Disclaimer: The wonderful world of Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling and to all those whom she has licensed that world. I'm not on that list. I make no money from this, nor do I wish to.
CHAPTER 10: RETURN OF THE PRODIGALFour years later
Draco Malfoy was grateful for two things at the moment, aspirin and sunglasses. He had a terrible hangover and was due to see his mother in less than ten minutes. Not a good combination, Draco thought as he stood in baggage claim, looking over his fellow weary travelers and immediately assigning them to particular classes based on their clothing and the relative shabbiness of their luggage. At fifteen, he reeked of the kind of young, intemperate aristocracy that could only be cultivated through years of elite boarding school attendance. He picked a piece of invisible lint from his cashmere jumper while checking his vintage watch for the third time. It had been his grandfather's or great-uncle's, or something like that. Draco didn't much care—he just knew it was distinctive, rare, and expensive.
A loud, garbled voice over the public address system brought his hangover to the fore. He winced and tightened his grip on his butter-soft monogrammed leather valise. He smiled—if a bit grimly—at the memories of the previous night. It was the end of term at Wolsford and he and his dorm mates had thrown a spectacular party, as was their tradition. It helped, of course, that Blaise's parents owned a small cottage near Wolsford and that year tens had off-campus privileges. Otherwise, their alcoholic consumption would have been near nil. Even better was the fact that his godfather had already left for a three-week botany conference in Chile, so there was no one watching to make sure he stayed out of trouble. Not that that really stopped him, mind you. He just didn't have to be as careful.
Draco sighed. He missed his friends already. It had been a brilliant party. Draco smiled as he remembered watching Ron fumble his way with bossy Hermione Granger. It was endearing, really, the way he stammered and went red in the face every time she was around. Of course, anyone was better than that Lavender Brown bint—lips too glossy, perfume that made one wheeze, breasts unnaturally large, and a giggle that would make a hyena cry. Draco shuddered. Girls like that made him consider putting off sex altogether.
Thank god he'd found Jordan Richcourt. Otherwise, he'd be a simpering virgin wondering what all the fuss was about. Trim and athletic with short, sassy black hair and small breasts, Jordan was straightforward, confident and wasn't interested in gossipy small talk. A wildcat in bed, she didn't need warming up and never engaged in ridiculous sentimentality or teary declarations of love afterwards like the Lavender Browns of the world. Jordan had been the perfect friend to fuck when the mood struck him. Too bad she was leaving Collenton, the sister school to Wolsford, for some exclusive boarding school in Switzerland. There were so few girls like her. Draco suspected that his sexual activity was about to enter a prolonged dry spell
He checked his watch again. Almost time, then. He wasn't sure why he had agreed to come home for the summer. No, that wasn't true. He'd missed his mother. He'd seen her when she'd come for visits on parents' day and over the summers for their extravagant vacations, but he'd not "come home" before now. Feeling a bit nostalgic, he smiled at a tow-headed boy stamping his foot and demanding something from his mother. His eyes drifted over to a young, sullen looking man leaning against one of the brick posts. His jumper matched his eyes perfectly, Draco thought, and seemed to make his skin glow. The man caught Draco looking at him and smiled. Draco smiled back, fighting the urge to walk over and compliment the man on his jumper. It had obviously been tailored to fit him, showing off his best assets. He thought to ask the man for the name of his tailor, but the man moved away after hoisting his baggage from the automated carousel and strolling out of the airport. Draco watched him the entire way, telling himself that the man was very lucky to have such a fine tailor.
The loudspeaker drew his attention away again. He sighed and looked down at his own coordinated collection of baggage. As the time for his mother's arrival drew closer, he wished he'd agreed to meet her somewhere less conspicuous. He knew she'd make some silly scene, cooing over him, calling him dragon. He shuddered and scuffed his feet across the floor in a display of petulance before he remembered who he was. He stood straighter and looked around, making sure no one of importance had seen his momentary lapse.
"There you are! My dragon," Narcissa gushed as she swept Draco into her arms and gave him a crushing hug.
