When life leaves you high and dry
I'll be at your door tonight
If you need help, if you need help
I'll shut down the city lights,
I'll lie, cheat, I'll beg and bribe
To make you well, to make you well
When enemies are at your door
I'll carry you away from war
If you need help, if you need help
Your hope dangling by a string
I'll share in your suffering
To make you well, to make you well
Give me reasons to believe
That you would do the same for me
Chapter 29
Harry was so on edge that he jumped at every drum of thunder. He eventually looked up at the blonde to find he was already staring at him. He felt overheated.
"Do you like it?" Harry asked conversationally.
"It's disgusting," He judged.
Harry whitened nervously, but went on, "Would you be willing to tell me about the places you've been?"
Draco's brows rose, "You mean like my trip to Italy?"
"Yeah – how many places have you been to?"
Slim shoulders shrugged, "Oh, I don't know…I've been to Italy, France, Germany, Spain…hmm… Oh, I've been to Finland, though I hardly remember the trip – awful food poisoning left me in bed most of the time there. I've been to Greece too…I think that's it. That's all I can remember right now."
Harry's interest was visibly piqued, "What was Spain like?"
"Dreadful," He affirmed, "I hated Spain."
"Why?" Harry laughed.
"Well, my mother and I were there for the running of the bulls – what a mistake that was – the barbaric practices these muggles glorify – it makes me nauseous!" Draco declared, ripping cheese off his slice of pizza, "The people are awful, the language is ugly and it smells."
"It smells?"
"Smells."
"The whole place?"
"Yes. The entire country," Draco nodded with a full mouth, in all seriousness.
Harry chuckled again and stated, "I think your reviews are a bit harsh."
Before Draco could defend himself, Harry inquired, "What about Greece?"
"Goats. Goats and poor people and cheese," He mumbled through bites.
Harry laughed out loud and gave Draco's shoulder a friendly push, "You're such a prat."
Draco's instincts told him to punch Potter directly in the jaw, but he stopped himself. He couldn't place why he didn't want to punch Potter anymore – or why that mattered at all.
There was some gentle, passing quiet as Draco finished his plate and placed it on the coffee table and finished off his glass of veritaserum. Harry had taken his like a shot; bent his head back and let it burn his throat. Harry folded his hands on his knee and looked down to his feet.
"I liked France," Draco started sweetly and softly; nostalgia made his silver eyes glisten and Harry stilled, admiring them, "I remember seeing the sites and all the nonsense that tourists are told to do, but… I recall being on the train, leaving Nice and heading toward Saint Malo. The scenery was incredible and I was sitting by myself – my parents took a booth further down the train from me. I loved that," His eyelids looked heavy then as he went on, "I fell asleep on the train. When I woke up, all of my bags had been stolen. The scene my parents made was worth a BAFTA, at least. Because my identification was stolen, we ended up stranded in the middle of Bourges with the only bed available being in a hostel. I snuck out of bed in the middle of the night and, being on the second floor, we had a small balcony – if you could call it that – and I sat down on the cold concrete and eventually fell asleep."
"No offense, Malfoy," Harry began tentatively, "But that sounds like another awful family trip."
He shook his blonde hair, smiling weakly, "No – not really. I think…that is one of the very few times in my life that life actually happened to me, and I wasn't just following lines drawn for me," He tilted his head, eyeing his spidery hands, "Something unpredictable happened and rather than in my grandmother's sea-side mansion, on a king-size down blanket in front of a fire, I ended up on the concrete, under the stars in Bourges. I was so…I don't know…relieved, I guess."
Icarus jumped onto the couch just as thunder struck and Draco finally noticed Harry's shoulders twitching at the weather.
"Did you like Ceridwen?"
Harry grinned, "Yeah – she's great. Adorable, really. And very pretty."
Draco nodded, "I spent a lot of time picking her out, because I recall how fond you were of your last owl."
"Hedwig," Harry interjected, "Her name was Hedwig."
Malfoy nodded again, "Right, right. Hedwig. Well, seeing as she saved your life and all, I don't know if the bar is set too high for Ceridwen, but I think she'll serve you well. I'm good at picking pets."
"Oh, are you?"
"Very," He bragged, "I've always communicated better with animals than I have people."
"I assume that's excluding hippogriffs," Harry joked with a spreading smile.
Draco threw a crumpled up napkin at his face and reluctantly smiled too, "Shut up."
"Malfoy…can I ask you something personal?"
He contemplated this and Harry felt honor and calm wash over him when Draco gave him a single nod.
"I want to know if you've tried to cast a patronus since I gave you your wand back, and I also…I also want to know if you've gone in your parents' room at all."
"Why do you want to know that?"
Without explaining, Harry knew Draco meant the latter.
"Because I can help you go in there, if you want me to. Honestly, I figured you'd be the type to be thrilled at having inherited a master bedroom." Harry attempted to make light.
"I was able to cast a patronus and no, I haven't been," Draco confided bluntly, "I'd like to have the master bedroom, but I'd much better like to have my life back, so I wouldn't say I'm thrilled."
"What memory did you use?"
"Why do you care?"
