Chapter Text
The mug slid towards the edge of the counter before Harry could reach the tea towel.
Dudley had caught it with his elbow on the way past. Harry saw the handle turn, a little tea spilling over the rim, and put out both hands before it could fall. He caught it awkwardly against his chest, his fingers slipping on the smooth china as he tried to hold it clear of his shirt.
The tea soaked through before he could pull it away. Harry cried out, his hands opening without meaning to, and the mug struck the tiles beside his foot. Its handle broke off and skittered beneath the table, leaving him standing in the spreading tea with both hands caught in the front of his shirt.
“Mum, he’s smashed it,” Dudley said. He had stepped backwards onto the dry part of the floor and was examining the pieces with great interest. “I told him not to touch it.”
Harry shook his head. The wet cloth clung to his chest, and for a moment getting it away from his skin seemed more important than finding the right words.
“It fell. I was only—” He stopped when Aunt Petunia turned from the table. Her eyes moved from the tea on the floor to his hands holding the shirt. “It’s hot,” he tried instead.
“Of course it’s hot. It’s just come out of the kettle.” She took a cloth from beside the sink and bent to put it over the puddle. “Stand back. You’re getting it everywhere.”
Harry moved his foot and felt a piece of china press against his heel. He lifted it again, balancing awkwardly beside the cupboard, while Aunt Petunia drew in a sharp breath. He knew before she called that she was going to fetch his uncle.
“Vernon,” she said, looking towards the open door. “Would you come here a moment?”
Harry tried to begin again while there was still time. He said Dudley had knocked the mug, heard how that sounded and hurried on to the part about catching it. Aunt Petunia kept gathering the pieces into the cloth. Dudley looked towards the hallway and wiped a biscuit crumb from his mouth.
Uncle Vernon appeared in the doorway with his newspaper folded in one hand. He looked down at the floor, then put the paper on the table with a care which made Harry’s stomach tighten.
“What have you been doing?” he asked. His voice was quiet enough that Harry had to stop speaking to hear it.
“I was getting the towel.” Harry pointed with one hand, keeping the other against the wet shirt. “The mug was going to fall, so I caught it. I didn’t mean to drop it.”
“He’s been under my feet all morning,” Aunt Petunia said. She straightened with the broken handle lying in her palm. “And now he says it was Dudley.”
Harry looked at her, frightened by how much of his explanation had disappeared. He wanted to tell her about the hot tea again, but Uncle Vernon was already crossing the kitchen.
His hand closed round Harry’s upper arm. Harry tried to step with him so he wouldn’t have to be pulled, but his heel caught the edge of the cloth. He stumbled, and the grip tightened through his sleeve.
“Look at me when I’m speaking to you.” Vernon shook him once, hard enough to make his teeth meet. “You don’t break things and then blame your cousin. Do you understand?”
“I wasn’t blaming him.” Harry looked up, his eyes beginning to sting. “He knocked it, but I only tried to catch—”
The blow turned his face before he finished. His glasses struck the side of his nose, and he stumbled against the cupboard beneath the sink. He put out a hand for the handle, missed it and landed on his knees among the wet footprints.
For a moment he could see only the floor. A line of tea was running into a crack between the tiles, and the corner of Aunt Petunia’s cloth had turned brown. His cheek felt enormous, hot beneath the skin, and when he tried to breathe properly the sound caught in his throat.
“Don’t answer me back.” Vernon caught the back of his shirt and pulled him up. Harry’s knees straightened too late; he struggled to find his feet, and another blow landed across his shoulder before he managed it.
He folded his arms over his head. He knew that made his uncle angrier, knew he ought to stand still and listen, but he couldn’t make himself put them down. His sleeve was wet against his face, and each breath broke into the next before he could swallow it.
“I’m sorry,” he said, trying to get the words out clearly as Vernon pulled him towards the hall. “I’ll clean it. Please, I can do it. I’ll be careful.”
“Your aunt will do it.” Vernon stopped beside the stairs and opened the cupboard door. “Get in. You can stay there until you remember how to behave.”
Harry turned towards the kitchen. Aunt Petunia had followed with the cloth, and for a moment he thought she might have brought it for his face. He lowered one arm, wanting to ask before his uncle shut the door.
“Take that shirt off,” she told him. “You’re not getting tea all over the bedding as well.”
Vernon pushed between his shoulders. Harry stepped into the cupboard, knocking his shin against the bedframe, and turned in the narrow space before the door could close. Dudley was still in the kitchen doorway. He had found another biscuit and was watching Harry trying to stop crying as though he wanted to see whether he would manage.
The door closed. Harry heard the latch slide into place and stood with his hand against the wall, waiting for his eyes to find the mattress in the dark.
