A/N: Chapter warnings for; explicit language, referenced torture, implied/referenced car accidents, implied/referenced child abuse.
A huge thanks to our Beta, and we hope you like this chapter! Things are looking pretty bleak for our characters here.
Next update on 2nd July, Friday, although keep a look out for another interlude on 25th June!
We've also made a playlist for My Safest Sound on Spotify. It has some of our favourite songs that remind us of Harry and Draco here. If anyone is interested, they can check it out! the name is "my safest sound"
Chapter Thirty Five
...
"I love the idea of love as a violent act, not to the person that you love, but against the world. To say to somebody, 'I love you; by extension, I hate all other things.'"
Hozier
…
This is utter madness, and Severus is aware of that. So acutely is he aware of the utter delusion his colleagues seem to be nursing that he can't believe himself for complying with Albus' orders.
They have Potter, tucked away, safe and sound in a place where even flies can't pass in without being noticed. He is safe. He is protected. His godson is there with Potter.
And now, now that safety is paramount, now that Potter is needed alive more than ever, the old fool orders him to retrieve him and his godson, and take them back to a house governed by Molly Weasley and Black.
Black. Drunk, fatigued, loony Black.
In a place that reeks of dark magic, a house where every little thing could pose a threat of imminent death.
Severus has to breathe, close his eyes, press on his temples and breathe again.
They're going to Potter-proof the headquarters, that much he is aware of, member's access to most rooms will be inhibited, and so will be Potter's in return. And his godson, who might be even worse because of his family name.
They're going to treat him and Draco like prisoners. Both boys will abhor it, Severus is damned sure of it. They will rot in that gloomy, rotten place. Just like Black is.
The only person happy with this transition, is surely Black, and his goons. Because that daft man believes that having another person trapped in a cage with him would relieve him of his depression. But it wouldn't. It would perish Potter.
Albus knows it. But he is allowing this.
Severus fixes his robes, looks at the detested picture in front of him. The one on the wall.
"How did you do it?" He asks under his breath. He can't help it. This, this is the man who outwitted Albus Dumbledore. The same man, Severus can't figure out for the life of him.
Is Albus planning a punishment or a new chance?
The picture stares back at him, serene and stoic.
Severus gets the impression that he is being laughed at, by the picture.
He won't leave Draco alone, he thinks it again and again, like a mantra as he exits his room. He might just deliver the boys to Grimmauld place, but he is going to make sure that his godson isn't mistreated.
Potter won't stand for it. Most probably. But Severus is not taking any chances.
"Leaving now, Severus?" Albus asks over his steaming mug. Severus just looks at him with a knowing frown.
Because he does know.
This must be a punishment. For whom, or what purpose or end, he doesn't know.
But he also doesn't need to be Morris Prewett to know that. He doesn't need to be a dead man to smell a conspiracy coming.
"I will floo them straight to the headquarters," he says because Albus is just staring back at him, in no haste to avoid his gaze.
"Of course," the man takes a long sip of his mug, "I will meet you there. Do you have the note?"
He does, he pats his robe to indicate as such.
Severus wishes he didn't.
He floos to the Salamander's clave and then immediately apparates to the cottage, unceremoniously, because he doesn't have the capacity to be patient with himself, with Potter or even his own Godson.
The door is ajar.
Something is wrong. He knows it the instant he sees the door. Severus' head whips to the kitchen. There is food serving the table, stale food, untouched.
They're not here.
Panic grips him like a second cloak and he slashes his wand at the surrounding. The cottage is empty.
He runs outside, ignores the crashing waves and the wind. It's a cloudy day, it's going to storm. Severus surveys the shore with wide eyes.
They couldn't have drowned.
He starts running to the wards, flinging spell after spell to make sure he is the only person in the vicinity and to his piling panic he is.
It's just a vast nothingness. Just sand, and the waves and the cottage far away.
Severus can't breathe.
