were in no way up to the task of dealing with the hotel's clientele. She was, quite simply, way out of her depth.
Coralie was like a shark who could smell blood in the water, and pressed on.
"On the other hand, the table is reproduction, and I'm sure it will only take you a couple of days to get it back to pristine condition."
"A couple of days!" Petunia gasped.
"Oh yes," the manageress replied with a very false innocent look on her face. "Well, after all, it's not as if you have anything else to do."
Petunia's face fell at this pronouncement, but the manageress continued, "Thanks to you, I've had to sweet-talk the 'fat bitch' into staying, and part of the price is that she won't have to see you any more. So you're not going to be around the coffee mornings at all. No, you'll be out the back, doing all the maintenance work for us that no-one ever sees."
Petunia, who an hour before would have given anything to get out of serving at these events, suddenly realised, now that she was rid of them, that this was probably not a good thing at all. At least, if she was actually present, she could kid herself that she belonged there, that this was Her Set. But to be hidden away like a dirty little secret was just shameful.
With this thought, shame and anger started to build in her equally, and she fixed the other woman with a steely, albeit a touch wobbly, gaze.
"How dare you!" she spat out. "And what's this all about, anyway? I've been brought here against my will, forced to work a menial job, and no-one has discussed pay, or terms and conditions, or what my actual Position Description is, or anything!"
Coralie cocked her head. The woman had spirit. This was very entertaining.
"And what, pray, is a Position Description?" she asked archly, deciding, for the moment, to play dumb. Being a half-blood witch who had worked in both Muggle and Wizarding environments, she knew perfectly well what a Position Description was, of course; but Petunia didn't know that.
And indeed, as Coralie had rather hoped, the question drew out even more rage from Petunia. Coralie had pegged her as the kind of woman who was going to insist that everything be done by the book; now, of course, she was beginning to discover that the problem was that they were using entirely different books.
Petunia forced down her temper, distracted by this stupid question. "A statement of what I am expected to do," she replied.
"Oh!" the other woman said brightly. "That's easy. You're expected to do anything I tell you to. Is there something else?"
Petunia had to force herself not to grind her teeth together in frustration. "Remuneration," she said hoarsely. "Time off. Holidays. I am entitled to them. I know my rights."
The other woman looked at her as if she were mad. Clearly, Coralie thought, Petunia Dursley was still rather deluded about her exact position. It was definitely time to sort that confusion out.
"Petunia," she said, spitting the name out, "let us get one thing straight between us. You are not actually my employee. You are my responsibility. I am not your employer; I am your guard. You are not here as a job; you are here because you were given a simple choice between going to prison, or accepting Mr Potter's mercy. You threw yourself on the latter; this is the result. We will keep you fed, and housed, and safe. In return, you do what I say. If you manage to do that, you'll find I can be perfectly reasonable and pleasant to deal with. But I told you to show respect at all times; you have failed to do that, and there are going to be consequences. You are going to learn that I mean what I say.
"But let there be no more of these ridiculous thoughts of entitlement. No more 'rights'. You can accept what I give you, or you can go to prison. That's it. Now, go back to your room and think about it. I expect you to be in the maintenance room after lunch."
And with that, the manageress picked up some paperwork and proceeded to ignore the other woman altogether.
Petunia, seeing that the interview was clearly over, got up and returned to the small room she had been given, intending to at least lie down in the hope that some of her frustration would go away. As she entered the room, she paused. Surely it hadn't been this small before? And there had been roses on the wallpaper? Which had been a delicate pink, not that horrid mustard colour?
She lay down, more than a little afraid that she was, indeed, going mad.
-#-
She spent the afternoon with the three men who worked on maintenance.
At first, she had thought she would rule the roost. After all, she was a housewife from Surrey, a white-collar executive's wife, while they were just blue-collar workers.
It took about thirty seconds for her to realise that that wasn't going to get her anywhere.
"Oh, hello, love," one man said as she entered the room. "Put the kettle on for coffee, would you?"
"I beg your pardon?" she demanded, putting as much hauteur into her voice as she could muster.
"Oh," said one of the other two, smiling at her. "You think tea, instead? You're probably right. Our Bert always did 'ave ideas above his station."
Petunia looked around, aghast at their familiarity.
"Chop chop, Evans!" the third man said. "That kettle isn't going to boil itself! Now, be a good girl and see if you can't scrounge us a packet of biscuits from the kitchen."
-#-
Two days later, she had been called back into the manageress's office. In the day between, all her self-delusions about 'fat men being successful men' had fallen away entirely. At first she had comforted herself with the idea that the three men in the maintenance office – who, as far as she could see, did no useful work of any kind, and spent the whole day reading the newspaper and drinking tea - were nothing like her Vernon; but on the previous evening she had had the very disturbing epiphany that, on the contrary, the three were exactly like him. She had gone to bed with a hollow feeling inside, all of the respect she had had for Vernon ebbing away as she realised that she had been making excuses for him for the entirety of their married life and the stark truth was that he was really a nasty, boorish, racist piece of work.
And when she had got up in the morning, the epiphany had widened to include her nephew; all of her mental defenses had been ripped away and she now had to admit to herself that, under the guise of being a 'good wife' she had in fact been a despicable sister and aunt. The boy was her own flesh and blood, had come to them as a baby, and they had treated him worse than dirt. She knew, in her heart of hearts, that had the position been reversed, had she and Vernon died and Lily taken in Dudley, her sister would have treated her son as her own child.
In this mental turmoil, she entered Coralie's office and sat as she was bid.
"Now," the woman said, all brisk and business-like, "I hope that you have had time to reconsider your position here, and the terms under which you are invited to remain?"
Petunia nodded, not trusting her voice.
"Good," Coralie continued crisply. "And will you be staying with us?"
Petunia nodded, then, feeling that something a little more definite was required, said "yes"; the word came out more timidly than she had intended, but Coralie smiled at her anyway.
"Bravo!" she said. "That's the spirit! Now, a little house-keeping," and she couldn't help the smirk that came on her face at this word and how apposite it was.
"Firstly, there's the small matter of your name. According to this document" – here she passed Petunia a set of very official looking papers – "you are no longer a Dursley; and we can hardly call a staff member 'Petunia'. So from now on, you will be known as Evans."
"W—what?" Petunia said, stunned, then looked down at the papers. She could see, as she started to read them, that they were in fact divorce papers; and somehow, despite all the time limits that were built into the rules for divorce, both the decree nisi and the decree absolute were included in the pile.
It was over, then.
Petunia sighed. It was, she realised, quite a weight off her shoulders.
"Secondly," Coralie continued when it was obvious that Petunia wasn't going to say anything, "you will not be continuing to work with our handymen. They did not seem to quite think you were the 'right sort'."
Petunia snorted.
"I'm sorry, did you say something?" Coralie asked, her voice becoming a touch menacing.
"Sorry, no, ma'am," Petunia replied, not wishing to make things worse than they already were.
"Good," came the reply. "So you will be joining the housemaids, as a junior chambermaid. See Miss Cooper, in the laundry; she will be responsible for assigning and overseeing your duties from then on."
And, this being delivered in a way that made it a clear dismissal, Petunia nodded, and left the office.
Once her office was empty again, Coralie smirked. She had had lots of fun!
-#-
Miss Cooper turned out to be quite a dragon. She had looked Petunia up and down with a very sour expression, and eventually sighed as she handed her a mop and bucket.
"We'll let's see what you're made of, girl. Go and clean the public restrooms in the restaurant."
And that had been her main job for the next week. To begin with, she was rather angry about being given such menial work; but there was no-one to vent her anger on as all the people she worked with were, in her opinion, beneath her, and she did not see Miss Cooper or Mrs Carstairs again during the week.
