Chapter 16: The Boy in the Mirror
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and those to whom she has licensed her creations, including without limitation Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. I make no money from this and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
A/N:Great thanks to Sansa and snottygrrl for their fantastic beta skills and wonderful cheerleading.
Harry looked at his reflection and wondered if he knew the boy staring back at him from within the elegantly framed silvered glass. The boy in the mirror wore hand-sewn Italian loafers, blended silk socks and under things, finely tailored wool trousers, a crisp, white dress shirt that had his initials embroidered on the pocket, and a black wool blazer bearing the Wolsford crest. A flash at the boy's wrist caught Harry's eye—he'd almost forgotten about the small, silver cufflinks—monogrammed as well. Draco had insisted. Something about them being an extravagant necessity. At the time, Harry had been too overwhelmed to make much of a fuss. Now he rolled his eyes at the frippery.
"Rich people must forget their names a lot," Harry muttered under his breath as he grimaced at the little "HPJ" monograms stamped all over him.
Harry glanced up. The boy in the mirror was frowning. Harry suspected the boy didn't care for his humor, but Harry couldn't be arsed to care at the moment. He had bigger issues to worry about, namely how in the hell he was going to make it through the Wolsford start of term picnic.
Harry snorted. His entire life had changed in less than a month. A month ago, he'd been wearing worn trainers, shabby jeans and overlarge tee-shirts. He could fit everything he owned into a large duffle. He'd had a job at a nursery, a small room without windows, and an acute understanding of his place in the world.
Now he'd fallen down the rabbit hole. He had piles of expensive, tailored clothing, six pairs of shoes, a watch—Harry had never owned a watch—soft pajamas, matching robes, and slippers. He had trunks—trunks—full of other things, too. One was devoted to school things—brand new books, class journals with his initials stamped on the front in gold, a leather book satchel, engraved pens and a small box filled with different sizes of flat cards and folded notes engraved with his initials—for accepting invitations to parties and holidays, Narcissa had informed him. Then there were the other things. Sets of the softest sheets Harry had ever touched, squashy down pillows, warm blankets, and a green cashmere throw that, much as Harry hated to admit, he'd fallen in love with. Yet, for his reversal of fortune, Harry found himself almost wishing he could go back in time and tear up the Wolsford application instead of signing it. He had no idea what was going to happen next. Worse still, he had no idea who, exactly, he was supposed to be.
Harry brushed his clammy hands across the front of his trousers, immediately reddening at the thought that the posh looking boy in the mirror wouldn't have done something so crass. He shook his head. He'd never get used to such finery. He still felt like Harry inside, but he didn't know the boy staring back at him. He hoped he was nice.
"Oh, my! How handsome!" the tailor's assistant gushed as she swept back the heavy curtains in Harry's small dressing area and pulled him away from the mirror.
Harry was led out into the main room and pulled atop a small platform so that the tailor could inspect hems and darts and other things Harry cared little about. He took a shuddering breath as the man's hands tugged at the trouser legs. After weeks of being measured and poked and prodded, Harry still didn't understand why so much touching was involved.
"Oh, Harry. Such a young gentleman you are," Narcissa said with a smile as she rose from the designer chair and put down the fine bone china teacup and saucer. She walked around Harry, her fingers skimming along the lines of the blazer. "It fits you beautifully," she murmured to herself. "You'll be sure to catch some young lady's eye at the picnic." Before Harry could protest that he would much prefer that he catch no one's eye—much less the eye of some silly blueblooded girl—Narcissa turned to Severus and said, "Do we have a list of who's attending this year? I'd like to make the appropriate introductions for Harry. He simply must meet the Smythwicks, of course. Their daughter Pamela is about his and Draco's age, as I recall. That could be a lovely match, don't you agree?"
Harry's irritation grew the more Narcissa talked and planned and plotted. He wished Draco were here instead of in the back trying on his own uniform.
"Narcissa, don't you think you should let Harry acclimate a bit before marrying him off to the Smythwick girl?" Severus asked from the dark corner in which he'd nested for the afternoon.
"Don't be silly, Severus. Marriage is a bit off in the future, I think," Narcissa laughed, missing Harry's scowl and slumping posture.
Severus's gaze darted between Harry and Narcissa. There remained an underlying tension between them, but one neither wished to broach. Narcissa, determined to make up for every difficulty suffered by Harry, had thrown herself into getting him ready for school. Harry, subdued and overwhelmed, was going along with it because, Severus suspected, it was the easier course. Thus, it had been weeks of whirlwind shopping, measuring and constant chattering. Things had gone surprisingly well, especially with Draco and Severus there to act as buffers. But now, looking at Harry was like seeing the eight year old he'd met all those years ago, only he was taller now, his eyes a little less bright, his hair raffish instead of scruffy. Severus eyed the back of the shop, wishing Draco would come out and bring his mother back to Earth. If the conversation between Draco and the tailor's assistant was any indication, Draco would not be joining them any time soon. Severus sighed and pushed away from the wall.
