Narcissa arrives just after 4pm with a surprisingly festive scarf and a deceptively small bag. It's mostly full of sweets and books and trinkets that she unloads on the kitchen counters while making inquisitive noises and commenting on the decor.
Her eyes linger on the wand—Draco's wand—in its customary place on the windowsill above the sink. It gets near-daily use now, and the lack of dust is likely obvious, particularly to a mother's discerning eyes.
"Well it's certainly a charming, if rustic, home," she says, trailing her fingers along the blanket draped over the back of the sofa. "Did you do the renovations yourself, Harry?"
"I did, yeah," Harry says. "Thank you."
Harry provides her with a cup of tea and she spends several minutes speaking with Fleamont as Harry checks on dinner in the oven and straightens the salt and pepper shakers on the newly delivered dining table and nudges at the chairs tucked under the table until Draco sets a stilling hand on his lower back.
"Easy," he says lowly, mouth against Harry's ear. "It's just my mother, not the Minister of Magic."
"There's nothing just about your mother, and I'm far more interested in impressing her than the Minister of Magic," Harry mutters back. But he leans into Draco's side, presses a kiss to his temple in thanks, and then tucks his hands in his pockets and tries, resolutely, not to fidget any more.
Harry suggests they give Narcissa a tour of the potions barn and then gently points out all the excellent construction and maintenance choices Draco implemented while Draco, surprisingly humble, shrugs off their praise with a pink flush on his neck and the tips of his ears.
Eventually, Narcissa coaxes Draco into explaining the hydroponics system and Harry watches them from the end of the row, incredibly, painfully, fond. Draco glances back at him and he pretends to examine a mustard plant, feeling a rather embarrassing kinship to it, once it does, indeed, have his attention. It's on the very end of the row and it leans inwards a bit, seeking as much light as possible. Harry considers his own body positioning, shoulders pointed towards Draco, head tipped to listen to the quiet conversation between mother and son. He wonders if Draco feels a similar, constant, awareness—no, not just awareness, a draw—towards Harry. He wonders if it's because of their transference bond. He hopes it isn't. He's afraid it isn't.
He doesn't get to dwell on the question long, because the timer he's set goes off and Harry excuses himself to go finish dinner preparations.
It's a good Christmas, is the thing.
It's a different sort of good than Christmas with the Weasleys; a quiet, subdued, affair with soft background music and conversation composed without interruptions or multiple speakers talking over each other. But it has the same sort of warmth to it. Harry wonders if motherly love has a feeling and then, once again, the curiosity hurts so he pointedly stops thinking about it.
After dinner, they sit on the sofa and exchange presents, faces cast in green and red from the Christmas tree's lights.
Draco gives his mother a shawl enchanted to mimic the night sky, purchased in Paris with more money than Harry, frankly, thought Draco had. She delights over it, while also chastising him for spending his meagre earnings on something so frivolous for her, but then she gifts him with similarly extravagant set of pyjamas and a matching dressing gown made of fabric that shifts between blue and silver without ever settling on a single colour.
It's the exact colour of his eyes and Harry, despite quite enjoying Draco's usual habit of sleeping in Harry's old shirts, finds he's rather looking forward to bedtime.
Narcissa gives Harry a painting conservation kit and explains how to use it to keep Fleamont's portrait in excellent condition.
After a few pointed nudges from Draco, Harry awkwardly hands over an envelope and hopes he hasn't overstepped and then has to deal with being hugged by Narcissa Malfoy when she opens it to find a letter from her sister expressing interest in reconciliation and inviting her to tea the following week. Included with the letter is a recent picture of Teddy, grinning cheerily with an unknown substance smeared across his face,
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Way Down We Go
FanfictionTHIS WORK BELONGS TO xiaq ON ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN. The war was over. Or at least that's what the papers said. They'd been saying it, for months, as if people needed reminding. Maybe they did. *** In which Harry and Draco both run away from their past...
