Chapter IV
Out of the Crypt
-o–#–O–#–o-
"You don't know how lovely you are..."
(Coldplay, "The Scientist")
-o–#–O–#–o-
Draco was lying in the snow. He was dead and he knew it—because, well, it wasn't an event to pass exactly unnoticed—but it didn't bother him as much as he might have expected Before, when he'd still been alive. His mind had simply registered it at some point, labelled the information, put it on an immaterial shelf of his memory and continued to function just as before. It was kind of like knowing the Sun is some 92 million miles away from Earth; you accepted it as real, but your mind couldn't really grasp it because it was simply huge, 'too' huge. The same went for being dead. Draco knew it, but it didn't quite affect him, because he couldn't even begin to comprehend the immensity of it and, consequently, didn't bother to.
If being dead meant lying in the snow like this, it was nicer than most people thought. He didn't feel cold, or tired, or hungry, or bored, or confused, or troubled, or afraid... the list was too long. All he had to do was lie there and not worry about anything at all. And he was wearing his favourite pair of robes. Somehow, this was also very important. And nice.
Yeah, everything was nice. He felt content. He couldn't remember whether he'd ever been that content Before.
He didn't get bored, despite the fact he did nothing all day long. Well, 'day' wasn't entirely accurate, because there was none of that day-night-day-night nonsense here. Time had become a meaningless concept. The sky was mostly covered by a thick, white layer of clouds, but sometimes it turned crimson, which Draco found fascinating. And when his sky turned crimson, the snow also reflected it and Draco felt like he was bathing in the colour. It made him smile, but he still didn't move. There was no need to. And then, some other times, the sky was a deep dark blue and full of falling stars, and Draco also felt like falling. But only rarely. Most of the time, the sky was white and endless, just like the snow.
Of course, as time didn't have any meaning anymore, Draco always felt like he'd been lying there for a fleeting moment and an eternity altogether.
-o–#–O–#–o-
It had started to snow again. The occurrence wasn't unusual, but Draco never got buried under the new layers. This time, the flakes were rather large and fluffy and felt like feathery touches melting into his skin.
But something wasn't quite right. Among the crazy swirling of flakes, Draco could still make out the sky, and the sky was turning black. Not crimson, not dark blue, but the deepest, most depressing black. He frowned. The wonderful feeling of peace and happiness that flowed through him only moments ago was beginning to fade. So he started to panic. And he was very, very cold all of the sudden.
Something was calling to him. Reluctantly, he stood up and started walking. He didn't know where to, but his feet didn't seem to be bothered by his lack of understanding and were dragging him to that something. The snow and flakes around him were fading, replaced by fog, which was quickly turning the colour of the sky. It was so dark. And then he started to remember. At first, he only remembered he'd chosen to forget.
Then, as he kept walking against his will yet powerless to resist, his memories, the very ones he'd chosen to cast away started coming back to him in slow waves. He remembered his parents before anything else, his mother combing his hair, his father giving him a lecture for messing with his 'private papers'. His house, his room, his favourite spot in the garden. His seventh birthday, getting his first broom and chasing the house elves on it. Receiving another lecture, then receiving proper flying lessons. He remembered himself laughing, then he remembered how he learned to turn smiles into sneers and childish whines into haughty demands.
His feet were dragging him further and further, and he finally remembered he wasn't just Draco anymore. He was a Malfoy. He was Draco Malfoy again. And memories started to rush now.
His eleventh birthday. First time on the Hogwarts Express. Harry Potter. The sorting ceremony. His first summer vacation. His first Quidditch match. Potter again. First kiss. First dark spell he'd learned. More summer vacations. His Slytherin days back at school. First fuck. More dark spells. Coming back for his seventh year. His father's letter. Potter. First time kissing Potter. The need, the desperation, the confusion, the self-loathing. Hating Potter. Wanting Potter. Wanting Potter not to die.
He was feeling all of it again.
He remembered he'd chosen to die, all right. He'd chosen to die for a lot of reasons, some better than the others. For one, because he was scared and tired. Also, because he was a coward who believed he could do something brave for a change. Because his life had been empty before he started groping Potter in deserted corridors and he hadn't even been aware of it. Mostly, because it was the reasonable thing to do, because it wasn't possible for him to become a Death Eater anymore and, really, death was the easy way out of it if he was to believe some of his father's rather gruesome bedtime stories.
