A/N: Chapter warnings for; explicit language, explicit violence and gore, torture (referenced)

The reason why Harry is craving food after that graphic nightmare is because of a very interesting effect we found whilst writing; formaldehyde actually induces hunger, particularly appealing to one's sense of umami (the part where you crave meat), so it's quite normal to crave food after having been near a dead body. Of course, Harry's was just a nightmare, but we took a bit of liberty with it :)

Thanks to our lovely Beta, and tell us all about your favorite parts in this chapter!

Next Update on: Friday, 30th of April

Chapter Thirty-One: If All Were To Perish

...

"If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger."

-Emily Jane Brontë , Wuthering Heights

…

He's been agitated all day.

Draco doesn't know why, but that's what he wakes up to, to an awfully annoyed and quiet Harry, which is, ironically enough, not the mood Draco is used to receiving from Harry Potter lately.

On the other hand, Harry's frustration doesn't seem in line with the same branch of frustration that Draco was on the receiving end of, before. Before as in, before they were what they are now, before when there was only jeering and name-calling.

And even that was mostly Weasley instigating and provoking Potter into it anyway. Draco's never thought of this before, but Harry is quite a passive.

Today he's not.

"Fucker," Potter mutters to their sink during breakfast, elbow deep in last night's and this morning's dishes to unclog the drain. Draco sips his tea and watches the silent irritation on Harry's face.

"Want any help?" He asks, but Harry doesn't reply. As if he hadn't even heard Draco talk in the first place. He does that sometimes, just completely ignores Draco's presence.

Draco tries not to be insulted by it.

Harry groans and the sink groans back at him, and Potter growls louder at it. Draco decides right then that he needs to give Potter his space.

They've been locked up together for too long, and whilst Draco is in no way bored or tired of spending time with Harry-being a sociable person himself and Harry too intriguing to be bored of- he thinks that maybe Harry feels differently. There's only so much they can tolerate of each other.

He walks out of the kitchen with the bare minimum of noise making and heads out, today is much warmer than it was yesterday. Warm enough that Draco momentarily thinks about a short swim but then concedes to knee length dipping by the time he makes it to the shore.

He remembers doing this as a child too many times to count, with his parents sunbathing on their chairs, content and talking in low, teasing voices as a toddler Draco splashed in the water.

His mother was the one who kept having to replace the sun-blocking charms on Draco's body to avoid sunburns. Draco didn't give a damn.

He rolls his pants up now, being extra mindful of his shoulder, the pain is only bothersome when he moves it or jerks it unexpectedly. Draco stands still for a second before walking into the water. And then he just sort of stands there, aimlessly splashing and dragging his feet.

It doesn't feel the same. The water that embraced him so warmly as a child is just stiff and chilling now, tiny stones dig into his feet and the wind lashes against the half-healed gash on his face. Just another reminder of something long gone.

There is no joy associated with this.

Draco almost glances over his shoulder to check and see whether his parents are lounging on the shore, but stops himself just as he's about to do it.

He'll lose it if he glances back. He's been hanging on by a frayed thread as it is.

It's just a vast, endless beach. Stretching out as far as the eye can see.

He doesn't see the appeal, he doesn't see how Harry finds solace walking around this place, in the middle of the night, or early in the mornings, feeding seagulls.

Draco casts his gaze as far as possible, a hundred yards from each side defines their wards, but there's no indication, no signs with naked eyes. Harry could just as easily walk out of the wards with no warnings with the amount of walking he did.

Maybe Draco should talk to him about that, but then again, maybe telling him something like that would be considered out of his reign of responsibilities or boundaries.

Draco pauses for a moment. This is what he's lowering himself to, respecting- of all people- Harry Potter's boundaries. He doesn't mind it, he should and he doesn't. Harry cares about boundaries and privacy and Draco, for whatever reason, gives a shit about that.

No, he's not gonna tell Harry what to do. He doesn't even think Harry knows that Draco knows about his midnight activity.

The water serves him no pleasure, so Draco stomps out back to the sand, cringing at the way the tiny dunes stick to his feet.

A stray shell stabs his toe and Draco curses, hopping in place and clutching his leg.

"Fucking shell," he glares at it with disdain and rubs his sand-covered foot with his other hand. His shoulder throbs in sympathy.

He picks up the shell, it's white and indented, subtle lines of purple, the shade of a fading bruise are running along the thing.