However, it seemed that her work was noticed; for, at the end of the week, she found a note on her tiny desk asking her to see Miss Cooper at eight o'clock in the morning sharp. She made the appointment, with about fifteen seconds to spare, and noticed the very fleeting hint of a smile on the old dragon's face before she spoke. Petunia didn't know it, but even that mockery of an expression of amusement was so rare an event that it would be a topic of gossip amongst the chambermaids for days to come.
"Ah, Evans," she said. "I have been reviewing your work, and consider it to be acceptable. I now need someone to take up chambermaid duties for the ground floor rooms." Here she pointed out one of the other ladies who was standing next to a large trolley heavily laden with linen, towels, soaps, little bottles of shampoo, and all the rest of that particular variety of items that hoteliers put out for their clientele to steal, and continued, "so I want you to tag along with Parsons here and learn the ropes this week. Alright, Parsons?"
Rosalie Parsons looked none too pleased at this, but gave a crisp "yes, ma'am" in reply, and gestured to Petunia that she should wheel the trolley and follow her.
"Well, get on with it, Evans," Cooper said to her impatiently, and Petunia jumped a little, grabbed the trolley and followed her new workmate.
Since that time, Petunia had barely said ten words altogether to Carstairs; but she had gradually earned a grudging respect from the rest of the housekeeping staff, as she managed to get her daily chores done efficiently and, at great personal cost, kept a firm hold on her tongue.
But the grudging respect never, at any time, resulted in words of praise, from her co-workers, from Miss Cooper, or from the manageress. It only took Petunia a few weeks to work it out: it was a simple tit-for-tat. She had never praised the freak, not ever, no matter how good a job he had done; and now she was finding out exactly what that felt like.
It hurt. It was so childish, so ungenerous; at the same time, it was so perfect a punishment that she was almost giddy at the thought of it. Not that that made it any easier to bear …
To begin with it brought out a bout of childishness from her. It was so unfair! After all, the freak was … well, a freak. He had that freaky magic. It was just wrong! They had to beat it out of him, for his own sake.
And then her thoughts turned to self-pity: all right, they'd make the freak do all the cleaning, but he had magic and she did not; how was that fair? She had to do everything by elbow grease, while he could just wave that stick of his.
It took a couple of days for her to accept that these thoughts were self-serving rubbish. Of course Harry hadn't used his wand; they'd locked it up when he was home. And he hadn't used magic: he hadn't been allowed to. As for him being the freak, that one was not quite so clear to her. But as she sat in the maids' common room in the evening, in the few leisure hours she had, she learnt that they were all what the magical world called 'squibs'. Moreover, they had secured jobs here because they wanted to be close to magical folk, but couldn't bear to be patronised by them. At first, she had thought they were mad; but in truth, she realised, they saw themselves as the freaks, and, in the Wizarding World, perhaps they were. Perhaps, then, here at least, Petunia herself was the freak; not Lily, not Harry.
At the same time, she learnt that the hotel was designed for both magical and non-magical clientele; and that was why there were none of those hideous bat-eared creatures she had seen at Malfoy Manor here, and all the menial tasks were done by human servants. Human servants who, apart from her, seemed to really enjoy the access their jobs gave them to magical folk.
As the weeks went by, a strange transformation took place. Petunia found herself beginning to understand the depths of the ignorance and arrogance she had lived with. She began to see that, apart from using magic, the magical people weren't really any different from her. To be sure, the maintenance sat on their behinds all day; and they were terribly sexist; but they weren't ever cruel. She had met plenty of people in the building trade just like them: salt-of-the-earth, can't-do-enough-for-you people. Even though she had looked down her nose at them, they still waved at her cheerfully, and from time to time, knowing that the chambermaids never got to eat any sweet treats, would smuggle her a piece of fruit cake.
So it was a rather different Aunt Petunia who received the news, on July 31st, that she was to be given a half-day off in honour of Harry Potter's birthday. Overcome with emotion, she had spent most of the precious free time in her room, thinking back on all the awful things they had done to him on his birthday: or more exactly, all of the lovely, kind things that they simply neglected to do. Like buy him a present, or make him a cake, or even simply wish him a happy birthday.
Well, that last, at least, she could do now.
"Happy birthday, Harry," she whispered. And somehow the weight of guilt she still carried around felt slightly the less for it.
[End of Flashback]
Petunia roused herself back to the present. The toilet in Room Fourteen was only going to get worse if she didn't deal with it, after all. She sighed, squared her shoulders, took up her mop and plunger, and went once more to do battle with the plumbing.
Over the next two weeks, Room Fourteen seemed to have far more than its fair share of plumbing problems; and somehow, always when she was on duty and nearby. It was almost as if the room had it on for her …
-#-
Harry came awake very slowly. He blinked a couple of times, raised himself with great care so as not to rouse Draco, who was snuggled into him, and looked around him. Last night, he had thought they were in the Chateau that they had stayed in before; mostly, he supposed because the man at the desk had spoken in French. But as he looked around, he decided he must have been more out of things than he thought. In the morning light, he could see quite clearly that this wasn't where they had spent that unfortunate holiday; the detailing of the room, the smell of the place, the very quality of the light streaming brightly through the French doors leading to their own private little patio area, were all quite different.
He lay back down with a contented sigh, and pulled his still-sleeping husband closer. He still didn't know where he was; but, on the other hand, he was in a warm bed, sharing a cuddle with the man he loved best in all the world, and he had nothing that he had to do all day. What did it matter where they were, really?
Time passed; ten minutes, fifteen, half an hour, it didn't matter much. All Harry knew was that suddenly there were hands being smoothed along his body, and it was the most wonderful thing he could imagine.
"Good morning, my love," he said, and Draco's eyes popped open. A moment later, he was almost bowled over by a very enthusiastic morning cuddle and kiss.
"Good morning, husband," Draco said as they came apart for a breath, and Harry's heart leapt to hear him say it.
"Mmmmm," Harry replied, any more articulate reply being rather curtailed by Draco resuming the kiss.
-#-
"Mmmmm?" the sleepy voice said, as its owner felt long, strong fingers massaging her awake.
"Morning, love," Ron said. "How did you sleep?"
"Mmmmm," came the inarticulate reply; but Hermione was smiling, and Ron could hear it in her voice. He got the hint, though; clearly, she was in no mood to get up yet. Well, there really was no need to, after all; they had no plans for the day, and, after all the stress of the events during term-time: Harry being attacked; Hermione being given cursed candles; the wonderful – but scary – discovery that their one night of unprotected sex was going to result in a baby a bit before they had planned; and then, of course, exams and exam results and preparing for the wedding, being allowed to laze the day away sleeping with his beloved was a rare and welcome luxury.
There was just one thing he could do with, though. And while Hermione was still half asleep would be the perfect time, Fortunately, they were in the firmly Wizarding part of the hotel, so house-elves were allowed; and the two they had met so far had been visibly healthy and happy, and delighted to serve however they could; but even so he wasn't quite ready to summon one with the President of the Society for the Protection of Elvish Welfare lying next to him had she been awake.
"Titchy!" he called quietly, and the aptly-named elf appeared.
"Yes, Master Weasley?" the elf asked softly, clearly having spotted that Hermione wasn't quite awake so keeping quiet would be wise. "How can Titchy be helping you this fine morning?"
"Tea and toast, please. And perhaps something to go with them."
Titchy's face fell a little. She had hoped for a chance to show the Weasleys that she was a good cook; if she impressed them, they might even take her on, and she would get to look after the young one she knew the Mistress was carrying. But she pulled herself together; no doubt a chance would come in time.