He sat carefully. The movement pulled the shirt against his chest, and he caught the cloth before it settled, holding it away with fingers which wouldn’t stay still. Aunt Petunia had told him to take it off, but lifting his arm made his shoulder hurt. He tried to undo the first button instead and couldn’t see it through the tears.
His glasses had slipped crookedly across his face. He took them off, wiped them on the dry part of his sleeve and put them on again. There was still nothing to see except the thin line of light beneath the door and the shape of his shoes beside the bed.
He wanted somebody to come back. He didn’t know who, because Aunt Petunia would tell him to be quiet and Uncle Vernon might not have finished being cross. He wanted the door to open and someone different to be standing there, someone who would listen to the part about catching the mug before deciding he had done it wrong.
Harry pressed his sleeve against his mouth, but it didn’t stop the next sob. He tried holding his breath, which only made it come out in a small, frightened gasp he knew could be heard in the hall.
Outside, a chair scraped across the kitchen floor. Dudley asked whether there was more toast, and Aunt Petunia told him to wait while she put the kettle on again.
Harry drew his knees up, careful of the shoulder, and tried to make himself quiet enough to be forgotten. He was still whispering that he was sorry when the sound of the television rose beyond the door.
The plate was warm beneath Harry’s hands, and the water smelled faintly of lemons.
He turned it beneath the tap, watched the last of the bubbles slide off and passed it to Ron, who was attempting to dry a mug with a tea towel much too wet for the job. Sunlight came through the open kitchen window, catching the little drops Harry had left on the sill. Beyond it, the orchard was bright and still, apart from one branch which kept dipping beneath the weight of a bird.
“You’re making that wetter,” Harry said, looking at the mug. “There’s another cloth in the drawer. Mrs Weasley said.”
Ron examined the smeared china, then held the towel up to see whether any dry part remained. “This was the other cloth,” he replied. “I don’t know what Fred did with the first one.”
Harry laughed and shook the water from his fingers before opening the drawer himself. He had volunteered to wash their mugs while Molly finished breakfast, partly because he knew where everything went now and partly because Ron had offered to dry. It was easier doing it with somebody who complained about the tea towel instead of watching to see what Harry might break.
He found a clean one beneath the oven gloves and passed it across. Ron draped the wet cloth over the sink edge, took the new one and began drying the same mug with considerably more success.
“There,” he said, holding it towards the light. “Good enough. We can eat now, can’t we? I’ve been promised breakfast three times.”
“Only one plate left.” Harry reached into the water and found it by touch, its edge smooth beneath his thumb. His sleeve had fallen down, and he pushed it back with his dry hand before lifting the plate clear.
For a moment he was looking at his wrist rather than the washing-up. There was nothing on it except a little soap, no hand round his arm and nobody waiting behind him. He turned his face towards the garden until the old picture loosened, then rinsed the plate and held it out.
Ron took it without noticing the pause. “You can leave that saucepan,” he said, nodding towards the far end of the sink. “Mum said it needs soaking. If you start on that, we’ll still be here at lunch.”
Harry looked at the pan, then back at his friend. “I wasn’t going to,” he replied, smiling as he pulled the plug. “I’m hungry too.”
He watched the water run away while Ron put the last plate on the dresser. It was his thirteenth birthday. Ron had remembered before Harry finished putting his glasses on upstairs, and Molly had told him to choose what he wanted for breakfast when he came down. The day was still mostly ahead of him, which seemed a very good arrangement.
He dried his hands on the clean corner of the cloth and looked round. Molly was standing on a stool, trying to retrieve a pan from the top of the dresser. Arthur held the stool steady while Ginny offered advice from a position which allowed her to see neither the pan nor her mother’s hand.
“A bit to the left,” she said, pointing past a collection of jugs. “That's where it was yesterday.”
“Yesterday your brothers hadn't tried rearranging my kitchen.” Molly stretched, caught the handle and lowered the pan with an expression of triumph which changed when she noticed something inside it. “Why is there a sock in here?”
Fred looked up from the table. “That might be mine,” he said cautiously. “Does it have a hole in the heel?”
“Is there some reason I ought to know what the heel looks like?” Molly climbed down, handed him the pan and turned towards the sink. “All finished, Harry? Come and sit down, dear. You aren’t spending your birthday at the washing-up.”
He had barely put the cloth down before she hugged him. His cuff was damp from the sink; Molly noticed when she let go, folded it neatly back so it wouldn’t drag across his plate, and guided him towards the table while Ron fetched the last of the clean mugs.
“Sit down. There are eggs if you'd like them, or I can put some more toast in. Ron, move that magazine before someone pours tea over it.”
Harry took the place beside Ginny. A plate stood ready, with a knife and fork on either side and a glass which wasn't reserved for somebody more important. He looked at it for a moment before reaching for the toast.
“Eggs would be nice, thanks,” he said. “I can do them if you're busy.”
