A/N:Chapter warnings for; explicit language, implied/referenced violence and torture, brief racism.
Next update on 2nd April, Friday.
This is one of our most emotionally charged chapters and we really hope you like reading it as much as we loved writing it. Thanks a bunch to our beta!
Stay safe and tell us what scene struck you the most.
Chapter Twenty Nine: Down Down Down Into The Dark Grave
...
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
-Edna St. Vincent Millay, Collected Poems
...
Draco is a light sleeper. He's always been that way, since childhood. He remembers every single word his parents exchanged when they thought he was asleep after one of their parties. All the gossip, all the hushed secrets, he's heard every single argument his parents ever had, as few as they were.
His mother used to blame it solely on his curious ears, 'They wiggle like tiny mice,' she's said to him once, playfully running her fingers along his ears when she was stroking his hair. 'Eager little mice, yearning for secrets.'
Her words tickled his hair, and in spite of his young indignation, Draco laughed and laughed with childish glee.
He's awake when they enter his room that night. The hallway shines a brutal beam through the narrow crack in his open door, momentarily disrupted as his mother steps in.
'I'll wake him,' her voice is a harsh whisper, and Draco's heart immediately starts picking up pace, 'Have the elves pack his clothes—'
His father slides in and closes the door behind him. The sound is harsh compared to mother's delicate mutter.
'It's too late now, Cissa," he says, he sounds angry, 'What you did—'
'Don't,' she cuts him off, 'not now. I did what I had to do, Lucius. It never meant that I loved you less for it.'
Draco struggles to feign sleep, to keep his breathing under control. Something is wrong. So so wrong.
His parents never quip like this. During their worst arguments, never have they taken this tone.
His father steps further into the room, 'You jeopardized our love, our marriage, our son—'
'He will be safe.' she cuts him off again, 'Always. I have plans—'
'Your sister isn't waiting for you to execute those plans.' father snaps, Draco's heart beats in his throat. Bella. This is about auntie Bella. Draco hasn't seen her much, since her escape, she and her crazy husband are staying in the west wing, on the other side of the manor, but whenever she's mentioned every hair on his body stands straight.
She's bad news. The absurdity of this thought is redundant. Of course, she's fucking bad news.
'She saw you,' father is gripping mother's arms, he can see from the two tiny slits of his eyes, he's too terrified to open them all the way, 'she's already telling him on you, Narcissa… there's no time to run.'
His breathing sounds thunderously loud in his ears. They need to run. Run where. Run from their home? What did Bella do, why did she even have to be here?
Neither mother nor father notice his raspy heaving.
'I'm not about to run,' she says, an octave louder than before, 'I'm not a coward, Luc.'
'Do you even hear yourself? Once he comes-'
'Draco has a sleepover with the Zabinis,' he hears her opening his wardrobe, his heart is skipping too many beats to count. He wishes they woke him already, 'I've already made arrangements, their wards wouldn't let anyone in—'
Father groans deep in his throat. He sounds pained and trapped, like a predator chained in a cage, 'It's three in the morning—'
'Severus knows what to do,' she quickly starts going through his clothes, Draco can hear the way the hangers snap on the rack, 'He can take him to the Villa in Èze, Draco knows the passwords-'
Father sharply inhales, ''Severus is aware of this?'
'Yes, of course he is.' mother starts taking off one robe after another, piling each in a heap behind her, 'If Èze is compromised, you need to give him the ward key to the house in Florence. You know the one we bought-'
'He knows.' Father sounds desperate and enraged. Draco cannot take it anymore, he peels his eyes open and stares at them, across his room, hunched in front of his wardrobe, 'He would know where we're hiding him.' He takes her in his arms, his chin nestled on top of her hair. 'This isn't just any man, Narcissa. You cannot outrun him.'
'I don't intend to,' she says, neither have noticed Draco yet, 'But Severus knows how to do it. He has connections.'
'Connections?'
Draco can't take it anymore, the urgency and hysteria climbing in his mother's voice is something he's never heard before, and it's terrifying. 'Mother?'
Everything goes silent for a moment, then- 'Draco. Love? Oh, good you're awake.'
'Why are you…' Narcissa comes into his line of sight, carrying a bunch of clothes draped across her right arm, his father following on her heels, 'Father?' Draco scrambles up, the sheets pooling around his waist.
'You shouldn't be awake, Draco,' Lucius says, and he sounds scared.
'Of course, he should be,' Narcissa throws Lucius a look, and then starts packing those clothes into Draco's trunk, levitating them into it quickly and haphazardly. Another thing uncharacteristic of her. 'He's going to the Zabini's.'
'We should give him a dreamless sleep,' Lucius says, not moving to help her, 'In case they arrive, he will be safer-'
'What?' Draco says, grabbing his voice, panic starting to edge into his own voice. 'What is going on?'
