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“…and we’ll go to the Great Hall to see the pumpkins, probably before the feast starts so that you don’t get stood on. Nobody will mean to, but the kids get pretty excited at Halloween and they might not see you,” Harry says, letting himself into Draco’s quarters and releasing Stanley, who scuttles inside with his lead trailing behind him. “Then again, I suppose we could dress you as something really brightly coloured. Hi,” he adds, smiling at Draco and shutting the door with a click.
“Hello,” Draco says, taking in his windswept hair, his thick red coat and the broom resting against one shoulder. He is, of course, late back from his last flying lesson of the day, which means that he has either been chattering away with his students, letting Stanley drag him around the castle, or both.
The cold weather looks good on him and Draco doesn’t bother to resist the urge to unfold himself from his favourite corduroy armchair and kiss him firmly, hands gripping strong shoulders and mouth seeking out the taste of coffee and the outdoors. Harry looks gratifyingly startled when he lets go and heads for the kettle, and Draco barely notices the fact that Stanley has brought in several crunchy leaves on his feet and is now distributing them around the living room.
“What does Stanley usually dress up as for Halloween?” Harry asks, throwing off his coat and sinking onto the hearth rug to warm his hands on the fire.
Draco turns, surprised. “Usually he… well, he doesn’t.”
“He doesn’t get dressed up? At all?”
“No,” Draco admits, feeling rather sorrowful for the beetle as he carries steaming cups across the room and hands one to Harry. “He doesn’t… well, we don’t… or, rather we didn’t…” Frustrated, he sits in his chair and tries again. “Harry, before you came into our lives last year, Stanley and I had a very quiet existence. We didn’t go out and we certainly didn’t involve ourselves in celebrations. Unless McGonagall insisted, which she sometimes did.”
Harry sets down his cup and picks up Stanley, unclipping him from his lead and encouraging him to settle in his lap for strokes. The green eyes are thoughtful, the usually-playful mouth twisted in contemplation. He almost looks sad, and it wrenches at Draco. He isn’t sure whether Harry is sad for him, sad at him, or just sad for Stanley, who has had several years of life without a single Halloween celebration. All at once, Draco feels like a terrible beetle parent, and feels even worse when he realises he has no idea what to do about it. He hasn’t joined in with the Hogwarts Halloween festivities since he was a student, and not even really then, if he’s going to be honest.
“You know, people really like you. You should get out there and be with your friends,” Harry says, and though he is looking at Stanley, Draco has a feeling that the words are just as much for him. When Harry glances up and gives him a hopeful little smile, he sighs.
Being sociable has never come naturally to him. He’s trying harder than he ever has in his life, but the whole thing is still so new. It’s been over twelve months since the incident that had left Harry immobilised in the hospital wing and had changed both their lives forever, but he is still surprised each time a student speaks to him in the corridor or asks for his opinion on something other than Transfiguration. It will, he supposes, take time, but for Harry, it all seems so simple. Everyone loves him, and though Draco can, at last, see why they do, being the significant other of a friendly extrovert brings its own challenges. Harry isn’t going to allow him or Stanley to hide from Halloween this year, and the excited tacking coming from the hearth rug tells him the beetle is already on side.
“How do you find these things so easy?” Draco asks, and Harry laughs.
“I don’t, not always. But I like people, and I like seeing people happy.”
Draco tucks his feet up into his chair and rests his cup on the arm. “I don’t think I’m like that.”
Harry sips his tea and regards him over the cup with a stern look. “That’s the thing. I know you’ve got this whole ‘I’m cross, leave me alone’ thing going on, but I think you like people, too. Ivy, Magnus, Surya, Winston, Emilie, Fergus… Hagrid… me… Jasper Bracknell…”
Draco snorts. “Yes, well. I think my relationship with Jasper Bracknell is a little bit more complicated than that.”
Harry shrugs. “I haven’t always been good at this, Draco. It’s a pretty weird time of year for me, everybody celebrating on the night my parents were killed.”
“I’m sorry,” Draco says, suppressing a wince. “I didn’t think.”
