More Than Nothing ch. 10: August Twentieth
I had wanted to give this another read-through before posting it, but I wanted to get it posted by today, too. If I don't post it now, I'll sleep through the rest of the day and not have it posted tomorrow, either.
Hope you enjoy.
Chapter Ten: August Twentieth
As he expected, Mrs. Weasley had arrived early, and by nine that morning Harry was arriving in Diagon Alley with Mrs. Weasley, Ron, and Hermione. Ginny-having received her book list a few weeks earlier; Hogwarts had staggered the book lists by year in hopes of making shopping easier on everyone-had already gotten her school materials and had slept in. Ron looked like he would've rather switched places with her, yawning dramatically and clearly half-asleep on his feet. Hermione's demeanor appeared equally tired, and Harry suspected they'd been sharing company the previous evening.
“I need to get some new school robes,” Harry announced when they arrived.
Mrs. Weasley chastised Ron for not covering his mouth when he yawned, then addressed Harry. “If you'll give me your book list, dear, I can take care of getting those while you're getting fitted. Are you all right doing that alone?”
“I'll be fine, Mrs. Weasley, thanks.”
“All right, I'll come by to get you when you're done. Don't wander off!”
Harry thanked her again, waving Ron and Hermione after her (though both looked too tired to notice), and ducked into Madam Malkin's Robes For All Occasions.
Madam Malkin bustled out of the back to greet him, and while her mauve robes looked immaculate and new, the woman herself looked tired and somewhat aged. Harry realized how long it had been since he'd last seen her properly, and felt a pang of nostalgia.
“Hello dear,” she said, smiling as brightly. “How may I help you?”
“New school robes, please,” Harry requested. Madam Malkin took him by the hand and led him into the back, making him feel once again like a first year.
As they walked, it was as if time were slowing down, and he saw an unnerving parallel between his first year and now, though he found himself far less nervous than the first time he had stepped foot into Madam Malkin's store. The rack of dress-robes waiting to be sized looked almost identical; the counter with the cash register and its colorful quills just as disorganized as before; the assistant witch kneeling at the footstool of another person being sized for their robes eerily familiar...
Harry's heart stopped when he realized how far this parallel had gone, for standing on the footstool was none other than Draco Malfoy, seven years older than the last time this scene had played. As they had grown, attending school every day together and seeing more of each other than they usually cared for, Harry hadn't noticed the change in appearance that Draco had undergone. Now, in the moment that he hesitated, stalled by recollection, Harry saw the difference.
Draco had grown, and while his face was still angular, it had lost the androgynous curves of youth, replaced by high cheekbones and a more defined jawline. His shoulders had broadened, and rather than the doll-like structure he'd had at eleven, he looked lankier and more wiry.
Harry wondered if he had grown nearly as much as Draco had. It didn't seem possible for Draco's appearance now to have been anything like the eleven year old Harry had once seen standing in that exact same spot; could his own appearance have changed so much, too?
Harry scrabbled internally for the resolve he'd made, the one that said he would accept that Draco existed and had no interest in him. He tried to focus on letting go, even when-especially when-faced with the object of his desire.
Madam Malkin indicated the footstool, and Harry stepped up onto to it, facing forward and trying hard not to think about Draco's presence only a few feet away.
“My usual assistant is out on maternity leave,” Madam Malkin began, “And the young woman working on the other gentleman's clothing is very new in her apprenticeship, so I'll have to stop and help her with the finishing touches. I hope it's not too inconvenient, dear!”
As if to prove the point, the apprentice witch made a squeak of surprise, and Draco made a hissing sound through his teeth.
“I'm sorry!” she said immediately, “It was an accident!”
“Miss Brookhouse, be more careful with those needles!” Madam Malkin reprimanded.
“It's all right,” Draco said, though his voice suggested he was annoyed. “She's new, right? Just watch it.” Then he coughed, and Harry wondered--somewhere beyond the surprise at Draco's forgiving words--if Draco had caught a cold recently. Then he reminded himself he wasn't supposed to care.
Miss Brookhouse flushed with embarrassment and apologized again, then went back to pinning the hem of Draco's robe.
Madam Malkin slipped a long, black robe over Harry's head and began to pin the hems at the right length for him. For several minutes, the room was silent.
“Madam Malkin?” Miss Brookhouse said nervously, standing and readjusting her dark green robes. “I've finished pinning the hems on this one.”
Madam Malkin glanced up, eyeing Miss Brookhouse's work appraisingly. “It looks good; let me finish the bottom hem on this and I'll help you with fixing it into place.”
“Yes ma'am!”
Miss Brookhouse took the robe off of Draco and disappeared into the back with it.