This place was under wards. Under the Fidelius. There is no conceivable way that it has been compromised. He himself is the secret keeper and he can count on one hand the number of people he's told about it. And he's never written it down anywhere.
But where then, did they go?
He spots the shoe too late for his sharp, quick-witted instincts. It's half-buried in the sand, overturned and it's not Draco's.
"Fuck," he mutters, his eyes stitched to the shoe.
The wind blows and clouds rumble overhead.
Fuck.
They've been walking for over an hour now.
Draco can honestly say that this is the most he's ever walked in one go. The ache in his legs is almost starting to rival his shoulder. He glances at Harry and the other boy looks content as ever, not even breathing harder than before.
Contrary to what the past day might have shown, Draco does have some semblance of dignity left, and he's using that not to huff and puff while matching Harry's gait.
Of course, that stupid one-sided rivalry is only because Draco is focusing so hard not to think about what happened before.
Honestly, at this point, he's just relieved that Harry hasn't… gone away in a while. This morning was scary. While he could handle these episodes from him in the safety of Shell Cottage, they couldn't afford to be distracted here.
Their lives were now at stake, every time Harry was not consciously aware of his surroundings, it wasn't just their dinner burning.
It was run, or die. And Harry can't run when he's away.
Draco knows, he just knows that he is waiting for the other shoe to drop.
He does believe that the end justifies the means, but who decides what is the end?
He shakes his head. Harry still hasn't asked about how Draco found him. He doesn't know how Harry will react to that breach in personal boundaries, whether he'll get rid of the shell necklace, forgets all about kissing Draco, leaves him to rot amongst muggles.
The possibilities are endless and terrifying.
He knows he had good reasoning for what he did, that it saved Harry's life. He shudders to think what would have happened to him if Draco hadn't found him as quickly as he did. Or left alone with Rosier and Valentina.
But on the other side of the same coin, Draco thinks of how his charm might have just doomed Harry to a worse fate. Maybe Valentina would've helped him better. Maybe Harry wouldn't have hurt himself if she was the one keeping watch... But-
No, he couldn't rely on Valentina, the butcher, the Knight, he can't rely on her generosity to get Harry out of this alive. He should just be grateful she didn't murder them all last night.
He carefully watches Harry, waiting for any spark of- of something. Horror, maybe. Even curiosity. But he's as… well, not normal. Not that. But his face is as neutral as can be, as always.
He glances down at the bandage wrapped around his arm. Harry didn't remember anything of last night, not after he'd gone to sleep. He hadn't even been suspicious when Draco had blurted out the first excuse that came to mind.
He might have felt guilty for hiding something this big from Harry, but given the circumstances and Harry's ridiculous guilt complex, he can't find it in himself. He still doesn't know what the curse is. If it's reversible. How it's reversible. It has to be reversible.
Could it make Harry try to harm himself even while he was awake? Could it make him attack Draco? What other effects did it have? Was it also affecting him physically, poisoning him, something insidious that Draco wouldn't notice until it was too late?
Too many questions, not enough answers.
Harry hums as he walks, glancing at Draco every once in a while.
They are holding hands.
Harry's hand is unusually cold in his own, but then again, so is Draco's. He can feel it tremble against his grip, but thankfully, it doesn't seem worse than before, earlier that morning or last night. It's not better, but not worse.
Their bag is hanging from Draco's good shoulder. It had taken a great deal of arguing before Harry let Draco carry it. But whatever Harry might think, he's definitely worse off than Draco. And anyway, Draco's injury was his own fault, and this whole thing is just his self-assigned punishment.
Of course he didn't tell Harry that.
Draco is fine. Physically, way better than Harry. And mentally...well. All Draco has to show for his troubles is his mutilated shoulder.
whereas Harry had been tortured again. Something his body wasn't supposed to handle. And cursed to top it off. Draco's mouth grows dry as he thinks about Harry's blank face, closed eyes. Cold body as he had moved mechanically.