“No one does, and I prefer it that way,” Harry says, shifting closer to Draco’s chair and nudging Stanley onto the floor so that he can rest his shoulder against a protruding knee in a gesture that means ‘it’s okay’ and ‘nothing’s broken’ without a single word. “I mark their birthdays, their lives, not the time they… but it was pretty weird, the first couple of years here. Now I just look at it as a celebration. He’s gone, we’re still here. The kids love it. And, you know, it’s a chance for the spirits to walk abroad and all that.”
“Harry, spirits walk abroad in this castle every night of the year,” Draco points out, heart speeding when Harry tips his head back to look at him upside down.
“I know,” he says, grinning. “But Halloween’s their night. Plus, it marks the beginning of winter, and I like winter. Dark nights, stews, crumbles, flying on cold mornings… staying in bed on cold mornings.”
Draco bites down on a smile. “Samhain,” he mumbles. “The feast of the dead.”
“Yeah. Believe me, Hermione made sure Ron and I were fully educated about the whole thing years ago. She also asked me if we were getting Stanley a costume this year.”
“You really want to dress him up?” Draco asks, glancing over to where Stanley is attempting, with limited success, to climb up the curtains.
“Yeah,” Harry says, grinning, and fuck, that grin is infectious. “I thought it might be fun to take him around the castle to see all the stuff going on, and it’d be even better if he had a little outfit.”
“Good grief,” Draco says, and there is a thump from the area below the window.
Stanley flails on his back for several seconds before managing to right himself and trundle off in the direction of the bathroom. The infernal beetle has been with him for many years now and he has had many things, but never a little outfit.
“Come on,” Harry wheedles, and Draco doesn’t even bother to look at him. He knows he’s lost.
“Alright,” he says, and then drops his eyes slowly to Harry’s. “You’re not expecting me to dress up as well, are you?”
Harry grants him a seraphic smile. “Don’t worry. I’ve just had a brilliant idea.”
Draco sinks back into his chair, sips his tea, and worries.
**~*~**
He doesn’t hear another word about the venture over the next few days, and his apprehension mounts slowly as he notices his students talking about the upcoming feast, watches Hagrid rolling enormous carved pumpkins into the Great Hall and catches Harry making little sketches which are hidden in his pockets the moment he sees Draco looking. Oddly enough, though, the anxiety is almost matched by intrigue, and when he sits down to breakfast on the thirty-first and listens to McGonagall’s little speech about the festivities, he finds he is rather looking forward to it.
He returns from his last lesson of the day to find Harry kneeling on the hearth rug with a dripping paintbrush in his hand, while a joyfully tacking Stanley turns in circles and sprays orange goop over what looks like one of Draco’s spare bedsheets. He watches both of them for a moment, caught between love and horror, and then Harry looks up and grins at him, and he can’t remember why he would ever care about a bit of stray paint. His world is noisy and messy these days, and these two entities ensure that his heart is overstuffed with joy at every turn.
“What are you doing?” he asks, because he has no other words.
“Making Stanley’s costume,” Harry says. “He’s going to be a pumpkin.”
Draco laughs, and the sound makes Stanley turn and attempt to run towards him. Harry catches him just in time, covering his hands and jumper in orange paint in the process.
“And you didn’t think to use a spell?”
“No, this way is more fun,” Harry says firmly, clamping his brush between his teeth and turning Stanley to look for uncovered patches. His shell is almost completely coated in shiny orange paint, and he seems to be delighted with both the process and the results. “Look how good he’s being,” Harry adds, patting the beetle carefully on his unpainted antennae.
Draco has to admit that right in this moment, Stanley is standing very nicely. “Shall I make some tea?”
“Not yet, I need you to help me with the details,” Harry says, and Draco is being handed his own paintbrush and pot of black paint before he has time to protest.