“All right, that should do it for now,” Madam Malkin said, addressing Harry. “I'll be right back; she's a sweet girl, but she gets so nervous!”
Harry watched with increasing anxiety as Madam Malkin turned to follow Miss Brookhouse into the far back.
A tense silence filled the room, and Harry dearly wished he could think of something to say.
*
Draco's ankle stung where Miss Brookhouse and stuck him with the pin, but he made no move to scratch at it. He was irrationally afraid to move in Harry's presence, as if moving would betray everything he'd thought and written that summer. As soon as Harry had come into view, Draco had focused somewhere in the middle distance and refused to turn away. Even eye contact had become a potential traitor.
“Kind of like first year, isn't it?” he commented, distantly wondering why he had to say anything at all. He coughed again, and wished the stupid cold would just be gone already.
“Yeah.”
Harry's response was frustratingly noncommital. Draco wondered if Harry still remembered their conversation on the train.
Irritated with himself, Draco wondered how Harry COULDN'T remember that conversation.
19 June
I said something I didn't mean.
Just thinking about it made Draco want to cringe. I wish I could take it back.
“I don't hate you.”
The sound of Draco's own voice surprised him. In his peripheral vision, he saw Harry half-turn to look at him.
“Oh.”
21 July
He always waited for me.
He didn't want to remember that. He'd thought of that several times since he'd written it, and every time he did some desperate part of him tried to read further into it.
I wish I could remember more of what was said, if anything just to have something to hold onto.
It's too late for that, Draco thought bitterly. No going back to change things now. He tried to ignore the voice asking him if it was too late to try again.
23 July
I keep thinking maybe there's something I can do to change things now, but to do that would require the sort of courage exhibited only by Gryffindors.
Draco coughed several more times, feeling his hands and fingers tingle from the strain of coughing, and having gotten up too early, and from not breathing properly because even a few feet was too close to Harry Potter. Is house pride a valid reason to not try to make things better? he wondered, one knee buckling from the effort of coughing.
Isn't there some way out of this?!
Draco took a slow, deep breath and stood up straight again. He felt light-headed, and his mouth was moving, and he began to speak before he could think to stop himself.
“Do you remember,” he began, rational thought giving him up as a lost cause, “when you said there was something missing?” This is stupid. What am I doing? “Something I couldn't do?”
13 July
He'd said that what we were doing had felt empty, and even at the time he'd said it, I was ready to disagree with him.
It was emotion that was missing, Draco thought. But maybe it wasn't. Missing.
Harry looked up at Draco, his expression difficult to read. When did he get so... Slytherin? Draco wondered, then remembered Harry's expression on the train, that disconnected look as he turned away. Oh yeah. A while ago.
“Yeah,” Harry said after a pause. “I remember.”
I can still stop, I don't have to finish, this doesn't have to-
“I think you're wrong.”
The silence that fell was absolute for three seconds, a time in which Draco didn't look at Harry to see his reaction.
Then the door to the far back opened, startling both of the boys. The room was swept with noise as Miss Brookhouse cheerfully presented Draco with his new school robes and Madam Malkin led him to the front of the store.
“Miss Brookhouse, finish the sleeve hems on the other gentleman!” she said cheerily. “Now, Mr. Malfoy...”
It's because of the cold that I'm acting like this, he rationalized. Just the cold. As he walked out the door, his robes paid for, Draco wondered if it was normal for colds to make a person's tongue betray the truth in their heart.
*
Harry stood in stunned silence as Miss Brookhouse finished the adjustments on the sleeves of his robe, watching Draco pay for his robes and leave the store. Draco left quickly and didn't stop to look back.
“Are you Harry Potter?” Miss Brookhouse asked suddenly, surprising Harry out of his daze. She had stopped pinning the hem of his left sleeve to push her long, dark hair out of her eyes, and had stopped midway to consider his face.
“Er, yes...”
“Oh goodness!” she cried, “I didn't even realize it! How very silly of me; I must've been so distracted...” She continued to talk animatedly as she went back to pinning.
Harry's ability to think jarred back into place because of her interruption, and he remembered everything he'd expected of Draco over the summer, and realized this was not what he had anticipated. He had expected to not see Draco until getting on the train at Kings Cross Station at the earliest; he had expected a sneer and look of disgust; he had expected verbal attacks or stony silence. Harry had defended himself against that, insisting that he could love compassionately in spite of it.
He hadn't been prepared for this, and almost wished Draco hadn't said anything. It would've been easier for Harry to go on without him than to be faced with this new confession.
He wondered in frustration why these sorts of things had to happen on the mornings of busy days instead of at the end of them. It would be even better if they happened on uneventful days; now, he had to manage through the rest of the day without being able to stop and think about what had just happened. Not only did he still have hours of shopping left, but there would be no time or place to be left alone at the Weasleys' until he made it to bed that night.