Yet he'd chosen to die while safe and cosy in his room and only Salazar knew how he'd managed to hang on to his choice during the never-ending minutes of running in the dark through the Forbidden Forest, with nothing to guide him but a spell to locate his father. He remembered how madly his heart had been rushing then. He remembered fooling himself till the last moment that, maybe, it wouldn't really be his death for Potter's life. That maybe they both could live. He remembered that he wouldn't have been able to do it at all, had it not happened so fast. If His Sullen Evilness would have taken his time to torture Potter instead of AK-ing him under Draco's very eyes, Draco would have lost all his resolve, possibly even confessed his betrayal and begged for forgiveness in a most unbecoming manner.
But the green flash of light really hadn't given him any time to think. He was already preparing to summon Potter's wand from his father, when he realised it would be too late if Potter got hit by the curse. He'd placed himself between Potter and the green light much like one raises one's hand to fend from sudden light. Instinctively.
The truth was, in the end he'd actually kind of died by mistake. He wasn't really cut out to be brave.
It was completely dark all around him now. The pain erupted inside his chest so violently and suddenly that it brought him on his knees. He irrationally prayed, to no one in particular, to make it stop, but the pain trapped his body, paralysing his movements, swirling inside his chest and suffocating him. When it finally stopped, everything around him was a blur, yet his mind was exceptionally clear. He registered the rage building inside him with a cold detachment. Somebody had taken away his perfect little piece of heaven and given him this instead.
All the hate and the coldness and the annoying contradictory feelings.
His life.
And he was supposed to be dead, because he'd chosen to die, against all fear and expectation.
As he stood up, still not seeing clearly but feeling the cold acutely, Draco swore that whoever had done it, whoever had brought him back, was going to pay—dearly.
-o–#–O–#–o-
Harry was at a loss of words, partly due to the effort he'd put into casting the spell which left him panting for breath, partly because of the heavy loss of blood, but mostly because of the sight in front of his eyes. Draco stood right there, more real than in any of his dreams yet bearing a sort of cold glow around him that wasn't of this world. He was also quite naked and looked in Harry's direction without giving any sign of actually seeing him.
None of them said anything for several moments. Harry continued to stare at the other youth, which made him finally realize that the strange glow he seemed to be emitting was nothing but an optical effect caused by torch light and Draco's unusual paleness. He also realized the other must be freezing when Draco put his arms around himself in an useless attempt to warm himself up, still oblivious to Harry's presence.
Harry knew he would have to do something, or at least say something, but nothing appropriate came to his mind. He'd brought Draco back to ask him 'Why?', but that was no time for questions. He'd brought Draco back to feel his warmth in his arms once more, but Draco looked so cold that Harry was afraid to touch him. Eventually, he let the first words of greeting that came to his mouth roll off and braced himself for whatever was bound to follow.
"Malfoy. It's been a while."
"Potter." The answer had been hissed with surprise and anger. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing?"
Harry hadn't expected this sort of reply.
"Thought you'd be more grateful. Should've known better," he mumbled to himself.
"I'm cold, Potter. I'm also quite miserable and apparently blind."
"You're also naked," Harry couldn't resist to add.
It hadn't crossed his mind to bring any clothes for Draco. For lack of a better idea, he divested himself of his robes, which left him in his jeans and a woollen sweater, and approached Draco, wrapping the other gently in the not so soft fabric. They both flinched at the contact. Draco's skin was a significant number of degrees colder than normal for a human being.
::For a living human being,:: Harry corrected himself and shivered. Draco hardly looked alive.
"What are you doing, Potter?" the blond sneered.
"Taking care of your problems, well, two of them at least. The cold and the indecent attire. I'll put on a charm to warm these—" he touched the fabric of his robes lightly "—up."
"I can do it myself. Where's my wand?"
"How the hell should I know?"
Harry thought he'd heard Draco muttering something that sounded suspiciously akin to an insult, but let it pass.
"So. Where are we, Potter?"
"This is, erm, well, it's your tomb."
"Excellent!"
Harry failed to see what was so excellent about it.
"Don't just stand there like a dummy, Potter," came Draco's angry voice, despite the fact he couldn't actually see what Harry was doing. "Get my wand!"