“I've just done them.” Molly put the dish in front of him and moved the teapot within reach. “You can have the job of telling me whether they're cold.”
Arthur sat opposite, folding a newspaper so it would fit beside his cup. “Thirteen,” he said, smiling across the table. “Quite an age. I seem to remember Ron intended to be allowed a racing broom by then.”
“I still intend it,” Ron replied, rescuing the magazine from a spreading patch of milk. “I haven't stopped being thirteen yet. There's time.”
George leaned over to inspect Harry's plate. His hands were now clean, though one thumb had turned an interesting shade of purple.
“We were going to sing,” he said. “But Mum reckoned you might prefer to be allowed to eat something first.”
“Much later,” Harry said quickly, making Fred laugh into his tea. He moved the butter dish away from the resulting splash and hoped Molly might forget about singing altogether.
Ginny passed him the butter without waiting to be asked. When he thanked her, she smiled and told him that she had helped with the cake, but he wasn't to ask which bit because that would spoil it. Ron immediately asked whether it was the icing, earning a look which made Harry think it probably was.
It was easier to eat while they argued. Harry still noticed the plates being moved and the tea towel folded beside the sink, but here nobody watched his hands to see what he might get wrong. The pans moved on their hooks. A spoon was stirring something on the stove without anybody holding it. George had begun explaining the sock, apparently on the understanding that his mother would find the matter less irritating if she knew exactly how it had travelled across the room.
“You could have used a ball,” she said, pausing beside the sink.
“A ball would've rolled under something.” George took the pan from Fred and examined the sock. “We'd have had to fetch it every time.”
Molly opened her mouth, thought better of the answer, and went back to the stove. Harry caught Ron's eye across the butter dish, and they both began grinning.
He was halfway through his second piece of toast when an owl landed on the open window ledge. It was a large tawny bird with a parcel hanging beneath it and a look of profound dissatisfaction with the weight. Arthur stood to take the string before it could catch on the latch.
“For Harry,” he announced, reading the label. “I think your post has found you.”
Harry put his toast down. He knew the writing before Arthur turned the parcel round: the long stroke of the H, the way Draco made his surname fit neatly beneath it rather than squeezing the last letters into the corner.
Ron leaned sideways. “Malfoy?” he asked, although he could see perfectly well.
Harry nodded. Arthur set the parcel on the dry end of the table, untied the owl's leg and offered it a piece of toast. The bird accepted this without enthusiasm and remained on the windowsill to make certain the payment would not be improved.
“Would you like to open it now?” Molly asked, clearing a space beside Harry's plate. “I'll keep the tea away from it.”
He put a hand on the paper. The string was fastened with an ordinary knot, which seemed slightly surprising for something from Draco. He had half expected it to correct his fingers when he pulled the wrong end.
“Yeah,” he said. “If that's all right. I won't get anything in the eggs.”
“You've finished the eggs,” Ron pointed out, watching him find the knot. “You can stop worrying about them.”
Inside the brown paper was a narrow wooden case with a little brass catch. Harry lifted the lid and found neatly fitted compartments holding a jar of polish, a pair of silver clippers, a folded cloth and a slender instrument he couldn't immediately identify. A booklet lay on top, its cover showing a broom turning slowly in the air.
Ron abandoned his attempt to rescue the milk-stained magazine. “That's a servicing kit,” he said, leaning forward without quite touching it. “A proper one. What's the polish?”
Harry turned the jar so he could read it. Ron made a noise of approval, and Arthur came round the table to inspect the narrow instrument.
“For checking the alignment,” he explained. “Very useful. Don't adjust anything until you've read the instructions, though. They can be rather particular about balance.”
Harry ran a finger over the cloth. He had wiped mud off the Nimbus plenty of times, but he had never owned anything intended to make it look as though he knew what he was doing.
“There’s another bit,” Ginny said, pointing to the paper beneath the case. “You haven't opened that.”
A smaller parcel lay inside the wrapping. Harry took it out and unfolded the tissue to reveal a brass feather, narrow enough to fit between the pages of a book. Its stem curved into a smooth little hook, and when he lifted it, the vanes shivered against his thumb.
He reached for the booklet and slipped the feather between two pages. As soon as he closed it, the tip bent gently round the edge, holding his place. A tiny number appeared along the stem.
“Oh, that's clever,” Arthur said. “No more turning over corners. Your aunt Muriel used to threaten to take fingers off for that.”
Ron looked towards his mother. “She still does,” he said. “Mostly at Christmas.”
Harry opened the booklet again. The feather straightened, leaving the page unharmed, and waited where he had put it. He smiled before remembering the card tucked against the inside of the wrapping.
On the front, a small owl was trying to deliver a parcel through a window too narrow for it. It turned the parcel sideways, tried again and backed up to consider the problem. Harry watched it complete two unsuccessful attempts before opening the card.
