Disclaimer: You know the drill: The characters aren't mine and I don't make any money from this.

Many thanks to Sansa for the beta work and hand-holding.

Chapter 13:A Dapple of Sunlight Amongst the Chocolate Biscuits

Harry wiped his hands across the front of his jeans. His palms were sweaty. He hated when his palms were sweaty. He took a deep breath and raised his hand to knock on the door. His hand wavered and dropped. 'No, not quite ready yet,' he thought to himself.

He looked over his shoulder and caught sight of Mr. George in the motorized cart idling on the street. Mr. George had a curious expression on his face, one that seemed to ask Harry if needed any assistance. Harry's head snapped back around to the door before his expression could give an answer. The little voice in his head urged him to leave, to walk the half-kilometer to the bus stop and take the Number Four Knight bus straight back to Magnolia Crescent. He shook his head and adjusted the straps of the worn knapsack hanging from his shoulder. Who was he kidding? The Malfoys already knew he was there. He'd had to sign in at the guard gate while that officious little snot of a man had looked him up and down as if he were a common criminal.

Harry wiped his hands across his jeans again, more to give them something to do rather than out of necessity. He took a shuddering breath and glanced over his shoulder again. Ready for Harry's glance this time, the over-cheerful Mr. George gave an uncertain wave. Harry returned the wave with a bit more force than called for and his return expression was more glare than smile. Why he couldn't have just walked to the Malfoys from the gate, he didn't know, but Mr. George had insisted on driving Harry in that ridiculous little cart. Harry's mind had boggled while he was whisked through the posh neighborhood full of idyllic, rolling hills, sprawling mini-estates with jade-green grass, and overly successful people milling about doing successful and important thing while smiling perfect smiles and living perfect lives. Harry was no stranger to the trappings of wealth—the Dursleys were not poor by any stretch—but there was something so perversely innocent about this place that it set Harry's teeth on edge. Innocence was a farce.

Mr. George had, of course, chattered on and on about the grace and class of Mrs. Malfoy, the generosity of Mrs. Malfoy, how lucky a boy like Harry was to be working for Mrs. Malfoy. Harry had scowled at that. He'd not said anything about being there to work. Though with his over-large, faded gray tee-shirt and worn jeans and his frayed knapsack full of well-used gardening tools, how could he be there for any other reason? He doubted he'd be mistaken for one of Draco's friends. And now he was standing on the steps of the gracious Malfoy home, his hand poised to knock on a door he'd never thought he'd walk through again, Mr. George and his cart still behind him, watching.

"This is daft," Harry muttered to himself. Gathering his courage, he knocked and waited. He half expected to hear the rumble of boisterous little-boy feet bounding towards the door, as he had so many years ago. Not this time. Yet, this was not entirely unfamiliar. He had neither stone nor flowers, true, but he was plagued with that same overwhelming sense of insecurity that had nearly undone him at the age of seven. At nearly fifteen now, he fancied himself too old for such things, making his insecurity that much more infuriating.

Before Harry could dwell too long, the door snicked open, revealing Draco. His eyes seemed to light just a bit at seeing Harry. There was almost the twitch of a beaming smile and an abortive move closer before Draco straightened and remembered himself, allowing his smile to go flat. "Harry," he said, his voice cultured and tentative as his gaze roved over Harry's face, stopping where the bruise had been.

"Draco," Harry acknowledged as he readjusted the strap cutting into his shoulder.

Draco peered out the door, looking over Harry's head. "Ah, I see you've met Mr. George," he said as he sent the little man in the cart away with a smile and crisp wave.

Harry twisted around and watched the little cart putter away. "Er, yeah," he said as he shifted his weight back and forth.

"Odd little man. He's here all of the time, offering to help Mum with all sorts of things. Always referring to himself in the third person, too. I think he fancies himself a lord, what with his mini-cart and all. Be glad it wasn't purple day—he has these pants, you see . . . purple pants," Draco drawled as he watched Mr. George and his cart putter away.

