As morning rolls across the sky, Draco suggests to driving to Brighton but Harry pleads exhaustion and they check in at a local bed-and-breakfast. The receptionist — an elderly woman who types with only one finger, one painful letter at a time — can't seem to stop staring at them. Harry is suddenly aware of his rumpled robes.
"Are you together?" the receptionist asks.
"No," Harry says.
"Yes," Draco says.
The receptionist pauses.
"Yes," Draco repeats firmly, and the woman nods, turning back to the computer. "She meant if we're paying together, Potter," Draco mutters to Harry.
"Well, we're not," Harry says, slightly embarrassed but trying to cover his error. "I've got some Muggle money on me — "
"Don't be stupid, I've got my card. I'm paying."
Harry subsides into — if he's honest with himself — a sulk. Draco pays for two rooms and makes the fatal mistake of inquiring about the east-coastal walking track; the woman immediately launches into an enthusiastic (if one-sided) conversation about the local flora and fauna. Draco manages to politely extract himself fifteen minutes later and they make their escape to their rooms.
Draco is directly across the hallway, Harry notes as he unlocks his own door to reveal a spacious and neatly-presented room. There's an excellent ocean view but he's too tired to appreciate it. "I'm having a nap," he tells Draco, half-expecting him to say he's going for a walk. But Draco just nods and unlocks his own room, disappearing inside.
Harry shuts his door, crosses to the bed, and collapses upon it.
Within minutes, he's asleep.
They explore the cliffs the next day. The lighthouse, Harry learns, is called the South Foreland Lighthouse. The lighthouse went out of service in 1988 and has been converted to a small museum, manned by an elderly guide. Draco lingers over a wall-mounted diagram of the electric light and is accosted by the guide, who latches with enthusiasm onto Draco's apparent interest and proceeds to deliver a fifteen-minute lecture on carbon arc lamps. Harry, though greatly amused, takes pity on Draco and rescues him.
"We should get going," he says, walking over to Draco and tilting his head towards the door.
"Yes, quite," Draco says casually, though there's a hint of gratitude in his voice, and he politely nods at the guide before retreating hastily. Once they're safely out of earshot, Harry starts laughing and Draco frowns.
"They always do that," he says, looking peeved. "Always. I'll be standing there, minding my own business, and they'll come up to me and start chatting away. It's maddening."
"How awful," Harry teases. "People being nice to you. How do you put up with it?"
"Very funny, Potter." Draco turns onto the coastal walking track. "My father was quite masterful at appearing cold and aloof, discouraging anybody approaching. I rather hoped to have a similar effect on people."
Harry pauses to study him. "You don't, you know. Quite surprising, really, but you don't." It's true, he thinks. Strange...in school, Draco always gave off that cold air. But now...sometimes he seems distant, but in a different way. Whether he's gazing silently at lighthouse diagrams or standing patiently in an inn's reception, he seems the sort of person who might not be a good conversationist, but certainly a good listener.
He tells Draco that.
"You're a good listener. People like that."
Draco doesn't seem to know how to respond to that, but Harry catches the faint flush in his face.
They drive to Brighton. They stop in Hopper's Crossing, a small wizarding community, at Harry's request. Keen to avoid slack-jawed gazes and awestruck expressions, Harry uses a quick charm to change his hair colour and lengthen it slightly, covering his scar. It's not a particularly genuine effort, but it will work well enough. People won't be expecting to see him here anyway, and Harry's learned that people often see only what they expect to see.
He converts some galleons to Muggle money at the local exchange, then visits the stationary shop for some parchment and an Ever-Inking Quill. Draco — who has long since vanished into a nearby clothing store — reappears with a frown and armfuls of bags.
"What are you doing?"
"Writing to my friends. I don't want them to worry."
