Pink Floyd's Time
Harry sauntered down the hallway, then into the lift, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He whistled tunelessly as he waited for his floor, then stepped out and headed to the right. He'd been here before, and had a feeling he knew what was up. Or at least who was about to be up.
At the very last doorway, where "Department of Magical Estates" was printed in bold black letters on the frosted glass, he stopped and lifted the latch. The three occupants looked up from their desks, the last of them indicating a private office at the far end of the room.
"She's waiting for you," the man said as he pointed, then returned to his stack of parchments.
"Thanks," Harry said, then moved to the door, rapped twice, and let himself in without waiting for an answer.
"Pansy," he said as he nodded with a slight smile, once again unable to contain his slight horror at the disarray that was her desk.
The woman stood and moved from behind it, then motioned the two of them to a group of overstuffed chairs set off to the side.
"Thanks for coming up—figured it'd be easier than me trying to pin down when you'd be free," she said apologetically as they both took a seat.
"Yeah, you're right," he admitted, thinking to himself that Pansy hadn't turned out half-bad. Considering what she'd been like at school, he could scarcely make the connection between this courteous woman and the Slytherin he'd known.
She leant forward in her chair. "It's about the Malfoy estate."
Harry sighed. "Again? Yeah, I figured. But I thought you got that sorted out when he was here."
Pansy made a face. "He was here for the day and disappeared straightaway. I didn't want to bother him at the funeral—planned to wait a few days. Who would've thought he'd up and go that quickly?"
Harry shook his head. "Snape was surprised he even showed."
Summoning a parchment, Pansy handed it to Harry. "Well, Narcissa died intestate." When Harry raised an eyebrow, she clarified, "No will—she never did one after Lucius died. So without it, Draco's got to claim his property within ninety days, or the lands and vault will default to the Ministry and Gringotts, respectively."
"That hardly seems right," Harry murmured as he scanned the document. "What about other relatives? Andromeda and Teddy?"
Pansy shrugged. "This is the law when the heir apparent fails to act. I can't imagine what Narcissa was thinking, leaving it to chance this way, especially since she hadn't seen Draco in so long."
"Maybe that was why," Harry said, looking up and handing her the parchment. "You knew him fairly well at Hogwarts. What do you think about him—the way he's been since the war?"
Suddenly, Pansy's eyes filled with tears. "Did you know we were engaged?" When Harry shook his head, she added, "After they took his father off to Azkaban, Draco told me he had to leave." She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief Harry'd offered. "Said he was sick of himself, sick of everyone, and he had to go." She looked up at Harry, then added softly, "I asked him, 'What about me?' and you know what he said?" When Harry shook his head, she finished, "'What about you, Pansy?'"
Harry sat wordlessly, watching as the woman composed herself. Handing Harry's handkerchief back with a nod, she told him, "We have two weeks to find him; owls come back undelivered, so it's down to Snape again. He's the one who found him last time," Pansy reminded him. "Trouble is, Snape isn't answering my owls either—I know he's getting them, but I've not heard a word, and he refuses my fire-calls at Hogwarts. So, I was wondering, would you mind? I know the two of you…" She flushed as she paused.
Harry knit his brows together. "The two of us…what?" he asked.
"Oh, c'mon, Harry. Everyone knows."
"Knows what?" he demanded, scandalized.
"Well, everyone assumes. It was on the front page…that kiss at the Ministry Ball…."
"That was over three years ago! I was pissed and so was he. It was a one-time thing!"
Pansy gave him a small smile. "All right, if you say so. But you're the only one who's ever stood up to him, so…I thought it'd be easier for you to ask him for something." She held out her hands imploringly. 'Please, Harry, you know how to talk to him. I'm scared to death of going up there, only to have him slam the door in my face. Besides," she paused as she straightened her shirt, not looking at Harry, "I want to do this for Draco. I'm certain he doesn't realize how much he's about to lose. I'd…I'd like for him to have what's rightfully his."
Harry studied her, then asked soberly. "Still love him, don't you?"
Pansy shot him a rueful smile. "I'll always love him, but no, that's over. I'm married now, but I still owe Draco—things you'd never understand, not being a Slytherin."
Stalling a moment longer, Harry thought to himself, Oh hell, why not? What do I have on my plate here anyway? Same old boring stuff. And I've not seen Snape in a while. He looked up at Pansy. "You'll clear this with my supervisor?"
Even Harry, sitting two feet away, heard the sigh of relief. "Of course. In fact, I already have—he said there wasn't anything pressing, and I could have you for as long as it took, if you were willing."
I bet he did. "Oh well, that's settled then. You said two weeks?" he verified, already thinking of when he might be able to leave.
"Two weeks from Friday," she confirmed as she stood and held out her hand, which Harry shook firmly.
Stepping to the door, Harry nodded. "Off to Hogwarts in the morning, then. I'll keep you informed." He hesitated, then couldn't help the question. "Can I ask? Are you happy?"
Pansy looked startled for a moment, then her face softened. "It took a while, but I think I am. Four years is a long time, Harry."
Shooting her a lopsided smile, Harry said, "I'm glad for you—I really am."
***
For appearance's sake, Harry had to offer up a token resistance.
"You could've at least asked me if I'd be willing to go," he told his supervisor accusingly, who, not a stupid man, wasn't having any of it.
"Harry, this is Ministry business; she needs someone who's had some experience dealing with the man, and we're not busy at the moment. Besides, I think it'll do you good to get out of the office for a few days." He eyed Harry meaningfully. "Give you a chance to think some things over."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry asked, hating himself momentarily for playing this game with the man.
The senior Auror narrowed his eyes. "I think you should finally decide if this is what you want." He leant forward, his hands on his desk as he lowered his voice. "No crime in finding out that you'd rather do something else. Your heart hasn't been in it…for a long time. The only reason you're still here is because of who you are."
Harry glared at him for a moment, then realized he had no reason to hold this against him—he was only being truthful. Running a hand through his hair, Harry nodded. "I'm sorry. You're right. I don't know what's wrong with me."
Coming around the desk, the man put a sympathetic hand on Harry's shoulder as they headed for the door. "Take a few days, clear your head—figure things out. You deserve to find something that makes you happy. Not everyone is cut out for this." At the door, they paused, then the man added, "My regards to Snape."
Harry grinned wryly. "Oh, he'll be thrilled, I'm sure."
***
He didn't go up to Hogwarts until the next day after suppertime, and he certainly didn't send an owl to alert Snape that he'd be there either. No sense giving him a chance to send a tersely worded warning for Harry to save himself the trouble and time.
