Harry POV

"Kreacher! Stop that infernal racket at once!"

Harry started up from the couch in surprise. Draco must be in the library. He groaned and rubbed his eyes. His head was pounding more than it usually did after a floo call. Neither McGonagall nor Snape had been inclined to listen to Harry. They'd spoken over him, drowning out his protests. He and Draco were going to stay with the Dursleys, and that was that. Draco is not going to take the news well.

Harry had told Draco bits about his life with the Dursleys, but he'd kept most of it hidden. Draco hadn't pushed him, though Harry knew he was curious. It was just so raw. Far better to shove all of the hurt and torment into the back of his mind and focus on the present. And now he was going to have to deal with it all, and with Draco there, no less.

They had settled into a comfortable routine, in Grimmauld Place, shutting out the world and living in a peaceful bubble. He was surprised at how well they got along, without the pressure of outside expectations. They had learned to see past "Harry Potter, Chosen One" and "Draco Malfoy, Death Eater," to just Harry and Draco, two wounded boys thrust into difficult roles neither of them wanted. Harry liked Draco – was beginning to suspect he might even love him. And he thought Draco was beginning to feel the same. But it was all so new, so fragile and unsure. It could still be crushed and ripped apart by the outside world. The outside world they would have to rejoin – tomorrow.

He'd tried everything he could think of, but McGonagall had been unrelenting. Harry and Draco would be safer with the Dursleys. Harry didn't think that was true, and he knew Draco didn't either, but they were "just kids." Their opinions didn't matter. Never mind that it was their lives in question.

Harry hit his head on the back of the sofa a few times. It didn't really help. Then he worried that Kreacher would see and take it as permission to punish himself again. It had been hard enough to convince him to stop in the first place.

There was nothing for it. He would have to talk to Draco. Which would only bring up things Harry sincerely wished could stay buried. He groaned, wondering if he could fake an illness convincingly enough to buy them a few days. But, no. It was Snape fetching them, after all. He couldn't count on sympathy there; Snape would only chastise him for allowing himself to get sick and endangering Draco. He might even take Draco somewhere else to protect him. And Harry wanted to face the Dursleys alone even less than he wanted to face them with Draco.

Harry walked slowly toward the library, dragging his bare feet through the thick carpet. But he still reached the door, sooner than he would have liked, and with rug burn on his toes to boot. He scowled down at them, drew a fortifying breath, and blew it out slowly. Right, then.

"Erm, Draco?"

Draco marked his place with an elegant finger, then raised an eyebrow as he looked up. "Is there a reason you are interrupting my reading, Potter?"

And I'm back to 'Potter.' He must be irritated. "I just spoke with McGonagall and Snape."

"I gathered." Draco frowned. "Are you sure we can trust Severus?"

"Yes." Harry nodded emphatically. "From what Dumbledore showed me… yes. I may not like him, but I trust him."

Draco nodded thoughtfully. "I never would have guessed he was a double agent, you know."

"I know, believe me."

"So," Draco's finger tapped the book impatiently, "did you just want to chat, or was there something else? As fascinating as this is, I do have important things to do."

"What are you doing, anyway?"

"Never mind that. I don't have time to explain, and I'm not sure yet, anyway. And, if you'll excuse me, I really need to get back to this. I won't have access to these books much longer, and – "

Harry cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Well, that's the thing. Snape is going to be here to get us tomorrow morning. So we'll need to pack tonight. I just thought you'd want to know."

Draco stared at him. "Tomorrow? But – but that's too soon. You have to – "

Harry sighed. "Yeah. I tried, believe me. They weren't impressed. For whatever reason, they think we'll be safer with the Dursleys." Harry grimaced. "Anyway, I just wanted to give you some advance warning. So… is there anything I can help with?"

"What?"

"Whatever you're looking for – maybe I can help?"

"I'm sure I don't need your help, Potter."

Harry sighed. "OK. I'll be in the attic then, if – I'll be in the attic."

Draco merely nodded, head already bowed over his book.

Harry opened his mouth to say more, to say that he wanted to spend their last hours in Grimmauld place together – but the words stuck on his tongue, and in the end he just turned away. Draco clearly didn't want him there; he'd gone spiky and distant, and Harry knew better than to press. He just wished Draco hadn't chosen to spend their last evening that way. It seemed so final – and, Harry thought sadly, maybe it is. They wouldn't last – not out there. They were too fragile yet, too unsure of what they were. I wanted one more night of this – of you. But even if the silent plea had been visible in his eyes, as he suspected it was, it didn't matter. Draco never looked up.