He used to collect these, when he was younger. He used to do a lot of things when he was younger.

Unwittingly, he sinks down on the sand, it's somewhat cold but he doesn't mind. The sand is going to be a headache to get out of the clothes later, but that's the future Draco's, or maybe Harry's, problem. He absently drags a hand along the dunes, collecting a few more shells.

He feels like a child, gathering shells, and making necklaces only to abandon them by the end of the day. He was never really allowed to take things back with him to the manor when he was a child.

Not really sure what he's doing, Draco grapples for his wand-back pocket of his pants-and transfigures one of the shells into a long, thin black rope and lays it on the ground. It looks like it'd snap with one good pull, but his parents had taught him well.

Then he scouts around for more shells.

He hasn't done this in years.

By the time he's got a good two dozen shells in his lap, some of them a little broken, but mostly whole and colourful, there's sand under his finger and toenails. He doesn't remember there being this much sand when he used to visit beaches when younger.

With the tip of his wand, Draco patiently makes tiny holes inside the shells, he ignores the wind picking up and blasting him from the side, as he threads the shells into the rope one by one. There is no particular pattern to the order of shells. Mainly because he didn't pick the shells with any in mind, just the ones he thought looked pretty and weren't too broken.

The end result is choppier than he is expecting, it's shabbier for one thing, and too desolate on the rope for another. Draco clutches it in his hand and then has the most ridiculous thought ever.

He should give it to Harry.

His eyes roll on their own violation. This is ridiculous, this thing… whatever that links every coherent thought and memory back to Harry Freaking Potter. He's being corrupted. No, not corrupted, possessed.

Not by Potter, but rather that portion of his brain that worships the ground Harry Bloody Potter walks on. That part isn't young or new. It's been there for years, hidden and hushed up under layers and layers of hatred and petty anger.

Now it's out for revenge.

Draco is so helpless in the face of it that his heart contorts whenever he consciously thinks about hurting Harry or jeering at him or being an arse to him again. But the truth is, Draco is an arse, he's snarky, and awful, and he's just… not as clean-cut as Potter is.

What does he even try to achieve by this? Earning Harry's approval? Well, yes, of course, but it has to be more than that. They're already friends. A term given much too cautiously and addressed with even more precarious air surrounding it.

So not friendship. But something. Something.

Something that Severus doesn't approve of. He thinks Harry is his bee in the jar. He thinks Draco is in love with Harry.

Draco wasn't in love with bees when he was eight, he was obsessed. This, whatever it is that he has for Harry, has marginally little to do with obsession.

Draco puts a tracking charm on one of the shells, on the presumption that Harry will take this pathetic excuse of an offering-with no known occasion- and actually bothers wearing it rather than chugging it down the bin.

He looks at the distance again and once more imagines Harry just mistakenly walking out of the wards without even knowing. The thought is terrifying, honestly.

This is just a precaution. And if Harry doesn't accept the gift, Draco is not going to do anything about it anyways.

It's not like he's watching him shower or hogging his tail, he's just being cautious. And besides, Draco cares about Harry's safety a lot more than he gives a fuck about his boundaries.

Harry wouldn't even need to know about the spell, and as his mother used to say, 'precaution is better than damage control.'

This is Draco's choppy version of precaution, if Harry decides to accept this pathetic, childish offering.

He won't outright laugh at Draco, Harry doesn't do that now that they're friends; he'll take the necklace, awkwardly try hiding his grimace and then thank Draco for it, then probably forget about it.

This is lame. This is pathetic. This is lame Draco Malfoy in a lame body. Before, it used to be Lame Draco Malfoy in the Slytherin, elegant body that intimidated others… now he's reverting back to shell necklaces and marble floors and insecurities.

He rubs a sand-covered hand over his face and then winces at the slight burn in his scar. That's right, he's not that Draco Malfoy anymore. He's lame now, inside and out.

When he gets inside, Harry is on the couch, leaning back with his legs up to his chest, just gazing into the distance the way he does. No singing yet.

Draco pads over to the couch and gingerly lowers himself near Harry, the necklace clenched in one hand and his wand clenched in the other. His shoulders are tensed and his posture stiff, and Harry, whilst crammed in his position, looks utterly calm.

Draco sits, facing him, just watching the small flicks on Harry's face, the twitches, the small curls. He has the most ridiculous urge to close in the space between them, and somehow press his face to Harry's, just for the boy's reaction if nothing else.