He does, however, have time to remove his outer clothes and cast a protective spell over his shirt and trousers before lowering himself to the floor and listening to Harry’s instructions with a mix of amusement and confusion. In the end, his enthusiasm is contagious, and Draco smiles to himself as he paints a jagged mouth and triangular eyes onto a delighted Stanley, while Harry dips into the pot of black and carefully adds stripy contours that bring his vision to life so impressively that Draco wonders if he shouldn’t paint more often. When Harry is satisfied, they stand back and admire the six-legged pumpkin for a moment before Harry casts a strong charm to dry and preserve their work.
Stanley looks fantastic, but something is missing. Draco frowns.
“Don’t pumpkins usually have a stalk?”
“They do,” Harry says, casting thoughtful eyes around the room and then dashing to the window and returning triumphantly with several stems of mint plucked from the plant grown especially for Stanley, which is still thriving in its second cold autumn in the castle.
Harry gathers the mint and sticks it to the centre of Stanley’s shell with a spell. Draco adds another to make it stand upright, and they grin at each other when Stanley tacks and turns in excitable circles.
“We don’t have long until the feast,” Draco says. “Are you going to tell me what horrendous thing you want me to wear, or not?”
“Or not,” Harry says. “I promise, it’ll be the work of a moment. And you know, it’s not that revealing… at least, for Halloween.”
“What?” Draco demands, following Harry when he wanders casually into the bedroom to change, but Harry doesn’t say another word until they arrive at the feast, and even then, it’s only to remark on what a brilliant job Hagrid and the house-elves have done of the decorations, and to tell Draco to eat his eyeball soup.
Finally, stuffed with food and bristling with anxiety, Draco returns to his quarters to find Stanley perched on the back of his corduroy chair. He flaps his orange-painted wings in greeting and seems all too happy to be clipped onto his lead, which Harry has helpfully spelled orange and green to blend with his costume. Draco holds him and waits for Harry to reappear with whatever dreadful thing he is apparently going to be wearing this evening. Because he knows he is going to be wearing it. Unless it’s a leather leotard or a sexy Death Eater outfit, he’s pretty sure that he’s going to give in to what Harry wants, because he is ridiculously charming and oh, god, the little smile on his face as he returns from the bedroom with something behind his back makes Draco’s heart race as though he’s just missed a step on the stairs.
“Ready?”
Draco nods, fingers tightening around Stanley’s lead. “Of course. I’m not afraid of a costume.”
Harry grins. He steps close, reaching behind Draco and wrapping something around his collar, twisting it this way and that with such an intense frown that it takes Draco a moment to realise that he is simply tying a tie. A school tie. A fucking Gryffindor tie. He stares at the red and gold stripes with a mixture of dismay and relief, watching Harry’s bitten fingers adjusting the knot until the tie sits neatly against his shirt front. Harry strokes the fabric over his chest and kisses him.
“You want me to dress up as a Gryffindor?” Draco asks, tempering a smile.
“Yep,” Harry says, pulling out a Slytherin tie and tying it around his neck, apparently unbothered by the fact that he is wearing a collarless jumper and looks very strange indeed. “What do you think?”
“I hate it,” Draco murmurs, adjusting the knot and wondering if he can get away with spelling Harry’s eyebrows green. “I’m glad it’s not a leotard.”
“What?” Harry asks, puzzled.
“Never mind. The point is, I’ve looked more ridiculous in my life. And I was the head of Gryffindor House for a little while,” Draco points out, amused and exasperated at the memory. “Let’s get this little reprobate out on his tour before he tires himself out.”
Stanley, who has been turning in circles at the end of his lead, tacks loudly at this suggestion, and when Harry opens the door, he scuttles out into the corridor with his mint plant stalk waving. The three of them walk through the dark castle, finding very little traffic until the reach the Entrance Hall, where students are milling around in a mixture of school uniforms, casual Muggle clothes and fancy dress. Draco spots several of his students wearing very unusual outfits, including a Selkie, a candelabra, and something Harry helpfully informs him is a ‘lollipop man’. Many more students have accented their ordinary clothes with brightly-coloured makeup, patterned tights, and bizarre headgear. Ivy Baron is sporting a headband decorated with glittering bats, and she is inevitably accompanied by Magnus in a pumpkin costume and Fergus Quinlan, who is wearing black lipstick and heels that make him tower over his friends. McGonagall is observing the scene from the doorway of the Great Hall, and when she spots Stanley in his outfit, she is clearly trying not to smile.
