Ravenna C. Tan: Draco's Release (Draco/Harry, NC-17)
And here it is, my FINAL prompt in the 50.1 prompt table! I decided to go out with more than just a drabble. Here, finally, for your reading pleasure, is the first of ten parts, the sequel to Draco’s Folly, Draco’s Release.
Title: Draco's Release, Part 1/10
Author: ravenna_c_tan
Rating: NC-17
Prompt Set: 50.1 from the 100quills fest
Prompt: Dark
Word Count: 2992 (this segment)
Pairings: Draco/Harry
Warnings: Light bondage, bottom!harry, power games, postwar angst.
Disclaimer: I wrote this fanfic for completely non-commercial enjoyment. All characters are not mine and are copyrighted and trademarked by their owners/publishers.
Beta-readers: kyuuketsukirui and twistedm
Summary: Sequel to " Draco's Folly." A year after Voldemort's death, Draco Malfoy is still suffering the aftereffects of what happened. Harry Potter has been helping him recover, waiting and hoping that someday, Draco will be whole again. Whether either of them will ever truly be sound is an open question.
Notes:
This series follows the events of Draco's Folly. I recommend you read Draco's Folly first, but if all the non-con, incest, BDSM, and evil in that one is too much, don't. If you do plan to read Draco's Folly, don't read this first as it is full of spoilers. This story is much milder (it would have to be, as DF has just about every warning there is...).
DRACO’S RELASE: Chapter One
By Ravenna C. Tan
Harry felt the moment when Draco lost his mind.
It was a temporary loss, as it always was, when Draco was seized by something terrible in his memory, but that made it no less terrifying. Harry had been in his back garden, digging out the roots of a long-dead shrub with a shovel when he'd felt the warning, almost like a ringing in his ears, except rather than hearing it he sensed it in his bones.
He Apparated to the front steps of Malfoy Manor. The door opened--as always--to his touch. He never knew if Draco had somehow instructed the house to grant him entry, or if the Manor simply knew Harry was there to help. It was magic, after all. He moved swiftly through the foyer and into the main parlor.
There was the lord of the manor now, struggling to right himself, picking himself up off the floor with one hand on the mantel, his arms shaking with the effort.
Harry spelled the dirt from his hands before gripping Draco from behind, his arms circling his chest. He wore full robes, two layers, and under that a shirt, waistcoat, and trousers. It was like fighting a load of laundry--and it was fighting, as Draco's body convulsed, trying to shake Harry off.
Harry wrestled him into a chair and then stood back, panting slightly. He felt the loss of contact keenly, as though a blanket had been torn off him, even though the contact had been brief. He wondered what would happen if, instead of letting go, he'd held on.
Best not to think about that. "Are you all right?"
Draco looked as though he couldn't bear to meet Harry's eyes. He waved a hand dismissively and Harry wondered if perhaps he'd lost the ability to speak as well.
Eventually Draco did look up, through the screen of his overlong hair, and said, "I'm fine now. You can go."
Harry leaned close, hoping to see what emotions were hidden in those grey eyes. "Your pupils are still dilated."
"It'll pass," Draco said, his voice now as dismissive as his gesture.
"Draco," Harry started to say something, then stopped himself. Just that one word, just his name, it came out all wrong, too hungry and desperate. Draco looked up, spooked. Now you've done it, Harry thought. He'd tried to be so careful. So respectful of Draco's need for privacy and distance and time to heal.
But it was hard, when every night he put himself to sleep with memories of Draco's kiss, Draco's cock, and things they had shared in the dim isolation of Voldemort's dungeon.
It's been a year, he imagined himself saying. You've been much better lately, haven't you? Instead, he slid down until he was sitting cross-legged at Draco's feet. "I just want to be sure you're okay."
"You should go," Draco said, but his voice sounded unsure.
Harry was not one to let an opportunity pass. "I don't think I will," he said, looking at Draco, waiting to see his reaction.
He looked surprised. Harry usually fled as soon as he was no longer needed. "Why?"
Suddenly Harry knew why: the time had come to take the initiative. He kept his eyes on Draco's as he got to his knees, moving his hands with deliberate slowness until his fingers rested lightly on Draco's legs. He could feel the tension in him, even through the layers of his robes.
"It's time for this, Draco." He reached up, one finger tracing the circle of Draco's face and pushing aside a long lock of hair.
