The small edges of the bush’s branches dig painfully into his skin, but Draco’s laughter is contagious, especially when he looks so open and relaxed like that.
“You’re gonna have to help me up, Potter. I can’t feel my legs anymore.”
“Just a few minutes ago, you were talking so big about how you could do it on your own.”
“I can, but you’re already here, you might as well be of some use.”
Harry nudges him with his knee. “I ought to shove you in the fountain, Malfoy.”
“My mother will be livid with you.”
“I’ll explain that you were being an ass.”
“Potter, are you going to help me up or not? It’s rather discomfiting to be this close to your crotch.”
And Harry laughs again.
Draco’s smiling, and the sun is bright and his hair is bright, and there’s more colour to his face now than there has been for weeks.
So Harry helps him up and Draco can walk, but he can only hold himself up for a few minutes, before his knees start to buckle beneath him. Harry helps him back to his wheelchair by keeping an arm around Draco’s waist and a hand under his elbow, and Draco doesn’t get angry and Harry pretends this isn’t weird.
“What’s for breakfast today?” Harry asks as he pushes Draco’s wheelchair up the ramp that leads into the balcony.
“Is food the only thing occupying your head?” Draco says exasperatedly. He waves towards the table, where two plates have appeared during their frolic in the garden. On each plate lay a generous slice of pie. “Blueberry pie.”
Harry immediately recognizes it, and his eyes brighten. “Oh. It’s from Molly.” He parks the wheelchair on Draco’s side of the table and then sits down on his chair.
Draco nonchalantly takes his napkin and lays it over his lap. “Yes, she sent it over yesterday. Mother likes it.”
Harry grins. “So? How is it?”
And Draco doesn’t look at him, keeps his eyes resolutely on the napkin on his lap even though it’s already unfolded properly. He clears his throat. “I like it. It’s delicious.”
Harry can’t stop the soft smile forming on his face then. Molly Weasley baking a pie for the Malfoy family. Draco Malfoy saying that Molly Weasley’s blueberry pie is delicious. There is warmth in his chest and it’s threatening to spill out. He thinks he might visit the Burrow tomorrow.
“Molly would love to hear that.”
The next day, Harry arrives at the Burrow, unannounced, and the whole house grows silent for a few seconds after he lands through their Floo. It’s certainly been a while since Harry’s visited, despite the numerous invitations he’s had from all members of the family. But the Burrow is never silent for long, and all at once, cheers and greetings erupt from all sides.
“I told you he was going to come on a Tuesday! Give me five sickles!” George is howling, and Ron, grumbling, grudgingly shoves a hand down the pocket of his pants.
There is a flurry of red hair and he finds his arms filled with Ginny and his back roughly patted by Arthur.
At the back of the crowd, Molly wipes at her eyes surreptitiously using her apron, and Harry flashes her a shy grin.
Molly huffs, wipes at her eyes again, before waving a ladle in his direction. “Well, come on, then, Harry, you’re just in time for lunch.”
Over the table, after George tells him through a mouthful of food at how bad Ron is at gambling, Harry tells Molly that Draco liked her blueberry pie, enough to eat it at dinner and request it for breakfast again the next day.
Molly dabs at her eyes with her apron again. And again. And again. Until Arthur just laughs, pulls her in for a hug, and lets her cry on his shoulder.
August comes to a close, and the upcoming school year has everyone busy, so much that the invitations for whatever functions have stopped. He thinks that that’s why Narcissa has stopped asking him to come to the Manor, though she has told him that he’s welcome anytime he wants to.
Harry doesn’t manage to anymore, though, because Hermione’s back and he’s been spending a lot of his time in the Burrow again, doing last minute house repairs and last minute shopping in Diagon Alley. They do it under Glamours, of course, and Harry wonders if Draco’s well enough to walk around Diagon Alley, too.
He knows that Molly and Narcissa keep in constant correspondence, however, and Molly doesn’t mention anything out of the ordinary, and so Harry doesn’t ask.
September 1 is just around the corner.
Platform 9 ? is full and close to bursting by the time Harry pushes his cart through the wall. It is as Kingsley warned him: Common folk and paparazzi alike are going to be fighting tooth and nail to get a glimpse of him.
He pulls his hat down further to cover his eyes, even though he’s confident his dirty blond hair and pudgy cheeks won’t attract any camera shutter. He’s not even wearing his glasses, and only Hermione’s small hand on his back is keeping him from pushing his cart down the train track.
Ron, also under a Glamour, had already boarded ahead of them, as planned. People will be expecting them to come together in a group of three, Hermione had explained. Any group of three students will automatically be a target of scrutiny, no matter how good their Glamours were.
There were reporters shouting “There!” and pointing to various directions, but never the correct one. Harry resolutely ignores the vendors selling pins and balloons with his face plastered on them. It isn’t even a flattering picture of him.
“Look, it’s Draco Malfoy!”
Harry immediately looks up, searching, even though everything’s blurred. He looks for where one person is pointing and where other people are looking, and he squints, willing his vision to focus, and realizes that they’re looking at him.
And then, another person says, “Naw, that’s not Malfoy. Malfoy’s a thin lad. Do yer job properly, why don’t ya?”
From behind him, Harry hears someone mutter. “Good. I don’t really want to see Death Eater scum today.”
Harry almost turns around in anger, but Hermione tightens her grip on the sweater on his back.
“Zach,” Hermione’s voice, altered into a high-pitched squeak, sounds from beside him, and she turns green eyes to him, a smile plastered on her thick lips. “I reckon we should hurry it up, don’t you? We don’t want to miss the train.”
Harry grumbles, but allows her to lead him away.
As soon as they enter the compartment where Ron’s waiting for them, they collapse on the bench and immediately take off their Glamours. They sigh loudly as they sag on their seats.
“It’s crazy,” Ginny says in disbelief, peeling one edge of the closed curtain away from the window to peek at the mess of people outside.
“They’re bonkers, that’s what they are.” Ron shakes his head, a stricken look on his face. “They were selling Ginger Quills! ‘Show your love for Ron Weasley’ and all that shite! Ginger Quills!”
Brushing her hair away from her face, Hermione says seriously, “Their nibs are actually really comfortable to use.”
Ron turns his horrified expression her way. “You bought a Ginger Quill?”
Hermione smiles, her eyes twinkling. “I passed by a shop selling them in Diagon Alley. Show your love for Ron Weasley and all that shite.”
And Ginny bursts into laughter and Harry laughs along with her as Ron’s face turns as red as his hair, and it’s definitely new, this dynamic among them.
He and Ginny had come to an understanding that they weren’t ready for a relationship, with both of them still mourning all they’ve lost. Ron and Hermione had bravely taken on the challenge, and Harry had been cautious at first, thinking that it was one more thing that had to change. But at the end of the day, he loves his friends, is immensely proud of them and their relationship, and—lately—have been thinking that maybe it won’t be so different between all of them after all.
The Hogwarts Express this year is, as predicted, sparsely occupied.