Harry waves at her and she gives him a little nod that would, on anyone else, be an enormous grin. Stanley pulls on his lead, delighted by the noise and the presence of so many friends, assembled in this one place just for him. He tacks and jumps, causing the mint stalks on his back to flap back and forth like springs. Draco watches him, all at once guilt-ridden. The beetle is having the time of his life, and Draco has been keeping them both closeted away for long. He has always told himself it was for Stanley’s protection, but now he realises that he has been the worst sort of overprotective parent, locking the beetle up to keep him safe and in the process, denying him all sorts of joyful experiences.
“Don’t,” Harry says, catching his expression and squeezing his hand. “You can’t change the past, and you were only doing what you thought was best for him. He’s happy, look at him. And maybe you are, too?”
His uncertain expression twists Draco’s stomach, and the urge to grab him and kiss him right here in the crowded Entrance Hall is only overpowered by the feeling of McGonagall’s sharp eyes on the back of his head. In the end, he smiles and lets his fingertips brush against the back of Harry’s hand.
“We’re both happy.”
Harry beams. Stanley rests his front feet on Draco’s leg and swishes his antennae from side to side, peering up at him with little black eyes, and Draco smiles at him, too, catching the reflection of glitter and wall torches in those little eyes and deciding that for the rest of the night, he will enjoy the Halloween madness from Stanley’s perspective. It’s not noisy and intimidating, it’s festive and exciting, a chance to hop around with friends and collect treats and run around in circles for no reason. And perhaps Draco won’t run around in circles in front of all these people—he’s still a fairly serious Transfiguration professor with a reputation to think of—but none of his students need to know what he might be up to inside his head.
“Pumpkins! Represent!” someone yells, and Draco is almost knocked off his feet as Magnus barrels over in his cumbersome outfit and scoops Stanley up into his arms.
Stanley tacks joyfully and flaps his wings as Magnus spins him around. Harry ducks when his flying lead whips around and almost smacks him in the face, and Magnus slows with an apologetic smile.
“Sorry, Professor Potter… but look! The big pumpkin and the little pumpkin!”
“He thinks he’s a big pumpkin, but the one in the Great Hall’s much bigger,” Fergus says, stalking over on his heels with impressive confidence. “Has he seen that one yet?”
“Not yet,” Harry says.
“Bigger isn’t always better,” Magnus mumbles, and then flushes violently. “By which I mean that Stanley is the best pumpkin of all.”
“Nice tie, Professor Malfoy,” Ivy says, grinning. “And your eye—erm, your eyes are very bright tonight, aren’t they?”
Puzzled, Draco glances at Harry, who is frowning and pretending intense interest in his Slytherin tie. Draco opens his mouth to speak but is cut off by a squeal from somewhere near his waist, and he looks down to see a collection of tiny first-year girls gathering and cooing around Stanley.
“He’s a tiny pumpkin, oh my gosh!”
“Look at his little stalk!”
“Stanley, I love you and you are the best pumpkin I have ever seen,” one sighs, and Magnus affects an offended huff.
“Can I give him a treat?” asks a girl with fake spiders in her hair.
“A treat?” Draco repeats, bewildered.
“It’s Halloween,” Ivy says. “Lots of treats going around.”
She points, drawing Draco’s attention to the fact that many of the assembled students are chomping on sweets and lollipops, exchanging wrapped chocolates with their friends and, in some cases, trying to slip them prank items unnoticed. In one corner, a group of third-year boys are laughing as one of their number struggles to reverse the effects of a Ton Tongue Toffee, and McGonagall watches calmly as one girl takes a chewy sweet from her friend that immediately sends steam shooting out of her nose.
“Stanley only eats mint leaves,” Draco says, realising with a kick of sadness that he had no idea that any of this went on at Halloween. No one has ever tried to give him a trick sweet, even as a child, and he decides it’s probably better not to think too hard about why. Reminding himself that he is supposed to be thinking like Stanley, he looks down at the beetle, who is now being borne around by the girl with the spiders in her hair, clicking and waving all six legs in the air.