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. If this is really my tomb, my wand must be in my coffin, along with my earthly remains. It's a family custom. So if you'd be so kind..."
"Let me see if I get this right. You want me to open your coffin..." Harry began, his tone incredulous. It was going to be a long and exhausting night. "Tough chance, Malfoy. As in, not going to happen. I don't fancy a close encounter with your 'earthly remains'."
"Still having troubles in the logic department, Scarhead, I see. Which is, of course, just a figure of speech, because, thanks to you, I don't actually see. But seeing that I stand here right in front of you, your stupid brain should have inferred that there are no 'earthly remains' in my place of eternal rest," he said in a contemptuous tone.
"That's it. I'm out of here."
"Potter! Don't leave me here!"
Of course, it figured that if someone could bark commands while half-naked, blind and, not to mention, freshly returned from death, Draco Malfoy would be the one to do it.
"And why not, Malfoy? Why shouldn't I leave you here?"
There was a pause, and then, when Harry had nearly given up expecting Draco to come up with a good answer, because there was no good answer to that, right?... because...
"Because it's your fault," Draco whispered faintly, but Harry caught it. "You did this to me. It's your stupid fault!"
Harry wasn't surprised that Draco would place the blame on him. He always had, for as long as they'd known each other. Only, this time Draco was right to blame Harry, so Harry swallowed the biting come-back which tickled the tip of his tongue and proceeded to retrieve the object in discussion from Draco's 'place of eternal rest'. He supposed he should be grateful that Malfoy had been buried under a slab of stone rather than under six feet of solid, stiff frozen ground.
A few minutes of intensive magicwork later (mostly, heavy object levitation), Harry was forced to give Draco credit for his earlier assessment—his coffin was indeed empty save for his wand.
"Here," he said rather forcefully while shoving the wand into Draco's hands. "So can we go now?"
"By all means, Potter, you're more than free to leave and exempt me from your presence."
"What happened to that 'Oh, please, don't leave me here'?"
"I have my wand now. And I definitely didn't say 'please', you twisted freak. You'd like to hear me beg, wouldn't you, Potter?"
"Save it, Malfoy. I'm not wasting my temper on you anymore. I'm leaving and you're coming with me. First, we get out of here and then Apparate inside my flat. End of discussion."
Harry didn't wait for an answer and grabbed Draco's wrist—Draco's very cold wrist—and dragged him to the exit. A hiss escaped the blond's mouth.
"What!" Harry snapped but didn't stop walking.
"I'm barefoot here, you moron! I think I've cut my sole."
"Mobilicorpus! Now you don't have to walk, is that fine?" Maybe it was the edge in Harry's voice, or maybe Draco didn't want another sole cut, but he didn't make any gesture of removing the spell, contending himself to clutch his wand fiercely.
Harry guided Draco's body as smooth as he could up the stairs, suppressing the urge to let him knock, 'by mistake', the low ceiling. Finally, they were outside in the cold night air and Harry lowered Draco in the snow which earned him a fresh assortment of curses.
"Stop complaining like a two-year old. We're getting out of here right now," he said irritably and raised his wand.
"I can't Apparate," Draco announced lazily, almost bored.
It was Harry's turn to curse. He could swear that Draco actually enjoyed delivering that alarming piece of news, despite the messy situation it put them in. How could Malfoy not know how to Apparate? Harry remembered that even Neville Longbottom had managed it after a dozen of tries or so.
"Damn it, Malfoy! Shit! I'll have to teach you, but we must get out of here first!"
He fumbled inside his backpack and finally retrieved his miniaturised Firebolt.
"Is that--" Draco's mouth fell open. "You've shrunk your Firebolt, Potter? Merlin's ass! Are you really that stupid? Brooms, especially high-quality brooms, are sensitive tools. Don't you know the basic rules of shrinking? Rule number one. A wizards does not shrink his broom. Rule number two. A wizard does not shrink his--"
"Malfoy!"
Draco finally shut his mouth and Harry could reverse the charm he'd put on his broom.
"Oh, no. No, no and no, Potter. I'm not riding that broom after what you've done to it. It could be damaged. We could--"
"What? Die? Didn't think you'd care. Do you have a better solution?"