"Something being jam and preserves? We is having some excellent raspberry preserve," the elf replied with a note of eager-to-please in her voice that made Ron chuckle inwardly.
"Yes, that will do for Hermione," he replied. "Bacon and eggs for me."
"Yes master!" the elf chortled happily. Her chance was here!
-#-
An hour later, the Dragon and the Raven were enjoying their first meal at the hotel: a delightful al fresco breakfast served on their patio by very eager house-elves. Draco ordered the food, and Harry was tickled to find that they had pancakes to share. As well as maple syrup, there was a very fresh, cleansing lemon sauce that Harry found went very well with the pancakes, even when Draco grated some dark chocolate over the whole lot.
"So," Harry said once they had shared a pancake, "just exactly where are we?"
Draco looked at him askance, and then realised that of course, Harry hadn't known anything about his plans.
"This is Tuscany," he replied, adding "in Italy," when Harry still looked confused. "We are staying in the Hotel Malfoy di Siena, a very old establishment that's been in our family for about eight generations. One of the most discreet hotels in Europe. All the usual things: unplottable, anti-apparition wards, anti-portkey wards, and barriers around every room so no-one can perform any magic with intent to harm. Nor even attack physically. We've had fierce political rivals stay here and find themselves totally unable to hurt one another."
"So, posh then?" Harry asked.
Draco grinned. "Like you wouldn't believe."
"Oh," Harry said, and Draco was a little disappointed to see that his husband looked a bit crestfallen.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"Well, it's just … I don't really fit in to posh places. Don't really have the right clothes or bearing or anything."
"Nonsense," Draco replied. "You're part of our family now, bonded and all, and the Malfoys define posh. And anyway, like all really posh places, the people here don't give a damn what you wear or whether you use the right cutlery. As long as you're pleasant and thank them politely, they'll love you."
"You're just trying to make me feel better," Harry said, a touch grumpily.
"Is it working?" Draco said with a brilliant smile, and Harry couldn't stop himself from blushing and grinning back.
"Er … yeah, a bit," he admitted.
Draco leaned over and trailed his hands underneath his husband's bathrobe.
"Let's see if we can't improve on 'a bit', shall we?" he said.
They didn't eat much more breakfast; and in the end Draco managed to make Harry feel a lot better.
-#-
Kreacher was absolutely overjoyed. He had expected the house to be sad and empty after the wedding; but no, Mistress Pansy and Master Theo had returned that night, and Pansy had made it quite clear to the old elf that she was a pure-blood witch, brought up to the proper ways, and expected things to run as they should in a pure-blood household, never mind what had happened recently.
Theo was a bit worried that she might have offended the poor elf; but Kreacher could barely contain his delight. Working for Harry was, he had to admit, a damn sight more pleasant than working for Sirius had ever been; but this, a return to standards that his late lamented (if only by him) Mistress Walburga Black would have understood and approved of, this sent him into raptures of delight. This was How Things Should Be.
Accordingly, he apparated into the bedroom and served tea and toast bang on seven o'clock.
"Mmrff," Theo said indistinctly when he heard the 'pop!' of apparition. "Whassup?"
Pansy, rather more with it, cast a quick Tempus charm and smirked.
"Very good, Kreacher," she said imperiously. "Right on time. Breakfast at eight thirty, please."
"Yes Mistress Pansy!" Kreacher said ecstatically, and went off to prepare.
"What?" Theo grumbled as the elf left. "You mean I have to get up in an hour and a half?"
Pansy rolled her eyes at him, then remembered that such things were supposed to be beneath her, and gave him a sharp rap on the shoulder instead.
"Silly," she said. "You know the customs; 'eight thirty' breakfast means sitting down at nine o'clock."
"So why say 'eight thirty' then?"
This earned him another rap.
"It's the custom," Pansy said as she got up to fetch the tray that Kreacher had left on the desk as was proper.
"And you call me 'silly'," Theo muttered.
"I heard that!"
-#-
Harry and Draco had had a late lunch and were lounging on their patio drinking lemonade and enjoying the sunshine when a piece of parchment appeared next to Draco's glass. He picked it up, and the motion caught Harry's eye.
"What's that love?" he asked.
"It's an invitation from the manager," Draco replied. "We're invited to afternoon tea in the Terrace Bar at three o'clock. Apparently there's someone from the Ministry who wants to talk to us."
Harry groaned. "We're on our honeymoon!" he wailed. "Can't they leave us alone?"
"Apparently not," Draco replied drily. "We don't have to go," he added cautiously.
"Yeah we do," Harry replied, somewhat despondent. "Otherwise they'll keep badgering us forever. How long have we got?"
"Three quarters of an hour," Draco replied. "Just time to shower, don't you think?"
Harry looked at his lover. There was something in the tone of voice that caught his interest; and he saw a certain gleam in Draco's eyes and knew he had not misunderstood the blond's intent.
"Well, we might be a little bit late," he replied.
And in the event, they were indeed ten minutes late; but no-one said anything.
-#-
The Terrace Bar was, as its name suggests, situated along the side of the hotel, and had a stunning view of the local mountains. It was on the other side of the hotel to Harry and Draco's rooms; their suite was very private, but this was a place to be seen.
Harry was rather overawed at the opulence of the place: velvet chairs and damask tablecloths greeted them, and there seemed to be an abundance of beautifully dressed waiters and magnificent nude statues.
"Ah! Mr Malfoy, Mr Potter!" the manager called to them, and they walked towards him. "Allow me to present …"
"Ambassador Banks!" Harry said, remembering the man from the funerals that seemed so long ago – could it really be only four months? He was glad it was him; he had fond memories of their meeting.
"Mr Potter!" Banks replied genially. "I'm impressed that you should remember me."
"How could I forget Robin's father?" Harry asked. "Though I suppose you are more famous for other things."
"Oh, I don't mind," he replied, as he indicated to them to sit down and the four men all took their seats. "I'm very proud to be Robin's father. But I fear I must correct you – I am no longer the British Ambassador to the Bundesministerium der Magie; the Minister himself asked me to take over the Department of International Magical Co-operation."
"We are honoured that a Head of Department would want to have tea with us," Draco said diplomatically.
Banks chuckled. "Please, call me Viridis – an appalling name, I know, but my father chose it for me."
At this point a waiter arrived, and everyone was invited to place their order for afternoon tea. Harry didn't quite know what he wanted, not being used to formal afternoon teas; but Draco happily forestalled the problem by suggesting they have a plate of sweet treats to share.
"Now," Viridis continued once the waiter had taken their order, "it is delightful to see you again; but there is also an official component to my visit here today; with your indulgence I thought we'd get that out of the way so we could enjoy our afternoon tea."
"Oh," Harry said, and then a rather awful thought popped into his head. Draco was still, officially, on probation; so that possibly meant that he was not technically supposed to leave Great Britain. "Does this have anything to do with Draco's probation?"
"Not at all," Viridis replied. His sharp eyes had not missed the concerned look that had flittered across Harry's face. "No, you haven't done anything wrong. Were you, perhaps, worried that Mr Malfoy should not leave the country?"
"Er – yeah," Harry replied.
"No, no," the other man replied, with a large, comforting smile on his face. "The letter you were sent by Chief Warlock Doge, which is all quite official and registered by the way, specifically stated that you would take over any and all limits on Mr Malfoy, so as long as you're happy that he's here, there's no problem. Um, you are happy that he's here, I take it?" he asked with a wink.
"Er – very," Harry replied, blushing a shade of crimson as he thought about exactly how happy he was that Draco was here. His husband grinned, finding the display positively endearing. Even the small amount of sun they had caught today seemed to have tanned Harry's skin beautifully; while Draco's pale skin never tanned and, as he always did as a matter of course, he had used charms to avoid it burning.
