Title taken from "The End of the Affair" by Ben Howard.
Disclaimer/span: I do now own Harry Potter, so anything that feels remotely familiar is not mine!
I really really appreciate reviews!
EDIT: Big thanks to Lucy for beta-ing! All remaining errors are my own.
PROLOGUE
It's the 2nd May 1998, and muggle London greets the new morning by squinting at the weak sun shining through a couple of stubborn grey clouds whilst sipping on their to-go coffees and nodding off against a stranger's shoulder on the tube.
None of them has any idea that life as they know it could have easily been snapped off their fingers if Harry Potter hadn't killed Voldemort mere hours ago, while they slept through the night without a single worry in the world.
Draco Malfoy, in muddy, tattered clothing and hair that is too long for his liking, if the way he keeps brushing it off his forehead is anything to go by, seems to consider this very issue as he watches the commuters and joggers and suited up businessmen from a corner in Kensington.
His fingertips fly to his temples and his brow furrows in irritation. He seems to have a headache. He may have just realized but it's most likely been there for hours. Perhaps since the battle ended. Since Potter's arm came down, shaking. His wand still vibrating and sending little sparks from the tip as everyone stood silently. For an instant that had a sense of reverence to it, there had been no sound whatsoever. But soon enough, all hell broke loose. People were running around in absolute chaos, fighting the hooded figures with renewed strength, calling out names, or already mourning their loved ones. As for the Death Eaters, those who didn't try to escape, turned their wands against themselves to end it all on their own terms.
Draco sighs and starts walking again aimlessly as he has been doing for the past four or five hours. He looks the kind of tired that takes a very long time to build up.
For him, war started at age fifteen when he came home for the summer holidays. On the train to King's Cross, he'd told Goyle about how much he longed for his own bed and being able to play quidditch whenever he wanted without having to ask permission to use the pitch. What he didn't tell him was that he especially longed to forget Amos Diggory's animalistic howl when he saw the inert body of his son at the entrance of the maze.
But instead he found there were several rooms −and later on, a whole wing of Malfoy Manor− he was now banned from. His mother couldn't stop wringing her perfectly immaculate hands and would often send him off to his friends' houses after muffled floo-calls in the wee hours of the morning.
The more shadows and foreign voices that invaded his childhood home, the more he took an interest in the hooded figures. He knew by then −he most probably couldn't remember a time when he had not known− what they were and what they wanted, but the air of danger and secrecy around them allured him as much as scared him. His mother would simply not give answers to his prying, so he started snooping around the clandestine meetings and, one memorable time, he hid in the dining room for hours after catching wind of a gathering. His father found him after everyone else had left, and instead of telling him off, he poured him his first glass of Firewhisky and prattled away about the grandeur and righteousness of their family name. Draco was no stranger to these declarations or the stench of black magic, and if that time his father's words were imbued with revived ardour and the room reeked like never before, he was too busy sipping on the amber liquid to really notice.
After a while, a very particular sort of atmosphere invaded the whole house when He came back. It resembled the humidity of winter somewhere near the sea where no matter how many robes, how many warming charms, there was nothing that could chase the bone-deep cold away.
Draco would watch the constant rush of people getting in and out and screw up his nose at the blood stains permanently smeared on the floors (the house-elves's relentless scrubbing was to no avail), and the occasional lifeless carcass of rodents brought in by Nagini. It all became a blur eventually. More screams, more meetings, a very big chair when he was too young, and his pale arm extended forward, like an offering, teeth clenched and ready for the pain.
And then a mission.
Draco stops in his tracks and rubs his eyes with a little too much force. He seems to realise that he has been awake for way too long. It's a wonder he's still standing, really. His eyes aren't completely focused, and recurrent thoughts, old memories and angry voices all flood in his mind without pause. Always too loud, too bright and always demanding his full attention.