"Stop scowling," Severus snapped at Harry. "And stand up straight," he added for good measure before turning to Narcissa. "Cissa, I need your assistance with the socks," he said as he steered her away.
"Socks? Why do you need assistance with socks?" Narcissa asked as she was led away. "What's so important about socks? You're a grown man. You can pick out what you want. Harry needs me," she said as she turned back.
Severus stopped her. "Narcissa, please," he said in a low voice. "You've overwhelmed him. This is a big change for him. Let him get used to wearing trousers that actually fit before you start flinging him at blueblood families who came out of the womb knowing the difference between Sterling and Martelé silver."
"Severus, don't be silly. Yes, it's an adjustment for him, but the faster he makes friends, the better off he'll be. Besides, I haven't heard an ounce of complaint from him—even after I bought him that green cashmere throw for his bed in the dormitory. He slept with it the other night, did you notice? The way the light was hitting him, he almost looked like a little boy curled up with his snuggly. Adorable. They grow up so fast," Narcissa crooned wistfully.
Severus pinched his nose in frustration. "That he hasn't complained, at all—even after you insisted that all his class journals be stamped with his initials—is rather the point, Cissa."
"Now you're just not making sense. Draco's journals are stamped with his initials, so are most of the other boys' journals. I just want Harry to have the same things. I don't want him to worry about not fitting in."
"Cissa, Harry is not Draco nor is he any of the other boys. He's not going to fit in if you force him into some preconceived mold. You've been nattering on for weeks about who he's likely to meet, coaching him through endless conversation topics, prepping him for introductions and other odd bits of etiquette. He's had a different life—a harder life—and all of the finely tailored worsted wool in the world isn't going to change or hide that."
"You don't think I know he's had a different life? Of course he has, Severus. That's precisely why I'm trying to help him now. The Wolsford circles can be dreadful to navigate if you don't know what you're doing. I refuse to have Harry begin his time there unsure of his footing."
"He's not being flung to the wolves, Cissa. Draco and I will be there to help him acclimate."
"He's no longer living with those awful people. He's a part of our world—I only want to make him realize that there's no need for acclimation."
"He will not see it that way! You must, on some distant level, recognize that Harry, for as bright and earnest as he is, does not understand the way the world works in a universe ruled by society parties and designer clothing. Not yet, anyway, and a month's worth of instruction isn't going to change that. He is not a project. He is a boy, one that needs to know that he is fine the way he is!"
Narcissa looked away. "I just . . ." she turned back to him, a familiar fire in her eyes. "I will not stand for anyone hurting him or making him feel inadequate, Severus. I—I . . . well, I stood around and let too many other people do that, didn't I? I won't let it happen again. Not when I can make sure it doesn't happen, not now when things are finally turning around for him."
"But neither can you foist your well-meant intentions on him. Mark my words, Narcissa, you push him too far, he will push back."
"Ridiculous," Narcissa said with a fluttering hand wave as she walked back, eager to discuss her plans for taking Harry and Draco to lunch at the latest London hotspot.
"Mr. Snape, might I have a word?" Harry asked while Narcissa nattered on with the tailor about the length of Draco's trousers. Draco had finally joined them a few minutes prior and Harry was grateful to relinquish the spotlight.
"Of course. Is everything all right?"
"Er, yes sir. I just wonder if, well, I mean, I don't rightly understand the terms of my stipend. I'm concerned, sir, that we've spent it all on all these things Mrs. Malfoy insists I need. I just . . . well, I was just wondering if perhaps you could convince her to, erm, return some things."
Severus knew this was going to come up. He'd been dreading it. "You're uniforms are not part of the stipend," he said, evading the question.
Harry scratched his head and looked back at Narcissa and a very bored Draco. He shuffled closer to Severus. "I don't think I really need seven complete uniforms. But, that's not what I'm talking about, not really. Things like these shoes. I don't need hand sewn shoes."
"One cannot return shoes, Mr. Potter."
"Okay, fine! Not the shoes, then. How about all those pairs of jeans and jumpers and button down shirts? I don't need all of that. Besides, the jeans I have are perfectly fine. I don't need new ones."
Severus glowered. "Are you referring to those threadbare, ill-fitting, faded scraps of cloth? I think not," Severus scoffed.
"I don't need all this stuff," Harry whispered furiously. "Why can't I just . . . I just . . . I don't need it, that's all I'm saying."
