Chapter 14: Of why the sea is boiling hot
From that day forward, Mr Wesley and young Mallory Blanc were scarcely seen apart. To the surprise of the villagers, that first day of so-called help in the kitchen turned into a series of occasions, as Mr Wesley even began to teach Mallory some of his skills, with a gentleness and patience like that they had only before seen around children. It was even thought that Mr Wesley taught Mallory some of his own recipes, which none of the villagers had ever managed to convince him out of, though neither would discuss their activities with others.
They walked together like they always had, traversing nearly every inch of the surrounding countryside with Romulus romping around them almost like a young pup. They worked in the gardens together, too, though after a few horrific mistakes between saplings and weeds, Mallory had been firmly banished from Mr Wesley's precious roses. Though Mallory complained, quite loudly, to Mr Wesley's mixed annoyance and amusement, from the glint in his eyes it could almost be thought he was happy to stay out of the dirt. All such whining ceased immediately, however, after Mr Wesley scratched himself quite deeply on his thorns, distracted by some snide comment or another.
Mallory bandaged it up, though not without first almost using cough syrup instead of dettol, to the bewilderment of Mrs Eddison, who had overheard Mr Wesley's amused instructions to the young man, who seemed to know nothing about the real world.
They fished together, Mr Wesley's first time out in years; though this, too, needed to be taught, throughout constant complaints about the smell and the scales and the mess. Mallory certainly seemed to enjoy driving the smallish speedboat Mr Wesley had hired, however, speeding through the waters with the wind and spray in his now loose hair. And at one point, Mallory needed to be driven to the nearest town to have a hook removed from his finger, having been entirely too careless with his line. Mr Wesley drove him, making snide comments all the way, with an unusual twinkle in his eyes.
Mallory later revenged himself by catching the largest snapper the village had ever seen, and proceeded to rib Mr Wesley about it for weeks. Mr Wesley filleted it for his more squeamish friend, and the smell of fried fish wafting over the village made dozens of mouths water.
And, of course, they talked. They talked of everything and nothing, of politics and religion and money and war, topics almost taboo amongst polite society, though their discussions never seemed to degenerate into arguments. Mr Wesley tended to back off before that could happen, to what could almost be seen as Mallory's annoyance. Those who stayed in the building, though not understanding the fascination with the pair, mentioned that they could hear faint voices from Mr Wesley's chambers late into the night, however.
They talked about history and current affairs, with Mr Wesley's tone almost instructive, though not in a patronising way, as if he were trying to force Mallory to listen and remember, though that would have been completely unlike him, even were it possible for Mallory to know so little about his world. Eventually, however, Mallory's annoyed acceptance transformed into a seeming thirst for knowledge, though he seemed strangely focused on old myths and legends.
They talked about books, Mallory seeming to continually surprise Mr Wesley with his low comments, which none of the curious villagers could ever seem to make out, to their continual dismay. And music, and theatre, where Mallory would almost babble in his excitement, Mr Wesley fondly accepting the role of listener.
They never seemed to discuss their lives anymore, though. But perhaps that was as expected – Mr Wesley was a private person, after all.
"I have to go back, you know," Draco muttered quietly into the gathering darkness, the words almost seeming forced through his unwilling lips. He didn't want to break the companionable silence, didn't want reality to impinge on these rare days, stolen from a life too hectic. But yet, he had no choice.
Voice slightly confused, pulled from his concentration, Blake asked Draco to repeat himself, sure he'd heard wrong. But the light tone to his voice was belied by the fear growing in his still-hazel eyes.
"I have to go back," Mallory repeated, voice fraught with sadness. "I have a job, Harry, and I can't simply up and leave. I have friends who will miss me, who have already been pestering me about my whereabouts," he added, studiously ignoring his friend's doubting face. He had never succeeded in convincing Harry that Blaise and Pansy, Slytherin to the bone, let alone Snape, could truly care for another human being. "My mother expected me back over a week ago, now, and I'm sure it's only her belief I'm rooming with muggles that has saved me from a howler!"
"But… I thought…" Blake's words trailed off, as he realised that he hadn't thought at all. He had been so enthused at discovering the real Draco Malfoy, behind all the masks and assumptions and expectations that had dominated their long relationship, so moved by the experience of being truly relaxed in another's presence, in truly trusting someone after over a decade of loneliness. Distracted by the secrets he had never truly bared and the honour of Draco's trust, by the laughter he had missed more than he knew, he had forgotten that there was another world out there. A world in which Draco belonged like he never could in that quiet, uneventful muggle village.
And besides, Draco had responsibilities, and Blake knew better than to try and keep him from them, after his own earlier experiences, however much some might think he had abandoned his after Voldemort's death. How would the staff and students cope without him?
Quietly, as he came to terms with the reality of the situation, his recently vibrant eyes grew closed. "Of course you must," he replied quietly, turning his head away to avoid showing the slight sheen to his eyes. Why was he so hurt, anyway? It wasn't as if he wouldn't see the other man again or, heaven forbid, he couldn't survive without him. He just didn't want to.
A frown grew on Draco's usually unmarked brow, as he saw his habitually expressive friend grow so blank, so much like he had been when they last met, not long before Harry Potter left the Wizarding world for good. Leaning over to where Harry idly sifted the soil through his fingers, his mind far from his garden, Draco gently placed his hand on Harry's, ignoring the dirt that clung obstinately to the gardener's larger fingers. "I don't want to go, Harry," he began sadly, "I'd like nothing better than to stay, but…"
"I know," Blake interrupted before he could finish his sentence, gently separating their fingers. "The Wizarding world is your world, how could it be otherwise? You're a pureblood, of an old family, and it's where you belong. And with term beginning so soon…"
"I know," Mallory replied quietly, sitting beside him on the damp grass, barely noticing the stains on his clothes.
And the two men sat together in silence, each lost in his own thoughts, feeling the weight of the world crushing down on them. Neither had had such a friend, never such a connection with another person, for all that they had once been the greatest of rivals. And, though both knew they would never part forever, they couldn't feel it.
Then, voice incongruously loud in the crisp night, Draco ventured, "You could come with me?"