An End And A Beginning

7: The Song Mingles With The Moonlight

As he lay in bed the following morning listening to the rain, Draco thought that perhaps Potter was just too nice. He seemed too perfect and that was disturbing. Perhaps it was simply a performance. Or perhaps this was normal behaviour for people who hadn't been brought up to see the world through eyes of privilege and prejudice. Though how Potter had grown up to be so... so balanced after all the shit that had been thrown at him. Draco wasn't so ignorant that he didn't understand that Potter should be, for all intents and purposes, utterly psychologically fucked by everything he'd been through. He was the one who should be angry. He should be bitter with his lot. He'd had to die, for fucks sake, all for the bloody 'Greater Good'. Rumour was even Severus was angry with Albus Dumbledore about it all and had accused Dumbledore of raising Potter to die like a pig for slaughter—and everyone knew how Severus felt about Potter.

He made a mental note that he must talk to Potter about Severus, there was more to that story that went untold. Granger's book had been distinctly vague and skirted around the topic.

He turned his mind to thinking about Potter the previous evening. Particularly Potter gently wiping away his tears and conjuring a glass of water and waiting patiently for Draco to calm down and somehow reduce the visible aftermath of proper ugly crying. Not, he realised, that he wasn't allowed to ugly cry but this was the first time he'd met his Aunt Andromeda and first impressions were still important.

He sighed. Ideas of what first impressions were and why they were important were only what his father had bred into him. Yet Potter seemed to understand Draco better than he knew himself because when they had walked back towards the Manor, he stopped and made Draco find the handkerchief from earlier. Potter had dampened it with a spell so Draco could sooth away the puffiness before they went in. And then Potter had cast a drying spell on the handkerchief and handed it back to Draco. Draco had turned up his nose haughtily to reject it and Potter had only smiled knowingly and put it back in the pocket of his jeans.

'Okay?' Potter said gently, stepping too close again, bringing with him his aftershave that seemed so familiar these days.

When Draco's only response had been to nod, Potter had reached out to stop him moving off and he'd said, 'breathe, Draco. Slow counts in and out.'

He had waited, watching Draco force his breathing under control.

Then he straightened the neck of Draco's jumper, wiped that rough thumb over his cheek again and said, 'you're okay. You look quite normal... for you.' Potter smiled cheekily at that before saying sympathetically. 'And Andy is very understanding if there're any hints of upset. She won't judge you.'

'I don't even understand why I'm so upset,' Draco muttered. 'I hated him.'

'You don't need to understand. This is grief. Just let the emotions out. It's better than bottling it all up,' Harry said, still standing too close and still smelling of his divine bergamot, honey, and pinewood aftershave. It made Draco think that if there was roaring fire and if he was nestled against Harry's chest in that jumper on a deep comfy sofa, then life would be the definition of sublime. Nevertheless, he couldn't stay outside all night; it was time to face his mother and aunt and try to control his erratic emotions. Besides, it was getting very cold.

It turned out his Aunt Andromeda was, indeed, quite normal. No strange habits or manners. No weird beliefs or horrific antisocial behaviour. No additional limbs or two heads. Just a very ordinary witch who happened to fall in love with a Muggle. And she was wonderful with the nearly five-year-old Teddy who was a bundle of energy and clearly quite a handful.

The evening was surprisingly heart-warming and definitely just what his mother needed. Dear gods, why did Potter have to be right about that too.

Draco sighed at how the world was nothing like he'd been led to believe and suddenly wished his father was still alive. He thought, somewhat irrationally, that he wanted his father to see this and explain it to him. He wondered about his and Potter's conversation and that choice to come back. Maybe he could call Lucius back from beyond the veil, preferably kicking and screaming, and preferably so he could beat out of his father the answers to his questions before throwing him back into Azkaban to suffer in abject misery. He wondered what he'd give in return for that—not his soul, he knew what it was like to pledge his soul to someone. Never again, he swore to himself... unless it was for love... oh gods... he threw his arm across his eyes as if to shut out the world.