“Aren’t those mint leaves on his back?” Fergus asks, and Draco nods. “Isn’t he going mad, wondering where the smell of food is coming from?”
“I didn’t think of that,” Harry says, looking rather sheepish. “I just wanted him to have a stalk.”
Draco snorts. “I did think he was spinning around even more than usual.”
“Sir, can I give him this to play with?” asks another small girl, holding out her hand to show him a bottlecap. “It’s from my Butterbeer. I know he likes caps because…” She falls silent.
“How do you know that, Ella?” Harry prompts, and Draco has no idea how he manages to learn and remember every last student’s name. At this point in the year, the new ones are still a noisy mass of chaotic spellwork, but Harry has every single one of them sorted out in his head.
Ella wrinkles her nose. “I saw him in Hagrid’s garden and Hagrid said we could come in and there was a beer bottlecap and I gave it to Stanley and he played with it for ages,” she says, all in a rush. “I won’t give it to him if you don’t want me to. I just want to be his friend.”
Draco takes the cap and pretends to examine it, secretly impressed. Even with his old bravado, he doubts his eleven-year-old self would have voluntarily offered so many words to a teacher for no other reason than to make friends with a beetle.
“Any friend of Hagrid’s is a friend of mine,” he says gravely, offering the bottlecap back to her. “I’m sure he’d like to play with this very much. Stanley, say thank you to Ella.”
Stanley, who is currently frolicking around Fergus’s feet, lets out a loud tack and shoots after the bottlecap when the little girl throws it for him, trailing his green lead behind him. She laughs delightedly, and, together with all her friends, abandons the adults in favour of chasing the scuttling pumpkin across the stone floor. Draco watches him, contented, and Harry rests a hand on his shoulder, just for a moment.
“Are you alright?”
“I think he’s enjoying himself,” Draco says, and for some time, he stays exactly where he is, letting the festive atmosphere swirl around him as his ridiculous, beloved beetle trundles around the Entrance Hall, chasing a shiny bottlecap with a band of giggling first-years in his wake.
Eventually, the crowds begin to thin as students head off to other parts of the castle, the younger ones retreating to their dormitories with chocolates and scary stories while the older ones flood the Common Rooms for… well, Draco isn’t really sure. There have always been parties at Hogwarts, but he has never been invited to them, and he has always told himself that he didn’t care. Doesn’t care. He’s just fine. He might be wearing a Gryffindor tie and Harry is definitely amused about something that he isn’t sharing, but he’s out in the castle and he’s walking a strange little pumpkin, and no one is darting into empty classrooms to avoid him. In fact, people—colleagues and students and ghosts alike—are smiling and nodding, stopping to talk, and not just to Harry.
Of course, many of them are more interested in Stanley than in either of his human companions, but Draco doesn’t blame them for that. Stanley is a very interesting individual, interesting enough that even Jasper Bracknell, Draco’s one-time nemesis, is lured over from his examination of the painting near the kitchen door to crouch and scratch the orange-painted shell.
“Hi, Professor Potter,” he says, glancing up at Draco with a curious blend of irritation and grudging respect. “Professor Malfoy. D’you think he’d follow me… if I had some mint?”
Draco looks down at him and folds his arms. “Why, Jasper?”
“I was just curious. I wouldn’t hurt him.”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” Harry says, and the look he gives Draco is so pointed that he can feel it poking him.
“Why don’t you find out?” Draco suggests, for house unity. For Harry. For Stanley, who is probably ravenous after all that bottlecap chasing. He detaches a stem of mint and hands it to Jasper, who grins and gets to his feet, waving the stalk to get Stanley’s attention and then backing away down the corridor. When Stanley runs towards him, his smile is so genuine that Draco finds himself warming to the little bugger, just a little bit.
“You see, he’s alright really,” Harry mumbles, and Draco thinks he does very well not to kick him in the shin.
