Legacy

(Two)

When Draco rose, it was sunrise. His windows were open, and he could see the myriad of colours that formed the morning sky. At Hogwarts Draco had kept his curtains closed and rarely watched sunrise except for the small number of times he had slept over in Harry's dorm room. Draco had actually enjoyed basically living without windows, but now the option was gone. He was home, or at least somewhere that resembled one.

He dressed but didn't pay attention to the clothes he wore, which was an absolute first. He was still tired, unbelievably tired, but the thought of even more boxes in the attic (and what he might find in them) kept him from sleep. And there was Harry to deal with - if Harry was still at the Manor, which Draco doubted. Last night's exchange had been too heated; Harry had probably taken off and gone to Romania a few days earlier than planned, just out of spite.

Draco magicked himself a glass of water, smiling thoughtfully over the rim when he realised he could use magic in every day life without punishment from the Ministry. Being an adult (at least in the eyes of Ministry law) already had its perks. Life outside of Hogwarts and Lucius Malfoy seemed to be far superior to the life he'd lived thus far. Surely living a life of independence is better than sleeping in a crowded dorm and living with imbeciles? Though, classes had been all right and Quidditch was wonderful when he didn't lose to Gryffindor, but he hadn't exactly been content at Hogwarts.

A stupid line of thought.

Draco downed the rest of his water in two gulps.

There was nothing of importance left in his room. He went downstairs, thinking of food the house-elves could prepare. Draco didn't necessarily like breakfast food, but he supposed something could be fixed that would sit well with his stomach.

Downstairs, the halls were quiet, cold and empty. Draco was sure he was the only one at home, positive the house-elves were gone somehow, convinced his mother was off somewhere and certain Harry had abandoned him for Romania. He frowned and moved throughout the mansion, room to room, as if searching for something. Draco didn't feel like himself and wasn't in the mood for surprises; wasn't sure he'd be able to deal with them.

The book, it dawned on him, was tucked neatly under his arm - as if attached to him. He glanced down at it's corner and estimated how many pages he'd read - not even half of the thing. There was more content than Draco had originally thought. His father's handwriting was so small and neat. The whole thing seemed to be filled with the tiny writing, except, he remembered, what had to be the last few pages - those were ripped from the book. He hadn't read the last entry, but he assumed it couldn't have been cheerful.

Draco wanted to read the diary; the thought was tugging at him like a desperate child. He wanted to finish the thing and perhaps make sense of the chaos that had been unearthed. Halfway ready to scream, Draco yanked the diary's pages open to the last entry he'd read and walked blindly for a place to sit. His motions were erratic, impulsive, not at all like him - and he hated it. Absolutely despised the wreck his father managed to make him, even after his death.

Walking, Draco nearly bumped into the doorway to the dining room, which ultimately reminded him of the night before. He looked up from the book and scowled, taking in the pristine set table and high ceiling. His eyes drifted to a corner -

"Harry?" He dropped the book in sheer disbelief - an understandable shock, so he forgave himself. Harry turned his head to look at Draco and blinked in surprise.

"Malfoy?" It startled Draco how easily Harry called him 'Malfoy'; obviously, the last night was still fresh on Harry's mind as well. Draco inwardly cringed when he realised he'd called Harry by his first name without even thinking it over. "What time is it?"

"I have no idea," he responded shortly, but checked himself. "Probably around ten."

Harry was quiet, and the silence ticked at Draco's nerves like a bug.

"I slept down here," Harry explained, but then offered a rueful shrug. "Well, I wouldn't call it sleep."

"I thought you left for Romania?"

Harry returned Draco's distrustful gaze with full force. "Not for three days. I told you that."

"But..." he floundered. There was nothing he could say. In retrospect, he should have known Harry had stayed - when he made plans, he stubbornly saw them through. "Three days," he repeated finally.

"Yes."

An awkward silence. Draco had to admit that they weren't unaccustomed to that sort of thing.

Oddly, Draco remembered, it hadn't been like that in the beginning. In the early months, it took real, concentrated effort not to speak to Harry - to offer some droll comment or snide insult, to march over to the Gryffindor table and start some pissing contest or other, just to prove that things hadn't changed. The pair still managed to carry on as enemies even when they became lovers, and Draco was satisfied, and liked it that way.

