The Trick Is To Keep Breathing

by neomaxizoomdweebie

After tragedy at Malfoy Manor, Draco is left on his own to face the world - and his own darkness. But can Harry pull him out on time? Set two years after Hogwarts. SLASH.

2. After All These Years

Title: The Trick Is To Keep Breathing
Author: Miss T
Rating: R
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Genre: Romance/Future-fic/Horror
Notes: This story is based on one of my favourite adult-books of all time - Drawing Blood by Poppy Z Brite. The story is not exactly the same, just based around it, although some of it is very similar. I thought it was a good Harry/Draco plot, and I hope you all like it! Please please please take my recommendation of reading Drawing Blood... it really is good.
Notes 2: Ooo, I just had to do a whole Harry-High-Fidelity theme here. Argh! lol. And also - some of my reviewers were a bit confused on the last chapter - YES that was a prologue. That was when Draco was sixteen and spending his summer at Malfoy Manor. This chapter is three years after the 'incident'. Draco and Harry are both 19.

The Trick Is To Keep Breathing
Chapter One - After All These Years

And every father's pain
Casts a shadow over a broken son
You'll be whole again
And I'll be whole again
All those years
I was hurting to feel
Something more than life.

- silverchair - After All These Years

3 YEARS LATER

Harry Potter woke from mesmerizing dreams, not like those he suffered from five years ago. His scar no longer hurt. His scar was barely even noticeable anymore - fading lightly onto his skin, like the life he once had. Pulling the pillow off his face, Harry rubbed at his eyes and yawned loudly. He was now living in his own flat in London, a small and modest place, but nicely decorated and ever the typical teenage jumble of mess. After leaving Hogwarts, he had all his money exchanged from galleons to pounds, earning himself a small fortune and opening up a Muggle bank account. He lived alone, enjoying the comforts of friendly visits now and again from his old friends Ron and Hermione (who were now actually going out with each other), and the visits from new friends he had made in the Muggle world who knew him for 'just Harry', and not 'Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived.' He liked it this way. He was very happy.
Reaching for the buzzing alarm clock on his bed side table, Harry bashed it with his fist before stretching out and kicking the blue sheets off from his body. After shower and a shave, Harry made his way through to his living room and turned on the telly. It was half past nine, so he was graced with the usual morning breakfast shows as he drunk his tea, occasionally making faces at the presenters of GMTV for talking such utter bollocks.
Harry's living room was decorated homely colours of warm reds and creams, black leather sofas and dark wooden furniture. A large (muggle) framed photo of himself with Ron and Hermione on the last day of school, a year ago, lay on the wall next to the kitchen door.
The bookshelf next to the TV was crammed with muggle-novels, the occasional title boldly crying out to the onlooker, The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy, The Lazy Student's Cookbook, amongst others. Stacks of videos and DVDs were piled up neatly next to his television set, Star Wars, The Matrix, Artificial Intelligence... it was safe to say that Harry had turned out to be a bit of a geek. Unaware of such accusations, however, Harry enjoyed his quiet life. After another half an hour of insulting the TV presenter's intelligence, Harry made his way out of the door to work.

