Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling and her publishers; no money is being made.
Harry can't remember how he got here; the last few days are erased from his mind. He doesn't know what he wants here, either – he was never welcome. But as he looks at the ruins of the house he once called home with eyes stinging from exhaustion, it doesn't matter. He needs to rest, just for a few hours, needs a safe place or at least a place that feels as if it were safe.
Slowly, Harry walks across the road and over the front lawn. He should hide, he knows, but he's too tired to care anymore. Like a sleepwalker, he wanders through rubble and ashes until he halts in front of a small wooden door. It's strange that the stairs and the cupboard below them should still be standing when most of the house was burnt down like the houses of the neighbours, like half of Little Whinging.
The singed door opens with a familiar creak, puffs of dust gently rising into the warm air. Inside, there are cobwebs and inviting darkness, and Harry curls into the tiny space with a feeling hovering between old pain and relief. His body is aching in a dozen places, his bloody feet burning worse than he thought possible, but it takes him only moments to fall asleep after closing the door.
.-.-.-.
"Harry?"
Harry jerks awake, eyes open wide, hand reaching for his wand and finding nothing. It's then that he remembers. The war. All the deaths. And Voldemort.
"Harry…it's me."
A hand settles on his shoulder, and only now does he recognise the young man kneeling in front of the cupboard.
"Dudley?"
He doesn't look like the cousin Harry left behind. He's thinner and older around the eyes in a way that makes Harry wish for him to still be the spoilt brat he'd seen last. But that Dudley is gone, he realises, like so many other things and people.
"What are you doing here?"
Harry shakes his head. "I don't know."
For a few moments, Dudley hesitates before determination settles on his face. He takes his hand away from Harry's shoulder, gripping his hand instead.
"Come out of there. You need a bath and clothes and some meds too. I've got a hideout with all we need, and I know how to avoid the patrols. You're lucky I found you. I wanted to check on the place one last time before leaving town."
Harry can only stare at him in confusion. He knows he should comply, but somehow, he can't care. All he wants is to curl up again and forget about everything that happened.
When Harry doesn't move, Dudley pulls him out of the cupboard and onto his feet.
"Come."
The world goes blurry before Harry's eyes, but there is an arm wrapping around his waist, and then they're walking, one step after the other, down the road, until what is left of the house disappears.
.-.-.-.
Dudley had assumed it would be Harry leading their flight. With all that his mother told him about the Wizarding world before her death, it had only seemed natural.
Harry can't do it, though – he isn't even capable of taking care of himself, and it's a miracle he ever came as far as he did on his own. He was halfway starved when Dudley found him, and most of the time, he doesn't even pay attention to where he's walking. More than once, Dudley had to pick him up after a fall, until he'd decided it would be safer to walk with his arm around his cousin at all times. Harry doesn't seem to mind or even notice. Wherever he is with his thoughts, it's not here. Dudley couldn't get much out of him – Harry doesn't speak much at all – but enough to piece things together rudimentary.
The war is over. Most of those who fought on Harry's side are dead or captured. Voldemort won. And he had Harry.
Harry won't talk about it, and Dudley assumes that this is what makes him withdrawn and silent, what makes him stare into the distance with glazed eyes while Dudley leads him on, what makes him wake up at night, screaming.
Dudley knows better than trying to pry. He has more pressing matters to consider. Food, shelter, trying not to lose his way.
It's evening now, and they're sitting at the edge of a small forest, leaning against a thick tree, Harry's head on Dudley's shoulder, the backpack with food and their sleeping bags right next to them. It's getting dark, and one by one, fireflies rise from the ground and the surrounding bushes, dancing in the warm summer breeze like hundreds of small candles.
"Just like Hogwarts," Harry suddenly whispers.
Dudley thought his cousin was asleep already, but now Harry lifts himself a little. He looks more aware than ever during the last two weeks.
"Where are we going?"
Dudley shrugs. "Away. Out of England, if we can."
Harry nods slowly, then he slumps back against Dudley. A few minutes later, just before he begins snoring faintly, Dudley means to hear a whispered, "Thank you."
He tightens his hold on Harry and watches the dance of the fireflies.
They've come a long way.