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Part Two:
Echoes of You Everywhere
Draco woke up aware that for the first time in a long time, he was not alone. The bed behind him sagged a little, and he heard the soft sound of someone breathing. He closed his eyes, inhaled the soft smell of lavender and stale tea on his pillowcase, and allowed himself to pretend, just for a moment, that Severus was here with him.
His nose stung and his eyes began to water, and he decided rather stoically that it was entirely too early in the morning to be crying again.
He slipped out of the bed and wandered to the old wardrobe, pulling out one of Severus' starched white dress shirts and a pair of overlong trousers. He slipped them on, cold fingers fumbling with the buttons, and then spelled the trousers to fit him. He found an old black robe, the dye faded to a brownish grey at the hem. He pulled it on, the soft fabric brushing against his skin, smelling like mothballs and spilled ink and just a hint of lavender. He wrapped it around himself and inhaled deeply. It was one of those high-necked ones with a million repressive little buttons that Severus so favoured. Draco had seen him spell them closed, but he had never learned the charm, so he left them hanging open and padded across the floor to the door.
Before leaving the room, though, he paused and turned to look at the man lying in Severus' bed. Lupin's face was drawn in a frown, and he looked tired, and old. Why had he come, Draco wondered. He'd left. Married. Why did he come back?
He stared at the man, taking the first good look he'd had since... well since sometime in sixth year. His shabby clothes from yesterday had been replaced by a shabby blue and white nightshirt. His sandy hair was streaked with grey and he slept curled into himself, one leg jutting out behind him. The high arch of a long, white foot hung over the edge of the bed, the big toe gnarled, and Draco's breath caught at the familiar sight. Severus had had long, white feet just like that, with elegant high arches… he even had similarly gnarled toenails, discoloured with age. And Lupin's frown… he slept in a frown that seemed to deepen the lines in his face, etch them more permanently into his brow, like he never rested, even at rest. Just like Severus.
Truthfully, married or not, Lupin looked much less out of place here than Draco did. He seemed to have been expected. Like the house, the room, the bed, had been waiting for him to come. Which made Draco feel all the more like he ought to leave.
But there was no place for him to go.
He sighed and left the room as quietly as possible, stepping lightly on the stairs, jumping the third step from the bottom which always creaks and gives you away if you try to hide behind the hidden door and listen.
There would be little to eavesdrop on, now.
He slipped through the hidden door and into the sitting room, lighting a fire with a flick of his wand. The morning light shone pale through the dusty window-panes, lighting diagonal columns across the books that lined the walls. Draco swallowed and tried not to think about the afternoons he'd spent here as a child, building forts out of the old tomes and being chastised for it.
He ran his finger over the spines on the shelf nearest the front door until he found a soft packet of cigarettes, and smiled. That made the third half-empty pack he'd found since he got there. He pulled one long, slender column out and stuck it to his bottom lip, then slipped the pack into the pocket of his robes and strolled out through the kitchen door and onto the little patio.
The sun was up but out of sight behind layers of oppressively low-hanging clouds. He cupped the end of the cigarette as he lit a little flame on the end of his wand and held it up. He sucked in, filling his mouth with hot smokey air, and then inhaled it into his lungs, relishing the burn in the back of throat and the pleasant ache in his chest. He pocketed his wand and took another long drag, then pulled the cigarette out and held it between two slender white fingers, flicking the filter with his thumb, and staring out into the garden.
He stood there, smoking and staring, until the breeze under the clouds became too chilly, and he flicked the cigarette into the air with his thumb and middle finger, then incinerated it with a flick of his wand before it hit the ground.
He padded back into the kitchen and started breakfast mechanically. Water in the pot to boil. An empty cup and a teabag set aside, waiting. A pat of butter and two cracked eggs in the pan. A piece of toast on a plate, waiting.
He flipped the sizzling eggs and one of the yolks broke, of course, because he always flipped them too soon. Patience, boy! Severus would have said. He could almost hear him, now. He sighed and decided he should probably get out of this house, if only to get away from the constant stream of memories that threatened to drown him.