Severus stared at Harry until Harry started fidgeting nervously. "You are correct, of course. You don't need class journals with your initials stamped on them, nor do you need engraved stationary. I can see your dilemma."
"That's it exactly," Harry said in a rush, grateful that Severus understood. "I mean, who needs fancy stamped journals and engraved stationary," he said with a laugh, before stopping. It occurred to him that Mr. Snape never agreed with him so quickly. There must be a catch. "Er, you can see my dilemma? Sir?" Harry asked.
"Quite," Severus said with a nod and thin-lipped smile. "For instance, I'm sure we can return that cashmere throw," he said with a blank face. It was very hard not to laugh at Harry's stricken expression.
"The throw?" Harry squeaked.
"Yes, of course. You've got several other blankets I believe."
"Er, well, it gets cold there, you said, and, erm, well, I . . . I . . . I--"
"Calm down, Harry, no one's taking away your snuggly," Severus teased.
"It's not a snuggly!" Harry exclaimed, causing everyone to turn around and stare for a moment before returning to their in-depth discussion about whether Draco needed another pair of charcoal gray trousers. Harry's face reddened. He scowled at Severus's upturned lips and silent chuckles. "It's not a snuggly," he repeated in a harsh whisper. "I admit that I like it. I like it a lot, but if you think it should be returned, well then, I'll not complain. I imagine I'll have lots of expenses during the year. I want to make sure I've planned accordingly."
Severus was getting a headache. He pinched the bridge of his nose—again—and sighed. "Harry, we're not returning anything. You've not used any part of your stipend."
"What do you mean? How am I to pay for all of this, then? Surely it's not just been given to me."
Severus pursed his lips while he stared at Harry, waiting for him to work out what was happening.
"Mrs. Malfoy," Harry growled a few seconds later. "I don't take charity."
Severus was tired of this. "It is not charity, you infuriating, foolish boy! It is a gift. Given out of the most honorable of intentions, I might add. Narcissa has the means to provide you with anything you desire and she wants to. She cares deeply for you, Harry, and regrets that she was not there for you when you needed her most. She only wishes you the best."
"I don't want—I . . . don't need it. Any of it! I don't . . . I don't . . ." Harry pulled at his hair. He struggled to keep his voice low. "I can take care of myself," Harry said with a sneer. "I don't need fancy shoes to do it!"
"It is okay to want," Severus said in a soft voice, effectively stopping Harry's tirade.
"I . . . what? I know that," Harry snapped.
Before Harry could say more, Draco and Narcissa wandered over.
"Harry, the tailor needs your uniform to make final adjustments," Narcissa said.
Harry opened his mouth to stay something, but after glancing at Severus, he closed his mouth and shook his head in frustration. "Of course," he said tightly as he pushed past and made his way to the back.
Draco looked at Severus and his mother in confusion before following Harry to find out what was wrong.
Harry stared at the boy in the mirror again before he took off his blazer. He whirled around at the sound of the curtains being drawn back.
"Harry? You okay?" Draco asked
"Fuck, Draco. You can't just barge in here," Harry barked.
"What's wrong with you, you prat?"
"Nothing."
"Right. So that furious whispering you were doing with Uncle Severus, the scowl on your face, the fact that your hands are clenching mean nothing's wrong?"
"Fuck you, Draco," Harry spat, unnerved that Draco had taken such notice of him.
"Would you stop saying that?" Draco asked in a harsh whisper. "They'll hear you."
A dark smile curled on Harry's face. In a loud voice he said, "I don't give a fuck if anyone hears what I fucking have to say, so fuck off, Draco."
Draco lurched forward and clamped his hand over Harry's mouth. "Shut up!" he hissed. "What is wrong with you?"
"Mmpfh!" Harry said, as he tried to pry Draco's hand away, which caused Draco to clamp tighter and move closer. That odd feeling prickled in Harry's stomach again, making his anger vanish. He noticed how warm and soft Draco's hand was. It was an odd thing to notice, given the current circumstances, Harry thought. He stilled and held his breath, puzzled by his reaction.
"Are you done with your little tantrum?"
Harry swallowed and nodded. He didn't know why he felt so nervous all of sudden.
Draco removed his hand and stepped back, leaving Harry feeling a bit bereft. "What's really going on?"
"Er, headache," Harry said, suddenly needing to be as far away from Draco as possible, because he wanted to be closer in some way, and that made no sense. Harry felt his cheeks burn with what he assumed was embarrassment. It was all very bewildering.
Draco sighed and smiled. "I told you to eat breakfast," he scolded as he stepped forward and squeezed Harry's shoulder, missing Harry's sharp intake of breath. "Mum had that gleam in her eye—the one that said she wouldn't let any of us rest or eat until everything was perfect. You should have said something to me. Come on, then. Get changed. I'll convince her that we need to go to lunch straight away."