It seemed to dissipate around Christmastime. Draco had managed to convince Lucius that it was best for him to stay over at Hogwarts during the Holiday, his reason supposedly being to keep a steady eye on Dumbledore and Potter. Lucius had agreed, but Draco doubted it had anything to do with the reason he gave - most likely he just wanted Draco out of his hair for as many months as possible.

Instead of fucking or arguing or doing whatever bored teenagers with free time and space did, Harry and Draco spent time in their separate dorms and rarely spoke to one another. The sex died down and Draco didn't ask. But he wanted to.

He left the book where it was and stepped on it when he walked closer to Harry. Green eyes curiously followed his movements when climbed to his knees, not three feet away from Harry.

"I don't know what to say to you," Harry started. His voice was louder than a whisper but held the same thoughtful undertone. "And I haven't the will to start trying. With this book, you realise..." he stopped short and it was a long moment of tension before he spoke again. "I thought I would have spent all night fretting over you, or seething in anger." A pause. "I didn't." Harry's deeply thoughtful green eyes met Draco's blank gray, and he didn't drop the contact. "I thought about my father, and what... what my father might mean to me. I mean, if he was still around. And..." Harry stopped his rambling, and it seemed to be for good.

Draco's eyes narrowed. "Yes?"

"And I'm not sure what to think, that's yes," Harry snapped in an unexpected show of furore.

"Neither do I, so I guess we're in the same boat." The comment was meant to be biting, but came out rather soft. He sighed, tired again, and sank back against the cold wall, still only inches from Harry. "Never mind."

"All right."

Silence, for another few minutes. Draco couldn't escape it, and it made the pounding of blood in his ears unspeakably loud. He drew his legs up to his chest and rested his arms on them, staring at the diary over the top of his knees.

"If you want to read it," came Harry's voice from the left, startling him, "go ahead. I'm not stopping you."

Draco turned slightly, but didn't look at Harry, focusing instead on the very small individual carpet fibres of the rug underneath him. "Are you sure?" Lucius had fucked Harry's father. Harry... no doubt had visions of what he thought his father should be, and Draco hardly thought that 'sleeping with Death Eater scum' was one of them.

Harry shrugged. "I guess." Draco stared at him for a moment, but finally stood and retrieved the diary. He carefully flipped through the pages and settled on the last entry he'd read.

|Unfortunately for Lucius, he had the manner of someone easily confused and ill prepared. When the teachers called his name, Lucius would fiddle with the base of his ink well or shred the ends of his parchment, stuttering as if he didn't know the answer when really it was stored neatly somewhere inside of his phenomenal brain, waiting to be fished out and presented.

Lucius held his books with weak wrists and slippery fingers. His papers always ended up scattered all over the floor. When Lucius was nervous or thinking about something, the most peculiar twitch developed underneath his right eye. Overall, Hogwarts thought he was too blond and sharp to be trusted.

That was why Lucius was surprised when James Potter asked him for help in Potions. Lucius was standing in the Charms corridor, fiddling with the strap of his bag while students elbowed past him. There was a hesitant touch to his shoulder and he glanced up, eyes wide.

"Hallo." James Potter smiled faintly at him, eyes searching Lucius' face as if he'd never seen it before. Potter did try not to be too obvious about it, and for that Lucius had to give him some credit.

"Hello," he responded, hoisting the strap of his bag up his shoulder.

"I was wondering if I might ask you something?"

Lucius found questions of this sort utterly ridiculous - anyone who thought about what they said wouldn't ask to ask a question - but refrained from mentioning it. "Sure."

"I need... help in Charms. I asked Professor Lewis and he said you were one of the best students in the class." Lucius was surprised. Professor Lewis didn't particularly favour Lucius, although he did quite well in the class. Snape was the star Potions student, and everyone knew that. He couldn't chalk up Potter's not asking Snape for help to house animosity; unless Potter had completely forgotten and the badge on his robes somehow wasn't clear enough, Lucius was a Slytherin as well.

"I see." He stared up at Potter blankly, who had to be at least a head taller. It wasn't that Lucius was terribly short, but that Potter was the unlucky recipient of quite a few growth spurts. Lucky for him, though, all of that Quidditch he played helped to fill him out. Lucius' eyes narrowed when he realised he was analysing Potter's growth rate.

"So." Potter shifted his weight from foot to foot and looked everywhere but at Lucius.

"You don't have to be so uncomfortable, asking for help," he said.

Potter's eyebrows lifted. "Oh. Uh. Sorry."

"I wasn't reprimanding you. I was simply saying..." he trailed off on a sigh. Potter didn't understand, nor did he care. "Sure, I'll help you."

