Blackberry Jam (A Drarry FanFiction)

Chapter Forty One

   Harry hadn't realised how badly he had been convinced he would have nothing to come back to until the bike veered sharply again, and he gave up and just hopped off the blasted thing, sucking down large gulps of air to stop his head spinning. Draco came to a more dignified halt, and propped both the bicycles against old Mrs McGonagall's wall.

"Are you alright?" Draco asked again, concern clear in his words, and Harry nodded earnestly, his hands on his knees for support as he steadied his breathing and calmed himself.

"I really thought it would be gone," he admitted, looking again at the small terraced house. It was nothing compared to Malfoy Manor, but to him it was a palace. "I thought I would have nothing left."

Draco came over and put his arm over his back, squeezing his shoulder. There were a few people walking down the street he noticed, but it wasn't enough of an intimate move that Harry cared they would notice anything unusual. "I'm glad it's still here," he said warmly.

Harry thought about seeing Draco's home, and his bedroom in particular. He hadn't appreciated that maybe he'd been jealous, that it had made him even more anxious about returning to his own street where he'd grown up. He'd played football up and down here with Cedric Diggory more times than he could count, and yet without realising, in his mind he had already condemned it to obliteration.

His breathing levelled out and he stood up. "Sorry," he said with an ashamed little laugh, but Draco rolled his eyes.

"Will you put a sock in that," he said, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. "You don't have to apologise to me. Ever."

"Even when I've been a prat?" Harry asked playfully, but inside he was quietly very grateful to hear Draco support him out loud.

He gave him one of his signature smirks. "No," he teased. "If you've been a prat, then you definitely have to apologise."

Harry smiled at him. Sometimes, making jokes made him feel better than kind words, and he loved that Draco knew that.

"Thanks," he said.

"Not a problem," Draco assured him, a breeze picking up and ruffling his blond hair.

"Harry?"

They had been so busy talking that Harry had taken his eyes off the house, and his head snapped around in shock as he realised the front door had opened.

And there stood James Potter, dark haired, blue eyed, in his old slacks, shirt and suspenders that he always favoured; Harry's long absent father.

His vision blurred again but that didn't stop him stumbling into a mad dash across the street. "Dad!" he yelled, throwing himself into his arms

"Harry!" his father cried in response, embracing him so tightly he thought his ribs might crack. "Harry I can't believe that's really you! Where's my little chap gone!"

Harry gave a laugh that was half hiccup, half sob. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again," he mumbled, hastily drying his eyes. Boys really weren't supposed to cry as much as he did.

"Didn't you get my letter?" his father asked, mildly confused, and Harry pulled back to look at him, aware that Draco had left their bikes and come to stand on the pavement by them and the front door.

Harry also became confused. "No," he said. "No letter, Draco and I returned from Little Whinging yesterday, I didn't even know our house would still be here, let alone that you would be inside?" He felt his resolve threaten to crumble again, but he rallied his courage. "I only received the telegram from Aunt Petunia last week. About...about mother."

His father's eyes widened. "Are you telling me you don't know?" he stuttered, and began pulling Harry inside the house.

"What?" Harry stammered, bewilderment making his feet slow and clumsy. "Don't know what?"

"Harry?"

He froze, and his father's face broke into the most wonderful grin.

"Harry? Is that you?"

Everything became something of a blur as Harry's feet took on a life of their own, and he pitched forward, bouncing off the wall and into the living room to their left.

And there, cut and bruised, leg in a cast and small frame wrapped in several blankets on the couch, lay Lily Potter, her face alight with disbelief.