Dear Harry,
Happy birthday. Mother says the kit is suitable for a Nimbus, but you ought to read the booklet before you try anything. The man in the shop kept explaining how to use the little measuring thing, so I made him show me twice. I still think he was holding it backwards the first time.
The feather is for your books. You keep using bits of paper which fall out, and then asking me where we'd got to. I am not going to remember every page you stop on for the rest of our lives.
Harry stopped there, smiling at the familiar complaint. He had asked her three times where they were in the cabbage-headed wizard's story, though on the third occasion she had lost the place herself and refused to admit it until he found the bookmark beneath her chair.
I hope you have a good day. I wish I could be there when you open this, mostly because I want to see whether you can work the catch. You have to press it down before you pull it up. If you've already opened it, you may ignore that part.
I'm glad you're spending your birthday somewhere you like. Write and tell me about it. You don't have to wait until you've done something exciting; I still want to know.
Love,
Draco
P.S. Don't let Weasley use the polish on anything else. The jar is quite clear about that.
Harry read the last few lines again. Around him, breakfast carried on: Molly was asking who wanted more tea, Fred had taken the sock outside, and the owl was examining a crumb Arthur had left beside the latch. The word above Draco's name remained exactly where she had put it.
Ron leaned towards the card. Harry closed it before remembering that doing so would make Ron more interested than simply letting him look.
“What's she said?” Ron asked, sitting back with an injured expression. “I wasn't going to eat it.”
“She says don't use the polish on anything else.” Harry turned the card over and watched the little owl retreat from the window again. “It's only for brooms.”
Ron looked down at the jar, then towards Arthur. “Why? What happens?” he asked, receiving the answer Harry suspected Draco had anticipated.
“Nothing you are to discover in my kitchen,” Molly said. She took the jar from Ron's reaching hand and set it back in its compartment. “Let Harry look at his presents before you start improving them.”
Harry thanked Arthur for catching the owl, although Arthur had already returned to his tea, and carried the case upstairs with the card resting on top. Ron followed, pausing on the landing to complain that he hadn't intended to put polish on anything at all.
In their room, Harry set the case on the bed and propped the card against the lamp. The owl on its cover finally got one corner of the parcel through the window, only to find that it couldn't get the rest to follow. He watched it for a moment before taking the Nimbus from its place beside the wardrobe.
“You're doing it now?” Ron asked, settling on his own bed. “We could go out before it gets too hot.”
“I want to try it.” Harry laid the broom across his knees and opened the booklet where the feather had kept his place. “You can help, if you like. Only read the bit about the clippers first.”
Ron accepted the booklet, apparently satisfied that helping with the present was nearly as good as being allowed to investigate it. Harry glanced at the card once more, then opened the polish and found a scent of cedarwood rising from the jar.
By the time Molly called that someone was waiting for him downstairs, Harry had discovered two things about broom maintenance: the bristles were much less evenly arranged than he thought, and Ron's idea of a small amount of polish differed considerably from the booklet's.
They had moved to the garden after the first flecks landed on the blanket. A newspaper spread beneath the broom now glittered with small brown drops, and Harry's hands smelled of the cloth even after he wiped them on a clean corner.
“Don't leave the lid off,” Ron said as Harry stood. “It says it dries out.”
Harry screwed it down and handed him the cloth. Through the kitchen window he could see his birthday card where he had brought it downstairs to write a reply. He had managed a date and half a sentence before Ron announced that he was holding the trimming guide upside down.
Molly stood near the fireplace, brushing ash away from the rug. Narcissa was beside her, removing a glove, and Draco had just put down a bag which appeared far too full for an afternoon visit.
“I told him not to bring the broom inside,” Molly said, stepping aside as Harry reached the door. “He seems to have taken me at my word.”
Draco looked at the cloth tucked into his waistband, then at the brown mark beside his thumb. Her face brightened in a way which made Harry immediately glad he had decided to try the kit before writing.
“You've opened it,” she said, coming nearer to examine the mark as though it might tell her whether the present had been a success. “Did the catch work?”
Harry grinned at her. “I opened it before I read the instructions,” he admitted. “It was all right.”
“That doesn't mean you should make a habit of it.” She set the bag farther beneath the bench and looked towards the garden. “Have you done much? I wanted to see whether the thing for the bristles was any good.”
“We haven't trimmed them yet. Ron's reading that bit.” Harry remembered he hadn't actually thanked her and turned back. “It's brilliant. Both of them. Thanks.”
Draco seemed briefly uncertain where to put her hands. She smoothed the top of her bag, noticed her mother watching, and straightened.
“Well, you kept saying you ought to clean it properly,” she said. “Now you can.”
“I said it once.” Harry watched her expression change, then added, “You said it the other times.”
