A/N
I am sorry… again. I keep putting off writing, and I know I shouldn't, but I keep running out of things to write. Apologies, my dearest readers! I shall try to be a bit quicker with updating from now on…
He was the congregation's vagrant
With an unrequited love
When your passion's exaltation,
Then finding refuge is not enough
She was the youngest of the family
And the last to be let go
When they decided they would try
And make it on their own
Panic! at the Disco: Memories
Chapter Seven: Nocturnally Silent
The door slammed behind him, and Draco clenched his eyes shut tightly before treading softly down the smoke coated set of steps that led to the street below. Wringing his hands nervously, he headed towards the throngs of people, blending easily with the crowd. His clothes were nondescript; a black pair of jeans, and a grey jumper hidden beneath the billowing folds of his cloak. Looking about him, he drew his cloak tighter about his shoulders, and stepped lightly through the crowd, pushing people gently to the sides as he weaved through the dozens of witches and wizards in his path.
His heart was thumping as he walked; thoughts of Potter filled his mind to the corners, images and broken half-memories attempting to demand his attention as he tried to clear his mind. He was becoming even more frustrated than before at the former Gryffindor's silence, and he cursed the Slytherin streak in the other man silently.
"Do you remember first year? When you offered me your friendship?" Harry spoke unexpectedly from his seat; an ancient book lay open in his lap, balancing on his crossed legs precariously. Draco looked over at him, frowning.
"Of course, why?" He cocked his head to one side, as Harry smiled slightly.
"Do you remember being sorted?" Draco merely looked at Harry, incredulous. Of course he remembered the sorting; it had been the day his world was torn apart. Shaking his head at the memories, he looked back to Harry, who had seemingly been staring at anything but Draco, a faraway look in his eye.
"I was nearly put in Slytherin. Did you know that? Of course you didn't… I've never told anybody. I chose to be put in Gryffindor…" His voice trailed off, and he looked around as if he didn't know what he had been saying.
Draco could remember the shiver that had run the course of his entire body, and pushed the thoughts aside, not wanting to think of the past. Yes, Potter definitely had many Slytherin qualities. His distrustfulness, for one, along with that certain glint in his eye when…
No. Draco shook his head violently, causing a witch nearby to fix him with an openly curious stare, bags that had been clutched in her hands dropping to the floor as he turned to her, recognition written obviously on her face. Sighing, he drew his cloak higher around him, ducking back into the crowd. The people were beginning to thin out here, and he looked to the sides before slipping down a narrow side street.
The weather beaten sign that hung above his head seemed to mock him as he cast his eyes downward, not wanting to draw more attention than necessary. An aged witch staggered past him, her staring eyes landing momentarily on him. Her mouth opened in a festering grin, revealing three rotten, yellowed teeth, and he grimaced, walking past her quickly.
His feet beat a steady path through the winding alley, before coming to rest before a darkened, ancient door. The window was lined with grime, and served no longer as it was made to function; the only things Draco could see through the window were flickering, moving shadows. Breathing in sharply, he placed a hand upon the filthy door handle, and stepped through.
Harry moved listlessly about the flat, moving from one thing to another with pronounced apathy. He picked up books, flicking through the pages, uninterested, and made himself several cups of tea, staring blankly into them as the steam clouded up his glasses.
Draco's flat was in a mess; grime coated the windows, and the rooms were dark, the heavy curtains letting in little light from the outside. Harry shook his head, frowning at the Slytherin's new way of living; the apartment was a far cry from the glimpses of the manor he had once seen. Harry shuddered inadvertently at the memories, his thoughts crying out to be shielded, as always. He clenched his eyes shut, preventing the stream of thoughts that was attempting to break through.
Glimpses of the past broke through his barriers, and he shook his head violently, forcing himself to move again. Grabbing a mug from the low coffee table, he threw himself at the kitchen, pouring yet another cup of tea from the self heating teapot. Why Draco had a teapot when he loathed tea was beyond him, but he shrugged it aside, thankful for the foresight on the blond's part.
He clutched the mug in his hand as he sat slowly back down. He had to tell Draco at some point, he knew it. He thought back to earlier, and wondered at Draco for a moment; he seemed to be going to any length to get Harry to speak. It was odd, they had loathed each other for so long, but in the past two weeks everything had just fallen together. It was an odd routine that they held, suspended in the middle of time, in a way. Neither did much, other than read, and leave the apartment for more alcohol. Something had to give, Harry thought. Nothing could stay like this; there was no point to it.
He thought of the various moments that he and Draco had shared in the time that Harry had returned. Well, returned in the sense that Draco knew he was back; he had informed neither Ron, nor Hermione of his return. He shook his head as unwanted visions of his best friends swam in front of his sight, thinking again to the entanglement of limbs and clothes that crowded his mind. It had been a strange fortnight indeed, he pondered. Very, very strange.
"Harry!" A voice screamed out from the hall, and Harry sighed, resting his forehead against the cool surface of his desk. Papers surrounded him, and quick quotes quills were scurrying around him, drawing out things from the notes that were important. Set to a level of accuracy far superior to the old models, he was confident that they were writing efficiently, unlike the vividly acid green example that punctuated his memories.
"HARRY!" The voice was becoming impatient, rapping angrily on the door to his study. He clenched his eyes, pressing his fingers against his temples, trying to massage away the headache that was approaching. Pushing himself up from his seat, he crossed the room, silent on the smooth floorboards. He unlocked the door carefully, and stepped aside calmly as a whirl of red hair and mud sodden Quidditch robes flew into the room.
"What in Merlin's name have you been doing?" Ginny looked at his, exasperated, and Harry's eyes darted to the stack of parchment taking over his desk guiltily. She saw his glance, and marched to the notes as they attempted to fold themselves rapidly away from her approaching view. He shrank back against the wall, holding his breath as she seized a fast escaping medical article. Her chestnut eyes darted rapidly through the front page of the article, and she turned to him, face furious.
"'It has been said that the disease is not contagious, and could have been caused by a curse, or a natural disruption in the subject's biology. However the condition began, it has to be noted that it is one of the most vicious wizarding illnesses that has been recorded. Once it has begun, the source spreads through the victim's body, causing first discomfort, before progressing into more violent stages, and eventual death.' Harry, why do you keep researching this stuff? It's pointless, and it won't help. Just give it up!" She snarled at him, and he looked down, to the side, above; anywhere but his wife's searing gaze. The medical article hosted a range of pictures, and he found himself staring again as the flames overcame their pencil drawn victim. Shuddering, he turned to the door, and Ginny pulled him back to her, fingers clasping violently at his shirt. He looked down, and avoided her eyes.
"Harry! Please, just stop." She muttered sadly, and he chanced to look at her, surprised to see tears of anger - and sadness? - glittering in her eyes. He shook his head, and reached for the article, eyes pleading. She relented, sighing, and stormed from the room, defeated. He looked after her for a moment, and turned back to the desk, replacing the medical notes on top of a stack of gingerly returning parchment.
He looked once more at the newspaper that he had been perusing before she entered, looking sadly as a family of three looked out at him, a small boy and his blond haired parents. The black and white of the picture didn't show it, but he knew that the child's skin held a slight sheen of a red glow, and he sighed, looking sympathetically at the faces of his parents, clutching their child protectively. A stern looking kneazle glared out from the small boy's hands, and Harry folded the newspaper away, no longer wanting to look at Draco Malfoy's face.