'Leave my child asleep and helpless in his bed, with them in this house?' Narcissa turns to Lucius, her face turning into a scowl, 'Lucius, sentiment is clouding your judgement.'
'Mine or yours?!' their voices have risen, 'Cissa, open your eyes! We cannot dwindle. We need-'
'I'm wide awake, my love,' and suddenly, they're hushed again. 'I know what's coming, and I'm not afraid.'
'You're a fool,' Lucius whispers. Draco can barely hear them over the pounding in his ears. He still doesn't know what's going on but he knows it's bad. Very very bad. Bad enough to get his usually put together parents in such a state. Bad enough that they don't want him here for this. And it's something to do with Bellatrix. Crazy Auntie Bella.
There's a crash from somewhere down the hallway. His parents ignore it.
'Protect our son. Promise me now,' Narcissa says.
'Mom-' Draco says, his voice barely audible. He's so scared.
'Muffliato.'
Draco cannot hear a single word of their next exchange, he watches their faces in terrified silence and still cannot decipher a single word out of their lips or the non-existent expressions on their faces.
Father looks away, drops his head, and mother kisses him on the cheek, before flicking her wand.
'Lucius, don't just stand there,' she says, breezy and on point, 'Twinky?'
There's a pop and Draco flinches.
'Yes, mistress?'
'Start packing Draco's things, he will be going away—' she says, handing the elf the rest of the clothes that she's holding.
'Mom,' he hasn't called her that in a long time. He wants her attention, he wants her to know he's freaking the fuck out.
She finally turns back to him, and her face softens. She smiles at him, ''I have made arrangements for you, Blaise wants you over for a few nights-'
'They're here,' Father interrupts, and he's never seen his face like that. Blanched and drawn. He's grasping his forearm, 'There's no time to leave. He will be harsher on him if he catches us now.'
Narcissa pauses, her lips tighten, 'I know.' She bends down, and takes Draco's face in her cold small hands. 'You're my brightest star, Draco,' she's still smiling.
'Mom,' Draco has started shaking now. He doesn't know what to do. This is a nightmare he won't wake from.
'Whatever happens from now doesn't matter. Remember my love, my little dragon.' She kisses his forehead, 'I love you.'
'Mom!' his voice cracks.
'Narcissa.'
Draco's mother stands up and faces Lucius, takes his hand.
'I have lived every single second I've spent with you, Lucius.'
Before Father can reply, she lets him go. She straightens out her dress, smooths out her face, and is back to every bit the regal lady Draco has always known. 'We should head to the ballroom. This is not happening in my child's bedroom.'
'Mom,' Draco tries one last time, and his eyes are stinging. This sounds like goodbye.
'Come on, love,' she says.
'Severus is here too,' Lucius informs her, and his face is back to a stoic mask too now, something Draco can't achieve.
'I'm glad,' were her last coherent words.
Draco's nose trembles when he cries. It flares the instance the blond's brows pull together in a pinched frown, and then it escalates from there.
Harry had not noticed that process the day he'd caught Draco crying in the bathroom.
He's sneaking again, but only because he knows Draco wouldn't want him to know that he's crying. So Harry is on the floor, his back pressed tightly to the shell embedded walls, as he strains his ears for the subdued sounds from the room.
Draco thinks he's downstairs, just chilling on the couch, he never questions Harry about his quiet moods, so he wouldn't suspect a thing.
Harry had waited all but two minutes before following Draco upstairs, he'd slid across the hallway and peeked from the ajar door.
Flaring nose, pinched brows and heavy breathing, Harry has never seen someone cry as if it's their first time. But Draco is like that. His quiet sobs are so gripping and poorly formed that Harry wants to cry along with him just to show the boy how it's done.
Harry didn't set it off, Draco has a million things to cry about. There was his parents, his capture, his scarred face and the constant pain in his shoulder...being trapped in the middle of nowhere with a crazy person a killer maniac is after. All that stuff.
Draco has many reasons to cry.
It's not the first time Harry catches him at it and it clogs his throat, and his breath catches. He's making Harry cry. Not because he has reasons to cry, but because Harry is devastated over Draco's loss. It shouldn't make sense. They're only sort of friends now, and this shouldn't be affecting him to this extent but it does.
Harry cannot stop the flood of his own tears, no sound, he's used to crying silently. He's been doing it for years.
Draco is obviously attempting to do the same thing.
Harry should be giving him his privacy, Draco deserves much more than something as meagre as privacy, Harry has already taken more than enough from him.
This is where it all comes to. Harry not leaving Draco the fuck alone when he's crying.
It happened in the abandoned bathroom, and it's happening now. Although he can't see how anything can go more wrong if Draco catches him now.
