Chapter37

Harry

Theottageiswhatpeoplemightallafixer-upper.

HeknowsthisbeauseitisexatlywhatHermionehadalledit,smilingaroundatthelittlehousewiththelookonherfaethatnormallyomesrightbeforeshehandsheandRonstudyshedules,trailingherhandsthroughthedustontheountertops.“It’sabitofafixerupperHarry,”Shehadsaid,Ronnoddingalongwithherinapproval,ahabitbothheandHarryhadpikedupfromministrydinners.“Butwithalittlework,thissureisgoingtobesomething.”

Alittleworkdidn’toverit.Harryhadpnsforthishouse,pnssobigthattheyshouldbewrittenoutinapitalletters,andit’sgoingtotakeawhiletogetthemdone,beausehepnstodothemtherightway,themuggleway.

(Draohadrolledhiseyes,butafterHarryhadpointedoutthathedoesallhisleaningthemuggleway,hehadshutup.)

“Ijustthinkit’lltakeyouforever.”Draohadsaid,followinghimthroughthedoorwhilelevitatingallthetoolsthatHarrywouldbeusingwithonesweepofawand.“Whyevenbother?”

“Beausethenit’llbemine,”Harrysays,beausehehadlikedtheideaofknowingthepementofeverygrainofsandeddownwoodandtheworkthatwentintoeveryinhofthearpeting,butthenheamendedhisanswer,reahingouttoholdDrao’shand,whorolledhiseyes.“Ours.”

“Alright.”Draorolledhiseyes,butHarryknewhewon,beauseDraoalwaysaveswhenHarrystartstotalklikethat.Hetriesnottoabusethepowertoomuhbuthewanted—hisprojet,justtogivehimalittlemoretimetofigurethingsout.Healwayshadthoughtbestwhenhewasdoingmuneworklikethat.“Anythingyouwant,Harry.”

Ofourse,thefatthatitwasHarry’sprojetmadeitDrao’sprojet,too,handinghimtoolsashehammerednailafternailintothestepsandswipingpaintalongHarry’sheekwhenhedidn’tthinkhewasbeinggivenenoughattention,andalsobeingallaroundbossy,whihHarrywasexpeting.Theyspentalotofafternoonshere,Draopoppinginaroundnoon,insistingthathehadjustometobringhimlunhandthenstayinguntildusk,wheretheyouldsitwiththeirlegsglingoffthetoo-tallporhandwathingthesunsetdownoverthefields.

Thisouldbeeverydayfortherestofmylife,Harrywouldthink,everysinglenight,takingDrao’shandinhisandpressingakisstohisknukleseahtimehethoughtit,likehewassealingthepromise.Itwasthefirsttimehewasthinkingofthefutureandnotfeelingafraid.Iouldfeelthishappy,everynight,eahnight,aslongasIlive.

Itwasaniethought,agoodthought.Andastrangeone,onsideringthatforthepastsevenyearsbeforehand,hehadalwaysbeenonestepawayfromdying.Andforthepastthreeyears,hethoughtthatdeathandmurderweretheonlypathshislifeouldtraveldown,andsomehow,nomatterwhihoneofthemlived,hewouldendwhenthefightwasdone.

(That’sthething,isn’tit,aboutheranlivewhiletheothersurvives—itsortofgoestheotherway,too,liketheyonlyexistforeahother,beauseofeahother,beausewhatisherowithoutavilintofightagainst?)

(Harryknowstheanswernow:nothing.Justaperson.Theonlyproblemishedidn’tknowhowtobethat,notquiteyet.He’shopingthishousewillhelphimfigureitout.)

Todaywasoneofthosedays,whereDraobringslunhandritiquesHarry’sworkwhileheeatsinawaythatshouldbenaggingbutwasmostlyjustfond,andthenhejuststukaround,maybebeausetodayHarrywaslearingouttheshedthatDraowasgoingtouseforhispotionsandhewantedtomakesureitwasdoneright.Anditwas.Harryhadmadesureofthat,srubbingitfromtoptobottombeforehedidanythingelse,repaintingtheoutsideandputtingshelvesupontheinside,evenlimbingupontherooftopathupthehimney.Andwhenitwasover,theyweren’tquitereadytoleave,yet,soDraosomehowmanagedtomakeamealoutoftheremnantsoftheirlunhandtheyheadedouttothedeayinggreenhouseforapini.

“It’ssortofbeautifullikethis,”Draosaid,wavinghiswandzilytogestureatthegreenhouse.BubblesstreamedoutofthetipandHarryaughtthemonhishands,wathingastheyburst.“Allbrokendown.”

Beautifuldisasters.Draolikesthose,Harryislearning.HejusthopesthathasnothingtodowithhowmuhDraoseemstolovehim.

“Weouldleaveitlikethis,ifyouwant.”Harrywouldn’tmind.Hehadalwayslovedwhenthingswerealittlemorehaoti,probablybeausesomuhofhisearlylifeattheDursley’shadbeenonstrainedandstifled.Helikestooloroutsidethelinessometimes,justtoremindhimselfhean.Plus,theonlyrealproblemwastheholesintheroof,andtheyouldgetHermionetoydownaspellthatfixesthat.“Onelessthingformetodo.”

“Seemsabitimpratialthough,”Draomused,maybetobediffiultormaybebeausehewasatuallyonsideringit.“Abrokendowngreenhouse.”

“herofusaremuhforgardeningthough,”Harrypointedout,andyethedidn’tliketheideaofthisfallingintodisarray.Itwouldbeaniegatheringarea,though,ifhebroughtoutsomeniemetaltables,maybeputinapool.AuntPetuniawouldhavekilledforapartyspaelikethat,ifithadbeenalittleer.

“Weouldbe,”Draosaid,rollingontohisstomah.“Here.”

Here.Herewasdifferentfromtheirotherlives,likenomatterwhatelsetheywere,allthethingstheythoughttheyhadtobe,itevaporatedthemomenttheysteppedfootinthislittlehouseandallitssprawlinggrounds.Itwaslikeotherpeople,whentheysettleddownhere.

HarryreahedouttoehisfingersthroughDrao’sandthengaveup,rollingloserinstead,thetopofhisheadnudginghisshoulder.“

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