Snape still was the master of the dungeons, feared Potions professor, celebrated double agent of the Order of the Phoenix, snatched, as he'd been, very literally from the jaws of death by his own uncanny intuition and consequent dabbling in antivenins.
Instead of mellowing, now that the greatest intrigue with which he had to deal was students snogging in the garden, he'd become even more difficult, more vindictive, so it seemed, making Harry wonder, not for the first time, if the man hadn't thrived for so many years on living at the brink of disaster, and now had no idea how to act in the absence of melodrama.
He was revered by the wizarding world, yet feared and loathed by his students. Harry smiled to himself as he headed for the dungeons.
Raising a hand and pounding on the door to Snape's quarters, Harry sighed out loud when the irritated, "Enter," reverberated in the corridor. He felt an involuntary shudder of dread, along with a shiver of anticipation…no, not just a shiver, but a…thrill.
All's right with the world, he thought to himself. Well, at least for that night.
***
Harry sat stiffly on the edge of the armchair, nervously toying with the glass in his hand. "You know where he is."
Snape nodded moodily, not even making an attempt to hide his scrutiny of the man seated across from him. "You know I do, or you wouldn't be here."
When he offered nothing further, Harry tossed back the rest of his firewhisky, then set the glass on the table between them. "If he doesn't come back in time, he'll lose it all."
Shrugging, Snape Summoned the bottle, watching as it poured the two of them a second glass. "Perhaps he doesn't care."
"The point is he doesn't know," Harry disagreed. "And if he doesn't know, well, then it'd be a shame for him to lose it all. If he's told and then doesn't care, I can live with that," he finished firmly, then took up his glass.
"Still with the MLE?" Snape asked him, seeming to completely ignore what Harry'd just told him.
Harry pursed his lips. "Yeah, I am. You can stop asking, Snape. Nothing's changed since the last time we talked."
"Can't say I'm surprised. In spite of the fact that you despise it," Snape said pointedly, "yet there you remain. You're risk-adverse."
The protest was just at his lips when Harry bit it back. True, he'd killed Voldemort, but stepping away from his life as an Auror was a risk of a different sort, and somehow Snape knew Harry well enough to deduce his quandary, which unnerved Harry a bit.
"I'm here about Draco," he reminded the man. "Will you do it or not?" He stared intently at Snape, until the Potions master sighed and shifted in his chair.
"I wrote to him weeks ago, when Miss…Parkinson or whatever her name is now first owled me that she needed to reach him. He's not replied," Snape said shortly.
Harry frowned. "But he's getting the owls."
"No, no owls. I contact him by Muggle post—he's cast a concealment charm so that owl post is useless." Snape smirked grimly. "He doesn't want to be found, Potter, and he's smart enough to know how to make that difficult. Directly after the war, it was a matter of survival, and now…now he just doesn't want this world to collide with that one, plain and simple."
Harry decided that the only thing to do was to dig in his heels and wait the man out. After all, if Snape thought he knew a thing or two about Harry, the shoe fit on the other foot as well. He knew that Snape wasn't about to let the Malfoy fortune revert to those who had no right to have it. So Harry smiled vaguely as he sat back in his chair, resting the half-filled glass on his thigh, prepared to take as long as was necessary for Snape to step up and help. He refused to ask for more information or demand a location; Snape would expect this of him, and if there was one thing left in the world that Harry truly enjoyed, it was surprising Snape.
The two of them sat there silently, neither speaking as the clock ticked away the minutes. It was the first month of term, so it was relatively quiet for a Friday night, the students still flush with excitement and dedication to the new school year.
Snape stared into the fire, while Harry did his best to study Snape surreptitiously. He looked like he always had: stern, impassive, his hair still not showing a bit of gray, but then he was only in his early forties, Harry calculated. The sole difference that Harry could find was in the slight downturn at the left side of his mouth, the vestiges of nerve damage from Nagini's attack. It served to give him a slightly odd look when he smiled—as if it were a half-smile, or that he couldn't decide if he wanted to smile, not that this presented much of a difficulty for Snape, because how often did the man actually smile?
The thought of which made Harry smile slightly, and prompted Snape to scowl outright.
"Well?" Snape finally asked as he stood, eyeing Harry compellingly.
"Well what?" Harry asked innocently as he followed suit, so they were facing each other with only the small, low table in between them.
There was an almost imperceptible change in Snape's eyes as they took on what Harry decided was definitely…finally…a hint of vulnerability. "Well. It's been over a month since you were last here," Snape said shortly. "You expect to show up whenever you like, and just like that," he paused as he snapped his fingers once, "I'll take you to bed?"
Harry's breath caught in his throat, delaying his answer for a moment.
"I…" He was going to lie, going to say he couldn't get away, tell Snape he'd been busy, that he'd wanted to come, but he was prevented, but then…this was Snape. "I couldn't. I don't know why—I wanted to come, I really did, but…" Harry shook his head. "It's almost as if I need a reason or an excuse…doesn't make sense, I know, but there you have it." Harry felt suddenly ashamed of this confession, and of the behavior that had sparked it.
Nodding his head, Snape said simply, "Well, it's the truth at least." He looked toward the bedchamber. "Are you staying or not?"
Harry used his foot to slide the table to the side, then found himself pulled fiercely into the strong arms before he could even form an answer.
***
So. Harry had lied to Pansy about him and Snape. He hadn't felt the slightest bit of remorse; 'it was no one's business' had become his personal mantra shortly after the war.
It wasn't the kiss at the Ministry Ball that'd been the shock, although Harry could appreciate that for most of the wizarding world, that had been shock enough.
No, for both him and Snape, the shock had been what had happened immediately afterward, when Snape had Apparated them both away. Even three years later, just the thought of that night and what they'd done during it never failed to make Harry flush and his cock twitch.
The physical side of their relationship sorted out, it'd taken them months, though, to deal with the 'rest' of their past history, preconceptions, distrust and insecurities, until at last, they'd settled into an uneasy truce, where the past was no longer discussed or cited, but neither was the future either, a taboo subject of which they never spoke.
Harry lay in bed, in that semi-stuporous state just after orgasm, his face buried in the crook of Snape's neck, his upper arm loosely draped over the man's shoulder, while he drew lazy circles on the sweaty skin of Snape's back.
He realized that tonight, in a sense, Snape had broken the taboo about the future. Not directly, but he'd crossed into uncharted territory with that mild accusation that Harry should perhaps plan ahead, that he, Snape, resented the fact that Harry'd been away for too long. Or had he just been miffed that Harry'd turned up unannounced? Neither of which had been problems before. They'd never been a couple.