"Very good. Now that you know why I'm not here, perhaps I should tell you why I am?" Banks continued with a twinkle in his eye.
Harry and Draco both nodded in agreement, and Viridis continued, "as you can imagine, the Ministry was a bit put out when you were awarded titles by the Goblin Nation; you may remember that the Prophet rather took us to task."
Harry looked a bit doubtful at this. "Doesn't worry me, I must admit," he said. "Anyway, I thought Kingsley said I'd get an Order of Merlin?"
"Oh yes," Viridis replied with a deprecatory wave. "But really, let's face it, that's just a piece of frippery. Very desirable and laudable, of course, but it hardly compares in standing or effect with the Goblin title of 'Goblinfriend', which every Goblin will use when they address you and gives you the right to come and go in the Goblin Nation with the status of a hero. What has been decided by the Ministry and the Wizengamot in concert is to revive the old idea of having Lordships, something that has been rather in abeyance ever since the end of the First Wizarding War."
Draco's eyes lit up. "So, Harry would be Lord Potter?" he asked.
"Just so," Viridis replied. "There was a Potter lordship at one point, but once Harry's grandfather died it pretty much fizzled out."
"Why didn't Dad use it?" Harry asked.
"Ah, normally, Lordships vest at the age of twenty-five," Viridis replied. "As your father was only twenty-one when he was murdered, he never got the opportunity. In our world, the Lordship becomes extinct if there is no-one of age in the family. But the Ministry has decided, in celebration of the happy occasion of your wedding, to revive the Potter Lordship and ask you to accept it, effective immediately, waiving the age requirement. And we will be asking the other Lords to take up their titles as well; which means that Draco's father will be formally reinstated as Lord Malfoy."
Harry gulped, and Draco laid his hand on him. "You have to do this, Harry," he said simply. "It means that you get a seat on the Wizengamot; and it lets the Wizarding World honour you. They need that, Harry."
Harry sighed. "I'm not really one for titles," he began, and Viridis chuckled.
"'Lord Potter' is really no different to 'Mr Potter' unless you want it to be," he said. "It'll just be how you are referred to formally. And I suspect that your father-in-law will lean on the Prophet and make them use it. I think a lot of their tricks won't work half so well if they have to call you 'Lord Potter' rather than, say, 'the Boy who lived twice'."
"All right," Harry said, with a small grin. "That's a good point. And if Lucius gets his title back too, then that will make a statement about us all getting together. What do I have to do?"
"Nothing, really," Viridis replied. "I just give you this," and he drew a large flat stiff cardboard folder out of the bag he had placed discreetly at his feet. Harry opened it; inside he found a very stiff and formal piece of parchment outlining the 'Revival of the Ancient and Noble Title of the Lord Potter' in such legal language that Harry despaired of understanding it. But clearly, he didn't have to.
"Thank you, Mr Banks," he said as the man shook his hand.
"A pleasure, Lord Potter," Viridis said with a grin.
At this point the manager, who seemed to have decided to take a back seat throughout the conversation, signaled to the waiter, who brought over their afternoon tea. They sat at the table happily eating and talking for another hour.
As they made their way back to their suite, Harry felt strangely pleased. It was nice to be recognised officially by his own society, he realised. And the food had been amazing. He vowed that afternoon tea at the Hotel Malfoy di Siena was going to be a regular feature of their stay.
-#-
Ron and Hermione finally emerged at seven o'clock, having spent the day snacking and sleeping. Now that the pressure was off, Hermione found it almost impossible to rouse herself; fortunately, the pregnancy seemed to be progressing well and there had been no bouts of morning sickness during the last week; but she had been taking a pregnancy-safe Pepper Up potion for a fortnight now, and Draco had warned her that she should expect to crash after the wedding and should plan to take it easy.
He was, she discovered, quite right. By the time they had walked from their room to the hotel's restaurant, she was ready to sit down and very glad they didn't have to go any further. Within seconds of their arrival, they were shown to a very intimate table seated in a very quiet corner which commanded a lovely view out over a small stream that was artfully lit.
It was a delicious meal. They sat together afterwards, lingering over coffee, watching the water cascading down a little artificial run. Ron sighed. Being here with the love of his life, with nothing to do but enjoy one another's company was pure bliss.
-#-
It was mid Tuesday morning before Ron and Hermione re-appeared, having decided to go out for a walk. As Ron walked down the hall, he passed a trolley laden with linen and towels. Since there were such trolleys in every hotel, he took no notice until he heard a sharp intake of breath from the woman propelling it.
"You!" she said.
Ron stopped and looked at her. He looked at her; it took him a minute before he recognised her.
"You're Harry's Aunt!" Ron exclaimed.
"That's right," Petunia replied. "Petunia Dursley. Though here they call me Evans. And you're one of those friends of his who came through the fireplace."
"Yeah," Ron replied, his lip curling as he thought of all he knew of what the Dursleys had done to his friend. "I'm Ron Weasley. Can't say I'm pleased to meet you, though."
"Ron!" Hermione exclaimed, her tone chastising.
"What?" Ron replied. "Why should I play nice? They were horrid to Harry."
"We were," Petunia admitted. "And I'm really very sorry about that. Look, I can't talk now, but can I come and see you at eight when I get off? Please?"
"Yes, all right. Can we meet in the private lounge just off our room?" Hermione replied. Ron did not look happy about it; but he was quickly learning that, if Hermione had been bossy before their marriage, she was, if anything, worse now. He'd watched his parents' marriage over the years; nothing good ever came of gainsaying one's wife.
-#-
There came a timid knock on the door.
"Come in!" Hermione sang out. The door opened quietly, and Petunia shuffled in.
"Thank you for agreeing to talk to me," she began, and her tone sounded so down and defeated that even Ron felt bad about it. "I just wanted - I just hoped -" and here the woman broke down in tears, and Hermione took her gently and guided her to a seat.
"Oh!" Petunia said once she had got herself under control. "I'm not really supposed to sit in the presence of guests..."
"It's all right," Hermione reassured her as she gave Petunia a handkerchief, "we won't tell anyone."
"Oh," Petunia replied, stifling back tears, "you're too kind. I don't want to take up your time, I know you're on holiday; and I know that you really have no reason to listen to me or to care what I think. I know ... I know that what we did to Harry was wrong. Vile. Unloving. I think maybe I knew that all along. But somehow I got caught up with being a good wife and mother, and Vernon convinced me that I couldn't do that and allow Harry to stay in your world."
Ron fixed her with a glare.
"And that excuses you, does it?" he asked coldly.
For the first time, Petunia lifted her eyes and looked at him, fixing her gaze on him, as she gathered up all of her courage in both hands.
"No!" she all but shrieked. "Are you listening to me? Of course it doesn't! What we did, what I did was plain wrong! I was a horrible person! I realise that now. I wake up every day wishing I could go to that boy and fall at his feet and apologise! To really throw myself on his mercy and beg for a chance to make good. Not just to waste my life here cleaning rooms for people who don't give a toss!"
Ron looked stunned, and Petunia, clearly regretting her outburst, bowed her head.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I guess you'll go and tell Mrs Carstairs about this and she'll find some horrible job for me to do. Or maybe you'll go straight to the owner and he'll throw me out. I don't deserve anything more, I suppose. But really, I just want to get back to Dudley. I want him to have a mother. Is that too much to hope for?"
Hermione looked at her, and her heart suddenly went out to this poor woman. Yes, she had made her friend's life hell; but it wasn't for them to judge her for that. She didn't know if Harry could ever forgive her; but he was the most generous, forgiving man she knew, she had watched him forgive Draco and Lucius and the Slytherins; even more, he had got that forgiveness to extend to the point where they were all practically one big family. If he could do that, maybe Petunia would get another shot.
