Canary Creams and New Yellow Paint - (DRARRY)

Chapter Twenty-Two

When Potter sets the mug in front of him, Draco sniffs it carefully.

Potter frowns. "'Thank you, Harry,' you could try saying."

Draco looks up. "Pardon me. Great and powerful Saviour, what an honour it is to sip your disgusting tea."

Potter drops into the seat across from him, and the table feels like it's not nearly large enough between them. Potter's only turned on one lamp, and the moment feels too intimate in its dim light.

"It's been a long day," Potter says. "Why are you still awake?"

"I ... I've been thinking over a plan for solving this mess."

"Have you made any progress?"

"No. I'll get there."

He wants Potter to say he knows. That he believes this is something they can handle, no problem.

"You met Ginny," Potter says.

"I did."

The clock ticks. Draco glances at it. Nearly four.

"I made them right after we broke up," Potter says. "I wasn't thinking clearly."

"You've kept them all these years."

"I keep a lot of things."

Draco hesitates. Then he asks it, "Why?"

Maybe Ginny isn't right about him. But Potter's words felt like an invitation, and Draco has to try prying them open.

"Most of it was my godfather's," Potter whispered. "And some is from my parents' vault."

"So?"

"What do you mean, 'so?'"

"Why keep them? Why not shrink them all down, at least?"

Potter inhales, and his nostrils flare. "I get this ... feeling, every time I think about it."

"Feeling like what?" he asks quietly.

"Panic. Like if I let any of it out of my sight, I'll ... forget."

He doesn't ask what Potter's scared of forgetting.

"I read some things about your childhood once — by accident ... I never knew how much of it was real."

"I don't know. I'm not willing to go about reading all that rubbish to find out. If any of it's true, I don't know how they got the stories. Maybe they interviewed the Dursleys. I can't imagine they'd ever speak with any wizards, though."

"The Dursleys?"

"My aunt and uncle, the ones who raised me."

"Ah."

"Maybe raised isn't the right word. They sort of tossed me in the air and hoped I wouldn't land so badly they got the NSPCC called on them."

Draco fights back a snort, feeling horrified when it slips through, but then Potter laughs too, so lightly Draco's half sure he's imagining the sound, except that he can see his chest shaking.

"God, they were horrible," Potter says. "Every Mind Healer I ever saw said it wasn't surprising, the way I ... the way I get so attached to things now. Everything. I didn't have anything at Privet Drive that was mine."

"Nothing at all?"

"The food was theirs, the house, my clothes, even my cupboard. They gave me a hanger once, for Christmas, but I suspect they'd have taken that back too if they ever wanted it."

Draco stays quiet because he doesn't want to frighten Potter out of speaking. He's certain that any big reaction — outrage, surprise, horror — would only remind Potter that he's admitting something.