But here was something new: expectations. It made Harry uncomfortable, at the same time that it made him feel inexplicably…happy. This couldn't be right, he thought: best to let it go, but even as he thought it, he was opening his mouth to speak.
"Were you serious, what you said about me just showing up?" he asked, then mentally slapped himself for even bringing it up.
"What exactly do you think I said?" the voice at his ear muttered.
Harry thought. Oh. Now that he replayed the conversation, Snape hadn't actually said very much. Rather, he'd asked a question.
"Well, I think what you were telling me in so many words was that you didn't appreciate me showing up like that, expecting…this, especially since I hadn't come up for so long."
"I said no such thing," came the immediate reply. "I asked you if your behavior was an accurate reflection of your expectations. Nothing more."
"Oh." Harry swallowed as he got it. "And I answered that. I think."
Snape pulled away, allowing Harry's head to thump abruptly on the mattress. Coming up on an elbow, he rested the side of his face in his hand as he scrutinized Harry. "You did; but I doubt you understand your answer."
Face turned toward Snape, Harry said, "And you do?"
"Absolutely."
"Then maybe you could explain it to me," Harry coaxed him. "Because…I'm confused."
Snape smiled thinly. 'Oh, that you are. But it's time you sorted out something for yourself, instead of having it handed to you on a silver platter."
And although Harry acted immediately, straddling Snape and fixing his hands to the bed, threatening him with all manner of sexual scenarios, Snape only laughed and told Harry, "Give it your best shot."
***
"What do you mean, you won't go? I thought you said you'd help?" Harry asked Snape, setting his tea cup down.
"I said I'd help, not that I'd go. No, you can go," Snape said irritably. "I have classes, and no desire to lark off to the south of France. It's frightfully hot this time of year."
"South of France," Harry echoed, chagrinned. "But he won't listen to me! That's why you need—"
"All that can be done," Snape interrupted him emphatically, "is to lay the facts before him. He can either come home and claim what's rightfully his, or forfeit all right to it by doing nothing. It's a simple choice. Make certain he understands. Then bring him back with you, or leave him." He shrugged. "An idiot's errand."
Harry snorted. "So that's what you think of me."
Snape lowered the Prophet. "You've no idea what I think of you; if you did, you wouldn't be…" He stopped, then shook his head. "No, never mind."
Intrigued, Harry pressed, "No, you can't leave it at that. I wouldn't be what?"
Staring at him for a long moment, Snape told him, "You wouldn't be wasting my time."
Harry smiled slowly. "That’s not what you were about to say." He waited, watching as Snape raised the paper and turned a page. Not about to give up, Harry chose a different tack. "All right. I'll bite—what do you think of me?"
From behind the paper came a muttered, "If I tell you, will you leave me in peace?" Snape lowered the paper a fraction, and at Harry's nod, then folded it and set it aside. "All right, this is the short version. You're an unhappy man because you refuse to take responsibility for your life." He lifted his chin up and raised an eyebrow.
"What?" Harry asked, outraged. "You've got to be joking. I've been responsible for my life since I was…was…" he stammered, "eleven! Ever since then!"
"So you say. But I think you've always lived a life planned for you." He swiveled in his chair, then stood. "Point in case, you tell me you wanted to come sooner, but were prevented because you couldn't find a reason or excuse to come. Pathetic," he sneered. "I'm surprised you're able to manage your Auror duties at all." He nodded as he took in Harry's shock. "You think I don't know how unhappy you are, but allow me to let you in on a little secret." He leant forward, thrusting his face in front of Harry's. "Everyone knows, Harry. Everyone but you."
***
Later that morning, Harry sought Snape out in his lab, where the professor had fled after their tense but candid conversation.
Snape had written out travel notes and directions for Harry, and was instructing him on some particulars.
"After you arrive in Avignon, you'll have to find the local Apparation point here." He pointed to a place on the street map. "You'll Apparate to St-Rémy, using the coordinates provided. Once you're in St-Rémy, follow this route to the outskirts of the town, taking the D5 towards Maillane, about two and a half kilometers; you'll see the sign for the GEC work camp in the scrub, off to the right. Turn there, and walk until you see the buildings." He cast a sideways glance at Harry. "Are you with me?"
"I think so," Harry murmured. "You've been there before," he accused.
"Of course I have. Every summer since he's been gone. At least for an overnight, usually longer," Snape told him as he folded the map and handed it to him.
"You never said."
"Why would you care? There was no love lost between the two of you."
"I still don't get it—Draco in a work camp," Harry said, shaking his head.
Snape shrugged. "He's not in a work camp; he's employed there. This particular camp is for troubled youth—he's a counselor, from what I understand."
"This is so…surreal. Draco counseling anyone," Harry said mockingly.
Making a moue of disapproval, Snape told him, "Save your judgments for after you've seen him—then decide. You'll be surprised. I was," he said soberly.
Harry'd already made a trip to his flat and packed an overnight bag, leaving a message for his supervisor that he might be out of the office on Monday and why. Slinging the strap over his shoulder, Harry patted his pocket. "Pound notes, identity card, maps, flask, and a partridge in a pear tree." He grinned at Snape.
"A partridge? Why in the world—"
"In a pear tree. It's a thing in a Muggle…" He stopped and considered the look on Snape's face, then finished, "Forget it."
After another disbelieving look, Snape stood and pointed toward the door. "You'd best be off. The last London to Paris Floo leaves at five sharp."
Harry looked at his watch. "I'll be all right. Hogsmeade to London Station at three—I'll have time enough to get some euros." He turned toward the door, then looked back, feeling suddenly awkward. "Listen, what I said about not coming when I—"
Holding up a hand, Snape stopped him. "Save that for when you return. For now, au revoir." He waved a hand, then turned and headed for his lab.
"Au revoir…au revoir? I'm going to have to speak French? Snape?" he called, but the man was already gone, and Harry wasn't certain, but he thought he heard him laugh.
***
By six that evening, Harry was walking along a crowded street in center city Avignon. He stopped to look at his map only once, then followed the crush of pedestrians as he made his way westward. He knew he was near his destination when he caught sight of the large bridge spanning the Rhône. Harry wasn't to cross it, though, but located the narrow street that veered off to the right just a short distance from the river.