Harry is sinfully selfish. He doesn't want to leave Draco alone with this much shit to deal with.
Instead of going in, he presses his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, then flattens his palms against the floorboards to lessen the shaking.
"I'm sorry," he says, and he knows Draco can hear him, because the sobbing stops as abruptly as it started minutes ago.
He's not sure why he said it. He means it. But he doesn't know whether he wanted to let Draco know he was there, or to just state the words aloud.
"Not every fucking thing is about you, Potter," the voice is muffled, Harry knows it well. Draco didn't have any tissues with him. Clogged nose, dry throat.
This is the collateral vignettes of a disaster. Harry is literal seconds away from screwing everything up with Draco.
Just like the first time.
Draco hated him now. It's so easy to revert his feelings regarding Harry back to that state. Because Harry is selfish and self-centred and doesn't know when to fucking quit.
But he can't just stop talking.
"I'm sorry you had to go through so much," Harry doesn't want to tell the boy that the majority of the things he went through were Harry's fault. Draco was right. This isn't about him.
The universe tends to do that to him, usually. Makes things that Harry wants to have no part of, about him. Every death has to be accounted for in Harry's conscience, every morbid incident after the other.
"Saint Potter and his apologies," Draco sounds closer, almost as if he's leaning against the wall opposite Harry. He also absurdly sounds similar to back when they were in school.
'Make way for Potty and his scar-face, make way for the scarecrow,' he used to say. Quite often actually, with a ceremonial bow, and a jeer.
These words lack what those had in abundance… heat.
"You didn't deserve that," Harry says, "You never deserved any of that, no one deserves their lives to be robbed away like that and I'm sorry." Harry rubs his face dry with his sleeves.
Scene after scene of their sordid encounters runs before his eyes. Every jeer and sneer and insult. Hermione's fist against Draco's jaw. The crack of the boy's head against stone.
He's feeling sorry for that boy. Not sorry for him, exactly. Just sorry.
What can he possibly say instead of that? What could anyone say? Apology, as inadequate as it may seem, is the best alternative to any other words.
But Harry means it, as little as it might seem, Harry is sorry for getting them into this mess. This is all his fault. The universe did make this about him.
He just opens his mouth and lets the words rush out in no particular order. "I'm sorry Rosier got to us, and I'm sorry your father died, I'm sorry that beast attacked you and-Draco, you're not… well you're not as broken as you think you are," he says, and it's true. Harry is broken into a hundred pieces, and Draco, Draco will heal. Harry knows that he will, as horrendous as it might seem right now.
"You're not fixing this, Harry," Draco growls.
"I don't want to." Harry's nose is starting to clog too. "They didn't break you, they tried but… but we're alive, and we're here, and I'm sorry still. You're not broken beyond repair."
Draco snorts, and the shells feel sharp against Harry's palms. A deep yearning twists in his guts, and more than ever he wishes for company. Other people would know how to fix this, how to say the right words.
He is just butchering this.
These are words that he wished so badly to have heard someone say to him. He doesn't imagine it having that bad of an effect. But then again, Harry is no expert in social cues.
"You've come so far, and no one bothered acknowledging that. You were so alone through all of that, but not anymore."
There's silence, just them and it. An unfortunate trio, in such times. Even the imaginary versions of his friends don't make up for the acute loneliness that's tangible between him and Draco.
"Just get to the point," Draco says.
He really doesn't have to think about his response. Silence decides for him.
"You're not alone anymore," Harry blurts out, he's really not thinking his words through, "And I think-I think that you're very brave." He didn't want to say brave, he almost doesn't, but it's better than spooking Draco further by outright calling him beautiful.
He doesn't think about that word often. When he thinks of it, the first picture that comes into his mind is of his mother, young and jubilant, waltzing with his father as autumn passes them by.
That's beautiful.
Lately, whenever he thinks of it, the second image coming to his mind is of Draco, glaring Voldemort in the eye, thrashing and cursing him out with every cuss word under the sun.
It's insane. Which makes sense, because Harry's thoughts are more often than not, quite graphic, jarring and not pleasant at all.
It shouldn't be beautiful by any standards, but it is. Harry keeps it in a private box, along with other shameful memories. That vignette stolen from a distant nightmare.
He curls one of his legs towards himself and takes in a deep breath, "It's beautiful, I think," he says again, and weirdly enough, doesn't feel embarrassed by it.
"I'm not-" Draco sniffles, somehow managing to sound choked up and offended both at once, "I'm not a bloody Gryffindor."
"You're not," the edge of a shell is digging into his shoulder blades, into the sharp bones, "You're better. You survived. And that's.. brave."
"You're articulating," Draco's voice isn't wobbling anymore. Harry scrapes his nails against one of the shells.
