Chapter Text
“Mom, I’m dying! Oh, just a little longer and I’ll definitely die…”
Such complaints (very tempting, I must say) Harry had been listening to since the beginning of the summer, yet Dudley had shown no hurry to act on them.
This morning began like so many others: Dudley sat at the table, looking like a martyr, clutching his stomach. In front of him on the plate lay a quarter of a grapefruit—a doctor’s recommendation, so that Dudley, at fourteen, wouldn’t leave this mortal world from a heart attack, or whatever excessive fat usually causes. From now on, the Dursleys’ fridge held a frightening emptiness. Uncle Vernon was also irritated, rustling the newspaper loudly, almost tearing it as he flipped through the pages, as if it were its fault that the house now served low-fat cottage cheese.
Everyone was angry and hungry. Everyone except Harry. He sipped his tea in silence, careful not to draw attention. Unlike Dudley, he did not suffer from hunger: Draco, as promised, sent house-elves from time to time with ready meals, packed, according to high-society wizards, in a rather camping style. Venison roast, pheasant pies, and the most delicate desserts—quite possibly the best food Harry had ever eaten. Hermione also sent treats—homemade cakes—and Ron contributed a whole box of the twins’ experimental sweets, which, as he claimed, were harmless, though Harry had never dared to try them.
He wasn’t suffering from hunger. No, he was aching with longing.
Summer was barely halfway through—even Harry’s birthday had not yet arrived. There were still a few dreary days until the thirty-first of July, and they seemed endless to the boy. He was probably the strangest child in the world, for what he longed for most was to return to school as soon as possible. To his friends. To Draco.
Sometimes it seemed to Harry that that magical moment on the train, shared between the two of them, had happened not to him, but to someone else. With a braver, more confident Harry. Lying in bed at night, he stared into the darkness, replaying Draco’s face over and over—pursed lips, the shadow of lashes on pale cheeks. The memory was so vivid it seemed worth reaching out to touch his fingers. Then the world shrank to a cramped compartment, a single point in space, and to a step they had both never taken.
To kiss Draco.
It would have been so easy to lean forward slightly and brush their lips together. Harry imagined it so clearly that his heart skipped a beat, and a strange, incomparable flutter appeared in his stomach—sweet, thrilling, and just a little frightening. What if it was all imagined? Perhaps he had dreamt too much of the impossible, and his own mind had kindly filled in the details. Draco returned to classes and social dinners, and that fleeting moment had been erased for him as trivial, unnecessary. And that was why he had sent Harry not a single proper letter all summer, only brief notes on enchanted parchment. Harry understood that Draco was afraid of his father, who monitored all household correspondence like a hawk, yet each morning, seeing an empty sheet, his chest tightened painfully.
He would have given anything to be with Draco for even a minute—to look into those attentive pale eyes, to hear in reality the teasing voice that sometimes echoed his own thoughts… Should he shake him by the shoulders and ask what on earth had been done to him?
God, if someone had told Harry last year that he would lie awake at night thinking about Draco, he would have sent the visionary straight to St. Mungo’s. Yet here he was: trapped in a dull, endless string of grey summer days, when his fantasies before bedtime had become the brightest part of his life.
That was why the day he received two letters at once felt like a real event.
***
The first letter arrived via the postman. Nothing unusual about that, except for the ridiculous number of stamps crammed onto the envelope, but the contents almost made Harry leap to the ceiling.
“What on earth is the World Cup?” Uncle Vernon growled, squinting at Mrs Weasley’s meticulous handwriting.
“Quidditch,” Harry said, though his answer hardly mattered.
Surprisingly, Uncle Vernon seemed to be considering the Weasley family’s offer to collect Harry a week before the start of term. He clearly liked the idea of disposing of his nephew early. His thoughts were interrupted by a crash from the kitchen.
Opening the kitchen door, Harry saw a huge owl struggling through the half-open window. The bird nearly knocked over a vase of artificial flowers along the way, and when it extended its talon towards Harry, holding a letter, it looked thoroughly displeased.
“For heaven’s sake, what is this?” Uncle Vernon barked. “I told you not to correspond with all those abnormal people! Now the neighbours will think we’ve gone completely mad!”
“They probably already do,” Harry muttered under his breath. He was holding a thick cream-coloured envelope of expensive paper, decorated with an ornate “M” entwined with the thin lines of a coat of arms. He didn’t even need to read the signature to know who it was from.
On the back was written:
To the guardians of Mr Harry Potter
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
Surrey
“This is for you too,” Harry drawled, unsure whether he ought to hand the letter to his uncle. Mr Dursley’s face turned the colour of a ripe aubergine; it would not do at all if he were to collapse from a heart attack while holding the evidence in his hands.
“Well, give it here!” Uncle Vernon snapped.
After giving Harry a disparaging glance, he broke the seal and unfolded the paper. As he read, his eyebrows shot higher and higher. Harry was practically dying of curiosity, but he held himself back until Uncle Vernon had read the letter three times.
“What is it?” Mr Dursley croaked.
“I don’t know,” Harry replied, forcing himself to appear calm, “I haven’t read it yet.”
Uncle Vernon handed Harry the letter in silence, which was most unlike him. The paper felt thick and slightly rough to the touch—Harry looked closer and noticed a faint embossing. The letter read:
To the guardians of Mr Harry Potter,
I hope this letter finds you well.