The very least they could do, she decided, was ask. She looked at Ron, who nodded at her.
"Look," he said, "we won't tell anyone about your outburst. Harry's our friend, but we can't tell him what to do; and we won't try to manipulate him, not for anyone. We're not going to try to persuade him; you'll have to do that yourself. But we will see if Harry will talk to you and maybe give you another chance."
Petunia looked at them, speechless, and Hermione continued, not unkindly, "and now I think you'd probably best go before you're missed."
"Yes," she said, gathering herself together, "right. I don't know what to say. But, thank you! Thank you, thank you!"
Petunia left the room in a little flurry of hope; and for the first time in months there was even the beginning of a smile on her face.
-#-
While she was in Australia, Margaret Granger had woken up one day to find the sun streaming in through her windows, making delightful patterns of the dust particles in the air, while the light breeze that moved the dust also carried gentle and delightful scents from the flower-bed beneath their window. She suddenly woke up to herself. The simply joy of the moment helped her realise that she had spent her whole life being altogether too serious: studying, working, being the good student, the proper intern, the stern and strict parent, the proud housewife. But what was it for? She found herself – quite literally – waking up and smelling the roses, and decided then and there that her life needed a bit more living in it. Accordingly, ever since returning from Australia, she had made a point of having Wednesday afternoons off to do whatever she wanted – and she made a point of doing various different things that interested her: visiting little towns, going to galleries and having long walks competed with the time she spent in the garden. Initially, Peter had thought she was mad, but eventually he had come round to the idea, and now, as often as not, he accompanied her on her little outings.
At the wedding, she and Narcissa had spent a lovely half-hour discussing roses; and she had found herself invited to visit Narcissa's garden whenever she liked. She decided not to do the polite thing that her pre-Australia self would have done – that is, to agree but never bring it up again – but instead invited herself to afternoon tea the following Wednesday afternoon. It was, she knew, a little cheeky; but Narcissa had been quite genuinely delighted, and asked her to come, and to bring Miriam with her. Margaret discovered, when she arrived at the agreed hour of two thirty, that Narcissa had made quite a party of it. Set out on the lawn in an artfully haphazard way were several small tables, each groaning under the weight of an enormous tea service complete with a truly impressive selection of sandwiches and cakes. About a dozen people were there, sitting and talking animatedly; Margaret smiled to see that everyone was obviously enjoying themselves very much. She realised that she recognised the faces of most of the witches – apart from herself, she was quite sure they would all be magical - if not their names, as most of the people there had been at the wedding the previous Saturday.
Narcissa, who had brought her out of the Floo room, and chatted almost non-stop since then, took her over to one table where Molly, Andromeda, and another lady she did not immediately recognise were all seated. Teddy was sitting on Andromeda's lap; but as soon as he saw Miriam, he squirmed and wriggled, and Andromeda set him down on a blanket she had obviously brought for the purpose, and Margaret set Miriam down next to him.
The two children immediately started talking to one another in the incomprehensible babble of six-month olds, and all five ladies watching cooed at the sight.
"Now," Narcissa said brightly, "introductions. Of course you know Molly and Andromeda; this young lady here is my very dear friend Marianna Zabini; Marianna, this is Margaret Granger, Hermione's mother."
"I am zo delighted to meet you," Marianna said as she rose and took both of Margaret's hands in her own, touching each cheek in the continental style. "Please, sit with us; would you like some tea?"
"Thank you, that would be lovely," Margaret said, finding herself just a little flustered. Marianna's voice was low and seductive, the voice of a woman who always got her way and generally did so while making people feel that they were the ones being spoilt. "You are Blaise's mother?"
"Ah yes!" she said, her eyes suddenly coming to life. "Of course, you will know my darling son! I do hope 'e too will be 'aving a wedding soon – you know that 'e and that lovely Angelique Delacour, they are sweet on each other?"
Molly chuckled. "You need to watch Marianna, Margaret. She'll have Teddy and Miriam betrothed to one another before you can say 'matrimonial obligations'. She's been a matchmaker all her life; including quite a few husbands of her own."
Margaret's eyes widened, thinking that such a comment was rather insensitive; but Marianna tossed her head back and roared with laughter.
"Um, ah," Margaret stammered out, feeling deeply embarrassed for the other woman, and very confused at her response to Molly's remark.
"Oh, do not worry," Marianna said, placing her hand on Margaret's arm in that little intimate 'bringing you into the circle' gesture. "Molly and I, we have known each other a long time, and I cannot take offense at her. You know," she continued, a pensive look coming into her eyes, "it 'as always made me sad that I knew and liked and admired both Molly and Narcissa, but they were cut off from each other by the silly War and feuds and nonsense. Thank Merlin for Mr Potter and his friends putting a stop to all that!"
This was said quite seriously, and Margaret nodded. It was ridiculous how much faith the Wizarding World had placed in the small group of school students; but she had to admit, it had paid off handsomely. They didn't deserve it; but it was clear that there was a new society being forged and she agreed that it was good to see Narcissa and Molly able to be friends; indeed she felt that the two of them were probably her closest friends.
Her little reverie was interrupted by Marianna, who had clearly had enough being serious, for she clapped her hands together and announced, "now! We must consider the important things. What colours do you think Miriam and Teddy should wear to this betrothal?"
It didn't take Margaret long after that to realise that she now had three very special friends who were witches.
-#-
While Narcissa was busy entertaining at the Manor, Lucius, to his chagrin, was busy dealing with his burgeoning business empire. Right now, he would much rather have been being social. Not that he considered that to be an easy option: he knew, none better, how hard Narcissa worked at all of the events she staged. And there were times when saying polite things to rude people really stuck in the craw. Not, of course, that Narcissa's guests for today were at all rude; but he thought back, in horror, to some of the banquets he had been at, with people who could bore for Britain being positively encouraged to do so.
Anyway, he had a job to do. Today he was juggling all of the different building firms he needed to have lined up; some of the CEOs were getting a bit big for their boots, and starting to try to throw their weight around. It was nothing he couldn't handle; but it did need the personal touch. So now he was sitting in his office with a pile of reports in front of him.
Sighing, he picked up the next file. Betty's Building Supplies. The situation there was quite simple: Betty wanted to increase her prices by ten percent. Lucius had smiled sweetly at her and told her to go ahead; and that of course, at the same time, he would go ahead himself and find another supplier. Betty had tried to dig her heels in, believing that she was the only place in Britain from which he could get the wood he needed at the quality and price he wanted. She probably was right in this belief; but Britain was not the only market, and he was now importing through a supply chain in the Magical world that was better quality and five percent cheaper than Betty. She had now taken to sending him letters that managed simultaneously to threaten to sue him and beg for his business back. She would probably go under; he doubted anyone in the industry would mourn her.
He turned to the next report, and smiled. Grunnings Drills. He skimmed the most recent report from the Managing Director. As always, Michael Collings was brief, succinct, and informative. The company, Lucius could see at a glance, was going from strength to strength. Reading between the lines, he got the impression that George Grunnings, the former owner, was still trying to push his weight around a bit; but Collings seemed to be dealing with that all right, and on the whole Lucius was delighted that here was one company he didn't need to make a huge effort with. He made a note to take the man out to dinner to thank him for his sterling work; he was sure the continuing success of Grunnings Drills was largely down to him. He wondered where the company would be if Vernon Dursley had been made Managing Director; and he shuddered at the thought.
At that moment came one of those events that give co-incidence a bad name. The Floo roared into life; and to his surprise, Hermione Granger – no, Weasley now – 's face appeared.
