Title: On Nights Like This
Author: Becca ()
Furniture: wooden chair
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Notes:Written for the Armchair Furniture Challenge, June 2003. Dedicated to my "extraordinarily excellent" beta reader, BlackBandit.
The key still gleamed with polish as Draco pushed it proudly into the lock. It was so like him, Harry thought, to insist on beauty in even the smallest of details. The door swung open on freshly greased hinges, and they stepped through it into a large room. Although no one had lived here for years, no dust had settled on the elaborate carving of the mantel. The floors shone with the work of a thousand house-elves.
Draco walked into the center of the empty room. Harry followed behind, trying to take in all the details at once.
"How'd you find this place?" Harry asked him. This is not the sort of flat one would see listed in the back of the Daily Prophet. Harry would never have seen it, anyway. "Live in Edwardian splendor for much less than you'd expect! Cathedral ceilings, beautiful balcony, walking distance to Diagon Alley." Right.
"Turns out my third cousin owns it." Draco waved his hand dismissively. "He's gotten too old to keep a place in the city now. Did you see the floor back there? Solid marble."
Their voices echoed around them as Harry dutifully followed Draco through the balcony, the parlor, and the library lined with empty bookshelves. He oohed and aahed in all the appropriate places, and tried to sound sympathetic when Draco talked about the ancient plumbing and the fifty-year old wallpaper he'd had to get removed.
He moved on to the formal dining room, chattering away about Floo portals and Apparition points. Harry smiled at the retreating blond head. Draco was so excited to finally have a place of his own.
Harry remembered that emotion, the proprietal excitement, the hope of a new home and a new life. He was happy for Draco, but trailing along behind him today all he felt was loss. When Sirius had pointed out that he probably owned his parents' cottage in Godric's Hollow, Harry had been blown away. A house of his very own. Once, his father had settled there with his young family. Harry had allowed himself to hope that he might do the same.
He had not been back there since his parents' death, but it was his own, and he had felt a fierce pride in it. After the Defeat, he had taken Draco there.
Harry had not noticed the extent of the damage at first. When he had pushed open the unlocked door, breathless with the anticipation of a fresh start, he had seen grass growing thick and green from the carpet on the stairs. What furniture remained spouted stuffing from long tears and the ceiling was stained yellow from years of neglect to the leaky roof.
Each bit of damage, of neglect and slow destruction he saw as they moved down the hall felt like a physical blow to Harry. This was his childhood home that was falling apart. He had stupidly allowed himself to imagine it in pristine condition, exactly as in the photos from his first birthday, when it was filled with laughing friendly faces. He had stupidly dreamt of one day bringing his lover here and settling down, far from the pressures of fame and expectation. He had been planning to ask Draco to live with him there, at the cottage.
In the kitchen, there was a small metal table, pitted with rust. The back door hung crookedly from one hinge, and beyond it was a small porch, long since collapsed under its own weight. There had once been a large picture window over the sink, with a view of the yard and the forest. Glass lay shattered in the porcelain sink now, and vines trailed in through the window and up the wall, covered with large shining green leaves and deep purple flowers. Next to the counter sat a battered wooden chair, coated in a thick layer of dust. It was perfectly positioned for comfortable conversation, the back worn smooth and the bottom rung dented with what looked to be canine tooth-marks.
Harry looked around and drew a deep breath. He looked at his partner, who was carefully maintaining his aristocratic bearing even in this ruined shell of a house, and knew that they could never live here. The hope he had nurtured for a year flickered and died, and he hung his head, trying desperately not to cry. When Draco took him firmly in his arms and began to caress his hair with long gentle fingers, Harry could not hold back. He started to cry, and soon could hardly support his own weight, leaning fully on his lover for support. Draco lowered him slowly into the small chair in the corner and produced a monogrammed handkerchief from somewhere within his robes. He stood next to Harry, stroking his unruly hair for nearly an hour, as Harry slowly collected himself. The two men did not speak, but as they walked slowly from the ruined cottage their hands found each other and clasped tightly.
Looking around now, Harry took in the empty room around him, breathing in the faint smell of fresh floor wax. Small cherubic faces peered concernedly at him from the molding, and Harry smiled faintly at them as a small hidden door opened to admit a grinning Draco.
"No moping," he said teasingly, taking Harry's hand. "This is a happy day. Now come on, I want to show you the rest." He led the way down a hallway to a small room, with a window seat looking down on the bustling street below.
"I thought this one could be the office," he said, motioning with his arms to demonstrate as he described the uses of the room. Continuing down the hall, he pointed out two future guest bedrooms, for which he already had grand plans. Harry was amazed at how much thought Draco had already put into this flat.
At the end of the hall was a large room with sunlight streaming through the windows, and a graceful balcony visible through French doors.
Sitting in the corner of the room was a simple wooden chair, dented and worn with years of use. Harry blinked, certain at first that it was not really there. The little chair was the only piece of furniture in the elegant, formal flat, and it looked entirely out of place.
He blinked again, trying vainly to think. "Is that�?" He walked slowly toward it, feeling his lover's eyes on him the whole time. Carefully, he ran one hand across the back of the chair, where the wood was worn smooth. He looked at the chair in wonder, knowing that it was the same one from his parents' house, but not understanding what this could possibly mean.
Draco walked up behind Harry and wrapped his arms around his waist. "I thought this," he said into Harry's ear in a voice suddenly deep with emotion, "could be our room."
Harry looked with surprise into his lover's face. "Ours?" he repeated.
"Ours."