He rolls his eyes, "Just take it."
There's slight shuffling behind the wall, Harry can picture Draco sniffing, perched on his knees- he detested touching the floor- and shuffling from one foot to the other.
"You were there the whole time?" He asks and Harry can hear the humiliation bubbling in his voice.
Harry rubs his nose one last time and stands. He needs to do this, regardless of his own feelings and thoughts and no matter how much Draco will mock him for this later. He needs this right now, and Harry is willing to give Draco what he needs as his…something. Friends. Maybe. Harry doesn't know.
Harry almost expects the door hinges to creak when he pushes it open, but as usual, they're silent as ever, probably by magic. And just as he had imagined, Draco is perched on his knees against the wall, furiously rubbing at his eyes.
"I think you're brave," he says, very quietly because the room's silence is too fragile to break. He's still standing at the doorway. Crossing it feels like a violation unless Draco allows it.
"You're a bloody hero," Draco snaps back in the same levelled voice. "You saying that to scrambled eggs literally means the same thing." But he stands up, his eyes fixed on Harry. Open and vulnerable. Red rimmed and still brimming.
Harry walks to him, holds out his hands and Draco reaches back, without a moment's hesitation. He's taller than Harry, but the height difference seems almost insignificant now.
Harry holds his breath.
He had been stupid.
So stupid.
Draco should know better by now. Just because they are in isolation doesn't mean he's alone. And now Harry has heard him crying. Again.
He doesn't know why he's so embarrassed by this, they've seen each other at worse. But there were external factors contributing during those moments. Here? Draco was just being a baby.
Malfoys aren't supposed to show emotions like that. His parents would be rolling in their graves if they could see him right now.
Draco's eyes are wide as he stares down at Harry. His knees are aching and his eyes still sting, and are probably bloodshot. Although he notices with mild alarm that Harry's face is blotchy too, and tear-stained. Why was he crying?
Harry is staring at his face. Or more precisely, one of the reasons why Draco had been crying.
The permanent reminder of his incompetence, failure, of what happened that night. Of everything that he's lost. Of how drastically his life changed. For him, and everyone else to see.
The more permanent evidence of his two dead parents. Nothing more solid than that.
Harry is standing very still, and silent. Draco would have thought that Harry was in one of those mindspaces of his again, if it weren't for the fact that his eyes are intense and focused. Still on his face.
Self consciously, Draco lifts his hand, fingers covering his scar. It's stupid. Harry had worse in those cells. Hell, even Draco had worse than this scar. The night his mother died, that day? Nothing could compare to that. Not even getting attacked by Fenrir fucking Greyback. Harry doesn't even know what he's crying about.
Or maybe he does.
Harry always seems to know things like that.
Then Harry takes another step forward, and if it were anyone other than him, Draco would have thought it a violation of personal space. As such, Harry's proximity is strangely comforting. He lifts his hand and wraps his fingers around Draco's already raised one, slowly peeling his fingers off his face and lowering it.
Draco doesn't dare breathe.
His fingers are soft and gentle as he runs them over his jaw, and then his cheeks, coming close, but never touching the bright red hideous line. No one speaks a word.
Then Harry's hand drifts over to his scar, hovering over it, his eyes questioning and uncertain. Hesitantly, Draco nods, and Harry's fingers, almost gentler than before, trace a path down the mark, resting somewhere on his cheek. "You're very beautiful, Draco," he says, voice just as soft as his hand as he smiles.
And, just for a moment, Harry's hands aren't shaking.
They're very close, and very still. Harry can probably feel Draco's breath on his hand.
It started with the scar, with Harry's hand on his face and then just standing in the silence. But it didn't end there. Somehow, through some allusive wizardry that had nothing to do with actual magic, Draco finds himself melting in Harry's embrace.
Harry smells just as he always does, Severus' detergent and shampoo and spices.
His mother's body had been a myriad of injuries when Bella had delivered the finishing blow. She'd started with the intent to kill, and there had never been any reason to be careful. No need to be restrained.
With Harry, the Dark Lord had given instructions not to harm him permanently, and so Bellatrix had stuck to the basics. No visible scarring. He tries to imagine his mother, if she'd survived. With lines running across her face, crooked fingers and nose, and shaking hands. Stilted posture and a limp.
It's horrifying, and perhaps it's for the better. She was never meant to get out of it alive. Draco was. Probably. You never really know with werewolves. Especially one as unhinged as Greyback. He could've been so much worse off if his father hadn't come in then.
And now he was dead too.
"They were already there, waiting for us." He whispers, still not letting go, his mouth close to Harry's ears. He doesn't need to explain much, Harry is an exceptional listener.
Harry tenses, before relaxing, "Riddle and…" he stumbles, "her?"