Harry didn't waste any more time and pulled a now surprisingly obedient Draco to the Firebolt hovering above the snow. He mounted the broom and turned to give the youth behind him an expectant look. Sighing, Draco took his place behind Harry and they took off. It was more difficult to fly with someone else sitting at his back and Harry had to use all his skills to maintain balance. Draco was holding him tight enough to cut his breath. He shouted a comment about it and the grip loosened.
They flew a good distance away from the mansion before Harry finally decided it would probably be a good idea to land. His teeth were chattering madly with the cold. It was winter, after all, and he didn't wear but a sweater and Draco's proximity during their flight had been no good at warming him up. If anything, it somehow chilled him even more.
"I can't Apparate, Potter."
"Yeah, we've already covered that. I'm gonna--"
"—do precisely nothing. Stop being such a numbskull, Potter." The blond shook his head patronizingly. "There's no use teaching me to Apparate, because I already know how. However, if I use my wand to Apparate, the whole Ministry of Magic will be on my tail. Because as far as they're concerned, this wand belongs to someone who's dead and dead men don't do spells."
Harry swore.
"You mean they keep track of that?"
Draco didn't deign to reply, but his facial expression plainly told Harry that he thought the former Gryffindor was indeed dense.
"So you can't do magic with your wand," said Harry. "Any magic at all. Why did you ask me to get it for, then?"
"Moral reassurance," came the smug reply. "And it was fun to see you sweating over it."
"Wait a—You got your sight back." It wasn't even a question. Comprehension dawned. "You had it back since before we took off from your yard. You saw me de-miniaturising my Firebolt." "
"Yes, Potter, and that's the part where you acknowledge you utter patheticallity."
"That's not even a word. You. Sneaky. Lying. Bastard."
"I'll take that as a compliment, coming from you."
Harry only belatedly noticed that Draco's teeth were chattering as well. He pointed his wand at his chest, causing a startled gasp.
"I thought Gryffindors didn't attack unarmed opponents." His voice sounded a little scared and Harry didn't feel at all remorseful for the pleasure he felt. Draco Malfoy was getting what he deserved.
"Well, you're not technically 'unarmed'. Stand still, Malfoy."
Draco was positively terrified now, despite his best efforts to hide it. Smirking, Harry performed the Cold Repelling Charm on Draco's (which were actually Harry's) robes.
"Now let's find a place to unfreeze our bones, Malfoy. Don't know about you, but I'd rather skip the part where we die of hypothermia."
Harry was on his way to remount the broom when,
"Incidentally, Potter, was that Great-Great-Great-Uncle Clovis hanging up there in my family's crypt?"
"Damn it, Malfoy. Have you actually been blinded, or faked it all along?"
"I don't like the tone of your voice, Potter, and, yes, I have been blinded, but it went away rather quickly and you didn't answer my question."
"If your Great-Great-Great-Uncle was a ghost in your family crypt, then yes. I had to stun him to get him out of my way."
Harry assumed Draco was going to at least put up a formal protest at this blatant mistreatment of his ancestor. Instead, Draco just laughed.
"This is almost too good to be true. You, Potter, stunned a ghost that is blind, deaf and mute. I have no idea how you did it. In fact, I didn't know you could stun a ghost, but let me assure you it was pretty much useless."
"How can a ghost be deaf, blind and mute?" Harry asked angrily. This had to be Malfoy's petty idea of a payback for Harry's earlier trick.
"Great-Great-Great-Uncle Clovis was deaf, blind and mute, at least for the last ten years of his life, which is actually quite a funny story, but I'm not going to impart our family's secrets to you of all people. Ergo, his ghost is deaf, blind and mute."
Harry gave up arguing. It was too damn cold for it.
"We don't have time for that," he sighed in frustration and all but dragged Draco back onto the Firebolt.
-o–#–O–#–o-
They ended up in a motel room in the middle of nowhere. Harry realised how suspicious he must've looked to the woman at the front desk—a young man coming seemingly from nowhere in the middle of the night, with nothing but a backpack for luggage, sporting a cut across his lip and, as he noticed too late, with dried blood on his hands and sleeves. At least he'd convinced Draco to hide under the Cloak and follow him silently.
The room was no way near five-star comfort, but Harry was most prepared to do without comfort and if Malfoy had any complaints, well, Harry was the one who was paying for everything, after all.