From time to time, his whole posture tenses and he sucks in a breath and bites the inside of his cheeks in anticipation. Panic crosses his features, a rush of adrenaline shooting through him as he starts walking faster, wand hidden in his right sleeve and looking around him with suspicion and caution. But even in the midst of it, there is still hesitation to his movements, almost as if his muscles couldn't decide whether to tense or relax, as if he wasn't sure whether to leave and hide or wield his wand and start hexing an invisible enemy.
He slumps his shoulders and hides a yawn in the neck of his muggle coat, a sense of defeat to his eyes. He must have finally reached the conclusion that he needs a bed, and perhaps a shower, too. He seems to have started to pick up on the looks the pedestrians he passes by are giving him. He is filthy and a bit bloody, but he doesn't really seem to mind it. For a second, his eyes turn glassy, and he doesn't blink for a very long time, as if he was deep in thought again. Perhaps trying to figure out whether there was any other path he could have taken.
The young man starts to look for quieter, emptier streets, distractedly searching for a hidden spot or a deserted street he can apparate from.
1st August 1997
A hunched figure meanders through the empty streets of Diagon Alley with difficulty. The unexpectedly brisk summer night is making him shake, and he hugs himself, as if to keep warm. He takes refuge in the shadows and despite his limp and ragged breath he moves fairly quickly.
His eyes are on the ground as he drums his finger against the strap of the leather rucksack he is carrying. It appears to be almost completely empty, yet the blond man's movements seem to indicate that whatever's inside is rather heavy.
He trips several times, and beads of dark and warm liquid drip from his clothes. He finally makes a swift turn right and enters an alleyway. He stays in the shadows that render him invisible, right by a hidden small door with a sign that reads "Authorised staff only. Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes."
The blond has stopped shaking now, as if all of a sudden, he couldn't feel the cold, yet his lips are turning paler by the minute.
His face becomes visible when he raises his head to watch the entrance of the alleyway and the moonlight hits him. His traits are contorted by pain and he breathes heavily. He gasps, and his vision seems to blur, his legs failing him and causing him to trip over his own feet even though he's standing still. He seems about to collapse. He watches his blood-drenched clothes drip to the floor ominously, like the tick-tock of a clock.
Finally, a loud crack breaks the stillness of the night and the hunched figure lets out a barely audible whimper of relief.
Three silhouettes stand at the entrance of the alley and move quickly towards the concealed door. Two men, intently whispering to each other and a woman, shorter and barefoot, follows them. She's holding a pair of high heels in her left hand, and on her right hand he clutches her wand so tight that her knuckles are white. The furtive presence spots the other two wizards' wands, also at the ready. Invested as they are in their conversation, they don't seem to notice the hidden man at the bottom of the alleyway.
The pale moonlight shines on them and their red-haired heads clash against the pitch black of the night. The men are in formal bright-coloured robes. The woman, though she might be better described as a girl, is wearing a dark blue dress. Her hair is tangled and ruffled, and many strands of hair have fallen out of her intricate braided hairdo. They are all equally muddy and dishevelled and one of the young men has blood splattered all over his face.
The hidden figure makes to talk but no sound comes out of his lips. They won't see him if he doesn't move. He presses a hand against his chest and can almost feel his heart slowing down.
One of the two young men, who are identical except for the bloody face, points his wand at the door and starts taking down the protective wards. They are now close enough that the hunched shape hidden in the shadows can hear what they're saying.
"I'm telling you, they won't look under their noses. Not tonight. It's safe to stay here but tomorrow we move. A safe house was not an option, we could have had someone tail behind in our apparition. You−" but the other twin interrupts him, "We need to do something about Gin, she can't very well−"
"Shut it, George," says the bloody-faced one, "You know how it works. We need to wait for at least a couple hours, just in case someone was as bright as you and wanted to invite a couple of Death Eaters back for tea by leading them to their homes. If we have no news from Grimmauld being compromised, we will take her to Bill so he can take her there." His harsh tone doesn't quite match the uncertain look he shoots towards the short girl, and he exhales one last frustrated comment, "Bloody Fidelius Charm..."
The other one nods, and his features soften. "I will send a Patronus to Lee, we'll meet with him in the morning. It's earlier than we thought but−"
"Fred, George," says a tense and high-pitched voice, demanding attention.