An experiment.

After a shaky exhale, he starts leaning in, his head slightly tilted and ears tuned for any signs of Harry's irritation. Harry doesn't even acknowledge their closeness, but of course he doesn't. Harry could be miles away.

Draco's eyes close, he can feel the warmth radiating from Harry's skin, he's that close, and it feels exhilarating. It incites so much excitement that Draco's breathing speeds up.

It'll be a peck, quick and small.

He just wants to know how it feels.

Harry's skin is always warm, unlike his, and it has scars too, tiny, silver, faded ones, but unlike Draco's grotesque werewolf wound, it's soft and faded over.

His lips are almost grazing the skin, so so so close, his breath brushes against Harry's hair and it shifts, and just then Harry draws away, leaving Draco in the awkward void that is left.

Harry is looking at him, eyes not widened in shock but just staring and Draco feels his face heat up instantly on the spot.

This had been a stupid idea.

He's an idiot. God, dear merlin in the depths of hell, what has he done? He freezes in mortification for half a second, the shells dig into his clenched palm.

Harry doesn't speak, and the silence stretches into an eternity over their heads. Draco tersely gets off the couch and races up the stairs, like an arrow let loose, he strides to their room and bangs the door close, and then wallows in his own shame and stupidity.

Harry was having the most pleasant talk with Remus; they were both in the man's office, Harry perched on the edge of the book chest and Remus behind his desk, both munching on chocolate frogs hidden in the man's sweet stash. Remus looked unbearably amused by the sight of Harry, clumsy and awkward, just leaning there.

'It's been a while,' Remus said, nodding his head. Rain pattered on the windows in a steady rhythm. Harry doesn't remember the man's office always being this warm and cozy.

'I'm really sorry about that,' he replied, and it felt inadequate.

'You've come for advice I see, try some of these droobles,' he held out a small tin and Harry shyly walked over to the desk, took a drooble and popped it in his mouth.

'You're just… more level-headed than the others,' he guiltily admitted, reaching for another sweet.

Remus hummed in agreement, 'About Draco Malfoy, or your deteriorating confidence?'

Harry didn't know, not really. Maybe the two were somehow linked, Draco and his state of mind. That niggling that kept nudging him toward Draco was the same voice that kept telling him that he was losing it.

'You know what it feels like to be a monster.' If this had been real life, he would have sunk down in shame after uttering those words. But this Remus understood.

As expected, the man didn't even flinch, 'Does it feel like you're turning into a monster?'

Harry rolled the sweet in his mouth as he thought, he had been feeling so different lately, so detached from himself and the world around him, of course the literal isolation didn't help, but it wasn't all about that. Harry was different, from the core. Being a monster isn't being different. He has always been one.

'I think I've always been one,' he said honestly, and Remus just took it with a nod, 'How do you control it?' Harry asked.

'The answer might sound too cheesy,' Moony smirked, 'But when I look around, see the people I love and them gazing back at me… I don't feel too bad about being a monster anymore. If they can accept me as one, then so can I.'

'I think I like Draco,' Harry admitted, and he would never have said this to the real Remus either, 'But I'm not sure he likes me.' He'd never have said this to Imaginary Sirius either, who's absent right now. Sirius would have lost his mind.

'It's hard to tell with people like him.'

'Slytherins?'

'Outsiders,' Remus corrected, 'Sirius was an outsider once, the white sheep of the Black family. I was an outsider too. It's nice…' he gave a faint smile, the same one Harry had seen the real Remus give Sirius a few times when he thought Sirius wasn't looking, 'when two people find each other like that.'

'He's going to see me, see how I am, and he's going to be repulsed, Remus. And we're all alone with each other now, he can't escape me.' It's only a matter of time. Harry was honestly a little surprised that it's taking so long. The only ones who've stuck around after the 'flash of crazy' have been Ron and Hermione.

'I'm not sure he wants to escape you at all. Sometimes, people might not understand, but they won't run away from it. I think he'll stay,' Remus said calmly, not even reassuringly, more like it was a truth he just knew. Like him telling Harry 'dragon breath smells awful.'

'How do you know?'

A smirk crept up the man's face, 'See for yourself.'

And Harry does. It's as if his whole life snaps back to the warm cottage in front of their flickering fireplace, and the definite, bold presence of Draco Malfoy less than an inch from his face.