Startled, Draco tried to pull away. "Mum, please," Draco said, as he glanced around self-consciously.
"Oh, stop it," Narcissa said, refusing to let go. "It's been months since I've seen you. Let's have a look, then," she said as she held Draco out from her and eyed him up and down. "You've grown, so. I can't believe how you've grown."
Draco rolled his eyes and sighed. "Mum, please," he whispered again, a faint blush creeping across his pale skin.
"Oh, all right. Let's get you home," Narcissa said with a chuckle.
"Nice," Draco said, admiring their new house. Well, not so new, but it was the first time Draco had seen it. They'd moved from Magnolia Crescent right after he'd left for Wolsford. He'd never understood the sudden need to move. He recalled something about a crazy man running around kidnapping children, but that had never explained the move, especially since he'd been shipped off to Wolsford the day after the incident at the lake. He felt a stab in his gut at that. He hadn't thought of the lake in years. Christ, his head hurt.
"Your room is up the stairs and to the left. I know you've just gotten home, Draco, but there are a number of boxes full of your old things. I wasn't sure what to do with them. I was hoping you'd sort them out."
Draco sighed. He wanted a nap, not the task of sorting out boxes of old junk that he wouldn't even remember. "Can't it wait, Mum?"
"Sure," Narcissa said brightly. "You'll just have to sleep on the floor until then."
Draco rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath as he stomped up the stairs.
His room was fine, if not a bit sterile. There were two neatly packed boxes on his bed. He supposed he could have moved them, but he figured it was worth getting the job done right away.
"Okay," he said to himself. "Sorting through worthless junk I don't remember—can't wait." He grabbed the first box and started rooting through. As he suspected, it was filled with junk. Toys he no longer wanted, books he had no desire to read, and long forgotten school papers and drawings. He quickly disposed of the first box and delved into the second, finding the same things. Sighing irritably, he moved one of the boxes, only to drop it on the floor, causing the contents to spill out.
"Fucking Christ," he muttered under his breath, his headache now pounding and his patience worn thin.
He leaned over and began shoving things back into the box when he stopped. Underneath a sheaf of old school papers was a familiar little lidded tin. Its gold paint was now chipped and faded in spots, but still whispered of treasures and secrets. Draco lifted the can and sat on his bed for several long moments before opening the lid. First the lake and now this. Draco stared up at the ceiling and muttered something rather untoward to God, the fates, and serendipity.
Sighing, he returned his attention to the tin. There was little inside, but what was there brought back a torrent of memories he'd put away a long time ago. His finger slid across an old photo of two grinning boys, muddy, scraped and victorious. Draco, the taller of the two, had his arm wrapped protectively around the smaller, scruffier one. Harry. Draco was assaulted with memories of play days, treasure hunts, chocolate chip pancake breakfasts, sleepovers and secrets. Of Harry's shy smile, his odd little quirks and his messy, black hair. He remembered those brilliant green eyes that were unlike any he'd ever seen before or since. Not so much for their color, Draco thought, but for what they were capable of expressing.
Underneath the picture was the true treasure, though. A small, gray stone, worn smooth over time, lay nestled among the bits of fool's gold Harry had heaped in the small can as a birthday gift one year. Draco clutched at the little gray stone and closed his eyes. He'd thought of Harry so often that first term away. Truth be told, many of those thoughts—at least at first—had been very, very unkind. He'd gotten over his hurt and had written silly, little boy letters to Harry that went unanswered. Eventually, he made new friends and had new experiences and forgot Harry Potter. It was amazing that, even now, after so much time, it still hurt that his best friend hadn't said goodbye.
Draco sighed and threw the stone back in the lidded tin. "Not today. I cannot deal with you today," he said as he shoved the tin into the packing box and flopped onto his bed.
"Draco, do something with those boxes. Your godfather is arriving in two days time and I'll not have him jumping over boxes of your things that you've shoved into the guest room rather than dealt with."
Draco rolled his eyes and sighed. "Yes, Mum," he said as his fork trailed through his scrambled eggs.