The stress of the situation was getting to Harry. Nothing else could explain the short burst of laughter that escaped at the thought of Mr. George as a toady lord, dressed in striped, purple breeches and a purple velvet waistcoat. Draco turned at Harry's laugh, his gaze warm and his smile genuine. The familiarity of it made Harry feel very hot in the face. His stomach lurched a bit. He cleared his throat and shifted the strap of his knapsack once again.

Encouraged by the laughter, Draco stepped out onto the porch and circled Harry, stopping at the knapsack. "You still have that thing?" he said as he tugged at the knapsack strap.

Harry resisted the urge to twist away from Draco. He adjusted his grip on the strap and shrugged. "Still good," he murmured, hating the odd sort of relational limbo in which they found themselves. Harry knew Draco, just as Draco knew him, but he didn't know Draco—not anymore. He'd been sure he didn't want to know him, either. But then Mr. Snape had come to his house, put all sorts of fanciful ideas in his head, including that Draco still wanted to be his friend if only Harry would let him.

An uneasy silence passed between them. They could still hear the little cart puttering in the distance. Draco cleared his throat. "I suppose you'd like to get started," he murmured.

"Er, yeah . . ." Harry said, trailing off, not knowing what else to say.

Draco sighed in a way that made Harry wonder what he'd meant to say instead. "Come on in, then. Uncle Severus is out back already. Mumbling about soil drainage or some such thing. Mum's gone for the day, so it's just us, I'm afraid." Draco noted Harry's shoulders relaxed as he said that. Misinterpreting, he smiled again, thinking that he had cut through the initial awkwardness with his witty repartee.

"Actually, soil drainage is really important," Harry said, glad to have a conversation topic he could chatter about without fear of straying into anything uncomfortable. "It affects growth and flowering, you see. Some plants actually do very well in boggy soil, but not many. I don't think Mr. Snape purchased any that would, though. In fact, you have to be quite careful of that with the Acers—er Japanese maples," he continued as they walked through the house towards the back.

Draco rolled his eyes. "You sound just like him," he teased.

"What's wrong with that?" Harry snapped, his nerves on edge. "Besides, I'm here to work, aren't I? It's not like I'm here for tea."

Draco winced. "Right," he mumbled. He ran a hand through his hair. "Well . . . I'll leave you to it," he said, his voice wavering a bit, just like his feet, which hadn't decided whether he was staying or leaving, if their back-and-forth shuffling was any clue.

Shame niggled at Harry. Draco had been nothing but pleasant. Perhaps that's what had Harry in such knots. As far as Harry knew, he'd given him nothing to be pleasant about. Harry cursed Severus Snape once again. The man was undoing his neat little life and Harry wasn't pleased. His gaze dropped to the ground and focused on Draco's shuffling feet. It was the only part of him that seemed to feel as nervous as Harry. When the feet finally decided which way to go, Harry looked up. An overwhelming need to say something, to close the conversation on a less sour note, overcame him. "Thanks," he blurted as Draco stepped inside.

Draco turned back, his gaze questioning.

"Thanks for . . . erm . . . thanks for walking me through the house," Harry said, wincing at how ridiculous he sounded.

Draco didn't seem to notice. His eyes were warm again and that same broad smile was back, the one that made Harry's face feel all hot. "Any time," he murmured, before going inside.

Harry licked his lips and wiped his hands on his jeans for what felt like the hundredth time as he stared at the glass garden door Draco had just closed. Not long after, a heavy, warm hand clamped on his shoulder, making Harry jump in surprise.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter," Severus murmured, amused at the interaction between the boys.

"Good morning, sir," Harry said as he turned and dropped his knapsack.

"Brought your own tools, I see."

"Er, yes sir. I hope that's not a problem. I'm just used to my own gloves and things."

"Not a problem at all. It is a welcome change, I assure you."

Harry nodded as he began taking out his things.

"Have you thought any more about Wolsford?"

"You really don't give up," Harry said with a mirthless chuckle. "I've not been here a half hour yet and you've started in. Why don't you just let this go?"

"I believe we've covered this, Harry. Do try and keep up. It won't do for me recommend someone for a scholarship placement when that someone cannot maintain the thread of recent conversation."

"Recommend? You never said anything about recommendations. You don't even know me."

