"With all due respect, Mrs. Malfoy, I don't see how that's possible." Harry's holding back a bark of incredulous laughter, because her suggestion is ludicrous.
She shifts in her seat, raising her chin slightly, and Harry knows he's probably offended her six ways from Sunday, but what she's implying seems so out of touch with reality that he can't even wrap his head around it.
"It is possible, Mr. Potter," she goes on. "The Manor is quite old, and the very land on which it sits is imbued with the most ancient of magics. For it to have heard your call and responded in this manner is indeed strange, but not impossible."
"But why would it have brought him here?" It's the sheer offense in Malfoy's words that makes Harry's head turn his way. "What in the hell would the Manor want with Potter, of all people?"
His mother offers a delicate shrug and takes another sip of her tea. "Perhaps we have something to offer Mr. Potter, and perhaps he has something to offer the Manor in return. Who can say? It doesn't change the fact that he is here—" And this is where something turns over inside Harry's chest, spreading out an unexpected warmth that travels down his spine to his toes, "—and by his own admission, is in need." She sets the cup on the cart and folds her hands in her lap, linking her fingers together. "I think you should stay, Mr. Potter."
Out of all the things he expected to come out of Narcissa Malfoy's mouth, an invitation to stay certainly wasn't one of them.
"You want me to stay?" Harry asks, unable to believe what he's hearing.
"Yes," she says breezily. "The Manor is quiet; it's just Draco, the house-elves, and I. I keep myself busy, and Draco's return from Switzerland has kept him occupied with his investments. No one will bother you here. As a matter of fact, I think Malfoy Manor is the last place people will think to look for you. The grounds are extensive, lovely even in winter, and there are many, many rooms in which to lose yourself for a while. You'll have ample time to rest, meditate, read or study if you like." She smiles. "No outside intrusions, unless of course you wish your friends to visit. If you need peace and solitude in order to refocus on aspects of your life, you can find it here."
"I was thinking of painting." Harry is horrified as the words tumble out. He wants to say something else, something that doesn't sound completely mental, but he's stopped by Mrs. Malfoy's warm smile.
"How wonderful. We have a studio. I'm sure you'll find it more than adequate for your needs." Her eyes are entreating. "Please…stay."
There are at least a hundred different reasons he should say no. First and foremost is Malfoy. Their history is nothing short of volatile, and he knows it would probably please Malfoy to end if they ended up hexing each other at every turn. But second—is Malfoy. Barefoot and ruffled, with a sneer that seems to wax and wane like the tide, and it's so intriguing that Harry wants to know more. He wants to know about Switzerland, wants to know why he's wearing worn trousers and gets huffy over an enthusiastic house-elf. Wants to know if it's his magic's own doing or this old edifice of stalwart pureblood supremacy that's brought him here. Beyond that, there are so many other reasons to say no, but so many questions that he can have answered.
A niggling part of his brain urges him to turn and look at Malfoy, really look at him. He's still pointy, but he's grown into his features, and now the sharpness is a point of admiration. His eyes are guarded and Harry wonders what has put that caution there. Malfoy's always been open and honest with his hostility; this man is subdued. Whether he's letting it simmer, or the real fight's been taken out of him is anybody's guess. He's shown he's capable of short bursts of outrageous emotion, but it's easily quelled, and Harry finds that incredibly appealing. So when the answer scoots from the back of his throat to the tip of his tongue, he's looking directly at Malfoy to gauge his reaction.
"Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy. I believe I will accept your gracious offer of hospitality."
Harry expects a violent protest, but when Malfoy's chin dips ever so softly down and to his right and his lashes lower in what Harry knows in his bones to be, fucking Merlin, deference, of all things, his heart slams in his chest. Because that tiny gesture, so fleeting and imperceptible, makes Harry want like he hasn't wanted in months.
"I'll let Cook know to expect one more for meals for the time being. The house-elves are at your disposal if there are things you wish to retrieve from your flat."
Mrs. Malfoy stands, ever so graceful, and Harry rises along with her. She spares him a long glance, and Harry can't quite fathom what's going on in her eyes. She is warm and enigmatic, and Harry feels a distinct pull toward her. Her smile is light and a little wistful. Her hands tremble a touch before she clasps them together in front of her.
"I don't know why you're here, Mr. Potter, and I'm not sure it's something I need to understand. But for whatever reason, either the Manor or your own magic has brought you to us. You came in through our wards with no trouble at all, and I cannot discount that. This house sees you as family." Harry hears Malfoy suck in a breath, but he doesn't look over at him. "So, if it's sanctuary you seek, we will do our best to ensure you have it." This time, her smile is bright and wide, and more welcoming than he ever thought possible. She inclines her head regally and steps forward with a small curtsy. "We are honored to have you, Mr. Potter. May we provide you safe haven for as long as you need."