“Because there was mud on it. That isn't the same.” Her mouth began curving despite the protest. “And I did get the shop to check the measuring thing. I didn't just think it looked useful.”
Narcissa drew out a chair beside Molly's. “Go and see it, darling. I imagine Harry would like to show you something other than the kitchen doorway.”
Draco went pink. Harry moved aside, suddenly aware that he had been blocking most of the way into the garden. She passed him with a small, embarrassed smile, and he followed, remembering the card on the kitchen table only when it was too late to do anything about it without being obvious.
Ron held up the booklet as they approached. “Where did you get this?” he asked Draco. “They've left out whether you trim from the middle or the outside.”
“It’s on the next page.” She took the booklet, turned it and pointed to a small illustration. “There. You’re meant to use the guide.”
“I knew there was a guide. I was finding out where it went.” Ron looked at the diagram, then at the instrument lying on the newspaper. “Oh. Thought that bit was for holding it.”
Harry sat on the grass beside the broom. Draco lowered herself more carefully, tucking the hem of her skirt beneath her knees. For a few minutes they discussed the illustration with growing confidence and no practical progress, until Harry took the clippers and asked both of them to stop pointing at different bristles.
“We could leave the trimming,” he suggested. “It isn't flying badly. I don't want to find out I've made it turn left all the time.”
Draco examined the broom's end. “It probably doesn't work like that,” she said, though she looked sufficiently uncertain to let him put the clippers away.
Ron ran his hand over the newly polished handle, then checked his palm for brown marks. “Only one way to see whether it's better,” he said, glancing towards the orchard.
Harry looked at Draco. She had come without a broom, which he ought to have remembered before sitting down to clean the only good one available.
“We can take turns,” he offered. “If you want. Ron says there's a spare in the shed as well, but I don't know how fast it is.”
Draco glanced towards the shed, then back at the Nimbus. “I don’t mind taking turns,” she said. “As long as you go first. I want to see whether we’ve left anything on it that comes off.”
Harry looked down at the cloth still tucked into his waistband and removed it before either of them could notice. Ron noticed anyway, but had the decency to begin laughing only after Harry did.
The orchard was warm and full of wasps which seemed personally offended by anybody flying near the fallen apples.
Harry took the Nimbus up slowly, feeling the familiar lift beneath his hands before turning between the trees. Nothing fell off. The broom answered the smallest movement of his fingers, and the smell of polish mixed with the sharp green scent of leaves as he rose above the nearest branch.
Below, Ron was showing Draco the spare broom's habit of veering towards the hedge. She watched him correct it twice, then pointed out that it might be doing that because he kept looking over his shoulder while he flew.
Harry circled them. He hadn't realised how much he wanted to be in the air until there was nothing immediately beneath his shoes. The summer had contained short flights, games with Ron and several afternoons when it was too windy to do much, but he still sometimes found himself surprised that he could get on a broom simply because he wanted to.
He came down beside the newspaper and held out the Nimbus. “Your turn,” he said. “It’s not different enough that I’d notice. Looks much better, though.”
Draco wiped her hands on the clean part of the cloth before taking it. “Are you sure?” she asked, checking the height of the branches. “I don't want to catch it on anything.”
“I go through here all the time. There’s room.” Harry stepped back as she mounted. “Just don’t go round the far side of the hedge. Mr Weasley said to stay where the trees hide us.”
She nodded and kicked off. Harry watched the moment she found her balance, her shoulders settling as the broom lifted. She flew more cautiously than he did, but when Ron came round the outside of a tree she turned after him, bringing the Nimbus between two branches with much less room than she had used on the way out.
She looked down at Harry as she passed. Her smile was startled, as though the broom had done something she hadn't quite believed it would do.
“It's much easier to turn,” she called, guiding it back towards the open patch of grass. “You barely have to move.”
“That's what I kept saying.” Harry tried to sound injured by her previous disbelief, but he was grinning too much for it to work.
Ron landed beside him, complaining that there was no point trying to keep up with that on a broom which had apparently decided to retire. They watched Draco circle once more before she came down, slightly breathless and trying not to look as pleased as she was.
“You can have another go,” Harry told her when she offered it back. “We’ve got ages.”
“I said turns.” She pushed the handle into his hands, then moved round to inspect the bristles. “Nothing's come off. That’s encouraging.”
They fetched an old ball from the shed and spent the next half-hour trying to pass it while keeping low enough not to alarm anybody beyond the orchard. Ron had more practice and Harry had the better broom; Draco became annoyed with both facts, then visibly pleased when she caught a difficult throw with one hand.
Harry had meant to take the next turn himself. Instead he found he was watching where she put her hands when she changed direction, the way she looked towards the gap before turning rather than waiting until she was already in it.
“You could do that in a match,” he said when she landed beside him.