"When did you start liking scrambled eggs?" Narcissa asked with her back turned to Draco as she fussed over an omelet.
"Wolsford," Draco said between bites. "No chocolate chip pancakes there," he added with a wry grin.
"That explains it, I suppose." She turned around quickly, the spatula still in her hand. "Would you have preferred chocolate chip pancakes? I can still make them."
Draco wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Those are for babies," he said before taking another delicate bite of eggs.
Narcissa sighed and turned back to her omelet. Fussing done, she joined Draco at the table and opened the paper. "Well, what would you like to do today?" she asked as she skimmed the society pages.
Draco had only been home a week. In that time, he'd gotten a new summer and fall wardrobe, they'd visited with Pansy and Michael Parkinson's parents and had gone on a weekend excursion to Bath. He really didn't want to do much of anything at all.
"Why can't we just stay here? I'll sort out the boxes and you can . . . you know . . . do what it is you do all day."
The paper snapped closed. "Watch it," Narcissa snapped, annoyance flashing in her eyes.
Draco's cheeks colored and he ducked his head. "Sorry, Mum," he mumbled, mortified that his mother could still cow him so.
The paper rustled and opened again. "That's better," Narcissa said. "Now, as I started to say, before little Lord Malfoy made his snivilish appearance known, sort out the boxes and then come with me on errands this afternoon. I need to get a few things before Severus arrives."
Draco rolled his eyes, grateful his mother couldn't see. More shopping. Bloody brilliant. "Yeah, okay," he mumbled as he stood and took his plate to the sink before trudging up the stairs.
Draco pushed back his sweaty hair. He'd finished going through the boxes, having thrown most of their contents away. The rest he'd packed into a much smaller box for storage. "Up to the attic with you," he murmured as he stood, box in hand. It was then that he realized he'd not done anything with the small, lidded tin sitting on the floor. He hadn't the heart to throw it out, but didn't want to box it up, either. He stared at it, shuffling his feet back and forth, before huffing and walking up to the attic.
He came back to his room several hours later. The tin, of course, was still there. Even so, Draco seemed a bit surprised—as if he'd expected it to disappear and relieve him of the responsibility of deciding what to do with it.
"This is ridiculous," he murmured aloud before snatching up the tin and sitting heavily on his bed. "What's the big deal, anyway?" he asked himself.
He opened the tin and fingered the contents, his touch resting on the small, gray stone. Draco had a sudden, burning desire to know what had become of Harry. He wondered again why Harry had never responded to his letters. He'd found other friends, Draco supposed.
Draco turned the stone over and over in his hand as he wondered about the strangest things, like whether Harry was still afraid of windows and whether he'd ever grown taller. He wondered if he still got sick, whether he still spent his time mucking about with plants, whether he'd kept up his Latin. He wondered whether Harry had a new best friend. He put the stone down for a moment, tracing its edges with one finger. For all the strange things he wondered, the one he most wanted to know was why Harry had never said goodbye. Clasping the stone in his hand, Draco sauntered down the stairs.
"Mum, do you know what ever happened to Harry?"
Narcissa stiffened. "Who, dear?"
Draco sighed. "Harry? Harry Potter? The chap that nearly lived with us for three years?"
Narcissa kept her eyes on the gardening section of the paper. "Yes, of course. Harry. No idea, Dragon. Why?"
"No reason. I was going through those boxes like you asked. Came across some old stuff. Got me thinking, you know?"
"Hmm," Narcissa said.
Silence passed for a few moments. Narcissa seemed uncomfortable for some reason that Draco couldn't work out. "Do you think he still lives on Magnolia Crescent?" Draco asked, hoping to start the conversation again.
Narcissa snapped the paper and shifted in her seat. "I told you, I don't know." she said, an uncharacteristic sharpness in her voice.
"I'd like to know. Drive me over? It's on the way to the shops."
Narcissa sighed. "I don't think that's such a good idea."
"Why?" Draco demanded.