The light switch had baffled Draco for a couple of seconds. After Harry had turned on the lights, Draco went straight to the switch and promptly turned the lights back off. And on. And off. And on. And off. And—
"Malfoy!"
Mercifully, the lights stayed on this time allowing Draco to give him a questioning look which Harry found rather amusing.
"What, didn't you take Muggle Studies?" Harry faked amazement. This earned him a scowl. "Just don't play with electricity," he continued, hoping he sounded convincing enough. "You might get fried."
Draco's hand snapped reflexively from near the switch. Harry chuckled. This was almost as good as warning Dudley off his wand, back in his days with the Dursleys, by telling him his head would explode if he touched it.
Neither of them said anything during the following minutes. Harry allowed himself to slip into an old, battered armchair and was busy trying to get the blood stains out of his sweater. Draco went to lie on the bed and started rubbing his feet which looked pretty much blue with cold. Then Harry lifted his eyes and saw Draco standing on that bed, and reality finally hit home. He'd brought Draco Malfoy back from death. Shit. He'd done a spell—a dark spell—which could probably get him into Azkaban for life. Double shit. How was he supposed to keep Draco hidden from everyone? Why had he thought he could handle this? And what was he supposed to do with Malfoy now?
"Don't stare at me like that, Potter. It's unnerving. Or do you find me that irresistible?"
One thing was sure. It took more than a year of being death to make a Malfoy forget how to sneer.
"What?"
"I said—"Draco started to say, faking condescendence, when Harry finally snapped out of his confused state and interrupted him.
"I heard what you said."
"Then stop asking dumb questions."
"I'm stuck here, Malfoy, and you're not helping."
This made Draco laugh.
"Starting to panic now? Guess I overestimated you, Potter. But there, you do one dark spell and the conscience crisis hits."
"Oh, my apologies, Malfoy, for not being as well trained as you in that area."
"Listen, Potter, I'm not the one raising the dead here. You've practically earned yourself an invitation to a Dementor-snogging feast. Oooh, I said 'Dementor', Scarhead, shouldn't you faint?"
"That 'joke' wasn't funny even when it wasn't half a decade old."
Draco ignored the comment.
"You really think you're in trouble? What about me? What about me, Potter?"
Sure, it was always about Malfoy, Harry thought furiously and then had to say it out loud.
"Of course it's always about me," Draco retorted arrogantly. "What they'll do to you when they find out is nothing compared to what they'll do to me."
"If they find out. If."
"So you're gonna hide me under your bed like a dirty secret?" Harry didn't like the tone of Draco's voice.
"Damn, Potter, why did you do it?" Malfoy snapped, startling Harry with the fury behind his words.
"Why did I...?"
"Yes, why couldn't you leave me alone?"
This was wrong. Harry had brought Draco back so that he could ask the questions. Not the other way around.
"Oh, no, Malfoy. You have no right. Those are my questions. Why couldn't you leave me alone? Why did you do it? Why did you die?"
"So that's what this is about? You felt guilty and decided to ruin my death just like you ruined my life?"
"That's rich, coming from you. How, might I ask, did I ruin your life?"
"Like this." And then, in one hasty move Draco was standing over him, one of his knees pushing into Harry's thigh, pale hands clutching the front of his sweater and dragging him forward.
It wasn't like Harry remembered. It wasn't like Harry had imagined. Draco's lips meeting his were cold, were beyond cold. It was like sinking into a frozen ocean, like drowning, so much like drowning that Harry was paralysed. He let Draco's body press into his, he let Draco put his hands in his hair and twist almost painfully, he let Draco pry his lips open and shove his tongue inside like he wanted to suck all of Harry's warmth. Harry let him and it was lucky that Draco had more sense and eventually withdrew, because Harry would have otherwise just stood there and let Draco kiss him until they both suffocated. But Draco withdrew and Harry slowly regained his breath and, with it, a growing sense of panic took over him. He jumped from the chair, pushing Draco away, grabbed his Invisibility Cloak and ran, ran without thinking, ran over the stairs taking two at a time, ran over the front desk which was thankfully empty, ran through the door into the cold air outside, ran because no matter how cold it was outside Draco's touch had felt infinitely colder and Harry was scared.