"I know you much better than you think. Besides, I coerced that toad of woman at your school—what was her name? Ah yes, Delores Umbridge—to give me copies of your school records. You do like to hide your light under the bushel basket, don't you?"

Harry sputtered and went red in the face. "My records? Those are private! How dare you get my records?" he bellowed, his mind racing with what might have been in there, what more Mr. Snape might have learned.

"Calm down, you foolish child. I only requested your academic records, which are rather respectable, Mr. Potter. They say nothing of your deplorable home life."

"My home life is none of your business!" Harry snarled.

Severus sneered and stalked closer as he leaned down. Harry had to bend backwards to maintain eye contact.

"I am making it my business," Severus whispered in a voice that sounded like wind buffeting a wall of iron. "I should have made it my business much earlier, and for that I will always be regretful. But no matter, I am going to help you, whether you want help or not."

"I don't need you," Harry said, his eyes blazing with fury and his voice just as soft, just as firm as Mr. Snape's.

"Push all you want, Harry. I'm not going away. Neither is Draco." Severus almost added Narcissa to that list, but didn't. Even though true, he knew mentioning her name would only raise Harry's hackles further.

Harry felt the pang of something quite bewildering in the center of his chest. For some reason completely unknown to Harry, Mr. Snape, a virtual stranger, had told him he wasn't going away, no matter what Harry did. The oddest part of it was that Harry believed him. He almost gasped as the . . . . something in his chest, he really didn't know what it was, grabbed him and stole his breath away. He refused to listen to the voice that told him Mr. Snape was lying, or that Mr. Snape would tire of him, or that Mr. Snape wanted something from him. He couldn't bear not to believe him.

Severus cleared his throat. "I am not in the habit of waiting for meaningful responses to my questions. What is the status of your Wolsford application?"

Harry bit his lip and looked down at the flagstone patio. "I've--" he started. He rolled his eyes and swallowed. "I've written the essay," he said in the smallest voice he could muster. With his eyes firmly fixed on the craggy stones beneath his feet, he missed the pride and exultation that swept across Severus's face for an instant before it became as blank and unforgiving as before. "I haven't decided to apply yet, you know," Harry said with a scowl.

"Think faster," Severus said before turning to the day's assignment. "Come, we have much to accomplish," he said, pleased that his bit of nurturing was being to pay off.

Harry never would have believed it, but he was enjoying the work in the Malfoy garden. He was in his element as his hands worked the moist soil and packed it protectively around the new plants. Mr. Snape was working on the other side, leaving Harry with his copy of the landscape plan and his assigned plants. He was surprised that Mr. Snape had done nothing more than make a few cursory inspections, and even fewer comments. He'd offered a few suggestions here and there, which Harry had been happy to take. At the rate they were working, they would get most of the foundation planting done that first day. He was planting his last holly when he felt someone come up behind him. The sun that had been beating at his back was now shadowed.

"There's lunch, if you're interested," Draco said.

Harry looked up at the sun, surprised to see how much time had passed. On cue, his stomach rumbled. "Great. Thanks," he said as he stood. He dropped his gardening gloves on the grass and followed Draco to the patio. There was an assortment of small sandwiches, fruit slices, and biscuits on the patio table. A pitcher of iced lemonade stood to the side. Without further invitation, Harry grabbed several of the sandwiches, a few orange slices and more than a few chocolate biscuits.

"Still like chocolate, I see," Draco said with a chuckle as he made his own plate of sandwiches and biscuits.

"Yeah, still like chocolate," Harry said between mouthfuls of egg salad. "You don't have to sit here with me, you know," he said, feeling uneasy. Harry was sitting on the ground, his legs sprawled and bent, his forearms resting on his knees.

Draco hesitated for a moment. "I want to," he said with a shrug. "Thought it might give us a chance to catch up a bit more."

"Whatever," Harry said as he toyed with the crust on one of the sandwiches. Draco had that pensive, questioning look about him that meant he wanted to ask deep, meaningful questions. Harry was well acquainted with the look, though not from Draco. He looked around for Severus. His absence was far too convenient, Harry thought. "Where's Mr. Snape?"

"He's eaten already—had some errand to run. Said something about phosphate, why I haven't the foggiest."