"Because," Narcissa said, rustling the paper once more.
"What's wrong with you?" Draco snapped.
Narcissa closed her eyes and took a deep breath before neatly refolding the paper and arranging it just so on the table. "It's horribly rude to show up uninvited," she countered.
"I'll take the chance," Draco said, his resolve to see Harry only increasing in the face of his mother's bizarre behavior.
"Perhaps you should call first?" Narcissa stalled.
Draco thought about that and nearly laughed. He'd never known Harry's phone number. "Let's just go over. If he's not there, I'll run your errands with you. I can always pop round on another day."
Realizing that Draco was not going to let this go, Narcissa relented. After all, she wouldn't mind a small measure of peace knowing that Harry had turned out all right. "I'll just get my keys, then," she said, still refusing to look at Draco.
The ride over was quiet. They pulled in front of Harry's house and Draco slipped out of the car. "If he's not there, I'll be right back. If I wave, go on to your errands. Ring my mobile on the way back."
Narcissa nodded, a strained smile plastered on her face.
Draco walked up to Harry's door and knocked. He waited for a few seconds. He thought he heard noise inside, so he knocked again. Just as he was about to knock a third time, the door flew open. He looked down at a scruffy head of wild black hair and grinned despite himself.
"What?" the black head barked before finally looking up.
Draco's grin slipped at the shuttered eyes and scowling face. There was a fading bruise high up on Harry's cheek. His bottom lip showed evidence of having been split recently. An odd feeling of protectiveness roiled through him. "What the bloody hell happened to you?" Draco blurted without thinking.
The shuttered eyes opened wide with fear and disbelief as they roved over the pale, aristocratic blond in front of them. Harry gasped once he realized just who was standing there. Why in the hell was Draco Malfoy standing on his small stoop? What the fuck did he think he was doing here—now of all times? Years of stifled anger and hurt wended across his skin, leaving a red, hot trail in their wake, making the bruise he knew Malfoy saw stand out even more. The fact that there might be a bit of shame intermingling with that anger and hurt—shame that Draco Malfoy had to see him like this—made Harry all the more angry. He didn't give a flying fuck what anyone thought of him. Why should he bloody well care what Draco Malfoy (who betrayed him, left him without word, and who couldn't even be arsed to write a single bloody letter in four years) thought of him?
Harry looked down and struggled to marshal his emotions. When he felt the façade he'd created so long ago finally slip into place, he looked up with a smug expression on his face. "So," his acid tongue dripped. "Draco Malfoy. The prodigal son has returned."
Draco stood there, his mouth hanging open, staring at his childhood friend wondering what in the hell had happened to him. His clothes were just as threadbare and overlarge as he remembered, but the cut, the bruise, the general state of . . . anger he could sense in Harry was unlike anything he'd remembered. Draco could see it in the spots of color blushing across Harry's pale cheek, the way his eyes glittered bottle-green in defiance, and in the way he held himself in a defensive line of lithe muscle. Harry's too-red lips pursed as he stared Draco down. Despite being clamped closed, they were still a bit bee-stung, Draco noticed. He wondered if they'd always been that full or if it had something to do with the cut. An unfamiliar feeling clanked through him that he dismissed as irritation and unease.
Uncomfortable with Draco's scrutiny, Harry snapped. "Christ, Draco. What? What the fuck are you doing here? What do you want?" he asked.
"What happened to you?" Draco repeated, as if still stuck in the moment the door had opened. Out of instinct, he reached out to touch Harry's face.
Harry reared back and hissed. "Don't touch me."
"Just tell me what happened," Draco demanded, immediately falling back into the protective role he'd willingly played all those years before.
Harry stared at him, hard. His lips twisted into a wry smile. "I fell," he said, remembering saying those same exact words to another aristocratic blonde. "Now, if you're done gawking, you can bloody well leave." Harry made to shut the door.
"Wait!" Draco said, finally coming to his senses. "I wanted to talk to you. See how you were. I've just come home. Last week, I mean."
