Tomorrow, We Will Shine (A Drarry FanFiction/"Falling" 3 of 3)

Chapter Ten

   Unlike his previous, horrible, visit to Malfoy Manor, Harry was free to take in the grandness of the house as he followed the elf through the high-ceilinged corridors. He was reminded of how another house-elf by the name of Dinella had escorted him through the kitchens of Hogwarts several months ago; she had also taken him to Draco. Harry very much hoped that this time he would not find him attempting to sob himself into unconsciousness.

Before, there had been house-elves that had flitted around him, anxious that Draco, who they had come to adore, was going to be okay. On that occasion, Harry had felt like he'd had back up. During this short journey however, they were accompanied by no one, but Harry felt several pairs of eyes on him at every junction regardless.

Generations of Malfoys stared down at him from painting after painting, scorn clear on their features as they regarded him coldly. Some whispered to each other if there was more than one occupant in the picture, and to the edges of their frames if they were solitary. Harry wasn't able to catch any of the words, but he could read the contempt in their eyes clear enough.

Harry swallowed thickly, gazing up at the intricate coving and dripping candelabras, as if he was shrinking with each footfall. He felt a cold sensation flooding over him despite the warmth of the summer day, as he thought about how he entertained the ridiculous idea of asking Draco to move in with him, into his one bedroom flat over a joke shop.

He'd always thought Draco had strutted around school when they were boys like he owned the place, and now, seeing the endless hallways of fine art, the evidence of generations of wealth sprawled out before him, he thought the he maybe understood where that arrogance had come from. He even wondered, if he himself had grown up with such obscene riches, if he might have strutted about the place like he was entitled to whatever he pleased as well.

Harry wasn't poor, not by a long shot, but he didn't want to squander his parents' fortune until he had his own income, so had always lived modestly. Even if he started spending that money though, on top of his own future earnings, he would still never achieve this level of wealth; this was the kind of wealth that existed in a person's very blood.

Draco had apologised profusely to Hermione for the use of certain absolutely appalling insults over the years, one in particular relating to her Muggle parents. Harry would never excuse that behaviour, and he truly believed Draco's remorse, but there was the smallest part of him that perhaps understood where that inflated sense of superiority had come from, and found he could almost forgive the younger Draco for his ingrained prejudice.

These towering walls were his home, he had run through these halls as a boy, had been taught his family values with the lords and ladies of his past peering imposingly over his shoulder. It had been made clear to him since birth that his heritage, his blood, was better than almost everyone else's.

The gulf between them had never been more apparent.

Harry hugged himself and his nice enough but obviously old jacket, and allowed Dinkum to see him into what he wanted to call a 'drawing room', though he wasn't sure where he'd picked that term up from. It was a large room, as big as the Gryffindor common room at least, with enormous floor to ceiling bay windows looking out of the grounds, affording a pleasant view of the topiary and the startlingly white peacocks picking their way across the manicured lawns. The room itself was a pastel pallet of delicate pinks, creams and gold gilt, and was overshadowed by a magnificent portrait at the far end of the room, taking up the entire wall. The expertly crafted painting depicted Draco sat on a high backed, velvet-trimmed chair, his parents posing behind him, a hand each on his shoulders.

Draco looked about fifteen, Harry would have guessed from his youth and the swagger in his sneer. He had lost that distasteful air during their Sixth Year when he had been set an impossible mission by Voldemort, a task he probably complied with at first out of excited duty, then persevered through terrible desperation, knowing that he and the rest of his family would be murdered should he fail.

Harry eyed up this formed Draco, and felt like he was looking at a completely different person. "Where is Master Malfoy?" he asked politely, indicating the empty room. He longed to see his Draco, the real Draco with an all consuming fierceness. This skinny little version gave him a contemptible smirk, and Harry turned away from it.

"Dinkum will inform the Master of Master Harry's presence, and he shall be joining him shortly. If Master Harry would like to be making himself comfortable?" He indicated the numerous elaborately carved chairs that stood against the edges of the room, artfully positioned around the occasional small, decorative tables dotted in between them.

Harry nodded, and Dinkum disappeared through the door, hopefully to fetch Draco, fast.

He chewed his lip and shrugged off his jacket. He didn't want to risk draping it over a chair, not when their seats and backs were cushioned with such delicate embroidery, so he folded it over his arm instead.

He felt numb. He was causing Draco so much trouble, all the hate mail and the snooping reporters, because he was so sure they belonged together. But seeing the world he was from was a reality check if ever he'd had one. What did he and Draco really have in common?

They made each other laugh, the defiant side of his mind retaliated. They were deeply attracted to each other, Draco was smart and Harry was daring, they liked cooking and eating and drinking together, they loved reading and were starting their new, post-war lives together.

They were in love.

Harry balled his fists and clung to that knowledge resolutely. They were in love, differences be damned. And Harry was there to support Draco throughout whatever ailment had fallen on his doorstep, as well as the potential trouble from Skeeter they faced together. He would not forget that, he promised himself, then started as the door pushed open once again. They were in love, and nothing could shake that.

His smile, as well as his promise, faded in an instant as he registered who had walked through the door, and he scrambled to think of anything to say at all.

Because this was Master Malfoy indeed. It was just the wrong Master Malfoy.