Harry closed the library door behind him silently, hoping Draco might yet stop him. He didn't, of course. Harry leaned his forehead against the door for a moment, then turned and drooped off to the attic. It was as good a place to mope as any, and at least he could be sure that Draco wouldn't seek him out there. If he went anywhere else, he'd just be sad when Draco didn't join him. This way he could pretend it had been his choice to spend the evening alone.

When he'd grown tired of moping, Harry began to pace. His mind filled with images of just what it would be like, with the Dursleys. Of what they would say and do, how they would treat Draco, how they would treat him in front of Draco. It was the last that worried him the most. He'd kept his home life private for so long. And now his… well, his former rival – who the hell knew what he was now – would see it all. And Harry's darkest secret wouldn't be a secret any more.

As he grew more agitated, his pacing grew more erratic. He wove a complicated path through the treasures and junk that filled the attic – the castoffs of past generations. Not ugly enough for the Ugly Furniture Graveyard, but not nice enough to display, either. He muttered to himself as he paced, trusting in the silencing charms he'd hurriedly cast and the several floors between them to keep Draco from hearing. Then he tripped over a loose floorboard and pitched forward, windmilling his arms awkwardly as he tried (and failed) to stay upright.

He slumped awkwardly on the floor where he had fallen, deciding it was as good a place as any and that moving was far too much trouble. He watched a spider scuttle across the floor, inches from his nose. He wondered idly if it would venture in his nose; he couldn't bring himself to care. He felt detached, as if he floated above his body. He looked down to see if that were the case, and hit his nose on something hard.

He squinted at it, but it was too close; his eyes wouldn't focus. For a moment he didn't move, trying to convince himself that moving would be too much trouble, that the whatever-it-was wasn't going to be interesting. But his curiosity got the better of him, as it always did. If you were a cat, Harry, you'd have been dead ten times over at least. Huh. The voice in my head sounds an awful lot like Hermione. But he wasn't a cat, and he hadn't died yet. Of course, there's a first time for everything.

Finally deciding that moving was better than arguing philosophy with himself, Harry sat up. He winced and rubbed at a bruise that bloomed suddenly on his elbow. Must have knocked it on something when I fell. Then he remembered the object, and he leaned forward to get a better look. It looked like a small stone, smooth and round, but not unnaturally so. It was a dark slate gray, as so many small stones are, and looked like it would fit comfortably into his palm. He caught himself reaching for it and jerked back. He had learned some caution. He cast a bevy of detection spells, but they didn't reveal anything. If the thing were magical, as it most likely was, in this house, there didn't seem to be any Dark taint to it. Harry picked it up, deciding it was probably safe; he was too tired to run any more tests. The stone fit into his palm as neatly as he'd expected. He peered at it, but there didn't seem to be any markings on it. It looked perfectly innocuous and was the ideal size for a worry stone. He ran his thumb across it experimentally: yes, the perfect worry stone. He slipped it into his pocket, suddenly wanting a memento from their stay at the House, something to remind him of his Draco.

He snorted softly, dashing away the tears that threatened to fall. Right. My Draco. For tonight, anyway, much good it's doing me. He propped himself up in the nook where two walls came together in the nearest corner of the attic, letting them bear most of his weight – a trick he'd learned during long sleepless nights in his cupboard – and wrapped his arms around his knees, curling into a ball. He dropped his head down onto his knees and allowed himself a moment of weakness. As the tears dripped down his face, he relived the past weeks with Draco, carefully committing each detail to memory.

He wanted to remember each shining moment and each brilliant smile, save them up for the dark days ahead. Not that there will likely be many – I can feel the final battle approaching. Every step Voldemort takes sounds another death knell, throbbing through my soul. But, still. However many days I have left, I'd like to have something happy to spend them thinking of. If nothing else, Draco's given me that. He let the misery and loss wash over him then. It seemed as good a time to mourn as any. And he likely wouldn't have the chance, later. I've one more reason to fight, now. Kill Voldemort, make sure he dies… and make sure Draco lives.

He patted the wall beside him gently. "Don't worry," he whispered, "I'll send him back to you. Kreacher brought me the papers I need, when he wanted me to sign you over. I'll leave them with Kreacher before I leave. Draco doesn't need to know until after - well, until after." His voice turned fierce, determined. "But I will send him back to you. I promise you that." He felt the promise hum through him, like a guitar string, stretched taught through his heart and gently plucked. He felt the echo of it thrumming through the wall beneath his hand and nodded. Then, drained, he leaned his head back against the wall and let sleep claim him.