Harry snorted. He looked Draco up and down. "And you wanted to see me? That's rich."
Draco didn't know where this surly, sarcastic . . . hooligan had come from. Where had Harry gone? Where had his scruffy little lion gone? He sent his mother away with an impatient hand wave while pleading with Harry. "Please. I—I just want to talk. Catch up a bit, yeah?"
Harry stared at him for a few seconds, glancing nervously out the door before sighing, rolling his eyes and opening the door just wide enough for Draco to slip in.
Draco followed Harry to the kitchen. Harry stood by the sink, his arms folded and his body hunched as if protecting himself. Draco wasn't sure whether to sit or stand and settled on leaning against the wall while trying to decide what to do with his feet, his hands, his arms. He couldn't recall a time he'd felt more uncomfortable. It was absolutely quiet.
"You're taller," Draco said, hoping to lighten the mood in the dour, little house. The sound of his voice seemed over-loud and pinched.
"I'm fourteen."
"Yeah." Draco trailed off. He fiddled with his jumper. Checked his watch before staring down at his shoes. "So, how have you been?"
"Just brilliant," Harry quipped.
Draco floundered for something to say. "Still at Bennington-Bright?"
Harry pulled his arms just a bit tighter. "No. Going to the private down the street. Closer and all."
Draco nodded. He glanced around the kitchen. Everything was neat and tidy. There were pictures on the fridge. None of Harry, he noticed. "Mum says hello," Draco said as he eyes continued to roam around the kitchen.
"Does she now?" Harry asked, an undercurrent of something rather snarlish in his voice.
Draco was taken aback. "She wondered how you were doing."
"Really? Tell her she can--" Harry stopped himself. He ran his hands through his hair and closed his eyes. "Never mind. Never mind," he muttered.
Things were getting stranger by the second, Draco thought. He grasped at the last thing he had. "So, I was going through a box of old things. You'll never guess what I found."
Harry just stared at him dully, giving no indication that he was interested in what Draco had to say.
Draco cleared his throat, deciding not to continue with his tale of discovery. Harry seemed to have lost his appreciation for Draco's storytelling. Instead, he pulled out the small stone and put it on the kitchen counter. He watched as Harry stared at it, blinked, and looked at Draco as if say, "So what?"
Misunderstanding, Draco sought to explain. "It's the little stone--"
"I know what it is," Harry interrupted.
"Oh," Draco said, feeling as though he'd come into a conversation already in progress—one for which he hadn't been given the thread.
"Remember all of those treasure hunts we did? I can't believe how many holes we dug," he said, making a last-ditch effort at conversation.
Harry, though, was not in the mood for reminiscing. "Draco," he said with a sigh. "Why are you here? Really? What is it you want? I mean, it's been, what, four years? You never cared to talk to me during that time, why now?"
Draco's mouth fell open. "You're the one who couldn't be arsed to say goodbye. You never even replied to my letters," he snarled, his face flushing with indignation. He took a step forward. He wasn't sure why he'd gotten so angry, so fast.
Harry snorted again. "Goodbye? You're upset that I didn't say goodbye? You fucking betrayed me, you worthless snot! And what letters? I never got any letters from you."
Draco's hands curled into fists. "That's a lie," he growled, neatly sidestepping the lake issue as he took another step forward and leaned in.
Harry pushed off from the counter he'd been resting against. His hands dropped to his side as he charged across the kitchen. His own hands balled into fists as he got as close to Draco as he dared. "Don't you call me a liar, you poncey little arsehole," he snarled. "You're the liar! Why are you even here?" he snapped as he settled his weight around him, ready to fight back, if need be. "Didn't think the likes of me measured up to Malfoy standards," Harry yelled as he made a point of looking Draco up and down, his eyes resting on Draco's designer jumper.
"I just wanted to talk to you, you dirty little prick," Draco shouted as he looked down at Harry, a flash of white-hot anger gripping him. What was it about Harry that caused him to lose control of his emotions like that? No one had ever gotten to him the way Harry Potter did. He took a step back and uncurled his fists. The flashpoint of his anger petered out. He leaned against the wall again, letting his arms hang loosely by his sides.