"Mrs Weasley!" he said in surprise, and Hermione blushed to be so addressed. "To what do I owe the unexpected honour of a Floo-call when you should be enjoying your honeymoon?"
Hermione chuckled. Lucius did have lovely manners now that he wasn't working for a madman any more.
"I was hoping to speak to you about one of your employees," she replied.
"Not to complain, I hope?" he replied.
"No, no," Hermione said. "No, Harry's Aunt Petunia is here, and-"
Lucius's face darkened. "She has been giving you trouble?" he asked.
"No, not at all," Hermione said quickly, trying to defuse his evident anger. "No, it's not like that at all. We met up with her by accident, and she was terribly apologetic and contrite. She's hoping that maybe Harry will talk to her, just her, without Vernon to muck things up. Do you think there's any chance? Could you maybe transfer her to their hotel and see if anything happens or something?"
Lucius looked pensive. This was an unexpected development. His instincts were to just shut it down; the woman had had plenty of time to show just how nasty she was, after all. On the other hand, Harry was a fantastically generous wizard; who knew what he might do?
"I'll think about it," he replied. "Leave it with me, forget about it, and go off and enjoy yourselves."
"Yes sir!" Hermione replied, giving him a mock salute and terminating the Floo call.
Lucius sat back. How to handle this? After a few minutes, he made up his mind. It would do no harm for her to have experience of the hotel in Italy, he supposed; anything else would be up to her. He reached for the Floo powder, and made a couple of calls of his own.
-#-
On Friday morning, it was hot. Harry woke up at half past six, sweat dripping off him. He got up quietly, and considered taking a shower; but he remembered the hotel had a small swimming pool that he could use, and decided that would be much more refreshing.
It was about a quarter past seven when he finished up in the pool area, and wandered back towards his room. The staff were moving around, he noticed; it was apparently a bit of a lull between the very early breakfasts and the late sitting that he and Draco preferred on the two occasions when they had actually made it out of their room. He smiled at them as they walked past; and then his face froze.
She couldn't be here. It just couldn't be true.
Could it?
"Aunt Petunia?" he said.
The woman he had spotted, who had not been looking in his direction, turned to face him; and he saw at once that it was indeed his aunt.
"Harry!" she exclaimed without thinking.
"EVANS!" the woman standing next to her hissed, "it's 'Mr Potter' to us! When required!"
This was a clear warning to remind her that she was not supposed to talk to the guests, much less address them in such a familiar fashion. But Petunia held her head up defiantly. Of course she was going to address Harry familiarly; he was, after all, family.
Harry turned to the other woman.
"Actually," he said, somewhat apologetically, "technically it's Lord Potter. But it's all right, she is my aunt; and she's called me a lot worse names. So," he continued, turning to Petunia, "you work here now?"
Petunia nodded, not sure just how much trouble she was in, and not trusting herself to speak as that would probably only add to it.
"Sorry, I guess I'm stopping you both from working, aren't I? Or do you just not want to talk to me?"
"Oh please," Petunia burst out, "yes, please can we talk? I just—" and here Petunia's nerve failed her, and she finished her sentence in a whisper, "—want to say sorry …"
"OK," Harry continued, mindful that he was interrupting the staff while they were on duty, which was not likely to endear him to them. After all, they had jobs to do, and only so much time to do them in, and they'd probably have to work extra to make up if the guests kept them from their work; and while he was quite sure that no-one would say anything about such a matter to him, there was a good chance they'd take it out on Petunia. Which was exactly the sort of unfairness he was most dead set against. "Can we talk sometime soon? When are you off duty?"
"I'm sure we can make Evans available at your convenience, sir," the other woman replied.
"Evans?" Harry said, confused; then, deciding explanations could wait, continued, "all right, can you come to our suite at ten o'clock?"
"We shall ensure she is there, sir," came the reply.
Harry wasn't entirely pleased that Petunia was not being allowed to speak for herself; but he looked back at her and could see in her eyes gratitude for the invitation together as she gave the barest of nods as if to say 'this is good, please leave it like this'. He decided that that was probably for the best. Right now, it was unlikely that Petunia would suffer much for the conversation as it would get back to him when he saw her at ten thirty.
"Thank you," Harry replied to the other woman. "Um, I don't know your name?"
"Busby, sir," she replied; and then, as his demeanor clearly wanted her to say more, "Kate Busby. Kitchen under-manager."
"Thank you, Kate," Harry said with a smile, and left for their room to snog Draco and get ready for the day.
-#-
Lucius and Narcissa sat eating breakfast in the informal dining room, watching the rain falling on the garden. Lucius found it rather soothing; his day of paperwork had finished with a round of meetings at the Ministry, so he had come home very late and feeling rather worn out. Today he was having a day off, and there was a mesmeric quality to the persistent beat of water on soil that he found very relaxing.
"How was your party yesterday afternoon?" he asked as he poured himself another cup of tea. "I hope the weather was kinder to you."
"Oh, the weather was delightful," Narcissa replied, "as were the guests. Though I think Margaret Granger found Marianna a bit much to begin with."
"Everyone does," Lucius replied drily. "Marianna is a force of nature. I assume she whipped Margaret into shape?"
"Oh yes," Narcissa replied with a smile. "I believe that the betrothal between Teddy Lupin and Miriam Granger is now all planned out."
It was a trifle unfortunate that Lucius had taken a mouthful of tea just as Narcissa said this; the image it brought to mind caused him to snort, and tea sprayed over the table. Narcissa, who had rather been aiming for this effect, snickered as she calmly cleaned the mess with a wave of her wand.
"I'm sorry," Lucius said, then noticed the smirk and realised he had been set up. "It's all right for you," he pouted. "You had enjoyable company. I had to read reports. Though I did get a Floo call from the new Mrs Weasley."
"How nice!" Narcissa rejoined. "Are they having a pleasant honeymoon?"
"We didn't actually discuss it, but yes, I would say so, from her demeanor. And no, it wasn't really nice; she wanted to talk about Petunia Evans."
Narcissa's face went blank; it took a moment for her to register whom he must mean, as she remembered that of course Evans was Harry's mother's maiden name, so must have been his aunt's as well.
"Harry's aunt? Wasn't she Petunia Dursley?" she asked by way of seeking confirmation, her expression rather sour as she remembered the horrible woman.
"Indeed," Lucius replied. "But we organised a divorce. It was clear she wanted nothing to do with him, which I must say shows at least some good taste. It seems she wants to apologise to Harry and try and make up with him. And Mrs Weasley was interceding for her, asking if I could get them together; or at least transfer her to the Malfoy Hotel di Siena."
"I see," Narcissa replied, her eyes hard, and Lucius rather suspected that she did indeed see. His wife was very protective of both of her sons, after all. "And are you planning to acquiesce?"
"Yes," Lucius replied simply.
Narcissa arched and eyebrow at him, and the message was clear: elaborate. Or else. And he knew from experience that he really didn't want to know what 'or else' entailed.
"I can't not, really," he said apologetically. "After all, you know Harry. He's too kind-hearted. If it got back to him that Petunia wanted to see him, and I stopped it happening, he would not be pleased. Hermione Weasley is a Gryffindor; she is bound to mention the episode to him, and he would feel hurt that I hadn't given her a chance. And, however much the debt between us is more love than duty now, it is still there, and I can't hurt him."
Narcissa's face relaxed, just a little, and Lucius knew that the immediate danger was past. Though he would have to tread warily.
"Very well," she replied. "So what will you do?"
"It's already happened," Lucius said. "Evans was moved to Siena last night."
"Indeed? And are you going to do anything else?"
It was Lucius's turn to smirk.
"Oh no," he replied. "Now it's all up to her. And good luck to her."