He finally stopped outside a small grocery store of sorts. Using his wand to unlock the door, he silently slipped inside and, for endless minutes, just stood there under the double protection of darkness and his Cloak, starring at neat rows of cans, until the panic subsided. When he finally regained enough control to think about uttering 'Lumos', the first thing Harry noticed was that the 'neat rows of cans' he'd been starring at were actually neat rows of toilet paper rolls, which struck him as incredibly funny. The sound of his own laughter almost scared him, but then he managed to get a grip over himself and have a go at sanity for a change.
He'd gone crazy. Malfoy kissed him and he'd suddenly lost his mind, and not in the good sense of the word. He supposed he could blame the time spent in the cold and the blood loss, but deep down he knew the actual reason. He hadn't really 'resurrected' Draco, because resurrecting someone was impossible, he'd known it was impossible. What he'd gotten instead was a walking corpse. How much of the real Draco was actually under the cold flesh? How could Harry tell if the Draco Malfoy he'd left behind in that room was the same Draco Malfoy who'd died a year ago and not a memory Harry had pushed into that cold body by spilling his own blood and speaking words he shouldn't have spoken? The Book hadn't told him everything, it appeared. Or, maybe, the Book had 'conveniently forgotten' to tell him everything, he realised. The Book was going to be fed to the pigeons. And then he realised something else. Not only had he lost it badly, but acted incredibly stupid on behalf of that. Shit, what he'd been thinking? He'd left Draco—the body that looked like Draco and talked like Draco, but felt so cold and Harry still wanted it to be Draco and not just a walking corpse—alone in a Muggle motel. He'd left the Evil Book with him. (Because no matter what that Book said, It was evil.) Malfoy had probably found It by now, because among the many things Draco Malfoy didn't respect was other people privacy. Harry was ready to bet the former Slytherin had given his backpack a thorough search as soon as Harry's steps on the stairs faded. By now, the Book and him were probably the best of friends.
At any rate, the harm was most likely already done. He would go back to the room, but not before he took care of other rather urgent things. Harry wasn't worried that Draco would run away because he had nowhere to go except maybe back at his house, and he hadn't exactly put up a fight when Harry had taken both of them out of there. They needed some food, for a start.
::Great, now I'm robbing a grocery. Guess I really lived up to my aunt's and uncle's expectations,:: Harry grimly reflected while picking up an extra-large bag of waffles and a couple of soda cans. He would have left some money, but all his money was also back at the motel.
The cold outside made him realise he'd need some clothes, too. At least for Draco, because they would fly most of tomorrow (today, actually, but it was disconcerting to think of 'tomorrow' as 'today' while it was so dark outside), because Malfoy couldn't go on wearing Harry's robes and only Harry's robes. He didn't think Malfoy would appreciate the exposure.
He kept the Cloak on although the streets were, no surprise, deserted. After walking around with no clue for maybe ten minutes, he stumbled almost by mistake over a place that, for shrewd reasons, offered the customer a mixed selection of (as far as Harry could tell) house appliances, dog food, toys and—thank Merlin!—clothes. Breaking in was easy (people in this town must've been really trusting because there was no alarm here either). Once inside, there weren't so much clothes to choose from, but, he figured, if Malfoy complained, he could fly in the buff.
-o–#–O–#–o-
The room was empty. Harry could not believe his eyes. The room was fucking empty. At least his backpack was in the same spot he'd left it. He hastily went to check the contents. Nothing was missing. Even the Book was still there.
"So you finally decided to come back?"
Harry literally jumped. Draco was standing in the bathroom doorframe, his hair wet, but still wearing Harry's robes. And he was laughing.
"Guilty conscience, Potter? I didn't know you were so easy to startle."
"Look, Malfoy... Draco." Draco raised an eyebrow at Harry calling him by his first name. "We need to talk."
"Is that so, Harry?"
"I... I think I've made a mistake. And we need to talk."
"No."
"No?"
"No. You need to talk. I don't."
"Don't you care at all about what will happen to you?" Harry snapped.
"Harry, you've just hurt my feelings. I thought you knew me better. What will happen to me is all I care about," Draco answered, somewhat mockingly to Harry's ears. Then his voice became icy. "And that's why, Potter, you're not going to get rid of me while I'm penniless and can't do magic. Because if you do, I will put you in Azkaban."
So that's what Draco really expected he would do? At least it explained the grouchy attitude. Sort of.