It has to be a curse. Jinxes don't carry enough force to propel that kind of reaction without a jinxed object nearby, and Draco searched Harry several times last night as thoroughly as he dared.
Not a jinx.
Charms are not this malicious in intent, and so that only leaves curses and potions.
Through the process of elimination, Draco figures that a potion is too unreliable and fleeting, it can be flushed out of the system eventually, Rosier would never go for something like that.
Curses. That's what justifies this whole mess.
His mouth is dry from thirst, well, at least partially from thirst. The only liquid they have are the potions in their bag, and he's not willing to use them up anyway.
Harry's gaze on him is growing concerned and it's making Draco itch. He's the one who should be concerned for Harry, not the other way round. They haven't had anything to eat, or drink, just walking for hours and hours.
It's kind of painful to look at Harry and think of food, he had always been painfully scrawny, a little bit of weight that he might have gained during their stay in the cottage, is now just going to fly out of the window.
"We don't have to go very far now," Harry says softly. Draco purses his lips and looks ahead of himself, the gravel crunching under their feet as they walk. It's just miles of green ahead. He can't see any sort of buildings other than a couple of abandoned farms left to the weather.
Not very far.
Draco shakes his head, "I'm fine." He's really not, "What about you? Does it hurt? Do you need a pain reliever?"
Harry gives him a small, brittle smile, like he knows exactly what bullshit Draco is on about, but he just shrugs, "Same as you. I'm okay."
But Draco is not. And neither is Harry.
"It's cold," Draco says, and mulls Harry's words in his head. 'Okay' in Harry's language is much milder in meaning than its other counterparts.
Draco, at least during their time together, has cracked the puzzle. Sort of. Any word or expression even hinting on Harry's own welfare is uttered with irony. There's a hierarchy to the words as well, and 'okay' is surprisingly down the list as far as Draco is concerned.
At least, and much to his relief, Harry didn't say he's 'great'.
Great, is Harry's ultimate 'I'm done' word. Draco honestly doesn't think he could've handled that.
Cold is great, because cold hurts now. He rubs his thumb lightly against Harry's hand, wishing that he could will away the pain. The sweater Harry is wearing is still damp with blood and unlikely to keep the November chill out.
"I know," Harry says, "It's fine."
Fine. That is way higher than 'okay'. A few notches under Great.
Fuck fine. Draco wants to scream with how not fine it is. They can't use magic, they don't have food or water, and Tattershall seems worlds away.
Did he mention his legs? They fucking hurt.
But who is he to complain, he thinks sullenly. Harry has nerve damage. He's certainly hurting worse than him. And hell will freeze over before Harry complains. He knows this from experience, at least.
With Harry, it's never even a matter of pride, the way he keeps quiet and suffers silently. Unlike Draco. He used to think it was pride, of course. Some stupid Gryffindorish thing of his. But he's come to realise it's just a matter of convenience.
It's hilarious, the power Harry holds over his own pain. If it's inconvenient, it's not worth mentioning. Harry almost died from blood poisoning because of it.
Distant memories, and they're so addictive to Draco, that he's plagued by it. He remembers it, of course he does, it happened recently but it feels like such a long time ago.
From all of the gore, and blood and hallucinations, the moment Draco recalls most prominently is carrying Harry.
If Draco knew Harry would accept it, he'd have long since offered to carry the other boy now as well.
He knew he could. Harry's a fucking twig compared to Draco, and Draco isn't exactly bulky. It'd kill his legs, but it'd make him feel better. But the truth of the matter is, Harry would never accept it. He didn't last time- not knowingly anyway-, and he won't now.
The pain in his toes is frankly interfering at this point. Draco sneers down at his feet.
He doesn't know how Harry's walking right now. He's seen the boy's legs shaking, the way they sometimes seem to buckle under their own weight, no warming. The way Harry cries out and scrambles for purchase. He's massaged those legs himself, on a few occasions.