Draco looked down at the ball. “Catch something?” she asked, beginning to smile. “I should hope so.”
“I meant when you turned. You kept looking for Ron, even with the ball. Most people look down.” Harry took it from her and tried to demonstrate the difference, although standing on the ground made his attempt look rather silly.
She watched him, her smile fading into interest. “I used to throw things with Father,” she said. “In the garden. He said you had to know where everyone else was before you tried going faster.”
For a moment Harry thought she regretted mentioning him. She glanced at the handle of the broom, then towards the house, where Narcissa and Molly were visible through the kitchen window.
“It’s useful,” Harry said, returning the ball and stepping out of the way of the broom handle. “You’re good at it. You caught that last one better than I would've.”
Draco looked at him again, apparently surprised he had left the rest alone. Ron came over before she could answer, holding the spare broom so its bent bristles wouldn't catch his legs.
“We could try without that tree in the middle,” he suggested. “It keeps getting in the way of all my best throws.”
“It’s been there longer than you,” Draco said, turning the ball in her hands. “You might have to go round it.”
Harry laughed and took the older broom from Ron. When he kicked off, it drifted left exactly as advertised. He corrected it, heard Draco tell Ron that perhaps it wasn't his fault after all, and nearly flew into the tree because he was laughing.
They came in hungry, hot and carrying enough grass between them to interest Molly's broom.
It followed Ron across the kitchen, sweeping determinedly at his heels while he tried to explain that he had taken his shoes off. Arthur arrived from the shed with a screwdriver behind one ear, accepted a glass of water and looked at the number of places Molly was laying.
“I thought we’d best all eat,” she told him. “They’re going to be no use to anybody until they have.”
Harry set the servicing case on the dresser, where it wouldn't get gravy on it. Draco remained beside him while he checked that the jar was properly shut. Through the open lid she could see the feather resting in its tissue.
“Does that work?” she asked. “I tried the one in the shop, but not that actual one. It was already wrapped.”
Harry fetched the booklet and showed her the little page number. She took it, opened the cover, closed it again and watched the feather curl neatly into place.
“That’s good,” she said, looking relieved. “I thought you’d find it useful. You kept leaving the paper in the other book.”
“I do find it useful.” He took the booklet back, then glanced towards the table. His card was still there, propped against the jug so it wouldn't lie in a wet patch. “I liked what you wrote as well.”
Draco followed his gaze and became very occupied with folding the tissue paper. “Most of it was instructions,” she said. “You needn't thank me for those.”
“Not that bit.” Harry felt his face grow warm and wished he had thought of a better way to say it. “The bit about writing. Even if I haven’t done anything.”
She looked up. Her expression changed, losing the awkwardness for a moment. “Well, I meant it,” she said. “I want to know what you’re doing. You needn't wait until there's a troll.”
“I haven't been waiting for trolls.” Harry smiled, relieved that he could answer that part. “You know what I mean.”
“I do.” She put the tissue down and moved the case clear of the dresser's edge. “You were getting better at telling me before you decided it was too boring to write.”
Harry thought about the letter in which he had described Ron trying to mend a chess piece with its own sword. Draco had written back with three questions, two of which had sent him upstairs to ask Ron what had actually happened.
“I didn’t know whether you’d want to hear all that,” he admitted. “Not at first.”
“Of course I do.” She sounded almost offended, then seemed to remember it was his birthday and added, more gently, “You listen when I tell you things.”
He looked at her, thinking of the painted box she had wanted from the Manor and the letters she sometimes took out of her bag without opening. He didn't always know how to help with those things. He did want her to keep telling him.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll write about ordinary stuff. But you'll have to do it too. You can't just ask what I had for dinner and say your day was fine.”
Draco opened her mouth, then shut it. Harry watched her realise he had noticed, and for a moment he thought she might get cross.
Instead she leaned against the dresser beside him. “There were three more boxes,” she said. “One of them had nothing in it but cushions. Mother said she hadn't asked for those.”
“What did she do with them?” Harry asked, looking towards Narcissa, who was helping Ginny carry a jug to the table.
“Put them in the sitting room. We might as well have somewhere comfortable to be annoyed.” Draco smiled a little when Harry laughed. “And she burnt the eggs yesterday because an owl came. We had bread and cheese instead.”
“See? That’s something.” Harry put the marker back between the booklet's pages. “I’d have liked hearing that.”
She considered him for a moment, then nudged his elbow away from the open case before he could lean on it. “I’ll put it in the next letter,” she said. “You can pretend to be surprised.”
Molly called them over before he could promise. Harry carried the card with him and put it on the windowsill behind his chair, where the little owl could continue failing to deliver its parcel without anybody spilling water over it.
There were thirteen candles on the cake. Ginny had counted them twice, and one leaned at an angle because George had planted it while insisting the others were too close together.