Harry watched Draco carefully. When he saw him lean against the wall, he responded in kind, stepping back. He returned to his place by the counter, wrapping his arms around himself again.
Draco was panting as he stared at Harry. But, Harry wasn't looking at him; he was staring off into the distance.
"I suppose I am a bit dirty," Harry muttered with a dark chuckle as the anger bled from him. He turned and pinned Draco with his green-eyed gaze—saying so much, but nothing that Draco understood.
Draco had to look away. The intensity of the gaze was too much. He heard Harry sigh several moments later.
"Look, here's the thing, Draco, I'm fine, you're fine, let's skip the trip down memory lane and go back to our lives, okay? If you're—I mean, if you think I'm mad or anything, don't. What's done is done. You were eleven, confused and . . . whatever. You were eleven. I was eleven. You've gotten your closure."
"That's not why I'm here," Draco blurted, the unfamiliar churn of emotion rising within him.
"Really? Why else would you be?" Harry taunted.
Draco refused to be baited. He swallowed and took a deep breath, trying to rein in his emotion. Time to lay it all out, then. "I found the little stone. It made me think about you. I –I just wanted to know how you were, I guess. I mean, I know it's been a long time and all, but—the thing is, Harry, you were my best friend once. I meant what I said out on the dock that day."
Harry looked at him, really looked at him, and stepped forward. He ran his hands through his hair, a nervous gesture, Draco noted. He opened his mouth to say something. Just then, Draco's mobile rang, the shrill ring startling them both.
"It's my mum," Draco said as he checked his mobile. "She's waiting outside. Let me tell her I need a bit more time," he said as he flipped his little phone open, the shrill ring ending just as abruptly as it had started.
Harry snorted and shook his head. "No, no need really. You've seen me. I'm alive. Taller and all that. Time to go, then."
Draco gave up. "Uh, yeah. Okay," he said. He turned to leave when Harry tapped him on the shoulder, holding out the stone. Draco didn't know what possessed him, but he had a sudden overwhelming need to touch Harry. He grabbed his hand and closed it tight around the stone. Even when Harry hissed and tried to yank his hand away, Draco held fast. "You keep it," he said.
Harry finally pulled free, somehow leaving the stone in Draco's hands. "It's just a stone, Draco. A stupid, common little river stone I found one summer. There's nothing special about it. There never was."
Harry's words stung. What in the hell had happened in four years? Yeah, sure, things had gone all pear-shaped before he left. But that was all in the past. That couldn't account for Harry's surly attitude now, could it? Could it? Even as he was ushered out of the house, Harry's words continued to ring in his ears.
"See you," Harry said before shutting the door without ceremony, leaving Draco standing on the porch, alone. Draco looked down at the stone, still clutched in his hand, and wondered if Harry had been talking about the stone at all.
Harry took a shuddering breath once he was sure that Draco was gone. Of all the things Harry had expected to happen, finding Draco Malfoy—looking perfect and rich and . . . perfect—standing on his doorstep wasn't one of them. And, of course, he'd had to look like a street urchin—his clothes, his hair . . . his face. Harry didn't believe for one second that Draco had written any letters, or that he'd shown up, out of the blue, out of some desire to renew his friendship with Harry. Harry couldn't quite puzzle out why Draco had been there, bringing up long-dead memories, pulling forgotten treasures from his pockets.
Harry tried very hard to convince himself that he didn't care about Draco Malfoy at all as he scrubbed at his eyes with his fists and brushed against the bruise on his cheek. He winced. He touched it purposefully again, pressing in a bit, refusing to bite his lip at the pain. At least he'd given as good as he'd gotten this time. Vernon had come at him last week and Harry had given him a little taste of his own medicine; a swift kick to the groin had landed his uncle on the floor, whimpering like a little baby. He'd avoided Harry ever since. Harry smiled and wondered how long his reprieve would last.