Harry nodded, mentally cursing Snape and his obvious meddling. Forcing his way into his house, harassing him at work, stealing his school records. This convenient lunch bore all the markings of a Snape-sprung trap.

"Plant thing," Harry finally said in explanation before pinching off a bit more sandwich. He chewed slowly while watching Draco out of the corner of his eye. Draco was fiddling with his own sandwich. Harry braced himself.

"So, Uncle Severus said you're really good with plants."

Okay, that was an easy one. Harry could answer that without much thought. He shrugged. "I don't know about that. I like them, is all."

"I remember. About you liking the plants, I mean," Draco said.

Harry said nothing in return as he took another bite of his sandwich, hoping that he was being rude enough that Draco would give up and leave. Unbidden, Mr. Snape's words from earlier about how neither he nor Draco would go away, no matter what Harry did, came back. Bloody hell, that bizarre feeling in his chest was back!

"Remember all of that time we spent in your garden at first?"

Harry pinched another bite of sandwich and popped it in his mouth, struggling to seem indifferent. "I remember," he began as he swallowed, "a little blond-haired prat who followed me around all day chattering about cats while I worked." Surely that had been enough to make Draco go away, Harry thought.

Draco's gaze dropped to his plate. Harry thought he hear him mumble something about Harry being the prat, not him. Harry almost smiled at that. Maybe he couldn't rattle Mr. Snape, but he knew how to get to Draco. Draco would give up soon and go back into the house and do what ever it was he did these days, Harry was sure of it.

But Draco didn't leave. He didn't give up. As they finished their sandwiches in silence Harry realized Draco's stubbornness matched his own.

"So, what do you do for fun?" Draco asked, struggling to start the conversation once again.

Realizing that Draco wasn't leaving any time soon, Harry shrugged and took a long drink of lemonade before plucking a chocolate biscuit from his plate. These were the really good biscuits, he knew. He took a small bite. His eyes fluttered closed at the taste. He savored while thinking about how to respond to Draco's question. "Don't do much of anything except go to school and work," he said, before taking another bite.

"What about your friends? Don't you do things with your friends?"

Harry shrugged, keeping his gaze distant. He wasn't about to give away that he didn't have any friends.

"Sounds boring," Draco said. Before he could say anything more, Harry took another bite of his chocolate biscuit. His eyes fluttered closed again and the tiniest groan escaped. Draco was transfixed. For a second, he saw the Harry he knew—the small, skinny boy with a mane of wild, black hair; the boy who loved chocolate chip pancakes, and chocolate éclairs, and chocolate biscuits; the boy who laughed with him and went on adventures with him and was his friend. Without a word, he transferred his chocolate biscuits to Harry's plate.

At the soft clatter of biscuits, Harry opened his eyes and looked down to see quite a few more on his plate. He blinked as he worked out how they'd gotten there. "Thanks," he said, wondering what Draco was playing at.

"No problem. So, um, what's your school like?"

"It's a school. Nothing much to say, really. Boring teachers, boring students, boring beige walls," Harry said as he tried to work out why Draco had given him the biscuits.

Draco nodded and bit his lip. He looked so forlorn that Harry nearly offered him his biscuits back. He sighed and gave in—just a little. "Er, so you go to Wolsford, right?"

Draco looked up, his eyes bright. He leaned forward a bit. "Yeah. Heard of it? It's fantastic."

"What's it like?"

"It's a castle for starters. There's loads of classes and interesting professors, every sport you can imagine. It's great."

Harry nodded. "Sounds brilliant," he said.

They talked for quite a while about Wolsford, Little Whinging and Mr. George and his purple pants. It was quite pleasant, Harry thought, as he relaxed a bit. When he did, he noticed a very curious thing. The more relaxed Draco became, the more of the "Draco" Harry remembered emerged. He was in the middle of relaying a story about his friend Blaise and someone named Mr. Filch. The story, for some odd reason, also involved a cat and an overturned mop bucket. It was during the part where the mop bucket and cat met under rather unfortunate circumstances—circumstances that somehow involved the Blaise fellow—that Harry noticed it. He realized he knew this person; he well and truly knew him. He found he'd missed him. Draco was hunched forward, his eyes bright with mischief, and his hands gesturing this way and that as he told his story. His hair had fallen in his eyes, no longer perfectly styled. His voice, though deeper and more mature, now, still had the same cadence and lilt he'd used when telling stories all those years ago. The patter and sway of his movements were just as entrancing now as they had been then. He'd been drawn to Draco's openness, his unflinching approach to life. Harry found he'd missed that. It was a rather profound sort of feeling.