The part of London where Harry stayed wasn't busy; not like the centre of London, anyway. As he made his way down the narrow pathway towards the record shop, Harry sighed happily as elderly women, people with prams and buggies, children and so on walked past him, not realising that he was one of the most famous names in the wizarding world.
Plunging into his jeans pocket for his keys, Harry watched himself in the the glass in the shop door. His face was still the same, same round glasses, same dark eyebrows and very unruly hair, contrasting against the faint glow of bronze tinged skin. He had grown slightly taller over the past year, and his muscles didn't have the same feel to them after he had stopped playing Quidditch. It was sometimes odd to see himself without his school robes on, now that he was wearing a blue jumper and black jeans, no school shoes - just regular converse trainers. He loved the comfort of being a lazy muggle-teen.
Placing the keys in the lock, he realised that the door was already open, his two work mates already inside and preparing the shop for the day ahead. "Alright lads?" Harry sighed, as he walked past the two men to dump his shoulder bag into the cluttered office.
His two friends were in the middle of a heated 'discussion' over the music that was being played in the shop.
"And which version do you like better, then?" The shorter of the two asked, folding his arms over. The other one, was in slight contrast to the stubby form of the man in front of him, had light red hair that was tied in a ponytail behind his head. He was skinny and tall, and Harry was often reminded of Bill Weasley whenever he looked at his work mate.
"Well, since it's my tape we're listening to, it's obviously this one isn't it?" He retorted.
The plump man snorted. "The Byrds?! Bullshit!"
Harry was getting quite tired of their bickering already, and it was only 10 minutes into the day.
"How can it be bullshit to state a preference, Doug?" He sighed, moving to the counter where he began to unload some money into the till.
Doug shrugged and rolled his eyes. "Dylan always wins." He muttered under his breath as he continued to sort records out in the Pop section.
The other man, named Andrew, rolled his eyes also and flipped the sign over at the door, opening the shop for the day.
Harry Potter owned a record shop. That was his job. Not an Auror, not even a Mediwizard - but an owner of a muggle shop. And he loved it. After graduating from school, and opening up his bank account, Harry sifted through herds of paperwork and finances, and after a good six months, Spinning Records was his. They mainly sold old rock and pop albums, only some CD's, and promotion demos of local bands. It was for the music enthusiast, not the new age teeny bopper. Some way along the line, he had managed to find Doug and Andrew, employing them as sales assistants in the shop, and it had been history from there.
"You want some coffee, Harry? I'm making a pot." Came Andrew's voice from the office a couple of hours later. Harry shivered involuntary. "No thanks, mate - I'll pass." He replied as he gave a customer back her change.
"Are you sure?" Andrew came through onto the shop floor, two mugs in his hand.
Harry nodded. "Very sure. I used to love the stuff- drunk it all the time. But I can't anymore, it makes me jumpy."
Andrew nodded sympathetically. "What about decaf?"
Harry shook his head. "No, can't even drink that, mate."
Andrew raised an eyebrow. "How old are you again?"
"Eighteen."
Andrew rolled his eyes and made his way back to the office. "You need to relax, mate. Getting old before your time, you are."
Harry laughed and continued to serve the long string of customers ahead of him.