Draco's frown deepens. Harry, guessing at his concerns, adds, "I won't mention you at all." He shoves the letter toward Draco; he's kept it short and succinct, telling Hermione and Ron that he felt like a short break, he's gone away for a short trip, he's completely fine, and he looks forward to seeing them again soon.
Draco reads the letter once, twice, three times, before he speaks quietly.
"You can say I'm with you."
Now it's Harry's turn to hesitate.
"It's all right," Draco says. "It's fine."
Harry lifts the quill and writes a postscript.
P.S: Draco's with me, we're both perfectly all right.
Five minutes later, Harry watches a hawk-owl fly out from the owlery, its wings spread against the blue sky, the faint outline of a letter upon its leg as it disappears into the distance.
Later on, when they're back on the road and on their way to Brighton again, Draco says he should return to the manor.
"My mother will be worrying," he says.
Harry switches the indicator on and overtakes a car in front. "Hermione and Ron will tell her they got the letter. She'll know you're all right."
Draco glances out the window, watching the scenery flash past.
"I should return," he says. "I have obligations. My mother has organised several social functions for me to attend, and Astoria wants to meet with the solicitor — "
"Forget your obligations."
That gets Draco's attention. He turns to stare at Harry.
"What?"
"Forget your obligations," Harry repeats. "You're not going back because you need to attend whatever social affairs Narcissa has organised or because Astoria's made appointments. I remember what you said to me once: 'What's the point, sitting in a box going only where other people take you?'. It's the reason you left, and it will be the reason you leave again."
Draco's still staring at Harry.
"I never said that to you," he says at last.
Harry frowns. "What?"
"I never said 'what's the point, sitting in a box' to you. I said it to Astoria. You just saw it in a memory."
Harry laughs incredulously. "That's what you took away from this conversation? God, Malfoy, you can be so..." He shakes his head.
Draco doesn't deign to reply to that, but when Harry glances at him five minutes later, he can see Draco smiling.
"What?" Harry asks.
"What?"
"What are you smiling at?"
"Nothing."
They lapse into silence again, but twenty minutes later, as they're halfway across a bridge over the River Ouse, Draco speaks again, not lifting his gaze from the window.
"You're far too knowledgeable about me, Potter."
Harry hides a smile.
They arrive in Brighton. Harry, sick of transfiguring items into toothbrushes and combs, goes to the nearest chemist. Draco, despite his familiarity with cars and petrol stations, seems fascinated with the many items available and Harry has to drag him away from the bottles of cough syrup.
"They're just like Pepper-Up Potions," Harry says.
"They most certainly are not. We use lacewings and beetle eyes — they use..." Draco tilts his head, staring at the label, "...Dextromethorphan."
"Yes, well, no doubt Muggles would be equally horrified to learn that we ingest insect parts."
"Everybody ingests insects. The average chocolate bar has eight insect legs in it."
"What? That's complete rubbish."
"The process of harvesting cocoa beans means that insects are inevitably present. Trying to produce completely insect-free chocolate is far too expensive."
Harry looks down at the Double Decker in his hand and considers putting it back. Then again — if Draco's telling the truth — there's bits of insect in every chocolate.
"Want one?" he asks instead, holding up the Double Decker with a hint of a challenge in his voice.
"Why not?" Draco says, returning the challenge with a raised eyebrow.
They pay for their items — or at least, Draco pays with his card. Harry feels a little uncomfortable about Draco paying for everything so far, but Draco doesn't seem to care and he hasn't made Harry feel like he owes him anything.
"Where did you learn that about chocolate, anyway?" Harry asks later on, when they're wandering past the Royal Pavilion.
"Travelled to Birmingham and went to Cadbury World."
Harry laughs. "You went to Cadbury World? Here I was, thinking you did very serious and soul-searching road trips all over Britain."
"You try finding something to do in Birmingham," Draco retorts.
It's a mild summer's day. The domes and onion-shaped minarets of the Royal Pavilion open into the sky, shining white in the light of the noon sun, and gardens stretch away from the buildings in lush sprawls of verdant green.
