Thank you to my fabulous beta, Omi-Omi for all your help with this especially at such short notice. This story was written for the LJ community HD-Smoochfest, in the 2012 fest. It's my first ever fest fic, and was so much fun.
The world of Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling, and not to me. This makes me rather sad. This story is all mine, though.
It's better than an afternoon of sitting and listening to lots of supposedly significant people taking it in turns to get up on a stage and pretend they knew what being on the front line was like, Harry supposes. Still, Hermione's idea of an organised visit to the locations that played key roles in the war has become rather like an out-of-control freight train. It seems that plenty of people agreed with her, and now the fifth anniversary of Voldemort's death sees a crowd of some several hundred people assembling at Hogwarts. There are many faces that he recognises, and more he does not. The quiet chatter in the great hall pauses as he enters, then resumes with slightly more force, the crowd parting to let him through, with gentle pats on the shoulder and subdued murmurs of encouragement lining his way to the stage. At the steps, he stops, takes a deep breath, and tries to surreptitiously wipe his damp palms on his robes before he climbs up.
The sound of a large room full of people who aren't speaking is daunting, the rustle of robes and the faint squeaking of someone's shoes against the polished floor making the blood rushing in his ears even louder. Hermione's voice rings out not a moment too soon.
"Hi, everyone. Thank you for coming, to those of you who are taking part in the Progress and those who are here to see us off. I'm sorry more of you weren't able to take part, but I'm afraid even the best shielding charms we currently have can only disguise about fifty people at once. Having said that, I know those fifty will do you proud, and it is a great honour for all of us to be representing the Wizarding public."
She pauses, smiles around the room as the people below her nod, and return her smiles with that proud, yet subdued expression peculiar to those remembering the dead.
"We'll be setting off from here in half an hour, so everyone who's flying please make sure you assemble on the Quidditch pitch by then. Everyone else, the stands are open so you can watch us go. We'll be heading out over Hogsmeade, then heading pretty much directly south to London for the walk through Diagon Alley. Then from there we'll be going to Malfoy Manor, where we'll be spending the night. Tomorrow we'll continue west to Godric's Hollow, then turn north again to the Forest of Dean where again we'll stay overnight. From there, it's up to Little Hangleton, and returning back here to Hogwarts by nightfall. The weather forecast is pretty good for the whole country, but you never know what might happen, so make sure you have plenty of warm clothes and suncream. Anyone needing help just grab me or Ron―" she waves at him, and he raises a hand and blushes under the sudden regard of a roomful of people, "―and we'll do our best to look after you. Harry is of course our figurehead, but he's not going to be leading the whole way – there are a few people taking it in turns to go in front and make sure we're going in the right direction. Whoever is leading will be wearing a green armband, so they'll be easy to identify. Okay, I think that's all the bureaucracy out of the way so I'll hand over to Harry to say a few words."
There's a smattering of polite applause as Hermione moves to the side, leaving Harry to take centre stage on his own as the feeling in the hall becomes more focussed, pinning him in place.
"Thanks, Hermione." His voice is rusty, and he has to clear his throat before he can continue. "Thank you all, for being here. It's been five years since the end of the war, and I think Wizarding Britain has managed pretty well since then. For me, though, this anniversary is not a time for celebration, but a time for reflection and remembrance. We've all lost people, friends, family. The Progress is to allow us to honour those people, their courage, their sacrifice. We would not be here without them, and I'm pleased to be able to remember them with you all." He bows his head in the silence that follows his words, before applause breaks over him and he can move away, down the steps and into the press of bodies, shielding him from sight of most of the room.
Heading outside is a welcome relief, the warm air loosening the tightness in his chest. Small groups of people meander across the grass, stepping round the blocks of fallen masonry that still remain. When the school had been repaired, Headmistress McGonagall and the school governors had elected to leave the largest pieces where they had fallen, as a monument to the battle. Allowing the grounds to remain battle-scarred seems appropriate, thinks Harry. Clearing away all signs of conflict would have been disingenuous, somehow false.
He halts outside the stands of the Quidditch pitch, shaking hands and exchanging tired smiles with people as they crowd up into the stands. The early morning sunshine is gathering strength, making the castle stand out in sharp relief against the blue sky. As the last few people reach the stands, Harry follows them into the shadows, crossing under the rows of seating and out under the goalposts. He tugs the green band on to his left arm, wrinkling his sleeve and bunching the fabric uncomfortably before he joins the small collection of people with whom he's going to spend the next three days. They're a diverse bunch, he thinks idly, with old school friends forming a central core, with casual acquaintances, war widows, charity leaders and political hopefuls forming most of the rest. He's amused to see Neville standing with his grandmother off to one side, the elderly lady still wearing her infamous hat, and being gently fussed over by Neville, who now towers over her.