Just as Harry arrived at his conclusion, he realized an awkward silence had descended. He'd missed the end of the story, it seemed. He'd no idea what had become of the cat, or the mop bucket. Not that Draco noticed. He'd turned pensive again.

"Can I . . . can I ask you a question?" Draco asked.

Harry tensed. He'd been waiting all day for this. He rather admired Draco's self-restraint. The old Draco would have demanded answers from Harry the moment he'd shown up that morning.

"Um, sure," Harry said, scrolling through the mental catalogue of responses he felt comfortable giving to the question he was sure Draco was about to ask.

"Why didn't you say goodbye?" Draco blurted.

Harry blinked as his mental catalogue search was brought to an abrupt halt. That wasn't the question he'd expected at all. "I'm sorry?"

"When I left for school. Why didn't you say goodbye?"

"Seriously? This is your question?"

"Yeah. Why wouldn't it be? That really hurt, you know."

Harry's mouth fell open in disbelief. Of, course. How could he have forgotten? Everything was about Draco, what hurt Draco, what Draco wanted. Anger stabbed at Harry and pummeled him with its heavy fists. It was quite a different sort of feeling from the one that had coalesced in the center of his chest earlier. "Hurt? That really hurt? God, Draco, you are such an arse!" Harry blurted, feeling betrayed somehow—like he'd felt standing in the Malfoy's living room four years ago, watching himself unravel further and further from their lives as he pushed himself back into the shadows.

Draco jumped to his feet and ran his hand through his hair. "What is wrong with you?" he snarled. "I've been nice, accommodating, tried to have a conversation with you and all you can do is . . . is act like that," he said while waving his hands around as if they encompassed the whole of that.

The fists beat harder, the stabbing now more insistent. "What's wrong with me?" Harry snapped as he stood up and charged Draco. "There's nothing wrong with me. You're the one trying to pretend that the last four fucking years haven't happened. You want to know why I didn't say goodbye? Because you were a coward. You lied, Draco. You lied about me to save your arse. You hurt me, Draco. You betrayed me! If there was ever anyone I thought I . . . you weren't supposed to . . . damn it, Draco!" Harry stormed off the patio.

"Hey, wait a second. Harry—wait," Draco called, as he ran to catch up. He grabbed Harry's shoulder, saying, "Wait a second," before Harry whirled around and knocked his hand away.

"Don't touch me!" Harry hissed as he scrambled away, startled by Draco's touch.

Draco's eyes went wide. "Sorry, I'm sorry," Draco said. "I wasn't . . . I didn't mean to . . . I wasn't trying to startle you."

Harry took another step backward. He dug the heel of his trainer into the ground. He ducked his head as he felt the heat of embarrassment suffuse his skin. He nodded. He knew that wide-eyed look, too. That was the one he got when the other person—believing that he was regularly beaten, or some other such ridiculous flight of fancy—treated him like a skittish foal .

"Look, can't we talk about this? I really want to talk to you, Harry. I want to know what's happened to you. And, yeah, you hurt me. I want to know about that, too. And if I hurt you, well . . . I want to know about that more than anything," he whispered.

Harry twisted his lips and bit the inside of his cheek while the heel of his trainer continued to dig, making a shallow rut in the ground.

"I'm sorry for lying," Draco whispered. "I didn't know it would hurt you so much. It's just that . . . I thought my mum had died, you know? I couldn't bear to see her angry with me."

"And that's supposed to excuse it?" Harry snarled, before ducking his head again and returning to the fascinating task of rut-making.

"No. No, it's not. It's just an explanation, Harry. And it was four years ago. Isn't that long enough?"

Harry bit the inside of his cheek again. Where in the hell was Snape? He thought about demanding hazard pay—one should not be subjected to so much emotional upheaval in the course of a day. "Okay, yeah, fine. I get it, Draco. Just . . . just leave me alone."

