A/N: What the hell is this? Don't ask me.
You
are a runner
With a stolen voice
And you are a runner
And I
am my father's son
I am my father's son
-Wolf Parade
Sometimes in the early mornings Draco would wake up and start laughing, he would laugh and laugh—cradling his stomach as he shook. It wasn't the remnants of dreams hanging in his mind that made him laugh, he didn't dream—not anymore. It was reality that made him laugh. The way things were, because things were just so fucking great.
He was an Auror and Harry Potter was on the run.
And it was funny. So goddamn fucking funny. Sometimes while he was tracking Potter, stalking the Boy-Who-Lived through the cloud forests of Malaysia or the parched outback of Australia he'd have to stop for a moment. The laughter would take over and he'd have to lean against a tree for support, letting the sea of mirth wash over.
Sometimes Potter got sloppy, there were three times in the past four years when Draco had almost caught up with him—glimpsed a messy black head in a crowd or sitting at a bar. Draco had been forced to fumble deliberately—once he'd gone as far as to tie his shoelaces. His shoelaces.
Thankfully, whatever supernatural sense Potter possessed had alerted him and by the time Draco had slowly stood up, cracking his back, Potter had vanished.
Draco loved waking up in a new country. When his plane coasted into a new airport he would drive straight to his hotel and go to sleep, so that the next morning, waking up in a new country he could look out the window to see a whole new world. But that morning when Draco woke up there was something different about the air, there was a tang of familiarity to it that spoke of a salty breeze and white cliffs.
He took his time that morning, stretching slowly and shaving with a raw smile on his face. In the shower he found himself humming, words bursting unbidden to his lips.
He dressed with care, pulling on a crisp white shirt and a pair of black trousers. After a moment's thought he forwent the chest holster and settled for merely shoving his wand in his pocket.
He ate at the hotel's restaurant and tipped the waiter with all the remaining change he had.
He spent the morning idling through the markets picking up a few knick knacks for friends back home. In the afternoon he rented a boat and rowed himself out to one of the smallest islands, his oars cutting through the water like a knife through butter.
He spent the night on the beach, sleeping with his jacket under his head, and a life-vest for warmth. The dawn was just creeping over the horizon when he arrived at the cabin.
He was not surprised by the nostalgic smell of pancakes or by the fact that the table was set for two. Potter was reading the local paper by the table and when Draco entered the room he looked up, nodded, and gestured at the table.
The two of them ate in silence, and while Draco drank his tea he reflected that the years had been kind to Potter's cooking abilities.
When they were both finished they spent a minute looking at each other before Potter broke the silence with his typical lack of finesse. "Well, shall we?" Potter, said looking resigned but oddly calm.
Draco nodded, and he could have done it nicer—he could have done it easily. But this was Potter and whatever else, Draco was still a Malfoy.
So they did it the hard way. Finally Potter was subdued, his two hands manacled behind his back, with a newly black eye.
Draco looked down on him, and there was regret there—for both of them. "Harry James Potter you are accused and charged with the willful murder of Tom Marvelo Riddle, alias Lord Voldemort. You will be indicted on charges and brought back to England to be tried…You have the right…"
And Draco went on for a while and when he was finally done he found he was looking at Potter. Really looking, for the first time and he found to his surprise that whatever people said Potter's eyes were not green. Perhaps it was the lighting, or the time of the day, or maybe Potter hadn't been eating enough Vitamin C but just then Draco would have sworn on his life that Potter's eyes were as blue as the English sky.
Draco wasn't entirely sure why this would be relevant—but it felt important to know something about Potter that nobody else knew. So he stared some more, trying to soak up any lasting detail he could.
Potter's mouth twisted wryly. "It was a good run, wasn't it?" He said wistfully.
Draco nodded.
Potter bit his lip, and Draco watched as the blood welled up—though Potter hadn't seemed to have notice. "Thank you for that, back in Lisbon. I know you nearly had me—I wanted to thank you then, but obviously…"
"No need" Draco said, and Potter held out his hands and Draco took them in his and apparated them both.
At the Ministry Draco watched as Potter was escorted away by a couple of guards, he as Potter did not turn around, not once—and he watched as just before he vanished from sight Potter's left shoulder went up, in what could have been a shrug—or could have been a wave goodbye.
Later after the celebration party hosted by the Auror Office, after Aunt Bellatrix had congratulated him and his father had told him how proud he was, after he was handed a commendation for finally bagging the big one—after all that…Draco went home.
The next morning he still woke up laughing, but even to his own ears the sound was no longer manic—instead it sounded just a little bit sad.
Fin.