Pulling his gloves on in the middle of the pitch feels so familiar, memories of gathering in this spot with the rest of the Gryffindor team teasing a gentle grin to his face. Shaking his head to dispel his thoughts, he addresses the small group.
"Everybody ready? Everybody got their brooms? It's pretty nice of Cleansweep to provide us with these shiny new ones, huh? They're going to be replacing the current school brooms when we're back from the Progress, so be careful with them, please." He looks round at everyone, his grin widening when he sees Neville on the receiving end of a sharp look from his grandmother.
"Okay then," he says. Casting Sonorus to allow the people watching to hear him, he continues. "Alright, everyone, it's time. The fifth year since the end of the second war against Voldemort, and the first remembrance Progress. Thank you all."
Harry takes off into a wide, slowly-rising spiral, the others taking off one by one and following his lead, until all fifty brand-new Cleansweep Twenties have lifted their passengers into the air. The column of fliers is surrounded on all sides by the solemn and deafening applause from the stands. Harry flies upwards until he's well clear of the pitch, the hoops small below him, and waits for the group to form around him, then they move as one tight-knit group away, looping out over Hogsmeade before turning south for the long flight to London.
The first couple of hours of flying are uneventful, consisting of checking the direction he's leading them in, and chatting to people as they come up next to him, then drop away again. He sets a quick pace, as they have over four hundred miles to travel, and he's grateful for the charms that save him from the brutality of the wind, even though it doesn't feel quite normal to fly fast without his cheeks stinging and his hair whipping at his face. At the end of his shift at the front of the group, they land outside a small Wizarding village, stretching their legs and taking it in turns to use the loo in the village pub. He hands over the armband to Jack, a colleague of Hermione's who seems to know the plan for their arrival in London. He's probably had the arrangements repeated over and over again every day for the last few weeks, poor guy. At least Harry has only had to hear it in the evenings.
Taking off again, Harry settles into the main group, moving from person to person for short chats and discussions about their plans for the next couple of days. He's drifted slightly higher and to one side of the main group while he listens to one of the charity fundraisers enthuse about how worthwhile her cause is, when his idly wandering gaze falls on a shock of blond hair that's as familiar as his own reflection.
Shocked, he makes his excuses to his companion and drops down into a patch of empty space, though still both above and behind the focus of his attention. It's been a long time since he saw Draco Malfoy, and to see him now, flying steadily, is like going back in time. He looks slightly wrong, dressed in a simple grey flying coat rather than the green of the Slytherin Quidditch team, but he flies the same way, with ease and elegance. As Jack corrects their course up ahead, Malfoy swings to the left with the rest of the flock, repositioning himself so that he's slightly separate, yet still remaining part of the main group.
Harry holds his position for several minutes, falling easily back into the Malfoy-watching habits of their schooldays, though he is perhaps more aware of how Malfoy's body sways and flexes in the buffeting wind than he was then. He's only shaken out of his preoccupation when Hermione appears by his side, clutching her broom with a hand position that's so precisely textbook it speaks more of her tendency to research the correct way of doing things than her comfort while flying.
"Hi, Harry," she says. "Everything okay?"
His gaze moves reluctantly away from Malfoy, and flicks up to hers. "Fine, fine." He takes a deep breath, watches Malfoy take one hand off his broom and flex his fingers, trying to keep the feeling in them. Unconsciously, Harry mirrors the action, stretching his own hands as they become suddenly too uncomfortably stiff to stay wrapped around the broom handle any longer.
"Are you sure?" Hermione's voice is a long way away, and the effort it takes to respond to her is considerable.
"What? Yes. Everything's fine. Just flying along, with everyone else."
"He's very brave, you know."
Confused, Harry looks at her properly for the first time since she appeared by his side. She's watching Malfoy with a pensive expression, a small smile trying to break through the overlying sadness.
"Who? Malfoy?" The name is at once familiar and foreign, rolling through Harry's mouth like he's forgotten how to speak properly. He opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, trying to recapture the intimacy he'd once had with the name of his childhood rival.
She rolls her eyes without looking at him. "Yes, Malfoy. He asked me if he could come with us himself, not as a member of any charity or with any kind of agenda, just to be present. I think he has a few demons to put to rest, and who am I to prevent him getting some kind of peace?" She sighs. "Not to mention the broom thing."
