All Life Is Yours To Miss

Chapter 23

The next night, when he returns from his first Quidditch practice since the match, Draco is immediately set upon by an excitable Stanley, who apparently thinks it is time for his nightly jaunt already.

"Tea," Draco says firmly, taking care not to step on the beetle as he battles over to his kettle and begins the most important ritual of the day. Now that he is sleeping a little more-partly in his bed and partly in his new chair at Harry's bedside-he has happily abandoned the pots of mudlike coffee and renewed his love affair with Camellia Sinensis. It isn't as though he has actually allowed himself to fall out of love with it, but, as his insanely busy schedule begins to settle into place, he has found that a really good cup of tea can smooth the edges of just about anything this job can throw at him, from mud and splinters to bizarre requests, unsuccessful attempts at flying instruction and everything in between.

As he waits for the leaves to steep, he watches Stanley. He watches Stanley turn in rapid circles, tacking loudly, he watches Stanley clamber clumsily onto the coffee table, and he watches Stanley skid up and down on the polished wood, scattering a whole day's worth of marked homework onto the floor in a small blizzard of parchment. Draco supposes he should be irritated, but he doesn't actually think Stanley is being naughty for the sake of being naughty, as he sometimes is. He's just excited and curious about the world and about the castle. He's a sociable sort of beetle, and while that's not something that Draco fully understands, he knows he cannot, in good conscience, continue to hold Stanley back from exploring and making new friends.

He suddenly remembers a letter from the time of his self-imposed exile and words in his mother's beautiful handwriting:

All I want is to keep you safe at my side, but I know I must let you go, and I will do it with a stout heart, hoping that one day you will return to me.

Draco exhales slowly, feeling the weight of those oft-read words. He still has the letter-all her letters, in fact-tucked away with his quilts. He wonders what she would have to say about Stanley and his quest for independence. It's not quite the same, he knows, but he suspects his mother has a lesson to teach him, even in her absence, and that is just like her.

He stirs his tea and smiles, knowing exactly what he has to do. Ten minutes later, he is sitting cross-legged on the hearthrug, surrounded by lengths of soft, thick string. He has a tape measure around his neck and his wand in one hand while he uses the other to discourage Stanley from 'helping' with the process by trying to eat the leftover string.

As he works, he runs through the recent practice in his mind, wondering if his first ever attempt at a 'yes, we lost, but we're going to keep fighting'-type pep talk had been a complete disaster or merely a miserable failure. They had, to their credit, looked as though they wanted to believe his not-very-stirring words, but they had still seemed downhearted as they had taken to the air, and the hint of sparkle that Draco had seen just before the match had been completely absent.

"I never imagined myself actually wanting them to win," he admits to Stanley, who stands still for all of two seconds as Draco stretches the tape around his widest section. "Now... I can't quite believe there was ever a part of me who hoped they would lose. They're just... children. They probably can't even help being bizarre and confusing."

Tack-tack! Stanley agrees, rolling over and waving his legs in the air.

"They're going to love you, of course, so you have to promise to remember who has been feeding you for the last four years. Now, be good. I have to concentrate so I don't tie myself in a knot."

Draining his tea cup, Draco narrows his eyes, picks up his first two pieces of string and sets to work, knotting and twisting and swearing and unpicking and redoing until his fingers hurt and the fire has burned down to embers. Finally, he holds up his creation and stares at it critically. It isn't the most aesthetically pleasing thing he has ever seen, but if it works, that doesn't matter.

He has made it, and what he has made is a sort of basket-like harness for Stanley, constructed exactly to his measurements, that can be slipped over him and fastened up, allowing Draco to hold onto a long string that connects to a central knot on the top of Stanley's shell and pull him gently without injuring him. He hopes it bloody works, because he doesn't think his dressing gown cord can take much more punishment, and, more importantly, the last thing he wants is for the little bugger to damage himself in his enthusiasm.

Noticing the time, he gets up and stretches the stiffness out of his back. He's weary and a little sore from flying but he pushes away the thought that perhaps he should just go to bed right now.

"Come on, then," he yawns, picking up Stanley and strapping him into the basket harness. Stanley seems to find this process most enjoyable and tackshappily throughout, even when Draco nudges him with his foot to see how well the harness holds up under a bit of strain. He scuttles around the floor and Draco follows him, letting him run ahead and then gently pulling on the string, finding through trial and error the right amount of force to use so that Stanley neither keeps on running nor flies into the air with a startled TACK! After a few attempts, he gets it, pulling Stanley to a civilised stop each time.

"I suppose we'd better test this out," he says, triumphant, opening the door and following the patter of Stanley's feet out into the dark castle. "Now, do you think Harry will be impressed with our creativity or think we are more certifiable than he already does?"