"Yeah, sure," Harry said, still feeling . . . off.
Draco smiled again as he parted the curtain and walked away, leaving Harry staring after him wondering what in the hell was wrong with him.
Harry tossed back and forth before flopping onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. His soft sheets felt scratchy and his blankets too warm. He sighed and closed his eyes, and started counting back from one hundred again, hoping that, this time, he'd fall asleep. Faint strains from the telly downstairs drifted up the stairwell and into the room he'd been sharing with Draco since moving in. A string of canned laughter distracted him. His count disrupted, he started again. He'd gotten no further than before when, across the room, Draco rolled over in his sleep and mumbled something about cats before slipping back into a sound slumber.
"I should be doing that," Harry said as he sighed and stared at the ceiling some more, abandoning his count.
They were leaving for Wolsford in the morning. A sturdy leather valise sat next to Harry's bed. His uniform hung in the nearby cupboard. His watch sat on the nightstand and glinted in the moonlight. Everything else had been sent ahead. There was no turning back. Harry had never felt more alone. He pulled the green cashmere throw closer, fingering its soft edges. Perhaps it was a snuggly of sorts. Harry wished he could wrap himself in it and disappear. He was dreading tomorrow. He would never survive the picnic, which meant he would never survive Wolsford. Worse still, he was sure he would embarrass Draco, Mrs. Malfoy and Mr. Snape. He was sure he would fail.
Sleep was a long time in coming.
Harry stared out of the window, watching the lush green hills roll by. Mr. Snape drove along while Mrs. Malfoy and Draco gossiped about who would be at the picnic, who was engaged, who had divorced.
"You sound like two old washerwomen," Severus hissed when he'd reached his limit of gossip.
Harry smiled and was glad his face was turned away.
"Honestly, Severus," Narcissa tsked. "It's good to keep up. We wouldn't want to embarrass ourselves, not knowing the state of things."
Harry's smile faded. He slunk down in his seat a bit more and wished his palms would stop sweating.
"By the way, Draco," Narcissa began, "what do you know of the Smythwick girl? Pamela, I think?"
"Why do you ask?" Draco hoped this wasn't another one of his mum's fix-ups. He detested her constant matchmaking. The only girl he'd found that he was remotely interested in had been Jordan, and now she was off to Switzerland.
"I thought she and Harry might hit it off."
Draco heard Harry's sharp intake of breath. Even though Harry was facing away from him, as he had the entire trip, and he'd not said a word, Draco knew he was nervous and, for whatever reason, was not the least bit interested in meeting Pamela Smythwick.
"I don't think they'd hit it off at all," Draco said coolly. "She's far too cloying and she insists on wearing those ridiculous hats. She looks like she's going to a fancy dress party when she does." Draco stifled a grin and the sound of Harry's soft chuckles. "No, Mum, bad idea. Sorry."
Narcissa frowned, but turned back around and began chatting with Severus.
Draco leaned across the seat and whispered to Harry, "Don't worry, Harry, I'll protect you from the dastardly Pamela Smythwick and her hats of doom."
Harry couldn't keep his chuckles quiet any longer. Draco saw him relax, finally, and sat back, glad that he could take away a bit of Harry's nervousness.
"Here we are," Severus said sometime later. Harry turned and gasped at the imposing iron gates surrounding a large estate that appeared to be an old castle. The Wolsford crest dominated the front gate that creaked by slowly as they awaited entrance.
Once through the gates, they drove past the gamekeeper's house, the paddocks and stables, various outbuildings—the purpose of which Harry could not divine, and up around a circular drive to the front of the school. Hundreds of posh people milled about, waiting for the valets to take their cars. Harry could see the picnic in the distance—huge white tents were clumped together in a compound of sorts with a small chamber orchestra playing in the center. Harry watched as women air kissed each other, grave men shook hands and shared a few words, and excited students greeted one another with a mix of exuberance and practiced reserve. Harry had seen such a mix from Draco on occasion. Now he knew where he'd learned it. Harry shook his head. He'd never seen anything like the spectacle laid before him. He began to feel a bit sick. His hands had gone all clammy again. Before he could panic in earnest, a warm puff of breath tickled the back of his neck, startling him.
"It scared the shite out of me too, first time I saw those doors and all the people. Don't worry. Everything's going to be fine," Draco whispered.
Harry turned and faced Draco, drawing back at the realization of how close he was. "Really?" Harry asked.
Draco nodded solemnly before cracking a wry grin. "Come on. Time to make fun of Pammy's hats."
And just like that, Harry felt a bit better.
"Boys, you go on ahead, I need to have a word with a few members of the Board of Governors," said Severus as Narcissa flitted about.