Draco nods, "Severus was with them. He…" he swallows, "When they took Mother away to the center, Severus just stood there by his side, father muttered something and I couldn't hear, I wanted to ask, but then Bella was on us,"
Harry hesitates, before pulling away and looking Draco in the eye, face softening, "You don't have to tell it all if you don't-"
"No," Draco interrupts firmly, he needs to get it out, even as nausea churns in his guts, "I want you to know, it's easier to think of it when I'm telling you. There's no point to it, you were there-"
"Tell me anyway."
There's a faint tremor in his own hands as he speaks. They're gripping each other's forearms, "I cannot remember how long it took. I know I was yelling and swearing a lot, but I couldn't… I couldn't see her much, I just heard her. Maybe I did see and I cannot remember it," he looks away.
"I think she's glad you didn't, Draco," Harry says gently, "You remembered the best of her."
"Bella laughed. She was…" Draco's voice breaks as he remembers all the noises, every scream and laugh and shift. He had been screaming too. "When she was torturing you, and asking you to cry… I couldn't help but remember her. She got a kick out of it, my mother lay dying on the floor and father… no one did anything," he couldn't do anything either.
Harry shifts even closer to him, and takes one of Draco's hands between both of his as he grips it tightly. He doesn't say anything.
Draco stares down at their entwined hands, "You thought you were dreaming, when you saw my mom dying and I-" he breathes, "I thought the same too, I just kept waiting to wake up, for that moment to hit and it just kept going on, and it was worse."
"Draco."
Draco looks up to see that Harry's eyes have gone bright and damp. There's a lump in his own throat.
"Don't cry," he chokes out, "I'll cry too, just…"
"Can I tell you something?" Harry interrupts before Draco can burst into tears.
"Yeah," he coughs, "Sure."
"I think…" Harry clears his throat, "I think when it was over, your mom was happy." His lips have started quivering. "Every time Bella stopped torturing me, I was so glad I could die on the spot. The pain was something beyond my imagination. I think she was happy, when it was over."
A small part of Draco was happy too, when the screams had stopped. When Bellatrix finally lowered her wand for the last time that night.
Draco tightens his hand around Harry's and is quiet for a moment. He can see it with too much clarity, the cold relief after the blistering pain. A pain that shouldn't have been there in the first place.
"She wouldn't have to be there in the first place," he says at last, quietly, his face set in a scowl, "if those mudblood lovers hadn't bewitched her."
Harry jerks, his eyes snapping to Draco's, "That is a horrible thing to say! How can you use that word?!"
Draco startles at the vehemence in Harry's voice, and there's a pang in his chest when Harry pulls his hand away, "Harry."
"My mom was a muggleborn," Harry says, "My best friend is- wait," his eyes narrow, "bewitched? What are you talking about?"
The sudden turns are disorienting, and for a second Draco is speechless. Then he says, "You knew about Snape."
"Why did your mother die, Draco?" Harry asks, leaning forward. "You know, don't you?"
"She died for treason," Draco answers, his fists clenched, "She worked for the mud- your side. With a pseudonym, 'Argent'."
"Oh my God!" Harry's eyes widen, "Argent! Argent is your mom?!"
Draco raises his eyebrows, "Did you know about her?"
"I thought Argent was a man, they talked about him- well, her, as if she were a man, and missing."
Dead, not missing. She died serving the goddamn light side and they didn't even have the decency to honour her sacrifice? He doesn't say that though, "Argent means silver in french. It's a masculine word. No wonder they assumed that."
"You should be proud of her," Harry says fiercely, and takes back his hands, "She saved lives, she was an informant, she actually helped people."
He utters the word 'people' as if they matter more than he did to his own mother. 'Good job serving the people, mother, no hard feelings if you died on our floor by your own sister's hand.'
"Helped?" Draco asks incredulously, "Helped who, Potter? The likes of Granger and-"
"Don't undermine your mother's death with prejudice," Harry says, this time with an edge to his voice that Draco hasn't heard in a while, "I don't care what you think about muggleborns, but she died trying to save people. Not just muggleborns. We're all people, Draco."
Draco stares at Harry for a moment, then says slowly, "She could have saved me."
He cannot decide whether he's mad at Mother, or just struck anew with grief. There is no in-between.
Harry squeezes his hand, "You weren't in danger of genocide. I'm sure she knew that your father would take good care of you and-"
"Don't," this time, it's Draco who pulls away, "Just don't, Potter."
Harry doesn't look phased. He just clasps his hands in his lap and continues, "Sometimes changing your mind is scary, but once you take that leap, then it becomes the best decision of your life. For me, trusting you was the best decision of my life… You need to start making up your mind while you have the chance, Draco."