"Broom thing?"
Hermione gives him a withering look. "Honestly, Harry, you're so obtuse. Don't you remember the Room of Requirement?"
The inhuman roaring of flames, screaming, smoke, and the desperate desire to escape flood through Harry. The resolution to go back just barely overpowering the panic, and the slippery grasp of Malfoy's hand in his. The feel of arms tight around him and the sense of rightness that speared through it all only adding to the terror.
Harry shakes his head, trying to dislodge the memory. "Has he not been on a broom since then?"
"No, he hasn't. Well, he has – he told me he went to counselling pretty much as soon as he got the go-ahead to come on the Progress. But not otherwise. Like I said, I think he's brave to do it. The rest of us already had brooms, we could get out, but for him – and for Goyle as well I suppose – broomstick flight must be pretty strongly associated with nearly dying, and the death of a close friend."
Harry just nods, studying Malfoy more closely. He seems a little tense, but that could just as easily be down to the uncomfortable stiffness born of being on a broom for so long. He's bigger than he used to be, too, his slender frame now a bit broader at the shoulders, his thighs a little more obviously muscular.
"Is he, um, you know..." Harry falters, the aborted sentence hanging in the air as he tries to pull together what he wants to know. He refuses to consider why he wants to know – it's enough that he's always wanted to know everything there is to know about Malfoy. It's just the way things are.
"Still the same old Harry," Hermione murmurs, smiling gently. "He's okay, as far as I can tell. When he spoke to me, he was polite, but there's something to him that wasn't there when we were at school." She hesitates, then corrects herself, "or at least, it wasn't there until sixth year. He seems deeply troubled, Harry, to be honest. There's nothing really wrong with him, but I'd guess he's never really got over the war."
"He lived with Voldemort," Harry muses. "That's got to be worse than the nightmares I had – he was there, day after day."
"Be nice to him," Hermione advises. "I know he was a little shit a lot of the time when we knew him, but I get the impression that he's more fragile these days. He's certainly a lot quieter. Now come on, you have to be friendly to everyone, not just hover behind Malfoy all the time."
As they drift across to hear the enthused ramblings of a charity witch, Harry fights to pull his thoughts away from the idea of a new, fragile Malfoy, and how much he wants to find out more.
:::::
The sight of London looming in the distance is a welcome one after several hours on a broom – even if, like Augusta Longbottom, you have an overlarge cushion to sit on. The flock draw closer together as they cruise over a wide swathe of housing estates, short rows of tired shops, and row upon row of solidly-built Victorian terraces. Beginning their approach over the centre of the city, the towers and spires of sacred and secular buildings reach up as if in salute to their arrival. As they hit the airspace over Diagon Alley, the thrumming of their charms increases to a whine, then stops abruptly, the sudden change in air pressure making everyone's ears pop. As they all hover, listening to Ron describing the routine for their landing, Harry finds he's almost alongside Malfoy, the other man just barely out of arm's reach.
As Ron starts the spiralling descent, Harry is the only one not watching him, his eyes fixed on the white knuckles of Malfoy, the bones sharp beneath the tight skin. Glancing up at his face, it's plain that he's worried. Without thinking, Harry nudges his broom closer, stopping only when Malfoy's head snaps up, his eyes flashing with a look that's partly annoyance but more panic.
"Alright, Malfoy?" Harry asks quietly, pleased that the name is starting to feel more natural already.
He doesn't receive an answer, just a brief nod, but the cool air of this altitude gives the lie to Malfoy's nonchalance, each too-quick breath a short puff of white before quickly dissipating.
"Follow me down, okay?" Harry says, hoping he's saying the right thing. "It'll be fine, I promise." As he turns to begin his landing, Malfoy's eyes flick up to his, the tightness in his shoulders dissolving slightly.
About half-way down to the ground, Harry glances up, finding the gap between himself and Malfoy is smaller than that between most of the others. Smiling, he turns away, concentrating on getting this landing right, trying to ignore the sound of the crowd of people below them.
As the buildings of London rise up around him, the sound of applause is too great to ignore. There is no cheering, no sound of voices, just a steady applause and Ron's voice amplified by Sonorus naming each member of the Progress as they make their landing. The noise increases as Harry's name is called, the sound wrapping around him, disorienting him as his feet hit the cobbles harder than expected and his knees buckle before he regains his balance. Smooth, Harry, he thinks, then looks up to see Malfoy landing right next to him, his free hand flailing as the other uses the broom to prop himself up. Without thinking, Harry catches the flailing hand, steadies Malfoy before letting go, the long fingers slipping out of his slowly.