When Harry closed up for the night and made his way back home, the last thing he expected was a long trail of wizarding press lingering outside the entrance to his block of flats. Before he could process what was going on, Harry was suddenly blinded by the sharp flashes of cameras, the desperate voices of the reporters, only managing to pick up snippets of what they were saying.
"... almost three years..."
"... defeated You-Know-Who..."
"... living in the Muggle World..."
"... does it feel..."
"... love life? Getting married?..."
"... Boy Who Lived is..."
"... gone?"
After a quick few mumblings of 'no comment', Harry wrestled his way into his flat, stumbling with the door at first, but managing to enter none the less. Sighing, he let his keys drop to the floor and leaned against the closed door. Even in the Muggle World, I can't escape the famous Harry Potter...
Last year, after graduation, he had told himself that he was leaving the magic world behind. The magic world didn't need Harry Potter anymore. He was no longer the Boy Who Lived - he was the Boy Who Defeated The Dark Lord. At the end of his fifth year at Hogwarts, Harry had faced the final battle with Voldemort himself. Many survived, many didn't - and the important thing was, he was gone. Lord Voldemort was defeated, and quite frankly, so was Harry. He didn't want to be famous anymore. So he found salvation in the Muggle World, where no one knew what his name meant. But now they had found him - and there was no escaping.
Reaching for his phone, Harry numbly began to dial a number he knew so well.
Ring Ring. Ring Ring. Ring...
Pick up, come on! Pick up!
Hello, this is Hermione Granger. Sorry I couldn't receive your call but if you leave your name and number I'll get back to you...
No no no! Hermione please "Hermione! Are you there? Hermione? PICK UP THE PHONE! Alright listen, they've found me. The press. I have to go, I have to get out of here... I can't stand it Hermione, I can't... please, tell me you and Ron will meet me tonight at the back of the flats next to my car. I'm leaving. And I don't know when I'll be back... if I'll be back. Just be there."
beeeeeep

~~~|~~~

The Knight Bus smelled of smoke and sweat and tiredness, the low hums of the engine enough to drive anyone into a dozy slumber. Draco shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his bag in a lump on his knees with a pad of parchment resting above it. His pencil was going to need a sharpening soon.
The light from the outside windows was beginning to get dim as day retreated below the hills, wavering away into nothingness. Reaching over to charm the small light above his head, Draco continued to sketch on the pad.
The elderly wizard sitting across from Draco sighed audibly and shifted around in his seat, pursing his lips and glaring up at the light above Draco's head. He finally dropped his gaze and stared directly at Draco. "Excuse me." he said. "Excuse me, young man!"
Draco looked up with a frown. "Yes?"
"Do you mind?" The wizard asked, gesturing the light above Draco's head. "Some of us would like to get some sleep."
Draco felt the familiar feeling of a sneer creep over his features. "Yes. Yes I do mind, actually. I'm drawing." He snapped, raising an eyebrow.
The elderly wizard shifted around again, huffing and puffing, his features turning purple. "And what exactly are you drawing that is so important, young man?"
Silently, Draco turned his parchment around so that the wizard could see it. It was a pencilled drawing of a woman propped against a doorway, her mouth filled with blood, her head drenched in it, her hands in a bloody mess on her lap. "My mother." Draco said.
The wizard's nostrils flared and he sat up straight. He opened his mouth to retort, but closed it quickly and turned the other way. Draco would have usually smiled in satisfaction at something like this, but his face felt so numb that he couldn't. Turning back to his drawing, Draco noticed that the wizard didn't say a word to him for the entire remainder of the journey.

On Draco's eighteenth birthday, he had been taken out of wizarding foster care, left with his family fortune (including the Manor) and set free to the world. Deciding that the mansion held too many painful memories, Draco had been travelling ever since - staying in various towns over the past year - Paris, Edinburgh and even London. Now, after a year and a half of running, Draco decided that it was no use in hiding from the past. He had to go back to Wiltshire. A place he hadn't been to since he was sixteen. He couldn't let his father's mistakes ruin him anymore, he had to face his fears if he was going to get anywhere in life.
As Draco stepped off the bus, he made his way down the quiet lane of the small wizarding village where Malfoy Manor was situated. It felt very odd and unnerving, and he tried over and over to block out mental images from his childhood.
Remember when I fell in that pond when I was flying? Thinking I was being so smart in front of Vince and Greg...
Taking in a shaky breath, Draco proceeded to move forward. His bag began to get annoyingly heavy on his back, and it wasn't until he felt the dry pangs of longing deep within his throat that he realised he was thirsty, and very hungry.
When Draco arrived in the main street of the village, he stopped outside a small pub he didn't recognise. Sighing and pressing his hand to the door, Draco walked into a very empty looking room filled with floating white dust and dim lighting, and a man standing behind the bar, emptying a bag of galleons into the till.
"Errr... sorry, are you closed?" He asked the wizard, who looked around 40 or so. He had long straggly hair tied back in a ponytail, and was very lanky-built, with bottle green robes and smiling eyes.
"Yeah we are..." The wizard glanced at Draco, who was looking very flustered with his bag flung over his shoulder, his usually sleek ghost-paled hair slightly unruly. The man recognised the pale features of this scared looking boy, but he just didn't know where to place them.
"But why don't you come on in, anyway, mate? We're opening soon." He smiled, emptying the last galleons into the money slots. "My name's Martin, I'm the owner. You look new." He held out a hand to Draco who shook it reluctantly. "So, would you like a drink?" Martin asked, gesturing the taps of butterbeer.
Draco nodded eagerly and let his bag drop to the floor.
"What can I get you?" Martin asked, leaning over from behind the counter as Draco sat down on one of the stools.
"Just a butterbeer, please." Draco said quietly.
The wizard raised an inquisitive eyebrow Draco. "Have we met before?."
Draco shook his head, a little too frantically. "I've just arrived."
The wizard nodded in return and handed a butterbeer to Draco. "So what's your name then?"
Draco smiled politely and took the butterbeer from Martin's hand, before panicking when he heard the question. "My name's..." Your decoy! Use your decoy, you've been using it for over a year now...
"... David."
The wizard let out a low chuckle. "Do you have a second name, David?"
Draco coughed on his beer, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "My family are... Asian. We don't use second names." My family are ASIAN? How in the HELL do I know if they don't use second names or not? Oh, Draco - you fool!
The older wizard eyed him suspiciously before sighing and returning to the till. "Very well."
Draco continued to sip his beer while the wizard cleaned the counter and glasses. "Do you have somewhere to sleep?" He asked suddenly.
Draco placed his butterbeer down and took a deep breath. "Yes. I'm staying up at Malfoy Manor."
Draco's words hit the man like cold water, and he suddenly dropped the glass he was holding. "I knew it!" He exclaimed, causing Draco to wince. "You're Malfoy's son, aren't you?"
Draco stood up sharply and picked his bag up from the floor. "I have to go now, thank you for the drink." He said quietly, getting ready to turn out the door.
"Wait, wait, wait. Slow down, boy." Martin said softly, coming out from behind the bar and placing a hand on Draco's shoulder, who tensed up immediately. "Are you sure you want to be sleeping there? I mean, with everything that's gone on inside that house?"
Draco turned, his grey eyes shining in the dim light. "I'm deadly sure." His tone was quiet and firm. Martin nodded. "Look after yourself, then. And if there's anything you need, don't hesitate to come back here."
Draco let his gaze drop before he looked up again at the older wizard. He mouthed a "Thank you." before stepping out the door.