Draco doesn't answer. He bites his lips and wraps his arms around himself. He has changed his mind already. Can't Harry see that? He trusts Harry more than anyone else in the world right now. The other two people he might have trusted more are dead. And the sight of Severus standing back passively is one he can't forget.
"I wish there was a way I could… make this go away," Draco says, and each word feels like a hand, reaching down to untangle the three-way knot in his chest.
Harry is silent beside him, the wind musing his hair. "I know how I can make it better," he says, and turns his head to look at him. Draco swallows the bile in his throat before he dares to look back at him.
"What?"
"Turn to me," he mutters and Draco does, he feels as if every nerve in his body is under Harry's command. They stand sideways to the window. A cool breeze brushes in.
"Good," he breaths. "Now turn around."
"What?"
He turns around himself, his back is to Draco. "Turn around," he repeats. "Have you done it yet? I can't see you."
Draco should be feeling like a fool, but oddly doesn't. All he feels is an unmistakable force obstructing his throat. He's afraid of opening his mouth for too long. When he turns, his back brushes against Harry's, their heads align perfectly in spite of the height difference. Then Harry reaches for his hand, warm but shaking to clasp Draco's clammy palm, their fingers entangled into each other and Draco holds his breath.
He had never felt this intimate with someone before.
"Close your eyes," Harry quietly instructs, deeply inhaling the salty wind.
Draco's eyes droop and Harry's hand is the only thing he can feel. Warm, and sure. He concentrates on it, on every millimetre of his skin that's in contact with his. The tips of his fingers on his knuckles, his palm encompassing Draco's.
It's the perfect fit.
"I used to lean against the locked door of my cupboard, when I was a child. Whenever I was sad, and I used to think that I wasn't alone, and that the door was someone else, someone who loved me, and cared for me, and let me lean against them," Harry's voice is like music to his ears.
"And then I cried. And it helped me feel better because I thought that I wasn't so alone anymore. And that I wasn't embarrassed to show weakness to the person I was leaning against," his fingers brush circles on Draco's hand.
"Harry," Draco whispers, and wonders if Harry even heard him over the sound of the waves, of the windchime merrily tinkling away downstairs. He doesn't even know where to begin disentangling Harry's awful childhood.
"Cry, Draco. I can be a door right now, and you're alone on the shore. I promise I won't judge, I won't interrupt you. I promise. We'll stay here as long as you like. I'm not leaving," Harry promises, and the solid feel of his body too, feels like a promise.
"They left," he doesn't mean it to come out the way it does, the way it makes him sound like an incredulous child on the verge of tears whose parents are momentarily lost.
The stinging in his eyes is building up.
"They didn't mean to," Harry mutters, "They were… good to you, Draco. They made mistakes, but they were good parents." Something in his voice enforces the lump of emotions fighting to break out of Draco's chest.
"They didn't have to die," he doesn't realise when he starts crying, but his sight has gone blurry.
"But they had to protect you. It's okay if you're mad."
"I'm not mad," he chokes past the lump in his throat, painfully, almost like a mantra, "Malfoys don't get…"
"I'll be right here, it's okay," Harry says and it's like he's willing it into being, as though if he says it hard enough, convincingly enough, everything will be okay. "I promise. Right now everything is okay."
And Draco believes him.
"It's getting really colder, much quicker than I thought it would," Harry says. They've already had lunch, and Draco even helped. They've closed off all the windows and the doors, even got the fireplace going, but the chill still remains in the cottage. Draco looks up from his book at Harry, who's rubbing his arms for warmth, whose face is set in a grimace of pain.
"Transfigure it into a sweater," Draco says, he's done the same hours ago, and feels marginally better if not completely warm. The October chill was here full blast, it seems.
Oh.
Oh, the cold.
Draco slowly lowers his book, and tries to keep his face impassively blank as he curses his own idiocy. The cold is hurting Harry.
He must be in a lot of pain, probably since that morning. He hadn't said a fucking thing. Sometimes, Draco hates him for that.
Draco gets up, about to get a pain reliever for him because he's not in the mood to argue with the boy to get one for himself.
"Yeah, Sweater," Harry looks away and drops his arms, his face darkening. Draco's breath catches again.
Why is he such a moron today?
He keeps forgetting, bloody forgetting that Harry cannot use his wand as well as he used to. They don't talk about it much, in fact, Harry avoids the topic at all costs but Draco has noticed.
They need to do something about that, reduce the shaking somehow so Harry can use his wand properly.
For now, he just reaches for his own wand. "I forgot how bonkers you are at Transfiguration," he says pompously, "Let me see what I can do."
"As if you're any better," Harry grumbles tightly, but his frown eases a little as Draco points his wand at him and quickly mutters under his breath. Potter's shirt morphs into a fuzzy black sweater and Harry smirks.