But there was nowhere else for him to go, now. His father was in custody, his mother in St. Mungo's for her 'nerves,' thanks to Potter's preliminary testimony. And Draco was out on orders to stay in the country, awaiting his hearing. The Manor was being held by the Ministry indefinitely, and the likelihood that Draco would ever see a knut of his Malfoy inheritance was slim.
He didn't want the blood-money anyway. And if never set foot in that house again, it would be too soon.
Everything was over, finally over… Draco had imagined it so many times. Potter would win, or lose, or whatever, but in the end, it would all be over, and he and Severus would finally be together.
Only Severus wasn't here…
Everything was over and Severus wasn't here.
Draco balled his hands into fists and stared at the frying pan, his jaw clenched, willing the rage to pass. It was unfair. Completely unfair. How could Severus have left him? How could he have left Draco alone here? How dare he die?
He gulped down deep breaths and leaned against the counter to steady himself. It was much too early in the morning for this.
Instead he put out the fire under the pan and shovelled the eggs onto the plate next to the toast, poured the hot water over the teabag in the empty cup. He added milk and sugar, then settled himself at the kitchen table to eat.
It was mostly a reflexive thing… eating. Everything tasted like rubber, really, and it wasn't the cigarettes. He just… didn't care.
He wasn't really hungry, but he was never really full, either. So he just ate out of habit, really. For something to do with his hands, to distract himself from the waves of anger and despair that washed over him again and again.
Remus woke up cold. The boy must have gotten up already, because he couldn't hear his breathing anymore. He couldn't smell him anymore, either. Only the gentle smell of tea and lavender and parchment, and something salty, like tears, on both of the pillows.
He inhaled again, sitting up, and smelled something else. Eggs? And toast? His stomach rumbled and he stood, stretching through the ache in his muscles and bones. He was always too cold.
On a hopeless impulse, he moved to the battered old dresser against the wall and pulled open the middle drawer…
And choked.
His clothes. A patched up pair of trousers, two old shirts, some shorts, and a rolled up pair of woolen socks… they were still here, in a neatly folded stack next to the rest of Severus socks and nightclothes.
Severus… Severus had kept his drawer for him… even after…
Something tightened painfully in his chest and he closed his eyes and took a deep breath to stay the tears that pricked the edges of his eyes already. How… how can this be…?
He slipped out of his nightshirt, folding it and placing it dutifully into his drawer, then slipped into the clothes he'd left here more than a year ago. He forced himself to focus on the monotony of the task and forget the circumstances, forget the bitter reality. He tried not to think about what Severus' must have thought, why he had kept them here.
Had he sometimes opened the drawer, and run his hands over the soft worn cotton of his shirt? Had he wondered whether, maybe, Remus would come back to him… that they would be together again, when the war was over… when Remus realised how wrong he had been not to trust Severus… and would he ever have forgiven him?
It was too much. He swallowed thickly, closed the drawer, and turned to go down the stairs.
He stood in the kitchen doorway and blinked. They boy was wearing Severus' clothes. The severe collar and billowing tails were unmistakeable, but he must have spelled them to fit his slighter frame.
They suited him, though, Remus decided. In fact, Draco might be the only other person he could think of that could pull off those robes. It took presence, and poise, something Remus had never managed to convey. Draco, though... he did them justice.
They boy looked up and gave a curt little nod as he stepped through the kitchen door.
Remus poured some hot water from the pot on the stove into a cup, dropped in an teabag, and fixed himself some toast with jam. He sat down at the table opposite Draco, who was reading the Prophet, sipping from a cup of tea that sat glowing under a warming charm. Remus bit into the toast and tried to be glad he was eating. His appetite came and went, but he was still reeling from his transformation and really ought to be eating more.
They sat in silence, Remus eating and Draco reading, for several minutes.
"I'm sorry about your wife," Draco said suddenly from behind his newspaper. A pang of guilt caught Remus by surprise. His wife. Probably he should be mourning her loss more than he was right now. She'd flitted into his life so briefly, filled his world with colour and energy, and then like a bright flame, burned out.
"She was your cousin," Remus said.
Draco nodded from behind the paper, adding, "I saw her that night, before. She was running somewhere."
"Were you in the Great Hall? Did you see…?"
"Yes," he answered quietly.
"Did you know…?" Remus asked slowly, carefully.
