The Ordeal Of Being Known

Chapter 3 from Harry's POV

Harry took a moment upon apparating in to absorb the fact that he was once again willingly in Malfoy's garden, walking casually towards Malfoy's sophisticated black front door. So that Malfoy could aim a wand at him, and dig around in his head, and possibly heal him.

It was equal parts exciting and exasperating. He was constantly arguing with himself, because what the fuck are you doing, Harry, but he seems so different, he promised you safety, but you're trusting the word of Draco fucking Malfoy? What is it about this that has you forgetting everything you've been through? And also you've never been around Malfoy without hurting each other, but you sat in his study for nearly eight hours and flew with him and listened to him, and you even enjoyed it...

Maybe it was the garden.

Harry had imagined the garden at Malfoy's "place" to look like something prim and proper and precise, like the Dursley's garden, but much more expensive. He'd expected white peacocks and those unnerving shrubs trimmed to look like majestic creatures. And probably a koi pond with a cherubic fountain and ornately carved marble benches, where one could sit leisurely and read their pureblood genealogies in the sunshine.

Not that he'd thought about it that much.

In actuality, Malfoy's garden was modest and overgrown, the rich earth mostly left alone to bloom however it wished. And it wished wonderfully.

Long grasses were shooting up from the thawed earth, everywhere but the simple rock path that led to the door. Harry could see the sprouts of wildflowers and narcissus and even tulips around the corner, and buds promising colourful blooms on flowering shrubs and trees.

Malfoy had told him on Monday that he preferred the garden not perfectly tended, that he and Timsy simply cared for it without trying to stifle it. Which would have stunned Harry speechless, were he not already speechless.

It was the complete opposite of the Dursley's.

But of course, Malfoy wouldn't have an untended, overgrown garden that looked anything but beautiful. It could have easily looked a mess, and led to a ramshackle hut that housed an eccentric old wizard who wore only animal skins. It didn't. It looked intentional, flourishing and welcoming, and led to a simple, yet sophisticated home, that housed an impressive, elusive Death-Eater-turned-Healer who wore expertly tailored muggle suits.

It was one sprawling floor, white sides with black shutters, small chimneys poking from the slate-shingled roof for each hearth. Dark green ivy and vines crawled up the sides around timber frames and large bay windows, branching out across the clean, white plaster in jagged lines, embracing the corners of the house. As Harry's eyes roamed to the right, he glimpsed the beautiful, domed sunroom, glass panes reflecting the thick grey clouds in the sky.

It was everything Harry had ever pictured when he imagined home. Minus the Healer. Well-no, he hadn't imagined anyone in particular, in his imaginary home, but there was definitely another soul in it. Usually blond, but Harry just had a thing for blonds. Coincidentally.

Harry shook himself out of his thoughts. It was so much harder to do now that he couldn't speak. He couldn't do anything but think.

He approached the door and knocked twice. He felt a moment of envy, that Malfoy's black front door looked anything but grim and ominous. The black door of Grimmauld Place looked actively unwelcoming, as if its purpose was to turn people away. Another black door haunted Harry's nightmares, occasionally, a foreboding destination at the end of a long, tiled corridor, that Harry avoided in real life as much as he could.

The one in front of Harry now looked... nice. Inviting and reassuring. It looked like oh good, you're back. It made him feel warm.

Timsy opened the door and stepped aside to let him in, greeting him politely in his raspy voice and hanging up Harry's leather jacket. Harry wished he could greet him back. He felt rude.