He didn't have to walk far before he saw the sign swinging in the breeze. It hung from the ancient façade of a two-storied building, the lettering gilded but faded: Trompe l'œil. Just beneath the name, in smaller letters: 14 rue des Arbres. The shopfront's paint was weatherworn and peeling, its windows so grimy and dusty that none of its interior could be seen. Harry cautiously pushed open the door, startled when a small bell tingled just above his head. Stepping in, he let the door swing shut behind him, then stood in place to allow his eyes to adjust to the low light.
"Oui?" said a voice from the counter, where Harry could make out an ancient-looking man sitting on a stool, a newspaper spread out in front of him.
One glance around verified that they were the only two in the room, a small row of dusty chairs against the far wall unoccupied. As Harry made his way to the counter, he pulled his Floo ticket from his pocket, hoping he'd not have much explaining to do. When the man saw what he held out, he broke into a smile.
"Ah, English, yes?" He took the ticket and held it up close to his face, then handed it back to Harry. "St-Rémy, so which side of city you want?" he asked Harry in more than passable English.
Uh-oh. "Well, let's see…" Harry dug in his pocket to pull out Snape's instructions, then smoothed them on the counter between them. "I'm not sure. I need to head for…Maillane," he finished as he pointed with a finger.
"Ah, D5 you need." Harry nodded. "So, we send you to northwest Apparation point, then. You speak no French?" he asked, his eyes twinkling, for a brief moment reminding Harry of another old wizard.
"Hullo and goodbye about covers it, except for 'voulez-vous coucher avec moi,'" Harry told him somewhat ruefully.
The man looked horrified for a moment, then frowned. "Ah, the foutu American song, non? Do not say these words while you are in Provence," he warned as he waggled a gnarled finger at Harry.
"No, wouldn't think of it," Harry promised, then angled his head to look at the map. "So, where will I end up?"
"We put you exactement on D5? Yes? And to go to Maillane, you must march towards the sunset? Comprenez?"
Harry smiled. "Yeah, I do." He followed when the man stepped from behind the counter and led him to a small room partitioned off from the shop front by curtains. There was a small, raised wooden dais, which creaked ominously when Harry stepped up.
"You learn some French before you go, yes?"
Harry laughed, wishing he could stay longer and talk to the delightful old man. "All right. Sure."
The old man smiled at him, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "First, to go to the loo, you ask, 'Où sont les vécés?' Very important, but bah, you can just find a shrub, eh?" he asked. He listened, eyes sharp, as Harry repeated the phrase several times.
"Très bien. Let me see, what else for a young man…" He wrinkled his already considerably wrinkled forehead, grinding his teeth together in concentration, then suddenly clapped his hands, startling Harry into almost Disapparating on the spot.
"Bien sûr! I have this!" He leant forward and placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, then said warmly, "French, it is the language of love, so to tell someone you love them, you say, 'Je t'aime.'" He nodded at Harry. "You try."
Flushing slightly, Harry mumbled the words, "Jet tam."
The man guffawed. "Non, listen. 'Je t'aime.'"
"Je t'aime," Harry repeated.
Taking a step backward, the man shook his head. "Is right. But if you say this to someone, you must say with…feeling, non?"
"With feeling," Harry echoed, thinking to himself that at least he now had two of life's most important situations covered: using the loo and saying the 'L' word.
"You will be coming back when?" the man asked, taking a step backward.
"I'm not sure, maybe tomorrow or Sunday," Harry said uncertainly, realizing that he'd most likely be face to face with his problem in less than an hour.
"Store is closed at nine," the man cautioned him. "Enjoy Provence, young man. Is beautiful place."
Harry smiled and nodded, then focused on the destination coordinates in his mind. Turning on the spot, he Disapparated.
***
Harry trudged along the D5 into the setting sun. He'd landed on the western side of St-Rémy, so the town was behind him as he walked along the moderately traveled roadway. The land slightly rolled, a mostly flat expanse dotted with groves of small trees and fields of wildflowers. The few buildings Harry could see seemed to be small barns of some sort, hedged in by stone barriers instead of fences.
The air was hot and dry, redolent with the smell of sod and grass and flowers. Harry squinted as he walked at a leisurely pace, his shoes soon covered with dust from the berm of the road. He could feel the sweat trickle down between his shoulder blades, so he tugged his tee shirt out and flapped it several times. It suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea where he'd be spending the night. He turned without breaking stride and walked backwards, looking at St-Rémy in the distance. Possibly, he might have to return there to find a bed and breakfast.
It was half an hour later, and he'd just glanced at his watch when he saw the small red sign just ahead: GEC-0.5km. Turning into the unpaved lane, he saw that it veered sharply to the right and upward to a small crest. The dirt of the road was packed and rutted by tire treads, clumps of scrubby greens springing up randomly here and there.
At the crest, Harry stopped in surprise and drew in a sharp breath. Spread out before him was a lush green valley, its sides rolling slightly upward before dropping off into the horizon. There were low gnarled trees planted on either side of the lane, neat rows that seemed to go on forever, the wood of them dark and twisted, covered with knotty swirls that made the trunks seem as if they had eyes and mouths and noses.
Not very far ahead, there was a grouping of buildings, none of them very large except for the low one that sprawled in the center; as the sun was now behind him, Harry could see that there were lights on in the interior of the biggest one. As he walked closer, a small truck drove from the back of one of the buildings and started up the lane toward him. Harry stepped to the edge of the road and slowed to a stop as it approached, waiting to see if it would pass on by.
As it drew abreast of him, the vehicle ground to a halt in a screeching of gears. His arm resting along the bottom of the window frame, the swarthy-looking man nodded to Harry and said, "Bonsoir."
Great. "Bonsoir," Harry said tentatively. "Draco Malfoy. I'm…looking…for—"
"Draco. You're looking for Draco, got it," the man said with a grin. "Relax, I speak English." He laughed out loud at the look of relief on Harry's face.
"Thank god," Harry muttered.
"You just missed him. He and a few of the staff are up in Maillane for dinner—I'm headed that way, if you'd like a lift?"
***
Harry stood in the quiet street outside the Café Mistral and took a moment to think about what he was on the verge of doing. Draco Malfoy wasn't expecting him, and to boot, he'd be surrounded by Muggles, so far as Harry knew, to whom Draco had probably not explained that he was a wizard with a questionable past.
Should he be direct—take the offensive? Stroll over and introduce himself? Or should he lie back a bit, perhaps let Draco see him and give him the chance to take the initiative?
As he opened the door and squinted into the restaurant, Harry decided to take a wait-and-see approach. He followed a middle-aged man into the seating area, where a row of booths lined one wall of the narrow room, while an equal number of small, two-person tables lined the other.