He did not say what "this" was, but Draco did not protest, just sat stock still as though too terrified to move. Maybe he was. Harry leaned forward, staring into those terrified eyes, until his lips met Draco's.
Draco closed his eyes as Harry began the softest kiss he could manage, not to tease, but to show that it could be done without power, without pain, without pretense.
But not without passion. Draco's closed eyes did not keep tears from running down his cheeks, and as Harry pulled away, Draco took Harry's hands and pressed them to his forehead. Then kissed them and sat back with a sigh.
Harry could see Draco's pulse racing in his throat, even as his shoulders relaxed. "Are you all right?" he asked, because he always did.
Draco merely nodded. Good. Harry stood to leave. He had pushed the envelope enough for one day and it was time to go before the pain of holding himself back became too much.
But now Draco spoke. "Will you help me do something?"
Harry nearly did a double-take. It was the first time in a year that Draco had asked him anything. He hardly ever said a word. "What is it?"
Draco looked pensive. "Have you been to my father's grave?"
Harry schooled his face to remain neutral. Lucius Malfoy was perhaps the only person he had hated as much as Voldemort, and he was certain Draco felt the same. But, still. "No. Have you?"
"No. But I think I might... I'll be ready soon."
Harry suppressed a smile. Until now, he’d never heard Draco express any desire to leave the Manor at all. As for why Draco wanted to visit his father's grave, Harry decided to wait to let Draco tell him that. Given the set of Draco's jaw, he suspected Draco wanted to spit on it. Or worse. "Owl me?" he suggested.
"I will," Draco said.
Harry's heart jumped in his chest. Draco had never promised to contact him before. Today seemed to be full of first steps.
And then Draco took one more, hesitantly. "Harry. You could..." He seemed unsure how to ask what he wanted. "Could you stay for dinner? The house elves dote on you, you know."
Harry could barely hear himself the blood was rushing in his ears so loudly. But he told himself to slow down. He had been so careful, so patient with Draco so far, the last thing he wanted to do was rush and ruin everything. Besides, if it really was time to... reconnect... then Harry wanted to be sure he was ready himself. And he wanted to be sure of his own terms. "How about tomorrow?"
Tomorrow it would be. From the front steps of the Manor he Apparated directly to back to London.
***
Hermione woke in the night, her nightgown damp with sweat and other things. She calmed her breathing and listened to the soft snores of her husband beside her. The sound was comforting, real. The dreams always happened in silence and the gentle night noises of the house were a relief. She wondered if she would be able to get back to sleep.
Ron was none the wiser, she was sure, sleeping peacefully, blissfully ignorant of both her agitation and its cause. She had never told him exactly what had occurred in Voldemort's dungeons. The general story was known well enough. She and Harry Potter, both captives, had plotted with Severus Snape and Draco Malfoy, both jailers, to assassinate Voldemort and end the reign of darkness once and for all. That was the simple, official version. Ron assumed that, because of Snape and Malfoy's protection, Hermione had not suffered in the dungeons the way that Kingsley Shacklebolt and many of the others had.
It was a convenient story. And suffered was not the right word for it, anyway. Voldemort had found a use for Draco's talents, making him his erotic inquisitor. It was amazing how few people could resist the persuasion of a blond Slytherin with a few dozen erotic spells at his disposal. Hermione had certainly been one of them. Draco had not been in on their plan to undo Voldemort, but Harry had insisted he be credited as a conspirator.
Mostly what Draco had done was have a lot of sex, with Harry and Hermione both.
Now here it was, over a year later, and although she had put him almost entirely out of her mind, once in a while, her subconscious would surprise her.
Tonight's dream had been as vivid as ever, to the point where she almost believed herself sore. She slid out from under the covers and went to get a glass of water. In the kitchen, the cuckoo in the clock snored musically as she sat and sipped. Had it been a memory, or had she dreamed it up entirely?
She had been in the dungeon, in the cell, as always. And Draco was there, taking her from behind with languid strokes. He worked one finger into her anus and she felt, clear as day, her pulse beating in the membrane between the two channels, one filled with his cock, one with his finger. It must have been a dream, not a memory, though, because she had felt it from his point of view, too--the insides of her anus startlingly smooth compared to her other hole, the twitch of his cock as he realized he could feel his finger stroking its length right through her...