They stand shoulder-to-shoulder until the final landing is made, and while Ron makes his short speech about the effects of the war on Wizarding trade, his brother George also saying a few words. Harry remains alongside the other man as they begin the walk through the Alley. It's eerily quiet, so many people crowded into the narrow street, and not a voice is heard. The members of the Progress lead the way, the people lining the road joining behind them as they pass, the air filling with the soft shuffling and clicking of shoes on cobbles, and the rustling of coats.
The restoring of many of the shops on Diagon Alley is now complete, though Harry can still see the legacy of spell damage on several shopfronts. Ollivander's bears the most scars, but the old man and his niece – who has now taken the reins of the shop – stand in the doorway under the new sign, heads high. Harry feels more than sees Malfoy's tension climb as they pass by, his shoulders tightening and his eyes fixed firmly to the floor.
At the end of the Alley, the brick archway behind the Leaky Cauldron stands open, welcoming them inside for a longed-for sit down and some food. A table stretches along the length of one wall, laden with sandwiches, pasta, fruit, and some mysterious brown cubes that wobble gently whenever someone jostles the plates. The barman – not Tom any longer, but a similarly genial man who introduces himself as Geoff – serves all the members of the Progress with tea, coffee, and soft drinks, and laughs with Augusta Longbottom as she takes her cup with obvious pleasure.
Harry loses Malfoy in the press of bodies, and is pulled into conversation with a steady stream of people wanting to thank him for leading a time of remembrance in such a public way. Each time, he mumbles about how it's not really his idea, and waves vaguely at Hermione, herself chatting briskly. Eventually, his trial by chitchat draws to an end, as Jack stands up and starts ushering people out of the door, ready to start the next leg of their journey.
This time, they take off en masse, rising steeply to gain sufficient altitude before leaving Wizarding airspace once more. As they cross the boundary, the charms snap back into place, the muffling of sound and the absence of the wind making Harry grimace and shake his head to try and loosen the sense of being trapped in a bubble. Heading almost precisely due west, the sun is close to being dead ahead, causing everyone to screw up their eyes uncomfortably as they fly. Malfoy's hair is luminescent, catching the light and making him seem almost angelic, were his expression not so bleak even through the scowling squint creasing his face.
As they pass over the Berkshire Downs and the afternoon light catches the imposing figure of the Uffington White Horse below them, they veer south, heading for the next landmark, it dawns on Harry that they could perhaps have simply asked Malfoy to lead the way, rather than trying to join the dots between ancient chalk carvings. Maybe it would have been too insensitive anyway, the house no longer his home since it was taken in reparations. All the same, it's not long before Malfoy Manor appears ahead of them, the buttery Cotswold stone warm and welcoming despite the yew hedges and forbidding gates at the entrance.
As they make their final landing of the day, an officious-sounding witch – the housekeeper, apparently, now that the Manor is to be preserved as a historical site of interest by the Wizarding branch of the National Trust – directs people as they bustle around and erect tents on the manicured lawns. Hermione passes around lists detailing which people are sharing which tents, and Harry wanders across the grass to his tent, trailing his broom behind him. The tent he's been assigned to is a tired shade of yellow, the fabric sagging slightly over the central ridgepole. Inside, he drops his bag on the nearest bed, shoving his broom underneath before collapsing on the creaking mattress and closing his eyes. He's alone just long enough to let his body relax, drifting tantalisingly close to sleep, when someone pinches his toe and brings him sharply back into the present.
"Hey, sleepyhead, wake up." Harry groans as Neville drops his own things on the bed next to Harry's.
"Why?" he grumbles. "Isn't it time for a rest yet?"
"Not yet, mate, sorry. Food first, then downtime. Come on." He holds out a hand and hauls Harry bodily to his feet.
They eat quietly, everyone too tired from a day in the air to talk much, especially surrounded by the imposing grandeur of the Manor. Harry's glad that at least he doesn't have to sleep within the walls, an emotion apparently shared by several others as sighs of relief are heard as they step outdoors once more. When Harry finally makes it back to his bed, Neville is already fast asleep, with Jack on the other side of him settling down. Once his head hits the pillow, Harry drops immediately into sleep, blackness sweeping over him before he even has time to tug the covers up over him properly.