"Thank you," he says, pulling up his knees onto the couch and wrapping his arms around them. He's gripping at his opposite wrists in a white-knuckled grip.
Draco winces in sympathy and quickly hops off the couch to retrieve a pain reliever for Harry.
Green eyes follow him all the way up the stairs, and the weight of it feels immensely comforting.
Draco doesn't prevent his mind from having these thoughts. Thoughts that feel his chest with a warm tingle. Everything about Harry is a warm tingle.
The boy makes a face, once Draco hands him the vial but gulps it down without a word. Settling the empty vial down on the table, Draco nudges at Harry to scoot aside and make way for him.
"Being warm will help with the pain," he says as he settles down beside Harry, prying his hands off from his wrists and taking them in his own.
They're cold.
Harry shudders as Draco starts rubbing them, and snuggles closer to him. Slowly, Harry's shoulders relax and the tension lines ease from his face as he warms up and the pain relievers start working.
Draco doesn't move even after Harry has fallen asleep.
Ten steps, two of them creaky and one with a loose nail, three small pictures of scenery on the walls, and thirty shells embedded into the wall cover the entirety of the staircase that leads to the second floor. Harry knew those numbers the second night he spent in the cottage.
He counts each again that afternoon, it's raining outside, and he's on shell number fifteen when he discerns the sound of the shower from the pouring rain outside. It's been raining since that morning.
His hand remains on the shell and he pauses, only for a beat before his sock-clad feet claim the next step.
He avoids the loose nail, remembering to remind Draco about it later before one of them has a stumble, because their bandage usage has been through the roof already. He adjusts the crooked frame and then finally makes it up the stairs. He can clearly hear it now, the shower running.
It's too soon for Draco to be showering, but Harry guesses that the blond wanted to warm up a little. His injured shoulder would appreciate the hot water.
Harry is in one of his moods, he's not allowing himself to think about anything too much, everything feels blunt, and Harry has been perceiving it as such on purpose. So many things have been going on recently, one after another, and Harry has had no time to react appropriately to each.
A nap sounds good. That's why he came up anyways. He can't take too many pain relievers.
He walks past the bathroom, still counting the shells- forty four- and pushes the door open.
'You're spoiling yourself,' Sirius comments and Harry shrugs.
"I need a really long nap, and I want it to last for days."
'Well, Malfoy is going to be in there for a while, so take your time kiddo.'
And Harry wants to, he really does. He's already picturing himself waking up to Draco thoughtfully preparing him a cup of tea, and maybe even bringing up the Occlumency book Harry's sort of reading from downstairs, so they can stay in bed for the rest of the day and do absolutely nothing.
But Draco's shirt is on the floor.
Harry stops, his hand is on shell number forty-eight, and he stares down at the shirt.
That's odd. Firstly, because their hamper is in the bathroom, and Draco would have no need to dress down in the bedroom and hop naked to the shower, secondly because out of the two of them, Draco was the control freak.
He moaned and complained about Harry leaving his 'messy shit' everywhere in spite of actually having nothing on his person, he rants daily about how Harry should be using the towel, and how he should clearly assert more discipline while doing the dishes- to which Harry replied by not doing any dishes until Draco had done his share and apologized-, so this is odd.
He bends to pick it up, it's a black long-sleeved shirt, one of Draco's many borrowed shirts from the closet. Harry holds it in his hands.
He stands there for what is approximately twenty-three seconds, his mind going blank at what to do next because the hamper is actually in the bathroom which is occupied by Draco at the moment. He could just leave the shirt be, then give Draco hell for it, in fact, he wants to do it, which is what makes what he does next so illogical.
It doesn't require any thought, or warning, no red flags and certainly no hesitation, Harry raises the piece of clothing in his hands until they're face to face, he runs his eyes over the entire thing several times, the collar and the sleeves and the chest. Harry can faintly smell the vanilla extract scent hanging onto the cloth.
When he buries his head into the shirt, Harry realizes how many other things are still left to be discovered. It overwhelms him, if only for a moment, and Harry breathes.
There's the body wash they've both been using, the one Snape brewed, vanilla and herbs, then there's the faint scent of blood, because Harry knows Draco's wound still seems too fresh to be weeks old… then there's just Draco. His shoulders seem to drop a notch at that smell.
Harry didn't think it was true, but he could easily distinguish Draco from all of the other senses that clung to one flimsy shirt. His nose wants more of it.
This is what he sleeps with every night, and what he stands next to every morning, this is one of the smells that dominates the cottage every day, and it's embracing him now. It feels as if Draco is hugging him, but not just a casual friendly hug that normal people do.