We do not know each other personally, but I am sure you have heard of my son, who is a close friend of Mr Potter. My name is Narcissa Malfoy, and I am writing to inform you of the Malfoy family’s intention to invite Mr Potter to attend the upcoming Quidditch World Cup, an event whose significance and scale need hardly be explained.
This invitation, of course, is in accordance with the wishes of our son, for whom Mr Potter is a welcome guest. Since my husband and I shall be present at the event among the invited guests, we consider it appropriate to extend this invitation to Mr Potter to join our family for the occasion.
Furthermore, we would be glad to host Mr Potter at our family estate in Wiltshire a few days prior to the Championship. We are able to provide accommodations suitable to his station.
I would appreciate your reply via the same owl, so that the Minister of Magic may be informed in advance of the number of guests for the official invitation.
With kind regards,
Narcissa Malfoy
Malfoy Manor
Wiltshire
Harry had to read the letter twice to let it fully sink in. The meaning was clear enough, despite Mrs Malfoy’s ornate style, yet it still refused to make sense to him: someone from the Malfoy family voluntarily writing to Muggles? Could it really be a joke? Draco could be cruel enough in his pranks, but this handwriting was certainly not his.
“The family estate?” Uncle Vernon grunted with a nasty smile. “Perhaps you should go dressed in velvet and crinolines? Who’s writing to you, exactly?”
“My friend,” Harry shrugged.
“A friend? Do you expect me to believe,” he shook the expensive envelope in the air, “that some aristocrat is inviting you? Who’s waiting for you, Lord Fauntleroy?”
Harry clenched his fists as tightly as he could, digging his nails into his palms. Calmly…
“Well, my friend is from a noble wizarding family. I’m not really sure what his father does, but they’re rich and all that…”
The last thing Harry wanted was to brag about Lucius Malfoy’s wealth, but apparently that was exactly what Uncle Vernon was excited about.
“Oh!” he said, eyes widening. “Oh!”
Apparently some complicated machinery was turning inside Mr Dursley’s head. Letting Harry go to the Quidditch World Cup meant letting him have a good time. Still, it sounded tempting: a chance to prove themselves excellent guardians in front of a wealthy family with a family estate and a familiar Minister, even if that family was clearly insane.
Sensing his uncle’s doubts, Harry shifted his weight on his heels and said:
“I’m afraid my godfather will be very upset if you don’t let me visit his nephew.”
“Whom?” Uncle Vernon asked, and his face went pale.
“Well, Draco is Sirius Black’s nephew. I think he won’t be pleased that you didn’t let me visit his sister.”
Harry was bending the truth a little, but calling Narcissa Sirius’s cousin didn’t seem significant enough. He also decided to keep quiet about the fact that his godfather himself might not have been thrilled with such a visit.
Uncle Vernon swallowed audibly and cast a quick, suspicious glance at the letter, as if it were somehow connected to that dangerous criminal who had appeared on the Muggle news last year.
“Alright,” he grumbled reluctantly. “Go wherever you like. But remember—I am not taking you to these… Where on earth is this manor, anyway? The family estate, just think of that!”
Harry didn’t know either. Also he had no clue how to respond to Mrs Malfoy’s formal letter. It ought to have been done by his guardians, but he would never have believed that any of them could sit down and write a proper reply to representatives of the wizarding world, and even send it via owl. So he decided he would write to Draco himself. And to Ron, too. Standing in the sunlit kitchen with two letters in his hands, Harry didn’t doubt for a second who he wanted to see first. Although he missed the Weasley family and the Burrow terribly, he would still have time to stay with them for a whole week before the start of term, as Mrs Weasley’s invitation indicated.
“Thank you,” he said with a sincere smile—an expression he rarely directed at his uncle—then spun on his heels and dashed to his room, composing his reply to Draco as he went.
Rushing out of the kitchen, Harry almost collided with Dudley.
“Are you going somewhere?” his cousin asked peevishly.
Harry was in such a good mood that Dudley’s frown made him laugh.
“Yes,” he replied lightly. “Now step aside, I need to write to Draco. We’ll part sooner than we might have. Isn’t that great?”
“Draco? Who’s that?”
“None of your business!” Harry waved him off and ran up the stairs, but Dudley yanked him roughly by the hem of his ridiculously long T-shirt. Harry instantly remembered why he disliked his cousin so thoroughly.
“I heard you talking to him out loud, you lunatic. Draco this, Draco that… Who is he, your boyfriend?”
Harry didn’t notice how his hand had slipped into his pocket and pulled out his wand.
“I really hope so.”
Dudley gave a squeal, but Harry caught sight of something else on his face besides fear. He didn’t like that expression at all.
“Dudleykins!” Aunt Petunia’s anxious voice rang out. “Is that horrible boy bothering you? I’m coming!”
Harry took advantage of the hesitation and slipped into his room, quickly locking the door behind him. His heart was pounding with anger at his own lack of restraint. You mustn’t tell the Dursleys things like that about yourself! Dudley’s stupid face still hung before his eyes, lit up with sudden understanding.
Hedwig, sitting in her cage, greeted him with a disgruntled hoot. Sighing, Harry went over to her and gently ran his fingers over her smooth feathers.
“Wake up, beautiful. I’ve got a task for you.”