He bungled through ordering something from the stained menu, then sat back, sipping his beer as he tried to casually let his eyes drift over the crowded interior.
In the last booth, just before the exit, there were four men, all about Harry's age. Draco sat on the inside, facing Harry, laughing at something the man beside him was saying. It was Draco, Harry sensed, but for a moment he was shocked by his appearance, and almost felt unsure. The hair was almost white and very short, an ear sported a stud that sparkled, the tanned shoulders and arms were attractively muscled, and as Harry watched, Draco's face split in a smile…but it was his eyes that were unmistakable—almost almond shaped, the same startling silver-blue that Harry remembered. Definitely Draco, Harry thought as he watched the man, obviously relaxed and enjoying the company of his friends.
Harry could tell by the way that Draco angled his head and was letting his eyes drift up, that the moment of truth was about to arrive. He schooled his face into a polite mask of indifference, waiting for the reaction.
When Draco saw Harry, he fumbled the glass that he'd been about to set down. As the man sitting next to him made a grab for it, Draco didn't move, his expression one of shock and, Harry thought, a trace of fear.
Inclining his head, Harry gave him the barest of nods, then watched as Draco seemed to become aware of his companions again, speaking shortly to the three of them as he took his napkin and sopped up what he'd spilt. But then, it was as if he couldn't help himself, as he picked up his glass, clenched it in his hand, and looked to Harry again. He stared outright, seeming stunned to find Harry still sitting there. The man beside him noticed, and turned to follow the direction of Draco's line of sight.
Turning back to Draco, the dark-haired man leant in to say something at his ear, to which Draco nodded. Draco's expression had relaxed a bit, showing a hint of the challenge and sullenness that Harry was accustomed to seeing there. His companion looked back to Harry again, his eyes narrowed and his face creased in a frown. When he turned backed to Draco and spoke, this time Draco looked away from Harry, as he shook his head slightly.
Although Draco had looked away, the other man turned back to stare at him, and as Harry watched, he suddenly knew, when he saw the familiar movement of the man's hand beneath the table, sliding to the side of his leg. It was a practiced motion that Harry'd seen countless times, and could himself perform without thinking.
The man had made a move for his wand. Draco's friend was a wizard.
Harry suddenly wished he knew other French words, like, 'Stop, I'm a friend,' and 'Keep out of this, it's none of your affair.' But the best he could do, given the circumstances, was to slowly bring both of his hands up and place them atop the table. Harry suddenly realized how badly this could turn out. He hoped Draco's friend wasn't a moron, and could read the subtle sign that he had no wish to start a duel there. On the other hand, he had no idea what Draco might've said to the man.
There was a fragile standoff that seemed to last for a while, but what Harry realized must've only been a minute or two. Draco ignored them both to talk to the man across from him, while Harry, and then Draco's friend, let their hands drift to their drinks, but kept their eye on one another.
The proprietor walked past Harry and on to the booth, balancing a tray of plates, which he then served to the party at Draco's table. When he was done, he leant down to speak with Draco's friend, at one point casting a look over his shoulder at Harry. When he finally straightened and headed toward Harry's table, Harry braced himself for the possibility that he might be about to be shown the door, but the man passed him by with only a cursory glance.
Harry was poised on the edge of his seat, then gradually relaxed enough to lean slightly against the wall, watching the men in the booth as they began to eat, Draco only occasionally casting a look his way, but his friend spending most of his meal with his eye on Harry.
Harry's stomach grumbled, reminding him that he'd not eaten since lunch. At the tap on his shoulder, he turned, expecting to see the waiter with his entrée.
Instead, there stood two men dressed in dark trousers and light-colored short sleeve shirts. The younger of the two men, still older than Harry by more than a few years, flashed a badge.
"Gendarmerie, monsieur. You will step outside, if you please?"
***
Harry sat in the tiny police station—it was really just a small set of rooms at the back of a larger structure; he thought it might be the town hall, but was too weary to ask.
The two men, Fournier and Morel, had told him outside the café that the owner had called in a complaint that he was harassing one of the regular patrons. Did Harry have his identity card? Yes, of course he did. They'd examined it, then walked him to the back of a small car and directed him to get in. Harry'd protested that he'd not even talked to Draco, but they'd pleasantly shut the door, then driven the short distance to their current location.
"You're British as well. And you're here because Monsieur Malfoy's mother has died?" Founier asked.
Harry shook his head. "No, his mother died months ago. I'm here as a favor to a friend of the family. Draco…Mr. Malfoy…there's a problem with his mother's estate, and he's needed in London," he said, trying to keep it as short and uncomplicated as he could.
"Why not telephone, or send an email or letter?" Morel asked.
"All they had was his mailing address, and he didn't answer. That's why I was asked to come. He only has two weeks to get this done," Harry explained patiently.
"So why did you not speak to him in the restaurant?"
With a shrug, Harry answered, "He was with a group of friends; this is personal family business. I didn't know if he'd want them, y'know, to hear about his inheritance."
Fournier studied him, his lips pursed, then turned to Morel and effectively cut Harry out of the conversation as he began to speak in rapid-fire French. Harry sat back, ruing the loss of his dinner, as he morosely stared at his shoes, trying to ignore the now insistent grumbling of his stomach.
"What is the name of this friend?" Fournier suddenly asked him in English.
"Friend? What—oh, you mean the friend who sent me? Snape. Severus Snape."
"Snape, Severus? Yes?"
Harry nodded. "Yes."
The two men left Harry sitting where he was, Morel going into a small room at the back, leaving the door open, while Fournier moved to a nearby desk, and used a telephone there.
Harry shut his eyes, listening to Fournier as he talked, catching his own name, Malfoy's and Snape's, but the rest of it was an indecipherable stream of syllables.
There was a lull in the conversation, then it seemed that Fournier was speaking to someone else. Harry startled at the sound of his name from just in front of him.
"Monsieur Potter? Here is all we have to offer—I know your dinner was not finished."
Harry looked up as Morel placed a small plate with some sort of sausage wrapped in a pastry, along with a bottle of water, on the desk to the side of him.
"Thanks," Harry mumbled as he sat up straight, pulling the plate onto his lap, then looked up at the sound of Fournier clearing his throat.
"Where are you staying tonight?" the man asked him as he leant back in his chair.
Grateful that he had a mouthful of food, Harry stalled, but really, what could he say? "I don't know—I was planning on going back to St-Rémy. Unless there's someplace in Mailllane?"