Potter blinked. "Oh. Thanks, then." Uncertainly, he started to turn around and head towards whatever class he had next.

"What time?"

Potter spun around. "Pardon?"

"What time do you want to start? Where, for that matter?" Potter looked dumbfounded, though slightly less uncomfortable.

"How about..." he squinted, trying to think. "You know I'm a Prefect?" He asked suddenly. Lucius eyed the gleaming Prefect's badge on Potter's robes and glanced down at his own with amusement.

"Yes, I had noticed."

"So..." Potter appeared to be doing some very quick thinking. Lucius wondered if it hurt, and chided himself for being so callous. Potter wasn't stupid; Potter was a Prefect, as they'd just re-established. "I, er, have my own... room. And," he said, as if it was something very deep and important, "you have your own room."

"Mm-hm."

"So that means we can work in privacy." For a moment, Lucius wondered if this was all some ploy for the Gryffindor group Potter ran around in to get his password and destroy his rooms, or something equally puerile.

"I suppose it does."

"Which room do you think we should work in?"

"It doesn't really matter to me. We'll work in yours," he offered, although it really did matter and he didn't fancy a walk up to the Gryffindor tower every week, or whatever their arrangement would be.

"I have Quidditch practice some nights after dinner... and the dungeons are closer to the field..." Potter looked at Lucius expectantly, who raised his eyebrows. Potter was trying to be agreeable, which would be a nice surprise - if Potter's motives were genuine, and Lucius had some doubts on that score.

"If it's easier, then we'll meet in my rooms." Lucius was starting to become agitated. Potter was keeping him from his next class for an issue that should have been solved already.

"Yes, I think that would be easier." Potter nodded to himself and went to leave again.

"Wait. What time?"

"Tonight. Um. When I get done with Quidditch practice," Potter decided.

"And what time would that be?"

"Around eight?"

Lucius eyed him carefully. "Fine. I'll meet you outside of my room." He wasn't foolish enough to give out the password, if that was what Potter was hoping for. But the boy didn't seem perturbed. He nodded and disappeared around the corner. Lucius stood in the hallway for a moment, wondering exactly what he'd just agreed to, and fiddled with the strap on his bag again.|

When Harry's voice came, it startled him; Draco thought he was asleep. "When's your father's funeral?"

His voice was tired, and Draco glanced down at Harry's mop of dark hair, just beneath his chin. Their position was deceptively tender, as if they spent hours like that, curled around each other. Draco frowned and turned a page. "Tomorrow, I think. Mother hasn't mentioned it." But Draco knew she wouldn't let the body rot for much longer.

"You're going?"

Draco was momentarily taken aback. "Of course." Why wouldn't he go? It was his father's funeral, after all. It wasn't exactly an event he could skip out on, even if he wanted to.

"Oh, I didn't know that you were going for sure." Harry's voice had dropped into a hushed monotone; clearly, he was displeased at something, and it couldn't have been just Draco.

"What? What is it?"

Harry very clearly did not want to answer. "You know, Draco." A flicker of relief in Draco's eyes, too quick for Harry to notice, but Draco knew it had been there.

It was back to Draco and Harry; no longer the brittle accusation of last names. The usage had probably bothered Draco far, far more than it had bothered Harry, but he remembered with some satisfaction that Harry didn't like calling Draco by his last name in the least. "I'm not your fucking teacher," he'd said, naked and angry, when Draco asked why Harry never said his name during sex. "I don't particularly fancy calling out 'Malfoy.' It makes me feel like I'm Snape or something."

"Then don't," Draco had responded, before pressing his lips firmly against Harry's. "Don't call me anything you don't want to, Harry," he had whispered, the worlds slightly muffled against Harry's skin.

"Draco," was all Harry replied, on a low moan.

The memory made Draco shiver.

"What do I know?" Draco asked, more to distract himself than to continue the conversation.

"That what's bothering me is my father," Harry responded flatly, sitting up. "That much is obvious, or so I hope."

"Oh. No," said Draco, closing the diary and turning his full attention back to Harry. "Not really."

"Oh, fuck you." Harry's sigh held more than a hint of exasperation, and he waved a hand in the air as if swatting a fly.

A sardonic grin replaced the frown Draco wore. "Only if you want to, Harry. I don't want to push you into anything you just aren't ready for," he taunted, sliding down the wall a little, making sure his hands were holding on to Harry tight enough to make him squirm.