She shook her head to clear it of the ghost of desire. She did not love Draco Malfoy, not in the least. She did not lust after him, either. But these vignettes sometimes surfaced in her mind, sometimes at very inopportune times. Thankfully not while she and Ron were making love. Ron was loving and energetic in bed and wholly unlike the calculating, thorough, and polished Slytherin.
The only person who knew what it had been like in the dungeon, besides Draco himself, was Harry. Last she had heard, Harry was still looking in on Draco from time to time. She had once tried to talk him out of it, but in a way she was glad that Harry had taken on the burden. She had no desire to see Draco ever again. But she felt less guilty if she thought perhaps he was okay. In the end, it was Draco who had been in the most jeopardy, who'd been nearly destroyed. Harry, on the other hand, she wished she could see more often. He came to tea once a week without fail, but that was all, despite repeated invitations.
Perhaps it was just as well. Harry sometimes spent the entire afternoon, just nodding and smiling, silent as a shadow.
It would have to do. Hermione placed her now-empty glass in the sink and padded back upstairs to bed.
****
Draco stood at the railing, his fingers gripping the wrought iron as he stared unseeing at the Wiltshire countryside. On a good day, the henge stones at Avebury could be seen from the Manor tower to the north, but Draco was not looking that way. He bent his head, his gaze now running down the ivy-covered side of the tower. Malfoy Manor was built on a hill, such that there was a graceful rise up the drive to the front entrance, but a steep plummet off the back side. The Manor itself was four floors, and the tower rose one more storey. But the drop to the bottom was well over a hundred feet, to a cruel tumble of rock and stone.
Draco sometimes allowed himself to wonder what it would feel like to fall, and whether he would feel it when he hit the bottom or whether his heart would stop before he got there.
He stepped back from the rail and frowned at the flakes of rust on his palms. Time to renew the preservation charms on the iron. Keeping up with a Manor this large was a full-time occupation for a lone wizard and a few house elves. And there was still the mess of his father's study to deal with, but he'd been putting that off for months already, what was another few weeks?
He had the sudden urge to see it, though, and climbed carefully down the narrow stairs out of the tower, and then made his way through the hallways of polished wood, to the sealed doorway. He undid the charms and turned the handle, pushing the door slowly inward.
The illumination charms still worked, despite the devastation in the room. When he was much younger, Draco had decided it suited him to learn many incendiary spells. The Manor's library was extensive, and he learned almost a dozen, at least two of them not Ministry-approved. He used to practice them on the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts, alone, pretending Potter was the target.
He'd used every single one in this room, some months ago. There was nothing left of the chair that had once stood behind the desk. The desk itself was still there, though quite blackened and scorched.
The portraits were gone. All the Malfoy ancestors, some Blacks and Rosiers, burned to ash. Not even the frames remained. Draco did not want their voices in his house.
His house. He might have been able to determine whose house it would be, if he ever did fling himself off the tower, had he not burned all the records as well.
But he had. He picked up a misshapen lump of metal off what had once been a shelf of knickknacks. Lucius had kept various medals and tribute-gifts on display--Draco had never looked too closely at what they were. Now, they were slag.
The door creaked on its deformed hinges and Draco whirled, wand in hand. When he saw no one, he suddenly remembered--Potter. Yesterday, when Draco had collapsed, Potter had appeared, as usual, to make sure he was all right. And then Draco had asked if he could stay for dinner. And Potter had said no, but that he'd come tonight. Draco's throat felt dry and he swallowed. How could he have forgotten something that just happened yesterday?
He was so used to the days running together, no change, no difference. It was work to remember some other way of being.
"Hullo?" he called, wondering if perhaps it was just the wind that had moved the door. Then he saw a bit of a house elf's ear sticking out behind the door. "Tippy, is that you?"
The elf poked her nose out, and then her bulbous eyes, surveying the scene of destruction and trembling.
Draco sighed. "It's okay, Tippy. I'm not going to make it worse." He pocketed his wand. "Now, did you need something from me? You do remember who's coming for dinner, don't you?"
"Oh yes, Master, yes, Harry Potter is coming," she squeaked excitedly. "But that is what Tippy is wanting to ask. Will Master and Harry Potter be dining in the formal dining hall?"
A good question, one Draco hadn't considered. "No, Tippy. Let's eat in the parlour where the chairs are more comfortable. Light a fire, too." Once the sun had set, the fog off the downs would bring a chill. The elf disappeared before Draco could say any more. Not that he could say what he was thinking aloud, anyway. Yes, Tippy, do everything you can to make Harry Potter feel safe and welcome.
