Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or the style, I've written in.
For Hannah. Happy birthday! :)
Note: written entirely in lines of six words.
Inspired by: Amy is Rockin's fantastic Glee fic, we were almost a tragedy and greenconverses and her amazing PJO fic, Stockholm.
He settles in a little town,
in the middle of Italy. No
magic, war, where no one knows
who he is. Anonymous at it's
best. New name, new life, new
everything. Except memories. He'll never
escape those, no matter how hard
he tries, they'll always be there.
/
He's heard that America is beautiful
this time of year. He hopes
it is. He could use some
kind of beauty, right about now.
/
He finds himself in the city that
never sleeps and he thinks he'll
fit right in here because he
doesn't sleep a lot, not anymore.
Not in a very long time.
/
He stays in New York for
a week, the longest he's allowed
himself to stay in a place.
He might have stayed longer if
a girl didn't recognize him. He
hasn't Draco Malfoy in such a
while, he almost forgot that's his name.
/
He's in a nameless city, in
a nameless country, where everyone has
secrets and a story to tell. He is Dan
Mitchell this week, and he spends his
days drinking away memories and nights
composing a letter that he'll never
send. He doesn't stay long here.
Burns the letter before he leaves.
/
He's in Mexico, he thinks. All
the cities and countries start blurring together
over time so he's not really
sure if it really is Mexico.
It doesn't matter. Nothing really matters.
/
He's always known that one day
someone from his old life would
find him again. In all his
fantasies, he never expected it would
be Harry Potter of all people.
/
"How did you find me?" he
asks, tired, tired of everything. He
is cautious, on guard, not sure
what to expect from him yet.
They study each other with open
curiosity, and he thinks that the
other man hasn't changed very much.
Still haunted, still intoxicating, still not
his. A shrug is the answer.
The silence between them is thick.
/
After a minute Harry says, "Your
mother sent me." Green eyes stare.
It's unnerving how they seem to
be looking into a scarred soul.
"Did she now?" he asks, bored
of this game they're playing. "Why?"
Another shrug. "She's worried about you.
Thought maybe I could find you."
/
"I didn't want to be found,"
he snarls, angry, angry at
who or what, he's not sure.
/
Harry sighs, looks weary, fishes a
crumpled letter from his coat, holds
it out. "Here." He recognizes the
handwriting. Turns to the door. "Want
you gone by the time I
get back." He leaves, shuts the door
behind him. What he would give
for a drink right about now.
/
He walks the beach for a
while. Let's himself remember everything he
has been trying to escape for
the last two years. By the
time dusk has fallen, he is
more then ready for a drink.
Damn you, Harry Potter. Damn you.
/
When he goes back, there is
no trace of any visitor ever
being there. He is not sure
if he's disappointed, angry, or indifferent.
He decides on indifferent. It's easier.
/
He goes to Canada next. The
whether is cold, and bitter. It
fits his mood almost too perfectly.
/
He stays there for a month,
living in a secluded town, where
nobody asks your business and the
only excitement is the occasional bar
fight. It is kind of nice,
in a tragic sort of way.
/
He travels to Paris next and
there is something about Paris in
the Spring that he loves. As
he looks at the window of
his hotel room, he thinks that
it kind of reminds him of
home. He doesn't like Paris anymore.
/
Before he can leave this doomed
city, he wakes one morning to
find Harry Potter in his room.
He's not really surprised.
/
"What do you want?" he asks,
even if he knows the answer
already. Harry smiles, and there is
something unrecognizable in his eyes. Maybe
it's pity, maybe judgment, maybe both.
"Are you ready to go home?"
No, he's not. Not yet anyway.
"I'm not going back," he says,
and he's not sure if he's
trying to convince himself or Harry.
Harry sighs, looks tired, like he's
expected this answer. "Fine."
"What?" He wasn't expecting this answer.
"I'm staying with you," Harry says.
He settles into the chair, smiling slightly.
"Where to next?"
/
He has no idea why Harry
is staying, why he will not
leave. Any other time, he probably
would have ditched him in some
place. He hasn't realized just how much
he craved someone's company until now.
/
They travel to Alaska, Brazil, Australia.
They don't talk, don't do anything
besides run from country to country.
It's nice, this companionship, they have.
/
Until it isn't. Until he can't
take it anymore, can't take anything.
"Why are you here?" he demands.
Harry raises an eyebrow, smiles in
that infuriating way of his. "I'm taking
you home, when you're ready." He
eyes the half drunk alcohol bottles
that line the floor of the room.
There's no pity to be found.
/
"Why?" That's the only thing it
seems he's capable of asking, anymore.
/
Harry says,"I know about running
away, Draco. You can't do it
forever." He knows it's true, no
matter how much he wishes not.
"Take me home," he says. The words
don't taste as bitter as he
had thought they would. He smiles.
/
There's no forever in running but
maybe there could have been a
forever for them, in another life.