The price for falling asleep so easily, it seems, is that he wakes suddenly in the middle of the night. It's eerie, lying in the unfamiliar tent, with only the mournful cry of a confused peacock breaking the silence. The tent flap is still open, allowing Harry to see a slice of the outdoors from his bed, the hedges and flowerbeds outlined by moonlight, deep shadows behind appearing somehow darker than if there had been no moon at all.
He swings his bare feet to the floor, pulls on his jeans and a t-shirt, and wanders outside, the air cool enough to prick his skin into gooseflesh. Padding across the lawn, he rambles round the side of the house, through a pretty wooden gate and into a small formal garden. He's never been much of a botanist – Neville's the one with both the interest and the knowledge – but he can appreciate the delicate prettiness of the flowers even though their petals are closed up, sleeping the night away. He walks around the perimeter, occasionally trailing his fingers over the leaves, until he rounds a bend and stops dead. Head bowed, hands clasped together, Malfoy sits on a small bench, gazing out into the darkness. He's so still, he could be made of stone, white and grey and black coming together with the subtle light of the moon to form a living statue that makes Harry's heart beat more quickly in his chest.
After a long moment, Malfoy raises his head, and looks over with such wide eyes, that Harry finds his feet moving of their own accord, until he's suddenly sitting beside Malfoy. The quiet stretches, the two of them just sitting, looking over the flowers with the dark shape of the house behind. Malfoy's voice breaks the silence so gently, it's almost as if he hasn't spoken at all.
"This was my mother's garden."
Harry closes his eyes, Malfoy's grief washing through the air. "It's beautiful." Malfoy just nods in reply, the silence hanging soft and heavy between them. It's been just over four years since Narcissa Malfoy died, but the day of her burial remains in Harry's mind with startling clarity.
The second time Harry meets Draco Malfoy after the war, it's at a funeral. He's quite the expert on funerals these days, and takes a seat at the back of the church, behind other, more appropriate mourners. His formal suit feels almost like a second skin, worn in and comfortable, the inside jacket pocket full of scraps of paper with directions to so many different churches, cemeteries, and crematoriums. At the very front, Malfoy and his father sit ramrod-straight, stiff and tense. For all their stiff-upper-lip code of conduct, it's easy to see their distress. When Lucius reads the eulogy, his voice is steady but his eyes look hollow, the dark smudges beneath them clear for all to see. Harry has always found Malfoy easy to read, the heart on his sleeve clear and shining. He's so brittle Harry feels afraid to look at him in case the weight of his gaze pushes him into splintering cracks.
After the service is over, and the two remaining Malfoys have led the small congregation out into the cold sunshine, Harry watches Andromeda embrace her brother-in-law for the first time since his wedding. Malfoy is standing a little apart, gazing across the churchyard with unseeing eyes. Harry goes to him, lays a hand on his shoulder, and squeezes gently.
"For what it's worth, Malfoy, I'm sorry."
Malfoy's silent nod, his red-rimmed eyes glistening before he closes them and leans almost imperceptibly into Harry's touch, tell Harry everything. Their schoolboy past is behind them, the release of the customary hostility a relief to them both. Harry gives him a small smile, one more squeeze, and walks away.
Malfoy's thoughts seem to have turned in the same direction, as a tightly drawn breath catches Harry's attention. He glances at the other man, his eyes dark in his pale face, glistening with an unacknowledged moisture.
Without really thinking, Harry's concern bubbles up and out of his mouth. "You okay, Malfoy?"
He receives a tired smile as Malfoy looks away. "I've been better."
The thought that he doesn't think he's ever seen anything better than the delicately beautiful man he's looking at right now whispers through Harry's mind so fast it barely registers. He grasps Malfoy's shoulder, the bones more covered by muscle than he was expecting, and shakes him gently.
"Look at me," Harry says, gripping tightly until Malfoy complies. "You'll be alright. I promise."
The earnestness in his tone brings a faint but genuine smile to Malfoy's face, the corners of his eyes creasing briefly. "Okay." He looks away once more, repeating himself quietly. "Okay."
Harry's hand slides reluctantly off Malfoy's shoulder as he stands up awkwardly. "I'm going back to bed, see if I can get a bit more sleep. Goodnight, Malfoy."
From this angle Malfoy's face is even more shrouded in shadow, his expression invisible as he speaks. "Please, use Draco. Not Malfoy. It's too... it reminds me too much of this place." He gestures vaguely at the house. "Please."
"Alright," Harry whispers. "Draco, then. Goodnight, Draco." He walks away through the silent gardens with his head spinning.