Uncle Vernon had long stopped being careful. Especially now that Harry was older and attended an overcrowded private. The teachers at Bennington-Bright had gotten too suspicious for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia's tastes—wondering why Harry hadn't been taken to specialists, why he wasn't taking special medication, wondering so many other things. Before Miss Poppy could demand a full physical, he'd been taken out of that school and put in the local secondary private. There, they didn't much care if Harry showed up with a bruise here and there or an occasional cut lip.
Vernon made a huge show the first day of school with Harry's new head teacher—going on and on about how Harry was the frequent target of a gang of roving bullies, how he refused to protect himself by following Uncle Vernon's rules, how he had a nasty little temper that got him into trouble, and how he needed strong supervision at school. Vernon had even mused that Harry was the "sharp-tongued little beast" he was because he'd been such a sickly little child. It was both a convenient and believable excuse. Long past the point of caring, Harry had been complicit in the deceit. After a stern warning to Harry, the appropriate notation was made in his file, never to be opened again. That had been two years ago.
Despite everything, Harry still received near perfect marks—not that anyone noticed or cared. He talked to no one, thus saving himself from telling elaborate lies. Not that anyone would care about that, either.
Harry brushed his fingers across his cheek again. He considered himself lucky. It wasn't often that Vernon progressed beyond the cuff about the ears, the backhand or the general manhandling. Of course, he wondered what course their little games would take now that Harry had shown he'd fight back. He smirked at the memory of Vernon flailing around on the floor like a beached walrus.
The clock in the living room chimed six o'clock. Harry smiled for real this time. The Dursleys were away for the weekend, which meant he could spend his free time any way he liked. He raced out the back door and headed towards the small, shady lea in the middle of a circle of large trees at the back of the garden. Petunia never came out this far and the Dursleys' had been away so often that spring and summer that Harry had had time to build his little Eden without interference.
He'd recently become fascinated with night-blooming plants. Mr. Wells, the owner of the local nursery and his summer and weekend employer, had allowed him to order some things that he'd cultivated and tended over the last ten weeks. Only this week had the shy night-blooms begun to unfurl. The book Mr. Snape had given him so many years ago (still his most prized possession) had given him the idea for the planting design.
He entered his little Eden. The tension of the day melted away as it had so many times before. This is what kept him sane—tending to his plants. Here, in this little enclave, there were no Dursleys to contend with and no surprise visits from Draco Malfoy to puzzle over. He looked up at the sky, smiling at the way it was streaked with purples, reds, and blues. Dusk was rising, the gloaming brilliant.
"Hello my lovelies," he whispered, as he surveyed his handiwork. His fingers ghosted across the small, white, waxy flowers of the night-blooming jasmine twining over the small arbor he'd fashioned from bits and bobs of wood scraps he'd found in the garage. "Cestrum nocturnum," he murmured as he closed his eyes and inhaled sharply. The jasmine's scent hung heavy, almost cloyingly, in the slight breeze swirling around him.
He turned to the fat, sprawling blossoms of his four o'clocks. He shifted his weight back and forth with giddy anticipation as the bulbous blossoms swelled and, with a soft puff, popped open and settled themselves into a brilliant display of color and motion. "Mirabilis jalapa," he said in a melodious whisper as his fingers traced the deckled edges of several of the blossoms.
With a sigh, he turned to his favorites. The massive moonflower blooms bobbed and swayed, winking at him with good humor. He leaned in and inhaled their soft, spicy fragrance before plucking one and lying down on the soft grass. He stared at it, twirling it this way and that, before working on the botanical name. This one was still a bit difficult for him, but he was determined to get it just right. "Ip—Ipomo—I-pom-o-e-a alba," he said finally, repeating it until it tripped from his tongue with ease.
He lay there until well past the gloaming, until well past the time when night pulled back her coats and shared the dazzling night sky with him. He held up the moon flower blossom still clutched in his hand and compared it to the moon sitting fat among the stars, forgetting for a while about his life, the sudden reappearance of Draco Malfoy, and stupid little river stones.