Draco slung his arm around Harry's shoulders. "Let's find Blaise and Ron. You'll like them,"
"Who are they?" Harry asked as they walked towards the white tents.
"They're my best mates here. Ron's second to youngest of seven kids. His dad's an ambassador to some small country—I always forget which. The title's more impressive than the money, of course. Ron's a good guy. A bit hotheaded and a bit thick, but a good guy. Plays a wicked game of chess. There they are," Draco said, as he pointed to a swarming mass of ginger-haired people. Just then, a tall, freckle-faced boy turned and waved at Draco. He said something to his father before running over.
"Lo, Draco! Have a good holiday?"
"Yeah, it was great. How was yours?"
"Brilliant. Went to Egypt on one of Dad's diplomatic trips—the whole family."
"Sounds great," Draco said with a grin. He gestured towards Harry, intent on making introductions, but Ron took the initiative.
"Oh, hello," Ron said to Harry, as he looked him over. "I'm Ron, Ron Weasley. Nice to meet you, er . . ." A curious expression passed over his face. "You must be Jordan's brother." Ron turned to Draco. "I didn't know Jordan had a brother," he said.
"What are you on about?" Draco asked, at the same time Harry asked, "Who's Jordan?"
Ron's mouth flopped open, which he promptly closed. He stammered a bit and scratched his head. Harry noticed that Ron didn't wear cufflinks and that the edges of his blazer were slightly worn. He got the impression that the Weasleys weren't as keen on appearances as others. Harry relaxed some.
"Ron, this is my friend Harry Potter. We grew up together. This is his first term at Wolfsord. Harry, this is Ron Weasley. He's in our year. We've shared a dorm for years and he's a brilliant keeper for our football team."
Harry nodded at Ron, feeling a bit unnerved by Ron's gaze.
"You sure you're not related to Jordan?" Ron asked again, as if he hadn't heard anything Draco had said. He stared at Harry as if he were a puzzle to figure out.
"He's not related to Jordan," Draco snapped, intervening before Harry could speak. "Why do you keep saying that?"
"He looks just like her, is all. Surely you see it? The hair, the face, the, the, everything," Ron said as he made big circles with his hands in Harry's direction.
"Honestly, Ron. I think you need to get your eyes checked. Harry looks nothing like Jordan."
Harry couldn't stand being pinned under glass like this. He clenched his fists, his fingernails biting into his palms as he listened to Draco and Ron discuss the mysterious Jordan. He licked his lips while his eyes flitted to the right. He could just make out the gamekeeper's house, and the stables and the paddocks. He took a step back, wondering if he could slip away without being noticed. He was just about to take another step when Draco turned to him.
"Harry, tell Ron that your last name is Potter and that you're not bloody related to Jordan Richcourt!"
"Er," Harry said, as he glanced back and forth between the two, "I'm not related to Jordan Richcourt. Who is Jordan, by the way? An old mate or something?"
Ron choked and turned bright red before a huge guffaw escaped. "Bloody hell, no! Jordan is Draco's girlfriend," Ron said while wriggling his eyebrows in a suggestive manner.
"Ron," Draco hissed, and said something else, but Harry didn't hear. He'd gone all cold at the announcement that Draco had a girlfriend. He didn't know why, either. Harry had known that Draco had friends at Wolsford—his best friends. That was hard enough to deal with. But the idea that Draco hadn't told him about having a girlfriend—never mind the fact that Draco had a girlfriend to begin with—hurt quite a lot.
Before anyone could say anything more, Harry felt a delicate hand on his shoulder. "Harry? There are some people I'd like you to meet," Narcissa said. "Hello Ronald. Lovely to see you again. I'm sure you can keep Draco occupied for a time?"
"Of course, Mrs. Malfoy," Ron said with a faint smile.
"Mother, can't it wait?" Draco snapped. It rankled that Ron had said he had a girlfriend. He didn't have a bloody girlfriend. He wanted—no, he needed—to explain to Harry, but his mum was ruining things.
"No, Draco, it cannot," Narcissa said with an icy tone that brokered no room for argument and warned Draco that he was treading in dangerous waters.
"Fine," Draco said in a huff, pulling Ron along with him as he stomped away.
"Nice to meet you, Harry," Ron called back.
Harry shook his head, grateful for whatever distraction Narcissa had planned. Of course, his relief was short lived.
Harry and Narcissa walked towards a large flora and fauna display beside one of the large tents. It looked like a demonstration garden of sorts, only Harry had never seen any of the plants potted there. There were large, sweeping palm-like fronds that shouldn't have been able to grow in Britain, except in a hothouse. Below that were zebra striped grasses and lovely spiky flowers that appeared to be some of the more exotic orchid varieties Harry had seen in pictures. It was mesmerizing. Standing in front was Mr. Snape. His arms were crossed and he was talking with a shorter man dressed in a linen summer suit. Narcissa's voice tugged him from his curiosity.