~~~|~~~

Harry was stacking the last bag of his belongings in the boot of his car when a very flustered Ron and Hermione arrived. Ron's cheeks were almost as red as his hair as he leant his hands on the top of his thighs to catch his breath. Hermione was similar, her wild hair sticking to her flushed faced, her lips parted, panting for air.
"Harry... you can't be... serious!" Ron wheezed, standing up straight. Hermione turned to her boyfriend and nodded in agreement.
"I have to!" Harry replied, shoving down the boot door with a force. "There's a hoard of press outside, after my blood - in case you didn't notice on your way..."
The pair glimpsed quickly over behind them, where the back door to Harry's block was. They could hear the echo of excited reports voices from where they were standing outside, a whole stone wall away.
"I'm not going to be gone forever, you know. Just until they get bored and leave." Harry leaned against his car and folded his arms over.
"Yeah but how long is that going to be, Harry?" Hermione now asked softly. "You know what they're like."
"Exactly!" Harry replied hotly. "I do know what they're like. And I do know that they'll make my life a living hell unless I stay away from them. I have to... I can't handle it right now."
Hermione and Ron exchanged glances before turning back to their best friend. "Alright." Hermione replied shortly.
Harry nodded, and stood himself up, off his car.
"Where are you going to go?" Ron asked quietly, stepping towards his friend.
"Not sure yet. Just away." Harry chuckled humourlessly, running a hand through his unruly locks.
Before Harry knew what was happening, Ron had folded him into a tight hug, clasping the back of his shirt. "Keep in touch, mate." He whispered into Harry's ear. When he had let go, he looked over to Hermione and smiled. "Don't do anything I wouldn't, Harry."
"Not in a million years, Hermione." Harry smiled, leaning over her petite form and placing a gentle kiss on her forehead.
"Well, I... I suppose I should go." Harry said quietly. Ron and Hermione nodded and smiled as they watched Harry step around the car and open the door next to the driver's seat. With a gentle wave and smile, Harry turned on the engine, the sound rattling over the voices from outside. Pulling out from the driving space, he turned around and drove out into the backstreets, and into the night. Gone.

__________

to be continued...