Both men shook their heads, but it was Morel who spoke. "No, St-Rémy will have to be it—there's nothing here." He studied Harry for a moment. "You did not plan this trip; I mean to say, you came here very suddenly?"
Harry shrugged. "Yeah, it was sudden. We didn't know how long it'd take to find him, and get him back there, and it's a time thing—he only has two weeks to get this done."
"A misunderstanding, then. Michel and Draco are respected here in Maillane for the work they do—that is why you are here."
"Yeah, I get that now," Harry muttered, "shoot first, ask questions later."
Both of the men looked at him, puzzled. Harry waved his hand and shook his head. "Never mind. So, I'm still left with this problem…I have to talk to Draco before—" He stopped mid-sentence, as the door to the station opened without warning. Harry set his beer down and let his hand drift to his leg, as he saw Draco and his friend step inside.
The dark-haired wizard spoke first, ignoring Harry. "Alain, Claude, ça va?" There ensued a conversation where once again Harry was left out in the cold, but he used the time to study Draco, who had few words to contribute but listened intently, also ignoring Harry. At last all four men turned to him.
"Potter," Draco said with a nod.
"Malfoy," Harry replied.
Draco seemed to hesitate for a moment, then placed his hand on the dark-haired man's shoulder. "This is Michel Caujolle—we work together."
Harry stood, still keeping his fingertips within an inch of his wand. He didn't speak, only nodded; Michel's reply wasn't any more cordial than his—a slight dip of his chin downward, his eyes wary, his hand along his leg a mirror of Harry's.
Fournier broke the standoff. "Monsieur Malfoy has agreed to have this conversation with you, and also to give you a bed for the night. No further misunderstandings, eh?" he asked, making a point of looking at each man in turn.
Draco motioned Harry toward the door, while Michel stayed a moment to talk to his countrymen.
Once out the door, the explosion erupted without delay.
"What the hell did you call the bloody police for?!" Harry demanded, at the same time as Draco snapped, "What were you thinking, just showing up like that?!"
After a very brief glaring contest, Draco turned on his heel and marched to the car, where he got in the passenger side and slammed the door hard.
"Oh no, you don't," Harry muttered, as he followed, then managed to scrunch himself into the tiny backseat on the driver side. Once he'd slammed his door in similar fashion, he leant forward. "If you'd've answered the damn letters, I wouldn't be here. Snape asked me to come. Why did you think I'd be here?" he asked, exasperated.
Draco twisted in his seat. "I still don't know why you're here. Christ!"
Still hot under the collar, Harry had to force himself to say the words civilly. "All right. Just so you know, your mother didn't have a will. So if her next of kin doesn't step forward within ninety days, all of her assets are forfeit—the estate and her vault." He paused, allowing Draco time to digest this, then continued, "Pansy asked me go see Snape, since you only have two weeks left. Snape didn't know about the ninety day deadline, and when he said you'd not answered his last couple of letters, we decided someone had to come. I drew the short straw."
After a long pause, Draco said as he looked out the side window, "I see."
Harry had the feeling that he'd missed something, then suddenly got it. "I'm…sorry about your mother, Draco. I didn't know her very well, but she…well, you know about what she did for me," he murmured, then added, "Has to be hard, so soon after your father."
Still not turning to face him, Draco answered, "Well, she was never right after the war, with my father in Azkaban, and once he died, well…she just gave up."
Harry didn't know what else he could say. "I'm sorry."
"I planned to stay longer, when I went up for the funeral, but I just…I couldn't wait to get away." He shook his head. "I figured the estate would be there when I got around to it, once everything wasn't so…emotional." He twisted suddenly in his seat. "Listen, Potter, Michel knows most of it…but he doesn't know everything. That's why he reacted the way he did. He's a bit paranoid about who might come after me, so it's not entirely his fault."
Letting out a snort, Harry replied, "He doesn't know much at all if he thinks I'd be coming after you."
Draco shrugged. "He…knows we didn't get along. That was enough, I guess. I tried to tell him to wait and let me talk to you, but Michel…he's sort of hotheaded and does what he wants."
"I could've been in a world of trouble, y'know. Good thing those blokes were so reasonable. I thought about Disapparating, but there'd still have been the problem of getting to you," Harry complained.
"Michel overreacted," Draco said simply.
"You think?" Harry asked sarcastically. "God, I didn't even twitch."
Draco turned completely around in his seat to face Harry. "I'd been here about a year when someone tried to find me. Before the first time Severus came."
"Who?"
"I don't know. A Death Eater. Not someone I knew, but he was marked. Michel…took care of him. I'd've been dead if he hadn’t. No idea how he found me. But Michel…he's still careful about strangers."
Harry didn't have time to speak, as Michel had exited the station and opened the door to slide in behind the wheel. The trip back to the camp was a short one, Harry entirely ignored as Draco and Michel spoke somewhat heatedly in French, Draco casting worried glances over his shoulder at Harry, as if he were concerned that Harry could understand their words.
The car turned left into the lane, bumping along so violently that the top of Harry's head hit the inside of the roof more than once. When they pulled in front of the bungalow-type building Harry'd noticed earlier, a group of people poured out onto the platform porch.
Harry was introduced to Draco's fellow counselors, the cook, several adults whose purpose remained unclear, and two young boys who couldn't have been older than fourteen or fifteen, both of them Canadians, the only teenagers who remained from the last cycle, so Harry was told.
Everyone was friendly and shook his hand, then the adults filtered back into the house, while David and Daniel, the younger boys, waved as they crossed the compound toward one of the smaller buildings.
Draco asked Harry if he'd like a beer, then after a meaningful look at Michel, he disappeared into the house, leaving the two of them sitting on the edge of the porch.
"I do not apologize," Michel said abruptly. "When a wizard comes from out of nowhere, I act and ask questions later."
Harry wasn't about to argue. "Hey, you did what you thought you had to do," he said, trying to placate.
"It was foolish just to come here…with no notice," the man said condescendingly.
Sighing, Harry replied, "Yeah, well, Draco and I've talked about that—we tried to reach him, believe me."
Michel didn't speak for a moment, but Harry could tell he was being inspected, his motives weighed. "Draco tells me he must go to London—but not until Monday evening. I do not want him to go alone, so you will stay until then, and make the trip with him." It wasn't a question at all, but a statement of fact. Harry wondered if Michel was used to getting his own way, no questions asked. It certainly seemed like it.
He glanced at Michel and met his eyes. "If that's what he wants, he can ask me."
"I am asking you," Michel shot back.
