Athena greeted her companions the second they walked in the door in a flurry of feathers, hooting so loudly that Harry was grateful for the Muffling charms they'd placed around their flat - the neighbors would have been curious otherwise.
"Hey, girl!" Harry winced as Athena nipped his fingers, yellow eyes glaring at him accusingly. "I know, I know, I'm sorry. But we know you can take care of yourself."
Athena warbled disapprovingly, but she butted her head against his hand in an affectionate sort of way before flapping over to greet Draco.
"Warm up some bread for her," Draco instructed, pulling off his shoes.
"Ten seconds back in the house, and you're already telling me what to do," Harry said with an exaggerated sigh, but he slipped off his trainers and headed for the kitchen, ignoring Draco's grumbling in response.
The afternoon cast bright squares from the windows onto the living room, illuminating Athena's perch and a pile of letters beside it. The counters shone much less than how they'd left them, but the basket of green apples on the center island looked none worse for wear, thanks to a Freshening Charm. Harry spotted the white box of unfinished tiramisu they'd left behind as he rummaged around a basket for bread. He felt a pang of melancholy for the time he, Draco, and Joey had eaten the cake, huddled around the kitchen table with a solid plan and a handy map. They'd had no idea how wrong things would go.
There could very well be other missions like that, Harry reminded himself. Just because they'd gotten sidetracked as junior Aurors didn't mean it wouldn't happen five or ten years from now. He had to be prepared, emotionally and physically, for anything.
"Loads of post to get through," Draco sighed, bending down to gather up the pile. Harry walked over, bag of bread in hand, and made a mental note to ask Draco whether it was okay to microwave tiramisu or not. Athena hooted happily as Harry tore apart bits of charm-warmed bread and threw them for her to catch.
"Anything interesting?" Harry asked.
"Quite a few Prophets," Draco remarked, tossing them onto the table. Harry shuffled through them, scanning the headlines, and finding nothing of interest. "Ministry census notice…."
"What, three years in advance?"
"It's the Ministry. They're mental," Draco said with a shrug. "Ooh, Muggle skincare coupons." He set those aside. "Congratulations card from Dudley. I suppose he does read our letters, after all." Draco arrived at a slate-gray envelope, labeled with a typewriter-printed address. "Marisa Brighton-Ortega."
Harry hadn't heard the name in a while, but it recalled the image of a pale, kind-faced woman. "The Azkaban guard? Why…" He stopped. Draco eyed the envelope with as much apprehension on his face as Harry felt.
"She's never written us directly before," Draco muttered. "Always the prison."
What could it mean? Despite his curiosity, Harry made no motion to open the letter himself or encourage Draco, who was frozen, staring at the colored paper. The only noises that broke the silence were Athena's ruffling feathers and her mournful warbles when she noticed Harry had stopped throwing her food.
Ever since the mind-reading spell, Harry had found it even easier to interpret Draco's often marble-like expressions. Though his silver eyes were as still as glass, Harry felt palpable waves of oh-Merlin-fuck-what's-gone-wrong-now rolling off him.
"Draco?" Harry asked as Draco turned the envelope over, scanning the blank side as if hunting for clues. "I'll open it if you like."
Draco nibbled his lip, then placed the letter gingerly on the counter. "All right."
Harry decided they had waited enough. He picked up the envelope, slit it open with his wand, and began to read the brief, spaced letter. His eyes jumped to scan the contents before he'd read the whole thing, as they were wont to do, and Harry's stomach dropped.
Too late, he tried to school his expression, but Draco caught the jagged flash of panic across his lover's face. "What?" Draco demanded, and forgetting his own apprehension, peered over the edge of the parchment.
His face turned ashen, gaze fixed upon the same line that Harry could not look away from.
Lucius Malfoy passed away on 14:32, 11th July.
• • •
The grass stood in vibrant green as if no one had been here in years. Clouds floated like leaves upon a stream across the sky, pale blue and grey in the late morning. It smelled like rain, heavy and metallic. Gravestones waited in neat monochrome rows, smooth stone tops unbothered by the possibility of getting wet.
The coffin lowered today was the first in this cemetery since the second wizarding war. The funeral was poorly attended on purpose; only three people stood over the freshly turned earth. The gravedigger solemnly sheathed their wand, took the offered silver coin, bowed, and retraced their steps back to the main path. Harry, who had given the payment, shoved his hands in his pockets. He did not cry but watched Draco's face for tears. All he saw was anger, frustration, bitterness, and above all, a vague, hopeless confusion, the same that came to every living being when faced with death. Why here? Why now?
Separating Draco from his father was a gulf, salty, stinging drops hitting his face like a last, posthumous slap. And despite standing next to Draco, Harry felt as if he knew that gulf, too, standing on the shore as he watched his beloved flail and gasp just above the waves.
"Do you know what I last said to him?"
It was the first time Draco had spoken directly to Harry in two days. Harry looked at him, at the emptiness in his eyes, at the black mark peeking beneath his sleeve.
Quietly, afraid of breaking something, Harry said, "What?"
"'I still wish you were dead.'" Draco stared at the enormous, silver-and-black headstone, carved with the names Abraxas, Maren, and Lucius, with two spots left for the latter's heir and wife. "Got my wish." Draco's jaw clenched, the white marble of his face disturbed.
Harry scrambled for words of comfort and found none. He thought he knew this pain; he'd stood over the graves of countless loved ones and watched survivors do the same. Harry thought of Ginny at the kitchen table four years ago, her eyes as lost as Draco's were now. But she loved Fred. Harry didn't know exactly how Draco felt towards his father, but it wasn't affection. Harry hesitated on the precipice of taking Draco's hand, sliding an arm around his shoulders, but by then, it was too late. Draco lacked a cloak, but his stride from the Malfoy plot was as darkly dramatic without it, his narrow shoulders tense with some unnamed emotion. Harry nearly tripped over himself, trying to follow.