[ Click Through to Chapter Two]
Title: Draco's Release, Part 1/10
Author: ravenna_c_tan
Rating: NC-17
Prompt Set: 50.1 from the 100quills fest
Prompt: Dark
Word Count: 2992 (this segment)
Pairings: Draco/Harry
Warnings: Light bondage, bottom!harry, power games, postwar angst.
Disclaimer: I wrote this fanfic for completely non-commercial enjoyment. All characters are not mine and are copyrighted and trademarked by their owners/publishers.
Beta-readers: kyuuketsukirui and twistedm
Summary: Sequel to " Draco's Folly." A year after Voldemort's death, Draco Malfoy is still suffering the aftereffects of what happened. Harry Potter has been helping him recover, waiting and hoping that someday, Draco will be whole again. Whether either of them will ever truly be sound is an open question.
Notes:
This series follows the events of Draco's Folly. I recommend you read Draco's Folly first, but if all the non-con, incest, BDSM, and evil in that one is too much, don't. If you do plan to read Draco's Folly, don't read this first as it is full of spoilers. This story is much milder (it would have to be, as DF has just about every warning there is...).
DRACO’S RELASE: Chapter One
By Ravenna C. Tan
Harry felt the moment when Draco lost his mind.
It was a temporary loss, as it always was, when Draco was seized by something terrible in his memory, but that made it no less terrifying. Harry had been in his back garden, digging out the roots of a long-dead shrub with a shovel when he'd felt the warning, almost like a ringing in his ears, except rather than hearing it he sensed it in his bones.
He Apparated to the front steps of Malfoy Manor. The door opened--as always--to his touch. He never knew if Draco had somehow instructed the house to grant him entry, or if the Manor simply knew Harry was there to help. It was magic, after all. He moved swiftly through the foyer and into the main parlor.
There was the lord of the manor now, struggling to right himself, picking himself up off the floor with one hand on the mantel, his arms shaking with the effort.
Harry spelled the dirt from his hands before gripping Draco from behind, his arms circling his chest. He wore full robes, two layers, and under that a shirt, waistcoat, and trousers. It was like fighting a load of laundry--and it was fighting, as Draco's body convulsed, trying to shake Harry off.
Harry wrestled him into a chair and then stood back, panting slightly. He felt the loss of contact keenly, as though a blanket had been torn off him, even though the contact had been brief. He wondered what would happen if, instead of letting go, he'd held on.
Best not to think about that. "Are you all right?"
Draco looked as though he couldn't bear to meet Harry's eyes. He waved a hand dismissively and Harry wondered if perhaps he'd lost the ability to speak as well.
Eventually Draco did look up, through the screen of his overlong hair, and said, "I'm fine now. You can go."
Harry leaned close, hoping to see what emotions were hidden in those grey eyes. "Your pupils are still dilated."
"It'll pass," Draco said, his voice now as dismissive as his gesture.
"Draco," Harry started to say something, then stopped himself. Just that one word, just his name, it came out all wrong, too hungry and desperate. Draco looked up, spooked. Now you've done it, Harry thought. He'd tried to be so careful. So respectful of Draco's need for privacy and distance and time to heal.
But it was hard, when every night he put himself to sleep with memories of Draco's kiss, Draco's cock, and things they had shared in the dim isolation of Voldemort's dungeon.
It's been a year, he imagined himself saying. You've been much better lately, haven't you? Instead, he slid down until he was sitting cross-legged at Draco's feet. "I just want to be sure you're okay."
"You should go," Draco said, but his voice sounded unsure.
Harry was not one to let an opportunity pass. "I don't think I will," he said, looking at Draco, waiting to see his reaction.
He looked surprised. Harry usually fled as soon as he was no longer needed. "Why?"
Suddenly Harry knew why: the time had come to take the initiative. He kept his eyes on Draco's as he got to his knees, moving his hands with deliberate slowness until his fingers rested lightly on Draco's legs. He could feel the tension in him, even through the layers of his robes.
"It's time for this, Draco." He reached up, one finger tracing the circle of Draco's face and pushing aside a long lock of hair.
He did not say what "this" was, but Draco did not protest, just sat stock still as though too terrified to move. Maybe he was. Harry leaned forward, staring into those terrified eyes, until his lips met Draco's.