Harry shut his mouth, feeling that he was close to stepping on landmines. He had ventured far and Malfoy had accommodated him - he had that much to be thankful for. He inwardly felt Narcissa's approval, but he somehow felt that she needed him to investigate the master bedroom. That he and Draco, both, had to see with their eyes, the emptiness inside.
"Because I care about you."
Percy left his bedroom, in search of company. He had an itching loneliness and once the war ended, he found that solitude only caused him anxiety. He did not voice the fact, but did not fight the urge to seek others in times of his anxiety. He checked Ginny's room first, thinking that he did not spend enough time with her. She was not there, though. He walked further down the hall, to the twins' room and stopped outside the closed door. He went to knock, but his chalky knuckles froze before tapping on the wood. His instincts told him to listen carefully; something felt wrong. His brow creased, he took a step forward and placed his open palm on the door. He heard only the rain outside, footsteps from downstairs and the crackling of the fireplace.
That's not right….
He knew George well enough to know that he would not sit alone in his room with no sound. He snored when he slept, and so he knew George was awake. When he wrote up recipes for potions and pranks, he let the radio play, and so he knew George wasn't working. He whistled when he cleaned, and so he knew that there was no straightening up going on in the room. He closed his eyes and tried to focus in, wondering if George could be wanting privacy for his own pleasures, but he heard no heavy breathing, no gasps or sounds of body. He opened his eyes, straightened his posture and knocked bravely on the door.
There was no response.
He tried again, and called George's name.
There was no response.
He cautiously gripped the door knob, turning it slowly.
Not locked…
He said his brother's name again, but silence greeted him. He pushed the door open and froze. The window was open, the curtains waving frantically in the sharp wind, the rain pouring onto the wood floor; books and games were tossed along the floor, clothes off hangers and draped on the bedframes, the ceiling fan, the bedspreads, the desks. Shredded papers strewn about and the weather had wet the floors far beyond the windowsill. A shelf was collapsed on the floor and what appeared to be vomit lie splattered on the sheets of George's bed. In the far corner of the room George stood, blankly staring at Percy; catatonic and pale and utterly, eerily still.
"George…"
It was whisper at first; the panic strangled him when he tried to speak. He found the strength to pull his heart out of his stomach, let it beat in his throat and yelled,
"George!"
"George!" He called as he climbed over piles of clothes, books and boxes.
"George! George, don't worry! Don't worry, I'm here!"
He felt isolation, even shame as tears welled up in his eyes. He was unsure of who the tears were for; himself, George or Fred.
George's eyes were dead, dilated and unblinking. He was so pale, his skin was translucent and Percy could see every vein and freckle, dark against it. Although petrified, he wrapped his arms around George's clammy body, shaking and cold himself, he tried to warm him. He tucked his face into George's hair and rocked him gently,
"George…wh-what's happened? What's happened, George?"
He kissed George's head and kept moving his hands, to cradle his head, or his shoulders or face.
"It's okay – it's okay, whatever it is. I'm here now," Percy assured.
He let go of George briefly, to shut the window and the room grew all that much darker. He glanced around at the mess in anxious bewilderment, but came back to his younger brother. He cupped his shoulders and asked,
"George, have you hurt yourself? Are you okay?"
Dry, chapped lips parted and he mumbled, "Far away."
Percy's brow furrowed more deeply, and he felt entirely inadequate. He called for his mother, and upon her response, he yelled for her to come to George's room. He heard her footsteps on the stairs and maintained eye contact with George. George whispered, as if casting a spell, "Far away, far away, far away."
Molly gasped at the sight of George's room, but she seemed to all but fall to ashes at the sight of George, himself. She heard Percy saying,
"It's okay, George, it's okay – I'm here now, I'm here – everything is okay."
His bloodshot eyes narrowed, so black and crazed; he pushed violently against Percy's chest, sending him to the wet floor. He saw George's feet; wet and dirty and unkempt. The clothes he wore were wrinkled.
"George!" Molly gasped again.
"No!" He bellowed, "No! No! No! No!"
Arthur had arrived at Molly's side and Ron, upon seeing the unfolding scene, encouraged Hermione to stay back from it. He took her back to his room, and said simply, that it was not for her to end up twisted in.
"No! Nothing is alright! Not you! Not you! Not you!"
He shook his head fervently and growled and cried out in a hoarse voice,
"You! You! You did this! You did this! Nothing is okay! Nothing! Nothing! Nothing! You – this is you-you-your fault! Your fault! 'I'm here now'!" He spit onto Percy's shirt, "You are here!? You!? No one wanted you here! You are the reason he's gone! You ruined, ruined, ruined everything! Everything! It's your fault! Your fault!"
"George! Stop it!" Molly demanded as she saw tears begin to stream down Percy's face.
George held the sides of his head, as if he were trying to squeeze his own brain. His expression was pained and he bent over, knees shaking while his mother made her way towards him. He continued to make incoherent sounds, animal like howling and groaning.
Percy did this.
He killed your mother when he left for the ministry.
He killed your brother.
Kill Percy.
He whipped his head around and banged it against the wall. Molly jumped in shock, then he did it again, and it was harder – louder. Again. Again. Molly screamed for him to stop, and as she did, blood painted the wall and George fell onto the ground, concussed.
