Chapter 15: And Whether Pigs have Wings

"What?" he asked loudly, expression indecipherable beneath the shadows of the bushes, voice a strange mixture of surprise and fear.

"You could come with me," Draco repeated, voice full of renewed excitement. "There are plenty of people who would love to see you back, people who still miss you terribly. Even Severus would be glad to see your scruffy face again, I think, for all that you would never get him to admit it – despite his snarking, you won his respect by the end. And Minerva, and the Longbottoms, and the whole Wizarding world really, it's scary how much they adore you now you've been gone. And there's so much new I want to show you, that you've missed out on…" It was clear he had wanted this for some time.

"No."

"What do you mean, no?" Draco asked, confused by the toneless rebuttal. "The Wizarding world is your world too, Harry, it's where you belong, for all that you think you're happy here. And don't try to tell me you don't miss it – I've seen your paintings, remember; which, I might remind you, would be worth a great deal of money to the right buyers. You're aging here, Harry, you haven't lived properly for nearly a decade. You can't say that this place is your home like Hogwarts was, because it isn't."

"No," Blake reiterated, louder this time.

"I know you don't like the fame," Draco continued, ignoring his attempts to refuse, "but it's not like you'd have to go out in public much or anything. We could even keep the glamour up if you wanted, keep the name, just tell those people who really matter, though I must say I'd rather like to see how you truly look, after all these years. And…"

"God damn it, Draco, I said NO!" Blake exclaimed, only maintaining his volume to maintain their secrecy. "How many times must I tell you? I. Don't. Want. To. Go. Back!"

"But…"

"No! I don't want to see the magic everywhere I go, to hear people singing my praises and the rebuilding of the world I knew. I don't want to walk those familiar ways, seeing the shadows of the people who should still be there… should still be there…"

As he trailed off into sad memories, Draco couldn't help but put an arm around his friend and hug him softly, as if to keep the sorrows away. Gently, he replied, "You can't keep running from the past, you know."

"Why not?" Blake replied, sullenly.

"It's part of who you are, and… well, until you accept it, you'll never be able to move on. If you don't face your ghosts, they'll haunt you forever, and you deserve better than that."

"Now you sound like Remus," he replied, sadly.

"Well, he's…" he hesitated, before continuing, "he was right. Severus told me that, a long time ago, when the guilt from my deeds grew too much. I was a spy, remember? Whatever it is you think you did, Harry, whatever it is you're trying to hide from, have been running from these ten years, my deeds were worse."

Seeing Blake's unconvinced face, Draco couldn't help but sigh slightly. The subject had been effectively taboo between the two, and he knew it would hurt his friend, but he felt it might be the only way to get through. And so, quietly, his patented Malfoy calm unable to hide the shame in his voice, he added, "I killed Ginny, remember?"

Shoulders noticeably tensing beneath Draco's still-present arm, Blake made no response, simply turning his head away in sorrow. Though lessened with time, that memory would never cease hurting.

"Harry?"

Quietly, all anger leached out of him, Blake replied, "I like Blake Wesley. I like his job, his town, the simplicity and comfort of his life. Harry Potter is dead now, if he ever truly lived at all, and to revisit his world would bring nothing but pain. To everyone."

Then, standing, Blake slowly began to walk back to the building, leaving Draco alone in the dark.

After that night neither brought up the topic again, though the discussion had never really been resolved. Instead, they seemed to come to a silent agreement to make the most of their remaining days together. Blake taught Draco how to sail a catamaran, which he took to with surprising ease, and the duo even went scuba diving when they visited the bigger settlement of Exeter, to the shock of the villagers, who had never anticipated such youthful behaviour from one of their own, who seemed increasingly less like his age.

Everything they did was full of excitement, even of happiness, with their mouths frequently smiling and Mr Wesley actually heard to laugh. And yet, there seemed to be an aura of sadness over the two men, though imperceptible in words or tone or gestures, a faint brittleness to their joyous demeanour.

Mr Wesley ran his business with the same fervour, nothing like during the weeks of Mallory's absence, and their conversations remained equally excited, speaking fast and thinking faster. Yet, it could not be denied that there was an anxiousness to the way they hurried, as if not wanting to waste a moment of time, and the way they only seemed to have eyes and ears for one another. It was as if something was coming, something terrible and strange that would change everything, though none could think of what it would be.

Then, all too soon, came September first.

Mallory rose early that morning, earlier than they had ever seen him before, stumbling downstairs for his usual dose of caffeine barely after the doors opened. He offered no explanation or motivation, merely enjoyed his breakfast as in any other day. But beneath Mr Wesley's friendly ribbing and Mallory's snide rebuttals, there was an undercurrent of something else, something the villagers couldn't quite seem to decipher.

The villagers put the feeling down to shock, and soon the room regained its customary cheer, as each person went about their business as on any other day, Mallory and Mr Wesley included. Then, after seemingly no time at all, the clock struck ten, though in reality hours had passed. And, leaving his customers unattended, ever too trusting a man to suspect any threat, Mr Wesley stood almost in unison with his younger friend, and the two made for the yard, not far from the back door.

Mr Wesley gently touched Mallory's shoulder, leaving each man with glistening eyes and a thick tongue, though neither would admit it. And the two men conversed in low tones full of pain, though the villagers were too far to make out individual words, had they wanted to infringe on their privacy so. But they kept their distance; knowing, somehow, that this was private.

Then, to their surprise, they watched as Mallory kissed Mr Wesley on his slightly rough cheek – "One of those French things, I believe," one of the villagers suggested, as the rest nodded in acceptance, few having met any French before. Then he turned to walk between the trees that bordered the yard, until he seemed to disappear within the undergrowth. He never looked back, and Mr Wesley almost seemed to touch his cheek for a moment before staring almost mournfully after the retreating figure.

Mr Wesley stood there for a long time.