"Harry, that man Severus is speaking with is Mr. Stuart Smythwick. He's a botanist by training and a businessman by profession. His company makes synthetic materials used in sport garments and certain kinds of factory work. His wife, Gabby Smythwick—short for Gabardine, by the way—brought her father's vast wholesale fabric fortune into the marriage. Apparently, her family was the sole importer of fine gabardines for a very long time—hence her name and the match with Stuart. Their daughter's name is Pamela and their son, who attends Wolsford and is in your year, is named Jonathan. They are all botany buffs. I thought you might enjoy meeting them."
Harry's mind with spinning with all the information he'd been given. He nodded, hoping that was a sufficient response to Mrs. Malfoy's invitation. He would have preferred staying with Ron and Draco to this. It felt like a test of some sort, only Harry wasn't sure of the subject matter.
"Ah, Narcissa," Mr. Smythwick said as they approached. "So lovely to see you, my dear," he said as he kissed her cheek.
"Stuart. Always a pleasure. Where is Gabby? She hasn't left you to the wolves, has she?"
Mr. Smythwick chuckled, obviously delighted to be entertained by the likes of Narcissa. Harry felt like he'd been transported back to Draco's eleventh birthday. Everyone gravitated towards Narcissa, and Draco too, for that matter. Harry resisted the urge to flatten his hair and brush his clammy hands across his trousers.
"Gabby and Pammy are gossiping somewhere, and Jonathan, of course, is catching up with several of his year mates. They should be along shortly." Mr. Smythwick's gaze swiveled in Harry's direction. "And who is this fine young man? I don't believe we've met." Stuart stuck out his hand. "Stuart Smythwick. A pleasure to meet you."
Harry swallowed and shook Mr. Smythwick's hand, hoping for the life of him that his palm wasn't as clammy as he imagined it. "Harry Potter, sir. A pleasure to meet you as well."
"Harry is good friends with Draco. He'll be starting Wolsford this term. He's quite the avid botanist. I thought he would get on beautifully with your family."
Mr. Smythwick took stock of Harry. "A botanist, eh? Tell me, Mr. Potter, what do you think of Severus's experimental garden here? Oh, I am sorry, this is Professor Severus Snape, one of the world's finest botanists and a wonderful teacher. I hope you'll have the opportunity to study with him." Mr. Smythwick leaned forward with a chuckle, as if sharing a juicy secret. "I must warn you, though," he said in a loud whisper, "he's rather keen on discipline and hard work and has a right ruddy temper," he said with a boisterous laugh.
Harry smiled. He liked Mr. Smythwick—he wasn't nearly as stodgy and posh-acting as Harry had expected. Maybe this wouldn't be so hard after all.
"The platitudes will not work, Stuart. I've told you that I will not make exceptions for Jonathan. Besides, Mr. Potter and I are old acquaintances," Severus said, his arms still crossed. "I've known Mr. Potter since he was a small child. He was conjugating his verbs in Latin whilst Jonathan was still running around kicking balls for sport. That is why Harry will be in my Botany colloquium and Jonathan will not."
"But, Severus," Mr. Smythwick began.
"No."
Mr. Smythwick's shoulders slumped. Harry got the impression that this Botany colloquium was rather important to him.
"Of course, Severus. You're absolutely right. No, no, no," Mr. Smythwick said as he made a slight slashing motion with one of his hands. "If Jonathan didn't make the required score, then he shouldn't be allowed entrance to your colloquium, no matter the fact that we both know he's capable of the work and has a keen interest in the subject. No, you're right. It would be unfair to the other students, like Harry here, who've made the appropriate showing," Mr. Smythwick said with a decisive nod, as if he were the one convincing Severus.
"Glad we're in accord," Severus said with a hint of sarcasm.
"Mr. Potter," Mr. Smythwick said, his voice rife with calculation and duplicitousness, "tell me what you think of this garden. It was last year's colloquium's project. Extraordinary, isn't it?"
Harry stared hard at Mr. Smythwick, not liking him as much in that moment. He was obviously trying to make a point—one that would favor his son—by asking for Harry's opinion. Harry cocked his head and turned to the plants. Severus stepped to the side, his gaze boring into Harry. Harry put that aside as well as he scanned the various plantings and categorized them. It was the palm-like plant that capture his focus. He stroked the leaves, turning them this way and that, frowning as he tried to puzzle out what he was seeing. "But that doesn't make any sense," he whispered to himself.
"What was that, my boy?" Mr. Smythwick asked.