Because it's cold, and the nerves in Harry's body perceive cold as pain now. Hot, stabbing pain.
He hates Bella. He hates the Dark Lord and he hates Rosier. And he hates whoever invented the Cruciatus but neglected to create a cure for the aftereffects. He hates the cold.
He hates everything, but Harry.
It's a bit colder when they finally reach civilization. The town is small, there's a signpost, written in faded paint 'Welcome to Warnham!' at the entrance.
Harry tells him that they can't walk on the road anymore. They have to stick to the sides.
"You can't walk in the middle of the road. Cars might drive by," he explains.
Draco has no idea what magic muggles use to make the cars run. The ones from the ministry are charmed, he's only seen one from afar. It only made sense if muggles use charmed cars too.
"Sort of," Harry tells him, his voice is so patient, so gentle, "They put this liquid, called petrol, into the car, and it powers the engine, and makes the wheels move."
Draco opens his mouth. Then closes it. He can't conjure a mental image of that in any way. "Is the petrol charmed?"
Harry chuckles, he's a bit breathless with the cold. Draco wants to make it go away. He really does.
"Not charmed. It's not magic. It's just refined oil."
"What's that?"
Harry squeezes his hand, and just then one of the weird muggle cars passes them by. Draco freezes for a second but Harry seems nonchalant.
It was so fast. He stares at the back of the disappearing vehicle and breathes. He can't imagine that thing hitting them. It feels faster than his Nimbus 2001. The Firebolt, even. Faster and heavier and made of metal. It would absolutely crush them upon impact.
His sudden but strong hatred feels like the same rush of feelings, those few times he's been on the Knight Bus. And he'd always hated it, and Severus, who was the only one even allowing him on the damned thing, hated that he hated it. It was a mess, but Draco was always grateful there's only one of it.
How many cars are there?
"Let's forget about it," Harry says, not unkindly and pulls him closer to his side, their arms flush together.
Draco still isn't used to the speeding cars when they find a bus station. It has chairs, a roof, and there's a yellow sign with grass sprouting here and there.
"Oh look at that," Harry mutters and lets go of his hand. Draco wants to mourn the loss, or better yet, reclaim Harry's hand, but the boy is looking at the glass panel behind the chairs.
"Map." He turns to Draco with a smile. The bright one Draco really likes, and then beckons him closer.
"Okay, so you said…"
"Tattershall," Draco squints at the map, tries his best not to look intimidated by the small dots and the overabundance of names and places and signs. He doesn't know what half of them mean.
"We're here," Harry points at a star at the bottom of the map, "Warnham." He's on his knees on the chair, and leaning toward the glass.
The chairs look hard and cold. Also, a bright red that Draco abhors on sight.
He scrambles on the one near Harry's, his eyes following Harry's trembling finger, the sound of another speeding vehicle behind them sends a rush of fear down his spine. Every single time, he just imagines the speeding car whirring and running them over.
Harry is trailing his fingers upwards, muttering the names, "We need to go north," he says, and Draco feels guilty for not participating.
Everything is too much. His feet hurt, his knees on the red plastic hurt, and now he keeps imagining Harry bloodied under that monstrous block of metal.
"Draco?" Harry turns to him, attentive. His hands grab Draco's good shoulder, before the other one resettles against his arm. "Look at me."
Draco is, it's the only thing keeping him from bursting into tears.
Please don't die, he begs in his head, a never-ending mantra. Please never die.
"It's okay," Harry leans forward, kisses him on the cheek, and his lips, unlike the rest of his body, are warm, and soft, not chapped and dry like Draco's. Harry hugs him, he's careful with his shoulder, he smells like trees (and blood), and Draco buries his face, his cold, ugly, chapped face in the crook of Harry's neck.
Because it's safe, warmer, and it's pulsing and alive.