"Draco - "

"No," he growled, and used his mouth to fuck Harry's.

Draco yanked Harry's glasses from his face and tossed to the floor a good distance away from them. Now Harry couldn't see anything but the pale outline of Draco and the two pools of silver that must have been his eyes.

It was odd. Harry could have sworn there were no windows in the room, but Draco seemed encased, illuminated with light. He shrugged off the thought when Draco's mouth fastened to his neck. Harry could feel harsh puffs of air against his neck; Draco breathing, reaching around, groaning, using his fingers and some charm Harry had forgotten about to lubricate and stretch him.

Afterwards, Draco watched Harry's peacefully sleeping form and didn't expect to see him again.

--

|It was after dinner and after Potter's supposed Quidditch practice, and Lucius Malfoy had already checked his clock about five times. He felt ridiculous and had a sneaking suspicion that he'd been set up, but stayed just outside of his dorm in the corridor out of a sort of morbid curiosity. Potter might actually just be late; it wasn't unheard of, especially for the little group Potter ran around in. Lucius didn't know first-hand what sort of pranks Potter was capable of, but had heard plenty of stories. The Marauders; what he and his little friends called themselves. He snorted at the thought and checked the time again.

A moment or two later, footsteps. Lucius raised an eyebrow at the sound, and just as he was about to go and investigate, James Potter rounded the corner, breathing unsteadily and fresh out of the shower. It looked like he hadn't even fastened his robe. Lucius wasn't particularly vain, but he couldn't help finding any sort of untidiness rude. He tried to quell the feeling and gave a not entirely welcoming smile.

"You're here."

"Yes." Potter stopped a good two yards away from him. Lucius could see nothing of the supposed prankster in Potter's mannerisms and smirked. So, Lucius made him uncomfortable. It was something that he could easily deal with and perhaps use to his advantage. "I'm sorry about being late." Potter shrugged, biting his lip. Lucius focused on the two rows of straight white teeth. Surprisingly sharp.

"I didn't wait long," Lucius said, his smile widening.

"Really?"

"No. I'm lying." Potter blinked. Lucius' smile dropped and turned into a frown. "That was a joke."

"I didn't know you joked," Potter explained, dropping his eyes to the floor in embarrassment.

"Yes, well... Usually I spend my days mocking the poor and marching through the dungeons, but occasionally a joke or two has been known to slip through." Lucius raised his eyebrows expectantly, and Potter gave a short laugh.

"All right, so you can joke." Potter's expression softened just a little, almost into a smile, but Lucius' calculating stare remained the same.

"Yes. You'll find that I can do many things commonly thought obscure to Slytherins." The house rivalry; something easy and something they both knew. Potter's almost-smile turned into a nervous frown and he tucked his hands into his pockets. "You don't know what to say, do you?"

"No. I don't. I'm sorry." Potter's mild discomfort was clearly turning into the desire to run away from Lucius as fast as humanly possible. He sighed.

"You don't have to be sorry, Potter. That's all you seem to be saying to me, always telling me that you're sorry. No one can possibly be that bloody sorry for so many things so constantly. You're not sorry. You're at a loss. There's a difference," he stated.

"Oh." Potter dropped his eyes completely, figuratively pushed into a corner. Something Lucius was unintentionally good at. Sometimes it was quite helpful, but this was not one of those times. Lucius sighed again - what seemed like the millionth time - and stepped closer to the Gryffindor.

"Come in, please. I think we've had enough of this for a night." Lucius turned, not bothering to check if Potter was following, and whispered the password. The stone walls opened just wide enough for an adult to step through.

From the sounds behind him, it seemed like Potter had followed. Lucius made no move to instigate another conversation, already having an idea of where it would lead, and moved through the room, organizing this or moving that. It was busy work and wouldn't last long, but it filled the time and a part of the silence. "So..." Potter's desperately even voice rang through the cavernous room. "Where should we begin?"

"Have a seat." He waved a hand behind him in the direction of the couch.

"All right." Potter's strangely soft voice filled the room and startled Lucius into turning around. He spun, staring curiously at the Gryffindor, who sat himself down on Lucius' couch, tapping his fingers against the leather cushions in what might have been read as impatience. Lucius knew better, and saw that it was nervousness. He smiled, not for the first time out of a sort of vindictive triumph. Lucius walked closer to Potter but stopped at the table behind his couch, leaning against it. Looking down at Potter's dark hair, he realised that he had the upper hand - Potter was in his rooms, asking for his help and at his own mercy.