Harry wouldn't mind staying a while.
They go to a café for lunch. Harry considers the day's specials; Draco quickly puts a stop to that.
"You do know that the 'special' is usually food that's about to expire? They're desperate to get rid of it."
"You do know," Harry retorts, "that you're systematically destroying everything I used to enjoy about food? Insects in chocolate, now this..."
"And yet you won't change your choices." It's not intended as an insult, Harry thinks, judging by the tone of Draco's voice and the way he shrugs afterwards. Merely a casual observation.
He thinks about it all through the meal, though. People make bad choices; people become informed; people continue to make bad choices despite being informed.
He wonders at what point Draco's loyalty to Voldemort became an informed choice.
Harry insists on visiting the beach before they leave.
"When I was a child," he says, "everyone I knew went to Brighton for the beaches." And now he finally has his chance.
Draco doesn't seem too enthusiastic, but he doesn't outright argue as Harry finds his way to the pier. The beachfront area is filled with confused tourists, irritated locals, and cafés with loud music. The beach itself is crowded with families. School holidays, Harry remembers. There's far too many children shrieking and kicking sand about.
"It's crowded," he observes at last, looking out over the sea of sunburned noses and pasty legs.
"It's Brighton."
Harry had been expecting a triumphant I-told-you-so. Something smug, something irritating. But that smug Draco was long ago washed away by war and weariness.
Do you remember when we were eleven? Let's go back to that.
But Harry's happy to leave the past where it is.
Later that evening, they drive on to Southampton. It's a two-hour drive; Harry, who is the navigator for the journey, takes the direct route. He wonders if Draco would prefer the scenic and meandering side-roads, as he usually does, but Draco doesn't say anything about Harry's choice of road. They speed along the M27, Draco as confident as ever. In the hazy light of the summer dusk, a fox darts across the road and Draco swerves neatly around it.
They arrive in Southampton at eight thirty, the sun setting over the city, but Draco doesn't seem inclined to remain there. Harry mentions that observation and Draco shrugs.
"I've been here before."
They stop at a level crossing, the gates swinging closed, the red warning bell blinking like a beacon in the night. As they wait for the train to come though, Draco's eyes flick to the rear-vision mirror.
"This is real," he says.
Harry pauses. Draco's voice lilted at the end, morphing the statement into an uncertain half-question.
"You don't think it is?" he asks carefully.
"I don't know." Draco glances away from the mirror, his gaze locking onto Harry instead. "I have...difficulties sometimes, telling the difference between dreams and memories and reality."
Did you tell the Healers? Harry wants to ask, but he bites back the urge. No, of course Draco didn't tell the Healers. They wouldn't have let him leave. No, of course he didn't tell his mother. She's clinging to the mask of normalcy.
No, he's only told Harry. And Harry knows that's important.
"Look," he says, reaching for Draco's hand. Draco looks startled, but doesn't pull away when Harry wraps his hand around Draco's. "When you were trapped in time, we couldn't make contact, could we? So this must be real."
Draco looks at Harry, then glances down at their linked hands.
"You've got a scar," Draco observes and Harry, surprised, follows Draco's gaze. The streetlight faintly shines silver on Harry's skin, picking out the thread of letters. I must not tell lies.
"So have you," Harry says, disentangling his hand slightly to brush a fingertip over the faded curve of a serpent's tail.
The train rushes through, roaring along, the carriages clicking over the rails with precise repetition. Draco stares ahead and Harry's wondering if he's counting carriages.
The last carriage rushes through and soon the dark line of the train has disappeared around a curve of the rails. The warning bell abruptly stops its constant noise; the red light flickers and dies. Draco pulls his hand away, takes the handbrake off as the crossing gate rises, and drives over the tracks.
The headlights dip for a moment before illuminating the endless stretch of asphalt again.