"I'm not afraid of you or your threats. And if I really wanted to get rid of you, I wouldn't have bothered to bring you back in the first place," said Harry and his voice was composed, not betraying the desperation he felt. It was like he and Draco talked two different languages. It was like talking Parseltongue to a wall and, still, the wall might have answered back—Harry had seen stranger things happening. But how could he make Draco understand?
"Draco, you're coming with me. Home." The last word took even Harry by surprise. He'd never thought of his flat in Cardiff as 'home' before. He'd never thought as any place as 'home'. Hogwarts had come closest, but it hadn't really been 'home' either.
Draco appeared to be surprised as well, judging by the way he was blinking and not saying anything.
"I live alone," Harry continued. "No one has to know I brought you back. It will be difficult to keep it from Ron and Hermione, but not impossible. Then maybe, after a while, I'll be able to make them understand. Ron already knows about us--"
"You told Weasel?! You told Weasel you did me while I was a girl?!"
"I didn't go into details, Malfoy," Harry answered, starting to get annoyed. Malfoy really only cared about himself. "No need for you to get hysterical. But I did tell Ron almost everything."
Draco didn't miss the word 'almost'.
"You didn't tell him you were going to bring me back," he pointed out.
Harry didn't answer, because it hadn't really been a question.
"You didn't tell him," the blond repeated. "Perhaps because then you'd have had to explain why? But you can tell me why, 'Harry'. It's my right to know, don't you think? Seeing that I didn't have that much of a choice... The least you could do is tell me."
"Don't you see why?" Harry was desperately trying to buy himself time.
"Well, Potter, I know you are lame, but even you should have been able to find someone willing to fuck you among the living."
Draco's words conjured to Harry's mind images that made him blush and shiver at once. Images of him taking off Draco's clothes one night in the Slytherin's dormitory. Images of the two of them naked on Draco's bed and still fighting, then kissing and touching like mad people, leaning one into the other with an aching desperation. Images that scared him now because he didn't think he'd be able to touch Draco again without the panic and uncertainty returning. He could convince himself that Draco was back, was alive, that it was Draco standing in front of him now and not some abomination he'd conjured, as long as he didn't touch him.
"That's not why I did it, Malfoy." Harry knew he was lying, knew it was one of the reasons he'd done it, but the lie was closer to the truth now than it would have been several hours ago. He was not going to touch Draco Malfoy ever again. "I can find enough willing bed partners. 'Living' bed partners, as you've so charmingly put it. You weren't even that good."
He didn't understand why he felt the need to be cruel. Draco narrowed his eyes and Harry wondered if the other could see through his lie, could see that for a whole year Harry dreamt about Draco even when he fell asleep in the arms of all those girls he'd picked so indiscriminately and carelessly at nightclubs.
"I don't know why I did it. Or rather, it's hard to put into words. I needed to do it, Malfoy."
It was true. Harry couldn't find the words to explain it. He'd expected everything to become clearer after Draco was in front of him again, but if something, they'd gotten even more complicated. He was certain Draco would laugh at him if he said he wanted to know him better, that maybe then he'd understand Draco saving him that night. He wasn't quite so sure about how Draco would react if Harry told him he'd brought him back because he couldn't stand hating himself so much.
"I brought you some clothes." Harry pointed to the bundle he'd dropped on the floor. Draco walked past him and picked it up, staring at it with distaste.
"These are not clothes, Potter. These are rags."
"Those are clothes. And you're going to wear them. In a couple of hours, we'll go flying again and it's winter. We'll have to fly all the way to Cardiff, high enough in the air so that Muggles don't spot us."
Draco was silent, so Harry took it as approval.
"We should catch some sleep now."
"Suit yourself. I'm not tired." And Draco sat down in the only armchair of the room, looking at Harry like a petulant child defying his parents to punish him for not respecting his bedtime hour. Harry sighed. He had been about to suggest Draco take the bed, while he would have contended with the armchair. It seem there was no need for self-sacrificing anymore.
"Fine. Wake me up in two hours or strangle me in my sleep, I don't care."
He collapsed on the bed, which creaked loudly.
"Then we have a deal, Potter," came the drawled answer.
The last he did before drifting off was wonder if Draco had, in fact, just agreed to strangle him while he slept.
End of Chapter Four