-#-
Draco woke up, and looked around for Harry. His husband was not in their bed; and a cursory check of the rest of the suite showed he wasn't anywhere in there either. His rational mind knew perfectly well that Harry would be fine, no matter where he was in the hotel, and that he wouldn't leave the hotel without letting Draco know where he was. But he still felt worried, and a little bereft.
This is insane, he thought to himself. But however much he knew Harry loved him, and was perfectly safe, and would come back soon, he still felt a little bit alone, a little bit lost, and a little bit abandoned.
What the hell was going on?
At that moment, he heard the door to their suite open.
"Harry? Where were you?" he called tentatively; though in his mind he knew perfectly well that it wasn't going to be anyone else.
"Dragon? I went for a swim," he heard the answering call, and he did not miss the concerned tone Harry asked in. His Raven came into their bedroom and took stock of him, still in bed. "Are you all right?"
Draco decided not to say 'yes, I'm fine'. After all he wasn't, really, and his husband deserved to know that.
"I missed you," he said softly, and to his delight Harry smiled at him, divested himself of the bathrobe and swimming trunks he had come back from the pool in, and crawled into bed with him, pulling him into a tight hug.
"That's better," Draco said after a minute of just lying there, soaking up Harry's love and attention as his Raven stroked his hair and showered him with kisses.
"All right now?" Harry asked, and Draco just purred to hear the love behind the question.
"I don't know what's going on," he answered. "It was stupid; I just … I just wanted you to be here."
"And now I am," Harry replied simply, stroking his husband's arm.
"Yes, but …" Draco raised himself on one elbow and looked Harry in the eye. "Why am I being so stupid? It's like I need you with me, all the time."
Harry pulled Draco down into a deep hug. He really didn't know what to say; but his Dragon clearly needed some reassurance.
"Well, while we're on our honeymoon, I don't mind being with you if that's what you need. It's not like it's any kind of hardship!"
"Yeah, but what about when we have to go back to Britain?"
Harry paused for a moment. It would be too easy to give a glib answer, he thought, so he took his time to say what he felt as carefully as he could.
"We'll just have to see how it goes, I guess," he said eventually, easing the cuddle a little and stroking Draco's sides. "In the meantime, is there anything else? Do you feel at all sick or anything?"
Draco thought about this for a moment, then replied, "no, actually, I feel really well. There's just one thing, though …"
"What?" Harry asked, and then found himself thrown over onto his back.
"You've had your exercise this morning," the blond replied, "now it's my turn."
-#-
It was about an hour later that Harry remembered he had a matter to discuss with Draco.
"We're going to have a visitor at morning tea time," he said as they sat in the hotel dining room eating a late breakfast, Draco having decided today was a day to be seen rather than to hide away. "So we'll need to be in our suite then, if you don't mind."
"Oh yes?" Draco asked. "I had thought of Flooing to a lovely Wizarding restaurant in Lake Garda, and then going for a trip round the lake; but we could do that for lunch, that would be fine. Who is the visitor?"
Harry took a deep breath.
"My Aunt Petunia."
Draco looked at him sternly.
"Are you sure about this?" he asked.
"Yes," Harry said firmly. "She works here now. I met her when I was coming back from my swim. I don't want to go around pretending I don't know her, or ignoring her, or trying to stay away from her; so I thought we could have a single conversation with her and sort things out."
"Have you forgiven her?" Draco asked, his expression unchanged.
"No, not yet," Harry admitted. "But I think I want to give her a chance. To see what she has to say when Vernon is not around."
"All right," Draco said, "But if she tries anything …"
"… we ask your dad to move her somewhere else and never talk to her again," Harry promised, and Draco seemed to be mollified by this.
Harry sat back. It actually felt quite nice that his Dragon was being so protective of him. As he thought back on his life, he realised that in all probability the only other people who had loved him for himself, and looked out for him like this, were his parents, Sirius and Remus. Even the Weasleys, who he adored, had never questioned why he was kept practically caged by the Dursleys. Not that he blamed them; the war had been horrible for everyone, and things had not been noticed that should have been. Now was not the time to rehash them; that wasn't the kind of world he wanted.
He wanted people to get along. He wanted people to forgive one another, and to accept other people and not judge them just because they were different. He wanted people to be judged for the choices they made now, not from some position of prejudice.
Was that really so much to ask?
-#-
Petunia knocked on the door bang on ten o'clock. She could hardly bring herself to do it; she was so apprehensive and hesitant about the whole thing that the strokes she made were not spaced evenly. But if her knock was strangely unrhythmical, that was nothing compared to the frantic fluttering of her heart. For a staff member to have morning tea in the hotel with a guest was unprecedented; and so she had Been Coached, in definite capital letters: she was to show appropriate respect at all times; she was to stand unless told she might sit; she was to call Harry 'my Lord' and Draco 'my Lord Consort'; she had been dressed in her finest clothes and had her hair styled by the hotel's resident hairdresser, which was at least one positive thing, she thought. There wasn't much else positive to hold onto: it had been made very, very clear to her that a lot hang on this interview and if a word of criticism came back, the whole staff would take it very much to heart; their lives would be miserable, and each one of them would make it a personal goal to ensure she shared the full extent of their misery.
Well, she thought, pulling herself up straight, her superiors had said pretty much the same things when she went to see Mr and Mrs Weasley at the other hotel; and she'd come through that all right. But of course, this was more important: if Mrs Granger had said no, she could have hoped for other opportunities; but if Harry rejected her pleas, that would be it.
She was woken from her reverie by a sharp "come in!". Opening the door, she wheeled in the tea trolley that she had been given. Of course, the trolley could just as well have been brought by a house-elf; but Petunia suspected the managers had made her bring it so that any guest who might see her would not entertain any suspicion that she was doing anything other than being the proper servant bringing room service.
"Aunt Petunia," Harry said in greeting. He then took the other end of the tea trolley and wheeled it out onto their patio. Petunia, having nothing else to do, followed him out, finding Mr Malfoy already sitting outside at a low table, obviously enjoying the sunshine and light breeze of the day. Harry levitated the tea service off the trolley and onto the table; while Petunia, her eyes going wide as she watched her nephew performing magic without word or wand, stood just outside the door, waiting to see how he would react.
"Please, take a seat," Harry said, indicating the third of the three seats grouped around the table. She hurried to comply, sitting very formally on the edge of the seat.
Harry and Draco had chatted further; Draco was clearly worried that Harry was going to be a pushover. Harry had thought over all the horrors he had endured at her hands; horrors that she could have, should have, spared him, and had managed to feel quite hard and cold towards her. But as he looked at her now, obviously petrified that she would do the wrong thing, his heart began to thaw again.
"My Lord, I—" she began.
"Harry," he insisted softly. "I may be Lord Potter, but I'm still your nephew."
"Thank you," she said, her body visibly reacting. "Yes, and I am still your aunt. And I was a terrible aunt to you all through your childhood, I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought –" and here she seemed to stop and take stock of herself. Harry took the opportunity of the break in the flow of conversation to hand her a cup of tea. For a moment she looked scandalised; it was her role to serve, not his. If it got back to the staff …
Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, she decided; or in for a lire, in for a million, here; and she ploughed on.
"Well, I didn't think, not really. I was Vernon's wife and he insisted we needed to beat the magic out of you, the – well, you know." She didn't dare say 'freakishness'; but Harry nodded his understanding, so she continued, "and I thought I should obey him. But the truth is, he was a bastard, and I was a bitch, and you were a poor, innocent, defenseless child. We failed you, Harry; I failed you, all because I was stupid and jealous that your headmaster had stolen my sister when she was eleven.