"Didn’t sound like a request to me; in any case, it's up to Draco to ask." He narrowed his eyes. "Look, I can understand why you're suspicious of strangers, but I'm getting the feeling that the real problem here is you don't like me, and that's confusing, because we've only just met."
Michel stood and stared down at him. "You're Harry Potter. I don't like you."
Draco was out on the porch again, handing down Harry's beer as he and Michel exchanged a short volley of words in French. Harry thought he could detect slight frustration, maybe anger, in them, but what did he know? It was French. Draco slid down to sit beside him, while Michel headed off in the direction the boys had gone.
"I know he's just looking out for you, but god, he's a prick," Harry said conversationally as he took a swig from his bottle.
There was no reply for a moment as Draco took a swig too, then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, "He's not a prick. He's…" Draco sighed. "We're together, me and him. Almost three years."
Harry'd suspected as much. They sat in silence for a moment, then Harry answered, "Well, that's good—nice to have someone watch your back."
"Small part of it, but yeah, it is."
Harry turned slightly on the porch to half-face him. 'So, why Monday?" he asked, deciding to forget the whole 'Draco has to ask me' stipulation.
Draco pointed toward the building where the boys and Michel had gone. "Cycle's over today—all the others left this afternoon. Those two's flight doesn't leave until Monday." He looked down at his hands. "You really don't have to stay—that wasn't my idea."
"I know, he told me. What do you want to do?"
Seeming out of his element, having to ask, Draco finally managed to get it out. "It…it would be all right…I mean, if you don't have plans for the weekend. See, he'll make a big issue of this, and I don't want him deciding he has to go with me. He'll just complicate things. If you don't mind, it'd help me out…if…" It was dark, but Harry was certain that had he been able to see, Draco's face would've been pink.
"No problem, I can stay," Harry interrupted. "I've only ever been to Paris, never this far south. It seems pretty. What will we do?"
Draco leant back on his elbows, his legs hanging over the edge oft he deck. "Some work in the barn, a few trips to the groves, maybe see a movie in Avignon tomorrow night. Have to keep the boys occupied." He seemed to struggle with the next words. "Thanks…."
"Harry," Harry pedantically instructed.
"Harry." Funny how strange it was, hearing Draco say his name.
"So, you're here year-round. What do you do with them?"
Draco leant down and undid the straps to his sandals, then let them fall to the ground. "There're four eight-week cycles, with time off in between. We take up to twenty boys at a time—try to have one counselor for every two boys. They all come from Canada, our sister country. They run the same program there, with boys sent from France."
"Why the switch?"
"It's a rough eight weeks. Some of the boys don't want to be here, especially at first. Coming to a foreign country makes it more of a vacation. All of the counselors speak English in case the boys don't speak French, which most of them don't."
"Snape said they're troubled. How?" Harry asked, still having a difficult time picturing Draco taking care of anyone but himself.
"We call them 'youth at risk.' Saying they're troubled makes them sound like they're, I don't know, bad or mental, which they're not. All of them are between thirteen and sixteen, and most of them have the same stories. Come from broken homes, discipline problems, runaways, underachievers; quite a few of them have had a drug problem, though they have to've been detoxed before they come here. Poor self-esteem, mild depression." He laughed softly. "Sort of place that might've done me some good." He shot Harry a glance. "Or you, for that matter."
Harry frowned. "What d'you do with them?"
Draco took a moment to think. "First thing, we don't judge. We don't hide things either. There're group therapy sessions—we have trained people who come in for those. And then there's us—the counselors. I only ever have two boys at a time, so you build a friendship, become a mentor. Talk about everything with them. Listen and hear them out too."
He gestured toward the barn. "And work. Work most of the day, from sun-up 'til sundown. We have some animals here the boys take care of, but mostly they work in the olive groves between St-Rémy and Maillane. They harvest olives and wood, repair fences, do some other odds and ends. There's an organization called La Sabranenque that does architectural restoration, a never-ending project in Provence, keeping up its rustic heritage—it's work that makes the boys feel like they're doing something…important. Something that'll last."
Harry was filled with admiration. "It makes a difference, then? Helps the boys with whatever?"
"It does. Dramatically. Hard physical work, sleeping well at night, eating right—all that helps them get their heads straight, lifts their spirits so they can face the other things. Builds their self-esteem too. We're quick to tell them they've done a good job; if they're slacking, we talk to them about that as well, but probably not in the way they're used to. As time goes by and they trust us more, then we get down to what's wrong in their lives, how they can change it, things they can do to cope with what they can't change. In short, how to get back on track. Sometimes in spite of their parents."
"That must feel good," Harry murmured, then when Draco looked at him, surprised, he clarified, "When you see it works."
"Yeah, it does. Sometimes we get letters once they're home a while. That's when we find out if it helped or not." He shrugged, then slid off the edge of the porch, bending down to slip on his sandals.
"I'd've never imagined you ending up in a place like this," Harry said frankly.
"Me neither. Long story for another time, but I'm glad I did." He gestured across the compound. "It's after nine—time for bed, at least for me. Our days start early here. If you want to stay up, I can just show you where…"
Harry stood as he shook his head. "No, long day for me as well."
It was dark inside the building, but Harry could see that it contained a single large room with a grouping of four bunk beds in the center. As they quietly skirted them to reach the other side of the room, Harry could hear one of the boys softly snoring. Draco led him into a small vestibule, off of which was a much smaller room, where a regular bed flanked each wall. Michel was already in the one opposite the door, lying on his side and turned away from them.
***
Harry lay on his back, hands laced behind his head, clad only in his boxers. The room was uncomfortably hot, even with the windows open. He smiled to himself as he thought how serendipitous the day had been. He'd awakened in Snape's bed, always a good thing, traveled to a foreign country, learnt how to say 'I love you' in another language, almost been arrested, then had had a civil, almost pleasant, discussion with Draco Malfoy. When his stomach growled, he realized that the only thing missing from this extraordinary day had been a decent meal.
***
They ate breakfast in a large room in the main building, Harry's presence being explained as an 'old school friend passing through.' This, of course, fueled the younger boys' curiosity. When asked what Draco had been like at school, Harry took his time to think while he chewed. As he swallowed, just before he opened his mouth to answer, he caught Draco's eye, not surprised to see that he looked slightly uncertain.
"Well, we got off to a bad start, you see. Didn't get on well at all. He was a prat, he was." When this made the boys grin, Harry went on, "He was very popular with the girls. Oh, by the way, I saw Pansy a few days ago—she's still waiting for you," he said to Draco, deadpan.