They stop for the night in Bournemouth. After they've found a suitable bed-and-breakfast and booked their respective rooms, Draco asks Harry if he's going to tell the Healers.
"Tell them what?" Harry asks, walking slowly along the hallway as he searches for his room number.
Even Draco's newfound patience has its limits, apparently. He gives Harry an irritated look and Harry suddenly remembers. Reality and memories, melting together and falling apart like sand thrown into the sky.
"No," he says. "I mean, it's not any of my business, is it?"
"My mother would worry endlessly if she found out."
"Well, don't tell her then," Harry says, arriving at his door.
Draco looks at him, opens his mouth, then evidently changes his mind and closes his mouth again.
"See you tomorrow," he says instead.
"Tomorrow," Harry echoes, opening the door and stepping inside. He closes the door behind himself and looks across the dark, empty room.
He dreams that night, of rain beating a dark tattoo across the skin of the land.
Harry had meant what he'd said to Draco.
Don't go back for them. Go back for yourself.
He wonders who he'd go back for.
He went back for everyone else, during the war. At least, that's what he likes to think. He did it for them, the faceless thousands, the Muggleborns crushed beneath the cruel hand of Voldemort's regime. The witches and wizards whom so desperately hoped for a better future. His fellow Hogwarts students, filling the halls of Hogwarts with their screams as the Carrows tortured them.
He did it for his friends. Hermione and Ron, always there no matter what. Luna, kidnapped and left to languish in the dark cellars beneath Malfoy Manor. Neville, shouting he'd never, never give up. Ginny, bright and beautiful, always battling on.
He did it for them. Of course.
...But some part of him always hoped he would join his parents. Strange; at the beginning of it all, he feared death. He dreaded his own mortality.
But towards the end, he kept thinking it would be nice. Pleasant, even, to simply let go. He'd be with his parents again, and Sirius, and — as the battle raged on — Remus. All of them smiling, welcoming him. Dying? Sirius had said. Quicker and easier than falling asleep.
Of course it is.
Coming home is easy.
But Harry has never come home.
Always, always, going away.
They drive on the next day, but not far — they stop somewhere between Poole and Exmouth, spending three days in the small parish of Salmouth-on-Sea. Harry doesn't mind. Sometimes they walk together along the beaches — so empty and windswept after Brighton's busy bustle — and other times Draco disappears by himself, to look at the shops or follow the coastal walks or visit the old lighthouse.
On the third day, Draco traces a finger along the maps of the south-west coast and says they're going to Cornwall.
"All right," Harry says.
The moon glows full in the star-studded sky as they drive away.
They leave the coastline, joining the inland A31. Harry listens to the sound of the waves dying away. He'll miss it. The constant crash of the waves crescendoing ashore has, over the past few days, begun to felt like an echo of the blood rushing through his veins, keeping time by the beat of his heart.
"You're taking the direct route," Harry says somewhere around midnight as Draco drives through Launceston. "I thought you liked the scenic routes."
"Sometimes," Draco allows.
Silence eclipses them again. Harry's gazing out the window, watching the city lights blur past and fade into the distance, when Draco speaks again.
"Why'd you do it?"
Harry, nearly lulled to sleep by the fading streetlights, takes a moment to register the question.
"Do what?" he asks drowsily.
"Come with me."
"To Cornwall?" Harry's still trying to wake up properly.
"To anywhere, to everywhere," Draco says. "Why'd you fix my Renault? Learn to drive? Come with me on this trip? To Dover, to Brighton, to anywhere?"
To the heart of nowhere.
"For you, I suppose." Harry's on the cusp of surrendering to sleep.
"What?"
"For you," Harry repeats.
There's silence for a few minutes — or maybe more, Harry's not sure, for the call of sleep whispers to him and, soon enough, he succumbs to it.
He wakes up as they're driving along some side road in the middle of nowhere. He blinks and slowly draws himself back to wakefulness, watching the fields rush past.