When he falls asleep once more, his dreams are grey and black, full of glistening eyes and quiet voices that murmur so softly he can't understand what they say.
:::::
The following morning dawns bright and cheerful, helping to counterpoint the melancholy mood that settles on the group as they are taken on a tour through the Manor and leave flowers by the memorial stone that rests in the peaceful and pretty semi-formal garden outside the east wing. Luna says a few words in her customary meandering style, recounting the story of her imprisonment and subsequent rescue. She doesn't dwell on the individual people involved, although both Harry and Draco garner more than one interested glance.
They're all glad when the last tent is stowed away and they take flight once more, heading still further west. Despite their gentler pace compared with the previous day, they seem to arrive at Godric's Hollow far too fast, with everyone lost in their thoughts. Harry avoids both the recounting of history and conversation, instead sitting on the grass in a corner of the churchyard, watching as people drift across to his parents' headstone, then away into the village. Ron brings a stack of sandwiches and a flask of coffee, and they eat in silence. Walking out of the churchyard, Ron slings his arm around Harry's shoulders without a word, holding him up as Harry leans against his oldest friend.
Before long, they're in the air again, following the River Severn upstream, flying in tight formation as the charms have their work cut out to hide them from the wandering eyes of the Muggle populations of Cardiff on the left and Bristol on the right. The two suspension bridges seem to glow against the muddy waters of the river as they pass over. They reach the Forest of Dean without incident, landing in a small clearing on the south side of the forest.
The forest is alive with activity, the air filled with birdsong and the rustling of bright green leaves as the trees seem to wave cheerfully in the light breeze. It's immediately peaceful, lifting spirits and inspiring conversation. They walk gently for a couple of hours, Augusta Longbottom at the front with Hermione to allow the stoic old lady to set a manageable pace. Behind them, the group spreads out, wandering between the trees and stopping to look at interesting plants. Harry walks behind a small group crowding around Neville, listening idly to him identifying the trees and pointing out the characteristics of each different species.
Eventually, they reach the designated clearing for their camp, and set to work putting up tents. Once finished, Harry stretches out on his back in the late afternoon sunshine, enjoying the peace of the forest in a way that he couldn't when he and Hermione had used it as a base during their search for the Horcruxes. He doesn't even flinch when footsteps approach and the shadow of the new arrival sweeps across him. Someone clears their throat, and then the refined tones of the newly-named Draco reach his ears.
"It's time for food."
Sitting up in surprise, Harry blinks at him a few times. "Already?"
Draco barks a short laugh. "Yes, already. Some of us have been setting up barbecues, not lazing around in the sunshine."
Harry glares at him, indignant. "I'm not lazing. I'm resting. I'm allowed to rest." As he speaks, his gaze travels up from the floor until it reaches Draco's face. He's dressed in soft greens and browns, the dappled sunlight dancing over him highlighting the fuzziness of his unshaven jaw. Thrown completely off-track, Harry can't help himself. "You look like a wood nymph or something."
Draco's mouth tightens and he turns away, the relaxed expression falling from his face.
"No, wait." Harry's hand flashes out, grabbing at Draco's ankle. "I meant it in a good way." As Draco's eyes drop to where Harry's panicked grip is crumpling his trouser leg, Harry lets go hurriedly, shoving his fingers into the loose leaves of the forest floor instead. "I just meant you looked like you belong here," he explains, waving at the trees. "With the colours, and the sun, and all."
As Draco nods slowly, then walks away, Harry flops back down, crumbling the dry leaves in his fists to fragments in frustration at his apparent inability to say what he means. After a few minutes, the scent of cooking sausages becomes too delicious to ignore, and he thumps the ground and hauls himself irritably to his feet.
The barbecue is set up across the clearing from the tents, near to several fallen tree trunks that have been appropriated as seats by almost everyone. A few people are standing, a few more are sitting on the floor, and they're all telling stories. The nature of the Progress being what it is, people seem to be avoiding ghost stories, and telling traditional fairy tales instead. By the time Harry has a burger in his hands, one of the war widows, Sarah, is doing a pretty good job of remembering Goldilocks and the Three Bears, despite the ongoing debate over whether she ate the porridge or sat on the chair first.
Harry pauses to take a bite while he decides where to sit, then catches Draco's eye as he scoots over on his log and pats the space he's just created. A weight seems to lift from Harry as he jogs over and sits down, relieved that Draco has apparently forgiven him. They sit without speaking while people cycle through several fairy tales – Muggle and Wizarding, and a few that are so old they're known in both communities – and debate whether or not the witches in the stories were real people or not. All throughout the storytelling, Harry is acutely aware of the warmth of Draco's arm against his own. Even when his back starts to ache from staying in one position so long, he doesn't move.
