"She's not thinking anything like that," said Draco calmly. "I told you, Harry. She's keeping busy so she doesn't have to think about the other."
That made so much sense that Harry nodded. He could see Mrs Weasley deciding to knit, bustling about seeing to clearing away whatever remained of the party, and demanding that all her children help with de-gnoming the garden, even though Ron had spent a lot of the summer doing that, already.
Draco had several of the boxes open by then, and was lifting out gift after gift, his wand directing them to float over to the table.
Just seeing them made Harry feel the terrible contrast between the morning before, when he'd been so happy to finally be officially grown-up, and today. Only a single day had passed, and suddenly, the world looked a whole lot darker.
Harry sighed, wishing he wasn't so familiar with how fast things could change. He didn't realise that he'd spoken out loud--well, muttered, really--until Draco looked over at him. "Things could be worse, you know. The Dark Lord might have attacked later than he did, and you'd have had to give a speech."
Well, that certainly put things in perspective. Harry could hardly believe he'd been so worried and anxious over something so utterly meaningless. Other things, though, weren't so meaningless. "Call him Voldemort," he urged. "Please, Draco. I hate hearing you talk like . . ."
"Like a Death Eater?"
"Like you're in awe of him."
"Scared shiteless would be the more accurate term," drawled Draco.
His tone was dry, like he was making a joke, because of course Draco normally wouldn't admit to being afraid. He was though, and this was the only way he could say so.
"But being afraid of his name just makes that worse, don't you think?" Harry went over to help with the boxes, mostly because having something to do with his hands somehow made it easier to talk about this. "And it's like Dad said. We can't start thinking he's all-powerful, or we'll end up feeling powerless, ourselves. To think doom will fall just because you say his name, Draco--"
"It's not his name," Draco snapped, his wand flashing as he banished a box he'd finished with. "It's a style he's taken on, which is rather different. But--"
"That's nitpicking, don't you think?"
"But," Draco continued, raising his voice, "I'll give your concerns all the consideration they deserve."
"And that's just snide."
Draco blinked. Then a smile slowly raised the sides of his mouth. "Oh. I suppose it could be, but I didn't mean it that way. You make some good points. Well, you and Severus, and if he can stand to say it . . . I'll think about it, all right?"
"All right." Harry wondered how Dudley was doing, and how it felt for him, having to abandon the house he'd so recently got rebuilt. Hmm, probably Draco was right about it being better to have things to do. He headed for the pile of presents on the table. "Let's get this lot put away before Dad comes back."
They almost made it, but they might as well not have bothered, since after leaving Dudley with Marsha, Snape had gone to Devon to collect all their things from there. He'd thought better than to send it all through the Floo, though. Instead, he'd shrunken their belongings to fit in his robe pockets.
"My XL," moaned Draco, cradling it as it popped back to normal size.
Harry leaned over. "It looks all right."
"But what a way to treat a fine broom."
Snape cleared his throat. "I dare say you'll forget about that when I tell you that there was a letter waiting for you in Devon, Draco."
"A letter?" Draco swallowed. "Oh, no. The Ministry wasn't the whole plot, last night, then? Something's happened to my mother, and it's probably that fucking werewolf's fault, and--"
Snape thrust a hand into his robe and pulled out a Muggle envelope. "Show some decorum, if you would, instead of jumping to hysterical conclusions."
"Rhiannon," gasped Draco, snatching the envelope from Snape's fingers. Or trying, rather; Snape held fast to it.
"I insist that you inform her at once about your plan to conceal letters," said Snape sternly. "Muggle stationery is decidedly ill-advised."
"I'll tell her in my reply, yes." Draco nodded, the motion a little frantic.
The instant Snape let go of the envelope, Draco turned with it towards their bedroom, the door almost slamming behind him, he shut it so quickly.
"Young love," said Snape, shaking his head, though the words had been said with more fondness than ridicule.
"Were you ever . . ." Harry abruptly shut himself up. Asking that was probably an even worse idea than demanding information about Hostilian Snape.
"Was I ever in love?"
"Uh . . . yeah. I mean, if you don't mind the question, if . . . erm."
Instead of answering, Snape ordered a pot of tea, then sank into a chair in the living room and sipped at his cup for a moment. Finally, he looked at Harry, his eyes shadowed.
Shite. Harry quickly poured his own cup, keeping his back to his father. By the time he sat down, he felt like he'd got his expression under control, so then and only then, he met his father's gaze. "Sorry, sir. I shouldn't have asked, not something personal like that."
"No, you certainly should not have," said Snape in a biting tone as he set his cup down with a clatter. "It's not as though we have any sort of relationship. Now, if I had ever, for instance, adopted you as my very own son, things might be different, but as they stand, Potter, you have absolutely no right to presume--"
"Potter!" exclaimed Harry.
"Are we not on formal terms, then? You called me 'sir,' and I certainly don't see a classroom in the vicinity."
"I don't understand you," exclaimed Harry, tea sloshing as he set his own cup down. "Look, you don't talk about your past so much, and I should have remembered that before I asked, and . . . why are you so angry? Just because I accidentally called you 'sir?'"
"No, because I've scarred you, it seems." Snape folded his hands in his lap, but his fingers were tightly curled, Harry noticed.
"Scarred me, how? All I mean by 'sir' is that I respect you, you know."
"I know," said Snape heavily. "I don't like that tendency of yours, but I do understand it. I'm more concerned about this distance between us. I see now that I've encouraged it. A less-than-pleasant realisation, I assure you."
"What distance?"
"What would you call it?" Snape's nostrils flared. "You practically quake at the thought of asking me about a trifling personal matter. Well, suppose you did offend me, Harry. Suppose you seriously offended me. What do you believe would happen next?"
"I don't know--"
Snape's voice was sharp and to the point. Almost cutting, in fact. "You aren't still worrying about unadoption?"
"No!"
Snape stared at him for a long moment more, and then appeared to relax. "Ah. Well, that's good to hear, at least."
"But I wouldn't call have you ever been in love a trifling kind of question," Harry went on. "It's, you know. Really personal."
"I should think that you could ask your father a personal question, though."
"Not that one," muttered Harry, looking away.
When he looked back, Snape's gaze on him was a bit quizzical. "Harry . . . is there something you would like to tell me?"
"You sound like Dumbledore when you ask that."
Snape stared at him for a moment longer, his dark eyes looking like they were coming to conclusions about . . . well, something. Harry wasn't sure, and before he could ask, his father was speaking again.
"Sometimes I forget what it was like to be your age. I suppose, at the time, I would have felt that falling in love was a sensitive topic. Now, though . . ." He gave a low chuckle. "Yes, I've been in love, Harry. Or at the very least, in lust. Who hasn't?"
Harry hurriedly snatched up his tea and took a big gulp of it. Good thing it had cooled down, by then. In lust?