Jasper turns at the top of the corridor and lures Stanley back in a zig-zag fashion, clearly determined to get the most out of his beetle-wrangling experience. Just as they reach the kitchens, the door slides open and a house-elf darts out, releasing the warm scent of fruit and spices from within and attracting Stanley’s attention away from Jasper in a moment. The elf startles at the sight of all of them and retreats into the kitchen, but not before Stanley shoots inside, tacking joyfully. Jasper stares at the door and then at Draco.
“Erm… that was not part of the plan.”
“I’ll get him,” Harry offers, and as he pokes the pear in the painting and lets himself into the kitchens, Draco can already hear the clang of pots and the high-pitched shrieks of the elves, all of it overlaid by the delighted tacking of a beetle who is somewhere he shouldn’t be.
“Oh, god, I hope they’re not upset,” Jasper says, grimacing. “Remember what happened to the food last year when Professor Potter got hurt and you had to be their… er…”
“Liaison?” Draco suggests, eyes fixed on the door. “Yes, Jasper, I remember.”
“I didn’t mean for that to happen. I thought he’d be more… food-motivated than that,” Jasper admits, and Draco gives him a grim smile.
“I think you’ll find that, while he does like mint very much, the prospect of adventure is always more compelling.”
Jasper blinks. Draco has the strangest feeling that he’s surprised. Surprised that his grumpy teacher isn’t shouting or taking away house points. Draco thinks he likes surprising him. After a moment, Harry opens the door, releasing the delicious smell once more and then waiting as Stanley comes scuttling back into the corridor, this time, chasing a large potato. The shrieking seems to have stopped, a fact for which Draco and Jasper are both grateful.
“I see he has a new toy.”
“I think they were happy to let him have it, you know, as long as he went away,” Harry explains. “Jasper, don’t you have some… not-against-the-rules sort of celebration to get to?”
Jasper does not need to be told twice. He is out of sight before Stanley has managed to roll his potato to the other side of the corridor, and when Harry has kicked it back out from behind a suit of armour, they all set off again, this time with Stanley firmly attached to his lead. His mint stalk is a little bit lopsided now, and some of the paint has been rubbed off his shell by enthusiastic hands, but the beetle doesn’t seem to have noticed. He has boundless energy and is thrilled to lead them on the next stage of their tour around the castle, taking several staircases at a run and leading them past the bottom of Gryffindor Tower, where they all pause to listen to the bizarre cacophony that spills from within.
“What on earth is that?” Draco murmurs, mostly to himself, and Harry just laughs.
Stanley spins in pursuit of his mint stalk as the noises continue, noises that probably should be investigated or even quelled, but Draco hesitates only for a moment before pulling Stanley onwards and opting to pretend that he hasn’t even noticed. His housemates used to have noisy parties, too, dressing up and having fun, and he also remembers sitting in his dormitory and telling anyone who asked that he wasn’t interested in taking part. People stopped asking quickly enough, he remembers that, too. Of course, now he’s too old and responsible to dress up as a bat and bob for brandy-laced apples, but he’s got Harry at his side, grinning and adjusting his Slytherin tie as though he knows a secret, and he’s got a scuttling, tacking pumpkin pulling at his lead, and when they’ve all had enough of their wandering, they can just pile onto his bed and curl up together underneath his favourite autumn quilt. As the celebratory noises fade out behind them, Draco decides that, actually, his current lot is far more satisfying than whatever the Gryffindors might be up to tonight.
Feeling rather serene, Draco walks the corridors at Harry’s side, brushing shoulders and pausing any time Stanley meets a friend or wants to investigate a swooping ghost or a suit of armour draped in magical cobwebs. They take in all but the furthest reaches of the castle, racking up so many steps that eventually the beetle starts to flag and tacks loudly to be picked up. Draco carries him carefully but still gets a swipe of mint to the face every few seconds as Stanley squirms in his arms and scrabbles his little feet against Draco’s chest. When they loop back to the Entrance Hall, Harry suggests that they take the weary beetle back to Draco’s quarters and Draco agrees, pretending that doing so is for Stanley’s benefit entirely, and not because his fireside, armchair and teapot are calling to him like a siren song.