Harry blinks, hard and then tilts his head to the left, where Draco is mutely staring at him with wide, shocked eyes. Gray amongst icy blue, and Harry finds himself incapable of saying a thing, and the silence drags on until Draco's face reddens and he jerks upwards, before bolting up the stairs.

Harry remains as he was, staring at the empty spot where Draco Malfoy almost kissed him on the cheek.

There was no mistaking his intent, Harry just knows.

Draco lies on Harry's side of the bed and hates himself for it. It's no different than his own side, the bed barely fits them both, and they both use the same cleaning products out of necessity… but still. There's just something about it.

The shells from the necklace leave tiny indents in his palm as he grips it, gazing out of the window and trying to drown out his shame. He's an idiot, such an idiot. He can never look Harry in the face again, not with a straight face, not with a hurt pride. Some experiment.

Idiotic. What a bastard he's turning into. It's the isolation. It must be. It has to be, because otherwise, Draco Fucking Malfoy is going mad and barmy.

Harry's face is constantly in his sight, the only company he is with nowadays, he's conditioned to like that face and everything that comes with it, this could be normal. This could be Draco overreacting to a natural occurrence.

But what natural occurrence compels him to make Harry Potter a necklace out of shells, or cook for him despite having no affinity for cooking, or for his insides to melt at the mere sight of the boy as if sated?

Severus' voice is a constant buzzing inside his head.

Draco sneers at himself and his ridiculous thoughts, curses himself and Severus under his breath and pushes himself out of the bed.

He's just going to pretend nothing happened, he's going to put on a mask and sneer his way through dinner and then sleep on the freaking couch.

He groans louder before rolling his shoulders. His bad one, per usual habit, aches in punishment.

Harry isn't cooking, or dancing around the kitchen the way he usually does, he isn't even singing; rather he's sitting at the table, munching on a sandwich and flipping through the black leathered diary with furrowed brows.

Draco watches him from the doorway, his eyebrows raised as a small piece of tomato slides off the sandwich and onto the diary.

"Fuck," Harry curses, gently flicking the tomato off the diary with a grimace. Draco can't decide whether he's disgusted or fond. Disgustingly fond. Fondly disgusted.

Now that Dumbledore's personal diary has a food stain and the floorboards creak under Draco's feet, Harry's head snaps up.

"Oh, hi," he says, his voice is low, even though it has no reason to be. "I thought you were asleep." There's no hint on his face that he even remembers Draco's very successful attempt at self-humiliation.

Draco shrugs. Muted. Merlin, he hates himself.

Harry pretends-or genuinely feels- as though he doesn't give a fuck whether Draco has resorted to selective mutism and munches onto his meal.

Draco just stands there, like a psycho.

After a moment or two, Harry looks up from the affronted diary with raised eyebrows before cursing again.

"You want food?" He asks, his own mouth full.

Draco hates this question, so fucking much. His incapability to carry himself around the kitchen had made him so vulnerable in that regard that even though he can somewhat handle food now, Harry automatically reverts back to that question.

"I can make it," Draco snaps, unwittingly. He's not mad at Harry-he rarely is, these days- but rather at his own strange behaviour. And his lack of control over it.

Harry shrugs but then pushes his chair to stand, "We're running out of mustard, let me scoop up the sides with a knife for you."

"I can do it," Draco's argument is so weak that even he himself isn't sure whether he heard it.

He doesn't even like mustard.

Harry's shaking hand is already equipped with a knife, he handles it with much more confidence now, "No you can't," he chuckles, "You'll miss the spot under the lid," he starts to patiently scoop out the mustard and Draco stares at his hands. Shaky yet steady in their movements.

"What's that?" Harry's question jars Draco out of his, admittedly, creepy staring, and his eyes snap to the shell necklace wrapped thrice around his wrist like some bizarre, tacky bracelet.

"Oh…" Draco tugs at one of the shells self consciously, "Just something." He should have left it in the room. Or vanished it. Thrown it into the sea.

"It looks great," Harry says, abandoning the mustard jar and knife before stepping closer and taking Draco's cold hand in his own.

Every inch of his skin that is being touched is ablaze.

"Well," he clears his throat, emboldened by the fact that Harry seems to like it, "Actually it's yours."

The shift of his own sentiment towards the thing is appalling in its abruptness.

Harry pauses, he peers at Draco's hand and the dangling shells with keen interest. "Mine?" He asks carefully.

