Tea and No Sympathy

Chapter 8

The next morning, when time resets, Draco squares his jaw, prepares himself to do something he never, ever thought he'd do, and goes downstairs for breakfast, still in his pyjamas.

"Good morning, dear," his mother says, setting the paper aside and looking at him with sympathy. "Are you nervous about your speech?"

Draco sits down and spreads a napkin on his knees, summoning all his courage, while his mother pours him a cup of tea. "No," he says – and means it. "Not at all. But . . . I am nervous about telling you something, Mother."

His mother focuses all her attention on him, in the disconcerting way she sometimes has, as if nothing in the world is more important than him. "What is it, Draco?" she asks.

The words stick in Draco's throat, and although he's talked himself into this, has made himself swear he'll do it, he considers leaving it for another day. It won't make any difference if he does it tomorrow, will it? But . . . he knows that if he doesn't do it now, he'll never do it. It's fucking difficult enough today; if he puts it off, it'll be forever. He knows he can be a coward, although he chafes against that realisation. If he doesn't do it, though, he'll never know - and, oh Merlin, he wants to know. It burns in him, like it's never done before. Harry fucking fucking Potter has robbed him of his peace, and he hates him for it.

"Oh, my darling," his mother says as he dithers, caught between bravery and terror. "You're my son, and whatever it is, you know that I love you."

Draco swallows hard. "I . . . I wanted to tell you that I'm . . . that I'm gay, Mother," he says, his voice wavering, despite his best efforts to hold it steady.

His mother's eyes go very sad, and he bows his head with the hurt of disappointing her. He knows it isn't what she wants for him. True, homosexuality is far from taboo in their society, but . . . he's a pureblood. It's expected that he'll marry – and marry a woman, not a man. How else is he to continue the Malfoy line?

He knows what she's going to say – she'll tell him that he can sleep with who he likes, so long as he marries well. The thought makes him sag. This is why he's never told her before. This. It's a mistake. It's all a mistake, and even though tomorrow she won't remember it, he sodding will, and he'll carry the memory of this soul-crushing awfulness around with him forever.

She rises from her chair – he can hear her – and comes over and . . . wraps her arms around him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "Oh, my darling boy, is that all?" she says. "I just want you to be happy."

Her words fill him with wild, exploding joy. She . . . she means it. He can hear it in her voice. She means it.

He raises his head and looks into her eyes – they're wet, but very very kind. "And is the lucky man who's won your heart who I think it is?" she asks. "I wish you both joy, you know I do. I've long thought that—"

"No," he interrupts. He loves his mother, and he . . . he forgives her for prying into his secrets desires, but he does not want to hear the end of that sentence, to find out who his mother would choose for him. Not for any money. He knows, he sodding knows, and it would kill him to hear it out loud. "I'm not . . . There's no one special," he says firmly.

His mother smiles at him. "Of course, dear. Whatever you say. But when there is," she adds delicately, "then I want to know as soon as possible. He'll be very welcome here."

The thought of taking a boyfriend home is . . . There are no words to explain it. And just like that, his joy falters, and there seems to be a rock pressing down on his lungs, making it hard to breathe. "But . . . what will father say?" he asks. His mother is one thing, his father quite another.