Her speech is formal, her gestures even more so, but there's something so comforting about her presence that sticks in his throat, leaving him unable to croak out anything more than, "Ha-Harry. Call me Harry."
"Then you must call me Narcissa." She reaches out a hand, and Harry takes it. It's small and delicate, fine-boned and elegant. But it's strong in his grasp, and she squeezes to add, "Or Cissa. I insist."
He really hopes he's not standing there staring at her like an idiot; he's prided himself on proper comportment in these situations. Merlin knows Hermione has drilled it into him since the end of the war, and there's a formal aspect to several of the clubs he's frequented that expect such a degree of etiquette. A formal and cultured dom is a highly-sought dom. And Harry is well-trained. "Very well, Cissa," he manages. "Your hospitality is appreciated."
Her eyes shine, dangerously close to something liquid, and before he knows it, her hand is now cradling his cheek. "Such a fine young man you've turned into, Harry. Your mother would be so proud." The way she says it, it's almost a whisper in the air, a sort of hushed declaration that hooks into his chest and pulls. He can't say anything at this point, it's all too surreal, and the day's events are catching up with him in a maelstrom of unexpected emotion. Suddenly, she's gathered him close, embracing him tightly with a whiff of jasmine and something herbaceous, and he finds himself hugging back equally as strong.
Narcissa pulls back and smoothes the line of his shirt with a steady hand. She turns and heads toward the door, stopping next to Malfoy before she leaves.
"Close your mouth, Draco. You'll catch flies."
Harry watches her glide from the room, silk skirts swishing as she goes, before turning his attention to Malfoy. His mouth is indeed hanging open on a slight gape, and his expression is one of complete bewilderment. His eyes settle on Harry as he blows out a soft breath.
"I have never seen my mother hug anyone but my father and myself," he says quietly, with a touch of awe. "I think I can safely say that I have seen everything in this life that there is to see." He sighs again. "Well done, Potter. I think Cook's about to get an earful to make sure everything is perfect for you."
Harry gives a little shake to focus on Malfoy's words as he sits back down. "Cook? You have a house-elf named Cook?"
Malfoy slings an ankle over his knee, letting his bare foot just hang out there between them. He's settled into a light slouch since his mother left the room, and the change in position has left the collar of his shirt to spread wide, revealing the hollow in his collarbone. Not to mention the looseness of his shoulders, a smattering of platinum fringe over one eye, and the splay of his hips at the slight scrunch of his spine. The pose is lazy, indolent, and altogether magnetic. If a herd of rampaging Thestrals entered the room, Harry knows his eyes would still be on Malfoy.
Malfoy takes in a deep breath and lets it out with an amused sigh. "Ah, yes, Cook. The house-elf formerly known as 'Tinky'. She insists we call her Cook."
Harry chuckles at the thought of a house-elf insisting on anything from Malfoy. "And how did this come about?"
Malfoy waves a hand in the air in a broad, sweeping gesture. "The Fall of the House of Malfoy, er, the Ministry version anyway. After the war, Father and I were sent to Azkaban, as I'm sure you remember, and Mother was on house arrest. The Ministry took custody of the Manor and freed all the house-elves. They, however, were outraged, and refused to leave my mother shut up all alone. Apparently, there was a big to-do about it, and the Ministry and the elves came to an agreement. They would be freed, but the Ministry would agree to pay their employment wages out of what little was left in our vaults. Since they didn't actually want to be paid, those sums went into a trust which only the Ministry had access to. Frankly, I'm surprised you didn't already know about it, I thought Granger was on one of those committees."
"She's on a lot of committees," Harry replies dryly.
"Anyway, they all demanded to wear whatever they want, which is why Blinky looks like she does. She claims yellow makes her, of all things, happy." Malfoy rolls his eyes at that, but now Harry can see the smile. Malfoy's fond of the cheery little elf, he'd bet good Galleons on it. He also can't help but notice this is probably the longest conversation he's ever had with Malfoy. As a matter of fact, he thinks this is the most he's ever heard Malfoy speak in general.
"And Cook? Er…Tinky?"
Malfoy's smile goes a bit firmer. "Tinky decided she wanted to wear nothing but tutus and for us to call her 'Cook'. Because that's what she does, she says. She 'cooks'. I know, it's all a bit weird, but honestly, she's an outright menace if she doesn't get her way."
"Can she actually cook?"