And suddenly Draco feels stupid again. He wants to tug his hand back but Harry's grip is warm, so he settles for saying, "I know it's stupid-"

Harry cuts him off, "Did you make it for me?"

"Er…" Draco isn't sure if it's supposed to be a compliment or an insult towards his craftsmanship skills. He knows they're nothing to be proud of, it hadn't even taken him twenty minutes to make it. Not that Harry knows it.

He isn't the insulting type, so Draco takes the stupid risk "Yeah," he says.

"For me." Harry looks up at him, grinning. He looks like a child who's been handed candy bars, flushed and wide-eyed.

His eyes are practically sparkling, and Draco wants to lose himself in them. In the scrunched nose and grinning mouth. "Wow," Harry breathes, with an excitement that shouldn't be warranted for this pathetic of a gift, "Thank you."

Draco blinks down at him, and his insides are doing their melting thing again, but he manages to keep a mostly neutral, human expression on his face. "Really?"

"Yeah, it's beautiful. Can I have it?"

This… wasn't how Draco had expected this to go down. But really, what had he expected? This is Harry Fucking Potter, always unpredictable. He shouldn't be surprised that he likes things like handmade gifts and shell necklaces. And, who's Draco to judge? He's the one who made it.

He swallows drily, and starts unwrapping the necklace from his wrist, "Yeah, yeah of course."

Harry gingerly takes it, and the shells clack against each other in his trembling hands. He runs his hands over a few of them, feeling along their textures and ridges, before he fixes Draco with a blinding grin and loops it around his neck. "I love it."

The necklace isn't big, and the shells rest against the hollow of his throat. Draco frowns, because that might become uncomfortable real quick. But before he can say anything about it, Harry's stepping even closer.

Harry's stepping even closer and he's leaning up to him and for a second Draco can't breathe, because if he breathes he might drive him away. He can feel Harry's breath on his face though, warm and fluttering. Kind of like the butterflies going nuts in his stomach.

Harry's lips press against Draco's cheek, just a peck. Just for a moment. They're warm too, like his breath. And soft. It's simultaneously exactly how he'd expected it to be like and twenty times better. He doesn't want it to end, but then Harry's pulling away.

"Thank you, Draco," Harry says, still grinning. Draco can still feel the ghost of the kiss on his left cheek. He almost asks Harry to give him another on his right, over the scar. He wonders what it'd feel like. Would it twinge? Or would it be like the kisses from his childhood that could make the pain go away?

He wants to hit himself over the head for the sort of thoughts he's having, but right now he can't even bring himself to do more than blush because Harry doesn't hate him. He's not sick of him, or wants to be done with him. He actually just kissed him.

'I think you're redefining the phrase 'midnight snack'.'

Harry shrugs, the silver edge of the knife swiftly cuts through the chicken breast. "I'm hungry."

'Fruit. Chocolate. Tea,' Sirius counts off his fingers as Harry starts rubbing spices all over the chicken piece. 'Not stuffed chicken.'

"You're grouchy."

Harry reaches for the ham. He's cut up a bit of it already. His hands shake, slightly, and he feels the urge to vomit in the back of his mind. The smell of raw meat is not helping.

'I wish you could go back to sleep.'

"Fuck you," Harry slams the knife on the cutting board and then realizes how loud it must have echoed. It's three in the morning, and he's alone in the kitchen.

Dinner was pleasant last night. They had soup, Draco washed the dishes, it was good. Nicer than normal. Harry kissed Draco. On the cheek. And the boy didn't go absolutely nuts, Harry actually went to sleep with Draco's leg pressed against his.

Then the next thing he knew, Cedric's heart was in his palms, he was in the great hall, with every dozen of eyes inspecting his dawning horror. A corpse, and a beating heart in his hands. Bloodied and poignant.

Snape's glare pierced through the crowd, he spoke so quietly but Harry could hear each word with clarity.

'Count from twenty to fifty-two, backwards. Take a bite out of his heart. Then count to seventy in fives.'

His instructions made no sense to Harry whatsoever. It fueled his panic.

From the other side of the hall, the only man sitting down on the Hufflepuff's table, huffed and giggled with himself. He was the only one not looking at Harry.

Harry didn't know the man. But he knew what he was on sight. He was tortured into insanity. Like Harry.

His stomach churns as he stuffs the ham inside the chicken. Sirius sighs.

'Harry. Don't do this to yourself.'