The icing was blue. A broom crossed its centre, with Harry's name beneath it and a collection of small yellow stars which had begun sliding towards the edge in the warmth. Ginny watched his face when Molly put it down, trying to appear as though she was only making certain there was room for the plates.
Harry looked at it for long enough that Ron shifted beside him.
“You're meant to blow them out,” he prompted. “Not wait until they do it themselves.”
“I know.” Harry looked up, smiling before he could help it. “It’s brilliant. Did you do the broom, Ginny?”
She nodded, her cheeks colouring. “Mum helped with the handle. It looked like a stick at first.”
“It still is a stick,” Fred said reasonably. “A rather good one.”
Molly moved the knife out of his reach and told him to wait. They sang despite Harry's request that morning, though Arthur began in a different key and Ron gave up halfway through to laugh at him. Draco joined in quietly, watching the candles rather than Harry, and he found he didn't mind nearly as much as he had expected.
When they finished, he leaned over the cake. For a moment he couldn't think what to wish for. There were things he wanted which no birthday could give him, and things he was afraid to wish for because saying them, even in his own head, felt rather like tempting somebody to take them away.
Then he looked round the table. Ginny was waiting with the plates. Ron had already decided which piece ought to be his, Arthur was finding a way to relight the crooked candle George had knocked out, and Draco had moved Harry's glass so he wouldn't catch it with his elbow.
He wanted another day like this. It seemed a large enough thing to ask.
He blew the candles out, needing a second breath for the last two. The table applauded with a great deal more enthusiasm than the task deserved, and Molly cut the first piece for him before anyone could argue over the broom.
Harry ate it slowly, although the others were discussing whether the stars tasted different from the icing. He tried one of each and couldn't tell. Beside him, Draco took the piece she was offered without asking for a different corner or examining whether the plate was chipped.
After a while she caught him smiling at her. “What?” she asked, looking down to see whether she had dropped something. “Have I got icing on me?”
“No.” Harry shook his head and took another bite. “Nothing like that.”
She studied him for a second, then seemed content to let him have a reason she didn't know. When Ron asked for the dish beside her, she passed it without reminding him that he had already had two pieces.
A knife slipped from the edge of a plate farther along the table. Harry caught his breath before he could stop himself, his hand tightening against his knee as the metal struck the floor. George bent to retrieve it, complaining that someone had moved his elbow, and the conversation carried on without waiting for Harry to discover what he ought to say.
Draco had noticed. He could see it in the way she looked from his hand to his face, her smile fading without becoming a question in front of everybody.
“Do you want to look at the book after?” she asked quietly, turning her own plate so the remaining icing wouldn't stick to her sleeve. “We could go outside. It's cooler under the tree.”
Harry nodded. He was glad she had asked something he could answer, and gladder still that she hadn't taken hold of him while he was trying to make his fingers loosen.
“Yeah. In a bit,” he said. “I want to finish this first.”
She nodded too and went back to her cake. For a while Harry watched the others without joining in, waiting for the old certainty of trouble to fade. It did eventually, enough for him to answer when Ron asked about the broom, but he knew it hadn't gone simply because nobody could see it.
Narcissa and Draco stayed until late afternoon. Molly and Narcissa had arrangements to discuss, including the dates of Harry's visit, which they checked against a sheet already folded into Molly's recipe book. Harry listened from the far end of the table while Draco tried to show him a page from the flying handbook she had brought in her bag.
“You're not looking,” she said, following his gaze towards the adults. “They haven't changed the day. Mother only wanted to know what time.”
“I know.” He turned back to the picture, where a witch was leaning much too far over the side of her broom. “Sorry. What was that bit?”
Draco put her finger beneath a paragraph. “About passing without turning your whole body. I couldn't work out what they meant until Ron threw the ball behind me.”
Harry read it, looked at the picture and tried to explain the movement with his hands. Draco misunderstood the first attempt, objected to the second and finally leaned across the table to make him demonstrate with a rolled tea towel instead of waving his fingers at her.
“That makes more sense,” she admitted, turning the towel in her hands. “Why didn't you just say that?”
“I thought I had.” Harry watched her make a note in the margin. “You could practise at school. There’s more room.”
“I might.” She returned the towel and looked at the picture again. “Do you think there’ll be anywhere we can fly without Wood shouting that he needs you?”
“He doesn't shout all the time.” Harry thought about this, then added, “Only when he's there.”
Draco laughed, and Ron, who had come back for the remains of the cake, said that was a fair assessment. They spent the next few minutes discussing practice times, drifting from Quidditch into the lessons they had chosen and whether Divination would require Harry to remember the names of stars.
By the time Narcissa said they ought to go, Draco had taken two books out of her bag and borrowed a third from Harry's trunk. She tried to fasten the bag with all of them inside, failed, and accepted Harry's offer to carry it to the fireplace without announcing that she could manage perfectly well.