“There he is!” someone cries, and before Draco can identify the source of the voice, he is being set upon by several delighted young people.
It takes him a moment to sort them out from one another, but eventually he distinguishes three familiar faces, all holding out hands and peering up at him beseechingly. He sighs and releases Stanley, who is immediately picked up by a beaming Surya Khan. She admires his orange-painted shell and promptly trips over her own shoelace, but is caught with practised ease by Emilie Alderson, who is wearing rather convincing vampire fangs, and steadied by Winston Camberwell, who has shot up several inches over the summer and now seems to be balancing on legs that are slightly too long for him. Draco realises that he still thinks of them as the tiny little things struggling to stay on their broomsticks, but they are all maturing rapidly, and Emilie, now petting Stanley’s antennae with a careful finger, is a reserve Chaser for the Gryffindor team.
“You’re up late,” Draco says, and they laugh as though he’s said something hilarious.
“It’s only eight o’clock, Professor Malfoy,” Winston says, and Draco wonders why he feels so tired. There is, he thinks, something exhausting about socialising, and if it weren’t for his two extroverted friends, he probably wouldn’t bother to do it at all.
“He really looks like a pumpkin,” Surya says, grinning when Stanley flaps his wings. “Has he seen the massive one in the Great Hall?”
“Not yet,” Harry says, placing a finger to his lips when Winston peers at Draco and opens his mouth to say something.
Draco frowns and looks around, starting to feel now that Harry really is up to something. Quite apart from anything else, he appears to have a potato in his pocket. “What?”
“You’ve got paint on your shirt,” Emilie says quickly, taking Winston’s arm. “Please can we show him the big pumpkin?”
“Yes, alright then,” Draco says, deciding to let it go for now.
Whatever it is, he will find out, and Harry will suffer the consequences. Cheered by the thought of non-specific retribution, Draco allows the three young students to carry Stanley ahead of the into the Great Hall, holding him aloft with some ceremony. They make an unusual procession, the vampire, the gangling Gryffindor and the girl with a gigantic rip in the hem of her skirt, each taking a part in bearing Stanley between the abandoned House tables and up to the front of the Hall, where a pumpkin the size of a carriage sits in an enormous basket, surrounded by glowing orbs and magical spiders and a forest of smaller gourds in all shapes and colours.
Draco has no idea how Hagrid has grown such a monster, but if Harry is to be believed, he possesses special vegetable-encouraging magic, the nature of which is a well-guarded secret. Privately, Draco doubts Hagrid has the ability to guard a secret of any kind, but he is a wonderful man and an excellent friend, and however he does it, he always manages to produce a centrepiece pumpkin that makes the previous year’s effort pale into insignificance. The entire Great Hall has his festive touch all over it, and it looks beautiful, all floating candles and flickering lights, the whole space wrapped in a magic that is joyful and hushed all at once. The tables have been cleared and spelled sparkling clean, polished wood gleaming in the starlight from the enchanted ceiling.
Draco walks slowly behind Harry, following him and the children up to the huge, glowing pumpkin. There is a brief discussion and then Emilie presents Stanley to the display, holding him out and performing a little curtsey as though introducing two dignitaries. Stanley waves his antennae wildly, tacking until Emilie carries him closer and allows him to touch the orange flesh. He clicks with delight and Harry laughs, taking him gently and placing him on top of the pumpkin, where he stands with obvious pride and flaps his wings. Draco smiles, watching the myriad points of candlelight reflecting in the beetle’s little black eyes. Stanley jumps, thrilled when Winston pulls out a camera and snaps a picture of him standing on top of his pumpkin friend.
“I’d like a copy of that, if you don’t mind,” Draco says, mentally placing the photograph on his wall alongside Harry’s drawing of Stanley and all of his other special items.
Winston nods, suddenly looking very serious. “I’ll take another one, shall I? Make sure it comes out properly?”
“Has he ever seen himself before?” Surya asks, appearing to notice the rip in her skirt for the first time. She sighs and fixes it with her wand, and Draco is quietly impressed with the spellwork. He supposes she has had plenty of practise.