"We'll find Tattershall, it can't be that far. He can help us, and…" he runs his hand through Draco's hair, and he feels so fucking guilty for enjoying it, and being calmed by it. "And even if he doesn't, we'll think of something. I promise."
It's for him. Draco has to do this for him, to save his life, because he doesn't care about his own anymore.
"Okay," he mutters against Harry's skin.
"Let's look now," Harry says but doesn't pull away, Draco has the distinct feeling of him turning his head away towards the map again.
"Oh," Harry says, quite suddenly and Draco pulls back. "It is north. Really north," Harry points at the top of the map, so high up that Draco can't read the words properly for a second. But there it is.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Harry grabs his hand again and it all stalls to a halt in Draco's head. The curse words vanish and the panic ebbs, he looks at Harry.
"We can make it that far." He says, without a grain of doubt in his voice, his hand is fucking shaking and probably cramping from the cold but he looks confident in his word. "Then we can find this Slugborn-"
"Slughorn."
"Yeah him," Harry's smile expands. The tip of his nose is red. From the cold. Everything is the cold's fault. Although Harry does look a bit cuter like that.
Draco shakes his head, he can't even believe his thoughts right now.
"Harry…"
"Don't tell me," Harry pulls him off the hard cold chair, and eases the bag off his shoulder. "Let's go."
No.
No, no, no.
Just… no.
"Draco."
"No," he crosses his arms, it's really cold now, the tips of his fingers are numb, they're in an alleyway, narrow, narrower than the entrance to Knockturn Alley. Behind a bakery shop.
Harry holds the muffin by its wrapper, it looks untouched, but... no. no.
Draco is not eating something out of a dumpster. A Muggle dumpster. Food that could've touched anything. Infused with all sorts of muggle diseases. Made by them, thrown away by them.
"I found it sitting on the lid. Only the wrapper touched the garbage can, Draco."
Draco closes his eyes. "I'll rather starve."
Then Harry sighs, and Draco can literally feel him shrinking with his eyes closed. He didn't mean that, he didn't mean it like that.
He hates upsetting Harry, and he hates doing this wrong. He just keeps screwing things up. Harry hasn't been dating him for a full day yet and he might break up with him now on the spot.
"Draco, you saw me finding it. Only the wrapper touched the garbage can. It looks clean, it smells fine. Do you want me to try first?"
No. Merlin no.
Draco steps forward, avoids looking at the cursed muffin. "The bakery is right there."
Harry's face is pinched, "We don't have money, I'm sorry. This is all we have right now. I swear it's not that bad. I know fresh food when I see it. This is fresh."
"They're muggles."
Draco thinks he can intimidate a fucking muggle into giving him something that didn't come out of trash. If he can't even do that much, then what is he?
"They're people," Harry doesn't sound frustrated, not even annoyed. Just tired. So tired that he might fall asleep on the spot and Draco does not want that. "They take money for goods. Do you want me to find you something else?"
"From the garbage?" Draco hates himself for sounding like a fucking child. Especially when Harry's face contorts for half a second before smoothing out.
"Okay." He puts the muffin inside the bag, and then turns to the garbage can again, Draco feels as if he might vomit any second. "You can look away," Harry warns, carefully folds the sleeve of his sweater back, and puts his shaking hand back in again.
Draco does turn around, he looks at the closed stores, the phantom ridden streets, and the annoying lights Harry called 'Neon'. They are headache-inducing.
The sound of shuffling from behind makes Draco clasp a hand on his mouth. He's stranded in the middle of nowhere, in a muggle town, with Harry, sweet, injured, tortured Harry, on foot with no clothes… and he has the audacity to be sick.
Draco turns to face Harry again, who is methodically shuffling his hand inside the can. "Found another one," he says, with no amount of excitement and pulls out a loaf of bread.