Malfoy licks his lips and groans, and Harry thinks he might slide right off the sofa. "Merlin, yes. She's a terror, but the blasted wretch makes a chocolate trifle you'd ride to hell and back for. Just don't piss her off. Otherwise, every meal you're served for a fortnight will taste like Hippogriff piss and give you the shits."
Harry snickers, earning Malfoy's raised eyebrow. "I take it you learned that the hard way?"
The smile works its way across Malfoy's lips with some effort, but ultimately Malfoy can't hold it back. "Two weeks!" he exclaims. "I subsisted on stolen apples and pilfered Brie from my own fucking larder whilst trying to avoid shitting my mother's rugs with every step." He's laughing now, and the sound is infectious.
The pop of a house-elf catches both their attention. "Master Harry Potter's room is being ready now," Blinky says with a chirp. "Miss Cissa is wanting him in the room across from Master Dragon."
Harry's lips curve into a smile as he stands. "'Master Dragon'?"
Malfoy's lips purse. "A childhood nickname. One my mother is fond of. I swear," he sighs, coming over to lead Harry out the door. "It's like I'm six all over again."
Harry finds Malfoy's irritation amusing. It's given his cheeks some color and a resounding flash of life to his eyes. The effect is utterly charming. On a whim, he leans in, getting dangerously close to Malfoy's annoyed face. "Is it because you're all fire and bite?" he teases.
Malfoy's eyes go wide at the sudden proximity, but he recovers and shifts away to pronounce, "These days it's more because I'm all temper and hot air. I think post-war has dampened all my heat, I'm afraid."
Harry notes the subtle swallow of Malfoy's throat, mesmerized by the gesture. He can't help himself, he really can't, not with the sudden choppiness of Malfoy's breathing, or the bead of sweat that is glistening on his brow. "Yes," Harry murmurs, "but banked fires can burn slower and hotter than ones that flare and then flicker out. Maybe you haven't discovered the right kind of kindling."
Malfoy actually steps back this time, putting distance between them. His face shutters closed. "Well, Switzerland left me rather cold. I don't suppose England will be much better."
"Who knows, Malfoy? Maybe things are about to change."
Something passes over Malfoy's eyes, a flicker of emotion that Harry just can't read, not yet.
"Maybe for you, Potter. But not for me."
The defeat in Malfoy's gaze urges Harry to touch now, and he grabs at Malfoy's arm. "Don't give up on me yet. Stranger things have happened. I ended up here, didn't I?"
His fingers curl around Malfoy's forearm, and Malfoy hisses at the contact, his eyes jerking downward. Harry's fingers are securely wrapped around the Dark Mark, and Malfoy snatches his arm away, rolling down the cuff of his sleeve. He supposes his own gasp is involuntary, and knows that Malfoy sees it as disgust. The horrified embarrassment on his face says as much. Malfoy opens his mouth on something that Harry instinctively knows is going to be an apology, because he figures Malfoy's been apologizing for the damn tattoo for ages.
"Don't," Harry tells him quickly. "You don't have to cover it up. It doesn't bother me to look at it."
Malfoy holds the arm to his chest as if he's been burned, and replies with a vehement force that lacks anything resembling heat. "Maybe it bothers me for you to look at it."
Harry sees Malfoy's resolve begin to crumble, but he's a master, he is, and the wall around Malfoy's emotions is back up in a heartbeat. And that won't do. Because since the moment Harry dropped into Malfoy Manor and laid eyes on Malfoy and his bare feet, something in Harry has flared to life, and he'll be damned if he's going to let that feeling go. Not now, not when Malfoy has presented him with the most interesting puzzle he's ever wanted to solve. So he lets the heat he's been feeling in his gut pour out through his limbs, sluice through his blood, and settle to shimmer in his eyes. It's only fair to give Malfoy a warning. It's only fair to let Malfoy know that things are indeed about to change.
Harry feels his body shift to master control of his want, to project it outward, clearly, and with decisive intent. His voice drops low into a tone that he knows will brook no argument; it hasn't ever, not even with the most difficult of subs.
"You should get over that, then. Because you're going to find that as long as I'm here, I'm going to be looking at all of you. Mark and all. Inside and out. There isn't anything that you won't be able to hide from me." He smiles as Malfoy registers his words with restrained surprise, and possibly a bit of fear. It's an astonishing good look for the Slytherin. "Not for long, anyway."
He can calculate the time it takes for Malfoy's expression to wane back into a mask in mere seconds. It's a start. A small one, but a start all the same.
Malfoy stiffens and drops his arm. "Let me show you to your room, Potter."
Harry lets himself smile and offers Malfoy a curt bow of acknowledgement. "Lead the way."