Harry turned and dropped to his knees, pulling on his gardening gloves. "No," he heard behind him. Harry twisted around. "What?"

"I said no. I'm not just going to leave you alone. I have questions too, you know." When Harry said nothing, Draco huffed. "Well? What are you waiting for? You owe me that much."

Oh, how the anger beat at him now. Its fists flew across his heart and stabbed at his eyes, blinding him. Harry leapt to his feet, whirled around, and faced Draco, his eyes a venomous green. "I owe you nothing," he hissed. "If anything, you owe me. I took the blame for you that night, if you'll remember," he said, his voice rising. "But Mum, Harry wanted to go to the lake, He begged me to go to the lake. He made me take him to the lake," Harry said in a whiny, sing-song voice, meant to imitate Draco at eleven. "It was you who wanted to go to that bloody lake, not me," Harry snarled in his regular tenor voice as he took a step forward, "It was you who dragged us around all day. It was always you, Draco. But I took the blame. I didn't tell, did I? And what did you do? Huh? What did you do? You bloody left!" Harry screamed before choking on his words. The anger retreated, leaving behind the sort of prescience that only shock could bring. He gasped as he realized all he'd just said. He'd not meant to say that. Goddamn sodding Malfoy! Harry had to get out of there. "Get out of my sight! I don't owe you a bloody thing!" Harry roared as he tried to push Draco to the side and scramble away.

Draco smiled that warm, now infuriating smile as he sidestepped Harry. "Perhaps not, but at least now you're talking to me," he said as he grasped Harry's wrist and kept him from running.

"What?" Harry asked as he stopped mid-push, too bewildered to realize Draco was ignoring the no-touching rule, and too bewildered to remember that, at that moment, he hated Draco Malfoy.

"I tried being nice, but it seems like the best way to get you to talk to me is to rile you. Hmm . . . maybe Uncle Severus is onto something after all."

"You've lost your bloody mind," Harry blurted, feeling as though the world had tipped over and gone inside-out. Draco smiled again. Harry had the sudden urge to knock it off Draco's smug, pointy face. "Stop with all of the bloody smiling," Harry said with a scowl as he shook his hand free. "It makes you look like a bloody ponce."

Draco chuckled, pretending as if he hadn't heard Harry at all. "You should see yourself. Jumping around, snarling and snapping, that mop of hair flying about." Draco cocked his head. "You still remind me of a little lion, you know. I've missed him—the boy that he was. What's happened to him? And why did he never tell me what—well, you know. I just want to be your friend, Harry. Let me. Please."

Harry looked away. He felt wrung out. It seemed Draco had inherited his godfather's penchant for emotional tilt-o-whirls. He wanted to be Harry's friend, even knowing what he did, Draco still said he wanted to be his friend. It didn't make any bloody sense. He should be running away from, not towards Harry. The whole sordid mess was overwhelming and yet, that weight was back in the center of his chest, it's edges more sharply defined. It smacked of hope and that scared the hell out of Harry. "I can't do this right now," he whispered.

Draco nodded. "I understand," he murmured. "I just want to help you. I don't understand why you don't want that. Why you don't want that from anyone."

Harry shook his head. He had a choice to make in that moment, he knew, and it was one that had to be made. Right then. He closed his eyes and did something he never did. He took a chance.

"You've been home, what, a week or two? This is . . . let me think about things a bit, yeah? I can't just . . . I can't pretend that I haven't seen or heard from you in four years."

"I wrote--"

"—Calm down. I believe you, okay? I'm sure . . . I'm sure the Dursleys had something to do with the letters. But that doesn't change things. Just . . . just give me a little bit of time to sort this out."

Draco studied Harry for a few moments before nodding. "What now then?"

Harry smiled. It was so infrequent that he did so, the skin felt odd stretching across his teeth that way. "I need some help with the privet."

Draco resisted the urge to shudder. Plants really weren't his thing. But, for some unknown reason that he simply couldn't puzzle out, Harry was, and, at the moment, he wanted help with the plants. It wasn't much, but it was a start, and that was enough. "Let's get started then."