"It's also fresh," he puts it inside the bag, then looks at Draco. He must have noticed the sharp sting in his eyes because he drops his trembling hand and walks up to him, touches Draco's face with his other, clean hand. "The garbage they put out is dry, just wrapping papers, and...and tissues and stuff okay? It looks clean. If we don't eat now…"
His fingers trace Draco's scar, "Please, for me? Just the muffin. I'm... I'm trying to think of something."
Draco finds himself nodding even though he doesn't fucking mean it. He just hates seeing Harry so upset on his account no less. He will eat right out of the garbage before making Harry cry.
"Yeah. Yeah okay."
"Thank you, Draco," Harry keeps his other hand, the one in the garbage away from him, but Draco reaches for it, and then lets Harry take them back to the dumpster.
They find a scone, and a cup with a lid that had cold coffee in it. Harry pours the foul, cold liquid on the sidewalk, then stores the cup with the scone.
"We can use the cup," he says, as he carefully splits the muffin in two, he keeps the part with the wrapper, the side that touched the transfer for himself, and hands Draco the top part.
Draco wants to protest, but he shuts up and just shoves the damned thing down his throat without thinking about it.
Harry was right. It doesn't taste stale. It doesn't even smell bad.
They abandon the alleyway and walk, it's cloudy above their heads, and the neon lights flicker all around them, the pavement is damp.
Harry never lets go of his hand, "That's a stop sign," he points at a red signpost by the far end of the street, "That means cars have to stop before entering the street. To avoid accidents."
Draco nods, a bit numbly. Car accidents.
Speeding metal cages, slamming into each other, full force, broken glass and bodies everywhere.
Harry squeezes his hand and they walk.
They barely encounter any muggles, there was one with an umbrella that gives them a weird look before hastily moving away from them, and a man growling into his hand that for some reason was held to his ear.
"We need to…" Harry muses, then his eyes narrow. Draco follows his gaze, to a small store with baskets set in front of it.
He turns to Draco, his eyes wide and his face pales, "Okay, Draco, I found us water."
"Wait- where…"
"Listen to me," he hastens his steps and drags Draco along with him, "I need you… to go inside that store, and ask the person behind the counter for 'Jar of pickled garlic', there is a huge chance that they won't have it, okay?"
"Ummm…"
"If the muggle says we don't have it, thank him after you look around a little, then get out. If he does have that… just look at the jar for a minute then tell him it's not the type you want."
They reach the store more rapidly than Draco wants them to, and he is still so confused. "What does that have to do with water?" He asks and Harry nods his chin at the bracket of water bottles near a fruit basket.
He squeezes Draco's hand, "He'll hear us if we wrangle one out of the package now. But just… go in there, be loud and distracting. I'll get us the water. Then get out okay?"
Draco exchanges a glance between the water bottles and Harry's pale face, pale but dotted red from the cold.
"Harry, I'm not sure about this."
Harry kisses him on the cheek. "It will be fine. I'll be quiet. I promise it'll be easy. Go now."
Draco's knees tremble like noodles as he walks into the narrow store, knowing that he looks like shit, with the terrible scar, and his unkempt clothes.
There are so many things lining the tiny store shelves, Draco recognizes crisps and beans for some reason. The muggle behind the counter is old, staring right at him.
"You okay there, lad?"
He doesn't sound like a muggle. Just some old man.
Draco clears his throat, his throat is parched, his hands are clammy.
"Um yes," he nods, "Yes. I was just…"
His mind goes blank for one terrifying moment. The man peers at him and Draco clears his throat again, "Do you have pickled garlic?"
The man pauses for a moment, looking around his own store, then gets up from his stool and Draco wants to rear back but the muggle just hums, "Pickled garlic… must be here somewhere."
He turns his back to Draco and Draco can faintly hear Harry fiddling with the bottles outside. He has to say something, anything to mask the noise.
"I want a… dated one. The older the better," he is talking right out of his ass. He has no idea how pickles work, he has no idea how wine works either.
The older the better was usually the rule.
"Don't know about that lad, but I have this."