Draco closed his eyes as Harry began the softest kiss he could manage, not to tease, but to show that it could be done without power, without pain, without pretense.
But not without passion. Draco's closed eyes did not keep tears from running down his cheeks, and as Harry pulled away, Draco took Harry's hands and pressed them to his forehead. Then kissed them and sat back with a sigh.
Harry could see Draco's pulse racing in his throat, even as his shoulders relaxed. "Are you all right?" he asked, because he always did.
Draco merely nodded. Good. Harry stood to leave. He had pushed the envelope enough for one day and it was time to go before the pain of holding himself back became too much.
But now Draco spoke. "Will you help me do something?"
Harry nearly did a double-take. It was the first time in a year that Draco had asked him anything. He hardly ever said a word. "What is it?"
Draco looked pensive. "Have you been to my father's grave?"
Harry schooled his face to remain neutral. Lucius Malfoy was perhaps the only person he had hated as much as Voldemort, and he was certain Draco felt the same. But, still. "No. Have you?"
"No. But I think I might... I'll be ready soon."
Harry suppressed a smile. Until now, he’d never heard Draco express any desire to leave the Manor at all. As for why Draco wanted to visit his father's grave, Harry decided to wait to let Draco tell him that. Given the set of Draco's jaw, he suspected Draco wanted to spit on it. Or worse. "Owl me?" he suggested.
"I will," Draco said.
Harry's heart jumped in his chest. Draco had never promised to contact him before. Today seemed to be full of first steps.
And then Draco took one more, hesitantly. "Harry. You could..." He seemed unsure how to ask what he wanted. "Could you stay for dinner? The house elves dote on you, you know."
Harry could barely hear himself the blood was rushing in his ears so loudly. But he told himself to slow down. He had been so careful, so patient with Draco so far, the last thing he wanted to do was rush and ruin everything. Besides, if it really was time to... reconnect... then Harry wanted to be sure he was ready himself. And he wanted to be sure of his own terms. "How about tomorrow?"
Tomorrow it would be. From the front steps of the Manor he Apparated directly to back to London.
***
Hermione woke in the night, her nightgown damp with sweat and other things. She calmed her breathing and listened to the soft snores of her husband beside her. The sound was comforting, real. The dreams always happened in silence and the gentle night noises of the house were a relief. She wondered if she would be able to get back to sleep.
Ron was none the wiser, she was sure, sleeping peacefully, blissfully ignorant of both her agitation and its cause. She had never told him exactly what had occurred in Voldemort's dungeons. The general story was known well enough. She and Harry Potter, both captives, had plotted with Severus Snape and Draco Malfoy, both jailers, to assassinate Voldemort and end the reign of darkness once and for all. That was the simple, official version. Ron assumed that, because of Snape and Malfoy's protection, Hermione had not suffered in the dungeons the way that Kingsley Shacklebolt and many of the others had.
It was a convenient story. And suffered was not the right word for it, anyway. Voldemort had found a use for Draco's talents, making him his erotic inquisitor. It was amazing how few people could resist the persuasion of a blond Slytherin with a few dozen erotic spells at his disposal. Hermione had certainly been one of them. Draco had not been in on their plan to undo Voldemort, but Harry had insisted he be credited as a conspirator.
Mostly what Draco had done was have a lot of sex, with Harry and Hermione both.
Now here it was, over a year later, and although she had put him almost entirely out of her mind, once in a while, her subconscious would surprise her.
Tonight's dream had been as vivid as ever, to the point where she almost believed herself sore. She slid out from under the covers and went to get a glass of water. In the kitchen, the cuckoo in the clock snored musically as she sat and sipped. Had it been a memory, or had she dreamed it up entirely?
She had been in the dungeon, in the cell, as always. And Draco was there, taking her from behind with languid strokes. He worked one finger into her anus and she felt, clear as day, her pulse beating in the membrane between the two channels, one filled with his cock, one with his finger. It must have been a dream, not a memory, though, because she had felt it from his point of view, too--the insides of her anus startlingly smooth compared to her other hole, the twitch of his cock as he realized he could feel his finger stroking its length right through her...
She shook her head to clear it of the ghost of desire. She did not love Draco Malfoy, not in the least. She did not lust after him, either. But these vignettes sometimes surfaced in her mind, sometimes at very inopportune times. Thankfully not while she and Ron were making love. Ron was loving and energetic in bed and wholly unlike the calculating, thorough, and polished Slytherin.