Harry didn't pay attention to him. He turned to Mr. Snape. "These leaves. They look like the leaves of a Trachycarpus fortunei—oh, sorry, a Chinese windmill palm," he said for Mr. Smythwick's benefit, "but this isn't the trunk of a fortunei. And they don't grow in Britain."
"Quite right, Mr. Potter," Mr. Snape said, a gleam in his eye. "These are, in fact, the leaves of Trachycarpus fortuei, but you see we've made a hybrid palm—one that will grow here."
"Brilliant!" Harry exclaimed, feeling completely relaxed for the first time in a long while. "But how did you account for the cross-genus germination?" Harry asked, missing the way Mr. Smythwick's eyebrows shot to his hairline in surprise.
Before Severus could answer, Narcissa gently turned the conversation back to the more important issue at hand—making introductions for Harry. "Severus? Harry? There will be plenty of time for that. This is a picnic, after all," she said with a light laugh.
"Quite right, quite right," Mr. Smythwick agreed, his assessment of Harry changed. "Tell me, Harry, where were you before? Obviously some place with a very find hard science curriculum."
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Narcissa intervened.
"Harry attended school in Little Whinging. His, er, relatives, believe strongly in the local comprehensive school model."
Mr. Smythwick nodded. "Yes, yes, of course. A self-made man. I like that. But, why attend Wolsford now?"
Again, Harry opened his mouth to respond, but this time Mr. Snape intervened.
"Harry has outgrown what he could learn in his former environment. As Narcissa mentioned, Harry is a dear friend of the family. We persuaded his relatives that this is a more nurturing environment for him."
Mr. Smythwick seemed satisfied, but Harry was seething. All day everyone else had been answering questions for him, or telling him how to answer. He could bloody well answer his own questions and intended to the next chance he got.
"Potter . . . Potter . . . Potter," Mr. Smythwick muttered to himself, trying to place the name. "Is your father a solicitor by chance?"
Before either Narcissa or Severus could answer for him, Harry blurted, "No sir. My parents are dead."
An uncomfortable silence descended, made all the more painful by the sounds of tinkling glasses, laughing children, and the demure chatter of the Wolsford denizens.
"Oh," Mr. Smythwick said as he blinked in surprise. He had no idea how to respond.
Harry winced and muttered an obscenity under his breath, wishing he hadn't been so bloody headstrong.
"Er, family is a very sensitive topic for Harry," Narcissa said, trying to salvage the situation, making Harry wince further.
Well, Harry thought, in for penny, in for a pound. He drew in a deep breath and looked Mr. Smythwick in the eye. "I apologize, Mr. Smythwick," Harry said. "I'm rather nervous, you see. I'm rarely surrounded by so many people. I sometimes wish Mrs. Malfoy and Mr., er, Professor Snape could answer all of the questions asked of me. They're much better at it, as I'm sure you've seen," he said with a self-deprecating laugh.
For a moment, everything was quiet, and then Mr. Smythwick chuckled. It was a rich, hearty sound. Everyone relaxed. "I understand completely, my boy. Why do you think I spend so much time with old Snape here at these bloody things? Next to him, I'm quite the gifted conversationalist!" Mr. Smythwick laughed again and Harry couldn't help but join in, even if he knew Mr. Snape was glowering at him.
Mr. Smythwick shook his hand again. "Mr. Potter, it has been delightful to meet you. I don't know what your plans are for start of term, but we usually host a small dinner for some of the returning students. We'd love to have you round out the group. I'll have Gabby send over an invitation."
Harry saw Narcissa smile. She was proud of him. Harry smiled back, feeling warm inside. "I look forward to it, sir," he said.
With one final nod, and a final exchange of pleasantries, Mr. Smythwick toddled off to find his wife.
"Well done, Harry," Narcissa said. "Well done, indeed. Now, let's find the Martins. We've a schedule to keep."
Harry blanched at the idea of having to go through something like that again.
"Narcissa," Severus growled.
"Harry, dear? Are you feeling okay? You look a little peaky."
Harry swallowed and shook his head. "Er, headache," he said. It was quickly becoming his favored excuse.
Narcissa frowned. "Draco mentioned something about you having a bad headache the other day. Are you well?" she asked as she brushed her hand across Harry's forehead.
Harry darted away from her touch. "Sorry," he said. "I'm fine. Erm, a bit thirsty, though."
"Narcissa, leave the boy be. Harry, go find Draco and meet some of your year mates. Those are the only other introductions you need to make today," Severus said with a stern glance in Narcissa's direction.
Grateful for the reprieve, Harry nodded and trotted away.
Instead of finding Draco, Harry decided he needed some time to himself. The people, the noise, everyone staring at him—it was all too much. He needed to get away. He wandered down the drive and slipped into one of the stables.
