For someone who was so insistent that she didn’t want to be alone, she seemed awfully eager to get away from them.  Draco, however, didn’t seem to notice.  “Come on, Potter, I’m going to show what real a wizarding home looks like.”  Harry ignored the comment and followed wordlessly.  Three hours later, he was exhausted, starving, and very thankful that it was nearly noon.

The Malfoy family library was large, granted and absolutely crammed with books, but not nearly so large and full as Hogwarts.  Draco insisted that it was a better library, however, because his father only kept practical things in it and nothing was restricted.  With his new knowledge of Lucius Malfoy, Harry suspected ‘practical’ meant Dark.

The Malfoy family kitchens were large as well, boasting three house elves that greeted the boys nervously while trying to prepare what looked like an eight course meal.  There were two dining rooms, the formal dining room, which could seat nearly sixty guests, had walls painted in a deep burgundy and two long, cheery wood tables decorated in fresh flowers, despite the fact that no one was dining there at the present; the informal dining room had walls painted in a much paler red, to the point of being nearly pink, with a circular table in the centre that could accommodate at least fifteen and flower chairs.  Candles and lace decorated the table, and three place settings had already been arranged with delicate silver plates and red napkins.  Harry could hardly keep his mouth closed when Draco told him that this was where they were going to be eating lunch.

Draco’s bedroom was nearly twice the size of Harry’s dungeon room, with it’s own bathroom, a king sized bed, three bookcases full of trinkets (although very few books), a desk littered with parchment and ink in varying colours, and a wardrobe that Draco said was enchanted to hold all of his clothing and help him pick things to wear.  He had said ‘all of his clothing’ as if he had a great deal; looking around the room, Harry didn’t doubt that in the least.

From Draco’s room, he had been forced to lean out the window and look over the grounds while Draco pointed at things in the distance.  “That’s the gardens, there are three of them, mother loves plants, and that’s the feeding grounds.”

“Feeding grounds for what?”

“We have a unicorn, two Thestrals, and a whole herd of Andalusian horses.  Father says that before they banned dragons, we had one of those, too.”

Draco pointed to a flat plane of grass off to the right, barely visible from where they were.  “Over there is the meadow.  It’s not good for much, but if we want to go flying, the house elves will put the Quidditch goals up for us and we can practice.”

A little bell tingled in the corner and Draco looked up, startled.  “Lunch!  Come on, or we’ll be late.”

Harry scrambled after him, tripping over his own feet as he did so.  Draco barrelled through the halls and down the stairs, skidding to a halt at the doors leading into the informal dining room.  Draco turned around and looked at Harry for a moment before giving an exasperated sigh, “If you keep dressing like that, she’ll want to take you shopping.”

“She can’t.  Dumbledore says I’m not to leave the Manor.”

Draco huffed, taking a moment to dust off Harry’s shoulder and ignoring the annoyed looks he was getting.  “As if that would stop Narcissa Malfoy.  You give her cause and she’ll have the whole of Diagon Ally here at her disposal before the weeks out.

Harry brushed Draco’s hand off his shoulder, trying to pretend it didn’t tingle where he’d touched.  “Leave off, Malfoy.”

The doors were pushed open by two house elves wearing worn pillowcases.  They didn’t look at the boys, but bowed their heads respectfully before popping out of existence.  Narcissa was standing next to the table, wearing a dark blue robe over her white dress.  She smiled at them.  In Harry’s opinion, it was a very unpleasant, calculated smile.

“Good afternoon, boys.  Have a seat.”  She sat down gracefully, brushing her skirt under herself as she did so.  “We’ll be having quail.”

Harry sat at the other end of the table, next to Draco and looked at his plate dubiously.  Perched on top of it was what looked like a very tiny, cooked chicken, wings and all, in a pile of naked, steamed vegetables, surrounded by a few, delicate drips of reddish sauce.  Draco and Narcissa had both begun eating, holding it still with a fork and pulling the meet off with a small, pincer like utensil.

With a deep, steadying breath, Harry attempted to follow suit.  It took him several minutes to get the little bird to stay still and another few to figure out how to get the meat to come off in strips without ripping and tearing at it.  He touched the frayed piece of meat to the sauce and stuck it in his mouth bravely.  The first thing he noticed was that the meat was very tough, then the sweet of the red sauce overpowered his senses and he screwed up his face, trying to determine what it reminded him of.

“It’s raspberries.”  He looked up to see Narcissa watching him, “The sauce, it’s made from raspberries.”

He nodded and swallowed thickly, before setting about to finish the rest.  In the end, he was quite proud of himself, even if the jumbled pile of broken bones on his plate resembled nothing like the neat little bird carcass on Draco’s and Narcissa’s.

“Well, that was lovely.”  She hadn’t spoken the entire time they ate, hadn’t even looked at the two boys sitting with her at the table.  Standing up, she straightened her robe and smiled tightly.  “You boys go play and I’ll see you at dinner.  Seven, Draco, don’t forget.”

She swept out and Draco immediately stood, taking Harry’s arm, “Come on, let’s get the house elves to set up the Quidditch Pitch.”

____________________

Draco had been right, about the way Harry dressed, that was.  Narcissa had frowned at Harry’s beat up attire for three days.  At every meal, she looked him up and down - breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner - and every time she saw him, her frown deepened.  He even tried to wear his best outfit, a pair of trousers that only showed the barest hint of sock, and a white shirt with no wholes or stains at all.  He was sure that this, on top of his best Hogwart’s robes, would be sure to impress her.  Instead, he woke up on the fourth day to a knock on his guest room door.

The guest room was nearly as large as Draco’s room, with a huge canopy bed, draped in blue and yellow, and large paintings of austere looking wizards.  There was a desk with three bottles of ink and an assortment of quills make from what looked like peacock feathers.  The chandelier that hung over the centre of the room made the whole thing feel far too formal.  Harry sat up blearily and wiped his eyes with the hand of his sleeve.  “Who’z it?”

The large, double doors opened and Narcissa swept past his bed, her face smiling as Harry had never seen it do before.  “Good morning, Harry, did you sleep well?”

Without waiting for an answer, she pushed open the thick curtains covering his windows and he turned his head away, blinking at the flood of light.  Draco was standing in the doorway, looking wide-eyed at his mother.  He came forward to the side of Harry’s bed, looking over his shoulder expectantly.

Draco pulled himself up onto the bed and lowered his voice, “I told you.”

Harry leaned forward, pushing the blankets away.  There wasn’t anything at the door that he could see.  “Told me what?”

“I told you that if you kept dress…”

“Draco, no whispering, it isn’t polite.”  Narcissa patted the bedspread once before smiling down at Harry reverently.  He hadn’t even seen her approaching.  “Seeing as you’re going to be with us for a while, Harry, I thought it was about time you had something proper to wear.”

Suddenly, Harry knew what Draco had meant.  He looked at the blond, startled, then back at the tall, austere woman beaming down at him like Dumbledore with sweets.  “I… You don’t have to. I think my clothes are…”

“Nonsense, Harry, it gives me great pleasure.  Now, stand up, don’t be shy.”

Draco sniggered besides him and grabbed his arm, pulling him from the bed.  Narcissa looked disapprovingly at Harry’s faded night pants and threadbare shirt.  “No, that just won’t do at all.  Paolo, if you could?”