When the light has almost gone, and the conversations drifted into other areas, they can't stay silent and still any longer, and besides Harry is by now desperate for sleep. He levers himself to his feet and stretches, the kinks in his back straightening at long last, before holding out a hand to help Draco up. The hand in his is warm and dry, and he pulls perhaps a little too hard as the other man stumbles forward and their faces are suddenly inches apart.
They both freeze, and as Draco's hand slowly reaches up to Harry's face, Harry almost forgets to breathe. Slender fingers comb into his hair, before gently tugging a twig free. "Who's the wood nymph now, hmm?" Draco murmurs, his voice rumbling through Harry, curling in his chest and settling there, his heart beating faster than he can remember it ever doing before. Before Harry can react, to do anything other than think wildly that he doesn't know what he wants, other than more, Draco has turned away, disappearing into the darkness.
That night, his dreams are green and brown, dappled sunshine on pale skin, and the feel of gentle fingers trailing over his face.
:::::
Sunrise wakes them early, and it's not long after Hermione's description of hiding amongst the trees during the Horcrux hunt when the Progress is flying out of the Forest of Dean, and heading across country once more. The weather looks ominous as they set out, the sky a grim sort of grey, and a strong tailwind pushing them forwards. The group are quiet, huddled into their coats and hunched over their hands, flying closely together in an attempt to keep warm.
As they cross the Pennines low cloud makes flying difficult, the group barely above the tree line as the strip of clear air between cloud and land gets ever more narrow. They're all relieved when they touch down in Little Hangleton, despite the gloomy feel of both the village and the weather. The cemetery is decidedly better maintained these days, the gate swinging easily and silently on well-oiled hinges. Harry shudders as they walk slowly over to the gravestone of Tom Riddle Senior, the memory of being helplessly bound too fresh in his mind even after all these years.
Harry is the first of the group to walk away, stalking through the cemetery just to put some distance between himself and the site of Cedric Diggory's death. He's so preoccupied that he doesn't pay any attention to where he's going until his foot catches a tree root and sends him flying. He barely has time to throw his hands out in front of him before he hits the ground with a thud, a sickening crack in his wrist, and a sharp cry of pain.
"Oh fuck," he mutters, face down in the dirt with the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. He lifts his arm experimentally until the weight of his hand pulling on the broken wrist makes him drop it back down while he tries not to be sick.
It's not long before footsteps rush up to him, and when Draco's worried voice asks if he's okay, it's not even a surprise. "I'm okay," he replies. "Think my wrist is broken, though."
Draco is more calm than Harry would have expected him to be, and quickly takes charge. He charms the wrist immobile, and helps Harry to sit up, propping his back against the tree responsible for the fall. He settles down on the ground beside him and takes hold of Harry's arm, cool fingers probing the bones of Harry's hand and wrist.
When Harry yelps in pain, Draco looks up at him sharply. "Sorry. It's definitely broken, but it's not too bad. I think I can fix it, but it's been a while since I've done this."
Harry gapes at him. "You're a Healer?"
Draco smiles gently. "Not yet. Got a few years of training under my belt, though." He hesitates before continuing. "Do you want me to try to mend your wrist, or do we need to get you to a hospital?"
Harry grins weakly. "Please, mend it."
Draco's gaze doesn't waver. "Are you sure?"
"Yes," Harry says, simply. "I trust you."
There's a sudden intake of breath, but Draco doesn't say any more, just supports Harry's wrist with one hand, and holds his wand with the other, murmuring softly as he makes small, precise movements.
The tingling, itching feeling as the magic knits the bone back together has Harry gritting his teeth, but it doesn't last long. It's only about ten minutes later when Draco goes quiet, pockets his wand, and sits up a little.
"There," he says gently, stroking the fingers of his free hand over Harry's newly-mended wrist. "All better now." He bends down and presses a soft kiss to the skin, then freezes in place. His eyes flash briefly upwards to meet Harry's as they grow impossibly wide, his cheeks flushing a deep crimson before he scrambles up and walks away with considerably less aplomb than usual. Harry sags back against the tree, astonished, and watches him go, his breath coming more quickly and new wrist tingling with more than just the healing.