The hunched figure tries to focus his eyes but frowns, as though it was a great physical effort. He can now see that the short barefoot girl is pointing at him with her wand, eyes sharp and grim and lips set straight in a fine line.
The young wizard shows them the palms of his hands slowly, so they can see he's not wielding a wand.
He will later blame his predicament for what came out his mouth. He could have done so much better. He could have stated his intentions, sworn he meant no harm, offered them what they wanted, the item in his rucksack that he was supposed to bargain for his life.
It's three wands against one, and his doesn't even count since he has been cursed with a Sectumsempra and can barely lift his arm high enough to cast a spell. But his eyes are tired, and he is in so much pain that he can't breathe, or apparently think properly. He grits his teeth, forcing his croaked voice to finally come out as he bluntly asks: "How was the wedding?"
The three siblings are on him with fists and hexes and insults before he can wave the proverbial white flag.
2nd May 1998
Draco has now arrived at his destination. He climbs the four steps in front of him slowly and heavily, as if his weight had suddenly been doubled. Some kind of alarm goes off in his mind, but he seems to be in a daze still, as if he couldn't quite make himself analyse what might be wrong. He takes his wand and rest its tip against the doorknob of the main entrance, as he used to do on the gates of Malfoy Manor. Magic spills over him questioningly and after a moment the house recognises him. Only when he enters and hears the screams coming from the portrait of Walburga Black, does he really wake from his reverie.
Commotion and realisation enlighten his features as he realises where he is. Draco looks around him first, just to confirm that yes, he is in fact in the hallway of the old Black family home. He then frowns at his feet as if wondering how he got there without consciously deciding to. He can hear low voices in the living room and he remains still for a whole minute, then he half-turns towards the exit, making to leave but ends up taking a hesitant step towards the corridor. He hasn't eaten anything in twenty-four hours and, as his survival instincts kick in, his feet lead him to the kitchen.
There, he finds Hermione. The last time he saw her she was a mess. Her hair was in her face and her skin so dirty, it looked like the tiny freckles in her cheeks had extended like a virus all over her body. It's obvious she's had a shower, since her skin is back to being nearly translucid and her hair is tame enough and gathered in a low ponytail.
Her back is to the door, but she looks over her shoulder when she hears his footsteps approaching. Draco doesn't miss her wand, which she's pointing roughly in the direction of the kitchen's entrance, just in case. Her grip relaxes when she sees him, and she uses it instead to stir her tea with a quiet spell and sits at the long table, possibly due to her trembling legs, which she doesn't want him to notice.
Draco goes straight to one of the cupboards and finds the crackers easily. Hermione starts talking and her voice is strained from too much screaming. When he turns to look at her, he sees how she hangs her head, though if in relief or sorrow no one can tell. A pale hand darts up and brushes away a lock of curly hair that's escaped from her hair tie.
"We thought you were dead," she mutters, stopping and looking at him now. Her eyes sweep his face, trying to look for something, and it's not clear by her features what it is or whether she finds it. "Or that you had gone back to them."
Her lower lip quivers the tiniest bit and he sits on the bench opposite her. It's a mere statement that holds the lightest touch of reproach, but he doesn't seem to feel attacked or guilty in the slightest. He puts a whole cracker into his mouth and swallows, barely chewing it before responding in a raspy voice.
"Which of the two did you hope for?"
He tries not to show it but he's curious. Ultimately, the mark on his arm will always be there, no matter how hard he rubs at it in the shower.
"Neither seemed likely," she says, instead of responding to his question.
He looks intently in her direction, somewhat surprised because he thinks he heard a smile in her words. But she's already facing away as she gets up to leave, her arm lightly brushing the nape of his head in her way out of the room.
"Shacklebolt and some others are here to make all the arrangements," she whispers.
Draco looks at her, raising an eyebrow that disappears under his fringe, but almost instantly, his eyes turn dark and grim with understanding.
"Funerals," she replies simply, no sign of smile in her voice this time.