Then —
"Wait," he says. "Stop."
Draco flicks his indicator on, although there's no other cars on the road. He's never reckless.
Do not mistake my confidence for recklessness.
He pulls over to the side of the road. "What is it, Potter?"
"Give me a minute," Harry says slowly. He opens the car door; Draco kills the engine.
The field stretches out before him, dark as a pot of spilled ink. But he knows this place.
Harry steps onto the shoulder of the road, feeling the loose gravel give way to soft earth. The stalks of wheat bend gently as he runs his hand over them. Summer has bleached the colour from the field; it's a pale gold, almost the colour of bones...
"The bones," Harry says.
"What?" Draco asks sharply. "There's bones?"
"No." Harry shakes his head, then he laughs. The sound is far louder than he expected. Rather than being absorbed into the land, it echoes far across the field, flows up into the clear night sky. "Not anymore. Last summer, I found some bones here." He exhales in a quick huff of air. "Now here I am again."
He looks over at Draco and catches a quick flash of uncertainty crossing his face.
"All right?" Harry asks.
Draco hesitates.
It's all it takes for Harry to walk over to him and take his hand.
"It's real," he says, his hand tightening reflexively around Draco's. "Not a memory."
Draco looks down at their joined hands. "Sometimes I forget," he says quietly.
"I know."
"I can't quite tell."
"It's all right."
Harry's watch ticks quietly, marking the seconds. It's midnight and they stand together, holding hands, beneath a sky so clear that Harry can see the luminous stars of Orion, the interstellar plumes of the Milky Way. He can see Sirius burning bright, he can even see the faint star of Eltanin, the head of the Draco constellation.
Harry lowers his gaze to look across the field. Maybe it's the same place, maybe it's not.
It doesn't matter.
In inceptum finis est.
They stop in Truro to refuel. Harry suggests an overnight stay. If his guess is correct, they're heading to Landewednack. By the time they arrive in that tiny parish, everything will be closed and they'll have to sleep in the car or remain awake all night.
The first few places they try have no vacancies. It's the start of the summer holiday season and Cornwall has proven a preference for many travellers. At last, they find an inn with a room available. Just one, but at least it's a twin share. Harry thinks Draco might make a fuss regardless, but Draco just shrugs and pays the security deposit. When they manage to locate the room — the numbering system has been forsaken in lieu of twee room names — Draco lays claim to the bed nearest the window and immediately opens the window. Harry wonders if it's a habit. At Hogwarts, Seamus zealously left windows open regardless of season or weather, and it often led to quarrels amongst those less keen on the biting cold of Scotland's climate. In the end, Ron had — in a fit of frustration — used a ferocious application of Spellotape to permanently close the window.
There's a brief and childish tussle over the bathroom. Draco wins after clocking Harry over the head with his toothbrush.
"Fine! Have the first shower, then," Harry says sullenly. "Hope you slip on the tiles."
Draco just gives him a smug look and closes the door. A few seconds later, the hum of the shower begins.
Harry goes over to the window and shuts it just to annoy Draco.
Of course, once Harry's returned from his own shower, the window is open again. Draco is already asleep, apparently, despite the noise of drunken singing drifting from the neighbouring room and the lamp on Harry's bedside table casting a glow over the room. For some reason, Harry had always imagined Draco to be a light sleeper.
He sits on the edge of his bed and removes his glasses, listening to the familiar click of the frames as he closes the endpieces. This is a routine he's kept throughout his life, no matter what happened — whether it was falling asleep beneath the stairs at Privet Drive, or his first night at Hogwarts, or finally going to bed after the Battle of Hogwarts after they'd identified all the dead — at the end of the day, he's always removed his glasses and set them safely aside.
And later, of course, he'd place his wand beside the glasses. During the war, when he was hunting Horcruxes, he began sleeping with his wand beneath his pillow. Hermione wasn't fond of it — she said too many wizards did some serious accidental spell damage that way — but Harry wasn't willing to risk a night-time attack and a missing wand.