A scattering of sunbeams broke through the clouds beyond the pair of wizards, gilding the sky in silver. Draco's hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. He looked up at the sky, then back to the gravestone, his gaze glaring and restless.
"Let's go home," Draco said suddenly, and he disappeared with a crack.
Harry was almost afraid to follow. He took another breath of the heavy air to prepare himself and Apparated to the foyer.
Only the single bulb closest to the doorway had been turned on; more light seeped in, gray and faint, through the living room windows. Athena's perch hung empty. Thunder crackled above the building as if Thailand's storm had drifted all the way to Cambridge.
Draco sat with his head in his hands at the kitchen counter, palms pressed to his eyes. His wand lay directly in front of him. Harry took the chair next to him, chest aching at the sight of Draco's slumped posture, the tremble in his lips.
"You'll get through this," Harry said lamely, though he couldn't think of anything better. "Your father…" Loved you, Harry almost said but bit his tongue at the last second, because he didn't know for sure if it was true.
Draco laid both his hands flat on the counter. His eyes were bloodshot. "Don't speak to me about Lucius Malfoy. It's my mother I'm worried about."
Narcissa, wasting away in her Azkaban cell. She had been coldly civil to Harry the few times he'd visited, which he supposed was fair. He worked for the system that kept her in there, after all. Harry's stomach turned when he realized that Lucius had died just feet away from her. How long did Narcissa sit with her husband's corpse before the guards took him away?
"He was kind, once," she'd said, mainly to Draco, about a year ago. "If you can believe it."
"You tell me that all the time, Mum," Draco had replied with a sigh. "I do believe it. But he sure as hell wasn't always like that raising me."
Harry slid his own wand out of his holster and set it next to Draco's. "So, you want her out."
Draco's face twitched. "Astute as always, Potter."
"We can talk to Danjuma," Harry said, referring to the head of the Auror department, "Convince her to lessen the twenty years to-"
"Merlin, I'm so selfish!" Draco exclaimed, standing from his chair so quickly that it was knocked onto the floor. "You don't understand. I can't spend one more year like this."
"Like what?" Harry said, bewildered. He got to his feet as well, unsure what to do as Draco began pacing.
"Looking over our shoulders, dodging curses, traveling to fuck-knows-where…." Draco's right hand went to his left forearm as it always did when he was nervous, rubbing roughly over the marked skin. "My soul was out of my body, for fuck's sake, I can't - I can't…." His breath was coming in shallow puffs.
"It's all right," Harry said hurriedly, gently taking Draco's shoulders and leading him to the sofa. "Breathe."
"I can't handle myself out there like you can," Draco said, talking over him, "I'm not built to fight, I don't want to fight anymore, I'm sick of it…."
"You don't have to," Harry assured him, "You're safe. You're safe, Draco."
"I don't want to watch people die anymore," Draco rambled, nails digging into his skin, "I don't want to. I don't want to." He shook like a leaf in a storm, and all Harry could do was wait for it to pass.
"Breathe, Draco."
Draco gulped air, then muttered, "I can't fucking do this. I can't get up every day and face…any of it. All of it. You thought I could. Merlin knows Dad thought I could, but I…." Draco shut his eyes tight. "I'm not a killer."
Ice swirled in Harry's chest. "No, darling, of course you're not," He whispered, rubbing Draco's back.
"I'm not a killer," Draco repeated. "I'm not. I'm not a killer. I'm not a killer." He stopped suddenly, wincing audibly. Harry stifled a gasp, gently pulling away Draco's hand - blood oozed from thin red lines over the coils of the Dark Mark.
Guilt poured through the whole of Harry's body, filling his eyes. He'd watched this happen. Draco's uncertainty, the near-constant fear in his gaze, the confidence that he'd only put up to hide the anxiety building like pressure in a dam. And it had broken him.
"I'm sorry," Harry breathed, pulling Draco close, and he stilled, though he was still muttering. "I'm so sorry, my love; I should have never let you agree to this whole thing."
Harry knew Draco almost as well as he knew himself, knew what made him smile, knew how his face lit up at home or in the potions classroom, stirring up some bizarre concoction for someone else to take to the battlefield. Harry knew, too, what made him cry - the Dark Mark, the nightmares of running down a long Hogwarts corridor that slowly filled with dust and bodies. The adrenaline and danger of being an Auror reminded Harry of the war, but it gave him purpose, a reason to keep fighting for those who stood beside him and those who'd already fallen. But the feeling of chasing and being chased did Draco no favors. It only put him back in that corridor, sprinting for his life with no light, no way out. Harry should have realized that sooner.
"Stay right here," Harry said, squeezing Draco's hand. "I'll make you some tea, okay? And we'll get you healed up."
Draco did not respond. He shrunk away, pulled himself from Harry, and curled his knees to his chest. Harry started to reach out to smooth his hair but left for the kitchen instead. Draco didn't need to be showered with affection right now. Hell, Harry wasn't sure what he needed, but he was determined to help.
Draco remained uncommunicative for the rest of the night, only nodding or shaking his head. He seemed shell-shocked, his face pale and still, hands trembling so badly he needed both to lift a mug to his lips.
It began to rain shortly after they'd both gone to bed. Any sliver of moonlight that made it through the clouds lined the drops sliding down the window, creating silver stripes against the glass. Usually, Harry and Draco would stay up to watch thunderstorms, jumping at every magnificent lilac web that wove itself through the black. But Draco was disinterested, or perhaps already asleep - Harry couldn't see his face, couldn't hear his breath through the storm's cacophony, but could only watch the rise and fall of his hunched shadow before exhaustion took over.