Harry wants this hug, that's somehow ambushing him from all sides, and bubbling up from his guts and tightening his chest. He's not ashamed of it, even though he should be, his hands tighten on the shirt and his face is buried deeper. He wants to put on this shirt and sleep in it.
'You're going to suffocate,' Sirius's voice drawls behind him as an annoying beatle stuck inside a glass and Harry immediately lowers the shirt.
He didn't think his mind would interrupt him, even Sirius' presence seemed like an eternity away from him. But that's not the case, it never is, because no matter how hard he tries, his mind is always pronounced and demanding attention.
"I didn't mean anything by it," he says and balls the shirt, throws it to the corner of their room, and then hurries under the covers. They don't smell like Draco as much as they do in the mornings.
'This is going to make things complicated,' Sirius drops down next to him. 'You cannot go sniffing shirts if you don't want the guy to think you're crazy.'
"I'm not crazy," Harry screws his eyes shut.
'No one thinks they're crazy. Usually, they're told they are.'
"It doesn't count when you're telling me," he turns on his side, pulls the covers over himself as shame starts bleeding in, and his eyes start to burn. He would have been so screwed if Draco had walked in on him. This was so stupid.
'Pretend better from now on.' Sirius is unusually firm, 'You need him.'
Harry does.
He's not going to mess this up. Not if he can help it.
When Draco gets out of the shower, Harry is sleeping with his face buried in the pillow. Draco wonders if he should make tea for themselves, just to have an excuse to wake Harry up.
There's nothing much to do in the shell cottage at all, the isolation has been driving him crazy. He knows it's not doing Harry any favours either. Although he also knows that had they not had each other, it'd have been a lot worse.
He really wants to wake Harry up.
But Harry's body shakes less when he's asleep, and he's currently not having a nightmare. It's very rare that they can go two consecutive nights where none of them has a nightmare that wakes the other up.
He lets Harry sleep for a while and decides to try his hand at preparing some simple cheese sandwiches in the kitchen before waking him.
The thought of doing such things before Harry was appalling. House elf work used to irk him to bits. It doesn't even feel like a chore now.
Besides, he's bored and he wants Harry to be awake.
He needs a valid excuse to do so and not feel guilty. Also, sandwiches are laughably easy to make, and they'll make Harry proud.
He can't possibly fuck that up.
Draco doesn't question the reason behind his yearning to see Harry be proud, nor does he prod it into making sense. He's going along with it, he's not questioning it, and he likes it that way.
Before leaving, he sees his shirt, crumpled in the corner of the room, he picks it up with a frown.
Draco distinctly remembers dropping it somewhere near the door in his hurry. He'd pulled at his shoulder the wrong way and felt it start to bleed, and not wanting to stain the shirt, has hurriedly pulled it off. He walks over to the hamper in the bathroom, clutching the mostly clean shirt in his hand. It's not really dirty, and still faintly smells of the cleaning soap they use.
It can't be that dirty, can it? There's the faint smell of vanilla and soap and some sort of… spice? He didn't know how much time he'd been spending in the kitchen for his shirt to suddenly start smelling like spices.
He probably shouldn't wash this shirt yet. They already don't have enough clothes.
Draco lifts the shirt to his face and inhales once, deeply. It's… not exactly spices, he decides. He doesn't really know what it is, though. He will have to ask Severus what all ingredients he uses in his stain removal potion. Or perhaps it's the body wash.
Abruptly realising how ridiculous and undignified he probably looks, sniffing his own shirt, with Harry sleeping only a few feet away. Draco quickly snatches the shirt away from his face and stalks into the bathroom, deciding that it does, in fact, need to be washed.
He walks down to the kitchen to make his sandwiches and the tea.
"Harry, Harry," Draco says, nudging Harry's sleeping form as he levitates a tray with a tea kettle, two mugs and a plate full of semi-decent sandwiches in.
Harry groans, unnecessarily loud in Draco's opinion, and doesn't budge.
"I am going to drink your share of tea too if you don't get up right now," Draco snaps.
Harry finally sits up once he hears there's tea, rubbing at his eyes and mumbling a little. Draco takes the floating tray in his hands and nudges Harry with his hips to shift.
Harry rolls over and flops back face down on the bed, and Draco snorts. "I also made sandwiches."
Harry turns his head towards him and cracks open his eyes, "Edible?"
Draco shrugs, "That's still to be seen."
"Good enough," Harry says and finally sits up, waiting for Draco to pour him a mug of tea while he picks up a badly cut sandwich and takes a big bite. Draco would have wrinkled his nose at it if he weren't so flattered.
As he pours the tea, the smell and steam waft through the air.
It takes him a while, but there's another smell on the bed along with the tea and the ham sandwiches.
Something similar to spices but not quite it, and it's coming from right beside him. Draco almost drops his mug.
Fuck.