Molly wrapped cake for them while Narcissa put on her gloves. Draco checked that the handbook was clear of the jam jar, then looked at Harry with an expression he recognised from the platform: there was something she wanted to say and too many people close enough to hear it.
“Thanks for coming,” he said, before she could decide it was better left until a letter. “It was a good surprise.”
“I wanted to see the kit,” she replied, accepting her bag. Then she glanced down at it and shook her head slightly. “And you. Obviously.”
Harry felt the warmth come into his face again. “You can see it next week as well,” he said. “I’m bringing the broom.”
“I should hope so.” She smiled at him, looking more comfortable now that there was something definite to discuss. “You can show me the turn you kept doing. Slowly, though. You did it too fast this morning.”
He promised he would. Narcissa took the cake from Molly, thanked her for lunch and waited while Draco shifted the bag to her other hand.
Draco stepped towards Harry. For an awkward moment he thought she was only trying to get past him, and he began moving aside just as she reached for his shoulder. They nearly collided, both laughed, and she gave up trying to make the movement look accidental.
“Happy birthday,” she said, putting her arms round him. Her bag knocked gently against his leg, and he hugged her back, careful not to catch the strap between them.
“Thanks,” he answered, his face somewhere near her hair. He wanted to add something about the card, but he had thanked her for that already and couldn't find a different way to explain what he meant.
She drew back before he had to. Her cheeks were pink, though Harry suspected his were worse. Narcissa looked occupied with adjusting the paper round the cake; Ron had, for once, found something interesting in the garden.
Draco squeezed his arm, stepped into the fireplace and said the address clearly. A moment later the flames turned green and she was gone, leaving Harry holding the flying handbook he had forgotten to put back in her bag.
Narcissa noticed when she stepped forward. “Bring it with you,” she said, smiling. “I imagine she'll remember before you do.”
Harry looked at the book and began grinning again. “She probably will,” he admitted, and Narcissa left with the cake held safely against her chest.
That evening, Harry finished the reply he had started before lunch. There was no reason to write to somebody he had spoken to less than three hours earlier. He considered this while sitting at the little desk in Ron's room, the card propped against the lamp and the handbook open beside his elbow. Then he crossed out the unfinished sentence about the kit and began somewhere else.
Dear Draco,
You left your book. Your mum said to bring it when I come, so I will. I tried the movement again after you went and I think the bit you marked is the one I meant. I still can't explain it better than the tea towel, so don't ask me to put all that in a letter.
Thanks for the presents, and for coming. Ron says the polish is better than anything he's used. He hasn't put it on anything else, as far as I know. Your bookmark works. I've put it in the handbook, which means you'll have to lend me that until next week.
He paused there, listening to Ron moving chess pieces on the bed behind him. Downstairs, somebody was carrying dishes from the kitchen. The ghoul knocked once against a pipe and went quiet again.
Harry looked at the little owl on the front of the card. It had begun another attempt to get its parcel through, refusing to accept that the window was too small. He opened the card and read the last paragraph before returning to his own letter.
I had a really good birthday. Not only because of the presents. I liked flying and the cake and you telling Ron the tree had been there first. I was glad you came.
He put the quill down and read it back. It didn't sound particularly clever, but he thought she would understand it. After a moment he added that there had been ham for supper and Arthur had finally found where George put the missing saucepan lid, because she had asked him to write ordinary things.
At the bottom, he wrote From Harry. He looked at it for a while, then left it alone. He could say more when he saw her, if he worked out what he wanted to say before then.
“Sending that tonight?” Ron asked, looking over from the bed. He had set the pieces up for a game and was waiting with more patience than Harry had expected.
“I might.” Harry folded the letter, then glanced at the window where Hedwig sat watching the orchard. “No, tomorrow. She can finish whatever she's doing.”
Hedwig turned her head towards him. Harry wasn't sure whether she approved of the decision or wanted to object to having her plans discussed. He gave her a small piece of the bread he had brought upstairs and set the letter beside her cage.
Ron moved a pawn when Harry sat opposite him. They played until the light had almost gone from the window, with Harry losing more slowly than usual and Ron insisting that he was not letting him win. When Molly called that it was time to think about bed, Harry was still arguing that thinking about it ought to count for something.
Later, after Ron had fallen asleep, Harry opened the card once more. He could just make out the writing by the lamp, and the word above Draco's name still made him feel as though somebody had quietly given him something else inside the parcel.
He put it on the bedside table where he would see it in the morning, with the letter he would send and the book he would take when he went to stay. Beyond the open window the orchard was dark, the brooms were back in the shed, and nobody was waiting for him to finish a job before he could sleep.
Harry reached for the lamp. He had wanted the day to last longer; when he thought about waking up tomorrow, he found he was looking forward to that as well.