"I'm fine," Harry crams the green beans in long strips, he hadn't bothered trimming them with his knife. The oil he put on the stove to heat up, dangerously sizzles.

He tried putting the heart back in, as he counted, he cried and begged Snape to just let him revive Cedric. He begged him to take him and lock him up in a cell. No one else had to get hurt.

Ron and Hermione couldn't look into his eyes.

The man kept giggling.

His hand now shakes much worse than before when he reaches for the cheese.

What is he doing?

Craving meat. That's what he's doing. Because Cedric's heart was inches away from his face, and because Harry is an unhinged, horrible person.

He couldn't count. He can't even do it now. The numbers are all wrong in his head, and the sizzling of the oil overwhelms his ears.

'Harry.'

"I didn't eat his…" the bile rises up his throat and Harry doubles over the counter, breathing through his mouth. He didn't bite into the heart.

He's not a monster.

'The only reason why you think you did, is because Snape thinks you did. You're not Frank, Harry.'

"I don't know those people. Shut up, please just…"

'Being bad with numbers isn't a crime. That bastard.…Harry you didn't cannibalize Cedric Diggory.'

But he might have. He can't remember. In his dream. He can't actually remember if he bit into the flesh and chewed. His mouth was impossibly dry when he woke.

He scoops up the chicken with weary hands, and hobbles to the stove. The oil is fervently bubbling away in the dark.

Cooking lesson number one; never, ever, ever drop something as heavy as a stuffed chicken breast in a pan of sizzling oil. Especially not when your hands are damp.

Harry knew that since the age of five. He knew that the same way he knows how to hold a spoon and yet, the meat in his hand, feels, and weighs exactly the same amount as Cedric's….

His vision goes blurry and the chicken drops from his hands, splashing hot, scorching oil in all directions as it falls and Harry rears back and falls on his butt with a cry.

The oil burns his hands and spots all over his face and neck, Sirius curses and the sound of sizzling turns into aggressive popping, tiny gunshots going off in the pan.

Harry sits on the floor and watches with dismay, small burns torching his skin all over as he watches the pan furiously shoot sparks of oil in the air.

'Kiddo.' Sirius kneels next to him and Harry numbly reaches for his wand. The pain, like stabbing hot needles, doesn't really register as he turns the stove off and then resumes sitting there in the dark.

"I'm going mad,"

'Listen to me…'

"You are testament to what you deny." He can't breathe, "God, dear God."

The smell of oil is worse than the raw chicken. And Harry gags.

'Don't go out, Harry.' Sirius beseeches him, two seconds before the idea occurs to Harry himself.

He needs to go out. Now.

Harry wakes him in the middle of the night.

Which is absurd because when he wakes up Harry's side of the bed is cold and empty and Draco's wrist is burning.

At first, he doesn't realise what's happened except for the fact that Harry's seemed to have wandered off again and there is a deep sense of foreboding building in his stomach, coupled with the disorientation that comes from having just woken up.

It becomes impossible to ignore the burning in his wrist, a persistent stinging ache. Which is when it clicks.

Fuck.

Draco bolts from the bed, scrambling to his feet as he realises that the single shell he's tied to his wrist is the reason for this impromptu wake up call. The shell that's connected to the enchanted one in Harry's necklace. The one Harry's supposed to be wearing right now.

The one which is supposed to warn and track him if he goes too far from the house. Near to the edge of the wards.

He can't find his slippers or his wand and there's a scream building up in his throat. Every second he wastes is one where Harry can be in danger. And oh God, not now. Not when they finally have something. Not again.

He almost trips down the stairs, his hand locking in a death grip around the handrail, heart-pounding, if possible, even harder than before. His eyes have now started stinging in tandem with his wrist because he can't find his wand.

He doesn't even know where Harry is because this stupid spell isn't advanced enough for that.

He needs to find his fucking wand because if Harry's in danger then he needs to- God. What would he be able to do? He couldn't do shit against Umbridge. He can't even walk down the fucking stairs.

The smell of cooking spices and roasting garlic permeates the air as he makes his way across the living room and towards the kitchen. But it's not… exactly that. It's stale, stale oil. The foreboding increases threefold as his hands grow numb from the sheer panic.

He finally finds his wand on the table next to the couch. The floor is cold against his bare feet, but he really doesn't have time for that anymore. He just needs to get to Harry.