This statement allowed Harry to finish his breakfast in peace, as the boys turned their attention to Draco, who had to field question after question. Daniel had one last one for Harry.
"So you said you didn't get along. What happened, you know, to change that?"
Harry met Draco's eyes, wondering how he could explain…when Draco answered for him.
"We grew up, Daniel."
Stirring sugar into his tea, Harry nodded solemnly. "We certainly did."
He noticed that Michel hadn't seemed to hear them at all, hidden behind the local newspaper.
***
After breakfast, the other adults disappeared, while Michel and the boys drove down the lane in the truck, leaving Draco and Harry in the barn. They fed chickens and goats, raked out dirty straw and laid down new, torn from bales outside the double doors.
Draco explained the animals. "These are mostly city boys, so they like working with farm animals. I could do without the rooster, though. Actually thought of strangling him." They worked side-by-side, mostly without talking, the years of animosity difficult to wipe away, despite their agreement that they'd 'grown up.'
When Michel and the boys returned, laden with groceries and the mail, Draco motioned them in the direction of the barn and told Harry to leave it for them to finish up. Harry stayed to chat with them for a while, then wandered off in the direction of the main house. When he didn't find anyone in the dining hall, he walked to the kitchen door, just about to amble in when he heard voices, and stopped. Not able to make out the words, he stood for a moment and considered what to do, then decided that eavesdropping wouldn't be a good thing. Stepping decisively into the room, he stopped again just inside the door, suddenly brought up short.
"Oh, sorry…" he said unapologetically as he leant against the jamb and crossed his arms.
Draco was perched on the end of the counter, his legs wrapped around Michel, who stood between his thighs. Michel was kissing him so intensely that Draco'd had to brace his hands behind him on the countertop to remain upright. For a moment, neither of them acknowledged that Harry was there, until Draco turned his head to the side, and murmured, "Michel."
To Harry, Draco said, "Sorry. We don't get much chance…with the boys around, so…." Michel pulled away and shot Harry a curious glance as he went for the coffee-maker.
"They don't know?" Harry asked, thinking to himself how difficult that would be.
"Of course they know," Michel scoffed as he reached the sink. "But physical displays of affection between staff members are…discouraged."
Draco slid from the counter, took a step and wrapped his arms around Michel's waist from behind. "We manage," he teased, using his hands to flick water from the tap up into Michel's face.
Michel seemed to ignore him as he finished filling the carafe, then dragging Draco with him, moved to pour the water into the coffeemaker. Once he'd pressed the 'On' switch, he turned suddenly and swept Draco off his feet, carrying the laughing man and dumping him onto the middle of the marble-topped workstation. He lifted Draco's tee shirt and pressed his back into the cold surface, making him shriek until he silenced him with a kiss.
Harry laughed as he watched them, then with a wave of his hand, which he was certain they were too busy to notice, he quitted the kitchen and decided to leave them the house, and took a walk around the surrounding gardens.
Most of the flowers were wild, but the beds were cut back, showing that someone kept some semblance of order. As Harry walked, he smiled as he thought of the two men inside the house. A part of him ached, suddenly, as he couldn't help but envy the obvious affection between them. It was a wonderful thing, feeling that free with someone, being able to tease and banter…and touch.
His smiled faded, as he realized that the only person with whom he'd ever even come close to such a thing was…Snape. And for a brief instant, Harry missed him, until he shook his head at such a notion, of missing the prickly, irascible, and aloof man.
That afternoon, the three adults and their charges piled into the truck, and rambled their way along the D5, turning off before they reached Maillane. They wound their way through grove after grove of olive trees, until they finally parked to the side of the dirt-covered lane. Each of them pulled a large hemp-woven sack from the back of the truck, clambered over the stone barrier, then took off into the grove to collect wood.
Draco explained as they fanned out in the grove. "Olive wood itself goes for a fair price, if it's large enough. So we comb the groves for it, every couple of weeks. The owners allow us to do this, part of the payment for using the boys in the harvests."
Picking up a smaller branch, Harry lifted it for Draco to see, who nodded his head. Stuffing it into his bag, Harry asked, "What do they use it for?"
"Well, pieces like this'll go to craftsman to make things— plaques, cutlery handles, picture frames, and the like. When they actually take a tree down, that's used to make cabinets and furniture," Draco replied, then raised his voice to call after the boys. "Back at the truck in two hours, mates."
Harry decided to stick with Michel and Draco, as he discovered how easy it would be to get turned around in the grove and lose his way. All of the rows of trees looked the same to him, which when he mentioned to Draco, made him laugh and Michel snort.
They could hear the sound of the boys off in the distance, calling to each other, laughing and screeching as they moved from one side of the grove to the other. Harry noticed that now that the boys were off on their own, Draco and Michel had stopped looking for wood. They strolled, holding hands, talking softly in French, seeming to forget for a while that Harry was even there.
Harry moved a short distance away to give them some privacy, but kept them in sight, not trusting himself to find the way back. He was struck by the contrast—Draco so fair, Michel so dark. Both of them tall and slender, both of them muscled by hard work, it would seem. He was at least twenty paces behind them, beginning to sweat in the heat, when he saw them stop just ahead. Draco laughed, a musical sound that Harry'd never heard from him before, as Michel pinned Draco's hands behind him and held them there as he kissed him soundly, causing Draco to struggle to hold his feet.
Harry stopped, unwilling to walk any closer. He couldn't help but smile as he watched, and was struck again by an inexplicable sense of longing. He wondered idly if he were envious, but decided, that no, that wasn't it precisely. Envy would take away the happiness of another for itself, if it could, something that Harry'd never do.
No, watching them just made him feel…wistful. He felt this way sometimes when he was with Hermione and Ron, especially; it didn't happen as often as it had in the beginning, now that they'd been married for several years, but every once in a while, they'd forget for a moment that he was there…a touch that lingered, a furtive look that he knew he'd not been meant to see, a sudden spontaneous kiss that left all three of them embarrassed, when they realized that they'd forgotten themselves for a moment….
Well, the feeling he had at those times was similar to this, but somehow different, probably because these were two men, and Harry found both of them attractive. My god, he thought to himself as he turned away, his face flushing. This is Malfoy and his…his lover. Get a grip, Harry.
Harry was subdued for the rest of the outing, listlessly following Draco and Michel as they sauntered through the grove. Draco made an attempt to engage Harry in conversation, but finally gave up with a perplexed look when Harry replied in short, clipped sentences and wouldn't meet his eyes.