When Harry returns to the group, Draco is nowhere to be seen. He must be there when they take off on the final leg of the Progress to return to Hogwarts – Hermione's obsessive taking of roll-call wouldn't let him simply disappear – but despite them being such a small group of people, wherever Harry looks, there Draco isn't.
By the time they see the familiar roofs and towers of Hogwarts, the sun has returned with the soft light that edges shyly into the world after a period of rain, and Harry is slowly going mad. He's talked to every person in the group at least once, constantly flown perimeter circles around them, and still hasn't managed to spot Draco. He'd spent a couple of hours taking the lead, after Hermione got so exasperated she sent him to the front just so he'd stay in one position for more than five minutes.
Flying over the Hogwarts boundary, they slow down and exchange pleased glances, everyone glad to be at the end of their journey safe and sound. There is a huge crowd assembled on the grass outside the front gates, and they form into rows, like an honour guard pointing the way to the lake, and Albus Dumbledore's tomb. Hermione, now in the lead, drops down and leads the Progress in single file between the two rows, heading steadily out to the lake.
When they land on the island in the lake, it's so sheltered from the wind, the sound of the crowd outside the castle so completely deadened that Harry wonders if he's gone deaf. They form into line and follow on behind as the members of the Progress file past the White Tomb, each saying a few words, laying a flower, or simply touching the marble as they pass. When Harry approaches, he doesn't know what to do, or what to say. He simply stops, and looks, while others pass around him.
Once again, it's Draco's voice shaking him out of his reverie. He stops, lays a hand on the smooth surface of the tomb, and bows his head. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "And thank you."
That is all that needs saying, Harry supposes. He steps forward, lays his hand over Draco's, and takes a deep breath. "Yes. Me too."
He keeps hold as they walk away, pulling Draco into step and stroking his thumb over the hand in his. When they emerge out from under the trees, they're greeted by a mixture of raised eyebrows, unsurprised nods, and a few smiles. Harry squeezes Draco's hand hard, once, before they have to let go to fly back across the lake.
It's a long afternoon, full of respectful conversation and congratulation on the Progress being pulled off without incident. Harry keeps quiet about his broken wrist, and looks longingly at the door whenever he thinks nobody's looking.
By the time he can make his escape, the sun is sinking into the lake, both the sky and the water striped pink and orange. He finds Draco sitting at the very edge of the water, his feet dangling over the edge of the bank and just an inch or two short of getting wet. Harry settles down next to him, shuffling close enough that their thighs are pressed together and Draco is forced to wrap his arm around Harry to avoid having to lean away.
"I'm impressed," Harry says. The only reply he gets is a quizzical eyebrow, that's somehow different this close up. "All that flying, I mean. You were fine."
Draco laughs softly, looks out across the water. "I could do it, because you were there," he admits. "It's nowhere near as bad then – you've saved me before."
"I'd do it again," Harry says, thoughtlessly.
Draco blanches, shudders, and turns away. "I'd really rather not, if it's all the same to you."
Harry tightens his arm around Draco, and leans forward until his chin rests on Draco's shoulder. "No, you don't understand. I mean I would do everything in my power to keep you safe. Whatever might or might not happen, I want to be there, for you." He pauses, trying to find the words to explain just how much he wants to keep Draco by his side. "I don't want you to ever get hurt. I don't want to let you go again."
Draco turns in Harry's arms, his lip caught between his teeth and doubt warring with hope in his eyes. "What do you mean?" he says. "You want to be my friend, or..."
Harry swallows, and takes a deep breath. "I don't want to just be your friend," he says. "I want more than that. I want you with me all the time, wherever I am. I want to be with you, wherever you are." He trails off, looking out at the fiery water, hoping he hasn't read things all wrong.
Draco's fingertips press gently into his hair, combing through it and stroking round his ear. Harry turns his head to find Draco's face so close once more. He can't look away from the grey eyes with the creases at the corners. "Am I a wood nymph again?" His voice trembles.
Draco smiles, pulls him closer, and his deep voice resonates through Harry's chest. "No. No, you're not."
Their lips meet so slowly it's almost painful, their hands leisurely wrapping around each other's bodies, holding each other close as the kiss deepens. When it finally breaks, their eyes are shining, and Harry can't help but lean in to snatch another one.
"I'm starting to think it was a good idea," he says. "This whole 'not dying at the hands of Voldemort' thing, I mean."
As the sun disappears completely, and the colours in the sky slowly bleed away, Draco's low chuckle and quiet statement are almost cut off as he pulls Harry close to him once more. "Definitely," he says. "Definitely."