"You haven't whinged. You've just been honest. And that's all right."
Draco stiffened. "Ha, honest. You wouldn't know honest if it hexed you, Harry. I haven't been honest at all."
Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw his father turning his full attention to the conversation.
"What do you mean?" asked Harry, puzzled.
"I wasn't only trying to be mature," said Draco with a grimace. "I also thought... you've heard the kinds of things I say about Weasley's... I mean, Ronald's lack of funds."
Harry's eyebrows drew together. "And what, you thought I'd make fun of you? That's daft! You couldn't have thought that--"
"No, you prat," Draco said, shaking his head. "Put yourself in my place, Harry. Look... I know you're not like me, but I am like me, so when I think, I can only think the way I know how to think, all right? And when I look at people, rich or poor makes a difference. Some part of me knows it probably shouldn't, but it does, and that's me, and there it is."
It took Harry a moment to make sense out of all that, but when the meaning came clear, he didn't know whether to strangle Draco or burst out laughing. "Oh, for God's sake! You mean you thought I'd think less of you for being poor? Like you less, something like that?"
Draco's defensive shrug said more than his words did. "It crossed my mind."
"You're... really stupid." Harry paused to think. "So what, you'd turn your loyalties to Voldemort if I were to lose all my money?"
He hadn't meant the question seriously, but Draco took it that way.
"Well if I had a safe way to return to the Dark Lord--which isn't likely, you realise--I wouldn't take it, no. Why would I want to be his slave? I may have lost my money, but I haven't lost my mind, Harry."
"But you'd think less of me if I were poor!"
"I... look, I don't know, all right? Severus doesn't exactly have Galleons pouring out his ears and I've always respected him... but you know, deep down I thought I probably shouldn't." Draco sighed. "Anyway, what does it matter, Harry? You know now."
Recognising the olive branch, Harry nodded slightly. "All right."
Draco swiftly changed the subject. "So Potions. Your essay looks about finished. Can I read it?"
"Perhaps you should write your own before you consult his," chided Snape.
"Oh, like Harry never reads Granger's... sorry, Hermione's, before he starts in on his."
Harry said nothing, not that the tactic worked.
"Harry?" prompted his father.
"Well it's not cheating," said Harry, flushing. "It's just one more resource, right? And I don't copy hers. Sometimes I don't even understand hers all that well, to be honest."
Snape inclined his head, apparently giving up the argument. "It's good to see you two working well together, at any rate."
All the same, Draco waited until Snape had left the room before he held a hand out, fingers beckoning.
Laughing a little, Harry handed his essay over. He wasn't too surprised when Draco proceeded to tell him about six things he'd got wrong.
Harry's second draft was much improved, but he somehow doubted it was as good as Draco's would be.
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Harry had eaten at the Slytherin table at lunch on Monday, but he went there again for Wednesday dinner, both times when Snape was in the Great Hall. Goyle asked again about Draco, seeming even more down than before, but when Harry said that maybe the murder would be cleared up soon and Draco's expulsion would be reversed, he was treated to glares from every direction. Apparently Draco's superior airs--not to mention his denunciation of Voldemort--hadn't endeared him to his House mates. Even Crabbe looked hostile; only Goyle and Nott reacted favourably to Harry's speculation about Draco being able to return.
For all that though, more people were talking to Harry when he ate at the Slytherin table. That had to be worth something, even if the topic of conversation all too often seemed to centre on Quidditch and how Harry should start practising his Seeker skills if he ever wanted to recover them. Harry saw that as a veiled hint that he ought to get his magic back in order so that he could play again -- play for Slytherin.
Snape fetched him from the Slytherin table on Wednesday after dessert. Together they walked down to the dungeons, discussing inconsequentials since they might be overheard. When they reached Snape's quarters, it was to find Draco dressed in robes that seemed formal for all they were stark and black.
Maybe it was the lack of any crest, Harry thought. Honorary Slytherin or no, Draco still refused to wear his House symbol. That was a bit odd considering he'd considered Slytherin colours an honour when he'd bestowed them on Dobby, but Harry figured that Draco was probably feeling confused on a number of fronts.
And his formal clothing now, that was a defence against the feeling.
It was also inappropriate, considering where they were headed that evening.
"We'll have to blend in with the Muggle population in Surrey," Snape said, frowning. "Change into something suitable, Draco. Harry, I think if you merely divest yourself of the robe your attire will do."
"What about yours?"
Snape looked down at his flowing teaching robes. "I had thought a simple disillusionment charm would do."
"Ha." Draco huffed. "If I have to go about in Muggle clothes then so do you."
"Very well." Snape grimaced, but acquiesced.
He emerged in a few moments wearing trousers and a long-sleeved shirt, both in unrelenting black. Draco was dressed similarly in grey, though he was wearing a pair of dragonhide boots. Snape shook his head and transfigured them to a dark brown leather. Draco petulantly complained that they pinched.
Ignoring that, Snape Flooed them all to Arabella Figg's house on Privet Drive.
Draco's mouth dropped open as he stepped into the living room and looked around. He'd never been in a Muggle or squib dwelling before, Harry surmised, a little irritated when Draco moved close to him and whispered, "You grew up like this?"
Harry just nodded.
The longer Draco glanced about, the more horrified he appeared. "Merlin's beard! I knew you had a deprived childhood, Harry, but I never dreamed your house was quite as common and Mugglish as this--"
"It's good to see you again, Mrs. Figg," Harry loudly interrupted. "And it's good of you to let us use your Floo."
"You're quite welcome, Harry," said Arabella Figg, her motherly hands brushing ash off his shoulders. She didn't do the same for Draco, but Harry could hardly blame her for that. "So grown up you seem now!"
"Thanks, Mrs. Figg." Harry stepped away from her fussing before it grew too smothering. "Did you hear I'd been adopted by Severus? Me and Draco both."
"Yes, I read that dear," said Mrs. Figg, nodding.
"If you'll excuse us, Arabella, we'll be on our way," Snape said, ushering both his sons out. "We've an appointment to keep, but we do thank you assisting our travels."
"Oh, you're most welcome." Mrs. Figg beamed.
As Snape led the way toward Magnolia Crescent, Harry couldn't help but glance back toward the site where Number Four had been. He wasn't sure what he expected to see. A blackened patch of earth, perhaps. Instead, a half-framed house stood on the site. Harry blinked, and tugged on his father's arm, but Snape murmured that the good doctor would be waiting and that the house, after all, would still be there when they returned to Privet Drive later.
"Right..."
Draco's lip was curled in contempt. "The houses here are so small, and smashed close together. It must have been like living inside a box of Sugar Quills--"
"I don't believe my cottage is spaciousness itself," Snape mildly remarked as they walked on.
"Well that's different; at least you have a good stretch of land--"