Draco folded the paper out of the way and looked right at him, silver eyes piercing his. "That Severus was loyal to Potter all along?"
Remus nodded, and held his breath.
"I suspected for a long time," Draco answered, folding his hands over the discarded paper. "I could never ask, though."
Remus understood why, of course… he understood all too well the life of a spy, never knowing whom you can trust, even the people you love.
Presently, Draco went on. "I didn't know for sure until Potter and the others showed up at the Manor. They had the Sword. I knew Severus must have given it to them."
"Harry said you saved his life that day," Remus said quietly.
Draco shrugged. "Maybe. I don't know. I didn't know what would happen, and by then I almost didn't care anymore. But… I trusted Severus."
For too many reasons, that sentiment stung Remus deeply. He was unsurprised to hear his own voice faltering when he whispered, "I should have trusted him more."
"Yes," Draco agreed, and drank from his tea. Remus almost laughed at his bluntness. It was refreshingly familiar in this strange new world without Severus. Severus, the unapologetic deliverer of harsh truths.
Draco stood up from the table and walked to the glass door that overlooked the garden, and stepped outside. Remus watched him pull out a wrinkled packet of cigarettes from his pocket, holding it up and tipping it to catch one between pink lips, and then bending and cupping it against the wind to light it with the tip of his wand.
He watched the deep inhale, the pause, and the slow billowing exhale, the casual flick of a thin, manicured thumb against the filter. He sat there watching, remembering, trying to forget.
Severus always smoked after sex. And torture.
Which led Remus to wonder why, exactly, the boy was here. He had no home, sure. But was that the only reason he had come back? Had he and Severus… had they…? Remus had assumed so, but he couldn't be sure. Surpisingly, the thought did not evoke anything like jealousy, or bitterness. Instead he felt a warm but aching sympathy.
And guilt, always guilt. Because Draco had trusted Severus, in his own way, when no one else did. Not even Remus, and he should have, of all of them. Remus should have… but he had failed. He watched the boy, his thin frame standing stoically straight in the drizzling rain.
Draco took another long drag from his cigarette. The low-hanging clouds were dusting him with rain, now. A fine, thin layer of tiny beads now coated his robes and pearled along his eyelashes. He tucked the cigarette under the palm of his hand to shield it from the water.
"Those things are going to kill you," he heard Lupin say from behind and the glass door opened and closed again.
Draco shrugged.
Lupin stepped up next to him and looked at him sideways. Draco kept his eyes steadfastly focused on the rosebushes against the back wall and tried to ignore the feeling of being sized up. It made him shiver, although that could just as easily be the rain. He pulled the robe closer around himself, and considered trying to do up all the little buttons by hand, but decided against it. Too much effort.
"Here," Lupin said suddenly, stepping in front of him and pointing the tip of his wand at Draco's throat. Draco raised an eyebrow and stuck out his chin at the possibility of a threat, because frankly he didn't care what Lupin, or anyone, did to him now.
But Lupin merely whispered, "clausio."
Draco felt his robes smoothing themselves out and then the topmost button of the collar seemed to close around his throat. The buttons started slipping into their holes one by one under Lupin's wand as he guided it slowly down Draco's throat.
For some reason, Draco felt his cheeks growing warm as he watched the wand tip slide slowly down over his chest, the buttons slowly closing themselves. Something warm and thrilling ran through him when he saw that Lupin's face looked a little flushed, too.
Lupin looked up and their eyes met just as the tip of his wand brushed over catch of Draco's trousers. Draco's breath hitched, and Lupin's eyes widened fractionally before he quickly looked away, withdrawing his wand and stepping back to stand beside him.
Draco thought he should probably say thank you, or something, but he found his mouth was suddenly rather dry. Instead he took the last drag off of his cigarette, flicked it into the air with his thumb and middle finger, and watched it bursting into flame, the ash floating delicately down to the ground below.
He turned around, and went back into the empty house.
Responses to your comments:
Blue-Eyed China: Thank you! I promise it won't stay sad forever.
piglett: Thank you! I'm quite fond of the pairing, too, it makes complete sense to me, though it's not that common.
ariablue: Thank you!
SoulSearcher95: how's that for soon? :)