The only person who knew what it had been like in the dungeon, besides Draco himself, was Harry. Last she had heard, Harry was still looking in on Draco from time to time. She had once tried to talk him out of it, but in a way she was glad that Harry had taken on the burden. She had no desire to see Draco ever again. But she felt less guilty if she thought perhaps he was okay. In the end, it was Draco who had been in the most jeopardy, who'd been nearly destroyed. Harry, on the other hand, she wished she could see more often. He came to tea once a week without fail, but that was all, despite repeated invitations.
Perhaps it was just as well. Harry sometimes spent the entire afternoon, just nodding and smiling, silent as a shadow.
It would have to do. Hermione placed her now-empty glass in the sink and padded back upstairs to bed.
****
Draco stood at the railing, his fingers gripping the wrought iron as he stared unseeing at the Wiltshire countryside. On a good day, the henge stones at Avebury could be seen from the Manor tower to the north, but Draco was not looking that way. He bent his head, his gaze now running down the ivy-covered side of the tower. Malfoy Manor was built on a hill, such that there was a graceful rise up the drive to the front entrance, but a steep plummet off the back side. The Manor itself was four floors, and the tower rose one more storey. But the drop to the bottom was well over a hundred feet, to a cruel tumble of rock and stone.
Draco sometimes allowed himself to wonder what it would feel like to fall, and whether he would feel it when he hit the bottom or whether his heart would stop before he got there.
He stepped back from the rail and frowned at the flakes of rust on his palms. Time to renew the preservation charms on the iron. Keeping up with a Manor this large was a full-time occupation for a lone wizard and a few house elves. And there was still the mess of his father's study to deal with, but he'd been putting that off for months already, what was another few weeks?
He had the sudden urge to see it, though, and climbed carefully down the narrow stairs out of the tower, and then made his way through the hallways of polished wood, to the sealed doorway. He undid the charms and turned the handle, pushing the door slowly inward.
The illumination charms still worked, despite the devastation in the room. When he was much younger, Draco had decided it suited him to learn many incendiary spells. The Manor's library was extensive, and he learned almost a dozen, at least two of them not Ministry-approved. He used to practice them on the Quidditch pitch at Hogwarts, alone, pretending Potter was the target.
He'd used every single one in this room, some months ago. There was nothing left of the chair that had once stood behind the desk. The desk itself was still there, though quite blackened and scorched.
The portraits were gone. All the Malfoy ancestors, some Blacks and Rosiers, burned to ash. Not even the frames remained. Draco did not want their voices in his house.
His house. He might have been able to determine whose house it would be, if he ever did fling himself off the tower, had he not burned all the records as well.
But he had. He picked up a misshapen lump of metal off what had once been a shelf of knickknacks. Lucius had kept various medals and tribute-gifts on display--Draco had never looked too closely at what they were. Now, they were slag.
The door creaked on its deformed hinges and Draco whirled, wand in hand. When he saw no one, he suddenly remembered--Potter. Yesterday, when Draco had collapsed, Potter had appeared, as usual, to make sure he was all right. And then Draco had asked if he could stay for dinner. And Potter had said no, but that he'd come tonight. Draco's throat felt dry and he swallowed. How could he have forgotten something that just happened yesterday?
He was so used to the days running together, no change, no difference. It was work to remember some other way of being.
"Hullo?" he called, wondering if perhaps it was just the wind that had moved the door. Then he saw a bit of a house elf's ear sticking out behind the door. "Tippy, is that you?"
The elf poked her nose out, and then her bulbous eyes, surveying the scene of destruction and trembling.
Draco sighed. "It's okay, Tippy. I'm not going to make it worse." He pocketed his wand. "Now, did you need something from me? You do remember who's coming for dinner, don't you?"
"Oh yes, Master, yes, Harry Potter is coming," she squeaked excitedly. "But that is what Tippy is wanting to ask. Will Master and Harry Potter be dining in the formal dining hall?"
A good question, one Draco hadn't considered. "No, Tippy. Let's eat in the parlour where the chairs are more comfortable. Light a fire, too." Once the sun had set, the fog off the downs would bring a chill. The elf disappeared before Draco could say any more. Not that he could say what he was thinking aloud, anyway. Yes, Tippy, do everything you can to make Harry Potter feel safe and welcome.
[ Click Through to Chapter Two]