The shuffling sound fades and Draco feels Harry passing the store entrance to the other side. He peers at the jars in the man's aged hands and then pretends to think for a moment, "oh no," he says in an overly fake manner.
"Oh no," he says again, like a fucking idiot, "This is not the kind I wanted. Sorry for bothering you."
Then he turns without another word and walks out.
The water feels blessed on his tongue and throat and his mind too. Harry makes him drink half of the bottle against his vehement protests.
"Drink first and drink half."
So Draco does. And then Harry drinks some, less than half, there's still a bit left, and then crams the bottle inside their bag. Draco reclaims Harry's hand and they keep walking.
"My aunt Petunia once hit me with a wooden spoon because of pickled garlic," Harry casually mentions sometime later, it should have started raining by now but it's not and Draco is grateful.
"She what?" God is it possible to hate those assholes more?
Harry nods, "Yeah. I got it wrong on the grocery list. She made me eat the entire jar, then hit me with her wooden spoon." Then he sees Draco's furious expression and slightly flinches, "Sorry I didn't mean to say that…"
Draco didn't want him to think he's to blame. He needs Harry to know how much Draco wishes he was the one who killed his awful relatives. "No. Don't be sorry," he shuffles closer to Harry, "I just…." His teeth clatter, from the cold and the rage. "I'm just so fucking glad she's dead."
Harry shakes his head, "Come on, don't say that."
"She tortured you," it comes out before he can stop it. The deluge of words.
Harry pauses, but he doesn't look insulted. "People like doing that, I guess."
They don't talk for a long time.
Draco is surprised that the sole of his shoes hadn't given in yet. It's late in the afternoon, and his feet fucking hurt and there is nowhere to sit.
Even worse, Harry's starting to get tired. Tired enough for Draco to notice.
He's been taking charge all day, just a calm constant as Draco panicked over the smallest things. Harry just stayed calm and collected. He found them food and water.
Meanwhile, he was busy not losing his fucking mind.
Draco brushes his thumb against Harry's fingers as his eyes roll around for some kind of miracle solution.
He finds it almost instantly.
"Hey," he says, pressing his thumb down to alert his... boyfriend? No, too juvenile. His Harry.
He'll decide on names later.
"Yes?" Harry's voice is quiet, another sign of his exhaustion.
"Let's go rest there," Draco points across the street, at the flickering, red neon letters spelling out the laundry store's name. Twenty-four seven. That means they won't be bothered.
Harry sort of hums and lets Draco drag him inside the store, it's empty and so much warmer than the harsh, biting cold outside that Draco wants to melt right on the floor.
He doesn't, instead, he takes them both to the rowed seats in front of the huge machines and they settle.
"Washing machine," Harry mutters with his eyes closed. His head is leaned on Draco's good shoulder.
It's warm. That's good for them both. Mostly for Harry. Draco sure as fuck hopes that the cramping eases up now. He can virtually feel it in the tenseness of Harry's shoulders.
He wants to rest his eyes as well, but he doesn't. The store being empty now doesn't mean that they're safe in any way, and besides, he's too busy rubbing his hand over Harry's arm to expedite the warming up process.
None of the machines are working, they look gigantic, infused in the walls, surrounding them from all sides.
Draco has no idea whether this is just a muggle implement or wizards use them as well. In his life from before he never even used to think about laundry.
When they were in the Shell cottage, either he washed them in the shower or charmed them clean.
No such luxuries from now on.
Harry dozes off against him eventually, he's still a bit cold to touch.
It takes Draco another twenty minutes before he gingerly eases Harry into the seat and stands to stretch his legs. He inspects the washing machines with a keen eye, and moves on from row to row, whilst checking on Harry over his shoulder every now and then. He doesn't want a repeat of the barn accident, if he could call it that, again.
They're all empty, some have the weird nice smelling powder in cube slots, and strange buttons that don't work when Draco presses them.
One of them though… One of them isn't empty.