Harry could feel the hours stretching on for weeks already.
Hope you enjoy.
Chapter Ten: August Twentieth
As he expected, Mrs. Weasley had arrived early, and by nine that morning Harry was arriving in Diagon Alley with Mrs. Weasley, Ron, and Hermione. Ginny-having received her book list a few weeks earlier; Hogwarts had staggered the book lists by year in hopes of making shopping easier on everyone-had already gotten her school materials and had slept in. Ron looked like he would've rather switched places with her, yawning dramatically and clearly half-asleep on his feet. Hermione's demeanor appeared equally tired, and Harry suspected they'd been sharing company the previous evening.
“I need to get some new school robes,” Harry announced when they arrived.
Mrs. Weasley chastised Ron for not covering his mouth when he yawned, then addressed Harry. “If you'll give me your book list, dear, I can take care of getting those while you're getting fitted. Are you all right doing that alone?”
“I'll be fine, Mrs. Weasley, thanks.”
“All right, I'll come by to get you when you're done. Don't wander off!”
Harry thanked her again, waving Ron and Hermione after her (though both looked too tired to notice), and ducked into Madam Malkin's Robes For All Occasions.
Madam Malkin bustled out of the back to greet him, and while her mauve robes looked immaculate and new, the woman herself looked tired and somewhat aged. Harry realized how long it had been since he'd last seen her properly, and felt a pang of nostalgia.
“Hello dear,” she said, smiling as brightly. “How may I help you?”
“New school robes, please,” Harry requested. Madam Malkin took him by the hand and led him into the back, making him feel once again like a first year.
As they walked, it was as if time were slowing down, and he saw an unnerving parallel between his first year and now, though he found himself far less nervous than the first time he had stepped foot into Madam Malkin's store. The rack of dress-robes waiting to be sized looked almost identical; the counter with the cash register and its colorful quills just as disorganized as before; the assistant witch kneeling at the footstool of another person being sized for their robes eerily familiar...
Harry's heart stopped when he realized how far this parallel had gone, for standing on the footstool was none other than Draco Malfoy, seven years older than the last time this scene had played. As they had grown, attending school every day together and seeing more of each other than they usually cared for, Harry hadn't noticed the change in appearance that Draco had undergone. Now, in the moment that he hesitated, stalled by recollection, Harry saw the difference.
Draco had grown, and while his face was still angular, it had lost the androgynous curves of youth, replaced by high cheekbones and a more defined jawline. His shoulders had broadened, and rather than the doll-like structure he'd had at eleven, he looked lankier and more wiry.
Harry wondered if he had grown nearly as much as Draco had. It didn't seem possible for Draco's appearance now to have been anything like the eleven year old Harry had once seen standing in that exact same spot; could his own appearance have changed so much, too?
Harry scrabbled internally for the resolve he'd made, the one that said he would accept that Draco existed and had no interest in him. He tried to focus on letting go, even when-especially when-faced with the object of his desire.
Madam Malkin indicated the footstool, and Harry stepped up onto to it, facing forward and trying hard not to think about Draco's presence only a few feet away.
“My usual assistant is out on maternity leave,” Madam Malkin began, “And the young woman working on the other gentleman's clothing is very new in her apprenticeship, so I'll have to stop and help her with the finishing touches. I hope it's not too inconvenient, dear!”
As if to prove the point, the apprentice witch made a squeak of surprise, and Draco made a hissing sound through his teeth.
“I'm sorry!” she said immediately, “It was an accident!”
“Miss Brookhouse, be more careful with those needles!” Madam Malkin reprimanded.
“It's all right,” Draco said, though his voice suggested he was annoyed. “She's new, right? Just watch it.” Then he coughed, and Harry wondered--somewhere beyond the surprise at Draco's forgiving words--if Draco had caught a cold recently. Then he reminded himself he wasn't supposed to care.
Miss Brookhouse flushed with embarrassment and apologized again, then went back to pinning the hem of Draco's robe.
Madam Malkin slipped a long, black robe over Harry's head and began to pin the hems at the right length for him. For several minutes, the room was silent.
“Madam Malkin?” Miss Brookhouse said nervously, standing and readjusting her dark green robes. “I've finished pinning the hems on this one.”
Madam Malkin glanced up, eyeing Miss Brookhouse's work appraisingly. “It looks good; let me finish the bottom hem on this and I'll help you with fixing it into place.”
“Yes ma'am!”
Miss Brookhouse took the robe off of Draco and disappeared into the back with it.
“All right, that should do it for now,” Madam Malkin said, addressing Harry. “I'll be right back; she's a sweet girl, but she gets so nervous!”