But. Lucius kept going between wanting to startle Potter and wanting to ease his discomfort. It was making him jumpy, making him terribly nervous. He stopped thinking about it by talking. Potter turned around and face Lucius, arm draped over the top of the couch.

"So, Potter... what exactly are you struggling with?" Lucius stared down his fairly long nose at Potter and crossed his arms over his chest. "Tell me exactly. The spellwork, the motions, what?"

"I, um." Potter turned a rather chagrined red. "I'm not sure, to be honest. I just know that every time I pick up a wand to do an assignment for Charms, I fail at it. Miserably."

Lucius eyed him. "Do you have trouble in any other subjects that involve wandwork?"

"Not... no. My grades are good enough. It's mainly Charms."

"You don't suppose you have some sort of mental block, do you?" Lucius asked dryly. Potter raised his eyebrows, and Lucius wagered that he was putting some very crucial points together. He forced back a snort of disgust.

"I might!" Potter chewed his bottom lip. "I really might."

He nodded. "That solved, the question is what to do about it." Potter moved to speak but seemed to lose the will, sinking back down into the couch with a frown.

Lucius sighed and ran his fingers along the smooth surface of the tabletop. An idea struck him, causing a smile in its abruptness and its clarity. "Pick up your wand, Potter." He knew without looking that Potter didn't. "I want to try something. Please pick up your wand." As if to demonstrate, Lucius reached for his own and circled the couch, coming to stand in front of Potter, wand raised. "Stand up," he ordered, patience running thin. Potter stood, smoothing his pants of invisible wrinkles.

Potter studied Lucius' posture and copied it, unsure, raising his wand to the level Lucius held his own. Lucius used his other hand to correct Potter's grip, encircling the boy's palm with his own. "It's a wonder you pass anything involving wandwork," he murmured, checking to make sure Potter's thumb rested along the wand correctly. "You've been doing this all wrong for ages."

Potter shrugged. "I make do."

"Obviously." Potter the Prefect. The words were too easy and behind them there was too much jealousy. Lucius was only made Prefect after years of what seemed like endless study and practice, and Potter stood before him, not even aware of how to properly hold his wand. His jaw clenched. It didn't seem fair.

Potter noticed his sudden change of posture and looked at him warily. "Right." Lucius watched Potter's throat shift as he swallowed.

"Like this," Lucius instructed, and dropped his hand from Potter's. He raised his wand just a bit higher. Potter unsteadily raised his wand to match it and watched Lucius very carefully. "Accio glass," he blurted, thinking of the first truly easy spell he could perform. Lucius' ever-present half-filled cup of water floated towards him, and he reached out easily and grabbed it from mid-air. "Very simple. 'Ah-see-oh' whichever object, Potter."

"Ah-see-oh," Potter repeated slowly, eyes darting towards Lucius' to check that he'd said it right. Lucius nodded and Potter relaxed just a bit. "Accio. Accio. Accio... what should I...?" He looked around the room, eyes drifting over Lucius' sparse furnishings and décor. "Accio book," he decided, and, after a tense moment, his Charms book started wobbling (it couldn't have been called flying) towards them. Potter fairly beamed and caught it so eagerly he almost dropped it.

"It worked."

"You sincerely doubted that it would?"

Potter didn't answer him, and instead studied the cover of the Charms textbook. "I wonder how long it'll take me before I'm up to standard...?" he sighed, evidently more to himself than to Lucius.

"Not too long, I'd bet. Charms is an easy subject to master after you've got the basics down. Frankly," he started, and Potter looked up at him, "I really am surprised that the teachers haven't noticed this... flaw in your work."

Potter flushed. "Ah. I think they have. A few have mentioned bits about being careless, but they haven't actively..." he fished for words, "... reprimanded me, or anything."

"No, I don't doubt that," Lucius responded, tucking his wand back into his robes for the moment. "You're an exceptional student, and I suppose anything that might compromise your standing just wouldn't be done."

"No, I suppose it wouldn't." Potter's tone turned funny, and if Lucius didn't know any better, he'd say the boy was offended. Curious, he studied Potter's expression intensely, noting the worried lip beween his teeth (it didn't seem like there was a space of time in which Potter didn't spend chewing his lip; it really was a horrible habit) and furrowed eyebrows.