Now, he puts the wand beside his glasses, listening to the quiet tap it makes. There's something very reassuring about the fact he still has this wand. The same wand containing a phoenix feather donated by Fawkes, the same wand that was stolen by Crouch Jr. and conjured the Dark Mark. The same wand that destroyed Lucius Malfoy's wand, that cast Harry's first Patronus, that saved Sirius from the Dementors, that forced Voldemort's wand to give up the ghosts of the killing curses it had cast.
As he's falling asleep, he thinks he can hear the ocean.
When he wakes, Draco is gone. Harry isn't too bothered. Draco's toothbrush is still by the bathroom sink, his wand on his bedside table. Harry thinks it odd for Draco to leave his wand behind. He wonders whether Draco forgot it and, after a moment's hesitation, picks it up.
He's expecting to notice a change. The wand has switched allegiances again, of course, and there will be some resistance. But the wand seems to greet him like an old friend.
"Lumos," Harry whispers, just to see if it will resist.
But the wand immediately casts a white-blue glow across the room.
There's a faint click of a handle and, across the room, the door swings open. Harry fumbles quickly.
"Nox," he blurts out, dropping the wand.
Draco stares at Harry, then looks at his wand, then back to Harry again.
"That was subtle," Draco says after a long moment.
"I — I thought you'd forgotten your wand," Harry says, reddening.
"I went to breakfast," Draco says curtly, crossing the room and picking up his wand.
"What, and didn't take your wand with you?"
"This is purely Muggle accommodation. My wand isn't required to eat toast and read the newspaper."
"You should always take your wand with you, just in case," Harry says quickly. "What if you were attacked?"
"Calm down, Mad-Eye," Draco snaps. "And keep your hands off my wand."
Harry reddens even further. "I was just...I thought it'd be...unfriendly, that's all, so I thought I might try and cast a spell...I mean, it should have changed allegiances...you haven't had any resistance from it, have you?"
"Of course not." Draco disappears into the bathroom, apparently considering the conversation complete. A moment later, he starts brushing his teeth.
Harry miserably trails downstairs to eat breakfast.
They drive to Landewednack. Harry remains silent most of the trip until Draco loses his patience somewhere past Helston.
"What?" he snaps. Harry, gazing mindlessly down at the road atlas, frowns.
"Nothing."
"You've been sulking since we left Truro," Draco says tersely. Harry turns to stare at him.
"Me?" he says incredulously. "You're the one giving the silent treatment!"
"What are you talking about?"
"You're mad at me," Harry says with irritation. "Just because I cast one spell — and all right, I shouldn't have done it, I should've just — "
"You're seriously still sulking over that?" Draco demands. "Unbelievable, Potter. Yes, I was slightly annoyed at the time, but I was well over it by the time we checked out. Unlike you, I don't hold grudges."
"Don't hold grudges? Are you insane? When you were a teenager — "
"Every teenager holds grudges! Give me an example of one teenager who wasn't self-absorbed!"
Harry opens his mouth, then remembers Hermione and Ron excitedly kissing while a war waged around them. "Neville," Harry mutters instead, glaring at Draco. "Neville wasn't self-absorbed."
"Longbottom also enjoyed watering plants and wore argyle jumpers. Let's face it, he was never a teenager."
"Don't insult my friends!"
"How was that an insult? All I said was — "
"Yeah, I heard you! And at least I have friends — "
Draco veers sharply off the road and Harry panics for a moment.
"Are you trying to kill us?"
"No." Draco kills the engine, yanks the keycard from his pocket and tosses it at Harry. It takes Harry a moment to register what's happening as Draco opens the door, steps out, and slams it shut.
"Wait — where are you going?" Harry snaps, fumbling with his seatbelt.
Draco turns and looks at him. "Away from you," he says.
With that, he Disapparates.