“Not as a pumpkin, no,” he says.
Harry grins and draws his wand, tracing a shimmering circle in the air that makes all three students catch their breath. Showy little bugger, Draco thinks, but he can’t help smiling, too.
“Look, Stanley, it’s you!” Emilie explains as Harry sends his mirror charm to hover at the beetle’s eye level. “Well, it’s you in a costume.”
“You’re the best pumpkin ever,” Winston says earnestly, and Stanley peers at him for a moment before scrabbling to the edge of the giant vegetable and regarding his own reflection.
At first, he seems confused, and then there is a resounding TACK! and the beetle jumps back in alarm, flapping his wings and stumbling onto his back, where he rolls precariously from side to side atop the giant pumpkin, clicking in terror and waving all six little feet in the sir. Draco dashes forward, righting him and holding him against his chest, feeling his tiny, rapid heartbeat and the swish of panicked antennae against his chin.
“Is he alright?” Emilie asks, face pale.
“He’s scared,” Winston says, looking rather frightened himself.
“He didn’t expect to look like that, did he?” Surya whispers, reaching out to pet Stanley’s shell and then withdrawing her hand.
“I don’t think he did,” Harry says, and then frowns, recasting his mirror charm and gently turning Draco by the shoulder until both he and Stanley are facing it again. “Try now.”
“He’s very anxious,” Draco says, still cradling the fussing beetle with the utmost care.
“I know, but I think if he sees you in the reflection, he’ll realise it’s okay,” Harry says, and Draco meets his eyes, surprised by the gentle intelligence there and then irritated at himself for being surprised. Harry is a clever man. He knows about life and people and beetles, too.
Draco nods. “Come on, devil beetle, have another look,” he urges, holding Stanley firmly and uncovering his little eyes. “Yes, you look a bit odd, but I’m here, too, and…”
Draco sighs. Of course. Of course his eyebrows are bright red, and of course they have been that way all bloody night long. He glances at Harry, who gives him a very sheepish smile, and then turns back to Stanley, who is peering cautiously at the magical mirror.
“Move your arm,” Surya suggests quietly. “Then he’ll see the reflection move and know it’s you. That’s what I did with my cat.”
Draco lifts his arm, slowly allowing his hand to rise through the air and then settle on Stanley’s shell. Stanley clicks and follows the movement with his eyes. For a moment, everything is still, and then Stanley seems to explode with joy, tacking and flapping and turning in Draco’s arms to peer at him before turning back to the mirror charm and then around and around again. Draco laughs, delighted to see that the fear has dissolved and entertained to realise that Stanley is now revelling in his unusual reflection, coming back to it again and again with a cascade of tacks that reverberates around the empty Hall.
“Nothing to worry about, is there, daft beetle?” Draco murmurs, holding his friend close while still allowing him to spin in place.
“That was so clever,” Winston says, looking at Harry and Surya in turn. “He stopped being scared because he was with you. Like when you taught me to fly,” he adds, smiling at Draco. He looks at Emilie, as though worried she will feel left out. “And when you taught me to play chess.”
“You have some very helpful friends,” Harry says. “And so does Stanley.”
“Indeed. And Stanley needs to get to bed now,” Draco says, grateful when Harry dispels the mirror charm and Stanley settles nicely against his chest.
“Do we have to go to bed, too?” Emilie asks, quickly adding, “Sir?”
“No, but don’t be too late. You all have homework due for me tomorrow,” Draco says, because he can’t help it, and because the resulting little groans make him feel rather content. As he, Harry and Stanley leave them behind and head for a warm, comfortable place, Draco cradles the beetle against his chest with one arm and takes Harry’s hand.
“How much trouble am I in?” he asks, glancing at Draco’s eyebrows with a small smile.
“Oh, I haven’t decided,” Draco says airily, and there is a bloodcurdling scream from the floor above, followed by a crash and a gurgle of laughter.
Soon, Stanley will be asleep, and then… then, he will have his revenge.