"What? What is it?" Lucius had to admit, his tone wasn't exactly convivial, but he was doing the best he could, under the circumstances. This was Potter, and Lucius had learned that around people like Potter, you had to be very, very careful.

Potter took a moment before he spoke. Lucius found these little traits of his - the ones his friends and admirers probably found endearing; all of that shy, blushing earnestness - horribly boring and predictable. It was as if Potter was following some sort of manual; how to blush, how to give this or that expression, how to stammer just so. Horribly, glaringly gauche, but Potter did manage to carry it off, much to Lucius' distaste.

"Do you really believe that?" Surprised, Lucius made to speak, but Potter's rush of words stopped him. "I mean, do you honestly think that the teachers..."

"Let you get away with so much?" Potter looked down at his shoes. "Well, yes. I do." Potter didn't look up. "Everyone thinks that." It wasn't entirely true, but true enough not to be a boldfaced lie, and that was good enough for Lucius.

"Oh." Potter looked up from his shoes, face completely blank. "I didn't know."|

The next morning before he was dressed, Draco was intent on bringing the diary with him and throwing it in the grave where it belonged. When he was finished dressing, it was eight o' clock exactly, and Narcissa knocked to check that he was ready. Draco reached for the diary but hesitated, and she knocked again, louder, and Draco left the room, the diary untouched.

It was cold out during the service (odd, it being mid-June, but the weather at Malfoy Manor had always been tricky), and all very Muggleish; the only thing missing was a priest. Or so he supposed. The idea of his father being buried seemed absolutely ludicrous. Next to him, Narcissa shivered delicately, like a rabbit or something equally pitiful, and several people offered their coats. Draco was unmoved by the persistent, windy chill and stared blankly down at the coffin that held his father's corpse.

When he died, Draco mused, he did not want his funeral to be like this.

No one cried and no one spoke. Not even Narcissa could play the suitably grieving widow. No one had cared about Lucius Malfoy in life, and it seemed even less so in death. He had no debts and no real work. The crowd, small as it was, had no real or compelling reason to be there. The funeral was a farce, a formality. Nothing more.

Looking up, Draco spotted Harry.

He leaned against an oak a good deal away from the grave, not looking back at Draco or the service, but towards the rest of the grounds. The cold wind tore at the bottom of his cloak and tangled the ends of his boldly Gryffindor scarf, but Harry didn't seem to care.

The service ended.

The guests went home.

It was pouring rain on the casket and making mud of the dirt, but Draco stood at his father's open grave with a fistful of already wilting lilies he just couldn't drop. Behind him, a few weak rays of the sun shone, but even so he shivered and gathered his cloak closer to him with his free hand. It was close to raining or even snowing, despite the weak sunlight, and the cold was finally starting to get to him. The flimsy black cloak and simple clothing he wore did nothing to shield him from the biting wind.

From behind him, utterly familiar but still startling, arms wound around his waist and dragged him away from the grave's edge. In his surprise, the lilies slipped from his palm and one landed on his shoe, the others on the verge of falling into the pit. Draco sagged heavily against the body holding him.

"You're tired," Harry whispered, mouth pressed against Draco's ear, breath warming it. Draco nodded. "I'm sorry," he added, and slid his hands up higher, around his chest.

"I'm tired and you're sorry?" Draco snorted and started to pull away, but his heart clearly wasn't in it. "That's a little worthless, isn't it?"

"Not to me." Resigned, Harry dropped his arms and stepped a good distance back. Draco bent to gather the scattered lilies and arranged them neatly in his hand. He stepped towards the grave. They all landed quite neatly on top of his father's coffin. Draco smiled. "That looks nice, yes?"

Harry moved behind him again, but made no move to touch him. "Yes. Very nice." Draco's smile faded.

"I don't particularly like lilies," he offered, "but it's customary, I suppose. Mother and the decorators wouldn't have it any other way."

"They're not here now," Harry said, and in his voice was something strange that Draco couldn't place, so he shrugged it off. "You could spell the flowers into something else."

"Like what? Roses?" Draco laughed, and the wind did nothing to carry it. "Too romantic. No. I think I've changed my mind. The lilies are suiting. I've gotten used to them."

"I'm glad," Harry murmured, although it was perfectly clear he didn't mean it. Draco lifted his gaze, taking in the dull landscape of the manor. It was dismal, Draco knew, and he couldn't blame Harry for being so melancholy. Draco couldn't blame himself, for that matter.

"So am I," he muttered.