Draco pries the machine open and peers inside, the coat, and a long-sleeved shirt.
"Thievery is the lowest form of the human condition," his father had said once, in response to Borgin and Burks' clerk, skimming money off of the artefacts they sold to him.
Draco was ten at the time, holding his chin high and nodding along, pretending that he knew how the world was run.
"Never do business with a thief, Draco. Not even if not doing so endangers your pride."
Draco touches the hem of the coat. It's thick, it looks warm and it's dry. It would keep Harry warm. And the shirt… Draco's was ruined.
He's not a thief. This isn't stealing. It's just… They're muggles.
Father's dictum didn't apply to muggles, and it's not as if the person who left it here needed it more than Harry would. If they did, they wouldn't have left it here.
Draco's hands shake as he retrieves the clothing and slowly closes the lid again. He stumbles back to Harry and the bag.
They can't wear the clothes here. Not yet. It's a small place, it's rarely crowded. If someone sees them with the clothing and recognizes them then they'll be in big trouble.
Draco gently coaxes the bag out of Harry's grasp, rolls up the coat, and the shirt into a tight roll, and places it under the vials so they don't break.
It'll be safe there for a while.
"Hey," Harry croaks, blinking his eyes hard, "Draco?"
"I'm here," Draco snaps the bag close and Harry yawns.
"We're still here?"
"We should probably move. Before it gets dark, come on."
It's so difficult for Harry to get back up from the chairs, his hands are shaking badly, and Draco bites the inside of his cheek. The cold is gonna hurt him again.
"We can get out of the town, stop in the next for the night," Harry says, finally gripping his hand as they make their way outside the store.
A blast of cold air greets them to hell.
Draco just walks.
They do it for longer than Draco thought they could, nearly three hours, straight.
He makes Harry drink the rest of their water, and much to his loathing, they split the bread into two, and munch on it as they walk. Draco just blissfully ignores the blisters surely forming on his feet in favour of avidly listening to Harry groggily talk.
"...And the inspector's hat sort of does crazy things that protect him against danger."
"And it came from the magic box?"
Harry chuckles, "Yes! I watched it on Friday afternoons from the slot of my cupboard. I used to want a hat like that."
"You can have that and way more with magic," Draco sniffs, raising his chin as Harry rolls his eyes.
"Then I wouldn't be Inspector Gadget, I'll be Harry with a silly hat."
Draco's lips twitch a bit at that. And then something else Harry said catches up to him. He almost stumbles.
"Your cupboard," he says. A question, and a plea, too.
Harry winces, "It's not a big deal," he starts. But Draco understands.
"They kept you in a fucking cupboard," he says, and while he wants to shout, he keeps his voice somewhat even and low. How can Harry be okay with this? "It will never not be a big deal."
"I liked it there. It was small, quiet and warm. They turned the lights off, so it was dark too and it was… Just me. Me being with myself. I liked that."
Draco flexes his hand, careful not to squeeze Harry's too hard. It's clear Harry doesn't want to talk about this. He won't make him. "You don't have to be like that anymore."
Harry smiles at him, "I know. Not anymore."
It's dark too soon for his tastes and Harry's reseller energy tapers off quickly, so rapidly that he almost falls face-first into the sidewalk before Draco catches him.
It's such a streak of luck, that he finds another laundry store, this one too, empty.
"'s cold," Harry mutters, and his body is wracked with tremors.
Draco reaches for the bag, "I know," he unfolds the coat once Harry crumples on one of the chairs, his eyes closed.
He doesn't even notice or acknowledge Draco putting the coat on him, and quickly changing his own shirt.
He fishes a vial of nerve soothers from the bag and Harry drinks that too without a complaint. He's gone before he even finishes drinking.
He sleeps, but Draco has to stay awake. He slept about three hours last night. His body aches fiercely. His eyes burn. He can't sleep.
The rain pattering on the windowpane is a mocking lullaby, soothing but with him unable to take any joy in it.