The smell of fresh hay and oats, the gentle whickering of the horses, the smell of leather and saddle soap wafting from the tack room—all of it was enchanting. Harry had never seen a horse up close before. He felt as though he were a real gentleman standing there, surveying his prized horses. He wandered up and down the sides of the stable, stopping at each stall and peering at the beautiful animals. There were black ones and brown ones, dappled ones and all sorts of others. They were huge—the lot of them. Harry was in awe as they looked him over, flicked their manes and whinnied in his direction. By the sixth horse, he'd mustered enough courage to pet the side of its face, drawing back when the horse flared its nostrils and snorted. The horse in the far corner, though, was the best of the lot as far as Harry was concerned. Huge and powerful, the chocolate brown horse with a black mane and tail paced around his stall. Harry could see the energy coiled in his muscles, ready to spring if given the chance. Harry sat on a bale of hay and just watched him. He had no idea how much time had passed.
"His name's Buckbeak—I wouldn't get too close, if I were you," a soft voice called, startling Harry. He turned and saw Draco standing a few feet away.
"Draco," Harry said, his mind racing for an explanation as to why he was there.
Draco smiled and sat beside him. "Thought I'd find you here. Mum's all frantic. She's afraid she scared you off, or some other such nonsense."
Harry snickered. "She very nearly did."
Draco nodded. "You could have found me, you know. I told you I'd protect you from Pammy's hats of doom and I thought you knew that extended to over-zealous mums desperate to match make."
Harry bit his lip and looked down. "Sorry. I just wanted some time to myself, I guess. This is all a bit overwhelming."
Draco nodded and didn't say anything further.
"Why didn't you tell me you had a girlfriend?" Harry blurted, his face hot with embarrassment at having asked such a question.
"She's not my girlfriend," Draco growled. "She just a girl, you know? Someone to have fun with at parties, someone to shag."
Harry's eyesbrows shot up, his hurt abandoned at this new revelation. "You mean, like sex?" he squeaked.
Draco laughed. "Yeah, Harry, sex. Surely you've heard of it."
"Er, yeah. 'Course."
Draco stopped laughing and looked Harry over carefully. "Oh my god!"
Harry blushed. "What? What? Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Harry Potter is a blushing virgin!" Draco crowed.
"Shut up, you stupid prat!" Harry hissed, glancing around wildly to make sure no one else had heard.
"It's okay, Harry, really," he said in between chuckles. "Ron's one too. Hermione won't let him near her. 'Not until we're married, Ronald,'" Draco imitated in a high voice before he started sniggering.
Harry opened his mouth to deny what Draco had said, but realized there wasn't any point lying about it. "Course it's all right," Harry snapped. "I'm only fifteen, you know."
"Er, yeah. Of course. It's not a race, or anything. I suspect you, uh, never had much time for relationships."
Harry shook his head. "No. Not really."
Draco nodded. "Well, there will be plenty of time for that," Draco said.
"I suppose."
"Don't you want to?"
Harry scratched his head. "I've really never really thought about it, I guess. I don't see what the big deal is."
Draco opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, and stood. "You don't see what the big deal is? Harry . . . you've, you know, wanked and stuff right?"
Harry stood as well, his face flushed with anger and even more embarrassment. "What the bloody hell kind of question is that? Of course I've wanked, Draco. I'm not a . . . a . . . a eunuch or something."
Draco wrinkled his nose, about to ask what a eunuch was, but decided it wasn't worth knowing. "Don't get your knickers in a twist. I was just making sure, because sex is like, well, it's like wanking only a million times better."
"Well, now, that's inspiring."
Draco jabbed Harry's shoulder, the heat of his fingers making Harry's stomach squirm. "You know what I mean, you prat."
"I suppose," Harry said, stepping away.
"Come on. The picnic's almost over. I suspect the prefects will be leading everyone on the tour of the school soon. We really shouldn't miss it. Besides, Mum is probably beside herself at the thought of how many matchmaking opportunities she's missed."
Harry laughed and started walking towards the door. Draco pulled him back, staring at him intently. "You know I would never keep something important like having a girlfriend from you, don't you? You're my best friend, Harry. I mean that."
Harry's stomach flipped over. He nodded. "Course, Draco," he murmured.
Draco smiled. "Good." He spit on his hand and held it out. "No secrets, yeah?"
Harry rolled his eyes, but spit on his palm and clasped Draco's hand. "No secrets."
Draco squeezed Harry's hand. "Brilliant," he said. "We better get back. Have I told you about my friend Blaise?"
Harry shook his head as he followed Draco out of the stable and back towards the white tents and awkward conversation, Draco chattering all the way about Blaise, Ron, and Harry's new life at Wolsford.