Gripping at the shell until he can feel every indent on his palm, he says, firmly but desperately, "Lacus."

And then he's off in a disconcerting whirl which reminds him of apparation but not quite.

There's no Death Eaters, or the Dark Lord or death or blood or Harry having a seizure or Harry dying.

Harry seems… perfectly fine. In fact, Harry doesn't even seem to have noticed Draco. Meanwhile, Draco is trying to get his breathing under control. The shell is still burning because Harry is still dangerously close to the wards.

He's inside the wards.

The sand is cool under his feet, and he's close enough to the waves that he can feel the salty sea spray on his face. The endless sea reflects the stars in the sky.

It takes a few seconds, but Harry straightens up. And then looks back to where Draco is standing several feet away from him. His face first blanks out in surprise, before morphing into something indecipherable.

"Oh, hey Draco. Good morning."

"It's-" He doesn't know what time it is. He shakes his head, "You're too-" he clears his throat. Shakes his head and puts his wand back up in his sleeve. "What are you doing here."

"Come here, I'll show you."

Draco desperately wants to yank Harry back from the edge, take him back to the cottage and wrap him in at least three blankets, make him tea and preferably put a sticking charm on his butt.

But Harry's eyes are doing that thing. They narrow, the corners wrinkle just a bit as he stares at Draco. It's not just an expression on his face. It's a ceremony. His lips twitch and his eyebrows quirk and his shoulders drop.

Draco cannot resist that. He'd rather kick a puppy than upset that look.

"Fine," he grumbles with a long-suffering sigh. "This better be good." At least, if he's here, he could stop him from doing anything stupid, right?

Draco is the maddest person alive, for following Harry Potter out of their safe house, in the middle of the night. Barefoot. Across half the beach and towards the edge of safety.

Draco's feet hate him for the shells poking at his soles, but his eyes are focused on Harry, crouched over something by the shore.

"This is the only one left," Harry says once Draco is beside him. Their toes are dipped in the sand, Draco knows how itchy it's going to get. They're so close to where the wards end. He doesn't know why he's doing this, catering to Potter's dangerous whims. He should be in bed, sleeping right now. Safe in the knowledge that no one can get him here.

Draco crouches next to Harry, and they both stare down at the struggling turtle, caked in wet sand and struggling to make its way to the sea.

But of course, he's gazing down at baby turtles with Harry Bloody Potter, tempting fate, barefoot and shivering in the November air in a thin nightshirt.

"Cannot we help it?" Draco asks, instead of voicing his inner monologue. He catches Harry grinning, a real, genuine grin, with his eyes gleaming down at the small turtle in glee. The inner monologue shuts up.

"No," Harry's voice sends a shiver down his spine. It's charged with glee. Draco had never seen him this excited over something before. "He has to do this himself." His toes are curled into the sand, one of his hands poised to keep his hair out of his face against the wind.

"How did you find it?"

"I couldn't sleep, so I came down for a stroll," Harry whispers, his eyes never waver from the baby turtle, "And I saw this little guy, just hatching out of his egg. It was the cutest thing."

Draco isn't looking at the turtle, he's enthralled by Harry. "It is cute," he doesn't mean the turtle, not entirely.

"Yeah!" Harry chuckles, breathlessly. "This is the best night ever. For me and Elvis."

They move with the turtle, only fractionally closer to the foaming shore. "You named it?"

"Of course I did, don't be ridiculous."

'Don't be ridiculous, yes, Draco', his mind is snarking him. He needs this to stop. He should have been mad as hell right now, rudely woken up at who knows what in the morning, just to watch a turtle he could care less about crawl to the sea.

But the thing is, Draco is being ridiculous. He doesn't care less about the turtle, but he cares that Harry cares about the damned thing. And he cares that Harry could have been in danger. And he cares that Harry hadn't been able to sleep. He's not mad that Harry woke him, he's not even mad that he's freezing with his toes in the sand.

Harry moves with Elvis the turtle all the way to the waves and raptly watches as the thing finally gets caught in the wave and swims away. Harry stands, watching, a ridiculous grin still plastered on his face. Draco stands behind him, and Harry takes his hand.

It's still warm. Draco doesn't question the hand holding, and he loves it.

"This was worth it," Harry says and Draco finds himself just nodding along.

Holy Merlin, he thinks. He's so screwed. So so screwed.

A/N:Feeding wildlife is actually not recommended at all, do not feed wild animals.