Harry watched with increasing anxiety as Madam Malkin turned to follow Miss Brookhouse into the far back.
A tense silence filled the room, and Harry dearly wished he could think of something to say.
*
Draco's ankle stung where Miss Brookhouse and stuck him with the pin, but he made no move to scratch at it. He was irrationally afraid to move in Harry's presence, as if moving would betray everything he'd thought and written that summer. As soon as Harry had come into view, Draco had focused somewhere in the middle distance and refused to turn away. Even eye contact had become a potential traitor.
“Kind of like first year, isn't it?” he commented, distantly wondering why he had to say anything at all. He coughed again, and wished the stupid cold would just be gone already.
“Yeah.”
Harry's response was frustratingly noncommital. Draco wondered if Harry still remembered their conversation on the train.
Irritated with himself, Draco wondered how Harry COULDN'T remember that conversation.
19 June
I said something I didn't mean.
Just thinking about it made Draco want to cringe. I wish I could take it back.
“I don't hate you.”
The sound of Draco's own voice surprised him. In his peripheral vision, he saw Harry half-turn to look at him.
“Oh.”
21 July
He always waited for me.
He didn't want to remember that. He'd thought of that several times since he'd written it, and every time he did some desperate part of him tried to read further into it.
I wish I could remember more of what was said, if anything just to have something to hold onto.
It's too late for that, Draco thought bitterly. No going back to change things now. He tried to ignore the voice asking him if it was too late to try again.
23 July
I keep thinking maybe there's something I can do to change things now, but to do that would require the sort of courage exhibited only by Gryffindors.
Draco coughed several more times, feeling his hands and fingers tingle from the strain of coughing, and having gotten up too early, and from not breathing properly because even a few feet was too close to Harry Potter. Is house pride a valid reason to not try to make things better? he wondered, one knee buckling from the effort of coughing.
Isn't there some way out of this?!
Draco took a slow, deep breath and stood up straight again. He felt light-headed, and his mouth was moving, and he began to speak before he could think to stop himself.
“Do you remember,” he began, rational thought giving him up as a lost cause, “when you said there was something missing?” This is stupid. What am I doing? “Something I couldn't do?”
13 July
He'd said that what we were doing had felt empty, and even at the time he'd said it, I was ready to disagree with him.
It was emotion that was missing, Draco thought. But maybe it wasn't. Missing.
Harry looked up at Draco, his expression difficult to read. When did he get so... Slytherin? Draco wondered, then remembered Harry's expression on the train, that disconnected look as he turned away. Oh yeah. A while ago.
“Yeah,” Harry said after a pause. “I remember.”
I can still stop, I don't have to finish, this doesn't have to-
“I think you're wrong.”
The silence that fell was absolute for three seconds, a time in which Draco didn't look at Harry to see his reaction.
Then the door to the far back opened, startling both of the boys. The room was swept with noise as Miss Brookhouse cheerfully presented Draco with his new school robes and Madam Malkin led him to the front of the store.
“Miss Brookhouse, finish the sleeve hems on the other gentleman!” she said cheerily. “Now, Mr. Malfoy...”
It's because of the cold that I'm acting like this, he rationalized. Just the cold. As he walked out the door, his robes paid for, Draco wondered if it was normal for colds to make a person's tongue betray the truth in their heart.
*
Harry stood in stunned silence as Miss Brookhouse finished the adjustments on the sleeves of his robe, watching Draco pay for his robes and leave the store. Draco left quickly and didn't stop to look back.
“Are you Harry Potter?” Miss Brookhouse asked suddenly, surprising Harry out of his daze. She had stopped pinning the hem of his left sleeve to push her long, dark hair out of her eyes, and had stopped midway to consider his face.
“Er, yes...”
“Oh goodness!” she cried, “I didn't even realize it! How very silly of me; I must've been so distracted...” She continued to talk animatedly as she went back to pinning.
Harry's ability to think jarred back into place because of her interruption, and he remembered everything he'd expected of Draco over the summer, and realized this was not what he had anticipated. He had expected to not see Draco until getting on the train at Kings Cross Station at the earliest; he had expected a sneer and look of disgust; he had expected verbal attacks or stony silence. Harry had defended himself against that, insisting that he could love compassionately in spite of it.
He hadn't been prepared for this, and almost wished Draco hadn't said anything. It would've been easier for Harry to go on without him than to be faced with this new confession.
He wondered in frustration why these sorts of things had to happen on the mornings of busy days instead of at the end of them. It would be even better if they happened on uneventful days; now, he had to manage through the rest of the day without being able to stop and think about what had just happened. Not only did he still have hours of shopping left, but there would be no time or place to be left alone at the Weasleys' until he made it to bed that night.
Harry could feel the hours stretching on for weeks already.