"I'm sorry, Harry, I'm so, so sorry; I ruined your childhood, and I know that I can't ever give it back, and there's really nothing more I can say, is there?"
"And what do you want?" Draco asked snidely. "Do you expect that Harry will just forgive you? Sweep away all of the pain and hurt and say it's all right?"
"Of course I want him to forgive me, my Lord Consort!" Petunia all but wailed. "But really, I don't expect anything. How can I? What we did was wrong, criminally wrong. If you went to the police, I'd be in gaol. And probably dead by now; prisoners hate child abusers more than anything and I'm sure the fact that we didn't actually molest Harry wouldn't count for anything! Instead, I'm alive, and well fed, and work with people who don't know how bad what I did was, so my shame is not in my face every day. I just want him to know that I acknowledge how wrong I was, and I'm so, so sorry. And if I could have anything else, I would want to see my son again. To tell him how sorry I am, and to try to mend fences there."
"Draco," Draco replied.
"Pardon?" Petunia asked.
"Draco. Call me 'Draco'. You can't call Harry 'Harry' and me 'my Lord Consort', it's just ridiculous."
Petunia looked abashed; and then suddenly realised that if she was being given permission to call Draco by his first name then he must have warmed to her, if only a little; so she favoured him with a bright smile.
Draco sighed. He didn't like the woman one little bit; but she seemed to be sincere. And if he knew his Harry …
Almost as Draco thought it, Harry spoke.
"All right," he said. "I guess when I saw you at the Manor, you didn't get a chance to speak; Vernon just rode rough-shod over you. And you did try to stop him, I remember. So yeah. I don't know if I forgive you yet; but I think you have accepted you were wrong, so you get a second chance. That's something in our world called the 'Potter Code'; it would be kind of hypocritical of me not to apply it to you."
Petunia looked at him in awe. "And that's part of your legal system?"
The two men nodded. Petunia lowered her head, trying to come to grips with this.
"So let me get this straight," she said. "My nephew, the F- - well, you know what we called you, the person we thought was worthless has his name on a piece of your legal system?"
"Yes," said Draco, holding his temper only by dint of supreme effort. "He's not worthless. He defeated the most evil wizard of our time, he was prepared to give his life for our society. And he's been a major part of rebuilding our world since. The Potter Code has been an important part of stopping everyone just going all out for revenge and perpetuating the madness we've been in for the last fifty years. And what is more important right here and right now is that I love him with all my heart. So let's all forget what you used to call him and remember that he's really your only hope, right? You have turned to him for protection. I think it's far too generous of him to give you another chance after what happened at the end of June, when that pig of a man attacked him verbally; but that's my Harry."
"There is one thing more," Harry added. "Dudley."
Draco looked at him a little confusedly, so Harry continued, "I know he's given up his family, Draco, but I feel he deserves to have his mum. Well, maybe not deserved," Harry corrected himself, as Draco gave him a very skeptical look, "but I know I would have loved nothing better than to have my mum around, so I really want to give him that chance."
Draco smiled ruefully at his husband. Harry said nothing; and Draco, realising that he wanted some sort of direction, shook his head and then said, "like I said, I wouldn't. But you would; and I'm OK with that."
"Really?" Harry asked, longing to know for certain that this would not put any strain on their relationship.
"Really," Draco answered, with a warm, genuine smile as he realised the insecurity that was driving Harry, something he never wanted to see again. His beloved deserved to know that he was behind him one hundred percent.
Harry, pleased, turned back to his aunt.
"So here's the deal," he said. "I don't know if I forgive you yet, not entirely; but I'm willing to ask Lucius for a second chance for you, for Dudley's sake if nothing else. In the meantime, you stay here. I'll let the management know that you are not to be singled out for punishment; but apart from that, you do what you've been doing and we'll see what eventuates. I'm sorry, but I don't really feel I can offer you any more at this point."
Petunia beamed.
"Thank you," she said earnestly. "That's far more than I thought I'd get, to be honest. The thought that I might see Dudley again … I don't know what to say."
"Well, for now, we'll say goodbye," Draco replied, and taking the hint immediately Petunia set her cup down on the table and rose.
"Very good," she said. "Thank you so much for seeing me, and for everything. Please, you stay here, I'll see myself out."
A minute later, she was gone. Harry breathed out a huge sigh, and Draco, realising how emotional the whole interview must have been, sidled onto his lap and kissed him passionately.
"Thank you," Harry said once he had got his breath back five minutes later, a big grin on his face. "Now, I believe you said something about lunch and a trip round a lake?"
-#-
Harry and Draco left the hotel for Lake Garda at about quarter past ten. Harry had no idea what to expect; he had been imagining something like the Black Lake at Hogwarts, and was completely boggle-eyed at the size of Italy's largest lake. It was a pleasant, sunny, day with a light wind, and there were lots of little boats out sailing. Harry sat down on a bench by the lakeside and spent ten minutes just watching them all zoom across the water.
"All these people out having fun!" he said. "Draco, it's just amazing!"
"Now you see why we have to go for a ferry-ride," Draco told him, and Harry could not but agree.
As they were early, they managed to fit a ferry ride on the lake in before Draco steered them to a truly delightful family-run trattoria perched on the top of a small hill by the lake's shore. The view was spectacular, and the food magnificent, as they feasted on fresh pasta with amazing tomato and clam sauce.
Harry closed his eyes and moaned as he ate the ravioli.
"I'll be in trouble for saying it," he said, "but this is every bit as good as the pasta you have at the Manor."
"It's hardly surprising that you think so, Harry," Draco told him with a smirk, "since it is the very same. We have this pasta brought to the Manor at least once a week."
"Oh," said Harry. "That's a shame."
"Why?" Draco asked.
"Well, it robs us of an excuse to come here often," Harry replied.
Draco grinned at him. "We don't need an excuse, love," he replied, as he snagged a piece of ravioli from Harry's bowl. Not to be outdone, his Raven twirled some of Draco's spaghetti on his fork; but Draco could hardly begrudge him it, especially given the noises of delight it elicited from him.
They spent the afternoon wandering along the lakeside, eating gelati, sitting drinking in some of the many cafes dotted around, and generally fitting in to the late summer tourist crowd. Harry enjoyed himself immensely; and Draco found that his husband's face smiling was all it took for him to do the same.
It was gone midnight when they finally arrived back at the hotel, exhausted from all the sun, fresh air, good food, and fine wine but very, very happy. Within half an hour, they were in bed, snuggled together, fast asleep.
In one corner of the room, all forgotten since he had unpacked it, sat Harry's trunk. As they slept peacefully, a red mist seem to emerge from the trunk and slowly billow out and take shape; it was not quite recognisable yet, but it had the promise of becoming the form of a young man. He wasn't quite solid; but as the mist grew, he bent himself as though he were sitting on top of the trunk itself, watching the two young men fast asleep.
A feeling of peace and contentment flowed through him, and he reached out with his magic, just brushing the blond's body. Yes, all was well. His handiwork would show itself soon enough.
Harry's magic, amplified by Draco's, was feeding him, helping him to become a physical entity again. He could feel himself growing stronger by the day.
He smiled.
Soon, he would be able to walk around in the real world, not just in their dreams.
Soon, he would have enough strength to be fully formed and visible.
Soon, his work would be finished.
Soon.

Notes:

Grateful thanks as always to the wonderful Bicky Monster for helpful suggestions.
Thanks to Starlight Massacre, who gave Signora Zabini the Christian name 'Marianna', which I adore, and gave me permission to use it, for which I am grateful.
Thanks to all who reviewed; see http://www2.adult-fanfiction.org/forum/index.php/topic/56042-review-replies-for-returning-to-sanity/ for review replies.
- 78
- 79
- 80
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Returning to Sanity